The "Cadre Forge" project, initiated and personally overseen by the President of the Republic of Poland, was created fifteen years ago and designed over seven years. A small but highly qualified team, unconstrained by funding limits, was tasked with developing methods for educating future citizens of Poland. President Skalk desperately needed reliable personnel, but most importantly, personnel he could trust. However, due to the country's situation, he had no access to such individuals. The issue wasn't just with members of the Harbinger organization, powerful but few in number, but also with other sectors of the country. Present-day Poland is an appendage to Europe's largest black market, where you can find anything, and if it's not available, you can order it. It is to Poland that all truly skilled and ambitious netrunners, smugglers, experimental ripperdocs, and other morally unburdened geniuses aspire. Not to mention that any solo of a more or less high level strives to visit Poland's black market to purchase top-tier chrome, weapons, and armor made to order, simply because it is here that you can find the most diverse and highly qualified specialists from around the world, forced to compete with each other and thus concerned with quality. Almost everyone knows that nearly a quarter of Poland's population is somehow connected to the black market, and even more feed off it indirectly. But few understand what this means. It means that almost all high-class specialists with higher education go into the shadow environment, preferring to work in the dangerous but well-oiled mechanism of the criminal world, while the state machine is left with pitiful scraps. It is because of this that President Skalk was forced to resort to such complex methods of creating an entire scientific group to develop an AI for the purpose of educating a new generation, since he had no hope for the current one. The ruler of the Republic of Poland no longer has any hope for short-term results, forcing him to play the long game. Hence, any rocking of his boat greatly unnerves him, as all he needs is time... which may not be available.
"The son's behavior is pleasing so far," Robert noted. "I have to go, work." And without listening, he disconnected.
The equipment detected the newcomer. An old warehouse, located beyond the city limits, had long been used as a hideout for a local gang. Quite... repulsive comrades, engaged in the production of heavy, dirty drugs and pimping, but not crossing the line. They don't forcibly addict anyone, don't kidnap, don't coerce, acting with cunning and "free" product. In fact, this hideout is one of their recruitment bases, where young people seeking thrills and life's losers gather to drown their souls in an artificial surrogate of real emotions. And then, specially designed drugs for instant addiction reliably put a collar on the victims who voluntarily come into their clutches, and it begins. First, everything possible is squeezed out of the addicted, down to their last underwear, essentially leaving them with nothing and with debt on their backs. Then they are sorted. The stronger and braver go into enforcers, the prettier into prostitutes, the smarter into producers and distributors. What's most interesting is that valuable personnel who manage to rise in the internal hierarchy gain access to more expensive drugs, analogs of the cheap junk they initially used, but... without side effects. Pure drugs with minimal health consequences, easily removed by any decent ripperdoc with regular monthly visits. This gang, in particular, is not particularly bothered, as the only truly criminal thing they can be accused of is the illegal production of stimulants within a narrow circle, since they distribute heavy drugs for free, and... that's it. All their other activities are quite legal, cause minimal problems on the streets, and no fuss. And the fact that 90% of those hooked on the free narcotic pleasure die within six months to a year doesn't greatly concern the current government, due to the terrible overpopulation of cities and villages and active emigration. So this gang was on the green list. Hence, it was even more strange that they attracted the attention of him and his colleagues.
The character who arrived in an old wreck was dressed extremely poorly, but the smart equipment showed a large amount of elite chrome in him. It was immediately clear that they were amateurs, not used to working on the territory of the Republic of Poland.
"Base, this is Delta-0, do you read me?" Robert contacted his team.
"We read you, Delta-0."
"Target has arrived, awaiting further instructions."
"Capture and deliver the target to the nearest interrogation point."
"Understood."
Robert didn't like this operation; it reeked too strongly. Some unknown person comes to one of the recruitment bases of a decent gang in broad daylight, which already looks strange. For an agent, he had too much metal in his body; an independent solo wouldn't stick his nose into such a hole, not with that amount of implants that pulled him into the top league. But he didn't quite fit the expected negotiator either, since the leaders of "legalized" gangs know how to operate in Poland, trying to bring all operations to at least a legal level or the gray zone. President Skalk, although he cares for the welfare of the people and the country, is not a foolish idealist ready to fight windmills, preferring to put them to the service of the state in one way or another. Old criminal gangs know the rules of the game; their leaders are smart and have long rested on well-oiled mechanisms; they wouldn't expose themselves like that. And yet, the headquarters was so alarmed that it sanctioned the direct involvement of a high-level operative at an old point of those who play by the rules, which would certainly cause discontent and alertness among other such players. It's not that the Harbingers were afraid of provoking gangs, but usually they acted much more subtly, while here it was an extremely rough approach, and not the first in recent times. It seems that in the upper echelons of the organization, they have much more complete information, and it does not allow them to act as before.
But that's what's scary. Experienced old-timers sense trouble with an approaching storm, preparing for the worst outcome, in every way trying to bring loved ones out from under the blow and secure their future where they are dead. Unpleasant, extremely unpleasant, but all Harbingers have walked with death hand in hand all their lives, long since ceasing to fear it, and instead of panic, empty air shaking, or other destructive activities, they cold-bloodedly covered their backs in case of defeat. The Starks were no exception.
An old dilapidated building, floors covered in all kinds of biological fluids, peeling walls, the smell of filth and decay. This place was the embodiment of rot and wasted potential, a place where the still-living dead dwelled, rotting alive and being devoured by flies. A terrible place. Horrible. A dump of wasted souls.
Usually, there weren't many gang members here, not even ten people could be gathered, and those were minor players. No one, not even the scavengers of the city's shadow part, wanted to be in such a place. And it was even more surprising to see not a bunch of poorly armed, chrome-less pups here, but seasoned mastiffs, packed to the brim with advanced weapons and the best custom chrome, individually designed for their bodies and installed by the best ripperdocs in the city. They were the top of Warsaw's food chain, the strongest, most experienced, best-armed; there was literally no one on the city's streets who could stand against even one of them, let alone a squad of one and a half dozen.
"Hey, man! Get out of here!" one of the pair on duty at the entrance warned, pointing a smart double-barreled shotgun at the stranger, easily piercing even the strongest skull.
In response, Robert pulled a syringe from under his coat and injected it into the man's neck. The world immediately narrowed, faded, and slowed down, bringing the former KGB operative's perception to a new level. A level where even the scariest spawns of the street were just hyena pups before the king of beasts.
The Soviet Union, before its transformation into its own rotting corpse, was economically weaker than the USA. Less capital, smaller market, less maneuverability, and the ruble, unlike the dollar, was not a global reserve currency. And yet, the Soviet Union was a rival and the main competitor of the USA for many years, forcing the whole world to reckon with its power and capabilities. But if the USSR was weaker than the USA, how could it compete with them on equal terms? The answer is simple: planned economy. Capitalists can shout as much as they want about the advantages of the free market, the stupidity of the idea of controlling it, and so on. In some things, they are not even lying. But there is one aspect in which the planned economy indisputably wins over the free market: the consolidation of forces in a single direction. Projects of strategic importance, the development of backward industries, the fulfillment of colossal tasks. The first communists took over Russia with a plow and a nag, and handed it over with a nuclear bomb and atomic reactors. From scratch, they created one of the leading scientific bases, still considered one of the best in the world today, turning an agrarian peasant country into a leading industrial giant of heavy industry. And when the era of implants came, the USSR was again ahead of everyone.
The comprehensive approach, in which the Union consolidated all its resources in the right direction, providing scientists with everything necessary, did its job, overtaking the eternal competitors. Where corporations assured governments that their projects were the most promising, where secret alliances were formed and cooperation terms were discussed in high offices, Soviet scientists simply did their job. They were not forced to choose between metal and flesh; they were not limited in resources and time; they were not forced to compete with their colleagues for a warmer place. They simply worked, striving to create the project of their dreams, an ideal that would turn the world upside down. And they created it. The West created borgs, cyborgs, whose flesh was reduced to just the brain, nervous system, and a piece of the spine. A war machine surpassing ordinary mortals in everything, a new stage of evolution... vulnerable to water, EMP, hacking, and extremely prone to cyberpsychosis. Soviet scientists chose a comprehensive approach, as befits supporters of a planned economy. Instead of replacing flesh—improving it; instead of new capabilities through metal—enhancing the existing ones. The symbiosis of perfect flesh and unbreakable metal gave the Soviet authorities operatives devoid of the weaknesses of borgs, not susceptible to madness, and capable of operating away from supply bases. Robert was one of them. An enhanced human whose parameters far exceeded human capabilities. His hands could tear metal, his skin could withstand a shot from an assault rifle, his eyes could track the flutter of a fly's wing, and his reflexes matched the combat models of borgs, even if under a stimulant. One problem: the high individuality of the procedures slowed down the mass production of such personnel. As a result, the project was shelved, borgs turned out to be simply easier to produce, and the remnants of bygone times dissipated first throughout the Union and then throughout the world. Relics of past times. Relics that to this day surpass 99% of the fighters of modern megacorporations and states.
A blink. A heartbeat. And the figure in the cloak disappeared to appear next to a couple of unacceptably relaxed sentries. Two old revolvers, a shot from each, and two fresh corpses adorned the slums of Warsaw. The speed developed even without sandevistan was a surprise to them. Their implants simply didn't react, since the characteristic surge of bioelectricity for activating this implant did not occur.
With a leisurely stride, Robert entered the hideout and surveyed the room. Dimly lit, with a bunch of drug addicts lying around, the disgusting smell seemed to stick to the skin. Heading to the second floor, where the target for capture was located, he silently stepped over bodies, carefully observing the "visitors" of the hideout. Not in vain, Robert's implants detected a script attack. And although his ice handled it, the same could not be said for the drug addicts, whose decaying bodies simply could not withstand even basic chrome.
"Raaaaaaah!!!" the first one caught in the attack screamed in a fit of rage. Red eyes, swollen veins, foam from the mouth—all this was supposed to cause awe and fear in the target of artificially induced rabies, but Robert didn't even flinch. In his eyes, the infected was as scary as an angry kitten. A blow with the butt, and his head literally tore off his body, flying into the second one, breaking through his chest, crushing his heart and lungs with rib fragments. A step, pressing small inconspicuous buttons on the revolvers, a lazy wave of the hand, and three drug addicts immediately plunged into eternal sleep with their throats slashed, and the protruding blades glistened with scarlet drops of blood. The enemy netrunner wanted to delay the uninvited guest, exhaust him, perhaps even bury him under a pile of cannon fodder, but achieved nothing; Robert didn't even slow his step. A step and a corpse, a wave of the hand and a corpse, a careless gesture and a corpse. Skill, experience, and an overwhelming superiority in physical characteristics turned Robert into an invincible enemy for the maddened crowd. They rushed at him, wanting to tear him apart and bury him under an avalanche of their fury, but only powerlessly died by his hand, like waves breaking against rocks. Stark didn't even waste bullets on them.
The second floor greeted him with silence, lurking enemy operatives in the corners, and a staircase down, strewn with corpses. Surveying the corridor before him, with a movement imperceptible to the naked eye, he pulled out two EMP grenades, tossing both around the corner, immediately detonating them. He was also caught in the explosion, but unlike the enemies writhing from disabled implants, he didn't care. His chrome was isolated and worked exclusively to expand the body's capabilities; disable it, and he would simply lose efficiency but continue the fight. 0.7 seconds—exactly how long the old soldier needed to eliminate the ambush of seven enemy fighters.
Reloading the cylinders, lazy steps, the enemy in the last room, guarded by two of his strongest fighters. Three seconds to reach, one second to break down the door, one to enter the shelter and throw another EMP grenade along with a flashbang. Explosion, activation of sandevistan... a second later, it was all over, and both the target and the head of the local gang cell were in Robert's hands.
A minute and a half had passed since the assault.
Despite her affiliation with the Harbingers, Claire Stark rarely met with the President of Poland. Not because she couldn't, was in disgrace, or wasn't allowed to see him—quite the opposite. Every Harbinger had the right to meet with the head of state, bypassing queues and schedules, at any time of day or night. That's what they were—special trusted agents of the government. No, it's just that she was a netrunner, and unlike many other agents of the organization, she rarely left her netrunner's chair. Espionage, hacking, remote killings, setups, creating compromising material—everything else related to the Net. All this was her work, and for reporting, she had enough of a specially protected communication channel and a government server-archive located right under the Polish government building.
"Mr. President, may I?"
"Hmm? Claire? It's rare to find you here," the balding, slightly plump but overall fit man in his early fifties greeted her. His appearance could be called ordinary and unremarkable, if not for his eyes, yellow, somewhat resembling a tiger's. "Something happened?"
"Nothing bad," she smiled, sitting across from Skalk. "It's about my son. Or rather, the program he invented."
Yes, Claire decided not to put off the matter and, as soon as she was convinced of the safety and health of her husband, immediately set off to talk with the head of state.
"Invented? As far as I remember, your son is still very young. Nine or ten years old, if I'm not mistaken."
"Correct," Claire nodded. "But he's a genius." The loving mother stated not without pride. "A new Einstein."
"Yes, I've read the analysts' reports," President Skalk nodded, but without much enthusiasm. He knew very well how parents love to exaggerate the achievements and potential of their children, so in this matter, he didn't quite trust Claire. In general, he trusted words little, forming his judgment about a person exclusively by their deeds.
"And the program he wrote confirms it!" Claire continued, not noticing or pretending not to notice her interlocutor's reaction. "It's revolutionary! A new word in medicine and cybernetics, it promises to overturn modern foundations!"
"That good?"
"It will seriously ease the problem of early implant installation in children. With its help, they can be installed even in infants, albeit highly specialized." She admitted honestly. Although Tony's main creation promised to lead people to becoming a semi-synthetic race, even a fragment of what he created was enough for a number of extremely valuable capabilities for any parent. And if valuable, then expensive.
"This... changes a lot," Skalk agreed. In his case, it was a bullseye. Disappointed in the current generation, he had bet everything on the growing children, and if Poland could introduce new methods for their development, it would not only improve the final result but also attract foreign investors. If everything was done correctly, their state would become the first in the world in pediatric medicine, and that meant not only money but also prestige and influence. "Is it really that good?"
"It's twenty to thirty years ahead of its time," Claire nodded seriously. "Every corporation in the world, even slightly related to implants and medicine, will want it." She repeated what she had told her husband. "But that's the problem." She admitted.
"I understand. A treasure in weak hands is a curse, and the more valuable the treasure, the stronger its owner must be."
"Exactly. I wanted to ask you to help with the patent in exchange for a percentage of the license sales."
"Claire, are you sure?" Skalk asked, leaning on the table and looking seriously into the woman's eyes. "Some corporations started with less. If your son's invention is indeed as revolutionary as you say, you could secure a great future for him."
"After first protecting Tony from numerous kidnapping and assassination attempts," the blonde woman shook her head in denial. "This patent is too tempting a morsel. Kill us, arrange guardianship, and the thieves can dispose of the technology as they wish. Biotechnica will do everything possible to obtain this program. But under state patronage, people will be well off, and all interested players will get what they want."
"Well, I appreciate your caution. As sad as it is to admit, in today's world it's not superfluous. Then bring Tony in a week; I'll just task the legal department to draw up a contract, one that even the Devil would break his teeth on."
"Yes, Robert has sandevistan. He can just develop the corresponding speed without it, and with it, he delivers something off the charts." ---