The Castaway (Pirates of Drinax)

When King Oleb of Drinax offered the crew of the Morrigan a ship and a letter of marque, Caitlin said yes before reading the fine print. Or the large print. Or anything, really. A chance to fly fast, shoot big guns, and maybe get rich while annoying the right people. The rest of the crew went along, either out of loyalty, morbid curiosity, or lack of anything better to do.

Now, aboard a half-refitted Harrier-class commerce raider, they were officially Privateers of the Glorious and Most Radiant Kingdom of Drinax. This mostly meant chasing other pirates who were making Oleb look bad by being slightly more murderous and significantly less stylish.

Borite, the Trojan Reach

The Harrier emerged from jumpspace with all the grace of a drunken Bwap at a funeral. The ship shuddered, groaned, and made a noise in the hull plating that suggested it had strong opinions about being asked to function under these conditions.

Once a proud Sindalian warship of sweeping lines and elegant violence, the Harrier now creaked with every weld. Her hull was a patchwork of scorched plating and salvaged parts, trying to recall former glory. The bridge still boasted gold filigree and panoramic starlight views, as if her designers had heard ‘build a warship’ and instead produced a grand opera house with guns.

Caitlin lounged in one of the bridge’s gilded chairs, legs kicked out and sneakers crossed, draped in the absurdly formal officer’s cloak and sabre she'd looted from the captain’s stateroom. The Drinaxian ensemble clashed enthusiastically with her faded cargo pants and tank top, suggesting either fashion anarchy or a failed coup in a costume department.

“If we ever emerge without a death rattle,” she said dryly, “I’ll be genuinely unnerved. Possibly offended."

The view-screen flicked to life. Borite’s sun glared in a tired sort of way, and its namesake planet hung in the foreground like someone had left a mustard-coloured sock in the laundry of space.

The planet was named for its high boron content, which remained the most exciting thing about it. Millions of colonists endured life under the Borite Continuity Authority, a bureaucratic fossil so outdated it made Oghman raiders look like a breath of fresh air. Even they didn’t stick around long. A gas giant boiled quietly in the outer orbit, large, colourful, and unhelpfully radioactive.

"Signal," said Maltz abruptly, ears twitching. "Odd one. Weak as anything. Buried in the gas giant’s interference. Took the advanced suite nearly a minute to pick it out."

Caitlin straightened slightly. “That’s usually our cue for ‘go poking it with a stick.’”

Morwen wandered in, towelling engine grease off her hands. “Are we crashing into something or just flirting with it this time?”

“Flirting,” said Caitlin. “For now.”

Maltz frowned at his screen. "Definitely a distress call. Sindalian frequency. Signal’s a mess, like someone stitched it together out of a toaster and a prayer; there’s power bleed too. I’m seeing an old comms relay. And it’s flagged as GK, so technically we’re obliged to reply, unless we want to argue with the Navigation Act of 103. Again.

Quinn nodded from his station. “Neural sensor’s picking up faint activity. Conscious, just about. Probably a Vargr. Possibly from the scout ship we're chasing. The interior’s... creative. Some of it might be damage. Some might be décor. Or perhaps architectural spite."

He scrolled through the readouts. “No gravity. No atmosphere worth mentioning. Wear suits. Secure your gear. Muscle strain’s common in zero-G, especially if your idea of flexibility is reaching for snacks. Also, if you haven’t stretched today, now would be an excellent time."

“So basically a ghost kitchen, but instead of a bad curry, you get asphyxiation and vertigo,” Morwen said cheerfully.

Scarred-Snout loomed behind them both, arms folded, a Drinaxian ceremonial officer's hat perched atop his head. It was ridiculous, gaudy, and unnecessarily dignified. “Something’s in there. Waiting. Old teeth. Broken, but still biting.”

“Thanks, that’s very comforting,” said Caitlin. “Did our dear Shifty slither off or is it lurking in a vent again?"

Right on cue, Shifty the Hiver dropped from the ceiling like an unwanted chandelier. One limb extended with a flourish, then twirled back like it had taken a theatrical curtain call and was waiting for reviews.

“You’re still here,” Caitlin sighed.

“I was advised to observe field conditions,” Shifty replied with indignation, its voice a masterclass in vocal engineering - an irresistibly smooth female contralto, designed to spark adolescent dreams and leave listeners hanging onto every syllable. "King Oleb was quite clear on the matter. There was paperwork.”

“I bet it was more like thinly veiled manipulation,” Morwen said. “Probably turned that voice box on the king until he started signing decrees in a trance.”

“There may be salvage,” Shifty added helpfully. “High grade materials. Relics. Weapons.”

“You’re not coming aboard,” Caitlin said flatly. “We already have one walking health hazard. That’s me, before caffeine.”

“Of course,” Shifty said with brittle dignity. “I’ll just stand here and not intervene while you poke the haunted space relic with a stick. Shall I notify your next of kin?”

The Harrier crept toward the ancient orbital station, half swallowed by gas and stormlight. It looked every day of its 2,500 years: angular, gaudy, and quietly furious about its continued existence. Patchwork repairs clung to the hull like desperate apologies. Missile scarring and blown out sections painted a bleak story.

“The station’s name is Grand Repository of August Judgement,” Quinn intoned. “Decommissioned around the same time people still believed in the Sindalian tax code.”

Morwen gave a low whistle. “We sure this thing won’t fall apart if we sneeze near it?”

Caitlin stared at the station like it owed her money. King Oleb’s ridiculous demands about replacing the gilded chandeliers in the cargo bay were still fresh in her mind. Shifty, ever helpful, had pointed out that this station might have original Sindalian hull plating, high grade processors, and perhaps even a replacement for the broken turret.

“So,” she said. “Ancient deathtrap. One survivor. Possibly haunted. And we’re flying a ship that panics if you look at it funny.”

Morwen cracked her neck. “That’s one way to spend an afternoon.”

The Harrier’s ventral turret still sulked inoperative. Manoeuvring was delicate. Docking was hazardous. Caitlin docked anyway.

She grinned. “Right then. Who wants to knock politely on a haunted airlock?”