***The beginning: 2351

Telek R'Mor looked around the Infirmary on the research ship Talvath and couldn’t help contrasting it to the miraculous Sickbay he had witnessed on the Federation ship, Voyager. Comparisons were unfair on two counts, though; first, Voyager was a product of the soft and decadent Federation, and second, it wouldn't even be built for twenty more years. Astonishing. He had traveled through both space and time, and seemed none the worse for the experience.

"Did their transporter malfunction in anyway? Or did anything unusual happen?" the medic, Janal V'Ni asked. She was frowning.

"Not at all. They were most hospitable."

"You've been exposed to something, radiation I think. I'm getting readings I don't know how to interpret."

R'Mor considered. He had told no one of the time differential, told no one that the wormhole emerged twenty years in the future as well as seventy-four thousand light years distant. They knew only that he been pulled into a transporter beam.

Janeway's face took shape in his mind. For a Human, she had been – would be?- quite decent, and her plight and that of her crew had touched him. He knew what it was to be separated from spouse and family. Melanya, he thought with a pang. I miss you.

"Am I injured or damaged?"

"Not that I can tell."

"Then I will return to my quarters."

Looking unhappy, she stepped back. "As you wish. But I'm only a medic, R'Mor. You should be seen by a specialist."

"I will be fine," he said, and left.

He returned to his quarters and sealed the door. From a drawer, under his personal garments, he withdrew a box. It appeared to be a child's puzzle box, but when he pushed a hidden lever, a secret drawer was revealed. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a datachip. Janeway and her crew had recorded messages to their families that he had promised to deliver in twenty years, after their ship went missing.

He could send it now, or even years from now, and prevent the accident that would strand her ship and crew in the Delta quadrant, but she had asked him to wait out of concern for the time line. The pain in her eyes when she made the request had been unmistakable. Would a soft, decadent weakling ask such a thing? No. These Humans were more than they had been told.

"I promise, Kathryn Janeway," he said aloud, closing the hidden drawer. "Your messages will be delivered."

*** Sixteen years later

At the insistence of the patient, the curtains of window had been opened wide to permit the first rays of morning on Romulus to illuminate hospital room. "I'm dying," Telek R'Mor said. "Let me die in the light of day."

The unknown radiation from the wormhole had been killing him slowly since he returned from Voyager to the Talvath. For sixteen years, the mysterious particles that had saturated him had nibbled at his vital organs until this day, the day that there was no longer enough left to sustain life. He would die before the sunset, and he did not want to die in darkness.

He did not regret the cause of his death. As a scientist, he could only treasure the experience. He did have one regret, though. A regret that could still be abated.

Looking up at the faces of his family, his heart sank: his son-in-law, trying hard to look sorrowful but already calculating the value of his inheritance; his daughter, her face streaked with tears from the knowledge that her generous allowance almost certainly was about to end; and his grandson, the only one of the lot who was genuinely saddened.

What a sorry lot. Where did we go wrong, Melanya my wife? What is the future of the Empire if left to such as these?

His eyes lingered on Telek, his grandson and namesake. This was the one he trusted. Summoning all his strength he said, "Telekam, stay. The rest of you, leave."

"But father –" his daughter protested.

"Go." The word triggered a fit of coughing.

Casting looks of surprise and suspicion at the young man, they dutifully filed out of the hospital room. "What is it, Grandfather?"

"Listen to me," he said. "In my secret hiding place, you know the one? You will find a datachip. You must give that chip to Spock."

Telek's eyes opened wide. "You know about that?"

"Of course I do. Give the chip to Spock. He will know what to do with it." He sighed. It wasn't exactly what he had promised to do, but it was the best he could manage. When he made his promise forty years ago, he had expected to live a normal life span; he never guessed he would die so young "Tell Janeway, I said good luck."

"I don't understand."

"You don't have to. Just do it. You're a good boy, Telekam." He sighed. Now let the others back in. If they want to know what I told you, you may tell them that I said you were the only one of my progeny worth a damn."

"I love you, too, grandfather."

*** Three years after that

"I do not entirely understand," Spock said. "Your grandfather died three years ago."

"Yes, Teacher. But until yesterday, I did not realize what he meant when he said his 'hiding place.' I thought he meant the hidden compartment in his bedroom. It was only last week that I remembered the hollow tree where he and I hid messages when I was a child. When I finally looked, I found a puzzlebox and this was inside. I can finally discharge my last duty to him."

Spock raised one eyebrow. "I did not think your grandfather knew of your involvement with our group."

"Neither did I, but it seems I was mistaken." Telek shook his head ruefully. "I should have known better. He missed nothing."

"And you found a datachip?"

Reaching into his pocket, Telek withdrew a discolored datachip. "The box was not weatherproof."

Spock took the chip and examined it. "Odd. The design of this chip is modern, yet it appears to be quite old."

Telek nodded. "And that is not all that is strange. The damage is greater than effect of the elements. I suspect it was exposed to some kind of radiation, long ago. All the data has corrupted."

"He thought this would have significance for me?"

"Yes. And he said, 'Tell Janeway I said good luck.' Does this help?"

"I knew an Admiral Edward Janeway many years ago, but he has been dead for some time." Spock continued to study the chip as he spoke. "He had a daughter in the service, I believe. Perhaps the message was intended for her." He looked at the ominously darkened chip. "It may be an exercise in futility. From the look of this, it is extensively damaged. It will require better laboratory facilities than we have available to us to determine if any of the data can be retrieved."

"Can you get it to her?"

"Possibly. My communications link to the Federation is tenuous and slow, but with luck it will get to Earth. Perhaps Kathryn Janeway will understand your grandfather's intentions."

*** Four months later

Devlin Fargo looked around the smoky, poorly lit tavern and sighed inwardly. The place was chockers; there was not an open chair to be found. The change in administration on Tessan had caught every independent ship off-guard. Two days ago, Tessani City had been one of the most open ports in the Alpha quadrant and a popular stop for the independents, offering inexpensive maintenance and easy entertainment; today, no ship could leave until it passed a safety inspection and paid an outrageous "inspection tax." Fargo, like most of the other traders in the room, was temporarily grounded.

For most of the traders, it was an inconvenience. For Dev it was just one more disaster in a string of disasters. Despite his clothing and his somewhat decrepit ship, he was a courier for Starfleet Intelligence and was carrying documents, documents that had already been delayed due to an unprecedented run of bad luck. First, the Romulans had stepped up patrols along the Neutral Zone, ostensibly looking for smugglers but more likely looking for those like Dev who took more than ale out of the Empire. Then he'd had to land on an asteroid for nearly three weeks to wait out the biggest, nastiest ion storm he'd ever seen in space. No sooner had he been under way again when he ran into an Orion ship that decided to add his cargo to theirs; he'd taken a lot of damage in that encounter and spent two more weeks on Calisto repairing his ship. While he was there, he came down with a case of Calistan stomach flux which left unable to get out of bed for another two weeks. When he could fly again, he had to jettison all of his food supplies since they were probably infected, and had stopped on Tessan just to pick up some fruit. He needed the fresh citrus after his illness and he told himself that things couldn't get any worse than they'd been.

Now he was stuck for God knows how long. His contact had said the documents were important to Starfleet Intelligence and needed to get through as soon as possible. If he didn't find a way to get off this rock, he'd be lucky if Starfleet trusted him with its waste extraction records next time. He needed the income from this sideline. If there was anyplace where he could find a ride, it was in Jakko's Bar, which was the favorite tavern of down-on-their-luck traders from everywhere, largely because it was the only tavern in Tessani City.

With a sigh, he shouldered his way through the crowd at the bar. He recognized the bartender. "Jakko! I'll take Andorian beer."

The burly Senduran barely glanced up from wiping glasses. "All out."

"Terran beer, then."

"Out."

"Whiskey?"

"Out."

"What the hell have you got?"

"Water. And the whiskey will be ready in another hour."

Fargo closed his eyes. He knew that Jakko kept a still running in the cellar, and that the 'whiskey' was raw rotgut. He shrugged. "No grog at all? I'll take the water."

Jakko laid down his towel and poured a yellowish liquid into a spotty glass. "That'll be five credits."

His first sip spewed over the bar. "Five credits? For water?"

The bartender shrugged. "Supply and demand. Look around."

He did. The room was jammed with traders and pilots of just about every species known in the Alpha quadrant, and none of them looked too sweet. Hitching a ride would not be easy.

The water was brackish and luke warm and smelled like cat's piss, but it helped quench the thirst caused by the dry atmosphere of the planet. Fargo turned to leave the bar, which was becoming even more crowded. He was bumped from behind and the water flew up and out of his glass and splashed over two other patrons. "Oops. Sorry."

One of them, a Nausicaan, wasn't accepting apologies. With a growl, he rose to full height – more than two meters - and grabbed Fargo by the shirt. "Hey," Fargo protested as he was lifted nearly a full meter off the floor, "It was an accident, mate."

The Nausicaan snarled.

"It's my shout. Water for everyone!" Fargo looked around the room for help and found none. He was getting worried; he'd seen that light in the eyes of a Nausicaan before, and it always meant that pain was about to ensue.

He saw bared teeth and flared nostrils, and he knew he was out of time. With all the strength he could muster, he kicked the groin of the huge alien. The Nausicaan howled in pain and threw Fargo across the room, then clutched his injured parts.

Dev hit the floor head-first, and for a second lay stunned. When his head cleared, he staggered to his feet and turned toward the door. He knew he had to shoot through and get out quickly.

He bounced off one onlooker, then another before he found his balance. Then he felt a cold stinging in his back, and stopped. "Oh," he said out loud. A stream of blood suddenly gushed from his mouth. "Bloody hell."

Then he pitched forward into the arms of an onlooker, revealing a large Nausicaan knife in the middle of his back. The onlooker carefully lowered him to the ground.

The bar fell silent. Fargo looked at the man who held him. He was a Human; that was good. He was gray-haired and solidly built, and looked like a man who did not take crap. "Help me," he said hoarsely, closing his hand in a death grip on the man's arm.

"Don't think I can, friend. I'd say you've had it."

Dev didn't need to be told. He knew he had Buckley's chance; he was dying. "Pocket. Chip. Take to Starfleet."

The man nodded. "Where? Where's the chip?"

"Vest pocket."

The man reached under Fargo's prone body and found the pocket and then the pouch with the chip. "I've got it. I'll see that it's delivered."

"Thanks." Dev felt his life oozing away. "I'm Fargo. Tell them … what happened."

"I will. Don't worry."

"Damned …lousy…. luck…"

His voice trailed off, and he closed his eyes. A distant voice said, "Hey, Brax, is he dead yet?"

Faintly, as if from a distance, Dev heard was Brax, the stranger holding him reply. "I think so, poor bastard. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

And then he thought he heard a chuckle.

And then he never heard anything again.

*** Three weeks later

"Sloan, that's impossible. Kathryn? In league with Romulans? The Section can't think that."

Sloan had expected this reaction. The two men stood side by side at a side bar at a busy café, for all intents and purposes discussing the weather. He was careful to keep his tone light and unobtrusive. "Do you have any other explanation for why a dying Romulan scientist would wish her good luck and send her a corrupted datachip?"

"No. But I've known her too long to believe that she would ever voluntarily enter into a connection to the Romulans."

He frowned, a warning to his companion to control his voice. "There's all manner of ways to persuade someone. You know that as well as anyone. Maybe better than most."

"But I would know if she had a clandestine relationship with anyone."

"It took nearly a year for that message to reach Earth and another several months for us to conclude the data on the chip is irretrievable. The relationship would pre-date that; it may pre-date your relationship with her." Sloan looked around. No one in the crowded coffee house was paying any attention to them.

"That's unlikely."

"She may not even be consciously aware that she is a tool of the Romulans. Some kind of suggestion may have been implanted when she was held by the Cardassians. The message may be a trigger. Remember what they did to that engineer on the Enterprise a few years ago."

"Shit. I hadn't thought of that."

"You may be too close to the situation. We need to question her."

"Question? You need to do more than just ask a few questions to find out if she's carrying a psychological time bomb in her subconscious."

"Do you have an objection to that?"

"No. But you don't have much time. Are you aware that she left Utopia Planetia yesterday morning on Voyager?"

"Yes, the timing is unfortunate. I am leaving for Deep Space 9 this afternoon. Keep your schedule flexible the next few days. I may need your assistance with the interrogation but I won't call you unless necessary."

"My help?"

"Yes. Your knowledge of her may be important if we can't easily break the psychological barriers."

"You're a cold-blooded son of bitch, Sloan."

"And you're not?"

"Point taken. Good luck."

*** Two days after that

The transport shuttle from the USS Hale to Deep Space 9 was full, but Sloan produced orders signed by no less than Admiral Ross that bumped Lt. Esther Greenbaum from her seat. Since Lt. Greenbaum was on leave and going to DS9 simply to share leave with her husband, Sloan felt no compunction whatsoever. Besides, she had a seat on the aisle.

He stashed his Starfleet-issue blue duffel in the side compartment across the aisle and took his place. The seat was uncomfortably narrow and afforded very little leg room, and he resigned himself to four hours of cramped quarters. If there had been more time, he could have come on a commercial transport but Voyager was scheduled to leave DS9 in twelve hours. He wouldn't have much time to get Janeway.

"Excuse me, Lieutenant. I'm assigned to the third seat."

He looked up. A full Lieutenant in an Operations gold uniform was waiting for him to step aside and give her access. He looked again. She was blonde, with large blue eyes and full lips and a figure that couldn't be disguised even by layers of genderless Starfleet clothing – and a gaze as cold as the fjords of Norway. She was, he reflected, the stuff of fantasies.

But he was not a man who indulged in fantasy.

As soon as she had stored her duffel, he rose and let her get by. She tried to situate herself, but discovered there was not enough room for her to cross her long legs. "These transports are designed for efficiency, not comfort."

"Hmm." He didn't like to encourage strangers to converse.

She apparently took the hint, because she turned away and stopped talking.

Before Sloan could find a comfortable position, someone standing in the aisle cleared his throat dramatically. "Excuse me, but I need to get to that seat." He pointed to the seat in the middle, between Sloan and the blonde.

Sloan looked up and saw the blue of Sciences and the pips of a full commander. Brown eyes, brown hair and a look of impatience. It was a familiar face, somehow, but Sloan couldn't quite place it. The man stowed his blue duffel and waited while the other two stood to let him pass. He stepped on Sloan's left foot as he sidled in.

"Ah," he said as he sat, suddenly cheerful. "I always feel better once I'm in place. These trips can be so tedious." He smiled at both of them and looked away; then, in what was one of the most perfect double-takes Sloan had ever seen, his head whipped back to look more closely at the blonde. "Hel-loo," he said, stretching the word far beyond its natural elasticity.

The blonde eyed him without smiling. "Good afternoon."

"I'm Connery, Dr. Sean Connery. That's a real doctor - medicine, not one of those trumped-up degrees."

"Commander," the blonde acknowledged. Sloan smiled inwardly. A correct response, if not inviting.

"Call me Sean. What should I call you?"

"Lieutenant Jameson will suffice."

"Oh, come now. It's a long trip. What's your first name?"

"Anna," she said reluctantly. She turned to Sloan, and he thought he saw desperation in her eyes. "And you, Lieutenant?"

"Carlton." It was the name he was using on this mission.

"Nice to meet you, Lt. Carlton." But Connery was staring at Anna. "Let me guess. You are in stellar cartography."

"Incorrect."

"You look like a stellar cartographer."

"I don't believe there is a generic physical requirement."

Connery laughed loudly. Too loudly. "You're a funny one, aren't you?"

"Not usually."

The comm system advised that they were lifting off, and Sloan closed his eyes. This was supposed to be his quiet time, his chance to review his plans. It was simple enough; using the identichip that announced he was Lt. Carlton Carlton of Internal Affairs, he would be able to force a private meeting with Janeway.

"I know this sounds disingenuous, but haven't we met before?" Sean was still trying to make headway with Anna.

Sloan forced his mind to concentrate on the plan. Once alone with Janeway, he would present orders from Admiral Ross, instructing her to turn over command of Voyager and the mission into the Badlands to her exec, a competent but unexceptional officer named Cavit, and accompany him to a meeting at Starbase 174. The orders were forged, as was his identicard, although Ross would have cooperated if there had been time to ask him; Ross always cooperated with the Section. No matter. The forgeries were so good that not even the best of Starfleet Security could detect them without knowing exactly what to look for.

"Oh! How clumsy of me!"

Sloan looked up at the sudden, sincere exclamation from the seat next to him. A black stripe now covered Jameson's uniform from left shoulder to right hip, with a slight detour across the center of her breast. Connery stared at her, agape, holding an instrument of some kind in his hand.

"I am so sorry. These antique fountain pens are so touchy - it was an accident."

"Yes, Commander." Anna rose. "Excuse me. I have a spare uniform in my bag."

"If you can't get that out, go to the tailor on DS9, I hear there's a good one, and you charge that to me."

"Yes, Commander."

Sloan rose to let her get by, and she picked up her duffel from compartment and went into the head. In less than a minute she returned, replaced the duffel and took out another, and returned to the head.

Sloan frowned. It could have been a simple mistake; there were at least six standard blue duffels stored in the bin. He wasn't even certain that his duffel was the one she had taken the first time. Still, he got up and found it; it was easy to identify because he had placed a decal on the end, a discreet golden replica of the Great Seal of the Federation accompanied by his "initials" for this mission. A quick check confirmed that the contents were in order, apparently untouched. The padd with the forged orders from Ross was stored in its proper pocket. There hadn't been enough time for her to go through his things and put them back so neatly, so either she hadn't taken his at all or she had simply opened it, realized her mistake, and promptly returned it. No harm done.

In a few moments, dressed in a fresh uniform, she emerged and put her duffel back in the compartment and returned to her seat. "Thank you," she said as he made room for her to pass, and then turned her attention to a padd she now carried.

"What's that?" Sean said, peering over to see what she was doing.

"Work," she replied.

Sean finally took the hint and leaned back in his seat.

Sloan again closed his eyes and tried to pick up in the visualization of his plan. He also had orders for Sisko which directed the base commander to give Sloan a runabout. Once he had Janeway on board, he could administer the first round of drugs.

It was always enjoyable to figure out how to do that. Should he be clever, and try to slip her a mickey? Or be direct and use a hypospray when she least expected it? Given Janeway's record, he was inclined to be direct, but there were a number of ways he might trick her. She was clever and above all, lucky, so he would have to be very cunning if he were to be surreptitious.

Without realizing that he was smiling, he worked his way through several different scenarios. Each of them resulted in Kathryn Janeway lying unconscious at his feet, although in a few she was somewhat bruised. He rather liked those.

"Excuse me."

The unmistakably irritated voice of Sean interrupted his thoughts. "I need to get by."

Sloan moved out of his way and waited while he went to the storage area and pulled out one of the duffels. After rummaging a bit, he pulled out a padd and, with a falsely bright smile, returned to his seat. Sloan sat as well.

Where had he been? Oh, yes. Janeway unconscious and at his feet. After that, he would take her to the Section's interrogation facility in this sector and get to the truth. If it turned out she were a willing agent of the Romulans, she would be eliminated. It would be trickier if they discovered she had been unknowingly programmed, like LaForge on the Enterprise. There would be decisions to be made, options to consider. One option would be to let her go, untouched, and see who her controllers turned out to be. Or they could deprogram her. Either way, she would have to be under surveillance forever, and they would have to implant false memories from the time of leaving DS9 in order to cover the Section's involvement. It was complicated, and complicated scenarios carried the greatest risk of failure. No, it would be simpler to take the third option and eliminate her.

He never considered the possibility that she might have no connections to the Romulans. Why else would a noted Romulan scientist send a message to her?

For the duration of the trip, he replayed his plans over and over, with only occasional distractions from his row partners. His attention was captured once, when Anna raised her voice. "I will agree to have a drink with you when we land on one condition. You will not, and by 'not' I mean at any time in the next 100 years, speak to me again."

Sean beamed at her. "It's a long time to wait for dinner, but it's a deal."

When they landed, he was the first to stand and open the overhead bin. The three standard blue duffels sat there, but he had no doubt which was his. He had place a discreet Federation seal on the end of his. He nodded a farewell to Anna, ignored Sean and made certain he was among the first through the airlock to the station.

He had gone perhaps ten meters when he heard, "Lt. Carlton. Lt. Carlton!"

It was Sean's voice. He considered pretending he hadn't heard, but Sean was a Commander and 'Carlton' was only a Lieutenant, so that probably wasn't advisable. When he stopped, Sean hurried to catch up with him. "I believe there's been a mix-up. I seem to have your bag."

Sloan looked down at the standard blue duffel slung over his own shoulder. Sure enough, it had the discreet gold Federation seal on the end. Then he looked at the bag Sean carried. No seal. "Sorry, Commander, but this one is mine."

"Are you certain?" Sean persisted. "How can you tell just by looking?"

"See this?" He pointed to the seal and the initials. "I put this on to distinguish it from other bags."

"Clever." Sean sounded sarcastic, and in a moment Sloan realized why. Sean removed the bag from his shoulder and showed the opposite end.

It had a discreet gold Federation seal, and two initials. S.C.

Suddenly worried, Sloan opened the bag he carried. Then he relaxed; the contents were his. He took a moment to do a quick inventory and found everything that should be there, including the forged ID chip and orders. "It's mine, Commander."

Sean frowned. "Well then, who has mine?"

Sloan thought Anna was a good candidate but decided not to mention it. If Sean couldn't figure that out for himself, he was even more stupid than he seemed. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, I must be going."

"Oh. Of course." He began looking around with a rather lost expression.

Sloan quickened his step and went to an automated display to find where Voyager was docked. Although Commander Sisko had gone to some lengths to adopt Bajoran and Federation décor, the Cardassian infrastructure could not be concealed and he found it distasteful. Allies though they were, the Cardassians made him uncomfortable. The docking information was not on a wall panel, where it would be in any other Federation station, but on a separate kiosk in the middle of the corridor. Voyager was tethered to one of the upper docking pylons, just about as far as it could be from his present location.

Two turbolifts and short walk later, he entered the docking bay of USS Voyager and found that he had to stand in line, as a number of personnel were waiting to check in with the O.D. There was no help for it; this was part of the ritual of a station docking. Transfers and new assignments came on board and had to be confirmed.

Finally he found himself face to face with a Chief Warrant Officer. "I'm not crew," he said, handing the big man his identification. "I need to speak with Captain Janeway."

The Chief ran his identification through his padd, and his eyebrows shot up. He looked at Sloan oddly. "Please wait a moment, Lieutenant. I'll let the Captain know of your request." He walked over to a console and conducted his conversation out of earshot. Sloan nodded approvingly. This was by the book, but not many ships enforced it. Whatever else, Janeway ran a tight ship.

In a moment the Chief returned. "Captain Janeway will meet with you as soon as she finishes the meeting she's in." He signaled another crewman, also wearing Operations gold. From the phaser attached at her waist, he guessed she was Security. Another choice he approved. "Crewman Thompson, please escort Lt. Carlton to the Bridge conference room."

Thompson said nothing as they made their way to the bridge, which was a point in her favor in Sloan's book. No loose talk, no idle chatter – another sign of a disciplined crew. This was Janeway's first assignment with the fourth pip, but the third ship under her command and Sloan could see why. Everything he had seen so far was impressive.

The conference room was immaculate and state-of-the-art. He set his duffel on the table and wandered about, taking in the consoles and equipment under Thompson's watchful gaze. Starfleet had invested a lot in this ship, from the bioneural technology to the long-range sensors. If Voyager retrieved the renegade Maquis from the Badlands as easily as expected, the design would be replicated in about a dozen new ships.

Too bad Janeway wouldn't be there to see it.

Then Janeway walked in. He knew her immediately from her files, but he had expected her to be shorter. It wasn't just the hair, piled on her head and pinned tightly, that gave the illusion of height. She carried herself in a way that seemed to add centimeters. "Captain," he said formally, and handed her his credential.

She looked at it, then turned to Thompson. "Wait outside, Crewman." When they were alone, she said, "Well, Lt. Carlton, what does Internal Affairs want with me?"

"I believe this will explain it, ma'am." He handed her the padd with the forged message from Admiral Ross.

Rather than read it, she took it to a monitor and inserted it for full-video replay. The image of William Ross looked straight at them. "Captain Kathryn Janeway, you are hereby ordered to transfer command of USS Voyager to Lt. Commander David E. Cavit and accompany Lieutenant Carlton to Starbase 174 to undertake a new assignment. You will be briefed on the nature of the assignment upon arrival." He softened a little. "I know this is a surprise and a disappointment, Kathryn, but it's important. You'll understand once you hear the briefing. Ross out."

She studied the darkened screen for a moment, then turned to him. "That's a rather startling message."

"I understand, Captain, but time is of the essence. We need to leave for Starbase 174 immediately."

"Of course. Just one thing first. Computer, examine the orders just displayed. Analyze density of photons in the image of Admiral Ross."

Sloan's head jerked slightly. She knew. Somehow, she knew. There was no other explanation for it. She had just requested the only scan that could prove the orders were falsified.

He was in trouble.

"The requested photon density is 2 million parts per nanogram."

Janeway looked at him, the blue of her eyes hardening to slate gray. "Your orders were issued by a hologram, Lieutenant. Care to explain?"

"Clearly, there has been a misunderstanding-"

"Clearly." She hit her comm badge. "Crewman Thompson, please come in. Lt. Andrews, please bring my other guest to the conference room." Thompson entered immediately, and at Janeway's signal, remained by the door.

Sloan's mind was racing. "Captain, I assure you that my mission is genuine. I can't explain the hologram, but I was personally briefed by Admiral Ross." If she contacted Ross, he might play along if he knew that Sloan was involved. Ross would have to actually see Sloan to know that, though; the name 'Carlton' would mean nothing to him. He'd have to be very careful about how he suggested this.

The door opened again, and two people came in – another Security guard, and, much to his surprise, Anna. She betrayed no reaction when she saw him.

Nor did he. "Lt. Jameson. I didn't expect to see you again so soon."

"I could say the same." She turned to Janeway. "We arrived on the same transport, Captain."

Janeway folded her arms across her chest. "Lt. Jameson is with Starfleet Security, Anti-Terrorism Section. Internal Affairs and Security in the same half-hour – does that seem as unlikely to you as it does to me, Lieutenant?" Before he could answer, she went on in the same silky voice. "The difference, of course, is that her credentials appear to be genuine. And I have personally encountered Lt. Jameson just a few weeks ago, when she was investigating a threat to this ship."

"Captain, this is all – "

She ignored him. "It seems, Lt. – Carlton? – that seems certain Maquis sympathizers within Starfleet intend to thwart my mission. Would you be among them?"

"Of course not." He was genuinely insulted by the notion, and let it show. "Captain Janeway, I have come on legitimate business."

"Forged orders don't qualify as 'legitimate business' in my book." She looked disgusted. "I'd throw you in my own brig, but it's going to be very full before this assignment ends."

"I'll take him into custody, Captain," Jameson said. "I'm sure Commander Sisko will permit the use of the station's brig."

"You can't do this," Sloan said.

It was the wrong thing to say. "Watch me," Janeway replied with a cold smile.

Andrews pulled a set of wrist restraints from somewhere, and pulled Sloan's hands behind him, not gently. "This is all a mistake," Sloan repeated.

"Then I'll apologize later." Jameson grasped him by the shoulder. She had surprising strength in her hands. "Captain Janeway, I'm glad I had the chance to introduce myself."

She smiled. "Yes, I've been wondering about the strange Officer who was in this room at Utopia Planetia. I'm glad to know you're on my side."

Jameson smiled a little herself. "I suggest you advance your departure time. There may be more attempts to hinder you."

"I was thinking the same thing. We'll be underway within the hour. Thank you, Lieutenant."

It was a dismissal, and everyone in the room knew it. Thompson and Andrews were first out. Jameson picked up Sloan's duffel, pushed him toward the door, then paused. "Good luck, Captain Janeway. You have a most … challenging mission ahead of you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant. Voyager's ready for it."

She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something more, then nudged Sloan out of the room.

The two security officers stayed with them until they left the ship. The docking ring corridor was empty as they headed for the turbolift. "You set me up, didn't you? You and Connery."

"It was necessary that I reach Captain Janeway before you."

"Who are you?" he asked quietly. "Maquis? Romulan?"

"Actually," she said with the faintest hint of a smile, "We work for Section 31."

He stopped, but before he could say anything else, he felt the cold touch of a hypospray and the world went black.

*** The next morning

"Lieutenant? Are you all right?"

He opened his eyes. His head was pounding. It took a moment to realize that he was sitting on cold flooring. A man in the dull brown uniform of the Bajoran constabulary was bending over. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

Sloan looked around. He wasn't in the docking ring any more; he was in a room with little nothing in it except a dais of some kind. "I … I think so. Where am I, exactly?"

"You're in the Temple of the Prophets on the Promenade. Did you have too much to drink?"

"What? No, not at all." He struggled to find an explanation that would be plausible enough to cut off questions. "I guess I just fell asleep."

The officer frowned. Sloan saw that he was Bajoran, and wore the elaborate earring which was a badge of faith among his people. Falling asleep in the Temple of the Prophets was probably an insult.

"What a thing to do," he said, trying to be charming and apologetic. "I came here to pay my respects and meditate a little. It's just…I've been traveling for four days straight and I must have been more tired than I realized."

The frown faded. "Do you need any assistance?"

"No, I'll be fine." He scramble to his feet, and saw his duffel on the floor. "Do you know if Voyager has left the station?"

"She left last night," the officer said. "I hope you weren't supposed to be on it."

"No," Sloan said. "But I had hoped to catch somebody on board before they left." Damn. Janeway had someone looking out for her. Jameson said Section 31, but that couldn't be. It had to be the Romulans, protecting their interests.

"Too bad. Rotten timing."

"Yes, but she'll be back in six weeks." Sloan felt his jaw clench slightly. "I'll catch her then."

*** Whenever

Cloaked in orbit around Deep Space 9 the timeship USS Relativity waited for two of its crew to return. When 'Anna Jameson' and 'Sean Connery' stepped out of the transporter circle, the commanding officer was waiting, his arms folded and a frown on his face.

"What's wrong?" 'Sean' asked. Then he touched his shoulder, and his appearance changed. His thick brown hair disappeared and was replaced with the balding pate and mobile emitter of Voyager's EMH. "Isn't time back on its correct course? We undid the damage Braxton caused by delivering R'Mor's message."

"Sean Connery? That was not the name we agreed on. What if Sloan were an aficionado of twentieth century cinema?"

The Doctor shrugged. "He wasn't."

Lt. Commander Ducane was not appeased. "You took too many chances. You didn't need to be on that transport at all. That little farce with the uniform and the bags was dangerous and unnecessary."

"I disagree," Seven of Nine said as she removed the gold-shouldered uniform jacket. "The ideal intervention would have been on Tessan. If we simply prevented Braxton from obtaining and delivering the chip, it would not have been necessary to intervene with Sloan or Janeway."

"You know why we couldn't do that."

"I know what you told us. I remain unconvinced that action on Tessan would have resulted in more pollution to the timeline. The point, however, is that once that decision was made, it was imperative that we confirm the details of Sloan's plan before he approached Captain Janeway. The 'little farce' enabled me to have five seconds alone with his bag, which was sufficient time to upload the contents of his padd without raising his suspicions."

"29^th century technology," the Doctor added. "It still amazes me. And besides," he grinned with unabashed delight, "it was a lot more fun this way."

Ducane shook his head. "That's it. That's the last time either of you interface with Voyager."

Seven fixed a cold Borg glare on him; even without the implants, it was impressive. "You will not be able to correct all of Captain Braxton's mischief without our help. That is why you recruited us in the first place. That is why you bothered to develop an inoculation against temporal psychosis."

"I can try."

"Then I suggest you find a way to keep Captain Braxton in custody. You keep losing him. Every time he escapes he seeks vengeance against Captain Janeway. Restrain him, and you will not need us."

Ducane's frown deepened. "Look, Seven, you simply cannot tell people you work for Section 31."

"The statement was meaningless. I didn't tell him when we work for Section 31."

"Although she could have," the Doctor added loyally. "It's not as if he would have believed her if she told him we just dropped in from the 29^th century."

"Listen to me carefully. No more little inside jokes about dinner in a hundred years. No more little hints about the future to Janeway or anyone else from Voyager."

"Sloan is a vicious man and deserves to spend time wondering about this incident. When he realizes that Voyager is not returning as expected from the Badlands, this memory will irritate him for the rest of his life."

"Our role is not to judge history. Our job is to preserve history. That's the mission of Section 31 in our time. Don't forget that."

"We won't," the Doctor assured him. "But does that mean we can't enjoy our work?"

With an exasperated look, Ducane returned to his command chair. "Of course you can. But all in the proper time, Doctor. All in the proper time."