I unbuckle, stand up, and put my hand on my Slew Drive. “Let’s do this.” I give Burnett a thumbs up, trigger the slew drive, and rotate out of Lil’ Bitch’n.
A dimly lit hallway greets me on the other side. I’m deep inside Command Central’s Database. I take a quick look around, making sure no one saw me arrive. Then I activate my holomap, projected from my wrist. It shows a transparent three-dimensional image of the structure around me, including a red dot to show me where I am and a blue line showing me where to go.
Wish I’d had this in ’89, I think. And then I feel a tickle on the back of my neck. A breeze. But I’m—shit. In a hurry to get started, as usual, I left my mask behind.
I grit my teeth, brace for mockery, and then rotate back to Lil’ Bitch’n. When I arrive in the exact spot I’d left, Chuy is already holding out the mask, shaking her head at me. “Burnett and Carter are en route. Try not to get lost.”
“Ha, ha,” I say, and I pull the mask over my head. “How do I look?”
“Like a puto.”
“Ugh! ¡La concha de tu madre!”
Chuy barks a laugh. “Nice. Been saving that one for a special occasion?”
“You know it,” I say, and I rotate back into the historical home of the crackers who committed world-wide genocide and erased people who look like me and Chuy from the entire galaxy. The smile under my mask, from shouting something like ‘Your mother’s vagina,’ at Chuy, fades when I slip back into the Database hallway—and find it occupied.
14
Two men wearing white BCSs—Predictors—sense my presence behind them and stop in their tracks. They turn toward each other and then toward me.
They could be twins. Blond hair brushed in a perfect gelled swoop. Blue eyes. Square jawlines. Skinny and fit. And…glasses, which somehow makes them look more like sinister geniuses of the Fourth Reich. But poor vision is cause for demotion. They shouldn’t be working at Command Central.
Unless…
Two details jump out at me—the lenses neither enlarge nor reduce the size of their eyes, meaning they’re not corrective lenses. And they’re tinted yellow. They’re protective lenses, I realize, but Hans and Franz here think the glasses make them look cool. Or smart. Or whatever attribute Union nerds find attractive.
I say nothing. I don’t know much about Overseers. No one in my crew has ever met one, even the trio born and raised in the Union. But in my twentieth century experience, security guards usually have a few things in common—they’re big, they’re serious, and they don’t talk unless you give them a good reason. And then, they get loud, puffed up, and tend to say too much.
“I did not hear you approach,” Hans, the man on my left, says.
“Mmm,” Franz says. “Stealthy. Impressive.”
Hans squints at me and eyes me up and down. I’ve been ogled before. At the beach. By the pool. In the gym. But never by a man, and for the first time in my life I feel the discomfort of a woman on the receiving end. I feel a little violated and a lot pissed.
What the hell is he looking at?
Also, is being gay cool with future Nazis? It’s never come up, but I can’t imagine homophobia surviving the genetic Blitzkrieg that wiped out most of humanity.
“This one is masculine,” Hans says.
“Yes,” Franz says. “Quite.”
Hans chuckles. “I rather like it.”
Neither of them finds my silence odd, so I maintain the stoic Overseer act. They’re also not afraid of me, which is a little disconcerting and strange.
Hans approaches me, raises his hands, and palms my pecs. Then he starts squeezing. “Rather flat…and firm…but the strength.” He looks me in the eyes, though he cannot see them past the reflective goggles. “The things I would let you do to me…”
Okay, what the fuck?
It takes all my self-control to not break the man’s wrists, and to keep from laughing. I’m simultaneously disgusted and amused, like watching Richard Simmons, greased up and molesty, sweatin’ to the oldies with a frozen grin.
“Come,” Hans says to Franz. “Feel for yourself.
Franz approaches, grinning. He has a go at my chest, getting his jollies.
Have your fun and move on boys.
Hans smiles at Franz, a gleam in his eyes. “How much time do we have?”
“Enough…” Franz searches the hallway. Points to a nearby closed door—a storage room, maybe. “There.” To me he says, “Overseer, are you prepared to perform your secondary duty?”
Secondary duty? Are Overseers security guards and sex slaves?
Wait…
Holy shit. Overseers are women!
There’s probably a formal response to the request, and I doubt it has anything to do with personal preference.
“She’s ready,” Hans says, confirming they think I’m a woman, which makes me a little insecure about my masculine figure, but I’ll work that out in therapy.
Hans places his hand on my crotch. A quizzical look slowly stretches across his face. He pats around, following the shape of my very not-feminine cock and balls. Then he freezes. His eyes snap wide. His hand pulls back. He raises a single finger, about to speak. Then closes his mouth, and his hand.
“What?” Franz asks, and again when his compatriot can’t respond. “What is it?!”
“She…has a penis?” Hans says.
Franz takes a step back. Eyes me up and down. His face seems to elongate in surprise, but he doesn’t look entirely upset by the revelation.
Punch them, I think. Knock the twins on their asses, and get the hell out of Touchy-Feely Town.
As much as I’d like to send them to la-la land, they might wake up and sound the alarm. I need to get out of this without violence.
For now.
“I am a man,” I say. I keep my voice emotionless and mostly monotone, but my deep baritone still makes them flinch. “Part of a new Overseer program. And…I am at your service.”
They look at each other, trying to hide their smiles.
Called it.
“But…” I say, “the High Council has requested my immediate presence in the Database for an assignment of utmost galactic security. Therefore, I must decline your request.”
“The High Council,” Hans says. “Sounds important.”
Holy shit, they’re buying it.
“In situations like this, where time is a constraint, it is now encouraged that Predictors with…alternative sexual interests, explore them on their own time.” I sweep my hand toward storage room door. Nothing else needs to be said, and if I keep speaking, I’m definitely going to laugh.
The pair look at each other, having a conversation with just their eyes. And then, without another word, they’re off, headed toward the storage room. I stand still until they’re inside the room and the door is closed. Then I turn on the holomap and break into a run. I’m amused by the encounter, but guilt starts to set in. Hans and Franz might be the first sexually liberated men in a thousand years, but there’s a good chance my charade, and their visit into the closet, will get them killed if they ever come out.
Then again, they were going to rape me, when they thought I was a woman, and when I was a man.
Then again, again, I could have killed them both and stayed on schedule. So, there’s that. Guilt negated.
I activate my comms. “Carter, where you at?”
“En route,” she says. “Security was…lax. Why didn’t you check in?”
“Made some friends,” I say. “Freed their minds.”
“You killed them? I thought we agreed to—”
“They’re not dead. They’re…exploring their sexuality.”
She’s silent for a moment. “Is that military slang for dead?”
“What? No. Dead is dead. KIA is dead. Tango Uniform is tits up, and tits up is dead. ‘Exploring their sexuality’ is literal. Let’s just say, my physique triggered their erection detectors, and now they’re putting them to good—”
I round a corner, foll
owing the blue line, and I’m greeted by a busy hallway. I deactivate the map and try to act like I’m supposed to be there, letting the uniform do the convincing for me, despite the fact that I don’t have boobs, hips, or a backside worth double taking—unless you’re Hans and Franz, or a lady.
“On your nine,” she says.
I look left to find Carter and Burnett approaching from another hallway. Both are straight-faced and all business, just like everyone else here. There are a mix of uniforms—various shades of BCSs—and no one really looks at anyone else, which is good. But I do see a few black-clad women up ahead. The real Overseers.
I slow my pace, allowing Carter and Burnett to merge in front of me.
“How are we going to find our way without a map?” I whisper. Thanks to the comms, they can both hear me loud and clear.
“I memorized it,” Carter says, and then she stops at a locked doorway with a keypad. Burnett punches in a code Porter got from remotely hacking a large number of personal computers within Command Central. A light flashes red.
Shit.
But the door’s lock thunks open.
“Wait, red is good?” I ask.
“Of course,” Burnett says. “It represents blood—the life spring of humanity.”
“Oookay,” I say, and I follow them in. “That’s normal. That’s… Whoa.”
The space is vast. Farther than I can see. There are aisles of computer terminals and stacks of what Porter called servers. They contain all the data known to the Union, about every planet, every ship, every person, along with all human knowledge and what hasn’t been purged from the historical record. It smells like warm electronics, but the temperature is well regulated.
“This way,” Burnett says, walking straight ahead. We pass people every now and again, but they’re all so engrossed in their work that they don’t look up to see who is strolling past. Security cameras are mounted every thirty feet in every direction, but we didn’t trigger an alarm when we entered, and aside from my masculine build, which is totally, obviously a man’s body, we look like we belong here.
“So,” I say. “FYI, the Overseers are chicks.”
“Chicks?” Carter says.
“Women. All of them.”
“Well, that’s not good.”
“Because I totally don’t look like a woman, right?”
She glances back at me, eyes me up and down, and shrugs. “Meh.”
Meh? What the hell does—
“Aufseherin,” she says.
“Gesundheit?” I say, and I can feel her eyeroll through the back of her head.
“Aufseherin were female concentration camp guards during World War II,” she explains. “Aufseherin is German for Overseer. Some of them, like their male counterparts, were sadistic war criminals belonging to the Waffen-SS. Point is, if the Overseers here are similar to those in the concentration camps, don’t underestimate them because they’re women.”
“Nazi stormtroopers first, women second. Got it.”
“This should work,” Burnett says, stopping at an empty console. We’ve got fifty feet of no one on either side of us. I can hear people closer than that in other aisles, but they can’t see us.
“Make it snappy,” I say, and I try to look casual in an ‘I’m keeping an eye on this guy’ kind of way.
But then I forget all about the act, why we’re here, and what the plan is.
“What the hell?”
Carter, who is leaned over, looking at the screen—no doubt memorizing how the system works, just in case we ever need to break into Union Command’s database again—glances back at me. “Shh.”
She’s too focused to hear it.
Someone is humming.
On its own, that would stand out, because this music-less society doesn’t know how to carry a tune. They don’t even know any to carry. But the melody drifting to me from a nearby aisle isn’t the mindless hum of a distracted mind—it’s Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics.
15
By the time I reach a junction cutting between the aisles, I can’t hear the humming anymore. The musically inclined person hasn’t stopped—hopefully—I’m just several hundred feet away. Which makes finding the correct aisle very difficult.
I pause at the next aisle over, staring down an endless strip of computers and nerds hard at work. Not a one of them looks up from their screens. They’re all too brainwashed to care about someone staring at them, too dedicated to their jobs—which is kind of the same thing, or they’re simply afraid to look at someone dressed as an Overseer.
How bad could they be? I wonder. The Overseers might be modeled after female concentration camp guards, but they’re still part of the soft-in-the middle Union. They probably just stand around, chatting it up and having potlucks on the weekend. What enemy could they possibly be guarding against? Other than me, obviously.
Had to be this aisle or the next, I decide. Any farther and the hum of electronics would have muffled the sound. I’m about to charge down the aisle when I think better of it. Choosing wrong will waste a lot of time that I might not have.
The next aisle over looks almost identical to the previous. Endless workstations. People staring at screens.
This is hopeless.
I’m about to turn away and head down the first aisle when I see it.
A foot.
Tapping.
I can’t see the rest of the person seated at the workstation, but their heel is bouncing in a steady beat. I hum ‘Sweet Dreams,’ tapping my own foot in time with theirs.
Target acquired.
“Dark Horse!” Carter whispers. She’s at the end of our aisle, glaring at me. “What the hell are you doing? Stay on mission.”
“I am on mission.” I point down the aisle. “Someone down there is humming.”
“Humming? What the hell does that—”
“Sweet Dreams,” I say.
She stands frozen for a moment. “Like…Eurythmics?”
“Close cut, carrot-top in a suit, Eurythmics. Yeah. Could be someone from our time. Could be one of our people. Just stay with Burnett. I’ll take care of this.”
She nods. “Just…be subtle.”
She can’t see my smile, but somehow she senses it. Oozes mockery when she says, “Subtle is my middle name.”
“I was going to say I was born subtle.”
She shakes her head and moves back toward Burnett. I turn toward the bouncing foot, locked on like a missile, and I do my best nonchalant speed-walk toward it.
I can’t help but wonder who it is. Whip was never an audiophile, but he’d know the song…and I’m certain he’s already moving around freely in this timeline. But why would he be here?
Same reason I am, I realize, as I try to walk a little faster.
When I approach the tapping foot, my hope that it’s Whip fades. The shoe is white. As is the pantleg. It’s a Predictor. The thin ankle suggests a woman. I stop behind her, arms behind my back like a watchful Overseer just doing my thing.
She’s a small person. Just over five feet tall. Her BCS is skintight, despite her petite figure. A mop of curly blonde hair sits atop her head. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to a fashion statement, so I’m guessing the curls are natural.
The screen she’s looking at shows a series of files with numeric codes. The numbers mean nothing to me, until I notice a trend in the last four digits. 1983.
My heart pounds.
Can’t be…
The blonde head of hair bops to a tune I can’t hear. And then it stops. She taps the screen, highlighting the next file down in the list. A message appears on screen.
Resume Historical Document?
YES or NO.
She taps YES.
An image appears on the screen. It’s moving. For a moment, I’m confused by what I’m seeing, in part because it’s been a long time, but also because I didn’t think it was possible.
Matthew Broderick is on screen. And Ally Sheedy. Both are smiling. Having a good time. Sitting in
front of a computer console.
Sweet baby Reagan on a trampoline! This is War Games.
“How can it talk?” the Predictor says, quoting Sheedy’s line from the movie. Then she responds as Broderick, “It’s not a real voice. Ahh, this box just interprets signals from the computer and turns them into sound.”
She gets every inflection right. This isn’t her first time watching.
Nor is it mine, and what happens next is beyond my ability to self-control. The Predictor and I speak aloud the next line in unison, which also happens to be the movie’s most iconic line, “Shall we play a game?”
With a tap, the movie pauses.
The Predictor is in shock. Her hands snap out, fingers splayed like I’ve got a gun to her head. She’s shaking. Terrified.
“You’re not supposed to be watching movies,” I guess.
She turns around to face me, big blue eyes glistening. Can’t be older than twenty. “I-I’m sorry.” She looks me up and down. “Sir?”
“I don’t look like a woman, right?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not at all…but, why not?”
“I’ll ask the questions,” I say, trying to maintain the illusion of authority. “What are you doing here? To the outside world, this history no longer exists.”
“Entertainment,” she admits. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think there was any harm. Viewing historical documents isn’t strictly forbidden inside Command Central.”
“And if you leave? Will you take these historical records with you?”
“Leave?” The concept confounds her. “We can’t leave.”
“Never?” I ask.
“Of course not.” She motions to the aisles around us. “This is the only home I will ever know.”
My bleeding heart is gushing. She’s doing a piss-poor job hiding the crushing depression of her existence. She’s using movies and music of the past to escape her fucked up reality. I’ve been craving the same since we arrived in this future hell.
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