Day 12

It is five minutes before the start of alpha shift when the captain steps into Sir's office.

"Add Harry to the list," she says, dropping onto his couch. She digs a thumb into her temple.

His cup of coffee, barely sipped, makes a sharp sound when he sets it on the table. "I know."

"How do you know? I just came from speaking with Seven…"

"Word travels fast," he says, matter-of-factly. "Why do you think the bin was up so high?"

"Seven believes it was on top of a stack."

He thinks for a moment, pictures the scene in his mind. "If that bin was up five meters…"

"Then there were probably a lot more underneath and around it, yes. I know and I'm trying not to dwell on that detail."

"I gather you heard about B'Elanna, too?"

"Not B'Ela–" She clasps a hand over her mouth. He simply nods.

"Her baby, Chakotay…" Her words are a plea and a question over which he has no control and to which he has no answers.

"That's three senior officers now, provided we're being optimistic about Seven," he says, trying to move on to the facts. "And potentially three other junior officers, but I'm still not convinced that we didn't just bunk up some of the lower decks crewmen…"

She comes back to the present slowly. "The reigning theory is that Chell, Nozawa, and Murphy were each given their own quarters when the previous occupants died. And then there's –"

"The escape pod." The words are dreadfully heavy on his tongue. He has tried so hard to forget that image of flesh and blood, dried red and black, soaked into upholstery, spread across consoles…

"The Doctor's preliminary report came in just a few minutes ago." She shifts in her seat. "He's convinced there were at least four casualties: Hickman, Dorado, and Jarvis for certain… But he's not entirely sure if it was Megan or Jenny or both. Apparently, it's hard to tell with identical twins."

He swallows around the lump in his throat and balls his fists. "What the hell are we up against here, Kathryn?"

Rising from the couch, she begins to pace the small office. "I wish I knew. This… this constant waiting for things to appear. It's like torture. I don't know what's going to show up next, a book or a body."

Watching her pains him. Her anguish and frustration bubble just beneath the surface of her forced-calm exterior. It is a primal need within him to try to calm her, and the only way he knows how to do that is to give her some kind of control over their situation.

"How is B'Elanna coming with the sensor upgrades?"

"Progressing. They've finished the most sensitive areas and a few public ones," she says, then she counts on her fingers. "All of deck one, engineering, the central computer core, deflector assembly and the torpedo room. The mess, holodecks, cargo bays… But B'Elanna admitted there are sensor dark zones. And she's convinced me, for the moment, that it's not worth the effort to retrofit all of the halls and crew quarters." She wags her finger at him. "I might fight her on that later…"

"It's a solid start."

"Right now, I'm more concerned about what we're gifted next," she says, wringing her fingers together while she walks. "What if we get a part of an unexploded warhead, or an armed intruder? Or worse? What if we suddenly gain another warp core?"

"Do you really think physics would try to jam one core on top of another?"

She stops. "On this ship, anything's possible."

"Okay then, we have to find out what's causing this and put a stop to it. Maybe we can modify the shields to -"

"To cut off all clues as to what's going to happen in our disastrous future? I think I'd rather take my chances with what comes through."

"For all intents and purposes, we shouldn't be paying attention to this stuff in the first place," he reminds. "Tuvok was right, acting differently than you would otherwise is in violation of the Temporal Prime Directive."

"I'll gladly answer to Starfleet if it means that Tuvok isn't murdered, four of our science crew aren't blown to pieces, Harry, B'Elanna and…" She shakes her head but won't finish the thought.

Instead she moves to sit beside him and they are quiet together for an extended moment. He is grateful for the silence, tries to think of anything except the loved ones they may lose. When she closes her eyes and releases a heavy breath, he places a hand on her thigh.

"Do you really think we're headed for their fate?" she asks, hushed.

"I think we're headed for our fate. And I think our fate is never set in stone. I think we will continue to make the best decisions we can for our crew and our ship, no matter what, and we will prevail as we always have."

She appears to calm at his words, and he feels just a little more optimistic knowing he can still have this kind of impact. Still though, he wonders if what he said is true. Is there hope or is their demise a foregone conclusion? Will he – will they – be fast enough, wise enough, to save the ill-fated among them?

The air between them cools with her next breath.

"You know what I think?" she asks, the last vestiges of optimism turning to sorrow. "I think, unless we can make some sense of what's going on here, and soon, our best decisions are not going to be good enough."


Captain's Log
Stardate: 54752.4

Long-range sensors have detected a class three nebula along our present course. At current speed, we will reach its edge in just under eighteen hours. Due to increased particle flux within the nebula, our sensor range and accuracy will be greatly diminished. Seven of Nine estimates that once we enter, we will not be able to scan beyond a distance of 75 kilometers.

I was prepared to take Voyager through. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't hesitate, as this is an excellent opportunity to study the phenomena. However, after speaking at length with Commander Chakotay, we've – I've – decided to divert around the nebula. It might not be the most practical decision, but Chakotay assures me that the crew will feel more at ease in open space, where we have full use of external sensors.

This detour will add six days to our journey.

It should be noted that Seven disagrees with the decision. She feels I am acting with an overabundance of caution and in an inefficient manner with regards to our goal of reaching Earth as quickly as possible.

Consider her objection so noted.

This brings me to another issue that I have been avoiding. By the absolute strictest interpretation of the Temporal Prime Directive, I should not be considering any of the evidence that has been finding its way onto Voyager in my decision-making process. Some may argue that I have been in violation of the Directive from the moment I went to yellow alert.

However, until I have been given irrefutable proof that someone from our future is purposefully sending us a message in order to change the course of their own fate, I will continue to examine and investigate what is going on here. At some point, the objects themselves may prove to be a danger to us. And, timeline be damned, I will do whatever it takes to protect this ship and my crew, regardless of the changes to an unknown timeline.

Out here, alone and beyond the ability to ask for orders, I have to do whatever it takes to get us home. All of us.


Day 13

Throughout the meeting, and despite an incessant pounding between his ears, Sir's thoughts never wander far from the captain. She hasn't moved from her position by the viewport; he thinks she looks as if she longs to step through and disappear into the inky night.

B'Elanna delivers a brief and quietly reserved report, announcing that after extensive investigation, there was no data to be found in the escape pod's computer. Her team has concluded the pod's systems were never brought online before it was jettisoned and therefore recorded nothing. Furthermore, there were no discernible flaws or damage that should have caused the explosive decompression which clearly occurred inside. When she is through, there are no questions. The pilot puts his hand on hers, and they join the others in an uneasy silence.

The Doctor is next. He informs them it was Megan Delaney who met an untimely fate, not her sister.

Sir feels the weight of unspoken things and is well aware that the captain appears to be light-years away. He worries more about her than he does about himself, or the ship and crew. His concern for her is an anchor to which he is always tethered, and most certainly a weakness of which he is well aware.

The captain taps her badge, startling most of the attendees. "Janeway to Lieutenant Ayala."

"Ayala here."

"Have your teams reported back from the evening search?"

"Yes, Captain. We were just logging the newest items now."

"Please bring what you've found to the senior briefing room."

Silence bleeds on as they wait and he, too, finds himself staring out the viewport wondering which one of these stars will bring about disaster. His thoughts then wander to B'Elanna, Paris, and their unborn child. Kim and his box of spilled effects. Then Tuvok, cold and beaten lifeless on the morgue table. But he won't think about how those four people felt when the escape pod blew. About how they would have been cold for just an instant. Terrified and helpless. How every object that wasn't battened down would have become a weapon, shredding, slicing… He won't think about it… He won't…

When the doors hiss open, he jumps.

The broad one, Ayala, is carrying large, black box.

"Tell us what you've got, Lieutenant," the captain orders, motioning to the table. The container is placed there with a dull thud.

"We found a phaser rifle in a Jefferies tube about ten meters from main engineering," Ayala reports, clunking down the weapon. Sir's attention immediately trains on a scorched mark along the silver barrel. "The power cell has been half-emptied, and it looks like it was hit by returned fire."

"I'll thank you not to speculate, Lieutenant," the captain says.

"Apologies, Ma'am."

The next item out of the box makes a ringing sound as it contacts the table top. "Neelix found a soup ladle, identical to the one he was already using to serve dinner, under a chair in the mess. And we recovered a sleeping bag in the holo-lab." With a grunt, Ayala extracts a puffed-up roll of bedding and whumps it onto the table, narrowly missing Kim's coffee.

"Was that all?" the captain questions.

"Oh, uh… There was one more thing." Ayala opens his uniform jacket, feels around inside the breast pocket, and retrieves an object which he holds clasped in a closed fist. He steps towards the captain but is sure to catch Sir's eye before handing over the item.

"Hickman found this in the brig. Inside cell two. It was clear under the bed," Ayala explains, his voice low. "In all honesty, Ma'am, we may have overlooked it before, it could have been there a while."

The captain takes a private glance at the thing in her hand and then drops her fist to her side. Whatever it is, she doesn't want the others to know, and the look she shoots to Ayala will certainly buy his silence. Sir understands, however. In his gut he feels the weight of that small object as surely as it hangs on his collar now. He is suddenly, excruciatingly consumed by an inexplicable feeling of guilt.

Ayala is dismissed; the objects remain.

"Does anyone else have anything to report?"

Tuvok clears his throat. "I do," he states. "This afternoon, at 1655 hours, I completed my daily meditations and walked, unshod, in dimmed light, from my living space to the bedroom. On the way, I misjudged my steps and my foot impacted the base of my dresser."

A snort echoes in the room. Sir's attention flies to the source. "Something funny, Mr. Paris?" he snaps.

"No, Sir. Nothing at all."

The Doctor picks up with the report. "Mr. Tuvok has fractured the distal phalanx of his left big toe. The injury is consistent with the one sustained by the corpse we were… gifted."

Sir's attention goes back to the captain. Her face betrays no expression.

"Two weeks you said, right?" Paris asks the Doctor; his tone is now quite serious.

"Approximately."

B'Elanna shifts in her seat. "So, this is the first true evidence we've had that we're following along the same path as future us."

"And the phaser rifle is the first evidence which presents the real possibility of armed conflict," Tuvok adds.

"You mean you think we'll be boarded?" Paris asks.

"I, um..."

Sir's attention, along with the others, diverts to young Ensign Kim. He is not moving, staring straight ahead, all color drained from his face.

"I have something else to report. It uhm… corroborates that, uh, being boarded… thing."

"Go ahead, Ensign," the captain presses.

"I just kicked something under the table…" Kim's eyes stay fixed straight ahead, posture stiff, as if he is afraid to move.

Sir pushes back slowly from the table, as do the others, and peers underneath.

"I'm pretty sure he wasn't here a minute ago."


Day 14

Crewman Olandra Jor
Personal Log
Stardate: 54755.6

They found a bomb on the bridge today.

It was just sitting there, right under the helm station.

Mikey kicked it with his big foot an instant before the sensors went off. A bloody miracle he didn't blow himself to kingdom come. I hear he turned white as a sheet.

Wasn't more than an hour before all of us Maquis were herded into the mess hall – cause that thing certainly didn't come from a 'fleeter. It was a nice-looking bomb, I'll say that. Aluminum casing, about 30ccs of trilithium resin, a kinetic detonator rigged to a combadge.

Bendera used to call them hodge-bombs because they were hodge-podged together with a little explosive, a little luck, and a whole lot of desperation. He's the only one I ever knew who made them with any great success. Everyone else knew, too. I don't think I've ever heard the thirty-four of us ex-Maquis be so silent in one place as when that pipe was being passed around. Felt like we were holding his ghost.

It was the wiring harness that gave it away. For all the instruction Kurt gave me on arming those damn things, I never could get the loop quite right. I didn't get it right on this one either. Or, I won't get it right... Whatever.

The others seemed shocked when I told them I made that bomb. I guess it's been so long that everyone else forgot that bloody Sunday we spent on Felton Prime, Kurt and I huddled in that cave with a fucking lantern and our horde of supplies. I braided wiring harnesses until my thumbs were bleeding. And then we blew some Cardies the hell up.

At least then we knew who the enemy was.

Jad says I should be happy to know that at least I survive whatever is about to befall Voyager. I'm not so sure surviving is a good thing anymore.

Jad says being alive is always preferable to being dead. And he's worried because he has yet to find anything in his quarters. Says it's evidence that all his belongings have been boxed up for his next of kin.

I laughed him off, told him that when he kicks it, I'm spacing his god-awful wardrobe and his half-finished puzzles and keeping his books and his chocolate stash for myself. He turned really serious, then he told me that he still loved me.

And I thought the bomb was a surprise.

I honestly believed that after we broke up those feelings were behind me. Maybe it's the stress, or the loneliness, or the fact that I'll be building artillery again before long… I don't know. But after the shock wore off, I almost said it back.

Almost.

Tomorrow, I might. He's asked me out on a date. A real date. Like the ones we used to go on. Says he'll take care of everything, I just need to wear my best dress.

Why am I having trouble recalling the reason we broke up? It'll probably come rushing back to me when he slurps his soup at dinner. But until then I'm just going to remember what my grandmother used to say: It's never a bad thing when someone tells you they love you.

And now, I'm going to dig out my best dress – my only dress. Then I'm going to use my rations to replicate some wire, a meter of aluminum tubing, and a roll of tape, because I also remember what my grandfather used to say.

Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day.


The mess hall has become Sir's after-hours home. He feels oddly more comfortable here, with a full view of the stars, than in his own quarters.

In the dimness of ship's night, with padds and empty mugs scattered across the table, he is so immersed in reading that he doesn't hear someone approaching. When it finally registers that he has company, he nearly jumps out of his seat.

"I'm sorry," the captain says, taking a step back. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

"It's… oh," he exhales. "It's okay, Captain… Kathryn. Really, I was just, I wasn't expecting you, anyone..." He clamors to collect the padds strewn about, flipping them upside down in a stack, then he slides his dirty dishes aside.

"Is there a problem? Something you need?" he asks, more collected.

"No, I just wanted to stretch my legs, maybe find some coffee. I didn't realize you'd still be up."

"I guess neither of us is sleeping much these days."

"I guess not."

She bites her lip and shakes her head, taking the seat opposite him, but silence reigns until she clears her throat.

"You didn't come back for dinner," she says softly.

His eyes dart as he tries to recall. How many nights – days – has it been since he was at her door, wine bottle in hand.

"A lot has happened since then. I've been – we've both been – preoccupied," he says. "And the truth is, I wasn't sure you wanted me to."

She nods. "I know. I wasn't sure I wanted you to either, until you didn't."

"I'm sorry, Kathryn. It was rude of me."

"I could have made more of an effort," she admits.

Something passes between them, unsaid, uncomfortable, and painful, too.

"Can I get you something now?" he asks, eager to make things right. "Maybe we could spend some time – "

Sir's train of thought is shattered when the floor quakes underneath them.

Panic flares in her eyes, still locked with his.

"Janeway to the bridge," she says, voice steady. He fights the urge to flee the room and run for deck one, instead intent on following her lead. He remains calm.

"We have run into a cluster of gravimetric eddies," comes Tuvok's voice.

The ship quakes again.

"Lieutenant Markson is navigating around them with marginal success. They pose no serious threat at this time, and we expect to emerge from the region in the next sixty seconds."

"Understood," she says, closing the channel.

"See, nothing to worry about," she reassures. He sees that her knuckles are turning white as the ship shakes again.

"Do you want to go to the bridge?" he asks.

"I've never wanted to be anywhere more in my life."

They bolt for the doors, leaving his stack of padds behind.


Day 15

The young woman is visibly shaking as she walks into his office.

"I don't keep the vase on a shelf…" she says, but the sound of the door hissing closed drowns out her whisper. He asks her to repeat herself.

"I don't keep the vase on a shelf. I keep it on the coffee table, which is on top of a really soft rug. It's… that's why I was confused when I found the pieces." She doesn't take the seat he waves her towards, instead she continues to tell her story standing before him. "I couldn't figure out how the vase would be broken when it's sitting on a low table on top of that fuzzy rug. I thought maybe someone broke in and smashed it, or that my roommate got angry and threw it across the room, not that she gets angry. I mean, we all get angry, she doesn't destroy my stuff or anything, don't get the wrong idea… I was just trying to figure out –"

"Tal," Sir says gently to pause her rambling. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

She nods and flips the padd in her hands over and over. "Have a seat on the couch," he says. "I'll just be a minute." He closes what he had been reading on his computer, then orders the tea.

"Now," he says. Her hands are still trembling as she takes the steaming mug. "Tell me, slowly. Start at the beginning."

She inhales a steadying breath and begins again. "A week ago, I found a box in the back of my closet with the broken pieces of a vase. I turned the shards over to the search crew, but it bugged me how busted up that vase was. We've hit a lot of turbulence in the last seven years and it's survived so far. Plus, it's on the low table, which is – "

"On a soft rug."

"It's so soft. Billy gave it to me as a birthday present because I like to sit on the floor to meditate..."

"That was very thoughtful of him."

She gives him a small smile, and he thinks that she looks very pretty when she does so.

"Go on?"

"Two days ago, Billy said that he wanted to do something to take his mind off of all the craziness. So, he and his roommate, and me and my roommate, decided to get together for a night of poker," she glances up from her tea and immediately looks uncomfortable. "Not that we were betting or anything, I mean, I know gambling isn't allowed and – "

"It's fine," he says, amused. "Please, continue."

"We used that table for our game. Which is something we have literally never done before. Our quarters are really small, so we usually go to the mess hall, but it was – "

"Closed for training."

She nods. "Max, Billy's roommate, put my vase way up high on the top of our bookshelf. Leslie is a packrat and she reads like a fool. The other shelves are so crammed with junk there wasn't anywhere else to put it. I completely forgot about the vase. Like, totally, just…forgot," she meets his eyes. "You see where I'm going with this, don't you?"

"The vase stayed there until we hit that bump in the road last night?" he guesses.

"Yup. Then, bam. All over the hard floor."

"I see."

"I got home from my shift an hour ago and took the pieces straight to Seven. She didn't have time to compare them, but she told me I could get the old… er, future… shards from storage. Have a look."

She hands him the padd she came with and he flips through a dozen-odd photographs.

"The pieces are identical," he observes, tugging at his ear. "Both vases broke in exactly the same way."

"This is bad, right? I mean, it's really bad. I'm not super great with probability and temporal mechanics, but it's hard to miss that this means we're on the same path as the Ship of the Damned."

He raises his eyebrow. "The Ship of the Damned?"

"That's uh… that's what people are calling it. You didn't know?"

"No," he sets his jaw. "And I don't agree that this has to mean what you think."

"How could it not?" she asks. "I know this is above my pay grade, but we purposefully detoured around that nebula. I remember Seven talking about how it would add a week to our journey and she thought it was 'inefficient and a decision based on unnecessary abundance of caution,'" she parrots in an impression that makes him smile.

"We did detour the nebula, yes," he agrees. "And the turbulence was the result of a region of space we wouldn't have encountered otherwise. But, you said yourself, we've had a lot of bumps in the road the last seven years. The vase would have fallen from that precarious spot regardless of what we hit, or how hard."

"But why was it up there in the first place? Remedial hand-to-hand combat training in the mess isn't a usual thing either," she argues. He waits patiently while she shakes her head and mutters, "I knew I shouldn't have let Max move that vase."

"Tal," he says, placing a hand on her knee. "I don't have the answers you're looking for. None of us know what is going to happen. But I do know that putting a vase on a shelf isn't going to change the future. This is just another piece of the puzzle. It's an oddity, for sure. But it should not be viewed as a predictor of doom."

"You're sure?" she asks.

"I'm sure." He smiles at her and she relaxes.

"Okay..." she considers. And then she's more resolute. "Okay. You're right."

"Are you headed to bed now?"

"Um, well. Normally yes, soon. Though I'm not sure how I'm going to sleep."

"Why don't you take your next shift off, that way you can do something else to calm down a bit and sleep later. If Seven doesn't need you for something pressing tonight, that is."

"I'm, no. I'm not busy. It's dead down there… I mean," she bites her lip. "It's been very quiet, especially during gamma."

"I'll tell Seven I gave you a pass. Read a book, or go exercise, or play cards. Whatever will help you relax."

She stands and he takes the mug from her hands. "Thank you, Sir. For the tea, and just… everything."

Once she is gone, he digs two fingers into the back of his head, then picks up the padd she has left behind. "She's right," he mutters out loud, scrolling through the pictures. "Ship of the Damned…"

But even worse, he realizes, is that he has to tell the captain.


Sir's headache has gotten so bad over the last few days that he cannot take it anymore. And so, before approaching the captain about the broken vase, he turns toward sickbay with the singular purpose of acquiring an analgesic.

He has a rising sense of dread as he walks, the feeling intensifies the closer he gets. Anxiety begins to grip at him, tightening his throat, stuttering his steps. It is a completely irrational feeling and yet he cannot shake it.

This will be quick, he tells himself. No need for a full exam, just grab a hypo and be done.

The doors swish open.

"Ah, Commander," says the Doctor. "Right on time."

He comes to a halt just inside the bay. "Oh?"

"I've just finished up the full autopsy on our alien friend. I assume you're here for the report?"

"Report? Yes," he says, though he's quite sure that wasn't the only reason he's come. Truth be told he'd nearly forgotten about the body Harry had kicked under the table over a day ago. The panicky feeling begins to dissipate.

"Cause of death was asphyxiation. Accute neurazine poisoning. I'd have had the results sooner, but it took a while to isolate the –"

"Someone gassed the briefing room?" he interrupts, following the Doctor to his office.

"That would be my guess. Or, he was killed somewhere else and moved. Without a crime scene, it's hard to say." The Doctor takes a seat behind his desk. "Seven recognizes his species as 7561, the Nintali. She says they're a peaceful race, originating less than twenty light years from here. But here's the really interesting part…"

A computer screen is swung around for Sir to see. "Imbedded in the brainstem of this individual is another organism."

This news doesn't surprise him. It should surprise him, he knows, but it does not. "What kind of organism?"

"It's small, roughly four centimeters in diameter and weighs thirty-two grams. The cellular structure is consistent with those observed in metamorphous species. A fascinating specimen..."

"It's a changeling?"

"Not exactly. A shapeshifter of sorts, yes. But I believe it would only be able to morph within the confines of its original volume. It is highly unlikely that it can regulate its density. It might use this ability to adapt itself to the biology of the host, or possibly to enter the host in the first place."

"So, it's a parasite?"

"It's impossible for me to say without having a living individual to examine. But given what we know of these kinds of relationships in nature, I'd equate this more to a Trill-Symbiont relationship. Where both have some control in the overall functioning and thought processes of the greater being."

"Interesting."

"It is also emitting chroniton radiation. There is a possibility that this organism has a tie to the temporal incursions we've been seeing. I intend to discuss this with Seven further. I'm hopeful that she has access to other information about this species," the Doctor says, turning the screen back.

"No!" Sir practically shouts, startling himself. "I mean, no. Please. Let's keep this information confidential."

"The patient is deceased, Commander. Doctor-patient confidentiality is a moot point."

"This is more about unnecessarily worrying the crew than patient rights," he explains. "The captain has already agreed that the presence of this intruder was to be kept quiet. I'd like to keep chatter to a minimum."

The Doctor's demeanor sours, his holographic brow furrows. "The captain previously indicated that we would have complete transparency with regards to the crew. Has she rescinded that? And furthermore, I don't see how discussing this matter with Seven, who already knows of his existence – "

"I said…" Sir repeats, rising slightly to lean into the hologram's personal space, "that until further notice, we will keep this private. Is that clear?"

After a fleeting stare-down, the Doctor dips his chin.

"Now," Sir continues, "Place the body into stasis and await further instructions from me."

"Or Captain Janeway?" the Doctor inquires, a curious tone to his voice.

"Yes… or Captain Janeway." He takes the padd from the table and taps it on his palm. "I'll deliver this."

"Yes, Sir," the Doctor replies, his gaze narrow. "Was there anything else you needed, Sir?"

"No. I've got everything I came for."

Then he exits sickbay, report in hand and with his head still pounding.


Sir's legs are restless. He's been sitting useless for too long on the bridge. He needs to move, so he recalls Tuvok and takes up the end of the mid-evening security rounds.

He hopes to relieve some tension; perhaps gain some kind of perspective by walking the halls he's become so familiar with over the years. But instead he's met with only worried faces, anxious people, people grieving losses they haven't even suffered yet.

People on edge, almost dangerously so.

He sees right into their very souls these days, the comrades he thought he knew well. Feels that he can understand what motivates and frightens them like he never has before. The sixth sense is unnerving.

He passes Crewman Bordain in the turbolift and has an unexpected sadness for the taste of homemade apple pie. Crewman Jor nods with a smile just past the 'fresher on deck six, and he is immediately caught up in the feeling of falling in love. Ensign Bronowski outside the airponics bay smiles, but Sir's chest suddenly aches for a hug from a child he cannot name.

Once Bronowski is out of sight, Sir stops and supports himself with a hand against the wall. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a calming breath.

"Excuse me, Commander?"

Sir groans silently at the voice, which grates at his ears, then he picks up walking again as the visitor sidles up next to him.

"What is it Neelix? I'm in a bit of a hurry."

"Well, I'll walk with you then. I've got a little mystery I was hoping you could help me with."

"Find another soup ladle?" Sir picks up pace towards the turbolift with the cook beside him.

"No, no, nothing like that. Actually, it was a stack of padds. A rather large stack, ten in all. I found them when I opened the kitchen this morning." They stop in front of the lift, and Sir is anxious for it to arrive. He taps the toes in his boot.

"Nothing unusual about someone reading in the mess. I was there doing the same just last night, and probably will again in a few hours."

"Yes, but, I wanted to try to return them to their owners, so I looked through. That's when I realized they're… well, they're a lot of things, actually. Ships systems reports, officer's logs, a few science articles and publicly available records. But then some are personal logs, letters to family, even private medical histories. I didn't read them, of course, not in any detail." Neelix's voice grows soft. "But I saw enough to know that the data on those padds belongs to over fifty different members of the crew."

Sir swings his head, narrows his vision. "What are you getting at?"

The 'lift opens, admitting them both. "Well, uh, well Commander, I think that someone has been snooping. No one, not even the captain, should have access to all of those files, and yet, there they were."

"Maybe they're from the future ship," he suggests, then looks to the ceiling, "Deck nine."

"Ah," the cook's smile widens. "The incursion alarm hasn't alerted in there in days, and I checked them over with a tricorder, there was no trace of chroniton radiation. That's why I did some more digging."

Sir's jaw clenches of its own accord. "What kind of digging?"

"The last two people in the mess yesterday were you and Captain Janeway. That's why I'm here to ask, did you see anything strange?"

"Neelix, did you tell anyone else about this?"

"No, no. You're the first person I've come to. But it is concerning, isn't it? Such a blatant breach of trust."

"And where are the padds now?"

"They're in the kitchen. On the counter, next to my stock pots."

A smile tugs at the corner of Sir's lips. "You did well," he says, slapping Neelix hard on the back. His hand rests there, just between the cook's shoulder blades. "I'll be sure to have Mr. Tuvok look into this further. We certainly don't want an invasion of privacy in addition to everything else, now do we?"

"No, Sir. We certainly do not."

"And for that reason, I'd say there's no need to speak of this to anyone else…" Sir says with just enough force behind the words to impart a threat.

"Of course not," Neelix agrees. "No need to add to the crew's stress."

His hand slides from the cook's back. "Speaking of stress, you're looking a bit tired, Neelix. Heading to bed soon?"

"I'm on my way there now," he says, then with a questioning look, "And I'll sleep better knowing you're going to look into the matter we just discussed?"

"As well you should." The lift halts and Sir steps out, then looks back as the doors begin to close. "I'm very glad you came to me, Neelix. Very glad indeed."