Birds on the Wire

[Vansen Tyree]

Fourth Fleet Command, Moonus Mandel

Vansen shifted uncomfortably in the chair behind his desk, once again finding himself agitated and forced to fidget. As he had done several times over the last ten minutes, he triggered a small valve beneath the seat, the pad descending on pneumatics a few fractions of an inch, but it didn't help any. Something was off something about his office, his sanctum of sanity, had been miscalibrated, and it was driving him up the wall.

He sat in silence for a moment, and then a few moments more passed with his fingers drumming against the edge of the desk before a grunt escaped him and his hands reached out, adjusting the cluster of tiny starfighter miniatures that now adorned one corner of his desk. Merrin Altink had given him the idea, and had been all too happy to help the Admiral begin a collection of his own. These ones were small and entirely machined in a 3D fabricator - Vansen had neither the patience nor the depth perception to paint them by hand as the engineer did - each one representing one of the designs that Incom-Koensayr-Meorrrei currently had in production for the Alliance military, as well as a few of the concept designs that were actively in the process of being developed. A cabinet over in the corner held a cluster of other starfighters decorated in squadron colours relevant to Vansen's life: a Z-95 in Judicial red, a Y-Wing in Republic gold, an A-Wing in Valkyrie colours, and an X-Wing with Rogue Squadron markings; more besides, each one with meaning and significance that bore more sentimentality than Vansen was used to displaying. The shelf behind him meanwhile bore slightly larger reproductions, one to represent each of the starships he had served on: his first Rendili Dreadnaught, the Brenik, the Vakyrie, both incarnations of the Valiant, and of course, his beloved Challenger. The latter was in the wrong place, arguably. He'd served aboard her when she was new back in the Clone Wars, but it hadn't felt right nestling her so far into his past.

Vansen wasn't interested in those reproductions: they weren't the ones that she - they, he forced himself to mentally correct - would be looking at. It was poor taste perhaps, displaying those particular ships so prominently on his desk, but he had his reasons, and his justifications. He wasn't a man who hid his biases: they were what they were, and any deception surrounding them was futile and insulting. More than that though, these were his fighters. His projects. Designs that he had a hand in. When his bones had finished turning to dust, and when his name was no more than a footnote in a handful of minor battles, there would be a kid out there somewhere in the galaxy with a picture book of vintage starfighters, and they would obsess over the details and statistics of something he had helped create.

He wasn't sure why that notion struck such a chord with him: seventy-six years of life, and he'd never before given a flying frak about legacy and memory. Now though, with so much of who he was and how he defined himself being stripped away and replaced by bureaucracy and mediocrity, it seemed more important than ever to preserve something of the man he was supposed to be, even if it was just a few fingerprints on some blueprints, once upon a time.

He let out a sigh, and tweaked the angle of the largest of the models again. It was a two-person gunship, broad-winged and with a pair of slanted weapons pylons beneath. Many things could be said about Merrin Altink, but he certainly knew how to push Vansen's buttons: there were enough hints and familiar flourishes to remind him of the days of yore, and make him nostalgic for V-19s and LAAT gunships. They hadn't named it yet - and if the Appropriations Committee had it's way, there'd probably be no need to - but he was sure they would eventually. Someone would probably look at it from all different angles until they decided on a letter it resembled, and then bolt -wing on the back end and call it a day.

Vansen's gaze strayed around the room, surveying for more items to irritate his impatient sense of precarious calm. Instead, they settled on a stoic figure in the corner, a monocular stare focused directly on him.

The Admiral scowled. "Don't look at me like that, you miserable bucket of bolts."

[ADAR]

The ocular seemed to blink, constricting with a quickness before opening back up again. There was no need to move. What purpose would that serve? To reinforce some sort of silly and outdated notion of attention? Why do such a thing when staring worked well enough?

It was an action that ADAR had found most effective. And so he stared in silence, watching as Vansen Tyree fiddled with his little toy ships, no doubt pining away for... what had the Admiral once called them? Glory days? There were enough phrases that'd been given to the Lupine droid that kept him busy enough, parsing the meaning and often becoming short and clipped when his processors seemed to have a difficult time making sense of each bit of words. In a way the droid could understand longing for times past. He often found himself accessing the small fragments of memory that'd managed to survive in his deeper subroutines. Brief flashes of recordings that showed in half-seconds glorious vistas of Schwartzweld. Faces of the old Masters.

He considered his answer to the gruff words spoken by Admiral Tyree, and settled for being as undiplomatic as possible. It usually yielded the more interesting of results.

"Would you rather I leave so that you can continue to play with your little ships?"

[Vansen Tyree]

There were days when the battered and weary Admiral found use and favour in the broken and withered body that life had left him with. Heavy-hanging skin, an obscured eye, a heart that didn't pump blood to his extremities as readily as it used to, and a facial expression with enough give in it that the subtler shifts of expression didn't make enough impact to show - all traits that were wonderfully beneficial on those rare occasions where someone caught him off guard and provoked a reaction that wasn't overshadowed by his baseline grump.

A younger Vansen might have flushed in a mix of frustration and embarrassment, but Vansen merely sneered, his head shuddering ever so slightly as he held the droid's gaze. "I'm calibrating," he countered, making a point of turning back to the display and nudging the X-Wing's orientation slightly with painful slowness, his teeth gripping at the edge of his lip to emphasise just how much concentration was involved.

It actually made things slightly worse, but Vansen wouldn't give ADAR the satisfaction of watching him undo his efforts. Instead he settled back in his chair, acting as if he were entirely satisfied. "It's a subtle organic nuance, I wouldn't expect a mechanoid like you to understand." The barest, faintest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of Vansen's mouth that was orientated away from ADAR's view. "I know your software isn't sophisticated enough for things like that."

[ADAR]

"What my software is capable of I doubt you would understand, Admiral."

The construct moved then, one leg lifting and going forward to set him into motion. His towering frame lumbered across the short distance to the Admiral's desk in a few short strides before slowing to a stop, his head angling downward to take in the small assortment of little models. He looked up then, at the larger ships. Another moment passed as his single ocular swept over each detail on every ship.

"Perhaps you should calibrate the one you favor most... your Challenger."

And again he looked down, this time to stare into the single eye of the man that he found a bizarre sense of companionship with. It was a stange notion, to think of a human as enjoyable company.

"It is 2 millimeters skewed to the left."

[Vansen Tyree]

Oh no, Vansen wasn't going to rise to that bait. No matter how much the urge to turn and glance gripped him, he kept his gaze deadpan on the droid, staring it down.

"I like it that way," he countered. "It's symbolic of -"

He stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing slightly in a faux show of thought. A decision seemingly reached, he shrugged, letting his attention fall away from the droid and instead to the datapad on the desk before him, quietly beginning to skim his way through the notes he'd prepared for today's big and daunting meeting.

"It's complicated. Represents the Challenger being further removed from anywhere else I've served -"

He halted again, grimaced, glanced at the droid, and then back to the desk again, before shaking his head dismissively.

"You wouldn't understand, but it's fine. I know how old your systems are, and I don't want to over-tax you. Captain s'Ilancy would be furious with me if you suffered a system error because I expected too much from you."

[ADAR]

"Such kindness you exhibit."

Standing before the desk, ADAR allowed his 'eye' to pass from the Admiral back to the small assortment of ships that had so taken his attention. Whatever movement that Tyree had made to the small X-Wing seemed to place it at the barest of odd angles. It was possible that the Admiral had moved it in some preferential fashion, as he claimed the Challenger was placed. It was possible, but as the glowing optic of his visual port focused on the face of Vansen Tyree, his own external monitors told him otherwise. There had been the slightest of ticks to the man's single functioning eye, and ADAR had detected a small increase in his heartbeat.

The droid let out an audible hm, and finally he moved. An arm came out as his three-fingered hand moved across the desk's surface. Slowly, as if testing the waters yet knowing the outcome all the same.

A single finger precisely nudged the X-Wing's display base, once more placing it in perfect line with the other ships.

And all the while his ocular remained fixed on the Admiral.

"There. I have fixed it."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen's one-eyed gaze met with ADAR's, and lingered.

There was a fine line, a narrow corridor of leeway within the heart of the relationship between the old Admiral and the old droid. Behind all the jibes and good natured banter, the cantankerous personality subroutines, and the almost childish rivalry, he knew that ADAR's primary motivation was to be of assistance. Perhaps not voluntarily, perhaps not out of any amicable fondness for the Admiral, but at the very least those were the operating instructions that Loklorien had given him. When ADAR acted, it was - through one lens of perspective or another - in an effort to help.

For Admiral Tyree, there were times when that was problematic. He was not petty or prideful, not to any extreme at least; but as he grew older, and as his body grew more weary, it became more important to him - more vital to his continued sanity - that he find some success and achievement in his twilight years. People saw the haggard, one-eyed Admiral, and their instinct was to aid him: to open doors, to fetch and carry, to lessen the imagined strain placed on him. Subordinates felt they needed to lessen the need for him to micromanage. Superiors felt they needed to squirrel him away into a quiet corner where he could serve out the rest of his career out of harm's way. Vansen didn't care that his hands struggled every now and again. He didn't care that his depth perception was gone. He didn't care that the aches in his body made everything a little slower than it used to be. He was Admiral Vansen Tyree, for Force sake. He'd do it his kriffing self.

For a brief moment the fates smiled, and the sound of the intercom broke through the tension between the benevolent droid and his ungrateful patient. A few seconds passed, neither of them moving, until finally Vansen's vision shifted away, and his finger triggered a response. "Go ahead, Ensign."

"You have a visitor, sir."

A slight spike in Vansen's heart rate came at that, his vision settling on the array of IKM fighters once again. He didn't want them perfect. He didn't want them looked like they had been placed and calibrated by a droid. They weren't there as decoration, they were there as a reminder... but there was no more time. Vansen's jaw clenched. "Very well, Ensign. Send them in."

A nervous glance peered around ADAR's humanoid chassis as the door hissed open; and then collapsed into a more typical scowl as the sliding metal unveiled the visitor beyond. General Meiers Breklin. Not the visitor he'd been hoping for. He'd invited Senator Meorrrei to meet him here at his office in advance of the meeting, to "discuss strategies" and such things, but clearly she had not managed to precede the first of the other quartet of visitors that were scheduled to arrive; no doubt she was being fashionably late or something of that ilk.

Vansen supposed that it would have been easier for this meeting to have been held on Bothawui. While the Alliance Senate's current facilities were temporary, the Intergalactic Trade Mission - the unofficial hub of the Bothan Spynet, which had become the adopted headquarters of Alliance Intelligence and SpecForce in recent years - was generous enough to make offices and briefing rooms available to him should he need to conduct business in proximity to the capital. It would have been more convenient for the Senators, that was for certain, and he split so much of his time between Bothawui and Mandel that it hardly made a difference to him. This was a political move though, a power play, the kind of thing that Senator Meorrrei might have even been a little bit impressed with him for employing. Forcing the Senators to leave their comfort zone and travel out here to Moonus Mandel gave him and General Brecklin the home-field advantage. It was one thing for them to sit in the plush surroundings of the political heart of the Alliance and decide to be frugal and capitalist with their military contracts; it was something else entirely for them to feel confident doing that in the midsts of a military base.

"Make yourself comfortable, Meiers," Vansen offered, with a curt nod by way of greeting; the two officers were too old and too well acquainted to waste time going overboard on pleasantries. One tiny opportunity to twist the knife in ADAR presented itself however, and Vansen seized it. "Can I have my droid fix you a drink?"

[Meiers Brecklin]

There was a certain amount of unsung, rueful pining that he exuded every time he entered Admiral Vansen Tyree's office. Or any office, really. It was most acutely felt from his own official abode aboard the Marianas. Old, ragged holos, trinkets from the worlds that he'd been to in those early days. A few medals and honors scattered about, and even a scrap of an old Rebellion flag that'd come from one of the earliest engagements against the Empire. He'd helped to lift that flag over the battleground that'd once been a bustling city on Svivren. It was a symbol of hard times, yet times that he would relive again if given the chance. There was something to be said for that lean desperation that made a man.

It had shaped him into the individual he was now. Of course with growth came more responsibility, and he'd gone from leading the small insurgencies to organizing them from an arguably cramped office aboard his own small warship. And further beyond that into providing support and resources, until finally Meiers Brecklin had found his way into something a bit more high-tiered. A bit more formed and much less scattered. He had at his fingertips resources that he'd not had before. He had a pool of supplies to call upon, and the manpower to truly stem the Imperial tide. It was certainly not glorious, but it was still a thing to take a small bit of pride from.

Now at the head of the Starfighter Corps, General Brecklin spent his time on his baby, the Hornet-class carrier Marianas.

Of course, where he found himself now was far removed from the comforting bulkheads of his command ship, and the General gave a slight grunt in answer to Admiral Tyree's words.

Still though, he was polite enough.

"Thank you, Vansen."

The offer of a provided drink was met with a sigh as he lowered himself to sit in one of the provided chairs.

"I'll pass for now," a cautious, sideways glance was sent to the constant droid companion that the Admiral kept. it didn't need to be said that the General was leery of the Lupine construct and its' ability to make any sort of satisfying drink, even if all that was required was a cube of ice and a small level of bourbon.

[Vansen Tyree]

No drink. That was a brave choice, given the company they were about to share. Vansen was a long way from an alcoholic, and given the nature of his job he was fairly harsh on himself as far as drinking on duty was concerned; if nothing else, there were too many Spynet operatives floating around to risk even a casual drink here and there being exploited against you next time a Senator found themselves needing a little extra leverage. Even so, there were certain days - certain meetings - that Vansen simply would not survive if it weren't for the promise of a stiff drink at the end of it.

"You may want to reconsider that by the time our guests have arrived," he muttered; his tone wasn't joval, when was it ever, but there was a lightness to it, something that hitched up the gruffness in Vansen's voice like a Naboo courtesan trying not to step on her own skirt. "Feels like I've aged an extra twenty years in the last few months, with all these dealings with Senators and bureaucrats."

He settled himself back in his chair and smirked. "Probably looks like I have too, right?"

What was supposed to be a short sigh turned into a longer one, a faint consideration quickly transforming into a thoughtful frown as he contemplated what they were setting out to do.

"When did we get so old?" he asked, and it was more than just numerical age that inspired his words. The two of them represented the old guard, the old way, the old tactics that the Rebellion had relied upon because it had no one else to turn to. They were a generation or two removed from the Alliance's best and brightest, pushed upwards into seniority to clear a path for young officers and innovative tactics. The Alliance of Free Planets was one of those young entities: something new, something still struggling to come to terms with it's identity, something eager to break away from the ways of it's forebears to define a new path. That was what this meeting was about: the Senators themselves might not be young, but the tactics they were trying to adopt were; and here was Vansen and Meiers, the stern parents, trying to insist upon an unruly infant that their way was still the best way.

"When did we become so obsolete?"

[Meiers Brecklin]

"Obsolete?"

There was a certain amount of surprise in Meiers' voice as he repeated that word. The expression on his face too conveyed his initial reaction, and settling himself a little bit more in his chair, he pulled in a long breath before letting it back out. In some respects he supposed that it was an apt choice of words, but the General was loathe to accept the label just yet.

"We're still alive, Vansen. That should count for something I'd like to think."

And in his mind it did. They'd weathered the storm of civil war and emerged into a different galaxy. Maybe not outright victory, but the treaty that they all now enjoyed was something, at least. This war had stalled, and now it was up to them to make sure that it remained as such. They had to keep themselves relevant.

"I'd rather look at our existence as doggedly hanging on to the Cause," he added with a wry smile, leaning back just a small bit while rolling old shoulders. There were creaks there that had not been there before, and it caused a light-hearted grimace.

"Though I suppose we've settled ourselves rather magnificently into a bit more of an age-appropriate role in these matters."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen grunted out a laugh. "If I were in an age-appropriate role," he countered, a faint twinkle in his eye, "I'd be in a retirement home surrounded by attractive nurses, accidentally dropping things to make them bend over."

Brecklin had a point, though. If there was one thing that defined the Galactic Civil War, one thing that summed up the fragile cause that the Alliance had fought for, it was that desperate determination, that expectation that everything would fight longer and harder than it was ever supposed to, and that it would do so because the cause was just. Admiral Tyree was no different from a starship in that regard: he was a decade or more past when he should have been retired from service, and yet here he still was, pushed beyond those limits because the Alliance required him to be - just like half the fleet. Just like the Challenger floating above them in orbit. Just like Y-Wings and Z-95 Headhunters, and all the other relics of the Galactic Republic that the Alliance still depended upon.

But they wouldn't last indefinitely. They wouldn't need to last indefinitely. That was the purpose, the hope of this meeting. There was more to being here on Moonus Mandel than the political posturing of forcing the Senators to come to him, rather than the reverse. On the surface of Moonus Mandel, and aboard orbiting ships like the Challenger and the Valiant, the Alliance injected new life into it's Starfighter Corps. Those who already knew how to fly - veterans of the Empire, of local militias, of law enforcement and the like - passed through the Challenger, where the remnants of Rogue Squadron and the Alliance's other elite units that hadn't dispersed and moved on helped familiarise those experienced pilots with the iconic craft that the Starfighter Corps relied upon. On the surface meanwhile, Leela Vorega and her instructors took the bright-eyed and enthusiastic youth of the Alliance, those infected with the spark of rebellion by the freedom that had just been provided to them, eager to dedicate themselves to preserving it. Perhaps it was being here, crossing paths with so many young recruits and cadets that made him feel so old. Doggedly hanging on he might be, but a new litter of puppies was being born every day, and it would not be long before the time came to put the old dog down.

"Perhaps we are where we belong, for now," he mused, "But it's only a matter of time before something younger and newer comes along that deserves to be where we are just as much. When that day comes, people like you and I will find ourselves firmly in the way. A few years ago, I would have assumed I'd be dead and gone before that happened, lost in a blaze of glory during some battle that no one would even remember. Now though? I wonder what they'll do with us when the time comes."

A soft, bittersweet chuckle escaped. "Perhaps they'll put us in a museum, alongside all these fighter designs we're trying to replace."

[Meiers Brecklin]

Meiers gave a barely audible laugh as he settled himself a bit more in his chair.

"That very well might be," he managed to grin, "... but we're still useful now, and I plan to make use of that."

He paused, giving himself a moment to ponder the weight of so many years behind him, and then on into what the years beyond this point in time might present to him.

"Until I'm asked to step aside, I will continue on as I always have."

But, in some ways it was still partially depressing to think on, and the General opted to change the subject somewhat.

"I've noticed that you've maintained a decent amount of contact with Senator Meorrrei," his voice took on an almost rueful tone at that, and he looked at his counterpart from over the tops of his eyes before finishing with a small chuckle.

"You're a brave man."

[Vansen Tyree]

Vansen was often glad that his scowl and glower was so deeply entrenched on his face - it made it far harder for errant emotions to push through and express themselves without him wanting to. Right now the unauthorised feelings were hard to pin down; anxious, agitated, uncomfortable, something of that ilk. There was an implication there, one he felt the impulse to protest. His interactions with the Senator were entirely professional, entirely platonic... he couldn't bring himself to utter such a bold faced lie.

"I'm too old for contact with anyone," he countered, reinforcing the subtle implication. That part was certainly true. Whatever there was or might be between him and the Senator, far too much of it belonged in the purview of the young. He'd lived too long to resort to anything casual and frivolous, and had too few years left to embark on something that mattered. Perhaps this was why the old and wealthy found themselves young new wives with such surprising ease: perhaps they were only after you for your credits, but there was simplicity there, and expediency.

Sadly, Vansen lacked the wealth and the appeal for anything of that sort. Too old. Too obsolete. Too derelict.

A dry chuckle snuck out of his throat. "And even if I wasn't, I don't have the time. The only person I see often enough for anything of the sort is you."