Charming,Pennington had thought upon getting his first look at the accommodations.

If there was any consolation to be had during this journey, the journalist decided that it came from its lack of interruption by representatives of the Klingon Empire or the Tholian Assembly—or the Federation, for that matter. Despite several long-range sensor contacts detecting ships from all three parties, the Rocinantehad managed so far to avoid attracting unwanted attention. How that even was possible was a mystery to Pennington, particularly considering the ability of the starhopper’s pilot, or apparent lack of same.

As though offering a blatant show of reinforcement to his assessment, Quinn remained as he had been during the bulk of the past three days: sleeping. His jaw slack as his stubbled chin rested against his chest, a line of drool ran from the corner of his mouth, extending to the edge of his collar and quivering like a violin string every time Quinn drew a tortured, snore-racked breath.

Grimy bastard.

Any remaining nerves Pennington might still possess after seventy-two hours spent with the near comatose trader fled as an indicator tone echoed through the cramped cockpit. Startled by the abrupt alarm, he leaned forward in his chair to examine the rows of dials, gauges, and digital readouts cluttering the helm console.

“Finally!” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. At long last, they were about to set down somewhere, anywhere. Fresh air, chilled spirits, and perhaps something to eat that did not come from a ration pack awaited. Turning to the slumbering Quinn, Pennington kicked the pilot’s seat. “Get up, dammit.”

Quinn roused with a startled snort, coughing and hacking as he wiped spittle from his mouth. Looking about the cockpit with eyes still dulled from sleep, he turned to Pennington.

“What the hell was thatfor?”

“We’re about to drop out of warp,” Pennington said, shaking his head. “While I have serious doubt as to your ability to set us down in one piece, I trust you marginally more than I do this bucket’s automatic pilot.”

“Huh,” Quinn said as he straightened in his seat, wiping sleep from his eyes. “I’ve got an autopilot?” Pennington sneered as the privateer offered a sloppy smirk.

Guess that’s his idea of a joke.

His attention focused on the console before him, Quinn said, “This’ll be no big deal, you know. We’ll be in and out. The guy knows we’re coming to get him.”

The words offered no assurance to Pennington whatsoever. “Does he know we’re coming today?”

Looking up in response to the question, Quinn cocked his head as if lost in thought. “Huh,” he said. “Damn if I know.”

“Oh, that’s just bleeding fantastic,”Pennington said. “Is that supposed to be funny?”

Quinn shrugged. “With me, it’s hard to tell.” An indicator light flashed on the helm console and he pointed to it. “Here we go. Dropping to impulse.”

His fingers moved over several of the smudged controls and Pennington felt a shudder run through the Rocinante’s hull. Beyond the cockpit’s transparent canopy, blue-red streaks shrank to distant points of light as the ship emerged from subspace.

Dropping into or out of warp so close to a planet was supposed to be dangerous, according to what little Pennington had read or heard on the subject, though Quinn certainly seemed comfortable with the notion. No doubt he had experienced many occasions where such a maneuver was necessary. Pennington had no time to ask, as the first thing he saw was the green-brown sphere of Yerad III looming ahead of them. Then a shadow fell across the cockpit and Pennington lurched back in his seat as he found himself staring at the underside of a Rigelian merchant freighter.

“Holy hell!” he shouted, his fingers digging into his chair’s armrests.

“Relax,” Quinn snapped, his hands dancing across his console, and Pennington sensed inertial dampeners kicking in as the Rocinanteangled down and away from the other ship, aiming for the atmosphere of Yerad III. “I’ve got everything under control.”

Pennington’s entire body still shook along with the ship as he glared at the scruffy pilot. “Sometimes, I really hate you.”

“Yeah?” Quinn asked as the trembling finally began to subside. “Feel free to catch a ride home with the next guy.”

Grunting in irritation, Pennington said nothing more as the Rocinantesliced through the skies of Yerad III. A check of the ship’s rudimentary scanners told him that the area of the planet over which they were flying was devoid of any cities, settlements, or other indications of civilization. He knew nothing about the planet—or the Yerad system at all, in fact—an admission that put him ill at ease. As a reporter, he prided himself on being well informed when going anywhere or meeting anyone, but he was ignorant of just about anything pertaining to this remote rock at the hind end of space. For the sake of his slowly returning professional pride, Pennington rationalized his situation as understandable, given the lack of notice he had about their destination combined with the Rocinante’s all-but-useless library computer.

Figures I have to be stuck aboard the one ship in the Taurus Reach that’s even dumber than its pilot.

“Just leave the talking to me, okay?”

Pennington shrugged in response to Quinn’s request as the pair made their way up a stone walkway leading from the busy market street toward an area of calm and serenity. An immaculately groomed lawn, replete with trees, shrubbery, and several small gardens teeming with exotic plants and flowers, surrounded what the journalist saw as an unassuming home. The quaint, one-level, unpainted prefab structure reminded Pennington of the houses built by the dozens on flourishing colony worlds throughout the Federation. Rustic, peaceful, and isolated, the place struck him as downright pleasant to behold.

Stepping onto the house’s porch and approaching the heavy wooden door that was adorned only with a large brass knocker and a small circle which Pennington recognized as a peephole, Quinn wasted no time shattering the courtyard’s tranquillity. “Hey!” he yelled as he pounded on the door with his fist. “Sakud Armnoj? You home? Hellooooo?”

“No need to shout, you know,” Pennington said, his hands in his pockets as he moved to stand beside the pilot.

From behind the door, a nasally, whiny voice called out, “You don’t have to shout. And thanks for using the knocker. Moron.” Pennington noted a flash of light through the peephole, realizing that they were being watched by whoever was inside the house. “Oh, pardon me. Morons,”the voice amended.

“Just open up,” Quinn said, putting his hands on his hips. “My name’s Quinn. Ganz sent me to get you and take you to him.”

“How do I know you’re not lying?” the voice asked. “You could be trying to kill me for all I know.”

“Assassins don’t announce themselves by banging on your door, you wanker,” Pennington snapped, earning him an appreciative glance from Quinn. “Now open the bloody door.”

There was a pause before Pennington heard the occupant disengage a series of bolts and locks—enough to sound as though a prison cell were being opened—before the door swung aside to reveal a Zakdorn dressed in what appeared to be a geisha’s robe and thong sandals. His pasty complexion was broken only by the series of ridges jutting from his cheeks. What little hair he possessed on the sides of his head was brown and cut close to his scalp. He regarded Quinn and Pennington with black eyes.

“No need to be testy about it,” he said. “One has to be careful around here, after all. You can’t go opening your doors for strangers.”

“Your door’s open now,” Quinn said, his expression deadpan. “We might still be here to kill you.”