In Space No One Can Hear Your Fanaticism.

 

Kline trudged down the ramp towards the five-metre square diamondoid doors. If they failed to open, the techs would have to bring down some nanobots to chew a hole through them. Kline hoped they didn't open, so he had the techs' additional firepower when he entered the base.

“There should be a control panel on the left,” Bilge informed him.

Kline located the dust covered outline of a panel, and glanced at a display projected onto the inside of his faceplate. His suit's sensory array still hadn't detected any electronic or chemical signatures coming from the control panel.

He slowly pried the cover open, checking for tripwires while bracing for an explosion. Perspiration dripped down his forehead and into his suit. Only when he had fully opened the panel, could he breathe again.

Bolcher had his M29 pulse rifle levelled at the door as Kline fumbled a power cell out of his belt. Kline was just about to insert it, when he noticed it could go into any one of three slots.

Hey Sarge, there are three slots.”

“There shouldn’t be,” Bilge said. “But I can see that there are. Keep your cameras on them.”

Kline stilled his helmet - cameras either side of it - in front of the control panel. No small print labelled any of the slots, so he waited for a command decision.

“Kline, they should all work or not work if that’s the case. Just choose one,” Deli said.


Copyright 2005

 

SLOT 1
SLOT 2
SLOT 3
HOMEPAGE