Transformers Dark of the Moon

by David, Peter

  Set back across a granite plaza, it was a towering structure that was a symphony of glass and steel. I. M. Pei, the so-called master of modern architecture, would have been proud of it, assuming that he had not in fact designed it himself.

  Sam entered the foyer. It was cavernous. They could have fielded an arena football team in there. In a daze, he wandered up to the receptionist and said, “Um … Carly Spencer?”

  Without a word she pointed down a vast hallway. He turned and looked and saw, to his surprise, that Carly was standing at the far end, talking on a cellphone. Even more curious, there were two exotic cars on display on either side of her. It made Sam wonder if her job there was to be part of an exhibit on various kinds of totally hot bodies.

  Seeing him, Carly held up the phone, pointed excitedly at it, and said, “Your parents told me! You really got a job?”

  She doesn’t have to sound quite so surprised … aw, who am I kidding? Even I’m surprised. My parents calling her and blowing the news for me … that doesn’t surprise me.

  Hanging up, she threw her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze. “See? What’d I tell you? The bunny!” She kissed him quickly on either side of his face and on his forehead, punctuating each one with a word. “You. Are. Welcome.”

  He barely felt it, because he was still feeling a considerable amount of awe thanks to the environment. “Yeah … uh … you said you’re this guy’s new assistant events manager. You didn’t mention he owns Space Mountain. What’s his name?”

  “Dylan Gould.”

  Carly hadn’t been the one to speak. The confident male voice came from behind him, and he turned to face the single most ridiculously good-looking man he’d ever seen. He was wearing a vintage leather racing jacket, a dress shirt, and a silk tie. He had wavy black hair and perfectly proportioned features and was clearly the kind of guy men wanted to be like and women wanted to be with.

  He held out a hand. “Dylan Gould,” he repeated. “Please. Carly told me all about you.”

  “Thanks,” said Sam, who couldn’t help thinking that Carly had told him absolutely nothing about Dylan. Was it just that she didn’t think it important? Or was she keeping it to herself so that Sam wouldn’t feel inferior, which he very clearly was. He glanced back at Carly. He could see it in her expression: Isn’t Dylan just dreamy? Then, just as quickly, Sam shook it off, telling himself that Carly wasn’t looking at Gould in any particular way. It was just his raging paranoia and feelings of inferiority showing. “Nice, uh, place you have here.”

  “Ah.” Dylan actually had the nerve to sound modest. “Before she came in to help run the collection, it was in complete disarray. Now my restorations are on track. I’m showing at the top Concours shows again. This woman”—he took her hand and squeezed it—“she’s my secret weapon”

  Yeah? My secret weapon is a Camaro that turns into a giant robot. Top that, hotshot.

  Carly was busy returning modest for modesty. “Mr. Gould, please. You’re so hyperbolic. All I’ve done is get you organized.”

  “You’ve done more than that.” He brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’ve brought your radiance. My duchess.”

  “Uh huh. Okay,” said Sam, and he quickly stepped in and took Carly’s other hand. “Nicknames. That’s fun.”

  Gould affably released his hold on Carly’s hand and took a leisurely stroll toward one of the cars. Carly squeezed Sam’s hand as if to say, Just calm down. He’s only my boss, okay? Granted, he’s handsome and confident and every woman’s dream, but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to just take him and—

  Sam shook the concerns from himself forcibly. He simply had no knack for making himself feel better.

  “When I stole her away from the British embassy,” Gould said, “I told her: Helping manage a country is easy. Try managing a priceless collection of art. Take this Delahaye.” He pulled on a racing glove and slowly ran his fingers over the car’s exterior. He did it so lovingly that Sam kept waiting for him to start licking it. “The rich patina … the lines,” Dylan continued, his voice low and throaty. “Elegant. Sensual. Built to evoke the body of the ideal woman. You know why? Designed by Frenchmen.”

  “Uh huh,” Sam said. “Are you French?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good!” he said with probably far more relief than he should have.

  “Come with me,” Dylan said eagerly.

  If I want to live?

  “You’ve got to see my garage.” Dylan was gesturing for them to follow him through a bay door. At that moment, Sam would have preferred to go just about anywhere else, including directly into the targeting sights of Megatron. Instead, feeling like one of the walking dead, he stiff-leggedly followed Dylan. Carly was at his side, still holding his hand.

  Sam realized as they entered the garage that Dylan Gould collected cars the way some people collected stamps or action figures. His garage consisted of row upon row of cars: classic cars, exotic cars, classic exotic cars. If it was worth more than most people made in two years, Dylan had it in his collection. It was enough to give Jay Leno feelings of inadequacy, much less a guy who owned exactly one car that ran only when it felt like it.

  “My dad had a ten-dollar desk and a dream,” Dylan was telling them. “Built it into an empire. We’re one of the largest accounting firms in the U.S. I started up the venture side before he passed. It’s a gambler’s game, really, Sam. Invest in the future; try to bet on winners. Collecting cars”—he gave a little shrug—“it’s just to keep my sanity.”

  Yeah, I’m really worried about you keeping your sanity considering I feel like I’m about to lose my mind. “Uh huh. I get it,” Sam said, making only the slightest effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. “You have more money than Congress. Must be nice.”

  His attempt at sarcasm obviously failed, because Dylan was continuing to drone on about his cars. While he did so, Sam allowed his attention to be drawn away by a wall full of photographs featuring Dylan posing with a host of assorted politicians, actresses, business leaders, and more actresses. Sam recognized all of them.

  The only one he was disconcerted to see, however, was one of Dylan posing with his arm draped around Carly. And in the photo, she sure didn’t look like she was uncomfortable with Gould being so close.

  Carly noticed that Sam was staring at the picture. There was concern on her face. Unsure of how to react, Sam gamely said, “You guys look great!”

  Apparently thinking that Sam was referring not to the picture but to his staggering collection of vehicles, Dylan said, “You an aficionado, Sam? What do you drive?”

  Sam shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. It was actually the question he’d been dreading ever since he’d first set foot into this display room for Motor Trend.

  Carly chose that moment to step in with a quick rescue. “Sam used to drive this amazing Camaro.”

  “One of a kind,” Sam said quickly, nodding his head so fast that he looked like a bobblehead. “Lotta special features.”

  “Outstanding ride,” Dylan said with approval. “Like your taste. I mean,” and now the comment was clearly directed at Carly, “it’s quite evident.”

  The words hung there like smoke, and Sam clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly. “So! I just came by to take Carly home. Our home. Duchess? Back to our chariot?”

  That wasn’t an entirely unfair description. His car looked like a chariot, all right: one that Ben-Hur had kicked the crap out of during the big race around the Roman Colosseum.

  Sam led Carly out to it, telling her in broad strokes about his new job while trying to find ways to avoid saying something as buzz killing as “working in the mail room.” When they reached his rust bucket, he opened the creaking door for her. As she slid in, he glanced behind them and saw, to both his chagrin and his horror, that Dylan was standing a distance away. His face was impassive, but Sam was certain that—even from here—he could see contempt in his eyes.

  Quic
kly he slammed the door, almost catching Carly’s foot. She barely yanked it clear in time. He didn’t notice. Instead, he came around and clambered into the driver’s seat, firing an annoyed look in Dylan’s direction. “See what he’s doing? He’s judging me by the car. Never judge a man by his car.”

  “What is with you?” Carly said with obvious irritation. Nearly getting a broken ankle because her boyfriend almost shattered it with a car door was hardly going to put her in a good mood. “He’s my boss! This job pays for our food, our rent …”

  “No, I get it,” Sam said. “It’s cool. Duchess.” He heard the anger, the jealousy in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. He felt like he was drowning in it.

  Carly sounded skeptical. “Come on. You’re not threatened by him?”

  “Threatened? What’s threatening?” He tried to sound dismissive and casual and failed spectacularly at both. Instead, he ran down an imaginary checklist. “His money? Power? Good looks? What? None of the above? Check!” he said triumphantly.

  As if he had settled something, he turned the ignition key. Naturally, the only response from the engine was a sound like a dying swan.

  Sam moaned and slumped back in his seat. He wouldn’t have blamed Carly if she had stormed off in disgust. Disgust for the way he was acting, disgust for the car.

  Instead she said, with as much patience as she could muster, “Sam, he’s not the first man ever to smile at me. I think I can handle it.”

  “I don’t care that he smiles at you.”

  “Then what?”

  Sounding like a petulant child but unable to help himself, he said sulkily, “It’s the smiling back part.”

  In a loving but mocking tone, she said, “Okay. No more smiling, I swear. Never again. Only for you.”

  The way she said it helped underscore just how ridiculous he sounded. It made him feel a little better about it all. Not a lot better, but a little.

  He got out of the car and popped the hood. “Give it a shot,” he said, and when she turned the key and failed to start the engine, he studied the array of wires to see if he could find the problem.

  Sam heard a footfall behind him and knew who it was. “It’s a rare model Datsun,” he said without looking. “Very vintage.”

  Dylan Gould was both a car enthusiast and probably a multibillionaire. Guys like that had no reason to mince words, and Dylan was no exception. “Looks like a train wreck,” he said bluntly. As he spoke, he reached in under the hood and started making a few adjustments and connections with his bare hands. Sam was about to tell him to keep his mitts off the car, but the words died in his throat. Why should Gould not touch it? What was he going to do? Break it?

  Continuing to poke around, Dylan dropped his voice and spoke so softly that only Sam could hear him. “Carly told me you’ve been struggling jobwise. Just so you know, I’m on the board of Accuretta systems. So I put in a call. Sent in a recommendation.”

  Sam suddenly felt as if a fist had clamped around his heart. “You—?”

  Dylan nodded. “Keep it between us, okay? She’s so proud of you. Way to go.” He gave Sam a friendly pat on the back. “Lucky man.” Then he stepped back and called, “Try it now, Carly!”

  Obediently the car roared to life on the first try, sounding better than ever.

  His job done, Dylan walked away, leaving Sam feeling more utterly defeated than he had ever been in his life. His feet leaden, he dragged them back to the car and sagged into the driver’s seat like a balloon leaking helium. “What is it?” Carly said, concerned.

  “Nothing.” He pointed in the general direction Dylan had gone. “Good guy.”

  “Y’ know the problem with him, though?” She rubbed his shoulder. “He’s not you.”

  She kissed him, but even that wasn’t enough to bolster Sam’s spirits by that point. He threw the car into gear and drove off, the setting sun hanging low in the sky behind him.

  VIRGINIA,

  JUST OUTSIDE D.C.

  i

  We move among humanity, and most of the time no one realizes that we are there. We hide in plain sight. It makes sense that the humans with whom we have most closely allied ourselves would adopt our methods …

  The sign on the gate outside the nondescript federal building read “Health and Human Services.” It wasn’t on the main road, but people drove by it every day. They were ordinary citizens who never gave it so much as a second glance or the slightest thought. Had they done so, they might have wondered why it was that something so relatively mundane looking was surrounded by not one but two twelve-foot fences, with concertina wire running along the top of the interior fence. They might also have done a double take over the notion that a building ostensibly containing something as utterly benign as Health and Human Services would be guarded by armed soldiers.

  Then again, they might not have. America had been in a state of perpetual alert for over a decade. Orange security signs were permanently posted outside tunnels or at bridges. Armed soldiers on guard might have been part of day-to-day life in downtown Tel Aviv, but they were never a part of the suburban American landscape prior to the beginning of the twenty-first century. Now they were a common sight everywhere from airports to train stations to, in some cases, shopping malls. So it was entirely possible that civilians would have shrugged their shoulders and thought, Sign of the times, that something as benign as some government human services building required additional protection. After all, terrorists would attack anything that left itself open, and so maybe everything had to be guarded indiscriminately.

  Indeed, the only thing that might have gotten a reaction from any passersby would have been the gorgeous Italian sports car that pulled into the HHS building and was promptly waved through by the guards. At most, though, they would have speculated that government payrolls needed to be trimmed if someone working in a low-level HHS job could afford a car quite so choice.

  ii

  Once he was moving down the access road and was safe from the prying eyes of humans—or at least humans who might be stunned by the sight of a car turning into a robot—Mirage shifted into his preferred form, stretching his arms and legs as if he had been cramped inside a large suitcase. Ratchet, Bumblebee, Skids, and Mudflap were ahead of him down the road, having returned from a mission, and were likewise changing into their upright robotic bodies. They walked toward huge hangar doors, passing V-22 Osprey and Blackhawk helicopters, the sorts of vehicles that were not exactly standard issue in a government HHR building. Then again, if the Autobots were not capable of providing services for humanity’s health, who was?

  Bumblebee heard the roar of an approaching motorcycle and turned to see Lennox rolling up. Lennox skidded the motorcycle to a halt and said, “We’ve got some company, Bee.” When Bumblebee didn’t respond, Lennox chuckled. “Wish my vocoder was damaged.”

  “Senator,” came an angry female voice, “I suggest you remember that when the NSA needs funding, they call me.” The voice was accompanied by a staccato clicking of heels, and seconds later a severely dressed woman strode across the floor with a phone pressed against her ear. She sported thick black glasses, and her hair was tied back. Bright red lipstick stood out against her pale complexion. She was wearing a gray pantsuit, blue shirt, and necktie. If she had looked any more severe, she would have come with a whip, silk ropes, and a safety word.

  As she moved, she kicked off her high-heeled shoes and dropped a pair of sneakers in front of herself. She barely slowed as she slid her feet into them and kept talking without missing a beat. An aide who was running behind her picked up the heels and slid them into a bag as if he had done so a hundred times before. She didn’t seem to notice him.

  “When the CIA’s gotta take out a target, they ask first for my permission. And when the president wants an opinion on what members of Congress are politically vulnerable in terms of undiscovered criminal conduct, mine is the number he dials. Because I keep a list. Right here in my pocket. And whenever I see it, it reminds me of you.” S
he paused then, and Lennox could hear the outraged bellowing of the person she was talking to coming through the phone. The reason Lennox could hear it was that the man was yelling so loudly that the woman had pulled the phone slightly away from her ear so that she wouldn’t go deaf. He was saying something about her not having any proof of her “outrageous calumnies.”

  When he paused for breath, she slipped in quickly with, “Never use your own credit card, Senator.” That apparently silenced him, and she said confidently, “I look forward to your vote on the bill.”

  With that final riposte, she snapped shut her cell phone and then turned to Lennox. Clearly her mood wasn’t about to improve as she focused on the matters that had prompted her coming to the base. “He ‘demands’ to see me? He demands? It should be me demanding him! The CIA is up my ass about that mystery raid in the Middle East. So you better come clean. Was your unit involved?”

  “Um … not sure, ma’am,” Lennox said, being evasive.

  She was not amused. “As director of intelligence, I’m a real big fan of intelligent answers.”

  “Can’t tell you definitively. Y’ know how teenage kids sometimes sneak out of the house at night.”

  “Colonel Lennox.” What little patience she might have had was dwindling rapidly. “Are you in command or aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Lennox said as he continued walking toward their mutual subject of interest. “But aliens … they’re tricky. They work with us, not for us. Sometimes they just do what they think is best.”

  “Stop with the ‘ma’am,’ ” she said in frustration. “Enough with the ‘ma’am.’ Do I look like a ma’am?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said out of reflex, and then took the time to process what she’d asked. “No, ma’am, I mean …”

  There was a steady clanking as Wheeljack strode up to them. Lennox had never been more grateful for an interruption. Mirage and Ironhide were coming up behind him. “Oh, good, you’re here,” Wheeljack said. “I do hope you have answers for him. I’ve never seen him so upset.”