Band of Brothers, Season 1: Episode 2

[Dade Cooper]

Enough whiskey still swirled in his system to allow Dade to bypass his normal firewalls and address Million directly without looking to Lee or Barbossa for permission, ”The Faceless died, friend, there’s nothin’ left to bring home.”

The enigmatic Million’s gaze drew on Dade and the man smiled his phantom smile, ”Death isn’t the end…not for men like that. The Faceless are still needed and won’t be left behind,” his eyes narrowed, burrowing into Dade’s tarnished soul, ”We don’t leave our people behind, Corporal Cooper…you haven’t forgotten that have you?”

A bucket of cold water slushed against the warm wall of booze Dade hid behind, and when his voice climbed from his throat, it had taken on the chill, ”We always said we didn’t leave no one behind,” he whispered, ”But plenty got left, friend…plenty.”

”Then to honor all of those that fell and weren’t carried, my group means to bring the Faceless home on their shields. If not for the matter of creed, then for a much simpler sentiment…spite. The Faceless represent the darkness of the Alliance and the cancer of unification. For all their pontifications…all their claims of equality and justice, the 666th have become too many skeletons in too small a closet. The public’s attention is piqued, and now is our time to fan the flames of discontent.”

”You want another rutting war,” Eleanor stated with a divested level of emotional interest.

Million simply smiled his coy smile.



(Feel free to post at will everyone. Million is open for questions.)

[Killi Crash]

"Ugh... Tha's horrible. Wha' the hell is tha', Kills?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper, returning the mug to the woman next to him with a disgusted expression on his face. "Smells better'n it tastes."

Killi gave a gasp more amused than indignant, tilting her cup to see how much he’d consumed before reaching over and ruffling her fingers through his short hair, “Wake up, Mac.” she whispered, “I think this is gonna be important.”

Million’s words were more deeply shocking than her mind could really wrap around. Was the guy serious? A prison break was all well and good... Fabulous, in fact. She’d written one into “I Can Fly”, after all. But Andersonville? Krane Penal Moon? The heaviest guarded, most brutal prison in the Allied worlds? Was the dude’s brainpan on the blink?

”The Faceless died, friend, there’s nothin’ left to bring home.”

“Amen.” She whispered after Dade, trying not to see the pain in his face. ‘like an ache, an old war-wound never healed’… She slammed the lid on her inner editor and forced herself to listen to Million’s propagandizing.

”You want another rutting war,”

Another ‘amen’ for the Captain, she thought silently, but leaned closer to McKenna, putting one slender shoulder against his side.

“I‘m not ‘Purple’,” Killi spoke up, hoping her contact with the pilot would keep the sting from her next words. “But I ain’t Brown, neither. Dade, Mac, no offense meant, luvs, but that was your generations war, not mine. My generation got stuck with the aftermath. I'm sorry, but you gotta gimme a better reason to throw myself into a suicide mission than a few long-dead bodies and a damned-fancy story.”

[J. McKenna]

Jeremiah could only think of two reasons someone would call at three in the morning. Either they were an inconsiderate bastard who didn't take into account that they might be on a different time than the ones they were calling. Or they did it deliberately, to catch the people they were calling off-guard and unprepared. As soon as Million started talking, Jer knew he was one of the latter. Keeping his head down for a few more moments, collecting himself as he listened to the man on the screen.

“Wake up, Mac. I think this is gonna be important.”

"Yeah, yeah, important..." he mumbled, raising his head slowly from his arms, then sat up slowly to lean back in his chair to watch the screen with a bored expression, his eyes hooded as if he was about to fall asleep again, looking much as if he wasn't paying attention to the man on the screen at all. In actuality, he was doing his best to read Million, trying to figure out if he was genuine or not. One thing, Jeremiah felt; he wasn't telling the whole truth.

"...is the fact that you fly with two Browncoats.”

Now how did he know that? It wasn't exactly common knowledge that Jeremiah McKenna had been flying on the Browncoat side. Hell, up until he'd been arrested three years ago, he'd been a dead man to most of the 'Verse, assumed killed when the rest of Molly Marie's crew had been shot down in the evac shuttle over Verbena. The fact that this bloke knew of his past allegiance put Jeremiah on edge, but he managed to keep the tired and bored look firmly locked across his features as he continued to listen.

”...You are to find the Faceless 666th and bring our brothers home.”

Krane. Andersonville. The Faceless. Jeremiah had only heard of the broadcasts by word of mouth, sitting in a bar in New Dunsmuir attaining his first good alcohol buzz since getting out of prison. He'd never seen the broadcasts himself, but enough people had talked about them that he at least believed that they had happened. Whether they had been real or not, he still doubted. Didn't matter anyway, even if they Faceless were real, they weren't no brothers of his. Not like the crew of Molly Marie had been.

”You want another rutting war.”

And if Million thought Jeremiah McKenna could be convinced to aid in starting another war just because he'd been a Browncoat years ago, he had another thing coming. He'd never been idealistic about fighting a war. All he'd wanted was fly the gorram ship. And going up against Alliance pilots in the blockade runs had been one hell of a challenge. No amount of idealistic speechifying would get him to feel like a Browncoat again, Jeremiah reflected. For him, it had never been about the cause.

Feeling Killi's arm against his side made him glance sideways at her, her touch almost forcing a smile on his lips, which he clamped down on before it could manifest. At her words, he lifted a shoulder in a shrug, giving a shake of the head in addition. "None taken, Kills," he said, turning back to the screen to look at the slick character named Million. He'd learned long ago not to ask too many questions when there was good money in it. But this job was different. "Ya talk the talk, but I reckon ya weren't never a 'Coat yerself. So wha's in it fer ay, Million?"

[Davina]

"Does it matter?" Davina sat beside the screen, but she looked at El and not Million, face tipped to catch the shadows, dark suggestions rising to fill the spaces between the spires and and arches left behind by the captain's usual frown. Whole worlds balanced on that cupid's bow dip to light, waiting for the word that would shatter them. She wondered what it would be. Not Andersonville. The word meant nothing to her, not anymore, but to El, it obviously meant something. Everything. There was a story there, and that smirking poppinjay knew it. He knew it, knew the histories of everyone in this room, including hers, and that alone would have been enough to make her dislike him. That what he was suggesting was tantamount to suicide did the rest of the work for him. "It doesn't to him."

"Fifty thousand. That's a big enough carrot even for our Vangy here, with plenty left over to share. So where'd you get it? Independents aren't exactly known for the size of their accounts." A pause. The upturn of her lip caught, refracted in the echo of Million's smile. "But that doesn't matter, either, does it? You said brothers just now. Bring our brothers home. So either you're doing a pretty good impression of a browncoat, yourself, or just hoping to play on our heartstrings enough that we'll forget about the stick in your other hand, and honey..." Davina sat back, throwing half a glance around the table for Killi, for anybody, to catch. "You gotta be a lot better at the mandolin to get me to forget about a euphemism big as that. At least buy me dinner first."

This post has been edited by Davina on Dec 24 2010, 10:48 AM

[Vangy Chamberlain]

Vangy for the most part just watched everyone else, it was clear that there were some differing opinions on the matter but nobody seemed too keen to work with Million. She'd heard some strange monikers in her life but that was the vainest of them all. She could tell that El wasn't too pleased but it was a bit different from her usual cold demeanor. Now Vangy wasn't known for her math skills and putting two and two together would often come out as five but with tension as thick as the pay being offered for the job she thought better than to go with her natural instinct of straight up taking the cash.

She was actually a little surprised when she came to some conclusions, her companion training however brief seemed to somehow sink in even though it never did when they were trying to teach her. It was clear Million was testing the crew, to see where their loyalties were or how easy to divide them it was. With such a vast array of weaponry around it didn't seem like a good idea to have differing stances especially if they differed from the captains.

"Um.."ť She mumbled out at first before clearing her throat and raising her arm like she was in a classroom, hand fluttering in 'pick me, pick me' fashion. She didn't wait, however, to get picked.

"I think..."ť Something nobody would ever look at her to do.

"It's El's ship y'all an' this should be her d'cision. Ain't no reason us gettin'in a tizzy over it. Fifty K, ain't a bad haul but a'ess th' captain says so. Don't mean ta suck up or nothin' just think right is right."ť After her speech she lowered her eyes to the table not really wanting to be part of any decision making. El kept her on the ship and she was happy to have a place to be, she wasn't looking to step out of her place. If she did what she was told to there'd be no guns pointed at her and she knew how trigger happy much of this crew was.

This post has been edited by Ertia on Dec 25 2010, 01:59 PM

[Million]

“I‘m not ‘Purple’, but I ain’t Brown, neither. Dade, Mac, no offense meant, luvs, but that was your generations war, not mine. My generation got stuck with the aftermath. I'm sorry, but you gotta gimme a better reason to throw myself into a suicide mission than a few long-dead bodies and a damned-fancy story.”


”Ms. Crash, your’s is a perspective that means a great deal to my organization. The young suffer from the same oppression as the generation before them, but they have found distraction in fruity oat bars, beautiful CoreCast stars pretending to be soldiers at Serenity Valley, and the silver tongue machinations of politicians. They have become confused, Ms. Krash, and they need someone to tell the story of their truth…someone they trust. We do not wish you to act as a field journalist…we do not want you to do anything other than see. It will be your choice whether or not you take the next step.”

"Ya talk the talk, but I reckon ya weren't never a 'Coat yerself. So wha's in it fer ay, Million?”

For a moment, Million’s walls fell and his face hardened, his back straightened, and his chest threatened the structural integrity of his button-down shirt.

"Does it matter?... It doesn't to him…Fifty thousand. That's a big enough carrot even for our Vangy here, with plenty left over to share. So where'd you get it? Independents aren't exactly known for the size of their accounts, but that doesn't matter, either, does it? You said brothers just now. Bring our brothers home. So either you're doing a pretty good impression of a browncoat, yourself, or just hoping to play on our heartstrings enough that we'll forget about the stick in your other hand, and honey...You gotta be a lot better at the mandolin to get me to forget about a euphemism big as that. At least buy me dinner first."


As Davina spoke, he had calmed somewhat but the storm of indignation still blew thunderheads in his eyes.

”Let me be perfectly clear. I am not a ‘go between’ or a ‘hired contractor’…I am a Browncoat. The mud I walked and the brothers and sisters I buried are mine to know, but I will not suffer the assumptions of the uninformed.”

A slight jerk of his head betrayed his anger, but he quickly continued, if only to reinforce his prior statement,
”Heartstrings plucked are easily broken…especially the aged and untuned. I am not here to paint a picture of patriotism from my pulpit…I am here to offer this crew a very dangerous job for a very large sum of money. If my words seem preachy, I suggest you don’t listen to them. Instead focus on this…’Fifty Thousand creds for a job my organization believes The Shangren capable of completing’.”

"I think...It's El's ship y'all an' this should be her d'cision. Ain't no reason us gettin'in a tizzy over it. Fifty K, ain't a bad haul but a'ess th' captain says so. Don't mean ta suck up or nothin' just think right is right."

Million cocked his head during Vangy’s brief speech and gave the young woman a surprised look; one usually reserved for treasure hunters, hopeless romantics, or both.

”Well said, but the fact remains that Captain Lee won’t be alone in this endeavor. Each of you will share both the danger and the reward. Your opinions matter to my organization…we need to know that The Shangren, and not just her captain, are in tune with our desires.”

”He,” El corrected him.

”Excuse me?”

”The Shangren isn’t a bitch, he’s a bastard…and boy does he have a set on him.”

Million’s ghost smile ‘reappeared’, ”That’s why he and his crew are at the top of our list.”

El turned back to the crew; the only indication that should they have a question to voice, now was the time to give it a tongue.

[Miriam]

So it was basically a delivery job. Most clients hadn't ever told her what the package was, "most" basically in the sense of "Damn near all," and she was pretty sure none of them had contained corpses, although in cremated form in a nice urn, it was possible she might have taken some honored ancestor across town once or twice. The big difference was, most people handed you the package. They didn't expect you to go steal it. From a prison.

"So, if we're gonna be transporting the honored dead . . ." she said, looking from El back to the screen, "What's the form factor here? Does the prison cremate? Do we have to go dig them all up in full corpse mode? How many units are we moving? Ok, beyond the package, what about the run? It's a prison, so the airspace has got to be hot, but what about the ground? Are they inside or outside the walls? Cemetery? Above ground? And I assume they won't just wave us in and offer us a guided tour, but is this something they realize they ought to care about anyone trying to take, or is it like rummaging the bins and they probably don't even post a guard?"

On her own, she'd probably laugh at the idea, but The Shangren came with some powerful backup.

"Running a moon, you want to know the sky and the ground." she added. "You got maps or anything?"

[Abenette Kelker]

Abe looked coyly at Reggie for just a second before pulling her knees to her chest and wriggling her toes.

"Folks ought to have a place to rest in peace, especially if they are soldiers who gave their lives up for what they believed in," she said firmly. "But I agree with Miriam. We need more information. No sense throwing ourselves into a certain doom for nothing. I intend on living past this job to take on many more in the future."

She thought about the bounty she would receive as her share.

"Maybe taking a vacation for a bit afterwards though," she looked back at Reggie and winked. "You know, someplace hot and steamy."

"So if we get what's needed, I'm in," she added.

[Million]

Grateful to have questions not mired in ideology and conjecture, Million turned his full attention to The Shangren’s pilot, as soon as Abe finished her conditional pledge.

”The bodies, twenty-four in number, are intact, frozen and contained inside military grade cryo-bags. The good news is that our operative on the ground has already secreted them from Andersonville and removed them to an undisclosed location on the surface of Krane. The bad news is that we do not know where on the surface. Our operative’s orders were to get as far from Andersonville as possible and then allow the natural camouflage of Krane to mask their trail…and mask it, it has. We received a burst transmission that they were clear but their exact location will only be sent via coded channel when the op is underway, which is to say, when The Shangren breaks what Krane loosely refers to as atmo.”

Narrowing his gaze until it slid over Dade’s shoulder and snipered into Miriam’s, Million formed his words for the pilot and the pilot alone,

”Near zero visibility. Unknown topography. When you receive our operative’s location we will provide you with what maps we possess but preparation and study will be useless…you will have to adapt on the fly, pardon the pun. Violent, vindictive weather caused by the terra-formers. An atmo that will rob your thrust of at least fifty percent of its fire…”

”Atmo ain’t takin’ nothin’ from The Shangren, Dade interjected, ”You give me the gas makeup, and I’ll give the Rocket Jock a full-torch. Won’t be able to fly in regular atmo till I switch us back, but I figure that’s a light payment for a heavy problem.”

Million nodded but his eyes never left Miriam,

”Finally, the chance of pursuit both down to the moon and back out is highly probable. The Alliance has a capital class in orbit at all times, as well as several smaller class vessels, consisting primarily of fast attack craft…Whippoorwills and the like.”

Leaning into the capture, the man removed concern from the table and went all in with belief,

”Only a handful of pilots could do what we ask without enemy craft in the air…you are the top of the very short list, Miriam,” Million paused for a second before offering his ghost smile and continuing, ”When you get clear of the moon, you need only run a short distance into the Black…hard burn in any direction and we’ll handle the rest.”

His eyes finally left Miriam, and Million turned back to the rest of the crew,

”I’m not a very enthusiastic person, so I’ll save the inspirational speeches for those that feel the need for them. The bottom line, a dangerous job calls for a crew up to the task. The more dangerous, the more skilled the crew needed. We have not offered this job to any others; The Shangren is the best and the best is what is required.”

Leaning back, Million concluded,

”That’s the job. Get in, load up, get out. Each of your unique talents will be needed, so I will need to hear from all of you. ‘Yay’ or ‘nay’, Shangren?”

[Reggie Barbossa]

Reggie continued to lean against the wall, sipping his tea in silence as Million and those replied to talked. If it hadn't been for the repeated movements of bringing his tea filled mug to his lips and drinking, as well as his dark eyes scanning those assembled in the galley, you might as well have mistaken Barbossa for a statue.

He caught the coy look Abe gave him and gave her one back, albeit masked from the others as he took another sip from his slowly disappearing tea. He continued to look at her as she talked, while taking occasional sips from his mug. Upon hearing the words 'vacation' and 'somewhere hot and steamy' coming from her lips, Reggie returned her wink before going all tall, dark, and statue-y.

Reggie continued to listen to what Million had to say while analyzing the details of the job in his head, as well as all available options to ensure that they got out alive and didn't wind up getting double crossed at any point along the way. As soon as Barbossa had finished thinking of every possible good and bad thing that might possibly happen to him and the rest of the crew, Million had just finished speaking.

”That’s the job. Get in, load up, get out. Each of your unique talents will be needed, so I will need to hear from all of you. ‘Yay’ or ‘nay’, Shangren?”

"Eye be een." replied Barbossa, after draining his mug of its contents and setting it down on the counter. "But eef Eye see one sign of a double-cross, eet'll be a cold day een 'Ell for you, Meester Meelleeon. Eye can guarantee dat."

[Killi Crash]

"... your’s is a perspective that means a great deal to my organization. The young suffer from the same oppression as the generation before them, but they have found distraction in fruity oat bars.."

She'd pretty much quit listening to him after that. Pompous patronizing buhn dahn. Was he a war orphan? Had he lost everything to a fight he had no control or part in? Had he lived, homeless, with those displaced and lost kids, like she had done? Had he recorded their stories? If he thought she was distracted, he sure has hell hadn't read any of her books.

Her fine musician's fingers clenched so tightly around her rapidly cooling cup that it trembled.

Miriam and Dade thought it could be done, but she suspected Dade had his own reasons. Reason enough not to be honest about the ship's capabilities? Thinking he could wing it once they were in the thick of things?

But isn't 'winging it' what Shangren always did? Wings were what it was made of.

"But eef Eye see one sign of a double-cross, eet'll be a cold day een 'Ell for you, Meester Meelleeon. Eye can guarantee dat."

Almond eyes shifted to the huge gunman with an appreciative nod, but as quickly she glanced back to the screen and the waiting Million. "We need the work." She admitted, deliberately not glancing to El, "Righteous philosophy doesn't feed the belly or clothe the skin."

What did his generation give a damn about food and clothing? They wanted another war full of homeless babies crying in the streets. The wordsmith took a slow breath, trying to tame back the bitter snarl that rose, "I'm in. But don't expect me to like it."

Her cup slid from her hands to hit the table top with an aromatic splash, and she shoved from the chair, turning her back on the screen and moving deliberately behind El so as not to further jeapardize the mission with her own opinions.

[J. McKenna]

”Only a handful of pilots could do what we ask without enemy craft in the air…you are the top of the very short list, Miriam. When you get clear of the moon, you need only run a short distance into the Black…hard burn in any direction and we’ll handle the rest.”

The bored, tired and slightly suspicious expression continued to sit as a mask on Jeremiah's face, but on the inside, he was trying not to explode into pure rage. That the captain preferred Miriam in the pilot's seat had become abundantly clear to him almost the same moment he had encountered her that night on Beaumonde when he'd walked onto the wrong ship. But if there ever was a mission he was more capable of than Miriam; this was it. Million, however, seemed to have different ideas, which made no sense whatsoever unless he knew something no one on the crew did.

”That’s the job. Get in, load up, get out. Each of your unique talents will be needed, so I will need to hear from all of you. ‘Yay’ or ‘nay’, Shangren?”

Unique talents. Jeremiah's eyes narrowed ever so slightly as bitterness sunk deeper into his mind, already thinking that he'd be sitting in the co-pilot's seat doing nothing or in one of the gunnery seats taking pot-shots at Alliance vessels. No. He wasn't going to rutting do that. This was his chance to show what he could do; that there were aspects to piloting other than a powerful engine and speed. He was about to speak up when Killi diverted his attention, her fingers trembling so hard she almost spilled the tea in her mug.

"We need the work. Righteous philosophy doesn't feed the belly or clothe the skin."
"I'm in. But don't expect me to like it."

Rescuing her cup before it toppled over, Jeremiah watched as Killi rose and moved away, her face reflecting the anger he felt himself. Turning back to the screen for a moment, he leaned forward, almost casually with his expression turning hard and determined. "One condition," he said, turning from the man on the screen to the person in charge on this ship. "You lemme me run tha' blockade." He glanced away from the Captain for a moment toward Miriam and over to the screen, giving a nod. "This bloke seems t' kno' all 'bout us. Prolly he c'n tell ya more 'xactly how many 'kades I got past durin' th' war, but 's up in th' hi' hundreds."

He turned his eyes on Miriam, a cold smile on his lips as he shrugged. "No 'fense, kiddo, bu' how many 'liance blockades 'ave ya gotten past?" Back to El and the smile faded, replaced by a grim and determined expression, Jeremiah knowing full well that the consequences of his next words would more than likely be nasty at best. But he didn't care. "Ya lemme run th' blockade o' ya might as well space me now. I ain't gonna be no use t' ya in th' passenger's seat anyhow."

[Eleanor Lee]

Seemingly more amused than confused, Million allowed his shadow grin to grow more substantial, ”Forgive me, Mr. McKenna, but I was not aware that you were a pilot, let alone jointly responsible for the handling of The Shangren.”

El’s blue lenses hadn’t left McKenna for a moment and remained firmly fixed on the former Browncoat, when she snapped, ”That’s because he isn’t…on both rutting accounts, but he is right about one thing,” from the dreams of convicts a laser pistol appeared in Lee’s hand and zeroed on Jeremiah’s forehead, ”he’s no use to me.”

On the monitor, Million’s face dropped, when the severity of the situation swerved from the entertaining to the deadly. Raising his hands until they were visible to his audience, he tried to defuse the situation, ”Captain Lee, please, this is my fault. Our intel included nothing about Mr. McKenna’s ski…”

”Your intel mention anything about his colossal ego? Mother rutter has been sulking around here since the jump because he feels he’s owed Miriam’s spot. He’s a bitch…a big one, and he’s got the tact of a moonbrained preacher for choosing this moment to whine.”

”Captain Lee, p…”

”Shut the rutt up, Million,” with their potential employer dismissed, her words moved for Jeremiah’s ears, ”What’ll it be, Little Bitch? You going to keep singing and get spaced or are you going to shut the rutt up and earn your due, like the rest of us?”

A smile, feral and beautiful carved its way across her lips, ”Well the rest of you anyway. I’m the crazy bitch with the gun…which is nice.”

[Jeth Riddle]

“Come on, El,” Jeth said as he entered the galley. He still wasn't comfortable calling her 'Captain', even though those who didn't got the cold steely gaze of death, nevermind those that called her 'El'. But even the ferocity of that look was about two or three levels below the one currently fixated on the co-pilot, which was certainly cold and steely, and the death part was coming through loud and clear, but it had that extra dash of crazy that made you think death might be the easy way out.

Jeth circled behind the screen broadcasting Million, half-expecting to see another screen showing the back of his head as he passed it, and came up to a counter to grab an apple. As he turned to face Eleanor, so did the apple turn under his scrutinous gaze.

“No need to space him." He raised the piece of fruit to his mouth, but paused midway, noticing a blemish on the red skin. His brow furrowed in mild disgust, and he tossed it over his shoulder. Two green eyes drifted past Jeremiah and locked on El, and he noted that a laser through the browncoat's skull would also burn a hole into Jeth's stomach, but he wasn't really sure if he had placed himself in the line of fire on purpose. He leaned back on the counter with his elbows and considered getting out of the way.

As he tried to get a read on the icy orbs across the table, it occurred to him that he was the only person in the room who knew what Eleanor's real eyes looked like. He blinked, with one eye being noticeably slower to action than the other. "Just stick a flute up his ass and he can play the battle music on his farts with me.”

[Dade Cooper]

Not yet ‘creaking’ but damn close, Dadelus’s joints extended, and his disheveled bulk rose from his chair until he stood between McKenna and Lee…or more aptly, between McKenna and Lee’s laser pistol. Building off of Riddle's interference and mimicking the ‘palms-out’ approach of Million, the mech offered his captain the time honored pantomime for ‘lets all just settle down’.

”Captain,” Dade’s hair pulled free from his ears and swung to his jaw, framing his face, ”Why don’t we all just step back and ta…”

Staring through Cooper, Eleanor’s free hand shot up to her pistol and altered a dial on its side…the one that would narrow the beam and grant it a greater concentration.

Perfect for cutting through pesky obstacles, like, oh…alcoholic mechanics maybe.

”You were saying, Mr. Cooper?” Eleanor asked matter-of-factly.

Licking his lips in an embarrassingly stereotypical tell of nervousness, Dade regrouped and attacked the problem from a different angle. Instead of using the slings and arrows of compassion and compromise, the mech moved to the bullets and rockets of his trade, ”You shoot that in here, and we’re sure as shit gonna have a hull breach.”

A flutter of something vaguely resembling sanity crossed over Eleanor’s blue lenses.

Seeing his opening, Dade pressed his attack.

”If the hull’s soft at all, we’ll lose the whole section,”, he exaggerated.

”Bullshit,” she snorted.

With a weakness found, Dade continued his assault, ”No it ain’t, Captain. Heater like that could leave us drinkin’ Black through icicle straws. It could pop a relay and leave us without environmental,” he outright lied.

The flow of go se came stronger and more believable, ”We’re too far from a cradle for me to be able to fix it; which means, we’d be lookin’ at a shit-ton of creds to run an integrity test before we could hard burn again. So…please, Captain, put the gun down and we’ll figure out somethin’ else.”

Finally, Eleanor’s eyes rolled from McKenna to Dade.

”C’mon, Captain, lets sit do…”

The laser beam flashed an inch over Dade’s shoulder and struck the far wall of the Galley.

What happened next was a bit of a disappointment, depending on one’s level of self-preservation. The Black didn’t come rushing in to a chorus of alarms and the flashing of emergency lights. In fact, nothing happened.

Blue lensed eyes rolled in a beautifully aesthetic, if insane, skull, and Eleanor cocked her head at Jeremiah, ”Next one goes through Cooper and into you, McKenna. Now sit the rutt down.”

Still rattled from the proximity of his head to Lee's last laser blast, Dade’s palms became a single finger, a finger that ran point for a simple question, ”Is it too late for me to sit back down?”

Eleanor’s maniacal smile returned, ”I’m afraid it is, Mr. Cooper.”