Rangers Redux (fiction)

Three or four of you know I'm writing this, and all three have, within the last day or so, contacted me to tell me to start posting it (or else, I think the wording was).

Yes, this is fanfiction. I usually like to keep my hands off of other writers' characters, which is why I've never written fanfic before in my life, save for a little ditty called Spoo And Rye (In Medlab). But the Anla'shok of the Liandra were too much of a temptation - interesting characters barely seen, barely formed, and dangling with stories ripe for the taking. I just HAD to...

And so began Rangers Redux, which will probably end up being a curious amalgam of the B5 you know and the ideas that are floating around in my head.

WARNING: I love science fiction, but I'm not very good at it - I'm more of a fantasist and writer of semi-realistic fiction. My trade is journalism, and my first love the short story. I have never, at all, ever created an arc from scratch of the magnitude that's gonna happen here.

Most of these posts will not be fully polished, as I'm still, shall we say, "beta-editing" and writing the darn thing.

So, be kind.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: A good amount of the stuff in this fanfic belongs to JMS, Warner Brothers, and a bunch of other people in California somewhere. I am just a fan playing in the shallow end, borrowing the universe for a while. I'll put it back. I promise...

GHOSTS OF CORIANA
---------------------

Sindell arrived obscenely early to the summit, a fact that seemed to disturb no one but the normally imperturbable Rathenn, who had been hunched over deployment plans in the security aerie for most of the morning. Rathenn - whose task it was to remember this sort of thing - found that he could not recall a single time when Sindell had been this early, or this eager, to attend an event that would inevitably end in the Centauri complaining, the Narns whining, the Earth Alliance throwing up their hands in denial, and the Drazi calling for some sort of military involvement.

It intrigued Rathenn.

He knew that Sindell, for being the spokesperson of an organization as devoted to progress as the Anla'shok appeared to be, was often stubbornly and immovably traditional - in fact, he had mentioned to Rathenn himself many times over that the day he went into the Senate chamber without undergoing the proper rituals was the day he could no longer call himself Minbari.

Rathenn peered at the display in the corner, which clearly showed Sindell, dressed in the grey-green robe of the Ranger Council, entering the chamber without a single lit candle, bow, or words said in soft Adronato.

Had Sindell - lied? Could Sindell, a Ranger, exist in the realm of untruth? Of disrespect?

Anyone else on Entil'zha's staff would have let it slide. The leader of the Anla'shok legislatory body probably had a meeting, or important business. Who knows the ways of that Council?

For Rathenn, it was enough.

He left the security aerie to his deputies and followed Sindell across the East Courtyard, questions in his mind.

And Rathenn prided himself on having answers.

Thank you... /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif

Interesting and well-considered beginning. I must admit that I'm awaiting what happens, wondering where characters stand, what they think, know, plan... anything goes. /ubbthreads/images/icons/grin.gif

What can I promise in return? Nothing but trinkets. Continued interest and suspension of disbelief (admittedly rare trinket where the Nitpicking Team is involved). Perhaps some constructive feedback, hopefully received with skepticism.

Perhaps the only real thing I can promise: trying to continue my own story in readable manner, perhaps provide some amusement. I have postponed completing the current part, for fear of revealing too much of storyline. Perhaps reading your story will help me to learn, make my plans less transparent.

By the way, what does "redux" mean? I am unfamiliar with this term, failed at guessing and cannot find it from my dictionary.

Yea! It's been a long time since I've seen fanfiction around here, (And, having gotten into Lord of the Rings fanfiction instead, Babylon 5 has lost some of its appeal to me for fanfiction.) Please, continue!

Oh duh.

I just got back from your website and the story's sitting right here.

Thanks for the teensy morsel Channe. We'll take what we can get. > I wish I had the time to write. I really did have a good time at it.

Just one correction: Not on the story but on your webpage intro. You referred to Legend of the rangers as an "unfilmed and largely forgotten backdoor pilot."

I'd agree with the second part.

Redux basically means "the return of," or "the coming-back of," "recursive," stuff like that. Hope that helps.

The excruciatingly loud clangor that emanated from the nearest training room belonged not to the soundtrack of a bad Narn tragicomedy – as the human trainee passing by the door had originally likened it to – but to two distinct, whirling blurs in beige, having at one another with extraordinary skill, resolving into human figures only when they were of the inclination to hurl insults at one another.

Three minutes later, the woman was disabled by her opponent’s nasty stave-thrust to her left, catching it at just the wrong angle to be cast to the ground breathless, wincing, and sporting a mild bruise on her face that would most likely become a nasty black eye within the next few hours.

“You’re out of practice, Sarah,” David Martel said, extending his stave to assist his prostrate opponent. She stood with an involuntary groan, straightening up to meet his self-assured grin with a wry smile of her own.

“It didn’t take you that long to beat me last time,” Cantrell said. She heard Martel’s desultory snort, and passed him a towel in response. “Who’s out of practice, here?”

The Captain wiped his face and grinned. “You ought to see Firell about that bruise.”

She ignored him, picking up her stave. “Want another go? I’ll give you your own.”

Stepping back, Martel put down the towel and shook his head. “Not today. There’s things I have to do for the summit. I’ll need your input. An hour from now, on the bridge.”

Curiously, Cantrell nodded her assent, as Martel tossed her the towel, turned, and walked out of the room. She splashed water on her own face, almost laughing at herself. Lost again, she thought to herself, grinning wryly. But then – everyone loses to David Martel.

As much as he hadn't wanted to admit it, Kitaro had been very glad of the peace and quiet afforded him by Na'feel's absence that morning. In the Liandra's cramped hallways, he ran - sometimes literally - into the Narn engineer at least five times a day, as she made her way to the quartermaster's, or the engine room, or the bridge, or back from the quartermaster's laden with engine coils.

It was at times like that, pinned up against the wall as a constantly fuming Narn raced down the corridor laden with tools Kitaro had never seen before, that the navigator swore he would never in his life understand the Narn penchant for adding vitriol to everything they did.

Correction noted. I meant to say the thing about the backdoor pilot, and mention that the series remained unfilmed, thus allowing me to write this.

The setting is becoming clearer. I can already see the approximate time, provided that this isn't a devious trick. I can already wonder about one scene which must surely follow... unless something entirely different follows.

Thank you. /ubbthreads/images/icons/grin.gif

Redux = Redo

/ubbthreads/images/icons/tongue.gif

It's not really a redo, 'cause there wasn't anything *to* redo in the first place... sob!

Gah. Errors. I thought I had edited that thing. Changing accordingly...

Cool Channe! /ubbthreads/images/icons/cool.gif Keep it up! /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif

Daily dealings with an angry Narn aside, Kitaro walked the deck of the Liandra as if it was a dream that threatened to end at any time. He had not distinguished himself in training, nor had he accomplished anything flying in a non-combatant wing of Nials during the Centauri conflict. He had been about ready to space himself from boredom when Martel had invited him to pilot the Liandra.

Mmm. Lunch...

Kitaro, who recieved the news while attempting a three-hundred-degree fate twist in a Meridian ion storm (in the simulator, although he made it a habit of not mentioning that small fact to women), took about three seconds to say "yes." He was even able to say it through the overwhelming disbelief that someone would actually consider him as a pilot suitable for an attack ship.

The Liandra wasn't exactly as advanced or as beautiful as a Whitestar, but it moved as gracefully as any Minbari vessel, banked and turned as easily as a fighter, and used an intuitive series of hand movements to control speed and vector. The Liandra also had the worst record of any Ranger vessel when it came to breaking down and falling apart, which meant that Na'feel spent more and more time running to Tirk for spare parts, which meant that Kitaro was subjected to her endless tirades for greater periods of time...

But, in the end, Kitaro was damned happy to be there.

<font color=green><whisper>
I better not interfere... but thanks. /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif
</whisper></font color=green>

Oooh... Pretty! /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif It's nice that you have time for this now, channe. I know you're still busy, but hopefully not to the point you were a couple months ago. /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif Nice to see some more of your writing. /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif

Sincerely,
Your #1 fan. /ubbthreads/images/icons/smile.gif

Although Kitaro knew that discipline often grew a little lax among some members of the Anla'shok when their ship was in drydock, he had never seen anything even coming close to resembling the scene on the Liandra's bridge.

Martel was sitting at the main display, one hand entering data furiously, the other dipping into a basket of flarn cubes that lay precariously perched between the main display and his own console. A flarn-flecked napkin lay bunched nearby - over the firing override control, Kitaro noticed. Martel munched idly, listening as Sarah's disembodied voice exploded over the speakers.

"Dead again. Should I give it another go?"

Martel mused, swallowed, and nodded to Kitaro. "Once more." He entered some data. "Decreasing relative power ten percent."

The navigator sat, craning his neck.

Mmm. Lunch. Lunch always interrupts the story... and, no, the fact that Martel's eating flarn has no correspondence with the fact that I haven't eaten all day and am going out to get Chinese... /ubbthreads/images/icons/wink.gif

Trying to get a tiny bit of stuff in before I get kicked out of the library.

-- -- --

Martel acknowledged Kitaro's presence by offering him some lunch. He lifted the basket towards Kitaro with a nod, chewing idly, eyes focused on his console readings.

"No thanks, sir," the navigator responded. He thought that flarn tasted like dead oak tree and smelled like rotten tofu.

"Damn," said Martel, leaning back. Kitaro looked up from calling up hyperspace calculations, shocked that the captain would take such personal offense to his taste in food. Martel, however, was not addressing the navigator but the display in front of him.

"Got that?" Sarah's voice, again.

"I do. You can shut down, now," the captain said, his eyes trained on the readings before him.

Kitaro hadn't been on the Liandra for very long, nor had he known David Martel before his assignment. He had, however, spent enough time on the bridge to know when David Martel was troubled by something.

--

And with that, I am libraryless. Bye!

My eternal thanks to Lennier, who maintains a browser cache, for recovering the rest of Redux for me. What was lost follows. I don't like all of it, and some of it I'm going to change, but this is just beta, do recall. /forums/images/icons/wink.gif

-- -- --

Na'feel sometimes hated Minbar with a passion she usually reserved for broken jump engines.

Na'feel's first view of Minbar - helped along by feeding her last five credits into a payviewer in the bowels of an ancient, sputtering Brakiri refugee freighter - had taken her breath away. It hung in space, surrounded by the predatory lines of thousands of Sharlins and Whitestars, untouched by the strife that had torn her homeworld apart. It was Na'feel's last hope of amnesty - her last hope of a future where she could do something, bring her years of experience running the engine rooms on countless supply vessels to good use - instead of continue with the bloody, terrible work of the Resistance.

She arrived on Minbar, carrying the clothes on her back, fifteen credits, a hastily-scrawled piece of parchment with the name of a contact at the Tuzanor Anla'shok training facility, no knowledge of Adronato - and a copy of the book of G'kar.

She hated the whiteness. She hated the blueness. She hated the soft pastel inland seas and the tall, thin, soaring mountains with their cold snows and icy, stabbing presence. She hated the way the brilliant Minbari sun reflected on the crystalline towers, sending her into fits of near-blindness, and she hated the silent streets of Tuzanor and their artificial, triangular setup. She hated Tuzanor herself, where she was the only Narn, the only outcast - hell, even the only amphibian. Minbar didn't even have amphibians, she had noticed.

for the sake of G'quan, she found herself muttering more than once a day. I'll never understand aliens.

G'kar had taught her tolerance through his words, but sometimes she just wanted to bring a torch to that irritiating, omnipresent Minbari haughtiness. During her training, she hardly left the Ranger compound, as it was designed to be far more welcoming, far more - universal, dark, and warm, she thought, then Tuzanor's wide, flood-lit avenues.

Na'feel, unfortunately, was getting a double dose of Minbari arrogance this morning - after nearly getting run over with nary an apology on the airfield by three worker-caste janitors on a cargo loader, she had spent an hour and a half (measured in Minbari time) attempting to convince the Regional Quartermaster's attendant that she was, indeed, qualified enough to service her very own Adin'ar-class injection system.

Na'feel wasn't usually the type that enjoyed throwing up her hands and retreating from the battle, and she got some perverse pleasure by saying to herself we complain for the One, we haggle for the One, but this was getting ridiculous. Keeping her voice carefully neutral, she informed the attendant that she'd return later and decided to take her chances with the rapidly-moving cargo loaders on the airfield. As she pushed open the door, she felt eyes boring into her back; without even turning, she knew that the young worker-caste attendant had been staring at her.

That's right, sweetie, Na'feel thought. Stare at the ugly alien.

Back against the crystalline building wall, Na'feel closed her eyes and listened, attempting to draw on some of her training to calm herself down. Drowning out the deathly silence of the Minbari afternoon was the clamor she loved - engines firing, tools clattering on the deck, somebody (a human, she guessed) swearing.

"I thought I would find you inside," an evenly-toned, distinctly Minbari voice said, breaking through her reverie. Startled, she looked up to see Dulann, his arms crossed neatly across his chest.

"All the hot air in there was giving me a headache," she replied, not exactly expecting him to get the reference. Humorless, those Minbari, all of them.

Dulann walked closer and smiled thinly. "You're impatient, Na'feel."

She regarded the Minbari, noting yet another case of trademark Minbari arrogance. Pity, I actually like Dulann, she thought. Even the best fail sometimes. "You know I could get that new injector configured in ten minutes, tops. of course I'm impatient."

Dulann nodded. "We know you could. The Shok'na, however, understands the necessity of abiding by the accepted regulations while we are in drydock. He expects you to do the same."

Na'feel bit her lip and nodded. "Of course," she said. That was another thing she wasn't yet used to - calling Martel "Captain," or "Shok'na," when she had spoken to her commanding officer in Narn for most of her life.

"I am returning to the Liandra," Dulann continued. "I thought you might enjoy some company."

Na'feel shook her head. "I think - I think I'll stay right here," she said. "They're about to finish, anyway."

Dulann inclined his head to the side, turned, and began to make his way across the airfield. She watched his receding back, trying to control a bubbling annoyance.

It was only then that she grinned and realized what Dulann had implied.

That cold Minbari bastard, she thought to herself. "While we are in drydock."

It wasn't such a bad day after all.

--

Dulann inferred that he had arrived back on the Liandra at the wrong time as soon as he was greeted with Kitaro's grin, his Captain's back, and a half-full basket of flarn - on his seat.

"Sit down," hissed Martel, apparently unaware of the obstruction "Quick." Relieved of the burden, Martel turned to Kitaro, adjusted his collar, and nodded. "Put him through." Dulann had barely seated himself - holding the basket in his right hand - when the viewer sprang to life in the guise of the ever-sour Mural, executive aide to Councillor Sindell and, in Dulann's estimation, a gaping, bleeding sore in the side of the Ranger establishment.

"Good afternoon, Captain," Mural said, his voice wedged into the constant unpleasant timbre Dulann had grown so accustomed to. "I know you're scheduled to depart within the week. However, we need you to make some time for a larger matter. The summit has demanded an additional deposition from the crewmembers who were present and directly involved with the destruction of the Valen and of the colony on Beta Durani 7."

Martel leaned forward. Tiredly, he regarded the councillor. "With all due respect, sir, but my crew has already been debriefed on the mission in question. What has been said is all that we know."

Mural's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I have to tell you the importance of this matter," he said. "If the summit believes there is missing testimony, I can't assure that the Rangers will be able to protect you."

"Yes, sir," continued Martel.

"Please have your command crew report to the Executive Building as soon as possible, Captain. You will understand our need to get the facts straight. Thank you."

Mural dissappeared and Martel leaned back in his chair, opening one eye to regard Dulann. Looking at his first officer, he hit a comm button.

"Sarah, come to the bridge," Martel said. "Bring your findings."

Channe - you're not keeping copies of your stories on your computer and/or other places? I always do - even if I'm going to post something. When I heard of the forum "misplacement" p) I thought of your stories but figured you of all posters would have back-up copies, heh.

Maybe I'm just meticiulous about having copies of all my work ... I hate rewriting something I already wrote! /forums/images/icons/tongue.gif

I'm exactly the same way, but some people find it to be "not worth it" or just forget about doing it, (i in no way am referring to the great CHANNE, all hail CHANNE) when it's really simple, all you gotta do is cut and paste it in a word processor, and hit save, though, on occasion, i have been known to goof.