Stepping into the ships medical bay, one would notice the inherent order of the room. Beakers and test tubes are aligned and strapped in place, cabinets are closed, papers are stacked neatly with magnets to keep them in place. An array of instruments in a made-to-fit container is hooked and strapped to an adjustable surgical table in the center of the room for quick retrieval and use. An autoclave is inset on the wall opposite the desk, with a small sink to the right of that. A magnetic rolling chair is pushed in under the desk, and a white lab coat is hung on a hook near the door.
The most prominent feature of the room, off to one side and out of the way of the operating table, is the State-of-the-art Diagnostic Computer. A display screen, a keyboard for data entry, a clear door to where the sample containers can be placed for analysis, and several other features show this as the pinnacle of medical technology of its time.
The surfaces are clean, but it lacks the smell of disinfectant common to most hospitals. On a desk next to an internal communications panel, and probably the only thing not strapped down, is a good sized black bag. It’s dye has faded, and it shows wear and tear in a number of places. Stitched on the side is an olive drab nametape that simply says “Graham”. It is kept closed and latched.
Several of the cabinets are unlabeled, but one has a sticker on the front that reads “Crew Medical Files – Confidential”