“They’re crossing,” Mav said. “Permission to engage.”
Mav smiled grimly. The PC-MAV wasn’t a fly. It was a spider.
Mav didn’t think. He became the PC-MAV. The neural link blurred the line between thumbstick and synapse. He popped up from the ice like a killer whale breaching, hit full afterburner, and closed 2,000 meters in three seconds. The Su-57’s pilot never saw him.
The Russian banked west and punched his afterburners. Retreat.
He was no fraud. He was the PC-MAV. And the sky belonged to whoever flew it best.
