Oban was nearly sure that the Humans—and their assorted coterie of sycophants and hegemonized ‘allies’—had forgotten about him, after nearly a day alone in the guest quarters they had provided him with. He definitely wasn’t used to silence when he wanted something. The fact that they hadn’t come back to him about his request to be transported not with the other refugees but on his own to one of the Federation’s core worlds made him question the value of the data he was carrying—or the intelligence of Starfleet’s analysts. The young Romulan had done an exhaustive study of the replicator items available to him but hadn’t found anything that reminded him of home. Even though he hoped he would never return to Romulan space, he felt more isolated than ever before.

The door finally chimed.

“Come!” Oban said, standing up from the couch and straightening the tunic he’d found in the replicator database alongside the practically inedible food. The Bajoran woman, Najan, entered. This time she was alone, without the lawyer. “What can I do for you, Commander?” Oban asked.

“We were able to confirm that the frequency you provided was a Romulan military channel, but it no longer appears to be in use,” she said, causing Oban’s heart to sink a little; that was the one thing he’d managed to firmly memorize from the data cache he’d taken.

Najan smiled and pulled up the holographic PADD on her wrist device. She tapped a few things and then tossed a set of images toward Oban. They were of Valdore-class warbirds, as far as Oban knew.

“You can tell me what you know about this ship, the IRW Meran. We matched it against some intelligence provided by the Romulan Republic, but I need to know its warp signature or any other identifying characteristics,” Najan said, before tossing up another image of a D’Deridex-class battleship with a plasma fire burning out of a large hole in the engineering section. “It did this to the largest ship in your convoy.”

“Not my convoy,” Oban said, shaking his head. He didn’t recognize the name of the ship, but he also barely knew the names of any of the ships in the flotilla he’d stowed away on. “I don’t know things like that.”

“I thought you said you had Romulan military data,” Najan reminded him.

Oban blanched. “Have you memorized everything on your data device?”

“No, but then again, I have such a device, but there aren’t any technological signatures on you at all,” Najan said, looking at him. “That makes me think that you’re either lying, or you’re carrying the information in another fashion. Lucky for you, the Federation believes in bodily autonomy,” she said, eyeing him. 

Oban was now fairly certain she was aware he was carrying the data in his bloodstream, though he doubted that she knew exactly in what format. She was right, though, as he would already have been tied to a chair and probed, had the Tal Shiar found him first. Neither of them would be able to access the data without the secondary encryption code he’d memorized; that was his last safeguard against it being forcibly taken from him. 

“This ship is what is keeping us here. We can’t go anywhere until we evacuate the refugees, and every second we stay here we risk being subject to another attack,” Najan offered.

“If you drove off three of them, surely just one isn’t a problem for you?” Oban asked, his eyes narrowing. “You can’t ask me to give up all of my leverage.”

The Bajoran sighed. “There is no need for guile here, Oban. There’s nothing stopping you from going to Earth when we arrive. I’ll take you myself, but we need your intelligence now,” she said. “Lives are at stake.”

From his perspective, there was simply no way for him to give up the only thing he had because he didn’t trust Starfleet to follow through with it. The last thing he wanted was to be extradited on some trumped-up charge from whoever was scrambling to rule his former home, and he needed an ironclad guarantee of safety. 

“I’m going to leave these images here and you can call me if you remember anything,” the woman said, before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” Oban said, genuinely, as the doors closed behind her.

The young man glanced at the images again, before dismissing them. His heart was racing and he thought about calling her back and just giving up, but the thought of being thrown back to the Star Navy or the Tal Shiar or the horde of peasants in the hold kept him back. He didn’t know what to think about these people—and he definitely didn’t understand why they were being so accommodating in their interrogations.

“Computer, are there any other Romulans on this ship? On the crew, I mean.”

“Affirmative. Lieutenant Galan, Chief Communications Officer,” the system reported, just as obligingly as it had when had told Galan how to find Captain Lancaster. 

Oban was momentarily surprised; he hadn’t expected a yes to that question, but the firm border between their two civilizations had ended with Romulus. He reasoned that any Romulan who was part of the crew would be a little more sympathetic to his situation than any of the people the ship was carrying as passengers.

“Please inform him that I would like to meet with him,” Oban said.