To: Zoner conclaves within the Border and Edge Worlds - - - - - - Unencrypted.

[Enkidu]

///This transmission is unencrypted, so whilst it's directed at Zoners it's open to response by about anybody in the border worlds and edge worlds.

-----Incoming transmission-------
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Download... <0.0003%

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Calculating mean connection speed.... ERROR Connection speed: 321kbps~
Likelyhood of user expiry before transmission reception: 32.7%

>Advise _User_ Abort.


-----Incoming transmission-------
-----Incoming transmission-------
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❖❖❖

-----Incoming transmission-------
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Download... <0.0040%



Calculating mean connection speed.... ERROR Connection speed: 235kbps~
Likelyhood of user expiry before transmission reception: 47.9%

>Advise _User_ Abort.


-----Incoming transmission-------
-----Incoming transmission-------
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---

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Reroute to Comm node: T37, EpsIo5, Falkland_node.
Reroute to Comm node: S17, RhoD41, Myrmi.

Hunting for... node(s)
Requesting permissions--

Permissions received.

❖❖❖

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:Connection Established:

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A dashingly well dressed, painted dandy of a man alights across the screen - a man so gentrified in his attire you wonder if you've intercepted some Gaul's communique by accident. You move to sever the connection before something gives you pause. His eyes. He's plastered them up to the lids but no amount of decoration can hide the deep whorls of wear lines dragging against him like scars. He has the burnished look of a man who has spent too long staring into a fire, dilated, heavy, half lidded eyes. Begrudgingly, you open the audio file. What the hell.

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Sender designated source ID: Anyone_with_a_ship_that_can_get_to_Freeport_Ten_You_Bastards
Encryption: ERROR - No encryption found. Scanning for Malware.

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Transmission Audio salvaged - opening.

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Audio transcript: "Dear Sir or Madam. On the off chance that this atrociously insecure communique is shanghaied by a member of the Confederacy instead of any of an enterprising Maltese who likes their concubines toothy, I have a message for you: kindly potter off in the opposing direction and pleasure yourselves with a circular saw. I require help, not hinderance. I like my princes competent. I may be a beggar but I am a beggar with standards and I will not know-tow to charlatans who cannot discern an arse from an elbow, let alone endure comparatively simple tasks such as tying a bootlace, holding a video conference without murdering half of the edge worlds, preserving a no-fire zone without damning the torpedoes, illustrating your moral high ground as you feebly browbeat Charles DeGaul is pathetic. You preserve neutrality in twenty two turrets, and I would rather lick the cardamine from between the toes of a slave than abandon my freedom to those connive to rob the last remaining enclaves of humanity within the Alliance of their autonomy. That goes for you too, Unautonomous Zoners, and the kleptocooperates of Gran Canaria. Go on, be off with you. Shoo. This is my Neural-net lawn, and you're trespassing. Kindly mop the brown stain of your existence off of my consciousness before you sicken me further.”

"Now we've gotten the inevitable disclaimers tidied away, welcome, old friends, to the last will and testament of Achille Augustain Nadeau: In short, you're not getting anything. I've spent the jewels, the data's dead, the hard drives erased. Both the mansion and the holiday home are gone, and the keys to the limo went down the back of the sofa a long time ago - they're probably still sitting there, since the sofa has gone too."

"I have three sets of clothes, a palladium plated tooth brush, a charming travel attache with an assault cannon large enough to sterilize much of the Orion arm, and me. Just me. And now I am no better than many of the other thousands of citizens of the Edge worlds stuck without travel documentation, sufficient credits to secure said travel documentation, and a ship. I am a homeless dog, a pest, and like all wayward animals I will eventually be put down by a large man with a big stick if I don't find myself an owner. I am sick of staring out from the observation deck only to see my own eyes blanch back at me in the frozen panes, a prisoner behind my own palisade. I roughened my hands to free the Taus, and ow all they do is laugh at me and claim - ha, here is the emperor, sans clothes. They're idiots now, but if my current income preserves its present state of nil, they'll surely be on the money."

"Look at me. A bitter, tired old idealist, whiling away the world for lost glories. A Napoleon at Elba, but it might as well be my Paris. Well, perhaps not old. No. Hardly a shoe that fits the man, hm? Grand, perhaps. A little blonder than you've come to expect of me, yes, but I'm penciling it down to two parts stress, one part peroxide. It really rather befits me, poverty, if it didn't leave the surface so clean but the innards so rotten I might deign endure it. But that would be insidiously out of character, no? I was under the impression the lower orders prefer a man with... dignity."



"I'm too human to play Leander, audience. I'm not going to swim the Hellespont. I don't breathe space. When destiny delivers you a superlike you don't turn up to the date bedraggled like a rat flushed from a flue, do you. You turn up with your heel on the keel and your eyes to windward. That means in a boat, mon ami. That means you're going to plonk me on a starship, mon ami, with sufficient life support to keep a brother in plump spirits. Not a tug, not buccaneering Vidar, a ship."

“I await your call. Well, me, and the intelligence I carry with me.”

“Freeport Ten, Tau thirty Seven, deck five, ask for Arne Jansen at the bar. Bring no guns and keep your ID card handy, and above all, do it quickly. I don’t want to end up a corpse before my time because you were daydreaming.”

“Achille out.”

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---Transmission_Terminated---

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

Information | Recruitment | Message Dump |
Feedback | Diplomatic channel

(Links pending redevelopment).

[Enkidu]

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's outlawed trade unions, determined to take the underworld for themselves.)

Information | Recruitment | Message Dump |
Feedback | Diplomatic channel

(Links pending redevelopment).

[Doc Holliday]

Personal Quarter's, [MFE]Med.Force.One

Doc reads through his transmissions after reviewing medical files and finds a broad band message.
He sits back in thought and quietly says the name he reads, "Achille Augustain Nadeau"
He cocks his head. "Now where do I remember it from. He's certainly long winded."
He then moves on to his next medical file.

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[MFE]Med Force One | Tales of Recovery|Med Force Enterprises