Paris tactfully edged a few centimetres away as Tuvok slowly stood up after his examination. "The Captain is dead."

Chakotay rubbed the bridge of his nose. Damn it. The ship was falling apart due to the Borg attack they'd barely escaped from, and now this.

"Okay. Torres, Seven. Damage report and repair schedule based on system priority as soon as possible. Kim, Paris, try to use what is working for a round the clock sentry watch, because the universe will make this the perfect time for one of the many friends we've made in this quadrant to come and pick a fight. B'Elanna, get someone to try and reboot the Doctor ..."

The door to the bridge hissed open, and the EMH walked in. "Already on line, I've authorised emergency triage protocols and will begin treatment on the critical cases as soon as the crew headcount has been finalised."

"Your central processors were fried in the first attack. How the hell could you ..."

Someone strode in. Paris found himself automatically standing at attention.

"Easy fix. Found some nifty dedicated systems not being used in your holodeck, rerouted his processing functions through those."

Seven of Nine found random, and abnormally high hormonal levels within her system. Malfunctioning implants were the most likely cause, the only reason she was staring so intently at this stranger, and primarily exhaling through her mouth.

This person gave Torres a wry grin. "Just heading through this section of the multiverse, and saw you were a bit of a pickle. Most of your sensor networks were knocked out, probably why you didn't see me slip in."

Torres tried to cover up her smile and girlish giggle. She failed miserably.

"Anyway, let's get the how-you-do's out of the way and get you out of here. Saw a nebula a few parsecs that way that'll hide your sensor profile long enough to get some serious repair work in. Just need to get your FTL's working long enough to get there, and Bob's Your Uncle."

Chakotay found his voice. "As much as I'd like to take orders or suggestions from a complete and total stranger, would you mind telling us who you are?"

The man raised a silver-encased arm and took off what Paris recognised as genuine classic aviator style sunglasses. "Arnold J. Rimmer. My friends call me Ace."

" ... What a Guy ..."

Paris tactfully edged a few centimetres away from the awestruck Kim.