The Veiled Threat (17 page)

“Bumblebee could explain it better, but since he is not here I shall try my best. As a technical weapons specialist I presume you possess a basic familiarity with the principles of nanoengineering, quantum alteration of volatile compounds, and metaflux metallurgy down to the subatomic scale?”

Epps pursed his lips, stared at the Autobot for a long moment, and nodded. “Let’s just say that now I understand why I sometimes see you guys eating scrap, and leave it at that. Makes sense if you think about it. Like energy, real yield has to come from somewhere. I get it now. You have to be able to alter more than just your shapes.” He grinned to himself. “I remember a robot that could reproduce bourbon, but he wasn’t real.” Hand on the door, he squinted back at the looming angular shape that filled much of the workroom with its bulk. “What about Optimus Prime? What does he specialize in?”

Ironhide did not hesitate. “Leadership.”

“We’ve got
two
indications of activity, sir.”

Lennox stared at the screen in front of the technician. The team had only just returned from Zambia and had barely had enough time to clean up and begin repairing the damage to Ratchet—and now this.

“We’ve never had two simultaneous hits at the same time.” He stared closely at the readouts beneath the screen. “Are you sure about this, Cabrillo?”

“Yes sir.” The tech pointed at first one portion of the screen, then another. Her fingernails, Lennox noted absently, were very long, and the ends were decorated with little American flag decals. They reminded him of his wife, and home, from which he had been too long absent. You could only say so many times to your life partner that your absence was necessary for the safety of the world before she no longer cared. He’d already missed his daughter’s birthday one too many times.

“Satellites confirm both Gamma readings. We’ve got a hot spot in southeastern Peru and another approaching Oobagooma and moving south.”

“Where the hell is Oobagooma?” Lennox muttered. “You sure you’re not making this up?”

The tech looked up at him. Her tone was dead serious. “No sir. It’s in far Western Australia, sir.”

The captain did not try to hide his bafflement. “Western Australia. Southeastern Peru. What could there possibly be in such remote places to attract the attention of the Decepticons?”

“I can’t imagine, sir.” The tech looked up at him. Her eye shadow, he noticed, was nearly as thick as the
polish on her nails. “Maybe they’re diversions, to draw our attention away from somewhere else.”

“Might be,” he murmured thoughtfully. “But we can’t take that chance. We’re going to have to split our forces in order to find out. Thank you, Cabrillo.”

When informed of this new development, Optimus concurred with the captain’s conclusion. Speaking in the huge underground chamber that was the main Autobot living area, he rested an arm on one knee as he knelt before Lennox.

“We have had experience with Starscream dividing his forces before. He is an expert in the use of misleading tactics. I agree with you that we cannot allow him to operate unchallenged regardless of how isolated are the areas on which he seems to be focusing. I have of course memorized every detail of your planet’s surface. This Western Australia is much closer to our base here and so I will accompany you to confront him there.” He rose. “Ironhide and Salvage will come with us. Ratchet, I fear, is too badly injured to risk another confrontation so soon. His strength is dangerously depleted, and he has to rest. Who else can we muster?”

Lennox considered. “We’ll take Kaminari with us. Petr can go to Peru, and I’ll put Epps in charge of that operation.” He looked up at the Autobot leader. “Do you think Longarm can deal with this by himself, or at least make the necessary on-the-ground observations to find out what’s going on there?”

“All Autobots are prepared to survive and fight on their own, yet it is always better to have backup. Though I am hesitant to do so, I will send Knockout with him.”

Lennox frowned. “Why the hesitation? I’ve seen Knockout in both his terrestrial guise and natural Autobot form. He doesn’t look any different or less competent than the rest of you.”

“He is young as Autobots go and therefore lacks experience.” Optimus was clearly unhappy at the choice that had been left to him. “Still, he should go, if only to cover Longarm’s back. And Longarm is a veteran. I am sure he will keep Knockout in line.” The Autobot leader sounded more confident. “It will be good seasoning for Knockout to have to deal with a minor Decepticon incursion. Perhaps he may even have the opportunity to engage a Decepticon. That is an experience he longs for, though I wonder if he will feel the same after the fact.”

Lennox concurred. “Epps will help Longarm keep an eye on him. And Petr will be there to analyze—if Epps can keep his attention from being diverted from the task at hand by some interesting bug.”

“We must leave as soon as possible,” Optimus exclaimed. “Though few humans appear to be in imminent danger in either location, Starscream and his minions do not expose themselves for nothing. We must learn why they are now operating in such empty places.”

“I know, I know.” Lennox sighed. “I’ll alert Command to get a couple of C-17s ready.”

“You yourself are always ready, Captain Lennox, to defend us as well as your own kind.”

But Optimus was wrong. At that moment Lennox was thinking not of the challenge to come, but of his daughter.

Longarm had to use his tow arm to physically restrain Knockout when the ramp at the rear of the big cargo jet dropped down and open. The noncorporeal rider the transformed motorcycle had projected onto his back wore black leather, heavy shades, and chains.

“Hold him there.” Puffing from the sudden exposure to high altitude, Technical Sergeant Epps hurried to the back of the plane to catch up to the two Autobots. Pausing to catch his breath, he planted himself directly in front of the idling cycle.

“Get out of the way, Sergeant!” The cycle roared, its big engine deafening within the confines of the fuselage. Around them, NEST operatives dressed as relief workers occasionally glanced in the direction of the two machines. Used to being around the Autobots while back on Diego Garcia, no one stared.

“Man, look at yourself.” Epps shook his head as Petr, preoccupied as usual, strolled past him. “You cannot go out here lookin’ like that, wheelie dude.”

Knockout’s rumbling dropped to a purr. “Why not?” The human image on his back did not move, did not change expression, did not breathe. Knockout had scanned it from what seemed to be a suitable source subject in NEST’s main research library. “Mechanically I know that I am perfect, and my ‘rider’ provides the necessary camouflage.”

“Says who?” Epps gestured as he spoke. “This is highlands Peru, South America. Your ‘rider,’ my machine, is lifted from an early 1950s American film. That image was standout then, and if
anybody
here were to recognize it now we’d have ourselves one instant big-ass riot. Even if the right-on image did not
happen to be a human icon, it’s way too North American for this location.” He cast a critical eye over the rest of Knockout’s ensemble. “Additionally, that getup is era-inappropriate and way too flashy for this part of the world. You don’t even begin to look local.”

Stopping alongside the idling bike, Longarm could only concur with the human’s assessment. “Do not take it to heart, Knockout. Many of us needed to have our initial vehicular transformations refined in order to blend in properly among the humans. Even Bumblebee did so. Humans are not like the inhabitants of Cybertron. Conditions, habits, customs all vary greatly on this world depending on location. They are not consistent, not even within designated tribal boundaries.”

There was silence for a moment save for the sounds of efficient NEST operatives busying themselves with cargo pallets. The delivery of very real earthquake relief supplies provided the necessary cover for the arrival of the unmarked C-17.

“I suppose you’re right, Longarm.” Knockout gave in reluctantly. “If Optimus can take criticism from an adolescent human, I certainly can accept it from an adult technical specialist.”

“Flattery is nice,” Epps commented. “Compliance would be better.” Once again he singled out the projection that was “riding” on Knockout’s seat. “Close, but try again.” Obediently, the face of the bike rider morphed to fulfill the cosmetic instructions. “Costume should be poncho over jeans and a lighter-weight jacket. Leather is okay. I’m told they do up a lot of good leatherwork here. If we get time between
bustin’ Decepticons I’ve gotta try and get my lady a jacket.” He continued to analyze the projection. “Not so much metal in the jacket and on the body. Lose the chrome studs. This ain’t LA.”

“But I
like
the metal highlights,” Knockout protested.

“ ’Course you do. You’re an Autobot. But your ‘rider’ ain’t. He’s supposed to be a spittin’ image of local flesh and blood.”

The big bike shook visibly. “Don’t remind me.” Once again the outlines of the human simulation on his back shifted and flowed. This time when it stabilized it looked much more like a well-off young Cuzcano than an early American film icon. The bike would still be likely to draw attention from the locals, but at least now its rider would not.

Epps pulled his own NEST-issued poncho tighter around him as he accompanied the two altered Autobots down the back ramp of the cargo jet. Petr Andronov was already standing on the tarmac admiring their surroundings. At over eleven thousand feet, the air around the ancient Inca capital of Cuzco was considerably thinner than at sea-level Diego Garcia, or even that of southern Zambia.

Running to meet the plane, a local NEST contact affiliated with the Peruvian armed forces greeted the two men in lightly accented English.

“Welcome to the Andes, Mr. Andronov, Sergeant Epps. I am Lieutenant Pierre Morales, S.A. NEST technical adjutant.”

Epps blinked at him. “ ‘Pierre’? If you don’t mind my pointin’ it out.”

“Not at all.” The officer smiled. “I am used to it.
My mother was a French agronomist. After working much of her life in these mountains, she married my father and retired here.” He held out two cups and a thermos. “Have some coca tea. It will help with the
soroche
.”

“Altitude sickness,” Petr explained as he accepted the thermos and one of the cups.

Epps took the other and eyed his companion appreciatively. “Man, is there anything you don’t know?”

“
Da
. I cannot rap.”

Epps raised a hand. “Hey, don’t look at me. I like the classics.”

Steam issued from the thermos as Petr filled his cup with pale golden tea. “Russian? Tchaikovsky? Glinka? Scriabin?”

Epps shook his head as he took the thermos. “American. Brown. Gaye. Green.”

Morales stared as the driverless tow truck accompanied the motorcycle and its slightly rezzing rider down the ramp. “Are those—Autobots?”

Epps nodded. “Longarm and Knockout. The experienced and the energetic.”

“
Soprender …
amazing! They look like perfectly ordinary everyday vehicles.”

“That’s good. ‘Ordinary’ is exactly what we’re after.” He lowered the cup from his mouth and smacked his lips approvingly. “Nice flavor. Real delicate. How many cups do I have to drink to get a buzz on?”

“At least a hundred. I have only seen Autobots in my training videos. Will I—can I—see them change?”

“Sorry.” Handing back the cup, Epps shook his head. “Outside authorized NEST perimeters they
only do that when it’s necessary, and it’s only necessary when something bad is happening, and so—you really don’t want to see them do it.”

“
Que lastima
. Ah well. Come.” Turning, Morales led the way across the tarmac. Betraying no hint of their true identities, the two vehicles followed. So did Andronov, pausing now and then to examine the occasional weed that thrust an emerald shaft up through the paving. As they walked, the Peruvian officer filled them in.

“The activity that was detected by NEST’s tracking satellites is still centered on some Inca sites to the southeast of here. The ruins in question are substantial, but not famous like Ollyantaytambo or Macchu Picchu. We have overflown the area in helicopters but seen nothing. Only local residents, some tourists, and ordinary vehicles that—” He broke off. “Ah. ‘Ordinary.’ ” He glanced back at Longarm and Knockout. “How does one tell a Decepticon from an everyday run-of-the-mill machine? My squad and I find ourselves looking cross-eyed at every truck, every taxi.”