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Rangers Redux (fiction)
- Thread starter channe
- Start date
"Sir," said the intelligence officer, his eyes moving back to stare down the mess hall doors with visible disgust. "I'm fairly sure that's considered improper conduct."
Martel's response was a desultory snort. "Yeah. Well. Public opinion's usually harsh. I'm more interested in what Mr. Maddox wanted out of you. Tell me it can't be worse than what they told Sarah."
Malcolm's eyes flickered, and a vaguely troubled look passed over his face for a moment - which was all he would allow Martel to see. Inside, his stomach clenched, and a terrible nausea shot up into the back of his throat, lodging just below his voicebox. "They asked about you," he said, attempting to keep his voice level.
The captain sighed and began to walk in the general direction of the tarmac, seemingly blind to his crewmate's discomfort. "Specifics, Malcolm," he responded, rubbing overtired eyes.
He nodded. "They were very interested in your command ability. What makes you tick as a captain. Whether you were still fit for command."
"Great," snorted Martel. "They're attempting to psychoanalyze me through my covert ops officer."
"I wouldn't say that," countered Malcolm. "You don't need to worry. It was the little things that worried them. Like your slight temper. And your problem with authority."
Martel took a moment to process this assurance before flashing Malcolm a smile. "Ah, so now they want to beat my only redeeming quality out of my insolent hide with the Alliance version of Earthforce brainwashing, eh?"
"Most likely," said Malcolm, quietly.
Martel passed the rest of the walk in thought; Malcolm, a few steps behind, found himself slipping, found himself checking the back of Martel's neck for the telltale recursive spotting, his hand for the almost imperceptible shaking that followed extended quantium-40 exposure.
He saw nothing.
And that worried him even more.
Martel's response was a desultory snort. "Yeah. Well. Public opinion's usually harsh. I'm more interested in what Mr. Maddox wanted out of you. Tell me it can't be worse than what they told Sarah."
Malcolm's eyes flickered, and a vaguely troubled look passed over his face for a moment - which was all he would allow Martel to see. Inside, his stomach clenched, and a terrible nausea shot up into the back of his throat, lodging just below his voicebox. "They asked about you," he said, attempting to keep his voice level.
The captain sighed and began to walk in the general direction of the tarmac, seemingly blind to his crewmate's discomfort. "Specifics, Malcolm," he responded, rubbing overtired eyes.
He nodded. "They were very interested in your command ability. What makes you tick as a captain. Whether you were still fit for command."
"Great," snorted Martel. "They're attempting to psychoanalyze me through my covert ops officer."
"I wouldn't say that," countered Malcolm. "You don't need to worry. It was the little things that worried them. Like your slight temper. And your problem with authority."
Martel took a moment to process this assurance before flashing Malcolm a smile. "Ah, so now they want to beat my only redeeming quality out of my insolent hide with the Alliance version of Earthforce brainwashing, eh?"
"Most likely," said Malcolm, quietly.
Martel passed the rest of the walk in thought; Malcolm, a few steps behind, found himself slipping, found himself checking the back of Martel's neck for the telltale recursive spotting, his hand for the almost imperceptible shaking that followed extended quantium-40 exposure.
He saw nothing.
And that worried him even more.
As soon as Martel arrived back on the Liandra, he was besieged by the ever-dour report-waving Na'feel, who lifted his flagging spirits considerably with the information that the power-source installation was going fairly well, despite the fact that a box of spanners had been misplaced by Central
an hour earlier and delivered to the Musial instead.
Thus assured that the Liandra would be mobile by the wee hours of the morning, Martel left Na'feel to her own devices and checked his schedule on a nearby wall terminal.
an hour earlier and delivered to the Musial instead.
Thus assured that the Liandra would be mobile by the wee hours of the morning, Martel left Na'feel to her own devices and checked his schedule on a nearby wall terminal.
Upon returning to the Liandra, Malcolm changed his shirt and went to find Firell.
He knew there were only three places she could be; the Minbari healer was intensely private and completely devoted to her work. When she wasn't asleep, she was in the infirmary, taking care of injured Rangers or tending whatever experiment that bubbled in the adjoining lab; and when she wasn't in the infirmary, she was sitting, cross-legged and ramrod-straight, in the ship's small chapel.
When he reached the chapel, he discovered that either he was beginning to become familiar with Firell's ritualistic patterns, or he had just been pretty lucky. The Triary, physical manifestation of the Rangers' central tenet, was still hung front-and-center - and Firell was there, in the midst of an open-handed meditation.
He wrestled down the familiar fear and went to join her.
As he sat, he noticed her porcelain face change slightly; as though woken from a beautiful dream, her eyes opened and she regarded Malcolm with a mixture between curiosity and welcome. She reached out to take his hand - her cold, inhuman skin sent a shiver through him, a terrible electricity that turned his spine to ice. He wanted to snatch it back - but found he could not.
"You came," she said, earnestly.
Damn the woman, he thought. "Not to meditate," he responded. Firell looked slightly dissappointed, and then placed his hand back on his knee.
"Ah, then."
"You knew, didn't you?" he said, haltingly. Images ran through his head - darkness, smoke, the mines.
When he looked up again, Firell's smooth features were blank, except for the distinct concern touching her eyes. "I know many things," she replied, obviously searching for an answer.
"About the Captain," he continued. The words hurt.
"I'm afraid I don't know what -"
Malcolm didn't wait for her to finish. The words opened his mouth on their own volition, spewing out before he could control them. "What he was before the Rangers."
Firell was quiet. She turned back, closed her eyes, and focused. She said nothing. No evidence of emotion, no evidence of anything beyond her devotion to Valen.
"Firell - does he suffer from quantum mania?"
Nothing. Firell could have well turned into stone.
"Does David suffer from quantum mania?" he inquired, again. "Firell, you need to tell me. You know I could very well find out through other means, and I will, if I have to. But - I'd rather hear it from you. A crewmate. A friend."
Firell turned back to him. Her eyes had changed, somehow - she was no longer in a state remotely related to meditation. "You know that I cannot tell you," she replied, and got to her feet. "But I honor you, Malcolm, and I trust that you only have the Captain's best interests in mind. I -" she paused, delicately - "believe that you will not find any evidence of sickness in any official record."
When she was gone, Malcolm - left with more questions than when he came in - closed his eyes, folded his hands, and attempted to concentrate on the Triary.
It didn't work. As usual.
But that was all right - he never came to the Chapel for meditation alone, anyway.
Official record? What does that mean?
He sometimes hated the Minbari penchant for obfuscation.
He knew there were only three places she could be; the Minbari healer was intensely private and completely devoted to her work. When she wasn't asleep, she was in the infirmary, taking care of injured Rangers or tending whatever experiment that bubbled in the adjoining lab; and when she wasn't in the infirmary, she was sitting, cross-legged and ramrod-straight, in the ship's small chapel.
When he reached the chapel, he discovered that either he was beginning to become familiar with Firell's ritualistic patterns, or he had just been pretty lucky. The Triary, physical manifestation of the Rangers' central tenet, was still hung front-and-center - and Firell was there, in the midst of an open-handed meditation.
He wrestled down the familiar fear and went to join her.
As he sat, he noticed her porcelain face change slightly; as though woken from a beautiful dream, her eyes opened and she regarded Malcolm with a mixture between curiosity and welcome. She reached out to take his hand - her cold, inhuman skin sent a shiver through him, a terrible electricity that turned his spine to ice. He wanted to snatch it back - but found he could not.
"You came," she said, earnestly.
Damn the woman, he thought. "Not to meditate," he responded. Firell looked slightly dissappointed, and then placed his hand back on his knee.
"Ah, then."
"You knew, didn't you?" he said, haltingly. Images ran through his head - darkness, smoke, the mines.
When he looked up again, Firell's smooth features were blank, except for the distinct concern touching her eyes. "I know many things," she replied, obviously searching for an answer.
"About the Captain," he continued. The words hurt.
"I'm afraid I don't know what -"
Malcolm didn't wait for her to finish. The words opened his mouth on their own volition, spewing out before he could control them. "What he was before the Rangers."
Firell was quiet. She turned back, closed her eyes, and focused. She said nothing. No evidence of emotion, no evidence of anything beyond her devotion to Valen.
"Firell - does he suffer from quantum mania?"
Nothing. Firell could have well turned into stone.
"Does David suffer from quantum mania?" he inquired, again. "Firell, you need to tell me. You know I could very well find out through other means, and I will, if I have to. But - I'd rather hear it from you. A crewmate. A friend."
Firell turned back to him. Her eyes had changed, somehow - she was no longer in a state remotely related to meditation. "You know that I cannot tell you," she replied, and got to her feet. "But I honor you, Malcolm, and I trust that you only have the Captain's best interests in mind. I -" she paused, delicately - "believe that you will not find any evidence of sickness in any official record."
When she was gone, Malcolm - left with more questions than when he came in - closed his eyes, folded his hands, and attempted to concentrate on the Triary.
It didn't work. As usual.
But that was all right - he never came to the Chapel for meditation alone, anyway.
Official record? What does that mean?
He sometimes hated the Minbari penchant for obfuscation.
D
**DONOTDELETE**
Guest
Thank you, thank you, and for the third part, also thank you. /forums/images/icons/smile.gif I rather like this story. It keeps me puzzled. If I only, somehow, could obtain that time machine to produce more time, so I could try continuing with my own story.
Unfortunately, despite being on vacation, I have a thousand activities piled up, and just cannot. Writing my label printing program, building my model blimp, once again translating stuff for EU education & youth programmes. I wonder why I still call this a vacation... I did turn it into a full-time job, did I not?
Unfortunately, despite being on vacation, I have a thousand activities piled up, and just cannot. Writing my label printing program, building my model blimp, once again translating stuff for EU education & youth programmes. I wonder why I still call this a vacation... I did turn it into a full-time job, did I not?
D
**DONOTDELETE**
Guest
Happy and fulfilled? /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
More like dead tired, too tired to remember that I should be happy and fulfilled, because field manipulation worked flawlessly, letting me move on to variable management. After that comes shakedown and gathering user opinions, before writing the installation program and chewing into legal matters (license agreement).
Perhaps indeed, happy and fulfilled? Writing software is one thing. But this is my first large project which heads towards publishing in the real sense of software publishing (meaning truly many customers). It may even succeed, be helpful for numerous people. That is, if I do now what must be done now.
More like dead tired, too tired to remember that I should be happy and fulfilled, because field manipulation worked flawlessly, letting me move on to variable management. After that comes shakedown and gathering user opinions, before writing the installation program and chewing into legal matters (license agreement).
Perhaps indeed, happy and fulfilled? Writing software is one thing. But this is my first large project which heads towards publishing in the real sense of software publishing (meaning truly many customers). It may even succeed, be helpful for numerous people. That is, if I do now what must be done now.
When I'm on vacation, I'm off swimming in a lake, canoeing, hiking to the top of a mountain, etc. I see my friends, I listen to music, I have lemonade by the pool, I swim in the pool, and if it's winter, I go ice skating, sledding and visit the gym a lot.
The best writing I have ever done has been completed when I have been working out - when I have been doing things totally unrelated to writing.
THAT, for me, is a fulfilling vacation.
I'm getting slightly mired in the Tuzanorial inter-Ranger character development yakking that's going on, and the number of things I need to get out on the table is growing longer and longer. So, should I get this party started and have some things unfold later... or would you like to hear more Tuzanorial inter-Ranger character development yakking and have more on the table before we head out to Draziland?
Either way, you'll hear it *after* the newsletter goes out. Go sign up for it. Now. HERE.
Thankee.
The best writing I have ever done has been completed when I have been working out - when I have been doing things totally unrelated to writing.
THAT, for me, is a fulfilling vacation.
I'm getting slightly mired in the Tuzanorial inter-Ranger character development yakking that's going on, and the number of things I need to get out on the table is growing longer and longer. So, should I get this party started and have some things unfold later... or would you like to hear more Tuzanorial inter-Ranger character development yakking and have more on the table before we head out to Draziland?
Either way, you'll hear it *after* the newsletter goes out. Go sign up for it. Now. HERE.
Thankee.
Heeeeeere we go.
-- -- --
Martel's office - spare, yellowish, and impeccably clean, except for a pair of mud-caked boots thrown in a corner, a large pile of downloaded notes shoved underneath a mobile terminal on the desk, and a half-eaten travel container of flarn perched precariously on the terminal interface - was the largest room on the Liandra save the bridge and the engine chamber.
Yet Martel still felt cramped.
A love for Minbari décor was an acquired taste, he reminded himself, as was coffee and flarn, having a gok for a pet and being able to tolerate Mural. Patience and persistence generally did the trick -get past the bitterness and the side-effects and you might actually begin to like the torture, he thought. Maybe in a million years.
But, at least he could be comfortable through the pain - or, so he rationalized.
That was how Dulann found Martel fifteen minutes later: reading a report, his feet crowning the desk, a flarn cube halfway to his mouth. That was the definition of the word "comfortable," the captain had mentioned about three weeks before, although Dulann would not have agreed. To have the spine bent at that ridiculous angle and the legs thrown up in a position that was hardly defensible did not make the Minbari officer very comfortable. It made him nervous.
"You are extremely lucky that I am not one of the others," Dulann said, obviously amused. He walked over, pulled up the only other chair in the room, and sat down. "You know that a certain level of decorum must be maintained."
Martel chewed, swallowed, and offered his first officer the rest of his dinner wordlessly.
"I just returned from my appointment," Dulann continued, shaking his head. "You have, as you say, pushed more than a few buttons."
This amused Martel; he laughed softly. "So, they want me cashiered, don't they?"
"I am not at all sure that is what they want," answered Dulann. "If they wanted you out of the Anla'shok, be assured that you would be looking for other employment at this very moment. Grayson Maddox is not without connections among the Ranger Council - and the Council does not keep those who could be a liability to the Rangers."
"Something else, then." The human was quiet for a moment, sighing. "Maybe they're getting ready to slide me into the position of official whipping-boy, Dulann. God, I'll be glad to fly again. Get out of Tuzanor." He regarded his dinner. "And, damn it, I hate flarn. So - what do you have for me?"
Dulann turned on one heel, walking to the back of the office, where a number of power-leveled readouts hovered at green. He paused, and looked over his shoulder. "They began by asking me to verify a number of facts - logs, debriefings, all from the last mission of the Enfalli and our encounter with the Hand vessels near Beta Durani 7," he said, quietly turning back to regard the readouts. "They were concerned with your capacity as a captain - "
"That's news," snorted Martel, shoving another piece of flarn into his mouth.
"- and," Dulann continued, "asked, in my capacity as your first officer, why you ran - like a coward."
"I knew they wanted to cashier me."
"I still do not think so."
Martel pushed himself out of his seat and crossed the room to join Dulann at the console. "What am I supposed to think, Dulann? It's clear they're out to shatter what little respectability I have left - cowardice here, disloyalty there, improper conduct with female members of my crew to stick something into left field - and now they're adding something close to treachery to the list of charges."
He paused, fire flickering at the edges of his eyes. "Why is the Oversight Committee interested at all in the sordid affairs of one of the Rangers' least important members? If I'd done anything wrong, it would be a matter for the Ranger Council, or Sindell, or - hell - or Anla'shok Na, not for a civilian committee whose duties are largely ceremonial."
"I believe," Dulann observed, "that you need to sleep. I think you are, as you say, 'barking up the wrong tree.'"
"I do not," Martel countered, "need to sleep. I need to -"
And then it hit him - quickly, not unlike a Whitestar on stealth mode or a ton of bricks.
-- -- --
Martel's office - spare, yellowish, and impeccably clean, except for a pair of mud-caked boots thrown in a corner, a large pile of downloaded notes shoved underneath a mobile terminal on the desk, and a half-eaten travel container of flarn perched precariously on the terminal interface - was the largest room on the Liandra save the bridge and the engine chamber.
Yet Martel still felt cramped.
A love for Minbari décor was an acquired taste, he reminded himself, as was coffee and flarn, having a gok for a pet and being able to tolerate Mural. Patience and persistence generally did the trick -get past the bitterness and the side-effects and you might actually begin to like the torture, he thought. Maybe in a million years.
But, at least he could be comfortable through the pain - or, so he rationalized.
That was how Dulann found Martel fifteen minutes later: reading a report, his feet crowning the desk, a flarn cube halfway to his mouth. That was the definition of the word "comfortable," the captain had mentioned about three weeks before, although Dulann would not have agreed. To have the spine bent at that ridiculous angle and the legs thrown up in a position that was hardly defensible did not make the Minbari officer very comfortable. It made him nervous.
"You are extremely lucky that I am not one of the others," Dulann said, obviously amused. He walked over, pulled up the only other chair in the room, and sat down. "You know that a certain level of decorum must be maintained."
Martel chewed, swallowed, and offered his first officer the rest of his dinner wordlessly.
"I just returned from my appointment," Dulann continued, shaking his head. "You have, as you say, pushed more than a few buttons."
This amused Martel; he laughed softly. "So, they want me cashiered, don't they?"
"I am not at all sure that is what they want," answered Dulann. "If they wanted you out of the Anla'shok, be assured that you would be looking for other employment at this very moment. Grayson Maddox is not without connections among the Ranger Council - and the Council does not keep those who could be a liability to the Rangers."
"Something else, then." The human was quiet for a moment, sighing. "Maybe they're getting ready to slide me into the position of official whipping-boy, Dulann. God, I'll be glad to fly again. Get out of Tuzanor." He regarded his dinner. "And, damn it, I hate flarn. So - what do you have for me?"
Dulann turned on one heel, walking to the back of the office, where a number of power-leveled readouts hovered at green. He paused, and looked over his shoulder. "They began by asking me to verify a number of facts - logs, debriefings, all from the last mission of the Enfalli and our encounter with the Hand vessels near Beta Durani 7," he said, quietly turning back to regard the readouts. "They were concerned with your capacity as a captain - "
"That's news," snorted Martel, shoving another piece of flarn into his mouth.
"- and," Dulann continued, "asked, in my capacity as your first officer, why you ran - like a coward."
"I knew they wanted to cashier me."
"I still do not think so."
Martel pushed himself out of his seat and crossed the room to join Dulann at the console. "What am I supposed to think, Dulann? It's clear they're out to shatter what little respectability I have left - cowardice here, disloyalty there, improper conduct with female members of my crew to stick something into left field - and now they're adding something close to treachery to the list of charges."
He paused, fire flickering at the edges of his eyes. "Why is the Oversight Committee interested at all in the sordid affairs of one of the Rangers' least important members? If I'd done anything wrong, it would be a matter for the Ranger Council, or Sindell, or - hell - or Anla'shok Na, not for a civilian committee whose duties are largely ceremonial."
"I believe," Dulann observed, "that you need to sleep. I think you are, as you say, 'barking up the wrong tree.'"
"I do not," Martel countered, "need to sleep. I need to -"
And then it hit him - quickly, not unlike a Whitestar on stealth mode or a ton of bricks.
Occasionally, Dulann became more than a little worried for David.
Despite his friend's assurances that all was well, Dulann occasionally caught a flicker of the old days in the depths of his eyes; at times noted that Martel's shoulders slumped forward slightly when he was meditating, or saw the lines appear on his face when something from the past was mentioned.
There had been lines on his face when Dulann first encountered the captain, of course, deep furrows of regret, pain, and loss. More than lines - dirt, quantium dust, and the blood of a woman who lay three days dead, a piece of razor-sharp stone with the diameter of a denn'bok thrust through the soft area just underneath the sternum, pinning her squarely to the ground. This was years ago, on Nesma, during the beginning of the Shadow War, when he hadn't even been a Ranger, but, still -
The Minbari memory was deep, and deeper still within Dulann, who recognized the turning point in his life as the day he discovered David Martel, half-starved, half-buried, and bleeding in a million places, reprogramming his group's comm over a dead body, the dead body with the unmentionable name.
He remembered.
Younger then - about to be invested as a full member of the Order - he and the others serving at the Minbari temple on Nesma recieved the faint signal among the chaos of the Shadow firefight above.
The elders said that the prudent thing to do would be to leave - to enter the shelters, wait until the Army of Light dispatched the Shadows above, to call on Valen and pray and save themselves.
But that wasn't the right thing to do.
And so Dulann found himself - alongside Sumenn, alongside Firell, who with Dulann and Martel shared this terrible secret - in the Nesma mines, choking on quantium dust, shouting vainly into the unreal darkness of a place without light. And then - the clearing, the fallen rocks, the miners - half of them, dead, half of them, crushed, their bodies unrecognizable as anything more than lumps of colorful red-and-peach, and the scent of death.
"We are gone," Martel had said, locking his eyes with David for the first time. "All dead."
It had taken Dulann and three other acolytes ten minutes to subdue Martel that first time, as he fought them, screaming words that he knew he had no meaning for. Finally, he had broadsided him on the side of the head with a rock, and loaded him on the mineshaft elevator with the five other survivors.
And, as the Shadows swooped and dove in the darkness of the Nesma night, blocking out the moon, the only light the explosions of Army of Light fighter pilots and wayward Whitestars, as he and Firell fought the infection, the festering, the sickness that had taken hold of their new human charge - Dulann knew that something had changed.
He joined the Rangers eight weeks later. Dropped his investiture, no longer able to see Valen - only the dead, only the mines. They had been angry, they had told him to stay - but in the end, he boarded the shuttle to Tuzanor not even knowing if he would make it, the state of the war being what it was.
And, that first day, noticing that across the room from him stood a man he had met in the death halls of the Nesman mines, staring intently at a shining, silver pin with a dark stone in the center.
They talked, standing beside the rail of the training center.
The memory was strong. And it was at times like this - when Dulann again stood beside his friend, his fellow Anla'shok, David Martel, that he smelled Nesma. And that he knew David was thinking of Nesma, too. And Sirkmorg. And dead, dead Carra Mozkowski, who would have become Carra Martel if they had just worked harder, if they had bought their way out of the mines a bit faster, if they hadn't been there when Nixiam sealed the mines with the miners inside, turned tail, and ran. Ran. Fled. Ran.
And that was just one of the reasons why he stood by David Martel - not that men like Grayson Maddox could, or would, understand Nesma. What Nesma had been. What Nesma meant.
Despite his friend's assurances that all was well, Dulann occasionally caught a flicker of the old days in the depths of his eyes; at times noted that Martel's shoulders slumped forward slightly when he was meditating, or saw the lines appear on his face when something from the past was mentioned.
There had been lines on his face when Dulann first encountered the captain, of course, deep furrows of regret, pain, and loss. More than lines - dirt, quantium dust, and the blood of a woman who lay three days dead, a piece of razor-sharp stone with the diameter of a denn'bok thrust through the soft area just underneath the sternum, pinning her squarely to the ground. This was years ago, on Nesma, during the beginning of the Shadow War, when he hadn't even been a Ranger, but, still -
The Minbari memory was deep, and deeper still within Dulann, who recognized the turning point in his life as the day he discovered David Martel, half-starved, half-buried, and bleeding in a million places, reprogramming his group's comm over a dead body, the dead body with the unmentionable name.
He remembered.
Younger then - about to be invested as a full member of the Order - he and the others serving at the Minbari temple on Nesma recieved the faint signal among the chaos of the Shadow firefight above.
The elders said that the prudent thing to do would be to leave - to enter the shelters, wait until the Army of Light dispatched the Shadows above, to call on Valen and pray and save themselves.
But that wasn't the right thing to do.
And so Dulann found himself - alongside Sumenn, alongside Firell, who with Dulann and Martel shared this terrible secret - in the Nesma mines, choking on quantium dust, shouting vainly into the unreal darkness of a place without light. And then - the clearing, the fallen rocks, the miners - half of them, dead, half of them, crushed, their bodies unrecognizable as anything more than lumps of colorful red-and-peach, and the scent of death.
"We are gone," Martel had said, locking his eyes with David for the first time. "All dead."
It had taken Dulann and three other acolytes ten minutes to subdue Martel that first time, as he fought them, screaming words that he knew he had no meaning for. Finally, he had broadsided him on the side of the head with a rock, and loaded him on the mineshaft elevator with the five other survivors.
And, as the Shadows swooped and dove in the darkness of the Nesma night, blocking out the moon, the only light the explosions of Army of Light fighter pilots and wayward Whitestars, as he and Firell fought the infection, the festering, the sickness that had taken hold of their new human charge - Dulann knew that something had changed.
He joined the Rangers eight weeks later. Dropped his investiture, no longer able to see Valen - only the dead, only the mines. They had been angry, they had told him to stay - but in the end, he boarded the shuttle to Tuzanor not even knowing if he would make it, the state of the war being what it was.
And, that first day, noticing that across the room from him stood a man he had met in the death halls of the Nesman mines, staring intently at a shining, silver pin with a dark stone in the center.
They talked, standing beside the rail of the training center.
The memory was strong. And it was at times like this - when Dulann again stood beside his friend, his fellow Anla'shok, David Martel, that he smelled Nesma. And that he knew David was thinking of Nesma, too. And Sirkmorg. And dead, dead Carra Mozkowski, who would have become Carra Martel if they had just worked harder, if they had bought their way out of the mines a bit faster, if they hadn't been there when Nixiam sealed the mines with the miners inside, turned tail, and ran. Ran. Fled. Ran.
And that was just one of the reasons why he stood by David Martel - not that men like Grayson Maddox could, or would, understand Nesma. What Nesma had been. What Nesma meant.
"I'll call Firell," Dulann said, softly. "She can-"
"No," David responded. Dulann traded a gaze with his Captain; the human was completely stable, right down to the regal set of his shoulders and the cold sanity of his eyes. "I never hid anything when I joined the Anla'shok," he said softly. "It was the Shadow War. They never asked." He looked up. "And it's not a secret, Dulann. The Ranger Council has known for a long time."
Dulann nodded.
"No," David repeated. "They won't move on this. They haven't before. Maddox may have his suspicions, but my records speak for themselves."
"Even the more questionable ones?"
Martel laughed, raising his eyebrows. "When have I not been questionable?"
"Exactly."
A self-assured grin flashed over David's face. The captain walked back to his desk, picked up one of the flimsies laying so haphazardly across the surface, and chuckled. "Go on - get out of here. You're off duty. Get some sleep before launch tomorrow."
Dulann nodded, a slight grin set on his features. "Ah. Like you will not be doing. I understand."
"Before I throw you out," Martel said, amused.
"Of course."
"No," David responded. Dulann traded a gaze with his Captain; the human was completely stable, right down to the regal set of his shoulders and the cold sanity of his eyes. "I never hid anything when I joined the Anla'shok," he said softly. "It was the Shadow War. They never asked." He looked up. "And it's not a secret, Dulann. The Ranger Council has known for a long time."
Dulann nodded.
"No," David repeated. "They won't move on this. They haven't before. Maddox may have his suspicions, but my records speak for themselves."
"Even the more questionable ones?"
Martel laughed, raising his eyebrows. "When have I not been questionable?"
"Exactly."
A self-assured grin flashed over David's face. The captain walked back to his desk, picked up one of the flimsies laying so haphazardly across the surface, and chuckled. "Go on - get out of here. You're off duty. Get some sleep before launch tomorrow."
Dulann nodded, a slight grin set on his features. "Ah. Like you will not be doing. I understand."
"Before I throw you out," Martel said, amused.
"Of course."
D
**DONOTDELETE**
Guest
Dammit, Channe... you are writing in a way which makes me more than slightly envious. I should know better than to develop such emotions. However, at least it serves as inspiration, proof that writing a beautiful story is possible, if one learns how, and tries well enough. /forums/images/icons/grin.gif
I must also admit to grossly misjudging the direction of your story, or at the way how it advances. It has provided much interesting guessing, and I'm curently trying to correct my predictions.
I must also admit to grossly misjudging the direction of your story, or at the way how it advances. It has provided much interesting guessing, and I'm curently trying to correct my predictions.
Why, thank you, Lennier. If I may ask, what were your original guesses? /forums/images/icons/smile.gif
-- -- --
There was a rustling, a shuffling, and two familiar voices, hardly recognizable behind the hum of the sonic shower.
"Who's in there?"
"Malcolm."
"Figures. He's always -"
The door opened and closed with an audible click.
"Oh, hello, Captain."
"Hi, Jones. Hello, Wheeler."
"Um - they didn't fix your shower yet, sir? Still stuck with that Minbari chemical washtower?"
"The retrofit has been postponed until next week due to the arrival of White Star 23, whose entire barracks wing was obliterated in a firefight."
"Rats, sir. We'll be at the Drazi Freehold next week."
"Yep."
"I'd imagine it makes a nice coat rack."
Silence.
"Isn't this the fourth time you've been postponed, sir?"
"Yep."
"Ah."
Silence.
"How's Whitey 23?"
"Their first officer was killed in action."
"Hell. I'm sorry. Hanni was a good woman."
"Bad at poker."
"Shut up, Jones. Respect for the dead."
"God."
Silence.
"Who's in there?"
"Malcolm, sir."
"Oh."
-- -- --
There was a rustling, a shuffling, and two familiar voices, hardly recognizable behind the hum of the sonic shower.
"Who's in there?"
"Malcolm."
"Figures. He's always -"
The door opened and closed with an audible click.
"Oh, hello, Captain."
"Hi, Jones. Hello, Wheeler."
"Um - they didn't fix your shower yet, sir? Still stuck with that Minbari chemical washtower?"
"The retrofit has been postponed until next week due to the arrival of White Star 23, whose entire barracks wing was obliterated in a firefight."
"Rats, sir. We'll be at the Drazi Freehold next week."
"Yep."
"I'd imagine it makes a nice coat rack."
Silence.
"Isn't this the fourth time you've been postponed, sir?"
"Yep."
"Ah."
Silence.
"How's Whitey 23?"
"Their first officer was killed in action."
"Hell. I'm sorry. Hanni was a good woman."
"Bad at poker."
"Shut up, Jones. Respect for the dead."
"God."
Silence.
"Who's in there?"
"Malcolm, sir."
"Oh."
D
**DONOTDELETE**
Guest
How could I tell, unless the story passes Minimum Necessary Change? /forums/images/icons/wink.gif
<font color="green">:: wonders if Channe would write more ::</font color>
You see, I'm still not entirely sure that I'm entirely wrong.
Something must tell me that reality won't be possible.
But for the moment when that point has passed,
I will promise to write down the summary of my prediction.
<font color="green">:: wonders if Channe would write more ::</font color>
You see, I'm still not entirely sure that I'm entirely wrong.
Something must tell me that reality won't be possible.
But for the moment when that point has passed,
I will promise to write down the summary of my prediction.
