“Relax, man,” said Clive, waving a hand downward. “This is just a fan on his way out.”

At that, the new arrival softened his stance. He walked up to Ian and put out his hand. “Well, a fan of Clive deserves my gratitude, too. Iʼm one of the tour managers.” He spread his arms apart. “The situation in the city is holding up the band. Iʼve been sent to try and get the matter resolved.”

“Anything I can help with?” asked Ian.

“No. The curfew complicates things, but I have a means of getting around. Permits and the like. Iʼm sure even in uniform you had to get your own pass.”

Ian nodded. “Yeah, I gotcha.” He gestured back at Clive. “Thanks again for talking to me after the show. Hopefully, next time itʼs a mob waiting for you.”

Clive frowned. “They all feared the curfew. And maybe you.”

Ian scrunched his eyebrows at that. “Well, Iʼll get out of your way then. Good luck. And thanks for being awesome.”

He walked across the cafeteria to the front entrance of the building. The combat system in his implant fired up. Numeric figures and maps overlaid his vision. The threat sensor flashed alarm. Enemies stacked up outside the door. He ran back into the cafeteria.

“Guys! Get the fuck down!”

The front doors exploded inward. Ian ducked down and covered his ears, his threat reaction system protecting him from the flash bang. After the burst, Ian looked over to see Clive doing the same thing. Was he wired? The manager had stayed up and took the full concussive force.

Ian heard the boots on the tile floor before he saw them. He rolled around to see his own forces storming into the cafeteria in full plate armor. They lit up the manager. The smell of blood and cordite filled his hyper-activated senses.

“Cease fire! Thereʼs civilians in here!”

Ian looked over to see Clive crawling under the cafeteria tables towards the stage. The fire team split and moved up either side of the tables. Ian switched to infrared and saw their weapon lights playing across the tables. One of them fixed a light on Clive. A pair moved up to his position.

“Stop!”

More shots filled the cafeteria, the supersonic cracks deafening despite the suppressors. What the fuck were his people doing? Ian felt sweat drip down his face as he lay on his side. What the fuck were they doing?

One of the soldiers marched up to Ian. He held out a hand. “Sergeant,” said the soldier, his voice artificial through his mask.

Ian stared at the soldierʼs hand, then accepted it. The burning scent of cordite gave way to the sticky sweet smell of death. He saw flashing lights through the windows and stepped outside. Police set up barricades on either side of the street, and stood away from the military personnel. In front of him, an ambulance parked itself behind the coronerʼs van. A medic rushed up to him with a scanner. Ian put up his hand.

“Iʼm fine,” said Ian. “Thereʼs two downed civilians inside.”

The medic ran his scanner up and down Ianʼs body. “Iʼm not here for them.” He pointed at the coronerʼs van, a civilian vehicle on lease to the UN occupying forces. When the medic finished, Ian walked over to the command APC in the street between the two blockades. Captain Rourke stepped out from the APC and Ian saluted.

“Sergeant Taylor,” said Rourke. “Iʼm glad to see you made it through okay. Though I doubt those special forces wouldʼve made a mistake.”

“Special forces?” Ian looked over the UN armored personnel carrier behind Rourke. Through the open side door, he saw comms officers in bulky seats with wires running down to their headsets. They held their arms above them as they navigated a sea of data. The spec ops team mustʼve parked a stealth carrier at the corner of the block, like any good assault team.

“Iʼm sorry,” said Ian. “But why are special forces interested in an underground rock star?”

Rourkeʼs smile revealed large and squared teeth. “They werenʼt initially after the musician. The man who claimed to be his tour manager got tracked to the city. Heʼs on the blacklist of known terror suspects.” Rourkeʼs grin faded. Only select officers and special forces could access the blacklist.

Ian had stumbled into something deep.

“Once we saw him with Clive Wales we corroborated photos and found Wales to be a match with another blacklist subject.”

Ian felt a cold shock run through him. His nerves strained from the post-adrenaline dump. “Howʼd that happen?” Ianʼs hands started to shake. “Iʼve been listening to this guy for over a decade. Shit, I planned on going to college for music because of him, before the war broke out overseas.” He felt lightheaded.

Rourke put a hand on Ianʼs shoulder. “I know this is tough to swallow. I know you probably joined to protect people like him. The artists and innovators that keep us motivated out on the frontlines.”

Holding back tears, Ian stared into Rourkeʼs eyes. Like hell he was gonna cry in front of a captain. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Rourke dropped his arm and took a step back towards the APC. Ian looked towards the building heʼd come out of. He expected someone to walk through the front door.

“Hey, wait a sec,” said Ian. “Shouldnʼt the coroner have come out by now?”

Rourke gazed off at the building, his mouth halfway open. “I guess it wonʼt hurt for you to know this. Cliveʼs consciousness is imprinted onto a military grade cube. The coroner opted to extract his cube on the spot in case there are erasure programs.”

Ian shuddered at the thought of virtual suicide. Once soldiers reached a certain rank, the UN offered to imprint the soldier’s consciousness onto a small cube-shaped supercomputer embedded in their skull. If their body was destroyed, numerous bases had cloned bodies on hand. Ian helped oversee one of them on the other side of the city. The cloned bodies all looked the same.

“So how the hell did a civilian get access to that kind of tech?” If Clive helped the terrorists, then it made sense to put some protection in place for their asset. They could have multiple copies of Clive running around. Why would he get involved with those people? What did he know that Ian didnʼt?

Rourke raised his chin. “Donʼt forget that the tech existed in the civilian world years before the UN licensed it. The only innovation we contributed was making it affordable.” He shrugged. “We could probably make a fortune if we put the streamlined process on the market. But as it sits right now itʼs not illegal for someone to get a cube implanted or even duplicate our process. The cube was stolen from our barracks, based on what the coroner communicated to me, and its UN serial number.”

Ian nodded and crossed his arms. Clive could do a lot of damage with a supercomputer in his head. He could run stock scams for the terrorists, or hack himself into the government systems of every city he toured. No computers or interfaces for police searches to find. Wait a second. Hacking.

“I didnʼt see any security cameras in there or detect any with my sensors,” said Ian, waving his hand at the building. “You sneak some micro drones in there?”

Rourke revealed his horse teeth again. “Nah. We had no time to deploy something like that. We knew the manager was in town to meet some kind of artist. So we tapped into the eyes of all the soldiers at events in uniform.”

Ian felt his ears flash with heat. “I didnʼt authorize use of my visuals. You know the UN has sanctions against that.”

“Thatʼs right,” said Rourke, still showing those massive teeth. “But we donʼt need to ask permission if it might compromise operational security.”

Fucking op sec. The thought of someone looking through his eyes without him knowing sent fire to Ianʼs veins. “Youʼve got some good spooks on hand if my sensor package didnʼt pick that up.”

“Any software you buy from the military, I have a switch to turn it off.” His smile eased back a little, covering those fucking teeth. “You can shop in the civilian market, but I do have guys on hand for that kind of stuff.”

Ian took a breath. He’d sold his soul to the UN anyway. The fuck did it matter if privacy was an illusion? “Sure thing, Captain. But I’ve got to know, what did Clive get himself into? I gotta know because I watched them gun down a helpless man right in front of me. That might not ever sit well with me.”

Rourke stared at Ian for a moment. Ian knew the captain’s eyes had witnessed many atrocities. Some he committed, with or without knowledge. The curse of never knowing your leadersʼ true intentions.

“Iʼve already told you all I can. The answers will have to come with time.”

Op sec. “Oh well. I need to catch a nap anyway before morning duties.”

“Yes. Get some sleep. Iʼll get you answers when the security is lifted.”

They saluted and said their goodbyes. One of the special forces guys waved at Ian like a tourist as he left. Weirdo. When he reached the blockade, he accepted a police officerʼs ride back to base. He sat in the passenger seat and tried to put the pieces together. Rourkeʼs men shot Clive for a reason. A reason Ian needed to know. Maybe Clive stumbled into this? Civilians were tricked by terrorists to do all kinds of awful things. Or maybe he really did commit something atrocious.

An idea formed in Ianʼs mind. He could still talk to Clive.