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The young man of twenty five stood at the edge of the platform, sea breeze and setting sunlight in his face. Nevers was a peaceful place, in stark contrast to the space around it. A pity; it would have rendered it flawless.

As Friedrich Ferdinand gazed out across the Gallic sea, a man approached from behind, clad in antique-looking military garb, replete with medals and insignia of a long forgotten service. He stopped at Friedrich's side and looked over at him, as if the vista before them did not exist.

"We've received a transmission from a Royal Navy vessel in orbit, Sire," the old general said, "They request our immediate departure."

Friedrich smiled slightly, still looking at the setting sun.

"So it begins," the prince said quietly before looking over at the other man, "Let us move, then. We have an appointment with fate."




The SMS Hohenzollern, last of the Kaiser's once magnificent fleet, broke orbit and found itself nearly surrounded by fighter craft of the Gallic Royal Navy. For a moment, Friedrich felt as if he was indeed a priority target, but soon remembered just how many ships Gallia had to spare for such an occasion.

"Hohenzollern," a distinctly foreign voice said over the subspace radio, "You are to follow us to the cruiser Reims and maintain formation with it en route to our destination. That is all."

Friedrich offered the old man a bemused look.

"Still wary of us it seems, eh Ludendorff?"

The man's eyes clicked over in response, betraying his mechanical nature.

"Indeed. They are merely following orders to escort us to the capitol; otherwise we are an object of suspicion."

"So long as their guns aren't firing on us," the prince continued, "they can be as suspicious as they desire."

The Hohenzollern wasn't much to look at, all things considered; a small armored transport meant to keep the Kaiser safe. True, it was lavishly furnished, but was simply outdated in terms of defensive capability. It was only thanks to the diplomatic savvy of its owner, and the tactical sense of its captain, that the ship was still intact after two centuries.

But it was even less impressive when situated next to the Reims. One of the Obstinate class of heavy cruisers, the only thing it lacked compared to the diminutive transport was history.

Friedrich couldn't help but smirk at the sight of it as its complement of fighters herded his transport in that direction.

"A cruiser. As if the battleships stationed about did not already display force..."

Ludendorff looked at Friedrich quizzically.

"Perhaps you should have requested one yourself, Sire."

"They could have sent five if they wished, no doubt," the prince retorted.

"Incoming transmission," one of the bridge crew piped up, "It's from the Reims."

"On the screen, soldier," Friedrich replied.

Immediately the starfield was replaced with the image of a smartly dressed Gallic captain, seated at the traditional command chair. It was a man of around fifty, his chin raised ever so slightly in a posture of superiority.

"I am Capitaine Baudin, duc de Biron, commander of the RNS Reims," the man started in a polished toned, "I have been instructed to escort you to an undisclosed location. You are to erase all navigational logs upon arrival at your final destination. I trust this precaution is understood. Please assume formation with this vessel and we shall proceed. That is all."

The transmission ended abruptly, leaving Friedrich staring at the stars, jaw set.

"We can't be expected to delete such valuable information on their systems and methods of transportation," Ludendorff said amid the silence.

"Have them erased regardless, Kapitan," Friedrich finally said, "They would no doubt make sure we did so personally. It's a gesture of good faith, one which I intend to keep."

Ludendorff reached up and began stroking his traditionally styled mustache.

"But, with all due respect, Sire..."

Friedrich shot him a glare which ended the android's sentence.

"No amount of tactical data will make a difference when we lack the means to capitalize on it, to say nothing of their ability to alter circumstances. We shall comply with their demands."

"As you wish, Sire," Ludendorff replied woodenly.




The fighter screen persisted even after the cruiser had departed with the Hohenzollern in tow. They'd been flying out into deep space with no apparent destination for almost half an hour when scanners picked up a lone jump hole, far removed from civilization.

Needless to say it was surrounded by automated platforms, each one equipped with an unknown number of weapons.

"No wonder they wanted us to clear our logs," the prince said, his brows furrowed, "Who knows how many of these they have hidden around. Makes things much easier for them to move about unpredictably."

"It is their home turf, Sire," Ludendorff replied from behind. He was leaning over a scanner readout which was covered in contacts, no doubt trying to keep track of just how many ways they could be destroyed in a moment's notice.

"Course suggests entering the jump hole ahead, do we continue?" the officer at the helm asked.

"Proceed," Friedrich replied before Ludendorff could look up, "They would not have brought us here otherwise."

Ludendorff frowned; human or not, the same old fears from the head of the Generalstab persisted.

The jump hole seemed to swallow the Hohenzollern, Reims, and its escort whole, bathing them in a flood of purple-blue light as time and space twisted around them.

And then it was over. The trip was nearly instantaneous.

"We have arrived in a new system," the helm officer said, "Star fix suggests we are twenty light years from the Burgundy system."

"Ile-de-France?" Friedrich asked no one in particular.

"Possible," Ludendorff muttered, "Helm, maintain formation with the cruiser."

"Jawohl."

The small fleet found itself heading towards a string of metallic rings out in open space; a trade lane, similar to Sirian manufacture. The repeated similarities to Sirian technology was still unsettling to Friedrich, but was not a major concern at this time.

They took the jump, and in moments exited the lane at an intersection, surrounded by a number of space stations, dockyards, and most of all Gallic traffic.

"Picking up a number of transmissions on Gallic frequencies," the officer at the communications post said, "General commotion, most of it routine. Some talk of a strange vessel, presumably ours... the Reims says to maintain formation and radio silence."

The prince looked over at Ludendorff, who simply nodded in affirmation.

Before long they had taken another lane, and another; the Reims was moving them through fast, too fast to keep track of where they were or where they might be going. Suddenly the show of force had been replaced with a blindfold.

And then they arrived.

Friedrich's jaw simply dropped.




New Paris. All it was lacking was an Arc de Triomphe on every street.

The sheer volume of traffic, the sheer level of development on the surface, was staggering. It was truly the representation of the beating heart of an empire, built with its spoils, designed from the core to awe and humble onlookers.

But they were flying away from most of it. The Hohenzollern was now flanked by a mere pair of fighters as it glided over the capitol of Gallia, dodging between massive spires of sparkling steel and weaving between cluttered skylanes of hovercraft. But their destination did not lie among those spires or skylanes, not among this sea of buildings, but among the actual sea, untold miles away.

The shoreline came and went briskly, such was the speed of their transit. But even at this pace, the massive edifice that loomed over the horizon took some time to come into view.

"The palace," Friedrich said quietly, "That's the palace..."

If New Paris was the crown, the Ile-du-Palais was its jewel. The gigantic structure was situated out at sea, isolated from the bustling city as if its majesty would somehow be defiled by such urban surroundings. Instead, the towering glass spires sat gleaming amongst a blue sea, ringed by arches of rock. Its hundreds of levels could support thousands upon thousands of people, with room to spare for outside promenades, massive statues and sculptures of white marble, and the magnificent garden walkway that connected the tops of the two main towers.

It was a floating city unto itself. The envy of all the Houses.

Glorious.

Humiliating, but glorious.

The Hohenzollern was directed to land upon one of the highest platforms, just astride of one of several massive fountains which could only add to the level of ostentatious luxury. It set down gently, angled so that the forward loading ramp was pointed directly at the walkway leading into the depths of the building.

The bridge was utterly silent.

Friedrich Wilhelm Ferdinand, heir to the throne of Rheinland, of noble birth and noble cause, found himself staring at the massive walkway before him with a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. It was true; to him this was beautiful, wondrous, magnificent, nostalgic. But perhaps it was too much, too magnificent, and not nostalgic enough; nothing in Rheinland, let alone the other three Houses of Sirius, compared to this world and its palace. It was unsettling being surrounded by such power.

And he was afraid.

But he had a job to do. Somebody had to come to terms with this giant, if anything to prove to himself capable as a son of nobility.

"Presentation detail," Prince Ferdinand ordered in the strongest voice he could muster, "Full attendance."

They'd make the best impression they possibly could; any less would be like admitting defeat.

And so, in minutes, twenty armed marines in traditional Rheinland uniform formed a human barricade on either side of the extended boarding ramp, the ten crew members of the ship itself flanking the soldiers and facing the palace. Prince Friedrich, dressed in a traditional royal uniform of his own, was shadowed by von Ludendorff as they debarked the vessel and proceeded down the walkway.

Now to wait for the reception.

'€œMonsieur DeFrance, may I enter the room?'€ Came a knock, and a call, from the nearby door, as Joseph sat up from his bed and looked over. '€œOui, come in.'€ He replied lightly, the door opened and a servant entered the room bowing before him. '€œMilord,'€ She said, '€œThe King has asked me to relay a message to you. He wishes for you to organize a reception for our guest once he has landed here at the palace.'€ She looked over at one of the clocks, a unique sun dial that Joseph had in his room and sighed lightly before looking at the other clock nearby. '€œHe's suppose to be here within the hour, your highness.'€ She said again, her blue eyes quickly looking over him, before meeting his gaze.

'€œVery well.'€ He said lightly, he waved for her to leave, which she quickly did fearing the possible worse in the very near future. Standing up from the bed he walked slowly over towards the closet and opened it. Three uniforms were hung neatly up on hangers. Crisp white uniforms with blue trims and silver buttons. He reached in for the Royal Guard uniform that he frequently wore to various outings with fellow officers.

The rank of Marechal was pinned on the shoulder, he had recently arrived to New Paris following word of his own promotion. Which was given to him publicly, and he still had a minor headache from the parties afterward. He smirked remembering the past couple of nights, which was rudely interrupted by another knock at the door, followed by the door being opened. Still holding onto the uniform he turned around and looked at the person who had entered.

It was Julie, a captain of the Royal Guard, the leader of his detail who was also wearing a white dress, which was not as unusual as one would think with this captain. It wasn't widely known, but the two had a connection and she's been loyal faithful to him ever since she became his concubine, spouse, or was lover the correct term. He sighed lightly and shook his head walking over to the bed and laying the uniform down. '€œYou do know not to barge in like that. Especially after these parties.'€ He said, smiling lightly. She bowed, '€œI understand milord. I was informed that you were to lead a detail for a reception?'€ Joseph simply nodded, sliding on the white dress pants with blue trim down the sides. '€œI've picked twenty of the best men to be assigned to the detail. I've also picked three teams of snipers and have them placed around the platform that this, Sirian, is suppose to land at.'€

Sliding an white undershirt over his head and pulling it down, he looked over at the woman and nodded, '€œA little bit to much protection, don't you think, Julie?'€ He asked, a small smirk formed on his lips. It was one of the characteristics that he had come to love in the woman. Cautious, and protective. The average joe would probably say over-protected, but Joseph wasn't an average joe, more of a man of privilege than anything else, every day was a risk. Especially in the middle of a civil war, where the average joe could turn out to be an enemy waiting to strike. He looked away and reached for the white blouse which he quickly put on, and buttoned up. '€œHow long until the guest has arrived?'€

'€œIt shouldn't be much longer. Milord. Do you want me to get the reception party ready?'€
'€œOui. Now would be the best time. Dismissed.'€
'€œOui, sire.'€

She bowed briefly and quietly exited the room.

Joseph glanced down at his uniform jacket. He preferred more civilized clothing, but given the current situation, looking his best rather than his worse was probably the brightest idea he had these past two days, and surely he would be hearing from his father once the small political crap was out of the way. He smiled lightly, the thought of killing this Sirian would please a lot of people, maybe he'll have the chance to do such. Or maybe he'll like this person. It really depended on how he presented himself to the king, and to the Prince. Though, another thought quickly crossed his mind as well. Was his father getting soft, letting a Sirian come all the way to New Paris, and to the very palace in which his family resided in. He shook his head, stirring the thought away.

There was a Sirian to meet, and Joseph wasn't the type to settle with a late entrance. He slipped the jack around and buttoned it up. Quickly looking over for any imperfections before placing his dress shoes on and leaving out the room.

Remaining minutes of the hour passed, and Joseph watched as the vessel landed on the designated platform. '€œDetail,'€ He barked, the order echoing throughout the silent hallway. '€œAttention!'€ Two columns flanked him, each and every guard moved with precise precision snapping to attention with their rifles at their side. '€œPort. Arms!'€ He barked again, the guards snapped their rifles in unison in a diagonal line across their chests.. '€œOutward face!'€ The columns turned outwards. He looked over at the Guard captain who approached him, '€œSniper teams are in position, Milord. Should anything go wrong, they'll take all the targets down.'€

He nodded slowly as she stepped next to him. '€œForward. March!'€ He barked once more, turning quickly as both of the columns began moving out. Heavy boots clashed with the floor, echoing in the hallway. The reception party proceeded out and into the open along the walkways.

They continued until the formation was close to the Sirian's. '€œDetail. Halt!'€ He barked for the last time. The formation took one more step and as if were perfectly calibrated robots, stopped in unison. Joseph smirked ever-so-lightly, clasping his hands behind his back. Taking a couple of steps towards the middle of both formations, glaring directly at the man in he assumed was the guest of honor.

'€œBonjour, Monsieur. Welcome to New Paris.'€ He said loud enough for the Sirian to hear him. His former smirk disappearing.

Appearances. Nobility. Courtesy. Diplomacy.

It was rare that he had to follow this formula, but now was the time to make an impression.

"Bonjour, Monsieur, and thank you for your warm greeting. I am Prinz Ferdinand, of the House of Hohenzollern..."

This person could not have been the king; as ostentatious as the presentation was, there was something lacking, a refinement he'd seen in the personal communiqué. In its place was a kind of subdued fire, the mark of nobility, but a kind of restlessness. The kind a prince would do his best to suppress.

Unfortunately, Friedrich hadn't been briefed on the profile of the entire Gallic Royal Family; he hadn't been in Gallia long enough to learn much, not that the locals were very willing to divulge much.

"... To whom do I have the honor of speaking, good Sir?"

"Prince Ferdinand." Joseph said lightly, as if mocking the man that stood in front of him.

Silence passed between the two parties, and the crashing of waves, oddly enough could be heard over the deafening silence. That's when Joseph extended his hand. "Marechal Joseph DeFrance." He said calmly, a small smile appeared shortly after, "Prince Joseph, if you will. I understand you wish to speak with the King. My father is probably a lot more pleasant in his manner of meeting his guests, as he arranged this guard, to escort you." He said gesturing towards his royal guard. "Madame Julie will arrange for your men to have rooms assigned to them. Considering it gesture of good faith from myself. However, their weapons are to remain on board that ship. Monsieur Ferdinand."


"If you will, please follow me." He held his smile a bit longer until he turned around, there was a couple of shouts from the Guard Captain, and the royal guard snapped back to attention. Joseph paused in the middle and waited for the man. Turning just slightly to keep an eye on him.

Letting his guard down, would probably be the death of him. Especially in such a hostile environment of a Royal Family, and a nation torn in half due to a civil war.

Friedrich returned the smile during the entire speech; it was hard to tell whether or not the one on his opponent was genuine, but considering he was in fact not the king, it didn't matter so much. Once the formalities were over, this person would probably desire nothing to do with him. He could think of a few choice reasons why.

In any case, he turned around slightly to look at Ludendorff. Almost immediately the android's gaze shifted from Prince Joseph to Friedrich; he gave him a nod, all the while hoping the old mannequin hadn't disturbed his host. Ludendorff spun around in turn and began barking orders to his entourage, giving them the appropriate direction.

Looking back at Joseph, Friedrich noticed that the man had been looking at him through the corner of his eye. Suspicion? Fear?

"After you, Monsieur," he said with a smile, attempting to keep the situation stable.

Placing his hands in his pant-pockets, he spoke up, at first addressing the guard Captain who followed behind with the formation of men. "Julie, the guards are dismissed." Without much argument or inquiry, the detail was halted and dismissed accordingly.

"We'll get the personal matters out of the way, while we're taking this walk." He said in a normal tone, as the two continued down the corridor, now alone. "I don't trust you, and I wouldn't expect you to trust me. However, my father doesn't generally take time out of his busy schedule to deal with people of our stature." He paused slightly and smiled to himself, "I suppose I'll have to give you a tour of the palace if you're planning on staying. Not something I've enjoyed doing, but it takes time away from being on the front lines."

He held out his right hand as they rounded the corner, a couple of stationary guards popped to attention, saluting the Prince as the two walked by, and a few servants stopped cleaning to bow. "Though," He laughed lightly, "I doubt you'd want a history lesson. But I suppose if my father wanted that I would have to give it. But enough of that. So, Ferdinand, what brings you to Gallia? Such a question my father would ask."

He finished, as the two approached a spiral staircase leading down three flights.

Ferdinand nodded solemnly as they began to descend the stairs. This Prince was rather to the point; once the entourage was out of the way it was all business.

At least Ludendorff was indisposed.

"I'm here because, truthfully, I want to see what Gallia has to offer, and what I can offer it in return. "

He sighed for a minute, looking over the rather ornate decorations and portraits scattered about. He could only presume that these were monarchs of the past, overseeing the pursuits of their successors even after their time was long gone.

"Sirius is not a pleasant place these days. I would imagine what you have here might seem routine. But the other descendants of Sol have not had it quite so... easy, to be honest. You have no direct competitors, save for your share of dissidents..."

He looked over at Joseph and smiled a little before returning his gaze to the stairwell's decor, the two of them rounding the first landing.

"I would actually love a history lesson, but I wouldn't want to bother you over it. Texts and logs would suffice. Besides," he said, with a bit lower tone, "I can understand your wariness of my being here. I don't intend to make things worse by attempting to ply you for information."

"My wariness doesn't stem from you being here, Monsieur."

Joseph said lightly, the two turned left and began walking down a long corridor, near the end an arch door way, the door however was shut. Though even that wasn't for a couple of more minutes. "I'm simply going to assume that you'll address my father properly. So I guess we won't have to worry about that." He smiled briefly and waved his hand over towards a very recent painting of the king.

"While you mentioned Sirius isn't a pleasant place, I should briefly mention that neither is Gallia. One wrong move and someone will be standing there with a knife." He came to a halt as they reached the door. "If all goes well, the King should grant you safety. If you upset him, I guarantee I'll be seeing your exit from Gallic space personally. Though," He placed his hand on the door and began to push it open. "I have confidence that you're not going to personally deal with the second option." He smiled briefly and fully pushed the door open.

The door opened into a large room with a red carpet and gold trim running down the center towards a rather large throne chair. An elderly man, who could be seen from this distance, drummed his fingers on the right chair arm.

Joseph held his hand towards the throne. "My lord," He loudly announced, "The Guest of honor has arrived, Prince Ferdinand of Rheinland."

He stood near the door until the guest started to approach the throne.

The appearance of the throne room was rather abrupt and nearly caught Friedrich unawares; such was the consistent level of grandeur in the palace that it never indicated where such a place might be.

He gave a curt nod to Prince Joseph before looking back towards the hall before him. It was the classic image of a monarch's throne room: the lengthier and higher the ceiling, the more imposing. Friedrich began his stride down the carpet, glancing to either side to see whether or not the King had an entourage on hand. As it were, there were only a few people, most of them trying to make themselves scarce.

His gait was measured; the long, imperious stride of a military officer of Prussian stock. It was the kind of situation in which one feels as if his every move was being scrutinized, and the act of simply keeping a pace was difficult enough. Eyes locked onto the reclining man down the way, Friedrich covered the distance in as short a time as appropriate.

When he'd arrived some fifteen feet from the base of the throne his feet stopped, but his mind raced.

What now?

To kiss a ring, usually one bearing a royal seal, was one kind of custom befitting a sovereign. But was it prudent here? Gallia could easily have developed different etiquette in the eight hundred years it was separated from the rest of humanity. To think: perhaps so much as touching the King could be seen as anathema.

But what else was there to do? There was always the age-old practice of the full, two-kneed bow of complete submission. That gesture would be unmistakable, but to perform it as a Prince, as someone with some kind of claim to power and sovereignty of their own, would be pathetic, nay, unbearable.

So, lacking alternatives and a proper brief, Friedrich Wilhelm did the only thing his noble instincts could come up with.

He bowed deeply at the waist while keeping his eyes cast down; a classic gesture, with an imperious refusal to rest on a knee, while keeping his eyes respectfully fixed to the floor.

Bending back up to a full standing posture, Friedrich smiled at the resplendent man before him.

"Your Majesty," he said in a firm voice.