Dry, No Lube Ch. 04a: Desperado

She'd faded from the record other than that and several other Parcheesi-related posts Pixy had ignored: her public Fleet file showed the usual assignments, the usual service awards, the usual schools. Nothing too profound. No decoration higher than a Wound Badge and a bronze Valor Torc for being second-in-command of a shuttle group that had made a flanking movement during some unnamed destroyer engagement in the Cessvus system.

Nothing extra.

No sign of initiative.

No trace of tactical verve. Unless you were fighting a war by playing Parcheesi.

She reached the bottom of the stair, stepping off into thick pile. The entire deck felt like a snarfs-wool slipper under her bare toes. "That you?" The voice stirred out of the little galley, aft. "The new XO?"

"Pixy Pfeiffer, ma'am!" she called, standing at vague attention and facing the harsh voice.

"Mmhm." The reply was a grunt. "Sit down, Pixy. I'll be out in a second." Pixy sank into one of the leather couches, staring dumbly at the beige curve of the far wall; it took her a moment to realize what was wrong.

The captain had the wall set opaque.

It shook her, the idea that Ledecki would have this infinite bubble of wall and keep it all blocked. The stars!

"We'll be thrusting clear of the Shasqua as soon as we take our stores aboard off the lighter." The woman who emerged from around the corner was tall, broad in the shoulders, matching what she'd seen in the holos on Phaceboox. "I'll want you to take charge of that, XO. Chonny and Lister have been trying to split up your duties, but you're here now. So you'll take us out."

Pixy felt a surge of excitement flutter her heart. She'd never conned a ship so large, and she'd conned absolutely nothing in almost a year. "Out where, ma'am?" She had no clue who Chonny and Lister were.

The captain brayed a quick laugh. "You'll be at the conn. You'll decide." She took the seat hullward from Pixy, propping calloused feet on her coffee table. "That's what being a commander means, Pixy. You command. So? Go command." She slurped some sort of thick blue liquid out of an earthenware kettle. "I know you're coming from Service, Pixy, but driving a ship is driving a ship. It's fun. So have fun."

Pixy blinked, not at all sure what she was being told. Were these orders? Was this an in-briefing? Was the captain giving her some sort of command philosophy, some sort of mentorship? Was she unaware that Pixy literally hadn't yet taken a piss since arriving? "When... when should this occur, ma'am?"

"You're the XO." Ledecki shrugged. "The XO takes charge of cargo transfer, new personnel in-processing, and, in this case, conning the ship. Be in charge, Pixy!" She gave what she probably thought of as an encouraging smile, the kettle steaming in the galley. "Go to it!" She beamed across the table, the two of them blinking heavily in the sudden silence, until Pixy took a deep breath and risked a smile in reply.

"Um. Aye aye, captain." She forced it out, never this timid. She had no idea what was happening here. Of all the images in her mind, the little mini-rehearsals she'd run, her thoughts about the vital first impression between a frigate captain and her new XO, none of them had even remotely resembled this odd little charade in a dimmed and stuffy suite. Barefoot, too.

And now? Now she was apparently meant to climb those twisty stairs, collect her boots from Payne, navigate her way through the unfamiliar corridors to the bridge, take charge of the vessel and everyone aboard, and drive a ship-type with which she was completely unfamiliar on god knew what mission.

Bend over and take it dry. No lube. That was the Fleet way.

She got to her feet, thinking someone on the bridge would have to have some idea, because it was plain the captain didn't. Not really. But at least, she reflected with a sigh, they'd matched the right person with the job. If Thajk had been looking for a strong XO to pair with a weak captain, she'd surely picked the right woman.

Attack.

"Permission to carry on, ma'am?"

"Go forth to glory, XO!" The smile was warm, almost saccharine, and Pixy didn't give her one back this time. There was work to do.

* * *

She'd been grateful for the time it took to strap her boots back on, time when she'd been able to crane her face over at the obsequious Payne. "So. Perhaps you can tell me how to get to the bridge..."

The hatch hissed open, the Officer of the Deck turning his head curiously to see who was bursting onto the bridge in a subcommander's uniform that looked suspiciously new, her eyes shining and her short hair bouncing. He blinked once, shifting the ceremonial telescope from under one arm to the other. "Yes? How may I help you?"

Pixy narrowed her eyes, keenly aware that every face on the bridge was turned her way. And so many faces! More than double the people on a GP ship command center, and they weren't even under way! She cocked her head. "Are you the OOD?"

"Yes," the Officer of the Deck replied coolly. Pixy could see that he was a tall man, thin, his uniform totally unadorned. A new guy. First assignment. But he was also just a Junior Lieutenant, and she was the new XO, and unfortunately for him she had a first impression to make.

"Your first tour, Lieutenant?"

"It is, in fact." He smiled blandly.

"Okay. And you know what a subcommander's insignia looks like?"

His face began to slip, just a bit. "Of course. Ma'am."

"Uh huh. And were you aware the new executive officer was coming aboard in this transport?"

Definite slippage now. The man was beginning to look concerned, but not concerned enough for Pixy's taste. "Ah, ma'am, the passenger manifest is not really my area of concern at the moment." He licked his lips, and Pixy sent her eyes roving around to find another officer, a full lieutenant this time, older than she was.

"You. By the star plot." He raised his eyebrows, looking around to make sure it was him she was addressing. "Yes, you. Did you know the new executive officer was coming aboard today?"

The older guy nodded. "Um, yes ma'am."

"Right." Pixy found another officer, over at what looked like the Systems station. Another Junior. "Okay, you. At Systems. You were aware you guys were getting a new XO?"

At least this one drew himself to attention. "Yes, ma'am."

"Okay." Pixy returned her slow attention back to the OOD. "So. How come these other officers knew the new executive officer was expected, but you? The guy with the motherfucking telescope?" Her voice was rising to a sarcastic rasp, the others on the bridge starting to look away. "The Officer of the Motherfucking Deck? How the goddamn hell are you able to stand here and with a straight fucking face, tell me 'the passenger manifest is not really your area of concern at the moment?'" She gave him no time to answer, figuring he was starting to get scared now. "Can you guess now who I might be, you miserable fucking slug?"

He'd gone quite white, and she was happy to see it, her perplexity and nervousness unleashing themselves on this poor little asshole. "I... I think so, ma'am."

"I would imagine you can. When you relieved the previous OOD, did that fine officer brief you that among that passenger manifest would be the new executive officer? Tell the truth, please."

"Uh." His mouth flopped open bonelessly. "I don't really... I mean, I think so?"

"Okay." Pixy was starting to see a way she could salvage all this. "Who was your predecessor, shithead?"

"Um, Lt Paulus, ma'am." Pixy looked again at the older officer.

"Is that you?" He shook his head. "Okay. Do me a favor and pass the word for Lt Paulus. I want him? her? it? Whatever, I want that asshole here now. Apparently, Paulus failed to adequately brief our worthy OOD here."

"Oh no, ma'am! No! Mr Paulus did brief me!"

Perfect. Pixy sat elaborately in the command chair, followed by every eye on the bridge. This was going well. Word would spread rapidly that the new XO wasn't looking to make friends. "Get him up here," Pixy nodded at the older man again. "And while Mr Paulus is coming, why don't you stand there and tell me what the fuck you think you heard him tell you."

And that was how Pixy found out the ship was bound for a rendezvous point called RP 17A, there to conduct combat drills in company with the pennant ship USS Jetu, and that their course toward RP 17A was currently being plotted for a velocity factor of eleven. Pixy held up a hand to stop the kid's sudden verbal diarrhea, turning to the older man outside the plotting shack. "You're doing the course?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Your name?" No, she wasn't looking for friends. But allies were always nice, and older officers were normally reliable even if they'd been slow on their way through the ranks.

"Lt Vecque, ma'am. Fourth officer."

Fourth officer. Supply! Pixy took a keener look at him. She'd been a supply officer for three of the past five years, and she'd been very good at it. This guy didn't look like he had the ruthlessness for the job, but she'd been wrong before. "Get that course plotted then, Mr Vecque. And then the OOD can explain to me whether it's the optimal course or not. Can't you, OOD?"

His adam's apple bobbed. "Yes ma'am." He went on, then, rattling off a reasonable facsimile of the usual script: the ship carried seven hundred forty-four souls, an even hundred and twenty being Marines, with thirteen currently in sick bay. By that time, the officers' hatch was sliding open to admit a cross-looking man with a barrel chest. Pixy held up her hand again.

"And you are?" The man stood there in a hasty set of utilities, gaping down at the unfamiliar little figure in the command chair.

"I'm Zvi-Pierre Paulus!" he came blustering back.

"You might want to stick a ma'am at the end of announcements like that, Mr Paulus." She waited expectantly until he finally noticed her rank.

"Sorry, ma'am."

"Yes, you are. Lt Vecque, over in the plotting shack, knew that this vessel was expecting its new executive officer today. So did the fellow manning Systems. Did you know that, Mr Paulus?" She'd pitched her voice carefully, in that rapid-fire professional Fleet delivery that left little room for ambiguity. Pixy was good at that.

The big man hesitated. "Yes, ma'am. The captain announced it last week."

"Right. So you knew."

He cocked his head sideways, his eyes squinting, trying to figure out whether he was in trouble. "Yes, ma'am. As I said."

"So you chose not to tell the officer who relieved you as OOD? Or he just didn't listen?" That one stood there with his head down, the jaunty telescope drooping like a spent penis.

"Oh no." Paulus wagged his massive head, eager to escape blame. "It was in the Captain's Orders. I gave that to Mr McZylenko."

"Is that true?" She glared at the OOD once more, who just nodded. "Wow. You're really coming out smelling like a rose here, Mr McZylenko." It was an unusual name, and Pixy hoped she'd heard it correctly. "Vanish, Mr Paulus."

"Aye aye, ma'am." He backed slowly toward the hatch, clearly interested in what was going to happen next, until Pixy decided he needed a lesson.

"I said vanish, motherfucker!" She spat it out, freighting it with as much contempt as she could find, and it was almost orgasmic to see the look of fright on the big guy's face. "Meaning now! We're busy here."

The hatch slid shut behind him, leaving a staticky silence Pixy chose to stretch a few minutes longer than needed before she spoke quietly. "Why don't you go in and see about my course, Lt McZylenko?"

He looked like he was just happy to move out of her immediate range, the little pussy. "Ma'am." Pixy brooded then, sitting tall in the Big Chair while she waited in what tried to resemble patience for the rest of the bridge crew to look away and start minding their forgotten business. Inside she was churning, operating on a great gout of adrenaline chiseling through her body like a massive cumload in a virgin ass.

Already she'd forgotten about the captain, that strange little interview, the unheard-of weirdness of the Commanding Officer not being present while maneuvering. She'd forgotten about the tentative reception, the gaffe with Tatuu, the whereabouts of her neglected luggage. She was forgetting, even, about the OOD and his idiocy, and she knew from the voracious sense of challenge fleeting through her brain that she was about to forget about the fact she had never handled a ship like this before.

Pixy was beginning to have fun.

The obsequious McZylenko was prancing back to her chair, his telescope no longer so droopy. "Course is going to be eighty-eight by eleven-six-niner to the power of four, ma'am."

"Very well. And that was at velocity factor eleven?" Pixy had never gone that fast. She trembled with excitement well-hidden.

"Eleven, ma'am, yes."

"Recalculate for factor twelve." The OOD hesitated, then started back for the star plot. "In your fucking head, you moron. You can check it with the plot if you need to confirm later, but as long as I'm XO, you monkey-fuckers are going to turn yourselves into goddamn navigational pornstars! Now do that shit in your head, Officer of the Deck!" He squinted, shaking his head slightly. "Dammit, the Flasbards are shooting at you, and they've just taken out the navigational vane. What's our course, kid?"

"Ah, same declination, but eleven-seven hundred?" He licked his lips.

"Are you asking me or telling me? They're about to blow us to pieces and then fuck us in the ass, Lieutenant."

"Oh. Uh, yes ma'am. That's the course."

"Bullshit. Go check it." She had no idea what the right answer was, but the kid sounded like he'd gotten it close. She turned, glaring over her shoulder. "Mr Vecque. Are we loaded from the Shasqua yet? I want to get underway," she called, happy to find that it was true. Her confusion had melted into action, like it had so many times before.

"About five more minutes, ma'am."

"Good. You! Systems guy!" The Junior over there turned his head. "What's your name?"

"Praaskinen, ma'm."

"Great. If you're not already prepping for departure, get on that shit." She hesitated, wondering how far she should take this, an unknown and unintroduced new officer taking complete charge of the vessel, but that oddball captain had seemed clear enough. That's what being a commander means... you command. She slapped her palm on the intertube annunciator, clearing her throat, and every soul aboard glanced at their speakers and wondered who the fuck was speaking with that barely-concealed Aries accent.

"All hands rig for movement. Hatch checks and tiedowns." The commands were standard, Fleet-wide, the words flowing back to her as she'd hoped they would.

She made a fist, the nails digging into her palm. "Who's the weapons officer?" she called aloud. "I need a name." She had no clue where the weapons station was in the little warren of cubbyholes at her feet.

"That's me, Commander." Pixy, startled, craned her head around to see the man with the telescope. "Because Mr Delmer is not currently on the bridge."

"Yeah, fuck that shit." Pixy waved her hand dismissively. "You're OOD, and this Delmer must be off fucking around someplace; no worries. I'll deal with him." The weapons guy was normally the First Officer, and even in the Service Command the idea that a ship would get underway without the First being present on the bridge was unthinkable.

Combat Command was quite a surprise so far.

"Weapons Chief! Who are you?" Pixy called aloud.

"Here, ma'am." A small, narrow-hipped woman turned a pixie-cut head to look up at the command chair with an unreadable face. Pixy classed her with Mr Vecque: possible ally. "Chief Heller."

"Fine. Half shields. Weapons status amber."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Pixy was already turning toward the Systems kid.

"Go ahead and pull in the stabilizers, Mr Praaskinen. No need for them anymore." She settled in the seat, leaning well forward like a snapdog on a scent, the plot repeater a ramen-esque swirl of lines and trajectories and projections, the soft green light representing Shasqua already turning away. "No, scrap that shit, Mr Praaskinen." The lieutenant stopped with his finger on the button, Pixy frowning while her implant gave her an urgent warning: relative masses, acceleration waves past a given angle-T... She stared at the repeater. "Keep the stabilizers out. Shasqua might go superlight sooner rather than later, and I don't want her Lerbal wave fucking with us."

"Very well, ma'am."

"Okay. Helm." She stared hard at the OOD, who eventually remembered his duty and scurried down to the steering station, the two helmsmen trading a veiled glance that Pixy did not miss. "You know your course, Mr McZylenko. Make sure you use the one for velocity factor twelve."

"Twelve, ma'am, aye."

"Cool." Pixy faded back into the seat, her lower back protesting, but so far things seemed to be going suspiciously smoothly; certainly, everyone seemed to know their jobs. She cleared her throat. "Let me know the moment your handlers get their cargo stowed, Mr Vecque."

"I think they're close, ma'am."

"You think?" Pixy glared around at him, then saw him quail a bit.

"They're close, ma'am."

"Hmph." More sailors were trading looks now, all over the bridge, and Pixy glared surreptitiously among the cubicles. For an instant she wondered what kind of stories they'd be telling their bedwarmers tonight about the new XO, but she ignored that thought as she gazed out the viewport. Before her stretched the starfield, innumerable, with none of the Nedrick Effect distortion she'd been noticing out her cabin over the past month, looking sleepily out past Felix Jeyne's shoulder... She wondered, in passing, where he was, but then Vecque was reporting he was all prepared and the Shasqua's Lerbal wave was rippling through the ship as she sprang off toward the Lesser Bight at just two poronkusemas' range. She nodded now when Praaskinen glanced back. "Good thing we left the stabilizers out. Bring them in."

"Stabilizers in, aye."

She nodded, taking a deep breath without even realizing it, the excitement building. So, you'll take us out... She nodded. "Vanes and clobbets, Mr McZylenko."

"Vanes and clobbets, ma'am, aye." The man swallowed hard, and Pixy wondered how many times he'd done this; her own first few times as OOD had been exhilarating beyond belief, but then she was an adrenaline junkie. This guy seemed a bit more staid. "Clear forward and aft, ma'am."

"Okay. Take us out, then, Officer of the Deck." It never got old, the thrill of getting underway, be it in Fleet's oldest GP service ship, or the most massive dreadnought with its own gravitational field. Or, in between the two, a wriggly little frigate. They always said that in a capital ship, properly damped and with full gravity, you weren't supposed to feel acceleration, but every Fleet sailor knew differently. It was true that your inner ear or your cerebellum might not know, but the motion of big ships accelerating left telltale traces in the blood in your veins, the food in your belly, the shit in your guts.

Pixy had learned to listen to her body that way. It was most obvious in shuttles, of course, and it was one of the reasons she'd always been such a good shuttle pilot. But she'd felt it in GPs too, the motion of the vessel, slight variations in yaw, and ever since Thajk had given her this gig, she'd been wondering whether she'd feel it in a frigate.

She did.

A glance at the plot repeater's heading data showed her she was right, and she saw no point in wasting time; they were falling off to port already, infinitesimally, but at factor twelve that would compound rapidly. "Mind the helm, OOD," she muttered to McZylenko. He swung his bulbous eyes toward her, with no idea what she was talking about. She put some snap into her voice the second time. "I said mind your helm, Mr McZylenko!"