Star Trek and all its intellectual property is owned by Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no profit made.

Author's Note: Inspired by the video of Dominic Keating in 'Fierce Blue Ascot', which may be viewed on YouTube.

Warning: This story may require a little stretching of the imagination, and please don't take it too seriously.

Beta'd by VesperRegina, to whom I am, as always, indebted.

"Set course for Jupiter Station, Travis."

At these words, uttered by his captain with something of a sigh, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed looked up thoughtfully.

It wasn't as though the return wasn't expected. No ship of the size of Enterprise could carry sufficient provisions and materiel for an extended voyage such as theirs, and their course was roughly planned to take them to their present point, at which it would be prudent to turn for home. Some engine parts needed replacing, their food stocks were running rather low, and Trip's engineering stores reported that some of their supplies of various metals were inadequate for some of the necessary repairs to the ship's superstructure to have been as good as they should be. On his own account, certainly, various encounters with unfriendly parties had resulted in their using so many torpedoes that the armoury reserves were starting to become worryingly depleted. The ship was designed to recycle a great deal, but even the most up-to-date methods were incapable of making her completely self-sustaining.

Nevertheless, the journey back to the Sol system was hardly likely to offer much by way of adventure. There might be a few planned personnel changes, but no shore leave was scheduled; it was a dutiful pit-stop, no more, and the look of resignation that crossed Travis Mayweather's face as he laid in the necessary course changes was a fair reflection of the mood that would take hold of the majority of the crew for the next couple of weeks. They had set out to be explorers, after all. They might understand the logistical necessities of the voyage, but returning home for nothing more interesting than revictualling and rearming was hardly the event of the century.

Malcolm himself greeted the development with a measure of relief – those depleted torpedo stocks had been weighing on his mind – but he could nevertheless find it in him to sympathise with the younger and more impulsive members of the crew. Nothing much of interest had happened for the past three weeks, and the prospect of even more tedium was hardly likely to appeal. It was true that as the man responsible for the ship's safety he was the one person on board who was likely to rather enjoy a period of tranquillity, but that didn't mean he didn't share the hope of coming across something interesting; he was simply more likely to ask awkward questions about whether it was 'interesting as in dangerous' before getting all excited about it.

So.

It was obviously completely unthinkable that the ship should defer the return home just because they'd had a few quiet weeks and wanted to do something more thrilling. That being self-evident, he mused, was there any way in which the visit could possibly be enlivened?

On the surface, it seemed extremely unlikely. There was a tightly-controlled schedule for such affairs; the ship would spend as little time as possible at the station before departing again. The station itself was very much a working environment and there was a great deal of work to do.

Nevertheless, it should not beyond the realms of imagination to contrive something. With half-closed eyes he surveyed his Tactical Station, seeing the displays showing nothing to cause him the slightest concern. Perhaps he was getting bored too. Perhaps a little too bored for his own bloody good, because the idea that had just floated into his head was tantamount to suicide if he was found out.

Maybe it was out of the question anyway. It had been a long time. He still remembered the contacts – a good memory was one of the things that had been vital in his old life – but who knew how many of them were still in the business?

But it wasn't as though what he was contemplating was against the regulations. At best it was a little playful deception, and who aboard this ship would ever suspect him of contemplating such a thing? And it would be good to meet up with the gang from that particular op again, if it could be arranged.

If it could be arranged. He glanced across at Hoshi, his gaze veiled. He would have to be very, very careful. The Section had trained him well, but he'd be pitting himself against the best comms officer in the fleet. He'd have to set up a series of exchanges with the technical people on the station – that in itself would occasion no remark if he cleared it with the captain first, in Hoshi's hearing. His transmissions were always monitored, quite unbeknownst to anyone on Enterprise. So far, there had been nothing for anyone to hear. If necessary, however, he could enter a code that meant that the attached message had quite a separate destination.

Would they buy it? Even that was unlikely. He'd have to put up some kind of plausible reason that his old handler would swallow. Facilitating a 'prank' on the entire crew of the ship would hardly be something that Harris would normally sanction. Or would he? Would he supply the rope, hoping that his talented ex-protégé would use it to hang himself? Would he smile that grim little smile, and pass on the message?

If it happened, it would be risky. It would be astonishingly risky.

It would be a challenge. It would be an astonishing challenge.

If he was found out, everything would depend on Captain Archer's reaction. It could earn him anything from an official reprimand to a slap on the wrist.

His gaze moved to T'Pol. He had the utmost respect for the Vulcan's powers of observation. There, if anything, would be the sticking point.

Would his old skills still be up to the job?

Was it really worth the risk?

At that moment Hoshi heaved a sigh.

"Sure is going to be dull back there," she said.

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