Mortimer Sprill was not a good man. Good men were constrained by laws, and morality, and intangible things like compassion. They gave of themselves, sacrificed for others, and when they achieved greatness, they shaped history. Sprill was not a good man, and he had no interest in trying to be.
What Sprill was, was a survivor. He saw no innate value in goodness, but there was a tangible reward in survival. It was the first and basest instinct of Man, and if it wasn't exactly noble, well. Sprill saw no innate value in nobility, either. Every being in the Universe wanted to survive, and most were willing to do so at the cost of others. Luckily, Sprill was also clever. He had a whirring, sinuous mind, with an ear for sound and a talent for observation. These natural talents he used with a surgeon's precision to make himself necessary. If not trusted, he could at least be invaluable.
When he joined the Royal Naval Academy, he did so with no illusions as to his place. He was there on a charity scholarship, reeking of poverty and Border-born classlessness. He had grown up hungry and desperate, and he was never going to win approval, certainly not by faking a patriotism or gratitude he did not feel. So he didn't. He was sullen, and quite, and still, very, very clever.
Eventually, the restrictive discipline and hierarchy of military life ceased chafing and Sprill found it much to his liking. It was as though someone had thoughtfully laid out a map detailing the expected behaviors of everyone around him and provided a helpful key of the most common motivations. It was a restful paradise after juggling the explosive and unpredictable hierarchies of the gangs. Sprill had always been a manipulative bastard and the Fleet was almost too easy, allowing him to develop a degree of subtlety he let himself be proud of in quiet moments.
Sprill was not good, or compassionate, or loyal, or grateful. He was driven, manipulative, clever, and, very occasionally, the best man to have in your corner.
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