Captain Elbon Jakkelb’s Personal Log, Stardate 78919.3,

Why me? I wish I understood why they chose me.

First Consul J’mek, of the Reman world Kunhri Three, invited me personally to aid his people with a medical mystery. A small but growing population of Remans have been reporting symptoms of digestive dysfunction, including malnutrition, inflammation, blockages, and even some ulcers and bleeding. Not only does this pose a risk to his population, but Kunhri Three is an essential breadbasket world for the Velorum system at large.

As executive officer of the USS Dvorak almost two years ago, I mediated the negotiation that led to the Kunhri system’s alliance with the Romulan Republic. J’mek and I built a good deal of trust through those talks. However, it was the crew of the Dvorak who seeded the algae farms and hydroponic gardens on Kunhri Three that are feeding them today. Could we have made some tragic mistake in our limited understanding of Reman digestion?

Several crew members from the USS Constellation, who participated in planting Kunhri’s farms, have joined my crew in our investigation of the planet and its people. And Doctor Flavia from Constellation’s Romulan Free State contingent has joined them too.

Flavia hadn’t begun working with Starfleet during the Kunhri Three mission. In fact, Starfleet Intelligence found evidence of the Romulan Free State poisoning Remans, and a Starfleet science officer, to destabilise the peace talks with the Romulan Republic at that time.

I don’t know what compels Flavia to join us, but Captain Taes vouched for her, and this medical mystery will require as many different perspectives as we can get.

“We’re wasting our time,” Flavia declared, throwing her tricorder to the floor in frustration.

Immediately, her face felt hot. She had been too loud. Again. A flood of embarrassment rose in her chest at the sound of her petulance echoing down the curve of the room. What was now a hydroponic garden had once been a long passageway for carting mineral ore, carved into the underground cave system of the refinery-city.

The Starfleet science officers scattered around the room looked at her —looked right at her— with exaggerated expressions of concern. Lieutenant T’Kal raised an arched eyebrow at her. Lieutenant Nune’s jaw went slack. Those performances poorly masked their micro-expressions of disdain. Only Doctor Nelli’s Phylosian features remained a mystery to Flavia.

The few Remans, harvesting vegetables from the shelves mounted into the hewn stone walls, shot glares at Flavia. They were far more evident in their contempt; she’d call it murderous intent if not for orders from their superiors. Over a year ago, the Remans of Kunhri Three had murdered their Romulan overlords and claimed the planet for themselves. As an agent of the Romulan Free State, Flavia represented the only true heir to the Romulan Star Empire that the Remans hated so fiercely. Whether they despised Flavia for what she represented or for her own qualities mattered little to her.

“It’s not the food,” Flavia said impotently. She crossed an arm over her chest and rubbed at the ache in her shoulder. “Nor the water supply.”

“Would you give up so easily if the patients were Romulan?” T’Kaal asked in a measured tone from across the table between them. Like a typical Vulcan, T’Kaal challenged her in a devious way. She kept her gaze on the trident scanner she dipped into the water tubes running through the long table. T’Kaal didn’t even do Flavia the honour of looking her in the eye.

Ever since T’Kaal was promoted to assistant chief science officer of the Constellation, she has been far more prone to question Flavia.

Probably Yuulik’s bad influence.

“Don’t pretend to be political. It’s not convincing,” Flavia said in the way she might chide a younger sister. She crouched to snatch up her tricorder. She could see the casing had a couple of minor scratches. Clearly, Starfleet models weren’t quite as durable as their Romulan counterparts. In more ways than one.

Shaking her tricorder at T’Kaal a couple of times, Flavia said, “I volunteered to assist the Remans. Just like you. And you can see the same polysaccharide readings as I do, lieutenant.”

T’Kaal blinked twice, and then she looked over at Flavia.

“Given the volume of food produced worldwide,” T’Kaal said flatly, “our sample size is not yet significant.”

Flavia sighed out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. She clicked the tricorder into the holster on her hip.

“This isn’t going to work, is it? Our joint mission of exploration?” Flavia asked, defeated. She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t be wrong every day. Not every day. I didn’t join your crew to become colonised by the Federation way of thinking, of being! There has to be collaboration on both sides.”

Seemingly oblivious to the mounting tension, Doctor Nelli interjected to ask, “What’s that sound, Flavia?”

Flavia snapped, “Do you mean my voice?”

“Yes,” Nelli responded. Her monotone was still unphased by Flavia’s naked annoyance. “That melody you’re humming.”

Flavia started to ask, “What m–”

Then, all Flavia could hear was the ethereal whine of two Starfleet transporter beams coalescing five meters away from T’Kaal. The annular confinement beams dissipated, revealing two Starfleet officers in uniforms that were highlighted by security-mustard shoulders.

“Doctor Flavia,” one of them said, “Captain Elbon has requested your presence aboard the Almagest.”

“Has he?” Flavia asked, squinting at the security officer who spoke. She shook her head. “I haven’t heard anything from him.”

She brushed the commbadge off her chest as if to make her point. For all her dismissive performance, Flavia’s stomach went ice cold. Had she been part of a Romulan crew, she knew what it meant when security offered to escort one to the captain.  Interrogation, imprisonment, dissipation. Starfleet wasn’t truly as different as they liked to believe.

The security officer said, “All the same, if you’ll come with us–”

Flavia wasn’t listening. She calculated that the security officers would anticipate her running away from them, making a break for the exit behind her. So she dropped to her hands and knees to crawl under the long table. She skittered toward the security officers, aiming to crawl past them and towards the exits at the other end of the room.

She heard the scuffing sounds of Starfleet boots pivoting on the stone floor. With her keen hearing, she could roughly track the position of the security officers while she remained under the length of the long table. Only when she passed them did she slow her crawl momentarily to swipe a thumb over the power dial of her disruptor –the disruptor she was only permitted to carry outside of Federation facilities– and knock it out of its holster.

Scrambling to the end of the table, Flavia dove to shoulder roll behind three barrels of liquid nutrient. She crouched behind the barrels, dropped her chin to her chest, and draped her arms over her head.

A second later, the disruptor she’d left under the table overloaded in a fiery explosion.

She didn’t spare a glance to see if anyone was caught in the blast. She couldn’t hear them anymore either. The concussive blast in such a tight stone enclosure left her ears ringing. An overwhelming whine of tinnitus took away one of her senses.

Flavia estimated more security officers would be waiting outside the double doors that led into the central pedestrian passageway. Instead, she pounced to her feet and sprinted to the side door that led into the maintenance corridor. Flavia reached for the ancient door handle, but it proved immobile in her grasp. Leveraging her momentum, she smashed her shoulder into the door, and it didn’t budge.

Taking two steps back, Flavia braced herself to throw her whole body weight into the door again when the door swung open from the other side. Already committed to this escape, Flavia raced through the opening, scrabbling past whoever had opened the door for her. She pumped her arms to run faster and to defend herself as she dashed down the corridor.

Assessing her risk, Flavia cast a quick glance back over her shoulder to see how many security officers were about to point their phasers at her.

But she didn’t see a black Starfleet uniform with security-mustard shoulders.

She saw an olive green Free State science ministry jumpsuit like the one she was wearing.

It looked exactly like the one she was wearing.

Behind her, another Flavia ir-Llantrisant slammed the door closed, jamming a flat mag-key on its surface. The other Flavia tapped a code on the mag-key to magnetically override the locking mechanism, sealing the door shut.

“Not you,” Flavia said.

Although Flavia couldn’t hear anything over the ringing in her ears, she could read the lips of the other Flavia.

“Don’t blaspheme,” the wrong Flavia said.