There were three of them, walking with the soft, practised tread of professionals. Amateurs would have crept along, moving unsteadily on tiptoe and brushing along the walls, and attracting more attention by dint of their unnatural movements had they been heard through the thin doors that separated them from the residents. Instead the trio walked quickly and with purpose, so that if anyone thought they’d heard something and stopped to listen, the footsteps from outside would already be fading. And in these halls, rarely patrolled by proctors and where the watchmen were little more than semi-legitimised extortionists, it was rare for someone to take an interest in anything that did not directly concern them.

They came to a halt outside a hab’s front door and took up positions, one standing on either side and the third kneeling directly in front of it. A data-slate briefly glowed green as the kneeling figure activated it to double-check the number, then was darkened again and put away. The face thus momentarily revealed was hooded, with the grille of a metal breath mask and lenses that either covered their owner’s eyes, or possibly replaced them entirely.

The kneeling figure leaned forwards, a long, multipronged tool held between their fingers. The door was secured by only a cheap, primitive mechanical lock – there were no sophisticated code entry or fingerprint recognition systems in hab block 274-Delta. The tool probed into it, expertly manoeuvred by deft digits, and the lock clicked open in a matter of seconds.

The figure on the right-hand side of the door went through first, the long-nosed shape of a silenced autopistol raised and tracking across firing arcs. His opposite number followed, snapping out a long, thin rod that crackled into blue-white life – a shock baton. The kneeling figure waited for their companions to enter before following, closing the door behind them and gently locking it from the inside. From arriving at the door to being inside the hab with the door shut again had taken less than ten seconds.

There was little enough space inside the hab, and the trio covered it expertly and quickly, but clearly didn’t find what they sought. They came to a frustrated halt after a brief flurry of activity.

‘Lights,’ said one of them, the first to enter.

‘They will not be voice-activated in these domiciles,’ replied the one who’d picked the lock.

‘I know that,’ the first speaker replied, exasperation audible in his tone. ‘But you’re standing next to the switches.’

The lock-picker reached out a hand, and a moment later the hab’s lumens flickered into life. Two of the intruders reached up to remove infra-goggles from their faces, but their naked eyes showed nothing further to what they’d already seen.