Then Pennington heard another pulse of energy and saw the blast hit Broon in the chest. The outlaw convulsed as the disruptor bolt washed over him before he fell limp to the deck, disappearing from sight behind the storage cylinders.
Thank God. Pennington breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that all of the potential threats inside the cargo bay appeared to have been neutralized.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Quinn said as he made his way, somewhat slowly and in what Pennington realized was a marginal amount of pain, across the room to where Broon’s prone form lay prostrate on the deck. “No telling how many more goons he’s got aboard.” As the reporter watched, Quinn knelt down next to the unconscious pirate and delved through the pockets of his jacket. It took him only a moment to retrieve what he had been seeking: the data core from the Klingon sensor drone.
“What are we supposed to do now?” Armnoj asked, his eyes wide with fear. He appeared even to be trembling, still gripped by the intensity of the past few minutes.
Quinn shrugged. “Get the hell out of here,” he said as he tucked the data core into his jacket pocket. Moving to a row of lockers lined up along a nearby bulkhead, he began rummaging through the different storage compartments.
“Won’t Broon’s men have something to say about that?” Pennington asked.
“Probably.” Reaching into one of the lockers, Quinn extracted what appeared to be a civilian model of tricorder. “Would you rather stay?” he asked, turning to regard Pennington as he headed for the door.
The reporter shook his head. “Lead the way, mate.”
Broon employed at least two more men, both of whom were waiting as Quinn led Pennington and Armnoj to the cargo bay holding the Rocinante.
The first shot came as Quinn stepped through the hatch leading into the bay, striking the wall to his left. It was followed by another shot of equally poor aim that tore into the deck in front of him. Pennington followed the trajectory of the energy pulse up to see one of Broon’s thugs crouching atop a catwalk and aiming a disruptor rifle in their direction.
“Up high!” Pennington shouted, raising his weapon to fire at the would-be sniper. Though he missed, the man scrambled from his perch in search of cover.
From where he knelt near a tool locker, Quinn motioned for Pennington to keep moving. “Get that idiot to the ship!” he shouted before firing toward the first shooter, driving the assailant deeper into the cargo bay.
The decrepit starhopper never had looked as good to Pennington as it did at that moment. Grabbing Armnoj by the arm, Pennington propelled him in the direction of the boarding ramp leading into the Rocinante’s cargo hold. Disruptor fire flashed around him, coming from two different directions, though thankfully Broon’s crew seemed to view marksmanship with the same importance they did sanitation and hygiene.
Reaching the bottom of the ramp, Pennington pushed Armnoj ahead of him, only to have the Zakdorn stop so suddenly that the reporter nearly ran into him. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”
Then the shadow fell across the ramp and Pennington looked up to see another of Broon’s men standing at the entrance to the ship, disruptor pistol in hand. Armnoj emitted another cry of panic, attempting to backpedal away from the new threat. The thug at the top of the ramp brought his weapon up, sighting down the barrel toward the Zakdorn.
Pennington was faster, aiming his disruptor and firing. The energy burst struck the man in the gut, throwing him against the open hatch before he fell to the deck.
“Get inside!” Pennington shouted, pushing Armnoj up the ramp. He turned at the sound of approaching footsteps and saw Quinn running with a limp across the open deck of the cargo bay toward a freestanding control console. Taking a few seconds to study the bank of switches and status indicators, Quinn punched several buttons. An instant later, a warbling alarm began to sound, echoing the length of the hold.
“What are you doing?” Pennington shouted to be heard above the siren.
Quinn took a step backward before aiming his disruptor at the console and firing. Bristling orange energy tore into the control station, obliterating it. Leaving behind his handiwork, he turned and headed for the ramp.
“Time to go,” the pilot said between ragged breaths as he scrambled up the ramp, grunting with the exertion. “I started the depressurization sequence and keyed the hatch. It should be open in a minute or so.”
For the first time since their escape had begun, Pennington saw the extent of Quinn’s injuries from the beating he had suffered. He was favoring the ribs on his right side, and he was sporting a large discolored bruise on his right cheek. A nasty bruise over his left eye already was beginning to swell, and dried blood stuck to skin and hair on the left side of his head.
“Are you all right?” Pennington asked.
“I’ll live,” Quinn said. He nodded toward Broon’s unconscious goon. “Get rid of him, and watch the ramp.” As Pennington enlisted Armnoj’s assistance to remove the fallen man from the ship, Quinn busied himself with the Klingon sensor drone, which still lay on the floor of the Rocinante’s cargo hold. He pulled the tricorder taken from the other cargo hold and activated it, running it over the inert probe.
“What are you doing?” Armnoj asked, his voice now reaching a level of nasally buzzing that Pennington was sure might be useful as a weapon to ward off wolves.
“Shut up,” Quinn said.
From where he stood near the top of the boarding ramp, Pennington glanced over his shoulder to see Quinn making adjustments to the tricorder. The device emitted a series of beeps and tones that seemed to satisfy him, and the pilot reached into the opening he earlier had cut into the hull probe’s hull plating.
“Now what?” Pennington asked.
“Calling for help,” Quinn replied. Rising to his feet, he lurched his way over to a nearby storage locker and flung open its door. From inside he extracted a portable antigravity maneuvering unit, which he quickly attached to the side of the sensor drone.
An energy burst struck the left support strut for the landing ramp and Pennington ducked away from the hatch. “Well, hurry the hell up about it!”
Using the antigrav unit to move the sensor probe toward the hatch, Quinn gave the weight-neutralized drone a kick that sent it down the boarding ramp before slapping the control pad next to the door. “That ought to piss some people off,” he muttered as he stumbled his way toward the Rocinante’s cockpit.
“Are you going to explain what that was about?” Armnoj asked as he followed after the pilot.
“Sit down and stay quiet,” Quinn growled, “or I’ll kick your ass down the ramp, too.” He pushed the accountant into his customary jump seat just outside the cockpit before proceeding on to his seat, his hands moving across the helm console as he went through the startup sequence to bring the ship’s engines to life.
Dropping into the copilot’s chair, Pennington stared through the cockpit canopy at the cargo hold outside the ship. He saw the two thugs who had been shooting at them running for the bay’s exit, trying to get out ahead of the depressurization currently laying claim to the atmosphere inside the chamber.
The rumble of the Rocinante’s engines shook the deck beneath Pennington’s feet as Quinn continued the power-up sequence. “Get us out of here, Quinn, before they override the door.”
“Working on it, newsboy,” Quinn replied without looking away from the helm console. He tapped the controls for the ship’s maneuvering thrusters and Pennington felt the ship lurch, rotating to its right as it lifted from the deck of the cargo bay. He saw the bulkhead in front of the ship slide past as the starhopper maneuvered toward the hold’s massive space doors, which Pennington was relieved to see beginning to cycle open. Quinn nudged the thrusters a bit more and the Rocinantejumped forward. “Here we go.”