Rampartition

They sat on the floor, playing games with pieces of the earring Rampart had taken off and disassembled, and spare components removed from the chamber itself.  The various trinkets and doohickeys littered the floor between them, in a space cleared of age-old dust.  It lingered in the air; Rampart felt an urge to sneeze more than once.  The games they played involved gambling, something at which it turned out Stasia was an expert.  She taught him some Bartokian games, and he taught her some he had picked up over the years, including games the villagers taught him.

"We've known each other a few months now," Rampart said.  "Let me ask you something – just between us.  Do you ever regret being assigned to Arcadia?"

"To be honest, Captain... I have no regrets on joining this crew.  She's a fine ship... and her crew reflects her excellence.  I do have one problem... and I must say, it involves Admiral April."  She paused.  "I do not experience this often... but I am not comfortable around the admiral.  Ever since we first met... his constant referring to me as 'Eve'."  She glanced over at Rampart.  "I do not know if you have ever met Captain Ordalani... but I am not her.  Granted... I may be the same genetic matter... and bear a physical resemblance to her.  The same blood flows through our veins.  The heart that pumps that blood is identical.  But other than the obvious cosmetic similarities, Eve Ordalani and myself are as different as a Horta from a Breen."  She looked away for a moment.  "I had to say that.  And I thank you for indulging me an opportunity to vent."

"You know," Rampart told her, "when I let Admiral April talk me into taking command of his ship – and let's make no mistake; it's his ship... always was and always will be; I figured that out when I got there – I wasn't sure it was a smart move.  For me, I mean.  All of the strange things that keep happening... bizarre things – like this..."  He glanced around the room.  "Mysteries, 'wonders of time and space' and all that, like he puts it... This isn't what I signed up for.  I mean, sure, Starfleet gets plenty of it, and for some people, that's why they're in.  But me... I think I'd like a dull, quiet assignment somewhere.  Simple and predictable.  When I get back – if I do – maybe it's time to re-evaluate my future."  Thinking about Vor'ana, he added, "Right after I find my wife."

He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.  His body was adjusting to the room temperature, but he still shivered.  Stasia, in her black tank top, seemed less bothered by the cold.  Maybe it was a Bartokian thing – that blue blood handling cold better than human red.  He would have asked her to loan him some of her clothing, if she had extra to spare.

"I'm sitting here trying to think of how this is all put together," he said, gesturing with his hands.  "And maybe it's not.  Maybe there's no connection between one and the other – between this, the village, and the runabout.  Maybe one of the pieces doesn't fit.  Maybe it's just coincidence."  He gave it another moment's thought.  "Okay.  So let's see – one more time: Rutlik tells me about the runabout.  I go out to investigate.  The excavation team is on the site.  The moment I show up, everyone dies except me.  The tribe takes and holds me for the past four months plus."  He looked at Stasia.  "Well, by my time.  You and Midak come out, and you personally spend the past month or more searching for me.  Now you're out of touch, I'm out of touch... and that runabout..."  He shook his head.  "If someone was trying to hide it... who?  Why?  It was already too late; we knew it was there.  Unless they didn't know who they were dealing with – thinking they could scare us off.  Whoever 'they' are.  Or, unless they just needed to buy some time... thinking the runabout might tell them something about the future?"  Rampart heaved a sigh.  "I hate time-travel stuff."

Stasia beat him again, at the game they were playing – for the twelfth time in a row.  She was much better at it than he was.  Tired of losing, tired of sitting here and freezing, and just plain tired, he excused himself, getting up.  He moved to the other side of the transporter console, where he was partially obscured, for some privacy, and sat down, leaning on the side of the embankment.

He sat there for a while, trying to nod off.  He kept thinking of Vor'ana.

Vor'ana.

Vor'ana had taught him Romulan meditative techniques, methods of shutting himself off from pain and discomfort, including harsh environments.

Rampart closed his eyes and pushed all questions out of his mind.  He slipped into a kind of half-sleep.  He saw the bonfire the night before... the towering twisting column, burning and crackling into the night.  The fire baked him with its heat.  He imagined it on his skin, seeping into his limbs, his bones, providing delicious warmth.  The men of the tribe squatted all around, thumping hollow drums, gifting him with rhythm.  He felt himself there physically, eyes and other senses piqued by the dancing Cardassian woman.  The heat of the fire... her black dazed eyes... dancing in a trance... she glanced at him, through him... the orange light licking at her naked gray hide...

He felt her, riding him in the hut.  Felt Vor'ana's gaze on him, from the sketch... watching him from somewhere far away.

His eyes snapped open.

"Rahn."  It came out a mumbled whisper.  The connection... He had long suspected that he and Vor'ana shared a latent telepathic connection.  He'd always thought it was just one of those things that develop between married couples, who've been together long enough to sense each other's moods, anticipate each other's reactions.  He and Vor'ana could finish each other's sentences.  But she was different.  In the Tal Shiar, she'd been part of a program to develop Romulan espers on the level of their Vulcan cousins.  It was the reason she'd been assigned to 'interrogate' him on Beta Rykhis Seven.  It was the reason they had that bond in the first place.

He hadn't sensed her in his entire time in the village.  Sometimes he thought he did, but he wasn't sure – it could have been wishful thinking.  Imagination.

But last night... He had been thinking of her, while he was with another woman.  Had she finally picked up on it, across whatever distance separated them?  Across the barrier that blocked him, and now Stasia, from the rest of the world?  Did she know?

Had she left him?

Rampart ran his hands through his hair, pulling it back from his hairline.  His hairline was again receding, deprived of nanomod rejuv.

Months ago, on Memiklon, Tamil Davalos suffered a similar ailment.  Her nanomods stopped working.  So did Rampart's, when he banged his head on that hover-platform.  They resumed upon leaving Memiklon's atmosphere, but....

He looked up instinctively, at the ceiling of this deserted transporter room, and remembered Memiklon's alien sky, filled with hundreds of flying red lifeforms.  The Memiklons loaded him with information, data regarding their relationship with the temporal rift which created their civilization; it had something to do with that mysterious far-future force Starfleet dubbed 'the Shapers'.  Back on the Arcadia, Hon Jurmol downloaded it from Rampart's mind, freeing him from a condition which might have caused permanent brain damage had it remained.

Memiklon.  A temporal environment.  Rampart suspected a temporal element at work, here in the Cardassia system.  Was there a connection?  Was he somehow the connection?  He couldn't be sure... of anything.  Something was still missing.  He didn't have all the answers yet.

But he felt that he was somehow on the right trail.  Why that was... he didn't know that either.

"Stasia."  He jumped up.  "Help me get that transponder out."

Puzzled, but compliant, she obeyed.  Within minutes they had retrieved it from the transporter console.  When she inquired of his course of action, he gave it to her and said, "I have a hunch."  When they tried it together the first time, they ended up here.  The second time, it started to work, then failed.  "I want you to try it by yourself.  See if it'll transport you alone.  If it works, and you end up back at Station 462..."  He shared quick instructions, then moved to the far side of the room, putting himself as far out of her range as possible.

"Sir, what about you?"

Rampart shrugged.  "I'd rather one of us make it out of here.  Don't ask me how I know, because I don't know... but I've got a feeling this won't be my tomb.  There's a reason they couldn't let me leave.  I don't know what it is, but I think they need me for something.  If I'm lucky, I'll end up back in the village, and maybe this time I'll get some answers.  And if you find Vor'ana, tell her..."  He paused, then shook his head.  "No.  Just go."

Stasia seemed hesitant, but she nodded, stood and activated the transponder.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone.  Rampart's breath caught in his throat: It worked.