Chapter II: Friday's Pains

He went to bed, but he didn't really sleep. The following morning, Julian descended to the mess hall as usual: showered, freshly shaved, clad in a crisp, fresh uniform. He waited his turn for the replicator and ordered his customary breakfast — scones with butter and jam — and a small pot of Earl Grey tea. It wasn't his favourite, but unlike Tarkalean tea, it was caffeinated, and after his unsettled night, he was going to need some help to get through the day.

Julian took his usual seat at the quiet table near the back of the room, where he could observe the goings-on that he usually found so fascinating. This morning he wasn't interested in watching his fellow students, and he especially did not want to listen to them: almost everyone in the room was talking about the Moab IV colonists and the protests in Ghent. He tried to close his ears to the chatter, most of it either morbidly fascinated or outraged or repulsed. Consequently, he was startled when the chair across from him was drawn away, and Cadet Nawrell slid into it, depositing her tray as she went.

"Good morning, Captain," she said, eyes twinkling. She was a second-year medical student, Hekaran by birth, and had been the consistent top performer in wall volley drills throughout the racquetball season.

"You don't need to call me that," Julian demurred. "The season's over, and there'll be a new captain next year. You might consider trying for the position yourself."

"You think so?" her cheeks coloured prettily and she leaned in as she took a bite of her breakfast. Julian didn't recognize the food, but it was very colourful: puffs of bright pastry in an array of saturated primary tones. "I thought maybe Jefferson…"

"I think it'd be good to have a non-human captain," Julian said sincerely. "Just because the game originated on Earth isn't an excuse for a lack of imagination. And you're one of our top players."

"That means a lot, thanks," Nawrell said. She frowned, and the T-shaped cleft in her brow tightened. She leaned in over the plate, glancing from side to side before murmuring; "Have you heard?"

Julian's heart sank. He had just been settling into the conversation, almost forgetting last night's misery and the eddying condemnation everywhere around him. Now Nawrell wanted to talk about the situation with the Moab IV colonists, too. "I…" he began, crumbling the corner of his scone and longing to dissolve into a submolecular energy pattern so that he could materialize — where? Anywhere but here.

"The Nova Squadron inquiry is convening today," she said.

For a moment, Julian had no idea what she was talking about. Then relief washed over him and he had to restrain himself from hanging his head in gratitude. She wasn't interested in the situation in Belgium after all, at least not at the moment.

"Oh!" he said, a little flatly. "The flight accident."

She nodded. "I think it's just awful, don't you? Forcing those cadets to relive it all so soon. Some of them were only released from the Infirmary the other day. And they all lost a friend. If Nova Squadron's half as tight-knit as our team is… I couldn't imagine losing Drexler or Borell. Or you."

Nawrell gnawed her lip as she said this last, and Julian felt a little abashed. He'd suspected for a while now that his younger teammate harboured a crush, but he'd never been in a position to explore it. He was in a committed relationship that was starting to look as if it might last a lifetime. Studiously ignoring the suggestion in her manner, he addressed her words instead.

"It's not really the same," he said. "It's hardly likely one of us would get killed at practice."

The Medical Academy racquetball team spent their time leaping nimbly around indoor courts, chasing rubber balls that capped out at a speed of about two hundred twenty kilometres per hour. Nova Squadron executed precision high-impulse flight manoeuvres in the cluttered gravity wells of gas giants. There was a reason they were a legend, while Julian's team — despite their claim to the Sector Championship — was something of a joke.

Nawrell smiled a little sadly. "I suppose that's true," she said. "Still, those poor cadets! They're just kids."

Julian didn't point out that most of the people who had graduated with her from the Academy proper were already out in space, serving on starships that faced deadly risks as a matter of course. His own classmates had been on active duty for almost four years now: some of them would have already made lieutenant. Starfleet Medical's officer training prerequisite meant that its students had the luxury of taking a few more years to enjoy their studies. That they were studies in life and death didn't change the fact that there was something carefree about being able to abdicate the responsibilities of a commission while you grew up a little more.

"I'm sure it's just a formality," he said. "It's standard procedure after a ship is lost, never mind a life."

"Did you know him? The cadet who died?" she asked.

Julian shook his head. He didn't mix much with anyone but the Medical Academy crowd. They were enough of a challenge for his scattered social skills. He felt selfish that it should be so, but talking about this was a welcome distraction from his earlier fretting and the conversation all around them. His appetite was returning, and he picked up his knife to smear a thick layer of jam on his scone. He bit into it, savouring the sweetness.

"I heard he was supposed to graduate this year," Nawrell continued, nudging several of the brilliantly coloured confections around her plate. She shook her head, trying to shake off the troubling thought with it, and she looked up at him with academic eagerness. "So what do you think?" she asked. "About the genetically engineered colonists in Belgium?"

The scone fell from boneless fingers, landing with a plop in the puddle of jam. Julian was halfway to his feet before it even occurred to him that this wasn't the subtlest way to make an exit.

"I really must be going," he said hurriedly as he climbed out of his chair and picked up his tray with hands that couldn't really feel it. "I've got to have a word with Doctor Prawlyk before class."

His teammate looked up at him, bewildered and a little affronted. "But you haven't finished your breakfast yet," she protested.

"No time," Julian mumbled, already striding away. "Not really hungry, anyway."

And he wasn't: his throat had clamped down and the few bites he'd taken sat like a stone in his uneasy stomach. As he put his tray in the replicator, however, he snagged the glass mug of tea and bolted down its contents in one long, sharp draught. He hardly tasted it. It was purely medicinal: he knew he needed the caffeine.

(fade)

He was quieter than usual in his seminars that morning, volunteering no answers and offering his opinion only when his instructors solicited it directly. On Fridays, Julian had his Engineering Extension Course, Level 4, just before lunch, and that made for a welcome distraction. There were only three medical students in that class, and because they were learning how to rewire a plasma conduit, there was not a lot of talking. Even the mustard-coloured jumpsuit he wore to protect his uniform made him feel more like himself.

That was odd, because ordinarily he hated the thing. It always smelled faintly of hydraulic fluid, even when freshly laundered, and the colour was terrible on him: it made him look bilious and half-dead. But somehow today it made him feel a little less like an impostor. He didn't know if people like him were allowed to work as technicians — civilian technicians, of course: Starfleet had been barred from the genetically enhanced since its very inception. But it was comforting to know that there was something, at least, that he was halfway good at that didn't involve that most prohibited of all professions.

Julian had not realized when he'd chosen his path how intertwined it was with the history of eugenics, nor how deep the feelings against genetic engineering ran in a community always ready to proclaim, as loudly and as fiercely as possible, never again.

Julian understood the aversion. He probably had stronger anti-enhancement feelings than anyone else in his class. What had been done to the DNA of the twentieth-century Augments was horrific. What had been done to him and to children like him was unconscionable. Trying to obliterate natural human variation as if it were "weakness", trying to erase disabilities as if the people who lived with and overcame them were somehow less valuable to society, was disgusting. He would never forgive his parents for throwing away the son they had been given by nature, just because he didn't measure up to some arbitrary standard of achievement — or hadn't seemed to measure up to the imprecise milestones of early childhood education. He thought about that little boy, whom he remembered indistinctly as a sweet, well-meaning dreamer who had adored his parents and wanted only to please them, and Julian's heart hurt.

Had Jules really been so pitiable, so worthless, that it had been better to throw him away instead of helping him, nurturing him, and cherishing him for who he was? Julian didn't believe it. He'd deliberately taken his pediatrics internship at a centre that specialized in acute medical care for children with chromosomal abnormalities that brought with them physical and intellectual challenges. While there, Julian had learned a great deal about hematology, oncology, immunology, and occupational therapy. More importantly, he had loved his time in that clinic.

He had delighted in greeting each of the children with a hug or a handshake or, in the case of one little boy who had an aversion to physical contact, a series of three claps: two quick, one slow. Many of them had come to know him by name over the course of his placement — as Julian, of course, not Cadet Bashir. They loved to tell him stories, or share their chaotically beautiful drawings, or show off their toys, or just to sit on his lap while he took their vitals, transfixed by the pattern of lights on the tricorder. Many had been verbal, some hadn't, and they had ranged in age from tiny toddlers to preadolescents with the mental age of children much younger. All of them had been beautiful. All of them had been precious. There was no gene for joy, but these children — even the sickest of them — had all possessed it in abundance.

At the end of a shift, Julian would retreat to his quarters on the junior officers' level of the orbital habitat that housed the clinic, and lie awake long into the night. While he was on duty, the children had absorbed all of his focus. Alone in his spartan little berth, he had thought about their parents instead. They came from all over the planet to seek this specialized care environment for their children; one of the reasons the clinic was in orbit was to ensure that it was only a single transporter journey from anywhere on Earth. Some of the parents were in committed relationships; others were raising sick children alone. Some were harried, some were tired, most were frightened. But not one of them resented the little lives in their care. Not one of them was impatient or critical or harsh. When they looked at their children, their eyes were filled with such love, and every little milestone was greeted with joy.

Julian remembered one man in particular: a broad-shouldered ensign who had worked with Starfleet Security at Utopia Planitia before his daughter's leukemia had brought him back to Earth for the clinic's particular expertise. The little girl had been six, with the mental acuity of a two-year-old, and she loved butterflies. She wore butterfly-print dresses, and butterfly clips in her hair (though they never stayed there for long, as she would pluck them out at the earliest opportunity). After his first time sitting in on her treatment sessions, Julian had scoured the database at the Federation Children's Library until he had found a book with vibrant illustrations of butterflies from around the Quadrant. Because she had vision abnormalities in addition to her other health problems, she couldn't endure the glow of a PADD. Julian had requested a replicator pattern for the book instead, and he'd made her a copy with smooth, sturdy cardboard instead of flimsy paper pages. Every day, while she sat patiently for her transfusions and immunotherapy, he had read it to her.

On her last day of treatment, they'd gone through their usual routine, Julian sitting on a stool by the padded biochair, his long legs tucked up as he turned the pages and talked to her about each of the butterflies. She never said anything: her language skills were comprehension-only and she couldn't speak. But she kicked gleeful feet in anticipation every time he turned a page, and she would touch the glossy prints with her fingertips as gently as if she were touching the real insects. Her father, as usual, watched from his perch at her side while the medical intern — who really should have been on the other side of the treatment bay, watching his supervisor do a complete thoracic imaging series — read to her. When the procedure was finished, Julian went through the usual routine of removing the IV cuff and the cortical monitor, taking one last set of vitals, and unbuckling the seat belt that kept the little patients from trying to wander off. Then he'd crouched down in front of her to say his goodbyes.

"You're all done now," he said. "You'll come back and see us in six weeks, but hopefully you're good as new." He'd known he wouldn't be there in six weeks: by then he was due at his next placement. But she didn't need to know that. Then Julian had given her the book. "This is yours, now," he'd said. "Maybe your dad can read it with you."

He had cast a half-glance at the father, who didn't really look like the type to sit down and read a butterfly book over and over again at the whim of a little girl. But the man had been nodding. Julian's attention was drawn back to his small patient then, however, because she reached to take the book he held out to her, hugged it to her little chest, and said rapturously, "Mine!"

Julian had grinned and said something along the lines of, "That's right: it's yours." But her father, the burly Security officer who had borne stoically the news of his child's cancer and all the intricacies of her laborious treatment, had started to weep. When Julian, at twenty-three still inexperienced in his chosen field and completely uncertain how to handle something like this, had risen to his feet in consternation, he saw that the man was not distressed, but overjoyed.

"That's her first word!" he had said, jubilant and awestruck. "She said her first word!"

He had looked as proud as if his daughter had just taken first place in the Interstellar Interscholastic Olympics. He had scooped her up into his arms, her long, gangly six-year-old's legs dangling. She twined one arm about his muscular neck, still hugging the butterfly book in the other. "Mine!" her father had crowed, jubilant. "Mine!"

"Mine!" the child had echoed in delight.

Other staff and even some parents had gathered around, listening as the father boasted of his little girl's momentous accomplishment. They had all been eager to celebrate with him. But Julian, the catalyst of this moment of pure and heart-warming delight, had retreated from the treatment suite as quickly as he could. He'd fled to the dispensary, seldom occupied by the pharmacist who spent most of her day doing medication assessments and dosage adjustments bedside. Hidden from his colleagues, his teachers, the patients and their parents, Julian had slid down the wall and drawn his knees to his chest, burying his head in his hands and struggling to master himself.

That man had been so proud of his little girl, seeing her first word for the beautiful milestone it was. He hadn't paused to measure her against other six-year-olds, or to wonder why his daughter wasn't as talkative or as academically skilled as they. He had simply been there, in the fullness of the moment, to rejoice with her.

What was so broken inside of Julian's own father, that he had been incapable of doing the same? What had been so broken about little Jules Bashir that he hadn't been worthy of that kind of unconditional love? And what was wrong with a doctor who thought they could take their oath and their knowledge and their skill, and erase such children from the world?

Julian's hand slipped. There was a crunch of glass and a squawk of outraged optronic circuitry as the tool he had been using to rewire the relay smashed an isolinear chip to shrapnel. He swore under his breath and brushed the debris off the front of his jumpsuit, propelling himself to the side with one foot so he could slide out of the modelled crawlspace. It served him right for letting his mind wander while he worked.

He was just hitching himself up onto his elbows, still on his back, when Professor Eaves sidled over. "What's going on here, Mister Bashir?" he asked.

Julian scowled in irritation. "I need another 58966-stroke-Delta isolinear chip," he said, holding up the base of the shattered one.

Professor Eaves whistled. "How'd you manage that?" he asked. "Takes a lot of force to smash one of these babies."

On any other day, Julian would have laughed it off with an airy remark about his clumsiness. Today, the suggestion that he had done something strange made his blood run cold. Was Eaves suspicious of his strength? Would he wonder? Would he guess?

Julian had to get a grip on himself. He'd learned very early on that he couldn't live his life in terror of discovery. The strain of doing so had made him ill in his next-to-last year of secondary school. Worse, the more anxious he got, the more suspect his behaviour became. He had taught himself to bury the dread, to put on an easy smile, and to let himself shamble happily through life. For the most part, it worked, and he was able to get on with everything quite pleasantly. There were moments of doubt and self-loathing, of course, but for the most part he was content.

It was different today. All the careful ramparts he had erected in his mind, walling off truth and pain alike, were crumbling. Everything seemed like a threat, and Julian knew he couldn't keep trying to function like this. But what could he do? He couldn't switch off his mind, and it was capable of maintaining dozens of trains of thought at once. Even these last few anguished contortions, which seemed to have dragged on for a protracted eternity, had taken only a couple of seconds.

He forced a sheepish little grimace. "Sorry. I guess I'm clumsy today," he said.

Professor Eaves shrugged, and went to the supply drawers. He returned with the appropriate isolinear chip, handed it to Julian, and moved on to the next student's workstation. "Fifteen minutes left, everyone," he announced. "If you need advice, now's the time."

Julian lay down on the floor again, and slid back under the conduit, forcing himself to focus on his work.

(fade)

"Mister Bashir, a word if you please."

Julian froze, halfway to the door of the lecture hall, his heart hammering at seventy beats per minute. For any of his human classmates, that would be close to normal. For him, it was double his resting heart-rate, and it was a sure measure of his paranoia. It wasn't unusual for one of his professors to hold him back, sometimes to ask for a favour, more often simply to congratulate his performance. Today, however, he was so on-edge that Doctor Norton's crisp request was enough to chill his blood.

He forced himself to turn with deliberate smoothness, and walked to the counter that ran along the front of the room. "Yes, Professor?" he said, managing somehow to keep his voice steady.

Doctor Zendaya Norton was sixty-seven years of age, plump, personable and patient. She was the only one of Julian's professors this term who had never served in Starfleet. She divided her time between San Francisco and Oxford, Mississippi, holding tenured positions both at Starfleet Medical Academy and Ole Miss. Her seminar on the ethics of medical research was one of the most sought-after courses available to students in their final year of the various medical programs. Julian had been fortunate to secure a place with ease: his exemplary record and near-perfect grades had paved the way without question.

Doctor Norton waited for the last two students to leave the room — a pair from the pharmacotherapy program, deep in conversation and dawdling accordingly. Then she pressed one of the keys on her computer terminal, and the door hissed closed. She fixed dark, intelligent eyes on Julian. He fought the urge to look away, but he couldn't meet them. Instead, he focused on the cultivated rows of tiny braids that swooped up from her left temple into the cascading halo of white curls that framed the rest of her head. The contrast between silvery twists and dark scalp was striking, the dignified beauty of the ornate style strangely soothing.

"You didn't have much to contribute to the discussion today, Mister Bashir," Doctor Norton said quietly.

There was no objective note of reproof in her words, but Julian heard it anyway. He dropped his eyes to the smooth metal surface between them and hugged his PADD closer to his chest.

"I'm sorry, Professor," he mumbled. "I kn-n-now that participation is an important part of our grade, and I'll t-try to do better—"

"You don't need to worry about that." Now she sounded almost gentle. "You've participated enough over the course of the semester that you've earned full marks in that department. You don't need to worry about my class stunting your ambitions for valedictorian."

Julian looked up in astonishment, momentarily forgetting his anxiety. As his eyes met hers, he saw them crinkle at the corners as she smiled.

"Aw, honey, everyone knows you've got your eyes on the top spot. It's been you and Cadet Lense, neck-and-neck for the last eighteen months." Her smile faded a little, and took on a shadow of concern. "That kind of pressure can wear on a person after a while. That's why I wanted a word. Is everything all right?"

"A-all right?" Julian knew he was stammering, and he tried to make it stop. He didn't usually fall back on the nervous habit when talking to his professors — but then again, such conversations were usually professional in nature, and he was always at his best when discussing medicine or academics. "I'm… I'm… why would you as-sk that?"

Doctor Norton sighed. She stepped around the countertop, and took him by the elbow, guiding him to the first row of chairs. "Let's sit down a minute and talk about it, all right?" she said. "There's no need to be so nervous. One privilege of being a civilian professor at the Academy is that I don't have to worry about the chain of command getting between me and my students. Anything you say to me can stay between the two of us: I don't have a senior officer's duty to report."

Julian let her propel him to a chair, and sank down gratefully. He was exhausted. He hadn't dared to go to the mess hall at lunch, telling himself he wasn't hungry anyway. While that continued to be true — nausea, not appetite, was what had gnawed at his stomach all day — he had also forfeited his chance at a fresh dose of caffeine. His broken night was weighing him down almost as relentlessly as his emotional turmoil.

Doctor Norton took the chair at the next table, swinging it to the side so they could face one another across the aisle. She leaned forward, resting an elbow on the desk.

"Do you have a class to get to?" she asked. "I can call ahead and tell them I need to keep you late."

Julian shook his head. "Th-This is my last class of the week," he mumbled.

She grinned. "Mine, too," she said. "I'm looking forward to stretching out in the hammock with a good book. But first, let's talk about what's troubling you today. When a student who's always ready to offer his point of view suddenly goes silent, I have to wonder what's happened."

Suddenly Julian understood what she was doing. He had been trained to do the same thing: to watch for changes in behaviour, and to approach the affected officer with compassion and circumspection, offering them the opportunity to get help before manageable mental health struggles became catastrophes. It was part of a Medical Officer's duty, falling partly under the purview of diagnostics, and partly under preventative care.

"It's nothing," he whispered, staring down at the PADD now flattened across his lap. His last two fingers were curled so tightly around the stylus that they were beginning to ache. He forced them to loosen a little. "I'm just… I'm n-n-not in the mood to talk today."

He almost flinched at the imprudence of such a statement. A sudden loss of interest in activities one normally enjoyed was a glaring red alert for anhedonia and depression. And it was no secret that he enjoyed talking — all the more so when he felt confident he could bring something interesting and worthwhile to the conversation. In social situations, that was a gamble at best, but in the classroom it was practically guaranteed. He never missed an opportunity to raise his hand, to give an answer, or to put forward an opinion.

"Not in the mood to talk in class, or not in the mood to talk at all?" Doctor Norton asked. When Julian didn't meet her eyes, she tilted her head to one side and moved her chair a little farther into the aisle. "If the academic pressure is getting to you, there are ways the Academy can help."

"It's not!" Julian said, hurriedly and a little too sharply. He felt his shoulders sag. "It's stressful sometimes," he admitted quietly. "But it's also… invigorating. I worked hard to get here. I'm at my best when I'm doing my best. The pressure… it's not so bad."

He meant it, mostly. There were times when his efforts to excel wore him down, leaving him feeling beleaguered, exhausted, and unable to catch his breath. But it was exhilarating, too. It was a little like tennis, actually: constant fluid motion just to stay on top of the game, with the fearful but thrilling knowledge that a single misstep could cost him the match. All the passion he had funnelled into his sport as a young teen, he had channelled into his studies once that avenue was forbidden him. He loved it, even when it was stressful. And it certainly wasn't the cause of today's reticence.

But he couldn't tell Doctor Norton what the true cause was, and she wouldn't be put off by his platitudes. He had to give her something more.

"I'm just tired today," he tried. He heard immediately how flaccid that excuse sounded, but it was too late to take it back. He forged ahead instead. "I didn't get much sleep last night, I missed lunch, and I'm just… out of energy."

He had missed lunch, all right, hiding in one of the reading alcoves on the holodeck floor instead of braving the eddies of conversation in the mess hall, all those voices gossiping about the Moab IV colonists, and the protests in Belgium. It felt like an act of personal cowardice, and somehow that made him feel even more unworthy to be here.

"Well, that makes sense," Doctor Norton said. "Sounds like the end of a hard day for you, then. But why did you have trouble sleeping in the first place? Is that something you struggle with often?"

"No…" Julian said reflexively, but as the word came out, he knew it was a lie. He wasn't particularly prone to insomnia, but there were other things that could prevent a person from getting a good night's sleep. Nightmares, for instance. The kind that crept up from the darkest recesses of your soul and dug their tentacles into your mind, until the only way to escape was to scream yourself awake. After a nightmare like that, falling asleep again was out of the question. He had passed his fair share of hours staring wide-eyed at the ceilings of darkened bedrooms, waiting breathlessly for the dawn.

"I don't suffer from insomnia," he said. "I just had a lot on my mind."

He hadn't meant to say that. He couldn't answer the obvious next question: if he hadn't been fretting over coursework, just what had he had on his mind? He had a feeling Doctor Norton would be able to smell a lie, but he couldn't tell the truth.

Or he couldn't tell the truth head-on. He struck a tangential trajectory and came at it from a different direction.

"It's family business, Professor," he said with the reluctance of a shamefaced confession. "My parents and I… we have bad blood between us, and last night some of it came up to the surface again. It's nothing, really. Nothing I haven't had to deal with before."

In one sense, that was true: grappling with his unnatural identity was just a routine part of his existence now. It waxed and waned, like a virus lying dormant along a nerve, only to flare up periodically when external stressors grew too great or immune defences were compromised. In this case, both were true: the news coverage of the anti-eugenic protests was an enormous stressor, and Julian's emotional defences were worn down — by academic pressure, and by the weight of the life decisions looming ahead in just a few short months. He hadn't been prepared for this onslaught of dread and self-loathing, and he wasn't coping well at all.

Doctor Norton looked grave, and there was earnest compassion in her voice as she said; "I'm sorry. Is it something you'd like to talk about? I'd be happy to help in any way I can, or we can connect you with someone at Counselling Services."

Julian shook his head. "It's fine, Professor, really," he said, and he was relieved to note that he had his stammer under control again. "It's an old argument. I'm used to coping with it. One of the lovely things about being an adult is that I don't need to see them very often."

"Do you have someone to talk to?" she pressed gently. "A friend? A partner?"

He nodded fervently. He had no friends he could take his troubles to — not even the troubles that weren't bound up in layers of criminal deceit. But he did have someone in his life he could trust, someone to share his burden of ordinary worries. Not this, of course: never this. But all the same, the thought of her bolstered his courage a little, and lightened the weight on his heart.

"I do," he said. "My…" He paused, and actually found himself smiling a little. Palis didn't like the word girlfriend. She preferred he call her "ma copine", which didn't have the same juvenile feeling as its English equivalent. But if he said ma copine now, the Universal Translators both he and Doctor Norton wore in their combadges would change it to girlfriend for her anyway. Palis wasn't his fiancée yet, though that was something they'd been talking about rectifying soon. Julian had been wanting to ask her to marry him for months now, but it didn't seem fair to do so until they resolved the question of what they were going to do when he graduated from Starfleet Medical.

Lover seemed to reduce their relationship to the sexual, when it was so much more than that. He didn't mind partner, but it wasn't very descriptive — especially to a cadet who had study partners and lab partners and drill partners in abundance. Julian didn't talk about his private life often enough with anyone other than Palis to have settled on the best way to describe their relationship to a third party. He felt a hollow little shiver in his heart at that realization.

Moments like this drove home how isolated he was, how few true relationships he had in his life. Estranged from his parents, alienated from his peers because of his intelligence and his ineptitude with the mysterious codes of social interaction everyone else had learned to navigate as children, preteens, adolescents. In primary school, he had assumed most kids' parents expected them home promptly after school. He'd thought it was the best way to get away from the bullies who took exception to his cleverness and delighted in tormenting him whenever the teacher's back was turned. On the rare occasions when he was extended an invitation to another child's birthday party or seaside excursion or autumn féte, his mother had always declined. You don't really want to go anyway, Jules. It will be crowded. Noisy. What if they serve food you don't like? Better to stay home: we'll have our own party.

When he got a little older, Julian thought his parents were being overprotective. It had irritated him, and he'd tried to push back — only to discover that when he did finally argue his way into being allowed to attend Lucy Cardinal's thirteenth birthday with the rest of his class, he wasn't wanted anyway. Ostracized as if by prearranged signal, he'd spent most of the afternoon sitting under the oak tree at the bottom of the Cardinals' back garden, playing patiently with Lucy's little brother, who was four years old and so delighted by the older boy's attention. Julian hadn't known how to disappoint the child, and he hadn't had the courage to try to insinuate himself back into the throng. At the end of the party, the taller Mrs. Cardinal had given him a hug, thanked him for being so sweet to her little boy, called him an upstanding young man, and slipped him an extra slice of chocolate cake to take home. For years afterwards, Julian had tried to convince himself that the adult's approval made up for the hurt of being rejected by his peers. It hadn't really worked.

Then when he was fifteen, he finally understood. All those years when his parents had proved so reluctant to let him out of their sight, they hadn't been protecting him, but protecting their secret. They had been afraid he might slip up, might do something suspicious while they weren't around to offer a distraction or an airy excuse. Outrun every child in footrace after footrace, maybe, or solve a Vulcan brain teaser in record time, or deduce who had killed Mr. Boddy after only two rounds of clues. It had been nothing more than a variation on his mother's old theme: it's rude to read so fast when other people can see you, Jules.

Once he had understood what they were doing, he'd been able to fight back. They hadn't dared to interfere, not really. His father shouted and his mother wheedled, but Julian had stayed out after school, tagging along to the town green or the library or the local Replimat or the holopark — wherever his schoolmates congregated in their free time. But no matter how he tried, he had never been able to penetrate deeper than the corona on the fringe of their close-knit social circles. Teenagers, it turned out, were just as intolerant of difference as their small-school counterparts. They had all been taught from toddlerhood never to exclude a person because of species, ethnicity, belief system, language or gender or romantic preference or body type or disability. No one had taught them to be forgiving of the social missteps of the cleverest pupil in the class, who was supposedly just like the rest of them but who had somehow never learned how to join in their lives. Julian had tried to decode the secret language of camaraderie, but it didn't come to him as quickly as Vulcan, or French, or Mandarin, or German. And by the time he turned sixteen, he was too near the precipice of a nervous breakdown to dare to reach out to others. He had let his efforts lapse, resuming them only when he arrived at Starfleet Academy. By then, he had been even further behind.

"Mister Bashir?" Doctor Norton's voice called him back to the present, and Julian's cheeks flared with hot embarrassment. She was watching him, gently pensive. "You seemed awfully far away there, for a second."

"Sorry." He tried to smile sheepishly, and raked an unsteady hand through his hair. "I was just… what was I saying?"

"That you had someone to talk to?" she prompted.

"Right." He let out a little, grounded sigh. "Palis. She's my… she's the woman I'd like to marry. We talk about everything." Almost everything. "I'm taking a day's furlough tomorrow, actually, to go and see her. She lives in Paris."

For the first time since calling him back, Doctor Norton smiled broadly. "Good," she said emphatically. "That's good. Taking time out for yourself and those you love is important. How long has it been since your last leave?"

"Four weeks," Julian admitted. It was entirely too long, and even without the upheavals of the last few days he would have been aching to see Palis. "It's hard to get away. With coursework and research and the papers I've got to write — and my shifts in the Academy infirmary, and my mentorship obligations…"

He stopped, aware that he was babbling. He shrugged apologetically. "But she has a exhibition recital tomorrow evening, so I wanted to make time to attend."

"Oh, she's a musician?" Norton asked. She was coaxing him to talk about something that engaged him: another tactic to measure his mental state. Julian decided it was best to cooperate, now that they were away from the chasm.

"A danseuse," he said, knowing the Universal Translator would thwart his effort to use the proper term. "With L'Opera National. That's a preeminent ballet company," he added, in case she wasn't aware. "She's a Danseuse Étoile, which means…"

"She's one of the best," said Doctor Norton, nodding. "Top of her field, like you are in yours. It sounds like you're meant for each other."

"I like to think so," Julian said shyly. "She's gifted, and she's intelligent, and she's charming… I don't know quite what she saw in me, but these days we're inseparable."

"I'm glad," Norton said earnestly. "You're beaming out tomorrow? What time?"

"Around 0930 hours," said Julian. "That's 1830 in Paris. She won't have time for me before the performance."

"And you'll spend the night?" asked Doctor Norton. It sounded like an invasive question, but her tone was still tinted with concern. She was trying to make sure he had enough time to unburden himself, and to relax in the company of someone he loved, before he had to be back in the med school crucible. Julian was touched.

"At least," he said. "I don't actually have anything to do back on campus until Sunday evening. I've got the overnight shift at the Infirmary."

"And I'll bet you're looking forward to that, too," Norton mused. "You always seem to be at your best when you're working with patients."

Julian's brows furrowed in puzzlement. "How did you—" he began, then stopped himself. It was an impertinent question, no matter how valid. Doctor Norton didn't teach any practical courses: she had never supervised him with patients.

"Oh, I make it my business to know which of my students are strong on the theory, and which of them have a decent bedside manner," she said. "Just so happens, you're both. You'll make a good doctor, Mister Bashir. From what I hear, you're already a good doctor, in all but name."

His cheeks burned again, but this time the flush was one of pride and pleasure. "That's kind of you to say, Professor," he mumbled, managing to keep from stammering in embarrassed delight.

"It's true," she said, getting to her feet. "Why don't you go and get yourself some supper? Can't run that mighty brain of yours on nothing but coffee fumes and sea air."

Julian's attempt to rise gracefully was thwarted by the words mighty brain. He knew there was no subtext behind them; no accusation. He heard one anyway. His momentary reprieve, when he'd been thinking of nothing but Palis and his professor's words of earnest praise, was over now, and he was back to thinking about his secret. His mighty brain, which he owed to illegal genetic enhancement.

"Thanks, Professor," he said, a trifle hoarsely. He moved for the door, even as she tapped her computer to release the lock.

"And Mister Bashir?" she said, as he stepped over the threshold. Julian looked back, wide-eyed and wary. Doctor Norton was smiling warmly. "If you ever do want someone to talk to on this continent, I'm always ready to listen."

He thanked her, but he hurried away, trying to recapture the carefree serenity that had filled him while he spoke of his beloved. Palis. He'd be able to see her in seventeen hours, to speak to her in nineteen. Surely he could hold out until then, provided he stayed away from the Federation News Service and tried to avoid the gossip.

He would have to hold out until then. Somehow.

(fade)