Transformers, page 22
Behind them, deeper within the complex, the immense figure of Megatron continued to step clear from the last of his trailing restraints. Cables and smaller wires tore away from the gargantuan body like thread. Conduits that continually replenished the material in which he had been frozen broke free, spraying supercooled liquid in all directions. By now the vast silo was almost empty of its human occupants.
The Cube, he thought. The Energon Cube had been close—very close. Now it was gone. He sensed its presence, its power. Both were receding steadily from his current location. But it was not far. After so many millennia, the delay in recovering the Cube would be as nothing. No time would be involved, little effort would be required.
Tilting back, the enormous metal skull peered upward. Acute sensors detected other presences. To his right was the long tunnel through which he had originally been hauled in so many years ago. Cowering behind stacks of barrels whose thick white exteriors were enlivened by stencils of skulls and crossbones, one tech who had been unable to escape looked on in terror as the huge mechanism began to change before his eyes. He need not have feared for his life. Even if he had been in a mood to kill, Megatron would not have wasted his time with such inconsequentialities.
He had a rendezvous to make.
The bipedal shape contracted, flexed, flowed, and expanded. What condensed in its place was something like a plane, something like a jet fighter—but unlike anything the tech had ever seen before, except perhaps in the illustrations on the covers of certain magazines to which he subscribed.
Growling to itself, the alien aircraft pivoted on the debris-filled floor. Purple fire emerged from one end. Turning away from the sight, the tech shut his eyes tightly and covered his eyes as the machine smashed through the towering blast door and disappeared down the access tunnel, leaving only a thunderous echo in its wake.
After performing a perfunctory reconnaissance of his former prison and its immediate surroundings, Megatron circled slowly downward to land among the rocks at the bottom of the dam. Transforming back into his natural bipedal shape, he walked up to a second machine. Awaiting its master, the other mechanoid sat perched eagle-like on a massive jutting finger of granite. Their greeting was brief and incomprehensible to humans.
“Starscream,” Megatron rumbled coolly. “It has been a long time.”
“Long even by our standards, Lord Megatron,” the other Decepticon readily agreed. “Many things have changed, yet much remains the same. The essential absolutes are unchanged. The passage of time is nothing more than a delay. Today the inevitable finally achieves fruition.” A hand swept toward the dam and, by inference, everything that lay beyond. “This world called Earth by its inhabitants now belongs to us. It swarms with primordial machine life awaiting only our touch to jump to the next stage.”
“The insects,” Megatron growled, “must be cleared.”
Starscream gestured concurrence. “Once we have transformed Earth’s machines, the purification should take less than a day.”
“It will be a joy to observe such a cleansing,” Megatron replied. “Following which we can then—”
He broke off. In the distance something was calling to him again. After all these eons. It was a calling that superseded all else: transformation, the coming gathering of allies, even the intended return to war-racked Cybertron. Starscream felt it, too. Before anything else could be done, it had to be dealt with. A last dealing, Megatron knew. A final reckoning. Everything else could wait, including the cleansing of this useful but currently diseased planet.
As he had already determined, it shouldn’t take long.
There was the usual traffic on the highway leading to Vegas, but not enough to dangerously inhibit the convoy. Flanked in front and behind by the shepherding army vehicles, the Camaro purred northward away from the dam and the Colorado River. They were headed for the complex of military bases located just outside the city. Once there, they would be far better equipped to protect the Cube and deal with anything the Decepticons could throw at them. In the vehicle he was riding in, an expectant Epps kept his sabot-loaded launcher close at hand. Donnely was alive in his mind, and so was Figueroa.
One shot, he kept repeating silently to himself. That was all he wanted, all he wished for. Just one shot, within range. Blow a freakin’ hole right through one of the soulless metal bastards. Watch its guts melt and leak out all over the road as he stared back into its empty plastic eyes and waited for it to die. Catching a glimpse of the Camaro ahead of him, he felt that he had to revise his scenario somewhat. Alien machine or not, he decided, maybe, just maybe, some of them were not quite as soulless as the rest.
Inside the Camaro, Mikaela turned to look into the backseat.
“Is the Cube okay?” Sam asked her. He could have turned to look himself—he was only feigning driving—but habits die hard.
“Yes,” she reassured him. “It’s wearing its seat belt.” Turning to face forward again, she caught him staring at her. There was a touch of wonderment in his voice when he replied. Not because they were transporting an elemental alien device that was the source of unimaginable power, not because they were riding in a self-driving car that could at a word transform itself into a giant alien robot, but because of something considerably more mundane.
“Wow,” he murmured in disbelief, “just then, we just sounded like parents.”
Riding in one of the army vehicles, Lennox tensed as an exotic sports car suddenly appeared in the passing lane and accelerated to slide in beside the Camaro. He relaxed when one of its side-view mirrors twisted up and around to flash him a sculpted Italian-designed equivalent of an automotive wave. Any other time, any other day, such a sight would have caused him to question his own sanity. Not this afternoon, however. Not after everything that had transpired this morning. Back inside the dam the kid had mumbled something about other robots, about the Camaro he called Bumblebee having friends who might well come looking for him. Evidently, this sports car was one of them. The captain wondered what it would look like transformed into its natural state. As a car, it was pretty sleek.
It was not alone. Other escorts soon made their appearance. Expecting more cars, Lennox was surprised when the sports car dropped back behind the Camaro to allow an emergency vehicle to take up a flanking position. He might have anticipated the tricked-out black GMC pickup that showed up next, but the blaring eighteen-wheeler that rolled in behind the entire convoy constituted still another surprise.
Oh well, he told himself. Every robot to its favorite bilocation. When he and his wife went out for an evening she was pretty surprised at some of the things he chose to wear, too.
They had reached the outskirts of the city when a new disturbance drew his attention. There was trouble on the highway behind them. His fingers tensed on his weapon as he rose and waved an arm, raising the alarm.
The siren and the whirling lights atop the police cruiser that was a revived Barricade cleared much of the unsuspecting civilian traffic from the Decepticons’ path. What didn’t get out of their way was thrown aside, one car at a time, as the mine-clearing steel mandibles of the gigantic Decepticon known as Bonecrusher scooped up slow-moving vehicles and tossed them out of the way. The fact that each of the vehicles so callously and violently disposed of happened to contain live human beings hardly registered on the single-minded Decepticon. Without slowing down, Bonecrusher transformed into his natural state. Metal feet slammed down onto the highway, cracking concrete and sending shards flying. The screams of those caught in destroyed vehicles were not ignored by the onrushing Decepticons so much as they remained beneath notice. No matter how loud or piteous they might be, one could not take the time to pause to acknowledge the protestations of insects.
Pickup/Ironhide and the big diesel that was Optimus Prime dropped back to confront the challenge. As Bonecrusher propelled himself forward, Optimus transformed. The sound as the two robots collided in midair was thunderous. Locked together arm in arm, they crashed down from the freeway’s upper level to land on the access road below.
A mother driving a van full of kids barely had time to react to the impossibility that suddenly appeared in front of her. As she wrenched the wheel over hard, the heavily loaded vehicle skidded sideways toward the separating robots. Bonecrusher leaped over the van—not to avoid damaging it, but to try and put the local machine between it and the larger robot. He could not, however, escape the concentrated full-force pulse blast that Optimus unleashed in his direction.
The full strength of it struck home, sending the Decepticon smashing into a cement-lined river basin. Arriving alongside, Optimus walked warily around the unmoving pile of metal. Bonecrusher did not move, not even when Optimus kicked hard at the crumpled form.
He sensed rather than saw Barricade as the second Decepticon landed on his back. There followed a flurry of furious action that ended only when Optimus flipped the machine clinging to him against a steel-and-cement freeway pillar. The impact cracked and bent the column. It did worse to Barricade, who lay twisted and unmoving. Two Decepticons dealt with in only a few minutes. Things were going well. Resuming his eighteen-wheeler form, Optimus pumped exhaust and blared his horn as he accelerated to rejoin the others.
The loss of two of their number caused the pursuing Decepticons to slow and reevaluate their strategy. This gave those they were pursuing time to exit the freeway and enter the city. There being no direct access to the military complex on the other side, the convoy would have to negotiate some of the city’s poorer outskirts before clear access and additional freeway allowed them to enter the air force base. The alternative was go a dangerously long way around.
As they entered an area of the city speckled with small stores and family businesses, Lennox directed the driver of his vehicle to pull over and park. While pedestrians gaped at and commented on the decidedly odd mix of military and civilian vehicles, Lennox raced around to the driver’s side of the idling Camaro. Epps was close on his heels while Sam looked up at him in confusion.
“Gimme a second to find an old radio!” Lennox yelled in at the two youths. “We need to be able to relay our position.”
Sam was no military strategist, but he had played enough games to know what the captain was talking about. “What if no one’s been able to call out your air strike?”
Lennox almost grinned at the kid. “Well, that would suck.”
“Yeah,” Epps added unnecessarily.
Mikaela leaned toward the officer. “Shouldn’t we keep going toward the air force base on the other side of the city?”
Lennox shook his head. “Not good tactics to split up, miss. Not here. Please, just a minute.”
Sam was still uncertain. “Where are you gonna find an old radio?”
Lennox turned and pointed. Following his lead, Sam and Mikaela saw the old pawnshop that had drawn the captain’s attention. The barred windows were crammed with an impressive assortment of cast-off junk, some of it fairly recent. That was hardly surprising in a city like Las Vegas, where sometimes it seemed like every other piece of personal property in town had at one time or another been pawned to pay a gambling debt.
If they found the right piece of old junk, Sam reflected, it might just save their lives.
The research room and library dated back to the construction of the dam. As if the architecture and 1930s art deco décor were not confirmation enough, row upon row of bulging cabinets straightaway caught Maggie’s attention.
“Ohmigod,” she murmured in disbelief. “Paper files.”
“Welcome to the Mesozoic,” Simmons told her. “The information stored here goes all the way back to 1913.” He picked one thick wad of papers off a table and held it up. “Handheld file, circa early twentieth century. Access is slow, but on the other hand you don’t have to worry about accidentally deleting the contents.”
Off to their left, an agitated Glen was already ripping the back off a computer. Keller joined Simmons in searching for a tool kit, soldering equipment—anything that could be used to join wires and unfried microchips. As he worked, Glen was muttering unhappily.
“I’m feeling, like, real anxious here, Mags. Better keep your distance—I might throw up on you.”
She smiled encouragingly. “Perfectly understandable reaction, Glen. Feel free to upchuck, but at least try to aim first.” She indicated the rapidly unfolding guts of the computer he had chosen. “Try to give the electronics a miss, too.”
He managed to grin back. “Hey, I’d puke on you in a minute, but never on gear.”
“That’s all right.” She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he worked. “I know my place in the hierarchy.”
Keller dumped some tools on the table beside him. Picking up a small screwdriver, Glen stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth as he went to work in earnest on the computer’s interior.
“I’d kill for a Red Bull right now,” he muttered.
“No Fruity Pebbles?” she teased him.
Adept as those of a surgeon replacing a fleshy heart with one made of metal and plastic, his fingers were a blur as they manipulated the components inside the computer casing. “Need both hands,” he told her pithily. “Can’t suck Fruity Pebbles when I’m working like this. But don’t tempt me.”
Simmons did not know how long the old antenna wires had lain in the back of the research room and didn’t care. Choosing one set, he began stripping away the cracked and flaking protective outer covering and the underlying insulation to reveal the clean copper underneath. He was making good progress when something slammed into the metal door that led to the access tunnel outside. Everyone stopped what they were doing except Glen. For the first time in days, he was in his element.
“What the hell’s that?” Holding the shredded antenna wires, Simmons stared at the door.
“Didn’t sound good, whatever it was,” Keller commented uneasily.
The banging and hammering resumed with methodical ferocity. Ignoring it, Glen wired the antenna Simmons had found directly into the hastily revamped guts of the old computer.
“I’m really gonna barf,” he mumbled as he worked.
Leaving his side, Maggie rushed in the direction of the noise. “Help me with the door!”
Simmons came up alongside her. “Lady, back away! We have protocols for this!”
Whatever was on the other side of the barrier kept pounding. Metal hinges started to bend inward. Maggie’s gaze kept shifting from the buckling door to the agent.
“What the hell kinda protocols?”
“We do a drill every Thursday,” Simmons informed her.
“Yeah, great,” Glen called over to them from where he was working furiously. “ ‘Alien invasion Thursdays.’ That should really help.”
Leaving Simmons to contemplate proper procedure, Maggie moved to help Keller. The secretary was shoving a heavy cabinet toward the doorway. All those heavy paper files, she reflected, still had some practical use after all. Depending on the situation, there was a lot to be said for sheer deadweight.
A portion of the door bent toward the inside and a skinny robotic head and upper body managed to wedge their way through the gap. Swiftly scanning the room to evaluate its contents and occupants, Frenzy flexed its torso.
“Get down!” Keller yelled. He might be a civilian now, but he had done his stint in the active military.
A trio of silvery discs shot from the robot’s chest. Keller tackled a startled Maggie as two of the discs whizzed over her head to rip into books and files. The third disc shot over the keyboard of the computer Glen was modifying, nicking one of his fingers before smashing into the computer behind him. He all but jumped out of his chair, nearly abandoning his work as he whirled to gawk in the direction of the slowly deteriorating door.
“What is that freakin’ thing?”
Recovering, Simmons stumbled over to a glass case filled with Sector Seven emergency equipment. “Awright,” he snarled, “screw protocols.” Pulling out a riot gun and a box of twelve-gauge shells, he handed both to Maggie. She fumbled with the box as Simmons took out a small, very portable device whose compact tank was filled with jellied gasoline under pressure.
A flash of sparks caused Glen to flinch back slightly from his work. He was not displeased by the effect. “Got it! We can transmit.”
Keller looked upward. “Through all this?”
“The network must still exist,” Simmons told him. “It’s the transmitters and terminals that went down.
“When this setup was built, every room in the complex was equipped for radio transmission. When more advanced means of communication came along, they took out the radios but left the wires behind. More trouble to pull ’em out than just leave them.” He gestured upward. “Same with the old antennas on top of the dam buildings and the canyon rims. Easier and cheaper to leave ’em be. As long as they haven’t completely corroded, this should work. Our signal’s going to go out over a wire. Simple but straightforward. Morse ain’t advanced, but a code is a code. All we need is for the dips and dashes to get out into the ether. Somebody’ll recognize it and pass it along, even if it’s only a ham operator or two.”
Nodding his understanding, the secretary turned to Glen. “Send exactly what I say. This is Secretary of Defense John Keller calling NORTHCOM. Authenticate emergency response Blackbird one-one—”
“—nine-five-Alpha,” Glen finished. For someone used to typing well over a hundred words a minute—blindfolded—it seemed beyond prehistoric to be using only two keys of the keyboard, one finger on each, to send a message. He’d set up one key to send a dash, the other to send a dot. One long, one short. It sure was a long way from programming in C++ or Java.
The secretary stared at him. “How’d you know my ID?”
“Look,” Glen told him as he tapped away at the two keys. “I told your people I got this hacking problem! I know a whole buncha codes. I know your codes, the president’s, NASA’s—I even know how many times you voted for the last American Idol!”
