Liemann 2698-G, an utterly uninformative astronomical ID tag most people only know from a Trivial Pursuit answer card. While its claim to "coldest place in the universe" is almost certainly exaggerated, it is the coldest-naturally-known permanently inhabited outpost in the galaxy. Originally identified as part of the asteroid belt orbiting the black hole Amestad 9, data from surface expeditions and studies of its orbital properties hypothesize it is actually an orphaned planet from a long-dead system. Shrouded by the belt, its inner core having long since decayed, its surface temperatures barely exceed deep-space background radiation. The environment is so unforgiving that even penal labour is forbidden, the cost of life support utterly unjustifiable against a "disposable" workforce.

All of which begs the question: Why the hell am I here?

Its appeal to scientists is obvious: a planet-sized laboratory where they can test everything too expensive or unwieldy to organize back home. Why anyone else would willingly visit, even for the novelty, boggles the mind. Rumours abound that it's the source of some super-rare mineral ore and its research-outpost reputation is a front, but to date there's been nothing coming out of the quadrant to corroborate an appeal to treasure hunters. Besides which, if Liemann was strategically significant, it would have at least a token garrison stationed nearby, not remain entirely civvie.

Plus, if they were trying to keep the place locked down, they wouldn't have made the nav data public. The autopilot is already punched in so I can sit back and enjoy the ride... and I'm glad I'm not flying by hand. This sector of the belt is marked out with guiding beacons—bright lights illuminating the space rocks, some specked with ruins of the early probes—all of which only underscore the creepy darkness of the system's dead star, there and yet not there, far enough away that it's not a real danger but close enough to remain distracting, sucking in attention from one's peripheral vision much the same as its gravitational pull.

Fumbling through the flight suit I pull out the photo—hard copy, not a hologram. Of all the stars in all the arms, what brought you here? She's not a scientist, not remotely related to logistics, not even a bounty hunter like me, yet apparently she was headed to this iceball before dropping off the radar. I cast a wary glance out the cockpit before replacing the picture; it's basic procedure never to hit a system like this head-on, for obvious reasons, but if she came here alone with no flight training...

2698-G itself emerges, distinguished by the webwork of light marking its surface bases. Even in the eternal twilight of the belt, it's possible to make out deep scarring across the surface, likely from the local detritus it picked up on its way in. Vague outlines of impact craters are hubs for hairline fractures still visible beneath the frozen silt, testament to a crust so brittle it could very well have cracked all the way through. I can imagine a lot of artists ascribing it a morbid beauty; to me it's just morbid, a dull crystal on the verge of shattering completely.

The control panel lights up with an incoming hail; curious that they'd use live traffic control, but then anyone working in the arse-end of space could probably do with any personal contact they can get. "SNDC-2103, this is Aerospace Control LG-01, we have you on approach; please confirm flight plan, over."

"SNDC-2103, acknowledged Control, transmitting now." A few taps of the keypad and the data is on its way topside. At this point it's really a formality, the station having received all relevant nav data the moment it made contact with the autopilot, but some pilots enjoy the illusion of control. These sorts of research stations always hate unexpected guests so ASC should have got a memo back around the time I planned this flight. Assuming I'm not treading on high-priority traffic, they'll send me the updated approach vector, I'll plug it into the autopilot, and in about an hour I'll get to see how well my new snowsuit measures up.

"SNDC-2103, your flight plan checks out, but we'll have to re-route you to an alternative dock."

"Acknowledged, Control." Not sure what difference it makes; I don't even know the layout of their spaceport.

"Is your pilot fit to conduct a manual landing?"

This is strange. "Affirmative. Is there a problem on your end?"

"No, but the receiving port uses local ASC only. You'll need to make the main approach yourself, and the station will pick you up for the final landing."

"Understood," I lie. I receive the new coordinates before the station signs off—completely, I realize after the fact. When I map it through the navcom I physically frown: I'm being rerouted halfway across the damn planet! Let me be clear: making a blind planetfall approach, to be picked up by atmospheric ASC, with no control tracking you in the mean time, is not normal. I reflexively snap into alert readiness as I switch off the autopilot; my little shuttle is unarmed, and I've never tried a handgun from the cockpit.

Luckily I can fly stick. Given the distance it's a leisurely approach; I can't make out much of an atmosphere, though given Liemann's reputation it would be odd if it had one. What I do notice after about twenty minutes is that the surface lights are rapidly dissipating, manned outposts giving way to what are probably automated sensor relays, too small to be luminous at this altitude. Looming just beyond the asteroid-studded sky is that menacing void, leering over the equally-menacing desert below. The only thing that doesn't feel empty right now is the cockpit. I put on some music to break the tension.

About a thousand klicks out from the destination, the console lights up with a new hail, and I instinctively sigh in relief. "SNDC-2103," a voice crackles, "This is ACT LG-7. Please acknowledge, over."

"SNDC-2103 receiving. Bit of a long stretch without radio contact, over," I feign nonchalance.

"Yeah, we're a bit off the grid, sorry about that. Trip's almost over; we'll walk you through approach as it's a little bit tricky..."

No joke: it's like an atmospheric flight sim with a daredevil for an instructor. I'm practically skimming the ground following what feels like a terrestrial race track, all the while searching for any sort of navigation beacon amid the grey-green silt. Taking a waypoint hard to port, the landing lights illuminate a deep fissure ahead—and I'm supposed to go in. "The hell this is a space dock," I mutter, decelerating as I survey the chasm.

"SNDC-2103, we can confirm your vessel will fit; please continue the flight plan, over."

Rolling my eyes with no small degree of anxiety, I comply and dip down. It's tight, not unmanageable, but impossible for autopilot even at low velocity. I can't make out the canyon floor but I'm given precise measurements to descend, and I'm too deep in it now to risk a blind abort. Unexpectedly, the canyon walls begin to open up, and light appears in the distance.

I literally can't believe what I find on arrival. The base of the fissure has been carved out into a massive atrium. Shining bright as daylight is a bona fide city, dwellings carved into the walls, the open floor resembling a ramshackle marketplace, figures milling about in utter contempt of their homeworld's infamous cold. It takes every fibre of willpower not to stop and stare as ASC continues to direct my approach, finally reaching a semi-enclosed hangar bay etched into one of the upper levels. It's only when the shuttle settles onto solid ground that I return to lucidity, a faint sweat on the brow and ache in the arms from muscle tension.

"SNDC-2103," announces the radio with what sounds like a hint of swagger, "Welcome to Niflheim."