My accommodations on the main base of 73P were Spartan but functional. A small, prefabricated room with a bed, a built-in desk, and an HVAC system constantly fighting the cold outside. Through a reinforced window, the bleak, white landscape could barely be made out under the base's artificial lighting. It was a stark contrast to the opulence of my penthouse in New Metropolis, but, on reflection, more in keeping with the image a writer in search of raw material should project. I unpacked the essentials: my thermal equipment, my datapad of notes, and, hidden in a secret compartment, the small emergency communicator Dick had given me.
The base was a maze of metal corridors, hermetically sealed and buzzing with a constant hum of working machinery. The walls were bare or covered with functional signage. There was no art, no plants, barely any pops of color beyond the emergency lights and the personnel uniforms. Everything screamed utility and survival. It reminded me of the innards of a massive metal beast, designed solely to extract and process the lifeblood that kept us afloat, metaphorically and literally, billions of miles from Earth.
I decided to begin my "research" like a diligent writer. I grabbed my datapad and a physical notebook (sometimes, the old world had its charm and discretion) and left my cubicle. I walked through the halls, feigning interest in the technical diagrams posted on the walls or taking scattered notes. I observed the people. Most moved with purpose, their faces reflecting either fatigue from long workdays or concentration on their tasks. There were technicians in coveralls stained with cryogenic grease, geologists with samples in special containers, administrative staff staring blankly into screens, and, omnipresent, the security guards with their immaculate uniforms and vigilant postures.
I tried to strike up casual conversations. I approached the base cafeteria, a noisy, processed-food-scented place where some workers were taking a break. My alibi worked to a certain extent. A couple of engineers, hearing me write about life here, offered complaints about the constant cold, isolation, and monotony. Nothing about sabotage or mysteries, just the harsh routine of life on the border. Their interaction was brief, cordial, but distant. The people here didn't seem to have the time or inclination for small talk with a stranger.
My primary target, of course, was Dr. Lena Hanson. According to the base data I was able to access with my "authorized visitor" ID (another courtesy of Dick), her lab was on the research level, a restricted area for most personnel. Approaching her directly without a plan would be unwise. First, I needed to test the waters, perhaps gain some more information about her or the power dynamics within Aqua-Sol.
As I wandered the corridors, paying attention to fragmented conversations and visual details, I noticed something subtle but jarring. A pair of technicians were arguing in low voices near a control panel. Their words were unclear, but I caught terms like "pressure variation," "anomaly," and "do not record order." Their faces showed concern and a kind of resentment. When they noticed my presence (apparently distracted by my notes), they abruptly fell silent and discreetly dispersed.
That small incident lit a spark in my mind. A "no-record order" for an anomaly in a facility that handles vital resources under extreme conditions didn't exactly sound like standard procedure. It sounded like something someone wanted to hide. It was the first tangible indication that Dick's rumors had merit, the first knot in the intrigue I was beginning to unravel.
Further on, I passed a maintenance bay where several ground vehicles adapted for the icy environment were being checked. There was a strong smell of special lubricants and cold metal. A group of security guards was supervising the work with unusual intensity. One of the vehicles showed significant damage to its side, as if it had hit something or been hit. The guards didn't seem happy. They exchanged tense glances with the technicians. Again, a feeling of something not quite right. An accident? Or something intentional?
My instincts, the ones Dick trusted, told me I was in the right place. The 73P base, beneath its drab, functional exterior, harbored tensions and secrets. People were nervous, things were being hidden. My role as an observer was beginning to take shape. It wasn't just about seeing the scenery or talking to people about their routines; it was about noticing the breaks in that routine, the furtive glances, the hushed conversations, the unexplained damage.
As I returned to my room to organize my thoughts and preliminary notes, I mentally reviewed the faces I'd seen, the words I'd heard, and the small anomalies I'd detected. Dr. Hanson remained the key, the contact who might open the door to a deeper understanding of what was going on. But the clues I'd gleaned today suggested that the intrigue was broader and more dangerous than I'd imagined. 73P wasn't just a water-drift base; it was a stage where a silent drama was unfolding, written in the invisible inks of fear and concealment. And I, Jaxson Cole, the adventure writer, now found myself, to my surprise and growing unease, playing a leading role in that story.
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