The escape from Dock 9 - a mediocre tale

Zoey and Mara slip into the freight-spine as the service opening seals behind them. The passage is a rib cage of rusted conduits and sweating pipework, lit by thin red emergency strips. Ahead, Dock Nine is the only clean route left to protect the data-pad.

A groan rolls through the ceiling. Metal gives way, and a slab of debris crashes down, boxing the corridor in a jagged wall of broken plating and fractured cable bundles. Dust blooms through the red light.

Zoey reaches the collapse first, scanning the pile for a climbable seam or live conduit. Mara stays tight at her shoulder, one hand on the data-pad, the other braced against the shaking wall.

Then heavy boots thud somewhere above them, slow and searching, followed by a clipped voice distorted through the grating. Imperial sweep teams are on the level overhead, and they are close enough to hear the wreckage settle.

Zoey spots a narrow maintenance crawl wedged behind a sparking pipe, just wide enough for one person at a time. If she can force a path through the debris, the pair can keep moving toward Dock Nine before the boots find this branch.

Zoey snaps her tool into the sparking conduit and twists. The arc dies at once, red light settling into a steadier pulse across the tunnel wall.

The hiss of current fades, and the pipe bundle stops stuttering blue-white. The crawl opening behind it is no longer painted by frantic flashes.

Mara shifts the data-pad closer to her chest, then looks from the darkened pipe to Zoey, waiting for the next move.

Above them, the boots hesitate. With the sparks gone, the ceiling noise is louder now, a hard searching scrape through the grating.

The crawlspace sits open and ugly, just enough room to take the first body through. Dock Nine stays beyond it, unseen.