Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  Noting the arrival of brass and bureaucrats as well as a cluster of driverless vehicles, Epps ceased chat­ting with the operators of two monitoring stations and ambled over to join the conference. He recog­nized all of them, including the recently arrived Gal­loway. For a “mere” NCO, Ray Epps’s security clearance lay somewhere between Quantico and the moon.

  As the high-hats gathered in one of the few open areas, the sergeant angled toward the national secu­rity advisor. Gathered around him were a couple of civilians in suits as severe as their expressions and several officers who between them boasted more stars than the average constellation. Epps settled in beside Galloway as his friend and superior Lennox greeted the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.

  “Admiral.” Lennox did not need to add anything else. The two officers, one battle-hardened and re­cently promoted, the other as senior as one could get in any service, had been working closely together for the past two years.

  “Will.” Morshower’s lips tightened as he regarded the younger man. “Heard you went up against a few tough customers out there. Sounds like it was a rough trip.”

  Lennox did not try to make light of his recent visit to the People’s Republic. “Yes it was, Sir. I know pro­tocol’s to avoid direction communication, but some­thing came up toward the conclusion of the Shanghai op that requires an immediate debrief. One that Secu­rity thought potentially too dodgy to entrust to regu­lar comm networks, encrypted or not. With your permission, I’d like you to hear it from the leader of the Autobots himself.”

  Morshower nodded. “Proceed.”

  There was no need for Lennox to waste time with formal introductions. Words were inadequate any­way to herald Optimus Prime’s smooth conversion from semitruck to towering metallic bipedal form. Having never been privy to the process in person, the awed Galloway let out a startled gasp as he took a re­flexive step backward.

  Epps was understanding. “Never really get used to seeing it, know what I mean, Sir?” Galloway said nothing; he just stood with his head tilted back and stared. Whether the viewer was a pipefitter or a pres­idential envoy, Epps mused, the reaction was always the same.

  Optimus acknowledged the limited introduction with a brief nod in his friend’s direction. “Thank you, Major Lennox.” When he turned, it was to face the chairman. If this ruffled Galloway’s personal pride or sense of official propriety, he kept it to himself.

  “Admiral,” the leader of the Autobots began sol­emnly, “our alliance has countermanded six Decepticon incursions this year, each on a different continent. But this last one was different. It came with a warn­ing.” Reflecting his abilities, Optimus did not simply repeat the last words of the dying Decepticon: he played them back as recorded.

  “The Fallen—shall rise—again. ”

  The mechanical intonation echoed in the silence that followed, until Morshower spoke for all of those present. “ ‘The Fallen’. . . meaning what?”

  “We don’t know, Sir.” Like all truly great leaders, Optimus Prime was readily disposed to admit that he was not omnipotent. “It hints at something from our past, but we have no way of being certain of that. Much about our own history, the origins of our race, was lost with the destruction of the Allspark.”

  Unlike the typical pen pusher, Galloway had primed himself for his visit. The bureaucrat might not be likable, but he was certainly prepared.

  “You also thought they’d leave the planet after this ‘Allspark’ was destroyed. But you were wrong. As of this past year, at least six times wrong. Clearly there’s something else they want here.”

  Everyone present turned in the direction of the coldly confident speaker. It was left to Lennox to make the introduction.

  “Director Galloway,” he informed Optimus dryly. “National security advisor. The president just ap­pointed him liaison.” The leader of the Autobots eyed the just-arrived human wordlessly. Lennox studied the impassive alien face, but it was impossible to tell what the Autobot was thinking.

  “Forgive the interruption, Admiral,” Galloway was saying, “but after all the damage in Shanghai and the subsequent difficulty and expense of the usual follow- up and cover-up, I for one am hard-pressed to say the

  job’s getting done.” Turning from the chairman, he

  directed his attention to the silently watching Opti­mus.

  “Under the classified Alien/Autobot Cooperation Act you’ve agreed to share your intelligence with us, yes? But not your advancements in weaponry. Ad­vancements that would allow us to better deal with the Decepticons on our own. Advancements that would, need I spell it out for you, potentially save human lives.”

  Optimus replied heavily. “We have looked care­fully at the human capacity for war. We have studied the recorded history of your entire civilization, which in its ‘modern’ form is less than a whisper on the wind. It is—ungainly. Releasing such information to you would bring more harm than good.”

  Give the man credit, Lennox thought as he ob­served the exchange: where many another would have been intimidated by the presence of Optimus, Galloway stuck to his guns.

  “Excuse me,” the security advisor responded, “but who’re you to judge what’s best for us when by your own admission your own civil war led to the destruc­tion of your own planet?” When Optimus did not reply, Galloway added pointedly, “Might I remind you that you’re here as guests. ”

  “We have placed the lone remnant of the Allspark in your safekeeping, Director. In the spirit of trust be­tween our races. No greater gesture of our coopera­tion can we provide.”

  Lennox had been quiet for as long as he could stand. “Sir, we’ve been in the field together, fighting side by side for two years ...”

  Unintimidated by either the brass or the visitor’s status, Epps felt similarly compelled to step forward. “They’ve never given us reason to question their loy­alty or the alliance we’ve struck.”

  Galloway listened but otherwise ignored the two soldiers. His focus remained on the leader of the Au­tobots. “And these newest members of your team? More of your kind arriving here? I am given to under­stand that they arrived after you sent a message into space, an open invitation for any of your kind who received it and wished to do so to come to Earth, vet­ted by no one at the White House or the United Na­tions or any other earthly authority. As if you had the right to . . .”

  Fortunately, Chairman Morshower spoke up be­fore Lennox could do so. “Let me stop you right there, Mr. Galloway. The process was vetted right here.”

  “Really?” The advisor’s brows rose as he regarded the admiral. “By whom? Not by you or by the Joint Chiefs, or I would have heard of it. ”

  Morshower met the civilian’s gaze without blink­ing. “The process was vetted by Major Lennox and his staff.”

  “You don’t say.” Galloway glanced in the soldier’s direction. “By Major Lennox and his staff. I was un­aware that the authority to render a decision that af­fects the entire planet had been so delegated.”

  “In my experience over the course of the past two years, the judgment of Major Lennox and his team has always been above reproach. Both on the battlefield and in discussion and debate over tactics and procedure their decisions have inevitably been proven to be correct.”

  Galloway nodded curtly. “Be that as it may, Ad­miral, it is the position of the president that when national, not to mention planetary, security is at stake, no one is above reproach.” His gaze flicked in Lennox’s direction. “No matter how courageous or successful their actions in combat.” Clearing his throat, he continued in a less-confrontational vein.

  “Now, here’s what we know ...”

  High above and far way, the security advisor’s words were automatically received and stored for for­warding and for archival purposes. Unbeknownst to anyone on the ground, human or Autobot, this pro­cess was tendered in triplicate. One set of recordings was relayed to NORAD Command in Colorado. The second was kept on an isolated speck of land in the middle of the
Southern Indian Ocean. The third ...

  Instead of traveling many thousands of miles, the third was transmitted only a matter of feet, via unde­tected tendrils from the uploading military satellite to the shadowing Soundwave. While always on alert, the eavesdropping Decepticon took particular note of certain key words that were being transmitted from far below.

  “We know that the enemy leader,” an important human named Galloway was saying, “classified ‘NBE—1,’ is rusting in peace at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyssal, surrounded by SOSUS detection nets and full-time submarine surveillance.”

  Maps, charts, encoded military transmissions, visu­als. History, development, previous communications, transportation manifests. Soundwave scanned, re­corded, and within seconds made the apposite con­nections. Collectively they pointed to one particular place on the planet. Inferences were drawn. The con­clusion was definite, the consequences profound.

  He now knew Megatron’s location.

  Soundwave fought to control himself as he contin­ued to monitor the transmission.

  “We know that the only remaining piece of the so-called ‘Allspark’ is securely locked away in a spe­cial vault here on one of the most secure military bases in the world.”

  More maps, more charts, architectural drawings, construction manifests. Previous observations and in­formation were correlated. One corner of the site from which the transmission was being sent pointed to a spot more heavily shielded than anywhere else. A single heavily guarded location. By its defenses it shall be known, a gleeful Soundwave knew.

  The shard was there. It had to be.

  Information was transmitted. Discussion was initi­ated. A decision was reached. It all took seconds.

  “... and since no one can seem to tell me what the enemy is now after, since NBE-1 has been neutralized and this Allspark has been virtually destroyed, the conclusion is inevitable and unavoidable.” Galloway regarded the crowd, not all of it human, that had gathered around him.

  "You.” His gaze roamed from Optimus Prime to the vehicles assembled on the hangar floor behind him. “You Autobots. They, the Decepticons, remain here in order to hunt you. You won the last round, but despite your best efforts and those of our own people they’ve persisted. They’re still here; like your­selves they’re continuously adding to their numbers— Shanghai showed that—and now we have this cryptic new threat. ‘The Fallen shall rise again.’ Sounds to me like something’s coming. Like they’re preparing to strike with something entirely new and unexpected.” Raising a hand, he pointed undiplomatically in Opti- mus’s direction.

  “To strike at you. And while you’re on our world we humans, who never heard of your war until you came among us, who never wanted and still don’t want any part of it, suffer whatever collateral damage happens to occur. So far that’s been—endurable. But who’s to say this next, undefined, unknowable attack will not be ten times worse—or a hundred, or a thou­sand? The war is between you and the Decepticons. Isn’t it possible that as long as you stay on this world so will they? Can you, in fact, prove to me other- wise?

  The roar of revving engines filled the hangar as the rest of the Autobots sounded their protest. They fell silent when Optimus raised a hand.

  “No—I cannot.”

  Galloway looked satisfied, like any bureaucrat whose conclusions had been validated. “Let me ask you one last question, on behalf of the president, the Congress, and those members of the United Nations with whom we all have been in constant and close contact since you first arrived here. If we ultimately conclude that our planetary security is best served by denying you further, um, asylum on our world, will you leave peacefully?”

  Lennox looked stunned. Epps bit back the response teetering on his lips, while others present who had overheard reacted with similar disbelief. But no one said anything. All eyes went to the looming, gleaming figure of Optimus Prime.

  “Such a freedom is your right. If you make that re­quest, we will honor it. It is not in our nature nor in our selves to impose our presence on those who do not wish it. But before your leaders decide, please ask them this.” He leaned forward. Galloway did not flinch.

  “What,” the leader of the Autobots declared, “if we leave—and you’re wrong?”

  The decision had already been made. Whatever else the humans and their repellent Autobot allies concluded was now irrelevant, as was virtually every­thing else on the planet below. A panel on Sound­wave’s side opened, disgorging a small metallic pod. It hovered in place for a moment, orienting itself, preparing to navigate. Though it was part and parcel of Soundwave’s body, it was entirely independent.

  Settling its coordinates, calculating its drop speed, and fully equipped for the task ahead, it shot away from the compromised military satellite and the omi­nous shadow looming behind it as it fell toward the glistening blue and white surface below.

  Morning dawned as brilliant as the students who were busily moving in and out of the entrance to the Gothic-style residence hall. Some of the luggage that was being hauled inside by troops of teens on the cusp of adulthood was battered, some was new, some bore the initials of overpriced and ingeniously mar­keted European manufacturers, but all pieces had one thing in common: they were stuffed to overflowing with bric-a-brac and paraphernalia that had nothing to do with research, academia, or future vocations. Instead, they were filled with life, much like their owners.

  Several of the students had hired professional movers to shift their stuff, while others supervised the work of servants. These well-heeled few drew side­ways glances from the less privileged that were both wry and wary. Though classes had yet to begin, the social pecking order was already starting to fall into place.

  One of the vehicles that pulled up outside the ven­erable pile contained two adults and a wannabe, though judging from the enthusiasm of all three it would have been difficult to tell which was which. Climbing out of the backseat, Sam stood by himself and marveled silently at the building he had hereto­fore seen only in pictures. Helping her husband un­load their son’s belongings, Judy Witwicky was less restrained.

  “Oh, my God, Ron. Look at it. Smell it.” Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply of ivy, tradition, recent grass clippings, and a surfeit of cologne and perfume. “I feel smarter just standing here!”

  Being too occupied tugging at boxes and suitcases to partake of the academic bouquet, the father of the fortunate one spoke while manhandling a particu­larly awkward piece of luggage. “G’head, Sam, we’ll bring the bags. Go check out your room.” Though his tone was matter-of-fact, the pride that suffused the face of Ron Witwicky shone through.

  Like the two below it, the third-floor hall was crammed with students, parents, and friends, all try­ing to find their way in a building that was completely new to many of them. The result was polite confusion spiced with excitement. Those freshmen who had ar­rived earlier and were now halfway moved in stood in their doorways and considered the less settled with studied detachment.

  When he could, Sam stole sideways glances into open rooms. Each was sunny and neatly laid out, an example of the excellence and organization one would expect in the university residence that would be his part-time home away from home for the next several years.

  Then he got to his room.

  Taken aback by the spectacle within, he retreated. He checked the number above the lintel, looked in­side a second time, was nearly swept up in the human tide that was coursing down the corridor, and finally, with reluctance stepped through the portal. He had seen similar panoramas before—on the news, usually from places like Oklahoma or Kansas, right after a tornado had passed through.

  Open suitcases and boxes spilled their hastily un­packed contents onto floor, bed, and desk. Resem­bling termite mounds in Africa, clothes rose to form several cottony spires. The principal difference was that the termites were neater. One wall was almost completely papered over with posters that featured a wide and unvetted assortment of conspiracy theories. As the benumbe
d new arrival tried to take it all in and make sense of the mildly apocalyptic scene a closet door, squeaking appropriately if unexpectedly, swung wide to expel into the room another human male the same age as Sam.

  “Hey. You must be Sam. I’m Leo. How’s it goin’, man?”

  My roommate? Sam mused. Surely not. Hopefully not. Please God, not. But contact had been made. Precipitous flight would be impolite.

  “Yeah, uh—what’s up . . . ?”

  “Hope you don’t mind, I set up the crib.” He indi­cated the two beds that were shoved against opposite walls. “You want this side or that side? I already chose that side. But if it’s important to you I’m will­ing to debate the issue. You’ll lose, though. I’m a hell of a debater. Come to think of it, you’ve already lost.”

  Fighting to stay abreast of a kind of conversation he had never encountered in high school, Sam could only shrug diffidently. “All yours, man. A bed is a bed no matter which side of the room it’s on.”

  The two stared at each other, not speaking, long enough to become uncomfortable.

  “So, this is that awkward moment, right?” Sam stated this as fact, rather than question. “You want to know if I’m a normal guy. I’m trying to see if you’re a normal guy. Unmedicated, nothing in the crawl- space ...”

  Leo picked up, “Good personal hygiene, won’t stab me in my sleep ...”

  Over to Sam, “No arrest record, won’t steal any­thing ...”

  Leo now playing the net, “Including girlfriends ...” “Especially girlfriends,” returned Sam.

  That settled, Leo asked more amicably, if skepti­cally, “So you got a girlfriend?”