He knew his fighter had crossed their outer perimeter when the first tentative probes reached out for him. Cold, glistening claws of alien force raked his psyche, thrusting and scrabbling to dominate his will.
He slipped into a defensive trance, knowing if his focus were to waver then death would be preferable to the alternative. His mind would be theirs to command and his actions theirs to decide.
As he closed, their attacks intensified, burning up his concentration like dry grass in a wildfire. He cycled through defensive images: his first baseball glove, fishing on the riverbank with his dad, his first kiss on the cheek of an unsuspecting Mary Sue Masterson.
That did it! With a whoop of victory, he felt their presence fade and the mental fog lift. He chuckled, knowing Vice Admiral Mary Masterson would not be amused to know how powerful that particular memory was to one scruffy old fighter jock.