Work Text:
Keenser hated his job. He really, really did. Not only was he stuck out on some godforsaken hunk of ice—far away from home and from actual interesting worlds—but he got to do maintenance for a glorified power drill. Automated mining really wasn’t that complicated on planets like Delta Vega, where the ore was so concentrated, and all he ever really did was tighten screws, or—if he got lucky—replace a conveyor belt. A goddamn monkey could do it.
In a sense, he reflected, an over-grown monkey did do some of the maintenance. Humans were so proud of their precious evolution, after all. And this particular monkey—Scott, that was his name—hadn’t really made himself seem any less simian in the four days since his arrival. Hairy, loud and stupid, that was his thing.
He paused in his reflections to study his work. Yup, screws fastened tightly; Keenser saves the day again! If not for him, productivity would be two, maybe three percent lower! How would the Federation cope? How would children sleep at night?
(His mother had always told him to turn down the sarcasm, and would slap him when he didn’t. Well, she wasn’t around in his thoughts, was she? No, that’s right.)
He turned away from Ore-Xtractor Z/1004 Pentium Zazzle console #23. He really hated his job. Join the Fleet, the posters had said, See the World, the flyers had promised, Meet Exciting New Life Forms, the recruiter had urged. And after years of hard work learning enough engineering, math, physics, and freakin’ Standard to join this Marvelous Academy of Awesomeness, and going through four more years of being too short to see over the students in front of him at lectures… Well. He was technically in the Fleet, but he didn’t think much of Delta Vega as a world. And Scott… Well, he wasn’t exactly an “Exciting New Life Form”, not by a long shot. More of an intellectual curiosity.
The life form in question was currently sitting at his desk (and how did it get so messy in less than a week? How much haggis had the man brought?), a technical manual displayed on the screen in front of him. But he seemed to be ignoring it, instead staring morosely at his pet as he no-doubt wallowed in self-pity.
Wonder what he did to get stuck here, Keenser wondered silently. Starfleet brass could be such asses, they really could. After all, it wasn’t his fault that the student body didn’t appreciate discovering their personal logs read over the speakers. He had no control whatsoever on who signed up for his override software’s beta testing. And while the Admiralty could argue all they wanted that he hadn’t gotten anyone’s consent, he would maintain to his dying day that he thought all students spoke Xnffdni, and were aware that on their planet, a pointed stare was equivalent to a “yes”. Humans could be so ethnocentric (or ignorant, as the case may be).
Maybe Scott’s story would be worth hearing. It certainly would be more interesting than filling out more requisition forms (Yes, I’d like two more cans of beans, three boxes of screws, and a phaser to shoot myself with…) or staring at the walls. However, talking to the man would require trying to decipher that damned accent of his.
Well, never let it be said that Keenser was one to back down from a challenge.