Transformers Dark of the Moon

by Peter David

  Meantime, Sentinel surveys the sky with a noble but darkening look.

  “And while I share your faith in these humans,” he says, greatly troubled, “there is something about them that I … fear.”

  I am stunned to hear him say this. In my mind, no matter what he says, I am still merely the student, and my reverence for him is unparalleled. Sentinel is the bravest of us all. To hear him speak so …

  … it prompts me to start to see humanity in a different light.

  It is not a light that I like.

  “Optimus, if it is acceptable to you, I would like some time to myself.”

  I hesitate. “I would never question your wisdom, Sentinel, but—”

  “Perhaps it is possible that your affection for these humans stems from your encountering them on your own terms and on an individual basis. It is my desire to spend some time encountering them on my own without those encounters being filtered through your eyes, if you understand my meaning.”

  “You wish me not to follow you about, making apologies for them.”

  “Something like that,” Sentinel says, sounding faintly amused.

  “But there remains danger to you, Sentinel. The Decepticons have returned, as you know.”

  “Are you suggesting that I curtail my wishes, plan my life around fears of what the Decepticons may or may not do?”

  “Of course not, Sentinel.”

  He regards me with patience and forbearance. “Fear not, Optimus; if danger presents itself, I will inform you. And I will leave my beacon activated so that any Autobot can locate me in time of difficulty. Will that satisfy you?”

  “If it pleases you, Sentinel, it pleases me.”

  “A kind sentiment, Optimus, although the fact is that no matter what alliances you may have formed with the natives, we remain strangers in a strange land, and I am not sure that anything will please me anymore.”

  With that discouraging thought, my teacher, my mentor, Sentinel Prime, reverts to the shape of a fire truck.

  Moments later, I am alone, and I have never felt more that way in my existence.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  i

  You did what you came for.

  Those were the words Carly had spoken that kept whirling around in Sam’s brain as he lay in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling.

  He should have been happy, happier than he’d been in a long time. He’d seen his old friends, albeit mostly from a distance. He’d witnessed a monumentally historic moment in the lives of the Autobots. And Bumblebee was, as Wheelie had put it, back in da house. Well, da backyard, more precisely. Technically, the lawn didn’t belong to him but to another tenant in the apartment house, which was why he kept the doghouse on the balcony. Still, the tenant didn’t have the nerve to object when the giant yellow robot was walking around, being watchful and standing guard. Besides, as Carly pointed out, they suddenly had the safest residence in the neighborhood. Who was going to try to burglarize the place when there was a giant yellow robot keeping an eye on things?

  Yet Sam was more frustrated than ever.

  Because he had done what he had come to do. And that was the point. That was the whole freaking point.

  For the first time in what seemed ages, he’d had a purpose. A goal. He was doing something that he cared passionately about. He had a mission.

  And yes, he’d accomplished it, but now he wanted another mission. Something that would be on par with the sort of earthshaking—literally—endeavors that had characterized his life over the past few years. He wanted to do something that would mean something to somebody …

  That would mean something to him.

  Instead he had been cast aside, cast out, and was now once again swimming in the sea of aimlessness that was his life. Chased away by that brittle-sounding woman who had systematically demolished him by hitting him with the one thing against which he had no defense:

  The awful truth.

  Finally giving up on sleep, he rolled out of bed, bare-chested and wearing pajama pants, moving quietly so as not to disturb Carly. He needn’t have been concerned; she was sleeping deeply, not remotely filled with the sorts of concerns that were keeping him awake.

  He padded across the floor and to the balcony, where Buster was sleeping while Brains and Wheelie were perched on the railing. Bumblebee was in the backyard, and he tossed off a salute. Apparently he’d picked up a few things from hanging out with soldiers all the time. Sam returned the salute. It felt good.

  Brains was pointing at the sky and saying, “Ten million, six hundred four thousand and eighty-one …”

  “What are you guys doing?” Sam asked.

  Wheelie said, “The usual. Counting stars.”

  “I can’t sleep. Can you sleep?”

  “We don’t sleep.”

  Sam stared up at the stars. In his imagination, several of them were coming together to form an outline of Mearing’s face, looking down at him mockingly. “She called me a messenger, Wheelie. You believe that? After everything I’ve done? How dare she—” His voice filling with emotion, he said, “It was my destiny. The Primes told me so. My destiny to be there for the Autobots. Not hers, no matter how many medals she’s got gathering dust. Where the hell did she get off—?”

  “I tell you, Sammy, we feel the same way. The disrespect on this rock is criminal.”

  As absurd as it sounded, hearing that from the robot was oddly comforting. Carly couldn’t understand how frustrated he was, but this stupid little pile of bolts was totally sympathetic to his difficulties.

  He glanced toward the bedroom and then lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Then how ’bout we do something about it?”

  Bumblebee was looking at him with open curiosity. Sam gestured for him to draw closer, and the Autobot obediently leaned forward. Conspiratorially, Sam said, “Bee, I want to know why they’re killing humans. If they’re after me, I want answers. And I say we call in an expert.”

  ii

  Seymour Simmons, formerly an agent in the employ of Sector Seven, had a burst of realization: He didn’t have to put up with this crap, especially this early in the freaking morning.

  The obnoxious host of an equally obnoxious syndicated TV program was a guest in his house. His house. Casa Simmons. But he sure as hell wasn’t acting like a guest.

  Instead, with the cameraman practically shoving the damned lens down Seymour’s throat, the host was leaning forward intensely across the kitchen table and saying, “And what do you say to the claims that you vastly overinflated the importance of your role in the battles between giant alien robots on this world? That you’re just some guy who got fired by his government and wound up running a restaurant while living with your mother.”

  “She lived with me. Big difference,” he said heatedly, “and now that I got her her own guest house, I hardly even see her.”

  The obnoxious host continued relentlessly. “That you are, in fact, not a hero but merely an opportunist who’s just trying to cash in on his minimal involvement with—”

  Simmons snapped forward like a raptor, his hawklike face looking predatory. “Who said that? Who actually said that, aside from you, huh? Because when you talk about ‘claaiiiiimsss’ ”—he elongated the word as well as putting quotation marks around it—“what I just assume is that it’s stuff that you’re making up, and you’re saying that other people are claiming it because you don’t have the guts to make accusations yourself.”

  “No one’s making any accusations.”

  “Yeah? Yeah? Because I think that’s exactly”—he picked up a piece of wax fruit from a bowl on the table and flung it at the cameraman, who ducked to one side and nearly dropped the equipment—“what you are doing. You see this place? This is my mansion. It might be kind of old and not have much furniture, and it’s kind of frayed around the edges, but it’s mine! This is my place! And I gave you the hospitality of my place! Because you said you wanted to do an interview that was fair and balanced! And instead you question my he
roism, question my honor … I don’t have to put up with this!”

  He got up and came around the table, advancing angrily on the newsman and his camera guy. The journalist was on his feet, trying to calm Simmons and having no success. The cameraman backed up, working to keep Simmons in focus.

  “Where were you when I was dealing with top-secret, white-knuckled intel? Huh? Where were you when I called in an air strike from a navy destroyer on my own position on top of a damned pyramid? I’ll tell you where you were! You were behind a desk in your nice, safe studio while I was out risking my neck to save this miserable little world that I am forced, by accident of genetics, to share with miserable ingrates such as yourself! Interview’s over! Outta my house!”

  Simmons pursued them all the way to the door of his sparsely furnished mansion and stood there and watched as they fled down his driveway and out toward their van parked curbside. Then he slammed shut the door and bellowed, “Dutch! Dutch!” He stormed into the grand ballroom, looking for him, continuing to shout his name.

  His manservant entered from the far end. In his mid-forties, tall, formally dressed, and a bit effeminate, he had a clipboard under his arm, a Bluetooth in his ear, and a smoothie in his hand.

  “Yes, Mr. Simmons,” he said with a pronounced German accent. “Right away, Mr. Simmons.” He thrust the smoothie into Seymour’s hand. Simmons hadn’t even known he would be in the mood for one. As always, Dutch knew him better than he knew himself. “Your Kombucha shake, sir.”

  Simmons sucked half of it down through the straw in one shot. Then he lowered it and said, “What’s up next? Whadda we got?”

  Dutch looked over the clipboard, although, knowing him, he had all of it memorized. The clipboard was simply a formality. “Book signing in Midtown at noon. Then we pitch your reality show to the producers, followed by dinner with …” He double-checked the clipboard. “Hugo Chavez and Larry King.” He tapped his Bluetooth. “Also, this irritating Witwicky keeps calling. He’s phoned five times. Right now I’ve got him on hold.”

  Finishing the smoothie, he tossed the empty cup to Dutch, who caught it effortlessly. “The kid? What’s he want?” Without waiting for Dutch to respond, he pulled the Bluetooth off his manservant’s ear and held it up to his own. “Sam! How are ya!”

  “Who was that guy who kept blocking your calls?”

  “Manservant. Butler. Basically he’s my hired friend. They’re way better than regular friends; they don’t leave you.”

  “Aren’t they kinda pricey?”

  “Not a problem for me, mi compadre. This couldda been you. Didn’t I tell ya? Shoulda cashed in like me!”

  “I was asked by the president of the United Freakin’ States to keep a low profile.”

  “Yeah, well, glad I didn’t vote for ’im. See where it gets ya?”

  “Simmons, the Decepticons are back. I want to know why.” He paused, sounding reluctant to admit it. “I need your help.”

  “They’re back?” A grin split his face. “Well, that’s good for business!”

  “What if I told you I know a government secret that you don’t?”

  That stopped Simmons cold. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Simmons began to feel an unwanted tug toward a road he had deliberately walked away from several years ago. Once he’d milked his connection to the Autobots for all it was worth, he’d gone cold turkey on secrets, the exact kinds of secrets that Sam Witwicky was now dangling in front of him. GiantEffingRobots.com (which he hadn’t updated since June 2009) and his alter ego of Robo-Warrior were a thing of the past. So were the copious files he had boosted from Section Seven. He had done so for what seemed at the time a very good reason: Continued involvement would inevitably lead to his personal life, which at the moment was glorious, going totally south. As the song said, you had to know when to fold them, when to walk away, when to run. Simmons had cashed in big at the gambling table of life, and he’d known enough to get out while the getting was good.

  He didn’t mind the notion of the Decepticons and the Autobots getting into it again. If they became involved in another very public slugfest, then after the Autobots won—as they invariably did—he would enjoy another renaissance of interest in his moneymaking schemes.

  None of which necessitated his risking his neck again, especially on behalf of a government that never seemed to have valued his contributions in the first place.

  But … secrets. The chance to be in the know again. The incredible adrenaline flow that accompanied being thrust into the middle of danger. And surviving a near-death experience … there was nothing like it. When you came through something like that, the air smelled sweeter, food tasted better, and women …

  Simmons felt the sweat on his lip beginning to bead. “Do not do this, kid,” he warned him in a low voice. “Don’t tempt my addiction. I’ve gone through withdrawal, I’ve been weaned, to a need to know …” He glanced at Dutch. “Is this line secure?”

  Dutch shook his head, looking amazed that Simmons would even ask. Obviously it wasn’t secure. It was his private cell line.

  Immediately Simmons yanked the Bluetooth from his ear and muttered encouragement to himself in a rapid-fire patter, the words tumbling over one another. “You have everything. Don’t take the risk. You will not relapse. Stay strong. Do not … let the demons … win …”

  Satisfied that he had steeled himself, he shoved the Bluetooth back in, adjusted it, and prepared to tell Sam that he was out, that’s all. He was out. He had no interest in hearing any secrets. He had no interest in Sam whatsoever.

  Instead, he heard his own voice say, “What kind of government—” He choked. He didn’t want to say the last word and fought it desperately even as it hissed out of his mouth. “—sssssssecret?”

  “A fifty-year-old alien secret that nobody ever told you.”

  Simmons’s resistance dissolved like sodden tissue. “Dutch! Clear my schedule!” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Except for the Thai massage. I’m tight,” and he flexed his shoulder and winced.

  “So you’re in?” came Sam’s voice.

  “Tell Megatron,” Simmons said, his heart pounding furiously with excitement, “let’s tango.”

  iii

  Sam nearly tripped over his own feet running to the door of his apartment when the doorbell rang. He yanked it open, and standing there was Bruce Brazos, his face a mixture of emotions. He was working on trying to maintain his officious personality, but at the same time there was an air of barely contained excitement in his bearing. His nose had a broad bandage across it, and there was some swelling under his eyes. His gaze darted quickly around the apartment, clearly looking for something, and Sam knew what it was.

  Brazos was holding up a thick accordion folder. “Procured your information, Witwicky,” he said.

  Grabbing it out of Bruce’s hand, Sam said, “Fantastic. Thanks.” He tried to close the door in his face, but Brazos stuck his foot in the door, intercepting it. “Now,” Bruce reminded him, “there was a condition by which I do not sue you.”

  “Yeah, you were gonna sue me for saving your life just because you got hurt while I was doing it. How do you think that’s gonna work out?”

  “Considering people successfully do it to doctors all the time, I’m liking my chances. At least doctors have malpractice insurance. How’s your liability protection, Sam?”

  Sam hated to admit it, but he totally saw such a thing working out in Bruce’s favor. How could it be that he had helped to defeat Megatron but now he was being beaten by Bruce Brazos? Bowing to the inevitable, Sam sighed heavily and allowed Brazos in. Bruce looked around eagerly. “Lemme see one.”

  Stepping to the side, Sam gestured behind himself. Brazos glanced where he was pointing, and suddenly he looked like a band geek who had been invited to be guest of honor at a cheerleaders’ convention.

  Wheelie was babbling about something or other to Simmons, who was trying not to look bored and failing utterly. Brains was biti
ng the heads off nails because they’d run out of screws. Simmons didn’t seem especially happy to see Brazos, but then again, Simmons rarely looked happy to see anyone. He was quite possibly the most dyspeptic man Sam had ever met. But he knew his stuff, and Sam was aware that this simply wasn’t going to get done without him. As for Brazos, he was a necessary evil, and Sam was determined to try to minimize his involvement as much as humanly possible.

  “Freakin’ awesome,” said Bruce, slowly approaching them, unable to tear his gaze from them. Then, suddenly apprehensive, he said, “Are they going to try and kill me?”

  “We don’t take requests,” Wheelie said.

  Sam tried not to dwell on how unfortunate that was and instead dropped onto the floor opposite Simmons. He reminded himself that once upon a time he had felt as much revulsion for Simmons as he did for Bruce and that his feelings had changed over time. Now he could take Simmons in small doses and had gotten kind of used to him. Perhaps eventually he would regard Brazos in the same way.

  Somehow, though, he doubted it.

  He sat on the floor opposite Simmons, and they started spreading out the materials pulled from the accordion folder. “Okay, Lunar Reconaissance Orbiter, NASA launched in 2009. Forensics show Wang may have messed with the code, preventing it from mapping a section on the far side … aka the dark side.”

  Simmons was absorbed with the material Bruce had gathered from the late Jerry Wang’s office. “My whole career,” he said finally, “this is what I’ve been afraid of. They infiltrate us. Intimidate us. Coerce us to do their dirty work. And when they’re done?” He pointed his hand at his head, miming a gun. “Ba-doosh! Double tap to the cerebellum.” He thought about it a moment. “Kid, I don’t think this is about the Decepticons finding something on the moon.”

  “No? Then what—?”

  “I think it’s about something they wanted to hide.”

  “Hey!”