Freeport 10's "Sylvania Dome"

[Enkidu]

To say Achille “Loved” the Sylvania dome would be a gross misnomer. He was (in fact) infatuated with the structure, not the least because it was imperfect. Exquisite, yes, but not perfect. There was always some minor detail that could be refined; the holographic projectors which painted such a convincing skyline sharpened. There was botany to be regulated, fauna to encourage or cull as the situation demanded, the Ivy of the amphitheatre to be trimmed. And of course, the people. The people were the biggest headache of all.

And there was too many of them. Freeport Ten (despite its dimensions) had only ever been commissioned for a 150 person strong crew; a minute figure drafted up in the years prior to the nomad war, when space still held its allure and jump hole transitions were still considered an act fraught with danger. But this was 821AS; the ardours of the Tau Liberation and the Nomad War had affected public thought. Now the great unknown edges of space were considered practically inviting, and the Freeport became packed with nearly a thousand expats before you could utter “mon dieu”.
Clearing out the room for them (and the Commonwealth, who were much of the same breed) required time, technology and careful calculation. Any piece of hardware older than eighteen months or larger than a hand span was handed to the next Junker to moor, or simply ejected into space. Mooring fixtures had to be expanded, accommodating everything from a Sargmartha to a Storta (often at the same time). And in-station security... Urgh.

Achille groaned. GRN, OC, and IMG personal was never going to be a good mix in the first place, especially when none of the oppositional parties appeared to speak the same language. In this sense then, Sylvania’s reconfigured geodesic curves were a testament to another concept; secrecy. A (considerably cheaper) clone of IND’s Wall Street Station dampening field covered the dome’s externals, but was rarely ever utilised in practice. Instead, the Commonwealth had to rely on a series of informants scattered throughout the station to supress trouble before it arose; as it often did.

Achille reclined in his deckchair, the seat moulding ergonomically to the shape of his back as the latest news story from the Volgograd News Agency clashing with the regular CNS newsreel, fighting for dominance on the interior screens.

A razorbeak flitted near his ear before fluking off.

Perfection could wait for now.

Achille yawned, and in several seconds fell into a comfortable doze.

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THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)

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