the roaring bonfire. The girls teased her playfully, referring to her as, 'Our Great Provider'. Sigrid found it both ridiculous and delightful.
When the transports arrived ten days later, Rosa was greeted by the sight of thirty-one ragged and bleary-eyed girls, who seemed far from pleased with him. He was impressed by the size and fortification of their shelters, even more so when he'd been presented with the trophy of the elk antlers. But when told that Sara was missing his face took on a grim, solemn look. He acknowledged the news with a simple, curt nod. Two Kingfishers , and more transports from the school, were dispatched to look for her, but days and nights of exhaustive searching failed to turn anything up. There was no trace of her. Sara was gone.
Once the shelters had been dismantled and the area cleaned, the girls piled back into the remaining transports for the trip back to the school. The sight of the Academy had a strange effect on Sigrid after her days in the wilds. The thought of her soft, dry bed, and warm food served to her by the attending staff didn't excite her, as much as it felt ostentatious and unnecessary. How had she ever thought of this place as austere? The school was a virtual resort, her dormitory a palace.
It was good to be back though, and she lay in her bunk that night thinking of the nights spent in the wilds with the girls, with Suko. It was the first night in a week where she hadn't had Suko's protective arms wrapped around her; she couldn't help but miss them, and she tossed restlessly for an interminable amount of time, unable to sleep despite her exhaustion.
CHAPTER FIVE
Proposition
May 3, 2346
The smoky air hung heavy in the dim light of The Prancing Beagle—one of the more popular watering holes of Vincenze Station in orbit above Crucis Prime. Major Karl Tarsus took another long gulp from his glass of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he studied his companion. He didn't know the man's name, but that wasn't surprising; most of his clients preferred a degree of discretion. He'd worked for Smith— as he'd dubbed the man—on a number of occasions. Always the usual things: interdictions, search and seizures and the inevitable saber-rattling when the occasion called for it; but it was smalltime stuff.
Smalltime suited the major just fine. He wasn't an ambitious man. As long as he could maintain his small fleet of four ships and keep his levies paid to the Mercenary Guild, that was just fine. But what Smith proposed was so outlandish that, when the man proposed it, he'd spewed his last mouthful of ale across the small table, drenching the man's lapel and jacket sleeve.
"You want me to go after Kimura?" Tarsus asked. "You want me to attack one of the oldest private Mercenary organizations in the entire Federation." Tarsus could hold back no longer and he burst into uproarious laughter. Smith stared back at him, unblinking, while he used a handkerchief to clean the drops of ale from his jacket. "I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong man. We're a small operation. We have four ships— when they're all functioning. Kimura…well, let's just say they have a lot more."
Smith pressed his thin lips together, clearly struggling with his patience. "We're not asking you to attack the entire Kimura Military, Mr. Tarsus—"
"Major," Tarsus corrected him.
Smith gave him a dry look. "Major. I don't even want you to attack them at all. All we want is for you go to Alcyone—"
"Yes, yes—you want us to grab a bunch of schoolgirls off a Kimura Base. I know, Mr.…" Tarsus waited once more for Smith to offer up his name, but of course the man said nothing so he continued, "I assume you don't have a permit for this operation, either." Tarsus knew he didn't. By law, any military action, mercenary or otherwise, needed to be sanctioned by the CTF, otherwise known as the Council for Trade and Finance, the governing body of the Federation of
When the transports arrived ten days later, Rosa was greeted by the sight of thirty-one ragged and bleary-eyed girls, who seemed far from pleased with him. He was impressed by the size and fortification of their shelters, even more so when he'd been presented with the trophy of the elk antlers. But when told that Sara was missing his face took on a grim, solemn look. He acknowledged the news with a simple, curt nod. Two Kingfishers , and more transports from the school, were dispatched to look for her, but days and nights of exhaustive searching failed to turn anything up. There was no trace of her. Sara was gone.
Once the shelters had been dismantled and the area cleaned, the girls piled back into the remaining transports for the trip back to the school. The sight of the Academy had a strange effect on Sigrid after her days in the wilds. The thought of her soft, dry bed, and warm food served to her by the attending staff didn't excite her, as much as it felt ostentatious and unnecessary. How had she ever thought of this place as austere? The school was a virtual resort, her dormitory a palace.
It was good to be back though, and she lay in her bunk that night thinking of the nights spent in the wilds with the girls, with Suko. It was the first night in a week where she hadn't had Suko's protective arms wrapped around her; she couldn't help but miss them, and she tossed restlessly for an interminable amount of time, unable to sleep despite her exhaustion.
CHAPTER FIVE
Proposition
May 3, 2346
The smoky air hung heavy in the dim light of The Prancing Beagle—one of the more popular watering holes of Vincenze Station in orbit above Crucis Prime. Major Karl Tarsus took another long gulp from his glass of ale, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve as he studied his companion. He didn't know the man's name, but that wasn't surprising; most of his clients preferred a degree of discretion. He'd worked for Smith— as he'd dubbed the man—on a number of occasions. Always the usual things: interdictions, search and seizures and the inevitable saber-rattling when the occasion called for it; but it was smalltime stuff.
Smalltime suited the major just fine. He wasn't an ambitious man. As long as he could maintain his small fleet of four ships and keep his levies paid to the Mercenary Guild, that was just fine. But what Smith proposed was so outlandish that, when the man proposed it, he'd spewed his last mouthful of ale across the small table, drenching the man's lapel and jacket sleeve.
"You want me to go after Kimura?" Tarsus asked. "You want me to attack one of the oldest private Mercenary organizations in the entire Federation." Tarsus could hold back no longer and he burst into uproarious laughter. Smith stared back at him, unblinking, while he used a handkerchief to clean the drops of ale from his jacket. "I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong man. We're a small operation. We have four ships— when they're all functioning. Kimura…well, let's just say they have a lot more."
Smith pressed his thin lips together, clearly struggling with his patience. "We're not asking you to attack the entire Kimura Military, Mr. Tarsus—"
"Major," Tarsus corrected him.
Smith gave him a dry look. "Major. I don't even want you to attack them at all. All we want is for you go to Alcyone—"
"Yes, yes—you want us to grab a bunch of schoolgirls off a Kimura Base. I know, Mr.…" Tarsus waited once more for Smith to offer up his name, but of course the man said nothing so he continued, "I assume you don't have a permit for this operation, either." Tarsus knew he didn't. By law, any military action, mercenary or otherwise, needed to be sanctioned by the CTF, otherwise known as the Council for Trade and Finance, the governing body of the Federation of
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