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Rangers Redux (fiction)
- Thread starter channe
- Start date
D
**DONOTDELETE**
Guest
Thank you. /forums/images/graemlins/smile.gif
No problem with flimsies. I would suspect they are essentially digital paper, the one which currently costs a fortune and isn't fit for practicl use.
If you could stop by on Liandra and bring me some of their flimsies, I would appreciate. I could then try to equip my DeskJet with an adequate print head and see if this cookie is edible or too tough. /forums/images/graemlins/grin.gif
No problem with flimsies. I would suspect they are essentially digital paper, the one which currently costs a fortune and isn't fit for practicl use.
If you could stop by on Liandra and bring me some of their flimsies, I would appreciate. I could then try to equip my DeskJet with an adequate print head and see if this cookie is edible or too tough. /forums/images/graemlins/grin.gif
Quick note for y'all:
I joined up with National Novel Writing Month, a not-so-serious event that makes you write 50,000 words in one month. I'm not taking it very seriously, obviously, because not only do I not plan on writing 50,000 words outside my day job (I rack up, easily, 70,000 words a month on that), but I *plan* not to win.
Why do you need to know this?
It's simple, dearies. The "novel" I'm writing this month is "Rangers Redux." For the month of November, at least, you will get at least one installment every night.
I figure it's a nice excuse. /forums/images/graemlins/smile.gif
I joined up with National Novel Writing Month, a not-so-serious event that makes you write 50,000 words in one month. I'm not taking it very seriously, obviously, because not only do I not plan on writing 50,000 words outside my day job (I rack up, easily, 70,000 words a month on that), but I *plan* not to win.
Why do you need to know this?
It's simple, dearies. The "novel" I'm writing this month is "Rangers Redux." For the month of November, at least, you will get at least one installment every night.
I figure it's a nice excuse. /forums/images/graemlins/smile.gif
Like everything else on the Liandra, the guest quarters were a single-room, slightly-cramped, ill-ventilated pseudo-hotel room stuffed between the janitor's closet and the aft network node. This would be the first time in the Liandra's history under Martel that the guest quarters hosted a real guest - previously, it had served as a Moebian-flu quarantine room, a storage room for the crew retooling the lighting fixtures in the crew barracks across the hall, Sarah's favorite place to nap, a third cargo bay, and brig (Ok, ok, Martel found himself thinking, maybe THAT little incident with the Psi-Cop counted, but...)
He entered his code into the keypad, and the door flew open.
Saroteg sat daintily on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in the lap of his gown. He looked up as Martel entered, a nasty little smile on his face. The smell of skinflake was almost oppressive; it permeated the room, assaulting Martel's nose, a mixture of peanuts and vomit, alcohol and human excretion.
He attempted not to retch as he folded his hands in the traditional Ranger greeting.
"I apologize for the wait, honored Saroteg," Martel said in Drazegha. "Ranger Singh will be joining us shortly."
The elderly Drazi nodded. Opening his mouth, he spoke as if exhumed from a grave, as if he was swallowing and digesting a pound of playground gravel.
"There's not much time, Captain," he said.
Martel shook his head. "Our people have run a few predictions. If the salvage team was stuck on-planet running on singular generators-"
Saroteg coughed loudly. It rattled in his throat and hit Martel with a force of two g's.
"You misunderstand," he said, blinking rheumy eyes. "We are not going to Beta Durani 7 to save the salvage team. They are already dead, Captain."
He entered his code into the keypad, and the door flew open.
Saroteg sat daintily on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in the lap of his gown. He looked up as Martel entered, a nasty little smile on his face. The smell of skinflake was almost oppressive; it permeated the room, assaulting Martel's nose, a mixture of peanuts and vomit, alcohol and human excretion.
He attempted not to retch as he folded his hands in the traditional Ranger greeting.
"I apologize for the wait, honored Saroteg," Martel said in Drazegha. "Ranger Singh will be joining us shortly."
The elderly Drazi nodded. Opening his mouth, he spoke as if exhumed from a grave, as if he was swallowing and digesting a pound of playground gravel.
"There's not much time, Captain," he said.
Martel shook his head. "Our people have run a few predictions. If the salvage team was stuck on-planet running on singular generators-"
Saroteg coughed loudly. It rattled in his throat and hit Martel with a force of two g's.
"You misunderstand," he said, blinking rheumy eyes. "We are not going to Beta Durani 7 to save the salvage team. They are already dead, Captain."
A difficult, sad look passed over the academic's face, as he stood to face Martel. A single flake of white exoskeleton fluttered from the Drazi's crown to his shoulder, resting precariously for a moment before his swift turn away from the captain dislodged it once again.
"It is, unfortunately, not a case of search-and-rescue, although it is indeed possible that we may be able to sift some genetic material from the wreckage. That is not the question, however sad it is," Saroteg said.
He lifted his head, tightened his grip on the wall next to him. "It is a question of information, Captain. When Beta Durani 7 was destroyed, my good friend Pelham was in the midst of transferring vital information pertaining to the ancients that once walked the dust underneath his own feet. We need that information."
Martel nodded. "In a dead colony," he said, attempting to disguise the skepticism he felt.
Saroteg continued addressing him from the corner, staring into the blue-grey bulkhead. "When the Interstellar Alliance discovered the ancient city, they moved the main computer below it. At first, we presumed it destroyed with the colony. The salvage team proved us wrong - they discovered the cortex, buried near the monolith, well-hidden. And operational."
"But the salvage team is dead," Martel said.
The Drazi dipped his head to the side. "Yes, they are," he said. He opened his mouth, rumbled something in Drazegha, and then turned to look at Martel. "Which leaves you to complete their mission."
Martel blinked, keeping his face impassive.
"How did they die?" he asked.
The Drazi moved towards him slightly, stumbling, shaking with old age. "We don't know. We suspect the involvement of these hooligans that call themselves the Hand."
"Hooligans," Martel said, dryly.
Sharp, the Drazi shook his head vigorously. "A breakaway faction, nothing more."
An uncertain moment passed, before the captain, deciding it was better to shut up, nodded. "I'll need to clear it, of course," he said. "Until then, sir, please accept our hospitality."
A rumbling chuckle escaped the Drazi's throat. "You can say it, Captain. This is a prison, however temporary. I know how these things work. Go."
"It is, unfortunately, not a case of search-and-rescue, although it is indeed possible that we may be able to sift some genetic material from the wreckage. That is not the question, however sad it is," Saroteg said.
He lifted his head, tightened his grip on the wall next to him. "It is a question of information, Captain. When Beta Durani 7 was destroyed, my good friend Pelham was in the midst of transferring vital information pertaining to the ancients that once walked the dust underneath his own feet. We need that information."
Martel nodded. "In a dead colony," he said, attempting to disguise the skepticism he felt.
Saroteg continued addressing him from the corner, staring into the blue-grey bulkhead. "When the Interstellar Alliance discovered the ancient city, they moved the main computer below it. At first, we presumed it destroyed with the colony. The salvage team proved us wrong - they discovered the cortex, buried near the monolith, well-hidden. And operational."
"But the salvage team is dead," Martel said.
The Drazi dipped his head to the side. "Yes, they are," he said. He opened his mouth, rumbled something in Drazegha, and then turned to look at Martel. "Which leaves you to complete their mission."
Martel blinked, keeping his face impassive.
"How did they die?" he asked.
The Drazi moved towards him slightly, stumbling, shaking with old age. "We don't know. We suspect the involvement of these hooligans that call themselves the Hand."
"Hooligans," Martel said, dryly.
Sharp, the Drazi shook his head vigorously. "A breakaway faction, nothing more."
An uncertain moment passed, before the captain, deciding it was better to shut up, nodded. "I'll need to clear it, of course," he said. "Until then, sir, please accept our hospitality."
A rumbling chuckle escaped the Drazi's throat. "You can say it, Captain. This is a prison, however temporary. I know how these things work. Go."
Shaal Mayan
Regular
still loving every minute of it.
*swears profusely* My computer locked up and I lost a great little entry having to do with Delenn, Sindell, and guilt (the fatal kind). Unfortunately, because my computer is pretty danged stupid... well... you'll get it Monday, because...
...I'm going out of town this weekend, and might not get the chance to post. If I do, it'll be in chunks - I have to get this story out! It's just brimming underneath my fingertips!
Good evenin', everyone!
...I'm going out of town this weekend, and might not get the chance to post. If I do, it'll be in chunks - I have to get this story out! It's just brimming underneath my fingertips!
Good evenin', everyone!
I think my ratings are going down. We'll have to remedy that. Heh, heh, heh.
--
Delenn paused underneath the grand archway, pressing herself against the stone as she became an island in the deluge of worker-caste worshippers pouring from the doors of the great temple. Chatting, talking, smiling, they spoke Fik with the long vowels of Tuzanor dockworkers and Ranger agreges; rowdy, they spoke of Valen and of parties to be held that afternoon on the hills surrounding the city. They ignored her. In her white robes, cowl slung over her head and hair drawn back, she resembled the acolyte she had once been.
When they passed into the bright sunlight, she was left alone, touching the cold stone, watching the stragglers congregate around the feet of the massive rose-marble statue of Valen. A quick scan found her contact pacing nearby, engrossed in examining a bush badly in need of trimming.
"Sindell," Delenn said, walking forward. "I came as quickly as possible."
The Ranger cleared his throat and looked up. Delenn caught the grateful flash in his eyes before the lines of his face returned to their natural stubborn intransigence. One of the greatest minds of her father's generation indicated the statue of Valen.
"Fitting, that we should meet here," he said. "Will you walk with me, Entil'zha?"
Delenn nodded, and the two kept a steady pace as they began to make the circle around the massive temple.
"I take it there is news," she murmured, "or else we would not be meeting like this."
Sindell coughed slightly, leaning forward. "We've lost White Star 49."
Delenn felt her knees go weak.
"And the Liandra?"
Sindell paused before nodding. "Successfully picked up the package at the Drazi Freehold. We gave them the go-order an hour ago."
Delenn looked up. It was spring, and the flowers were blooming in the Valen-gardens. Fruit - the color of the blood of her Rangers on the front - burst from the trees lining the park. Above her, a single hawk flew, cried, dove. The fragrance of the sea, mingled with the scent of the incense floating from inside the temple, moved underneath her nose, carried on the light breeze. She shook her head, and smelled nothing but the smoke of malfunctioning engines, of war, of death.
My curse, she thought.
"Was it those who watch?" she whispered. "Do they know?"
--
Delenn paused underneath the grand archway, pressing herself against the stone as she became an island in the deluge of worker-caste worshippers pouring from the doors of the great temple. Chatting, talking, smiling, they spoke Fik with the long vowels of Tuzanor dockworkers and Ranger agreges; rowdy, they spoke of Valen and of parties to be held that afternoon on the hills surrounding the city. They ignored her. In her white robes, cowl slung over her head and hair drawn back, she resembled the acolyte she had once been.
When they passed into the bright sunlight, she was left alone, touching the cold stone, watching the stragglers congregate around the feet of the massive rose-marble statue of Valen. A quick scan found her contact pacing nearby, engrossed in examining a bush badly in need of trimming.
"Sindell," Delenn said, walking forward. "I came as quickly as possible."
The Ranger cleared his throat and looked up. Delenn caught the grateful flash in his eyes before the lines of his face returned to their natural stubborn intransigence. One of the greatest minds of her father's generation indicated the statue of Valen.
"Fitting, that we should meet here," he said. "Will you walk with me, Entil'zha?"
Delenn nodded, and the two kept a steady pace as they began to make the circle around the massive temple.
"I take it there is news," she murmured, "or else we would not be meeting like this."
Sindell coughed slightly, leaning forward. "We've lost White Star 49."
Delenn felt her knees go weak.
"And the Liandra?"
Sindell paused before nodding. "Successfully picked up the package at the Drazi Freehold. We gave them the go-order an hour ago."
Delenn looked up. It was spring, and the flowers were blooming in the Valen-gardens. Fruit - the color of the blood of her Rangers on the front - burst from the trees lining the park. Above her, a single hawk flew, cried, dove. The fragrance of the sea, mingled with the scent of the incense floating from inside the temple, moved underneath her nose, carried on the light breeze. She shook her head, and smelled nothing but the smoke of malfunctioning engines, of war, of death.
My curse, she thought.
"Was it those who watch?" she whispered. "Do they know?"
Light-years away, on the rim of known space, White Star 49 - or the twisted, charred, ripped remains of what had once been White Star 49 - basked in the harsh blessing of a local star. Light danced from girder to joint, as parts of the exterior bulkhead met and separated like champagne glasses held by butterfly socialites at a New Vegas political fundraiser. Random, short staccato points of light, lonely, attemping to call a halted SOS.
An arm - separated from a body, inexplicably still whole - floated by the porthole of an overstuffed escape pod. An eye blinked at it once before retreating.
"He's dead," said another voice, muffled. The eye's owner - properly named Tafeek, late of the Liandra - blinked again and looked at his companion.
An arm - separated from a body, inexplicably still whole - floated by the porthole of an overstuffed escape pod. An eye blinked at it once before retreating.
"He's dead," said another voice, muffled. The eye's owner - properly named Tafeek, late of the Liandra - blinked again and looked at his companion.
B5_Obsessed
Regular
Mmmmmmm. Severed limbs. (8(l)
