Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen

by Alan Dean Foster

  He stopped in mid-sentence, reflecting on the sud­den thought, deliberating over the realization.

  Mikaela stared at the dead phone for several sec­onds before deciding to prompt him. “Since what?”

  “Since ...” His voice seemed even farther away than it actually was. “Since I touched that splinter of the cube.”

  Seeing that the young female human was preoccu­pied with the conversation taking place on her primi­tive communications device, Wheels began to move, changing shape as he slid off to one side. He could have waited longer, but the likelihood of other hu­mans arriving and further forestalling his work moti­vated him. He was anxious to be finished and away before that happened. Driven by the urgency to com­plete his assigned task, he felt that he could brook no further delay.

  It was here. He could sense it. But where, precisely?

  “Oh, God,” Sam blurted in sudden recognition. “You still have it, right? It’s still secure?”

  “Yeah,” she assured him. “It’s in the shop safe. Been there ever since you handed it to me before leav­ing town. ”

  Humans! Wheels mused as he stopped dead and spun toward the safe. It was not necessary to con­front them directly. One had only to wait for them to provide the means of their own destruction.

  “Listen to me,” Sam said earnestly over the phone.

  “Do not touch it.”

  “I already touched it,” she shot back, “when you gave it to me.”

  “Well, then, don’t touch it again.” His confusion came through clearly over the connection. “Maybe you didn’t have contact with it long enough for it to

  affect you. It was on me for a long time. And I carried the whole cube around with me during the fight at Mission City, right up until the end when I—look, just don’t touch it again, okay?”

  “Whatever you say, Sam. You know more about...” A noise made her pause. An odd sound, like a metal­lic tickling. She turned, every sense alert. “Hold on,” she murmured as she brought the phone close to her lips and moved off into the shop.

  Focused on the safe, Wheels discovered that he was not quite tall enough to reach the lock. That defi­ciency was easily remedied. Espying a nearby box that was just the right height, he turned to pick it up and .. .

  Snap! As primitive a mechanical device as could be found in the confines of the shop, the rat trap slammed shut around one of the Decepticon’s feet. More surprised than inconvenienced, the startled Wheels stumbled backward. Attuned only to “ad­vanced” mechanical devices that boasted at least a minimal electronic signature, he had not perceived the presence of the simple spring-activated mecha­nism. For exactly the same reason, he did not note the presence of the rodent glue trap into which he had just stepped.

  Ever resourceful, he discovered that the addition of both traps raised him just high enough that he no longer needed the box. Straining, he put an auditory receiver to the lock on the safe and began adjusting the dial. Had the lock been of the electronic variety, he could have picked it with a simple electrical over­ride. It was its very simplicity that thwarted him— but only momentarily. His sensitive instrumentation could discriminate between each mechanical tick of the internal tumblers as clearly as if they were hammer blows.

  The whooshing sound that suddenly became audi­ble, however, had nothing to do with the safe contain­ing his objective. Nor did the sudden heat that accompanied it. Turning, he observed that the young human, displaying unexpected stealth, had managed to come up quietly behind him. In one hand she held a pair of industrial tongs. The other gripped a blue- flamed blowtorch firmly by its handle.

  As Wheels attempted to react, Mikaela jammed the tongs against the upper part of his body just below his head and thrust the torch’s flame, thoughtfully set on MAXIMUM, directly into his face. Her shouted query as she did this was characteristically straight­forward.

  “What’re you doing here, you little freak?” Adjust­ing her larynx, she further startled the intruder by shrieking in passable Decepticon. “English! Speak En­glish!”

  Trying to fight, with little success, clear of the flame, Wheels struggled to babble an intelligible in­sect response. “Stop—hurt—stop! STOP! Talk!”

  Warily, Mikaela inclined the point of the flame

  slightly to one side. “What’re you doing here?” she repeated tightly.

  “Seek knowledge from Cube!” the pinioned De­cepticon babbled. “Any piece! Every piece! All con­tains much and little contains all. Secrets of ancients must be reclaimed!”

  Faced with hellish demolition, the little alien made

  an admirable quisling. Keeping the flame close, Mi­kaela put all her weight behind the tongs. “What ‘secrets’? What ‘knowledge’?”

  Hacked by a blowtorch, Wheels began to spill in­formation freely. “The Fallen commands! Whatever form the knowledge has taken, we must recover it! Show mercy, Warrior Goddess! I am merely a lowly salvage and scrap surveillance drone!”

  “And I’m merely your worst nightmare,” she growled.

  Gripping the trapped machine with the heavy tongs she wrenched him sideways, lifting as she did so, and shoved the struggling Decepticon into a metal storage bin. Withdrawing the tongs, she slammed the lid closed and flipped the latch shut. There was no lock handy, but the crankcase she heaved on top of the bin was sufficiently weighty to keep the lid down against the imprisoned alien’s frantic banging and shoving. As soon as she was satisfied that neither the bin nor its frenzied contents were going anywhere, she picked up the phone again. Sam was still on the line, more frantic than ever.

  “... the hell was that, ” he was saying as she caught the tail end of an anxious sentence.

  “Something that’s not for an open phone line. I’ll tell you in person tonight.”

  “In person? Mikaela, what. .. ?”

  “Tonight. I’m getting on a plane.” Before discon­necting, she added, “Sam—he careful. Something’s— up.” She switched off.

  Behind her, the storage bin continued to jiggle and shudder, but the crankcase proved too heavy to dis­lodge. Taking a deep breath and readying herself as best she could, she picked up the tongs and started toward it once more.

  Still buttoning his shirt, Lennox nearly ran over Epps as the two men converged in the hallway lead­ing to the Command Center. A glance was ex­changed, but no words were spoken. There was nothing to be said; not yet. Both men had been woken by the alarms in their rooms. Around them, the hall was alive with technicians and soldiers on the move. No one was talking. Without exception, the expres­sion on the face of each man and woman reflected grim purpose.

  Guards stepped aside as the two soldiers hurried into the Center. Lights were alive on a series of con­soles, and every monitor was active. Lennox led the way toward the central console, arriving just as the senior technician turned to report.

  “Major! Incoming SOS from the Autobots! They have multiple Decepticon contacts, vicinity Eastern United States!”

  Damn, Lennox thought rapidly. Not the Sahara, not the Himalayas, not even Rome or Shanghai this time. It was going to be hell to keep a lid on what­ever was happening. And whatever was under way, if multiple contacts were involved it was liable to be big. The conceal-and-obscure guys were going to be pissed.

  “Autobots are on the move,” declared the officer seated beside the tech, “splitting into teams.”

  That clinched it, Lennox knew. Anything that re­quired the Autobots to separate into groups was big- time. “Full weapons deployment, all teams on duty.

  Wheels up in twenty minutes.” Whirling, he saw that Epps was already pounding for the exit.

  “Let’s move”

  The check-in counter was only moderately busy. Waiting in line, Mikaela did her best to blend in with the rest of her fellow travelers. There was no reason for her to feel as if every eye was on her, as if she was being singled out. But why was that old man con­stantly looking over his newspaper at her? And why were those two women peering in her direction
and whispering?

  Paranoia, she told herself, fighting to stay calm. The old man was looking at her because he was an old man and she was young and attractive. The two women were peering at her and whispering be­cause they probably didn’t approve of what she was wearing—or because she was young and attractive and they weren’t.

  Stay calm, she told herself. There’s nothing to worry about. Nothing to single you out.

  After what seemed like half an hour the traveler in front of her finally concluded his business, took his ticket, and moved off. Stepping forward, she pre­sented her electronic ticket and smiled. Fortuitously,

  the ticket agent was young and male. He responded instantly to her deliberately engaging smile.

  “Uh, good evening.” He smiled back as he took the ticket, glanced at it, and began working his keyboard. “Any bags to check?”

  “One,” she told him as she lifted the metal box off the baggage cart and placed it on the scales. “You might tell Security that it’s full of expensive, sensitive tools. I’m a mechanic.”

  “Oh, you don’t say?”

  She fastened her eyes on his. “I’ve locked it, but I can unlock it if you think it’s necessary.” Her voice turned meltingly husky. “I’d hate to have anyone going through my things.”

  He swallowed slightly. “I’m sure it’ll be all right. Did you pack your own bags today?”

  “Of course.”

  He recited by rote and necessity. “Have any strangers given you anything suspicious to carry on?”

  “Nope.”

  On the conveyor belt the metal box quivered slightly. Lifting her leg, she gave it a firm kick, as if to send it farther along its way. The internal jiggling stopped. Busy checking her in, the agent barely no­ticed.

  “You said your luggage was full of mechanic’s tools?”

  She nodded. “X-ray might look funny. I suppose they can break the lock if they have to.”

  He smiled back at her. “I’ll put an appropriate label on it. I don’t think there’ll be any problem—as long as there’s nothing explosive inside.”

  She leaned forward over the counter as far as she could manage. “Not inside that box,” she murmured.

  Alice tried to avoid Leo, but in the narrow hall, and considering that their rooms were opposite each other, it proved impossible. In addition to his school gear he was laden with a large, flat box whose con­tents, at a distance, were unknown but whose aroma was unmistakable.

  “Aliiiice—can I interest you in part of an eighteen- inch Zookeeper’s special?”

  Slowing, she eyed the enormous pizza box guard­edly. “ ‘Zookeeper’s’?”

  He grinned conspiratorially. “An extra-large triple cheese with bits of every known hoofed mammal as toppings. Basically I’ve got like eighteen inches of meat.” He contemplated the box. “Unless you’re a vegetarian. Then I am too.”

  She looked past him. “Uh, is Sam home?”

  “Sam . . . Sam . . . remind me who that is again? Oh, he’s out, he left school, he died. No seriously, it was kinda brutal. But automatic A’s for me!”

  “Uh-huh, maybe I’ll just check,” came the skeptical reply.

  He waited for her to step in front of him. She waited for him to open the door first. Which he did, whereupon all previous thoughts including those re­lating to pizza and girls evaporated from his mind. To erase notions of both from the brain of Leo Spitz re­quired a substantial shock indeed.

  Sam Witwicky had provided it.

  He was standing on his bed, finger-painting sym­bols on the walls. Leo gaped at their room. All of Sam’s posters had been taken down, to be replaced with arcane symbols and ideographs whose origin was as alien to him as the content of the several text­books he ought to have been reading. The indecipher­able, inexplicable drawings covered every flat sur­face as high as Sam could reach. Which was why he was presently standing on his bed, struggling to in­scribe the last vestiges of unmarked wall. While Alice stared, her gaze roving over the esoteric imagery, Leo tossed the pizza down on his own bed and confronted his roommate—though he was careful to keep his dis­tance.

  “Dude—what the eff? You’re going all ‘Beautiful Mind’ on me! Please tell me that’s not your feces you’re writing with!”

  It was Sam who replied, but in a voice that was oddly distant, as if one part of him was furiously scrib­ing symbology while the other serenely responded to the interruption.

  “D’you ever have a song? Stuck in your head? And it’s like the worst song ever, but you can’t not whistle it or sing it and it repeats and repeats and repeats over and over again? A mnemonic with music? Like ‘It’s an itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini’— only with calculus and physics?” Straining on tiptoes, he filled the last remaining unmarred corner with lines and circles and diagrams that had no evident re­lationship to any known script.

  “I have to find out what it all means. There’s gotta be a reason. It’s like some kinda code, like a puzzle. I put it together, maybe it stops. Like a jigsaw puzzle. Put all the pieces together and the picture finally makes sense, and then you can turn out all the lights and go to bed.”

  Pizza forgotten, Leo took a step back. “Oh-kay, Section Eight. Whatever you say. Alice, I’m horrified you had to see this; let’s go. I’ll try to explain my ‘friend’ here as best I can. I know a quiet place where we can ...”

  She cut him off. Politely but firmly. “Actually, I came to talk to Sam alone.”

  Leo finally achieved the physical contact he sought, but not in the form he wished for. She was deter­minedly pushing him toward the door.

  “But it’s H.Q.! My office!” he protested. His gaze traveled longingly to the pizza, cooling on his bed.

  “I know.” She smiled encouragingly as he darted past her just long enough to recover his meal.

  He was not quite done. “Can’t I just stand in the corner and watch?”

  “No,” she informed him firmly as she closed the door in his face.

  His voice filtered in from the hallway, plaintive and hopeful. “What if I just sit and eat quietly?”

  She shook her head, muttering to herself. “What a perv!” Then she turned back to the room’s remaining occupant. Sam had stepped down from the bed and was rapidly, almost desperately, connecting the sym­bols he had drawn with crosshatched lines. Mesmer­ized, she came up behind him.

  “Sam, you’re like a genius. I knew there was something special about you.” Raising a hand, she gestured at his efforts. “I don’t know what all this means, but it clearly means something. I think I’m smart enough to know that much.”

  She was very close to him now. Straining, she whis­pered in his ear. “Y’know what they say when two smart people get together?”

  Half of him was able to respond while the remain­der continued to work with the painted symbols that now dominated the decor. “What’s that?” he mum­bled absently.

  “They’re genuinely amazing in bed.”

  Given the depth of the trance he had fallen into, there was very little that was capable of shaking him out of it.

  Her words succeeded.

  The dorm lounge was occupied by a number of hall residents. Some were chatting softly while others, oblivious to conversation, were studying hard. Both activities were interrupted as Leo kicked open the door, strode to the empty couch that fronted the flat- screen TV, dropped his pizza box on the nearby table, picked up the television remote, and switched the unit on. The channel he finally selected was not one to in­spire quiet contemplation, nor was the noise he made as he began to chow down on the huge circle of faux mozzarella and meat. Sparing an idle glance for the room, he noted that everyone was looking in his direction.

  “Hey, can you guys keep it down?” he barked chal- lengingly. “New episode of Cribs is on.”

  Bor-ing, Leo decided. Pizza dripping tomato sauce down one hand and remote in the other, he flipped through several channels until the image of an espe­cially appealing (i.e., hot) girl cau
sed him to pause and lean back contentedly on the couch. It took him a minute to realize that the girl was animatronic. Not that he had anything against animatronics. They were as synthetically stimulating as the ivory-white cheese substitute that was currently forming a satisfying if barely digestible ball in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t even care that the sexy image was featured in a theme park ad instead of a movie.

  “. . . with Mickey the friendly mouse,” the screen voice chirped. “And experience the magic and mys­tery of our new Alice in Wonderland animatronic ride. Sponsored by Honda Motorworks, the most in­novative robotic technology on Earth!” The smile the mechanical pitchwoman was flashing was beguiling, in a deliberately pseudopedophilic way.

  So beguiling that he felt that he had encountered it before.

  Letting the remnants of the pizza slice slip from his fingers, he sat up straight on the couch and leaned, openmouthed, toward the screen. The girl was a pretty, barely post-adolescent, almost-familiar blonde. With a matching, more-than-almost-familiar name.

  In the dorm room, Alice gave Sam a shove that sent him backward onto his bed. Deciphering haunting alien symbology had suddenly become the furthest thing from his mind.

  “Whoawhoawhoa, stop! I have a girlfriend. We’re like, almost nearly semi-engaged! Or going steady, anyway. ”

  She sat down on his legs, grabbed one hand, and moved it onto her skirt. “She’ll never know; we’re only human. C’mon, Sam—relax.”

  He moved to pull his hand back and was startled to

  discover that he could not. “What the ... ? Wow,

  you’re strong...”

  Trying to twist away, he caught a glimpse of some­thing bright on her neck. At first he thought it was part of a necklace, or maybe a wayward earring. But it was flat, and bore some kind of inscription, and— it didn’t seem to be moving against her neck.