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

"Woj!" The voice was firm and high, unfamiliar; Pixy hadn't met most of the platoon yet. "Get your fucking ass down to Bay Four. We're waiting on you." The voice belonged to a thin, hard-faced woman with that ambiguous ethnicity that all the real Earth folks had now. "Move it."

"Yes, ma'am." With a long-suffering sigh Woj lumbered down the corridor, leaving Pixy with the new woman. They studied each other the way women always have, looking for any sign that decent competition could be expected and, as ever, deciding privately that the other was no match. Pixy waited until the young woman noticed their rank disparity, which took longer than it should have.

"Ma'am," the woman said grudgingly; she did not salute, but apparently that was an Army thing. "Lieutenant Mozz. I'm the platoon XO. Like a First Officer, sort of."

"I know what an XO is." Pixy took the offered hand. "That's a fantastic pilot you guys have." It was the closest she felt she could come to what she meant, which was Shut your fucking mouth, kid; that pilot of yours was already old when you were born. "I'm Pixy Pfeiffer. I run the ship."

"Ah," Mozz replied vaguely, avoiding eye contact. She made a face. "Woj thinks he's a fantastic pilot; that's true. He's a recovering addict, though, so I never do feel safe flying with him."

"Oh!" Pixy frowned. The Fleet seldom cared about drug habits; actually, the Fleet probably created more drug habits than it resolved, as Pixy knew well. She paused as they walked down the corridor. "Can you fly, Lieutenant?"

"No." And that was it, the rest of the walk passing in stony silence as they followed Woj along the corridors. Pixy was not accustomed to quite such a shitty attitude; maybe Mozz's metering implant was faulty, or maybe she couldn't get one; Pixy had heard that PMS had once made women act like assholes, though nowadays almost everyone had the implant. But at least they found the right way through the corridors; DiBiase had posted signs, and he was waiting for her at the hatch to Bay Four. He watched as she approached, and the moment her foot crossed the threshold he straightened.

"Attention on deck!" he cried.

There was a confused shuffle as the Army snapped to in a flurry of capes and hard shoes. Curious faces swiveled her way. "At ease," Pixy barked. "Everyone over in the corner; take a seat, squat, stand, whatever. I'll let you know what's up."

They'd all just come off the shuttle into the docking ring, and most hadn't even bothered beginning to rummage through their stuff. Lieutenant Cooper stood smiling at one side, aloof from his platoon, and a more motley collection of men and women from various planets Pixy had never seen. They came, she was curious to note, in every conceivable shape and size, including a group of Linders with their distinctively thick legs.

"I'm Lieutenant Pfeiffer. I don't know if they teach you people Fleet ranks, so I'm like a captain to you." She gestured to diBIase. "Mr diBiase over here? He's a sublieutenant, so he and your platoon leader are on the same level. He'll be your liaison while you're here, but I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome you to the USS Pulver. We're looking at a four-day transit at .87 lightspace, in company with a pair of frigates as escort."

She saw dead eyes, fierce eyes, and bored eyes staring back at her, but no excitement. This was not interesting to them. They had a job to do, and listening to her was not part of it. "So, yeah. If you need anything, send it to me through Mr diBiase or your own officers; whichever." She nodded over to diBiase, who was bursting with responsibility and authority; she'd requisitioned forty bunks from the Yard Captain, which he was about to take these Army fucks over to assemble in the Main Bay, and she left him to it.

The captain had told her to report once the Army shuttle was secure, so she went straight to his office and knocked briskly. "Enter!" came the call from within, and she obeyed.

Reye was obviously from some sort of jungle region, because he kept his office as carefully rain-forested as he possibly could. Real plants were everywhere, with expensive hydroponic tubes pinned to the walls; the air smelled of jungle rot and chlorophyll. She felt the room's moisture curling her hair every time she entered. If he kept his office this way, she couldn't imagine what his quarters must be like; probably slept in a hammock.

She stopped short, stubbing her toe on the chairs ranged hastily around the skipper's desk. Eight eyes stared at her as she entered, six of them strangers. Reye was interviewing two humans and a Linder, the latter in an Army uniform with a captain's cape; not much to say about him. Or her; it was a Linder, and they all looked the same to Pixy. But there was even less to say about the two humans, both of whom shared a carefully bland appearance: nondescript hair and jumpsuits, average height, average features, nothing special. The seventh and eighth eyebrows rose. "Yes? What's up, Ms Pfeiffer?"

"Sir, you wanted me to report when the Army was all aboard and secure?"

"Yes?"

She blinked. "Um. The Army is all aboard and secure."

"Thank you." Reye hesitated, then jerked his head to indicate she should stay. "Shut the hatch, Ms Pfeiffer." Pixy was kicking behind her when Reye turned to the Army captain. "Lieutenant Pixy Pfeiffer. She's my First Officer; she runs the ship for me." The Linder turned in the chair in that weird swivelly way they had, like their hips had ball bearings. "Pfeiffer, this is Captain Nyhre? Am I pronouncing that right?"

"Nyhre," the Linder corrected, always with that slow, sibiliant Linder mutter; the syllables sounded exactly the same to Pixy whether they came from Nyhre's mouth or Reye's. "A real honor, Lieutenant. We've heard of you."

"Really." She flicked a glance toward the captain. "The truth is probably far less interesting."

"No doubt," and a chagrined Pixy remided herself that Linders were notably bad at sarcasm. Humor seemed to be a foreign concept wherever they came from. "But I'm pleased, nonetheless." The Linder swung back around with every appearance of paying Pixy no further attention at all. Reye glanced at her.

"Densborg's quarters," he launched right in. "You weren't going to take them, were you?"

Why? Senior lieutenants' quarters were senior lieutenants' quarters; aboard Pulver, they were the same. Nothing differentiated Densborg's old room from her own. "Negative. I was saving them for the new First, obviously, but my thought was to let Amisuul have them just for this trip." She shrugged. "He's next in line."

"Yes, well, not anymore." Reye glanced at Nyhre, and Pixy nodded. This is the way things worked in Fleet. Amisuul would be pissed, but whatever. He was a big boy; he'd survive.

"Understood, sir." No biggie. The First's quarters were right across from her own, and she hadn't been crazy about the thought of Amisuul bringing all his skanks up there anyway. "He'll be fine." Come to think of it, more than fine; he'd undoubtedly be putting the hard sell on all the new Army pussy, especially with only four days to capitalize.

"Captain Nyhre is mission commander. He's responsible for the, uh, the terraforming survey." Liar; he knew he wasn't telling the truth. He just didn't know what the truth was. So he went with a dry, brittle tone.

"Of course." Pixy turned to the two faceless humans. "You guys are the terraformers?"

"Sure," one of them said. Both had the same cold, blue-death eyes, she noticed; she had no wish to be looked at by either of them. Both were unsettling. So she looked at Nyhre instead. "If you say so."

"What kind of quarters will these two need?"

"None." The Linder was smiling.

"None?"

"We don't sleep," one of the terraformers giggled, and then she got it: the two were stimmed out of their minds. She hoped they'd brought their own supply; stims had been hard to get in the Basin, especially Bump and Rush. No wonder Amisuul's Crystal had moved so fast. Still... she assumed they had money, and after 2100 she'd be their only supplier for a few dozen light years in every direction... she made a mental note, then made a try.

"I'll be preparing the watch bill and quarter bill as soon as we launch," she told them. "I'm going to need to know where to find you, at least, in case we need to go to quarters."

"They'll be with me," Nyhre announced, all lofty like the Linders always seemed to be. "Or, at least, I'll be able to find them." Pixy's reply was a doubtful squint; Densborg's quarters were no larger than her own. She could only shrug, though; this was not a large ship, and no officer knew it as well as she did. She'd find them if she had to. She arched an eyebrow over the desk at her captain, hoping to get out of there before the plants made her sneeze.

"Anything else, sir?"

"Nope." Reye was leaning back, clearly in deep contemplation. "As long as everything is secured and ready to launch at 2100."

"Aye aye, sir." She straightened, the motto automatic now when she was saluting him. "Pulver!"

"Rising." He was leaning forward again, turning toward Captain Nyhre, as the hatch whispered closed. Pixy let go at once, three tumultuous sneezes back-to-back, the snot flying. A passing sailor stared, fascinated.

"Sorry." She beat a hasty retreat, headed for the wardroom. They were doing her favorite for dinner, and she did not intend to miss the last meal without preserved food. First, though, she made a hasty trip to her supply office; this was even more urgent than food. She spotted Ana on duty behind the counter, the Tygon looking up inquisitively. "Ana. Hi. Listen, this is important."

"Ma'am?"

Pixy leaned over the counter, feeling the urgency; she should have come sooner. "Remember that Army pilot, the shuttle dude?"

The Tygon Whore frowned, her stubby fangs poking out. "Oh. The little guy? Looked like he'd been crumpled up and left in the rain?"

"Yeah. Look, he's an addict."

Ana brightened. "Cool! That'll be an easy way to get in with the Army guys, ma'am; I've already got McChang in there helping Mr diBiase set up their bunks, sniffing around... what?" She'd noticed Pixy biting her lower lip.

"Well... I mean, he's apparently in recovery. So... maybe not. No drugs for him." She shrugged. "They need him to pilot the drop. He's stranded on an unfamiliar ship for four days, and at least one of his officers is already riding his ass. He doesn't need our kind of help."

Ana was frowning again, but it was a different kind of frown. "Ma'am, I sent some stuff with McChang. I mean, I'll get down there now and let him know, but --"

"Go. Now. Haul ass." Always another problem, Pixy thought bitterly, but then the cooking smells were starting through the ventilators with the second dinner service, and she forgot all about Woj.

* * *

Dinner, though, was not the haven Pixy was expecting.

She was hunching forward in her seat, just beginning to tuck into the fresh macaroni'n'haggis, when a red-faced Klonmyre stalked toward her table. "Bitch," the redhead hissed as she slammed her tray onto the table. "Fucking cunt."

Pixy, her fork already poised among the rising tendrils of spicy steam, felt her eyes narrow. "First off, this is the wardroom, Ms Klonmyre. You watch your mouth. Second off, there's no possible fucking way you're talking to me like that. No possible way." She glared up, evil-eyed, Klonmyre's status as bedwarmer no protection at all. "Is there?"

"Of course not." The engineer, agitated, dropped her silverware on the deck. "Goddamn it, that little fiver hag!" She found the seat at last and nearly fell right off, her hands spread impotently. "I don't even know how the fuck to insult her; she just stands there and pretends not to understand."

Ah. Pixy set her fork carefully down, her mac'n'hag getting cold. "Let me explain this to you clearly, Sublieutenant Klonmyre," she began, cold and precise. "I'm interested in eating my dinner, and I'm interested in doing it prior to having to cope with this little bitch-fit you're having." Off to the side, diBiase was watching with interest, his head wagging back and forth with the changing fortunes of the conversation. But what happened in the wardroom stayed in the wardroom, so Pixy had no qualms about putting Klonmyre in her place here. "So sit there, eat your fucking food, and let's have a nice, quiet dinner in peace before you blow it to shit." She turned to diBiase. "Pass the wine, please, Elon?"

"Gladly, Pixy." Dinner in the wardroom was occasionally on very casual terms, especially when the captain wasn't around. "Let me pour."

"Oh! So very polite." Pixy was still glaring at Klonmyre, but she seemed to have gotten over the worst of it. Which was good; despite her words, Pixy was dying to find out what was going on. "Thank you so much." The wine wasn't up to much, but they were leaving in an hour; they were getting rid of all their shittier product. "Such a pity that we can't all be so polite, isn't it? Jannelle?"

Klonmyre shook her head, but at least her color was fading. "Sorry," she managed at last. "It's just... that little... that person won't stay out of my business."

The food slid down neatly, mellow, rich with cloves on the pasta; ah, heaven. Pixy chewed complacently, closing her eyes amid the steam, and only once she'd washed it down with a swallow of the wine did she sigh and smile gently across the table. She loved a passionate Klonmyre, but not at dinner. "I take it we're speaking about our new friend Marso?"

"I know she's an engineer, and I know she likes being in the engine room; we all do," she admitted. "I mean, that's the point. But dammit, that's my domain down there."

"Correction, Jannelle," Pixy tsked, her head cocked. "That's Captain Reye's domain."

"Either way," Klonmyre snapped, "it's not hers." She looked at her plate and began slashing at her food, the steamed white fish nestled among some slivered almonds beside a healthy slice of zhwang.

"I believe," diBiase threw in carefully, "that Junior Lieutenant Van Kleck is bored. She mastered the helm and nav shit in about twelve minutes." He took another sip. "Let me get you some wine, Jannelle."

"Thanks," she said grudgingly, the comfortable rituals of sharing food already starting to do their work; she'd mellowed by at least 70%, Pixy estimated. "I shouldn't have been such a bitch," she allowed.

"Launch is always stressful." Pixy, the steamy haggisy dam broken, was working her way very steadily through her food, savoring every bite. "I spoke to Marso about her duties, but I'll have another quiet word with her." Granted, the fiver had only been around a few days, but already her Fifth Officer duties were beginning to seep through the cracks. Pixy was not surprised that Van Kleck liked to hang out in the engine room. It was best, she knew, to nip it in the bud. "I'll do it as soon as we're underway, before we rendezvous with the frigates."

Besides, nobody fucked with Klonmyre and got away with it, not while Pixy was around. The sooner Van Kleck knew that, the better.

* * *

Launch was always exciting, with everyone at their assigned stations and the ship, presumably, operating at its best possible efficiency. That meant a bridge crew well-rehearsed and adequately trained, rock-solid navigation and comms, an engine-room gang that could be counted on to be awake and sober, and at last a captain that appeared at least marginally capable of directing everything.

"Clearance, sir." DiBiase was on the mid-beam himself, backed up by vox, listening carefully to the flurry of commands from the Launch Office. "Fully go for departure."

"Right. Pop umbilicals."

"Sir." The supply officer did that, her own usual job; Pixy, at the helm, glanced over as Chief Koster hit the right switches. Good; Koster seemed to be on his game. "Popped, sir." The massive berthing module, floating forever at this lively spot in space that Fleet had designated a Repair Basin, was no longer their home; Pulver was at last relying on her own resources.

"Thrust to port, 25% power. Then forward at 10% once we clear the berth."

"25% thrust." Pixy threw her levers with easy skill, years of duty on helm watch telling her exactly where to put her hands. "Back off the attitude vents, Clipper."

"Yes ma'am." Clipper had been promoted now, Pixy reminded herself, the main man on the helm these days, with Jacobs dead.

"Sorry. Chief Clipper." The helmsman replied with a wan smile; Jacobs had been well-liked, especially by the women who'd paid Amisuul for his services. The berthing module drifted to the right of the viewport, and Pixy gave it an extra five seconds before she put her hand on the throttle. "All ahead 10%."

"Course?" Reye was checking the numbers.

Pixy let Clipper avoid collisions, the chief's sure hands guiding the ship now. The computer was flooding her with a dozen logarithms, and Pixy watched a moment before she frowned. "We're four degrees off on yaw, sir, but I'll correct once we clear the Basin."

"Good enough." Reye did not seem concerned. "Just keep an eye on it. That'll mean you'll need to recalculate back from the rendezvous, though."

She turned to stare at him an extra few seconds, letting him know she did not require his hovering. "I'm aware, sir." She turned back, knowing she needed to cool her jets; this was not Captain Crick.

Reye gave her a couple of seconds right back before he replied with curt softness. "I'm sure you are, Ms Pfeiffer." She fed the Pulver more power, and there it was: the old, familiar rattle from the port stabilizer, transmitting itself through the entire ship. Smiles broke out across the entire bridge; it felt like home. "The fuck is that?" Reye demanded. "Feels like the stabilizer."

"They try to fix it every time we're in dock, sir." Chief della Sera shrugged from beside the weapons station, where he had nothing to do. "It's been a problem for years."

"Doesn't seem to affect function, captain," Pixy soothed. She reminded himself that this was his first command, and his first time taking the ship out. He'd be nervous as a bride on her wedding night. "The helm guys have always just compensated with the collapser bar."

"Ah."

"Coming up on the sentry ships." Amisuul, on the scope.

"They know it's us, sir." DiBiase was still working the mid-beam, and at last Reye seemed to settle back into the seat, relaxing. You never really knew what kind of crew you'd get until they had to actually do something more than watch while the Yard slapped some welds on the hull. "Cleared," he announced after another moment.

"Great. Might as well do that course recalculation, Ms Pfeiffer."

"Already did." She was punching it into the computer as he spoke; she was very intentional in omitting the sir. He needed to back off, but it was probably better than Crick's laissez-faire sense of disdain. She couldn't help but compare the two, and so far Reye was fine. Except for that stupid fucking motto. "We're squaring away at seventy-eight by ten-one-eight cubed, velocity factor... six? Accelerating now, sir."

"Good." Amisuul was giving the captain a pointed glance, and Reye checked the list he'd taped to the arm of his chair. "Oh. Weapons status red, Mr Amisuul. Until we rendezvous."

"Red, sir." Two frigates awaited them out in space somewhere within half a light-year, and it would be Amisuul's job to find them tomorrow once Pixy brought them back into subspace. Let them go weapons green, if they wanted to; the whole little armada would be under Reye's control until the "terraformers" returned, so might as well save the power now.

"We'll go amber after that. The frigates can do what they want." Amisuul nodded and traded a quick glance with Pixy; so far, so good. He apparently was not going to crash the ship. Still room for error, obviously, but the Captain Crick bar was set very, very low.