They were being hunted, there was no doubt. Uniformed System Authority were everywhere, checking everyone, and no doubt plain clothed officers were mingling in the crowds too. So far he'd managed to avoid the checkpoints, but the station was heading towards total lock-down. They needed a flight off this facility quickly.
What had this girl been involved with, he wondered. Too late to worry now, she had rapidly dropped down the Federation's most wanted person list in any case. Top of that list right now, he was sure, was himself.
They kept to the crowded parts of the Coriolis, Tracy allowing herself to be dragged them from place to place. He kept them moving, a circuitous route, but always heading towards the docking bay at the centre of the spinning orbital.
Worry and pain were etched on Tracy's face. Thoughts of her ailing father, no doubt. Realisation that her fate was now linked with that of a man she barely knew. A man who had just murdered four system authority agents.
He considered cutting her loose for the thousandth time, then came to the same conclusion he'd reached every other time.
He caught another of Tracy's darting looks over her shoulder. Those they passed jumped out of the way with looks of concern at the terrified girl being dragged along by a much older man. They needed to slow down and blend in, but they really needed to get off this station before lock-down was complete.
"Keep your head down," he told her, "don't let the cameras identify you." Those cameras were everywhere, surely they'd been spotted by now. "And please stop looking behind you, it makes us stand out, makes us look guilty." They were guilty, neither of them said, but guilty of what?
This used to be his bread and butter. How many times had he extracted subjects from Federation star ports or escaped by himself from a hot encounter. He felt sure it used to be exhilarating, almost fun. This wasn't.
He was older now. He knew the risks. It was also exhausting.
"Quick, in here," he dragged Tracy into a crowded bar he remembered being on his evasion plan. Many years had slipped by since last considering escape routes, he really had got lazy, he realised scolding himself. Fortunately space stations change very little, but this bar could easily have closed down and blocked his route.
Pulling Tracy by the arm, he led her around busy tables, through a dancing throng, towards the rear. The music was loud, the lights were dim, he'd chosen it all those years ago as a cut-out. System authority would have to check everyone in the place before moving on, vital minutes that might be important.
The door to the back office was exactly where he remembered. Had it really been a decade since he last sat down for a drink at those tables?
"Forbidden, no entry!" said the sign on the door.
He reached for the handle anyway, the door opened.
Suddenly the entire bar lit up, the house lights turned on. Those on the dance floor stopped and groaned as the speakers went silent and the bass stopped thumping. For a confused second he froze, had his opening of the door triggered an unusual alarm.
Confusion gave way to fear as the true cause became clear.
"This is a security check, remain stationary while we process you," the tannoy announced as Federation officers flooded in. Revellers with illicit substances looked around for somewhere to stash them. One or two ran for the exit - a stupid, ill conceived decision they realised as Federal Security floored them with body checks.
'Damn they were quick,' he thought, 'they were nearly on us.'
He pushed Tracy through the door and closed it behind them, hoping the chaos would hide their getaway. He locked the door to prevent anyone following and heard shouts and a scuffle from the other side.
Standing there, alone with Tracy in the deserted room, he heard his heart pounding for the first time. Odd considering the activities of the past hour, but the agents flooding into the bar was the first time he'd felt close to being captured. That too struck him as odd as he remembered sitting bound in the chair.
"That door," he pointed to the far wall as he let go of Tracy's hand. She scrambled around the desks in the office, weaving in the direction he'd given her. He turned over a table to prop against the door they'd arrived through. A drink dispenser joined it. That would have to do. He ran after her as she held the door for him.
"You'd better still be there Lucy, don't let me down now girl!" he said as they emerged into the passageway beyond.
The rear of the club opened on to the industrial heart of the station. He pointed Tracy right, towards a row of small industrial units. They ran towards them. The spartan entrances to many kinds of engineering services were a stark contrast to the bright lights of the entertainment section they'd just left.
He kept running, Tracy did her best to keep up. They were near the hangars now, above them was the docking bay. Most of these units were ship maintenance workshops or repair pods. Behind them, in the other direction, they could hear the cacophony of the loading bays. The corridor was deserted, this was more service access than customer facing. Repair work was negotiated via ship consoles not in person; engineers and supply carts were the only infrequent visitors.
He stopped to get his bearings. It was around here somewhere, he frowned. Surely he hadn't run past it. He prayed that Lucy hadn't moved location; it really had been quite some time. On they went, deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of service tunnels.
Finally ...
"Yes, you beauty!"
He sprinted over to the workshop he'd been looking for. Tracy lagged behind, struggling to keep pace. It was larger than he remembered. An expansion or two during those lost years. The din from within was loud, even through the insulated dividing walls. Engines revved, multiple engines, the floor trembled beneath them.
Tracy said something at the side of him, but the noise drowned her out.
There was a walk-in door beside the large workshop service entrance. Both were adorned with three big letters: LNR. Surrounding those letters was an almost complete golden circle of stars, each representing a championship win with the year printed inside it. The letters themselves were super-imposed over a fast looking ship that he had never seen before. Sponsor logos ran down one side of the garage door, among them he noticed De Nigh Mining and couldn't prevent a smile. It had been many years.
He held open the walk-in door for her and beckoned her through. Unbelievably, it was louder on the inside.
The receptionist examined them briefly and went back to whatever it was she was doing, pointless attempting a conversation in this din. After a few seconds the noise died down and the receptionist looked up again, removed ear defenders, and greeted them with an enquiring smile.
"Hi, I'm here for Lucy, is she here?" he asked.
The look on the receptionist's face suggested this scenario had played out many times before. "I'm sorry, Ms Newcombe doesn't meet anyone without an appointment." "If you'd like to fill out this ...," she shoved a tablet his way with a contact form already open. He was as certain as the receptionist that Lucy Newcombe would not respond to that contact form. Neither said so.
"She'll see me," he cut her off, "she has my ship in storage." He hoped she had, at least, but that was best left unsaid.
The forced smile on the receptionist's face changed to confusion as a greasy oil covered pair of overalls walked through from the workshop.
"We, err, don't do ship storage," the receptionist said while handing the overalls another tablet. He watched as the mechanic pulled faces at whatever she read in front of her.
"Yes you do," he said firmly, "my name's Morgan."
"We're a race team," she replied, "we don't do ship storage ..."
But she was cut off by the mechanic.
"Ohhh," was all the new arrival could manage.
The receptionist cast an enquiring glance towards her boss, then back towards Morgan, but she couldn't break their locked gaze. A silence that felt like eternity was eventually broken.
"Hi Lucy, I'm hoping you still have something of mine."
"Oh good God, I thought I'd seen the last of you."
"Well that's not very nice," he chuckled breaking the ice.
"Marie," Lucy addressed the receptionist without averting her gaze, "would you fetch me the keys to hangar 53 please."
"Hangar 53?" there was confusion in her voice, but no one else seemed to care. She rummaged through the key draw, "I didn't know 53 was ours ..."
"We need to leave this station," Morgan told Lucy, referring to Tracy who she appeared to notice for the first time. "Urgently!"
The floor began to vibrate once more, but from a different direction. A new engine was warming up. This one was a deeper, almost menacing growl. There was almost, Morgan thought, an element of excitement in its tone.
"Don't worry, Marie," her boss replied, still looking straight at Morgan, "I don't think we'll be needing keys." Then, smiling for the first time, "Hangar 53 is that way," she pointed. "I'm sure Minerva will have opened the door by the time you get there, in some fashion," she shrugged.
Out into the workshop they went, past half a dozen mechanics stripping down racing skiffs that shared the same Lucy Newcombe Racing livery as the door they'd passed through moments before. They ran further, along the access avenue linking a line of engineering workshops which sat parallel to the hangars servicing the landing bay above.
"49, 50, 51, ..." Morgan read the numbers on the hangar entrances.
It took a few minutes, a couple of the hangars before 53 were configured to accommodate the huge Type 9 Heavy. Those seemed to stretch on forever. Most hangars showed signs of recent activity, but not 53. As he approached, Morgan noticed boxes piled up against the entrance, and old parts discarded around the door. No one had used it for months, or maybe even longer.
The engine they'd heard starting earlier was coming from here. Morgan recognised the hollow, deep echoey bass notes of his old ship. It had always brought a smile to his face. They were nearly there.
BOOOOOM!
Smoke exploded from hanger 53 and a thunder clap bounced down the enclosed service corridor. The big door flew across the access corridor and smashed against the opposite wall. Boxes flew out in all directions spilling their contents across the floor.
Morgan stopped dead in his tracks, arms raised to protect his head from the debris clattering around him, hands over his ears to shield him from the roar of yet another explosion. Tracy crashed into him from behind sending them both tumbling to the floor.
The smoke cleared with surprising speed, thought Morgan and Tracy jumped straight back on to her feet.
"I'm getting the hang of exploding doors," she said while offering Morgan a helping hand back to his feet.
"I'm too old for this."
She led the way in to the darkness of the hanger.
Morgan followed, but stopped at the burnt door frame.
"Is this the one?" asked Tracy, suddenly doubting at his hesitation.
He turned back down the access corridor to a growing crowd of engineers attracted by the commotion. "How's the race team doing?" he shouted.
"Very well," Lucy replied, signing OK with her fingers. He was too far away to see the smile, "thanks for asking."
"Team sponsors must be delighted then," he waved and disappeared through the hole in the wall that once held a door.
He didn't see her as he disappeared into the hangar. A tear of loss in her eye. But was that for the man, the machine, or the door?