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Two weeks after his sixth birthday, he took apart the family holovid. Which wasn't that impressive a feat, really: any six year old armed with a power screwdriver and a sense of purpose could have done the same thing, although maybe not just as quickly. No, the surprising part was that he put it back together again, with clearer projection and improved sound quality.
"Better now," he said proudly, thrusting the holovid unit at his mother with small, grubby hands.
"He's gifted," his mother said, over dinner.
"He's a menace, is what he is," said his father.
**
Three days before his sixteenth birthday, he was sitting in Moyra Campbell's father's car, with Moyra Campbell. He thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The car, that was.
"A 2040 Ford Equilibria," he breathed, stroking one hand over the rim of the steering wheel. "Did you know these were the first mass market vehicle to use stable hydrogen conversion technology?"
"Monty," Moyra said, her voice low and seductive, "don't you want to…?"
He looked up, hardly daring to hope. "Take her for a drive? Can I?"
Moyra scowled, said, "You're bloody well not taking anything for a drive," and hit him so hard on the arm that he had a bruise the next day. He never did work out what he'd done wrong.
**
"Ensign," his instructor said tiredly, "what are you doing?"
"Recalibrating the transporter buffer matrix," Monty replied, not looking up.
"I can see that," the instructor said, through gritted teeth. "May I ask why, Ensign Scott?"
"Because operating a transporter at less than 70% efficiency when it could be at 95% is, well, it's --" He broke off and looked up from what he was doing, for the first time in an hour: "It's just wrong. I can't leave it like that."
The instructor's lips thinned. "While I appreciate your zeal for your subject, Mr Scott, I must remind you that if you do not complete the task you were assigned, you will fail this exercise. As you have failed every other exercise in this class so far."
Monty threw down his tools and stood back from the workbench in the Academy engineering lab, exasperated. "Och, would you just listen to yourself? What's the point of fixing anything if you're not going to make it work better than it did before?"
They glared at each other for a very long time.
"Ensign Scott," the instructor said at last: "My office. Now."
**
"Scotty!" Kirk's voice was a yell over the intraship comm. channel. "I need a solution!"
"Aye, Captain!" Monty yelled, diving for the open access panel. The artificial gravity lurched sickeningly, and he landed heavily, almost twisting his wrist. He wriggled toward the Enterprise's exposed innards, tools in both hands. The air was thick with the awful groans which were coming from the very structure of the ship, as she fought to hold together under the onslaught of the gravity well sucking her down. "Hold on, lassie," he muttered under his breath. "Hang on, my girl."
"Mr Scott!"
The ship gave a final screech of pure metallic pain, and abruptly fell silent. The artificial gravity stabilized. He flopped on to his back and lay there for a while, listening to his heart thumping in his chest.
Eventually, the Captain's voice came over the comm channel. "It seems we have you to thank for pulling our collective asses out of the fire again. What did you do?"
"I amplified the thrust being generated by the engines by modulating the warp core shielding, sir."
"I'm guessing that's not in any of the manuals."
"No, Captain."
He could hear the smile in Kirk's voice. "After today, Mr Scott, it will be."
Monty grinned up at the ceiling of the engine room. He gave the Enterprise's hull an affectionate pat. "Better," he told her, and meant it as praise and promise both.