Transformers Dark of the Moon

by David, Peter

  “You do your job,” Dylan said easily, “and she’ll be safe. You have my word.”

  With pure venom in every word, Sam shot back, “I’ll kill you. You have my word.”

  Dylan faked a shudder. “Mmmm. Just got goose bumps. I can see why she formerly used to like you.” Then, like a businessman who had just closed a deal—which, as far as he was concerned, he probably was—he informed Sam, “I invest in the future at this company. I’m leveraged heavily in Decepticons. And I just bought you. You go find your Autobots now. How they plan to fight back and all we want to know.”

  He nodded to his guards, who started to reach for Sam’s arms. He shook them off and headed toward his Datsun. The guards followed him to make sure he didn’t try anything, although what he would possibly try, Sam couldn’t begin to guess. What was he going to do? Make a break for it and run home instead of drive?

  Dylan looked to Carly, who was still lying on the driveway, curled up in almost a fetal position, gasping for breath. “I like him,” he said cheerily. “Still think you’re settling, but hey, your call. Because one thing I value in any employee is a strong sense of what it will take to survive.”

  And he smiled a crocodile’s smile.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  i

  The first fingers of dawn were stretching over the horizon. The sun was coming up on not only a new day but a new world. For the first time in the history of the planet, the whole of humanity had to deal with a common enemy.

  Lennox had never been in the situation room of the White House before. He supposed it was absurd to be thinking, as he was just then, that he wished it had been under better circumstances. It was the situation room, for crying out loud. When would there be a good circumstance for having to use it? The president was monitoring the situation from Air Force One; it was felt that the best option of all the bad ones currently before them was to keep the chief executive on the move.

  The joint chiefs and assorted others were grouped around, studying the data pouring in from all over. None of it was giving any of them the warm fuzzies.

  Still, considering that they were humans who had been thrown into combat with beings that they should, from an evolutionary standpoint, never have been forced to battle—like cavemen slugging it out with dinosaurs—they were doing their best to stay ahead of the curve.

  General Morshower said, “Our combat commands are now at DEFCON 1 around the globe. We’ll have our eyes in the sky over the twenty largest U.S. cities within the hour.” He cast an expectant glance to his right. “Colonel Lennox?”

  Lennox nodded, taking the stage. “We estimate two hundred Decepticons now in hiding. Energon detectors have been triggered as far away as South America. Still no direct sightings, however.”

  “We assume they’re preparing to attack. But so far we don’t know when, where, how … or why,” said Morshower.

  An aide quickly entered the situation room and said urgently, “General, the UN’s just received an encrypted audio file. They say it is from the leader of the Autobots.”

  “All right,” said Morshower, galvanized into action. “Inform them that the contents of that file are hereby classified top secret. Lennox, I want you to arrange for an immediate special courier to—”

  The aide cleared his throat. “Um, General …”

  “What is it?” he said impatiently.

  “The secretary-general decided the circumstances called for a special meeting of the General Assembly. He said that since it was the world’s business, the world had a right to know. They’re broadcasting it right now, on every channel, on radio, and live-streaming it onto the Internet. They timed it so that it would go hot the exact moment they informed us of its existence.”

  Morshower went dead white. There were stunned looks from the rest of the brass. “Why the hell did they do that?”

  “According to them,” and the aide could not have looked less happy about it, “it was because they were afraid we would classify it top secret and have it brought here by special courier.”

  There were moans from around the table.

  Lennox closed his eyes in pain. Fantastic. Fan … freaking … tastic.

  ii

  (“Defenders of Earth: My name is Sentinel Prime, the true leader of the Autobots.)

  (“For millennia our galaxy was ravaged by a tragic civil war. But now that war is over, and our armies stand as one. We come from a damaged planet, which must be rebuilt.)

  (“What we need are the natural resources your world has in abundance. Precious metals, iron, steel. We shall use my space bridge technology to transport an equitable share of such material. And then we will leave your planet in peace.)

  (“However, for such peace to exist, you must renounce resistance. You must immediately exile from this planet the rebels you have harbored, or we will deem it your hostile intent, and, through my space bridge, will come more battalions. And you will know our righteous strength.)

  (“We want no war with you. Only our planet’s reconstruction. Long live Cybertron. Long live Earth. Renounce the rebels. We await your reply.”)

  iii

  There was not a word being spoken by the occupants in the situation room as they watched the General Assembly of the United Nations. It was up on a screen on the wall, which was no great trick since it was also being broadcast into every home in America. The only noises to be heard were the ambient sounds of various data streams still coming in through other control systems. They were being ignored by everyone as they all observed the proceedings.

  Lennox didn’t know what the generals and the joint chiefs were thinking, but he was getting a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  The Autobots have done so much good while they were here. Going into hot spots where no one else could. Every damned government has come to us at one time or another and asked for the help of the Autobots. Everything from sending them into war zones to delivering supplies and medical aid to nations hit by natural disasters. God may have sent us earthquakes and floods, but he also sent us these metal freaking angels to pitch in.

  And that’s just going to go right out the window, I know it. The first time the going gets tough, the first time the Autobots need us to have their backs, the UN is going to throw them under the cosmic bus.

  The secretary-general slowly rose from his chair to let the whole world in on what was possibly the most cataclysmic decision in the history of the species and one that they would most certainly screw up since fear usually dictated the wrong response to any situation. With a quiet dignity, in words so plain and firm as to command their assent, he said: “For over sixty-five years, it has been our charter to defend refugees from all war-torn nations. Today we are asked whether we shall do the same for those facing an alien war. To stand wth them as they have with us. Whatever danger it may bring to the citizens of Earth, I now ask all representatives who are in favor of allowing the Autobots to stay to stand.”

  The delegates began to stand. In later days, many delegates would claim to be the first to have gotten to their feet, and historians would devote thousands of hours to studying tapes from all angles—the Zapruder film received less scrutiny—before finally concluding that it was inconclusive.

  But everyone could agree on one thing: It started slowly but gained in speed and momentum as a vast majority of representatives got to their feet. The message from the United Nations—from humanity’s delegates and representatives—was clear and unequivocal and summarized by a front-page New York Daily News headline written in that publication’s inimitable style:

  UN TO BAD BOTS: GO SCREW YOURSELVES

  All of that was to come later, though. At that moment, watching the drama unfolding, the occupants of the situation room were far too experienced professionals to do something as tacky as burst into whoops or cheers. Instead they provided a stately, dignified round of applause for the scene that they were witnessing.

  Lennox sagged down into his chair and let out a relieved sigh. I’ll be
damned. They got it right. Now all we have to do is survive to write about it in the history books.

  iv

  Seymour Simmons stared at his busted leg in dismay as he lay on his back at Washington General Hospital. It was in a cast, and the prognosis for it was good. He had been treated for various cuts and abrasions, and the ribs in his chest, as it turned out, weren’t broken but only bruised. So in point of fact, he was one of the luckiest men around since it could have been much, much worse.

  But he didn’t feel lucky at all. Instead, all he felt was frustrated.

  When Dutch walked in with a folder under his arm, Simmons started venting immediately. “I’m missing the whole thing, Dutch! The whole damned thing! The fight on the National Mall! The UN resolution! It’s all happening without me, man! The world is passing me by!”

  “I think you need to—”

  “At least the UN got behind our boys, huh?” He was trying to find a bright spot. “We don’t bargain with the bad guys, no, sir. And if—”

  “Seymour!” Dutch said, immediately snapping Simmons to attention since typically Dutch respectfully called him “Agent Simmons” or simply “sir.” “You need to see this, right now. It started circulating on the Hill almost immediately. Nobody knows about it yet, but they’re going to.”

  Simmons didn’t even bother to ask how Dutch knew. That was part of Dutch’s job: to know things, particularly where it related to the Autobots. He took the file and started flipping through it. As he did so, he was quickly enveloped by a sense of shock and betrayal. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Still no.”

  “And this is solid? I mean, this is rock solid? This would make Mount Rushmore look like a sponge, it’s that solid?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re convening even now. It’s going to happen.”

  Fury shook his body. “Those ungrateful sons of …” His voice tapered off as his mind raced. “But if they were going to, then how would … unless … oh, of course! It’s the only possible way! Dutch,” he said, having reached a conclusion that now required immediate action. “Your pilot license up to date?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And your plane?”

  “Carefully maintained, sir.”

  “Good. Get me checked outta here. If they try to stop us, get a gun from the car trunk and we’ll shoot our way out.” He started disconnecting his IV.

  Dutch was clearly surprised. “Sir, I brought you this information because I felt you should be kept apprised, but you can’t be thinking of leaving …”

  “Oh, I’m not thinking of it. I’m doing it. I’m gonna need my clothes. Oh, and go boost me a wheelchair from somewhere. If necessary, find a crippled guy who looks like he needs it less than me.”

  “But, sir!” Dutch tried to reason with him. “You were threatened by Russians, attacked by Decepticons, got your leg broken, suffered all manner of damage. What are you going to do now?”

  “I’m going to Disney World.”

  “Really?”

  “No, but damned close. Let’s move. Let’s get it going. Let’s show them how it’s—”

  Two FBI men walked in. The taller of the two said, “Seymour Simmons?”

  “Yeah …?” he said cautiously.

  “You’re needed.”

  “Florida?” Simmons said without hesitation.

  The agent tried to mask his surprise and wasn’t all that successful. “How did you know?”

  “The fact that I know is why you need me,” Simmons informed him confidently. “Let’s get this show on the road. I’m still gonna need a wheelchair, though.”

  “We have one outside,” said the agent. “We took it from a crippled guy who looked like he needed it less than you.”

  “I like the way you think,” Simmons said.

  v

  There had been many a day in Sam Witwicky’s life that he had thought was the worst day ever. And then fate, not to mention the efforts of the Decepticons, always conspired to raise the bar of pure suckiness.

  Still, it was going to be pretty damned tough to top this one.

  Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been in the living room of the apartment he was now driving up to. He’d been huddled in conference with Simmons, an idiot from work, and a couple of reformed Decepticons, trying to determine just what exactly was going on and how they might go about saving the world. In doing so he had jeopardized, if not outright ended, his relationship with his girlfriend.

  So here he was, a day later. Simmons was MIA, the bots were MIA, his dog was crapping on his balcony, and—oh yeah—the very individuals he had been trying to thwart had conspired to turn him into a double agent against his best friends in the world while he’d been forced to watch a killer Mercedes reenact the car-crunching scene from Goldfinger with his girlfriend in the featured role of victim. He stared down dismally at his new best friend on his wrist. I visited Potomac, and all I got was this lousy Decepticon, he thought with bleak humor.

  He pulled up into his driveway, but before he could make it into the garage, the Datsun choked out and died. Naturally. The final insult to be added to injury.

  Sam stepped out of his Datsun, and suddenly car doors from up and down the street opened as well, almost in perfect synchronization. He watched in confusion as a half dozen men wearing black suits and sunglasses emerged. He half expected Tommy Lee Jones and Will Smith to be among them.

  They approached, coming at him in a half circle. Sam, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, was completely tapped out, unable and unwilling to offer even token resistance. He just stared at them lifelessly.

  The one closest to him said, “You’re a hard man to find.”

  He found his voice and said gamely, “Good men usually are.”

  The man somehow managed to resist the hilarity of Sam’s quip and didn’t crack a smile. “Special Agent Pinkett,” he said, holding up identification. “Come with us, please.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “No, sir, you are not. Come with us, please.”

  “If I’m not under arrest, then technically I don’t have to go with you.”

  “Technically, yes. Now … come with us, please.” He sounded more robotic than Optimus ever had.

  Sam leaned back against his car and stared at the agent, trying to see his eyes through the sunglasses. No luck. “Just out of curiosity, what if I say I won’t go with you?”

  He finally got a reaction from Pinkett: His eyebrow twitched.

  “Then I stop saying ‘please.’ ”

  Sam considered his options and wasn’t finding a whole lot of them.

  “Road trip. I’m so there,” he said.

  He allowed them—if “allowed” was the way to describe something in which he was being given no choice—to lead him to one of the cars. At least they didn’t push him in. Instead, they opened the back door and allowed him to ease himself in. He hated to admit it, but it was actually pretty comfortable for a government car.

  “Mind if I lean my head back? Close my eyes?”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Sam did so, figuring that at the very least he would be able to rest his eyes. He didn’t really think that, given the stress of all he’d been through, he’d actually be able to get some sleep.

  He was wrong. The next thing he knew, an agent was gently prodding him awake. The door was open, and he was someplace else completely, an airfield by the sound of it. Outside the vehicle he could hear the distant thrumming of an engine powering up.

  It had gotten sunnier out, and he shielded his eyes as he emerged from the darkness of the car into the full light of day. Sure enough, it was an airfield. It wasn’t a commercial one, though. He could see a high fence in the distance and a gate being slid shut. About a hundred feet away was a private plane, which was the source of the engines he had heard. The stairway was down, waiting for him.

  He had no idea who was going to be in there. He
felt as if he should know and would probably kick himself in retrospect, but as he walked across the field, he remained clueless.

  Sam walked up the stairs, which bounced slightly under his feet. He’d heard that once you flew private, there was no going back to commercial jets. That should be the biggest problem he had to face.

  He entered the plane and blinked in surprise. Then he took consolation in the fact that there would be no retrospective kicking of himself, because there was no way he could have expected to see the individual waiting for him in the plane.

  Charlotte Mearing, all business, was seated with her legs primly crossed in a large, cushioned chair. It was a swivel seat. There was a table in back of her with an open laptop computer on it.

  She pointed to a chair across from her that was identical to the one in which she was seated. Already buckled in, she acted as if they had an appointment that he had been inconsiderate enough to be running late for and they’d had to expend energy to go out and correct this lapse on his part. “Glad they found you. We’ll debrief you in transit.”

  Oh, my God, they’re bringing me into the loop. At the worst possible time.

  He started to back up for the door. “Um, I really don’t see how I can be any more help … you guys seem so busy … we could just do this later … owwww!”

  He clutched at his wrist. The watch was giving him an ungentle reminder of who was in charge here. Then he saw that Mearing was looking at him with concern and confusion. There was no way he could afford to underestimate her; the woman was too bright. He couldn’t put it past her to figure out something was up with him, something Decepticon-related. And if she did, they would stick him in a room with four white walls somewhere so that he couldn’t pose a threat, and when they subsequently showed up to question him, they’d find the corpse of Sam Witwicky with his entire nervous system fried. A week or so later, Carly’s body would likewise turn up in a garbage dump somewhere, if they ever found her at all.