Dry, No Lube Ch. 03: Disrupted

"Ma'am." He wasn't surly, at least; Amisuul had to have known what he was likely to be in for. He did stay down, though, while Pixy stepped over him and marched toward the door.

"Oh, and Mr Amisuul? You should be grateful." The hatch grated open. "My punishment just now revealed a shocking deficiency in your combatives training. Work on your defenses, sailor."

"Ma'am." He was wiping snot onto the back of his sleeve as Pixy left. Doing so made her fume, but the objective was to get him to clear his shit out, and he wasn't going to do that any quicker with her there. Pixy sighed.

It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"So." The captain was finishing his last bite of tiramisu. "The Cathos Vremein. What did they do?"

"Sir?" It was one of those full-scale professional dinners Zonn Reye liked to host in the wardroom once a month or so, with everyone wearing medals. Pixy had left most of hers off, out of spite.

"You're saying we've declared war on them?" Reye cocked an eyebrow. "What gives?"

"And, more to the point," Falgada added loudly, "who the fuck are the Cathos Vremein?"

"Primitive humanoids living out on the Oberon Arm," van Kleck piped up annoyingly. "Provisional representation in the Federation for fifty-seven months now."

"They're pissants," Pixy translated, to general chuckles. "They say they've destroyed the USS Jeremiad."

The chuckles grew. "No shit?" Klonmyre arched an eyebrow. "Have they also figured out how to nullify the Sparsen Effect?" More laughter.

"Good one, Janelle," Amisuul giggled.

"Right?" Pixy shrugged. "Jeremiad cost, what, four trillion shekels? More? All the latest defensive armament?"

"Fastest ship ever constructed," the captain mused. "I think she was on her way to be flagship of the Fifteenth Armada, last I heard."

"I think so." Pixy took another swig of wine. It was tangy, from the Horsehead Nebula. "Anyway. The Cathos Vremein just announced one day that they'd blown it away. Just like that."

"No way." Falgada leaned back in his chair. "With what? Rubber band guns?"

"Yeah," Pixy nodded, "our instructors didn't believe it, either." The word had spread about a week before graduation, with no official confirmation. "Apparently, neither did the Federal Executive. They demanded proof from the Cathos Vremein: wreckage, survivors, whatever. You know, like when the Flasbards destroyed the Arcturus."

"Motherfuckers." Amisuul had known the Arcuturus' purser.

"So the Executive told the Vremein they'd kick them out of the Federation if they didn't tell the whole story and account for the crew, and guess what the response was?" Pixy nodded for Reye to pour more wine. "They said, 'We'd provide wreckage, if there was any.' So?" She shrugged. "War."

The pause that followed, filled with noises of chewing and happy digestion, stretched a few extra seconds before van Kleck cleared her throat. "Is any of this true?"

"How the fuck would I know?" Pixy shrugged. "It's a big universe. Who knows what goes on? But the declaration of war is true enough; I saw a copy of the bulletin myself, on the circuit ship." She chuckled. "Not that you guys would have heard for another eight weeks or so, way the hell out here."

"No shit," Amisuul coughed out. "Just wait until you see the wonders of the Angerac Colony. You're going to love it."

* * *

They lay afterward in a puddle, Pixy delighted to find he'd managed to pull out before he'd cum. Her metering implant guarded her against unpleasant inconveniences like menstruation and sexually transmitted disorders, including pregnancy, but still. It was impolite to inseminate a woman without asking, especially when she was a full lieutenant and the man was only a junior. Well, a second lieutenant; he was Army.

But a junior officer with a momentously long penis, she considered, eyeing it lazily; she wondered, through the usual post-sex haze, just how it had felt so good inside her. Pixy was a small woman with a generously wide pussy, so usually she preferred girth over length, but the junior lieutenant in charge of supply at the colony on Angerac had certainly known how to use what he had. "Thanks," she said at last, her fingers tracing through the gummy remains she'd left on his pubes. He cocked an eyebrow.

"For what?" He chuckled. "I'm getting the better end of this deal, and we both know it. You're giving up four thousand feet of Type 2 conduit. Four thousand feet! And for what?" He shrugged. "A couple of rifles, some stim, and a little dick? I made out like a bandit."

"Well, not a little dick," she giggled. Pixy wasn't usually like this with transactions, but he was a nice guy. "That's the point. Men your size usually hurt me. You?" She smiled. "You were good, kid."

"Thanks." He was running sure fingers up and down her back, soothing her, his nails gliding through her sweat. Angerac IX was a hot planet, even without the sex. "I didn't think it'd be polite to put you in the hospital," he teased.

"Mmm." She'd cum hard when she'd felt his tip kiss her cervix, and the orgasm had gotten even better when she'd felt him back off right away. She'd been able to tell he was doing it intentionally, that he was interested in how she felt, and she'd gone well over the edge and kept on falling. "Thanks, though. You didn't have to. This is just supply-sex, after all. It's not usually this good."

He smiled vaguely, and she could tell he wasn't listening; the moment had come, as it always did, the moment when the man saw the scar. His fingers were touching it tentatively. "That's quite a scar, ma'am."

"It's Pixy," she allowed, unusually. Already, her mind was wondering whether she could get Captain Reye to sign off on more conduit, so that she could come back. "While we're in here, at least." He didn't answer, though, so she sighed. They never paid attention once they found the scar. "Go ahead," she told him softly. "Ask."

"It's just... well, I don't mean to be rude."

"I know," she replied, remembering his control while he was inside her. She shivered. "Just ask."

"Well," he ventured after another pause, "I don't care about the scar. It clearly doesn't hold you back," he added, with a throaty laugh; she flushed. She'd been very demonstrative and extremely flexible for him. "I'm just curious about why it's there. You don't see too many scars like that, with the way they do surgery these days." He was still stroking, gently; it felt good, and she'd already decided she'd let him fuck her in the ass if he wanted. She considered, never really sure how to answer that.

"True. When they do the surgeries in infirmaries." She didn't want to tell him he'd just fucked a woman who'd nearly been cut in half, then patched up right on site so that she wouldn't need to leave the bridge during the 447 engagement. Because, even through the blinding pain as the doc reconnected her spinal cord, even though she was lying the entire time in Okonfwe's blood, even though she was still spitting out helm orders, cranking her neck high to stare at the cracked plot-repeater, she'd known that nobody could possibly fight the ship as well as she could. She'd known with a cold certainty that if she allowed herself to be taken from the bridge, they'd all die.

And she knew she didn't want to discuss these things with an earnest young supply officer on a dusty, shit-stinking colony planet. She smiled instead. "I slipped on a bar of soap in the shower," she told him gently, leaning over to kiss his lips. "But that's not what you want to talk about, is it?"

He hadn't left her with a sore pussy, though the same could not be said for her ass. But she didn't mind, even though she couldn't sit on the shuttle ride back up to the Pulver. Instead, she just made the pilot keep the gravity off the whole time.

* * *

The summons came after lunch, as Pixy was headed to the commo station to figure out whether there were any other ships around that could trade anything useful for her excess antenna bases. She was just leaving some work for Ana the Tygon Whore to finish up, when a knock at the hatchway announced the arrival of the captain's steward. "Ms Pfeiffer," he greeted her, with that grave nod that always seemed to be holding something back. The man had been in Fleet longer than almost anyone on the ship.

"Gouper," she nodded back, her head cocked. It was almost never good news when the captain's steward came to get you. "What's up?"

"Skipper needs to see you, ma'am." Pixy reflected, looking at the man's soft pale skin, that he probably hadn't stepped off the Pulver in four years? Five? How old was the ship, anyway? Rumor had it that Gouper had been one of the ship's original members. "It sounded pretty important."

"It doesn't need to sound important," she replied harshly. "He's the captain. When he wants to see me, I go. Does he want me to bring anything?"

"No ma'am." He shrugged. "He's in his quarters."

"Thank you, Gouper." Well. That was unusual, but not unprecedented. They usually had their meetings in his plant-choked office, rather than his plant-choked quarters. But, again, not unprecedented; there could be a million reasons. Pixy had served with captains for whom he's in his quarters was actually code for bring some lube and leave your inhibitions at the hatch, but Zonn Reye was not that kind of man. "Carry on."

She strode down the corridor, making mental lists as always: have Denman track down more transit crates. Could Chief Koster handle the commo stuff if the captain needed her too long? The supply guy on Utari VII had cum in her eye after she'd asked him to refrain; did that offense merit an anonymous mid-beam message to his wife? Ana and McChang needed to inventory the Class IV loft before the end of the week. Was Kluwer experienced enough to take charge of the mail run next time the shuttle was available? Provided she could find a pilot, obviously.

The senior officers' quarters, where Pixy and Falgada lived, were in a prime part of the ship, one deck above the other officers' spaces. But the captain lived in majestic solitude at the stern, underneath the ship in the traditional armored nacelle, where he could keep a constant eye on the engines. It also meant that when the ship went transparent for the night, it wasn't the ceiling that showed an expanse of stars; it was the floor. Pixy had always found the effect disorienting. When she became a captain (when? If, more like), she told herself she'd just take over some other space, topside, and fit it out as her quarters.

Someday.

She knocked respectfully. "Yes?" came the familiar voice, sounding a long way from the hatch. Her cochleas were adapting nicely; it was amazing how much better she could hear now.

"It's Pfeiffer, sir."

"Of course. Come on in." The tag snicked, she pushed the hatch open, and with a deep breath she clacked down the stairs. Fuck, she told herself. He's already gone transparent.

It felt like she was stepping straight out into the void. And she'd never been good at spacewalks.

Well, other than the plants everywhere. She felt the humidity at once, so different from the rest of the ship, with a rich and wild smell of growth and a sudden sharp increase in the amount of oxygen; her lungs felt it, even if her nose didn't. Damp leaves closed in around her as she descended, listening. "Where you at, sir?"

"Forward. On the couch." Pixy felt her eyebrow arch. Interesting. Maybe she should have brought her lube, after all. Reye had never before given off that kind of vibe, but hell, he wasn't that bad-looking. And he wasn't an asshole, either. She heard herself draw a sharp breath as she reached the bottom of the metal stairs and hesitated over that next step, onto the armored graphene of the outer hull, with the a distant nebula intense between her boots. Then she shook her head; this was ridiculous. She was Pixy fucking Pfeiffer, holder of three valor awards, and all she was doing was getting to the bottom of a set of fucking steps.

"Come on over, Ms Pfeiffer." Reye was in his normal blue working uniform, rather than some sort of bathrobe or wrapped towel or ball gag, so Pixy relaxed as she stepped across the stars and approached. He had his usual unreadable look on his face, with the addition now of a very, very sardonic smirk. "Join me."

"Pulver, sir," she replied, snapping off a brisk salute, and he nodded. He loved that fucking motto of his.

"Rising. Take a seat." He appeared to mean the couch, so Pixy sank into the far end. "Sorry to drag you down here, but it'll make sense in a few minutes." He eyed her curiously, then nodded. "Whisky?"

She felt her mouth drop open, then clamped it shut. "Why?"

His smirk grew. "Because I'm being polite. There's something to celebrate."

Well. She'd had a drink with Captain Reye before, but not like this. On the man's own couch. She cleared her throat. "Um. I'll have a triple-malt, sir, if you've got it."

"Of course." He raised his voice toward the intertube next to his head. "Two glasses, Gouper, and that Low Country shit I bought last time we were Solar." He didn't bother listening for a response, instead settling back and looking down at the stars. Gouper himself disappeared, ninja-silent, leaving Pixy to wonder whether Gouper was the type of steward that did more than just serve drinks. Wise captains didn't take bedwarmers, but many of them paid their own stewards. Most people assumed they knew what those captains were paying for.

Pixy felt she had to say something. Reye was not a small-talker, but she disliked suspense. "What're we celebrating, sir? Is Fleet finally recalling the buzz-lift modules?"

"Huh?" He appeared to have been thinking of something else. "Oh. No. Well, not that I know of." He fidgeted, apparently debating about something, then nodded. "Ms Pfeiffer, I'm not sure if I ever told you this before you left for your course, but you were a fucking great First Officer." He raised his eyes at last, making strong contact with her across the couch. "Did you know you were that good?"

Pixy Pfeiffer was a pragmatic woman, so the answer was yes. "I did my best, sir. And Mr Densborg had set, I think, a conspicuously low bar for First Officer duty performance." She glanced down, at the stars, trying to decide whether she'd been fair to Densborg. "With respect to him, sir."

"Yes." Densborg had been gone before Reye had arrived, but even though Reye's background was in Transport rather than Service, the Fleet was small where rumors were concerned. "Well. You were a great First, Mr Pfeiffer. If I didn't thank you enough during the refit and that Flasbard... operation, well, thank you."

Pixy felt her lip curl. That Flasbard... operation had cost Pixy her hearing, and she figured the stress had lost decades off her life. "My job, sir." She knew she was flushing, and hoped desperately that Captain Reye would get off this fucking topic. She hated these kinds of discussions. Why was she here?

He seemed to agree, sitting awkwardly until the metal stairs rattled to the approach of Limahl Gouper with a small tray containing a pair of glasses. Real glass, Pixy thought dully, looking at how the light reflected off the amber liquid within; special occasion? "Sir."

"Thanks, Gouper." The tiresome ritual, fussing with the glasses and the tray, the nods, the sniffing, the sipping, and then Gouper fading away as silently as the stairs would allow, back into the ship. "So." Reye put his glass down on the little side table. "You heard that a large data packet came over the low-beam this afternoon."

"The whole ship heard." The daily low-beam broadcast was a significant event, bringing orders and mail and even the occasional accurate news bulletin. When data packets came along with the broadcast, it was usually a sign of something exciting, or at least new. "Eyes-only, too, for the captain." Most of them weren't labeled that way.

"Any guesses what it was?" He was teasing, which he always did gravely and quietly.

"New Fleet menu for lunch service?" He smiled, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Nah, sir, I've got no idea." The Low Country was smoky and tingly on her tongue.

Reye was looking at her over the rim of his glass. "Huh." He shrugged. "Well, for starters, there was a change of orders. No more Angerac garbage runs." Pixy suppressed a stab of sudden, unexpected regret for that long Army dick she wouldn't get a second chance with. "I'll let everybody know later. But there was something else."

Pixy was Fleet enough to know when to keep her mouth shut, so she simply waited quietly. Plainly, the captain was building up to something.

He frowned. "So. Obviously, when they assigned Mr Falgada here as First, it was because he's getting ready to make the promotion list for subcommander. He's fairly senior in his grade."

Uh-oh. This sounded ominous. "I get it, sir."

"It wasn't because you were bad at the job, or anything."

"Of course not." Pixy set her own glass down. This sounded like something that required focus. "I know how Fleet works, sir. Senior officer gets the gig; that's as it should be."

"Right."

"It's just business, sir."

"Right." Reye was rubbing at his jaw now, just slightly nervous; he was usually good at concealing that. Pixy realized she'd been right to stop talking. He sighed. "It's both good and bad that you realize that, Ms Pfeiffer, because today's data packet put me in a little bit of an awkward position." He glanced over her shoulder for a moment at whatever nebula they were passing. "You're, what, two year-groups behind Mr Falgada? Seniority-wise?"

Pixy frowned. "I think so, sir. I don't pay much attention to that." This was an obvious lie; every Fleet officer knew precisely where they were in the pecking order. She was actually 2.78 year-groups behind Falgada, as these things were determined; the vagaries of keeping a current calendar among so many competing galaxies was an endless problem with no good solution. She licked her lips; the triple-malt was still there, sharp with hints of peat.

"So." Captain Reye took a breath. "Here goes. The data packet contained the new promotion lists. The one for subcommander had your name on it, which is why you're sharing a drink with me in my quarters. L'chaim, Pixy." He raised his glass with a precise nod, and Pixy knew she was blushing scarlet.

She hated that.

"Thank you, sir." It was a big day, a huge one, when a lieutenant got selected for promotion to the commander ranks. Plenty of lieutenants never did. "I wasn't expecting it."

"But you're very intelligent, Ms Pfeiffer. So you'll understand the nature of my dilemma when I tell you that Mr Falgada wasn't on it. No surprise in that; he's not due for another year. But still..."

"Yes sir." She got it. At once. Her name on that list meant she was immediately senior to Matteo Falgada, and would be for the rest of their lives, regardless of year-groups, unless he leap-frogged her for commander, or captain, or flank-admiral or something. Which was very unlikely. It's how Fleet worked. Vaguely she was aware that she was something special, that almost nobody got promoted to the Senior Officer ranks this far below the zone, but she wasn't in the habit of dwelling on shit like that. It got in the way of her work.

"Right." Reye hesitated. "So first off, congratulations!" He made sure the exclamation point was obvious in his voice, the irony plain. "Second off, since I'm a subcommander and you're almost a subcommander, let's do some professional development here. Tell me what you'd do."

"Well." Pixy sighed, already thinking about the problem; she was good at putting aside her emotions and getting to the heart of things like this. "Falgada and I should switch jobs. Leading to untold disruption, bad blood, and stress, all in the name of making the command chart look clean and tidy."