They piled back onto the deck like men settling into a storm, boots scuffing, faces hollowed by smoke. Bjorn clapped Oscar on the shoulder with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "We've got the captain — good work. Get back to the ship."
Oscar's jaw worked. "Did you get everyone from the base?"
"Everyone except Youri," Bjorn answered. The word landed like an icicle. "We couldn't find him."
The ship held its breath. "He's still out there," Oscar said, each syllable tight. Bjorn shrugged the worry away with a shrug that tried to look confident. "If there's a man who can handle this, it's Youri. We can't leave without him."
Outside, the sky was a bruise of smoke and ordinance. "First things first," Bjorn said. "Those orbitons are different. New models." The scanner's readouts blinked anomalies like flares. "No battle data. First time we've seen them."
"Get Tom and the boys ready," Oscar ordered. "They'll handle the orbitons if anyone can." As the crew moved, a prisoner — bruised, muttering — was led toward the med bay. "He was breathing when we took him," Bjorn added. "We'll need him."
Tom's voice came through the line: Titan units standing by. "Titan 1 through 5 are out," he reported. "We have visual: the Empire is focusing on the base. The ship's still hidden."
"That's one blessing," Oscar said. "Raise plasma shields to maximum. We'll hit their main ship head-on once we get a lock."
The console pinged — new brion waves, converging from above. "So he called for backup," Mario muttered. "They're drawing reinforcements."
Oscar leaned into the mic and said something that felt like a prayer and a plan at once. Outside the hull, the world was a mad collage of sound: distant explosions, the hiss of venting fuel, the metal choir of ships aligning.
A hatch hissed open and Stefan's silhouette cut the doorway. The impossible grin was gone; he looked like a man who'd had the wind knocked out of him and come back angrier. "Don't count me out yet," he said. "I'll talk to them. They're my forces."
Oscar watched as Stefan's voice was patched through the base uplink. The speakers crackled and a new, hoarse authority filled the courtyard: "This is Commander Stefan Ronald. Every capable soldier — support the Tartarusios. Captain Meilton has a plan. Defend this ship with everything you have."
The message moved like electricity. Shackled soldiers straightened; hesitant gunners found their resolve. "We'll do our best," came the reply from the lines. "Prepare the cannon. We're shooting head-on."
High command on the Empire flagship tasted blood and adjusted the hunt. "How are the Ravens progressing?" the Marquis demanded. "They engaged new orbiton units — more advanced." Screens flipped and Titan squadrons appeared in the holomap. "Put More on the line. Do you know your enemies?"
"Titan unit," More reported — clipped, professional. "Tartarusios Titans, sir."
"Swift victory," the Marquis said. "Show them true power." Orders fell like iron.
In the black between ships, titans and orbitons met like two storms crashing. Titan 1 burned through space, its engines a clean white screaming line. Target locked: an orbiton that shimmered oddly, brion currents coiling along its hull.
They collided in a ballet of light. Weapons met; the clash threw up sparks like a second sunrise. "He's good," a pilot grunted over open channel. "Do you need backup?"
"I'm good," came the dry reply from Titan 1. "Palmer, your sector."
"Roger." Palmer's voice held steady, but the feed was full of static and the smell of ozone. Below, the Ravens pivoted, the command slicing across the fleet: "New priority — Titans. All units, engage the Titan unit."
Orders shifted the choreography of war. Around them, the world contracted to metal and breath and the small, furious acts of men fighting not just for survival but for the flicker of choice that stayed with those who refused to be taken.