Transformers Dark of the Moon

  “Shut up,” Lennox said.

  vii

  The convoy with Sentinel was heading straight toward NEST from one direction.

  Coming from the other direction at high speed were five fast-moving Decepticon Dreads. Two were still in car mode; the other three were in full fighting array. They were not going to repeat the mistake that had occurred out on the highway. This time they were going to have safety in numbers.

  In the driver’s seat of Bumblebee, Sam saw them in the distance at the opposite end of the street, barreling toward them. Nightmare reliving of the narrowly avoided head-on collision came back to him, and he had the terrible feeling that this time it wasn’t going to simply be a matter of outgunning them.

  The safety of NEST’s gate was ahead of them, less than half a mile, but the Dreads were going to get there first. Sam could see in his mind’s eye what was going to happen next. The Decepticons would get to the gate, pass it, and instead come at the convoy full bore. Here, where the streets were narrower, the Autobots wouldn’t have as much room to maneuver, and they would also be hampered by their attempts to minimize damage to innocents in the area. The Dreads would not have that worry.

  The distance between the two groups closed, and Sam was right: They were going to get to the NEST entrance and pass it within seconds. At that point, the convoy’s easy access to the gate would be cut off.

  And just when the Dreads got to the front entrance and were about to speed past, the gates flew open and, with impeccable timing, Ironhide emerged and simply stepped out directly into the path of the oncoming Decepticons.

  Ironhide was the quintessential immovable object. The Decepticons discovered this very quickly as, moving too fast to change course, they all plowed directly into him. Their own speed accomplished the rest as they shattered into a million pieces, bits of Decepticon flying every which way. The massive Autobot was rocked back slightly on his heels but otherwise was completely unaffected by the impact.

  Sam laughed in relief as he witnessed the outcome of the abortive assault on the convoy.

  From within the gate, Ratchet, Skids, and Mudflap looked on. Ironhide turned to them, brushing a few bits of debris from his arm, and said mildly, “They just don’t make them the way they used to.”

  Sam maneuvered Bumblebee in through the main gate. The guards were running forward, but they weren’t trying to stop him this time. Instead they were frantically waving him forward. The large ramp way that served as the main Autobot entrance was wide open and welcoming. It was sure different from the last time they came through there, and Sam couldn’t help but feel a surge of satisfaction. If only Carly could see this, he thought, and immediately the good feelings he was having began to dim.

  As he drove past Mudflap, the squat—for an Autobot—robot was gesturing angrily at Ironhide.

  “Man, you shoulda saved some for me!” he said.

  “If he’d saved any of them for you,” retorted Skids, “then I’d wind up saving you from them!”

  “Like hell you would!” The offended red robot shoved the squat green robot, who, other than in color scheme, was identical. “I could take ’em!”

  “You couldn’t take a dump in a dump yard!” Skids backhanded him across the side of the head, staggering him.

  “Shut up, the both of you!” snapped Ratchet, who had had quite enough of the Twins for one day. “Have some respect for the greatest of us all!”

  The Twins immediately got in line, because even that fractious pair had some respect for what Sentinel represented. The fire truck rolled past them, and shortly afterward all the Autobots followed him. The final one in was Ironhide, who cast one last cautious look around before striding in, the ramp closing steadily behind him.

  viii

  Sam had never felt so relieved as when he was finally safely within the main NEST ops center. Once again he was on the upper rampways, alongside Lennox and surrounded by soldiers. But at least this time he didn’t have Mearing breathing down his neck; she was nowhere to be seen. Moreover, he felt that this time he had proved his worth beyond any debate. If he hadn’t figured out what was going on, if he hadn’t tracked down Sentinel, if he hadn’t given NEST a heads-up …

  Don’t get full of yourself, Witwicky. You had plenty of help every step of the way. If you’d been on your own, you’d have gotten nowhere. Jeez, I hope Simmons is okay. And if it weren’t for Bee and the other Autobots, you’d just be roadkill. Maybe that’s part of the point that Mearing was making. It’s a cliché, but there’s no “I” in “team.”

  “Ironhide!” Lennox called down from overhead. “Protect Sentinel!”

  Sam shouted down to them as well. “Keep him guarded! He’s the key!”

  “Yes,” said Sentinel. And then something in his voice changed, something that Sam couldn’t quite identify. “As I always have been.”

  Before anyone could react, Sentinel turned, faced Ironhide, and produced an odd-looking cannon. Ironhide, the sturdiest of all Autobot warriors—the great friend of Optimus Prime—had no time to react as Sentinel fired a blast of something that Sam had never seen before. It struck Ironhide, the invincible Ironhide, in the side of his head.

  When Optimus Prime had first restored Sentinel to life, Ironhide had been one of the very first Autobots to go to one knee in deference and respect to the esteemed Sentinel. Now he went to one knee again, but it was because he was disoriented, confused, unable to stand. He flung his arms out to either side to try to keep his balance and barely managed.

  Sam watched, horrified, uncomprehending. He felt like his brain had split—one half witnessing the events, the other half trying to make sense of it and failing. The stuff that Sentinel had shot at Ironhide (He shot Ironhide! Why the hell would he—?) was some kind of thick plasma … no … not plasma … it was like an acid rust (but nothing can hurt Ironhide! And why would he even want to hurt Ironhide, they’re allies?) that was consuming the upper half of Ironhide’s head. It worked its way through with appalling speed, and the other Autobots were frozen in place, no more capable of understanding what was happening than was Sam or Ironhide.

  “I am sorry, my Autobot brothers,” Sentinel said. “But we were never going to win the war. For the sake of our planet’s survival, a deal with Megatron had to be made.”

  Sam’s mind locked up completely. He simply couldn’t process what he was seeing. In that, he had a great deal of company.

  And before anyone else could react, Sentinel fired again, an even larger blast this time. The acid rust enveloped the rest of Ironhide’s head and the entirety of his upper body. It seemed to Sam that this time it was working even faster, as if the first blast had been a practice shot to get the juices flowing.

  Ironhide wasn’t able to do so much as scream because his entire vocal apparatus was gone. Seconds later his torso fell in on itself as his arms tumbled to either side. The acid rust had already worked its way into them, and when they struck the ground, they collapsed into puddles of dissolving metal. The remaining part of Ironhide’s body that had been upright now fell over onto the spreading pool of ruin that was already on the floor.

  “He’s with the Decepticons,” Lennox said to his aide. His voice was, astoundingly, icy calm, as if he were assessing a change in the weather. That was the level of professionalism at which he was dealing. Whatever turmoil was going on inside him, for Lennox it was first things first: Follow procedure. “Get all NEST forces back to base.”

  To Sam it all seemed to be occurring in slow motion. In real time, it was less than five seconds between the second blast of Sentinel’s weapon and the final dissolution of Ironhide, leaving him nothing but a lifeless mass, not even recognizable as metal, much less a once-proud Autobot.

  Without hesitation, Sentinel turned and aimed his cannon at Bumblebee. There was no way he could miss.

  “No! No! Bumblebee, watch out!” Sam screamed.

  Sam’s cry jolted Bumblebee from his shock, and he started to move, to try to dodge to one side, but th
ere was no way, no time to avoid it. Sentinel simply tracked with his motion and fired.

  Skids hurled himself directly in the path of the blast, absorbing the full brunt of it. A bit splattered to either side, narrowly missing Bumblebee.

  Skids staggered, his knees coming together, his torso starting to dissolve. He tried to turn toward Mudflap, reaching for him, but he was unable to move. As he spoke, his voice dropped from its typical brashness to a hoarse whisper. “Sorry, bro … guess I wasn’t … as smart … as I thought … sor—”

  His head fell off, and his lower body fell to the other side. His torso dribbled down the sides of his lower half, and then all of it dissolved.

  There had never been a moment when the motor-mouthed Autobot called Mudflap had been at a loss for words. Under ordinary circumstances, Sam would have expected him to say something like, “Oh, no you did-unt! Oh NO you DID-UNT! Uh uh! You in it now!”

  He said nothing like that. Perhaps it was because of the psychic link that he shared with his twin so that he had actually felt Skids die. Perhaps it was because of the betrayal of a warrior they revered above all others, like finding out the Archangel Michael was on Satan’s payroll.

  Whatever the reason, Mudflap didn’t react the way Sam would have expected.

  Instead he howled.

  It was a primal agony, torn from that individual bit of Spark that powered all the Autobots. It was the most horrible thing Sam Witwicky had ever heard, and he recognized it for what it was: the sound of a soul dying.

  And then it escalated up the scale to a war cry of undiluted fury.

  Mudflap leaped into the air, spun, and kicked Bumblebee in one direction and Ratchet in the other as he cried out, then landed, shoved past Mirage, and shouted, “Run, you guys! Leave him to me! This bastard’s mine!”

  Sentinel fired a blast from his cannon with vast calm, certain that he had Mudflap targeted.

  He was wrong.

  The far smaller Mudflap ducked under it. The spray of acid rust flew over his head, and then Mudflap leaped straight at Sentinel.

  He hit the startled Prime in the back of the knees, knocking him off his feet with the sheer fury of his attack. Sentinel crashed to the ground, Mudflap atop him. He pounded upon Sentinel, hammering away with everything he had. Gone was his tactical savvy, gone was his attitude. He was nothing but unbounded, incoherent rage, and many other Decepticons would have been helpless to withstand such a berserker onslaught.

  Sentinel was not one of them.

  He simply waited until Mudflap provided an opportunity, and then he shoved his blaster cannon into Mudflap’s mouth and fired.

  Mudflap still kept striking blows at Sentinel, refusing to acknowledge that he was already as good as dead. Then he started trembling violently, and Sentinel shoved him off. Mudflap rolled onto his back and then dissolved, the acid rust eating him from the inside out.

  Sentinel got to his feet and looked around.

  The others were gone.

  He surveyed the area carefully to make sure none of them—particularly Mirage—were in hiding. Then, slowly, he nodded.

  “There might be some who would condemn your departure as rank cowardice,” he called out, his voice carrying. Obviously, he didn’t care if they were close enough to hear him; his words were for the benefit of the humans who were still standing, transfixed at the sight. “But they would be wrong. This one”—he gestured toward the minimal remains of Mudflap—“must have known on some level that his actions were suicidal. The only way in which his sacrifice could have had any meaning is if you attended to his final words. In your survival, you honor him. And you also acknowledge that to which all who are within earshot should attend. When it comes to the question of stopping me, success is not an option. Now,” he continued, gesturing toward the great vault at the far end, “open it. Open it in such a way that the contents are not damaged.”

  He was looking straight at Sam.

  Sam couldn’t even get a word out. In fact, he could barely breathe as his throat closed up. He simply couldn’t fathom the level of betrayal that was being played out here. This would kill Optimus, simply crush him.

  It was Lennox who spoke up. “We can’t.”

  “You will not?” There was sadness in Sentinel’s reply, but it was tinged with danger.

  “No. We cannot. The clearance to do so … the codes to open the vault without detonating the fail-safes … it’s above our pay grade.”

  “Well, then,” said Sentinel, “it appears we have a problem.”

  MARYLAND

  It is an impressive vehicle, this airplane they call Air Force One. A pity it is inanimate. It would make a formidable Autobot.

  Their president has desired to meet with me for some time, but my coming to his domicile, his White House, offers some obvious logistical difficulties. So arranging a rendezvous at somewhere such as Andrews Air Force Base is the far more reasonable course.

  I will be intrigued to speak with him. If any human can comprehend the responsibilities that come with being a Prime, then it would be he.

  The main door to the airplane has opened, a stairway with the presidential seal rolled up to it. We have our iconography, and they have theirs. In this, at least, we are alike.

  Several men in black suits emerge. They have earpieces and are regarding me with what appears to be considerable trepidation. These men are bodyguards, and it is unlikely that they are happy to see me. This meeting has been long arranged and approved at the highest level, yet still they regard me as a potential threat. And they know that if I were indeed to present a threat—were I to attack them—they would be helpless to stop me. My presence hampers their ability to do their job.

  Even after all this time, they still do not understand. It is the solemn duty of the Autobots to protect humanity. They have nothing to fear from us. Nothing at all.

  The president emerges from Air Force One. He looks up at me and salutes me. It is meaningless since I am not in the armed forces. No … it is not meaningless. It is a sign of respect, and much appreciated. I return it.

  He begins to thank me for my service. He makes a small joke of how he would present me with a medal, but there are none large enough to fit around my neck. And besides, he says, I am made of metal and thus have no need for more. It is a small jest, a play on the two words that sound alike. It seems to amuse him, and I nod in—

  What …

  … is that?

  A message … an electronic message … being transmitted to me by Ratchet …

  It makes no sense.

  Sentinel? Has destroyed … …

  Ironhide?

  That is impossible. Impossible.

  I call out to Ironhide, expecting his immediate response. This must be some bizarre prank of the younger …

  Nothing.

  And not just nothing. Nothingness. Emptiness. It is not that Ironhide is not replying. He is simply not there.

  He is gone.

  I listen closely to what Ratchet is saying. He is frantic, stunned, shocked. He is telling me that Sentinel has just slain Ironhide … that Bumblebee was next, but Skids intervened, laid down his life …

  I send an immediate message to Ratchet, to Bumblebee, Mirage, and Mudflap, telling them to withdraw. They cannot stand against Sentinel. None can. They must survive until we can determine what has happened.

  Ratchet, Bumblebee, and Mirage acknowledge my order.

  Mudflap does not. He is receiving it, but his mind is a screaming frenzy, too preoccupied to attend to me.

  There is only one conclusion to draw: He is attacking Sentinel. Which means he is dead and simply does not know it yet.

  The president sees that something is wrong. He questions me.

  “You must leave immediately,” I say to him. “You must refuel your vessel as quickly as possible and depart.”

  His guardians are instantly alert to the threat of imminent danger they discern from my words. The president looks confused. “I … I don’t understand …?
??

  “Something terrible is happening. Something that you need to be nowhere near. Take to the air and leave this area. Your country needs its leader.”

  Instead of leaving, he approaches me, rife with concern. “And my family needs me as well. They’re at the White House. If they’re in danger …”

  “You must help them by surviving. I will protect them. Leave now.”

  The guardians believe me. “Mr. President, we have to leave. Now. We’ll get it sorted out in the air,” says one, and they are already hastening him back up the stairs.

  I switch to my alternative form and roll out of Andrews Air Force Base at top speed, and yet my thoughts are racing even faster.

  The explanation is clear to me: Sentinel has been taken over by the Decepticons in some manner. He is not in his right mind. This is entirely my fault; I should never have left him to his own devices. Obviously at some point he encountered Decepticons who brainwashed him and turned him into an unwilling slave. Somewhere, buried deep within his consciousness, the true Sentinel must be recoiling in horror over everything that he has done. The true Sentinel must be screaming for release from the living trap of his own mind.

  The guards at the front exit barely manage to raise the gate before I speed through. Seconds later, Andrews Air Force Base is in my rearview as I speed toward the highway.

  As I go, additional messages are coming through. NEST is contacting me. Alerts are everywhere. Decepticons are converging upon Washington, D.C. I immediately send an electronic message to Ratchet, telling them to proceed to the National Mall, which seems to be where the Decepticons are heading. I will meet them there.

  We must save the humans from Sentinel.

  We must save Sentinel from himself.

  VIRGINIA

  i

  As Charlotte Mearing drove through the NEST complex from the back entrance, she was startled to hear explosions erupting from the area ahead.