Getting myself up into Murphy’s playground was no small feat. I had to find a smuggler to drop a container into orbit while avoiding being picked up on scan. I imagine the smuggler figured he was dead dropping contraband for pickup. Not me in a coffin with a self-contained atmosphere. The coffin nearly bankrupted me; no one had ever needed an unscannable box that could sustain a human in space for several days. The prototypes normally cost a fortune even without having to acquire them off of a traceless black market.
So there I had waited, crammed into an untested smattering of guesswork until my trajectory met with that of the platform’s. Normally I would welcome the chance to relax in the dark cold silence, even with the ever-present possibility of a meteorite as small as a grain of sand ruining my day.
Not this time. I dreaded the moment I wasn’t occupied with planning and dealing in back rooms. The moment that it would be just me and my thoughts. Thoughts that would inevitably include what I was going to do.
The job was to infiltrate the mining platform and neutralize the skeleton crew dismantling it. Then I would sabotage the station’s black box so history would never know what truly transpired above this planet’s atmosphere. School children will learn about the horrific accident that changed satellite laws forever, not the details of actions befitting a war-crime.
My arrival would coincide with the station travelling over the sky of a particular city. In this city is a particular office building. In this building is a particular woman. A woman whose murder will only be known to me and my client. To the rest of the galaxy she will be just another faceless digit in a meaningless casualty statistic.