The Veiled Threat (7 page)

Macerator considered. “From your description it does not sound to me as if they have developed intelligence at all.”

“Not as we know it. It is true insect intelligence, where the workers blindly follow the scent trails laid down by their leaders. It is therefore a simple matter to make use of them. Observe.”

Stretching out a hand palm-downward, Starscream generated a small flux within his internal synthesizers. An opening appeared in his palm and a minuscule quantity of a particular basic element spilled toward the ground. Taking the shape of small discs, the element gleamed even in the darkness. Cries immediately rose from the assembled rebels. They fell to the ground, scrabbling in the mud, dirtying themselves as each man fought to gather up as many of the tiny discs as he could. Careful was tempted to join them, except that he knew he would be shot.

“You see?” Starscream regarded the vulgar scramble with more bemusement than contempt. “Provide this element in insignificant quantities and the organics further prove their degenerate nature.”

Macerator found it difficult to believe what he was seeing. “Even arthropod organics behave more sensibly. They fight only for territory and food. Not tiny bits of metal.” Once more he turned his gaze to his superior. “These creatures really can manufacture weapons systems that pose a threat to us?”

“Their slavish devotion to such inconsequentialities as you see before you is exceeded only by their contradictions,” Starscream assured him. “We can make use of both.” Again he let his perception roam the surrounding forest, empty save for the animals that were taking shelter from the storm.

Using one hand, Dropkick had lifted up the rear of the delivery truck and was studying its undercarriage.
“This is a simple vehicle, even for one of human design. I could mimic it easily.”

“Do you
want
to carry humans? Keep the form you have already chosen,” Starscream advised him. “Humans are sensitive to exact duplication and react differently to it than we do. They are defined by their differences, not by their similarities.”

Dropkick nodded as he eased the multi-ton truck gently back onto its wheel base. “I am fond of the shape I have chosen. It boasts a primitive elegance.”

“Aesthete,” Macerator growled. “Observe and admire a form far more functional and useful for our purpose.”

Dropping forward, he commenced to change. As he had previously, Careful observed the shift with a mixture of fascination and fear. The place where the squat metal demon had once stood was now occupied by a wheeled vehicle of brute force: a trash collector designed not only to gather industrial waste but to shred everything from metal to plastic with the rotating saws that were mounted above and just behind the main cab.

“Primitive.” Transforming into his chosen terrestrial guise even faster than his counterpart, Dropkick raced his high-performance engine.

Starscream had to step between them to prevent disagreement from turning into open conflict. In accordance with the plan he had devised to draw the Autobots out of hiding, he and his new companions would make their way southward on this landmass, acquiring more and more human followers along the way. By the time his designs came to fruition they would be in a position to destroy Optimus Prime,
Ironhide, Ratchet, and any other ill-advised allies the surviving Autobots had succeeded in gathering around them. Once that had been accomplished, seizing complete control of this miserable world would be a simple matter of enforcing favorable logistics through terror. Even the self-proclaimed insect “general” who had thrown in his lot and that of his men with the Decepticons agreed that this could be accomplished.

But along the way, Starscream knew, he would have to keep those of his own kind from beating themselves into scrap. It would be incumbent on him to administer the occasional physical as well as verbal drubbing to hotheads like Dropkick and Macerator. They would be of no use to him if they wasted time and energy fighting one another. As with any destructive power their aggressive natures had to be guided, had to be channeled, lest they destroy themselves instead of their enemies. Aiding him in this purpose Starscream had the benefit of experience as well as talent.

Megatron would have had another name for it. He would have called it deviousness. But Megatron was done, finished, dumped in a deep corner of this world’s oceans. A figure of vaunted Cybertronian history, but history nonetheless.

As he moved forward to question the clearly terrified human prisoner, he reflected that this was not necessarily a bad thing.

While the land for the storage yard at Makoli was suitably flat, a fair amount of local forest had to be cut down to make room for the steady stream of supplies. The project was a cooperative venture of several regional governments, whose intent and hope were to have everything ready for the construction of the third great dam whenever financing and environmental approval were forthcoming.

Downriver from the immense cascade of Mosioatunya, The Smoke That Thunders (better known as Victoria Falls), the mighty Zambezi ripped its way through the black basalt of the Batoka Gorge before being hemmed in and tamed by the two great dams at Kariba and Cahorra Bassa. Though such large dams had long been disparaged by conservation groups and others, both projects were considered comparative successes. The vast lakes they impounded behind them had created fisheries where none had existed before and provided new opportunities for year-round farming in what previously had been depressed regions. Most importantly, their tremendous hydroelectric capacity kept the wheels of industry spinning in more than half a dozen surrounding countries.

Because of all that had been achieved by the two
dams, regional planners had long eyed the steep gorge below the falls as the site for a third. The Zambezi had still more power to give, and it was wanted for their growing economies. So while no formal go-ahead had yet been given for the proposed Batoka dam, several international consortiums hopeful of participating in the giant construction project had spent years quietly preparing for the eventuality by building up the Makoli staging site.

Millions of dollars in machinery and material lay neatly stacked and cataloged on the cleared, hard-packed soil. Huge earthmovers stood like frozen dinosaurs beneath protective tarps. Enormous I-beams and rolls of cold steel reached to the edge of the surrounding forest while pallets of rebar stretched to the near horizon. Mountains of bagged premixed concrete, crates of industrial fasteners, half acres of tools, and carefully labeled specialized supplies baked in the tropical sun. Tubes of industrial sealant lay like artillery shells in their dispensing racks. A humming three-wire strand that carried enough voltage to shock a would-be thief all the way to Cairo occupied the grassless corridor that separated the doubled ten-foot-high, razor-wire-topped chain-link fence that enclosed the storage yard.

Such a massive accumulation of expensive industrial supplies demanded that security be provided by more than the typical private security force. In addition to mercenary expat contractors retained by several individual suppliers desirous of defending their contributions, elements of the Zambian army also patrolled the roadways that separated the mountains of material. These multiple layers of security ensured
that theft and graft were greatly reduced. The private security employees watched the mercenaries, the mercenaries watched the army, and the army kept an eye on the private security employees. Everyone who had contributed to the stockpile was happy with the result—except for the private security employees, the mercenaries, and the army, none of whom could filch any of the stored goods without being reported on by their equally frustrated counterparts.

Having worked as a mercenary since leaving Joburg at the age of nineteen, there was little Harin Vashrutha had not seen—or at least heard about. But the arrival of the beat-up beer delivery truck at the front gate of the storage yard was a new one in his experience. Lined up behind it were two far more impressive vehicles: a brand-new large pickup and what appeared to be a heavy-duty garbage truck.

This peculiar convoy was preceded by a jeep in which rode several armed men clad in unidentifiable fatigues. As there were only four of them, plus the beer truck driver, Vashrutha was not concerned. Before he emerged from the comfort of the open-sided guardhouse and its overworked fan, he lowered the volume on the small television he had been watching. He also flipped a silent alarm so that the indicator light above the switch changed from green to yellow. No need, he decided, to go to red. Having followed procedure and prepared for whatever might eventuate, he gripped his Kalashnikov firmly and stepped through the pedestrian portal to confront the unannounced arrivals. The main gate to the supply yard remained closed behind him.

The men in the jeep looked relaxed. An older man
seated in back flaunted stars on the collar of his wrinkled fatigues. Vashrutha was not impressed. Such military insignia could be bought cheaply over the Internet. Of greater significance was the fact that neither the erstwhile senior officer nor any of his soldiers displayed patches indicating that they were members of the Zambian army, the armed forces of Zimbabwe, or any other country participating in the buildup at Makoli. Smiling courteously, the mercenary let one finger gently caress the safety on his weapon as he approached the jeep.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” His gaze rose to the beer truck and the other vehicles idling behind it. For no discernible reason, the pickup truck was racing its engine. Like most men his age, Vashrutha was as fond as anyone of cars fast and fancy. While the pickup’s lines were not to his personal taste, its engine certainly sounded impressive. No, more than impressive, he decided. Impatient.

“We are here to pick up certain materials for transshipment.” The “general” ’s smile widened. “Let us do our job and we won’t trouble you.”

A strange way to put a simple request
, Vashrutha thought. Perhaps the man’s English was as irregular as his uniform.

“Most certainly.” Cradling the Kalashnikov under one arm, he extended a free hand. “Papers, please.”

“Papers?” Leaning forward, the officer spoke to the soldier seated alongside the driver. “Lieutenant Masara, do you have the papers?”

The other man made a show of patting his shirt pockets, then shook his head somberly. “No, General. I have no papers.”

What kind of joke was this? Vashrutha took a step back from the jeep, wishing now that he had flipped the entrance gate’s alarm indicator to red. Still, without knowing exactly what was going on, it would be best to proceed according to protocol.

“If you have no papers, I cannot let you in. You will have to go into Makoli town and present yourselves to the proper authorities.”

“Ah yes,” the officer murmured. “The proper authorities. But that should not be necessary, as we have brought our own authorities with us.”

Vashrutha blinked, took another look at the beer truck’s cab. It was indeed empty except for the driver. “Where are these authorities? In the pickup truck, perhaps?”

“Yes, the ‘pickup truck.’ ” Standing up on the floor of the open jeep, Mashivingo turned and yelled toward the rear of the convoy. “Dropkick! This person will not admit us unless you demonstrate your authority!”

The pickup pulled out of line and came forward. It halted parallel to the jeep, its engine revving loudly. Vashrutha took a couple of steps toward the driver’s side but halted halfway.

There was no driver. There was no one in the truck’s cab at all.

Peering over the hood, he raised his weapon warily as he once again addressed the occupants of the jeep. “What kind of game are you playing with me? I will have you all arrested. You have no papers, and now you are making fun of me with this remote-controlled truck.”

For some reason this produced a rush of laughter
among the men in the jeep. Had Vashrutha taken the time to notice, he would have seen that the driver of the beer truck was shrinking down behind his steering wheel, as if trying to hide himself.

The laughter died down and the officer in the jeep turned suddenly serious. “The truck is not remote-controlled.”

“Then who is responsible for it?” the mercenary asked sharply.

A new voice snapped a reply. “I am responsible for myself, as are all who call themselves Decepticons.”

Increasingly uneasy, Vashrutha retreated slowly toward the guard hut, holding his rifle out in front of him. “Who—who said that?” The voice seemed to have come from the empty pickup.

The empty pickup promptly stood up in front of him.

Side panels unfolded as the rear bed of the vehicle went vertical. Headlights revolved into the body of the machine. Wheels rotated upward toward what became shoulders. I-beams and crankshaft whirled inward. Ignoring the jeep and its clearly amused occupants, Vashrutha’s gaze locked on the mechanical figure that was rising in front of him. It was at once sleek and powerful. And it was looking directly at him.

“We have no more time for this,” it declared in the same sharp voice that had previously claimed responsibility. “We have much work to do and we require certain materials in order to replenish ourselves. We will take them now.”