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.