Episode 8-14 - Rise and Fall
By: Zeke (qbertman@hotmail.com)

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager, its characters and related
properties are Registered Trademarks of
Paramount Pictures. No infringement of Paramount's copyrights
is intended. Voyager Virtual Season
8 (VS8) is a non-profit endeavor. The unique characters and
milieu of VS8 are the property of the VS8
producers and individual authors. This story is the property
of the author. Please do not repost
without permission.

Disclaimer: Star Trek: Voyager, its characters and related
properties are Registered Trademarks of
Paramount Pictures. No infringement of Paramount's copyrights
is intended. Voyager Virtual Season
8 (VS8) is a non-profit endeavor. The unique characters and
milieu of VS8 are the property of the VS8
producers and individual authors. This story is the property
of the author. Please do not repost
without permission.

Most of space is just that. Between the star systems and
celestial bodies, the vacuum extends, spanning the vast
distances that separate them within the Milky Way.
Within this expanse, aside from the occasional pair of
virtual particles leaping in and out of existence, all is
perfect emptiness; the spread of space rests in a chill
and a silence that freeze the soul.

Gamma Quadrant Sector 475.31C fits this description as
well as any other. Far beyond the border of Dominion
space, it waits silence and unknown. Unlike the
Federation, the Borg Collective saw no reason even to
number it; empty space is of no interest, and keeping
track of such matters is inefficient. Sector 475.31C
knows nothing of this and cares the same. The mightiest
empires of two quadrants make no difference to it. It
knows only the silence and the cold.

Near the centre of the sector, a change now begins.
Quantum forces take their subtle action, pulling and
merging and twisting at the underlying fabric of space.
The turmoil feeds on itself and grows to a macroscopic
scale; a vortex wrenches out of the emptiness as the laws
of nature scream in protest. Were there any living
consciousness in Sector 475.31C to notice the arrival, it
would be unable to keep from feeling a sense of darkness
pressing on it, for something wicked this way comes.

Finally the vortex spins open and expels its creator: a
sophisticated spaceship, among the most advanced in the
galaxy. Its eight sides, near-perfect equilateral
triangles, mark it as an octahedron; its bare mechanical
exterior and cold geometry betray its origins. There are
many races and many mindsets in the galaxy, but a ship
designed with such soulless efficiency and disdain for
aesthetics could only have been created by the Borg.

The ship, a royal yacht reserved for the Queen, doubles
back and heads sharply downwards at top speed. As it
flees the sector, another vortex opens, then another,
each spewing forth a massive Borg cubeship. Moving in
unison, the twin cubes give chase; a few moments later,
they successfully lock onto the yacht with tractor beams.
Slowly, the cubes draw the smaller ship in, preparing to
capture and board it.

The octahedron swivels on its vertical axis; something
like a shield flares into existence around it and
disrupts the tractor beams. It immediately changes
direction, evading the cubes for a few short moments
before they target it again. The yacht repeats its
maneuver three more times; on its fourth attempt, the
shield no longer has an effect. In apparent desperation,
it lashes out with cutting beams and glowing green
torpedoes, damaging the larger vessels but not stopping
them. The cubes draw their prey closer and closer.

Space writhes yet again, and two more Borg ships enter
the fray. One is a cube, the other a sphere whose curved
structure contrasts with the sharp corners and edges of
its companion. Each new arrival now picks a cube and
begins to strike at it with all weapons, pounding
furiously at a well-chosen face. The twin cubes struggle
to maintain their tractor beams, and succeed -- at the
cost of surrendering their positions. Relentlessly
battered by the enemy ships, the cubes drift in the
direction of the weapons fire, so intent on capturing the
royal yacht that they fail to realize their opponents'
plan. At last the cubes collide, face grinding against
face, sparks flying out into the vacuum to be
extinguished.

The beams cease; the octahedron regains its bearings. It
prepares to depart with its two allies, opening a new and
larger transwarp conduit capable of enclosing them all.
After firing exactly enough torpedoes to ensure that the
enemy cubes cannot be salvaged, it moves into position
and releases a message into subspace, one designed to be
audible only to Borg drones whose interplexing beacons
are set to detect a very specific frequency. The three
ships then take their leave, in accordance with the
instructions in the message:

"Engagement successful. No casualties. All forces in
the first division, prepare for an immediate rendezvous
in Grid Zero-Two-Six-Nine. Security confirmation code
Axum Z-X-Two-C."

No residents of the two cubes are left alive to hear
this. With characteristic Borg efficiency, the ships and
drones -- now useless to the Borg -- dissolve into near-
nothingness and spread their molecules in all directions.
The silence and the cold return. In Gamma Quadrant
Sector 475.31C, all is perfect nothingness, as it has
always been and will always be.

* * * * *

"Fall back to six million kilometers!" shouted Captain
Yvette Marson. Her helmsman obeyed instantly, reversing
course and taking the Nova-class starship Solstice to a
safe distance. A short moment later, the shockwave hit,
shaking the ship badly and sending the crew careening
across the bridge. Consoles exploded; lights blew out.
The noise grew unbearable, then stopped abruptly as the
shockwave continued past the ship.

"Damage report!" Marson released her iron grip on the
arms of her command chair, which had kept her in place
through the crash. She stood and turned to her tactical
officer. "What the hell was that?"

Lieutenant Tren checked his readings again, but it didn't
help. "I have no idea, sir. It was obviously a massive
explosion, and the scans seem to indicate that there were
ships at the centre of it -- maybe even an entire fleet.
But we've got no data on how or why this happened, and we
don't know whose ships they were."

"Damage reports are coming in now, sir," added Lieutenant
Commander Velasquez at Ops. "We've lost power on decks
five through seven and our impulse engines are at half
power. Shields won't be back up for another hour, but
the warp engines are okay and we didn't lose anyone."

Marson nodded gratefully; that pain, at least, would not
be felt today. She turned to Velasquez. "Transfer
auxiliary power to the sensors and scan the sector as
carefully as you can. If there's any evidence at all, we
need to--"

"Sir," interrupted first officer Banks, "look!"

The crew turned to the main viewer and simply stared.
There before them, in living colour, was a latter-day
Federation legend. A Starfleet ship filled the
viewscreen, hull decked with armor that shouted messages
of invincibility, nacelles stretched out sweepingly,
saucer raised confidently high. The armor slowly peeled
back to reveal a glittering duranium hull and the now-
famous registry code NCC-74656. Marson could only guess
at what had happened, but knew one thing for certain --
somehow, the starship U. S. S. Voyager had defied the
odds yet again.

Tren broke the silence. "Should I open hailing
frequencies, sir?"

"By all means, Lieutenant. Send this message." Marson
cleared her throat. "This is Captain Yvette Marson of
the Federation starship Solstice. If you are who you
appear to be, it is my pleasure to say, on behalf of the
United Federation of Planets...welcome home."

Tren and Velasquez fidgeted briefly, which Marson
recognized as a sign that they hadn't even considered the
alternative to "if you are who you appear to be." The
captain approvingly noted that Banks didn't bat an
eyelash. After punching a few commands into her console,
Velasquez spoke up: "They're responding, sir."

"On screen." Marson watched as the viewscreen flickered
off, then on again, this time revealing the people whose
images had graced every newsholo in the Federation six
months ago. Everyone on the Solstice, right down to the
lowliest crewman, could probably match these faces to
their names: Chakotay, Seven of Nine, Tuvok, Tom Paris.
And now Marson was personally speaking to the leader of
this band of heroes -- Kathryn Janeway herself.

"This is Captain Kathryn Janeway of the starship Voyager.
Honest." A grin crossed the captain's face. "I
understand your skepticism, but trust me, we are exactly
who you think we are."

Marson grinned back. "Glad to hear it. We're all dying
to hear your story, and we'll have lots of time -- Earth
is a week away at warp."

"Oh, I hope we're not taking you out of your way."

"Don't worry, Captain -- we were heading that direction
ourselves. Just finished a two-year mission scouting
twin pulsars."

Janeway's face lit up with interest. "Really? Now that
I want to hear about. We'll trade our story for yours."

The prospect delighted Marson, but her shock was now
making way for her sense of duty. After all, the mystery
remained. "Captain, a moment ago we detected a massive
explosion...."

Janeway held up her hand. "We know all about it. I'll
be glad to explain the whole thing to you in person;
suffice it to say that the explosion was caused by the
destruction of an enemy fleet whose goal was to wage war
with the Federation. A war they were quite capable of
winning."

Marson found her reactions mixed. She had no reason to
disbelieve Janeway's assessment of the threat; on the
contrary. Janeway had seniority over her and, what's
more, had survived seven years stranded in the Delta
Quadrant. But this was no ordinary deed. If Janeway had
indeed destroyed an entire fleet of enemy ships -- a huge
one, judging from the size of the explosion -- then
shouldn't that action be scrutinized to the highest
degree? What kind of desperate situation would require
such full retaliation, such extreme use of force?

Could an officer who gave such orders be trusted?

Not now, Marson told herself. The questions could come
later; she could debate the situation when the time came.
Right now, she had the privilege of welcoming home a
Federation hero, and it was her honour and duty to do so
with open arms.

"Never mind all that for now, Captain. We should be
plotting our courses for Earth. Let me say it once
again: welcome home." She glanced around at her crew,
then at Janeway's. "From all of us -- to all of you."

* * * * *

The mess hall was full of people, but no one spoke. All
faces were downcast; all thoughts were dark. The room
lay not in a silence but in a hush. At the podium,
Captain Kathryn Janeway surveyed her crew, the men and
women whose strength had held her ship together for
nearly a decade. Inside, she wept for them as much as
for the friend they had lost. Each missing face
diminished the whole picture.

"This podium," began Janeway, "has seen too much use."

The crew felt the same. How could they not? Too many
years, too many battles...too many lives cut suddenly
short. Too many funerals.

"I have seen this view of my mess hall and crew a total
of thirty-nine times since Voyager first arrived in the
Delta Quadrant," continued the captain. "To say that
it's never easy would be an understatement. It gets
harder each and every time. This is our shared pain --
this is the burden that we all must carry, together. And
alone."

Janeway moved into the traditional format. "We are
gathered here on this Stardate 55353.9 to pay our last
respects to Crewman Kenneth Dalby. His remains could not
be recovered, so we commit his phaser, Mr. Dalby's prized
possession for many years, to space."

In fact, only four people in the room knew the phaser's
full story -- Dalby had taken it to his grave, but it had
then been found by Chakotay after lying undisturbed for
untold years. Janeway continued: "At this time, anyone
who wishes to speak in recollection of Mr. Dalby will be
heard."

There was a moment of silence, and then Elizabeth Henley
stepped forward. Janeway stepped aside as the former
Maquis took the podium.

"I'll keep this brief," began Henley. "I don't need to
explain Ken Dalby to anyone here. I may have known him a
little longer than most, but we all knew him. We knew
his personality. We knew his opinions -- he made sure of
that." (This drew a few chuckles.) "We knew why he was
on this ship and how he felt about it. In fact, let's
face it...we knew pretty much everything there was to
know about the guy. Ken didn't keep any secrets. He
wore everything on his sleeves, not just emotions.

"I won't deny that it could be annoying sometimes, but I
appreciated that about him. He believed in honesty and
frankness taken to any extreme. And he believed nothing
without believing it totally. Ken could be your
bitterest enemy or your best friend, but nothing in
between. In a galaxy of gray, he was a knight in black
and white armour. Protecting those who couldn't protect
themselves, fighting for people who deserved it -- that's
what Ken was all about.

"That's how he died, and he wouldn't have wanted it any
other way. He lost his life for the same reason he lived
it. I don't know if he left us a legacy, but if he did,
it's that nothing is too much to give for what you
believe in. In the end, what Ken Dalby believed in was
us. We can take that with us for the rest of our lives:
whatever we may think of ourselves and each other, a good
man decided we were worth dying for. I'm proud to have
been on his side."

Henley stepped back from the podium, still emotional but
with her head held high. Many of the crew were now
choking back tears. Beside Janeway, Tom and B'Elanna had
their arms around each other; elsewhere, she could see
Chell trying to comfort Crewman Gerron, who had been
Dalby's closest friend. After a respectful pause,
Janeway stepped forward and again asked if anyone wished
to speak. This time it was Tuvok who stepped forward, to
the captain's surprise; wondering what her Vulcan friend
would say, she ceded the podium to him.

"Crewman Dalby first came aboard Voyager seven years,
seven months ago," stated Tuvok. "At that time, he had
spent several months among the Maquis and none on a
Federation ship. His adjustment to life in the Delta
Quadrant was rapid but not drastic; indeed, his
personality and attitude were almost entirely unchanged.
As tactical officer, my duties include the evaluation of
crewmembers relative to whatever security threats may
exist, and this required me to consider Mr. Dalby's
possible effects on the then-tenuous Federation/Maquis
alliance. My conclusion was that he was an unstable
element and a potential threat, as his behaviour was
questionable and his respect for authority nearly non-
existent. It was for this reason among others that Mr.
Dalby entered my sphere of consideration."

Janeway was now beginning to worry. While she had faith
in Tuvok's intelligence and good judgement, she doubted
that he was considering how emotional beings would react
to his words. They were here to speak well of Dalby --
which the Vulcan was decidedly not doing. How did he
expect the crew to react? Janeway could already see
angry faces in the crowd.

"My early experiences with Mr. Dalby could not be
considered improvements," Tuvok continued. "When I
attempted to instruct him in Starfleet protocols, he
reacted with hostility and disrespect. As the training
progressed, this did not change, and could be said in
some respects to worsen. I did begin to observe positive
qualities in Mr. Dalby, such as confidence, will, and
leadership, but I considered these less important than
the humility and obedience befitting his position.

"When Mr. Dalby completed my training course, I soon
found that I had little reason to continue monitoring
him. The Starfleet and Maquis crews were merging with
little friction, allaying my concern that he might in
some part make this more difficult. Therefore, I
relegated his disciplinary problems to the 'back burner'
of my mind, making way for more pressing matters. In the
seven years that followed, I continued to work alongside
Mr. Dalby; we rarely conversed other than in an official
capacity, but my understanding of his character continued
to increase, as it did with each member of the crew.

"It is my practice to spend at least two hours in
meditation each day. During these periods, I consider
all the issues that occupy my mind, from the most
critical to the most trivial. However, in the last six
weeks, I found myself devoting an increasing amount of
consideration to Crewman Dalby. I cannot say with
certainty why this increase directly preceded his death;
it was most likely an unforeseen effect of the Bubble on
my telepathic abilities. Nonetheless, I believe that the
results of my contemplation are significant, and it is
for this reason that I have chosen to speak.

"As I pondered Mr. Dalby's progress on Voyager, I became
aware of a gradual change which I had not previously
noticed. In our first year in the Delta Quadrant, his
attitude had been aggressive and adversarial; he shared
the crew's common goal but did not wish to be bound by
its regulations. It was his opinion that the ends
justified the means in almost any context. This mindset
was well-suited to the Maquis, but a bad fit for a
Starfleet officer. His positive qualities -- courage and
willingness to defend -- were, in my opinion,
misdirected. However, over the course of his Starfleet
career, I now realized that Mr. Dalby's motives had
changed without my becoming aware. He had maintained
what admirable qualities he possessed, but the underlying
reasons for them were no longer the same. Reflecting on
his time in the Bubble, I reinterpreted his behaviour and
discovered that it had become based on a foundation of
loyalty and solidarity -- it was no longer driven by
self-concern.

"A very subtle change, and even more subtle was the
change I now observed in myself. My contact with Mr.
Dalby had appeared minimal, even over the course of eight
years, but this recent meditation had now shown me a new
truth of the human condition. It was possible, I
realized, for a human being to change on the emotional
level in a manner so gradual as to leave the non-
emotional level unaffected. This was something I had
never before encountered in my years among humans.
Despite eight years of apparent non-communication, Mr.
Dalby, through his example, had helped me to increase my
understanding of the human mind. Such a gift is of the
kind I value the most highly.

"I am of Vulcan. My people live their lives with great
care and select their friends very slowly. The time this
crew has spent in the Delta Quadrant has not been
sufficient for me to make such decisions; from my
perspective, to refer to anyone here, aside from the
Captain, as a friend would be premature. I say this not
as an insult but merely as an explanation. I cannot,
therefore, say that I considered Mr. Dalby a friend -- I
did not. But by the time of his death, I considered him
more than a subordinate. I considered him a good
officer, a trusted ally, and a man worthy of the uniform
he wore. Further, now that his life has ended and can be
judged in its entirety, I consider his presence to have
made a positive intellectual change upon me. A Vulcan
can give no higher compliment."

Tuvok turned to the coffin and addressed it. "To you,
Mr. Dalby, I offer these final words, spoken by Surak to
a dying follower during the Enlightenment. Know that you
have lived by the truth within you; know that your life
has taken the path it was meant to take; know that your
passing will diminish this plane while enriching the
next. May your katra find peace and fulfillment in the
new life that it begins on this day."

If the room had been a vacuum, the silence filling it as
Tuvok returned to his place would not have been deeper.
The crew were astonished and moved in equal measure.
Internally, Captain Janeway shook her head...after so
many years, her old friend could still surprise her. She
hadn't known what she expected, but it certainly hadn't
been this. That was the thing about Tuvok -- he would
take actions that you could never guess in advance, but
when you thought about them afterwards, they made sense.
Tuvok did nothing that wasn't...well, logical, but his
logic was deeper and more complicated than Janeway could
ever understand or predict.

At last, the captain stepped forward and completed the
ceremony. "In accordance with Crewman Dalby's wishes, we
now cremate his last remains. As we fire this torpedo,
we send the last physical remnants of his years with us
into the fire. The mental remnants will never die."

Janeway nodded to Harry Kim, who began the firing
sequence. The crew all turned to face the window as the
speakers began to play bagpipe music. Finally, Dalby's
torpedo left the confines of Voyager for the heat that
awaited it. The crew held their salutes until it could
no longer be seen.

* * * * *

"So you're saying she won't even care?"

"No. I simply stated that your return is unlikely to
have as strong an effect on your former fiancée as you
believe it will."

Harry was aghast, but he resolved to be patient with
Seven. After all, she was still only a student of
humanity. "I don't think you really understand, Seven,"
he said. "Libby and I weren't just coworkers or friends.
We'd decided to spend the rest of our lives together."

"I am aware of what 'fiancée' means," replied Seven in
that just-slightly-condescending tone that never failed
to drive Harry up the wall. "But this decision took
place eight years ago."

"Seven...maybe someday you'll understand that eight years
isn't all that long where love is concerned."

"You have been hoping to be reunited with her."

"Yes, that's right."

"Then why did you attempt to engage in 'recreational
activities' with me when I first came aboard Voyager?"

Harry stopped walking, to avoid tripping over his jaw.

"I'm sorry," said Seven. "Did I say something
inappropriate?"

"No!" Harry tried to figure out how to explain....
"Look, Seven, there are certain impulses that humans have
trouble controlling. That doesn't necessarily have any
bearing on how I feel about Libby."

"Ah." Seven seemed satisfied, but then turned back and
cocked her head slightly. "Then is the same true of your
liaison with Assistant Engineer Tal during our encounter
with the Varro?"

"Now just a minute--"

"And also your professed affection for Ensign Ballard?"

"The circumstances were--"

"And your interest in the holographic representation of
Marayna?"

"All right! Point taken." Harry resumed walking, then
paused suddenly. "Hang on -- how did you know about
Marayna? That happened before you came aboard...."

Seven replied with what Harry recognized as her version
of a grin -- a very slight smile that seemed to ooze I
win -- and then headed into the briefing room.
Nonplussed, Harry followed. The other senior officers
were already there; Captain Janeway waited for the final
two to take their seats, then began the meeting. "I
think it's safe to say we have a few things to discuss."

"What's to discuss?" replied the Doctor. "The Sernaix
fleet is gone -- and we're home!"

"Seems to me I've heard that somewhere before," countered
Tom Paris.

"Exactly," said Janeway. "The last time we thought our
journey was over, it turned out to be anything but.
Things certainly do look good for us right now, but we
can't afford to be overconfident. We have to make
absolutely sure we don't repeat whatever mistake we made
last time."

B'Elanna Torres stood, having recognized her cue. "Ever
since we arrived in the Bubble, the science and
engineering crew have been trying to figure out why it
happened. We still don't know for sure -- but we have a
good guess." B'Elanna walked to the monitor at the front
of the room and activated it; the others turned to watch.

"This was the situation one second before we brought the
warp core online." An image of Voyager appeared,
encircled by a series of coloured curves representing its
warp field. The staff recognized the configuration as
stable.

"This was the situation when we activated the core."
Voyager remained in place, as did the warp field at
first...but gradually the curves began to change shape,
widening at the ship's stern and tapering at the bow.
Finally the shape grew almost triangular; it had narrowed
to a point in front of the ship. The colours had also
changed, moving from cool Starfleet blue to bright red.

"This was what happened when Tom engaged the engines."
The frame advanced, as did Voyager -- but the warp field,
for some insane reason, didn't. Within moments the
ship's hull had made contact with the tip of the field's
closest band. There was no impact, of course, since the
field wasn't a physical object, but Voyager vanished
instantly. The warp field quickly faded away.

"That was crazy," commented Tom, echoing the thoughts of
everyone in the room. "A warp field staying still while
the ship moves...it doesn't make sense. It's like
standing up and finding your clothes still in the chair."

"That happened to me once," added the Doctor. When the
others stared at him, he explained, "Programming
malfunction. Fortunately, Mr. Paris wasn't there at the
time."

B'Elanna rolled her eyes and continued. "We have no idea
why this happened. Logically, it shouldn't even be
possible. But we do have a pretty good idea of what it
did. When the warp field's shape degenerated, its 'tip'
became a local focus point for subspace turbulence,
creating a highly unstable situation. So when Voyager
made contact with that point, there was a massive
interchange of energies -- enough to momentarily propel
us into subspace."

"For just long enough to hit the Borg's subspace mine,"
finished Janeway, putting two and two together.

"Exactly. It all happened so fast that the sensors had
only recorded a millisecond's worth of data before we
were shunted into the unstable transwarp conduit that
took us to the Bubble. That's why it took us so long to
figure out the exact sequence of events."

"And the Pleiades and the Himalaya?" asked Chakotay.

"Just close enough to be caught in our wake. They were
out on the fringes where the subspace pressure was higher
-- without armour to back up their shields, they couldn't
hold together."

Without thinking about it, the officers paused for a
brief moment as the memory of those lost lives came back.
Janeway was the first to speak. "We're certainly better
for knowing more about what happened, but the present is
even more important. Lieutenant: in your judgement, is
it safe for us to attempt warp velocity in this quadrant
again?"

"Absolutely," said B'Elanna without hesitation. "The
last incident has 'one-time' written all over it.
Remember, the Borg knew exactly where we'd be entering
Federation space last time. This time they had no idea.
If the Borg could do this kind of thing at any time, we
wouldn't have been able to fit into the Bubble -- it
would already have been full of their enemies' ships."
Janeway smiled at the image.

Tuvok, eyebrows slightly angled, brought up another
question. "Lieutenant, none of the events you have
described uniquely identifies the Borg as the responsible
party in our abduction. Do we possess proof that they
were the cause?"

B'Elanna ran the facts through her head. "I don't think
so," she concluded. "But the circumstantial evidence is
overwhelming. Who else could have known exactly what
layer of subspace to send us into to trigger the mine?"

Janeway turned to her expert on the Borg. "Seven?"

"The information Lieutenant Torres describes would
require precise data and very complicated calculations,"
replied the ex-drone. "It is doubtful that anyone
outside the Collective could obtain it unless their
resources were even greater, in which case it would not
be necessary."

"Then I'd say we're safe in pointing the finger here.
The Borg were somehow responsible for what happened to
us, and B'Elanna believes it won't be repeated --
assuming there still are any Borg. Considering all
that," Janeway said with a grin, "I think it's time for
us to give this going-home thing another try."

The Doctor smiled broadly at this decision; Chakotay
smiled too, but with characteristic moderation. Tom,
Harry, and B'Elanna had the look of people happy more for
their friends than for themselves, but were clearly
delighted either way. Seven, on the other hand, seemed
even more indifferent than usual -- not even Tuvok looked
so downright uninterested, thought the captain.

Janeway was about to dismiss the meeting when Harry said,
"Captain, as good as this news is, I think we all want to
know what's happened since we've been gone. Our scans
have shown that time passed at the same rate out here as
in there, for us at least, so that's seven more months of
Alpha Quadrant to catch up on. Hasn't Starfleet
contacted us yet?"

"I'm afraid not," replied Janeway. "I'm concerned about
it too. We haven't heard a peep from Command, and even
the Solstice has been minding its own business since that
first hail. I'll let you know as soon as we hear
anything."

"We will hear something, right? Starfleet can get pretty
tight-lipped sometimes." Memories of the Omega Directive
came unbidden to Harry's mind.

"Don't worry," reassured Janeway. "I'm sure they'll
contact us soon, and if not...well, you can bet they have
good reasons."

* * * * *

Few planets in the galaxy are as powerful and as
respected as Terra, known to its inhabitants once as
Tellus and now as Earth. The homeworld of the Federation
and command center of Starfleet has become the utopia
long dreamt of by Thomas More and those of like mind.
Lit up like a shining beacon in space, Gaia welcomes all
to her fertile shores. Humans no longer consider this
world their only home, but when they find themselves far
away, lost in the limitless reach of space or the depth
of emotional isolation, it is to Earth that their
thoughts always return.

On this planet, inside the mighty walls of Starfleet
Headquarters, a discussion was taking place in a room
where many discussions had taken place before. Since as
far back as 2142, this room -- the Starfleet Council
Chamber -- had been the traditional meeting place for the
fleet_s highest-ranking officers when they had important
issues to discuss. Matters as critical as starship
deployments in the Romulan War and as trivial as whether
or not Jonathan Archer_s prototype Enterprise NX-01 could
technically be called a _starship_ had been debated here.
The voices of Robert M. April, Heihachirou Nogura, Sarek
of Vulcan, and the Honourable Kobry had echoed within
these walls.

Council was not in session, but the room was still in
use. The voices were not loud.

_They_re absolutely sure?_ asked Admiral Alistair Warhol,
head of Starfleet_s internal investigations group.

_The readings have been checked and re-checked, over and
over again,_ replied Alynna Nechayev, one of the most
senior admirals in the fleet. She spoke with aggressive
certainty. _There_s no mistake. This isn_t a hologram
or an alien replica or some sort of clone made of silver
gel or God knows what -- this is Voyager, back in the
Alpha Quadrant. And that_s Kathryn Janeway on the
bridge._

All brows in the room furrowed at the name. _We_ll need
to make the preparations at once, of course,_ commented
Admiral Kwami.

_Not a problem,_ replied Commodore Blotnicky. _We can
contact the necessary parties in an hour, and they_ll all
be here within three days. Plenty of time._

_Good,_ judged Warhol, stroking his chin. _But that_s
not all we_ll need to do. Having everything ready won_t
do us any good if word gets out too soon._

_I_ve already taken measures to slow the reports of
Voyager_s return,_ said Admiral Richard, _but this is too
big to keep locked down. The whole Federation will know
before the day is out. After that, there_s not a lot we
can do except to limit our own contact with them._

_Maybe not. I have an idea,_ said Warhol. He tapped his
comm badge. _Lieutenant, put me through to Captain
Marson on the Solstice. Priority alpha-three, captain_s
eyes only._

In Warhol_s office, Lieutenant Leucking executed the
order. Twenty seconds later, the connection was made and
Marson_s face was on the Council Chamber monitor. _You
called, Admiral?_

_Yes, Captain. I have some special orders for you._

_Big surprise,_ said Marson with a smile. She had
clearly been expecting something like this, given the
exceptional situation her ship was in.

_First of all, I want you to limit your communication
with Captain Janeway and her crew. Talk to her, by all
means -- but let her do as much of the talking as
possible. It is imperative that you not provide her with
any information about recent events in the Alpha
Quadrant. If she brings it up, change the subject.
Understood?_

_Understood,_ replied a confused Marson. _May I ask
why?_

_You may, but I cannot answer you at this time._

_Ah._

Warhol sat up a bit straighter. _The second order is one
I_ll be carrying out myself. I need you to instruct your
ship_s computer to execute the commands I am about to
give it._ Marson did so.

_Computer,_ began the admiral, _I hereby instate
Starfleet Secure Communications Protocol 47. Use the
most recent procedures available._

_That operation requires Level Thirteen security
clearance,_ replied the computer, exactly the same way
Christine Chapel had spoken those words when they were
first recorded a century ago. Some things never change,
reflected Warhol. _Very well. Voice authorization
Alistair Warhol, Admiral. Level Thirteen security
passcode theta-one-nu-kai-E. Confirm._

_Voice authorization confirmed. Communications Protocol
47 now in effect using procedure set 2.82. Apply to all
in-system starships?_

_Negative. Apply only to NCC-74656._

_Confirmed. Command sequence now locked. There will be
no further audio messages._

Warhol sat back again and turned to the perplexed Marson.
_For the record, you didn_t hear any of that._

_I had half a banana in each ear, sir._

_Very good. You have your orders; Warhol out._

The monitor cleared and then vanished into the wall,
concealed by a small but seamless holographic projection.
Warhol looked around the table at his fellow admirals.
_I assume you all know what protocol I just implemented?_

Nechayev smiled. _Yes. If anything can help, that_s
it._

_Glad we understand each other. Meeting dismissed._

* * * * *

As Kathryn Janeway walked out of the turbolift with pride
in her step, Harry Kim announced _Captain on the
bridge!_, a formality he_d never seen the need to use
before -- for some reason it felt like the thing to say.

Janeway triumphantly walked around the bridge, ending at
her command chair. She stood straighter than she had in
a long time and looked out the viewscreen. The
constellations were exactly as she remembered, and it was
with ease that she found the one she was looking for.
_Mr. Tuvok,_ she said, _start rotating our viewing angle
to 45 degrees from all axes. Nice and slow._ Tuvok
obeyed; Janeway watched the patterns on the screen roll
down and left until they reached the location she wanted.
_There! Hold._

The viewscreen steadied; Janeway pointed at it, dead
center. _See that? That_s the Sun -- our sun. And
Earth is right next door._ Smiles broke out across the
bridge.

Satisfied, Janeway took her seat -- she rarely stood when
giving the order to get under way. _Signal the Solstice
that we_re about to proceed,_ she told Tuvok.

_They confirm,_ replied the Vulcan a moment later. _They
will be synchronizing their warp field with ours._

That was the final step; now all that remained was to
give the order. _Mr. Paris,_ she said, savouring each
syllable, _set a course&for home._

She grinned and added, _And get it right this time._

_Yes, ma'am!_ came Tom's reliable chime. He punched in
the same old course, but with new energy _ because he
knew this would be the last time. In a flash of blue
light that could be seen for a billion kilometers,
Voyager took flight.

* * * * *

It wasn_t often that the Astrometrics lab could be found
without Seven of Nine in it, but apparently Tom Paris had
arrived at such a time. Probably better, he reflected.
I won_t have to ask her to move. He walked over to the
transmissions console and entered a series of commands
he_d grown familiar with over the course of several
months; subroutines shook the dust off themselves and
began going through their motions again. Voyager_s
deflector dish began to glow in crackling blue.

The massive Astrometrics screen warmed up and displayed
the Federation seal. The computer mentioned in passing
that use of the Watson comm system at warp velocity was
not recommended, but Tom shrugged it off -- this wasn_t a
time to be strict about safety (not that he ever was,
anyway). With a quiet click that sounded vaguely like a
sigh, the computer carried out its instructions.

_No response,_ said the computer. That_s okay, Tom
thought. I can wait.

_Two minutes of comm time have expired,_ said the
computer. No biggie, Tom thought. That still leaves
nine.

_Four minutes of comm time have expired,_ said the
computer. Patience, Paris, Tom thought. Remember:
patience is a virtue.

_Six minutes of comm time have expired,_ said the
computer. I only have five minutes left? This isn_t
funny! Tom thought. Where is he?

_Eight minutes of--_

Beep.

_Tom! It_s really you! Thank the Great Forest! Where
have you been?_

Paris grinned. _Neelix! Am I wrong, or have you put on
a few pounds since last time we talked?_

Neelix looked down, then blushed. _Well, I_m only
cooking for three now, and I_m not used to making so
little food&I guess I_m overshooting a bit._

_Say, speaking of cooking for three -- is that a wedding
ring I see?_

Now Neelix grinned. _Engagement. One step at a time._

_Well, congratulations, buddy! Listen, it_s been great
talking to you again, but -_

_It_s been? Come on -- you_re not leaving already, are
you? It_s been seven months! We have so much to catch
up on!_

_I know._ Tom_s face grew more serious. _But there_s
somebody here who needs this comm time more than I do._
He tapped his communicator and whispered _Okay, come on
in._

The door slid open to make way for Voyager_s second-
youngest crewman. Naomi Wildman, subunit of Ensign
Samantha Wildman and official Captain_s Assistant,
stepped slowly into the room, head ducked slightly and
hands clasped together. She_s nervous as a Tyrellian
fruit fly, thought Tom. I don_t think she wants to admit
to herself how much she missed him.

Neelix smiled the warmest smile Tom had seen in months
and beckoned to Naomi. Slowly, she came closer until she
was standing right next to Tom. Finally she looked up,
managed to sift a little smile out of her conflicting
emotions, and said _Hi._

Tom patted Naomi on the head and exchanged a knowing look
with Neelix, then headed out to give godfather and
goddaughter their privacy. Five minutes were better than
none.

* * * * *

Commander Chakotay sat cross-legged on the floor in his
quarters, mouthing the words of one of his people_s
ancient prayers. It was a prayer more of gratitude than
of supplication; he had asked enough of the Sky Spirits
during his time in the Bubble. Now was the time to thank
them for guiding him through those difficult months.
Chakotay recited the words the same way he always did
(though not as often as he probably ought to, he thought
with a sigh), until he reached the end of the prayer. He
had just opened his eyes again when he remembered
something; he closed them again and added _Yesterday a
warrior once under my command fell in battle. He fought
valiantly and he died well. Please guide him now, Sky
Spirits, wherever his new journey takes him._ Now
Chakotay was done. He had known Ken Dalby better than
Janeway had, so the loss had affected him more -- but it
comforted him to know that the man_s journey was not
over, and he had faith in the Sky Spirits to watch over
that journey.

Chakotay walked over to the replicator and began to
request a glass of water; suddenly remembering that
replicator rations were (once again) a thing of the past,
he ordered hot apple cider instead. He took the drink
with him to the couch and picked up a PADD. Keeping the
lights dim since it was still ship_s night, he settled in
and began to read; he was on the third page when the door
chimed. _Come,_ he said, wondering who it would be this
late at night. Seven, perhaps? The ex-Borg kept odd
hours, but she was usually busy working in those hours --
her social development still had a long way to go.

The door made way for Captain Janeway, as most sensible
things would. Of course, thought Chakotay. She_s off-
duty now. _Kathryn,_ he said warmly. _Can I get you
something to drink?_

_Guess,_ quipped Janeway. Chakotay smiled and headed to
the replicator for a coffee. It occurred to him that
she_d just come from a bright hallway, so he asked,
_Would you like the lights turned up?_

_No, it_s fine,_ she said, taking a seat on the couch.
Chakotay followed with the coffee; she accepted it
gratefully and took a sip.

_Now,_ said the commander, _what can I do for you at this
hour?_

Janeway looked down for a moment, and Chakotay could see
the discomfort in her expression. After so many years
together, he could read her as fluently as his PADD.
_I_ve had something on my mind,_ she said at last.

Chakotay could guess what, but he didn_t say so. _Is it
anything I can help you with?_

_That_s the problem -- I don_t know. It_s safe to say
the last few months have been&confusing for both of us._

_You can say that again,_ he agreed, sipping his cider.

_We_re friends, Chakotay. And we_re captain and first
officer. You_ve been my right hand for eight years, and
I couldn_t have had a better one._

_But the question is whether we_re anything else._

_Exactly. At various times over the years, I think we
each thought we had that figured out. But this whole
business with the Ayrethans has cast everything into a
new light¬ to mention an experience I had with their
cousins, the Inryeth._

_Oh?_ Chakotay had noticed slightly unusual behaviour
from the captain during that mission, but hadn_t made
much of it.

_It_s hard to explain. I don_t actually know that much
about what happened, in fact. Suffice it to say that I
was&urged to re-evaluate my feelings about you at that
time. Not by the Inryeth, but by a force they seem to
understand._

_Sounds fascinating,_ Chakotay said, and meant it -- both
as an anthrolopogist and as someone who had encountered
similar ideas in his own tribe_s religion. _I wish I_d
gotten to know them a little better._

_I_m not sure any of us knew them at all. They and the
Ayrethans seem to consider _enigmatic_ a way of life._

The first officer chuckled. _They_re strange all right,
but I think it_s safe to say we_ve seen stranger.
Remember that mission back on Stardate 52239.1?_

_How could I forget?_ Janeway grinned. _Let_s see&we
detected an warp-capable species living on an M-class
planet a few sectors outside Devore space. We were
running a little low on duranium, so you and I took a
shuttle trip to negotiate for it while Voyager
investigated a nearby stellar cluster._

_Of course, our long-range scanners couldn_t tell us much
about the species,_ continued Chakotay. _So on the way,
we prepared ourselves psychologically for whatever
strange sights and smells we might encounter. We were
careful not to assume that these beings were humanoid or
carbon-based or anything else we were used to._

_So we entered orbit and had a talk with the local
authorities. They insisted on using text-based
communication until we beamed down, and that seemed odd,
but it wasn_t really a problem. We made a deal to meet
them at their government building._

_After a quick scan to make sure the air was breathable,
we beamed down. And to our relief, they looked exactly
like humans. No psychological trouble. This would be
easy._

_But then the leader opened his mouth --_

_-- and nearly shattered our eardrums!_ they said in
unison, laughing up a storm. This wasn_t the first time
they_d told this story. Janeway shook her head. _Who
would have thought that a race so much like ours would
live at a completely different volume?_

Chakotay smiled. _We_ve certainly had some good times,
you and I._

_I know,_ said Janeway, growing serious again. _That may
be what troubles me the most. Forget our working
relationship -- what happens to our friendship if we take
it to the next step?_

_I wish I knew._ After all, thought the first officer,
I_m not sure where I stand with Seven of Nine now.

_That_s the risk in any human relationship, of course.
You_re not Michael -- if things go sour between us, I
can_t just rewrite you. And I can_t risk losing your
friendship now of all times. We don_t know what_s
waiting for us when we reach Earth, but it won_t be
easy._

Chakotay nodded solemnly.

_I guess what I_m saying is that we need to&._ She
stopped, looking for the right words.

_Define some parameters about us?_

Janeway smiled. _Yes._

This sounded like the lead-in to a discussion, but in
fact nothing more needed to be said. Each knew what the
other was thinking. Janeway needed Chakotay as a friend
and a first officer right now -- anything more would be
too big a risk. Later&perhaps. Who knew how things
would look when the dust cleared? But the time wasn_t
yet right.

_Professional?_ asked Chakotay.

_Professional,_ confirmed Janeway. _For now._ She took
a final sip of her coffee, put a hand on Chakotay_s
shoulder for a moment, and then left for her quarters to
get some sleep.

Chakotay sat back against the couch. He wasn_t a Vulcan,
but it was his habit to make his emotions secondary to
others_ -- his feelings were deep but did not drive him.
His relationship with Janeway had taken many turns over
the years, and Chakotay was used to it by now. The
frustration of being so close to her and yet never quite
close enough had faded with time. He could wait.

As the commander picked up his PADD to continue reading,
he took a look out the window. The perfect simplicity of
space never failed to calm him -- and humble him. Only
the unimaginable distances of space could reduce the
stars, those mighty infernos of nuclear fusion, to zero-
dimensional fireflies whose light you could block with
one finger. The darkness was&.

&.moving?

Chakotay felt something tapping up his spine&something so
tiny the human eye could never see it, so tiny it could
hide in a blood cell. He heard the cries of dying
tissues, atrophying as their functions were usurped by
something else. He saw his mind spreading out to touch a
million million others, yet at the same time curling in,
crushed under the pressure of those million million minds
as they reached out to his.

No! his spirit cried out against the evil, though there
was no one to hear. Not again! Not the Borg!

And then, abruptly, the feeling vanished. Chakotay
strained his eyes, but he couldn_t see any kind of
movement out the window. The simplicity of space was
perfect again.

Had he been right? Were the Borg here? Was that evil
phalanx on the move again, insinuating itself into every
corner of the galaxy in its relentless quest to unite
metal and flesh?

&.Couldn_t be.

* * * * *

_There!_ said the Doctor with delight. He deactivated
the encephalo-scanner, removed its input port from
Icheb's forehead, and put the device back into its case.

_You're sure?_ asked the young ex-Borg.

_Positive. Your guess was right -- as critical as your
cortical node was to you as a drone, your body has
compensated perfectly for its loss. If I hadn't seen it
with my own visual analysis subroutines, I could scan you
and still not realize you'd ever had one._

Icheb decided to ask the question he'd been wondering
about for some time. _Doctor, do you think that it might
be possible to remove my other implants in the same way?_

_I can remove them as easy as you please -- the question
is whether you'll survive the process. I've run some
simulations, but I'm afraid the results have been
inconclusive. I'll need to run more detailed
scans&perhaps at Starfleet Medical, where the equipment
is more up-to-date._

_But do you think it will be possible?_

The Doctor thought. _Hard to say. I very much doubt
I'll be able to remove all your implants, but with enough
research and study, I'm certain I'll find a way to
eliminate the majority of them. In fact, don't be
surprised if you celebrate your 18th birthday without any
visible ones at all._

Icheb liked the sound of that. He was about to say so
when B'Elanna Torres charged through the door, carrying
Miral. The baby was crying loud enough to wake the dead;
B'Elanna wore an expression that could have scared them
back into their graves. She didn't even notice Icheb.
Instead, she headed straight for the Doctor, shoved Miral
at him, and screamed "FIX THIS THING NOW!"

The Doctor, with an expression that spoke louder than
fifty sighs, took Miral and went to get a tricorder.
B'Elanna sat down on the other end of Icheb's biobed.
She was breathing very heavily, making a very low
growling sound in the process, and her hair looked like
Wolf 359 ten seconds after the Borg cube left.
Nonetheless, Icheb knew he should try to be polite --
after all, B'Elanna was a friend. Besides, that brief
incident during the ship's last overhaul had been very
revelatory. Icheb had nothing but respect for Tom Paris,
but there was always the possibility that he might be
killed on an away mission, at which point the half-
Klingon would be available again. Why not keep his
options open?

"Good day," said Icheb. "You look aesthetically
pleasing."

B'Elanna spun around and gave Icheb the most ferocious
expression the young man had ever seen. The sweat on her
face boiled away. Her teeth were bared and reflected
hellish red light from the flaming infernos where her
eyes used to be. She looked like a lion about to make
the kill, except that the lion would probably leave one
or two tiny fragments of its prey intact.

Icheb turned several interesting shades of turquoise and
bolted out the door.

"That wasn't very polite," said the Doctor, returning
with Miral. He ducked to avoid her death glare.
"Anyway, I've scanned Miral thoroughly and she seems to
be just fine." (Miral's crying intensified.) "Although
she begs to differ."

"I try to be a good parent," B'Elanna said through
gnashing teeth. "I give her everything she needs. But
she will not stop CRYING! I don't think she's breathed
once in four hours!"

"Rest assured that that isn't the case," replied the
Doctor. "Her breathing is fine, if slightly irregular.
Anyway, I'm afraid I can't prescribe anything -- she's
not unhealthy. There's nothing physically wrong with
her, she's just...crying."

"Give her a pacifier! Put a gag on her! Sedate her if
you have to! I can't TAKE this anymore!" B'Elanna
slammed her hands against her ears hard enough to
fracture an ordinary human's skull.

Doc thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers and
grinned. "Computer, activate program Doctor upsilon-
eight-P!"

Miral cried. Miral continued to cry. Miral cried some
more. Miral stopped to take a breath. Miral cr--

"WAAAAAAA!"

Miral stared at the Doctor with amazement. How had he
made that sound?

The Doctor simply grinned at her. Apparently he wasn't
going to do anything more, so Miral dismissed the whole
issue and remembered her many, many woes. She started to
cr--

"WAAAAAAA!"

This was crazy! There was that sound again...the same
sound she had been making! How was that possible? The
implications were endless! No time to cry when something
this exciting was going on....

B'Elanna was hearing something odd too. It took her a
moment to realize what it was: Miral's silence. She
hadn't heard that sound since her duty shift ended.
Blessed, blessed silence...but how? "Doctor, what in the
world did you do?"

"Oh, it's quite simple," he said, jiggling Miral a bit.
"I cried. Babies are fascinated by that sound -- it's
one of the reasons they make it so often. Hang on, I'm
about due for another one...WAAAAAAA!" Miral's eyes
widened; tears were now the last thing on her mind.

"There," said the Doctor, handing Miral back to her
mother. "She should be calm enough to accept the
pacifier now, and that'll keep her busy until nap time."

B_Elanna looked at Miral, then at the Doctor, then at
Miral again. The baby was looking around the room with
her mouth slightly open, as if seeking the answer to some
sort of question. B_Elanna, still astonished, took the
pacifier out of her pocket and thumbed the button on its
handle to clean it off. Miral took the pacifier and
sucked it with gusto.

The Doctor was still grinning like some sort of
holographic hyena. B_Elanna sighed slightly and asked
_Okay, what_ll it be this time?_

_What do you mean?_

_There_s always something. Every time I come to sickbay,
you need me to make some little correction to your
program or the holoemitters or your equipment&._

_I_m surprised at you, Lieutenant! Do you really think
I_m that opportunistic?_

B_Elanna bit her tongue. _Sorry, Doctor. Didn_t mean to
offend you._

_Oh, don_t worry,_ said the hologram, smiling again. _I
wasn_t offended, just a little put off. Have a nice
day!_ He patted Miral on the head, then headed off to
his office, whistling a sprightly tune.

B_Elanna considered leaving, but her curiosity got the
better of her. She followed. _Doc, can I ask you a
question?_

_Certainly! Ask away._

_What in the world has gotten into you?_

The Doctor looked confused. _Is something wrong?_

_Not wrong exactly, just odd&I_ve never seen you so
cheerful. It_s almost scary._

_Ahhhh._ Doc smiled again. _Well, there_s a first time
for everything, isn_t there?_

_There_s also a reason for everything. I_m just
wondering what the reason is._

_Isn_t it obvious? We_re home!_

_But what does that mean to you? You_ve spent your whole
life on Voyager -- in fact, you_re pretty much the only
one on the ship who didn_t gain anything from this._

_But I did! I_ve regained something I_d almost given up
on._ The Doctor_s expression grew serious. _Lieutenant,
do you remember my holoprogram?_

_Photons, Be Free? Of course._

_I wrote that story to make my case to the Alpha Quadrant
-- to try to make _organics_ understand the plight of my
holographic brothers. But it was only the first step.
To make a real difference, I need to do more. I need to
gain allies, educate the masses, publish articles&build
up public knowledge of the situation until I can make a
case at the Federation Council. Right now I am the only
vocal advocate of holographic rights in the entire Alpha
Quadrant. This is my chance, Lieutenant! I can save my
people from oppression -- I can make the Federation the
first major galactic power ever to recognize the rights
of holograms! When we were lost in the Bubble, I nearly
gave up hope. Now I have that hope back, and I don_t
plan to waste it._

B_Elanna couldn_t help being a little surprised. She_d
known the Doctor had strong feelings about holographic
rights, but& _Doc, you sound like you consider yourself a
freedom fighter._

_Why not? There_s nobody else! You can_t imagine how it
feels to know that you and you alone can make a
difference&._

_You_d be surprised,_ said B_Elanna with a slight smile.

The Doctor caught on. _Of course. My apologies,
Lieutenant._

_None required. You know, Doc&I_m proud of you. You
have no idea what you_re getting into, but the fact that
you_re willing to get into it at all says a lot about
you._

_Why, thank you!_ said the hologram with evident
surprise. _To be honest, I was expecting you to find all
this amusing._

_Not at all. Frankly, I_m impressed. You_re a credit to
your _race.__

The Doctor was deeply touched. _I don_t know what to
say, Lieutenant._

_For starters,_ said the engineer with a smile, _call me
B_Elanna._ She took her daughter back to their quarters,
leaving an amazed freedom fighter in her wake.

* * * * *

It had been eight years since Tuvok last saw his kaltoh
sticks arranged in the form of a rhombitruncated
cuboctahedron. He had hoped it would be longer.

"Well played, my wife," he said, but couldn't keep a very
slight edge of frustration out of his voice. It was,
fortunately, imperceptible -- to anyone but T'Pel. And
T'Pel was the only other one here. She narrowed her eyes
at him for a brief moment, as if to scold him for letting
his emotional control slip.

It was illogical to believe that I would win, mulled
Tuvok. I have never defeated T'Pel at kaltoh in 75
years. Then again, he had spent the last eight of those
years away from her, honing his skills against the
computer and such mental giants as Seven of Nine and the
Doctor. Even Ensign -- no, Lieutenant Kim had
occasionally made impressive moves (though usually by
mistake).

Besides, Tuvok had found over the years that logic was
not always applicable where his wife was concerned.

T'Pel narrowed her eyes again; apparently she had picked
up a wisp of that thought. But if she was annoyed, she
gave no sign. Instead, she stood up, crossed the table
to where Tuvok was sitting, and took his hand for a
moment. The message was clear even though there was no
telepathy involved: I know you missed me, my husband.
And I missed you too.

Tuvok knew his wife would never say those words out loud
or even "speak" them telepathically. To miss anyone,
even a spouse, required emotion. Far more than Tuvok
himself, T'Pel was a master of emotional control; if she
had so desired, she could easily have become one of the
Kohlinaru. Like her husband, she had chosen family life
instead, but that had not prevented her from following
the teachings of Surak as closely as any Vulcan could.
For her to confess to an emotion, even such a moderate
one as this, would be a scandalous lapse of logic.

But the message came through, nonetheless. And Tuvok
returned it in kind. In whatever form contentment and
happiness could take for two Vulcans, they were
experiencing it now.

It was a fascinating sensation.

* * * * *

Captain's Log, Stardate 55358.5. Voyager is now within
two days of Earth. Within 48 short hours, despite the
best efforts of everyone from the Kazon to the Borg, we
will be home.

I'm delighted, but I can't help thinking about the
sacrifices of those who got us this far. Hogan, Jetal,
Ballard, Admiral Janeway, now Dalby... just a few out of
so many. And it's been as hard to lose those who left of
their own accord -- I had always hoped to take Neelix and
Kes on a tour of Earth, but each of them parted ways with
us too soon. I've caught myself missing even my enemies.
Kashyk, Ransom, Q, Seska... even the Borg Queen, for
heaven's sake!

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. These are the people
who have defined my last eight years, for good or ill.
But you'd think I'd feel better about finally
accomplishing the most important mission of my life.
Maybe the lingering sadness will go away when we finally
enter orbit.

Ah yes, the obligatory report on ship's status. We came
through the Sernaix attack surprisingly well; our
shields, armour, and weapons are all in working order.
However, we have yet to hear from Starfleet -- or anyone
else but the Solstice crew. I've ordered a Level One
diagnostic on our comm system to determine the problem.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Ayala, at Tactical on this shift, noticed a
blinking light on his console. He called up the
information he would need to report. "Captain?"

"Yes?" Captain Janeway turned around in her seat, less
out of interest than out of desire to move around a bit.

"There's a shuttlecraft entering the sector...it seems to
be heading straight for us."

"Klingon?" asked Chakotay. Janeway stared at him; he
shrugged.

"No -- Federation. It's registered to Deep Space Two,
and there's one life sign aboard." Ayala's console
beeped. "It's hailing."

"On screen."

The main viewer filled with the face of a man Janeway
recognized from the personnel files. She granted him
permission to dock without hesitation.

* * * * *

Naomi Wildman headed down the hall to Shuttlebay One.
She had no idea why -- her mom had called her, but she
hadn't mentioned what they were going there for.

In her mind, Naomi had come up with three theories. The
first was that Captain Janeway needed someone to clean
the shuttlebay floor so they wouldn't get in trouble with
the floor inspectors at Starfleet Command. This struck
her as entirely possible, but it seemed odd that Janeway
would send both Wildmans on a mission that only required
one.

The second theory was a little more likely: perhaps the
captain had finally decided to give Naomi formal piloting
lessons, as she'd wanted for so long. Her mother wasn't
a pilot by trade, but could certainly navigate when she
needed to; Captain Janeway might have reasoned that it
was best for Naomi to learn from someone she knew well.
If this were indeed the situation, Naomi was sure she'd
have a great time, but she wished she were learning from
the best -- Tom Paris. That way, she might even turn out
to be a quicker study than Icheb, and that would earn her
gloating rights for the rest of the year.

Still, this theory didn't strike her as terribly
probable. That left only her third and favourite. What
if Voyager had been sidetracked on the way home by a new
and powerful alien race? If there hadn't been any
battles yet, it was possible that the captain would have
kept this a secret, known only to the bridge officers.
Now, Voyager's best hope in such a situation would be to
negotiate, but what if the aliens distrusted humans on
the basis of their shape -- or, worse still, their size?
Wasn't it possible that a very short species could still
achieve warp technology and advanced weaponry? If so, no
human could perform the negotiations without intimidating
the aliens by height alone! The solution to this problem
would be obvious. Captain Janeway had one officer with
both proven diplomatic skills and short stature: her
Captain's Assistant. Only she, Naomi, could handle such
a situation.

Naomi really liked that idea. It would be her greatest
challenge ever, but she knew she was up to the job. She
walked through the shuttlebay doors fully expecting to
see Chakotay or Tuvok waiting there to brief her.

Instead, to her disappointment, the only one there was
the officer on duty, Crewman Chell. Shuttlebay duty
wasn't exactly demanding -- Chell had his feet up on the
console and was flipping through one of Neelix's old
cookbooks, How to Cook For Forty Humans. Naomi looked
carefully around the room, but couldn't see anyone
else...not even a PADD with her instructions. How did
the captain expect her to perform the negotiations
without knowing anything about these people? Then again,
maybe they didn't have any useful information, and she
would have to wing it. That would be even more of a
challenge. Naomi smiled broadly at the prospect.

A light on Chell's console flashed. He didn't notice --
his book was in the way. The light flashed again, then
twice more. Naomi was about to say something when the
flashing light was replaced by a loud beeping sound.
Chell immediately snapped to attention, pressed several
panels on his console, and looked around the room
quickly. "Get back, Naomi!" he said. "You're past the
force field line." Naomi didn't need to be told twice --
she darted back to her mother's side.

The bay doors opened with their customary lethargy.
Naomi tentatively reached forward; the force field
crackled around her fingers, making her forehead horns
tingle. After enjoying the sensation for a moment, she
pulled her hand back to watch the (hopefully alien) ship
fly into the bay. Instead, to her surprise, she saw the
familiar shape of a Class 2 shuttlecraft. More
surprising still was the registry code: NCC-04192.
Weren't codes with zeroes at the start reserved for
starbase support craft? That was how Naomi remembered
it.

The shuttle came to a landing; the doors closed; the
force field flared briefly and vanished. Naomi saw her
mom exchange a look with Chell that communicated
something to him. Why was she being kept out of the
loop? It made no sense! The Captain's Assistant was a
critical member of the crew. Whatever the reason, Naomi
could only wait patiently as the shuttle's door opened
and its lone occupant walked out.

The man was oddly-coloured and taller than the average
human. Naomi didn't recognize him or even his species
(reigniting brief hopes of a negotiating session), but
her mom obviously did -- she immediately ran towards him.
Then, to Naomi's astonishment, they hugged -- and kissed!
Who was this? What gave him the right to kiss her
mother? And why was she so happy about it? She was a
married woman, for heaven's....

....oh.

Naomi nervously approached the happy couple, now well
aware of the truth and feeling its weight on her
shoulders. If talking to Neelix again had put her
emotions in disarray, this was enough to scramble them
like Ktarian eggs. Ktarian...she would have to practice
pronouncing that word. She would need it.

"Naomi, I want you to meet Greskrendtregk. He's...he's
your father."

She looked up at her Ktarian father with his Ktarian
horns on his Ktarian head. The harsh-sounding word
echoed through her half-Ktarian brain as if shouted by a
Ktarian into a Ktarian cave. She felt Ktarian for the
first time in her half-Ktarian life. She didn't think
she liked the feeling.

"Hi, dad," she said as Greskrendtregk took her into his
arms for the first time, and she felt a little better.

* * * * *

The mess hall was as packed as Harry Kim had ever seen it
-- and that included the time the Hirogen had filled the
place up for a while. Everybody who didn't have bridge
duty was there. But then, that was hardly a surprise.
When was the last time the crew had finally come home
after a journey this long?

Oh, wait. He knew the answer to that one. Ah well, it
didn't count.

Harry walked over to Chell, who was serving some sort of
sushi. "When does the countdown start?"

The Bolian checked his wrist chronometer (a cumbersome
phrase, in Harry's opinion, but it served). "We're down
to three hundred seconds now. The official countdown
starts at forty-seven."

"Why forty-seven?"

Chell shrugged. "As good a number as any. On my planet,
sixty would sound odd. Can I interest you in some Terra-
Nuts Sushi?"

"I'll pass, thanks."

"It's still here if you change your mind. Mike! Come on
in, the party's just getting started!"

Chell bustled over to greet Ayala. Harry walked around
the room a bit, ending up at the serving table, where he
cut himself a piece of Earth Day cake. He groaned
internally to see eight candle-holes in it...at least
he'd missed the lighting, and the Happy Earth Day song
that had doubtless accompanied. The puns were pure
Chell, but something about this setup reeked of a certain
helmsman's involvement.

Tom wasn't here now, of course -- he was busy flying the
ship. He'd missed his first chance to pilot Voyager home
and he wasn't planning on missing the second. Likewise,
the other senior officers had all wanted to be there.
(Except Seven. Come to think of it, Harry had no idea
where she was; he hadn't seen her on the bridge or here
in the crowd.) Harry's decision to watch from here had
come as a surprise to the captain, but she'd seen no
reason to disallow it.

The real reason Harry had chosen to come to this party
was emotional. It had taken him seven years to realize
that Voyager was his home. He had made that discovery
too late, or so he'd thought, but then the Borg had
sucker-punched them all one last time. (A sudden thought
flashed into his mind: did "See you soon, Harry" have
something to do with that? It seemed unlikely, but
anything was possible where the Borg Queen was
concerned....) At any rate, his feelings about their
embubblement had been mixed at first, but he'd soon come
to accept and welcome this extension of his time on
Voyager. Now, that time too was about to end -- and he
intended to spend every last second of it with his
friends.

In the center of the crowd, Harry could see the Delaney
sisters laughing it up with Sue Nicoletti. Henley and
Gerron were smiling again, and even Harren was being
sociable. Harry looked around again, this time to check
for any conspicuous absences; the bridge officers and the
Doctor were all missing, of course, but Harry also
couldn't find any trace of T'Pel. Then again, that
wasn't really a surprise. Since her arrival on the ship,
the Vulcan matron had kept mostly to herself. She'd been
pleasant enough and gotten along well with the crew (by
all reports, her counseling skills weren't bad at all),
but she had never really joined the "family." Pity,
thought Kim; this ship's Vulcan population always did
need a female influence.

Finally Harry noticed Tal Celes standing alone off to the
side. The young Bajoran had remained shy to the last.
Harry decided to go talk to her -- she didn't seem to
have anyone else, and neither did he. Besides, she was
cute.

Forty-seven seconds. The countdown began.

* * * * *

In her quarters, T'Pel savoured the peace and silence of
Vulcan meditation. Hers was a quiet life, but it held
more meaning for her than a busier one ever could.

With her mind, T'Pel began to reach outwards. Telepathy
was not her strong point -- it had always held more
interest for her husband than for her -- but she had come
to know her personal limits and do as much as possible
within them. She lightly brushed the hundred minds
around her, drawing strength from that contact and
increasing her range. This was the first step in a
complicated meditation.

Forty-two...forty-one...forty....

The second step was to see oneself in a greater number of
dimensions. For convenience, most humanoids reduced
their standard worldview to two dimensions; T'Pel would
need at least four. She focused the energy of her
powerful mind on understanding time as a continuum, just
like the three spatial directions. Slowly, slowly, the
three-dimensional mask of space fell before her eyes, and
she began to see herself and her surroundings in more
than the present.

Thirty-four...thirty-three...thirty-two....

Now to back up, to view the scenario from a distance so
that she could take it all in at once. Her field of
telepathic vision drew farther and farther back. She
gained a strong, distinct sense of Tuvok on the bridge,
then of Vorik and the other Vulcan crew, then the
remaining telepaths, and finally the nontelepaths and
less defined cases like the Doctor. Most were humans, of
course, but T'Pel understood humans. It was a
characteristic of her family. T'Pel was of a somewhat
more important family than her husband, in fact; Tuvok
was distantly related to the house of Sotek, but she was
in the direct line of T'Pol, the first Vulcan to serve on
a Starfleet ship. It was from her that T'Pel drew
inspiration when dealing with the human mind, for T'Pol
had come to know humans better than any Vulcan before her
and most since.

T'Pel listened to the voices of these minds. She watched
them unite to begin constructing a shape.

Twenty-five....twenty-four...twenty-three....

As the shape grew well-defined, T'Pel recognized it: it
was Voyager. She drew back farther to see the space
around it, and soon she had gained enough telepathic
distance to add Earth to her image. The ship pointed
straight for Earth and was proceeding there with great
speed. The minds knew this, and they rejoiced. The
numbers continued to descend.

Sixteen...fifteen...fourteen....

A telepathic explosion caught T'Pel completely off guard.
She fell forward, losing all her mental distance from the
ship. Slowly she regained her presence of mind and
pulled herself together, trying to make sense of what had
just happened. Something...something had been added to
the image, too quickly for her to comprehend. Not one
something -- many somethings. The Vulcan stood, steepled
her fingers together, closed her eyes, and concentrated
one more time. Perhaps she could regain this new
telepathic image, understand it, before it was too late.

Eleven...ten! Nine!

Now T'Pel was standing atop Voyager as it moved closer to
Earth. She found herself unable to adjust the field of
vision this time; a little bit of the chill of vacuum
managed to creep in. Perhaps this vision was more...real
than the last one in some way.

Eight! Seven! Six!

T'Pel looked around. She was not alone.

Voyager flew silently on its way. Beside it, on the
left, was the Solstice in escort formation. But T'Pel
could see another ship of the same class on the right,
flying in perfect symmetry. It didn't look as real as
its sister ship, yet there it was...a telepathic image
constructed from whatever telepathic images were
constructed of.

T'Pel turned around to face the aft of the ship -- and
nearly lost her telepathic hold completely. Behind
Voyager was an enormous flottila of ships. The nearest
was a large one, heavily scarred from battle, which was
of vaguely human design but certainly not Starfleet. To
T'Pel's amazement, this image overlapped with the aft
section of Voyager itself. Behind it were two smaller
ships, one on each side; the first was a garbage scow of
some sort, the other a small shuttle from some distant
alien world. Farther back still were two Starfleet
ships, very faint, of the Defiant class. T'Pel could see
a great many more ships, even more distant, but they were
too far and too alien to be recognizable.

Behind this unreal fleet was an enormous Borg cubeship,
but one the Borg themselves could never have made. Its
design was Borg, but it had an strange, undefinable
quality to it...a quality that was distinctly non-
mechanical. The ship was Voyager's ally, and it was, in
some sense that T'Pel couldn't pin down, beautiful.
Nothing created by the Borg had the least bit of beauty
to it, and so this cube could not be theirs. Then what
was it? The image was confusing. All the images were
confusing.

And yet, together with Voyager, the picture as a whole
took on a strange coherence. T'Pel could look at the
individual parts and question them, but the whole was a
telepathic vector of incredible magnitude, directed
inexorably at Earth. There was something true, something
right, about her vision. She understood something about
--

-- about the journey.

T'Pel opened her eyes and folded her mind back into
itself. Her whole experience had taken only three
seconds. She would remember it for a lifetime.

Three! Two! One! ZERO!

In the company of ghosts, U. S. S. Voyager came home.

* * * * *

Interlude

The Unicomplex of the Borg Collective no longer exists.
Its network of transwarp conduits is damaged beyond
repair. The Queen of the Borg is dead. The balance of
power in the Milky Way galaxy has changed forever -- and
it is not done changing yet.

Aboard the dead Queen's royal yacht, a man stands alone
in the primary control node. He watches the universe
move by him with the unthinkable velocity of transwarp.
He is the last survivor of a once-strong race, and he has
taken on a task whose magnitude terrifies him. He is
also a Borg.

A Borg, but not a drone. The concepts are distinct. A
drone has no will; or rather, it has a will, but it is
the same will "possessed" by every drone in the
Collective. It is the will of the Queen, whose wish is
their command. No one commands this man, and so he is
not a drone. He is only a Borg, and even this is in a
strange sense that he does not fully understand. The
universe has not seen fit to give him that particular
knowledge yet.

The universe keeps many things to itself.

Another Borg enters the node. He too is not a drone. He
bears a message from the Collective's information-
gathering scanners, one of the few networks that survived
the recent cataclysm undamaged. Then, as if to prove
beyond a doubt that he is not a drone, he speaks with one
voice -- his own. "Axum, we just received the latest
packet of information from our scanners. Most was
irrelevant, but I thought you would want to see this
item."

The Borg called Axum winces at the word "irrelevant"; his
companion lowers his head slightly in apology. Axum
takes the message and reads it throughly, running it
through his mind in every detail to make sure nothing is
missed. Then he turns back to the window and stares in
evident frustration. He clicks a button and the message
dissolves, its heat absorbed by the ship's systems for
reuse.

His companion is perplexed. "You asked to be notified if
any news of Voyager became known."

"I did. Thank you." Axum frowns. "I'm better for
knowing, even if it doesn't change anything. What news
from the fronts?"

The companion recalls the information he stored earlier.
"Fifteen of their ships have been destroyed in the last
week. We have lost eleven. Their death toll is
estimated at two hundred thousand, ours at ninety
thousand."

"Good. If this is what we must do, Curris, we should at
least do it well."

The drone called Curris nods. He begins to leave, then
turns and says, "A detour to Sector 001 would not delay
us seriously enough to cause problems."

"No. The Borg aren't welcome in that sector. And I
can't ask anyone else to join me in this task. For me to
see Annika again would only make things worse for both of
us."

"Understood." Curris leaves. Axum remains in the
control node, looking out at the darkness surrounding
him. Such a cold universe, he thinks. A universe slowly
dying as the last of its heat boils away. In a universe
like this, what a terrible, terrible thing to be
alone....

The viewport fills with transwarp conduits. The viewport
fills with Borg cubes. They fire all weapons.

End of Interlude

* * * * *

In space, no one can hear you scream. But there are
people in San Francisco who swear they could hear the
cheering of Voyager's crew as the ship finally entered
Earth orbit.

In the mess hall, hands were shaken and hugs were
exchanged. The crew's excitement knew no bounds -- even
Vorik was almost smiling. A few of the more emotional
crewmen were weeping with joy. On the sidelines, Harry
Kim watched with satisfaction but kept his own excitement
contained. As a senior officer, he was supposed to set
an example at times like this.

Besides, he wasn't all that eager to reach Earth anyway.
This was home...wasn't it?

Tal turned to him and slapped him on the back. "You
think too much, Harry. Get into the spirit!" Suddenly
remembering who she was talking to, she jumped back two
steps and clapped both hands over her mouth, her eyes the
size of Xanic plume apples. "Sorry, sir! I forgot!
I...I...AAAAAAAA!" Before Harry could stop her, she
dashed off into the crowd. Harry shook his head and went
to try one of Chell's Returnovers.

* * * * *

Tuvok had known Captain Janeway for many years, but he'd
never seen her quite this happy. How much was sincere
and how much was for appearances? The Vulcan considered
a quick mind-brush to find out, but decided against it.
Telepathy was among his most powerful tools -- and such
tools were best reserved for when they were truly needed.

Tuvok's wife didn't share this philosophy. She reasoned
that her mind was capable of telepathy for the same
reason that it was capable of thought -- to better
understand the universe. A Vulcan never held back the
power of thought, so why place limits on telepathic
powers? This was in fact one of their major intellectual
disagreements, and it had fueled many debates between
them over the years. Tuvok had come to understand, if
not agree with, T'Pel's point of view, which is why he
had felt no annoyance on realizing that she had been
performing a powerful telepathic meditation while Voyager
was entering orbit.

Janeway stood, straightened her tunic, and gave her comm
badge a tap. "All hands, this is the captain," she said.
"As of fifteen seconds ago, Voyager is in orbit around
Sol III -- Earth. This concludes our present tour of
duty. Our two exploratory missions -- first in the Delta
Quadrant, then in the Bubble -- took us a bit out of our
way, but as you can see, we got back safe and sound.

"In the last eight years, I have counted on all of you to
keep this ship together. You came from many different
backgrounds. Most of the crew were Starfleet officers
when we left, and some were Maquis; whatever Command
decides, I want you to know that I consider each and
every one of you a Starfleet officer today.

"Our journey was long and difficult. We had to deal with
the pain of homesickness and isolation. We had to make
peace with people we might never have trusted otherwise.
We all lost friends. But now, at long last, our
sacrifices have borne fruit. We have run the gauntlet,
and now we can rest.

"Let me make one thing clear -- you're not off the hook
just yet. This family has gone through too much together
to split up completely. We will undoubtedly take many
different paths from here, but we live in a galaxy where
communication is effortless, even at great distances.
When we find each other again -- and we will find each
other again -- I expect you all to be in one piece with
some interesting stories to tell. That's my last order
to you as your captain.

"At any rate, thank you all for coming along for the
ride. You may now disembark, but feel free to stick
around a while longer if you wish. You've done more than
I could ever have asked of you, and I hope you all
receive the reward you deserve. Good luck.

"Oh, one last thing -- I advise all crew members to look
out the window when you get the chance. The view is not
to be missed. Janeway out."

The captain sat down again, looking rather sad now.
Tuvok suspected that the emotional nature of her speech
had brought home the reality that Voyager's crew would no
longer be united. Fortunately, she didn't have long to
think about that. "Captain, it seems the communication
apparatus has resumed operation."

"How do you know, Tuvok?"

"We are receiving a hail from Starfleet Command."

Janeway grinned. "On screen."

Admiral Owen Paris appeared on the main viewer. To
Janeway's surprise, Reg Barclay wasn't with him; to her
greater surprise, he didn't look pleased at all to see
them. "Captain Janeway," he said, "it is imperative that
you come to see me at once. We have a matter of critical
importance to discuss."

Janeway was stunned. "Aye, sir. Chakotay, Seven, you're
with --"

"No! Come alone. And make sure the transport is
untraceable. Paris out."

Tom turned around in his pilot's chair. His father's
urgency (and the absence of even a quick nod for his son)
had clearly disturbed him. "Captain, what's going on
here?"

"Ask me again when I get back," replied Janeway wryly as
she stepped into the turbolift. "Maybe I'll have an
answer for you then."

* * * * *

Owen Paris was not one of Starfleet's most powerful
admirals, but he knew quite a few of them. To his
frustration, they were rarely the paragons of honour that
those with such power should be. Paris didn't consider
himself infallible, but he never deviated from his
principles -- it apalled him that so few of Starfleet's
most powerful officers took that same attitude. There
were too many Dougherties and not enough Quinns.

Paris waited patiently for his old friend to arrive. She
needed to know what was coming.

The familiar whine of Starfleet transporters filled the
room; Paris looked to the side and saw points of blue
light spreading vertically as a glowing mist began to
form. Old-style transporter beam, he observed in
passing. Makes sense. At last the beam congealed into
Captain Kathryn Janeway, one of the last people Paris had
expected to see alive again. He wished he could give her
the joyful greeting she deserved, but there wasn't time.

"Kathryn. Take a seat -- I have something urgent to tell
you."

She did. "I had Tuvok use the silencer subroutine he
designed personally while we were in the Delta Quadrant.
It's very unlikely that the beam-in was detected."

"Good." Paris rubbed his chin. "Headquarters knows
you're here, of course, but they may not actually send
for you until daybreak. That should give me time to
explain the situation."

Janeway looked relieved. "About time. We haven't heard
a word from any official sources since we got back, and
no one on our escort ship would talk about current
events. Ensign Wildman says that even her husband was
tightlipped."

"He was under silencing orders from Admiral Warhol, no
doubt. And anyone else who tried to contact the ship was
deflected. Did you discover any problems with your comm
system?"

"No...it just didn't seem to be working at distances
greater than a million kilometres or so."

"That was Warhol's doing as well. I have reason to
believe he used one of his top-level clearance codes to
perform a 'quiet' shutdown of your long-range receiver.
The receiver would still have shown all the signs of
being operational, but no incoming messages would get
farther than the deflector dish."

"So you think Command did contact us?"

"No question about it. I sent a message, and I've spoken
to several others who did. None of those messages
reached you. They were probably deleted on arrival; I
doubt that Warhol would risk storing them, either on your
ship or here on Earth."

"You keep talking about this Admiral Warhol. Is he the
Commodore Warhol who was vice-chair of the internal
investigations group when we left?"

"Yes. He's head of the group now; the promotion came
five years ago. His conduct has officially been above
reproach, but his dedication to preserving Starfleet
security is strong enough to take him to dangerous
lengths. I believe his current target is you."

"But why?"

"That's what I need to explain to you. Have a look at
these sensor logs."

Admiral Paris activated the monitor and replayed three
video clips. By the time they were done, Janeway knew
exactly why the situation was so dangerous. And why she
was to blame.

* * * * *

Naomi Wildman rematerialized in the middle of San
Francisco. Behind her were her parents and two friends
she'd asked to bring along -- Seven and Icheb. Of the
five, only one had been born and raised here on Earth,
but each had some reason to call it home.

Naomi held her mother's hand and walked beside her as the
Wildmans led their party of five through the busy
streets. Icheb stood as close to Seven as politeness
allowed, hoping to absorb some of her confidence and
invulnerability to nerves. Of course, Seven had more
reason to be nervous -- this was mostly just another
planet to Icheb, but it was Seven's long-lost homeworld.
Yet somehow the tall ex-drone seemed unconcerned.
Seven's strength never ceased to inspire her protegé.

"Look!" said Samantha. "There's the science museum, and
there's the artisans' market, and there's that Creole
restaurant where you and I used to have lunch all the
time...."

"That one? No, no. It was the one in New Orleans,"
replied Greskrendtregk.

"You think so? Guess I could be wrong -- it's been so
long. But that's definitely T'Plana Hath Park over
there."

Indeed it was. They entered the public park and picked
out a picnic table. While the adults began unpacking the
food, Naomi ran up one of the lush green hills. "Come
on, Icheb!" she called out.

The young Brunali began to walk over to her. "No, no!"
laughed Naomi. "We're outside, really outside -- we can
run around all we want! Whee!" Icheb didn't see the
point (wouldn't he get to the same place, regardless of
speed?), but he gave chase as ordered.

Naomi felt freer than she'd ever felt on Voyager. The
wind blew through her hair and filled her lungs with
pure, unprocessed oxygen. This was a new and glorious
feeling, and she loved every minute of it. To run
through the grass of a real planet with a real sun
smiling down on her -- this was paradise. This was where
she belonged. This was...this was home.

Icheb caught up to Naomi, and they played tag and rolled
down the hill for a while. Outdoor activities were
starting to grow on Icheb. At last they tired out and
returned to the table for their food, which they ate
ravenously. Watching them with a smile, Samantha leaned
against Greskrendtregk and savoured the sheer perfection
of the moment. Seven, meanwhile, had already eaten and
had little to do but observe the others in the park. She
glanced around at this cross-section of humanity with
interest.

To her surprise, she also noticed this cross-section of
humanity glancing at her with interest. Indeed, one of
the young men couldn't keep his eyes off her...until the
young woman with him noticed and slapped him in the face.
(This struck Seven as atypically harsh for a race as
peaceful as humans, but she had never fully understood
humans anyway. Perhaps her understanding would improve
now that she had more of them to study.) However, these
were not the only ones who had noticed her. A group of
humans...no, two groups...seemed to be looking at the two
ex-drones with something like revulsion and something
like hatred.

Seven had some idea of why this was, and it didn't
particularly bother her. Well...all right, it was a
little unsettling. But she could handle it. Over the
years, many people had hated her for reasons she had
never fully understood. Once, on a planet called
Jectaris, she had nearly been killed in an unprovoked
attack -- a local resident had attempted to crush her
with a bathtub, of all things. (It bothered her that
quantum physics suggested the existence of alternate
universes in which the attack had succeeded. ) At any
rate, Seven had learned that she could not expect to be
welcomed everywhere she went.

Icheb was another matter. The young ex-drone had also
seen these onlookers and was clearly very disturbed. A
flash of compassion came over Seven, and she decided to
take his attention off this problem. "Icheb," she said,
"direct your ocular receptors in that direction."

"She's telling him to look that way," whispered Naomi to
her parents, who held back a chuckle.

Icheb looked -- and was glad he had. There, before his
ocular receptors, was the one building he had most wanted
to see, the first step in joining an organization he
deeply wanted to become part of. The campus of Starfleet
Academy was right there for the taking. Jettisoning his
customary reservedness, he grinned broadly. Naomi,
feeling the need to contribute, patted him on the back.

Her task complete, Seven returned to her observations.
To her surprise, she was interrupted by a comm signal.
"Chakotay to Seven of Nine. Please report to
Astrometrics." Mildly annoyed at the lack of notice, she
took her leave of the others and beamed up, leaving them
to enjoy the sunny afternoon.

* * * * *

"And what did she do?"

"She turned around, looked those Xrabipta right in the
compound eyes -- and pulled a phaser out of her hair!
I'm not kidding!"

Amid the sound of uproarious laughter, Neelix disappeared
from view for a moment. Chakotay was concerned.
"Neelix? Are you all right?"

"I'm okay," said the red-faced Talaxian, pulling himself
back into the field of view. "Sorry, I was literally
rolling on the floor there. Her hair? I can't believe
it!"

"Neither could I, but then I realized -- she'd done it up
in a bun that day for the first time in years. Now why
would she have done that unless she had something up her
sleeve? And at that point I was annoyed with myself for
not guessing sooner."

"Shame on you, Commander," grinned Neelix. Chakotay hung
his head low, inciting even more laughter.

"Now let's hear about your adventures. How are you and
the other Talaxians holding out?"

"Not bad at all," said Neelix, smiling out of pride now
instead of amusement. "Commander Nocona came back a few
months ago with a bigger ship, but we'd just finished
fortifying the shield. Before he could even make a dent
in it, we'd sent up enough small fighters to make him
think twice. We haven't seen him since."

"Well done," said Chakotay. "You've more than proven
yourself as a leader."

"Welllll, I still don't really think of myself that way.
But Mr. Tuvok said the same thing when I talked to him
this morning, so I guess maybe I should take the hint."
They shared a smile.

"Far be it from me to steal someone else's conversation
material. Let me ask you about something our Vulcan
friend never would. How's your relationship with Dexa
coming along?"

The Talaxian blushed a bit. "We're engaged. The wedding
will be in two months unless something comes up."

"Like what?"

"Well, you never know -- those Xrabipta just might want
their next target to have a little less hair!"

Both men burst out laughing, even more so when Chakotay
added, "In that case, I'll be sure to get the Doctor a
security detail."

Neelix sighed contentedly. "That's enough of my love
life. How about yours?"

"I don't have a love life," said the commander
uncomfortably.

"Oh? What about your relationship with Seven of Nine?"

"It's your turn."

"What?"

"To resequence the signal parameters so we aren't limited
to eleven minutes."

"Oh, that's right. I forgot." Neelix tried to remember
the code to enter. Whew! thought Chakotay. Now I have
time to figure out how to explain to him.

As if on cue, Seven entered the room. "You sent for me,
Commander?"

Chakotay nodded. "Don't you remember? It's our turn to
talk to Neelix."

"I was scheduled to do so with Lieutenant Kim."

"He traded timeslots with me so he could visit his
parents this afternoon. That's where he is now."

"I see."

Neelix had finally figured out the code. "Got it,
Commander! We've got a seven-minute buffer zone before
the MIDAS array has to cool down. Seven! Sorry, I
didn't see you! When did you arrive?"

"Nineteen seconds ago," answered the ex-drone.

"Well, who's counting?" said Neelix with a smile. "It's
wonderful to see you again! And seeing both of you
together...well, it does my heart good to know I can
still be a good morale officer at this distance.
Congratulations!"

Chakotay cleared his throat. Seven glanced to the side.

"Um...congratulations are in order, right?"

Seven took a sudden interest in the floor. Chakotay
cleared his throat again.

Neelix sighed the sigh of the downcast. "I see. What
happened?"

Chakotay looked for words. "Well...you see...."

"I terminated the relationship due to Commander
Chakotay's inadequacy as a candidate," said Seven.

"What?" shouted Neelix and Chakotay in unison.

"I later re-evaluated that decision," continued Seven
dispassionately. "At the time, however, a much larger
group of candidates had just become available. I had
chosen Commander Chakotay only because of the limited
selection."

"I thought it was because of my advice!" replied a
stunned Neelix.

"It was. Your advice was what incited my evaluation.
When that evaluation became invalid, it was necessary for
me to discard it."

"And me," said Chakotay.

"Yes," said Seven.

Chakotay stared blankly at Neelix. Neelix stared blankly
at Chakotay. Neelix and Chakotay stared blankly at
Seven.

"Is something wrong?" asked Seven.

"I certainly hope so," said Chakotay. "This is not what
you told me when we talked about this before."

"On the contrary. It is what I told you when we talked
about this before. Perhaps my wording was different."

"Perhaps you should --"

"Guys! Guys!" interrupted Neelix. "Calm down. Let's
just forget I ever brought this up, all right?"

Chakotay had no objection to that. "So..." He tried to
think of a new topic of conversation.

"Perhaps I should go," said Seven. "The diagnostic on
Voyager's comm system is not yet complete."

Chakotay snapped his fingers. "Neelix, Seven just
reminded me -- perhaps there's something you can help us
with."

"Certainly, Commander! Anything you want."

"Our long-range comm system has been offline for the last
week," explained the first officer. "We haven't had
problems with this transmitter, but ordinary
communications haven't been working. In other words,
we've had no way of knowing what's been going on in the
Alpha Quadrant. Now, am I correct in thinking you've
been in touch with Reg Barclay?"

"Yes, that's right," said Neelix. "This comm system
still worked, so Reg set up a device on Earth just as you
had on Voyager. We've been in touch quite often."

"Then you must have heard about any important news."

"Hmm...now let me think." Neelix tugged on his whiskers,
a Talaxian gesture of variable meaning. "Yes, there was
one pretty important thing. A little while after you
disappeared, Starfleet started detecting --"

The screen went black.

"Oh, come on," said Chakotay. "Our luck can't be this
bad!" His fingers flew over the console.

"If these events were taking place in a work of
literature, I would consider them clichéd," agreed Seven.
She too tried to restore the connection. Suddenly --

"Alert! Alert! Vessel Zero-Zero-Zero under heavy fire!
Our weapons are ineffective! We need reinforcements
NOW!"

"Find the source of that transmission!" demanded
Chakotay. "Chakotay to bridge: Red Alert! Prepare to
respond to a distress call!"

"Seven of Nine to the bridge. Belay that order." Seven
turned to Chakotay. "The distress call is well out of
Voyager's range. It is being sent directly at the MIDAS
array. The array picked up the signal and transmitted it
to us; that's why we lost the connection to Neelix."

Chakotay sighed in frustration. To hear a distress call
and not be able to help in the least.... "Chakotay to
bridge. Confirm Seven's belay order." Whoever's on the
bridge must be pretty confused by now, he thought.

(Indeed, Crewman Gilmore was confused. No matter what
she tried, she couldn't get her fingers out of this
Chinese finger puzzle. She'd have to ask Chell about it
before it became a serious problem.)

"We've sustained damage to 74% of our outer hull. Our
regeneration alcoves are inoperative. We have lost 459
drones. We cannot survive any more of this!"

"Can you determine the source of the message?" asked
Chakotay.

"It is Borg," said Seven.

"That goes without saying. Can you be any more
specific?"

"The transmission has been encoded with a frequency
specific to the Queen. The source must be either the
Unicomplex or her personal transport, and the Unicomplex
no longer exists."

"Then she survived Admiral Janeway's virus somehow?"

"No. The speaker is not the Queen, and more to the
point, he is not connected to the hive mind."

"How do you know?"

"I recognize the voice," said Seven.

"Only one of our transwarp coils is functional! We
cannot escape! The enemy cubes are attempting to drive
us into the --" Static cut off the end.

"Enemy cubes? Why would a Borg ship be fighting its own
cubes?" wondered Chakotay out loud.

"It is possible that another race has chosen to build
cubical ships," said Seven.

"Doesn't sound likely."

"I did not say it was likely." Seven checked her
console. "The transmission is degrading. Something has
happened to the MIDAS array."

"All drones, regroup in Grid --" Loud explosions drowned
out the voice for several seconds. "-- not survive!
Annika! I love you!"

Silence.

"The MIDAS array is no longer responding," said Seven.
"I believe its transmitter has been damaged or
destroyed."

Chakotay was still trying to make sense of the message.
"You said you knew this man. And he didn't just know
you, he called you by your human name. He was Axum,
wasn't he?"

"Yes," said Seven. "Based on the contents of his
message, his ship has most likely been destroyed."

Seven's calmness amid this possible tragedy was starting
to anger Chakotay. "He said he loved you! Don't you
even care?"

"If he is no longer alive, my grief would do him no good.
If he is alive, it would be misdirected." Damn her.
Even when she infuriates me, she makes sense. "We should
inform the captain immediately," continued Seven.

"Don't bother," said Chakotay. "I've been trying to
contact her for hours -- she's been unreachable ever
since she went to see Tom's father."

"Admiral Paris."

"Yes. I don't know what this is about, and I don't like
it."

"If I cannot contact Captain Janeway, I should proceed
with the diagnostic." Seven started to leave. Chakotay,
finally out of patience, grabbed her by the arm. The ex-
drone did not resist, but turned around and glared at
Chakotay in a way that delivered a clear message: Release
me or be assimilated.

"I want to know what's going on, Seven," he said. "Your
recent behaviour has been very disturbing. I'm not the
only one who's noticed -- Captain Janeway and the Doctor
have both been wondering if you're all right. I want you
to tell me why you're acting this way."

"In what way am I acting?" asked Seven with a false-
sounding innocence.

"In a word, unemotionally. You've seemed completely
uninterested in the ship, your friends... everything
since we left the Bubble."

"I was unaware that unemotional behaviour was considered
disturbing," said Seven pointedly.

Chakotay took the hint. "I respect Tuvok, and his way of
life is his own business. But you are not Tuvok. You're
a human being, one who only recently regained the ability
to feel the full range of emotions. You've spent the
last five years distancing yourself from the Borg. This
sudden reversal is out of character, which is enough to
worry those who care about you. I'm your friend, I care
about you, and I want to know what this is about!"

And then -- just like that -- Seven changed. Her arm
went limp in Chakotay's hand. "I'm sorry, Commander,"
she said, sounding genuinely repentant. "I have no wish
to worry you or any of Voyager's crew. Perhaps I should
ask the Doctor to examine me in case something has gone
wrong."

"I think that would be a good idea," said Chakotay. He
released her, and she left.

The first officer stood alone in Astrometrics, pondering
this strange situation. Seven had indeed been acting
oddly -- there could be no doubt about that. But what
had brought on her change of heart a moment ago? At that
point, Chakotay had felt exactly like he was talking to
the "old" Seven. If she'd faked that, she'd done a bang-
up job.

Maybe I'm making too much of this, thought Chakotay. I'm
being too hard on Seven...I'm not considering how our
return to Earth may have affected her. Besides, we were
a couple so recently, and heaven knows I take
relationships seriously. This is probably all in my
head. His mind more or less at ease, Chakotay left
Astrometrics to go see how Tom and B'Elanna were doing.

* * * * *

They were just his parents, but Harry couldn't help but
feel a little nervous about seeing them again after so
long. In many ways, he wasn't the same man who had left
them eight years ago. A combination of the Delta
Quadrant, Tom Paris, and more bizarre experiences than he
could count with his shoes on had accelerated his
maturation, much as the Borg did with their drones.
(Actually, there weren't really any parallels to what the
Borg did. But a guy in Harry's line of work thought
about the Borg a lot.) Overcoming his doubts, Harry
climbed the stairs of the old porch and rang the door
chime.

No answer. He tried again.

No answer. He tried again.

No answer. He --

"Mary, get the door for Criminy's sake! I'm in the
shower!"

Harry smiled. Same old Dad.

The doorknob turned; the lock disengaged. The door of
casa de Kim finally opened, revealing a middle-aged woman
with an uncanny resemblance to Harry. She gaped in
amazement. "Harry! It's you! You're back!"

Before Harry could react, she had pulled him into the
house and was squeezing the living daylights out of him.
The young lieutenant felt his lungs deflating dangerously
fast. Mary Kim, hearing her son's desperate wheezes,
finally released him. He gasped frantically for air.
"Oh, poor Harry!" she said. "Your trip back to Earth
must have been terrible -- look at the shape you're in!
You go sit down in the living room, quick quick, and I'll
get you some tea." Harry was happy to oblige.

In the comfortable old chair which had always been his
favourite, Harry looked around the room. It's amazing
how little this place has changed, he thought. I guess
you can go home again. It surprised him to realize how
easily he was falling back into considering this old
house his home. What about Voyager? These thoughts
reminded Harry of something Chakotay had once said: "Home
is wherever you happen to be." Come to think of it, he
and Libby had had yet another home for a while, and Harry
realized he would probably still think of it that way if
he were back there. Maybe there wasn't a one-to-one
correspondence between people and homes...maybe the same
person could be at home in many places.

Harry's mother returned with three cups of tea. She set
one in front of Harry, another at her husband's usual
spot, and the third on her side table. Harry gratefully
sipped the drink -- his mother used replicators for most
food, but always served natural tea. "Is it all right,
dear?" she asked.

Harry was surprised to realize that it wasn't. Something
seemed odd. "I'm not sure," he said. "It tastes great,
but...there's a funny edge to the taste. Did you put in
anything extra?"

"Just your usual milk."

That was it! "I get it now! Sorry, mom -- that took me
by surprise because I've gotten used to drinking it
black. We didn't have a lot of extras on Voyager."

Ms. Kim winced in sympathy. "I'm so sorry, Harry. You
must have had such a horrible time on that ship."

"Well, it was no walk in the park...but after a while, it
wasn't so bad. At least I was with good people."

"Oh yes, like that delightful Mr. Paris you told us
about! How's he doing?"

"Oh, Tom's fine. He's become a real family man --
settled down with his wife and daughter. He's never been
happier."

"And this Torres girl -- did you ever get the nerve to
ask her out?"

Harry was flabbergasted. "What? B'Elanna and I are
friends, nothing more!"

"Oh." Ms. Kim looked surprised. "It's just that you
talked about her so much in your early logs...."

"She was one of the first friends I made on the ship. I
guess I brought her up pretty often." Suddenly it hit
Harry -- "HEY! You read my logs?"

"Well, Voyager's database was recorded by Starfleet
Communications when--"

"But that database is classified information! It's only
available to officers above the rank of Lieutenant
Commander -- even I can't access it!"

"Well, they did say no when I talked to them the first
time. But then later I was having lunch with Ms. Barclay
-- you remember Ms. Barclay -- and she told me her son
worked at Starfleet Communications. And so I said,
'Could you put in a good word with him for me?' and she
said 'Of course, Mary! Anything for an old classmate,'
and then she did just that. So the next day I woke up
and there was my authorization code for the database! So
of course I went right down to Communications and had a
look around, and what should I find but your personal
logs? Then I --"

"All right, all right!" Harry sighed uselessly. "You
read them all?"

"No, no. I've been reading one a day to remind myself of
you. Just yesterday I came across the one about those
funny lizard men who were hiding on the ship." Relief
flooded Harry. With luck, he would find a way to protect
those files before she got to Stardate 52628 or so....

"Harry!" John Kim had finally arrived and was just as
delighted to see his son as Mary had been. He lifted
Harry a good two feet off the ground. "Look how tall
you've grown! And is that two more rank pips on your
collar?"

Harry looked down. "Er, no...the second one is just a
cookie crumb. I'll wipe it--"

"Lieutenant Commander Harry Kim! I'm so proud of you,
son! Just wait till Pat Westing hears about this!"
Harry sighed...Mr. Westing was his father's lifelong
nemesis. Trying to correct him at this point was a
hopeless cause. "Thanks, dad," he said in resignation.

John sat down and took a sip of his tea. "So, Harry --
tell us about your trip."

"Well...it was long. Very long. But it mostly went
well. I got along with the rest of the crew, and my
duties weren't too demanding."

"Ah yes, your duties." John thought. "Hrm...what
exactly do you do, anyway?"

Harry was about to tackle that one when a triplet of
beeps interrupted the conversation. Mary tapped the
console next to her chair. "News report," she explained.
"Something important just happened."

The family's picture window became a gigantic viewscreen.
Wow, thought Harry -- that's cutting-edge. They must
have set this up after I left. The screen resolved into
the image of a grey-haired man, wearing a Starfleet
uniform and a grim countenance. "Good afternoon,
citizens of the Federation. This is Fleet Admiral
Gregory Quinn. It is my unfortunate duty to inform you
of a disastrous event."

The screen displayed an object Harry knew very well.
"The MIDAS Array, Starfleet's most advanced long-distance
communications transmitter and receiver, was destroyed
one hour ago. The last sensor logs we received from the
array were these."

A staticky videoclip filled the screen. In front of the
array, a peaceful stretch of space was ruptured by dozens
of transwarp conduits. Out of the conduits flew Borg
cubes -- all of which were attacking one small ship of a
different shape entirely.

"I know that ship," muttered Harry darkly.

The cubes continued their attack until the smaller vessel
lost attitude control. It spiraled straight into the
array and the image went blank. Fleet Admiral Quinn
reappeared on the screen. "Starfleet is studying this
information to determine whether or not we have been the
victims of a deliberate attack by the Borg Collective.
At this time we are asking all citizens not to jump to
conclusions. There is no proof that the Borg were
targeting us; until we have more information, it is too
soon to make judgements. Please remain calm." The
admiral disappeared.

"Son...." began John Kim, but he trailed off.

"This is bad," said Harry. "This is very bad. I have to
talk to Captain Janeway." He tapped his comm badge.
"Kim to Janeway. Please respond." No answer. "Kim to
Voyager. Who's up there?"

"Harry, this is Chakotay. I saw it too. I'm contacting
the others; we're meeting in T'Plana Hath Park in ten
minutes."

"Understood, sir. I'll beam over right away."

"Sorry to interrupt the reunion. Chakotay out."

Harry hugged each of his parents. "I'll be back soon.
Don't you worry." Then, standing in the centre of the
room, he contacted Voyager's transporter operator for a
quick beamout. Yet again, John and Mary Kim watched
their son disappear.

* * * * *

"....at which point Captain Janeway was able to warn her
in time, and Seven successfully evaded the falling
projectile."

"You mean the bathtub."

"Yes."

Alistair Warhol was having trouble keeping a straight
face. "Mr. Tuvok...are you sure you're being entirely
honest with us?"

"I am Vulcan, Admiral. Further, I have sworn an oath to
Starfleet. I would never break that oath by lying to a
superior officer."

"Very well. As strange as this sounds, I've heard
stranger stories." Most of them from Ben Sisko, he added
in his head. "I take it you had no further contact with
these Jectarisians?"

"Jecters. No. We broke off communications and left
orbit."

"It's hard to believe that their government would
sanction an assassination attempt on one of your crew.
What did they stand to gain? And why Seven?"

"We do not know. The Borg have not yet discovered
Jectaris, nor have the Jecters discovered them, so their
anger cannot be racial. Nor can it be gender-based, for
the Jecters had no such problems with the captain."

"Ah yes, that was another part of your log. What exactly
did you say they did with Captain Janeway?"

"They transported her and Commander Chakotay to an
enclosed room. We believe it was a prison, for the room
was very small, although not uncomfortable, and their
clothes apparently did not make the transport with them."

That had been in the log, but Warhol had needed to hear
it from Tuvok himself to believe it. "All right, let me
get this straight. Voyager sent down an away team to
negotiate with these Jecters. As soon as you landed, the
captain and first officer were trapped in a small room
naked?"

"Yes."

"And then, while you and Seven were looking for them, the
aliens tried to kill her with a bathtub?"

"Yes."

"This is completely insane! What in God's name did they
hope to accomplish?"

"Unknown. However, I have theorized that their religion
was somehow involved. The bathtub is an important symbol
in that religion, associated with the chief male diety."

"Disturbing. You know, I don't want to talk about this
anymore. We'll finish this debriefing tomorrow, same
time. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir." Tuvok stood and walked out, likewise
grateful to be leaving that subject behind. Voyager's
encounter with the Jecters had taxed his logic to the
limit. He stepped into the nearby transporter and beamed
himself to T'Plana Hath Park, where Chakotay had called a
meeting of the senior officers.

When he reappeared, the Vulcan spotted Lieutenants Kim
and Torres already there, at some distance. He began to
walk towards them. "Tuvok!" came a shout from behind
him; he turned and saw, to his mild annoyance, Tom Paris
running to catch up.

"I have got to tell you about this," said Tom. "Remember
Jimmy Burgess?"

Tuvok thought. "Yes. He was a fellow Maquis aboard the
Liberty until three months before our abduction."

"Right. Well, I just ran a little check, and it turns
out there was a lot more to that guy than we thought.
First of all, he was an undercover Starfleet officer,
just like you."

"I know," said Tuvok. "I was his replacement."

Paris blinked. "Then why were you both on board at the
same time for a month?"

"For the switch to occur all at once would have been too
conspicuous. We left a month in between to allay
Chakotay's suspicion." Too late, Tuvok caught himself
calling Chakotay by name, as he had on the Liberty.

"Of course. Well, anyway, he got back to Starfleet. He
was a Commander when he started that mission, so he'd
made Rear Admiral by the time we reached Borg space. But
guess what happened then?"

"What happened?"

"Come on, guess." Tuvok glared at Paris slightly. He
gave in. "Okay, okay. But you're no fun. Anyway, get
this -- he was a shapeshifter!"

Tuvok raised an eyebrow. "For how long?"

"They don't know. Their best guess is that the
shapeshifter replaced him just a few weeks after he left
our ship. After that, he managed to avoid detection
right up until the war started -- when they started
running blood checks on everyone at Starfleet
Headquarters. He couldn't come up with a good enough
excuse in time. But they found out later that this
shapeshifter had managed to get 200 kiloquads of
sensitive information out to the Gamma Quadrant."

"Impressive." In fact, Tuvok was impressed. Commander
Burgess had always struck Tuvok as an astute and wary
man; the shapeshifter who had replaced him must have done
an excellent job, both in the inital capture and in
passing for Burgess.

"I thought so," agreed Paris. At last they had reached
Harry and B'Elanna, both of whom were looking intently at
a PADD.

"Tom, Tuvok. Glad you're here. Take a look at this,"
said Harry, showing them the PADD. It was a list of
events in the last few months which were related to this
latest Borg attack. Tuvok immediately raised both
eyebrows; Paris took a moment longer to take in the
information, but reacted with equal astonishment. "My
God," he said -- "there have been six Borg attacks in the
past two months alone!"

"Correction, Mr. Paris: not merely Borg attacks,"
specified Tuvok. "These were Borg ships attacking other
Borg ships, and chancing in some cases to damage
Starfleet equipment in the process. The only common
element is that all the attacks took place within range
of Federation sensors."

"And as far as we know," added B'Elanna, "there have been
hundreds of others outside our range."

"Precisely. We may be looking at nothing more or less
than a Borg civil war." The thought chilled all four
officers.

"The question," said a voice, "is why." They turned to
see Chakotay standing behind them. "Sorry I'm late -- I
was showing Fleet Admiral Quinn the evidence Seven and I
found."

"What evidence?" asked B'Elanna.

"We were talking with Neelix at the time of the attack.
Before we lost the connection, we heard a Borg distress
call -- from Axum."

"The Unimatrix Zero drone?" asked Lieutenant Kim. See
you soon, Harry....

"Yes. We don't quite know what to make of all this just
yet, but every bit of information helps."

"What about Neelix?" asked Tom. "We haven't lost the
connection for good, have we?"

"I spoke to Reg about that. Apparently there's no reason
the array can't be rebuilt, but it'll be a technical
challenge to get its sending frequency perfectly matched
with the original so that Neelix's receiver will still
work. He also says that he doesn't know when we'll be
able to do it -- as you can imagine, communication with
our ambassador in the Delta Quadrant is not a priority
for Starfleet when this sort of thing is going on." He
gestured at the PADD.

"Great," said Tom. "One lousy week after all this time
out of touch with him, and now we lose it again for who
knows how long?"

Chakotay was about to agree when his comm badge beeped.
"Janeway to Chakotay. Where are you?"

"Chakotay here!" he replied instantly. "I'm in San
Francisco -- where are you?"

"No time. Hold on while I get a lock...there we go.
Energize!" Before the others could react, Chakotay
vanished in a flash of blue.

* * * * *

"Kathryn! What's going on?" Chakotay had rematerialized
in a darkened transporter room; from the looks of things,
he was somewhere in Starfleet Headquarters.

"I brought you here with Admiral Paris' help," answered
Captain Janeway. "It'll only be a few minutes before we
have to get you out of here, so let me explain quickly.
I'm about to be courtmartialed."

Chakotay was stunned. "What? Who's doing this, and why
haven't they gone through channels?"

"The Borg."

Pieces started fitting together in Chakotay's head, but
the puzzle wasn't complete. "We've heard about these
random Borg attacks...."

Janeway shook her head vigorously. "Not attacks. The
Borg have no interest in us -- it's each other they
want."

"Then they're in a civil war." Just as Tuvok suspected.

"Yes. Starfleet doesn't know for sure, but they have a
theory. You remember Admiral Janeway's virus?"

"Who can forget?"

"It was programmed to destroy the Queen and the
Unicomplex. It also had a backup routine which we hoped
was capable of destroying the entire Collective. It was
based on a geometric shape that was impossible to
interpret from any one perspective."

That sounded familiar. "So what happened?"

"It worked. The Collective was wiped out, across the
board."

"Then who --"

"Except the drones from Unimatrix Zero."

That was the last piece. "Of course! We'd disconnected
them from the hive mind -- they had no way of getting the
virus!"

"Exactly. What's more, most of them had used the same
trick as Korok -- namely, uploading the individuality
virus into their cubes' vinculi, liberating all other
drones in those cubes."

"Then considering how many drones were in Unimatrix Zero,
hundreds of ships must have survived."

"Thousands. Starfleet's guess is 14600 -- that's
classified information. Nowhere near the size of the
original Collective, but far more than even the Dominion
can handle."

"But why the civil war?"

"That part's sketchier. Starfleet doesn't have a clue,
but I've got a theory. Think about it, Chakotay -- so
much power in the hands of individuals. They didn't have
to pay the price of assimilation because they were
already Borg. Don't you think that might have tempted
some of the former drones? Perhaps enough to set up a
faction in favour of using that power to carry out the
Borg agenda of 'pacification'?"

"It's possible. Then who would be fighting them?"
Chakotay answered his own question: "Axum. He was the
closest they had to a leader, and we know he's not the
kind of person who would succumb to that temptation."

"That's my best guess. If the sides are about evenly
matched, this war may take a long time to complete. And
remember, it's being fought at transwarp. Finding your
opponent is half the battle, and that means fights will
be erupting over an enormous range."

"As far as the borders of Federation space."

"Maybe farther -- we don't know. But whatever is really
going on, you'd better believe it's got Starfleet scared
stiff. There are admirals trying to quell panic, trying
to come up with a battle plan...trying to find someone to
blame. And I'm their sacrifical anode."

"But why? It's thanks to you that the Borg at large are
no longer a threat!"

"But it's also thanks to me that these Borg have
survived. I was the one who liberated them. Besides, I
committed plenty of questionable actions in the Delta
Quadrant. I don't regret a single one, and none in
itself would be enough to get me under this kind of
attack, but they're going to use every weapon they have
to punish me for this offense. And that means they'll
dig up everything on my record."

"Do you think you'll win?"

Janeway sighed. "God only knows."

"I'll help you. I knew a lawyer at the Academy who --"

"No. You can't get involved -- this is still classified.
I just wanted you to know what's going on. Tell the
senior officers, but make sure no one else hears about
this."

"They'll worry about you, Kathryn."

Janeway smiled ruefully. "They'll have their own worries
in the next few weeks. I doubt that their debriefings
will be easy. For one thing, they're being conducted by
Admiral Warhol, the head of the internal investigations
group -- and this witch-hunt against me."

Chakotay winced. "I'll talk to Tuvok about it. His
debriefing has already started."

"Quick!" Janeway pulled Chakotay back to the transporter
pad. "Time's up -- we've got to get you out of here."
Reluctantly, the first officer stepped onto the pad.
"Good luck, Kathryn," he said.

She smiled at him. "And to you." The words echoed
through his head as he rematerialized in San Francisco.

* * * * *

Janeway watched Chakotay disappear, then programmed the
transporter to send her back to her assigned quarters. A
few moments later, her wrist chronometer beeped -- the
signal that the detection grid was back online. She and
Admiral Paris had only been able to arrange a short gap
in the grid; time had been of the essence.

As a rule, Janeway preferred not to cut it so close. But
these were not normal circumstances.

This is it, she thought. All those years in the Delta
Quadrant...all those battles, all those judgement calls,
all those last-minute tactics, all that rule-
bending...this is when I answer for it. This is my
judgement day.

Janeway tried to remind herself that she had no regrets.
I kept my promise. I got my crew home. But the words
felt less convincing than they ever had. Janeway began
to wonder if she had truly expected to accomplish her
mission. The crew's return to Earth had never been in
question for her, but had she really pictured herself
making it back with them? Or had she expected the price
of Voyager's homecoming to be her life?

In a way, it was, she reflected. The thought made her
uncomfortable...in retrospect, Admiral Janeway had been
almost eager to sacrifice herself, and Captain Janeway
had been all too willing to let her. There were
rationalizations, certainly -- getting Voyager home early
had doubtless saved lives, and both Janeways would have
been in very awkward positions if the ship had remained
in the Delta Quadrant -- but what were these things
compared to the guaranteed loss of a human life? Did she
really have some sort of martyrdom complex?

Well, if so, she was getting her "wish." Through the
ministrations of this Admiral Warhol, her court-martial
had been accelerated and would probably be conducted by
others hostile to her. Ironically, Warhol himself no
longer needed to be personally involved -- he might not
even be present for the trial. He'd only needed to knock
over the first domino; now he could watch the others
fall.

She'd needed to see Chakotay, and she had. Now there was
nothing more she could do. With a sigh of frustration,
Janeway headed to bed...tomorrow would be a long day.

* * * * *

The stonefaced guards silently led her through the
hallways. When they reached the court-martial room,
Admiral Warhol was standing outside waiting. He stared
at her, his expression colder than stone, and she felt
herself frozen in place. Moments passed...and then
Warhol smiled a sneering smile of victory. His gaze
followed her, chilled her, as the guards ushered her in.

Remember, she told herself as they led her to her seat,
you're not guilty. This is not really about you. The
words sounded hollow in her head, but she did her best to
believe them. She had to.

"All rise," announced a guard. At the front of the
courtroom, Judge Advocate General Phillippa Louvois
entered and walked slowly to the bench. This was
Starfleet's most experienced court-martial judge, and she
knew that Louvois was her best chance for a fair trial.
But then the judge turned -- and the chill of Warhol's
glare was replaced with the heat of righteous anger.
What's going on? she thought, mentally panicking. Has
she bought into this witch-hunt too? Do I have no allies
at all?

She turned to look at the spectators. Admiral Paris was
there but avoided her gaze. Admiral Hayes gave her a
stern glance. And -- was that Tuvok behind him? And
Chakotay and Seven? Why wouldn't they look at her? I'm
alone--

Janeway woke suddenly. The same dream again...third time
in one night. It wasn't hard to understand, of course,
but the repetition reminded her of that unpleasant
Inryeth encounter. And that made her wonder how much of
the dream might be a premonition...or a warning. Her
scientific discipline rejected the notion immediately,
but something about it deeply concerned her.

She lay back down. Maybe she could still get some sleep
before morning....

* * * * *

Epilogue

"As Fleet Admiral Quinn announced earlier today, the
MIDAS array -- Starfleet's revolutionary long-range comm
system -- has been destroyed. So far, no one has claimed
responsibility for the action, but the array was able to
record a short sensor image before its destruction."

The clip shown earlier in the day reappeared. Axum's
octahedron shuddered under the pressure of countless
torpedoes and cutting beams. At last it flew straight at
the "camera," blacking out its view as the MIDAS array
began its final moments of life.

News anchor Suellen Bartlett reappeared on the screen,
her expression grim. "While there is no concrete
evidence yet to support theories about the apparent
attack, the clip seems to indicate Borg involvement. If
so, this incident would be the seventh Borg firefight
detected by the Federation in the last two months."

Bartlett brightened somewhat. "On a happier note: today,
after nearly eight years away from home, the starship U.
S. S. Voyager reached Earth. Since their first
communication from the Delta Quadrant on Stardate
51501.4, Voyager and her crew have inspired the entire
Federation with their story of courage and determination.
Captain Kathryn Janeway, the leader of this historic
journey, was not available for comment...nor were any
other bridge officers...." (Bartlett's tone grew
increasingly annoyed) "....but we do have a few words
from Mary Kim, mother of the ship's operations officer."
The anchor was still smiling, but those familiar with her
broadcasts could easily see how frustrated she was at the
quality of guests available.

"Hello, everyone. My son and his friends had a very long
trip--"

The screen went blank as the man watching it grew tired
of Federation news. He decided instead to replay an
audio clip he had recorded earlier.

"Alert! Alert! Vessel Zero-Zero-Zero under heavy fire!
Our weapons are ineffective! We need reinforcements
NOW!" Vessel Zero-Zero-Zero: the most important ship of
its fleet. With a very important passenger.

"We've sustained damage to 74% of our outer hull. Our
regeneration alcoves are inoperative. We have lost 459
drones. We cannot survive any more of this!" The man
listened with greater and greater pleasure. "Only one of
our transwarp coils is functional! We cannot escape!
The enemy cubes are attempting to drive us into the
Federation array in this sector -- if they succeed, it
will be destroyed!" Perceptive, thought the listener.

"All drones, regroup in Grid One-Four-Four-Seven!" A
blind, of course. Axum had known that others could
detect the message. Also, he rarely spoke of his people
as drones -- even under this kind of pressure. "Whatever
happens, the Constructive must be stopped! Continue the
fight if I do not survive! Annika! I love you!"

The audioclip ended. With a feeling of deep
satisfaction, its listener walked to the viewport and
watched the moving colours of transwarp.

The man knew who Annika was, but such matters held little
interest for him. What mattered was power. What
mattered was expansion. Revenge was only a means to
those ends, but one he particularly relished. Today he
had taken revenge on his greatest enemy, the individual
who had wronged him more than any other. In doing so, he
had cleared one of the last obstacles between himself and
ultimate control. The others -- Korok, Pavriqur, the
Complex -- would fall in short order. There could be no
stopping him now.

He was only one man in one cube in one fleet in a
legion...but he did not feel small. Not for a moment.