“Galactica DC, Colonial One reports a coolant leak, E-deck forward.
No visual on the source.
Requesting assessment priority.” Dee’s voice, clean and level through the static, two hours into Marko’s shift.
Tyrol was elbow-deep in a Viper hydraulic assembly.
He looked at Marko.
Marko keyed his handset.
“Galactica DC copies.
Tell them to pull pressure readings on the coolant loop, forward and aft of E-deck.
If the aft side’s holding and the forward’s dropping, it’s between the junction and the forward exchanger.
If both sides are dropping it’s the main feed.” A pause.
Then Dee’s voice again, relaying.
Another pause.
“Galactica, Colonial One confirms aft holding, forward dropping.
They’re isolating now.” Tyrol grunted.
“Good ear, Dabrowski.” Marko didn’t answer.
The Board hadn’t even surfaced.
He’d pulled that read from twenty years of plumbing and the sound of panic in the original request.
But Tyrol was already back in the Viper and the net was moving on and nobody asked how a deck specialist diagnosed a ship he’d never set foot on.
The second call came fifteen minutes later.
The Cybele, a passenger liner running on fumes and duct tape.
A hatch wouldn’t seal and they had atmosphere venting into a cargo bay.
“Galactica DC, Cybele actual reports manual override unresponsive.
Venting continues.
Requesting guidance.” This time Marko looked at the bulkhead and let the Board wake.
It came up slow.
Amber teletype against the inside of his eyelids.
CYBELE HATCH 4-7A ACTUATOR JAM, DEBRIS IN TRACK.
MANUAL OVERRIDE BYPASSED BY SAFETY INTERLOCK.
FIX: KILL DECK POWER, CLEAR TRACK, RESTORE.
BEARING -2.
He opened his eyes.
Keyed the handset.
“Galactica DC to Cybele.
Your interlock won’t release while it thinks the hatch is moving.
Kill power to that whole deck section, pull the actuator housing, clear the track.
Something’s jamming it.
Once it’s clear the manual will work.” Dee relayed.
The net went quiet for two minutes.
Then a different voice came back, older, steadier.
“Galactica, Cybele here.
We found a tool in the track.
Clearing now.” Tyrol straightened from the Viper.
He didn’t say anything.
Just looked at Marko for a three-count, then went back to his hydraulics.
Marko felt the Bearing settle.
Two points, barely a shadow.
Worth it for a passenger liner that still had air.
The third call came at 0820 and it wasn’t one ship.
It was five.
A debris field from a destroyed civilian transport had scattered across the fleet’s jump corridor.
DRADIS had picked it up thirty seconds before three ships reported impacts.
No major hull breaches yet, but pressure was dropping in compartments across the Constellation, the Pyxis, and the Adriatic.
The Solaria and the Monarch were reporting minor damage.
CIC was trying to triage five calls at once and the net was starting to jam.
Tigh’s voice cut across the traffic like a saw.
“Galactica DC net, this is Tigh.
I need damage assessments and I need them five minutes ago.
Dee, coordinate.
Dabrowski, you’re on this.” Marko’s hand was already moving.
He keyed the handset.
“Galactica DC copies.
Dee, route them one at a time.
Worst first.” Her voice didn’t hesitate.
“Constellation reports six compartments venting, E and F decks.
Crew evacuating.” The Board lit.
CONSTELLATION MICRO-IMPACTS, CASCADING SEAL FAILURE.
VENTING DECKS E-F SECTIONS 8-14.
FIX: SEAL BULKHEADS 7 AND 15, VENT SECTIONS COLD, EVACUATE REMAINING.
BEARING -8.
“Constellation, Galactica DC.
Don’t chase the leaks.
Seal bulkheads seven and fifteen, vent everything between them cold, get your people out of E and F entirely.
You’re not stopping six leaks, you’re cutting off two ends of one problem.” Dee relayed without question.
Ten seconds later Constellation confirmed.
Sealing now.
“Next,” Marko said.
“Pyxis, single-point breach, A-deck cargo.” The Board scrolled.
PYXIS PUNCTURE A-19, SLOW LEAK.
CARGO BAY EMPTY.
FIX: FOAM SEAL, SECONDARY PLATE.
BEARING -1.
“Pyxis can foam-seal and plate it.
Non-critical.
Dee, hold them for last.
Next.” “Adriatic, pressure drop in medical, cause unknown.” Marko closed his eyes.
The Adriatic.
The ship he’d saved once and failed once and the name still sat like a stone every time he heard it.
The Board didn’t care.
ADRIATIC MEDICAL DECK, VENTILATION INTAKE COMPROMISED.
DEBRIS PARTIAL BLOCKAGE.
PRESSURE DROP NON-CRITICAL.
FIX: CLEAR INTAKE, RESTORE FLOW.
BEARING -1.
“Adriatic, check your ventilation intake.
You’ve got a blockage, not a breach.
Clear it and your pressure comes back.” He opened his eyes.
Dee was already relaying.
“Solaria and Monarch holding,” she said.
“Minor damage, no guidance required.” “Copy.
Dee, cycle back to Constellation.
I want confirmation on those seals.” Her voice came back thirty seconds later.
“Constellation confirms bulkheads sealed.
Venting complete.
Pressure holding.” Tigh’s voice cut back in.
“Galactica DC, CIC confirms all ships stable or stabilizing.
Good work.
Tigh out.” The net went quiet.
Marko’s hand was still on the handset.
His head felt like someone had packed it with wool.
Bearing down ten points in eight minutes.
Not dangerous.
Just present.
Tyrol was watching him now.
Not working.
Just standing by the Viper with a hydraulic line in one hand and something complicated happening behind his eyes.
“You just triaged five ships blind, Dabrowski.” “I triaged what they told me, Chief.” “They told you venting and pressure and you gave them specific compartments and fixes like you had schematics.” Marko met his eyes.
“I’ve been doing this my whole life, Chief.
Coolant leaks sound like coolant leaks.
Jammed actuators jam the same way on every hull.
It’s just plumbing.” Tyrol looked at him for a long time.
Then he turned back to the Viper.
“Just plumbing,” he said, flat.
“Right.” Marko didn’t answer.
He clipped the handset back to his harness and went to pull a fiber diagnostic on the backup comms line because his hands needed something to do that wasn’t saving ships on an open net where everyone could hear him be right.
He was shoulder-deep in a junction box when Dee’s voice came through again.
Private channel this time.
Just the two of them.
“Dabrowski.” He keyed his earpiece.
“Here.” “That was good work.” “Just the job.” A pause.
Then, quieter: “You hear things other people don’t.
I don’t know how.
But I’m starting to trust it.” Marko’s hand stilled on the fiber line.
“Don’t trust it too much, Dee.” “Why not?” Because the overlay’s a gift and a countdown and the man who’s never wrong looks exactly like the thing this fleet is hunting and one day you’ll have to choose between what I can do and what I can’t explain.
He didn’t say any of that.
“Because nobody’s right all the time,” he said.
“And the day I’m wrong it’ll cost someone.” “Everyone’s wrong sometimes, Dabrowski.
You’ve been right four times this morning.
I’ll take those odds.” She clicked off.
Marko stood in the junction box and felt the weight of her trust settle next to the Bearing cost and Tyrol’s doubt and Tigh’s grudging good-work and the knowledge that somewhere on this ship Kord had just logged every call he’d made on an open net as one more data point in a case that was already airtight in shape and aimed at the wrong man.
He pulled the fiber line.
Tested it.
Logged it clean.
The Board was silent.
The next call would come.
And the one after that.
And Marko would answer them, because the strategy was working command valued him now, just like he’d planned and because he couldn’t pass a known fault even when the fault was five ships away and every correct answer painted a target on his back.
Indispensable, he’d decided.
Indispensable was survival.
He was starting to understand indispensable was also a noose, and he was tying it himself, one correct call at a time.
He clipped his tools back to his harness and went to find Socko, because he needed to hear someone price something stupid in cigarettes and remember that not everything in this fleet was a calculation.
The net crackled.
Somewhere a ship was stable that wouldn’t have been.
Somewhere Kord was writing it down.
Marko kept walking.
HARD RETURN +.
He’d seen it coming.
Didn’t make it lighter.
The Board went dark.
The corridor hummed.
A klaxon sounded somewhere aft another drill, another crisis, another chance to be right in front of people who were starting to notice.
Marko found Socko in Bay 3, haggling over a case of something that probably wasn’t legal.
“Put me down for two bottles,” Marko said.
Socko looked up.
Grinned.
“Now we’re talking.
What’s the occasion?” “Tigh said good work.” “Frak me.
That’s worth three bottles.
I’ll spot you the third.” “Add it to my tab.” “Brother, your tab’s got a tab.” Marko laughed before he’d decided to, short and unplanned the first easy breath he’d taken all morning.
Socko’s grin widened.
“There he is.
Thought you were gonna float away being competent and mysterious.
Come on.
Let’s go move some cargo nobody’s supposed to have.” They worked the rest of the shift side by side, and when the net called again before the morning was out, Marko answered it, and Dee relayed it, and somewhere in CIC Tigh grunted and somewhere in the bowels of the ship Kord added another line to a file that was already thick enough to bury him.
The strategy was working.
The trap was tightening.
Same breath.
Same choice.
Same corridor forward with no door back.
Marko kept walking.