Exo-Hunter

by Jeremy Robinson

  “Where should I start?” Will says to himself. “Okay. So. Ummm…”

  Brick sighs, leans forward, elbows on the table, obscuring my view of his son. “The civil unrest that eventually led to the Union as we know it started in the early two thousands. There was an uprising in the United States. A second civil war, only far messier than the first. There were no dividing lines. North and South. There were white supremacists, along with those who did their bidding out of fear and propaganda, and everyone else.”

  “I don’t understand how any of that is possible,” Chuy says.

  We’ve heard the watered-down version of this before. It’s never made much sense. The detailed version even less so. How did people go from being quietly racist, but on the right track, to openly white supremacist?

  “The 80s were one of the last sane decades,” Brick says.

  “The eighties were a sane decade?” I ask, my mind flicking to Cold War aggression, the proliferation of nuclear arsenals, and the popularity of Pee Wee Herman.

  “By twenty-thirty, many politicians and military leaders were closet Nazis. Racist judges were appointed. Gerrymandering ensured political victories. Laws began to change. Hate festered. The country fractured. The newly oppressed began to organize a resistance. Peaceful demonstrations. Protests. Art, music, and movies helped change hearts and minds. The pendulum started swinging back to center.

  “But the powers that be weren’t about to give up the influence they’d spent so long fostering. Martial law led to more protests, which turned violent. After a year of watching people get gunned down for exercising their constitutional rights, a more formal resistance emerged, united under a leader willing to make the hard calls.

  “The resistance pushed back hard. They were joined by several nations from around the globe, kicking off World War III. But the majority of the U.S. military was controlled by a group who began referring to themselves as the True Union, claiming to represent real American values while making a mockery of the first Civil War’s Union army.

  “Despite the odds being stacked against them, the resistance was difficult to defeat. The lack of clear sides meant the U.S. nuclear arsenal was sidelined. So, the resistance fought smart, using guerrilla tactics inspired by the Minutemen, who helped defeat the British in the Revolutionary War. In fact, the name stuck, and since then, the resistance…or insurgency…has used the Minutemen name.”

  “It is a cool name,” I say.

  “You thought so back then, too,” Brick says.

  “Whatchu talkin’ about, Willis?” I ask. It just slips out. Haven’t said it in years. But it makes Brick smile, and his son leans out over the table.

  “Huh?” Will says. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “It’s an expression from the 80s,” Brick tells him, and then he turns back to me. “The Minutemen’s leader from twenty thirty-three to twenty forty was formerly a United States General. He led the Minutemen until he was killed, along with most other people not pure Aryan enough to survive the Union’s plague. But his children, and their descendants, along with thousands of others, had a natural immunity to the plague. While the Union rebuilt, the Minutemen recovered in secret, until they were discovered, and the cycle of death and destruction repeated.

  “When the Union discovered slew technology, they finally got the upper hand, slaughtering or capturing Minutemen until the war was effectively over. As the Aryan population boomed, the Union turned their eyes to the sky and used the last of the Minutemen to populate Beta-Prime.

  “All of the people here are their descendants, including those of the General, who very nearly defeated the Union.”

  “Really?” Will asks, sounding surprised. “Who are his descendants?”

  “And who was the General?” I ask.

  Brick looks at his son and says, “In answer to the first question—you.” Then he turns to me and adds, “In answer to the second question—you.”

  32

  “What do you mean, me?” I ask. “I’m here. In the future. How could I possibly lead a resistance at the turn of the century?”

  “I’m not a scientist,” Brick says. “I don’t pretend to understand all this stuff, but it has something to do with alternate and diverging timelines. There might be an infinite number of possible realities. By bringing you here, we created a world where none of us existed to fight the early Union. And I mean we. You led the rebellion, but we were all there with you. Most of us didn’t survive to see the plague, though. You two did.”

  He motions his finger between me and Chuy.

  “But that’s not our history. In this timeline, you both fought the Union in the past, and are here in the present.”

  My mind is blown. This…is insane.

  But it also makes sense. Because, of course I would have fought the Union. And I was on track to make General someday. It’s just hard to imagine rebelling against the country I served for so long. It’s also hard to imagine that the United States, founded on the principles of equality for all, would become a haven for Nazis.

  Looks like I’m not the only one in shock. Will is staring at the tabletop. He hasn’t blinked.

  “Your kid okay?” I ask Brick. “Looks like he’s having a stroke.”

  Brick gives his son a quick once over. Has a good laugh. “He’s just figuring out what you missed.”

  “I missed something?” I ask.

  “Big something,” Drago says.

  “Very big something,” Chuy adds.

  Will snaps out of his daze. “You’re not messing with me, right? This is for real?”

  “Not messing with you,” Brick says.

  “Yes!” Will says.

  My patience is wearing thin. My life has been a series of reality bending revelations lately. I’m not really in the mood for more suspense. “Can someone please explain what—”

  “You’re my grandfather,” Will says to me. “My great, great, great, etcetera grandfather.”

  I just stare at him for a moment. Then I look at Brick.

  He nods. “Sara was a descendant of yours.”

  I sit back in my chair, body slack. “Huh…”

  “Weird,” Brick says. “I know. But I didn’t know when we got together.”

  My eyes shift back to Will again. I can’t tell if I see myself in him or not. Whatever DNA I donated to his gene pool has been watered down by a thousand years.

  Will gasps, some kind of new revelation birthing into his mind like a message from God. “Wait. That means…”

  “Will,” Brick says, but his son is oblivious to the verbal warning.

  Will looks at Chuy. “That means you’re my great, great, great, etcetera—”

  “Will!” Brick shouts.

  The kid’s mouth clamps shut, but it’s too late. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out what Will was going to say, or what it means.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Chuy asks. “Is it true?”

  There have been three intensely awkward moments in my life. The first was when I was walking by a motel on my way home from school. There was a shortcut behind the building. I looked through a window and was spotted by the woman inside. She was buck naked. By the following week, there was a fence. The second moment was when my parents walked in on me as a teenager. I was working out…also naked. Up until the minute they died, they believed I was choking one out.

  And now, here I am at my third most awkward moment ever, discovering that I am a great, great, great etcetera grandfather, and that the woman with whom I sired my good friend’s wife’s ancestors—that’s a mouthful—is sitting next to me…and she’s my best friend.

  Brick addresses Chuy. “I didn’t know Sara’s family tree when we met, but I knew we didn’t work out. People here learn about the insurgency’s early days the way every good American back in the day was taught about George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. You two are central to the story. I didn’t fully understand why until Sara eventually told me about her lineage.

  “So,
this is like a reverse Bill and Ted situation?” I ask.

  “Who are Bill and Ted?” Will asks. “Are they related to me, too?”

  “They were heroes from the 80s,” I say, trying my best to redirect the conversation away from what became of me and Chuy once upon a time, but also not yet. “Destined to save the world through music.”

  While Brick has a good chuckle, Will is engrossed. “I wish I could have heard music from back then. I mean, we have music here, but—”

  “It’s primitive,” Brick says. “When you’re fighting a war for hundreds of years, living in fear, there isn’t a lot of time for making music. Drums. Singing. What people might have called tribal. It’s a lot of fun…but I miss what we had.”

  What we have, I think.

  “Do you have a computer I can use?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Brick says, and he nods his head toward Adrik and BigApe.

  The conjoined pair stands and heads to a cabinet at the back of the room. He returns with a laptop computer that looks like it has seen the wrong side of a few battles. I open it and wait for it to power up.

  “What…do you need it for?” Brick asks.

  I hold up the pinkie drive. It’s not just a gift for Brick, it’s also my fast-track away from the conversation regarding my and Chuy’s past-future relationship, including the fact that we had children. “I offered you hope. It’s time to deliver. I’m assuming you all have a PA system in this place?”

  “Moses,” Brick says, with the same stern warning voice he used with Will.

  “You’re going to have to trust me, bud.” I say. “And from what I gather, you’re going to trust me with a whole lot more than this.”

  The computer beeps when it starts. Brick turns it around. The mechanical keys clack with every tap of his meaty fingers. Then he spins it back toward me. “Connected to the PA. Now, what’ve you got for me?”

  “Not just for you.” I insert the pinkie drive. The database automatically opens. So many choices…a century of music at my fingertips. I don’t want to scare anyone, so Mötley Crüe is out. Don’t want to confuse people, or make a bad first impression, so Brick’s favorites are out, too. Well, not all of his favorites. Like me, Brick is a fan of most 80s tunes, but he also has a penchant for classical.

  I refine my results to classical, and then I struggle to remember the name of what I’m looking for. Chuy, who knows what I’m up to, leans in close. Our arms are touching. I would have never noticed before, but now her touch feels like a tsunami about to crash down on me, and I honestly don’t know if that’s good or bad.

  She points to an entry. “This one.”

  “Yes,” I say, selecting the song. Then I turn to Brick. “You’re welcome. In advance.”

  Before he can express further doubts, I play the file.

  A slow resonant G major slips through the air. It lasts only half a second, but it melts Brick’s face. All of the stoic discipline disappears. When he glances at me in shock, there are tears in his eyes. He’s been here for thirty-five years. Not five. The joy I felt upon hearing Blitzkrieg Bop for the first time in five years is magnified to a level I hope to never understand.

  The music continues, the cellist drawing her bow over the strings, unleashing perfectly played G, D, and A chords, and from there, Bach’s Cello Suite no. 1 fills the air in every part of the underground hangar. Background noise that I’d already gotten used to—ambient voices, power tools, banging—all of it, stops.

  Tears flow freely down Brick’s cheeks. He just sits and listens. Lost in the moment. Will stares at the ceiling like he can see the sound, mouth agape. He’s never heard anything like this before. Even Adrik and BigApe are moved. I’m not sure how BigApe can hear. He doesn’t have ears of his own, but he’s smiling, and maybe he’s even content, despite his freakish merger.

  We sit, silently listening to the music for two and a half minutes. Then the final, long wistful note plays.

  The silence lingers a full ten seconds. Then Brick stands, rounds the table, and hugs me. It’s not a man-hug, like before. It’s affectionate. “Thank you,” he says. “I wish you could have met her.”

  I nod into his shoulder. “Sorry it took me so long to get here.”

  “Ugh,” Drago says. “Either get room or put on man-sex show for us. Stop it with the hugging and happy-touchy feelings. Is revolting.”

  “Great,” BigApe says. “There’s two of them now.”

  “Quiet,” Adrik says, closing his shirt.

  The music’s spell is wearing off.

  I unplug the pinkie drive from the computer and place it in Brick’s hand. “This has every piece of music, every movie, every TV series, novel, work of art, and all of Earth history between 1950 and 2050. Ish.”

  Brick blinks. He’s without words.

  “I know, right?” I say. “You have Hildy to thank for this.”

  Brick is confused. “Hildy was…?”

  “The Predictor.”

  “This is what you stole from Union Command?” Brick starts laughing. He holds up the pinkie drive like he’s inspecting a diamond. “Five years of toeing the line, and you throw it away for this?”

  “Wasn’t anything worth fighting for until that,” I say. “And now all of you.”

  There’s a knock on the window. I turn to find a group of people, their skin magnificently diverse. Zeta is at the front of the group, her head poking up over the window’s bottom. She knocks again, makes eye contact, smiles, and waves.

  Zeta asks a question, but her voice is muffled by the glass.

  Brick waves her in. The door bursts open. “What was that? Can we hear it again? I want to hear it again.” She’s breathless, like she ran here. Hell, I think all these people sprinted to the window, drawn by the music, but now they’re staring at me.

  “Later,” Brick says. “Finish out the day, first.”

  “But—”

  Brick holds up a hand, silencing her. “We’re close, Zeta. No time to waste, right?”

  “Right…”

  “Tonight,” he says. “I promise.”

  She smiles, nods, and backs out the door. Before it closes behind her, she turns to the gathered throng. “We can hear it again, tonight!”

  The door closes, muffling the cheer that follows. Then the crew disperses, heading back to work. The ambient sound of work crews returns.

  Brick heads for the door. Grasps the handle, but he doesn’t open it. “Now then. Back to business. Time to meet our friends.”

  “They’re not coming here?” I ask.

  “Can’t,” he says. “We need to go to them.”

  “Are they like overweight, lazy defectors or something?” I ask.

  “Not remotely,” he says. “They’re Beta-Prime’s original inhabitants.”

  “The Union sent people here before the Undesirables?” Chuy asks.

  Brick shakes his head, opens the door, and says, “They’re not people.”

  33

  By the time I catch up to Brick, he’s waiting for me in an elevator. “I’m sorry. Did you say, ‘not people?’”

  “Mmm hmm.” He holds the door, waiting for Chuy and Drago to join us. Will, Adrik, and BigApe linger outside the door.

  “You’re not coming, comrade?” Drago asks Adrik.

  The big Russian and BigApe shake their heads simultaneously. BigApe’s headshake brings Adrik’s chest to life, stretching skin and waving the forest of hair back and forth. I struggle to even look at him. “To talk to…our friends, you must be summoned and expected.”

  “What happens if you surprise?” Drago asks.

  “Nothing fun,” Will says.

  Drago turns to Brick. “Am I…?”

  Brick shakes his head.

  “Even a thousand years in future, Soviet Union gets no respect.” Drago steps out of the elevator.

  “Has more to do with who you are,” Will says. He motions to me. “…and in their case, who they were. You might have come from the past with them, but no one he
re—aside from Adrik—knows who you are.”

  “Someday people will know who Drago is,” he says about himself.

  Adrik’s left hand reaches out. Grasps Drago’s shoulder. The pinkie gives him a pat.

  “Being overlooked sucks,” BigApe says, “but it also gives you a chance to have fun. When was the last time you had a beer?”

  “You…you have beer?” Drago rises from his sullenness like a phoenix.

  “Is close to beer,” Adrik says, and leads my comrade away.

  “Can—can I get a beer?” I ask, half serious.

  “Later,” Brick says. “I promise. For now…” He motions to my weapons. “All that needs to stay here.”

  Didn’t realize I was still carrying my rifle, handgun, and enough ammo to take on an army. When I hesitate, Chuy backhands my shoulder.

  “Dude,” I say.

  “Dude,” she replies.

  “Fine.” I shed my weapons, handing them over to Will, who quickly begins to struggle from the weight. When I’m done unloading my firearms, Brick says, “Knife, too. And that.” He points to the slew drive on my hip. I’m about to complain when he says, “We can’t bring anything that might be perceived as a threat.”

  “Sounding less and less like friends,” I point out, and I pluck the PSD from my belt. I slip it inside Will’s pocket and say, “If you try using it, you’ll probably die. If you break it, I’ll definitely kill you—great grandkid or not.”

  He nods, accepts Chuy’s weapons, and then struggles to carry it all away.

  I raise my hands and do a little spin so Brick can see I’m disarmed. “Happy? I’m as defenseless as a newborn baby.”

  Brick smiles. “You and I both know that’s not true. But I hope for all our sakes that they don’t see you as a threat.”

  “Comforting,” I say. “You going to tell us what we’re walking into here?”

  “Better if you see it,” Brick says.

  The elevator doors close. There’s just one button. Brick pushes it. My stomach lurches as we launch downward. I’m not a fan of elevators. I’m not generally claustrophobic, but I can’t get into an elevator without imagining how I’d feel if I were stuck in one. My thoughts are cut short when my ears pop from the pressure.