Security (post)

Petty Officer Sul Midak sat at his station in Cardassia City's central dataplex, speculating, without trying to speculate, how this would end.  He did not have to report it to Admiral April – that was a commissioned officer's responsibility; namely Nyerko's in this case – but he had to go back and face the consequences, both real and implied.  He had to admit that he failed.  Had to tell the admiral he failed.  Had to face his own failure, and live with it.  He and Lieutenant Nyerko had been tasked to find Captain Rampart.  Instead, two more people went missing, one of them Lieutenant Nyerko herself... and he had no idea where.  They were off the scopes.  They just... disappeared.

Impossible... yet somehow it happened.

The Federation was wired – from person to person, object to object, planet to planet.  Communication and information... those were the order of life in an advanced, technological, information-driven society.  People communicated.  Systems communicated.  Clothing communicated.  Your glass is empty?  No problem – the waiter's already bringing a refill.  Bad heart?  Your doctor knows it before you do.

Taking a vacation?  Commit a crime?  Don't worry about leaving town – we'll know right where to find you.

What?  The Borg are invading again?  We saw them light-years off.

Sensors tracked everything, and everything communicated, from the cellular level up – sending information on condition, composition, location.  It had been that way once, on Earth, in the 21st century, before the planet's third world war wiped everything out and forced them to start over.  Only lately, in the last ten years, had they finally righted a centuries-long imbalance.

Some cried out, protesting with echoes of accusatory overtones, which Terrans who knew their history labeled 'Orwellian'.  There were no such things as secrets in an open society – but then, in an open society, there was no need for secrets... unless someone had something to hide.  In the mature, enlightened Federation, there was an expectation of understanding, and accepting it, for the sake of convenience and security.

The Orwellian echo fell mostly on deaf ears.  Those who lived in the Federation knew better: There was no need for paranoia; no Big Brother or secret police, Gestapo or death squads, waiting in the wings to swoop down and snatch innocents – an important distinction compared to life under Cardassia's Obsidian Order, or the Romulan Tal Shiar, or the Klingon intelligence agency known as Kumara.  It simply made life easier, and enabled many innovations which made the Federation the great, galactic superpower that it was.  There had been too many threats to the Federation and to Federation citizens, inside and out, to not warrant constant protection... to not take advantage of the merits in free-flowing information.  The Federation had plenty, and Cardassia was part of it.

Ironically, it was the security Cardassia dreamed of having for centuries – some Cardassians, anyway, before the Obsidian Order went bust – and they had to join the Federation to get it.  Sul Midak was willing to venture that this same security, from civilization's nano-levels to the galactic sensor grid, attracted the Romulans, compelling them to open negotiations for Federation membership.

For all of these reasons, no one should have been able to get up, walk out, and disappear from a planet – especially a Federation planet, and especially when that planet was Cardassia.  Not when so many avenues of surveillance existed.  Yet somehow, apparently, three people had done it.

Vor'ana Rampart... her husband, Jordan Rampart – the captain of the Arcadia – the day before... and, a short time after she went looking for him: Stasia Nyerko.

It had only been a few hours.  Midak suspected a discrepancy when Nyerko failed to report at her last scheduled check-in, after he shared his latest results (or lack of results) with her, from his end.  He had expected, with that simple two-person coordination, if not the backing of the planet's entire primary communications hub, that they would find Captain Rampart quickly.  For some reason, the plex had also failed to accomplish this simple thing.  It should not have even been necessary to send him and Nyerko in the first place, but Admiral April felt it was.  The admiral, it seemed, had a talent for sniffing out trouble – born, no doubt, from years of experience.

Midak pushed away from his board, informed Lieutenant-Commander Boyd that he was leaving to pursue another lead, then left to pursue it – with no time for the scenic route outside, as before.  Only one person did he intend to see.

Winding towards the nearest transporter room on this level, he 'heard', to his surprise, a familiar voice in his head:

The Lieutenant.  Transmitting, he presumed, by complant.  She could have been using an external communicator, but he 'heard' her via his own complant.

~This is Midak; I'm receiving.~  He had stopped; he continued towards the transporter room.  ~Are you all right, Lieutenant?  Where have you been?~

The Bartokian security chief seemed nominal, transmitting from an outlying transporter station, number 462.  To Midak's further surprise, Nyerko informed him that it had taken her over the past month to track down Rampart, but she found him, and rescued him... albeit briefly.  She did not know exactly where he was, now.  Circumstances forced her to leave him behind in an abandoned transporter station, the location of which she'd been unable to ascertain.

Midak was confused.  ~Lieutenant, did you say... a month?~

Over a month, she confirmed.

~Lieutenant Nyerko~, he sent back, ~you have only been gone for a few hours.~

That baffled her, and Midak.  When she related what Rampart told her, about being in a Pleknareth village for over four months, Midak knew: Something very odd was in effect... and his suspicion that the runabout might be connected grew stronger.

Midak thought to alert the authorities of Nyerko's discovery, and Rampart's status – if Nyerko had not done so.  That was the standard procedure: When you've got news, something to report, you don't sit on it.  Not in an open society.

But he desisted, to question the wisdom.  What you don't know can't hurt you, it was often said.  It was not a hard and fast rule, however.  Occasionally, what someone knew could hurt another.  If Rampart lived, perhaps the best way to protect him, for now, was to maintain his 'missing' status, until they were certain he was out of harm... which, Midak figured, would be when they had him, safely standing in front of them.  This was, after all, still Cardassia – even though it was a Federation planet – and someone obviously went to some length to make the captain, and possibly his wife, disappear.  It was a judgment call – which he left to Nyerko, his superior and chief security officer, technically in charge of this investigation, to make.  They still had to get to the bottom of this.

The runabout in the jungle was the wild card.  A Vulcan could not argue with that logic.  Unfortunately, the Department of Temporal Affairs had not cleared others for access yet – if they ever would.

He sent to Nyerko: