Food for Thought

Over a month ago.  He'd been here much over a month.  That reinforced a niggling suspicion – one he wasn't taking time to think about.  He looked at her slightly odd when she began whispering, pretty sure the tribesmen didn't speak or understand Bartokian.  The translator wasn't working, she must have noticed; hence why he used her native language.  But, again, the "predictable" factor... Maybe she thought of that.

He looked her in the eye then flicked a gnat away.  Transport nodule.  Oh hell yeah.  Music to his ears.  Not that he "wanted", really, to know what was going on – he wasn't keen on mysteries and less interested in being part of one – although it was their duty to find out.  Back at headquarters, they'd be in a better position – and he was sick & tired of the bugs.  Plus he was dying for some real food – replicated, reprocessed and chemically sterilized.

Five seconds were the length of his consideration.  He looked her in the eye, looked once to his right.  If she was as quick and casual as he knew she could be, the tribesmen would have no time to react.

"The word... is yesterday."

As he said it, he felt a flash of doubt – that the nodule might fail, that the same interference blocking his complant might hinder her method of escape.

Nonchalant, she reached her fingers into her boot and activated it.  Rampart felt that little "crunch" inside, the feeling of instant teleportation via quantum transporter, and in the blink of an eye, found his doubt unwarranted.  They were sitting in a transporter room with Cardassian markings.

"Finally."  With a gasp of sweet relief, Rampart climbed to his feet.

The room was small, dark, and apparently seldom used.  A thin layer of dust coated the instruments and panels.  His sinuses twitched; he felt an urge to sneeze.

"Uh..."  He looked over the room and shivered.  It was cold, and he was dressed in a loin-cloth.  "Where's the door?"  The chamber didn't have one, and they were alone.  "Where's the operator?"