Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The doors slid closed behind her with a beep, and the captain of the U.S.S. Cerritos let out a world-weary sigh as she set down the honorary relic she’d received on her latest second-contact—this time some sort of mask with strange scale-like designs around the eyes—on her quarters’ coffee table. “Ughh. Computer, what’s the time?”

“The current time is 21:04.”

“Great,” she grumbled, pulling her red uniform shirt off over her head and rolling her shoulders under her tank-top. “Only three hours late. Again. Computer, call Admiral Alonzo Freeman, private channel.”

“Calling Admiral Freeman,” the computer recited as she went to the matter recycler and tossed the uniform shirt down the chute. There was a soft repeating chime as the call dialed, and then Alonzo’s face appeared. He looked relieved.

“Care, thank goodness. I was beginning to get worried.”

“Sorry, Zo,” she sighed, rubbing her forehead. “Had to work late.”

“Long day?” he guessed.

“Please, decommission me,” she groaned, flopping backwards onto the bed.

“That bad, huh.”

“I swear, it was one thing after another today!” she groused, waving her hands in the air above her. “First there was some sort of weird weather anomaly on the surface and we got stuck in the pattern buffer for two hours, then our combadges weren’t translating the El’karans’ language correctly, and then there was an assassination attempt on the Kri’karans’ ambassador! I mean one, maybe two of those I could handle, but three at once?! You’d think the universe could pick a plot and stick with it!” He hummed sympathetically. “The only reason the whole peace summit didn’t go up in flames was because Beckett got ‘weird vibes’ from the assassin and knocked him out before he could poison the ceremonial wine!”

“Well, that and because it was underwater,” Alonzo mused, but his wife ignored this, continuing to rant:

“The whole mission was this close to being a disaster, and you know it would have been on my head! I don’t try to micromanage, but some days it feels like this entire ship is one bad shift away from descending into complete chaos!”

“Sounds like Beckett was doing her part, at least?”

“Ohoh, don’t even get me started on her,” Carol scoffed. “She smuggled something onto the ship, I just know it! I just can never catch her at it. I swear, even now that she’s a junior lieutenant she and her friends still cause more chaos around here than the rest of the crew combined!”

“Yeah?” Alonzo grinned. “Sounds like some other lower-deckers I can remember.”

“Wh– no, no that was different,” she said, sitting up and pointing at him. “We always cleaned up our messes before DeSoto or Picard found out; we never caused them any headaches!”

“Sure, but you do pay a lot more attention to your lower-deckers than our captains ever did,” Alonzo said with a shrug.

“Uh yeah, because I remember the kind of bullshit lower-deckers can get up t–” She saw him raise his eyebrows and grumbled. “Alright, fine, point made.”

“Care, I’m not saying you’re in the wrong,” he said gently, leaning forward on the desk so he was closer to the camera. “I’m just saying that you’re not exactly the most hierarchical of captains; you don’t shut yourself away in your ready-room, and that means you get involved in your crew’s–”

“Nonsense?”

“Eccentricities.” He smiled knowingly at her. “Admit it, the Cerritos might be chaotic but you’d hate being captain on a stuffy, overly-professional ship like the Enterprise.” She harrumphed. “Giving all those boring speeches? Having to do everything by the book?”

She sighed, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards despite herself. “Who gave you the right to know me so well?”

“Uh, I believe that was you,” he said, faux-rubbing his chin despite the twinkle in his eyes. “When we were lost in the desert on Vulcan, remember? I’ve got the ring to prove it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She leaned forward on the edge of the bed, smiling now in earnest, albeit wistfully. “I just wish you were here. It’d be nice to be able to bitch about a bad day to you in person.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart. But hey, we’ll be seeing each other soon,” he reminded her. “The gala is only two days away.”

“Hnh! Not soon enough, as far as I’m concerned.” Her smile turned into a smirk as she glanced away and rubbed the back of her neck. “You know I’ve been, uh, thinking about the gala a lot, actually.”

“Yeah?” His eyes glittered as he leaned closer still to the camera. “Any particularly interesting thoughts you want to share?”

The captain chuckled and opened her mouth to answer, only to be cut short as the door to her quarters abruptly slid open. “What the–”

“Sorry Mom, had to override the door code!” Mariner called, bounding into the room with a voice that was barely a thin shell of nonchalance over a gooey center of panic. “Just gotta borrow that ceremonial mask you got from the planet for a quick second– oh, hey Dad–”

“Beckett, what the hell?!” Carol demanded, furious, but she was cut off by another uninvited person rushing into her room:

“Mariner, we need to hurry, I locked Ransom in a storage closet but I don’t think it’s gonna hold him, and also his eyes are definitely glowing now and– Captain!” Lt. Brad Boimler skidded to a halt as he noticed his de-uniformed superior officer and the running video-call. “I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to interrupt–”

“Got it!” Mariner called, picking up the recently-acquired ceremonial mask off the table and running back towards the door.

“I swear, this was all Mariner’s fault and–”

“Beckett, what is going on?!”

“Nothing!” her daughter insisted, pushing the still-apologizing (and finger-pointing) Mr. Boimler out the door by his shoulders. “It’s fine, we’ve got it all under control! Go back to your call!”

“Beckett–!”

“Bye dad!” Mariner called, and the door slid shut behind her. From outside the closed door there came the muffled sounds of shouting, phaser-fire, and the telltale slurping-bubbling of scifi weirdness.

Carol pinched the bridge of her nose. “You see?! You see what I mean?!”

Alonzo was very clearly trying not to laugh at her suffering. “I’m sure you’ll get it all worked out, Carol.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she grumbled, standing up and heading for the door. “I’d better go handle that; see you in a few days, Zo.”

“See you in a few days, sweetheart. Believe me,” he gave her that particular grin that still made her go weak at the knees, all these years later, “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“I– uh–” Her face was burning and she tried to come up with something clever to respond, but the sounds of abruptly louder screaming and an ominous low-pitched hum drew her attention away. “Ah, shit,” she sighed, and ran out of the room as the doors opened, leaving Alonzo chuckling behind her.

Leap of Faith

“See, look, Jack’s fine. No scales, no fins, no problem!”

Mariner and Boimler were standing in line in the mess hall two mornings later, the woman rolling her shoulders in a satisfied way as she watched Ransom chatting up a cute lieutenant ahead of them. “First off he’s your senior officer, at least call him ‘Ransom.’ And second off, I wouldn’t go so far as to say no problem; he was out of commission for two whole days,” Boimler answered. “Also, what lesson have we learned from all of this?”

“Mm, that you are no fun,” Mariner faux-guessed, looking very pleased with herself.

“Don’t try to pass off your contraband as a diplomatic gift.”

“Okay, it is not my fault that Ransom decided to drink what was in that bottle–”

“You told him it was a jar of ceremonial wine!”

“Which was technically the truth! If he hadn’t decided to test it, then I would have turned into a weird fish person instead! Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.” He just shook his head, rolling his eyes, and she relented. “Look, he and mom both bought it and we didn’t even get in trouble, so no harm no foul, right?”

Boimler just shook his head as they got their food and went to their normal booth, where T’Lyn, Tendi and Rutherford were already chattering eagerly over their cups of morning coffee. “–such an amazing opportunity!” Tendi was bubbling. “I just can’t believe they picked us!”

“Oh c’mon, of course they picked you! You’re almost done with your SSO training after all! I’m just excited that Billups wants me there.”

“We are all lieutenants; choosing us was a logical decision. Your surprise is unwarranted.”

“Hey nerds, what’s up?” Mariner said fondly as she sat down next to Tendi.

“We just got our advance duty assignments for this evening!” Tendi said eagerly, showing her her Padd. “The three of us got selected to study the interplanetary anomaly on Cel’to IV!”

“Technically both Cel’to IV and Cel’to V,” T’Lyn corrected.

“Hang on– ‘this evening,’ isn’t that the same time as the Ad Astra gala? You mean you guys won’t be able to go with us?” said Boimler, worried.

“Nah, but we’ll have more fun up here anyway,” Rutherford said brightly, pulling out his own Padd and opening it up to a diagram. As Boimler looked over his shoulder, he saw the image of two planets on their orbits coming eerily close together, before heading off in their separate directions; at the point when they were closest, both planets seemed to bulge slightly around the middle before passing on. “Since the gala is being held on Cel’to IV this year to celebrate their induction to the Federation, a bunch of different science and engineering ships are going to be studying the anomaly!”

“Must be one heck of an anomaly if they’re sending this many ships to study it,” Mariner mused.

“It’s amazing!” Tendi gushed, taking the Padd out of Rutherford’s hands to show her. “Every hundred years, when Cel’to IV and Cel’to V come into close range with each other, Cel’to V’s tidal forces briefly cause smaller objects on Cel’to IV’s near surface to float off the ground! It basically simulates a zero-G environment on the planet’s near surface for a few minutes.”

“Okay?” Mariner said with a confused frown. “Zero-G isn’t that impressive; we all had to deal with it last week when Stevens accidentally shut down the gravity well.”

“Yeah, but usually celestial bodies interacting like this would never make things float, they would just tear themselves apart ,” Rutherford explained, taking his Padd back.

“Generally when two planets enter within too close a proximity, the smaller one breaks apart upon crossing the Roche limit,” said T’Lyn. “Something other than its own gravitational force must be holding Cel’to IV together, but Celtoan scientists have not been able to discern the cause; the Federation hopes to collect enough data to create a working hypothesis. Apparently the current theory is a ‘strange energies’ situation.”

“And we’re going to be part of the team!” Tendi piped up. “We’ll be staying up all night, doing calculations and discussing theories and drinking way too much coffee—it’s gonna be so much fun!”

“Congrats guys, that’s huge,” Boimler said warmly as Tendi and Rutherford high-fived. “Still kind of a shame you guys can’t go to the party though, the Ad Astra gala is a huge deal. All those admirals and diplomats, it’s a perfect networking opportunity.”

“Yeah, Cali-class ships almost never get invited,” Mariner added, picking up her breakfast toast. “I wonder how mom swung this one.”

But Boimler just shrugged. “I assumed your dad arranged it. He’s our acting admiral right now, right?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, the admirals in charge of the divisions that handle second contact always go to the Ad Astra gala, it’s part of their diplomatic duties. Admiral Freeman’s been managing our division ever since Buenamigo died, so I assume he’s going too.”

“Wait, wait: my dad is going to be there?” Mariner’s face had lit up. “That’s perfect.”

“Yeah, I figured you’d want to see him–”

“No, Boims, don’t you get it?” he looked confused, and she waved her hands eagerly. “This is a freebie! We can get away with anything we want!”

“Mariner, why would being around more captains and admirals make you less likely to get caught breaking the rules?”

“Seriously? You’re really going to make me say this out loud?” Brad still seemed nonplussed, so she huffed. “Look. My parents only see each other in person a couple times a year, right?”

“Right…?”

“And there’s going to be alcohol, dancing, surface-side hotel rooms…come on, man, you seriously can’t think of any reason they wouldn’t want to be disturbed?” She gave him a significant look.

Boimler stared back at her for a long moment, frowning, before his eyes went wide. “Wait, you mean–”

“There ya go.”

“I– that’s–  what the hell, Mariner, why would you put that in my head?!” Across from him Tendi was covering her mouth to stifle a giggle, and Rutherford was trying not to grin. “I don’t want to picture my captain having–”

“Don’t you dare say it out loud!”

“How am I supposed to look her in the eyes for the rest of the day?!”

“You think it’s bad for you?! They’re my parents!” She shuddered. “Look, just don’t think about it, okay, think about the opportunity instead! We can do anything and my mom won’t want to deal with it, and Ransom’s not going to want to bother her either! Besides, with him mentoring me I’ve had to be a little goody-two-shoes for the last few months; if I don’t do something fun soon I’m gonna lose it. You’ve gotta help me!”

“Absolutely not,” Boimler said sternly, pointing his fork at her. “This is my chance to rub shoulders with some top brass, Mariner, I’m not going to get caught up in any of your schemes this time around.” To his confusion, both Tendi and Rutherford snorted disbelievingly into their coffee cups at that and even T’Lyn raised an eyebrow.

“But Boims!” Mariner’s eyes had gone wide and shiny as she pleaded with him. “What if it’s a scheme for the greater good?”

“I–” She pouted even harder, her gaze positively doe-like, and he huffed. “Fine, Mariner, if you can find a way of causing chaos for the greater good, I’ll help you out. But I still want to make it to the party!”

She beamed. “You’re the best friend in the galaxy, you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Stop buttering me up,” he groused, taking a drink of his coffee, but the mug couldn’t hide his smile at the compliment.

Beckett leaned back in the booth as the science trio began to chatter on again about the mysterious world of astrophysics, steepling her fingers with a grin. A freebie. A rare gem of precious consequence-free opportunity. Not something to be wasted, for sure. She felt her grin spread evilly; for the greater good? Oh, yes. And something sufficiently rule-breaking and dangerous to torture poor Boimsie, too. Which we want to do because why, again? the more sensible part of her brain piped up.

Wh– because it’s fun! He gets all flustered, it’s hilarious!

Sure. And it’s definitely not to punish him, right? her brain drawled.

Punish him for what? She watched as across the table her best friend laughed at something Rutherford had said, the coffee cup still halfway to his mouth, his stupid hair way too perfectly combed and in desperate need of messing up to not look like such a dork.

Uhuh, her brain snorted back at her. Beckett swallowed the little flutter in her stomach and repressed it. So she liked to tease the guy, so what? Anyway, she had an adventure to plan. Let’s see, big party, fancy clothes, tight security…aha. Obviously, this situation called for a heist. Now she just had to find a way to do a heist for the greater good…

The ship was gliding peacefully through the shooting stars at warp 4 as the captain stepped away from the bridge into her ready room. “Computer,” she announced, sitting down at her desk, “call Captain Sonya Gomez.”

There was a beep as the call dialed and then her old friend’s face appeared on the screen. “Captain Freeman! I was just about to call you; are you on your way to the gala?”

“As we speak. I owe you our gratitude, Captain Gomez; switching our duties with the Archimedes’ was an exceptionally generous offer.”

“Well I figured you and Alonzo could use a little time together,” the other captain said with a smile, dismissing the formalities, “and besides, we’ve got R&R on Risa next week anyway. Can’t take all the nice perks for ourselves, can we?”

“Hah, speak for yourself. I wouldn’t be so noble,” she snorted, and the other captain chuckled. “Thank you, Sonya, personally. Next time you need a favor, just say the word.”

“Don’t sweat it, I know you’ll pay me back.” She paused as someone called her name from offscreen and nodded. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short, we’re reaching the system.”

“Good luck,” Carol agreed. Sonya nodded and was just about to hang up when she seemed to remember something and added:

“By the way, just as a warning: the Concord and the Philadelphia are also attending, so T'Pyl and George will be there.”

“Well, that should be fun; I haven’t seen either of them in way too long! –But hang on, what did you mean by a ‘warning?’” the captain said, backtracking in her head.

“Oh,” Sonya realized, uncomfortable. “You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

“T'Pyl and George are separating.”

Carol’s face fell. “What? Why?” Sonya shrugged.

“Who really knows? They say it’s temporary, but considering they already live on two different ships I don’t see how much more permanent it can get. Apparently it’s due to ‘differences in Vulcan and human relationship expectations,’ whatever that means—but if you ask me it’s their work schedules; some couples just can’t make it work, having a couple dozen light years between them.”

“But– they’ve been married for over thirty years, since we were all ensigns together! You never saw a couple more in love…”

“Well you said it yourself, Carol, it’s been thirty years. People can change a lot in three decades; relationships, too.”

“Can they?” the captain mumbled, mostly to herself; there was another noise on Sonya’s end, and the other captain looked over again and gave them a thumbs-up..

“Sorry, Carol, I really have to go. I just wanted to let you know so you could be tactful. Have a good time at the gala.”

“Right… thanks, Sonya.”

The other captain waved and then the video feed cut off. Carol looked back at the blank screen with its Federation seal desktop for a moment, stunned. “Separating,” she repeated to herself, and then as if on impulse slid open one of the thin drawers of her desk and took out a framed photograph, pursing her lips.

It was a picture of her and Alonzo at their wedding party, surrounded by their friends. Seeing as they’d exchanged the vows in the middle of a life-or-death situation, this was the closest she had to a wedding picture; in it, she and Alonzo were both waving at the camera (her hair had been brown then, and in braids instead of locs, while he had been clean-shaven and thinner), flashing their wedding rings. And directly to their left… Carol felt sick to her stomach, looking down into the faces of her old friends. The group had drifted over the years, but still, T'Pyl and George had always seemed like the most passionately in love out of their little band. If a marriage like that could go sideways…

If you ask me it’s their work schedules; some couples just can’t make it work, having a couple hundred light years between them. Sonya hadn’t meant anything by that, she tried to reassure herself as she put the photo back in its drawer. Even so, her stomach was already tying itself into knots as she slid the drawer closed, covering the faces in shadow.

Her badge buzzed. “Captain, we’re approaching Cel’to IV, dropping out of warp,” Jack’s voice announced.

“Acknowledged, Commander, thank you.” She tapped her badge and took a deep breath. She and Alonzo were fine; hell, they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours! …In person, she realized. For the first time in four months. She looked down at the formal white uniform she was wearing and tugged on the gold trim. It…probably couldn’t hurt to put on something a little less stiff, right? Female officers did have the option of an evening gown for formal galas; she’d rarely taken advantage of it since making captain, but still…

Making up her mind, she hurried for the door. “Commander,” she called as she reached the bridge; Jack looked back from the chair. “Can I have a word?”

“Oh– uh, sure, Captain,” he said in surprise, standing and heading over to meet her at the turbolift doors. “Everything okay?”

“Change of plans,” she said vaguely. “I need to go, uh, prepare for the gala. You okay watching the chair for an extra hour?”

“Sure thing, Captain.”

“Fantastic. Good luck with the survey, I’ll see you tomorrow.” She turned for the door and then paused, turning back. “Oh, and Commander, just so we’re clear: Admiral Freeman and I have a lot of important business to discuss tonight, so unless the ship is literally hurtling towards a black hole, I do not want to be disturbed.” She gave him a significant look. “Do I make myself clear?”

“I don’t– oh,” he realized, pinking, and nodded quickly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Right, of course, sir. I’ll handle everything up here, don’t worry.”

“Perfect.”

It was a sign of how well he knew her—or, perhaps, how resigned he was to what was to come—that Boimler was waiting for her at Storage Closet 12 with his lunch burrito wrapped to go. “So, got a plan yet?” he asked as she approached. “We’re disembarking in a couple hours, you know.”

“Oh mon ami, don’t worry, the perfect opportunity has already presented itself,” Mariner said with relish, slinging her arm over his shoulders. “Not an hour ago I got an anonymous reply on a select message board for, shall we say, creatively transported goods, and–”

“I’m sorry, there’s a message board for moving contraband?”

“Shh!” She glanced around, reassuring herself that nobody else was listening, and then they stepped inside the closet. “Yeah, obviously,” she said, shutting the door. “ You didn’t think the black market was a literal market, did you?”

“Mariner, we have been to literal markets with stolen goods and shadowy lighting. Remember? Your friend who turned us into bubble-bath gun mules?”

“Details! Besides this is more of a gray market, it’s all Starfleet people on there and Riker’s the mod, he keeps any actually immoral stuff out! Anyway this message said that the U.S.S. Lemaître is decommissioning a bunch of old Padds from the ‘70s, you know, the weird retro kind with the buttons?”

“Okay, so?”

“So, the Lemaître is going to the gala; they must be beaming them down to the new Celtoan industrial matter recombinator on the planet’s surface! I’ve got a Ferengi buyer–”

“Quark,” he guessed.

“I didn’t say it was Quark.”

“Mariner, come on, it’s obviously Quark.”

“Okay, fine, it’s Quark,” she grumbled, and then continued: “he’s in the area and he’s already said he’ll move them for us; all we’d have to do is get in and swipe a case before the plant workers destroy it!” She grinned at him and stepped back, spreading her hands. “So? What do you think?”

“Uhuh, fine,” Boimler said as he unwrapped his burrito, surprising her. “Can we skip ahead?”

“What?”

He waved a hand. “Skip ahead. You know, to the part where you tell me why stealing Starfleet equipment and selling it to the Ferengi is secretly noble and a great idea all along and I feel like a jerk for trying to talk you out of it?”

Mariner blinked and then grinned at him. “Aw, Boimsie! Are you saying you finally trust me? Took you long enough.” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly as she leaned against the shelf and continued: “Quark has this business partner who runs a school for Ferengi women. Gets them out of bad situations, you know, escape their bad marriages and stuff, teaches them the rules of acquisition and gets them jobs. Some more progressive Ferengi parents send their daughters there too, give them a better life. Anyway they always need school supplies, so I get them decommissioned Starfleet equipment when I can. That stuff is all just going to end up de-atomized anyway.”

“And Quark is a supporter of this,” Boimler said dubiously, taking a bite of the burrito.

“Sure. He’s kind of a feminist, as far as Ferengi go—plus the school gets a lifelong return of 5% of all former students’ incomes, and Quark gets 5% of that, so…”

“Okay, but what’s the plan?” he pointed out. “I worked at an industrial replicator in my noncom days, Mariner, I know for a fact that any goods sent down for destruction are all tracked. We can’t just take a case of old Padds and walk out.”

“Which is why we won’t be taking them until after they’ve already gone into the matter recycler,” she said with satisfaction. It took him a moment to realize what she was implying before his eyes snapped wide.

“Wait– hold on, you don’t mean–”

“Yup. Take them right out of the chute, nobody will ever notice they’re gone.”

“Are you crazy?! That thing breaks stuff down into its atomic components!”

“So what, transporters do the same thing!”

“Yeah, and then reassemble you afterwards!” He ran his free hand over his face. “Oh man, this is it, isn’t it, this is how I die. Getting blended into an atomic smoothie with my crazy friend.”

“Dude, calm down,” Mariner scoffed, definitely not thinking about why the idea of getting blended into an “atomic smoothie” with someone was weirdly hot. “Look, matter recyclers have a failsafe that automatically shuts them down whenever there’s weird gravitational distortion, right? We had to reset all the little ones on the ship last week by hand after the whole Stevens thing."

“Right–? Oh!” His eyes lit up. “And there’ll be a half-hour period tonight when the gravity on the surface will be really messed up!”

“Exactly. It’ll be just like a zero-G situation; go in, grab the right crate from the chute and get out while the recombinator is down.”

“But we’ll need an alibi,” he said, rubbing his chin. “So we’ll have to make an appearance at the party first.”

“Easy-peasy; we beam down with my mom, say hi to my parents and then leave while they’re all distracted. Move the goods, come back to the party and pretend we never left.”

“Well, it all sounds too good to be true, which means something is going to go disastrously wrong,” he sighed, lowering his hand. “But I’m in.”

“Hell yeah man, I take back what I said to Tendi, Bold Boimler is totally sustainable,” Mariner praised as she fist-bumped him and opened the door.

“Thanks, I– hang on, you told Tendi what?”

Chapter Text

The replicator’s tray glowed for a moment, and then the pair of large gold-hoop earrings appeared. The captain took them out and fastened them into her ears, and then looked in the bathroom mirror, pursing her lips and smoothing down the skirt.

It was a nice enough dress, as far as replicated clothing went—the machine didn’t have a ton of options coded in for evening gowns—but still, she felt a bit awkward. She hadn’t dressed up like this in years; hell, she’d hadn’t been out of uniform for longer than a day or so in decades. And the gown was black and silky, with only one shoulder. It had sequins . Would he like it, she wondered, or would he think she looked strange? 

Stop it, you’re being ridiculous, she huffed as she went back to the bedroom and opened the latch on the bedside drawer. The little felted box was nestled inside, tucked carefully between the wall and her hardcopy of the Starfleet handbook. He’s your husband, he’s seen you in everything from stark naked to clipping through a wall. Now that had been a weird day; one minute you’re running routine maintenance on a transporter bay while the bridge crew deals with this week’s flavor of Romulan nonsense, and the next you’re a pair of invisible phase ghosts—and of course, the senior staff hadn’t even noticed that two lower-deckers had mysteriously vanished until after the episode (of space weirdness, that is) was long over. Hnh! Zo’s right, at least I’m a more observant captain than that!

Carol opened the box and took out the gold band inside, slipping it onto her fourth finger. Even though wedding rings were first on the list of cultural and religious exemptions to the regulation against jewelry, she almost never wore hers, since working in Starfleet with a metal ring was a good way to lose a finger (if not your whole hand). Still, tonight felt like the right occasion.

She smoothed the skirt again and took a deep breath, reaching up to tap her badge and then remembering she’d put it in her clutch. She clicked it through the bag instead, clearing her throat. “Captain to Bridge; I’m heading down, Mr. Ransom, the chair is all yours.”

“Aye, Captain. Have a nice time.”

His tone was completely professional, but she still felt her face go hot. “Right. Captain out.” She clicked the badge again, looked back in the mirror and gave herself a firm nod. She was not going to let one little piece of awkward news get in her head and spoil her first time seeing her husband in months.

Thankfully most of the crew had already beamed down for the party, so she only had to endure the stares of a few officers, startled to see their captain in a floor-length dress, during her walk to the transporter bay. The room itself was empty except for the crewman who ran the transporters; Carol had just given him an awkward nod to proceed when two more individuals burst through the door and she blinked. “Beckett, Mr. Boimler,” she said, surprised.

“Hey, Mom,” her daughter said, panting slightly as she stepped onto the platform. “Mind if we beam down with you?”

“Oh, uh– of course–?” They were both in their formal whites, although something looked a little different with Beckett—she couldn’t quite place it. Actually, both of them seemed more on-edge than normal; were they on a date? She hadn’t heard that Beckett had starting dating anyone, but then again her daughter never told her anything. “I thought you’d already gone down with the rest of the crew.”

“Yeah well, you know how Brad is,” Beckett said airily. “Took forever getting ready–”

“What, no I didn–  uhh I mean, yep, yes, that’s exactly right Sir,” the young man said with an awkward nod and smile as his friend gave him a look. Then his eyes went wide as he apparently noticed what she was wearing and got even more flustered: “Uh, th-that’s a nice dress, Cap’n, I mean, Captain. Not that I notice how you’re dressed! That is, I’m sure you’ll have a nice time–”

Beckett elbowed him, hard, which Carol had to pretend not to notice. What the hell was that about? she wondered, and then decided quickly that she didn’t want to know. She was aware—hell, everyone on the ship was aware, except, apparently, Beckett herself—that the junior lieutenant had a major crush on her daughter, so she was sincerely hoping that the fact that she and Beckett shared some physical features wasn’t mixing with young man’s hero-worship in any weird ways. “Thank you, Mr. Boimler,” she said dryly, and then nodded to the tellarite manning the booth. “Three to beam down, Crewman.”

“Yes, Sir.”

There was a swirl of glowing lights, and then the transporter bay vanished. A moment later the trio rematerialized to find themselves in a crowded hotel ballroom. Officers in formal uniform and the occasional evening gown (Carol saw several women wearing dresses identical to hers) mingled about, while music that sounded vaguely jazzy was being played by a live band on the stage. Beyond the large glass windows lay a view of a large park and tall skyscrapers in odd, alien shapes. Closer to the stage some couples had already started dancing—but, the captain noticed as she peered around, there was no sign of her husband. Where was he? Carol’s stomach tensed up as she scanned the crowd; surely he wouldn’t just bail on her, would he? No, of course not, but–

“Hey, sweetheart.”

She turned.

It was the funny thing about marriage, that for all the memories you could have of another person, spanning years and even decades, somehow in your recollection they were always whatever age they currently were now. The memories aged as you did—which was why Carol felt quite certain that the grin Alonzo was giving her now was the exact same one, unchanged in every way, that he had first given her from across the floor of the old 602 Club more than three decades ago. Of course, he hadn’t been wearing the white-and-gold formal uniform and admiral’s pips back then. “Zo,” she managed, finding herself absurdly tongue-tied as her husband stepped towards her, his smile turning hopelessly softer.

“You dressed up,” he murmured, gaze flitting over her.

“Well I, uh, wanted to do something special,” she said, half-shrugging. When their eyes met she saw he was just as entranced as she felt.

Beckett cleared her throat loudly behind them, and both captain and admiral abruptly remembered they weren’t alone. “Beckett,” Alonzo said warmly, stepping over to hug his daughter. “How’ve you been? Sleeping okay? Staying out of trouble?”

“Yes, Dad, jeez,” she said with a laugh, patting his back before they stepped apart. “Haven’t thrown a vase at anything in at least six months.”

Her father chuckled and then turned to her companion, extending his hand. “Mr. Boimler. I believe we met two years ago, didn’t we? After Carol’s trial?”

“Oh, um, y-yes sir, Admiral Freeman sir,” the lieutenant stammered, shaking his hand. “But w-we didn’t really talk…”

“Heard you’re quite a stickler for the rules. That’s good,” he added, winking at his daughter. “At least one of you needs to be.”

“Oh please, like you’re one to talk,” Carol snorted as Beckett pointed a finger-gun back at him.

“Me? Remind me, Carol, who marooned us on Vulcan?”

“Well who got us captured by Romulans?"

“Locked me in a turbo lift with Ambassador Troi?”

“Wh– I told you, that was an accident! Besides, I got you out as fast as I could!”

“Not fast enough; she started talking to me about her hair like it was a metaphor for something? I don’t know, honestly I preferred the flirting, at least that made sense–”

“Right so, we’re just gonna go,” Beckett piped up, inching away. “Lots of mingling to do, right Brad?”

“I don’t know, I kinda wanna hear this,” Mr. Boimler said, morbidly fascinated, but Beckett just grabbed his hand and yanked him along.

Once they were gone the captain and admiral shared a chuckle. “Thought they’d never leave,” Carol said, taking his hand as they started to walk.

“She never could stand us flirting in public,” Alonzo agreed.

“Oh please, we haven’t seen each other in months! We’ve got every right to be a lot more embarrassing than that!”

“Yeah?” He abruptly twirled her around, taking her waist, and she realized they’d walked right into the circle of dancing couples. “Just how embarrassing are you thinking?”

Carol blinked and then blushed, looking away with a small smile. “Well– let’s see just how the night goes.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Boimler was still clearly on edge as the pair of lieutenants cut through the couples, looking back over his shoulder nervously to where the admiral and the captain had started dancing. “You’re sure they won’t notice we’re gone? They are your parents,” he pointed out anxiously, but Mariner just snorted.

“Please. You saw how dressed-up she was; they’re going to be like a couple of teenagers all night,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“Do you think she noticed that your sleeves were rolled down?”

“If she did, she’ll forget all about it. Come on, we’re on a timer here.”

They reached the turbolift (the ballroom was on an upper floor), passing by a sign that read, in the local language and FSE, “Warning: All turbolifts will be shut down at 7:15 in preparation for the gravitational anomaly. Normal service will resume at 8:15.”

“Time?” Mariner said as they stepped into the lift and shut the door, shrugging off her dress-uniform shirt to reveal a mustard-yellow workman’s jumpsuit. Boimler did the same and checked the time on his mini-Padd.

“18:15. So far, so good. By the way, you never mentioned how we’re actually getting inside the plant.”

“My anonymous contact said his friend who works there would leave the break room door open for us,” Mariner said, folding up the shirt. “After that we just wait around until the right time and then head for the recycling chute. Besides, you used to work at one of these, right? So you should be able to navigate the place.”

"Yeah, but I worked in the logistics offices, I basically just did paperwork all day. I can make educated guesses, but if things go sideways we need to bail, this whole plan is already a huge risk as-is.” The turbolift stopped and they got out into an empty hallway, stowing their white uniforms in the nearest linen closet and heading towards a door at the end. “Let’s at least go over the plan one more time,” he said anxiously as they descended the last floor by the back stairs.

“Dude, we’ve reviewed it like, ten times, we’ll be fine.”

“Mariner, please–” She sighed and gestured for him to continue. “Step one.”

“Step one:–” They stepped out the back door from the stairwell and found themselves in an alley behind the hotel. Mariner rolled up the sleeves on the unfamiliar uniform shirt as they headed towards the street. “–Catch the public transit from the hotel to the new replicator plant on the outskirts of the city. Ride in two separate cars, just in case.”

The railcar rattled and swayed under her feet. Mariner glanced through the glass window on the car door into the next compartment. Boimler glanced up from where he was pretending to scroll through his mini-Padd and gave her a subtle nod.

“Step two: enter through the back door of the employee break room. My anonymous contact’s plant-worker friend will have left a copied swipe-card on the table.”

She took out her own mini-Padd and read through the latest messages from her forum contact. The last one included a picture of a transparent, isolinear-yellow card sitting on the break-room table.

“Step three: Use the swipe-card to get inside the security office and reset the tape to a loop of the previous hour. The night-guard should be sleeping on the job, but be careful not to wake him!”

Mariner looked up as the train dinged and the car slowed to a halt, announcing the stop, and stepped off onto the platform, heading for the exit. As she reached the top of the stairs, Boimler fell into step next to her. “That must be it,” he observed as they walked. Ahead of them a large, circular industrial structure was rising at the end of the quiet street, past the apartments and small houses.

“Step four: Locate the case inside the recycling chute. Wait in the chute until just before 19:30 hours.”

Mariner nodded and then glanced sideways, noticing as a shopkeeper switched the glowing neon sign from one strange alien word to another (presumably “open” to “closed”) and then, looking up at the sky, picked up a potted plant and brought it inside. She followed his gaze upwards and turned around, walking backwards. “And that must be Cel’to V.” A large planet, luridly purple in color, was looming out of the night sky with an ominous glow.

“Step five: At that point, the tidal forces from the neighboring planet should have made both us and the case light enough to carry up maintenance ladders on the chute’s sides.”

“It’s like right before a thunderstorm,” Boimler murmured, looking around.

“What?”

“Can’t you tell? All the birds have gone quiet, it’s eerie.” He glanced over at her. “Mariner—are we sure this is a good idea? Maybe we should just bail.”

“Step six: Get the case out of the chute and message Quark to beam us up. Exchange the goods, try not to get ripped off.”

She hesitated, and then waved a hand. “Yeah man, of course. For the greater good, remember?”

“Step seven: Beam back down to the hotel by 20:00 hours. Don’t get caught.”

“Besides, it’s just a crate of old Padds, literally no one else wants it. What could go wrong?”

The small bronze-colored ship appeared out of warp and drew to a halt in the void, as the two planets—one greenish-blue and teeming with life, one a violent purple—drew nearer together. “Ah,” said the Ferengi pilot with relish. “Perfect timing –Ahp, and there are the Federation,” he noted, spotting several silvery-white starships in the distance, “right on cue.”

He maneuvered the ship behind an asteroid and then released the controls and stood up, rolling his shoulders. “Looks like the Lemaître is in orbit,” he added, glancing over the scanners. “They’ll probably be beaming down the goods right now; we should be able to get in and out easy-peasy, right Fral?” There was silence, and he looked over, frowning. “Fral, pay attention, this is serious business here.”

“Sorry, cousin,” his copilot said anxiously, swiping through something on a bronze-tinted mini-Padd. “Um, but I-I think we might have hit a snag…”

“A snag? What snag, there are no snags! We’ve been planning this job for weeks!”

“W-well,” his younger cousin stammered, lowering the mini-Padd, “you know how I sort of lurk on the message boards for Starfleet contraband? You know, to find us new jobs?”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, i-it looks like someone else is also going after the old Padds tonight too…”

“What?” the pilot demanded, grabbing the mini-Padd out of his hands. “That can’t be right, let me see that!” He swiped through the messages, and then let out a hiss. “Damn! Of all the bad luck–!”

“What are we going to do, cousin? Starfleet always watch each other’s backs; if there’s going to be competition for the case, maybe we should back ou–”

“Don’t even suggest it,” the pilot warned. “Our buyer is not a man to be crossed, Fral, if we don’t get that case we’ll be blacklisted from here to Ferenginar.” He scrolled through several more messages, and then slowly began to nod to himself. “Hm. Hm…”

“What is it, cousin?”

“Now that’s an idea,” the pilot mused to himself, rubbing his chin. “Look here, Fral.” He handed the Padd back and pointed to the last few messages. “Right before they moved to private messages, the first user said that his friend would leave the back door open for the second user to come in and get the Padds.”

“So?”

“So, if we get to the plant first then that makes it even easier on us! We can just take their entry strategy, we won’t have to break in the front door!” He smacked the mini-Padd with a grin. “This isn’t a problem, it’s an opportunity!”

“But cousin, we have no idea when these Starfleet thieves will try to get in! They might be down there already!”

“Given how many ships are in orbit, they probably already are. Come on, Fral, we need to get a move on; go prepare the transporter.”

The copilot nodded quickly and busied himself with the controls of the small transporter bay while the pilot transferred ship controls from the dashboard to the mini-Padd and put it in his pocket. “We really hit the jackpot this time, Fral; being a good thief is one thing, but stealing someone else’s heist? We’ll be the talk of the underground!”

“You really think so, cousin?” Fral said eagerly as they stepped onto the transporter pad.

“You bet your lobes I do. Hell, I might even swipe the security tape on our way out as a demo reel!” the pilot relished. “Energize!” The beam of sparkling blue light whipped up around their feet. Right before they vanished, he added with glee: “Those Starfleet bastards won’t know what hit ‘em!”

The slow jazz waltz ended with a round of applause and the various couples broke apart. “Whew. Is it just me, or is it getting hot in here,” Alonzo noted, looking around at the growing crowd.

“Hn, not your best pickup line,” his wife snorted, and then felt her mouth go dry as he rolled up his sleeves. Damn. “Uh– w-why don’t we get you something to drink?”

He glanced back, noticed her failed attempt to hide her blush, and chuckled. “‘Not my best pickup line,’ huh?”

“Yeah yeah, shut up,” she said, suppressing a smile as they stepped out of the swaying crowd (the air was instantly ten degrees cooler) and headed towards the refreshments table as the next song started up. This was going well, she realized, and she immediately felt silly for having been so anxious; of course it was going well, he was her husband, she didn’t need to be acting like some nervous cadet! Besides, after thirty years together, what could possibly go w–

“Carol, Alonzo.”

The pair froze, and then turned.

It was T'Pyl and George, the latter in Starfleet dress whites and the former in a high-collared Vulcan dress of poppy-red silk. Neither looked particularly happy, though of course it was hard to tell on a Vulcan. “How fortuitous,” T'Pyl said impassively. “We were not anticipating your attendance at this event.”

“Oh– heh– you two are here. Together,” Carol said, trying and failing to hide her unease. T'Pyl raised an eyebrow.

“Is there a reason we would not be?”

“I– uh–”

“Come on, T'Pyl, they’ve obviously heard,” George said bluntly, downing half his glass of champagne like he was knocking back a whiskey. Alonzo winced.

“Obviously?” the Vulcan repeated.

“Yeah. Obviously. What, you gonna quote the dictionary definition at me?”

“Carol didn’t mean to be rude–” Alonzo, ever the peacekeeper, attempted to intervene, but was cut off by T'Pyl turning to her husband with an icy expression.

“I merely meant that if there was a possibility at least two of our friends had not yet been made aware of our private business, George, then it would be…unwise, to volunteer that information.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, just say you’re mad at me,” George said angrily, turning to face her as well. “Who cares if it’s ‘unwise,’ just say you don’t like it! Because that’s what you really mean, right, that you don’t want me to talk about anything even the tiniest bit awkward or uncomfortable in front of our friends!”

“If you already know what I mean, then I should not have to say it.”

“Uh,” Carol stammered, trying to inch away, “maybe we should go–”

“Oh no don’t worry, Carol, this won’t last long,” George said sarcastically, still glaring at his wife, who had raised a single judgmental eyebrow back at him. “T'Pyl will shut down our little tiff here any moment now.”

“On the contrary, Carol, perhaps you should leave,” T'Pyl retorted, also not looking at her, “seeing as George is certain to continue attempting to have the argument for the rest of the evening anyway.”

He threw his hands into the air: “Because you agreed! With our counselor sitting right there, you agreed you’d work on actually talking about your emotions!”

“As I recall, you agreed to stop having these confrontations in public. I do not owe you an emotional outburst merely because you do not want to control your own emotions until we are in a more suitable location.”

Carol and Alonzo looked back and forth despairingly between the arguing couple, frozen between being forbidden to leave and forbidden to stay. “Oh there it is, ‘my’ emotions, well you can get off your high horse T'Pyl because we both know you’re just as emotional as me–!”

The chain-link fence surrounding the back of the replicator plant wouldn’t have been a problem for Mariner even in her pre-Academy days, let alone now that she was a trained Starfleet officer. So it was with a stab of annoyance that she heard Brad whisper “Watch the top!” from the ground behind her as she pulled herself up the last few links.

“Yeah,” she scoffed, looking back over her shoulder as she swung her leg over the curls of barbed wire and pulled herself to the other side, “I think I know how to climb a fence, Bradw– hrk-ow-ow-FUCK!”

There was a crackle of energy, and the world flashed black; she was smacked back to consciousness a moment later when she hit the ground with a lighter-than-normal thud and a groan. “Mariner!” she heard Boimler whisper-panic somewhere above her, but the only thing in her vision was the purple night sky.

“Oww…”

There was a rattle of chain-links before he dropped down lightly next to her. “You okay?!”

“You could have said it was electrified!” she hissed, sitting up and pulling leaves out of her hair. His worried face fell flat.

“I warned you, it’s not my fault you don’t listen–”

“Just– whatever, man, I’m fine! Let’s go.” Still looking annoyed, he offered her a hand up, which she ignored and stood, dusting off her yellow jumpsuit.

“Man, Rutherford really wasn’t kidding about the gravity distortion,” Boimler observed, looking up at the top of the fence. It wasn’t a short drop. “Normally that fall would have broken something.”

“I’m guessing it works better at keeping intruders out when it’s harder to climb,” Mariner grudgingly agreed. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen flat on her ass in front of Bradward, of all people; usually it was the other way around. “How’d you know it was electrified, anyway?” There was what looked in retrospect like a warning sign attached to the fence a few feet away, but the language on it was indecipherable to the two humans.

“The one at my old plant was, I just assumed it was the same here.” Boimler picked up a stone from the ground and tossed it into the sky. Its descent towards the ground seemed almost slow-motion. “We’re not quite at moonwalk levels yet, but we’re getting there. We should hurry.”

They quickly traversed the little outdoor recreation area for the plant workers beyond the fence, heading for where they could see a crack of yellow light radiating out from a door that had been left open. “Weird that he left the lights on,” Boimler observed as they reached it, but Mariner just shrugged.

“Easier for us. Come on; my contact said their friend left the card on the table.” She pulled the door open, and then both froze.

On the opposite side of the breakroom, two Ferengi stopped dead in the open doorway and turned back, staring back at them wide-eyed. “You didn’t close the door?” one hissed to the other.

Mariner snapped out of her shock. “What the fuck–” she demanded, stalking forward, but the two let out yelps and scrambled through the break-room door. Mariner smacked into it just as it slid shut from the other side! “Hey!” She waved her hand uselessly in front of the sensor and then pounded on the door, glaring at the two Ferengi through the meshed slot-window. “Open this door, assholes, open it right now–!”

“Uh, Mariner?” Boimler called from behind her, looking around and under the tables. “I think they took the key card!”

“What?!” She looked back through the window. The taller Ferengi grinned at her, waving an isolinear-yellow swipecard in her face through the glass, and then ran off down the hall after his partner with visible glee. “Ohoh you are dead men, you hear me! Dead men!”

“Mariner, this is seriously bad; we can’t get into the chute without that card—hell, we can’t even get out of the break room!”

“Yeah, Brad, I know!” She stepped back with an angry huff and kicked the door, before pushing her bangs out of her face and beginning to pace. “They must have been lurking on the forum boards. I can’t believe it, this is such bullshit!”

“The outside door is still open, maybe we should just bail,” he suggested anxiously, but she shook her head.

“No. No way, we are not backing out on this. We just need to find another angle.” She turned back to survey the breakroom, frustrated. There wasn’t much to work with; she spotted several tables, a leftover fork, a replicator she’d bet cold latinum only had food codes available, and…an old birthday balloon, hovering near the ceiling—right in front of the room’s sole video camera. “Huh.” Mariner looked out through the hall-door’s window again, and then pulled out her mini-Padd and checked the messages. Her contact had said their plant-worker friend would leave something in the way of the security camera, just in case. “Looks like they blocked the camera in here…” She looked back outside. “But the camera out there is totally free.”

“So?”

“So, there are no cameras inside the recycling chute, right?”

“No,” Boimler said with a confused frown, “the distortion from the matter-energy conversion would make them useless. But why–”

“Because now not only do we have an alibi, we won’t even need one!” Mariner snapped her fingers. “Starfleet will see the security feed and just assume that those Ferengi stole the case, not us!”

“Yeah, because they are.”

“Not if we can get into that chute first, without being caught on camera.” She opened up a new message on her mini-Padd and began to type, ignoring Boimler’s complaints:

“And how are we going to do that? We’re stuck in this room, and besides, it’s not like we can just crawl through the jeffries tubes here to avoid security, Mariner. We don’t exactly have a blueprint of the building.”

Mariner grinned and held up her mini-Padd. “Maybe we don’t. But I bet we know someone who does.” From the icon at the top of the message screen, the face of one D’Vana Tendi was beaming out at them.

Chapter Text

“Wow. This is so beautiful,” Tendi breathed, looking around the room.

The Lemaître’s astrometrics center, far from the small single-screen astrometrics labs available on Cali-class ships, resembled nothing so much as a mission control center, with long rows of tables lined with individual computers. A large, slightly curved screen at the front of the lab showed a live feed of the two planets drawing nearer. The lab was far from empty, too; dozens of scientists and engineers were already sitting at their stations, chatting eagerly and already digging into snacks and caffeinated beverages, pads and styluses at the ready. Everyone was getting into the cozy mood of an all-night study session.

“Hey, Lt. Tendi, right?” a voice said beside her; she glanced over to see a waving Andorian woman. “Lt. Sh’Nara, you and your friends are next to me.”

“Hi! Yeah, thanks; wow, this is going to be great! Everyone’s in such a good mood!” Tendi said as she took a seat next to the Andorian.

“This is an amazing lab,” Rutherford agreed, looking around in awe; T’Lyn gave a single approving nod beside him. “Thanks so much for having us.”

“No problem; can’t have too many brains at a brainstorm, after all. The CSO just announced we’ve got about forty minutes ‘til showtime, so make yourselves comfortable. Replicator’s over there if you want any snacks,” Sh’Nara added, as she headed off to talk to another blueshirt who’d called her name.

Rutherford had lit up the words. “Ooh, snacks! I’m gonna get some fried banana rolls!” To Tendi he added, “You want anything? I know they probably won’t have any Orion food, but I can check!”

“No, no! Fried banana rolls sound great!” Tendi insisted; Rutherford gave her a thumbs-up and a grin, and headed off in the direction of the replicator. T’Lyn, observing from the side, raised an eyebrow.

“Intriguing.”

“Hm?” Tendi said, still smiling after him. T’Lyn opened her mouth to respond, and then decided that pointing out Rutherford hadn’t asked her about snacks would probably only embarrass the other woman—an emotional reaction that would certainly not help her coworker focus on the night’s scientific duties. Indeed, it seemed that ever since Lt. Tendi’s return to the Cerritos, both she and Lt. Rutherford had been having certain difficulties in concentrating on their work. There had been a lot of blushing and stuttering between the pair, and “no, after you!”s whenever they bumped into each other in the hall. Truly, she thought dryly to herself, its source is a mystery.

“Never mind, it was not relevant. –What are ‘fried banana rolls?’”

“Huh? Oh! It’s a human dish; you’ll like them,” Tendi reassured her, and then looked down as her Padd began to trill. Mariner’s icon had appeared on the screen. “Oh, that’s Mariner; I’d better take this.” The Vulcan gave a nod as Tendi swiped on the screen. “Mariner, hi! Everything okay?”

“Uh– let’s just say it could be better,” Mariner’s voice responded, in a tone that seemed forcibly nonchalant. “Hey, Tendi, completely hypothetically and for no reason at all, you wouldn’t happen to know where we could get our hands on the blueprints for a Federation industrial replicator plant, would you?”

Tendi blinked, confused, and then figured it out. “Oh! Uh…well, hypothetically, if someone had an academic interest in the blueprints of an industrial replicator, there are design schematics for pretty much all mass-produced Federation structures in the Vulcan Architecture Academy’s research database. But you would need a university library access code to see them.”

“Cool, cool. And uh, if hypothetically one didn’t have an access code…?”

“Hm. Well the Syndicate does sell old student logins on the black market, but I doubt mine still works–”

“Use TLYN0060 for the username and vaikausut’stron003 for the password,” T’Lyn spoke up next to her. “All one word, apostrophe before ‘stron.’”

“Got it,” Mariner said a moment later, sounding triumphant. “Uh, I mean, I’ve hypothetically got it?”

Tendi chuckled. “Glad we could help. Good luck!”

“With your ‘research,’” T’Lyn added dryly.

“Thanks guys, Mariner out.”

The call ended, and Tendi gave T’Lyn an intrigued look. “Stron fan 003?” she translated.

The other woman returned the question with utter placidity. “A Vulcan musician. His work was particularly enjoyed by female youths during my Academy years.” She paused and then added, “I had his poster.”

Tendi giggled as Rutherford returned with a bowl of lightly steaming banana rolls. “Saw you guys take a call, what did I miss?” he said cheerfully.

“Mariner called, she was looking for some blueprints to help with whatever they’re doing today,” Tendi said in an undertone, chuckling. “I think they might be pulling a heist and needed some, y’know, ex-pirate help?”

“Really? That’s wild! –But wait, you don’t mind that they asked you?” said Rutherford. T’Lyn raised both eyebrows at the concern in the usually-chipper android's voice, but Tendi just shook her head.

“Mm-mm! Actually I always kind of wanted to be the behind-the-scenes tech expert on a heist,” she said thoughtfully. “You know, hanging out in the ship, hacking into mainframes and talking into your earpiece and all that? But my sister pulled that job instead, lucky duck.”

“Really? So what did you do then?”

“Oh, my job was so boring. I was just the muscle!”

“That,” Alonzo said under his breath, “might be one of the most painful things I’ve ever experienced.”

The couple had managed to escape the still-feuding T'Pyl and George by pleading thirst and vanishing off to the refreshments table, where they now stood with perfunctory glasses of punch. “No kidding,” Carol said grimly. “I’d take a Cardassian interrogation chamber over that any day; like there are five lights, whatever, just get me out of there.” The Vulcan’s and human’s vicious sniping at one another had driven off enough onlookers that they’d created a small circle of emptiness around them, which could be seen even from the refreshments table.

“I just can’t believe it.” Alonzo shook his head, bewildered. “George and T'Pyl, taking a break? When did this happen, did you know about it?”

“I just heard today,” Carol sighed. “Sonya called me this afternoon to warn me; they’re probably only attending together tonight to save face…”

“But I hadn’t even heard they were having problems—it’s like this came out of nowhere!”

Her stomach tightened at that. “Well, I-I’m sure there must have been warning signs,” she said uneasily.

“But they were so in love—how does a good marriage just fall apart like that?”

Carol abruptly set her glass down on the table. “What d’you say we get out of here?” she said, without preamble.

“Huh?” He blinked at her, still lost in thought. “Get out of here?”

“We’ve put in our time making appearances,” she said airily. “Besides, I don’t think anyone would notice if we snuck off.”

“Where would you want to go?” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully, and he realized: “Oh. Oh!”

“Mmhm.” For good measure she pulled him closer so she was pressed against him, ignoring the anxiety prickling along her spine. “We could get a room upstairs…”

“Already have one booked,” he said with a grin.

“Yeah?” He nodded. “Well, then let’s get a move on.”

She turned to go, leading him by the hand towards the doors on the other side of the ballroom, when he abruptly stopped and pulled her back. “Damn,” he muttered. “Hold up, Care, we can’t go that way.”

“What? Why not?”

“Captain Braga is over there, looks like he just arrived. I’ve been dodging his calls all week; something to do with a replicator grant for the Academy’s flight squads?” He looked around. “Let’s go through the left doors.”

Carol looked over and then quietly cursed under her breath. “Captain Gleason. He’s been pestering me about getting the Cerritos to participate in some sort of engineering race.” Her voice tinged with desperation: “Right doors?”

They checked. “Admiral Brooks. He wants to discuss another uniform change,” Alonzo said hollowly.

They looked at each other. “If we don’t get out of here soon,” the captain realized, “we’re going to spend the entire night making small talk.”

“Okay, it looks like that air vent up there should lead into the main duct system, and we can get from there to this panel here that lets out onto a service walkway beside this conveyor belt,” Boimler said, tracing a line on the blueprints with his finger. “There shouldn’t be any cameras there, but if we do get caught on feed we’re still in maintenance uniforms just in case.”

“Conveyor belt?” Mariner was leaning against one of the break room tables, eyebrow quirked. “That’s kinda old-fashioned, why not just beam the stuff down into the chute directly?”

“Safety measure. The recycling chute’s lined with kelbonite, so nothing gets in there that’s not supposed to be; it messes with combadges too.”

“Fair enough.” She straightened up and dusted off her hands. “Sounds like we’ve got a plan then, help me up.”

“Actually, Mariner, I think I should go first this time,” he said, surprising her. “I know the general layout of the plant better than you, and we don’t want to get lost so…”

“Wh– I’m not going to get us lost! Besides, who of us here has been on more heists?”

“Okay, sure, but which one of us has actually worked in one of these places before?”

“You’re just scared you can’t lift me, aren’t you,” she shot back, crossing her arms.

“Yes! Because you’re ten pounds heavier than me!”

“Wow, okay, rude.”

“You called me bird-boned on Jengus IV! Look, you know I’m right, why are you being stubborn about this?”

“Uh maybe because I don’t want your butt in my face while we’re crawling through a vent system? Your ass isn’t as cute as you think it is, Bradward.”

The words were out of her mouth before she even realized she’d said them. Boimler looked surprised. Mariner flushed. “I– that came out wrong.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he scoffed, much to her relief, as he turned again and studied the vent above them. “You wanna try that one again?”

“I– shut up, I make fun of you a million times a day, they’re not all gonna be winners,” she grumbled. “And if you’re going to be such a baby about it then you can go first, whatever.”

“Thank you.” He waited until she’d made a basket with her hands and then used that to climb up onto her shoulders, where he prodded the vent cover and lit up. “Hey, I think I can get it off!”

“Fine, do it already,” Mariner said, still hot in the face and trying to steady his legs.

“Also these uniform pants aren’t exactly flattering, you know.”

“Look, can we just move on and focus on our criminal escapades here?!”

Boimler poked his tongue out, concentrating, and with some rattles managed to remove the grate. He handed it down to her and then pulled himself (with no small amount of huffing and panting) into the vent. “It feels steady,” he called as he reached his hands down, voice echoing through the metal. “Not sure it’d be safe anytime else, but with the gravity all messed up the metal will probably hold.”

With significantly less grunting, Mariner easily pulled herself up into the vent. It was dark inside, and extremely dusty; she turned on her mini-Padd’s flashlight and handed it to Brad. “It’s almost 19:00 hours,” he added anxiously as he took it. “We’re behind schedule.”

“Then we’d better get going.”

Following the map Tendi had provided, the pair set off through the tangled web of air ducts. The words of the failed insult were still echoing painfully in Mariner’s ears, and she was making a point of staring at anything but her best friend’s backside as they crawled across an intersection. This wasn’t helped by the fact that he was literally right in front of her. Dammit. Mariner hadn’t known it was possible to have intrusive thoughts about things other than The Horrors, but apparently the universe had decided to prove her wrong tonight. In fact, it had been doing so for some time now.

It wasn’t like these thoughts meant anything, of course. Brad was so far from her usual type that it wasn’t even funny; Mariner knew what she liked, and she liked ‘em big and covered in muscles. —Except, her brain piped up uneasily, that wasn’t exactly true, was it? She had a preference, sure, but it wasn’t exclusive; Jennifer hadn’t exactly been a weight lifter, after all. –And she liked bad boys, rule-breakers!— Except, apparently, when Ransom was reciting ethics in the middle of a cage match. And come to think of it, “vice president of the redshirts club” Jenn hadn’t been much of a rebel, either.

She had never been attracted to Brad before because, she’d always told herself, he wasn’t her type. Except now she knew that “her type” wasn’t as iron-clad as she’d apparently thought. And the problem was, that now that she’d stopped telling herself how much he wasn’t her type, Mariner had realized something pretty disconcerting: Brad was actually good-looking. Admittedly it was in (as Barb had once so eloquently put it) a “mousy sweet and soft” way, but still, she understood now why the girls on the ship kept hitting on him. His eyes were a very nice shade of blue, and his smug little smirk whenever he did anything that surprised and impressed her was downright cute. And the dorky uptight way he wore his uniform was doing nothing for him, but as his former bunkmate she’d definitely had more than one opportunity to see him in his undershirt, and–

Oh my god, shut up, she internally growled at herself. So he was decently attractive. So what? Mariner knew lots of attractive people, that didn’t mean she was into all of them. Tendi and Rutherford and T’Lyn were all objectively good-looking, and she wasn’t hitting on any of them, was she? Of course not, because thinking someone was attractive was not the same as wanting to date them, and also because dating one of her best friends would be a terrible idea even if she were into him. Them. Whatever!

“Hey,” Boimler whispered back over his shoulder as they reached another intersection; Mariner startled, and then found herself annoyed that she’d startled. She was on a heist; this was not the time to be thinking about guys— not that Brad counted as a guy. “You doing okay?”

“What?”

“You got really quiet. You’re usually, like, never quiet.”

Mariner huffed. “Just– lost in thought, whatever. Let me see the map.”

He passed his mini-Padd back to her and she looked over the schematics. “Hang on, why are we making a big detour here?” she realized, tracing the planned route with her finger. “Wouldn’t it be faster to just go straight?”

“That would bring us right over the security office, it’s too risky.”

“But the guard’s supposed to be asleep, remember? Come on, this will be much faster,” she encouraged, already turning down the alternate path and shuffling on ahead.

“Mariner, I really don’t think that’s a good id–”

“Look those Ferengi guys are going to beat us to the case if we don’t get a move on! Besides, this is my heist; have I ever led you wrong?”

“Yes! Many times!”

“Look if you’re scared and wanna go back, be my guest; I’m sure I could do this on my own,” she scoffed over her shoulder.

“Gee, thanks Mariner,” Brad grumbled, but was already following after her.

They crawled in relative silence for a couple minutes, as Mariner had to concentrate on reading the map; it was a lot harder than he’d made it look, given that she’d never worked in a building designed like this before, and eventually Boimler said smugly behind her, “You’re lost, aren’t you,” at which point she grudgingly had to hand the Padd back to him. “We took a wrong turn one intersection back,” he said after studying it for only a few moments, which grated on her even more. “But we’re only a little ways off, come on.”

He took the lead again as they backtracked and took a right. After a minute or two more he glanced over his shoulder at her and said in a whisper: “We’re about to pass right over the main security office; we should be quiet, just in case.”

“Yeah, Brad, I know,” she whispered back, annoyed. “This isn’t my first time doing this, you don’t need to hold my hand.” Fuck, not again. Maybe she should go talk to Holo-Freud for her next therapy session, he’d probably have a field day with this.

“Well fine then,” he said with an eye roll; thank the cosmic koala for small mercies like unobservant best friends. “Next time I won’t say anything.”

He turned back around and kept crawling. Mariner glared at the back of his head as she followed after him in an intolerable mixture of embarrassment and vindictiveness.

The vent opened up ahead of them with a flood of light from the “floor”; Boimler turned off his flashlight and crept silently forward, peering down through the nearest vent, and then looked back again intently. He held a finger up to his lips and then began crawling carefully over the grate towards the other side, where the bottom of the vent became solid metal again, and Mariner rolled her eyes at his turned back; yeah, no, there was no way she was into a guy who could be this insufferable.

She inched out onto the grate and peered down; below her was the bald head of a sleeping alien security guard in a Starfleet uniform. The man let out a loud snore, and ahead of her she felt as much as saw Boimler tense up for a moment, before the guard mumbled something about “not wanting to fight Q in his underwear” and sank into a deeper doze.

She was halfway across and Boimler was nearly through when it happened. Mariner could swear sometimes that the universe had it out for Brad; the guy was such a disaster magnet that, in some situations, everyone around him was marginally safer because he somehow seemed to attract all the bad luck onto himself. This, unfortunately, was not one of those situations. As he moved to crawl up onto the next solid length of metal, his shoe brushed against a pile of vent-dust which had built up on the grate; it cascaded off the ledge, tumbled slowly down through the air and dispersed—right on top of the alien’s head.

The guard gave a loud snort. Both lieutenants froze. The guard sneezed. Brad’s head whipped around in a panic as Mariner glared at him. Dude, what the hell?! she mouthed, pointing to the remains of the dust pile by his shoe.

Boimler’s face was a mask of terror. I’m sorry! he mouthed back.

Below them, the guard sneezed again and opened his eyes, rubbing them. And that was when Mariner noticed the worst thing: directly in front of him was a set of screens displaying security camera footage, on which the two Ferengi were currently hurrying down a hallway. If he saw them now, the city police would be called to search the building—a search that would almost certainly reveal that there were two other intruders in the vents, if the Ferengi thieves didn't turn them in first.

Both lieutenants waited in bone-cracking tension, holding their breath. The guard rubbed his eyes again, blinked—and then closed them again, drifting off. The pair let out silent exhales and waited until new, soft snores were echoing up from below them before inching their way across the rest of the vent. Once they were safely round the next corner, they found themselves in a wide enough vent to crawl side-by-side, and Mariner came up to his shoulder. “You doing okay there, Boimsie?” she whispered with a snicker.

“I think my heart stopped,” he wheezed.

“Yeah, I know. Seriously man, you have got to be more careful or you’re just never going to make it in the criminal underworld,” she said with a tsk and a shake of her head; Brad gave her an annoyed look and moved forward, apparently deciding not to dignify that with a response. Mariner frowned and then scoffed. “Hey don’t get mad at me, you’re the one who nearly blew the mission!”

“Excuse me? It was your idea to go this way at all!” he snapped back.

“Yeah, and look how much time we saved! Besides, whose heist is this again?”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to retort and then cut himself off with a huff. “Look, even if we shaved off a few minutes those Ferengi are still definitely way ahead of us, so let’s just finish this and get out of here, alright?”

Uh oh. There she went, crossing the line again; she could tell from his tone of voice. “…Right, yeah. Good plan?” she offered, hoping it would be an olive branch. Brad didn’t answer, which meant he was hurt and pissed off. Fuck. What was wrong with her, why did she never know when to stop?

Why are you even tormenting him in the first place? her brain pointed out knowingly—the traitor.

With guilt and other emotions she refused to define prickling uncomfortably up her spine, she sighed to herself and followed after him into the shadows.

“Zo, this isn’t going to work forever,” the captain muttered under her breath.

The admiral twirled his wife and then pulled her back in. “‘Course it will,” he reassured her. Carol did not look convinced, for which he couldn’t exactly blame her; his wife knew that underreacting was his modus operandi, as much as hers was over-reacting. “Nobody’s going to interrupt us while we’re dancing, we just have to keep at it until they lose–” He dipped her, and then gulped. Admiral Brooks was watching him with a stare that promised at least an hour’s discussion on collar piping. “–Interest,” he said weakly, pulling her back up.

The song came to an end, and there was a smattering of applause. The lead singer of the band, a Vulcan woman in graceful evening robes, gave a polite nod. “The gravitational anomaly is quickly approaching,” she announced. “As such, we will conclude the traditional dances with the Tam Vluhn and then move into our contemporary set.”

“For the younger crowd,” the bass player, a betazoid, added to the attendants with a wink, prompting laughter.

The captain and admiral shared despairing looks; most of the older officers, including themselves, would no doubt file out of the ballroom after the anomaly was over, and at that point they would be cornered for good. “What’s the Tam Vluhn ?” Carol muttered.

“Vulcan tango,” Alonzo answered under his breath, looking left and right. From both sides, familiar faces who looked eager to network and mingle were closing in. “It’s not exactly like a human tango, but it’s to the same beat.”

“Well you took that Dancing and Diplomacy class or whatever at the Academy, right? Do you still know it?” Carol said urgently.

“Sure, but you don’t. And Vulcan dances don’t have a lead partner, they use their telepathy to mirror each other.”

Carol opened her mouth to respond and then glanced over his shoulder; Captain Gleason had caught her eye. “Well we’re just going to have to make it work.” She grabbed his arm before he could protest and pulled him forward into the reducing circle of other dancers, all Vulcans. Even as she watched, the partners lined up side-by-side, facing opposite directions. “So how does this go?” she whispered, turning so she was looking at the back wall while he was facing the doors. It was immediately obvious why this was a Vulcan dance; from this position, she could only see him out of the corner of her eye and would have a hard time knowing what he was about to do.

“Side by side, right palms together,” he whispered back, pressing his hand against hers. Carol noted the couple opposite her and copied their pose and steps as the music began, beginning with a drum beat; like all things Vulcan, the dance somehow looked simultaneously antiquated as well as alien and futuristic. “It’s a pretty easy step: from your side it’s left, forward, right, quarter-turn and right, quarter-turn and start over–” But she’d already gotten it and was mirroring his footsteps easily. Alonzo chuckled. “–Just like that, right. You know it took me two whole classes to get that down.”

The captain smirked, keeping her eyes forward. “So what’s the hard part?”

“The variations. Each couple makes them up as they go along; we’re human so they probably won’t expect much from us, but…”

“–We have to do something to not make fools of ourselves, got it.” Ahead of them she could already see the Vulcan couples beginning to make changes to the pattern as the melody struck up, twirling or switching positions. “You know the dance better, you take lead.”

“Got it.” Out of the edge of her vision, could see him side-eyeing the other dancers, counting to himself. “Do a half-turn turn in three– two–”

She spun a hundred and eighty degrees, before immediately his hand met hers again and they fell neatly back into step, now facing the same way. She’d caught a brief glance at the crowd before returning to their starting position; people were peering at them with intrigue, especially the Vulcans. “Why are they all watching us?” she said under her breath.

“Probably because we’re human. They’re seeing if we can pull it off.”

“Oh, perfect. An audience for when we embarrass ourselves.”

“We’ve seen worse,” he reminded her, taking her hand and twirling her in the human fashion before coming back to center, facing opposite ways again. “Remember that time in ‘67 we showed up to a red-alert in workout leotards?”

“Thank you, Zo, I’d almost repressed that memory.”

“Hey, I’m the one who has to see Picard at the office every day; figured if I have to suffer, so should you.”

Carol chuckled despite herself and turned to face the same direction as him for several steps before turning back, without missing a beat. Alonzo didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised, and that was when she realized—the mirroring was coming naturally. She could tell what he was going to do before he even did it, and vice-versa.

Humans were not telepaths. What the mind-reading races of the galaxy could accomplish instantly could take humans decades to perfect—indeed, even a lifetime. Thirty years ago they probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. But somehow, after all this time—after decades of communicating with hand signals in silent stakeouts; of passing a baby-turned-toddler-turned-kid-turned-teenager back and forth; of having whole conversations across conference tables by expression alone; of sharing beds, quarters, ships and the extremely cramped space of a single lifetime together—it was second-nature to guess, by the tiniest glance or twitch of a muscle, what exactly the other was trying to do. She could read him like an open book, and he could read her right back.

On impulse, she took his hand and navigated herself through another twirl; he intuited her intention and caught her easily by the waist before she could fall out of the dip. There was a smattering of applause, and she glanced up at her husband’s eyes, smirking, as he pulled her upright again. He nodded back at her. This was working. Now all they needed to do was—well, get the attention off of them, somehow. He raised his eyebrows as they fell back into step, and she gave him a mildly exasperated look; alright so she hadn’t totally thought this through, but it was better than doing nothing! Fair enough, his slight eye-roll acknowledged, but what exactly was the plan from here—?

Their silent conversation was cut off as a flare of scarlet passed by out of the corner of their eyes, and both looked over, surprised.

It was T'Pyl and George. Carol wasn’t sure at what point they’d entered the dance, but it hardly mattered that they were latecomers; one by one every other couple, the Freemans included, stopped in shock to watch the display. The pair was somehow combining, in what seemed like effortless fluidity, the Tam Vluhn with the human tango; as she watched, T'Pyl pulled off what looked like an exceptionally complicated piece of footwork before George took her hand again and led her, twirling, scarlet skirts flying, across the floor, catching her at the last moment in a low dip. Carol couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be the swan-song of a dying relationship or the spark to reignite it, but from the fierce intensity in T'Pyl’s and George’s expressions she knew it had to be one or the other. “Well would you look at that,” she murmured to her own husband. “You think we had something to do with that?” 

Alonzo snorted under his breath. “Maybe. They always were competitive…”

“Mmhm.” She looked around, and realized that the rest of the room was watching the pair, completely distracted—including their would-be pursuers. She gave Alonzo a quick glance, and he returned it with a small nod. He'd spotted the same thing. "Zo?" she said under her breath, glancing towards the doors; the nearest exit was wide open.

"Mm."

"Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Right behind you, sweetheart.”

Chapter Text

The couple skirted along the back off the crowd and slunk out the side-door as the crowd remained enthralled by the performance. The moment they were free of the ballroom both let out huge breaths of relief. “That was too close,” Carol insisted as they hurried down the hall.

“No kidding. The sooner we’re upstairs and behind a locked door, the better.”

“Hnh, well I like the sound of tha– oh come on!” Carol cried as they rounded the corner and came to an abrupt halt in front of the turbolifts—or more accurately, in front of the brand-new signs, reading in the local language and FSE:

The lifts are closed until 8:15 due to the gravitational anomaly. We apologize for the inconvenience; please use the stairs.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she said with incredulity, turning to the right and left. “Where are the stairs?”

“Back by the ballroom,” Alonzo said, looking over his shoulder. Carol scoffed.

“Ohoh no way, we’re not risking that. Come on.” She lifted up the red rope and ducked under.

“Care, are you sure this is a good idea? We can probably make it back to the stairs in time–”

“You heard the band, this is the last dance for the night before they start on that new music the kids like! It’ll be ending any second; we go back now, we’re screwed.” She punched the button. “And not in the fun way.”

“Fair enough.” He crouched under the rope too as the lift arrived with a ding! “After you.”

They stepped inside and Alonzo tapped the button for their floor. “Finally,” Carol exhaled as the doors shut and the lift shot upwards with a pleasantly-announced “Floor thirteen!” “I’ll admit it, I was beginning to think we’d never get to the–”

The lift abruptly shuddered, and then stopped. The two looked at each other, startled. The lights snapped off.

There was a long, long beat of silence.

“...Sweetheart–”

“Yeah, Zo, I know!” The captain huffed, pinched the bridge of her nose in the darkness, and then shook her head. “You know what? Screw the hotel! I have perfectly fine quarters on my own ship; we’ll just beam back up there!” She reached up to tap the badge and then, feeling nothing, remembered that she’d put it in her clutch. The…clutch she’d left on the table. Back in the ballroom. “Uh…Zo, you still have your badge, right?”

“Yeah, of course I do– oh. Uh.” Carol groaned. “Damn, it must’ve come off while we were dancing…”

“So,” the captain sighed, “just to sum up our situation: we are stuck in a turbolift, in the dark, with no combadges, and even if we could comm for help we’d be the laughingstocks of Starfleet and make the morning news for FNN tomorrow.”

“I’m sure they’ll start running the lifts again once the anomaly is over,” her husband’s voice tried to reassure her.

“I’m sorry, Zo, you were right; we should have taken the stairs…”

“Yeah, I was,” he said a little smugly, but then quickly added: “But it’s fine, Carol, we’ve been in worse situations than stuck in a dark turbolift for an hour with nothing to– to do…”

There was another beat of silence as both re-processed this information.

“Uh– Carol, sweetheart,” the admiral resumed, voice one of forced nonchalance, “do you remember that time on Starbase 5 when we–”

The captain grabbed the lapels of his jacket and yanked his mouth down to hers.

The grate squeaked as it was moved aside, and then Mariner squinched her way out of the vent and dropped lightly, still holding the mesh, into the shadowy tube of a hallway below. “Brad, I– whoa!” The floor belt under her feet was slightly squishy, and with the gravity distortion it pushed her up like a trampoline for a second before she fell back to earth again, steadying herself. She looked down to see she was standing on a rubber conveyor belt.

“Yeah, careful, they’re meant to absorb weight,” Boimler grunted, hopping down after her and wobbling slightly as he got his balance; Mariner noticed that he still sounded annoyed with her. “Most of the materials for recycling get beamed down directly into here.” Along the sides of the large tube there were maintenance pathways of raised corrugated metal, but just as Boimler had promised, there were no security cameras that she could see. At the near end of the tunnel there was a closed industrial sliding door. “That’s the gate into the chute up there,” he added, nodding down the tunnel.

“How do we open it?”

“I just need to get the belt to start moving,” he said, climbing off the conveyor belt onto the maintenance path and tapping a computer screen embedded into the wall. A digit-screen in alien font was presented as it lit up, and he cursed. “Damn it, I totally forgot.”

“What?”

“You always have to swipe in, it’s a security thing. Even if I still remembered my old credentials it would be proof I was here.”

“So what, we came all this way for nothing?” Mariner demanded.

“I didn’t say that,” he said, stepping back and rubbing his chin, and then snapped his fingers. “I can’t get the belt running, but the doors have emergency open and close codes. It’s been a decade, sure, but they wouldn’t have had any reason to change them…” He tapped the upper-left corner three times—presumably 111 —into the screen, and then looked over at her. “Here goes nothing?”

“Yeah, man, hurry up, we don’t have time to showboat here,” Mariner retorted (what? If he was going to be pissy then so was she). Boimler gave her a flat look and then hit the button on the keypad.

Immediately a loud klaxon siren went off, as did blazing red-alert lights all along the top of the belt. “Shit, shit!” he panicked, jabbing at the screen, but Mariner shouted over the din:

“No, look! It’s opening!”

She was right; the door at the end of the tunnel was sliding open from top to bottom. Boimler typed in the code again and then jumped back down onto the belt, and the two sprinted—well, alright, staggered and bounced—to the end, vaulting over the door’s ledge as the Klaxon died and the gate began to slide shut again. They landed on another shorter conveyor belt (this one made of kelbonite chainlinks instead of rubber) on the other side just as it closed behind them; the two stood there, panting for a moment in the remaining short length of tunnel, before Boimler slipped back into his natural panic mode. “Ohh man this is bad,” he moaned, rubbing his face. “Do you think that woke up the security guard?”

“How the hell should I know; why didn’t you mention the alarm!” she hissed back at him, stalking forward to the end of the tunnel. He trailed after her, caught between indignation and guilt:
“I didn’t think there’d be one! I learned about the emergency codes on orientation day, I never had to use them–”

“Whoa,” Mariner cut him off, blinking. She’d reached the edge of the conveyor belt and the mouth of the tunnel. 

The chute, which was shaped like a cut-off funnel with a flat bottom, was easily fifty meters in diameter from where she was standing, about the length of an American football field. Lining the walls in spiral pattern all the way down to the floor, she could see dotted here and there several dozen gates with their little conveyor belts, just like the one she was currently standing on, each flanked by ladders and maintenance platforms stretching the full height of the chute. Near the top of the chute was a large red line painted around the perimeter, and above this on the opposite side was what looked like an observation room with glass windows overlooking the entire recombinator.

At the bottom of the cute was a large forcefield, fizzling faintly with energy. Below the field lay massive versions of the parts of the matter-recyclers she’d fixed any number of times on the ship, and standing atop the barrier of crackling energy was–

The thieves spotted them at the same moment she saw them and immediately began shouting angrily at them in Ferengi; Mariner could see the case being carried between them, looking far lighter than it should have been. “Damn, they’ve already got it!”

“Maybe they’ll be willing to negotiate,” Boimler suggested, rubbing his chin.

“Negotiate with what, we don’t use money! Look, that’s Starfleet property and we’re Starfleet, let’s just go down there and make them give it back!”

“Starfleet property that we’re stealing to sell to the Ferengi! We don’t exactly have the moral high ground here, Marin–!”

He heard the phaser-fire only a split second before Mariner yanked him sideways and the blast rocketed straight through where his head had been. “ Aghah! Oh! Oh my gosh!” Boimler gasped, turning and looking at the badly-scorched kelbonite wall.

Another blast flashed to the side of Mariner as she jumped out of the way. “Hey! Ever heard of warning shots?!” she shouted as they scrambled back into the tunnel for cover.

The response they got was garbled, and Mariner poked her combadge. “They don’t work in here, remember?” Boimler panted, pressing himself as flat to the tunnel wall as possible while the Ferengis’ phaser-fire flashed into the ceiling above them, raining down sparks.

“Wait here,” she growled, dropping to a crouch on the conveyor belt and inching forward.

“Mariner what are you doing, you’re going to get shot!”

“No I’m not, Brad, now let me focus!”

The phaser-fire was still pounding into the ceiling at an angle as she inched forward under it, eventually getting down into an army-crawl. She waited until it had stopped and then, very carefully, peeked her head out over the edge of the belt.

There was more shouting and she yanked her head back, a moment before the blast of fire shot up through where her head had been. “They’re heading for the other side,” she complained, standing up again just beyond the range of fire.

“For Q's sake, Mariner, you need to be more careful–”

“Oh right, because I’m the one invoking the name of the trickster entity in the middle of a firefight–”

“It’s an expression–”

“Look, this is beside the point!” she snapped, waving her hands. “We need to get that case away from them somehow, or this will all have been completely pointless!”

“You think I don’t know that? I’m all ears for suggestions here Mariner, because last I checked we didn’t bring weapons! Not to mention that would cause a major diplomatic incident and also be wildly immoral, since they beat us here fair and square–”

“They did not, they stole our heist plan! I can’t believe you’re just giving up, I should have just done this on my own!”

His face flushed with color. “Excuse me? In case you forgot, you wouldn’t have even gotten this far without me!”

“Wh– I didn’t need you,” she scoffed, her anger blazing into a fury-pitch. “What, you think I need your help, you think I can’t live without you?!” His glare solidified. “Well in case you forgot, I’ve survived just fine with you gone before, Bradward, so if you wanna bail on me now you can go right ahead and–”

She was cut off as another barrage of phaser-fire suddenly erupted over their heads, both of them ducking again for cover. There was an almighty din and an explosion of sparks from near the mouth of the tunnel, and then the loud echoing of a mechanical voice over the speakers talking in a language she didn’t recognize. “What the hell was that for?!” Mariner complained, looking over her shoulder once the shots had stopped, but Boimler’s face had gone white.

“Oh no,” he breathed, taking his hands off his head.

“What? What’s ‘oh no,’ don’t say ‘oh no!’”

“That’s the countdown. Th-those shots must have disabled the gravitational sensors and kicked the whole recycler into gear—Mariner, we need to get above the red line, right now!”

“Are you crazy, they’ll shoot us!”

“Yeah, and if we don’t, everything down here is going to recombinated, including us!”

She felt the blood drain out of her face. “Shit. Yeah, I’ll risk the phaser burns.”

“Come on!”

They scurried to the edge of the platform. At this point the gravity had become so unstable that Boimler misjudged his last step and shrieked as he staggered, pinwheeling, over the edge and began to float out and down over the expanse; Mariner’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, yanking him back onto the conveyor belt. Both cringed and waited for the phaser-fire which never came; when they cracked their eyes open they saw that the two thieves had moved out of phaser-range and had pulled themselves up the maintenance ladders to one of the lower tunnels, the gate of which they were trying to pry open.

Boimler looked around wildly and then pointed. “There!” Just above the red safety line, next to the maintenance ladder, a scorched smoking access panel was hanging off its hinges. They grabbed hold of the ladder and, with the alien countdown echoing in their ears, they pulled themselves upwards, almost weightless in the near-zero-gravity. The massive machinery parts below them were beginning to chug and whirr, and an eerie blue-white light was zipping faster and faster through the components. As Mariner crossed over the safety line Brad pulled the panel door open and peered inside. “Oh, no. No no no, it’s totally fried!”

“Can you get it working again?!”

He stuck his fingers into the panel, but it only spat out sparks and caused him to yelp as he yanked them back. “Oh come on, I don’t want to see someone die tonight!” Boimler moaned, looking back over his shoulder at the Ferengi thieves, who were still struggling with the closed gate and bobbing around in the low gravity like ping-pong balls in a pool. “Hey!” he shouted, waving his free hand and pointing upwards. “You have to get out of there!” The Ferengi shouted something back at him that sounded decidedly non-cooperative. “ Leave the case behind and climb up! CLIMB UP!”

“Brad, stop,” Mariner urged, reaching up and catching his arm. “They’re Ferengi thieves, they’re not going to ditch the case. You’re wasting your time, we need to try something else–”

“Try what else, Mariner?!” he exploded at her, half-turning on the ladder so he was hanging on with one foot out in the air as he wrenched his hand free and gestured angrily to the situation in general. “We can’t turn the countdown off and I can’t get their gate open from here!”

“We could go–”

“Up the ladder to the control room and try to turn it off from there?! Yeah, I thought of that! Except we don’t read the language so I can’t use the computer! Or what, go get help?! The countdown is only two minutes long, we’ll never make it in time! For once in your life just accept that I might know more about a situation than you!”

She leaned back on the ladder, too stung to answer, and he took the opportunity to get another word in before she could come up with one of her trademark sarcastic retorts: “Practically every problem we’ve had tonight is because you didn’t listen to me! I’m not some baby-faced ensign anymore, Mariner; like I’ve stopped an evil supercomputer, I’ve gotten phase-cloned, hell I’ve died! Twice! I mean what is it going to take for you to treat me like an equal, do I have to go f–”

He cut himself off just in time, huffing and turning back to the panel with an angry shake of his head, but Mariner winced. She knew what he’d been about to say, and fighting in a war wasn’t something she even wanted to imagine happening to her best friend. “I just don’t get why you even asked me to come with you if you weren’t going to let me help,” he finished, frustrated. “And I hate feeling like my own best friend thinks I’m incompetent, okay? It really sucks.”

He continued trying to fix the sensor, leaving her feeling like absolute shit. He was clearly waiting for an answer; the problem was, Mariner had no idea how to reply. Obviously she couldn’t tell him the true truth, because she didn’t even know what the truth was. Her motives were still unclear, even to herself.

But…maybe she could tell him part of the truth.

“Look, it’s not that I think you're incompetent, Brad, I swear,” she began, voice pleading. “It’s just that– look, after you left for the Titan there was like, a hole in our little group, okay? We had to make do without you, I had to make do without you.”

“You’re seriously still mad about the Titan? I thought we were past that!”

“I’m not mad, Brad, I’m–” she took a deep breath, “I’m scared, okay?”

“What do you mean, scared of what?”

“Of being helpless if you leave again!”

The words echoed around the metallic chute, and Brad was so startled that he actually stopped and looked down at her for a moment. Mariner looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “I’d started relying on you, okay? And then you just– you just left. I don’t let myself rely on others very often, you know?” She squeezed her eyes shut in a cringe: “And I guess I’m…scared that if you leave again, I won’t be able to manage without you this time. Like I asked you here tonight because you’re my best friend, I always want you around, but I feel like I have to prove to myself I don’t need you around in case I lose you again and…ugh, it’s all twisted up in my head,” she groaned. “I’m sorry, it’s been so long since the Titan and I said I forgave you and I swear I meant it—I shouldn’t be putting all this on you again.”

There was a beat of silence, punctuated only by the continuing countdown of the timer, and then a rueful sigh. “Look—Mariner, I get it,” Boimler said, and she looked up in surprise. He’d gone back to trying to fix the panel and therefore wasn’t able to look at her, but the pinch in his brow looked more guilty now than angry. “I did leave you behind. But for what it’s worth, back then we’d only just become friends; I-I didn’t realize how much it would hurt you and I was…honestly, kind of scared too.”

“Wait, you were scared? Of what, of me?”

“Not really you, just of…I guess how close we’d gotten, in such a short amount of time,” he admitted, much to her surprise. “Mariner, I’ve never had a friend like you before, okay? Or Tendi or Rutherford, or even T’Lyn now—but especially you.”

Mariner swallowed, hard. A lump was growing in her throat, and she didn’t know why—or maybe she did, but she was afraid to admit it.

“For most of my life I told myself I didn’t need friends, because it made me feel better about not having any,” he continued. “Part of the reason I left for the Titan without saying goodbye, heck part of the reason I left at all was that I…I told myself it was time to rip off the bandaid, y’know, that this wasn’t going to last and I’d probably built it up in my head anyway. That there was no way someone like you was actually going to stay friends with me, so it was better to prioritize my career than let myself get any more attached to people who were just going to leave eventually.” He yanked his fingers back as the panel zapped him again, and then rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “Friends come and go, but personal accomplishments are forever, right?”

“Brad–”

“I know, it was stupid. But my point is, that’s not going to happen again, okay?” he insisted, looking down at her. “If there’s one thing I learned from that whole disaster, it’s that I was way happier with you on the Cerritos than I was without you on the Titan. Even a shiny new ship and rank can’t really replace a whole best friend.” Mariner half-smiled despite herself. “So– is there anything I can do to prove to you that I’m staying put this time?”

“Hah. Believe me, Boims, if there was some way for you to fix my abandonment issues, I’d tell you.” She took a deep breath. “So I guess I’m just going to have to…take a leap of faith and trust you.”

“Yeah…yeah, sa–” His eyes suddenly shot wide as something occurred to him. “–Wait. Wait wait wait, a leap of faith! Mariner, that’s it!”

There was an uproar of applause as the Tam Vluhn concluded, and the couple was left panting for a moment, eyeing each other, before noticing their audience and quickly exiting stage right in a flutter of poppy-red.

As the applause died down, the band’s lead singer announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, the anomaly is fast approaching.” It was true; people’s hair and clothes were rippling and floating gently as people moved, footsteps literally feather-light. “We have prepared a special rendition of a Terran classic piece for the event, so if you wish, please find your partner and take your place on the dance floor.”

The couples gathered as the lights dimmed; there was a fizzling, almost glittering feeling in the air. The human drummer waited a moment, as if timing out the exact second, and then pounded the beat into the snare. The crowd let out gasps and laughter as their feet drifted up off the dance floor, and the couples pulled each other close, clinging to each other in the sparkling night. The band, too, was lifting off from earth; the drummer gave a nod to the singer and hit the lick again as they and their instruments drifted upwards:

“Every time I think of you,

I feel a shot right through with a bolt of blue.

It’s no problem of mine, but it’s a problem I find,

Living a life that I can’t leave behind…”

“Anomaly reaching its peak; all instruments reporting,” the head scientist of the Lemaître called from the front of the astronomics center.

“Wow,” Tendi breathed, watching the screen; the planets were far closer than should have been possible, and the computer readings pouring over the side were off the charts, yet the two celestial bodies remained stable. The floor was giving little shudders under their feet as the ship compensated for the increasing gravity distortions. “It’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Rutherford agreed softly. “It is.”

T’Lyn raised an eyebrow at them, and then glanced down. The two were standing so close that the backs of their hands were nearly brushing against each other. The Vulcan stifled the urge to raise the other eyebrow, considered her options, and decided to acknowledge that tonight, science would unfortunately have to take a back seat.

With a slight “stumble” on the floor’s next shudder, she nudged Tendi sideways; the hands collided and then interlaced, and the Orion and human looked at each other in surprise. As their eyes met, twin pink blushes arose on their cheeks.

“Apologies,” T’Lyn said dryly as she straightened up—not that either were paying her any attention.

“There’s no sense in telling me

The wisdom of the fool won’t set you free.

But that’s the way that it goes, and it’s what nobody knows,

Every day my confusion grows.”

The couple in the turbolift found themselves interrupted as their feet touched off from earth; in the pitch-darkness both let out noises of surprise and grabbed even tighter hold of each other, clinging together against the unexpected disruption. “The anomaly,” the admiral realized. “Carol, maybe we should–”

“Don’t you dare stop kissing me,” she ordered. She heard a chuckle and an “Aye, Captain” before he obliged.

[Instrumentals]

Back in the reactor chute, Mariner was staring at Boimler with the same look of disbelief he usually gave her crazy plans, clinging to the ladder as her hair floated around her. “You seriously want to jump out over a running recombinator?! Are you crazy?!”

“It should work,” he said, sounding far less certain than she would have liked. “In theory.”

Mariner looked out over the charging machine. It let out a violent blue-white crackle. “Can’t we just, like, drop a shoe or something?” she suggested weakly.

“Even if they could see it from over there they, might not realize our point until it’s too late. If we jump they definitely will.” At her hesitation he urged: “Mariner, I know what I’m doing, alright? This is gonna work!"

She looked back at his desperate face. “And if this doesn’t work?” she demanded. “You want our deaths on your conscience, too?”

“If this doesn’t work,” he said firmly, “then there’s no one I’d rather be turned into an atom smoothie with than you.”

He held out a hand to her. She looked down at it, and then back up into his eyes. "Trust me," Brad insisted.

Mariner hesitated, and then sighed. “Ugh, dammit, that is so not fair, using my big epiphany against me like that,” she groaned, and then grabbed his hand—and jumped.

“Every time I see you falling,

I get down on my knees and pray.

I’m waiting for that final moment, you

Say the words I can’t say…”

The momentum of the action carried them out away from the ladder; years of training took over and the two lieutenants flattened out into the starburst formation, their free hands fumbling and then linking together, fingers interlacing as they spun in the low gravity. For one brief moment they hung, suspended, over the crackling generator, the countdown and their hearts pounding in their ears.

[ Beat.]

And then, Mariner realized, they were drifting upwards. She let out a whoop of delight and Boimler crowded out a “Yes!” as below (above?) them, the Ferengi thieves caught onto the idea and themselves leapt from the platform tunnel with the case in-hand, their own momentum carrying them towards the ceiling.

As the thieves cleared the red safety line, the countdown timed out and the recombinator lit up with a brilliant white light and the roar of a thousand freight trains; crackling blue and yellow bolts of energy erupted out of the bottom of the chute as even the air inside the chamber seemed to disintegrate in a static fizz. It was a dazzling, and ultimately harmless, fireworks display as the four of them were pulled towards the ceiling; Boimler grinned triumphantly at her, and Mariner found herself smiling sheepishly back, their hair whipped around by the wind and the light dancing in their eyes as they drifted safely skywards.

Chapter Text

It took them nearly a minute to hit the floor (or rather the ceiling) by which time the recombinator had wound down again and the disaster was averted. As they touched down, the two Ferengi thieves landed lightly behind them, the case still in hand. Boimler waved them over to the observation room and managed to open the door while upside-down. Once they were safely inside, he shut the door and tapped his combadge. “I think it’s working again. Can you guys understand us?”

“All too well,” the first thief grumbled. “That was incredibly stupid of you, Starfleet. Don’t think we’ll repay your sentimentality by letting you get away with the goods!”

“You know we just saved your lives, right? A thank you would be nice,” Mariner complained.

“Look, we really need that case,” Boimler insisted, before they could respond. “Maybe we can reach an agreement? Starfleet recombinates lots of perfectly good tech just for being outdated, I could see if there’s anything worthwhile on the next delivery to this plant and trade you the information.”

“Hn. You’re a good negotiator, Hu-man,” the Ferengi said dryly, as Mariner looked over at him with an expression both impressed and surprised. “But I’ve got no plans to make an enemy of Mr. Quark himself, so–”

“Quark?” Mariner and Boimler demanded in unison, startling the thieves. “Quark is your buyer too?” Mariner continued. “Like, runs-a-bar-on-Deep-Space-Nine, that Quark?”

“Yes? –Wait, what do you mean ‘too?’”

Boimler looked bewildered. “I don’t get it,” he said, turning to Mariner. “Why would he put out two jobs on the same goods?”

But her expression had gone flat. “I think I know why. How much is he paying you?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

“Two hundred bars of latinum,” the second thief admitted, earning him a sharp look from the first. “You?”

“We’re Starfleet, remember?” said Boimler with a shrug. “We don’t use money, we’re doing it for free.”

“Well, technically for a bottle of Romulan whiskey,” Mariner amended, causing Brad to give her a mildly scandalized look. “But yeah, obviously he knew about the goods from some other source and made the deal with you guys weeks ago, then set up the deal with me earlier today once he realized he could pay us less if we got to the case before you. Win-win for him.”

“Clever,” the first thief appraised.

“Look,” Boimler suggested, “instead of fighting each other, why don’t we deliver the case together? That way Quark will have to pay us both what he owes.”

“You really think he’ll go for that?” the first thief said dubiously, but Mariner just cracked her knuckles.

“He will. Trust me.”

“What do you say? Is it a deal?” Boimler urged, holding out a hand.

The two thieves glanced at each other, and then nodded. “Deal,” the first agreed, shaking it.

“Care, sweetheart, I don’t think we’re–” grunt, “–gonna be able to get– traction like this–?”

“Maybe if we– move your arm, Zo– braced against the walls–”

“Will this even work in Zero-G–?”

“Hnh, well, first time for everything– if only we could turn the lights on–!”

Click! Both winced and let out exclamations of surprise as abruptly the turbolift’s computer obeyed the assumed voice command and flooded the room with light, before looking around. They were still, mostly, dressed, although his jacket was floating several feet below them and her gown was partially unzipped. “Wh– hah- hah, yes!” Carol, who to her own surprise was floating upside-down near the ceiling, punched the air in triumph. “Why didn’t we try that befo–?”

The victory was short-lived. “Floor thirteen,” the computer announced, and abruptly the floor shot up to meet them.

Their startled screams were cut short as the carpet smacked into them, and there was a loud crunch and a shout of pain. The captain grabbed hold of her husband’s jacket and squeezed her eyes shut on instinct as the lift, temporarily free from the burdens of its own gravity, shot up far faster than it should have for several floors before grinding to a halt. Carried by their own momentum, both were launched upwards again and bumped roughly into the ceiling before floating back down to somewhere in the center.

Carol thought she heard Alonzo let out a groan, but it was drowned out a moment later when a belated ding! sounded again, and she opened her eyes. She was nose-to-nose with her husband, who was grimacing badly with his own eyes still shut. Unfortunately, the lift doors did not appear to have opened. “Alonzo? You okay?”

“Oww,” he groaned again, opening his eyes and looking down. She did the same; Alonzo was clutching at his wrist, which was twisted by far too many degrees. Her stomach turned over.

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah, Carol, I think uh-oh’s the right word for it!”

“Dammit, Zo, I’m sorry–”

“No, I’m sorry, s’not your fault– just– agh, I think it’s broken–”

“We need to stabilize it.” Carol looked around for something to use as a splint, but there wasn’t anything immediately at hand. “Damn. We’ll just have to wrap it up and try not to move it too much.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he winced. The captain tore several long strips off the inner liner of her dress and, thanking her lucky stars for the annual mandatory first-aid training, began to splint the break as best she could. She heard him bite back another yelp and cringed herself.

“Sorry, I’m sorry–”

“It’s fine–”

“I’m going as fast as I can–”

“I know, Carol, just– mmf!– just do what you’ve gotta do.”

As she wrapped the makeshift bandage, silence filled the lift, and the anxiety she’d been trying to ignore the whole night—with its one disaster after another—was now seeping in again. Having sex in a turbolift at their age, what had she been thinking? Now he’s hurt and it’s your own damn fault, she berated herself. If you’d just taken the stairs like he suggested… some wife you are…

Her chest was growing tight as ugly voices, voices she hadn’t heard this loud in years crept up inside her head. This is how it starts, you know, one whispered. Did you really think this was going to last forever? You don’t even need to stay together for Beckett anymore, what’s there to stop you from drifting apart? Carol swallowed hard, trying not to let the turmoil show on her face as she finished and tied off the bandage. Hell, you’ve been whole star systems apart for ten years! Why would he keep giving you his entire life, when you can’t even make one night go right for the two of you?

“Carol?”

“Uh– there,” she muttered, pulling her hands away; the inertia caused her to begin drifting backwards. “That should hold until we can get out of here–”

“Care, what’s wrong?” Alonzo said, bewildered; of course, he’d noticed her expression. “It’s just a broken wrist–”

She choked out an unintentional laugh. “Just a broken wrist. It’s not just a broken wrist, it’s this whole disaster of a night!”

“So things didn’t go our way, it’s not a big deal–”

“It is a big deal! Alonzo, we work half a galaxy apart. We only see each other in person every couple of months, and then when we do it all goes completely wrong!” Her back hit the wall with a dull thump. “What marriage can survive that!”

“Ours seems to be doing alright,” he pointed out, steadying himself against the railing opposite her. “Unless I’m missing something?”

“Yeah, well,” she muttered, looking away as her eyes stung. “Clearly T'Pyl and George weren’t so lucky.”

“But– you don’t think that’s going to happen to us.” When she didn’t answer, still looking away, his face fell as he realized: “Hang on—is that why you’re all dressed up?” His wife sighed, closing her eyes. “Oh Carol, sweetheart…”

“I’m just scared, Zo,” she confessed. “I mean how many couples our age do we know who’ve broken up and gotten divorced?”

“Or are having affairs or never talk?” Alonzo reluctantly agreed.

“Exactly.” She looked back at him with wet eyes. “Sure, maybe tonight we’re still in love. But I’m worried that one of these days we’ll, I-I don’t know…drift apart.”

Alonzo blinked and stared at her for a long moment, and then, quirking a bittersweet smile and exhaling, he pushed off the wall and floated forward until he met her on the opposite side. She furrowed her brow. “Zo–?”

“It’s not just you,” he admitted, surprising her. “When I heard about George and T'Pyl tonight, well it…kind of got me worrying.”

“But you didn’t say–”

“Yeah well you know me, I don’t say.” He shrugged the shoulder of his good hand. “You’ve always been the proactive one, Care, you make the world move. Me, I take the slow and steady way and trust things will all work themselves out if you just stay the course. But that means you’re usually quicker on the draw with this stuff than I am—how long have you been worried about this?”

“Ugh, all day; it’s been eating me alive inside,” she sighed, but he blinked.

“Wait– that’s all? Just since you and Sonya talked?” She nodded and he exhaled with visible relief. “Carol, I was worried I’d missed some– I don’t know, warning signs! Something that meant we were in trouble! But if we were fine until this afternoon–”

“I felt like we were fine, hell I feel like we’re fine now! But what if someday we meet up like this and find out the magic is gone for us, too!”

“Care, what we have between us—it’s never been magic,” he insisted. She snorted.

“Yeah? What is it then, chemistry?” But Alonzo took her hand in his good one and squeezed it gently, causing her to look up in surprise.

“It’s love, Carol. And devotion, and hard work.” She smiled ruefully despite herself. “It’s making time to call each other every night for ten years, even in the middle of wars and terrible assignments and boring-as-hell admiralty conferences.” He gestured around them with a laugh and added, “It’s trying to make love in a damn turbo lift!”

“Hnh. Sounds like a pretty good metaphor for a Starfleet marriage,” she agreed dryly.

“Carol Freeman, for the last thirty years you have put up with my bullshit, been there for me at my lowest, raised a child with me and been the best friend I’ve ever had. And that’s all true no matter where you are in the galaxy,” Alonzo insisted. “Now would you say the same about me?”

“Of course I would.”

“Then we’ve got nothing to worry about.” He pressed a kiss to her hair. “And if we ever did start to drift apart, we’d find a way back to each other again.”

She exhaled, and found she was smiling in relief. “You promise?”

“Of course I promise.” He pulled back and rubbed his chin, pretending to consider it. “I could demote myself, come be an ensign on your ship.”

“Please, if anything I’d move to San Francisco, take some sort of desk job. Besides, I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about inter-crew relationships more than a rank apart…”

“Yeah?” he grinned. “Well then we’d just have to sneak around, keep it quiet—forbidden relationships are kind of sexy–”

Carol shook her head fondly and leaned up to kiss him. He kissed her back and then winced against her mouth as she jostled his arm, and she pulled away. “Oh Zo, I’m sorry,” she sighed. “Tonight really didn’t go as planned…”

“Any night spent with you is better than anything else I could have planned.”

“Oh well now you’re just trying to sweet-talk me.”

He waggled his eyebrows. “Is it working?”

“Not with your broken arm, it’s not. I wanna get laid but not that badly,” she snorted, looking around. “Problem is we really do need to get out of here and get you to a doctor; if we were on the Cerritos I could just call for he– help…”

She trailed off. Directly next to the still stubbornly-shut doors, on the bottom of the old-fashioned press pad, was a button in bright red. Below the alien script there had been added a translation in Federation Standard: “HELP.”

Both of them sighed; Carol pinched the bridge of her nose. “We’re idiots, aren’t we,” Alonzo said wryly.

“Yeah, we are.” She reached out to press the button. “But at least we’re each other’s idiots.”

The swirling lights faded and the quartet looked around the ship. It was a typical Ferengi trading vessel, with its coppery color scheme and spherical navigation consoles—but the two humans didn’t have much time to play tourist before a grumbling voice called, “Finally!” and the quartet looked over a familiar face hurried across the from the controls. “Took you long enough, now let’s get down to– oh.” He skittered to a halt upon the sight of all four thieves glaring at him, the human woman with her arms crossed. “Uh– well, glad to see you’ve all made each other’s acquaintance–”

“What the hell, Quark,” Mariner complained, stepping off the transporter pad. “You can’t go putting out two offers on the same goods; we all nearly got each other killed before we figured it out!”

“And since we held up our end of the deal, you are going to pay us exactly what we’ve agreed on,” said one of the professional thieves testily. “All four of us. Plus hazard fees.” He looked over Boimler with a nod of solidarity, who was surprised and then pleased as he nodded back.

“Wh– but that’s not fair! I’d be double-paying for the same delivery!”

“Then you shouldn’t have taken out two contracts on the same goods,” Mariner said pitilessly.

“Well– heh– you can’t blame a man for trying?” Quark attempted. Mariner narrowed her eyes and stepped forward, and he immediately quailed. “Alright, so maybe you can! I’ll throw in another bottle of whiskey for your hazard pay, call it even?”

“Make it three and clear my tab.”

“Clear your–!” Mariner raised her eyebrows and he sighed. “Alright, alright, fine! Two hundred latinum, three bottles of Romulan whiskey and another clear tab at the bar. A good deal, considering the goods are hardly worth the cost,” he grumbled, looking over the case.

“Speak for yourself,” a voice announced from behind them, and Mariner turned to see a slightly shorter Ferengi woman in a green suit walking towards them. “Gentlemen.”

“Who are you?” the first thief said, surprised.

“The real buyer. Quark’s my partner.” The newcomer tossed them a bag of latinum, which they caught. “Nice work; we’ll keep you on file for the future.”

“Always happy to have a steady customer,” the thief agreed happily; he nodded to his partner and the two hurried off to the transporter, the latinum clinking in the bag as they walked.

“And my fee?” Quark said, raising his eyebrow-ridges expectantly once they’d beamed away back to their own ship.

“Don’t worry.” The Ferengi woman grinned, reaching up and pinching his ear-lobe. “You know I’ll pay you later.”

Quark let out a faint noise, and Mariner cleared her throat loudly, causing the pair to quickly step apart. “Uh, right,” Quark said, coughing and straightening his suit. “Mariner, you’ve met my partner before.”

“Hey Pel, how’s it going,” Mariner said, stepping forward and shaking the smaller Ferengi’s hand.

“Always a pleasure doing business with you,” Pel said eagerly. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is Boimler; Boimler, meet Pel: foundress of the Ferengi Women’s School of Business,” Mariner said proudly, stepping aside. He shook her hand as well.

“It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am. Mariner told me about your work.”

“Ma’am,” Pel repeated brightly, looking over at Mariner. “He’s cute, can I keep him?”

“But his ears are tiny,” Quark said, offended, as Mariner chuckled.

“Sorry, Pel.” She smiled at Brad. “Wouldn’t trade him for all the latinum on Ferenginar.” He grinned back.

“High praise,” Pel said, glancing at Quark. Boimler turned back to her eagerly.

“I’d love to hear more about what you do, could you tell me some stories? I’ll help you look over the merchandise in exchange.”

“Sounds like a deal; what do you want to know?”

They moved off to the side, Boimler eagerly interrogating Pel’s backstory as they opened the crate. “And you complained about us flirting,” Quark said under his breath, opening a hatch to reveal a hidden wet bar. “All the latinum on Ferenginar? Get a room already.”

Mariner rolled her eyes. “We weren’t flirting. Anyway, that phrase doesn’t mean the same thing for us as it does for you, Quark; we just use it as a figure of speech.”

“Maybe.” He handed her the bottles. “But you know what it means to us.” Mariner didn’t respond. “Do you know what the last Rule of Acquisition is, Mariner?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Rule of Acquisition Number 285: a good partner is worth more than their weight in latinum,” Quark recited. “Employees, customers, hell your own associates, cheat them all, cut their throats if you need to! But a partner, someone you’d be willing to trust with your whole livelihood and go fifty-fifty with on everything—that is a rare opportunity, you shouldn’t let it slip through your fingers. I made that mistake once,” he said, eyes flickering sideways. Pel and Boimler were chatting, and as they watched Pel broke out in a laugh. “I wasn’t going to make it twice,” he said firmly, turning back to Mariner. “And if you’ve got any concern for your own profit, you’ll take my advice.”

“Look, I know what you’re getting at, but Boimler and I are just friends,” she insisted.

“Right,” Quark drawled. “And Pel and I are just business partners.”

Mariner opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a burst of laughter from Boimler and Pel. “She did not!”

“She did! I told her to shower off with the hose!”

“Can’t blame her for giving it a shot. If she’d pulled it, off she could’ve acquired a whole vineyard just by seducing someone,” Pel mused, rubbing her chin.

Boimler rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “That’s not exactly how it works. And I wouldn’t call sexual harassing the manager’s son a good career strategy; on Earth we consider it unethical. Plus,” he added quickly, remembering his audience, “it increases turnover and that cuts into profits. I mean look at Will They Won’t They, do those guys ever get any work done?” Pel had to grant that with a thoughtful nod. “I swear, half the plot threads on that show would be resolved just by having an HR department! –Well, FR, but you get my point. People shouldn’t have to put up with that when they’re just trying to do their jobs, y’know?”

“‘F–R’ department. Interesting.” The school’s foundress was eyeing him with intrigue. “Maybe there’s still some things we can learn from you hew-mons after all.”

“What, and take all the sexual tension out of the modern workplace?” Quark said dryly, shooting Mariner a meaningful look. “Now, where would be the fun in that.”

The trip back to the hotel was easier than their journey to the plant; after waiting a few minutes for the planets to slip out of range from each other and the strongest phase of the anomaly to pass, Quark beamed them down only a few streets away from the hotel Together the pair ducked through back alleys until they reach the back door through which they’d left; this was locked to the outside, so they looked around until they found an open high window and then, aided by the still-weakened gravitational pull, hoisted each other up into the empty bathroom. “Time?” Mariner whispered, peeking out the door.

“20:10. We’re only a few minutes behind schedule.”

“Good. Coast is clear, let’s go.”

They slipped out and shut the door behind them, hurrying as quietly as they could in the direction of their hidden uniforms. Near the end of the hall, however, Mariner motioned for Boimler to pause. Directly next to the linen closet in which they’d hidden their uniforms was a guest room, its door having accidentally drifted open a few inches and with noises coming from within—very distinctive noises, in fact. Mariner peeked through the crack and saw kicking heels and flexing knees, a discarded uniform on the floor near the threshhold and beyond it a poppy-red silk dress. Hah, good for them. She pulled back around. “Come on,” she whispered to Brad, skirting across the door; he followed, blushing hard.

They reached the second closet and shut the door behind them. Mariner pushed aside the stack of linens and pulled out her white shirt and black uniform trouseres. “There, see?” she bragged, starting to unzip the goldenrod jumpsuit. “In and out in less than two hours; nothing we can’t handle.”

“Uh, Mariner?” Boimler said nervously. “My uniform is gone.”

“What?” Mariner looked behind the linens, and then lifted up the stack. Nothing. “I’m sure it’s around here somewhere,” she insisted, trying to keep their collecive cool. “Just look around.”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Boimler retorted, rifling through a nearby neat stack of pillowcases.

“Are you sure this is where you left it?”

“Of course I’m sure, I put it under the stack right next to yours! Although I folded mine,” he added with a condescending tone, and then stopped. Mariner pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh. Ohh, no…”

“Dammit, Bradward–”

“Well how was I supposed to know they would get taken! You’d think housekeeping would be able to tell the difference between a Starfleet uniform and a bedsheet!”

“Yeah, they will as soon as they get to the bottom of the stack! And then they’ll come back down here and find you in a maintenance uniform! How are we supposed to explain that?”

“We need to get out of this closet,” Boimler said anxiously, looking around. “Maybe we can beam up to the ship– no, dammit, that won’t work, I can’t go up in this and it’d be suspicious if you went and replicated another dress uniform…”

“Well unless you’ve got a better idea…”

They trailed off as it dawned on them. Mariner grinned. Boimler gave her a look. “No.”

“Oh come on, it’s kind of funny.”

“I can’t just steal another officer’s clothes, Mariner! What’s he supposed to do, walk around stark naked?!”

In response, Mariner only grinned wider.

The ballroom was crowded with young officers when they slipped inside five minutes later, Boimler surreptitiously stowing the extra pips from the stolen uniform in his pocket. “I don’t see your parents,” he said, surveying the crowd.

“Yeah, Zebulon Sisters isn’t really their scene,” Mariner agreed, nodding her head to the cover-band’s music with a self-satisfied expression. “Come on.” They slunk over to the refreshment table and picked up glasses of punch; just like that, they’d melted back into the scene as if they’d never left.

“To us,” Mariner said proudly, lifting her drink. “I know it wasn’t totally on the up-and-up, but those pads were just gonna get recombinated anyway; we did good work today, Boims, for real.”

“To us,” he agreed, and they clinked their glasses together.

It was good punch, Mariner appreciated as they both took a drink and went back to watching the crowd—or maybe they were just thirsty from their night of criminal escapades. She eyed Brad’s distant, thoughtful expression for a moment and then hesitated, rubbing the back of her neck. “Hey, uh…I owe you an apology,” she admitted. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “I shouldn’t have taken out my own issues on you; you were right, I’ve basically been dipping your braids in an inkwell all night.”

“The platonic version of that, anyway,” he agreed with a shrug, taking another sip and watching the other dancing officers.

“Uh– right.” She shook her head. “Point is, it was really shitty of me, especially considering you helped me with this at all when I know you probably hated every minute of it. I’m sorry, Brad, really.” He didn’t reply, his mouth quirking, and she tilted her head. “What?”

Still not answering, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his mini-Padd, which he unlocked and handed to her. Frowning, Mariner scrolled to the bottom of the messages and then felt her mouth drop. She looked up at him, gaping.

Brad shrugged, looking impossibly smug. “A guy I knew from back in my enlisted days got transferred to the new replicator plant here. I figured you knew someone who’d need them, so I asked him about incoming shipments of Starfleet outdates that could be better used elsewhere and, well…”

“You were the anonymous contact? But– hang on, you kept pushing for us to go back!”

“You would have gotten suspicious if I hadn’t protested a little, and I wanted to see that look on your face! –Plus those Ferengi guys screwed up our plan and I didn’t want to actually get arrested, so…”

“But why?” Mariner demanded. “I thought you hated schemes.”

“Oh please, I like them as much as you do, I just don’t like the consequences of getting caught! Anyway, you’ve been going crazy having to actually follow protocol now that you’re not trying to get demoted again; I could tell you needed to blow off some steam and thought, you know, better to aim that phaser-canon at a real target instead of waiting for it to blow up in our faces.”

“You…broke the rules like that, for me?”

“Come on, Mariner, I know you. I just didn’t want you to explode from the pressure and ruin all the progress you’ve made,” he said sincerely, and then added: “Also it was really fun, knowing more about a situation than you for once.” She was stunned speechless, staring at him, and his eyebrows creased. “Wait, you’re not mad, are you? Because that’s not fair, you show me up all the time and–!”

 “I’m not mad , Brad, jeez!” she scoffed, and then added: “Just, you know, shocked. I know how much you hate breaking rules, and you– you were a real friend today, Boims, even though I was being such a jerk. I owe you one.”

He smirked at her, that damn little wrinkle-nosed smirk he made whenever he’d impressed her. And just like that, the very last dams of self-deception and denial broke and gave way. Her face flooded with heat as her stomach turned over.

“Uh,” she said, very eloquently. Brad frowned slightly and tilted his head.

“Mariner? You okay?”

She managed to haul her rapidly-fracturing sanity back together. “Y-Yeah, fine,” she said with forced nonchalance as she looked away, lifting the drink to her mouth and hoping her face wasn’t as red as it felt. He seemed to buy it, thankfully, turning back to face the crowd as a new, slower song came on. Mariner dared a sideways glance at him; that was a mistake, as the light playing over his delicate features changed accordingly with the music, shifting from acid greens and yellows to softer pinks and purples. Damn it. Okay, so he was pretty, so what! Plenty of people were pretty, plenty of people were–

Your best friend? The person you don’t want to live without? The person you don’t want to see with anyone else? Come on, Mariner. At least admit it to yourself.

It could have been anything. The excitement of the heist, the punch, the music; she could have blamed the anxiety fluttering in her stomach on any number of things, like she had any number of times before.

But as much as she tried, she couldn’t ignore the truth that had finally kicked down her doors and forced her to acknowledge it: This feeling, it wasn’t a fluke. It wasn’t a passing attraction. Oh god. How long had she been repressing this? Her mind flashed back to the whole debacle with Barb two years ago, and her breath hitched nervously. That long? She began to rapidly review the entire timeline of their friendship as the panic set in: did she really touch him that much? Hug him that much? Shit, shit! She’d carved their names into a table! You practically sleep in the same bunk, Tendi had said, and she’d been right! God, she felt sick with embarrassment; did anyone else know? How obvious had she been? Did everyone know except her?

Did…did he know?

Mariner snuck a glance at him over her glass, and felt her body relax, if only slightly. He wasn’t watching her, instead nodding his head quietly to the beat of the music and surveying the crowd. No, he didn’t know. Thankfully there was at least one person more oblivious about her own feelings than she was.

O-kay. So. Mariner forced herself to sip her punch again, desperately trying to buy herself time. Time from—what, exactly? So, you…are into your best friend. That’s fine, that’s… She tried not to think the word “terrifying.” People in the crowd were swaying, linking hands (or claws, or tentacles) around one another’s necks and waists, peering deep into however many eyes their partner had. Mariner set down the drink, taking a deep breath. Come on. You know how to do this. “Hey, uh, Boims?”

Boimler looked over again, surprised, and the whiskey-blue eyes seemed to pin her to the spot. “U-Uh,” she stuttered to a halt, and then started again: “D’you–” Wait, was she stammering? Since when did she stammer, hitting on a guy? Not that Brad counted as a guy. Did he?

“Mariner?” Boimler was frowning at her now, confused. It’s just a dance, you coward, just ask him!

“You– uh–” And that was when she realized—this wouldn’t be just a dance. It never could be, not with him, not for her. It was a basic rule of inertia: in zero gravity, if you jumped, you just kept going.

And there was no guarantee where you’d end up.

“–Want try one of these, they look amazing,” she babbled, her mouth leaping ahead of her brain in a heroic act of self-preservation as she reached out and grabbed some random hors d’ouevres from the refreshments table.

Boimler’s face was now furrowed in the kind of look that told her he was worrying she’d hit her head at some point in the night. “Mariner? You feeling okay?”

“Fine! Fine. Just, like, so hungry. C’mon, man, we’ve been running around and climbing in vents, you need to keep your strength up!” Oh my god, get it together. Mariner shoved the tiny plate into his hand. “Try it. Trust me,” she said airily, hoping he wouldn’t notice that she had no clue what it was.

He gave her a bemused look, but (apparently glad she was behaving less concussed) nevertheless obliged her, trying the pastry as she grabbed one off the table herself and stuck it in her mouth. Wow. That is…really bad. In a thankful balm to her emotional turmoil, the basic sensory information immediately drew her attention. And why does it taste so familiar? There was an ingredient in there that was distinctively Terran, but she couldn’t place it. “Huh. That’s an… interesting flavor.” she heard herself say as she chewed, still in that painfully perky voice. “Wonder what it is?”

“Peanuts,” he rasped. Mariner looked over and felt her eyes go wide; Boimler’s whole face was swelling and going an ugly purple color, and his eyes were bugging out of their sockets.

“Oh my god, Brad!”

He dropped the tiny plate, wheezing; it shattered on the ground, drawing the attention of several dancing couples as he began to frantically pat his pockets. “Brad, what’s–?!”

He pulled out something small and cylindrical, like a tube of lip gloss, and jabbed it straight into his leg through his pants as he stumbled sideways and braced against the table. “Call for emergency transport!” he choked at her. “This won’t work forever, hurry!”

As Mariner scrambled for her badge and off-duty medical officers noticed the situation and began to swarm the pair, a part of her couldn’t help but feel guiltily grateful. Nothing like a good old-fashioned emergency to stop you from facing your real problems, right? And why is having feelings for your best friend a problem, exactly? her brain whispered—but then the transporter beams swirled around them, and the matter was, at least for the moment, pushed back again into the unexamined recesses of her mind, where it belonged.

Chapter Text

“Yeah, he’s gonna have to stay overnight,” T’Ana evaluated, pulling back the medical tricorder.

Both officers’ faces fell. “Seriously?” Carol demanded.

“It’s just a broken arm, Doc,” Alonzo agreed. “Can’t you just, you know, wave a regenerator over it or…?” He trailed off hopefully, but T’Ana’s flat expression made it clear she was having none of it.

“I wish,” she scoffed, tapping on the tricorder’s screen to overlay his bioscan on top of the X-ray. It wasn’t a pretty picture. “That’s multiple comminuted fractures and a shredded tendon; the broken bones are no problem, but your soft bits look like someone tried to make sashimi with a buzssaw.” The couple collectively winced at this colorful description. “Lucky for you, I assumed someone was going to have a drunken accident tonight, so I’ve got the private room already prepped with a regenerator cast.”

“We weren’t–” the captain said with exasperation, but the doctor cut her off.

“Don’t know, don’t care, not my business. You can post up in the lobby for a few minutes until I’ve got everything situated.”

Realizing that it wasn’t worth the effort to be indignant (and besides, what was she supposed to do, tell T’Ana the truth?) Carol gave her husband a tired wave as he was led away, and then headed out of the doctor’s office down the narrow hallway to the medbay’s small waiting room. 

To her surprise, it wasn’t empty when she arrived. “Beckett?”

Her daughter, who had been bracing her head against her hand, looked up. “Oh. Hey, Mom.”

“What are you doing here? Where’s Mr. Boimler?”

Beckett nodded back towards the medbay; ah, so that was why T’Ana had said that she had an “emergency” to deal with first and the broken arm would have to wait. But given that Beckett looked tired, not jittery and panicked, Carol could safely assume that the situation was under control. 

“So, kiddo,” she sighed, sitting down next to her. “Long day?”

Beckett snorted unhappily. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Her mother glanced over at her out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip. “You, uh…wanna talk about it?”

Mariner looked at her, surprised; for a moment the captain thought she’d brush her off, but then her daughter sighed with a rueful smile and shrugged her shoulders. “Accidentally sent my best friend into anaphylactic shock. You?”

Carol blinked and then snickered despite herself and leaned her head back against the wall. “Broke your father’s arm. Guess I shouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“Oh, gross, Mom, I don’t need to know about your sex life–”

“Oh please, we were in the turbolift, nothing happened. Unfortunately,” she sighed.

“Mom!”

The captain repressed another chuckle and closed her eyes, exhaustion settling over her shoulders; had it really only been that morning that she’d spoken with Sonya and all this had started? Feels like ages ago… the evening was obviously shot at this point, she may as well say goodnight to Zo and just go to bed–

“Mom?” an uneasy voice interrupted her musings, and she opened her eyes, surprised. “...Were you ever scared?”

Of all the questions Beckett could have asked her right now, she hadn’t been expecting that. “What?”

“About…you and dad.” Like Carol herself, her daughter was staring up at the ceiling, not meeting her eyes. “Didn’t you ever worry that you’d screw it all up, and then he’d be out of your life?”

Oh. So, that’s what this was about. “Sure,” she agreed. “Sometimes I…guess I still do.”

“Really? But you guys have been together for, like, ever.”

Carol rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Beckett.”  She softened. “It sure doesn’t feel that way, though. Sometimes it feels like I met your father just yesterday.” She laughed under her breath despite herself. “Well, maybe not yesterday; I mean we hated each other at first.”

“Wait—you did?” Beckett straightened up in surprise. “But I always thought you guys fell in love at the Academy.”

“Hm? Oh, that’s true,” her mother said, waving a hand. “We got assigned to a bunch of projects together; he thought I was a hotheaded, shoot-from-the-hip loudmouth, and I thought he was a west-coast slacker from a respectable family who didn’t have to try. But, then we got to know each other, became close friends, realized the other had their reasons…and one day I saw him coming into our old bar and he smiled at me, and that was it. I don’t know why, it just was.”

“So he just walked in the door and what, you fell in love?” She nodded, and was surprised to find her daughter studying her face very intensely. “But why then, how did you know?”

Carol shrugged. “I just realized I couldn’t live without him.” She smiled wryly, adding: “And thank god, I’ve never had to. No matter where we are in the galaxy, your father and I…we’ve got each other’s backs.” And somehow, as soon as she’d said it, all the stress and anxiety of the last few hours felt like nothing more than a fading bad dream.

“So that’s love?” Beckett repeated, and her strangely upset voice drew her mother back to the present. “You’re just— best friends with a person, and think they’re kinda cute or whatever, and then you realize you can’t live without them—and that’s love?”

“Well I mean you’ve gotta put the work in, but yeah, Beckett, what else did you think?” Carol chuckled. “It’s not like in the holonovels, you know, it’s a lot simpler than that.” Her daughter’s face had scrunched up in what looked like irritated consternation, and suddenly it dawned on her: “Uh– Beckett, is there someone you–”

“What? No. Psh, no, of course not,” Beckett said quickly, looking away—but her eyes flickered back again and she saw her mother giving her a knowing eyebrow-raise, and sighed, leaning her head back against the chair.

“You know the stupid thing?” she mumbled. “I wasn’t even scared he’d say no.” Mariner looked up at the medbay ceiling and blinked hard against the tears pricking in her eyes; she wasn’t sure why she was telling her mother this—telling anyone this, really. “I was…scared he’d say yes.”

Carol pursed her lips. She remembered that feeling, or at least, she remembered a similar one—the reluctance to believe, after eighteen years of getting kicked around, looked down on and treated like a burden, that something as cliché as love could really last. That she herself wouldn’t somehow fuck it up, and prove she didn’t deserve it. She’d long suspected that whatever had happened to Beckett during the war had combined with Carol’s own poor modeling of emotional vulnerability in some unfortunate ways, but to see so clearly the same self-doubt she’d once felt—alright, fine, still felt—on her daughter’s face like that… well, she couldn’t just let it stand.

“Beckett, look,” she said, turning to face her. “Love is…a risk. I’m not going to pretend it’s not, and I’m not going to tell you whether you should take that risk, that’s up to you.” Her daughter glanced over at her, biting her lip. “But if someone forced me to do the last thirty years all over again, with no guarantee it would all turn out the way it did the first time—I would still choose your father. Because even the chance of a life with him…it would be worth any risk.”

“Even the risk of losing him?” her daughter said, a touch bitterly. But Carol just nodded.

“Mm-hm. Even that. Listen, nothing in life is certain, but if you don’t ever take any chances then you’ll never see how good it can be. Sometimes you’ve just got to, I don’t know–”

“Let me guess, take a leap of faith,” Beckett sighed.

“Well, yeah. Not just faith in Mr. Bo– in this other person, but in yourself too,” Carol said ruefully, surprising her daughter. “You’ve gotta try, even though you’re scared you’ll mess up. And you’ve got to keep trying, over and over again. That’s what marriage is, Beckett, taking that risk and choosing each other over and over for the rest of your lives.”

“Well uh, I don’t know about marriage yet, but…thanks, Mom.

Both looked over as the doors slid open, and Dr. T’Ana appeared, jerking a thumb back over her shoulder. “They’re asking for you. Try not to kill them for at least the rest of the night, wouldja? I’ve got some reports I’d like to finish in peace. ”

Chastened, the pair slunk past the doctor into the medbay and broke off, with the captain heading towards the rarely-used private suite at the end of the ward and Mariner making her way over to a prone figure in a nearby biobed. Carol caught sight of a shock of purple hair peeking over a mini-Padd (seriously, was the man ever not working?) before the doors to the suite slid open and she ducked inside.

Alonzo was sitting with the back of the biobed raised and his arm suspended in a sling, a white regenerator cast (complete with a glowing blue touchscreen and emitting the comforting whirr-beep of Starfleet medical instruments) encasing the broken bones. He was also out of his uniform and in a set of Starfleet standard-issue pajamas, dashing the last lingering hope that he might not have to stay the night. “Hey, Sweetheart,” he greeted ruefully, lifting the fingers of his good hand in a halfhearted wave as she sat down on the edge of the bed.

“How’s your arm?”

“Fine. Can’t even feel it now; the cast’s got some sort of local anesthetic in it.”

“Small blessings, I guess.” She shook her head. “We really screwed the targ on this one, huh.”

Alonzo shrugged. “Could be worse. Remember that time we-“

“Tried to have sex in a turbo lift at a work gala?” she suggested dryly.

He chuckled. “Alright, fair enough.” His eyes crinkled. “Just one more adventure, right?”

Despite hereself the captain felt her mouth quirk upwards at that. “Hnh. I guess so.” She leaned down to kiss him, slower, and then deeper. When she pulled away it felt too soon, and she could see the same in his eyes, their noses only a few inches apart.

Yellow alert, a voice in her head said dryly, and she sighed and stood up. “I’ll be in my quarters, comm me if you need me. And get some rest, you know regenerator casts take it out of you.”

He waved his good hand. “I know, I know.” She raised her brows, and he rolled his eyes. “Aye, Captain.”

“Uhuh, s’what I thought. Love you.” She turned to go, but suddenly Alonzo’s voice called out:

“On second thought, Captain Freeman, belay that course of action."

She turned back, surprised. Then she saw the look in his eyes, and her face burned hot; it didn’t take thirty years of familiarity to know what that silent communication meant. “Wh- are you crazy?!” she hissed, looking back over her shoulder. “What if T’Ana catches us?”

“You heard her, she wanted to finish reports in her office! Besides, from what you’ve told me about her and your security officer she wouldn’t exactly have any stones to throw…”

“The fact that those two do it anywhere there’s a flat surface doesn’t mean we can; I’m the captain, I’m supposed to set a good example! Q knows this crew needs one–“

“Alright, it was just an idea,” he said, raising his good hand in an acquiescing gesture. “If you don’t want to–”

“I never said that!” The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them, and she blushed even harder, pinching the bridge of her nose—but not without peeking one eye open at him. He smiled at her, warm and broad and every bit as handsome as it had been that night she’d fallen for him, over thirty years ago.

They had a bed. They had an empty room. Goodness knew they’d made do with less before.

“Oh, what the hell.” They were Starfleet, after all; damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead.

“You’re supposed to be resting, lieutenant, not working; hand it over.”

Reluctantly, the junior officer logged out of the forum for creatively-transported goods. “I find work restful?” he tried as he passed the mini-Padd to the doctor.

“Great, you’ll have something to tell Migleemo at your next session,” T’Ana drawled, pocketing the device. “You can have it back once your discharged.”

Mariner waited until the doctor had retreated back into his office before turning to her friend. “Really, Brad? Working in a biobed? Even for you that’s a lot.” But the ruefulness in her voice and the half-wince made it clear she was apologetic, and Boimler just gave her a fond eye-roll in response. Although his breathing was back to normal and he no longer looked like he was being strangled from the inside out, his restrictive dress uniform had also been ditched in favor of the khaki undershirt, giving her a perfect view of the angry red hives stretching all the way from his face down to the tops of his hands. She had to stop herself from scratching her own skin at the sight.

“Just making sure our tracks are covered,” Boimler replied dryly. “Plus it was taking my mind off all the famous captains and admirals I could be talking to right now.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry man,” she exhaled, pulling out the little guest chair and sitting down. “I swear, I had no clue.” She quirked a bemused eyebrow at him. “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with a peanut allergy before. How did I not know this about you?”

“I can be in the same room as them, I just can’t eat them,” he argued. “Besides, we work on a starship stuffed with biofilters and replicators, and alien planets don’t usually grow Terran foods; it’s actually less of a problem here than on earth.”

“Fair enough.” She eyed the scarlet welts on his hands and tried not to sink into the floor with guilt. “Do they hurt?”

Boimler shrugged. “Not really. They were itching pretty bad ten minutes ago, but Dr. T’Ana gave me a hypospray for that; she said I could leave once the redness goes down, but that could take a few hours.” He sounded mournful, no doubt thinking of missed networking opportunities. “Look I know you’re worried, but seriously, I’ll be fine; you should beam back down, enjoy the rest of the party.”

“What, and ditch you up here after I nearly killed you? What kind of friend do you think I am?”

“You didn’t know it could've killed me; I’m okay, Mariner, really–”

“Dude, I’m staying. It’s fine, I’ll keep you company.” She rearranged herself more comfortably on the chair to show she meant it, and he was unable to repress a smile.

“Okay. Well…since you’re staying, can I ask you a question?” She raised her eyebrows, and he continued: “Before I almost died, you were acting kind of strange. Everything okay?”

Oh. Mariner gulped; she hadn’t expected this to come up again so quickly, even despite her little talk (which she was already regretting, and would of course pretend had never happened) with her mom. “Yeah, just…” But Brad was looking at her with such genuine concern that she realized she wouldn’t be able to brush this under the rug. “Look, what we talked about earlier in the chute, it…kind of touched on some of my issues,” she admitted. “There’s stuff I want to tell you, but…I just can’t.”

“I get that, Mariner, but sometimes I worry about you,” he said firmly, taking her hand in a silent plea for her not to run away. “I'm your friend, I’d rather at least try to help than watch you pull away and get self-destructive again. If you can’t tell me what’s wrong, can you at least tell me why you can’t tell me?”

Mariner hesitated, sensing the danger—the threat of even glancing back at the monsters she always pretended weren’t chasing her, of looking down into the bottom of the glass and having to face what exactly she’d been drinking. But…maybe the time had come, to take a chance. Come on, a little voice whispered, that sounded a lot like her mother’s. Be brave. Even if she couldn’t fully throw herself out into open air, maybe she could take a step closer to the ledge. One little step. She could do that, right?

“Sometimes, it’s like I’m…standing, at the edge of this dark pit,” she began uneasily. “And I don’t know what all is down there, but I know it’s bad.” She swallowed and looked down at their linked hands, hating that her eyes were starting to sting again. “Honestly, Boims, I don’t know that if I step off that edge I won’t fall right back into everything I worked so hard to climb out of. And…I don’t want to drag you down into that either, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt by whatever’s down there at my rock bottom.”

“Mariner, you’re my best friend,” he insisted, squeezing her hand so that she looked back up at him, tight-lipped. “If there’s stuff in your past you’re afraid will scare me away, I swear, I’m not going anywhere this time.”

“You don’t know that, you don’t even know what it is! I don’t even know what it is, that’s the whole point of repressing stuff!”

“You’re right, I don’t know. But I do know a lot about being terrified and not running away from things.” At her exasperated look he added, “Listen, I’m not saying that tonight’s the night for that. But…if you’re afraid I’m going to bail on you again, or that learning what happened to you will hurt me, then I’m not and it won’t, alright? I’m not that fragile. –Y’know, metaphorically,” he finished with an annoyed glance down at his hive-ridden body.

Mariner smirked despite herself, and then blew out a breath. “Okay. Someday, maybe.” And she had to admit it to herself, too, even if it felt like chickening out and taking the easy way: “But not tonight. I can’t deal with all that tonight.”

He shrugged and nodded. “That’s okay. I can wait.”

And of everything he’d said to her that night, every little quirk she’d pretended hadn’t been so perfectly familiar, so perfectly him, that it was a turn-on just by virtue of being his, somehow this was the thing that broke her. I can wait. Mariner tried to swallow again, hard, and found that the lump in her throat was too big; damn it, Bradward. How dare he say that and actually mean it; how dare he give her that hope. She looked down again at their gripped hands—when had they started holding each other so tightly?—and felt the burning in her eyes threaten to brim over; fuck, she really could not do this right now–

And then they heard simultaneously her saving grace, or possibly damnation: the muffled but sultry tones of their captain emanating from the private suite.

Both froze. Both had the vain hope that perhaps they’d misheard. Their feeble wish was dashed a moment later by the admiral’s not-quite-muted response; clearly, unknown to her parents, the private suite was not automatically soundproofed. “Oh shit,” Mariner hissed, looking back at the biobed as she worked out what the next half hour would for her unfortunate friend.

Boimler’s eyes had gone wide with terror. Don’t leave me! he mouthed.

There was another chuckle and the sound of indistinct but very flirty tones from the suite, and his hand grabbed around hers like a vice. “Okay, okay!” Mariner whispered back, looking around the sickbay for a solution. “I’ve got an idea, move over.” He obediently shuffled sideways on the biobed and she darted across the room to the medical replicator, returning a moment later with a set of earplugs. His face lit up in understanding as she pulled a set of wireless earbuds and her own mini-Padd from her uniform pocket and clambered in next to him, squinching herself onto the thin strip of blue vynil mattress.

They split the earbuds and plugs evenly and then let out simultaneous exhales of relief as the laughtrack of Will They, Won’t They drowned out the more amorous sounds coming from the suite, before glancing at each other. Mariner felt her face go hot as she realized that, in a bid to comfortably fit together on the single-person biobed, they’d ended up pressed together, so close that they were nose-to-nose on the single pillow whenever they turned their heads. Boimler’s face had gone pink, too; he gave an awkward shrug and half-wince that seemed to communicate “What else can we do?” and she rolled her eyes back in a way that answered “It’s fine, you dork.”

He looked like he was going to answer before something that sounded far too much like their captain saying “oh god yes” managed to get past the headphones, and Mariner hastily turned the volume up. They shared another glance, let out awkward snickers, and leaned back against the pillow—their laughter fading (not that either could see each other in their position) into fond, sheepish half-smiles.

The pair—one angry, one very intentionally not angry—pushed open the doors to the ballroom and looked around. The sea of white-uniformed officers in front of them offered no clue as to the thief’s identity. “Damn it,” George huffed, running a hand through graying blond hair and surveying the room, the other hand planted angrily on the waist of the unflattering goldenrod jumpsuit. T’Pyl glanced over at him, let out a soft huff through her nose, and then turned forward again, pressing her lips tightly together.

George looked down in surprise. His wife’s face was a mask of utter placidity as she watched the swaying couples. “Was that a–?” T’Pyl’s eyes flickered ever-so-briefly to him and then away again. “I heard that,” George insisted. “You just laughed, I heard it!” She didn’t answer, but it was her misfortune that in the beam of the briefly sparkling-white spotlight that shone above them before shifting blue and purple, it was clear that her cheeks had gone just slightly green. Even Vulcans couldn’t hide a blush. “And it’s not even pon farr,” he murmured, glancing back over his shoulder in the way they’d come.

“You do not have to rub it in,” she said curtly, and he rolled his eyes.

“I wasn’t–” But then he paused, noticing her face. The blush was deepening; she really was embarrassed. “...I wasn’t rubbing it in,” he said earnestly. “Really.” She looked at him again reluctantly, and then her own face went a touch less stern around the jaw. How could he have forgotten how beautiful she was? “I’m such an idiot,” he said, almost to himeslf.

“…You are not alone,” T’Pyl admitted. “Perhaps we…have behaved illogically, by considering this separation.”

He sighed. “I’m sorry. And I know I embarrassed you in front of our friends, I’ve been an ass.” T’Pyl’s brows rose slightly, but she didn’t contradict him. “You were right, I’ve been– I don’t know, trying to get under your skin.”

“I assumed as much,” she said, a bit sharper than was probably warranted, but then continued in a more measured tone: “But I fail to understand your motivation.”

“Because, T’Pyl, at least if I got a reaction out of you it’d be a sign you care about this marriage, care about something!” He immediately regretted it as he saw her eyebrow arch. “Look—that’s not how I meant it to come out. But sometimes it seems like you care more about what people think of you than you do about me. And that– that just hurts, alright?" His shoulders slumped as he looked away. "Maybe that's not logical, but it does."

She stared at him, eyes wide; the music pulsed around them, but in that moment, everything seemed silent between the pair. When she stepped forward and took his hand, George’s eyes widened too, startled. You have always meant more to me, t’hy’la, she said firmly in his mind, the words echoing across the telepathic bond, and he pursed his lips. “But in public, there are things I cannot say–” or feel, “–without injuring my reputation,” T’Pyl finished aloud. “You have always understood this before; what has changed recently?”

“What’s changed is that we’re never alone now. It’s hard to feel like you even know your wife anymore when the only time we talk is for work calls.”

Realization dawned on her face. “A reasonable assessment. It is customary for Vulcan couples to spend periods of their marriage apart—but you are not a Vulcan.”

“No, I’m not,” he said quietly, his mouth tight, but not with anger. She nodded.

“Clearly, our situation as established is not ideal for our marriage.”

“You’re right about that. So, I’ve been thinking.” He exhaled and straightened the jumpsuit with a nod, the telepathic bond weakening as their hands separated, but not breaking; already she had a sense of what he was intending. “I’ll put in a request tonight to transfer to your ship. I don’t care if I’m scraping biofilters, I’ll take it.”

Her brows furrowed. “But your project in the Capella system is not yet finished.”

“It’s just work. You’re my wife.” His mouth quirked ruefully upwards as he reached into the jumpsuit’s pocket and pulled out his mini-Padd. “How’s that for logic?” But a hand appeared overtop the screen, much to his surprise.

“It can wait until tomorrow,” T’Pyl said quietly. Her dark eyes met his, and across the bond he felt the hesitation and then determination as she said aloud: “Perhaps we should just…enjoy tonight.”

George blinked, and then grinned, stowed the device, and offered her a hand. As they began to sway back and forth to the music, T’Pyl hesitated, and then let out a quiet breath and leaned her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes to the raised brows and curious side-eyes of the other Vulcans. George’s grin softened—and then he shot a very stern Look at the observers, who quickly found other things to be “fascinated” by.

The astrometrics center was a hive of activity as the scientists broke off into smaller teams to brainstorm: chairs had been pushed together, snacks of every culture and species replicated, unhealthy amounts of glowing green and caffeinated beverages consumed, as beyond the viewscreen the two planets moved off on their diverting trajectories and the flood of data began to abate. “Maybe there’s some sort of Energy Being in the core?” Rutherford posed as the trio debated their findings.

“I don’t know, the data didn’t really look to me like the energy fluctuations were the result of a consciousness.” Tendi tapped the side of her chin with her stylus, musing: “If we can conclusively prove that there isn’t a higher life-form in the core, then the astrophysics team won’t have to waste time chasing down something that’s not there.”

“Yeah, but how would we do that? Proving a negative’s pretty difficult.”

“Indeed,” said T’Lyn. “Merely that Cel’toan scientists have never receive any response to their hails doesn’t imply there’s not an energy-based entity inside the planet’s core; perhaps it simply did not wish to make its presence known.”

“But the data just doesn’t seem right for that,” Tendi argued. “The the energy fluctuations just felt too regular to be generated by a conscious entity. Oh!” She gasped, grabbing hold of the engineer’s arm. “Rutherford, what if we–”

“Took some brain scans of the rest of the crew and analyzed the reports from my implant–!”

“And compared it to the data for the planet’s energy fluctuations! If the data doesn’t match the thought patterns of any other conscious life-form, then we can show the astrophysicists it’s probably not an Energy Being that’s responsible!” Tendi leapt to her feet, grabbing his hand and dragging him unresistingly out of his chair. “Come on!”

They ran off—leaving T’Lyn behind them, apparently forgotten. She raised her eyebrows and then stood up; as she approached the next group, Lt. Sh’Nara and the others stifled sympathetic chuckles. “Are they always like that?” the Andorian asked as the Vulcan sat down.

“Usually they are not so excitable. I believe this bout of hyperactivity is temporary.”

“Too much raktajino,” one of her new teammates suggested, to general amusement. But T’Lyn studied the Orion and the human for a moment, evaluating the evidence as the pair began running tricorder scans on an intrigued Bolian scientist a few desks over. The beaming smiles, the lights dancing in their eyes, the glances of silent communication that signified, for the non-telapathic races, the meeting of the minds. Yes, there was only one conclusion.

“Rather, lieutenant,” she said, turning back to her work, "I think the behavior is attributable to the fact that they are in love.”

T’Ana was a fraction of the way through the frankly bullshit amount of paperwork she had to send to San Francisco (seriously, how the hell did she keep letting it pile up like this?) when the call app on her leftmost screen trilled with the familiar icon of the ship’s chief of security. “Shaxs, you’d better not be calling to tempt me with a good time,” she growled ruefully as she started on another form.

“How’d you guess?”

“Call it feline intuition,” she said dryly. “That, and since practically the whole ship is planet-side I’m guessing the holodecks are nice and open right about now.”

“If you’ve got a couple hours free…?”

“Hah, I wish. But I’ve got a sickbay full of redshirts and I’m the only one on-call,” the doctor said with a roll of her eyes. “Figured I may as well get all the charting off to HQ since I’m stuck in the office the rest of the night.”

“Hnh. Too bad.”

“Yup.” She hit submit on the form, and then felt her will to live decrease a little more at the sight of thirty-odd more to do and repressed a hiss. “Thanks for the offer, but it’s a no-go. Roundhouse a couple Robin Hoods for me, huh?”

He shrugged. “Actually I’d rather stay on the call with you, if it’s all the same.”

“Really?” T’Ana paused her box-checking to look over at the video feed, surprised. “You sure; it’s boring stuff.”

“Sure, I’ve got some incident reports to file myself,” Shaxs said easily. “Besides, I know doing paperwork is hell on you; thought you could use the company."

T’Ana blinked, speechless for a moment, and then cleared her throat and glanced away. “Well, uh– it’s your night, do what you want.” But then she glanced back at the video feed and saw his knowing grin, the light on his face turning blue as he began to presumably pull his own reports, and softened. “…’Preciate it, Bigs. Thanks.”

Beyond the windows of the CMO’s office, the two redshirts on the biobed laughed quietly at some running gag of the show, and then looked up as the lights dimmed to the Delta-shift standard. As the flickering glow from the Padd washed over their faces, they shared a glance; maybe it was just the dim lighting or the awkward situation—or more likely the hives still flushing his skin—but Mariner thought that Brad’s face might have been dusted with pink as he grinned at her.

He’s your best friend. He’s kinda cute. And maybe someday you’ll have the guts to admit to yourself you can’t live without him. Mariner grinned back, and then they looked forward again, breaking into snickers at the sitcom characters’ latest blunder. She squeezed his hand, still clasped between them, and he squeezed it back, reassuring her he was there. He’d said he wasn’t going anywhere, and despite herself, despite everything she was afraid to face, she found herself wanting to trust in him.

And I’m sure this big revelation has nothing to do with the fact platonic friends don’t usually hold hands, her mind teased, but it sounded kinder this time. Maybe that was progress. Well, what the hell; if this really was love she was falling into, Mariner mused as she leaned back against the pillow and rested her head beside his, then at least they were falling together.