Author's note: This is a sequel to "A Sin To Tell A Lie", which was a post-Minefield story that was originally intended as a one-shot. Interest in a follow-up was expressed in a review from Volley; though I didn't plan on doing a follow-up, after some thought the idea appealed to me. If you haven't read the first story this one might not make sense. (Heck, it might not make sense even if you have read its predecessor.) It starts off with humor but takes a more dramatic, borderline angsty turn after a while. The meaning of the title will become known pretty early on; as far as bowling averages, I really know next to nothing about that sort of thing so found a number that I thought sounded good without being totally over-the-top.

Aside from this being post-Minefield as well, I haven't really got a set timeframe in mind for it.

All standard disclaimers apply: do not own, property of Paramount, not for profit, solely for entertainment, yadda yadda yadda...

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"Have I or have I not watched dozens of your water polo vids?" Tucker asked Archer over breakfast.

Jon nodded. "Well…yeah…but I thought you enjoyed watching them."

"I do enjoy them, and I appreciate you invitin' me to watch them with you. Now I've got some vids I wanna share with you."

"Yeah, but…bowling? Where's the excitement in bowling?"

"Oh, c'mon, Jon…I admit it's not the same kinda thrill as you'd get from water polo or rugby, but it's got its own charms nonetheless. Have you ever watched a game, or played one?"

Archer gave him a 'you're kidding me, right?' look. "I guess I just don't see the appeal."

"Ya know, I'm no expert on bowling, but just 'cuz the players don't chase after a ball or splash around in a swimmin' pool doesn't mean the game's not enjoyable. I've got vids of some old tournaments that my folks gave me ages ago, before we even left Earth, an' I never got around to watchin' them. So tell ya what…how 'bout I bring 'em by tonight, we pick one at random, an' watch one game straight through. If you don't enjoy it, we'll spend the rest of the night watchin' water polo an' I'll never mention bowling again. And," he decided to sweeten the pot, "I'll bring the beer for the next four polo matches. But if ya do like it, drinks are on you for our next four sports-night get-togethers. Plus I get to pick what we watch. Might be water polo, might be bowling, maybe croquet, Aussie football or curling. Depends on what kinda mood I'm in."

Jon thought it over then nodded with a chuckle, looking forward to Trip providing the beer for a while. "Sounds reasonable enough. Okay, you're on."

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"Who comes up with these names?" Jon pondered at the end of the third game, opening another beer. "'Alley Cats'? 'Spare Me'?" So far his only regret of the evening was that he'd read the pun-filled list of team names. Fortunately he'd taken time earlier in the day to read a brief breakdown of the game to better understand what he'd be watching, so most of the puns made at least a little sense even if some were god-awful. He still hadn't purged 'Bowl Movements' from his mind.

"Ya gotta admit, 'The Bowling Stones' has a nice ring to it. An' don't forget 'Guttersnipes'." Picking up the padd from his lap he pulled up the information about the next game. "Next one up is 'Kingpins versus Strike Force'. Want me to cue it up...or do ya wanna switch to polo?"

"'Strike Force', huh? Was kinda looking forward to 'Ball-barians versus Alleygators'," he joked. Waving his beer toward the screen he urged, "Lay on, Macduff."

Returning Archer's smile Trip started the playback then took another look at Jon. "Wanna skip the team rosters this time?"

"Nah. I like to know a little about who's playing." Settling back in their seats both men relaxed, sipping their beers and noshing on pretzels as they watched the names, photos, and tidbits of information pop onto the screen accompanied by the commentators taking turns reading over each player's biographical highlights. Halfway through the 'Strike Force' roster a photo came onto the screen that made both men choke on their beers and sit bolt upright. Trip paused the vid and they both stared at the image on the screen before staring mutely at each other, then slowly back to the screen, then at each other again.

No way.

Couldn't be.

Could it?

Jon silently motioned for Trip to start it up again and both men riveted their attention to the screen. The female commentator's voice read through the information:

"...The youngest member of 'Strike Force', this English-born player—nicknamed 'Deadeye' by his teammates—has secured a well-earned reputation as a force to be reckoned with. A stroker with a 259 average—"

Trip paused it again, consulted his padd for a few moments, and looked at Jon sheepishly. "Wanted to find out what a stroker was. Somebody who's smooth with his approach and release," he explained before restarting the vid.

"—with a 259 average, Malcolm Reed has proven himself a valuable asset to the team."

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Not for the first time since the start of his shift, Malcolm felt eyes on him. With a practiced, casual air he glanced around the bridge (again) to find the captain looking at him (again). No—not merely looking but rather studying him. Reed looked back at his console as he tried to figure out what he'd done to garner such interest from his CO. All reports and duty rosters had been turned in on time (of course), weapons systems were at peak efficiency (at last), he'd arrived promptly for his shift (naturally), and for a pleasant change of pace the day had gone along without a single menacing alien species trying to blow them up (so far).

It had been worse when Trip had been there earlier. While Captain Archer was at least attempting to be subtle, the engineer had fairly gaped at him as though he were a new form of alien life. When ignoring him had failed to break the commander of staring Malcolm had at last simply stared back impassively until Trip broke eye contact and excused himself, heading back to Engineering.

So…had he done something wrong? Thinking it over he decided not—he would have been called into the captain's Ready Room if that were the case. Captain Archer might have a more relaxed command style but that didn't mean he wouldn't hand out a right and proper dressing-down if he felt it was warranted. But if it wasn't some form of misconduct or dereliction of duty, what was drawing so much of the captain's attention to him? It was a tad unnerving, so much so that he was actually grateful when a light on his console blinked for attention.

Checking the readout, he saw that it was a text message from the Armoury asking for him to stop by at his convenience to go over some readings. Nothing urgent, just results of some scans and diagnostics he'd had his team run. "Perhaps you could stop by after your Bridge shift, sir?" the message suggested. Malcolm breathed silent prayers of thanks to the patron saints of armouries and munitions before looking up at Archer. "Captain, I've gotten a message from the Armoury. They need me to go over some diagnostic results with them. Permission to leave the Bridge, sir?"

"Sure...no problem," Archer nodded to him, seeming to return most of his attention to the star-filled viewscreen as the lieutenant stepped into the turbolift. Once they had closed he risked a quick look at the lift doors. Nope...try as he might (and despite having seen the video evidence with his own eyes) he couldn't quite envision Malcolm in a bowling shirt. Somehow, they were going to have to change that.

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By the time he'd finished in the Armoury his shift was over, so Malcolm decided to head to the Mess Hall to celebrate the diagnostic results: all defensive systems were still at peak efficiency and looked to stay that way owning to the latest battery of tweaks and tinkering his staff had diligently performed. He had it on good authority that Chef had tried out a new pineapple recipe; since his allergy shots were up-to-date pineapple rice casserole seemed a perfect way to mark the occasion.

Settling into his seat with his casserole and a tall glass of water he felt eyes upon him and spared a quick look up. Commander Tucker was approaching with his own food-laden tray. He'd gone for some of the casserole, too—along with, it seemed, a little bit of everything else. Reed silently marveled at the man's appetite. How did he stay so trim when he seemed to always pack in so much food? The commander either had a very stringent exercise regimen that he kept extremely well hidden or he had the metabolism of a hummingbird.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all," Malcolm replied with an almost perky tone in his voice. Though he hadn't forgotten the commander's enigmatic behavior on the Bridge, his time in the Armoury had put him in good spirits. His mood was so good, in fact, that he decided to inquire about the incident. "So, Commandah," he ventured, "was there something amiss on the Bridge earlier?"

"Not as far as I know," Trip replied lightly, genuinely oblivious to Reed's meaning. "Why? You notice something going on?"

"You could say that. For some reason I seemed to attract a great deal more attention than usual, both from you and the captain. As far as I can tell I did nothing out of the ordinary, I didn't have a great gob of spinach lodged between my teeth, and didn't show up for my shift in the buff, so I'm not quite sure why you seemed so fascinated by me."

Oh crap. "Well, you are a facinatin' fella," Trip joked, then paused before continuing. "Nah, I guess I was just a little out of focus this morning—was watching vids with th' captain last night and we kinda made a late night of it. Kinda skipped breakfast this morning, too, and I guess my mornin' coffee didn't wake me up as much as I'd hoped it would. Sorry if it came across as something else."

Keeping an impassive expression on his face, Malcolm weighed the explanation and found it wanting. A late night with the captain watching water polo and drinking beer followed by skipping breakfast might explain the small mountain of food on the commander's plate but didn't account for the oddness on the bridge this morning. "No harm done," he shrugged, deciding to let it go for now. "I was just curious."

Trip smiled, nodding in silent agreement. If there was one thing Malcolm Reed was, it was curious...or, as Granny Tucker would have phrased it, 'one odd duck.'

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"What about just inviting him for Sports Night and running the vids?" Trip suggested from his seat in the Captain's Mess, passing the pitcher of orange juice to Jon. "He won't say no if you invite him, 'cuz you're the captain."

Archer doubtfully quirked his head slightly to one side, taking the pitcher and pouring another glass of juice. "Malcolm is Malcolm, Trip. He'd be nervous being invited precisely because I'm the captain, and I'm not sure he'd loosen up enough to even see what's on the screen. You know what he's like." He whacked off another piece of his waffle and tucked it in his mouth.

"C'mon, you don't think he'd be all that nervous, do ya?"

Jon shook his head, stifling a chuckle as he swallowed. "Trip, I swear, you should've seen him the first—and last—time I had him in here for breakfast. He was like a kid that had been called to the principal's office. Didn't even consider the possibility that the only reason he was here was to simply have breakfast and maybe socialize a little. That's why I've never invited him again, because the experience was so damned miserable for him. I'm sure not gonna have him feeling like he's been ordered to come to my quarters to watch sports. Besides, about the only thing I learned about him from that breakfast was that he 'doesn't much follow sports'." He left the things he'd learned after that breakfast unspoken.

"Yeah...guess yer right," Trip agreed as he stabbed another sausage with his fork. "He probably would get his tea bags in a twist, wouldn't he?" Carving at the sausage he didn't notice the look slowly coming over his friend's face until he looked up to see why Jon had fallen silent. A slow smile of realization was coming over the other man's face as he stared at the far wall. "Hey, Jon...you okay?" Seeing the smile widen further Trip finally caught the meaning in it—Jon had come up with something. "Whatcha got?"

Eyes finally meeting Trip's, Jon stifled another chuckle. "I've just realized something about Malcolm, Trip. He told me a fib."

"He what?"

"A fib, a prevarication...a lie. Malcolm lied to me. About the sports. He let on like he all but hated sports, while all along..." Jon sank back in his chair, still smiling. "I'll be damned. I didn't suppose he was capable of lying to anyone, let alone a superior officer."

A grin spread over Trip's face, though a far more mischievous one than Archer's. "Y'know...I don't think you should let that slide, Jon. Can't have the man gettin' away with fibbin' to his captain. No sir. Gotta maintain proper discipline. That man has got to be punished."

"Quite right," the mischief glittered in his own eyes as Archer agreed. "Y'know, in light of this little development, I think maybe I'll reschedule that breakfast after all."

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'Damn and bloody hell,' Malcolm sputtered internally as he read the message on his computer screen that evening. Breakfast with the captain the day after tomorrow. As time had gone by he'd gratefully assumed that Captain Archer had forgotten his promise to reschedule; something, it seemed, had quite inconveniently jogged the man's memory. With supreme effort Malcolm refrained from bashing his head repeatedly into his desktop. Although, he considered for a second, if he held off doing that until tomorrow evening and did it with sufficient force he could wind up in Sickbay with a valid medical excuse to skip the breakfast. He could always say he'd tripped and fallen into the desk. After a few seconds he nixed that plan—wouldn't do to damage Starfleet property, after all. Besides, he wasn't so far gone that he'd prefer Sickbay to the Captain's Mess...not yet, anyhow. He could save that course of action as a last resort.

Besides, the way things usually went, something else was bound to come along and bollux up the works without any help from him. Though hopefully not another alien mine field, he was fairly sure the fates would intervene in some manner; for better or worse they almost always did. In the meantime he'd say a few extra prayers to his favorite patron saints that somehow, some way, that damned breakfast wouldn't happen.

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"So, Malcolm," Archer smiled as he seasoned his eggs, "how are things going? Everything running smoothly in the Armoury, I presume?"

"Of course, sir...unless you've heard something to the contrary?" He shot a quick, uncertain glance at Trip before meeting Archer's gaze. Though not certain which of the 9 circles of hell he was currently consigned to, he knew he was in one of them. Wasn't it bad enough having the captain trying to be all chummy without having an audience to boot? It didn't help that the engineer was failing miserably at stifling a smirk, succeeding only when he took time to stuff a chunk of food in his mouth. It seemed that Gabriel Possenti, Barbara, Terence of Pesaro, Erasmus, and all the rest had either not heard his pleas or had declined to intervene.

"No, no...nothing like that. Just that I know sometimes the equipment gets a little temperamental." He allowed a long pause while pouring his orange juice before continuing. "Y'know, Malcolm, I've been doing a little thinking about the crew's recreation time. I know things haven't been overly dull out here, but when we have lulls in the action I worry that the crew might be getting bored with the usual activities. Movie Night is popular, and I know everyone makes use of the gym, but I'm looking for something to help keep folks stimulated...you know, some kind of group activities. Something to help cement crew cohesion."

Still sitting ramrod straight Malcolm poked nervously at the uneaten food on his plate. "I'm not certain I follow, sir...has there been some trouble with the crew working together? No one from my department, I hope. If so just tell me who they are and I'll be happy to—"

"Steady, Malcolm," Trip interrupted. "No one from any department is actin' up...it's just that the captain an' I got talkin' the other day about having somethin' fun for th' crew ta do, maybe as groups. Somethin' a little more physical than Movie Night, that is, an' we're just looking for a few ideas. Figured you might have a suggestion or two in that department." He and Archer watched as Malcolm pondered the possibilities, amused that the man was genuinely clueless.

"Well," Reed innocently offered after some thought, "I suppose we could start a mandatory calisthenics program. Since people are already making use of the gym, it makes a certain amount of sense to go that route, give them a more regimented activity."

Somehow the senior officers were able to keep straight faces, though Trip desperately wanted to bounce a slice of his toast off Malcolm's forehead. "Calisthenics?" the engineer scoffed. "Seriously?"

Archer held up a restraining hand. "Easy, Trip...you know, Malcolm, that might not be a bad idea. But we're looking for something optional, just for fun. What we were thinking was something more along the lines of a...team activity." He paused for effect. "You know, some sort of...sport. And we were hoping to get some input from you. We've already discounted water polo as unfeasible," he hastened to add.

'What the bloody hell are they playing at?' Malcolm kept his features properly schooled as he replied, his tone innocent and respectful. "You know, sir, as I mentioned at our last breakfast, I'm not much into sports, but I do believe it would be a good idea to start some sort of program along those lines. It would be beneficial to the health and physical fitness of the crew as well as being stimulating and entertaining. Is there some particular area that you need my help with?"

"As a matter of fact," Archer began to reply, "I thought maybe you could—" The communication panel on the wall chirped at him. Damn...just when I was reeling him in. Grudgingly he went to the panel and tapped the control. "Archer here." 'Probably another Minshara-class planet or gaseous anomaly, or something else that could've waited five minutes. Should have told T'Pol to hold off on anything like that until we were done here.'

"Captain," the Vulcan's cool voice came back, "your presence is required on the bridge. An unidentified vessel is rapidly approaching us, with shields and weapons at the ready."

The three men hesitated only an instant before Archer hit the door control and all three bolted from the room.

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'You know,' Malcolm silently addressed those saints he'd spoken to a few days earlier as another barrage shook the ship, 'when I asked for your help in getting me out of that damnable breakfast, this isn't quite what I had in mind.' "Hull plating holding," he reported before letting off another volley of his own; he frowned at the results. "We're barely scratching them—whatever kind of shielding they've got is only slightly weakened."

There had been no hails from their attackers, no response to their attempts to communicate, and T'Pol had been unable to identify the configuration of the aggressor's ship; they had simply swooped in and opened fire. Though only slightly larger than Enterprise the alien vessel had obviously been designed with speed, maneuverability, and aggression in mind. Fortunately for them the attackers didn't seem to have too much of an upper hand as far as weapons technology was concerned so they were presently at a stalemate, each shot draining the other's shielding only minimally. Still, Malcolm knew that they couldn't keep at it indefinitely—eventually one or the other would run out of either ammunition or luck. If only he could get even the beginnings of a shield breach going...'Give me something to work with here, for pity's sake...' "Incoming," he warned an instant before the blast came into view on the main viewscreen. From the looks of the scanner readings this weapons' burst looked more potent, more ominous than the others. The ship bucked in violent protest and Reed's breath caught as he saw the massive drain on the hull plating. 'You bastards were holding out on me, weren't you?' he silently smirked as he tried to transfer additional power to the plating. As he sought a viable area to target the scanner readout caught his eye, revealing a potential vunerable area. Or at least something passing for vunerable; he'd take what he could get. He answered the newest barrage with volleys from the phase cannons, hammering the beams of energy into the sweet spot. He smiled openly as he saw his marksmanship rewarded with a near collapse of their opponent's shielding in that area. He drove in a final volley of torpedoes and cannon fire directly on top of the weakened shields for added emphasis. As he watched the ship turn away he had to remind himself to not count his chickens just yet; they could be changing position to take another run at them.

Commander Tucker's voice momentarily filled the air. "Tucker to the Bridge. Capt'n, we're gettin' our teeth shook loose down here—any chance we're gonna chase 'em off soon?"

"Working on it, Trip," Archer shot back. "We'll let you know when the fireworks are over."

The alien ship banked gracefully as it arced away from them, coming in unbelievably fast with weapons bristling as it changed course in an attempt to slip up beneath Enterprise. To his credit Travis began countering the maneuver a heartbeat before Archer ordered "Evasive maneuvers," sparing the ship from most of the barrage, and both vessels found themselves again facing each other. The alien ship nudged slowly closer but showed no signs of firing again.

Before Archer could wonder aloud what they were doing, T'Pol answered the question. "Captain, they have transporters. We've been boarded." She met his eyes. "D deck. They are approaching Engineering." She studied the console for another instant before adding, "Internal sensors have gone offline."

Archer spun to face Malcolm. "Go." As Reed fled the bridge like an angry Rottweiler let off his leash the captain turned to Hoshi. "Warn Trip."

Her fingers flew over the panel. "Bridge to Engineering—intruder alert. They're heading your way."

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Trip grabbed the engineering console to steady himself as the ship rocked again. Once the tremors subsided his fingers flew over the controls in an effort to keep the readings steady. Glancing around the room he saw several small fires, but his team was already working with extinguishers to kill the flames. He thumbed the comm button. "Tucker to the Bridge. Capt'n, we're gettin' our teeth shook loose down here—any chance we're gonna chase 'em off soon?"

He'd hoped for some vague reassurance from the bridge but the reply sounded less than promising. "Working on it, Trip. We'll let you know when the fireworks are over." Despite the inertial dampeners he felt the subtle shifting of the ship as Travis apparently worked some of his navigational magic. Renewing his grip on the console he swore as more sparks showered from several stations.

It took a few seconds for him to realize that the ship was, apparently, no longer being pummeled; he assumed that Malcolm had finally sent their visitors packing. He started for the various stations to check the extent of the damage when Hoshi's voice came over the comm. "Bridge to Engineering—intruder alert. They're heading your way." Hess was already on her way to secure the main door when he gave the order to secure them all; it was fortunate that she'd been so quick. No sooner was the door secured than the intruders reached it. Realizing they'd been thwarted they began firing at the door, perhaps, Trip thought, hoping to cut through.

Of course now he was going to have to apologize to Malcolm—he'd given the Armoury officer some flak about not having space for weapons lockers full of phase pistols in Engineering, but now he was glad to have them. "Weapons!" he ordered urgently. "C'mon, this ain't a drill!" Something else to thank Malcolm for was his insistence upon more than a few run-throughs with the Engineering staff to practice what to do if the need ever did arise for them to defend the ship's engines. "An' remember to watch what yer shootin' at! Don't want Lt. Reed thinking you've been slacking off with yer target practice." 'Also, it would damn well suck if a plasma conduit or an antimatter injector got blown apart by our own weapons' fire.'

The noises from the other side of the door stopped as suddenly as they'd begun. Trip should have been relieved but found himself growing more uneasy by the second. 'They gave up awful easy.' "Everybody stay clear of the door," he warned just before an explosion threw remains of the door through the room.

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It wasn't a loud explosion, but it was ominous nonetheless. It came just before Malcolm and his men rounded the corner; the smoke hadn't even begun to clear yet, so it took an extra second or two for him to make out the helmeted alien forms heading through the breached opening into Engineering. He'd already instructed his men to fire on sight so the few aliens still in the corridor were quickly taken out of commission before they had a chance to react. The others, though...how many had gotten into Engineering?

The sounds of a firefight within the ship's engine room did nothing to help him gauge what they were up against but instead served to make his heart pound a little faster. Part of him feared for the engineer and his staff—after all, they weren't quite adept at close-quarters firefights or hand-to-hand combat—but a greater part of him was eager to mete out an arsekicking of epic proportions against the aliens who had dared invade his domain. If Trip's people could keep the invaders from penetrating too far into the ship's engine room, Reed figured his own men could outflank and rout the beggars with little effort.

Cautiously approaching the door, Malcolm silently directed his men before stealthily positioning himself at the door and peeking into the room. Though they were doing a fair job of holding their own, Trip's people hadn't been able to prevent the eight or ten intruders from scattering throughout the room. Since the engineering crew was doing a better than average job of keeping the boarding party busy the security detail had the advantage of remaining unnoticed as they crept into the room and took up their positions. Malcolm leveled his phase rifle then gave the signal to his men to advance and open fire. As soon as the attackers realized reinforcements had arrived they apparently sent a signal to their ship; their forms shimmered into nothingness as they were transported off the ship. Even those who had been stunned by phase pistols and rifles were beamed away, denying their would-be victims an opportunity to attempt to identify them.

As Trip surveyed the damage and Malcolm dismissed his men Captain Archer entered the room. "How bad is it?"

"Haven't had a chance to go over everything yet," Trip answered, running one hand through his hair as he looked around the room, "but we seem ta be in one piece, more or less. A couple minor injuries, a bunch of scorched circuits...engine's offline so all we've got right now is impulse, but antimatter injectors and plasma conduits are intact...all points considered we're not in too bad a shape." He looked at the captain. "Any idea who they were? They were wearin' some kinda helmets with reflective face shields so we couldn't get a look at their faces."

Jon shook his head. "Their ship's configuration didn't match anything in our databases and they didn't make any attempt at communication, so we haven't got a clue. Guess they figured out we weren't going down without a fight 'cuz they took off as abruptly as they showed up. We'll keep a closer eye on long-range scanners in case they put in another appearance."

As the three men surveyed the room Trip took a moment to study Malcolm. During the firefight he'd risked a few glances at his friend and had been startled at the transformation: the Brit's usually pleasant features had disappeared, replaced by a cold steel mask of indignant determination, eyes glittering with cool, dangerous purpose. It was as if the invasion had been a personal affront against him. Now that the threat was gone Reed's face was almost back to normal, but there were still small traces of troubled concern peeking through. The engineer chalked it up to leftover adrenaline combined with Malcolm's natural tendency to see the cloud behind every silver lining.

"Hey Malcolm," Trip said, "you do nice work. Really sent those guys off with their tails between their legs."

With a nonchalant shrug Reed met Tucker's grin with his trademark small, crooked smile. "We aim to please...though I almost felt as though we were in the way. Your team handled themselves very well."

"Only because of all the drills an' target practice you put 'em through. That paid off big-time today. Plus, you were right about the weapons lockers."

"Of course I was," Malcolm quipped, smile broadening.

The captain noticed that the smile didn't quite reach Reed's eyes. "Something wrong, Malcolm?"

Head canting faintly, Reed considered his answer as the corner of his mouth twitched. This lot already thought he was overly paranoid. Still...there was something nagging at him. "Not quite able to set my mind at ease about it, I suppose. They attack out of nowhere, for no apparent reason, their boarding party successfully breaches Engineering, but then they flee the ship so readily. Why give up so quickly?" He paused, shaking his head with dissatisfaction at the unanswered question. "It was almost too easy."

As if to answer his question the comm chirped. "T'Pol to Engineering."

Trip tapped the comm button on the console nearest him. "Tucker here...go ahead."

"Internal sensors are back online, and have detected two of the aliens in your vicinity. They appear to be in the corridor just outside Engineering, heading toward the starboard cargo bay." The three men bolted for the door, Malcolm successfully slipping into the lead with his phase rifle at the ready.

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As he ran down the corridor Reed allowed himself the luxury of several seconds of mental scolding. 'Should never have assumed that all the ones in the corridor were knocked out, nor that all of the invaders had transported off the ship. Bloody careless, stupid, amateur mistake.' He slowed as he approached the turn, putting out his arm to keep the other two back. When one of them—he didn't bother to see who—tried to slip up beside him he again reached out without looking and gave a powerful, silent shove backward that spoke volumes: 'Get back there you Damned Stupid Yank.' A quick, cautious peek around the corner told him all he needed to know: they were tinkering with the cargo bay door, placing a small charge on the control panel from the looks of things. He simultaneously slipped silently around the corner and took aim, easily dropping the one closest to him.

The second had other ideas, though. He dashed down the corridor, evading Malcolm's best shots until he came to the next turn and stashed himself around the corner. Malcolm almost smiled with the knowledge that the corridor the alien had taken was a dead end, leading only to a couple of junior officers' quarters (presently unoccupied, he knew, since the officers in question were on duty). Even if the bugger was brazen enough to make a run back out into this corridor, he'd have an airlock to one side of him and an annoyed Tactical Officer on the other. "You've nowhere to go," Reed advised, taking a few cautious steps toward the alien's hiding spot, "so best just to make things easier on yourself and give up. You won't be harmed," he added for good measure. Of course, if the intruder made it necessary for Malcolm to stun him it would sting like hell...but it wouldn't harm him, so technically, Reed reasoned, he hadn't lied.

The lieutenant was frankly amazed that the alien did indeed step out slowly, hands over his helmet-covered head. Malcolm stepped carefully toward the intruder, still very much aware of the officers behind him, and took two more steps forward before he saw the object in the intruder's hand. The captain hadn't noticed and had just stepped around Reed when the alien gave the small, round object an expert toss in their direction.

Reed didn't even have to think about it—his actions rapid and instinctive, he turned and used the length of the rifle to shove Archer (and, it turned out, Trip, who was right behind the captain) backward with all the strength he had as he shouted, "Grenade!" Tucker and Archer both fell to the floor as Malcolm dropped the rifle and made for the explosive, certain there wasn't time to pitch it out the airlock. He only had time to consider one other option. It had rolled almost all the way to them and both officers gasped as the lieutenant expertly scooped it up and strode away from them. After a few graceful, rapid steps he rolled the device back where it came from. Just as Malcolm started to turn away the grenade exploded squarely between the feet of its very surprised owner. Tucker and Archer hadn't even had a chance to get up, and were still on the floor watching in shock as the force of the explosion sent Reed's body sailing over them. His impact with the deck made a sickening sound, his body rolling several times before coming to a stop. They scrambled to their feet and raced to his unmoving form.

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Seated at the desk in his Ready Room Archer tried to concentrate on the damage reports in front of him, but all he could think about was Malcolm and what had happened in the corridor. Every time he closed his eyes he could see the lieutenant heading for the grenade and throwing it back down the hall. There hadn't been any indication that Reed had even had to think about it—he'd moved as if it was the most natural thing in the world to scoop up a bomb and roll it down the hall like a bowling ball. Neither man had even had time to scream at Malcolm to stop, or even to simply call out his name. Worse than the image of Malcolm with the grenade in hand or even the explosion itself was the image of the man's body being propelled over them, tossed down the corridor like a rag doll, and the sound of him hitting the deck and flopping down the hall. God...it had sounded as if the last vestige of life left in him had been knocked loose and cast aside.

They'd reached him at the same time, both men somehow suppressing the urge to scoop up the injured, unconscious man. All of Trip's attention was on his friend, begging and cajoling him to hold on as they checked for vital signs, put in an urgent call to Sickbay, and tried to stem the worst of the bleeding. Archer had spared a stomach-wrenching look at what was left of the alien's mangled body before summoning Security to deal with the surviving intruder who was still unconscious where Malcolm had dropped him. When Phlox arrived with a medical team they'd stepped back and looked on helplessly as the usually jovial Denobulan grimly set to work, all jocularity left far behind. Jon remembered looking first at Trip's hands then his own, his brain not wanting to register the blood he saw there. When they put Malcolm on the gurney and wordlessly hustled him away both men stood staring at the large patch of blood on the floor at their feet, leaving unsaid what they were both thinking—if Malcolm hadn't acted so quickly and efficiently, the blood of all three men would have been staining the deck.

The captain stood abruptly and began pacing around his office, hoping to purge the memories while knowing that he couldn't. Thankfully the door chime rang. "Come in."

Trip entered, pale and subdued. "Hey, Captain," he said softly, obviously still as stunned as Archer. "Just wanted to let you know we've got warp back. Rest of the repairs should be finished within the hour." Jon acknowledged the news with a silent nod. After a moment Tucker roused the courage to ask, "Any news yet?"

"He's still in surgery, I think. Phlox hasn't called yet, and he said he would as soon as he was done, so..." Swallowing hard, he let the thought trail off. Jon returned to his seat, legs suddenly unwilling to hold him up. "He said there was a lot of shrapnel to deal with, a lot of...damage...so we shouldn't be surprised if it took a while for him to finish."

"God, Jon," Trip whispered, sinking into the other chair, "I can't believe this is happening."

"Yeah...I know."

Both men remained silent a long while before Trip began venting his building anger. "It was so damned senseless...we didn't do anything to them, we don't know what they wanted, hell, we don't even know who they were!"

"I know," Jon agreed meekly. "I haven't even tried to guess what they wanted, and the one we've got in the brig isn't talking...won't even take off his helmet."

"Lemme go down there," the engineer growled. "Betcha I can get that damned helmet offa him an' get him ta talk."

The captain shook his head. "Trip, to tell you the truth right now I don't much care who they are or what they wanted, I just want..." He couldn't say it aloud but knew Trip wanted the same thing. They wanted Malcolm back. They wanted Phlox to call them and say that the lieutenant was out of surgery, doing fine, bitching about being stuck in Sickbay, and asking when could he get out. In short, they wanted to know that everything was going to be back to normal, and that they weren't facing the very real possibility of never again seeing the Brit at his station on the Bridge.

When the comm broke the silence Jon's hand flashed out to answer it, eager for the doctor's report. T'Pol's voice came through instead, momentarily confusing him. "Captain, there is another ship approaching us. Its configuration is similar to that of our attackers but this ship is much larger. They will be here in under two minutes."

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She hadn't been exaggerating when she'd told them it was "much larger": this ship was over three times the size of Enterprise. T'Pol's scans showed engines capable of at least Warp 7, shields that phase cannons and torpedoes wouldn't even begin to weaken, and weapons that would likely take out the hull plating and maybe a deck or two with the first shot. The Vulcan had also reported that Enterprise had been thoroughly scanned, which meant that the alien vessel was well aware of their smaller opponent's vulnerabilities. Standing in the middle of the Bridge, the captain reviewed his options. None of them were good. Archer glanced over at Ensign Rossini, seated at the Tactical Station. "Ensign...any idea what they're doing?"

Malcolm had trained the young man well—he almost succeeded in hiding his nervousness as he replied, shaking his head. "So far all they've done is scan us, sir. Their weapons are fully charged and ready, but they haven't locked on to us."

"Mr. Rossini, keep our weapons at the ready as well, but don't lock on to them just yet." Maybe if they took up a similar posture, he thought, the aliens would think twice about taking the first shot. 'Yeah, and maybe Porthos poops rainbows.' "Hoshi?" the captain switched his attention to Sato.

She, too, shook her head. "They're not making any attempt to communicate, sir, and they're not responded to our hails."

Still standing, Archer glared at the screen. They couldn't outrun or outshoot the vessel now hanging nose-to-nose with them, and he somehow doubted that even Travis could outmaneuver them. All that left was this damned nerve-wracking, maddening staring contest. Anger born of frustration built within him; he knew there was little if any hope of fending off an assault, but it would be nice to at least know what these people wanted.

A beep from Hoshi's console shattered the tense silence. Rechecking the readings she looked at the captain. "Sir...they're hailing us. Audio only," she added, puzzled.

Archer nodded the silent command for her to open the channel. He made no attempt to mask his ire. "This is Captain Jonathan Ar—"

"You are advised to power down all weapons systems," the other ship's captain interrupted in an artificial-sounding, genderless voice. "Maintain position and prepare to receive a boarding party. Resistance would be imprudent. It is in your best interest to comply." With an audible click the transmission ended.

"Hoshi?" Archer looked to the ensign.

She shook her head. "They've closed the channel.

Reviewing the options one last time as he stared at the alien ship filling the viewscreen, Jon sighed. The risk was too great. "Mr. Rossini...power down all weapons. Travis—"

"Capt'n," Trip broke the silence, indignant at the alien's demands, "tell me we're not gonna just hand the ship over without a fight! There's gotta be somethin'—"

"What would you suggest, Commander?" Archer snapped angrily as he spun to face the engineer. "We'd burn up our engines trying to outrun them, and they're more than capable of blowing us to kingdom come if we start shooting." He took a deep breath, trying to slow his hammering heart and rein in his temper. "Trip," he said softly once he'd succeeded, "we were evenly matched against that first ship, and were lucky that almost all the injuries were minor. But against this one? I can't risk any more lives when there's no real chance at fending them off." Sighing, he sank into his chair. "Travis...maintain position."

The oppressive silence that settled over the bridge lasted only a few moments, broken by a page from the doctor. "Sickbay to Captain Archer."

The somber tone in the doctor's voice made Jon's stomach sink. He braced himself for the worse. "Go ahead, Phlox."

"Lieutenant Reed is out of surgery. We were able to remove all the shrapnel but he lost a great deal of blood and is still in critical condition...although I am cautiously optimistic about his recovery I should warn you that over the next couple of hours things could still go either way. Provided his condition improves, you may be able to visit him in a few hours."

Staring impotently at the ship on the viewscreen, Captain Archer shook his head. "Doctor...I think that might be a problem."