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Tsingy; where one doesn’t go barefoot.

A story of a space archaeologist

Almost a year had passed from the failed expedition to Omega 11. The Museum’s building basked in the dim sunshine of early spring on Planet New Berlin, and otherwise grim looking, ice encrusted roof shone like a jewel in the tundra-like landscape. Not many buildings protruding from the ground broke the linear endlessness of New Berlin’s surface, not this far from the busiest launch pads. Above, high in the sky one could see The Ring. With a powerful enough telescope individual ships, could be seen, docking, undocking and swirling around the colossal station like a swarm of bees around a hive.


Maister stood in an elevator, staring blankly at the door, descending steadily into the pitch darkness of the Museum’s vast basement archive and depot. Beside him a young female stood, apparently an employee who worked in the perpetual artificial lighting of the windowless area. He never liked the foul air that was a trademark feature of the archives and couldn’t imagine working in such conditions, especially because only his relatives’ connections had guaranteed him a descent position in the academic society a decade ago. Finally the elevator door opened and a dark hallway replaced it. Power-sawing lights flickered on as the only other passenger strode into the distance and finally disappeared behind a large shelf.

He sighed, pressed a dusty button marked 0 and the elevator door closed once more with a gentle hiss.

And with a hiss it opened again half a minute later, revealing a narrow tunnel that took Maister to, at the time, scarcely populated and rather vacant subway station. The tunnel itself was regularly used by Museum's employees to evade the crowded main entrance. After all, who wants to start his working day in a crowd of tourists?

He checked his watch. Five minutes.

Exactly five minutes later a gush of air sent a couple of discarded papers flying and so signalled the train's arrival. Soon the first leg of his journey continued. The monotonous rhythm of support pillars flying past the windows fit nicely into Maister's melancholic state of mind. He was leaving his home for an indefinite amount of time. And summer had just began! Not that a divorced man in his forties that only lived for work cared much for that, but still. What were his chances of finding something in the Omicrons? Almost zero. Comparable to looking for a needle in the haystack.

Then, just as the deceleration began, a thought crossed his mind. A thought that made his lips curve upward in a slight grin. Does he really have to find something? Why wouldn't he just spend a bit of taxpayers money on personal indulgences?

The launchpad was there, as it always has been. On it a sturdy Humpback freighter shimmered in various shades of light green and grey.