Leaving the shining dome of New Metropolis behind always has a tinge of melancholy. It's the price of comfort, I suppose; it clings to you with invisible tentacles. The high-speed spaceliner Star Pilgrim wasn't a luxury cruise ship like the ones I took for my "writing retreats" on Jupiter's moons, but an efficient, no-nonsense passenger and cargo vessel designed for long, direct runs to the less glamorous reaches of the system. My cabin was functional: a Murphy bed, a small desk, a synthetic-view window that, with a push of a button, could display either the reality of the outside void or a soothing simulation of Earth's landscape. I chose emptiness. If I was going to step into the unknown, I preferred to face it head-on, even if it was through a reinforced panel.
The initial acceleration was gentle but steady, the artificial gravity gradually adjusting as we moved away from the gravitational influence of the metropolis and, eventually, Earth itself. Through the window, I watched the blue and white sphere shrink, becoming first a dazzling disc, then an iridescent marble. I thought of my attic, the jukebox, the pile of books to be read. It was a world that felt millions of miles away, even though we had barely begun the journey. That immediate disconnect is one of the strange things about long spaceflights; you are ripped from your everyday reality with brutal efficiency.
For the first few hours, I pored over the encrypted files Dick had provided. The information on 73P was sparse and, in many places, contradictory. There was data on the moon's geological composition, the technical challenges of extracting water in an environment with temperatures near absolute zero, and details about the major corporations involved: Hydro-Neptune, an old and powerful company based in the asteroid belts, and Aqua-Sol, a newcomer backed by investors from the inner planets. Dr. Lena Hanson was listed as one of the lead researchers at the Aqua-Sol facility. There was a photo of her: a serious-looking woman with her hair pulled back and eyes that looked like they'd seen too much cold, both literally and figuratively. Nothing in her public history suggested anything out of the ordinary, which, ironically, made her more interesting in Dick's eyes—and now in mine.
The rest of the files were a labyrinth of production reports, union complaints, and cryptic mentions of "operational incidents" ranging from unexplained technical glitches to minor altercations that the local authorities seemed eager to minimize. Reading between the lines felt like reading one of my own manuscripts before the final edit: full of potential but messy and with too many loose threads. My task, I supposed, would be to find coherence in that frozen chaos.
The first night on board was quiet. Most of the passengers appeared to be maintenance personnel, technicians, or tradespeople heading to various transit points in the outer system. Hardworking people with tired looks and little desire for unnecessary conversation. My cover as a writer proved useful; a couple of times, someone approached me upon seeing my datapad and the notes I was taking, asking if I was writing about "real life out there." I'd smile, nod vaguely, and comment something about the inspiration to be found in the most remote places. I wasn't entirely lying.
I spent much of my time observing. Not just the other passengers, but also the crew, the ship's routine. I looked for any sign of anything out of the ordinary, any hint that this voyage was different from the others. Paranoia is a useful tool for a thriller writer, and I suspected it would be even more useful for an observer on a covert mission. Every shadow, every whispered conversation in the ship's mess hall, every furtive glance—everything was potential fodder. First-person allowed me to record these impressions immediately, weaving in my own conjectures and doubts as they arose.
On one of my walks through the corridors, I encountered a burly, silent man who seemed to be always present, either reading a newspaper in a corner or simply gazing out a window. He had the kind of physique that suggested a history of hard manual labor, perhaps in asteroid mines or extraction platforms. Our paths crossed several times. On one occasion, our gazes met briefly. His eyes were hard and revealed nothing. I didn't try to start a conversation. In my current line of "work," it's sometimes best not to draw unnecessary attention to myself. Was he just a tired worker? Or something more? My mind, accustomed to creating intrigue where there was none, was starting to work overtime with the raw material of reality.
As the ship traveled deeper into space, the stars became sharper, colder, and more numerous. Earth was now just another bright star in the rearview mirror. The silence of outer space is overwhelming, a vastness that reminds you of your own insignificance. Yet somewhere in that vastness, in the orbit of a gas giant, an icy moon and a mystery awaited me.
The journey would last several days. Enough time to read and reread the files, to observe, to think. Enough time for the solar metropolis and my former life to feel increasingly distant. Enough time for 73P to begin to feel not like an abstract destination, but like an imminent reality, with its own dangers and secrets wrapped in a pall of ice and darkness. The call of 73P grew stronger with every mile we traveled. The adventure, the one I used to confine to the pages, was unfolding all around me. And I was right in the middle of it.
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