[Log Entry: March 14st, 711 A.S. | Omega-5, Beta-3 sector]
Commanding Officer: Capt. Klaus von Tanner | E.V. Morgenstern
Classification: Emergency Operations Log, Survival Protocol Theta-5
"AUDIO LOG ONLY"
“This is OS&C|Cayman. Unidentified vessel, cut your engines, identify yourselves, and declare your intentions.”
Background noise: chatter, buttons clicking, static. A voice, muffled “Where the hell did they come from—gunboat and bombers on standby.”
Please don’t be alarmed. Do not fire. I am Captain Klaus Von Tanner of the Rheinland Military, commanding officer of the E.V. Morgenstern. We require immediate assistance.”
A voice, off mic “Sure. And I’m the Emperor of Kusari.” Laughter “Apologies—could you repeat that?”
“Klaus Von Tanner, Captain. Identification number 234987. Rheinland Navy. Deep space exploratory vessel E.V. Morgenstern. I understand it sounds absurd, but you must believe me.”
Silence. A new voice “Captain, this is John Redcroft, commanding officer of the Cayman. Nothing you’ve said so far makes any sense, and I’m putting that as politely as I can.”
“I underst—”
“Let me finish. You appear in a ship that looks more like wreckage than anything functional. No insignia, no military transponder, an IFF signal jumping around like a hamster on cardamine—suddenly, here in deep space, without even a distress signal? Put yourself in my shoes, captain. Why shouldn’t I think you’re a lunatic, or worse?”
"You’re entirely right, Commander Redcroft. And I understand your caution. But please, let me explain, and you can verify it yourself.”
“Go ahead. I’m curious.”
“We are the last of Convoy 710-A, under the Ministry for Space Exploration. We departed New Berlin on January 1st, 710 A.S.”
“Excuse me?”
“543 days ago, sir.”
“And what exactly are you doing here, if I may ask?”
A dry cuckle “Do you have a few hours? In short: the convoy scattered after a destabilized jump hole. We ended up in Omega-41. Ambushed by Corsairs. We hid—this ship barely holding together—for an entire year. Patched it up piece by piece. Left two weeks ago. Dodged Corsairs ever since. And now, here we are. We honestly thought you were hostile. Never imagined we’d find the flagship of Sirius luxury out here.”
"That’s... an incredible story. But still, I have no proof of who you are.”
“You don’t believe me. I understand. Let me be clear: we are not pirates, smugglers, or scavengers. This vessel was built at Oder Shipyard. Its registration is stamped into the primary engine struts—two of which are still visible. I can recite the Morgenstern’s commissioning certificate from memory. I was there. So was Admiral Braun.” Calm, but firm “I can list the full command hierarchy of the Third Fleet. It’s the fleet this vessel belongs to. It’s the fleet I belong to.”
A pause
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Captain. I’m saying this is... highly irregular. No transponder. No markings. You’re a ghost ship.”
“I am a soldier. I have fifteen years of active duty. I command 345 survivors. 310 of them civilians—doctors, geologists, engineers, astrophysicists.. If you think I’m impersonating a Rheinland officer to steal your towel sets and holiday brochures, I suggest you recalibrate your assumptions.”
Another brief silence
“Transmitting a data packet now. Identification and emergency codes. If your vessel can transmit beyond the jump hole, send them to the Rheinland Navy emergency frequencies. They’ll confirm our origin—and my authority—within fifteen minutes.”
“Packet received. Stand by.”
Muffled background voices: hard to make out. A few snippets audible.
“…they’re military? Not civilian?”
“What do we do?”
“Call the director.”
Low voices. A whisper: “…is that really necessary, sir?” Another reply, firmer: “Understood.”
"Apologies for the wait, Commander Von Tanner. We’ve received authorisation to assist you. Meanwhile, we’ve scanned your ship externally. Please deploy your two Humpback freighters from hangars one and two to allow docking clearance for two of our Pelican shuttles. We’ll conduct an onboard inspection, with medical officers. If your story checks out… we’ll begin evacuation.”
“Understood. I’ll issue the order now. Hangars one and two will be ready.”
“Very good. Cayman out.”
“That bastard,” Hans blurted. “He got them to open the hangar doors claiming he had medics on board—and then got them all slaughtered.”
Schmidt nodded slowly, without anger. He just looked tired. Hollowed out. “I don’t think it was his idea. I’d bet the Director gave the order.”
“You think so?”
“Just listen to him. He was terrified. If it had been up to him, he would’ve sent them off with a warning shot or two. But he panicked. He called Curacao. And then… well. You know the rest.”
Hans shook his head, like trying to shake loose the image. “And we still don’t know where the Corsairs came from.”
Silence pressed down for a moment, heavy and damp. Then Hans spoke again, quieter.
“My guess? They were already hiding nearby. Just waiting for the signal.”
Albert turned to him. “Waiting for what?”
“For the hangars to open. They thought they were letting in Pelicans. But what if, instead, it was Corsair drop ships already lined up, ready to board?”
Albert shook his head. “No way. How would they stay hidden in plain sight and board that fast?”
“I think they were already inside." sneaked in Hermann. "Snuck in while everyone was distracted, probably when the ship was a boiling oven.”
“You’d need more than a couple infiltrators to wipe out a whole ship. That’s three hundred people. Someone would have seen something.”
“Unless they struck while everyone was distracted. While they were celebrating.”
“What if they were already aboard the Orbital ships?” Hans suggested.
“I doubt we were offering cruise service to Crete back then. And besides,” Schmidt said, “we still haven’t figured out what that intercepted probe was. Surely not the one they used to find the flotilla.”
“A locator? A relay?”
“No, I don't know. Maybe something that came through the jump hole."
“Gentlemen,” a voice cut through their stream of consciousness like a scalpel “I believe the time has come for me to continue this story.”
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Cayman comm channel