On the Persistent Problem of the Pilgrim named Morgenstern

[Coliz]

Planet Baden Baden, Steinbach administrative archipelago, November 30th, 835 AS

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Forms, Heat, and Other Misunderstandings

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Schmidt gave a brief nod of thanks as the outline of his virtual assistant folded itself neatly back into his holopad and ceased to exist.

He turned to Albert and Hans.
“They’ve begun atmospheric approach. Let’s go and perform the honours.”

A few minutes later, the silhouette of a Pelican bearing the muted colours of the Ministry pushed its way through the sulphurous vapours. The trio was immediately hit by a wave of heat, sulfur, and badly combusted helium-3—an aroma suggesting that the planet had never fully committed to the idea of hospitality.

“Charming,” Albert muttered. “You really wonder what our taxes are spent on if they make their officials fly around in those crates.”

Hans sniffed. “Not that we travel much better.”

Schmidt did not respond. His attention was fixed on the Pelican’s hatch, which stubbornly refused to open.

Several long, deeply unproductive seconds passed.

Eventually, a small delegation emerged down the ramp, visibly overdressed for Baden Baden’s climate, their attire chosen for rooms with walls rather than for planets with geothermically active opinions. At their head walked a woman.

Schmidt stepped forward before she had even reached the final rung of the ladder.

“Dr. Huber, I presume. Captain Schmidt. Welcome to Baden Baden.”
His arm was already extended, hand open, ready.

“I haven’t set foot on Baden Baden yet,” she replied calmly, stepping diagonally to avoid his hand altogether.

She touched down on the platform, adjusted her tailored jacket with the precision of someone reclaiming dignity from gravity, and added,
“Now I have. Susanne Huber. Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Might I suggest we conduct the introductions somewhere with air conditioning—and preferably filtration?”

Schmidt blinked.
“Yes—ah—of course. Absolutely. This way. Right away.”

They moved quickly.

As they passed Albert and Hans, their raised hands were gently but decisively lowered by a sharply mouthed later, inside from Schmidt, accompanied by raised eyebrows that tolerated no debate.

The antiseptic calm of Orbital’s administrative atrium was reached in record time. Cool air, neutral lighting, and the quiet reassurance of a building that believed, at least on facade, in procedures, welcomed them in.

Dr. Huber paused, inhaled, and visibly recalibrated.

“My apologies,” she said. “I’ve never tolerated Baden Baden’s air or smell. Not since the holidays my parents insisted on spending here when I was a child.” She offered a small, professional smile. “A pleasure. Susanne Huber. Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

A round of greetings followed—Schmidt, Neer, Belck; ministerial aides; Orbital technicians—names exchanged, datapads waking, the ritual completed.

Huber clasped her hands once.

“Very well,” she said. “I suggest we begin immediately. Shall we proceed?”

Planet Baden Baden, Steinbach administrative archipelago

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Board Room 3

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They did.

Chairs were arranged with the quiet efficiency of people who did this for a living. Datapads were placed on the table, aligned just enough to suggest order without committing to it. Someone dimmed the lights a fraction. Someone else adjusted the temperature by a degree that would later be debated but never reversed.

Huber took her seat, unhurried. She did not open her holopad immediately. That, Schmidt noticed, was deliberate.

“Before we move on to the physical inspection,” she said, finally activating the display, “I’d like to clarify a few points from the documentation you provided.”

The dossier unfolded in the air between them: schematics, timelines, registry excerpts, neatly annotated. Orbital’s work. Clean. Careful. Thorough in the way only something reviewed by three legal departments could be.

“You’ll find,” Schmidt said, keeping his tone light, “that we’ve tried to be as transparent as possible. The discovery, the ship’s condition, the recovered logs—”

“Yes,” Huber said pleasantly. “Captain von Tanner. Geological Reconnaissance Convoy. Disappearance presumed due to Omega-systems instability.” She scrolled. “A tragic but not uncommon outcome, given the period.”

Hans relaxed a fraction. Albert leaned back, folding his arms.

“So far,” Huber continued, “everything aligns with the submitted materials. Hull modifications consistent with prolonged survival. Mixed-origin components. A… rather heroic level of redundancy.”

Hans smiled despite himself. “Heroic is one word for it.”

Huber glanced up. “You approve?”

“I mean,” Hans said, catching Schmidt’s warning look a second too late, “given the circumstances, it makes sense. You don’t refit for elegance when you’re just trying to keep the lights on.”

“Quite,” Huber replied, making a note. “Survival engineering has its own aesthetic.”

A pause. Comfortable. Almost friendly.

Albert cleared his throat. “The engines, in particular, suffered repeated stress cycles. We’ve documented multiple field repairs, often performed under less-than-ideal conditions.”

“Yes,” one of Huber’s aides interjected, scrolling. “Repeated interventions, improvised solutions, and no consistent refit signature.”

“Which suggests,” Albert said carefully, “that there was no long-term plan. Just… continuity.”

Huber smiled faintly. “Continuity is interesting. It can indicate necessity.”
She paused.
“Or commitment.”

Schmidt leaned forward slightly. “Orbital didn’t acquire the ship with any intent beyond salvage. Actually, we don't even know why the ship was acquired back in the days”

“Of course not,” Huber said immediately. “The purchase predates any of this by decades. That’s well established.”

Another aide chimed in. “Still, it is remarkable how complete the narrative is. Logs, damage patterns, personal accounts. Even gaps where one would expect them.”

Hans frowned. “Gaps?”

“Missing data,” the aide clarified. “The sort that suggests loss rather than omission.”

“Loss,” Huber echoed thoughtfully. “Or restraint.”

The room remained calm. The air conditioning hummed. Somewhere in the building, a machine dispensed a beverage no one had asked for.

Schmidt smiled. It felt wrong on his face.

“You’ll appreciate,” he said carefully, “that we didn’t embellish anything. If anything, the material is… inconvenient.”

“Yes,” Huber agreed. “That is often the mark of authenticity.”

Albert exhaled, slow and quiet.

“And yet,” Huber added, fingers steepled now, “inconvenience can also be curated. Rough edges left in place to suggest sincerity.”

One of the aides nodded. “With the restoration of the monarchy, we’ve seen a sharp increase in cases like that. Every week, another family appears—long-lost nobility, forgotten lineages—claiming ancestral estates, rights, privileges.”

“They all have documentation,” Huber said. “Some of it remarkably well prepared.”

“Old seals, partial archives,” the aide added. “Gaps where wars or administrative collapses might plausibly have erased records.”

Huber’s gaze drifted back to the hovering outline of the Morgenstern.
“History,” she said mildly, “is surprisingly cooperative when people are sufficiently motivated.”

Hans shifted in his chair. Albert unfolded his arms.

“You understand,” Huber continued, “that our concern is not enthusiasm. It is precedent. A genuine rediscovery obliges the Ministry to act one way. A constructed one obliges us to act quite differently.”

One of the aides allowed himself a thin smile.
“People usually expect paperwork from us. Clarifications. Delays.”

“Yes,” Huber said, finally meeting Schmidt’s eyes. “They are often surprised to learn that clarification is sometimes followed by consequences.”

She closed the dossier with a soft, final gesture.

“Tomorrow,” she said lightly, “we will be aboard your ship. We will look at it carefully. And we will see whether the physical reality supports the story we’ve been given.”

Her smile returned, polite and impeccably placed.

“For your sake,” she added, almost kindly, “I hope it does.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

The trio exchanged brief glances—nothing obvious, nothing that could be recorded—just the shared realization that the ground beneath them had shifted, quietly, without asking permission.

And that whatever awaited them aboard the Morgenstern, it was no longer going to be inspected under the assumptions they had prepared for.