“ That is your weakness,”Kutal replied, “ not mine. The chancellor requires updates and progress. Either you can instill that motivation to those petulant glob flies, or I will.”
“I will see to it, Captain.” With that, Morqla severed the connection before tossing the communicator to K’voq. “That petaQwould not make a boil on a flatulent targ’s rump.” As he turned to head back into his office, he cast one final observation to his aide. “Find Dr. Terath and bring her to me. It seems more and more people are becoming interested in our little out-of-the-way planet.”
21
Quinn was snoring. Again.
Pennington glared sideways at the disheveled privateer who sat slumped in his pilot’s chair, dozing and oblivious of the stink of stale sweat and distilled, recycled air permeating the Rocinante’s cockpit as he slept off his latest drunk. Of course, Pennington realized, it could be argued that this was in fact an extension of the same continuous state of intoxication the hapless rogue had seemingly fostered throughout the last several decades of his life.
After three days aboard Quinn’s cramped and none-too-pleasant refuse scow of a ship while en route to Yerad III, Pennington’s exasperation with the vessel’s messy interior had all but reached its limit. Though he had made an attempt to tidy up, as a way of passing the time as much as anything, he soon had surrendered to the unalterable, unkempt reality that was the Rocinante.
The small galley at the rear of the passenger compartment boasted stains and particles from sources that might have once been intended for human consumption. Nothing short of sandblasting—or perhaps a photon torpedo—would likely prove effective at cleaning the place now. The “sleeping quarters” consisted of a pair of hammocks, one for himself and one for Quinn, fashioned from sections of woven cargo netting. While the lavatory had given him cause for concern, the shower area was reasonably sanitary, though Pennington figured that owed to Quinn’s evident disinterest in using it.
Charming,Pennington had thought upon getting his first look at the accommodations.
If there was any consolation to be had during this journey, the journalist decided that it came from its lack of interruption by representatives of the Klingon Empire or the Tholian Assembly—or the Federation, for that matter. Despite several long-range sensor contacts detecting ships from all three parties, the Rocinantehad managed so far to avoid attracting unwanted attention. How that even was possible was a mystery to Pennington, particularly considering the ability of the starhopper’s pilot, or apparent lack of same.
As though offering a blatant show of reinforcement to his assessment, Quinn remained as he had been during the bulk of the past three days: sleeping. His jaw slack as his stubbled chin rested against his chest, a line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth, extending to the edge of his collar and quivering like a violin string every time Quinn drew a tortured, snore-racked breath.
Grimy bastard.
Any remaining nerves Pennington might still possess after seventy-two hours spent with the near comatose trader fled as an indicator tone echoed through the cramped cockpit. Startled by the abrupt alarm, he leaned forward in his chair to examine the rows of dials, gauges, and digital readouts cluttering the helm console.
“Finally!” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. At long last, they were about to set down somewhere, anywhere. Fresh air, chilled spirits, and perhaps something to eat that did not come from a ration pack awaited. Turning to the slumbering Quinn, Pennington kicked the pilot’s seat. “Get up, dammit.”
Quinn roused with a startled snort, coughing and hacking as he wiped spittle from his mouth. Looking about the cockpit with eyes still dulled from sleep, he turned to Pennington.
“What the hell was thatfor?”
“We’re about to drop out of warp,” Pennington said, shaking his head. “While I have serious doubt as to your ability to set us down in one piece, I trust you marginally more than I do this bucket’s automatic pilot.”
“Huh,” Quinn said as he straightened in his seat, wiping sleep from his eyes. “I’ve got an autopilot?” Pennington sneered as the privateer offered a sloppy smirk.
Guess that’s his idea of a joke.
His attention focused on the console before him, Quinn said, “This’ll be no big deal, you know. We’ll be in and out. The guy knows we’re coming to get him.”
The words offered no assurance to Pennington whatsoever. “Does he know we’re coming today?”
Looking up in response to the question, Quinn cocked his head as if lost in thought. “Huh,” he said. “Damn if I know.”
“Oh, that’s just bleeding fantastic,”Pennington said. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
Quinn shrugged. “With me, it’s hard to tell.” An indicator light flashed on the helm console and he pointed to it. “Here we go. Dropping to impulse.”
His fingers moved over several of the smudged controls and Pennington felt a shudder run through the Rocinante’s hull. Beyond the cockpit’s transparent canopy, blue-red streaks shrank to distant points of light as the ship emerged from subspace.
Dropping into or out of warp so close to a planet was supposed to be dangerous, according to what little Pennington had read or heard on the subject, though Quinn certainly seemed comfortable with the notion. No doubt he had experienced many occasions where such a maneuver was necessary. Pennington had no time to ask, as the first thing he saw was the green-brown sphere of Yerad III looming ahead of them. Then a shadow fell across the cockpit and Pennington lurched back in his seat as he found himself staring at the underside of a Rigelian merchant freighter.
“Holy hell!” he shouted, his fingers digging into his chair’s armrests.
“Relax,” Quinn snapped, his hands dancing across his console, and Pennington sensed inertial dampeners kicking in as the Rocinanteangled down and away from the other ship, aiming for the atmosphere of Yerad III. “I’ve got everything under control.”
Pennington’s entire body still shook along with the ship as he glared at the scruffy pilot. “Sometimes, I really hate you.”
“Yeah?” Quinn asked as the trembling finally began to subside. “Feel free to catch a ride home with the next guy.”
Grunting in irritation, Pennington said nothing more as the Rocinantesliced through the skies of Yerad III. A check of the ship’s rudimentary scanners told him that the area of the planet over which they were flying was devoid of any cities, settlements, or other indications of civilization. He knew nothing about the planet—or the Yerad system at all, in fact—an admission that put him ill at ease. As a reporter, he prided himself on being well informed when going anywhere or meeting anyone, but he was ignorant of just about anything pertaining to this remote rock at the hind end of space. For the sake of his slowly returning professional pride, Pennington rationalized his situation as understandable, given the lack of notice he had about their destination combined with the Rocinante’s all-but-useless library computer.
Figures I have to be stuck aboard the one ship in the Taurus Reach that’s even dumber than its pilot.