Dry, No Lube Ch. 07a: Command

"So... you don't call it the 'Tunnel.'"

"We call it The Vag, ma'am." She could hear the gloat in the copilot's voice. "Soldiers love living in the Vag, I guess." One of the sergeants snickered.

"As you were," the pilot growled, focusing on his stationkeeping.

"Huh," Pixy sighed, considering, as the transport drifted to a smooth halt. "Sounds sexist."

"Well, the female soldiers call it The Shaft," the chief shrugged, flexing his fingers as safety tethers rasped against the hull outside, "and the piss-hole. But we still just came in the ass, either way." The rest of the flight crew chuckled.

"I see." She craned her neck, fascinated by the bustle of activity within the tunnel. The transports ringing the inner surface seemed to be ranked in groups, their markings in four different colors. "Different Army companies have different colors, I take it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Cool." The schedule Leeuwen had given them for the demo today said that B Company would be dropping, following a hasty recon, a barrage at 25-33% ordnance, and a full simulated mission by the seven onboard fighters. Pixy checked her chronograph. "About six minutes, Chief?"

"Ma'am." He kept glancing sideways at her, probably at her tits in the smart Fleet uniform she'd been wearing for the past week: she was desperate to get back into utilities, though the attention she got for her medals and the Command Badge was pretty gratifying. That badge, she'd found, got her almost anything she asked for. Funny that she'd served fourteen years, and had never yet realized how much deference Fleet gave captains behind the scenes.

Her organs settled down slowly in the gravity, the planet gleaming before them at the end of the tunnel. She felt a growing sense of excitement, the eagerness of the unknown, but what also swamped her was the giddy awareness that soon it would be her, Pixy Pfeiffer, standing on that bridge at the bow of the big ship, sending soldiers down for placer operations on some distant world...

She took a deep breath. The excitement felt like drugs, or foreplay. She reminded herself that these people had already done a combat placer operation, for real. She thought about that, wondering how long it would take her to train her own crew for this sort of thing. "Did you do that Cassavetes operation, Chief?" she asked the pilot.

"Yes indeedy." He swept his glance over his chronos. "I was flying a troop placement for that one. That's my usual gig. They sent me to ferry you guys here because I'm one of the few interplanetary-rated pilots on the Lavatine." He nodded around them. "This is usually the staff placer vehicle, where the battalion commander rides." They heard the long, echoing wail of an alarm blitzing through the tunnel, and all the ship lights briefly went red. "One minute. We're pretending like we'll have just emerged from lightspace." He waved a hand forward, at where a little shape had detached from one of the mounts to rise, slowly, toward the center of the tunnel. "Scout ship."

"The recon," Pixy nodded.

"And pretty soon, you'll see Lieutenant Passen undock. He's the chief of fighters. He'll go down with the recon, see what his fighter pilots need to do, then come back up." The alarm sounded one more time, a much shorter blast, and with insectile grace one of the Tygon Interceptors swung neatly off the wall, silhouetted against the distant impact zone: for an instant it moved alongside the scout ship, and then with an abrupt flare of thrusterfire the two of them seemed to disappear, so quickly did they accelerate to enter the atmosphere. "And we're off," the pilot murmured.

The moment the forward gate was clear, a series of armored transports melted off the walls, drifting together in a hiss of distant thrusters while three more Interceptors crept with feral speed around the lip of the bow. "Those fighters provide local capability against planetary defenses." The warrant officer gestured dismissively. "Fleet shit. The rest of them come down with us, then back up into space when we're through with them."

"We're never through with them," the copilot threw in. Pixy thought about how bar-Murphy had talked about getting more fighters.

Her implant, plus the command conference last week, told her what was happening now: the recon was zipping across the planet's surface, making sure they were in the right place, and once they were sure bar-Murphy would pin Levantine in place, go to guns, and release the ground element.

Amazing, Pixy thought, that people had been thinking about all these things, planning them, designing the ships, funding the construction, all while she'd been bumming around the cosmos as a Service lieutenant aboard GP ships, or lurching from adventure to adventure as the Desperado's XO in the middle of nowhere. She swallowed. "How long does it take the recon guys to get the ship to open fire?"

"In Cassavetes?" The WO squinted back at his sergeants, who squinted back. "What was it, about five minutes? Maybe a little less?" He turned back toward Pixy. "Obviously, it's desirable to open up before the locals get a chance to start defending. We'll know they're ready when we see Passen's fighter heading back up."

"What if someone shoots down Passen?"

"Scout ship comes back up, then? FPF."

"Final protective fire," Pixy muttered, her hands going to her ears. Remembering. "I don't like those."

"We blast the shit out of the whole area," the pilot said with some satisfaction. He squinted ahead. "Ah. There's the fighter."

The Tygon Interceptor darted up from the surface, building speed as it shed gravity, and the lights all blinked red once more. The sergeant in the back keyed the intertube again. "Movement in ten seconds," he announced, suave like a liner pilot, but then Pixy's head snapped back around as the bow of the Lavetine erupted into a massive fiery roar.

Dampers took care of the sudden glare inside the tunnel, the muzzle flashes washing over their transport; Pixy blinked hard to banish the afterimage, staring ahead with her chin on her hand as the first Interceptor started off planetward. She'd lost track of the chief, Passen, but the SOPs they'd written on the way here told her that he'd be off somewhere with the rest of his little command, watching for notional planetary defenses. The four Army transports were next, with the other two fighters, and then the warrant officer was advancing the thrust lever. "Moving," he announced tersely.

Docked shuttles and transports blurred past the cockpit window as Pixy watched, the forward gate growing larger and larger; she caught a split-second image of Captain bar-Murphy, standing on his bridge behind transparent graphene, staring fiercely at their transport with a sharp salute as they sailed by on their way planetside. A last ring of machinery all around them, a punishing shimmy as they passed the muzzles of those thundering guns, and they were clear.

"Transport 3347 Express, clearing forward gate," rapped the commo sergeant from behind. The pilot was leaning forward, bushy-browed eyes darting back and forth.

"Give me four percent more power, ma'am," he grunted, and Pixy's hand went straight for the thruster. She was glad to have something to do, because if she was telling the truth, being surrounded by wildly corkscrewing missiles and depleted solids, all plunging toward the impact area with undue abandon, was giving her a slight case of nerves.

Or maybe that was the zero-G.

"The buffeting can get pretty intense, ma'am." The copilot was leaning up to take over the narration. "Remember, this is only about a quarter the power of the barrage. Operationally, the ship will begin to rotate to bring all the muzzles to bear and ensure proper target coverage, and when the captain does that randomly?" He chuckled. "That's a bitch, piloting through that. It's why it's called the Cone of Destruction."

"Shut up." The pilot did not look like he was interested in small talk, the transport shaking as it descended; slowly but surely, the planet's gravity started asserting itself on Pixy's confused body. "I'm concentrating." The copilot shut up, leaving Pixy to stare spellbound as the planetary surface drew closer with alarming speed. She could see clouds now, wisping along, Levatine's guns shredding them as they blasted the battered terrain below in a vast circle. The projectiles flooded past in eerie silence, every one of them capable of blowing their transport into dust.

Up ahead, she watched as the troop transports angled in, hugging the inside of the cone, setting themselves up to swoop across the axis and find the center of the placer zone. "Thirty seconds to atmospheric interface," one of the sergeants snapped.

"Got it." The warrant officer swooped outward, following the transports as the three Tygon Interceptors blazed on ahead. If she squinted, Pixy could see them doing strafing runs along the surface already, whirling tightly to stay within the cone. Now she could catch buildings down there, a series of bleachers. Firing ranges. Training areas. The whole massive sprawl of the 2^nd P/E Regiment's headquarters awaited them, surrounded by flaming craters that shifted now as bar-Murphy began rotating his ship to traverse his guns.

She had the sudden urge to pee. And, even though she knew they weren't going to crash-land, she felt herself clutching the acceleration couch. She'd come down onto scores of planets in her time, but never quite as fast as this. It was usually more of a gentle drift than a headlong dive. "Fifteen seconds." She could hear sounds now, Lavatine playing the planet's surface like a drum.

"Fuck me," she found herself saying.

"Impressive, huh?" The copilot said it quietly, at least, the gravity pulling both of them forward into their harnesses as the pilot decelerated; the Army transports were settling below them, the troopers fanning out of them like ants, already setting up masts and tents and shit, and all of a sudden Pixy realized the three Tygon Interceptors were already above them.

Masterful coordination. Again, she wondered how quickly it would take her to get her own crew working this well. "You've only done one real placer operation?"

"Yep." The copilot reached forward. "Hit the safety lights, ma'am. Starboard panel."

"Right." She smacked the switch, the pilot pulling them out of his rattly dive and heading more slowly into a gentle, low circuit well inside the ring of explosions. "How many simulations?"

"Skipper likes to do a full rehearsal about once a month? Pretty much whenever we come across the right-size planet." He sniffed. "No bombardment, obviously. But the hard part is getting all the sequencing right, anyway. You don't need live ordnance for that." He licked his lips. "Ma'am, if you'll let me take over again? I need to help with the atmospheric flight..."

"Oh! Sure!" Every eye was on Pixy as she peeled herself out of the couch and onto the deck, nodding around. She was suddenly conscious of being in the way. "Thanks, men. I appreciate your, uh, hospitality."

"No problem, ma'am." The pilot had already moved on from the Fleet officer, though, thinking through his next steps. "I'm sure the other officers are wondering where you are."

"Right!" She smiled vaguely, feeling awkward as she fled.

* * *

Pixy struggled to contain her dismay as her boots crunched over the sand toward the bleachers. It always made her anxious to be walking on dirt. The fussy little Army officer who had come to fetch her as their transport landed wasn't helping much, scurrying around nervously. "Right this way, Captain."

A week now, and Pixy still felt a little thrill every time anyone called her that. There'd been times she thought it would never, ever happen. "What did you say your job was, again?" she asked artlessly. She had no plans to put on an act, to wear a façade of untouchable godliness, like a lot of captains tried to do. Many of them came aboard with an air of studied aloofness, but that was not the Pixy Pfeiffer way. She had little time for guile.

"I'm the Battalion XO, which puts me in charge of P/E planning and execution. Also supply, billeting, and equipment maintenance." He smiled. There were not many men shorter than Pixy, but she found herself looking at the top of his balding head. "I'm Murtaugh, ma'am. Jaspreet Murtaugh," he groveled helpfully.

"Great." Pixy would need to get used to senior officers calling her ma'am, she knew. Murtaugh was a major, which technically made him the same paygrade she was... but in terms of their relative responsibilities and duties, a massive gulf stretched between them. "Thanks, Major. It's going to take me awhile to get used to everyone. No big deal, though; we're all here for the same reason."

"Yes, ma'am."

"How far do we have to fucking walk, Major?" The planet had a brutal sun, and the skinny clouds were not helping at all. Pixy was conscious that Fleet undress uniforms were not made for long walks over hot plains, especially when you're off to make a good first impression on the Army. She could feel the moisture under her armpits. "I'm sort of busy today..."

"Just there, ma'am, beyond the craters." He led her through the beaten zone left by bar-Murphy's guns, already being busily filled in by helpful robots. Beyond waved an old-school flag, hanging from a short cross-staff, brand new in the sun. "That's us."

"Cool. Listen, I think my shuttle's coming down later to pick me up and take me to the ship?" H plus 3 hours, the request had been. "Wherever that's going to be landing, I'd appreciate it if you'd get me a ride there."

"Um. If it's your personal shuttle, like, from the Tirving? It can land almost anywhere."

Personal shuttle! Pixy had never imagined such a thing. "Look, whatever. Just find out where I need to go and get me there, right? I have things to do up in orbit."

"Ma'am."

"When are you guys coming up, again?" It was in her implant, she knew, but she had no time to search through all that data.

"I'll be winching the barracks barge up the cables starting on Wednesday, ma'am," Murtaugh replied smoothly. "Two days to get up to the orbital dock, then the ship will pick us up on Friday. But the colonel will be heading up on Tuesday with the advanced party."

"Right, I knew that," Pixy lied. She wondered, vaguely, who was aboard Tirving right now to set up quartering for the advanced party. "His staff, right?"

"Well, yes. Plus the headquarters company, ma'am. That's 150 people."

"I know." Fuck! 150 people! The schematic she'd studied told Pixy that most of the length of her ship was magazines for all the ordnance she'd need, and that all the quarters were intended for sailors. The Army was supposed to live in their barge, and if that wasn't getting picked up until Friday... There was a gym, she remembered. They could billet in the gym.

She was wrestling with that disquieting thought as she picked her way through the last of the hectate-stinking impact marks and toward the assembled soldiers. The tall colonel at their head, facing away from her, shouted them impressively to attention and then had them all salute. Pixy assumed the expected air of solemnity as she halted, her own hand up, and then watched as the subcolonel spun around.

"Captain Pixy Pfeiffer," Major Murtaugh announced formally, "may I present Subcolonel Narvon McMerckx."

"Holy fucking shit," Pixy blurted, the nearby banner-bearer giving her a sharp (if undisciplined) glance.

"Captain." The smug smile that greeted her lifted that pencil mustache, a mustache of hair she'd last seen with her pussy juices smeared all over it as she'd come down from her Anchor high a few nights ago in Room 14. "Fancy meeting you here."

She cleared her throat, her purple eyes wide, and hoped her salute looked snappy as she dropped it. "Colonel McMerckx. Jack, I believe?"

"Crazy Jack," he smiled. "My nickname."

"From the Academy." McMerckx gave a terse command over his shoulder, the entire battalion dropping their salutes. 560 hands chopped down at once. "I thought Fleet," Pixy sighed, shaking her head.

"Your assumption, I'm afraid, was slightly off." Crazy Jack nodded at Murtaugh. "Take charge, Jaspreet. Unless... well. Did you want to say anything to the troops, Captain?" He was being polite: being one grade senior to her, he wasn't going to call her ma'am. But she'd be damned if she sirred him, either.

"I'll speak to your staff, if you please," she replied loftily. "It's silly to make the rest of them stand here in the sun."

"Couldn't agree more." He nodded at Murtaugh. "Carry on, then. Chow, and then cable prep as needed."

"Sir." Murtaugh nodded. "It was nice meeting you, ma'am."

"Yeah," Pixy replied gruffly, eyeing the colonel. Remembering the excellence of his penis, the taste of his tongue. She waited until the XO began bawling at the troops, then arched her eyebrow. "What the hell were you doing on Kavirell?"

He shrugged. "Command conference. Just like you, I expect." He sent his hand out in a sweeping gesture along the big, flat plain, where the other battalions were all drawn up. "My brother and sister subcolonels and I, discussing things and getting updates for our implants." He winked at her. "And meeting interesting women."

"Dammit." This was the last thing she needed, going into her new command without a clean slate. She glared up at him. "This is a complication I do not need."

He laughed easily as Murtaugh brought over a gaggle of Army officers. "You seemed quite pleased to complicate yourself with me back on Hyllty Street."

"Dammit," she moaned again. "And now I'm nothing more than another tattoo on your dick?" she guessed, rolling her eyes as the group of green clad soldiers approached. They looked curiously at her, eyes sweeping over her medals, and she reminded herself to keep her arms at her sides. Fucking pit-sweat...

"You're a bit more important than that, in context," he murmured, and then he raised his voice for the group of Army people. "Ladies and gentlemen," smiled Crazy Jack, the mantle of authority falling effortlessly over his shoulders, "let me introduce you to the most important woman in the universe, for all of us. This is Captain Pixy Pfeiffer, famous throughout both Fleet and the Army. She'll be commanding our ship, meaning our lives are in her hands." He bowed slightly. "Captain, these are most of my officers."

Many eyes found her, all of them judging, evaluating. She saw captains and lieutenants, staff officers, company commanders, a hard-bitten crew in general. She felt herself swallow, having a hard time believing they were a part of her now, a part of her crew. Well, sort of; they'd be operating on their own, staying in their own little world inside the tunnel.

In the Vag.

The thought brought a smile to her face and a sudden lightness in her spirit. "So. Here's the deal," she began without preamble, "if you know anything about me, you know I tend to get my crews into fucking impossible situations, which most of us usually get out of. I can't tell the future, but I'm sure I'll do the same thing with you people." She saw a nod or two, even a few smiles. "As far as the ship goes? It's my job to get you to where you're going, and support you once we arrive. I can't do that if my sailors are constantly worrying about soldiers floating around in the passages, so... basically, I just need all of you to keep your little motherfuckers on your barge and out of my ship. Comprehend?"

Crazy Jack nodded for them all. "Not a problem, Captain." He turned to glare at all of them. "That includes most of you, too. Submajor and below? You'll need written permission from me to leave the barracks barge, and I won't give that to you unless Captain Pfeiffer says so." His eyes searched out specific people. "The only exception is Graham. Come out and show yourself, Graham." A reedy-looking fellow in a rumpled uniform stepped unwillingly up. "Submajor Nestilio," he said to Pixy, "is in charge of our fire support. He'll be the guy who interfaces with your gunners."