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, sometime
s 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.”
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.