The ambient clamour of conversation created a buffer around Lieutenant Leander Nune, offering the illusion of privacy between himself and Laken ir-Nesthai. They were seated at a teaming workstation with only a holographic LCARS pane between them. Between the excited chatter and computer chimes, not any one discussion in the crowd could be heard distinctly over another. The multi-purpose science lab aboard USS Almagest was one of the largest gathering areas for the science department, and they had claimed a corner for just the two of them.

Among so many voices, it was easy to lose himself.

“If I asked you what Flavia was doing aboard that D-7 battlecruiser, you would never tell me, would you?” Nune asked.

He met Laken’s eyes and held the gaze for every word. Even that small intimacy was defused through the translucent mask of the holo-interface between them.  Laken’s face rarely shifted while he considered a question; his strong jaw remained set.

“That’s not the right question,” Laken said, cocking his head to the left. He smiled softly only then. There was a boyish playfulness to his timbre that belied his actual age.

Laken was the first to look away. He tugged at the cuff of his quilted jacket. That broad-shouldered jacket looked far more finely tailored than any uniform, making Laken stand out all the more in the gleaming Starfleet laboratory.

As a member of Flavia’s Romulan Free State science team, Laken had already been questioned by the security department. They had found no evidence of Laken participating in piracy. Barring that, Starfleet’s tenuous research treaty with the Free State empowered Laken to continue in his role as a visiting scientist. Due to his familiarity with Flavia, Laken had been taken off the medical study of Kunhri III and asked to investigate the astro-political motivations for why a Romulan faction would be kidnapping ill Remans.

All parties understood that Laken would only be free to act through layers of Starfleet liaisons.

Squinting at Laken, Nune supposed, “You would tell me if I asked you, but there’s no guarantee you would tell me the truth. Is that what you mean?”

“Go one layer deeper than that,” Laken said, patting Nune on the forearm. Something was plainly patronising about the gesture, and yet Nune only found it endearing.

“There’s no guarantee I know anything,” Laked added, “Least of all the truth. Flavia has been here, with us, studying the Remans’ medical condition at the same time that D-7 of raiders have been crashing across the Romulan Republic border.”

Laken eased back in his chair, and Nune couldn’t quite see his eyes through the scroll of text on the LCARS pane.  While Nune’s Betazoid empathy offered no feeling of deception from Laken, his senses weren’t trained on him deeply either.

Nune waved a hand at the scrolls of text, images and videos between them. They summarised the USS Meridian crew’s investigation of the Reman survivors they rescued from the D7.

“Maybe you know one thing,” Nune suggested, scrolling down the notes until he found the transcript that was on his mind. “None of the survivors remember Flavia saying much to them, but she wasn’t the only intruder.”

Nune enlarged a visual record of one of the witnesses.  He said, “A Reman named Avek was travelling with his brother. One of the Romulan raiders tagged the brother for beam-out while Avek escaped. He described the Romulan as having branches tattooed on his cheekbones, and when Avek demanded he bring his brother back, the Romulan referred to the pair of them as Nerris and Dellon.”

Shaking his head, Nune asked, “What does that mean? Avek said he knew nothing of the Romulans, but did the Romulans know them specifically?”

Laken’s dark eyes lit up, and a titter of a laugh escaped him. “Nerris and Dellon aren’t real. They’re from a poem my mother told me as a child, a revlav written back when the first Romulus colony was still young. Over the centuries, many mothers recited the same verses about those gluttonous youths who dared to steal their family’s provisions and run away from home.” –He squinted– “There’s not much said about the events, so much as the punishment. Puerile adornment and golden shackles.”

“Nerris and Dellon valued their freedom above all,” Nune surmised, “and so their parents punished them by taking away what they valued most?”

Left or Right? Escape pod or bridge? Shuttlebay or laboratory?

On cautious steps, Flavia explored her captors’ ship for almost seven minutes without seeing any members of its crew. Judging by the layout and the other compartments she passed through, she recognised her cage as an old science ship, more than fifty years old. It appeared much the same as the ones that had conveyed her across the empire in her youth.

The empty corridors suggested a far smaller crew complement than what would typically be required for a ship of this size. A scant crew led her to believe she was being held by one of the waning independent Romulan factions, if not a secret society within one of the more prominent factions.

In the dimmer light of the corridors, she moved delicately to muffle the sounds of her footfalls. The readings from her dented tricorder offered a limited range: a dampening field of nebulous origins prevented her from reaching the USS Almagest’s computer or subspace transceivers. The scanners could hardly detect any decks of the ship beyond the one she trod upon.

If this was a Republic ship, Flavia’s life would be at risk if they learned she was a Free State agent rather than a Changeling. If this was a Broken Wing ship, Flavia expected to be persecuted for her partnership with the Federation. Escape was her wisest option. If she were here, Flavia supposed Yuulik would, instead, challenge her to investigate what the Romulans were doing in orbit of Kunhri III and if it had any relation to their own mission.

Before she could fully commit to staying or going, Flavia pried open a life support vent and tucked her tricorder inside. She set the passive sensors to continue mapping the ship and detect whatever else it might detect.

The most horrific truth Flavia didn’t want to find would be if this were a Romulan Free State ship. She had reported on her mission to Kunhri III to her superiors; of course she had. They offered no particular instructions other than to preserve her overarching mission objectives. Was it possible she had spent so much time in the Delta Quadrant that her own government wouldn’t have trusted her with their own operations at Kunhri III? Had it cost the Free State so much to free her from the Dominion and her Changeling imposter that her worth had run out?

The life support vent was well-secured when Flavia heard the sound of clanking chains from down the corridor. Four Remans trudged towards her with shackled wrists and shackled feet. At first glance, their eyes appeared glassy, likely sedated. Once again, her thoughts went to the Broken Wing faction, borne from the remains of Romulan prison moons. Was it possible they missed their jailer ways and had taken it upon themselves to punish the Remans for their treason against the Romulan people?

A tall Romulan was holding the chain that bound the Remans. He stomped down the corridor in an out-of-date uhlan uniform paired with farmer boots. He even had the swagger of a stable hand whose opinion of himself had grown beyond his station. His gangly limbs didn’t look strong enough to restrain even one of the Remans without the electronic aid of the manacles.

Flavia stood her ground, folding her hands behind her back. She would never be seen skulking anywhere.

She asked, “How’s the livestock? Will they serve your purposes?” She calculated that she would have to balance presenting herself as the Flavia Changeling and satisfying her burning questions her captors’ identities.

“Sturdy bunch,” he replied, as frustratingly vague as her question had been. As he drew nearer, she saw branch-like tattoos across his cheekbones, exaggerating the angular lines of his sneer.

He glanced over his shoulder to ask, “What say you, Pallauma? Do they have a thousand days of pain in them?”

The so-called Pallauma trailed behind him and the Remans. Despite her tall stature and a well-maintained blowout, there was an ethereal quality to her movement. Her presence was marked by absence.

“A thousand and one, even,” Pallauma said. Although she echoed his words, her own voice had the quality of burnt caramel. The lyrical threat in his timbre wasn’t echoed in hers.

Cheekbones stopped at a large set of double doors and put his palm on the adjacent control panel. He didn’t look inside the darkened chamber as the doors opened. Instead, he set a glare at Flavia.

“You would know all about that, henh?” he asked her accusingly.

Evading the insinuation as assertively as she could muster, Flavia asked him, “Do you ever wonder how the Dominion’s loving embrace could have protected the Romulan people if only you had allied with us?”

Leaving that question to decay between them, Cheekbones stared back at her vacantly as he pushed each of the Remans into what should have been a cargo bay. Rather than packing crates, Flavia recognised biobeds and medical equipment inside.

Breezily, Pallauma interposed herself between Flavia and the others. She touched Flavia’s shoulder, but the gesture felt weightless. Instead, Pallauma held Flavia in place with her open gaze.

“Pay Uchrus no mind,” Pallauma said, and she didn’t lower her voice to do so. “He’s an akaana, and he’s playing at dominance. His confidence was shaken when Starfleet nearly took you both.”

Only then did Pallauma lower her voice. Glancing over, she saw that the bay doors had closed, providing privacy for Flavia and her.

“Vrutil told me what happened,” Pallauma said. She sounded like a politician, alluding to a distasteful topic. Rather than a diplomatic faux pas, Flavia had to assume Pallauma was speaking of the deteriorating health of the Flavia-impersonating Changeling whom Flavia was now impersonating.

An embarrassed quirk of a smile tugged at Pallauma’s lips. “You know what she’s like. I wouldn’t be surprised if she told Uchrus too.”

“Does he think I’m weak?” Flavia asked. “Do I need to keep watch for a disruptor between my shoulder blades?”

“That’s always a good rule to live by,” Pallauma replied. Ironically or not, she put an arm around Flavia’s shoulder and guided her toward an area of the ship she had yet to explore.

“This will be over soon if you can do as you’ve promised,” Pallauma said, her voice swelling with hope. “Once we’ve designed the cure for the Remans, we’ll all live as kings.”