The laboratory was laid out as a ten-sided irregular polygon to ensure no computer access station had a clear line of sight to another. By design, any researcher was intended to collaborate with the science team without any view to the larger whole. Between the oblique angles of the bulkheads and the dim light, Pallauma passed through shadows on her trudge to the only active computer screen in the compartment. This wasn’t a fully-staffed science ship. They had the laboratory to themselves. Flavia couldn’t see Pallauma’s face when she spoke. She had no opportunity to read her expression.

“How would you respond,” Pallauma asked casually, “if I suggested you end your galavant around the galaxy?”

Pallauma looked very much like any number of professors who had tutored Flavia at the astrophysical academy. The capelet draped over Pallauma’s shoulders was fashionable; her dark hair was twice the volume of her head; her cosmetics appeared heavily applied to hide the lines on her face. Each choice was perfectly tasteful on its own, yet none complemented another cohesively. She looked like someone who had only read about fashion from text streams.

That was why Flavia had to remind herself consciously: Pallauma was nothing like her old mentors. Flavia was here among them as a god, a Founder of the Dominion obsessed with seeking revenge on Starfleet. She followed Pallauma into the lab with a slackened expression and slouched shoulders; a god would have no reason to affect an intimidating presence. The very substance of her being would be intimidating enough, she conjectured.

“Who are you to question me?” Flavia asked.

“It’s not me,” Pallauma said dryly, her back to Flavia. “It’s them. In the medical bay. To our knowledge, no Remans have died from ulcers or digestive blockages, but their illness is chronic. Death is chasing them, the weakest of them at least.”

There was no transition. In one moment, Pallauma spoke softly, and in the next, she was projecting like a classical theatre performer. Even then she didn’t turn to look at Flavia. She slapped her hand on a control panel, sending a scroll of green text across every display in the laboratory.

“While you’ve been out on raiding runs,” Pallauma declared, “Vrutil’s researchers are losing ground on the drug therapy. The ligand binding affinity is unravelling unlike any we’ve ever seen before. The nanomaterials I’ve designed to deliver the drugs directly to the digestive tract have failed all of the preliminary tests we’ve run. I understand you’ve been unwell, but your genetic engineering expertise is wasted on rounding up test subjects.”

Flavia held her breath. Her areas of study were broad and deep, given the decades of her career, but the genetic mastery of the Dominion was far beyond the very best in any Romulan empire. She turned to one of the display consoles, choosing one that would hide her face.

“Must you work this hard?” Flavia asked. Aren’t there research archives you can purchase? The Phylosians are experts in bacterial infection, and Denobula has been known to trade quietly with Romulans in the past.”

When she didn’t respond right away, Flavia looked over at her. Given the furrow of her ridged brow, Pallauma appeared to be considering her words carefully.

Then Pallauma spoke quickly: “Obtaining the biomimetic gel from the Orion Syndicate trading post cost me my very last secret.”

“Your last?” Flavia asked, sputtering out the words in disgust.

Pallauma raised an eyebrow. “Our days of loyalty to the Empty Crown, to anyone, are long, long gone.”