The Plan

Doctor Gottlieb Bauer observed the ancient steel beams that traversed the ceiling. For centuries the metal endured the burden placed upon it, it saw people come and go. And yet it remained unchanged, unyielding, its blued surface still glossy and perfect, untouched by rust. Across the table sat a gaunt man, old but made even older by the raspy tiredness of his voice. He was looking at a scan diagram of an object seemingly hundreds of meters below the surface of a featureless desert planet. Finally, the directors attention returned to Bauer.

“Alas, all is gone now, turned into cosmic dust. But in the end… is that not the fate of us all?”


With a sigh he slowly rose, gripping the table’s edge.


“I’m old, my old friend, death is breathing down my neck, such is the pernicious nature of time itself.”

“But you… we’re not fully dead yet, some things have changed, others are as they used to be.”

“Fully dead — ha! — your sense of humour is as it used to be. Terrible! Here, take this glass, let us drink.


In the distance a ship climbed into the sky, the roar of its engines reverberated distortedly from Museum’s Northern and Southern Lamellae. The ever so slowly setting sun of New Berlin drew amber shapes as its light filtered through a bottle of cognac.


“I’ve heard rumours…”

“That’s why I sent you the transmission, to —”

“— Oh?”

“The wars are over, Bauer. The economy is recovering, our funding is being increased, can you imagine? I want to make a foray past the Border Worlds, into the unexplored systems. It may well be my last expedition, one way or another, but I must make something of this life. I need your help.”


Bauer nodded thoughtfully.


“I see. Sigmas, I suppose?”

“Omicrons.”

“That’s far. Real far. Months to get the equipment there, supply depots, one would have to risk everything... but you know that.”


Of course he knows, Bauer thought. Tradelanes in the border worlds are dangerous these days, the weeks long journey between houses sees many a ship disappear. What one might have to endure in places without infrastructure is another thing altogether.


“It’s been what, almost thirty years since our last expedition?”

“Something like that. Twenty five? As I’ve said, time weighs down on us. And what have we achieved in the meantime?”


His voice betrayed bitterness and, perhaps, something else. The Director took a draught of cognac.


“Listen, Franz, half of the people here have never even set foot outside of Rheinland, the other half at best went to a conference on Cambridge.”

“And?”

“There will be mistakes. And we can’t afford mistakes. Not on Museum’s first expedition,” he heard his voice rise, “in thirty years!”


Maister turned away with an expression of disgusted despise.


“You said that I’m not old enough to just give up and die. Now you’re telling me that we should just let those Cantabrigian or, heavens forbid, Hammer Institute knuckleheads take everything from us?”

“That’s not what I —”

“— is that not what is going to happen, no, no, what already is happening?”