The Operative (A Star Trek novel)

Chapter Twenty

Kirk hunches his shoulders and bends over his bacon and eggs as the door bangs open. A security man swaggers in, all epaulets and spit-shined shoes.

A dingy billed cap shadows Kirk's face. Beside him, Spock looks strangely in place in his turban and loose clothing, both stolen from a clothesline last night; there are a lot of Sikhs at Athena University. With some cheap instant tan from a store to hide his green complexion, he blends in surprisingly well. McCoy, at Kirk's other elbow, is equally inconspicuous in a vaguely disreputable tweed jacket from a closet too close to an open window, a retro professorial style recently gaining popularity in parts of the Federation.

The security man is baby-faced, yet tough-looking, like an infant trying to out-bluster a playmate for a favorite toy. But his body is large, and his hand never strays far from his sidearm. The door opens again, and his partner enters. She is a young woman with centimeter-long hair standing on end, a serious frown, and hard eyes. She stands with her back to the door, watching everyone, while the man swaggers down the diner's counter.

The first man he comes to looks up and smiles nervously. The cop growls "Whadya lookin' at?" and glares at him until he huddles back over his food. He comes to Spock and stops.

"What kind of get-up is that?" he sneers. "Where you from, boy?"

Spock looks like anything but a "boy". Nevertheless, he does his best to look polite and startled. "New Bombay, sir," he says, in a lilting accent that Kirk thinks would probably offend an actual Indian. Probably good enough for the guard, though. He hopes. "Here to study particle physics."

If the cop was hoping to detect falsehood in his eyes by sheer strength of will and fierce glare, he is disappointed by the Vulcan's poise. Kirk just hopes that the turban doesn't slip. Though there are many Vulcans on the planet, there are probably few that match the description undoubtedly obtained when the transporter guards woke up last night.

And fewer still wearing fake Sikh clothing and instant tan.

He moves on to Kirk.

"You. Yeah, you, Mac." He nudges Kirk. "Look around here."

Kirk turns slowly, trying to act frightened. He is simultaneously calculating angles. He could easily grab the man's pistol, kill him or at least put him out of action with a blow to the neck as he gets to his feet. But the guard by the door looks anything but inattentive. Or he could try to get the phaser from his own belt, but even if he is successful, it will be as good as a dropping a calling card for the next security team on the scene.

"Where do you live?"

"At the flophouse, I mean, the boarding house up the street," he says, hoping the guard won't think to call and check.

"How long?"

"How long what?" he says, trying to think of a good answer.

"How long you been here, idiot?"

"A week," he says sullenly.

"Strange," the cop says, moving his hand closer to his pistol. "The old lady up there says all her boarders checked in in the last couple of days."

Kirk can sense the others in the diner looking at them. The waiter has ceased even pretending to be busy, and the owner has been drying her hands so long they must be getting raw by now.

"Look here, son," McCoy says to the guard. "I don't know who you are or what gives you the right to come in here and hassle people, but I have seen this man around for well over a week. This is the first morning I've eaten here on my way to work, but I've seen him in other restaurants around here. Now why don't you leave him alone?"