“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.”
32
At some point during the initial period of his formal education—he could not exactly remember when—Ambassador Jetanien received a piece of advice that had remained with him to this day: Whenever you schedule a meeting, ensure you are the last to arrive.
For most of his early career and while his normal duties required him to be at the beck and call of more senior diplomats, Jetanien had disliked that notion. It always had irritated him to be kept waiting by someone else, a vexation for which his tolerance all but evaporated upon earning the title of ambassador. As part of his daily routine aboard Starbase 47, he made it an inviolable directive that all meetings start and end on schedule, and that all participants—himself included—were present at the appointed time. Leadership was best employed if demonstrated by example, after all. To the Chelon, whether tardiness was as a result of laziness, forgetfulness, or arrogance mattered not. Regardless of the cause, he always addressed such lapses as well as the responsible party without mercy. The harshness of his redress increased in direct proportion to the rank and position of the person committing the blunder.
Despite his well-known feelings on the subject, however, Jetanien knew that there were rare occasions when employing such a loathsome tactic had its advantages.
Now, for instance.
Moving with no undue haste toward the conference chambers which were the centerpiece of the offices and other facilities designated for use by the station’s diplomatic contingents, Jetanien glanced toward a chronometer mounted high along one bulkhead near the entrance to the section’s formal dining hall. Its digital display told him that he was arriving slightly less than eleven standard minutes after the summit’s scheduled start time. Just enough of an interval, he surmised, to inform those already seated inside the meeting room just who was running the show today.
A pair of bright red doors marked the entrance to the conference chamber, their vivid hue part of the standard Starfleet color scheme and which Jetanien had forgotten to order replaced with something more soothing. The doors were flanked by a pair of Starfleet security officers, one a human female and the other an Andorian thaan. Both were dressed in red uniform tunics and dark trousers—a practical choice on the part of the woman, he decided—and their sleeves each sported the gold braid denoting their respective ranks of lieutenant. The guards came to attention at his approach, the woman nodding to him as he stepped closer.
“Good morning, Your Excellency. The other parties have been seated and are awaiting your arrival.”
“Of that I am certain, Lieutenant,” Jetanien replied, offering a knowing laugh. The officers apparently understood his meaning, as he noted each attempting to hide their own smiles of approval. “What is it you humans are fond of saying? Let’s get this show on the road.”
The doors parted and he strolled into the room, noting with satisfaction that—as he had requested—both the Klingon and Tholian ambassadors as well as their respective attachés already were at their places on opposite sides of the polished black conference table. The Tholians, of course, being even less suited anatomically to sitting than Jetanien was, eschewed the chairs on their side of the table. At the far end of the room sat his own envoys, Sovik and Akeylah Karumé, flanking the as-yet-unoccupied space at the head of the table. Everyone in the chamber turned at his arrival, their expressions ranging from expectation to confusion and even to utter disdain.