The BLTS Archive - Exchange
by Kelly (rather_be_reading@yahoo.com)

---

Disclaimer:The Trek Universe belongs to Paramount. Unfortunately.

NOTE:Part of the Femme Fuh-Q Fest and of "Project 31"

---

The researcher had expected to meet his contact in some
out-of-the-way, dark corner, a place sinister and smelling of danger.
But instead, the exchange occurred at midday, in the sunbaked central
square of the city. He stood near the public transporter station, as
instructed. He saw and felt nothing untoward as the crowds surged
around him, but when he put his hand into the small pouch he wore next
to his tunic, he found that his credit strip was gone, and a small
packet had been left in its place.

The physicality of the packet felt strange, even frightening. He
wasn't used to information that was tangible; he preferred the clean
anonymity of light-based transmissions, where the words and images and
sounds that briefly flowed from his computer could hardly even be said
to exist. Since he had had his memory genetically enhanced, he never
needed to keep any of his downloads. He deleted them and encrypted
their trails almost at once. That way, all the facts and secrets he
learned through his research ceased to be forbidden classified files,
and became just things he knew.

He stared across the square, thinking, as he often did, of how he had
come to this point. Years ago, when he had first started buying black
market information, it had been simply a source of research material.
He had been a student specializing in Starfleet history, and it had
been easier to buy files and computer codes from Academy hangers-on
and menial staffers than to go through the endless red tape of getting
legitimate access to the Fleet archives.

He had kept his contacts and made new ones, even after his career was
established, even after he had joined Starfleet as a civilian
historian. He'd kept buying information partly for pragmatic reasons
-- he had quickly discovered that not even official Starfleet
historians had full archival access.

And partly, he had come to enjoy the thrill of conspiracy. He didn't
need the thrill -- no, it wasn't a personal need. Or so he often told
himself. But he did need the information, and the black market often
turned out to be the only way to get it.

It hadn't take him long to realize that he couldn't stay with
Starfleet. They wanted to know too much -- what he had learned, what
sources he's used, who he had spoken to. They wanted him to spend his
time in brightly-lit rooms where he had to deal constantly with other
staffers who never seemed to stop talking.

They had wanted much more than he could give, and so he had quit.

That was when the Research Group had approached him -- a small, almost
invisible band of scholars dedicated to finding the real history of
Starfleet.

They were content to let him go his own way. He'd never met most of
them, wasn't even sure how many there were. But he'd never had
occasion to question the validity of the information they shared with
him. And he knew that they valued what he shared in return, because
they trusted him with increasingly volatile material.

The Research Group, and its secrets, became the focus of his life.

Hence the genetic enhancements. Hence the gradual loss of personal
connections and relationships outside his scholars' group. Hence the
increasing secrecy and precautions. Hence his presence in the city
square today.

He had found this source on his own, a faceless figure who had
insisted on no transmissions, nothing that could be traced. "Data
rods," the contact had said firmly. "Yes, they're obsolete, but you
can still find ways to access them. Take them or don't; it's all the
same to me."

And now these rods were in his pouch. The tiny package felt heavy at
his side -- it was hard to believe that everyone in the square was not
aware of them. Trying not to hurry, he turned into the station, eager
to get back to the safety of his small room and his secrets.

---

Sitting in front of his computer port, he carefully unwrapped his
purchase. Three small cylinders lay revealed in his hand. Data rods. A
technology that hadn't been used for almost eighty years. And these
particular ones dated from over 20 years before that, from Earth year
2379. Hoping that they still worked, he inserted the first rod into
the antique reader he had smuggled from the museum.

A line flashed on his screen --

98)(&^(&%^p;sdjvkldg*)^^*$%&am

Encryption codes. As he'd expected. Well, they'd be nothing he
couldn't handle. The late 24th century was his historical period,
after all, and he'd studied encryption theory. Two hours, to write and
run the decoding program. He doubted he'd need more, not with his
enhancements.

In the end, it took closer to five hours. Someone at Starfleet
Intelligence a hundred years ago had been one hell of a programmer.

But he'd broken the codes at last, and now the information in the
files was his for the downloading. He sat back in his chair, hefting
one of the rods gently. He loved this moment, the instant before
hidden material was revealed. It was like sex, this opening of things
that had been closed, this penetration of the formerly impenetrable.
It was one of the reasons he'd chosen to become an historian.

He reached toward the machine and shot the rod home. Recognizable
words appeared on the screen.

::Starfleet Intelligence File Iota-Beta-2914. Project: Delta Leader.
Function: Routine Surveillance. Authorized by: ?????????[CLASSIFIED --
Alpha Level]::

Damn. He should have realized there'd be internal codes. And Alpha
Level security clearance, the highest. Well, he'd just have to deal
with it later; he couldn't possibly stop now.

He tapped in the command for a full textual transcript. He preferred
to get his initial information by old-fashioned reading, so that he
could control the pace of revelation himself. He liked to set his own
rhythm, slowing when he wished to savor, skimming when the excitement
built.

Plus, he'd always believed that the past should be approached slowly,
gradually. Signs first, images and sounds only afterward, after the
shock of entering the new-old world had eased.

The computer signaled that the transcript was ready. Taking a deep
breath of pleasure, he began to read.

::Location: Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco. Voice Patterns
Identified: dn Ent, Hpet, [Admiral, Intelligence]; Nechayev, Alynna
[Admiral]; Paris, Owen, [Admiral]::

Paris and Nechayev, he'd expected. But Ent? Christ. Ent was about as
high-level an Intelligence specialist as you could get.

::ENT: You speak, Mr. Paris, as if this decision were open to
negotiation.

PARIS: I assumed that it was. I assumed that was why we were here, to
determine the best way to deal with the Maquis now that Voyager has
returned.

ENT: I thought it had been made clear to you that the concern is not
with the Maquis, but with Captain Janeway.

PARIS: Whose concern?

ENT: I see that it pleases you to be obtuse. Need I remind you that
what concerns Starfleet concerns us all?

PARIS: Sir, I am simply trying to clarify our official position. The
public is treating Kathryn like a hero. Which she is. Are you saying
that Starfleet is going to challenge that perception?

ENT: "Kathryn." Yes, I begin to understand. It is known that you are
close to her.

PARIS: I merely meant. . .

ENT: No matter. We have all read her logs. Captain Janeway's
violations of the Prime Directive are many and deliberate. I find it
surprising, Admiral Paris, that you seem to think that Starfleet
should valorize her criminal behavior.

PARIS: No, sir, I. . .

ENT: Quite. You will proceed, then, with organizing the court martial.
Admiral Nechayev will draw up the formal charges. Consult with her
about choosing a prosecutor. And now, I must bid you good day.::

The researcher stopped reading, slightly disappointed. True, he hadn't
realized that Ent had been involved, but there wasn't really any
startling new material here, nothing to justify his contact's
elaborate security precautions.

Still, he'd been around long enough to know that no information was
ever totally useless. Even confirmation of the well-known was
valuable. Like Ent's presence, which was yet further evidence that the
decision to prosecute Janeway had come from high up the command chain.
And this conversation certainly did nothing to contradict the
widely-held view that Owen Paris had not been a willing participant in
Janeway's court martial.

In any case, he knew better than to become disheartened too quickly.
It was just a routine surveillance record, the kind not-so-secretly
made of many senior-level deliberations. It was background, that's
all. He still had a lot of material left to examine.

Nechayev and Paris had talked a bit after Ent had left.

::PARIS: Alynna, do you support this decision?

NECHAYEV: You heard the Admiral, Owen. It's not open to discussion.

PARIS: You never liked her, did you? You never liked Kathryn.

NECHAYEV: That's totally irrelevant; this isn't personal.

PARIS: Isn't it?

NECHAYEV: Well, now, I don't know. Maybe it is for you. A lot of
people believe that you were more than just her mentor. Did you sleep
with her? Is that what you're saying?

PARIS: You're despicable. She was my student, for god's sake. . .

NECHAYEV: Oh, drop it, Owen. You may fool others with that moral
rectitude act, but not me. I knew you at the Academy, remember? And I
knew you on your first command.

PARIS: Those were both a long time ago.

NECHAYEV: Uh-huh. Well, I've never denied that I think Kathryn Janeway
is arrogant and insubordinate. And that she's been allowed far too
much latitude in her career. But I don't like to see any Starfleet
Captain face a court martial, not even her.

PARIS: Uh-huh.

NECHAYEV: Fuck you, Paris::

The researcher smiled. Now this was much more fun. Amazing how two old
war horses like Paris and Nechayev could apparently forget about the
surveillance. But that psychological pattern had been documented over
and over again through the centuries. And historians everywhere were
forever grateful.

He often wondered if Owen Paris had slept with Janeway. There was
certainly no shortage of reputable thinkers who believed he had, and
it would explain a lot. He found it fascinating, the number of
scholars who concerned themselves with Kathryn Janeway's sex life. If
she'd gone to bed with even half the people she'd been linked to, she
wouldn't have had time to do anything but fuck.

But it was just so damned powerful, that Janeway mystique. Even after
a hundred years, her spell hadn't faded.

People were still hungry for any little detail about her. "Solutions"
to the mystery of her post-Voyager life abounded, ranging from the
well-reasoned to the ludicrous. Any lunatic with a new theory was sure
to get news time, no matter how crazy the idea. Writers claimed that
she had been abducted by vengeful Kazon, that she had run away with
her genocidal alien lover, that she had sold out to the Dominion, that
she had been beaten into a coma by an insane Chakotay or an insane
Tuvok or an insane Naomi Wildman, and on and on. Each year saw another
Janeway biography or "expose," and the public never seemed to tire of
reading them.

But the truth was, nobody knew shit about what happened to Janeway in
the decade following her court martial. Not even the Research Group.
All anyone knew was that she had disappeared for ten years following
her conviction. That she had just suddenly shown up on Earth again,
thinner, tougher, and sharper than ever, and had lived the rest of her
long life as a recluse. And that she had evidently never uttered a
syllable to anyone about where she had been during those missing
years.

That historical blank was about to be filled in, or so the researcher
hoped. The answer, he felt sure, was in his data rods. It had to be.
He was counting on it He'd used almost all his savings, had taken
quite a few risks, to get hold of these little scraps of antique
polymer. The answers were here. He knew it. He could feel it. If they
weren't. . .

But they would be. Of course they would be. Then he would know -- he
would know things that others had died wanting to know. He had been
waiting for years, imagining just how he would feel when the solution
was finally his.

And now. . .Omega. At last.

---

He returned to the computer screen, but only a single line remained:

::End of file::

It appeared that Nechayev and Paris, at least, had nothing further to
tell him.

He sat still, looking at his blank wall, calling to mind their faces.
Owen Paris -- jowly, white-haired, his expression always slightly
anxious, as if he feared that others might know something he didn't.
Hpet dn Ent, his long, lined nose and arched eye markings giving his
face a sardonic cast, at least to human observers. Alynna Nechayev,
blond and wiry, with a pointed chin and prim lips that did nothing to
dispel her reputation as rigid and rule-bound. He could see them
clearly now, as if they were people he had known.

And he did know them, in a way, perhaps more completely than anybody
he'd met in person. He had spent his adult life scrutinizing everyone
with a connection to Voyager or Janeway. He had spent hundreds of
hours reading their words, listening to their voices, watching them
meet, talk, eat, fight, sleep, scratch, dissemble, love, hate, and
scheme.

He knew them, and he felt ready to hear them once again. "Computer,
audio," he said as he inserted his second data rod. Closing his eyes,
he waited for the presences to fill the room. The computer voice
began.

::Starfleet Intelligence File Sigma-Delta-6833. Project: Delta Leader.
Status: Classified. Alpha Level Security Clearance Required. Further
access denied::

He sat forward with a sharply-uttered curse. What the. . ? He had run
the decryption program, one of the most complex he knew. No one had
the technology in 2379 to make it more difficult. . . .

Except that, of course, it was no longer 2379. It would have been
easy, over the past hundred years, for someone to encrypt these files
further. He felt himself start to sweat, felt the tingle of excited
apprehension that he lived for. Just what the hell was in these files?
What had Starfleet -- or someone -- been hiding all these years?

He worked through the night, trying one decryption technique after
another, losing track of the hours, but never losing that powerful
sense of the illicit that spurred him on. At last came the words,
"Access permitted," and the long silence of the file was broken.

An ordinary beginning. . .

::. . .the chirp of a comm-badge followed by an unknown male voice:
"Captain Janeway is here, Admiral."

"Have her wait, N'tal.":: Nechayev.

Nechayev -- and Janeway. Jesus. The mutual animosity between these two
women was common knowledge, but records of their actual meetings were
almost nonexistent. He waited, scarcely breathing.

::silence, except for the soft creak of a chair, a few muted beeps
from a PADD or computer::

Two minutes passed. Three. Four.

::"Send in Captain Janeway, please, N'Tal."

"Yes, ma'am."

A door. Opening. Closing. "You wanted to see me, Admiral?"::

God. Kathryn Janeway. Even after all the years he'd studied her, her
voice sent a little charge through him. Husky always, but growing
deeper and more intriguing as she aged.

Her question brought no words, just footsteps, quick, angry. Then a
thud, a gasp, and Nechayev's voice, as harsh and furious as her
movements.

::"Janeway, you goddamned little bitch.::

He felt as if he had been punched, low and unexpectedly. "Computer,
restart record at Janeway's entrance. Add visual," he shouted. The
hell with easing into the past.

The screen was suddenly bright in the dark room, hurting his eyes. He
squinted impatiently. There was Janeway, her uniform impeccable as
always, her smooth hair just brushing her collar. Not long after the
return, then.

::"You wanted to see me, Admiral?"

There was Nechayev, rounding her desk, grabbing Janeway by the
shoulders, shoving her hard against the wall. Thrusting her own face
within millimeters of the captain's.

"Janeway, you goddamned little bitch. Don't you ever do that to me
again. Eight years you were gone. Eight fucking years. . ."

And then Nechayev's mouth, wide open and hungry, was on Janeway's; her
fingers were in Janeway's hair, and Janeway was kissing back, just as
hard, pulling the admiral to her in a tight embrace.

"Lynn. Oh god, oh god. . ."

"Darling. . .Kathryn. . ." Nechayev stood back slightly,
half-laughing, half-crying. "You are never to leave this planet again,
*Captain,* do you hear me? That's an order."

"God, I've missed you so. . . "

Nechayev's touch was gentle now, as she traced Janeway's face with her
fingertips. "We thought you were dead, Kathryn. Do you have any idea
what that did to me?"

"Believe me, I. . ."

"Oh, but it's all right now. You're back." Another hard embrace; then
Nechayev straightened her shoulders and spoke sternly. "And I want you
out of those clothes, woman. This minute."

"Not here, Alynna. No."

"Yes, here. I'm the admiral, or have you been away so long you've
forgotten how to take orders? Not that you were ever very good at it.
. ."

Janeway laughed and kissed Nechayev's hand.

"Kathryn. I'm serious. Clothes off. Now."

"And I'm serious, Alynna. Not here."

"Why? Do you think it's too unseemly to fuck at Starfleet
Headquarters?"

"It's not that. But we've taken a big enough risk as it is. You know
there's surveillance. . ."

"To throw your own words back at you, not here. Not at this level, not
without my knowledge. Admirals aren't subjected to surveillance unless
we specifically agree." She stopped and grinned. "Besides, I check the
place out regularly. We're safe."::

"Computer, pause program." The researcher's voice was hoarse, as if he
had been silent as long as these now-dead women.

He sat motionless, almost unable to register what he was learning.
Nechayev and Janeway -- lovers. Long-term lovers. He began to laugh, a
little wildly, at the irony: Nechayev was probably the only person
Kathryn Janeway ever met to whom she had not been linked sexually. The
two of them had hated each other. Everyone knew that. Everyone.

He'd need time to assimilate this discovery, but later. Later. Oh,
god. Later.

"Computer, resume."

::Nechayev had her arms around Janeway now, and they were kissing
deeply, their earlier ferocity gone.

"I don't mean to sound like I only care about sex, Kath," the admiral
whispered after a time. "But I just need to feel your skin against
mine. It's been so damned long."

Smiling up at the taller woman, Janeway removed her uniform jacket and
then her turtleneck. Nechayev slid her hands under the revealed
Starfleet tank, and Janeway moaned softly. They continued to undress
each other, gently, deliberately::

The researcher watched unblinking as their nakedness was revealed.
Nechayev's body was curved, her breasts slightly heavy, the aureoles a
pale pink that was barely distinguishable from her skin. Janeway had
slender thighs split by a dark patch of hair; her hips were narrow,
her waist straight and just a little thick. She would have looked
almost boyish had it not been for the erect, rounded breasts with
their dark nipples.

::After a moment, the women moved to a sofa in a corner of the room,
holding and stroking each other as they went. Nechayev sank down atop
Janeway, facing her, their breasts touching, Janeway's legs open and
curled around the admiral's waist.

They made love quietly and slowly, each focused intently on the other,
as if carefully relearning the other's feel and sight and taste.
Nechayev came to the rhythm of Janeway's tongue; Janeway, crying out,
came to the powerful strokes of her lover's fingers, the wetness of
her lover's mouth on her breast.

Afterward, they lay entwined and motionless on the dark sofa, their
limbs making an abstract artwork of lines and curves.

Eventually, Nechayev spoke. "They're going to courtmartial you,
Kathryn."

"I know."

"They'll probably win."

"I know."

"I have to participate."

"I know. It's all right."

Nechayev buried her face in Janeway's hair and after a moment, spoke
again.

"When it's over, Kathryn, promise me. . . ."

"What?"

"That you'll stay on-planet. That you won't go haring off to join some
civilian transport firm or something, just to get back into space
again. Promise me. Please."

It was a long time before Janeway said, "I can't promise you, Lynna.
You know that."

"I know."::

It was with some effort that the researcher was finally able to make
sense of the words that blinked on his screen: ::End of File::
Stiffly, like someone who had made one too many time jumps, he stood
up, only vaguely surprised to find his knees shaking. Earlier,
watching the two women on the couch together, he had had an erection
so powerful that its pleasure had crossed into pain. Now, he could
hardly imagine that he had responded so shallowly, like some hormonal
teenager.

He shook his head, trying to sort out the questions that clamored for
attention. Was the solution as simple as that -- that Janeway had
joined a civilian transport firm? A second's thought showed him the
idiocy of that idea: over the years, dozens of researchers had scoured
the records of every transport firm and other civilian space operation
in three quadrants, looking for traces of Janeway, and had found
nothing. Had she been a recluse even then, spending ten years hiding
in some private residence of Nechayev's? He realized that he hated
that possibility, hated to think that Captain Kathryn Janeway might
never have gotten into space again.

Could she. . .? But this was fruitless, to speculate without further
facts. He had another data rod left. Another secret to open.

He inserted the third and last rod.

::Starfleet Intelligence File Omicron-Phi-7940. Project: Delta Leader.
Status: Classified. Alpha Level Security Clearance Required. Further
access denied::

The encryption came as no surprise to him this time. In less than a
quarter of an hour, the computer was saying, "Access permitted," and
he was ordering a full audio and visual record.

::Another office in Starfleet Headquarters, another admiral's insignia
on the wall. Owen Paris, sitting behind his large desk, next to a
computer screen filled with the Starfleet emblem. Kathryn Janeway, in
uniform, standing at attention before him.

"There you have it, Captain," Paris was saying as he extracted
something from the computer port. He slapped a data rod onto the desk.
"Incontrovertible evidence. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how
shocked and disappointed I am."

Janeway was silent.

"Do I?"

"No, sir."

"What were you thinking? Having sex with your superior officer. In her
own office. A superior officer that you admit you knew would be
participating in legal proceedings against you. You'll be accused of
deliberately causing a mistrial. And maybe you were. My god, Kathryn,
what happened to you out there? I don't even know you any more."

"No, sir."

Paris shot her a suspicious look, but then continued, "There are at
least six offenses you can be charged with. If you're convicted, it
means prison. No walking away with just a dishonorable discharge, free
to take whatever lucrative private-sector offers come your way.
Prison, Kathryn. And don't think I'll recommend leniency. You've
disgraced yourself and the Fleet."

Janeway's lips twisted in a wry smile. Paris reacted with outrage.

"Just what the hell are you laughing at?"

"Alynna. Me. Starfleet. You."

Paris was on his feet, hands braced against the desk, his face
purpling. "God damn it!" he shouted. "I will not tolerate
insubordination, not while you're still in that uniform."

"I apologize, sir."

Paris sat down slowly, letting out his breath as his color returned to
its normal brick-red. "Good. Because I have a proposal for you. I want
you to understand that I'm personally opposed to this. But I have my
orders."

"Yes, sir."

"I've been instructed to tell you that Starfleet is willing to drop
the charges of sexual misconduct, trial tampering, and all the rest.
And we promise that no action of any kind will be taken against Alynna
Nechayev for her. . .indiscretions. Her career will not suffer."

"And in return?"

"In return, Starfleet wishes you to undertake some covert missions."

"Section 31?"

Paris rapped the desk sharply. "That's not for either of us to ask."

"What sort of covert missions?"

"I don't know the details; you'll be fully briefed later. I want to
make sure you understand, though. These missions will be risky. You'll
be on your own. But you've proven that you can survive on your own.
Despite everything, Starfleet has confidence in you."

"How reassuring."

Paris's lips tightened, but he let the comment pass. "Think it over,
Kathryn. Don't make a snap decision. Starfleet will give you until
tomorrow."

"What if I refuse?"

"If you refuse, Captain, then Starfleet will make certain that you and
your. . .lover go to prison. And you may rest assured that Voyager's
Maquis crewmembers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the
law. Any further questions?"

"No, sir."

"Fine. Dismissed."

Janeway turned and left without a word.::

Again, the computer spelled out ::End of File::, but the researcher's
gaze was no longer on the screen. Or on anything concrete. He was
staring at the completion of his life's work.

He knew. He knew, now, where Kathryn Janeway had been during the
missing ten years. She'd been part of Section 31.

It wasn't a completely new theory. Several scholars had voiced it in
the past -- well-regarded scholars, too. But they didn't have anything
remotely like the sort of evidence that he had. Conclusive evidence.
Incontrovertible, to use Owen Paris's word.

Oh, there was still a great deal to be discovered, of course. The
nature of the covert missions, for instance. Janeway's role in them.
Further facts about her relationship with Nechayev. Whether that
relationship had continued during the recluse years.

But the main work was completed. The secret was a secret no longer.

Now there was no one who knew Kathryn Janeway the way he did.

He had done it. He had -- no one else. He had spent years fantasizing
about how he would handle the fame that would be his when he made the
secret known.

But now, as he heard the echoes of Kathryn's voice in his mind, he
knew that he would tell no one.

He would keep her for himself.

---
Epilogue
Earth Year 2380
---

Kathryn Janeway sat in the captain's chair on the darkened bridge of
Voyager, looking out the viewport at the myriad tiny repair vessels
that scurried around, readying the starship for its first trip into
space since its return from the Delta Quadrant almost a year ago.

Someone would find her soon, she knew that. Let them; it didn't matter
now. She'd gotten here one last time.

She heard the turbolift doors open behind her. It had taken them only
nine minutes -- much faster than she had expected.

She turned to meet them.

But it wasn't Security. It was Tom Paris.

"Tom?"

"Captain. I bet you're surprised to see me."

"Well. . .yes."

"Disappointed?"

She had to smile. "Of course not. But how. . ."

"How did I find you?" He grinned, looking suddenly young again. "Oh,
don't worry; you've covered your tracks very well. It's just that I've
been watching for you, waiting my chance. I have to talk to you."

"Tom, please. Don't tell me how sorry you are about the court martial
conviction. Not you -- I couldn't take sympathy from you."

"No, that's not why I'm here, Captain. I mean, Kathryn. I mean. .
.jesus, this is crazy."

"Why are you here, then?"

He sat down unceremoniously in the XO's chair. "I'm just going to have
to say this straight out. Because I don't think we have much time. I
saw the surveillance record. The one with you and Admiral Nechayev.
I'm sorry. I came across it by accident, at my father's. It's not
really important how. I cornered him about it and demanded to know
what was going on. Why he had this recording, what he had to do with
your conviction and with the rumors that Starfleet is forcing you
off-planet."

"What did he say?"

"He said that it was true that you were leaving the planet, but that
you weren't being forced to go. And he said that he had nothing to do
with it."

Paris was silent for so long that finally Janeway said, "What is it
you want, Tom? Do you want me to vindicate your father, tell you he's
not to blame?"

"No, no, I. . . .There's more, Captain. I didn't believe him, and. .
.well, I'm afraid things got a little nasty. He finally told me that
Starfleet is using this surveillance record against you as some form
of blackmail. He wouldn't tell me why, though."

"And you want me to tell you why?"

"No. Well, not if you don't want to. But I want to tell *you*
something. I'm going to go public with this. I thought I should warn
you. Damn it, Captain, I'm not going to let them get away with this. .
.this persecution. Not of you."

Janeway leaned over to touch his shoulder. "Thank you, Tom; I do
appreciate your concern. Now. . .I can't give you orders anymore, and
I don't want to. But I'm asking you not to do this. Don't say
anything. To anyone. Forget you saw that recording, forget you talked
to your father, forget you saw me here."

"Captain, they can't just run you off the planet. And for what? For
loving another officer? I'm sorry, but I don't think I can just let it
go."

"Please."

"No!" Paris heaved himself from the chair and began to pace. "No. I'm
sick of this. I'm sick of being pushed around by fucking military
bureaucrats who haven't seen the inside of a starship in twenty years.
And I'm sick of you trying to sacrifice yourself to satisfy your
twisted, masochistic. . .whatever it is, and then claiming you're
doing it for some goddamned noble cause."

"All right!" Janeway snapped, angry. "Listen, then, dammit. Starfleet
does a lot of ugly things. Oh, they're essential things, necessary for
the survival of the Federation. Or so the justification goes. But
they're not nice. So they need to be kept quiet. The people who do
these things have to be invisible."

"What are you saying? That you're going to be one of these people?"

"Yes."

"They can't make you. . ."

"Tom. Sit down. And listen. Just listen. I'm going to do this. Whether
you like it or not. Now, you can go announce it to the entire galaxy
if you want; I can't stop you. But you'll be helping me die a lot
sooner than I might otherwise have to."

"Shit."

They were briefly silent, neither looking at the other. Still staring
straight ahead, Tom said, "Kathryn. Can you honestly tell me that you
want to go through with this?"

"Yes. I do."

"Why?"

"I don't know that I can explain it, Tom. But I learned in the DQ that
I can do what has to be done. I can make the deals. I can seduce
whoever has to be seduced. I can sacrifice the Borg babies. The
Lessings. Myself. They aren't things I do lightly. But they're things
a lot of people could never do at all. And yet sometimes they've just
got to be done."

"The fate of the universe depends on it?"

He smiled, tentatively, but she didn't smile back. "Something like
that."

"I think I understand. A little." Paris paused. "But Captain, you
know. . .a good operative. . .they can make any explanation sound
plausible."

"Yes. They can."

Tom stood. "Goodbye, Kathryn."

"Goodbye, Tom."

Janeway watched him enter the turbolift, watched the doors close him
from her sight.

She knew she ought to leave, but still she sat, not yet willing to
leave her bridge for the final time.

She had wanted to be honest with Tom, and she thought she might have
succeeded. She did believe that no organization, however lofty its
principles, could survive without people to do the ruthless dirty
work. And she knew that she was capable of doing that work.

But she had personal reasons, too, reasons that she had no desire to
explain to Tom Paris or anyone else. She hadn't been back on Earth
long before she had realized that she could no longer live as a
Starfleet captain. She could no longer face a life of saying "yes,
sir" to men like Owen Paris. She could no longer face the constant,
inescapable presence of other people. The constant responsibility. She
needed to be alone, unaccountable, unreachable, untouchable, unknown.

And so she had decided to approach Hpet dn Ent. She had come to know,
in that indirect, never-spoken fashion that people sometimes came to
know things in Starfleet, that he was part of Section 31. Delicately,
obliquely, she had conveyed to him the idea that she might be
interested in covert operations.

He had understood her almost at once, but it had amused him to play
out the game, to watch her demonstrate her skills. He indicated his
acceptance of her offer by letting her take him to bed. They had both
enjoyed their subsequent negotiations, had enjoyed working out the
plan for her court martial and resulting "disgrace."

Except for Alynna. God, she had never seen that coming. In retrospect,
of course, she saw how foolish she had been. She realized now that Ent
must already have been planning to use her relationship with Alynna
when he told her, "I'll arrange some scandal that will convince Owen
and the others that you're being coerced. Leave it to me; the fewer
details you know now, the better."

Yes, Ent was a bastard, no mistake about it. But efficient. He might
have taken perverse pleasure in exposing her and Alynna, but he had
also been reminding Janeway that she had crossed a line. There would
be no escape from Section 31. Not now.

Kathryn cast a final glance around Voyager and rose. Only one task
remained to be done. Taking a small scanner from her bag, she
carefully scanned the bridge. When she found the two new,
state-of-the-art microfilament recording devices, she wiped their
memories clean. Then she beamed herself away.

A Security team arrived a few minutes later, but their scans revealed
nothing. In their reports, they concluded that the "intruder alert"
had been a false alarm.

---

End