Dry, No Lube Ch. 06: Skulduggery

"Current course is eighty thousand and four by fourteen-point-nine, integer, velocity at factor two. Mid-beam scope is all clear on friendly bands. We remain in full contact with Risuna, and Mr Charlatul told me to remind you we're conforming with their movements and not vice-versa. Since they're scanning. Daily menu is zhwang in bechamel, ma'am."

"I'm so happy Mr Charlatul felt the need to remind me of anything," Pixy hissed. Wollz was an excellent midshipman and Pixy had gladly written her up for a Bronze Cross for helping save the ship during a mutiny, but she needed to be put in her place. "And if he did feel that need, you dumb bitch, you should have kept your mouth shut about it. That's how the junior OOD supports the OOD. Right?"

"Aye aye, ma'am." The girl stood tall and stiff, tits jutting. She said nothing more, which was good: part of the reason the Academies sent midshipmen out into the Fleet was so that they'd learn to keep their mouths shut.

"When's Risuna going to be finished with this scanning run, Vagina?"

The girl looked startled, but rallied quickly. "They were eighty percent done when I left the bridge, ma'am. Standard acoustical scan... if they stay true to form from the last few scanner passes, they should be done in about twenty minutes."

"Cool. Tell Mr Charlatul I'll be up there as soon as the scan ends. I'm sick of poking along at factor two, following that fucking acoustical survey ship like a woman sniffing a man's ass." She pursed her lips. "Have him inform Captain Fustar that we'll be doing evasion drills after this scan."

"Ma'am." Fustar was the lieutenant in charge of the little Risuna, which was mostly robotic other than him and a couple other humans. "I think they'll be setting up for another scan, though, around chow time."

"While the crew eats their zhwang." Pixy considered. "Fine. Whatever. But I want the helm reliefs to go through at least one iteration of a reverse chequer maneuver at full combat speed. Let them know when you go back up there. All the reliefs will do at least one, and so will you." She watched closely, but Wollz betrayed no emotion.

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"They sucked last time. We need to be able to do these doglegs faster. Sharper. No prep."

"No prep. But... then why you want me to warn them, ma'am?"

Pixy gazed levelly at the midshipman. "Is this a conversation you want to continue, Vagina? Or would you rather just salute and go back to your post?"

The girl snapped her hand to her forehead. "By your leave, ma'am."

"Go." Pixy traded a sour glance with Juno as the hatch snicked shut. "Nobody on this ship can do their job properly," she fumed, with a significant glance at her mac'n'hag.

"Must be the commanding officer's fault, ma'am." Juno gave her pointed glance, then stepped back into the galley.

* * *

The ship settled back down after her latest reverse chequer, with Chief Bar-Lev on the helm and Sublieutenant Charlatul conning. "That one," Pixy declared from her command chair, "was not that bad." She saw grins, traded among the sailors down in the nav pit. "Just, next time, remember that the vanes can take a lot more torque than you think they can, Mr Charlatul."

"Yes, ma'am. I worry about that starboard one."

"I get that, but remember that if it fails, you can always shunt power from the port thruster and then compensate with the attitude system. Right? There's never a reason why this ship shouldn't be able to keep functioning."

"I get it, ma'am." Charlatul looked chagrined, and Pixy decided he'd gotten the wrong message.

"But. Good job anyway." She glanced down at his butt. "I'm, uh, pleased to see you're fit for duty, Mr Charlatul." When he blinked at her, she lowered her voice. "I heard what you had to do to get those extra Ullmer compensators." A major part of a good supply officer's duties was to trade sexual services for extra equipment, a part of the job Charlatul was good at. It helped that he was kinky, but even so, the word was that the Oleander's supply officer had exacted a high price out of young Charlatul's ass yesterday. "I heard it was a real doozy."

"Well, ma'am," he said after a pause, "you had that duty once upon a time, I believe. You know what it's like."

"I do." She pondered. "I did try to keep things out of my rear thruster, though. You don't have to agree to everything, Mr Charlatul."

"Thank you, ma'am." He paused, his hands behind his back with the ceremonial OOD telescope tucked under his arm. "Still. You should've seen the other guy." He looked shocked when Pixy chuckled in reply; it was quite rare to make Pixy Pfeiffer laugh. Charlatul had enough wit to seize the moment, nodding to the helmsman. "Okay. You're relieved. Chief Kyzzmyk will take the helm, and Ms Wollz?" He turned to the assistant OOD. "You've seen the chequer maneuver a couple times now. Why don't you take us through it?"

"Aye aye, sir." Pixy watched, her chuckle fading, as Vagina took the telescope and put herself behind the helm, the whole bridge shuffling into new positions for the next drill. Her eyes strayed automatically to the big plot-repeater at the front of the bridge, beside the viewport, sweeping over the repeater's representation of this empty little corner of interstellar space: the bright dot well astern was the USS Risuna, its acoustic sensors recalibrating while the two ships journeyed through the stars to the start of the next run. Pixy frowned. "Nav? What's that planet down on the lower part of the plot?"

"Planetoid," the tech over there corrected gently. It was Yayler Iliacco, with the biggest set of tits aboard the Desperado. She tucked her chest beneath the scope to study the intensifier. "It's unnamed. Coded as a macro-comet." The woman frowned into the scope hood. "There's a contact alongside it."

"Yep." Pixy hadn't seen it, exactly: the little contact was far too small to show up on the big repeater, but her eyes had caught something fuzzy about the image of the planetoid. Up on the left side of the rounded icon sat a tiny lump of light, now on magnification level 2. "I see it. Upper left quadrant. Identifty." She caught low whispers now, people nodding toward her. It always made the captain look good, to be the one who spotted shit on the scopes, but Pixy had no interest in being discussed. "Silence on the bridge!" she grated. She studied the lump on the plot again. "My conn, OOD."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

"It's a ship, definitely," Iliacco frowned. "I think it's trying not to be seen."

"Call Risuna," Pixy snapped, turning toward van Shaughnessy at comms. "They're a scanning ship. Have them scan that contact, right the fuck now." Her leg was shaking, she knew, the excitement building.

There weren't supposed to be any ships out here. Least of all secret ships, hitching rides in comet tails.

Iliacco called out the coordinates, and van Shaughnessy bent toward his mic. Pixy became aware of Charlatul, bending over her left shoulder. "Um. General quarters, ma'am?"

"Mr Charlatul, do you suddenly doubt my ability to command this vessel?" she hissed. The supply officer drew back, knowing there could only be one possible answer.

"Beg your pardon, ma'am. I'm a moron."

"You are. If I want battle stations, I'll tell you about it." Her mind was racing with possibilities, dredging up the relevant bits of her orders, the standing rules of engagement, their location... "I think it's likely a friendly. Or at least not an enemy. Mr van Shaughnessy?" He had a nickname too, and it was Kissass, but she tried not to use it in front of the crew. "Tell Captain Fustar that once he has Risuna's scanners up, he is to maneuver to our portside and keep at least 20 kilometers away from us. Just in case." If she did need to bear down on the new contact, she did not need that valuable little acoustical ship downrange.

"Ma'am."

Then there was nothing to do but wait. Pixy relaxed at once; decisions often made her nervous, but once they were given she didn't care much about them anymore. What would come, would come. "OOD? Call my steward. Have her bring me some tea."

"Yes, ma'am." Pixy smiled deep inside herself. It was good to be in charge, even on an acting basis, and as the blips began moving around on the plot-repeater, she felt less like a chess player than a director of an opera. She'd set the people where she needed them, then told them what to do, and now all she had to do was try to relax and watch them move. And sing.

She was two slurps into her thick, warm butter-tea when van Shaughnessy's tech twisted around in his seat. "Ma'am, Risuna's reporting." Pixy nodded, waiting, but the man seemed disinclined to say anything more.

"Well? What the fuck?"

"Oh! I beg your pardon, ma'am; I was waiting on their captain to finish up."

"Shit, sailor! You can't leave me hanging like that." She watched as the man, swallowing, tapped at a 'slate, getting the details down. "In your own good time, then," she sighed, going back to her tea, and as the steam wormed into her nostrils to calm her brain, the tech finally handed the tabslate to the midshipman.

"I'll bring it over, ma'am!" squeaked Kissass, but Pixy chopped him right down.

"The reason we loudly announce things like this, Mr van Shaughnessy, is to make sure everyone on the bridge has all the same information." She forced herself to sit still, every movement calm. "Just say it so everyone can hear."

The kid's throat lurched again as he swallowed. "Captain Fustar scanned the ship, and he's certain it's one of ours. It fits the audiogram of a standard diplomatic courier ship."

"What's it doing here," Pixy mused, "and why isn't it moving?"

The midshipman blinked. "Um. Want me to ask, ma'am?"

"I certainly want you to establish comms with the motherfucker, yes," Pixy nodded. "Meanwhile, we'll leave him in no doubt that we want to talk to him. Alter course, Mr Charlatul. Lay us alongside that diplo ship." She drained her tea bowl and stretched her arms high. "And try not to bump into that macro-comet, while you're at it. Can you do that, or would you be more comfortable with me on the conn?"

"I can do it, ma'am." Good. He didn't even hesitate.

"Fantastic. I'm going to be in my office. If you need anything, call Mr Delmer. Estimated time to target?"

Chief Heller, at the weapons station, was figuring that out. "Thirty-nine minutes and fourteen seconds, ma'am."

"Okay. I'll be back up here in thirty-eight minutes." She stood up and smoothed her utility uniform. "Carry on, Mr Charlatul."

"Aye aye, ma'am."

* * *

The fuzzy lump at the upper left of the macro-comet had resolved itself into a separate dot by the time Pixy returned to the bridge. Delmer was sitting in her command chair, watching the plot-repeater closely. He was just finishing up with Chief Heller when she kicked the hatch and walked in. "Bump up the resolution there. We're close enough. Mag factor three." His orders came crisply, like always.

"Not four, sir?"

"Nah. We won't gain anything by it, not at the rate we're closing." He turned, noticed Pixy, and got quietly out of the command chair. "CO's on the bridge," he announced formally.

"Carry on," was the automatic response, and a quick glance around the place told her that Delmer had things well in hand. She didn't like him, and never would, but she had to admit he knew how to run a ship. She rested her chin in her hands and studied the repeater. "Chief? Is that an aspect change on the target?" She glared irritably at the weapons station. "And why are there no officers on duty with you? Not that you can't handle it."

"I don't know, ma'am." Heller's voice was stony, as it usually was: the woman was cold, a killer. "Mr McZylenko is recovering from an OOD shift, and Mr Smith-Aliyyeva... well."

"...is a midshipman," Pixy finished for her. Well, not really; Krynne had made him an acting lieutenant too, just like Vagina, but Pixy had been regretting the promotion ever since. "In fact, if not in name. Well, carry on then." She made a mental note to find him later and kick him in the balls.

"Aye aye, ma'am, and you're right. Aspect change. Target is turning toward us." Heller frowned once more into her scope. "Target is approaching. Closure velocity is factor ten, now. No, twelve."

"Fuck." Delmer was leaning on a rail, staring at the repeater. "Those diplo ships have some slick acceleration."

"They're usually even faster," Pixy mused. She'd had a brief mission aboard a similar scoutship, once, and the only thing more breathtaking than the speed had been how cramped the quarters were. Courier ships were the fastest things humans had ever produced. "Chief Heller, chart his course for another three minutes; if there's no deviation, we'll just halt and wait. It'll be obvious by then if he's trying to rendezvous." It was a cardinal rule of maneuvering that the little ship came to the big ship, not vice-versa. She checked Desperado's own speed. "Closure ought to be more like twenty. I wonder whether they're damaged."

"Oh. Great." Delmer did not sound amused at the thought. Protocol demanded that any Fleet officer render assistance to any ship of the Diplomatic Service, meaning Delmer as XO and Charlatul as Supply Officer were going to have a sleepless night ahead if they needed to help out the diplo shitheads.

"They must be hurting," Pixy nodded to herself, the puzzle falling into place. "Why else would they be approaching us? Okay, helm, let's halt. Full stop, all engines."

"Full stop aye, ma'am."

She turned to Delmer. "I guess you and Wollz should probably get ready to take them in tow? Since Charlatul is up here as OOD. If they're really crippled or something, we'll need to get them on their way as soon as we can." He rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I get it. It sucks. Bend over and do it."

"Yes ma'am," he said morosely. "Dry, no lube."

"As always," Pixy agreed. She glanced at the commo types. "Let our friend Risuna know what's up. Maybe he'll care, maybe not." She pondered. "And tell him to standby to come aboard later for a visit. If the diplo guys need anything more than to have their fuel topped off, I'll have to invite their skipper for dinner in Captain Ledecki's quarters..."

"Payne will love that," Delmer muttered from behind her.

"He will, in fact. He's good at entertaining." She paused. "Know what? Why don't you go down and tell him all about it. See how the two of you get along. He's not busy; maybe he wants to work with you."

Delmer blinked. "With me? What the fuck?"

"You're the acting XO, and it looks like it might be awhile before Fleet decides to send out a new captain." She shrugged. "You're entitled to a steward. So?"

"I hadn't thought about that."

"I know. He's a turd. But it is what it is." She paused, studying Delmer's crafty face. "What? Out with it."

"Well, I mean, if you're not planning to use her steward... I mean, are you planning to move into her quarters?"

Pixy glared levelly at him. "You have work to do, XO. I know you do, because I just tasked you. So why are you still standing here?"

He straightened, a smirk curling one side of his mouth. "Got it, ma'am." She watched him go, then spun the chair around to face the plot-repeater; the closure rate was falling as her ship eased to a halt, and it was almost close enough now for opticals.

"You can put it up on screen, OOD, once you can get a visual."

"Aye aye, ma'am." The craft was the long, eager needle she'd expected, just like that scoutship she'd visited a few years ago. Crew of five on that one, though a lot of them carried three. The approaching ship was a blue dart in space, sweeping uncaring against the stars. A long dark smear of scorched metal showed on her port side.

"Looks like they might have an engine out." Charlatul was frowning at the screen. "That almost looks like a projectile impact."

"What kind of enemy could hit a speeding diplo ship?" Pixy wondered aloud, but in that moment van Shaughnessy swung his chair around.

"Got him, ma'am. The diplomatic ship." He sounded more excited than he should. "Claims it's an unlisted flight. He's demanding assistance."

"Put him on the voxbox once he gets within range. I'll talk to him in the wardroom, where I can get some privacy." She popped to her feet. "Just route it down whenever you make the connection; I'll just wait there."

"Ma'am."

"You've got the ship, Mr Charlatul." She peered at the chrono. "For a bit longer, anyway. Update the log and make sure your relief is well-briefed. This shit will be a lot to take in. Who's on duty next?"

"Sublieutenant Golightly, ma'am."

"Oh. Fuck. Well, then yes. Make sure everything's well-logged." Golightly, the First Assistant Engineer, was not a sharp thinker. He'd just gotten promoted from Junior Lieutenant, which had given him an undue appreciation for his own nonexistent talents. Even though the promotion was usually automatic after a couple years.

She had just gotten a glass of water in the wardroom when the voxbox by the coding table chirped at her. Pixy made sure the door was locked, then sank into the seat there and picked up the receiver. "USS Desperado, this is Commander Pfeiffer speaking. Who's this?"

She heard three metal clicks in her ear as the person at the other end turned on an encryptor, her table coming to life as it searched for the key. "Wait." The voice on the other end sounded amused, if anything. "Pixy Pfeiffer?"

Pixy straightened in her chair, eyes darting around while she tried to place the voice. "Yes. Who is this?"

The laugh that came back didn't sound like it was coming from a ship with a damaged engine. "Well. This is a coincidence."

"Who. The. Fuck. Are. You?" It was bothering her that she couldn't figure it out. "Come on. I'm a busy woman. What do you need?"

"I'm still waiting on your call, Commander Pfeiffer. To let me interview your steward, Petty Officer Juno." He waited patiently while Pixy's blood chilled.

"Is this... is this Colonel Smith?" She held her breath, waiting for the answer. She hadn't liked the man at all when he'd come aboard to investigate Desperado's role in the recent mutiny. "But you had another name..."

"No, I gave you another name. Good memory. Well, shit, this is a coincidence. Hold on." Pixy waited, sitting very still, listening to a muffled voice on the end of the line. "My pilot is asking whether he can dock with you. We need a few parts, if you have them."

"My supply officers don't give up parts for free, Colonel Smith."

"Yes," he laughed in reply, "I know. A curious custom. In Fleet, you pay with sex. Well. It so happens that I've got two fully-qualified whores aboard, either or both of whom can make your supply officers quite happy."

"Really!" Pixy snorted. "'Fully-qualified?' What the fuck does that mean?"

Smith's pause sounded quite calculated. "Trust me, Commander. They're good."

"So's my supply officer."

"Not this good."

"Shit." She stood up, tired of this conversation. "How long will you be here?"

"That depends," he replied softly.

"Dammit," she grated, "tell your pilot we'll rig up a hatch."

"He's telling me it'll need to be a ventral one? Our entry boot is on top of the ship."

"Yes," she snapped, "I'm aware your vessel carries a dorsal hatch. Want to tell me what our relative velocity should be to make the capture? Or anything else about my job?"

He laughed again, a chilling one. "I'll see you soon, Commander. It'll be my pleasure."

Shit. She realized, as she hung up, that some sort of dinner was unavoidable. Socializing. Pleasantries.

Payne.

* * *

She was down there to watch the docking, in the bowels of the Desperado at the seldom-used ventral hatch. She didn't want to be there, but "Smith" was a subcolonel. The only officer aboard the frigate that matched that rank was currently a cerebrum, sitting in a haemodrive in the surgeon's freezer.