Organization

1

A blast of laser light illuminates the ill-furnished room, revealing two naked female bodies. Dead butterflies. I killed them ten minutes ago, in an unexpected moment of cold reason. Then, to be honest, the man should have been shot. Only a miracle saved me from his scream after the shots, and it was completely unnecessary to torture him. Miracle. Or - the holy certainty of the victim that Ernest A.N. will not touch his old friend?

Funny.

I come closer. The last shot was a little blurry. Not so surprising, given that yours truly beat the deceased for most of those ten minutes. Knocked down the knuckles, bent the neuroshocker, scared the neighbors of a very decent condominium. Slightly went over the adrenaline, in general. In three minutes, people will be bold enough to call the local security service.

Who is guarding them there now? Agni Corp? Half-dead "Gagan"? Maybe the ruthless Knox? Spit.

Stool. The only place in this damn apartment that wasn't splattered with empty brains and dirty blood. Great place to pick up a pipe. Open a fresh pouch of tobacco, stuff it tightly into a cup and smoke. For completeness of calmness, only a sultry beauty and a can of Troca were missing. But no, she was beautiful. Slightly incomplete after a hit in the neck and a control in the head. But there was.

Behind the wall some rustling began. Your obedient servant slightly underestimated the enemy. Flaw. However, not so critical. If the Organization keeps its word, at least three pipes can be smoked. Indeed, in this case, no one will come to the call of the panicked inhabitants. You can not even burn the apartment, but leave it smashed and heavily strewn with evidence. They won't lead to anyone.

Was it worth it?

And how.

Betrayal pays off with betrayal.

To be honest, I would rather shoot at least two more from the same group instead of girls. It’s not that he was once an ideological anarchist, but these particular officers decently annoyed me. And the City too. Small bosses suddenly decided that they could manipulate human destinies, like cards in a cheap gambling house. I was one of those cards. Ernest Andreas N. "N", by the way, is the full surname.

Where did it start?

When I went to the terminal and saw the color segregation?

Or when one of the alien creatures recognized me almost as one of its own, propping up my hand when issuing a “bead” and patting me encouragingly on the shoulder?

Or maybe it all started back in the metropolis?

I dont know. It's very hard for me to disengage from what happened. Even in my own head, I build events slightly ... from the outside. Sorry veteran.

But perhaps it all started a month and a half before my arrival. In a place called "The Lair". With him I will begin my confession.

Don't judge.

Interlude 0

Location: One hundred and ten kilometers from the geographical center of the City

Location: One hundred meters below ground level. "Lair".

Time: One month prior to the Candidate's arrival.

A dark-clothed figure stood motionless by a holopanel that occupied a large wall. The dull blue light emitted from the eye implant was reflected in the matte surface, but the person was not disturbed by this. He had to look at the night city lying behind the glass. In any case, according to the canonical patterns of the same old-earth literature that the Master sometimes entertained. Namely, he was a terrifying man of many. But at a depth of one hundred meters there was no panoramic window, so I had to be satisfied with the interactive map of the City.

Subordinates at times glanced sideways at their terminals, sighed in relief (there are no critical situations) and continued to deal with current affairs. The leadership feels a serious danger, well, that's what the leadership is for. In the City, many critical situations had already happened that evening already. There is something to worry about.

However, even the current situation completely suited the "owners". As well as endless immigration, an excess of Chartists, and the presence of many independent security forces. If they wished, they would crush them all, like a helpless langus in a puddle. But even some of the "masters" would be unpleasantly surprised to find themselves in the "Lair" of the Organization. Especially - in the third, "operational" block.

Sitting in the first level (the smallest) in rows, operators found or recorded any anomalous or suspicious event. They listened, watched or broke police networks. Read hundreds of network notes from small scammers and large landings. carefully entered into the database.

Below-level machine specialists fed events into the global agenda, recorded infiltration attempts into the Organization's systems, and deepened the digital defense system. The constant beeping of communicators here was replaced by the tapping of fingers on archaic keys and the quiet hum of cooling systems, sometimes optimistic melodies. The machinists sometimes needed to relax, so in the intervals between their immediate duties, they played darts in whole departments or ran in a crowd to neighboring departments. Helping with technical support at times, cursing, but mostly smoking cigarettes and chatting for a long time.

And right below them, the analysts were already making noise, stubbornly arguing, smoking a lot and drinking coffee in commercial quantities. But in the end, they wrote a detailed analysis of the situation. Or corrected the old one. Or they added an alternative scenario. The finished report was already waiting for the silent curators, coolly waiting in the semi-darkness of the fourth level. The lion's share of situations , as they were called here, was given to them .

However, the man standing at the holopanel did not need the lion's share. And the hare too. Today the Third Master was preoccupied not with a critical, but with a very sensitive problem.

The organization needed to replenish its ranks. And replenish qualitatively.

“Master…” Katerina, something between an analyst and a refrent, decided to interrupt him. She was the only person who was obliged to let each bodyguard from among the "personal guard" of the leader. With no exceptions. Whatever she carried with her - at least an activated thermonuclear warhead.

"Cocoa," the Master muttered back, staring at the map with flashing red dots of urban violence.

“Sorry,” the assistant began, embarrassed, “but there are three urgent reports. Redistribution of the market of "guest" drugs, a possible revolt of the Josers, as well as...

"And I need cocoa," Third replied stubbornly, finally turning to her. The rest can wait five minutes, can't it?

“That’s right,” Katerina blushed and ran away into the darkness. For sure - in the economic block adjacent to the operational one. Or maybe just to the analysts. They also sometimes drank cocoa.

So replenishment.

As for nonhumans, the plan is generally observed. An unfortunate misunderstanding remains the absence of informants among the Asakku and the Corduli . But the former stubbornly refuted the phrase “information exchange” with their existence, while the latter basically tried to devour agents. Some data on them came - and excellent. Gaps were leveled by regular denunciations. It's funny, but most of the informers did not understand at all who exactly they were reporting to. A plethora of burgeoning security services played into the Organization's hands here.

But in terms of people... Agents of all categories dropped out at an alarming rate, even ippies. Profession specifics. Multiple risks superimposed on the risks of false lives, in professional jargon - masks. Something had to be done about this. Urgently. Yes, perhaps this is exactly the problem that has been bothering him lately.

“Katerina,” the Master said to the girl who approached, without looking, taking away a giant mug of cocoa. Cinnamon.

Yes, Master? - she cheerfully responded, as if she had not run headlong, throwing away experienced operatives and disheveled analysts.

- At what stage is the next selection of candidates?

“Operation Candidate 128 is in the preparatory phase. There are about four hundred individuals in the field of view, potentially suitable for direct work for the Organization.

- Why so few? the leader asked after a short pause.

- After clarifying the psychological portrait and data from the Metropolis, already one hundred and fifty people were eliminated. I guess there will be more in the future.

- Disgusting.

The assistant bowed her head subtly.

- You have no complaints. But hint to the selection department that if the history of the twenty-seventh repeats itself, I will be very unhappy. In the meantime, please bring me the profiles of…” The Master grimaced, “of persons we are interested in.

He did not wait for an answer, and was already thinking of reprimanding the distracted assistant, but his gaze finally caught on the information tablet held by the calm Katerina.

The 127th set was not bad. However, the mortality of its finalists was well above the standard for the Organization. Someone fell through and was killed. Mostly an adversary, but some of their own - as a disclosed carrier of sensitive information or as an attempt to work "on the side." Some just showed themselves very grey. An artisan, not a creator. And craftsmen made bad agents.

Without interrupting his reading, the Master went to a chair in the atrium (where the lowest level seating area was equipped) and sank heavily into it. Without looking up, he asked:

- In your opinion, are there any favorites?

- From three dozen. Mostly ex-siloviki...

“Which will have to be weaned from breaking firewood,” the leader grumbled.

“... but there are also scientists, white and blue collar workers, personalities associated with the Navy, as well as adventurers with fairly strong moral principles,” Katerina blurted out.

“Hmm, quite a wide range. Pass it on: I approve of diversification. As long as you're free, thanks.

On the twentieth dossier of "a person in whom the Organization is interested," the Master broke down and glanced over the events that accompanied the initiation of previous candidates. Surprised. Uploaded the twenty-sixth set. Twenty fifth. Yes, this is it, he thought. Each time we let the selection take its course more and more. It is not surprising that in the end the whole selection went down the drain for Nammung.

The Third Master stood up resolutely and headed for the elevator. It's time to make noise among the curators. Something they clearly something relaxed. Let them work not just as a transmission link from management to agents, but break their heads over solving a non-standard problem.

"Master, what do you owe?" Phillipos, the senior curator, greeted him gloomily as he stepped away from the information board. His subordinates jumped up from their seats and stood at attention. The third winced.

- At ease! Get to work... I, Phillipos, have come to the conclusion that it is necessary to correct the program of indoctrination of our candidates. Previous campaigns were, in my opinion, damp.

“It seemed to me that it was already quite complex,” Philippos raised an eyebrow. He could afford such a liberty. Unlike many others.

“Indeed,” the Master narrowed his eyes, looking at some diagram. “However, we have left too much at the mercy of fate. Time to make her work for us, don't you think?

The senior curator bowed his head. He understood the unspoken task. True, how to approach him - has not yet figured out.

- Good. I expect your proposals in a week, no longer.

Without saying goodbye, the Third passed through the room of analysts. Responded to a couple of suggestions for optimization. Took five info-slates. I received a couple of requests of a personal nature (I marked one in my memory “to give a scolding to personnel officers”). He went down back to the "minus six" level, imperceptibly cheered up. The elusive problem that has plagued him all morning has been identified, and the best minds on this planet will begin to work on neutralizing it. He had no doubts about his team.

If everything works out the first time, then in six months he will have a dozen good agents. Not on the level of "Black" Tony or "Raging" LaMotta, oh no. Just good, trained agents. Able to uncompromisingly (perhaps even painfully) implement the will of the Organization, but not break.

In any case, this time will be different.