In Space No One Can Hear Your Fanaticism.

Kline faced the closed door to Symcox’s cabin. Like a prophet, it waited to reveal the truth, a truth hidden for twelve years. He stooped to survey the edges of the door. He felt that if he couldn’t trust her, whom could he trust? But he still continued his examination of the door.

The edges of the door revealed nothing. He eased its handle down. He had no chance of hearing any fatal clicks through his helmet, but he held his breath anyway. When the handle was fully down he pulled on the door.

He could see no glint of wire, and his heads up display showed no electronic signatures. He eased the door open just far enough to be able to press past its edges and into the cabin.

The cabin was about five metres long by four metres wide. It was purely functional - bunk, cupboard, drawers, and a desk with a built in screen. A few data disks were on the shelves behind the desk. Her lump free bunk was made in impeccable military style. Kline couldn’t see under the bed but imagined a pair of shiny dress boots.

Kline stepped into the cabin. Something snagged on his leg.

He didn’t even have time to scream.