January 13th, 2213. Nighttime. A Round or two at the Faith No More.

The Faith No More was the local dive bar about two blocks from my office, and it was the most comfortable place on the planet. Sydney, the girl who ran the place, had it made up to look like an Earth bar, even going so far as to import an actual hardwood bar all the way from home. I'd helped her with the cost of having it shipped most of the way across the solar system to be put in, a task I'd happily do again. The jukebox she'd brought out with her, a hand-me-down from her old man. Although the resident spider population had managed to get more than a few songs on it - ninety-five percent of which were by some broad from the twentieth and twenty-first centuries named Bjork - there was a solid foundation of rock songs from Mercury. Who the fuck knew that (a) things actually lived in that cratered-out fireball, and (b) they were the best musicians in the known universe.

When I strolled in, "Fireball" by Asteroid One was playing, and be damned if I wasn't instantly ready to jam myself. Power chords were still power chords, and it didn't matter what century they were played in. Since I'd called Derek earlier that day, I'd put together a little roadmap for the gang for the next couple of days. I had some time, and I was gonna pull every string, call in every favor, and flip over every rock on Neptune for this case. But, that was all just thoughts though, notions, ideas. The function.

But something about that jukebox being just loud enough...the purple, orange, and green light illuminating the place in tacky, wonderful flourescence...the smell of actual bourbon permanently stained into the floor, the stools, the fuckin' walls baby...and over in the corner, a television showing a hockey game and not some fuckin' holodeck...I was back into the form.

I felt for my revolver - it was tucked into my leather jacket, tight against my right side. I glanced over to my left, and sitting at one of the tables was A-Ron, my favorite stoolie spider, and one of the more vocal of the gang. He was fixated on drinking all six of his sucrose-filled wine coolers as quickly as possible, as usual. And over to my right, alerted to my presence the second I pushed open the doors, was Sydney. The greatest gal on any of the outer planets. She smiled, and beckoned to me to have a seat.

"Well, I'd say I was surprised to be seeing Mr. Mickey Mah-tinelli so early, but that'd be a lie now, wouldn't it sweet hahht?" Sydney was awesome. She'd kept the Old Boston accent alive when she came out here three years ago, and it'd since caught on around town, especially among the water-farmers.

"You know it would be, sweetie." She turned to pour a drink for me, a second later she turned back to me. I took in her jet black hair. She flashed a toothy smile behind shiny red lips. I looked into her pale blue eyes, and had a thought that maybe I'd been wasting my time chasing down cases. I should have been chasing -

From behind me, the door swung open and there was Derek. "Boss!" he cried.

Sydney frowned, her teeth disappeared. "Business before pleasure tonight, Mickey?"