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 He approached the central console — a slab of antiquity so outdated it could probably vote in three monarchies — and keyed in the request codes from Directorin Cross.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.
