Ping

A wall of monitors cast soft blue over Max’s face as he sat half-reclined on the padded exam couch, somewhere between a hospital bed and a dentist’s chair, designed by someone who’d never used either. Electrodes dotted his chest. A cuff squeezed rhythmically at his arm. A cold pulse-ox clipped to his finger blinked in steady annoyance.

Max twisted his wedding ring for the hundredth time, rolling the metal back and forth along his knuckle until the skin beneath reddened.

The medic was thin, sandy-haired, wearing tired confidence and an ARCHON-blue jacket. He checked the vitals panel and nodded.

“Alright, Mr Orpheus. ECG’s clean. Respiration’s good. Coordination tests look stable. Fluid levels are normalising.” He tapped one last reading. “Your pulse is still a little off, but frankly, that’s expected after you passed out earlier.”

Max didn’t look up.

“I’m sure it’s nothing a phone call to my wife wouldn’t fix.”

The medic exhaled, the kind of sigh people save for stubborn relatives.

“If it were up to me, sir, I’d let you call her right now. But protocols are protocols. Medical clearance first. Then psychological check. Then the debrief board.”

“Ah yes,” Max muttered, eyes still on his ring, “the Holy Trinity of bureaucracy.”

The medic leaned over him to adjust a lead stuck to Max’s rib cage. The moment he came close enough, Max’s hand shot out. Not rough, but fast. He caught the man’s lanyard between two fingers.

The ID badge jerked taut against the medic’s neck.

“Sir . . .”

Max held it tighter. He read the name — Dr. Harlan Greene — Senior Flight Physician.

A tiny metallic ping sounded.

Sharp.

Surgical.

Dr. Greene froze. “What . . . was that?”

Max didn’t answer. He released the badge, letting the man pull it back.

“Dr Greene,” he said softly, rolling the name like he was tasting it.

“My son is in the hospital. I’m not asking to talk to anyone. I only need to know he’s alright. Just that. Nothing else.”

Dr Greene’s expression folded. Sympathy, hesitation, then the flattening weight of procedure.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that, sir. I am. But the rules are strict. You give your debrief to the board, then you get comms access. I don’t have the authority to bend that.”

Max stared ahead, jaw tight, breath shallow.

Dr Greene patted his shoulder once.

“Try to sleep. With any luck, your heart rate will even out after a rest.”

He disconnected the monitoring cuff, leaving only a minimal telemetry patch on Max’s sternum, then stepped toward the door.

He tapped his ID card to the panel.

Green light.

The door slid open.

Max watched him leave, his eyes following the medic’s reflection in the corridor glass until the man disappeared around a corner.

Silence.

Max inhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. He sat up for a moment, testing the weight of his own body. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. Then he pushed himself upright.

Bad decision.

His vision lurched sideways, and he caught the edge of a stainless-steel trolley with both hands. Instruments rattled. His pulse thudded in his ears. He breathed in — out — in again.

The room steadied. He waited until the trembling became a manageable tremor, then shuffled — one careful foot at a time — to the door.

The badge reader waited beside the door, its little red eye guarding the only exit.

Max lifted his hand to the reader — and pressed his wedding ring to the panel.

Ping.

The same metallic chime as earlier — the one that had sounded when he had held Dr. Greene's ID badge — and his ring finger pressed tight against its plastic.

The light flashed green.

The lock released with a soft click.

He eased the door open, stepped into the corridor, and leaned against the cool wall. Through the window of the room opposite he saw his fellow astronaut, asleep, curled on his reclined recovery chair. Max should have been doing the same.

He wasn’t.

Max pushed off the wall, summoning whatever strength he had left, and began to walk — slowly — each step steadier than the last.

He wasn’t waiting for permission anymore.