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

Chapter 20 - Aftermath

Date: May 27, 2856

Captain’s Log Entry no. 77 - 4GUs

Date: May 27, 2856

Location: The Starship Iris (Somewhere in deep space)

Restarting the fusion reactors… well, that was the easy part, relatively speaking.

Each one came back online, which was a gods damned miracle after the shaking they endured. Took a hell of a long time though. Three and a half weeks to get all seven humming again. Most of the ship is powered up at this point.

The structural damage is far worse than initial assessments indicated. The outer hull held together surprisingly well, a few nasty dents but no breaches that we can find.

Inside the ship, though… It's a mess.

We've got crews dispersed, trying to make the best use of the livable space nearer to the center. Still no mechanized transport, thank the heavens we're back to normal gravity at least. Walking the length and breadth of this ship is no small task, a seven-kilometer diameter doesn't shrink when you need to hoof it.

Repair crews are going out in shifts, little one or two-day expeditions to fix the critical systems and re-splice lines. Progress is slow, but we're getting there.

Managed to get an approximate fix on our location using some old-school stargazing in the observation decks. One of the eggheads dredged up some ancient math formulas to help triangulate it. Turns out we're more than thirty-five light-years from where we… well, where we thought we were. Given how fuzzy the navigation was even before we jumped to 4Gs, that's less surprising than it should be. Fact remains, we're in the middle of bloody nowhere.

External sensors and propulsion are still dead in the water. That's the next hurdle.

Damned silence from those bastards chasing us – that's the one silver lining. Seems they might've finally lost our trail.

End Log.

---

The mess hall, normally a place of boisterous chatter, carried a subdued hum in the early morning hours. Captain Peterson, Commander Collins, and Chief Engineer Ratiu had fallen into a routine of sorts – their morning coffee was as much a status update as it was a pre-shift briefing. Their worn faces and the faint scent of grease and old coffee spoke volumes of the past month's relentless struggle.

"All EMCs are back to full capacity." Ratiu's declaration held a note of well-earned triumph. "Yesterday's push to restore Reactor No.3's power finally brought the industrial EMC near the flight deck online."

Collins nodded in approval. "Excellent news. Finally, we can start patching the external hull."

The topic of EMCs, short for Energy Matter Converters, hung heavy in the air. These marvels of human ingenuity, born from the late 21st century's yearning to push beyond the limitations of space travel, were a living testament to Einstein's mass–energy equivalence formula (E = mc²). Prior to their invention, humanity's space exploration ambitions were tethered to the backbreaking logistics of hauling all their supplies from Earth. The dream of true exploration, of venturing far to the edges of the solar system with the freedom to create and replenish resources on the fly, remained just that – a dream. Then came the breakthrough. Scientists unlocked the secrets of manipulating energy, not just for propulsion but for the very creation of matter. The first EMCs were crude affairs, spitting out basic elements like hydrogen and oxygen. But with each passing decade, the technology blossomed. The range of materials grew, the process became more efficient, and the dream of a self-sufficient existence amongst the stars edged closer to reality.

Yet, even these marvels had their limitations. Living matter, the building blocks of life itself, remained frustratingly out of reach. And while the EMCs could churn out complex molecules with impressive ease, the ability to fabricate objects with a blend

of different materials remained a stubborn hurdle, a challenge for the next generation of engineers to crack.

Peterson couldn't mask the impatience in his voice. "What about the sensors? The fusion engines?" Beneath the frustration was a growing unease. The Iris, for all her resilience, was a leviathan adrift. The ceaseless work and steady progress were measured in restored systems, gravity brought back to livable quarters - all essential, yet ultimately still confined to the same spot in the vast expanse of space. The lack of even the most basic maneuvering capability was fostering a creeping claustrophobia, a feeling he sensed in the crew's muted energy.

Ratiu, ever methodical, responded, "Without sensors, we fly blind. That's the top priority after the reactors." She took a breath, her gaze flicking to the half-finished coffee on the table, and continued, "Our gravity sensors are superluminal. That's what gives us advance warning, even on objects we can't physically 'see'. But our visual systems are optical, limited by the speed of light. They're designed with complex lenses, a necessity, but also a vulnerability. The sensor array is housed beneath the external hull, protected during normal operations. We have deployment hatches spaced across the entire circumference, a hundred and seven in total.

Problem is, the main quantum computer controlling that sensor network took a fatal hit during our… rough trip.” She paused, a flicker of frustration crossing her face.

"The scientists exhausted every possibility, but it's fried. The good news is we salvaged four smaller quantum units from elsewhere in the ship – sections we had to shut down for now. Dr. Zme'U, bless his brilliance, figured out a way to cluster them.

The salvaged units aren't as powerful, but they can coordinate. It won't be as precise as the original system, but it'll let us control the sensors and start piecing together a picture of our surroundings. We're prepping the space now."

Captain’s Log Entry no. 87 - 4GUs

Date: April 8, 2856

Location: The Starship Iris (67 light years from home) Getting the sensors functional again… well, that turned into a longer ordeal than the initial optimism during that coffee meeting with Ratiu would have suggested. When she talked about "prepping the space", I assumed we were looking at a day or two, tops. Turns out, she did too.

Day one was anticipation, the expectation of that call coming any minute. Day two, nerves started to fray. Day three brought frustration, and day four... by then, it was less about engineering and more about a bunch of eggheads squabbling over how to make the blasted thing work.

And then, wouldn't you know it, the solution comes from an unexpected corner.

Ensign Turmal, with that knack of his for thinking sideways, proposes a solution about quantum decay stability in the communication channels between those salvaged computers. Turns out, the very thing making the system unstable provided an anchor point for specialized algorithms. Suddenly, we've got a cluster working as a single unit when necessary even while maintaining separate control functions when it matters.

Damn if Turmal isn't proving himself time and again. That boy's got a head on his shoulders, and it's high time he got the promotion to match.

End Log.

---

The bridge of the Iris crackled with a tension that hadn't existed since those frantic moments before they'd been forced to jump to 4Gs. "Deploying sensor array!"

Lieutenant Ratiu's voice cut through the quiet, her words echoing through the ship's speakers.

Captain Peterson's gaze was glued to the vast 360-degree display. It was a panorama of emptiness, a black canvas waiting for the first brushstrokes of light. His heart pounded, but he held his body rigid, afraid that the slightest movement would somehow alter the fate about to unfold before him.

Commander Collins, his steely composure restored, moved with brisk efficiency.

"Specialist Jouvier, the moment those sensors kick on, I need threat analysis.

Anything moving out there, I want to be the first to know."

Turning to Dr. Jovier, he continued, "As soon as you get a signal, pinpoint our location. To the last decimal point. No guessing."

His final command was directed at Lieutenant Grigorescu, barely a murmur but carrying the weight of experience. "Tactical, we're in for a rough ride. That patched-up quantum brain isn't a fraction of what we had before. Don't rely on it for solutions. Use it as one more tool, eyes open for threats, and be ready with countermeasures."

The Iris, immense and gleaming, resembled a polished stone – seven kilometers of smooth metal bathed in the cold light of distant stars. Its surfaces, sculpted into a flowing, organic whole, bore a faint greenish-yellow pattern reminiscent of a cat's eye with its central black hole. If humans from the 20th century, dreaming of alien visitations, could witness this ship, they would never have imagined their descendants would achieve such a feat of engineering and design. The rounded edges and sleek lines spoke not of the sharp-angled ships of their science fiction, but of a vessel honed by centuries of knowledge.

Suddenly, the illusion of a monolithic rock shattered. Squares, each seven meters across, materialized on the hull like a geometric rash. Each square fractured into four triangular segments, pivoting outward until they formed sharp angles to the ship's surface. They looked like the spines of some gargantuan beast rising in defense.

From every opening, a translucent sensor box ascended, pausing halfway up the triangular shield. Its crystal-clear casing gave tantalizing glimpses of complex lenses within. This dance repeated across the Iris's vast expanse, save for its rounded edges where the sensors were conspicuously absent.

Once deployed, the sensors began a new, mesmerizing transformation. They shifted and swiveled independently, locking onto distant points of light. The triangular plates, now protectors, cast deliberate shadows, precisely angled to shield the lenses from any stray glare that might mar the images forming within. It was akin to a thousand armored crabs, their synchronized movements giving the impression that the ship itself was coming alive, stretching its new senses out into the cosmic void.

"We have eyes!" Anita's voice rang out, a stark contrast to the tense silence that had gripped the bridge. She hunched over her console, fingers flying across the interface as a torrent of data began flooding in from the newly deployed sensor array.

"Identifying known stars near our projected position for triangulation," came the measured response from Navigation.

One by one, pinpricks of light flared into existence on the vast 360-degree display. At first, the pace was measured, a new star appearing every second or so. Then, with breathtaking speed, the rate increased to a dazzling onslaught. Tens, then hundreds of stars blossomed into view, until the vastness of the cosmos seemed to press in around them. Peterson watched, transfixed, as the universe was reborn before his very eyes.

While the visual canvas filled with astonishing swiftness, the informational overlays lagged behind. The patched-together quantum computer simply couldn't match the processing power of the gravity-based systems they were accustomed to. But for once, they had the luxury of time.

Peterson straightened, and began a slow circuit around the bridge, pausing before different star clusters. Information boxes sluggishly materialized, detailing the spectral signatures, distances, and known properties of each stellar object. This wasn't just the quantum computer's limitations – even with the most powerful systems, identifying celestial bodies purely by their light was far slower than their usual gravity-based scans. It was a fundamental problem – there were only so many photons to capture before analysis could begin, and that took time, no matter how sophisticated your equipment.

"Position established. We're 1.9 light years from the red giant Aldebaran. 67 light years from home." Dr. Jovier's voice cut through the quiet hum of the bridge, her tone a mix of relief and grim calculation.

Collins studied the display. "A long road ahead indeed," he murmured.

Peterson, his gaze still fixed on the star field, spoke as if lost in thought. "We need to get moving. It might be slow, but every day counts."

Chapter 21 - Let’s Get Moving

Date: May 17, 2856

The bridge hummed with renewed activity as Lieutenant Ratiu's voice cut through the speakers, "Releasing engine railing security bolts."

A flicker of confusion crossed Peterson's face. "What's that?" he asked Collins, leaning in slightly.

Collins responded in a lowered tone, sensing the unspoken question behind those eyes. "Our backup propulsion… the fusion engines. They were designed for external deployment – think of them like a ring of thrusters studded along a track that encircles the ship. As a last resort. That track, the railing, it's retracted internally

when not in use. We're unlocking it now. Here…" He gestured towards the main display, "I'll pull up the external camera feed so you can see."

Across the Iris, a strange rhythm echoed from within its metal skin. It wasn't the hum of machinery, but the percussive thud of axes striking steel. Near the rounded edge of the vast vessel, crew members in zero-gravity suits toiled with methodical intent.

Each wielded a hefty axe, delivering precise and powerful blows to U-shaped handles protruding from the bulkheads. These handles, formed from reinforced steel three centimeters thick, belied their true purpose.

On the opposite side of each bolt, a pressurized chamber waited in mechanical silence. The moment the bolt yielded, releasing its grip, a cascading series of events would play out with the precision of clockwork. The pressurized air inside would break the seals, forcing a set of double doors outward. The sudden rush of escaping air wouldn't merely open the chamber, it would pull its concealed payload out into the void.

All around the Iris, these chambers began to pop open. From each emerged a large, T-shaped structure, carried along by the escaping air, initially resting flat against the ship's surface. These weren't delicate instruments - they were built for the brute force realities of emergency propulsion.

Yet, there was a strange elegance as those T-shapes unfolded. The "top" of each extended outward to either side, the ends arcing slightly until they met those of their neighbors. Section by section, a seamless ring began to take shape, encircling the Iris like a metallic halo.

Collins gestured towards the left side of the 360-degree display. "Behold Captain, the fusion engines are deploying."

The spectacle unfolding outside rivaled the star-scape on the opposite side of the bridge. Seven massive hatches, spaced equidistantly along both the top and bottom

of the Iris, opened like the mechanical petals of a gigantic flower. From each aperture, thick articulated arms extended, resembling the segmented legs of some monstrous insect. Each limb carried a segmented half of a fusion engine, moving them into position with surprising speed and precision.

In mere minutes, all fourteen segments were aligned - seven pairs hovering in the perfect circle of the newly-formed engine ring. As they slotted into place, a resonant clang echoed through the hull, amplified by the vacuum surrounding them. It was the satisfying sound of vast mechanisms settling into their intended configuration.

Then, as if completing a choreographed dance, the crab-like arms retracted one by one into the openings from which they'd emerged. The external hatches slid silently closed, restoring the Iris's sleek lines. But her new appearance was strikingly different. Where once there had been an unbroken curve, now lay a halo of dormant power. Seven elongated 'eggs' nestled along the ring, a stark reminder of the ship's newfound, if limited, mobility.

A surge of anticipation rippled through the bridge. The crew, accustomed to schematics and theoretical diagrams, were witness to a transformation that breathed a new sense of hope into their stranded leviathan.

Lieutenant Ratiu's voice broke the expectant silence. "All engines reporting nominal status. Preparing diagnostic and control routines."

Seven elongated shapes along the ring encircling the Iris twitched, then began a graceful waltz. They slid along the rail, forward, then back, testing the limits and precision of their movement. After a few cycles, they stopped abruptly, then executed a series of synchronized rotations, exhaust nozzles arcing in every conceivable direction, still without the fiery burst of active propulsion.

"Those engines might lack the raw power of our gravitational drive," Peterson observed, "but they seem to make up for it in agility. We should have good control over our trajectory."

Collins, ever the pragmatist, tempered the optimism with a note of caution. "Don't forget, Captain, the internal gravity plating is still running off fusion power. Not nearly as robust as our usual system. We'll want to avoid any extreme maneuvers or sudden bursts of acceleration."

Peterson turned to the helm. "Mr. Potaski, explain our immediate course of action for the benefit of the entire bridge crew."

Potaski, initially startled by the unexpected spotlight, straightened slightly. "Well," he began, "once those engine diagnostics finish up, we'll begin with a low-thrust test –

verify all our control functions work as expected, both manual and through the computer." He glanced around the bridge, taking in the attentive faces before returning his gaze to Captain Peterson. A hint of urgency crept into his voice.

"We haven't nailed down a destination yet, Captain," Peterson acknowledged.

"Continue, Mr. Potaski."

Potaski nodded. "Right. It's not just about charting a course, but also about how we get there. Fusion-based drives… that's tech we left behind centuries ago. We've got the manuals, sure, but we need to verify everything works in practice as theory says it should." He paused to gather his thoughts before continuing. "See, our internal gravity plating? It's a big drain on the reactors. Inertial dampeners, those are shut off completely. The engines themselves will be another huge hit to power reserves. We have to balance everything to avoid those reactors spiking." His eyes swept across the crew once more, searching for any sign of confusion.

Taking a deep breath, he launched into the specifics. "After discussion with Chief Engineer Ratiu, we're shutting down most of the ship. Anything not essential gets

powered down – , except the two observation decks, the bridge, engineering, mess hall, the connecting routes between them, and bunking for the core crew nearby.

Then, we split the power load evenly across all seven reactors. Aim is to keep them operating around 25% capacity, could be even less."

Potaski knew some attention spans might be waning, but this technical briefing was vital. He wanted the whole bridge crew to understand the limitations they'd face, not just the possibilities of movement. A few furrowed brows among the listeners confirmed his suspicions.

Potaski's voice took a turn, dropping in volume, filled with a chilling gravity. "We have two things we absolutely must avoid. Pancaking the crew and blowing out those reactors." He paused, the words hanging in the silence, then added in a near-whisper, "Either one would mean lights out for the Iris."

The morbid frankness had a startling effect, snapping back everyone's focus. He resumed his technical staccato, "Current artificial gravity plating is calibrated to a standard 1 G. The plan is to orient the engines so we're 'flying' our dish of a ship face-first. As we throttle up, simultaneously decrease power to the gravity plating.

Our goal is to gradually replace artificial gravity with actual thrust acceleration, until we hit the 1G mark and can shut down the plating altogether." He paused, scanning faces – a few were nodding in comprehension.

"But before that, we have to rotate the entire ship. Given its size, we'll feel the effects differently depending on where we are. Here on the bridge, engineering – those are close to the rotational axis, so it'll be mild. Think of it like a gentle elevator ride.

Farther out, things will be more… pronounced. Worst hit will be the observation decks. For the turn itself, everyone in those areas needs to be in a crash couch, tightly strapped in."

The mood on the bridge shifted subtly. Even the most seasoned crew members, accustomed to constant 1G, felt a flicker of unease. They were haunted by the memory of that fateful 4GU jump, the gut-wrenching moment that had flung the Iris into the unknown.

Potaski, sensing the change in atmosphere, continued. "We'll ramp up the engines in ten percent increments. Each time, we'll dial down the gravity plating correspondingly, letting thrust fill the gap and keep us at a comfortable 1G. This gradual approach is for a few reasons. First, we need to be certain the plating responds precisely as intended. Second, those engines – we're getting our first real, extended test run with them. Third, those temperamental fusion reactors… we need to make sure the power distribution is stable."

His gaze roved over the crew. A few faces had gone a touch blank, the technical details flying past. Potaski pivoted again. "Let's simplify. One power increase every hour. Everyone straps into crash couches during that time, just in case. Ideally, it should feel like a minor rumble, maybe a few tremors in the floor. The couches are a precaution. If everything goes smoothly, five minutes buckled up, then back to regular duties. If things get bumpy, engineering will work to stabilize the ship. In that case…" he let the sentence trail off ominously. It didn't need finishing. If things went truly wrong, they might be in those couches for a lot longer than five minutes.