Dry, No Lube Ch. 04a: Desperado

"Aw shit, ma'am." People had looked away, smiling; it was rare that Pixy was anything but whip-sharp and decisive on the bridge. "Thanks."

"I'm leaving in a few weeks, Pixy; I'm not sure you knew that. I'll be on Parcheesi leave for about two months." The whole ship knew. "I know I'll be leaving the Desperado in excellent hands."

Same hands she's been in since the moment I stepped aboard, Pixy reminded herself, but there was no point in being a dick about it, "Thanks," she muttered again.

The plot repeater above her rack was silent late one evening, Pixy fast asleep while Desperado roared along in company with one of Rose Nova Squadron's other frigates, the Mata. Desperado was in charge of the little two-ship element, since Ledecki was senior to Captain Dziarmo, but this was the Inner Sector of Outer Parabolic Station Four, where nothing ever happened. So, in general, the OODs on each shift would make casual contact and agree on a course without any of the higher-ups really caring about it.

This was the first night in a week that Pixy had been able to invite Jeyne to bed with her, and Juno had been transparently happy to open the door and serve him dinner. "I'm the steward, Lieutenant," she'd told him baldly, staring straight at his package. "How's it hanging?"

"Uh, nice to meet you," he'd replied, bemused. "What's your name?"

"Commander Pfeiffer calls me Juno," she'd purred as Pixy emerged from her latrine, "but you can call me Wrae. In my ear."

"That's enough of that shit, Juno," Pixy declared, slapping her quickly in the back of the head and then dodging the counter. Juno was not shy about hitting back, as she'd promised. "Secure your mouth. Go finish cooking. Smells great," she added.

"Okay, okay." She'd stood there, looking with great interest at Jeyne before quite shamelessly saying, "Does he know you bent over for that other guy? That Service captain?"

"I said secure that mouth, sailor," Pixy snarled, and with a knowing grin under her sharp little nose Juno pranced back toward the galley, her round little ass wiggling. Pixy shrugged. "It was nothing. Just a quick pump during the supply swap."

"I didn't ask," Jeyne smiled, and he meant it; this was Fleet. Everybody fucked. "Food smells good."

"She's a stellar little cook," Pixy nodded. "Try not to praise her too much, though, Mr Jeyne. She's acting like she wants to have your children, and that might be awkward given that she's your bedwarmer's steward."

"Such a complicated life," he'd sighed, and now she settled back deeply into his arms, his warmth a part of her even as she stirred awake under the stars. He was still racked out when she got back from her latrine, and as she climbed back in beside him something bothered her about the plot repeater.

That target.

It had been on the long scope almost permanently, the distant contact forging an unobtrusive path through the galaxy. She was still assuming it was a freighter, in constant lazy motion outbound, apparently, from the Core, always at around thirty million kilometers' range. They'd been tracking it for the past two weeks, intermittently, its course unusual but not unheard-of. "You see ships out here every now and then." Old Chief Jurrin, on this ship for ten years and on this station for five, held forth near the plotting table in the afternoons as he waited for his stim-high to wear down. "It can be a shortcut if you're bound for Andromeda, provided the alignments are right."

So, well and good. But something about it bothered Pixy, and as she stared over her head at the repeater she slowly realized it had been nagging at her for a couple of days, at least, like the zit on her ass that she only thought about when she was changing her clothes; I should do something about that, she'd think, but then the clothes were doing themselves up and there it went, out of mind, submerged beneath the fifty thousand other problems that dominated her life. The target had done that, too.

But now it winked at the edge of her repeater like a star out of place, and she knew there was no chance she'd get back to sleep. Something about its range, its steadiness, seemed familiar. Almost as if it were stationkeeping.

At about the same range and variability she'd seen from those Cathos Vremein disruptors so long ago. When she'd been a lieutenant, with Klonmyre... Sighing, careful not to disturb Jeyne, she crept to Juno's pod and summoned her clothes.

If the bridge watch was surprised to see her up there, she thought they hid it well. Zuus had the deck, the Tygon with the ill-concealed disdain for her Service past, but he came to attention and began to drone his report anyway. "Good evening, ma'am. Current course is sixty-seven-point-four by --"

"Thanks, Mr Zuus, but I'm good. I'm not taking over. I've just got to do some thinking about that target at the edge of the board." She frowned. "Just a few mils of variation since last time I was up here. Right? Almost like she's keeping course with us?"

Zuus was the systems officer, a man deeply in love with his far-beam and its capabilities. He frowned now at the Main Plot. "Hm. Shall I check? Get a more accurate variation?"

"Please do." He nodded and headed to his station, yawning, leaving Pixy with her chin in her hand. The target winked regularly, boringly. She had no clue what she thought was going on, but she'd had feelings like this before. Hunches. Her mouth had gone dry, she felt a little shudder in her arms, and she needed to piss. Her legs trembled.

This was fear.

What was there to be afraid of though? she asked herself. But she made a fist anyway, to stop the shaking in her hand, and she knew it was time to keep her ears open and her brain engaged. Her mind was trying to tell her something. Probably best just to try to relax and let it work. She glanced over as Zuus spun toward her.

"Five mils, ma'am."

"Five?" She frowned. "That's it?" That was almost no variation at all, at this range. It was just like the freighter was keeping station with the two frigates. "Over, what, this shift? The past hour? What duration?"

Zuus nodded, his fangs gnawing at his lower lip, knowing they might be onto something. "No, ma'am," he told her quietly. "That's over the past week."

The trembling got worse, her fist tightening. "Past fucking week?" She stared at him in disbelief, on the point of lashing out, wanting to know why the fuck nobody had noticed this sooner... but then, did it really matter? She'd noticed it now, and she couldn't unnotice it. She took a deep breath. "I have a thought, Mr Zuus."

He nodded, his eyes widening, and then she was smacking the call button. "Mr Delmer. Get up to the bridge." She no longer had to piss. There were things to do, now. The fear might come back later. She peered down into the weapons pit, grateful that it was Chief Heller and not Lieutenant Fucking McZylenko on duty. She needed competence and obedience right now. "Run out a torpedo tube, Chief. Just one. Clear it and angle it, oh, twenty mils forward of that fucking target."

"Twenty mils ma'am, aye." She hesitated, her glance fierce. "You said clear it?"

"Yes. Empty tube, Chief."

"Ma'am." She studied her board a moment. "It'll be the Number Eight tube."

The math was pouring in, her implant giving her blessed help with the five-dimensional trigonometry, the scope still seductively empty. Except for that one target. She risked a glance at the chrono; captain would be fast asleep, and probably completely uninterested in anything to do with the ship's actual mission, but she had to be told. Payne answered when Pixy reached her quarters on the voxbox. "Yes?"

"Hi, it's the XO. Listen, I have something urgent for the skipper. Put her on."

A pause. "She's asleep, ma'am."

"She's at war, Payne," Pixy snapped. "Put her on." The wait seemed interminable, Zuus shifting from foot to foot, clearly getting excited. "Relax, Mr Zuus. This might be nothing."

"Ma'am." He took a hard, whistling breath, then turned toward his console. Chonny Delmer chose that moment to make his appearance, fresh from his bunk with his hair immaculate anyway.

"Hang on, Mr Delmer, just for a sec. I'm waiting on the captain." The intertube hummed softly in her ear until Ledecki's sleepy, singsong voice came over.

"I like you, Pixy," she said with no ceremony, "but waking me in the middle of the night is a good way to get on my bad side."

"I know, ma'am, but standing orders are to inform you of an unplanned course change. There's a target I want to go check out."

"Then by all means, go check the target out." She yawned. "Anything else?"

Pixy felt her heart lurch, the excitement real now. She pushed. "So, I'll make sure to order General Quarters if necessary." She held her breath for the reply.

"Do whatever you need to do. You're a commander. So. As long as nothing destroys my quarters."

The need to piss came roaring back, decisions to make. Responsibility. "Aye aye, ma'am. Thank you." She cleared her throat, staring once more at the scope, then glanced over at Chief Poole on comms. "Raise the Mata."

"Ma'am."

"And, when you get a chance, summon either Mr Paulus or Mr Jeyne. We'll need one of them." She turned, at last, toward Delmer, her implant spitting out the latest weapons inventory. "Listen, the inventory says we've got five acoustic probes shipped. Break one out. I want to launch it."

His face darkened, scowling. "Fuck. Those things are buried. I'll need to do some digging, ma'am."

Her reply was fast, thick with scorn. "Then do some digging, ma'am," she mimicked. Suddenly she had no time for anything. "It needs to be loaded into the Number Eight tube, and that needs to happen within ten minutes. Or I'll whip your fucking ass." He flinched back as if struck. "Go."

"Mata's up on the midbeam, Commander." Poole, from over her shoulder. Pixy took a deep breath. She had no authority over Mata, but whoever was deck officer on the Mata didn't know that.

"Thank you. Advise them we're changing course to intercept a distant target. They should be aware of it, and should stand by in case we need support." Her fingers tingled, the prelude always so exciting. Once the decisions had been made, she knew, she'd function with machine speed and precision. The prelude, though... that was the time for excitement. And terror, sometimes. She swallowed. "I want them off our port quarter, in fishnet formation. Three poronkusemas' range."

"Okay, ma'am." Poole didn't seem to think much of that message, but that was fine; as long as she sent it. And if she fucked it up, Pixy would march over and spin-kick her. She'd long thought it was time for corporal punishment to make a triumphant return to the USS Desperado.

"Mr Zuus. Any aspect change on that target?"

He glanced up at his scope. "Nope. Still with us, still within standard deviation for relative bearing." He licked his fangs, then headed over. "What're we going to do, ma'am?" He was quivering with suppressed excitement, and Pixy checked his record in her implant; he was one of many Combat lieutenants who'd never seen combat. But felt like he had.

"You need to relax, Mr Zuus." For all his scorn of her Service background, his and Delmer's and Welson's and the rest of their little knitting circle, she was the one with the medals and they were the ones who'd been spending years assigned to a bullshit backwater station. "Breathe. You can get excited before, but never during. And? You're an officer. So never in front of the people." She tossed her head around toward the rest of the bridge crew, toiling at their stations. "Now then. Are you prepared to receive your orders, Lieutenant?"

She'd pitched it well, trying to impress him with the seriousness of this. Maybe. Or the unseriousness, if that target simply turned out to be what it seemed. He straightened. "Yes, ma'am."

"When we change course, here's what I need. We'll launch the acoustic probe first. We'll follow it carefully. You'll need to be right on top of that helm like a teabagger's balls, comprehend?" He nodded; Tygons didn't have balls, but the metaphor was clear enough. "The probe's velocity will fluctuate, but here's what I want. It'll get within range, then it'll sniff, then it'll start sending back data. That data will lead to decisions on my part. But when that data arrives, we need to be no more than ten minutes' flight time from the target."

He furrowed his brow. "Ma'am?"

"So. You need to figure out at what range the probe will be able to pick up audio, then calculate our potential attack speed, convert that to distance, and be that distance behind the probe when it gets to its objective." She smiled grimly. "That enough moving parts for you?"

He was nodding. Pixy knew he was an Academy grad; math should be his strong suit. She saw his mouth tighten. "Attack speed, ma'am?"

Pixy shook her head patiently. "No, you shitbag imbecile. Potential attack speed." She waited until he gave a wary nod. "I'll give weapons orders while we're in transit, once Mr Delmer gets back up here, but your thing is navigation. Shiphandling. Got that?"

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"Officer of the Deck stuff." She swallowed, starting now to catch a bit of his excitement. "Just mind your helm. Your assistant will handle Systems once I call for quarters." She was nodding to herself. "Which I'm sure I'll do shortly. Now then, one more thing? I need to talk to Submajor Origami." She sniffed. "Pass the word."

* * *

The ship didn't move, not even a little bit, when the Number Eight tube coughed its acoustic probe out into the void. Pixy sighed, remembering the old Pulver; any mass ejected, even a garbage jettison, made the whole ship rattle. "Probe's away, ma'am."

"Right. You've got the conn, Mr Zuus." The Tygon, his eyes shining, began working his tabslate and rattling orders creditably enough. "Okay. So here's the thing," Pixy told Origami, swiveling the command chair to face the bristling little Marine. "We're going to quarters soon. You guys always provide the damage control parties, and you will this time too. But I'll also need boarders."

The major's eyes widened. "Fuck yeah," she breathed. Her record showed seven assault landings and fourteen mop-ups, but nary a boarding. Nobody in Fleet had done much boarding, not in recent years. "How many, ma'am?"

"Damned if I know. A platoon at the most. We'll need to be flexible." The officers had drifted curiously up here, knowing something was up, and even Jeyne had sauntered in straightening his jacket. He'd passed Pixy a coffee as he drifted by, 'from Juno.'

"What's the target?"

"Well, see, that's the thing." Pixy glanced around, beckoning the Marine toward her. "Looks like a freighter, might be a spyship. You know? I have no real idea. Your people will need to be ready either way."

"Spyship?" Origami licked her lips, her eyes alight. "Too fucking cool."

Pixy shrugged, containing herself. "She really is a freighter, most likely. Probably. But she moves like a Cathos Vremein, so?"

"So." A feral grin spread across Origami's face. "We'll be ready, ma'am."

Pixy found herself smirking to match, the ship gathering speed after its turn; Zuus was frowning over the helm, fussing like a mother hen. "Yeah, it's probably a freighter, at which point your people become customs inspectors. I understand that Stellar Marines are cooler than Revenue Enforcement, but tough shit. You'll be Revenue if I tell you to be Revenue. But? If it's a Cathos Vremein spyship? They'll probably blow you to fucking bits as soon as you board."

"Try to, ma'am." Origami did not look as if she intended to be blown away.

"Try to. Yes." Pixy frowned, trying to gauge how much guidance Origami would need. Her record said she had a habit of going overboard. "Mr Delmer will accompany your guys," she decided. Fleet procedure said the First Officer usually went on boarding parties.

Origami nodded, looking pleased. "Fuck yes, ma'am. I'll assemble Lt Kymchenko's platoon in Cargo Three. Usually, we train to board from a shuttle, but if you want to do EVA you should let me know now."

Pixy was already shaking her head. EVA was something she'd never been good at. "No. Shuttle. Mr Delmer will fly."

"Ma'am." She was braiding her hair, the bridge starting to get a bit more crowded. Zuus' helm orders were a constant undertone as he struggled to keep the ship at the right range, and Poole spun around now.

"Ma'am? Mata is complaining about our velocity inconsistency."

"Mata can go fuck itself." The response was automatic, the chief nodding in approval. "Let me know when your people are ready to go, Major."

"Aye aye, ma'am." She pranced off the bridge, her whole body showing confidence and skill and the sheer love of war.

Jeyne and Paulus were together now at the comms station, conferring quietly. "Probe will be in range in about eleven minutes." Paulus was under the phonic unit, already listening. "Probably on the lower end of that, actually."

"Good." Pixy's fingers were drumming on the armrest. It took two minutes forty-seven seconds for the ship to clear for action, after all the drills she'd been putting them through, and her palm slapped the Mass Intertube decisively. "General quarters," she called into the mic, her words blasting through the ship.

The sensation was immediate and palpable, a tension rising thick through the rushing vanes and the straining engines and the minds of the bridge crew, the ship surging to lethal life all around them. Pixy stayed in the command chair, rooted. Every ship in Fleet expected the captain at the conn at quarters, but Pixy knew Ledecki wasn't coming.

So did everyone else, and that was important. She raised her voice over the bustle. "Get those reports in. Fucking now!" They burbled to her in fits and starts as the systems came online: helm, commo, systems, damage control. Prowne, calling up from the engine room. The Marines in Cargo Three. Pixy frowned over at the First Officer's station. "Come on, targeting!" she called, angry. "Joy or no joy, you shitbags?"

Delmer frowned. "No joy on Number Fourteen tube, ma'am. My fault." No it wasn't, not from the way he was glaring at McZylenko. He'd take it out of the Junior's ass later, she knew. "Everything else is up."

"Keep at it, Mr Delmer." They were unlikely to need any weapons systems at all, she guessed, even if the ship was Cathos, and even if they were in the mood to resist: with Mata in support, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Surrender was most likely. "It'd be a pity if we got into a tangle and the crew on Fourteen missed out." A wave of tense laughter rippled through the bridge, the tension already profound.

Pixy's implant told her the ship hadn't seen combat in three Standard Years.

That was before most of the crew had come aboard, before some had even joined Fleet. That was almost the longest break from action in the whole of Combat Command, in fact, at least among operational vessels. She nodded to herself, knowing what was needed. "So," she called, her voice ringing across the bridge, "here's my intention. We ascertain that target's nothing but a freighter. If so? No problem. Major Origami boards, the captain gives her some complimentary vodka, and we return to our patrol.

"But I think that target might be a Cathos Vremein spyship. Probably a simulacrum. If so, it will look like a freighter but it won't be one. And once we determine that, we halt the fucker, Origami goes aboard, and the Marines blow away anything that won't give up."

"We should just waste the whole ship, ma'am!" That was Heller, her eyes blazing.

"Nah. If it's a spyship, it'll have tech aboard that Fleet wants." She'd considered that. "But sure, Chief, if they give us any trouble? Absolutely. We fuck their shit up." A low growl spread across the bridge. "Get on the tubes to your people. Let them know what's up. Especially you, Mr Delmer; when the Marines launch, I don't want your gunners going crazy. Especially since you'll be aboard."