So a reluctant government had to back off and watch helplessly as their main interlocutor with the alien visitors headed off to university. Simmons thought it just as well. Though he’d gained a lot of respect for the Witwicky kid in the course of the confrontation with the Decepticons at Mission City, he still could not escape the feeling that the youth was sneering at him behind his back. And as for the kid’s choice in female companionship, the less said the better.
Not that Seymour Simmons was dating anyone better than Witwicky’s foxy car thief. For one thing, he felt he couldn’t spare the time on fripperies like a social life. Someone had to try to make sense of what was going on. Someone had to be ready to save the world. In between serving corned beef on rye, of course.
“Without mustard.” Every time he thought of it, his blood pressure rose.
Princeton! The Witwicky kid was going to Princeton. Something didn’t jibe with that, either. The youth’s background, his family history, all pointed to him getting into a local small college, maybe going to a JC first. A state university at best. Not Princeton. Was he channeling Einstein’s ghost? So much to learn, Simmons thought. So much to try and figure out. And that car of the kid’s. It wasn’t talking, either.
He returned to his labors. If there was one estimable quality Seymour Simmons possessed, it was persistence. Set him to a task and he was, his mother had often said of her son, like a dog with a bone.
Consider that cracker Archimedes. Another ancient Greek who just happened to be the subject of the monograph the former agent was currently translating. Just where had he gotten all those advanced notions?
Something sputtered in front of him. He looked up. Nothing amiss, nothing changed. He returned to his translating.
The sound was repeated. It was coming from the alien head mounted on the small table. A tinny, crackling voice issued from the remnant of a mouth. It was speaking Decepticon, which Simmons knew as well as anyone in the world.
“Body.” Sparks flew from the sides and top of the head as it spit and popped and flared. “Where body? Gone, gone, taken, gone. Bring it back. So far away, taken …”
Rising slowly from his chair, a captivated Simmons approached the head. In addition to the sparks, several lights were flaring deep within the alien construct. The formerly intact Decepticon had been a metal homicidal maniac that had done its best to slaughter him, the secretary of defense, and several other people deep within the bowels of Hoover Dam. Immobile and disembodied, it had sat harmlessly on his basement table ever since he had snuck it home. And now it was trying to talk.
If its murderous instincts were sufficiently moderated, it was just possible he might be able to persuade it not only that he was a friend, but to supply him with some answers.
“What are you trying to say? Are you asking about your body? I don’t know where it is, chrome dome. Maybe if you gimme a hint, I can look for it. Give you your body back, yeah, but without the Cuisinart capability, if you know what I mean.” He drew nearer, unafraid of the lights or the sparks. After all, he had lived for nearly a year with this mechanism in his basement without suffering any adverse consequences from its proximity. It wasn’t as if he was hiding the body of Megatron in a garage.
“Body missing,” the head sputtered. “Not fair. Frenzy do his job. Perform all tasks, obey all orders. Accumulate requisite information …”
Simmons sidled closer still. “Yeah, information. Vital information. Tell me.” His tone turned coaxing, and he switched on the recorder he always kept ready in one pocket. “Any information is good information. Tell me about the Autobots. Tell me about the Decepticons. This war of yours—what’s it really all about? What do you animated cuckoo clocks really want from us? From Earth?” Cautiously, he extended a hand toward the imprisoned head. “Tell Uncle Seymour all about it.”
“Need full body, remaining neural components to—” The voice broke off abruptly. When it resumed, it was at the level of a shriek. “Insect! Ambulatory macrobiotic pulp! Frenzy chop!” Atop the table the head started to shake and vibrate furiously. The lights that had come on within began to flash like the window in an uptown nightclub.
“Hey, easy there, take it easy.” Halting his approach and raising his hands to show that he meant no harm, Simmons made placating gestures without knowing if the Decepticon skull could even perceive the movement, much less understand the meaning behind it. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m not the one who took your body. All I want is to ask you some ques—”
“All humans must submit!” the head screamed. “Release Frenzy or suf … or suf …!”
The lights in the basement went crazy. A subtle tremor shot through the floor. Startled, Simmons felt it through the soles of his shoes. A faint rumbling grew audible. In front of him, the table holding the clamped head began to jump and bounce lightly on its four legs. While he had been careful to secure the skull to a wooden table so the Decepticon remnant could not control the platform on which it rested, something was clearly going on.
Turning to his right, he rushed to the wall and fumbled for the circuit breaker that controlled the multiple power cords he had connected to the skull. As soon as his fingers wrapped around the switch, a blue flame erupted from the wall socket. A jolt of electricity shot through his fingers. Fortunately, the breaker only controlled a 110-volt line and not the 220 he had hooked up. So the surge sent him stumbling backward but didn’t put him on the ground.
Behind him, the table holding the head of Frenzy was now bounding violently as the Decepticon continued to spew a stream of alien gibberish. It was also bouncing in one direction—toward the electrical transformer into which several live leads had been plugged. Simmons instantly deduced what was happening. Having revived sufficiently to sense the proximity of the larger power source, the Decepticon was struggling to reach it. If the diminished alien intelligence could make contact with and draw upon the apartment building’s full electrical load …
Simmons charged the opposite wall. Screeching atop the hopping, bouncing table, what was left of Frenzy focused single-mindedly on reaching the source of revitalizing energy. It was within a yard of doing so when the former agent grabbed the industrial-capacity cord connecting the transformer to the wall and yanked the heavy-duty plug out of its socket.
All power was cut to the basement. The Decepticon’s electronic howling ceased, as did the banging of the wooden table legs against the bare concrete floor. Fumbling in the darkness, Simmons located one of several flashlights he had stashed around the room. Following its beam, he cautiously approached the worktable.
It was devoid of movement. No sparks flared from the alien skull, no lights flickered within its depths. Reaching down, he carefully touched one of the wires that ran from it, felt nothing. Moving from point to point around the room, he unplugged each and every cord one by one. Returning to the transformer, he plugged it back in and flipped the master switch. The lights in the basement came back on, but the head of Frenzy remained inert. Walking back to the worktable, Simmons picked it up and returned it to its former location in the center of the room. Taking a deep breath, he reached out and touched the alien metal. Nothing. A second touch turned into a prolonged exploration of the skull. There was some lingering residual heat that was rapidly fading.
“You guys are always full of surprises,” he muttered softly. “Should’ve known better than to let down my guard. That won’t happen again.”
A sudden loud pounding on the floor above at the door to his apartment caused him to jump slightly.
“Now you stay right there,” he told the head, “and don’t move.” The admonition was half joke, half command.
The figure standing in the hallway facing his apartment was almost as intimidating as a Decepticon: his landlord, Carlson. The man’s language was more comprehensible than Frenzy’s, though no less hyperactive.
“What are you doing in there, Simmons?” Short and squat, the landlord struggled to see past his taller tenant.
“Jus
t reading,” Simmons told him. “Why? My rent’s paid. You want to borrow a cup of sugar or something?”
“Yeah, right. I’m baking cookies. Not that I could if I wanted to, because a couple minutes ago every light in the building went out and every appliance went nuts.” He gestured upward. “Mrs. Berkowitz in Six-C, she was in the middle of her favorite soap when her TV went out—and it’s Friday. You should’ve heard the ration she gave me.” His expression tensed. “Surge came from your place. I got blown lightbulbs all over the building that I gotta spend half a day replacing!”
“You should switch to LEDs.” When circumstances dictated, Simmons was quite capable of controlling his temper.
“Wise guy. Maybe I’ll do that, and tack the bill onto your rent.”
“Okay.” Simmons smiled broadly.
His ready acquiescence took the landlord aback. “Really? You’ll pay for the replacements?”
The former agent shrugged. “It’s just a few lightbulbs. If I’m responsible, I’ll pay, sure.”
“Well—okay then.” His anger if not his curiosity assuaged, the older man turned to leave. “But whatever you’re doing in there, if it happens again, I’m gonna have a city inspector check out any modifications you’ve made to your wiring. And if they’re illegal, you’re out, Simmons. I don’t care if you do pay your rent on time. I ain’t gonna let you burn down the building.”
“No problem, Carlson. Not to worry.” The ex-agent smiled as he closed the door behind his grumbling landlord.
Not to worry. This was what he was forced to cope with: ignorant fools like his fellow apartment dwellers who had no idea that the man in 1B was devoting all of his spare time to trying to save the world, and them, from total destruction. One thing the recent episode in the basement had made clear: he could not continue his work here. As inconvenient as it was going to be, he was going to have to move not only the heavily wired Decepticon head but all of his research material somewhere else. To a place that would afford safety and privacy as well as access to a more secure supply of electricity. He couldn’t take the risk that the increasingly suspicious Carlson might enter his apartment while Simmons was at work, much less that the landlord might do so in the company of a city inspector.
What he needed was a commercial venue with commercial-grade wiring and power sources, but one to which he could be sure only he had access. Renting office or shop space wouldn’t work, as doing so would risk the same potential unauthorized visit by a landlord. He had no close friends, so that option was out. Where could he go? Where could he take his materials and feel safe leaving them unguarded even if he needed to go out of the city for a while?
Eventually it came to him. Without mustard.
While Technical Sergeant Epps’s head bobbed slightly and steadily to the beat of the music that was blasting from the docked music player sitting on the shelf in front of him, it had no apparent effect on the enormous Autobot who was crouched close behind and peering over his shoulder. Like the rest of the Autobots, Ironhide had done his best to try to comprehend how humans derived pleasure from listening to the sharply modulated soundwaves generated by such devices. It sounded nothing at all like the music he enjoyed back on Cybertron. Periodic exposure had bred, if not familiarity, at least a modicum of understanding.
For him, however, it could not compete with the unleashing of a suitably devastating explosion or the pleasure to be had from admiring a weapon well designed.
The human’s passion for oddly mutating sound waves notwithstanding, Ironhide had discovered a common bond with the human named Epps. Flaunting a build similar to that of the Autobot, though on a much smaller scale and with weaponry externalized instead of integrated, Epps shared Ironhide’s fascination with advanced ordnance. The pair had spent many a pleasant hour by themselves secluded in NEST’s weapons facility discussing the efficacy of an assortment of volatile elements while debating such military arcana as line-of-sight versus guided-arc delivery. On numerous such occasions Epps had also insisted on showing off pictures of his mate and three offspring.
Leaning away from the workbench, Epps admired the short-barreled, large-magazine weapon he had been working on. “She’s finished,” he declared proudly. “What do you think? I started with a Protecta, which is an upgraded model of the old Striker Street-Sweeper, reinforced the barrel and other components, and enlarged the magazine to hold the smallest sabot rounds currently in production.”
Ironhide examined the lethal-looking device. “May I?” One immense metal hand reached forward.
“Please do. I’d be interested in your expert opinion.”
With two fingers, the Autobot carefully picked up the weapon and brought it close to his face. After a moment’s inspection, he held it alongside his right hand. A series of loud metallic clicks and whirs filled the room as the hand melded into an enormous multibarreled missile launcher. Next to it, Epps’s project was dwarfed.
“What d’you think?” The tech sergeant gazed expectantly at the Autobot weapons specialist.
What is it that Optimus keeps telling us to keep in mind when dealing with humans? Ironhide mused. Oh yes—tact and diplomacy. Unfortunately, tact and diplomacy were not among Ironhide’s specialties, his mind being more fort- than forte-oriented. His replies tended to be as straightforward and unvarying as his aim.
“Very nice toy,” he ventured hesitantly.
Extending a hand, Epps uttered a word the Autobot had not yet assimilated into his English vocabulary. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Give it back, man.”
“I am not a man. I am an Autobot. We are autonomous robotic lifeforms from the planet …” He broke off, seeing that his human friend was not listening. “Oh, I remember now. A linguistic colloquialism.”
“Yeah.” Epps clamped the weapon back onto its workstand mount. “You know what you can do with your colloquialism.”
“No, I do not. Perhaps you can tell me,” Ironhide inquired ingenuously.
“Don’t tempt me.” Donning his safety work glasses, the sergeant had leaned forward and was studying his project anew. “You know, I’m open to suggestions.”
“In that case …”
They worked together for more than an hour before Epps finally rose from his seat. The tech sergeant lavished one more loving look on his sabot-firing Protecta before heading for the door. Halfway to the exit he paused and glanced back.
“You know, there’s one thing that’s been on my mind ever since we took down Megatron and the other Decepticons at Mission City. No matter how heavily or how long you and your buddies were engaged, you never seemed to run out of ammo. The energy beam stuff I can sort of grasp, but not the repeated use of heavy explosives. How does that work?”
Always happy to expound on a subject that was near and dear to him, Ironhide explained. “We have within ourselves the ability to ingest raw materials and rapidly reproduce a wide variety of necessary resources depending on the necessities of the moment. Our advanced design and construction demands that each of us be able to repair and replenish much of which we are composed and which we use. All of us have these abilities, though some are more adept at certain aspects than others. Mine is weaponry. Ratchet’s is repair.” He shook his head, utilizing the simple human gesture with the ease of practice.
“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 th
e 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.”