The corona of a transition jump was calculated as an irrational root of its total length.

Which, to be honest, gave Weston a headache to even consider.

The upshot of it was that they could predict the range at which an observer could see their transition. For a thirty-light-year jump, it would be almost five light-years. This meant that any ship within five light-years of their departure point—or more importantly, their arrival point—would be able to detect their transition.

For a ten-light-year jump, the number was just under two-thirds of a light-year.

The flip side of that was, of course, if they jumped in too small of a transition, then they would increase the risk by broadcasting more tachyons over several smaller zones, rather than over a few larger ones.

Weston had ordered that the last five jumps on their return home be kept to no more than fifteen light-years, but no less than eight.

However, it was the first two that interested him more than anything else.

He was looking at the Port Fuielles system map when the call from the bridge came through. He opened the channel. “Yes?”

“Captain, the orbiter from the planet has lifted off. They’ll be landing in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you, Susan. Have everything prepared for their arrival. I’ll meet you on the parking deck,” Weston said, shutting down the holo-display of his desk with a wave.

Enough star maps for the moment; he had guests to greet.

“Orbiter One has the ball.”

“Roger. LSO confirms,” Chief Mackenzie said over the network. “All hands, eyes on the inbound plane.”

The traditions of carrier crews went back a long way, and though many of the procedures had been changed a hundred times since they had originally been drawn up, some terms just didn’t want to die.

Of course, the chief supposed, calling the hunk of material coming his direction a “plane” would undoubtedly piss off a lot of pilots. It was, however, coming in at a more reasonable rate than the last time, and he was relieved to see that no one was going to have to dive for the blast shields as the craft came to a smooth stop about two feet off the deck.

He stepped out and waved it to a lift with his signalers and wished for a moment that he could wipe his brow.

He’d feel a lot better if only he knew for a fact that these locals were carrier qualified.

On the parking deck, Weston watched, along with Commander Roberts and Ensign Lamont, as the alien orbiter rose through the deck and was directed to a parking position. There, it rested for a time, floating about two feet off the deck like it was nailed there, the image disturbing as its bulkhead melted away.

Weston really didn’t like that particular technology—at least not this application for it, he had to amend to himself a moment later.