Partly, it was the make and model of the ships.

Partly, it was the insignia, a red sword and shield hovering over a golden star, painted on their gunmetal gray sides.

But the strongest indicator that Ruff may have had everything wrong was the tetracarbon-suited troopers dropping down from said ships, descending on the crowd like they were performing a choreographed dance number.

He and Nizumi were transfixed on the action.

Soldiers poured down slick nucleon ropes like spiders on a string of web, hitting the ground and taking cover behind any apparatus they could find: Speaker cabinets, turned-over merchandise tables, even Blue Bowl™ machines filled with energy supplements, though these ended up being shoddy cover because lasers were punching right through the cans within, showering what was left of a panicking crowd with caffeine and guarana extract.

It was a battlefield of chaos as fans were running towards all directions, trying to avoid both soldiers and those who had initiated the shooting.

Ruff focused on a particularly pudgy kid who confirmed that the girl from Chubb's may not have been so high after all. Pudgy was running, or rather, waddling around. His belly bounced up and down until it could no longer be contained by his tie-dyed Rob "Reggae Mon" Charley t-shirt, revealing its pale and hairy glory. It was the only fluid part of a body that appeared as stiff as a board and from the kid's eye (Ruff was certain it was his left eye) came red laser after red laser. They were flying in the direction of the troops, though seemingly without any particular target in mind.

One of the soldiers popped out from behind a canvas-covered pretzel stand and fired in response. A direct hit to the groin and Pudgy collapsed.

"They're killing these kids!" Ruff said.

"Not killing, just stunning."

Ruff turned around and saw four people standing behind him and Nizumi. Three were towering Temelians and Ruff wasn't about to try and guess their gender. The other was an older man, maybe in his fifties, sporting a flattop and wearing a blue-and-gray military uniform with enough bling across his chest to make Ruff twinge with envy. He seemed completely relaxed with his hands in his pockets.

"Nizumi," he said with a smile, "is this what you've been reduced to?" The soldier indicated Ruff with his elbow.

She said nothing, only giving him a glassy stare.

"We need you both to come with us," he said.

Ruff looked at Nizumi for affirmation. Her eyebrows indicated that they had better comply.

---

The whole crew was in the large dressing room they shared with Cubicle before the show. They were lined up on a sofa from big to small like those old Russian dolls.

Cubicle was sitting on Sasha's (or Masha's) lap like a child, sucking on a pacifier. He'd obviously been 'medicated' and was trying not to grind his teeth. The man had no shame.

Sandwiched between Metsk and Sanchez, Tumble looked dejected with his head in his hands.

Finally, Dado, Poindexter, and Sharky finished the line-up. Poindexter was holding a wet cloth against Sharky's forehead. He flinched slightly when he saw Nizumi walk in, but Dado and Poindexter tried to soothe him.

The Federation had already taken over the room. Plastic cups littered every counter. Ten, maybe fifteen, soldiers spoke over each other into nanosets while status reports came in left and right.

"You want to tell us what's happening here?" Nizumi asked the man who led them.

"Have a seat," he said. "Can I get you some coffee?"

"No," Ruff said. "You can't get us some coffee and you can't make us take a seat."

The soldier looked at him and smiled. "Suit yourself." He turned to one of his Temelian adjutants. "The usual."

The Temelian walked away, leaving the other two hovering behind.

"Do you want the short version or the long version?"

"Look, Colonel Flattop, give me whatever version explains why you're ruining what was going to be one of the better performances of my career and why kids are trying to kill me by shooting lasers out of their eye."

The 'Colonel Flattop' quip seemed to annoy him. "It's Captain Desmond, and you damned hip-hoppers have egos the size of Sol. No one's trying to kill you. In fact, that's why the program was discontinued."

"Huh?"

The previously dispatched Temelian returned and handed Desmond his cup of coffee. He took a long, annoying slurp.

"Exploring the galaxy is dangerous work. There's a jerk in every neighborhood. Back in the old days, everything in our solar system was a known quantity. But we've been expanding so quickly, we don't know what we're bound to run into. So, some genius Federation bureaucrat decided a couple of decades ago that we ought to have the means to deal with any hostile forces at any time with the slightest amount of notice.

"The project was dubbed Conscription 2.0. 'The draft without the hassle,' is still burned into my memory banks." Captain Desmond took another sip of coffee as if it would wash away a bad taste.

"Anyway, a random number of babies born between the years 2111 and 2116 had nanochips implanted in their skulls, each one connected to various parts of their anatomy."

"Man," Ruff interrupted, "that cannot have been legal."

"Legal is as simple as a digital pen stroke. It was all above water. You don't have kids, so you wouldn't know, but there's a mountain of legal documentation that parents are forced to sign before the hospital will release a child into their custody. It was all in the fine print that their child might be randomly selected for beta testing.

"Of course, like any ridiculous idea dreamed up by some fatcat politician with an excess of money but an absence of brain matter, it was a failure from the start. The chip work had been outsourced to Chinilium, and since the marching orders from these types of projects are always 'Ready, Fire, Aim,' these pieces of junk had already been rolled out to a significant portion of the population. By the time it was determined that enough Federation funds had been pissed down the drain and that these new citizen-soldiers wouldn't work out as well as hoped, many of these kids were already enrolled in school and living their lives without a clue of what was in their body."

"It's a familiar story, Desmond," Nizumi said, "But why now? What's causing these kids to...activate?"

"That's where you all come in. The scientists and sponsors agreed that the best way to trigger the function was to use a combination of tones that were unlikely to be emitted from any source other than the government. If the time came, there was a procedure to send them through ID Cubes and nanosets. Well, apparently they did a piss poor job of choosing the trigger, believing no one would dare think of violating the Federation Statutes on Audio and Visual Performances."

As if through some magnetic force, everyone looked toward Tumble.

His head didn't move, but his eyes shifted around looking for a means of escape.

"Man," Ruff said. "You tweaked the 808 during the breakbeats, didn't you?"

Tumble pursed his lips, gazed at the floor, and shrugged.

"How did you know it was going to happen in Chubb's?" Nizumi asked.

Ruff thought back to the girl's story of her boyfriend--Daniel?--getting carried away by a couple of big guys.

Captain Desmond snorted. "Luckily, one of the scientists working on the project has horrible taste in music. He detected it when he downloaded your latest album and warned us as soon as he saw your Twister message go out."

"So what do we do from here?" Ruff asked the Captain. The room was still humming with activity. Muted sounds of hoverships wavered just outside.

"You don't do anything except sign this pile of electronic forms," he said. One of his Temelians handed Ruff a small tablet. "You and your DJ will consent to having your album pulled from every distribution network and deleted from every traceable Cube. The original cuts, as well as tracks in your possession, will also be destroyed."

Tumble released an audible howl.

Unbelieveable, Ruff thought. A thriving career single-handedly put in jeopardy, not by new trends or shady managers, but by a goddamn combination of tones.

"You're making a lot of noise out there," Ruff said. "How are you going to keep this from getting out?"

"The standard Federation Procedure. We'll blitz the news sources with one of our false narratives. Space terrorists, probably. Mothers Against Hip-Hop. Of course, we'll have to seed some conspiracy theorists to balance things."

"And if I don't sign this?" Ruff said, holding the tablet out as if it was one of his post-show, sweat-drenched undershirts.

"I'm sorry. You seem to be under the impression that we're asking. If we catch word that you have a leaky ship--" Desmond looked around the room "--we'll dispatch someone to patch it."

The rest of the night became a blur to the exhausted MC. He and Cubicle exchanged no words as the chump slinked off quietly at some point with his girls and Poindexter. Sharky was still on edge, keeping a polite distance from Nizumi. The only consolation for Ruff that evening was seeing a fully-functioning Fly Honey waiting for them at a nearby spaceport.

Everyone boarded in silence and, except for Ruff and Nizumi, went their separate ways. The two of them slumped down onto the leather couches.

"You knew that dude?" he asked.

"We've worked together in the past," she said and left it at that.

Ruff took a long, deep breath. "As crazy as this has all been, I'm glad it's over."

"Yeah," Nizumi said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "Me too."

"Don't worry," he said, putting a comforting hand on her arm. "I'm sure there will be more ridiculously fantastic action for you to come and save me from."

---

Tumble fiddled faders and twiddled knobs behind the engineering console. Instead of a Roland 808 bass drum, the DJ plugged in a sharper sample--more along the lines of the 505. Ruff stood in the isolation booth, feeling his warm breath reflect off the hanging microphone. He monitored the track through a pair of black, over-the-ear headphones. Like any good artist, he weaved the truth into his craft.

Yo, take a step back,

while we wind up for the attack.

We'll take control of your brain,

Drive ya'll insane.

Some bustas thought that they could lase us,

but, yo, them fools don't faze us.

Doesn't matter if you're terrorists,

Ruff's spittin' rhymes like fists.

So, set your phasers on stun,

and let's have some fun.

Ruff and Tumble,

will always be Number One.