Somewhat to my surprise, it was through Em that he made the approach. I knew something was up when she sidled into my office one morning with an expression that in anyone else I'd have described as 'dazed'. My deduction was confirmed when she insisted on checking the place out for listening devices – I mean, give me strength, my office…

(It's just as well for somebody that she didn't find anything. Though I'd been a bit too busy lately for any recreational activities, even for testing the latest version of the Booth that Phlox had built to some new specs he said he'd thought up, I'd definitely have found the time to make enquiries over that.)

Anyway, she didn't. And when she'd finished carrying out her superfluous hunt for something that was never going to be there, she sidled up to me (a worrying event in itself) and whispered in my ear.

I was naturally sitting down, because with Em going around the place like a sniffer dog on steroids I wanted to get one hand on the spare disrupter I kept strapped under my desk; I already had a phase pistol strapped to my thigh, of course, but with my SiC having apparently mislaid a significant number of her marbles, you can't be too careful. It turned out that this was a Very Good Thing Indeed, because although the words she finally whispered in my ear heralded the culmination of years of painstaking effort, for just a moment I wasn't sure my knees would hold me up.

Apparently the kind invitation was extended during the course of a horizontal pas-de-deux with a stranger she'd met in a bar. This is one of Em's little hobbies. Every now and then she wanders down into the seedier ends of town and picks up anything that takes her fancy. It's just a bit of fun: mostly she gets a shag, and now and again this is followed up by an attempted robbery or even a murder, in which case she gets a shag and a bit of practice as well. The police simply tidy away the body when it's found in a nearby alley, and tick another undesirable as disposed of.

Strange, but whatever floats your boat, that's what I say…

On this occasion, the stranger not only got away shagged and alive, but also managed to engage the parts of my SiC that reside above her neck, which I understand would be quite a feat in the usual run of things during this sort of encounter. I don't know how he managed to persuade her he was telling the truth, but she can sniff out a lie quicker than Commander Tucker used to be able to sniff out a malfunctioning relay in a circuit.

(Tucker. I wonder where he is these days. Probably still out at the yards, slavishly turning out Defiant clones in the service of the All Powerful Terran Empire. I know Sato gave him T'Pol by way of a reward when he finally produced the complete schematic. Last time I heard, she was wearing a duranium collar and chain, and shackled to his bed. I suppose the man has to have some recreation… )

Well. That was then and this is now, and time bends and stretches strangely as I walk up the corridor. It seems to take me forever, waiting through every endless second for those plasma rifles to lift, aim and fire, and yet at one and the same time it hardly seems like I've had time to draw breath before I'm at the door.

I don't let the sentries see anything of my inner turmoil, of course. They see what I want them to see, the arrogant little bastard who's bothered their boss so much he's finally decided he wants to meet me in person. They see the man who rose from a mere Major on Enterprise to be the man who's managed to get half of the MACOs in the Empire jumping when he barks.

Naturally we're unarmed. Equally naturally, that wouldn't save either of them if we decided to play nasty – not now we're this close. If they don't know that, their boss is employing idiots. An interesting possibility, but unfortunately a remote one.

I don't even think about putting my hand to the door control. I just pick my victim and stare.

I'll give him his due, he holds out longer than most. But eventually he caves, borne down more by my cold certainty than by the stripes on my uniform, which don't impress him.

He keys in the command to open the door. (The supposed code for it was sent to my ultra-secure personal inbox this morning – the one that nobody has access to that I haven't granted. I was only mildly irritated, and didn't waste time trying to backtrack the source of the message.) I should probably be reassured by the fact that the code he enters is the same as the one I was sent; by the extreme care he takes to hit each button with absolute precision I can guess that an incorrect code would be the trigger for a fatal electric shock. On this door, you get it right or you don't live to realise you didn't. The computer terminal in my office has exactly the same friendly disposition.

The door hisses open. Behind me, Em draws in a breath that isn't quite soundless.

Now for it.

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