by Peter David
“Muscle spasm,” he said apologetically, and dropped into the chair opposite her.
The door slammed behind them, sealing them in the cabin. Then the plane started rolling forward with no preamble.
“So, uh … do we get an in-flight movie? Some mixed nuts? Maybe a barf bag?”
“You seem jumpy, Mr. Witwicky,” she said. “I bet I know why.”
“Oh, I bet you don’t.”
She leaned forward in the chair as much as the seat belt would allow and didn’t seem to be paying the least bit of attention as the plane built up speed for takeoff. “Sam,” she said as the plane lifted off, “I owe you an apology.”
“Uh … what? No, honestly …”
Mearing shook her head, denying both his protestations and a lack of wrongdoing on her part. “You realized Sentinel was the key. You warned us they were using humans. We’ve been conducting investigations, and it seems that Jerry Wang was not an isolated case. There were other people involved, some willingly, some less so. We’re only just beginning to get an idea of just how far up this thing goes.”
It goes all the way down my arm.
“The fact is,” Mearing said, “I underestimated you at every turn. And truthfully, I also unfairly blamed you for some lapses on my own part. It won’t happen again.”
“No, it’s all good. And hey, right back at you. Remember, you totally called it about the space bridge being weaponized. You just nailed it. I didn’t see it coming, and you did. I mean, you’re the expert,” he said quickly. “I’m just a—” He bent his elbow and brought the watch into view, trying to sound casual. “—a walking security risk … ow, ow, ow!”
“Are you all right?” Mearing said with growing concern.
“What? No—ow—I mean, yes. It’s nothing. It was … I went bowling the other night and overdid it. Strained the wrist.”
“Do you want some painkillers?”
Oh, I wanna kill something that’s causing me pain, all right. Trying to sound casual, he rotated his hand a few times, “flexing” the wrist as if trying to work through it. “I’ll be fine. Really.”
The plane was starting to level off.
“Okay, if you’re sure,” she said. Then she turned the chair back around to face the computer.
The watch began to extend itself, trying to get a better view of what was on the computer screen. He hoped that the thing couldn’t split its focus and wouldn’t keep trying to zap him while it was busy endeavoring to spy on Mearing’s information.
“Okay, just so you know,” and Sam struggled valiantly with the watch, trying to shove it back into place or block its view. “I’m a Twitter junkie. Blog everything, total oversharer, no secret is safe …”
“I think I’m finally starting to understand your sense of humor, Sam,” she said, her back still to him. “It took me a while, plus I had to have a briefing memo drawn up so I could read an analysis of it. But I get it now. Say what you want, but we both know that you can be completely trusted with matters of security, particularly where it comes to the Autobots and the current difficult situation we now have to face with them.”
“Yeah, that’s me, Mr. Trustworthy.” He pounded with a fist on the watch. It snapped back at him and almost took off his little finger. “But y’ know, the situation, the current one, it’s not that difficult. I heard on the radio about the UN telling them—”
“The UN resolution means nothing, Sam. Not a damned thing.” For a woman who kept herself wrapped as tightly as Mearing did, it was surprising to hear the bitterness in her voice.
Sam didn’t understand. Neither, obviously, did the creature on his wrist, which ceased its struggling so that it could hear better what she was saying. “What do you mean it doesn’t mean a damned thing? That’s, y’ know, practically the whole world standing up and saying that the Autobots can stay.”
“A resolution that has no meaning, no force of law. The Autobots are here in the United States. That makes them our problem, and the decision as to whether they stay or go is no one’s business but ours. And apparently when it comes to Congress, they never miss an opportunity to get it wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They finally found something they agree on, Sam. Democrats, Republicans alike. They converged on the Hill, like lemmings, in an emergency session. House and Senate, united as one, speaking with a single voice: Get the Autobots the hell out of here. The special dispensation allowing them to remain has been revoked. The military alliance has been severed. If they’re not out of here in twenty-four hours, the orders are that they are to be attacked on sight. I swear to God, if they were standing in the middle of Detroit, a nuke would probably be dropped to wipe them out along with the entire population of Michigan and some of Canada. That’s how terrified the government is.”
“Okay, well …” He tried to find words. “If they have to leave the States, then other countries …”
“You think it’s only happening here? You think other governments give any more of a damn about a show of support from the UN than ours did? Nobody wants them anywhere near their territory. Which means we’re going to wind up on our own against an enemy we’re not remotely prepared to fight without the Autobots on our side. Which brings us to the reason you’re here, Sam.”
“It … it does?”
“Yes. If there is anything more you know, anything at all, about the enemy’s intentions, it’s time to tell.”
The watch promptly dug its teeth into Sam’s skin as a reminder of what he could and could not say. Sam jumped slightly and bit down on his lower lip, trying to shift the conversation away from discussing things like—oh—the lethal little creature on his wrist. “But wait I don’t understand. The Autobots have no way to leave the planet—”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“I … I am?” He looked out the window. He’d assumed that they were taking a short hop over to NEST headquarters, but he saw the coastline below them and stared down in confusion. “Where the hell are we going?”
“Florida.”
“Florida? What’s in Florida? Aside from theme parks and old people?”
“The Kennedy Space Center,” she said. “And Xantium.”
“Xantium? It sounds like a remedy for stomachaches.”
“It’s a remedy,” she said. “But not one any of us is going to like.”
vi
In the shipping bay of Dylan Gould’s office building, Carly watched as the loading of an armored Decepticon truck was completed. The gate in the back was pulled down, and she had one final glimpse of the cargo—strange pillars stacked one atop the other, nearly to the ceiling—before it was shut tight. Dylan, who had been overseeing the entire procedure, banged a fist twice on the side of the truck to signal that everything was locked down, and then the vehicle rumbled away from the loading dock.
She was fortunate that she had changed from her more casual clothes to her party clothes at Dylan’s. It had provided her with something to change back into at his house so she wouldn’t be standing around on loading docks wearing a cocktail dress. If nothing else, she didn’t have to feel creeped out over the prospect of Dylan staring at her with that grin that she had once found charming but now was repulsed by.
Dylan strolled back to her, that insufferable smile on his face. As Carly watched him, she felt her gorge rise. Everything Sam had said had been absolutely right. This was not a man who was being forced against his will to do terrible things. This was someone who was doing terrible things and was enjoying having an excuse for it.
“One woman’s adversity is another’s opportunity,” he said. When she continued to glare at him, he continued. “You really need to see this as more of a partnership.”
Then he led her off the loading dock, heading toward where she knew the helipad was. “Where are we going?” she said.
“To help build a bridge.”
FLORIDA
i
When he was a kid, Sam had, like many c
hildren, dreamed of what it would be like to be an astronaut. Before they stopped broadcasting launches, he remembered sitting cross-legged in front of the television, watching raptly as the mighty vessels would tear free of the earth’s gravity and hurl themselves into the air. It didn’t matter whether it was something as relatively mundane as a satellite or as pulse-pounding as a shuttle or a trip to the space station. There was just something that fired the imagination about the infinite possibilities that space had to offer.
He had often wondered what it would be like to be one of the people sitting in the distant bleachers, watching and cheering as the rockets blasted off for the depths of space.
It had never occurred to him that he might someday be walking around on the field itself, the bleachers far off in the distance, staring at a shuttle on a launchpad that was preparing for liftoff. There was no countdown yet, nor were the engines even firing up.
But unlike those previous occasions where he’d been watching the launches on television and waiting with breathless anticipation as the countdown dwindled toward zero, here and now he prayed that the thing would never take off.
Xantium.
He hadn’t known about it and couldn’t help but wonder why he hadn’t. Why had Optimus never mentioned it to him? Why hadn’t any of the others? It also made him wonder what else they might be keeping from him.
It looked like no other shuttle in the history of the space program, which naturally made sense since it was not of this world. It looked battered and beat up, but from all accounts it was still functioning, and now it was standing upright on the launchpad, ready to be pressed into service once again.
Mearing had brought him up to speed on the flight down. The Xantium had been the vehicle that had brought the second wave of Autobots—Sideswipe and all those guys—to Earth years ago. It had been under NASA’s care and study ever since. Fortunately enough—or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view—they had left it intact. With the U.S. government harboring aliens, Mearing had told him, we’ve always wanted an exit option.
Now she was standing next to him as they watched work proceeding apace to get the vessel prepped for takeoff. Sam could sense the damned creature on his wrist scoping out everything he was seeing. He was strongly starting to consider finding a power saw and hacking off his forearm just to get the thing off him. “Um,” he said as he gestured toward the rocket in the distance, “this seems pretty top secret. I should really have clearance.”
She actually patted him on the back. She did it awkwardly, as if she were inexperienced with simple human contact, but it was an attempt, at least. “Sam, you have clearance with me.”
Well, that’s just terrific.
The field was a hive of industry. Technicians were making last-minute checks, working in close contact with the NASA scientists at launch central to make sure that everything came together correctly. Mearing was able to walk forward without breaking stride, radiating confidence, and somehow all the technicians and scientists and engineers moved right around her and avoided her. Sam, by contrast, endlessly seemed to be in everybody’s way as he was bumped into or even shoved aside by people hurrying to do their jobs.
“I’d think that even with years of studying it, this would be kind of out of their comfort zone,” Sam said tentatively.
“That would be true if we purely had humans working on it. We also have the Wreckers.”
“Wreckers?” He was confused. “You mean there are guys tearing it apart or …?”
“Not guys. The Autobot engineers; they’re known as the Wreckers. We never let them off the base because … well, they’re not very nice.”
Seconds later, Sam had the opportunity to judge for himself firsthand as three Autobots came out of a nearby hangar at high speed, wielding various tools that Sam didn’t recognize (and which he assumed to be of Autobot design) and arguing furiously. Their basic designs were close to one another, but one was blue, the second red, and the third green.
Mearing pointed to each one as they approached and said in quick succession, “Leadfoot, Topspin, and Roadbuster.”
For their parts, the Wreckers were paying no attention to anyone who might be in their way. Even Mearing, who so easily exuded a sense of dominance that made everyone else automatically keep clear of her, felt the need to get out of their path as they neared. Ignoring Mearing and Sam, they converged on the NASA technicians, expressing increasing ire with accents that sounded like a vague blend of Australian and Irish. They seemed particularly irate with one technician in particular, a short, squat fellow who was becoming increasingly pale the closer the Wreckers drew.
“Gonna be ten thousand pounds of torque on that itsy-bitsy hold!” Roadbuster was saying with clear frustration. “So it better get twenty and a quarter rotations! Not nineteen! Did I say bloody nineteen?”
“Yah, either yer deaf or yer an idiot,” said Topspin, and Leadfoot chimed in with, “Or a deaf idiot; ya might be that!”
Roadbuster was poking the short fellow with his finger. “Ya gonna risk the lives of all me mates over one and a quarter screw rotations? Thought we were working wid professionals. Oh, what now?” he said when the technician tried to stammer out a response and was unable to manage it. “Ya gonna start crying?”
Sam could see what Mearing had been talking about. It was bad enough when he had had Mearing insulting him so thoroughly that it made him want to crawl into a hole somewhere. But being ragged on by three huge robots in front of everybody you worked for? That had to stink.
And then salvation for the beleagured technician came from a most unexpected source, albeit a familiar voice.
“Back off, you greasy gearheads! To your pits!”
Sam turned and saw that, yes, it was exactly who he thought: USAF Master Sergeant Robert Epps, who had fought so valiantly beside Colonel Lennox during previous smackdowns with the Decepticons. But he was most definitely out of uniform, clad in overalls with NASA patches on the arms. Nevertheless, he had such a strong personality that even the acerbic Autobots seemed to recognize his authority. They didn’t back down, but at least they stopped haranguing the technician.
The NASA technician—O’Toole, according to his name tag—who had been the main focus of the Wreckers’ ire, really did seem a bit ready to cry. But it quickly became evident that it wasn’t out of his feelings being hurt so much as from frustration. “I … I just can’t work under these conditions,” he complained to Epps. “Every day, they’re always changing their specs!”
Epps did his best to calm the frustrated technician down. “It’s okay. Deep breaths. You just gotta focus on his positive intentions. Remember, it’s their metal asses on the line if something goes wrong. He’s just trying to protect their interests. And you,” he said, rounding on the Wreckers while pointing at the technician. “That’s a human being you’re working with! He’s got feelings, doubts, and emotions. He’s trying to do the best he can!”
Unfortunately, the Wreckers didn’t seem particularly moved by Epps’s appeal to their gentler side. “Tough shite,” Roadbuster snapped. “It’s a cold, cruel galaxy! Either the job gets done or it don’t.”
O’Toole was getting upset again, and by that point Epps had clearly had it. He shouted loudly enough to get the Wreckers to take a step back. “Strap a muffler on it, you hear me? I’m here to mediate your ass!”
Sam couldn’t hold in his surprise any longer. “Epps? What’re you doing here?”
Because he was deep in the middle of trying to stop a fractious situation from blowing apart completely, Epps looked with pure irritation at what he considered merely the latest interruption. “What the—” But then he saw who it was, and his face lit up. “Sam! Sam Witwicky?”
The uttering of the name instantly caught the Wreckers’ attention as well. All eyes went to him, and Topspin said with what actually sounded like reverence, “The Sam Witwicky? The Sam Witwicky who is an ally of—who, indeed, restored to life—the great Optimus Prime himself?”
/> “Um …” He didn’t have a flip retort. “Well … yeah.”
“ ’Ey!” said Roadbuster, slugging Topspin on the shoulder. “It’s the kid!”
Immediately all three Wreckers were shouting out variations on “Good on you, mate!” Just that quickly, he had instantly become their new best friend.
As the Autobots immediately started sharing Witwicky stories with one another while Mearing looked on with as close to amusement as she ever displayed, Epps approached Sam and shook his hand firmly. “Imagine seeing you here,” he said.
“Yeah, well, I’m with her,” Sam said, chucking a thumb at Mearing. “But I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here.”
“Retired from the air force,” Epps said. “I just consult, run interference. I kinda know how to talk to them.” He nodded toward the Wreckers, who were still busily comparing notes over things they’d heard about Sam. “No more combat or aliens shooting at me. It’s a dream job.”
Abruptly the Wreckers decided that they’d spent enough time dwelling on the legendary exploits of Sam Witwicky and turned their attention back to where they’d been when they’d been interrupted. “Now yer just standing there!” Roadbuster growled at O’Toole, and he pointed in the direction of the Xantium. “Check ’em again! Every weld on those liquid hydrogen lines! Sealed. Up. Tight!”
“Hey, hotshots!” Epps said, clearly fed up. He was pulling something that looked like a television remote control from his pocket, but Sam didn’t understand why he’d need that. “I said to your pits!” With that declaration, he clicked the “on” button of the remote, and from the direction of the nearby hangar, Sam heard what sounded like race cars roaring around a track.
Instantly the technician, the Xantium, and Sam Witwicky were forgotten. The three Wreckers nearly tore one another apart, trying to clear one another out of their way, as they sprinted toward the hangar that presumably was the location of their “pit.” O’Toole and the other technicians breathed a collective sigh of relief while Sam looked in confusion to Epps.
