"The word you are looking for is unnatural, meaning 'not from nature'. Freak, or monster would also be acceptable."
(Julian Bashir, Doctor Bashir, I Presume.)
Bashir looked up, and focused immediately to a tall, slender woman entering the Infirmary just two steps behind Doctor Hayes. He noted the slightly olive hue of her skin, and her dark brown hair loosely wound into a bun at the top of her head. But there was something even more distinctive about her eyes - large, wide set, and an exotic shade of greyish green. "I remember you."
Medical School. San Francisco. A hot, sultry October day. Moisture hovered thickly in the air, as if deciding to give the city's residents an extra reminder that the heat of Summer was not yet ready to release its hold. Junichiro Watanabe's students breathed a collective sigh of relief upon entering the foyer with its shady walls and soft, environmentally controlled breeze. Most of them were still in their twenties, some already anticipating their escape to the salt-tinged air and cooling waves of the beach, and several had started to fan themselves with stiff, grey datapads.
There was a murmur of anticipation as they looked around in every direction, at the high, whitewashed ceiling with floral engravings stretched all the way along its edge, at the curious faces of their classmates, and finally back to their elderly Genetics professor, who had led them this far and still had yet to explain why.
Eyebrows raised, Julian glanced mutely at his good friend Erit. Their exchange was brief, the Andorian's face barely readable although his antennae were propped upright like a pair of anxious sentinels.
And then she entered. First time he saw her, the green eyed stranger had strode through a narrow door which, oddly enough, Bashir still remembered had been one of only a few that still swung open on old fashioned hinges. Quaint. Years later, he recalled the passing thought with surprising clarity.
"Ah. Good," she'd said, sparing no time for greetings or introductions. "You're here. Follow me."
"I remember you too." There was something oddly sculpted, a little too exact, about the woman's smile - as if she'd never quite found the time to accustom herself to the act of smiling. "Professor Watanabe once told me that you were one of his most promising students."
Bashir snorted. "Sorry to disappoint."
"Listen to me." Her eyes hardened as she crossed the floor to face him directly. "You haven't disappointed anyone, understand? No-one. At least, no-one whose opinion is worth the time it takes to listen. As far as I'm concerned, the Federation has been jumping at shadows for far too long. We're all so badly haunted by the ghost of Khan Singh, we've forgotten that the worst laws are made by sheltered politicians, with no real understanding of the people those laws are most likely to effect."
Allowing her just enough time to finish her soapbox speech, Bashir raised his head so as to be looking straight into her clear grey-green eyes. "With respect, Doctor," he said, hardly bothering to keep the weight from his voice. "Why are you here?"
"Case number three five two." An image had appeared on a large screen in front of them. A youngish woman, but also quite tall. Ivory pale, dark eyed, with thick, gleaming waves of black hair falling evenly over her back and shoulders. Her face was smooth, expressionless. She probably appeared to be far more youthful than she really was, Julian reflected. Such lack of affect would have given her skin little chance to develop wrinkles. Calm brown eyes gazed silently at her hand, which stroked the arm of the chair where she sat - every movement impossibly slow and repetitive.
"Female," Doctor Nikos continued. "Early thirties. No previously known history of brain injury or dysfunction. Chronically non-verbal. Minimal response to external stimuli. Possible diagnoses, anyone?"
"Some form of progressive dementia?" suggested one student from the front of the room.
No, Julian thought, but kept his own counsel.
"Viral infection?" hazarded another.
"Low functioning Autistic?" From the opposite side of the lecture hall.
No. Julian struggled to conceal the tightness in his chest.
Several more responses followed, and the doctor continued to shake her head. As their options dwindled, each guess became steadily more obscure and far-fetched. When one student suggested, "Telepathy?" Nikos finally raised her hand, and there was silence.
"Perhaps, then," she continued. "You might be more familiar with this."
The screen split into two parts. One still showed the same unspeaking woman. But the image on the right was now of a man in his late fifties, with a well-muscled chest, hard-edged gaze, and slightly feathery, dull blonde hair. There were tense expressions, whispers of "Khan", and a hushed ripple of mumbled conversation. Julian squirmed.
"I'm here," Nikos explained, her voice level. "Because your friends on the station were worried about you."
"So in other words," the young man challenged her, unable to push back the seeds of a sneer. "You're here to see if I should be locked up for good."
"Not necessarily…"
Feeling a tight and sudden pain in his forehead, Bashir rubbed it away. "Not meaning to be rude. But I've had just about enough. Nothing you say is going to make the slightest bit of difference, so please. Spare me the same tired old platitudes."
There'd been time for questions, and several of Julian's classmates had been eager to take that chance. Several too many, Julian distinctly remembered thinking. Had anybody identified the specific DNA sequence associated with this type of effect? What kind of treatment had been considered, thought through, even tried? Did Doctor Nikos believe that there would ever be hope of a cure…?
"Right, then," said Professor Watanabe. "Looks like that's all for now, so would you join me in…?"
"Oh, I think we have time for one more question, don't you, Professor?" said the dark haired doctor.
Their professor nodded, indicating with a sweep of his hand that it was entirely her choice. The woman's green eyes scanned the audience. "One more question," she offered.
A hand went up at the back of the hall. It was Julian.
"Did she mind that you were taping her?" he asked.
Silence. He felt the stares of half the class upon him, but fixed his own gaze firmly on the woman at the front.
"How would you even tell?" said another young student, sitting three seats along.
"Well," the doctor replied, and rested a hand upon her lectern. "Usually, she communicates with signals, hand gestures, or through the use of a specially configured datapad."
"So she had a choice, then -" Julian persisted. "About the recording?"
"…And that really is all we have time for." With a slightly apologetic glance at his colleague, Professor Watanabe rose to his feet. "Let's thank Doctor Nikos for a most informative lecture."
"Very informative," whispered Julian Bashir, although careful to be sure that his voice never carried above the surrounding applause.