Michael's world tunneled to a single point. In that point, for just an instant, he thought he saw another face beside the doctor – a shadowy figure peering down, features mirroring Michael's own. A trick of the light, a hallucination born of stress and radiation, he thought vaguely. Then darkness overtook him.
When he drifted back into awareness, he wasn't sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Michael found himself lying on a cot in the medbay. The persistent throbbing headache told him he was alive. The burn in his muscles and skin told him radiation had done some damage. He groaned softly.
A dim blue glow lit the compact medical bay – the overhead lights likely turned low to let him rest. Michael's throat was parched and tasted of metal. He turned his head and saw Dr. Juliet Whitaker – her first name came to him now – bent over a console across the room, her face bathed in the light of monitors.
He tried to speak but managed only a rasp. At the slight sound, Whitaker was at his side in an instant, her soft-soled shoes silent on the floor. Her blonde hair was tied back in a tight bun, and worry lines creased her forehead, but she mustered a smile on seeing him awake.
"Welcome back," she said quietly. "Don't try to move just yet." She lifted a tablet and stylus, tapping it. "How do you feel?"
Michael swallowed, throat dry. "Like I got hit by a truck," he croaked. "A radiant, sun-powered truck." He attempted a weak grin.
Whitaker's lips twitched. "Sounds about right." She reached for a metal flask and helped him lift his head to sip. Water, crisp and cool, flooded his mouth and he coughed but then greedily drank.
"Slow," she cautioned, easing him back down. Michael hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the water hit.
He breathed a few times, collecting himself. "The others… the station, are we okay?"
"We're fine," Whitaker assured. "We went into full shield mode. Some systems were fried but Devon is already working on repairs. Everyone's fine. And you…" She looked at him with a measured gaze. "You got a strong dose of radiation out there. Nasty, but likely not lethal. We've flushed you with anti-radiation meds and fluids. Your AugMed implant is distributing agents to repair cell damage. You'll feel like hell for a day or two, but you should recover."
Michael closed his eyes briefly, relief washing over him. "Could be worse," he murmured. He remembered the wave of light, the fear. He remembered…
Suddenly his eyes snapped open. "I got inside… I made it inside, right?" he asked, anxiety creeping into his voice. That moment of entering the airlock was fuzzy. Part of him feared it had been a dream and he was still out there, dying in his suit.
Whitaker placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder to keep him from trying to sit up. "Easy. You're here, on Janus Station, in medbay. Safe. I promise."
Michael studied her face, searching for any hint of doubt. He found none – just exhaustion and kindness. He let out a long breath, muscles unclenching. "Good. Good. I… it's hazy. I thought I blacked out."
"You nearly did," she said. "We pulled you in. You gave us a scare, but you're okay now."
Michael nodded weakly. A silence settled. The medbay's air recycler hummed, and he heard the distant muffled sound of an alarm chirp elsewhere – probably Devon working on something. The station always had some background noise, which he normally found comforting. But now, it only emphasized the quiet between them.
Dr. Whitaker glanced at her tablet's readouts, then back at him. Her eyes flickered with something unsaid. "Michael… do you remember everything? From outside?"
He tried to focus. "I… I remember fixing the panel, heading back. The flare hit. After that, it's bits and pieces. Mostly just trying to reach the lock." He hesitated. "There was a moment I felt… strange. Like I wasn't alone." He gave a nervous chuckle. "Sounds crazy, huh? Probably the radiation messing with my brain."
Whitaker didn't laugh. Instead, she seemed to weigh his words carefully. "Not crazy. Neural implants can misfire under extreme stress. Might've given you that feeling." She paused, then added, "I'll want to run a cognitive baseline test later, just to check your implant's integrity. These storms can scramble them a little."
"Sure," Michael agreed, closing his eyes again.
He lay there, letting his body recover bit by bit. As fatigue pulled at him, one nagging thought wouldn't leave: in that final moment before losing consciousness, he could have sworn he saw another face above him – his own face, watching. Even now, the memory made his skin crawl with an irrational dread. It had to have been a hallucination… what else could it be?
Before he could dwell on it further, the medbay door slid open with a gentle hiss. Commander Elena Alvarez floated in (the grav rotation was weaker in this part of the station, allowing partial microgravity). Sera Patel was right behind her, tugging herself along with the wall handles.
Michael managed to turn his head toward them. "Commander," he greeted hoarsely.
Elena smiled with palpable relief. "Good to see you awake, Michael. You gave us all quite a scare." Up close, Michael noticed her eyes were bloodshot – likely she hadn't slept yet, or maybe the stress had gotten to her too.
Sera hovered at the foot of the cot, arms folded tightly as if hugging herself. "You idiot," she said with a shaky grin. "Never do that again."
He couldn't help but grin back faintly. "Copy that."
Elena gently patted his arm. "Rest. We just wanted to see you. We'll have a full debrief when you're stronger. But you did good out there. Fixed the comms, at least until everything went haywire."
Michael nodded. "Glad I could… help," he murmured. A wave of exhaustion hit him again.
"Alright, that's enough," Dr. Whitaker ordered softly, shooing the others away with her hand. "He needs rest and I need to run a few more scans."
Elena gave a last nod to Michael. "We'll check on you soon. The station's stable, by the way. Storm's passed."
As she and Sera moved toward the exit, Michael called out quietly, "Hey, did we… lose anything? Equipment, data?"
Sera paused, exchanging a glance with Elena. "A few sensors are fried, external cams down. Comms array ironically survived but we shut it off. We won't know about any bigger damage until we do a spacewalk inspection when things calm down."
"Okay," Michael replied. He felt a twinge of guilt that maybe his repair might have been for nothing, but at least comms were physically okay.
Elena hesitated, then added, "And Devon's still diagnosing CAL's systems. Some of the AI's subsystems went offline and are rebooting. We might have some glitchy tech for a bit, so don't be alarmed if systems act up."
Michael gave a tired thumbs-up. "Just glad to be inside," he said.
With that, the commander and Sera left. Dr. Whitaker busied herself adjusting an IV drip that Michael only now noticed was attached to his arm. Some pale greenish fluid flowed there – likely the anti-radiation meds.
"Get some sleep," she said kindly. "I'll be right here if you need anything."
Michael didn't argue. His eyelids were leaden. "Thanks, Doc," he murmured, letting the darkness fold over him again.
This time, sleep came quickly and without dreams. Inside the cocoon of Janus Station, Michael was safe and sound, while the silent stars watched from outside. For now.