Chapter Text
— Computer.
She lets the duffel bag drop to the floor just as the tell-tale anticipatory chirp greets her return aboard.
— Take me home — she orders, ignoring the Kaferian apple that has escaped from her overturned duffel and is now merrily rolling away across the shuttle's worn out floor.
There's a confused chirp, followed by a way-too-chipper voice asking her to — Please restate course.
Sigh.
— Oh, for fucks sake, computer. Take me to the Cerritos.
Affirmative chirp.
— Course plotted to rendezvous with the USS Cerritos.
— Activate auto-pilot.
Another affirmative chirp.
— Prepare for immediate departure. Seat safety restraints recommended.
She blows a raspberry and plonks down onto the nearby pilot seat. That's the extent of her takeoff preparations.
A series of chirps narrates the shuttle computer linking and interfacing with the planet's craft guidance systems.
— Departure clearance confirmed. Engaging takeoff thrusters.
Beckett Mariner sinks down, down into her seat, not sparing one last glance at the blood orange sky gradually giving way to the darkness of space. There's a shudder or two, and then the shuttle finally clears the atmosphere.
Fuck yeah, autopilot.
It will be at least another three hours before the East Palo Alto reaches the rendezvous point with the Cerritos.
Bo-ring.
— What to do, what to do — she mutters to herself, sinking lower and lower in her seat.
Boimler would probably make a log.
Mariner frowns.
That ambitious little weasel. All cozy and promoted aboard the Titan –
No.
She bolts immediately upright — Computer.
If nothing else, recording a log will put a stop to this most unwelcome onslaught of unpleasant thoughts related to one Bradward Boimler, formerly known as her colleague. And mentee.
Never friend.
— Personal log.
Never, never friend.
— Stardate, uh, whatever — she dismisses the entire concept of time with a wave of her hand. — I am returning from the Bat'leth Summer Camp on Forcas III.
Forcas III. One hellhole of a planet.
— The conditions at the camp were... difficult.
That's putting it mildly.
Her eyelids flutter closed as she recalls the daily pre-dawn drills, the endless sparring sessions, and the middle-of-the-night duels interspersed with imbibing smuggled blood wine with the camp staff.
— Several camp participants were maimed — Mariner admits. — Sadly, no new scars for me.
There's a red glint that catches the corner of her eye.
— Ah, but I — she leans across the navigation console to retrieve it — was triumphant.
Her fingers wrap around the rugged handle of a tajtiq.
K'orin had once explained that the hilt of a tajtiq was made from scales of a very rare poison-laden fish, the name of which escapes her, but which gave it an excellent gripping surface. Only an incompetent topah would let it slip from his grasp, he told her, roaring with laughter as he refilled their chalices with firewine.
— I made it past camp security with this little guy — she waves it around in front of the camera. — Ha!
For a few moments her eyes trace the faintly bloodied edges of the blade with admiration, before she tosses the dagger back onto the nav console.
— I am looking forward to resuming all of my illicit activities — cough — I mean, duties, aboard the Cerritos, and —
That's when it hits her.
— Oh frak me.
The stardate finally comes to her.
Today is her birthday.
* * *
— Sooooooo, how was Forcas III? Did you get to learn any cool new Bat'leth moves? More importantly, did you see the Forcas yeti? I was just reading about a recent sighting on the southern continent. Or was it the northern? Ooh, ooh, any new scars I should know about? You know, I can add them to your medical file, like right now — she points to the tricorder in the other hand.
Ensign D'Vana Tendi begins to pepper her with questions before Mariner has even made it to the bottom of the shuttle bridge.
— Forcas III was just fine, Tendi — Mariner adjusts the strap of her duffel. — Though I'll never understand how a place can be both so dry and humid at the same time. No yeti sightings, and no new scars — she counts out on her fingers with a side-glance at Tendi, who's trying hard to mask her disappointment.
— Failure on both counts, I know. Buuuuuut, look on the bright side. I did finally master... the K'Ehleyr feint.
— Sounds fabulous. What is it?
— Oh, I'll be happy to show you. On the holodeck.
Yes, she thinks. The feint should prove a very useful fighting move... for Vindicta.
That it is Tendi who has come to greet her in the shuttle bay isn't suspicious in itself. But the excitement with which she proceeds to inform Mariner that they have been ordered to help with replicator re-programming in the mess hall definitely merits an eyebrow raise.
Mariner stows her tajtiq behind her belt. I guess I have no choice but to play along.
It doesn't mean she'll go to slaughter without asking a question or two.
— Why would Rutherford, of all people, need our help with a food replicator?
— Because — Tendi pauses to make sure she's got all the reasons lined up correctly. She takes a deep breath before reciting — In a few days, the Cerritos is going to be playing host to a senior-ranking Klingon ambassador with a whole entire entourage, and we need to certify that our replicators are up to their, uh, exacting cuisine standards.
— What's that got to do with m—
— You have been eating a lot of Klingon food lately, haven't you, Mariner?
— At a Bat'leth summer camp, Tendi.
Mariner grimaces, thinking back to all those bowls of rehydrated gagh. — The place is not exactly known for having high food standards.
— Nevertheless — Tendi presses on. — You've got the most recent experience with Klingon cuisine out of everyone on this ship, and have therefore been assigned duty as the designated test taster, while I — she waves her tricorder with marked excitement — will be making sure the food is safe to eat. Medically.
— You do your thing first, then — Mariner mutters as the doors to the mess hall swoosh open before the two of them.
The hall seems oddly empty, she notes. And the lighting has been reduced by about half the lumens.
Instead of following Tendi inside, Mariner stops in her tracks.
— W-what's wrong? — Tendi, a step ahead of her, turns around.
— Awfully... dark in here, don't you think?
— The lighting has been adjusted for the maximum comfort of the Klingon delegation.
Now that's a rehearsed line if Mariner has ever heard one. At this point she knows it's a ruse. She narrows her eyes. Stay frosty, Mariner.
On the far side of the hall, she spots Sam Rutherford. He is sitting next to an open replicator panel, his toolbox and various tools scattered about. He offers a friendly wave when he notices them, then returns to his task.
— Mariner — Tendi's voice is tinged with concern. — Why are you skulking about?
— I am not a fan — Mariner takes a cautious step inside, scans the room, then immediately crouches down to check underneath the rows of tables — of surprise parties.
Nothing there.
— Especially not my own.
— Ooh, what's a surprise party?
The question is posed with such genuine naïveté and Tendi's eyes are bursting with such boundless curiosity that for a moment, a brief moment, Mariner is ready to cast doubt on her suspicions.
Maybe there really is a Klingon entourage coming aboard in a few days and maybe the replicators really do need to be tested ahead of their arrival.
That's when she spots Rutherford noticing them again, and waving that same little wave. Same exact little wave.
— It's a loop!
— A what?
— Oh, hell no — Mariner is about to turn on her heel and bolt just as the holographic deception shatters into a cacophony of cheers and hollers.
— Surprise!
The mess hall brightens and crewmates from every shift bound toward her, clapping and laughing and wishing happy birthday, Mariner.
— Uuuugh.
Mariner's shoulders slump as she is encircled by the crew. There is no escape.
Tendi sidles up to her and winks — I love surprise parties — then fishes a party hat out of thin air, and gently places it on Mariner's head.