Chapter Text
Stardate 59548.9
En route to Verdana III
“Computer. Water, room temperature, and a bowl of Plomeek Soup.”
The replicator whirred from a moment before T’lyn’s order appeared from thin air. The thin, purple broth had been a stable dish during her formative years. Bland and unexciting and eminently Vulcan.
“Computer. Add one dollop of P’Tola mushroom extract.”
The replicator whirred once more and a small lump of thick cream appeared on top of the broth. T’lyn did not smile at the sight, because Vulcans do not smile.
She grabbed her tray and made her way to their usual booth. The Vulcan took her seat at exactly 0700, turning the events of the last year over in her mind. T’lyn had failed to appreciate the benefits of her new posting when she first arrived on the Cerritos. Being one of the only Vulcans on board offered T’lyn a certain flexibility when it came to her culture. Her crewmates aboard the Sh’vhal would have judged her flavorful addition as a reckless pursuit of worldly pleasures.
Her crewmates aboard the Cerritos were unlikely to even notice anything had changed.
The gentle chatter of the mess hall washed over her. T’lyn closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She still wasn’t sure whether she preferred this haze of conversation to the quiet clatter of eating utensils she found among other Vulcans.
Talking while eating could be… distasteful, but the wall of silence was almost as bad
The design, in contrast, was a flat upgrade. Sheer gray vinyl seats pressed up against several floor-to-ceiling windows, giving a clear view of stars zipping past in the night sky.
The halls of the Cerritos were brighter than the Sh’vhal’s. Kinder.
If T’lyn were the kind of person who put stock in aesthetics, she would’ve liked the Cerritos a great deal.
The Vulcan closed her eyes, and let out a heavy breath. She grabbed a spoonful of the broth, making sure to get a bit of the cream, then brought it up to her mouth.
“Hi, T’lyn!”
T’lyn froze, spoon hovering in front of her lips.
D’vana Tendi, Mistress of the Winter Constellations and unstoppable ball of optimism, slid into the booth across from her. The cerulean uniform Tendi wore marked her as T’lyn’s joint senior science officer and ‘Science Bestie.’
Both positions were provisional.
T’lyn turned to regard the bright green ray of sunshine. “Hello, Tendi,” she said, then brought the spoon up again.
Tendi squealed in delight for some unknown reason, slid all the way around the table and wrapped a familiar arm around T’lyn’s shoulder.
T’lyn tolerated the embrace.
“What’re you eating?” Tendi said as she let her go.
The spoon was empty, spilled by the commotion. T’lyn stared at it mournfully. “Plomeek soup,” she said.
“Ooh,” Tendi nodded in excitement. “Is it tasty?”
T'lyn paused, regarding her for a moment before simply answering,“It is Vulcan.” She was not annoyed by the questions because Vulcans do not get annoyed. “Where is your strictly platonic associate,” she said. Usually their attention was directly mostly at each other.
“Oh, Rutherford?” Tendi rubbed the back of her head. “He’s been having extended sessions with the ship’s counselor lately. Haven’t been able to meet up as much.”
“A pity,” T’lyn said flatly.
“Yeah… oh!” T’lyn’s fellow science officer glanced to the side, then sat up straight. Her hand shot up as a third member of their group filed in. “Boimler! Hi!” She said, waving him over.
The newest arrival wore a bright red Command uniform, a well-groomed beard, and an eager smile. Tendi’s arm dropped along with her expression as she noticed what he was carrying.
“Um, Boimler? Didn’t Doctor T’ana say to cut back on the coffee?”
“Sure did.” Boimler took a long sip. “That’s why I’m drinking half-caff.”
Tendi and T’lyn glanced at each other.
“But… you’re holding two cups,” Tendi said.
“It is counterintuitive to both double and half your intake,” T’lyn agreed.
“No, no, it dilutes it.”
Boimler and Tendi quickly descended into squabbling, and T’lyn only half-paid attention. D’vana brought up concerns over his understanding of biochemistry, and Bradward waved those concerns away, sloshing coffee all over his side of the table.
The Vulcan pulled her Plomeek soup closer, safely out of the splash zone. If T’lyn were to, hypothetically, describe the scene to a secondhand observer, she would say it was ‘animated’.
“Look, look, look. It’s not important,” Boimler said. “What is important is preparing for our next official mission as provisional bridge crew. This is our one and only chance to make a good third impression!”
“But what’s there to prepare for?” Tendi said, tilting her head. “We’re just delivering some seed packets to a colony.”
“A multiversal colony!” Boiler corrected. “The first one of its kind!”
T’lyn’s soup was getting cold.
Perhaps she should’ve come earlier than their planned meeting time, so she could both eat in peace and socialize with her associates.
“Tsk. Colonies and their seed packets,” said the third crewmate to arrive. Mariner leaned on the booth just behind T’lyn, putting her dark hair up in a high ponytail. “Am I right?” she said, winking at the Vulcan.
“They are the most common recipient,” T’lyn agreed.
Mariner smiled at T’lyn and T’lyn looked at her lap.
“Someone has to beam down and talk to the colonists,” Boimler said, puffing out his chest and straightening out his back.
The Boimler of the past would have been a nervous wreck. Perhaps the beard provided some manner of artificial confidence?
He was a fascinating specimen.
“I was under the impression the captain was planning to do the hand off himself,” T’lyn said, staring with a deeply suppressed longing at her bowl.
“And I might be the one standing right next to him as he does it!” Boimler downed the last of his coffee in a single gulp and turned to Tendi. “We don’t need to report to bridge until Oh-Nine-Hundred. Wanna help me work on my standing pose before we arrive?”
“No,” said T’lyn.
Tendi shot to her feet and slammed her palms on the table. Her voice was deadly serious. “There is nothing in the universe I would rather do,” the Orion said.
T’lyn grabbed her Plomeek soup and held it a few inches off the table so it wouldn’t spill. Her crewmates aboard the Cerritos could be chaotic. Sometimes pleasantly so. Sometimes… not.
Boimler stood from the booth and Tendi slid under the table to hurry after him.
“But you just got here,” Mariner said as they breezed past.
Boimler on his heel as he left. “Sorry, Mariner, no time to rest for a provisional first officer!” Then he winked.
It was disquieting.
T’lyn watched both of them leave with a dispassionate expression. “He is more confident than usual,” she said softly, then set her soup down, careful not to spill a drop.
“Yeah,” Beckett Mariner sighed, rounding the table to slide into the booth in their place. “I think it’s the beard.” She wore the same uniform as Boimler, and in fact, shared the same post. An irregularity within starfleet, but much aboard their ship was.
T’lyn raised her face to regard her crewmate and friend.
The woman’s eyes reminded T’lyn of soil—a source of life and vitality. And also brown.
“I agree,” she said, then lapsed into silence.
She enjoyed the silence.
“So!” Mariner tapped her hands on the table and rocked her head back and forth. “That Plomeek soup any good?”
T’lyn stared at her bowl and watched Mariner out of the corner of her eye, the tracest trace of a quarter smile gracing her lips. “It is Vulcan,” she said.
“Got it.” Mariner leaned her elbow on the table and gave T’lyn a smirk, then looked closer at T’lyn’s bowl. Her eyes lit up. “Woah-ho-ho,” she said. "P'tola mushroom? I didn’t know you were cool like that." She reached over to swipe a finger through the dollop, popped it in her mouth, and gave a slight moan at the taste "Mn... Creamy."
T'lyn gave her a flat stare and let her spoon clatter onto the tray.
Mariner just laughed, high and bright. She rose from the booth, replicated a brand new bowl, and dropped it in front of T’lyn. Then she slid the contaminated bowl over to her side of the table.
The tension in T’lyn’s shoulders drained. She gave a small nod of appreciation.
The two of them sat in blissful quiet, eating their bowls together.
Its flavor was not a sign of reckless indulgence in worldly pleasure.
🟂
“Okay, okay,” Boiler said hurriedly. “Now. Version seven?” He puffed his chest out, raised his chin, and crossed his arms in front of him. “Or eight.” Boiler swapped to perching his fists on his hips.
The two of them stood in Cargo Bay Seven, ostensibly examining the seed packets they were delivering.
Tendi sat on top of one of the sheer, gray and yellow crates, back pressed against the sheer, gray and yellow wall.
“Hmm,” she said. “Gimme a little more chin?”
Boimler brought his head up a few degrees.
“Liiittle more?”
Boimler stared straight up at the ceiling. “Like this?” he groaned. He heard a crack. Was that his neck? He really hoped it wasn’t his neck.
Tendi rubbed her chin and narrowed her eyes, hemming and hawing for a few seconds, before shaking her head. “Nah,” she said and went back to scrolling through her PADD.
Boimler let out his breath and let his posture go slack. Something in his body hurt. Maybe he needed more coffee?
“Ooh! Did you read the mission briefing?” The science officer chirped from her crate.
“Of course I read the mission briefing,” Boimler said. He pressed his hands against the small of his back and pushed until he heard a pop. “Multiversal colonists,” he groaned. “Settling on a planet in our universe to grow their ‘massive produce.’”
“Well did you see their little hats?” Tendi held out her PADD, screen-facing away.
Boimler leaned close at the picture of a vaguely insectoid biped, leaning on a grape almost as tall as him. The biped’s chelicerae were spread in what Boimler thought might’ve been a wide grin. Most importantly, the individual was wearing overalls and a straw hat.
“That…” Boimler pursed his lips. “Those are hats,” he said. “Do you think the Federation gave them those clothes? Or did they make them themselves?” What were the odds that an insectoid race would just so happen to convergently develop denim overalls and straw hats?
“They probably had to make them special order,” Tendi said with a confident nod.
For their antennae, probably. Boimler swung his arms across his chest, then did windmills. “They might’ve taken them from Andorians?”
Tendi snorted with a laugh and Boimler joined her.
He hadn’t actually intended it to be a joke, but from what he’d learned in his years aboard the Cerritos, half of all confidence was actually just pretending things you’d done accidentally were on purpose.
“Okay, okay,” Boimler said. “Now…” He rolled his shoulder, then got into position. Chest puffed out, chin raised, hands folded behind his back. “Option nine?”
“Ooh, you’ve got a Dax thing going on?” Tendi said.
“That’s the idea,” he groaned. He was pretty sure there was a vein bulging on his temple.
Maybe he was puffing out his chest a little bit too much.
“I don’t know,” Tendi said hesitantly. “Not just anyone can pull off that kinda thing.”
Boimler relaxed and let his shoulders sag. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Maybe you’re right. It looks a little pretentious, doesn’t it?”
“A little… ooh! Maybe you could put one foot up on a rock?”
“Yes! Yes, uhh, here, let me go grab a crate real quick.”
🟂
T’lyn walked through the bright hallways of the Cerritos, chest puffed out, chin raised, hands folded behind her back.
Mariner walked side-by-side with her, hands in her pockets, matching T’lyn’s rigid posture blow for blow with casual relaxation. Conversation between them passed easily, and T’lyn had to bury the enjoyment below layers of practice and discipline, even when neither of them said anything of importance.
“Y’know,” Mariner said. “I’m glad Starfleet’s been assigning us more ‘real’ missions lately, but it feels good to get back to basics. Colony supply drops? That’s the Cerritos’ bread and butter. I’m actually looking forward to a more ‘chill’ mission.”
T’lyn raised an eyebrow and watched Mariner out of the corner of her eye. “In my experience, even the Cerritos’ most ‘chill’ missions often descend into chaos.”
Mariner just laughed and elbowed T’lyn’s side. “Aw, c’mon. You know you like our hijinks.”
“I am capable of appreciating the occasional hijink,” T’lyn admitted.
“It’s just… it’ll be good to have things be a little more normal. For a bit.”
The Vulcan paused for a moment. “You are not satisfied with your new assignment?” she said flatly.
“I mean. Sure. Kinda.” Mariner pursed her lips. She pulled one hand free to roll it in front of her. “Ransom has me doing Duty Rosters. And now I have to be the one to pick who empties the holodeck biofilter, and it’s just…”
An Ensign T’Lyn didn’t know rushed past, down the long corridor, and the two of them easily side-stepped him before coming back together.
T’Lyn nodded in understanding. “You are uncomfortable being in a position of authority, because you dislike being the one to assign dangerous or distasteful tasks to your underlings.”
“What? No,” Mariner said hurriedly, glancing from side to side. “Shut up. And don’t call them ‘underlings’. I don’t have ‘underlings’.” Mariner held two fingers up on each hand and flexed them for emphasis.
A physical representation of quotation marks.
T’Lyn was fascinated
“Noted,” she said.
They rounded a corner, and the Vulcan gave a gentle nod to Ensign Barnes as she passed. Then a stiff nod to Ensign Packard as he hurried by. T’Lyn did not dislike Ensign Packard, but she did have to deeply suppress annoyance whenever she interacted with him, instead of having to deeply suppress joy.
Also, Packard was caught using a Klingon Time Crystal to extend his recreation time instead of his work hours.
She sighed and shook the thoughts from her head, then turned to address her close associate. “Have you considered that Captain Ransom intentionally gives his officers tasks they are unused to as a method of challenging them?”
Mariner crossed her arms and glared at T’Lyn out of the corner of her soil-esque eye. “No?” She said, “But also, that’s dumb. But also… no, I hadn’t.”
“Mn.”
“Ugh.”
🟂
The bridge was mildly more colorful than the rest of the ship, with an array of bright red and blue buttons flashing on the various panels, and brighter strips of yellow paint arcing across the interior walls.
Their newly minted Captain sat in the forward chair; Jack Ransom, a man with artificially whitened teeth filling out a painfully genuine smile. He waved at Mariner and T’lyn as they entered the bridge and took their posts. “Nice of you to join us,” he said with a wink.
Mariner just rolled her eyes and sank into the chair at his left.
Soon after, Boimler entered and took his post on Ransom’s right. Together, he and Mariner acted as the devil and angel on the captain’s shoulder, compensating for each other’s weakness.
It also meant they were able to bicker with each other instead of the captain. A clever leadership decision, but T’lyn had long since learned that Captain Ransom was far more clever than his looks, interests, and general demeanor suggested.
Tendi hurried in after Boimler and bounced on her heels at T’lyn’s side. Chief Security Officer Shaxs, a heavily-scarred Bajoran, wider than he was tall, gave T’lyn a salute as she approached her console.
T’lyn did not return it.
The spirits of the bridge were high, each and every one of the crewmates manning each and every one of their various stations sat with their heads held high.
“Alright folks,” Ransom said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll be arriving shortly at Verdana III. I want everyone on their best behavior. Castro? Take us to impulse.”
“Aye, sir,” the newly promoted helmsman dropped them out of warp, then took them in towards the target planet, slow and steady. “Arriving in sixteen minutes, sir.”
An alarm went off, and the Comms officer spoke up. “Sir?” he said. “There’s a ship between us and the planet.”
Captain Ransom sat up straighter. “A ship?” he said.
The Comms officer nodded. “Aye, sir. A single ship, shields raised.”
“Visual,” Ransom ordered, and the ship appeared on the viewscreen.
“What is that?” Boimler strained his eyes to see it.
Mariner was busy carving her name into the arm of her chair.
Captain Ransom sat forward and steepled his fingers. “Enhance.” The image grew closer. “Enhance?” Closer. “How small is this ship?”
“Is that…” Boimler leaned forward in his chair, squinting at the shape on the screen. “Is that a Maquis ship?”
That got Mariner’s attention.
The ship in question was tiny, barely twice the size of one of the Cerritos' shuttlepods. Likely a refitted freighter, like many of their type. It had obviously seen better days, falling apart at the seams and covered in the marks of haphazard repairs.
T’lyn raised an interested eyebrow.
“I’m sorry,” Tendi cut in. “Maquis?”
“Federation Secessionists,” T’lyn supplied. “Mostly operating in the region between Federation and Cardassian space. I was under the impression that they were wiped out following an invasion by the Dominion.”
“So was the Federation,” Ransom said. “And the few that weren’t reentered the Federation soon after. So, what’s this ship doing here?” He stroked his beard, deep in thought.
“Maybe a time vortex sent it forward a decade?” Boimler offered.
“No temporal anomalies anywhere within this sector,” T’lyn said.
“Is it occupied?” Mariner tapped her chin. “Maybe the shields are automated.”
“Negative,” the Comms officer said. “I’m reading two life-signs on board.”
“Just two?” The captain pushed himself out of the chair. “Ensign Graham? Hail them.”
“Hailing.”
The crew waited.
And waited.
The ship hovered in the distance, directly in their path.
Finally, their hail was answered.
Ransom opened his mouth to greet the ship but was immediately cut off by a flood of profanity crackling through the speakers. The voice was a woman’s, badly distorted and… possibly inebriated?”
“This—” the voice hiccuped. “This is the captain of the Thenardier. This—this planet is…” Something thumped on the other side of the call. “Is property of—” The signal descended into static.
Definitely inebriated.
The crew stared straight ahead.
“Uh…” Ransom spoke first. “Greetings! This is the Captain of the Cerritos, en route to Verdana III. If there’s been some miscommunication, then—”
The viewscreen flickered, and the image of the Maquis ship was replaced with a frazzled face in a dimly lit cockpit. The woman on the screen wore a ratty brown jacket, covered inch for inch in mismatched patches. She had watery blue eyes, rimmed with red, a slack expression T’lyn had long since learned to associate with alcohol, and ears large enough to poke through the mess of ratty, platinum blonde hair. Her nose was narrow and pointed, and her snarl bared two slightly over-sized front teeth.
Bottles littered the woman’s cockpit.
T’lyn could almost smell it through the screen.
“Cerritos. I’ve already warned you once,” the woman said. “This—hic—this planet is claimed by the Maquis.”
“Oh, man,” Mariner said. “Why does she look like a rat?”
“Euphemism?” T’lyn questioned.
“No, I mean she literally looks like a rat.”
The woman’s face fell. “Excuse me?”
T’lyn surreptitiously downloaded an image of the Earth creature from the Federation database and brought it up on her PADD. The Vulcan studied it for a moment, then gave a severe nod. “The comparison is apt,” she said flatly.
“Excuse me!?”
Another voice came from offscreen. If T’lyn knew her dialects, she would say they were Ferengi.
She was reasonably sure she knew her dialects.
“Jannie, please, stop.” Hands came out to try and pull the rebel from the controls, and the woman slapped them away.
Ransom glanced at his fellow officers. “Uh, Castro. Take us around?”
“Aye,” she said, then brought the Cerritos back up to impulse. The ship meandered through space, taking the long way around, only for the shuttle to fly out to block them.
Ransom repeated the order, and the shuttle blocked them once more.
He frowned. “Tractor beam?”
“Interference. Can’t get a lock.”
“Transporter?”
“Their shields are up.”
The captain pinched the bridge of his nose, then sat forward and addressed the tiny Maquis Fighter. “Listen, I’m sure that we can come to a peaceful compromise. What do you need to move your shuttle?”
The woman on the viewscreen leaned forward until all the bridge crew could see was a single bloodshot eye. “Oh, yer gonna hafta kill me!"
“Please don’t kill her!” the second voice said from offscreen.
The captain held up his hands. “No one’s killing anyone!” he quickly assured. “We don’t mean you any harm, let’s just talk this out, and—”
“Attack pattern gamma!” the rat-lady slurred. “I’m givin’ ‘em everything we’ve got!”
"Jann-"
The viewscreen cut out and the tiny Maquis Fighter powered weapons and fired before anyone could react. Two bright green bolts of energy shot out from the ship’s forward phasers. The beams arced through open space, sailing directly for the Cerritos’ bridge.
Then immediately dissipated once they hit the starship’s shields.
The ship gave an imperceptible shake. Or maybe it was the impulse engines stuttering?
“Uh,” the Captain said. “Status report?”
Shaxs gave the readings. “Shields at… 98.8%.”
“Woah, Watch out, captain,” Mariner drawled, crossing her arms and sinking further in her seat. “Forty more of those and we’ll be in big trouble.”
Ransom pursed his lips. “O…kay.”
“Captain, the ship’s hull integrity is severely compromised,” T’lyn said. “A single phaser blast would be enough to completely destroy it.”
“Can we aim a phaser to disable its weapons systems?”
T’lyn paused for a moment, then repeated herself. “The ship’s hull integrity is severely compromised. A single phaser blast would be enough to completely destroy it.”
Ransom rubbed his temples.
"I say we do it," Shaxs growled. "One shot, straight to the heart, boom!"
"No!” Ransom rocked to his feet. “No. New plan. Mariner? Take a shuttle down and see if you can’t reason with them.”
Mariner sat up from her relaxed pose. “Me? A shuttle?”
Ransom nodded. “Meeting them on equal footing might make them more amenable. If you’re ever in danger, we’ll…” he wobbled his hands in the air, then sighed. “We’ll destroy them. And we’re gonna need someone to ride along. Once the shuttle’s in transporter range, they’ll beam down and explain things to the locals. Boimler, you’re up.”
Brad startled. “Wh—Me? On my own? But I—I haven’t prepared a speech, or—”
“No speeches necessary.” Ransom held up a hand to silence him. “Just a quick rendezvous to explain the delay and get them ready for the hand-off.” He flashed a bright smile Brad’s way. “I know you’ll do great.”
Boimler jerked to his feet, and snapped into a salute, suddenly deadly serious. “Thank you, Captain! I won’t let you down!” He started the journey to the door.
“And lieutenant!” Ransom called after him.
Boimler froze at the threshold to the bridge and glanced back.
“Great posture,” Ransom fired a finger gun his way.
Boimler gave a watery smile. T’lyn thought she could almost hear him whimpering, then he was gone.
Mariner spoke up in the silence, stepping toward Ransom's side and wringing her hands together. “Uh, Captain? Are you sure I’m the right pick?”
“Positive,” he said with a nod.
The Maquis shuttle fired another volley of phasers. The Cerritos barely felt it.
“Shields at… 99.2%?” Shaxs said. “Huh.”
“I—” Mariner hesitated, then let out a breath. “Fine. Okay. I get it. You want me to go down there and strong arm her into leaving so I can learn some lesson about being the authority instead of the rebel. Sure. But I'm not phasering any kilns.”
Ransom blinked at her. “I have no clue what you’re talking about,” he said, then turned away. “Oh! And take T’lyn with you.”
The Vulcan snapped her head up to see Ransom grinning at her.
She hesitated a moment, then spoke. “Captain. I feel I must object. My expertise lies in the sciences, not negotiation. I am not what you would term a ‘people person’.” T’lyn made air-quotes, exactly the way she’d seen Mariner do before.
“Exactly!” Captain Ransom said.
T’lyn waited for him to elaborate.
He did not.
The Vulcan gave a not-frown and stood straighter. “I fail to see the logic in intentionally assigning me a task I am ill-suited for.”
Mariner just cocked her hip and shot T’lyn a knowing look.
The Vulcan froze.
“I... see," she said.
It wasn't often T'lyn had to suppress annoyance at being proved right.