—John Le Carré: A Perfect Spy

Prologue

No border, however hostile the forces on either side of it, is ever impermeable. Even after almost fifty years of silence, the Romulan Neutral Zone was no exception.

Cretak grimaced as she and her attendant passed the sentries on either side of the no-man’s-land between the designated Romulan and Federation sections of the space station. It wasn’t the presence of the guards that disturbed her. She had the proper credentials, and they scarcely noticed her. It was the filth.

The station lay nominally within what humans called the Neutral Zone and Romulans the Outmarches—the two sides unable to agree on even that much—at one of several points where inhabited planets with allegiance to neither side had made it necessary for the mapmakers to do a bit of gerrymandering. Succinctly, the Zone ran rather narrow here, and more species than not pretended it did not exist, traveling within the Zone with impunity, as long as they didn’t venture into either Federation or Romulan space. The station itself was run by a consensus of those species loyal to neither side, and functioned primarily for those myriad other species, allowing Federation and Romulan presences as long as neither “started something.” Thus the need for sentries between the two areas designated specifically for them.

Apparently no one in the consensus,Cretak thought crossly, is acquainted with the merits of a mop and broom!

The walls were smudged, the floors sticky beneath her boots. Exposed bits of circuitry blinked feebly where fixtures had apparently been ripped out and never replaced. There were whole sectors where lighting was dim or nonexistent, and atmospheric control sporadic, creating pockets where it was hard to breathe. Stray clumps of somethingrolled sluggishly along the curve of the corridors, propelled by the ambient breeze whenever an airlock opened and closed, and in the darkest corners other somethings moved more rapidly, hissing and squeaking when disturbed. It was said they would eat anything that didn’t move.

The areas immediately surrounding the guard posts were properly maintained, and Romulan personnel kept the corridors leading to their designated berths in pristine condition (Cretak could only assume the Federation did likewise), but the rest of the place, even the few bedraggled shops selling trinkets and replicated food in the main hub, clearly showed the disdain the unallied species felt for both sides.

It was a crossroads, a waystation, the kind of place where as many species as were known to travel across two quadrants—and even some who weren’t—could be seen intermingling in the crowded, dirty corridors. At the moment, an air of watchfulness pervaded the place as well. Three Romulan ships were currently in port, effecting a transfer of diplomats on their way to a conference on a remote colony world. The rest of those on the station would be grateful when they shoved off. It was said that, while Klingons were given to brawling and breaking the furniture, Romulans were humorless, and that was worse.

Ordinarily a Romulan senator would have remained on the ship and sent one of her attendants on whatever errands might need doing in such a place, but Cretak had been overheard complaining about cabin fever and, since no one told a senator what not to do, she was free to explore the common areas of the station, attendant in tow, as long as she returned before the evening’s first round of meetings and receptions began.

Someday,Cretak mused, I shall have to learn to be more circumspect. But if this adventure is not successful, will there be a someday?

Once far enough around the curve of the station’s outer rim to be invisible to the guards at the warbird’s airlock, she threw back the hood of her travel cloak, and nodded to her attendant to do the same.

“Is this wise, Lady?” the younger woman questioned. “I see no other Romulans here.”

“It’s as wise as your ability not to act like a Romulan!” Cretak said abruptly. “Has your training taught you nothing? For our purposes here, you are vulcanoid, allegiance unspecified. Comport yourself accordingly!”

You might begin,Cretak thought, perhaps unfairly, by not staring wide-eyed at every non-Romulan you see.She reminded herself that the girl had never been outside the Capital in her brief life, much less offworld and so far across the Marches, where Romulans were the minority. A little giddiness was to be expected. She herself had hardly been a model of decorum the first time she met a human.

“Forgive me,” Zetha replied, lowering her eyes and her voice and walking behind Cretak as she had been taught. Nevertheless, she continued to scan her surroundings, as Cretak did. The only difference was that Cretak knew what she was looking for.

Zetha studied the unfamiliar text on the Departures padds beside each airlock, memorizing the scrolling symbols in several languages out of force of habit, even though she had no notion what they might mean.

“Wait here!” Cretak commanded, and went to talk to an unpromising-looking humanoid slouching against a particular bulkhead, in a language Zetha did not recognize. She studied tone and gesture, intrigued. She already knew what the conversation was about, anyway.

“My attendant has been visiting family in the Zone,” Cretak would say, or something to that effect. “She requires passage to the Alpha Quadrant. She will sleep anywhere, eat whatever your crew eats. She does not speak your language and owns nothing worth stealing. You will have full payment when I receive word she has arrived safely.”

Some manner of delayed-activation currency would be exchanged, and the humanoid, no doubt the skipper of the battered merchanter Zetha could glimpse, partly lit by an overhead but mostly in shadow, just beyond the airlock, would take her aboard.

“Speak as little as possible,” Cretak had warned her. “Most of them can’t tell the difference between Romulan and Vulcan, but don’t test them.”

“Especially since I’m not Romulan,” Zetha had reminded her, only to earn one of Cretak’s cutting looks. Whoever said brown eyes could not go cold had never angered Cretak. “What if I am missed?” the younger woman had said to change the subject. Why did she care what the senator thought of her, when they would probably never meet again? Yet, for some reason, she cared. “If someone notices you have one attendant fewer…”

“Someone might notice if Iwent missing,” Cretak had answered dryly. “But my staff are interchangeable as far as anyone else is concerned.”

“What if I encounter a Vulcan?” Zetha asked, ignoring the insult. “What if I’m asked—”

“Once you’re on the Federation side, it will not matter.” Cretak said.

Zetha could not imagine what it would be like not to constantly be questioned about one’s identity or origins. That alone might be worth the adventure, even if her survival was reckoned only in days.

While she had been reliving the conversation in her mind, Cretak and the humanoid had apparently reached an agreement. The humanoid sized up this last-minute addition to his cargo under eyebrows that all but met in the middle, muttered something that didn’t sound encouraging, and gestured for Zetha to follow him.

Cretak had raised the hood of her cloak and was already walking away. For some reason she turned one last time to see the question in the youngster’s eyes.