Dry, No Lube Ch. 04a: Desperado

"Fuck you." Cheyra glanced a moment at Pixy's medals, her lips pursed, then waved her minislate at one of the chairs facing the desk. "Sit, dammit. This will be quick, I hope." She sat back in her recliner, her own implant a dull blue glow beside her eye as she accessed a file. "Just a second. I was working on something important when you arrived."

Pixy decided that silence was probably the wisest thing to say. She wondered whether Cheyra was planning on filing charges.

The older woman finished, her fingers tapping her desk in a complicated pattern, then stretched a kink out of her neck. "So. Subcommander Pfeiffer." She smiled without mirth. "How's your foot?"

"Mending, ma'am." It wasn't. She'd been pissed at herself for two days now, angry that she'd thrown such a poor kick. Her sensei back on Aries IX would have smeared her ass for that. She needed to get back into training, and soon. She set her jaw, impatient, needing the stars. Planets didn't agree with her. She cleared her throat. "Since I'm here, I've decided, ma'am, to amend my application."

"Huh?" Cheyra's brows rose.

"I, uh, appreciate the solution you offered. Heading a Supply department on a flagship? Um, I feel confident that would most effectively contribute to my further professional development and to, uh, my rapid integration into the Combat Command. Ma'am."

"Where the fuck did you learn to talk like that?" the Commander snapped, "in a public latrine, with a cock in your mouth?" She didn't bother waiting for a reply. "Just so happens I've got fifteen pending applications for XO slots, and yours is at the bottom. But? An emergent vacancy has occurred." She held up her minislate. "And you've risen to the top."

Pixy blinked. "What the fuck?"

"Don't get all orgasmic, Pfeiffer," Cheyra went on nastily. "Read between the lines. You're here because fourteen other new Subcommanders, all with much more time in Combat Command than you have, refused this assignment. It's that shitty of a billet." She shrugged. "Well, ten others. I didn't have time to find the rest and knew you'd take it. So I jumped you four slots. It's yours whether you want it or not. I've got a slot to fill, and it's not the one between your legs."

Pixy had to fight hard to keep from grinning. "Ma'am? Are you shitting me?"

"Not my kink, Pfeiffer." She snorted, tossing the 'slate aside. "But, you know, congratualtions, big step in your career, momentous event, et cetera. Your transport ship leaves in two days, so get yourself packed." She peered at the slate. "Inner Sector. Outer Parabolic Station Four. Ever been out there?"

Fuck no. "No, ma'am."

"Yeah. Nobody has. That's why the slots are so hard to fill." Her smile was the one executioners gave before hangings. "No doubt you'll be perfectly suited for it."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"Almost everyone I assign out there is a shitbird. You'll, uh, you'll love your new captain," she smirked. "When you can find her."

"Ma'am."

"Uh huh." She puckered her lips sourly up at Pixy, then nodded. "I'll come to your quarters tonight. Know why?"

Pixy stirred, then arched an eyebrow. "I can guess."

"I'll brief you on your new assignment," she sniffed, "but you mentioned you had more Naida-Shvindls. So I'll be making some offers, as well." She nodded. "Discount prices expected, Pfeiffer."

Pixy cleared her throat, nodding, confident now. "You'll be more than welcome," she murmured. Good. The bribe had worked after all.

"I know." Cheyra's implant came bleeping back to life. "Now get the fuck out of here, Firehole. Be ready for me." She touched her eye. "You've got some payback coming."

"Ma'am." The salute was sharp, Pixy concealing the pain of her foot as she did a neat about-face. And then, facing safely away from Cheyra? Then, she let the grin come.

* * *

"Okay." The captain glanced over to check on the vane clearance. "Take us out, XO."

"Sir." The XO looked smooth, Pixy gave her that: she looked like the kind of officer who'd done this a dozen times, the GP transport ship easing out among the parked spacecraft off the Hub basin. Pixy glanced out the forward port at dozens of ships of every possible shape and size, the XO snapping out brisk orders, wriggling between a pair of dreadnoughts.

"We're overloaded, so..." The captain shrugged apologetically. He had Pixy and Subcommander Jukarlo up on the bridge as a courtesy, and he obviously wanted to make a good impression on the two Combat passengers. The Shasqua was heading out with almost five hundred souls aboard, the passengers all bound for the ships of the Inner Sector. "Maneuverability is a concern." Pixy saw him glance at her a little guiltily.

Of course. She was famous outside Combat Command. He'd know exactly who Pixy Pfeiffer was, even though she'd never met this Captain Uulmar before. She risked a smile; in her mind, XOs should never get too terribly familiar with anyone, but here? She was just a passenger. "I've helmed GP ships many times, sir. Sometimes with human cargo."

"Really?" He tried to hide the fact that he was checking out her breasts, always a hard thing to see in the black Combat uniform. "That's right. You were Service."

"My third ship was fitted out as an emergency transport." She hoped this qualified as small talk, at which she'd never been all that good. "During the Jettmar Offensive? You folks ran out of ships."

"Oh. Yes."

"They attached a Transport officer to us, slapped some bunks in the main bay, and there we were." She smiled to herself, the memories strong as they always were when she was setting out. It felt so good to be off the dirt. "USS Jezail."

"Those were the days." Uulmar licked his lips, gazing nervously around at the bridge personnel. Beside her, Jukarlo looked supremely bored. "Vanes and clobbets, XO!" he called.

"Vanes and clobbets, sir, aye." The XO didn't glance back. She knew what she was doing. Uulmar turned to the two Combat officers.

"So. Which of you is in charge?"

Jukarlo stirred; this was the most attention he'd paid in awhile, and he glanced politely at Pixy. "I was on the list this past June, during the pre-command course."

"Yeah, me too." A gnawing began in her stomach, the prospect of a calm, relaxing transit starting to fade. Could she possibly be senior to this guy? She brought up the tiebreaker. "Same time in grade. I've got thirteen and a half years in service." Her heart sank. People got promoted faster in Combat, and she wasn't surprised when Jukarlo put on a smug smile.

"Yeah, I'm just past twelve." He nodded. "I guess you're in charge," he chuckled. "Ma'am."

"Jesus H Buddha," Pixy hissed under her breath, turning back to the captain. He smiled pleasantly.

"Cool. So you're the Senior Passenger. In that case, I'll be requiring you to come to the weekly staff calls, and you'll be accountable for all the passengers."

Pixy paled. "All..."

"All," Uulmar nodded firmly. "That's nine officers and 323 sailors. We run a pretty tight ship, and you'll be a big part of that. I think I'll find a lot for you to do, Commander."

"Great." She glared over at Jukarlo, who was already preparing to vanish even before the ship had cleared the basin. "Uh. How long is the passage, sir?"

"Five weeks or so, but I can usually speed that up." Jukarlo snickered as he got the captain's attention. "Yes, Commander?"

"Thank you for having me on the bridge, sir. I appreciate it. But I'm sure you and Commander Pfeiffer have a lot to talk about, and I have no wish to impose." He was already turning away even before Uulmar nodded. "See you later, Pfeiffer," he muttered. "Like, if you're not too busy."

"Eat a fucking dick," she hissed to his retreating back.

* * *

Pixy drummed her fingers on the wardroom table after the captain left her, seething. "Of course," he'd shrugged airily, "I'm sure you'll want to address the other passengers. I'll pass the word to have them assemble in the main bay."

"Uh, thanks?" Giving a speech was about the last thing she wanted to do right now, but his expectations had not been ambiguous: he had definite ideas about how he wanted his passengers to behave, and he had made it very clear that he expected her, not him, to communicate the importance of those ideas. She sighed, laying her head on her arms in the deserted wardroom while she tried to ignore her tossing guts; it was sometimes like this in subspace, especially when she'd been dirtside for awhile.

She stalked down to the main cargo bay once Captain Uulmar made the call over the intertubes, summoning all passengers. As she waded into the excited crowd of sailors, all different ages and races and species and all still buoyant from the rattling exhilaration as they'd left the basin, Pixy dragged herself to her duty and began glaring around, assessing, looking to fulfill the first rule of Fleet leadership: find someone to do most of the work for you.

She'd always been good at identifying people like that.

She paused now by the hatch, surveying, sorting, until she spied a tall Linder in a Marine uniform. She frowned; Service ships didn't carry Stellar Marines, and she wasn't 100% sure of his rank, so she made a guess. "Hey!" she yelled, her belly lurching. "Sergeant-Major!"

The Linder turned; she must've guessed right. She saw his heavy black eyes scan her nametag and her rank bars, then her face. "Ma'am?"

"Do me a favor. Get this fucking mob into some kind of order for me, will you?"

Linders. No way could you ever tell what the fuck was going through those complex brains of theirs, the noseplates making it hard to read them. The Marine stood there motionless for three solid seconds before shrugging. "Hold on, ma'am." He marched on over to the intertube panel by the main hatch, Pixy fidgeting nearby, then clicked the annunciator switch and held the hand-mic wordlessly out toward Pixy.

She got them marshaled quickly enough, almost 350 curious pairs of eyes blinking at her from the surging crowd of uniforms as Pixy took the mic up on top of a chained interphaser crate. "Okay!" She felt nervy now, and realized this was the first time she'd said anything to any group of sailors in nearly a year. She cleared her throat, the speakers booming her voice out over the entire hold and back at her in Aries-accented echoes that made her cringe.

She hated that accent.

"Give me your attention for a minute," she said, speaking too fast. A group of officers had made their way to the front of the crowd, looking up at her in silent judgement. A low murmur of conversation still filled the hold. Suddenly, she was keenly aware that some of these nameless faces were going to the same ship she was, that she'd be their executive officer. That this was a first impression. So she drew herself up and put a little steel into her voice. "Hey. Look. Shut the fuck up, all of you."

Well, that did it. Silence fell across the hold as though someone had flipped a switch, and Pixy gritted her teeth in frustration; for the thousandth time, she reminded herself that these uniforms spreading across the hold before her were not the heroes the government tried to tell people they were. No, they were more like children, needing to be spanked. "Good. Okay. I'll be quick; anyone here who's ever done one of these transits has had to sit through a briefing by the Senior Passenger, and that's me. So the quieter you motherfuckers stay, the quicker I'll be.

"Here's the deal. The captain has rules; they're posted all over the damn place. There are only ten of them." She was dredging all this up from memory, Uulmar sitting easily across the wardroom table from her. "He wants those rules followed. He wrote me orders saying I can write all of you up on a Fleet Directive if you break any of them.

"Well, fuck, I'm not going to bother. The last thing I want is to deliver you to your new assignment with bad paper already hanging over your head because you couldn't keep from getting caught on a drug violation on a fucking Transport ship." That drew smiles, at least; in these few hours at the start of any passage, before the ship went superlight, any group like this was bound to be sorting out who was selling morph and stim in between attempts to figure out how they could get laid.

"So. Here's what. If I don't hear anything from you during this transit? That's the way I like it. If I do hear anything from you? Again, I'm not wasting time with an FD. I'll just find you and kick the shit out of you. Comprehend?"

There was the usual titter of uncertainty, nobody wanting to be first to answer, but then a shiny-eyed lieutenant down front, in gold hair and Service blue, piped up. "Aye aye, ma'am!" A few more followed, then a ripple of agreement spread through the whole pack while Pixy stood there and tried to remember whether she needed to say anything else.

"Okay!" she called at last. "That's it. Read the captain's rules and stay out of my way and we'll be all set. Oh!" She'd forgotten the most important part. "I'm Commander Pfeiffer. I'm heading to the USS Desperado. I'll ask anyone else going there to stay after for a couple minutes; the rest of you? As you were." The crowd gaggled away, a couple of them eyeing her curiously. The little Service blonde, in particular, looked like she wanted to say something, but a small knot of about a dozen people had already assembled. And Pixy had no more time for Service.

That was the past.

"All of you are on orders for the Desperado? Right?" She glanced around, meeting nods and raised eyebrows. "Great." The silent Linder hulked behind her, expecting to go hang the mic back up, and Pixy gave it up gratefully. "Thanks, Sergeant-Major. Okay. So, listen up, Desperadoes.

"I'm going to be your XO out on OP4 for the next few years. I figured I should go ahead and let you assholes know that. So all that happy horseshit I said back there about no FDs? That doesn't apply to y'all." She saw narrowed eyes now, calculating looks. She wondered whether any of them would challenge her authority, here and now.

Thajk had been very clear in her briefing, as the two of them lay there naked again, sampling dildoes. "Outer Parabolic Station Four." The name seemed to give her a little grimace, like it tasted bad. "It's the worst place in the galaxy. It's where we send all our shitheads. From high to low, Pfeiffer: every discretionary posting, all the way up to the commanding admiral. OP Station Four is where we assign the fuckups."

"Wow."

"Not the lieutenants, so much." She'd lolled there, stroking Pixy's ass. "None of the Marines, either. Junior officers get assigned... well, who the fuck knows how? That's someone else's department, though I'd imagine a top Academy grad goes anywhere else they can find other than OP4. But subcommanders and higher? Yeah, every senior officer you deal with out there probably has some reason for being there." She nodded to herself. "Probably most of the full lieutenants."

"Sounds like a real plum posting."

Cheyra had giggled. "Don't complain. An XO billet gets you a steward, too. Your own little slave to boss around. Someone to shine your boots and wax your pussy."

"Gee, thanks," Pixy had replied dryly, but she remembered that now as the hostility grew in the group before her. "Yeah. Any of you screw up?" she went on now, raising her voice, "I'll remember you. I mean, I'll still kick the shit out of you, right here on this ship. But then you'll have a whole tour with me that I can turn into a living hell if I want. Right?" She made eye contact, then with all twelve sailors in front of her, daring them to do something, ending with a lieutenant on the right.

For the most part, they stared dully back; she could see they didn't buy it. A tiny little female who everyone knew had spent years in Service Command, despite all her shiny medals? Why should they care? Pixy sighed, knowing she'd have some proving to do, her foot still sore. "Okay. That's all. You can go about your business. Uh, lieutenant? Why don't you remain behind."

The sailors shuffled off, some of them looking darkly back at her, but she'd moved on to the officer, a tall dark-haired man, sublieutenant, green eyes. She frowned at his nametag. "Lieutenant... is it Jane? Or Jeen?" The name said Jeyne. "Or Jee-nee?" Fuck, why did everyone in her life these days have names so tough to pronounce?

"Jane, ma'am." His voice was deep, self-assured, an Academy voice.

"Ah. Mr Jeyne." She licked her lips, looking him over. No major awards, but no obvious deformities either; she wondered why he was here. "What are your orders?"

He shrugged, standing with easy confidence. "Assistant Second Officer. Commo, mostly." He hesitated. "Same job I had on my last frigate, but that was only acting."

"Oh. Well, forget about that shit. As of now, you're my assistant during this transit."

He arched a well-practiced eyebrow, cocking his head. "Really? Uh, ma'am, do you really need an Assistant Senior Passenger?"

Pixy felt herself flushing. She'd never enjoyed saucy inferiors, even though she'd often been one herself. "Assistant to the Senior Passenger," she snapped. "And yes. I do. Did you have something better to do?"

"Well, honestly, I usually just sit around and get high during long passages, ma'am." She bristled. There was nothing terribly illegal about a lieutenant doing drugs, and there was certainly nothing unethical about it as long as he was a passenger. But he shouldn't be telling her about it, dammit. He raised the other eyebrow now. "That's, I mean, unless Captain Uulmar has some rule against it?"

She glared up at him though her eyelashes. Many Service sailors on her old ships had learned that was not a good look to get from Pixy Pfeiffer. It often led to a snap-kick, something she'd always been good at. "Is that sauce, Mr Jeyne?"

"Not at all, ma'am." His stance stayed calm, cool. "I'm just being honest."

"Fine," she spat. "So here's the deal. Anytime I need anything done, you'll do it. If you do it well, I won't be on your ass all the time. Comprehend?"

"Yes, ma'am, I do." His brows fell, eyes boring into hers. "Can I ask a question?"

"Of course." The main bay bustled around them. Here, where a Service GP would have had supplies and cargo pallets and thick bales of pelding, this Transport GP had a crazy warren of four-person billets, stacked three stories high. Sailors glanced curiously at the two of them as they passed; all the other officers had left right after she'd stopped speaking. "What's on your mind?"

"I was wondering, ma'am, whether you're in the market for a bedwarmer on the trip." Pixy rocked back as if slapped. In her experience, the senior always asked the junior, and it typically took longer before that kind of arrangement got discussed. Now it was her turn to raise an eyebrow.

"Mr Jeyne," she began, her voice modulated carefully with all the sailors around, "these aren't the kinds of things I usually decide on until I get to lightspace, at least."

"Yeah," he shrugged, "but I figured, why wait?"

She felt her mouth drop open. "Why?"

"Ma'am?"

She nodded to herself. "A lieutenant asks a commander to warm his bed before we've even left sublight. He knows she's going to be his XO. Is it because you've heard of me? Like, I'm some sort of conquest? Is it because you think I'd be able to cuddle effectively?" He stayed there, unruffled, his hands behind his back. "See, what I think," she went on, her voice slowly building toward a savage hiss, "is that you're looking to get ahead? Or you're a slacker? Either way, you figure licking my ass in bed will mean you won't need to kiss it on duty. Am I close, Mr Jeyne?"

She'd expected him to back right down, maybe apologize, possibly salute, certainly retreat. She was disappointed when he just shrugged. "Look, ma'am, it's not a big thing," he sighed. "I just want a goddamn bedwarmer, that's all. And here you are."