Free Escape by Jasper Scott Page B

Kieran Hawker, FMG prospector 567, out of Outpost 110. Your station has taken control of my vessel and I can neither approach nor leave. Please advise.”
    Silence   .   .   .
    Kieran bit his lip — hard. The fact that there were ships docked to the station meant that someone was there. So why weren't they answering?
    “Unknown UBER facility, this is Kieran Hawker, FMG prospector 567. Please respond .   .   .   . ”

 
     
    Chapter 5
     
     
     
    A crisp crackle of static came rattling through the comm.
    “Prospector Hawker. Please board the station.”
    Kieran's brow furrowed. “Ah, control   .   .   . perhaps you didn't hear me the first time. Your station has locked me out of my flight controls. I can't approach to — ”
    Suddenly the flight yoke came alive in his hands. He tested the controls, and his flitter began drifting left, right, up, and down in response to his tests. “Never mind, control. Beginning my approach.”
    There was no response from the station, but none was really called for. As Kieran drew nearer to the airlocks, he began to make out the details of the other ships docked with the station. Since those ships were powered down, his sensors were practically useless to detect and classify them, but Kieran could classify them with the naked eye.
    The nearest one was a corvette, probably shadow class — based on the shiny, black armor and sleek sensor-defeating lines. Beside it was the boxy rectangle of a Wayfarer Transport, and beside that was a Seraphim Yacht. Kieran aimed for the two empty airlocks on the other side of the yacht. He considered it strange that there weren't some smaller, fast response ships. Everything docked to the station was over 50 micró-astroms in length, with space for up to a dozen crewers each.
    Since the station's automatic docking procedures had obviously been disabled to allow him to dock, Kieran maneuvered into place manually. He stopped in front of the nearest empty airlock, turned his ship 180° and then began slowly reversing toward the airlock. He watched on his rear display, using his navcomp and sensors to line up the station's airlock with his flitter’s. When he was just half a micró-astrom away, he engaged his ship's magnetic docking clamps. With a heavy, bone-jarring thunk his ship shot backward, colliding with the station’s corresponding clamps. He heard a hiss of air that was his ship forming a hermetic seal with the station.
    Unlocking his seat restraints, Kieran spun his chair around, stood up, and cycled the airlock controls just behind his chair. The airlock doors slid open, revealing a poorly lit corridor with flashing red lights and a distantly droning alarm —
    Blaat blaat blaat blaat   .   .   .
    There was no one to welcome him. Kieran stepped through his airlock with a heavy frown. From the flashing red lights and the droning alarm, it was easy to see that something was amiss. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder to the already-closing doors of his flitter. Maybe there had been an outbreak of some virulent disease. He might need a hazard suit.
    But surely, if there were such a problem, station control would have warned him away, rather than asking him to dock. Kieran strode quickly down the docking tube to the station. He emerged in a wider hallway, equally dark, with the same flashing, red lights. The alarms were much louder here.
    Kieran turned first one way, and then the other, trying to decide which side of the hallway to go down first. That was when he noticed his welcoming committee. One man, standing a dozen micró-astroms away.
    “What's going on here?” Kieran asked, hurrying toward the man. He stopped a few paces away. The man was smiling broadly — disconcertingly.
    “Don't be afraid.”
    “I'm not — I'm confused.”
    “That too.”
    Kieran's eyes narrowed. The man standing in front of him was short, bald, and skinny. He wore a rumpled, dark blue uniform — colored maroon by the lighting — with the gold