Lost Era 06_ Catalyst of Sorrows - Margaret Wander Bonanno [1]
“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 I went 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.
Poor you! she thought. What a shock this all must be. Your first offworld flight, and you didn’t even get space sick. Your first look at the stars up close, and all you did on the first leg of the journey was stare at them all through the third watch when you should have been sleeping, as if they would vanish if you didn’t watch them! Poor child, have I put too much responsibility on those narrow shoulders?