Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek, nor any of the characters, materials, ideas, of concepts therein.
The day that Jules is born is the happiest day of Amsha Bashir's life.
At least, it is when it happens. Later, she looks back - and wonders.
When Jules is a baby people coo over his bright blue eyes and gurgling laugh. Amsha buys up dozens of music-rods.
"We'll have him listen to Mozart," he says. "And Sorias. That's a Vulcan musician. Classical music is supposed to make kids smart, right?"
"That's what I hear."
"We'll raise him right," Richard promises. "We aren't much, but I'll find a good job. A better job. Jules won't have an idiot for a father, and even if he does, we'll raise him right. He'll be able to make something of himself."
"Of course he will," Amsha agrees, and raises the baby. He hums, waving a tiny fist and blinking at his father with a distant gaze. "He's made for great things," she says. "I can feel it."
Even in this toddling years Jules is an easy child to get along with. He's docile, sweet, and lovable. He spends the days quietly playing with his beloved Kukalaka, murmuring nonsense and whispering to it under the shade of an arching elm in their backyard. He'll spend whole days there as sunlight drifts lazily through the sky and shifts through the tree's dappled leaves.
Amsha boasts to her friends about his lovely temperament. Clarisse grumbles about her son, Tommy, for terrorizing the cat and pitching fits and waking her up at night. "He never eats his vegetables," she complains once. Jules' favorite food is brussel sprouts.
Other kids like him, too. Jules is very quiet, and hardly ever speaks, but he shares well. When Clarisse and Amsha bring the kids together for a play-date Jules obligingly trails behind Tommy, complying happily with whatever the slightly-older boy wants to do.
"I don't think there's a selfish bone in his body," Clarisse comments enviously. Tommy grabs a toy tarq from Jules. Jules blinks, shrugs a little, and starts drawing circles in the dirt without concern. Tommy looks almost guilty.
Amsha beams.
"That's my boy," says Richard Bashir, grinning as Jules carefully balances one block atop another. His coordination is poor, and the toy falls. Blithely, Richard adds to his friend, "I bet he'll be an architect one day."
Richard is a manual laborer right now. Being an architect, a designer, seems like an admirable goal. An impressive goal.
"He's determined," his friend John allows, smiling and sipping his beer as Jules picks up another block in his fat fist. His arm shakes in the air, wobbling unsteadily; he lets go of the block, and it topples over again. "How old did you say he was?"
"Two and a half."
"Hmm," murmurs John. And is silent.
"He's such a good boy," Amsha tells Clarisse.
"Yes, but what does he do?"
"Do?"
"All you talk about is how nice and easy he is. Doesn't Jules ever do anything?"
"Like what?"
"Well, funny things. The other day we had Tommy's grandmother over. And it was so cute, because he kept hopping and waving when she was about to leave. Which made her linger on our porch, but when she went to hug her again she just shoved at her and yelled, 'Go already!' You should have seen her face!"
Clarisse giggles a little at the memory.
Amsha bites her lips briefly, then turns away. "Bashir is very polite," she says. "He wouldn't do something like that."
"Oh, lighten up. They're children, Amsha. Surely he does silly things every now and then, right?"
Amsha says nothing.
"You know," Clarisse says. "Kids being kids."
"Not Kukalaka," Jules says.
"I said like Kukalaka," Amsha corrects. "This is another teddy-bear, see? I thought Kukalaka looked a little ratty."
"Not."
"They're both teddy-bears," she coaxes.
Jules looks confused. His eyes wander around the room.
"Don't you like bears?"
"Bears?"
Annoyed, Amsha presses it into Jules hands. He stares at it a moment, then drops the toy.
He starts calling for Kukalaka.
Eventually Amsha gives in and goes to her room; luckily she hasn't thrown the old thing away yet. Jules seems pleased to see his stuffed friend, but something is niggling at Amsha.
"You know what a bear is sweetheart, right?"
Puzzled, Jules points to the new toy he just rejected.
"And this?" she points to his old red one.
"s'Kukalaka."
"Which is a bear."
"Tha's a bear," Jules says clearly, and waves at the discarded one. He wanders off, hugging his beloved Kukalaka.
He's only three, Amsha tells herself. And he is very attached to his first stuffed animal. It's cute, actually. Just cute.
That's all.
"You know, he's a little quiet," Richard Bashir says one day.
"There's nothing wrong with that."
"No. Well."
"What?"
"It's just - he's very quiet."
"Yes."
"It's a little - unusual."
"It's just his nature."
Richard says nothing for a moment. Then: "He's almost four, Amsha."
"I know how old he is."
"He'll be going to pre-school soon, with other kids."
"He's very excited."
"I don't think he is."
"Of course he is. All kids are excited to start school for the first time."
"Jules isn't all kids."
"He's better," Amsha says.
"Jules can be happy. I don't know if he gets excited."
"Of course he does," says Amsha coldly. "What do you know? You're gone all the time. He's always excited. Don't act like there's something wrong with Jules just because you're never home."
Richard looks at her. Then he gets up and walks out of the room.
Quietly, Amsha starts to cry.
"He's a little - slow, Mrs. Bashir."
"It's his first time in school," Amsha reasons.
"They're pre-schoolers, Mrs. Bashir. They're all new to school. But Jules never talks to any of the other students."
"You can't blame a child for being shy. You can't hold him back for that."
"It's not just that, Mrs. Bashir. At this age the children play simple puzzle and memory-games. They memorize the names of the Federation species. Bashir has never been able to finish an eight-piece puzzle, and he doesn't understand the difference between a human and a Vulcan."
"He's only five."
"The other five year-olds seem to do just fine, Mrs. Bashir."
"There's nothing wrong with him."
"I didn't say there was. He clearly has a learning disability - "
"You can't blame the child," Amsha answers. "You can't. You're the teacher. Teach him. Make him learn."
"It's not that simple."
"Then you're not doing your job right. I'm not letting you fail him. I'll take him to a school with better teachers."
"I simply feel it would be best to let his skills develop more first - "
"It's never the child's fault," Amsha repeats. "Never."
"We had him listen to Mozart," Richard says. "And that Vulcan musician."
"I never liked Vulcans."
"I'ma be a doctor," Jules explains, pushing the loose stuffing back inside Kukalaka.
"I'm sure you will, sweetie," Amsha lies. "Are you going to have teddy-bears as patients too?"
"No. But I'll op'rate on Kukalaka."
"..."
"That's a cat, Jules."
"s'fuzzy."
"Yes. Do you know what that animal is?" Amsha points one out.
"s'cat," answers Jules.
"No, baby. That's a dog."
"Fuzzy."
"Yes. But you know the difference between a cat and a dog, right?"
Jules doesn't respond.
"What about this?"
"House."
"It's a tree, Jules."
"People're sitting under it. House."
"...We should take a break," Amsha mutters, and turns away.
"We could consider it," Richard says.
"John doesn't know what he's talking about."
"It helped his brother. Charles is a respected researcher now."
"You hear horror stories - no. Jules is fine. He's just behind. That's all."
"And he'll never catch up."
"But we're not bad parents," Amsha says desperately. "Not this bad."
"Charles and John had the same parents," Richard tells her.
Amsha doesn't speak to him for the rest of the night.
When Amsha arrives at the new school Jules is crying. Thick, miserable tears roll down his face, and he sobs awkwardly into the ragged form of Kukalaka.
"They said I'm stupid," Jules sniffles. He's not alone, at least; another skinny boy is standing awkwardly at his side, patting his shoulder.
Amsha hugs her son, looking at the boy. "Are you a friend of Jules'?" she asks.
"Not really," the kid says, with all the blunt honesty of a child. "But he's nice and I kinda like him. Even if he is really stupid."
"One. Two. Three. What comes next?"
"One, two," Jules repeats slowly.
"One, two... what comes next? I just said it."
"...One?"
"There are programs," Clarisse offers hesitantly.
"My son's not an idiot."
"Of course not, but Amsha - "
"Those people don't make it. He'd be laughed at."
"No one will laugh, Amsha. Humanity is better than that now. He could have a perfectly good life. You're not helping him by denying his difficulties."
"It's the school. It's an awful place."
"Tommy goes to that school. The teacher showed him how to multiply yesterday."
"Tommy isn't Jules."
"No," Clarisse sighs. "He isn't."
"A tree," Amsha tries again. "Like in our backyard. You sit under it, not in it."
Her son thinks hard, and then -
"It's a tree if you can't go inside!" Jules exclaims, and this is a breakthrough, it really is. The boy is beaming, with a wide, beautiful smile. His too-blue eyes glow, and Amsha is struck by how rare that look is. The child grins up at his mother, delighted with his own wit.
Amsha falls apart.
She squeezes him, molding her son to her body, weeping against her hair. If Jules understands this to be a sign of sadness, he makes no sign of it. "Can't go inside," he repeats, arms dangling uselessly. He's smiling. He does not think to return the hug. "Can't go inside."
"That's right, Jules," Amsha whispers.
Jules is seven years old.
She makes her decision.
It's a quick procedure. Jules is odd afterward. He doesn't smile as much. The doctors, furtive and tense in a way that invariably reminds her of the fact that this is all illegal, assure her that he is gaining almost five IQ points a day.
Her Jules doesn't seem the same. But a few days after the surgery they walk out into the hot June air, and Jules tugs at her wrist.
"Mother," he says, sounding uncharacteristically annoyed. "It's hot. Can we go sit under that tree?"
"We did the right thing," Richard mutters under his breath. They're clapping, proud but terrified, as Jules trots across the stage to receive his science-fair prize. "He's made for great things. I always knew it. We did the right thing."
Jules informs Amsha that he doesn't like brussel sprouts anymore.
"It's alright that I don't have friends, Mother," Jules tells her.
Across the playground a kind, skinny boy who once held her crying son watches them. Scowls. Turns away.
"The other kids are just jealous," Jules adds.
Jules grows.
"Have you heard of the genetic experiments on Alpha Veridian? I can't believe those doctors. There's such a lack of ethics these days.
"When I'm a doctor, I'll only help people. Not hurt them."
When Jules is fifteen he becomes Julian, and Amsha knows for a second time that the Jules she loved is gone. Changed irrevocably.
But maybe this, too, is for the best.
She can only hope.