“Not to be a nag,” he said, “but what about the data you’re supposed to replace it with?”
Setting the cutter down next to his feet, Quinn reached into the toolbox and retrieved a palm-sized device featuring a magnetic base. Affixing it to the center of the hull section he had just cut, Quinn pulled the section away, revealing the drone’s interior.
“I’m thinking that plan’s pretty much down the toilet,” the pilot said as he dropped the section of hull plate to the deck, its clatter echoing across the cargo bay. Stepping closer so he could examine the probe’s now-exposed innards, Pennington could see what looked to be a black rectangle, from which protruded a tangled collection of multicolored wires and glowing filaments. He watched as Quinn removed his goggles before pulling a sonic screwdriver from the toolbox and proceeded to disconnect the object from the surrounding wiring.
“There,” he said a moment later as he pulled the device from its mounting. “One data core.”
“Very deft touch you’ve got there, Quinn,” Pennington remarked. “And are you as delicate with the ladies?”
Quinn glowered at him. “Never had any complaints.”
Pennington nodded toward the object in Quinn’s hands. “Is it okay?”
“Yeah,” Quinn replied as he rose from his kneeling position, “the data’s still intact.” Frowning, he added, “At least, I think it is. I’m sure T’Prynn’ll forgive me for screwing up the rest of this little operation.”
Not with the luck we’ve been having,Pennington mused. “Okay, now what?”
“Now,” Quinn said, “we dump this piece of Klingon scrap before someone…”
The rest of his sentence was cut off by the sound of an alarm siren wailing through the cargo bay, bouncing off the bulkheads and driving like a spike directly into Pennington’s skull.
“What the hell is that about?”
Quinn was already running for the corridor. “Sensors,” he yelled over his shoulder. “Something’s heading our way.”
Uh-oh. Pennington felt his heart jump into his throat as he set out after Quinn. It seemed their luck, already questionable to this point, was about to take a further turn for the worse.
Both men ignored the muffled wailings of Armnoj on their way to the cockpit. By the time Pennington got there, Quinn was in his seat, his hands moving over the control console.
“We’re being hailed,” he said as his fingers moved to the communications interface. He tapped a series of switches, and Pennington flinched as a voice boomed through the speakers set into the cockpit’s angled bulkheads.
“ …power down your engines and prepare to be boarded. Surrender your vessel or you will be destroyed.”
“Who is it?” Pennington asked, feeling his pulse beginning to race. Was it the Klingons? He did not think so. According to what he had read, Klingons did not typically take prisoners.
Quinn shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me.” The next instant, the entire ship seemed to shake and rattle around them. The pilot grimaced in realization. “Tractor beam.” Looking up at Pennington, he said, “Well, I’ve got some bad news for you.”
“Bad?” Pennington asked, regarding Quinn with confusion. “You mean, worse than this?”
Quinn nodded. “Yep. Looks like we’re not going to make Boam II after all.”
So far as Pennington was concerned, the room in which he, Quinn, and Armnoj found themselves made the interior of the Rocinanteseem sterile by comparison.
“They don’t have to kill us,” Pennington said as he paced the length of the squalid chamber, which to him resembled a cargo hold not that dissimilar to the one aboard Quinn’s ship. “We stay put long enough, we’ll probably die from exposure to whatever fungus is growing in here.”
The hold, like the other areas of the ship they had seen after Quinn’s vessel was pulled aboard via tractor beam, was filthy. Discarded cargo containers, packing crates, and waste-storage units lay scattered about the room. From the smell permeating the air, Pennington guessed the waste containers were in need of emptying, or cleaning at the least. Dust clung to everything, including a layer coating the deck plates which featured hundreds of footprints—what looked to be human footwear as well as tracks made by species he did not recognize.
“I’m guessing this isn’t a hospital ship,” Quinn said. He sat reclined atop a cargo container, resting with his back against the near bulkhead. “Just a hunch I’ve got, mind you.”
“Pirates,” Armnoj replied from where he stood near the center of the room and in no danger of brushing or rubbing up against any of the hold’s grimy contents. “They run in packs near the Yerad system, and I’ve heard they’re spreading out into the Taurus Reach. There’s nothing to stop them, after all.”
Their hijacking had possessed at least some of the hallmarks associated with piracy, Pennington decided. Within moments of the Rocinante’s becoming trapped in its tractor beam, the attacking vessel had pulled the smaller starhopper into a cargo bay that the journalist had observed was even more cluttered than the room they currently occupied. Rather than risk damage to his ship during what surely would prove to be a futile standoff, Quinn had allowed their assailants to step aboard, just as he had permitted his own capture as well as that of Pennington and Armnoj.
The trio was marched out of the vessel and watched for several minutes as a motley assortment of individuals, dressed in worn and soiled clothing and each armed with at least one disruptor pistol as well as varying numbers and styles of edged weapons, began ransacking Quinn’s ship. Among the first things taken was Armnoj’s attaché, and the Zakdorn had become agitated and even enraged at that sight. Likewise, Quinn’s anxiety level—and Pennington’s, for that matter—ratcheted up several degrees upon seeing the accountant’s briefcase as well as the data core he had retrieved from the sensor drone. He was helpless to watch the scene unfold as those items, as well as an assortment of replacement engine components and various other stuff, were removed from his ship by the pirates. The wholesale looting continued even as the three wayward travelers were marched from the cargo bay and dumped without ceremony into the filthy room they now occupied.
“I don’t get it,” Quinn said after a moment. “Why aren’t we dead?”
“A fortunate oversight, perhaps?” Pennington snapped, every word dripping sarcasm. “I’m sure if you’re feeling cheated, our hosts can bloody well oblige you.”
Quinn offered a dismissive wave. “What I mean is, something’s not right here. Every pirate I ever heard about would just as soon kill the crew of whatever ship they hijack as keep them prisoner. No need to worry about locking them up or keeping an eye on them, that way.”
“Even pirates must operate under some kind of ethics or rules,” Armnoj countered. “Maybe this group chooses to refrain from killing unless no other option presents itself.”
“Well, out here in the real galaxy,” Quinn said as he swung his feet off the cargo crate and toward the floor, “that’s usually more of a guideline than an actual rule. If we’re still alive, it means we’re of some value, at least for the moment.” Frowning, he added, “Problem with that is, I have no damned idea what we have that they might want.” He pointed a finger at Armnoj. “Besides you, that is.”
“Me?” the Zakdorn asked. “The only thing I have of any value is Mr. Ganz’s accounting records.”
The notion made perfect sense to Pennington. “Exactly. No doubt your knowledge of Ganz’s finances makes you an attractive target for his enemies.” He glanced in Quinn’s direction. “I say we trade him for us.”
“I beg your pardon?” Armnoj’s eyes had gone wide in response to Pennington’s suggestion. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“I’d do it in an Arcturian minute,” Quinn replied. “Unfortunately, that leaves me with the prospect of a painful death at the hands of Ganz’s men if I don’t bring you in. I hate you, Armnoj, but I hate the idea of dying more.”