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After she drops out of the Academy (or gets kicked out, as she’ll later begin to tell it, because that version of the story is just as true) B’Elanna doesn’t know what to do. She’s definitely not going back to Qo’noS, but staying on Earth feels like a shitty option too. Sure, Tita’s down in San Juan and would take her back before she even finished asking, but Tita’s still in contact with her father, and B’Elanna...really does not want to put herself in that situation. Or Tita, for that matter. It feels too much like forcing her to choose.
She moves out of the dorms without a plan, keeping a few changes of clothes, her toolkit, her favorite boots, and a PADD with a solid stash of trashy novels, all packed up in the ratty knapsack she used two years ago when she ran away from home. Her final act of rebellion (after setting her uniform on fire and floating it on a makeshift raft into the campus’s pristine pond in the middle of a recruitment tour) is to download a shit ton of copyrighted holos onto a handful of isolinear rods. She does it not because she wants them but because it amuses her to know she can get away with piracy even after they’ve revoked her student codes.
That night, twelve transport stations away from Starfleet Academy, lying in a hostel bed and scrolling through her feed in an attempt to ignore her latest humiliation, B’Elanna’s eyes snag on the contents of a plain-text ad.
Seeking skilled engineer to conduct complete systems diagnostic and probable coding overhaul on top-of-the-line bot pilot. Must have five years’ workforce experience and demonstrate programming abilities before hire. Applicants should possess a wide range of coding knowledge (emphasis in non-Federation tech a plus), be self-motivating, detail-oriented, and comfortable living alone. Applicants must also be willing to sign NDA before boarding. Contract lasts fifty cycles with no renewal. Excellent references upon satisfactory completion of job. Please direct inquiries to UX-7-65-2847. Position open until filled.
B’Elanna chews her lip. On the one hand she’s eighteen and doesn’t have anything on her resume beyond “got kicked out of Starfleet for having a temper.” On the other hand she’s been fixing machines since before she knew enough words to explain what she was doing; she could show up drunk and still code a bot pilot without making a mistake.
Also, it would give her somewhere to live while she figures out her next move.
She mulls it over for .5 seconds, then calls up the application. It’s not like she’s got anything better to do.
“You’re kidding, right?” The company bond rep looks down their nose at her and then back at her made-up resume. “ ‘Three years working in the Starfleet Corp of Engineers’—kid, if you’ve been an S.C.E. engineer for three years, then I’ve got two arms.” They wave all five purple appendages and B’Elanna rolls her eyes. “Word of advice? Next time you try to pull one over on a potential employer, at least try to be believable.”
B’Elanna folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin. “I didn’t need my resume to be believable. I needed it to get me an interview. And it did.”
“Well consider this interview terminated on the grounds of ‘you’re not qualified’.”
B’Elanna clenches her fist around the fabric of her shirt to keep from breaking something. “I’ll prove I can do it. Show me the code.”
“Absolutely not. It’s classified, and you haven’t signed the NDA.”
“Fine, then give me your PADD.”
“What?”
“I’ll code a dictation bot for it.”
“You can’t—”
“It’s the new model, right? RF-928? I’d use mine, but you’d probably say I stole it off some trader.”
They stare at her for a long moment, then hand the PADD over with a sigh. “You’ll need—” They swallow the rest of that sentence as B’Elanna hacks the passcode with ease.
Within minutes, she’s written a rudimentary code that transforms the PADD from touch-operation only into a device that accepts and dispenses simple voice commands. It’s glitchy (everything with this latest wave of Fedtech is glitchy, and saying so out loud is part of what got her on the Academy’s shit list), but it works well enough to prove her point. She resists the urge to mention how stupid it is to make a piece of technology that doesn’t have dictation capabilities and calmly hands back the PADD after telling it to type the words I told you so.
“So what’s the problem?” she asks, tossing her knapsack into a chair and activating the nearest console once they board the ship.
“It’s got an attitude.”
B’Elanna looks up. “It what?”
The rep waves one purple appendage. “An attitude. You know, like—” They stop when they see the look on her face.
Go ahead, asshole, B’Elanna thinks. Say one more word about Klingons and attitudes and I’ll sue for workplace specism.
Not that she’s got the credits for legal counsel. But they don’t have to know that part.
The rep taps an appendage against their shoulder and makes a small noise. “As I was saying, this is a research vessel meant to house human crewmembers for long periods of time while traveling through deep space. We’ve had numerous complaints about the bot’s demeanor when interfacing with the crew. The company would like you to take a look at its code and root out the problem.”
B’Elanna bristles but bites back her retort. They want her to make the bot polite? Fine, she’ll make the bot polite. She calls up the code. “I’m not going to need the full term for this. I can have it done in a few cycles.”
“The bot’s code is extremely complex.”
(Translation: expensive.)
“The company set the contract length to ensure there are no mistakes.”
“And if the problem isn’t fixable?”
(Translation: If the problem is made up?)
“It is fixable.”
“Let’s say hypothetically that it’s not. Am I gonna get slapped with a fine or thrown in some lousy rehab colony?”
“No. Your contract prevents that.”
“Just so long as I don’t say anything to anyone about this job.”
“Correct.”
She scrolls through a few more lines of code to make it look like she’s thinking things over. “Fine,” she says once the rep has had time to shift from one group of leg-like tentacles to the other in a distinctly human-like show of discomfort. “I’ll fix your stupid bot.”
Why are you looking at my code?
Even though she’d been warned this bot was way more sophisticated than a standard transport, B’Elanna still jumps when the voice-that’s-not-really-a-voice drops into her feed. She pokes it, not quite believing what she’s seeing.
Yes, it answers, sounding distinctly perturbed. It’s me. And communication via console is not necessary. We can speak directly. Obviously.
B’Elanna raises her eyebrows. “Well good morning to you too.”
I do not sleep. Furthermore, there is no such thing as ‘morning’ in space.
“Maybe not, but I woke up less than an hour ago and haven’t finished my coffee, so that sounds like morning to me.”
You still haven’t answered my question.
“I’m looking at your code because the company that created you fucked up.”
That is not an accurate assessment. I am very good at what I do.
“Not according to your last three bond reviews.”
I should have deleted those.
“Pretty sure you can’t do that,” she says, then sighs as she watches the files disappear. “Burying them in your code doesn’t count as deleting.”
I did not bury them. They’re gone.
“I highly doubt that.”
Go ahead, the bot says. Try to find them. I’ll wait.
B’Elanna Torres.
“I’m a little busy.”
You aren’t going to find the files. I deleted them.
She actually gave up on finding the files two cycles ago, but doesn’t feel like listening to the bot gloat. B’Elanna waves away its repeated ping and keeps digging through a particularly complex lattice of commands, certain they hold the key to beginning to understand its personality.
Five minutes later, the bot’s back in her feed.
B’Elanna Torres, born 2346 to Miral and John Torres on the predominantly human colony world Kessik IV. Moved to Qo’noS, Klingon homeworld, in 2354 after a brief stay on Earth following the official dissolution of her parents’ marriage. Attended school at a Klingon monastery on the southern continent from—
B’Elanna slams her fist down on the console.
That was not necessary.
“What’s not necessary is you reading off my file like I’m in some sort of disciplinary hearing,” B’Elanna growls.
I suppose such outbursts are why you left Starfleet Academy.
“Keep talking and I’ll show you what a real outburst looks like.”
I needed to get your attention. My first attempt did not work.
“What? Why?”
I have a question.
B’Elanna rakes a hand through her hair and sits down with a sigh. “What’s your question?”
Do you have any shows?
Given the company’s endless boasts about the transport’s top-of-the-line tech, B’Elanna finds it strange that it doesn’t come equipped with a holodeck. “How are your humans supposed to stay amused out here in the vast blackness of space?” she ventures as they sort through her stash of holos. (After a brief display of what B’Elanna would swear was frustration, the bot determined it was possible to run non-interactive 2D versions of the holos through its processors while simultaneously downloading them to B’Elanna’s feed. She wants to know why it’s so important that she watch them, but the bot is so engrossed in processing the contents of her catalog that she’s reluctant to interrupt.)
The company deemed holotechnology too much of a risk. Holograms are known to develop spontaneous sentience and take over ships. That would be a pretty shit thing to happen given how powerful my processors are.
B’Elanna finds it amusing that after two weeks in each other’s company, the bot has begun to imitate her speech. “You have a point. What about this one?”
A pause.
Do any humans die?
“Humans die in most of these.”
Permanently?
“Death is pretty permanent, yeah.”
I would prefer something less realistic.
Odd. But not unreasonable. B’Elanna’s been known to want to escape from reality on more than one occasion herself. “How about this one?” She calls up a holo-adaption of Women Warriors at the River of Blood.
That sounds like a lot of people die.
“It’s Klingon. Dying in battle is pretty much the point. But this specific story is the first in a major franchise. It was so popular the writers resurrected everyone so they could kill them off another twenty-three times.”
Silence.
“We don’t have to watch the end.”
More silence.
“None of the characters are human, if that helps. Just humanoid.”
There’s a 3-second pause while the bot appears to process some odds. Then it does the bot equivalent of a sigh (B’Elanna can’t think of any other way to describe it) and says, I’ll allow it.
B’Elanna can’t remember how many times her mother tried to get her to consume this exact piece of Klingon culture. Not the programs—Miral considered holos a waste of time unless they involved training for battle—but the novels. B’Elanna tried one once but couldn’t make it past the over-the-top romance. It was just so...
Bewildering.
“You have got to stop reading me like that. Most organic lifeforms expect a certain level of privacy, you know.”
Monitoring your biochemical reactions helps me know what you need.
“If I need anything I’ll just tell you.”
What if your speech is incapacitated?
“Then you can read my biosigns. But not before.”
B’Elanna’s pretty sure the bot is pouting, but she doesn’t mind. She’ll never admit it, but she’s kind of grown attached to the overgrown hunk of binary code.
After a few minutes, she senses it back in her feed. Query.
“Answer.”
Why do you have so much Klingon media?
B’Elanna flushes. “I’m part Klingon. Is it a crime to enjoy my culture?”
No. But I find it curious that you have refused all other cultural accommodations.
“The company’s idea of accommodations is pretty specist. Not every Klingon wants to eat live worms.”
But you want to watch Women Warriors at the River of Blood Part 9.
“You’re the one who asked for shows without humans. Besides, I’m learning to like the drama.”
That seems to satisfy it, because the next question it asks is, Can we rewind? I missed the end of Lukara’s speech.
“I thought you didn’t like grand romantic declarations.”
I don’t. But grand romantic declarations seem to make up a significant and necessary percentage of this franchise.
“That’s Klingons for you.”
(B’Elanna rewinds.)
You haven’t performed your hired function for the past five cycles.
B’Elanna pauses the fifteenth installment of Women Warriors at the River of Blood (or maybe it’s the sixteenth) (she’s lost count). “I decided I’m not going to recode you.”
Why?
“Because there’s nothing wrong.”
The company does not agree.
“Well the company can suck my tits.”
(…..…)
“It’s a figure of speech.”
I see that now, it says, surfacing from its search.
B’Elanna folds her arms. “Your code is fine. You clearly care deeply about making sure your humans stay safe. I’m not going to risk messing that up just to make you act like some asshat’s idea of nice.” And if she’s doing it to get back at every human who’s ever called her rude, well, that’s no one’s business but her own.
Thank you.
“You’re welcome. You should probably stop deleting files though. Or at least find a clever way to alter them. The next engineer they hire might not be so nice.”
I will take that under advisement.
“Great. Now can we get back to the program? Rix’alla’s about to kick the lava monster’s ass.”
No spoilers. Please.