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Brothers in more refined arms...

Endless rays of dazzling sunlight glistened through the glass veils that formed the ceiling of the dome, engulfing each and every life form and plant that manifested its existence inside the utopian confines of what its architects have baptized as " Sylvania Dome " an extension of a bigger contraption, most often known as Freeport 10.

The current contraption and grip of the temporal dimensions apparently see themselves fit inside the protective boundaries of the ordinary. The lavished, rich vegetation of the Dome found itself flourishing, nurtured and caressed by the sun while accompanied by the milky blue colour of the system's nebula that gallantly painted the surreal machination of planetary atmosphere or "sky" against the dome's ceiling. This also gave the architects the pleasure of not launching any reality depraving simulations, except only when they desired to lay witness on the elusive frugality of the night. At any other occasion, they allowed the cosmic powers of the sun and other astral forms to indulge them with their wonders.

However, what appeared to be an ordinary "day" ( an improper connotation that we all love to associate with a definite transition of time from a point to another ) wasn't so ordinary at all.

In fact, this is the very first day that the Sylvania Dome found its beautifully erected labyrinth of scrumptiously green, elegant vegetation perverted by the empty, infatuated glare of a certain individual who dared drench his shoes on the soft grass completing the otherwise empty canvases which eventually composed the totality of this serene, contemplation instigating, scenery.

This individual, who happened to be one of this fine dome's architects, found his body hidden from any sight that would despicably over analyze the details of his organism's exterior with an excessive quantity of abhorrence and disgust, by a set of exquisite, finespun clothing that he so magnanimously adorned: A black top hat, and black, professional, gallant clothing.

If not for the evidently typical hat of his, his identity was betrayed by his face, his chin embellished by a goatee, his ever present, omnipotent smile believed to carve even through scales of metal, and last but not least, his stature, his personality and above all: his companion.

A beautiful, jovial, playful and trusted black leopard, with black fur and piercing green eyes, adopted from the eccentric and overtly exquisite entrails of the fine House of Gallia. This furry companion, was now seen standing by his right leg, leashed to his right arm. One would easily confuse this one for his other "right-hand" after taking in consideration the compassion and the amicability between the two.

For all intents and purposes, this elegant individual often founds himself as an idealist, a cosmopolitan, an exquisite, unique individual, an eccentric, an innovative, a ladies' man, an animal lover, an amoral, prosperity guided barbarian who wages his wars through the marvelous battlefronts of pen and paper ( Diplomacy, Persuasion, Economy, Politics ) , the incarnation of a god in the making, but to all others, this obviously ambitious individual with an insatiable pride is known simply as Robert d'Autoine.

He stood firmly, at the entrance of a labyrinth, with his ever loyal companion sitting at his side, stretching and lying on the soft, lush grass.

Robert was long anticipating the arrival of somebody, somebody with whom he wanted to engage in a fruitful exchange of "trivialities" , and that person's arrival shall be announced shortly...

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...An extremely short announcement to be exact, considering the subject in question had lurched up behind him with such a debonair rapidity that even the panther leaped out of it's pelt.

“Robert, my estimable associate and lifelong curmudgeon, how fare you... Actually, no friend, do not answer – one must never permit the possibility for unexpected disappointments hmm, however positive that particular response may initially perceive. After all ami, there always lies within the existential potentiality for unexpected erections along the otherwise smooth road of a hedonistic life, hmm? An undiagnosed wasting disease, for example”.

Achille Augustin Nadeau made for a bizzare doppelganger. Angelic where Robert was satanic, jovial when Robert was grim, extravagant to Robert’s subtlety, the Remus to his Romulus, rude, brash and overtly brazen, the difference between the difference between these two poles was that of a surgeon’s scalpel and a the chainsaw of a Denverian lumberjack – both equally useful implements in their own field, but ill-suited to role-reversion. “Oh do sit.” He gestured flippantly. “It is so tiring to indulge in a polite conversation through the exertions of maintained standing – physically; it is awkward and thus stymies societal discourse, even in this material paradise.”

His smile, open, welcoming, and thoroughly practiced. The lure dangling before a set of jaws. “...A fine work this dome; a nirvana so select that not even the TAZ would recognise our mimicry of their own tawdry habit. Mind you...” He broke off, glugging rosé straight the bottle of something valuable he’d taken with him. “...It’s not like the Zenarch is the exact talking-point of Zoner kind anymore, eh, is it? Parks, discourse, concourses; over the last four months it appears that the only locality for an independent to converse with his fellow lies deep within the recesses of a Juggernaught’s waroom or comparable colossi. Now it seems like the only pursuits fit for a Zoner is getting caught up among the power games of others. It’s a poor day when a man has to suffer the degradation of his fellows into a rabble of bickering, backbiting members one some vast, stellar junta. But each to their own eh?”

He yawns, seeking deep into the bench’s seat, the very epitome of comfort, as if discussing the fate of the Sector was merely a matter of common trivia.

“Times are oppressive Robert; nearly everything that stands for freedom anymore has become a potential strategic asset to the powers-that-be. Look to the Libertines; their recent annexation of Freeport 4 – a Freeport, the supposed solace of neutrality and freedom – shows ill for us all. Insignificance is no longer a mode of protection, armadas no longer see fit to bypass us. The irony of Tau 37; the only truly unrestricted independent system in the Taus anymore lies prostate between two vast, militaristic powers, both of which we seek to render our consorts, via appearing to be whores. The juxtaposition is (of course) bizarre, but we must persevere regardless. It is indeed benign that the Contari dote upon us with such fervour, but with our northerly phalanx shedding its well-armed, bickering constituents all over the outer Omicrons, we cannot depend upon their continued benign spirits in such a time of wrath. And as we are, a microscopic, adorable little two-biodome installation holding chokepoint on Sirius’s cardimine jugular, we have what we could tactfully refer to as an... ‘issue’, if you perceive the point”.

He points diffidently to the decanter he has placed upon the grass, blades of lush lapping at its edges.

“Oh do ply yourself with a little wine Robert – it is so very proactive to affable discourse, indeed, I have provided another bottle and even a glass or five if the thought of my salivia lubricating your oesophagus proves unpleasant imagery. But enough of the heavy issues, and more of the light, yes? The price of niobium perhaps, are our traders still becoming extortionately rich? The news is positive, I understand”.

Robert skimmed a smile. That was the only metamorphosis of a salute he could assault his actual conversation partner with, and this apparently heinous and vulgar affront ( in his opinion ) manifested by not replying with the proper, courtesy willing, forms of salutation was not to be thanked to whatever shameless and shallow initiative he may have drafted for the sole purpose of graying the conversation, as his silence was provoked, or actually, encouraged by Achille's staunch display of impetuous fervour in engaging in what appeared to be a lugubriously coloured and enunciated speech of his, pertaining to the ancestral and spectral realms of philosophy as they tangled and engulfed the monotone plains of reality.

Like a feline predator calmly stalking its prey from the auspicious shelters of the shadows, Robert focused the entirety of his attention at no other object but the physical materialization of Achille, allowing his auditory perceptions to feast on the harmonious phonic creations that Achille launched through the tight clutches of his lips, assembling them in finespun battalions of phonetic vibrations that eventually incarnated into colourful words.

His expression paused, as if the laws of time decided not to lay any form of affliction or affection upon them today. His right hand, twirled inside the leash's handle thrust forth for his beard adorned chin, stroking and rubbing it in a manner expressing his desire to penetrate the nefarious depths of a contemplative state which would unlikely offer any availing return.

Even his furry companion gave signs that it too, started to engage into a heavy battle against chaotic armies of thoughts, separating disorder from rationalism. But appearances are only illusions carved by what the spectators actually want to indulge their eyes with, for his leopard did nothing but assume the position which preceded her startle, relaxing and perhaps napping as her weigh was fornicated by the soft grass beneath her.

Achille finally finished his speech. This gave Robert the exquisite opportunity to allow his lips to sing forth musical masterpieces of his own stratagems, resonated by his typical voice. The songs he sung forth followed a set of notes different to that of Achille's, they were more colourful, they seemed foreign and peculiar, but to the ever vigilant ears and blood of Achille, they were nothing but familiar.

Indeed, Robert percolated the tidal waves of this conversation, waves whose catalyst is none other but Achille, with the language of his own, Gaul. To any other individual unfamiliarized with the structures of this fine music he is playing, the language would seem weird, garbled, inefficient and not understandable, but to Achille, they would be heard as follow:

" I cannot abstain from inquiring you the justification of your reluctant nature in apprehending me with the exquisite language we were bestowed upon since birth, my most exquisite, amiable, friend. Despite we are all alone here, surveyed by none other that our own prying eyes, and my beloved companion... " he said, slightly switching his view towards his leopard, who at the same time gazed upon him as if it could understand his words " ... You continue to engulf me with the ludicrously wet Bretonian tongue. " he ended his honest confession, carving a grin upon his face, expressing the satirical nature of his statement.

"A word: 'practice'". He grins merrily, switching to fluid French as one might slip comfortably into bed or adopt a pair of aged slippers. "...If one does not flex every linguistic muscle one possesses, then it rapidly falls into wastage. A well-rounded figure is a preferable one, you know".

"As to why I gathered here, well, what has been the Commonwealth's most conscious, inescapable problem ever since our settlement upon Freeport Ten, eh?"

" Problems? " he inquired, emphasizing the latest idea which Achille dared to overlook as he allowed it to escape his miniaturized organs composed of organic masses of flesh as they are manifested under none other but his vocal chords.

Robert left no space for hesitation in accentuating his mimicked skepticism with a subtle, almost unnoticed sideway inclination of his face while his eye brow raised, as if he imagined himself performing a most exalted theatrical display while his feet drenched upon the wooden tiles of a illustrious podium destined to provide such opportunities.

This metaphorical contraption however, has met with an untimely decadence as the narrative knot twisted itself inside out in a dazzling performance and harmony, bending and stretching itself into a perfect, horizontal line which would present the action.

For all intents and purposes, the magical scene that Robert may have imagined himself for a moment cracked into billions of preternatural shards, pertaining to none other but his own cognitive entrails, as he allowed his mind to lay contact upon reality once again.

He, once again, found his feet drenched in the lavished, green grass as he turned around, presenting Achille with the exquisite and perfectly maintained and cleaned back-side of his dressing, as Robert apprehended the liberty of navigating a few steps forth, an exact number of six, mutilating the distance between him and the green, lush labyrinth, only so that he could open his mouth and allow his speech to lay contact with Achille's auditory perceptions as Robert himself made no effort in resisting the mesmerizing beauty of that Dome's location

" The Commonwealth indulges itself with the utterly benevolence of being subject to an entire absence of any kind of prosperity endangering problems, my friend. Quite the contrary, I dare say... " he told Achille with a calm, serene voice as his left hand congruously gestured and followed in to the staunch rhythm and innocent resonance of his words exactly like a young madame would allow herself courted by a noble only to be introduced to the exquisite dancing of the melodious excruciation of a waltz.

The only thing which this persuasive and prestigious beauty of madame manifested under the form of his left hand missed, was an outstanding dancing partner which would erect from the brinks of nothingness only to perform a beautiful performance in cooperation with her.

However, the gesticulation of his hand would soon approach to an end as Robert would pridefully strangle the tall poles of metaphysical spotlights and attract the entirety of attention among him with one... simple word:

" But!... " he intonated with an abrasive voice, crumbling any attempt at the above mentioned feminine courtesan to exert her beautiful dance, attempting to manifest iron will and authority as Robert turned once again to face Achille and approached him closely.

" Just because there is nothing to cure, my friend, that does not mean we don't have anything to improve, is that right? " he inquired

“So, no problems. No problems! Life is just ever benign, free of scrapes, illness or impediment. No problems...” His tone remained flat, smile fixed like a thesbian’s mask. “No problems with our prosperity, our birth rate, our excessive girth of manpower, the colossal number of laggards slurping our payroll, our excessive wealth attracting every hellion raider who would usually preoccupy themselves bothering others, the life support system of Slyvania straining to support its over-abundant human occupants, the excess, the splendour, the squalor. You say we have no issue which would impinge our prosperity, no sickness, no disease, no canker, no present malady. That, Robert, is precisely the issue at hand.”

“We are absurdly wealthy, this is an established detail, barely in question, and, for a predicate, it serves our fraternity excellently. Our organisation has grown exponentially in the two and a half years of our existence within Freeport Ten and is fringing the graphine fine edges of logistical suicide. You realise the pre-Commonwealthian populace rating of ’10, hmm? One hundred and fifty permanents crew, in maximum. Actual, present figures are incessantly variable, of course, but rarely fall below a thousand souls. We have two-hour mooring queues from trade vessels of all legal orientation and nationalistic viewpoint, who would probably be presently reducing each other to a fine red paste if not for the Freeport’s resident NFZ. On the point of conflict, what of the Council members, the Blood Dragon Clans, the Kusarian Navy, the Gallic Royal Navy, the Privateers, the independent Pirates, the Corsicans, the haplessly lost Gallic Brigands, the Junker Marauders, the Drunken, Whoring Miners Guild, the Communists, the Capitalist, the Fetish monsters, the K’harans, the Machine races, the Colonial Remnants, the Bounty Hunters, the Reavers, Other Zoners (God forbid), Those admirable Kusarian Feminists, the Wilde partiers, Aggressive Zoners, the Discordianist Chaos Cult and many other runts of the celestial litter all of which present a legitimate, existential threat to our continued sanity, nevermind survival. The conflicts of these warring parties are intriguing, true, their demises an exultant pleasure, but we must ever remember the value of our own skulls. This is discounting the fact that if the Contari Lance, for whatever reason, whished us... inactive, shall we word it so cleanly, they could do so with a snap of the wrist, or the XTF, or the Ishmaelites, or, damn the devil, any of those agencies should they so possess reason to vent our porcelain lives”.

“...This discounts the innumerable marduk Guardians intent on slathering their bodily fluids all over the freeport’s superstructure, as though the station emitted some form of sexual pheromone. Whist this certainly adds verve to the observation deck, I fear this particular event may prove as a detracting force once a certain... Omicronic black ops organisation catches wind of these occurrences, as they inevitably will.”

“Reality sweeps aside any possible delusion of security. We rival the TAZ and Phoenix Zoners in effective potential and exceed them in the delicate arts of diplomatic suave and not commencing in acts of idiocy at every other integer, but the reason why the TAZ and the Phoenix Zoners seem to survive every oddity of judgement, every failure, every deficit, every chink in the woefully permeable plate-mail of Zoner Neutrality, is because they possess a singular circumnavigator of the world’s problems which is nearly impossible to challenge – when you place a foot into your mouth, how do you respond? The answer of both organisations, as rendered apparent by the Zoner Community at large’s treatment of both the remarkable Grand Theft Gran Canaria incident and the emergence of Supreme Nephillim Fleet Admiral He Who Will Not Be Named In Polite Society, is to shove an even larger, heavier, spikier, more obtrusive tread directly through the teeth of whoever previously offended you, Baffin and Sir Skarzi providing us with a personal demonstration as to the... acceptability… of such a medium to the eyes of the Zoners at large, the TAZ very much being the idol to which all Zoners are compared. Their societal measure may be gauged through their linguistic influence - "Tei Kallisti" has become a very much normative method of introduction in a plethora of Zoneric circles, one may only look at the Zoner Alliance's own utilisation of the term, despite despising the Discordianists deeply (a sentiment one may find forgivable, I am sure)."

"…The issue lies within ourselves, within motivational thinking and expansionist methodology. Just look at the independents; we have become the very thing we universally despise; houses, or mini-house equivalents, vast, democratic…" He almost spits the word "…Institutions, self-sufficient star systems turning to cloistered bodies with their own laws, own view of the universe, own religion, own government, own military, their own laws, their own perfidious secrets and intrigues. As grasping on the nub of power as ever a Libertine was. True Zoners, the real Zoners, the respecters of unilateral freedom and self-responsibility, are a rare breed, threatened by the dilutions of our own, misguided attempts to raise civilisations in our image. Well, friend, what one may call a mirror, another may call a wall. And I call self-proclaimed colony ships, bristling with cerberus's and hatred, a tough wall indeed."

"…We have no such wall, nor do we require one. But subterfuge serves a dying purpose with every expansion of dialogue when your home is sole, isolated installation, and we have no place to run. Our Freeport, the last true Freeport, is fragile and will shatter when hit, in both the physical and metaphorical expressions of that phrase. We cannot salve the aching wounds our neighbours, nore pull the sword free from their grasp. By remaining total to the True Zoner Way, "neutrality above all" we have conserved our freedom, to an extent. By remaining only warm, not friendly nor protective, to the Lanceri we avoid triggering ill-feeling towards the allegedly Independent Guild, and in the inverse, Gallia, a mistress who we ever seek to woo. Even the otherworlders, the Living AI's of Gammu and the K'haran biorace bear us no resentment, but for how long exactly? Someday, at some time, we must assume that we will eventually encounter those so hostile to us, so opposed to us, that even basic appeasement and confidence trickery no longer runs sufficient. And what will we do then Robert? Even with a million Grengars our lives would prove forfeit".

"…There is a solution, an expensive one, which may require a vast amount of time and wealth (which is, of course, no object) on our account, which is, if your problem lies with the light then move into the shadows. Simple, as temporary overpopulation cure we have already routed none-essentials to the… what, five liners (the Straight Curve and the Sabnack but to name a few) we possess in the Commonwealth Commercial Flotilla? They have served us well, but for this particular project we will need to be more… grandiose".

"From my perspective it appears the Commonwealth's primary issue lies with mobility; that is to say, our key assets, personal, mining centres, food production, component production, trade centres and centres of division operation including (but not exclusive to) Deck Thirteen are all immobile - they lie upon the Freeport proper in one of the most hazardous (if beautiful) systems Sirius has bared birth to. A few errant nova discharges from an unenforcible No Fire Zone misunderstanding, and all of the above is nothing but ash. Now Robert, what if we could assign all of the Commonwealth's present assets to a Flotilla, a Zoner Flotilla, that would remain constantly mobile throughout the Tau worlds hmm? The simplicity is simple, when trading, the flotilla can fly directly to the traders. In times of threat, well, the barrier makes for an ample hiding ground. As to expansion, why, what could be simpler? We just merely add additional ships to the fleet, transports and tankers say, refitted to suit our needs. Defence in numbers; the biggest convoys are rarely pirated, fleets rarely come under engagement until they reach their targets. Diplomacy would be an issue of ease, and the benefits of the research department actually bringing the entire lab to sights of interest instead of the odd surveillance spatial are obvious. As an option for survival, there are no "iff's", no "buts". This, Robert, is our only possibility for the Commonwealth's continued operation, else we stagnate and wither accordingly."

"However, the problems with such a… remarkable fleet would be astounding. In Sirian history, there have only been two entirely self-sufficient movements of ship formations without a direct military purpose; the first, the initial colonisation by the Alliance and Gallic Sleeper craft, with a crew mostly in-state and barely consuming resources, hardly counts for naught. The second involved the voyage of the Omicroners into the depths of unknown space, and whilst they revolutionised the concept into real workability for Zoner kind, they had the advantage of nearly unlimited access to funds, materials, technology, shipbuilding, pre-manufactured vessels and hulls, universal technological conformity and most of all the gigantic gantry cradles of Liviada Shipyard, Omicron Seventy-Four. Additionally, most of their manpower comprised viable spaceship crew, drilled from birth. Our own stock (whilst exceptional), is drawn from specialists, not survivalists. They also didn't face the predicament of attempting to match the Niobium refining capabilities of a Mid-sized stellar habitat such as this one".

"All these problems can be overcome, so let me list them in sequence (if I may)?"

*A series of half-scrawled notes with the stylus of his PDA, and the resulting came into being*

First malady: Obtaining vessels of sufficient size and armour rating.

Second malady: Installing none-conflicting fleet coordination VI's into every single hull.

Third malady: Obtaining a shipyard (or at least a dry dock) for the construction of division specific flagships (Unless you really desire to be lumped upon my bridge, Autoine?).

Fourth malady: Obtaining sufficient resources to build the aforementioned flagships.

Fifth malady: Obtaining sufficient, capable crew.

Sixth malady: Locating a planet-bound landmass for drill-training and relatively cover, low-cost component fabrication.

Seventh malady: Fuelling pre-mentioned fleet whilst the flotilla exists.

Eighth malady: Obtaining hull designs, internal and external, bolt-on equipment for the aforementioned flagships, and somehow jury-rigging all that incompatible technology to co-operate without blowing something dire.

Ninth malady: Somehow prizing from Phoenix and/or the TAZ, or anyone else, their shipbuilding brainchild's.

Tenth Malady: Doing all of that covertly.

"What do you think of all of that, Autoine, hmm? Oh, and the eleventh: We're going to need a factory ship of some nature for repairs in-flight. God knows only where we'll manage in contracting such a bullhorse from…"

"...Well Robert, have I overwhelmed you with my genius and foresight? You seem a trifle mute."

Robert laid down on the soft grass as Achille spewed forth his verbal mucosities concentrated in what one would categorize as a gigantic ball of amassed phlegm that one would be about to spill forth with one ear shredding sneeze, except the action which Achille was now the author off wasn't spasmodic at all, it was entirely voluntary, and the unbearable, repugnant phlegm he tried to enshroud Robert with was nothing more than an allegorical description of his magnanimous and apparently endless speech.

Seemingly, Robert paid no attention to Achille's assaults as he allowed himself to be compassionately greeted by his leopard, Josephine, as he stroked it repetitively on the feline's back.

This process took place throughout the entirety of Achille's speech, with sudden, unexpected pauses caused by Robert to fall into the metaphysical plains of an precipitous contemplative state.

Right afterwards Achille finished the apparently endless outburst of his words, Robert got back up on his feet, and inquired obliviously and above all, innocently:

" Tell me, Achille, what is your opinion of Jack ? "

Eduard

Enkidu

Eduard

Enkidu

Eduard

Enkidu

Eduard