In Steph’s favor, the odds were actually stacked on his side. Space was a paradox, full of particles and gas and detritus but also emptier than anything else in the universe. That meant that he could put his shuttle anywhere he had the Delta-V to push it.

The enemy ship needed to pin him down to within a few dozen meters, and he had thousands upon thousands of square kilometers to run in.

In the other guy’s favor, they only needed to get lucky once.

One strike and it would be game over. No reset, no extra lives. They were playing for keeps. You didn’t play tag with a gigawatt laser unless you were ready to dance with demons in the afterlife.

Or had a meter or two of molecular bonded ceramic and adaptive armor between you and the laser cannon.

Neither of which were in his particular bag of tricks this time around.

“They are closing with us, Stephan . . .”

Milla’s voice was surprisingly steady, Steph reflected as he rolled the shuttle around another pulse of photons. If they made it back to the Odysseus, he decided he was going to sponsor her for advanced piloting courses. Blood as cold as the black was a major asset in a combat pilot. He didn’t know if she was going to go all the way down that route, but if she wanted it, he’d make sure she had the chance.

“I see them,” he said aloud.

The frigates were hard to miss, close and getting closer, and that presented Steph with a problem. The Marine lander shuttle he was using wasn’t built for speed, not even in space. The craft still used chemical drives, so it had decent impulse power, but its top end was limited by the reactors powering the CM generators, and those were sadly lacking.

Steph didn’t point the nose of the shuttle toward the open black. Instead, he started looking to the gas giant’s moons, hoping for a miracle.

►►►

PC Parasite Five

► Subaltern Penae glowered at the stubborn symbol on his display.

The continuing existence of that symbol was rapidly becoming a personal insult. The pilot was good—very good. He was staying ahead of the best combat-prediction computers in the Empire with a consistency that was beyond frustrating.

“Continue closing the distance,” he ordered. “Do not let him get away.”

There seemed no particular fear of that, thankfully. The scanners indicated a relatively low technology base on the craft. Some basic space-warping ability, obviously, but that was mixed with a chemical reaction thrust. Crude beyond belief, though reasonably effective right up until the craft ran out of chemicals to burn.

He could only hope that would happen soon, otherwise Penae felt he was likely to throw something in frustration, and that would not look good on the field reports.

“Enemy craft is heading for the nearest moon, Subaltern.”