The Iris (Gravity, Space, and Time: Book 1) by Patkós Csaba - HTML preview

Chapter 11 - Message to Earth

Date: April 18, 2856

The sigh escapes Peterson's lips before he can stop it, a physical echo of the exhaustion that seeps into his bones. 3 AM…another night bled into morning. It's been like this for almost three weeks now – stolen hours of work when the relentless thrum of the ship finally lulls into a deceptive quiet. He forces his heavy eyelids open one last time, fingers fumbling for his datapad. At least the log entry can't wait until tomorrow...or can it?

Captain’s Log Entry no. 35 - The Grueling Journey

Date: April 18, 2856

Location: The Starship Iris (21 Light Years From Sol)

Finally, we've reached our destination. A week – that was the optimistic estimate.

Somehow it stretched into more than double that.

The first two days lulled us into a false sense of security. On course, the prototype engine humming with deceptive smoothness. Then Jovier's readings started fluctuating – speed variations even though we should have been locked at a steady 1.5 GUs. Since our eyes and ears are useless past the speed of light, we had to stop. Blindly careening into the unknown was not an acceptable risk. And stop we did…only to find ourselves shockingly far ahead of schedule. Those next two days were a blur of entering and exiting the gravity well, painstakingly recalibrating a machine we barely understand. Finally, on the fifth day, something resembling consistency.

Day six nearly became our last. Potaski – bless her instincts – noticed the slightest discrepancy. Our course read straight and true, yet her instruments hinted at a minuscule drift. At superluminal speeds, even a fraction of a degree veers you light-years off-target within mere hours. When we finally stopped to pinpoint our location, the discrepancy was chillingly obvious – almost a light-week astray. Yet the damned navigation computer remained stubbornly convinced we were on course.

Three more days lost while the crew wrestled with the very heart of the Iris, scouring

those infernal algorithms. Sensors were the first suspect, but the fault lay deeper, a glitch eating away at the ship's sense of direction.

With those initial setbacks behind us, we were already ten days into the voyage.

Naturally, we pushed to regain lost time, which only served to unveil more of this prototype's quirks. Coordinating fixes while keeping the crew perpetually ready became a logistical headache.

The next issue was energy flow from the miniature black hole. In theory, its gravitational output should be perfectly constant. The engineers on Jupiter certainly assumed as much. Turns out there's a wrinkle. Beyond 1 GU, that contained singularity starts accumulating a minuscule power feedback from the gravitational well itself. It builds up slowly, varying with our speed, and eventually leads to fluctuations in the power output. Fortunately, the engineers spotted the pattern before it became critical. No immediate risk, but unchecked it could have compromised the black hole's containment...an outcome best left unimagined.

Then came the gravity capacitors. Those behemoths – the largest, most complex array ever packed into a single vessel – started acting up. Unruly surges of energy rippled through the intricate network, threatening to destabilize the system.

Thankfully, the scientists back home had anticipated this possibility, providing recalibration protocols. Yet software adjustments proved insufficient. The very hardware needed tweaking across that seven-kilometer chain – a daunting task in the confined spaces of the Iris.

Necessity, as always, became the mother of invention. We discovered the system had roughly double the necessary capacitance, a failsafe the engineers probably didn't intend us to exploit. Even so, recalibration failures continued to plague roughly five percent of the array daily. It took a herculean effort to devise both a hardware fix to further reduce those failures and an automated program to pinpoint and quarantine trouble spots – recalibrating a full ten percent every night just to buy ourselves a little breathing room. Exhaustion warred with relief. We had a patch, a cumbersome one, but at least the ship wasn't about to rip itself apart.

These past weeks have been a crucible, that much is certain. But hardship forges resilience. Potaski's instincts, the tireless work of our engineers, even Jovier's

maddeningly complex equations – each played a crucial role in overcoming these unforeseen trials. This crew... they've risen to challenges I never imagined they would face. It leaves me feeling perhaps I haven't given them - or the ship itself –

enough credit.

The Iris, for all her quirks, is a marvel. A testament to our collective ambition. True, we've jury-rigged solutions, found ways to manage her volatile power. But that's the nature of exploration, isn't it? To push boundaries, and then push even further. This crew has the skill and the will to meet any challenge. As for the ship…well, we built her, didn't we? It stands to reason that with enough perseverance, we can understand her, master her. The infinite awaits, and despite the trials, I find myself filled with an unexpected sense of anticipation rather than dread.

End log.

---

Finally, after what felt like an eternity under siege, a sliver of cautious relief washed over the bridge. Twenty-four hours since their last brush with malfunction felt like an unprecedented win. Peterson allowed himself a moment to savor it before issuing the long-awaited order. "Helm, full stop."

Sava Potaski, never one to miss an opportunity, raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Captain, forgive the question, but out here in the void, what exactly constitutes 'full stop'?" There was the slightest hint of a smirk playing on her lips – a challenge, perhaps?

Peterson tilted his head, a spark of amusement in his eyes. It was like Potaski to cut right to the heart of the matter. "Elaborate, Helm."

"Well, sir," she began, a hint of the classroom in her tone, "stopping implies zero velocity, right? But relative to what? Back home, that was easy. Earth, the Sun, they provided points of reference. Here? Our solar system is a distant speck of light, twenty-one light-years gone. Earth? Just another planet orbiting that speck.

Even the Sun itself is merely one star amidst a galactic swirl. So, Captain," Potaski

finished with a flourish, "what's our benchmark for deciding when we're truly, absolutely at rest?"

Peterson swiveled toward Navigation. "Dr. Jovier, as our resident expert, how would you define a universal 'rest' state? Something that grounds us in this vast emptiness."

Jovier fell silent, brow furrowed in thought. The silence stretched, and Peterson was about to prompt him when the astrophysicist spoke, his voice slow and deliberate.

"Captain, I assume our explorations will remain within our own galaxy. Leaving the Milky Way seems…imprudent, at least for now. Given that, the logical reference point would be the galactic core – that supermassive black hole at the heart of it all.

We could treat that as our cosmic 'north'."

He paused, as if visualizing the galaxy in his mind. "Then there's the matter of orbital motion. Stars at varying distances from the center move at different speeds.

Therefore, a true 'rest' state implies maintaining two things: first, a constant distance from that central black hole, and second, keeping pace with the objects on our orbital path."

Peterson turned back to Potaski. "Helm, did you follow that?"

"Loud and clear, sir."

"We're still roughly at the same galactic orbit as our solar system, correct?"

"Essentially, Captain. The difference is negligible. "

A gleam entered Peterson's eye. "Excellent. Then let's carry out our true 'full stop', Helm. It's time for our first experiment, time to open a line back home...to Earth."

Turning to Corporal Janos Hari, Peterson asked, "Comms, refresh my memory. How exactly does this superluminal messaging system work?"

Hari's eyes lit up. "Sir, it's all about gravity, just like the engine itself. Instead of propelling ourselves, we focus a narrow beam of gravitational energy. Our target is a specialized sensor array positioned two light-years outside the solar system –

currently about 19.25 light-years away due to its solar orbit. The sensor draws

energy from the Sun itself and moves at a predictable speed. We always know its precise location."

"Next," Hari continued, "we deploy gravity lenses on the Iris's hull. Drawing power from our black hole, these lenses focus a tight beam – only seven meters wide – and aim it directly at that sensor. Initially, it travels at up to 4 GUs, over 700,000 times the speed of light! But like ordinary light, the beam weakens with distance, and so does its speed. We'll aim for it to arrive at roughly the speed of light. All this translates to near-instantaneous delivery from here to the Sol relay sensor."

He paused for a breath. "The beam, though faint by that point, will exert the tiniest tug on the sensor. We modulate that force, creating a machine language to transmit a message. Five minutes of video should take less than 20 seconds to send! Once received, the relay satellite targets Earth's sensor network with much weaker bursts.

Delivery time there is estimated at one to three days due to slower speeds and recharge cycles."

"For replies," Hari concluded, "they'll need to use the ENIGMA array at Sol. More power, but the challenge is aiming precisely enough to hit us. Our sensors detect the faint gravitational pull of their transmission, allowing us to lock on. Since we left, the protocol requires us to provide our exact coordinates and request a reply. We then wait in position for at least a week. No response means retransmitting from elsewhere. Overall, this system gives us an effective communication range of about 20 light-years – we're right in the sweet spot for testing!"

After a thoughtful pause, Peterson asked, "Hari, is there any way for the comms relay to confirm receipt of the message? Seems vital to know it arrived."

Hari beamed. "Absolutely, Captain. Here's the clever bit: Think of the beam as a rubber band stretching those 20 light-years. We tug one end; the sensor feels it.

Now, even a tiny movement from the relay – just tens of meters closer or further –

will cause a slight defocusing that our lenses can detect. It's like the beam going fuzzy for a moment. We've arranged that after a specific 'acknowledgement request'

code, the relay will make a deliberate 70-meter shift forward, then back. We'll see our focus waver, then sharpen, confirming receipt."

"Comms," Peterson ordered, a hint of a grin in his voice, "send a message back to Earth. Include the full monty – all ship logs, and toss in my personal ones for good measure. Those labcoats back home might find a solution to our glitches buried in the data. And request a reply, of course. We're staying put for the foreseeable future anyway – plenty of experiments to keep us occupied out here."

"Confirmed, Captain. Compiling message. Estimated delivery time is seven hours."

Peterson opened his mouth to speak, a question surely forming, but Specialist Jouvier cut him off, an urgency in her voice that silenced the bridge. "Captain, something's out there – right at the limit of sensor range!"

"Details, Anita?" Peterson demanded.

"Not clear yet, sir. Extreme range." Her words tumbled over themselves in her excitement. Both the chance to explain her work and this unexpected detection fueled her intensity.

Peterson sighed with mock exasperation. "Looks like I'm in for another physics lesson."

Anita grinned, then launched into her explanation. "Think of it like our comms system, only in reverse. We emit billions of tiny gravitational 'strings' – thin beams, really – in a sphere around the ship. Physics quirk allows us about a twenty light-year effective range. When they encounter an object, even pass nearby, the gravity of that object subtly disturbs that string. We pick up the ripple. Problem is, accuracy drops off exponentially with distance. We could spot a grain of sand within a light-year, a good-sized asteroid out to maybe seven. Twenty light-years? We're lucky to detect something moon-sized. Anything beyond that… it's like fishing with a net full of holes. We might catch a rogue Jupiter, or just as easily miss it entirely."

Peterson frowned. "So we're not seeing this thing in real time. Not like that almost-instant link to the comm relay…"

Anita shook her head. "Unfortunately, no sir. For that kind of real-time scan, we'd need staggering amounts of power. And with that many gravity strings so close to the

ship, things would get chaotic – gravity beams pulling on each other, distorting the readings. We have to throttle the power for accurate data."

She continued, warming to her explanation. "Imagine each gravity string like a long, invisible thread unfurling through space. Those first beams take twenty minutes to reach their maximum distance. After that, they're a continuous emission, a vast net spread out around the ship. Anything out there that disrupts a string – passes near it, bends its path with its gravity – it sends a ripple back down that thread, another twenty-minute journey. So for initial detection at the outer edge, we're looking at a forty-minute delay. Once the sensor net is unfurled, initial detection is twenty minutes. But as that object, whatever it is, draws closer, that delay shrinks... roughly a minute for every light-year."

Peterson rubbed his chin, a skeptical note in his voice. "So, forty minutes ago, we had nothing but empty space, and now there's… something. Are you absolutely certain this isn't a glitch in the system?"

Anita met his gaze with unwavering focus. "The probability of a malfunction is low, sir, especially at this scale of disruption. The signal is weak, easily mistaken for the fluctuations of spacetime itself. We need more data, wait for this object to come closer or, with luck, for another string to cross its path, give us another angle for analysis…"

“Understood. Take all the time you need Anita. I’ll be in my ready room”.