Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  No one was paying them any attention, perhaps because Judy Witwicky had marched around the smoking remains of her home to once again confront her husband. Furiously, she pointed at the back of her head.

  “I have a bald spot! And it’s not from aging— though if I have to put up with any more of this the rest may fall out anyway. I want that talking alien car outta here—or I’m gonna have it towed to the junk­yard!”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Stepping away from the puzzled fire chief, Ron Witwicky took his wife by one arm and led her away. “Honey, shhh, okay?” He eyed her meaningfully. “National security, remember? Besides, as long as we stay quiet they’ll take care of everything.” He put on a happy face. “Pay for every­thing, too. You know how we’ve been waiting for

  years to redo the house? Well, consider this the offi­cial beginning of our remodel. And the worst of it can be done while we’re in Europe.” He spread his hands and smiled. “See? Everything works out for the best.” Turning, he hailed his son. “Doesn’t it, kiddo?”

  She was less than mollified. “The best? I’ll give you my ‘best.’ ” As she turned to her apprehensive off­spring, one hand flailed at the mutilated garage. “When you leave, he leaves. I have never been more serious, Samuel.”

  Considerably later, when the firefighters felt confi­dent that the last spark (little did they know) had been extinguished and had taken their leave, and while Ron Witwicky attempted to explain to a dubi­ous airline agent the reason he and his wife needed to change the departure time on their reservations, Sam and Mikaela made their way into the depths of the Witwicky garage. The damaged wall where Bumble­bee had so precipitously exited had been covered with a tarp. As the two young humans approached, the Autobot again lowered his head.

  “I’mmmm ssssoooo sorrryyyyyy ...” His voice trailed off into a slow stream of electronic mush. Mikaela eyed him sympathetically.

  “Still having voice problems, huh?”

  The Autobot nodded sadly, perking up only when Sam drew near.

  “Listen. Bee. Uh—about college ...”

  Music began to pour from within the great yellow and black entity. “I’m so excited, and I just can’t bide it..."

  “Bee ...” Sam tried to take control of the conver­sation. It was hard enough to do with an Autobot,

  even more difficult when the response consisted of . . I’m about to lose control/”

  “Bee, could you just . . . Sam implored as Mikaela looked on.

  "... 7 think I like it. . . "

  “I’m not taking you with me.”

  The boisterous standard that until then had filled the garage came to an abrupt and unnatural stop. The resulting silence was as reflective as it was awkward. A subdued Mikaela started to retrace her steps.

  “I’ll—be outside.”

  It was Sam who chose to break the uncomfortable silence as he finally delivered the speech he had been dreading for days.

  “Look, it’s not that I don’t want you to come. It’s a university rule. Freshmen aren’t allowed to have a car. It’s not allowed until you’re a junior.” He looked away, toward the heavy tarp that occupied the space where the garage wall had been. “It’s a lame rule, I know, but this isn’t the local JC we’re talking about.” His shoulders lifted and fell. “I suppose to the school’s way of thinking it’s a way to keep new stu­dents focused on their studies at a time when they shouldn’t have any distractions. Makes sense—if you’re a sixty-year-old university administrator. Maybe it makes sense if you’re not—I dunno.” He turned back to his altered car—no, he corrected him­self. To his friend.

  “I can’t do anything about it. I can’t change the rule, and as an incoming freshman I can’t expect to challenge it.”

  The Autobot looked away. While his face was ex­pressionless, his posture was not. It was amazing how much emotion could be conveyed through the subtle positioning of arms, the slight lowering of a head— despite the fact that they were made of metal. Only the most insensitive onlooker could have failed to grasp what Bumblebee was feeling.

  Sam moved closer to his friend and protector. “Don’t do that. Don’t be like that. Think about it, You’re suffocating in here. You deserve better than my dad’s garage. You should be with your friends.”

  The Autobot’s head came up. Though the lenses that peered into Sam’s eyes were wholly inorganic, there was no mistaking what was going on behind them.

  “Youuu are myyyy frienddddd, Sam.”

  The young man swallowed, struggling to contain his own feelings. “I know, I know. Man, don’t do this, Bee. This isn’t how I want us to part.” He gathered himself. “You did your job, being my guardian. Even my parents don’t get to do that anymore. But I’ve got to move on. We both have to move on.” He forced a tight grin.

  “And then there’s this little overkill problem of yours. Makes me wonder if you’ve been hangin’ with Ironhide too much. C’mon—blowing up my room just to take out some whacked-out kitchen appli­ances? You’re an adrenaline junkie, you are. Half the time I come out here you’re not around ’cause you’re out doing your Autobot thing. That’s cool, I get that. But as much as you’re responsible for me, when

  you’re operating undercover I’m kinda responsible for you. I mean, I don’t expect you to sit here and sleep day after day, but there’s gotta be a limit. Have you seen the pile of speeding tickets in the glove box?

  They have cameras at stoplights now. Maybe they’re not in the same intellectual league as Autobots, but they do their job, and I have to . . .”

  Music erupted from the quietly listening Autobot: Sammy Hagar howling “I can’t drive—fifty-five!”

  “I know,” observed the exasperated Sam. “That’s what I’m saying. That’s my point. I’m not the only one who needs space. You need your freedom, too.” Reaching out, he placed a hand on the cool, gleaming exterior of the Autobot’s cheek. “You should be with the others of your kind. Together you have a larger— purpose.”

  Excerpting from a multiplicity of available radio streams, each word enunciated by a different an­nouncer or singer, Bumblebee cobbled together a re­sponse.

  “What—is—your—purpose—Sam ? ”

  It was not a question he had anticipated. Hoping to reserve deep contemplation for his initial classes, now here he was expected to consider such questions in the family garage. Out of respect for Bumblebee, he took a moment to ponder before replying. His answer was less insightful than he wished.

  “Geez, Bumblebee—I don’t know. I don’t think I’m old enough to know. I know I’m not wise enough to know. ”

  The Autobot nodded slowly.

  “I want to be normal, I guess. To go to college, grow up a little, and figure out what I do want. I’ve got the rest of my life to work it out. And I gotta do that—alone.”

  “How do you mend a broken heart?” as warbled by A1 Green, was Bumblebee’s unfair response.

  Sam refused to let himself be drawn in—either by the music or by Bumblebee’s candid yet calculated ri­poste. “Bee, hey. C’mon. It’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again. I’ll be back. I’ll visit. Christmas, summers—you’ll see me as much as my parents will. Maybe more. If I had,” he had to catch himself and swallow before finishing the thought, “if I had a brother, I wouldn’t see him any more or less often. You’ll always be—my first car.”

  There was nothing more to say. Bumblebee knew it too. Silence settled over the garage’s dim interior. Then the Autobot nodded sadly. One arm came up. Sam extended his own. Metal fingers that could crush concrete closed around the human’s far more fragile digits with a gentleness that would not have roused a kitten from its sleep. Sam squeezed back, then with­drew his hand. Grinning, he presented his open palm. Bumblebee hesitated, then the flat metal of his hand slapped lightly against exposed flesh. With a nod and a last look, Sam exited the garage, not wincing and grabbing his stinging, reddening hand until he was well outside and halfway back to the house.

>   Like the best kisses, the farewell embrace between Sam and Mikaela in the front yard went on and on, the two of them oblivious to the neighbors or anyone else who might be watching. It lasted and lingered until interrupted by the decisive cough of the car starting up. Pulling his gaze away from Mikaela’s face proved more difficult for Sam than separating their lips.

  “Gotta go.” His voice was barely audible.

  “Say what? I can’t hear you.” Her fingers were in

  his hair, tousling, her touch discreetly electrifying. He lost himself in her eyes.

  “Um? Did you say something?”

  She cooed softly. “Did you?”

  Be strong, he told himself. Where’s the Witwicky strength? The same strength that had allowed Archi­bald Witwicky to survive weeks of privation and freezing seas and howling storms in the Arctic.

  With all due respect to Great-great-grandma Witwicky, Sam doubted that Archibald had ever found himself enveloped in the embrace of someone like Mikaela. Nevertheless . . .

  “Jersey’s only a cheap commuter flight away,” he finally managed to gasp weakly. “You could come visit—anytime.”

  “Sure I could. On the money I take home from the shop. Or maybe I’ll just jump in my Gulfstream. Can you make it through those East Coast winters? When I’ll be back here laying out on the beach? In a bikini that weighs less than your imagination? All wet and sandy in the hot, hot sun ...”

  Her fingers were disturbing considerably more than just his hair. “Okay, forget school,” he mumbled. “Just dropped out.” She laughed lightly. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he finished.

  Instead of replying she continued to lock his gaze. Waiting for the words he had yet to say. Waiting for the words that meant everything to a woman. Wait­ing for . . .

  Well, he was a man, after all.

  “. . . And ? ” she prompted him gently.

  “And,” he murmured uncomfortably, “I’d do any­thing for you.”

  “And?” Not quite so gently this time.

  He knew what she wanted him to say. And he wanted to say it as much as she wanted to hear it. Yet, still, however, nevertheless ...

  “Come on, ’Kaela. If I say it now, it’ll be forced.” He straightened slightly. “You never said it either.” She continued to hold him close. To hold on to him. “That’s ’cause guys always run when you say it.”

  “So do girls. Especially girls like you, who can have anyone. And that makes guys like me, who look in the mirror and always see a dork looking back, really, really anxious.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I see. So all this—going to college, being the strong silent type—it’s all your elaborate plan to keep me interested?” Her fingers had stopped moving, but it didn’t matter.

  “Basically, yeah.”

  Her knowing smile would have melted metal. “I hate that it’s working.”

  Funny how sometimes even the nerdiest guy will know when to shut up. This time their kiss was more tender, though no less passionate. His father’s voice, unusually compassionate, resounded from what seemed like a great distance but was in fact only the curb. With utmost reluctance, Sam drew back.

  “Screw time and space. We’re gonna make this work”

  Stepping back, still gazing deeply into her eyes,

  he let her hands, her fingertips, slip away. Then he turned and walked hurriedly to the waiting car. As he climbed into the backseat, his father calmly restored reality with a murmured aside to his wife.

  “Stop staring at the house. I already called the con­tractor. He can’t wait to rip us off.”

  Judy Witwicky turned to her husband. “I thought you said the government was going to pay for the re­construction?”

  “Yeah, well, you know the government. There’s gonna be ...,” his voice dropped ominously, “paper­work.”

  Engine revving, the car pulled away from the curb. As it did so, a second vehicle rolled down the drive­way to stop at the top of the sidewalk. Its engine gen­erated only as much noise as was desired. Together, shapely Camaro and equally well-formed mechanic watched the Witwicky vehicle recede down the resi­dential street. Mikaela could see Sam gazing at her out the back window until the car turned the first cor­ner. Only when it had slipped from sight did she fi­nally allow herself to wipe at her brimming eyes. Then she climbed on her bike, buckled on a helmet, and prepared to move on. Behind her, the Camaro hesitated, not yet in the street. Turning to peer over a shoulder, she regarded the sleek yellow and black ma­chine.

  “You need a place to stay, shop’s always open.” With that she raced the throttle twice, then sped off in the opposite direction. Behind her the Camaro hes­itated briefly, then headed off on its own course.

  Neither of them paid any attention to the tiny truck that was parked at one end of the street. Wheels had observed the multiple partings in silence, his internal functions operating at the absolute minimum so as not to attract the attention of the garishly highlighted Autobot. As soon as the Camaro had driven out of the picture, the mini-Decepticon extended a single lens that was far more sensitive and efficient than any comparable human-built optic. It focused not on the departing enemy but on the single human who re­mained from the turgid confrontation that had taken place outside the wooden dwelling. Within the depths of Wheels’s cognitive facilities, a simple phrase came into existence:

  TARGET ACQUIRED

  As she accelerated slightly, alternately checking for cross traffic while wiping at her still weeping eyes, Mikaela never detected nor did she have any reason to take notice of the nondescript little vehicle that trailed unobtrusively in her wake.

  The single passenger in the Blackhawk paid no at­tention to the exquisite turquoise and green waters of the lagoon that were flashing past beneath him. He had not come to the remote Indian Ocean island base of Diego Garcia on vacation. His purpose was as dis­tinct and sharply etched as his manner. The latter had served him well as he had risen through the ranks in Washington. He was neither inclined nor in the mood to relax now. The sooner he delivered himself of the reason for his presence in this godforsaken corner of the planet, the sooner he could return to civilization.

  As befitted the importance of its commuter, the chopper set down carefully and gently. Aware of their passenger’s reputation, neither pilot had any desire to incur his disapproval. They were delighted to see that another soldier was waiting to take him off their hands. The sooner they were rid of him, the quicker they could return to the other side of the lagoon and more agreeable duties.

  No one onboard the copter offered to help the pas­senger off, nor did he request any assistance. Stepping easily down the steep set of roll-up stairs, he ac­knowledged with a curt nod the solitary officer who was waiting for him on the tarmac. Lennox did not extend a hand in greeting. He did not have to, and he knew who the visitor was.

  “Director Galloway: honor to have you on site.” He gestured to his left. “It’s been a rough day.” Galloway turned slightly in the indicated direction. Three “transfer cases,” as the metal caskets were eu­phemistically known, were being loaded aboard a waiting aircraft. Two were draped in American flags, the other in that of the United Kingdom. As he guided the visitor across the tarmac, Lennox snapped a crisp salute in the direction of the three coffins.

  “From Shanghai,” he explained tersely. “I suppose you’ve seen the official report. Considering how bad it could have been, the general feeling is that the op­eration came off well.” Once again he indicated the honor guard and its poignant cargo. “Except for those three guys.”

  Galloway’s gaze was fixed forward. “All due re­spect, Major, I’m here with a message from the presi­dent. And that message is for the Autobot leader.” Nothing in Lennox’s expression betrayed what he was feeling. The national security advisor’s response had been as correct as it had been cold. However, the man could have phrased his reply differently. It was not as if he had been prying.

  He hadn’t been on Diego Garci
a five minutes and already Lennox decided he didn’t like the man.

  The observation and relay satellite represented thebest and most secure the military could put into orbit. It was huge, fully powered, and capable of transmit­ting many multiple streams of data simultaneously to dozens of points on the surface of the blue-white world below. Most recently, it had been employed to coordinate the action at Shanghai.

  That was what had brought it to the notice of Oth­ers.

  The second machine that was slowly and carefully approaching the satellite should not have been there. It had not been launched from Canaveral, Baikonour, Kourou, or any other place on Earth. Glistening lenses dominated its exterior, as befitted the Decepti­con called Soundwave. Unlike Starscream or many of his brethren, his specialty was not fighting. It was lis­tening. Observing. Recording.

  Soundwave was a master spy.

  The military comm satellite was designed to detect, report on, and if necessary take defensive action against other satellites. This primitive technology in no way equipped it to deal with an infiltration by something as sophisticated as Soundwave. The De­cepticon did not counter the satellite’s technology so much as he avoided or deflected it in such a way that his own presence was not even perceived.

  Edging in close, he unleashed a plethora of unde­tectable tendrils. Penetrating the satellite’s exterior, they neither caused it harm nor revealed themselves. Soundwave’s intent was not to destroy or damage but to partake. Melding with the satellite’s complex in­strumentation, the Decepticon settled in patiently to listen, and to watch.

  Whatever the satellite communicated, Soundwave would hear. Whatever it saw, the Decepticon would see.

  And be in a position to relay onward to others.

  class="center">* *

  Despite its size, the enormous hangar seemed hardly big enough to contain all the advanced electronic equipment and monitoring screens that had been crammed inside. Shunts and conduits crawled up walls like termite tunnels across wood paneling while oper­ators fought for leg space beneath desks overflowing with instrumentation. The flashing of telltales, the flare of lights, and the subtle cacophony of electronic beeps and squeals would have been amusing save for the somber significance that lay behind them.