Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  A stunned Sam panicked. “NONO—that is so— uncalled-for!”

  Pulling over to the side of the road, the car skidded sharply to a stop. As a dazed Alice tried to recover her equilibrium, the air-con vent on her side flared to squirt a stream of bright green antifreeze, dousing her with the pleasant-smelling but decidedly unsolicited fluid. Sam’s panic intensified.

  “Alice, oh God, I’m so sorry! There was,” his mind churned frantically as he improvised, “a recall on this model. Had to do with a special booster for the cli­mate control—I forgot all about it—meant to take it in to get it fixed before I came up here. That’s why

  I ”

  • • •

  She was holding her nose. “I’m—I’m okay—I’m fine.” She didn’t look at him as she reached for the door handle. “I think I’ll just walk from here. Proba­bly safer. ”

  “Are you sure .. . ?” Leaning over, he looked after her. She was wobbly, but stable. One hand rose un­steadily as she stuck out a thumb in the direction of passing traffic. He slumped back in the driver’s seat, both hands gripping the wheel, and spoke through clenched teeth.

  “That was so way out of line. Giving a girl a ride is not cheating, and WHAT THE HELL BUSINESS IS IT OF YOURS ANYWAY? What’re you doing here? Are you spying on me?”

  The radio crackled. A news excerpt further ex­cerpted, or possibly a line from an old radio show. “The situation on the ground has changed—a sol­dier's duty is to follow orders ...”

  Sam blinked, and his knuckle-whitening death grip on the steering wheel relaxed slightly. “Orders? What’re you talking about?”

  This time he thought he recognized the voice of the

  actor from the old war-movie clip that played back through the car’s speakers. “The commander has re­quested to see you, sir. There’s no time to waste.”

  Sam’s anger gave way to confusion as he frowned. “ ‘Commander’? What ‘commander’?”

  The Camaro did not answer. Not directly. Not in words borrowed or new. Instead, after first taking care to check for oncoming traffic, Bumblebee pulled away from the curb and accelerated into the night. Very soon they were exceeding the speed limit by a considerable amount. Sam pondered pointing out that the speedometer was now registering velocity in the triple digits, but decided against it. He had warned Bumblebee on numerous occasions about radar and speed cameras, and presumed that by now, the Autobot had managed to devise a means to avoid such inconveniences.

  After all, he reasoned, anything that could run cir­cles around a Decepticon ought to be able to find a way to beat a speed trap.

  He did not expect their destination to be a grave­yard. The Autobots tended to favor abandoned in­dustrial zones and empty manufacturing facilities. There being none in the immediate vicinity, the ceme­tery had been singled out as the place least likely to suffer an accidental incursion while the meeting was taking place. Effortlessly, Bumblebee decoded the electronic lock on the main gate and rumbled through, letting the metal grilles swing shut behind him. A short, slow drive brought them to a hilly one- lane road flanked by large stone and concrete crypts. Probably nineteenth or maybe even eighteenth cen­tury, Sam thought as he studied the disquieting sur­roundings.

  Without a word, Bumblebee slowed and stopped. The driver’s-side door popped open. Sam started to say something, hesitated, then climbed out. Immedi­ately, he saw the reason behind his car’s silence. Addi­tional explanation was not necessary and anyway,

  when among themselves the Autobots did not waste words. Even in the darkness, the figure that towered above the trees was instantly recognizable.

  “Hello, Sam.” Optimus Prime inclined slightly in his direction.

  Sam nodded back. “Just in the neighborhood?” The Autobots did not waste words when among humans, either. Especially when among knowledge­able ones.

  “A fragment of the Allspark was stolen. ”

  It was as if the events of the past days, as well as this night, vanished like a drop of water on a hot iron. Everything else was blotted out. Nothing else mat­tered. Not school, not relationships, nothing. Such was the power of Optimus’s terse announcement. Where moments ago Sam had been tired, even sleepy, now he was fully alert.

  “As in ‘by Decepticons’ stolen?”

  Optimus looked away, out into the night. Toward the distant horizon, Sam found himself wondering— or toward the stars? “We permitted it to be placed under human protection and surveillance as a gesture of good faith. The risk was high, but considered worthwhile. It was a means of showing how much trust we place in your kind. Your military is on high alert. And now I am here—for your help.”

  “My help? Why?”

  “There are those in your government, as well as in others, who believe that by our continued presence here we have brought vengeance upon your planet and your species. We cannot convince them other­wise. They must be reminded of the truth, and of the reality. Of the trust and the common goals we share. They must be reminded by one of their own kind. By a human. By you.”

  Sam felt his throat constricting. “What—what’re you asking me to do?”

  “Speak for us. Stand with us. You have done both before, with great success. You know us as no other human does. Despite your youth, your words and ex­perience will carry weight where those of an older but less intimately involved individual of your kind may not.”

  A small laugh escaped from Sam’s lips. “You’re kidding, right? You want me to go somewhere else, now? To leave college? I just got here.”

  As always, Optimus formed his reply carefully. “Fate rarely calls upon us at a moment of our choos­ing. I know this personally. ”

  “I bet you do—but you’re Optimus Prime. This— this isn’t our war. It isn’t my war. ”

  “There was a time, long past, when it was not my war either. ” The leader of the Autobots paused mean­ingfully before continuing. “Until I lost everything. What you would call a—‘family.’ I learned a painful truth: that fighting for what we believe in begins with those we care about.” Huge reflective eyes met Sam’s own far smaller, softer ones. “What do you care about, Sam?”

  He licked his lips, then tried to reply as firmly and convincingly as he could. “Look, I wanna help, I do—but I’m not that person, okay? I’m not the kind of statesman or orator or interlocutor that you’re looking for. I’m just a normal, average kid from Bur­bank who still gets zits. There’s a reason I got cut from the football team. It kinda all became clear to me when I was falling off that twenty-story building with a giant evil alien robot trying to rip my head off. I’m just not that guy—not the guy you want, any­way. And by the way—it hurt. It still hurts, some­times. Like for instance when I’m dancing. You’re not supposed to have back problems when you’re eigh­teen.” His voice lowered. “I mean, it’s not like I didn’t give at the office, y’know?”

  “And of those eighteen years I have known you for barely two,” Optimus replied evenly. “While brief, I feel that that has been sufficient time to render a rea­sonable assessment of any human.”

  “Yeah?” Sam shot back challengingly. “And what’s your ‘reasonable assessment’ of me?”

  The leader of the Autobots spoke quietly. “That your only shortcoming is your lack of confidence in yourself.”

  Sam paced back and forth, shaking his head. “Look, you’re a forty-foot alien robotic life-form. If the powers that be won’t listen to you, they’re sure not gonna listen to an eighteen-year-old incoming college freshman. ”

  Optimus continued to differ. “There is more to you, Sam Witwicky, than meets the ...”

  Sam whirled on the Autobot, not realizing as he did so that while nearly anyone else would have been in­timidated by Optimus’s presence and afraid to con­front him so forcefully, he was comfortable enough to do so without hesitating. It was significant that the fact did not register on him.

  “Stop it! Enough. I can’t help you!”

  The Autobot leader said nothing an
d Sam was im­mediately regretful.

  “Look, I’m sorry. You changed my life. In ways I’m still not sure I entirely understand. But this is my life now. I belong here. I did what I could when I had to. But now I have—a choice. I gave a lot to you— people. Now I owe something to myself, and to my parents, and to—others.” He looked up at the shad­owed, silhouetted shape. “Nothing I do or say is gonna make a difference. Where all this is concerned, I’m outta my league.”

  Optimus nodded once. “If that is what you believe, then it is already true.”

  Sam didn’t know what more to say. What could he say? His response had come from the heart. Could Optimus Prime understand that?

  “You’ll convince ’em, okay? You will, I know. You’re Optimus Prime. Me, I gotta go now. I got— I have class in the morning. My first class. Don’t wanna miss it.”

  Turning, he walked deliberately down the winding path that led to the main gate, passing the altered Bumblebee without a word. Standing beside each other, the two Autobots watched him go.

  “I believe there is greatness in you, Sam—even if you don’t,” Optimus murmured after him.

  Bumblebee followed his friend with his eyes until the small human had disappeared from sight. “What he does not realize is that, in so many ways, he has al­ready graduated ...”

  class="center">* *

  The freighters hauling containers anu construction equipment was plowing through the North Atlantic a safe several nautical miles from the zone that had re­cently been designated on all marine navigation maps as RESTRICTED—MILITARY DROP SITE. Despite the proximity, there was no reason for the captain to alter course. The modern freighter’s GPS and^utonav would keep it well clear of the forbidden zone. He re­laxed in his cabin, secure in the knowledge that with a good crew, an experienced first mate, and advanced automated steering equipment they would make land­fall on the East Coast of the United States right on time. Rolling over in his bunk, he prepared to get some well-deserved shut-eye.

  Out on deck, a member of the night watch was en­joying a relaxing stroll among the cargo. It was hardly necessary to check the straps and bolts. If one of the containers or big construction machines was going to break loose, it would have done so in the course of the brief squall the ship had endured several days earlier. But orders were orders, an assignment was an assignment, and it was nice to be out on deck anyway. One couldn’t watch DVDs or read books all the time. Besides, the deck watch was known to occa­sionally spring a surprise. A flying fish flopping on board, roosting seabirds, a dead body . ..

  The sailor pulled up sharply. On a cargo ship at sea there were no strangers, and he recognized his col­league immediately. How or why the man had died the sailor on watch did not know, except that the amount of blood oozing from the corpse combined with the awkward and unnatural position of the dead man’s limbs suggested that he had not perished from a heart attack or some other natural cause. Alarm— he had to sound the alarm. Or at least alert the oth­ers, and quickly . . .

  He never saw the enormous hand that struck him down from behind.

  The ship’s radar and other instrumentation were programmed to look forward for obstructions and the occasional unexpected floating object—not aft. So it did not detect or record the object that was presently speeding toward the ship. Nor did any of the onboard security gear perceive it as it changed shape and landed on deck among the stacked cargo containers—or the quartet of construction vehicles that had altered form to greet the newcomer. No longer forced to squat on wheels or treads, they stood revealed in their true shapes—as did Ravage.

  Rapid communication was exchanged among them. None paid the slightest attention or so much as acknowledged the two slain humans at their feet. Each following close upon the other, they launched themselves over the side of the ship.

  Oblivious to the twin deaths among his crew, the captain of the vessel slept soundly as it continued on course. Below and behind his vessel’s powerful props, four large bipedal shapes and a singular sphere sank swiftly into darkness.

  Following its regular patrol route, the sub stayed deep. Alert at their stations, the sonar team on the bridge tracked and ticked off the usual signatures:

  mountainous projections, known wrecks disintegrat­ing with incredible slowness, the occasional whale ...

  The technician sat up a little straighter and hastily double-checked the readout he was getting. No, he corrected himself—the multiple readouts. They were clear and sharp, and he didn’t hesitate. A single such signature might be attributable to a thermal anomaly, but not five of them. Not when each was as distinct and well-defined as these. He spoke with confidence into his pickup, as well as loud enough to be heard throughout the bridge.

  “Conn, Sonar. We have five unidentified contacts, bearing two-four-one, range two hundred and drop­ping fast. Confirmed on course for Project Deep Six, Blacksmith drop point.”

  Coming over, the captain bent to have a look at the screen for himself. “That’s on the bottom at ninety- three hundred feet. Only our unmanned surveillance vehicles go that deep, and we don’t have any on sta­tion here right now.” Straightening, he barked com­mands. One order all commanders had received with regard to Project Deep Six was that if an abnormality was detected, they should not hesitate.

  “Right full rudder, all ahead flank, sound general quarters!”

  Klaxons rang out, underscoring the command that was relayed the length and breadth of the great ship. “Now, general quarters, general quarters, all bands man your battle stations. ”

  Magazines were flung aside, DVDs ejected, meals left unfinished, and letters being composed for future Internet transmission hurriedly saved as the crew sprang into action. All crew members rushed to their stations, absorbed in their own thoughts. Each won­dered, as they always did on such occasions, whether this was just another drill.

  Four Constructicons came to rest on the floor of the abyssal deep. Primeval mud billowed around their legs. A few ghostly white, wholly blind fish shot away as fast as their wriggling, eel-like swimming move­ments could propel them. Around the new arrivals, all was blackness save for the occasional biolumines- cent life-form.

  Indifferent to the immense pressure, they switched on their internal beams. Light, an utterly alien pres­ence in such surroundings, illuminated their position. All around was nothing but mud, drifting deep-sea detritus, and a single gigantic, chain-wrapped figure, silent and unmoving. Silt obscured the scene as the four of them spread out, checking the area, making sure it was secure.

  A sixth shape, the Doctor, detached from Ravage to skitter spiderlike up the enormous body of Mega­tron. While the other five kept watch he performed a swift, thorough examination of the inert form. Disap­pearing into one shattered leg, the smaller Decepticon was gone for several moments before popping out again.

  “Incomplete! Need parts! Replacements!”

  Have regrouped to watch the Doctor at work, the four Constructicons stood in the cold silence. Then three of them turned to the fourth—and began to tear it apart. There was no one to hear the electronic screams in the language of an impossibly distant planet that rippled through the abyss except those who were doing the violent disassembling.

  Work proceeded rapidly and without unnecessary conversation. When the repairs had been completed to the Doctor’s satisfaction, the arachnoid Decepti­con extended a tentacle outward.

  “Ravage—the shard!”

  Accepting the precious fragment, the Doctor turned back to the dark hole in the center of Mega­tron’s chest. Delicate tendrils went to work, sealing, repairing, and reconnecting. Then the shard was care­fully inserted. Finished, the Doctor moved back. So did Ravage and the remaining Constructicons.

  Nothing. Silence, darkness, cold. And then . . .

  The enormous body shuddered slightly. A giant metal hand rose, then fell. Fingers clenched, opened, and clenched again. Slowly at first, then with increas­ing speed, a bright blue light began to spread throughout the body
from the vicinity of Megatron’s chest. The hole that had gaped there began to close up, the metal epidermis to reseal itself.

  Eyes opened, blazing with crimson life. Reani­mated, Megatron straightened. Communication ensued—flickers of consciousness and enlightenment that passed silently among the assembled Decepti­cons. Their leader tilted back his head to regard the blackness and watery weight above him.

  Trailed by his jubilant minions, he started upward.

  Aboard the sub, warning lights began to come alive in rapid succession. Not quite able to believe what he was seeing but unable to deny it, the sonar tech raised his voice sharply.

  “Captain! Contacts have changed heading. Con­stant bearing, range decreasing rapidly and . . . ,” he checked his instrumentation one last time to assure himself that he wasn’t imagining things, “there’s something big in the middle of them.”

  “Sound collision alarm! Hard left rudder, all back emergency!”

  The sub slowed as its reactors poured power to the propellers. Something huge roared past its bow, so close that it all but scraped the titanium nose. Sec­onds later, the shock wave generated by its passing rocked the ship. On board there was no panic. The crew was well trained in the handling of such emer­gencies.

  But if not panic, there was a good deal of concern.

  High, high above, a Navy P-3C long-range Orion surveillance aircraft was circling a section of ocean that had suddenly become a scene of greatly height­ened interest. On board, the usual phlegmatic atten­tion to work had given way to a flurry of activity.

  One of the scan operators turned to look forward and call out to the pilot.

  “Sir, SOSUS nets detect unauthorized activity at Deep Six drop point. We’re monitoring comms with the Los Angeles. Something going on; they’ve sus­tained some damage. Standing by for assessment.”