The Life Engineered by J. F. Dubeau Page A

was evident that it was heading toward us.
    “Nineteen minutes and sixteen seconds to impact,” announced our ship.
    “Can you dodge it?” I asked.
    “Nope. Each torpedo is probably as good a pilot as I am. Not as sentient and charming, but more than capable of plotting a collision course. I’m afraid unless we get very creative, we’re not going to make it to the collapsor point.”
    “Ship!” Koalemos called out, eliciting an annoyed sigh from Skinfaxi. “Open your hatch. I might have a plan that might very well not fail.”
    “Done,” Faxi answered.
    One of Koalemos’s shards flew off toward the back of the ship. I couldn’t be sure of his intentions and wasn’t certain I wanted to know either. The stakes being what they were, however, anything was possible.
    “I’m no longer aboard. You can close,” he said.
    The back image suddenly zoomed in on a little robotic jellyfish glistening in the starlight, barely visible in the dark void. If it weren’t for a large blue circle on the interface identifying him and the glow of his central thruster array, the piece of Capek would have all but disappeared in the black.
    “What happens if he loses that shard?” I asked Skinfaxi over a private channel. The thought of being composed of several bodies was unnerving to me.
    “He’ll be that much less of himself,” the ship answered in a somber tone.
    I watched attentively as the little robot we had jettisoned positioned itself within the path of the incoming torpedo. The rest of Koalemos floated around me, seven metallic donuts with arms, seemingly unperturbed by the drama playing out a few thousand kilometers behind us.
    The shard outside, matching Skinfaxi’s velocity at the time it ejected, had little trouble latching onto the torpedo as it cut through the vacuum toward us, ever accelerating, ever catching up.
    The image blew up some more, concentrating on Koalemos as he proceeded to dismantle panels from the weapon’s surface, digging furiously through its innards, pulling out pieces and sometimes dropping them in its wake. Occasionally, he would reach back at the last second to pick up a stray piece. After a few tense minutes of this, thrusters fired all around the torpedo, dramatically halting its progression in our direction, spinning it back toward Anhur.
    Immediately, Skinfaxi cut his sub–light drive. Touching the wall of the spherical room, I could feel the vibration and humming of the Alcubierre drive building up its charge. There was no reason to think that the much larger Anhur, built for travel between galaxies and equipped with engines designed to fold space itself, wouldn’t have similar capabilities. With any luck, however, his took much longer to activate, and we would be long gone through the wormhole by then.
    “Now might be a good time to sever your link to that shard, my friend.” The suggestion was akin to recommending the removal of an arm.
    “Not quite yet,” Koalemos replied, lost in concentration.
    Looking back, we saw the image of the torpedo speeding away from us and toward the immense Capek hot on our tail. A moment passed before the image disappeared as space-time contracted behind Skinfaxi, launching our bubble of reality toward the collapsor point faster than physics should allow.
    For a moment I felt victorious. We had escaped the monstrous Capek bent on destroying us and, by all appearances, dealt it a parting blow. Glancing around, however, the feeling quickly vanished.
    Koalemos, arguably the hero of the hour, was floating around the bridge, his many bodies moving freely in various random directions, uncontrolled and unfettered. None of the thruster arrays that normally propelled and stabilized him were functional. His tendril-like arms were motionless.
    “Oh crap!” I called out. “What’s wrong with him?”
    “Synaptic shock from his quancom network being broken,” Skinfaxi answered, his humor gone, replaced by mild irritation. “Aren’t you built for rescue