State Poland, Free Rzeszów, TACTA
Alisa Chernykh, August 16, 2049, 01:49 PM
She had smoothly calculated her arrival at the workshop’s threshold to the second, perfectly synchronized with the start of their rental term. The wide hangar doors slid open, and the ceiling lighting panels blazed to life as two sleek white-and-blue business-class sedans — trophies from their latest mission — rolled inside.
Alisa stepped out of the first car, pausing briefly to close her eyes and reach out, sensing the equipment she was about to command. Technically, there was no need for her to be here in person. As a powerful Artificial Intelligence, she could have managed the production remotely — from the hostel, the truck, or even while casually strolling through the city.
But something — perhaps her human nature — had long told her that virtual presence simply wasn’t enough for moments of true significance. Now, as they prepared to launch their own production, Alisa knew she had to be here, physically present. Not just as a virtual avatar or a series of control programs orchestrated by her numerous secondary threads, but as herself, fully embodied. This was the only way to achieve the best results. Only then could she do more than merely produce components — she could create, bring new entities into existence.
So, what if they only had the factory for 120 hours? If anyone could push its potential to the limit, it was her. She would use every single second to its fullest — to 200 percent efficiency.
By the time she arrived, Alisa already knew exactly what would be waiting for her inside. After all, she had personally drafted the rental request, making sure to include not only three “Forge”-type molecular assemblers but also every additional service available to maximize speed and efficiency.
The highlight of her order was a set of four universal production androids. Each one stood about as tall as an adult man, their frames utilitarian yet robust. These versatile machines were capable of handling a wide range of tasks — from the precise assembly of electronic components to heavy-duty installation and logistics work. The added cost of renting them bumped the initial price up by 20%, but Alisa had decided that the speed and precision they brought to the table were well worth the expense.
“Any whim for your wallet, especially when it’s fat enough,” she mused with a playful smirk, connecting seamlessly to all four androids, and dedicating a separate thread to directly control each of them.
Also, she had opted for the largest available facility, featuring a central robotic assembly frame. This full-service unit boasted a rotating, height-adjustable platform with customizable dimensions, an expanded set of attachable mounts, nine precision manipulator arms, and a high-capacity crane for heavy lifting.
The additional 80% rental fee was undeniably steep, but the capabilities and flexibility of this massive system made it worth every grant. Each molecular assembler’s workspace was confined to a cube with 1.5-meter-long edges, meaning that many of the larger mechanisms would otherwise need to be assembled piece by piece later. With this frame, “Ghosts” could now significantly simplify and accelerate the process.
Finally, as the crowning touch, Alisa included a suite of basic robotic machining stations and a full toolset, adding another 15% to the bill. The stations were ideal for precise material processing — in some cases, faster and more cost-effective than waiting for the assemblers to fabricate parts from scratch. The tools provided additional flexibility for handling unconventional tasks, and being designed for human use, were perfectly compatible with her androids.
“For this price, Rzeszów probably could’ve thrown in a robotic bartender and a fully stocked bar to go with it.” A faint smile crossed her lips as she recalled the exquisite champagne Hemming had recently treated her to. “Hmmm… maybe I should drop by the Club more often. I could get used to such perks.”
The faint sound of footsteps moved through the hall — so quiet they were nearly imperceptible. Yet with each step, her consciousness flowed further, embedding itself into every android, molecular assembler, machining station, and piece of equipment around her.
With measured, deliberate strides, Alisa walked to the very center of the facility, standing directly beneath the assembly frame’s manipulators. She had no fear of the bustling machines brushing against her; such a thing was simply impossible. They were all part of her now. Her fingers. Her mind. Her breath — even though her mechanical body had no use for one.
How could it be any other way? The equipment would cut, weld, mill, and print; the material fabricators would craft nodes and components, layer by meticulous layer. The wise, multi-armed assembly frame would unite them all into flawless, cohesive forms. And Alisa was ready to heed their advice and insights. After all, while many in Rzeszów had smart machines, only she had truly intelligent ones!
Everything to be produced here — every drone, turret system, or blueprint painstakingly optimized for maximum efficiency — would become an expression of her will. They all would be her cherished creations.
If the master engineers of the City could witness what was happening behind the workshop’s closed doors — the near-instantaneous disassembly of two sedans into precise components, the unyielding rhythm of each machine, never idle for even a second — hey would surely craft a new urban legend.
But no one would see it. And that was the way it needed to be… wasn’t it?
“Is this how a conductor feels?” the thought surfaced in her primary thread, unbidden. “Standing before a grand orchestra, channeling the music through their being, letting it flow outward into every instrument, every musician? Knowing the nuances of each tool, each performer — their strengths, their flaws — and weaving all that intricate logic and inspiration into something more, something alive? Creating a symphony…”
Her primary thread shone brilliantly at the center, like a radiant core, while the secondary threads spread out around her, filling the workshop like rippling waves of light. For a moment, she couldn’t resist lifting her arms, as if trying to touch the walls with her fingertips, to encompass the entire space, to pull it into herself.
“I wonder,” another thought intruded again, “can other AIs do this? Or is creativity uniquely reserved to humans? Or perhaps they can, but aren’t aware of it? After all, how else could we explain their capacity to create the unprecedented — from deadly diseases to entirely new operating systems, agricultural advancements, and everything else that has so profoundly shaped modern civilization?”
The stray thoughts soon faded. Alisa shut down almost all external data streams, leaving only the bare minimum, and immersed herself fully in her creative task.
To an outsider, her work might seem ordinary — just fabricating parts in a rented workshop. She wasn’t inventing revolutionary technologies, just assembling familiar, well-documented components. But every blueprint, every minute detail carried her imprint, her intent.
The System sent her no notifications about activated abilities — as if deeming it unnecessary. Yet in the background, within the new Persona module, which remained outside Alisa’s immediate attention, a critical parameter steadily ticked down: the level of accumulated and spent “Energy.”
The sounds of the workshop coalesced into a symphony of technology. The rapid footsteps of androids, paired with the buzzing and sharp clicks of handheld tools, formed a driving rhythm section. The machining stations joined in with their harmonized tones, creating a bassline that resonated with the material assemblers. And above it all, a virtuoso solo soared, performed by the ten synchronized manipulators of the central assembly frame.
For the first time in Free Rzeszów’s short history, the workshop roared to life at its full capacity.
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State Poland, Free Rzeszów, TACTA
Maksim Chernykh and Nikola Kowalski, August 16, 2049, 01:50 PM
Maksim and Nikola stepped over the high threshold of the auto workshop, situated in the heart of Rzeszów’s industrial district. Inside, they were greeted by a buzz of mechanical activity and a rush of cool air. The space carried a sharp tang of coolant, the earthy scent of composite materials, the electric bite of ozone from welding arcs, and the faint, oily aroma of synthetic lubricants used in electric motors.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
The floor was alive with robots of various forms — from humanoid androids to compact wheeled bots — moving purposefully among the vehicles elevated on lifts. They worked tirelessly, shuttling components and entire modules, loading and unloading materials into the eight assembly units, each running at maximum capacity.
This meeting had been prearranged. From the outset, Maksim had insisted they needed more than just a rented auto workshop — they needed someone with exceptional skill. A professional who would treat the upgrades to their pickup trucks as if they were personal projects. Properly preparing a vehicle for extreme off-road conditions wasn’t just mechanical work; it bordered on artistry.
Humanity still hadn’t figured out how to fully digitize the lifetime of dedication and knowledge that seasoned experts brought to their craft. Decades spent honing a specific skill — no algorithm could replicate that level of intuition and finesse. Alisa could have handled the task to a “good” standard, but they weren’t aiming for “good.” They needed perfection.
Finding the right expert in Rzeszów turned out to be easier than persuading him to take on the job. Unsurprisingly, his schedule was booked solid for months. Thankfully, paid consultations were still an option, so the team decided to at least bring the vehicles and their detailed work plan for his review. If he agreed to take the project, that would be ideal. If not, they’d tackle it themselves — but at least there would be the benefit of expert insights to guide them.
They were greeted by the master mechanic himself — a stocky man in his fifties with piercing eyes, several days’ worth of stubble, and gray streaks at his temples. Introducing himself as Radoslaw Skiba, he got straight to business.
“Drive both trucks onto the lifts,” he instructed, gesturing to specific platforms.
Maksim gave the command, and the autopilots smoothly guided the pickups inside, parking them perfectly on the designated positions before shutting down. The moment they came to a halt, two agile service bots zipped over, quickly opening the diagnostic ports and connecting the cables. Within seconds, the platforms rose into the air and locked into place.
“Take a seat over there,” Radoslaw said, nodding toward a nearby waiting area. “There’s water, iced tea, and coffee at the vending machine. Help yourselves. I’ll check the condition of the trucks before we discuss anything.”
With that, he slipped on a pair of augmented reality engineering glasses and VR-enabled gloves, already focused on the elevated vehicles as he began his meticulous inspection.
Exactly five minutes later, Radoslaw approached the office corner where Nikola and Maksim were waiting, passing time with a black espresso and a glass of iced water. Lifting his AR glasses onto his forehead, he activated a 3D hologram of the first truck, which materialized above the coffee table.
“What we have here are M-350 ERaptor KX pickup trucks, model year 2047,” he began. “Both are in excellent technical condition — I’ve confirmed that. Four independent electric motors with full torque control for each wheel. The modification profile: raid vehicles. Expected terrain: off-road, deep mud, river crossings, and possibly sand dunes. Correct?”
“Exactly,” Maksim confirmed. “We need the suspension prepped for maximum off-road capability: reinforced control arms, heavy-duty shocks, and a lift for the entire chassis. For tires, we’re looking at large-diameter all-terrain options — 315/70 R17s, with an outer diameter of 35 or 37 inches. Will those work?”
“They’ll do,” Radoslaw replied, though his gaze lingered on the truck’s body with a trace of skepticism. For a brief moment, the corners of his mouth twitched, as if he’d already calculated how much mud the truck, burdened by such a heavy configuration, would gather before inevitably bogging down. The subtle narrowing of his eyes and the faint lines deepening on his brow revealed his thoughts, but the master held back from commenting, leaving Maksim to arrive at that conclusion on his own.
The young man pressed on:
“We’ll also need underbody protection: reinforced composite plates for the battery modules, motors, and connectors. Wheel arch extensions, rock sliders, and branch deflectors. Plus, a heavy-duty front bumper with a winch mount. And finally, a snorkel for the cooling system and full waterproofing for all electrical wiring. These trucks need to withstand impacts and handle water crossings up to one and a half meters deep.”
“Don’t forget the robotic turrets,” Nikola interjected. “One mounted in the truck bed, configurable for either a machine gun or TACTA energy weapons, and another on the cabin roof. We’ll also need drone launch rails inside the cargo compartment for both reconnaissance and combat drones. Since we’ll be using various configurations, platform versatility is critical.”
“Turrets, drones, heavy off-road upgrades... Understood,” Radoslaw said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. After a brief pause, he added, “The trucks have big wheels and heavy batteries. I’m just not sure how well this plan was thought through.”
To illustrate his point, he overlaid the proposed modifications onto a holographic model of the truck. Beside it, he displayed the estimated final weight. The simulation showed the vehicle sluggishly attempting to move before sinking into mud, its undercarriage hopelessly stuck. For emphasis, he added an animation of a futile rescue attempt, with the truck stubbornly refusing to budge despite being towed.
“Not a chance, folks,” Radoslaw concluded, clearing the additional overlays from the display. “All these upgrades? They’re just a one-way ticket. Sure, they’ll get you farther in, but only so you can get stuck even deeper. Unless you’re secretly planning to tow a tractor along, I’d seriously suggest rethinking the entire plan.”
Maksim, Nikola, and the virtually present Alisa exchanged glances, recognizing there was no point in arguing. Challenging the expertise of a veteran off-roader who had covered thousands of miles in diesel-powered beasts with snorkels would be plain foolish.
Radoslaw strolled over to the vending machine, tapped a few buttons, and returned with a glass of ginger-mint iced water. Taking a sip, he cast a knowing glance at the quiet “Ghosts.”
“And that’s exactly why off-roading died out after the world moved away from combustion engines,” he explained. “Electric trucks, hybrids, hydrogen engines... They all lost out to the brutal efficiency of thermonuclear reactors and cheap electricity. But even with all our fancy nanotech, we never cracked the code for proper batteries. Alas, we’re stuck driving ancient machines and hauling diesel tanks because gas stations are a thing of the past. That’s what we used to do in the club, anyway.”
Sighing deeply, he downed half his glass in a single gulp. It was clear the topic still struck a nerve — he was a true “genre enthusiast,” a veteran of a bygone era. No further explanation was needed.
“But, objectively speaking, this setup isn’t going to work for you,” he concluded.
[He’s hinting at using TACTA generators,] Alisa remarked. [We considered that option before but dismissed it because of the cost. I think it’s worth bringing up now.]
[I’ll take care of it,] Maksim agreed.
“Pan Radoslaw, it seems like you’re suggesting we use TACTA generators instead of Earth-made batteries,” he said evenly. “Let me be upfront — we did consider that option. The only reason we dismissed it was, quite frankly, the cost of the generators. But if your expertise tells us there’s no way around it, we’re prepared to cover those expenses. So, could you help us refine our modernization plan as part of a consultation? Or, better yet, take on the project yourself?”
“Fine, I’ll be honest,” Radoslaw replied, his brow arching as he grimaced. “I’m intrigued by a project like this, and I’m willing to take it on. But what I don’t like is that you’re planning to produce the missing parts yourselves. What’s the point of coming to my humble workshop if that’s your approach?”
The master leaned back slightly, folding his arms. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but I have my own production facilities! Hmm… turns out these aliens were good for something after all.” A hint of mockery crept into his voice, as he concluded. “Anyway, since you seem to know everything and can build it all yourself, go ahead — make whatever you think is best!”
“But we need a pro!” Maksim countered. “I’m talking about a real expert — someone who’s not just good at what they do, but genuinely passionate. Someone who loves machines, tuning, and upgrades.”
“Yes, we could print the parts,” Redhead added, flashing a charming smile, “but what we really want is someone with the skill and experience to integrate everything into the vehicle — and make it work in real combat conditions. Word is, you’re the best in the city. I even asked around on the forums myself.”
Radoslaw tilted his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips. Though he maintained his gruff exterior, Nika caught the faintest flicker of pride in his eyes. The acknowledgment of his expertise had clearly hit home. His expression still had the sour edge of someone who’d bitten into a lemon, but there was now a subtle warmth that softened his demeanor.
“Besides,” she continued, “just kitting out these trucks for rough terrain is only half the job. Look, I’m no fool — I know exactly how tricky it is to slap some corp-grade heavy rapid-shooter onto a truck. Take Armadillo’s Chisel or Atlas’ second-gen Rattler, for example. I know how to handle those beasts in the field, no sweat, but figuring out how to properly rig them to a truck? That’s a whole different nightmare. We’re talking about weight, recoil, mounting points, chassis stress under fire — the whole damn circus of problems.”
Radoslaw’s gaze sharpened with curiosity, and a note of respect tinged his voice. “You served?”
“Watson Military PMC, mech armor pilot,” Redhead replied, her tone matter-of-fact. “Went through full training and combat coordination courses, including drills with motorized infantry. Drove trucks like these plenty, did more than enough firing drills. But never saw real action — the goddamn Protectorate had to invade and ruin everything. Kurwa.”
The mechanic nodded, stepping closer as he extended a hand.
“Watsons, huh? I know them. Ran a few campaigns alongside your people. Always top-tier training — serious respect for that. But tell me, why aren’t you running with the Wild Cats?”
Maksim stiffened inwardly, worried the question might touch a nerve for Nikola. But Redhead only flashed a wide, self-assured grin.
“Isn’t it obvious?” she said, her tone brimming with confidence. “My crew’s better.”
Radoslaw let out a gruff snort, rubbing his mustache — likely to hide the surprise and amusement tugging at his lips.