“Alright, there’s going to be hell to pay if this doesn’t function as its creator intended”
Achille grimaced, all mirth drained from his features as he inserted the contact lenses, lying flat down on the bed to negate conscious confusion. The technology was new and unpredictable, functionality questionable, Gallic in nature but sufficiently Sirian-esque to avoid attracting unintended focus from those Zoners who seemed convinced that ‘Gaul’ was some cryptic shortening of ‘apocalypse’. Being in the Omicrons (and Zoner’s inherent fear of a Gallic invasion of the Omicrons) did not prove beneficial.
At least till my ship’s no longer impounded…
His pupils dilated, perception swam, and Achille blacked out.
Innumerable light-years on the far rim of the Sirius sector, Achille’s replicant appeared to wake from a restful, fourteen-day lengthy dose from his position in the now decrepit looking deckchair, stood up, dusted itself off and gazed glibly around, somewhat surprised to discover itself in the same position in which it had been left.
Never thought to wake me then? Hrmm, well that somewhat lowers your faith in humanity doesn’t it? Putain de la…
Achille’s replicant moved quietly towards the bar, then ceased as he realised he had little to consume alcohol with.
"Merde."
THE SYNDIC LEAGUES
(A co-operative of Rheinland's Shipping Unions, retired from a life of piracy.)
![[Image: XTF1d6x.png]](https://i.imgur.com/XTF1d6x.png)