“Both,” the frazzled prisoner replied. “Battle-battle, race-race. They know ancient language. Only they can translate. I know where Seekers are!”
Simmons pulled a wall map out of some fixture in the ceiling. “Show us.”
Wheels, barely able to contain his excitement, projected a laser at ten locations across the United States. “There! The Seekers!”
As a man whose obduracy had once again been justified, if only by a trio of teenagers, Simmons was clearly pleased. “Closest one’s in Washington, D.C. You got exact coordinates?”
Simmons placed a GPS device in front of Wheels, who quickly jacked into it. The GPS beeped, and Simmons grabbed it back. With a satisfied smile, he
looked at the others and said, “I got news for you, gang. We’re gonna need tickets ...”
The drive to D.C. produced only one bad moment: when a convoy of three police cruisers came up behind them with lights flashing and sirens off. When Leo tried to look out Bumblebee’s rear window, Simmons quickly grabbed him and shoved him back down in his seat. Though the younger man tried to resist, the ex-agent’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Take a tip from someone whose business this was, kid. Never show your face when you don’t have to. It’s good to see who’s after you, yeah—but it’s better if they never see you. ”
Up in front, Mikaela and Sam had already hunkered down as far as they could in an attempt to hinder identification. They need not have worried. The police convoy wasn’t trailing them. All three cars sped on past in the fast lane, their mission and destination unknown.
They swung past the city and headed for the Dulles Airport zone without further incident, Sam having
to occasionally remind the impatient Bumblebee to
remain not just at but below the speed limit and Bumblebee having to remind the Twins not to go wandering off sightseeing. Getting to their destination slowly was better than not getting there at all. When eventually they pulled into a museum parking lot, Sam heaved a sigh of relief.
Simmons proceeded to scan the building through a
pair of small binoculars. “Looks clear. Usual security measures in place but I don’t see anything exceptional. Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center—part of the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum. Land of dreams in there. All I ever wanted was to be an astronaut. Even took the test. Failed.” The regret in his voice was palpable.
Mikaela was unrelenting. “Yeah, I don’t really see you being one of the best and the brightest.”
Lowering the binoculars, he growled softly. “Hey— I had a cold that week, sue me.”
Seated beside the ex-agent, Leo studied the huge, rambling structure. “Okay, I’ll kick it out here, man— I’m not dealing with no Deathbots.”
Sam was resigned. “What’s your website again? ‘I’m One-Hundred-Percent-Useless-dot-com’ ? ” Bumblebee parked alongside an empty motor home while the Twins closed in behind. The tight grouping provided cover while Simmons passed out the gear he had brought with him. Like a demented Santa, the ex-agent handed out tasers, maps, and copies of file photos.
When he had finished and everyone had stowed their equipment, Simmons eyed them appraisingly. “Okay. Watches synchronized, sharp mind, and empty bladder. You get caught, demand an attorney and don’t ever say my name.” He held up what looked like an aspirin. “And keep this little white pill under your tongue. It’s the high-concentrate patented sucrose polymer they put in Oreo cookies. Tricks the polygraph every time.”
One hand resting on the pocket concealing his taser, Leo let out a groan. “Whaddya think I am— some alien bounty hunter? I look like Boba Fett to you? I’m management, not labor. I can’t risk my life. The future needs me.”
Grabbing him by the collar, Simmons pulled Sam’s roommate close. Leo’s eyes widened as those of the ex-agent peered into his own. Suddenly, Simmons seemed far less like an overage geek living with his mother and working in the family delicatessen than the former chief agent of a secret government organization.
“Kid? What do you think we’re doing here? Getting ready to trade snide blog comments? This is real. This is serious. If you compromise this operation for the rest of us, you are dead to me. And I will make you dead to everyone else.” He loosened his grip on the younger man’s shirt. “Now—tighten your sphincter. You were born for this mission.”
Swallowing as he adjusted his collar, Leo stammered, “I was?”
“All right, maybe not born for it, but you’re part of it now. This isn’t a video game. There are lives at stake. Lots of lives. Maybe a planet.”
Spitz nodded. Slowly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm. He might not be confident, but he was ready.
Hours passed. Visitors from near and far wandered toward the exits of the enormous building, crowding the gift shop until the last possible moment before drifting out to their cars or public transportation or
waiting tour buses. The vast hall of the Boeing Aviation hangar echoed to the repeated clarion call of a recorded message.
“The museum is now closed. The museum is now closed. ”
The entry hallway was silent. Having taken over from the day shift, the recently arrived night security guards began to settle in for the evening. They had checked out their respective stations and were just beginning to peruse the first of a hamper full of stockpiled magazines when they were confronted by the bizarre sight of an apparently semi-stoned teenager staggering out the restroom exit, bare-assed and with his pants trolling his ankles.
“Yo, you guys got any toilet paper out there?” Rising from his chair, the first guard’s challenge was rich with the ripeness of outraged authority. “Sir, what are you doing?”
“Two words,” Leo replied amiably. “Thumper dumper. It’s a slow process.” He gestured phlegmatically in the direction of the hall entrance. “Guess I kinda missed the closing bell, huh?”
“Please pull up your pants, sir,” demanded the second guard, “and exit the building, now As he spoke, his colleague was already striding rapidly across the floor to force Leo back into the bathroom.
Leo stood his ground. “My butt-cheeks are having a problem with your totalitarian regime, buddy!” “Look,” declared the first guard impatiently as he reached the overstayer, “janitorial doesn’t come on
duty until eleven, and I personally don’t want to have to clean up ..
Leo waddled back into the bathroom with the guard, reached into his pants, pulled out the taser, and jammed it against the guard’s side. Shocked in every sense of the word, the burly watchman collapsed against the teen. The guard was quivering and twitching—but still mobile. And now reaching with shaking fingers for his own weapon. Starting to panic, Leo zapped him a second time, promptly tripped over the pants still down around his ankles, and fell over on top of the activated taser. Entirely egalitarian when it came to targets, the still-charged device proceeded to shock him.
As teen and guard convulsed side by side, neither at present preoccupied with the other, the alarmed second sentry came running toward them. In doing so he passed a tableaux consisting of several famous test pilots arrayed in noble, welcoming poses. As soon as the watchman had passed, one of the figures stepped out from behind him and jammed a fresh taser into his back.
“Textbook,” Simmons declared calmly as the guard fell forward onto his face. Pulling a roll of duct tape from a pocket, the ex-agent proceeded to tape the man’s hands and ankles, slapping a thick wad of tape over his mouth while leaving his nose uncovered so he could breathe.
“Sorry,” he said to the guard, “national security.”
Concluding the task with efficiency born of long practice, Simmons then walked over to where the other occupants of the outer hall still lay on the floor.
Having taken two shocks, the first guard had passed out. Simmons taped him up, then turned his attention to Leo.
Gazing up at the ex-agent out of wide eyes, the teen was still twitching helplessly. “
How many times can you ... get tasered in the . . . jewels ’fore you can’t have kids, huh? Anybody know?”
A disgusted Simmons grabbed him and began dragging him toward the information desk. “You’re pullin’ your own pants up.”
Outside, a brightly painted Camaro abruptly hurled itself onto the entry terrace. It was followed by a pair of garish cars doing doughnuts. When angry shouts and warning cries from the parking lot guards failed to send the three vehicles packing, the irate sentinels piled into their own official vehicles and took off in pursuit.
Back in the Aviation Wing, Sam and Mikaela emerged from the MIG engine exhibit in which they had been hiding. A quick look around showed that their immediate vicinity, at least, was now completely deserted. Withdrawing a small container from a pocket, Mikaela returned it to its owner. Sam did not have to ask what was inside; he remembered all too well. The cylindrical canister held the splinter of the Allspark. Maybe, he thought as he turned and started walking toward the main exhibits, the only surviving splinter of the Allspark.
“C’mon,” he muttered as he and Mikaela strode silently among the well-preserved relics of humankind’s first steps into the sky and the great void of space beyond, “show me something.” Reaching into his own pocket, he withdrew a pair of tweezers. Carefully extracted from its container, the splinter did not look like much. Its passive appearance notwithstanding, Sam knew it might well be the single most important object on the planet.
They continued on, past the Enola Gay, past numerous other aircraft suspended from the high ceiling, with Sam holding the tweezered splinter out in front of him like a minuscule divining rod. Having rejoined his young companions Simmons trailed behind, his attention fixed on the small radiation tracker he was holding.
Back at the info desk, Leo grabbed the microphone, his voice booming through the open space, “Museum’s closed, bitches!”
Sam came to an abrupt stop. Held firmly in the grip of the steel tweezers, the splinter had begun to glow faintly. It jerked once, twice, then started to vibrate steadily, forcing him to hold the tweezers tightly with both hands. His effort ultimately proved useless.
Before Simmons or anyone else could intervene, the splinter flew out of the tweezer’s grasp and shot upward. As the ex-agent let out a cry of frustration, the fragment smacked into one of the metal struts that comprised the landing gear of a suspended SR-71 Blackbird. While the humans clustered below looked on in rising astonishment, the landing gear began to glow. Leo tried to turn and run, but his legs were still in no condition to obey him.
The light intensified and, with a single burst, rushed through the entire body of the sleek, twin-engined spy plane. Gazing up at it even as he was taking a couple of precautionary steps backward, Simmons was muttering knowingly to himself.
“SR-71 Blackbird spy plane. Still the fastest in the world. Figures.”
Starting to retreat, Sam and Mikaela saw the symbol that had begun to pulsate on the underbelly of the streamlined aircraft. By now it was as familiar to both of them as it was unwelcome.
It was the Decepticon symbol.
“Oh, shit,” Sam mumbled as he sought cover for himself and Mikaela.
Above them the still-striking aircraft began to shift shape, to change in outline and in body. Having witnessed the process numerous times before, Sam and Mikaela exchanged a glance. What was taking place in front of their eyes in the great hall of the museum was unfolding according to those same previously observed transformations—but more slowly, and with the added component of a great deal of inorganic grinding and metallic wheezing.
When after what seemed like an interminable period of time the fully altered life-form finally completed its conversion, it straightened slowly—and promptly banged its head on the Apollo 12 capsule that was also hanging from the ceiling. Regardless of whether the impact was what caused it to drop heavily to the floor and roll, there was no mistaking the symbol it flashed as it turned.
“Decepticon!” Backing up fast now, Simmons pointed to the display that dominated one far wall. “Everybody behind the MIG, now!”
No one needed to be told twice. As they raced for cover, the newly formed Decepticon let out a terrifying howl—half dominating robotic life-form voice and half twin jet engines.
The howl proceeded to drop to a scream and then to a whine before finally petering out in the unmistakable mechanical equivalent of a deep-seated cough.
“Aww, fragbottom—too low on juice—why bother ...”
Their caution mixed with new uncertainty, the four humans peered out from behind the cover of the MIG display. As they stared at the ancient Decepticon, a set of lenses materialized from his head to flip down over is eyes. Scrutinizing them from a distance, Sam decided that more than anything else they resembled a pair of oversize if high-tech spectacles.
Turning slowly and squinting through the newly formed transparencies, the Decepticon struggled to make sense of his surroundings.
“Who’s there? Show yourself! I’ll annihilate each and every one of you!” The massive, angular head seemed to squeak slightly as it rotated, the eyes studying their immediate surroundings until they located the humans who were cowering off to one side.
“Fleshlings? Speak and identify yourselves, or suffer my wrath!” One huge arm came up and they could clearly see the missiles slotted in the rotating barrel.
Singled out and with nowhere to run, Sam felt it incumbent on himself to take the lead—wherever it led. Stepping out from behind the inadequate cover of the MIG exhibit, he took a couple of hesitant steps toward the towering alien. Familiarity with Decepticon and Autobot weapons caused him to keep his eyes fixed on the missile-laden barrel arm. If it started to rotate, or to whine, the best he could do was sprint to one side and hope the resultant fire was concentrated on him. At least it might give Mikaela and the others a chance to escape.
“Yessir,” he began politely as he continued his watchful advance. “Sorry about the abrupt wake-up. Accident. You can go back to sleep-shape now. We won’t bother you any mo ...”
The activated armament arm with its load of missiles inclined downward in his direction and he halted. As the arm declined, the missiles within unexpectedly slid out. One by one, they fell to the floor. Wincing each time one hit, Sam turned away, but not one of the unsecured explosives went off. After the last had been dumped and as his tentative companions rejoined him, he tried to come up with an appropriate explanation for what had just happened. Two words he had never anticipated using in the same sentence came quickly to mind—“ordnance” and “incontinence.” He did not voice them aloud. The defective Decepticon could still step on him.
“Ah, crap,” the giant bipedal shape muttered to itself as he bent to recover the unwillingly discarded missiles. Before metal fingers could close around the first one, his owner let out a metallic groan and his arm began to tremble. Unbending with an obvious effort, he turned to go.
“Name is . . .” The Decepticon paused for a moment, seeking an appropriate descriptive based on the brief bit of conversation he had absorbed from Sam and those who had been whispering behind him. “Name’s Jetfire. I’m on a mission; no time for chitchat. ”
Lumbering forward and appearing to drag one leg slightly, the giant headed for the main hangar door. Confronted by the barrier, he paused to examine the massive portal for a moment. Then one hand reached out, again shakily, and a finger touched a point where the door made contact with the wall. A couple of sparks flared and the door, its alarm system bypassed, began to trundle aside. As soon as the gap was wide enough, the Decepticon stepped through and out into the high-walled storage yard beyond.
Frowning, Simmons gestured to his youthful cohorts and followed. “Uh, something’s a little off here. This one seems kinda dingy.”
Sam moved up alongside the ex-agent. “He sure doesn’t act very Decepticon-like. I don’t think he’s gonna hurt us.”
Leo was look
ing back at the missile-laden floor. “I’m not sure he can hurt us. Reminds me of my Aunt Ethel. She was always trying to swing her cane at us kids but she could never get it more than halfway off the ground.”
“Why didn’t she hit you in the knee, then?” Mikaela asked tartly.
Leo shrugged. “She probably would’ve fallen over.” He increased his pace to catch up to Simmons and Sam. The faint migratory moan of police sirens could now be heard in the distance.
As they passed the exhibit that featured the Apollo 12 capsule, Simmons came to an unexpected halt. Sam eyed him questioningly.
“Just—just—just lemme do this,” the ex-agent murmured. There was a catch in his voice Sam had never heard there before.
Carefully stepping over the low barrier and supplementary explanatory displays, Simmons climbed into the open capsule and settled himself snugly into the
first seat. The smile that subsequently spread across his face seemed as unlikely as the restored Decepticon that was currently tottering into the museum’s main outdoor storage area.
“Houston?” he murmured softly. “Captain Seymour Simmons, ready for my ticker-tape parade. Over and out.”
He lingered in the capsule a moment longer. Then, beset by the fears, concerns, and paranoia that had come to dominate his life for the past several years, he climbed back out and ran to catch up to the trio of teens.
Moving even more slowly now than he had within the display hangar, the giant appeared bewildered by his new surroundings. Bits and pieces of hundreds of old aircraft and related machinery filled the storage yard to near capacity. None of it looked familiar to the old alien: not the technology, not the materials, not even the high fences that enclosed it all.
Trying to get in front of the suddenly indecisive entity, Sam was waving his arms and shouting for attention. “Hey, Mr. Jetfire! Stop. We just wanna talk to you, please!”
Transformers-Revenge of the Fallen Page 17