"Get the strike squadrons back on board. Have them rearm immediately. And how many nukes do we still have?" I asked, rubbing the bridge of my nose. No point dwelling on what just happened—we had bigger problems to solve.

Jonathan's voice cut through the stillness from the DRADIS station, calm but tight with urgency.

"All heavy Vipers equipped with nuclear payloads, please report in. I repeat, all heavy Vipers with nukes, sound off now."

The comm crackled.

"This is Lieutenant Talia 'Echo' Renn—still kicking and ready for another run." Her voice was sharp and confident, a breath of stability in the chaos.

A moment later, another came through, this one gritty but steady.

"Malik 'Grim' Vashir here. Ready to rock and roll, sir."

Then… silence. A long, heavy silence that seemed to stretch across the whole CIC.

Jonathan turned to me, face unreadable. "Sir, only two heavy Vipers with nukes are responding."

I gave a grim nod, running the math in my head. We'd launched eight nukes. That meant four birds were down. The other four had spent their payloads.

"Get the cargo Raptors out for rescue ops. First and second squadrons escort them," I ordered, eyes locked on the DRADIS screen. Icons drifted—silent, cold.

"And now," I muttered, "we wait."

I sighed and leaned both hands on the plotting table, the cool metal grounding me for a moment.

"Galen," I said without turning, "how soon do you think they'll return?"

"A few more minutes, max," he replied without hesitation. His voice was steady, but I could hear the fatigue riding just under the surface.

I sighed again, slower this time. The kind of breath you take when the fight's over but the war keeps going.

"Let's hope friendly ships arrive before the Cylons overwhelm us and force us to retreat."

There was a pause. Galen shifted beside me.

"If there are any friendlies left," he said quietly.

That one hit deeper than I wanted it to.

"There are," I said, more firmly than I felt. "We're still standing. That has to count for something."

Galen gave a slow nod. "Sir… when I joined this post, I thought I was signing up for protocol and drills. A routine rotation before reassignment."

I glanced at him. "You and I both."

He gave a short, humorless chuckle. "Never thought I'd be XO on a ghost ship, picking through the remains of civilization."

I didn't respond right away. Just stared at the DRADIS, waiting for a blip—any sign of life.

"We're not ghosts yet," I said finally. "And if I have anything to say about it, we won't be."

"Contact!" Jonathan suddenly called out, his voice sharp and loud enough to cut through the low murmur of the CIC. "One contact… launching fighters. six total."

The bridge snapped back into motion, tension flooding the room like a storm.

I straightened, pulse kicking up. "Six?" I asked, half a question, half a hope I didn't dare speak aloud yet.

My eyes locked on the DRADIS screen. A single unknown contact blinked near the asteroid field's outer rim, launching a small cloud of blips—fighters.

Around the CIC, everyone had gone still. Techs, officers, marines—every pair of eyes was glued to the DRADIS display. The air felt charged, like the moment right before a lightning strike.

Some crew members whispered under their breath, trying to convince themselves—or the gods—that this was what it looked like.

One of the damage control officers crossed himself and murmured, "Lords of Kobol, let it be ours…"

I heard someone else quietly whisper, "Please, please, please…"

Jonathan's fingers danced across his panel, isolating the signature. A moment later, the icon flickered—and changed.

The unknown contact resolved into the unmistakable profile of a Battlestar with the name Jotunheim.

For one beat, the CIC held its breath.

Then it erupted.

A cheer exploded from the crew like a detonation of joy—raw, unfiltered, overwhelming. Officers stood and shouted, slapped backs, and hugged.

I saw Galen exhale a breath he'd clearly been holding since the fall. He leaned against the edge of the console, shoulders sagging.

Someone started clapping. Others joined in. It wasn't orderly.

For a moment, we weren't drifting alone in the aftermath.

I looked at the DRADIS.

We weren't ghosts after all.

The CIC was still buzzing from the cheering, but I kept my tone measured. Hope was dangerous—especially when it felt this real.

"Colonial priority channel," I said, voice low and clear as I picked up the receiver.

Galen was already moving. He looked at me and gave a sharp nod.
I keyed in the command code and spoke into the handset with the weight of the ship behind my words.

"This is Battlestar Heart of Storm to Battlestar Jotunheim. I repeat, this is Heart of Storm to Jotunheim. Do you copy?"

The CIC fell into total silence again. Everyone was listening—clinging to the moment.

Across the room, Jonathan was already flipping switches at the DRADIS console.

"Sir, patching their response through. All ship speakers."

A soft hiss of static filled the CIC, an eerie breath that made every soul in the room freeze. Eyes locked on the overhead speakers like they were sacred.

Then it came—crackling, distant, but steady. A woman's voice. Calm, clipped, confident. Like it belonged in the before times.

"This is Battlestar Jotunheim… We read you, Heart of Storm. We hear you loud and clear."

No one moved for a heartbeat. The moment stretched, electric.

Then came the release—a wave of quiet cheers, handshakes, and even a few tears that no one dared acknowledge. The kind of sound a crew makes when the universe doesn't feel so empty anymore.

I raised the receiver again, voice firm.

"This is Admiral Sarata speaking. What's your status?"

"Sir, we are green across the board. No structural damage. We jumped before the Cylons got firing solutions on us. Lucky break."

Her tone was crisp, military—but there was something beneath it. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief. Like she hadn't expected to ever answer a fleet hail again.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding and allowed myself the smallest of smiles.

"Good. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

"Commander Ilana Rourke, sir."

She hesitated. Then, after a beat:

"It's… good to hear another Battlestar's voice, sir."

"Likewise. Position your ship beneath the storm. Keep your vulnerable side away from open space—we've already taken hits to port. Our objective is simple now: we wait. We gather who we can."

I watched the DRADIS as her blip began to shift. The Jotunheim slid into formation like a veteran.

"Understood, Admiral. We'll hold position. Weapons hot, crews ready. Just say the word."

"Understood," I said, my voice dropping just a touch.

"Let's see who else made it through hell."

I sighed, the weight settling on my shoulders again. Just one breath, just one heartbeat of calm.

"Alex," I said, turning toward the damage control station.
"Do we have full Viper loss reports?"

Alex didn't look up, just scrolled quickly through the flashing data.

"Yes, sir. We lost twenty-seven Vipers total. Fourteen pilots confirmed KIA. Five of the losses were Heavy Vipers—four of those carried nukes. Rearming in progress. Four minutes until squadrons four, five, and eight are flight-ready."

I nodded slowly, doing the math in my head.

"So that leaves first, second, third, and half of seventh squadron combat-ready—"

"Contacts!" Jonathan's voice cut across the CIC like a whip crack.

Every head turned.

"DRADIS just lit up like a godsdamn tree. Two—scratch that—three—no, five confirmed Cylon basestars. Fifty klicks out and closing fast!"

Time slowed.

"They're launching… Gods—over one thousand fighters. Repeat, one thousand-plus Cylon Raiders inbound."

The CIC exploded into motion. Officers shouting orders, crew bolting to stations. Red lights strobed across the bulkheads, casting the command center in blood and steel. The DRADIS map pulsed with blood-red blips, Raiders pouring from the basestars like a living swarm of death.

I stepped to the plotting table, my fingers curling tight against the edges, the metal cold beneath my palms.

"Set Condition One. Sound the alert on all decks. I want every Viper that can fly in the air now! Jotunheim Vipers will join us and engage the enemy Raiders breaching the flak field."

I leaned in, eyes scanning the DRADIS projection.

"And have the flak field extend to ten klicks—no more. Keep it tight. Cylons are likely to follow up with a missile salvo. We'll need all heavy turrets ready to intercept."

"Jotunheim will stay where it is."

Galen gave a tight nod, voice steady even as chaos built.

"Jotunheim's reporting flak guns coming online. They're aligning starboard batteries to match our field."

"Good. I want overlap between our grids—no gaps. Raiders breach the perimeter; they don't leave."

"Sir!" Alex shouted across the CIC. "Squadron Three and Seven are launching now!"

"Fourth, fifth, and eighth will follow as soon as rearm completes."

"Order all Vipers to engage Riders making their way through the flak field. I don't want a single Raider getting close enough to spit on our hull."

The DRADIS projection looked like two small islands—Storm and Jotunheim—bracing against a crimson sea that surged closer with every heartbeat.

"Our Vipers will be outnumbered ten to one until the rest are launched. And even then, we'll still be outnumbered five to one," said Galen.

"You think I don't know?" I snapped before catching myself. I took a breath, forcing the heat out of my voice. "You know we can't run without a fleet tender. We'd be dead either way—no way we can salvage enough fuel to keep the Storm running."

I stared hard at the DRADIS screen as enemy icons pushed closer. Then something shifted.

"What?" I muttered, brow furrowing as several of the new Raider groups flickered and then changed—no longer tagged as standard Cylon fighters.

"Jonathan, what the frak?"

"Sir, some unknown fighter-size contacts."

"Heavy Riders. What else?" Galen's voice was grim. "Damn it. Get our anti-boarding parties ready and don't let anything get close to us. Tell the Vipers to focus on them first."

"Already on it," Alex called out. "Internal security teams are being rerouted to docking bays."

The CIC pulsed with sound—radio chatter, station reports, klaxons echoing like war drums. We were outnumbered, outgunned, and isolated.

But we were still here.

And the Storm wasn't going down quietly.

I watched the DRADIS as wave after wave of red icons smashed through the outer edge of the flak field—hundreds of them. The wall of fire barely slowed them, but it wasn't nothing. Dozens—close to a hundred—flared out and vanished in blinks of static as flak shredded them. But the rest kept coming. Unstoppable. Mechanical.

"Vipers, engage," I said flatly.

Galen repeated it with more bite, his voice carrying over the chaos. "All squadrons—engage. Priority targets are incoming Raiders breaching the inner field. Intercept and eliminate!"

The DRADIS couldn't show us what was happening outside—not visually. No windows in CIC, no screens. Just glowing green icons, shifting data, and the cold pulse of reality measured in blips. But the sounds told their story—screams of engines, bursts of static, and sharp radio cuts bleeding in from Jonathan's open line to flight ops.

"Three-One, Fox Four! Splash one—damn it, I've got two on my six!"

"This is One-Eight; we're being overwhelmed out here! Where the frak are the Heavies?"

"Hold your formation! Break low, break low—ahh—!"

I clenched my jaw.

"Jonathan, get that chatter under control. Prioritize combat coordination."

"Trying, sir. Too many cross-feeds. Vipers are on every open frequency."

"Storm actual, this is Echo," came a sudden sharp voice, still calm under pressure but with a hard edge. "Heavy Vipers still rearming. Give us just two minutes, and we're in the air."

"Copy that, Echo," I replied. "Hold until you're green."

"Understood, Admiral," she said—and the line cut.

Outside, the DRADIS flickered with updates. A section of the flak field on Jotunheim's side was thinning, gaps beginning to show as more riders made it through.

"Alex, tell them to rotate more batteries there. Cylons are pushing harder on their flank."

"Already relaying, sir."

"Where the hell are the missile launches?" I asked, scanning the incoming basestars.

Galen leaned in. "They're waiting. Letting the Raiders soften us up first."

I scowled. "They'll want to see how far they can crack us before they commit to a barrage."

"Sir," Jonathan called out again, his voice tight, eyes glued to the DRADIS. "We've got twenty—maybe thirty—heavy riders breaking toward our ventral hangar. Fast approach."

"Damn it," Galen snapped, spinning toward me. His face was pale but tight with urgency. "That's the primary launch bay—they'll go for the airlock, the elevators. If they punch through—"

"They'll have a straight run to CIC," I finished for him. "We can't let them board."

I didn't hesitate.

"Phalanx: take them down. All batteries, priority fire—ventral intercept. I want those Riders turned into scrap before they get within spitting distance."

Galen hesitated, his jaw clenched. "Sir… if we pull Phalanx fire now, the rest of the swarm's going to get through."

"I know," I said, locking eyes with him. "But a breach in CIC ends us faster."

Galen didn't argue. He just turned, fury burning in his voice as he snapped into the intercom, "Redirect Phalanx to ventral targeting grids. Priority fire: Heavy Riders on approach vector gamma-seven. All other fields maintain manual engagement!"

"Phalanx engaging!" Alex shouted from the tactical console.

The DRADIS screen pulsed a few red icons that blinked out—hits confirmed.

But then the real storm broke.

With the ventral coverage shifted, the outer shell of our flak net ruptured. The Raiders didn't hesitate.

They flooded in.

"Storm Lead, this is Three-Nine—I can't hold—ah!"

"Seven-Two is hit! I'm ejecting, I—"

"This is Two-Five—we're overwhelmed! We need support now!"

"Where the frak are the heavies? We're getting slaughtered out here!"

"Admiral!" Jonathan called, sweat shining on his forehead. "Multiple Raiders are now breaking into our inner perimeter. We've got squadrons Two and Three nearly overrun—losses piling up!"

Galen's knuckles were white as he gripped the side of the plotting table. "This is turning into a goddamn meat grinder," he muttered.

I looked back to the DRADIS. The swarm had punched through like a blade. Friendly icons flickered—gone before I could even register who they were.

"Where the hell are the heavies?" I growled.

"Thirty seconds!" Alex shouted. "Heavy Vipers are being loaded on launch tubes, the same with the fourth and fifth squadrons!"

"Launch them as soon as they're ready!" I snapped, eyes locked on the DRADIS as red icons swarmed deeper into the grid. The inner flak perimeter was collapsing.

"Aye, sir!" Galen barked back, already halfway to the comms station. He slammed a hand down on the intercom. "Flight deck, launch all strike wings—priority: ready birds and heavy Vipers. Go, go, go!"

"Launch sequence is green!" shouted Jonathan from weapons. "All tubes clear, decks reporting green lights!"

"Vipers launching!" Garen confirmed as the CIC's speakers filled with the thunderous roar of departing strike craft.

And then it began.

One after another, glowing icons bloomed on the DRADIS like sparks catching in dry brush. Seventy Vipers burst from the launch tubes of Storm, followed seconds later by fifteen Heavy Vipers roaring behind them, finally fueled and armed to the teeth.

"Storm Actual, this is Echo," came a sharp voice over Jonathan's station. "We're airborne and hungry. Designate priority targets."

"Welcome to the fight, Echo," I replied, voice cold steel. "Cylons are in the inner grid. Paint anything that's not friendly."

Through the open radio channel, the Viper chatter bled through.

"This is Five-One—engaging Raider cluster on vector Bravo!"

"Grim, I've got four on me—break left, break left!"

"Copy that, Echo. Fox Three! That one's toast!"

"Look at all these bastards… We're going to need more missiles."

The DRADIS lit up again—small clusters of enemy icons vanishing, scattered like ashes in the wind.

Galen leaned toward me, just enough to murmur, "Heavy Vipers are clearing space—they're cutting through like razors. Flak is buying them room."

"Missiles incoming! Six hundred plus—two hundred headed for Jotunheim, the rest on us!" Jonathan's voice cracked slightly as the DRADIS lit up like a storm surge—missile icons blooming like wildfire, too many to count.

"Phalanx prioritizes missiles!" I shouted, heart slamming against my ribs. "And brace for impact!"

The CIC shifted from tense coordination into raw, panic-fueled motion. Red lights strobed across the ceiling as impact klaxons roared through the ship.

"Six hundred frakking missiles?!" Alex muttered, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and horror.

Lisa swore under her breath at the helm, hands flying over controls. "Adjusting heading two degrees—trying to angle bow armor toward the main salvo!"

"Storm's PD grid at full spread!" called Garen, sweat running down the side of his face. "Flak bursts engaging!"

I watched the DRADIS as the incoming wave split—some diverging toward Jotunheim, but the vast majority barreling straight for us. The display pulsed with new flares as Phalanx turrets opened up, filling the sky with a lattice of defensive fire. Red dots began blinking out… but not fast enough.

"Too many," Galen muttered, eyes locked on the screen. His voice was flat, like he'd already accepted what was about to happen.

Viper chatter bled through the open channel, panicked and desperate.

"Missiles in visual range—there are too many; we can't intercept them all!"

"This is Echo—we're diving into the swarm!

"Fox Three! Fox Three! Still not enough!"

"Some of these bastards are going under the flak—they're threading the gaps!"

The CIC rumbled—once, then again. Low and deep, like thunder rolling through metal bones. The deck vibrated. Consoles flickered.

"Minor hits, dorsal side!" Alex shouted. "Armor holding—for now!"

"Dozen through!" yelled Jonathan. "Tracking—ventral hull strike!"

The ship shook again, harder this time. Sparks burst from one of the ceiling conduits, and someone near the rear of CIC fell as a panel blew out.

"Damage control, get me status on deck five!" Galen barked.

"Confirmed hull breach!" came a voice through the internal channel. "We're sealing the section!"

"Frak—" Galen slammed his fist against the edge of the plotting table.

"Jotunheim Actual, what's your status?" I called out, gripping the edge of the plotting table as the deck beneath us shuddered violently—another impact rippling through the hull like a thunderclap.

The reply came fast but ragged—Commander Rourke's voice strained, breathless, like she was talking through smoke and adrenaline.

"Sir, one of our flight pods is frakked—completely dead. Took a direct hit from a missile that slipped through the grid."

Another rumble shook the Storm, and I heard someone behind me curse as a status console sparked and fizzled out.

"Starboard guns?" I asked, already fearing the answer.

"We've lost half of 'em," Rourke snapped. "Starboard flank's wide open. Attempting to roll."

"Keep it going!" I growled, "Jotunheim, focus your fire on missiles and Riders breaking through the center—Storm will cover your starboard."

"Copy that, Admiral," Rourke replied. "But if they send in boarding craft next, we're going to be cut to the bone. We've already got decompression alarms on six decks."

Over the open radio, the chaos of battle raged:

"Storm control, this is Viper Two-Seven—break, break, they're all over me! I can't—"

A burst of static swallowed the voice.

"Squadrons eight here. We're covering the heavy riders inbound!"

"Raider formation breaking through—need flak support, now!"

Alex called out over the rising cacophony. "We've got multiple hits near the topside heat exchangers! Decks reporting rising temp! Damage control is en route!"

Sparks rained from a conduit behind weapons control, and someone screamed—burned by an exposed panel or maybe just shocked by the sheer violence of the moment.

"We're going to start cooking!" Galen barked, his voice grim but focused. Sweat beaded on his brow as he leaned over the plotting table, trying to track which systems were still holding together. "That coolant grid's the only thing stopping our upper decks from melting from the inside out!"

I closed my eyes for half a second. I could feel the ship groaning around me, feel her pain in the vibrations running through the floor plates.

"We hold," I said aloud—not to anyone in particular, maybe not even to the crew. Maybe just to the ship. "We hold, damn it. As long as it takes."

The lighting flickered. Another detonation sounded somewhere below. The DRADIS flickered again—blips dancing in and out of focus.

"Roll us ten degrees dorsal!" I barked, eyes snapping open. "Jane, keep the heat exchangers out of the line of fire!"

"Aye, sir—initiating roll now!" Jane's fingers flew across the helm. The deck beneath us shifted as the ship responded, creaking under its own wounded mass as it slowly rolled onto its dorsal axis. It wasn't graceful—but it worked.

"That's buying us some time," Galen muttered, "but not much. If those exchangers go, it's over."