A Gift Horse, Armed to the Teeth

The Duke’s audience chamber was a gilded box of good taste and bad decisions. Polished marble floors reflected the amber glow of fusion lamps housed in antique fixtures. The air hung heavy with the cloying scent of imported incense.

Caitlin stood in the middle, favouring one leg, the fading bruise along her jaw catching the light. She held herself like someone who’d walked away from trouble and wasn’t about to apologise for it. Maltz slouched beside her, faint traces of grease clinging to his fur, ears twitching at sounds only he could hear. He looked entirely unbothered.

Duke Benhir Al-Malik sat in a high-backed chair carved with the family crest, hands steepled, expression carved from solid propriety. He regarded them with the air of a man who couldn’t decide whether to reward them or have them quietly shot.

“You… resolved the matter,” the Duke said at last, voice creaking under the weight of all the things left unsaid. “Efficiently.”

Caitlin offered a lopsided grin. “We’re good at problems, Your Grace. Especially the sort that don’t want writing down.”

Maltz flicked an ear, entirely too cheerful. “Especially those.”

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, you did lose a Imperial scout ship in the process.”

“The Grainne Mhaol was my ship,” Caitlin said indignantly. “Technically. Got it when I mustered out.”

“Yes,” the Duke allowed. “And now it’s... somewhere deep in Zhodani space.” A pause. “Under diplomatic quarantine.” He gestured vaguely toward the stars beyond his palace walls, where the Zhodani Consulate maintained its uneasy border with Imperial territory.

“Trust me,” Caitlin said, straight-faced. “That was the best outcome.”

Maltz nodded, entirely too cheerful. “Could’ve been much worse.”

The Duke sighed the long, heavy sigh of a man with far too many enemies and not enough deniability. He leaned back, studying them like a man forced to choose between setting fire to a warehouse or letting the rats take it.

“How do you reward someone for saving your reputation while creating a whole new set of problems?” he mused, mostly to himself. “I do feel something of equal or greater value is in order.”

The Royal Majordomo, Kilisawap Nangarap, a small, round-faced bwap in starched gold-and-purple Vilani robes, with a powdered wig perched meticulously atop his scaled head, cleared his throat with bureaucratic precision. His webbed fingers tapped briskly at his datapad as he spoke, the ribbon on his tail bobbing with each precise movement.

“If you will allow a suggestion, Your Grace. There is the Holly's Folly. Still gathering dust after your cousin’s… unfortunate demise.”

Caitlin raised an eyebrow. “And which cousin was that?”

The Duke pinched the bridge of his nose. “Young Darius. Third cousin twice removed, technically. Fond of fast ships, poor at cards, worse at paying off vargr bookies.”

Maltz winced sympathetically. “Rough.”

Kilisawap sniffed, his throat sac pulsing with disapproval. “Holly's Folly,” he read fussily from his pad, “a 300-ton Explorer class Scout, stripped of all unnecessary military fittings and refitted for leisure travel. Enhanced staterooms, a biosphere, and an entertainment suite.”

Kilisawap’s mouth pinched at the words, as though they offended him. “It was intended to be a long-range yacht with… creature comforts.” He made a subtle gesture that clearly conveyed his distaste for Darius's debaucheries.

Caitlin’s brow twitched. “So, a noble’s toy.”

The Duke sighed. “A fast toy. Thrust eight. Pity Darius never made use of it.”

Maltz perked up. “Explorer class Scout? Nice.”

The Duke nodded, resigned. “Well armoured but unarmed. Yours, if you take it and yourselves far away from here.”

Caitlin tapped her chin, pretending to consider. “We’ll think about it.”

The Duke’s eyebrow twitched. “Think about it?”

“We’ll need to see all the specs, Your Grace,” Caitlin said, all innocent charm. “Wouldn’t want to impose.”

The Duke, fooled just long enough to believe this would be easy, gestured for Kilisawap to transmit the data. Caitlin skimmed it, nodded, and gave a half-smile that should have set off alarms.

“We’ll be in touch.”

The Duke, too relieved to argue, waved them off. Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.

Two days later…

After an extensive personal tour of the vessel mothballed in the Duke’s private shipyard, Caitlin and Maltz returned to the palace. The ship itself was a beauty, a long slab of armour and oversized engines, a gunship pretending to be a pleasure craft. She deserved better than to rot as a status symbol. She deserved to fly.

Caitlin casually flicked a datasheet to the Duke with all the weight of someone delivering a polite assassination. The wish list was, she had to admit, ambitious. 

The Duke eyed the long list as though it might be contagious. “Let me be sure I understand this,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. “You would like Holly's Folly outfitted with a high-yield torpedo barbette, a particle barbette, pop-up pulse lasers, advanced sensors, an upgraded Ship’s Brain, and…” He squinted. “booby-trapped airlocks?”

Kilisawap's throat sac inflated in alarm, his quill scratching audibly against his datapad.

Maltz flicked an ear. “Some of us don't like uninvited guests.”

“And a re-entry pod?” the Duke asked, grasping at the faint hope it might be a typo.

“Tactical flexibility,” Caitlin replied, as though it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

The Duke’s eyebrow performed a controlled diplomatic ascent. “Which is shorthand for I plan to launch myself at enemies with reckless abandon, yes?”

Caitlin said nothing. Which said everything.

“You do understand this is a gift, not a blank cheque?”

“That’s why we showed restraint,” Maltz nodded solemnly.

The Duke stared at the ceiling, searching for a god who might still be listening. None answered. The frescoed deities painted above merely gazed back dispassionately. 

"I am far too old and far too wealthy to argue with lunatics. You shall have your ship."

Kilisawap’s quill hovered over his datapad. “And it will, of course, require a new name and transponder code. Best if it cannot be traced back to His Grace’s holdings.”

Caitlin grinned like a woman handing in a resignation letter she’d set on fire. “The Morrigan.”

Kilisawap blinked, frowning faintly. “I am unfamiliar with this term. Is it a designation of lineage? A registered hull classification?”

“It’s an old Terran thing. Celtic War goddess. Chooser of the slain. She flies before battle, screaming doom, and if you hear her, it’s already too late.”

Kilisawap adjusted his wig, the datapad clutched a little tighter. “Deeply unsettling.”

Caitlin’s eyes sparkled. “That’s the point.”

The Duke watched them with a mixture of resignation and relief. "Just remember this. The moment your Morrigan leaves my shipyard, I shall deny all knowledge of this lunacy."

Caitlin's smile was all teeth. "Don't worry, Your Grace. We'll be someone else's problem entirely."

Maltz, already plotting where to store the torpedoes, nudged Caitlin. “We will be needing a crew.”

Caitlin gave a small, satisfied nod, 'Aye. We will.'