[Log Entry: March 1st, 711 A.S. | Omega-41, Echo-4 sector, "Sargasso Nest"]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"Day… 382, I think, since the beginning of the mission. I’ve started losing count. But this day—whatever day it is—may be the turning point."
"At 0600 ship time yesterday, we launched the 28th biweekly supply run. Freighter Juist, under Lt. Brunswick and Lt. Vorr. Primary objective: secure as much H-Fuel as possible and locate hydraulic actuator replacements for the decompression bulkheads on decks 4 and 5—the ones in the worst shape."
"ETA: 1800, yesterday.
By 2300: nothing.
At 0000 today, I called in the senior officers to consider our options. Was the Juist lost? Do we mount a rescue with the Baltrum? Or—worse—assume our cover has been blown and abandon the Sargasso Nest altogether?"
"At 0300, our watch crew spotted the Juist on approach, flying a pattern that could generously be described as… "inspired improvisation".
"Expecting the worst—crew taken hostage, freighter crawling with Corsairs—I dispatched two fireteams to docking port 2, armed with the few automatic weapons we still have, ready to welcome our "guests" in the traditional Rheinland fashion."
"Against all odds, only the two Lieutenants stepped out. Arms around each other. Swaying. Visibly impaired. Singing patriotic marching songs."
"They were promptly hauled to the infirmary under suspicion of acute radiation poisoning.
The diagnosis was considerably less noble: acute alcohol intoxication."
There was a long silence.
"Well, I can't really blame them," Neer said, pausing the playback. "You wake up every day staring at a neutron star whose only purpose seems to be making your life difficult. You live inside a metal corpse held together by spite, hope, and duct tape. And every two weeks, someone offers you a chance to visit a place that has what might loosely be called ‘civilization.’ That is to say, a bar. I’d drink too. I’d drink enthusiastically."
"I’d skip the glass and go straight to the barrel," added Schmidt. "Frankly, I could use one now."
"Oh! I may actually have a solution to that," said Neer, as though a lightbulb had flickered on above his head.
"Can we please finish the log?" sighed Belck, already pressing play again.
"Three hours later—after intravenous hydration and a cocktail of medications—they were finally lucid enough to understand that they were in the ship’s brig, under martial custody imposed by me for conduct posing a direct threat to this vessel and her crew."
"And that, oddly enough, is when the day took a most unexpected turn."
"They recounted that until 1600, everything had gone as planned: blend in among the Freeport’s clientele, locate transport captains willing to barter for H-Fuel, negotiate for the hydraulic parts. Routine."
"Until 1930, in a bar, they were approached by a group of heavily armed, thoroughly intoxicated patrons who pointed weapons at them and accused them of "talking like filthy Rheinlanders." Based on their attire, they were Corsairs."
"The Lieutenants claimed they stuck to the plan—posing as Sigma traders. It didn’t work."
"Just as things seemed beyond salvage, Lt. Vorr reportedly grabbed a mug, stood up, and shouted something that sounded vaguely like ''We’re friends! Death to the Outcasts!''”
"What followed was not a firefight, but clapping, hugging, and a very insistent round of drinks. According to both officers, refusing would have been socially—and possibly physically—inadvisable."
"I was skeptical, until Lt. Brunswick retrieved a small field recorder from his jacket and told me, “It’s all here. Everything. Even when they told us when we could leave.”" "We played the tape together."
"It matched. Every beat of their story was there—including the tension with the Corsairs. After that, it was all clinking glasses, shouted Spanish, and a lot of Viva el Imperio!."
"Eventually, one of the Corsairs—his speech a slurry mix of drunken Common and vaguely violent Spanish—stood up and declared, “Brothers! Our friends will stay here a few days longer, but we, we warriors, are moving on. Off to Crete! Then Alpha! Those Outcast dogs think their little Cardamine camps are safe? Ha! We’ll burn them from orbit! The Santiago, the Llorona, the Samos—they’re coming. Viva Crete, viva the Corsairs, viva el Imperio!”"
"The Lieutenants continued. Apparently, that same Corsair confided that they were pulling out—most of the main Corsair force was relocating. Only small patrols would remain in the area. It’s the first real opportunity we’ve had in months. Maybe the only one."
"I immediately released the Lieutenants from custody and offered a personal apology."
"Senior staff was recalled. We debated our escape options. Based on intel collected over the past year, we have two viable jump holes:
Back to Omega-11. The one we came through. A direct route home… but dangerously unstable. We can’t risk it. Not anymore. Or, into a sparsely charted but seemingly uninhabited system: Omega-5. From there, data suggests further connections—including, potentially, a route to Cambridge."
"It’s a leap into the unknown. But it seems to be the only leap we can make."
"Tomorrow, we re-power the ship.
At 0000, we depart this hell."
"May whatever good star guided us here start shining again."
"END LOG"
“So just to recap,” Schmidt began, eyes still on the screen, “these two officers managed to get obliterated in every possible sense of the word, formed a diplomatic alliance with a bar table full of pirates by yelling Death to the Outcasts, and came back not only alive but with enough strategic intel to make a Naval Intelligence officer weep with joy?”
“And hydraulic actuators,” added Belck, without looking up. “They did remember the actuators.”
Neer gave a low whistle. “You know, you spend your whole career being told Corsairs are bloodthirsty killers, and then you find out they’re actually the best drunk gossipers in the Edge Worlds. I mean, who needs satellites when you’ve got Miguel from Crete and a bottle of rum?”
“I’m starting to think the real miracle,” Schmidt muttered, “is that they remembered to hit 'record'. And didn’t die.”
Belck leaned back, rubbing his eyes. “In fairness, the Corsairs did shout about burning Alpha from orbit right after singing karaoke with two Rheinlanders. So, you know… military discretion may not be their strong suit.”
“No,” Schmidt said, cracking a grin, “but apparently, neither is spotting an intelligence leak when it’s singing the Imperio anthem on top of a crate of stolen Synth Paste.”
The laughter, when it came, was tired but genuine. The kind that came at the end of a long string of impossibilities finally aligning in their favour.
“Just think,” Schmidt said at last, a bemused smile playing at his lips. “If that Corsair had held his liquor, this ship might still be rotting in that asteroid field, never found, never recovered. History saved by a drunken pirate rant.”
Neer exhaled. “Well, gentlemen… I suppose that settles it. If the universe wants them alive this badly, who are we to argue?”
They all nodded slowly, solemnly, and entirely unsure what emotion was appropriate to start the next log, already annoyingly blinking in front of them.
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Manteinance and Discretionary Survival Measures, Month 13