Far away in the cosmos, as though an observer''s mind could drift from Archeon across seven light-years of interstellar distance, one might imagine floating among the outer environs of Betelgeuse itself. Here, the scale dwarfed any human perspective.


    Great towers of roiling plasma rose and fell along the star''s surface, each hundreds of times the size of entire planets. High above the photosphere, dense arcs of stellar wind formed coronal loops that glowed a deep orange, throbbing with energies that had built up over millennia. Steady streams of helium and carbon fused in Betelgeuse''s shell, feeding violent currents beneath its surface. Closer in, the star''s periphery churned like a colossal, incandescent ocean, with upwellings of bright convection cells—granules bigger than Earth''s orbit.


    These cells crackled and released bursts of radiation that refracted through swirling clouds of dust, forming shapes akin to shimmering veils across the dark cosmic backdrop. One might glide through a tempest of solar flares that looped thousands of kilometers above Betelgeuse''s limb, each flare a geyser of neon fire. In the star''s deeper layers, temperatures soared until matter existed as a soup of atomic nuclei and free electrons. It was here that something catastrophic brewed: the final fusion cycles. Hydrogen and helium burning had long ended, replaced by carbon, neon, then oxygen, each stage collapsing faster than the last.


    The star was forced to fuse silicon at furious rates to uphold its own gravity. Within that roiling core, neutrinos poured outward in unimaginable numbers—harbingers of a meltdown. Pressure and heat grew unsustainable, forging a ticking clock of cosmic death. From this vantage—an invisible presence floating near Betelgeuse''s broiling photosphere—one might watch as the star pulsed with irregular beats. Sections of its red supergiant shell expanded and contracted by hundreds of millions of kilometers, pulsations that normally took months or years to cycle. But now they accelerated, each convulsion sending shocks through stellar plasma and launching arcs of ejected material that drifted like fiery tendrils in space.


    In swirling eddies of stardust, grains condensed from cooling gas, only to be swept outward by radiation pressure. Finally, cracks in the star''s equilibrium began to show. The silicon-fusing shell stuttered, dumping energy into the star''s core at a breakneck pace. For a handful of cosmic heartbeats, Betelgeuse shone more brightly than ever before, a beacon of doomed splendor. In that moment, swirling magma-like plumes erupted from the star''s upper layers, each plume carrying billions of tons of superheated matter away.


    Streaks of darkness—massive starspots—rippled across its photosphere, forming and dissolving in mere weeks, phenomena that might last centuries around a stable star. All the while, neutrino detectors across distant star systems, including the fledgling outpost on Archeon, would pick up the frantic signals. Deep in Betelgeuse''s core, unstoppable chain reactions tugged the star''s interior into a cataclysmic collapse.


    Just before the final implosion, a staggering wave of neutrinos broke free, racing outward at near-lightspeed. The vast outer shells, each containing swirling storms of plasma, had no time to react.


    With that core gone, the star was but an unanchored mass, certain to explode from the inside out in a fury no human craft could withstand up close. And then, that cosmic vantage would be jolted by the star''s last exhalation. Betelgeuse''s body, once so mighty, abruptly churned into a shock wave—a supernova meltdown that would hurl luminous matter, radiation, and dust across light-years. A single flash might outshine entire galaxies for days.


    Yet the silent vacuum of space carried no sound as the star tore itself apart, scattering remnants that would drift through interstellar darkness, eventually brushing against any colony or starship unfortunate enough to exist in that path.


    Back inside Archeon''s science dome, the data screamed silently. Neutrino spikes flared red across terminal screens, spectral anomalies jagged lines against the steady background hum. Betelgeuse''s drama unfolded in stark numbers, its death throes painting chaos onto the monitors.


    A gust hammered the dome fabric overhead—a low groan ripping through the quiet focus. Outside, dusk would be settling cool over the western fields, the latest rows of hardy soy-variants just showing green under the work lamps. The thought flickered through Atwood''s mind, incongruous. Here, inside, the air held only a faint ozone tang, sharp against the deeper hum of the fusion generator. Holographic displays pulsed around the central ring, casting shifting bands of blue and green light across the faces gathered close. Her own reflection flickered pale on a dark console screen beside a wavering spectrographic feed. Data streams scrolled upwards relentlessly—numbers, graphs, energy signatures flooding in.


    A low murmur started near the main holo-screen, spreading quick through the cluster of scientists. Eyes lifted from individual consoles, turning towards her.


    "Alright," Atwood said. Her voice felt tight in her own ears. "The latest readings are in. From Betelgeuse."


    The murmuring stopped. A sudden stillness settled, amplifying the generator''s hum. Dr. Sergei Volkov, his stocky frame leaning forward, pointed a thick finger at the panoramic display. Orange light from the live feed caught the deep lines etched into his brow. "Is that the Ark Explorer''s feed?"


    Atwood tapped a control beside her. The console edge felt cool beneath her fingers. A tremor started low in her chest, a faint vibration against her ribs. She focused on the smooth glide of her finger across the panel. "Yes. Less than an hour old." The image on the main screen swelled, filling the dome''s curve. Betelgeuse—an immense orange sphere. Dark patches swirled across its surface, shapes twisting, shifting. Overlay lines—pulse metrics?—jittered erratically. Spectral bands flickered, instability showing in their fluctuating colors.


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    "Final fusion phases," Dr. Hsiang breathed from across the ring. His voice scraped, thin. He squinted, dark eyes narrowed, hands gripping the edge of his own console, knuckles showing white. "Is that silicon burn?"


    Atwood drew a slow breath. Forced the air out evenly. It did little to ease the knot tightening low in her gut. "Yes," she stated. The word landed flat in the quiet. "Core collapse imminent. Models are void."


    Silence pressed in. The generator hum seemed louder. Volkov''s brow furrowed deeper. His voice was low, gravel scraping stone. "Supernova?"


    A sharp call cut through the quiet from the rear station. "Doctor! Neutrino readings—flux doubled! Forty minutes!"


    Heads turned. Atwood''s gaze snapped towards the sound. A young technician stood rigid beside a console, one hand stabbing downward at a spiking graph line, the other hand visibly trembling as it hovered near calibration controls. Her face looked pale in the shifting blue light. Atwood''s stomach lurched, a cold twist.


    "Terminal meltdown," she thought, the words forming sharp, unbidden, just like the simulations we dismissed. "Days," she murmured aloud, the sound barely a whisper, her voice tight. "Maybe hours. Until the wave."


    Hsiang straightened sharply, his thin frame pulling away from the console as if recoiling. "Near-lightspeed?" His voice cracked high. "No jump spool. Corvettes—won''t clear it."


    Volkov''s hands lifted, thick fingers pressing hard against his temples. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second. "Frontier station''s too far," he muttered, the words thick. "Any jump... risks the shockwave. Earth..." His voice trailed off.


    Atwood planted a hand flat on the edge of the holo-table. Cool metal grounded her. Focus. "Confirmation," she said, her voice level now, cutting across the rising tension in the air. "Run Doppler analysis. Velocity shifts—outer layers. Track collapse rate."


    Dome lights flickered—a brief dip, then steady again. The generator''s hum changed pitch, lower, strained, as power rerouted. A static crackle burst from an overhead speaker. Loud. Jagged.


    "Observatory, flight control—!" The voice broke through, urgency straining the signal. "Ark Explorer reports major sunspot expansion! Plasma arcs ejecting! Gravitational distortions—photosphere!"


    Atwood spun towards the comm panel. "Patch it," she commanded, the word sharp. "Main screen."


    The grainy feed surged onto the display. Towering loops of neon fire spiraled off Betelgeuse''s edge, vivid against the black void. A collective intake of breath sounded around the ring. Someone behind Atwood stepped back, boots scraping faint on the deck.


    Volkov hunched low over the neutrino console, eyes fixed on the scrolling numbers. "Flux climbing," he stated, his voice a low rumble. "Escalation... steady." He looked up, met Atwood''s gaze across the holo-table. "Core collapse... ten hours. Maybe less."


    Hsiang made a small sound, a choked gasp. His face looked bloodless in the display''s orange glow. "Hours?" The whisper was barely audible. "Need hundreds of AU clear... can''t spool..."


    Another beep sliced through. Sharper this time. Urgent. From the comm panel. The Ark Explorer''s signal. "Archeon Observatory—intense gravitational distortion... core collapse phase... Halley—oh, no—" The voice pitched higher. "Neutrinos—spiking—it''s—!"


    Static ripped through the sound. A harsh burst of white noise flooded the speakers, then died. Silence. Thick. Heavy.


    Atwood''s pulse hammered, a frantic beat against her eardrums. She leaned towards the comm panel. "Ark Explorer?" Her voice cracked. "Do you copy?"


    Nothing. Only the low hum of the generator.


    Volkov stared at his console, jaw working, muscles tight beneath his beard. "Flux," he said, voice flat. "Off scale. Spike fried comms. Ship''s cut off."


    Chevalier, near the analysis station, pulled off his glasses. Wiped them on his jumpsuit sleeve, movements slow, unsteady. Lines showed deep around his eyes, mouth pulled tight. "This fast," he murmured. "Corvettes aren''t shielded for this... Outpost... no time."


    Atwood scanned the faces around the ring. Eyes wide, fixed on displays, on her. She straightened, pulling her hand from the holo-table. Felt the faint tremor in her fingers, forced them still. "We can''t stop it," she said. Her voice felt steady now, the tremor gone, replaced by something hard. "Warn the colony. Orbiters. Jumps to gas giants. Bunkers." Her jaw tightened. "Load the data. All of it—neutrinos, distortions, Explorer''s last feed. Onto a corvette." Her gaze sharpened, locking onto Volkov. "Gamma station jump. Now."


    Volkov''s head lifted, fingers frozen mid-rub at his temples. "Jump?" The word rasped out, incredulous. "Through that? Supernova edge... wave front... radiation..." He shook his head, slow. "Death sentence."


    Hsiang''s pale face tightened further. "Thirty-two light-years," he whispered, sharp. "Maybe Gamma relays..."


    Atwood slammed her hand flat on the table edge. The impact echoed sharp in the stillness. "We don''t die silent," she snapped, the words hitting hard. "Which rig is fastest? Starward?" She didn''t wait for confirmation. "Get the data loaded. Get it moving. Now."


    Consoles chirped. Lights flickered across panels. Figures moved fast around the ring—heads bent low over keyboards, voices murmuring coordinates, protocols. Wavefront simulations pulsed across side screens—jagged red lines moving across star charts. A low chime sounded from Volkov''s station. Mournful. Final.


    "Exponential," Volkov said, voice flat, resigned. He looked up, met Atwood''s gaze. "Wave hits by dawn. Hours."


    The dome fabric groaned overhead as another gust hit. Hsiang glanced at the neutrino flux graph, fingers hovering near the console edge. "Near-lightspeed impact..." he murmured, voice barely audible. "Bunkers won''t hold long. That corvette..."


    A sharp beep from the comms. The flight control voice again, strained. "Observatory. Ark Explorer dark. Assume jump failure... meltdown wave caught them." A pause. "Any new stellar?"


    Atwood leaned into the mic, breath held steady against the knot tightening in her throat. "Meltdown imminent. Hours. Sending Starward—Gamma jump. Data package aboard. Pray it gets through."


    Silence stretched. Then, a faint crackle. "Understood. Colony alert sounding. Prep Starward. Good luck, Doctor."


    She released the transmit button. Looked around the ring. Chevalier cleared his throat, the sound rough. "Rescue? Earth? Federation?"


    Volkov shook his head again, slow, deliberate. "Corvettes we have... can''t risk the crossing. No jump clears the wave now... unless Starward beats it. Earth... too far."


    Hsiang nodded, sharp, quick. His eyes looked empty. "On our own."


    Atwood''s chest constricted. Duty. Fear. A cold knot. "Compile everything," she ordered, voice crisp. "Transmit planetary command. Load Starward''s relay. And reinforce those bunkers. Now."


    Movement surged around the dome—controlled, focused despite the undercurrent visible in tight jaws, quick glances, hands that weren''t quite steady. Diagnostics scrolled. Protocols flashed. Beyond the dome walls, visible through a port, Archeon''s second moon rose, a pale disc against a velvet sky, its light cold, indifferent.