The Veiled Threat (5 page)

“I think today we’ll work on adjusting controlled response as opposed to reflexive hostility. By next week I think I’ll have gained enough sway over your cognitive processors to take a chance on restoring visual perception. Then we’ll see if we can have a conversation where every other word out of your mouth isn’t ‘Kill!’ What do you say?”

There was no reply from the object on the table. There would not be until Simmons made the necessary repairs and hookups to what he had salvaged from Sector Seven’s ruined facility inside the base of Hoover Dam. He was completely convinced that understanding what he had saved (“stolen” was such a pejorative term, he thought) and learning how it functioned would allow him to discover a means for dealing with the invaders.

All of them.

Because despite their actions in defeating the Decepticons and their subsequent insistence that they would forever stand up for the defense of humankind, he trusted the Autobots about as far as he could throw Optimus Prime. If he could learn how they worked, unearth the secrets of their cybernetic brains if not their bodies, then he would know how best to deal with them. How best to protect the planet and its
original
inhabitants. He would see to it that they would cease to be functionally independent organisms and return to being what they were at base. Simple machines, and nothing more. Tools that could be used by mankind, instead of aggressive entities determined to drag the population of the Earth into an
ancient intraspecies war being waged by soulless mechanisms. He, Seymour Simmons, would see to that eventuality.

In between taking sandwich orders, of course.

He punched out a few commands on one of the computer keyboards, picked up a small wireless controller, and pointed it at the object on the worktable. “I think I’ve tapped into the correct synapses. Let’s try it and see, shall we?” He depressed a button.

Something sparked in the air above the table and the object atop it twitched slightly. It could not look at him angrily or glare by way of response because its visual perception had yet to be restored. Nor could it speak. It could only fume silently and impotently. It had no choice but to cope as best it could with whatever crude mechanical and electronic manipulations the human chose to inflict upon it.

That would change one day. Change when perception and mobility were restored. Then there would come a reckoning. The human thought he had complete control. At the moment such was indeed the case. But it was only a moment, and the object of Simmons’s experimentation was patient. Time was a quantity with which it was far more comfortable than the short-lived organics. Time was a human’s enemy and a Decepticon’s friend.

Imprisoned securely atop the worktable, deprived of any means to strike back, the partial head of Frenzy tolerated the antics of the disturbed human. While the ongoing delay in defeating the Autobots irritated him almost as much as did the absence of his body, he was not overly concerned.

He knew he was not alone.

The underground chamber that had been allocated to the Autobots was the single largest open space in the entire NEST complex—or for that matter anywhere on the atoll. It was larger even than the hangars on the main island that had been built years earlier to accommodate the wingspan of B-52s and stealth bombers.

It was not elaborately equipped—yet. At the insistence of Optimus Prime, supplies, tools, raw materials, certain liquids, and specialized apparatus were to be brought in a little at a time.

“What do you need?” NEST’s chief supply officer had made the inquiry when the chamber was yet to be completed. “My team and I have been ordered to furnish you with whatever you want.”

“We need nothing,” the leader of the Autobots had replied. “What we want is time, and understanding.”

The supply chief had smiled. “It’s my understanding that both items tend to be in short supply in world capitals, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Now three areas of the vast open space were beginning to fill up. Off to the south vast varieties of raw materials, finished metals, and primitive electronics were being amassed by Ratchet. While each Autobot was capable of a certain minimal amount of maintenance and self-repair, more thorough restoration was the job of the Autobots’ equivalent of surgeon, engineer, and metallurgist. It was a task at which Ratchet had never faltered, whether required to make repairs on solid ground or in empty space. Occasionally the humans would, in their ignorance and out of a desire to be helpful, urge some new material or technique on
him. He turned none of these offers down, accepting each and every one with equanimity, without commenting on their incredible crudeness or lamentable simplicity.

Behind heavy blast doors a very different sort of inventory was accumulating. Its presence would not have reassured those in Washington, Moscow, or Beijing who continued to voice their suspicions as to the Autobots’ ultimate motives. Epps, however, found Ironhide’s work endlessly enticing.

“You’re sure this stuff is safe here?” he had asked on more than one occasion.

“Certainly.” The Autobot weapons master made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. “How many times must I tell you, how many times must you reassure your superiors on my behalf, that this stockpile is harmless unless activated directly by one of my own kind?”

“What did you call it again? Energon?” he repeated.

“Yes, though this form is manufactured from existing energy sources. Energon does occur naturally throughout the galaxy, and in its pure state is extremely dangerous and highly unstable. Indeed there is ample evidence that Energon exsits here on Earth in ample stores, but we have neither the time, nor currently the freedom, to search for it.

“What we have manufactured here is quite safe. For Transformers, Autobots and Decepticons alike, it is a source of energy. You might call it nourishment, though that would be a painfully limited descriptor, and naturally we need to ‘refuel’ far less frequently than your species. But we require reserves nonetheless,
especially if we can expect casualties in the coming days.

“It can of course be weaponized, and indeed forms the basis of our personal arsenals. But your own people could not do so if they tried. This safety factor is a matter of chemistry and design that is beyond the understanding of your weapons’ engineers.” A massive arm had gestured at the store of uncatalyzed explosives. “It is useless to you, and none of what you see here can ‘go off’ accidentally.”

Epps nodded thoughtfully. “But just for the sake of imagining, just for the hell of it, suppose it did? I’m just talkin’, understand.”

Ironhide contemplated the substantial stockpile of weapons and related material he had managed to accrue thus far. “The question is purely theoretical?”

“Oh, purely,” Epps assured him.

“Something would be lost as a consequence.”

The sergeant had nodded understandingly. “The atoll?”

“Yes,” Ironhide agreed. “The atoll. Possibly also India.”

Epps regarded the mound of material with fresh respect. “Oh.”

While both Ratchet’s and Ironhide’s efforts were notable in their own right and more than worthy of admiration, it was the third corner of the chamber that drew the bulk of attention. Like the other two sections, this one was also filling up.

With Autobots.

They arrived singly from the far corners of the cosmos, drawn to the tiny blue-white globe by the powerful signal being broadcast by Optimus himself.
Scattered by the endless war that had devastated but not destroyed Cybertron, they were each and every one who had thus far found their way to Earth astonished by what they encountered: fellow Autobots not merely living among possibly intelligent organics, but coexisting with them.

“It’s not quite as open as it seems.” The leader of the Autobots took pains to explain the fragility of the relationship individually to each new arrival. “Here in this place, isolated from nearly all of humankind, we can live and move about in relative freedom. The humans here are specialists, chosen for their adaptive abilities as well as their individual knowledge. They are far more empathetic, more understanding of our situation, than the population at large.”

“There are so many of them, and this is such a small planet. How do they manage to survive?” The question came from an Autobot who had taken the identifier Salvage along with the appearance of a not entirely reputable pickup truck.

“With difficulty,” Optimus admitted. “They do not understand how to use their resources wisely and for the benefit of all. We can teach them, but we must progress slowly. They are an overly sensitive species and have a tendency to take offense at any perceived slight, no matter how well meaning the commentary. Some of them are wary of us, some are suspicious, and some are openly fearful.”

“Fearful!” In the powerful motorcycle shape he had chosen, Knockout revved his oversized engine. “After you saved them from Megatron? After Jazz gave his spark to help protect them?”

Optimus regarded his colleague patiently. “I told
you they are overly sensitive. This tendency sometimes borders on the paranoid. Interestingly, in the reverse of what is normal, the young of the species have less fear of us than do their elders. They are more attuned to our electronic nature. I and the others who arrived here with me have personal knowledge of this, as it was a young human who prevented Megatron from taking control of the Allspark.” He held up an admonishing hand to the rumbling cycle.

“Do not underestimate these organics. They are at once intelligent and foolish, fearful and brave. They have a great capacity for improvement, if only they will cast aside their lingering primitive tribal instincts. I think we can help them with that, too.”

“Why should we bother?” Salvage asked candidly. “Our war is not theirs.”

Optimus did not grunt, but he voiced the mechanical equivalent. “Would that it were so, Salvage. But by allying themselves with us against Megatron, they have made themselves the enemies of all Decepticons. Starscream, for one, does not forget such things.”

“Ah, Starscream!” Revving his engine again, the motorcycle roared circles around the assembled Autobots. “If I could but get that misconceived accretion of ego and anxieties in my sights I would blow out his Spark like a twig!”

From off to one side Ratchet looked up from where he had been working. “Be careful what you wish for, Knockout. You might get it.”

At this the motorcycle slowed, came to a halt, and began to unfold itself like a pile of metal origami, until Knockout stood dark and gleaming between the repair specialist and the Autobot leader.

“I’m not afraid of any Decepticon, least of all a blowhard like Starscream. Give me one good shot at him, that’s all I ask.”

“We all would welcome that chance.” Optimus Prime’s tone was soothing. “Wherever he has fled to, we must find Starscream before he can do any more harm. Either to Autobots or to humans.”

“What is this concern for humans?” Knockout was nothing if not impulsive in his questioning. “I understand that they helped you in the fight against Megatron, but surely a few lives among their swarming billions will not be missed.”

“You are newly come here, Knockout.” Optimus delivered the mild rebuke without rancor. “Humans—that is to say, most humans—mourn every organic life lost, sometimes even those that are not of their species. They keep smaller, less intelligent organics close to them and lament their passing with equal and sometimes greater intensity than they do their own kind.”

Knockout sounded dubious. “A strange species with which to ally ourselves.”

“This is a path we did not choose,” Optimus told him, “but was chosen for us. To fail to protect the humans from the likes of Starscream would be to abrogate our responsibilities as sentient beings.”

“Pardon me if I roll out on that.” Collapsing back upon himself, Knockout once again assumed the form of the motorcycle he had chosen. With a parting rumble, he vanished down the empty access corridor that lay off to the right, the thunder of his engine echoing around the great chamber for some time after he had left.

“A bit rebellious, for an Autobot.” Ratchet voiced the observation from where he was working. “We will need to keep an eye on that one.”

“Knockout will be fine.” Salvage admired the medical specialist’s work. “He’s just enthusiastic, that’s all. Wants to get on with the business of winding up the war.”

“Yes, the war.” Optimus turned thoughtful. “Always the war. I wish I were certain that it was ‘winding up.’ Nothing in this interminable conflict is assured. Not even the help of the humans.”

“But you just said—” Salvage began.

Optimus cut him off. “While those humans who know us regard us as friends and allies, there are those besides the suspicious who actively dislike us. They wish us gone or, failing that, rendered inoperative. Their minds are small and their hearts afraid.” He sighed heavily. “It seems it is always so with organics. But there are also those whom I am convinced would be our friends under any circumstances. You will have the opportunity to meet with them shortly.”

“Yes,” said the smaller Autobot, Beachbreak, from nearby. “There’s one who while in the water utilizes a supplementary lens to enhance her visual acuity. It is so thick as to render her appearance at such times almost Autobot-like. Though,” he added more thoughtfully, “I am not sufficiently conversant with human mores to say whether or not she would find the comparison flattering.”