Lockdown

It was no ordinary dream. They didn't just touch, make contact. They lived, spoke, slept, woke, walked together through the world, each day as clear and separate as blinking buttons on a keypad. It wasn't just all that he wanted. It was all that he had it in him to become.
 
"Jase?" A voice from outside cut in. "Jase, wake up." Dixon rolled over on his bunk and rested on his elbow, snarling.
 
"Hey, Jase, I'm sorry to wake you," said Mistral worriedly, stepping back. "It's just that I've been picking up some funny communications over the station's Net. Something's up. I'm going to head up into the station, see what I can find out. Just thought I'd let you know."
 
"Yeah, thanks," Dixon mumbled, still not fully awake. "Maybe see if you can get those refrigeration units we need, too."
 
Mistral replied with a mock salute. "Whatever you say, Boss." He turned on his heel and left the dormitory, his measured steps receding through the ship's corridors.
 
Groaning, Dixon rolled over onto his side and buried his face in the pillow, blotting out the light. But as soon as he did so, she reappeared, her face, her form, her soul unfolding before him. It took him moments to realise that he couldn't take it any more. With a final snarl of exasperation he flung the duvet off the bunk and sat up, swivelling his legs around so that they dangled off the edge. This was ridiculous. He, a grown man, thinking, obsessing this way about a woman he'd met for a maximum of minutes. He realised with a shock that he'd actually been considering accepting the Saturn Association's offer, just to see her again, spend more time with her. What had got into him? Too much time cooped up aboard this damn ship, he decided. I've been repressing, is all. Hell, it's a long time since I've been planetside. Exhaling slowly, he stood, glancing in the mirror. And I'm a mess. A shower was what was needed - a cold shower - and then a trip up to the entertainment levels wouldn't do him any harm.

---

Much to his annoyance, the bar he'd chosen was relatively empty. It was in a traditional, vaguely Irish style, with a real human bartender also in the traditional mould: grizzled, stocky and smiley. He ordered a pint of Guinness and looked around. The only other occupants were a couple of off-duty hardliners sipping their own foul brew in a corner and a tall young man at the pool table, with none of the young, loose females he'd been hoping for. Mulling over his options for conversation, Dixon decided to approach the young man; hardliners rarely had anything interesting to say, even when they were inclined to speak at all.
 
He stepped up to the raised area where the pool table stood, clearing his throat. "Pool's more fun when you're actually playing against someone, you know." The dark-haired young man, who had been leaning over the table to line up a shot, straightened up and turned to face him.
 
He was young enough to have been Dixon's son: the trader judged that he could have been no older than nineteen. Several inches taller than Dixon, he was lanky but well-muscled. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and measured. "Of course," he said, smiling wryly. "Care for a game?"
 
"Sure," said Dixon, gathering the balls together in the triangle. "But I'm not betting anything. I haven't played for a year or two, and I'm fairly skint."
 
"That's fine by me." The man handed Dixon a cue. "You can break."
 
As they played, it became increasingly clear that the trader was horribly outmatched. Dixon conceded as much with a grin. "Damnit, you're good at this," he said, chuckling. "Don't you have anything better to do than hang about at pool tables?"
 
The young man considered this. "At the moment?" he replied. "Not really, no."
 
The lights were suddenly extinguished, plunging the room briefly into darkness before the emergency lighting kicked in. Dixon looked around, alarmed.
 
"It's a station-wide lockdown," explained the young man in the same calm voice. "RaceCORP's heard about your offer from the Saturn Association, Dr. Dixon. Their plan is to get to you before you have the chance to accept, and then eliminate you."
 
Dixon whirled round to face him. "You... what?" he spluttered. "How do you...?"
 
"You learn a lot from hanging about at pool tables," the young man answered with a smile. "But now to business. You must get to your ship and escape this place."
 
A voice crackled across the station's PA system. "Ladies and gentlemen, the station's systems are currently undergoing routine maintenance. All unnecessary subsystems have been temporarily disabled, and travel between levels will not be possible for the duration of the work. We apologise for the inconvenience and will endeavour to minimise the disruption by completing the work as quickly as possible. Thank you for your understanding." During the speech, the young man had closed his eyes.
 
"And how, exactly, do you propose I do that?" Dixon asked, still hardly believing this strange youth. "You heard the message. I can't get down to the docking level, and even if I could there'll be a block on ships entering or leaving the station. If they really are coming for me, there's nothing I can do about it."
 
The young man's eyes opened. "I may be able to help you there," he said quietly. "Trust me." He began to stride towards the exit to the bar. Dixon followed, after checking that the bar's other occupants had heard nothing; the bartender was busy cleaning glasses, and the two hardliners were still slumped over their table in the far corner.
 
"Why do you want to help me?" Dixon asked, puzzled.
 
The youth turned amused eyes on him. "Does it matter?" Dixon shrugged, conceding that it didn't.
 
Finally they stopped in front of the turbolifts. One was stationed on their level. The young man stepped inside, beckoning for Dixon to follow, and pressed the button for the level where Dixon's ship was moored. The doors slid closed and the lift began to accelerate downwards.
 
"I don't suppose there's any point in me asking how you did that," Dixon stated dryly. "How you overrode the station's highest functions..." The youth shook his head.
 
When they arrived, Mistral was waiting at the door, eyes wide. "Are you crazy?" he hissed at Dixon. "Moving about during the lockdown... you've just broken just about every law this place has, and we won't be able to get out of here, in any case." He frowned. "Even if they don't come for us during the lockdown, I'm willing to bet there's an order holding us in place -"
 
"Two, actually," interrupted the soft-spoken young man. "One originating from the Saturn Association, and one from RaceCORP."
 
Mistral turned to the newcomer. "And who the hell are you?"
 
The young man smiled condescendingly. "My name is Alex, and you won't be able to get out of here without my help."
 
"Fine," Mistral growled, rapidly pulling a long-barreled handgun from a jacket pocket and pointing it at the boy's chest. "Then get inside the ship." Alex's smile widened.
 
Events were moving too fast for Dixon, and he didn't like it. All he could do was follow the two as his partner escorted the mysterious young man into their ship.
 
When they arrived at the bridge, Mistral lowered the gun for the first time. "Right," he said between gritted teeth. "You know how to get us out of here, then do it. But you're coming with us. And don't try anything funny."
 
Alex merely nodded. "May I sit down?" he asked, seating himself in one of the bridge's chairs. When no response was forthcoming, he closed his eyes and was still.
 
"What's he playing at?" Mistral snapped at Dixon, who shrugged, turning away - in time to catch what was happening on the screens showing the ship's exterior. Wordlessly he grabbed his partner and wheeled him to face the panel of screens. "Oh, shit," Mistral mouthed.
 
The massive docking arms holding the ship in place were simply disintegrating, rapidly collapsing into showers of grey dust. The same was happening to the arcs of tractor field generators mounted on the side of the station; sparking, they crumbled, and the fields flickered out of existence. Cursing, Dixon harnessed himself rapidly into the pilot's seat as the ship began to drift free. Its engines engaged, Cathedral sped away from the ungainly orbital as insistently blinking red warning lights began to come to life all over the station's surface.
 
Perhaps realising the futility of it, Mistral now put away his gun. Alex's eyes opened, and he smiled weakly. The boy looked drained.
 
"What in blazes did you do there?" the marketeer demanded. Alex opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by Dixon from the pilot's seat.
 
"It wasn't me they were looking for, was it?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. "It was you. You're one of them."