Roland wasn’t sure why he’d disconnected himself from the Internet. It seemed to annoy other people, but he rather enjoyed it. His hindbrain had absorbed petabytes of data before he severed the link, so he’d never found himself needing to consult a Wiki to remember the equations behind the Coriolis effect, or a bullet’s trajectory. He could have walked from Canada to Venezuela without encountering a plant or animal, his distributed mechanical brain couldn’t name. The only downside to his situation was that he couldn’t keep up with politics or bleeding-edge military technology. He only gleaned that sort of information by experience or conversation. And, being a creepy, god-like being who sometimes circumcised trespassers, Roland didn’t have many conversations.

One of Jim’s aides ran up and handed Roland a paper-thin tablet. Jim directed him through a dozen satellite images of what looked like vehicle and ammunition depots. Roland’s hindbrain recognized the Dallas road systems immediately. A surge of sense memory hit him–

–FIRE so much fire, the smell of it only drowned out by the intense stink of thirty-thousand people panicking at the same time. Roland felt bullets dig into his flesh. He saw hate in the eyes of the advancing cops and felt a corresponding surge of glee as his brain started to pump out battle drugs. He squeezed his trigger–

Roland shook his head and pulled his mind back into the present moment. Jim frowned but didn’t say anything. He just pointed back at the tablet. Roland focused again. It appeared to be a satellite image of a defensive line in Dallas. He noted a large number of military vehicles piled into several parking garages.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Suit carriers,” Jim said. “A couple dozen of them.”

Roland shook his head. “Impossible. That’d be enough to support, what, six-hundred power-armored fighters? Those are nation-state numbers. I know the Republic of Texas is a shit-show, but there’s no way they’d let some insurgent militia build an army like that in their borders.”

“Maybe not,” Jim said, “maybe so. Truth told, I don’t care what’s parked in those garages. You blow ’em up, I get paid, and you get your fancy surgery.”

Roland felt uneasy. The job itself seemed too simple. The kill-team Jim had sent to wake Roland up probably could’ve done this job with a few reinforcements. It seemed weird that some nutbar extremists could get their hands on that many suits. Roland just didn’t trust the whole situation.

“Jim?” he asked. “Can you promise me this memory thing will work?”