Chapter 6.

When the pain finally receded, a strange lightness replaced it. George had not yet opened his eyes, but he already felt the familiar smell of cold metal, sterile air, and antiseptic. After three days amid smoke, blood, and the smell of fires, it seemed almost unnatural, yet George immediately knew where he was.

The medical sector of the Null Plane.

He took a slow breath, as if checking if he could truly breathe again, and only then opened his eyes. Above him was the ordinary white ceiling of a military hospital. Not a clear blue sky, not nuclear clouds on the horizon, not the wreckage of an orbital station scattering high above a doomed world.

George stared at the ceiling for a long time, motionless. It seemed to him that if he just closed his eyes, he would find himself back among the containers, hear gunshots, or feel the concrete tremble under his feet from a distant nuclear explosion. But around him reigned a silence he had not heard for many days.

The door opened quietly, and an elderly doctor entered the ward. He looked attentively at the instruments monitoring the wounded man's condition, checked a few indicators, and only then shifted his gaze to George.

"Finally," he said quietly. "We were starting to worry."

George said nothing. The doctor, it seemed, did not expect an answer. People who returned from other planes by force often did not regain consciousness immediately, and for the first few hours after waking, they barely spoke. This time, however, the doctor was concerned about more than just the patient's physical state. There was something in George's gaze that no instrument could show.

"You were found unconscious immediately after your return," he continued. "A blow to the head, numerous contusions. The bracelet is completely destroyed. To be honest, we still don't understand how you managed to survive a forced return in such a condition."

George slowly turned his head.

"The others?"

The doctor did not answer immediately, and that brief pause was enough. George closed his eyes. He didn't know what answer he had hoped for when asking the question, but at least now he didn't have to wait.

Several more minutes passed before the doctor broke the silence again.

"The Kharakternyks have returned. Not all of them, but those who did have already reported what happened. As soon as the doctors give their permission, they will want to speak with you as well."

George gave a barely perceptible nod. He thought of Viktor, of the young soldier who had dropped to his knees in the middle of the platform, clutching his head in his hands, of the elderly technician with the metal mug, and of the driver who, just a few minutes before the shooting began, had been laughing while talking through his bracelet. Before his eyes again appeared the small child's backpack with the model of a spaceship, and behind it—the blinding flash in the sky that had consumed the orbital station.

All those people had remained there. And he had returned.

George could find no justice or logic in it. He knew he could not have changed anything, but that didn't make it any easier. Among the millions of people who, just three days ago, had been living their ordinary lives, building cities, raising children, and preparing to fly to other planets, he was one of the few destined to leave that world alive.

The next morning, the doctors allowed George to speak for a short time. He was sitting by the wide window of the ward, looking out at the endless white expanses of the Null Plane, when the door opened quietly. A tall, dark-skinned man in simple dark clothing without any ostentatious luxury entered the room. Only a small silver insignia on his collar indicated that George was facing the Hetman.

An adjutant followed him in, left a small folder on the table, and immediately departed. The Hetman did not hurry to sit down. He walked to the window and for a few seconds silently watched the snow slowly falling on the plain. Then he turned to George.

"Thank you for surviving."

There was no ceremony in these words, and for that very reason, George found nothing to say in reply.

"I'm not sure that's something to be thanked for."

The Hetman looked at him a little longer than George was comfortable with but did not argue. He sat down opposite him and placed the folder on his knees.

"Perhaps you will change your mind when you understand what you brought back with you."

George frowned.

"I brought nothing back."

"Information."

The Hetman opened the folder but did not take anything out of it.

"The Kharakternyks managed to learn something before the situation became uncontrollable. What happened on that plane was not an accident. They found traces of people who had prepared this catastrophe in advance. We don't yet know who they really are, how large their organization is, or what they wanted to achieve, but now we at least know that someone was behind the destruction of that world."