A Missing Subroutine

By: Jennica Williams

DISCLAIMER: I am not using Star Trek for profit. Paramount owns the characters, the ships, the uniforms, the biogel packs, even Neelix's food, I'm just here playing around with the ideas running through my head. No copyright infringement is intended.

The ivory keys under my fingers give way gently as the soft music continues to flow around me. I close my eyes and allow the diminuendo to softly caress my ears as I slow the tempo. The run comes then, and picks up a little speed with it. I lose myself to the music and lean into it as I play. Taking another set of eighth notes, my eyes fall on the medical tricorder. The notes die a meaningless death and I'm left in the dimly lit Sandrines to stare at the object.

I can see its reflection in the smooth polish of the piano's surface as I wonder at it.

I wish... I wish I had the nerve to say something to her - to admit my feelings. But, she is my student. I am supposed to be directing her through new social settings - not falling in love with her. My stomach knots up again as I recall her tone of voice only moments ago. She had decided there were no suitable mates on Voyager. But there is!, my heart wants to shout. I'm more like you than you realize!

Does she not see it? How can she not? I am the combination of many brilliant minds. She strives to achieve perfection and faults anyone who does not share her goal, but surely she must realize that I'm closer to being perfect than any other crewmember. Of course, I've made some errors in judgment and I'll be the first to admit that my bedside manner can be...lacking... at times; however, I am the essence of efficiency which she desires. I'm even more orderly than her!

"A drink sir?"

Slowly, my dark eyes turn to rest on the bar tender. I gaze solemnly at him before surveying the room. We're alone in the French café. Even the holograms have "gone home" for the night.

Gradually, I turn back to the hologram, "No, thank you. Computer, terminate bar tender." I watch as he shimmers out of existence and then stare at the place he had occupied only seconds before. "I don't have a stomach for drinks." My comment from the party comes out a whisper. "I don't have a stomach at all. Or a body. I am only light waves and subroutines. And right now, I feel as though a subroutine is missing."

I sit in the lonely silence for several minutes before turning back to the piano. My hands find the keys and I pick up the melody where I left off.

My throat constricts and briefly, I wonder how it is possible for me, a mere hologram, to feel as I do. Casting logic aside, I allow my head to drop into my hands effectively creating a cacophony of tones as my elbows hit the keys. The notes bounce off the walls and echo throughout the empty room.

Empty. Like me. Chairs are propped on tables so the floors could be swept, there is no laughter, no chattering, or even a whisper. The lights behind the bar cast a dull glow on the counter and the light on the piano are the only sources of illumination. I am truly alone.

Truly alone.... Truly alone. The phrase echoes through my subroutines as sound echoes in this room. Even surrounded by a crew of 146 living, breathing organisms, I am alone. It seems to be a constant battle to prove that I am real. The other night, I had to remind Mr. Paris that I am just as real as he is and just as real of a date. Perhaps that is why Seven doesn't see me as a possible candidate - she doesn't see me as real.

The idea pierces my heart like a sword. I literally feel my heart constrict in agony over the realization. To many of the crew, I am nothing more than an advanced database - I know that. But, can I bear it if the one I've developed feelings for regards me as nothing more than an educational program?

Lifting my face from my hands, my gaze falls on the tricorder. It may not be for me to know what she thinks of me as. Perhaps, it's best not to know. I must find a way to repair the broken subroutine and move on with my existence. We are friends, Seven and I. I will find a way to reclaim that friendship.

Slowly, I lift a hand. It hovers over the tricorder still resting on the piano. Grasping it, I feel the smooth, cool metal - the first gift my..... friend.... has ever given me.