Dry, No Lube Ch. 02: Pixy's Choice

The only possible answer was a scowl. Goddamn her! She was making Pixy feel guilty, with that meek little hurt-feeling rabbit voice. Little bitch was turning into quite the manipulator. Pixy glared at her while the corridor cleared slightly, then rapped out her orders. "My quarters tonight. Fuck this shit. You put your best chief on that generator and fucking delegate, Ms Klonmyre, and then you come see me. Comprehend?"

Klonmyre brightened slightly, looking more than slightly crafty. Little fucker. "Aye aye, ma'am."

"Fine. Then carry on, Lieutenant."

"Ma'am." The little engineer threw up a parade-ground salute, accompanied by Captain Reye's new motto. "Pulver!"

Jesus H Buddha. Hoping none of the drifting crewmen saw either of them roll their eyes, Pixy returned the salute with quite a bit less polish. "Yeah. Rising."

* * *

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. A motto." Pixy shrugged, her people staring at her as though she had three eyes. She paused, deciding just how insubordinate she should be in front of her department, and then reminded herself these were veterans, and logistics people to boot. They'd see right through this nonsense. "Look, he's new. He'll make some mistakes. Suck it up until he figures it out; he's not bad."

"Yet," Ana muttered ominously. "Ma'am."

"He comes from Transport Command, I hear," Joop Koster put in mildly. "He'll be all right."

"Sure. So, a motto. Meanwhile..." Pixy paused again, this time trying to figure out how to avoid pissing everyone off. Ana and Chief Koster already knew; she'd have told the other warrant officer, Kluwer, but the man was brand-new since the Battle and she wasn't sure if she could trust him yet. The other two, the juniors, usually just worked as drug-runners and knew to keep their mouths shut; she just hadn't gotten around to breaking the news. "Sublieutenant Amisuul will be taking over the shop, starting tomorrow. I'm just too busy fitting out the ship."

"Fuck." That was McChang, the most junior guy in the shop, busted four times for various reasons. "He's a Tygon."

"I'm a Tygon too, you planetist piece of shit," Ana snarled, but McChang was not the kind of sailor to back down.

"Obviously. The green fucking scales are a big tip-off, Ana," McChang jeered.

"Fuck you." Ana was grinning, but only so that her fangs would show. Chief and Denman were already whispering quietly to each other, figuring out odds for the inevitable brawl.

"Knock it off," Pixy snapped sharply. "Shut your mouths. Yes, asshole," she spat, turning to McChang, "he's a Tygon. But you shouldn't be worried about that. You should be worried that he's incompetent. At supply, anyway; y'all will need to help him, so that he stays out of jail." She made firm eye contact with everyone, in turn. "He's fine, but supply is not his thing. If I had another choice, I'd do it. But I don't, so suck it up and drive on."

"Dry," Chief muttered. "No lube."

"Exactly." Pixy shoved thick dark hair behind her ears. "I'm sending him down to sign for the books. You all need to work with him, at least until we get another lieutenant. I'll still be doing all the drug stuff, but then he'll still be pimping the whores too. So we officers are working just as hard as you people. I want no complaining and no shit-talking." She ended with a withering glance at Koster. "Right, Chief?"

"Right, ma'am." Koster shrugged. "You won't hear any problems."

"See that I don't." Goddamn. She'd been right to get Klonmyre over tonight. She was starting to lose it.

* * *

Simple pleasures: a shower, a few quiet hours with a book and some butter tea, with the whole universe spread out past the viewport (marred, alas, by a decrepit welder drone limping past on its way to yet another damaged warship), some shortbread... the effect was everything that Pixy ever needed, enough to get her on with another stressful day in the Basin.

Of course, she never got any of that.

Instead, it was all-hours meetings, constant interruptions with the eleven thousand things needing the lofty attention of a temporary First Officer, and a succession of barely-clean uniforms with no proper attention paid to the body within. So, at the point where Pixy at last finished up her thick slice of pork-cheese soup and a chunk of dry matzo, the clock was inching past 0100 and she was faced with Klonmyre's generator inspection in just three hours. The engineer herself was on the bridge, at anchor watch with a sleepy warrant officer named Filbric, reading a set of specs.

"Wake up, Filbric," Pixy snapped as she came through the hatch; the Tygon flipped upright in his seat, glancing fearfully around. Klonmyre stirred in the captain's seat.

"I told him he could relax, ma'am, while I watched the mid-beam." The ship slept around them, creaking and groaning fitfully with the ever-present noise of the reactor fuel being recirculated.

"I know. I'm just taking the piss." Pixy yawned and glanced at the plot-repeater, the main one by the forward sights. "Carry on, Filbric. I'll get Ms Klonmyre back in a little while; I need a nap. Call her in an emergency."

"Aye aye, ma'am." It was well known that Klonmyre was Lieutenant Pfeiffer's bedwarmer. The Tygon got to his feet and saluted "Pulver!"

Oh, Christ, Pixy thought to herself. Are we actually doing this? "Um. Rising." She returned the salute palm-outward, and then Klonmyre was shutting down her tablet and getting nimbly to her feet. The hatch had barely fastened itself when Pixy arched an eyebrow at the engineer. "Though, to be honest, I'm hoping there aren't any generator issues at all." Her eyes narrowed. "Are there?"

Klonmyre leaned back against the wall of the transport tube. "Relax, ma'am. I delegated." She yawned. "Chief's on it. Want to hang out for a few hours?"

"We decided on my quarters, I think." Pixy disliked being anywhere near Klonmyre's junior officers' quarters, in a loathsome part of the ship that smelled like a locker room. Klonmyre grinned.

"We always do." The tube thumped to a stop at a corridor much wider and cleaner than most of the rest of the ship. "I always love coming up here. It's a good incentive to get fucking promoted."

Pixy gave a snorting laugh. "Eleven years in Fleet, Jannelle, and this is as far as I've gotten." Her quarters checked their identity and then let them silently in. "After you, Sublieutenant Klonmyre."

"Why thank you, Acting First Officer Pfeiffer." They normally showered first, and the hum of the heating element rattled through the walls as the quarters started warming the water. Klonmyre was already naked, reaching blindly for the towel she kept here, when she spun around to find Pixy still standing by the door. "The fuck? You don't want a shower?"

"I wasn't teasing, Jannelle." Pixy felt like she was about to collapse. "I need a nap."

"Ah." Klonmyre cocked her hip and leaned against the doorway to the latrine, eyeing Pixy critically. "Not with that filthy-ass uniform on, though."

Pixy smiled despite herself; she hadn't been doing much of that lately. Her smile muscles ached with atrophy. "No, probably not." Klonmyre looked amazing naked, Pixy reminded herself; a perfect bedwarmer, pliable and compact, even smaller than Pixy, and soft only where necessary. She'd been a great choice. "Getting hairy again."

Klonmyre shrugged. "You haven't been available to shave for lately," she pointed out, but there was no accusation: everyone knew how busy everyone was. Klonmyre hung up her towel and started to move back toward the bed. "I fucked one of Amisuul's guys the other night," she admitted, "and they're not particular about hair. Just money."

"Shit." Poor thing, she must have been unbearably horny, to pay for sex with an enlisted man. Pixy hadn't slummed that way in years. "Well, if you're going to fuck a sailor, might as well do it at anchor." Prices skyrocketed as soon as a ship headed for space. "He's getting a Korlene in next week, with the new replacements."

"No shit?" Klonmyre shook out her orange hair as she collapsed onto the bunk. "Oof. Well, that ought to make him a few extra shekels. People love fucking Korlenes."

"Been awhile, since we had one aboard." Pixy's clothes were peeling themselves off now, Klonmyre moving over to the far side and getting ready to flip over. Pixy normally preferred to be the spoon. "Shit," she groaned, sitting on the edge of the mattress. The funk rose off her in waves, but she needed sleep, needed it like she seldom had. "I'm tired, Jannelle," she muttered. "Really tired."

She felt little fingers, graceful on her back. "Lie down, Pix." The voice was low, husky. The fingers drifted toward the scars, down low by her ass. "How's your back?" Pixy could hear Klonmyre trying to keep concern out of her voice; good girl.

"Hurts." The drugs helped, but not enough, and she wasn't about to become an addict. Dr January had said it was a difficult wound; even cloning was unlikely to help. Pixy's eyes were closing even as she slumped over onto the sheets, Klonmyre throwing the blanket over top. Pixy gave up; the younger woman could be the spoon tonight, and Pixy felt comfort and gratitude surround her along with Klonmyre's bare limbs. "Sometimes, anyway; usually, I don't even notice."

She could hear the change in Klonmyre's breathing, the engineer wondering whether she should bring it up again. She did. "If you need to talk... you know, about the Battle..."

Pixy elbowed her hard in the ribs, wasting no time at all. "Shut up. I told you, Jannelle, I need a nap." The Battle. Fucking ridiculous; she didn't need to talk about it. The back wound was there. The scars were enough of a reminder; she didn't need more words. She'd lived, Okonfwe and nineteen others had died, and that's all there was to it. War. "Just hold me, you nosy little bitch."

"Aye aye, ma'am," the words soft like a verbal caress, one hand light and low on Pixy's belly, stroking the hard muscles there, and they hurtled toward sleep with no other thoughts.

* * *

Pixy watched silently as the weld grew, spreading over the surface of the ship like a bright silver fungus. She sighed, standing with Reye at the porthole of the shuttle. "That's it, sir," she sighed. She felt like she should be toasting, with champagne or at least whisky. "That's the last of the torpedo damage."

"Excellent." The captain was rubbing his hands, running a critical eye over the skin of the ship. "The carbon scoring is still pretty bad, but we can have the crew EVA that while underway. Electrocoating, too."

"Electrocoat. Yeah. I was going to set that up with the Yard Office, sir. I was hoping they could do that while we're here." She frowned and glanced sideways to catch his reaction. "I don't like making our own people work with that stuff, sir."

He scowled, as if he didn't want to hear it. "It's toxic, yes, and I see your point. But we can't electrocoat until we deal with the scoring, and we're, what, fourth in line for that?"

"Second actually, sir."

"Even so. If we let the Yard electrocoat, that's at least another week, maybe two." He took a deep breath, glancing sideways to make sure nobody was listening. "The admiral's on my ass to get us out of here, Lieutenant."

Pixy felt like ripping his balls off. What did he think the rest of them were doing, sitting around eating bon-bons? Just that afternoon she'd had a very unsatisfactory interview with the knock-kneed old Yard Captain, aimed at moving them up from third in line to first; his chief of staff had demanded anal for that, but she'd only been willing to give up her pussy. It hadn't even been any good, bending over in the Yard Office vestibule while the Captain cackled in the next room. In the end, he'd issued the orders to leapfrog the line two spots, but only after the chief of staff had vouched for how well she'd done.

Well, that was Fleet for you. Dry, no lube. Reye was frowning. "We were fourth in line just this morning, Ms Pfeiffer."

Pixy made a face. "You don't want to know." She hesitated. "Sir, you were never a supply officer, were you?"

He shrugged. "Nah. I was an engineer, then I came up through Gunnery." He looked over curiously. "Why?"

"No reason. The culture of supply and maintenance... well, it's just different." She nodded while the autofinishers went back over the weld; whoever was operating that machine was doing a good job. "I'm not complaining, sir. I just would rather our people not have to electrocoat."

He drew an unhappy breath, but nodded. "No promises, Lieutenant. But as long as we're on the subject, I do want to say I appreciate your hard work. I know how tough it is to do all this repair without a First."

"It's a pain in the ass, sir," she threw in bluntly.

"But I'm told we can expect to get officer replacements any day now. That includes a new First, and someone to replace the old commo officer... what was her name?"

"Amber Okonfwe, sir."

"Right. Okafor. We'll get a new officer in soon, but if it's a junior lieutenant or even a Sub, I might want to promote one of our existing officers. Comms is critically important. I need someone there who knows the ship." Pixy sighed; he transparently wanted her to make the decision.

Just more work to do.

"I'll handle it, sir."

"That's the spirit!" Reye slapped her on the shoulder, a move Pixy found entirely unnecessary. "Rising!"

"Oh, and sir?" Okonfwe's memory had got her thinking. "Um, a couple of us were talking, after the Battle, about getting more first-aid training? Cranial salvage?" She flushed. "It... would have helped, sir. I think Doc January can do the training; I'd just need to schedule it."

He looked gravely at her, once more on the outside, the captain who wasn't there to go into battle. "Of course."

* * *

"So, yeah. Now you're the commo officer." Pixy looked again at her minislate, shaking her head. "The new junior Fifth will be here later today, which means you're not the Junior Officer anymore, either."

"Motherfucking great!" There was nothing worse than being Junior Officer of one of the Fleet's combat ships, other than being JO of a service ship like the Pulver. "Being JO? It sucks, ma'am."

"Gee," Pixy replied with a flat glare, "it's almost like I've never done it before myself. On two separate ships." She let that sink in, and diBiase nodded.

"Sorry, ma'am. I'm just excited to finally have someone I can boss around." Pixy blinked. Well, at lease diBiase was honest.

"Start when he arrives. Or, fuck, she? I don't know." The record on her minislate didn't say. "Name's Marso? From Terseus?" She frowned. "Is that a guy's name, or a girl's name out there?"

"Beats the fucking shit out of me, ma'am."

"I know our former captain had discussions with you about your mouth, Mr diBiase," she snapped back coldly. "Captain Crick was not a perfect officer, but he was right about some things. So I'll ask you to moderate your language, especially around the new Fifth. Our goal is to welcome him."

"Or her."

"Or her," Pixy agreed. "So be nice. Get your orientation folder, study it, and make copies for the new guy. Make sure your qualification checklists are up to speed, and that all your Fifth Officer bullshit is signed off and ready to turn over to the new officer."

"Yes ma'am."

"We've been understaffed around her for long enough. He or she will need to jump in with both feet and three hands to get caught up. Whenever this Marso person arrives, you give it a tour and then find me and introduce me. Comprehend?"

"Yes ma'am."

She hated new officers, as a general rule. It was a necessity in the Fleet, even in the relatively stable Service ships, but it always meant more work for everybody. Then there was the delicate balance of the wardroom: officers living and eating together soon discovered each other's quirks and foibles and learned to adapt to them. A new guy meant more quirks to excuse. Especially three new officers one on top of the other. And one of them a brand-new captain.

The file said that Junior Lieutenant Marso Van Kleck had a degree in something called subspace systems engineering and had come out of the big officer candidates' school on Andromeda Prime. None of that was unusual, but Van Kleck was slated in as an engineering-branch officer, which usually meant the engine room was where they needed to serve.

Of course, the Pulver's engine room already had an officer, Sublieutenant Janelle Klonmyre.

You could always take engineers and make them do anchor watches or assist on bridge watches, or you could train them up to do some of the other normal line officers' duties. But they couldn't steer the ship and they couldn't stand watches underway, so that made life difficult on the person whose job it was to schedule all the watches. That person, of course, was the First Officer.

Pixy tossed the file aside. Fuck it. Pulver was very happy with her current engineering officer, thanks, so the mysterious Mr or Ms Van Kleck would just have to deal with a line officer billet. She sat back and stared out the viewport; hell, this was the one good thing about acting as First: a better office. She thought about it a moment more, then frowned as it dawned on her what a pain it must be working in the lightless hole of the Pulver's engine room.

She powered up her intertube. "Engineering," she told it curtly, enduring the series of clicks as the old tube made the connection.

"Engineering."

"Give me Lieutenant Klonmyre on vox." Vox took a lot more power, but she wanted the added privacy. Besides, this was a repair basin; there was spare power everywhere. She waited, absently scratching her signature on a food inventory before the vox box crackled.

"Klonmyre here."

"Klonmyre. Hi. It's Pfeiffer. Look, I've got a weird question for you. Ever get sick of the engine room?"

A pause.

"Why are you asking, ma'am?" She sounded guarded, a little concerned. Pixy sighed; she'd known, in the back of her mind, that this would be a mistake. Now Klonmyre would be freaking out about her job performance; she tended to be a worrier.

"No, it's just that... well, do you want to be Fifth Officer?"

The response was immediate. "Hell fuck no, ma'am."

"Good enough, Klonmyre. Carry on." She cut the connection right away, then frowned at herself. She hated it when she did her job badly, and she felt obscurely like she'd just let Klonmyre down.

Whatever. This Van Kleck person would be Fifth, then. And that was the point: nobody wanted to be Fifth Officer. She picked up her tablet and went back to work.

* * *

The knock on the hatch was abrupt and very unwelcome. She dragged her eyes from a pile of clearance forms to see Elon diBiase standing there looking subdued. "Yeah?"

"Uh, the new officer is here, ma'am."

"Oh. Cool. Where?"

"Right here." He stepped aside and gestured out into the hallway, and in walked Marso Van Kleck. Pixy had a flash impression of wavy blue hair and that extreme tallness you saw on natives of low-gravity planets. They usually didn't enter the Fleet, where low ceilings were common, but whatever. Orange uniform; yup. An engineer. Van Kleck' salute was crisp and a little too polished.

"Junior Lieutenant Marso Van Kleck, ma'am. Pulver!"

Oh dear. Pixy returned the salute without getting up. "Rising, yes. Hi. I'm Pixy Pfeiffer. Sit down, Van Kleck."

"Ma'am." There was a tension in the new officer, something more than the usual stress of joining a new ship. Off to the side, diBiase leaned against the conference table and watched curiously. "May I say, ma'am, it's an honor to serve with you. Your actions, ma'am, were an inspiration to the entire Service branch."

Pixy glared balefully across her desk, studying the new face. The kid seemed sincere, which just embarrassed her more. She frowned. "Look, Lieutenant, I'll come right out and ask. Are you a man, or a woman? Because your file doesn't say, and I can never tell with you low-grav types."