“Fucking A,” Earnhardt agreed hoarsely, and Santos managed a strained grin.

It vanished an instant later as scarlet damage codes flashed before her. Her face tightened. Whatever had ripped through the primary systems must have sent a power surge through the backups. Half her command files were scrambled or completely wiped.

Someone stepped up beside her, and she turned her head. It was Manning. Her assistant stared at her display and pursed his lips in silent dismay.

“Jesus, Commander! What do we do now?”

Santos grunted a smothered curse and slapped another switch. Nothing happened, and she darted a frightened glance at the reactor itself. She knew it had to be her imagination, but she almost believed she could feel the containment field pulsing.

“We’ve lost most of the bottle software—I don’t know how it’s holding together now,” she said rapidly, already ripping off access panels. “And we’ve lost all the hydrogen feed files. The bastard’s running away on us.”

Manning nodded silently, jerking off other panels at her side.

“If the plasma hits overload levels with an unstable bottle—” Santos broke off and flung herself on her belly, peering into the guts of the console, and grunted.

“We’ve got maybe five minutes before this thing blows, and I don’t dare screw around with the mag governors.”

“Cut the feed?” Manning said tautly.

“All we can do, but I’m going to have to cross-wire the damned thing by hand. I lost my cutter when we took this hit. Get me another, and hunt up four—no, five—alpha-seven jump harnesses. Fast!”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Manning leapt away, and Santos turned her head without rising. Her eyes rested for just a moment on a big, red switch on the bulkhead beside her, and then she jerked them away.

“Bridge, Missile Two.” The voice on the intercom was harsh with exhaustion. “We’ve got two laser heads shifted. They’re numbers five and six on your feed queue. I’m working on shifting number three now.”

“Missile Two, this is the Captain. Where’s the bosun?” Honor asked quickly.

“On her way to sickbay, Skipper. This is Harkness. I guess I’m in charge now.”

“Understood. Get that third missile shifted as quickly as possible, PO.”

“We’re on it, Ma’am.”

Even as Honor spoke, Cardones’s hands flashed across his console, reprioritizing his loading schedule. Fifteen seconds later, a fresh laser warhead went scorching out of his single remaining tube.

Sirius’s bridge was a tiny pocket of hell. Smoke billowed, circuit boards popped and sizzled and spat actinic fury, and Johan Coglin retched as the smoke from burning insulation filled his lungs. He heard Jamal’s agonized, hacking coughs as he fought to retain tactical control, and someone was screaming in pain.

“We’ve lost—lost—” Jamal broke off in another tortured spasm of coughing, then slammed his helmet. Coglin followed his example, rasping for breath as his suit scrubbers attacked the sinus-tearing smoke, and Jamal’s voice came over his com.

“We’ve lost another beta node, Sir. And—” Coglin peered through the smoke, watching the tactical officer work on his console. Then Jamal cursed. “Point defense is hurt bad, Captain. I’ve lost four laser clusters and half my phased radar array.”