I was always intrigued by the scene in Marauders where the boy, Q'ell, brings a canteen to Trip. The conversation that ensues suggests that Q'ell talked to Malcolm about joining the fight against the Klingons. So here is that missing scene...

Thank you to Gabi2305 and RoaringMice, my beta readers.

Malcolm let the voices of Archer, Trip and Tessic fade into the background. He wasn't interested in the technicalia of how to move a settlement in three days. His job was taking care of those overgrown, overbearing, overdramatic Klingons. His part – in this humourless prank – was much more exciting, at least to his way of thinking. Ah, yes. A bit of action was always welcome.

Once again, Malcolm ran his assessing gaze over the guns the deuterium miners had placed on the long table inside one of the modules that made up their camp. They were unsophisticated weapons in dire need of a good clean-up. He had told these people that with a few modifications they would do, but had hoped for something better. He really would have to win this with tactics, rather than brute force.

Lifting one shotgun, Malcolm weighed it for a moment in his hand; then pretended to aim it, and looked down its barrel. Blimey, to shoot straight with this thing would be nothing short of miraculous. He had a bit of a job ahead of him, if they were to pull this off. He should get the miners into the target practice room ASAP.

But first, it appeared, there was something to be taken care of…

"How may I help you?" he asked abruptly. Lowering the weapon, he turned. He was glad to see that his sixth sense was as reliable as ever – there was someone there, watching him, though no one he had expected.

The boy, the one who had befriended Trip, didn't flinch, his only hint that he'd been startled being a widening of the eyes. A moment later, they shifted from Malcolm's face to the weapon he was still holding.

"That one drifts to the right," he said in a small but determined voice.

As he slowly replaced the shotgun on the table, Malcolm frowned. "And how do you know that?"

"How do you think?"

Cheeky. But in a way it wasn't surprising. This was the kid who'd lost his father on that miners' attempt to fight off the Klingons. Life hadn't treated him kindly, which had obviously developed a gritty streak in him.

"So you can shoot," Malcolm said, choosing, for the moment, to keep up his Lieutenant Reed stern facade. The boy nodded. "What's your name?"

"Q'ell."

Breaking his immobility, Q'ell slowly walked to the table and then along it, passing a light hand over the weapons there. There was a sort of concentrated gravity, in his voice and on his young face, which didn't seem to want to lift.

"This one has a hard recoil," he said. "This one a sensitive trigger. This one… well, I wouldn't choose it, it's failed me a few times."

Malcolm's eyebrows climbed. "Have you tried all of them?"

"I can shoot a shib'a lizard from forty metres," Q'ell said as a reply.

"Hmm." Malcolm put a pensive hand to his chin to hide a smile. "That doesn't say much. It all depends on how big these shib'a lizards are."

A scowl darkened the boy's face even more. But the bitter retort that was probably in the making never had time to be voiced. T'Pol was approaching. Catching a glimpse of her white form, Malcolm refocused his gaze above his young interlocutor, shifting his attention away from him and effectively shutting him up.

"Lieutenant, I have arranged for groups of miners to come up to Enterprise," the ship's first officer said. "Given the little time at hand, the sooner we begin with target practice and hand to hand training, the better."

"Agreed." Malcolm gave a military nod and watched her move away; then returned his attention on Q'ell. "I'll need a hand to carry all these weapons to the Shuttlepod. Want to help?"

The first hint of a smile graced the boy's face. "Sure."

Q'ell dutifully put himself in position to receive his consignment – arms bent at the elbow, palms up – and Malcolm loaded him with a couple of the lighter guns. Then he picked up a few for himself, and they headed for the door.

Trip was in the thick of organizing things; moving an entire camp, no matter how modular, was no walk in the park. Just as Malcolm and Q'ell were passing by, he rose from bending over a table loaded with maps and reached to ruffle the boy's hair. "Hey, I've got plenty to give you, too," he said.

"I got there first. Stand in line, Commander," Malcolm chimed.

They were half way to the Shuttlepod before Q'ell cast him a hooded glance and asked, "Doesn't Commander Tucker outrank you?"

Malcolm chuckled. The boy was beginning to remind him, with his serious, mature ways, of someone else he knew well. "Yes, he does. But we are friends, and he doesn't mind a bit of good-natured teasing."

They unloaded the guns inside the Shuttlepod. Q'ell's gaze curiously roamed the interior of the vessel.

"Commander Tucker has promised to give me a tour of the ship, Enterprise," he said.

"Ah – I doubt he'll have the time in the next three days," Malcolm commented, nudging his helper out of the pod again. "Perhaps after all this is over."

They did the next trip in silence. It wasn't until they were back in the Shuttle that Q'ell spoke again.

"I can shoot a shib'a lizard from forty metres," he repeated dead serious, "and they are no bigger than your forearm."

Malcolm turned to meet a pair or very steady eyes. He knew what Q'ell wanted to tell him. Hell, what Q'ell wanted. But there was no way he would allow a kid, no matter how good a marksman, to get involved in a possible fire-fight, even if their opponents hadn't been the most ruthless species in the quadrant. With a sigh, he dropped to sit on the Shuttlepod's back bench.

"That's quite impressive," he said, narrowing his gaze to drive his point home, "but I'm hoping we won't have to shoot at all."

"Then why are you taking all these guns up to Enterprise?"

"Because."

A frown flitted across the boy's face. God only knew what was going across his mind, what memories he had to fend off. If he had witnessed his father's cold blood execution, it was only natural he wanted to have a part in this. Actually, on second thought it was bloody courageous. Or perhaps foolish.

"Look." Malcolm let out another slow breath. "Have you ever heard of the saying 'hope for the best, prepare for the worst'?"

Q'ell shook his head in a silent no.

"It means… Well, in this case it means we're going to get prepared to fight off those Klingons, but we hope we'll be able to get them to leave you in peace without striking a blow."

"But if we end up fighting, I want to help," the boy said.

"It's too dangerous."

"I don't care."

"Have you taken a good look at those monsters?" Malcolm insisted. He was losing his patience.

"Yes," Q'ell said darkly.

Malcolm cursed himself. Of course the boy had taken a good look at the people who had made him an orphan! "Listen," he started.

"I can do it," Q'ell cut him off. "I know I can."

"When the Klingons come, I want you to hide in the canyons," Malcolm bit back in his Lieutenant voice. "And that's that."

Q'ell tightened his lips. He cast Malcolm a fiery glance; then turned and scuttled to the hatch. With a jump he was out and gone.

Malcolm suddenly felt lonely and despondent. Brilliant! He should have found a better way, made the kid understand, instead of telling him what to do and what not to do… You'd think he should know how it felt for a kid to be treated superciliously by an adult. He was no better than his old man.

He passed a hand through his hair, beginning to feel the tension of this whole business. When Archer had asked him to make a plan to scare off these miners' tyrants, he'd jumped at the offer. But the endeavour wasn't without risks, and he was beginning to feel the weight of responsibility.

Trip suddenly appeared at the hatch. "Hey."

Malcolm jerked to a straighter position, unwillingly attracting attention to himself. Trip ran deep eyes up and down him.

"Everything okay?" he enquired.

"Yeah."

"Hmm."

He didn't sound too convinced, but climbed onboard and went to the pilot's seat. He started to make a pre-flight check.

"The Capt'n and T'Pol are going to be here in a few minutes. Capt'n wants to return to Enterprise briefly. Travis is on his way here with Shuttlepod Two, bringing down some crewmen to lend a hand. Then he'll pick up some of your…" – Trip turned to cast a smiling glance towards the back – "… students."

"So," he continued after a few moments, "wanna tell me what's wrong?" He swiveled in his seat, this time, and faced Malcolm straight on.

Malcolm looked back deadpan. He didn't know if Trip's insightful nature was a blessing or a curse. But since they had a few minutes to themselves… "It's that kid," he said.

"Who, Q'ell?" Trip tilted his head. "We crossed each other's path as I was coming here. He ran by me without a word."

Which sounded more or less like, What have you done to him? Malcolm smirked. "The lad had a mind to take part in the fighting."

"And you put him in line?"

"All I told him…" Malcolm shook his head, displeased. "For goodness's sake, Trip, he's no taller than the shotgun he'd want me to give him! I'm not going to place a child in peril."

"Of course not," Trip easily agreed. "What's bugging you, then?"

"I don't know," Malcolm muttered. "He likes shooting, from what I can tell. I guess he came to me hoping that to find a kindred spirit, and I ended up treating him condescendingly. I should've been able to get through to him. But…"

Trip chuckled. "I didn't know you to be so sensitive about what a kid thinks of you, Loo-tenant." He swiveled back and added, in a reassuring tone, "Don't worry, you did the right thing. He'll get over it."

Malcolm heaved a silent sigh. Trip didn't understand. The thing was that he could really share Q'ell's sentiments. If it had been him, he would have acted exactly in the same way and hated to be treated like a child. The thing was, also, that he had given him the kind of cutting reply he had so much resented as a kid: shut up and do as I tell you. Damn it, the thing ultimately was that he hated to admit that he himself might have not given his father any other choice, sometimes. He had been a stubborn little thing, and perhaps… Perhaps seen from a different perspective, from a different height, so to speak, things looked different, and that opened up angles he really didn't want to consider.

Bloody hell, was it ever possible that his difficult father-son relationship managed to pop up at the most unexpected times, and to affect his life even light-years away from home?

"Shooting a lizard is not like shooting a man," he said in earnest, almost to convince himself that he had truly done the right thing.

Trip swiveled back, suddenly pensive. "D'you think it will come to that?" he wondered. "I thought the plan was to scare them off."

"The plan is to scare them off, but my job is to get us prepared for the worst."

Trip pulled his face in a lopsided smirk. "Not to question your and T'Pol's ability as teachers, but these people are miners, and three days are very little time to make soldiers out of them…"

There was a moment of suspended silence.

"It will be okay," Malcolm finally said, with newly-found determination. He would see to that. "You move the camp, Commander. I'll do the rest."

Trip looked at him; then broke in a smile. "Of course it'll be okay."

They heard the voices of Archer and T'Pol approaching.

"I'll talk to Q'ell," Trip quickly put in. "I'll make sure your message is understood."

Before Malcolm could say anything, Archer appeared at the hatch. He gallantly offered a hand to T'Pol, who took it even if she could get inside a shuttlepod more nimbly than any of them; then he climbed in as well.

"We're all ready to take off, Capt'n," Trip said.

Archer nodded. There was a somberness about him that rekindled a few worries in Malcolm's breast. He really hoped they could manage this without any bloodshed, he thought as he closed the hatch.

Shuttlepod One soared just as Shuttlepod Two made its landing approach. The ups and downs of life, Malcolm mused. The white and black, the right and wrong. His mind returned to the issue of his father and him. He might not like the idea, but perhaps it was time to let go of some of the resentment and consider the old man's point of view.

Time to stand taller than the gun.

THE END