Dry, No Lube Ch. 03: Disrupted

"Hush." Koster keyed the intertube handmic. "Unexpected delays, sir. We'll be able to wrap up in no time, I think." Pixy had been in the Fleet long enough to know what was next. She drifted toward the hatch.

"Get it done. Is Lieutenant Pfeiffer down there?"

"Yes," Pixy said shortly, floating into the control compartment. She took the handmic from Chief's unresisting hand and fired right into it. "I'm well aware that gravitational creep is a concern. I'm monitoring it myself. It's not a problem yet, Mr Falgada." She cut the connection.

Everyone was looking at her a bit guiltily; she crossed her arm self-consciously across her tits. Sometimes, when her nipples were really hard, they showed through the utility uniform. "What?" she asked, sticking the mic to the wall. "He's right, you fucking perverts. Get this done."

"Tell Mr Donskoi that, ma'am," Kluwer snickered, nodding sideways at the viewport.

"I just might." Pixy swallowed as she forced herself not to look. "And get your hand out of your pants, Kluwer."

"Sorry, ma'am." She did look then, and had to work hard to control her shock; Fleet officers had generally seen every kind of sex act imaginable within their first couple years of service, but what she saw in the Bay was proof that it was never too late to learn.

"Fuck," Pixy bit out after another rapt silence. "She's going to hurt her pelvis like that." She lashed her foot out toward the loudspeaker switch, flipping it with a nimble boot-toe. "Finish up out there. Now."

"See? Now, if he was a Tygon, he'd just go ahead and cum," Ana observed with a sense of satisfaction; Tygon men were noted for their excellent control. "Can't be long now, though."

"Yeah." Pixy shrugged and traded a glance with Chief. "Hope not. Look, the cargo needs to be strapped down more fully on the port side. Deal with it."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Koster flew to the airlock.

"And you two." She took one more glance at the frenzied supply officers, then shook her head. "Just keep your minds on your jobs." She left abruptly, a strangled and very ecstatic shriek wailing through the airlock door just before Chief snicked it closed. "I'm going to go take a piss."

"Ma'am."

* * *

Pixy was on duty when Falgada finished up the calculations for the trans-barrier injection burn. "Got it, Pixy." He'd been working in the little charthouse behind the bridge, where Pixy had spent so many headachy hours in those days when she'd been Second Officer beneath the old First, Densborg, now long gone after a stint in rehab and his third and final liver. He'd gotten excellent evaluations for his navigation, mostly because Pixy and old Junior Lieutenant diBiase used to do all the math for him. Pixy stirred in the captain's chair, her tabslate still open to the mapping SOP. "Want to check?"

Pixy looked up at that handsome face he had, disturbed by the reminder this angle gave her of that time she'd sucked him off. How could he not remember? She cleared her throat. "You went to the Academy?"

He cocked his head, large eyes filming warily. "And?"

"And that means you know how to do basic math." She shrugged. "You're good, Mr Falgada. I don't need to check you."

He laid a hand on her shoulder, one clearly meant to be friendly. "It's Teo, Pixy."

"No," she hissed sharply back, "it's asshole. Figure it out, Mr Falgada; I'm not in your little club." He swept his eyes quickly around the bridge, but this was a basic run-of-the-narbleck lightspace run, without even the usual jinks and dodges needed when expecting contact; evasive maneuvers would start tomorrow. So the only sailor present was Jacobs, a senior warrant officer, almost a chief; he'd known Pixy for years. He knew how she was. Her calling the First Officer an asshole was not news. "Was there something else, Mr Falgada?"

"Nope." He took his calculations and shrugged, showing not the least bit of concern. "I'll just go run these, then. Course change in seventy-eight minutes; I'll alert the bridge watch half an hour before."

"Do that." Pixy was already back into her studies. Jesus H Buddha. It was just an injection burn; Fleet officers did that all the time. Such and such directional thrust for such and such number of seconds, a slight tweak to the rudder, a snap-sight of the local stars, and bob's your uncle. She frowned suddenly. "Hold up, Mr Falgada," she added as he was reaching the hatch. She heard him halt. "You accounted for star motion along the route?"

"Yup." He sounded scornful. "I used the star plot, the newest update. It said there were no significant anomalies downrange."

"Cool." She nodded. "Carry on then, Mr Falgada."

He paused a moment or two longer, then he kicked the hatch open and disappeared. She wondered what he'd been planning to say.

* * *

"No sex. What's your name, again? I know you work in the nav shop."

"Julius, ma'am." The sailor smaller, compact, with that iron-hard frame you found on light-grav planets sometimes. He frowned. "No sex, ma'am?"

"I told Mr Amisuul to tell you this was a bedwarming gig only." She'd learned from Smuul and Purcell; this time, she was already under the duvet. "Same rate, obviously."

"Uh, okay." His eyes were a warm brown, roving across her where she lounged on her bunk. "Would you like me to hold you, ma'am?"

"Of course, Julius." Pixy liked his voice, she reflected as she rolled over and closed her eyes. And he smelled nice, clean, but with those manly undertones that any woman would find attractive. "You don't have to call me ma'am, in here," she decided.

"Okay." The mattress sagged behind her as Julius made his way along her back, his body warm and strong and... wait. Her eyes snapped open.

"Already?" she complained, craning her head around.

"What?"

"Your penis, Julius." The thing felt like it was at least four centimeters wide. "You're already hard?"

"Well, I mean, come on." His fingers were already bringing her nipples to an uncomfortable awareness of how turned on she could get here. And for an enlisted man! "I've always thought you were hot, Ms Pfeiffer."

She sighed. "No sex, I said."

"I know." His breath was warm in her ear. "That's exactly what you said." But her body was saying something different, as Amisuul must have known it would. He must be teasing her, she realized; he knew firsthand, from that one time in his quarters, just how long her slit was. She'd be able to take the monster cock Julius had resting in her asscrack. Fucking Amisuul. The Tygon was probably giggling in his bunk right now.

"I meant it." She was already wet, dammit.

"No extra charge, Ms Pfeiffer." The fingers felt good. Really good. She closed her eyes again, unable to hold in her long sigh as Julius' hand began to wander.

In the morning, Amisuul was grinning over his breakfast at her. "Did you like Julius, Ms Pfeiffer?" he asked with a wink. Pixy frumped into her seat and glared across at him.

"He was way too sexy." She scratched again at her pussy, still all oozy. "Send someone else next time."

"Yes ma'am." Amisuul looked down at his lavash. "Uhh..."

"What is it?" Pixy snapped. "I'm not in the mood for bullshit this morning, Mr Amisuul." Though, in fairness, last night had been pretty great.

The Tygon across the table was looking sidelong, now, at where Donskoi sat in the corner, his feet lazily propped on the coding table, studying his junior officer certification packet. "Well," Amisuul mused, "I mean, I led with my best..."

Pixy sighed, an explosive burst of frustration. "I'm not blaming you, dumbass. I'm just saying, I'm looking for something specific." She looked away and sent her voice down several decibels. "Honestly? Rocky, I really, really got along with Klonmyre. I'm weird with bedwarmers; it's really hard to find that chemistry, you know?" She nibbled at her bowl of panko. "And I fucking hate paying for it."

"Don't blame me, ma'am," Amisuul came back flatly. "I'm giving you a huge discount, and you make more than anyone else I'm serving."

"No, that's not it." She frowned. "It's hard to explain," but Amisuul was looking into the corner again. "Am I boring you, Sublieutenant Amisuul?" He didn't answer right away, chewing thoughtfully. Then he raised his golden Tygon eyes, very deliberately, to hers; once the contact was established, he let her see him look one more time at the quiet Donskoi. She cocked her head. "No."

He shrugged. "I mean, the whole ship's talking about his enthusiastic performance in the Main Bay," Amisuul said with very forced casualness. He flicked his gaze down her body. "And I remember how much you enjoy an enthusiastic performance. Pixy."

She felt her face flush immediately; Jesus Buddha! The impertinence! "Watch your mouth," she advised, fiddling with her spoon. "And it's Ms Pfeiffer, you insolent Tygon shitfuck."

Amisuul sat back in his chair and shrugged. "Anyway. You know I have a point, Ms Pfeiffer." Pixy thought a moment, then shook her head.

"I told you, I'm not looking for anything permanent. I'm getting booted off this fucking ship whenever my orders come through; what's he supposed to do then? The whole point of bedwarmers is that it's supposed to be special. Long-term. They're supposed to do you favors down the road, career-wise. He'll be damaged goods once I leave."

"Oh, stop," Amisuul scoffed. "Look, ma'am, can I be blunt?"

"You have to ask?"

"Right. So, you know everyone thinks you're wonderful. You know, with the medals, and saving the ship, and that dirtside thing with the Army, and all that. But, with that said, I'll be honest: you're hardly Lord Tyg's gift to the universe, ma'am. You know how Fleet works: if you left tomorrow, life would still go on. And more to the point?" Amisuul cast another glance at the corner. "He'll never have any trouble finding a bed to warm."

Pixy glared hard at the Tygon, feeling the warmth under her skin fade, letting her eyes narrow before she gave one choppy nod. "Mr Donskoi!" she called, still looking at Amisuul.

"Ma'am?"

"How are you at backrubs?"

* * *

"Places, everybody." Captain Reye was in charge himself now, the threat of enemy contact finally reaching the probability where maneuvering was a matter of course. The bridge began to settle down; these were Service sailors, which made them less stern than the rest of the Fleet, but war was war. "Okay then. First things first. Weapons status green, Mr Amisuul."

"Green, sir."

"Fire control. Settings at maximum power, safety status II-delta, Ms Klonmyre."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Damage control status II-alpha, full flow. Hoods off the foam projectors, hatches closed, Mr Donskoi."

"Sure, sir."

"What's that, Mr Donskoi?"

"II-alpha, hoods off, hatches closed. Sir."

"Better. Low-beam at level four. Radio silence, Chief Clipper."

"Aye aye, sir."

"All right. Then go ahead and begin evasive maneuvers, Mr Falgada."

"Sir." Falgada took charge with his usual easy authority, snapping the orders, bringing the ship onto the zig-zag course the regulations specified, while Pixy leaned against the charthouse door next to the Chief of the Ship. She sighed.

"Sucks to have absolutely shit-all to do, ma'am," Chief della Serra sympathized. Pixy glanced at him sideways. Apart from Koster, and maybe Gouper, nobody had been aboard longer. "I know that's not normal for you."

"Right?" The rapid tapping of her feet drew both their glances before she stilled it. "I'm not someone who enjoys just hanging around with my hand on my cock." She frowned. "Well, so to speak; it's just an expression."

"I get it, Ms Pfeiffer." He buffed his nails against his utility top. "Seems a little silly, declaring war on someone and only then sending Service ships to figure out where the battlefields should be."

Pixy grinned crookedly over at him. "Dry, Chief. No lube."

"You can say that shit again, ma'am." He glanced around, then dug into his pocket for a small wrap. "Here. Your McChang sold me this a few hours ago, but I think you need it more."

The bridge was concentrated activity all around her, and for once Pixy was left out, so she shrugged. "Why not?" She recognized the wrap; she, Donskoi, and Denman had spent an hour yesterday packaging all the drugs Nebel had brought. She dropped her voice. "I don't normally do anchor, especially not on the bridge during evasive maneuvers." She shrugged and slipped the wrap out of his hand. "But whatever."

"That's the spirit, ma'am. Give no fucks."

"None at all." The two of them shared the acrid powder, quick flickering tongues stabbing into the wrap just as Falgada was bringing the ship onto his outward leg for the swing-around into the first zigzag, and as the tension rose on the bridge it fell in her mind. Anchor was not her favorite drug, but only because the comedown left her brittle and a little more paranoid than normal; the high itself was top-notch, the pink blanket settling over her brain and tucking itself in around the edges, pulling tight, holding her awareness in a warm dry glow. When she glanced back at Chief he was blinking up at her, his pupils fluttery while they decided what the brain behind them wanted to do. He smiled, the slow and predatory smirk of a Fleet Chief on the hunt for a sailor doing the wrong thing, but it was tinged with a spark of warmth.

"The ship's going to miss you, Ms Pfeiffer," he admitted quietly, and in her last flash of full consciousness Pixy realized she couldn't possibly hug him publicly, so she dragged him back into the charthouse and let herself be wrapped in his arms just as she kicked the hatch closed. She could only hope nobody heard her sob.

Changes worried Pixy Pfeiffer, but only when she had plenty of time to think about them.

* * *

"Ten hours to the objective area, ma'am." The helmsman was a new warrant officer, Klingmann, a mopey woman who'd been haunting bridge watches since Pixy was Second Officer. Pixy was sucking on a gingercane and juggling a cup of fresh butter-tea, having returned from where van Angus had just closed down the wardroom mess for the night. She blinked, kicking the hatch shut behind her. A quick glance at the bridge latrine showed her it was occupied; fuck. She needed a piss.

"Um. Any change to the ship's systems or functions?"

Klingmann glanced around at where a tight, silent crew, frowned purposefully at various status boards. "Uh, no ma'am. I don't think so."

"Then why open your mouth?" Pixy growled. She'd been expecting van Angus to be able to make her a real snack. "I can see the time-hack, Klingmann." She waved the gingercane stalk at the repeater board at the front of the bridge, over the main port, where bold red numbers rolled along timing the voyage down to the zeptosecond, though that was more than a little ridiculous: their destination this time was not a point, but an area. Nobody knew quite where the Cathos Vremein barrier defenses were, which was the whole point of going there to survey them. She frowned. "Who's the OD?"

"Lieutenant Klonmyre, ma'am."

"OD means Officer of the Deck. So she's supposed to be on the deck?"

"Ma'am." People were looking away from their charts now, sensing a better show.

"So why's she not on the deck?" And then Pixy had to stop herself, physically stop herself, from adding the bombshell: must be warming Mr Falgada's bed. The tension was still there, hovering in the air like a beam-wave, when the silence was shattered by the rattle of the hydroponic latrine as it churned beside the charthouse. Pixy felt herself flush slightly.

"That's why, ma'am." Klingmann cocked an eyebrow and nodded toward the latrine, then swung her head back around to her levers and switches; Pixy could feel the smugness rising from the woman, but she couldn't blame her, the addictive flood of self-righteousness now firing straight at her like a tight-beam broadcast from Klingmann's meticulous little braids. Worse was Herriott, over on the scanner, so obviously high that he was grinning openly at Pixy.

Grinning! Openly!

She heard the latrine hatch open behind her and turned to catch Klonmyre emerging with the latest issue of Cosmopolitan in her hand. "Oh!" The little Third Officer pulled up short, blinking. "Welcome to the bridge, ma'am."

"Cool." Pixy felt that vague rage she sometimes got when confronted with what she thought of as her own incompetence, which she thought was never far away. She usually dealt with it by hitting people, but this was Janelle Klonmyre. She wasn't kitting Klonmyre. "I'll be back in a sec to talk to you."

"Ma'am," but she had already pivoted on her heel and was striding toward that fucking fool Herriott. Fleet encouraged corporal punishment, though it was considered bad form for officers to dole it out, but Pixy didn't care much about that. She needed to kick someone, and it was Herriott's turn. He knew it, too, a blank mask coming over his face as he clocked her approach; he was already bracing himself in his chair.

"Stay put," she advised, getting set. "It'll hurt less. Why am I going to kick you, Herriott?"

He blinked, a wary animal near a trap, seeing her through a drug filter. "I laughed, ma'am."

"Probably shouldn't have done that," she nodded, and then she was launching her foot high. She'd learned early in her career that the Fleet's standard bridge chair put the head at just the right height for a nice, moderately athletic roundhouse kick; her current PT regimen, despite the past week spent studying, had done its usual punishing, sweaty work, and there was barely even a twinge in her hip as she snapped Herriott's head hard against the backrest with a sickening crunch. He took it; she'd say that for him, he was no coward.

She didn't bother with any follow-through, having no wish to send the kid sprawling; he was only about halfway through his shift, after all, and knocking him unconscious would have just put more work on Klonmyre to find whoever was on the replacement list. Down came her leg, the boot clacking to the deck with a little gobbet of Herriott's bloody snot on the toe. The scanner tech sat, blinking furiously, his hand cupped to his nose. When he spoke, his voice sounded like he was talking from the bottom of a mine. "Permission to go to the latrine, ma'am."

"Granted." She stood and watched as he fled toward the nearest water dispenser, his head thrown clownishly back as he held back the blood. Then, feeling oddly worse, Pixy sighed back at Klonmyre. "Captain's supposed to relieve me at 0600, but SOP says we'll be going to general quarters when we pass beyond the line of our picket ships. That's set for 0323?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So we'll be at quarters, then, for the entire rest of the mission. That's a long time at full alert." She nodded to herself; she'd discussed this with Captain Reye, but he hadn't been enthusiastic. Well, he could fuck himself. "I've written up a modified quarter bill. Instead of 33% on duty, like now, or 100%, like at general quarters, we'll go with a continuous 66%. Same as the current watch bill, but with all the positions doubled. And the doubles are going to be on standby on the mess deck."

"Even the officers?"

"Well, no. They'll be in the wardroom, and they'll be on a separate bill; in theory, all the officers will be available for duty at all times, so even if they're in their rooms they need to be ready to get to their battle stations right away. The other 33% of the crew can sleep." She handed her tabslate to the waiting Klonmyre. "Here's how I want it done." The woman looked down at the modified quarter bill, frowning, and Pixy scowled. "Something wrong?"

"Um. Well, I mean, does anyone really know why we're going to quarters, ma'am?" She looked over at the scope, completely empty but for a few local gravitational anomalies. "We've sighted absolutely nothing for the past few days. This seems like completely empty space."