Dr. Juliet Whitaker ran a hand over her face, trying to wipe away the fatigue. It had been a long few hours in the medbay. Michael was resting more comfortably now, vital signs holding stable under the cocktail of medications. The monitors above his bed displayed a steady heart rate and the incremental repair of his cellular damage—his bioware implants were guiding targeted nanos to the worst of the radiation lesions. Modern medicine at work, she mused, though none of it felt "modern" when facing raw solar fury.
Juliet stood and stretched, her back stiff from hunching over consoles and patient in zero-g. The medbay lights were still low; she'd kept them dimmed for Michael's sake. In the soft glow, he looked peaceful, far younger than his 32 years. She allowed herself a small smile—he was a good kid, brave and reliable. They all were, this skeleton crew of five scraping by on the edge of corporate space.
Her eyes drifted to the data panel where Michael's neural implant logs were pulled up. As part of routine post-trauma care, she had run a sync of his implant's memory logs and biomedical data. Most of it was expected: spikes in stress hormones, adrenaline surges, the telltale neural patterns of fear and pain during the EVA. But one data point nagged at her: a brief flatline in his neural activity timestamped during the peak of the storm. For about 2.3 seconds, Michael's implant recorded zero EEG activity—essentially brain-death—before everything resumed.
Juliet frowned at that line on the graph. It could have been a sensor glitch from the radiation, she thought. His heart had also slowed precipitously at that moment, almost to arrest. Perhaps he truly was on the brink of death out there, and somehow the shock of re-pressurizing or the meds they pumped in revived him. Or the data itself was corrupted by the electromagnetic chaos.
She made a note in his medical file to schedule a full diagnostic on the neural implant once things settled. If it had glitched, it might need re-calibration. The implants were supposed to be hardened against radiation, but nothing was foolproof. Still, the flatline made her uneasy. If he had technically died for a couple seconds… Juliet shook off the thought. He's here now, alive. That's what matters.
Satisfied that Michael was stable and not in immediate need of care, Juliet decided to check in with the rest of the crew and see if any other medical issues needed attention. There were mild headaches all around—likely low-level radiation exposure for everyone despite the station's shielding—and a few bruises from turbulence when the storm hit. She had already distributed preventative doses of anti-radiation meds to the others.
She gently pushed off the floor, floating toward the medbay exit. A quick peek out the small porthole window of the sliding door showed the corridor bathed in the station's night-cycle lighting: long shadows and dimmed wall strips. With main power oscillating earlier, they had not yet returned to a normal day/night schedule.
As she keyed the door open, a voice came through her cranial comm implant, tinged with static: it was Sera Patel from Comms. "Captain, I'm getting a strange signal," Sera was saying, her tone puzzled. Juliet paused in the doorway, listening. On the station's closed network, she could hear crew comms once she focused—an augmentation of her implant that allowed multitasking.
Elena's reply came a second later. "What kind of signal, Sera?" The commander's voice was calm but alert.
Juliet drifted into the hall, quietly making her way toward the central hub, curiosity piqued. Strange signal? Perhaps leftover electromagnetic interference or a delayed transmission from HQ?
"It's on the short-range comm channel," Sera answered. "Could be a suitable radio frequency. At first I thought it was static, but… here, patching it through to you."
Juliet increased the volume on her implant's feed as she moved hand-over-hand along the corridor railing. She could see the glow of the operations hub ahead. A faint sound crackled in her mind's ear: at first it was hissing static, but gradually she discerned a voice under it. A man's voice, weak and distorted.
"...Janus Station, come in... fzzt ...This is Michael Chan... fzzt ...anyone copy? I'm outside... i need help... please..."
Juliet stopped mid-pull, her body drifting gently into the wall. For a moment, she thought exhaustion was playing tricks on her audio feed. Michael Chan? That made no sense. Michael was in medbay, asleep.
"Elena—" she began, but the captain was already responding on the open channel.
"Sera, is this some kind of replay?" Elena asked sharply. "Michael's comm from earlier?"
A beat of silence, filled with that static-laced plea. The voice was unmistakable now, despite the distortion: it was Michael, sounding desperate. Juliet's pulse quickened.
"It's not a replay," Sera said. "At least, it's not coming from the comm log. It's broadcasting now, from outside the station. Short-range."
Juliet's mind raced. How could Michael be outside the station? He's right here. She glanced back toward the medbay door she'd come from, half expecting him to appear behind her in the corridor. Of course, he did not. He was likely still unconscious on the cot.
Another voice cut in: Devon, the systems tech. "Could it be a rescue beacon from his EVA suit? Maybe it drifted off and is transmitting?"
"That suit was brought back in with Michael," Elena replied. Juliet could picture the captain standing at the ops console, frowning. "Unless—did we miss something out there?"
"I'm telling you, it sounds like him," Sera insisted. "A live comm."
Juliet's heart began to thud uncomfortably. She resumed pulling herself forward, faster now, toward ops. One thought hammered in her brain: If Michael is in medbay, who is outside calling for help?
"Could it be another station picking us up? Or interference making it sound like—" Devon started, but he didn't sound convinced by his own suggestion.
The disembodied voice crackled again, louder this time as Sera presumably fine-tuned the signal. "Janus Station, this is Michael Chan, crew ID 5-7-1. I am outside the station, EVA suit malfunction... Please, for God's sake, let me in. I'm right here, at the airlock!" The raw panic in the voice was chilling.
Juliet felt a cold sweat break out across her back. That was Michael's crew ID, his voice, even his typical way of speaking. And sheer terror.
By the time she floated into the operations hub, she saw Elena and Sera hovering over the communications panel. Devon's face appeared on a small monitor from the lower engineering deck, concern etched on his dark features. Elena turned as Juliet entered, her expression taut.
"Doc, is Michael still in medbay?" the captain asked immediately, her voice low and controlled.
Juliet nodded, swallowing. "He was there a minute ago, sleeping. He's in no condition to be moving, let alone…" She didn't finish. The implication was absurd: Michael couldn't be in two places at once.
"It's definitely his signal," Sera said, pulling off her headset and rubbing her temple as if listening through her implant had given her a headache. "And—Jesus—there's external camera movement near Airlock A." She tapped a few keys, bringing up a live feed on the central holo-display.
The image was grainy – many of the external cams were still down or damaged – but it showed the outline of a figure clinging to the ladder by the airlock door. The EVA suit's orange stripes reflected faintly in the sunlight that was beginning to creep around the Earth's horizon. The person was waving at the camera, or perhaps just flailing in desperation.