"You did all this with one phase pistol?" he asks incredulously.

Modesty forbids. "You're good at building things. I'm good at blowing them up."

Conquering his astonishment at my powers of destruction with one relatively small power cell, he turns to our plan of action and suggests we should get to the outer hull. I counter with the greater safety of trying to find another area with life-support, but as the ranking officer, the decision is his. "The hull's covered with subspace transceivers. If I can link one of them to our communicators, we might be able to contact Enterprise."

~ Later ~

My gifted superior officer has been meddling for some time in some complicated workings, with my assistance as and when needed, when his scanner tells us something I really didn't want to know. "Something's starting to draw a lot of power. It's all those systems that went down in the explosion. They're coming back online."

"What about the warp matrix?" I ask. The last thing we need is for us to be hurried away into captivity. If it finally looks like that's going to happen, well – ultimately, I have a duty to deny advantage to the enemy, and the knowledge either of us possesses could be extremely useful to hostile forces; and whoever it was that meant us to die in that service junction, they're definitely not friendly.

He glances at the scanner again. "Not yet, but if you want to contact Enterprise, we'd better hurry."

Then, as though the Universe has finally decided to smile on us, my communicator chirps. "Archer to Tucker and Reed. Respond."

I take a breath to make sure my voice sounds suitably professional. "We're both here, Captain."

I've said it before. Whenever the Universe smiles at me, it's almost always because it's about to pull the lever for the trapdoor. And almost before the words can have crossed subspace, I hear the sound of this sodding ship opening fire on Enterprise.

Well, the captain can't reasonably refrain from returning the favour, but it doesn't make things particularly comfortable at our end. Warp may be an ask too far, but this cursed thing we're in can still swerve like a bloody hover-fly on a sunny afternoon, with predictable results for us – not including the bangs where my deputy at Tactical (who may get a commendation for accuracy or a disciplinary for firing at a senior officer, I'll make my mind up if we survive this) is landing some solid shots where they do some damage,

Being shot at by my own staff is a bit much, if you ask me. "They do know we're on board?"

"They're probably trying to take out the weapons." Trip speaks through gritted teeth. "Enterprise! Any chance of using the transporter?"

"You have to get closer to the hull. Can you do that?"

It's not far, actually. We were heading for it when we came across this interesting-looking panel. Having informed the Captain that we're on our way, we make our extremely unsteady and eventful way in that direction, hoping (well, I am anyway) that nothing blows up too near us in the meantime.

It seems to take several hours, but it's probably less than a minute before Trip announces we're at the hull. The rate of fire we can feel now is terrifying, and some of me wants to shout at Captain Archer to get the hell away and save the ship; she must be taking so much of a battering it'll be sheer luck if she survives. In my mind's eye I see the floating shards of the Kumari (bigger and more powerful than Enterprise) and the tiny, vulnerable escape pods.

There would be no-one to rescue us out here…

We hear him through the communicator. "Shut down weapons. All power to hull plating. Travis, bring us about. Trip, Malcolm, we can make one more pass. Get the hell out of there."

Staying here is not an option, either way. The closest way we can get to the freezing hell of hard vacuum outside is to get into an airlock, and as the outer door hisses back, the vast, hostile blackness of it confronts us. "I can't imagine how things could get much worse!"

Wouldn't you know, Commander bloody Tucker always has to go one better. "I can."

And we jump.

For an instant there's the side of the wretched little monster we've been kidnapped by, and a glimpse of a huge Vulcan ship and a couple of others that must have arrived in support; then it goes to warp, pursued by the new arrivals, and we're floating, two helpless tiny atoms of life, alone in an incalculable ocean of blackness, lit only by the gleam of distant stars

I've experienced it before, and the weight of the Universe is almost suffocating. The horror of aloneness in the face of this monumental indifference to our lives or deaths is enough to rob you of your reason. When I speak, it's all I can do not to scream. "They left us. You were right. This is worse."

Then a familiar silver curve with its deflector dish sails into view beyond my faceplate and a welcome, captainly voice sounds through our helmet comms. "Anyone out there need a lift?"

I swear, behaviour befitting an officer or not, in that moment I could literally kiss him.

~ Shortly afterwards, in the EV suit locker room ~

Look. It's not that I'm ungrateful for being provided with an air supply and protection from hard vacuum, but the relief of finally shedding this damned suit is almost beyond belief. "If I had to wear this helmet for one more minute, I swear it would've fused to my skull. I tell you, I'd like to find the designer of this suit and make him wear it for three days."

Trip is also doffing his own mobile instrument of torture. "Yeah. Thanks for what you did back there."

Oh, well. I took a chance, but that's part of the job description and talking about it makes me really uncomfortable. "Yeah, you would've done the same for me."

He shakes his head. "No, you took a big chance. Which makes what I have to do all the more difficult.

"I'm putting you on report."

I freeze. Maybe all the battering in that blasted ship has affected my hearing. Either that or Trip Tucker is about to win the prize for Starfleet's Most Ungrateful Dickhead Ever. "You're what?"

He looks back at me seriously. "You disobeyed a direct order."

Only the fact that Reeds do not eff and blind at their superior officer when on duty enables me to speak with something approaching moderation, even if I can't keep the indignation out of it. "I saved your life! If you put a reprimand in my file, it could be years before I'm even eligible for…"

He tries. But he's really not good at keeping a straight face. Almost immediately I can see this huge sodding grin taking it over.

"Are you pulling my leg?"

He finally bursts out laughing. "Malcolm, you're just such an easy target!"

So is he, at this proximity. He should be glad I've nothing solider than my gloves in my hand, because I swear if I hadn't already put my despised helmet back in its locker I'd bung it at him, conduct becoming an officer notwithstanding. As it is, the gloves will have to do.

I suppose we've got an appointment in Sickbay before we can debrief with the captain. I haven't forgotten the amount of radiation my humorous friend absorbed in that service junction, even if he has. I wonder if I could persuade Phlox to prescribe Regulan bloodworms as a treatment? That would wipe the grin off someone's face in a hurry. Especially if I mention where mine eventually made its way out.

Oh well. One can only hope!

THE END