“…Dieu damn this man; what is this impertinent rattle he has dragged me into?” Achille’s shivering brain declaimed as he dragged himself from his chair, teeth oscillating too intensely to shoot a retort, legs quivering as springs; a poor suspension that didn’t prevent his entire skeletal structure from vibrating like a sexual implement and the cheese from executing a merry jig around the tabletop.

Beyond the thin, gauze-esque layers of the porthole’s silicates and the invisible trace of the surrounding hardfield that wrapped the station’s fragile frame as a hand to a glove, a streaming, broiling glow of turbulent vapour trails seared the space, jackhammering the ZXBT back and forth in its mooring fixture with a cyclone of blows. Over Sylvania, the dome’s sun guards had locked heavily down, metamorphosing The Jewel of the Taus into an unsightly, angular blot with a singular, convalescing action preventing all of the pundits held within from being stewed by the extreme heat into a fine, crimson paste before a drink could be dropped. Outside, a squadron of ospreys wheeled drunkenly from a hangar, spurred grimly onward towards the interloper as intensely as their thrusters could muster, shields flashing through the spectrums as they cut against the tumult.

“Engine wash.” Achille noted, mouth sealed and thin as he imagined proximity alarms discharging all over the station, and prayed to whatever nonexistential deity happened to be listening at the time that the perpetrator hadn’t clipped anything. “…God, but she must be huge!” He seethed, sprinting trippingly to the far side of the flying bridge, contemplating all the innumerable savageries he would inflict upon Monsieur Orsini if the originator of this transgression bore anything resembling a Maltese Cross.

He stopped, poleaxed by enormity. Beyond the starboard bow and drifting into obscurity behind the Freeport’s central spine, loomed a monster of a stern, a sheer, white cliff-face of a warship that vomited fire as it cruised bullishly past, flashing its mountainous broadsides, slit-windows slicing between the ablated skin of this titan, nozzles spewing exhaust gasses with the same nonchalant expenditure with which a human treats air. But what had fixed his eyes so, was not the craft itself, but the gilded, topaz football pitch of a Fleur-de-lis that adorned its side with a rude disdain.


A kaleidoscopic of fevered pineal contemplations ran through his mind, as the Burgundian deliberated exactly what offence he had committed against the kingdom of the One True Monarch, closed his eyes and counted the seconds. When he opened them again to find himself entirely under-dead, Achille, taking the route of action most traditional to a confused (and more than slightly concussed) leader; wheeled on his subordinate.

“Why??!” He screamed, as the quivering died.

Achille gawped at the giant, and the tower gazed laconically back, grinning against Achille’s apprehension.

“…A Gallic Royal Navy Officer – this man?” His mind stiffly stuttered as he edged into the retreat of his seat. “No. Impossible – he’s as bohemian in aesthetic as a Marseille native is stoned.” The Burgundian's brain intoned, eyes locked to his counterpart's chest. "His hair… unkempt to the point of being entirely absent of any iota of kemptness - where is the regulative trims, the sense of ceremony, the elitist pomp befitting those superior vassals of the Master Kingdom? And his attire…" Achille's interior monologue shattered slightly as he realised he was salivating slightly, an act he covered with a sudden pinch of the cheeks. "…They bear more resemblance to that of a nouveau Parisian performance artist than that of a gentleman bearing the look of eagles. Or a a rock star. Or a student. Or a Council operative". The general carpeting of body hair barely aided the effect.


Within the back of Achille's mind, innumerable grey cells struggled to connect this sizeable scarecrow to the great, grey mass of the external super dreadnaught, before failing utterly. With a final, submissive gasp, Nadeau let his head loll upon the headrest.


"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mons… Sir, Mr Ceil. do take a cheese and occupy a seat, in whichever order you prefer." Nadeau proffered, proffering the lighter of the two articles.



"…Now ami, you claim to be a scientist… and, despite your jocular sibling's merry (but no doubt untrue) insinuation that you are, in fact, the commander of that warship that has just buzzed the Freeport main, in which field do you work? What is your department of study?"

To state that Achille was peeved would be an underestimation - he positively reeked of befuddlement.

"…Trivial, yet formal? Putain de la…"

“Oh, tradition; the great shiv that holes us all”. He gestured, deftly depositing Thedore with a copious deposit of wine to offset the dairy, watching him feed with a hawkish gaze. “…A lamentable part of the Gallic patriarchy, the aristocracy; all children born only to continue the achievements of their progenitors – to continue the line.” Achille conjugated; forcibly relaxing in the cover of a shrug.

“…so, you are both of monolithic background.” He shifted, cogs cogitating in the depths of his head as he compared the Nuits. “Unsurprising…”

“...My sympathies; I myself suffered a degree of, hm, militaristic interference on the righteous path to academia; such is the GRN’s glut for manpower with every Valor, Obstinate and Normandie that rolls from its docking cradles”. He grinned, fixing the pair with a decided affability.

“…We are indeed between friends, why, dare it come into question? Oh, and, ah, quite – Achille is an entirely reasonable moniker for me, as per your brother’s…. rather obvious… provision of pre-information regarding my person. But what is the odd… breach of both security and social conduct between such uncannily ill-suited compatriots as us, eh? Permit me to refill your glass ami… There!" The face man nodded, winking knowingly as the glass overflowed.


"…On the subject of my personal career, my employment… Well sir…" The Burgundian gasped, arms expanding outwards across the back of the upholstery as if he was bonded to an air pump. "…I am surprised that Pierre here, being such a reliable source of data for you as he is, has not enlightened you. I am (as you state), one Achille Augustain Nadeau…" Flourished the former, shamelessly self-exhibiting; "…And I, ami, am the proverbial paste that holds this station, this installation, this chimera of malcontents that a certain R.A. (who will go unnamed) chose to moniker the Commonwealth. And, rather oddly, it has made me particularly wealthy - I have prospered and flourished, yes, even more so than before -, despite all the peculiar, barbaric Sirian personages one occasionally bumps noses with. But such is the way of success."

"…In terms of a research field, well, I delegate. I send my teachings to my disciples, and in return they keep the flock in a reasonable order - pardon the (apt), divine metaphor. Jack of all trades, and master of them, unanimously…" He grinned, halting only to suckle the bottle. "…But you know how it is; success breeds success, no?"


"…However, I am loath to affirm that you have not truly answered my query, Thedore…" Nadeau broached, as tactfully as able. "…Pierre did mention (twice now, to this date), that he is, was, a biologist of considerable notoriety, but yourself? You claim that enlistment has not prevented you from becoming…" Two eyes tracked the unscrupulous figure, and a tongue struck for a word. "…Your present state."


"…In essence sir, what is your field?"