Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "Management Knows Best (And Always Has)"
The three of them screamed in unison—loud, terrified, and embarrassingly high-pitched. Still shouting, Hermann drew his blaster and fired wildly down the corridor from which they’d come.
"WHO THE HELL WAS THAT? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? SHOW YOURSELF, HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
“Captain Hermann Schmidt,” came a calm, familiar voice, slicing cleanly through the chaos of echoing blaster fire, “if I were you, I’d lower that weapon.”
Schmidt froze.
“Frau Cross? Directorin?”
A figure emerged from the dim haze of the corridor, stepping past a partly opened bulkhead into the flickering light of the communications deck.
“In the flesh,” she said, brushing a film of dust off her jacket. “And just in time, apparently. I really ought to thank you for your appallingly poor aim, Schmidt.”
“I... Directorin, I—I'm mortified,” he muttered, tucking the blaster back into his waistband like a guilty teenager hiding a stolen bottle of gin.
“For fuck’s sake, what would it have cost you to announce yourself? A ping on the transponder, a knock on the bloody hull?” Albert huffed, still gripping his chest.
“What can I say?” Cross replied, unfazed. “I thought I’d surprise you. Given the night you’ve had, I assumed you were getting used to those.”
“Frankly, Directorin,” Hermann said, taking a breath, “I think I just died a little. And I have to ask—what the hell are you doing here? Not just here, but here here, in this labyrinth? How the hell did you even find us?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” she said with a casual shrug, pulling out a slim datapad. “I’ve been watching you for hours.”
Silence fell like a dropped wrench.
“Excuse me?” Hermann said.
“It wasn’t the badge,” Cross said, catching Hermann’s confused glance toward his chest. “That would’ve been far too theatrical.”
She gestured lazily around them. “The bridge, actually the entire ship, has always had surveillance systems—installed by the previous director after a minor, ah, lets just call it "safety breach". You activated them the moment you set foot here. I've been watching and listening ever since.”
She paused, noting their stunned expressions.
“Oh, come now, what were you expecting? We're a corporate institution. Privacy is a charming illusion we let middle managers cling to. Besides, I was also tracking you via my shuttle’s thermal scanners. Three sweaty middle-aged men bumbling around a frozen wreck? You lit up like fireworks.”
“Directorin, what are you saying?” Hermann rubbed his temples. “Why? None of this makes any sense.”
“What do you mean, doesn’t make sense?”
“I mean why spy on us in the first place? You sent us here!”
“Well technically, yes,” she said, as if explaining something to a particularly dense intern. “I actually wanted to see how far you’d get.”
“How far we’d get?” Hans echoed.
“How far into the story. How close to the truth.”
The three of them exchanged looks—bewildered, incredulous, slowly bordering on alarmed.
“Directorin,” Albert began, almost apologetically, “we're not following any of this.”
Cross let out a small sigh. “I won’t insult your intelligence by calling you idiots—I'll assume you're just sleep-deprived and low on blood sugar.”
“Wait,” Hermann said, holding up a hand, “are you saying you already knew all of this? About the Morgenstern? About what happened here?”
“Oh, good, you're catching on,” she said, clapping her hands softly. "Yes, I knew. Or rather, I knew how the story ended. It’s like a tale written in a book no one ever read—only the epilogue was passed down, Director to Director, with one simple instruction: don’t ever read the rest, and don’t ask questions.”
Their eyes widened.
“And so it was,” she continued, “until a few days ago, when the three of you stumbled in and , by pure chance, cracked open this lovely little Pandora’s box.”
