To: Ambassador T’ven
From: CDT Vemok
Subj: Swift Return
Mother,
It appears my previous messages have fallen on deaf ears, that or you have not received them. With the news of the Federation’s entrance into this conflict, I once more must ask that you return from Republic space. You are not safe, and the opening of formal combat between the Federation and the Star Empire will only make the region more dangerous.
If not for your own life, at least think of Father. While you often do not understand his emotions, you can at least appreciate them.
Peace and Long Life //SIGNED//
Vemok
Cadet,
USS Mariner
To: CDT Vemok
From: Ambassador T’ven
Subj: Re: Swift Return
Vemok,
You are correct in assuming your previous messages were not received. Your assignment onboard the USS Mariner deserves congratulations.
I shall not abandon my post, my son. Your father understands this, and is more than capable of handling his own emotions. Evidently, your time among your human family has weakened your ability to suppress your emotions. You should rectify this when possible.
Live Long and Prosper //SIGNED//
T’ven
Ambassador,
United Federation of Planets
"Begin Personal Log, Ensign Vemok, Stardate 101090.0. It has been a simultaneously eventful and rather dull day. Disassembly procedures have, however, showcased an evident lack of engineering knowledge. I will rectify this as soon as possible - although I suppose I will have ample chance, there is a great deal of deconstruction to be done. I had the...pleasure to meet one Lieutenant Terre. I did not expect her to ignore a Bajoran greeting, although it is possible that my own knowledge of the language was lacking, in which case I at least hope I avoided insulting her. A rather interesting personality, to be sure. It would be agreeable to work with her further, she appeared to know her craft.
The quarters provided aboard DS13 are adequate, as expected, and I am acclimatising to station life again. Unfortunately, I had grown accustomed to the…isolated idiosyncrasies aboard the Mariner. Station life is a great deal more busy, and nowhere near as consistent. The smells have been an adjustment; too many different scents each rivalling in prominence. At least the Mariner is consistent, for the most part. At the same time, I will most likely be used to the station by the time I will return aboard the Mariner. An unfortunate cycle. I have not yet reacquainted with any station personnel, nor am I specifically planning to. I would not have made an impression enough to warrant such.
I…hope- Computer, erase two point four seconds. Resume recording.
It would be agreeable to return to the Mariner sooner. I have found my mind lingering on my crewmates during idle seconds, particularly those of the science and medical departments such as Doctor Greene, as well as, and perhaps more particularly, Lieutenant Commander Serris and Lieutenant Vaas. They seem…happy. That has been notably pervading my thoughts. Further, my thoughts have been dwelling on my family, both on Earth and Vulcan. Nostalgia? Sentimentality? I am uncertain of the specific applicable word. Most obfuscating, and distinctly unlike a Vulcan. Perhaps I have need of further meditation, or cleansing.
Computer…delete section from index 4.5 to end, then file log.
Begin Personal Log, Ensign Vemok, Stardate 101109.2.
The Vulcan Ensign sits stiffly at his desk, his characteristically emotionless face showing the slightest hint of concern, despite his attempts to hide it. Even for a Vulcan, his quarters are spartan; even his quarters aboard the Mariner had some personal flourishes, and at least appeared lived-in. These quarters, aboard DS13, almost seem as though they lack an occupant. The bed is so tightly made that it looks straight out of a replicator, the cushions on the couch with barely a ruffle in the fabric, not moved out of the position they first came in. Indeed, he evidently hasn't unpacked yet; the crates of his personal belongings and clothes remain stacked in the corner. Vemok leans back in the chair slightly, steepling his hands.
It has been an...interesting day. At least during the latter portion. Lieutenant Commander Zital ordered me to report to the medbay, and...according to Doctor Greene, I have a minor defect in my amygdala - a result of my mixed heritage. Therefore, my emotions process differently. It is currently unclear how this shall affect my Vulcan techniques; further study is warranted. I will admit, I have my concerns. Mostly how it will affect my mother, and her parents. A defect like mine may be damaging to their perception on Vulcan, if it becomes known.
He looks up to the ceiling, considering his words.
I am uncertain how this will effect my career going forward. Or, indeed, my personal life, such as it is. And...I cannot help but wonder why it has only become evident now? I have been fully mature for a number of years, and yet my emotional control has rivalled any other's. It is quite the conundrum...perhaps something to inspire a research paper in the future.
He furrows his brow slightly, leaning onto the desk.
I am, of course, following Doctor Greene's instructions. She is most capable, and I have great faith in her abilities. I hope she will be able to rectify this defect shortly, and this issue can be resolved. I will not become an issue for Starfleet; I still wish to do my duty, to the very best of my ability.
He pauses for a few moments, uncertain whether to continue.
I have, at times, mostly recently, wondered whether I was never betrothed as a child, as is standard for Vulcans. From what I believe, my father objected to the practice. And yet, perhaps there is good reason for the practice. I have felt more lonely of late, perhaps due to my absence from the Mariner...or simply that I lack that connection. Not a particularly Vulcan feeling...but I wonder how Vulcan I can even be, with this defect?
He stands up, going over to the crates and retrieving his lirpa.
I believe I will take a moment on the holodeck, perhaps practice my forms. Computer, end personal log.
PERSONAL LOG Stardate 101258.4 SEALED BY ORDER OF STARFLEET INTELLIGENCE
Vemok enters his quarters on DS13, his arm bound in a sling, his Ensign uniform neatly pressed on his body. He'd taken the time to shave properly, had his ears surgically corrected and returned his hair to it's normal shape...but still, the man he'd impersonated weighed on his shoulders.
Begin Personal Log, Ensign Vemok, Stardate 101258.4. I returned from the alternate universe two days, eight hours and forty seven minutes ago. The adjustments made to appear as my counterpart have been rectified...it is the first time in days since I have felt like myself.
He sits at the desk, brows furrowing.
I had some idea of the Empire, and yet more from the briefings, but still...the lengths of their barbarism was unexpected. In the aid of my cover, I casually ordered lengthy torture...and what concerns me is that I did not hesitate, even for a moment, to subject sentient beings to agony. I did not believe myself so callous, and yet I cannot simply wave the matter away - I was in full control of my own actions. It is...troubling...
He gets up from the desk, sighing, before moving over to the bed and collapsing onto it, letting out another long sigh.
I have not slept well since my return. While sleep is not entirely necessary, and I can remain conscious for days at a time, it is a luxury I prefer to partake in, albeit far less so with my now recurring...nightmares, I believe is the term. I close my eyes, and I see the phaser lance of the Olympic firing, eviscerating those ships. I may not have killed, but I ordered the deaths of hundreds, again without a second thought. I sleep, and I hear the ever-present screams of those in the agonizers, subjected to this pain by my own hand.
His voice quivers slightly, for a brief moment, before returning to a measured tone.
I-I see...I see it all. Every moment I sleep, every time I close my eyes...everything replays. And then the nightmares come. I see myself giving in, becoming...him. I see the horrors of the Empire, all at my hand. They...they are most disturbing.
He takes a deep breath, attempting to compose himself, while a solitary tear begins tracing down his cheek.
How close am I, I wonder, to becoming him? I did not kill with my own hands, perhaps, but I ordered enough. And that was over the course of four days. If I had stayed longer...would I have wanted to come back? Would I have tasted the power, and let it hold?...have I already gone too far? I-Is there any coming back, or redemption, or...
He inhales sharply, masking an almost sob, another tear rolling down his cheek.
