The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Thirty-Two

The bidding has been going on for a while. The Romulan and the Klingon were apparently empowered by their respective governments to conduct such business. It had never occurred to Flynn's superiors that he might have to bargain for the Federation's own property and knowledge; consequently, he was momentarily at a loss for how to proceed.

On the other hand, Kirk's superiors had apparently not been so sure that things would work out to the Federation's advantage. He entered into the bargaining as smoothly as if he had been haggling with a merchant for a particularly nice shirt.

Or maybe he wasn't given authority to bargain, Flynn thinks, hoping that Ocht is not thinking the same thing, or all would surely be lost.

Flynn should have been the one to improvise, he thinks. After all, he is the mission operative. But Kirk is the one instead who took a dangerous risk, hoping, probably, that the Federation would honor his pledges later, knowing that if they did not, or if they did but disapproved, his career would be over.

It stings Flynn more than he cares to admit to himself to watch Kirk. He sees now a vitality, a flexibility there that he missed before. One that he envies.

Without warning, the wall farthest from where Ocht sits explodes into dust with a noise like a pile of bricks falling off a truck. A blizzard of plaster and wood splinters momentarily fill that end of the room, then several figures emerge into view, crouching and holding weapons.

Montenegro, Chekhov, LaRue, and the students have arrived.

The guards are already moving, as are Flynn and Ocht, leaving the others at the table in momentary confusion. Flynn knocks the feet from under one of the guards behind him and kicks him in the face. Another guard tries to punch him, but he ducks, grabs her arm, and throws her across the room. The third hits him in the back hard enough to cause him to briefly wonder if his spine would snap. It doesn't, and he elbows where he thinks the man's sternum is. There is a satisfying crunch, and he feels his elbow sink in several inches. He knows the augment won't die for a few minutes, but it should slow him down.

Meanwhile, Montenegro has engaged an augment herself, and he sees LaRue shoot another with some sort of projectile weapon—the augment stares for a moment down at his bloody chest, then looks back up and starts toward LaRue, murder in his eyes. LaRue brings the weapon up, shoots him in the forehead. That does the trick.

Spock manages to trip another augment as he goes past toward Montenegro, earning himself a brutal punch. Surprisingly, he not only remains standing but delivers a blow that staggers the augment enough for Flynn to deliver a killing blow as he passes by. Then Spock collapses.

Though he applauds the effort, Flynn wishes that Monty had left the other Federation members somewhere else, or that she had just stunned everyone in the room, himself included, and sorted them all out later. As it is, the melee is destined to go against them. Five augments left, six counting Ocht, against two. Not a chance, especially since he and Monty will have to worry about the Federation people getting hurt, and the others won't have any such qualms.

He had hoped to shepherd Kirk and the others out of the way, to get them through the back wall so he and Monty could have a clear field, but the augments have other ideas. He sees one grab Smythe and, with a savage grin of joy, crush his neck. Kirk barely avoids the same fate, and McCoy and Scott have already been thrown against opposite walls, where they lie unconscious or dead. LaRue must have made the mistake of getting too close to an augment since he, too, lies in a boneless slump on the floor. The students are huddled against a wall with several of Ocht's servants, with Chekhov in a protective stance before them, facing the augment Flynn earlier threw across the room. She is laughing at Chekhov's impertinence of even trying to fight. Monty is still sparring with another.