Suddenly, an emergency beacon goes off.

Startling, I take inventory to determine which alarm has gone off. It isn't a full-ship alarm, since there is nothing but the storm going on around us, and Orion doesn't seem to notice as he continues his forceful march.

Which means it was a private panic button.

Entering into my algorithms, I pick up the alarm that is going off.

In the medic bay.

I quickly change the route of my physical body before sending a hologram into the room that is second most important to protect from any electrical outages could be a consequence of the storm.

"What is the emergency?" I ask, turning from Reverend Shipping to his son.

Silas Shipping moans in his bed.

"I think there's something wrong with the equipment," the older Shipping answers. "Something's not working right, and now his readings are coming out all wrong."

"We're undergoing a slight solar storm-"

The ship shakes violently to give me backup for the storm part, but point out that I'm a liar when it comes to the slight aspect.

Reverend Shipping studies me, as if trying to analyze whether I am one of the few AIs programmed to override honesty laws.

Thanks to Orion, I am. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Well, I still thing..." Reverend Shipping glances back down at his son in concern.

I approach the monitors and upload the data from them while personally analyzing the boy.

Looking down at him, it seems like he's sleeping- truly sleeping, since he has gone stiller than I've seen him yet.

Which is likely what has Reverend Shipping worrying.

Turning back to Reverend Shipping, I give him my professional, but sympathetic expression. Orion downloaded several gigabytes of bedside manner into him at our last stop on earth after an incident that involved my casually informing a victim that his arm had been amputated. Apparently, humans prefer to be lied to if at all possible, and half-lies if that is too much.

But the lies aren't necessary in this incident, since everything is perfectly all right with Silas Shipping. I prepare my audio to inform Reverend Shipping of that fact in no uncertain terms.

Until my deep analysis of the boy transfers back to me in a binary code I wish I didn't read.

"Well?" Reverend Shipping asks, looking ready to believe anything I might tell him through sheer desperation, even while his fists are turning white where they are clenched onto the bed railing.

"The captain and I will take care of him," I assure, starting to ramble off pre-programmed platitudes.