Footsteps in the distance. Approaching. Fingers tapping on what sounds like a datapad.
"I need to speak to the Director. Yes, I know what time it is, I don’t care. Put him on. Now."
A creak as someone sinks into a chair. Another voice comes through, distant, groggy.
"So, Captain Redcroft?"
"Director, it’s—" a pause, "it’s just as my men reported. They weren’t freelancers. Not scavengers. Despite what the ship might suggest, it’s a Rheinland Navy vessel. They were military. They would never have surrendered, never have bargained. Too much discipline."
"I see. Typical. Well, good for you that you weren’t alone."
"Indeed. Without the help of our" —his tone drops— "esteemed Corsair friends, we wouldn’t have stopped their plan. I’m reading through their logs now. It was… rather well put together."
"Are you certain nothing got out?"
"Fairly certain. They’d preloaded messages—one on the probe they intercepted, others through the ship’s long-range array. Luckily, our associates brought jamming devices. We arrived just in time."
"Excellent. Well then, let’s not waste words. Clean up and get out."
"...That might be an issue, Director."
"Excuse me?"
"Our charming friends have… politely informed us that we’re on our own now. Their words were, and I quote: 'Not our problem anymore. You wanted a favour, we gave it. Now clean your own mess.’ We convinced them to retrieve the bodies, the weapons, debris from two freighters, and the probe. But the ship—well—they made it very clear. That’s our problem now."
"Then leave it there. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Who in their right mind would care about half a wreck floating out there? Blow it up if you must. Isn’t your yacht armed?"
"I thought of that. But blowing it up… it’s messy. Would take days. Too many of our footprints, too much left behind. And honestly? Our guests won’t be thrilled to stick around that long."
"My idea is… different. I say we take it back. To Baden Baden."
Silence.
"You want to tow it?"
"Yes."
"You’ve lost your mind."
"We tow it back, clean it up. Piece by piece. From what we saw, it's an exploration vessel. Rheinland Navy, yes—but lost. Forgotten. If anyone were to go looking, and I believe a search party it's already out, where would they look? Out here. Omega systems. They’ll think it’s lost in a nebula, or buried in an asteroid belt. But Baden Baden? In the heart of Stuttgart? No one would ever expect it to be quietly moored around a luxury planet. No one would even think to scan it."
A pause.
"...Go on."
"We take our time. We hide every trace of us aboard. Carefully. Their systems are military-grade—I can't just delete files, I can trigger I don't know even, some emergency protocol. We’ll need specialists, People who know what they’re doing. And again, time. I’ll keep it dormant until then."
Another pause.
"Not bad. Fine. Tow the vessel. Make it look derelict. Strip the transponder, paint over the name, re-register it.
I’ll have our legal team draft a backdated purchase document. Let’s say… acquired at Freeport 1. Some old hauler selling off junk. We’ll file a salvage acquisition—clean, legal. If someone investigates, it was a routine purchase. It needs to look like a legitimate bureaucratic mess, not a cover-up.
Anyway, that’s my job. The rest… that’s up to you, Captain."
Short silence. A faint creak—Redcroft shifting in his chair. A distant electrical hum. The muffled chirp of a status console.
"Well, if that’s all, Redcroft—"
"Director."
"What, for God's sake?"
"Sir, do you realise what kind of position you’re putting me in? His voice cracks slightly. "This wasn’t... it wasn’t just a misunderstanding, or a defensive response. It was a... calculated assault. A boarding action, carried out with help from third parties. And inside...it wasn’t a fight. It was a slaughter."
He tries to steady his voice, but it’s fraying.
"These weren’t pirates. They weren’t freelancers. They were... they were Rheinland Navy officers. Uniformed. Recorded. They had codes, ranks... Sir. This was an execution. And if it ever comes out—if even one file leaks—” He breathes in sharply.
"They’ll drag us in front of military courts., It's a capitial offence. Oh God what am I saying, we'll be hanged, I'll be hanged"
A faint, almost amused chuckle cuts him off.
"Oh, Captain Redcroft. Orbital Spa & Cruise pours millions into lawyers every year — the best in Sirius — just to make incidents like this vanish. And trust me—this isn’t even the worst one this quarter.”
A pause. He continues, casually.
“You did your part. Now don’t you dare start getting noble. There’s no medal for regret. No tribunal for conscience.
You stir the waters now, you guarantee only one outcome—you go under.”
His voice drops a note. Still cold. But smoother, almost amused.
“Let’s not pretend anyone up here will face consequences. We weren’t on that ship." A pause. Measured. Calculated.
“You were.”
There’s a faint chuckle—dry, dismissive.
“As far as I’m concerned, I’m in my villa on Curacao, sipping my late-night scotch. And as far as I know, no one ordered your little detour into the deep. Why were you there, again? So far from our scheduled cruise routes. Perhaps one of my captains has gone rogue? What an unfortunate incident. Orbital Spa & Cruise, of course, will disavow any knowledge of your actions.”
Then, his voice hardens, stripped of pretense.
“Don’t grow a spine now. Not when it’s useless. Clean up your mess. Seal it.
And for everyone’s sake—especially yours—return to your guests, smile, and pretend nothing ever happened.”
Click. The call ends. Footsteps receding.
"Alright, move it. Power this hulk back on. We’re taking it to Baden Baden.".
