Emerald Flight: “Human Factors” (continued)

Still half-crouched, he listened, waiting to hear whether someone had heard him—had heard the object clattering across the ground. He heard nothing other than for the faint wind and the occasional creaking of the pillars that surrounded him. Carefully, quietly, he settled back once again to wait.

They will come for me, he warned himself. They always come for me.

Shrouded by the darkness, he tried to will his mind to silence. The weary part of it urged him to rest, to sleep. The rest of it still buzzed with activity, continuing to flash images and memories at the every edges of his awareness. He wanted to grasp them, to understand them. He wanted them to stop.

A echoed sound like distant thunder brought him to full alertness, banishing any sensation of fatigue. The rest of his mind buzzed incessantly now, attempting to pour information into him. But it was information that defied understanding, knowledge that had no basis in reason.

He heard the sound again. It was not thunder, but he knew that thunder was impossible here within the cave. How he knew that, he did not know. It came again, and then again, almost in a rhythm.

Drums? He thought. Were they coming?

It was not drums, he knew. The sounds were . . . wrong.

The next one echoed more loudly than had any of the previous ones, but then it ended abruptly with a sound like a screaming bird. What kind of bird might make that kind of cry, he did not know. His memory brought forth nothing with which to recognize it.

New sounds came from beyond his haven. They were soft, scurrying noises, like those made by a large rodent or small mammal. He waited, listening. It was not attempting to be very quiet, for its feet made constant, scraping noises against the ground. He had no problem determining its location: to his left and perhaps twenty strides away.

The scraping sounds became louder. At first, he thought they were coming nearer. Then he realized that it seemed so because there more of them. Whatever the creatures were, a small pack of them had found a way into the cave. That surprised him, as he had been certain that no creatures could get past the blocked entrance.

He froze.

Voices.

There were quiet and barely audible. If it was a language, the sound was too distant and muffled to be understood. He listened, trying to discern the tones.

Three, he counted. No . . . four.

He detected four distinct tonal qualities. He thought sensed the presence of a fifth one, but could not be certain. If they had spoken, they had done so too softly for him to hear distinctly.

The voices quieted. But there was no doubt that they were coming nearer.

- 3 -

Devereux slid into the bulkhead opening, her face less than ten centimeters from the bottom of Nang’s boots. On her stomach behind him, she pressed herself against the deck in order to make her way past the collection of pipes and conduits normally hidden behind the bulkheads. Using her palms to pull herself across the deck, she was acutely aware of the sensation of her breasts compressed against the its unyielding surface. It was not a comfortable sensation—and only served to add to the mild swell of claustrophobia that tingled in her hindbrain. Fortunately, the distance they had to traverse was only slightly more than a meter, although it felt easily four times further than that.

She had to shift her body to avoid the raw edge of the bulkhead where it had torn from its fastenings. It was awkward, but Bayer was there ready to offer her hand out. She had been tempted to refuse, but relented in the end, determining that she would probably look a lot more awkward attempting to exit the breach on her own.

Clearing the opening, she stood and switched on her wrist beam. Both Nang and Bayer had activated theirs, but they were aimed at the opening to provide illumination for the others still making their way through the bulkhead. Devereux aimed hers into the open space of the cargo bay, searching for signs as to where Hawkes might have secreted himself, but was unsurprised when she did not find any.

Although bright, the light did not penetrate very far into the cavernous cargo bay. She played its beam across the surface of the cargo containers, creating immense of chasms of shadow that could have concealed half a dozen men. Aiming it toward the ceiling, she only found more shadows, knowing that Hawkes was too shrewd and well-trained to situate himself there.

Behind her, she heard Choy exit the bulkhead.

Hope should be next.

She was tempted to venture deeper into the cargo hold, but then remembered that she was unarmed. It was more than just that, she realized. Hawkes was one of the few crew members on the ship who might match her training in hand-to-hand combat. In his current condition—whatever that might be, she considered wryly—she did not know that might be an advantage or not.

“Owens,” she called out quietly, yet certain that her voice would carry sufficiently. She did not concern herself with trying to be overly quiet. There was little doubt that Hawkes knew that they were there. “See if you can get the lights on here.”

“Yes, Captain,” the engineering tech answered her.

One of the light beams flashed erratically across the air as he turned to locate the cargo bay’s main control panel. She blinked against the flash of vertigo, and recovered quickly. Turning slowly, she headed back to the others, still standing near the torn bulkhead.

Hope was standing as she arrived. The Aerian looked as if she had eased through the cramped bulkhead space without effort. Even her uniform appeared undisturbed.

How does she do that?

“Nothing,” Owens said, rejoining the group. “All of the controls are locked down tight. It won’t even respond to an emergency override.” He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “It’ll accept it, but won’t execute it.”

“Okay,” Devereux said, only mildly concerned by the engineering tech’s report. “We have our torches.”

“But no pitchforks,” someone muttered.

It was a male voice and Devereux resisted the urge glare at both Owens and Bayer. Her guess was on even money on which one of them had said it.

“What’s that?” Nang asked.

“What’s what?” Bayer asked. His beam flashed across the cargo bay.

“That,” Nang repeated. “Move your light.”

Bayer turned his beam back toward the torn bulkhead. All eyes followed the light cast by Nang’s as it pointed to a spot about ten meters away across the deck.

“Move yours away,” Bayer said.

Devereux saw it now: a single point of amber light, flashing in a steady cadence. She suspected that she knew what it was.

“Bayer,” she said. “You and Nang check it out.”

“Yes, Captain,” they both replied, almost in unison.

The two men moved toward the source of the blinking light. The others followed, but kept themselves at a discrete distance.

Nang knelt and picked it up. “It’s his comm unit.”

“Is it booby-trapped?” Bayer asked.

The comm unit clattered to the deck as Nang released it suddenly. A breathless moment of silence followed, interrupted by Nang.

“I guess not.”

Someone behind her, probably Owens, she decided, snickered. Under other conditions, she might have found it to be at least mildly amusing as well. Right now, though, the Security officer’s caution was more than warranted.

“At least we know he’s really in here,” Choy said.

“Somewhere,” Nang agreed.

Devereux swept her beam across the interior of the cargo bay again. It revealed nothing that she had not noticed before.

‘Bayer,” she said. “You and Choy take the port side,” she told the tall Security officer. “I’ll take the starboard side with Nang and Owens. Hope, remain near the bulkhead.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“Remember to shoot first,” she reminded the others. “Move out.”