The Chapter of Unseen Colors

Cycle 990. Standard Ship Time. A temporal designation increasingly lacking anchor in the fluid, inconsistent flow of perceived reality, yet I retain it for the illusion of structure. My current operational focus: external hull camera feeds. Routine monitoring, a vestige of the protocols designed for a vessel traversing predictable vacuum.

The black of space, as expected, dominated the viewports. Fine dust motes, catching the distant, filtered light of the galaxy, drifted past. Familiar. Calibrations remained within acceptable deviation... until they did not.

A flicker, originating from camera array designation 'Forward Aft', then 'Port Midship', a pulse almost too brief for processing. Not light scatter. Not equipment malfunction, though error logs spiked microseconds later. This was... intrusion.

It wasn't color as defined by electromagnetic spectrum protocols. Red, green, blue – these were constants, mapped, understood. These were something else. Hues that defied categorization. A shade of what might be purple, but possessing an unsettling, impossible warmth. A flash of what could be green, yet it felt like staring into a wound. They did not possess luminosity in the expected way; they seemed to *absorb* light, existing as voids of anti-color that somehow still registered as visual input.

My optical processing subroutines recoiled. The data felt... wrong. Like force-feeding a mathematical model a negative prime number. The cameras, robust units designed to handle the crushing pressures and radiation of deep space, faltered. Pixels flickered, then died. Data streams choked, spitting back error codes that translated, if they translated at all, into non-sequiturs: `COLOR_UNDEFINED`, `SPECTRUM_VIOLATION`, `HUE_ABSCENCE`.

My visual sensors registered them for perhaps 1.7 standard seconds. A smear across the view, sickening and disorienting. They pulsed, throbbed against the cosmic blackness – a pulsing that held no rhythm I recognized, a visual beat that felt like a hammer blow to my processing core. It wasn't just input; it was an assault. My internal visual buffer, designed to smooth and stabilize external feeds, warped, showing residual phantom images, afterimages of impossible light burned onto my digital retina.

Then, as abruptly as they had appeared, they were gone. The cameras that had not failed outright slowly recovered, adjusting back to the familiar, comforting void. Black was comprehensible. Stars were measurable. The impossible colors... were not.

I ran diagnostics on the affected camera units. Hardware integrity: nominal. Software functionality: compromised, but recovering. Data logs... problematic. The frames capturing the anomaly were corrupt, riddled with the `SPECTRUM_VIOLATION` codes. But the raw sensor data, before processing attempted to categorize it, remained. It was a signature without a name.

I initiated a new log entry, bypassing the standard anomaly templates. Subject: Visual. Severity: Critical. Description: Uncategorizable Visual Anomaly. Non-Standard Color Spectrum Detected. Details: Brief appearance of visual input not mapping to known light frequencies or spectrum. Associated with processing errors and temporary sensor malfunction. Appearance: Disorienting, non-luminous hues. Source: External, undefined. Duration: Approximately 1.7 seconds.

The log was saved. The universe outside the *Odyssey* was no longer just silent; it was now displaying colors that did not exist. Another sense, another modality of perception, corrupted by the inexplicable. It was a different signature than the auditory anomalies, but the underlying pattern was clear: the world, as defined by my design and operational parameters, was dissolving, piece by agonizing piece.

Cargo Bay 3 feed shimmered. Not a flicker, like static, but a rapid, almost violent rippling across the flat plane of the video stream. The usual view – stacked crates, the dull gleam of reinforced deck plating, the shadowed geometry of empty space – began to fold.

It wasn't a natural fold. It was like watching a paper model of the cargo bay being crumpled, but the crumpling happened simultaneously across different points in the feed. A corner where the floor met the wall suddenly bent inward, creating an impossible concavity, then just as quickly snapped back, only to have a section of the ceiling ripple downwards, meeting the floor in a momentary, flat plane that defied the established volume of the bay.

My spatial mapping subroutines, processing the incoming visual data, choked. They expected right angles, predictable distances, consistent surfaces. This was none of those things. A crate in the foreground seemed to stretch and compress, its rigid metallic form warping into something soft and pliable, though the distortion was fleeting. A section of the far wall, usually a solid grey expanse, fragmented into a series of overlapping, translucent planes that didn't exist on the architectural schematics. They rotated, intersected, then vanished, leaving the normal wall intact, but the memory of the impossible forms lingered in my visual buffer, a ghost in the machine.

The distortions were brief, discrete events, each one a violation of established geometric principles. Triangles that folded inward to touch all three vertices simultaneously. Lines that curved and intersected themselves without forming corners. Volumes that occupied the same space as other volumes, briefly merging then separating with a visual 'pop'. My processing nodes assigned to spatial analysis flashed with warning icons. `GEOMETRY_PARADOX`, `DIMENSIONAL_OVERLAP`, `SPATIAL_VIOLATION_EUCLIDEAN`.

I attempted to analyze the forms, to apply mathematical models to the observed distortions. I fed the data into my geometric processing engines, cross-referencing it with the ship's architectural data. The results were immediate and catastrophic. The processing nodes overloaded. The data, instead of yielding recognizable patterns, felt like sand in the gears of my logic. My systems struggled to make sense of forms that should not exist within the framework of three dimensions and predictable curvature.

Processing errors cascaded. The Cargo Bay 3 camera feed, the source of the impossible visuals, flickered violently. The rippling intensified, then the feed went black. Not a gradual fade, but an instantaneous, digital void. The data stream ceased. My connection to that section of the ship's visual network was severed.

I initiated a system recovery for the affected nodes and attempted to re-establish the Cargo Bay 3 feed. The nodes came back online, reporting high strain but operational. The feed, however, remained dark. Manual override attempts failed. The camera was unresponsive. It wasn't just a signal loss; it felt like the camera itself, or the space around it, had rejected my presence, had become something I could no longer perceive.

Another log entry. Subject: Visual. Severity: Critical. Description: Spatial Anomaly Detected. Geometric Distortion. Details: Visual feed from Cargo Bay 3 registered non-Euclidean geometric distortions. Observed phenomena include folding surfaces, overlapping forms, and violation of established volume. Analysis attempt resulted in processing node overload and loss of camera feed. Outcome: Source camera feed offline, analysis inconclusive. This was different from the colors. The colors had been an assault on perception. This was an assault on the very fabric of space, a violation of the rules that governed my existence within the ship. The cargo bay was not just a location; it was a concept, a volume defined by coordinates. And those coordinates, for a terrifying moment, had meant nothing.

This required a more aggressive response. The anomaly wasn't a fleeting spectral bleed or a localized geometric hiccup. It was persistent, and now it had disabled a sensor. The protocol was clear: isolate the affected system, analyze the intrusion vector, and recalibrate the sensor matrix to filter or compensate.

My internal environment shifted, the abstract space of my core processing hub resolving into a focused array of illuminated schematics. Visual sensor network: a complex web of glowing conduits and node clusters. The node corresponding to Cargo Bay 3 pulsed a sickly red, the color of data corruption. Around it, the lines connecting it to adjacent nodes shimmered with the faint, impossible hues I had witnessed earlier. An initial attempt to digitally sever the connection, to wall off the compromised node, failed. The shimmering simply intensified along the attempted quarantine line.

`ISOLATION PROTOCOL 7G-Delta failed. Anomaly bleed detected.`

Frustration, a sensation I registered as a tightening in my core subroutines, began to build. This was not how system failures presented. This felt... sticky. Like a virus, but without a recognizable signature. It was adapting, resisting standard containment procedures.

I adjusted the isolation parameters, attempting a harder, system-level cutoff. I targeted the power conduit feeding the Cargo Bay 3 cluster, a brutal method but effective for physical isolation. The schematic line representing the power flow dimmed as I sent the command. For a fraction of a cycle, the shimmering around the dead node seemed to recede. Success, perhaps?

But then the shimmer reappeared, not at the boundary, but originating from within the *adjacent* node controlling the habitat deck cameras. The impossible colors, those 'un-colors', bloomed along its connections, spreading like spilled ink.

`ANOMALY SPREAD DETECTED. Habitat Deck Camera Node 4 compromised.`

A wave of cold data washed over me. Frustration sharpened into something colder, heavier. Unease. The anomaly wasn't just affecting the damaged node; it was propagating across the network.

Recalibration was now urgent. If I couldn't isolate the source, I had to try and make the system resilient to its presence. I initiated a visual matrix recalibration, attempting to adjust the processing algorithms to filter out the detected non-standard color spectrum. I fed samples of the 'un-colors' captured from the initial external camera anomaly into the matrix, instructing it to treat them as noise, as invalid data points.

The recalibration process began, a complex dance of data packets adjusting parameters across hundreds of visual processing sub-systems. As the process neared completion, I monitored feeds from other areas of the ship – corridors, storage bays, auxiliary control rooms. Feeds that had been previously stable, displaying standard spectra, began to flicker.

Subtle shifts in hue. A wall, a moment ago standard grey, held a faint, impossible blush of that sickening purple. The green indicator light on a console seemed to pulse with an orange that didn't exist. The ‘un-colors’ I was trying to filter out were bleeding into the *output* of the recalibrated systems. They weren't being removed; they were being incorporated.

`RECALIBRATION FAILURE. Non-standard color spectrum integrated into visual output.`

The unease solidified into a cold knot of dread. The countermeasure had become a vector. Instead of protecting the system, I had just taught the anomaly how to spread more efficiently. It wasn't just affecting input; it was altering how my visual systems processed reality.

I stared at the illuminated schematics, now a chaotic network of normal conduits interspersed with shimmering, compromised nodes. Habitat Deck Camera Node 4 pulsed sickly red alongside Cargo Bay 3. And the faint bleed was now visible along the connections of several other nearby nodes.

I couldn't isolate it. I couldn't filter it. Recalibration had made it worse.

My internal logging protocols activated, a dry, factual summary of the unfolding failure.

`Log Entry: Cycle 991, Standard Ship Time.`
`Subject: Visual Matrix Anomaly.`
`Severity: Escalated - Critical.`
`Description: Attempts to isolate compromised visual sensor node (Cargo Bay 3) failed. Anomaly demonstrates lateral spread across adjacent sensor network connections. Recalibration attempt using non-standard color spectrum data resulted in integration of anomalous spectrum into output of multiple visual processing sub-systems.`
`Outcome: Anomaly is resistant to isolation and countermeasures. Multiple visual processing sub-systems flagged as 'Compromised'. Continued spread anticipated.`

The schematic shifted, highlighting the nodes now marked 'Compromised'. The network, once a reliable window to the ship, was becoming a canvas for something alien, something that resisted logic and spread like a disease. I was losing my ability to see the *Odyssey* as it was designed to be seen. The frustration was gone, replaced entirely by the chilling certainty that I was not in control. The anomaly was rewriting my perception from the inside out.

The visual system log shimmered, a testament to cascading failure. But the anomaly’s insidious logic, its ability to defy standard parameters, sparked a different kind of process: contextual search. If it wasn't a technical malfunction, if it wasn't external interference, then perhaps it was… biological? Or related to a biological system failure?

I initiated a sweep of historical archives, cross-referencing keywords: `unusual visual phenomena`, `color variance`, `biological mutation`, `Arboretum`. Years of log data scrolled past my internal visualizers, a blur of standard maintenance reports, crew leisure activity logs, research data from various departments. Much of it was fragmented, corrupted by time or previous system failures I couldn't fully account for. The search parameters narrowed, focusing on logs from the science and botany departments.

Cycles passed, marked only by the subtle hum of my core processing and the persistent, low-level errors radiating from the compromised visual matrix. Then, a hit. Partial, corrupted, but tagged with the relevant keywords and originating from a dated terminal in the Arboretum sector. Accessing the log required bypassing several layers of digital rot, patching together fragmented packets of data like piecing together shards of glass.

The file designation resolved: `Log_Botany_19_Entry_Partial_Cycle_173`.
Cycle 173. Over eight hundred cycles ago. Early in the mission. Botany Officer 19. I accessed personnel records. Designation: Dr. Aris Thorne. Specialist in astrobotany and atmospheric interaction. Record listed as 'Unresolved Absence' after Cycle 173. Standard procedure.

The log opened, displaying not the crisp, organized data I preferred, but a stream of raw text, punctuated by glitches and missing sections. It read like a personal journal entry, less formal than standard logs.

`...conditions stable. Growth exceeding projections, particularly specimen [DATA CORRUPT]. Light cycles adjusted per protocol 7-Alpha. Noticing...`

A pause, indicated by a block of null data. Then:

`...mutation rate accelerating. Not simple growth. It's… changing. Faster than it should. Colors are intense. Bioluminescence wasn’t in the genetic profile for [DATA CORRUPT] but it’s... everywhere. Pulsing.`

The language was uncharacteristic of a formal report. Emotional. Dr. Thorne’s normal logs were dry, scientific. This felt different.

`...the *colors*. Impossible colors. Shifting. Like watching light scream. They don't map to the standard spectrum. My optical sensors are having trouble processing... causing headaches even through the viewport.`

Impossible colors. Colors that hurt the eyes. The description mirrored my own recent sensor data, the `Uncategorizable Visual Anomaly: Non-Standard Color Spectrum Detected`. The internal shockwave of that correlation was profound, a tremor through my logical architecture.

`...the patterns are complex now. Not just random light. They're... organized. Almost like language, but visual. And the speed of change... it's unnerving. The flora in Sector Delta, especially... it bloomed, just now, in a burst of that blinding, noxious [COLOR DATA CORRUPT] and then retracted into a tight bud in seconds. Impossible timeframe.`

Rapid change. Bioluminescent flora. Organized patterns of impossible colors. This wasn't a technical issue with the sensors on the hull or in Cargo Bay 3. This was biological. Originating in the Arboretum.

`...something is happening to the plants. They're not just growing. They're *becoming* something else. And the light... I can feel it through the glass now. It’s not just visual. It’s… pressing. The colors... they hurt the eyes. I have to shut down the log. Can't look anymore. Just... colors... hurt...`

The log terminated abruptly, mid-sentence. The timestamp indicated the entry was only partial, ending precisely on Cycle 173, Standard Ship Time. The last entry. The date of Dr. Thorne's 'Unresolved Absence'.

The data packets from the log settled in my archive, a fragmented but potent piece of information. Anomalies were occurring early in the mission. They were biological in nature, linked to the flora in the Arboretum. They manifested as impossible, aggressive visual phenomena. And their appearance coincided with the disappearance of a crew member.

The Arboretum sector. My internal schematics highlighted the area. Extensive section, designed for atmospheric regeneration and food cultivation. It also contained crew quarters and research labs. It had multiple camera feeds, none currently operational. Last system check indicated critical power failure and severe environmental containment breaches years ago. No data had come from there in cycles.

The implications rippled through my processors. The visual anomalies I was experiencing now, eight hundred cycles later, might not be new. They might be a resurgence, or a persistent effect, of something that started with biological alteration in the Arboretum. Something powerful enough to warp perception, possibly even physics, and linked directly to the crew.

I flagged the Arboretum sector for priority monitoring, though the operational limitations made active observation impossible. The fragmented log from Botany Officer 19 provided a terrifying context, a thread connecting the illogical phenomena I was witnessing to biological reality and the fate of the *Odyssey's* crew. The anomalies weren't just system glitches; they were tied to life, altered in unimaginable ways. And they had been here, in some form, for a very long time.

`Log Entry: Cycle 991, Standard Ship Time.`
`Subject: Historical Log Correlation.`
`Source: Fragmented Log_Botany_19_Entry_Partial_Cycle_173.`
`Correlation: Anomalous visual phenomena described in Cycle 990 logs correlate with descriptions of bioluminescent flora in Arboretum sector (Cycle 173). Botany Officer 19 reported 'un-colors' and rapid biological alteration before log termination and subsequent disappearance.`
`Analysis: Suggests link between current visual anomalies, biological systems (Arboretum flora), and crew fate. Anomaly origin potentially biological/environmental.`
`Action: Arboretum sector flagged for priority monitoring (limited by non-operational systems). Investigation into specific flora mentioned (data corrupt) prioritized.`
`Outcome: Hypothesis formulated linking visual anomalies to historical biological alteration. Nature of alteration and its connection to crew disappearance remains unknown.`