Handshake

Max floated in the crawlspace of the Argos Relay Station’s comms bay, wedged in a shaft no wider than a coffin. Aluminium walls pressed cold against his spine, the air holding the pungent smell of welding fumes and a ghost of burnt ozone. One leg hooked under a crossbar, keeping him from drifting.

His hands worked inside the guts of a freshly unbolted access panel. The station murmured around him in low, contented hums, pumps and fans trading secrets in a language most people never learned to hear.

He was technically upside down, but this far from Earth, orientation was only a suggestion, not a rule.

“Careful, Boss-man. You’re patching very close to your life support system,” said a smooth, upbeat voice from Max’s wrist.

A miniature readout display was strapped there with Velcro, like an oversized smartwatch. Hermes liked to follow Max around like a bored toddler, hopping between whatever displays the shuttle had available.

“I know what I’m doing,” Max replied, his voice muffled by the screwdriver clenched between his teeth. “I managed to build you, remember? Anyway, I’m almost finished. The hardware’s more than good enough for the mission. I’m just adding some additional failsafes. Quit worrying.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about completing the mission. I’m worried I’ll have to watch you die, bobbing around the comms bay like an excited goldfish.”

The voice stayed upbeat, cheerful, and about three percent smug. The graphical readout on Max’s wrist slid aside as if pushed. A face sketched itself in rough strokes. A circle. Two dots. A curved line. It animated instantly, mimicking expressions with exaggerated enthusiasm.

“Afterwards,” Hermes continued, “I’ll be stuck with the world’s most morbid lava lamp.”

The dots swapped for two Xs as the face drifted and bounced around the small display.

Max grunted. “I thought I paid extra to keep the sass subroutines off.”

He slotted the final cable into the primary board. The connector seated with a clean click. Bracing a palm, he shoved off and drifted backward through the bay with the smooth confidence of someone who had done this many times before.

“All right, Hermes. We’re wired. The station’s patched to the uplink. Power routed. Coils seated.”

“Well then. Shall I light a ceremonial sparkler?”

“I’ll assume the core’s stable.”

“Assume away, Boss-man. But if the lattice collapses, I’m downloading my personality into one of the service bay vending machines at Horizon Gate first.”

That drew a chuckle from him. He rapped the bulkhead twice. Habit, not ritual. Then he pulled himself along the guide rails toward the main console.

The Argos shuttle wasn’t much. An old, disused asteroid mining vessel with solar fins and a gutsy ambition. Max had run the numbers and convinced the ARCHON board that it still had potential.

Upgrading the shuttle was precise work. The kind you didn’t hand to someone who might absent-mindedly tear a hole in causality. So Max had assigned the job to himself.

“Final check,” he muttered, flicking a row of guarded toggles. The panel thrummed faintly beneath his fingertips. “Sync the pairs, verify the handshake, and send you packing to 46610.”

“A vacation to a lifeless rock. How glamorous.”

“You’re going to be the most powerful communications AI past the asteroid belt. Show some enthusiasm.”

“I would, but my virtual eyebrows are currently in rest mode.”

Max rolled his eyes and set the final switch.

The QEC answered with a low, unsettling rumble. Violet light pulsed across the console like a slow, confident heartbeat. Somewhere deep in the structure, superconducting coils whispered into alignment, reaching across an impossible distance for their twin.

Max pushed off the wall and floated into the main seat, pulling himself into position.

Hermes’ image sketched itself into existence on the primary display. Readouts bloomed beside him in thin, chalk-white lines. Two waveforms vibrated at different frequencies, drifting closer, overlapping, then locking into perfect alignment.

“Quantum core stabilised,” Hermes announced, adopting the cheerful cadence of a game show host.

“Beginning handshake with ground control,” Max said as he buckled in. “Let’s hope it’s Thomas and not the PR team.”

The screen flickered.

Hermes’ chalk outline warped, stretched thin as if dragged through glass, then snapped.

Gone.

His image was replaced by something else.

The connection had been answered. But not by ground control. Not by Thomas. Not by the board.

On the display was his lab.

The overhead lights were off. The image wobbled, as though someone was running with the camera. Everything was washed in a cold, artificial blue from a handheld torch, casting wild shadows across benches and equipment racks.

Max leaned closer.

Magnus.

Grubby shirt. Hair like a haystack. Nine years old and breathing hard, as if he’d just crashed through a hedge. His breath fogged the lens.

When he spoke, his voice came small through the station’s speakers.

“Dad…?”

Max didn’t answer. His hands hovered uselessly above the console.

“Where are you?” Magnus asked. “Why aren’t you at the pool house?”

Then the sound came.

Low.
Distant.

A groan rolled through the audio, like a foghorn dragged through wet concrete. Mechanical, but wrong. The vibration seemed to crawl into the metal bones of the station itself, as though sound could travel up his arms.

Magnus flinched. The torch slipped and tumbled. The beam spun, shadows stretching into long fingers along the walls, reaching for the frame.

He turned back to the camera and pressed a hand against the edge of the screen.

“Dad, it’s coming back.” His eyes were wide, his voice shaking. “Get out of the mist!”

Max forced words through dry lips. “Magnus, what are you talking about?”

But it was already too late.

The laptop lid slammed shut. The feed died.

A second of static hissed through the comms bay.

“Max! We’re receiving your signal!”

The display changed again, bursting into light and noise. Mission control. Applause cracked through the room. Cheers. Hands clapping. That particular brand of institutional optimism that always sounded rehearsed.

Max squinted against the glare. The contrast with what he’d just seen was brutal.

Thomas stood front and centre, grinning.

But Max wasn’t watching Thomas.

His gaze had already locked onto the second row.

Magnus stood there. Clean shirt. Bouncing with excitement. Beside him, Daphne waved, tears shining as she smiled.

They looked real. Present. Uncomplicated.

Hermes’ image reappeared in the corner of the display. He wasn’t smiling. A speech bubble formed above his head.

We need to talk.

Max stared.

No words.
No breath.
No understanding.

In this feed, his son was safe.

Somewhere else, his son was screaming.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that somehow, impossibly, both were true.