Chapter 3.

The unit quickly dispersed to their designated sectors, and within a few minutes, life on the transport platform returned to its usual rhythm. For the complex's workers, armed soldiers had long become as routine a part of the workday as the Kharakternyks who occasionally escorted particularly important cargo. People went about their business, paying little attention to the presence of the guards. Beneath the tall arms of the cranes, automated platforms moved slowly, dispatchers checked transport manifests, and loaders constantly zipped between the rows of containers, creating a steady industrial hum that one ceases to notice after a few minutes.

George took up a position near the outermost row of containers, from where almost the entire platform was visible. He habitually scanned his sector, mechanically noting a few spots where one could take cover from fire if needed, then leaned his shoulder against the cold metal. Over the years, he had learned not to tense up unnecessarily. If order prevailed, there was no point in inventing danger where it didn't exist.

This time, however, the feeling of calm never came. George looked at the Kharakternyks again and saw that the commander was talking to one of them. The conversation was brief, but he noticed the commander ask the other man a question twice, as if hoping for a clearer answer. In the end, the Kharakternyk just shook his head, and the commander returned to the unit.

"Spread out a bit more," he ordered calmly. "And stay alert."

"Is there any intel?" one of the soldiers called out.

The commander paused for a moment.

"No. It's just that something feels wrong to the Kharakternyks."

No one asked any more questions. Over the years of service, everyone had grown accustomed to the fact that Kharakternyks sometimes noticed things ordinary people didn't feel. They couldn't always explain what had caught their attention, but no one was about to ignore such premonitions.

George surveyed the platform once more. The sun was already quite high, and the metal containers cast short shadows on the concrete. Near the dispatch tower, two workers were arguing animatedly, waving their arms. Nearby, a young transport platform driver was laughing at something received through his mind-link bracelet, while an elderly technician slowly sipped coffee from a metal mug, watching an automated crane set down another container.

The scene was so ordinary that George began to feel uneasy about his own wariness. Perhaps the Kharakternyks were actually mistaken this time?

The thought lasted only a moment.

George never understood what happened first.

For a fraction of a second, several people nearby froze almost simultaneously. The young driver stopped laughing mid-word. One of the workers by the dispatch tower lowered his arm, not finishing his gesture, and the elderly technician slowly pulled the mug away from his lips.

It was so brief that George might not have paid it any attention at all.

And then the shot rang out.

The sound echoed across the platform so unexpectedly that for the first few seconds, no one even understood what had happened. People looked around in confusion, trying to find the source of the danger, while one of the guards near the far entrance slowly looked down at the dark spot spreading rapidly across his body armor. As if he still didn't believe what had happened, he took a step forward, tried to say something, but the words never left his lips. A moment later, his legs gave out, and his body fell heavily onto the concrete.

George was already raising his needle gun, peering intently at the surrounding buildings. The first thought was obvious—an attack. Someone had infiltrated the complex or taken a position on one of the roofs. His gaze swept quickly over windows, ventilation shafts, and observation decks, but there was no hint of a shooter anywhere.

And just as George began to realize that something in this picture didn't add up, a long burst of gunfire erupted right next to him.

He spun around and froze for a moment, not believing his own eyes.

The shooter was one of the soldiers from his own unit.

Just minutes ago, they had been checking the perimeter together, exchanging jokes, and discussing how long this routine mission would take. Now, that same man stood in the middle of the platform and calmly, almost emotionlessly, gunned down the people with whom he had served for years.

George didn't immediately realize that among those falling to the concrete were his own comrades. One of them only managed to turn at the sound of the shots, as if to ask what was happening, but a new burst of fire cut off the movement along with his life.

"What are you doing?!" George yelled.

The soldier didn't even turn his head. He seemed not to hear the screams around him, George's voice, or the gunshots that were already beginning to sound from other parts of the platform. His face remained surprisingly calm, his movements precise and practiced. He unhurriedly changed his magazine, as if he were at a shooting range and not in the middle of a transport complex where, in a matter of seconds, people he had just been standing beside had died.