The sea didn't care for titles, but Elias Thorne cared for the sea. At sixty-four, with a face like a topographic map of the Atlantic, he was the youngest man ever to be named , and the oldest to still insist on taking the helm during a gale.
"Vane, do you know why they call me Admiral?" he asked, his voice a low gravel. "Your record, sir. Forty years of service."
By the time the heat alarms stopped blaring, they were in the clear, the vast expanse of open space ahead of them. Elias finally sat back in his command chair, his hands—for the first time in hours—slightly shaking. admiral
As the Invictus drifted toward the searing corona of the nearby star, the crew held their breath. The ship groaned, metal expanding in the intense heat. On the scanners, the Kaelian fleet moved to intercept their projected dive path, leaving their rear exposed.
"Admiral," Vane said, looking at the sensor readouts in disbelief. "We’re through. How did you know the tide would hold?" The sea didn't care for titles, but Elias
"No," Elias chuckled, adjusting his cap. "It's because I'm the only one crazy enough to treat a starship like a sailboat. We aren't diving. We’re going to catch the solar tide." "Sir, the heat shields—"
His flagship, the OSS Invictus , was a leviathan of steel and silicon, humming with the power of a captured star. But today, the hum was a frantic vibration. "Your record, sir
Elias looked out at the stars, a faint smirk on his lips. "I didn't. But a good Admiral knows that sometimes, you have to let the universe take the wheel."