Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

by Valerie Shearer

Author's Note: Reference to: Dr. Bashir, I Presume (alternate resolution)
In the episode Dr. Bashir, I Presume, Richard Bashir goes to prison to save his son's carrear. This is a speculation on what might have been if he had not done that and Julian Bashir had resigned and tried to run away.

Warnings: No sex, no violence...

Story my be distrubted as long as it is kept in its origional form and my name and e-mail address are left in tact.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism and are sought. Please send e-mail to v... .

Notes from Gabrielle Lawson: I don't post this lightly. Sadly, I must do so without express permission. You see, I've lost contact with Valerie Shearer. I would happily take this down if she were to post it. I only post it because I don't see that she has, and because, long ago, I wrote a sequel to it, with her permission and I want to post that.

Valerie, if you're out there: Please call me! Email me, PM me. Contact me in some way. I'm actually kind of worried about you what with the coronavirus out there. The numbers I had for you in my phone no longer work. Email addresses I previously had for you don't work either. I can't find you on Facebook. I don't even know if you were ever on Facebook. I've called out for you on .creative. Right now I've got no way to reach you. Please, reach out to me.

The only things written by me in this post are italicized. The rest is all Valerie. This story was posted to .creative on 7/28/1997. It was found through

Now for the legal stuff: This is a work of fiction. The character of Julian Bashir and DS9 are all the property of Paramount Studios. I am borrowing them for my story. The Director, and the setting are from my own imagionation.

The Director looked at the applicant, waiting patiently as he had been told to. He was nervous, but had learned to hide the signs well. He had gone to some length to present a good image, though the overall look was a bit worn.

The Director guessed that this was his last chance. He held a document which contained much of his recent past, and so the young man had few secrets. How willing he was to reveal them would determine everything. The temptation to lie was probably enormous. The Director valued truth above all.

He shook hands with the doctor, and names were exchanged. The Director was businesslike, not wasting time on pleasantries.

"I understand you were a star performer at Starfleet Medical, and served as Chief Medical Officer of a Deep Space station, up to your unexpected resignation."

"Yes, Deep Space Nine." he said, a little reluctantly, surprised at the reference.

"Would you tell me why you so unexpectedly resigned. It just seems odd, you see."

"There were," a nervous catch, "some problems".

"What sort of problems, with yourself or someone else?"

"They were with myself." The tone was resigned. "With my personal background."

"That's a little ambiguous. I need to be able to trust the person I choose to be worthy of that trust. I need you to elaborate."

"My personal genetic background." It plainly hurt to say it. There was resentment but he was trying to hide it. "I was enhanced genetically as a child. This made me ineligible for Starfleet or practicing medicine." He looked a little relieved, now that it was said.

"I see. Was this enhancement to only some abilities or an overall one?"

"More or less overall."

"Thank you. That wasn't in the file".

Bashir was caught off guard and looked surprised. He eyed the small folder the Director was holding.

"I wanted to disappear quietly, but while my resignation was accepted it didn't work out that way. Before I could leave the station the information was given to Starfleet medical and I was ordered to be detained."

"They arrested you."

"Yes. My parents were also arrested. They were sent to prison."

"But not you. Please explain."

"I wasn't in Starfleet anymore. The only charges were military and they couldn't be filed against a civilian. They had to let me go."

"You were lucky. Please, don't worry. I have no problem with your status. Your federation has a silly rule."

"They don't think so. My medical credentials were withdrawn. If I were to practice medicine in any Federation territory I'd be liable for prosecution."

"I see." said the director. "That is why you came here, after a time."

"Yes. With the war, I didn't have any problem finding someone who was willing to not ask questions."

"You didn't tell them, then."

"No. When it came out, though, I was sent away."

"Sent away?"

"Put on a transport and sent away. It was part of some scandal. I probably could have implicated someone."

"And after that?" His file was very incomplete between then and now.

"They let me off on Rashmara."

"They are Federation allies."

Bashir paused, seemingly thinking. "They needed doctors though. I wasn't anywhere I'd be noticed. They didn't ask questions either, not right away."

"And when they did?"

"Somebody matched DNA patterns. I wasn't using my own name. I was...arrested."

"What happened?"

He sighed. "It got...messy. The Federation wanted to bring charges. The locals resented that. Someone smuggled me out. I had friends."

"And now a standing warrant for your arrest. You can't go back into Federation territory. That could be a problem for us, as well."

Bashir looked at him curiously, almost certain his chances were gone until then.

"Are you wearing any kind of translation device?"

Bashir looked suspicious, but answered. There was something in his manner that bothered the Director. He was trying to hide something. "No." he said.

"You appear to understand our language quite well, even speak it with a very good accent. How did this come about?"

Bashir was silent. He studied the floor. The Director was willing to be patient as long as answers were forthcoming eventually.

"I spent the last year on one of your colonies, Brauma to be exact."

The Director was surprised this time. Brauma was a dusty little hellhole in the middle of nowhere. The mining operation on the planet owned everything and everybody on it.

After a pause he asked, "Were you using your own name in your contract?"

"No. I had the legal right not to."

That was true. Those entering into a workbond didn't have to use any particular name. It was rare they used their own. Workbonds were quite legal in their culture. But it was still considered a disgrace to have to enter into one. The refusal to give up what the Federation considered a voluntary form of slavery was a major reason they had never been asked to join the Federation.

"What sort of work did you do?"

"Whatever was needed. Mostly, though, I ran a clinic. It was rather busy most of the time as safety wasn't a high concern."

"This was a year's contract?"

"Yes. They let me out of it early, though. I saved the daughter of one of the highmucks. He decided to be grateful and cut me loose a few months early."

"How did you get here?"

"I stayed and worked the last few months for pay. I had enough to get off-planet and here. I knew you needed doctors here. I'd hoped..."

The Director cut him off. "You know if I don't take you, what you'll have to do."

"Another contract." said Bashir steadily. "It was worth the chance. It wouldn't be Brauma."

It occurred to the Director that the doctor was far more desperate than he let on.

"I would be willing to contract with you if necessary" said Bashir.

"I don't hold to contracts. Humiliation doesn't improve doctoring."

There was a long silence.

The Director finally broke it with quiet tones. "Your right, we do need doctors. The warrant could be a problem, I'll warn you now, but I can probably find a way around it. If you want to use another name it would be easier."

"I would prefer to use my own."

"That's fine with me. I'll keep you in the hinterlands anyway. That's where we need doctors the most."

"That would be fine." said the doctor tentatively.

"Under the circumstances I can't hire you as a doctor, you understand. We can give you some official local training and do it later but for now you'll be a medical assistant."

"I understand. What sort of authority would I have?" he asked a bit worried.

"All of it. You'd be on your own. In that case titles are rather meaningless."

Bashir looked as if he disagreed, but said nothing.

"Are these terms agreeable to you?" asked the Director.

"Yes. I find them acceptable."

"Do you have a place to stay? It will be a week or two before we send you to the mountains."

"No." said Bashir.

"You'll need to do an evaluation. I can place you at our local clinic for your evaluation, if you're up to it."

"Oh, certainly. I'm looking forward to it."

"You'll need a few things. We'll take care of that today."

"Thank you, sir." he said, still sounding stunned.

The next day, the Director came to visit the clinic, and observed his new doctor. He was impressed with the skill he saw in his new find, but more than that, the caring. This man lived for medicine, and had even before there wasn't much left but that. If the Federation made problems, he thought to himself, he knew the right people to fix them.

He had been intrigued from the first with the potential. Few applicants that claimed to be Federation trained ever came that far. And when the name and background matched, he had made time for the interview. They would verify his identity with DNA, but the doctor was in regardless. His evident skill had sealed it.

Several days later, when it became official, the Director beamed with pride. The doctor, removed from his patients, had gone very quiet and cautious again. Even dressed properly, having gotten what he wanted, he still looked a bit worn. But it didn't really matter. In the place he was being sent, he would do what he was born to do.

And his skills would be appreciated by those who in turn would be grateful to the Director for giving them one of his best.

A year later, having sheltered his doctor from the political storms, he was able to grant him the proper title again as well.

The ceremony was brief, and simple, as things tended to be. Bashir was dressed in his working clothes with a few of the locals to watch. The dusty, hot afternoon sun beat relentlessly on the square.

The Director was dressed in his best field outfit, and was too hot in the stylishly tight jacket. But it was important to look his best for this kind of ceremony.

He read the declaration.

"I am pleased to declare to all that Julian Bashir has been deemed skilled in the healing arts, and is from this time forward empowered to claim the title of Doctor."

The Director watched his new Doctor. He was as reserved as he had been the moment he had begun his interview, but there was pride there too.

"I, Julian Bashir, accept this declaration and claim the title of Doctor."

The Director handed him a small medallion, symbolic of the new status he had in this place.

He spoke softly, accepting the medallion. "Thank you, sir." But the eyes spoke volumes. To say he was joyful would have been an understatement. But it would have been improper to say so.

Several hours later the Director left the area to return to his life, shedding the hot jacket. It had been difficult to manage his lunch, as basic as it had been, feeling so overheated. Directors, however, did not compromise themselves by breaking the rules of decorum.

Nor did Doctors. Bashir had been unable to tell in words what he felt, but the Director had sensed that he felt whole again. He hoped his new Doctor would see, in time, that he had regained his life already, and with every healing touch he had healed himself as well.

The End