Star Trek: Voyager: Endgame

trying to broaden my participation in crew activities.” Seven frosted her expression, keeping to herself the mysterious joy she would feel if she actually won a pointless bet.
    B'Elanna struggled to lower herself into the seat. “My life would be so much easier if I'd never met Tom Paris.”
    Reacting, Seven experienced an inner shock.
    “You regret your relationship with him?”
    “I was joking,” B'Elanna said quickly.
    “Then you're happy . . . being part of a couple?”
    Despite her obvious discomfort, a passive expression came over B'Elanna's face. Soon, she smiled.
    “Yeah,” she said. “I am.”
    * * *
    A brain. Human. But not just any brain—
her
brain. Their brain.
    Life was simpler in Ireland in the 1800's. Plague, famine, workhouses, overlords—simple little problems. Did somebody say “time travel”?
    “My scans of the admiral's cerebral cortex turned up something interesting,” the Doctor reported as he stood beside the captain, studing the graphic on the freestanding console in sickbay. He punched a control and the picture changed. It zoomed on one of the brain's lobes, and there focused upon a distinct nonbiological implant.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “I'm not sure.” The Doctor frowned in both his expression and his voice. “I've never seen this kind of implant before.”
    Was this evidence? Should she not trust the admiral now? Was the admiral indeed herself at a future time, but being manipulated by some unknown intelligence? A puppet? A trick?
    “Alien technology?” Captain Janeway asked.
    The Doctor hit a control, and the implant came up in close view on his screen.
    “The mircocircuitry has a Starfleet signature.”
    “Of course it does,” Admiral Janeway said. The Doctor and the captain turned to her in surprise. The admiral was now seated, back rod straight, on the biobed.
    “Admiral?” The doctor asked.
    Admiral Janeway gestured toward the doctor's screen. “You invented it. Twelve years ago, from my perspective.”
    A self-satisfied smile spread over the doctor's face. “I'm sorry, Admiral,” he said, “I didn't realize.”
    “What, that I was eavesdropping? I may be old but my hearing is excellent, thanks to your exemplary care over the years.”
    “So,” the Doctor hesitated, as if somewhat embarrassed at inquiring into his own future successes, “this implant I'm going to invent—what does it do?”
    “It's a synaptic transceiver that allows me to pilot a vessel equipped with a neural interface.”
    “Fascinating,” the doctor said curiously. “Tell me. What other extraordinary breakthroughs am I going to make?”
    “Doctor,” Janeway scolded softly.
    “Sorry, Captain,” he acceded. “But you can't blame a hologram for being curious.”
    “Just finish your report.”
    “Yes, ma'am. My scans indicate that the two of you are genetically identical. The admiral is you, approximately twenty-six years from now.”
    The admiral glowed with satisfaction.
    So far, nothing new. Just a sniggering confirmation. Janeway would've been happier with a spy or a trick. Confirmation of the admiral's story just tightened the Gordian knot.
    She was about to speak again, to order more tests on the implant—as much as they could get without invading the admiral's intimate privacy or imprisoning her—when Seven strode elegantly in with a padd.
    The admiral moved toward her, almost reached out, then stopped herself.
    “Hello, Seven,” she murmured.
    Janeway stiffened. The room was suddenly a seance. The admiral seemed to be speaking to a ghost.
    The captain's hands turned cold as she held the bitter clue.
    Seven stared at the admiral like a confused child. She didn't like the disrupting fact of the admiral's presence chewing up the security of the moment.
    Finally she broke from the awkward communion and in a decidedly human defiance turned to her captain. “The technology aboard the admiral's ship is impressive.” She handed the padd to Janeway. “Much of it appears to have been designed to defend against the Borg.”
    The clue turned even more icy. Major encounters with the Borg? Enough that Federation technology concentrated on it, made it a priority?
    How much would such knowledge affect decisions from now on, the captain wondered. She commanded a starship commissioned to protect and defend the Federation down to the last life aboard. Did this mean she should turn the ship around and fight until there was nothing left, to fulfill her mission as a