“It seems likely,” Roberts said. “Though we could be looking at a storm front on the planet.”

“That powerful? Weston shook his head skeptically. “No…It’d have to be the size of Jupiter to flash that high.”

“Probably, sir,” Roberts agreed.

“All right. Helm, take us in slowly,” Weston said, even as his heart raced. “Commander Roberts, anything on the passive tactical scan?”

“Negative. Just some background hiss from the star.”

Weston nodded, his eyes rising to look at the yellow star that was the system primary. There was always some background hiss from anything the size of a star; the massive gravity made certain of that. “Helm, you are not to cross the heliopause until we have our tachyon generators recharged. I want a system-wide ping before we even think of becoming trapped in that gravity well.”

“Aye, sir. A full system ping,” Roberts said. “Wilco.”

“How’s the patient, Doctor?” Weston asked as he stepped over the knee-knocker that separated the med-lab from the hallway. With hours to go before he could make any useful decisions on the bridge, he had decided to check in and see how things were running through the ship—and in particular, the woman resting in Rame’s isolation ward.

“She’s sleeping,” Rame replied, not looking up from his current patient, who had displayed odd symptoms from the transition. “Something much of the crew would love to do. The transition effects are growing worse, sir.”

“How bad?”

“Nothing quite as serious as Lieutenant Tearborn, thankfully.” Rame straightened from his unconscious patient and wiped his brow. “But unless I’m completely off base, I believe that part of the crew is allergic to the process.”

Weston snorted. “Doctor, trust me, all the crew is allergic to it.”

“I didn’t mean psychologically,” Rame snapped, both frustrated and irritated. “I mean physical allergies. There has been a series of consistent symptoms in approximately twelve percent of the crew.”

Twelve percent? Weston blinked. “That’s almost forty people!”

“Really? I hadn’t counted,” Rame said sarcastically as he passed his hands under a dissolvent spray to remove the sterile coating he’d applied.

Weston let the sarcasm slide, knowing that the man was tired and stressed. “How serious is it?”

“Nothing permanent or debilitating—not yet, at any rate,” Rame said. “But it has affected the eyesight of twenty-three crew members. Again, not permanent. But disturbing, just the same. Thirty crew members have developed a disturbing cellular degradation of the soft tissue of their noses, mouths, and throats. I’m not certain about the internal effects of these yet. I’ve scheduled a series of tests.”

Rame slid the patient under a large panel and opened the crew member’s hospital gown. He punched a command on his PDA and turned away as the panel began emitting a series of regular popping sounds.

“Infrared treatments seem to work against the degradation,” Rame said. “In the long term, however, I just don’t know.”

“All right. Keep me posted and inform me when our guest wakes up.”