They piled back onto the Tartarusios like men climbing into the eye of a storm, boots scuffing across the deck plates, faces hollowed by smoke. Bjorn was waiting at the top of the ramp to clap Oscar on the shoulder with a grin that did not quite reach his eyes. "We've got the captain. Good work, everyone. Get inside."
Oscar caught his arm before he could turn away. "Did we get everyone from the base?"
"Everyone except Youri," Bjorn said, and the words landed like a shard of ice. "We couldn't find him anywhere."
The ship seemed to hold its breath around them. "He's still out there," Oscar said, every syllable tight.
Bjorn tried to shrug the worry away, and the shrug did not look nearly as confident as he wanted it to. "If there's one man who can handle himself out there, it's Youri. We're not leaving without him. But first things first." He pulled the scanner readouts onto the nearest screen, and the anomalies blinked across it like warning flares. "Those Orbitons out there are different. New models. We have no battle data on them at all. This is the first time anyone's seen them."
"Then get Tom and the boys ready," Oscar ordered. "If anyone can handle them, it's the Titans."
As the crew scattered to their stations, two of Nolan's mechanics hurried past carrying a stretcher toward the medbay. Oscar caught a glimpse of the man on it — bruised, pale, a bloody dressing pressed against his shoulder — and stopped dead. It was Stefan.
"We found him in what was left of the command center," Nolan said, coming up behind him. "Bullet went clean through. He was still breathing when we got to him." He jerked his chin toward the other end of the corridor, where Mario was marching Sergei toward the brig with his wrists still bound. "And that one's going somewhere he can't sell anyone else. We're going to need them both before this is over."
Tom's voice came through the line a moment later. "Titans One through Five are out. We have visual. The Empire is focusing everything on the base. They haven't spotted the ship yet."
"That's one blessing," Oscar said, taking his place on the bridge. "Raise the plasma shields to maximum. Once we have a lock, we'll hit their main ship head-on."
The console pinged, and a fresh cluster of Brion waves appeared on the display, converging from above. "So he called for backup," Mario muttered as he slid into his seat. "They're bringing in reinforcements."
Oscar leaned toward the mic and said something to the crew that was half a prayer and half a plan. Outside the hull, the world had become a mad collage of sound — distant explosions, the hiss of venting fuel, and the metal choir of warships shifting into formation.
The hatch to the bridge hissed open, and Stefan's silhouette filled the doorway. His shoulder was strapped, his face gray with pain. The impossible grin was gone. He looked like a man who had been knocked flat and had gotten up angrier than before. "Don't count me out yet," he said. "I'll talk to them. They're my forces."
Oscar opened his mouth to send him back to the medbay, then closed it again and handed him the uplink. Stefan's voice went out through the base speakers, hoarse and full of a new authority that rang across the shattered courtyard. "This is Commander Stefan Ronalds. Every capable soldier, support the Tartarusios. Captain Meilton has a plan. Defend this ship with everything you have."
The message moved through the base like electricity. Soldiers who had been shackled a few minutes earlier straightened up, and gunners who had been hesitating found their resolve again. "We'll do our best," came the reply from the lines.
"Prepare the cannon," Oscar said. "We're shooting head-on."
High above them, on the Imperial flagship, high command could already taste blood, and it adjusted the hunt accordingly. "How are the Ravens progressing?" the Marquis demanded.
"They've engaged new Orbiton units, my lord. More advanced than ours." The screens flipped, and the Titan squadrons appeared on the holomap, five bright points slicing through the Imperial formation.
"Put More on the line," Miller ordered. "Let's see if he knows his enemy."
More flew like a blade, sharp, silent, unwavering. He was an Imperial pilot, tall and tough. His honor was not something he wore like a medal but something etched into every decision he made. His short black hair was clipped close to the scalp, his weathered, angular face always focused. But it was the thin, pale scar on his neck that told his real story — a moment in some long-ago battle when death had reached out for him and missed. He never spoke of it. He never needed to.
"Titan unit," More reported, his voice clipped and professional. "The Tartarusios' Titans, sir."
"Swift victory," the Marquis said. "Show them true power."
In the black between the ships, Titans and Orbitons met like two storms crashing together. Titan One burned through space with its engines drawing a clean white line behind it, and Tom locked onto an Orbiton that shimmered strangely as Brion currents coiled along its hull. They collided in a ballet of light, and when their weapons met the clash threw up sparks like a second sunrise.
"He's good," Palmer grunted over the Imperial channel, watching More's exchange with the Titan leader. "Do you need backup?"
"I'm good," More replied dryly. "Palmer, watch your sector."
"Roger." Palmer's voice held steady, but the feed was thick with static and the smell of ozone filled his cockpit. Below them, the Ravens pivoted as one when a new command sliced across the fleet: "New priority. Titans. All units, engage the Titan unit."
The orders shifted the whole choreography of the battle in an instant. Around the Titans, the world contracted to metal, breath, and the small, furious acts of people fighting not only to survive but to hold onto the one thing that stayed with those who refused to be taken — the freedom to choose.