Control Center. Earth Platform. Now.
The hum of systems—ceaseless, like the pulse of a giant organism.
Holographic screens cling to the walls, pulsing in sync with an invisible rhythm.
Data streams. Orbital calculations. Energy curves.
The light is cold.
Blue, like in an operating room where every millimeter has a price.
The metal walls seem to breathe, contracting and expanding.
There are no windows here. Only control.
Everything is under control.
Almost everything.
**
Operators—like mannequins in armored suits—
sit in rows, glued to their panels.
Their faces are pale-gray,
as if the tension has already begun draining life from them.
Voices murmur through their headsets—
a whisper, like the surf.
But this surf carries a storm.
**
At the center, on an elevated pedestal—Admiral Socrat.
A stone spike rising from a sea of machines.
Motionless.
Every movement—precisely measured.
His eyes fixed on the main display.
The Platform—an orbital projection—
glows like an electric jellyfish in a vacuum.
Nearby—fleet energy contours.
Everything is going according to plan.
**
Until Camilla appears.
She enters—no sharpness, no sound.
But the moment she crosses the threshold—
the air changes.
Like before a thunderstorm.
She walks along the consoles.
Slowly.
As if moving through her own memory.
Every step—impeccably calibrated.
She wears a severe dark suit.
Her hair pulled into a smooth knot.
Her face—a void. A mirrored mask.
Socrat turns his head.
His voice strikes like metal:
"You're late."
Camilla doesn't even look at him.
Her voice—glass-sharp:
"Apologies, Admiral. Everything is under control."
No, it's not.
Inside her, fear stirs—
bound, paralyzed, frozen.
She sits at the panel.
Her movements—surgical.
One gesture—screens flare to life.
Another—access confirmed.
The system obeys her as if she is the heart of the platform.
Every touch is a step into the abyss.
Every command—a farewell.
**
Socrat doesn't look away.
His voice is edged with suspicion:
"Are there problems?"
"No. I'm ready to initiate. Awaiting your signal."
But inside—her hands tremble. Invisibly.
Yet she knows.
Every cell knows she's stepping into hell. Willingly.
**
A pause.
A second stretched like a rope over a chasm.
"Begin."
**
The room awakens.
Control levels unfold like petals of an alien flower.
The light sharpens.
Holograms flicker—
like the pulse of a dying titan.
The structure of the platform starts unfolding layer by layer.
The energy core appears—pulsing like a heart before cardiac arrest.
This is no longer an operation.
It's an autopsy.
"Energy systems at critical capacity," says the technician.
His voice trembles.
Camilla hears, but doesn't react.
"Drones in position, camouflage field engaged," another voice reports.
"Acknowledged,"
she replies, almost in a whisper.
But inside—current.
Exposed.
Tension coils in her like rage with no release.
**
Meanwhile.
Deep within the station.
Where the air tastes of scorched metal,
where even light dares not linger—
Charming moves.
The pseudo-cat.
Artificial organism.
Mechanical predator.
He freezes.
His eyes—lenses with internal pulses.
He waits.
Like a fighter hiding under enemy skin.
**
Outside—the platform begins to shift.
Light flares bright.
Energy streams rush through channels,
like lava through the veins of a volcano.
The reactor enters pre-explosion mode.
The system is ready.
Camilla makes the final gesture.
Deactivates the shield—
gently, like a surgeon revealing an artery.
Her fingers move in a death-waltz.
Every motion—a sentence.
Yet it all seems routine.
**
A shot.
Not sound.
Impulse.
The object launches.
Speed—beyond extreme.
Silhouette—sharp, elongated.
Like a spear hurled by the hand of a god.
A blinding flash—
and it's gone.
Everyone is late. Even Socrat.
**
Then—hell.
"WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!" shouts an operator.
"Direct hit! The shield failed!"
Red light tears the hall—
like explosions across bare skin.
Sirens. Sparks. Screaming metal.
Panic.
Someone yells.
Someone falls.
**
Camilla—doesn't move.
Ice.
Mask.
Silence.
Pain.
All—according to plan.
**
Defense system activates.
Evacuation pods launch—
like shells from a dying body.
Metal shudders,
as if for the last time.
The platform collapses from within.
**
Outside—battle.
Twenty-two Earth cruisers turn.
Mercurian ships fill the screens.
Volleys.
Turns.
Shadows between heartbeats.
**
Explosion.
The platform's central module—
a burst of white light.
Space rips open.
Shards fly like razors through vacuum.
Charming escapes.
Leap. Ventilation shaft.
Danger—behind.
He made it.
**
Camilla presses the final key.
The platform dies.
But the war—doesn't.
**
Evacuation pods
scatter across the sky,
like shards of shattered mirrors.
Some burn.
Others vanish into the dark.
Some will carry survivors.
Some—only memory.
**
Camilla rises.
Slowly.
Her face—stone.
Her gaze—on chaos.
The chaos she helped create.
Behind her—
through smoke and sparks—
Socrat rises.
His suit—charred.
His hand—bleeding.
But he lives.
He looks at her.
Long.
Silent.
As if the end—has already happened.
**
The platform falls.
But the battle goes on.