Bread. They were buried in bread, not pillows. It was dark, encapsulated in the mound, but the aroma was pleasantly a doughy smell.
Emick felt the air leave his lungs, though there was too much pressure on his abdomen to draw in more. He was suffocating and could do little about it. He attempted to move his limbs. Legs were too heavy and arms too, but he could swivel his hands at the wrist. Maybe he could pushed enough of the bread from one side of the mountain off so the rest rolled down.
He quickly worked, pushing with his hands—his lungs beginning to burn—when he realized he still held the prying stick in his right hand. Hurriedly, Emick swung the tool to dislocate more bread, maybe anchor it on the floor to bring himself out of the hill of bread.
The pull on the prying stick was so great, Emick nearly released his grip until he realized what was happening. Gripping the rod as tightly as possible with one hand, Emick rode the pull out of the doughy prison.
He came up choking and gasping, a pair of men standing in front of him with less than happy expressions. They were both muscular, as though built for a life of boxing, though one was shorter and fatter. The tall one opened his mouth, probably to scold Emick, when he broke into a panic attack, his heart instantly racing. “Where’s Cordina?”
“Don’t worry,” Her voice called from the opposite side of the bread mound, “I’m right here.”
As Emick made to go to Cordina, a meaty hand grabbed each of his arms between the shoulder and elbow. “Take him to the cap’, mate.” His accent gave him away as Sharnu’d, not uncommon since this flight went back and forth from there.
Emick didn’t resist, but the trip was still very unpleasant, as his captor seemed intent on dragging him, though he offered to walk. He was not permitted to, because “as a captive, the first thing you’d try to do is reason with your guard to release his grip on you, then you bolt. You think I’m stupid.”
Emick tried to explain that he had no intention of escaping, but that changed nothing. So he did his best to relax while being dragged through the metal corridors of the ship he’d grown so fond of. Though he’d also grown fond of Captain Xelo, which might have also been a mistake. What honorable captain would taint his reputation by smuggling goods—bread or not?
At long last, Emick was set down on a chair in the captain’s office, Cordina forcefully taking the adjacent seat. The walls were adorned with a variety of commemorations. Medals of valor, courage, and honor. Plaques of the same, as well as years of service in the military and of cruise ship captaining.
“Tell me,” Emick started, “Why would an honored captain like yourself spoil your image by smuggling? What could possibly be so valuable?”
Captain Xelo stood with his back to the pair of them, clothed in his usual green flight service uniform, a matching hat covering his short black and violet hair. “This ship. My family. My crew. Take your pick. Everything I care about is caught in the balance of this delivery.”
Emick stopped. “…And why is that?”
Captain Xelo turned to him, face hard, but gracious, “A Pact Warden came to me a week ago with business. He said to fill this entire ship with food and transport it to Sharnu’d, where he’d have a recipient waiting. We had to purchase the food ourselves, along with all the transportation. Said everything had to be secret, lest ‘he’ finds out.”
Confusion showed in Emick’s eyes, “Why would a Warden do this? Who was it?”
Xelo glanced to his desk, then the wall, as though trying to shrug the questions off, though he responded, “It was Anaran. Claimed he wanted to change from his previously murderous ways. Then he threatened to kill me, my crew, and my family if I refused. That man’s insane, but his threats can be taken as promises.”
