What About Vor'ana

~Liberty.  Do you got her?~

~Uh, that's a negative, Agent Rampart~, the ship answered.

Gleaming tritanium towers dominated the Cardassia City skyline, relatively new, like the city itself... rebuilt over the last thirty years since the war with the Dominion.  Throngs of pedestrians filled the spaces between, on streets, bridges, milling back and forth through transparent umbilicals connecting the metropolis, as shuttles and skycars whizzed past.  It was a busy place... easy to get lost in.

Some people liked that.

On a hoverboat overlooking the central plaza stood Jordan Rampart.  He felt a little nervous, remembering what happened the last time he got stuck on one of these things – a long time ago... but not that long.  Never that long.

A pale-skinned brunette leaned casually on the rail beside him.  Her hair was black, like coal, short, cropped close.  She had strange, striking, blue-black eyes.  She appeared human–on the outside.  Rampart looked her up and down with a glance.

The Department of Temporal Investigations lacked an official dress code.  Uniforms weren't technically required, but most agents wore them in the field, as he did: A simple black affair, full body cover, thermoregulated for comfort in places like this.  Otherwise, the heat would have been stifling.  He had spent years here, and still found it uncomfortable.

Vyra wore very little.  Hers was also black... modest, in fairly decent taste, yet revealing.  A simple halter-top and shorts, with a small vest-like jacket, black gloves and thigh-length boots.  Fashion, not formality.  It went well with her hair and dark eyes, but didn't represent the officious nature of their occupation.

"This planet's warm," he said, "but I didn't think it was that warm."

Vyra ignored his comment about her attire, gazing over her shoulder at the ground far below.  The efforts of Cardassia's peace with the Federation formed a sleek, shining backdrop around them.  He mistook her for a Betazoid, when they first met.  Her eyes were that dark.  But unlike pure black Betazoid eyes, hers had a blue inkwell tint on close inspection.  Part human, part Deltan... part Romulan.

"You didn't have to come," she said.  "I'm capable of finding one Cardassian scientist."

"Maybe."  Rampart resumed scrutinizing the plaza, as she did, picking out Cardassian faces with the zoom function in his comtacts, running them through an ID trace.  "And maybe you neglected to run a cross-correlation on this one, before you—"

"No," she cut him off, a bit emphatic.  "I didn't."

Rampart tossed her a look.

"You have a past together," she said.  "By most regulations, that could be a liability." 

"That's why you took this assignment without me?"  Rampart continued scanning the crowds.  "You let me worry about that."

"The last time, you lost the package."

Rampart took the barb in stride.  "I guarantee you it'll never happen again."

His comtact locked onto a target, activating a silent alarm.  Time to prove her wrong.  "I've got him."  In the blink of an eye and a lightless flash, he was gone.

Vyra tensed, about to follow, hesitated, put her hands on her hips and watched, zooming in with her photocomtacts.  Rampart was a capable agent, but impulsive.  He tended to think two-dimensionally... a product of his time of origin, when many thought in such linear aspects.  Instead of appearing behind the target, he appeared in the target's path, to the right, behind a tall Cardassian unwittingly hiding his presence.  Were they trailing a typical Cardassian, with no more sense than Rampart, that might have been enough.  But the man they were after was devious... elusive... brilliant... and aided by a keen tactical sense, surpassing many of their best agents.  Vyra knew it would not be easy to catch him.

Especially not with Jordan Rampart on the case.

With a single, silent, complant-driven thought, she ordered the plaza's crime-control units to activate.  Transporters and forcefields came on standby.  Alerts went to other agents in the vicinity.  Sensors locked onto the target from every direction.  There would be no escaping again.  Not this time.

She sent a mental command to the nearest transporter station, to lock onto the target and beam him into holding.  The confirmation signal circuited back to her complant in a heartbeat, signaling capture.  The man named Gamal Osipyan Torok was theirs.

Then to her surprise, she saw the Cardassian... still moving through the plaza, westward.  Somehow he could trick sensors.  Somehow, Rampart knew that – and she didn't.

Rampart appeared in front of him.

Black space and starfields sprang into being, trembled, and shifted, changing places.  The galaxy was thick with stars... grains of sand in an obsidian ocean.

The waters were murky today.

It had been years, and years, but if he was still... quiet... and listened... sometimes he could still feel it.  Hear it.  Hear them... in tune to the rhythm of the drums, the beat of the jungle... crackling firelight, casting shadows in the night... the heat, and the sweat... and the whispers, subtle, below everything.  Directing him, telling him where to look.

It had been too long.  The slightest interruption would break the trance... shatter the spell.  Like the interruption from the woman who had entered behind him.

Jordan Rampart kept his eyes on the holorama.  He could never get away from her.  She was his partner.

"Agent Rampart."

"Agent Vyra."

Vyra seemed plain, yet unusual in her own way, with her blue-black, Betazoidesque eyes – almost as dark, and unusual, as her past.  Rampart couldn't believe it: The DTA would take anyone with the right qualifications–even if they had to be rehabilitated first.

Vyra drew her athletic frame up beside him, observing the scene which currently fascinated him.  She exuded a level of warmth, a gift from her Deltan forebears – by intent or not, calming him, as it often did.  That, and other subtle sensations, made it difficult for him to concentrate sometimes.  Thank science for nanomods, to counteract the effect.

It was also a good thing he already knew where to look.  He just didn't know what, exactly, he was looking for.

The bridge of the starship named Arcadia surrounded them – a real-time projection from its 'current' location, across the years.  A comtact-rendered check revealed an orbital position near Memiklon.  On the vessel's bridge, Starfleet officers moved back and forth, casually attending tasks and exchanging words.  Their voices were silent – audio, disabled.  It was easy to activate, but she doubted that it mattered what they were saying.  If it didn't concern Rampart, then it didn't concern her right now.  The crew was oblivious to the fact that they were being spied upon.

"What are you looking for?"

"Confirmation of a suspicion," Rampart said.

Vyra studied the face of the ship's captain, sitting in the central chair, easily identified as one Stephen Boone April – shifting the view from side to front to other side, absorbing the details of his features.  "Tell me what you meant when you said you're connected to this man."

"It's a long story.  Goes back to Cardassia, Starfleet Academy....  If you can figure it out from there – that's all I'm going to say."

"Why did you join the agency?"

She really meant: Why do you shut me out, and I am your partner?  Must have been the rehabilitation.  As a one-time pirate, mercenary, rogue, assassin... one and all of the above... she was probably less than that polite.

Rampart feigned casual ignorance, shifting holographic zoom-views of the ship's interior.  "Why do you want to know?"

"I've seen your file, Agent Rampart.  In Starfleet, you went on record often, stating how you despised time travel.  And yet... you are a temporal agent."

"If you've seen my file, then you know."

"Mmm.  Except, curiously, parts of it have been locked, for the director's eyes only – and yours.  Like, what you were doing on Cardassia for all of those years."  He felt her, staring into the side of his head.  "Why is that, Agent Rampart?"

"Let's just say, not everyone hates it as much as I do.  Can't have anyone else spoiling it for the rest of us."

She nodded, seeming to accept the explanation... though that didn't mean a thing.  She focused on the panorama.  "You've spoken of this ship in the past.  Reverently."  Her next statement surprised him, though it shouldn't have.  "Torok told you something."  It was not speculation.

"You're wising up," Rampart quipped.

"Why do you hide things from me, Agent Rampart?"  When he didn't answer, she said, "If you're using agency resources for your own personal interests–"

Rampart tossed her a look.  "You haven't been with the DTA long, Agent Vyra.  Better watch what kind of accusations you lob around."

"I only wish to understand.  I'm your partner."

"Maybe that's the problem."

"Vor'ana was your partner," she said.  That much was known.  But now she was speculating.  "She hurt you.  After you brought her forward through time from Cardassia... made her your partner... she betrayed you.  And the agency.  And now you're looking for her.  That's obvious.  Will you tell me why?"

"It used to be personal.  But she took something from me.  I have to get it back."

"Aos?  But I've seen the holos—"

"She didn't use her hands."

"What did she take?"

Rampart said nothing.

Disappointment flowed from his companion.  "As I said: A liability.  You should let go of this."

"She's a liability.  And I'm a liability if I don't find her.  I know what she can do."

"If it's of concern to the agency, it's of concern to me.  Let me help."

Rampart considered, refocusing on the bridge of the ship he once commanded, for a time.  He had sat in that chair once.  His only starship command, ever.

"It's not just her," he told Vyra.  "It's an answer to a question."

"A question," Vyra said.  "What question?"

He couldn't very well shut her out, no matter what her role was in their working relationship.