Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  “Drop zone—go, go, go!”

  It did not bother him that there was no one else in the expansive cargo hold to hear the command. That is, no other human.

  Certainly there was no driver in the cab of the gleaming blue, flame-decorated semitruck that roared past him and out of the hold. As the truck plunged grillfirst toward the ground below, it began to change in midair. Three oversize parachutes popped open, each bearing a symbol familiar only to a select coterie of humans—and to the autonomous robotic life-forms

  it identified.

  Landing softly, Optimus Prime immediately shifted back to his terrestrial guise to charge off in pursuit of the fleeing Demolisher. He did not even need to utilize his own perceptors to locate the ferocious Decepticon. All that was necessary was to lock in on the flock of choppers that were pouring fire, most of it futile,

  into a far corner of the industrial complex.

  With every exit seemingly blocked and Autobots as well as hordes of irritating humans in pursuit, Demol­isher searched for a possible way out. One presented itself in the form of an overpass. Leaving the train tracks, the massive Decepticon pivoted on a single massive wheel and flipped end-over-end to land on another roadway. As he rolled toward the city proper and potential freedom, the huge metal wheels that provided his terrestrial appellation crushed car after unlucky car.

  He failed to identify the big semitruck that was trav­eling on another overpass and approaching from the opposite direction until it was too late. As Optimus pre­pared to hit the Decepticon from above, Demolisher burst upward to smash completely through the over­pass bridge. The head-on assault neither slowed nor in­jured the leader of the Autobots. Changing shape, he leaped out and down to land hard on Demolisher’s neck. The big Decepticon slowed but did not stop.

  That changed when Ironhide arrived. Sliding be­neath the Decepticon’s massive frame, the venerable warrior took out one of his foe’s wheels even as he grabbed on to the wildly swinging, hard-fighting enemy. Assailed from both sides by a pair of Auto­bots, even a Decepticon as powerful as Demolisher had only a slim chance of escape.

  When those two Autobots were Ironhide and Opti­mus Prime, he had no chance at all.

  Wobbling from side to side as he fought to main­tain his balance while fighting back, Demolisher finally collapsed under the relentless dual attack. He crashed to a halt on his side, then made a few final useless thrusts upward until his spark flickered for the last time. Ready to shoot or lash out again should it prove necessary to strike one more blow, Optimus came closer. There wasn’t much left of Demolisher’s face. The rest of him had been reduced to scrap by the two Autobots’ unrelenting assault. Gazing up at the one who had vanquished him, no longer able to shoot or strike back physically, Demolisher’s last act of de­fiance took the form of sputtering, barely intelligible, and ultimately cryptic words.

  “This is not your planet to rule ... The Fallen—the Fallen . . . shall rise . . . again ...”

  The last glimmering of Demolisher’s spark flashed once, twice, and then went dark. Forever, Optimus determined after a quick check of the motionless body. The great mass of metal lying before him now represented one more deluded Decepticon who would never again threaten the Autobots, the hu­mans, or the enduring peace that Optimus and his brethren were fighting to bring to two worlds. His in­ternal systems ran through the electronic equivalent of a resigned sigh as he turned to check on Ironhide.

  There were too many times when the war seemed never-ending.

  II

  Underwear. Among the interminable problems of life, underwear was one that never went away. More specifically, it posed the great question that forever confronts every traveler: do I take more and wash less, or take less and wash more?

  After helping save the world and coming within a poodle’s coiffed hair of losing his life in the process, Sam Witwicky was more than content to contemplate his overstuffed suitcase and debate matters of consid­erably less import. Unable to resolve the momentous sticking point, he finally grabbed as many pairs of shorts as he could comfortably hold in both hands and shoved them into whatever corners inside the suitcase were still available. He was packing for col­lege, after all, and while he could not begin to imag­ine how he might do academically, he could at least prepare as best he could to survive socially. Which meant having a modicum of clean underwear always on hand. Or rather, he thought as he tried to close the overfull suitcase, on butt.

  Did Einstein, while he was at Princeton, ever have to do his own underwear? Sam wondered. Such pro­found reflection gave new meaning to the term “string theory.” He shoved down hard on the suitcase with both hands. Trying to get the latches on a suit­case to line up with their receiving slots was an engi­neering problem with which mankind continued to struggle, something akin to successfully docking a spacecraft with an orbiting station. As Sam wrestled with the luggage, the voice of the CNN reporter speaking from the nearby TV drew his attention away from the frustrating work.

  “... Congress placed responsibility squarely on the secretive multinational tech giant Massive Dynam-ICS.

  “Massive Dynamics.” At least someone was think­ing with more than half a brain, Sam decided. The government’s dissemblers had come up with a com­pany name that suggested that it might manufacture anything from supertankers to swizzle sticks. The TV documentary switched to file video of recent congres­sional hearings.

  “. . . And this ‘Automated Defense Initiative’—can you explain the program’s purpose?” The congress­man from Texas was plainly trying to contain his anger and frustration.

  Not so the corporate representative for “Massive Dynamics,” who replied with admirable composure. “We were building remote-operated, unmanned vehi­cles and other machines designed to evacuate and protect—I must emphasize protect—civilians in war zones. As you know, our government as well as oth­ers is always looking for ways to defend against large-

  scale terrorist attacks. Doing so requires the kind of

  mechanical ingenuity and technical development that can only be called cutting-edge. In order for new de­fense technology to respond as rapidly as possible to unforeseen situations of possibly cataclysmic scope, it is necessary that a certain amount of independence of action be integrated into the resulting equipment.”

  “Yet,” the congressman continued relentlessly, “it was this ‘independence of action’ that resulted in an excessive amount of destruction when the technology you’re referring to malfunctioned.”

  The “company” representative smiled vacuously. “We regret the damage incurred. One has to keep in mind that the technology being developed was de­signed to counter and prevent the kind of massive ter­rorist attack we never want to see again afflict this country. Countering that degree of incursion de­mands equally robust countermeasures.” He shifted easily in his seat as he continued.

  “The malfunction stemmed from a satellite black­out whose serious consequences were widely reported in the media. This induced a series of errors in the un­finished system that cascaded throughout the pro­posed defense structure, which I must remind you was and still is incomplete. Among the problems that took time to deal with was a severe GPS dislocation, which directed the defense vehicles away from their appropriate testing grounds and into Mission City.”

  Lips drawn taut, Sam could only watch the broad­cast and shake his head in disgust. As governmental prevarication went, it was right up there with . . . with . . .

  He put the thought aside. He was going to college, and right now that was all that mattered. Reinforcing that resolve was the sound of his father’s voice rat­tling up the stairwell.

  “Let’s go, let’s go. T-minus sixty, college boy!”

  Slamming both hands down atop the suitcase, Sam evinced mild surprise as both latches clicked home. Locking the case before it could change its mind, he finished wrapping duct tape around a large box and began hauling it toward the stairs. He as much rode as pushed it to the bottom, the
n started dragging it through the living room.

  His two legs got tangled up with four as he nearly tripped over Mojo. Convinced as ever that he was ac­tually a downsized cross between an Anatolian kan- gal and a pit bull, the chihuahua came tearing through the room after Frankie, the family’s newest addition. Equally bereft of long legs, the French bulldog was having a hard time staying in front of his yapping pursuer. Standing next to the disparate pile of taped and labeled boxes that had risen beside the front door, Ron Witwicky urged the two dogs outside. He was sweating from the morning’s exertions, but hap­pily so. His son was going to an Ivy League school, and the proud father was beaming widely enough to activate half a solar panel all by himself.

  “Mojo, Frankie, outside, outside!” As he closed the door he saw Sam dragging the final box. “C’mon, kiddo, we’re on a schedule here!”

  With a grunt, Sam let the last box drop. “Dad, se­riously, why’re you trying to get rid of me?” His ex­pression turned mock somber. “Tell the truth. You rented out my room, didn’t you ... ?”

  His father looked as innocent as a handkerchief vendor at a wake. “Sam, that’s a terrible thing to say! I wouldn’t dream of renting out your space. How could I, when I have other plans for your room, and they rhyme with ‘home theater.’ ”

  Sam tried not to grin. “Hey, I grew up in there. Show some reverence. That room is crammed with all my childhood memories.”

  His father nodded vigorously in response. “Which I’m sure will leave plenty of room for surround-sound wide-screen reruns of the likes of Red River and Yel­low Ribbon and The High Country and ...”

  “All right, all right. I’ll be out. You can be as ar­chaic in your video viewing as you want, Dad, with­out having to worry about sending me screaming into the street over your choices.” Son and father smiled as one.

  The brief instant of male bonding lasted the two seconds before Judy Witwicky joined them. Tears were streaming down her cheeks as she held up a pair of white baby shoes and declaimed in a voice that was an impregnable fusion of joy and sadness, “LOOK

  WHAT I FOUND YOUR BABY BOOTIES I’M LOS­ING MY BABY C’MERE MY BITTY BOOTIE BABY

  Sam would have responded, but the smothering hug in which he found himself suddenly enveloped temporarily restricted the flow of air to his lungs. Managing to half extricate himself, he looked over at his father and ventured a dejected sniff.

  “See? This is how you’re supposed to react when the fruit of your loins goes out into the cruel world to fend for himself.”

  Ron Witwicky smiled sardonically at the teen cur­rently enshrouded in his mother’s cephalopodian grasp. “Yeah, my heart bleeds for you. As for fruit, gimme an apple every time.”

  “I want you back here every holiday.” Judy sobbed softly. “Even Halloween and President’s Day—all the presidents.”

  Gently, Sam began to untangle himself. “Mom, they don’t let us off for Halloween. I don’t even think that’s an Ivy League-specific distinction.”

  She nodded sorrowfully. “Then we’ll come to you.”

  The alarm in her son’s reply rang throughout the room. “No, you will not.”

  Her eyes met his. Or tried to, as he started to turn back to the pile of boxes. “But I’m your mother ...” “My motherhe reiterated. “Not my ‘smother.’ Drop me off, go to Europe, see you at graduation. Re­member? Europe? Museums, nice restaurants, where the family all came from?”

  “They came from New York, as I remember.” Ron eyed his tearful spouse. “Judy, let the kid breathe, okay? He’s not eight years old anymore. And there’s no way you’re done packing for a monthlong trip. Let’s all get a move on, shall we? Or Sam will be late for his check-in and we’ll miss our flight.” Turning, he lowered his voice dramatically as he passed his son.

  “You’ll always be eight years old to her, kid. Get used to it.”

  “What?” Judy Witwicky’s gaze narrowed and her tear ducts shut down as she eyed her husband sharply.

  “Nothing. I was just saying to Sam that he’ll al­ways be a little late. It’s his nature. Do you want to

  catch that flight to Heathrow or not?”

  She glared at him, but affectionately. “You’d think our first romantic vacation in eighteen years deserved a first-class flight, but I guess ‘El Cheapo’ strikes again.”

  Pivoting, Ron turned to confront her. “You know what first-class tickets for a month in Europe would cost? We could just buy a small hotel here instead. Besides, there’s no first class within Europe. It’s all ‘business’ or ‘club’ class, and the seats aren’t even dif­ferent. I did my homework. Now march, young lady, and finish your own packing.” Reaching out, he gave her a fond pat on the butt.

  She swung around gracefully, leaving a smile in her wake. “Ooh, I love it when you call me ‘young lady.’ So filthy.”

  For the second time in as many minutes, Sam looked distressed. “Guys, please, not in front of the kids. Save it for Paris.” He grinned. “Don’t worry about me, and you’ll always have Paris.”

  “If we don’t miss our connection,” his father grum­bled.

  His mother nodded and headed upstairs. They could still hear her sobbing quietly from the vicinity of the bedroom.

  “Y’know how it is,” muttered Ron, his tone soften­ing. “Hard for a mother to . . . he swallowed tightly, choking up a little himself, “send her only son off. Accept that he’s all grown up.” He faced the silent Sam. “That you won’t be able to play catch with him on the weekends anymore.”

  His son smiled knowingly. “It’s all right, Dad. When I’ve got my degree, when I’m working in an­other state, or another country, or wherever, we’ll still be able to get together once in a while and play catch.”

  “Yeah, uh . . Turning away, Ron Witwicky rubbed at his face, gathered himself, and when he was ready, looked back again. “Anyway, uh, I’m real proud of you, kiddo. East Coast Ivy League school, fifteen hundred on your SATs.” He shook his head, still remembering the disbelief with which he and his wife had read the official results. “How you did that is still beyond me. Not that I’m complainin’, mind.”

  “Thanks, Dad. For the compliment, and for not complaining.” He grinned anew.

  His father shrugged. “Just sayin’: you went from a ‘B’ average to straight ‘A’s’ overnight. Then the schol­arship on top of that. Everything I ever did in my life, I did to put together a future for you.” He could have gone on in the same vein, building up his own contri­bution, but it wasn’t necessary. There was no need to speak the pride that was plain to see in his expression. Sam heard it as clearly as if it had been voiced.

  “Guess I did a pretty decent job.” Now it was the father’s turn to grin. “All the fun you’re gonna have, friends you’re gonna make. College life—closest I ever got was watching it on TV and in the movies. Guess the real thing will be . . .” His eyes widened as they focused on something taking place beyond his patient offspring.

  Mojo was paying his respects to Frankie in a man­ner as calculated to finalize the canine pecking order in the Witwicky household as it was to embarrass any

  unexpected visitors.

  “Mojo, no dominating! Frank, don’t be so easy! Get off the couch, you debased mongrels!” The dogs complied, but at a speed that suggested that they were doing so as much out of boredom as from obedience. Coughing awkwardly, Ron turned back to his son. “Uh, probably a lotta that in college too, Son. I just

  expect you to, uh, you know, be careful and ...”

  Sam hastened to relieve his father of an embarrass­ing moment even greater than the one the family pets had just engendered. “No reason to worry about that, Dad. I’m a one-woman kinda guy.”

  Though he nodded understandingly, Ron Witwicky was not about to shelve so important a subject so fast. “Look, Mikaela’s the greatest, I’ll grant you that in a minute, but you gotta give each other room to grow, to be honest about the fact that you’ll end up seeing other people. That’s just the way it i
s. Perfectly natural. It happens to every couple your age.”

  Sam’s expression tightened slightly. “Most couples my age don’t make the first contact with an alien race and save the world together, okay? Trust me. I know the odds.” His smile returned. “Didn’t you see my math score on the SATs? We’re the exception that...” His cell phone sang a familiar tune and the screen announced MIK. Proudly, he showed it to his father. “See? She can’t get enough of me.”

  Ron Witwicky nodded knowingly, sighed, and turned back to the pile of boxes. “I’m gonna start moving these outside. If you can manage to be on the phone for less than an hour, you might consider giv­ing me a hand.”

  Sam was backing rapidly toward the stairway. “Sure, right, no problem Dad—I’ll be back in a minute.” He put the phone back to his lips. “Hey, Beautiful, how’s it goin’?”

  The custom chopper shop was alive with quiet activity. Within the big open garage space, work pro­ceeded much as it did in a hospital. Made of metal, the patients remained largely immobile while atten­dants bustled around them, working silently and pro­fessionally to get them in shape to go out into the world again.

  Mikaela was putting the finishing touches on an airbrushed Bettie Page pinup that sprawled along the tank of a long-nosed bike. As she worked, she spoke into the cell headset riding atop one ear.

  “I’m breaking up with you.”

  Back in his bedroom, Sam was checking to make certain he hadn’t overlooked anything he needed, or wanted, to take with him. “Yeah,” he replied into his own phone, “I don’t know . . . gotta be honest, I’m not hearing a lotta conviction.”

  She hung up abruptly. Whistling softly to himself, Sam continued searching his room for anything he might have forgotten. Most of the posters that had decorated the walls and ceiling remained. At school there would be new posters, new pictures to hang, and it wouldn’t do for a college freshman to paper the walls of his dorm room with relics from his adoles­cence. They would of necessity recede into the realm of fond memories—at least until his father got around to redecorating the old room.