The Next Generation

[Meiers Brecklin]

Moonus Mandel

For now it was the normal pleasantries.

Pleasantries being the crisp notes of a Caridan bourbon and old shared memories spoken of in lidded and gruff chuckles. They were just the sort of pleasantries that Meiers had come to secretly enjoy in his old age, and now, sitting across from Vansen Tyree, he couldn't help feeling a bit more in his element. Certainly nowhere near retirement (or at least that was what he insisted when the younger officers made mention), he was happy enough to keep content with the simple joys in life. Oh, there were plenty of complications to be had for one in his position, but they were complications that he had become accustomed to with practiced ease and repetition.

Long gone were the days when he and his crew flew by the seat of their pants, winging the Etrigan from system to system while managing to stay a step ahead of the Empire. He missed that old chair sometimes. He'd had it adjusted just so. He missed that crew. Some were still with him; Kes had remained at his side for so long, and Brecklin had been both sorry and elated to see him accept a posting to Dac. The Major's replacement had thankfully allayed any fears he might've had as to the competence of who would be assigned to him, as Castus Annen had proved a worthy officer.

And that was what led to this meeting now.

With Annen waiting patiently outside Admiral Tyree's office, Meiers knew that the short time of initial chatting would be concluded when their drinks were finished.

Meiers was two sips away from an empty glass.

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen was only one sip away, but only because he'd already been working through a head start when General Brecklin had arrived. It was poor planning on his part, and he'd almost considered recharging himself to offset the balance; but if he allowed himself to resort to such tactics, he'd very quickly find himself no closer to resolving the mountain of paperwork and issues decorating his desk by the end of each day, and considerably further from having a properly stocked drinks cabinet.

The particular issue that had summoned the General to his offices on Moonus Mandel was a sensitive one. It was no secret to anyone who possessed eyes and a basic understanding of human physiology that neither Admiral Tyree nor General Brecklin were particularly young men; and yet, neither of them were prepared to admit that they were old. Aged, yes, but not ready to cross that line into the connotations of being a redundant relic of a bygone age that no one had any further use for. They both clung to the belief that their wisdom and their experience still counted for something; that the galaxy still needed men like them who remembered how to wage a proper war, not all this terrorism and cold war nonsense that the Alliance was in the business of these days.

Still, the reminders came from time to time, eroding away that belief, and sapping at their ability to grip the delusion quite as tightly. Today was one of those days; and now was one of those times.

Vansen sighed, and drained his glass; the clunk as it settled onto his desk bore the heaviness of his burden along with it.

"I'm afraid," the Admiral said, with the kind of slow reluctance that only the withered voice of an old man could achieve, "I didn't just call you here to reminisce about old times, pleasant as the company may be."

He allowed a silence to fall, his brow furrowing into deep frown.

"Admiral Holt. General Forlon. Starborn. Van-Derveld. You. Me. A lot of humans in our High Command, Meiers. Old, male humans at that."

He settled back in his chair, a weary sigh escaping from his lungs. This was the worst part of his job, the worst part of promotion: the fact that at this level, politics was inescapable. Military decisions, strategic choices, the safety of the citizens of the Alliance; political correctness and bureaucratic appeasement should have had no bearing, and yet it invariably did.

"As the Admiral responsible for defending our precious capital -" There was considerably more sarcasm in that remark that would have been appropriate in any other company. "- it has been politely suggested that I take steps to make my Fleet as diverse and representative of the Alliance as is humanly, and non-humanly possible. I've agreed to let them turn Task Force 42 into their farcical little Alliance microcosm: ships from every corner, all playing nice and cooperating. All I need to do now is find someone to lead it."

He grunted. "The Bothans want one of theirs. I would much rather have someone I know I can trust, or -" His gaze lingered knowingly on the General. "- who is vouched for by someone I know I can trust."

[Meiers Brecklin]

Meiers gave a grunt, twirled the last dregs of his drink in his glass, watching idly as if lost in some far-away memory. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he was inwardly cursing the progression of time, wishing for those old days when everything was so much less complicated and far less political. He had a healthy enough notion that Vansen as well missed those day; though he had to wonder how much simpler it'd been on the other side of the fence back then. He almost thought of asking, but filed that particular line of questioning for another time. Both men knew the weight of their meeting now, and neither wanted to to admit to one another that maybe - just maybe - they were becoming outdated. It was a sudden thought that made the General grimace as he lifted the glass up for that last, final sip.

He leaned forward, setting the now-empty glass on the Admiral's desk.

"I do not envy you all of this," came the rueful beginning as he once more reclined in his seat, an errant hand going out to gesture at the Admiral's office while his eyes shifted up to meet Vansen's own weathered features.

"But I understand the position you are in, regardless."

So too did he understand the desire from their higher-ups for a more diversified set of officers to continue the work that the 'Old Guard' had begun. As with the man sitting across from him, he had been given a somewhat carefully worded set of orders to begin searching for able-minded individuals - though from the sound of things, the request made of him had not been quite so specific as Vansen's had been. He was glad for that, at least.

"There are many I could vouch for, and every single one of them would be suitable for the job no matter the planet they call home."

An almost tired sigh as he reached up to rub a hand across his eyes.

"But, I've been around long enough to read between the lines of every set of orders and requests sent my way."

Both of them had; no matter what side of the fence each one started on, they had come to occupy the same side at the end of it, and both men knew what was largely expected of them.

"Whether the Bothans get what they want, I care little. What matters to me is that the most capable individual is placed at the helm. If it is a Bothan, then so be it. But I'll not pander to any sort of sense of entitlement that they feel owed. If another is more deserving, then that other will be the one to occupy that station."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen nodded wordlessly. Meiers still had a certain luxury of speaking clear and plain that Vansen's proximity to politics often robbed him of, and while he didn't doubt that the privacy of his office and the confidence of a valued friend were sufficiently secure, events of late had dented his otherwise unwavering trust, and caution was far more dominant in his mind than it otherwise might have been.

"Whatever the Bothan people are or are not owed for their contributions to the Alliance is a judgement best reserved for better men than I."

He hesitated, his exposed eye narrowing ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Or rather, more interested men than I," he conceded.

His brow furrowed, his face considerably more comfortable formed into a frown than it was at rest, which spoke volumes about the life and times of Admiral Vansen Tyree. Another sigh escaped him, and for a few moments the Admiral wondered just how many of his breaths over the course of a day emerged as some variation of that frustrated sound.

"That said, while my controls aren't completely slaved to the Senate, I am forced to fly in close formation, and there is only so much room to manoeuvre that I am permitted to have."

His fingers laced together in front of him, his mind lamenting the fact that metaphors were as close to piloting as he was able to get these days.

"Tell me about Castus Annen. What's your read on him?"

[Meiers Brecklin]

At that, Meiers leaned back in his seat.

"He is a commendable officer," came the measured start, spoken in a level tone.

"Quiet, but his shoulders can heft the burden I've no doubt. He's been under my command for close to five years now."

The General gave an errant wave to the small terminal on the Admiral's desk.

"I've had all of the pertinent records sent to you, including observations from his previous commanding officers and crewmen."

It had been a thorough investigation of sorts on Meiers' part, as he was determined to provide as complete a picture as possible for Admiral Tyree. But, those were the official documents, and Meiers let his gaze settle on a point just over Vansen's shoulder as he contemplated the intent behind the question put to him.

"Castus is capable, I can assure you of that. He's calculating, and knows the limits of what he can and cannot do."

A moment passed as Meiers shifted in his seat, sending one leg over the other.

"To my estimation, he's the one you want, Admiral."

[Vansen Tyree]

That was a common assessment of the man, from what Vansen had read: but what people wrote on the page and what they said aloud and in private were often two different beasts. It was the pauses, the hesitations, the shifts in tone and expression that conveyed far more than the literal wording ever could. The lines of thought deepened on Vansen's face.

He didn't like this; wasn't fond of the idea of deputising such a situation to someone else. As a starfighter pilot, you were the cutting edge of the knife: your fate, and the fate of others was in your own hands, in the hands of those directly beside you in formation, and in the hands of the scant few trusted mechanics who you let anywhere near your plane. The circle of trust was small, and any pilot with even an iota of sense about him made sure to know those people intimately, to ensure they were worthy of that obligated trust. That was why it was so essential that pilots and mechanics ate together, drank together, breathed the same air as often as possibility allowed. Many saw it as enjoying the company of those you would die beside: but it was the opposite; by knowing them, you gave yourselves a chance to live.

As an Executive Officer, and as a Captain, Vansen had been forced to let go of that. He still tried to know his crew as well as he could - to know what they were capable of, at the very least - but there were too many officers and crewmen to possibly have the same kind of intimate trust. When you gave the order for the hyperdrive to be repaired, for guns to fire at will at a particular target, for manoeuvres to be enacted or squadrons deployed, it was less trust and more faith that those orders would be enacted as you desired. You had to let go of the need to know everyone, and everything; and that was an arduous transition. And as an Admiral, the situation was far worse. Every step up the ladder of leadership made control even more distant, and even more out of reach.

Vansen didn't want to leave this to anyone else; and he lamented the fact that anything otherwise was long beyond his grasp.

There was one important question that remained however: one important piece of knowledge he needed to extract from Brecklin to help decide if this Castus Annen really was the man in whom he was prepared to place that blind faith; one piece of information that would tell him the kind of man that he was dealing with.

"Will he want the job?"

[Meiers Brecklin]

For a few minutes he said nothing, instead simply staring ahead while lacing his fingers together in his lap. There were many things he could say, all of which being that Mr. Annen indeed wanted the job. But, they had all so recently come out of a terrible breach of faith that Meiers understood well the need for a confirmation that can directly from the Bantha's mouth, as it were.

He gave a light exhalation, looking down at his interlocked fingers before looking back up at Vansen with a ruefall eye.

"If you'd like, you may ask him yourself."

A wry smile touched his features.

"I've brought him with me; he's waiting outside."

[Vansen Tyree]

"Of course he is," Vansen muttered, the gruff tone slowly transitioning into a faint chuckle.

It was a strategically evasive answer: one that understood why the question needed to be asked. It wasn't a simple matter of whether or not one would be wasting time by making an offer. It was about all that had happened, and it was about what you could discern about a man by the way he reacted to opportunity. For some, leadership was a reluctant burden: you understood the necessity, and you did your duty, but every step up the ladder was a reluctant withdrawal from the hands-on front line. For others, leadership was an opportunity: the ascent itself was the benefit, the summit their objective; power and prestige were welcome advantages. Then there were those who would refuse: those who understood that the part they played already was too important to simply abandon; who were dragged, kicking and screaming into authority. Worst of all, there were those who felt one, and acted another: false gratitude, false reluctance, all pandering to what they believed their superior wanted to hear.

Vansen knew which of those he was. He knew which of those Dan Thule had been; and which he'd pretended to be. With all that had happened, and with all the scrutiny that the General's replacement would earn, Vansen needed to know the kind of man he was choosing.

Idly, Vansen wondered what it looked like when a Selonian was bluffing.

He reached for the comm unit, depressing the activation key. "Ensign, please have Mister Annen join us."