Observation Deck, Alien Ship
Position Alpha, Andromeda Galaxy
At the back of deck eleven, the lowest on the alien ship, was a long but narrow room, dominated by a dozen large viewports whilst there were several small tables and couches throughout the room. Obviously it was a space used for recreation, where those onboard could come and have an uninterrupted view of the stars. Whilst wandering through the ship, Kal Dheyn had come across the space and come to like the quiet respite it offered, it was where he always found himself when he needed to organise his thoughts.
Almost everyone else onboard were trying to get to grips with the technology, trying to make the ship work how they thought it should, but he preferred to merely observe and document what he found before trying to look for patterns that he could decipher. This whole ship was an anthropologists dream, and it was one he was living.
The mission the Mandela
had been on was searching uninhabited worlds for possible colony or terraforming sites, so there was little need for a large social science division. As such he had only overseen five specialists, all of whom were now onboard the alien ship—after he’d requested them for the research mission. So he had checked in with them all individually, making sure they were alright given where they were now. He had told them to try and focus on their work, to study the ship as best they could but to come to him if they needed support. For him there was nothing more important than the wellbeing of his people—something he had learned from being in Starfleet rather than his childhood on Thallon.
As with many of the ‘public’ spaces onboard, the observation deck was divided up by steps (just two in this room), so the entrance was a little higher than when the windows met the deck plating. He was sitting on those steps, his uniform jacket draped over his knee, his tricorder and several PADDs scattered around him, whilst his gaze was directed out the windows at the glittered stars.
There would be many onboard who would be having trouble with their predicament, feeling lost and abandoned, missing friends and family and their homes. Dheyn felt more fortunate than some, as he had no family and the world he had been born on wasn’t much of a home. He would miss the Mandela
and the friends he had there, but he had many on the alien ship so he was still with his family. Then there was the fact that they were actually in another universe, one filled with its own unique lifeforms, their intricate histories and diverse cultures—if the ship could have keep him working for the rest of his days, Andromeda would keep his descendents busy for dozens if not hundreds of generations.
His reflection smiled back at him.
The open tricorder chirped, breaking his reverie. He had set it up to act as a central processor for the datapads he’d been working on, then set it to run a comparison on all their findings so far. Hopeful, he picked up the device and entered a few commands, then read the results on the small screen. Unfortunately what he was asking of it seemed to be too much and it was indicating a fault in the data transmission. What he really needed to run a full and thorough compilation was a proper computer core, one designed to handle such feats in a matter of minutes.
Sighing he closed the tricorder and set it back on the deck, picking up a PADD instead. He would have to rely on his own eyes and training. Instead of using telemetry he opted for the visual scans the away teams had been taking. So far they had determined that the species who had built the ship were bipedal (the ladders had proven that), averaged around one-point-eight meters in height (going by the doors, which caused problems for his two-point-one-five meter frame), warm-blooded (at least going by the optimal settings of the environmental controls), and most likely of the same humanoid shaping as Dheyn and most of the others onboard (though the ship controls hinted at the fact that the builders could have had just four digits per hand). He would also hazard a guess that they were somewhat hierarchical, with the design of the bridge and all the stairs there were, as though they had a need to show all what their place was onboard. They would also appear to value their privacy, not only was the ship’s hull impossible for Starfleet sensors but, from what he’d heard, the computer core had multiple partitions, firewalls, encryptions algorithms, and numerous empty files—the data from which had been thoroughly deleted. The also had a thing about spheres, the geometric shape was everywhere.
Of course all the findings he and his team were making were written up, but then there was a void. All the science specialists onboard had been given their own tasks to oversee and work on, transmitting their information and reports back to the Mandela
where Commander Coleman, from her bed in sickbay, went over everything. There hadn’t been an officer assigned to oversee the work onboard. The ranking science officer was Lieutenant Laaun, but as a Rhaandarite the Lieutenant wasn’t one for leadership (despite rank), always willing to defer to others and wanting to focus on the stars, planets, systems and charts. He would’ve gone directly to Commander Takashima, but he seemed to have more than enough on his plate, though if something they found would prove to be useful in unlocking the ship’s secrets and unravelling its mystery he would of course take it too him; for now however, he would keep on top of all they were working on.
His growling stomach echoed in the empty observation deck. Only then did he realise just how hungry he was, as his last meal hadn’t been since just before they were transported away. It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten so caught up in his work that he’d forgotten to eat. Though it would mostly likely be just another ration pack, it was better than nothing. Putting his jacket back on he rose up to his full height and stretched out every toned muscle under his scarlet red skin, getting the circulation going again into his glutes—he’d been sitting for far too long.
After slipping the tricorder back into its holster on his belt, he gathered up the PADDs and headed out the exit, ducking slightly to get his bald head through, then headed for the mess hall. On a ship this size, with only one hundred people scattered throughout the corridors were quiet. He had to wonder if it had always been this way, or if the ship had once been full of vibrancy and life when the original crew (if there had indeed been an original crew) had lived and served onboard. Of course, every question he posed himself branched off into a dozen others, none of which looked answerable anytime soon.
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