“And that is?”

“It’s pretty obvious how this poor fellow died, which means we get to spend more time trying to discover what was used to kill him.”

Fisher reached for a laser scalpel set atop a tray positioned next to the stasis bed. By applying a deft touch with the device, he carved away a sliver of muscle tissue from the surface area of the cavity and placed it in a waiting specimen dish. Handing the sample to M’Benga, he said, “Let’s see what a molecular scan can tell us.”

The younger doctor led the way across the room to a nearby workstation that offered an array of scanning equipment as well as a standard computer interface terminal. Fisher watched as M’Benga placed the tray under the sensor array and entered a series of instructions into the small keypad set into the worktable. The sample dish was bathed in a soft blue light, the forensic scanner sending its findings to the computer for further processing and analysis. Within seconds, data began to coalesce on the workstation’s display monitor.

And Fisher’s eyebrows rose.

“What the hell is that?” he asked as he studied the information being put out by the computer. “Anabolic activity? These cells are alive?” He leaned closer to better scrutinize the computer monitor, but the data displayed upon it did not change.

“That’s impossible,” M’Benga said. “Something must have contaminated the site.”

“They look like new metabolic pathways,” Fisher said. Watching the computer-enhanced image of the cell sample, the doctor could plainly see that some as-yet-unidentified substance had come into contact with the exposed areas of the open wound, and even now was slowly but surely working to break down the Denobulan’s cells, only to rearrange them into something resembling a crystalline structure. “Whatever it is, it’s mineralizing the muscle cells somehow.”

But what the hell for?

Beside him, M’Benga asked, “Could it be a form of viral infection native to Erilon that was arrested when the body was placed into stasis, and only became active once it was exposed to an atmosphere?”

“The Endeavour’s CMO scanned the body for infection, but found nothing,” Fisher replied.

M’Benga nodded toward the screen. “Shouldn’t he have found this?”

“He wasn’t allowed to autopsy the body,” Fisher said. Frowning as he said that, he nevertheless kept his thoughts on that decision, as well as who had made it and issued the appropriate orders, to himself. “Besides, if there was any kind of contamination, our autocontainment procedures would already have kicked in and sealed this place off. We’re not looking at any kind of contagion.” Turning away from the workstation and moving back to where Bohanon’s body still lay, he called over his shoulder, “Get a portable scanner.”

It took only a moment to survey the rest of the ghastly wound in the Denobulan’s chest and confirm Fisher’s suspicions. Holding the scanner up so that he could see its collected data, M’Benga said, “The same readings. Every exposed area of internal tissue is in the process of gradually being altered at the cellular level.”

“Putting him in stasis halted the process,” Fisher said. He indicated the control panel on M’Benga’s side of the table. “Jabilo, put him back in. I want to study this, and we need to preserve what we’ve got as long as we can.”

“Yes, Doctor,” M’Benga replied, pressing the control that retracted the examination table and its current occupant back into its storage drawer. The door hissed shut and a gentle hum exuded from the bulkhead as the small chamber’s stasis field activated.

“Have you detected a rate of progress?” he asked as he rejoined Fisher at the computer workstation.

Pointing to the monitor, Fisher replied, “Already plotting one out.” The screen displayed a small graph inset atop the main image of the ongoing cellular metamorphosis. “Not that it’s going to help us much. The process is tapering off. At this rate, it’ll neutralize completely before it extends more than a millimeter or two into the surrounding tissue.”

“The process might need more of its catalyst in order to continue,” M’Benga said. “Maybe something native to the planet?”

Fisher offered a small grunt of affirmation. “Could be, but maybe all it needs is more living tissue.” Turning back to the workstation, he began to key in a series of instructions. “We’ve got everything we need to try a computer model. Let’s see what kind of luck we have with that.”

In response to his requests, the computer screen generated a new graph. Fisher watched as the function graph did not slope toward the zero baseline but instead spiked quickly.

M’Benga, who was watching the computer’s progress along with him, drew in a loud breath. “If he’d been alive, he’d have been fully compromised by the process.”

“In a matter of minutes,” Fisher clarified, “and depending on the size or location of the wound, I’m guessing it wouldn’t have been a pleasant experience.”

The sound of a pneumatic hiss from behind them caused both men to snap toward the morgue’s doorway as Rana Desai entered the room.

“Did I scare you gentlemen?” she asked, her tone suggesting that she hoped she had.

“You didn’t, no,” Fisher said, looking at M’Benga, “but we’ve got a case of the willies all the same. How can we help you, Captain?”

“Well, I’m not looking to interrupt,” Desai said, glancing at M’Benga a moment before returning her gaze to Fisher.

After a moment in silence, the younger physician nodded. “I ought to excuse myself, anyway,” he said. Looking to Fisher, he added, “I’d be very interested in hearing about any…developments, Doctor.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” Fisher replied, waiting until his colleague had left the morgue before turning to Desai and offering a sly smile. “I’m beginning to think you like hanging out in the basement.”

Desai shrugged in mock defensiveness. “Okay, so the occasional investigation happens to bring me down here once in a while, but maybe it’s not the morgue that I like so much as your charming company.”

“Uh-huh,” Fisher said, feeling more than a little unconvinced. “Well, if you’re down here, I’m guessing the Endeavourincident’s still on the fast track.”

“In a fashion, yes,” the captain said, pulling a chair closer to Fisher’s workstation and settling herself into it. “We’ve gotten some preliminary reports from those who survived the attack. Everyone’s accounts line up. The whole thing amounts to an expedition and a landing party that ran into something unanticipated and overwhelming. Based on their interviews, there’s just nothing that anyone could have done differently. This all seems…well, routine, for lack of a better word.” She released a tired sigh before adding, “Damn, I know that makes me sound cold, but how else do I say it?”

“How about ‘Accidental in the line of duty’?” Fisher offered. “You’re saying no one’s to blame.”

“Not every investigation in our office is launched with the hope of being able to turn up a mistake or a scapegoat,” Desai said, her defensiveness this time sounding genuine.

“You don’t need to tell me that, Rana,” Fisher said.

“Well, I have to tell Diego,” she shot back. “Every time.”

A tone from the computer terminal echoed in the morgue, and the doctor smiled. “Well, I guess you’ll have some good news for the commodore today.” Indicating for Desai to join him, he turned the monitor so that she could see the information displayed upon it.

“What are we looking at?” Desai asked.

Fisher did not reply at first, his attention instead riveted on the results generated by his computer model. “Oh, my,” he finally said, trying to absorb as much of the detailed report as he could at once.

“Oh, my, what?” Desai said, reminding him that he had an audience.

“I don’t rightly know,” he answered, ignoring the twinge of excitement he felt in his gut and the sensation of feeling his pulse increase. He even felt goose bumps rising along his arms. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”