The first shot went wide to his right and the second sailed too far to the left, but his third attempt found its mark, striking the man in the left thigh. He fell to the deck, dropping his disruptor in order to clutch his wounded leg. Pennington fired again, this time hitting the man in the chest. The pirate slumped unconscious to the floor.

“Get Armnoj!” Quinn shouted as he dodged Broon’s disruptor fire, throwing himself behind another cargo container. He fired back toward the pirate’s hiding place, both men now doing their utmost to pin down the other.

Ignoring the firefight unfolding on the other side of the cargo hold, Pennington lurched from his own place of protection across the deck toward Armnoj. The sounds of continued depressurization did not drown out the cries of terror the Zakdorn emitted from where the reporter saw he now cowered beneath the worktable, his briefcase clutched to his chest. With each new disruptor bolt he uttered a fresh shriek and tried to hide even farther under the table.

“Come on!” the reporter shouted, reaching beneath the table and grabbing the accountant’s collar to pull him from his hiding place. Armnoj stumbled to his feet, still clasping his ubiquitous briefcase to his body.

“Get me out of here!” he whined, struggling for breath in the oxygen-depleted air of the cargo hold and grasping Pennington’s free arm as though it were a lifeline.

Pennington grimaced in irritation but could not shake himself free. “Let’s go,” he hissed through gritted teeth, flinching as more disruptor fire echoed through the room. Hugging the wall, Pennington guided Armnoj toward the door leading from the cargo bay. Passing the airlock, he reached out to hit the control panel, halting the depressurization and beginning the process of restoring the atmosphere to the air-depleted room. The action served an additional purpose, as he knew the hatch leading to the corridor would not open so long as there was a threat of compromising the rest of the ship’s atmosphere.

Another disruptor bolt hit the wall in front of him and Pennington recoiled, feeling the heat from the energy blast as he fell backward. More disruptor fire illuminated the cargo hold and he looked for its source to see Broon ducking behind a trio of storage drums. Pennington fired in that direction, hoping to make the pirate keep his head down.

“Move, damn you!” he shouted, his lungs aching as he shoved Armnoj in the direction of the door. To his right he saw Broon sticking his head up from behind one of the storage drums, realizing too late as he stared at the barrel of the brigand’s disruptor pistol that the bastard now had him dead to rights. The son of a bitch even was smiling.

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.