Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  A single tank stood there. Composed of quartz whose molecular structure had been altered, it was capable of defeating any drill. But it could not resist the sophisticated laserlike beam that formed out of the body of the swirling shape now standing next to it. As the intense light sliced through the container, nano-thin wires embedded within the otherwise transparent material began to set off one alarm after another. Ignoring the outbreak of flashing lights and reverberant sounds, the shadowy figure concentrated on the precision work at hand.

  As soon as it had made an opening large enough to permit the extraction of the tiny, softly glowing shard inside, a thin tendril of the reed-thin figure made its serpentine entrance, curled around the singular ob­ject, and withdrew it from the case.

  Outside the bunker, heavily armed troops dis­mounted from a clutch of vehicles and surrounded the structure. A grim-faced noncom punched the ac­cess code into the door lock, then stepped back to let an officer enter a second code into a parallel lock. As soon as the heavy barrier swung aside, crack troops rushed in.

  Spreading out on the doorway end of the vault, weapons parallel to the floor and fingers on trig­gers, they scanned the interior with eyes and instru­ments. Neither revealed anything amiss, though the holed tank at the far end of the chamber put the lie to the tranquility they were seeing. No one noticed the reed-thin figure. Compacting himself, he was so thin as to be virtually invisible. His actuality was more solid—and far more deadly.

  Leaping forward, he sprang toward the door. One unfortunate soldier happened to be standing in the Decepticon’s way. The threading of perfectly aligned, tightly entwined mini-bots went right through his chest and out his back. As he crumpled to the floor, blood spreading beneath him, several startled col­leagues raced to his aid. Their eyes continued to search the chamber for the source of whatever had taken down their comrade. Portable instruments re­vealed nothing.

  What the hell was happening?

  For one thing, they were now looking in the wrong direction. Racing out the open doorway, the virtually invisible creature quickly scrambled up the side of the bunker. It was met at the top by Ravage. Opening wide, he proceeded to inhale his horde of malevolent

  auxiliaries. Released by the dispersing reed-thin fig­ure, the precious shard fell into the grasp of Doctor. Clinging like the symbiote he was to the front of Rav­age, the smaller but exceedingly advanced Decepticon held the shard reverently in one of its small, sleek, highly specialized limbs.

  Below, someone was shouting and pointing toward

  the roof of the bunker. Fanning out around the struc­ture, troops aimed lights upward and began to open fire. Sprouting rapid-fire weaponry of his own Rav­age took off, leveling those who were unfortunate enough to find themselves in his way. For the second time that evening, he easily cleared the high fence that surrounded the “secure” area.

  Fanning out behind him and to both sides, soldiers in a variety of vehicles sped to where the compound’s boundaries met the edge of the island. They had the intruder cornered now. Notwithstanding his speed and weaponry, there was nowhere left for him to run.

  The roar that sounded from a slight coral promon­tory underlined the soldiers’ hubris as plainly as it did Ravage’s liftoff. All they found of the invader as they closed in on his last known location were some un­even lumps where old coral had been melted into cal­cium carbonate slag by a sudden surge of tremendous and inexplicable heat.

  The noise was deafening. It thundered not from ex­haust or enigmatic engines but from the speakers that pounded out the latest top-ten hits by singers who couldn’t sing and musicians who couldn’t play instru­ments, but who by dint of artful aesthetic deceit and elemental prehistoric rhythms had succeeded in con­vincing a large proportion of the under-thirty popula­tion that the sounds they generated were worthy of approbation.

  A dubious Sam trailed Leo, Fassbinder, and Shar- sky through the frat house as his confident roommate hacked a path between fellow celebrants, the major­ity of whom were at once older, more experienced, more confident, and more attractive than any of the incoming freshmen.

  His roommate’s assurance was unassailable. Like a select few, Leo Spitz traveled within a cocoon of self- confidence blissfully invulnerable to the assaults of reality.

  “First frat party’s the game-changer. We’re hunting in the wild now, boys. This is where freshman reputa­tions are made.”

  “Okay ... we’re huntin’... we’re huntin’,” replied Fassbinder.

  Sharsky added, “Fuel the jet, baby, fuel the jet.” “Hey, I say ‘fuel the jet,’ that’s my signature,” an affronted Leo replied. “Everything I say is copy­righted. Don’t infringe.”

  Sam said, “Probably shouldn’t stay long. Got a web­cam date with my girlfriend.”

  Despite secretly wishing he had any kind of date with a female, Leo feigned contempt. “Well, while you play smoochie-poo with your MacBook, I’m gonna be gettin’ my Spitzy-freaky-freak on.”

  A reluctant Sam allowed himself to be pulled along, a two-liter plastic bottle of adolescent insecuri­ties swirling helplessly in the wake of the wildly weaving boat that was his bombastic roommate.

  Space for a dance floor had been cleared upstairs. The deejay was busy, the room was rocking, and the place was packed. Here too, Sam followed his fellow freshman through the crowd. The music, the color, the sights, the lights, the veneer of sophistication that was so different from his hometown and from high school kept him pinned in the place like a magnet. He was an anthropologist who had discovered a fascinat­ing new tribe, only it was not the tribe that was lost: it was him.

  “College,” Leo was saying, “gotta love it. Set your intellect aside, bro. This is nighttime, when all the goodies come out. It’s like a giant petting zoo, only restricted to one species. L-Spitz gonna get his freaky freak on.”

  Spotting a member of the opposite gender who might or might not be dancing by herself, he aban­doned his roommate to his own devices as he made his way out onto the dance floor. Set free, Sam let the tide of music and youthful humanity push him in the direction of a table laden with drinks, food, and a large punchbowl. The latter contained a neon green­ish liquid whose garishness lacked only the presence of three witches muttering over its semi-metallic sur­face to fulfill a promise of impending gastric dissolu­tion.

  The music had begun to numb not only his hearing but also his consciousness. Both began to echo and fade, intensify and rebound. He felt—odd. Had he sipped or consumed something packing an unadver­tised surprise? He had assiduously avoided anything that resembled a brownie, but in the course of the evening he had already nonchalantly availed himself of a number of other snacks. Who knew what might have been hidden therein?

  Take the plate of cupcakes laid out in front of him, for example. What pharmacological mysteries might they contain? What exotic ingredients foreign to his gullible digestive system? Reaching out, he found himself tracing shapes in the frosting. Symbols that might mean nothing—or might be of significance only to those whose origins were far more alien than those of any of the unknowing celebrants presently partying in the room.

  A voice cut through the trance into which he had fallen. Had he been daydreaming?

  “Huh, lemme guess. You wanna be an art major.”

  Blinking as he turned, he found himself unsettlingly close to a vaguely familiar and exceptionally attrac­tive face. It belonged to his newly arrived neighbor from across the residence hallway.

  “Oh—this—no,” he mumbled with a distressing lack of finesse. “I’m just—getting punch.” He looked

  meaningfully at the green liquid. “Probably liquid kryptonite. Maybe a little antifreeze for taste. Lime juice,” he concluded weakly.

  She paid no attention to his feeble chemical analy­sis of the inscrutable fluid. “It’s ‘Sam,’ right?” She looked away, toward the center of the dance floor. “So your roommate, he seems really—popular.” Following her gaze, Sam saw that Leo had staked out a piece of h
ardwood in the vicinity of the deejay and was attempting, with notable lack of success, to grind himself up against several of the more attractive girls. Creeped out by his antics, they shuffled quickly clear of his self-proclaimed zone of influence as fast as their dancing feet could gracefully carry them. Alice leaned closer to the quietly aghast Sam.

  “We should get out there before he chases everyone off the dance floor.”

  Sam hesitated, his overstimulated brain struggling to ensure that it was correctly interpreting every con­ceivable nuance contained within her suggestion.

  “Oh, you mean—out there. You and me. As in you and me. The two of us . . . Like a pair? Like a duo? Please stop me ...”

  She laughed softly. “Wow, you’ve got some serious game.”

  He fought to recover. “No, that’d be great. I mean, hypothetically. Presuming you’re a good dancer—not that it matters. To me.” He knew he was drowning— hypothetically. “It’s just that I kinda, sorta, techni­cally ...” He took a deep breath. It helped—a little. “I have a girlfriend. Not, y’know, here.”

  She shook her head as she locked eyes with him. “I’ve got a boyfriend back in Orlando. He’s a prince.” Some of the tension oozed out of him. “Ohhh, cool. That’s where you’re from?”

  “He got accepted to Stanford. Now he’s three thousand miles away.”

  His unease was giving way to sympathy. “So then you know what it’s like.”

  “Sorta. I mean, I thought we’d stay together, but— now that I’m here talking to you—I dunno. Do we really know what life’s about in high school, Sam? Do we really know, at seventeen, what we want for the rest of our lives?”

  The party atmosphere suddenly seemed less all- enveloping as the conversation turned heavy, and from a source that caught him completely off-guard. He tried to come up with a response that would sound mature and not trite. He was not sure he pulled it off.

  “I—like to think we know enough.”

  She nodded slowly, evidently pleased with his reply. “Fair enough. Hey, I’ve got an idea. How ’bout you pretended I was your girlfriend and I pretended you were my boyfriend? Like we’re still kids. Adults aren’t allowed to pretend, but kids are, and we’ve got the rest of our lives to be stuck being adults. Just pre­tend girlfriend and boyfriend. That wouldn’t be against the rules, would it?”

  He considered. Was it the noise, the music, the laughter that was making him dizzy? “A little role- playing. Hard to say. Might have to get the lawyers in on that one.”

  Flirting in college, he reflected, was actually not all that different from how it had been conducted in high school. Except that he’d never met anyone like Alice

  in high school. Did it ever change? She was smiling,

  he was smiling; it was all harmless, wasn’t it? Just play, that’s all. Nothing serious. This wasn’t an ethics seminar and there would be no surprise quiz next week. Was he at a party or what?

  She was staring at him, a touch of impatience in her expression. “So are you dancing with me or what?”

  He tried to stammer something clever. Clever and demurring. But before he could do so, she grabbed him and with strength as unexpected as her forward­ness pulled him out onto the dance floor. The music caught him there—the music, and her smile, and the rest of her. His mind might still be confused, but his body was not.

  Leastwise, his legs and arms were not.

  On another part of the continent, an I-chat screen announced emotionlessly: Sam Witwicky NOT CUR­RENTLY ONLINE.

  Mikaela checked her watch. It was almost time to close up the shop and there really was no point in lin­gering after dark. The day’s work was done.

  The day’s enjoyment would, it appeared, have to wait until sometime tomorrow.

  Sam did not so much check his watch as inciden­tally catch sight of it when his flying arm happened to cross in front of his face in perfect conjunction with the glare from one of the overhead lights. Otherwise he might not have noticed the lateness of the hour. Not that the time mattered, except that—except that. ..

  Oh crap. Dropping his arms, he started to mouth an apology. At the same time Alice, for whom the time clearly held no significance, playfully threw her arms around his neck. At the same instant the rau­cous blare of a vehicle alarm succeeded in rising above the pounding of the music.

  “Alice,” he mumbled, “I gotta go. I’m sorry, it’s been a blast, but I really have to ...”

  Beer in hand, one of the frat house seniors shoved open the second-floor door. His tone was cross and his visage matching.

  “WHO BELONGS TO THE FREAKIN’ YEL­LOW CAMARO?”

  Slipping free of Alice’s embrace, a stunned Sam rushed to the nearest window. An all-too-familiar coupe was parked outside—on the frat house’s row of decorative bushes. Its alarm wailed plaintively. Also rather louder than was legal. Spinning, Sam rushed toward the stairs. The senior’s glare he ig­nored effortlessly. Alice was not so easily avoided. He found himself having to dodge.

  “Sorry, I—I’ll see you. I mean, you’re right across the hall, how would we not see each other—I mean, visually—eventually. ”

  “Sam, I. . .” Her expression confused, she reached out for him, but he was already past.

  Charging down the stairs he half ran, half tumbled past the line of students and the milling crowd on the floor below. Once outside, he found a small but rapidly increasing mob clustered around the Camaro. One of the frat officers was cursing as he tried and re­peatedly failed to open the hood. Banging on it with a fist caused it to pop open a couple of inches. The would-be mechanic’s smile of satisfaction turned to one of shock as the edge of the hood swiftly slammed back down on his probing fingers, sending him yelp­ing backward in pain and surprise.

  “Hey, what kind of motor .. . ?”

  Rounding on the driver’s-side door, Sam leaned in the open window and hissed, “What is this? What’re you doing here? I thought we ...”

  “FRESHMAN!”

  Looking up, Sam saw a cluster of frat guys heading his way. Several of them were disconcertingly large, probably not from engaging in regular workouts at the chess club. A couple were gesturing at the ruined landscaping. Nothing in any of their various expres­sions hinted that they were in an especially forgiving mood.

  “THAT YOUR CAR ON OUR BUSHES?”

  “Me?” Sam protested. “No way—a friend of mine ...”

  The extent of inebriation among his approaching antagonists varied considerably, but the one who was addressing him at the moment was sufficiently in pos­session of his cognitive faculties to Not Buy It.

  “Don’t give me that.” He indicated the smashed and torn-up landscaping. “Does anything over here say ‘Parking Space’? How ’bout I park my foot in your assl”

  “Uh, nothing on my pants says parking space, either. Says Levi’s, I think. Sorry about the dama— hey, I’m gone, I’m outta here.”

  Wrenching open the door, he slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine. He reached for the shifter, but the Camaro was already spewing dirt from its rear wheels as it spun into reverse. Quick as the car was, it couldn’t quite elude Alice. Yanking open the passenger- side door, she leaped in. Her eyes widened as she got a good look at the immaculate interior.

  “No way! This is your car?”

  “No—yes—sort of.” Gripping the wheel even though he knew any control he tried to exert over it would be superficial at best and could be taken away from him at any time, he leaned forward and declared with becoming determination, “ So I’m gonna drive it now—away. ”

  Obediently and with a responsiveness that would have made a retired Detroit engineer proud, tires squealing and engine racing, the car reacted with pre­cision to every twist of his hands.

  As they sped away from the overamped building, leaving a mob of angrily gesticulating frat members receding rapidly in the rearview mirror, Alice ran her hands over the dash. Slowly, seductively. Watching her actions out of the corner of an eye, Sam could not
keep from wondering what it might be like to be the recipient of a similar caress.

  “I love Camaros!” Her voice had dropped, the tone now huskier than it had been at any time all evening. “My first car was my dad’s ’92 Z-28, fuel injected. The roar of the engine—it’s so throaty. It just tickles me.” Snuggling back into the curving seat, her hands dropped from the dash to her lap.

  It required a considerable effort on Sam’s part to keep his eyes on the road. “Maybe,” he declared, swallowing with some difficulty, “this isn’t the best time for—stories. Or for sharing—ourselves.”

  She whipped around to meet his gaze so sharply that he twitched a little in his seat. “C’mon, Sam, live a little. One ride. That’s not too much to ask, is it? Cheaper than dinner and a movie.” Slipping off her lap, one hand slid down her thigh. “It’s just pretend, remember? The relationship lawyers’ll never know.” To his very great credit, Sam blushed. At the same time, the radio suddenly sprang to life.

  “Your cheatin' heart,” it began to croon.

  Sam hammered a fist on the dash. “Okay, no. That is wrong. ” Realizing that such a violent physical reac­tion to a brief snatch of song might strike his passen­ger as a trifle odd, he hurried to explain himself. “Incorrect, I mean, uh, wrong radio station there. I’m not into country.” His tone sharpened. “Especially country that interferes. ”

  The engine revved threateningly. While the noise may have given Sam pause, it only seemed to further inspire his passenger.

  “Whoa, it’s so powerful! The feeling is just—it makes me want to ... ”

  Without warning, her seat fell all the way back to near horizontal. Startled, she fought to recover her balance—just as it whipped forward and slammed her face-first into the dash. The impact wasn’t hard enough to break anything, but it was no love tap, either.