Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

31

“Hands on the switch, newsboy,” Quinn said, sounding remarkably sober to Pennington as the pilot maneuvered the Rocinantearound for yet another pass at retrieving their target. “We’re pressed for time, here.”

“Now, whyare we doing this again?” Pennington asked, turning to look at Quinn in the pilot’s seat. Between pinpointing the location of the Klingon sensor drone T’Prynn had tasked the trader with obtaining and cocking up their previous attempts to snare the device, they had been jockeying about the thing for the better part of an hour.

“Because you screwed it up the first two times,” Quinn shot back, his attention focused on his helm console. “So keep your eye on the targeting scanner and quit looking at me.”

Clenching his jaw as he forced down his mounting frustration, Pennington said, “What I meant was, why do we have to bring the bloody thing aboard? Can’t you just scan it for whatever it is you need?” Of course, he knew that given the age and condition of the Rocinante’s sensor suite, they were lucky to be able to scan for entire planets.

“I need to access the hardware directly,” Quinn said through gritted teeth.

“Then why not go out in an envirosuit?” Pennington’s suggestion was an attempt to rankle his traveling companion more than anything else. During the days it had taken to travel from Yerad III to the probe rendezvous point, his efforts to goad Quinn into exasperation or frustrated silence had become his favorite pastime.

“That’s actually an excellent idea,” said Sakud Armnoj from where he sat on a fold-down jump seat situated just aft of the Rocinante’s cramped cockpit, “because you know he’s just going to miss again.”

Oddly, and despite the sadistic fun he himself had been having at Quinn’s expense, Pennington found the fussy Zakdorn’s relentless complaints and bickering—most of it aimed at the pilot—not nearly as amusing. In fact, the accountant’s constant needling annoyed him as much as it did their shared whipping boy.

Maybe we should have brought his snotty beast with us just to shut him up.Thankfully, they had not. After regaining consciousness following his encounter with Quinn’s stun pistol—and after much wailing and complaining as he gathered his accounting files and other materials for Ganz—Armnoj finally had relented and seen to it that his prized pet was placed in the care of a trusted neighbor before the Zakdorn was whisked away to the Rocinante.

Pennington tried to tune out the newest volley of Armnoj’s bleating voice. “If you had a tractor beam on this worthless excuse of a ship instead of an antiquated grappling hook, you’d have been done by now.”

“Stifle your hole before I weld it shut!” Quinn shouted, not even bothering to turn from the helm console.

“As amazing as this sounds,” Pennington said, affecting mock sincerity, “I think I might actually agree with him this time.”

Grunting something unintelligible, the pilot regarded him with a wan smile. “Well, hell, maybe I’ll just stuff you both in the cargo hold for the next week, seeing as how you’re so agreeable and all.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively before returning to the business at hand. “We’re in range,” he said, indicating a status gauge on the helm console which had begun flashing green. “Lock on target.”

“Even if he manages to hit it,” Armnoj said, “the take-up reel will just jam like it did last time, when he missed!”

“Shut up!” Quinn and Pennington yelled in unison.

Maneuvering the grappling hook’s targeting controls with his right hand, Pennington watched as an indicator light turned from dark blue to amber. He felt his finger tighten against the grappler’s firing trigger.

“Hurry, dammit, before we drift too close!” Quinn shouted.

“Almost got it,” Pennington replied, watching the targeting screen as the sights moved to line up with the computer-generated image of the man-sized sensor drone. Then the crosshairs illuminated as bright yellow at the same time the target lock indicator glowed red. “That’s it!”

He uttered the exclamation at the precise instant a pair of maneuvering thrusters on the drone’s hull fired. Pennington pressed the grappler’s firing control, but he was too slow. The drone moved out of the target lock and angled away from the Rocinante,leaving the grappling magnet and its length of flexible duranium cable to sail harmlessly through space.

“Oh, for crying out!” Quinn shouted.

“He missed again,” Armnoj said with no small amount of superior satisfaction. “I knew it.”

Muttering what Pennington recognized as a string of particularly vile Rigelian oaths, Quinn pounded several of the helm controls in a frenetic sequence that Pennington found difficult to follow. “Damn proximity sensors,” he said. In response to his commands, the Rocinantepitched to starboard as Quinn once again set about giving chase after the sensor drone. Rising from his seat, he prompted Pennington to vacate the copilot’s chair by hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re fired. Sit over there and don’t touch anything. I’ve programmed the autopilot to maneuver us to the limit of the grappler’s range. Hopefully that’ll leave enough distance to avoid setting off the drone’s collision avoidance software.”

“Sorry, Quinn,” Pennington said with a measure of sincerity. Glancing toward Armnoj, who was studying them both with his customary air of condescension, he leaned closer to the pilot and asked in a low voice, “You think we’ve been here too long?”

“Dunno,” Quinn replied. “The damn thing’s probably sent some kind of distress call by now. Whether the Klingons actually answer it is another matter. Let’s hope that doesn’t mean it’s already transmitted its sensor logs and purged its data storage core.” He adjusted the grappler’s targeting scanner and set about resetting the device for another attempt.

It took only moments for the Rocinante’s autopiloting system to maneuver the dilapidated Mancharan starhopper into position. Pennington watched as Quinn manipulated the grappler’s controls with ease. The audible signal of the target scanner locking its crosshairs on the drone had only just begun to sound when the pilot pressed the trigger, and Pennington saw on one display monitor the image of the drone as the grappler slammed into the unmanned probe, locking on and holding against the device’s weathered, beaten hull.

“Nice shooting,” Pennington offered with genuine admiration.

Ignoring the compliment, Quinn instead keyed another set of switches on the grappler’s control console. “Now, we bring it into the hold and get this over with,” he said. “That is, assuming its thrusters don’t fire again.”

Pennington frowned, renewed concern edging into his voice. “You think they will?”

“Sure,” Quinn replied, shrugging. Glancing back toward Armnoj and speaking loud enough for the Zakdorn to hear, he added, “It’ll probably drag us into the nearest star, where we’ll blow up real good.”

“ What?”came the shocked reply from just outside the cockpit, evoking a satisfied smile from the pilot.

After locking Armnoj inside the one part of the ship where he was likely to cause the least trouble—the shower stall—Quinn and Pennington made their way to the Rocinante’s hold, where, thanks to Quinn’s skilled marksmanship with the grappler, the now inert Klingon sensor drone lay in the center of the small cargo bay’s dull, scuffed deck.

“Don’t worry,” Quinn said as he paced a circle around the probe. “The grappler’s electromagnets were strong enough to jam any outgoing comm signals. There’s no way it got off any kind of distress signal.”

“If it didn’t send one during our first three tries to nab the bloody thing,” Pennington replied as he scrutinized the drone. Essentially a cylinder lying on the deck, it measured two meters in length, its outer shell a series of rectangular plates. The seams between the hull sections were visible, and he even noted a few that had been creased, breaking their seal. Had the grappler caused that?

“According to T’Prynn,” Quinn said as he walked over to a nearby worktable and retrieved a piece of equipment Pennington did not recognize from a worn leather satchel, “this little gizmo should take care of the hard part.” The device, whatever it was, looked to be slightly larger than a Starfleet-issue tricorder. Rectangular and sporting a silver finish, it possessed a flap that Quinn opened as he walked back to the probe.

“What is it?” Pennington asked.

Quinn replied, “Some kind of scanner thingamabob. If I set it up right, it’ll download the drone’s data, then replace it with some mumbo jumbo T’Prynn made up.” Shrugging, he added, “She explained the basics, but I was nursing a warp-five hangover at the time. The salient details may have eluded me.”

“Fancy that,” Pennington replied, rolling his eyes before returning his attention to the sensor probe. “I wonder what this thing has that T’Prynn wants so badly.” He frowned, remembering what Quinn had told him of the assignment the intelligence officer had given him. “If it works the way you told me, then whatever data it was set to transmit had to have been collected from that system it passed through most recently.” Did the Jinoteur system harbor some value to Starfleet, particularly with regards to the presence of Starbase 47 in the Taurus Reach? Might it have any connection to why the Tholians were so agitated by the Federation’s encroachment into the region?

Is there a connection to what happened to theBombay? To Oriana?

“That’s what she told me,” Quinn replied as he tapped a few controls into the keypad set into the top of the scanner. “I don’t get paid to overthink these things, you know?” The unit began to emit a series of tones, which increased in pitch and intensity as he moved closer to the drone. Kneeling next to the drone, Quinn held the scanner against the burnished metal hull plating, and Pennington heard a metallic click as the unit attached to the probe’s housing. That accomplished, the pilot looked up. “Not sure how long this is supposed to take.”

By way of reply, a surge of blue energy crackled across the scanner’s faceplate. Quinn, one hand still on the unit, was thrown back by the shock to land heavily on the deck. Pennington saw smoke belch from the unit at the same instant its keypad and miniaturized display exploded.

“Quinn!” he shouted as he crossed the deck to the fallen pilot, who already was pulling himself to a sitting position. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Quinn replied, rubbing the back of his head with one hand. Allowing Pennington to help him to his feet, he added, “Damn. I forgot about the built-in anti-tampering system.”

Pennington walked over to the probe, noting the burnedout husk of what only moments ago had been T’Prynn’s mysterious scanner. “Well, it looks like you’ve got another problem here, mate.” He pointed to the ruined device. “As my grandfather used to say, this furshlugginer veeblefetzer’s gone all potrzebie.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Quinn shook his head in evident disgust. “T’Prynn’s going to have my hide.” He nodded toward the sensor probe. “Want to bet it managed to pop off a distress call that time?”

Pennington sighed in exasperation. “We’re nevergoing to make it to Boam II, are we?”

“We are if you let me figure this out,” Quinn slurred, still shaking off the effects of the shock to which he had been subjected. Muttering another string of noteworthy profanities—which Pennington recognized as originating on Argelius—Quinn moved to a storage locker on the cargo bay’s far bulkhead. He returned a moment later carrying a dented toolbox. Setting it down on the deck next to the probe, he removed from it a laser torch and a pair of goggles.

“That ought to make for an undetectable infiltration,” Pennington remarked.

Quinn grunted. “We’re past our deadline for ‘undetectable,’ I think.” Donning the goggles, he activated the laser torch and went to work on what Pennington recognized as the only hull plate along the drone’s exterior which featured an access panel.

What is this idiot doing?Pennington raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the torch as it began to slice through the probe’s thick hide. “How is this helping us?” he shouted over the cutting tool’s dull whine.

“I’m trying to remove the memory core before this thing starts transmitting and wipes it clean,” Quinn replied, his attention focused on his task.

Clearing his throat, Pennington said, “You’re just going to cut it out?”

“Looks that way, huh?” the pilot replied. The air of the cargo bay was now tinged with the smell of heated metal, an aroma Pennington found only slightly less offensive than Quinn himself.

“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.”

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.

“But you are,” Broon replied, offering a renewed smile of satisfaction before motioning toward his men. “Bring the bookworm his briefcase, but before you do that, show these two the way out.”

As the henchmen indicated for Quinn and Pennington to move toward the hatch, Quinn called out, “Come on, Broon! You hate Zett as much as I do. There has to be something you want from me that’ll make this work out for all of us.”

To Pennington’s fading hope, the pirate appeared to consider the notion for a moment before nodding.

“The only thing I want from you,” Broon said, “is to see the look on your face when I blow you out the airlock.” He looked to Pennington, and the journalist watched as the brawny man shrugged. “As for you, what can I say? You should have picked better friends.”

Casting a hateful glare at Quinn, Pennington could only nod in meek agreement. “Bloody story of my life.”