“Not enough, Julian,” Crusher said. “Never enough.”

  “I should go visit him someday.”

  Crusher said, “You’d have to give up being the smartest person in the room all the time.”

  Bashir rose from his seat and brushed his hair away from his forehead. “It would be worth it,” he said and went back to work.

  Dr. Crusher then ordered an inner-station transporter to send me back to my quarters—she couldn’t spare an orderly to see me safely home. As soon as I materialized, I sat down at the console and began this recording, finding that my craving for a steak had become secondary in importance to sorting through the day’s events. Would that I had any precognitive ability! Instead, I must depend on reason. Logic.

  Ironic, considering.

  Possibilities…possibilities…

  Deceiving Bashir and Crusher. My first choice and certainly the preferable one.

  Being captured by Starfleet Intelligence. While I’m certain the Federation’s food is better and their penal colonies have fewer and less vicious pests than anything on Romulus, a prisoner’s life is a prisoner’s life.

  Being designated as ineffective by the Tal Shiar and subsequently being “decommissioned”—not a pleasant option either.

  So what do I want? If I could choose my fate.

  I want to live.

  Remaining alive shouldn’t be too much to hope for, and yet, if the Tal Shiar don’t get me, the Dominion’s bioweapon still might.

  I have five hours to plan my next move. Five hours to have my fate measured by mere minutes in comparison to my years of training and months of deep cover seems rushed, but that is what circumstance has handed me.

  The room—the quarters that I shared with Stok—is very quiet without her here. I had never realized that despite the fact that she was a Vulcan, she was a rather loud person. When she would read or meditate or even when she was merely sitting, she would breathe with her mouth open, a hollow whoosh-whoosh that used to drive me mad.

  I miss listening to Stok breathe.

  Entry #1043

  I’ve run out of time.

  The pile of decimated sample collection trays I’ve hurled against the wall is a testament to this fact. I have spent four hours devising every variant on fabricating test results that I can conceive of and I’ve yet to come up with anything that will withstand the scrutiny of Bashir and Crusher—not to mention that wizened old human physician from headquarters. Even if I could fool Bashir and Crusher in the interim, I have a feeling that Admiral McCoy would find me transparent.

  And why do I care about crafting an elaborate deception? If I had any sense at all I’d signal the Bajoran sector handler that I’ve been made and that I need an emergency extraction. The problem with that plan is that requesting an emergency extraction is generally looked on, by my superiors, as admitting failure. Never as “the enemy is far more clever than we made them out to be,” more like, “clearly you’ve done something wrong or you wouldn’t have been exposed.” Agents who fail to avoid detection often find a disruptor wedged in their neck vertebrae and are aware of it only long enough to know that their subatomic particles will shortly be scattered about the quadrant.

  And then there’s this irrational sense of wanting to please the doctors. Where did that come from? They said they trusted me. Called me a fine technician. Told me that my own ribosomal structure might hold the solution to helping the Vulcans. My non-Vulcan self nearly blushed with pleasure from the doctor’s encouragement. Romulan physicians don’t exhibit nearly that level of kindness. If you aren’t afraid of them, they aren’t doing their job. Perhaps I’m falling prey to a carefully calculated propaganda campaign and the doctors are luring me carefully, slowly into their trap.

  Or maybe this infection is softening me up. Crusher mentioned something about hallucinations being a side effect.

  Speaking of side effects…I began composing this latest entry after an odd occurrence. A short time ago, while sitting at my workstation in my quarters, I drifted off—probably due in part to illness and fatigue—but when I startled back into awareness of my surroundings, I had the oddest sensation. It began when I saw the hands resting on the computer terminal and decided they weren’t mine. The knobs of joints and curve of the fingernail beds belonged to someone else. I touched my face and the skin felt alien, cold, as if I was a consciousness inside this alien shell of flesh. Rushing into my dressing area, I looked into a reflective surface and I honestly didn’t know who I was looking at. I had separated into layers. My identity, this carefully constructed edifice of deception, is collapsing. Dr. Crusher called down to my quarters to check on me. “Seret, how are you feeling?” she’d asked. I touched my combadge by instinct, but wasn’t sure how to answer, so I thanked her for her concern and told her “I” was doing well.

  “I,” who? “I,” Seret-the-Vulcan? “I,” nameless Romulan? “I,” who?

  The chrono tells me I have less than two hours before I am expected to produce my test results.

  At this point, I have nothing but a pile of shattered vials and trays to show for my efforts.

  I’m talking through this in the hopes that a new solution might occur to me—I’ve certainly tried all the conventional ones. From the beginning, I was implanted with multiple cellular transceivers that can “trick” a sensor into believing I’m a Vulcan. It’s a small precaution taken to prevent a routine sensor sweep or scanner from exposing me. If Mr. Data up on the Enterprise swept the station’s infirmary looking for Dr. Crusher, he shouldn’t find a Romulan. At least, before the alliance, he shouldn’t, and even now it would be a fact worth commenting on. Simple enough.

  Problems show up when I’m subjected to specific diagnostics or invasive procedures. Deceiving a trained medical professional isn’t as easy as pulling a sleight of hand with a computer.

  To wit, I’ve stolen DNA samples from Starfleet Vulcans and “blended” them with my own (quite clever if I do say so), but discrepancies in the samples start appearing in the analysis almost right away—the fakes simply don’t hold up. I broke into the main database and swapped my Starfleet ID’s medical datalinks with those of a Vulcan presently stationed on a ship patrolling the Denoris Belt, and, again, such a measure will pass surface scrutiny. But an in-depth probe or—stars forbid—a full-on DNA expression profile? They would reveal an individual with an entirely different physiology than mine. If I’m subjected to follow-up testing, the data readings and samples taken from my person wouldn’t match what’s in the computer.

  Still, due to the current crisis, all medical information pertaining to Vulcans has been tagged and classified, including subcellular profiles. Any swapping I might do would be revealed if any compatibility studies or comparison analysis is done.

  In short, I’m done for.

  I need weeks, not hours, to devise the type of deception these circumstances require.

  So, sitting here before me, I have a schedule of all the outgoing station traffic. I have committed it to memory. After all the events of the past few days—when my assignment finally becomes interesting and I feel like I have something of value to contribute—I’m forced to resort to my original plan: stealing a runabout.

  Stowing away works too.

  I will take my crude efforts to fabricate test results and load them into the isolation ward’s database. That way, the doctors can check up on my progress without me having to make an appearance in the infirmary. From the iso ward, I can slip into the docking ring and find outbound transportation. I have the name of a species reconstruction specialist on New Sydney, a physician whose skills have been widely used by the Orion Syndicate. I’ve heard rumors he can make a Cardassian look like a Bajoran, if needs be. Perhaps he can make a Romulan look…like someone that no one would notice. Someone who could move through crowds anonymously until someday, she could start over as a nurse on a far-away backwater world.

  What does it matter anyway? I hardly know what part of me is real and what is fiction. Starting again with a new face should be simple enough for an individual who isn’t sure of the identity of the person living inside her own skin.

  Entry #1044

  “What makes you believe you have the right to be using this workstation? Hm? If you hadn’t noticed, this is a quarantined area, accessed restricted to medical personnel with level-four clearance only. We’re not one of the seven wonders of the quadrant or selling ‘I Survived The Epidemic’ buttons, so move along.”

  The abrupt comments startled me, even momentary disoriented me. With each passing hour, my identities were edging away from each other, blurring around the edges; I feared that I was becoming further removed from my field-conditioning regimen. What would have been intuitive not even seventy hours ago had become laborious. Split-second hesitation can cost you your life in my business. So I paused, swallowed hard and forced reason to discipline my careening emotions.

  From where I crouched beside the workstation, I looked up to see the EMH, his face pinched with disapproval, arms crossed. Any second, I expected his foot would begin rhythmic tapping.

  During my time in Starfleet, I have observed specific behavioral patterns in humans (such as the EMH who was based on a human) with strong compulsions to control the behavior of others. Those not wanting to offend would describe the EMH as “bossy.” More clinically oriented colleagues—medical professionals such as Bashir—drawing on their knowledge of humanoid psychology, would use the designation, “passive-aggressive.” Others, more plain-spoken than tactful, would call him a complete pain in the ass. Whatever terminology others might use to describe Starfleet’s Emergency Medical Hologram program, my own inclination, were he not made of photons and forcefields, would be to quash his verbosity via excruciating pain in his sensitive male parts. Such techniques are legitimate methods to weaken hostile operatives. (Note for future consideration: The EMH is not a technological innovation I’d recommend purloining for the Empire—unless, of course, the Tal Shiar decides that annoying their prisoners to death is a viable torture technique. Perhaps I’ve stumbled on a way I can be of use to my planet after all.)

  “Well?” the EMH said and began to tap his foot. Predictable.

  I forced the Vulcan façade to the forefront of my consciousness. “Drs. Bashir and Crusher informed me that this workstation would be available to me so that I could run diagnostics they’d requested I work on.”

  “Ah! You must be the nurse who recovered from the Vulcan Scourge.”

  I looked at him quizzically.

  “That’s what we’re calling this infection—I thought of it. Quite clever, don’t you think? I do.” He clasped his hands together and leaned toward me conspiratorially. “Would it be too much to ask to let me oversee your work? I’m dying to know what kind of sneaky mutation you’ve got going in your cells that makes you in-vulnerable to all this phlegm.”

  Think fast. Think fast. Think fast. “I’ve already completed the collection of the samples and run the preliminary tests. Due to my compromised physiology, I did the bulk of the work in my quarters. I’ve just now loaded the data into the system. I expect the results will be available in about—” how long will it take me to escape the station? “—ninety minutes.”

  He looked disappointed. “I suppose I’ll have to content myself with dissecting the conclusions and looking for flaws in the methodology. Once again, I’m reduced to being a database—a sophisticated, handsome one—” he sighed “—but still a database. Carry on.”

  I nodded in reply, and watched him stroll off, muttering to himself as he walked between the rows of biobeds and stasis chambers where the Vulcans rested, before I finished programming the computer to send my fabricated test results to the infirmary.

  I wondered if Stok had been transported down here. Had she been conscious, I would have liked to say good-bye.

  But I decided, in lieu of farewell, that I would finish this last entry and give the entire record to Stok. That she ultimately understand my whole situation is irrationally important to me right now, further evidence of my deteriorating state. I should be wending my way to the docking ring! Instead, I am rigging a sub-vocalizing processor beneath the civilian clothes I will change into and I will continue this narrative until I’m safely away. At that juncture, I will transmit these entries to Stok. She can do with them what she will. Turn them over to Starfleet Intelligence. Dismiss them as the ramblings of a mentally unstable Romulan operative. Listen with the ear of a former roommate and—dare I say and hope—friend.

  Entry—I forget the next number. Isn’t that pathetic?

  Vulcans move serenely. They float high above confusion and chaos. Before I took this assignment, I spent hours, if not days, studying newsfeeds from Vulcan, watching how deliberately they stilled their physical energies, utilizing intensive focus and self-discipline until such calm became instinctual.

  Damned if I’m not trying to keep my hands from shaking. If anyone was actually looking at me, I’d be doomed, exposed. I’ve slung a duffel bag containing a few meager belongings over my shoulder and I’m moving swiftly through the crowds. Countless ships are loading and unloading at this hour. Such is the nature of wartime, which, in reality, is little more than organized chaos.

  Today, the schedule is particularly busy since many nonmilitary personnel are concerned that Captain Picard might issue a quarantine order that will prevent any starships from departing. Right now, only Starfleet personnel and DS9 residents are restricted from leaving. Visitors who’ve undergone a medical screening have an endorsement on their files that allow them to depart from the station. When I fabricated the identity papers required for boarding a transport, I “borrowed” an official endorsement from the infirmary—the very last task performed by Vulcan Nurse Seret, may she live long in the memories of her colleagues.

  An officer I’ve had lunch with exits the turbolift. Must. Keep. Walking.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  I resist the reflexive instinct to stiffen with fear or run. I raise my hood, drop my head and pick up my pace. A hundred more meters. A hundred more meters and I’ll be at the airlock.

  A woman hefting an infant bumps into me. I brush aside her apology, continue walking.

  Eighty meters.

  A beep-beep-whine sounds behind me, indicating an oncoming inner station transport vehicle. Crowds part before a hovercart loaded with shipping cartons and oh no, oh no, oh no—Odo sitting beside the driver, scanning the sea of swarming persons. I shield my face with my hand, spinning away from the crowd so I face the wall.

  And then I see them.

  The red hair. Impossible to camouflage. Someone ought to tell Dr. Crusher that if she wants to avoid being noticed she ought to do something about her hair. And of course, Dr. Bashir, his skin tone a little grayer than when last I saw him, but still remarkably alert and focused—

  On me.

  I stop, feet rooted to the floor. For a long moment, I look at them.

  Dr. Crusher smiles.

  Insanely, I smile back.

  And reason reasserts itself. I take a few hesitant steps back, ruing the day I disposed of my suicide caplet. I scan the corridor, seeking an escape route…

  Hands grasp my arms. Two security officers stand on either side of me, but discreetly. No one in the crowd even notices. These men could teach even the Tal Shiar a thing or two about silently and efficiently removing a “suspect.” I consider screaming for help, a foolish impulse. Who would help me? Why would anyone believe Crusher and Bashir, the kindest of individuals, would have a reason to harm me? The security men carry me toward them, my feet barely scraping the deck. “How did you—?” I manage to sputter.

  Dr. Bashir waves his hand for me to lower my voice. Strangely, he neither smiles triumphantly nor grimaces with disgust. More than anything, he appears to be embarrassed. What a bizarre species they are! “The EMH is enough of an egomaniac that he believes that anything you could do, he could do better,” Dr. Bashir said, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the crowd. “Five minutes after you left, he had already re-run half your tests.”

  “I would have done a better job, Doctor,” I said. “But I haven’t been well lately. And I’ve had a lot on my mind, too.”

  “The spy business will do that,” Bashir replied, mock knowingly. “The stories I could tell you…”

  Crusher rolled her eyes. Obviously, she understood the reference, even if I did not. “Julian, there isn’t time for this now. We have to get back to the infirmary…”

  “Not the brig?” I asked.

  “Only if the EMH isn’t there,” Bashir said, ignoring my question. “He’ll start acting up again, pointing his finger at random people and demanding they submit to a subcellular probe. Thinks he’s quite the spymaster now.”

  “I sent him to the library section and asked him to check on Leonard’s question. It will keep him out of our, uh, hair…” She tousled her red tresses. “For a while, anyway.”

  Finally, Bashir looked at me and asked, “Any theories on which element in your Romulan blood gives you immunity?”

  I stared at him gap-mouthed, the tension draining out of my muscles only to be replaced by a deep weariness. “I…I…” I stammered, then tried to focus my thoughts. “In the course of my research, I formed a few theories.”

  “Did you make notes?”

  “I kept…Well, yes. I kept a journal of sorts.”

  “You’d better make copies then and give one to each of us. We don’t have much time. I had to put three more patients in stasis this afternoon. Come on.” Bashir gestured at the security guards who released their grip on my arms.

  “That’s it?” I asked incredulously. “You’re not arresting me?”

  “Not just yet,” Crusher said turning toward the infirmary. “We have work to do.”

  And so we did.

  Entry #1

  My new journal.

  I had to give the old one to Drs. Bashir and Crusher, and they haven’t given it back, so I assume it’s lost for now, possibly for good. Whatever the case, I will begin again at number one. Cheap symbolism? Perhaps, but there are worse things.