Chapter 5

The walk from the Defiant's bridge to the officer's quarters was short – only two decks down, in fact, and a short jaunt down the corridor. To Nog, it felt like five miles; had felt that way for the past week. At every turn, he expected a comment on the guilty look on his face, and shook with quiet relief every time no one noticed. He will owe me a great deal, if I do not get drummed out of Starfleet first, his mind grumbled. The next thought, as he left the turbolift and saw a crewman working in an access panel down the hall, was more basic. Act natural. Nothing's wrong, nothing at all. I have nothing to hide. He stumbled, tripping over his own shoe, and grabbed the wall for support. A furtive glance showed him that the technician had never looked up; even if he had, Nog reasoned, he'd probably have chalked up the chance stagger to the Ferengi's artificial leg.

When the doors to his spartan quarters hissed closed behind him, he sagged back against the wall, and let out a long, relieved breath. He scanned the room quickly, but saw nothing out of place – not that there was much for there to be out of place. Quark would be driven to distraction by the sheer emptiness of the rooms, he knew, even with the knowledge that all of the quarters on the small starship were equally as sparse. But at the moment, it seemed to suit his mood.

It was quiet, a clichéd part of his brain whispered. Too quiet. He took a tenative step moving slowly towards the doorway of the small bathroom, praying he hadn't been found out somehow. He had rapidly become more aware than ever that Worf seemed to have eyes on the back of his head. Although he thanked the Blessed Exchequer of the Divine Treasury that it was Worf, and not Colonel Kira, who'd taken command. If Kira found out what he was doing, she'd have him scrubbing the outside hull with his lobes. Worf at least might understand. He hoped.

"Ok, start talking."

By his own estimate, Nog came perilously near to finding out whether the tritanium ceiling would stand up to the impact as his head collided with it. "Don't do that!" he implored in a forced whisper, turning his annoyance on the speaker, who'd just come out through a third doorway that led to a tiny office space.

Jake Sisko grinned at him, abashed. "Sorry about that, Nog."

"Quietly!" the Ferengi hissed.

"Relax!" Jake admonished loudly, throwing up his arms, "Personal quarters are all soundproofed, it's not like anyone will hear me."

Nog scowled. "All the same, keep it down. It's my lobes on the line here," he reminded his friend. "I knew I shouldn't have let you talk me into this."

"Oh relax," Jake repeated in a more subdued tone. "This hasn't exactly been a vacation for me either, you know. I've had to sleep on the floor for the past week, remember?" He shook his head softly, murmuring, "The things I do for a scoop..."

"These are my quarters, and that is my bed. Besides, I gave you a blanket, and a pillow," Nog said defensively.

Jake rolled his eyes. "One of your three pillows, and a blanket that was probably a dust jacket on a plasma converter in a past life."

Still defensive, Nog said, "My lobes need proper support at night. And might I remind you that this insane scheme was your idea? You are the one who said the conference on Bajor was as exciting as 'wet paint.'"

"Paint drying," Jake corrected automatically. "And yes, besides being only one of about fifty journalists covering that dull array of talking heads, this opportunity was too good to pass up. Think about it, Nog," he exclaimed, his eyes lighting up, "I could be the first human ever to interview Q!"

"You could also end up the first hu-mon with an imploded brain for even asking," Nog snorted dubiously. He leaned his head up against the wall above the replicator alcove. "Raktajino." He took the mug and wandered towards the bed pushed up against the opposite wall. "Admit it. This was a bad idea right from the start. When Worf throws us both out an airlock, I intend to last long enough to watch your head explode first."

"Don't be so negative," Jake admonished. Turning serious, he pulled out a thin folding computer, and called up his last entry. "So what have you got for me today? Even if I don't get the chance to talk to Q himself, this alone will make one hell of an article."

Sighing weakly, Nog collapsed backwards onto his bed, and stared at the ceiling, holding the mug upright over his chest while it cooled. "Where did I leave off?"

"With the party at Vic's place."

Nog looked up in surprise. "That far back?"

"You went on duty right after that, and didn't have time to stop back here."

Humming thoughtfully, the Ferengi ran through the events of his shift. Until they had reached the solar system, there had been nothing of interest, save the fact that he'd had the conn. He'd only been in Starfleet a few years, and it was still a major thrill every time he sat in the big center seat on Defiant's small bridge... even if it was the middle of the night. Once again the thought ran through his mind that the war was both a blessing and a curse – without it, he'd still be an ensign, probably one of dozens aboard some starship on the fringe of Federation space... but he'd still have his real right leg.

"You know we were on course for Earth?" He waited for Jake's perfunctory nod, then continued his narrative. "Let's see. Worf went on duty at oh-seven hundred. We reached Earth about ten-thirty this morning, without having spotted anything artificial, in orbit, or anywhere else in the system. Right after we entered orbit, Worf took off, said he was going to a staff meeting on the Enterprise." At Jake's suddenly eager expression, Nog shook his head. "I don't know what they discussed. All I know is that half an hour later, Worf returned, and said that they were sending an away team down from the Enterprise. By then, Doctor Bashir was on the bridge, so I overheard them talking. I gather we somehow ended up in Earth's past – "

"When?"

Nog shrugged, and sat up so he could take a gulp of his cooling coffee. "I don't know, they never said. Earth history was nevery one of my better subjects at the Academy anyway, and I have had enough personal experience with Earth's past not to care. But Worf hinted that Commander Riker was going to try to prevent Captain Picard from going with the team."

Jake snorted, remembering similar conversations his own father had had with Kira Nerys, Worf, and Jadzia Dax. He also remembered what the inevitable outcome was. "That should be an interesting scene," he mused.

*****

"When that away team departs, I will be with them, and that is final, Number One." Picard was growly truly angry now, but his executive officer wasn't relenting.

Riker scowled, or rather, deepened the scowl he already wore. "Captain, might I remind you that it is my duty to prevent you from taking unecessary risks? And whether you want to admit it or not, that is exactly what this is!" Underlying his words were a genuine concern for his captain and friend. It had ocurred to him more than once that ever since Picard had recieved the news of his brother's and nephew's deaths, that he had changed. It almost seemed to him that the captain was going out of his way to court death. First it had been Veridian Three – the captain had unhesitatingly given himself over as a hostage to recover Geordi from the Duras sisters. Picard was like that, had always been like that, Riker knew; but he couldn't help feeling that the Picard of old would have taken extra measures, perhaps an extra locater or three for the Enterprise to use to recover him from the surface of the planet.

Then there was the Borg attack. He'd been on the ride of his life in the Phoenix at the time, but Worf and Crusher had filled him in afterwards, about how Picard had nearly tried to make a last stand against the Borg. And finally, last year's incident at the Ba'ku planet – given his support, Riker knew it should have been him on the surface, and the captain where he blonged at the head of his ship.

Picard looked up again from behind his desk, which was dotted with padds full of relavent historical data. "Damn it, Will, despite what you may think, this is neither of those things. It is my duty as a Starfleet officer to investigate this situation and attempt to repair whatever damage may have been done to the timeline."

"With all due respect," Riker dragged out with equal heat, "your first duty is to this ship and this crew. You used to know that. Yes, you've overruled me before, but there's always been good reason. This time there is none, Captain. None at all." By then, he had his palms planted firmly on Picard's desk, and was leaning over it.

"There is every reason for me to be on this team. Your duty, Commander," he nearly growled, emphasizing the rank, "is to obey my orders. And right now, I am ordering you to get back on that bridge, while I go down to the planet." Somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice told him he was getting nearly hysterical, but he ignored it. "I will not risk sending down an away team without a command officer."

Riker pulled back suddenly, staring in open reproach at his captain. "That's not it, and you know it. In the first place, Doctor Crusher is a full commander, and has passed the bridge officer's exam. At the worst, if that were really the issue here, you could send me instead. Secondly, we have three starships here, only two ranking captains, and I'd have to be insane to let the both of you go down on a dangerous away mission... sir." He quickly held up a hand to forstall protest. "I'm not finished. I've also been informed by a reasonably reliable source," – here, he thought back to his conversation with his opposite number on Sheridan's crew immediately after the meeting, and Ivanova's impassioned railing against the damnfool nature of captains in general – "that the risk on this mission increases with each additional member of the away team. You may be willing to put yourself into that kind of danger, but are you really willing to bet their lives on those odds?"

There was a long, dangerous, pause, but Riker could see he was winning by the softening around the captain's eyes. That tiny voice at the back of Picard's mind was slowly fighting its way to the fore, and lending its support to Riker's arguments. As if from a distance, he recognized that small, nagging voice as his own. His jaw clenched violently, and Riker winced when he heard grinding teeth, but at last, Picard looked up at him with a reasonable facsimile of his usual composure. "Am I really that bad, Will?" The question was soft, with a rhetorical edge. He meant it though – he'd promised himself he'd never again lose control the way he did when the Borg were taking over his ship. He still could hardly believe he'd actually descended into a violent physical display. Good God, he'd nearly hurt Lily.

Sensing the crisis point had passed, but still hardly daring believe he'd won, Riker grinned. "Yes you are."

Picard grunted softly, and shook his head in amusement at his own behavior. "Very well, Number One. Inform Data that he won't need to make a disguise for me, then notify the transporter room that I'll be down shortly to see them off."

"Aye sir," Riker replied, satisfied.

"Perhaps it is time I paid Deanna a visit," he grudgingly admitted.

"I think she'd appreciate that, sir," Riker said tactfully. The implied but unspoken, we all will, made Picard wince.

"After this has been dealt with, of course," he clarified.

Riker was unruffled. "Of course, sir. If you'll excuse me, I'll see to contacting Data now." He turned to leave, and was nearly at the doors when Picard's voice stopped him.

"Will?" Looking back, he saw Picard wearing an honestly grateful expression. "Thank you."

"Anytime, sir." Then he was moving back into the bridge, for the first time noticing the presence of Deanna – must have come up here while I was talking to the captain – who was studiously watching the planet spin gently on the viewscreen, showing no sign of the emotional hurricane she must have felt coming from the ready room. He looked a question at her, but she shook her head.

Not yet, Imzadi, she thought clearly, he must ask for help before I can give it.

Not being a full Betazoid, she couldn't transmit the thought into his mind, but they were close enough that he understood her meaning anyway, and nodded acceptingly. But right now, there was another matter that demanded his attention, and he reached for his comm-badge to inform Data of the change in plan.

*****

After everything else, the departure was anticlimactic. Sheridan led the way to the transporter pads, and took his place at the fore of his small detatchment. He still didn't care much for the transporter, but it had become obvious that it was the only way; landing a shuttle in a barely industrialized society was plainly out of the question.

Standing in front of them, beside the crewman at the transporter console, Picard bade them all farewell, still dressed in his uniform. Sheridan hadn't realized that the other captain wouldn't be joining them until he'd seen that. On Picard's other side, Ivanova had folded her arms across her chest, and was glowering at him crossly.

Sheridan looked down, running through a mental checklist again, and making sure he'd forgotten nothing. He couldn't think of anything. He had his PPG concealed within an inner pocket of the buckskin vest he wore, and one of the Starfleet chevron pins was affixed to the loose white cotton shirt underneath. Of course, he'd slipped his handlink into one pocket of his leather chaps. It didn't have the range of the Starfleet badge, but he figured it couldn't hurt for he and Garibaldi to have another option open.

Behind him, he heard that same Garibaldi whisper in an aside to Marcus, "You think he's waiting for a proper send off from Delenn?" He felt his ears heat, but chose to ignore the comment, all the more so because it was true. Crusher was doing the same, he could tell, as she suddenly began fussing with the many buttons fastening her heavy, wide-bottomed dress.

"We're ready as we'll ever be," he said, trying to look as confident as possible. That was marginally more difficult now – he'd anticipated on having Picard's apparently considerable experience with similar situations to fall back on.

Picard nodded curtly. "Take care, Captain." His eyes switched over to his own department head as he added, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, Beverly."

She grinned at him, and scolded, "Jean-Luc, you know me better than that."

"That's precisely what has me worried."

Trying unsuccessfully to hide his own amusement, Sheridan looked over to the transporter operator, and tugged on the brim of the wide leather hat he'd chosen. "Go ahead."

When nothing happened for a moment, Picard settled the issue with a single intoned word: "Energize."

When the last glimmers of the transporter effect had faded away, Ivanova stared at the empty alcove for a moment, lost in thought.

"Commander Ivanova?"

She turned at Picard's soft tone, standing straighter, looked over at him, with no trace of whatever might be going on behind her eyes. "Captain?"

Picard smiled and said, "I was about to go to the bridge. Would you care to come along? We can follow their progress from there."

"Actually," she said, recalling a question she had meant to ask earlier, "I was wondering if I could get a look at the inside of the Defiant." Partly, it was genuine curiosity about a ship that looked like the White Star as designed by Earthforce, but mostly it was because she knew that trying to follow Sheridan's progress would drive her mad. They'd beamed down almost in the middle of nowhere, so it would be several hours at least before anything interesting happened, and all of that time she would be chewing her fingernails to stubs in tense expectation if she didn't have something else to distract her.

"I'll have to contact Commander Worf, but I think that can be arranged."

*****

The four newest arrivals on planet Earth almost instantly wilted in the opressive heat. Their clothing drooped and clung to them almost as quickly.

"Good God!" Marcus exclaimed, tugging at his collar. "We're all so smart, sitting around up there that we forgot to ask for a bloody weather report!"

"Speak for yourself. You're only wearing about twelve fewer layers of clothes than me," Crusher pointed out sarcastically, gesturing at her own attire.

Garibaldi chuckled at the both of them, fingering the brim of his own leather hat. Like Sheridan, he was also dressed in mostly leather. They both knew that neither of them could pass as a native Southerner, but if they appeared to have come from out west, their accents might draw less attention. "Oh, come on, Marcus, where's your sense of adventure?"

The Ranger harumphed. "Dripping down my back, I think."

Sheridan tuned out their words as the three of them began to argue over just which one of them was the most uncomfortable, and who's outfit was the most stifling; instead, focusing his attention on their surroundings. That wasn't much at first, as his eyes tried to adjust to the bright sunlight. He couldn't remember having ever thought mere daylight was so blinding, but then, he hadn't actually seen the sun in the sky since taking command of Babylon 5.

Blinking to bring the world into focus, he realized that they were standing hip-deep in thick green underbrush. Trees surrounded them, their foliage creating dappled patterns of light and shadow across everything he could see. The sun was high in the sky, but he had the indefinable sensation that it was before noon. Must be a few hours time difference between here and the ships. "Hey," he called out, breaking into the small debate the others were holding. "I know we were supposed to get dropped somewhere outside that town, but why in the middle of the woods?"

Crusher pursed her lips, finally taking a good long look at their environment. "I don't know. It could be they spotted some locals too close to the road we want to take. Wait a moment." She reached into a large satin handbag, and pulled out an incongruous piece of technology. The tricorder hummed and whirred, then beeped twice. "The road is about eighty meters in that direction," she told them, pointing, even as her other hand returned the scanner to the bag. On the outside the bag might look entirely innocuous, but the contents would be unimaginable to anyone from this era.

"Well then," Marcus said, waving his silk derby across his face like a fan, "shall we?" He started out in general direction Crusher had indicated, and they all followed, smashing through the undergrowth like a herd of cattle.

Sheridan grinned at the thought. That's something I'm properly dressed for, at least. As it was, he and Garibaldi had far less trouble pushing through clinging branches and the occasional thorny shrub. The doctor, he noticed, wisely followed behind the two of them closely, lifting her many rustling skirts as high as possible over the tangle of weeds and roots on the ground. She still nearly lost her very wide straw sunbonnet in a few places, but she made better progress than Marcus, who was struggling through on his own, his more formal clothes not taking the rough treatment well. And if they'd thought they were hot before... Worse, were the insects that began to descend in small clouds, making themselves noticed buzzing past ears, landing in or near eyes and nostrils, and having a feast on any bare skin presented to them.

For that problem at least, Marcus had the answer, pulling a silver cylinder from some pocket secreted somewhere on his dark civilian jacket, and spraying a fine mist across himself. "You know me, I like to be prepared."

"I thought that was the Boy Scouts," Garibaldi grumbled.

Marcus ignored him, grinned apologetically at Doctor Crusher, and explained, "I got it from sickbay. Your Nurse Ogawa said it was supposed to be very effective on all manner of these nasty little buggers."

It took only a few moments of cajolery, threats, and promises to get him to share, and they continued on in just the tiniest bit more comfort.

They were all still desperately relieved to finally come upon the road they were looking for, simply because it meant they were out of the woods. At least literally, Sheridan mused.

The road itself was barely worth the name, a trail of hard-packed earth, so dry it was nearly white, neatly reflecting the blazing sunlight right into their eyes. Ruts from the passage of innumerable wagons and horses left it with trecherous footing. Sheridan pulled the brim of his hat as far down over his eyes as possible, and Garibaldi muttered something wistful about sunglasses.

Marcus didn't say anything, staring as he was into the cultivated field on the other side of the road. Returning his level gaze with a sidelong one, a dark face peeked out from between the growing corn shoots below, and the ratty straw hat above. Realizing he was being watched, the face suddenly ducked below the level of the corn again, but not before Marcus had pointed it out to his companions.

"Slaves." Sheridan nearly growled the word. Unconciously, his hand clenched into a furious, impotent fist at his side. "At least we can narrow down the time period then," he said forcing emotion to the back-burner. "This has to be before the end of the American Civil War," he concluded. "After the war, slavery was abolished, and most of the big plantations split their holdings, and turned to sharecropping."

"Well we aren't going to find out much just standing around here," Crusher broke in pragmatically. She jerked her head, gesturing down one direction on the beaten track, and said, "Our first stop is that way, about a mile down this road."

Unlike the tangled scramble through the forest moments before, the walk along the so-called road was actually pleasent. Insects chittered and buzzed in the trees and in the tall grass at the roadside, but thanks to Marcu's forethought, were not the nuisance they had been. The only drawback they found was that the road often meandered out of the soothing shade of the trees, and directly into the scorching sun. Even that was forgotten soon, lost in the easy rhythum of simply walking.

Inhaling deeply, Sheridan found himself smiling despite the dark thoughts of a moment ago. "Do you know how long it's been since I've actually been able to just walk outside like this?"

"Don't even start with me," Garibaldi muttered. "I've been stuck on B5 almost two years longer than you."

Marcus laughed at them both – he'd rarely been to Earth before, and found himself enjoying it immensely; but unlike them, he'd had plenty of time to wander outside on a planet, even if that planet was Minbar, during his training.

No more was said for several minutes, the four of them watching the scenery rolling past as they moved, the forest bordering the road on their right side, and the well-tended fields on their left. Those fields abruptly ended as they rounded one turn, giving way to a row of large oak trees, which were replaced themselves with more forest on the left. The air was still humid and stiflingly hot, but at least the interlocking branches of the trees to either side provided enough cover to block out the worst of the sun's heat.

At last, struggling up the last breathless few feet of a long incline, they were looking down a shallow slope, towards a sleepy hamlet nestled amid the trees and fields.

"That's the place," Crusher said between gulps of warm, sticky air.

"Doesn't look like much," Garibaldi noted sourly. With a self-concious grin, he looked around at his companions, who were taking a breather now that their destination was in sight. "Oh come on, living in space couldn't have made you all so soft." He puffed out his chest, and thumped it with one fist. "It was only a mile! I'm barely warmed up."

"You want to be more warm?" Marcus asked sardonically, wiping his brow on one already soaked sleeve.

Crusher cleared her throat. "I'll have you know I'm in excellent shape. But you try a mile in this costume."

"Ignore him," Sheridan told her, aiming a dark look at his security chief. "He was a ground-pounder. It'd take him a good five miles in that dress to wear him out." When Garibaldi grinned again, he added, "And if he doesn't figure out when to keep his mouth shut, he's gonna try it."

"Spoilsport."

"Captain?" Marcus was taking in everything he could see, which from their elevated position, was primarily rooftops. He could tell the town was a small one – he figured that the captain could probably hit a baseball from one end to the other. Well, that might be an exaggeration. But not much of one. What caught his attention though, was a piece of cloth flapping in the stale, weak breeze, from the top of a square redbrick edifice.

Sheridan turned to look at the Ranger. "What is it, Marcus?" In return, he got only a pointing finger, though the target was unmistakable.

"Is that an American flag?" asked a squinting Garibaldi.

Crusher chewed her lower-lip in thought. "It doesn't look like the one I saw a few years ago," she said, not adding that it had been on the space-suit of a three-hundred year-old corpse, lying in a bed at a casino that didn't really exist. "That one had fifty-two stars and thirteen stripes, but this could be an earlier version."

Searching his memory, Sheridan shook his head slowly. "I don't think so. I'm pretty sure that the American flag always had thirteen stripes. This one has only three stripes, and I think that's twelve stars. No." Now he shook his head more forcefully as recognition took hold. "That's the Stars and Bars." He turned, fixing them all in a somber stare. "Gentlemen, and lady, welcome to the Confederate States of America."