So Say We All
Posted on Friday February 20, 2026 @ 5:58am by Commander Amos Wythe & Admiral Jacob Yamus
1,477 words; about a 7 minute read
Mission:
M1 - Boxed In
Location: Battlestar Pacifica
The ship shook, consoles blew as chaos filled the CIC. The Commander stood white knuckling the command table looking up at the DRADIS screen. It was full of debris, Cylon, and Colonial signals. The XO stood on the opposite side watching the same screen. "XO." The commander said, "change target to the closest Cylon target."
The ship shook violently again, "Tactical. Target Cylon cruiser at 085 carum 121." He watched the DRADIS as the target changed from the debris to the new target. The tactical officer acknowledged the new order as the action happened, yelling over the chaos. "Weapons! Open fire. Fire at will."
On the outside of the ship, the main gun lauchewd their balistic rounds at the Cylon ships. A Colonial Gunstar exploded in a briliant explosion of light. Vipers and Raiders flew around the ships, taking each other out. The chatter between pilots and their home ships was all over the comms.
The CIC of the Battlestar Pacifica shook as a volley of missles plowed into the hull of the ship. Consoles blew all around as crew covered their faces and took cover. The command console blew and sent the CO flying across the CIC and slamming him into the back wall. The XO, Colonel Amos Wythe, turned to look and he saw a hole through the chest of the CO. He felt his heart drop... he was in command... what was happening... why... fraking toasters!
…fraking toasters!
The word didn’t make it past Amos Wythe’s teeth. It died somewhere behind his ribs as the CIC lurched again, gravity twisting just enough to make the deck feel wrong. He pushed off the command table and crossed the space to where the Commander lay in a heap of smoke, sparks, and blood.
“Doc! Corpsman!” Amos shouted, already knowing it didn’t matter.
The hole through the CO’s chest was clean, almost surgical—debris accelerated by the missile strike, punching straight through him and out the bulkhead behind. The man’s eyes stared past Amos, unfocused, already gone.
For half a heartbeat, the CIC seemed to go quiet. Not actually quiet—alarms were still screaming, deck plates still groaning—but something inside Amos stilled. The training kicked in, cold and merciless.
He straightened.
“I have the conn,” Amos said, his voice carrying more authority than he felt. “Repeat. I have the conn.”
The words snapped the CIC back into motion.
“Conn acknowledged,” the Tactical Officer replied, swallowing hard. “You have the conn, sir.”
Amos stepped into the center position. The command console was dead—smoking wreckage—but the auxiliary repeater flickered to life when a tech slapped it twice with the heel of her hand.
“Status,” Amos demanded.
“FTL offline,” said Engineering over comms, voice crackling with static. “We’re rerouting power but we’ve got hull breaches on decks five through eight.”
“Damage control teams are mobilizing,” Ops added. “We’ve lost three flak batteries starboard. Port side still holding.”
“DRADIS shows two Cylon cruisers closing,” Tactical said. “Plus Raiders—lots of Raiders.”
Of course there were.
Amos clenched his jaw. The Pacifica had already taken too many hits. She was bleeding air, bleeding crew, bleeding time. But she was still a Battlestar.
“Helm,” Amos said. “Bring us about. Present port batteries.”
“Aye, sir,” Helm replied, fingers flying over cracked keys.
The ship groaned as she turned, thrusters firing unevenly. Another impact shuddered through the hull. Someone screamed. Someone else dragged them out of the way.
“Tactical,” Amos said. “Concentrate fire on the nearest cruiser. All batteries. Make them regret showing their metal faces.”
“Aye.”
The Pacifica’s main guns thundered, each recoil echoing through the deck like a heartbeat. On the DRADIS, one of the Cylon cruisers flared bright as its armor took hit after hit.
Vipers streaked past the forward viewports, engines screaming. Raiders exploded in flashes of white light, debris tumbling away into the void.
“Viper wing calling in,” the comms officer shouted. “They’re requesting cover—Raider swarm on their six!”
“Tell them they’ve got it,” Amos snapped. “Flak pattern Delta. Keep our birds alive.”
Another missile strike slammed into the hull, this one closer. The lights flickered, died, then came back on emergency red.
“Sir,” Ops said quietly. “Casualty estimates… CIC alone, we’ve lost—”
“Not now,” Amos said, softer but firm. “Give me numbers when we’re not getting shot at.”
He stared at the DRADIS, watching the Cylon cruiser finally rupture. Its spine snapped, armor peeling back as internal detonations tore it apart.
One down.
The other cruiser kept coming.
Then—new contacts bloomed on the edge of the screen.
“DRADIS spike!” Tactical shouted. “Multiple large signatures—Colonial!”
Amos leaned forward. “Identify.”
A pause. Then disbelief.
“Battlestar… Galactica. And another heavy unit—Atlantia.”
For a moment, Amos forgot to breathe.
The Galactica’s signal burned bright and unmistakable, her mass dwarfing everything else in the battlespace. Atlantia slid in beside her, guns already tracking, Viper wings spilling out like angry hornets.
The effect on the Cylons was immediate.
“Cylon cruiser is breaking off!” Tactical said, almost laughing. “Raiders are disengaging—sir, they’re retreating!”
On the forward view, space erupted with Colonial firepower. Galactica’s main batteries spoke, each salvo a sentence of pure rage. The remaining Cylon cruiser turned hard, FTL spooling up even as flak tore chunks from its hull.
Then—gone.
The Raiders followed, scattering, jumping out in ones and twos.
Silence fell in their wake.
Not real silence. Just the absence of immediate death.
Amos let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His hands were shaking.
“Secure from action stations,” he said at last. “Maintain condition one. Damage control, report in.”
The Pacifica drifted amid wreckage and stars, scarred but alive.
The memorial was held two days later.
The Pacifica had limped to rendezvous with the fleet, escorted by Galactica and Atlantia like wounded royalty. Repairs were ongoing—temporary hull patches, jury-rigged systems—but the ship could breathe again.
The hangar deck had been cleared. Rows of crew stood at attention, uniforms stained with grease and blood despite their best efforts. At the front, a simple table held Colonial flags, neatly folded, each one representing a life lost.
Admiral Jacob Yamus stood before them.
He was older than Amos expected, hair silver, face lined in a way that spoke of too many similar ceremonies. His voice carried without amplification, steady and solemn.
“We are here to remember Commander Elias Trent,” Yamus said, pausing as the name settled over the crowd, “and the crew members of Battlestar Pacifica who gave their lives in defense of humanity.”
A murmur rippled through the assembled crew. Some bowed their heads. Others stared straight ahead, eyes glassy.
“They did not die because of a mistake,” Yamus continued. “They did not die because of failure. They died because the Cylons came for us—as they always do—and they stood their ground.”
He turned slightly, looking at the flags.
“Commander Trent believed in this ship. He believed in you. In discipline. In resolve. In doing the job even when the odds are impossible.”
Yamus’s gaze found Amos.
“And when he fell,” the Admiral said, “that belief did not die with him.”
Amos felt the weight of every eye in the hangar. He didn’t look away.
“Colonel Amos Wythe assumed command under fire,” Yamus went on. “He kept Pacifica in the fight. He kept her alive. That is what leadership looks like.”
A beat.
“Commander Trent would have been proud.”
The silence afterward was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of machinery. One by one, the flags were handed to honor guards, then carried away.
“Attention,” Yamus said quietly. “So say we all.”
“So say we all,” the crew replied, voices uneven but united.
Later, Amos stood alone in the CIC.
Most of the damage had been cleared. The command console had been replaced with a temporary unit, still smelling of fresh insulation. The scar on the bulkhead where the Commander had died remained, a patch of mismatched metal.
Amos rested a hand on the console.
He pushes a button on the command console of the center area of the CIC. A soft tone acknowledged him.
“This is Commander Amos Wythe,” he said. “Assuming command of Battlestar Pacifica as of this date.”
The words felt strange. Heavy. Final.
“We took losses,” Amos continued. “Good people. We’ll carry them with us. But this ship is still in the fight. And as long as Pacifica flies, the Cylons don’t get to win.”
He stopped the recording.
Outside, the stars stretched on endlessly, indifferent and cold.
Amos squared his shoulders.
“Helm,” he said. “Set course. Let’s get back to work.”
The Pacifica turned, battered but unbroken, following the fleet into the dark.
So say we all.
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