Author's Note: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.

Last one.

Lieutenant Malcolm Reed stretched and sighed.

Regular assessment was part of the yearly routine for all Starfleet personnel, and therefore it was his responsibility to perform that duty for the men and women under his command. He did so conscientiously, and today was the day he had set aside for the quarterly interviews.

So far everything had gone smoothly. He was not expecting any problems with the last member of his staff; although a relative newcomer to the ship, Crewman Nwosu was quiet but competent and very thorough, and there were no issues with his work to address. His Department Head had only the pleasant duty of commending how diligently he had applied himself to a training course he had undertaken over the last few months, and observing that he was now a valued member of the team and an asset to Enterprise. Indeed, if the crewman was interested in pursuing promotion, Malcolm was ready to discuss how he could begin preparing himself for this – although he himself felt that gaining more experience for a time would give Nwosu a better grounding for any future prospects at a higher rank.

Of course, there was always the possibility that the crewman might have matters that he himself wished to discuss, other than his current performance and future prospects in Starfleet. Malcolm took a swig of tea (which had gone somewhat cold, but was still drinkable), carefully finished and closed his recorded notes on the previous interview, and brought up the computer record for Crewman Nwosu. As a matter of routine the discussion to come would be recorded in full, as each of the others had been, but it was still his practice to make notes for his own reference afterwards.

The chime on his office door came punctually to the dot, eliciting a slight nod of approval. "Come in."

He was glancing to see that the recorder was ready when the door opened, and so he did not look up until the new arrival closed it behind him. Then he did – and was instantly on his feet, rigid with suspicion and alarm. "Who the hell are you?"

His next action was to slam a hand to the comm unit. "Security alert, we have an intruder on the ship!" he barked. "All security personnel, to stations!"

The man who walked – or rather sauntered – forward and dropped into the waiting chair seemed remarkably unfazed by the reaction to his arrival. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his definitely non-Regulation trousers – he was wearing what appeared to be a safari suit, of all things – before crossing one leg over the other, and cocking a sardonic eyebrow.

Crewman Nwosu was dark-skinned, tall and strongly built, with wiry sandy-coloured hair. This person appeared to be of European origin. He was probably just as tall, but very slender, with a narrow, haughty-looking face, and his hair was dark. His whole demeanour was one of amused arrogance.

There was no response from the comm unit. Malcolm pressed the button again, urgently, wanting to know that he was the only one under threat. "Reed to the Bridge, please report!"

"Oh, they can't hear you," the intruder drawled, leaning back in the chair. "As a matter of fact, nobody can hear you. I thought we'd have a few minutes on our own, just to have a little chat."

"Who are you? What do you want?" Weapons were stored in secured cabinets in the Armoury proper, a regulation that had its downsides – as in this present situation. The only one currently within his reach was the small ivory knife he carried in one of the pockets of his coverall, but it would be difficult to reach it unseen; and though his unexpected visitor appeared to be unarmed, the fact that he'd managed to sever communications between here and the Bridge suggested there was more to him than met the eye.

"Exactly what I say. A little chat." A negligent wave of one well-manicured hand. "But by all means, if it'll make you happy, go outside. Summon help. If you can find any."

If he could find any? His office was to one side of the Armoury. At no time was that sanctum of the ship's defensive capabilities left unattended.

And yet–

Frowning, and keeping a wary eye on the intruder, Malcolm stepped to the door and pressed the button that opened it.

The Armoury appeared completely normal. Except for the fact that it was completely deserted.

"Nwosu! McKenna! Burman!" he said sharply. "Report!"

They'd all been in here when he'd entered his office, and both Burman and McKenna had tasks that would occupy them for some considerable time. Of course it was sometimes necessary to take a break, but he would never for a moment have believed any of them capable of the sheer unprofessionalism of leaving the Armoury completely unattended. Crewman Nwosu had been shadowing explosives expert McKenna on a review of the current status of a newly modified warhead from one of the torpedoes – the R&D people had sent out a technical note suggesting the benefits of this modification, but Malcolm, ever cautious, had detailed McKenna to carry out the modification on just one and run a diagnostic on its performance. The results of this would be discussed exhaustively with Trip before making the decision whether to proceed. Sure enough, the warhead was visible in the reinforced isolation chamber, where it was placed in case of accidents even though the arming mechanism was sitting safely on a table outside it. The diagnostic viewer appeared to be active, but there was nobody there to see it.

Glancing suspiciously back at his visitor, who had not moved except to cross his arms and look long-suffering, he slipped rapidly to the door to the corridor.

There was no-one outside. He stood for a moment listening to the silence, and then shouted.

Nobody answered.

He strode back into his office, his fists clenched, fear and rage mounting in him. "What have you done with them?"

"Oh, you're such a worrier!" A theatrical scowl. "Honestly, you're even worse than Jean-Luc.

"They're all perfectly safe. I simply want a few minutes of your time. Is that too much to ask?"

"I want the ship's crew returned safe and sound – and then, with the captain's permission, I'll talk to you! Whoever you are, and whatever you want!"

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" The stranger sat upright like an offended cat. "Have you any idea who I am?"

"No, and at the moment, I don't give a damn!"

This wasn't quite true. Instinct was screaming at him that someone who could arrange for the entire ship's complement to disappear without trace was not someone who could be safely dismissed in so cavalier a fashion. But all his training said that you didn't show weakness to a bully, and so he glared at his unwanted visitor.

"Humans! No matter what century you're from, you're such a tiresome little species!"

Malcolm was never sure what happened next. Unless it was some incredibly vivid illusion, he presumably moved from a) to b) by some physical process, but whatever it was, he retained no impression of it. One second he was in his office aboard Enterprise, and the next he was in a cave, and there was a Klingon warrior directly opposite him. They were perhaps equally surprised to see each other, but the Klingon was holding a bat'leth, which he immediately swung in an arc which would have removed the Englishman's head from his shoulders had not Malcolm by pure reflex swung up the bat'leth he himself was somehow carrying, just in time to block it. The shock of the blow jarred through his shoulders, and even though the worst of the strike was deflected he had to jerk his head back desperately to avoid the blade as it grated and rang against his own.

Next instant he was back on board Enterprise, staggering back from the impact. His hands were still raised, but there was nothing in them, though his ears were full of the shriek of metal and his whole body was shuddering from the force of the blow.

But what if – what if that was where the rest of the ship's crew had been taken? He had the greatest respect for the Klingons' fighting abilities, if not for their average intelligence. Captain Archer had once been convicted by the High Council, and imprisoned in Rura Penthe for his 'crimes' – having been instrumental in his rescue, Malcolm could remember all too vividly the cruel cold of the prison and the barbarous condition under which the inhabitants toiled. If they had captured him again–!

His mouth was completely dry.

There were two options. Either this was a trick, and the encounter with the Klingon had indeed been an extremely vivid illusion, or it was real – and this person confronting him had powers that made him an exceptionally dangerous enemy.

If it was a trick, it was a bloody good one. If it was real, on the other hand, then diplomacy might be a good idea. Except that diplomacy was something he preferred to practise with weapons, and that wasn't an available option.

"You'd feel happier with a weapon again, Lieutenant? Perhaps something more your style?"

Not a bat'leth this time. A rifle – something so huge and brutal he could hardly lift it.

Malcolm knew when he was having the piss taken. No matter how brutal the rifle looked, he wouldn't have been given it if there'd been the slightest likelihood of his being able to do any damage with it. He threw it to the floor, but before it hit the deck plating it turned into a white rabbit, which drew a fob watch from its waistcoat pocket, checked the time, shook its head and then hurried around the corner of his desk and disappeared.

Alice in Wonderland. For fuck's sake.

"What have you done with the captain?" he demanded.

"I haven't done anything to him." The visitor sat back in the chair, put his elbows on the arms of it and steepled his fingers together. His smile was now as urbane as it was irritating. "I assure you, nobody on the Bridge is aware anything is wrong. Nobody even knows I'm here."

"Then who are you and what do you want?"

Another of those bewildering mood-shifts. "Do you know, I always understood the English were among the most courteous people on your miserable little planet. You're certainly not a shining example of it."

"Whoever you got your information from neglected to add that the English are also among the least likely to tolerate people who board their ship without permission."

"'Permission'?" He inflated like an outraged bullfrog. "I've never heard anything so absurd in my life! You really don't have any idea who you're talking to, do you!"

"No. You haven't bothered to tell me."

Once again the scene changed. Now it was a barbaric throne room. In front of him, a flight of some dozen or so fur-laden marble steps led up to a gorgeous gold throne, on which his visitor sprawled in festoons of gold tissue and jewellery. He himself was loaded with chains so heavy he could hardly hold his body upright where he knelt naked in humiliation; a steel collar was welded around his neck, and his wrists were shackled to the back of it. All around, crowds of beautifully-dressed courtiers bayed and jeered at him.

This has to be an illusion. He could just about move one bare foot, with difficulty, and he lifted it and slammed it into the floor as hard as he could. The pain from his toes was horrendous, but he didn't wake up.

The vision on the throne leaned forward and spoke with a venomous smile. "You're still expecting me to ask 'permission' to visit your wretched little ship and speak to you, Lieutenant?"

He answered when he could make himself heard above the roars of laughter. "'An Englishman's home is his castle', didn't your informant tell you that? I'd expect the Queen herself to ask permission – and because she's real royalty rather than someone playacting at it, she'd understand that good manners oblige her to do so!"

They were back in his office again. His foot hurt so much he could hardly bear to put any weight on it, but he blanked both that and the suggestion that if it still hurt, what he'd experienced probably hadn't been an illusion at all.

"Oh, very well." A huff. "I suppose it wasn't very polite of me not to introduce myself. My name is Q."