Now We're Cooking

Stasia had that jungle look about her, when she appeared.  She had been here for a while – a few days at least.  Probably longer, was Rampart's guess.  Searching for him.  What took them so long?

A creeping feeling lifted his head to the daytime sky.  Recalling the bonfire.  The stars, which never moved.  He wondered, not for the first time, if the Arcadia was in orbit.  He'd never seen shuttles or aircraft once, in his time here.  Cardassia was a Federation planet – they had plenty of them.

Remembering that mission to Alpha Kyriakis a couple years ago, he had an inkling of why, maybe.

He had stood by as the tribal warriors massed around Stasia, not overly belligerent, but wary, watching her, eyes quick and weapons ready.  As they moved in to tie her hands behind her back, she looked at Rampart.  He shook his head: Don't resist.  Moments later, they were herding her off.

He must have been quite a sight when the Bartokian spotted him – a gaunt figure under the shadow of his hut's canopy, gray hair and beard thick and bushy, bare-skinned in a loin cloth, like some primitive savage.

Jewelry dangled against his neck from his earlobes as he walked.  One of the youngsters had persisted in trying to pierce his ears until he gave in.  His idea of "primitive" had changed somewhat over the past months, along with certain notions about Cardassians.  They weren't savage.  But they were still his jailers.  He hoped she didn't think he had "gone native".  He was glad to see a familiar face.  It meant someone knew he was missing, and they hadn't given up on him.  He hoped she had news about his wife.

It was useless trying to sneak into her hut.  He finally just had to ask.  He'd withheld offering a promise to work it off in return, on the possibility that she brought something which would get him out of this – maybe they figured out what was going on, and she carried a tracking node, so they could lock on and beam them out.  He didn't want to break a promise, not even to the tribe, on account of a fast getaway (though he would if he had to).  He had to tell them he knew her; she was not like him, or any of the others – she was Bartokian.  She had special dietary requirements, he said, not entirely a lie.  The decision was up to Fura, one of the tribal leaders; he asked Qas, one of the Klingons, to confirm Rampart's claim; Qas didn't know, so they asked Kal'iklak, who reportedly killed Bartokians in the war.  It could be true, the Jem'Hadar ventured; he didn't know either.  Maybe he was lying for Rampart, seeing the look on Rampart's face as he stood awaiting a decision.

As it was, he had to wait for a decision anyway, and went back to his hut, as instructed.  Kal'iklak came and told him to make shells – a Pleknareth concoction, vegetables and leaves pounded and baked and cut into round shapes, like tortillas.  They resembled donuts, without the holes – stuffed with meat and more vegetables, wrapped into half-balls and prepared over a closed fire.  Kal'iklak reminded him: A gift of food would get him in, if he knew what the Bartokian ate.  Rampart did.  He wasn't much of a cook, but it was part of Starfleet basic survival training – you never knew when you'd find yourself without a replicator.  He'd had to learn to make his own food if he wanted to keep eating.  He was just finishing when Fura came, with tribal escorts, who accompanied him to the hut where they kept Stasia Nyerko.

Finally they let him in.  He set the tray he had prepared on the floor between them and sat cross-legged across from her.