Touchdown

The landing burn cut out with a shudder that rattled straight through Max’s teeth. A jolt, a scrape, a final groan of metal surrendering to gravity.

Then stillness.

The capsule hissed. The hull pinged like cooling tin, fresh from screaming through Earth’s atmosphere only minutes ago. And no one inside touched a thing, because rule number one was idiot-proof: engines off, hands off, stay utterly, boringly still.

Max’s helmet felt too tight. His chest felt tighter.

Outside, muffled voices moved like a tide. Clamps. Tools. Someone banging metal with the enthusiasm of a blacksmith.

“Just stay seated, Mr Orpheus,” the astronaut beside him muttered. He’d clocked Max’s stress. “They’ll open the hatch when the ground team say so.”

The hatch cracked open with a gush of cold air and diesel wind. Ground crew flooded the capsule like a rescue scene from a war film. ARCHON logos stamped across jackets, helmets, med kits, even the straps on their gloves.

Max twisted toward his harness, but a gloved hand pinned his shoulder.

“Don’t move yet. Let us do it.” The astronaut’s patience was starting to fray.

Max knew the drill. Microgravity wrecked balance. Blood pooled in strange places. Astronauts who tried to stand on their own two feet routinely folded like badly assembled IKEA chairs. Still . . . knowing didn’t help. He wanted to get to a phone.

They released his helmet first, popping the seal and lifting it free. Cold air slapped his face, sharp and unfamiliar.

 Gloves came next, peeled gently from his hands.

 Then the upper torso of the ARCHON suit was unlatched and opened, exposing the thin inner flight-liner beneath. Gravity pressed down like a personal vendetta.

Two medics slid under his arms and eased him out. His legs trembled the moment they touched Earth. He wasn’t walking . . . he was being walked. His limbs went through the motions, but the medics were carrying all the strain.

They plonked him into a recovery chair. Big. Reclined. The kind you stick your nan in at a wedding so she doesn’t wander off during the speeches.

A medic clipped sensors to the exposed skin at his collarbone and wrist.

“Pulse first. Stay still, sir.”

Another wrapped a cuff around his forearm.

“Blood pressure… reflex check… open your eyes wider, please.”

Max barely heard them.

“Do you have a phone?” he asked, voice tight. “I need to call my wife.”

The medic didn’t stop working. Didn’t even look up.

“You’ll get to contact family soon. After medical clearance and initial debrief.”

“I just need to know my son is okay.”

A polite, professional smile flickered, the expression people wore when they wanted to smile and run at the same time.

“I understand, Mr Orpheus. But no comms until control clears it.”

He knew the rule. Every astronaut knew the rule. Public silence until the agency said otherwise. Medical monitoring. Operational security.

A light flickered across his eyes. A reflex hammer tapped. Someone checked his hydration levels with brisk, efficient fingers.

Max tried again.

“Can someone… anyone… just tell me if my son is alright?”

A hesitation. A shared glance between medics. A tiny beat. Barely half a second . . . but sharp enough to slice straight into Max’s gut.

His pulse spiked so hard the monitor chirped in alarm.

“Try and keep calm, Mr Orpheus,” the medic said, tightening his hold on Max’s wrist. “You’ve been weightless for months, and now your heart’s working under full gravity again. You need to take your foot off the gas before you drive it into arrhythmia.”

This did not help.

 The faster the beeping climbed, the faster panic swallowed him.

 A vicious loop. Tightening, tightening, tightening…

The world slipped sideways and Max passed out.