“Bring us closer, Neer. I am quite certain the shields on your Dorado will hold.”
“Yes, ma’am. I believe so too,” he replied, briefly meeting Hans’s eyes. Hans responded with a shrug and a nod that conveyed the reassuring message that the shields had been recalibrated by someone who would be personally offended if they failed.
Albert shook his head and, hands steady on the controls, eased the shuttle closer to the Morgenstern’s aft section. The Dorado slid laterally along the ship’s vast, asymmetrical bulk, passing the engine block at a distance that was, by all reasonable standards, closer than strictly necessary.
From here, the ship stopped pretending to be a single object. Scorched plating gave way to exposed trusses; conduits wandered across the hull in patterns suggesting that, at some point, urgency had decisively outranked aesthetics.
The proximity alarms chimed in small, offended bursts as micro-impact warnings accumulated on the displays — debris, slag, fragments of armour drifting with the lazy confidence of things that had already done their damage. Albert elected not to comment.
Schmidt studied the hull in silence, head tilted back. For several seconds, no one spoke. Then Huber did.
“I would say,” she began, carefully, “that it is easier to identify what is not of civilian manufacture here.”
The reinforcement did not merely sit atop the original hull; it argued with it. Layer upon layer wrapped around the engine housing, correcting perceived weaknesses with an enthusiasm that suggested repetition rather than planning. The original lines were still present, but only just — betrayed by seams that refused to agree with one another and by structural elements that clearly came from different schools of engineering, and in some cases, different centuries.
Huber hesitated, as if weighing whether the next sentence was strictly necessary.
“The recordings from Omega-11 are… consistent,” she said at last to her recording datapad, with the faint reluctance of someone discovering that an inconvenient story appears to be telling the truth. “They indicate prolonged exposure to a radioactive debris-dense environment, traces of at least one naval engagement, and a pattern of multiple high-energy impacts and collision events.”
Her gaze followed a repaired breach as it drifted through the Dorado’s floodlights — a patchwork of mismatched plating reinforced far beyond what any civilian regulation would have required, or permitted.
“A vessel subjected to that sequence of circumstances,” she continued, “would not have had the option of elegant solutions. Salvage, adaptation, and emergency reinforcement would have been… unavoidable.”
She paused, then added, almost grudgingly:
“In that context, the external configuration we are observing does align with the historical record.”
Schmidt nodded, once. “There are Rheinland components, though” he said. “Structural elements, armour segments, portions of the thermal baffling.”
He indicated a section where several armour alloys overlapped in a manner that could only be described as optimistic. “Hans — pass her the other binoculars.”
Hans complied. Through the lenses, the ship’s compromises became more explicit. Point-defence turrets had been welded onto reinforced pedestals with little regard for symmetry; power lines ran externally, protected by casings that looked as though they had been designed during a particularly stressful afternoon. The weapon mounts were functional, certainly, but integration appeared to have been postponed indefinitely.
The Dorado continued its slow circuit along the port side and beneath the keel. Floodlights revealed old impact scars filled with mismatched plating, entire sections where original armour had been removed and replaced wholesale. Navigation lights flickered irregularly, all of them working, none of them quite agreeing on where they ought to be.
Antenna clusters protruded at angles that suggested afterthoughts. Sensor arrays overlapped generously, redundancy having clearly been preferred over restraint.
“Those ionic dispersers are almost certainly Hessian in design,” Hans muttered, mostly to himself.
“Ah,” Huber replied without lowering the binoculars, so those filthy terrorists have retained you as an engineer, Mr. Belck?”
Hans stiffened.
“No, Dr. Huber. Absolutely not,” he said quickly. “Those are… academic memories. Advanced engineering courses. You don’t truly understand a hostile vessel unless you know what tends to fail first.”
“Mr. Belck,” Huber replied evenly, “I am joking. We do, on occasion, joke at the Ministry.”
Hans opened his mouth to respond and was immediately persuaded not to by a precisely delivered kick from Schmidt, accompanied by a clear and eloquent lip-read: be quiet.
“Very well,” Huber said after a moment. “I believe we have sufficient material for the external inspection.”
She lowered the binoculars and turned toward the plethora of ministerial officials occupying the Dorado’s observation deck, each surrounded by overlays, measurements, and the quiet satisfaction of having measured nearly everything.
“Colleagues — final checklist?”
One of the officials glanced down at his display, scrolled for a moment, then looked up.
“External armour fully surveyed.”
“Multiple reinforcement layers identified; density exceeds civilian norms.”
“Weapon mounts catalogued. Mixed manufacture. Several non-standard installations noted.”
“Laser telemetry of former hull markings and insignia completed.”
“Spectrometric analysis of added structural components acquired. Alloy composition inconsistent with a single-origin refit.”
“Hull breach repairs mapped. No active decompression risks detected.”
“Passive spectrum of antennas, sensors, and external emitters recorded. Exterior lighting functional, though irregular.”
A pause followed, just long enough to be professionally uncomfortable.
“Thermal and high-resolution visual scans of the main engines remain outstanding.”
“You want to power up the engines remotely — have you completely lost your mind?” Hans said.
“What he means,” Schmidt interjected smoothly, applying another corrective kick, “is that given the current state of the engines, it may be advisable to postpone that step until we have inspected their structural integrity from the inside. Even from out here, they do not appear to be in optimal condition.”
Huber regarded the engine block for a final moment, then inclined her head.
“Captain Schmidt is correct. We will postpone. There will be ample opportunity to be alarmed later.”
She straightened.
“Very well, gentlemen. We may dock. We have, give or take, fifteen decks to catalogue.”
Hermann rolled his eyes toward the ceiling for half a second, then placed a hand on Albert Speer’s shoulder.
“Come on, Albert,” he said. “Work your magic again and get us aboard.”
Planet Baden Baden, Steinbach administrative archipelago, November 30th, 835 AS
Forms, Heat, and Other Misunderstandings
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?”
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.”
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.
Planet Baden Baden, Rastatt archipelago, Schmidt's house. November 30th, 835 AS
The Trouble With Honest Lies
Hermann’s house hung over the cliff with the quiet confidence of something that had already won an argument with gravity and saw no reason to revisit it.
Below, the sea struck black volcanic rock in slow, deliberate waves. Steam rose from distant vents, turning the islands into layered silhouettes, half land, half weather. The view was spectacular in the way people later described with excessive hand gestures and unnecessary adjectives.
The three men did not look at it.
They sat around the table as if they had arrived there by mistake and were waiting for someone to correct it. Plates had been served. Food had cooled. Glasses had been filled and then ignored, as though hydration were suddenly a matter of principle.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
“They think we’re liars,” Albert said finally.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even sound angry. He sounded confused, as if he had just been informed that gravity was optional and he had been doing things the hard way out of habit.
Hans stared at the table. “I know. I heard them. I just… didn’t expect it to hurt this much.”
Schmidt leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “They don’t think we’re hiding a crime,” he said. “They think we’re selling a story.”
Albert let out a short, humorless laugh. “That’s the part that’s killing me. Of all the things we’ve actually hidden.”
Hans shook his head slowly. “We lied,” he said. “Yes. Absolutely. Repeatedly. Professionally.” He looked up, eyes sharp. “But not about that. Not about von Tanner. Not about the ship.”
“No,” Hermann said quietly. “That part was real.”
The words hung there, heavy and awkward, like something that had never expected to be questioned.
Hans pushed his plate away. “We spent months sanitizing that story. Cutting out the parts that would get people killed. Filing down the edges so it could exist in public without setting off alarms.” His voice cracked, just slightly. “And now they think we invented it.”
Albert rubbed his face with both hands. “We finally had a version of the truth we could live with. Not the whole thing. Not the blood. But something that meant something.”
“And now,” Hans said, “it’s going to vanish under the label of fraud.”
Schmidt closed his eyes.
“That’s the beffa,” Albert went on, bitterness creeping in now. “The joke on top of the joke. We tell the truth—carefully, responsibly—and get punished for lying about it.”
Hans laughed once, sharp and brittle. “I would have preferred they accused us of murder. At least that would have been… honest.”
Schmidt opened his eyes. “Careful.”
“I mean it,” Hans insisted. “A crime can be hidden. A fraud gets erased. Declared void. Unworthy of discussion.” He gestured vaguely at the room, the planet, the absurd beauty outside. “They don’t prosecute frauds like this. They dismiss them.”
Albert stared into his glass. “They don’t just take the ship away,” he said. “They take the story. It becomes an embarrassment. Something no one wants to touch.”
“And von Tanner disappears again,” Hans said softly. “This time officially.”
The sea crashed below them, indifferent and impeccably timed.
Schmidt straightened. “We are not victims here,” he said. “Let’s be clear about that.”
“No,” Albert said. “But we are about to be punished for the wrong sin.”
Hans looked at him. “We lied so the truth could survive.”
“And now,” Albert replied, “the truth is going to be buried under the accusation of fiction.”
Silence again. Thicker this time.
“So,” Hans said eventually, “what do we do?”
Schmidt hesitated—then broke the silence properly.
“Listen to me,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud, but it had acquired that particular density it only took on when he had stopped thinking aloud and started deciding. “We’re framing this wrong. We keep talking about how to defend the story. That’s not the fight we’re in.”
Hans frowned. “Then what fight is it?”
“A cheaper one,” Schmidt said. “From their point of view.”
Albert shook his head. “They already think it’s cheap. A fraud. A fabrication that happens to be very well researched.”
He stood and walked toward the glass wall, looking out over the dark sea and the glowing scars of the islands below.
“A fraud has a logic,” he continued. “It has intent. It has efficiency. Someone builds it to work.” He paused. “The Morgenstern doesn’t work. It survives.”
Hans swallowed. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying we stop helping,” Schmidt said. “Completely.”
Albert sat up straighter. “Helping how?”
“By explaining. By smoothing. By contextualizing.” Hermann turned back to them. “Every time we do that, we make it look designed. Curated. Like someone wanted it to look this way.”
Hans shook his head slowly. “But if we don’t explain—”
“—then the ship explains,” Hermann cut in. “Badly. Inconsistently. Expensively.”
Albert stared at him. “You want to let it be ugly.”
“Yes.”
“You want to let it contradict itself.”
“Yes.”
“You want to let them walk into spaces that make no sense and tell them we don’t know why.”
“Yes,” Schmidt said again, softer now. “Because no one committing fraud leaves this much unanswered. No one spends this much effort to gain nothing.”
Hans let out a quiet, bitter laugh. “You realize this means trusting a hundred-year-old wreck with our reputations.”
Schmidt nodded. “I trust it more than any explanation we could invent.”
Another pause—different from the earlier ones. Still heavy, but steadier now.
“So,” Albert said at last, “we go aboard tomorrow knowing they expect theater.”
“And we give them logistics,” Schmidt replied.
Hans straightened. “And if that still isn’t enough?”
Schmidt hesitated, just for a fraction of a second.
“Then at least,” he said, “we won’t be the ones who buried von Tanner a second time.”
They began clearing the table without comment, movements automatic, practiced. Outside, the lights along the islands dimmed as Baden Baden settled into its version of night—volcanic, humid, and entirely unconcerned with tomorrow.
When they finally stepped out onto the terrace, the Morgenstern was just a distant glimmer in the sky, barely visible against the stars.
Tomorrow, they would walk her decks with witnesses.
Tonight, all they could do was stand there, listening to the sea, and accept that whatever happened next would happen in full view—ugly, incomplete, and impossible to rehearse.
Hermann was the last to turn in.
“Get some rest,” he said. “We’re going to need it.”
