Far Afield

Last updated 7/3/07: another ten pages or so added, some small edits throughout. A little uneven, with some as-yet unresolved issues.

Her limbs, stiff from being tied for so long, would hardly respond to her attempts any more. The cell had minimal lighting from a single horizontal tube over the door; she wondered if the walls were really green, or if it were the light. She lay on her left side on the floor, arms still tied behind her back, and she knew if she weren’t released soon she would die.

One of the aliens returned. It disabled the force field and entered the cell, bending to clip the wire around her wrists. She rolled on her back, chafed her wrists slowly, and took deep breaths — the chill wasn’t helping. “Please,” she gasped, her voice dipping low unexpectedly. “I need to — need — where am I? Please?”

The alien stared with fathomless black eyes, twin domes on either side of a long ridged proboscis. Insectoid, probably, though what might have been antennae were thicker and shorter, like horns. Its skin gleamed a metallic gray, disconfirming her guess that the light had tinged the walls; it nodded once, slow and decisive, the dangling end of its proboscis reminding her of an elephant’s trunk.

“Please let me speak to someone,” she whispered. “My crew needs my help.”

The alien tucked the wire into a pocket of the floor-length smock it wore, then stepped out of view. She sat up by exerting sheer force of will, her back knotting in a dozen places where she’d struck corners and stones as she’d been dragged down into this prison. When she tried to force her legs to work, the pain became too sharp and constant. She’d broken her femur.

Another eternity passed. The light didn’t flicker, the scenery didn’t change. No furniture — just four walls, a floor, a ceiling, flat and offering nothing encouraging. The floor felt like ice through her pants.

Then she heard footsteps. Boots, she thought, and definitely not the alien again — except it peered at her, leaning into view, but then it was gone. Something made a rhythmic series of noises, sounding like words combined with clicking, and then a Starfleet officer stood at the door.

She gaped at the man, and he stared back. Seconds passed. The force field dropped at last, and he gestured as he came in. A second officer hurried up behind him and the field went up again.

“You,” she managed, wishing her voice wouldn’t sound so froggish.

“Kathryn.” His voice sounded so soft, nothing like the one she’d heard from old log entries and reports she’d had occasion to review. “We’re here to help you.”

The young woman looked her up and down and opened the medkit she’d brought. A minute of tricorder readings told her everything. “She needs to be in sickbay. Dehydration, a broken leg, a slight concussion. Lacerations, but I can help those.”

“Do the best you can, Lieutenant.” His eyes went to the dermal regenerator, then up and around, studying the cell. He wouldn’t find anything. She’d wondered if they were watching her, but if so, she’d been a boring prisoner.

The lieutenant finished with the cuts on her wrists and another on her arm, cutting away most of the torn sleeve, then inserted something under her skin with a device that resembled a hypo.

“Captain,” she began, but it hardly qualified as a whisper.

He kneeled and took a small round device out of the medkit, depressing the top. A red light began to flash. “This is a sterilization field, which also has the effect of disrupting any listening devices, or so we hope. You appeared inside a restricted area on the Klanian homeworld, which is in the Beta Quadrant, within Randra Alliance territory. I’ve been here for weeks attempting to build a diplomatic relationship with the Klane, who are near-xenophobes, which I understand — the Alliance isn’t exactly a safe region to live. Your appearance completely enraged their leadership, who accused us of allowing one of our officers to wander into sacred ground. We’re doing everything we can to get you out of here. What do I need to know?”

While he spoke, the lieutenant helped her drink several ounces of a semi-sweet nutritive supplement, which helped her dry throat and filled the empty space she’d forgotten about. Not eating for a long time did away with the appetite, and she’d been existing on air and determination for a while now. The lieutenant continued to work, administering a hypo to her throat and cutting her pants to reveal the broken leg.

“My ship is still out there,” she rasped, clearing her throat before continuing. “We made it to the fringes of the Beta Quadrant. Then we lost our warp engines — we needed deuterium, badly, and materials to make repairs. Our replicators were working but we had no raw materials to use, nor the warp power to operate them. We had to travel at impulse for months and finally found a sufficiently-advanced planet, but they were reluctant to trade with us when we had so little to offer. The ship is still there, much of the crew are working and saving to buy what we need. Some of us booked transport and went to other systems in search of information and parts. One of those worlds had a colony co-existing with a dormant Iconian gate. I recognized the symbols. I sent someone back to Voyager to retrieve information from the computer, while I studied the symbols and tried to activate the system.”

“And so you did. Much to the dismay of the Klane.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Two days.” Picard watched the lieutenant apply an extruded cast to immobilize her leg.

“Hell.” It had seemed much, much longer than that. She tried not to move as the cast hardened, but suddenly the floor felt terribly uncomfortable. She itched to stand up and face her peer eye to eye.

“Your crew is scattered around, then? Is there a way to easily recall them?”

“Unfortunately, there isn’t. We were forced to split up. A skeleton crew stayed with the ship. Some went to a space station called Glontos, others to Kyron and Mantry, two planets in the same sector.” She made eye contact and sat up straighter. “You have to help them. Even if you can’t get me out of here, you have to do something now. Before they scatter even more.”

Picard’s expression gave away very little, but she thought he seemed sympathetic. “Kathryn, what’s the date?”

“Approximately XXXXXX.”

The lieutenant shot Picard a wild look. “Sir?”

“You’re eight years ahead of that, Kathryn.” Picard gestured at the medkit. The lieutenant picked up another bottle of nutritive supplement and set it on the floor, then opened a bottle of lotion. Rather than let her start applying it, Kathryn reached for it, and smiled gratefully when the lieutenant simply handed it to her.

“So my crew is eight years in the past, in addition to being thousands of light-years away. I seem to have a talent for discovering impossible situations.”

Picard smirked. “You aren’t the only one. It would appear we both have the ability to get out of those situations as well, however. We’re going to see what we can do to help. But, for a variety of reasons, we can’t compromise the current diplomatic mission. I understand,” he added, raising a hand as she began to protests, “time is critical - but you’re eight years out of time already, and since any solution to your crew’s dilemma will involve time travel, we have some time to decide how to handle the problem of getting you home.”

The lieutenant dropped a pack she’d been wearing to the floor, opened it, and began to remove silver-wrapped bundles. Rations. And, possibly a few other things?

“We informed the Klane that your dietary needs can’t be met by their food. They allowed us to bring you rations and water. Also, coffee.” He tapped the top of a thermos. “Also, a transporter enhancer or two.”

“You said this was a critical mission.”

A faint smile, and he glanced at the lieutenant. “Missions related to the Randra Alliance and its species tend to go awry. We thought we might give ourselves as many options as we could. Leave them deactivated until you receive a signal from us.” The lieutenant handed him a small device, which he twisted — the end glowed red. He turned it off and gave it to her. One end was actually a fork.

“Thank you. And you, Lieutenant.”

“Wait for me outside.” Picard watched the lieutenant gather the pack and medkit then leave.

“I hope you are able to salvage your mission. I’m sorry — ”

“Stop, Kathryn.” Picard’s demeanor would have been effective enough in silencing her without his request. “This is breaking the rules, but I believe it is important for you to understand — Starfleet lost all contact with _Voyager_ nine years ago. You were all declared dead two years later. The following year, the surviving members of your crew arrived in Romulan space in your battered starship via an anomaly that carried you across most of the Beta Quadrant. Do you see the difficulties we are facing?”

She took a moment to add and subtract and hypothesize. “The Temporal Prime Directive may be difficult to manage. We lost contact a year ago, give or take, by my reckoning. And two years from now — my now, when I was at the other side of the Iconian gateway — we will return in _Voyager_ after locating an anomaly. But you said ’surviving members’ of my crew. That may or may not include me.”

“I know what I must do, Kathryn. Can you trust that?”

She smiled. “I do trust you.”

“I’ll do everything I can to get you out of here.”

She waited until he’d stood and turned for the door. “I want you to get my crew home. If I can’t do it myself, promise me that.”

He turned, bent to pick up the sterilization device, and flicked it off with his thumb. “I’ll do better than that,” he whispered. “See you later.”

He strode out of the cell. The force field came back on. Kathryn used her arms to push herself back against the wall so she could relax and open the thermos. She took a long moment to inhale the bracing smell of fresh, black coffee.

Then it occurred to her to wonder — how had he known of her passion for coffee? And further, why had he addressed her by first name, when she was certain she’d only ever met the man once or twice, almost in passing? And just how would he ‘do better than’ to rescue her crew?

There was more going on here than he’d mentioned.

But for now, there was coffee. And the first sip was enough heaven to make her forget, for a moment, all her worries. She reached for the closest ration packet.

“Beef stew,” she muttered, remembering ration packs from survival training as a cadet. She’d always hated the beef stew, and for some reason it seemed to be the most prevalent of the hundred or so varieties of rations. “Some things never change.”

————————————-

“You can’t go.”

“Why do I feel as though my mother’s come back to scold me?” Picard paced around the briefing room with his cup of tea, slowing near the viewports. The Klane homeworld glowed blue and white, clouds massing over the largest continent.

“This is your mission,” Troi insisted. She sat in her usual spot, to the right of the chair at the head of the table, a glass and a padd on the table before her. “The Klane are your priority.”

“You’re doing all the work. You negotiated passage to see Janeway. You established a rapport with Cushann.” He didn’t point out that politics of gender had more to do with it than anything else; once the Klane understood that he was male and Troi female, Cushann and the other three hive leaders had shifted their focus almost completely. Irritating, but at least progress had been made somehow. There were times that the Federation made overtures based on progressiveness and others when it did so out of necessity; this was the latter. If he craned his neck and peered down at the edge of the viewport, he might catch a glimpse of one of the Klane’s fifteen defense satellites, all of which were behemoths covered in armaments that could tackle a Borg cube.

Troi stared at some point in the air over the table, thinking. And frowning, her brows coming together and her eyes intense.

“Dee. I have to do this.”

“You could send — ”

“No. Temporal issues are more sensitive even than this diplomatic endeavor — yes, we have to somehow convince the Klane to agree to a non-aggression pact and set the foundation for further negotiations. But we know that Janeway and her crew must return six years ago, and you know why that has to happen.”

“So you’re abandoning this mission, canceling your plans for your son’s eleventh birthday party, and — and what? Which shuttle could possibly get you to the other side of the Beta Quadrant? Where are you going to find a time-traveling method that will also cross that much distance?” The shift in tactic meant he’d gained leverage. She couldn’t counter his point, so she brought up the difficulty of his proposition.

“I have Tom.”

“Tom.” She actually looked at him at last, and her wounded expression surprised him.

“A shuttle can’t make it. A Sovereign-class starship might stand a chance.”

“In a month or two, with luck. Unless you can find a convenient wormhole.”

“Precisely.” He strode to his chair and put his cup on the saucer as he sat down. “A wormhole, in Romulan space. One they use to trade with a species called the Sedrun.”

Troi sighed, her shoulders dropping slightly. “Why do I bother arguing with you? I suppose the Sedrun are in the Delta Quadrant.”

“Nearly. We know this will succeed.”

“Unless you manage to create some immense paradoxical chain of events that prevent the history we know from happening, and us from ever remembering it. And you still won’t be back in time for Yves’ birthday.”

“Or our anniversary.”

Troi sighed again. “There’s no way to postpone the adventure until we’re done with the Klane? We have a perfectly good Sovereign-class starship right here.”

He laughed then. “You simply don’t want to be left out!”

“Excuse me for thinking that keeping an eye out for my captain is a good idea. Given your predilection for miring yourself in complicated and sometimes violent situations, a first officer has a right to be wary.”

“Point taken, but I think I need to move forward with this as soon as possible.”

“Don’t you have to take Janeway with you? Isn’t that part of the goal, reuniting her with her crew and putting her back in the appropriate part of the timeline?”

Picard paused, doing a double-take. “Oh. Yes, that would help, wouldn’t it?”

“So you can’t fault me for wanting in on the adventure, when you’re so excited you forget the details,” she chided.

“So get Janeway back from the Klane.”

“_Me_? All by myself? Because you’re so busy with . . ..” Troi leaned forward, eyeing him expectantly.

“Commander,” he began, pausing as the door opened and the rest of his senior staff filed in. Mengis sauntered to his usual chair, three down from Troi. Mendez sat at Deanna’s right. deLio took a seat next to Mengis, and Greenman sat with him. Batris took the chair across from Troi. Counselor Davidson arrived last. Surveying the room, he settled in a chair between himself and Batris, putting his cup of coffee on the table.

“Don’t let us interrupt the traditional argument,” Davidson said mildly. Mengis chuckled nearly inaudibly, and Mendez chewed his lower lip.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Picard eyed each of them in turn.

“You weren’t just fighting about what to do now that Captain Janeway is in Klane custody?” Greenman glanced at Troi.

“The captain was about to explain to me why he disagrees with me,” Troi said, cool and collected.

Now everyone looked at him expectantly, if smugly. {Are we so predictable?}

{Apparently. Are you going to tell me why you insist upon leaving the ship behind when you go on this journey to the far end of the Beta Quadrant?}

{I can’t.} Putting his forearms on the table, he glanced around to see if anyone would challenge him. “I have my reasons. Captain Janeway must be rescued from captivity without risking diplomatic catastrophe with the Klane. Did any of you make any progress?”

“Mr. Mendez and I have spent the morning in the hospital, as we planned,” Mengis said. “As with most inhabitants of this region, their medical technology is not advanced. I assisted in the healing of several Klane, although the patients were nearly as repulsed by my presence as the doctors. I can’t claim that I made friends, but I feel we did gain some respect.”

“I wish it were so simple with engineering,” Batris said. “Natalia and I couldn’t get any of them to speak with us. They listened, though.”

“I think they were most interested in the warp drive,” Natalia added. “Unfortunately. They have analogs for most of the other things we discussed.”

Picard listened as the two teams gave details on the results of their attempts to establish rapport with Klane scientists, wishing it didn’t feel so much like dangling bait. Or, perhaps the more appropriate metaphor might be chumming for sharks. What the Klane lacked in medical technology, they made up for in weaponry.

Troi remained silent most of the meeting. Greenman kept shooting glances at the first officer, obviously wondering why. Picard had a feeling they would find out.

And, as he was about to dismiss them, they did.

“Aren’t you going to need permission to use this wormhole?”

Picard sighed and settled back in his chair. “Why wouldn’t we have it? The Romulans are allies now.”

“The wormhole is close to the Tomed nebula, and the Romulans tend to be rather protective of that region.”

Ignoring the smirks from his other officers, Picard stared at her. “The rest of you are dismissed, so we can finish the traditional argument.”

Fortunately, the only audible acknowledgment was a quickly-stifled guffaw from either Batris or Mendez; Picard didn’t look at any of them as they left the room. Troi sighed and plexed, a worrisome sight — she did it only when feeling particularly stressed.

“The solution will involve time travel,” she mumbled, leaning forward, looking down at the table. “I do not understand what difference it makes whether you go today or next week, or next month.”

“Deanna, I wouldn’t insist if it were not necessary. You must get Janeway away from the Klane, and I must go help her crew. We’ll get them back together again.”

“She’s told you something, hasn’t she? When we saw her four years ago?”

“Dee, please trust me?” He considered, as he had done many times in the past couple of days, telling her the whole story. Janeway had already violated the temporal prime directive and set him in this course.

“Just explain to me how you will get her back to her ship if you leave her here.”

“An Iconian gateway brought her here.”

She met his gaze, clearly not making the connection.

“There has to be a way to use the gates to travel both ways. There has to be a way to pull her back through it. Tom and I will gather her crew and repair her ship, and you will help her regain her health, and together we’ll pull this off. But if I take her with me now she’ll only try to work. She needs time to recuperate. Her crew needs my help now.”

Troi stared at him steadily for a while.

“Lives depend on this. We have only a week before people start dying. You have a solid relationship with the Klane — it has to be you negotiating or we’ll fail.”

“When will you leave?”

He exhaled slowly, silently, and reached for her hand. “This will turn out well.”

“I hope so. Can you at least stay long enough to throw an early birthday party for Yves?”

“If we do it tonight. He’ll understand, Cygne.”

“I suppose he will. It isn’t the first time.”

———————————————————

Janeway reluctantly tore open the last of the ration packs. She had no way of knowing how long it had been since Picard left, but she’d waited as long as she could between meals, until her stomach nearly howled in agony.

“Beef stew. How did I know?” But it tasted good, if she’d waited long enough. She glanced at the empty thermos longingly and chewed her way slowly through the meager meal.

And then she waited some more, eyeing the fork, wishing she dared. Not that transporter enhancers would work if no one beamed her out, but she could fantasize about it. She had nothing better to do.

Curling up on the bed, she sighed and tried to sleep.

She woke to the absence of the hum of the force field. Someone touched her arm. Flinching, she jerked herself upright and found herself staring into the black-on-black eyes of a Betazoid woman with three pips on her collar.

“Captain Janeway,” she said, then paused.

“You’re from the _Enterprise_?” Janeway cleared her throat, and the commander turned; there was that same lieutenant, holding another thermos.

“I’m Commander Troi. This should help — drink slowly.”

The thermos’ contents tasted familiar; this was a re-hydration drink. It smoothed the soreness of her throat. “You’re here to rescue me,” Janeway said, glad to hear the change in her own voice.

“Absolutely. Lieutenant Greenman will check you with the medical tricorder, and we’ll transport out of here.”

Janeway wondered about the necessity of the scan, but as Greenman came forward and ran it, Troi picked up the thermos and fork and random bits of trash. The scan gave her time to clear the cell of technology that shouldn’t be there.

They helped her to her feet, mindful of the temporary cast on her leg. The transport process took her breath away and left her reeling on the platform. The contrast between air filtered by well-maintained equipment and the places she’d been over the past months — dank and dirty hovels, a cell, a tent — sent her into a state of shock. She’d read somewhere in the distant past about sense memory being more powerful than any other, and the physical reality of being on a starship again proved it to her.

A hand on her arm brought her back. “Lieutenant Greenman, please go with our guest to sickbay. I suggest site to site transport. Walking with that leg will be painful. I’ll meet you there after I check on something.”

Troi left the room, and Greenman put Janeway’s arm across her shoulders. Before Janeway could thank her for the support, the transporter attendant beamed them away to sickbay, where suddenly a throng of people gathered around and arranged her on a biobed.

Sickbay had never been so welcome. She closed her eyes and let them work, as something within her loosened at long last — she no longer had to be vigilant. She was back aboard a Starfleet vessel and under the care of Starfleet personnel; she had no function here, no purpose, and while her crew remained her priority, her body had other ideas.

When she woke again, she imagined they must have drugged her. Sickbay was quiet and the lights were at half intensity, a good indicator that ship’s night was in progress and she should be asleep. She felt cold from head to toe, however, and the thin blanket and the sickbay robe over her didn’t do a thing to offset that. She looked around slowly and found that Greenman was still there, slumped in a chair and holding a padd, the glow from it turning her face slightly yellow. The lieutenant noticed her and put the padd aside.

“How are you feeling?”

“Almost human. Are you the night watchman?”

“Commander Troi used to be the ship’s counselor,” Greenman said with a fond smile. “She insisted that someone should be here when you wake up. I volunteered.”

Janeway carefully moved her limbs, taking inventory, and found that her leg wasn’t broken, and other than soreness of muscles she felt fine, could move freely and sit up. “Do you suppose I could talk to your captain? I know it’s late — I don’t know if I could sleep without knowing . . ..”

“The captain left a week ago. I could get the commander for you.”

“Left?”

“He’s going to find your crew.”

At that she did sit up, a knot in her lower back notwithstanding. It took longer than she expected. When she bunched the blanket against her chest, Greenman went for another blanket and draped it over her shoulders.

“You should stay in bed.”

Janeway nodded, but remained sitting. “He said we had time.”

“He did. He also said you were in no shape to go anywhere, and he would take care of it. You’ll get back to your ship when you’ve recovered.”

The doors opened, and Troi came in, surprising Janeway. She hadn’t seen the lieutenant do anything to signal her. Troi, unlike her subordinate, was out of uniform and wearing a green shirt and brown pants.

“Captain,” she said in greeting. “I’ve been told you need to stay in sickbay a while longer. You should stay in bed.”

“I just needed to sit up. I’d like to know what’s happening.”

Troi smiled. “Captain Picard said you had asked him to see to your crew. He went to do that. In the meantime, I am attempting to work with the Klane, and you will hopefully recuperate in peace.”

Janeway sighed. “It isn’t that I’m not grateful, and I certainly do hope to recover. However, I was hoping that I could go with him — it may be difficult to locate my crew, and I have experience in negotiating with the species in the area.”

“I’m not certain what you hope to accomplish by saying that, but he left a week ago, on a shuttle. He rendezvoused with the _Venture_ and from there took two days to arrive at the wormhole in the Tomed nebula. I’m not certain how long it took to navigate the wormhole, but I would guess they are already in the Delta Quadrant.”

“Especially if Captain Glendenning talked his engineer into those experimental modifications to his engines,” Greenman said.

Janeway glanced at the lieutenant. Troi was either very quick on the uptake or thinking the same thing — she turned to Greenman. “Natalia, thank you for waiting up. I think you should get some sleep. You’ll be on the bridge in the morning one way or the other, after all.”

“Yes, sir. Sleep well, Captain.” The young woman took her padd and left without further ado.

“I don’t suppose I could persuade you to let me have an actual bed?” Janeway looked down at the flat, stiff pillow.

Troi looked over her shoulder. “Heidi?” A woman popped out from the other end of sickbay. “Would you call Dr. Mengis and have him come down?” The woman nodded and went back to wherever she’d been. Troi came closer and put a hand on her arm. “Will you let us help you?”

The question caught Janeway off guard. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Troi’s dark eyes held concern and an intensity Janeway wouldn’t have expected. “I don’t know the specifics of your last few years in the Delta Quadrant, but I do know quite a bit about your experiences before Pathfinder lost contact. Your doctor might have mentioned me?”

“Troi,” Janeway exclaimed, remembering suddenly why the name had sounded familiar. “You helped him help Dr. Zimmerman. I seem to recall Mr. Barclay mentioning you in one of his messages, as well.”

“Yes. He kept me updated on _Voyager_’s status until he lost contact.” The door opened and a tall man with short black hair and mustache arrived. Troi turned to him expectantly. “Captain Janeway would like a real bed.”

“While I certainly respect your rank and authority, Commander, I would be failing my profession if I were to allow her to leave sickbay.”

Troi snorted. “Nicely said.”

The doctor smiled. “I have been practicing for your next extended visit.”

“You don’t believe she might sleep better, thus speeding her recovery, if you were to allow her to move to quarters?”

“No.” The doctor put a hand on Troi’s shoulder, subtly shifting her to one side as he reached for the panel over Janeway’s head. “How do you feel, Captain?”

“Tired. My left shoulder aches, but it’s been doing that for months.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s been a while since you’ve been in a Starfleet sickbay, judging from your many partially-healed wounds. I am Dr. Mengis, by the way.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Mengis. Could you explain to me why you believe I belong in sickbay?”

Mengis studied her for a long moment. “You were malnourished, dehydrated, and you had multiple partially-healed fractures. The broken leg was recent; the three cracked ribs and multiple hairline fractures along the radius and ulna of your right arm were at least four months old. There are irregularities in your brain activity that suggest to me that you may be experiencing post traumatic anxiety or depression. Given your long separation from Starfleet support and the reckless behavior typical of officers with three or more pips–”

“Doctor,” Troi exclaimed in a scolding tone.

“–I would prefer to err on the side of safety and keep you in sickbay until a thorough psychological evaluation is completed and your physical condition is sufficiently stabilized and restored.”

“At least you’re straightforward about it.” Janeway thought about Chakotay and his worrying about her health before she’d left the ship that last time. Troi was saying something to Mengis, but Janeway missed it, lost in memories of the worried faces of her crew.

She let them lay her down and obediently drifted off to sleep, where her ship traveled at warp through the stars of the Delta Quadrant.

———————

“We have traveled approximately seven point two six three years into the past, Captain,” Data announced.

Picard glanced down the bridge at the top of Tom’s head. He’d remained seated, while his ops man had toppled and one of the ensigns at a secondary station had lost his footing and rolled down the bridge during the transit through the wormhole. Warning lights were flashing on most panels.

“Warp engines are offline,” announced Kendall, who’d climbed back up to sit at ops. “So are long range sensors.”

“Data?”

“I made my calculations based on star positions, sir. We are within a parsec of Nebula AX-2493.”

That was their destination; it would be where _Voyager_ drifted, waiting for its crew. Picard left tactical to Rorqual, who had ridden out the turbulence by clinging to his console. The chair at Tom’s left hand was empty; he sat in it and waited for Tom to get himself together.

“Benoit,” Tom called out. The voice of his engineer answered from the comm.

“Safeties shut down the warp engines, sir. We’re starting repairs now. Conservative estimate would be about an hour. We have impulse but shields are down.”

“Get someone on the shields. We’re not exactly walking through Golden Gate Park, here.”

“Aye, sir.”

Tom glanced up at Rorqual, leaning left, and the heavy-set chief of security said, “Nothing on sensors. We’re in open space.”

“Cray, best possible speed toward the nebula. Being a sitting duck isn’t smart, I’m guessing. Kendall, coordinate with engineering on repairing the long range sensors. I’ll be in my ready room.” Tom glanced at Picard by way of invitation. “Get me a more comprehensive damage report and send it through when it’s done.”

Though it was of similar size and configuration, Tom’s ready room had little else in common with Picard’s; one of Lora’s paintings from her brief artistic phase hung where the fish tank would be. The carpet had been changed from regulation gray to a darker gunmetal shade. Tom headed for the replicator and requested the usual hot Earl Grey and a hot coffee, black.

“This is going to be a long one, isn’t it?” Tom asked as he handed over cup and saucer and returned to his desk. “Move somewhere at warp, wait a day, move somewhere else, spend two days on calculations to shift ourselves back in time, wait for repairs.”

“It will be straightforward, for all that. We have four distinct groups of officers to collect. One of them will be on the ship. I don’t predict a great deal of difficulty with the other three.”

Tom took a mouthful of coffee as he sat down, running the back of his hand across his mustache. “You could easily spend the time waiting around with Lora, or Verly.”

“A captain belongs on the bridge. Also, I imagine this would be good practice for admiralty.”

“Sitting around watching other people work? Sure. We had an admiral aboard not too long ago who was really quite good at it.” Tom leaned back, smiling lazily. “Still, it could get interesting once we’re there. You never know.”

“Indeed.”

“Did Yves like the birthday present I got him?”

Picard chuckled. “Oh, certainly. What boy wouldn’t like a kit to build weapons? Even if they’re ancient siege machines, you can still annoy a sister from across the room with them.”

“I hope Dee isn’t too annoyed, but what’s an uncle for if you can’t spoil the nephew?”

The annunciator went off. When Tom granted entrance, Data strode into the room. “Benoit reports that repairs are proceeding ahead of schedule. Shields are operational, and we should have warp two in fifteen minutes. I will be heading to engineering to assist with long range scanners.”

“Getting bored on the bridge?”

Data smiled, the expression finally coming naturally to him. “I believe I am not the only one who is eager to go where the action is.” He glanced at Picard. “Also, I will be able to complete repairs more quickly.”

“Kendall won’t be too overwhelmed by the increase of responsibility, I suppose,” Tom replied. “Have fun in the crawlspaces.”

“I will see you at dinner, Captain Picard.” Data inclined his head toward Tom and did a neat about-face.

“Dinner with the androids?” Tom asked, once Data had gone.

“I believe it was Phoebe’s idea.”

“She’s an instigator, that one.”

“Still not interested in Starfleet?”

Tom inhaled more coffee and put down the mug. “Not in the slightest. She’s still requesting more data from Memory Alpha than anyone else aboard. This quest for identity would probably take less time if we didn’t put a cap on allowable bandwidth per person. Personally, I’m rooting for her to choose something like sculpting or underwater flautist, just to annoy Command.”

“Any further inquiries from them?”

“No, which is suspicious. They’d need Data’s help to start manufacturing others, so I’m thinking it’s not that, but I’m betting they’re up to something.” Tom grinned. “You should sit with her for a while, give her the benefit of your accumulated wisdom and issue some sage advice to help her. Wise old mentor to niece, if you will.”

“I have to say, your wisecracks have improved over the years. I hardly noticed the joke about my age until now.”

Tom laughed outright — the first time since Picard had showed up, actually. “See, I wasn’t even going there.”

“Mm. Really.”

They sat for a while, sipping and thinking. As usual, Picard’s thoughts turned to family — to Deanna, really, and how she would be taking the children home for dinner shortly. How she would put them to bed and then settle in to check the day logs, perhaps read a poem, and head off to bed herself. Perhaps in one of his old shirts, or one of the short silk –

“It shows, you know.”

He glanced up at Tom and leaned to put cup and saucer on the edge of the desk.

“When you think of her. Shows in your face.”

At least he wasn’t laughing about it. Picard sighed. “I left her in the middle of touchy negotiations and put her in charge of freeing Janeway. And once she’s done that, she’ll have to keep a determined captain from hijacking our ship to go look for her crew.”

“If it were anyone else, I’d accuse you of hyperbole. I bet Janeway’s trying to talk her into coming after us right now — even if she’s strapped down in sickbay she’s pushing for it.”

“But it’s Deanna she’s trying to convince.”

Tom smirked. “So we should be able to finish the mission and get back without worrying about them.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. I’m certain I’ll worry, just the same.”

—————————-

Janeway awakened to a busy sickbay. She felt better this time, much less like a recently-reawakened cadaver, Turning her head took little effort, so she watched Mengis working over a young man on a biobed. It appeared to be a broken bone; the man winced a lot throughout the regeneration process. Finally he let out a yelp.

“You’re being very dramatic. Perhaps you shouldn’t have refused anesthetic,” Mengis commented drily.

“I have to be on duty,” the man exclaimed. “Have to have a clear head.”

Mengis, turning to reach for a tool, rolled his eyes. “Yes, you do, if you were going back this shift, which you are not. As I explained when you arrived, someone is already taking your shift.”

“But Doctor — ”

“Cadet, you were minding an auxiliary panel in engineering, not piloting the ship. I think we’ll manage to hold the ship together until tomorrow without you.” Mengis turned and applied a hypospray to the cadet’s shoulder. Apparently it was a sedative; the cadet went under and Mengis worked in silence. Finally he backed away from the biobed and glanced at Janeway.

“Good morning?” she attempted.

“Close. Good afternoon, Captain.” He came to stand over her. “Feeling better?”

“Very much so. How long have I been here, now?” The last time she’d awakened, it had been day fourteen.

Mengis smiled. “Going on fifteen days. I think you’re ready to move into your own quarters.”

“Maybe even man an auxiliary panel in engineering?”

He, and his assistant checking the readouts on the other biobed, laughed at that. “I have no doubt that you could do that. However, like the cadet here, you’ll still be off duty until I declare you fit.”

“I’d forgotten what it was like, having cadets.” Most of her own crew were due for promotions, and some of them could probably skip a grade by now.

“We have several dozen of them at the moment. Not all of them are quite so eager to make an impression.”

“He impressed me. It isn’t often one finds a way to break a leg without leaving the ship.”

“We have the good fortune of having Starfleet’s most creative young men and women, all diamonds in the rough. With emphasis on ‘rough.’ This one made the most spectacular trip and fall I’ve seen in my time aboard the _Enterprise_.”

“At least he didn’t damage the warp core on the way down,” the nurse commented. Mengis gave her a look that sent her to the other end of sickbay.

“The commander indicated that we should direct you to level eight, section three, cabin ten when you are ready. If you’ll allow me a moment to check you over?”

It took no time at all for him to do so, and Janeway found herself in the back of sickbay before a replicator, ready to exchange the sickbay blues for something else. Her excitement at escaping sickbay waned somewhat. She was off duty, but on a ship; she opted for duty uniform, knowing the computer would identify her by voiceprint and give her the appropriate size.

The uniform that resulted was like Mengis’, plain black with red piping and cuffs, gray undershirt. It fit loosely. She brushed her hair and put it up, then stared at the reflection in the mirror. Not who she’d been, not last year, not ten years ago — she looked older, and definitely thinner. The new uniform didn’t help.

She felt a little lightheaded when she left sickbay. Hesitating in the corridor, somewhat disoriented, she chose to go right and stopped at the first computer access panel. “Computer, show me the way to level eight, section three, cabin ten.”

“Proceed right to the nearest turbolift.” The panel lit up with a map, which showed just a few turns once she left the lift on level eight. The lift wasn’t far.

She left the lift after a short ride and again felt lightheaded, somewhat worse than before. Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes for a moment until it passed and she felt able to move on. She caught sight of her reflection in the highly polished wall panel and frowned again. 

A babble of voices reminded her she was not alone and she stiffened as a group of crewmen rounded the corner and came toward her. Two men and one woman, all lieutenants. They nodded to her politely and continued talking among themselves. No one gave a second glance to the four pips on her collar, reminding her once more how large a Sovereign-class ship was in comparison to an Intrepid, how many people it held, how used they must be to visitors.

Janeway resumed her search for her quarters. She turned the next corner and stopped short, this time in surprise.


A young boy, a frown clearly visible on his face, approached from the other direction. But it was the sight of his companion that shocked her–a large reddish-brown dog regarding her with soulful eyes.


“Oh!” Janeway exclaimed, overwhelmed by sudden memories of Molly, the Irish setter she’d left in Mark’s care at the outset of _Voyager_’s inaugural mission to the Badlands. Instinctively, she dropped to one knee.


The boy smiled, and the dog bounded into her outstretched arms. “You’re such a beauty,” Janeway said with a smile of her own as the dog nuzzled her neck. She ran her hands over the his short, smooth fur. “Yes, you are. What’s your name?”


“This is Fidele,” the boy answered, his hazel eyes intent on hers. “Or did you mean mine?”


“I _was_ talking to your friend,” said Janeway. “But it would be remiss of me to ignore you.” She gave the dog a last pat and rose to her feet. “My name is Kathryn.”


“I’m Yves.”


“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Both of you,” she added.


“Have you just recently come on board?”


“Yes, I have.”


Yves nodded. “I thought so. Most people seem surprised when they first see Fidele. Some are even afraid of him.”


“I like dogs very much,” Janeway said.  She looked again at Fidele, who returned her gaze calmly. “But it’s not very often you find one on board a starship.”


“Dogs have a long history in space,” Yves countered. “Did you know that one of the earliest Terran spacecraft–it was just a sub-orbital rocket, really–was manned by a dog?”


“Actually, I did know–” Janeway began.


“Not to mention that on the first Enterprise–the first warp-capable ship, that is–Captain Archer brought along his dog.”


“I’ve always thought that was an apocryphal story,” Janeway said mildly. “Ships were a lot smaller in those days. Aside from the generational or ‘Boomer’ ships, they didn’t have provisions to bring families with them, let alone pets.”


“That’s a good point.” Yves grinned. “Then again, some pets are less trouble than children.”


“I’m sure,” Janeway said, trying not to let her amusement show. Pets had been one thing no one had ever tried to introduce on board Voyager. Neither Naomi Wildman nor Icheb or the other Borg children had created much trouble on the journey, either, though doubtless Tom’s daughter would manage to stir things up as she grew older… . Her smile faded. Crushing her thoughts with words, she went on, “Is that what your mother says?”


Yves gave her another strangely penetrating glance. “Not out loud, but I’m sure that thought has crossed her mind more than once, especially when Cordelia’s having one of her fits.”


“Speaking of your mother,” put in a new voice. Janeway looked up to see a dark-skinned woman, dressed in a flowing purple gown and a matching, elaborate hat, had approached them without her noticing. “She’s wondering why you aren’t where you belong.”


Yves groaned. “And she sent you to find me, Guinan? Why didn’t she just comm me?”


“It would have been easier if you were wearing your comm badge,” Guinan pointed out. “She might have made a shipwide announcement if I hadn’t agreed to find you myself, you know.”


Yves looked down at the bare front of his tunic. “Sorry. It must have gotten knocked off when I took my beam back to our quarters. I’m building a trebuchet,” he explained to Janeway. “It’s a kind of medieval Terran catapult. I got a kit for my birthday. I was moving it from a cargo bay to my room so I could work on it tonight.”


“That was over an hour ago,” Guinan said. “Taking the scenic route?”


“Sorry,” Yves mumbled again. “Is Mom really mad at me?”


“She didn’t go into details, but she did seem concerned.”


“Great. She’s probably going to throw me into the brig!”


Janeway raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Is that what usually happens when your mother’s angry at you?”


Yves seemed about to reply, then thought better of it. “Well, she _could_ do it,” he said finally. “After all, she is the first officer.”


”You’re Commander Troi’s son?” Janeway asked.


Yves nodded. “And believe me, you don’t want to mess with her.” He turned to Guinan suddenly. “This is Kathryn, by the way. She’s new here.”


The other woman took her hand and gave her a searching look. “You’re a long way from home.”


“Yes, I suppose I am,” Janeway answered. It was such an odd statement. She opened her mouth, but Guinan had already turned her attention back to Yves.


“I don’t know if the brig is going to figure in the picture eventually, but in the meantime I’m under orders to escort you personally to Lieutenant Kelley’s quarters.”


“All right,” Yves said, with an air of resignation. “I guess I should be going. It was nice meeting you, Kathryn. I’ll see you around!”


“It was nice meeting you as well,” Janeway said. She gave Fidele one last pat and then watched as the boy and dog disappeared around the bend of the corridor. Guinan gave her an enigmatic parting look before following.

Janeway found her quarters around the next bend of corridor, and discovered she had a fine view forward, as well as a bathtub. And on a small table, obviously not standard issue, a coffee maker and a canister of real coffee beans. Bath first, or coffee?

“Both,” she decided out loud, flipping the top of the coffee machine open to scoop in beans. “Computer, please fill the bathtub, water temperature as hot as you can make it.”

She stood over the machine, letting the aroma of brewing coffee take her away briefly. In the bathroom the sound of running water echoed. Then it went off, the coffee was finished, and she was left in silence.

She took the mug and sipped, walked to the viewports, and tried to remember the last time she had the time to do nothing but look at the stars. Well, in this case, it was a solar system; one of the moons and a satellite were visible. But it was all very offputting, not having anything to do, no crisis to confront, no threat of immediate destruction by the Borg, the Kazon, or some as-yet unknown foe. Sickbay she had tolerated; it was something to ground her. She’d had to recuperate on _Voyager_ before. But once free of Sickbay she’d had a ship to run, which she’d done even on medical leave on some level.

Feeling adrift and rudderless, she headed in to her bath, to distract herself.

————————

“What a wreck,” Tom said. He stood between the ops and helm consoles, hands on his hips, staring at the viewscreen upon which the battered _Voyager_ drifted upside down and askew.

“Impulse and warp are not functioning, but there are signs of power usage. Probably emergency generators.” Rorqual looked up at his captain. “Six life forms. No response to our hails.”

Picard rose from the counselor’s chair, which had become his customary seat on the bridge, and stood behind Tom, crossing his arms. “So are you going over there, or am I?”

“Isn’t there some sort of rule about ancient captains staying out of trouble?” Tom’s question provoked a quickly-muffled guffaw from someone behind them.

“If I ever meet an ancient captain, I’ll ask.”

Tom bumped him with his elbow. “Flip you for it.”

“You could try.”

“We could both go.”

“I believe I should go,” Data put in from his seat. “Sirs.”

“That would be wise, I suppose. But I’m not one of those captains who does that wise thing, now, am I?”

Picard raised an eyebrow at Tom. “That’s a matter of interpretation. There is wise, and there is ‘wise guy.’”

“Oh, we’re at the top of our form today,” Tom exclaimed. He slapped Picard on the shoulder.

Data trailed along after them all the way to the transporter room before giving up the battle to keep his captain on board. He stood at the console with the attendant and watched them dematerialize.

The transporter put them on the bridge, one of the few decks with life support. Emergency lighting was dim; it was clear some of the consoles were open as if someone had been trying to repair them. Tom had his tricorder out seconds later. “Looks like someone’s in the ready room. They couldn’t even tell we beamed aboard.”

Picard followed him to the door and they hesitated, glancing at each other in the gloom, then Tom raised a fist and hammered on the door.

A long pause, then the left panel slowly slid aside.

Tom actually stumbled backward.

“You,” gasped Kathryn Janeway, as she pushed a stray lock of hair behind her right ear. She stared at them open-mouthed.

Picard closed his own mouth a moment later. This wasn’t what Kathryn had told him to expect. “I think we may have miscalculated.”

—————————-

Shortly after the end of alpha shift, Janeway had finished her bath, put on another uniform and was debating with herself the ramifications of being eight years forward in time and reading the news when the annunciator disrupted her train of thought. When the doors slid back, the boy from the corridor stood there, grinning up at her.

“Hi, Captain Janeway.”

She couldn’t help smiling. “What happened to Kathryn?”

“Mom told me I shouldn’t call you that.”

“Are you coming in?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “I’m here to take you to dinner.”

At that, she was truly bemused. “Really?”

“Yeah. If you want to go. Mom said I should come — ” He paused, mouth open, and blushed. “Oh. I was supposed to ask first, I guess. If you want to come have dinner with us.”

“I’d love to.”

He recovered from his embarrassment quickly enough. “Great! Let’s go!”

“Where is Fidele?” she asked as they left her quarters.

“He’s with the twins. My little brother and sister. They’re four.” Yves led her along the corridor, glancing up at her while they walked. “Do you have any kids?”

The unexpected question had surprising power to wound her. Memories of Naomi, Mezoti, Icheb and the other children of _Voyager_ prompted worries about their fate. Yves stopped walking, his confused expression causing her further worry.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He opened his mouth — but obviously some thought intervened and he snapped it shut again. Shrugging, he smiled half-heartedly and started forward again. “Do you like cake? Or pie? We couldn’t decide what we were having for dessert.”

“Either is fine.”

Their destination wasn’t far away, and as they approached the doors opened and Commander Troi emerged — only this was a different woman than Janeway had met before. With her hair down and a flowing dress the color of amber in sunlight, Troi looked completely transformed. She stepped out to welcome Janeway and escorted her inside.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I sent Yves along to invite you. This is Amy,” Troi said, as a small girl with mahogany curls danced up to them. Amy giggled and pirouetted away again, preoccupied with her performance.

From a side door came the twins, followed by the dog. Both children lunged for their mother, but Fidele strode up to Janeway and sat down, folding his huge ears downward and nosing her hand. If that wasn’t an invitation to pet him, she didn’t know what else it could be.

“He likes you,” Yves observed.

“I like him.” Janeway fondled the dog’s ears, and was rewarded with a thumping tail and a wide doggy smile.

“I thought you might enjoy the company for your first dinner out of sickbay,” Troi said, helping one of the twins into a booster chair. “Yves, could you handle the replicator?”

Dinner proceeded as Janeway would have imagined it might with two four-year-olds, a six-year-old girl, and Yves, who apparently just turned eleven. Amy demanded, in various direct and indirect ways, attention from anyone who would talk to her. Cordelia and Jean-Pierre babbled to each other in some language sounding vaguely French, and made requests of their mother in Standard.

Only one detail seemed off; Fidele didn’t beg for food. He seemed interested in the people, moving from one child to the next then spending a few moments adoring Janeway with those bright amber eyes, his chin resting on her thigh. The food was very good, especially after years of making do and ever-dwindling replicator rations, and Troi was a good hostess, effortlessly tending her children’s needs and keeping Janeway’s glass full.

Yves chatted endlessly about school, his friend Tanner, the homework he disliked, the books he did like — he had peculiar taste for an eleven year old boy, Janeway thought — and the kit he’d mentioned before. Building a trebuchet would keep him busy for hours, Troi commented, since the kit didn’t include all the pieces, forcing him to replicate to specifications or possibly whittle them. It only seemed to excite Yves.

“You got this for your birthday?” Janeway asked.

“From my Uncle Tom,” he replied. “He gives us weird gifts. But they’re usually fun. He went with Papa on his mission.”

Stringing together non-sequiturs seemed to be a habit for Yves. “Is your uncle also in Starfleet, then?”

“He’s a captain, too. Papa said he’s really good at what he does but he doesn’t seem like it, especially if — ” Yves stopped and stared across the table, dropping his fork on his pie plate.

“Cordelia needs to wash her hands. Could you see to it she’s thorough, Yves? Help her put the step stool up?” Troi said casually. The boy left the table, dragging his whining sister with him. Amy nibbled at her pie and looked from her mother to Janeway.

“I have to apologize, Captain,” Troi said calmly. “Apparently for several reasons. Yves is coming into the Betazoid portion of his heritage early and finds it difficult at times to understand the emotions he senses from others. And I had thought you must certainly know by now who his father was.” She gestured at the wall over the couch, where a portrait of Troi and her children hung; when she glanced at it herself, she made a frustrated sound and rose, crossing the room to press the lower right corner of the black frame. The portrait shifted to one of Picard and Yves standing in front of a house, presumably somewhere on Earth. “Though that would explain it,” Troi added. “It’s supposed to cycle every twenty minutes. It must be stuck.”

“Perhaps I should go,” Janeway exclaimed, standing. “I didn’t mean to upset him.” Fidele nosed her hand and wagged his tail, shifting his weight from one paw to the other, clearly expecting to play. “Sorry, boy. Not now.”

To her surprise the dog sat down and stared up at her expectantly. She stared back. The dog had been quite responsive to voice commands throughout dinner, too, and now this.

“Maman, I want to show her my trebuchet,” Yves exclaimed, returning through the side door. Cordelia, freed from being forced to clean blueberry filling from her fingers, dashed for the toy box in a far corner of the room. Amy jumped from her chair, and Jean-Pierre slid down from his seat.

“Come play with me!” Amy demanded, grabbing Janeway’s hand.

“Not now, Amia. I don’t know if you noticed how tired she is, Yves. She’s only just gotten out of sickbay.” Troi met Yves halfway, taking him under her arm. “We should let her rest if she feels she needs to, shouldn’t we?”

“Okay.” He looked disappointed. Cordelia returned with an armful of stuffed toys, just as disappointed.

“I’ll come back tomorrow to see it,” Janeway said, smiling. “If that’s all right with you. And we’ll see about those stuffed animals then, Cordelia.” The little girl smiled and hugged her toys to her chest.

“Okay,” Yves exclaimed, brightening at the suggestion. His head jerked up as if he’d heard something surprising; he gazed at his mother, then came forward and patted Fidele. “You can borrow Fidele if you like. He really likes you, and that way Amy won’t fight with me over who gets to have him in whose room.”

“Fidele will be good company for you, I think.” Troi smiled at her son and the dog. “Won’t you, Fidele?”

The dog barked once and panted as he gazed up at Janeway’s face. “You’re sure you don’t mind?” Janeway asked, glancing at Amy.

“Take Mr. Pogs too,” Cordelia said, shifting most of the animals to her left arm and holding up a skinny pink toy not easily identifiable.

“Go on, Fidele, we’ll be okay.” Yves glanced sharply at her as she experienced a flash of surprise at his reassurance. “He worries about us kids. But this is a diplomatic mission and we’ll be fine.”

Janeway was bade a warm good-night and left with the dog at her heel and Mr. Pogs in hand. The door closed behind them as Amy demanded that Yves play with her.

Fidele seemed to know exactly where they were going, and didn’t hesitate as she strode into her quarters. He followed her into the bedroom and sat while she changed into something comfortable to sleep in, then hopped on the foot of the bed and curled up at her feet.

“You’re a very smart dog, Fidele.”

He thumped his tail four times and fell silent and still. For a long time, while she wandered in thought, he remained still. Curious, Janeway patted the mattress beside her; he crept up to the spot and rolled on his side, thumped his tail a few more times, and sighed. It was then that she noticed he wasn’t warm.

“You’re not a real dog,” she exclaimed out loud. “Are you?”

Fidele sighed, inched closer, licked his lips loudly, yawned, and flopped down as if he spent the day chasing rabbits and really needed his sleep, thank you. He sighed again, the long moaning exhale of an exhausted dog. As she stroked his side, she decided she’d imagined it; his fur did seem warmer now than before, and would a fake dog have skin sliding over muscle and rib cage this way?

Troi was right, too, the dog was very good company.

————————

The handful of crew they’d found on _Voyager_ remained in Tom’s sickbay. Once cleared by Beverly, Janeway left them there and joined her fellow captains on the way to Tom’s ready room.

“How are you, Janey?” Tom exclaimed. Picard shot a glare at him.

But Janeway laughed. “I’ve seen better days, Glen.”

“Jean-Luc’s easily frustrated by humor, by the way. The new uniform okay for you?”

“I suppose it will have to be, won’t it?”

“Unless you decide to replicate one of the older style, simply because it is otherwise an anomaly that will clearly demonstrate how far Data’s calculations were off,” Picard commented. Because he couldn’t resist a perfect opportunity, he added, “This never would have happened if he were still my officer.”

“O-ho, listen to this,” Tom crowed. “How do you know it wasn’t the unpredictable effect of the tachyon beams bouncing off your head?”

“You never were one for the science,” Janeway put in. “Anyone who’s calculated complex equations dealing with the space-time continuum can tell you that it’s impossible to factor in every variable, but crew hairstyles are easily accounted for.”

The lift ride was endless. By the time they reached the bridge, Tom was unbearably gleeful, pitching progressively-worse jokes like phaser bolts in a fire fight. Picard gleaned from the exchange with Janeway that the two had been at the Academy together, and Janeway’s tutelage had been critical to Tom’s passing grades in several science courses.

The bridge crew rose to their feet and came to attention when Janeway came out of the lift. Data stepped away from his chair and smiled. “Captains on the bridge.”

Picard stepped out, heading for the ready room. “Will we be able to repair Voyager’s warp engines, Mr. Data?”

“Unlikely, unless we can locate the warp core. Lieutenant Torres may be able to assist once she is out of sickbay.”

Picard gestured at the ready room door; Janeway sidled past him. She paused a moment just inside, then moved to the chairs. Picard dropped into the one next to her, and Tom leaned against his desk, crossing his arms.

“So what do we do next? How do we get _Voyager_ home?” Janeway asked, very serious and apparently confident of an answer that would please her.

“We don’t.”

She stared at Picard. After many silent moments of Tom glancing back and forth as if they were playing tennis, she finally spat, “What?”

“The reason we are here prevents it. That uniform you’re wearing will not be standard issue for another ten years. You showed up on a world in the Beta Quadrant ten years from now. I left you in my sickbay. Two years from now you will find a way to move forward in time eight years and request my assistance, which we had to travel back in time to deliver. We overshot.”

Janeway gaped at him. “Then you need to move on, don’t you?” she managed after a few moments of assimilating the information.

Tom strolled to the replicator and returned with three tall cups of coffee. “After we’ve gotten your ship going again. Where’s the rest of the crew?”

“We left them gathering food and resting on a planet and came here to gather some of the elements from the nebula in hopes of using some to trade, others to refuel and replenish replicators. Thank you.” She spent a few seconds savoring the first sip of her coffee, then balanced the cup on the arm of her chair and faced Picard again.

“And someone was shooting at you, judging from the scoring on the hull,” Tom said.

“Well, yes. This is the Delta Quadrant.” Janeway took another long draw, closing her eyes, blissful. She opened her eyes again and continued her thought. “If you’re here for very long, you’ll learn there are three kinds of people in the Delta Quadrant. Ones who shoot at you, ones who study you for a while to see if they can shoot at you without repercussions, and ones who don’t have the technological ability to shoot at you but will gladly throw rocks or initiate diplomatic contact in hopes of stealing a replicator.”

“That’s either pessimism, or a Picasso painting,” Tom remarked.

It completely disrupted the conversation. Picard stared at him in disbelief.

“What? You’ve never seen ‘Guernica,’ have you? And here I always thought you were the cultured one!”

“Shut up, Tom,” Picard said, more matter-of-fact than irate. “In any case, we’ll do what we can to repair your vessel and help you on your way. Given we have to travel through time to get where we’re going, we can spare the time. Where will you be heading when you recover your crew?”

“You mean, where will _Voyager_ be in two years? I can show you a quadrant map or two in our astrometrics.”

Picard smiled, thinking about the situation and time travel, with all its convoluted aspects. Perhaps Deanna wouldn’t have difficulty with Janeway wanting to get back to her ship after all.

“Captain?”

“You could always leave us a trail of breadcrumbs. You told me to be here, after all.”

———————–

The dog leaped off the bed when Janeway awakened. She heard his nails popping softly against the carpet, then heard a distant beep. When she crawled out of bed and joined the dog in the living area, she found him sitting next to the working coffee maker, which had just dripped two cups of coffee in the carafe. He thumped the carpet with his tail and gazed up at her, tongue hanging out the side of his open mouth.

“Are you a real dog?” she asked, taking one of the cups stacked next to the machine.

He barked and jumped up to trot around her in a large circle, dancing and play-bowing. When the annunciator went off he ran to the door and whined.

She fetched a robe and came back to answer the door. Troi stood there, impeccable in uniform and smiling. “Good morning.”

“Come in. We were. . . making coffee.” Running her fingers through her hair, Janeway took one of the other cups and put it next to the first. “I have to confess I’m becoming suspicious of your dog.”

“Fidele, what have you done now?” Troi patted the dog’s head and turned to accept the cup of coffee Janeway offered.

“He started the coffee for me.”

Troi smiled. “That would be my fault. I’ve trained him to do some simple tasks. He’ll also fetch you a binbat.” At that, Fidele barked and ran at the door, which opened for him. Troi sighed.

“A binbat?” Janeway noticed that Troi took her coffee black, disdaining the creamer and sugar.

“Our L’norim crew gave my children binbats when they were born. It’s a small floppy plush replica of an animal that L’norim children are given. They don’t play with them these days, so I doubt Fidele will be able to find one.”

“I don’t know. A dog who can brew coffee?” Janeway snorted. Another sip, and her brain seemed to begin functioning. “To what do I owe the visit?”

“I wanted to check with you before I beam down for my daily dose of frustration. I have another meeting with the Klane.”

“Diplomacy isn’t always easy,” Janeway said sympathetically. “I’ve had more than my fair share of diplomatic incidents over the past eight years.”

Troi tilted her head, her eyebrow twitching. “I thought I would let you know that school is over at fourteen hundred and I’ve suggested to Yves that he stop in to see if you might like to be this afternoon’s supervision. He’s already expecting help with his trebuchet.”

“Ah, I see.” Janeway smiled; it sounded like fun. “I would be glad to help.”

“I’ll tell Guinan, then. She’ll take the other children to the holodeck for a while.”

As Troi put down the mug and turned to go, Janeway said, “You must know Tom Glendenning fairly well, if Yves refers to him as an uncle.”

Troi froze. Slowly, she came back around to meet Janeway’s gaze. “Yes, we do. I wasn’t aware you knew him.”

“There wasn’t an opportunity previously to talk to you about this, Commander. But if you have a moment there’s something we need to discuss.”

Troi took back her mug and accepted a refill, then went with her to sit on the couch. Admirable, how composed she seemed.

“They didn’t make it to their intended target in time,” Janeway began. “They moved back in time two years further in the past than expected, and found me on _Voyager_ shortly after we were left adrift in a nebula following a brief battle with unknown assailants who took what was left of our antimatter and left us more or less intact.”

“I see.” Troi accepted that information without blinking. Of course, given the nature of time travel, this might be old information for her. “Only the antimatter?”

“They were the only vessel we came across with transporter technology other than the Borg. They knocked out B’Elanna and her assistant in engineering so quickly they didn’t even remember what they looked like.”

“They must have known what to look for.” Troi sipped, looking thoughtful. “So you understood what would happen the minute Captain Picard showed up in your cell. Did you tell him what would happen?”

“Of course not. He asked me not to.”

Troi’s dark eyes held wary confusion. “So, your presence here means that so far, their trip is going well.”

Janeway sighed and shook her head. “At first, it did. We had a rather leisurely interlude, during which repairs were made and conversations had. Then it got more interesting.” She paused for another sip. “The Minsch showed up.”

————–

Picard turned the page as the Bach piece reached a crescendo. Reading while listening to music was something he rarely did any more, with children constantly interrupting and Deanna’s ambivalence toward Terran classical. Closing his eyes, he let the music wash over him, until the harsh notes of the annunciator disrupted the symphony. “Computer, pause music. Come!” he exclaimed, slamming the book shut and tossing it aside.

Rather than Tom announcing something in person as he expected, the doors opened to reveal a young woman. She stood stiffly upright, hands behind her back, and didn’t move. She appeared to be studying the carpet.

Picard rose, eyeing the hesitant guest. He mused over the peculiarity of his life, that he had at last come to the point at which he, when confronted with a shapely woman in tight clothing, merely considered how best to handle this so she would leave him alone. Finally he said, “Coming in?”

She did so, raising her eyes. “Thank you, Captain. I am Seven of Nine. I am a member of _Voyager_’s crew.”

“What can I do for you, Miss Hansen?”

Surprise showed in her unlined face. She must have been in her twenties, he guessed, though he supposed the Borg had accelerated her growth somewhat.

“I wished to speak with you regarding. . . a personal matter.”

“Would that be my personal matter, or yours?”

Again, she blinked and tilted her head slightly, the implant over her right eye rising with her eyebrow. “Mine, sir.”

For a moment, he considered bluntly sending her away. But he thought of Deanna, and it was enough. “You may be a civilian member of a starship crew, but you are in no way obligated to address me formally. Please sit down.” He gestured at the furniture arranged around the low table; she sidled to one of the two chairs and sat. “Would you care for some tea? I was about to have some.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She remained silent until he returned with a tray, when she thanked him again quietly. Taking the chair opposite his guest, Picard poured tea from a pot and passed the cup and saucer, then poured his own. He waited for her to begin speaking, curious and yet not wanting to know.

“Captain Janeway severed me from the Collective against my will,” she said, fulfilling expectations.

“I was given to understand that was some time ago. Several years, in fact.”

Again, she seemed shocked, and this time also a little angry. “Yes. Since then I have made progress in learning how to be human, rather than Borg. I find, however, that I continue to feel awkward in social settings.”

“What have you tried so far?” The question seemed the most logical, but it occurred to him as it left his mouth that it was in fact one of the first Deanna had asked him, back in the days when she had only just begun to see him as a client.

She held her cup in her fingertips in a very precise manner, and kept the saucer beneath it — posing, very deliberately. Her eyebrows twitched upward briefly. “I have read many books, both fiction and nonfiction. I have read about human psychology. I spoke with Captain Janeway and with my crewmates on many occasions to solicit their advice.”

“I’m not certain what you’re expecting from me.”

She looked away at the bland abstract hanging on the wall. “I had hoped. . . you might know how to advise me. I am not certain how to proceed. Captain Janeway has always been hopeful that we would reach the Alpha Quadrant, and I am not certain there is a place for me there.”

“You’re afraid.”

Another flash of anger in her blue eyes. “I am not fearful. Apprehensive, perhaps.”

“What precisely are you hoping I will do for you? How could I possibly have meaningful advice?” He caught himself in time, and went on with an explanation to soften his questioning. “Locutus was not raised a Borg.”

“I know. I had hoped you would understand what others cannot seem to grasp.” Her resolve softened somewhat; he’d taken away hope, he realized. The confident demeanor bordering on arrogance could, as he had learned at the hands of a competent counselor, sometimes be a defensive tactic. In her case, it would be a logical outgrowth of the residual Borg arrogance.

“How do you like the tea?” It was irrelevant how tea tasted, but it was enough to divert her. She frowned.

“It is green tea, which I do not usually drink. It is pleasant.” Seven of Nine did not sit back in a chair, he noticed. Nor did she smile. Picard found himself sighing and thinking of someone who did smile, and usually more so when drinking tea with him. Seven — Annika — noticed his change of mood. “This observation makes you. . . sad?”

“Not the observation. Miss Hansen, if it is advice you are looking for, I can issue it. But you should keep in mind that it is not polite of me to do so in the manner best suited to your request.”

“I did not request ‘polite.’ I require assistance in furthering my progress as a human.”

“Are you familiar with the word ‘irony’?” Picard sighed again. “You should help your captain return to the Alpha Quadrant, then ask for her help in locating a place to stay and a good counselor. And then you should go out and meet people, and learn to chat.”

“A counselor,” she echoed, not quite disdainful.

“Because you will need someone to go to when you’re learning to be a human among humans. You can’t expect friends and neighbors to be able to do that with you. You need to sit in restaurants and listen to how people talk, the slang and idioms they use, the rhythm of informal discussion. Since you began talking to me, I notice that I myself have become as stiff and careful as you have been. You have to learn to do the same — take your cues from others, develop the ability to read nonverbal cues and respond to them without thinking. People are comfortable with those who are comfortable with them.”

“I have had minimal success in this,” Seven replied.

“You could choose not to make the effort. I can think of environments you might find comfortable as you are now.”

“I choose not to do so,” she replied, a bit of color rising in her cheeks. Curious. Perhaps something — someone — motivating her to change?

The annunciator sounded. This time, when the door opened the young woman beamed at him as she entered the room. Her smile wavered at the sight of Seven. “My apologies. I was not aware — ”

“Phoebe, join us. Have a seat. Tea?”

Phoebe obeyed, crossing to sit on the couch and reaching for the third cup even as she met Seven’s eyes in her direct way. “I am Phoebe. I live on _Venture_ with my father.”

“I am Seven of Nine.” Seven glanced at Picard, but he said nothing. “I am one of _Voyager_’s civilian crew.”

Picard reached for the pot and poured Phoebe’s tea. “We were just discussing the quest to be human. A familiar subject for you, I think.”

“Oh, yes,” Phoebe exclaimed with enthusiasm. She flashed a smile at Seven. Today her hair was a bright reddish-blonde, straight, and tucked back into a knot at the base of her skull. She had obviously colored it since the previous day when it had been a deep mahogany. Here, too, was a young lady with an unlined face and no guile, but Phoebe had a gentle, mischievous nature and an eagerness to learn all she could about her feelings. The irony being that Phoebe was an entirely artificial construct. Data had done a marvelous job on his second attempt at the construction of another android.

“You are not human?” Seven asked.

“I am an android, but my father created me to be as human as possible. Uncle Luc has been helping me.”

This seemed difficult for Seven to believe. She stared openly at Phoebe. Within seconds, Picard saw the expected reaction in Phoebe’s face. Her smile diminished, one eyebrow twitched, and her eyes shifted slightly left as she glanced to her mentor for guidance, or reassurance.

“Miss Hansen and I were discussing fear and other less appealing features of humanity,” Picard announced blandly.

“Fear is particularly difficult,” Phoebe exclaimed, with the excitement of a connoisseur discussing fine wine. “To experience it properly one must stop thinking.”

Predictably, Seven stared as if Phoebe had grown a second head. “Why would you *wish* to experience fear? While it is certainly one of many human emotions, I have noticed that it interferes with rational thought.”

“But one is not wholly human unless one experiences all the emotions.”

“I do not see how it would be useful,” Seven said. “I have experienced this emotion and it has only interfered with my work.”

“I suppose you believe that one can be a perfect human,” Picard said, drawing the conclusion from the sum of his observations so far. “I would suggest to you that the Borg are a collective of oxymorons. There is no such thing as perfection. It’s a concept.”

After a pause, Phoebe said, “That seems to me a non sequitur.”

“Indeed,” Seven said. “I am aware that perfection is not attainable. However, it seems many humans struggle to attain it just the same.”

“Relatively speaking, yes. But each person’s idea of perfection is different. I suspect that for you, being emotional is in conflict with the innate perfectionistic drive you. . . inherited from the Borg. Self control does not always have to mean annihilation of an emotional reaction. It’s possible to feel fear or pain and not allow it to interfere with rational behavior.” He grinned suddenly. “You could ask an empath for examples.”

“Like Aunt Dee,” Phoebe exclaimed, turning to Seven with renewed enthusiasm. “She would be able to help you.”

“Being human is being emotional?” Seven challenged.

“Yes. You claim you read about human psychology. The centuries of theories and variants of psychology have a main theme — extremes in mood impair functioning. Suppressing emotion is maladaptive, as is allowing it to guide our every decision. There are times we should pay attention to emotion, and times we disregard impulse.”

It won him a disbelieving blink and stare from the former Borg, and then the annunciator went off again. Catching himself just as he was about to swear, Picard exclaimed, “Come in!”

Beverly, in uniform and smiling, strode in and immediately sized up the situation. “Phoebe, your father could use your help. He just said in the senior staff briefing that he wanted you to check his calculations as a precaution.”

“Excuse me.” Phoebe set down her cup and hurried out. She’d need a refresher course on graceful exits.

“As for you,” Beverly began, but by that time Picard remembered.

“I was just getting the tea when Miss Hansen arrived.”

“I should return to my duties.” Seven of Nine placed her cup on the tray and rose straight up from the chair, somehow. “Thank you, Captain.”

When she had gone, Beverly took the chair Seven had abandoned. “What was that about?”

“She seemed to think I could help her finish becoming human.”

Beverly seemed quite amused by that. “Did you warn her you’d only had about a decade of experience in helping others become human?”

“I hadn’t thought of it, but I might resort to that if she comes back.”

“You haven’t been around much today. I expected to see you at the briefing.”

Picard settled back into his chair, balancing his tea on the arm, and sighed audibly. “I wasn’t in the mood.”

“You miss her.” Beverly reached for the remaining unused cup.

“It’s my anniversary. I missed my son’s birthday and my twelfth anniversary. So far on this mission, I’ve managed to confuse a former Borg and deny Kathryn Janeway her fondest wish, and not much else. I should have asked Tom to do this without me.”

“I haven’t seen you this depressed in years.” She frowned at the tea she’d poured herself. “Green tea? No wonder.”

“You’re not helping.”

“Well, I don’t know of any pharmaceutical solution, so I’m not certain what you expect me to do. Other than making you some Earl Grey, I haven’t a lot else to offer.”

“I’m sorry. It still hurts.”

Beverly glanced at him sharply. “Still? I thought that didn’t happen any more.”

“To some degree it always does, though certainly not with the same intensity under normal circumstances. But I’m displaced in time and distance. In the Alpha Quadrant I’m getting married today. Well — not today, really, as I believe we managed to be ten years and a few months off. But I woke up this morning thinking about ten years ago, and how everything has changed since then.”

“That’s painful?” Beverly went to the replicator and requested another pot of tea.

“I’m afraid.”

She returned with the Earl Grey and two more cups. The confession had alarmed her. “Of?”

“The same thing I am afraid of each time duty calls me away from my children.”

Beverly poured a steaming cup of Earl Grey and passed it to him. “That Dee will find a way to get a fourth pip and decide you don’t need to come back? I hear these things are fun to operate.” She gestured around them vaguely to indicate the ship. When he didn’t respond, she said, “Sorry.”

“That something will happen.”

“You’re being unusually evasive about this. Something?”

Picard raised his cup to his lips. He’d always found a strong cup of tea bracing; this was no exception. “It’s irrational, a holdover from the year before Amy was born. I used to have nightmares in which I would wake up to find her gone, or that it was all a dream. I felt the same sort of dread then.”

“Wasn’t that the same period during which the bond was disrupted? It makes perfect sense to me that you’d dream of loss.”

Picard sighed heavily. “I suppose it does. Nevertheless, here I am drinking tea when elsewhere in the galaxy I’m having the best year of my life.”

“And all the years after were bad?”

“You know what I mean.”

Her smug smile didn’t help matters. “Kids are a great way of maintaining celibacy, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps you don’t know what I mean, after all.”

Beverly lounged in her chair, draping her elbow over its arm and tucking her ankle under her knee. “What do you mean, then?”

“It was the year nothing was ordinary. Everything was new to us, including each other. Though there is one aspect I don’t miss — these days Starfleet leaves us alone, and no one thinks twice about us.”

“Janeway would think twice.”

“I doubt it would matter to her. She’s only thinking about getting her crew home safely.”

Beverly made a face he decided must mean dismay. “No, I think there’s something else. Tom came into sickbay while I was finishing up with the last of her crew — the young man who looks so much older than he is, Harry, I think — and Janeway had stopped in to check on him. I have Tom mostly trained to keep his hands to himself when I’m working, but for some reason he had to put his hand on my back. Janeway stared — you’d think Tom had just pulled my clothes off in the middle of sickbay.”

“I’m sure he would love to,” Picard said, unable to resist. “And I’m sure it seemed to Janeway that he had. It would be difficult to hold to Starfleet standards out in the Delta Quadrant, so far from the chain of command. And as has been noted previously, overcompensation is still a favorite coping mechanism of Starfleet officers.” He held out his cup for a refill, since she was getting more for herself.

“But Harry Kim also reacted. To her, more than to me. Sympathy.”

“Hm.”

“You need to talk to her, Jean-Luc.”

The thought only increased the hollowness in his chest. Deanna might encourage him as Beverly had, but the prospect didn’t appeal in the slightest. He had been maintaining only by distracting himself from the thought of his family.

Pain must have shown in his face; Beverly leaned forward and brushed his sleeve, gripping his hand and releasing it. “I wouldn’t suggest it if I didn’t think she needed someone to talk to, and how likely is it she’ll respond well to our counselor?”

At the thought of _Venture_’s counselor, Picard stiffened. McAvery wasn’t what he’d consider approachable. “She would respond to you.”

“She already has. I could push the issue, but her attitude toward me turned quite frosty. She’d listen to you.”

Picard closed his eyes, wishing for once everyone would assume he’d say no. Borg, androids and angry captains — when had he become a counselor?

“I think she would. You — ”

“Spare me,” he exclaimed, glaring at his old friend. “I am not the sage old father figure of Starfleet.”

Beverly smirked at him over the edge of her teacup. “Could have fooled me. Phoebe values your advice. Your own Natalia Greenman has come a long way. And being a father certainly adds to the image of — ”

“Beverly. Captain Janeway is hardly in need of a mentor.”

“True. I think she’s in need of someone to begin bringing her back from the Delta Quadrant, however, and she’s skittish or stand-offish with me. Tom appears to have channeled her Academy self. It’s not helping.” Beverly leaned forward again to poke his knee. “And, you need to get out of your quarters and stop moping.”

“Yes, Doctor,” he replied tiredly.

She put aside her cup and rose. “My work here is done. I’ll just charge it to Dee’s account.”

Sighing, Picard helped her carry the tea service back to be recycled.

———————–

Janeway woke to the sound of the annunciator, and to the shock of discovering she’d fallen asleep while reading. She hadn’t thought she was so tired as that. Putting the padd aside, she sat up. “Enter.” As the door opened she remembered who it would be, and wasn’t disappointed when Yves came in. What was puzzling was his expression. “Is something wrong?”

“Having a bad day, that’s all. Hi.” He tried a smile and didn’t quite manage it convincingly. “Maman said I could ask if you wanted to help me put together my trebuchet this afternoon.”

“Certainly. Let’s do that.”

They walked together down the corridor from her quarters to his. The dog was nowhere to be seen. “Is Fidele with your sisters and brother?”

“I guess so. He’s usually waiting for me after school.” He said nothing further on the short walk home. Outside the door he hesitated. “I should warn you, I’m supposed to be, well, tutoring the L’norim kids.”

“Tutoring? I thought we were working on your trebuchet.”

“We will. It’s sort of different than just helping someone with homework — more like babysitting, only these are L’norim and you don’t really babysit them.”

Janeway thought about what she knew of the L’norim. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a L’norim.”

“If you met Lieutenant-Commander deLio you have. They’re his kids.” He inhaled as if bracing himself for impact and led her through the door.

Four children sat in a row on the couch. To Janeway’s eye they seemed emaciated, about the size of a four-year-old human, with gray-green mottled skin in various shades. One of them had spikes on its arms. All of them studied Janeway with their small reddish eyes.

“zeMel, deRon, deRia, and Keph. This is Captain Kathryn Janeway.”

All four of them tilted their heads and one of them bared its teeth.

“Nice smile, zeMel,” Yves commented, attempting to encourage. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood for this.

“Why don’t we get started on your project?” Janeway asked. “I’m sure we can all work together — ” She broke off and gasped. Two of the L’norim sprang from the couch and raced for the other side of the room, speaking rapidly in some language the translator didn’t pick up. Each of them dragged a piece of wood from the corner.

Janeway found the four L’norim children disconcerting — it was a familiar feeling she’d experienced and overcome before, in many first contact situations. Their quick movements and sharp teeth hinted at a predatory heritage. They were obedient and spoke little, usually to Yves.

Yves’ mood concerned her more as time passed. As the base of the trebuchet took shape, with four pairs of hands bracing each piece while Yves worked, Janeway watched and noted that he hardly smiled at anyone.

Then the annunciator went off, and an adult L’norim arrived. Yves straightened from fastening a bolt. “Hi, deLio. They were helping me,” he announced as the four youngsters zipped across to their parent. “No problems.”

“Thank you. Your mother will be home shortly.” deLio glanced down at the children climbing his uniform.

“This is Captain Janeway. I don’t know if you’ve met her?” Yves sounded morose now, a shift from merely looking depressed. “This is Lieutenant-Commander deLio, the chief security officer.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Janeway said. “You have. . . wonderful children.” The usual adjectives didn’t seem to apply, and would probably seem disingenuous.

“Thank you.” deLio turned and walked away, rattling off something that had the kids dropping off him and walking on their own. The doors closed and left her alone with Yves.

“Are you thirsty?” Yves asked.

“Actually, I am. You sensed that, didn’t you?”

He was already walking over to the replicator. “Computer, two glasses of ice water.”

“Thank you, Yves.” Janeway took the cold glass from him. “Does it upset you to have to watch those four? They look up to you, I can tell.”

“You’re anthomorphizing.”

Janeway considered it for a moment. “You mean anthropomorphizing? They don’t look up to you?”

“L’norim don’t work the way we do. Maman says they don’t have the same psychology at all. The kids do what I say and pay close attention to everything I do because their parents designated my father to play a specific role for them, and because I’m Papa’s oldest kid I have a role too, and it’s got more to do with L’norim stuff I can’t pronounce than how they feel about me.”

“I see. Is that why you’re so frustrated?”

Yves looked her in the eye, facing her directly for the first time since they’d started the trebuchet project. “Maman will get home and ask me what happened today. I’ll have to tell her about fighting with Sean at school. She’s going to tell me I should have let him lie to the teacher. I _hate_ being Betazoid.”

“I’ll tell you the secret to coping with that, if you like,” Janeway said.

Yves wrinkled his brow at her. “What’s that?”

“Everyone hates everything from about ten or eleven years old until you’re eighteen or nineteen.”

“I know that’s not true. You said ‘everyone’ and ‘everything’ — when people use absolutes they’re exaggerating.”

Janeway laughed, mostly out of surprise, but Yves’ weak smile dampened her amusement. “I’m sorry, you surprised me. You’re right; I have no way of knowing who may have made it to twenty without hating most things, or everything, or anything at all. But — ”

“Puberty and growing up and all that is hard for everyone and I should just have a positive attitude and do the best I can,” he said. “I should be fine, everything will turn out okay.”

“You’ve had this pep talk before.”

“It doesn’t help much when you can tell everyone else is having a better time than you,” he said, turning back to his half-finished trebuchet in the middle of the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked up a hammer. The kit was shockingly primitive; it required not modern fasteners, nor even screws or nails, but simple pegs to hold things together. Yves lined up another peg with a hole and pounded until it was flush with the edges.

“Do you talk to Tom often?”

“Lots, yeah. Well — every few weeks, sometimes more often. And Beverly, she’s a good friend of my parents, and sometimes Tom’s daughter Lora.”

Janeway had to fight to avoid a shocked outburst. Tom Glendenning had sworn to her once he wouldn’t be tied down, wouldn’t be enslaved by domesticity, and now a daughter? But then, she wouldn’t have expected Yves either — a son of a first officer and her captain, even less likely than a daughter for Tom.

“Beverly and Tom have a daughter?” Janeway surmised.

“I think she was adopted.” Yves slammed the hammer down on another peg. The base would be finished with one more. “You know them too?”

“I know Tom. I was at the Academy with him.”

“And Beverly?”

“I know of her,” Janeway said, careful not to say too much. She knew she needed to be careful about time travel and to avoid doing anything to upset things for Yves any more than they already were.

—————-

Picard found Janeway on her own bridge. The lights were up, some panels were open here and there, and Janeway and Kim were leaning over the tactical station, she with a tricorder and he with a spanner. One of Tom’s lieutenants slaved away beneath the navigation console, head first into the underside.

Janeway glanced up at the sound of the lift door opening, nodded to her officer, and came to greet him. “Captain Picard. Welcome aboard.”

“I wondered if you would be willing to give me a tour, now that power has been restored.”

Janeway smiled, quite pleased by his interest. “I would be happy to, though I’m not sure what I could show you that you haven’t seen already.”

“I understand your astrometrics department is quite innovative.”

She stepped into the lift with him. “Yes, that would be Seven’s doing. Though Harry did a fair share of the work, she pulled everything together and kept it up.”

“Interesting that you call her Seven, not by her given name.”

“I suppose that’s because we didn’t know her given name for so long. She’s never asked us to call her anything else. Computer, astrometrics.” Janeway stood straight at his side; she’d replicated a uniform more appropriate to the period, and put her hair up in a knot on the back of her head. “Tom said you also have a Sovereign class ship.”

“Yes. I was surprised to find they were assigning me to the 1701-E. I thought they might try to give me a desk.”

“Encouraging that sometimes Starfleet recognizes mistakes before they make them,” Janeway said lightly. “Assuming, of course, that you wanted a ship more than a desk.”

“Perhaps the admirals know me well enough that I’d more likely retire completely if they tried.” He paused, as the lift shuddered to a halt. “What about you? Will another command be anticlimactic, after all this?”

“You know, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she said as they left the lift. Then she hesitated in the half-lit corridor. “No, that’s not true. I have thought about it. I merely never allowed myself to think any farther into the future. I really don’t have enough information on what’s happening in the Alpha Quadrant to speculate, anyway.”

“I’ve certainly had my moments of doubt, probably because of being aware of Alpha Quadrant politics. I know Tom has considered hanging up his uniform for good, probably would have if there was a way to stay in orbit around the center of his existence while tending the rose gardens at home.”

“The center of. . . are you speaking of Dr. Crusher?”

He understood what Beverly had been talking about, now; Janeway fairly radiated displeasure. “It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?”

“He doesn’t understand what he’s doing. That’s obvious to me.”

“I’m not certain what you mean. I would imagine after ten years they would have a very good idea of all the risks involved.”

Janeway stared at him, momentarily forgetting the tour. Crossing her arms, she tilted her head and seemed to carefully consider her response. “I wasn’t aware that — you’re certain? Ten years?”

“I was there when they met. Tom and I have had joint missions, and we’re good friends. I’ve known Beverly since I was a lieutenant-commander, and she was my CMO for a decade or so prior to her reassignment. So I can say with certainty that nothing they have faced has disrupted their relationship, despite her complaints whenever he shows up in sickbay bleeding.”

“I had imagined. . . .” She shook her head, arms crossed so tightly now that it qualified as hugging herself. “You have to know regulations as well as I do, Jean-Luc.”

“Regulations prohibit favoritism and bias. Tom avoids it by not really ordering her around. She’s perfectly aware of her duty as a doctor and a Starfleet officer, and probably able to predict in any given situation what her role is. It would be significantly more difficult if she were first or second officer, but as it is they seem to manage well enough.”

“Well.” A nervous smile, then she strode down the corridor, uncrossing her arms. “This way.”

The room itself wasn’t unlike astrometrics on _Enterprise_; there were some unique features on panels, and Janeway’s commentary on the added technology revealed more differences in the computer’s inner workings. But eventually she stopped talking, and gazed into his face questioningly.

“You weren’t really interested in a tour, were you?”

“Not really. I am concerned by a few things I’ve observed. I was trying to think of a graceful way of discussing them with you.” He spread his hands, attempting sheepish honesty. She smiled and leaned a hip against the nearest console, letting her hand fall along its top edge.

“You could start by talking about it.”

“Seven of Nine approached me — ” Janeway’s immediate dismay was enough to silence him. She recovered somewhat, raising her gaze from the floor, and put her fingers to her mouth thoughtfully.

“I asked her not to,” she said at last, dropping her hand to her hip as she stood away from the console. “She asked me how I thought you might react — I tried to tell her it wasn’t a good idea, but how could I explain to her how upsetting it might be for you?”

“That isn’t my concern. Lately I’ve been reconciled to the fact that ninety percent of my crew appears to look up to me as some sort of old wise man who dispenses advice. I blame the Academy. I’ve considered asking them to replace my name in their texts with ‘Smith’ or possibly ‘Glendenning,’ if only to see the look on Tom’s face the next time a herd of cadets shows up in his transporter room asking him to tell them stories.” He smiled, hopefully reassuringly. “Seven appeared to not only lack answers but appropriate questions. She seems to fear the return to the Alpha Quadrant, and has no clear idea of what will happen to her.”

“Did you reassure her?”

“No. I don’t believe false hope is helpful.” He watched Janeway’s face carefully, trying to read her reaction there. “I believe she will need protection. She has no innate sense of human nature and its complexities. I could see her agreeing to some scientific project exploiting her with her permission. She could be manipulated into situations that could subtly take advantage.”

“I have been worried about her,” Janeway said softly. “Partly due to her relative naivete, partly because she struggles with social cues.”

“I suggest Commander Data.”

Her head jerked upward; she met his eyes, surprised. “Data?”

“He would be able to help her understand humanity from the perspective of someone who started with very little idea of social convention or intuition. He would protect her from exploitation, with Tom’s backup if needed — I can’t think of anyone better acquainted with human deviousness than Tom. In fact, if you like, we could keep Seven aboard the _Venture_ from here on out.”

“Wait. That would violate — ” Janeway stared into his eyes a long, silent time. “Why?”

“I think it would be best for her welfare.”

Janeway’s eyes narrowed. “There’s something you aren’t telling me. Something will happen between now and the next time you find _Voyager_. Seven is in jeopardy in the near future?”

Picard shrugged. “The other matter I wanted to discuss is of a more personal nature.”

“I don’t know if I like the sound of that.” She smiled, trying to make it a joke, but it fell flat.

“Why are you so upset that Dr. Crusher and Captain Glendenning are in an intimate relationship?”

“It’s a violation of regulations in the making. Even if she’s the chief medical officer.”

This wouldn’t work. She was too resistant. Saying anything about Deanna would close the conversation forever. “Starfleet evolves, Kathryn,” he murmured, trying to hold her gaze. He’d have to try a more abstract approach. “A lot has changed since you came to this quadrant. Having counselors aboard our vessels observing the mental health of the crew has only verified for Starfleet that the longer missions become the more important it is that we maintain normal social relationships aboard our ships. I agreed with you twenty years ago, when Starfleet and command was all I could think about; I believed with all my heart that I would be most effective as an officer by eschewing more permanent relationships. But that’s simply not true. One of the defining characteristics of humanity is our social nature. Denying officers the ability to form lasting intimate ties would be cruel and, in the long term, ultimately detrimental to their performance.”

“They could find another career,” Janeway exclaimed. “Besides, officers marry all the time, without taking their spouses along for the ride. I’m talking about officers on the same vessel.”

“As was I.” Picard shifted tactics. “I had the impression you were very concerned for your crew. That you had, in fact, become close friends with many of them.”

“Perhaps, but I have never indulged in an intimate relationship with anyone under my command.”

“You don’t believe a friendship can be intimate.”

Janeway rolled her eyes. “Perhaps we should agree upon definitions first?”

“I had a very good friend who died under my command,” Picard began. “That triggered half a lifetime of keeping myself separate and aloof from subordinates, because I was determined that nothing would affect me the same way again. I told myself that it was because my grief interfered with my work, but truthfully it was due to my own instinct for self-preservation. I didn’t want to feel that much guilt and pain again.”

Janeway stared at him as if watching a shuttle crashing.

“The issue is not appropriate behavior on duty.” Picard took a step toward her, physically edging closer to his point. “We are all capable of appropriate behavior regardless of our relationships with each other, if we can manage our emotions well enough under extreme circumstances.”

“Perhaps this is why the regulations only prohibit certain behaviors, and perhaps there are some few of us who can manage this feat of self-regulation. Perhaps it’s possible to marry your tactical officer, your doctor, your second in command, your exec or your navigator, and continue to be a complete professional on duty. But perhaps the majority of us don’t see a reason to expend all that energy to do so.” Janeway strode for the door.

“Tom isn’t the only one.”

She pivoted to stare again, shocked this time. He met her steady gaze and waited her out with crossed arms.

“You have a relationship with one of your senior staff,” she half-asked. “No wonder you’re suddenly advocating this.”

“I’m not advocating anything. I am pointing out factual information, as you asked me to do when I met you on Betazed.”

“We never met on Betazed,” she exclaimed.

He smiled and strolled past her toward the door. “I have met you. You haven’t gotten there yet. I would like to see the modifications to your engines.”

She followed him, but before they reached the turbolift, the floor beneath their feet trembled perceptibly. Picard’s communicator came to life.

“Glendinning to Picard. Report to the bridge.”

“Acknowledged.” Picard sighed and turned to Janeway. “Tours and arguments will have to wait. We’re under attack.”

“How do you know? That could have been a decompression, a — ”

“Tom gets that serious only about battles. Picard to _Venture_ — one to beam directly to the bridge.”

———————

Janeway steadied the fulcrum while Yves hung the weight. “What are we going to use for ammunition?”

“I bet Amy’s toys would work.”

“Satisfying as that may be, I suspect your mother would have a few words to say in favor of something less likely to provoke screaming.”

“No, seriously, Amy will think it’s fun. She’ll get new toys.”

Janeway looked at the back of Yves’ head, at the wavy dark hair that wasn’t quite like his mother’s. He wasn’t what she expected, though she wasn’t certain what she should have — the children she’d known were former Borg drones, Naomi Wildman, and Nate Paris, who wasn’t even two yet. Yves’ curious taste in literature, his pragmatic approach to life, and his moodiness reminded her of –

Yves sat up and stared at her.

“Oh.” She remembered then, and regretted her musing. “Sorry. I was merely thinking — ”

The red alert klaxons went off, drowning her out, and Troi’s voice recalled officers to their duty stations and ordered civilians to their designated areas. When the siren fell silent moments later, Yves stood and gestured at the door.

“We need to go. We’re supposed to head for the — ” He went wide-eyed, and she followed his gaze to the overhead viewports. The stars were blurring and shifting. “We just went to warp. We were still in the system, weren’t we?”

Tucking away questions about his understanding of warp technology, Janeway straightened and patted his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

They joined others in the corridors, more people aggregating as they went along, until they were in a queue filing through a door that she guessed placed them near the center of the saucer section. Inside, Yves found Guinan and his three siblings. Amy hugged him; the twins didn’t seem anxious and begged Guinan for another cookie.

“I’m going to the bridge,” Janeway told Guinan.

“But this isn’t your ship,” Yves exclaimed. “You’re not — I mean — ”

“That may be, but I’m still an officer, Yves. Stay with your family. I’ll be fine.”

If any of them were. It remained to be seen what was going on, and she speculated on the way in a lift with the L’norim, deLio. He said nothing and hardly looked at her, facing forward and standing at attention.

The red lights splashed the bridge at intervals, and as Janeway left the lift deLio surged past her to his station and turned off the red alert beacons. As she came down the bridge, Troi, without turning to look at her, said, “Hello, Captain.”

“Are we under attack?”

“No. We’re going into battle, though. When we get to the Delta Quadrant.”

“The negotiations?”

“We’ve been at a standstill for long enough, and there are more pressing circumstances afoot.”

“How could you possibly know what’s going on in the Delta Quadrant? I thought they were traveling in time as well.”

Troi glanced at her, and finally she could see the weary patience in her dark eyes. “The computer delivered a time-delayed message from Captain Picard issuing instructions, coordinates and providing details on how to make the trip back in time.”

Janeway sighed. “This is going to be one of those missions, isn’t it?”

“Apparently.” Troi’s smile verged on the cynical. “As I’m sure you are aware.”

“I wasn’t aware of the message, or of the orders to join them.”

“At this point I doubt we’re joining them in quite the way we’d imagine. The instructions put us slightly out of sync with their original goal.”

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Greenman?” Troi directed it at the blonde at the helm, who when she glanced back turned out to be the same woman who’d sat with Janeway in sickbay.

“We’re at warp eight — if we can keep it up we’ll reach the wormhole in less than an hour. Astrometrics should be done running the calculations for the time jump by then.”

Janeway followed Troi’s lead, sitting in the counselor’s empty chair. “Yves — ”

A forbidding look from Troi stopped her. “Would you like to see the instructions Captain Picard left?”

“Yes. Please.”

Troi tapped instructions into the arm of her seat. Well, the captain’s seat, but hers for the moment. “It should be on your display.” Then, after a pause: “We don’t discuss personal matters on the bridge, if it can be helped. It can be too distracting, especially during an alert.”

“Of course.”

Troi settled back in the chair and closed her eyes. Janeway spent the majority of the time in transit scanning the message from Picard, then the equations intended to take the ship back in time. He’d given a lot of specific directions and coordinates, but some of the directions made little sense to her. She assumed Troi knew enough context to piece it together.

All the past encounters in the Delta Quadrant haunted her now; she’d been thinking about them when not asleep, mostly during her stay in sickbay, remembering crew who were lost, wondering what would be different had she made other choices. Being out of her time, able to do things to alter her own future, able to know what might happen — the longer she was here the more she seemed to remember of Jean-Luc Picard, his doings in the Delta Quadrant, but there were still things missing. What was he ordering Troi to do, really? How much had he told her before leaving?

This had all the earmarks of a predestined time loop, but there were things that didn’t add up. She had remembered the battle with the Minsch well enough to tell Troi about it, remembered Picard’s arrival and subsequent assistance… and the lecture. But she hadn’t remembered the lecture until after the dinner with Troi and her children. Picard had said a lot about Tom, and a little about Janeway having asked him to talk to her some time in the future — the past — her future, the actual past, apparently, and –

How she hated time travel. Being linear had its advantages. One could talk about time and make sense, for example.

Troi straightening slightly and looking to her second in command disrupted Janeway’s musings. Troi stood as the viewscreen shifted and Greenman announced their arrival — and there was the wormhole, far off in the distance, a whorl of green and yellow slightly smaller than the warbird approaching them.

“We are being hailed — Commander Talank,” deLio announced.

“On the viewer, deLio.” Troi took a few steps forward, and the viewscreen switched to a head-and-shoulders view of a Romulan man.

“Greetings, Commander,” Talank said. “Captain Picard advised us that you would be arriving.”

“I don’t suppose he gave you any messages for me.”

Talank’s eyebrow flicked upward briefly. “No. Have we met, Commander? You seem familiar to me.”

“I don’t believe we have. May we proceed?”

“Certainly.” The Romulan smiled and the transmission ended.

Troi returned to her seat. “Proceed, Lieutenant Greenman.”

The warbird seemed to slide off the screen to the left as they began to move, and Greenman guided the ship toward the wormhole. Troi sounded the red alert once more, alerting the rest of the crew of their impending ride through to the Delta Quadrant.

Janeway found herself gripping the arms of her chair in anticipation. No, she wasn’t in command, but it felt good to be on the bridge again.

———————-

“Shit!”

Picard bit back a response. It did indeed look as though they would be overwhelmed. The Minsch had arrived two at a time until their small ships peppered space around the two Starfleet vessels.

Tom contemplated while his security officer, Rorqual, issued updates; the helm officer clearly had had better days and hunched over his console trying to keep up.

“How many?”

“Fifty four,” Rorqual intoned.

Another concussion against the shields vibrated across the bridge. At least their weapons were inadequate, but they hadn’t yet come at them all at once. Probably waiting to see what they would do, which was, so far, nothing. Tom had moved them into a position from which they could shield _Voyager_ from the majority of the Minsch vessels. There had been contact, but nothing conversational; the translator had butchered it, but it had sounded more like a ceremonial statement of intent to slaughter and take prisoners.

“We could tow _Voyager_ away,” Picard suggested.

Tom twisted in his seat to stare at him. “Is that an informed suggestion or an idle one?”

“Not informed. I have no intelligence regarding the Minsch.”

“Where would we tow her to? Do you have a map?”

“