Malcolm Reed's next awakening was somewhat more forceful; he jolted back to consciousness with a pained gasp, bewildered as to what had jarred him from his slumber. He did not wonder for long, as another impact slammed through the ship and he realised the cause; the Enterprise was under attack and the jolts were the result of close quarters weapons fire. He managed to sit upright with some effort; gasps and moans around him told him that Sickbay was already receiving wounded crewmembers. Clad in nothing but his blue briefs, he clung to the edge of the bed and willed the dizziness and nausea to subside even as another blast rocked the ship. The ship-wide communications channel whistled an alert tone.

"All hands, this is the Captain speaking – report to battle stations immediately! We are under attack – the Klingon vessel Somraw has emerged from the gas giant to engage us in combat and is ignoring all hails; all crew report to emergency battle stations, this is not a drill, repeat; this is not a drill!"

Reed swore under his breath, his hand going instinctively to his wounded shoulder; the skin was a network of raw puckered scarring and healing tissue beneath the bandages. His duty station was on the Bridge, but he doubted he would be able to cross the room, let alone make it that far...

"...says they're using weird torpedoes..." a faint voice reached him through the privacy curtain; the sound of a panicked crewman talking to another; "...something about photonic energy signature... blew a hole straight through the hull on G Deck... never seen anything like it..."

Photonic energy... Reed thought, and his eyes widened as he recalled the weapons systems of the Klingon ship.

"Photon torpedoes!" he whispered, under his breath, "oh, hell!"

The jolt of adrenaline gave him the boost he needed. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet, and lurched away from the bed, cursing the weak, shaky feeling that immediately assailed him. He might not be able to get to the Bridge, but... he made it to the storage locker before anyone noticed.

"Lieutenant!" the doctor's stringent tones cut across the hubbub of sickbay, "You should not be out of bed!"

Reed ignored him, pulling out a generic uniform in his size. The act of getting dressed seemed like an insurmountable challenge, but he forced himself to do it quickly, ignoring the way his breath came in short, hitching gasps, along with the tightening pain in his shoulder and chest. He was just pulling on his boots when the doctor finally appeared at his side.

"What do you think you're doing?" the doctor's expression reflected his shock.

"We're under attack, doctor," he did not feel he should have to point out the obvious, "I need to be at my duty station..."

"You are not fit to be walking, let alone out of Sickbay..."

"I'm the only one on board who has seen those Klingon weapons," Reed found himself leaning heavily against the nearest bed, cursing his own weakness, "doctor, if I don't at least get to the Armoury, there won't be enough of a ship left to worry about."

"It's too soon for you to exert yourself - you won't make it to the end of the corridor!"

"Stimulant," Reed rasped out, hating how shaky his voice sounded, "just give me something, please. I'm the only one who can do this..."

The sickbay door opened again, admitting two crewmen who were supporting a badly-burned, semi-conscious member of the Engineering crew. Phlox glanced at them and then back at Reed, obviously torn.

"Quickly, doctor, please - before we all go down with the ship."

"Very well," Phlox reluctantly conceded, reaching for a hypospray, "but I expect you to report back to Sickbay as soon as possible - I really do not condone this course of action."

"Needs must, doctor," the Tactical Officer assured him.

Phlox delivered the injection quickly; "A very mild stimulant and an analgesic... be careful, Lieutenant."

With a stiff nod, Reed tried to force himself to stand upright as he left the infirmary. However, another blast rocked the ship, and he collided, hard, with the bulkhead, knocking the air from his lungs. With a yelp of pain and a hacking cough, he pitched to his knees. Staggering upright, he heard the communications relay once again calling all personnel to battle stations.

After what felt like an eternity, he stumbled into the Armoury, to barely controlled chaos. He drew in a deep, steadying breath, but this just set him off coughing again. A nearby Ensign caught his eye.

"Sir!" she exclaimed, "we thought you were in Sickbay!"

"I was," he replied, and then raised his voice, "report in!"

"We're under attack from the Klingons - they're using phased energy disruptor canons and torpedoes carrying a photonic energy signature. Hull plating is down to forty percent integrity, warp engines are offline, and we've got hull breaches on G and F Decks..."

"Get those torpedoes loaded and ready but don't fire until my command," Reed ordered, stumbling across to the console, "Timmins, Delaney, get down to Engineering, they're several hands short and I'm going to need all the power I can get. Nthemba, stand by, I may need your assistance..."

He crossed to the wall, accessing the communications system.

"Reed to Bridge; Hoshi, do you read me?"

"Lieutenant?" the communications officer sounded astonished; in the background he could hear shouted voices, damage reports, tactical information, barked orders; it was barely controlled chaos as another explosion battered the ship; this time the lights flickered and waned, before emergency back-ups kicked in.

"Hoshi, no time to explain – those photon torpedoes the Klingons are using, do you remember translating the tactical console?"

"Yes, but I don't remember anything specific..."

"I do," Reed replied, breathlessly, massaging his aching shoulder, "can you put me through to the Captain? I think I know what to do."

"Captain!" Hoshi called to Archer, "Lieutenant Reed thinks he has a solution..."

"Patch him through," Archer ordered, distantly, then his voice became clearer, "go ahead, Malcolm."

"Sir," he said, quickly, smothering a cough, his voice sounding rough even to his own ears, "the Klingons are using what they call photon torpedoes – they have a photonic energy signature causing a matter/anti-matter explosion on impact."

"We've figured that much out already," Archer told him, grimly, as the ship rocked again under a disruptor blast; Reed saw his console flicker as his subordinate on the Bridge made Enterprise's own cannons sing out in reply, "what did you have in mind?"

"Well, sir, I got a good look at the tactical systems and if there's one thing I should be able to figure out, it's their weapons," he said, quickly, "I think I recall the command code for the torpedoes. If you can give me access to tactical from here, I can hack into their security systems."

"What good will that do? They'll just change the command code when they realise that they can't fire their weapons..."

"I don't intend to stop them from firing, captain... I intend to detonate them inside the torpedo tubes. It should cripple their weapons..." and probably most of their ship, he silently added.

Archer barely hesitated; "Do it."

There was hardly a missed beat when the tactical information flashed up on his console. He set to work, punching keys as swiftly as his one good arm would permit him, his right arm hanging uselessly by his side, pain flaring through his shoulder every time he took a ragged inhalation, trying not to gasp for air as his chest tightened with every breath. The Klingon computer defences were not on par with Starfleet's and he found it easy to worm into their systems; locating their equivalent of Tactical took only a few minutes.

"Hurry, Malcolm! They're recharging their weapons!"

He ignored the captain; his Tactical display had already warned him of the impending attack. He concentrated on his work, breaching firewalls and security lockouts with practices care as he probed his way through the weapons systems. He used the Universal Translator and the Klingon's own computer to identify the loaded torpedoes; they could either explode on impact with matter, or be detonated remotely. He programmed in a remote detonation sequence; by now, the Klingons would have noticed the override, so, without pausing to confirm the order to fire, he ordered the two loaded torpedoes to detonate. He held his breath; the sound of the explosion would be lost to the vacuum. His tactical display, however, registered an explosion, and his scanners confirming that his ploy had worked.

"Bridge to Armoury!" Archer's jubilant tone told him all he needed to know, "Malcolm, you did it! Their weapons systems are offline! Their reactor core is failing!"

"Captain, they're hailing us..."

"Sit tight, Malcolm, I'll be by later... Bridge out."

Reed nodded a single, satisfied nod. Stepping away from the console, he raised his hand to his tight chest, straining to draw breath, the pain almost becoming too much to bear. A coughing fit doubled him over, and he was aware of someone rushing across the room to his side.

"Nthemba," he wheezed, eyes watering, bent over the console, his good arm clamped to his chest, "take over, would you...?"

"Sir? Are you okay?"

He tried to nod, but his knees buckled, and he grabbed onto the side of the torpedo launch tube for support. Nthemba was there, grasping his arm, her dark eyes wide with concern. He tried to wave her off.

"I'm fine," he rasped, hoarsely, "see to your station..."

Reluctantly, Nthemba nodded, and released him. Reed shivered, feeling sick and weak. He knew he should return to Sickbay, but he simply could not conceive of being able to walk that far. For lack of anything else to do, he lowered himself to the floor, leaning back against the torpedo tube. The deck plating was cold beneath his hands as he slumped back against the launch tube. A catch in his chest turned into a wracking, painful cough, leaving him gasping and wheezing. He trembled, feeling thoroughly spent and miserable, only half-listening as Nthemba spoke with her counterpart on the Bridge; it seemed that Archer had delivered an ultimatum to the Klingons, who had elected to leave the system, allowing the crew to turn straight away to repairing the ship and tending their wounded. Reed smothered a pained groan as his shoulder reminded him with a stab of agony that he was still one of those wounded, and it really was too soon for him to be up and about. He coughed again, pressing his good hand to his aching chest. He was semi-aware of Nthemba summoning Dr Phlox over the intercom.

"No need," he mumbled, "I can walk."

"I sincerely doubt that, sir," the African Ensign replied, a small smile gracing her lips as she crouched in front of him, "I really hope that this isn't insubordination, but you look like death warmed up, sir."

Reed choked on a laugh, coughing brutally into his cupped hand, shivering despite the sweat on his brow. He hated to admit it, but Phlox had been right - leaving Sickbay had not been the smartest move, even if it had been necessary.

"Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No, thank you," Reed managed to reply, though the effort of speaking was becoming difficult, "see to the repairs, would you? You're in charge until I get back..."

Black sparkles clustered at the edge of his vision as he felt his balance tip alarmingly to one side despite his seated position, not really hearing Nthemba's dismayed shout of alarm.

He did not even realise that he had lost consciousness until a strong hand gripped his good shoulder; "Lieutenant? Can you hear me?"

Forcing his eyes open, he found himself looking straight into Dr. Phlox's concerned features.

"Doctor," he whispered, "Sickbay... I know. I can make it..."

"No," Phlox replied, firmly, "I have brought a gurney, though, if you think you can stand for a moment?"

Reed was so exhausted that he did not have the strength to argue as Nthemba and Phlox helped him to his feet. He allowed the doctor to take his elbow and support him as he sat down on the edge of the gurney. Under Phlox's gentle but firm guiding hand, he sank down onto it gratefully, stretching out as he reclined, and allowed himself to succumb to the beckoning embrace of unconsciousness, even as he heard the now-familiar faint hiss accompanying the prick of a hypospray at his neck... then nothing.

A few days later, still confined to relative inactivity, Reed sat in the Mess Hall, nursing a mug of tea, once again getting used to having the use of both hands having just been released from the confines of a sling. His shoulder still ached dully; Phlox had told him that it would take several regenerative sessions and some extensive physiotherapy before he would get full use of it back, but he'd been assured that there would not even be a scar when the highly-skilled physician had finished. Archer had been to visit several times; a slight flush of embarrassment crept up his collar as he recalled the Captain's ebullient praise for his actions.

"I was just doing my duty, sir..."

"Above and beyond, Malcolm. We'd waited to see if the Klingons would recover and effect repairs; they obviously did, but unfortunately they weren't especially grateful and attacked as soon as they left the atmosphere of the gas giant. After you crippled their ship, they hailed us, made a few generic threats, said that that we'd made an enemy of the Klingon Empire – which, from what I've read, is easy to do – cursed our cowardice in using their own weapons against them, and then took off. I've told Trip to remind me to stop helping people... oh, and I'm going to be endorsing T'Pol's recommendation for your commendation..."

"I thought I'd find you here," a voice said, from somewhere behind and above him, cutting across his thoughts.

Reed startled and half-rose, but Trip Tucker waved him back into his seat with a casual flap of his hand.

"Commander," Reed greeted him, "how go the repairs?"

"Slow progress, but at least there's progress," Trip replied, stretching undoubtedly sore muscles, "though the rumour-mill has it you're the one who saved our butts, and all from your deathbed..."

"I wasn't dying and I wasn't actually in bed," Reed groused, "that's overly dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Trip gave him a grin that did not quite reach the Engineer's sparkling blue eyes, "You don't know nothin' – that shuttlepod ride back from the Somraw was dramatic enough for me..."

"Ah... yes," Reed glanced away, his voice softening slightly, "my apologies, Commander – I am told I have you to thank for saving us..."

"It's Trip, Malcolm – we're off duty, remember? And yeah, it was me came to get you, but T'Pol flew us back. I was tryin' to hold your shoulder together with nothin' more than a rag and a prayer while you were bleedin' all over the place. Honestly thought we were gonna loose you..."

"Sorry," Reed said, reflexively, unable to think of much else to say, "but thanks again for the rescue. We wouldn't have got out alive if you hadn't come for us. Well, I certainly wouldn't have."

"You can call it evens," this time, Trip's grin was genuine, "you still saved us all and you did when by all accounts you should have been in Sickbay. Nice trick with the Klingon computer, by the way – where'd you learn to hack a system like that?"

"Comes with security training," Reed replied, blithely, evasively, taking a sip of his tea, "besides, although I may not be able to read or speak Klingon, if there's one thing I do know; it's how to blow things up."

"And I know how to fix them," Trip raised his mug of coffee in mock salute, "here's to fixin' things that can be fixed and blowin' up the things that can't."

"I'll drink to that. Cheers."

They clinked mugs and drank, and Trip favoured him with another grin.

"Long may we continue to do both, eh, Malcolm?"

"Amen to that... Trip."

Finis