Same place. Evening.
Claire and Robert Stark stumbled into the house, exhausted but satisfied. From today, they were on leave, which meant they could finally SLEEP tomorrow! It is a great happiness for a working person to go to bed knowing they don't have to jump up in the morning, rub their eyes, and drag themselves to that cursed job. Although for the Stark couple, working as Harbingers was much easier than their time in the KGB—simply due to a narrower range of tasks and their increased expertise over the years—everything had its downsides that only grew more irritating with time. Waking up early was a downside of almost any job. But tomorrow... tomorrow they would lounge in bed, Omnissia would bring them a delicious, unhealthy breakfast in bed, and then they would have some fun. Claire had bought an interesting lingerie set a couple of days ago, and Robert had prepared their favorite sexual activity stimulant, capable of turning even the impotent into a horny teenager. It was harmful stuff, but with their enhancements, they didn't need to worry about damage to the liver or kidneys.
"Hi, Mom, Dad," greeted Tony, emerging from his workshop into the light of day. He looked tired and a bit pale, but wore the satisfied smile of someone who had done important work and done it well.
"Hi," Robert said, shedding his coat. "You broke the schedule again," he noted disapprovingly. He and Tony had discussed the importance of sleep for a young, growing body many times, especially when that body's daily schedule was calculated almost by the minute.
"It was worth it," Tony replied with a smug grin.
Yes, tomorrow he would be as sluggish as a stale fish and would suffer during training with his father, but... it had been far too interesting to upgrade Omnissia's body. Heck, he had almost completely rebuilt her layout, replacing nearly half of the original parts. The composite armor he'd designed in a fit of creative inspiration was his quiet pride. In just a few hours, Tony Stark had come up with a design that would protect Omnissia 2.0's sensitive electronics from kinetic impact! You could fire a tank at her now, and she'd hold up... maybe only once, but she'd hold! If only he had gold and titanium, it would have been an indestructible machine. "Omnissia, encore!" he snapped his fingers, clearly showing off.
"Whoa..." Claire hummed, seeing her son's updated robot-nanny.
"..." Robert remained silent, but was clearly impressed as well. And for good reason.
Modern combat robots do not stand out for their elegance or grace. The reason is simple: their target market. People are interested in them exclusively as additional, loyal security that knows no sleep, greed, or fatigue. That's it. The task of modern combat models is to buy time until reinforcements arrive in the form of a response team or the police, depending on where the attacked facility is located, so they don't invest much in them. Primitive servomotors, segmented structure, cheap processors, and unimpressive armor that is completely absent at the joints. All this makes even elite humanoid combat models essentially "meat," whose only task is to thin the enemy's ranks and win time. Or to perform particularly dirty work, like clearing residential buildings and finishing off the wounded. What Omnissia had turned into... one should start with those very contours, which had become surprisingly flexible, graceful, and even somewhat alluring. A pronounced waist with hips that even today not every ripperdoc could make, a substantial chest, long legs, and... are those heels?
"Doesn't matter," Claire decided when she realized she couldn't see the joints. AT ALL. Even at the bends of the arms and legs, they weren't there—everything was so well-fitted and calculated.
"Spin," Tony said with a self-satisfied smile. And Omnissia spun.
"She even has a great backside!" Claire thought with a hint of indignation, looking at the new red-and-gold appearance of their family robot.
"Are those... lasers?" Robert asked in a tone of disbelief. Lasers aren't exactly rare, but they aren't common due to their massive power consumption. Let's forget about the cost for a moment.
"Yep."
"The new battery allows the use of built-in laser weapons up to thirty times in each manipulator, plus another ten in the chest," Omnissia added, pointing to a glowing triangle in the center of her torso.
"The movements... they're too smooth," Robert noted again. As an engineer, he paid much more attention to the demonstrated capabilities than to the new appearance of the creation he shared with his wife. "Indistinguishable from human."
"Bought a couple of outdated military implants for cheap," Tony shrugged, seeing nothing unusual in this. After all, they live in Warsaw, the center of shadow trade for if not the whole continent, then certainly Europe. "Stripped out almost all the brain-interface hardware and replaced it with extra synthetic muscles and wiring. It turned out well." The little toddler nodded solidly at the end of his speech, not fully realizing that he had essentially performed an operation that high-class corporate engineers do in specialized workshops. And they don't work with scrap implants, but with limbs pre-designed for the purpose. Usually, they don't build a combat mechanism, but a part for a sex-android.
"My arsenal now includes proficiency in cold weapons," Omnissia added, raising a hand from which a blade extended. "The archive has also been updated with skills for throwing knives, axes, grenades, and blunt objects. Close-combat capability has increased sevenfold from the original metrics."
In general, Omnissia's appearance wasn't entirely surprising. In a world of moving progress, where even old age has been dealt a serious blow and death is no longer seen as something inevitable that reaches everyone regardless of status, but merely a disease not yet cured, people went crazy in different ways. Some replaced their skin with a gold analog, some grafted animal features, others merged thoughts and feelings with another person. And those were the most mundane things that came to mind; there were even more "creative" madmen. The point here was the author of this creativity—a nine-year-old kid who managed to give a piece of metal more than seductive forms and movements that gave the impression not of a robot, but of a person in high-tech armor.
The Stark couple exchanged a silent glance, realizing the new level of their son's genius. As people who knew each other well, they understood each other without words, realizing that their child had just forced them to reconsider many things regarding his future. Again.
"Dinner is ready," Omnissia interrupted them, heading for the kitchen... swaying her hips provocatively.
"How did he pull that off!?" Claire was still seething with a kind of benevolent envy toward her son's budding talents. In her time, she also tried her hand at creativity, but alas, she turned out to have a genuine anti-talent for it. Seriously, anything requiring even a bit of design was her Achilles' heel; they didn't even let her near such things at work, fearing reputational damage.
They sat at the table as usual—that is, fighting Robert for the seat at the head of the table. Even though he played the part of an ice block for whom a couple of extra words was the height of favor, in the circle of family and friends, he allowed himself to fool around. And as always, while the two titans were battling, the clever—but most importantly, small and therefore unnoticed—Tony was the first to sit in the chair, looking at his parents self-satisfiedly.
"How are things with your project? Another dead end?" Claire inquired, taking her first sip of tea while waiting for the main course.
"No, I'll finish in a couple of months," Tony declared confidently.
Even though he had to rework the entire hardware code again, polishing it to perfection in an attempt to minimize the margin of error under the total load, it was worth it. Now, overall mediocre equipment would be able to withstand activation instead of going to hell and ruining everything for a third time.
"Really? Then don't forget to show your father and me when you're done; we'll check it."
"Uh-huh."
"I should note..." Omnissia remarked, setting down deep plates containing a mountain of pasta with ketchup and sausages. "...that this time, calculations show the probability of an explosion is only 0.7%. This is a significant jump for Master Tony's projects."
"Sounds encouraging," Claire smiled, ruffling her frowning son's hair.
"And how are things with you? You're late today."
"A mess at work," the mother of the family sighed tiredly and disappointedly.
She had found the fixer who took the contract on her head, but she couldn't track down the client, which was bad. Even the accidental killing of a Harbinger is investigated most thoroughly, ruthlessly punishing the guilty—this is known even outside of Poland—yet here was a full-blown contract. What was worst of all: the client KNEW who she was, therefore, they were intentionally moving toward a conflict, which is why everyone in their office and the president's administration tensed up, declaring a state of high alert. Actually, that's why Claire and Robert got their leave; less priority tasks were canceled while headquarters prepares a plan to clear out dangerous elements. That is, sufficiently grown and strengthened gangs and other organized crime groups capable of at least theoretically posing a threat to the government and its structures. The process has long been fine-tuned; the shadow market is used to it and generally doesn't suffer much, as no one will touch the finances, only the military forces. And since everyone will be weakened, no redistribution of spheres of influence is expected. As for losses among the gunmen... who counts them? The main thing is that money keeps flowing into pockets.
"Umm," Robert frowned.
He didn't like the activity unfolding in the city, initiated by persons unknown. Shadow puppeteers skillfully pulled the strings, cutting them in time, thereby ensuring their own protection and anonymity. The Harbingers simply couldn't figure out where to strike to stop this mess, while the enemy was meanwhile testing their capabilities and defenses, looking for weak spots. And unlike his wife, who was much more radical in solving problems, Robert considered the upcoming purges a mistake. The enemy couldn't help but know about them; therefore, they were ready for them. They would deploy a significant portion of their resources, expose many operatives and units personally loyal to the president, but most importantly, they would mark the points of tension in the city. Essentially, on the day of the purge, they would rip the veil off the shadow world, identifying all more-or-less significant figures of the Polish shadow market, and that... was bad. For a whole number of reasons. Headquarters was certain that someone on the inside was stirring the pot, but Robert seriously doubted this. Yes, the enemy was well-oriented in their internal kitchen, but for that, it's enough to have a consultant from among the fixers, and the former KGB officer strongly doubted that headquarters was capable of closely monitoring more than a hundred devious bigwigs of the state's shadow side. Overall, Robert had noticed a certain relaxation prevailing in the ranks of the Harbingers over recent years. No, the selection of personnel was as strict as ever, and the wise veterans trained the youth conscientiously, but a decent portion of that very youth, having faced no one more dangerous than gangs, had begun to think they were an insurmountable force in Poland that nothing could threaten. A dangerous delusion.
Robert roughly knew the number of his colleagues, and there weren't that many of them—fewer than five thousand for the whole country. Some might say that's a small army, but to control a place like Warsaw, where all illegal finances and the interests of major international players intersect, more than half of that number is required, while fewer than two thousand agents remain for the rest. Inexcusably few in the old intelligence officer's opinion, especially when it comes to the cities neighboring the capital. The situation there isn't much better than in remote regions, and it's much easier to pull off business there.
Now, imagine the purge. Everything is going according to plan, gang members are shooting back, the state's military forces are taking losses, Harbinger agents are all participating in raids, acting as coordinators and guides. And then, suddenly, mercenary squads arrive from neighboring cities supported by netrunners, whose main task is hunting agents. The losses for the already small organization would be catastrophic; worse yet, the highest concentration of veterans and literally irreplaceable personnel—on whose loyalty, skills, and knowledge the entire structure of the organization rests—is in Warsaw. One successfully conducted operation, and the main pillar of the country's political stability is bled dry, if not destroyed. Even if forces loyal to the current government control the city and its surroundings, even if the entire army is on standby—making such an operation seem impossible—Robert's paranoia, cultivated since his youth, clearly said that even the chance of such a thing was enough to take precautions.
Alas, as often happens, the staff officers had to choose between two bad options—that legendary choice between a "shit sandwich" and an "enema." One shouldn't think Robert was the only smart one; not at all. Yes, in his day he was one of the top officers of Soviet intelligence, the only equal of which were their American colleagues, but the Polish intelligence also had old pros, well-trained by the intersection of the interests of the vast masses of the world's powerful in their zone of responsibility. They also understood all of the above, but the problem was in the preparation. Everything Robert proposed would be either slow or noticeable, which in their position was unacceptable. While they delay, the enemy gathers information and gathers forces for a strike; if everything comes out prematurely, the whole raid will fizzle out, crime won't weaken, which will increase internal tension in Warsaw and, consequently, give the unknowns extra room for maneuver. Therefore, generally smart and brave people decided to take the risk, limiting themselves to an increased number of military near the capital under the pretext of exercises. This would also buy time for the general preparation of the operation, but only for three weeks, which was quite acceptable. But the problem was in the readability of such actions on their part. Robert was a firm adherent of Suvorov's teaching: "To surprise is to win." It was this principle that allowed him to survive multiple life vicissitudes, including his retirement. Act subtly, carefully, and unexpectedly, not allowing the opponent to impose their rules. Here, they were acting ordinarily, predictably even for an outside observer, let alone for the local bigwigs. And he didn't like it; it went literally against all the tactics developed over his years of service. If Robert were developing the counter-tactic, he would have arranged mass assignments for the Harbingers. He would have sent most agents outside Warsaw to check the work of colleagues in other cities and put things in order there, paying special attention to those neighboring the capital; he would have ostentatiously weakened their presence, demonstrating weakness, and closely watched the actions of all the city's key figures. With such a maneuver, he would not only have deprived the enemy of the chance to scout their forces but also would have predetermined their maneuvers. Then, when they attacked the government building or started rioting, having identified all agents of influence and the command, he would have struck with pre-prepared forces, instantly suppressing the rebels. Even if the collateral damage would be horrific and the chaos had every chance of spilling into the streets and engulfing ordinary civilians, at least the enemy would be destroyed, and crime would be given a lesson and a harsh reminder of who's in charge here. But, alas, President Skalk is too humane for such a thing.
"Dear, is everything okay?" Claire pulled Robert out of his thoughts, gently placing her hand over his.
"Yes. Thinking about work."
"You'll think about it after the weekend," Claire said, pursing her lips. "We rarely rest as it is, and most importantly, we rarely spend time with our son."
"It's okay," Tony cut in. "I understand it's not for nothing, and you're earning our living. It would be selfish to be offended at you for that."
"How wise you are," Claire cooed.
"..." In response, Robert just stroked Tony on the head, smiling sincerely.
The Stark family. The next day.
A hellish sound burst into her ears, tormenting her mind worse than the most terrible tortures. Suffering and agony entered her heart, so terrible that any person with even a drop of compassion would have felt for her and without a doubt stopped them. Alas, only another such sufferer was in the room.
"Time to get up," Robert's quiet voice sounded.
"Uh-huh," Claire replied softly.
Yesterday they got a bit carried away; Robert didn't bring their standard stimulant, but a new one that made a person's bodily secretions extremely appetizing and desirable, which is why the two high-level modifiants only settled down closer to nine. Now it was twelve, but sleep held firmly onto the two tired but satisfied souls.
"Are we getting up?" Claire opened one eye.
"We are," Robert replied.
"..." She didn't move.
"..." And he didn't move.
"We have to get up."
"We do. But I'm lazy."
"Lazy," the wife agreed with her husband from the bottom of her heart. "But we have to. Today we need to take Tony to the lawyers, settle the patent business."
"Send Omnissia?"
"At least one parent is needed."
"Pity."
"Plus Tony has training today."
"Right. We need to get up."
In the end, they only got up by one o'clock, more or less tidying themselves up in the shower and went down to the kitchen... where an extremely sleepy Tony sat with bags under his eyes.
"We need soundproofing," Tony said first thing, looking into his parents' eyes with deadly seriousness. "At least in my room."
"Um..." Claire was embarrassed, and Robert looked away.
"..." A VERY awkward silence set in.
"Breakfast is ready," Omnissia broke it, setting breakfast on the table. "Today we have sandwiches with omelet, tomatoes, fried beef sausages, and a drop of ketchup."
"Real meat?" Claire was surprised. "I thought we didn't buy any." She tilted her head.
After the last corporate war, when all sides used viral weapons among other things, many diseases wiped out almost all vegetation and livestock, hitting farmers first. And while in Europe, where biological modifications are much more popular, they quickly started producing improved types of animals, in the NUSA almost all meat began to be produced from recycled crickets. But even so, finding meat in stores today is extremely difficult, as it is only sold in elite shops.
"I went and bought some during the night," Omnissia stunned them. "At the same time, I tested the platform's increased combat capabilities."
"Result?" Robert inquired, taking the first bite.
"Higher than expected. Increased power metrics require calibration; the current ones are excessive and lead either to the explosion of standard organics or piercing the target straight through, with subsequent time spent removing the corpse from the limb."
"I see."
"How did the blades perform?" Tony asked the question that interested him, also digging into the toast. After all, he had seriously bothered himself gutting surgical instruments, removing ultrasonic modules from them and assembling them into a single structure so that Omnissia's weapon would cut through even metal without problems.
"Found a small structural defect in the mounting; long activation of the weapon loosens the bolts. Thermal treatment will quickly fix the problem."
"Good, I'll take care of it in the evening," Tony nodded. He didn't expect everything to be perfect. Although he tried, conducting hundreds of calculations and dozens of simulations, "childhood diseases" of new designs are inevitable. He was even lucky that the main skeleton of the modification project was made back in the twenties, otherwise it would have been much harder. "Everything else normal?"
"Laser weapons consume 6.8% more than calculated. Apparently, a micro-defect in part of the energy conduits. No other deviations found."
"Only two problems? A very good result," Claire smiled, encouraging her son, but he wasn't even thinking of being upset. Indeed, only two malfunctions, and not critical ones at that—an excellent result.
"Omnissia, what is the rank of the new knowledge bases?" Robert asked.
"Fourth," she replied immediately.
"Claire, will you handle it?" he turned to his wife.
"Uh-huh," she replied with her mouth full. "I have a data bank for first-rank sword mastery lying around somewhere."
"Good. Any ideas for increasing efficiency?" the question was now addressed to Omnissia.
"A miniature power source," Omnissia answered immediately. "Currently, my main vulnerability is the need to charge from external sources for a long time. The total charge volume is sufficient for work over a relatively long time, but it takes up an extremely large amount of space that could be assigned to additional computing power."
"That's a bust," Claire cut in. "The Kotov family, who dealt in advanced USSR technology, was recently cleared out, and without them, a miniature nuclear reactor is impossible to get. Unless we make it ourselves—luckily the schematics exist—but it's expensive."
"We'll figure it out," Robert answered thoughtfully, finishing his portion.
Omnissia 2.0