A tingling raced through his body, every nerve, every cell alive. He felt the adrenaline flowing through his blood, bringing a rush beyond even that of the stim he’d taken before engaging. His hand angled one way and then the next on the throttle, his mind racing. But nothing he did shook the deadly weapon on his tail, and the warhead continued to close.

Three minutes…and it’s still accelerating…

He’d have escaped an Alliance missile by now. Once the weapon ran out of fuel, its velocity and vector would be set…and all he’d have to do is move out of its path. But the Confed weapon was still coming, matching his every directional change.

He felt the sweat pouring down his neck now, his back, the slick wetness under the skintight pressure suit. He sucked the pressurized air from his mask, hungrily, greedily. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, a drumbeat growing more rapid with each passing second.

His mind filled with recollections, maneuvers and tactics he was taught during his days at the Academy so many years before. And newer memories too, battles he’d fought, tricks he’d invented on the fly, the moves that had saved his life more times than he could easily recount…and had sent twenty-three of his enemies to hell.

He pulled back hard on the throttle, spinning his small craft, drastically changing the angle of his thrust. It was a bold maneuver, but its effect on his overall vector would be slowed by his existing velocity. Still, it was an unexpected move, as random a turn as he could throw at the missile’s AI. The weapon’s guidance system would adjust, there was no question of that. But if he confused it enough, he could gain a few seconds, and seconds would be the difference between life and death.

It was a game…a deadly game about time. If he could outlast the missile’s fuel supply, he would escape. But he was at three minutes, thirty seconds, and the weapon was still blasting at full, still reacting to his every attempt to escape. He glanced down at the screen, looking for other bogies. There was nothing. His flight from the missile had pulled him from the main battle area. That was good news, at least. The missile was enough to worry about. The last thing he needed was another enemy fighter on his tail.

He swung the throttle hard again, spinning the tiny craft in an almost random direction. His eyes were locked on the missile’s icon on the display. It overshot, took perhaps three seconds to match his maneuver. It didn’t seem like much, but he’d just bought himself more time.

Four minutes. Fuck…these missiles have one hell of a range…