The "Cadre Forge"—a project initiated and kept under the personal control of the President of Poland—was created fifteen years ago and was in development for seven years. A small but highly qualified team, free from budgetary constraints, was tasked with developing methods for raising future citizens of Poland. President Skalk desperately needed personnel he could rely on and, above all, trust. Due to the country's situation, he lacked access to them. It wasn't just about the members of the Harbinger organization, powerful but few in number, but all other sectors of the country. Modern Poland is an appendage to Europe's largest black market, where anything can be found, or ordered if missing. Poland is where all truly skilled and ambitious netrunners, smugglers, experimental ripperdocs, and other geniuses unburdened by morality flock. Any solo of a high level seeks to visit the Polish black market to purchase top-tier chrome, custom weapons, and armor, simply because here one can find the most diverse and highly qualified specialists from around the world, forced to compete and thus obsessed with quality. Almost everyone knows that nearly a quarter of Poland's population is connected to the black market, and even more feed off it indirectly, but few understand what that truly 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 only meager crumbs remain for the state machine. This is why President Skalk was forced to resort to creating a scientific group to develop an AI for raising a new generation, as the president has no hope for the current one. The ruler of Poland has no more hope for short-term results, forcing him to play the long game. Thus, rocking the boat makes him extremely nervous; all he needs is time... which he might not have.
"For now, our son's behavior is pleasing," Robert noted. "I have to go, work." Without listening further, he disconnected.
The equipment detected a newcomer. An old warehouse located outside the city limits had long been used as a den for a local gang. They were quite... repulsive individuals involved in the production of heavy, dirty drugs and pimping, but they did not cross a certain line. They didn't forcibly addict anyone, didn't kidnap, and didn't coerce, acting through cunning and "free" product. In fact, this den was one of their recruitment bases where young thrill-seekers and broken laborers gathered to drown their souls in an artificial surrogate of real emotions. Then, drugs specifically designed to create instant addiction securely placed a collar on the victims who came voluntarily, and it began. First, everything possible was drained from them down to their last pair of underwear, leaving them with nothing and a debt on their shoulders, followed by sorting. Those stronger and braver became enforcers, the attractive ones became prostitutes, and the intelligent ones became producers and distributors. Interestingly, valuable personnel who managed to rise in the internal hierarchy gained access to more expensive drugs, analogs of the cheap junk they originally injected, but without side effects. Clean drugs with minimal health consequences, easily managed by any decent ripperdoc with regular monthly visits. Consequently, this gang wasn't particularly bothered, as the only truly criminal charge against them was the illegal production of stimulants among a narrow circle, since they gave away the heavy drugs for free. All their other activities were quite legal, caused minimal street trouble, and zero noise. The fact that 90% of those hooked on the free drug died within six months to a year didn't much concern the current government, given the terrible overpopulation of cities and villages and active emigration. Thus, this gang was on the green lists. This made it even stranger that they attracted his and his colleagues' attention.
The character arriving in an old wreck was dressed very poorly, but smart equipment showed he had a large amount of elite chrome. Clear amateurs, unaccustomed to working on Polish territory.
"Base, this is Delta-0, do you hear me?" Robert contacted his team.
"We hear you, Delta-0."
"Target has arrived, awaiting further instructions."
"Capture and deliver the target to the nearest interrogation room."
"Acknowledged."
Robert didn't like this operation; it smelled too foul. Someone unknown comes to a recruitment base of a "respectable" gang in broad daylight, which in itself was strange. For an agent, he had too much iron in his system; an independent solo wouldn't stick his nose into such a hole, not with a high-league amount of implants. But he didn't look like the expected negotiator either, as leaders of "legalized" gangs in Poland know how to operate, trying to keep all operations at a legal or gray-zone level. President Skalk, though he cares for the people and the country, isn't a foolish idealist ready to tilt at windmills, preferring to put them in service to the state. Old criminal gangs know the rules of the game; their leaders are smart and have long rested on well-tuned mechanisms; they wouldn't expose themselves like this. Yet, headquarters was so alarmed they authorized the direct participation of a high-level operative at a location belonging to those who play by the rules, which would inevitably cause dissatisfaction and wariness among other such players. Not that the Harbingers feared provoking gangs, but they usually acted with more finesse; this was a crude approach, and not the first one lately. It seemed those in the upper echelons of the organization possessed much more complete information, and it didn't allow for business as usual.
But that was what was frightening. Experienced veterans sensed trouble and an approaching storm, preparing for the worst-case outcome, trying to get their loved ones out of harm's way and secure a future where they themselves were dead. Unpleasant, extremely unpleasant, but all Harbingers walked hand-in-hand with death their whole lives, having long stopped fearing it, and instead of panic or empty noise, they coldbloodedly covered their rears in case of defeat. The Stark clan was no exception.
An old, crumbling building, floors covered in various biological fluids, scuffed walls, the smell of filth and decay. This place was the embodiment of rot and wasted potential, a place inhabited by the living dead, falling apart while alive and eaten by flies. A terrifying place. Horrible. A junkyard of ruined souls.
Usually, there were few gangsters here, not even ten people, and those were low-level grunts. No one, not even the scavengers of the city's shadow, wanted to be in such a place. Thus, it was all the more surprising to see here not a bunch of poorly armed, chromeless pups, but veteran wolfhounds, packed to the brim with advanced weaponry and the best custom chrome, individually designed for their bodies and installed by the city's best ripperdocs. They were the top of Warsaw's food chain—the strongest, most experienced, and best-armed. On the city streets, there was literally no one who could stand against even one of them, let alone a squad of fifteen.
"Hey, man! Get out of here!" warned one of the pair standing guard at the entrance, leveling a smart double-barreled shotgun capable of easily piercing even the strongest skull.
"..." In response, Robert pulled a syringe from under his cloak and injected it into his neck. The world instantly narrowed, faded, and slowed down, bringing the perception of the former KGB operative to a new level—a level where even the most terrifying street predators were merely hyena pups before the king of beasts.
The Soviet Union, before turning into its own rotting corpse, was economically weaker than the USA. Less capital, a smaller market, less maneuverability, and the ruble, unlike the dollar, was not a global reserve currency. Nevertheless, the Soviet Union was a rival and the main competitor to 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 on equal terms? The answer is simple: a planned economy. Capitalists can shout all they want about the advantages of the free market and the folly of controlling it. In some ways, they aren't even lying. Но есть один аспект, в котором плановая экономика неоспоримо выигрывает у свободного рынка, это консолидация сил в едином направлении. Strategic projects, development of lagging industries, execution of colossal tasks. The first communists took 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 world's leading scientific bases, still considered among the best, turning a peasant agrarian country into a leading industrial giant of heavy industry. And when the era of implants arrived, the USSR was ahead of everyone again.
A comprehensive approach, in which the Union consolidated all its resources in the necessary direction, providing scientists with everything they needed, did its job, outpacing eternal competitors. Where corporations assured governments that their projects were the most promising, and where secret alliances were formed in high offices, Soviet scientists just did their work. They weren't forced to choose between metal and flesh, weren't limited in resources and time, and weren't forced to compete with colleagues for a better position. They just 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 machine of war, surpassing mere 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—supplementing existing ones. The symbiosis of perfect flesh and indestructible metal gave the Soviet power operatives who lacked the borgs' weaknesses, were not subject to madness, and were capable of acting independently of supply bases. Robert was one of them. An enhanced human whose stats went far beyond human limits. His hands could tear metal, his skin could withstand an assault round, his eyes could track the flap of a fly's wing, and his reflexes matched combat-model borgs, albeit under stimulants. One problem: the high individuality of the procedures slowed the mass production of such personnel. Eventually, the project was swept under the rug; borgs were simply easier to produce, and the remnants of the old days dispersed first through the Union and then through the world. Relics of past times. Relics that to this day surpass 99% of the enforcers of modern megacorporations and states.
A moment. A heartbeat. And the cloaked figure disappears, appearing next to the pair of unpardonably relaxed sentries. Two old revolvers, a shot from each, and two fresh corpses decorated the Warsaw slums. The speed, developed even without a Sandevistan, came as a surprise to them. Their implants simply didn't react, as the burst of bioelectricity characteristic of that implant's activation did not occur.
Walking into the den with a casual stroll, Robert surveyed the room. Semi-dark, with a bunch of junkies lying around, the disgusting smell seemed to stick to the skin. Heading for the second floor where the target was located, he stepped over bodies with a silent gait, carefully watching the "patrons" of the den. Not for nothing: Robert's implants detected a script attack. Although his ICE held, the same couldn't be said for the junkies, whose decaying bodies simply couldn't withstand even basic chrome.
"Ra-a-a-a-a!!!" bellowed the first one hit by the attack in a fit of rage. Red eyes, bulging veins, foam at the mouth—all this should have caused trembling and fear in the target of the artificially induced frenzy, but Robert didn't move a muscle. In his eyes, the infected one was as terrifying as an angry kitten. A blow with the grip, and his head literally tears away from the body, flying into the second one, smashing his chest and crushing the heart and lungs with rib fragments. A step, a press of small inconspicuous buttons on the revolvers, a lazy wave of the hand, and immediately three junkies drift into eternal sleep with slit throats, the popped-out bayonets gleaming with crimson drops of blood. The enemy netrunner wanted to delay the uninvited guest, wear him out, perhaps even bury him under a pile of cannon fodder, but achieved nothing; Robert didn't even slow his pace. A step and a corpse, a wave of the hand and a corpse, a careless gesture and a corpse. Mastery, experience, and extreme superiority in physical characteristics turned Robert into an invincible enemy for the maddened crowd. They threw themselves at him, wishing to tear him apart and bury him under the avalanche of their rage, but only died helplessly at his hand, like waves breaking against rocks. Stark didn't even waste bullets on them.
The second floor met him with silence, enemy operatives hiding in corners, and a staircase down strewn with corpses. Surveying the corridor before him, he pulled out two EMP grenades with a movement too fast for the naked eye, tossed both around the corner, and immediately rushed after them. He was also hit by the blast, but unlike the enemies writhing due to failed implants, he didn't care. His chrome was isolated and worked exclusively to expand the body's capabilities; turn it off, and he would just lose efficiency but continue the fight. 0.7 seconds was exactly what it took the old soldier to eliminate the ambush of seven enemy fighters.
Reloading the cylinders, lazy steps—the enemy was in the last room, under the guard of their two strongest fighters. Three seconds to reach it, a second to kick in the door, one to dive into cover and throw another EMP grenade paired with a flashbang. An explosion, activation of the Sandevistan... a second later it was all over; both the object and the head of the local gang cell were in Robert's hands.
A minute and a half had passed since the start of the assault.
Despite her affiliation with the Harbingers, Claire Stark rarely saw the President of Poland. Not because she couldn't, or was in disgrace, or wasn't allowed access—not at all. Every Harbinger had the right to meet the head of state, skipping the line and schedule, at any time of day or night. That's why they were highly trusted government agents. No, she was simply a netrunner, and unlike many other agents, she rarely left the netrunning chair. Espionage, hacking, remote assassinations, setups, creating compromising material—everything related to the Net. This was her job, and for reporting, a highly secure communication channel and a government archive server located directly under the Polish government building were enough.
"Mr. President, may I?"
"Mmm? Claire? You aren't often seen here," greeted her a balding, slightly plump, but generally fit man in his early fifties. His appearance could be called ordinary and unremarkable, if not for his eyes—yellow, somewhat resembling a tiger's. "Has something happened?"
"Nothing bad," she smiled, sitting across from Skalk. "It's about my son. Or rather, a program he invented."
Indeed, Claire decided not to delay the matter and, as soon as she was sure of her husband's safety and health, she headed for a conversation with the head of state.
"Invented? As I recall, your son is still a little child. About 9 or 10, if I'm not mistaken."
"Correct," Claire nodded. "But he is a genius," the loving mother stated with no small amount of pride. "A new Einstein."
"Yes, I've read the analyst reports," President Skalk nodded, but without much enthusiasm. He knew well how parents love to exaggerate the achievements and potential of their children, so he didn't entirely trust Claire on this matter. He generally placed little trust in words, judging a person solely by their deeds.
"And the program he wrote proves it!" Claire continued, not noticing or pretending not to notice her companion's reaction. "It is revolutionary! A new word in medicine and cybernetics; it promises to overturn modern standards!"
"That good?"
"It will seriously ease the problem of early implant installation in children. With it, they can be installed even in infants, albeit specialized ones," she admitted honestly. Even if Tony's main creation promised to lead humanity to becoming a semi-synthetic race, even the fragment created would be enough for a range of extremely valuable opportunities for any parent. And if valuable, then expensive.
"That... changes a lot," Skalk agreed. In his case, it was a direct hit. Having been disappointed in the current generation, he had bet everything on the growing children, and if Poland could implement new methods for their development, it would not only improve the final result but also attract foreign investors. If handled correctly, their state would become the world leader in pediatric medicine, which meant not only money but also prestige and influence. "Is it really that good?"
"It is twenty or thirty years ahead of its time," Claire nodded seriously. "Every corporation in the world involved in implants and medicine will want it," she repeated what she told her husband. "But that is the problem," she admitted.
"I understand. A treasure in the hands of the weak is a curse; 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 desk and looking seriously into the woman's eyes. "Other corporations have started with less. If your son's invention is truly as revolutionary as you say, you could secure a great future for him."
"Right after defending Tony from multiple kidnapping and assassination attempts," the blonde-headed woman shook her head in denial. "This patent is too sweet a morsel. Kill us, file for guardianship, and the thieves can dispose of the technology as they wish. Biotechnica would do everything possible to get this program. This way, under state patronage, it's good for the people, and all interested players get what they want."
"Well, I appreciate your caution. Sad as it is to admit, it's not redundant in today's world. Then bring Tony in a week; I'll task the legal department with drafting a contract—one that the Devil himself would break his teeth on."