At Least Resistance

[General Luka]

"Congr-"

The word stopped mid-way, a sodden cough puncturing the attempt to speak. The palm-sized projection shimmered, the weary old man portrayed within doubled over as his lungs struggled to function. For a brief moment his arm shifted, a hand reaching out of frame as if tempted to grab hold of some nearby object for support. Force of will held it at bay, and with considerable effort the figure straightened, a single keen eye struggling but succeeding to focus directly on the lens of the holorecorder, peering directly from the recording into the very soul of the man who watched.

"Congratulations on your promotion, General. Please forgive me for not attending the ceremony in person; these damned cats -" A quick sidelong scowl was cast off to one side, presumably at some sort of overattentive nurse hovering just out of view. "- won't let me travel any more."

There was a pause, a faint accompaniment of wheezing, laboured breaths filling the otherwise silence. It was not the rattle of ancient lungs struggling to function however, or at least, not entirely: beneath it all were the efforts of an ancient heart, straining beneath the emotions that weighed down on it. Something shifted and changed, plain to see even at this scale. Inside of a moment the man transformed, no longer trying to appear as the man he had been, and instead embracing the man he had become.

A soft sigh escaped, a faint ghost of a smile settling onto the holographic features of Vansen Tyree. "I'm supposed to say that from the moment I first met you all those years ago, I knew you were destined for greatness. I'd be lying if I did. I certainly didn't know, but I hoped. I saw myself in you, my life in microcosm. You grew disillusioned serving the Empire, just like I did. You made your bid for freedom; tried to make a life for yourself on the outside. Just like me, the Alliance lured you back in: gave you a cause to believe in; gave you a chance to put the rest of your life to better use than your years so far."

A contemplative frown creased Vansen's brow. "In those days, I saw myself as a lost cause. My life was behind me, and the difference I tried to make with the Alliance was just the death throws of a man with too much regret. Back then I wore solitude like armour, and blamed the life for inflicting it on me. I was alone in the blackness of space, and that was how I believed it had to be. I hoped that your path would be different, that you would be spared all that I endured. And yet -"

Another salvo of coughing interrupted the message. Jaden caught the faint sound of another voice; Vansen's hand ushered away whoever it was that sought to help. Jaden could see the glimmer of moisture in Vansen's eye that the strain had caused, the pain in his weary body that this message was subjecting him to; and yet he watched as the old Admiral refused to surrender, refused to let his sickness get the better of him.

"Yet here we are." Tyree's small smile won out against his discomfort, and managed to grow a little more. "I could not have been more wrong. When they tore you out of your cockpit and away from the Rogues, when circumstances pushed you into command, I saw you suffering the same wounds that I did. I saw you spiralling down into the same tired frustration that I felt at the time. You didn't let it be that way. You didn't let it change you. You showed a resilience of spirit and personality that I had never thought to have - and thank the Force that it allowed this twilight of my life to last so long, because it gave me the chance to learn from your example. You reminded me of what I had forgotten: that cockpit or no, we are pilots; and pilots are strongest when they are not alone."

A chuckle escaped from the old man; the older man, rather - Jaden's features showed the addles of the last thirty years just as much as Vansen's. "I still remember what you said to me, when Carré popped out her first. I was jealous, lamenting my lack of family - but you called me out on my crap, and opened my eye to the one standing in front of my face. 'Just because you call it a squadron, or a crew, that doesn't stop it being a family.' At the time you meant Adonis and Carré, but you were just as much a part of it. And now? Now I have more family than I know what to do with."

Vansen afforded himself a pause to catch his breath, and Jaden could see the subtle fidgets, the discomfort that this new incarnation of Admiral Tyree displayed every time he felt sentiment boiling up inside him. He was so unaccustomed, so unsure of how to deal with the impulse. The urge to say something that mattered was there, paired with hesitance about whether it would matter as much to the one hearing as to the one speaking.

"I am not your father." Those words hit like a hammer every time that Jaden heard them; not the words themselves, but the sheer weight of meaning, and the faint flicker of almost disappointment they carried with them. "But I will say what he would if he were here: I am proud of you, Jaden. Not for the extra brass they are hanging on your shoulders, but for what you have done all of these years to earn it. I am proud, and relieved, and reassured to know that this New Republic that we played our part to build has someone of your calibre to defend it."

Vansen could have said more - wanted to say more - but didn't. He didn't need to. The look said it all.

"Congratulations again, General. And if you find yourself in the Cluster any time soon, drop in with one of those newfangled T-70s the holoreels are so proud of. I could use a good laugh at what passes for a starfighter these days."

A split second more, and the hologram flickered into nothing, the faint hint of extra brightness that it had cast across the office fading with it. Jaden's hand reached instinctively for the data rod that held the message, plucking it from the input port, and toying with it idly in his fingers as he stared into the space where Vansen's miniature had stood. Those had been Admiral Tyree's final words; to him, at least. He hadn't lived long enough for Jaden to even manage a response, let alone comply with the Old Man's last request. The weight of the message had pressed down on Jaden's shoulders ever since, especially in recent months: Vansen had died believing that the Republic would be safe in Jaden's hands. The General had promised himself that he'd make sure that dying sentiment remained true, but now?

Jaden's eyes strayed to the small cabinet a few feet away across the office. To most the significance was lost; just a simple piece of furniture topped with a few model fighters. To Jaden it was far more. The cabinet itself was from the Admiral's homeworld of Rendili, and was just as simple, practical, and unassuming as he. The models meanwhile had belonged to Vansen himself, adorning his desk for as long as Jaden could remember, one to represent each fighter flown by the Alliance and the New Republic. Off the side were two additional ships that had been presented to Jaden as a gift when he'd been given his first command - an A-Wing painted in Valkyrie colours, and an X-Wing decorated as Rogue One. Never Forget, the note had said. Jaden had no intention of doing so: not his past, and not the Admiral.

"What would you do, in my position?"

Jaden already knew the answer. He'd already prepared for the answer. And now... now was the time.