Thank you to my readers and reviewers.

§ 4 §

"... Do you require assistance?" the UT finally caught on.

Trip felt Malcolm's eyes on him and turned to see him shoot a warning look, of the kind that said 'Definitely not: better safe than sorry'. Typical. Averting his gaze, he tried to clamp down on his irritation. This misadventure was making re-emerge some of the tension there had been between them on that fateful Shuttlepod One mission.

"This is Commander Tucker of Starfleet," he said through the open link. "Will you please identify yourself?"

"This is Commander Obne of the... Felon ship... A Shot In The Quadrant," the UT translated with a bit of difficulty, in a metallic voice.

"Brilliant," Malcolm snorted under his breath.

"We have picked up your vessel," Commander Obne continued. "This planet seems an odd place to make a stop at: do you require any assistance?"

"We... have had a minor problem with our engine," Trip replied noncommittally. "Thank you for the offer, but I think we'll be okay."

"Oh, but I insist, Commander," the voice pressed. "I wouldn't be a very good Felon if I left you with engine trouble on that barren rock."

"Who's ever heard of a good felon?" Malcolm muttered.

"Ah, no, really, we'll be fine," Trip began, but the alien Commander didn't even listen to him.

"We'll be landing in the vicinity of your vessel in approximately ten noonortrth," the cheerful voice piped in. "See you soon."

The link was cut off and Trip turned to his crew. "We have ten noon… whatever to shine our boots," he quipped.

"I wouldn't joke about it," Malcolm ranted. "These are not ideal conditions to make a first contact. Especially with a species bearing such an inauspicious name. Oh, and lovely designation for a ship too."

"Come on, Malcolm, you can't be that biased, for heaven's sake!"

There it was again, that damned pessimism that grated on his nerves; like a few weeks before, when the man had driven him to distraction by counting them dead before time, and recording his good-byes to half the girls in San Francisco.

There was a clearing of the throat. "I can't say I'm looking forward to this either, Commander," Hoshi said. "Even if those guys were called... Cherubs and were travelling on... Pink Cloud."

Trip drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly out. "Look, there's nothin' we can do about it. You heard them; they didn't take no for an answer. So, let's prepare to receive them."

Someone was already doing so; by rummaging in the compartment under one of the rear benches.

"Good thing I insisted with the Captain to make a phase pistol for each person on board standard equipment," Malcolm said, straightening again. He started to distribute the weapons.

Hoshi took hers with obvious reluctance. "Must I really?"

Good luck convincing our Security Officer of the contrary, Trip thought. He conveyed the idea with a lift of his eyebrows and a light shrug.

"Of course, Ensign," Malcolm indeed replied, strapping on his own pistol. "Your score entitles you to carry one."

"Shooting at a target is different," Hoshi commented, looking at the weapon in her hands in discomfort. "I really wouldn't want to hurt anyone."

"We'll keep the pistols set on stun," Trip butted in. "Don't worry, Hoshi. I doubt we'll even have to use them. These people are probably the Good Samaritans of the galaxy."

"I sure hope so," Travis muttered. "I've already had my share of bruises for one day."

A Shot In The Quadrant was the ugliest ship Trip had seen in a long while. It was a graceless grey oblong thing, not much bigger than their Shuttlepod, which had certainly seen better days. Its hull was all banged up and stained – probably rusty. If these were their saviours, then heaven help them!

The vessel landed with a rough bump which made Mayweather raise both eyebrows.

"Holy mackerel!" the helmsman exclaimed. "No wonder that hull is in such bad shape."

The dust raised by such a graceful landing hadn't finished settling down again when the hatch started to open with the hair-raising screech of badly-oiled mechanisms. Malcolm automatically took position in front of everyone, hand resting on the handle of his phase pistol.

"I don't need you to protect me, Lieutenant," Trip muttered, trying to overtake him. "I can look after myself." A flash of Malcolm dragging him down from the airlock at gunpoint went through his mind, and he felt a stab of guilt, which he quickly pushed aside.

"I'm only doing my job, Commander," Malcolm replied with determination, getting in front of him again.

"Ah, Commander Tucker!" a gleeful voice interrupted.

It belonged to a man who was, possibly, even more ungainly than his ship. Short and round, he wore a bright shirt with large yellow and orange vertical stripes, tucked into a pair of dark green pants. Tall boots and a black sash made him look a bit like a pirate of the old days, a resemblance which was emphasised by the ear-ring on his left lobe. Trip was almost disappointed not to see a sabre hanging from his side. He had loved pirate stories as a kid.

The man approached with a purposeful gait, his large belly swaying. There was a mad quality to him. It wasn't only his outfit: there was a spirited glint in his dark eyes. These were framed by tanned stripes that, crossing his temples, lost themselves into curly red hair. On the whole it was quite a garish sight.

"It's a pleasure," the Felon exclaimed, stopping in front of Malcolm and raising both arms to form a sort of triangle over his head, fingertips touching.

Malcolm studied him straight-faced and as still as a statue. "Good day," he said, oozing distrust.

"Actually, I am Commander Tucker." Trip feigned a step to the left; then quickly by-passed Malcolm on the right. "You must be..."

"Commander Obne." The glittering gaze shifted a couple of times between Trip and Malcolm.

"This is Lieutenant Reed," Trip provided, waving a thumb in acknowledgement of the man's puzzlement. "Our Security Officer."

"Security? Are you expecting trouble?" Obne looked behind him, to a couple of his crewmates, just as round and short and obnoxiously outfitted as he, who had come out of A Shot In The Quadrant. "You didn't think we were trouble, did you?"

"Ah, you know," Trip mumbled. "Just a precaution."

Obne broke into a loud, infectious laugh, which was echoed by his men and brought a smile to everyone's lips but Malcolm's. He must teach the damn man to relax a little – Trip mused. These people seemed very sociable. But then again, that was probably why Malcolm didn't like them.

"These are Ensigns Hoshi Sato, our Communications Officer; and Travis Mayweather, our helmsman," Trip continued the introductions.

Obne sobered up and repeated the greeting gesture, which Hoshi mirrored, imitated, more tentatively, by Travis.

"A gwèp?" the alien wondered, the UT stumbling over the word.

Trip frowned. "Gwèp?"

"Gwèp," Obne repeated, pointing to Hoshi.

"A woman, I suppose," Hoshi provided with a shrug.

"A woman soldier?" Obne broke into peals of laughter again. "That is unheard of!"

"Maybe where you come from," Malcolm muttered darkly to the side.

Trip quickly butted in, "Actually, we aren't really soldiers. We're explorers." He shifted his gaze from one Felon to the next, repressing the desire to shield his eyes against the gaudy colours of the ensemble. Let anyone call his Hawaiian shirts loud again.

"Explorers with a broken ship." The alien Commander ended his laughter in a wide smile that bared two rows of crooked teeth. "We must set this right again. Allow us to give you a hand."

"Commander." Malcolm's voice meant business. "May I have a word with you? In private."

"You aren't going to let them into the Shuttlepod, are you?" he was asking tensely a moment later. "Get their podgy hands on the engine's schematics and--"

"Relax, Malcolm," Trip interrupted him. "We're talkin' about an impulse drive, here. It's hardly a military secret!"

"Still, we know nothing about these Felons."

Watching Malcolm cross his hands over his chest and shoot a thoughtful look to the side in typical Reed fashion, Trip took a moment to consider his words. He was tempted to accept these people's help.

"Alright," he conceded at last. "I won't let them inside the pod; but maybe they have what I need to fix the engine: no harm asking, right?"

"Right," Malcolm agreed after a moment's hesitation. "Though I doubt they carry many spare parts with them, judging by that bucket of bolts they call a ship."

"Never judge by the looks," Trip joked, with a conciliatory smile.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "I suppose."

"Commander..." he then quickly put in, as Trip was about to return to Obne and his men. "I've been kind of..." An uncomfortable smirk appeared on his face. "I apologise," he finally croaked out. "I believe subconsciously I'm still a bit shaken by our… misadventure."

"Yeah, me too," Trip said with a grimace. "I guess it takes more than a warm blanket and a few hours of sleep to get over what we went through." He saw Malcolm shift self-consciously on his feet, so he added, "Come on, let's see if these Felons can get us off this rock. I don't really want the Capt'n to find us here like this."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "No arguments there," he replied.

TBC