Author's note:

Here we are with another chapter. Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed, as always. For now, let's see the good guys get a little crafty...

.The light came up slowly in his quarters. Julian Bashir blinked. It was late at night, and he wasn't used to being awoken. Was there a medical emergency? Usually they would try to raise him on the comm, or send an officer to his quarters if that failed.

He blinked again, looked, and drew in a sharp breath.

Sitting in a chair near his bed was an older man, imperially thin. He was balding and looked calm and regular, just a face in the crowd. He examined the doctor with no surprise.

"Good evening, doctor," the man said. "You and I need to talk."

Bashir sat up and stared at the man. "Who are you? One of Sloan's men?"

The man chuckled. "Actually, no. Sloan was a friend of mine, and an associate, but I never worked under him. I have a job for you, doctor, and in return I'll help you with your little problem of the sick Romulans on DS9."

Bashir sat up and felt a rage kindle in him. Men like this had no respect for anything. They tromped all over what was right and moral in the name of the Federation. "I don't work for you," he seethed. "How dare you? Enter my room in the middle of the night like you own it!" He glanced over at his nightstand where his combadge lay.

The man sighed. "Dr. Bashir, let me explain something to you here. I am part of Section 31, and I know of you from Sloan's notes." He shifted. "Luther...well, Luther always was a bit of a frustrated philosopher. He wanted people like you to recognize the sacrifices he made and the good he did. I, on the other hand...I'm an operations man. I take pride in a job well done, and I need you to do it now. I will not, however, put up with your self-righteous indignation right now. It wastes time." He produced a small gray phaser. It wasn't Starfleet issue, but there was little doubt as to what it was. "You're coming with me, and I have a very short job for you, and once it's done I'll discuss the issue of the Romulans and Vulcans in your sickbay with you. Now, you can get up, dress yourself, and come along like a man, or I can stun you and have you transported aboard my ship in your pajamas. It's your choice."

Bashir sighed. He ought to have kept a phaser under his pillow.

"If it makes it easier, Dr. Bashir, there is a young woman who requires medical attention," the man continued.

"All right," Bashir spat, throwing back the covers. He hated the way Section 31 operatives acted, using whatever they wanted – and whoever they wanted. A man who kept his moral compass about him was at a disadvantage against them. This man had no more compunction than Sloan, from the looks of it. There was something infuriating about it. "May I ask your name, at least?"

The man smiled icily, nothing touching his eyes. "Yes. You may call me Kilbourne, for now."

Bashir got out of bed and slipped into his uniform, glaring all the while at the Section 31 operative. He didn't look like much; balding, a plain face. But under that unassuming brow, who knew what lurked?

"Thank you, Dr. Bashir," Kilbourne said calmly. "Now, then. You won't need your combadge." He reached forward and grabbed Bashir's elbow. Bashir grunted. Kilbourne looked like a meek older man who wouldn't say boo to a goose. He had plenty of physical strength somewhere. Although Kilbourne looked to be about twenty years older than he was, Bashir didn't think he'd be able to physically best the other man.

The opportunity vanished as he did himself, transported to a small room. The ship reminded him vaguely of Sloan's ship. Two blackshirted security guards were waiting for them. Their phaser rifles were out, but not aimed at him. That was something.

"This way, please," Kilbourne said, and directed him to another room. This room was a bit more comfortable; the metal grating that served as a floor was carpeted, and there was a couch that Kilbourne gestured to as if he had simply invited Dr. Bashir over for a cup of coffee. He unintentionally added to the idea by ordering coffee from a replicator and politely asking if Dr. Bashir would like a cup.

Bashir shook his head.

"I assure you it's not poisoned, Dr. Bashir. I have no need to kill you or drug you."

"Then what is it you need me for?" Bashir asked.

Kilbourne sat down and sipped at his coffee. "There's a young woman who we are...questioning. She's resisting us. We've tried a few methods, including some unorthodox ones. She's held out longer than we want her to, and I want a medical opinion on her. How close she is to breaking."

Bashir sighed. "And I suppose Section 31 forgot the little niceties like counsel and medical treatment, which is guaranteed to prisoners."

"Yes, we did," Kilbourne admitted cheerfully. "The ship we're holding her on has an EMH, but we had to...make some modifications to him. As a result I don't trust his medical opinion anymore. All I want is...an exam. I want you to examine this woman and tell us how close she is to breaking. Blood sugar, things like that. You're the doctor, you'd know better than me."

Bashir stared at the older man with hate-rimmed eyes. "And what if I refuse?"

Kilbourne shrugged. "Dr. Bashir, I guess I should explain. For one thing, there is your own welfare to be concerned about. Luther Sloan was a great man. A hero to the Federation, and you killed him for a shapeshifter. I assure you, Dr. Bashir, there are men in Section 31 who would like to see you pay for that."

Bashir smiled craftily. "I'll take my chances," he said.

"Consider how easily I made it into your bedroom. If someone in Section 31 wants you dead, doctor, you will die. Currently Section 31's command doesn't want that to happen. I'm not in charge of everything, but....my word could sway things one way or the other." He grinned again, and for a fleeting moment Bashir could see the real Kilbourne behind the meek, unassuming mask: an insectoid man, a man born without morals or conscience, just as assuredly malformed as a man born without arms even though his deformation was not visible to the naked eye..

"Do you think I'm afraid of you?" Bashir asked, and his eyes narrowed.

Kilbourne smiled. "Actually, yes. I think I do scare you, doctor. I can tell by the attempts to bare your teeth, as it were. Nonetheless, you do realize by now that Section 31 monitors communications from all Starfleet facilities. If you attempt to work against us, we'll know about it." He smiled again. "Dr. Bashir, I assure you I can, if I want to, destroy anyone and anything you care about. That's not what I intend to do, so don't force my hand. I'm not a difficult man to please, and I don't think I'm asking you for anything unreasonable. I want you to examine a woman and tell me what you think. I further want you not to mention it to anyone. That's all I want."

Bashir took a deep breath and tried to clamp down. Kira had once told him he was too hotheaded where Section 31 was concerned. I got the same way around the Cardassians, Julian. Get angry, that's fine. But you have to learn to clamp down on it when you need to. It was sound advice.

It didn't take too long to reach their destination – about half an hour, he reckoned. That meant wherever they were, it wasn't far from DS9. That also meant it was probably a ship; Kilbourne wasn't lying about that. Bajor was quite close and Trill wasn't far, but Section 31 wouldn't hold a prisoner on Bajor or Trill – too much risk of recognition. There were no other planets nearby that he knew of.

Kilbourne approached him, holding a black bag in one hand. Bashir tensed, wondering if it held a weapon. Instead, Kilbourne simply dropped it over his head and cinched it at the neck. It was claustrophobic; he could smell his own fear-sweat, coppery and sharp. The hood blocked all light and muffled sound. Automatically he grabbed at it. Kilbourne sighed and grabbed his arms.

"Doctor, I'm afraid you're not cleared to see everything," he said, and sounded vaguely exasperated. "I can have you put in restraints. I'd prefer not to."

Bashir bit down on his lip. The pain helped him to focus. Kira was right; he had to learn to clamp down and wait for the best opportunity. Now was not the time. He took a few long, slow breaths through the nose to try and calm himself.

He felt the familiar tingle of beaming; how disorienting it seemed without sight! Then he could smell oil and metal. Debris crunched under his feet. He heard things clang and clatter. What type of ship was this? Kilbourne's hand held his upper arm, leading him calmly through the ship. Now, the familiar hum of a graviton lift. His ears strained for any sound that might tell him more. There was nothing. It was such a silent ship. Was there anyone on board? Perhaps just whoever they were holding and a few guards. Why a Starfleet ship, then? Or was it a Starfleet ship? It seemed large enough to be. Perhaps it was a holodeck, as Sloan had once held him. He could feel his heart racing. Calm, Julian. Calm . Clamp down. Don't let your thoughts wander. Concentrate on this madman and wait for a weak point.

Then he heard a door open. Voices inside; men's voices. Then Kilbourne pulled the hood off and he was sucking in great gusts of air, great merciful gusts uncheapened by the sweaty hood. Dr. Bashir blinked a few times and observed his dull surroundings.

The cabin was dingy and musty. Really, did Starfleet have ships this dirty? Two men stood nearby him, also in Starfleet uniforms. Bashir eyed them for a moment. One was blond and had rough-hewn features. The other was younger, dark-haired and eyed, watching him with an easy familiarity.

On the bunk was a young blonde woman. She appeared to be drugged or sleeping. Drugged, he decided after a moment. She would've had to be a very heavy sleeper not to wake with four men in her quarters – if they were hers. Not knowing anything was unnerving.

"Who the hell is he?" the blond man asked.

Kilbourne seemed vaguely annoyed. "As I recall," he said thinly, "you asked for a doctor to check out her medical condition. You didn't trust the EMH. I don't blame you. So... Dr. Bashir is going to give her a physical."

"Yes, sir," the other man acknowledged, "but I thought we could transport her to --," he looked again at Bashir and caught himself --, "to the other ship."

Kilbourne shrugged. "This is how we're doing it," he said.

All right. Kilbourne is in command. The older man has captain's pips on his uniform; the younger one has commander's pips. I'd bet anything they have no rank in Starfleet, just Section 31 personnel. This blonde woman here...an ensign's pip. He tried to commit it to memory.

"I'll need equipment," Bashir said.

Kilbourne nodded and handed him a medical tricorder. "There you are, doctor," he said blithely. "If you need anything else, I can have it transported here."

Bashir's mouth quirked. He seemed so normal, this Kilbourne. How could men like this exist in the Federation? How could they band together into Section 31 and actually wield so much power instead of ending up in prison?

He had to force himself to pay attention to his task. "Whatever you've given her, I need to wake her up," he said.

Kilbourne shook his head. "No," he said easily. "She can't see you. Whatever you can tell us while she's unconscious will be fine. I won't hold you responsible. Just tell us what you can."

Bashir sighed. "All right," he said, and held the medical tricorder close to her. She was pretty but thin. Her hair was quite long. Looking at her, he had the distinct idea he'd seen her before. But where? DS9?

That, he could check. They'd monitor his communications with Starfleet Command. He could check the station records much more safely. Very calmly, Julian Bashir leaned down and put his hand on the woman's head to steady it. If he made it too obvious, they'd see. With luck, maybe just one of those long blonde hairs would come off on his uniform. The sort of thing that had gotten husbands in trouble for millenia.

What he saw in the medical tricorder's display did not please him. He cleared his throat.

"This is...a young woman, in her late twenties or early thirties," he began uncertainly. "She went through an extended period of malnutrition, near starvation. There's some residual damage to her digestive and renal systems. She was also in an extremely stressful situation for a very long time – probably the same. Her veins show signs of chronic vasoconstriction."

Kilbourne nodded.

"Recently," Bashir said, "she hasn't been getting much to eat, and you've been drugging her."

Kilbourne nodded. "My psyops associates can give you exact doses, if you need them," he said mildy.

Bashir felt anger well up in him again and choked it back down. Oh, sure, we'll tell you exactly how we tortured this poor soul. "That won't be necessary," he said coolly. "Her blood-sugar levels are quite low. That might be from lack of food and might be from injections. If it is, be careful – I presume you don't want her dead." He eyed the men around him hatefully. "Poor nutrition has also left its mark. There are waste products in her blood and her systems appear sluggish. She has little bodyfat left."

"Finally," he said, "you've been applying some sort of cerebral stimulation to her. That has to stop. Now. There are signs of cell breakdown in the arteries and veins of her brain. You're fortunate she hasn't had a stroke already."

"We'll take the doctor's toys away from him," the blond man said calmly.

"The EMH?" Bashir asked pointedly.

"Yes."

"How could he--," Bashir asked.

Kilbourne interrupted him with smooth grace. "We reprogammed him. He's more of an Emergency Interrogation Hologram now."

Bashir took a moment to stare at him. If Kilbourne said interrogation, he likely meant torture. His biological goons would more than likely be up to the task of normal interrogation. Bashir hadn't ever liked the idea of a hologram taking his job, but he approved wholeheartedly of the idea of the EMH itself – an emergency hand, created solely for the purpose of healing. Somehow, the idea that these men had warped such an ideal given form into a tool for them to use did not surprise him. It did, however, enrage him.

He forced himself to clamp down. He had to. If he lost his head and raged at these men if he wanted to, they would kill him. The woman, too, after they had whatever they wanted from her.

"I can't tell you any more without waking her up," he said. "I can tell you that physically, she's at the end of her rope. Poor food, drugs, low blood sugar....she's got very little left to draw on." His lips twisted. "From here on out, it's largely a question of psychology. Since she's undergone stressful situations before, so she may have the spirit to hold out." He grinned coolly. For no real reason he could think of, he hoped she did. Although he could tell from the medical displays – it was just a matter of time.

Kilbourne seemed pleased. "All right, then, doctor," he said. "Thank you."

The suffocating bag went back on Dr. Bashir's head. He didn't fight it. He wanted very badly to touch his sleeve to see if he had been successful in his private mission, but he dared not. Not until this lunatic brought him back to the station and left.

He didn't speak. Not moving through the destroyed ship to the transporter room, and not once he was back on Kilbourne's far more comfortably equipped ship. He eyed Kilbourne slowly, contemptuously, letting the Section 31 operative know exactly what he thought of him without words. The silence in the room was heavy and charged, but it didn't bother Bashir at all.

Surprisingly, it did seem to have some effect. Kilbourne eyed him over a coffee cup.

"Oh, don't take on so hard, doctor," he said. "The woman is a criminal. Don't let that pretty face fool you. She committed some of the worst crimes the Federation recognizes."

"No one deserves to be treated like that," Bashir said simply. "I...doubt you'll understand."

Kilbourne shrugged. "I don't need your approval, doctor. I'll live without it. Oh, and by the way, we've taken the liberty of removing the corpses, and your research into their deaths, from your sickbay. I can tell you this, though. Scrub down the entire sickbay and anywhere those victims were with strong disinifectant, wait seventy-two hours, and DS9 can be cleared for Vulcans and Romulans again."

Bashir leaned forward. His eyes narrowed. "You," he breathed.

"I'm not saying anything more, doctor," Kilbourne said. "Well, here we are." He gestured for Bashir to follow him to the transporter room. It seemed like bare moments until he was back in his own room, staring at his bed.

"Have a good night," Kilbourne said. "And remember...mum's the word." He drew a finger across his throat in a gesture that was supposed to be funny but wasn't. "I assure you, security logs will show nothing. Why bother?" Then he vanished in a glow of sparking light and was gone.

Julian Bashir let out a long, slow breath. Then another. And another. He closed his eyes. Clamp down. Clamp down. He felt his racing heart slow, his anger still. And then he turned over his sleeve.

Clinging to his lower arm was a long blonde strand.

Bashir smiled. "You're not as smart a bastard as you think you are, Mr. Kilbourne," he said, and headed for his sickbay.

Being stunned was a miserable experience. At first he was simply unconscious. Waking up from a phaser stun was a slow process. At first his senses came back very slowly. Sound was mushy; sight was blurred. Muscles would not obey his mind's commands to move.

Benning was surprised when the world came back into sharp focus and he could move again. He had expected to wake up in the brig. But no, he was where he had fallen. A group of security guards had him covered with their phasers. Why had they just stood around? It made little sense.

Kathryn Janeway strode up to him, flanked by Voyager's security chief. Benning knew her; he'd memorized the entire command crew of Voyager. It took a moment for the black Vulcan's name to come. Tuvok, that was it.

She eyed him coldly. He looked right back at her, letting her know he was unafraid. Working in Federation space was easy; under Starfleet regulations she had to inform the Vulcan civil authorities of his capture, and word would get back to Section 31. Once it did, he was as good as free.

It was annoying to be caught by Starfleet. He wouldn't be able to track Voyager any more. Even so, this project was big. Big enough that he could be assured of a future in Section 31.

"All right," she said coolly, looking him over. "I want your name, and I want to know what the hell you're doing on my ship."

Benning cleared his throat. "My name is Commander Peter Savage," he said. "Starfleet Intelligence."

She stopped and stared at him hatefully. "You're lying," she said.

Benning smiled and shrugged. "If you say so. I request to speak with counsel and make a few communications, as is my right under the Federation Constitution."

Janeway chuckled. "All in good time. I'm afraid our communications are down. Perhaps while we wait we could discuss a mutual acquaintance of ours. Marla Gilmore. She served on my ship. You know her; I saw you stuff her into a van outside of the Starfleet Justice Annex."

Benning paused. Was Janeway smarter than that? Interesting. Section 31 had the ability to discredit Starfleet officers who were deemed too dangerous. He might be able to get her that way once this was over.

"Never heard of her. I do have rights," he replied. "Including the right to remain silent, which I choose to use at this time."

Janeway chuckled. "Have it your way," she said. "You'll remain silent in my brig, then." A gesture at her security guards got them ready. Benning got to his feet. One guard thumped him on the back.

"Keep your hands where we can see them," he admonished.

That didn't bother Benning. Spy holonovels aside, he didn't have any spy gadgets on him. They weren't useful for most missions. They'd gotten his phaser, but he had expected that. Even bare-handed, he could do a lot of damage to a human body in a short amount of time.

His thoughts were coming more quickly. Janeway walked blithely ahead of him, confident in her phalanx of security officers to keep her safe. She'd ID'ed him as the man who had packaged Marla Gilmore. She knew a lot, or could put the pieces together. Did she have anything else? He doubted it; Voyager's computers would need to work for fifty years before cracking the encryption on his messages.

He went along peaceably. For now, he had to wait. Would the security drones be lulled? He thought they might. Were their weapons on stun or kill? He stole a glance at the one next to him. Stun. For a moment he wanted to laugh. What sort of idiots were they? Didn't they realize what they were up against?

Tuvok and one other officer were flanking Janeway. Their backs were to him. They could safely be disregarded. There were two beside him – one on either side -- and one or two behind him. Four. He'd need an opportunity.

He walked with them, his head down, acting meek and somber. If they thought they'd won, it would make his next move easier. One of the guards adopted a more casual grip on his weapon. Benning blinked once, sealing it into his memory. Now he needed an opportunity. Somewhere where the hallway curved, preferably; it would buy him a second or two more to drop Tuvok and his buddies.

They arrived at the turbolift. Benning took a breath. Here was his opportunity. They herded him into the turbolift. He tensed. It was now or never.

He grabbed the phaser rifle of the guard nearest him. Quickly, without missing a beat, he pressed the firing stud. A golden beam leaped from the rifle, stunning the guard. Benning shifted the phaser to kill and continued firing.

A few of them got their weapons up, but he was quicker. They dropped like ninepins. Benning smiled grimly, stepping over bodies without a second thought. Tuvok had a phaser on him and was preparing to fire. Benning fired first. The Vulcan dropped without a word.

Now there was only Janeway. Her face was turning from smug to horror. He was armed; she wasn't. Everything else was secondary. He smiled coldy and pressed the trigger. Voyager's brave captain fell dead to the deck.

Benning sprinted out of the turbolift, not caring who saw him. Operational security was already blown. He had to get off this ship. Crewmen saw him as he passed, and he heard a few shouts and calls for security. Not that it would matter; a whole mess of security guards were already dead.

He could hear his own panting breath and felt adrenaline charge him. Free! He was free! He'd taken down six security guards and a captain. Not too shabby. He'd get some heat for killing Starfleet's biggest hero, but it would die down eventually. For now, though, he had to get away. At the least, Voyager would be far too delayed from the imbroglio to do anything about Project Sling. Chakotay and his officers would be too busy testifying to Starfleet Boards of Inquiry to ask questions about Marla Gilmore.

He made it into the shuttlebay and dropped the crewman at Ops without a second thought. How many had he killed now? He couldn't remember. It was a simple matter to get into a shuttle and send the signal to open the bay doors. His hands twitched. The doors began to open much too slowly. For a long moment he thought about helping them along with a photon torpedo.

The majestic view of space opened before him, and Benning piloted the shuttle out into the inky blackness. The comm flashed, but he ignored it. As a precaution, he raised shields and went to warp, streaking away from the starship.

He let the beautiful miracle of warp drive carry him away for a few moments. Craning his neck, he examined the instruments. Voyager was not pursuing. Perhaps they'd realized Captain Janeway was dead. All the better.

He took a few deep breaths and made himself calm down. Then he plotted a course for Bajor. A shuttle wouldn't be the most comfortable ride there, but it would do. Kilbourne had to know what happened. In a way, it would be a good thing; Starfleet would be too tied up with the Voyager debacle to notice when Project Sling and Project Stone went into effect.

An alert sounded. Benning's head whipped to and fro, seeking the source of the problem.

"Warning," the computer said. "Hull breach imminent."

What the-? There was nothing wrong that he could see. Everything looked fine. Then, he saw a large crack develop in the roof of the shuttle. Benning rose and scrambled for the back, where an emergency spacesuit might save him. The crack grew larger and larger, letting in the darkness of space.

How the hell had this happened? He grabbed the spacesuit out of the locker, already knowing it was too late. Air hissed out of the crack in the hull, and--

"Computer, end program."

The voice was female and familiar. The darkness was gone, replaced by a room with gunmetal walls and silver gridwork along them. Benning looked around and saw Captain Kathryn Janeway standing behind him, flanked by four security guards. All of them had their phaser rifles centered on him.

Janeway smiled coolly. "All right," she said. "Now you really are going to the brig. And I assure you our security officers are quite aware of proper procedure. One false move, and they'll stun you and drag you to the brig. It's your choice."

Benning realized how he had been fooled. All right, he'd have to make sure Janeway's file with Section 31 was updated. She could be sneaky.

"A holodeck," he said.

"Yes. Much like the one you're holding Marla Gilmore in, if my guess is right."

It was his turn to smile. "It isn't," he said.

"Tell me where she is. Make it easier on yourself. I've got you dead to rights."

He shook his head. "I can't tell you that," he said mildly.

Janeway exhaled. "Somehow, I knew you were going to say that," she said. "Obviously this is a professional operation. You won't answer questions. Have it your way. You answered my questions through your actions. You set a course to Bajor; there must be some answers there."

Benning tensed. Yes, Janeway was craftier than he'd thought. He tilted his head.

"Why risk all this for Marla Gilmore, captain?" he asked politely. "Your orders are to remain on Vulcan, then continue on your tour. You're not going to risk everything for a criminal, are you?"

Janeway stopped and eyed him.

"She's not part of your crew anymore," he continued. "She's not part of Starfleet anymore. She created an engine that ran off the bodies of living beings. She helped attack your ship. Caused several of your crew to die. You're not only wasting your time opposing us. You're throwing away your career and those of everyone on this ship."

Janeway chuckled. "It'll sound simplistic to you, I suppose," she said. "You're not a starship captain. You've never felt the weight of all those souls on your shoulders." She took a step forward. "Keep your shirt tucked in, go down with the ship...and never leave a crew member behind. It worked well enough to get me through the Delta Quadrant." Still, she was thinking about something. That was good.

She turned to Tuvok. "Take him to the brig," she directed. "If he makes any funny moves, you have my authorization to stun him and drag him there."

Tuvok nodded and gestured. "Come along, please."

Benning had no choice, so he went. The real security officers were far better than their holographic counterparts. There were never less than four phaser rifles trained on him, and usually more.

Once in the brig, he sat down on the bunk and waited. That was all he could do, for now.

Kathryn Janeway waited until they'd taken the intruder away. Tuvok could take care of identifying and interrogating him. His last words did mean something to her, though. She headed up to her readyroom and got Chakotay on the comm.

"Chakotay," she said. "I want all of the Maquis in my readyroom. As quickly as you can."

"Aye, captain," he said.

Chakotay was as good as his word. In short order, all of the Maquis had been summoned to her readyroom and stood in a ragged line, waiting.

Janeway took a deep breath and looked them over. This crew had earned their redemption. They might not like what she was going to say, but she couldn't force them to shoulder the burden they would be asked to pay.

"I have decided...," she began, and trailed off. "As some of you know, a former crewman of Voyager has gone missing. Certain...artifacts from our journey in the Delta Quadrant were stolen. The point is that I am going to...overlook certain Starfleet protocols."

Her eyes flicked to B'Elanna, then Chakotay. B'Elanna had been Marla's commanding officer. Their relationship had been rocky; B'Elanna had taken a long time to warm to a crewman who had been part of an attack on their ship. As time passed, she'd come around a bit, but forgiveness wasn't a trait she had in great measure.

Chakotay had been different, too. He'd occasionally put in a good word for the Equinox crew, arguing that marginalizing them would not serve anyone's purpose. Now she wished she'd listened to him a bit earlier.

But this much was not about Marla Gilmore or any of her Equinox crewmembers; this was about her Maquis. They'd served her loyally throughout seven years. They deserved better than the Federation was giving them. They seemed amused to hear that their captain was actually thinking of ignoring Starfleet rules for once.

"All of you are currently under the court's supervision," she continued. "You are free...on bail, as it were. I'm quite aware of the situation you all are in. Therefore, I have decided to have you remain here, on Vulcan. Vulcan civil authorities will be able to vouch that you are not intending to flee the court's jurisdiction."

She could sense a wave of anger at that. B'Elanna scowled visibly. Chakotay simply closed his eyes for a moment and scanned his crew carefully. For several moments no one spoke.

"You're...leaving us behind?" B'Elanna demanded.

Janeway held up a hand. "B'Elanna, I know. You just had a baby. You've been in jail for two months. I can't ask you to risk more time in jail....," she was about to say over an Equinox crewman, but bit down on the words.

B'Elanna took a moment to compose herself, which surprised Janeway a bit. The half-Klingon engineer had always been hotheaded. But she could see the struggle on B'Elanna's face

"You're right," B'Elanna said finally. "I don't want to go to jail. I don't want to lose any more time with my baby. But one day, she's going to be old enough to ask me questions. And I'll be damned if I'm going to tell her that when the going got tough, Mommy sat back and played tiddlywinks with the Vulcan Science Academy." She folded her arms. "We all know what this is about. Gilmore was my crewman, too," she said stubbornly. "I didn't like what she did. I probably never will. I don't know if I can ever look at her the same way I look at other crew. But if you're going after her, I'm in."

Chakotay took a step forward. "We all appreciate the offer, Captain.. But remember. Once, some people in Starfleet uniforms decided that certain little people didn't matter. The result--," he gestured at the rest of the crew – "was the Maquis. We stood up for the little people. The ones who the Federation decided didn't matter. I think I speak for everyone here when I say that we'll continue that fight. Yes, Marla Gilmore got her walking papers from Starfleet. Yes, she was part of some terrible things aboard the Equinox. But now someone else has decided they want her enhanced warp device, and they want her, and they've done things just as bad as she ever did, without the mitigating circumstances. If we look the other way for our own convenience...if we settle into guest quarters on Vulcan just so we don't have to go to jail...then just what exactly were we fighting for? We'd be just as bad, deciding that some little people don't matter. I have to look myself in the mirror every day. I'll take the chance of jail." He shook his head. "Besides, you know, Starfleet protocol forbids you from leaving dock without a first officer. I'm staying right here."

Janeway sighed. She'd suspected this. The only way to get Chakotay to stay on Vulcan while the rest of the crew went off to Bajor would've had to involve restraints and security officers and force fields. It was part of why she secretly loved him.

"The offer is open," she said. "I assure you...I will think no less of anyone who elects to stay behind. You have always served this ship loyally. You deserve better than you're getting. Anyone who wants to stay behind, step forward now."

Her Maquis crew looked at each other. Then at Chakotay. Then at her. Then, almost in unison, they simultaneously took one step.

One step back.

A sense of quiet pride infused her. She smiled. "Very well, then. Wish us all luck...in whatever fleet we end up serving."

It was with a new sense of purpose that she bounded onto her bridge and assumed her seat. The Maquis crewmen filed out to man their posts. She waited a moment.

"Mr. Paris," she ordered crisply. "Lay in a course for Bajor. Maximum warp. Mr. Kim, if any Starfleet vessels hail us, advise them we're going to see a sick little Bajoran girl who wanted to see the crew of Voyager."

Harry blinked, then smiled. "Uh,...is that true, Captain?"

"Sure it is," Janeway said. "Do you know Tal Celes? I saw her in the messhall this morning. Her cousin has...well, I guess it's the Bajoran equivalent of chicken pox."

The ship set about preparing to depart from Vulcan. Chakotay smiled at her tightly.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asked in a low voice.

Janeway nodded. "It's time to bring our prodigal daughter home."