The King's Gambit (Pirates of Drinax)

Drinax, The Trojan Reach

The Floating Palace drifted above the shattered world of Drinax, a half-remembered threat given altitude. A miracle of ancient engineering and royal overcompensation, it hung in the upper atmosphere with the serene arrogance of something that hadn’t fallen yet and therefore clearly never would. Its towers reached skyward in defiance of physics, budget, and common sense. Gilded platforms and domes jutted from every tier, festooned with banners that hadn’t seen wind in a hundred years but still managed to flap heroically.

Parts of it gleamed with the brittle shine of a golden age pretending it never ended. Other parts sulked under scaffolding, waiting for the budget committee to finish arguing with reality. Somewhere beneath all the splendour, ancient gravity generators groaned softly, dreaming of retirement.

It wasn’t just a palace. It was a statement. That Drinax still stood. That the Sindalian Empire hadn’t completely gone to compost. And that if you really wanted to impress visitors, nothing beat an airborne architectural hissy fit the size of a small moon.

The Morrigan docked with the quiet assurance of a vessel that knew exactly how dangerous she looked. Sleek, heavily armed, and humming faintly with restrained menace, she slid into her berth beneath the Floating Palace as if claiming rightful territory. Even the docking clamps seemed a little deferential. Cathbad, the ship’s Intellect, offended by the lack of poetry in the docking beacon’s tone, muttered obscure Sindalian verse into the navfeed out of spite.

The landing struts extended with a sigh of hydraulic drama. The engines purred once, low and threatening, before cutting out completely - the mechanical equivalent of flipping your cloak just right as you walk into a throne room

The docks of the Floating Palace bustled with all the chaos of a flea market held inside a cathedral. Crews from half the Reach shouted across loading ramps, while ancient servitors trundled between cargo crates and noble children on errands they considered beneath them.

Starport Control was all marble floors and peeling gold leaf, the grandeur of empire repurposed for processing fuel permits. A bored official glanced up from his console, clocked the Morrigan’s registry, and decided to ask no questions today. Quinn signed something with excessive formality. Maltz waved cheerfully at a junior engineer who flinched.

Past the gates, Rachando’s Bazaar had overrun the plaza in a glittering sprawl of commerce and questionable taste. Gilded tents and polished stalls glittered under hanging lights, displaying everything from rare alloys to Sindalian poetry cubes. Rachando himself held court near a stack of antique robot parts, arguing loudly in three languages. He spotted Caitlin, winked, and gestured to a box labelled Definitely Legal. She kept walking.

The entrance to the Underlinth crouched at the base of a broad pillar, half-hidden behind a monument to some long-dead admiral. A narrow stair twisted downward, flanked by rusted signs, bored guards, and the faint scent of mischief. Maltz sniffed the air. “Smells like debt and drink,” he growled.

Caitlin nodded. “Then we’re nearly there.”

They descended into the Underlinth and made their way to Eneri’s, the sort of cantina that looked as if someone skimmed the 'How to Build the Perfect Bar' manual, then used it to wedge a table leg.

The atmosphere didn’t hit them so much as perform a small interpretive dance around their senses before settling in for a long chat. Conversations bubbled like overexcited stew, glasses clinked in syncopated rhythm, and the occasional cheer from the upper level suggested someone had either won spectacularly or lost with style.

A jazz trio fought a noble, losing battle against the din. The lighting hit that sweet spot where everyone looked either mysterious or hungover. The main floor curved around a bar that looked grown rather than built. Behind it, Gourz, an old Vargr corsair, poured drinks with the grace of someone who knew exactly when to duck.

Beside him, Bug – a four-armed bartender bot – moved with mechanical precision and unlicensed charm. Its limbs worked in perfect sync, mixing drinks at temperatures that would make a physicist weep.

The place was packed. Traders haggled, wanderers bragged, and off-duty Star Guards strutted through the crowd, all gleam and posture. At one table, a pack of loudly dressed Vargr argued in technicolour. At another, four Aslan sat in dignified silence, eating flash-fried meat that was still steaming.

Six Droyne clustered in a booth, chittering quietly. Above, the balcony-level gambling pit crackled with tension and bad decisions.

When Gourz spotted them, he locked eyes with Caitlin. Recognition flickered. He poured her usual and slid it across the bar with the precision of long habit.

“Sal will be here in a moment,” he said, nodding to a booth marked Reserved. “She said you’d bring trouble. I set out extra chairs.”

Soon after, Sal Dancet entered her cantina as if she'd owned it in a past life too. The crowd shifted just enough to mark her passage, not from fear but from reflex. She wore layered browns and high boots with the quiet confidence of someone who could outdrink a freighter crew and outfly half the system. A grease smudge on her sleeve hinted she'd fixed something that morning, possibly mid-flight.

Her eyes swept the room, landed on Caitlin, and one eyebrow lifted with the weight of shared history and several unsent apologies. Then she smiled, slow and sharp - the kind that usually meant business, trouble, or both.

“Caitlin bloody O’Neill.”

“Sal feckin’ Dancet.”

They stared at each other across years of bad nights, worse mornings, and that casino job on Tyokh that neither would talk about sober.

“Well,” Sal said, with a glance at the crew, “you’ve upgraded.”

Caitlin gestured to the crew. “They follow me around. Some for moral support. Some for science. One of them owes me dinner.”

Scarred-Snout purred. “I brought spices.”

Caitlin gave Sal a hug and sat down again. “So. What’s the story, Sal? You said you had something juicy.”

Sal leaned back in her chair. “Juicy doesn’t even begin to cover it, Cait. This one’s marbled, rare, and still twitching.”

She glanced at the others. “You’re all cleared for secrets, I take it? Or should I speak slowly and use small words?”

Scarred-Snout let out a low growl that might have been laughter. Quinn tilted his head, already calculating the risk-to-bureaucracy ratio. Morwen didn’t blink. Maltz just looked excited.

Caitlin grinned. “They’re house-trained. Mostly. Go on.”

Sal set a datapad on the table. It flickered to life, casting blue light across their faces. A holo-map of the Reach materialized above the surface.

"Two nearby planets. Clarke and Torpol. Hit by raiders. Not your standard pirate smash-and-grabs. This was coordinated. Surgical. Lethal. And worse - it worked."

The map shifted under her touch, highlighting a dull brown planet. "Clarke first. They hit a relic-quarry near Hiewad - wiped out an entire dig team, took whatever old tech they could carry, and left blast craters behind."

Another swipe brought Torpol into focus, its oceanic surface gleaming. "Then this one. Torpol's got more water than sense, so most of its industry floats above it. The raiders hit an orbital chemical refinery. Automated. Cameras caught the first few seconds."

Sal's finger drummed on the table. "People were killed. Both governments are furious. Bounties posted. Heads demanded. Normally, Drinax would send politely worded condolences and a fruit basket. But Princess Rao's got a better idea."

"Track the bastards. Take heads. Drag it all into the light with a 'compliments of His Majesty' tag. If Clarke and Torpol start looking to Drinax for justice and protection, Rao scores diplomacy points and Oleb gets to look like a king again. Everybody wins."

Her gaze swept across each face around the table, measuring reactions. "She needs a crew sharp enough to investigate, bold enough to shoot first, and clever enough to turn pirates into propaganda. Quiet or loud - depends how good the explosion looks."

The pause stretched just long enough to let the implications sink in before Sal's attention settled on Caitlin. "And if you pull it off? You'll have the princess's favour. Maybe even the king's. That's the kind of backing that opens doors."

"Doors with stealth ships behind them."

"Stealth ships, you say?" Caitlin's grinned. "Do go on."

"Ah, thought that might get your attention. See, Oleb's got a shiny toy tucked away – an old Sindalian commerce raider, barely functional, entirely ridiculous, but it still has teeth. Calls it the Harrier. He's been waiting for the right crew to hand it to. Someone who can make a mess in the right places and make Drinax look good."

"You bring Rao her pirates and a neat little alliance, and you'll be next in line for the kind of ship that makes navies nervous and customs officials cry. Do it loud enough, and Oleb might even remember your name sober."

"Oh," she added with calculated casualness, "there's also the small matter of a 2.5 million credit reward. Between Torpol and Clarke. Official, above board, and very real."

"But you'll want to move fast. Word's out. Wouldn't be surprised if a few other hopefuls are already sniffing around. You know what they say - late to a bounty, early to a funeral."

Caitlin raised an eyebrow. “Do they actually say that?”

“They do now. I’m making it a thing."

Caitlin swirled her drink and looked at her friends. “Right so. You’ve heard the pitch. Pirates, politics, bounties, and possibly our very own dodgy stealth ship. Thoughts?”

Maltz’s ears twitched. “Two and a half million credits buys a lot of ship upgrades. And possibly a grav-bike. I’m in.”

Morwen said nothing for a moment. Then, calmly: “I don’t trust any governments or royalty. But I do like the idea of shutting down amateurs who can’t steal without killing.”

Quinn adjusted his spectacles. “There’s a strong likelihood we’ll be betrayed. Possibly twice. But if we don’t take this, someone far less qualified almost certainly will.”

Scarred-Snout’s claws tapped against the table, slowly. “I have hunted pirates before. Their spines make poor trophies, but the hunt is good.”

Caitlin nodded. “Well, that’s practically a unanimous yes. Sal, tell Princess Rao to finish fixing that Harrier. In the meantime, we’ve got pirates to catch.”

She drained the last of her drink. “And if we’re heading back to Torpol, I’m bringing my Hiver hat. I’m pretty sure it’s still somewhere on the ship.”

There was a brief, collective groan.

Maltz muttered, “May it have melted in storage.”

Morwen added, “It’s still in my cabin, where you left it. Unfortunately.”

Scarred-Snout just shook his mane. “It haunts my dreams.”