"One down," Ford muttered, tapping the dashboard as if rewarding a good dog. "One to go."

  "There is a second vessel?" Sheila squeaked. Her face was a shade of pale usually reserved for cave-dwelling lich-lords.

  "There's always a wingman," Ford said. "Pirates are like cockroaches; they hate being alone."

  As if on cue, a shadow detached itself from the nebula's gloom ahead of them. It was another Corvette, identical to the first, but this one was angry. Its forward cannons were glowing red, charging up.

  "He's blocking our exit vector," Mother announced. "Collision course imminent. He is not moving."

  "He thinks we'll blink," Ford said.

  He adjusted the throttle. He didn't slow down. He sped up.

  "Ford?" Sheila whispered.

  The Millennium Seagull rattled violently as Ford pushed the engines to 110%. The hum of the gravity generator rose from A-minor to a screaming C-sharp.

  Ford started humming again. A darker tune this time. Something with a bass line that thumped in his chest.

  Another one bites the dust...

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  "Ford!" Sheila yelled. "He's firing!"

  Plasma bolts sizzled through the gas, boiling the atmosphere around them. Ford juked the ship—left, right, left—dodging the fire with agonizingly small margins.

  "He's trying to scare us," Ford explained calmly, his eyes locked on the approaching ship. "He wants us to break off and expose our belly. Then he hits the engines."

  "He's going to hit our face!" Sheila screamed.

  The pirate ship loomed larger. It was a black mountain of jagged steel rushing toward them at Mach 2.

  "Mother," Ford said. "Divert life support to the forward shields."

  "That will leave us with three minutes of air," Mother warned.

  "I only need ten seconds," Ford said.

  He pushed the stick forward. He wasn't dodging anymore. He was aiming.

  He was flying directly at the pirate's cockpit.

  On the sensor screen, the distance counter dropped like a stone. 2000m... 1000m... 500m...

  "Turn!" Sheila shrieked, covering her eyes.

  Ford didn't turn. He hummed the chorus.

  And another one gone... and another one gone...

  At 200 meters, the pirate pilot broke.

  It wasn't a conscious decision. It was instinct. The pirate realized, deep in his reptilian brain, that the fat cargo hauler in front of him was not going to move.

  The Corvette jerked hard to starboard, firing its thrusters in a panic to avoid the collision.

  It was a mistake.

  The sudden lateral move in the dense gas tore the Corvette's starboard wing clean off. The stress dragged the ship into a violent spin. It vanished into the purple fog, tumbling toward the nebula's crush depth.

  The Seagull roared through the space the pirate had occupied a millisecond before.

  Ford exhaled. He eased back on the throttle.

  "Mother," he said casually. "Bring life support back online. It's getting stuffy."

  He looked over at Sheila. She was curled into a ball in the co-pilot seat, hyperventilating.

  "You can open your eyes, Princess," Ford said, taking a sip of his coffee. "Traffic is clear."