A small hawk glided over the razor wire fence, to share a bench with Wicks.

It opened its beak and said, “Hello.”

​

“I met your robosquirrel friend here last week,” Wicks chuckled. “Quite the menagerie! Makes sense. It avoids alerting my nurses.”

​

Wicks squinted into the forest outside the fence. “Is your puppeteer Sara out there again?”

​

A shrub moved, and a young woman’s head briefly popped out with a serious frown, then retreated. The bird said, “Yep, it’s me. And they’re guards, not nurses.”

​

Wicks shrugged. “Whatever. Cute bird you have.”

Sara laughed. “You might not call it ‘cute’ if you saw it operating in ‘rip out eyes’ or ‘tear out throat’ modes.”

“Fair enough. So, are you back to spin tall tales of my greatness?”

“Not tall tales. Truth. We don’t hear a lot of that, these days.”

​

He smiled. “It’s a nice diversion from this boring business of dying. It won’t do you any good, though. You’ve got the wrong guy. Like I told you, I’m a retired accountant, a recovering stroke victim. Sitting here in this nursing home like a piece of meat in warm storage, spoiling away.”

​

“It’s not an old folks home,” retorted the bird. “It’s a prison. Look at that concertina wire between us. The sentry towers on each side of your building. Your guards carry stunners.”

​

Wicks took in the towers’ peeling paint, the distant vaping nurses’ threadbare uniforms, the guns on their belts. “My caretakers tell me this used to be a prison, though it’ll close soon.

​

Anyway, I’ve been here fifteen years, so I can’t be the person you seek. And tell me again why I would be in prison? It’s just a hospice here, Sara.”

​

“Listen,” said the bird. “From that saliva sample you provided to the squirrel, we learned you haven’t had a stroke—you’re just on mild sedatives and Pacifier, to keep you foggy and content. You’re in good health. We think the government wiped your memories and gave you new ones. To make you think you’re inconsequential, old and dying. You’ve been ‘old and dying’ for fifteen years!”

​

The hawk sidled closer and suddenly injected Wicks from a needle under its talon.

“Ow!” Wicks said, rubbing his shoulder.

“That’s a stimulant,” said the bird.

Wick felt his mind get sharper. “Impressive. OK, I’m listening.”

​

The bird said, “Your DNA confirms that you’re not Bryant Wicks the accountant. You’re Gunnar Gibson, the leader of the 2034 Resistance. Here, let me download something…”

​

Wicks leaned forward as the bird projected old stories from major news outlets. Massive drone and human battles. Acts of sabotage throughout the Midwest and Northeast. The military fighting on each side. Millions of casualties.

​

“You led the rebels!” exclaimed the bird.

“If I did, I’m ashamed of all that carnage,” he intoned.

​

The history lesson continued. The resistance gained half the North. The war teetered on a knife’s edge, then failed. The rebellion in the West, however, succeeded, and became the nation of Pacifica.

​

Wicks whistled softly. “Lots of action. Why did the resistance fail here?”

​

The bird showed him clips of android soldiers slaying resistance fighters. Bought from China, the droids never slept, and their rifle shots and grenades never missed.

​

“It went downhill when they brought in those droids. The government killed most of the rebel fighters and captured you,” noted the bird. “They said you were dead. The rest of our fighters, they rounded up and executed.”

​

“Whoa,” said Wicks.

​

“Here’s the last of your update,” said the bird. Wicks watched as the android fighters joined a huge militia of civilians from the South, triumphing in one last major battle. “Those droids and the Southern ‘Freedom Fighters’ restored the Union. Ironic, huh?”

​

Wicks sat, flabbergasted. Then he asked, “Why should I believe these stories aren’t fake?”

​

The bird thought for a second. “Well, both my parents died, fighting for you. And I’m their daughter, willing to do the same. Look at this, from the Chicago Sun-Tribune…”

​

The bird showed an article reporting the capture and killing of Gunnar Gibson. Wicks leaned in to check the photo.

​

“Looks like me. If it’s real.”

“It is you, sir.”

“Can you prove I’m him?” Wicks asked.

​

“This is, uh, delicate, but I found mom’s diary. She was divorced, and wrote that you and she dated during the war. Marjorie--here’s her photo. She wrote that you have a birthmark shaped like a dinosaur on your, you know. Do you?”

Wicks winced. “Yes I do. Marjorie, huh? It feels right, what you’re saying.”

​

The bird added, “And my mom wrote that you called her ‘Coco,’ which was your name for a brown rabbit your aunt owned when you were very little.”

​

Wicks startled. “Wait! I remember that rabbit! That was so long ago. Guess they didn’t take all my memories, huh? All right. I believe you. So why’d they hide me in a prison and not kill me?”

​

The bird paused. “Not sure. Maybe they want to tap your military expertise if there’s a new rebellion. After all, you almost won. You probably don’t know that it’s illegal to write or even speak your name. But a guard said too much in a bar. That started us looking for you.”

​

“But why do you want me, Sara? I failed!”

​

The bird showed Wicks an excerpt from a top secret West Point videobook. “Colonel Gunnar Gibson, second in his class of 2010…” it began. Then it explained the brilliance of his hit and run tactics in the ‘terrorist revolt.’ How he exploited small opportunities for major gains, stole weapons from armories, and won over the people. At the end, the bird added, “And you’re only sixty-three. Lots of good years left.”

​

Wicks blushed. “So who are you with?”

​

The bird looked proud. “It took years for us war orphans to grow up and organize the second resistance. We call it R2.”

“And you’re taking up your parents’ fight? Why?”

​

“This government keeps getting worse. I could tell you about compulsory impregnation of women, or the rise of the oligarchs, or how they stripped citizenship from all who aren’t White, straight, and Christian. But let me show you this clip, from yesterday.”

​

Wicks watched a huge Talladega NASCAR crowd roaring as the national anthem ended. Four masked soldiers dragged a young Hispanic man in shackles to the raceway’s finish line. In front of the waiting race cars and the Marine honor guard, his bound wrists were hung from a high hook on a post. Feet dangling, he screamed, “You idiots! I wasn’t trying to come into this country. I was trying to leave it!” A woman came up with a backpack sprayer, and hosed the man down with some off-color fluid. He struggled and kicked, as a teenager approached, holding a lighter aloft.

​

The crowd yelled, ‘Light him up!” The burning victim screamed and jerked.

The people cheered louder, until finally the human torch froze into a charred wreck.

“Holy shit!” cried Wicks. “How often does this happen?”

“At every racing event, every championship wrestling or cage fight, every football game. If it’s not immigrants, it’s gays, Atheists, liberals, or a woman who refuses insemination. We see burning, beheading, gutting, flaying …”

​

Wicks thought for a moment. “I have some ideas how we can stop this bullshit.”

“There you go!” cried Sara. “That’s my leader talking.”

“Sara, how far along is this R2 movement?”

​

“Pretty far,” she said through the bird. “The biggest problem is overcoming the Pacifier in the food and water supply. The government says it prevents crime, but it’s really so they can control the people. We’ve got to free them, so some can decide to fight with us.”

​

Wicks nodded. “Are you pacified?”

​

“Me? Heck, no! I’m starving on wild berries and whatever homegrown produce I can scrounge. Sometimes a free-range chicken. I’d kill for some fast food. Soon we’ll have an antidote, though. At that point, all we’ll need is you.”

​

He thought about the grave he saw being dug outside his window that morning, and wondering if it was for him. He thought about how drab his life was, without news or challenges.

​

And how Sara’s parents had died for him, along with how many others?

​

“Sara, my name is Colonel Gunnar Gibson, reporting for duty. How soon can you rescue me?”

“How about now?”

​

Hundreds of robo hawks arose from a field by the forest, in a flock matrix eight tiers tall.

​

Each carried a long string, braided into a rope at the bottom. The lower end had loops. The flock flew in unison, sweeping over the fence, then curving down and back around towards Gibson. He stood up, heart pounding, marveling, ‘God, how I love a good AI application!’ Two guards shouted, then started running. Four other robohawks dove to attack them. Tear out throats.

​

“Step into the low loop, grab the higher one, and don’t let go!” cried Gibson’s hawk.

“We’ve got a war to go win.”