Bridge 4B(S), communication deck: "Loyalty, Safety, and Other Negotiable Concepts"
Cross didn’t speak immediately. She let the silence stretch, like a cat testing the strength of a windowsill before leaping onto it. Then she took a step forward, the soles of her polished boots whispering against the metal deck.
“You know,” she began, “most people think handling a lie is easy. That you just keep a straight face and stick to the script.”
Her gaze slid over the three of them—one by one, like flipping pages in a dossier.
“But real lies—useful lies—require effort. They need structure. Weight. Texture. Continuity. They need people who know where the lie ends and where the truth used to be. People who can walk the tightrope without looking down.”
She let the thought sink in, then added, gently:
“Who better than you?”
No one answered, so she continued, voice soft but steady.
“You were there when the logs were found. When the systems came online. When von Tanner’s voice came echoing out of the black. You’ve read the reports. You know what happened—not the myth, not the sanitized version we're about to sell, but the real story. The unbearable parts.”
She turned slightly, motioning to the ship around them, the half-lit corridor, the faint hum of something ancient trying to remember how to be alive.
“Who better to guide the fiction than those who’ve touched the truth? Who better to deliver a lie than those who understand what it’s replacing? Who better to dedicate themselves—heart, mind, and paycheck—to a story they helped dig out of the dust?”
She gave them a smile that might have passed for warm, if it weren’t so precisely aimed.
“You don’t need to fake the wonder. You don’t need to act surprised. You were surprised. You were scared. You were awed. That’s priceless.”
A pause, then with a flick of her fingers:
“You are the most efficient version of this operation I can imagine. I don’t need actors. I don’t need replacements. I just need you, exactly as you are.”
And then, almost casually:
“That’s why I've kept you alive.”
Hans broke the silence first. He looked at Cross, blinking slowly, like someone trying to decide whether what he’d just heard was brilliant, insane, or both.
“So that’s it?” he said. “We wrap it all up in a shiny bow, smile for the cameras, and help turn a mass grave into a guided tour? And you honestly think we’re the best fit for this circus?”
He gave a dry chuckle, but there was no humor in it.
“I mean, sure—why not? Throw in a gift shop. Little fridge magnets shaped like Humpbacks. Holo-postcards of the crew, smiling right before they died.”
He paused, then added, quieter, “Is that really the part we’re supposed to play now, we," gesturing vaguely between the three of them, "the ones that spent forty minutes in a command bridge trying not to cry listening to a dead man’s voice.”?”
Schmidt didn’t laugh. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, voice low and calm.
“No. We can’t be the ones. Find another hero for your story.”
He held Cross’s gaze for a moment, then added:
“We’re captains. Orbital Spa & Cruise trained us to smile through customs delays, to handle drunk billionaires with broken champagne flutes and pretend a Rogue ambush is part of the entertainment package. We're good at making people feel safe, even when they’re not.”
He exhaled slowly.
“But this? This isn’t theatre. This isn’t hospitality. What you’re asking would make us... accomplices. And I can fake a lot of things, Director, but not that.”
Cross’s laugh came like the hiss of a pressure valve—a short, sharp sound that might have been genuine amusement, or just pressure escaping a carefully sealed plan.
“Look,” she began, glancing at each of them like a disappointed aunt trying to explain estate taxes to particularly slow nephews. “Do you have any idea how difficult it would be to start over? I mean properly—new narrative, new faces, new backstory. Scrubbing security footage. Rewriting logs. Relocating a century-old derelict without triggering half a dozen Interspace insurance alarms. Replacing the three of you with a trio of photogenic interns who don't know the difference between a hull breach and a hiccup.”
She clasped her hands again, slowly.
“It’s exhausting just thinking about it.”
Then she softened, her tone sliding into something almost maternal.
“Now, of course… if any of you feel this isn’t the path for you—if you truly believe you can’t support this story, this opportunity—then of course I respect that.”
She took a breath. Then:
“But if you decide to walk away…”
Her voice dropped just slightly. “I want to be very honest with you.”
“I care about my employees. Truly. I would never harm any of you—so long as you remain my employees.”
A silence, brittle and sharp.
“But if you choose to leave… well, I can’t promise you’ll stay safe. You know too much. About what happened. About who was involved. About me, about Orbital.”
She smiled—gently, regretfully. “And I have a company to protect. A legacy. Hundreds of careers—thousands of families—that depend on certain truths staying… manageable.”
Her fingers laced together, soft and serene.
“So please understand: this isn’t personal. But if you’re not part of the solution, I can’t let you become a liability. I wish there was another way.”
A pause. Her smile grew. “But there isn’t.”
A beat.
“I want you to live. Truly, I do. This little gold mine I’ve just dug up? It only works if you're still breathing. And preferably still smiling.”
Then, with a small laugh—light, almost embarrassed, as if she’d gotten carried away:
“But listen to me, getting all dramatic.”
Her tone warmed again, like sunlight over frost.
“You’re already in the story. You fit. Perfectly. You’re authentic. Human. Tragic in a way that tests well with focus groups. People will relate to you. They’ll project their hope and grief and national pride onto your faces.”
She stepped forward, voice soothing now, persuasive.
“You’re not just part of the story anymore. You are the story.”
She turned to Hans first. “You—the awkward genius who cracked the century old code and brought the past to life.”
To Albert: “you, the man who panicked early, often, and—miraculously—always in the right direction.”
And finally, to Schmidt: “And you—the skeptic. The reluctant witness. The quiet centre of the storm who just… didn’t look away.”
She let the silence hang for a moment, then added, almost conversationally:
“When the Morgenstern launches again—and she will—you three will be aboard. With you, Schmidt, in the captain’s chair. It’s neater that way. Symbolic. People like symmetry.”
Albert opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then muttered, “Stars. Fantastic. Can’t wait to see our faces on commemorative mugs.”
She gestured broadly at the walls of the Morgenstern, as if the ship itself were listening.
“This vessel isn’t just history now. She’s a story. A stage. A future flagship of an entire media campaign. And I’d like his new captain front and center and alive.”
