Cardassian Heat, Part II

A warm breeze, wet and dusty at once, blows through the industrial district, and Sul Midak squints at his wrist-chronometer.  The aromas of open markets down the street reach him: Acorn-seed buns, fruits and incense and pungent spices, pomegranates picked from the mountains, and scented candles which have been the rage on Cardassia for centuries.

Smog drapes the rust-colored sky.  He lays on a metal bench, warmed by the sun and Cardassian heat, and stares, contemplating its origin.  The air bears an acrid taste.  Environmental policies have cleansed much of Cardassia, ridding it of its pollution – most of it – in a relatively short handful of years, since outside assistance and Federation membership began reclaiming the former capital of the Cardassian Union.  It is not yet complete.

He sweats, despite his climate-reactive Starfleet uniform – a drawback of life on board a Federation starship, after growing up on cooler Quatal Prime.  Starfleet uniforms contain thousands of tiny nodes, modulating the clothing to the wearer's comfort, even providing medical assistance.  He takes almost villainous pride in the achievement: Cardassian uniforms never carried such amenities.  The chilly envelope of regulated fabric meets hot, moist and dusty air, producing a thin shimmer; the temperature differential, soothing around his neck, snaps into instant heat on his jaw, ears, and face.  His uncovered hands experience a similar contrast.  He considers activating his personal forcefield, but finds that he enjoys the stimulating contrast, and decides to tough it out.  Perhaps his Cardassian physique is stirring at the biological memory of this planet.

He sighs and gets up.  He is wasting time.  There is little else to do at the moment.  He has time to waste – and wants to do it alone.  Here, in public, in daylight, in full view of others, his Starfleet uniform offers a unique form of protection.  Few come near or make contact, or even a veiled hint at contact, if they are Cardassian.  Even non-Cardassians seem to ignore him.  Passers-by weave casual ovals around him, keeping a distance without appearing to keep their distance, looking at him without actually looking at him.  Most of them are Cardassian.

Midak does not particularly care for the Cardassians.  Biologically he is Cardassian, yet refuses to call himself one.  That is what his people... no, not his people – that is what the Cardassians call themselves.  An'khardas'ai.  The descendants of Cardas.  Federation Standard translates it as "Cardassian".  And he is En'tekhrit.  He has tried to explain the term to non-Cardassians, but the Fed-Standard translator cannot recombine the pronunciation effectively to their understanding.

He is walking a line between two worlds.  He never expected to do so.  Never expected the spell Cardassia has cast upon him.

He cannot help a pang of sympathy, imagining the unbelievable wave of destruction which swept this planet, in the final, mad hours of a war that ended almost twelve years ago.  The Dominion... in the form of their military hangmen, the Jem'Hadar... unleashed a "final solution" upon this planet, and in those few hours, nearly destroyed a civilization.  Hours.  Over a decade later, they are still rebuilding.  The smog comes from underground fissures, formed by explosive charges, which spewed tons of volcanic gas and dust into the atmosphere, in the interim period between the war and Federation membership.  Those years were rife with terrorism and anarchy.  A few Vorta and Jem'Hadar survivors were also discovered on Cardassia in those years, holdouts from the war, left behind after the Dominion withdrawal, cut off and forced into hiding from the Cardassians who would have slaughtered them gladly, without hesitation... and did, as a rule.

Nor can he help finding it fascinating, and more than a little reflective.  He has had many chances to visit the birthworld of his people, both before and after joining the Federation.  To date, this is only the third time that he has actually set foot here, and his first visit to the capital city.  Cardassia once dominated its own destiny.  Alien, non-Cardassian life has helped to steer it since.  And now he is here.

He walks, steps measured and calm, between buildings encompassing ancient and modern architecture, an even balance of steel and stone, light brown to dark, towering skyscrapers and low, squat structures.  The pavement is new and pristine in sections; in others, fragmented, broken by time or artillery fire, plagued by weeds.  It is a desolate, run-down section of city.  Industry once thrived in the burned out husks of buildings all around – abandoned factories, windows dark or shattered, stone-like exteriors battered and lined with graffiti, silent giants standing guard on yesterday.  It has not been that long, really, since the war.  But the war did it.  Cardassia joining the Federation has led to a new era of inspired growth and revitalization – except here, in this grim corner of town.  City administrators have kept this slum intact, by intent or ignorance, preserved possibly for generations to come.

To the southwest, stark in the orange sunlight, a giant head peeks over the top of a building, as special and symbolic as the building it dwarfs... and as darkly out of place by contrast.  He has seen the statue in full: A stalwart male Cardassian, in the armored uniform of yesterday's empire.  Each hand grips a chain, anchored to a stone sphere – one, Cardassia; the other, representing worlds under Cardassia's former rule.  A relic.  The symbol of all Cardassia once stood for.  Justice.  Pride.  Dignity.  Power.  Lies, told by the Cardassian people through their leaders, to fool themselves.  Dark lies, and deception.  That is what Cardassia was.  And next to it, the building, once as somber and full of shadowed guile and deceit.  Once.

A Cardassian woman stares at him from the side of one of the decrepit buildings in the foreground.  Painted eyes, twin black crescents in white egg shapes... so lifelike, casting a light and perceptiveness he finds startling in a painted mural.  More startling, the size: The building is twenty meters high.  She is lean, proud; her stance that of an athlete caught in a momentary poise, perhaps a runner, just completed a race.  She covers it, from base to roof, drawn in the Hebitian style.  Unlike the antiquated warrior beyond, her hands are noticeably empty, open, in front of her waist, as if reaching for something.  A thick gold amulet hangs from her neck – a symbol Midak does not recognize, over an ash-gray jumpsuit, covered to the neck.  The shape of the medallion imprints itself on his mind.  He does not know what it means, but when this is over, he will research the image.

Cardassians.  They have such an odd relationship with the past.  It is a love-hate affair.  The people of ancient Cardassia – known as Hebitians – were creatures of wealth, indulgence, splendor and archaic mysticism.  Midak has seen tombs, stone gods, murals and temples and statues, sculptures and pyramids, artifacts and libraries, all Hebitian-era.  All holograms, of course.  The Hebitians totally defied the rational monstrosity which emerged in their descendants, responding with a strict, regimented order and spartan austerity.  It is as if, Midak thinks, they became a completely different people.  Could it be that, freed of the Cardassian Union, they are beginning to revert to the liberty of ancient pursuits?

At the nearest grav-rail stop, he boards the train and rides it back to the dataplex.  A Cardassian girl, ten or twelve, sits a few empty seats down, inside the arm of a Klingon boy too old for her.  She pretends to be engrossed in a padd.  The Klingon teenager looks bored.  Midak pictures him the son of a Klingon officer stationed here.  Do his parents know he is with a Cardassian minor?  The girl looks at Midak continually over the edge of the padd.  Her eyes are shrewd, studious – nothing like the mural.

Midak exhales a silent sigh, looks away and concentrates, forming a thought:

Nyerko and Midak have worked out a plan for dividing the operation, each tackling a separate responsibility.  While Nyerko follows her Bartokian nose, Midak has taken temporary residence in Cardassia City, home of the Central Dataplex – the planet's central data and sensor complex.  When apart, they stay in touch via complants.

At Midak's suggestion, their investigation began with the Captain's wife, who had reported his disappearance.  Initial reports indicated she had been off, on unknown business, while her husband worked in the apartment assigned to them during their stay on Cardassia.  Communication logs revealed that Rampart had been in contact with a Legate Rutlik, shortly before his disappearance.

Midak recalls a sense of guilt, at how Cardassian it made him feel to suspect the Captain's wife of a role in his disappearance.  Very un-Starfleet of him.  The Cardassian "justice" system of old was based on pre-crime.  Defendants were denied knowledge of what they were accused of until their trial, and never knew the identities of their accusers, for "security" reasons.  Trials were a show for the public, to explain how guilt was determined, not to find a verdict, and the verdict was always predetermined: Guilty.  The duty of lawyers was to get them to valiantly accept the charges... followed by execution of the accused.  The system was not unique to Cardassia.  Other worlds had been plagued by such travesties at various points in their histories – even Earth.  In the early 21st century, one of Earth's planetary superpowers had engaged in the practice, violating ideals upon which it was founded, which included a healthy respect for personal liberty.  It was fortunate that the Federation made a rule of learning from history's mistakes, so as not to repeat them.  He vowed that he would do nothing in his behavior to imply his suspicion to Vor'ana Rampart, yet feared that it would make no difference.  She is... was... a former Tal Shiar agent, aware of the Cardassian stigma.  His mere presence would have betrayed his suspicion.

Midak steps in and gives his eyes a moment to adjust.  On a stool by the doorway, a striped lion-bat comes to life – green and gray with shocking yellow eyes, warm and purring.  It slinks up, curling around his wrist, wings quivering in anticipation of flight, an echo of evolutionary memory and adaptive short-fall.  Hebitians domesticated them, before they lost flight ability.  Midak strokes the scruff of its neck.  The creature peels its lips and nibbles lightly at his wrist, fangs sharp but harmless against his tough gray skin.  It seems odd to find this animal here.  Perhaps it is someone's pet, but it sits unattended.

At the end of the hall, the Cardassian officer greets him.

"Welcome back, Petty Officer Midak."  Perhaps he is civilian; perhaps a retired soldier.  Midak has not asked, nor wishes to know – for that would imply interest.  His name is Olaur Uttur.  He is old, pleasant... the perfect greeter for this "new" Cardassia.  Smiles are often masks for lies... especially when the smile is Cardassian.

He stops at the desk and waits for Uttur to clear his passage.  Computers and sensor-scans make this process unnecessary.  There is no confusion over Midak's identity.  He was genetically authorized into the building yesterday.  It is one more shred of the Cardassian die-hard factor.  One more facade of control.

"Hot fish-juice?"  Uttur offers a cup from a cart beside the desk.  Apparently he gives them to everyone; several are missing from the cart.

Midak tips his head in gratitude for the gesture, but refuses the gift, citing an allergy to fish-juice.  Uttur studies him, and Midak wonders if the lie is that transparent.  Being not-Cardassian, does he lack their mastery of deception?  If he is not Cardassian, why, then, be dishonest?  What has he to fear in being truthful?

Uttur returns the beverage to the cart and checks, on his screens, what sensors say about Midak.  Midak looks around, studying the interior.  The Central Dataplex.  Outside stands the statuesque symbol of yesterday's Cardassia.  The Jem'Hadar destroyed the statue during the "final solution".  Confusingly, it has been resurrected since.  This entrance hall is still modeled exactly as it was, in the years before then.  But here, at the end, where new halls diverge, there is a marked difference.  The gray is cleaner, brighter, neutral.

"I've seen images of the Central Command from before the war," Midak says, attempting idle conversation.  No Cardassian should engage in idle conversation.  But then, he is En'tekhrit... not-Cardassian.  "This resembles it not at all."

"Welcome to the era of Cardassia as a Federation member," Olaur Uttur says.

"Federation architecture?" Midak asks, taking new interest in the contrasting features.

"There are some Bolian influences to give it a modern look," the old man says.  "Mostly it is Hebitian... a replica of the dining hall of the great Cardas himself.  Except without the banquet tables, of course."

Midak eyes Uttur.  "Cardas was a myth."

"Oh no, my young friend.  Cardas was a legend," Uttur assures him, lips wrinkling.  "There is a difference."  He smiles.  "Have you not received a proper Cardassian education?"

Midak ignores the intimation of 'proper'.  "I am not Cardassian."  He says each word with deliberation.

Uttur's smile falters.  "Not Cardassian?  If you are not Cardassian, then what are you?"

"I am late," Midak says, and continues to the nearest lift.

On an upper level, he sits down at the central operations console.  Integration has resulted in a blend of Cardassian and Starfleet design.  Each has begun to influence the other.  The panel presents standard LCARS icons, arranged in Cardassian-style layout.  Such interfaces exist on starbase Deep Space Nine.  They are evident in newer Starfleet ships.  Without remark, he taps touch-sensitive screens and starts working, hands moving over the console, accessing the planet's sensor grid, tying it in with the Bureau of Records.

He has not been here before yesterday.  He does not have to have been here, to know the significance of those surrounding him: Cardassians and non-Cardassians, working side by side... in the building once known as Central Command Headquarters.  Some Cardassians still call it Central Command, as if it is truly that – certainly not a Starfleet appellation.  At one time, non-Cardassians were rarely allowed in this structure.  Aliens from the Gamma Quadrant changed all of that.  Now they sit at various consoles, representatives of many species... aliens, like him.  The consoles, the Central Command, and Cardassia itself have changed, and it is not unusual to see an array of lifeforms here.  Were it not for their presence, Midak suspects that he might have reason to feel nervous.

It does not take long to find that there is little TO find.  The APB, issued by Cardassian police in Cardassia City, is still in effect, with no new leads.  The police have not mounted a special search.  That is the domain of Starfleet investigators.

Midak wonders if and how that applies to non-Starfleet persons.

The mystery has deepened.  Vor'ana Rampart is now missing.  Between the time of reporting Jordan Rampart's missing status, and the time Midak and Nyerko stepped off the transporter pad on Cardassia, she too has gone absent, leaving even less of a trail.  Investigation of their apartment has made an even more disturbing implication: She packed her belongings, what few she brought to Cardassia, and made an orderly withdrawal.  Jordan Rampart's remained as they were, when he left to investigate a discovery in a jungle 114 kilometers west of the city.  Midak's earlier unease has been replaced with a different kind of unease... and a suspicion that he does not want to feel, but cannot deny: A suspicion that he might have been right to suspect her, in the first place.

The alternative is that someone is responsible for the missing status of both.

Midak closes his eyes for a moment.  His hands tremble, on the console... trembling with anger.  Anger, at the feeling of betrayal.  At the thought of the captain marrying a woman by whom he has been misled.  In the Federation, of all places, this has happened.  He takes a calming breath and relaxes as Boyd approaches.

"What does Legate Rutlik have to say?"  Lieutenant-Commander Kristin Boyd is a slender, freckle-faced woman in her thirties, with curly, auburn hair, the color of a sunset.  She has been tasked to assist the Arcadia officers.  A human, in charge of the former Central Command operations center.

"He seems determined not to assist us."

"Hmm."  She stares across the operations center.  She seems distracted.

Every Cardassian has something to hide.  Midak knows it is unfair of him to think so, and biased, according to the Starfleet credo.  Is it not untrue of most?  Proverbial skeletons in the closet.  He appreciates the macabre intimation of the Terran-coined phrase.  In that sense, Rutlik may not have anything to hide particular to Captain Rampart.  He simply dislikes Starfleet officers.  The background check of Legate Rutlik has revealed another Cardassian from the old days, who remembers a proudly independent Cardassia.  In a sense Cardassia is still independent, although a Federation member.  The presence of Federation, Klingon and Romulan military forces on Cardassia – of minimal proportions – is a lingering vestige of the final showdown in the Dominion War, which resulted in Cardassia's unconditional surrender and occupation by foreign powers.  It incenses many Cardassian survivors from that time, Rutlik included.  Yet Rutlik has suffered no personal losses or history with Rampart – nothing to indicate motive or complicity in the Captain's disappearance.  All of this information has been shared with Stasia Nyerko.

Midak thinks back to recent hours and actions, upon arriving on Cardassia.  Sensors should have located Rampart instantly – but for some reason... didn't.  Midak's initial impression seems the most obvious answer: If sensors cannot locate the Captain, then perhaps he has departed Cardassia.  Midak is no longer certain, but reminds himself that after subsequent investigation, it remains a possibility.

He can deride the Cardassian character, but privately concedes that his people keep meticulous records.  Local traffic reports – outbound ship manifests, transporter logs, wormhole activity charts – have yielded little during the period of disappearance, for either Jordan or Vor'ana Rampart.  If they left the planet, it is difficult to know where they have gone, and whether they went together, separately, and, for one or the other, willingly, until those avenues are thoroughly checked, researched, exhausted.  Midak has sent word to each region and destination of extraplanetary traffic, alerting them to conduct searches.  It may be days until the results are aggregated.  In the meantime, the Ramparts might be on Cardassia, alive or dead... and if someone is attempting misdirection, hiding their biosignatures to throw search parties off the scent, then the duo from the Arcadia seem all the more beholden to keep searching, here on Cardassia, until they get those results.

They have checked Rampart's service file, examining in minute detail logs and reports of his activities during the Dominion War, during the long Cardassian conflict before that, and any other mention of a run-in or possible connection to Cardassia, anything which might shed light or provide clues – individual names, ships, places encountered, missions, any significant historical cross-references, along with "fallout" after-effects in subsequent years.  There are indeed a few Cardassians living, Midak speculates, who might bear ill will towards Captain Rampart.  Some of these, Cardassian authorities have questioned.  Midak has been out questioning them again, face to face, and questioning those authorities haven't.  There is no evidence of involvement.  In Midak's opinion, the disappearance has no connection to his past, nor, possibly, his background, although it remains speculation at this point.  Most are only aware of Rampart indirectly, and do not even know his name.  The missions that once connected them have ended up inconsequential, minor, meaning nothing in the long run.  Messages have been sent to Rampart's former COs and fellow officers on previous assignments, requesting them to provide details which might have gone off the record.  Midak accesses communications logs for the responses, coded to his personal tracking ID.  The replies add little to the growing base of pointless data.

However, two factors tip everything, if he is to succumb to feelings he tells himself that he should not feel, and believe in what humans call gut impression: Mrs. Rampart... and the ship.

Midak looks to the main screen riveting Boyd's attention, sharing in the sense of wonder over the image pictured there.  A Starfleet vessel has been discovered in the jungles west of the city.  This is what drew Rampart to the area.  Rutlik advised Rampart, who went to check it out.  Transporter records indicate that Rampart apparently made it to the site.  His transport beam completed rematerialization, without negative feedback to signify interference.

We live in an information age.  Free-flow of information is what makes the Federation great, and far more advanced than its enemies or former enemies.  Midak mulls over these words in his mind.  If any world calling itself a Federation member can be more obstinately opposed by nature to that fact, it must be Cardassia Prime.  He has been here for several hours, he and Lieutenant Nyerko, and they have no leads.  It is like an infection, which has spread to those assigned here, Starfleet or otherwise.  We must follow due process, Boyd has pointed out.

The ship is, perhaps, the centerpiece of the mystery: A Delta-class runabout.... Mark One.  A runabout which did not enter Starfleet service until 2377, based on schematics of a prototype, called Delta Flyer, designed by the crew of the USS Voyager.  Site scans indicate it landed in 2374, a year before the war's end, before Voyager ever sent the schematics to the Alpha Quadrant.  The vessel bears no scars or evidence of battle.  It must have landed on Cardassia's surface, intentionally... in the jungle.  Overgrown by vegetation, its presence has eluded Cardassian sensors for thirteen years.  On the screen, vegetation still covers the hull, a green lump split by the off-white sheen of tritanium.  An excavation crew has partially cleared it.  Its discovery was accidental, following installation of a sensor-module upgrade.  No chroniton emissions, indications of temporal displacement, or asynchronous quantum signatures, signify any parallel universe origin, yet the site has been temporarily restricted, by order of the Department of Temporal Investigations and Starfleet Command.  Apparently there will always be a need for secrets.

The image is limited to a certain time-index.  They are not allowed to see the bodies of the excavation crew, Cardassian or otherwise, killed at the site.