Dry, No Lube Ch. 07a: Command

"I know."

"It's best if it trusts you."

"Got it."

"The shock generators on the hull do most of the movement, but if you need a lot of armor moved really fast? You can do it with a shuttle."

"Yeah?"

Begg shrugged. "It's a subtle maneuver, but they say you're a good shuttle pilot. So." He yawned. "You can speed up armor movement by about 70% using a shuttle, which is considerable. But obviously you're vulnerable while you're out there." He shrugged. "You just have to make sure it doesn't cover your own docking pylon, or you won't be able to get back aboard!" he chuckled.

"Definitely something I'll need to train on." Pixy tried not to look too impressed. She knew that organic armor went way, way back, but she'd never seen it until now. "Too bad it's so heavy."

"Well, yeah. That's why we had to use petrolatum hyperventate. So it's why the whole ship stinks." He shrugged. "Tradeoffs."

"It's actually kind of pleasant." The P/E ships used a new propellant that smelled like mint? Basil? "Sort of mysterious."

He snorted. It was clear that mystery had no place in a mind like Begg's. "Whatever. The smell gets a lot less exciting once you realize hyperventates are a morliosis risk." She arched a doubtful eyebrow. "Well. According to some research, anyway. But enjoy it!"

She scowled, pondering. Shuttles would be coming all week, delivering her crew. A small cadre of volunteer transfers from Lavatine and Leeuwen's Angradal, making the switch in return for a small pay bump, would be handling the train-up. "Most of your people are already off?"

He nodded. "Yeah. The last of the constructors departed last Wednesday. We're massing on the final two P/E ships, down there at the end of the line."

"The unfinished ones."

"The perfected ones," he corrected, smiling grimly. "We got better and better with each one. Tirving here is almost fantastic. But alas." He shrugged. "Design flaw. She can't load directly from a GP ship. We didn't anticipate tenders until fairly late in the process. The last three ships can all do direct supply infusions from the GPs."

"Um." Pixy realized it finally made sense why she shipped so many shuttles. Letting the tenders replenish directly into the P/E ships meant fewer shuttles. More docking space. A larger Army capability. "Are there plans to retrofit all the rest of us?"

"Plans?" He laughed loudly. "Commander, there are always plans. When we're ready to upgrade you, we'll let you know." He eyed her. "This your first command?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. Well, you'll figure it out soon; you seem smart. We technical people do all the real work; you guys just go out and fight the damn war. Thus has it ever been." He looked pointedly at the hatch. "Well. I've got things to do. You can... explore? I guess?" She had the ship's diagram all in her implant, with visual overlays keeping her brain updated on her location, but Pixy was old-school. She liked to actually know where the hell she was.

Case in point: she knew Verily had sent her directions to her office, but her brain was having problems locking into the implant just now. So she decided she should just wander randomly around and see where she wound up, then later she could castrate Verily for not seeking her out face to face.

She missed Juno. Juno would have understood. She'd have made things happen.

The ship had its life-support areas fore and aft, with the long middle portion holding mostly cargo and ammo. A trio of broad axial corridors connected the bow and stern, with transport capsules allowing quick access. Pixy gazed along one of the corridors, wondering which she should take to get to the Great Cabin; she was at loose ends, not sure what she should do or where she should go. It was so disorienting, not having a crew to command.

It seemed strange to think that in just a few days' time, the ship would be a living thing, champing at the bit to get out into the universe and start taking planets back from the Flasbards and the fucking Cathos Vremein. In a week, or maybe a bit more, she'd be sitting in that command chair up there, with the armor carefully tamed to show a clear globe of stars before her, and she'd give the order to move out into space. She'd conned many ships out of many anchorages, but next week would be special. She felt it in her bones.

But first? There was work to do, and it wouldn't start until she could find her fucking officers... she roamed some more, hugging the curved wall with the bridge lying beyond, past controlled access points neatly labeled for the sailors who'd be working in that part of the bridge: Navigation. Damage Control. Fire Support. At last, aimlessly walking, she heard a vague mutter of voices ahead and sped up.

Verily went up a notch in her estimation as she entered the space he'd chosen for her to work in, comfortably close to the bridge and with a real window along the forward wall. The diagram in her mind told her there was ordnance flanking the space, a torpedo tube on one side and a solid projectile launcher on the other, with one of the defensive turrets not too far away; in action, this place would be unbearable. But of course, in action nobody would be in here.

A curious knot of five people stood clustered at the window, looking pointedly at a small table there... an empty table. Vaguely, Pixy realized she probably should offer them something, but it was too late now. She glanced expectantly at Verily, who took the hint. "Captain's on deck!" he called, and everyone jumped to a gratifyingly sharp version of attention.

Pixy stood in the doorway and took a deep breath, the stars beckoning through the window. First impressions were important, she reckoned, so she nodded at them all. "Okay, cocksuckers. Let's get to work."

* * *

How far she'd come, how different her life was now! The manky, functional shared toilets of her life as a Junior Lieutenant fourteen years ago had given way now to a nice, luxurious private bath in the Great Cabin of a Fleet warship... nothing at all like the GP Service haulers on which she'd spent the bulk of her career, for the utility trousers that now rested around her ankles as she sat on the toilet were Combat black these days, not Service blue. She'd made that change two years ago and knew in her bones that she'd paid her dues, suffering the humiliations of a new XO on a filthy little station far from any kind of action. But she'd worked. She'd striven. She'd never given up, and now this beautiful latrine, along with the brand-new ship wrapped around it, belonged to her. She, Pixy Pfeiffer, was The Captain.

Every Fleet lieutenant watched their captains on the way up, dreaming of that magic day when they themselves would finally sit in the command chair. They killed hours writing dreamed-of Standing Orders, hoarding them more dearly than any debutante ever hoarded her trousseau, guarding them against the day that they could at long last publish them for a crew somewhere, and now as she stared out at the stars, her bowels happily moving, Pixy thought about the crew she'd gathered over the past week of whirlwind effort.

The officers seemed fine, a perceptible cut above the ones she'd shared Desperado with. And there were a lot of them, too, for the Fleet side of her complement was over-officered. A lot of them had no real leadership responsibilities over other sailors, but were aboard for technical reasons: Pepper Laredo, chief of the seven Tygon Interceptors aboard. Subcommander Leodmansegge, responsible for deciding where and in what order the shuttles should all dock inside the Vag. Submajor Nestilio, the Army fire-support guy. Pixy even had a chaplain aboard, a jolly little rabbi with the unlikely name of Ira Bermudo.

All of them, she knew, were getting to know each other in the wardroom, ruled by her XO. It was one of Pixy's many adjustments here: captains were not supposed to hang out in the wardroom, they didn't take bedwarmers, and they were not expected to personally administer corporal punishment. Pixy knew she'd miss all three. But her XO seemed quite capable, a tall greying subcommander who, so far, showed no outward sign of resentment at serving under a captain of the same rank, or one who'd not come up in Combat Fleet.

"Look, let's get this out of the way," she'd told him bluntly the day he'd reported aboard. "I know I don't have a lot of the credentials the other P/E captains have. Let me know right now if you want to talk about it."

He'd just blinked, his face unreadable. "Ma'am," he'd replied, after a long pause, "I just want to get to work putting this ship in commission. That's all I care about."

She'd felt her heart leap. Like, literally: she felt a warmth all throughout her body. "Well. Fantastic." That had been the whole discussion, the entire thing. "If you need anything, or anyone gives you shit, come tell me about it. I'm not here to make friends." He'd nodded with a faint air of approval. "And I'm not a first-namer, just so you know. I'm not going to call you Kees."

"I agree, ma'am." So Commander Jatsupa it was, or just XO, and the guy had gone coolly about his duties, the ship absorbing the new crew and officers like a giant spacetime anomaly, sucking in light and heat and life and time, the ship demanding everything her new crew could offer. Putting a starship into commission was a fast but laborious task, with shuttle after shuttle appearing, docking, unloading, and then doing it all again and again. The numbers, as Pixy and Jatsupa reconciled their inventories at the end of each day, staggered her:

Type VIII torpedoes, fourteen gross.

Stabilized beef, 1754 tons.

Energy solids, 47mm, STG, forty gross.

Petrolatum hyperventate detectors, forty score.

Plymar interphasers, spare, two dozen.

Matzoh, 223,004 sheets.

Type XI torpedoes, ten dozen.

Bidet tips, removable, 400,000.

Static mops, 14 dozen.

Clamptape, 11,050 rolls at 50 meters/roll.

The lists went on in glorious variety, everything signed for and countersealed, riding into Tirving's corridors and stowage bins on autopallets stenciled with the names of half a dozen different GP ships. Pixy's heart felt a little pang when she noticed that one of their supply ships was Jezail, where Sublieutenant Pfeiffer had been Third Officer during the Severus Offensive.

Her first campaign, she reflected. She'd seen no kind of battle at all, but the ship had been in the thick of the resupply efforts as Fleet had pushed against the Flasbards. She'd left that ship as acting Second Officer, bound for a new assignment... supply officer aboard the Pulver. She wondered now where that creaky old scow was, and whether any of her old shipmates still remembered her.

"These quantities are impressive, for just 420 souls," Jatsupa said mildly.

"We're independent. On permanent detached service." Pixy shrugged. "We're our own support, our own refit, our own resupply. And this ain't even counting the Army's shit." They handled their own orders, but everything passing into the Barracks Barge had to pass through the ship first. Their advance party under Major Murtaugh was already aboard, stockpiling ammo and rations, keeping track as their shuttles arrived in a steady trickle. Their barge had started up the cables just that morning.

"That reminds me, ma'am: I heard which GP we're getting assigned as a tender. She's already enroute." He shrugged. "I have a friend in Fleet Assignments."

"Yeah? What ship?" she asked, wondering whether she sounded eager. She was looking forward to working with some of her old Service people. It was a small Fleet; she was sure to know someone aboard the tender.

"The Leith. Captain Stellato." He watched her carefully. "Know him?"

"It rings a bell," Pixy frowned uncertainly. "First name start with a D? Or a P, maybe?"

Jatsupa consulted his implant, which seemed to work a lot better than hers. "D. First name is Dermott."

"Yeah. I've met him, but I can't really connect the face. I might have gone to a course with him or something." It jarred Pixy that Service Fleet's captains these days were her contemporaries. If she'd stayed over there, she'd probably be in line for a command about now, anyway. Only it would be yet another GP freighter, not Fleet's newest and most experimental ship type. Not for the first time, she wondered how Colonel Rennels had pulled this off for her. "How certain is your info?" She was thinking she'd find her new commo officer, a promotable lieutenant named Paston Romario, and tell him to call up this Leith soonest. The Army would be up the cables tomorrow night, and she'd be heading across the basin to pick it up; they'd certify for departure right after.

She wanted her tender with her when they left.

"Certain as it gets, ma'am." His eyes shifted right, the implant a dull blue glow on the sclera of that eye. "All the tenders are fitting out now, loading up identically to us, and today's Harbor Bulletin said Leith was now at the top of the priority table." He shrugged. "Meaning, they're expected to move out shortly."

"And we're the next thing sailing." She nodded. "Good work, XO," she allowed.

She thought about it now, as she finished up her shit, wondering when her most important crew member would arrive. Wrae Juno was late, having missed a connection after her circuit ship's robotic crew had been unable to cope with the gravity well off the rings of Korbel III, but she'd texted to say she was on her way now, due in two days' time. Right when the Army should be coming aboard.

And not soon enough. Pixy, always an indifferent cook and not willing to eat on the mess deck with her growing crew, had been subsisting on some of those 223,004 matzohs. The chaplain had caught her once, munching on a sheet as she directed the bridge configuration. "Wow! You're Jewish, Captain?"

"No I'm not, Rabbi," she'd retorted, in no mood for a conversation. She'd never served aboard a ship with a chaplain, and had no clue how to do it. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're eating matzoh!" The man seemed permanently cheerful. "That's Jewish food!"

Pixy had tried not to scowl. "Is it?" She'd been told this before, but it hadn't really made an impression. But the fact remained: woman cannot live on matzoh alone. She needed proper cooking. She needed Juno. Worse, the steward was bringing all their stuff with her from Desperado. Pixy's utilities were getting sick of being washed and worn constantly; they wanted to share the burden with some other clothes.

Her latrine here was beautiful, all sleek wood and polished asteroidal stone, adjoining a captain's kitchen just as nice. The Great Cabin was a globe on the lip of the aft rim, a smaller version of the bridge up forward. Lt Begg had discreetly suggested she use her own quarters as practice for herding the organic armor before she tried it elsewhere on the ship. "It's important," he'd stressed, "for the captain to make a personal relationship with the OAS. The armor will work harder for you if it likes you, and that's your responsibility."

He'd told her that blandly. And then, without any kind of ceremony at all, he'd climbed aboard a shuttle and skedaddled back to... wherever design engineers went, Pixy supposed. She sighed, wandering slowly through these grand new quarters of hers, the Basin busy all around her. Resupply was constant now, the ship almost 70% complete for supplies and 90% for crew. Daveen's Skofning sat in the berth next door, scrambling to get everything secured before she headed out tomorrow to go pick up her soldiers and head out into space, and then Tirving was next.

Aware that it was a slightly theatrical thing to do, Pixy blasted the magnifier on her quarters' viewport and gazed out toward where the cables stretched from the flat, shining orbital dock down to the sere surface of Headquarters Planet. She shifted the view, seeing Skofning's soldiers almost up to the dock. Her own barracks barge could be seen about halfway up, just emerging from the planet's cloud cover with McMerckx' troops all tucked aboard. In just thirty-nine more hours she'd finally fire up the engines and move out to pick them up.

And then? Who could say? The colonel himself was due aboard shortly, carrying the latest intelligence. The two of them would then put their heads together and figure out where to go: Fleet had built in a month of independent action for both Firehole Pfeiffer and Crazy Jack to gain practice before heading off to do battle for the Bacchanal Arm, and her orders had made it clear she truly was on her own.

She frowned, thinking of her loose ends. Leith. The last of her supplies, but those were already in hand. Juno. Crew training and drills: they had the big abandon-ship drill laid on for tonight, then tomorrow's final supply run would be their chance to refine the speed-resupply procedures, and those were the only things left. If they went well, she'd certify herself fit for departure.

She stalked up to the bridge, seeing clumps of excited sailors everywhere. People liked this ship, she knew. It was so new it barely even had rats yet. They seemed excited by this new world of theirs, a world where they'd be able to unleash hell on an enemy planet directly.

Pixy wondered whether they even thought about the punishment they'd take while they did it. There was, after all, a reason for all that organic armor out there.

She caught sight of her secretary lurking outside the bridge, waiting for her. "Mr Verily," she nodded. She watched closely as he studied her before deciding how to reply; good. He was already learning her moods.

"There's some stuff in the office for you to sign, ma'am."

"No, Mr Verily. There's some useless fucking bullshit in the office for me to sign. You can't do it for me?"

He blinked. "Um. Can I?"

"Sure. It's called delegation." She yawned, feeling the need for something to pick her up. "You'll learn quickly, Mr Verily, what's routine and what's not. If it's not routine, just sign it for me. And bring me some Bumtabs. I'm falling asleep on my fucking feet." She bit her tongue before telling him to bring her some butter-tea; it wasn't his job. It was her steward's, and the Bumtabs were too. "Thanks, Mr Verily. That's all."

"Oh. And, ma'am, I just got a call from Colonel McMerckx? He's on his way up this afternoon and was wondering when he could meet with you? I thought I would suggest dinner..."

"Fuck that, Mr Verily. I have no steward, and I'm not cooking for him myself. I certainly am not bringing him to the mess deck." She considered. "Send him to my outer quarters at 2200. I'll serve him coffee and brandy." She felt she could manage that. "And set up the coding board in there. It won't be a social call. We'll be strategizing." She sighed, foreseeing a sad drop in her available brandy, but better that than her triple-malt.

She didn't even wait for his acknowledgement before heading onto the bridge.

* * *

Looking around her own big, beautiful conference table that night, Pixy was well aware of how awkward she looked in one of her staff uniforms. The grim truth, though, was that her one set of utilities was in the cleaning pod. Her staytab had insisted on it, so she was the only one at the table in anything but a working uniform. "Major Murtaugh is here in his capacity as P/E Officer, the guy who does targeting." Crazy Jack leaned back in his chair, this introduction made. Graham Nestilio was there too, looking as hung-over as ever.

Pixy felt outnumbered; all of these were men, and Army, even though Nestilio worked for her. Her usual technique when outnumbered was to attack. "Let's get this shit done, people. I'm a busy woman." Her mind was already wandering toward the Drag she kept in the little wooden box at the bottom of her locksack, the Drag that would give her a perfectly restful and dreamless sleep after this.