"Comes and goes," he says agreeably, melting submissively before Keeler's largesse, because if his navi'd pulled the dirty trick of widening his deer eyes and batting those long, pale lashes, they'd be one serious talk short, with many make-outs in even trade to follow.
He sighs, gently grasping the back of Keeler's neck as he might've a kitten's nape, gripping and letting go in a lethargic massage. This conversation needs patience, relaxation, all the foreign elements that contradict the navigator M.O perfectly and completely. "Look... Keeler. The big bad boys tonight and all their dinner talk, the base they wanna plant in enemy territory. That's probably the Sleipnir."
Because nothing's bigger, sturdier, better, and as warships go, they're in the Cadillac of space slaughterhouses. And if the Forces That Be decide, this is it, this is what we're sending out, this is the last ground and we're standing it here - it'll be either the honour roll or suicide for everyone on board.
"When they ask who's volunteering, I've been thinking, I'm... I'm all right. Staying on. I'm good. It'd mean a whole lotta pay, couple more stripes. Could use that on the discharge file." He pauses, because all that bullshit takes gumption to spew, and he's running out of steam; running out of half-lies; just running out. "And it'd get you on that transplant list."
That transplant list, the one Keeler should've headed years ago, where excellence and genius and a well-packed punch of personal charm can't buy a beautiful tin boy his heart. But rank might. Need - the need to keep Keeler alive and well and operational for a fucking desperate measure sure as hell would.
Encke's done the math, and it's worth it - well worth staying on board for a ship that might be sinking half-way through sail for that.
He notices belatedly that his hand's stilled over Keeler's neck; he resumes the motion, because gods spare the man who forgets to pet his cat or his navi, then aims for nonchalance. "So, omy end, I'm - yeah. But, you've... you've got your doctor momma and your family and... we've got two more days on this ship. Don't want to hear nothing from you til they're done, but think it over. Then let me know, and I'll let... some other folks know. Yeah?"
no subject
He sighs, gently grasping the back of Keeler's neck as he might've a kitten's nape, gripping and letting go in a lethargic massage. This conversation needs patience, relaxation, all the foreign elements that contradict the navigator M.O perfectly and completely. "Look... Keeler. The big bad boys tonight and all their dinner talk, the base they wanna plant in enemy territory. That's probably the Sleipnir."
Because nothing's bigger, sturdier, better, and as warships go, they're in the Cadillac of space slaughterhouses. And if the Forces That Be decide, this is it, this is what we're sending out, this is the last ground and we're standing it here - it'll be either the honour roll or suicide for everyone on board.
"When they ask who's volunteering, I've been thinking, I'm... I'm all right. Staying on. I'm good. It'd mean a whole lotta pay, couple more stripes. Could use that on the discharge file." He pauses, because all that bullshit takes gumption to spew, and he's running out of steam; running out of half-lies; just running out. "And it'd get you on that transplant list."
That transplant list, the one Keeler should've headed years ago, where excellence and genius and a well-packed punch of personal charm can't buy a beautiful tin boy his heart. But rank might. Need - the need to keep Keeler alive and well and operational for a fucking desperate measure sure as hell would.
Encke's done the math, and it's worth it - well worth staying on board for a ship that might be sinking half-way through sail for that.
He notices belatedly that his hand's stilled over Keeler's neck; he resumes the motion, because gods spare the man who forgets to pet his cat or his navi, then aims for nonchalance. "So, omy end, I'm - yeah. But, you've... you've got your doctor momma and your family and... we've got two more days on this ship. Don't want to hear nothing from you til they're done, but think it over. Then let me know, and I'll let... some other folks know. Yeah?"