The Veiled Threat

  “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.”

  Trembling for the first time in his professional career, Vashrutha trained his gun on the towering shape. “You—you cannot come in! You do not have papers! Without the proper papers I will not open the gate.”

  Eyes flickering with annoyance met the mercenary’s shaky gaze as the mechanical figure leaned in his direction. “That will not be necessary. I will.”

  Pivoting, Dropkick reached out with both hands. Digging into the metal lattice that was blocking his path, incredibly powerful fingers contracted and then yanked. Sparks flew as alarms were tripped. Wrenching effortlessly, the Decepticon pulled up the gate and threw it aside. Mangled and torn, it smashed into several nearby trees.

  Reflexes took over as Vashrutha attempted to block the unauthorized entry. The rounds from his Kalashnikov spanged harmlessly off the gleaming metal flanks of the mechanical intruder. When he heard the whine of the jeep’s engine, he shifted the muzzle of his weapon toward a more vulnerable target.

  “Halt! I warn you, stop where you are or I will—!”

  An invisible force sucked the rifle from his fingers. Looking sharply to his right, the mercenary found himself gazing openmouthed at a second mechanical figure. In outline and color it was very different from the one that had ripped apart the gate. It was also bigger.

  Glaring down at the solitary human, Macerator popped the automatic weapon he had just snatched from its owner into his mouth, chewed for perhaps a couple of seconds, and then spat. Vashrutha jumped aside as his gun was returned to him. He recognized the crushed, compacted chunk of metal as having been his weapon because a portion of the trigger lay near its surface.

  A sudden whine made him look up again, and this time he had to throw himself to one side as a huge multibladed hand descended toward him. It cut through the air above his diving body before neatly slicing the vacant guard station in half. The upper portion of the small building promptly collapsed in on itself. Disdaining the open gate, Macerator advanced by cutting his own opening in the double fence. When his bladed hand contacted the electrified wire that ran between the two outer barriers, a violent electrical discharge flared briefly as it was shorted out, blinding the aghast mercenary. His weight shaking the earth, Macerator followed Dropkick onto the grounds of the vast supply depot.

  As the delivery truck motored past where he was lying, a dazed Vashrutha could see that it carried armed men and not beer. They were cheering and laughing as they saw the missing gate and the nearby section of destroyed fencing. One of them hopped off the back of the truck, ran to the collapsed guard station, picked up Vashrutha’s television, and hurried back to rejoin his comrades. The mercenary did not try to stop the theft. He had done all that he could do.

  Except quit, which he proceeded to announce by climbing to his feet and running as fast as he could for the nearby forest.

  At the far end of the storage yard a gathering of private security guards and other mercenaries were already rushing in the direction of the main gate. Some were on foot while others rode electric carts. The gate that provided access to the west side of the compound opened to admit several squadrons of regular Zambian troops. Caught by surprise by the first general alarm in the history of the complex, some of the men were half dressed. Those on foot struggled to pull on their boots. Their more prepared comrades rode in jeeps and Humvees. Several of the latter were equipped with heavy machine guns. Additional support was provided by a pair of tank-like vehicles that mounted heavy anti-aircraft guns instead of the usual howitzer.

  Arriving from a different direction and responding to the urgency of the alarm, a third such vehicle decided to sacrifice protocol in favor of speed as it ignored the south gate and bashed its way through the fence line to join the hastily assembling response force.

  Shots began to ring out as the rebels in the truck and jeep engaged the first defenders. While the attackers were more heavily armed than the supply depot’s security guards, the equation soon changed as mercenaries and soldiers arrived to join the battle. With several of their members hit, the invaders were forced to fall back.

  Their retreat did not last long.

  Plowing forward, Macerator smashed his way through piles of supplies, scattering building materials in all directions. Security operatives fled before him, but not the rapidly growing group of mercenaries and army troops. Despite the absence of a direct chain of command linking them, in the face of a common threat the two groups joined forces with admirable speed.

  “Major Ghiwa, get your men under cover behind those beams!” a mercenary officer named du Hoit yelled.

  The Zambian officer hesitated, then nodded in response. “See if your people can get around behind this thing. We will try to hold it until you can flank.”

  The mercenary snapped a quick salute. “Ja ek weet … okay! Be sure your people stay under cover. We don’t want any of you caught in the line of fire.” Whirling, he raced off to rally his fellow hirelings, shouting commands above the gunfire in a raw mixture of English and Afrikaans.

  Ghiwa hurriedly withdrew his forces to the indicated position. “Get that machine gun set up!” he roared. “Where are the RPGs?” Looking to his left as he ran for shelter, he cursed in several tribal languages as well as English. “And where the devil is that heavy armor?”

  The two anti-aircraft tanks were on their way with the third coming up fast behind, but unlike soldiers on foot they had to navigate around rather than over or through the mass of building material.

  Ghiwa threw himself down behind the machine-gun operators, who had finally managed to get the heavy M60 up on its tripod. What they really needed, he knew, was a Dillon M134, but the always cash-strapped government had no money for such advanced weapons. He had to lean close to the operators to make himself heard above the racket of small-arms fire.

  “Not there, not there!” To get the gunner’s attention he slapped a palm down hard on the man’s helmet. “Forget about the rabble around the delivery truck.” Raising an arm, he pointed. “Take out that recycling vehicle. We don’t know what’s inside. It might be a bomb. Or even a dirty bomb.”

  The gunner looked back at him, confused. “Sir, what is a dirty bomb?”

  “Never mind. Just shoot!” A dirty bomb, the major knew, would be a device favored in current circumstances not only by eco-terrorists wishing to disrupt the future construction of the Batoka dam, but also by criminals or rebels seeking to extort money from the construction consortium. Setting one off in the depot could contaminate and render useless tens of millions of dollars in supplies. Or the garbage truck could simply contain explosives or additional fighters.

  The rumbling, squealing vehicle did not contain any of those destructive elements, however. It was a destructive element all by itself.

  As the rebels cheered from behind the protection of their jeep and the delivery truck, the hulking waste collector began to alter shape, rising up on columnar legs until he loomed over the surrounding supply yard. While small-caliber slugs and the larger shells from the heavy machine gun ricocheted off his armored flanks, Macerator studied the local resistance. Though active and defiant, it was every bit as primitive as Starscream had described. Further changing shape and function, arms swiftly became armature.

  Construction supplies and bodies flew in all directions as explosive shells began to land among the defending soldiers. Ducking and rolling backward, Ghiwa yelled to his men.

  “Spread out! Aim for the thing’s head!”

  Scrambling to his left, he tried to avoid being blown to bits as he raced for the gate that led back to the barracks. At the same time he found himself wondering—what could the huge mechanical invaders possibly want with a yard full of construction supplies?

  Time enough if he survived to ponder the motivation of assailants
whose intentions were as incomprehensible as their appearance. Right now he had to get to the barracks to file an emergency report. Cell phone reception in the Makoli area was intermittent, but there was a broadband connection in his office. If his men and du Hoit’s could keep the rebels and their strange war machines occupied, he could sound a warning and call for help.

  Something exploded against Macerator’s back. Pivoting, he searched for the source of the irritation. A second explosion tickled his chin. Ah, there. More of the tiny organics, firing self-propelled explosives at him. These were far too feeble to even scratch his armor, but the smoke and noise were a distraction. Raising his right arm, he unleashed a small missile. Dirt, powdered concrete, wood framing, and an assortment of human detritus shot skyward as the missile struck home. The irritation promptly vanished. Ignoring the lighter fire that continued to pepper him, he resumed his advance toward the concrete-reinforced building in the center of the compound. While he was surrounded by much that was useful, his perceptors had informed him that the isolated structure contained the choicest prize. Bullets of varying caliber fell from his flanks like dark raindrops.

  Questioning whether his mercenary counterpart and colleague du Hoit was still alive, Ghiwa scrambled from behind a three-story-high stack of precast steel arches and sprinted toward the open access gate. No shells or missiles landed near him. If his luck held he would be inside the barracks and online on his computer within minutes. He darted through the gate—only to have to halt sharply as a vehicle he did not recognize pulled up to block his path. He waved furiously at the pickup’s driver.

  “Move, move—get out of the way! Don’t you see what’s happening? I have to send word!”

  Something creaked beneath the pickup. No, not beneath, he told himself. Within it. Metal began to crumple and fold, to rearrange itself. Staring, Ghiwa slowly backed up toward the gate from which he had just emerged. As he did so it occurred to him that the pickup’s driver had looked exactly like a lower-level guard named Vashrutha. Had looked like, because now there was no driver. There was no need for one.

  Dropkick contemplated the single human retreating before him. “You are not armed. I am disappointed. Even an unequal contest is better than none.”

  Feeling it was futile but hoping for luck, Ghiwa drew his service pistol and began emptying its clip at the monster. If nothing else, maybe the .45 would distract it. Slugs that would have drilled completely through a human barely made a sound as they bounced off the Decepticon’s body. As he fired, the major turned and fled back the way he had come.

  In an attempt to make the contest interesting since he could not make it fair, Dropkick did not unlimber any of his main batteries. Instead he reached out, grabbed the nearest section of fence, and pulled. Poles and wire mesh tore out of the ground. When he had extracted a suitable length, the Decepticon rolled it tightly, flung his arm back, and then snapped it forward. The coiled metal unfurled like a flattened whip. The pole at the end struck the unfortunate Ghiwa and sent him sprawling. When his body stopped rolling, it remained still.

  It was not what Dropkick had intended. His aim had been to catch the fleeing human in a roll of fence and draw him back. The Decepticon did not dwell on the failure. Turning, he started toward the empty barracks. There would be communications devices inside that needed to be eliminated. There might also be weapons or combustibles. He hoped for the latter. Far from home, and with the Allspark destroyed, it was vital to stockpile potential sources of distilled Energon whenever possible. Depending on the type of material here, it was a potential source, though he wondered if the yield would be worth the effort.

  Behind him and within the boundaries of the supply depot, combat continued to rage. He felt neither need nor hurry to join in. Macerator had not called for assistance. Given the feebleness of the forces arrayed against them, Dropkick doubted his comrade would do so.

  A series of shells heavier than any that had yet struck him slammed into Macerator’s torso. While unable to penetrate his armor, they were powerful enough that the outside possibility existed they could do some minor damage if they happened to strike an especially vulnerable point when he was not paying attention. There being no reason to take chances, while he evaluated the new threat he took a couple of steps to one side and sought temporary shelter behind a small mountain of metal parts.

  What he saw would have brought a lump to his throat except that such comparisons with organic reactions were utterly invalid. Grinding in his direction, a pair of armored vehicles were firing steadily at him with quadruple cannons. Their purely mechanical aspect gave them the appearance of a squad of legless representatives of his own kind. While the shells being fired by the multiple Bofors barrels were not of threatening dimensions, they traveled at high velocity and with considerable accuracy. It might prove awkward should one or more of them explode against a joint or a lens. As explosions erupted all around him, Macerator considered how best to counter this latest human assault. He had to admit that if the natives’ weapons were not the most advanced, they at least had the virtue of diversity.

  He was about to commence his counterattack when the nearer of the two vehicles blew up in a shower of flame and exploding ordnance. Peering out from behind his temporary cover, he saw that the guns had been blown off their mount and were lying on the ground next to the burning vehicle. As the second tank rushed to swing its own guns around, it, too, came under fire from behind. Shells ripped through the top of the machine, tearing away antennas and destroying weaponry. Effectively disarmed, the vehicle’s crew abandoned it and bolted in all directions. A couple of them managed to make it to surrounding cover.

  Resuming its advance, the third anti-aircraft tank halted alongside the heavily reinforced single-story structure that had been the object of Macerator’s attention. As he looked on it rose up off its treads, the dark armor shifting and repositioning itself, until he found himself gazing back into visual receptors that were all but identical to his own. Stepping out from behind the mass of metal where he had momentarily taken refuge, the Decepticon strode forward to meet the new arrival.

  “Greetings, Payload. You did well to conceal yourself until your presence was required.”

  The other Decepticon nodded at his colleague. “When I first arrived on this world Starscream told me I would have no difficulty in choosing an indigenous mode that would reflect not only my personal but also my aesthetic preferences. He was correct.” Surveying their surroundings he was disappointed by what he saw, but hardly surprised. “It appears that the natives have now decided to invest in flight rather than fight. A pity. Though hardly much of a challenge, battling them has been a learning experience.”

  “I agree.” Macerator joined his comrade in watching as the surviving humans fled into the surrounding bush. “While individually they are harmless, in packs they can be annoying and, according to Starscream, even dangerous. Underestimating their conjoined capabilities has cost us the Sparks of several.”

  “So I was informed. Seeing them fleeing like this, it is a hard thing to countenance.”

  “I was not there myself, of course, but Starscream assures me it was so. Megatron himself was brought low by a single human.”

  As the volume of small-caliber shells splintering against his body continued to decline, Payload found himself brooding on the seemingly impossible.

  “I was told what had transpired, but I believe that Starscream was given to leaving out certain details. He favors short phrases emphasizing his own contributions, and tends to shout.”

  “I know. I understand that Megatron’s passing was ironic. A Decepticon deceived, was how Starscream put it. No matter. He insists that he has learned more than enough to allow us to take complete control of this world, and that both it and its diminutive but resourceful population can be put to good use. He assures me that when this work is finished we will not only control all of this planet but be in position to destroy the last of the Autobots and regain complete control of Cybertron
as well.”

  Payload was not as much given to contemplation as some of his colleagues, but Macerator’s narrative still gave him pause.

  “In the past, Starscream has been known to promise many things.”

  “We must follow his guidance. He is our leader now that Megatron is dead.”

  Lens locked with lens. “Are you and Dropkick certain he is dead? Should he return and find that we have allied ourselves fully with Starscream, I would fear for my Spark.”

  Macerator did not hesitate. “Starscream has shown recordings of the great battle that occurred earlier on this world. Megatron’s Spark was merged with the Allspark. There is no question that he is dead.”

  “Then we follow Starscream. For the present.” Payload looked toward the building behind which Macerator had been standing. “I sense a source of potential energy within this structure.” Arms rose and took aim; one consisted of a revolving cannon, while the other was heavy with missiles of advanced design. “I will make an entrance.”

  One metal arm came down to restrain another. “That would be unwise. While I, too, am eager to make use of the material within, Starscream warned me that as creative as they are, these humans have not yet learned how to properly stabilize much of their weaponry. I fear that your method of choice might result in the activation and consequent loss of that which we seek to utilize.” He stepped forward. “Defer if you will to a more localized and gentler methodology.”

  Folding in upon itself, a weapons-holding hand gave way to a quintet of incredibly sharp carbon-edged blades. A deep whine filled the air as they began to spin at an impossible speed. Bending forward, Macerator touched his cutting blades to the side of the squat building before him. He proceeded to cut through the thick outer wall of the structure as delicately as a surgeon cracking a chest cavity. Several slices later, Payload joined him in lifting the excised section of roof and setting it aside. The need for the structure’s massive, angled concrete walls stood revealed.