My pulse spikes, sharp and immediate, but I don’t let it take hold. I breathe slow, deliberate, forcing the panic response down before it can fully form.
“Stabilize,” I say, my voice lower now.
The system recalibrates, the drift correcting in jagged increments before smoothing out, the ship settling back into alignment, though the strain remains, constant and heavy.
“There you are,” I murmur.
The signal sharpens again, closer now, close enough that I can start resolving details beyond just position.
Another signature appears on the edge of the display—larger, heavier, following her trajectory.
“Combine vessel,” the system confirms.
“I see it.”
They’re adjusting, just like she forced them to, just like she planned.
“She’s keeping them off-balance,” I say, tracking the movement.
“Enemy vessel adjusting vector,” the system adds.
“They’re correcting.”
“Time to interception decreasing.”
Good.
That’s what I need.
Not distance. Not delay. Closure.
I lean forward slightly, my claws resting against the control interface as I refine the approach, narrowing the angle, tightening the vector, because no wide engagement, no broad assault—precision.
“If I hit them head-on, I lose her,” I say.
“Probability of collateral damage?—”
“Unacceptable,” I finish.
I adjust the trajectory again, angling slightly off-center, calculating intercept timing against their velocity, their mass, their likely response pattern.
“They’re going to assume I go for the kill,” I say.
“Logical,” the system replies.
“Good,” I mutter. “Let them.”
I reroute power, shifting output from secondary systems into propulsion and targeting, and the lights in the cockpit dim slightly as the redistribution takes effect.
“Power imbalance detected,” the system warns.
“Temporary,” I reply.
“Duration limits?—”
“I don’t need duration.”
I need one pass. One clean opening. That’s it.
