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The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-13-2025
Planet Baden Baden
Orbital Spa & Cruise Regional Archives, April 10, 835 AS
The archive center sat on the edge of a sulfur basin — which sounded a lot more poetic than it smelled — and was half-swallowed by black volcanic sands that had long ago decided sidewalks were optional. From orbit, Baden Baden looked like the kind of place where rich people went to forget they had responsibilities and poor people went to scrub their lungs with minerals. Azure waters, pristine beaches, gravity-assisted detox programs — all very brochure-worthy.
But inland, away from the therapeutic massages and overpriced smoothies, the planet revealed its true self: a belching cauldron of steam, ash, and the sort of ominous geological rumbling that usually preceded lawsuits.
The automatic door to Archive Unit 4 opened with a wheeze, a judder, and the sort of sound you’d expect from an elderly cat being asked to do algebra. Hermann Schmidt stepped in first, followed by Albert Neer, his XO, and Hans Belck, his flying engineer, their boots clicking ominously on oxidized tile that had last seen polish during the 80 years war. The air inside was dry, sulfuric, and carried a faint aroma of burned circuitry and disappointment.
“Charming,” Neer muttered, eyeing a wall panel that blinked like it was reconsidering life choices.
“Be thankful the door opened at all,” Belck offered, shifting the diagnostics rig on his back with the weary grace of a man used to carrying problems that hummed ominously. “Some of these machines are older than Rheinland’s last functioning democracy.”
Schmidt said nothing. He had cultivated a specific silence for moments like these: calm, practical, and faintly judgemental. He approached the central console — a slab of antiquity so outdated it could probably vote in three monarchies — and keyed in the request codes from Directorin Cross.
They were here, officially, to investigate an unregistered ship floating in orbit. Unofficially, they were here to find out why the hell their fleet included a ship nobody had ever heard of, activated via a clerical error and now stubbornly hanging over Baden Baden like a ghost with a questionable curriculum vitae.
Belck brought the systems online. It took coaxing, gentle threats, and a firm smack on the side. “Local database reads nominal. Last manual archive sync: 810 A.S.”
“Charming,” Neer said again. It was becoming a theme.
“That’s before the restructuring,” Schmidt noted. “Back when we still filed things under ‘miscellaneous’ and hoped for the best.”
He tapped in the activation code provided by the Directorate. The machine whirred with the enthusiasm of a tired librarian being asked to fetch a scroll sealed in wax and bad intentions.
Fifteen minutes later — a span filled with humming, blinking, and one existential crisis from a cooling fan — the terminal spat out its treasure: half-corrupted logs in obsolete formatting, annotated in a style best described as “intern on their first day.”
ENTRY ID: BB-RM-TR1130-ALPHA
Registry Name: Serendipity
Transfer Origin: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Initial Docking at Baden Baden: 714 A.S.
Vessel Class: TR-1130 Pilgrim Liner
Fleet Affiliation: N/A – Orbital Direct Acquisition
Prior Designation: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Noted in transfer: [DATA CORRUPTED] Rheinl... Ministr... [DATA CORRUPTED]..V. Morgen... [DATA CORRUPTED]
Belck let out a low whistle, the kind of sound engineers make when they spot the word “Ministry” and the phrase “data corrupted” in close proximity.
Schmidt leaned closer. “Serendipity and Morgen… something. I came looking for one name. Now I’ve got two and a headache.”
“Not listed as a callsign, though,” Neer pointed out. “Just an afterthought.”
“Could’ve been the original name,” Schmidt guessed. “Or the last one before someone decided to play fast and loose with records management.”
Neer frowned. “Why wasn’t it added to the official Orbital registry, then? Even the janitor’s mop gets a fleet code.”
“Half the metadata’s toast,” Belck muttered, scrolling further. “The rest reads like someone shoved it through a blender, reclassified it as ‘miscellaneous science barge’ and forgot to press save.”
“Or hid it,” Schmidt said quietly.
They all stared at the console for a moment, listening to the steady hum of the servers — that ancient, reassuring white noise of bureaucracy at rest.
Outside, geysers exhaled into the air like the planet sighing through a blocked nose.
Schmidt straightened. “There’s nothing else we’re going to find here. Not in this mausoleum.”
“You think there’s something still onboard?” Neer asked. “Logs? Black box?”
“Something,” Schmidt replied. “We were handed the keys to a ship nobody’s touched in almost one hundred and thirty years. And if she still has power, she might still have answers.”
“Or ghosts,” Neer added. “I’m just saying. Statistically, ships like this always have ghosts.”
“Then let’s hope they’re chatty,” Schmidt said with a grin, already heading for the exit.
Belck powered down the terminal. “Let’s hope she still has a reactor.”
“Let’s hope she still has a floor,” Neer muttered.
They stepped back into the boiling afternoon sun of Baden Baden, the air clinging to them like a damp towel full of minerals. Above them, the Serendipity circled the planet in silence — forgotten, misfiled, and possibly about to ruin someone’s week.
But not, for once, theirs.
Not yet.
But inland, away from the therapeutic massages and overpriced smoothies, the planet revealed its true self: a belching cauldron of steam, ash, and the sort of ominous geological rumbling that usually preceded lawsuits.
The automatic door to Archive Unit 4 opened with a wheeze, a judder, and the sort of sound you’d expect from an elderly cat being asked to do algebra. Hermann Schmidt stepped in first, followed by Albert Neer, his XO, and Hans Belck, his flying engineer, their boots clicking ominously on oxidized tile that had last seen polish during the 80 years war. The air inside was dry, sulfuric, and carried a faint aroma of burned circuitry and disappointment.
“Charming,” Neer muttered, eyeing a wall panel that blinked like it was reconsidering life choices.
“Be thankful the door opened at all,” Belck offered, shifting the diagnostics rig on his back with the weary grace of a man used to carrying problems that hummed ominously. “Some of these machines are older than Rheinland’s last functioning democracy.”
Schmidt said nothing. He had cultivated a specific silence for moments like these: calm, practical, and faintly judgemental. He approached the central console — a slab of antiquity so outdated it could probably vote in three monarchies — and keyed in the request codes from Directorin Cross.
They were here, officially, to investigate an unregistered ship floating in orbit. Unofficially, they were here to find out why the hell their fleet included a ship nobody had ever heard of, activated via a clerical error and now stubbornly hanging over Baden Baden like a ghost with a questionable curriculum vitae.
Belck brought the systems online. It took coaxing, gentle threats, and a firm smack on the side. “Local database reads nominal. Last manual archive sync: 810 A.S.”
“Charming,” Neer said again. It was becoming a theme.
“That’s before the restructuring,” Schmidt noted. “Back when we still filed things under ‘miscellaneous’ and hoped for the best.”
He tapped in the activation code provided by the Directorate. The machine whirred with the enthusiasm of a tired librarian being asked to fetch a scroll sealed in wax and bad intentions.
Fifteen minutes later — a span filled with humming, blinking, and one existential crisis from a cooling fan — the terminal spat out its treasure: half-corrupted logs in obsolete formatting, annotated in a style best described as “intern on their first day.”
ENTRY ID: BB-RM-TR1130-ALPHA
Registry Name: Serendipity
Transfer Origin: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Initial Docking at Baden Baden: 714 A.S.
Vessel Class: TR-1130 Pilgrim Liner
Fleet Affiliation: N/A – Orbital Direct Acquisition
Prior Designation: [DATA CORRUPTED]
Noted in transfer: [DATA CORRUPTED] Rheinl... Ministr... [DATA CORRUPTED]..V. Morgen... [DATA CORRUPTED]
Belck let out a low whistle, the kind of sound engineers make when they spot the word “Ministry” and the phrase “data corrupted” in close proximity.
Schmidt leaned closer. “Serendipity and Morgen… something. I came looking for one name. Now I’ve got two and a headache.”
“Not listed as a callsign, though,” Neer pointed out. “Just an afterthought.”
“Could’ve been the original name,” Schmidt guessed. “Or the last one before someone decided to play fast and loose with records management.”
Neer frowned. “Why wasn’t it added to the official Orbital registry, then? Even the janitor’s mop gets a fleet code.”
“Half the metadata’s toast,” Belck muttered, scrolling further. “The rest reads like someone shoved it through a blender, reclassified it as ‘miscellaneous science barge’ and forgot to press save.”
“Or hid it,” Schmidt said quietly.
They all stared at the console for a moment, listening to the steady hum of the servers — that ancient, reassuring white noise of bureaucracy at rest.
Outside, geysers exhaled into the air like the planet sighing through a blocked nose.
Schmidt straightened. “There’s nothing else we’re going to find here. Not in this mausoleum.”
“You think there’s something still onboard?” Neer asked. “Logs? Black box?”
“Something,” Schmidt replied. “We were handed the keys to a ship nobody’s touched in almost one hundred and thirty years. And if she still has power, she might still have answers.”
“Or ghosts,” Neer added. “I’m just saying. Statistically, ships like this always have ghosts.”
“Then let’s hope they’re chatty,” Schmidt said with a grin, already heading for the exit.
Belck powered down the terminal. “Let’s hope she still has a reactor.”
“Let’s hope she still has a floor,” Neer muttered.
They stepped back into the boiling afternoon sun of Baden Baden, the air clinging to them like a damp towel full of minerals. Above them, the Serendipity circled the planet in silence — forgotten, misfiled, and possibly about to ruin someone’s week.
But not, for once, theirs.
Not yet.
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-15-2025
Planet Baden Baden
On a Taurus, on their way to geostationary orbit
The ascent from Baden Baden was brief, though not easily forgotten. Volcanic thermals clawed at the shuttle’s underside as if the planet’s weather had a personal grudge against aerospace design.
From his window seat Hermann Schmidt watched the planet dissolve into layers of cobalt blue. Below, the islands of Baden Baden slipped away into hazy abstraction: beautiful, if you enjoyed your holidays witha slight scent of boiled eggs and vulcanic instability.
“Ship signature ahead,” said Neer from the co-pilot seat, in the tone of a man hoping this counted as hazardous duty. “Geostationary over Yankee7. No transponder. Just a passive return on hull plating and a faint thermal bloom. She’s dead quiet."
And then they saw her.
She drifted into view—less a spacecraft than a gothic cathedral that had taken a wrong turn at Lagrange Point Three. A bruised TR-1130 Pilgrim Liner, blocky and brooding, wrapped in the kind of frost that made you reconsider whether “derelict” was the right word. “Haunted” felt more appropriate.
“She’s been patched,” Neer muttered, squinting at the readouts. “Hull’s a mess. Layers on layers. Drive spines look like they were yanked off a Rheinland cruiser and reattached by a poet with access to welding gear.”
The docking maneuver was entirely manual, The Serendipity, now firmly in retirement from functioning automatic coupling systems, offered no assistance. Belck’s hands were engaged in both flying and issuing a masterclass in multilingual swearing.
Eventually, with a clunk, the shuttle docked.
“We’re connected,” Belck reported. “Pressure’s nominal. Life support reads as... present, which is strange. I wouldn’t trust this ship to keep a cactus alive.”
Neer sealed his gloves with the weary grace of a man preparing to inspect the inside of a very old tomb. “What do we expect to find aboard?”
“A ship forgotten by its owners,” Schmidt said, rising from his seat. “And quite possibly by God.”
From his window seat Hermann Schmidt watched the planet dissolve into layers of cobalt blue. Below, the islands of Baden Baden slipped away into hazy abstraction: beautiful, if you enjoyed your holidays witha slight scent of boiled eggs and vulcanic instability.
“Ship signature ahead,” said Neer from the co-pilot seat, in the tone of a man hoping this counted as hazardous duty. “Geostationary over Yankee7. No transponder. Just a passive return on hull plating and a faint thermal bloom. She’s dead quiet."
And then they saw her.
She drifted into view—less a spacecraft than a gothic cathedral that had taken a wrong turn at Lagrange Point Three. A bruised TR-1130 Pilgrim Liner, blocky and brooding, wrapped in the kind of frost that made you reconsider whether “derelict” was the right word. “Haunted” felt more appropriate.
“She’s been patched,” Neer muttered, squinting at the readouts. “Hull’s a mess. Layers on layers. Drive spines look like they were yanked off a Rheinland cruiser and reattached by a poet with access to welding gear.”
The docking maneuver was entirely manual, The Serendipity, now firmly in retirement from functioning automatic coupling systems, offered no assistance. Belck’s hands were engaged in both flying and issuing a masterclass in multilingual swearing.
Eventually, with a clunk, the shuttle docked.
“We’re connected,” Belck reported. “Pressure’s nominal. Life support reads as... present, which is strange. I wouldn’t trust this ship to keep a cactus alive.”
Neer sealed his gloves with the weary grace of a man preparing to inspect the inside of a very old tomb. “What do we expect to find aboard?”
“A ship forgotten by its owners,” Schmidt said, rising from his seat. “And quite possibly by God.”
Inside the Serendipity
Service docking corridor 4A
The hatch opened with a hiss that sounded more like a sigh—one of those long, weary exhalations that suggested the ship had not only been sealed for decades but was rather hoping to stay that way.
A corridor revealed itself—rusted, flickering, and somehow vaguely annoyed. The lighting flickered reluctantly to life, casting a dim glow on walls that seemed designed by someone with strong feelings about claustrophobia as a character-building exercise.
“Smells like vinegar and ozone,”Neer muttered. “And something else.”
“Like a museum that drowned,” Schmidt offered, wrinkling his nose.
“Coolant,” Belck added, glancing at a handheld sensor. “Probably a leak from the backup systems. Explains the pickled atmosphere.”
Their boots echoed dully on the floor, which was doing its best impression of a surface once intended for walking. There were no insignias, no dedication plaques.
“She’s seen better days,” Neer said, shining his light over rusted signage pointing toward observation decks, labs, and what appeared to be an engineering section that judged you as you passed it.
Schmidt adjusted the light on his shoulder. “We split up. If you find anything broken—mechanical or philosophical—call it in. I’m heading to the command bridge.”
Neer peeled off toward the labs. Belck hovered near a vertical shaft, muttered something unkind about structural integrity, and descended. Schmidt climbed.
A corridor revealed itself—rusted, flickering, and somehow vaguely annoyed. The lighting flickered reluctantly to life, casting a dim glow on walls that seemed designed by someone with strong feelings about claustrophobia as a character-building exercise.
“Smells like vinegar and ozone,”Neer muttered. “And something else.”
“Like a museum that drowned,” Schmidt offered, wrinkling his nose.
“Coolant,” Belck added, glancing at a handheld sensor. “Probably a leak from the backup systems. Explains the pickled atmosphere.”
Their boots echoed dully on the floor, which was doing its best impression of a surface once intended for walking. There were no insignias, no dedication plaques.
“She’s seen better days,” Neer said, shining his light over rusted signage pointing toward observation decks, labs, and what appeared to be an engineering section that judged you as you passed it.
Schmidt adjusted the light on his shoulder. “We split up. If you find anything broken—mechanical or philosophical—call it in. I’m heading to the command bridge.”
Neer peeled off toward the labs. Belck hovered near a vertical shaft, muttered something unkind about structural integrity, and descended. Schmidt climbed.
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-15-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck
The staircase groaned but ultimately cooperated. The walls had been repainted several times—civilian white over military gray, which itself probably covered something older, darker, and fond of writing things in old, forgotten, Alliance languages.
At the top, Schmidt found the bridge.
It had the faded grandeur of a ballroom now used to store broken chairs and bad memories. Consoles sat dormant, heavy with dust. The air smelled of burnt circuitry, ozone, and that strange metallic hint of historical regret.
Then he noticed the damage.
Scorch marks along the starboard bulkhead. Plasma scoring, precise and purposeful. Three projectile impacts at the central column—tight grouping, chest height. The kind of marksmanship that meant either commando or someone with a deep personal issue.
And by the navigation station, the floor had buckled inward—evidence of a concussive blast. The sort that happens when someone loses an argument with a grenade.
There were no bodies. No shell casings. Just silence, the kind that comes after something very loud, and very final.
He moved to the captain’s station. Beneath the main console: a terminal. Recessed. Unpowered.
He tapped it once. Twice. Nothing.
Then he saw the nameplate—charred, scorched, and clearly not filed with the usual bureaucratic ceremony.
"…gernstern"
Schmidt stared at it. Then he opened comms.
“Neer. Belck. I’m on the bridge. Found a terminal—dead. Might be ship logs. Bring tools. And optimism.”
A crackle. Then Belck’s voice: “On my way. Found some power relays on the mid-deck. Might be able to reroute. Unless it’s all ghosts and copper dreams.”
Neer chimed in. “Found the labs. One’s astrogeology. The other, advanced cartography—heavy-duty stuff. This wasn’t a party ship.”
Schmidt kept his eyes on the damage.
“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
Moments later, Albert Neer and Hans Belck stepped onto the bridge. Neer carried a portable diagnostic scanner, a device famous for offering only two distinct outcomes: “Yes” and “Oh dear.” Belck, by contrast, wore a tool kit across one shoulder with the effortless confidence of someone who sincerely believed that circuits were people too.
They exchanged the kind of nod engineers reserve for entering rooms with uncertain structural integrity and a high chance of irony.
“There she is, Hans,” Schmidt said, gesturing toward the inert console with the air of a landlord pointing out a tenant behind on rent. “All yours.”
Belck crouched with the solemnity of a man about to invalidate several warranties at once. “Power leads are... mostly intact. Bit of oxidation. Could try a manual bypass. Might fry the board. Or boot it into legacy mode. Possibly in Old Rheinlandic.”
As Belck murmured a string of gentle threats at the wiring, Schmidt turned to Neer. “What did you find?”
Neer wore the expression of someone who’d just rummaged through a museum curated by pessimists. “Science deck’s loaded. Geological survey kits, sample analyzers, some exploration gear. And a set of star charts where someone’s definitely scrawled ‘Hic Sunt Leones’ in the corners.”
“Passenger ship?” Schmidt asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Not even close. Looks like a government survey vessel. Badly disguised. Some of the gear’s Rheinland-issue. Stamped and everything.”
Belck paused. “Not Orbital?”
“Not unless Orbital’s started dabbling in state secrets and forgot to update their brochures.”
“And the name?”
Neer nodded. “One of the consoles still had a partial identifier. Fragmented, but readable: Morgenstern. Definitely not Serendipity.”
Schmidt folded his arms and let out the kind of sigh used exclusively when the universe reveals it’s up to its old tricks again. “So the Serendipity is a fake. Survey ship in disguise. Abandoned. Plasma-scarred.”
“Don’t forget the minor gunfight in the foyer,” Neer added. “Lends a certain charm.”
Schmidt gave a dry laugh. “And here we thought this was a paperwork error".
The console blinked.
Once.
Then again.
An amber light pulsed gently — not quite urgent, but definitely suggestive. Like a polite ghost clearing its throat.
Belck exhaled with quiet triumph. “She’s waking up. Give her a moment to remember what century it is.”
A low hum spread through the bridge — not threatening, just... present. The sound of forgotten systems shaking off the cobwebs of bureaucracy. Screens flickered. Panels sighed. One or two auxiliary displays lit up just long enough to question their purpose before giving up again.
Then the main terminal blinked to life. Static washed across the screen, followed by an initialization prompt — the sort written by engineers who suspected anyone reading it deserved to be judged:
[Command Input Required]
Status: ARCHIVAL MODE ENGAGED
Access Level: RESTRICTED / DELEGATED
Displaying Log Archive: 710–713 A.S.
Access Level: Restricted
Ship Identifier: [ERROR]
Last User: Cmdr. Von Ta– [DATA CORRUPTED]]
Neer leaned in. “Looks like we’ve nudged something important.”
The three men gathered in front of the console, their faces lit by the glow of old secrets and mildly passive-aggressive user interfaces. The ambient hum was now accompanied by the faint crackle of static and the sound of ancient red tape rolling over in its grave.
Schmidt broke the quiet. His voice was firm, calm, and carried the peculiar tone of someone who suspected the next few hours would be filed under Complicated.
“All right,” he said. “We start at 710 A.S. We work forward. Every log, every broken timestamp, every footnote that says ‘see appendix F’ and never defines what F is — we comb through it. Somewhere in this archive is the truth. Or at the very least, a spectacularly worded lie.”
At the top, Schmidt found the bridge.
It had the faded grandeur of a ballroom now used to store broken chairs and bad memories. Consoles sat dormant, heavy with dust. The air smelled of burnt circuitry, ozone, and that strange metallic hint of historical regret.
Then he noticed the damage.
Scorch marks along the starboard bulkhead. Plasma scoring, precise and purposeful. Three projectile impacts at the central column—tight grouping, chest height. The kind of marksmanship that meant either commando or someone with a deep personal issue.
And by the navigation station, the floor had buckled inward—evidence of a concussive blast. The sort that happens when someone loses an argument with a grenade.
There were no bodies. No shell casings. Just silence, the kind that comes after something very loud, and very final.
He moved to the captain’s station. Beneath the main console: a terminal. Recessed. Unpowered.
He tapped it once. Twice. Nothing.
Then he saw the nameplate—charred, scorched, and clearly not filed with the usual bureaucratic ceremony.
"…gernstern"
Schmidt stared at it. Then he opened comms.
“Neer. Belck. I’m on the bridge. Found a terminal—dead. Might be ship logs. Bring tools. And optimism.”
A crackle. Then Belck’s voice: “On my way. Found some power relays on the mid-deck. Might be able to reroute. Unless it’s all ghosts and copper dreams.”
Neer chimed in. “Found the labs. One’s astrogeology. The other, advanced cartography—heavy-duty stuff. This wasn’t a party ship.”
Schmidt kept his eyes on the damage.
“No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t.”
Moments later, Albert Neer and Hans Belck stepped onto the bridge. Neer carried a portable diagnostic scanner, a device famous for offering only two distinct outcomes: “Yes” and “Oh dear.” Belck, by contrast, wore a tool kit across one shoulder with the effortless confidence of someone who sincerely believed that circuits were people too.
They exchanged the kind of nod engineers reserve for entering rooms with uncertain structural integrity and a high chance of irony.
“There she is, Hans,” Schmidt said, gesturing toward the inert console with the air of a landlord pointing out a tenant behind on rent. “All yours.”
Belck crouched with the solemnity of a man about to invalidate several warranties at once. “Power leads are... mostly intact. Bit of oxidation. Could try a manual bypass. Might fry the board. Or boot it into legacy mode. Possibly in Old Rheinlandic.”
As Belck murmured a string of gentle threats at the wiring, Schmidt turned to Neer. “What did you find?”
Neer wore the expression of someone who’d just rummaged through a museum curated by pessimists. “Science deck’s loaded. Geological survey kits, sample analyzers, some exploration gear. And a set of star charts where someone’s definitely scrawled ‘Hic Sunt Leones’ in the corners.”
“Passenger ship?” Schmidt asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Not even close. Looks like a government survey vessel. Badly disguised. Some of the gear’s Rheinland-issue. Stamped and everything.”
Belck paused. “Not Orbital?”
“Not unless Orbital’s started dabbling in state secrets and forgot to update their brochures.”
“And the name?”
Neer nodded. “One of the consoles still had a partial identifier. Fragmented, but readable: Morgenstern. Definitely not Serendipity.”
Schmidt folded his arms and let out the kind of sigh used exclusively when the universe reveals it’s up to its old tricks again. “So the Serendipity is a fake. Survey ship in disguise. Abandoned. Plasma-scarred.”
“Don’t forget the minor gunfight in the foyer,” Neer added. “Lends a certain charm.”
Schmidt gave a dry laugh. “And here we thought this was a paperwork error".
The console blinked.
Once.
Then again.
An amber light pulsed gently — not quite urgent, but definitely suggestive. Like a polite ghost clearing its throat.
Belck exhaled with quiet triumph. “She’s waking up. Give her a moment to remember what century it is.”
A low hum spread through the bridge — not threatening, just... present. The sound of forgotten systems shaking off the cobwebs of bureaucracy. Screens flickered. Panels sighed. One or two auxiliary displays lit up just long enough to question their purpose before giving up again.
Then the main terminal blinked to life. Static washed across the screen, followed by an initialization prompt — the sort written by engineers who suspected anyone reading it deserved to be judged:
[Command Input Required]
Status: ARCHIVAL MODE ENGAGED
Access Level: RESTRICTED / DELEGATED
Displaying Log Archive: 710–713 A.S.
Access Level: Restricted
Ship Identifier: [ERROR]
Last User: Cmdr. Von Ta– [DATA CORRUPTED]]
Neer leaned in. “Looks like we’ve nudged something important.”
The three men gathered in front of the console, their faces lit by the glow of old secrets and mildly passive-aggressive user interfaces. The ambient hum was now accompanied by the faint crackle of static and the sound of ancient red tape rolling over in its grave.
Schmidt broke the quiet. His voice was firm, calm, and carried the peculiar tone of someone who suspected the next few hours would be filed under Complicated.
“All right,” he said. “We start at 710 A.S. We work forward. Every log, every broken timestamp, every footnote that says ‘see appendix F’ and never defines what F is — we comb through it. Somewhere in this archive is the truth. Or at the very least, a spectacularly worded lie.”
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-19-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck
Belck was tapping at the keyboard with the same delicacy one might use to play a battered accordion. The terminal, for its part, seemed in no particular rush to cooperate: it emitted an intermittent hum, flickered through two cryptic screens, and then spat out an error message.
“I just need to... convince it that it’s still 714 A.S.,” Belck muttered. “And that we forgot the password for a century.”
“Want me to try saying please?” Neer offered, arms crossed.
“You could try”
A prolonged beep broke the tension, followed by a prompt shift. Lines of raw code wobbled for a moment, then gave way to a grainy gray-green interface — full of distortion, but miraculously functional.
[Access Granted]
Mission Archive Access – Tier III Clearance
Origin: E.V. Morgenstern – Designation EV-RH-1130-MGN
Commander: Capt. Klaus von Tanner – Rheinland Ministry for Space Exploration
Mission Type: Geological Reconnaissance and Strategic Survey (Post-War Federal Reconstruction Directive 29-A)
“Bingo,” Belck said. “Voice logs. Standard ministry format. Buckets of boredom incoming.”
“Play them,” Schmidt said. “If this ship has a story to tell, that’s where it’ll start.”
[LOG ARCHIVE – TRANSCRIPT – CAPT. KLAUS VON TANNER]
“I just need to... convince it that it’s still 714 A.S.,” Belck muttered. “And that we forgot the password for a century.”
“Want me to try saying please?” Neer offered, arms crossed.
“You could try”
A prolonged beep broke the tension, followed by a prompt shift. Lines of raw code wobbled for a moment, then gave way to a grainy gray-green interface — full of distortion, but miraculously functional.
[Access Granted]
Mission Archive Access – Tier III Clearance
Origin: E.V. Morgenstern – Designation EV-RH-1130-MGN
Commander: Capt. Klaus von Tanner – Rheinland Ministry for Space Exploration
Mission Type: Geological Reconnaissance and Strategic Survey (Post-War Federal Reconstruction Directive 29-A)
“Bingo,” Belck said. “Voice logs. Standard ministry format. Buckets of boredom incoming.”
“Play them,” Schmidt said. “If this ship has a story to tell, that’s where it’ll start.”
[LOG ARCHIVE – TRANSCRIPT – CAPT. KLAUS VON TANNER]
![[+]](/forums/images/collapse_collapsed.png "[+]")
Mission Record No. 001RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-19-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck, geology lesson 1.01
The screen flickers again.
Another log.
Another droning voice.
“Survey of asteroid belt C-12 completed. Primary composition: silicates, traces of nickel, iron. Yield potential: marginal. Suggest limited extraction viability. Telemetry packets 348 to 371 appended.”
Neer sighed audibly, rubbing his eyes. “That’s the seventh one in a row.”
“Skip… skip… skip…” Neer muttered, poking at the archive terminal with the kind of focused resentment normally reserved for long tax forms and defrosting the freezer. “I swear these are just mineral inventories and asteroid classification charts. Someone must’ve spent three straight years measuring rock densities.”
“Rocks are actually exciting,” Schmidt said dryly, leaning over his shoulder. “They’re just...emotionally reserved.”
Belck was cross-legged on the floor, nursing the power conduit with the reverence of a monk polishing an ancient relic. “If you both could limit your sarcasm to under two kilojoules per minute, the breaker might live long enough to survive this next boot cycle.”
“They were doing exactly what they said on the paperwork,” Schmidt muttered, arms folded. “Post-war recon mission. Rheinland needed valuable rocks. They went out to find valuable rocks.”
“They certainly found the rocks,” Neer grumbled. “In every shape and flavor. If I hear the word nickel one more time—”
“Wait,” Belck said. He stopped scrolling.
One of the log headers looked different. Not just dry summary text, but flagged.
An embedded advisory tag. Belck selected it.
The terminal buzzed softly, then clicked into audio playback.
The bridge was quiet. No one said anything for a few seconds.
Schmidt exhaled. "That’s new.”
Neer leaned in. “A jumphole that becames unstable after a couple of transits? That’s not how they’re supposed to work.”
“No,” Belck said slowly. “No, it isn’t.”
Schmidt turned toward the screen, tapping the console. “Let’s see what happened next.”
Belck nodded, already queuing the next log in sequence.
“Now it’s getting interesting,” he said.
The bridge lights flickered faintly. Somewhere deep in the ship’s gut, a relay clicked back to life — as if the vessel, too, was finally starting to remember.
Another log.
Another droning voice.
“Survey of asteroid belt C-12 completed. Primary composition: silicates, traces of nickel, iron. Yield potential: marginal. Suggest limited extraction viability. Telemetry packets 348 to 371 appended.”
Neer sighed audibly, rubbing his eyes. “That’s the seventh one in a row.”
“Skip… skip… skip…” Neer muttered, poking at the archive terminal with the kind of focused resentment normally reserved for long tax forms and defrosting the freezer. “I swear these are just mineral inventories and asteroid classification charts. Someone must’ve spent three straight years measuring rock densities.”
“Rocks are actually exciting,” Schmidt said dryly, leaning over his shoulder. “They’re just...emotionally reserved.”
Belck was cross-legged on the floor, nursing the power conduit with the reverence of a monk polishing an ancient relic. “If you both could limit your sarcasm to under two kilojoules per minute, the breaker might live long enough to survive this next boot cycle.”
“They were doing exactly what they said on the paperwork,” Schmidt muttered, arms folded. “Post-war recon mission. Rheinland needed valuable rocks. They went out to find valuable rocks.”
“They certainly found the rocks,” Neer grumbled. “In every shape and flavor. If I hear the word nickel one more time—”
“Wait,” Belck said. He stopped scrolling.
One of the log headers looked different. Not just dry summary text, but flagged.
An embedded advisory tag. Belck selected it.
The terminal buzzed softly, then clicked into audio playback.
The bridge was quiet. No one said anything for a few seconds.
Schmidt exhaled. "That’s new.”
Neer leaned in. “A jumphole that becames unstable after a couple of transits? That’s not how they’re supposed to work.”
“No,” Belck said slowly. “No, it isn’t.”
Schmidt turned toward the screen, tapping the console. “Let’s see what happened next.”
Belck nodded, already queuing the next log in sequence.
“Now it’s getting interesting,” he said.
The bridge lights flickered faintly. Somewhere deep in the ship’s gut, a relay clicked back to life — as if the vessel, too, was finally starting to remember.
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-19-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck, down the rabbit (hell)hole
The first batch of logs began to re-emerge from the electronic dust where it was vegetating.
“Hold on,” Neer said, squinting at the screen like it had personally offended him. “High asteroid density… fluctuating EM emissions… scorching radiation fields… Is that—?”
“Ja,” Schmidt said, already nodding. “Omega-41.”
Belck let out a quiet whistle, the kind usually reserved for sinkholes and extremely poorly thought-out marriage proposals. “Now there’s a system you don’t want to end up in accidentally.”
“Or at all,” Neer added, running a hand down his face. “I mean, there’s wandering off course, and then there’s ‘congratulations, you’re now trapped inside a radioactive tomb with a Neutron star thrice the size of New Berlin.’”
Belck nodded. “Between the ambient radiation and the magnetic interference, it’s a miracle they even managed to get these logs recorded.”
Neer rubbed his arms. “Losing multiple wings, fried systems, and they still try to regroup like it's a drill.”
“What else could they do?” Schmidt asked. “You’re surrounded by radioactive rocks, the stars don’t look right, and half your fleet’s gone. You choose the biggest one and hope someone else had the same idea. The situation was bad but they couldn’t even tell how bad it was. They just knew they’d come out of a jump and the fleet was… gone. Scattered. Damaged.”
“Right,” Neer muttered. “Of course. Because the only thing worse than knowing you’re doomed is not being entirely sure how doomed.”
Belck wiped his hands on his coveralls, eyes still fixed on the terminal. “Notice how the logs get shorter?”
“Running out of power?” Neer guessed.
“Or hope,” Belck said.
Schmidt’s gaze lingered on the log dates. “We’re four days in, and they’ve already got ghost signals and disappearing ships.”
“And one hell of a hiding spot,” Neer added, pointing at the asteroid scan from the earlier log. “Ferromagnetic core, magnetic interference, weirdly tectonically stable for something floating in deep space. If you wanted to hide something out here…”
Belck tapped a key. “Next log’s different. Tighter encryption header. Priority flag.”
Schmidt nodded. “Open it. Let’s see what scared the captain enough to encrypt something in the middle of all this.”.”
“Hold on,” Neer said, squinting at the screen like it had personally offended him. “High asteroid density… fluctuating EM emissions… scorching radiation fields… Is that—?”
“Ja,” Schmidt said, already nodding. “Omega-41.”
Belck let out a quiet whistle, the kind usually reserved for sinkholes and extremely poorly thought-out marriage proposals. “Now there’s a system you don’t want to end up in accidentally.”
“Or at all,” Neer added, running a hand down his face. “I mean, there’s wandering off course, and then there’s ‘congratulations, you’re now trapped inside a radioactive tomb with a Neutron star thrice the size of New Berlin.’”
Belck nodded. “Between the ambient radiation and the magnetic interference, it’s a miracle they even managed to get these logs recorded.”
Neer rubbed his arms. “Losing multiple wings, fried systems, and they still try to regroup like it's a drill.”
“What else could they do?” Schmidt asked. “You’re surrounded by radioactive rocks, the stars don’t look right, and half your fleet’s gone. You choose the biggest one and hope someone else had the same idea. The situation was bad but they couldn’t even tell how bad it was. They just knew they’d come out of a jump and the fleet was… gone. Scattered. Damaged.”
“Right,” Neer muttered. “Of course. Because the only thing worse than knowing you’re doomed is not being entirely sure how doomed.”
Belck wiped his hands on his coveralls, eyes still fixed on the terminal. “Notice how the logs get shorter?”
“Running out of power?” Neer guessed.
“Or hope,” Belck said.
Schmidt’s gaze lingered on the log dates. “We’re four days in, and they’ve already got ghost signals and disappearing ships.”
“And one hell of a hiding spot,” Neer added, pointing at the asteroid scan from the earlier log. “Ferromagnetic core, magnetic interference, weirdly tectonically stable for something floating in deep space. If you wanted to hide something out here…”
Belck tapped a key. “Next log’s different. Tighter encryption header. Priority flag.”
Schmidt nodded. “Open it. Let’s see what scared the captain enough to encrypt something in the middle of all this.”.”
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-20-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck, down the rabbit (hell)hole, but faster
The log flickered on the screen, a cold line of monochrome text quietly finishing the story that no one had wanted to hear.
Neer leaned back slowly, arms crossed.
“They set their fallback point… right on top of a Corsair base.”
He stared at the terminal like it had personally betrayed him.
“They didn’t know. They just—walked into it.”
Schmidt said nothing. He was still reading the report, line by line, as if some detail might shift under closer inspection. Something—anything—that might make it all less absurd.
Neer shook his head. “Why didn’t the Corsairs hit them earlier? An entire convoy doesn’t just waltz into Omega-41 without pinging a few hostile radars.”
Belck answered without looking up.
“Maybe they were waiting. Watching. Figured out the route, picked their rock, and let them come. Easier than chasing them across the system.”
“A trap,” Schmidt said, flatly. “Sprung clean.”
Neer leaned forward again, scrubbing through the log, and stopped. He replayed the final bit of audio, the line that had caught his ear. Von Tanner’s voice, urgent, clipped:
“… Consensus reached: course adjusted to quadrant Delta-5...”
They all stared at the screen.
“The center,” Neer repeated. “They went toward the center of Omega-41?”
“Maybe they thought it was safer,” Belck offered, but it sounded weak, even to him.
“Safer?” Neer scoffed. “That’s like running into a volcano to get away from the fire.”
“It was panic,” Schmidt said quietly. “They had minutes to react. Weapons fire on all sides, jamming, a compromised fallback point. Delta-5 might’ve looked like the only absurd but viable and secure option left.”
“But it’s Omega-41,” Neer muttered. “There’s no such thing as security here. Just radiation and regret.”
Belck didn’t respond. He was watching the walls of the bridge again — the uneven plating, the retrofitted consoles, the evidence of someone’s long, desperate attempt to keep the ship breathing.
Silence returned, heavy and unsettled.
Then Schmidt stepped toward the console, jaw set.
“Keep reading. Let’s find out if they made it out.”
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-24-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1: command deck, down the rabbit (hell)hole, reaching the bottom
The words hung in the stale air, cast in pale amber light from the console.
Neer was the first to speak, voice quiet.
“They ran straight into the neutron star’s orbit. That’s not bravery, that’s clinical madness.”
“No,” Schmidt said, not taking his eyes off the log. “That’s the kind of madness that gets you out alive.”
Belck tapped a knuckle against a vent grille, his mind clearly elsewhere.
“It explains the localized erosion patterns. That isn’t battle scarring — it’s neutron flux exposure. Deck plating’s been molecularly flayed, stripped away atom by atom.”
“They escaped the ambush…” Neer murmured. “But into that?”
“No one would follow them there,” Schmidt said. “That’s the point. The Corsairs stopped because it wasn’t worth the risk.”
“Or because they didn’t need to,” Belck added. “If they assumed the Morgenstern wouldn't survive the belt... they’d just write them off.”
“A fake death,” Neer said, softly. “Make the hunters stop looking.”
“Classic,” Belck said, exhaling. “If you’re desperate enough to play dead inside a nuclear oven.”
They looked at the screen again. A new log pulsed in the archive, dated January 30th.
Schmidt spoke quietly, almost to himself.
“Let’s see how long they stayed dead.”
No one said anything for a long moment. The log’s final words flickered on the screen, like an echo trying to outlive itself.
Hans shifted his weight, the creak of his boots oddly loud in the silence.
“Twenty-one days,” he said softly. ““That’s not much margin for error.”
Neer sat down slowly on the edge of the console. He looked tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix.
“So just to recap… they stumbled into a trap that shouldn’t have existed, lost the entire convoy in under thirty minutes, and their master plan was to crawl behind a neutron star and hope the Corsairs got bored in less than 3 weeks?” He ran a hand down is face. “Brilliant.”
Schmidt didn’t respond immediately. He was staring at the terminal, at the scrolling numbers and red-flagged logs — like the ship itself was trying to explain, again and again, what had gone wrong.
Eventually, he said, “I don’t think they were trying to win anymore. I think they just wanted not to be caught dying.”
Belck gave a small nod, almost apologetic.
“I used to think these old exploration missions were romantic. Big leaps into the unknown, maps, stars, discoveries.”
He looked up. “Not so much when the stars shoot neutrons and hate for electronic hardware back.”
For a moment, none of them spoke. The Morgenstern groaned softly — metal expanding, or perhaps just remembering.
Schmidt stepped forward and tapped the console.
“Pull the next log,” he said. His voice wasn’t sharp.
“Let’s see what happens when the clock starts ticking”
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-24-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1, command deck: at the bottom of the rabbit (hell)hole
No one spoke for several seconds. Only the soft whirr of the terminal's cooling fans filled the silence — a tired, mechanical sigh that somehow felt appropriate.
Neer broke it first. “So… they didn’t even make it to the far side of the orbit.”
Schmidt didn’t answer. He just stared at the console, jaw set.
Then, softly: “And they kept going.”
He didn’t say it like a statement. He said it like a question, asked to the void. And the void, predictably, didn’t reply.
Belck tilted his head, thoughtful. “You have to admire it, in a way. Most people would have turned off the lights and waited to die. But they adjusted the plan. Kept adapting. Even when adapting clearly wasn’t working anymore.”
Neer muttered, almost to himself, “I wouldn’t have made it to day three.”
Schmidt exhaled slowly. “They made it to the edge. Barely. And now they had no map, no engines, and a radioactive star chewing at their hull.”
He tapped the console. “Let’s see what they did next.”
Belck blinked slowly as the entry came to an end, his mouth opening just a fraction — as if something might come out, and then thinking better of it.
“So they launched their last two scout ships,” he said finally, voice low. “With no working nav, no external comms, and a star trying to cook them alive.”
Neer rubbed the back of his neck, eyes still on the log. “Not exactly a tactical masterstroke. But then again, if you’re Rheinland Navy and everything’s failed, you don’t improvise. You follow the manual until the manual bursts into flames.”
“Discipline over discretion,” Belck muttered.
Schmidt nodded slowly, his arms folded. “It was the only choice that still resembled an order.”
Neer leaned back in his chair. “I mean, imagine being on one of those freighters. ‘Here’s your mission: fly into the void, don’t ping anything, don’t call back, and oh—try not to dissolve.’”
Schmidt didn’t smile. His gaze was still on the console, where the log timestamp blinked patiently, waiting to be remembered.
“He said, if none return,” Schmidt murmured. “Which means one of them must’ve made it back.”
A pause.
Then the screen flickered — the kind of flicker that suggested either something important was about to happen, or that the console was very tired and thinking about retiring permanently.
RE: The Pilgrim that wasn't supposed to be there - Coliz - 04-25-2025
Inside the Serendipity
Bridge 1, command deck: at the bottom of the rabbit (hell)hole
There was a long silence.
“Well,” said Neer, scratching behind his ear. “So that’s that.”
“No,” Belck replied, a bit too fast. “No, not necessarily. There could be interference. Delay. Fuel line freezing. Electromagnetic navigational jammings. Spontaneous sentimentality.”
“Sentimentality?” Neer raised an eyebrow.
Belck looked defensive. “I don’t know. Maybe they decided to watch the stars before turning back to their demise.”
Schmidt gave a soft grunt. “We’ll know soon enough. Keep playing.”
The trio froze.
“Did he just say—” Schmidt began.
“YES!” Neer shouted, fists in the air. “They found Freeport 5!” Neer exploded, half-laughing. “Flying blind? In a floating tin can? While half the crew glowed in the dark?! That's a fucking miracle!”
Belck was laughing now, somewhere between amazement and relief. “They were dead! They were gone! They were flying blind through radioactive molasses! And they found Freeport 5?!”
Schmidt shook his head in disbelief. “They didn’t even know it existed. We have the nav charts, they didn’t. That’s not scouting. That’s…divine intervention paired with a flute full of Rheinlandish discipline.”
Neer wiped his eyes. “I hope they got a warm welcome. Hell, I’d give them medals. And schnapps. Liters of schnapps"
“Coffee,” Neer muttered, still staring at the screen. “In a radiation belt. At half rations. He made them coffee.”
“It’s the most Rheinland thing I’ve ever heard,” Belck replied, deadpan. “Grim determination, tactical despair, and caffeine.”
“Morale boost,” Neer nodded, mock-sincerely. “Commander’s handbook, page thirty-two: ‘When all hope is lost, brew something dark.’”
Hermann tilted his head, still smiling. “Brewed it himself, too. That’s either leadership or a war crime, depending on how long the filters had been reused.”
Schmidt chuckled, crossing his arms. “Given the state of the ship, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was filtered through a sock."
They laughed—quietly, but fully. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t change the situation, but briefly made it more bearable. A pause in the pressure cooker of a story a century old.
Then Schmidt’s gaze lingered on the screen.
“Freeport 5…” he said softly. “They had no idea what they’d stumbled onto.”
“Luck,” Belck said. “It was pure, impossible luck.”
“A small freeport though,” Neer echoed. “Not a drydock. Not a repair facility. A glorified fuel stop. Barely enough to patch up a light freighter, let alone a Pilgrim liner.”
“They must’ve known they couldn’t fix her,” Schmidt said. “At best, they'd stay hidden and hope the radiation didn’t eat them alive before someone noticed.”
Belck’s fingers flew across the console. “Let’s see what their plan was next…”
A blink. A load command.
The next log entry refused to appear.
He frowned. Tried another. Then another.
Blank. All of them.
“No stream,” he muttered. “No playback.”
Neer leaned over. “Glitch?”
“Doesn’t look like it. They’re not deleted. They’re just… not there.”
Schmidt raised an eyebrow. “Like they stopped recording?”
“It seems. Or didn’t have the means to keep recording,” Belck murmured. “Power, damage, corruption—it could be anything.”
Silence.
Neer finally broke it. “So they hide the ship in a graveyard, start running medical and engineering supply runs from a half-functioning station, and then… what? Just vanish?”
“They went quiet,” Schmidt said. “That much is certain."
He looked at the screen again. Freeport 5. Coordinates. A miracle.
“But for a little while, they had coffee.”