STARDATE 55248.08: Eleventh Day of the Trial
"Doctor Bashir," Phil said. "How long have you served in Starfleet?"
Bashir, his head turned away, watched Keegan sideways. "Ten years," he said.
Keegan stepped forward and Bashir winced. "You are eugenic yourself, are you not?"
"Yes," Bashir said.
"Doctor, are you a Starfleet officer?"
"Yes."
"Please act like it."
Bashir's head snapped forward, his eyes wide. He straightened his back and tugged his tunic into place.
"Thank you. You are also an expert on eugenics. Tell me, what do you think of my analysis of Starfleet Academy?"
"If any manipulation exists, it is not intentional."
"I am not arguing intent, Doctor. Is the analysis valid?"
"It is possible, but I cannot support it one hundred percent."
"What percent can you support?" Keegan asked.
"Perhaps seventy," Bashir said.
"Have you suffered much discrimination since Starfleet discovered your status?"
"Some, not much."
"Describe it."
"Objection, your honors," Brown said. "Doctor Bashir's difficulties have no bearing on Mister Keegan's actions. He was not aware of Doctor Bashir's status when he committed his crimes."
"The objection is sustained," Admiral Chauhan said.
"Yes, sir," Keegan said. "Doctor, you have worked extensively with other eugenics. Are they all emotionally unstable?"
"No," Bashir said slowly.
"You were, in fact, able to help one of them, were you not?"
"Yes, Sarina Douglas."
"The other eugenics predicted the Federation would lose the Dominion War. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Bashir said.
"Then, a eugenic can be—"
"Now!" someone yelled from the back of the gallery. Keegan, Bashir and the rest of the court turned to the noise. A tall redheaded woman in a security uniform stood up in the back of the room. "Now, Bashir!" she said. Julian groaned. The woman started forward, her eyes on Keegan. Two security officers intercepted her. She slid past one and twisted the other to the ground. When more security pressed toward her, a mature cherub of a man, dressed as an admiral, ran past the guards. One guard tried to stop him. He tripped her and jumped over her, landing in a clutch of Voyager's crew. Tuvok caught and controlled him. While the struggles occurred, Keegan scanned the front of the gallery. He stopped on a man dressed as a captain. The man's eyes gleamed wide, and he jumped at Keegan.
"Jack, stop it!" Bashir said.
Jack punched at Keegan. In a single move, Phil blocked the fist and struck Jack across the jaw. Jack fell back. He paused for an instant and leapt at Keegan with both feet. Phil caught him and shoved him hard into the ground. He held Jack in place.
"He's killing me!" Jack yelled. He twisted and screamed in agony. "Look at him! Look at what he's doing! Ahhh!"
"Lieutenant?" Chauhan asked.
"He's faking it," Phil replied in a calm tone.
"Stop it, Jack," Bashir said.
"He's killing me! He's killing me!"
"Stop it!" Bashir said. "Your faking it. We can all tell."
Jack stopped struggling and turned toward Bashir. "You can?"
"Yes. Now, stop it."
"He can't be allowed to exist," Jack said.
"Why is that?" Commander Brown asked.
"He's a murderer. He's killed thousands. Millions."
"No, I didn't," Phil said, but he sounded angry as if caught in a lie.
"You designed the fusion reactors!" Jack yelled.
"I helped to design them," Phil said in a flat voice. "But Khan ordered their detonation. I was half-way to the Delta Quadrant then."
"Millions died because of you!"
"Over a billion," Phil said.
"He admits it!" Jack screamed.
"We already knew it, Jack," Bashir said.
"What?"
"He confessed those actions before the trial," Bashir continued.
"He did?"
"Yes."
"All of them?"
No response. Keegan pulled Jack to his feet and pushed him at a Vulcan security officer.
"The defense would like to request a brief recess," he said.
"All of them?" Jack said. Keegan walked through the clutch of people to the defense table. "Everything?" Jack yelled.
"You're fishing for an answer," Keegan said.
"But there is an answer."
"That," Phil said, "is the responsibility of the prosecution."
"Tell me!" Jack screamed.
"Why?! So you can find out if you're exactly like me?"
Jack winced away. His companions cringed and lowered their eyes. Bashir ignored the reactions of his former patients in favor of the clear self-loathing in Philip Keegan's face.
"Your honors," Commander Ponomarev said. "The defense has requested a short recess."
"Yes, Commander," Admiral Pek said. "This court is in recess for thirty minutes. Security, remove these people."
While security pulled the eugenics from the room, Anzhelika Ponomarev leaned toward her client and whispered, "Phil—"
"Thank you, Lika," he said.
"I was doing my duty."
"I know," he replied. "Thank you."
Thirty minutes later, and with more security in the room, Lieutenant Keegan continued his questioning.
"Have you continued your professional relationship with Sarina Douglas, Doctor?"
"Yes," Bashir said. "I examine her once a year to see if there is any change in her behavior."
"Has her emotional state deteriorated?"
"No."
"Then, Doctor Bashir, it is possible for an advanced eugenic to be emotionally stable."
"Yes, but Sarina and the others haven't received as much manipulation as you." Bashir stopped on his own words. "Wait. That doesn't—"
"Thank you, Doctor," Keegan said. "Tell me, why did your parents have you altered?"
"How could that be?" Bashir continued. "You were—"
"Doctor! I will ask the questions."
"Yes, Lieutenant. I... I was suffering in school because of my inadequacies."
"Tormented because of them? Particularly considering the reputation of your parents?"
"Yes."
"How many people suffer from averageness today, Doctor?"
"Obviously, there's a range of the best and worst."
"Are the worst rewarded in today's society?" Keegan asked.
"No."
"Are they condemned?"
"Children can be cruel," Bashir replied.
"Yes. I know. What about adults?"
"Very rarely."
"Yes, it is a more tolerant society."
"Exactly," Bashir said.
"Then, you had nothing to worry about when you reached adulthood."
"I suppose not."
"Do you enjoy your abilities, Doctor?" Keegan asked.
"Enjoy them?"
"Yes. Your understanding of medicine, for example. Do you feel a thrill when you discover something new or when you read a particularly insightful paper from one of your colleagues?"
Bashir lowered his face. "Yes. I do."
"Do you have that right?"
"The right?"
"Do you ever feel guilty knowing you may be stealing someone else's discovery?" Keegan asked.
"Stealing?"
"Yes, Doctor. If you had not discovered polytransitional recombinant cellular cohesion, for example, someone else would have. You, in effect, stole the discovery from that other researcher, whoever that might have been. Does that make you feel guilty?"
Bashir answered with a nervous nod.
"Your 'natural' colleagues, do you think they feel guilty?"
"I don't think so."
"What is your crime? What causes your guilt?"
Bashir sighed and spoke as if the answer were old for him. "I cheated."
"And, your colleagues did not?"
"Correct."
"Why is that?" Keegan said.
"They were born with their abilities."
"So what?"
"I'm sorry?" Bashir said, his head at a tilt.
"Is your surgical ability cheating when you save a life?"
"Yes."
"Do the patients care?"
"Some of them, yes."
"Do you care?"
"I feel guilty, as I said," Bashir said.
"Do you think about that while you're helping them?"
"Yes."
"Does it stop you?" Keegan said.
"No."
"Are you glad you are able to help them?"
"Yes."
Keegan smiled at a distant memory. "What are we, Doctor?"
"Eugenic."
"Yes. What does that mean? We had no choice in what we became. What are we? What do we represent?"
"Vanity," Bashir said as if familiar with the answer. "We represent the vanity of our parents."
"What is the strongest species in the Federation?"
"That's difficult to say exactly. There are many forms of strength," Bashir said.
"In a general way," Keegan replied. "As you would classify strength."
"The Horta."
"The longest lived?"
"The Medusans."
"The most intelligent?"
"The Vulcans."
"Tell me, Doctor, what advantage do I have over those races?"
"I don't know," Bashir said quietly.
"What advantage do you have?"
Bashir turned his head in thought. "None," he said.
"Why did you apply to Starfleet when you knew it was illegal?"
"I wanted to serve in Starfleet, and I wanted to help people."
"Why did you want to serve in Starfleet? Helping people could be done anywhere," Keegan said.
"Because it's Starfleet. It's special."
"Thank you, Doctor." Phil returned to his seat.
"You have quite a list of deceptions to your name, Doctor Bashir," Commander Brown said.
"Yes," he replied.
"Your father paid for those deceptions, didn't he?"
"Yes, he did."
"Did you ever alter medical records to hide your nature?"
"Not exactly," Bashir said. "As a doctor, I knew how to confuse the sensors."
"Did you ever rewrite computer records or delete files?"
"No."
"Did you ever misrepresent your abilities?"
"Yes," Bashir said. "But never with a patient."
"Did you ever take control of a starship or Deep Space Nine to hide your identity or make a point?"
"No, never."
"Did you ever put anyone at risk—"
"Objection," Keegan said. "Lieutenant Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Torres have proven Voyager and her crew were not at risk while I was in control."
"The objection is sustained," T'Lara said.
"Yes, sir," Commander Brown said. "Doctor, have you ever lied directly to a superior officer?"
"Directly? No."
"Are you afraid of Lieutenant Keegan?"
Bashir lifted his eyes to Keegan. "Yes."
"Why?"
"He likes what he is."
"Why would that frighten you?" Commander Brown asked.
"I was salutatorian of my class, because I was one of the best. I have been asked if I intentionally failed to get valedictorian. I didn't. That wouldn't be the case with Philip Keegan. He would place himself exactly where he needed to be. He would choose his position because he could."
"Phil?" Commander Ponomarev whispered.
"Do you have an objection?" Admiral T'Lara said.
"No, sir," Keegan replied.
"Please, Doctor," Commander Brown said. "Continue."
Bashir took a breath and let it go. "I believe Mister Keegan has decided where he wishes to be in Starfleet. He has created a scenario for it. He will get what he wants, because we cannot know how to stop him."
"We are pawns?"
"No. Not pawns. We are elements of the equation. I don't think he can view us as human. I don't think he can understand what we mean to ourselves and our society. I don't think he can understand what humans have become. I think he is the worst thing I have faced." Bashir stopped. He looked around the floor, trying to find his answer. "No. He is like something I faced. He is like the Founders. He has that same disregard for the sentience of others."
"That's a very strong comment, Doctor. Can you justify it?" Brown asked.
"No," Bashir said quietly.
"Thank you, Doctor."
"Redirect?" Keegan said. T'Lara nodded. "Doctor, do you know why I hate Khan Noonian Singh?"
"I've read Diary of a Child's Moment."
"That tells you what he did to my siblings and me. Some of it, anyway. Do you know what he did to me?"
Bashir shook his head.
"How did you feel about the Founder that replaced you?"
Bashir tried to respond, but failed.
"Now, imagine you grew up with him and, at the age of six, looked at him as your hero. How would you feel?"
"Objection," Commander Brown said. "I don't see how this has relevance."
"Sustained," T'Lara said. "Any other questions, Lieutenant?"
"No, sir."
After he was dismissed, Bashir walked toward the exit but stopped near the defendant's table. "I don't hate the Founders," he said.
"Who do you hate?" Keegan replied.
"I hate what happened."
"Thank you, Doctor. I think you do understand me."
STARDATE -342376.59: May 18, 1981
"Thank you, Kashmira, that was very insightful," the teacher said. Like all the teachers on the island, he was also a genetic engineer, a fifth generation eugenic, and the biological father of one or two of the eugenic children. "Gescilene, can you describe the similarity of reincarnation imagery as used by Li Po and Marot?"
Gescilene did not answer. Instead, she looked toward the door of the classroom. Philip Keegan, sitting behind her, followed her head and saw Allyn McPherson enter the room.
"Mister McPherson," the teacher said. "How may I help you?"
"I'm sorry, father," he said. McPherson and the teacher looked nothing alike. "I'm afraid you've become a problem."
"Problem?" the teacher asked. McPherson took him by the head and snapped his neck. He turned to the children.
"Bury him," he said. "And dig enough graves for all of them." He spoke in a gentle tone, without anger.
Phil and Gesci, closest to the teacher, stood and picked up his body. They carried him out of the building, followed by a long line of their siblings. More batch ten children, with bodies in hand, met them at a large, unused field. Shovels arranged like a pyre awaited them. The children dug without voice or tear. When the first group was buried, Khan walked out and ordered half the children back inside to get the rest.
"What do we do?" Kashmira whispered.
"Shut up!" Phil said.
"Dammit, Phil—" Kashmira started.
"Shut up! There's more than enough room here for us." Phil pretended to wipe sweat away. "Try writing something."
"Do you—" Gesci began. "Do you want to talk about reincarnation imagery?" She responded to her own question by stabbing her shovel blade and two inches of handle into the ground. She scooped out a block of dirt the size of her ribcage and tossed it onto a pile.
Phil jumped into a grave and pulled in one of his mothers. He lay her flat on the soil, crossed her arms and, with a snap, straightened her head. He closed her eyes and climbed out.
Nathari began to whistle. Slow and steady, he created a requiem as he worked. The slice of his shovel set the tempo. Phil, Kashmira and Gesci picked up the refrain. Others down the line collaborated in tone. A symphony of fifty voices and fifty shovels and more bodies than they wanted to count.
Days later, Phil sat in the library. Once a week, each child was given three hours alone to pursue themselves. Khan, it was said, rewrote Sun-Tzu and applied it to the instincts of Alexander. Kashmira wrote novels. Nathari transcribed his music. Gescilene studied surgical techniques. Phil usually read physics journals, but not this week. A large unread stack stood at one end of his table. A small finished stack lay turned over at the other end. In the center of the table, an eight-year-old boy cried for his parents.