"Commander!"

The urgent shout cut through the orchestrated chaos clearly. Adama's head snapped around and he focused on the communications officer. "Yes?"

"I've got Fallon on the line here, said to pass emergency code Iceberg."

Adama's face froze. Omega knew his own face reflected the same expression, but he refused to allow any other reaction. Iceberg. Code for a no-survival situation.

"Patch it through, private line, now."

Adama turned away from the bridge and the view of the battle raging outside, speaking quietly but urgently into his headset. Omega tried to focus on his screen, but it was no use, with the word iceberg echoing through his head like a death knell.

"Tigh, Omega," Adama said, turning towards them slowly. Omega was suddenly struck by how old the Commander looked, face lined and weary. He moved quickly to join him and his second in command. Adama spoke rapidly, voice low and urgent. "That was the main computer room. The automatic self-destruct sequence has been initiated. There are—" he consulted his watch "—nine centons, thirty microns remaining before—"

"I'll go," Omega interrupted. "You and Tigh need to stay here. I've got the override codes."

"Are you sure?" Adama looked at him solemnly. "You know the risk."

"Indeed I do," Omega nodded solemnly. The computer room itself would be the first to go in a chain of explosions that would culminate in destruction of the entire ship. "You're both needed here, I have the best chance of getting there in time, and I'm not wasting time arguing. I'll be back."

He spun on his heel and strode rapidly from the bridge. No sooner had the door slid shut behind him then he was off at a dead run for the lift shafts.

The designers of the great battlestars had done everything they could think of to make the ships invincible. Knowing this, and knowing that the Cylons were not stupid, they had also taken steps to ensure the battlestar technology would never fall into Cylon hands. The computer brain in charge of the mechanical aspects of any given battlestar was programmed to watch for indications that the ship was in a no-win situation. If such a situation was detected, the computer would cause the ship to self-destruct rather than be captured.

Omega wondered as he rode the high-speed personnel carrier through the central corridor to the computing center exactly what had set the computer off. Had it been the five massive hull breaches, resulting in five sections sealed off behind airtight emergency bulkheads? Had it been the loss of the main drive? Had it been the loss of the shields? And why hadn't he realized systems were so close to complete shutdown? If he'd just been thinking more clearly, instead of trying to keep track of the battle, he'd have realized the computer was about to take over and been in the central computer room already, to override the destruct sequence as soon as it began.

The carrier was too slow. He'd wasted four minutes already and wasn't there yet. The analytical part of his brain processed the information he'd been seeing on his screen throughout the battle and it rolled obediently past his mind's eye, presenting clearly why the computer decided this was a losing battle: Hull integrity 30%. Shield integrity 16%. Main drive 30% functional. FTL drive 100% offline. Atmospheric controls 40% inoperative. Weapons 20%. Main power reactor offline. Secondary reactor 60% and falling. Backup power—

There was the computer room now. Omega cut off the depressing internal litany and sprinted for the door.

Inside, most of the lights were out and people were running everywhere, trying to extinguish fires. The acrid tang of wires burning permeated the air. Omega ignored it all and found the main input terminal for the command computer.

Status? he typed, then held his breath and pressed the enter key.

System meltdown in 1:31, the computer replied promptly. Omega heaved a sigh of relief. Plenty of time! He entered the first of the series of override codes, not even thinking about what it would mean if he got even one letter out of place. This was a one-shot deal. Either he got it right the first time, or he'd go up in a spectacular ball of flame.

Final override accepted. Destruct sequence cancelled. Have a nice day!

Omega's eyes widened when he read that last bit, and he smothered a laugh. Evidently the programmer of this system had had a sense of humor.

Then an explosion actually rocked the Galactica, even through the inertial dampers. Omega staggered, then looked around at the chaos. "Anyone in contact with the bridge?" he called, over the noise.

"Sir," one of the techs said, raising horrified eyes from a secondary monitor, "there is no bridge."

"What?" Omega had no memory of moving. He was just there, at the terminal, shoving the man aside and searching the readout for anything that made sense.

The computer screen showed the sensor net readings for the perimeter of the ship, a glowing green tracery outlining the battlestar, with blank spots where Omega knew the hull had been breached. But there was something wrong. The screen showed the entire bridge section as missing.

"Come on, this can't be right," Omega said. He keyed for another readout, more detailed, showing structural integrity. This report, too, showed nothing but a gaping hole where the bridge had been. "I don't believe this," he whispered, tapping keys once again. Time after time, no matter what sensor array or interpreter he checked, the result was the same: no bridge.

"Frack," he whispered, then straightened slowly from the console. He looked out over the room. The chaos had quieted now, the fires were out, and people were staring at him.

"Is it all over, then?" someone asked.

Omega suppressed the urge to laugh. Of course it's all over, you fool! How can we fight, how can we even survive without the bridge? But he didn't say that.

"No," he said instead. "It's not over yet, not as long as any of us are still alive. I'm going to the secondary command center. Any of you who are willing to help and not urgently needed here, please come with me."

And he turned and walked out of the room.