Star Dragon | Page 2

wasp waist who flapped his ear wings at hearing his
name. "My crew. But we still need an exobiology specialist with your track record for
creative thought."
"Is that what this is about, Biolathe?" Fisher said, letting irritation seep into his voice. "I
told you I have a long-term contract with Whimsey. Why didn't you tell me you wanted
someone to go out-system?"
The voice of the Biolathe brain came warm and resonant from the ceiling, focused on
Fisher. "We didn't want to bias you against our venture. We believe you'll be interested.
Please, if you would, be seated for our presentation."
In his century of life, Fisher had been outside the solar system on three expeditions.
Relativity made it a total of seventy years of Earth time lost in the process. He'd danced
with star wisps while the radiation of Sirius B tanned his face, floated in the powerful tug
of more than one gas giant chasing balloonoids, and swum with the stellated molluskites
of Apollonia. After those wonders, nothing he could think of would be enticing enough to
make him endure the culture shocks of returning to the rapidly changing Earth. Biolathe
had to anticipate his hesitation. Corporate brains were smart, and this one had certainly
done its research before contacting him. The proposal had to be good.
"Okay." The vacant chairbeast scuttled into optimal position as he sat. The superlative
biotech in the rest of the building suggested that he guard himself against getting too
comfortable in the chairbeast. It usually took a chairbeast a few days to grow into an
owner's shape and preferences for temperature and vibration, but Fisher didn't want to
risk even a fraction of that level of relaxation. He held himself upright on the beast and
intended to bolt the moment he could dismiss Biolathe's pitch.
The bioluminescence faded. Twin glows kindled within the picture tank: a ruddy,
distended blob floated in space feeding a brighter swirling disk of plasma that brightened
to a burning pin-prick of hell at its core. The blob was stretched out toward the disk into a
teardrop, and the tip of that teardrop was pulled like taffy around the differentially
spinning whirlpool of fire. Fisher realize he was looking at a binary star system locked in
a gravitational dance. The larger but fainter blob was the secondary star, a relatively
normal star like the sun despite the way its dance partner had twisted it. That pinprick,
that was the deceptively diminutive primary star -- a white dwarf the size of Earth and the
mass of the sun, formed of condensed degenerate matter. This had to be a late stage in the

pair's evolution, the primary having already shucked the husk of its outer envelope, no
longer burning hydrogen and essentially dead as stars go.
Not exactly dead, Fisher surmised. More undead than dead. It burned on still as it stole
fuel from its younger, bloated mate. He imagined a starving space vampire at the center
of that swirling disk, sucking down a giant teardrop of blood that was the universe itself
gashed open.
"The classic dwarf nova system, SS Cygni," announced the brain as the stars orbited in
the tank.
Fisher wiggled on his chairbeast, refusing to lean back into the creature despite the minor
aches in a back he was always too busy to get redesigned. The physical irritation faded
with stone-still incredulity as his encyclopedic database inserted the basic characteristics
of SS Cygni into his awareness. The distance couldn't be correct. "Two hundred and
forty-five light years? You're joking!"
"We don't joke," reassured the voice in a flat tone that was not at all reassuring. "Please
allow us to continue. The data you are watching came from a Prospector-class deep space
probe launched in the late twenty-first century. We acquired proprietary rights from a
subsidiary who realized our likely interest. Instrumentation on the tiny probe was
primitive, but proximity more than compensates."
Fisher did the math. The fastest human-supporting ships would only take months of
onboard time to reach SS Cygni, but the special relativity that made such a trip possible
also cursed it. Five hundred years would pass on Earth. There was no way around it. Two
hundred forty-five years times two for a round trip time estimate, and the fact that the
probe had been launched five hundred years ago drove home those laws of physics.
Would a corporation really make a five-hundred-year investment? Who would go on such
a trip?
Many people, he realized, but certainly not him. It would be like suiciding to gamble on
an afterlife. A one-way trip into an unknown future with no guarantees about anything.
People might not even exist when they returned, or at least not in a form he would
recognize.
"Magnifying," announced the brain. The