Cheerleader Tryouts
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Chosen Frozen IIChapter 3: Tryouts free porn video
Tribune Whitefeather sat with his fellow members of the Office of Targeted Extractions, Sub-Decurion Chan and Major MacAllistor, in the Arctic Princess pod currently assigned to Sandy Hause and her camerawoman, Lyn MacDonald. The three Confederacy officers were enjoying lunch and watching the results of Sandy's editing efforts. All wore their dress uniforms, Whitefeather and Chan in Civil Service grey and MacAllistor in Marine green. The two concubines wore fancy hairdos and gold-threaded high heels. Lyn wore a pair of nipple rings, and from Sandy's belly-button a fancy bejewelled decoration caught the light. Other than that, both ladies were quite nude.
To avoid concentrating on her dress, or rather lack of dress, Sandy paid more attention to her editing job. Lyn concentrated on the tasty Beef Wellington with a side of asparagus, all complemented by an excellent Madeira.
"An excellent report," the gruff Major conceded as the brief film ended. "Doesn't give away a thing, yet lets the viewer know what procedures to expect during a pickup. I like how you even introduced a section on recommendations for choosing a pre-pack."
"Thank you, Sir," Sandy said politely, if nervously.
"No, I'm serious. I was quite surprised by the quality, especially from a small market TV station like yours." The major masticated another bite of his Beef Wellington and almost daintily dabbed at a flake of pastry at the corner of his mouth. Lyn was fascinated at how the two-metre-tall mountain of muscle could carry it off so gracefully.
"Sandy's not really as much of a twit as everyone assumes," Lyn advised the giant Marine. "She's not being an idiot savant – she can take the video equivalent of a sow's ear into an editing booth and come back with a silk purse that Yves Saint Laurent would be proud to claim as his own design. She also has a killer nose for a good story." Lyn shrugged. "She's just ... naive, I guess."
"I'm not naive." Sandy could have kicked Lyn, but fortunately Tribune Whitefeather at the start of the meal had placed himself between the two ladies – pulling rank to do so.
The men merely smiled as Lyn contradicted her. "And who thought the pick-up was just a re-enactment for the camera?" Lyn demanded.
Sandy pondered glumly for a moment before conceding with a scowl, "OK, so I'm naive." Aggressively, she pointed her finger at her partner. "But I'm not dumb!" She then turned to Tribune Whitefeather, turning on her most winning smile and completely forgetting her attire. "So, tell me all about this big pick-up tonight."
Whitefeather dragged his eyes up from her delightful breasts, whose oscillations were just beginning to tamp down. "Well, I did promise that story, didn't I? And it's one thing that we in the Office of Targeted Extractions are particularly looking forward to. If it works out, it'll be the largest targeted extraction the Confederacy has done to date."
"What's the Office of Targeted Extractions?" Sandy demanded.
"Oh, right, you wouldn't know about that. Normally, an extraction consists of putting up a large protective screen called a 'containment field' around a suitably large number of potential volunteers and potential concubines, let the volunteers, well, volunteer, and then choose their harems from the pool of available concubine candidates. You're at least somewhat familiar with that?"
Sandy and Lyn nodded, fascinated.
"It usually works well enough, but often we find that the colonies out there need people with specialized skills. And that's where Targeted Extractions comes in. We find people with those skills, regardless of CAP score, extract them and send them to the colonies where their skills can prove useful. We're even prepared to fill skill requests with people who are dependant-aged, if necessary." He lifted the decanter of Madeira. "More wine?"
"So what kinds of people are you looking for?" Sandy demanded as she moved her glass to within easy pouring range.
"Teachers are always desirable. So are construction engineer types, anyone experienced in commercial distribution planning, design of manufacturing plants, nursing, childcare, agriculture – especially anyone in the research end like biologists, that sort of thing. One request we have right now is for a reporter, believe it or not, from the very colony we're sending tonight's extractees to. You'll be able to send reports literally from pickup here to arrival at the destination."
"Oh." Sandy blinked in surprise. She'd been targeted?
"The colony is on an ice planet called Thule. It's some ways from here, home of the 12th Brigade, the 'Chosen Frozen' they call themselves, and their support fleet, Task Force 12. A brigade is about 5,000 or more strong, depending on such factors as required support and combat casualties. This extraction will nudge them up to Divisional strength, which is about three brigades."
Sandy whistled in wonder. "That's quite the nudge."
Lyn interrupted at that point. "So Sandy was targeted. What was I, collateral damage?"
"A happy accident," Whitefeather nodded agreeably. He took a swig of the Madeira.
"So Sandy gets to be a reporter. What about me?"
"Like all concubines, you'll pop out babies, but other than that it's up to your eventual sponsor and the senior Civil Service officer on the planet. She's quite keen to utilize concubines' talents as much as possible. I think you'll like her."
Lyn blinked. "How soon does all this happen?"
The other two men grinned as the big Civil Service officer cheerily advised her, "Your first child will pop out in about 275 days."
"Oh?" Lyn raised a sceptical eyebrow. "And I suppose you even know what it'll be?"
"No, it's far too soon for that, but it'll be a girl."
"What do you mean, 'it's too soon to know, but it'll be a girl'?" Lyn was thoroughly confused.
"We won't know if she'll be a sponsor until much closer to her fourteenth birthday," Whitefeather supplied.
Sandy began doing mental math. "Average gestation is 40 weeks, right?"
"Right," Whitefeather confirmed happily.
"And that works out to 280 days, right?"
As Tribune Whitefeather nodded affably, Lyn's face became a visage of horror. "That means ... I'm pregnant?"
"Yes, my dear, you enjoyed a very wonderful weekend. Congratulations!"
A very startled Lyn proceeded to bolt down the rest of her drink.
"Ah, finished?" Whitefeather eyed the two girls' plates. Everyone was now ready for dessert and coffee.
The dessert was cool, and tangy, and sweet. The frothy, light-coloured pudding was topped with wedges of oranges.
"Oh, that looks yummy," gushed Lyn as Sub-Decurion Chan gallantly scooped some into a small crystal bowl. "What is it?"
"It's a traditional orange fool," Major MacAllistor informed her, "keeping with the English theme of the meal. Trifle sponge cake, topped by whipped creme that has been infused with the juice of oranges and a lemon."
Sandy looked at the tall Marine dubiously as Anthony placed the dessert in front of her. "A fool? In honour of me?" she asked worriedly.
Whitefeather merely grinned wickedly as he filled up the coffee cups from a sterling silver pot.
"All right, then, on with the tale of how we managed to target two brigades' worth of manpower for one night's extraction," Whitefeather announced as he settled down into his seat. "It all started back in February of this year. This sort of thing just is not done overnight."
FEBRUARY
The night was cold, but not terribly. The lanky young man of Chinese descent walking into the low office building wore a pea-jacket over a checked flannel work shirt and dark black jeans. A rucksack was slung over his shoulder. Pausing just inside the ground-floor office's entryway to brush the parking lot's snow off his boots and shove his knitted cap into his coat pocket, he looked around. He was expected.
The President of the youth league greeted him and, after placing the young man's coat into the reception area's closet, led the younger man into a boardroom near the back of the office. Inside, eight other individuals sat around the oak table in fancy but far from comfortable leather chairs. He indicated that the visitor should have the honour of sitting at one of the two places at the head of the table, and introduced him to the members of the Board.
"Thank you, gentlemen. My name is Anthony Chan." He took from his rucksack nine little electronic devices and handed them out to the nine men around him. Within a moment, all were in an hypnotic trance. When they shrugged themselves awake, Chan said one word.
"Abercrombie."
The Board answered as one: "Havelock."
The countersign was carefully chosen: most would have associated the first word with the second name of the clothing chain, but only the most passionate fan of British military history would have identified the two names as Royal Navy monitors from the First World War.
"I will remind you of your post-hypnotic instructions. You will only talk about the details of tonight's meeting with those who can give the countersign. Nobody else – not even Marines in battle armour. Understand?"
There was a very reluctant nod of assent.
"All AA-level coaches are to have a CAP score of at least 6.5." He pronounced it, "double-a".
All nodded obediently.
"When the coaches are finalized for next year's teams, you will have a special meeting of all the AA-level coaches and their staff."
All nodded obediently.
"It is to be mandatory for all coaches, assistant coaches, trainers and managers to attend. If they do not, then they will not be permitted to be members of the coaching staff."
All nodded obediently.
"You will invite a representative of my firm to attend this meeting."
All nodded obediently.
"You will schedule all AA teams to have at least one game per week for the same night: Thursday. The other AA game of the week can be any other night, but every AA team will have a Thursday night game."
All nodded obediently.
"At those arenas where the AA-level teams are playing, no other level will be playing on Thursday night. Wherever possible, you will have all four games at the AA level. If that is not possible, you will leave the ice empty for the final game."
All nodded obediently.
"Raglan," the Sub-Decurion uttered.
"Roberts," the Board responded, again as one.
The rest of the meeting was devoted to his cover, a salesman representing a firm that offered customized first aid kits that included as an added bonus, tools for repairing sporting equipment. The firm existed; the son of the chairman of the board of directors had sent a message from his duty station aboard CSS Stockholm, asking for a little favour that the father was more than happy to grant.
Exactly similar meetings to this one had already happened, or would be happening, repeatedly around the world.
APRIL
In city after city across the northern climes, league after league prepared to hold their special AA coach meetings, in that first week of April. Every league would be holding tryouts later that month to select the teams that would be in competitive levels come September.
Typically, the meetings were held at arenas, but some leagues managed to borrow school auditoriums, church social halls or other large venues. Where necessary, the Confederacy supplied moral suasion behind the scenes.
Gert
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