The Commonwealth was growing, Achille could see that much. And with every infant, it was proving troublesome. To Achille, him, Robert and LeRoux were beleaguered parents, constantly spooning food, water and luxuries into the mouth of their screaming firstborn, clothing it, sating its every desire, cleaning away it's sordid refuse and generally permitting it to continue it's utopian, trouble-free existence under the twin lights of the Tau37 starscape without so much as a nod of gratitude towards those who fostered it. Indeed, as children were prone, the only gratitude it provided was to double in size.
Even in the most sober of brains it was enough to induce a headache, which explained why the majority of the Inner Circle had taken to NOX in the search for something stronger than the mere cheap-n'-nasty melancholy mere alcohol could provide. Cardimine was even more plentiful (and cheaper) via the Maltese, but Achille was highly hesitant to experiment with stuff. Achille didn't want to be dependent on the Maltese for anything.
The syringe nudged skin and he twitched, conscious of the tungsten proboscis sliding into the veins with a twang of unease, and wondered exactly what the viscous, pale fluid was doing to his innards. Then the plunger depressed and everything became reasonably more tolerable, vision cascading as his eyes dilated.
The plunger retracted, but the temptation, whilst lessening, did not, crawling and stabbing at the corners of his brain, a rush of small nibbles and bites which dug at him. A suicidal desire suddenly grabbed Achille, to refresh the proboscis, to perforate his blood vessels yet again and double the poison streaking through his core, but he resisted, just. Recklessness was not idiocy.
For several, timeless minutes he lay shivering, flopped fully clothed upon the hard, brutally upholstered red teak arm chair that dominated the solarium - the place where he took all his intoxicants - and struggled to keep breathing. When he finally arose a fast, pulsing drumbeat grabbed his heart, and shaking with euphoria Achille Augustin Nadeau sat up, dusted himself off, and threw a holoball into the surrounding ether.
"Divilitae et Unitas. Well that's what we're all about, isn't it"?
He grinned like a jester.
Ahead of Nadeau flashed a map, embossed fluidly with figures, charts and percentages, and Achille wrestled with the cruz of the problem.
"The predicament is, the entire social experiment has worked somewhat too well." He deliberated soundlessly. "Too many Zoners, IMG and other independents willing to cash into the Zoner Way; the Commonwealth Way, under the perimeters of merry hell; lawless freedom. Total anarchy on the cusp of two of Sirius's most war torn, desolate regions and yet somehow, humanity survives and not only that flourishes. In the same sense total anonymity is immaculately preserved, serves as a shield even. Both the IMG and the Maltese are fully aware of our existence at Ten, yet they tolerate us. Despite our bed-fellowship with that remarkable Clisson woman, our beloved parent house remains completely silent. Even the Order…" he grinned. "Perhaps we walk a mine field, it is true, but we can sing while we march".
A slight of hand, and two percentages hovered in space. Neither looked promising.
"And, happily, Zoners are dancing to our tune. The Commonwealth isn't so diminutive any more. We're growing, but with that size increase comes an enormous supply train, and now that a certain, suicidal Zoner paramilitary group has cast any concept of international tolerance between Zoners and the common pirate out of the airlock; the sanctity of that same train cannot be assured. You pull the "Zoner neutrality" shield up at them and they merely giggle, which just serves to render our little illusion ever more difficult to maintain".
He sighed.
"Irksomely, we require a refuge, a place in which we can thrive, grow, recruit the right sort of idealists that'd fit in perfectly with the inner circle. The Omicrons are out of the question; too uncivilised. Admiring a tiger in it's cage, fine, but living with one is quite unacceptable. It's bad enough co-existing with the present barbarians…"
The plunger retracted then lodged, ripped partially from his arm, and Achille collapsed into a blissful oblivion.
"...Putain de la..."
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
Achille's body hit the floor with a considerable thump, one which would have undoubtedly hurt him if he happened to have been conscious at the time. In the back of his mind, a dim perception of the Nox needle danced along his thoughts, then was immediately forgotten.
He awoke, gasping, to a sterile room on a sterile bed. Freeport Ten medical bay right wing second sector room 14 to be precise, the lights piercing, stunning his eyes. In the left coorner of the room, a biotank bubbled unobtrusively to itself, in the centre, a door, blocky and utilitarian, filling the view. Mental paralysis set in as Achille struggled to decipher exactly why he was here, grasping at fog.
To his left, Achille grabbed at a decanter full of what looked like water emblazoned in an ageing, SCRA army bottle, but the object slipped at fell from his reach at the very touch, provoking profanity.
Every sense was leadened and dull, but the deja' vu, that was very real.
"...Excuse me, person, nurse, whatever... What am I...?"
The door slid apart, dividing his speech.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
As he slowly slid the door apart with his hand which was drenched into the door knob, Robert entered the room where Achille thought himself to be.
Not even hesitating, Robert threw a witty, satirical and typical remark down the nurse's throat and approached the bed, the location where Achille thought himself to be.
This whole scenario reeked of a despicable feeling of Deja Vu, but nothing could be made out of it, apart from a disgusting and suffocating metaphysical knot that built itself at the back of one's neck.
Still, amidst this whole sense, something may have been missing from the scenery. Something that would have completed this knot.
In the meantime, Robert took a nearby stool and placed himself at the side of a bed. His typical, oblivious nature was permanently existent.
" Bonjour, mon ami " he muttered towards the apparently numbed occupant of the bed
" We were worrying for you, mon ami. Still, it's good to see you back alive. I do hope you feel better now... Zakir " he said, glaring straight with his eyes towards, surprisingly, the position where Achille would view the world from
(08-10-2015, 07:03 PM)Antonio- Wrote: King Eduard is the greatest
"Ah well, yes, I do believe my little foray into Omicron Major could have been slightly better handled. Jumping through random Daam'K'voshian artefacts is generally a poor pursuit." Achille smiled weakly, thoughts adrift and body aching. "But I... Merde, I'm an inbecille." He tightened, the grin dropping, voice dipping to avoid detection by the overhead mikes. "Robert, be frank with me, did Sean survive? Did he escape his escapade?" He added, somewhat unnecessarily. "And what of the Curve, the chaos of organising that madhouse would have a lesser man such as Gabriel emaciated by now..." He stretched, pensively struggling to rise out of bed but not quite experiencing success. In an instant, he had collapsed again, and, never being a man of any great effort, lost his resistance.
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
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