The Message by planet p
Disclaimer I don't own A come Andromeda or any of its characters.
1970 was a new era; a new dawn. Under the supervision of Ernest Reinhart, John Fleming and Dennis Bridger had designed and overseen the building of a new radio telescope. Young, both of the men, they were, nevertheless, not without their ambitions, and plenty of drive to see the plans they'd built ahead of them become reality.
The early days of the '70s were an exciting time, and full of so many glorious possibilities. The possibilities, in fact, seemed to sparkle like the stars on a particularly clear night, set against the darkened backdrop of the night sky, inviting the viewer's eye – and curiosity – in; further behind the closed curtain, the play that had ended, the actors and actresses, the audience, all packed up and long ago headed for home.
The stars, it seemed, had certainly worked their magic on John Fleming, weaving a healthy dose of curiosity for the unknown – particularly that of the unknown of space – into him. For many people, knowing the unknowable depths of space, coming that fraction, that inch closer to understanding the wider picture, gave them hope for an even greater understanding of humanity's place in the universe, a hope that, one day, it all might finally be explained.
On this night, shortly before the new telescope's official opening, John Fleming wasn't looking for answers; filled with a mixture of excitement and nostalgia, he'd settled down to monitor the signals picked up by the telescope, each one of them, to his mind, a sparkling gem, a doorway to something more.
He was looking for the questions that would drive him to seek the answers they heralded, the unending quest to know more, to never stop seeking.
And then the signal had come in, bringing with it a whole new world of questions, and possibilities.
Upon examination, John Fleming realised that the signal was much more than just a mere message; it was indeed a doorway! It was a computer program! And from the deep, dark, unknowable depths of space, it had found its way to his telescope, and to him.
As the realisation of what the message meant begin to sink in, he imagined a small, flitting bird made of brightest white light, a bird that took wing from the hand of its master and flew, navigating the wilds and dark heart of space, to reach him, to bring to him, and the entire human race, a message of something more.