[Log Entry: February 15th, 710 A.S. | Unknow System, Echo-4 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
“We remain unobserved. That is the only measurable success."
"Radiation shielding has deteriorated to 38%. Engineering reports multiple containment breaches along Decks 2 through 5. Auxiliary conduits show sustained failure rates across thermal regulators, inertial dampeners, and gravity generators. Core power routing is unstable — relays require manual cycling every six hours to prevent overload."
"The main propulsion array is down to 31% effective output. Secondary attitude thrusters are unresponsive, likely due to microfractures in the H-fuel feed lines. Steering is sluggish and increasingly imprecise. We have begun drifting two degrees off intended vector per hour, with limited ability to correct course."
"Navigation remains inoperative. Starboard helm interface has suffered cascading faults from residual EM saturation. Crew reports intermittent vertigo from inertial anomalies during course corrections."
"Medical reserves have reached critical levels, way before the predicted 50 days. Anti-radiation medication is now administered at half dosage. Symptoms of acute exposure — disorientation, muscular tremors, ocular irritation — are becoming standard across all shifts."
"We cannot survive like this. The damage is exceeding all prior projections. This vessel will not remain controllable for another seven days under current conditions."
"Given the assessment, I have authorized a change in strategy."
"We are altering course. Effective immediately, the Morgenstern will initiate a slow trajectory toward the outer boundary of the belt. We are no longer attempting a half-orbit to the far quadrant. That plan assumed operational integrity we no longer possess."
"This decision entails risk. We are exiting prematurely, and not at the predesignated safe vector. But continuing the current pattern ensures structural failure before we reach any viable point of escape."
"We will proceed at minimal thrust. We will maintain passive systems only. The crew has been informed."
"END LOG"
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.”
[Log Entry: February 17th, 710 A.S. | Unknown System – Echo-4 sector, radiation belt outer edge]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log
"We have exited the inner belt. Location is unverified — navigation remains offline. Stellar orientation is approximate. Radiation levels have decreased to within manageable levels, but overall system integrity is now critical."
"Primary propulsion has degraded beyond sustainable thresholds. Helm response is delayed by as much as fifteen seconds per input. All nonessential systems have been disabled. Life support remains online but requires constant manual oversight. Multiple coolant leaks have been identified near reactor housing."
"The vessel is no longer fit for blind traversal of this system. We cannot simply drift and hope. I have convened senior command, and a decision has been reached."
"The Morgenstern’s two remaining exploration freighters — Juist and Baltrum— will be deployed."
"Each will operate independently on a scouting pattern: long-range sweeps using passive sensor arrays only. Their objectives are as follows:
"Detect jump anomalies. Any hole — natural or artificial — capable of providing exit from this system."
"Freighter Juist is to proceed on the previous counterclockwise orbit, tracking along orbital plane alpha. Baltrum will chart a lateral course beneath the stellar equator. Launch scheduled for 0600 hours. Estimated return window: 72 hours. Direct radio contact is prohibited unless an emergency code is triggered."
"This is...our last gamble."
"The Morgenstern will remain on standby at minimal power, concealed within the debris shadow of an asteroid cluster"
"Either the freighters return with coordinates, or this log becomes our final monument.”
"END LOG"
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.
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Mission Record No. 124