Free Strider's Galaxy by John Grant

the Computer and redirect it."
    "I've just tried that. The drone's puter refuses to respond." O'Sondheim's voice was beginning to rise.
    Still Strider didn't take it seriously until she looked at the screen in front of her.
    " WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!!! " the Main Computer was flashing urgently at her. " WE HAVE AN EMERGENCY!!! "
    She instinctively pressed four keys to give her voice-interaction with the Computer.
    "Quick!" she snapped. "Tell!"
    "Drone seven eight three B's guidance puter has crashed completely," said the Main Computer calmly. "The vessel is heading towards the Santa Maria 's midships at a rate of seven thousand three hundred and thirty-one kilometers per hour, and will impact within three point six minutes."
    Strider slapped her hand down on the large red button beside her keyboard. Instantly a klaxon began sounding in the main body of the ship. Her personnel would start donning their suits as soon as they heard it—assuming they weren't too far from their suits. She bit her lower lip. Three children had been born during the trip out from the Solar System—the personnel had proved more fecund than expected. She hoped someone would be on hand to suit them up.
    But there was no time to worry about casualties. This was a case of damage limitation.
    "Can't you override?" she said.
    "I've just told you—" began O'Sondheim.
    "No," said the Computer.
    "Can't you move the Santa Maria ?"
    "No. Not in time."
    "Then what can you do?"
    There was a silence from the screen.
    Strider thought fast.
    Things hitting her ship . . .
    "Meteor defenses," she yelled at the screen. "How quickly can you get them up and running?"
    She knew the answer. They'd tested out the meteor shields often enough. The chances of being hit by anything serious were minimal here within the Solar System. The chances of being hit by anything outside the Solar System were incalculable—no one had any real idea what might be floating between the stars—but when you were travelling at a substantial fraction of the velocity of light yourself it was wise to take precautions.
    "Four point one seven minutes," confirmed the computer.
    "Switch them on anyway," said Strider.
    She glanced at O'Sondheim. What she could see of his face was paler than she'd ever known a human being's face to be.
    "Unzip one of our shuttles," she said, trying to keep her voice clear of alarm.
    "But—"
    "Just fucking do it!"
    She turned back to her screen.
    "Have you got an accurate location for the berserker?" she said to the Computer. She could have asked the question of the air, but the instinct to face someone while you're speaking to them is almost impossible to break.
    "To within three hundred meters."
    "No better than that?" she demanded. The drones were little over three hundred meters across themselves.
    "I could get it down to one hundred meters, but it would take me one point eight minutes to do so. Estimated time of impact is two point five minutes."
    "Shuttled unzipped," reported O'Sondheim shakily beside her.
    I must not think about those infants. "OK, Computer. What I want you to do over the next fifteen seconds max is progressively download your best figures for the location and trajectory of the berserker into that shuttle. Then I want you to launch it on an intersecting course."
    "You are not permitted wilfully to destroy expensive items of SSIA property—"
    "The Santa Maria 's a fuck of a sight more expensive than a shuttle." Human lives are more expensive than either. "You're overridden."
    "Very well. The chances of success are under twenty per cent."
    "Do it."
    "The situation is complicated by the fact that the meteor shields are beginning to deflect the berserker from its original trajectory."
    "Adjust the shuttle's course accordingly."
    "This problem is difficult."
    "You've got about three seconds to solve it."
    A small tremor ran through the Santa Maria as the shuttle blasted off.
    "I hope this is going to bloody work," muttered Strider dourly, repeatedly