The Pinkerton Detectives of Londinium Novarus

Premium atmosphere was almost regularly fed into the discount reusable chromium interlocking habcubes of Londinium Novarus, a colony sphere perpetually highballin' around Rigel, Orion's boozy barkeep.

Here, amidst the cosmic staccato of fusion reactors and grit of used up asteroid mines converted into custom plastopal or plastogal strip joints, prowled the Pinkerton Detectives, aces with shades and vintage ray revolvers that fired just fine, as long you kept em dry and not too close to a micro gravwell.

A missing shipment of Venusian mood moss, the city's lifeblood, had vanished, leaving middle management jittery as a custom-gen jackrabbit. The trail led them through infraviolet drenched speakeasies, past holographic jazz cats wailin' the binomial blues, and into the maintenance substrate underbelly, where the shadows held secrets like used vacscrub tubes. It was a tango with the robot devil in a circumplanetary skirt, and the Pinkertons were gonna make it sing a dirge.