Trauma surgery doesn’t end when the razor knife is laid down. The true battle begins in the quiet, sterile hours of post-operative management.
In the brightly lit up central medical stronghold of Outpost Alpha, the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors formed a calm, clockwork counterpoint to the hum of the air scrubbers. Thirty-eight patients—eighteen guard post riflemen, twenty asteroid miners from Vault Gamma, and five four-hundred-pound draft mastiffs—lay in clean, high-pressure recovery bays, their vital signs displayed on the central test board.
Arthur Vance moved from bed to bed with deliberate, careful focus. His razor-sharp gown was freshly changed, his hands scrubbing with warm chlorhexidine between every patient.
Behind him, Toby carried a portable ultrasound scanner and a tray of dressing supplies. Meanwhile, Grimm walked faithfully at Arthur’s side. The black hound’s presence in the ward was better than any sedative. Grimm passed each gurney. Then, his slow, rhythmic breathing and heavy, grounded presence anchored the patients’ nervous systems, preventing the onset of acute post-traumatic delirium.
Arthur stopped beside Bed One, where Specialist Jacob Torres was propped up against three pillows.
The young scout’s face had regained its healthy color. On the bedside table sat an empty bowl of nutrient porridge and a test slate showing a resting heart rate of sixty-four beats per minute.
