Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "The Chase for Truth (or Something Like It)"
The sound of boots echoed in the dim corridors as the three of them rushed through the winding passageways of the Morgenstern. Hans led the way like a man possessed, muttering half-formed calculations and expletives under his breath while juggling a portable terminal and a mess of cables. Albert was close behind, still rubbing the shoulder Schmidt had shoved earlier. Hermann brought up the rear, a little less frantic, but clearly trying to remember the last time any of this felt normal.
“Where exactly are we going, again?” gasped Albert as they rounded a corner and nearly collided with a hanging conduit.
“To the comms deck! If the logs are still there, they’ll be cached in the secondary transmit buffer. Assuming the jammer didn’t fry the redundancy circuit. Which it might have. But I’m hoping it didn’t!” Hans rattled off, barely slowing down.
They descended a narrow stairwell, one of those emergency access shafts clearly designed by someone who hated knees, and emerged into a long, cold corridor lined with ancient cabling and flickering maintenance lights. At the far end, a rusted hatch groaned as Hans forced it open.
The communications deck was a graveyard of old tech—dust, broken panels, and the unmistakable smell of cooked plastic. Hans scanned the room, then darted toward a panel at the far end, where a narrow service conduit ran up along the wall.
“There,” he said, dropping to his knees. “That crawlspace leads directly to the base of the antenna array. There’s an old service terminal tucked behind the relay nodes. Should be just enough power to access the buffer without triggering a broadcast.”
“Should be?” Hermann asked, arching an eyebrow.
“I said should. In the academic sense.”
Before either of them could protest, Hans squeezed himself into the conduit, limbs contorting with a practiced clumsiness that suggested he’d done this sort of thing far too often.
From inside came a series of grunts, muffled curses, and the occasional bang.
“Still alive?” called Albert.
“Define alive,” Hans replied. “Okay, okay—I see the node. Dusty as hell. Some of these cables are charred... damn it, someone definitely jammed the array hard... but—yes! The terminal’s still responding!”
They heard the faint whirr of old systems booting up. Hans fell completely silent for a few seconds, then: “I think I've found them.”
“Can you pull them?” asked Hermann, now peering anxiously toward the crawlspace.
“I’m not only pulling them,” Hans grunted as he wrestled a cable free, “I’m ghosting the port so the antenna doesn’t twitch even a volt. If this thing so much as blinks, I think someone might notice.”
Albert leaned in nervously. “What kind of ‘someone’ are we talking about?”
Hans’s voice echoed faintly from within the conduit. “Uh, you tell me. The Rheinland Navy, the KPR, the MND, our wives on Baden Baden. The more the merrier"
There was a pause.
“Don’t... don’t say that,” Hermann muttered.
A few tense moments passed.
There was a soft, high-pitched beep—the kind that usually precedes either triumph or total disaster.
From inside the maintenance shaft, Hans let out a low, triumphant chuckle. “Well,” he said, crawling backwards with the grace of a startled crab, “I have good news and terrifying news.”
He slid out, holding his portable terminal like a relic retrieved from a temple floor. He was covered in dust, beaming like a man who had just defused a bomb using chewing gum and stubbornness.
“I’ve got them,” Hans said, slightly out of breath. “The logs. The whole packet. Precompiled, timestamped, indexed... everything. They were buried under a ton of crash instructions and a very passive-aggressive error handler.”
Hermann stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “And the terrifying part?”
Hans pointed at the top of the conduit. “The antenna was actually queued for broadcast on every emergency channel. Had we restored even minimal power to the transceiver...it was tuned to blast distress packets on all of them: military frequencies, emergency police bands. Every automated relay in Rheinland. We wouldn't just be noticed—we’d have the entire Westfalen battlegroup doing a flyby before you could say ‘please don’t shoot.’"
Albert went pale. “We’d be also be on every Bounty Hunters wanted list by now.”
“Assuming our camerades in the Rheinland Navy didn’t just shoot first and fill out paperwork later,” Hermann added.
They exchanged a heavy look. Then Albert took a deep breath. “So... what now?”
Hermann took a long look at the terminal, then at Hans. “Now,” he said, “we listen. Let’s find out what was worth killing an entire crew for.”
[Log Entry: March 14st, 711 A.S. | Omega-5, Beta-3 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"Day 16 since extraction from the Sargasso Nest. We are, once again, immobile. Concealed."
"Navigation from Day +2 had remained uneventful until a few hours ago. Despite proceeding at reduced cruise speed due to ongoing engine strain, no significant anomalies were recorded. Long-range scanners registered only minimal activity—fast-moving objects on tangents or retreating vectors, far from our trajectory."
"Today was different."
"At 20.1 klicks from the presumed coordinates of the Cambridge jump hole, our scanners detected eight signatures consistent with medium-to-large vessels. These were positioned at +3° offset from our approach vector, approximately 2 klicks from the jump hole itself. Their configuration appeared static. Confirmed with follow-up scans at 18.6 and 18.1 klicks. No variation."
"I ordered an emergency drop from cruise and the immediate ignition of forward and portside inertial thrusters to slow our advance and redirect course."
"Initial response was nominal."
"At +8 seconds, however, a critical drop in thrust output occurred—85% loss forward, 65% portside. Increasing core output and shutting down secondary systems failed to restore functionality. At +30 seconds, an explosion was registered in the forward array, followed by detachment of one forward and three portside thrusters. Net deceleration capacity reduced by 92.5%."
"The ship began drifting inertially—directly toward the unidentified flotilla, now 15.3 klicks away."
"After consultation with senior officers, we ruled out direct approach without intelligence. Using the remaining docking thrusters, we reoriented 90° to port and engaged starboard thrusters to decelerate further. The maneuver succeeded in changing heading but would not stop us in time."
"A decision had to be made."
"Approximately 12.7 klicks from the flotilla, a large ferromagnetic asteroid was identified—positioned just off our new vector. I issued orders to alter trajectory and execute a controlled collision with the object. With luck, the mass would absorb enough momentum to arrest and shield us from detection.”
The silence after the log ended wasn’t a comfortable one. It felt like the kind of silence that had taken a long journey through the ship’s vents, picked up some rust and regret along the way, and decided to settle next to them.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Even Albert, who had perfected the art of talking through silence, let the moment breathe.
“Huh,” he said eventually. “I’d almost forgotten what he sounded like.”
Hans gave a faint smile. “It’s strange. I knew it would be him, but—still feels like hearing a ghost clear his throat.”
Schmidt leaned towards Hans' console, arms crossed. “If this is one of the last times we hear his voice… I’m almost glad he sounds exactly like he should. Stern, almost slightly annoyed"
Albert tilted his head. “He sounds… alive.”
“Yeah,” Schmidt said. “He does.”
Albert leaned back against a wall, staring at nothing in particular. “Anyway. They slammed into a rock to stay hidden. Honestly, not the worst plan we've heard today.”
Schmidt rubbed his temples. “I suppose ‘controlled collision’ is the optimistic term.”
Hans muttered something about thruster failure rates that no one really wanted translated into percentages.
They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by the gentle hum of aged electronics and the faint, persistent smell of singed rubber.
“I have a feeling,” Albert said, staring at the screen, “that this was the easy part.”
[Log Entry: March 14st, 711 A.S. | Omega-5, Beta-3 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"We are currently stationary, resting against the surface of the asteroid. Structural integrity of the hull at the impact site is negligible. The portside thrusters have been rebooted, now expected to function at 50% of nominal output."
"The real issue, however, lies with the nearby vessels. Our arrival does not appear to have been detected. Their formation remains unchanged, and—hopefully for a little while longer—the size and mineral composition of the asteroid we’ve grounded ourselves against seem sufficient to shield us from visual and radar-based detection.
Thermal detection, however, is another matter entirely. We’re too close."
"Until we can determine the nature of those ships, I’ve ordered the immediate shutdown of all external radiators and thermal exchangers."
"Engineering estimates give us four hours before critical systems begin to fail due to heat buildup, four and a half before the first signs of hyperthermia appear, and five before total crew loss due to thermal exposure."
"Yes, we are invisible. But we are also slowly boiling."
"I am fully aware of the desperation in this maneuver. But with salvation so tantalisingly near, we cannot risk exposure. It is, undeniably, a madness. But a justified one."
"Fortune, though visibly disinterested in our recent trajectory, has not entirely abandoned us. Inventory shows we still have two operational drones aboard—one mining probe and one maintenance unit.
We’ve opted to deploy the latter. It is small, fast, and effectively undetectable unless one knows exactly where to look. It has been launched from Hangar 1 at 1143. Estimated return: 1230."
"With any luck, it will bring back visual and audio confirmation of what we’re dealing with.
Failing that… we shall reconsider our remaining options."
END LOG.
The console light blinked off with a soft click, and silence—thick, buzzing, almost humid—settled over the dusty, cramped communications deck of the Morgenstern.
Albert, who had at some point stopped sitting and started slowly oozing downward into a crouch of existential fatigue, ran a hand through his hair. “Right. So, uh. That’s... definitely happening.”
Hans was still staring at the thermal graph, as if it had personally insulted him. “Four hours before vital systems collapse. Five, tops, before they all boil in their uniforms. And he just—” He gestured helplessly at the screen.
“He's just trying to keep them alive,” Schmidt said, voice quiet but taut. “Buying minutes. Betting that desperation can outthink physics, if only briefly.”
Albert snorted softly. “A bluff against thermodynamics. Very bold. Very desperate. Very Von Tannerish”
Hans shook his head, visibly shaken. “He’s not being reckless. He’s being… methodical. That’s what’s terrifying. This isn’t a madman screaming into the dark. This is a man planning in it.”
Schmidt didn’t reply immediately. He looked down at the deck plating, like it might offer a better version of the story. “They had a way out. They were right there. And now—” His voice trailed off. “Now they’re hiding in an oven, because hope’s the only thing left that hasn’t exploded.”
Albert leaned his head against the bulkhead. “He’s doing everything right. And we already know it doesn’t matter.”
Hans gave a bitter nod. “Yeah. Every move he makes just tightens the knot.”
Silence again. Not contemplative—claustrophobic.
Schmidt exhaled slowly. “Let’s see what the drone saw. If it even made it back.”
Hans turned from his console. “Do we have to? I mean, we could just... I don’t know, invent a happier ending? Write it down, burn it into a plaque. ‘The Morgenstern heroically slipped past undetected and now runs tours around New Berlin.’ That sort of thing.”
Schmidt gave him a look. Not unkind. Just tired.
Hans exhaled and reached for the next file with the slow resignation of a man opening a final bill after declaring bankruptcy. “Alright. Bring on the inevitable. A new episode of "Our Journey to Death: The Audio Experience.”
[Log Entry: March 14st, 711 A.S. | Omega-5, Beta-3 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"AUDIO LOG ONLY"
"+48 minutes since our “controlled crash” onto the asteroid, now affectionately renamed by the bridge crew as St. Klaus Boiling Rock
Internal temperature: 40°C and rising."
"The drone returned to Hangar 1 on schedule. Bringing it back to its maintenance bay would’ve been an inhuman task in this heat, so we opened it right there, right on the hangar floor."
"Luck, it turns out, hasn’t abandoned us—she just took a few steps back to prepare a surprise I’d scarcely dared to hope for."
"There was a roar when Lt. Radek read the gleaming golden nameplate on the Democritus’s hull: “OS&C|Cayman.”
“Kapitan, they’re Orbital vessels, I’m sure of it!” he shouted, while the rest of the team swarmed over the terminal.
“Silver hull, gold trim, sea-green accents—sir, it’s them! You’d know it even without the name!”
"The visual footage—grainy, yes, but unmistakable—left no room for doubt. The flotilla of eight ships includes: one Democritus-class yacht, three Pelican armored transports, one civilian gunboat, and three Roc-type bomber. Every single ship, without exception, bears the same markings: OS&C. Orbital Spa & Cruise."
"We expected hostiles. We were ready for the worst. What we got were friendly faces."
"Hangar 1’s docking bay erupted in uncontrollable joy. I don’t even clearly remember what I said or did the first seconds—I only know I’m now covered in the sweat of half the mechanics and petty officers as we embraced and jumped like children."
"I broadcast the news to the rest of the crew over the hangar intercom, along with the order to reopen all thermal vents. I have no intention of sweating another minute."
"As soon as I returned to the bridge, I ordered the ship dislodged from the asteroid and brought within visual range of the flotilla. And now, visible at last—after a year and a half in hiding—we will finally present ourselves for what we truly are:
Exploration Vessel Morgenstern, Rheinland Navy."
"The agony is over. Our suffering is truly nearing its end.
For the first time since leaving Omega-41, I see the light at the end of the tunnel."
END LOG
The log had ended a few seconds earlier, but the silence still clung to the communication deck like a guilty fog. It had been full of bliss, that log. Unfiltered, soul-warming joy. The kind that makes you want to believe in good endings.
“They thought they were saved,” Albert said, finally, voice brittle, stretched thin between disbelief and something crueler.. “They really thought it was over.”
“It was over,” Hans added quietly. “Just… not the way they meant.”
There was no video —just Von Tanner’s voice, alive with joy so bright it practically lit the room on its own. Yet each of them could see it: the hangar bathed in sweat and relief, uniforms crumpled, laughter echoing off bulkheads like champagne corks. A man, speaking with the certainty that fate had finally decided to be reasonable.
"He sounded... young," Hans murmured, as if surprised the past could still hold anything so alive.
"He sounded wrong," said Schmidt, but not with anger. It was the quiet, dreadful realization that comes when the magician pulls a rabbit from a hat, and you already know the trapdoor is stained red.
Hermann sat back and rubbed his temples. “The irony,” he murmured. “They crash-landed onto an asteroid, nearly cooked alive, clung to life in the dark for over a year... and their prize for surviving all that is a smile from Mr. Captain Redcroft and a boarding party with an allergy to prisoners.”
“Do you think,” Hans asked, “he even suspected? Even for a moment?”
“Who? Von Tanner?” Schmidt shook his head. “He saw ‘Orbital Spa & Cruise’ and imagined room service and a shuttle home. If someone had pointed a gun at him with the OS&C logo on it, he’d have asked for the cocktail list.”
They sat for a while longer, as if holding vigil for a hope already condemned. The bridge lights flickered faintly—perhaps out of pity. A quiet chime broke the silence—soft, respectful, almost apologetic.
Then, with the inevitability of a slow-motion train wreck, the next file began to load.
[Log Entry: March 14st, 711 A.S. | Omega-5, Beta-3 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"AUDIO LOG ONLY"
“This is OS&C|Cayman. Unidentified vessel, cut your engines, identify yourselves, and declare your intentions.”
Background noise: chatter, buttons clicking, static. A voice, muffled “Where the hell did they come from—gunboat and bombers on standby.”
Please don’t be alarmed. Do not fire. I am Captain Klaus Von Tanner of the Rheinland Military, commanding officer of the E.V. Morgenstern. We require immediate assistance.”
A voice, off mic “Sure. And I’m the Emperor of Kusari.” Laughter “Apologies—could you repeat that?”
“Klaus Von Tanner, Captain. Identification number 234987. Rheinland Navy. Deep space exploratory vessel E.V. Morgenstern. I understand it sounds absurd, but you must believe me.”
Silence. A new voice “Captain, this is John Redcroft, commanding officer of the Cayman. Nothing you’ve said so far makes any sense, and I’m putting that as politely as I can.”
“I underst—”
“Let me finish. You appear in a ship that looks more like wreckage than anything functional. No insignia, no military transponder, an IFF signal jumping around like a hamster on cardamine—suddenly, here in deep space, without even a distress signal? Put yourself in my shoes, captain. Why shouldn’t I think you’re a lunatic, or worse?”
"You’re entirely right, Commander Redcroft. And I understand your caution. But please, let me explain, and you can verify it yourself.”
“Go ahead. I’m curious.”
“We are the last of Convoy 710-A, under the Ministry for Space Exploration. We departed New Berlin on January 1st, 710 A.S.”
“Excuse me?”
“543 days ago, sir.”
“And what exactly are you doing here, if I may ask?”
A dry cuckle “Do you have a few hours? In short: the convoy scattered after a destabilized jump hole. We ended up in Omega-41. Ambushed by Corsairs. We hid—this ship barely holding together—for an entire year. Patched it up piece by piece. Left two weeks ago. Dodged Corsairs ever since. And now, here we are. We honestly thought you were hostile. Never imagined we’d find the flagship of Sirius luxury out here.”
"That’s... an incredible story. But still, I have no proof of who you are.”
“You don’t believe me. I understand. Let me be clear: we are not pirates, smugglers, or scavengers. This vessel was built at Oder Shipyard. Its registration is stamped into the primary engine struts—two of which are still visible. I can recite the Morgenstern’s commissioning certificate from memory. I was there. So was Admiral Braun.” Calm, but firm “I can list the full command hierarchy of the Third Fleet. It’s the fleet this vessel belongs to. It’s the fleet I belong to.”
A pause
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Captain. I’m saying this is... highly irregular. No transponder. No markings. You’re a ghost ship.”
“I am a soldier. I have fifteen years of active duty. I command 345 survivors. 310 of them civilians—doctors, geologists, engineers, astrophysicists.. If you think I’m impersonating a Rheinland officer to steal your towel sets and holiday brochures, I suggest you recalibrate your assumptions.”
Another brief silence
“Transmitting a data packet now. Identification and emergency codes. If your vessel can transmit beyond the jump hole, send them to the Rheinland Navy emergency frequencies. They’ll confirm our origin—and my authority—within fifteen minutes.”
“Packet received. Stand by.”
Muffled background voices: hard to make out. A few snippets audible.
“…they’re military? Not civilian?”
“What do we do?”
“Call the director.”
Low voices. A whisper: “…is that really necessary, sir?” Another reply, firmer: “Understood.”
"Apologies for the wait, Commander Von Tanner. We’ve received authorisation to assist you. Meanwhile, we’ve scanned your ship externally. Please deploy your two Humpback freighters from hangars one and two to allow docking clearance for two of our Pelican shuttles. We’ll conduct an onboard inspection, with medical officers. If your story checks out… we’ll begin evacuation.”
“Understood. I’ll issue the order now. Hangars one and two will be ready.”
“Very good. Cayman out.”
“That bastard,” Hans blurted. “He got them to open the hangar doors claiming he had medics on board—and then got them all slaughtered.”
Schmidt nodded slowly, without anger. He just looked tired. Hollowed out. “I don’t think it was his idea. I’d bet the Director gave the order.”
“You think so?”
“Just listen to him. He was terrified. If it had been up to him, he would’ve sent them off with a warning shot or two. But he panicked. He called Curacao. And then… well. You know the rest.”
Hans shook his head, like trying to shake loose the image. “And we still don’t know where the Corsairs came from.”
Silence pressed down for a moment, heavy and damp. Then Hans spoke again, quieter.
“My guess? They were already hiding nearby. Just waiting for the signal.”
Albert turned to him. “Waiting for what?”
“For the hangars to open. They thought they were letting in Pelicans. But what if, instead, it was Corsair drop ships already lined up, ready to board?”
Albert shook his head. “No way. How would they stay hidden in plain sight and board that fast?”
“I think they were already inside." sneaked in Hermann. "Snuck in while everyone was distracted, probably when the ship was a boiling oven.”
“You’d need more than a couple infiltrators to wipe out a whole ship. That’s three hundred people. Someone would have seen something.”
“Unless they struck while everyone was distracted. While they were celebrating.”
“What if they were already aboard the Orbital ships?” Hans suggested.
“I doubt we were offering cruise service to Crete back then. And besides,” Schmidt said, “we still haven’t figured out what that intercepted probe was. Surely not the one they used to find the flotilla.”
“A locator? A relay?”
“No, I don't know. Maybe something that came through the jump hole."
“Gentlemen,” a voice cut through their stream of consciousness like a scalpel “I believe the time has come for me to continue this story.”
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "Management Knows Best (And Always Has)"
The three of them screamed in unison—loud, terrified, and embarrassingly high-pitched. Still shouting, Hermann drew his blaster and fired wildly down the corridor from which they’d come.
"WHO THE HELL WAS THAT? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? SHOW YOURSELF, HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
“Captain Hermann Schmidt,” came a calm, familiar voice, slicing cleanly through the chaos of echoing blaster fire, “if I were you, I’d lower that weapon.”
Schmidt froze.
“Frau Cross? Directorin?”
A figure emerged from the dim haze of the corridor, stepping past a partly opened bulkhead into the flickering light of the communications deck.
“In the flesh,” she said, brushing a film of dust off her jacket. “And just in time, apparently. I really ought to thank you for your appallingly poor aim, Schmidt.”
“I... Directorin, I—I'm mortified,” he muttered, tucking the blaster back into his waistband like a guilty teenager hiding a stolen bottle of gin.
“For fuck’s sake, what would it have cost you to announce yourself? A ping on the transponder, a knock on the bloody hull?” Albert huffed, still gripping his chest.
“What can I say?” Cross replied, unfazed. “I thought I’d surprise you. Given the night you’ve had, I assumed you were getting used to those.”
“Frankly, Directorin,” Hermann said, taking a breath, “I think I just died a little. And I have to ask—what the hell are you doing here? Not just here, but here here, in this labyrinth? How the hell did you even find us?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” she said with a casual shrug, pulling out a slim datapad. “I’ve been watching you for hours.”
Silence fell like a dropped wrench.
“Excuse me?” Hermann said.
“It wasn’t the badge,” Cross said, catching Hermann’s confused glance toward his chest. “That would’ve been far too theatrical.”
She gestured lazily around them. “The bridge, actually the entire ship, has always had surveillance systems—installed by the previous director after a minor, ah, lets just call it "safety breach". You activated them the moment you set foot here. I've been watching and listening ever since.”
She paused, noting their stunned expressions.
“Oh, come now, what were you expecting? We're a corporate institution. Privacy is a charming illusion we let middle managers cling to. Besides, I was also tracking you via my shuttle’s thermal scanners. Three sweaty middle-aged men bumbling around a frozen wreck? You lit up like fireworks.”
“Directorin, what are you saying?” Hermann rubbed his temples. “Why? None of this makes any sense.”
“What do you mean, doesn’t make sense?”
“I mean why spy on us in the first place? You sent us here!”
“Well technically, yes,” she said, as if explaining something to a particularly dense intern. “I actually wanted to see how far you’d get.”
“How far we’d get?” Hans echoed.
“How far into the story. How close to the truth.”
The three of them exchanged looks—bewildered, incredulous, slowly bordering on alarmed.
“Directorin,” Albert began, almost apologetically, “we're not following any of this.”
Cross let out a small sigh. “I won’t insult your intelligence by calling you idiots—I'll assume you're just sleep-deprived and low on blood sugar.”
“Wait,” Hermann said, holding up a hand, “are you saying you already knew all of this? About the Morgenstern? About what happened here?”
“Oh, good, you're catching on,” she said, clapping her hands softly. "Yes, I knew. Or rather, I knew how the story ended. It’s like a tale written in a book no one ever read—only the epilogue was passed down, Director to Director, with one simple instruction: don’t ever read the rest, and don’t ask questions.”
Their eyes widened.
“And so it was,” she continued, “until a few days ago, when the three of you stumbled in and , by pure chance, cracked open this lovely little Pandora’s box.”
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "Dead Men Tell No Tales — Unless They Record First”"
The room sank once more into that same oppressive silence — the kind that usually precedes either a revelation or a nervous breakdown. Hans, evidently leaning toward the latter, broke it.
"So let me get this straight, Director. You knew. About all of it. The lie. The massacre. We asked for clearance to activate the ship, you gave us the go-ahead, then started spying on us the moment we set foot aboard, and now you just… show up."
He blinked. “Right. And now you show up to tell us what, exactly?”
“Well,” Cross said, eyes sliding toward the pocket of Hermann’s coat, “the ending, I’m afraid, you’ve already discovered for yourselves.”
Hermann instinctively rested a hand over it.
“But what you haven’t uncovered — and never would, unless I told you — is why it happened. That’s because the very last logs, the truly final ones, were the only ones successfully purged a century ago. Aren’t you curious? Now that you’ve made it this far?”
The three exchanged glances, less astonished now than profoundly uneasy.
“Well then. Silence is consent.” She sat down on a nearby storage crate like it was a throne.
“I don’t remember which of you said it, but one of you was right — the Corsairs were already aboard the flotilla.”
“That was me,” said Hans, raising a hand.
“Of course it was. Good lad.”
"And what were they doing there, you might ask? They were brokering a deal with us. Or rather — we were brokering one with them. Do you know why the Hawaii hasn’t been turned into scrap metal over the last thirty years? Why Corsairs wave at our ships instead of vaporizing them? Why when you run into one, he asks for a few crates of alcohol and not your liver? Why the Hawaii just happens to be the second-largest artifact market in all of Sirius?"
She paused for emphasis.
"Because it was all being decided that day. Right there. On the Cayman. Between our representatives and the Elders themselves."
Silence returned, but this time it had sharp edges. Schmidt’s eyes lit up in dawning horror.
“Von Tanner… he didn’t do anything wrong,” Hermann said, this time with a different weight to his voice.
He wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from seeing a puzzle finally fall into place—too late to change anything, but just in time to hurt. “He was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time… and with the wrong damn people aboard his ship.”
“Unfortunately for him, it's like you said. The very moment the Corsairs heard the words ‘Rheinland Navy,’ they snapped. No negotiation, no compromise — they threatened to kill everyone, including our people, unless something was done. The stakes were too high. Redcroft — or whatever his name was — called the director. And the director made the only rational choice left to him: he let them win.”
“Don’t make him sound like a hero,” Albert muttered.
“I’m not,” Cross replied, voice suddenly colder. “I’m making him sound like a man who wanted his employees to live another day and his company to stay afloat.”
Schmidt exhaled slowly. “So the Pelicans were full of Corsairs and Orbital staff. They weren’t arriving to negotiate — they were arriving to execute.”
“And the rest?” Hans asked. “The freighters, the probe, the so-called "brilliant plan?"”
“Oh yes. According to those logs — the ones that officially don’t exist — in a last-ditch effort, Von Tanner ordered the remaining freighters to ram the gunboat. Just to buy time.”
“My God.”
“And then,” Cross continued, settling deeper into her impromptu seat, “he threw the Morgenstern at the jump hole at full throttle. It was brilliant, in its own reckless way. He preloaded the final logs into this antenna, hoping to dump them into every emergency channel on the other side. And in case they didn’t make it, he launched the entire archive — start to finish — on a mining probe headed in the same direction. Hoping the chaos would draw all eyes to the ship, and the truth might slip past unnoticed."
None of them spoke. They simply stood there, caught in the gravity of it all.
“He never gave up,” Schmidt whispered at last.
“No,” said Cross. “He didn’t.”
“Unfortunately,” she added after a beat, “Hornet missiles are faster — and far more stubborn — than courage. They spotted the probe just in time, intercepted it, and blew it to pieces barely a few hundred meters from the edge of the Cambridge Jump Hole. In the meanwhile, the Corsair commando, well, was doing what you already know onboard"
She paused, her voice almost tinged with reluctant admiration. “Truly brilliant. Stubborn. Heroic, even. Von Tanner… I’d never have thought it of him. Not until today.”
After a moment of heavy silence, Albert was the first to speak again.
“Well… now what?”
“Now what?” Cross echoed, deadpan. “Isn’t it obvious? Now that you know everything… I can’t possibly let you leave here alive.”
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "On the Strategic Repurposing of Classified Incidents"
There was a single, prolonged second of stunned silence. Then Hermann grabbed the blaster again and aimed it squarely at her forehead, much to the panicked protest of the other two.
“I might have terrible aim,” he said, “but from this distance, it’s hard to miss. Frau Cross.”
She didn’t flinch. For a few seconds, she even tried to look appropriately concerned. Then, suddenly, she burst out laughing. Loudly. Offensively. “Oh, dear Schmidt. Seriously now—if I wanted you dead, do you really think I’d be here, alone, unarmed, making conversation, after rushing across half the sector?”
The trio glanced at one another, dumbfounded. Cross was still chuckling, the barrel of the blaster practically brushing her forehead. “No, really. I thought—” She interrupted herself mid-thought. “Hermann, for heaven’s sake, could you please stop aiming that thing at me?”
Schmidt stood there, eyes wide, frozen somewhere between rage and confusion, not entirely of sound mind. “Alright,” she continued, sighing theatrically, “at least let me sit down.”
She dropped back onto the same crate she’d claimed earlier, adjusted her coat, and resumed her speech.
“Joking aside—I have no intention of killing you. Not anymore. Admittedly, I did have that intention several hours ago, for about... thirty very serious minutes. But of course, you wouldn’t have seen me then. Someone from SEC would’ve shown up instead, or maybe your shuttle would’ve just tragically plummeted into the spaceport like a brick.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “But let’s not dwell on that.”
“No, let’s absolutely not dwell on that,” the three of them said in unison.
“Give me one reason I should believe you,” said Schmidt, finally regaining some composure. “One reason I shouldn’t pull this trigger.”
“Because I’m the one running this company, Schmidt. Because I know what’s best for it. And for all of you, probably. And because—most importantly—for the greater good, I need you three alive.”
“What the hell are you even talking about?” Albert snapped.
“Why is it so hard for you to see the big picture? To think on a larger scale?” She paused. “Oh right, maybe you're just hungry.”
“Or maybe we’re not in your head,” Schmidt muttered, fiddling with the safety on the blaster “Not yet, anyway.”
“Touché,” Cross said, nodding slightly.
“Now then. Allow me to explain…Let’s start from the beginning. I’ll admit it—I wasn’t paying attention a few days ago. I genuinely thought you were trying to restart the Flying Dutch. This heap of junk didn’t even cross my mind.
Frankly, if I’d known what ship it really was, I’d never have approved the reactivation.
But by the time you reported your little discovery,” she glanced around the room, “it was too late to stop you. If I’d interfered, you’d have started asking all the wrong questions."
"And that’s when you decided to kill us?" Schmidt hissed.
"No, not right away. At first, I hoped you'd forget about it. That the archive on Baden Baden would be too broken to access. That you’d lose interest. Or that, at the very least, you wouldn’t be so stubborn and competent," she added, looking at Hans, "to reboot this ship’s terminals and dig up the captain’s personal logs."
"Modestly, I am the bes—" "Yes yes, thank you," she cut Hans off before he could spiral into a monologue. "It was right around then that the thought of eliminating you did cross my mind."
The air in the room froze again.
"Half an hour. Like I said before. Just a moment of panic. I imagined the worst-case scenarios—for me, for the company, for everything. But then I pulled myself together. Like any halfway decent executive should. I didn’t let emotion take over."
"That must be why I never made it past regional manager," Schmidt muttered, keeping the blaster trained on her. "Not great with emotional control."
"Don’t be so hard on yourself, Schmidt," Cross replied calmly. "I wouldn’t say that at all."
She sighed and walked toward one of the nearby chairs. "Anyway, I decided to come in person. Watching you from that screen was giving me heartburn. And as the hours passed, I wasn’t just watching you—I was watching Von Tanner’s story unfold."
"Idiots. Every single one of my predecessors—idiots! Keeping it buried like some shameful skeleton."
"She’s lost it," Schmidt mumbled.
“No, Hermann! Don’t you get it? This—this is one of the greatest stories I’ve ever come across. It has everything! Tragedy. Bravery. Stubborn, doomed resistance. It’s got the sweeping weight of a classical epic, the gut-punch of a war memoir." She took a step forward, her voice rising with conviction. "It’s Shakespeare in space. A captain fighting against fate itself—and even when fate wins, he still doesn’t surrender. It’s heartbreaking, ridiculous, inspiring. It makes you laugh, weep, hope—sometimes all at once!"
She stopped. Looked at them.
"You’re not seeing it yet, are you?"
All three shook their heads.
"Oh come on! This ship, this story, everything inside it—it’s a goddamn gold mine!"
Good evening, everyone. The long gap between my last posts and this one is due to a sudden career boost—followed by an equally sudden decline in both my free time and my already fragile sanity.
Now that I’m on vacation, I’ll do my best to continue (and hopefully finish) this story without letting another few months slip by in between updates.
Inside the Serendipity AKA the E.V. Morgenstern
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "A Brilliantly Profitable Tragedy"
A breath. She leaned in slightly.
The three looked at each other, stunned.
“You're joking, right, Director? You can't possibly mean that.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” Cross replied calmly. “Do you have any idea what we’re sitting on? By Rheinland law, this ship is automatically classified as a historical asset. It’s not just a wreck—it’s a relic, a museum. No—a floating cathedral of memory. Imagine it. Or don’t. I already have,” she added with a smug smile. “We go to the Rheinland Government and say: ‘Esteemed members of the Ministry of Culture, we happen to possess one of your vessels, a ship from a hundred years ago. A national treasure, long lost. And now, we need your help to restore it.’”
“Aaah-ah. And what if they say: ‘Hell no, it’s ours—hand it over?’” Schmidt asked.
“Simple. We show them the bill of sale.”
“The forged one,” Schmidt noted.
“Yes, that one. And if that’s not enough, we show them some very unfortunate photographs of certain government officials.”
She paused dramatically. “We have them, you know? From Baden Baden. From Curacao. From our luxury liners. Very important people, in very unwise company. Or accompanied by companions their wives most certainly wouldn’t approve of.”
“Right, sure.” Schmidt waved off the mental image of some portly Rheinland Navy officers with a cocktail and a novelty hat. “Let's imagine this blackmailng works. They do let us keep it. What if they turn around and say, ‘your ship, your problem—pay for the restoration yourself’?”
“Then,” Cross purred, “we unleash the public.”
She leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Just imagine the headlines: ‘Orbital Recovers Lost Icon of Rheinland’s Glorious Past – Government Refuses to Fund Restoration.’ Or better yet, ‘Beyond the War: Rheinland’s Fallen Heroes Rot in Silence While the State Looks Away.’”
“Damn, that’s brilliant,” Albert muttered.
“Exactly!” Cross beamed. “And that’s just phase one. We rebuild it—with their money—and then? Then we make it shine.”
“That’s… diabolical,” Schmidt said.
“But I thought you were the one who said Von Tanner’s story deserved to be told,” Cross replied, mock offended. “Look what I’m offering you: orbital exhibitions above New Berlin, fully reconstructed interiors, guided tours across the decks where history was written.”
She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with unhinged inspiration. “And then? Boom. We add her to the fleet: inaugural cruises through Rheinland space, re-enactments of their odyssey through the Omegas, maybe even exploratory routes through the Sigmas and Omicrons.”
“That’s incredibly macabre,” Hans muttered.
“No—it’s exactly what a people who traded a Republic for an Emperor would love. They crave tragedy. Heroes. Martyrs. Symbols of resilience. And we’ll give it to them. Tell me: who wouldn’t fall in love with this story?”
“What next?” Albert said sarcastically. “A holofilm?”
Cross spun toward him as if he'd just whispered the coordinates to the meaning of life.
“ALBERT NEER, YOU ABSOLUTE BLOODY GENIUS.”
“…thank you?”
“Of course! The ship is ours, the rights are ours! Think about it—holofilms, novels, documentaries, VR re-enactments of their voyage.” She laughed in disbelief at her own brilliance. “Comics for kids. Video games. Merchandising.”
“Director, there’s just one tiny issue,” Schmidt cut in. “We seem to be forgetting a minor detail. Us.”
“You three? Oh, I haven’t forgotten you,” she said smoothly.
“No. Us. Us as in ‘we killed Von Tanner.’ Kind of a big narrative problem.”
“Oh that? That’s manageable. We’ll erase the recording.”
“And the Cayman? Von Tanner mentions it in the logs. How do you manage their appearance and the "sudden", "unexplicable" death of Von Tanner?”
“Oh, right. The Cayman. Didn’t you know? That day, it got ambushed too.”
“Really?” asked Hans.
“No, Hans, for God’s sake,” snapped Schmidt. Cross waved dismissively.
“Our engineers will modify Von Tanner’s voice to say they were attacked by Corsairs, full stop. Then we leak the story. Say we kept it secret to avoid panic or damage to our brand—blah blah blah. And voilà, the Cayman? Lost heroically alongside the Morgenstern.”
She paused, then lit up. “Imagine that. Orbital and Morgenstern—united in tragedy!”
“This is so brilliant, cynical and terrifying that I’m actually scared,” Schmidt muttered.
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "Loyalty, Safety, and Other Negotiable Concepts"
Cross didn’t speak immediately. She let the silence stretch, like a cat testing the strength of a windowsill before leaping onto it. Then she took a step forward, the soles of her polished boots whispering against the metal deck.
“You know,” she began, “most people think handling a lie is easy. That you just keep a straight face and stick to the script.”
Her gaze slid over the three of them—one by one, like flipping pages in a dossier.
“But real lies—useful lies—require effort. They need structure. Weight. Texture. Continuity. They need people who know where the lie ends and where the truth used to be. People who can walk the tightrope without looking down.”
She let the thought sink in, then added, gently:
“Who better than you?”
No one answered, so she continued, voice soft but steady.
“You were there when the logs were found. When the systems came online. When von Tanner’s voice came echoing out of the black. You’ve read the reports. You know what happened—not the myth, not the sanitized version we're about to sell, but the real story. The unbearable parts.”
She turned slightly, motioning to the ship around them, the half-lit corridor, the faint hum of something ancient trying to remember how to be alive.
“Who better to guide the fiction than those who’ve touched the truth? Who better to deliver a lie than those who understand what it’s replacing? Who better to dedicate themselves—heart, mind, and paycheck—to a story they helped dig out of the dust?”
She gave them a smile that might have passed for warm, if it weren’t so precisely aimed.
“You don’t need to fake the wonder. You don’t need to act surprised. You were surprised. You were scared. You were awed. That’s priceless.”
A pause, then with a flick of her fingers:
“You are the most efficient version of this operation I can imagine. I don’t need actors. I don’t need replacements. I just need you, exactly as you are.”
And then, almost casually:
“That’s why I've kept you alive.”
Hans broke the silence first. He looked at Cross, blinking slowly, like someone trying to decide whether what he’d just heard was brilliant, insane, or both.
“So that’s it?” he said. “We wrap it all up in a shiny bow, smile for the cameras, and help turn a mass grave into a guided tour? And you honestly think we’re the best fit for this circus?”
He gave a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it.
“I mean, sure—why not? Throw in a gift shop. Little fridge magnets shaped like Humpbacks. Holo-postcards of the crew, smiling right before they died.”
He paused, then added, quieter, “Is that really the part we’re supposed to play now, we," gesturing vaguely between the three of them, "the ones that spent forty minutes in a command bridge trying not to cry listening to a dead man’s voice.”?”
Schmidt didn’t laugh. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, voice low and calm.
“No. We can’t be the ones. Find another hero for your story.”
He held Cross’s gaze for a moment, then added:
“We’re captains. Orbital Spa & Cruise trained us to smile through customs delays, to handle drunk billionaires with broken champagne flutes and pretend a Rogue ambush is part of the entertainment package. We're good at making people feel safe, even when they’re not.”
He exhaled slowly.
“But this? This isn’t theatre. This isn’t hospitality. What you’re asking would make us... accomplices. And I can fake a lot of things, Director, but not that.”
Cross’s laugh came like the hiss of a pressure valve—a short, sharp sound that might have been genuine amusement, or just pressure escaping a carefully sealed plan.
“Look,” she began, glancing at each of them like a disappointed aunt trying to explain estate taxes to particularly slow nephews. “Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to start over? I mean properly—new narrative, new faces, new backstory. Scrubbing security footage. Rewriting logs. Relocating a century-old derelict without triggering half a dozen Interspace insurance alarms. Replacing the three of you with a trio of photogenic interns who don't know the difference between a hull breach and a hiccup.”
She clasped her hands again, slowly.
“It’s exhausting just thinking about it.”
Then she softened, her tone sliding into something almost maternal.
“Now, of course… if any of you feel this isn’t the path for you—if you truly believe you can’t support this story, this opportunity—then of course I respect that.”
She took a breath. Then:
“But if you decide to walk away…”
Her voice dropped just slightly. “I want to be very honest with you.”
“I care about my employees. Truly. I would never harm any of you—so long as you remain my employees.”
A silence, brittle and sharp.
“But if you choose to leave… well, I can’t promise you’ll stay safe. You know too much. About what happened. About who was involved. About me, about Orbital.”
She smiled—gently, regretfully. “And I have a company to protect. A legacy. Hundreds of careers—thousands of families—that depend on certain truths staying… manageable.”
Her fingers laced together, soft and serene.
“So please understand: this isn’t personal. But if you’re not part of the solution, I can’t let you become a liability. I wish there was another way.”
A pause. Her smile grew. “But there isn’t.”
A beat.
“I want you to live. Truly, I do. This little gold mine I’ve just dug up? It only works if you're still breathing. And preferably still smiling.”
Then, with a small laugh—light, almost embarrassed, as if she’d gotten carried away:
“But listen to me, getting all dramatic.”
Her tone warmed again, like sunlight over frost.
“You’re already in the story. You fit. Perfectly. You’re authentic. Human. Tragic in a way that tests well with focus groups. People will relate to you. They’ll project their hope and grief and national pride onto your faces.”
She stepped forward, voice soothing now, persuasive.
“You’re not just part of the story anymore. You are the story.”
She turned to Hans first. “You—the awkward genius who cracked the century old code and brought the past to life.”
To Albert: “you, the man who panicked early, often, and—miraculously—always in the right direction.”
And finally, to Schmidt: “And you—the skeptic. The reluctant witness. The quiet centre of the storm who just… didn’t look away.”
She let the silence hang for a moment, then added, almost conversationally:
“When the Morgenstern launches again—and she will—you three will be aboard. With you, Schmidt, in the captain’s chair. It’s neater that way. Symbolic. People like symmetry.”
Albert opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then muttered, “Stars. Fantastic. Can’t wait to see our faces on commemorative mugs.”
She gestured broadly at the walls of the Morgenstern, as if the ship itself were listening.
“This vessel isn’t just history now. She’s a story. A stage. A future flagship of an entire media campaign. And I’d like his new captain front and center and alive.”
Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "How Not to Negotiate, and Accidentally Win Anyway"
The last words of Director Cross seemed to echo far longer than they had any right to, filling a room already too small, too warm, and entirely unsuited for polite conversation. Four people in a service compartment designed to hold perhaps half a toolbox had never been anyone’s idea of comfort, and now, with the truth squeezed in alongside them, the air was almost unbearably thick.
Schmidt tugged at the collar of his uniform — a gesture that was equal parts the sweltering heat, the pressure of an unpalatable revelation, and the disquiet of realizing he was quite possibly in the middle of the most ridiculous stand-off of his career. He opened his mouth to speak, only to be bulldozed by Hans’s voice, which had suddenly acquired the depth and volume of a foghorn in mating season.
“Well, Hermann? Nothing to say? You just stand there in silence, accepting our fate like a docile little bureaucrat signing away our lives?”
Hans’s voice ricocheted against the metal walls like a wrench dropped in a corridor. Then, in one fluid and surprisingly dramatic movement, pushed himself off the crate he had been leaning against and jabbed a finger at the crowd.
“You know what? Maybe I am the odd one out here. But you — you two — and you—” he wagged his finger at Cross for good measure, “you’re absolutely mad. Mad, the lot of you!”
With that he spun toward the hatch. “I’ll do the only sane thing we should have done hours ago. I’ll walk into the first KPR office I can find, and I’ll report everything. Every overheard word, every speck of dust, every godforsaken detail we dug out of this cursed ship.”
“Hans, what the hell are you doing?” Albert’s voice cracked an octave higher than nature intended, somewhere between a panic attack and an overexcited parrot. “You’ll get us all killed!”
Cross turned her head first toward Albert, offering him a look that suggested warm reassurance — the kind one might give a child worried about thunder — and then toward Hans, with the calm composure of someone who has already rehearsed this argument dozens of times in her head and is just waiting for the script to catch up.
Before Hans could take another step, Hermann’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm. His eyes stayed fixed on the deck plating.
Hans struggled once, twice, and then exploded.
“At least look me in the face, Hermann! Do you think I’m insane? No, it’s you — all of you! You, Albert—seriously, do you believe a word of what she said? Either it’s all a bluff, trying to scare us into obedience or—” he swung toward Cross, “—we’re not leaving this ship alive, no matter how politely or obediently we play along. Either way, silence is just suicide with extra paperwork. So I’ll leave. I’ll try to get home. Or—” his voice dipped into a dramatic growl, — “I’ll die trying."
At last, Hermann lifted his gaze. Hans expected weary resignation or perhaps a final admonition. Instead, Schmidt’s face flickered — a brief, unmistakable wink. For half a heartbeat Hans froze, caught off guard by this wholly inappropriate piece of levity at the gallows. Hermann let go, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he turned not back to Hans, but to Cross.
“Director,” Hermann began, in the solemn, slightly too formal tone of a man about to apologise for something that may or may not be his fault. “I owe you an apology. For Hans’s words… and for my poor ability to control my men.”
He looked her straight in the eyes. For the tiniest sliver of a second, something flickered there.
“As you said yourself — only you, as our leader, know what’s best for us. And in my own small way, as their captain, I know what’s best for them.”
Hans opened his mouth but stayed silent.
“We’ll play along. Not because we must, but because it’s the right thing to do. For us. For everyone. I’ll make sure my crew understands and follows your directives. Whatever the cost.”
“I imagined you’d come around sooner or later,” Cross sighed. “It took you some time, but I suppose exhaustion makes men reasonable.”
“Perhaps,” Hermann said, with the weary honesty of someone who had just realised bed was now a myth.
“We are exhausted,” Albert muttered, less dramatically but with more sincerity.
They all turned toward Hans, who after several seconds produced a nod so tired it nearly collapsed halfway through.
A silence settled in. A big, awkward, heavy silence. The kind of silence that walks into a room, sits in the best chair, and refuses to leave until someone coughs.
“Well then,” Cross said at last, faint smile in place, “it’s been a long night. I’ve traveled, you’ve been on your emotional rollercoaster, and there’s much work ahead. Shall we head back to Baden Baden? As one united… work family?”
“Certainly,” Schmidt replied.
“Wait—seriously? That’s it?” Albert exploded. “We were ripping each other apart minutes ago, and now it’s all smiles and group hugs? We’re not forgetting anything? No skeletons in the closet? No unchecked bureaucratic forms to fill in?”
“Oh, you’ll have time to talk it through. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. With a clear head.” Cross turned toward the door.
“In fact, Directorin,” Hermann said suddenly, “we did forget one thing.”
She froze mid-step, turning just her head. “And what would that be?”
“This.” He pulled the recorder from his pocket — Von Tanner’s final moments still locked inside.
For the first time, Cross visibly faltered. “Ah,” she exhaled. “I was so caught up in my own speech, I’d nearly forgotten.” She extended her hand — a gesture small enough to be polite but imperious enough to suggest she fully expected the universe to obey.
Hermann reached forward as if to comply… then stopped, curling his fist tight around it.
“Directorin,” he said evenly. “You’ve told us much tonight. Promised much. Can we trust you blindly?”
“Oh Hermann? Still questioning, after everything I’ve told you? Of course, yes. Now give me that—”
She didn’t finish before Hermann snapped his fist shut around the recorder.
“Well then, Directorin,” he said, smiling in that way cats smile at mice, “I believe you’ll also have to trust your employees blindly.”
“HANS, CATCH!”
And then — against all laws of physics, probability, and Hans’s own history with sporting activities — the recorder sailed neatly across the room into his arms. He stumbled, rolled, smacked his knee against the wall, and by sheer panic alone managed to stay upright with the device still clutched to his chest.
Cross’s eyes darted: recorder, Hans, Hermann, back to recorder, back to Hermann — like a cat watching a very confusing laser pointer. Meanwhile, Hermann had already drawn his blaster and leveled it directly between her eyes.
“Déjà vu,” Albert muttered, voice just a bit too high, as if someone had kicked him in the dignity.
“Directorin,” Hermann said coldly, “they used to say: trust is good, but not trusting is better. Hans.”
Hans froze. “What—what do I do?!”
“That ridiculous backup server you used for the tea dispenser in our old office. Does it still exist?”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Cross snapped.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Albert echoed — not because he didn’t know, but because repeating other people’s exasperation was his coping mechanism.
“Does. It. Exist?” Hermann barked.
“Yes!” Hans squeaked. “It still works! If we all don’t pay our share, it locks the system and screams like a banshee—”
A beat of silence.
“Ah,” Hans said, as if struck by divine inspiration.
“Ah, what?” Cross demanded.
“Aaah,” Albert echoed, eyes wide with dawning comprehension.
Hans blinked, grinned, and dove headfirst into the service hatch, yanking out cables like a man possessed.
“Upload everything, Hans!” Hermann barked. “Every log from the antenna, every distress signal, Tanner’s recording — all of it. Build me another dead man’s switch.”
Cross gave a sharp laugh. “A dead man’s switch. Almost clever. And what now, Captain? If one of my men so much as breathes at the end of that corridor?”
“Then Albert,” Hermann said, still glaring into her eyes, “will flip the main ship antenna. And you know exactly what happens then.”
Albert swallowed so loudly it was practically a tactical announcement. “Yes. Exactly.”
“You should’ve been one of my subdirectors long ago” Cross said with grudging amusement.
“There’s still time” Hermann murmured.
Minutes passed — tense, creaking minutes that stretched so long Albert checked twice to make sure his alarm hadn’t gone off again — before Hans emerged, face shining with triumph, datapad held high.
“It’s done! If even one of us fails to log in, the server doesn’t just ping our alarms — it pushes everything to House authorities. From Nevers to Core patrols on Nauru, everyone will know.”
Cross arched a brow. “And what trigger keeps it alive, hmm?”
“Surely not our IC bank accounts, right?” Albert added.
Hans puffed out his chest. “Well, obviously not. I thought of—”
“Don’t. Don’t explain it,” Albert groaned, cutting him off. “Please.”
Hans shut his mouth, but the smug look remained.
Hermann holstered his blaster at last. His smile, for once, was almost gentle. “Now, Directorin, we’re bound together. If we play our parts, omit the truth, sell what you want us to sell… you’ll have your millions. And we’ll have safety for ourselves and our families.”
He looked to Albert and Hans — their weary, slightly deranged grins were proof that sanity had already checked out for the evening.
“If we screw up, we’re dead. If you screw up…”
Cross finished softly: “Then I’m finished.”
“Mutual assured destruction?” Hermann extended his hand.
Her smile returned — sharp, dangerous. She clasped his firmly. “Mutual assured destruction it is.”
At that exact dramatic moment, the room erupted with a cacophony of bells.
“Ah—sorry!” Albert fumbled with his datapad. “My alarm. Six-thirty. So… breakfast on Baden Baden?”
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Extraction Log 12