Dry, No Lube Ch. 03: Disrupted

"Exactly." Reye was looking straight at her now. "Or."

"Or we could just maintain the status quo, which has the downside of NOT telling Falgada that my name is on the list and his is not." She raised her eyes to his. "Which he'll find out whenever I get promoted, leading to untold disruption, bad blood, and stress. For you, sir, not me."

"Go on."

"...And which also has the downside of locking me into more time in the Second Officer's billet, where I'm expected to inventory supplies of electrostatic toilet cleaner and subject myself to the degrading sexual experiments of other supply officers. Both of which," she added succinctly, "are beneath the dignity of an officer on the subcommander's list." Her head was buzzing now, the implications blooming in her brain.

"Agreed." He leaned back on the couch. "It's a public list, Ms Pfeiffer," he pointed out quietly. "I can keep it under wraps here on the ship, but Mr Falgada is known to be aboard, as are you. The two of you certainly have mutual acquaintances."

"Certainly." The fraternity of supply officers was small, and in some cases literally inbred.

"So he'll find out." Reye sighed. "Your ideas have failed to solve my dilemma, Ms Pfeiffer."

"Well, sir, it's your dilemma," she snapped. "Got any better ideas?"

The captain smiled. "You just don't want to be supply officer anymore. Admit it."

"Hell fuck no, I don't want to be supply officer," she nodded. "But who does? It's got to get done, sir, and I can do it."

"You can," Reye muttered. "You can do it well, too. That's the problem with you, Ms Pfeiffer; you do too many things well."

She laughed, a short and brutal snort. "And you haven't even seen me in bed, sir."

He nodded. "This is true." He took another sip of his Low Country. "So, as it turns out, I might have an idea after all. At least until Fleet gets around to reassigning you, promoting you, or both." Pixy's heart lurched; she hadn't thought about this. Her name on that list meant she'd be leaving the USS Pulver. She'd changed ships before, obviously, and many times; still, it was always a pain in the ass. And, she reflected, staring up at the pitted hull above the nacelle, she'd sort of grown to like the place.

Shake it off, Pixy, you maudlin fucking bitch. "Sir?"

He brooded a moment, puckering his lips, then tossed back the last of his triple-malt and nodded. "Once upon a time," he began, and Pixy couldn't restrain a giggle. "What?"

"Shit, sir. What is this? Story time with Uncle Zonn?"

He arched an eyebrow. "However you need to think of it, Ms Pfeiffer, but you're still just a lieutenant. Your mouth."

"My mouth, sir. Yes."

"Yes." He frowned. "So, older fleets, like the sailing fleets on Sol III, they sometimes had an officer position that functioned as sort of a captain-in-waiting, a deputy. This position acted as a chief of staff, and gave professional development and helpful advice to the officers. Then, when the captain wasn't around, this officer stood in for him."

Pixy shook her head. "Sir, how is this not the First Officer's job description?"

"Because," Reye went on slowly, "the First Officer's job is practical. Hands-on. The First runs the ship, as you know. Makes decisions about the other officers. Gives them tasks and direction. This other officer... well, sometimes they used to do that too, but you wouldn't." He shrugged. "Won't, rather. A few of the bigger line combat ships still have them, if there's an admiral aboard."

"What's it called, sir? What comes before First?" She pondered. "Zero-th Officer?"

"They called it an Executive Officer, or XO."

"Eww." Pixy felt her nose crinkle as she scowled. "That's what the Army calls their deputy commanders."

"It is." He shrugged again. "So what?" Well. Pixy clamped her mouth shut, realizing she had no good answer to that. "Exactly. You'll be less a senior lieutenant and more an apprentice captain. A lot of it will be administrative bullshit, frankly, which I don't often have time for."

"Gee, sir, I'm honored."

"Mouth, Ms Pfeiffer."

"Sir."

"Right. You'll handle legal issues, awards, promotions, stuff like that. You and I will work together, so that one of us will be awake while the other isn't; you can approve course changes on your own authority, receive orders, acknowledge signals. So, obviously you'll have to step on Mr Falgada's turf just a little bit, which he won't be happy about. You will, for example, be in charge if I'm gone, which would ordinarily be his duty. But he'll understand; you're on the subcommander list, and he isn't. You can't possibly be expected to take orders from him."

"I would hope not," she muttered.

"But he won't report to you. You won't really be his boss, and you certainly won't evaluate him. He'll run the ship, Ms Pfeiffer, as much as you did when you were First." He stared hard at Pixy. "Comprehend?"

"Sure, sir." She drained her own glass, feeling the drink sear her esophagus all the way down, forcing her face into a nonchalant neutrality. "Seems like I'll see a lot less filth under my fingernails. Might need to find a book to read with all my spare time."

He looked at her in silence until she lowered her head, and then sighed. "I don't know how long this will last, Ms Pfeiffer; you'll obviously be reassigned soon, but who knows how long that'll take? Meanwhile, we'll make the most of this. Keep all this to yourself for, let's say, two days? Until I can get all this written down, and then I'll get you and Mr Falgada in my office to sort it all out and make sure everyone knows the score. You take that time and figure out who you'll recommend to replace you in supply."

"Sir?" Pixy blinked. "I'd assumed Mr Amisuul would take over as Second."

"Oh, he will. And there'll be other officer moves I'll want your input on, and soon. But there's nothing chiseled in marble that says the Second must be the supply officer. And, between you and me... I've seen Mr Amisuul doing your job for the past few months. I'm not sure Mr Amisuul's talents lie in supply and logistics."

"Oh, he sucks at it," Pixy agreed, nodding sympathetically. "No, he'd be a disaster. But how's this: assign the new guy."

"Mr Donskoi?" Reye seemed surprised. "He's just a junior."

"I can use my extensive free time to school him in the ways of supply. He seems to have the knack, sir, and besides, he's prior service. He knows Fleet bullshit." She leaned back and crossed her legs, finally comfortable. "That's the play, captain. Falgada as First. Amisuul as Second by seniority, but continuing his duties in weapons and morale. He needs the experience; I've told him that already, so it'll look weird if he knows I'm in favor of moving him to a different gig. Third..." She looked narrowly at Reye.

"Yes. Third." The captain frowned. "So we've got a Third Officer opening, a Fourth, a Fifth, and the engine room. Ms Klonmyre, Ms van Kleck, Mr Donskoi. A Chief Warrant Officer can take Fifth; Mr Donskoi Fourth, as supply."

"With me helping out." Pixy's mind was on the conversation she and Donskoi had shared aboard the circuit ship, and on her drug profits. "Clipper can be the Chief of Commo, as Fifth. He knows what the fuck, sir. Then," she went straight on, rolling over him before he could add anything, "van Kleck as Third. With her present duties in safety and fire control." She nodded as if it was a done deal, but one look at Reye's face told her she'd gone too far. He nodded at her, though.

"You're the right woman for this, Ms Pfeiffer," he said quietly. "I missed your decisiveness. I'm not sure that can be taught, but you need to try. With the other officers. Because when you leave?" He arched an eyebrow. "Well. I won't endorse any movement orders for you unless you leave me with just one person who can make a decision.

"But not this one." He'd seen Pixy open her mouth, and he was capable of going straight on, too. Rolling over her. "This one is my decision, Ms Pfeiffer, and Sublieutenant van Kleck gets the engine room." He watched her closely; the whole ship knew how she cared about Klonmyre. "It's her turn, Lieutenant. Klonmyre needs to expand her horizons a bit."

"She'll be pissed," Pixy bit out. "She loves that engine room."

"She'll deal with her disappointment," Reye replied evenly. "You're right. She loves it too much. It weakens her for other duties, and career-wise? She'll need experience on other posts. And this'll be Third Officer; that's a pretty good spot for a midgrade sublieutenant, in terms of resume."

Pixy blinked once, then nodded. "Very well, sir. I'll tell her."

"You will. In, let's say, two days?"

* * *

A cold, cold morning on the archerball court; Pixy Pfeiffer, fifteen years old and and already at her full height of just 158 centimeters, waiting with the others. They were bundled up, in gloves and mufflers against the weak winter light from Aries Prime, but not Pixy. She stood apart, stubborn in nothing but her workout clothes and a pair of her brother's old bow-boots, the slots worn from years of use; he'd been a formidable archerballer. Pixy felt ready, loose, all her senses tuned up. The coach materialized as she always did, and then said what she'd always said, for this was a dream that had woken Pixy up many, many times.

It did this time, too. And she never did manage to remember what the coach had said.

She stirred, Klonmyre's hair in her nostrils, still jarring her because it was losing the engine-room smell it had always had. The younger woman's body felt good in Pixy's arms. "I missed you," she admitted. The night still blazed with stars beyond the ship's transparent hull. She thought Klonmyre was still awake. "You okay?"

"I'm okay." The little engineer twisted slightly, Pixy automatically moving her leg to make them both more comfortable. A long sigh filled the pause that followed. "Just okay, though."

"I know." Pixy had hated being Third Officer aboard the old Jezail; all the work of the Second, but none of the respect. More work than the First, but none of the authority. And poor Klonmyre wasn't even a line officer. "The captain was right though, Janelle. This'll set you way apart from other engineers, having line time on your resume."

"Don't push it, Pixy."

"Okay." Pixy wasn't worried. She knew Klonmyre could do the job, and so did Klonmyre. She squeezed one of her little boobs. "You'll be fine."

The bedwarmer sighed. "I'm not sure I should tell you what happened today."

"Fuck." Pixy nestled more comfortably against Klonmyre's naked skin. God, but she'd missed her! "You have to, now."

"Okay." The engineer shrugged, captive in Pixy's arms. "Lieutenant Falgada wants me to be his bedwarmer."

Pixy felt herself go cold, calm, alert. She got that way before combat. She'd felt that way just now, in her dream. Whether this was an immediate fight against Klonmyre or a later one against Falgada, she didn't yet know. Klonmyre went still in Pixy's arms while the thoughts raced in her brain, and the conclusion was obvious.

"When do you want to start?" she asked quietly, and the first response from Klonmyre was a long sigh that deflated her compact little body. Pixy waited. "What?"

A flat reply, dulled; Klonmyre's voice when she was disappointed could be devastating. "You don't want to fight for me?"

Yes. "In the long run?" Fights called for resolve, for brutal honesty. "Why? I'm going to be a subcommander when the next set of promotions comes out. They might already be out, in the Core; there's no way to know. But my days aboard this ship are numbered, Janelle." She wondered suddenly, whether to hold her harder or looser. Whether it would make any difference. Pixy knew her spit was still glimmering along the sides of Klonmyre's pussy, inhaled the rank smell of her orgasm on the dampened sheets around them. But there was a distance now, suddenly, unexpectedly. "He'll be here three years, at least."

"I know." Poor Klonmyre. Pixy, a woman not given to maudlin expressions of empathy, nonetheless had a hard time keeping her thoughts from wandering to the husband Klonmyre had met at the Academy, the man who hadn't spent more than three or four weeks with her in the past two years they'd been warming each other's beds. "I know." She sounded so miserable; Pixy realized, with a shock, that there was a great deal she still didn't know about the engineer. Was she nervous about taking cock? Same-sex bedwarming could have a lulling effect, but being the First Officer's bedwarmer was a promotion, after all.

Or could Klonmyre possibly be in love with Pixy?

That was always a risk with bedwarmers. It was a long, time-honored tradition in Fleet, and usually it worked well. There was supposed to be sex, yes, away from the transactional nature of supply-sex for barter; officers expected companionship, friendship, even intimacy... but love was a bad idea. Pixy could recall a score of beds she'd warmed, either on a trial basis or more permanently, but she'd never once fallen in love.

"It's what happens, sweetie," Pixy sighed, hearing a roughness in her own voice. The breast in her palm still felt so sweet, so perfect; Pixy knew this was probably the last time she'd cup it, the tang of her cum in Pixy's mouth the last time she'd taste it. The wall was already up. "It's Fleet. You've been great for me, and I want to leave knowing you've found a good setup." She pinched fondly at Klonmyre's nipple. "This is not a bad thing." For a moment she wondered whether she should tell of her own supply-suck with Falgada, then decided it would be a bad idea. The decision was easy, but listless; there'd be no fight, after all. "Go to him."

Klonmyre's head shifted on her pillow. "Is that an order, ma'am?" and Pixy listened hard for the tone, trying not to miss it. She nodded to herself. Good. Janelle Klonmyre had recovered.

"It is." Her rolling fingers kept up the pressure on her tit, confident once more, the relief audible in her voice. "But only after tonight, Janelle."

"Mmm," and their thighs were moving slickly again, and Pixy decided she might just get one more taste of Klonmyre's sweet ginger pussy, after all.

She'd need to have a word with Amisuul tomorrow, though, about a temp. That was Pixy's Plan B for temporary bedwarming purposes, since he ran the ship's prostitution pool. As odious as it was to pay for bedwarming, and with an enlisted sailor, there wasn't much choice out here. She'd probably be better off with an empty space in her bunk, she reflected as her lips found Klonmyre's earlobe, but then once you got used to a warm naked body up against you...

* * *

"So." Captain Reye had waited, far more patiently than Pixy would have, for Falgada to shut off his stim-stick. "Our orders."

"About time." Falgada sat back and crossed his legs. He seemed to do everything with that same calm near-insolence. "This run is getting stale."

Pixy said nothing. Plainly, there was no need to open her mouth; she wondered why Falgada hadn't sensed the same. In her mind, though, she was in despair. The run wasn't yet stale for her, nor was the memory of that Army cock on Angerac IX. But then, the captain had already told her the mission, so it's not like there was any suspense here for her. Reye let the silence reestablish itself before he went carefully on. "The XO here," he told the gathered officers, nodding at Pixy, "brought back with her a copy of the Federation's declaration of war against the Cathos Vremein."

All eyes swiveled, predictably, toward Chief della Sera. He rolled his eyes, quite unintimidated by it all. "What?" He sniffed. "I was born there; it's not like the war is my fault." He frowned and sat back with his arms crossed. "Get on with it, Captain."

"Yes." The tech at the coding table saw Reye's nod and fired up the wheezing machine, the space above the wardroom table filling with the fuzzy 3-d graphics that had come along with their orders. "So, it seems the Federation's not exactly prepared for this. They need a barrier survey of the Vremein frontier."

"And guess who's the closest ship," Falgada sneered. Once more, Captain Reye let the silence descend.

"I'm guessing the Deane, currently doing the titanium-ore run in the Fourth Quadrant." He waited while everyone looked at the visual plot and saw that he was right. "But yes, Mr Falgada; we're pretty close, too. So. That's the new mission."

"Survey?" Amisuul was blinking around the table. "Does anyone here know how to do that shit, sir?"

"Fleet's sending out a mapping ship already, from the Core," Reye replied evenly, "but until then? We're a GP ship, Mr Amisuul. That's 'general purpose.' That includes things we're not necessarily fully outfitted to do."

"Dry," Pixy murmured. "No lube." Everyone nodded; they knew the score. You did what Fleet told you, whether you were likely to be able to complete the mission or not.

Reye smiled without joy. He glanced at the chrono. "We're doing this with immediate effect, too; Ms Pfeiffer and I have been working out ways that we could possibly get this run completed, but no."

"Contrary drift makes that impossible," Pixy observed, flicking a finger at the relevant solar-wind table. Nods appeared soberly around the table. "The delay would put us outside Fleet's timeline. So we're going to change course at 1900 hours and go ahead with our mission."

"Cargo?" Falgada was thinking, at least. "We also ought to plus up our weapons."

Pixy looked at Captain Reye, who nodded slightly at her. "We'll jettison most of the chalk, plus the consignment of stellar toilets." She shut her mind fiercely down, the supply-officer side of her brain upset at what an enormous loss they'd take on those damn commodes, the local Fleet economy being what it was, but it couldn't be helped. "Hang onto the rest. We're trying to set up a resupply rendezvous to swap out our Mark XV interphasers and hopefully discharge the rest of the cargo. Your responsibility, Mr Donskoi."

"Sure."

"Plus, Fleet's trying to get us a systemic surveyor or at least a terraforming manager to oversee the process. But no guarantees." She took a deep breath. "So I'm going to be making myself smart about barrier mapping."

"In which I have every confidence." Reye nodded briskly. "Take a look at the relevant annexes and brief your people," he finished quietly. "Transit time will be almost seventy hours at .88 lightspace, more like four days at .72 or .73; I'll decide once I see the fuel figures, after Ms Pfeiffer jettisons the cargo."

"We'll need thrust in reserve," Falgada nodded.

"Obviously." Zonn Reye was good at that, at being sarcastic without sounding demeaning. "That's why we won't just go .99 and haul ass." He glanced at van Kleck. "Engine status report by 0930, broken down by stresses expected at .70 and then at .88. Make sure you account for that fucked-up mount on Number Three Engine."

"I repaired that, sir. It was a simple fix." Van Kleck sounded blasé; Klonmyre, in the Third Officer's chair, rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure why it went unresolved that long, to be honest." Pixy gave van Kleck a pointed stare, but of course the five-lober was oblivious; she never cared as much about humans as she did about their creations. "Five weeks of subpar performance should have been rectified by my predecessor --"

"Fuck off," Klonmyre snarled.

"Yeah. Thanks, Ms van Kleck." Captain Reye didn't like the engineer, either, and in any case he was too good a leader to sit around a conference table and watch while two of his officers savaged each other.

"Aye aye, sir." Van Kleck waited complacently, like a robot on standby or a ruminant expecting a fart.

"So. You've all got your jobs. I owe you information as to when I can set up a hasty rendezvous for ammo and, hopefully, a qualified surveyor. You people, get your shit done ASAP." He glared around the table beneath his skinny eyebrows. "Comprehend?"