The younger man laughed. “Okay, count me in.”

They reached the turbolift, Fisher pushed the call button, and they waited for a lift to arrive. “Let me test your memory, Doctor. What’s the first and only rule of rugby?”

M’Benga put on a thoughtful intensity, and Fisher imagined it was because the young physician was recalling one of the many afternoons they’d spent watching sports together on the meadow years earlier. Then M’Benga smiled and looked at him. “No autopsy, no foul.”

“Good man,” Fisher said, patting him on the back. “First round’s on me.”

PART 2

A MUSE OF FIRE

11

A pale dot on the Sagittarius’s main viewscreen, Eremar looked like nothing special to Captain Nassir’s naked eye. Bereft of planets, it was a dim and tiny ember, a lonely spark in the barren emptiness of the cosmos. The Sagittarius was half a billion kilometers from the pulsar, which, without the benefit of a false-spectrum sensor overlay, looked to Nassir like any other star. He knew better, of course. Incredibly dense, it was a neutron star rotating at a phenomenal rate, and its intense electromagnetic field emitted invisible bursts of extremely powerful and potentially dangerous radiation from its magnetic poles at regular intervals of 1.438 seconds.

Commander Terrell stood beside Nassir’s chair, arms folded, looming over the captain, who hunched forward and did his best imitation of Rodin’s iconic sculpture, The Thinker. Around them the bridge officers worked quietly, each one keeping a close watch for any sign of danger. At the helm, zh’Firro guided the Sagittarius into a standard orbital approach and recon pattern. Sorak monitored the communications panel, Dastin fidgeted nervously as he leaned against the weapons console, and Theriault had her face pressed to the hood over the primary sensor display. The ship hummed along, the deck under Nassir’s feet alive with a steady vibration from the impulse engines pushed to full output.

Nassir had no idea what he and his crew were supposed to be looking for. The pulsar had no planets. Were they seeking a derelict spacecraft? An abandoned space station? What if the Orions had simply used this isolated, hazardous place as a rendezvous point? He pushed that last pessimistic speculation from his mind. The Omari-Ekon’s navigational logs had not indicated any contact with other vessels in proximity to Eremar. They had, however, indicated a number of peculiar maneuvers, and unless a more promising lead presented itself soon, Nassir’s orders were to copy the Orions’ flight path and see where it led.

Theriault dispelled the leaden hush with a brief exclamation of surprise and elation, transforming herself into the focus of attention on the bridge. She looked up from the sensor hood, her youthful face bright with excitement. “I found something! Something really weird!” Before either Nassir or Terrell had the chance to ask her to elaborate, she punched commands into her console and routed her findings to the main screen. A computer model of Eremar was superimposed over the image of the star, and several seemingly random points in close orbit of the pulsar were highlighted. “There’s a network of artificial objects around the pulsar, including one directly in the path of its emission axis.”

Everyone fixed intense stares on the viewscreen, and Nassir rose from his chair. “What in the name of Kasor is that?”

Trembling with barely contained glee, Theriault said, “I have a hypothesis.”

Terrell shot a curious stare her way. “Let’s hear it.”

“I think these objects used to be part of a Dyson bubble,” Theriault said. “They’re all composed of ultralight carbon compounds the sensors don’t recognize.” More commands tapped into the science console conjured a web of arcing lines connecting the far-flung dots to the one at the top. “Based on their positions, I think there used to be a lot more of them, hundreds of thousands, all around this pulsar. Now there are maybe a few hundred left.”

Sorak arched one gray brow. “Most remarkable.”

Getting up from the tactical panel, Dastin asked, “What do those lines represent?”

“Subspace distortions,” Theriault replied. “Tiny tunnels through space-time.”

Nassir began to imagine what this construct must have looked like when it was whole. “Could those subspace tunnels have been transmission conduits for energy and data?”

The perky science officer nodded. “Absolutely.”

Zh’Firro leaned forward until she’d practically draped herself over the helm. “Are they orbiting the pulsar?”

“No,” Theriault said. “They’re statites, not satellites.” She thumbed a switch on her panel and enlarged the sensor image of one of the nearest objects. It resembled a massive disk surrounded by enormous, diaphanous fins. “They maintain their positions by using light sails and radiation pressure to counteract the pulsar’s gravity.”

Terrell’s brow wrinkled with confusion. “But what about the one that lies on the pulsar’s emission axis? How does it hold its position when it gets zapped?”

Theriault shrugged. “No idea.”

“I think we’re about to find out,” zh’Firro said. She looked back at Nassir. “If we follow the Omari-Ekon’s flight plan, we’ll have to make a roughly half-second warp jump into that statite’s shadow. It’s the only way to get there without being fried by a blast from the pulsar.”

Shrinking back into his seat, Dastin muttered, “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Neither do I,” Nassir said, “but she’s right. If that’s the end point of the Orions’ trip to Eremar, there’s a good chance that’s where they found the artifact.”

That news didn’t seem to sit well with Terrell. “Is it safe for us to go there?”

Theriault’s sunny disposition gave way to trepidation. “Mostly.”

Sorak stepped forward, toward Nassir and Terrell. “To elaborate on Lieutenant Theriault’s response, the statite would shield us from the majority of the pulsar’s immediately damaging emissions—but not all of them. Even in its shadow, we’d still be subjected to dangerous levels of cosmic radiation and electromagnetic effects. Inside the ship, with shields raised, we would have little to worry about. But anyone venturing outside would need to limit their exposure to no more than four hours at a time. They would also require antiradiation therapy upon their return to the ship.”

Dastin shot a dubious look at the Vulcan. “Isn’t that a decision for the doctor?”

“I am a medical doctor,” Sorak said.

Terrell quipped to the new tactical officer, “He also holds doctorates in archaeology and xenobotany. So, if you get the urge to debate him about fossils or flowers . . . don’t.” The gentle rebuke was enough to persuade Dastin to turn his attention back to his own console. Turning back, Terrell asked Sorak, “How long will it take to prep a landing party?”

“Twenty minutes,” Sorak said. “However, there is one further complication.”

Anticipating the Vulcan’s news, Nassir said, “No transporters.”

“Correct, sir.” To the others he explained, “Despite the protection offered by the statite, inside the pulsar’s emission axis the transporter will be inoperable. We’ll need to land the ship and deploy either on foot or in the rovers, depending upon the local gravity and terrain.”

Nassir returned to his chair and sat down, feeling as if a black hole had taken hold of his spirit. He recalled the hyperbolic slogan of a Starfleet recruitment poster he’d seen as a youth on Delta IV: “It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure.”

Isn’t that the truth.

“Sayna, plot a warp jump to the statite. Clark, take Sorak, Theriault, and Ilucci, and suit up down in the cargo hold. We’ll let you know when it’s safe to go ashore.” He thumbed open an intraship channel from his chair’s armrest. “Ensign Taryl, report to the bridge. Doctor Babitz, report to the cargo deck, and bring antiradiation hyposprays for the landing party.”