The Veiled Threat (6 page)

Beachbreak often felt dwarfed by his Autobot colleagues. Standing a little over ten feet tall when in robot mode, he was neither as big nor as powerful as his companions on Diego Garcia. He missed his friend
Bumblebee, not only due to the fact that they were relatively the same young age and enjoyed similar personalities, but also because Bumblebee did not tower over Beachbreak quite as much as the others.

Beachbreak had adopted a rather unique alt mode for himself: when in the open, he appeared as a personal watercraft. The Jet Ski he became resembled nothing that would be found at a resort or public beach. With its dark gray, tapered sides and severe profile it perfectly duplicated the small watercraft that had been developed for use by US Navy SEALs and UK commandos. Appropriate, he felt, because although relatively diminutive in size, he did not lack courage. All he wanted was a chance to prove his valor to his companions.

“There are among them soldiers who take warfare as seriously as us,” Optimus continued. “They have proven to be our most steadfast supporters.”

This was something Salvage could understand without explanation. “War strips away all suspicion among those who do the actual fighting, and leaves behind only comradeship.”

Ratchet indicated agreement. “Under such circumstances the actual viscosity of one’s life fluid becomes immaterial.”

“You’ll meet these individuals also,” Optimus assured them. “Soldiers are less interested in the physical makeup of those who stand beside them than whether or not such individuals are good shots. That is a constant among Autobots and humans alike.

“Meanwhile, until and if we are called upon, we have a certain amount of freedom in this place. Within limits, we can roam about as we see fit. This
island complex is isolated from the rest of humankind and as a military installation is off-limits to any who have not received the proper security clearance. Even so, I would advise against frequently moving about on the surface in your natural shape. Our arrival on this world has caused enough stress; there is no need to add to it by advertising our presence, even in a place like this. Hence the local camouflage each of you has adopted.”

Salvage nodded again as he gestured in the direction of the access corridor. “I’ll say one thing for Knockout. You won’t have any trouble with him on that score. Sometimes I think he’s more fond of his adopted terrestrial configuration than he is of his normal Autobot shape.”

“Then he’ll blend in well here.” Optimus suddenly went quiet. A moment later he explained the pause. “I have been signaled that there is a conference I should attend. Human speech is agonizingly slow, but allows for considerable nuance of expression. Sometimes more so than do our multiple forms of electronic communication. Apparently this involves a matter of some urgency. You will excuse me.”

After the leader of the Autobots had departed, Salvage turned to Ratchet. “That noise Knockout generates in his terrestrial guise. It is oddly engaging.”

“It is excessively loud,” Ratchet objected. “A waste of energy resulting in nothing more than a premature announcement of one’s incipient arrival.”

“True, true,” agreed Salvage. “But engaging nonetheless.”

Careful Chifungwe squinted into the night and cursed the unknown company motor pool mechanic for his oversight. Surely the man knew that ensuring the delivery truck’s windshield wipers were in working order at this time of the year was of primary importance. Their failure in the current storm was going to make him later than ever getting home.

His route was extensive and he was still a long way from Livingstone. At least the truck was empty, the last case of beer having long since been delivered to its rural destination. The rest of the truck was working fine despite the pounding it was taking on the tourist road. Over the years much had changed throughout central Africa, but one mechanical constant held true even in the poorest countries. Public conveyance might collapse, brakeless buses might go over cliffs, and personal transport might be reduced to riding on the back of oxcarts, but come rain or snow, sleet or hail, the beer trucks always got through.

Not always on time, however, even in modern Zambia. And the rain wasn’t helping.

While he had known from the time he had made the choice that taking the detour through Kafue National
Park was risky, he hadn’t had many options. Not with the main north–south road washed out in two places. There was no guarantee the tourist track would be in any better shape, but there was sure to be less traffic through the park, and no heavy trucks at all. He was certain of the latter because commercial traffic was banned inside the park. If he was caught there would be a substantial fine to pay—and it would come out of his salary. He was counting on the park rangers to be holed up out of the weather, watching football. No one wanted to be out in the storm, including tourists. Kafue being the size of Wales, he felt fairly confident he would not meet any of the latter. If he could just get through these last hundred kilometers without being stopped …

A massive shape loomed directly in front of him. Caught in the truck’s headlights, it swerved to challenge his approach. Shouting at himself, Careful slammed on the brakes. The truck half slid, half skidded to a halt without making contact.

Elephant.

The matriarch trumpeted at him but did not charge. Startled by the truck’s lights, she nevertheless stood guard as the rest of her family group finished crossing the road. With a final contemptuous snort, she trailed after them. As he watched the last enormous gray rump vanish into the rain and darkness, Careful allowed himself a sigh of relief. The brakes had worked. He took a moment to bless the unnamed mechanic whose lineage he had so heartily cursed only moments earlier. The idling truck slipped smoothly into gear as he eased it forward. Elephants notwithstanding, if the road did not get any muddier and he met no
rangers or traffic, he might make Livingstone on time despite everything.

An hour later, eyes heavy with exhaustion and mind clouded with sleep, he was forced to slow again to avoid hitting another gray mass that was blocking the road. This time it was a solitary young bull.
Damn elephants
, he thought tiredly to himself.
The government should let us cull and can them, as they do in South Africa
. Evidently the lone pachyderm was finding the road to his liking, because despite the glare of the headlights and Careful’s insistent use of the truck’s horn he did not move.

Leaning out the driver’s-side window into the rain, Careful shook a fist at the recalcitrant creature. “Move! Go find a mopane grove and eat something! I need to eat, too!” Withdrawing into the truck cab, he wiped rain from his face and leaned on the horn anew. When that didn’t work, he tried racing the engine. This time the elephant moved. Or rather, was moved.

Something picked it up and set it aside.

Careful Chifungwe’s lower jaw dropped as he leaned toward the windshield, eyes very wide, looking out and up into the storm. A shape, a vaguely humanoid figure, was towering above the road. Its eyes shone like those of the demons his grandmother used to tell him about. A modern man, Careful knew there were no such things as demons, unless someone had imbibed too much of his company’s product. Yet there it stood, glaring down at him.

Demon or something else, he was not about to linger to ask for identification. Slamming the truck into reverse, he gunned the engine. The delivery truck did not move. Metallic scraping noises came from the
back end. Glancing fearfully into the side mirror he saw that another truck, a big powerful pickup, was blocking his retreat.

If he had not been so busy trying to flee, he might have screamed. He did scream, finally, when a hand slammed down on the open sill of his window. Though unsympathetic, the face that appeared out of the darkness was human. The body beneath was clad in military camouflage gear, and the man wore a sodden dark beret. Other shapes, also human, could be seen moving around in the darkness behind him. They carried an eclectic assortment of weapons.

Rebels of some kind. Careful was almost grateful. The worst they could do was kill him. He could not imagine what the elephant-shifting demon might be capable of doing.

“Get out of the truck!” the soldier at the window barked.

Reflexively, Careful shut off the ignition before exiting. Stepping out into the rain, which thankfully was beginning to let up, he found himself confronted by more than a dozen armed men. While most held rifles, a couple hefted more potent RPGs. Not park poachers, then. Poachers didn’t go after elephants with rocket-propelled grenades. They tended to spoil the ivory. But what kind of rebels? This part of Zambia had been peaceful for a long time.

Two men returned from having inspected the back of Careful’s vehicle. “Empty,” one of them reported curtly.

“Too bad.” The man who had ordered the driver out of the vehicle looked Careful up and down. “We’ll make use of your truck. It will be especially
useful. Nobody interferes with beer delivery.” He drew himself up. “I am Major General Fellows Mashivingo, of the Human Accessory Force.”

Careful was compelled to confess apologetically that he had never heard of either the general or the Human Accessory Force.

Mashivingo flashed white teeth in the darkness. “Few people have. You are among the first. Only a few months ago we were refugees from the Eastern Congo, hunted both by the Kinshasa government and our ‘fellow’ rebels. Since then we have found more powerful friends and protectors.” As if in response, the pickup that had successfully blocked Careful’s retreat came rumbling around from the back of the delivery truck. It boasted what in Careful’s professional opinion was an excess of lights.

It also had no driver.

When he pointed this out to the erstwhile general, Mashivingo laughed. Overhearing the conversation, several of his subordinates also enjoyed a quick chuckle. “Dropkick has no driver because he
is
the driver.”

Careful had no difficulty pleading ignorance. “I do not understand.”

“You will.” The general looked over at the big pickup. “Show him, Dropkick.”

Before Careful’s astonished gaze, the truck idling in the rain began to change. Arms appeared as if out of its side, then a torso, and finally legs. The cab became a head, all glistening metal and fiery eyes. Though the resultant figure loomed menacingly over the group of armed, rain-soaked humans, none of them appeared afraid. In fact, a couple of the soldier-rebels raised
their rifles over their heads and cheered appreciatively.

“Starscream was right,” the figure rumbled. “Humans are easily impressed.”

“I am always right.”

Hands still held above his head, Careful whirled as a second demonic figure appeared behind him. Bigger than the transformed pickup truck, it was flanked by still a third mysterious shape: squat, powerful, and with one arm that terminated in parallel circular blades instead of fingers.

To the terrified Careful’s astonishment, the general took a step toward the intimidating pair. “His truck is empty, but looks to be in excellent condition. It will make good transport. My men are tired of walking.”

“Feeble organics.” The hulking metal shape that was standing alongside Starscream spoke in a highspeed electronic language that only the three Decepticons present could understand. “Must we deal with them?”

“You are newly arrived on this planet, Macerator,” rejoined Starscream. “Believe me, I understand your exasperation. But having engaged them in battle on the other side of this world I have come to appreciate what at first glance appears to be their limited abilities. They have courage, if not sense.” Gesturing at the all but worshipful humans gazing up at him, he continued in the language of Cybertron.

“These here seek to make use of us for their own purposes. As their wants are those of simple, unenlightened organisms, I find it amusing to supply them. And when we have terminated the last of the Autobots, we will need appropriately submissive subordinates
to help us administer this world.” Raising his gaze he peered off into the night, his advanced optics allowing him to see far into the rain and distance despite the darkness. “Unlike Megatron, I see no benefit in extermination for extermination’s sake. In certain circumstances and under the right conditions properly trained insects can be useful, not unlike drones.

“One reason the Autobots defeated us in battle here was because of the interference of the local organics. We both overlooked and underestimated their capabilities. They have weapons that can harm even Cybertronian bodies.”

In an instant of observation Macerator had examined, evaluated, and dismissed the devices being carried by the small group of humans before him. “I perceive nothing here that could mar the polish on my neck, much less inflict damage.”

“These are simple weapons, examples of those produced by humans for killing one another.”

“Killing one another?” Macerator eyed his superior in confusion. “Do irreconcilable differences exist among them as they do among Autobots and Decepticons?”

“More even than that. The organics are split into dozens, even hundreds of dissenting groups, each convinced it and it alone is in possession of the right path to prosperity, to success, to an imagined afterlife. Apparently they have existed in this archaic condition since they first developed intelligence.”