The volunteer limit for heavy work had run out; the men were granted ten hours of rest.

“I’ll go to my family,” Maush said. “Thinking I’ll take them back to Tirvania. No point cramming them into these office blocks — and the aftershocks still haven’t stopped.”

“All right,” Auran replied. “I’ll try to arrange filming in the sectors where there are no casualties left. Maybe record the team during their downtime.”

By nightfall, Maush had returned from visiting his relatives. His bracelet — a fusion of communicator, navigator, and biomonitor — gently reminded him it was time for rest. In the camp of the displaced, no free beds remained anyway. Auran and Maush had their own space in the volunteer modules: a simple room of matte panels, two narrow bunks, and the steady hum of the air conditioner. The air smelled faintly of plastic and dust — even the walls seemed tired.

Lying down proved harder than working in the ruins. His body was sore to the marrow, yet his mind kept running. His mind replayed them on a loop — the faces of the survivors, the light disk above his friend’s head.

Maush fell asleep quickly, fists clenched as if still gripping the handle of a crowbar. Auran tossed and turned, forcing himself to close his eyes and count his breaths. Only on the forty-second did they even out. Sleep came abruptly, empty of images — just dark, viscous silence.

By morning, talk in the camp had turned to the new structure.

“URCC,” said one of the aidmen, stumbling over the letters. “Twist your tongue on that one. Unified Rescue Coordination Center. A direct order from the monarch himself, no less.” He smirked and adjusted his shoulder strap. “Officially — for the good of the cause: team distribution, resources, safety. In reality? That massive flying hexagon. During the golden hours, when every pair of hands could’ve pulled someone from the rubble, they drove us to assemble that royal toy. By the time it was finished and lifted into the air, the death count was already in the hundreds. And now it’s all neat and shiny — hanging above the plain, glowing, while they sit up there writing reports and recruiting the best of us.”

“Still, they’re working, aren’t they?” another man countered.

“We’re the ones doing the work,” the first grumbled. “They just float above it — as if that ever saved anyone.”

The reporter overheard bits of their talk and kept them in mind — it came up too often that the most capable were being recruited into the URCC.

Auran approached a group of aidmen he knew from the Hexathlon, his helicams following close behind. The guys said that some of them had received invitations to the URCC, recorded personally by Chief Coordinator Tirak. They explained that the URCC was mostly focused on tracking escaped convicts — as long as it didn’t interfere with the rescue work, no one minded. In practice, the rescue operations were coordinated by team leaders. Six units formed a regiment that reliably covered the ruined sectors. Why the Chief Coordinator needed a few select aidmen, no one understood: the message only said that the very best were being chosen for a special mission.

A multi-flipp appeared in the distance, approaching fast. Within seconds it descended, lifting a cloud of dust. From the haze stepped a broad-shouldered man with a swollen, weary face and an upper lip drawn upward, as if from perpetual resentment. Two large, athletic men followed him. One was tall and lean, his cheekbones sharp, his gaze cast both outward and downward, as though long accustomed to measuring the distance to a target. His still face held a cold, precise focus. Auran called him the Tower in his mind.

One of the escorts signaled Auran to start filming his superior’s speech. The reporter didn’t hesitate — the helicams’ recording lights flickered on. The speaker noticed them and immediately straightened, spreading his arms in a grand gesture.

“But praise be to Pallada! We have a wise monarch and a state that has come to the aid of its people. It has come, and it will continue to come, for the aftershocks and the data of our palladologists show that the disaster is not yet behind us, and further trials still await!”

He spoke loudly, with conviction — yet it sounded as if he were trying to convince himself of that very confidence.

“It is a great honor for me that our Monarch, Riapaur the Fourth, has entrusted me with leading the effort to address such a vast and vital complex of tasks! The dangers and risks that have arisen as a result of this catastrophic earthquake, unfortunately, are not limited to the destruction of buildings and infrastructure. With the escape and arming of convicts, the personal safety risks for our citizens have also increased.”

“A decision has been made by me and endorsed by our Monarch to establish two new specialized bodies: one for countering violence, and another for preparing for future aftershock disasters.”

Tirak paused and swept his gaze over the gathered crowd. “Based on your personal qualities and records, some of you have received invitations to the URCC. You are invited so that we may understand your potential — and you may understand ours. Together, with greater efficiency, we shall offer our shoulders in service to our Motherland!”

Jiapr finished, turned, and headed toward his multi-flipp. One of his aides approached the reporter and ordered him to launch the recording on Auran’s personal stream and on AidNet — the official channel of the Aidmen Service. Then he followed his superior.

Auran watched as the multi-flipp lifted into the air. A thin trail of dust followed behind — which the reporter instinctively recognized as the residue of someone else’s self-assurance, the very afterglow Tirak had left behind.

Barely five minutes had passed when the reporter’s bracelet chimed. It was a call from the same aide of Tirak.

“The Chief Coordinator invites you to come with the selected group and film the URCC.”

“Be there,” Auran said briefly.