Archer had reacted to the news of a Section 31 Agent on board by putting virtually the whole ship on lockdown. All non-essential personnel were confined to quarters when not on duty or in the Mess. Security personnel guarded all of the key areas of the ship in pairs, and crew were logged in and out of their quarters, duty stations and Mess so that every crewmember's position was monitored at all times. Communications channels were shut down to essential only and all transmissions were being closely monitored.

Reed had investigated the site of the attack on Brogan, to no avail; all he found was a spilt carafe of tea and two rather stale sandwiches strewn on the deck. He felt a flash of guilt, recalling how long she had been absent from the Armoury and that he had thought nothing of it. He had no doubt Brogan had been targeted because he had chosen her to assist with the Armoury repairs and possibly due to her own chequered history with Section 31. Frustrated by the lack of evidence as to who might have carried out the brutal attack, and with Brogan unconscious in Sickbay and unable to tell him anything, Reed had returned to the Armoury to continue with the repairs. He elected to work alone; the rest of his staff were stretched thin enough as it was guarding other essential systems.

As he worked determinedly on the final task, the thrice-damned targeting scanners, he scrubbed the back of his hand over blurry eyes and checked the time on the console. He had been working for nearly twenty-six hours straight. He wondered about asking Phlox for a stimulant to keep him going; he elected instead for drinking the stale cold remains of a strong black coffee. Wincing at the bitter taste, he yawned and stretched, leaning heavily against the console, punching in the command codes to activate the scanners. Nothing happened. He swore under his breath, and dropped to his knees, staring at the wiring, unable to make neither head nor tail of the glowing tangle of circuitry.

He poked something experimentally and then sighed. Perhaps the whole array was faulty and he was going to have to start again from scratch... a chirp from the door control snagged his attention away from the wiring.

"Who is it?" he called out, hoping his voice did not sound as exhausted as he thought it did.

"Trip," called back the familiar voice, through the automatic intercom, "you goin' to let me in?"

Reed dragged himself off the floor with some effort, and keyed open the door. Trip stood the other side, holding a covered tray, looking disgustingly awake and alert.

"Jeeze, Malcolm, when was the last time you slept? You look awful!"

Unable and unwilling to reply, Reed simply stood back and waved for Trip to enter the Armoury. As he did so and the door closed behind him, Trip let out a low whistle.

"Good grief," Tucker stared around in open admiration, "an' they call me a miracle worker..."

Reed folded his arms, glancing around. He had to admit, it did look very different; everything was immaculate, clean and tidy, restored to his normal levels of pristine neatness... He'd even re-hung Brogan's tattered Christmas tree, giving it pride of place high up on the bulkhead between the two torpedo launchers, wistfully recalling their earlier banter as he had placed it carefully on a hook he had installed just for that purpose. Everything was fixed, cleaned and returned to normal except, of course, for the targeting scanners.

"Here," Trip held up the tray, "nobody's seen you at the Mess for at least the last twelve hours so I brought you somethin' to eat..."

"Actually, food sounds pretty good right now," Reed admitted, rubbing his eyes tiredly, "thanks, Trip."

The food in question turned out to be two bowls of chicken stir-fry and a mug of hot tea. Reed seized at the tea and sipped it with obvious relief. Trip handed him a bowl and a fork and then tucked into his own dish with apparent relish. Reed ate more slowly, mechanically, staring at the armoury console, trying to think but his mind fogged by the thick clouds that only gather in the minds of the chronically over-worked and sleep-deprived. Trip followed his gaze, and then crouched down, flicking his expert eye over the wiring.

"Huh," the Engineer grunted, "you're more tired than I thought..."

He set his dish aside, unplugged two of the wires from one of the relays, swapped them around and plugged them back in. Miraculously, the console whirred and powered up to life. Reed set his own bowl aside with a clatter, food forgotten, as he rushed forward, tapping several keys, his slender fingers skipping across the console with practiced ease.

"Yes," he breathed, relief surging through his veins, "God, it would have taken me hours to spot that... Trip, you're a genius... Oh... oh thank God..."

"What?" Trip frowned at him, but his expression was amused; he was not used to seeing Reed so expressive; it was clear that his exhaustion had lowered his usual emotional barriers, "What's got you so happy?"

"The targeting scanners," Reed grinned, closing his eyes briefly in delight, "they're aligned. They're perfectly aligned... Everything's back online."

"Great. Now do yourself a favour and go get some sleep! You look like a zombie."

"Is that an order, Commander?"

"Damn straight it is," Trip smiled, "come on, I'll take you back to your quarters before you decide to go sleep in a torpedo tube or somethin'... let's go."

"One thing first, Trip," Reed crossed to the wall console and flicked the communications channel open, "Reed to Captain Archer.

"Archer here; go ahead."

"Sir," Reed took a deep breath, "I'm pleased to report that the weapons systems are now back online and fully operational. Everything checks out, Captain."

"With the Chief Engineer's seal of approval!" Trip piped up, crossing to join him.

"Good work, Malcolm!" Archer responded, jubilantly, "I know you've still got a lot to do but you've earned a break – at least eight hours of sleep, I reckon. We'll be keeping the ship on high alert."

"Thank you, sir," Reed said, gratefully, "I'll resume my investigation immediately afterwards."

"Eight hours at least, Lieutenant – Archer out."

"Well," Trip smiled, as the com channel closed, "you heard the man. Let's go."

Reed, for once, put up no resistance, pausing only to seal the Armoury door behind them – he could clear up the dinner dishes once he had caught some much-needed sleep.


Some eight and a half hours later, Malcolm Reed found himself feeling much better; he had slept, showered, donned a clean uniform, and had awoken with a grim sense of determination to find their saboteur. First things first, however... He started with a visit to Sickbay. As he stepped through the door, clutching his data pad, Phlox was bending over one of the monitors, frowning slightly; he turned and his expressive features shifted into a smile of greeting.

"Ah, Lieutenant!" he beamed, "What can I do for you?"

"I just," Reed hesitated, "Well, I'd like to see Lieutenant Brogan, if I may – and I'd like to ask you a few questions about what happened."

"Lieutenant Brogan has yet to regain consciousness," Phlox's smile waned slightly but he gestured to Reed to follow, "she suffered a severe neurological shock, so I'll be keeping her sedated for the next twelve hours at least."

"Will there be any lasting damage?" Reed asked, quietly, as the doctor twitched aside the privacy curtain.

"Fortunately not, though I imagine she will have quite the headache on regaining consciousness," Phlox replied, "though the last time Lieutenant Brogan was in my Sickbay I did learn quite a number of new, ah, colourful phrases, shall we say? Some of them I have yet to learn a proper definition to; when I asked Ensign Sato for an explanation she seemed quite uncomfortable!"

"I can imagine," Reed managed a grim smirk which rapidly faded when he saw Brogan lying unconscious on the bed.

Clad in a black vest – she hated the standard issue Starfleet blue ones – with a blanket drawn up to her waist, only the slight rise and fall of her chest and the monitors told Reed she was alive.

"Bloody hell," Reed folded his arms and shook his head, "She's not going to be able to tell me anything when she wakes up, is she?"

"Probably not," Phlox admitted, casting professional eye over the monitor readings, "you were familiar with the device used on Lieutenant Brogan – you must also be familiar with its effects?"

"I never used one," Reed interjected, quickly, lest the doctor think otherwise, "but... I did have one used on me, in training. All agents go through it – kind of a test, a rite of passage – they demonstrate the lowest setting on you to show how much it hurts. We're all trained to resist interrogation techniques and that was part of it. Brogan must have got hit with the highest setting; you wouldn't use that in interrogation, that's designed to instantly incapacitate, usually for covert operations, infiltrations, that kind of thing. I haven't seen one in years."

Reed did not add that he had seen the effects of long-term use of the device on prisoners and suspects at a top-secret detention facility he had visited once; severe repeated neurological shocks caused deterioration of the central nervous system and neural trauma that usually left the unfortunate subjects as dribbling, trembling wrecks, combined with interrogation and sensory torture that broke their wills and their souls, making them cry, weeping and moaning, offering up any and all information required of them to make it stop. Reed shied away from his recollections, tuning back into the here and now.

"That the device is small and easily concealed means it would have been easy to smuggle on board," Phlox commented, "though I'm curious as to why it was left behind..."

"I'm wondering about that too, doctor," Reed nodded, "though there were no fingerprints or DNA traces on it, so I can't identify who might have used it... it's possible whoever attacked Brogan was forced to flee the scene before they could retrieve the agoniser."

"Agoniser? An apt moniker..."

"It's what the agents called it," Reed winced at the memory, sparing a last glance at the recumbent Brogan, "you will let me know the moment she wakes up, won't you?"

"Of course, Lieutenant," Phlox nodded, solemnly, "and please, keep that hideous device under lock and key – I would not want to see it used again."

"As soon as my investigation is completed, doctor, I intend to destroy it completely," Reed said, firmly, "before I go, do you recall seeing anyone in the vicinity of the location of the attack? Anyone at all who might have been out of place, or trying to retrieve the device or other evidence?"

"I'm afraid not, Lieutenant – my attention was focussed on Lieutenant Brogan. Crewman Faraday might be of more assistance; a couple of other crewmembers did attend from the Mess Hall to offer assistance but I'm afraid I cannot recall... what about the security footage?"

"It was the first thing I reviewed from my quarters before I came here – the camera had been disabled," Reed sighed, folding his arms as he studied the tattoos on Brogan's arms, chest and neck, "the attacker may have lain in wait and must have lured her around the corner somehow – Brogan's a tough fighter, though, it must have come as a surprise."

"Do you have any theories as to why she was attacked?"

"Nothing concrete," Reed admitted, folding his arms pensively, "I suspect it's because whoever attacked her was the one trying to cripple our weapons; I'd specifically chosen Brogan to assist me, the assailant might have gone for her in an effort to slow down or halt the repairs."

"Then be careful, Lieutenant – it must have occurred to you that you, too, could be a target for the saboteur."

"It had crossed my mind... thank you doctor. I'll return later."


Departing Sickbay, Reed made his way down to the Mess Hall. He nodded a polite greeting to the two armed guards stationed at the door and stepped inside, grabbing a mug of tea and a croissant. Choosing an empty table, he cast a quick glance around the room. A few off-duty personnel were sitting around the room but the mood was hushed and sombre; conversations were muted, whispered conspiratorially over drinks and food. Everyone knew by now that there was a saboteur on board; perhaps a stowaway, an infiltrating alien, or, unthinkably, a member of the crew – everyone was a suspect and everyone was on edge. Reed's gaze fell upon the piano in the corner – his piano – Brogan's guitar was resting up against it, she had obviously been practicing in her last off-duty shift. With a pang of regret, he recalled the carols concert she had been looking forward to; a glance at his pad told him that the date was the 23rd December. It would have been tomorrow. Reed wondered, idly, if the lockdown meant Christmas had been cancelled. He did not particularly enjoy the "silly season", as his father had termed it, but it was not the circumstances he would have wished for to avoid it.

Casting the thoughts aside, he finished his quick breakfast and took the dishes back, before slipping out of the Mess Hall. His eyes inadvertently wandered to the corridor Brogan had diverted down before being attacked. He shook his head to himself and, concentrating on the notes on his pad, he made his way back to the armoury. He wanted to run a final check on all of the weapons systems and he needed to review the repair logs from the past few months to see who might have had consistent access to the sabotaged systems. Entering the Armoury, he sealed the door behind himself – an action that was rapidly becoming a habit – and placed all of the dinner dishes from a few hours previously back on the tray Trip had brought down, making a mental note to drop them back at the Mess Hall before he reported to the Captain later.

The silence in the Armoury honed his focus down to razor-sharp intensity as he began to access the duty rosters and repair logs. There were normally always at least two crewmen on duty in the Armoury; no one person should have had unrestricted access to the systems alone aside from himself. Reed began cross-checking the roster and the maintenance reports, looking to see who had accessed all of the systems going back over a period of six months. He included all of the Armoury and Engineering personnel as those being the most likely to have access; he gradually whittled the long list down to half a dozen personnel, all of whom had worked on all of the sabotaged systems within the last six months. He downloaded the details from the main computer to his pad and then immediately erased the record from the memory core – if the saboteur's name was on this list, he did not want his suspect to monitor the progress of his investigation.

Tapping the pad against his palm, he stared sightlessly at the bulkhead for a long time. The list was short, but there they were, his six suspects, discounting himself and Lieutenant Brogan, of course. Crewman Davies, Crewman Oban, Crewman Stuart, Ensign Timmins, Ensign Lee and Ensign D'Arcy...

D'Arcy. Reed was uncomfortably aware that young D'Arcy was also a former Section 31 Agent, who had joined the Enterprise crew along with Brogan after their paths had crossed on a mission. Reed had known Brogan for years, way back from in his undercover days, but D'Arcy... was it possible he was still working as an agent? Reed frowned; he knew first-hand that once recruited, one never really left Section 31, but Commander Harris and his cronies were usually more subtle than that. D'Arcy was an obvious suspect, almost too obvious, but Reed wished to be thorough. D'Arcy would be interviewed in his turn along with all of the others.

Picking up the tray of dirty dishes, Reed returned them to the Mess Hall, grabbing a mug of tea while he was there, and took it back to the Armoury. He was so engrossed in his pad that when the door obligingly opened for him when he pressed the button, he thought nothing of it. Stepping through, he took a sip of his tea, and then froze in place. The door had opened. The security seal had been removed. He glanced back over his shoulder, staring at the door, his mind racing; had he locked it behind him when he'd left? He was certain that he had done so. Hastily setting aside the tea and the pad, he crossed to the monitor and immediately played back the security footage. There was footage of him leaving, a scant twelve minutes ago... the door opened again, and then the footage cut out. Someone had entered the Armoury, erased the security log, and done God-knew what else. Checking the computer, the security code used to access the door had also been erased, all trace of the mysterious visitor carefully eradicated.

"Shit," Reed swore, loudly, as he leaned on his console for a moment, scrubbing a hand across his jaw, "Shit, shit, shit, bugger, crap and bollocks..."

He sighed. Twelve minutes. There was a lot a saboteur could have done in twelve minutes. He tried to think if anyone had walked past him in the corridor on his way back from the Mess, but he'd been totally focussed on his pad. So much for the ever-vigilant Tactical Officer... giving himself a mental kick, he took out a scanner and began to methodically scan every bulkhead, console and surface for trace evidence, fingerprints, or even, God help him, explosives – there was a lot that could happen in twelve minutes. Reed knew that he, personally, could have broken the security encryption on the door, accessed a torpedo or key power relay, planted a low-yield detonator and then been out again in under five minutes.

As he passed the torpedo loaded onto launch tube one, the scanner emitted a low beep. He frowned at the readings, moving closer to the torpedo. Of all the things he had been expecting to detect... the scanner beeped again, confirming his initial scan. The torpedo appeared to be giving off an organic matter reading. Still frowning at the readings, Reed conducted a more detailed scan. Something was distinctly wrong – the photonic torpedo ought to have been emitting a low power reading from the magnetic isolation field which held the gamma rays in check from the matter/antimatter containment pods. There was no power reading, no gamma rays, nothing – just an indication of organic matter.

He set the scanner aside, noticing, with a growing sense of dismay, that a micro-spanner was sitting innocuously by the torpedo and the casing nuts had been removed before being hastily hand fitted back into place. He was able to twist them open by hand. Someone had clearly very quickly opened and re-closed the torpedo. Removing the loose bolts, Reed unclipped the torpedo casing, and prised off the panel. He opened it up and his heart skipped a beat in shock even as the panel slipped from his fingers to clatter onto the deck plates. From inside the torpedo, Ensign Timmins stared back at him with a glassy, sightless gaze, her red hair a shocking contrast to her death-white face; her neck twisted at a grotesque angle.