Poland. Outskirts of Warsaw. Military camp of the 3rd Infantry Division of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Poland.
General Mike Gardner was smoking his sixth cigar, nervously glancing at the old mechanical watch on his wrist and tapping the knuckles of his free hand on the table. The intuition of a seasoned soldier was literally screaming about impending trouble in what seemed to be a routine operation. They were only here as backup, and ideally, they wouldn't even have to lift a finger.
"Ideally," he repeated to himself, grimacing. "As if anything in this damn world ever went strictly according to plan."
Mike was a seasoned veteran who had walked the edge many times, evidenced by his own body, which was more than half replaced by metal. Liver, kidneys, lungs, eyes, limbs—all of it was high-grade military chrome. This wasn't because a staff officer needed to engage in combat often or because he loved "chroming" himself; it was simply because the original "spare parts" had been blown up, ground down, burned, poisoned, and so on. With such experience, a gut feeling for danger inevitably begins to work like a radar, warning of trouble well in advance. Right now, it was signaling problems, though where could they possibly come from? The operation had been practiced to perfection dozens of times, led by the same people in whose competence the general was confident. His own officers? Not funny—Gardner was sure of every one of them, some due to their character, others because of his steel grip on them. That left the possibility of someone from the outside, but... that sounded fantastical. He had forty thousand regular soldiers and officers here with appropriate gear and modifications, not counting the heavy machinery that even the worst squads possess in the late 21st century. To go against such a force openly, one would need a full-scale army moved to the state capital unnoticed. Modern technology looks like magic sometimes, but not to that extent. And so the old soldier suffered, racking his brain and calming his nerves by smoking.
The authorities didn't have to worry about trouble from Gardner himself. Over his military career, this skillful soldier had learned a simple postulate: reputation is priceless. If you have the right reputation, everything else eventually falls into your hands. That's how it happened with the former NUSA army officer, thrown onto the scrapheap the same day his patrons in the Pentagon were deprived of their power and their lives by large-caliber shots to the head. But Mike wasn't touched. Why? Reputation! The general had spent his life building a reputation as an honest soldier, capable of cunning but never betrayal. Gave his word? He'd die before breaking it. Formed an alliance? He'd be loyal to the end. It was this reputation that allowed him to get off lightly during the fall of the old power. They just threw him out and forgot him, letting him keep his implants and property and granting him a decent pension; in the eyes of the victors, he was not an enemy, but a loser. And it was this reputation that brought the Polish ambassador to his doorstep with an offer to serve a state going through difficult times. He agreed. Army reformation, organizing structures, personal support from the president, huge funding, and no political intrigues. What could be better for an honest soldier? Perhaps a good salary, a spacious house, and a beautiful wife with children. His new bosses gave him all that, including the wife. Sometimes access to Europe's black market has its advantages—for example, the ability to turn to geneticists who, for a few suitcases of eddies, could grow a soulmate with a pre-set appearance, personality, and hormone-level programming to love you. Immoral? Mike Gardner didn't think so. His wish gave his spouse life, and he wasn't a maniac who would mistreat her. Even the worst sadist would be gentler toward a person who loves them unreservedly. Plus, Mike was too old for dating, and finding an adequate girl in modern reality is difficult even for someone with his resources.
In short, Mike Gardner was far from the worst person. Loyal to his word but with flexible principles, his qualifications added weight to his value as Skalk's man, painting a giant target on his back... one that no one had hit yet. Real combat officers cultivate paranoia because their lives depend on it. Even now, sitting in his office, the general was dressed in full armor that only electromagnetic weapons or lasers could pierce. It was safe, as was the small arsenal of modified guns, turrets, mines in the doorway, and an armored desk with a built-in flamethrower. If he'd had more time, he would have put a few walking tanks here.
A knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts, and a graceful female figure entered, clad in a tight-fitting netrunner suit.
"Kalin," the general nodded to his chief network security expert. "What's the news?"
"The usual," she replied, sitting in a chair, her voice dripping with venom. "A few overconfident idiots trying to break into the military network for sport, a heap of spam from the city servers, and shadow dealers looking for military tech and stimulants."
"They've lost all fear," the man nodded. "You definitely didn't notice anything strange?"
"No. Why, is something brewing?"
"Just a bad premonition," he admitted. They had worked together for a long time and allowed themselves to drop the military hierarchy in private.
"How bad?" she arched an eyebrow.
"Bad enough to keep a fully charged gun and spare mags close at hand."
"Hmm. That's bad," she concluded. She believed in the general's intuition.
"Ver... get down!" Whatever Mike wanted to say remained unknown, as a pair of EMP grenades flew into the office and exploded. They were thrown by someone experienced, with sub-second precision.
The netrunner was knocked out immediately. But the general only winced, diving behind his desk and pulling out his favorite modified Carnage shotgun from Budget Arms. With the first shot, he took down two who assumed the EMP had disabled him. Unfortunately for them, being a cyborg, he had shielded himself against EMP. Without waiting for more enemies, he threw a fragmentation grenade into the doorway to win a few seconds to reboot the turrets and prepare the flamethrower.
His mind frantically analyzed the situation. His own bodyguards were bursting through the door, which should have been impossible. He had personally selected these people and was sure of their loyalty. He had ensured they weren't greedy or addicted; he didn't believe they would trade a stable career for a gamble that would leave them without a patron.
Activating the defenses, he tried to contact his deputy, but there was only silence.
Jamming? On my own base? He realized the depth of the problem.
"General, please, come to your senses!" a voice rang out.
"Why are you doing this!?"
"He has cyberpsychosis!" a third cried with feigned hysteria.
Those rascals, he thought, preparing a surprise.
He didn't know how they bought off his guard, but he had aces up his sleeve. His people were protected from fragments, but he had laser prototypes fresh from Militech labs that could turn a small room into a death sentence.
Throwing two grenades to clear the corridor, he made two lunges. First, he threw the unconscious Kalin behind his desk. Second, he grabbed a flare gun from a hidden panel. Simple and reliable.
Settling behind his desk, he opened his bulletproof window with a hidden lever. He sent a signal to the city, ensuring President Skalk would be warned, then injected a stimulant into Kalin.
"How bad is it?" she asked.
"My own bodyguards betrayed me."
"Shit."
"Shit indeed. We're being jammed; alert the others. They're framing me for cyberpsychosis."
The office turrets opened fire. They were isolated from the network and couldn't be hacked.
You can't hack what isn't connected, Mike noted gleefully, killing seven more soldiers in the hallway. General Gardner wasn't nervous. The capital was warned, and he just needed to hold out. His office walls were tank-proof, and he had enough ammo and supplies. The attackers were in a stalemate; the only entrance was guarded by a heavily chromed veteran and automatic turrets. If they tried to swamp him with meat, he had a heavy machine gun with ten thousand rounds. He didn't see a way they could take him. Or so he thought.
"A-A-A-A-A!!!" Kalin suddenly screamed, clutching her head. Red lightning engulfed her body, and she wept bloody tears as her implants glowed crimson. She looked at the general, and he felt his "ice" cracking. His implants overheated, and his metal hands began to shake, pulling his shotgun toward his own head.
So they hacked us? Mike Gardner was surprised but felt no fear. Someone spent a lot of money on this. Even his basic knowledge told him this required tens of millions of eddies and an insane amount of server power to subjugate his guards. I'm glad my boys didn't actually betray me, was his last thought before he was forced to blow his own head off.
Warsaw Network Space.
Agent: Target eliminated.
Operative: We know! The whole city knows because the bastard sent a signal! The police are firing at everyone, and the Harbingers are shooting anyone suspicious! How are we supposed to work!?
Agent: Not my problem. My task was elimination.
Curator: Confirmed. The division is under control, but act fast before the soldiers realize something is wrong.
Operative: The signal is no minor detail! We have regular military here!
Curator: It's under control. We are pinning the murder on the Harbingers. Agent, second part?
Agent: The message is sent. The loyal general sent video of a coup attempt by the Harbingers before he died.
Operative: Perfect. People already hate those guys.
Agent: Hurry. I need your help to control the police.
Curator: Get to work.
Warsaw. At the same time.
Robert was hurrying. His enhanced body could handle a hundred Sandevistan activations, allowing him to fight armies alone, though at a great physical cost. Right now, he felt too slow.
The operation had been going as planned until communication was lost—something impossible without elite netrunners and a massive data center. Then, a red signal flared from the military camp. They had been lured into a trap. Robert ditched everything and dashed toward Claire. He knew his wife would be in her fortress, trying to contact home so the Great Sage could activate the highest alert. The police were already attacking Harbinger agents, eliminating more than half of them with stabs in the back.
Robert had to be careful not to lead the police to Claire's base. Every minute she stayed in the net worked for them.
The problem is the military, he thought. He knew General Mike and assumed he could handle it, but he had to prepare for the worst.
He noticed flickering air on a rooftop. Gas or a mirage? He jumped to the fifth floor and landed silently. He threw a knife with a paralytic, hitting a hidden figure in the spine. He flipped the sniper over. It was a well-equipped soldier in a stealth suit.
Militech, he concluded. The gear was disguised, but the signature of the American giant was there—the SL-12 stimulant and the gear layout. Bad. Poland couldn't stand against Militech. The centralization of power was gone; President Skalk would have to sell out to Arasaka or negotiate new terms. Time to say goodbye to Poland, Robert realized, finishing off the wounded man and resuming his path to his wife. There was no time for interrogation.