Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of the hold’s far hatch cycling open. The trio turned to see two men, humans, enter the chamber, each carrying a disruptor rifle which he wasted no time aiming on the hostages.
“Here we go,” Pennington whispered, feeling his pulse beginning to race and a knot forming in his gut. They were going to die here, of that he was certain. While the idea of death frightened him, that sense of dread also was highlighted by the disillusionment at knowing he would meet his end in this fetid sewer of a cargo hold, cut down while in the company of such unsavory characters as Cervantes Quinn and the ever-irritating Sarkud Armnoj.
Fate, you surely are a cruel bastard.
The two new arrivals stepped to either side of the open door, keeping their weapons at the ready as another man stepped into the room. He was burly and scruffy, with greasy brown hair that hung past his broad shoulders and a round, chubby face sporting several days’ worth of beard stubble. A long dark coat hung over his large frame, partially concealing what Pennington recognized as a gun belt with a holster strapped to the man’s right hip. All that was missing, the journalist decided, was an eye patch in order to complete the illusion that the man indeed was a pirate.
“Looks like our luck’s changing for the better,” Quinn said.
Pennington cast a hopeful glance at the pilot. “Really?”
“No.”
The third man, obviously in charge, strode across the cargo hold, offering a smile wide enough that Pennington could see the uneven rows of dull, discolored teeth. “Quinn,” the man said, “good to see you again.” His voice was low and rough, sounding as though he was talking around a mouthful of rocks.
“Broon,” Quinn said by way of greeting. “I’ll be damned.”
Still smiling, Broon asked, “Surprised to see me?”
“Flabbergasted is more like it. How does somebody who can’t find his own ass with a star chart and a flashlight manage to track me down in the middle of nowhere?”
The pirate’s smile faded. “I’d watch that mouth of yours, Quinn. You don’t have any snipers to bail you out this time.”
“You two know each other?” Pennington asked, looking once more over to Quinn.
The pilot nodded. “That’s one way of putting it. We’ve run into each other a time or two in the past.”
“You cost me a lot of money the last time our paths crossed,” Broon said. “Now, one has to wonder about that Klingon probe we found aboard your ship. Are you in the espionage business now, Quinn?”
“Yeah, because I’m prime spy material,” the pilot replied. He shrugged, and Pennington could tell he was trying to affect an air of someone in control of the current situation. “Some of its internal components are worth big money on the black market. I was trying to score some fast cash.”
“Good to know,” Broon replied. “I’ll be happy to add that to the bill you owe me.” He pointed to Armnoj. “But I’m really here for you. Ganz wants you, and the faster I get you there, the bigger my fee.”
“I already have an abductor,” the Zakdorn countered with measured disdain.
“Your fee?” Quinn asked, aghast. “What the hell are you talking about?” He took a step forward, a move that engendered the immediately refocused attention of Broon’s two thugs and their nasty-looking disruptor rifles. Fear gripped Pennington and he felt his heart trying to beat its way through his chest in anticipation of seeing the pilot gunned down before his eyes.
Broon said, “All I know is what was communicated to me when I took the job. That sneaky enforcer bastard of Ganz’s, Zett, contacted me, told me where to go, who to get, what to bring back, and when to get it there. He didn’t say anything about running into you.” He smiled once more. “Guess he figured I’d appreciate the surprise.”
“That son of a bitch,” Quinn said.
“What?” Pennington asked.
Ignoring the question, Quinn pointed to the pirate. “Broon, he set me up. Hell, he set us both up, if you think about it.”
“What are you talking about?” Broon asked, a heavy crease forming over his brow.
“You can’t kill me,” Quinn replied. “If Ganz wanted me dead, he’d have taken care of it weeks ago. He needs me alive because I do favors for him.” He hooked a thumb in Armnoj’s direction. “Like going to pick up this idiot.”
Broon shook his head. “That’s a pretty weak lie, even coming from you. Sorry to disappoint you, but Zett paid half my fee up front. I get the other half as soon as I plop the accountant down in front of Ganz, with a bonus for each hour I get him there ahead of schedule.”
“What about us?” Pennington asked.
“No instructions,” Broon replied as he nodded toward Quinn, “except to say that he didn’t want to see them on the station or Ganz’s ship ever again.” Regarding the journalist, the pirate shrugged. “Didn’t mention you, though. Guess you’re a bonus, too,” he said, his malevolent smile returning.
Wonderful,Pennington thought.
“You’re not taking me anywhere.”
The comment, loud and forceful, surprised everyone, coming from Armnoj as it had. The Zakdorn seemed to have grown a few centimeters in height, his back ramrod straight as he glowered at Broon with his dark, narrowed eyes.
“What did you say?” the pirate asked.
Armnoj shook his head. “I said I’m not going with you. The only way I’m of any value to you is if I bring my accounting records to Mr. Ganz.”
“Considering we have those,” Broon replied, “I don’t see this as an issue.”
“That’s why you’re a fool,” the accountant said, his voice rising in volume and pitch with each word. “Those files are encoded with a multi-quad encryption algorithm capable of thwarting any attempt at unauthorized access. I designed the software myself, including…”
“Shut up!” Quinn said, an action that earned him disbelieving stares from Pennington as well as everyone else in the room. Glowering at Armnoj, he added, “Do you wanthim to kill us? Who cares about all of that?”
The Zakdorn matched the stare with a scathing one of his own. “You should, for one,” he said before returning his attention to Broon. “As should you. Part of the security measures for my files is a mechanism designed to erase them from the portable computer in my briefcase unless I enter the correct response to one of two hundred password prompts, which it selects at random every one hundred and eight minutes.”
His expression darkening as he absorbed the implications of this new development, Broon growled in growing annoyance. “You’re bluffing.”
“We’ll find out,” Armnoj replied as he consulted a chronometer he wore on his left wrist, “in forty minutes and thirty-seven seconds.”
Pennington imagined he almost could see the wheels turning behind Broon’s eyes as the man tried to think his way out of the quandary the accountant had presented him. There was only one way to deal with such an ultimatum, of course, and the journalist felt his stomach tightening up as his mind began to lay out new imagery to support that notion.
“Go get the briefcase,” Broon said to the thug standing to his right, “and get Divad up here. She can probably crack the encryption on that thing with her eyes closed.”
Armnoj sniffed the air haughtily. “I’m the only one who can countermand the protective measures. It’s tamper-resistant and will delete everything if anyone tries to defeat the locks.”
Releasing a low growl from the back of his throat, Broon fixed the Zakdorn with a look that Pennington believed capable of re-crystallizing dilithium. “Mr. Armnoj, you can either fix it so those files are safe now, or you can spend the next forty minutes wishing you had. However, I’m betting it won’t take that long to get you to change your mind.”
“He’s no good to you dead,” Quinn said. Pennington noted the slight trembling in the other man’s voice even though he attempted to present a brave façade.