My penthouse in the upper levels of New Metropolis rarely disappointed. The vast vaulted windows offered a priceless view of the comings and goings of the passenger and cargo ships that wove a luminous web against the perpetual artificial twilight of the main dome. The air, filtered and faintly scented with ozone and imported exotic flowers, was always pleasant. My jukebox softly played some cosmic jazz tune, ice clinked in my glass of a drink with an unpronounceable name and suspicious color, and I, Jaxson Cole, was comfortably ensconced in my leather armchair, leafing through the proofs of my latest novel. "The Pirates of Andromeda" promised to be another modest success in my career as a writer of adventure serials. Life was, on the whole, placid and predictable. Too much so, perhaps.
I've always believed that true adventure belongs more in the pages of a story than in the hectic (and often uncomfortable) reality. I consider myself an observer of the galactic circus, not one of its main acrobats. I enjoy the creature comforts, the witty conversations in well-lit rooms, and the excitement contained within the covers of a new book. The heroes of my stories sweat, battle sharp-jawed aliens, and defuse bombs with seconds to spare. I, for one, prefer to deal with ink and paper, the only danger being a cramped wrist.
However, fate, with its peculiar sense of humor, sometimes has other plans. And my personal destiny, it seems, has a weakness for interrupting my well-earned moments of leisure.
The wall-mounted communicator emitted a discreet buzz, signaling an incoming call with medium priority. Medium priority in my life usually meant an invitation to some extravagant party or a request for an autograph. I reluctantly interrupted my reading and hit the accept button.
The screen lit up with the face of Dick Future. Dick wasn't exactly a figure I associated with placid predictability. He was a man with constant nervous energy, a fixer, a middleman, someone who navigated the underworld of information and delicate assignments. He wore an impeccable suit, as always, but his eyes darted around too quickly.
"Jaxson, my old friend," his voice was a hurried whisper, despite being on a private call. "Shall I interrupt you?"
"It depends, Dick. If it's to offer me another investment in dubious asteroid mines, I'm afraid so. If it's for anything remotely interesting, perhaps not."
A fleeting smile crossed his face, an expression that rarely reached his eyes. "This, Jaxson, is definitely interesting. And potentially very lucrative."
I put my book aside. Lucrative and Dick Future rarely combined without a healthy dose of risk. "Talk."
"I need someone... discreet. Someone who can travel without raising undue suspicion. A spotter, if you will. Someone with your... peculiar set of skills."
I raised an eyebrow. My "skills" were mainly limited to deducing plots from pulp novels and the ability to mix a good cocktail. "My skills, Dick, are more literary than galactic espionage."
"Don't underestimate the power of a good observer, Jaxson. Especially on 73P."
The mention of 73P caught my attention completely. 73P, Neptune's icy moon. An inhospitable, remote place, and, crucially, the primary source of drinking water for a significant portion of the outer solar system. A vital resource, and therefore a constant source of tension and rumors of hidden conflict.
"73P, huh? That sounds... cold," I commented, although my interest was already piqued. "There's trouble there, isn't there? More than just the usual disputes over mining rights."
Dick nodded, his gaze turning a little more serious. "More than trouble. Sabotage. Disappearances. And a silence that's louder than any explosion. Corporations are nervous, interplanetary governments are holding their breath. No one knows exactly what's going on, only that the situation is getting dangerous."
"And what do you expect me to do in the middle of all that? I'm not a detective. Nor am I one of those muscle-bound bodyguards who roam around spaceports."
"No, Jaxson. You're a writer. An observer. Someone who knows how to fly under the radar in certain circles and has a mind for unusual details. Someone who can be there, see what's happening, talk to people... and tell me about it. No fuss, no political allegiances. Just the truth of what you find."
It sounded tempting, despite my natural aversion to sticky situations. A real adventure. Prime material for future novels. And a considerable sum of credits if I was successful, as Dick hinted. The idea of the frigid, dangerous 73P contrasted vividly with the comfort of my attic, and precisely for that reason, it held a strange attraction. My life had perhaps become too comfortable.
"Is there anyone there I should contact? Any cover stories?" I asked, my mind already starting to spin scenarios.
"Yes, an initial contact. A scientist who seems to know more than he's letting on. And your cover... well, given your reputation, Jaxson, I thought it most likely you were there looking for inspiration for your next exotic adventure novel. It wouldn't be far from the truth, would it?" Dick finally allowed a genuine, playful smile to form on his lips.
I smiled back. No, that wasn't far from the truth at all. The idea of immersing myself in a real adventure to write about it had its own perverse appeal. Besides, the promise of a generous payment never hurt.
"Okay, Dick. You've convinced me. Get me the trip details and information on my contact at 73P. Looks like 'The Pirates of Andromeda' will have to wait a bit. Jaxson Cole is going on a research trip."
I hung up the phone and leaned back in the armchair, watching the ballet of ships outside. 73P. A world of ice and mystery. Just the kind of place where stories came to life in the most unexpected and often dangerous ways. The scent of an unexpected adventure had reached my attic, and for the first time in a long time, it wasn't coming from the pages of a book, but from the icy edge of the solar system. The prelude had only just begun.
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