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had
been determined in the first minutes of battle with the opposing forces still
many hundreds of kilometres apart.  Modern engagements were usually determine
by who had the initiative, the most missiles and the best positioning. 
However, for the first time in most of the pilot’s memories this engagement was
going to be determined ship-to-ship, pilot-vs-pilot.  The Praetorians had long
since expended all their missiles and the missiles carried by the fleet
fighters were useless as they would not lock onto what the missiles considered
friendly fighters.  Hence this engagement was going to be determined by pilot
skill.  The Praetorian pilots were the pinnacle of pilot skill, each one
considered an ace on his or her own merit, a veteran of dozens of combat
engagements, never been beaten.  Therefore as the Praetorian squadron dived
into the flank of the approaching fighters it was like a hot knife slicing through
butter and within an instant the fleet’s formation descended into complete
chaos and a free-for-all ensued.
    *****
    The atmosphere on the command deck of the Imperial Star, flagship
of the Imperial Navy was thick enough with tension to cut with a knife as the
two groups of fighters, one much smaller than the other, collided in a melee of
ships and gunfire.
    “One down,” called out the tactical officer.
    “Two.”
    “Three.”
    “Four.”
    “Five.”  It was only when he realised that all eyes on the
command deck were focused on him that he added deflatedly. “Those are our
losses…” Indeed the Praetorian fighters were cutting a swathe through the
Imperial fighters, outmanoeuvring them, outshooting them, simply out-flying
them.  However, ultimately the numbers were on the side of the Imperial fleet
when first one of the Praetorian’s fell, followed rapidly by another and
another.
    Suddenly another voice, almost forgotten, cut across the
room, “They’re letting him get away, the idiots!”  Commodore Harkov yelled
across the room, gesturing at the lone shuttle that was continuing on its
heading towards the FTL jump point.  “Get me the Commander of the fighter-group
on communications, right now!” He practically screamed. 
    The communications officer pressed a few keys then nodded
towards the Commodore that the channel was open.
    “CAG here,” came the terse response, it was obvious from his
voice that he was under significant strain.
    “Break-off your engagement with the fighters, I want you to
intercept and engage the escaping shuttle,” the Commodore ordered
matter-of-factly. 
    The channel went silent for a moment as the commander of the
air-group watched in disbelief as the Praetorian fighter in front of him
executed a roll that the Commander did not think physically possible for that
craft and promptly reduced one of his wingmen into dust.  Fortunately the CAG
managed to get off a lucky shot that pulverised one of the rear control
surfaces of the fighter.  He watched speechlessly as the fighter dipped, seemed
to lose control for a moment before recovering and diving straight into his
remaining wingman, both of whom disappeared into a raging fireball.
    “Commander!”  The impatient Commodore insisted. “I gave you
a direct order!”
    “Yeah, well you grab a fighter and come up and fly against
these guys,” the Commander complained.  “Anybody flying in a straight line for
more than an instant is going to be flotsam!”  With that he cut the channel and
got back to trying to stay alive, shaking his head at the stupidity of fleet
officers.
    Pounding his fists against the console and the complete
incompetence of those surrounding him, Harkov once again ordered the
communications officer to open a channel, this time to the fleeing shuttle…
    *****
    The flight computer reported that they were only moments
away from the FTL jump point.  Jon gave one final glance at the aft sensors,
which reported that only a few of his squadron remained alive.  However, they
had done what