Dry, No Lube Ch. 05: Blitz

"Should've camouflaged it better," Pixy groused.

"No, I don't think that was the problem; the hits looked hasty. I don't think they got a good bead on it until it was too late." The engineer hesitated. "The camo was a good idea, ma'am."

"Yeah..." Pixy's mind was spitting out answers: the map, Emhart's storage data... "Where is Lord Miguel? I need to see him now."

"Who the fuck knows, ma'am?"

"Okay. I'll go coordinate with him. You carry on; we've done most of what we can do here. Priority is to get the Captain's head back aboard, along with the rest of us." She pulled herself painfully to her feet, blood still clinging to her black utilities. "I'll be back shortly." The exit was a tiny square of dun sky in the corner of the little underground chamber, and Pixy lunged for it with her mind still racing.

Emhart's storage data. The map.

Outside, all was noisy confusion with a strange, flinty smell on the air. Smoke smothered the entire node, the floodlights gleaming off the underside. So much smoke; it made sense, though, now that she was thinking clearly. The pattern.

And now she knew, too, where she'd find Lord Miguel.

He conferred, low-voiced, with Lorero as she stepped up behind him. "My lord," she said quietly, very conscious of the blood and vomit ground into her utilities. Miguel looked as though he'd just come from dinner.

"Ah. Pixy." He passed a brief glance over her wrecked form. "I'd understood you'd had your head blown off. I was saddened."

"Wrong Fleet officer," she grimaced. She'd be remembering the cilantro stuck in the Captain's teeth for a long, long time. She jerked her head toward the flinty smoke. "Was this, um, the family stockpile?" He raised his eyebrows. "Of flerium?"

The nobleman nodded, a tightness in his lips. "A hedge. Against inflation. In the Palace Plaza."

"Yeah." Pixy checked her numbers again. "Cornering the regional market. Well, it tells me how the bombers are targeting the surface, I think."

This time, he turned fully toward her. "Yes?"

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "Your man Emhart. I need to see him. And I'll need you, my lord, to make sure you've got dedicated comms with my ship at all times.."

He sighed. "I told you, Pixy. It's Miguel."

"Yeah. What the fuck ever."

* * *

She stepped off the second shuttle into a flurry of activity aboard the Desperado, pleased and a bit surprised to see that Delmer had come down to the Main Bay to greet her. "Ma'am," he told her, licking his lips. He looked like he'd had no sleep.

"Mr Delmer." Dr Borowicz had all his corpsmen down here, sorting through their tasks, the bay lit brightly. "Tell me you engaged the bomber last night."

"I didn't engage the bomber last night."

"Fuck."

"We got its signature, though. We'll find it again." They watched in silence as Borowicz bent over the torn form of Sergeant-major Tarasz, giving quiet orders to his people. "Shame about the sergeant-major."

"Focus." Pixy was having enough difficulty for her own part, keeping it together; she needed Delmer functional. Her slipped implant was making her teeth ache. "What happened?"

"What you said." He scratched at his beard. "Sensor shadow. Excessive equatorial girth. By the time we got here, we were just in time to catch Cheeley's transmission."

"Whose?"

"Um. Ms Prowne's, ma'am." He shrugged. "I locked in and sent the other shuttle down. But I seeded a few sensor mines along the horizon."

"Good move." She sucked at her lower lip as Suupf brought his haemodrive carefully out, the whole bay falling silent. "That's the Captain," Pixy told Delmer, quite unnecessarily.

"Mhmm." He took a knee beside where the corpsman had set the haemo down, peering inside. "One of the finest Parcheesi minds in the universe, reduced to a head in a box." He leaned in closer. "What's that? Parsley?"

"It's cilantro." Pixy looked away. "Close the shutter, Suupf."

"She might be sentient by now. A little bit, anyway." The Tygon was studying his readouts.

"Then we'll have Doc put her right back out again." She glanced at Delmer, who was looking strangely back at her. "It's easier that way. I doubt she wants to know what state she's in. And she can't legally exercise command while she's dead."

"True enough," Delmer nodded. He studied Pixy's face. "You should get yourself looked at, too. That's a fucking honey of a bruise on your face."

"When he's done with Tarasz." She yawned, and painfully, an overwhelming tiredness sweeping her limbs as the corpsmen led The Other Midshipman away, both his eyes bandaged. "Fucking bombs, man."

"Ma'am?" Delmer leaned in close and spoke with unusual deference. "I'm fine handling the ship. You look like you need a rest."

"When I'm dead." She dug into her pocket for more stim. "I'll need your help, though. I've got a plan. Dwart and McZylenko to my conference room. You... you're acting XO, I suppose. For awhile."

"Ma'am." It hadn't occurred to Pixy yet that, with the Captain gone, she was in charge now. She thought about it, then ignored it because it didn't feel any different. "For awhile."

Something else was nagging at her; she blinked away a fog on her brain and remembered what it was. "Corporal punishment's back on the menu, XO."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

* * *

"So. With Mr Delmer acting as XO, you're going to be the acting Weapons Officer."

"Ma'am." McZylenko, never the most decisive man, swallowed.

"Good thing you've got Midshipman Shitbird to assist," she muttered, looking away. "Anyway. We're going to be engaging the Flasbard bomber from 30% below the horizon, which means skimming the torpedoes. We'll have maybe three klicks of altitude, and you should set up your firing plot so that it doesn't intersect any of the nodes down below. Make sure you work your crew up to manage that."

"Ma'am." Another swallow.

"Yeah. And work yourself up, too." She still wasn't sure the implant was set correctly, but the Doc had told her it was the best he could do without cutting her open.

"Um, ma'am?" He looked down at the notes he'd taken on his tabslate. "Can I ask how you know the bomber's going to be in this position?" He pointed to a spot on the Masaakama map, looking confused.

"Because I figured out the Flasbards' munitions are sensing large stockpiles of fleromorphic basalt. I found out from the mining engineer where the next-largest storage facility is. If my hunch is correct, the Flasbards should head right for it, then you'll torpedo the shit out of them."

"Oh!" He grinned. "An ambush!"

"Just so, Mr McZylenko." She smiled, painfully, and then nodded him out of her office. "Now go. I need to pee. Ms Dwart should be out there; send her in."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Like every man on the ship, McZylenko stared at Raella Dwart's chest as they passed; the woman always told her orange Engineer utilities to leave their neckline at its lowest setting, for plenty of cleavage. She marched in now, self-assured as ever, and took a seat across from Pixy's desk without being told.

"Ms Dwart."

"Hi, ma'am." Her little lips quirked into a grimace as she squinted at the side of Pixy's face. "You okay?"

"I am not. But never mind that. As the ship's morale officer, I wanted to let you know that it's my intent to give the crew liberty on the surface once we accomplish our mission. You'll organize the rosters for the liberty parties, and of course since you administer the Fleet Prostitution Program onboard, you should put your sluts on alert. I'd imagine there will be rich pickings below."

"Yes ma'am." She paused. "It's, like, a mining colony?"

"Sure, but civilized. They've got trees and restaurants and beds and shit."

"Good."

"And." Pixy interlaced her fingers, not quite certain about this next bit; most of the conversation on this matter was lodged in Lina Ledecki's sketchy cranium. "I understand there are concerns, on the moon, about the long-term genetic diversity of the colony?"

"All colonies have that problem, ma'am, until they're certified as fully viable. I grew up on one of those."

"Oh?" Pixy raised her eyebrows, quite unprepared for the spasm of pain that came with it. "That might explain some things."

"Yeah." She shrugged, setting her tits rippling in pleasant ways. "I think it's why I'm such a whore."

"Yes, well, then you'll understand that the locals are interested in our sperm. Tell the men of the ship's company that they're encouraged to get as busy as they want, but you should try to keep track of who ends up impregnating whom, in case of future paternity proceedings." Both of them smiled, equally cynically. "Yeah. I have to tell you to do that. But I'm very aware it's not really possible."

"I'm on it, ma'am."

"Good." Pixy's yawn twisted her face into another painful rictus. "Now shoo. I need to piss."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

* * *

When the ambush nearly went catastrophic, it wasn't really anyone's fault.

Everything was fine at first. The ship slipped smoothly into general quarters. Paulus and Jeyne had Emhart on the other end of a committed communications link. McZylenko, with Delmer standing above the weapons pit, had a good plan: four torpedoes, No. 3 spread, skimmed. Delmer's sensor mines were mostly still operational, though the moon's curvature had put one of them completely out of touch and another was having issues with the unexpectedly strong sunlight. Praaskinen, on Systems, had all the sensors at maximum sniff.

And, right on cue, the Flasbards came. "I'm a tactical genius," Pixy muttered to herself, marveling as the contact flashed on the repeaters. "I can't believe this worked." It was right where it was supposed to be.

"It didn't, yet." Delmer said it so that only she could hear, but you could tell that he was excited too, and why not? They were about to bag the bomber. Delmer frowned at Praaskinen. "Shields on standby?"

"Sir." The shields blunted the sensors, so Pixy had opted to leave them off and trust to the moon's horizon to give them that split-second of advantage she'd need to get the drop on the enemy. "Should I also enable the aft sensors? For anything coming up behind?"

"I wish." Pixy stretched a kink from her neck. "I need all the power on those forward sensors. This degree of resolution is a pain to manage." She was feeling good, confident, the dragging fear of life under the bombs giving way now to this, to something she knew she could pull off. "The moment that motherfucker gets within range, we're going to shoot him."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"Aft sensors would be a good idea," Delmer muttered.

"I'll leave them on standby, but nothing more." She was feeling the excitement now, as one of Delmer's mines got tripped.

"Contact!" McZylenko had Midshipman Shitbird on the scope. "Mark eighteen, altitude differential plus-four."

"Plus four!" Pixy traded a satisfied glance with Delmer. "That's ideal. Reset your spread to No. 2, Mr McZylenko; you won't miss."

"Ma'am!"

"Go ahead and fire when ready," she added magnanimously, lifting her bowl of tea, feeling that thrill she always felt when it was time for action. Everything was smooth, well-drilled, the bridge watch doing everything as fluidly as if they'd been real Fleet sailors on a real Fleet station, rather than out here in the boonies...

"Intermittent disturbance on the near-scan, ma'am." Pixy jerked her head up sharply; it had come from Systems.

"Near-scan, Mr Praaskinen?" She thought about asking for a complete report, but he was already bending back over his scope, busy, so Pixy let him be.

"Ma'am?" McZylenko, shifting his gaze back toward she and Delmer. "I'm seeing an aspect change on the target..."

"Mid-beam is active too, ma'am. It's not us." Jeyne was messing with the commo equipment.

"Jam whatever's out there," Pixy snapped, feeling a vague prickling sense of dread in her gut, "and Weapons? Go back to Number 3 spread and fire."

"Number 3 spread and fire, aye, ma'am." A tense pause followed, then the frigate gave a faint tremor as the four torpedoes let go. "They're away, ma'am."

"Good. Aft scan off standby," she called, but that's when everything went to shit.

A screeching, ear-rattling explosion shook the port quarter, the whole bridge lurching into horrifying, sliding motion. Pixy felt vomit bubble up from her gut as, abruptly, the gravity winked off, then back on.

"What the fuck!" Delmer was picking himself up from under the commo console. "Full aft scan, now!" He and Pixy yelled it simultaneously, even as another blast rocked the Desperado. For a split second Pixy remembered her first action, the chaos of the shattered bridge at Detached Engagement 447, and she nearly lost it again.

Pixy dragged herself back into the center of the command chair as the view-scan burst into life with a massive contact to the rear. "Rear tubes. Double-loaded. Fire as you bear!" she shouted at McZylenko. Delmer was snapping helm orders, bringing the ship back around while Praaskinen shunted damaged systems in desperation. The horizon gave a giddy lurch to port. "And please tell me we hit that first fucking bomber," she added desperately.

"Ten more seconds, ma'am." The pale midshipman on the station was timing the spread, licking his lips while his lieutenants struggled to bring the aft tubes on-line. "They're still tracking, though."

"Gee. Thanks." Pixy watched the gyro, willing it to swing faster, the shape of the new contact becoming clear. "It's... it's a bomber. Again."

"There's two?" Delmer was frowning at the plot repeater, too. "Did we know there were two, ma'am?"

"I didn't." The aft tubes at last came on-line, a marginal shot, but the enemy target was already accelerating off into space. Fleeing. The fury threatened to overwhelm her. "Damage report, First Officer."

"Aye." Delmer was on it already, stooped with Praaskinen over at Systems. "Just a moment."

"Bullseye!" Shitbird gave a high-pitched shout from Weapons. "One hit on the first target, ma'am. Three misses." He frowned at the repeater. "Shit. He's turning tail."

"Give him another one," she snapped grimly, though she knew it wouldn't matter; the bomber would have its full shields up. She'd fucked up. Desperado was still shaking, losing altitude. "And dammit, helm! Keep us in space, why don't you!"

"Almost set, ma'am." The propulsion shunts were taking effect, the nose slowly creeping up, then up some more. "We're approaching nominal now."

"Good." Pixy let out a great sigh, not even realizing she'd been holding her breath; already, the red system were going yellow. "Match the pressure on the port vanes," she snapped. "Something must be jammed to starboard. Compensate by dropping power."

"Yes." Delmer was back at the helm, where he belonged. "Back to 70%."

Pixy felt a sick, twisting wrench in her belly. "Damage?"

Delmer glared back. "More than we should have taken, ma'am."

Desperado evened herself out in space, the Masaakama surface finally leveling off, now with a flaming trail of the Flasbard bomber plunging away from Masaakama. "Goddamn second bomber," Pixy cursed. "Motherfucker."

The bridge crew stared back in silence, the plot showing the dot of the second bomber dwindling into the brightside of massive, looming Phaeton IV. Someone coughed. Chonny Delmer stepped away from the helm. "Do we pursue, ma'am?"

"No." Pixy sighed in disgust. "Our mission is the mining moon. And besides, pursue which one?" She gritted her teeth and took solace in action. "Systems! Effect repairs, immediately. Priority on getting our torpedo tubes unobstructed and boresighted."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"Secure from general quarters, First Officer; get your damage reports to me at once."

"Ma'am."

"Comms? I need to talk to the surface people." She frowned. "We need another plan. Soon."

* * *

The very last place Pixy wanted to be was back on the surface of Masaakama, but she knew she had to. The entire crew knew how dangerous it was down there; their damn Captain was in a box now because of that place, and after she'd fucked up with the rear sensors, Pixy knew her credibility among the rank and file was shredded.

And she also knew she was the acting Captain now, solely. No more of that twilight I'm-in-charge-but-not-really bullshit, like when Ledecki was alive. No way could she send down a group to dangle beneath the bombs.

She started by making it official, having Juno cut and notarize a set of emergency orders giving her command. She then thumbed the all-ship intertube. "Attention, all hands," she gritted, never liking the sound of her own voice as it bounced around the corridors. That fucking accent was never far away, especially when she got nervous. "This is Subcommander Pfeiffer. In view of the Captain's death in action, I hereby assume command of USS Desperado, effective immediately. Promotable Lieutenant Delmer is hereby appointed as Executive Officer, both of us to serve until relieved. Officers to the wardroom; it'll be quick. That is all."

She hung up the handset and brooded a while, then sighed heavily. "Officer of the Deck, you're in charge. I'll be in the wardroom with the other officers."

"Aye aye, ma'am." Golightly, from Engineering, was OOD. She didn't need him down there anyhow; she'd have his boss, Prowne. He could get the word from her later.

She stalked down to the wardroom with the other officers trailing behind her. She was not in the mood to sit down and work out a proper Fleet Order; she had an overwhelming sense that haste was what was needed here. Her mind was on fire, equal parts rage and shame, the need to bend the Flasbards over and fuck them in the ass combining with her feeling that she'd failed her ship and crew.

That maybe she should have stayed in Service.

"Get the fuck in there," she muttered as the officers trooped past, most of them avoiding her gaze. They weren't all there, and that was fine: there'd be watchstanders on the bridge and in the engine room, and she only needed a few of them to know what was going on, anyway. She slid the hatch closed behind them, the air in the room thick with tension. She leaned back against the doorjamb and crossed her arms beneath her little tits.

"I fucking hate losing," she began with no preamble, her face red, "especially when it's my own fault." She took a deep breath. "So I'm going back down there."

"Um, ma'am? Are you sure that's..."

"Shut up. My turn to talk." It had been Delmer, which surprised her. Jeyne, off in the corner, looked troubled. "I'll need a recovery crew for the other shuttle. A Line Chief to take charge, techs, and an officer to drive it back." She scanned the crowd. "Ms Dwart."

Those big gorgeous eyes blinked. "Ma'am?"

"While they're fixing the shuttle, you can make some contacts for... for that issue we discussed," she winked. She glared around once more. "As soon as we get that junked shuttle repaired, you'll fly back. And... Mr Jeyne." She took a breath, hoping nobody would think this was favoritism: always the problem when a senior officer took a bedwarmer. With a small pang, she reminded herself that she was in command now... that she might need to give him up. "You'll bring a coded mid-beam to ensure ground comms with Mr Paulus, back here on the ship."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

Even as she stood there, her mind in a red rage, her new plan was moving through her mind, calculating... "Mr Delmer. XO," she went on, letting the new title start to sink in: it was the new reality, and if she needed them to see that she was in charge, she needed them to know she backed him. Though she didn't want to. "Are you ready for another try at those bombers?"

"Fuck yes, ma'am."

"Good. Open shots this time, no more skimming." She wasn't going to blame McZylenko; the shot had been rushed, because she'd panicked. But skimming was hard. "You know your targets now. We've wounded one. You need to kill it now."