Starbuoy: Hangover Protocol

Chronicles of Xanctu

Jun 01, 2025

The large circular bed floated over a plush green carpet in front of a black-paneled viewport. Outside, a stream of vaporized waste flared under the orbital lights, then vanished.

She woke concussed—still drunk on sex and wheksen—cursed Ruinian spice. Dir had called it ceremonial, said it came from a merchanter fresh from Ruine. The decanter had pulsed as it poured. Her tongue still burned. She grinned into the plush headrest, hair falling over her face. The view from Black Sector was obscenely beautiful. It was a waking dream, from which she had no desire to wake.

"As Supreme Commander of the Merkan Warp Corps, I hereby promote you to Navigator-Captain of the Hectyrax," the Emperor had said.

It was no dream. The ship—and a covert mission—were hers. She reached for the empty glass on the bedside table and poured a last measure. Chron hovered, pulsing orange in silent reprimand. It’s display blinked silently: you’re late. But it stuck to protocol. Motionless. Waiting. She sighed and waved at it.

“Good morning, Captain. Your biorhythms are erratic—and we’re behind schedule.”

She raised the glass. “Captain, yeh. About time you turned up.”

"Emperor Grakkus’s android, Thon, preloaded me personally", it said, scanning the room. "From the evidence, you didn’t need any help."

She groaned into the pillow. Dir was gone, but the glasses and tangled sheets told the story. Chron wasn’t wrong. She rolled out of bed and staggered naked into the wash-cove. The warm water helped—recovery would take longer.

“Congratulations are in order, I presume?” Chron asked from the other side of the steam.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Congratulation Captain. It’s your first independent command!”

“It’s not a Fleet cruiser.”

“You are correct. Hectyrax is not a Merkan warship. According to registry, it’s a luxury vessel once owned by the ruler of Phoros Prime, currently undergoing a refit at Dock Array Four.”

She emerged clean and dry, but only slightly more lucid. “Yeah. The snooper mod. Heard about that. Something new, but the Emperor thinks it’ll work.”

Chron paused, its lights dimming briefly. “The Emperor’s definition of what works has often been…flexible.”

“All I know about the Emperor is that he can hold his wheksen,” she muttered.

“Indeed,” Chron replied. “It’s reported that he also appreciates plausible deniability.”

It rotated to track her gaze, which had wandered back outside. “It must be an odd thing to inherit a ship and a hangover in the same cycle.”

“When you’re human, that’s how you know it’s real. Who’s it registered to now?”

“There is currently no stated owner, but the Hectyrax appears to be listed under ships belonging to this orbital—pending further notations. I have not observed this before.”

She grinned, wrapping herself in the fresh black, synthcloth. “Life is a learning process,” she shot back—but the reptoid ambassador was a stain she couldn’t scrub. She doubted it had appreciated the irony of her old ship’s name.

The DRAKLIKA series hadn’t made any reptoid friends during the Great War—and old enemies stayed archived.

"Tell me Chron, why are the reptoids involved? What’ve you got?"

“I am sorry Captain, neither the Emperor’s nor the Ambassador’s motivations are within my domain.”

“Drop the Captain thing, at least while we’re alone.”

“Gotcha Cap.”

She squeezed into the magenta ship-suit, the new Navigator-Captain insignia glinting on her chest. Not many held that joint rank. She packed fast. Sealing her kit, she gave the room one last look before stepping into the corridor—Chron attached to her shoulder. The conveniently placed personnel elevator took them down to Black Sector reception, where two E.S.S. troopers saluted—and a transport vector waited.

She was brass.

Emperor Grakkus floated in the observation vault above Dock Array Four, hands within his robe, an inscrutable look on his face. Below him, the Hectyrax glittered in drydock. Sleek and regal, it was perfect for the purpose. With its forward array reworked, it now contained something infinitely more destructive. Behind him, three holo-displays shimmered. On one, Ambassador Gosh’t’s last subspace transmission looped, it’s reptoid syntax clipped and formal, wrapped in layers of diplomatic ambiguity. The ambassador did not smile. Reptoids rarely did, unless they were threatening. Tacit agreement was enough.

“She’s en route,” said Thon, stepping soundlessly from the vault's periphery. “Alone, as you instructed. I ran a scan on her through her bot—her tone suggests misgivings.”

“She suspects nothing,” Grakkus responded flatly. “She drinks like a Merkan—and by the time she finds out—Starbuoy will be stardust.”

Commander Dir Bollah’s loyalty had long been secured through the usual means. The newly promoted captain had only needed the meaningless title—and a promise of advancement. Such was the illusion of control. The Hectyrax was ready. It would be crewed by the ignorant and the ambitious—exactly as intended. The mission itself was known to fewer than ten souls in the Imperium. The captain was not one of them.

Grakkus absently stroked the android’s neck, still savoring their sendoff. Dining with the doomed was a private pleasure. Bollah was loyal and obedient—cruel and greedy. The navigator? She’d been optimistic for someone with no choice. Sad, given where she was headed. Dir’s loyalty had been proven on Nexus. But too many had escaped. And Terrakia harbored them now—righteous faces beaming through the tachyon stream, swearing oaths and spitting blame. But there was no proof—there would be no proof. If the weapon worked—and the crew survived—the ship would self-destruct.

The Archalem system—Terrakia—Xanctu’s cursed jewel. The planet of Long Life had infected many. Soon, it would have its final, most glorious trinary sunset. A sunset the entire Galaxy would witness.

From a reclined position, bathed in a narcotic haze, he watched her journey to the Hectyrax, the feed overlaid with a loop of the previous cycle’s entanglement.

The vector stopped at the gate of Dock Array 4. It waited for them to alight, then sped off back down the corridor. Chron negotiated with the door.

Watching the passage lights flash past hadn’t helped to get him out of her head. She was on the rebound—but that only made him more interesting. He’d nursed an amber drink in a crystal glass—oblivious to the fact that the seat he’d taken belonged to a member of the Council of Nine, the highest political body in the galaxy. You had to control more than a planet to qualify. She had recognized the charm—flamboyant, polished. The campaign flashes had played like a holo-reel. But one—a Nexus flash—had stood out. Not like hers. Not like anyone’s.

He’d smiled. She’d smiled back.

"This is Commander Dir Bollah of Warptrooper Command...Rim Zone. At ease, Captain. Please sit."

She’d picked the chair marked with the Kardak motif. It had molded itself luxuriously to her contours. Grakkus gestured and the table had extruded a clear cut glass decanter of amber liquid with three glasses. The greyling had poured without being asked.

"I'm sure you must be wondering what all this means," Grakkus had said.

He’d hesitated for a moment before continuing; "Commander Bollah preceded you by a cycle. He has transferred from the troop carrier BUTINOL-17ZX." The commander had smiled, looking down at his hands while Grakkus had continued: "He is now attached to my personal staff as a—communications specialist."

She’d given up trying to patch herself into the logic of it all. It would become clear later. The greyling had waited patiently for her to accept the goblet. She’d nodded her thanks into its blank face. "As One!", Abraaxis had declared, his ochre eyes twinkling as he downed it in a single gulp. The Commander had done the same. She’d followed suit. The liquid flame had hit hard. She’d struggled not to cough. Grakkus had smiled. Things had gotten hazy after that. But she remembered the ship. Projected over the table—it was like no warship she'd ever seen. Commander Bollah had smiled again, exposing perfect teeth.

"Our ship. Hectyrax”, he’d said, like a network was listening. He’d paused, looking quizzically towards Grakkus, who’d nodded for him to continue. “We’ve been chosen for a covert mission to the trinary Archalem system. Rebel signals are being routed through Terrakia. The Council of Nine wants intel.”
“You’ve served six solars under Captain Soliyo, yes?” he’d asked, motioning toward the sector where DRAKLIKA-62XC had just departed.

She’d nodded.

“Soliyo says you’re the best navigator he’s warped with. I’m honored to serve with you.”

“Yes, yes. But for now—you are my guests.” Grakkus had made an exaggerated flourish, one of his sleeves knocking over a goblet. The blonde cyborg had caught it long before it hit the floor and poured a replacement. Then, a trooper had stepped forward and whispered something to the Emperor and the atmosphere had changed.

“You’ll have to excuse me. A matter requires my urgent attention.”

Grakkus had floated away without waiting for farewells. The blonde cyborg had followed—umbilical retracting mid-stride, its movements precise.

Dir had leaned in. “Don’t tell me you’re the quiet type. It’s going to be a long trip either way.” What had happened after that was too much for her present state to process.

Access to Dock Access 4 hissed open.

The ship might have been designed for an Emperor. Probably was. Below her, floating in docklight and tethered by umbilicals, Hectyrax waited.

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