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.”