USS Voyager’s return to the Alpha Quadrant was, in my opinion, given tremendously short shrift in that show's series finale, "Endgame." The writers squandered an opportunity for which they’d laid the groundwork over seven seasons; and, instead, gave us yet another Borg encounter devoid of believable tension, followed by a magical return home requiring nothing in the way of genuine sacrifice—in short, an entirely unsatisfying end to their journey.

We fan fiction writers, however, are not known for leaving well (or in this case poorly) enough alone.

And so...

"Jurisprudence"

By Joseph Manno

Like most people on her home world and throughout the Federation, the eyes of Commodore Phillipa Louvois were glued to a vid screen.

Unlike most people, though, she wasn't rejoicing.

Only hours ago the Federation News Network had, through its Starfleet sources, learned that a transwarp conduit had opened nearby and disgorged a Borg vessel—the vanguard, many feared, of a huge fleet, come to accomplish this time what single ships had twice failed to do.

Earth’s residents had heard the news as their death knell.

Quickly as the threat had appeared, though, it had been neutralized—not by Starfleet … not even by the Federation’s invincible guardian angel, USS Enterprise … but instead by a lone starship that had been lost almost seven years before: Voyager.

In a matter of moments, FNN's subsequent announcement of salvation had served as catalyst for one of the most joyous homecomings in the planet's history.

This type of drama, of course, lent itself to huge ratings; and various networks had played the development for all it was worth. The ship, after all, could actually land … and that meant a sentiment-heavy return to Starfleet Headquarters’ very doorstep.

Voyager's commander, Captain Kathryn Janeway, possessed an instinctual flair for this type of thing; Phillipa had readily granted her that. After she and her crew had disembarked, to the delirious cheers of thousands who'd flocked onto the scene, she'd solemnly headed for her mentor and friend, Admiral Owen Paris. Louvois had noted a number of other tremendously important brass in the vicinity—including Starfleet Commander-in-Chief Alynna Necheyev—but all had sensed the inevitability of Janeway's intent, and graciously, silently consented to it.

The crowd had grown silent as she drew herself to attention.

"Sir…

“…I'm sorry we're late."

It had earned her a broad smile from Owen Paris, somewhat more restrained ones from the rest of the Admiralty … and thunderous laughter and applause from the assembled civilians.

An eminently photogenic moment, thought Phillipa. And she handled it—or should I say played it—perfectly.

When Janeway and her crew had been, moments later, ushered into Starfleet Headquarters, those left behind had been unwilling to let go the moment. A spontaneous celebration had begun, and gradually grown into one of the largest parties Louvois had ever seen. Fireworks, food, and festivities had been hastily organized—courtesy of both Starfleet Command and the heads of private concerns who saw a chance to have their corporations’ names associated with Voyager, however briefly or indirectly.

UFP President Christopher Ride had immediately declared a Federation-wide holiday. It was the first since the weeklong celebration that had marked victory over the Dominion almost two years ago.

Now the revels continued, and it seemed everyone was happy …

… everyone except Commodore Phillipa Louvois, that is—whose mind came round and again to the same thought.

God, why now?

***

She went to work the next day.

It's funny, Phillipa thought. Other than essential personnel, I may be the only individual on duty planet-wide.

It was an exaggeration, she knew … but not much of one.

Louvois didn't know precisely why she'd come into the office. The research review she'd wanted to perform could have been done just as easily from her apartment's terminal, after establishing a secure subspace link.

There was something about the situation, though, that demanded formality and professionalism.

Not to mention impartiality.

"Computer, display file 'Prodigal.'"

Her office's small, isolated mainframe considered her request for a second, then countered, "Identify for retina scan."

Phillipa grimaced. Though she herself had put the safeguards in place, they were a reminder of just how important she considered this particular line of research.

"Recognize Louvois, Commodore, Deputy Starfleet Judge Advocate General—access code epsilon beta six seven."

She'd done all this—both the additional security measures and the research itself—some months ago, but … she had to be certain the conclusions to which she'd come were not only legally sound, but ethically imperative. Thus, she went over her work again … again…

…and again.

Each time, it told her the same thing—precisely what she'd desperately wanted to avoid.

And, of course, it had come home to roost on her watch.

Phillipa remembered a favorite phrase one of her personal heroes, Harry S. Truman, had often used: "The buck stops here." He had emphatically claimed sole responsibility for the United States' use of the atomic bomb to end World War II. She'd always admired that.

And now, she prepared to drop a bomb of her own.

***

After a quick trip back to her apartment—for a shower, a fresh uniform … and, she admitted, a few minutes to steady her nerves—Phillipa reentered the grounds of Starfleet Headquarters and inquired as to Janeway's current location.

"She's with Fleet Admiral Necheyev, ma'am," answered the terminally perky ensign manning the information center, "and that reporter, Diane Dell. They're recording some sort of interview for FNN in the admiral's private offices. I don't think they'd want to be interrupted."

In that moment, it became clearer to Phillipa that the Admiralty was already beginning to lay preliminary groundwork for what it no doubt thought might become the much-celebrated captain's lengthy goodwill tour of the Federation.

And instead of a debriefing, they're chatting with her. Unbelievable.

"I see. Thank you, Ensign." Louvois then headed for her own suite.

At once easier … and more difficult.

She knew two of the three women. Alynna Necheyev had approved her assignment to the Assistant JAG billet, even though the position was customarily filled by a rear admiral; it bespoke a regard and respect Phillipa appreciated. Diane Dell she'd encountered at just about every high profile trial JAG had prosecuted over the last 17 months. The woman's questions were incisive, her instincts impeccable, and her nose for news as sharp as a newly-calibrated sensor suite.

Her initial encounter with the third, she knew, promised to be a fateful one.

"Computer," she announced, once within the confines of her own inner sanctum, "activate transporter alpha two. I require a site-to-site transfer. Put me just inside Fleet Admiral Necheyev's office annex."

"Unable to comply; standing security protocols prevent such action."

"Recognize Louvois, Phillipa, Commodore—command override authorization JAG omega delta two seven."

It seemed to consider the request for a long moment—weighing protocols, no doubt, she thought wryly—before the familiar vertigo of transport let her know which set had won.

On the threshold, she hesitated. A part of her wanted to trust in the intent and actions of her superiors. She knew to do so, though, would be to ignore her own duty, while hoping someone else would perform theirs.

And Harry Truman would never approve of passing the buck.

Before she could give it any further debilitating thought, Phillipa Louvois steeled herself and entered the room.

She'd evidently interrupted a very … companionable little chat. Diane Dell was a consummate professional, but also understood the fundamental truth that news was, in many ways, about perception vis-à-vis reality itself.

The newswoman's instincts, though, had her immediately on the alert.

"Commodore Louvois!" Both she and Alynna Necheyev had reflexively identified her, but only Dell continued her statement with a genuine, "What a pleasant surprise! What brings you here?"

Though the other woman had said it, obviously Necheyev was at least as interested in Phillipa's response. She seemed on the verge of interrupting before Louvois could speak, but the presence of Dell’s trusty audiovisual hover cams prevented Necheyev from reacting with her usual decisiveness—exactly as the Deputy JAG had planned.

The purpose of her visit—Kathryn Janeway—wore a curious smile, one of the newer Starfleet uniforms … and a serene satisfaction that no doubt had first suffused her after realizing that she and her charges were home.

It didn't make the next moment easier.

"I cannot convey to you how much I regret the necessity of this action, Captain Janeway … but my duty is clear." She took a deep breath, and then continued.

Bombs away.

"Utilizing the power vested in me by the Starfleet Judge Advocate General's Office and the Federation Council, I hereby place you under arrest."

"What?!" The exclamation had come simultaneously from Janeway and Diane Dell. This time it had been Necheyev who'd maintained her silence—her incredible instincts perhaps obliquely warning her of Louvois' purpose in that final, irretrievable moment.

Phillipa ignored all their reactions as best she could, and pressed forward.

"There are various and sundry charges, but two in particular demand my immediate action: Violation of Starfleet's General Order One, The Prime Directive…

"…and murder in the first degree."

***

For a moment, the room's occupants were stunned silent: Janeway looked angry, while Dell was wide-eyed. As befit her rank and position, though, Necheyev was the first to regain her composure—what little of it she'd lost, that is.

"Commodore, come with me," she instructed, her tone rife with an already simmering aggravation, and motioned Louvois into an adjoining chamber.

Phillipa followed almost immediately, but before doing so admonished Janeway, "Let me be clear, Captain: You're to consider yourself already in custody … and will be apprised of your rights as soon as I've completed my conversation with the admiral."

Now, finally, Voyager's captain spoke, with brief eloquence. "I’m well aware of my rights, thank you. This is absurd, Commodore."

Louvois nodded. "Perhaps so, Captain. It's also legal, and well within my purview."

FNN's most famous reporter was devouring the sudden turn of events with avid relish; her equipment, not the least of which that brilliant mind of hers, continued recording every perceptible nuance of the conversation. Her disappointment at the fact that the best of it would be conducted out of earshot was palpable, though all immediately gleaned the compensations: Louvois questioned the wisdom of leaving Janeway alone with Diane Dell, even for a few moments.

Necheyev, though, had left her little choice.

When the doors closed behind her, Starfleet's most powerful officer demanded, "What the hell do you think you're doing, Commodore?"

"I know it sounds clichéd, Admiral … but I’m doing my duty, in the only efficacious way I know."

Necheyev replied with a frosty, "You considered a public arrest in front of the most famous and dangerous journalist in the entire Federation your best option?"

Louvois felt only the succinct truth would serve.

"Yes, ma'am … for a variety of reasons, I did."

The older woman had already recovered herself, and was considering her next statement more carefully; Phillipa knew the C-in-C was one of the most intelligent and formidable women she'd ever known, and had selected this course of action specifically so as to minimize her time and options.

Of course, when persuasion wasn't a possibility, Necheyev had no difficulty getting down and dirty with the best of them: Her gaze could burn; her voice could flay the skin from your bones.

She employed both of these weapons now.

"While I'm certain you have genuine concerns, Commodore, this is neither the time nor the place to explore them. I'm giving you an order … stand down."

"I'm sorry, ma'am … but that's not a lawful order, and I won't do it."

Necheyev's glare intensified.

"Starfleet is well aware of Captain Janeway's indiscretions, and was prepared to deal with them—quietly and decisively. Your actions may have already prevented that. I believe I can still handle damage control, though, if you relax your stance temporarily. If not…" For a moment, she let the implied threat remain simply that.

When Louvois maintained her silence, though, Necheyev actualized it with an emphatic shot across her bow.

"Don't force me to relieve you of duty, Commodore. As you well know, I don't bluff."

Here was the moment for which Phillipa Louvois had prepared.

You could still back down, she thought briefly, and throw yourself on the mercy of the court, so to speak.

No … that was another reason you altered the plan, and chose to act when you heard Dell was present. This story is already as good as broken.

"All right, Admiral." She sighed…

…and then returned fire.

"I'm now forced to issue you this warning: If you impede my attempt to take Captain Janeway into custody, I'll arrest you for obstruction of justice.

"And I'll make it stick."

Necheyev's expression grew disbelieving, derisive.

"Oh, really?"

Louvois nodded slowly, then raised a hand to her comm badge.

"I took the liberty of preparing for this possible eventuality. If you'd like to see what contingencies I've put in place, then please, try to relieve me. I'll have to inform Admiral Pierce he's in temporary command of Starfleet while you're processed and arraigned, though.

“Is that really what you want, ma'am?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop near absolute zero; clearly even Necheyev hadn't expected this level of vehemence and determination.

Still, she wasn't without recourse, or a response.

"We're off the record, now, Phillipa," she mentioned matter-of-factly.

"If you say so … Alynna."

That wintry smile returned; Necheyev seemed for an instant amused at Louvois’ familiar address.

Then she folded her arms.

"You want to play hard ball, fine; for the moment, it’s your game. Win or lose, though, it's very possible your career just had a warp core breach. It would be unfortunate were you never to see that golden braid you've so … assiduously coveted. As you know, I can make certain of that."

Louvois stiffened. She'd expected something of this sort, but to hear it stated so bluntly was nonetheless something of a shock.

Instead of cowing her, though, it only confirmed and strengthened Phillipa's resolve.

"Well, since we're off the record, let me say I'm disappointed—but not surprised—by your reaction. Your rather … disturbing threat only confirms in my mind that what I've done is the right thing—that you and the top brass may well have planned on somehow brushing Captain Janeway's questionable actions under the rug. Well, since we’ve got Diane Dell right next door, let’s get into the spirit of things with another news flash: That's not going to happen.

"I won't let it happen.

"And considering what that promotion would have cost me, you can just k–" She hesitated.

Necheyev’s visage invited her to continue.

" –keep it," she finished.

***

Jean-Luc Picard had heard the news some hours before and, strangely enough, had expected her call. Ten minutes after his ready room vigil began, Will Riker transferred the link.

Phillipa Louvois, of course, almost immediately proved her usual charming self.

“I thought you of all people would understand: I mean, you may be bald, Jean-Luc, but I know it’s not from sticking your head in the sand.

"What was I supposed to do?"

Thirty seconds into the conversation, Picard noted, and they were getting on famously as ever.

"I have no idea, Phillipa," he replied. "I must say, though, that while you were certainly never what I'd consider popular, even on your best days, you've outdone yourself this time. At the moment, you’re well on your way to becoming the single most reviled woman in the entire Federation."

She bristled.

"I did what I thought … what I knew … was right, Jean-Luc. I'm convinced that if I hadn't acted as I did, I would've been quietly censured—not only ordered to drop the issue, but relieved of my authority to prosecute or even investigate the matter.

“By making the arrest when I did, I outflanked them all. They're now forced to deal with this … and with her."

Picard could feel, even through the subspace link, the intensity of his old lover's conviction.

"You far better than I know how powerful is the court of public opinion, Phillipa; very few will be inclined to heed your arguments, compelling though they may be. Kathryn Janeway is a heroine, and to pursue this now…"

"Better now than never … and I’m convinced that if I hadn't done this, it would have been never."

To that, Picard had no ready answer. Certainly he'd himself encountered the worst forms of expediency from certain admirals: Pressman …. Dougherty … Satie. There was no denying that the political animals were numerous, and ravenous: Though he respected Alynna Necheyev, he knew she—like Phillipa—possessed both the will and ruthlessness to do as she thought best, damn the moral niceties.

Scylla and Charybdis. I’m glad I wasn't there.

He sipped at his beloved Earl Grey, and regarded her with the stately perceptiveness that was his very nature.

"Well, you've never been one to shirk the road less traveled. I think, though, you may find yourself very much more alone than even you had thought." He put down the teacup, and leaned forward.

"I'm here, however, if you need me."

"Thanks," she replied, and terminated the link.

He stared at the blank screen for a long moment afterward.

Oh, Phillipa … I think this may have been the wrong windmill at which to tilt.

Luciano Mantovanni had read the communiqué twice now, and could extract no nuances.

"I doubt your view screen is particularly impressed by that irritated glower."

The Romulan, T'Laris, was not the most tactful of conversationalists, but she made up with incisiveness what she lacked in circumspection.

He flicked a finger, motioning for her to read what he had, and half-turning the monitor to accommodate her as she moved to stand beside him.

They exchanged amused glances before she perused the screen; each was noting the fact that, a year ago, if they'd been in such proximity, mortal combat would have been imminent. Now, their mutual ease still occasionally surprised them both.

"Interesting." Her tone was noncommittal, but a subtle purse of T’Laris’ lips told Mantovanni she wasn't finished.

"This Janeway is the captain of … Voyager, is it? The ship that returned from the Delta Quadrant?"

“Yes.”

"You don't like her." That one wasn’t a question.

He arched a brow in an admixture of amusement and dismay at being read so easily.

"And what brought you to that conclusion?"

T'Laris grinned. As with his own, there was too much predator in the expression.

"It's your, 'I'm a gentleman, and shouldn't express overt negativity about a fellow officer—no matter my personal feelings' look. For months you wore it whenever I entered the room."

Mantovanni acknowledged her analysis with an infinitesimal nod, and asked, "What's your impression?"

She hesitated not in the least.

"They want to use your reputation against her … to blunt one legendary figure by setting another in opposition."

"Have I mentioned before that you think like a Romulan?" he asked.

The smile deepened. "It's served me well … even with you. Having read something of your people's history—Byzantine politics, Aragonese inquisitions, Mafia skullduggery—I daresay Romulans and Sicilians must be distant kin."

"Aspiring over your station, Subcommander?"

Mantovanni's droll response garnered a chuckle.

"As you say." Her tone hardened slightly. "Take care, Cicero … I believe you are about to become embroiled in what your people often call a 'lose/lose proposition.'"

Mantovanni leaned back in his chair, and glanced up at her.

"Have you read the legend of Cu Chulainn, T'Laris?"

She frowned at the universal translator’s rendition.

"The 'Hound of Culann'? No."

Instead of expanding on the reference, Liberty's captain stood and strode onto the bridge, T’Laris a step behind.

"Lieutenant Parihn, set course for Earth, warp seven."

He settled into the center seat, while T’Laris retreated to one of the bridge’s generic stations.

When, an hour later, she sat down beside him, the Romulan made it apparent she had, indeed, read the recommended material, and had … appreciated it.

"You," she accused, "are entirely too literate for your own good."

Luciano Mantovanni considered the immediate past, and the foreseeable future.

He found himself forced to agree.