Convergence - Chapter 3: Admiral in Name Only

The speakers of the little box-shaped freighter, Cudgel, chimed. It made a high pitched whistling sound, alerting the two men sitting inside the haphazardly-converted shipping bay that they had received a new message.

"Another one?" Jim Crater muttered, not looking up from the stack of papers resting in front of him.

He was a grizzled man in his late forties with leathery skin and gray hair. He moved slowly and with a pronounced limp from a wound sustained a few years earlier in a shootout. It was a shootout, in fact, that he'd helped to incite. He was also, Oliver had learned, a very intense man in everything he did.

Which was a polite way of saying he got angry at the drop of a hat.

That wasn't all bad, though. He wasn't physical with his anger, more prone to sulking and complaining than lashing out, and it gave him a presence that made people stop and take notice.

Right now, however, his shoulders bowed beneath invisible weight, the skin under his eyes bruised purple, his hands trembling with a fine vibration that came from weeks without proper sleep. He hadn't slept much since everything in his life had started to fall apart. He moved around the Cudgel like a phantom, refusing to go out in public for fear of being recognized or mocked.

Oliver, on the other hand, loved to go out and get recognized. That was why he spent so much money on clothing and accessories; he wanted to stand out. It wasn't necessarily why he spent so much time grooming or visiting day spas, but it was a contributing factor to be sure.

Jim had been poring over these incoming messages for the last several hours, and it showed—he kept squinting at the same line twice, rubbing his temples, his jaw clenching against yawns he refused to release. He was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of what he was trying to accomplish, especially when there was nothing he could actually do in his current position. It was eating away at him.

"Looks like," Oliver agreed. "More people who want to join the crew of Admiral Jim Crater."

Jim winced at the title. It had been a badge of honor for him during the first months of his Admiralty, but now it had become something of a mockery. Reality had finally settled in for him, and he was coming to terms with the truth of his situation.

Oliver flicked open his lighter and held the flame to his pipe. He puffed a few times, the glow inside the bowl spreading until the tobacco was lit evenly. His was an exquisite and expensive pipe, gaudy and pristine, and certainly one of his most expensive possessions.

He considered the purchase to be well worth it, though. Buying expensive things—especially when the right people recognized their value—was a mark of station in many circles.

Those were the circles he wanted to be a member of. Like his clothes—fiber cloth that shimmered as he walked—the ostentatious pipe was a testament to his newfound status in life.

***

"How am I supposed to go through all of these?" Jim asked, rubbing his face with his hands. "There are hundreds of applications here."

"You aren't supposed to," Oliver replied. "That's the point. If you don't have the means to hire any of these people, then don't torture yourself by acknowledging them."

"These are the very people I should acknowledge," Jim argued. "They are seeking me out because I mean something to them. They are personally offering their services, and many of them chose me directly out of school and basic training rather than Hektor Menshen and his fleet."

"They chose you because they think there is a future with your fleet," Oliver replied. "If you admitted you weren't recruiting, people would stop applying."

"I can't do that. If I admit that I don't have a fleet, then Hektor has already won."

Oliver shrugged. "Sometimes that's what it comes down to. You can't keep playing the game when the other team won't share the ball."

"I didn't even post a bulletin to say we were opening up recruitment. Why would so many people send in their applications now?"

"If I had to guess, I would say Hektor had something to do with it. He wants to embarrass you."

"You think he would stoop so low?"

"I don't think it's stooping for him. This is who he is."

Jim scrolled to the next application and paused. "This one's different. Republic military, defected six months ago. Says he left because of what happened at Daer—mentions Captain Grove and Denigen's Fist specifically. Claims the Republic is redeploying their heaviest warships toward Sector Two."

"Why would they do that?"

"Union activity, apparently. He says Maven Ophidian—one of Darius's people—has been running intelligence operations across the neutral zone. Half the reason he defected was because he got tired of chasing ghosts for a government that wouldn't admit the war was changing."

Oliver considered this. A defector dropping names like Maven Ophidian and Captain Grove wasn't some desperate recruit looking for glory. He was either genuinely frightened or trying to use Jim's fleet as a hiding place. And if the Republic really was shifting fleet assets—even a fraction of their thousand-plus warships—toward Sector Two, that changed the calculus for everyone in the region.

Either way, it meant the galaxy was getting smaller. The Kingdom had maintained its independence for decades—a neutral power wedged between the Republic and the Union, trading with both sides, allied with neither. But neutrality was becoming impossible to sustain. Whatever was happening between those two superpowers was pushing people toward the Kingdom—people looking for shelter, people looking for someone to follow.

Jim sighed heavily, his fingers tapping against the stack of applications. "Remember when our faces were on every vid screen? When the Royal Family paraded us around like conquering heroes?"

Oliver did remember. He also remembered what came after.

The cell had been underground—somewhere beneath the Royal Palace, though they'd been hooded during transport. Bare stone walls sweating moisture. A cot bolted to the floor, a bucket in the corner, and nothing else. They'd taken his clothes, his pipe, even his lighter, and dressed him in a gray jumpsuit that smelled of disinfectant and someone else's sweat.

For the first week, no one came. No interrogations, no charges, no explanation. Just meals pushed through a slot in the door—nutrient paste and lukewarm water—and the constant hum of fluorescent lights that never turned off. He'd counted seconds to keep from going mad. Sixty seconds per minute, sixty minutes per hour. The numbers blurred together by the third day.

When the interrogators finally appeared, they weren't military. They wore dark suits and spoke with the practiced calm of men who already knew every answer to every question they asked. They wanted to know about the Republican operative, about the market shooting, about whether Jim's push for the Admiralty had been planned from the start. Oliver told them the truth—that it had been opportunity, not conspiracy—and they'd nodded and written nothing down. He'd known then that the truth didn't matter. They'd already written the story they wanted.

Jim had been in a cell somewhere nearby. Oliver could hear him shouting some nights, raging against walls that didn't care.

"That was a long time ago," he said carefully.

"Two years." Jim's voice was bitter. "Two years, and look at us now."

Oliver didn't respond. What could he say? That he'd always known their fame was temporary? That he'd been the one smart enough to start investing while Jim was busy reaching for the stars?

The speakers chimed as another message was logged onto the system. It sounded—almost—like it was taunting them.

"Quite the busy day," Oliver offered, breaking the silence. "That's the fourth application in so many minutes. Are you sure you want to read them all?"

Jim only groaned in response.

"Why not take a break? Get some fresh air and forget about this for a while. The applications won't be going anywhere anytime soon."

"They help distract me."

"From what?"

"From remembering how great things were months ago."

Oliver didn't have a good answer for that. He still remembered those first few weeks—the dizzy, unreal quality of sudden fame. Dozens of spectators had watched him get blasted in the market. He'd woken in the hospital to flowers, vid-messages from strangers, and a medal ceremony while he was still connected to an IV drip. Everyone thought the attack had come from the Republican operative. The whole Kingdom had watched the footage. Oliver Atchison, wounded hero.

Then Jim had pushed too hard. He'd gone on the vid networks—three appearances in a single week—rallying the public behind his reinstatement. Not just any rank. Admiral. The crowds had swelled outside government buildings, chanting his name, waving placards with his face. Jim had fed on it, mistaking their noise for power.

The men in black suits arrived on a Tuesday. Oliver remembered because he'd been fitting a new shirt—silk, custom-tailored, purchased with the appearance fees. They came to the hospital room and closed the door without asking. Two of them, faces like blank walls.

"Mr. Atchison," the taller one had said, "you have been a great asset to the Kingdom. The Royal Family would like to ensure that your service continues in a productive direction."

The productive direction, as it turned out, was silence. The medal was real, but the narrative was being rewritten. Jim's Admiralty would be granted—because revoking it publicly would create a martyr—but it would be hollowed out from the inside. No fleet, no funding, no staff. A title and nothing more. Hektor Menschen would see to it that every ship, every credit, every scrap of support flowed to his command instead.

"You'll find," the man had said, "that cooperation has its rewards. And that the alternative is quite unpleasant."

Oliver had cooperated. He was, above all things, a pragmatist.

Though there was one thing from those weeks that pragmatism had never quite managed to file away. In the second week, guards had brought someone else in—Oliver couldn't see the cell opposite, but he'd heard everything through the sweating stone. A young man, barely old enough to serve, calling for his mother the first night in a voice scraped raw by fear. By the third day, the calling had stopped. By the fifth, there was only silence. And then one morning came the shuffle of boots, the scrape of a body being hauled upright, and a single hoarse word—*please*—before a heavy door slammed and the corridor went quiet for good.

Oliver had lain on his cot and run the numbers. The boy was likely a low-level functionary caught in the same political dragnet. Nothing Oliver could do. No advantage to be gained by shouting or demanding answers. Clean logic, sound reasoning. He'd repeated it to himself until the silence across the corridor became just another feature of the cell, like the hum of the lights or the taste of recycled air.

It was the one piece of arithmetic that never quite balanced.

***

Oliver puffed on his pipe, the flame spreading deeper into the dried leaves. He studied his friend on the opposite side of the table through a cloud of hazy smoke.

The rumors from a few of his high-powered friends said Jim Crater's days were numbered. The Royal Family was considering revoking his position as Admiral, which would basically be a death sentence for Jim.

He had reached for the stars but had only managed to burn his hand.

Oblivious, Jim simply kept reviewing the resumes of soldiers he could never enlist.

"Are you almost finished?" Oliver asked.

Jim glanced up, his eyes angry and bloodshot. "Not even close. I've got at least two dozen more to look at, and they keep coming in."

"You should at least turn the sound off," Oliver said as it chimed again.

Each time the speakers made their little noise, Jim winced. It was psychological torture.

"You could help," Jim said, narrowing his eyes.

"I am," Oliver replied.

"You haven't looked at a single dossier since they started coming in."

Oliver shrugged. "Emotional support?"

Jim sighed, turning back to the data pad in front of him.

"You know you can't hire any of them, right?" Oliver explained, trying to reach through and wake Jim up from his delusions. "You don't have the funds to pay them, nor a single job to actually keep any of them busy. This is a wasted effort."

"Once I buy a Verdana class ship, I'll be able to—"

"You won't get one," Oliver argued. "The Cudgel is probably the only ship you'll ever own, and I still own half of it."

"I have enough money to purchase a Verdana. Maybe even a Capital."

"Do you? Most of your funds were expended last year solidifying the Admiralty. How much money could you have left?"

"I have plenty, and if I need more, I can get a loan. No bank would refuse to loan money to an Admiral."

"No Admiral would stoop so low as to beg for money."

"Not from a bank," Jim said.

The words hung in the air. Oliver laughed, resting his pipe on the table.

"You mean from me?"

"You've been doing quite well, by all reports, with your trading business."

Smuggling, actually.

But Oliver wasn't about to correct him. He certainly was doing well, and had made a fortune these last two years, but that was because he was a shrewd businessman who didn't make bad investments.

Jim was a good friend but a bad investment.

"I don't have any cash on hand. It's all funneling back into the business. In five years' time, the assets will mature and I'll have a lot of capital, but right now I can barely rub two credits together."

"In five years, you're going to have a fortune? And what will I have? We're in this together, remember."

"You have an invested stake in all of my profits, and you are an Admiral, remember? I think you were quite well compensated."

Jim's jaw tightened. "An Admiral without a fleet. The Royals made sure of that when they 'adopted' me. Tied my fate to theirs and then starved me of resources." He gestured at the cramped cargo bay, his arm sweeping to encompass the humming walls, the stacks of useless applications, the totality of his empire. "Hektor blocked every requisition I submitted. Every supply request, every staffing petition—Loss in Transit, they'd stamp them. Redirected to Priority Operations. And when I went to the Royal Court directly, they smiled and told me they'd look into it. Every time, the same smile. The same nothing."

Oliver set down his pipe. This was new—Jim actually acknowledging what the Royal Family had done. Usually he clung to the fantasy that his position meant something. The truth ran deeper than Jim had any idea. Oliver had heard from his contacts that Hektor had been systematic about it—not just blocking Jim's requests but actively redirecting the resources. Every ship that should have gone to Jim's fleet was quietly reassigned to Hektor's command or sold to private contractors at favorable rates. Hektor had even planted stories in the vid networks about Jim's instability, ensuring that any remaining public sympathy slowly curdled into pity.

"They had to do something," Oliver said quietly. "After the investigation. You know that."

"I know they could have just shot us and been done with it." Jim's voice was hollow. "Sometimes I think that would have been kinder than this slow suffocation."

"The Cudgel is half mine, too," Jim said after a moment, returning to his original grievance. "You've been using it to trade with Terminus, and I haven't seen any profits."

"Because it's all invested," Oliver reiterated. "I'll pay you your fair share once we are able to cash out, but not yet. I hired four new pilots and contracted two more trading vessels in the last month. Right now, I'm building demand by selling cheap, but it won't be long until we're raking in the credits."

"And then you'll try to cheat me out of my cut?"

The words stung. Oliver's jaw tightened, his grip on the pipe stem going white-knuckled.

"I'm your only friend and the only contact you have with the outside world. Are you sure you want to sever that tie, too?"

"You cheat everyone," Jim replied. "Why wouldn't you try to steal from me?"

"I've never cheated you, and I think you've fared pretty damn well since we met."

"So I'm supposed to trust you?"

"I'm willing to buy out your stake in the Cudgel the very second you decide to sell," Oliver shot back, his voice tight. "And when I do, you can pack your bags and get the hell off my ship. But, while we are business partners, I'm not going to cheat you, and I'm offended you would even suggest it."

Jim let out a sigh. "I know, Olly. I'm…I'm frustrated. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

Oliver leaned back in his chair and let out a breath of air. Jim meant every word of it—the frustration bleeding through despite the apology—but it wasn't worth holding grudges over petty words.

The thing was, Jim was right: Oliver wouldn't necessarily cheat him, but he would find ways to make sure numbers worked out in his favor. Oliver wasn't going to cheat Jim out of his entire share…just, you know, part of it.

"No worries, Jim. It's fine."

"I desperately wanted for all of this to work," Jim continued. "The Admiralty. I see all of these people who want to join our crew and the potential of what we could do, and then the sobering reality of where we are hits me, and I start to get sick. I mean, you've been able to make some money and we've done well, but imagine what we could really do. We could change the entire damn Kingdom."

"But we can't," Oliver said. "No one is going to help us."

"Which is why I keep sending these recruits, a 'Thanks, but no thanks' response after viewing their application. But, just once, I'd like to be able to respond by saying, 'Yes, you can start tomorrow' instead of turning them all away."

"Maybe you need to relax. Take a break and get some fresh air. It's beautiful today."

"I thought it was raining."

"It did overnight, but it stopped this morning. Jaril's like that—monsoon at midnight, clear skies by dawn. The street performers will already be out by the harbor, playing those Jarili bone flutes they carve from driftwood. The docking district smells like wet copper after the rain. You should go get a breath of fresh air. Take a walk."

"Maybe you're right," Jim agreed. "I can barely even think straight anymore."

"You've been cooped up for days."

"Yeah, I know." Jim glanced up at Oliver. "Wait, this last message wasn't an application. It is one of those party invitations."

"Oh? Haven't seen one of those in ages."

Jim handed the data pad across the table to Oliver. He read it over quickly. "A banquet invitation from Sir Fergus Cortet."

"They want you to go?" Jim asked.

Oliver shook his head. "They want you to go. The letter is for the Captain of the Cudgel. Though, it does mention that the First Officer is also invited. First Officer, eh? I like that. Can I be your First Officer?"

"Sure, why the hell not?"

"The invitation looks legitimate. It bears the Cortet family seal," Oliver said.

"I thought Fergus Cortet was dead?"

"Not quite, but I think he's close. He has a daughter, so maybe this is actually a gathering for her."

"A daughter? How old is she?"

Oliver pulled out a data pad and ran a quick search. "Doesn't say anywhere online. They must be monitoring and curating information about the family."

"Must be a reclusive bunch."

"Yep. Your kind of people. They are powerful, though, if they're able to remove information from the web and keep themselves hidden from the public. The only news report I can find about her at all says she's twelve, but that was a few years ago and is doubtless intentional misinformation."

"So she's probably a kid?" Jim asked.

"It's possible. Maybe this is her birthday party," Oliver offered.

"Then why invite me?"

"Maybe they don't know that you stopped getting invitations like this several months ago."

"Could be."

"Or maybe they do know about your situation, and she wants you to come and entertain them."

Jim chuckled and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. "So she wants me to come so they can mock me? Am I supposed to be her clown?"

Oliver laughed. "Maybe if you go wearing a red nose, she'll give you a ship."

"Not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"They must have grown tired of mocking me behind my back and want to put me down face to face."

"Or maybe they have a business proposal for you."

Jim considered that. "Not likely," he said. "Why not just tell me in the letter instead of inviting me to a gathering?"

"You really have no idea how high culture works, do you?"

"In any case, I'm too busy to attend."

"Busy doing what? Looking through your overqualified applicants?"

Jim picked up the data pad and scrolled to the application he was currently looking at. "Dramatically overqualified. This guy is trained to operate planetary weaponry."

"The kind of weapons the Cudgel could fly inside the barrel of?"

"Yep."

"We should buy one of those."

Jim ignored him, scrolling to another application. "And this guy is a master ranked pilot up to Verdana class ships."

"A pilot would be nice," Oliver said. "I mean, I'm serviceable, but I'm always afraid I'm going to crash."

"How long do you think he would stick around when he found out what he was going to be flying? As soon as he signed on and glimpsed this pile of junk, he would turn and run the other way."

Oliver couldn't disagree. So far, most people remained unaware of how bad things were for Jim as an Admiral and member of the Royal Family. They still thought he had the support of the king and queen and was in charge of a fleet of ships. Hektor Menschen commanded over sixty warships. Even Brutus Volt, the Kingdom's other Admiral, had thirty vessels under his flag. Between the two of them, they accounted for most of the Kingdom's navy—barely a hundred ships to defend two billion citizens across a dozen worlds.

That was the fairytale version of events. Jim couldn't exactly tell everyone that his fleet consisted of a single ship. If someone came aboard and reported back how bad things really were…

Well, that would end Jim's aspirations very quickly.

Might be worth looking into, Oliver decided. Better to crush his dreams now than let him continue floundering in despair.

"But look at these," Jim added, grabbing up another data pad with its own list of applicants. "Martin here says he spent four years training to be a veterinarian before he realized his education was God's way of teaching him to kill people. Sally is a ballerina who repeatedly compares herself to a praying mantis."

"Not exactly an encouraging image," Oliver agreed.

"And Steve," Jim continued, grabbing another and thrusting it across the table at Oliver. "Steve here wrote a goddamn poem! About me!"

Oliver glanced at it and burst out laughing. "He compares you to an Esson."

"What the hell is an Esson?"

"A type of flower," Oliver said, laughing again. "One that smells like blueberries."

"What is wrong with these people?" Jim asked, sighing again.

"They really want to serve on your ships," Oliver explained. "You are an Admiral who came from nothing: proof that everyone's wish can come true if they work hard enough."

"It isn't true, though," Jim said. "I'm a farce."

"But you serve the purpose of cajoling the masses. People look up to you, and it's better than having them rebel against the Royal Family."

"Why would they look up to me?"

"Because you're not an arrogant asshole and off-putting like Hektor Menschen or Brutus Volt. Those Admirals have reputations for being elitist and looking down on people. People don't see you that way. You're a man of the people and for the people."

"Sure," Jim said, sighing. "At the very least, I'm way down here with the people."

Oliver stood up and grabbed his overcoat, tamping out his pipe and slipping it into his pocket.

"Where are you going?" Jim asked.

Oliver pointed to the data pad with the invitation to the Cortet gathering.

"I have a party to go to at the Cortet residence. You know, since I am your First Officer and all," Oliver said. "I'll tell them I'm there representing your interests."

"Oh God, I take it back. You aren't my First Officer, and you sure as hell don't represent me."

"Too late," Oliver said. "No takebacks."

Jim sighed. "Fine. Do you really want to go, though, knowing what we know about these bloodsuckers?"

Oliver shrugged. "If they want a clown, then I'll go be the best damn clown I can be. Who knows, maybe I'll get something useful in return. You can't succeed if you don't try."

"You also can't fail."

Oliver paused in the doorway before glancing back at his miserable friend. He missed the vitality of Jim in those early days when he first became an Admiral. He'd been hopeful and driven, ready to seize his place in the world and overcome all obstacles.

And now he was a shell of that man, a pitiful middle-aged failure waiting for people he had learned were his betters to take their gifts back. He'd been completely and utterly defeated.

"That's a sad way to live your life," Oliver said, disappearing from the cargo hold.

Of course, it wasn't that Oliver considered himself much better. He wasn't going to this party as a noble gesture or to push back against the oppressors trying to hold him down. Oliver didn't like lying to Jim about his motives for going to the Cortet residence, but mentioning the real reason would leave Jim furious and inconsolable.

His own desires about what he might achieve, unlike his friend's, were enticed by this invitation, but for a completely different reason than monetary gain.

He hoped she would be there.