January 13th, 2213 Noon...maybe one o' clock earthtime

I'd grown up on Earth, and so, despite having spent years on Neptune, I'd never gotten used to the sun being a tiny yellow pin-prick in a perpetually night sky. The clocks here were synchronized with earth time, so the positions of the stars and Triton and Nereid relative to the date were always fucked beyond belief. I tried to pay as little attention as possible to numbers and dates and astronomy, and, well, time for that matter. Instead, when I was feeling philosophical enough and I cared enough to look out into the sky, I just looked at all that glamour, so to speak, and admired it for what it was: Just the mad, fever dream of some incomprehensible force.

That thought always comforted me.

I sat on the rooftop, doing just that, thinking about how Magnus had asked me to keep someone alive. Except, "asked" wasn't really the word to describe it though. He had really more of stated it to me, and then followed it up with the proverbial offer I couldn't refuse. Five hundred thousand credits and, more importantly, a full Imperial pardon. An ancient wise man once said you can never go home again. Of course, he meant something along the lines of that you'll never be the same person you once were. Fair enough. But if I could get my ass back to Earth a far richer man than when I was a kid scavenging on the streets of Los Angeles, well shit, that ancient wise man could suck my ass for all I cared.

And I bet if you're reading this, you're saying to yourself, 'shit Mickey, its’ obvious Magnus is up to no good; the guy's playing you like a fiddle. Tell the guy to get lost'. Well, it isn't quite that simple, gentle reader. Simon Magnus is Neptune Senator; just because he's making a deal with me doesn't mean he doesn’t already have a plan B in place. I say no to his deal, and I turn myself into one giant loose end. Two hours later the entire building, including yours truly is so much ash on an abandoned corner in New Boston. Nope – better play to along with the closest thing Neptune had to a playboy.

But Magnus knew that certain operations require a delicate touch, and not a single one of those alpha-male Imperium goons he had surrounding him most of the time could pull off delicate.For them, low key was always loud enough to break glass. I shook my head at my fortune. I was on the job as soon as that pretentious dickbag snuck into my office and put that gun to my head. Message received, Magnus. And now, I had to keep Prince Napoleon Putin XVIII and Imperiatrix Bella One-Five (yeah, I know, pretentious as the Neptune night is long) alive long enough to get married, and thus cement the long bandied about treaty between the Alpha Centauri Confederacy and the Terran Empire.

Me.

Mickey Martinelli.

Should I tell you about the whole Humans and Centauri thing? Nah. Fucking boring as hell.

So there I was, slightly drunk, fully irritated, star-gazing on the roof of my building. Well, I wasn't doing this alone. I needed help. I reached into my jacket and pulled out my phone. I dialed, and Derek picked up. Of course, the kid was ecstatic to hear from me.

"Mr. Martinell!! How you doin? haven't heard from you in months!" His somewhat loud and enthusiastic voice fast-forwarded me directly to a brain-splitting hangover. Wierd, because despite the pain incurred by the sound of Derek’s voice, I was genuinely happy to talk to him. Friends were harder to come by than sunlight on Neptune.

"I'm good, Derek. But kid, STOP calling me Mr. Martinelli. It's just Mickey."

"Sorry Mis- Mickey. What's up, we got work?"

I smiled dryly. "Yeah, buddy, you could say that. Get your cameras, and the rest of your equipment. You got some scoutin to do."

"On my way, boss."

Derek hung up. I put the phone away, and looked silently up at Triton and Nereid. They were beautiful. Cold. Silent. I sighed.

"This is gonna get noisy."