“Might be,” he murmured thoughtfully. “But we can’t take that chance. We’re going to have to split our forces in order to find out. Thank you, Cabrillo.”
When informed of this new development, Optimus concurred with the captain’s conclusion. Speaking in the huge underground chamber that was the main Autobot living area, he rested an arm on one knee as he knelt before Lennox.
“We have had experience with Starscream dividing his forces before. He is an expert in the use of misleading tactics. I agree with you that we cannot allow him to operate unchallenged regardless of how isolated are the areas on which he seems to be focusing. I have of course memorized every detail of your planet’s surface. This Western Australia is much closer to our base here and so I will accompany you to confront him there.” He rose. “Ironhide and Salvage will come with us. Ratchet, I fear, is too badly injured to risk another confrontation so soon. His strength is dangerously depleted, and he has to rest. Who else can we muster?”
Lennox considered. “We’ll take Kaminari with us. Petr can go to Peru, and I’ll put Epps in charge of that operation.” He looked up at the Autobot leader. “Do you think Longarm can deal with this by himself, or at least make the necessary on-the-ground observations to find out what’s going on there?”
“All Autobots are prepared to survive and fight on their own, yet it is always better to have backup. Though I am hesitant to do so, I will send Knockout with him.”
Lennox frowned. “Why the hesitation? I’ve seen Knockout in both his terrestrial guise and natural Autobot form. He doesn’t look any different or less competent than the rest of you.”
“He is young as Autobots go and therefore lacks experience.” Optimus was clearly unhappy at the choice that had been left to him. “Still, he should go, if only to cover Longarm’s back. And Longarm is a veteran. I am sure he will keep Knockout in line.” The Autobot leader sounded more confident. “It will be good seasoning for Knockout to have to deal with a minor Decepticon incursion. Perhaps he may even have the opportunity to engage a Decepticon. That is an experience he longs for, though I wonder if he will feel the same after the fact.”
Lennox concurred. “Epps will help Longarm keep an eye on him. And Petr will be there to analyze—if Epps can keep his attention from being diverted from the task at hand by some interesting bug.”
“We must leave as soon as possible,” Optimus exclaimed. “Though few humans appear to be in imminent danger in either location, Starscream and his minions do not expose themselves for nothing. We must learn why they are now operating in such empty places.”
“I know, I know.” Lennox sighed. “I’ll alert Command to get a couple of C-17s ready.”
“You yourself are always ready, Captain Lennox, to defend us as well as your own kind.”
But Optimus was wrong. At that moment Lennox was thinking not of the challenge to come, but of his daughter.
Longarm had to use his tow arm to physically restrain Knockout when the ramp at the rear of the big cargo jet dropped down and open. The noncorporeal rider the transformed motorcycle had projected onto his back wore black leather, heavy shades, and chains.
“Hold him there.” Puffing from the sudden exposure to high altitude, Technical Sergeant Epps hurried to the back of the plane to catch up to the two Autobots. Pausing to catch his breath, he planted himself directly in front of the idling cycle.
“Get out of the way, Sergeant!” The cycle roared, its big engine deafening within the confines of the fuselage. Around them, NEST operatives dressed as relief workers occasionally glanced in the direction of the two machines. Used to being around the Autobots while back on Diego Garcia, no one stared.
“Man, look at yourself.” Epps shook his head as Petr, preoccupied as usual, strolled past him. “You cannot go out here lookin’ like that, wheelie dude.”
Knockout’s rumbling dropped to a purr. “Why not?” The human image on his back did not move, did not change expression, did not breathe. Knockout had scanned it from what seemed to be a suitable source subject in NEST’s main research library. “Mechanically I know that I am perfect, and my ‘rider’ provides the necessary camouflage.”
“Says who?” Epps gestured as he spoke. “This is highlands Peru, South America. Your ‘rider,’ my machine, is lifted from an early 1950s American film. That image was standout then, and if anybody here were to recognize it now we’d have ourselves one instant big-ass riot. Even if the right-on image did not happen to be a human icon, it’s way too North American for this location.” He cast a critical eye over the rest of Knockout’s ensemble. “Additionally, that getup is era-inappropriate and way too flashy for this part of the world. You don’t even begin to look local.”
Stopping alongside the idling bike, Longarm could only concur with the human’s assessment. “Do not take it to heart, Knockout. Many of us needed to have our initial vehicular transformations refined in order to blend in properly among the humans. Even Bumblebee did so. Humans are not like the inhabitants of Cybertron. Conditions, habits, customs all vary greatly on this world depending on location. They are not consistent, not even within designated tribal boundaries.”
There was silence for a moment save for the sounds of efficient NEST operatives busying themselves with cargo pallets. The delivery of very real earthquake relief supplies provided the necessary cover for the arrival of the unmarked C-17.
“I suppose you’re right, Longarm.” Knockout gave in reluctantly. “If Optimus can take criticism from an adolescent human, I certainly can accept it from an adult technical specialist.”
“Flattery is nice,” Epps commented. “Compliance would be better.” Once again he singled out the projection that was “riding” on Knockout’s seat. “Close, but try again.” Obediently, the face of the bike rider morphed to fulfill the cosmetic instructions. “Costume should be poncho over jeans and a lighter-weight jacket. Leather is okay. I’m told they do up a lot of good leatherwork here. If we get time between bustin’ Decepticons I’ve gotta try and get my lady a jacket.” He continued to analyze the projection. “Not so much metal in the jacket and on the body. Lose the chrome studs. This ain’t LA.”
“But I like the metal highlights,” Knockout protested.
“ ’Course you do. You’re an Autobot. But your ‘rider’ ain’t. He’s supposed to be a spittin’ image of local flesh and blood.”
The big bike shook visibly. “Don’t remind me.” Once again the outlines of the human simulation on his back shifted and flowed. This time when it stabilized it looked much more like a well-off young Cuzcano than an early American film icon. The bike would still be likely to draw attention from the locals, but at least now its rider would not.
Epps pulled his own NEST-issued poncho tighter around him as he accompanied the two altered Autobots down the back ramp of the cargo jet. Petr Andronov was already standing on the tarmac admiring their surroundings. At over eleven thousand feet, the air around the ancient Inca capital of Cuzco was considerably thinner than at sea-level Diego Garcia, or even that of southern Zambia.
Running to meet the plane, a local NEST contact affiliated with the Peruvian armed forces greeted the two men in lightly accented English.
“Welcome to the Andes, Mr. Andronov, Sergeant Epps. I am Lieutenant Pierre Morales, S.A. NEST technical adjutant.”
Epps blinked at him. “ ‘Pierre’? If you don’t mind my pointin’ it out.”
“Not at all.” The officer smiled. “I am used to it. My mother was a French agronomist. After working much of her life in these mountains, she married my father and retired here.” He held out two cups and a thermos. “Have some coca tea. It will help with the soroche.”
“Altitude sickness,” Petr explained as he accepted the thermos and one of the cups.
Epps took the other and eyed his companion appreciatively. “Man, is there anything you don’t know?”
“Da. I cannot rap.”
Epps raised a hand. “Hey, don’t look at me. I like the cl
assics.”
Steam issued from the thermos as Petr filled his cup with pale golden tea. “Russian? Tchaikovsky? Glinka? Scriabin?”
Epps shook his head as he took the thermos. “American. Brown. Gaye. Green.”
Morales stared as the driverless tow truck accompanied the motorcycle and its slightly rezzing rider down the ramp. “Are those—Autobots?”
Epps nodded. “Longarm and Knockout. The experienced and the energetic.”
“Soprender … amazing! They look like perfectly ordinary everyday vehicles.”
“That’s good. ‘Ordinary’ is exactly what we’re after.” He lowered the cup from his mouth and smacked his lips approvingly. “Nice flavor. Real delicate. How many cups do I have to drink to get a buzz on?”
“At least a hundred. I have only seen Autobots in my training videos. Will I—can I—see them change?”
“Sorry.” Handing back the cup, Epps shook his head. “Outside authorized NEST perimeters they only do that when it’s necessary, and it’s only necessary when something bad is happening, and so—you really don’t want to see them do it.”
“Que lastima. Ah well. Come.” Turning, Morales led the way across the tarmac. Betraying no hint of their true identities, the two vehicles followed. So did Andronov, pausing now and then to examine the occasional weed that thrust an emerald shaft up through the paving. As they walked, the Peruvian officer filled them in.
“The activity that was detected by NEST’s tracking satellites is still centered on some Inca sites to the southeast of here. The ruins in question are substantial, but not famous like Ollyantaytambo or Macchu Picchu. We have overflown the area in helicopters but seen nothing. Only local residents, some tourists, and ordinary vehicles that—” He broke off. “Ah. ‘Ordinary.’ ” He glanced back at Longarm and Knockout. “How does one tell a Decepticon from an everyday run-of-the-mill machine? My squad and I find ourselves looking cross-eyed at every truck, every taxi.”
Petr nodded. “It can be mentally unsettling to not know if bus you board is going to take you to your destination or take your life. Tracking satellites can pick up evidence but still have difficulty resolving the specifics of individual vehicles, as we recently saw for ourselves in Africa. And errant Decepticon signals are only intermittent.” He jerked a thick thumb in Longarm’s direction. “The Autobots will know.”
Morales looked behind him, in the direction of the big cargo jet that continued to unload a steady stream of supplies. “This is it? You are the whole team? Two humans and two Autobots?”
“Hey,” Epps chided him. “I was at Mission City.”
“We are more than enough to handle one Decepticon signal,” Petr replied. “Unless, of course, it is Starscream.”
The officer’s eyes widened. “Starscream! You don’t think he’s here, do you?”
Epps looked back at the tow truck that was following them. “Hey Longarm! You hear that? You think ol’ Starscream might be messin’ around hereabouts?”
“Since you ask my opinion, Sergeant Epps, I do not. It would be highly uncharacteristic of Starscream to engage in any terrestrial operations by himself.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Epps turned back to Morales. “We don’t even know for certain yet that we got us a Decepticon here, Pierre.”
“Verdad, my friend. Hopefully you will find out later today.”
“Not today.” Sucking the thin air, the sergeant regarded the pale, leaden sky. “Nobody’s blowing up any local infrastructure, so there’s no immediate emergency. This Decepticon, if that’s what the signal is coming from, doesn’t know we’re here. So the only thing Petr and I are gonna roll out of tonight is bed.” He patted his stomach. “Any suggestions for dinner?”
“I can recommend,” Morales told him. “Would you like to try some local specialties? I know an excellent place for cuí.”
“I’m up for anything that sounds cute,” Epps replied enthusiastically.
“Not myself, I think.”
The sergeant eyed the Russian. “Why not? You know something about this ‘cuí’?”
Andronov shook his head. “Who, I? Nyet, nothing. I just want some real tea, is all. Something stronger and sweeter and blacker than this flavored water we have been given.” He eyed his cup of pale liquid with obvious distaste.
Epps shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll eat your portion, too.”
But he did not.
The following morning dawned cold and rushed. Rushed, because an angry Epps spent a number of minutes chasing the guffawing Andronov several times around the NEST compound’s offices.
“What is the matter with you, my friend?” Panting hard, the scientist sought shelter behind a long, wide desk.
“I’m gonna kill you, man!” Facing him, Epps finally paused and straightened. “Maybe later, when I can catch my breath. Cuí! I’m gonna cuí your …!”
“Did you not like the taste of guinea pig? The ‘rabbit of the Andes,’ it is called. A staple food of the Incas and is still so today.” He was grinning hugely. “The little hairs, are they not so nice and crunchy when they have been burned?”
“Shoulda told me I’d be eatin’ some kinda big rat.” Epps saw Morales approaching. “Kill you later. Gotta resolve us a possible Decepticon sighting today.”
Despite the tech sergeant’s chronological disclaimer, Petr continued to maintain some distance between them as Morales offered greetings. By the time they had left Cuzco behind and found themselves heading in the direction of the suspicious signal, memories of Sergeant Epps’s gustatory calamity had been put aside as he came to see the humor in it. Leastwise, his mind did. His stomach was still not entirely assuaged.
Riding in a civilian Hummer so that local operatives could maintain NEST’s usual low profile, they were followed by a four-wheel-drive van carrying half a dozen of Morales’s heavily armed colleagues. Epps would have preferred more backup, but because this was not a part of the planet where the Decepticon threat had ever loomed large, NEST’s presence was recent and correspondingly slight.
In his tow truck guise Longarm brought up the rear, but he was unable to keep Knockout from zooming ahead of the others or taking side trips onto dirt roads. Every time the younger Autobot took off on his own he did so with a roar and a flourish, sending dirt and gravel flying. Local farmers tending their herds and ancient fields looked askance at this odd convoy, but because of Longarm’s presence assumed it had something to do with repair or construction farther along the route.
They were grateful to see that something was being done. In this part of the country there was only the one road running eastward through the mountains, and it was always in need of maintenance. It looked as if the government was providing a road crew to maybe do something about fixing the important route. At least it was a change from the usual somber convoy of ambulances and hearses.
Cresting the pass near the turnoff to Tres Cruces, the convoy slowed as it began its descent. Despite the altitude it was soon impossible to see anything except the trees that began to shadow the road. After a while even they were swallowed by the perpetual mist.
From his seat behind Morales, Epps leaned out his open window. The air had rapidly grown so moist that it seemed as if it were raining up.
“Damn! This is like San Francisco on a bad day. We could be surrounded by Decepticons and never even see ’em. When does it clear up?”
“It never ‘clears up,’ my friend.” Turning in his seat, Morales looked back at his passengers. “This is cloud forest. One sees the sun here but rarely. It will be like this for another thousand meters or so of steady descent until we reach the first foothills of the rain forest.”
Opening his computer Epps positioned it on his lap as best he could, but was unable to pick up a signal. The lack of contact was not unexpected. They were dropping down into an incredibly steep, winding canyon on the eastern slope of the Andes. In places the rock seemed to overhang the road. Not the likeliest spot to locate a satellite signal even with the
best equipment, much less with his laptop’s small integrated antenna. Frustrated, he closed the clamshell. They were heading for the last recorded location for the Gamma pickup. As the Hummer slowed to a crawl in order to negotiate increasingly tight curves and switchbacks, the question that had been bothering him and Lennox as well as Optimus Prime ever since this signal had been detected rose once more to the fore.
What on Earth, pun intended, had drawn so much as a single Decepticon to this isolated corner of the planet? There was no technology here to adapt, no supply of metal, no population to terrorize. Only scantly inhabited mountain and rain forest. Had they overlooked something before the sergeant and the others had been dispatched? Or was the satellite pickup simply an error—a computer glitch or false reading?
Regardless, Epps knew it had to be checked out. No Decepticon signal however questionable could be allowed to go uninvestigated.
He glanced to his left. If the Russian scientist had any better theories, he wasn’t voicing them. Instead, Andronov appeared completely engrossed in the wall of green that was sliding past the Hummer. Epiphytes clung tenaciously to overhanging trees while mosses and other hydrophilic growths covered even the bare rock from which the road had been laboriously chiseled.
Chiseled and blasted, Epps told himself as he studied as much as he could see of the winding route ahead. He found that he was increasingly thankful for the dense cloud cover. The single-lane dirt road, which provided the only access from the highlands to the Amazon basin for hundreds of miles in either direction, had not a single guardrail. He sensed rather than saw the sheer drop on his side of the Hummer.
Leaning forward, he tapped their guide on the shoulder. “What happens if you meet somebody coming up? A truck, or a bus?”
Morales didn’t smile. “They back up until we find a place where one or the other can pass. Traffic descending always has the right-of-way.”
The Veiled Threat Page 13
