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Rangers Redux (fiction)
- Thread starter channe
- Start date
Bear with me. I might be a little rusty.
--
Firell pushed herself into action almost immediately. Hit the button that signaled for medical personnel to return to the infirmary. Gloves. Tools. Go.
Saroteg's body lurched in unnatural directions. His mouth lay slack and open, white saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth down a scaleridge. His hands became claws, his legs twisted back and around like a bow without a string, his head jerked from right, left, up, left again.
"Tirk, hold him. Situation, please?"
Malcolm stuttered a moment like a deer bathed in headlights as Tirk reached forward to take the frail Drazi -- who was no match for Tirk's sheer size and strength -- by the shoulders and press him back against the diagnostic bed. Firell moved to the opposite side of the table to avoid the quartermaster's bulk, pushing aside a hovering Malcolm in the process. With Tirk's help, she pushed and installed an intravenous reader in an immobilized arm, her eyes glancing quickly over the vital stats returned in seconds.
"Now, please," she said, gruffly.
"We were told to bring him to the Captain, but we found him like this in the guest room, curled around the sink, speaking in gibberish. We -- we told the Captain, and brought him straight here," said Malcolm, who stepped back into the darkness of a corner, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
Firell reached forward and pulled back the convulsing Drazi's eyelid as best she could. His grey left eye stared straight up, foggy and blind. Pulse, a bit fast -- but steady. She slid her fingers under the Drazi's shoulder scaleridge encrusting, felt his ice-cold skin layer.
Symptoms consistent with epihemia, she thought.
The doors flew open to reveal Firell's human nurse, out of breath and sprinting, as the Minbari healer narrowed her eyes at the orange-and-gold bars serving as a readout on the IV reader's viewscreen, watching as they gradually rose and fell, confirming a blood-content percentage she definitely didn't want to see.
"Jean," said Firell, not skipping a beat. "It's dhrayl strain epihemia. There's no time. Sedative, please."
--
Firell pushed herself into action almost immediately. Hit the button that signaled for medical personnel to return to the infirmary. Gloves. Tools. Go.
Saroteg's body lurched in unnatural directions. His mouth lay slack and open, white saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth down a scaleridge. His hands became claws, his legs twisted back and around like a bow without a string, his head jerked from right, left, up, left again.
"Tirk, hold him. Situation, please?"
Malcolm stuttered a moment like a deer bathed in headlights as Tirk reached forward to take the frail Drazi -- who was no match for Tirk's sheer size and strength -- by the shoulders and press him back against the diagnostic bed. Firell moved to the opposite side of the table to avoid the quartermaster's bulk, pushing aside a hovering Malcolm in the process. With Tirk's help, she pushed and installed an intravenous reader in an immobilized arm, her eyes glancing quickly over the vital stats returned in seconds.
"Now, please," she said, gruffly.
"We were told to bring him to the Captain, but we found him like this in the guest room, curled around the sink, speaking in gibberish. We -- we told the Captain, and brought him straight here," said Malcolm, who stepped back into the darkness of a corner, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
Firell reached forward and pulled back the convulsing Drazi's eyelid as best she could. His grey left eye stared straight up, foggy and blind. Pulse, a bit fast -- but steady. She slid her fingers under the Drazi's shoulder scaleridge encrusting, felt his ice-cold skin layer.
Symptoms consistent with epihemia, she thought.
The doors flew open to reveal Firell's human nurse, out of breath and sprinting, as the Minbari healer narrowed her eyes at the orange-and-gold bars serving as a readout on the IV reader's viewscreen, watching as they gradually rose and fell, confirming a blood-content percentage she definitely didn't want to see.
"Jean," said Firell, not skipping a beat. "It's dhrayl strain epihemia. There's no time. Sedative, please."
It took two minutes and fifty-two seconds for Martel to get from his office to the medbay, and three minutes for Saroteg to die.
He crossed the threshold of medbay as the twisted body of the small, bent Drazi scholar lifted off the bed and crashed down, limbs shaking like leaves on a tree, mouth open, a soft moan coming from deep in his throat, from the place that you only went when you died.
There was utter silence in the room.
Firell stepped back, a sour look on her face. Jean took off her gloves and recorded the time of death. In the corner, Malcolm lowered his head and brought a finger up to scratch his nose. And large, lumbering Tirk reached forward to trace a symbol on Saroteg's forehead before straightening up.
"How?" said Martel quietly, stepping forward.
Firell closed her diagnostic equipment and disconnected the IV reader from Saroteg's body. "Epihemia," she said, depositing medicine tips and canisters into a collector. "Specifically, dhrayl strain. An illness that particularly affects elderly Drazi. There's no way to catch it until it's too late."
Martel approached the body, his lips pursed. He had never really rid himself of that twinge of pain he felt upon seeing the dead. It was there, now, running through his intestines as he watched the dead drazeg's eyes fixate dully on a cieling panel.
"What brings it on?" he asked.
Firell turned, and in her eyes he spied distaste. "Abnormal quantities of hanmurin in the Drazi bloodstream," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
He crossed the threshold of medbay as the twisted body of the small, bent Drazi scholar lifted off the bed and crashed down, limbs shaking like leaves on a tree, mouth open, a soft moan coming from deep in his throat, from the place that you only went when you died.
There was utter silence in the room.
Firell stepped back, a sour look on her face. Jean took off her gloves and recorded the time of death. In the corner, Malcolm lowered his head and brought a finger up to scratch his nose. And large, lumbering Tirk reached forward to trace a symbol on Saroteg's forehead before straightening up.
"How?" said Martel quietly, stepping forward.
Firell closed her diagnostic equipment and disconnected the IV reader from Saroteg's body. "Epihemia," she said, depositing medicine tips and canisters into a collector. "Specifically, dhrayl strain. An illness that particularly affects elderly Drazi. There's no way to catch it until it's too late."
Martel approached the body, his lips pursed. He had never really rid himself of that twinge of pain he felt upon seeing the dead. It was there, now, running through his intestines as he watched the dead drazeg's eyes fixate dully on a cieling panel.
"What brings it on?" he asked.
Firell turned, and in her eyes he spied distaste. "Abnormal quantities of hanmurin in the Drazi bloodstream," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
Re: Hints?
January 4, 2261
Although the medics dosed Martel with enough drugs to keep him numb and asleep until the end of the war, they found him curiously moving in and out of consciousness just a day after his delivery to the primary surgical ward at the Tuzanor facility, at intervals screaming in pain and speaking gibberish. Doctors came to his bedside and argued over scans of his torso in hushed, harsh voices, sent him to a second surgery to extract new shrapnel, drugged him into the next dimension, and hooked him up to a hydration unit, where he stayed for days -- motionless, teetering, lost.
Sarah Cantrell, on the other hand, was very much awake, and busy: having luckily escaped from the battle with nary a scratch, she was pressed into a dizzying series of debriefing sessions. She was subjected to footage from the battle, asked questions she didn't have the answers to, and was in the end placed on indefinite re-assignment as the Enfalli's main weapons officer -- due to ship out as soon as the gaping hole in the great ship's halstern was repaired.
January 4, 2261
Although the medics dosed Martel with enough drugs to keep him numb and asleep until the end of the war, they found him curiously moving in and out of consciousness just a day after his delivery to the primary surgical ward at the Tuzanor facility, at intervals screaming in pain and speaking gibberish. Doctors came to his bedside and argued over scans of his torso in hushed, harsh voices, sent him to a second surgery to extract new shrapnel, drugged him into the next dimension, and hooked him up to a hydration unit, where he stayed for days -- motionless, teetering, lost.
Sarah Cantrell, on the other hand, was very much awake, and busy: having luckily escaped from the battle with nary a scratch, she was pressed into a dizzying series of debriefing sessions. She was subjected to footage from the battle, asked questions she didn't have the answers to, and was in the end placed on indefinite re-assignment as the Enfalli's main weapons officer -- due to ship out as soon as the gaping hole in the great ship's halstern was repaired.
crazybillyo
Regular
Re: Hints?
...
"Nary a scratch?"
...
"Nary a scratch?"
sleepy_shadow
Regular
Re: Hints?
Besides... I rather like the, umm... use of English occurring in this thread.
Besides... I rather like the, umm... use of English occurring in this thread.
Re: Rangers Redux
Oooh, my die-hards are still here! I'm afraid I lost all my readers by taking a summer break... well, I didn't mean for it to be a summer break, but it kind of turned into one...
By the way, there are swear words in this.
--
Sarah spent New Year's Eve -- or, what would have been the stroke of midnight at Mars Dome 1 -- camped out on the observation deck, watching workers slowly patch the Enfalli's mortal wound with layers of new bulkhead, paint, and electronics, watching the sunlight reflect off the predatory, sloping curves of the old vessel. She ate a peanut butter-and-flarn sandwich, licked peanut detritus off her fingers with relish, yelled "Happy New Year" in Adronato to no one in particular, and closed her eyes, remembering the New Year fireworks her father took her to as a child, the baby blues and gorgeous greens...
Blues like the sparks, the flames, that engulfed the bridge after Shadowfire escaped the halstern weapons operator and the ship took a direct hit. And red like the screams of one of the techs who called for her over the intercom: Cantrell they're all dead you gotta take us out of here let me take over you're next in command oh hell here they come again.
She found that she was biting her lip.
Well, Mardann shouldn't have been stationed on the primary bridge anyway, she thought, attempting to grab hold of reason. All the senior officers in one God-damned place. I don't even know why the fuck I'm still alive.
She sighed, picked up the bottle of minsa juice she'd pilfered from the mess hall, and took a swig, pretending it was champagne. She missed champagne. And beer. And an after-work martini, back on Mars before she got this stupid idealistic yen to be a Ranger and save the universe.
Her promotion weighed heavily on her.
Engineering techs had managed to find a way to patch the hole for long enough to retrieve the crews of three other vessels before Sheridan's voice announced victory over the intraship coms. She sat on a stool in Engineering for the duration of the trip back and sleeplessly watched a lethargic, grieving crew. Everyone did their jobs. They knew she couldn't answer their questions. She was a weapons tech.
They knew she had no idea how to handle a ship like Enfalli.
Yeah, she thought. Promotion by necessity. Everyone above me is dead.
Oooh, my die-hards are still here! I'm afraid I lost all my readers by taking a summer break... well, I didn't mean for it to be a summer break, but it kind of turned into one...
By the way, there are swear words in this.
--
Sarah spent New Year's Eve -- or, what would have been the stroke of midnight at Mars Dome 1 -- camped out on the observation deck, watching workers slowly patch the Enfalli's mortal wound with layers of new bulkhead, paint, and electronics, watching the sunlight reflect off the predatory, sloping curves of the old vessel. She ate a peanut butter-and-flarn sandwich, licked peanut detritus off her fingers with relish, yelled "Happy New Year" in Adronato to no one in particular, and closed her eyes, remembering the New Year fireworks her father took her to as a child, the baby blues and gorgeous greens...
Blues like the sparks, the flames, that engulfed the bridge after Shadowfire escaped the halstern weapons operator and the ship took a direct hit. And red like the screams of one of the techs who called for her over the intercom: Cantrell they're all dead you gotta take us out of here let me take over you're next in command oh hell here they come again.
She found that she was biting her lip.
Well, Mardann shouldn't have been stationed on the primary bridge anyway, she thought, attempting to grab hold of reason. All the senior officers in one God-damned place. I don't even know why the fuck I'm still alive.
She sighed, picked up the bottle of minsa juice she'd pilfered from the mess hall, and took a swig, pretending it was champagne. She missed champagne. And beer. And an after-work martini, back on Mars before she got this stupid idealistic yen to be a Ranger and save the universe.
Her promotion weighed heavily on her.
Engineering techs had managed to find a way to patch the hole for long enough to retrieve the crews of three other vessels before Sheridan's voice announced victory over the intraship coms. She sat on a stool in Engineering for the duration of the trip back and sleeplessly watched a lethargic, grieving crew. Everyone did their jobs. They knew she couldn't answer their questions. She was a weapons tech.
They knew she had no idea how to handle a ship like Enfalli.
Yeah, she thought. Promotion by necessity. Everyone above me is dead.
Re: Rangers Redux
Sarah spent the next few days training heavily in the facility's sim pods, deflecting and countering imaginary Shadowfire, keeping her skills sharp. Heading back to the dilapidated, moth-eaten barracks that was serving as home for the crew of the Enfalli while they waited to return to the front, she came across Mural posting training schedules in front of one of the main gymnasiums. She tried to turn the corner and continue without being noticed, but little escaped the nasty administrative aide.
"Sarah," he said, nasally, flimsies in hand. His voice was even, mocking, derogatory. "Heard about the promotion. Weapons officer on the Enfalli. Not bad, but thought at least they'd assign you a Whitestar, like most everyone else."
She shrugged, her stomach knotting. She raised her eyebrows, swallowing nervousness.
"What do you mean?"
Mural leaned down and picked up the stool he had been standing on. "I mean," he said, stuffing flimsies into a bag, "that Whitestar 27's about to arrive from the front and half the Enfalli's been reassigned to staff her. There'll be a quick re-supply, and they'll ship out tomorrow noon."
He paused, regarding her as if she were an interesting curio.
"They've assigned Bastian -- you know, your subordinate -- as 27's new weapons officer."
Sarah spent the next few days training heavily in the facility's sim pods, deflecting and countering imaginary Shadowfire, keeping her skills sharp. Heading back to the dilapidated, moth-eaten barracks that was serving as home for the crew of the Enfalli while they waited to return to the front, she came across Mural posting training schedules in front of one of the main gymnasiums. She tried to turn the corner and continue without being noticed, but little escaped the nasty administrative aide.
"Sarah," he said, nasally, flimsies in hand. His voice was even, mocking, derogatory. "Heard about the promotion. Weapons officer on the Enfalli. Not bad, but thought at least they'd assign you a Whitestar, like most everyone else."
She shrugged, her stomach knotting. She raised her eyebrows, swallowing nervousness.
"What do you mean?"
Mural leaned down and picked up the stool he had been standing on. "I mean," he said, stuffing flimsies into a bag, "that Whitestar 27's about to arrive from the front and half the Enfalli's been reassigned to staff her. There'll be a quick re-supply, and they'll ship out tomorrow noon."
He paused, regarding her as if she were an interesting curio.
"They've assigned Bastian -- you know, your subordinate -- as 27's new weapons officer."
Re: Rangers Redux
Sarah fought to keep her voice even, bringing her clenched right hand to rest at her back where the deprecatory Minbari aide couldn't see it. It was like Mural to make these implications; he was exactly the same as Tannier and the rest of the Minbari, always underestimating human capabilities, as racist and snobbish as any Earther could ever be. Anger flared and caught her throat in the fire; she felt the words coming out before she could stop them.
"Screw you," she spat.
Mural looked slightly confused, as if her outburst wasn't the answer he had expected. He paused for a moment before a soft hiss of recognition escaped his lips. Angrily, he slid the bag onto his shoulder and slid his hands into his pockets, his face darkening.
"I know we have not been the best of friends, but I thought that you should at least listen to what I have to say this time," he sputtered, his voice a dangerous scowl of hostility. "I will forgive you for your impudence. You are no doubt upset over the loss of your crewmates, and that is understandable."
Mural paused, and looked down the hallway that led to the tarmac. He looked back at her, his eyes smoldering and serious.
"Whitestar 27 will not be returning to Tuzanor," he said, softly. "Whitestar 27 will not be returning at all. My congratulations, Cantrell, on your promotion."
He turned on one heel and was gone, in the direction of the secondary training rooms, robes snapping behind him.
Sarah could do nothing but watch the empty space where he had been, her mouth half-open with shock. A moment later, galvanized, she took off in the direction of the crew barracks.
Sarah fought to keep her voice even, bringing her clenched right hand to rest at her back where the deprecatory Minbari aide couldn't see it. It was like Mural to make these implications; he was exactly the same as Tannier and the rest of the Minbari, always underestimating human capabilities, as racist and snobbish as any Earther could ever be. Anger flared and caught her throat in the fire; she felt the words coming out before she could stop them.
"Screw you," she spat.
Mural looked slightly confused, as if her outburst wasn't the answer he had expected. He paused for a moment before a soft hiss of recognition escaped his lips. Angrily, he slid the bag onto his shoulder and slid his hands into his pockets, his face darkening.
"I know we have not been the best of friends, but I thought that you should at least listen to what I have to say this time," he sputtered, his voice a dangerous scowl of hostility. "I will forgive you for your impudence. You are no doubt upset over the loss of your crewmates, and that is understandable."
Mural paused, and looked down the hallway that led to the tarmac. He looked back at her, his eyes smoldering and serious.
"Whitestar 27 will not be returning to Tuzanor," he said, softly. "Whitestar 27 will not be returning at all. My congratulations, Cantrell, on your promotion."
He turned on one heel and was gone, in the direction of the secondary training rooms, robes snapping behind him.
Sarah could do nothing but watch the empty space where he had been, her mouth half-open with shock. A moment later, galvanized, she took off in the direction of the crew barracks.
Re: Rangers Redux
present-day
Singh screamed through the infirmary door, and skidded to a halt flanking Martel. Breathing heavily, her eyes darted from the captain to body on the examining bed.
"Firell...?" she said, bringing a hand to her mouth in shock. "Is he dead...?"
The Minbari healer removed her gloves and primly smoothed her uniform. She nodded once to Singh and continued addressing Martel as if the interruption had never happened.
"It's difficult to describe to a layman," she said. "Epihemia -- is a debilitating condition, but not usually fatal. Dhrayl strain..." she trailed off, choosing her words carefully. "This particular type only occurs when a unique and rare set of conditions are met. I'll need to perform an autopsy to say anything more."
Tirk rumbled in the corner in disaffected Drazeg.
"Yes, Tirk?" Martel asked.
But it was Singh who answered, incredulously, her hand fluttering quickly at the hollow of her neck.
present-day
Singh screamed through the infirmary door, and skidded to a halt flanking Martel. Breathing heavily, her eyes darted from the captain to body on the examining bed.
"Firell...?" she said, bringing a hand to her mouth in shock. "Is he dead...?"
The Minbari healer removed her gloves and primly smoothed her uniform. She nodded once to Singh and continued addressing Martel as if the interruption had never happened.
"It's difficult to describe to a layman," she said. "Epihemia -- is a debilitating condition, but not usually fatal. Dhrayl strain..." she trailed off, choosing her words carefully. "This particular type only occurs when a unique and rare set of conditions are met. I'll need to perform an autopsy to say anything more."
Tirk rumbled in the corner in disaffected Drazeg.
"Yes, Tirk?" Martel asked.
But it was Singh who answered, incredulously, her hand fluttering quickly at the hollow of her neck.
sleepy_shadow
Regular
Re: Rangers Redux
Tell me, Channe... do you really have no diagram on the wall, outlining which fragment can be written next?
Tell me, Channe... do you really have no diagram on the wall, outlining which fragment can be written next?
Re: Rangers Redux
No diagram.
No master plan.
No index cards scribbled with ideas.
No outlines.
No ending.
Right now I have no clue what Singh is going to say in the next entry. I'll find out when you do.
But I'm not clueless. Let me explain, in more words than you possibly want.
This is my rule.
1) What goes down, stays down.
While the future for these characters might consist of a nebulous grey cloud o' nothingness instead of a finely-plotted, intricate dance, once I press the "continue" button what I've written becomes part of the character's history and MUST continue to affect them as they progress through the story.
It's like 9/11.
Before the attack on the World Trade Center, Americans twiddled around and did their thing and all was fine. Then came 9/11. And now we all have that day's trauma lodged in the fronts, backs, or middles of our consciousnesses, dogging our decisions, haunting us wherever we go.
Same thing with Redux.
I didn't know that Martel was going to be a Q-40 miner until I wrote it. But now, whatever he does is going to be informed by the trauma he experienced on Nesma and the suspicion of quantium madness. I didn't know that Malcolm was going to have a thing for Firell until I wrote it. But you bet your booty that it's gonna come up again, now that it's part of the fabric of his character. I didn't know that Firell might have been covering up for Martel's medical records until I thought it up and wrote it down, but now it's literal Redux historical fact. And so on and so forth.
Same thing with the plotline (events inform further events inform further events, until we get to a satisfactory conclusion). Why do you think I've involved mineshafts and the like? Why do you think that I've been establishing a particular enmity between Mural and some people from the Liandra?
:devil:
So, you see -- there's no master plan, but there is an evolving set of rules I have to use that sort of narrows and governs the places I can go.
It isn't a perfect system. I went through my fic the other day and noted eight or nine dropped threads that I have to pick up at some point. This primarily extends from the fact that I HAD a good idea for them at one point, but it was dropped in favor of a NEW idea. They're in the historical record, so they will have to be dealt with at some point; and I will HAVE TO make that connection.
In the future. When I figure out something to do with them.
No, it isn't perfect, but it sure is a lot of fun.
No diagram.
No master plan.
No index cards scribbled with ideas.
No outlines.
No ending.
Right now I have no clue what Singh is going to say in the next entry. I'll find out when you do.
But I'm not clueless. Let me explain, in more words than you possibly want.
This is my rule.
1) What goes down, stays down.
While the future for these characters might consist of a nebulous grey cloud o' nothingness instead of a finely-plotted, intricate dance, once I press the "continue" button what I've written becomes part of the character's history and MUST continue to affect them as they progress through the story.
It's like 9/11.
Before the attack on the World Trade Center, Americans twiddled around and did their thing and all was fine. Then came 9/11. And now we all have that day's trauma lodged in the fronts, backs, or middles of our consciousnesses, dogging our decisions, haunting us wherever we go.
Same thing with Redux.
I didn't know that Martel was going to be a Q-40 miner until I wrote it. But now, whatever he does is going to be informed by the trauma he experienced on Nesma and the suspicion of quantium madness. I didn't know that Malcolm was going to have a thing for Firell until I wrote it. But you bet your booty that it's gonna come up again, now that it's part of the fabric of his character. I didn't know that Firell might have been covering up for Martel's medical records until I thought it up and wrote it down, but now it's literal Redux historical fact. And so on and so forth.
Same thing with the plotline (events inform further events inform further events, until we get to a satisfactory conclusion). Why do you think I've involved mineshafts and the like? Why do you think that I've been establishing a particular enmity between Mural and some people from the Liandra?
:devil:
So, you see -- there's no master plan, but there is an evolving set of rules I have to use that sort of narrows and governs the places I can go.
It isn't a perfect system. I went through my fic the other day and noted eight or nine dropped threads that I have to pick up at some point. This primarily extends from the fact that I HAD a good idea for them at one point, but it was dropped in favor of a NEW idea. They're in the historical record, so they will have to be dealt with at some point; and I will HAVE TO make that connection.
In the future. When I figure out something to do with them.
No, it isn't perfect, but it sure is a lot of fun.
sleepy_shadow
Regular
Re: Rangers Redux
It may be an advantage. To write without preparing... may allow developing the story, when another would pour over resolving dependencies.
I certainly hope, since otherwise, I would have no opportunity of wondering about what happens on next turn.
Re: Rangers Redux
"You can't do that, Captain -- I mean, do an autopsy -- honored Saroteg was a devout Droshallan -- It wouldn't be right," Singh stammered. She crossed to the body and placed a dark-skinned hand on the corpse's still chest, fingers lightly touching death.
Martel sighed. "Firell?"
The Minbari healer's eyes flashed daggers at Singh. Her voice calm, her body composed, she turned to face Martel. "I maintain my position," she said.
Tirk rumbled again.
"Yes, Tirk?" Martel asked.
The large Drazi, troubled, shook his head. "Pardon to the honored, but you are wrong," he muttered to Singh, and stopped, wringing scaly hands together in thought.
Martel mulled over this for a moment.
"Go," he told Firell. The healer nodded, flagged down her nurse, and began to wheel the cart into the back room. Singh's mouth open and closed like a fish. Tirk stooped slightly, nodded to Martel and exited the infimary, leaving Singh, Martel, and Malcolm alone in the main room.
"He's not supposed to die," Singh hissed, spreading her hands in a supplicative gesture.
"Everybody dies," shrugged Malcolm.
"You can't do that, Captain -- I mean, do an autopsy -- honored Saroteg was a devout Droshallan -- It wouldn't be right," Singh stammered. She crossed to the body and placed a dark-skinned hand on the corpse's still chest, fingers lightly touching death.
Martel sighed. "Firell?"
The Minbari healer's eyes flashed daggers at Singh. Her voice calm, her body composed, she turned to face Martel. "I maintain my position," she said.
Tirk rumbled again.
"Yes, Tirk?" Martel asked.
The large Drazi, troubled, shook his head. "Pardon to the honored, but you are wrong," he muttered to Singh, and stopped, wringing scaly hands together in thought.
Martel mulled over this for a moment.
"Go," he told Firell. The healer nodded, flagged down her nurse, and began to wheel the cart into the back room. Singh's mouth open and closed like a fish. Tirk stooped slightly, nodded to Martel and exited the infimary, leaving Singh, Martel, and Malcolm alone in the main room.
"He's not supposed to die," Singh hissed, spreading her hands in a supplicative gesture.
"Everybody dies," shrugged Malcolm.
Re: Rangers Redux
the past
Nobody noticed that Sarah had returned. The barracks -- a temporary, jury-rigged ad-hoc structure that the Ranger Council had been promising for years to convert into something more permanent, after the war, maybe -- were abuzz with the chaotic activity surrounding deployment. Duffels were carefully packed, surfaces cleaned and disinfected, Rangers calling to each other above the hubbub.
Most of the Enfalli's crew bunked in this one large room while they were in drydock for a refit. On the elderly cruiser, barracks were cut up into rooms of fifteen or twenty beds, but here -- here, aside for the captain and shok'nali, the Enfalli's crew all slept in an amalgamated gaggle: in double-bunked, cheaply-made straight beds for humans, and leaning, uncomfortable contraptions for Minbari.
Upon the Enfalli's return to Tuzanor, they'd offered her the room previously occupied by her dead captain. She'd refused, shuddering.
I'm no captain, she'd thought. I just got lucky, that's all. Don't want to jinx myself.
She found Bastian in his back-corner bottom bunk, duffel packed impeccably, writing a letter on a computer tablet.
"Didn't know you had one of those," she remarked, leaning against the metal bed. She forced herself to crack a smile. Her aide, a talented marksman with an unkempt, tawny-brown mane, round features, and soft, puffy skin bunched around small eyes, looked up from his work.
"Naw, I borrowed it," he said, smiling wanly and unenthusiastically. "Thought I'd get a letter out before we're on the Whitestar and comms go cold."
Sarah found herself staring, Mural's words echoing in her ears. Not coming back, Whitestar 27 is not coming back.
"You -- excited about going?" she asked, lamely, scrambling for words to tell Bastian before he caught on that she knew something.
The young man frowned in thought. "Yeah," he said. "Never been on a Whitestar. I mean, I'm good with organic technology, but the weapons pods they have on those things are supposed to be just -- just gold-medal, even better than the sims."
He shrugged, leaned down, and dashed off a quick conclusion to the letter.
"Who are you writing?" Sarah asked, a nervousness clutching at her chest.
Bastian grinned. "Oh, the parents. My cousin, Louise. Just want to let them know that I'm all right. They've probably heard the reports by now..." he trailed off.
Sarah shook her head.
"You know they're not going to let you send that letter, Bast," she replied softly.
Bastian snorted and got to his feet, tying the laces tight on his workboots.
"Shit, Sarah, I know that. It just feels better to -- to write them, you know what I mean, it feels better to think that someone out there -- knows what we're doing here," he finished, shoving his hands in pants pockets. "And -- I've just got so much on my mind. I want them to know in case I don't come back."
She bit her lip. I'm lying to him, she thought. "The hell you won't."
Bastian handed the computer tablet to one of the passing engineers, who thanked him and sat down nearby to use it. He zipped open his duffel and rustled through it, through impeccably-folded work uniforms and the few personal items he was allowed.
"Be realistic," he answered. "This is a Whitestar I'm going on. They don't send ships like the Enfalli on the dangerous missions. Shadows'd have a torpedo up our ass before we could say 'What the hell is that?'"
"Bast-" she said, and stopped short, feeling cold.
Bastian sat slowly back down on the bunk, leaned forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. He turned his face upward towards Sarah.
"Congratulations on your promotion," he said.
"Yeah, you too," she returned, hollowly.
They sat in silence for a moment before Bastian slapped his knee and got up.
"Well, I signed up for training time this afternoon, so I guess I'd better head out," he said.
Now or never, she thought. Definitely never.
"Bast, I wanted to tell you that you're possibly the best marksman--"
He held his hand up, cutting her off by clearing his throat. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and stared back at her: his clear eyes sober and angry.
"I don't want to hear it, Sarah, I'm leaving tomorrow," he said. "It's like hearing my own fucking eulogy."
He passed her, and she watched his back recede and fade into a grouping of Minbari engine techs chatting softly at the entrance.
the past
Nobody noticed that Sarah had returned. The barracks -- a temporary, jury-rigged ad-hoc structure that the Ranger Council had been promising for years to convert into something more permanent, after the war, maybe -- were abuzz with the chaotic activity surrounding deployment. Duffels were carefully packed, surfaces cleaned and disinfected, Rangers calling to each other above the hubbub.
Most of the Enfalli's crew bunked in this one large room while they were in drydock for a refit. On the elderly cruiser, barracks were cut up into rooms of fifteen or twenty beds, but here -- here, aside for the captain and shok'nali, the Enfalli's crew all slept in an amalgamated gaggle: in double-bunked, cheaply-made straight beds for humans, and leaning, uncomfortable contraptions for Minbari.
Upon the Enfalli's return to Tuzanor, they'd offered her the room previously occupied by her dead captain. She'd refused, shuddering.
I'm no captain, she'd thought. I just got lucky, that's all. Don't want to jinx myself.
She found Bastian in his back-corner bottom bunk, duffel packed impeccably, writing a letter on a computer tablet.
"Didn't know you had one of those," she remarked, leaning against the metal bed. She forced herself to crack a smile. Her aide, a talented marksman with an unkempt, tawny-brown mane, round features, and soft, puffy skin bunched around small eyes, looked up from his work.
"Naw, I borrowed it," he said, smiling wanly and unenthusiastically. "Thought I'd get a letter out before we're on the Whitestar and comms go cold."
Sarah found herself staring, Mural's words echoing in her ears. Not coming back, Whitestar 27 is not coming back.
"You -- excited about going?" she asked, lamely, scrambling for words to tell Bastian before he caught on that she knew something.
The young man frowned in thought. "Yeah," he said. "Never been on a Whitestar. I mean, I'm good with organic technology, but the weapons pods they have on those things are supposed to be just -- just gold-medal, even better than the sims."
He shrugged, leaned down, and dashed off a quick conclusion to the letter.
"Who are you writing?" Sarah asked, a nervousness clutching at her chest.
Bastian grinned. "Oh, the parents. My cousin, Louise. Just want to let them know that I'm all right. They've probably heard the reports by now..." he trailed off.
Sarah shook her head.
"You know they're not going to let you send that letter, Bast," she replied softly.
Bastian snorted and got to his feet, tying the laces tight on his workboots.
"Shit, Sarah, I know that. It just feels better to -- to write them, you know what I mean, it feels better to think that someone out there -- knows what we're doing here," he finished, shoving his hands in pants pockets. "And -- I've just got so much on my mind. I want them to know in case I don't come back."
She bit her lip. I'm lying to him, she thought. "The hell you won't."
Bastian handed the computer tablet to one of the passing engineers, who thanked him and sat down nearby to use it. He zipped open his duffel and rustled through it, through impeccably-folded work uniforms and the few personal items he was allowed.
"Be realistic," he answered. "This is a Whitestar I'm going on. They don't send ships like the Enfalli on the dangerous missions. Shadows'd have a torpedo up our ass before we could say 'What the hell is that?'"
"Bast-" she said, and stopped short, feeling cold.
Bastian sat slowly back down on the bunk, leaned forward and let his elbows rest on his knees. He turned his face upward towards Sarah.
"Congratulations on your promotion," he said.
"Yeah, you too," she returned, hollowly.
They sat in silence for a moment before Bastian slapped his knee and got up.
"Well, I signed up for training time this afternoon, so I guess I'd better head out," he said.
Now or never, she thought. Definitely never.
"Bast, I wanted to tell you that you're possibly the best marksman--"
He held his hand up, cutting her off by clearing his throat. He slung the duffel over his shoulder and stared back at her: his clear eyes sober and angry.
"I don't want to hear it, Sarah, I'm leaving tomorrow," he said. "It's like hearing my own fucking eulogy."
He passed her, and she watched his back recede and fade into a grouping of Minbari engine techs chatting softly at the entrance.
