The hum of machinery barely cut the awkward silence that filled the room. The tension was thick- you could cut it with a knife. A woman stood behind the desk that took up most of the room. She was small, but waves of intimidation flowed from her.

Captain Evelyn Ghost narrowed her eyes at the sheet of paper that had been handed to her, dropping it carefully down on her desk. These days, only the most official of orders came by paper, and this was no different. She sat then, her dark brown eyes staring down the man who had dared to deliver her such a thing.

Not many people dared to give her orders- at least, anything beyond a polite request or suggestion. Certainly nothing paper-official.

Crossing her arms, the Privateer leaned back in her chair, looking at the messenger. She was very tempted to shoot him, but it was considered bad luck, and that was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

"You're dismissed." She said gruffly, watching the young man bolt out of the room. She turned her back on the door, looking out the wide windows to the starry view.

The Cour Valant. Starship, Weapon's class, it served two purposes- to protect cargo, or to acquire it. It was not a transport ship- and yet, that was what the neatly typed orders on the desk now were asking of it.

"Where the hell am I going to put all those damned Marines in the first place?" She asked aloud to herself, clasping her hands behind her back as she stared at her reflection.

A run to Meridas. It was a three month run, and she did not like the idea of her ship, crammed full of disgusting land-lovers, everyone tripping over each other and just getting in the damned way.

She preferred a bare-bones crew, to travel light and fast, under her own control. The hazard of being a Privateer, of course, was that sometimes you would get orders. Biting the inside of her cheek, she rested her hands on her hips, close to her pistol and saber.

Imperious dark brown eyes stared back at her. Often narrowed in thought or suspicion, they had grown a few lines on each side. Her dark brown hair was now streaked here and there with light patches. She wasn't old- only in her mid-thirties- but her life had been rough.

There were times to think of that though, and this was not one of those times. Unfortunately, now she had only one thing in her mind: Where to fit a dozen or so Marines and all their equipment?