“Hans, give me that thing,” Schmidt ordered, curtly. “Give it to me. Now.”
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Just hand it over.”
Schmidt took back the recorder, rewound the track, and played again—this time at full volume—the last few exchanges between those faceless voices who, out of nowhere, had turned Von Tanner and his crew back into ashes, as if the whole phoenix thing had been just a cruel metaphor.
Silence.
“He really said it. Orbital Spa & Cruise.”
He played it again, as if a second, third, or fourth listen might reveal some alternate ending.
“Hermann, stop,” Belck snapped. “It’s there. See the badge on your uniform? That’s right. That’s the name he said.”
“Oh God. What the fuck did we just listen to?” For the first time, Schmidt’s voice cracked—not with rage, but something dangerously close to despair. He slumped to the floor beside Hans, both hands over his mouth, staring at the seafoam-green and gold uniform, the Orbital Spa & Cruise logo still glinting with oblivious cheer.
“What the fuck happened? What the fuck do we have to do with this?”
Neer, unusually quiet, fixed his gaze on Schmidt. “Hermann. Give me the recorder.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to smash it,” he said, pulling a hammer from his duffel bag like a magician pulling out a very illegal rabbit.
“Albert, what the hell are you talking about?” Hans shouted, spinning around.
“What am I talking about? I’m talking about blowing up the one thing standing between us and a war crimes tribunal on New Berlin. That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Hermann,” Hans said, practically throwing himself at him. “Don’t you dare give it to him. Don’t you dare. We’re going to do what that coward Redcroft didn’t do a century ago. We’ll take all of it, get in the shuttle, head straight to the nearest KPR station, and hand over everything. Von Tanner, his crew—they don’t deserve to vanish. Not again.”
“Hans, have you completely lost your mind?!” Albert shouted. “Do you even hear yourself? We turn ourselves in? And then what? They start asking questions, digging into everything—why we didn’t report it sooner, why we went poking around in altered records! No thanks. I’m not ending up in Mecklenburg or Hammersee or any other penal hellhole because you got a conscience about people who died a hundred years ago!”
“A conscience? Me?!” Hans barked, his face flushed. “Says the guy who popped a bottle of schnapps for the crypt we found! Don’t talk to me about conscience, Albert. Don’t pretend you don’t care. Not even a little.”
“Of course I care—humanly. But why should I pay for their crimes? Crimes from a century ago! And for what, Hans? What kind of place do you think this is? A charity? The church of Baden Baden? This is Orbital. We all know damn well our hands are dipped in several flavours of illegal jam.”
“Oh, but I wouldn’t know that, right? I’m just the guy down in the engine room! While you play the part of Albert the Glorious XO on the bridge—you might’ve known a few things more than you let on!”
“How the fuck dare you,” Albert shouted.
They were a split second from coming to blows when something louder—a searing plasma blast cracking against the ceiling—froze them in place.
“ENOUGH, BOTH OF YOU! SHUT UP!”
Albert and Hans turned in unison.
They froze, faces pale. Hermann stood still, his arm pointed to the ceiling, a blaster still fuming in his hand.
“Jesus, Hermann! Are you out of your mind?!” Hans shouted, throwing his arms up instinctively.
“Put that thing down!” Albert barked, backing a step away. “You want to kill us now?!”
Hermann was still standing, blaster in hand.
“SIT DOWN. YOU—THERE.” He pointed to the centre of the room. “AND YOU—THOSE CHAIRS, IN THE BACK.”
Albert opened his mouth, but didn’t get past the first syllable. Hermann’s glare shut him down instantly.
He obeyed without another word.
“Now,” Hermann said, his voice lower but still seething, “none of us leaves this room until we’ve found a solution.”
