LEGACY OF THE CALLER
Based on the TV Show "Babylon 5"

Celebwen Telcontar: The plot belongs to me. Everything you recognize belongs to someone else.

Balrog: I see. Well, get on with it! I want to see how this goes!

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The PAS Cordenia, the prototype for the much smaller version of the Warbirds the People used, rocketed through space. The design was that of a swan or a much smaller phoenix than the Warbirds.

“Approaching jumpgate,” Dorenda, the Valkyerie captain, called. “By Brynhild!” Dorenda gasped.

“What is it?” Marcus asked.

“My Lord Caller, there is an Eilie vessel tailing us!”

“Use evasive maneuvers!” Susan barked. The ship dodged, using an intelligence that was uncannily akin to the organic vessels the Vorlons and Shadows used. The jumpgate came online, and the Cordenia dodged into Hyperspace. Dorenda sighed in relief.

“Good,” she breathed. “The Eilie use a different… frequency, you could say, of Hyperspace. Our contact is in the space of Sigma Nine Five Seven. He has been approached by an offshoot of the People, or rather, and offshoot of a race the People affected, long ago, and who, as a race, have been looking for us for millions of years.” Dorenda fiddled with some of her controls. “The Eilie simulation ended when we entered Hyperspace, by the way. And I would personally like to thank you, my Lord Caller, because you have given us technology for Red Hyperspace jump points. Previously, we only had access to Green and Blue, and the Eilie, to the best of our knowledge, only has Green. And I’m babbling now, so I’m going to shut up.” True to her word, Dorenda fell silent as the rest of the bridge attempted to stifle their laughter. Susan smiled slightly.

“About how long until we reach Sigma Nine Five Seven?” she asked.

“Ten hours at best guess, My Lady.” Susan glanced sidelong at her fiancé, who accompanied her off of the bridge.

As soon as they reached their quarters, Susan began to kiss Marcus, gently at first, then with more passion, each helping the other out of their respective uniforms.

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The older man rested in his quarters, disappointed yet again. The floating cities, the music, the passion, pain, joy and despair the parasite had given him was not eclipsed by the wonders of the galaxy.

Without warning, one of his walls became hot and glowed brightly. Then, in form the glowing patch of metal a great bird formed.

It was the size of an eagle, and looked vaguely like a graceful mixture of a swan and a peacock, the colors all those of bright flame. It fanned its wings and hopped to the headboard of his bed. The symbiotic creature he had hosted for a time had told him of such wondrous creatures!

:Hello, Duncan: the bird said into his mind. Duncan jumped.

“Who are you?” he asked.

:Your partner. My name is Thoronar. Come, there are more People like me on the Cordenia. Allow me to bear you there; our Lord Caller has set aside quarters for you. You shall see wonders beyond your imagining: Thoronar said, fanning its wings. :Will you come:

“I will,” Duncan said. The bird took his shoulders in its talons, and Duncan was cast into a maelstrom of color and flame, to be delivered to a large room, where his weariness from searching for the magnificent people shown to him by the symbiotic creature bore him down, and he fell into an unconscious state.

The next thing he knew, an accented voice was speaking softly into his ear.

“‘The gracious Duncan, asleep by the gate. Methinks I hear a voice cry, “Sleep no more.” Marcus does murder sleep.’” Duncan turned and stood, Thoronar by his side, uttering a sharp whistle of welcome.

“You’re a madman, you know,” Duncan said to the dark-haired man.

“Such has been said,” Marcus replied. “It’s good to see you, Duncan!” A woman in the room bowed.

“My Lord Caller,” she murmured before departing.

“Who is she? Why did she bow to you?” Duncan asked.

:He is the Caller. The closest thing we have to a monarch: Thoronar explained. There was a chiming from behind Duncan, who turned.

The creature was about the size of an Earth deer. A delicate and long neck supported a supremely graceful vaguely equine head; a leonine tail was held daintily at its side. A quatrain of long, graceful legs ended in silver cloven hooves. From between the creature’s large, dark eyes thrust a horn, three feet long at least, as white as its coat. Duncan fell to his knees before the unicorn, who looked shocked.

“It’s alright, Duncan. He’s my Partner, Marcalumourne. ‘Mourne, please meet my old friend Duncan.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” the stallion said. Unlike Thoronar, Marcalumourne spoke vocally, his voice deep and bell-like with a hint of a British accent. “Marcus, we should turn around. The Cabanunal and the Lichamere will be waiting for your presence. It would not be prudent to be late for your won wedding, after all!” Marcus chuckled, then closed his eyes. The ship lurched slightly.

“What was that!” Duncan cried. Thoronar chirped, not expecting the move.

“The ship is merely turning around. Being modeled after a bird does have its disadvantages.” Marcalumourne glared at Marcus, and a soft chuckle wafted down the hallway. A woman in a blue vest and black shirt, trousers and boots came down the hall, another unicorn beside her.

“Marcus, Corwin just contacted us. They’re in a mess. Literally.”

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Centauri Emperor Londo Mollari stood at the window in the viewing dome. As always, he was severely depressed, which was mainly due to the fact that his position was basically to be a puppet to the Drakh, and the near-demolition of his home planet. Now he was supposed to break up the Caller’s alliance. The Drakh-placed Keeper sitting on his shoulder kept the Drakh up to date on what he did, and his people or himself would pay the price for deviation from the marching orders he had been given.

Suddenly, the ship lurched. Londo fell with a strangled cry, the Keeper sending waves of disorientation through his brain. Vir, Londo’s former aid and the Centauri Prime Minister, was by his side in seconds, the guards trying to stagger to their feet and the two Centauri telepaths who always were with the Emperor having similar difficulties of balance and coordination.

“Londo, are you alright?” Vir asked, worry evident in his face. The ship lurched again, causing Vir to fall and a few guards to curse roundly as they fell in heaps. The people all slid with the ship’s tilt, smashing into the far wall in a disorganized jumble.

“Great Maker!” Londo cursed, the Keeper in a state of near-panic.

“It’s almost like we’re employing evasive maneuvers,” Vir cried. Then, out of one of the windows, everyone saw it. A bird, a great metal bird the size of Babylon 5, was attacking the Centauri vessel. The ship lurched yet again, and Londo’s left shoulder slammed into a doorframe with enough force to shatter the bone. In that moment, the Keeper, the parasite implanted into Londo’s very nervous system, was disabled and knocked unconscious. Londo knew better than to think that it was dead.

Suddenly, Londo saw the enormous bird’s beak close about the ship. Vir yelled something incoherent about them all being digested, some comment thrown in by a guard about a Pak’mar’a.

The unmistakable sounds of them docking froze his blood. Had he been temporarily rid of the Keeper only to be killed by whoever owned the strange ship?

“Londo!” Vir cried. “What is that thing on your shoulder!”

“A Keeper. The Drakh made me take it. Vir, if we survive this, you must promise to kill me and become emperor when we grow strong enough to defeat the Drakh!”

“But Londo—!”

“Promise me, Vir!”

“Londo—!”

“Vir!”

“Alright!” Vir cried, obviously distressed. “But why—?”

“Understanding is not required, only obedience, as your Minbari friends say.”

“Hir i Erein! Hir i Erein!” (Find the King! Find the King!) a lilting and beautiful voice cried.

“Gurth i ryg!” (Death (to) the demons!) another voice yelled. The door opened. “Ai na vedui i Erein!” (O (it) is (at) last the King!) The being on the other side of the door looked relatively human, but his/her platinum blonde hair had been tied back in a long braid about his/her head like a crown. His/her ears were relatively leaf-shaped, and his/her eyes could bore right into your very soul and know all that was there.

“Londo…?” Vir asked, standing in between the person and the Emperor.

“All fears to rest are laid, Vircotto. Come, speak-minds, King, Vircotto. Be hurt not you will. Crelnea am I.”

“Wh-what are you, Crelnea?” Vir asked.

“Elf, lower. Come.” The Lower Elf led the group, some of the guards still bickering, to a massive hallway outside of the ship they had been in, then into an equally monolithic room. Beds of every shape and size were scattered about the room, some of them being large nests. Huge alcoves lined the walls, large enough to house the Earth cathedral Notre Dame.

“Down you will lay,” a black-haired Lower Elf said sternly. “Rhunalva, tul si!” (Rhunalva, come here!) A strange creature came up, along with a youngish woman. “Narquesse, ortanorë i Ereino.” (Featherfire, lift up the King’s heart.)

“Aye.” (Yes.) the young woman said softly. She placed her head on either side of Londo’s head. “Gurth, Raugo hen!” (Die, demon’s eye!) she barked. The white creature touched the Keeper with his horn, and Londo felt it die. He then felt it unwind from his nervous system, and fall off. He breathed a sigh of relief, and the black haired Lower Elf took it away, possibly to study it.

:Londo Mollari: a voice said in his mind. :You are now free! The monster’s hold on you is gone: The white creature gently touched its horn to Londo’s broken shoulder. The flash of pain was far worse than the shattering in and of itself, and Londo screamed with the agony.

“Lissen ye lot!” a playful, fun-loving yet very worried voice chattered. “Back away!” Snorts and exasperated sounds came from the staff of what was obviously a medical bay. A black… thing looking somewhat like a cross between an Earth monkey and Draal’s helpers, the Zathras’, came bounding in.

“A Phooka. How… convenient,” the woman grumbled sarcastically. Somehow, he could now understand everyone.

“What’s a Phooka?” he asked.

“One of the most annoying creatures you will ever meet.” The Zathras-monkey was covered in ebony fur, and its face somewhat like an Earth rabbit or llama, its eyes yellow like an Earth cat, yet not slit-pupiled. It turned its head completely upside down, shocking Londo with its extreme flexibility.

“What are you!” Londo asked.

“Iiiiiii’maPhooka!” the Phooka said jovially. Londo groaned. He could tell that this creature wouldn’t leave him alone. The Phooka pulled a face, its head still upside down, obviously trying to make Londo laugh. The Emperor snorted mirthlessly, glaring at the Phooka.

“What is your name?” Londo asked.

“I am flattered you asked! My name is Bochren. Call me ‘Ren. I am your partner. You need more light in your life, Londo, more humor, less darkness and despair.”

“And I suppose you can change that?” Londo asked sardonically.

“I can certainly try.”

“Amazing,” the black haired being that was treating him said. “A Phooka who knows how to be serious!”

“Ha! What makes you so sure of that?” Bochren asked. The black-haired being groaned and rolled his/her eyes.

“You are well enough to leave this place for the time being. But I want a check up every two weeks. Come, we must go to Babylon 5!” the door opened, and Vir and the telepaths entered at a run.

“Londo!” Vir cried in relief. “You’re alright!”

“I have a feeling that I will be better than alright soon enough! And the order to kill me is rescinded.”

“Good!” Vir exclaimed. Bochren laughed jovially.

“What…?” Vir asked, staring at the Phooka.

“its name is Bochren, and it’s a Phooka.”

“I am not an ‘it’!” Bochren mock-fumed. “I am a male Phooka.” He turned his back on the group, flicking his tail in irritation.

“Well, his name is Bochren and he’s a Phooka!” Londo snapped in return. Bochren laughed and soon had Vir laughing along with him.

“I think Bochren will be very good for you,” Vir said, smiling.

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Captain Lochley pounded the gavel on the desk. When the multitude of clamoring races wouldn’t shut up, a feral shriek from Lyta’s Partner worked wonders.

“We cannot form the Alliance until the Caller returns from testing the new ship,” Captain Lochley rasped.

“When will he return!” a Soul Hunter demanded. That started the clamoring all over again. The guards in the room, taken from the ever-increasing ranks of the Arthurian cult, all shouted as one : "SHUT UP!” Silence fell like a curtain. For a few minutes. Then Londo Mollari, the Centauri Emperor, Vir Cotto, the Centauri Prime Minister, a few guards, the customary two Centauri telepaths and a black-furred thing which looked like an arcane cross between Zathras and an Earth monkey entered.

“I would like to sign the Centauri to the Caller’s Alliance,” Londo declared.

“Your Excellency,” Lochley began. “You cannot do that at this moment because the Caller is away.”

“Well, where is he!” Londo barked.

“Testing a new ship. He should be back soon.”

“How soon is ‘Soon?’” Londo asked.

“Soon,” a Vorlon replied.

“Baaah!” Londo grumbled.

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Bochren stood at his Partner’s elbow, chattering incessantly with the worn out Centauri emperor.

“Will you be quiet!” Londo finally growled at the Phooka. The black-furred creature turned his head upside down and gazed at Londo, not stopping the flow of speech and jokes, most of them lame.

“No,” Bochren replied between two jokes. “How many Centauri does it take—No, not that one! Did you hear that Cartagia’s library burned down? It was a real tragedy. Both books ere burned, and the real horror of it was that Cartagia hadn’t finished coloring the second one yet…” Londo had no choice but to give a disgruntled snort of half-hearted amusement, to which Bochren whooped in triumph before dancing ludicrously about the entire room, most likely shocking the majority of the alliance petitioners. An irritated black Earth horse with seaweed tangled into its mane kicked at Bochren, and was rewarded by the overenthusiastic Phooka leaping nimbly over it, laughing the whole time.

“How are you feeling, Emperor?” a sweet female voice asked. Londo turned to find the creature that had been with him during the dubious time when the Keeper had died. “My name is Rhunalva, and I am a Healer. Well, all Unicorns are Healers, but I’ve devoted my entire life to Healing. So I ask you again. How are you feeling? And please be honest.”

“I’m…well…I feel alive, if you know what I mean. I can’t even remember when I felt so good!”

But you have a guilty conscience. Alas, not even a master Healer can soothe such a wound. Rest, be free. The demon is dead. No such creature borne from the depths of Hell can be touched by a Unicorn’s horn and live.”

“thank you, Lady,” Londo said, nodding deeply to her.

“Now, do you feel any stiffness or lack of correct movement in your shoulder from where you shattered it?”

“No. It is as good as new.” The Emperor moved his shoulder around.

“Good. Very good. I will need to return you the Cabanunal in a while, but after I do, I will make sure a full medical team is with you at all times. Your shoulder was greatly out of place, and most of the bone was forcibly shattered. It was one of the hardest Healings I have performed. Also, please allow Bochren to cheer you up. He may be irritating, but he has a very good heart. Laugh, Londo. Be joyous. The demon who watched over you is dead.” The unicorn mare, the wisest and kindest person Londo had spoken to since becoming Emperor, saver perhaps Vir, turned and wove her way through the throng. Londo watched her retreat with a considerably lighter heart.

“Ahhh!” someone cried. A shaggy black Earth-horse capered good-naturedly to a halt by Londo. As it morphed back into the Phooka, Londo chuckled.

“Is there anything you cannot do?” he asked, already feeling more cheerful. Bochren turned his head upside down, crouched into an impossibly tiny bundle, then began rolling around, laughing. Londo laughed with him, well on the path to recovery.

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The Cordenia glided into the docking bay, perched on the lift, and folded her wings. Commander David Corwin was dreading telling Security Chief Allen just who and what was on the ship. Already on station, and causing Security a nightmare, were (gulp!) the President and Vice President of the Inter Stellar Alliance, the Centauri Prime Minister, the most important political and religious figure of Narn since G’Quan, a member of the Minbari Grey Council, the Narn ISA ambassador, “Mr. Garibaldi” of Edgars-Garibaldi (He alone was terrifying enough, thank you!), the most powerful telepath ever born (Shudder!), four Vorlons, four Soul-hunters, four Technomages, innumerable First Ones (Fall over, twitch twice, hope to stay dead), the Shai Alit of each Caste of the Minbari, the Clan Leader of each Warrior Caste clan (Corwin didn’t even want to go there—at all!), a respected member of the Narn Ka’ri, the Entil’zha of the Rangers, several creatures thought to be simply myths and legends from everywhere, someone Corwin was sure was a God, and the Centauri Emperor and Entourage!

Corwin knew several of these people had lived on Babylon 5, but that didn’t lessen the impact of them all returning at the same time. For Lochley, it was certainly an oncoming aneurism! For the Security staff, it was a political and security nightmare. Corwin hoped nothing even remotely exciting happened here. Then the Cordenia docked.

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The security officers were in a calm state of shock from the current visitors to Babylon 5. The hatch opened and a creature almost half the size of the transport stepped out.

Golden eyes gleamed from beneath scaly brow ridges. Nostrils large enough to roast a full Christmas turkey with room to spare glowed with a red-orange light. A pearly blue-green hide gleamed in the electric light. Tightly folded red-orange wings matched a crest frill. Silver-white talons, as long as a man’s forearm, matched equally deadly dagger teeth. A vaguely equine head was perched upon a graceful swan-like neck. The security officers stood frozen with terror in their now-damp trousers.

“You are the security staff from Babylon 5, are you not?” the dragon asked.

“D-d-dragon,” an officer whispered.

“Yes, I know what I am. My question is: are you the security staff of Babylon 5?” the dragon asked, a hint of irritation in her voice. “Quenuvalye i lamber Eldareva?” (Thou canst speak the tongues of the Elves?) she said. “Dost thou speakest English? Apparently not.” The dragon looked behind her. “My Lord Caller, I would like to speak to these people.”

“They can speak English,” an accented voice said. “Now we just need to get to the council chamber. Come along.” The man who stepped out was well known. Marcus Cole. The security guards fainted.

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Celebwen Telcontar: So, how was that?

Balrog: Don’t ask. I’m still laughing! The way those guards must look!

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