I dislike author's notes as a principle, but as always, I have to make the usual statements.

This is a story set shortly after the end of the Voyager television series. Starfleet is considering mothballing Voyager, but a crisis takes that choice out of their hands and forces Voyager's former crew to get accustomed to a new ship and a new threat.

As always, I do not own any characters here present excepting the ones I have made up in my own head. The entire senior staff of Voyager and any others (no spoiled surprises) that may appear are the property of whichever Gene Roddenberry partner owns them right now. I make no profit off of this.

Enjoy. cue Voyager theme (a vastly superior piece of music to DS9's theme, by the way)

Star Trek: Final Hour

Official Starfleet Command Log

Admiral Kathryn Janeway.

We had hoped that the schism within the Council would solve itself by the democratic processes that have proved the Federation's lifeline in the past. However, it now appears that a civil war is about to break loose.

The Klingons still are fuming over what they perceive as biases in a Federation-negotiated treaty with the Cardassians, and it strikes me that this may have added fuel to the anti-peace activists who have gained a tenuous majority in the Counci. The recent wars with Cardassia and the Dominion may have helped to contribute to this. We have also not heard anything of the Borg for six months since their transwarp nexus in the Delta Quadrant was destroyed. This worries me.

I fear the Federation is on the brink of a major catastrophe…

Admiral Kathryn Janeway looked up as the door chime rang once, hollowly, inside her roomy offices on the thirtieth floor of Starfleet Headquarters. Since her appointment to the Borg Tactical Response office as chief officer sixth months ago, immediately after Voyager's return to Earth, she had grown accustomed to working in near-isolation, her only links to the outside world being the Starfleet/Council sessions and her own staff. Her door did not accept many intrusions.

"Come," she said finally, flicking off the terminal she'd been studying for the past hour, relieved for any break in the monotonous routine. Her coffee sat more than half-full in front of her, but she didn't reach for it. It was cold.

The door hissed open quietly, and a broad, dark man strode purposefully into her office, his calm, introverted face marked with a tattoo on the left side of his temple and cheekbone. His smile was small, but warmth filled his expression now that he stood inside her office.

Kathryn's face broke into a wide smile. "Captain Chakotay," she said warmly, rising from her seat behind the massive desk Starfleet had forced upon her. "It's good to see you."

The Amerindian officer returned her smile with a brief one of his own, startling in its warmth and sincerity. "It's good to see you, too, Kathryn." He glanced at the nameplate on her desk, and his smile twitched. "Or I should say, Admiral."

Kathryn sank back down with a groan, rubbing her eyes with her fingers. "Please, Chakotay," she sighed. "I get enough of that from the officers in my own department who think I'm a legend that can wave my hand and wipe the Borg from the quadrant. I don't need it from old friends."

Chakotay acknowledged that with a nod, and looked questioningly at the seat in front of Kathryn's desk.

"Please," she told him.

Once he had seated himself, Chakotay leaned forward, his manner shifting towards seriousness. "Admiral," he said hesitantly, and Kathryn instantly knew that something was wrong. "I… I've been offered the command of the U.S.S. Wolf 359."

Kathryn blinked in surprise, and then grinned at her former first officer. "Congratulations, Captain," she said formally, and then noticed his still-frowning face. "You aren't going to deny the position, are you?"

Chakotay fidgeted slightly. "Admiral, Starfleet refuses to let Voyager out of spacedock. They won't let me command her."

Another problem. "I know, Chakotay," Kathryn sighed again. "I've been stalling Starfleet on the issue of Voyager for four months. After standard repairs were finished, they wanted to remove unneeded modifications and restore her to Starfleet specs."

Chakotay's face darkened. "That would cripple Voyager."

Kathryn barked a short laugh. "Captain, you must remember that Voyager is not at all the same ship that left to track down the Maquis in the Badlands seven years ago. We've had modifications to our engines that made us faster, weapons that make us one of the strongest starships in the quadrant, and defenses that match anything any vessel in the known galaxy can put up."

She buried her chin in her hands. "Voyager is a weapon, Chakotay, a very powerful one. Starfleet doesn't want to risk tensions by keeping it as such a weapon."

Chakotay chuckled grimly. "If those anti-peace activists on the Council have their way, they won't care about risking tensions. There'll be a war anyways."

"We have to hope they don't get their way, Chakotay," Kathryn said to him firmly. "I don't want to see Voyager mothballed anymore than you do, but I also don't want it to be the instrument of destruction which turns the Federation into an Empire."

Chakotay looked away. "I know Admiral, it's just…" he looked back at her. "For seven years, that ship became my life, my home, my friend. That ship was our universe, our connection to home." He straightened his shoulders. "I don't want to command any other vessel. I'm turning down command of the Wolf 359."

Kathryn gave him a sad little smile. "All right, Chakotay," she said tiredly. "I'll see what I can do about Voyager."

"Thanks, Admiral," Chakotay said as he left.

Kathryn leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. Some days, she thought, being an Admiral is worse than fighting the Borg or Species 8472.

The bridge of the U.S.S. Odin was larger than those of most Starfleet vessels. Being a Sovereign-class cruiser, of course, everything about it was larger than most other starships. Even the chair the captain customarily sat in seemed grand and imposing, illuminated in a dim spotlight.

The captain was not on duty at the moment, however. It was 0124 hours, and the night shift, composed of two ensigns and Lieutenant Commander Dawson, were the only occupants of the bridge. Illumination was dim, as was customary for night shift, and the various glows of bridge consoles blinked placidly in the gloom.

A soft hooting brought Dawson up from the center chair with a flash in his eye, all thought of napping gone from his mind. For once, something might actually happen on the graveyard shift.

"Ensign Pirtri?" he called out to the younger of the two human men sitting at conn and helm positions, attempting to look imposing, standing with feet spread just behind them. "What is it?"

"Sensors are unsure, sir," Pirtri called back, tapping at his console. "A ship about half of our mass just appeared in the area. Method of entry, unknown. Type, unknown."

"Method of entry unknown?" Dawson asked with a derisive snort. "What does that mean?"

"Entrance into sensor range was inconsistent with normal warp drive patterns, sir," Pirtri said in confusion, tapping his console. His movements were growing more erratic with fear. "Object is moving toward our position at approximately 1.5 times our greatest impulse speed."

"Helm," Dawson ordered the other ensign, his own bad feelings beginning to percolate in his belly. "Bring us about; minimum target profile, standard bogey contact procedure." By this, Dawson referred to the wisdom of dealing with possibly hostile intruders by presenting low target profiles and full defenses ready to be unleashed. The policy had become enforced by Starfleet since the recent Cardassian and Dominion wars.

It was, thought Dawson, a sad development. The Federation, so eager to make peace, had been forced to a military posture and the preparation for aggression each time a new race appeared out of nowhere.

Dawson peered at the tiny blip on the viewscreen, just visible amongst the diamond dots of the constellations. "Mr. Pirtri, enhance magnification to factor 5."

"Done, sir," Pirtri said, hitting another command, and the image blinked into full clarity.

The image that appeared was inconsistent with any ship type Dawson had ever seen. The most apt description he could think of was a shark swimming the oceans of Earth. The long, torpedo-shaped body was dotted by multiple fins, and here and there criss-cross patterns of dark metal and circuitry emerged from what almost appeared to be yellowish flesh. It looked utterly calm and predatory. Menace hung about it like a cloak.

Unasked for, Pirtri reported, "Ship has a confusing composition, sir. Sensors register both life signs as well as computer activity. The ship itself registers as a life form on our sensors." Dawson began to smell fear sweat on the air, and wondered which one of them, or if all three, was giving it off.

"What kind of race would… grow… living ships?" Dawson wondered aloud.

He was saved the dilemma of further wondering when a voice pulsed over the speakers in the bridge. It was layered on multiple levels, and, though emotionless, chilled Dawson's blood as though it were liquid nitrogen.

"We are the Borg. You will be assimilated. Resistance is futile. Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own perfection. You will service us."

"Evasive manoeuvres, now!" Dawson snapped at the helmsman, and darted back to the Tactical station, grabbing at railings to prevent falling if the ship was hit. He tapped his communicator as he brought weapons online. "All hands, this is Lieutenant Commander Dawson! We are under attack by an unknown type of Borg vessel! All hands to battle stations!" He tapped off his communicator. "Helm, plot a course out of here, now!"

The helmsman's affirmation was cut off by a massive impact as an golden energy beam crashed against the Odin's shields. Sparks sprayed from the console behind Dawson, and he almost whistled in admiration. His console showed shields at 60 after one hit.

"Get us out of here!" he bellowed, bringing the phasers' targeting systems online and adjusting them to aim at the Borg vessel. Another blast rocked the ship, and he frantically located the random frequencies phaser protocol used when in combat against Borg ships.

He fired, and the phaser beams stabbed against the Borg's hull, scarring the tissue slightly. Recalibrating the frequencies, he adjust aim, praying that he could hit something vital. He fired again, but this time the beams scattered against the shields of the vessel.

"Son of a bitch," Dawson said thickly. "They've adapted." A third shot shook the bridge, and all the lights went out. An explosion blasted through the conn station and took half of Ensign Pirtri's body with it. Dawson fell to the floor and forced himself to stand, though he felt like shards of glass were embedded in his knee, and could feel blood on his forehead. Smoke began to drift, and he coughed roughly.

"Helm!" he shouted, and then coughed again. "I need warp drive, now!"

"Trying, Commander," the ensign yelled back, panic in his voice. "They're trying to pin us with a holding beam, sir!"

Dawson's eyes went wide. He paged down the list of commands at the tactical station and scanned for the self-destruct.

There it was! He punched for an automatic detonation, and cursed loudly when the computer informed him that he would need a vocal confirmation by the captain before detonating. He should have remembered that.

Just then, Captain Larson and Commander Bretsken came charging out of the bridge turbolift, both in uniform and sweat rings decorating their uniforms.

"Status, commander?" Larson yelled as he surveyed the damage and ran for his center chair. Bretsken went to the rear consoles and began scanning damage reports throughout the ship, wincing at the numbers of red sections. He turned to report on the situation to the other officers and was cut off, rather literally, by another hit that tore metal from the wall and cut him in two.

"They're trying to board, Captain!" Dawson informed Larson, his own voice rising in panic. "We need to set autodestruct for immediate detonation!"

Larson nodded quickly to himself, moving back to help Dawson. "Did you manage to get a message to Starfleet?"

Mentally Dawson kicked himself, and he shook his head in chagrin. Any further conversation was cut off by the sudden appearance of four Borg drones equidistant around the circumference of the bridge.

Calmly, the computer reminded Dawson that the Captain needed to give final confirmation of destruction order, or else it would be terminated in fifteen seconds.

"Do it!" Dawson screamed. The Borg nearest the helm slashed with assimilation tendrils, and the luckless ensign slumped forward with a scream as the demonic devices plunged through his eye socket into his brain, already beginning their metamorphic job.

Captain Larson calculated it would take the remaining Borg only about four seconds to complete his and Dawson's assimilation. The ship would follow soon after.

"Computer!" he ordered. "Authorize immediate self-destruct, code Larson two beta five omega!" The Borg drones stepped forward.

"Confirmed," the computer said happily as it overloaded the antimatter-matter buffer in the warp core.

The spacedock was dim, having no ships currently needing repairs. It had the feeling of insubstantiality, of loneliness. Hardly any of the crew or engineers were on duty, so that the only occupants tended to be clustered about the control centers deep within the station.

That was perfectly alright with Admiral Burke. The footfalls of himself and his party of seven well-trained commandos barely resounded in the gaping, abandoned metal corridors of the spacedock. Each one of them had been trained to perfection over the past three months for this very duty.

Those peace-loving, alien-hugging idiots on the Council had been put up with for long enough. Now it was time for the real leaders of the Federation to take over things.

Burke glanced at his wrist chronometer. 0245 hours. Exactly twenty minutes left for him to get to Voyager and get her moving before the fun started.

The corridor suddenly split in front of his party, but they took the left-hand branch unconcernedly. They knew exactly where they were going.

It took them another four minutes to reach the connecting tube between the hull of the mysterious Voyager and the inner workings of the station. Due to Starfleet impoundment orders, the ship had remained here, pristine and untouched, for six months. Burke's only liking of Admiral Kathryn Janeway stemmed from her adamant refusal to allow Starfleet to disassemble and reconfigure Voyager 'up to standard'.

Another minute passed in silence as the third commando down the line knelt at the electronic locks of the outer airlocks and worked frantically, but with efficiency, at the keypad. Sure enough, the massive door wrenched itself aside soon after, and the eight Starfleet operatives stepped onto Voyager.

"Tursan, Janes," Burke rasped, his voice echoing oddly in the empty ship's corridors, "go to Engineering. Get the warp core online." The two commandos saluted and moved off quickly.

Fourteen minutes left.

"Everyone else, let's get going," Burke ordered.

Burke and the five remaining commandos made it to the bridge with ten minutes left on the clock. It was dark and all the consoles were dead.

Burke tapped his communicator. "Engineering? I need power."

"Just a second, Admiral," Tursan's voice came back tinnily. "Almost…"

Then a hum surged through the ship and the bridge lit up dully, with only the red alert battle illumination glowing over the pristine controls. Burke smiled and sat in the center chair with a feeling of relish.

"Let's get this ship moving."

Down on Earth, the chronometers clicked down to 0305.