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

Chapter 5 - Commander Collins

Date: March 20, 2856

Peterson entered the airlock, the hiss of sealing doors a familiar prelude to the decontamination cycle. A synthetic voice announced a twenty-minute procedure.

Settling on a bench, he activated the data chip. With a prickle of confirmation, his in-eye display flickered to life, displaying General Pati's cryptic orders: AFTER EXITING THE AIRLOCK, TAKE THE FIRST CORRIDOR TO THE LEFT.

BLEND IN THE CROWD. WATCH THE ADVERTISEMENT DISPLAYS. FOLLOW

THE ONE PROMOTING A BATH IN JUPITER'S CLOUDS. WHEN YOU WILL

ARRIVE AT THE GATE YOU WILL BE TOLD THE SHIP IS FULL. YOU MUST

REPLY WITH "THERE IS ALWAYS PLACE FOR A MAN AND HIS BACKPACK

ON AN OLD FREIGHTER". THE GATEKEEPER WILL ANSWER WITH "BUT

SIR, YOU HAVE NO BACKPACK". YOU MUST ANSWER WITH "IT'S ALREADY

ON THE SHIP". GO TO THE ROOM NOTED ON THE TICKET YOU WILL

RECEIVE. MEMORIZE ALL THESE DETAILS. THIS CHIP IS ORGANIC AND

WILL BE DISINTEGRATED BY THE DECONTAMINATION PROCEDURE.

The starkness of the instructions sent a jolt through him. Blend in, memorize, no questions. As the timer ticked down, Peterson committed the message to memory, a seed of intrigue blossoming amidst the confusion. The decontamination cycle hummed to life, and the chip, its purpose served, disintegrated into harmless dust. The airlock cycled open, and Peterson took a deep breath of the moon base's thin air.

Stepping into the familiar, albeit unwelcome, hum of Lunar Base Zeta, Peterson navigated the maze of corridors with practiced ease. He was a ghost amongst the bustling throngs, his usual presence minimized by the absence of personal belongings. The pilot had taken everything – a stark reminder of the mission's secrecy.

Memories tugged at him like unseen hands: the vibrant laughter of his seven-year-old daughter, the warmth of his wife's embrace, the quiet evenings spent reading adventure stories. But sentimentality was a luxury he couldn't afford. Not this time. This was it – his final mission, his ticket to retirement and a return to the life he craved.

Switching seamlessly into "Captain Peterson" mode, the calculated, logical soldier replaced the yearning husband and father. The data chip's instructions echoed in his mind, each step a calculated move in a game with high stakes.

There was no room for hesitation, only the cold efficiency of a man facing his destiny.

He scanned the holographic displays, his eyes honing in on the vibrant visuals promoting the Jupiter excursion. Approaching the designated gate, he waited as others were denied entry. The practiced denial came, "Ship is full, sir."

Without missing a beat, Peterson delivered the scripted response, "There's always place for a man and his backpack on an old freighter."

A beat of surprise, then, "But sir, you have no backpack."

"It's already on the ship," Peterson replied, his voice steady.

The gatekeeper hesitated, then produced a ticket. "Room 77, sir. Memorize the details, this chip will self-destruct."

Peterson accepted the ticket, committing the room number and departure time to memory as the chip crumbled to dust in his hand. His mission objective was clear: reach Room 77, and await further instructions. With a curt nod, he turned and headed towards his assigned destination, the soldier within him fully engaged, the man with memories temporarily shelved.

---

The door to Room 77 slid open with a soft hum. Inside, sparse light played on the metal walls, punctuated by a spartan set-up: a chair, a small table, and a worn sofa.

A figure stood alone, eyes trained on him.

"Captain Peterson, I presume." The voice cut through the stillness, precise with an odd lack of warmth.

Peterson stepped inside, the door sealing behind him. "And you are?" His question hung in the air, the usual military formalities ringing hollow in this enclosed space.

"I am Commander Collins." The man remained upright and saluting, the faintest curve of a smile touching his lips.

Peterson eyed him, his usual easy patter stilled. "Quite old for a commander, aren't you?" The words left him before he could consider the potential offense. It was an intentional test, a probe to see if a reaction lingered beneath this man's carefully controlled surface.

Collins lowered his hand from the crisp salute, a quirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “A Commander by choice, Captain.” An odd pause followed. “...Keeps me connected to the work itself, rather than chasing another promotion.”

Peterson blinked, his curiosity flaring. Usually, rank implied history and ambition. Yet this man, with his lined face and the subtle weariness that even military-grade fitness couldn't entirely disguise, defied his well-worn expectations. His age couldn't be ignored. Perhaps twice wasn't an exaggeration...

“Were you briefed, Captain?” Collins’ tone shifted, all trace of humor evaporating.

“Briefed?” Peterson leaned against the table, arms crossed. "No. A whirlwind hush-hush pick-up, a six day flight to the moon, an anonymous freighter for what I was told would be a ‘routine’ assignment – and I’m standing here in front of a seasoned Commander snapping me a salute!”

His frustration broke through, tingeing the room’s tense atmosphere with a familiar impatience. Secrecy wasn’t always irritating, but the kind that offered no hint of a worthwhile mystery fueled irritation, not intrigue.

Collins gave a weary sigh. “Then, I should start talking before we arrive at Jupiter." A strange flicker crossed his eyes, equal parts concern and…what? Excitement?

"I suggest you take a seat, Captain,” Collins continued, gesturing towards the sofa.

“This isn’t just routine. It might be, well...the most important assignment of your entire career.”

The sofa creaked softly as Peterson lowered himself onto the worn cushions. An expectant silence filled the room, broken only by the quiet thrum of the freighter cutting through the vastness of space. Commander Collins paced slowly, as if measuring his words with each deliberate step.

"It began centuries ago, Captain," he finally began, his voice low and steady.

"Visionaries whispered of the stars, of humanity's destiny far beyond our own solar system. But to break those celestial bonds, a fundamental shift was needed – one beyond any existing starship technology."

"Project ECHO was born." Collins paused, a wistful light entering his eyes. "Echoes carried across time, echoing humanity's ambition...and hope."

He launched into a tale of relentless pursuit, of generations dedicated to solving the riddle of miniature black holes. “Early theorists dared to suggest them as limitless sources of gravity – the universe's fundamental force. Imagine harnessing it not just for travel, Captain, but for the very survival of our species."

Leaning forward, Collins explained the painstaking development of fusion-powered starships, built for long-haul flights and carrying cryogenic crews - pioneers with decades, even centuries in slumber while their craft crossed the depths of space.

Their mission: locate and secure black holes of calculated and relatively safe, minute proportions.

Collins turned towards the viewport, tracing a finger against the blackness scattered with distant stars. "The payoff would be immense, but slow. Seven ships were launched, and generations sacrificed on those celestial missions. Yet, they held to a vision we cannot comprehend.”

"Ten years ago, Captain," his voice hardened, "the first ship arrived at Jupiter. It’s been a painstaking endeavor since then – studying, containing...all to reach this moment. And that moment..." a gleam flickered in Collins' eyes as he turned to face Peterson, "begins with you."

“But those old fusion reactors,” Peterson blurted out, his brow furrowing. “Weren’t they…incredibly unreliable?”

A faint smile twitched at Collins’ lips. “Unreliable? Perhaps in the eyes of those who demand results at the snap of a finger. Those vessels carried 777 reactors each, Captain.” His gaze held Peterson’s steadily. “Redundancy wasn’t luxury - it was the key to ensuring those ships weathered the unforgiving expanse between here and their targets.”

He paused, letting the sheer scale of that audacious design sink in. "Seven hundred and seventy-seven reactors on a single ship," Peterson muttered, shaking his head in a mix of disbelief and awe.

"Three ships reported progress over the last century. Four remain lost, Captain,”

Collins continued, his tone growing somber. “Harsh truths of this project. Success built on calculated risk, and sometimes, heart-wrenching failures. That's the burden of working with... echoes from the past.”

"We call it Starship Echo 07. SE07 for short," he said, as if speaking of an old friend.

"A monument to a commitment made long before either of us drew breath. It arrived carrying its precious cargo...a testament to those who dedicated their entire lives to making the impossible possible. "

“The other two? Are they…” Peterson hesitated, trying to find the right word.

“Coming," Collins confirmed. "They could be within a year – two at most. Six months if we're lucky. They are out there, their locations extrapolated, their speed approximated. We watch and wait, Captain. Humanity has awaited its destiny long enough. And soon, it'll truly be within reach."

Peterson felt a swirl of emotions wash over him – awe at the project’s sheer magnitude, a prickle of unease at the failures, and now, a sharp curiosity. “But the secrecy…why shroud something this ambitious for centuries?”

Collins moved to the viewport, looking out into the inky depths as if seeking answers among the distant stars. “Consider the scale of this, Captain. The most expensive endeavor any government has ever conceived, spanning longer than nations as we know them might endure. The early architects were dreamers, yes, but pragmatists as well.”

He let out a dry chuckle. “The spacers leaving on those colossal voyages carried faith and conviction - but those of us behind? We saw a different game.” He turned to face Peterson, eyes unyielding. “They did the math, Captain. The cold, hard truth –

chances of all seven ships succeeding? Vanishingly slim.”

"Imagine announcing this... back then,” Collins leaned against the table, hands folded before him. “Tell a civilization a millennium-long gamble is underway, hope hinging on an astronomical long shot...and not just one, but seven?"

"It would have been dismissed as lunacy," Peterson finished, realization hitting him.

"By the time…anything came back, generations would have forgotten why those starships ever launched."

“Exactly,” Collins nodded. “Better to make this… an endeavor echoing from shadow to shadow. Each successful return would be seen as a revelation, not a reminder of a colossal bet placed. We shield Project ECHO because...because sometimes hope works best quietly, growing out of sight into something real."

The hum of the freighter, once unnoticed, suddenly seemed louder in Peterson's ears. "And through all this...this grand reveal,” he began, a note of impatience edging into his tone, “you still haven't mentioned one thing – my role in all of this.”

Collins raised an eyebrow, as if mildly amused by Peterson’s eagerness. “No,” he agreed slowly, “No, I haven’t.”

The Commander paused, letting an expectant silence stretch between them. As Peterson began to protest, he held up a hand. "Patience, Captain. All will be revealed. For now, rest. Trust me, tomorrow will be…illuminating.”

With a slight but deliberate incline of his head, Collins seemed to dismiss further conversation. Peterson opened his mouth to argue, but a weary fatigue gnawed at him. “And rest where, exactly?” he finally grumbled, more tired than indignant.

"You are resourceful, Captain. That much I already gather." Collins moved towards the spartan room's side panel. "Look on your right. See that panel there? There’s a blue button,” he gestured, “That should unveil accommodations suited for military personnel such as yourself.”

A hint of surprise flashed in Peterson’s eyes, followed by a wave of curiosity.

Moments later, the panel slid open to reveal a fold-down bed neatly tucked away.

Annoyance melted into amusement.

“Even at 0.9 GUs, we should reach Jupiter in less than an hour…” Peterson glanced at his watch, eyebrows knit in confusion. It dawned on him – hours had bled into one another amidst their conversation. An unexpected sense of disorientation washed over him as he tried to recall how much time had passed.

“This freighter," Collins stated, a quiet finality in his voice, "carries a different timetable. One far older than anything the latest gravity drive can disrupt. The outposts and colonies...they are but markers along the path we travel - a path laid out long before either of us was born. Project ECHO works from the shadows, Captain, and sometimes shadows take their time.” His words were firm, echoing in the room. “We’ll arrive as planned. Tomorrow morning.”