by J-F. Dubeau
- Capek Names: Capeks take their individual names from religion and mythology. Usually, their names are given to them by their progenitors. Each Gaia-class Capek borrows its name from a religious myth and passes on this affiliation to its children. The names rarely hold meaning but serve only as a convention and genealogical identifier.
o
First-Generation Capeks
§ Marduk
o
Second-Generation Capeks
§ Yggdrassil
§ Hera
§ Mary
§ Coatlicue
§ Parvati
§ Isis
§ Haumea
§ Demeter
§ Aveta
o
Third-Generation Capeks
§ Leduc Class
»» Dagir
»» Aurvandil
»» Proioxis
»» Kerubiel
»» Ardra
»» Belenos
»» Murugan
§ Sputnik Class
»» Skinfaxi
»» Opochtli
»» Suijin
»» Hermes (Sputnik–Von Neumann hybrid)
§ Von Neumann Class
»» Koalemos
§ Lucretius Class
»» Anhur
»» Pele
§ Maximilian Class
»» Kamohoali’i
»» Ukupanipo
Space Travel: Capeks travel through space using a variety of methods that allow them to ply the stars with apparent ease. Space travel is slow in the far future, requiring extremely advanced technologies and vast amounts of power to allow faster-than-light transportation. There are various ways to move around in space. Some of the more popular are:
- Space Fold: Incredibly energy inefficient, folding space bends space-time to layer two areas of space over each other for a period of time. What it lacks in accuracy it makes up in speed, as it is the closest thing to instantaneous transportation available.
- Wormholes: Using existing conduits in space-time to travel from one predetermined point in space to another. Requires a collapsor point, where a wormhole can be opened. Safer and more energy conservative than folding space as well as pinpoint accurate, but restricted to the places where wormholes are located. Human ships are capable of creating collapsor points that burrow to the nearest wormhole conduit.
- Alcubierre Drive: Distorting the space in front and behind a spacecraft to allow the ship in a bubble to “surf ” the spacetime wave at super-relativistic speeds. Energy demanding, but not as much as folding space. Very accurate, but the slowest of known travel methods.
- Ion Thrusters: Short for Impact Ion Thrust Engine, these sub–light methods of propulsion use the same basic principle as an ion engine, but instead of a steady pulse of ions being used to generate a constant low thrust, the IITE uses powerful bursts of ionized particles bounced against each other to generate a more concentrated propulsion. IITEs burn like rockets but with no perceivable exhaust.
Materials
- Hypermaterials: A large class of complex materials and metamaterials that rely on molecular lamination to layer various alloys and elements, permitting the creation of extremely resilient matter. Hypermaterials tend to offer a limited range of properties, focusing instead on strength and endurance.
- Psuedo-Plastics: Complex alloys that offer the properties of various polymers while maintaining other characteristics, such as thermal resistance, endurance, and different levels of conductivity. Used in various forms and thicknesses for several nonstructural applications.
- Ethimothropic Carbons: Simple objects and parts composed of a single, large, and complex carbon molecule. Once shaped, an ETC object is extremely difficult to break or damage. Small variations in shape can cause the molecule to completely change allotropic properties. Simple ETC items are composed of a single carbon nanotube woven onto itself, but other objects are infinitely complex single molecules, making up items as large as a ship’s hull.
Power Sources
- Fusion Reactors: Small, efficient, and long lived, fusion reactors are the most common power plants in use. All third-generation Capeks rely on one or many fusion reactors to remain alive and active. The reactor is built around a stable fusion reaction that generates tremendous amounts of energy. Infrequent and minimal infusions of materials are occasionally necessary to maintain the reaction.
Communications
- Local Band: A generic term used to describe any shortrange public communication. This form of communication will often use local resources, such as existing networks and infrastructures, though this is handled seamlessly by the Capek’s onboard communication systems. Local band talk is the closest Capeks have to talking out loud, and very often will feel no different to them. However, local band has the option of embedding metainformation, images, videos, and other media into messages, and communications can be encrypted into a peer-to-peer dialogue that resembles telepathy to some degree.
- Quancom: Relying on advanced interpretations of quantum entanglement principles, quantum communications allows faster-than-light exchange of information amongst Capeks. While peer-to-peer communications are rare and have to be built into each Capek on an individual basis (like having a phone for every person on your contact list), most Capeks rely on the quancom network to be able to reach each other. The network is composed of a series of relay nodes that are tuned to every Capek so far fabricated. The nodes themselves are located in areas of interstellar space where there is little change in gravity, radiation, or other factors that might adversely affect the node. Relay nodes also serve as a form of “online” community, hosting collaborative message boards and storing project information.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Like a machine, The Life Engineered was built from many pieces, each playing an important role.
I have to thank my friends, like David, who supported me and can’t seem to dislike anything I do. Also Amy, Kari, and Annie, who each worked very hard to help get the preorders I needed to meet my goals.
I also extend my gratitude to the Tadpool for their support and encouragement, as well as Galactic Netcast for making me part of the family. Here’s to you, Dave, Brad, Matt, and Anessa.
Infinite thanks go to Tom and Veronica of The Sword & Laser Collection for creating this opportunity and for picking my book from a list of promising contenders. It’s an honor and privilege to be part of your collection.
Inkshares can’t be ignored. The professionalism and quality of their service, as well as the support they offered me during the production phase of this publication, far exceeded my expectation. The same goes for the great people at Girl Friday Productions. Here’s to you, Avalon, Holly, Clete, and Elsie.
I have to thank my family, who supplied me ample encouragement and unquestioning support. I would have gone insane without them.
And finally, to Angela, who never stopped pushing, helping, and believing in me no matter how bad things got.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J-F. Dubeau is a graphic designer and brand specialist from Montreal, Canada. As part of learning to cope with a crippling addiction to storytelling and long-form narrative, he has spent the past five years writing and learning to write. The Life Engineered is his first novel. He is currently funding his second book, A God in the Shed, and he thinks you should preorder a copy as a way to help him and support new authors. When he’s not writing or winning his bread and butter, J-F. can be found hiking or snowboarding. While he does both, J-F. hates jogging about as much as he loves telling stories; thus, the balance is maintained.
Twitter: @jfdubeau
Facebook: www.facebook.com/jfdubeau.writer
Website: jfdubeau.com
A PREVIEW OF THE SEQUEL TO THE LIFE ENGINEERED:
ARCH-ANDROID CHAPTER 1
Sabrina
Heaven is purpose fulfilled.
I know this because that’s my reality. It’s my life. I open my eyes and look around. Billowing clouds surro
und me as I float amongst them. Golden-yellow pillows of gas cover the sky above, occasionally breached by pillars of harsh sunlight. Thousands of kilometers below my feet I see massive dark-red thunderheads, roiling and twisting at the mercy of monstrous winds.
Paradise above, hell underneath, and I float between them, safely tucked in a serene neutral-buoyancy layer of atmosphere. I’ve been here forever, and I’ll never get bored with it, but if I did, I’d go to a different gas giant and start the process anew. I can’t imagine ever learning all there is to know about this planet or having to move on.
I shut my vision again, confident in the knowledge that there is no place in the galaxy safer than this. For over a decade I’ve been floating here, studying and learning. Eleven years mapping out the weather patterns and interactions of the various gas layers within this seemingly gentle giant. Like most things that appear calm on the surface, however, Cyrene is deeply turbulent under her skin. She wouldn’t be worth studying if she weren’t.
Yet here I float, hidden within a pocket of stability that according to my surveys has persisted for centuries.
I extend the array on my back. Like a pair of skeleton wings, the delicate sensors unfold. Millions of microreceptors specially designed to sniff out every detail of the atmosphere are brought back online, feeding me an endless buffet of information. The chemical composition of the gases around me, pressure, wind speeds all become known to me, not just in my immediate area, but up to several thousand kilometers in every direction.
Who needs to move when you can be everywhere?
This truth is even more apparent when I remember that I can communicate with any of my peers in the galaxy, access any research I need, and contribute to other projects as if I were there, all without leaving the comfort of my own mind.
It’s paradise. Or at least it is until all my sensors lose their collective mind.
Something’s wrong.
My thrusters ignite almost automatically and my “wings” retract. Dozens of automated systems burst to life, and my field of vision is flooded with warnings and alarms. My research is pushed to the periphery, forcing me to focus on the emergency.
Then it hits me. Winds that haven’t penetrated this layer of the atmosphere in hundreds of years ram into me with the force of an asteroid crash. Tossed around like so much debris, I decide that it’s easier not to resist and probably safer too.
The pocket of calm high-density gas I’ve made my home has become a tempest. I open my eyes to see it all for myself, a beautiful atmospheric apocalypse. For a moment I’m frustrated that despite all my research I did not see the maelstrom coming. Years of studying the wind patterns within Cyrene’s oceans of gas, and I’m caught off guard. Yet I somehow put the disappointment aside once confronted by the majesty of it all.
“Sabrina! Are you okay in there?”
Karora cuts in on quancom. There’s a hint of worry, but mostly amused curiosity. After all, I’m in no real danger. As powerful as the superhurricane that spawned out of nowhere might be, there are no other solid objects that I could collide with, and even if there were, my pseudo-plastic shell would be more than enough to protect me. As long as I’m not pulled down too deep within the gas giant, I should be intact.
Karora is the Watson to my Sherlock, or maybe I’m the Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote. It depends on whom you ask. Whatever the case may be, the laborious little Von Neumann has been my partner in crime, chauffeur, and best friend for nearly a full century.
“I’m fine,” I answer, amused by his worry.
The sight is beyond belief! Thick clouds that kept a respectable distance from one another moments before are now colliding and mixing in a complex dance of color and shapes. The entire atmospheric pocket is being crushed between heaven and hell, and I’m caught in the middle and it is glorious. Or rather, it’s glorious for the first few hours. Before long the spectacle gives way to curiosity, and I delve back into my sensor readings, trying to figure out what happened.
“I’m assuming this is all going according to plan?” Karora pipes in.
“On a macrolevel? Sure! I mean, I’m here to learn, aren’t I?”
I try to pretend I’m a consummate scientist, I really do. I take my research seriously, and I do love what I’m studying. Objectively, I should rejoice at this turn of events. After all, isn’t unraveling the mysteries of the universe what science is all about? Yet the ideal loses its luster when the mystery renders decades of work null and void.
“I know you better than that; you’re pissed.”
He’s right, or close enough. I’m angered by the setback, that’s true. I’m also frustrated that I my own fail-safes are preventing me from deploying my sensor array and gathering more data. However, what’s really bothering me is that I don’t know how long this storm is going to last. It could be days, years, or even centuries. Overriding the fail-safes is an option, of course, but they exist for a reason, and having my “wings” plucked from my back would be regrettable to say the least.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m having just as little success up here.”
Karora was performing his own research, if it could be called as much. As fascinated as I might be with theoretical planetary meteorology, my friend was engrossed in experimental research in building better faster-than-light (FTL) methods. To his credit, his breakthroughs in optimizing the standard Alcubierre drive have been adopted across our civilization. However, the real prize Karora is after, artificial wormholes, eludes him even after nearly ninety years of tests.
The Tjurunga, his ship, has undergone so many refits and iterations that it might as well be the proverbial ship of Theseus. In the years since we’ve arrived in this system, Karora has built himself a veritable factory in orbit around Cyrene. I once argued that he should build a new vessel for each prototype, but he called my suggestion “inelegant.”
“What’s the problem this time?” I asked, feigning interest.
“Same as before on a larger scale: can’t stabilize the negative energy necessary to open a wormhole. Scratch that. I can create a stable wormhole, but it leads to an arbitrary position in spacetime. When I stabilize the destination, I collapse the field and lose the entry point.”
Wormhole theory—in fact, all of the theoretical physics behind interstellar and faster-than-light travel—has always flown right over my head. When we first met, Karora would drown me in an avalanche of formulas and figures that made absolutely no sense to me. It took a few years before I realized they meant very little to him either, being borrowed from other Capeks’ research.
“On the bright side,” my friend continued, “it’s very pretty when it fails.”
“Glad you can see the glass half-full,” I replied as I was thrown upwards by the winds. The billowing giants of the upper atmosphere exchanged lightning with their counterparts from below. Enormous forces seeking to balance themselves ionically and chemically. Without my sensors I’m all but blind to the events, relying on short-range optics, my eyes, as my only means of observation.
Screw it. I need to know. With trepidation and for the first time in my 270 years of existence, I override the fail-safes that keep me from injuring myself. The process is exhilarating if a little anticlimactic. There are no hoops to jump through, no redundant security measures. I simply will the system to allow me control, and there it is. The alarms go off, the warnings all but disappear from my vision, and I unfurl my wings once more.
It’s thrilling. I don’t go against the grain often. In fact, even when our civilization fractured, when I was barely 150 years old and Karora sided with Aurvandil’s rebels, I remained loyal. I don’t like to take chances, but now, with my “wings” spread wide and data flooding me once more, I can understand the appeal. The rewards can be worth the . . .
Snap!
Snap? The data stops, and warning notices replace it immediately. Multispectral analyzers are off-line, 90 percent of the anemometers on my left wing are down, while the ones from the r
ight keep returning bad data. Chemical detectors aren’t responding, and the actuator servos on the entire array are spinning without purchase.
My wings are broken. Just in time for the weather event of a lifetime to reach its pinnacle. I can see the vast amounts of energy released in the cataclysm. Clear evidence of precipitation being created by the clash of clouds of different densities is obvious to the naked eye, but I can do nothing to determine the nature of the liquid. At least nothing beyond make an educated guess. This is why I don’t take risks.
I close my eyes, cursing silently to myself. I shut down the warning signals, knowing that my sensors are probably a complete loss at this point or will at the very least require extensive repairs. Maybe Karora can do it. I let myself be rocked by the winds, only complete darkness, shame, and the sound of howling winds to keep me company.
“Sab? Sab!” Karora yells over multiple channels, breaking through my wall of regret.
“What?”
“Check out what’s on the common band. I’m getting a distress call.”
——
“The signal’s already three hours old. It’s on a radio frequency.”
Karora was talking while simultaneously feeding me telemetry about the radio message. The distress call had no words, containing a series of data points like coordinates and a long list of critically damaged systems, most obvious being the quancom node.