AN: Geez. Well there is nothing I can say to excuse myself for how long this has taken. My New Year's resolution is to finish this story. If you are still reading, bless you for your patience, and thank you. I am one of the many people suffering through the storms and cold. Being trapped inside has driven me back to writing rather than, oh say, cleaning, organizing, paying bills. I anticipate two or three more chapters to wrap this up, and I hope to post them over the next month or so. But I've been wrong before. Just this morning, actually.

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Archer felt his eyes drooping. With an effort he straightened and stifled a yawn. Glancing over at the "jury" who appeared to be having similar difficulty, he considered calling a recess-- but it was only 11:00 AM, and he had already called two breaks. At this rate the hearing would never be concluded. Archer forced his attention back to Lieutenant Reed, who was still questioning the doctor. He had taken the captain's warning to heart, and was asking his question in a near monotone which was having the effect of luring his listeners into a near somnolent state. The material he was asking about was exceedingly dry—he had gone over the doctor's credentials first and followed that by having the doctor give the medical explanation for Ensign Carey's death, and the doctor had ventured into science talk that had lost everyone in the room, with the possible exception of Reed, who had researched the topic thoroughly. Archer's multiple attempts to have the doctor focus on the important and general aspects of the ensign's death, rather than engaging in a detailed discussion of the clotting pathway of humans had been futile. Why Reed was tolerating the prolonged and irrelevant monologue was unclear. The area of space they were in had been very quiet, devoid of any populated planets, so Archer had been unable to use that as an excuse to take breaks from the hearing. Archer half hoped someone would start shooting at them, if only to break the tedium. He quickly dismissed the thought, admonishing himself for being concerned about boredom, given all Enterprise had experienced during her brief existence- but then Malcolm started into another exquisitely detailed question and Archer sighed. He opened his mouth, prepared to prompt Malcolm to move things along into a more directly relevant direction, when Enterprise suddenly rocked. It was subtle, but enough to make Trip glance up sharply from the padd he'd been studying and to make Malcolm pause. Before either officer could speak , Archer stood.

"Let's take a short break. Everyone report to their duty stations. Panel, I don't think I need to remind you not to discuss this hearing. Malcolm, I'll want a tactical status report in fifteen minutes. Trip, check engineering and see if there is anything going on down there that might have caused this. Dismissed."

The response was immediate. Within thirty seconds the mess hall had cleared of everyone but Archer and Phlox. Archer paused at the door, and glanced back at his doctor, who was slowly gathering up a few padds.

"Are you okay?" Archer asked.

"Fine." Phlox gave the captain a wide, obviously faked smile. Abruptly his expression fell. "Actually, no, captain, I'm not. I don't suppose it would be normal if I were."

"No, I suppose not." Archer belatedly realized that he had given little thought to the doctor's state of mind. The Denobulan was normally so independent, so stable, that Archer had assumed he was handling these events with his normal aplomb. He hadn't paid a visit to sickbay in days. Suddenly he realized that Phlox might think Archer held him responsible. He wanted to reassure the doctor, but as the ad-hoc judge, it would be inappropriate. As soon as this was over, regardless of the outcome, he resolved to have a long meal with the doctor. "Doctor… this will end."

"Ahhh… but will it?" Phlox replied, and Archer could only wonder what the doctor meant.

Like everyone else, Phlox went to his duty station—an empty sickbay. Only his menagerie saw the tired doctor cross the bay and activate his computer. Sliding into this chair, he pondered his options. Trip had been hounding him for details of why he had made the decisions he had, and so far Phlox had refused to disclose any information. He didn't want to do what his attorney had suggested, didn't want to even consider it. But he had the right to a defense, didn't he?

Phlox scanned his monitor, and with a few clicks opened the files he wanted. He spent several minutes reading and double-checking. Finally, he closed the file, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. He took himself back to the day Ensign Carey had died, tried to consider his decisions from all angles, tried to imagine how he might have made decisions if he hadn't known the injured people so well, hadn't been privy to the information in his files, hadn't been friends with them.

One of the first things he learned in his medical training was that friendships with patients could be perilous. It was not strictly forbidden, of course. But it was difficult. Emotional involvement could result in poor decisions for one thing. It was difficult to do painful things to patients, difficult to give them bad news, and even harder if they were close friends. For another, it was an unequal relationship. As a physician he knew his patient's secrets, knew their frailties, both physical and emotional. It could never be an equal relationship. That was why every medical society of which he knew, both on Denobula and Earth, prohibited intimate relationships between doctors and patients. Friendships were a gray area left to the physician's discretion.

On Enterprise, Phlox had been in a unique situation. He was the only physician aboard. It was hard not having another physician to commiserate with, to bounce ideas off of, and to engage in the very morbid humor that only physicians could truly appreciate—humor that was a necessary coping mechanism, but that would appall any patients who happened to overhear it. It was not meant with disrespect toward the patients, but was a means of venting the frustration and stress, and sometimes sadness, that were part of the daily life of a physician. Lacking that outlet, cut off from both Denobula and his adopted home of Earth, Phlox had no choice but to build close relationships with his shipmates. And it had been wonderful. He had developed friendships that had been as deep as any he had ever had. Had these friendships impaired his professional judgment? Had his objectivity been compromised to the point that he had ignored the medical evidence and based his decision on less objective factors?

Phlox shook his head and reconsidered the open files. Here was objective data; a patient's medical history was every bit as important data as any lab test or imaging study. Knowing what he did about the members of the crew, had he preceded any differently, he would have been just as open to criticism. He could imagine the scene:

"Doctor, are you familiar with the medical histories of the crew of the Enterprise?"

"Yes."

"And are you familiar with the records of Captain Archer, Lieutenant Reed, and Ensign Carey in particular?"

"Yes."

"Then, Doctor, how could you possibly have failed to consider…."

It was a no-win situation.

Phlox shook his head. Second guessing himself was to no avail. He had made the best decisions he could, based on the data he had at the time. And yet he couldn't stop re-living the day of the accident. He had re-played the scenario in his mind countless times. He had questioned his observations, tried to remember exactly what he'd been thinking, tried to remember how he'd come to each decision. But it had happened so quickly, decisions being made within seconds. He had been processing so much information, so quickly… and critical information hadn't been available to him yet. He should have picked up on Carey's condition. He knew that. All his attempts to justify his actions didn't change that fact. In his own heart he knew that he should have picked it up. Maybe not initially- but when her pain had persisted, he should have considered a dissection. Of course, this was all in hindsight. In the heat of the moment, working on a species he was just becoming really familiar with, he had done the best he could. And Ensign Carey was dead.

Mistakes were an inevitable part of his profession. This was not his first mistake, likely not even the first missed diagnosis that had lead to a death. When people were very sick, it was often very hard to determine exactly what was wrong with them. Very sick people died, and it was often hard to tell if the death had been from a delayed or wrong diagnosis, or if the person simply was too sick to survive, even with perfect medical care. It was a realization that every physician reached early in their medical career, and learned to live with. Learned to live with the fact that they were fallible beings, they would make mistakes, and those mistakes might cost a life.

It didn't make it any easier.

Archer sat in the captain's chair and surveyed the bridge. The ship was about to traverse a very hazardous area of space, fraught with small asteroids, some only a few meters wide. The area was peppered with gravitational abnormalities as well. The crew needed to be at their best, so Archer had stopped the proceedings the day prior and they would not resume until the ship was in safer space.

When he announced the break, the relief had been palpable. The ship was split over the on-going hearing. While most of the crew was torn, unsure what to think, a few vocal crewmen had made their opinions known. This group was nearly equally divided among those who thought Phlox had caused Ensign Carey's death, and those who felt Reed was taking things too far. Not surprisingly, the armory crew was largely aligned with Reed, and the science areas were more sympathetic to Phlox. Lingustics, support services, and engineering were nearly evenly split. Archer had overheard the whispered conversations.. He made no effort to stifle the whispers, knowing that would only keep them out of his hearing, but would do nothing to stop them. He preferred knowing what the crew was thinking, so he said nothing. So far the tensions had not spilled over into the work areas.

At the helm, Mayweather was sweating. He was manually piloting the ship, making corrections every few minutes, guided largely by Reed at tactical. The armory officer was closely monitoring the sensors, tracking the asteroids and anomalies as closely as possible, calling warnings and new headings to the helmsman. T'Pol was providing backup. Trip was parked in engineering. The sudden bursts of acceleration could cause the dilithium oxygen mix to become unbalanced, so he was making manual adjustments. He had left Rostov in charge briefly earlier and come to the bridge to confer with Malcolm. His visit had been brief and he had left mumbling about how it was nothing short of abuse to treat his engines this way.

It wasn't just the engines that were being strained. Some of the anomalies created small gravitational fields, and when the ship brushed the edges, as happened on several occasions the hull would heat up, and there would be small electrical surges. The hull plating had been polarized and that was helping, but the surges had already caused several small electrical fires. They'd been easily controlled so far, but should they affect critical systems they could cause a disaster. Malcolm had been in frequent communication with the armory, and the captain knew that he'd ordered the torpedoes and phase cannons locked down, so that they would not be inadvertently fired should a surge affect their control systems. The captain knew Malcolm wanted badly to be in the armory, but he was needed on the bridge.

It happened just as they were about to clear the field. T'Pol has just given him the good news that she was detecting clear space 500 kilometers ahead. At their speed they would be clear in a matter of minutes. The words had barely left her mouth when there was a fierce jolt, the strongest they'd experienced. Archer barely had time to process that something had happened before alarms began screeching. Trip's voice on the intercom was near panicked.

"Captain! We've got real trouble here! The dilithium matrix is unbalanced. I think--" he was cut off by what sounded like an explosion.

"Trip!" There was no response to the captain's hail. "Trip, respond!" Static was the only response. Archer dared hope the loss of contact was simply a communication failure, but he feared the worst. The screeching was continuing unabated. "Report!"

"We are receiving injury and damage reports from throughout the ship," T'Pol informed him. "However engineering has not reported in."

"Armory?" Malcolm asked from across the bride.

"Several injuries, mostly minor, no significant damage," T'Pol told him.

Malcolm nodded acknowlegment, and then bent his head over his console, before glancing up. "Sir, whatever that was, it's knocked out my panel. I can't do anything here. Permission to go check engineering, and then the armory."

Archer nodded his approval of the idea. "Take a portable radio," he instructed. "Let me know what you find."

Malcolm didn't reply, but turned and opened a panel behind him, pulling out two portable radios. He tossed one to Archer, and took the other before darting to the turbo lift. Archer was about to instruct him not to use the lift, but the doors slid closed too quickly. He could only hope the lift wasn't damaged. Turning back to the bridge, he gathered his thoughts.

"T'Pol, are we clear of the field?"

"Yes, captain," was the calm reply.

"Travis, power down all unnecessary systems. Keep life support, sickbay and the helm fully powered, but minimize power elsewhere. Hoshi, I want you to see if there is any sign of any other ships, or anything else that could concern us in our vicinity. T'pol, you and I need--"

"Captain." Malcolm's voice came through the radio Archer was holding. "I'm in engineering. It's bad, sir. There are several injuries. Mostly minor, but some serious. The engine has been badly damaged. There's been a breech in the integrity of the dilithium containment field, and it's emitting some pretty nasty fumes. We need to get everyone out of here, and come back with environmental suits."

"Start evacuating," Archer ordered. "Where is Trip?"

"He's unconscious, sir. I don't know how bad- I don't see any blood, but I don't know. Sir, I need to get these people out of here."

"Do it," Archer replied.

"Aye, sir." Malcolm's voice could be heard for a few more seconds as he apparently forgot to release the talk button on the radio. "Let's get these injured people out of here!"

Malcolm surveyed the scene and tried to think clearly. It was hard with the noxious fumes spewing from the engine. The crew was working quickly, pulling the injured out of engineering. Malcolm shuddered to think how the rough handling might be aggravating their injuries, but it couldn't be helped. There was no time to assess and apply first aid; that would be done in the hallway, once engineering was sealed off.

The last of the crew were evacuating, and Malcolm glanced around to make certain that no one had been left behind. He had tried to do a head count, but in the confusion had lost count. Glancing up, movement caught his attention. Looking more carefully, he saw Rostov trying to climb up the stairs to the engine's second level. He was holding his left arm tightly across his chest, obviously injured.

"Rostov! Get down here! We have to get out!"

"Sir, I have to shut down the flow valve. Otherwise the engine will blow. With the dilithium container breeched, the flow will continue until it overloads !"

"I'll do it! You get down! You're injured," Malcolm shouted back. It was obvious Rostov could barely climb the stairs. There was no way he would be able to pull the heavy lever to stop the dilithium flow." Malcolm was already moving toward the engine. He coughed, his lungs burning, and he could hear Rostov wheezing. He reached the crewman, and shoved him toward the exit. "Get out. I'll be right behind you."

Rostov nodded, unable to speak as he gasped for air, and began stumbling toward the safety of the hallway. Malcolm turned and began scrambling up the stairs to the engines second level. He reached the dilithum flow control. Glancing at the gauges he involuntarily gasped, filling his lungs with fumes. The indicator showed that dilithium flow was at maximum, a setting never used outside of a repair and maintenance station. With flow that high, it was only a matter of minutes before the engine overloaded. The resulting explosion would be catastrophic, destroying not just Enterprise, but sending out dilithium radiation thousands of kilometers, poisoning anything in its path. However with the flow this high, he couldn't just shut it off—the amount of dilithium that had been leaked into the engine matrix was already much too high. He not only needed to stop the flow, an action he quickly accomplished, but he needed to manually monitor and adjust the matrix the dilithium had flooded. If he could increase the levels of the other chemicals in the engine mixing chamber, he could neutralize the dilithium. He frantically tried to remember the ratio for maximum efficiency—and then realized that was the opposite of what he needed. He needed to be as inefficient as possible, so that the dilithium would be more quickly consumed.

"Captain," he managed through his coughing. "I need you to go to warp speed. Two or three will do."

"Malcolm, we have too much damage. I can't risk going to warp until we've evaluated the ship for damage. There could be a crack in the hull, and we could lose integrity if we go to warp."

"If we don't, the engine will explode, and we'll lose everything," Malcolm gasped. "Sir, please! Trust me!"

It went against Archer's instincts to go to warp speed with a damaged ship, but he had learned to trust Reed. If Reed said they needed to go to warp, then he'd do it. He met Travis gaze. "Do it!"

"Reed?"

"No time, sir. I'll explain later."

Malcolm felt the ship lurch into warp. Next to him the engine stuttered. He studied the dials before him. It had been some time since he'd been in engineering, and even longer since he manually balanced the dilithium mix and on those occasions he'd been trying to balance it to make it as efficient as possible- not as inefficient. He had to run the ship as close to stalling the engine as he could without actually stalling it. Watching the gauges he began manipulating the oxygen flow. He turned it down cutting down the flow by more than half. He then turned up the crisolige flow. Crisolige was used to cool engines when they needed to be shut down quickly. He did not allow crisolige to enter the chamber enough to stop the engines, but they slowed. Finally he turned up the plasma stream. This was the most dangerous part. The plasma could eagerly consume the dilithium, sending the ship out of control if he wasn't careful. He felt the ship accelerate, and his monitor confirmed they were at warp three and a half, so he turned the plasma down a little and the engine slowed too quickly and began to stutter. Malcolm immediately turned down the crisolite, and inched the plasma flow control up a bit. His eyes were streaming from the fumes, making it hard to read the gauges. It was much harder to breathe as well. How much dilithium remained to burn off? How much had leaked into the mixing chamber before he'd cut off the flow? Malcolm peered at the dials, trying to see, but his eyes were too blurred to make out the number. He could see that the needle was in the range that was clearly marked with red. He needed to get it back into the area marked with green. Starfleet had tried to make it fool-proof, and while he had scoffed at the color markings before, now he was very grateful for them

He thought the needle had inched a little closer to the green, but it wasn't moving fast enough. Malcolm wasn't sure how much longer he could tolerate the fumes. He wanted to urge the captain to increase speed to hasten the process, but it was too dangerous. The captain was right -if there was damage to the hull increasing speed could stress the hull enough to cause a breech.

Peering at the gauge, Malcolm was certain the needle was moving closer to the safe zone. The mixture of plasma and crisolage he had set was consuming the dilithium quickly, inefficiently. He didn't have in the engine room any longer. He could leave, seal off engineering, and let someone with an environmental suit return to make the repairs. The choking sensation was worse. He had to get out of here. He backed down the stairs holding the railing to give him more stability, but he was coughing so hard he was getting light headed. He was nearly at the bottom when he lost his balance and fell backwards landing squarely on his butt. He lay there, more stunned then hurt, for several seconds, coughing so hard he couldn't catch his breath. His efforts to rise were futile. Desperate, he managed to turn onto his belly. He rose to his hands and knees, intending to crawl, but his way was blocked. Feet. A pair of feet. Presumably attached to a body. Malcolm recognized the rust orange of the environment suit covering the legs, but before he had the chance to learn who the feet belonged to everything went gray, followed quickly by darkness, and he knew no more.