The captured netrunner proved to be quite a tough nut to crack. The usual methods of interrogation, including beatings and psychological pressure, did not work. If he was being beaten, he simply tolerated it until the pain shock blacked out his consciousness, and he responded to the psychological pressure with swearing and some of his delusional stories, which were a mixture of Greek, Norse and Eastern mythology, laced with narcissism and early signs of schizophrenia.
Only he fell into the hands of TT, who had people who could not only treat well, but torture as well. So after only a couple of lectures, in which our stubborn fanatic participated as a study dummy, he started talking.
This nutcase was a wild, even by modern standards, US Cracks fan. During one of his runs behind the wall, his brains nearly blew out because of some particularly evil AI, and only through sheer luck was he able to escape and survive. But he didn't manage to keep his sanity completely. In his delirium, he saw three female figures with light coming from them, as if angels had descended from heaven and saved him. Several more times he fell into delirium and each time he was saved by the unknown trio. When he finally managed to come to a more or less normal state, if such a thing can be said about a netrunner who almost got fried by the AI, the first thing he saw was a promo of the girls from US Cracks. There they were dancing surrounded by threads and singing something about the threads of fate.
The thought popped into his sick brain that the three figures that saved him had some connection to the US Cracks singers. The three figures saved him. There's three members of the band, too. And they sing about fate and the threads that bind them together. It's clear and clear. It's a hidden sign! He is chosen by them and must learn as much about them as he can, for their fates are now linked! It is destiny!
Reading his interrogation, I wanted to laugh or smash my head into a wall. I could hardly understand how he connected the red thread of destiny from Chinese mythology with the Moirs from Greek mythology. I mean, how inadequate you have to be to connect the US Cracks song about red thongs and fates. Although then there's the Golddiggers, where red thongs are a must if aim is to get married. All right, stop, I don't need to analyze this psycho's thoughts.
The attack on our clients was simple, much simpler. Our captive was quite known for his radical behavior and outright mania among both fans and haters of US Cracks. He would easily hack into and leak the private information of anyone who might offend his objects of adoration. Some particularly stubborn ones he sent to the hospital by hacking into cyber-implants. In short, he'd earned a reputation as a dangerous psycho fan.
One day, he received a message about a nice cash reward for kidnapping his idols. At first he wanted to find and burn the person who sent it, but he had the brains to read the message again. It said that he could be funded and assisted by an organization if he agreed to kidnap US Cracks. At first he didn't believe in such act of altruism and started searching for information on the person who sent it. After some time, he tracked down the organization that had made such a tempting offer. It turned out to be a competitor company that didn't like MSM Records trying to grab even more market share. Realizing who was who, the netrunner used the wisdom as ancient as dinosaur shit - the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
And then it was simple. Money, mercenaries, attack. Except the Archangels came in and ruined everything. Most of the mercenaries were killed, targets of the kidnapping managed to slip away. A complete failure.
That makes sense. And when the interrogation began about the TT insurance cards that allowed anyone to summon a TT squad, I started listening very carefully. Why? These cards are very useful rarities. First, they were created for an anonymous person, which meant that anyone could break it and call us. Secondly, they were paid for until the year 2100. And the last thing is that they still work, even though their production ended in 2050 when TT's entire business model changed. In short, a very useful thing you don't expect to see in the hands of the average netrunner nutjob.
When asked where he got them from, the prisoner told me that he dug up a hidden underground shelter near the border. There was some netrunner hiding in it, who died because of a failing life support system. The bones and scraps of clothing, and the general condition of the shelter hinted that it had not been visited for at least ten years, maybe even more. A chest was found in one of the caches, containing credit chips and insurance cards.
- Eh I expected him to tell us something more interesting than dead man's treasure. All right, guys. I'll go, I've learned everything I need to know, and let the bosses decide his fate. - I said goodbye to the TT interrogators and walked towards the exit, lighting a cigarette.
But I was not able to enjoy my cigarette because of an urgent call to Jeremiah. Throwing the half-smoked cigarette in the nearest trash can, I went to his office, muttering about the bosses who don't know how to rest, and don't let others relax.
Saying hello to the secretary, I asked him to notify the boss that I had arrived. Of course, I could have just barged into his office because of my status, but I prefer to behave in a more civilized manner. Especially since Jeremiah and I have a certain amount of mutual respect, and ruining his reputation with my piggish behavior doesn't seem right to me, at the very least. So I'm just gonna sit here and drink my poop coffee, Kopi Luwak.
Just as I was about to take my first sip, I was called into the office. Sighing, I put the cup on the table and went to Jeremiah's office. There waiting for me was the owner of the office and some jerk in a general's uniform with a look like he was doing us a big favor just by being in the same room with us.
- Marcus, this is General Huber. He's here on behalf of the US Armed Forces and wanted to hire the best team of TT Archangels to train Special Forces Parachute Rescue Teams, -Jeremiah introduced General and summarized the purpose of his visit to us.
- Greetings, General. - I extended my hand to the general, and he shook it with almost imperceptible disgust, as if he were a bum.
- Son. The country needs you. I hope you'll agree and help us. - And the general has good acting skills, not a grain of spite, but such a fatherly care and request with an emphasis on patriotism.
I smile, and I think to myself that no one really believes this nonsense about patriotism and helping the country. After several corporate wars, a shattered government image and outright separatism in every state, only outright idiots or brainwashed idealists will believe the president and his generals. It seems that this general is one of those who fought more often in Pentagon offices than on real battlefields, and relies only on the reports of analysts and marketers. If there were a real dog of war here, he would immediately discard all the nonsense that he told me here and start negotiating with a focus on the benefits. Yeah, so much for decades of negative selection, a general who thinks there's just a young mercenary who got his moment of glory, probably thanks to TT's PR department.
- I'll see what I can do about your request, General.
- You forgot to say 'sir,' young man - General threw an angry glare at me.
- 'I said I would think about it...General. - I looked at him with a steely stare, similar to the one my grandfather used to break the will of his opponent, laced with implicit aggression.
It was enough to make the hyena-general pale and confused. He somehow brought himself to order and, quickly saying goodbye, left the office.
After he left, I sat down in the vacant chair across from Jeremiah and arched an eyebrow questioningly, pointing to the ashtray. He sighed and nodded, hinting that he was letting me smoke.
- What do you think of our guest? - Jeremiah pulled out a bottle of whiskey and splashed some into his now-cooled coffee.
- You know, after he opened his mouth, I started looking for little hairs and white spots on his face. - Jeremiah looked at me questioningly, waiting for an explanation for my words.
- For such a lowlife to be promoted to general, he must be able to either be a good at sucking or licking the ass of his bosses. The usual slippery and cowardly rotten bastard. He also tried to address me as if I were a snot-nosed idiot who came to the recruiter's office and talked about patriotism - I briefly described my first impression of the general. - Reminds me of a hyena, a despicable, ugly creature that is alive as long as it can lick an ass and, in fact, practically powerless without its patrons.
- Eh, you're right. But as you point out, without his patrons, he's nothing. And he has them and apparently they've decided to promote their bitch higher, for which he needs to do something worthy. So he watched a video about Archangels and figured if he used our services, he can make it happen.
- It's idiotic. Let them steal less and stop hiring personal growth coaches for the officers. What can we teach these paratrooper rescuers? Different equipment, tactics and more.
- I know. Ron was swearing and saying it was bullshit. I'd like to give them up myself, but that would offend the owners of, as you put it, the hyena general. They're not the kind of people you want to have an argument with.
- Are they that dangerous?
- Ha ha, the problem is not that they are dangerous, the problem is that thanks to them we can get access to many important offices in all states, not just the White House or the Pentagon. Because of them, we can select worthy candidates for TT. Otherwise, Militech and Arasaka would take all the cream, and we'd have to work with the garbage that got kicked out for drinking or drugs.
- All right. Let's talk it over with Ron and the rest of my team. As long as that degenerate with the general's stars doesn't get in our way. Unless there's outright rot or entrapment, we'll just do our job as trainers and counselors. - He put out his cigarette and rose from his chair, walking towards the exit.
- Good. Thanks, Marcus. I don't really like that pseudo-general myself, but you have to work with clients like that one as well. - Jeremiah pours more whiskey into his coffee, hoping it will help him forget the unpleasant guest.
- Huh. Did we ever have it any other way? By the way, can I take those cards we got from the netrunner? - I turn around and ask Jeremiah.
- Yeah, take them. Give them to your buddies, but don't sell them to anyone else. If they appear on the market, and in large enough quantities, there will be some smart asses who will want to buy them and make fakes, to sell to idiots who have extra money.
- Got it. All right, I'll go think with the rest of you about how we can help McNamara's new generation of morons.
A couple hours later, an Air Force plane took us to the last U.S. stronghold in Central America, Panama. There, at a special operations forces base, we're supposed to do some training and counseling. Except that on arrival we were forced to jump into a huge pile of shit. Because no matter how tough we are, it's beyond possible to fight an entire base without ammo and guns.