JenExell
2010-08-26 11:40:39 UTC
Hey all. So I've decided to post the prologue of my story idea. This
story is getting steadily written, but I can't make any definite
promises about the regularity of updates. I want to say a huge thank
you to jonnycarnahan for helping me bounce ideas around, and her
fantastic feedback as to what works and what doesn't. *hugs* you're a
star.
Title:Point of Perspective
Author: jenexell
ST Genre: Deep Space Nine
Pairing/Characters: Bashir/OMC, Some DS9 Cast, Some TNG Cast.
Rating: NC-17 overall for graphic imagery and strong language.
Disclaimer: If this was real, I wouldn't share. As its not, I'm
sharing with no personal gain or profit, other than perhaps to feed my
attention whore complex. Some timeline elements maybe slightly out of
sync. appologies in advance, I've done the best I can. Many of my
story ideas are strongly influenced by the works of Gabrielle Lawson
and those concepts are used with consent. Recognisable Star Trek
Elements are the property of Paramount et al. non-recognisable
elements are mine! plagiarists will be eaten alive voles.
Distribution: Anywhere I post it but If you want it, ask me.
Warnings: Some violent imagery. May contain references to or
descriptions of: Torture, Rape, prostitution, drug/alcohol abuse,
sexual abuse of persons under the age of consent (implied),
imprisonment, espionage, voles, medical proceedures, Dabo, homosexual
sex, heterosexual sex, a distinct lack of sex, genocide/ethnic
cleansing, genetic engineering, science (in all forms), not very nice
people, Cardassians Miles O'Brien would be shocked to know existed and
MPreg. Well you can't say I didn't warn you.
Timeframe: Near the beginning of TNG season 3 and onwards.
Summery: Things always look different from a different perspective.
When Julian Bashir's life is turned upsidedown at the age of 24 he
gains a whole new perspective on life as a human in the alpha
quandrant.
Prologue
Stories should have a beginning. This one has many. Or it has none at
all. It depends on a point of perspective.
It could begin in 2341 (by earth’s calendar) when a not uncommon, and
believed - at the time - to be benign particle flux occurred in the
pattern buffer of an aging freighter’s transporter as a human woman in
the early months of pregnancy beamed aboard the latest vessel she and
her husband would call home.
It could begin more than six years later, as a young boy, small for
his age, awkward and not very bright, sat on a hospital bed clutching
an already tatty bear and stared in wonder at all the different alien
species he could see. His wonder turning to fear and apprehension as
his parents left the room and white coated aliens with what were
supposed to be reassuring smiles took their places by his bedside.
It could begin three years later still, with the same boy, now top of
his class, tall and sporty, shaking and screaming at his mother in
desperation and frustration as she slipped in and out of
consciousness, blood flowing freely from her many wounds. Beside them
the boy’s father slumped prone in his seat, already beyond aid, his
body as twisted as the wreckage of the hover car the small family were
trapped in. Or a few hours later, as an overheard conversation let the
boy know that a simple application of pressure and knowing how to use
the small first aid kit in the hover car could have saved his mother’s
life.
The story could also begin at any number of points in the following
years, as the boy too old, and too smart for his age to be comfortably
integrated into a new family eventually settled into life in the care
of the state. A children’s home, a boarding school of sorts, filled
with others like him, orphans. Most of his companions were the
children of those who had served in Starfleet, and had given their
lives in that service. He learnt a lot about star fleet in those
years. Most of his companions were, despite their losses, proud of
their parents, and while they compared stories of where their families
had served, the places they’d seen and the things they’d done, the boy
found he was reluctant to contribute. After all, his father hadn’t
been any kind of hero, or an eminent scientist. His parents hadn’t
died protecting the federation or seeking out new life and new
civilizations. They’d died fleeing from the angry men, the imposing
figures that sometimes came around to the boy’s house late at night
and argued with his father. Usually about money.
Or maybe it would begin in 2359 as the boy, now a young man, beamed
with excited joy as he stared in wonder at the Paris campus of
Starfleet Medical Academy, striding with the confidence and self
assurance of someone who had made it on their own, towards his bright
new meaningful future.
But it doesn’t begin there. This story begins on a wet and windy
august night in San Francisco in 2366. This story doesn’t begin, as
one might think, with the boy, now a man, although he is there. He
doesn’t want to be there, in fact he’s putting six years of medical
school and Starfleet officer training, every ounce of knowledge
gleaned from his engineering extension courses and every fibre of his
intellect to work at not being there. The pitiful lockout on his dorm
room and the security personnel posted to keep watch didn’t really
stand a chance.
And in a building, not too far away from where the young man, medical
student and Starfleet cadet was making a very hasty and surprisingly
stealthy getaway, a very angry woman was having an argument with a
very belligerent, narrow minded and bigoted senior officer.
Dr Beverly Crusher would be the first to admit she had a reputation
for being outspoken. Her late husband’s good friend and until less
than a year ago her captain, Jean-Luc Picard would certainly attest to
the fact; she’d brow beaten him more than once. It was the Scot in her
she supposed. Or the single parent in her. Both tended to lean a
person towards a tendency to be stubborn, opinionated and as tenacious
as a terrier in a badger set when they were right. And at this moment
Beverly knew, with every fibre of her being, with every instinct that
she had, as a person, as a Starfleet officer, as a doctor and as a
parent that she. Was. Right.
Commander Bigot be damned.
His name wasn’t actually commander Bigot, although from that day
onwards until the day she died that was how Beverly would think of
him. He was actually Commander Thomas Lutin, from the Academy JAG
office. Not quite middle aged, but he’d left young behind some time
ago – probably while his peers were still playing with model starships
if Beverly was any judge. His face seemed to be a permanent sneer, and
it was easy to see why he’d wound up being the JAG officer assigned to
the Academy. It was a post that was neither high workload nor high
profile; most student issues could be dealt with in-house so to speak
with the ultimate sanction being expulsion. It was rare that something
would occur that was serious enough to refer to the JAG office at all,
and so the post was something of a career dead-en; somewhere to dump
those who’d never really crossed the line enough to be thrown out, but
were simply too bad at their jobs to be given anything of any
importance. So little happened at the Academy that the Academy itself
couldn’t deal with there was very little opportunity for someone like
Lutin to mess up.
There were things that were serious enough that they needed to be
referred though. Serious assaults, sexual harassment, gross misconduct
by one of the tutors, once to Beverly’s knowledge a highly profitable
ring dealing in the theft and sale of upcoming exam papers, and of
course, this. But this was way beyond Commander Bigot. Commander
Bigot, who quite clearly rated himself. Commander Bigot, who liked
having power over people. Commander Bigot who drew that power from his
rank, from the minutiae of the law and Starfleet regulations and from
his own uncompromising, unaccommodating and exacting personal beliefs
that bordered dangerously on racist.
Around her, Beverly could feel the frustration and anger of her
colleagues. When she’d resigned her position on the Enterprise and
accepted the invitation by Medical to head up their domain within
Starfleet Academy she had been honoured and excited. She’d known it
would be hard work, and very different from what she had been doing
previously. A lot more administrative work, a lot less medical
practice, but it seemed like a good career move. She wasn’t getting
any younger and perhaps the less perilous path of education was what
she needed. What she hadn’t expected was that this job would throw up
an event that would match in magnitude anything she’d encountered
serving on starships and deep space stations.
An augment. A genetically enhanced human being. In the academy,
training – successfully by all accounts – to become a Starfleet
doctor. A young man with almost perfect test results (although there
was a blip or two – apparently he got nervous during oral exams and
stuttered terribly, leading to one examiner becoming so frustrated she
terminated the exam early), an excellent bedside manner, sterling work
ethic, a reputation for helping and tutoring his fellow students, and
from reading his annual psych evaluations Beverly could tell that the
most pressing concern the counsellors had was that he was overly
fearful of failure and greener than Irish spring grass.
All that being said, Beverly could admit to herself that if he’d
entered the academy under false pretences (not lied his way in - there
wasn’t exactly a tick box on the application forming asking if you
were now or had ever been genetically enhanced – but had known about
his genetic status and had failed to disclose it knowing full well the
law regarding augments in any profession where they could hold
authority or further the development of genetic engineering) she would
probably be standing on Commander Bigot’s side of the table. But from
all evidence this wasn’t the case. From everything she’d read, and
from her one brief encounter with the cadet she felt that beyond doubt
he hadn’t been aware of what he was.
The first and only time she’d met Cadet Bashir had been when he’d come
of his own volition and in a terrible state to her office with
Professor Ladmus, one of his tutors, after having discovered his
status himself while using his own DNA as baseline data in fairly run
of the mill experiment all medical students performed as part of their
clinical research modules.
He’d discovered his status. He’d confirmed his findings with his
tutors. He’d voluntarily disclosed that information to her as head of
Starfleet medical academy. He’d stood in front of her scared,
bewildered, shocked and appalled. He’d stood there and acknowledged
that he knew there would have to be an investigation all the while
begging her silently, although likely unknowingly, with his eyes, his
body language, not to throw him out, not to take medicine, his life,
away from him; Begging her to find a way that what he’d found wasn’t
true. He’d broadcasted his plea like an all channel emergency beacon
at her without ever having to say a word.
And what had she done? She’d picked over his record with a fine tooth
comb, called in every tutor, doctor, lecturer, technician, nurse,
administrator and counsellor that she could get hold of who’d had any
dealings with him to gain their opinions of him, their impressions;
both in San Francisco and Paris where he’d done his first three years
of training. She’d even contacted the children’s home in London where
he’d spent the nine years between his parents’ deaths and being
accepted at the academy; she’d spoken to the house masters and
matrons, the teachers and the principle. And she’d contacted JAG.
She’d informed her colleagues of what was going on of course; for some
reason her gut had urged her to let them know before JAG, to get their
opinions first. Never had she been more grateful to her gut, or more
heart warmed by a group of professionals. They were horrified,
naturally, but it seemed Bashir had made an impression, since their
horror stemmed not from the fact that he was an augment, but at the
thought of losing him from the profession. There were naturally,
varying opinions from her colleagues about what she should do about
him. Some were sad to see him go, but firmly held with the letter of
the law and others had, with varying degrees of subtlety, told her to
tell the rules to go jump out an airlock.
If Beverly hadn’t been starting to lean that way already, her
colleagues’ comments would have certainly nudged her towards the
latter. As it was, given everything she’d learned, heard and read,
she’d hardly needed the professor of exo-paediatrics ranting (and when
Andorians ranted, they really ranted) in her office for more than an
hour about the idiocy of outdated laws written to sooth foolish human
superstitions and paranoia, to bring her around to her current way of
thinking.
What she’d found was that Cadet Julian Sabatoi Bashir was a somewhat
contrary personality; calm, professional and caring when immersed in a
medical role, often nervous with tendency to stutter and babble (an
unfortunate combination) when in unfamiliar situations or with
unfamiliar people, but at the same time Outgoing, friendly and
personable with people he knew well. He was highly dedicated to
medicine, had wanted to be a doctor for as far back as anyone she had
spoken to could remember, and was aware and somewhat self conscious
about the fact that he was unusually smart (the word abnormal had been
supplied by one of the counsellors at the children’s home, and been
given on the pretext that it was a word Bashir himself had used during
his teenage years).He also seemed to thrive in a well ordered
environment with clear boundaries, although he liked to test and push
those boundaries from time to time. He was proud, and could lean
towards arrogance when he let his successes and achievements go to his
head, but he was easily humbled.
In short, he was a pretty average human male, a good cadet and as one
of his tutors had so succinctly put it, he was a Doctor, he just
didn’t have his letters yet. He also just happened to have a scarily
precise and expansive memory and head for numbers, and hadn’t been
aware, at least not consciously that he came by his impressive
intellect by any other means than the randomness of conception, until
just six days ago. What he was not, of this Beverly was quite certain,
was a megalomaniacal genius just waiting for his opportunity to take
over the world and enslave the lesser humans. He was not Khan Singh.
A pity Commander Bigot couldn’t see that. No, what commander Bigot saw
(if he saw anything beyond his own chance at a bit of glory) was an
undeniable threat to the very existence of the human race, and to the
federation. His entire investigation, every action he’d taken in the
last six days seemed to be focussed on proving that premise. He wasn’t
out to just boot Bashir from Starfleet, he was out to destroy him as a
man. Hence the rather loud argument she and the commander were
currently having.
House arrest! She couldn’t be more furious. Bashir had been under
house arrest for five days now. The day he’d come to Beverly’s office
he’d willingly agreed to return to his dormitory and stay there while
she investigated; he hadn’t seemed to her like he was about to do a
runner, not that he should have anything to run from. But now he was
locked in, with two Starfleet security personnel outside his door, and
another two patrolling his corridor. No-one was being allowed to talk
to him, and his computer had been disabled, as had his com-system and
his roommate and all other cadets on his corridor had been re-housed,
thus leading to a great deal of wild and somewhat fearful speculation
amongst the student population.
He’d also been ‘interviewed’ twice by Lutin, to Beverly’s knowledge.
Both occasions without any kind of legal counsel or representation
with him, and the last time, just that morning, had had two of her
colleagues running to her office to say they’d seen Bashir being
escorted back to the dorms and he looked about as frightened as they
had ever seen anybody look in their lives. (In Dr Franklin’s words –
‘If I didn’t know better I’d have thought they were taking him to hand
over to the Tal’Shia for interrogation, not back to his room!’)
That had been the final straw for Beverly. Enough was enough. Bashir’s
rights – as a cadet in Starfleet, as a federation citizen, as a human
and as a sentient being - had obviously been violated. A few quick
calls to the Head of Starfleet Medical and a seemingly endless wait
before he got back to her, and she’d set off to Commander Bigot’s
office, practically her entire staff trailing behind her, ready to let
rip.
They’d been debating for more than two hours when the Commander’s door
opened without notice to admit the Head of Starfleet Medical, an
amiable looking admiral with his fair share of middle aged spread and
a tidy but full grey-white beard, and another man, a Vulcan, with
admiral pips and a JAG office insignia on his collar.
“Commander Lutin, a moment of your time.” The Vulcan said without
inflection, drawing the huffing and indignant looking commander over
to a corner.
Finally.
“Admiral Quinn.” Beverly found herself saying in what could only be a
relieved sigh as the admiral crossed the room to her side. “Thank you
for coming.”
The admiral offered Beverly a small smile and a nod, his eyes
twinkling with fondness, but grave in understanding that this was
serious matter. “Given how adamant you were over the comm. I felt that
perhaps I should be here in person.” Waving a hand vaguely in the
direction of the Vulcan admiral, he continued. “That’s Admiral Sorak,
you said you wanted high ranking Beverly, and he’s the highest ranking
JAG officer I could get to come out in this god awful weather.”
Beverly was about to reply - something along the lines of, ‘that he
would do nicely,’ after all given his rank, he likely reported
directly to the Judge Advocate General herself - when the office door
hissed open again, this time revealing a heavily panting, and slightly
dazed looking Starfleet officer in security gold. Seeing the assembled
crowd in the room, he paused, looking around blindly for a moment,
before taking in exactly who was there, including the two admirals.
Beverly doubted anyone in the room missed the flash of panic that
crossed the young man’s face.
“Is there a security issue that requires attention ensign?” Sorak
asked with calm authority.
Swallowing stiffly, the ensign looked bug eyed between the admiral and
Commander Bigot then simply blurted, “I don’t know how the hell he did
it sir! One minute we were outside the door, the next we were waking
up on the floor! And he took our bloody com badges!”
“Who did what exactly ensign?” The Admiral pressed, while Beverly felt
like burying her head in her hands. Stupid, stupid boy. A quick glance
around the room confirmed her suspicion that most if not all of her
colleagues were thinking the same thing. Genetically engineered
intellect my Lillie white ass. This was about the dumbest thing he
could have done.
“Bashir sir! He’s escaped!”
Tbc...
story is getting steadily written, but I can't make any definite
promises about the regularity of updates. I want to say a huge thank
you to jonnycarnahan for helping me bounce ideas around, and her
fantastic feedback as to what works and what doesn't. *hugs* you're a
star.
Title:Point of Perspective
Author: jenexell
ST Genre: Deep Space Nine
Pairing/Characters: Bashir/OMC, Some DS9 Cast, Some TNG Cast.
Rating: NC-17 overall for graphic imagery and strong language.
Disclaimer: If this was real, I wouldn't share. As its not, I'm
sharing with no personal gain or profit, other than perhaps to feed my
attention whore complex. Some timeline elements maybe slightly out of
sync. appologies in advance, I've done the best I can. Many of my
story ideas are strongly influenced by the works of Gabrielle Lawson
and those concepts are used with consent. Recognisable Star Trek
Elements are the property of Paramount et al. non-recognisable
elements are mine! plagiarists will be eaten alive voles.
Distribution: Anywhere I post it but If you want it, ask me.
Warnings: Some violent imagery. May contain references to or
descriptions of: Torture, Rape, prostitution, drug/alcohol abuse,
sexual abuse of persons under the age of consent (implied),
imprisonment, espionage, voles, medical proceedures, Dabo, homosexual
sex, heterosexual sex, a distinct lack of sex, genocide/ethnic
cleansing, genetic engineering, science (in all forms), not very nice
people, Cardassians Miles O'Brien would be shocked to know existed and
MPreg. Well you can't say I didn't warn you.
Timeframe: Near the beginning of TNG season 3 and onwards.
Summery: Things always look different from a different perspective.
When Julian Bashir's life is turned upsidedown at the age of 24 he
gains a whole new perspective on life as a human in the alpha
quandrant.
Prologue
Stories should have a beginning. This one has many. Or it has none at
all. It depends on a point of perspective.
It could begin in 2341 (by earth’s calendar) when a not uncommon, and
believed - at the time - to be benign particle flux occurred in the
pattern buffer of an aging freighter’s transporter as a human woman in
the early months of pregnancy beamed aboard the latest vessel she and
her husband would call home.
It could begin more than six years later, as a young boy, small for
his age, awkward and not very bright, sat on a hospital bed clutching
an already tatty bear and stared in wonder at all the different alien
species he could see. His wonder turning to fear and apprehension as
his parents left the room and white coated aliens with what were
supposed to be reassuring smiles took their places by his bedside.
It could begin three years later still, with the same boy, now top of
his class, tall and sporty, shaking and screaming at his mother in
desperation and frustration as she slipped in and out of
consciousness, blood flowing freely from her many wounds. Beside them
the boy’s father slumped prone in his seat, already beyond aid, his
body as twisted as the wreckage of the hover car the small family were
trapped in. Or a few hours later, as an overheard conversation let the
boy know that a simple application of pressure and knowing how to use
the small first aid kit in the hover car could have saved his mother’s
life.
The story could also begin at any number of points in the following
years, as the boy too old, and too smart for his age to be comfortably
integrated into a new family eventually settled into life in the care
of the state. A children’s home, a boarding school of sorts, filled
with others like him, orphans. Most of his companions were the
children of those who had served in Starfleet, and had given their
lives in that service. He learnt a lot about star fleet in those
years. Most of his companions were, despite their losses, proud of
their parents, and while they compared stories of where their families
had served, the places they’d seen and the things they’d done, the boy
found he was reluctant to contribute. After all, his father hadn’t
been any kind of hero, or an eminent scientist. His parents hadn’t
died protecting the federation or seeking out new life and new
civilizations. They’d died fleeing from the angry men, the imposing
figures that sometimes came around to the boy’s house late at night
and argued with his father. Usually about money.
Or maybe it would begin in 2359 as the boy, now a young man, beamed
with excited joy as he stared in wonder at the Paris campus of
Starfleet Medical Academy, striding with the confidence and self
assurance of someone who had made it on their own, towards his bright
new meaningful future.
But it doesn’t begin there. This story begins on a wet and windy
august night in San Francisco in 2366. This story doesn’t begin, as
one might think, with the boy, now a man, although he is there. He
doesn’t want to be there, in fact he’s putting six years of medical
school and Starfleet officer training, every ounce of knowledge
gleaned from his engineering extension courses and every fibre of his
intellect to work at not being there. The pitiful lockout on his dorm
room and the security personnel posted to keep watch didn’t really
stand a chance.
And in a building, not too far away from where the young man, medical
student and Starfleet cadet was making a very hasty and surprisingly
stealthy getaway, a very angry woman was having an argument with a
very belligerent, narrow minded and bigoted senior officer.
Dr Beverly Crusher would be the first to admit she had a reputation
for being outspoken. Her late husband’s good friend and until less
than a year ago her captain, Jean-Luc Picard would certainly attest to
the fact; she’d brow beaten him more than once. It was the Scot in her
she supposed. Or the single parent in her. Both tended to lean a
person towards a tendency to be stubborn, opinionated and as tenacious
as a terrier in a badger set when they were right. And at this moment
Beverly knew, with every fibre of her being, with every instinct that
she had, as a person, as a Starfleet officer, as a doctor and as a
parent that she. Was. Right.
Commander Bigot be damned.
His name wasn’t actually commander Bigot, although from that day
onwards until the day she died that was how Beverly would think of
him. He was actually Commander Thomas Lutin, from the Academy JAG
office. Not quite middle aged, but he’d left young behind some time
ago – probably while his peers were still playing with model starships
if Beverly was any judge. His face seemed to be a permanent sneer, and
it was easy to see why he’d wound up being the JAG officer assigned to
the Academy. It was a post that was neither high workload nor high
profile; most student issues could be dealt with in-house so to speak
with the ultimate sanction being expulsion. It was rare that something
would occur that was serious enough to refer to the JAG office at all,
and so the post was something of a career dead-en; somewhere to dump
those who’d never really crossed the line enough to be thrown out, but
were simply too bad at their jobs to be given anything of any
importance. So little happened at the Academy that the Academy itself
couldn’t deal with there was very little opportunity for someone like
Lutin to mess up.
There were things that were serious enough that they needed to be
referred though. Serious assaults, sexual harassment, gross misconduct
by one of the tutors, once to Beverly’s knowledge a highly profitable
ring dealing in the theft and sale of upcoming exam papers, and of
course, this. But this was way beyond Commander Bigot. Commander
Bigot, who quite clearly rated himself. Commander Bigot, who liked
having power over people. Commander Bigot who drew that power from his
rank, from the minutiae of the law and Starfleet regulations and from
his own uncompromising, unaccommodating and exacting personal beliefs
that bordered dangerously on racist.
Around her, Beverly could feel the frustration and anger of her
colleagues. When she’d resigned her position on the Enterprise and
accepted the invitation by Medical to head up their domain within
Starfleet Academy she had been honoured and excited. She’d known it
would be hard work, and very different from what she had been doing
previously. A lot more administrative work, a lot less medical
practice, but it seemed like a good career move. She wasn’t getting
any younger and perhaps the less perilous path of education was what
she needed. What she hadn’t expected was that this job would throw up
an event that would match in magnitude anything she’d encountered
serving on starships and deep space stations.
An augment. A genetically enhanced human being. In the academy,
training – successfully by all accounts – to become a Starfleet
doctor. A young man with almost perfect test results (although there
was a blip or two – apparently he got nervous during oral exams and
stuttered terribly, leading to one examiner becoming so frustrated she
terminated the exam early), an excellent bedside manner, sterling work
ethic, a reputation for helping and tutoring his fellow students, and
from reading his annual psych evaluations Beverly could tell that the
most pressing concern the counsellors had was that he was overly
fearful of failure and greener than Irish spring grass.
All that being said, Beverly could admit to herself that if he’d
entered the academy under false pretences (not lied his way in - there
wasn’t exactly a tick box on the application forming asking if you
were now or had ever been genetically enhanced – but had known about
his genetic status and had failed to disclose it knowing full well the
law regarding augments in any profession where they could hold
authority or further the development of genetic engineering) she would
probably be standing on Commander Bigot’s side of the table. But from
all evidence this wasn’t the case. From everything she’d read, and
from her one brief encounter with the cadet she felt that beyond doubt
he hadn’t been aware of what he was.
The first and only time she’d met Cadet Bashir had been when he’d come
of his own volition and in a terrible state to her office with
Professor Ladmus, one of his tutors, after having discovered his
status himself while using his own DNA as baseline data in fairly run
of the mill experiment all medical students performed as part of their
clinical research modules.
He’d discovered his status. He’d confirmed his findings with his
tutors. He’d voluntarily disclosed that information to her as head of
Starfleet medical academy. He’d stood in front of her scared,
bewildered, shocked and appalled. He’d stood there and acknowledged
that he knew there would have to be an investigation all the while
begging her silently, although likely unknowingly, with his eyes, his
body language, not to throw him out, not to take medicine, his life,
away from him; Begging her to find a way that what he’d found wasn’t
true. He’d broadcasted his plea like an all channel emergency beacon
at her without ever having to say a word.
And what had she done? She’d picked over his record with a fine tooth
comb, called in every tutor, doctor, lecturer, technician, nurse,
administrator and counsellor that she could get hold of who’d had any
dealings with him to gain their opinions of him, their impressions;
both in San Francisco and Paris where he’d done his first three years
of training. She’d even contacted the children’s home in London where
he’d spent the nine years between his parents’ deaths and being
accepted at the academy; she’d spoken to the house masters and
matrons, the teachers and the principle. And she’d contacted JAG.
She’d informed her colleagues of what was going on of course; for some
reason her gut had urged her to let them know before JAG, to get their
opinions first. Never had she been more grateful to her gut, or more
heart warmed by a group of professionals. They were horrified,
naturally, but it seemed Bashir had made an impression, since their
horror stemmed not from the fact that he was an augment, but at the
thought of losing him from the profession. There were naturally,
varying opinions from her colleagues about what she should do about
him. Some were sad to see him go, but firmly held with the letter of
the law and others had, with varying degrees of subtlety, told her to
tell the rules to go jump out an airlock.
If Beverly hadn’t been starting to lean that way already, her
colleagues’ comments would have certainly nudged her towards the
latter. As it was, given everything she’d learned, heard and read,
she’d hardly needed the professor of exo-paediatrics ranting (and when
Andorians ranted, they really ranted) in her office for more than an
hour about the idiocy of outdated laws written to sooth foolish human
superstitions and paranoia, to bring her around to her current way of
thinking.
What she’d found was that Cadet Julian Sabatoi Bashir was a somewhat
contrary personality; calm, professional and caring when immersed in a
medical role, often nervous with tendency to stutter and babble (an
unfortunate combination) when in unfamiliar situations or with
unfamiliar people, but at the same time Outgoing, friendly and
personable with people he knew well. He was highly dedicated to
medicine, had wanted to be a doctor for as far back as anyone she had
spoken to could remember, and was aware and somewhat self conscious
about the fact that he was unusually smart (the word abnormal had been
supplied by one of the counsellors at the children’s home, and been
given on the pretext that it was a word Bashir himself had used during
his teenage years).He also seemed to thrive in a well ordered
environment with clear boundaries, although he liked to test and push
those boundaries from time to time. He was proud, and could lean
towards arrogance when he let his successes and achievements go to his
head, but he was easily humbled.
In short, he was a pretty average human male, a good cadet and as one
of his tutors had so succinctly put it, he was a Doctor, he just
didn’t have his letters yet. He also just happened to have a scarily
precise and expansive memory and head for numbers, and hadn’t been
aware, at least not consciously that he came by his impressive
intellect by any other means than the randomness of conception, until
just six days ago. What he was not, of this Beverly was quite certain,
was a megalomaniacal genius just waiting for his opportunity to take
over the world and enslave the lesser humans. He was not Khan Singh.
A pity Commander Bigot couldn’t see that. No, what commander Bigot saw
(if he saw anything beyond his own chance at a bit of glory) was an
undeniable threat to the very existence of the human race, and to the
federation. His entire investigation, every action he’d taken in the
last six days seemed to be focussed on proving that premise. He wasn’t
out to just boot Bashir from Starfleet, he was out to destroy him as a
man. Hence the rather loud argument she and the commander were
currently having.
House arrest! She couldn’t be more furious. Bashir had been under
house arrest for five days now. The day he’d come to Beverly’s office
he’d willingly agreed to return to his dormitory and stay there while
she investigated; he hadn’t seemed to her like he was about to do a
runner, not that he should have anything to run from. But now he was
locked in, with two Starfleet security personnel outside his door, and
another two patrolling his corridor. No-one was being allowed to talk
to him, and his computer had been disabled, as had his com-system and
his roommate and all other cadets on his corridor had been re-housed,
thus leading to a great deal of wild and somewhat fearful speculation
amongst the student population.
He’d also been ‘interviewed’ twice by Lutin, to Beverly’s knowledge.
Both occasions without any kind of legal counsel or representation
with him, and the last time, just that morning, had had two of her
colleagues running to her office to say they’d seen Bashir being
escorted back to the dorms and he looked about as frightened as they
had ever seen anybody look in their lives. (In Dr Franklin’s words –
‘If I didn’t know better I’d have thought they were taking him to hand
over to the Tal’Shia for interrogation, not back to his room!’)
That had been the final straw for Beverly. Enough was enough. Bashir’s
rights – as a cadet in Starfleet, as a federation citizen, as a human
and as a sentient being - had obviously been violated. A few quick
calls to the Head of Starfleet Medical and a seemingly endless wait
before he got back to her, and she’d set off to Commander Bigot’s
office, practically her entire staff trailing behind her, ready to let
rip.
They’d been debating for more than two hours when the Commander’s door
opened without notice to admit the Head of Starfleet Medical, an
amiable looking admiral with his fair share of middle aged spread and
a tidy but full grey-white beard, and another man, a Vulcan, with
admiral pips and a JAG office insignia on his collar.
“Commander Lutin, a moment of your time.” The Vulcan said without
inflection, drawing the huffing and indignant looking commander over
to a corner.
Finally.
“Admiral Quinn.” Beverly found herself saying in what could only be a
relieved sigh as the admiral crossed the room to her side. “Thank you
for coming.”
The admiral offered Beverly a small smile and a nod, his eyes
twinkling with fondness, but grave in understanding that this was
serious matter. “Given how adamant you were over the comm. I felt that
perhaps I should be here in person.” Waving a hand vaguely in the
direction of the Vulcan admiral, he continued. “That’s Admiral Sorak,
you said you wanted high ranking Beverly, and he’s the highest ranking
JAG officer I could get to come out in this god awful weather.”
Beverly was about to reply - something along the lines of, ‘that he
would do nicely,’ after all given his rank, he likely reported
directly to the Judge Advocate General herself - when the office door
hissed open again, this time revealing a heavily panting, and slightly
dazed looking Starfleet officer in security gold. Seeing the assembled
crowd in the room, he paused, looking around blindly for a moment,
before taking in exactly who was there, including the two admirals.
Beverly doubted anyone in the room missed the flash of panic that
crossed the young man’s face.
“Is there a security issue that requires attention ensign?” Sorak
asked with calm authority.
Swallowing stiffly, the ensign looked bug eyed between the admiral and
Commander Bigot then simply blurted, “I don’t know how the hell he did
it sir! One minute we were outside the door, the next we were waking
up on the floor! And he took our bloody com badges!”
“Who did what exactly ensign?” The Admiral pressed, while Beverly felt
like burying her head in her hands. Stupid, stupid boy. A quick glance
around the room confirmed her suspicion that most if not all of her
colleagues were thinking the same thing. Genetically engineered
intellect my Lillie white ass. This was about the dumbest thing he
could have done.
“Bashir sir! He’s escaped!”
Tbc...