He thought of his squadrons, imagining the losses they would suffer facing the superior Confederation weapons. All of their maneuvers and training were based on evading missiles for three minutes. But hitting that mark wouldn’t save them here.

Four minutes, thirty…

The missile was gaining. It wouldn’t be long now. Junus figured he could last another thirty seconds, maybe forty-five. If the missile’s fuel lasted longer than that, he was a dead man. He’d imagined this moment before, many times. But now he realized he’d never really thought about it, never believed the day would come. His pilot’s bravado had always been there, but now he felt it slipping away, pouring off like water from a melting block of ice.

Five minutes…

The missile was right on his tail, barely five hundred kilometers back.

His hand was sweatsoaked, slipping around on the throttle. He could feel death coming, like a shadow looming over him, blocking the light. He had seconds left to live. He felt an urge to yield, to surrender to the inevitable. But veteran Alliance pilots did not yield. Defiance filled him. He might be defeated, but he would never surrender. He would fight to the last.

He jerked the throttle hard again, a move so abrupt, the force dampeners couldn’t respond quickly enough. Twenty g’s of force slammed into him, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest as one of his ribs snapped from the pressure.

He gasped painfully for oxygen, even the pressurized feed inadequate to force the flow of air into his tortured lungs. And with each rasping, desperate breath, the broken rib hurt like fire. But it didn’t matter. In a few seconds it would all be over.

Wait…

His eyes snapped down to the display. The missile hadn’t matched his last maneuver. It was continuing on its previous course.

Out of fuel!

He released the throttle, and the thrust vanished, the crushing pressure replaced by the relief of free fall. He breathed hard, deep, ignoring the agony in his chest.