Dry, No Lube Ch. 08: Imprisoned

"Fragarach," Pixy grated, "and no. This is war in space. We're not sure of shit. I don't know the captain, they've never been in action before, and your guys are going to be operating right near theirs. So what's there to be sure about?"

He nodded slowly. "I'm very concerned about friendly fire," he fretted. "I know the guy they put in command of their Army element. Colonel Promegoro. Asshole." He sighed. "He'll go in with his entire battalion, just because."

"Well. Then have your Major Prizzk tell his people to keep their heads down. War is hell." Her eyes flicked to the chrono, her officers all tightly organized on approach around her. She no longer had patience for the Army. "Go."

And he went, eventually. The bridge was the same as it usually was before placer operations, all calm seriousness: by this time, Tirving's officers had done fifteen combat placements and at least twice that in training or simulation, and this was an even smaller operation than most.

But.

The brand-new Fragarach was out there somewhere, converging on the far side of the little planet, and although they were trained and hopefully eager? They'd never done this before. And that was not a variable Pixy liked. She'd had a brief flurry of messages over the low-beam as they'd both voyaged among the stars, tracklessly hurtling along, the two captains chatting. His name was Strollsung Valladock, and he'd said all the right things: he'd come to the far side of the dwarf planet, still in mutually supporting range of her, and unleash his barrage some ten minutes before Tirving got there.

Again, he'd said all the right things.

But McMerckx, in spite of him being a sleazy asshole, knew his shit tactically, and if he wasn't confident in his Army counterpart over on Fragarach... well. That was troubling.

She stirred, the call coming from the OOD: "Five minutes to dropout." Fragarach, for better or worse, had already been on target for a few minutes, and the Plot showed a tiny flaring glow as she engaged. Romario, up on comms, swung around.

"The sniffer picked up their call, ma'am," he reported. "Their scouts are out, and they expect to place their guys right around the time we arrive."

"Very well."

"The Flasbards are going to be completely overwhelmed." Jatsupa was not given to cheerleading. This was just his sober assessment. "This is massive overkill, ma'am."

"This is an easy intro for Captain Valladock's ship, XO," Pixy corrected, "and a critically important intelligence mission on our side. If they all die without taking out any of our side? I'm not losing any sleep over that."

"Indeed." She slurped at her tea as the OOD and the helmsmen brought the ship over the target, then glanced back at her Shuttle OIC. "All set with the scouts, Commander Asshole?"

"All set, ma'am." Leodmannsegge peered up at the Plot, shaking his head. "If this objective were any smaller, the scouts could just deal with it on their own..."

"Enough of that." Pixy did not like overconfidence. "Something always goes to shit; it's just a question of how shitty it goes." She glanced at the chrono. "Tell the scouts three minutes." It would be a bit longer, but if they were ready at three minutes, they'd be ready at four too. The Organic Armor shifted calmly, in synch with Pixy's defensive plans; all good. She took a deep breath, the ship humming around her, and waited.

Fleet officers did a lot of waiting.

By the time the scouts launched toward 3442-B, the deceleration burn in full effect with the usual annoying rattle of anything not tied down, she'd finished her tea and shifted her attention to her sister ship, clearly visible as she pummeled some target on the backside of the planetoid. P/E captains usually had total freedom to choose their placer zones, and whatever site Valladock had picked, he was blowing the shit out of it. She watched McMerckx' scout shuttle disappear into the thin atmosphere, their target outpost too small to be visible from here. The report came back from the Army fire support guy, Nestilio. "Dead on target, Captain."

Pixy nodded to the OOD. "Nice job, Ms Milipet," she allowed. A gesture to Lt Luzhenka started her own torpedoes barreling down to the surface, and then everything was set by SOP: the ship rotating to randomize the impact pattern, the Army skittering down through the Cone at company size, the terse commands from Leodmannsegge and Nestilio. She settled into a cocoon of safety, of expertise, her ship alive around her as she brought the war to her enemy.

Until the Nerds called back about twenty minutes after the Army had landed.

"Captain?" Romario called over his shoulder. "It's Dr Yelday. She's requesting you planetside."

"Fuck her," Pixy snapped, tossing her short hair, "that's why she has Mr Amisuul. Request denied."

He bent back over his cone inside the phonic unit, exchanging coded mutters with the surface, and when he turned back toward Pixy he did it slowly enough that she knew he had bad news. "You've been, like, specifically demanded, ma'am."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"Apparently there's a prisoner." Romario licked his lips. "The prisoner urgently needs you. Like specifically."

Pixy traded a long look with her XO. "McMerckx does not typically take prisoners," he mused.

"But he's fucking crazy," Pixy finished, "and he's not down there." She cleared her throat. "This is pretty irregular, Mr Romario. Tell Dr Yelday that if this is some sort of fucked-up inconvenience? Like, if it's not really me that's needed? I'm going to have her dismembered."

Romario listened to the reply, and when he faced Pixy again his face was sweating. "She insists, ma'am."

Everything in her mind screamed Hell-fuck no! Loudly. Vividly. With all the emphatic power of those guns pumping away out there.

But she gulped.

And looked at the stars.

And steadied herself.

She slapped the paddlecatch to activate the beam. "Fine. I'll come down." She forced her mind blank. "Take charge, XO. Continue mission profile as briefed, but I'm thinking we can be a little more conservative on the ammo. All things considered." The two officers stared together at the Main Plot, where Fragarach was unloading her ordnance at a truly frightening rate. "My feeling," she finished diplomatically, "is that Captain Valladock's robust attack is going to keep the enemy maximally engaged." She stood, her new body nearly quaking.

"Agreed, ma'am." Jatsupa pursed his lips. "He provides an outstanding distraction."

"Yeah. So let's reduce ammo by... seven percent?"

"Ten, ma'am, would be my recommendation." He took her seat coolly. "I'll keep it in that range. Just in case Fragarach needs support."

"Damn skippy. Have the Army's standby ammo loaded on my shuttle; might as well make myself useful while I'm squaring the nerds away." She whirled, diving for the service corridor behind the bridge, hoping she'd leave before anyone noticed her trembling. She told herself it was excitement, not anxiety, certainly not fear, and she was still telling herself that as she arrived at her docking pylon. "Fire it up, Byskop!" she shouted down into the pylon. "You, me, and a load of ammo."

"And me, ma'am." Chazy Reilly came bustling up, a medic in tow. "The Army's requesting surgical support."

"And I'm supposed to offer up mine, like a fucking sacrifice?" She shrugged into her flight gear. "No. I'll take your medic, but you stay here, Doc." She glared up at him as she knelt for her boots. "I've been listening to Major Nestilio's comms. Their losses are nonexistent. Remain here on standby."

He shrugged. "Aye aye, ma'am." Reilly was a good surgeon; she'd been able to keep her own tongue because he'd known how to patch it back up after Canidia, but his place was here. And he was fine with that.

"Get in there," she ordered the medic, waiting impatiently as the woman descended; as senior officer, she boarded last. "Doctor," she nodded as she stepped into the pylon field, catching a suspicious glance in return. "Wait. What?"

"Ma'am?"

"What the fuck do you want to say, Reilly?" she demanded. "I know that look."

"Just... have you flown, ma'am? Since the... well, since the Canidia placer?"

"Of course I have," she scoffed. "I go out every day, herding the armor; you know that. And I'm one of the best shuttle pilots in the whole fucking Fleet. Or are you such a bitch that you think I need babysitting and psychologically supportive walks on the beach?"

The surgeon smiled thinly. "Have a safe flight, Captain."

"That's more like it, Dr Reilly." She felt the pylon field grab her flight boots and drag her down through the differential lock, the air changing abruptly from the sweet-mint scent of her Tirving to the washed, chilly atmosphere of her shuttle.

She'd breathed that air a thousand times, in a thousand shuttles. This was nothing.

Just another flight. "Strap in, petty officer," she snarled at the medic as her feet thumped to the deck. She scrambled for the ladder up to the cockpit, still not accustomed to the smoother flow of muscles in her young, perfect back, marveling at the ease of motion as she always did now: she could not not notice it.

Byskop glanced around as she launched herself onto the flight deck. "Ready, ma'am," he muttered, leaning back. Byskop had learned over the past year that this Captain flew her own shuttle, but he'd also learned to obey Subcommander Jatsupa. Whose current orders, verbally and quietly given, were not to let the Captain take a shuttle out solo. Not yet. "That ammo's not aboard yet, Captain."

"I'll give it two minutes while I preflight," she snapped, her old brain guiding her new hands surely across the console; she skipped the sequence for the hatch closure, saving it until the ammo could arrive. The sequence flowed smoothly: plus-ups, then Pritz, then the tuning on the Ullmer compensator. Navigation globe. They all checked out, as they always had her whole career.

Simple ships. Simple systems. Just a simple piloting job...

"Ammo, ma'am," Byskop muttered, twisting to look up through the pylon ports at where an Army ordnance tech was guiding the pallet down. "I'll go down and make sure it's secure."

"We'll leave as soon as you come back up," she promised, fingers flying. Everything looked nominal, the shuttle readying for flight. She rattled through the hatch sequence just as the copilot reappeared. "Did the Army guy stay aboard?"

"What?" He plugged into his seat. "Oh. The ammo tech. Yes."

She nodded and smacked the comm key. "Shuttle Control, this is Pfeiffer, departing. Planetbound with four souls, over."

She glared up at where Commander Leodmannsegge lurked at his glassed-in control station, tracking the P/E ship's dizzying shuttle movements, keeping control. His voice came crisply over the speaker. "Cleared. Q-angle is 7. Over."

Seven. That was comfortable, even average. "Roger, seven. Out." She didn't hesitate, wrapping her fingers around the power bar as her hip settled into the attitude adjuster. "Standby to jettison," she rasped impatiently.

"Ready."

Pixy's other hand hovered over the gravity switch. "Secure all items for zero-g," she called over the speaker to her two passengers, hoping the ammo was latched down. Her mind counted three, like she'd always done, and then she nodded over to Byskop. "Jettison."

He pulled the lever decisively, her hand dropping the gravity at the same moment, and at once she felt the familiar quease in the pit of her stomach. "Ughh."

"Yeah," Byskop sighed. "Me too. Every time." He belched.

"Make yourself a note, Byskop," she muttered, squaring herself up using the marks on the window ports, "you should pay to have your clone upgraded for gravity resistance. I wish I had."

"I'm like four years from retirement, ma'am," the pilot chuckled, "and I don't plan to fly once I get out. Too late for my ass." He trimmed the tabs. "Whatever state my clone is in right now, it'll stay in."

"Uh huh." She gritted her teeth against a sudden sense of deep unease, then gasped when she realized this was more than just the gravity sickness: this was fear, panic even, blaring through her body as the shuttle cleared the maw of the ship's Vag, plunging her into the Cone beyond. "Uh. Blue point," she wavered, eyes wide on the sudden dancing flares of fire that blazed all around.

And, just like that, she was back over Canidia. She felt it, smelled it, tasted it: blood in her mouth and the flint of space in her nostrils, her brain shutting down at once. Her whole body shook with sweat. "Fuck," she bit out quietly. The corner of her eye showed her Byskop's impassive face, turning toward her and then quickly away as he made his decision.

"My ship," he snapped, his hand quick on the override coder, and the shuttle steadied at once on a sleek course dead-center down the Cone. "Not a problem, Captain," he shrugged, his voice pointedly nonchalant as she shivered in her seat. "I got it."

"Fuck," she chanted, low and savage. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." The Cone had devoured her, taking her mind and flinging it out of logic, out of focus, out of her training and experience. Flinging it straight back to that Heaviside Layer above Canidia Prime. She slammed her eyes shut. "Fuck."

Byskop spared a quick glance over his shoulder, making sure the hatch was shut. He knew his role now, a dual one: get the ship down, making sure the skipper was functional; and keep his own mouth shut about her turning into a ball of zero-gravity jelly in the cockpit. He kept his eyes on the targeting globe and the passing torpedoes, peppering the surface below at a more moderate rate now as Jatsupa and Nestilio slowed things down from the tubes lining the forward edge of the ship's Tunnel, but Byskop's hand crept over to the polarizer and eased Pixy's side of the windowport darker and darker. "No worries, ma'am. You're good."

Liar, Pixy thought as she curled into a little ball on her seat.

* * *

Major Prizzk sent his XO to meet Pixy and her little party as she stepped off, the ill-fitting atmosphere suit crinkling around her in a most annoying way. She could feel her heart still racing as the XO coolly grabbed the medic and the ammo tech and turned to go, sparing nothing but the coolest of glances at Pixy.

Who, for once, kept her mouth shut. Linders intimidated her.

The suit clasped her body unnaturally, its sensors hissing as servos shot her full of the chemicals she'd need to stay alive down here. The air smelled odd, almost flinty, and above her the sky was the deep velvet black of purest space, other than a slender rind of atmosphere on the horizon. She soon caught another scent, the explosives of her ship's torpedoes thudding methodically in a circle all around, but by that time the suit's dampers had already canceled the noise of the explosions.

Off to the north, though, an ominously pulsing glow showed where Fragerach's bombardment was searing the main objective. Pixy cast a quick glance above her, seeing the gaping maw of her own Tirving yawning above, but by that time she was busy gasping in the aftermath of her panic and the sudden crush of the place's heavy gravity.

Soldiers moved around her with a sense of purpose, sergeants tweaking the lines, lieutenants trying to appear useful. A squad was just finishing a sweep through the abandoned buildings of the little settlement, and she blinked around as the suit slowly adjusted her metabolism. She leaned back inside the shuttle. "Keep the shuttle ready to lift, Byskop," she called, hoping her voice was recovering.

"Ma'am."

She whirled around out of the hatchway, stumbling in the gravity, then caught sight of one of the researchers hastening toward her. Thank Buddha. The standard issue suit had no comms. Most officers bought their own suits, but Pixy had always refused. She'd had no role on land, she'd always figured, especially as a Service Fleet lieutenant. This one fit like shit, though, the seams grating between her thighs. "What the fuck?" she demanded, her anger rising through the cowering fear of the descent. She glared at the oncoming nerd, who turned out to be the linguist from that lunch-meat place, Professor Apronis. Pixy only knew that because her implant told her so: the woman herself was not important enough to recall. "Why am I here?"

"This way, Captain Pfeiffer. Quickly." She gestured anxiously toward one of the half-collapsed huts nearby. "We have a prisoner who needs you. Or... well. You need him?"

Pixy did not budge. "Get ahold of yourself, Professor, and explain to me what the hell I can expect if I choose to follow you. Then, we'll go from there. Sound good to you?" She leaned impudently against the shuttle's cooling skin, aware that she was acting like a child but not really caring. At least her back was feeling well; her old, wounded one would have been screeching with pain already, given the gravity differential.

"He's a prisoner," the linguist explained impatiently. "The Army was killing everything when we came down, but they didn't kill this one, and as soon as we went in to find artifacts?" The woman shrugged, confused. "He was sitting in the corner, looking calmly up at us. 'Your captain needs me,' was all he said, and when Dr Yelday went to examine him, he just kept repeating it."

Pixy felt a little shiver in her head, like a thought was crossing it. A thought she might not like. "How does he know me?"

"No idea."

"Well, what language was he speaking? Flasbard?"

Apronis looked at her a little strangely. "He's not a Flasbard, Captain. Won't you come with me?"

"Just a second." She was, in fact, very curious... but there were more important things here than a random, unwanted prisoner. She peered around, searching for Prizzk's flag, and marched off that way. "Hey. Major. I brought your medic." She couldn't see any casualties, but that could obviously change.

"Yes. I know. My XO dealt with that." The company commander was a tall, hulking, fearsome monolith... in short, a Linder. He bent toward Pixy. "Wait. You're the captain? The skipper of the Tirving. Right?"

Pixy, who sometimes forgot that the average Army soldier really didn't have much to do with her, smiled. "Yeah. Commander Pfeiffer. What's going on?"

"A perimeter is going on." The major hesitated, then lowered his voice. "Does Crazy Jack know the fuckers from Eighth Battalion are only six kilometers away?" He jerked his head north, toward Fragarach's explosions. "Do they know we're here, ma'am?"

Pixy felt that twinge of unease she always got when her boots were in dirt, exacerbated this time by the sluggish gravity and the complete lack of awareness of why she was here. "Not my problem. I'll get those fucking research nerds moving, then we can bounce. Comprehend?"

"Yeah. Sure. Whatever." The major was already turning away, dealing with one of the ninety or a hundred other problems he had right then, and Pixy stalked back toward the impatiently waiting Professor Apronis.

"Okay. What's this about?" she frumped, breathing hard. Thank Buddha for her new, spry little body; otherwise, this gravity would murder her.

"Over here." They moved toward the slumped hut, stepping over Flasbards and pieces of Flasbards, passing into a confusing cloud of speech from the assembled nerds. Catching sight of Yelday, Pixy turned in that direction.

"Get this going, Lieutenant." Major Prizzk's words had twisted a few of her guts, and the gravity was twisting the rest. Just six kilometers... She glanced north. "We're not staying long, dammit. Let's finish up."

"Uh. Sure?" The fucking Doctor looked just as uncomfortable in her atmo suit as Pixy did in hers, standing there among her assorted panniers and pallets stuffed with... shit, as far as Pixy was concerned. Junk. Food packets, EViewer screens, bits and bobs of what looked like technical manuals? Pixy wondered whether Yelday's haul contained whatever passed for Flasbard sex toys. This shit? This was going to win the war, finally? She doubted that, then remembered Andon Vallory's dark hints about how the war was going. Yelday cleared her throat. "We found a prisoner. He demanded to talk to you..."