Starlight: Man Versus Machine?

"Son, turn that ship around or you're going to have a hell of a time with your CO in half an hour."1

The P27 maintained its intercept to my flight path and didn't respond over the communicator. Probably some command-dependent rookie calling in every word to his super for advice.2

"I don't know who you are, but I can guarantee I'll win in a fair collision."3

The interceptor angled in and throttled up. At this rate he still had a couple minutes to change his mind. I held course and began contingency analysis. Somewhere under the extreme annoyance of the situation, I think some part of me was enjoying the chance to send a foolish young pilot to mess duty for two weeks while his ship was pieced back together. Probably that part of me that took over long enough to get me enlisted.4

Thirty seconds had passed by the time I'd decided on a response hierarchy. "Interceptor, be advised: my leave was replaced with this tour and I killed a pilot yesterday. I will be at this station for twenty-one days and am authorized to make you hate me."5

No change, even after another minute. With something less than twenty seconds left until we crossed paths, I pitched up to swing my bearing behind the other pilot's tail. He yawed to match, turning to a direct facing, and still gave no indication that he wished to resolve the conflict peacefully. I throttled up and kept a solid hand on the controls.
"Cypher, record and identify interceptor."
My navigational OS collapsed from the screen and the shadow AI began displaying the flight log scans. Meanwhile, I was assessing the appropriate maneuvers for my intended approach. On our current trajectories, we were about five seconds to impact, his right wingtip clipping my right wing somewhere between the base and midway out. Only an idiot would maintain that course. Only an idiot would be in his place at all, for that matter.6

At this moment, a thought crossed my mind: what in the world was Flight Control doing? They hadn't contacted me since the start of the engagement. Probably too busy trying to talk down their own man.7

As instinct began to work beyond the speed threshold of my sensory input, time seemed to drag by... relatively speaking. Any pilot who made it out of basic would know that his best shot to avoid collision would be to roll out. Which way, would be the question. The way we were lined up, a left bank would be just as effective as a right. And vice versa.
I decided to force the issue. Four seconds left. I banked into a one-way wing lock. There was now one viable escape option only. The comm buzzed to life as I let off the stick.
"Duncan, Duncan..." A somewhat mechanical voice. Modulated. Drone AI?
Three seconds.
"... Give me your answer do..."
Two seconds.
"... I'm half crazy..."
One second.8

The suddenness with which that blasted subconscious of mine shouted into my waking thoughts was startling. 'ROLLING CARTWHEEL' was the basic concept, loud and terrifying just like that.
In the middle of Line Four, a split second from collision, I threw hard to the right on the stick and the pedals. Under normal conditions this would have sent my nose right into the other fighter's right engine housing; however, the other pilot had also pulled a last-moment move, rolling towards me and pitching away. The result was roughly a ninety degree analog of our five-second projection. The P27's wingtip sensor pod dug a gouge along my fuselage until it hit the wing base and snapped off, spinning through space like a discarded party favor. The friction drag sent my ship pushing full flame through a wide arc until I could get my hand back on the throttle lever and let off the thrust.9

That machine voice fuzzed through my headset again as I regained control of the ship and read Cypher's damage report. "Ha ha ha," it cackled in descending minor thirds, "I thought I knew which trick you'd use."
All systems operational. "How do you figure that?" I asked, half-rhetorically. Cosmetic damage to right fuselage, minor structural anomaly on the upper right wing... "You'd have to have predicted faster than that foolish mind of yours would let you think."
"Or," the retort came, a definite human inflection beneath the decidedly inhuman aural characteristics, "faster than your sublights could get you here from Io Outpost."
Thus far my assignment loan to Neptune was according to special ops protocol. Who was this pilot, to know my source base? I skipped through the rest of the ship status (all green, in case you were wondering) and called up the flight logs Cypher had ripped before the collision. I wasn't surprised to see what they said. Though, I would have been, fifteen seconds earlier.10

As I set course for the Station hangar, I adopted a less patronizing tone and addressed the newly-proven pilot. "You sound different."
"Did you hear about that battle out here last month?" Yeah, I replied, I did. "I shot down a destroyer. Did you know they practically explode during re-entry?"
Impressive. "A destroyer, eh?"
The voice box chuckled back. "I kept the debris shard. I wanted to give it to you."
"Over whiskey in the off-shift?" I posed the question in the tone I thought would portray the least amount of optionality.
More laughing. "It's a date then," warbled my recent near-victim.11

Must be having a good day, I thought to myself.