The hissing of snakes: a soft susurrus of death. I press a glove against my helmet, trying to plug the hairline crack. My other glove grips the airlock latch. I watch the lifeform peer through the tiny airlock window. It used to be Chekov. Now his body is bloated, his skin leaks green ichor, and his mouth glistens with the blood of the crew. The parasite waits. It thinks I will take my chances in a fight rather than suffocate out here. I let go and kick off. I float backwards toward the stars and listen to my air flee.