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ON
<location: Deck 38, Brig, USS Republic>
A high-pitched warbling hum echoed through the mind of the Operative as she sat in a lotus position deep in mediation. Slowly, she concentrated on her breathing to help keep her thoughts concentrated on one task. As a Vulcan, she possessed emotions, but like her ancestors of ages past, the very core of her being was driven by the instinct to keep them under strict control, no matter how strongly they burned.
"We can't send you back to Deep Space Nine," she recalled Captain Roth's voice at her informal sentencing. "It would be signing your death warrant if the Syndicate catches wind that you left the ship. Therefore, you'll have to stay on Republic until we return from our mission."
The warbling hum persisted. The Operative knew that mainstream Starfleet had no records of her, and so, would appear that she was impersonating an officer. Truth be known, had their positions been reversed, she would have done the same thing as the captain did, but that didn't stop the simmering rage her inner psyche resonated.
"Despite mitigating circumstances, you're probably still facing prison time, and while I could simply confine you to quarters, I have no doubt you'll find a way to escape off this ship. So, I have no choice but to let the security department do their job and sentence you to the brig for the remainder of our current cruise."
Unwavering, the high-pitched electronic warble continued to cut through her trance-like state. Logic dictated that the captain was correct. Escape was normally the first order of business under these circumstances, but the situation was far from normal.
"Twenty-four hour watch, three meals a day, and one hour of supervised excercise under heavy guard. You are not to have any contact with the crew, nor are you to be allowed access to any other part of the ship. You're a semi-permanent inmate now, until we can safely hand you over to Starfleet Security."
They were reasonable precautions, but made her job harder by orders of magnitude. The warble ebbed and flowed, moving closer, then further away before moving closer again. The captain's pretentiousness was of the same variety that could be expected from any human, but even still, she'll never forget how Roth attempted to put a positive spin on it.
"The upside for you is that Starfleet JAG will credit time in the Republic brig as time served in the stockade, and your overall sentence will be reduced. So, whether you choose to believe it, I'm actually doing you a favor."
A favor ... That was four months ago.
It didn't matter. Her words meant nothing, and escape was pointless anyway. Before being incarcerated, the Operative's last precious drop of outside information told her that Republic's mission was to chart an obscure nebula a thousand light years from the nearest known spaceport, let alone any habitable planet. She wouldn't get very far, even if she managed to get off the ship. Republic's sensors were vastly superior to any other Federation vessel in the Gamma Quadrant, and the only thing out there right now was a whole lot of nothing. A shuttlecraft would be spotted weeks before she could find safe harbor, and Roth would just put her back in this cell with another charge to add to her legal brief.
Finally, the incessant warble ceased, followed by the sound of a medical tricorder snapping shut.
"Well," announced Doctor Harris to the guards outside the confinement field of the cell. "That's it. Her monthly checkup is done, and she's in the best of health, just like last month. If there's nothing else, I have to get back to sickbay. Doctor Cromwell needs me in preparation for our arrival at the A'sharraan homeworld."
The Operative showed no outward response to the doctor's words, but inside, it set into motion a series of carefully laid calculations and extrapolations. While the Vulcan could feel when the ship changed speed by the nearly impercevable vibrations of the deckplates, she assumed that recent changes were routine course adjustments associated with their nebula-mapping mission. The holographic doctor just gave her the first clue that something else was going on. Apparently, something more than just space dust was lingering outside the ship.
"Did you issue the prisoner the required hygiene kit?" a gruff, professional security guard responded from behind the watch desk in the main cell block area.
"She's got a name, you know," Harris remarked humanely. "Not just 'prisoner'. You security guys really need to loosen up."
"Did you issue the prisoner the hygiene kit?" he guard repeated, unfazed by the doctor.
Without saying anything, Harris simply pointed to the sink where a package of hygine wipes, dental appliques, and a clean prisoner jumpsuit sat neatly folded.
"By regulation," she concluded. "And if you ask me, a few extra luxuries couldn't hurt any. It's not like she's going anywhere."
"That'll be all, doctor," the guard excused her. "Your work here is done."
Without so much as a whisper, Doctor Harris vanished as she redirected her holographic program back to sickbay through the Republic's optical circuits. Only then did the Operative open her eyes from the medative state she was in. The first form her eyes focused upon was the guard outside the cell, typing commands into the computer console at his desk. Slowly, she shifted her eyes away from the guard and towards the holographic projector that allowed the doctor to perform her checkup inside the cell. After a momentary pause while staring at the inaccessible apparatus, the Operative's eyes scanned the spartan prison cell. Other than a bunk, a sink, and a toilet, all that remained was the hygiene kit that Doctor Harris left behind.
Dental appliques were unique cosmetic products. They were nothing more than thin wafers of electron-etched silicone that dissolved into simple molecular nanomachines upon contact with saliva. Moistened, they were designed to scrub tooth enamel clean of tartar and plaque before natural enzymes in the mouth eventually broke them down into inert compounds. However, if kept dry, they remained as finely etched sheets of silicone that, with enough time and patience, could be carefully reworked with the aid of tiny foil implements rendered from empty hygiene wipe packets.
Of course, human eyes and hands could never accomplish the workmanship needed to carve a rudimentary integrated circuit. They just didn't have the finely-tuned tactility required. A Vulcan, on the other hand, did. Centuries ago, integrated circuits formed the core of sophisticated computer systems on many planets, and while such systems were built from much more intricate silicone wafers, the Operative didn't need processing power of that magnitude. All she needed was what Starfleet regulations made available to prisoners by interstellar law.
While the security guard sat at his desk only meters away, the Operative opened her hand to reveal a small, four month-old hygiene wipe packet containing a large collection of tiny dry dental appliques - each one partially etched with rudimentary electronic programming language. What purpose they served was known only to the Operative, and with nearly imperceptible movements of her hands, she carefully continued her excruciating work on the small silicone wafers.
OFF
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"Keith" <cromwell@...>
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