by Peter David
“Oh, yeah.” He was unable to keep out the sound of bitterness. “Autobots are off protecting the world, and I’ve organized four-ring binders. This is so much better.”
“It’s not about what’s better or worse! It’s about doing what …”
He wasn’t listening. Instead he was noticing that the same Asian guy who had been watching him earlier was now moving very, very slowly past his office, making such an effort to appear casual that he was instead amazingly conspicuous.
“May I help you?” Sam shouted so abruptly that Carly jumped slightly. Her head whipped around to see where he was looking even as his personal stalker hustled away. Sam turned back to Carly and said in exasperation, “Creepy Asian guy keeps—” Then, seeing Carly’s confused expression, he waved it off to make it clear that it wasn’t worth dwelling on.
Perfectly happy not to dwell, Carly opted to pursue something she considered cheerier than this office or Sam’s clear frustration over not running around saving the planet. “Listen, this Saturday; Dylan’s throwing a client party at his house. It’s a work thing, but he’s invited you, too.”
He moaned. She couldn’t be serious. She couldn’t be asking what he thought she was asking.
“I want you to come. Say witty things, laugh at my jokes.” She tilted her head in that way she had, accentuating that beautifully slender neck of hers. “It means a lot, okay? Please?”
Sam wanted to tell her that there was simply no way in hell he was going to do it. That it was too much to ask, that it wasn’t fair to him. She knew how fragile he was feeling right now.
Fragile? For crying out loud, Witwicky, stop being such a wuss. Your gorgeous girlfriend is asking you to be there for her for a party. Man up, wouldja?
“Uh … okay, I guess.” Then he frowned, something suddenly occurring to him. “How’d you get over here?”
“Oh. He gave me one of his cars. He wants me in something a little more”—she looked for the right word—“professional.”
“Hang on. He’s giving you a car?”
“Loaning,” she emphasized. “For business.”
He was standing, and now he leaned against his desk, trying to seem indifferent and failing. “Exactly what kind of car?”
“A Mercedes. SLS AMG. Cute gull-wing doors …”
Sam could feel the blood draining from his face. “Do you know how much that car costs? Two hundred thousand dollars! Know how long it would take me to afford that? Sitting here? Fifty years!”
He was now pacing back and forth in the small office. Carly’s head was moving side to side, watching him, as if observing a tennis match. “What am I supposed to say to him? ‘No’?” Trying to talk Sam off the metaphorical ceiling, she added, “He said it’s for both of us to use!”
“And where will the both of you be driving in it?”
She laughed at the absurdity of his interpretation. “The both of you and me.” Then, when she saw that her laughter wasn’t helping the situation, she grew serious. “Don’t you get that there’s no him and me outside of a business context?”
Yeah. Funny business. He’s making moves on her, and she’s so naïve that she doesn’t even realize it. And he’s making it sound like he’s just trying to help me? “That’s touching. Mr. Car Museum Guy, just so concerned about my welfare.”
He’d still been pacing, and she reached out and grabbed his arm to halt him. Meeting his gaze levelly, she said, “Look, you’re frustrated, I know. I’ve been there. My British embassy job, soooo glamorous: printing ID badges all day.”
He stared at her and realized that she still wasn’t getting it. It wasn’t about the job. To some degree, it wasn’t even about her. This was about Mikaela. Even though it had been years, he was still carrying the baggage of her dumping him, and he was terrified of the prospect of Carly doing the same thing. Sure, the reasons would be completely different, but the outcome would be exactly the same: He would be abandoned once more, his only company being a couple of demented former Decepticons and a drooling dog.
But he didn’t want to say that because he knew exactly what Carly would say in response. She’d say that it wasn’t fair to her that she was getting grief because of actions taken by somebody else. And what was he supposed to say to that? That she was wrong? That she had it coming? He’d be driving her—no pun intended—straight into Mr. Perfect’s arms.
Meanwhile she was still talking about the entire job thing. “It’s called ‘paying your dues.’ And then good things happen.”
As if to underscore that good things were not exactly on the horizon, Bruce Brazos strode in. The typical radar that Sam’s office mates displayed where Brazos was concerned was obviously functioning, because within seconds of his entering, the interns and the depressed lifer sprinted in behind him, taking their positions behind their desks like soldiers scrambling to get in line for inspection.
“Boys!” Brazos called out. “I need lunch hour filing done, stat! Who wants to score some Bruce Brazos points?”
“Me! Me!” shouted the office lackeys, waving their arms as if they were desperately trying to flag a passing cab.
Brazos smiled as if he were some manner of puppet master making the marionettes dance to his tune. Then his gaze fell upon Carly, and suddenly Sam had a feeling of what the snake’s expression had been like in the Garden of Eden when it has first spotted Eve.
“Witwicky! My man!” Filled with false good cheer, he approached Sam as if his interest was in him when it was so obviously focused elsewhere. He draped an arm around Sam’s shoulders, but he wasn’t looking at Sam at all. “Whoa, hello. Who have we here? Sister? Facebook buddy? Twitter tweeter?”
“My girlfriend. Carly.” Then he mentally kicked himself for volunteering her name. The less Bruce knew about his life, the better Sam liked it.
“Nice to meet you,” Brazos said, slithering toward her and devouring her with his eyes.
“Nice to meet you, too,” said Carly. “Sam was not kidding: You do have a smashing head of hair.” She quickly turned so that her back was to him and she was facing Sam. “See you at home. Keep up the good work. Oh … brought you a present.” She reached into her bag and produced a mug.
A red mug.
With a package of red Twizzlers protruding from it.
Bruce reacted in a manner evocative of Dracula being confronted by Van Helsing waving a crucifix. He recoiled, stopping just short of hissing. If he’d been wearing a black cape, he would have brought it up over the lower half of his face.
Sam smiled inwardly. He’d never been happier than at that moment that he was working on a yellow floor.
Oblivious to Bruce’s reaction, Carly walked out of the office, her hips swaying as if she were striding down a catwalk in Milan. Sam suspected that she was putting some extra oomph into it just to drive home to Brazos how lucky Sam was or, more precisely, how unlucky Brazos was.
As it turned out, Brazos was so clueless that apparently he thought it was some sort of come-on. He leaned in toward Sam and said, in a strictly entre nous manner, “I don’t know how serious you kids are, but you set me up with that fine English toffee: instant promotion.”
Sam Witwicky slammed the mug onto the desk with such force that the Twizzlers flew out of it in all directions. Brazos was startled, jumping back, as Sam spoke in a voice choked with low fury. “Or … harassment suit. If you push me.”
Brazos studied him as if trying to assess just how serious Sam was, and then he gave him that patented Bruce Brazos insincere grin. “Witwicky, you warrior. God, I like you.” He dropped the stack of files on the desk. “Have ’em filed by three.”
Sam couldn’t tell whether Bruce genuinely considered this some sort of reward for having the nerve to stand up to him or a punishment to remind Sam just exactly who was in charge.
With the opportunity to score Bruce points cruelly snatched away from them, the interns returned to their desks, casting envious glares in Sam’s direction. One of them picked up a remote and turned on
the office television. The grainy screen lit up to CNN. It was depicting a rocket ship blasting off, identified as the Atlas X, from Vandenberg Air Force base.
Sam barely glanced at it, not particularly seeing how it had anything to do with him.
He had no way of knowing that among the crowd watching the liftoff at Vandenberg, Charlotte Mearing was leaning toward William Lennox and saying to him, “Well, Colonel Lennox: One giant leap for robotkind.”
If Sam had known that, he’d probably have paid much closer attention.
THE MOON,
SEVERAL DAYS LATER
It is similar to visiting a graveyard.
I move across the surface of the earth’s moon, Ratchet beside me. Several of the small creatures created by NASA called “rovers” accompany us. It would be akin to humans being accompanied by chimpanzees, but I respect the humans’ consideration.
On some level, I am hoping that I will not find what I know I will find. Yet there it is, the wreckage spread out before me, just as the astronaut Aldrin described it. I remember witnessing its departure, certain that I would never see it again and that I was watching the final hopes of the Autobots departing Cybertron with it. How curious are the vagaries of fate to bring us to this point where we are reunited after millennia.
Even with the ship destroyed, a shattered remnant of what it once was, I know exactly where to go in order to find my old commander.
I nod to Ratchet, and he follows me into the Ark. According to Aldrin, he and his companion were frightened and awed by what they saw. All I am filled with is a sense of sadness and loss. All this time, I had held out some vague hope that perhaps, just perhaps, somehow the Ark had survived. Seeing our brethren frozen in death, seeing the definitive end of such fantasies, brings only pain.
We approach the crash vault as if we are entering a sacred tomb. And why not? To us, it truly is sacred.
The astronauts never found the keypad that would allow entrance to the crash vault and, even had they done so, would have been unable to activate it. I go directly to it, and moments later seven glyphs set into a wall are glowing at me. I tap in the code, and the vault swings open.
Within lie the remains of Sentinel Prime.
Ratchet and I bow our heads, a sign of respect.
How far has the greatest of us journeyed … in order finally to come home.
(Were Optimus Prime and Ratchet not so preoccupied with their mission, they might well notice the three Decepticons scuttling across the lunar surface after them. Three animalistic Dreads, hiding behind every outcropping, every ridge. They should certainly be aware that upon their departure from the moon, the Dreads are clinging to the side of the rocket as it takes off, flattening themselves against the hull. But they are not, in fact, aware.)
(It is fortunate indeed that, uncertain of how much Sentinel Prime would weigh, the humans overcompensated for the fuel allowance. Had they not done so, the additional weight of the Decepticons would have caused the Atlax X to burn through its allotment, the ship would have crashed or burned up in the atmosphere, everyone aboard would have died, and events would not have been allowed to play out to their tragic conclusion. But they had, and so they did.)
WASHINGTON, D.C.
i
Sam couldn’t take it anymore.
At that point it wasn’t the job that was getting on his nerves or the prospect of Carly being swallowed up by Car Museum Boy and becoming yet another acquisition of his.
No, in this instance, as he stood in an elevator at Accuretta, it was the Asian guy who had, for no reason that Sam could determine, slowly morphed into a passive-aggressive stalker. It always seemed to Sam as if the guy were just there all the time, lurking in the corners, hiding in the shadows. But every time Sam would look directly at him, he would scuttle away like a cockroach departing the premises when the lights were turned on.
Apparently, however, matters had come to a head, because the Asian guy was now standing in the elevator with Sam, staring at him. There were several other people in the elevator with them, so obviously nothing was going to happen, but still, this had just gotten ridiculous.
The elevator slid to a halt, and everyone but Sam and his stalker stepped off. Sam was about to follow, but suddenly the guy moved directly into his path and then came to a halt. This had the result of blocking Sam from exiting just long enough for the door to slide shut. The elevator continued on its way.
The stalker turned and for the first time confronted Sam directly. “Mailroom boy! Can’t hide from me! Don’t respond to my e-mails? I tried friending you on Facebook ten times!”
Sam had no idea what he was talking about. The only e-mails he ever responded to were from family members. He just assumed that every other e-mail he received was from people in South Africa telling him that they wanted to trust him with a delicate financial matter requiring that he provide them with all his banking information. So he just deleted pretty much everything that came in without bothering to read it.
Facebook? He had a Facebook page? People were trying to friend him? He had friends?
“Uh …” Sam wasn’t remotely sure what to say. “I’m sorry … do you work here?”
“Shhh!” The Asian guy put his fingers to his lips. “No names! Not safe! Not here!” Apparently having no grasp of such notions as personal space, he stepped in close to Sam and whispered, “I know you. I know who you are. Spotted you the day you came in for a job interview.”
Aw, come on. Just how much crap am I supposed to have to deal with? Not enough that I have a lousy job and some rich guy is giving my girl expensive cars. Now I’m on the radar of some office freak?
Mercifully, the elevator opened again, and Sam managed to shove the guy aside and get into the hallway. He walked quickly down it and didn’t even have to look behind to know that the guy was following him, hurrying to keep up.
“No! You’re him! Little guy from the news!”
“Little guy? Dude, I’m five-nine! That’s like average, okay?”
He ignored Sam’s protest. “FBI manhunt. Whole world was looking for you. I got you with aliens. You showed up in the background of six different photos, two continents, with aliens. That was you, in Egypt! Because you know aliens!”
He could just as well have smacked Sam in the face with a two-by-four. That was why he’d referred to him as a “little guy.” Because he’d studied photographs in which Sam was visible alongside the Autobots. Standing next to Optimus Prime, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar would have seemed like a midget.
Sam was so stunned that the guy was able to yank him into the nearest men’s room. Belatedly Sam tried to pull away, but the guy was seized with such manic energy that he couldn’t do a thing as the guy pushed him back into the handicap stall, which provided the two of them some room, and then bolted the door. Then he faced Sam, who was starting to wonder in a not very good way just how much of a fan of aliens this guy was.
Becoming almost manic in his speech, the guy said, “I’m Wang. Deep … Wang.”
Okay, that could be taken a lot of ways, none of them the least bit appealing to me. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
Seeing Sam’s confused expression, Wang continued, “Deep Wang. Deeeep Wang.” He rolled his eyes because of Sam’s apparent obliviousness to history. “Deep Throat? Deep Throat?”
“You’re a porn star?” Sam was totally lost.
“Don’t you know history?” Wang said in mounting frustration. “Went to Ivy League school! Watergate! Deep Throat! I’m talking code to you!”
Actually it was more like gibberish to him, although some of what Wang was talking about was starting to sound vaguely familiar. He’d seen a movie about it with Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.
Wang was still going, pointing around ominously. “They watch … they listen. Everywhere. Can’t go to the government, but you! You can! This shit is going down. It’s Code Pink, you hear me?”
“As in breast cancer awareness?”
“As in Floyd
! The dark side! Why you think no one’s been up there since 1972?”
“Sir, I know you’re speaking English, but it’s not normal English.”
Then, to Sam’s alarm, Wang undid the tops of his pants and dropped them around his ankles. Not good. Not good.
But Wang reached down and ripped off an interoffice envelope that was taped to his leg. He forced it into Sam’s hands. Sam counted himself lucky; there were far worse things Wang could have shoved at him.
“My manifesto!” said Wang. “They’re whacking us out! They want us all silenced! Everyone who knows … what’s on the dark side!”
There was the sound of hinges squeaking. Someone else had entered the men’s room.
Wang heard it, glancing nervously in that general direction. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Your alien friends are in danger. You know: the good ones. It’s up to you.”
With that pronouncement, he burst out of the stall, doing up his trousers. Sam stuck his head out and saw to his horror that Bruce was standing near the entrance to the men’s room, staring at Wang in confusion. Instinctively, Bruce snapped into a Krav Maga defensive posture, but Wang brushed it aside and, grabbing Brazos by the shirtfront, shoved him up against the wall.
“Yo, dawg! Getting up in my shit?” Wang said, his voice going up an octave. “Who you working for? Who you working for?”
When a stunned Bruce wasn’t able to provide any immediate response, Wang shoved him aside and bolted from the men’s room.
It left Sam and Brazos staring at each other in a moment that would have qualified as the textbook definition of the word “awkward.”
The moment extended seemingly to infinity.
Finally …
“Bruce,” Sam said formally, as if they had simply bumped into each other in the hallway.
“Sam,” Bruce replied in a “I really don’t want to know” voice.
Sam then practically sprinted out of the men’s room. He kept going until he finally made it back to his office, a place he never would have thought in a million years he would be glad to see. It was only upon reaching his desk that he realized he was still holding the envelope that this Wang guy had handed him.