The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Seventeen

The search for the student underground cells has not gone well. They would not have bothered with them at all, but it rapidly became apparent to Flynn that Ocht has eliminated or driven to ground every one of the Starfleet operatives in University City, if not on the whole planet.

They split up well outside of town. Chekhov and Monty continued on into town, just two tourists from somewhere half a continent away, he a salesman and she an executive in a small hovercar company. They checked into the Hotel Athenian—a stolid pile of stone that had pretensions of grandeur and grace. Or perhaps it had had grandeur and grace at some point well back in its history, even though it now was faded and dowdy. The names given were Piotr Sakarov and Monty Noir.

When Flynn had complained that Monty's pseudonym was too close to her real name, she had pointed out that her real name wasn't her real name.

The room was bugged. They didn't know that, but that had to be their default assumption. So they acted their parts, even in private. The first night in the room's bed was uncomfortable in the extreme for Chekhov. It wasn't that he was in bed with an attractive woman—she had gone through handsome in her changes and was now close to beautiful—who was essentially a stranger. It was just that he kept remembering what she was.

When she got in bed and turned over to give him a very old-married-couple-like good-night kiss, it was all he could do to return it with a feeble "Good night, dear." She smirked; she had him pegged, and he could feel himself blush.

They spent the following day seeing what sights there were to see in the city, touring the university, and generally acting their parts. If they aroused anyone's suspicions, it was not apparent.

Flynn and the other two spent that night sharing a cold, fireless camp. They were in farm country, just outside the city. The clouds had fled, and the little moon that was now diving toward the horizon gave faint light to gentle rolling fields, black-green in the near-darkness. Hedgerows two meters wide made a crazy quilt of the fields. A thin fog hugged the ground, meandering slowly as it was pushed by occasional little breaths of air. To the north, was University City's sullen glow.

The camp was at the intersection of two hedgerows. Instead of the brambles and tall grass that was in the rows, here was a little copse of Terran-adapted trees, birches and maples. They didn't dare start a fire or make a light. Flynn hoped the trees' leaves would break up their heat signature for any overhead watchers, or that they would be taken for vagrants.

Late that night, O'Connor awoke in the chill damp air to find the sleeping bag to her right empty. Concerned, she looked to her left, only to see LaRue, sitting up and looking back at her thoughtfully.

"You're awake," she said. "Where's Flynn?"

"Dunno," he replied. "I heard him unzip his bag, but by the time I turned over, he was gone."

"He'll be back," she said.

"Yeah, sure." He didn't sound that convinced.

"Why are you staring at me?"

"Could be I just think you're one good-looking woman."

She sniffed. "Yeah? You and I both know you're gay."

He grinned. "Got me there. I didn't think you knew me that well."

"Johi."

"Oh. Damned bisexual," he said, not without affection. He sobered quickly. "What I'm trying to figure out is why you're here at all. You must hate that bastard."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Well," he continued, defensive, "he beat the hell out me, humiliated me—you expect me to love the guy?"