2039. Solar System, space, somewhere around Jupiter.

My name is Jonathan Trent. I’m 29 years old, 193 centimeters tall (6'4), and 95 kilograms of mostly muscle (210 lbs). I’m also, objectively speaking, an attractive man—not that I had much say in my face, but everything else? That was all me. My body is a product of discipline, hard work, and precision. A perfect diet, years of daily training, mixed martial arts twice a week, tennis on weekends. When I walk by, people turn their heads to stare. Of course they do. I would too.

But this was never about vanity, I’m not that sad of a person. No, this was about strategy. Studies show that height, attractiveness, and an imposing presence subconsciously influence how people perceive you, to the point there is a verified correlation between looks, status and income. If you don’t believe me, look it up. Or just take my word for it. After all, why wouldn’t you? I’m about to be the first man to orbit Saturn. Surely, that title carries some degree of credibility.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Why am I here? No idea. NASA wants it done, and I am the one they chose to make history. Jonathan Trent, the first man to orbit Saturn. Not bad. The pay? Excellent. Enough to make this my last job. When I get back, I’ll be set for life. Then? Politics. Should be easy for me, I’m already a hero back on Earth. Eight years should be enough to reach my financial goals. And after that, who knows? Maybe I’ll like it. Maybe I’ll run the whole damn country. I do have a few ideas about that.

But that’s getting ahead of myself.

I glance at the countdown on my ship’s display. Three months to Saturn. Two years in orbit. Then nine months to return home. Three years total. I’ll be 32 when I return. Plenty of time.

I tap a few commands into the console, watching as my cryosleep pod fills with cold liquid.

See you in three months, Jonathan.

Lights out.