by Peter David
Sam turned and saw Brains was busy munching on a small camera. Bruce was pointing in indignation, his finger trembling. “I … I was just trying to … and it grabbed …”
“What part of ‘no pictures’ did you not get when I told you they were here?” Sam said.
“It was just for me!”
Brains spit the remains of the camera out, and Brazos looked down at the pieces in dismay.
“That’s just for you, too,” Sam said, trying not to sound as pleased as he felt.
There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside, and then Carly walked in, her bag slung over her shoulder. In her free hand she was carrying a blue sequined cocktail dress covered in plastic that she had just picked up from the dry cleaner; once again her “early bird catches the worm” mind-set had her well into her internal to-do list, even this early on a Saturday morning. She stopped in her tracks and looked around, confused and annoyed. “What’s going on?”
“Who are you?” said Simmons, and he turned to Sam. “Who is that? Get her out of here.”
“You get out of here!” Carly said, slamming her bag down on the counter. “I live here! Sam …?” She looked to him for an explanation.
“Carly, it’s okay.” He uncoiled from the floor and walked toward her, shaking his right leg a bit because it had started to fall asleep. “I’m at work. We’re on to something here.”
The temperature in the room seemed to dip precipitously when she spoke. “Oh. Of course. You’re at work.”
She stalked past him and headed into the bedroom. Sam watched her go, and Simmons said, “Trust me, kid: Nothing good is gonna come from talking to her right now.”
He had the distinct feeling that Simmons was correct, but he couldn’t leave matters like this. Besides, it was not as if she’d walked in on him doing something wrong. He was on the side of the angels here, working to protect humankind. She should be thanking him. She should be understanding.
So why the hell did he feel so guilty?
He walked into the bedroom, closing the door behind him. She had laid the dress down on the bed, and before he could say anything, she turned and snapped, “It’s Saturday, remember?”
“Of course I remember! Which means it’s my day off. So don’t I have a right to do what I feel like?” He put his hands on his hips as if daring her to disagree.
She rolled her eyes impatiently. “Today is the party, remember? I told you about it. I even”—she pointed to a piece of paper taped to the bedroom mirror—“wrote down the time and place and put it up here so you’d remember it! We’re supposed to be going to Dylan’s party. For my job. My real job.”
He realized she was right. It had totally slipped his mind.
“Oh. Saturday. Right, of course I remember.” When he saw her skeptical glare, he decided he needed to take the offensive. “C’mon! After what just happened to me yesterday?”
“You know what I liked about your war stories, Sam? They were stories. As in, ‘in the past.’ All your life-and-death stuff was over.”
“These are my friends! They need my help!”
“Who, those guys?” she said, pointing in the direction of the living room. “The boss you can’t stand? That obnoxious guy with the big nose? The little pervert robots?”
From the living room, Bruce called, “Y’ know we can hear you through the door, right?”
“And I’ll have you know my nose is aquiline!” came Simmons’s indignant voice.
“I meant the Autobots,” Sam told her.
“We love ya too, man!”
“Shut up, Wheelie!”
Carly ignored them. “The Autobots need your help? Because of the Decepticons?”
“Of course, because of the Decepticons!”
“What, the Autobots, the CIA, and the military can’t handle this on their own? Do you boys have code names? Secret handshakes?”
He knew he should be lowering his voice since they were obviously audible to the group in the living room, but her sarcasm angered him and prompted him to get louder instead. “Look, did I ask to be attacked by a Decepticon? I’m back in the middle here! You think this is what I wanted?”
She hesitated, and then her features hardened. “Yes. Yes, I do. I think this has nothing to do with Decepticons or even the Autobots and everything to do with you. I think you not only wanted this, I think you needed it.”
“That’s ridiculous! Why would I need it?”
“Because …” And for just a moment her lower lip trembled. “Because I wasn’t enough.”
“Oh, what? Now you’re talking in the past tense? That’s what we are? Past tense?”
She bit the lip to stop it from trembling and then grabbed the dress. “I don’t know.” The giant plush rabbit was lying on top of the neatly made bed. She took that as well and headed for the door.
And Sam hurled at her the only thing he could think of: “You said you’d never leave me.”
She stopped at the door, her hand resting on the knob. Very quietly, so much so that he almost couldn’t hear her, she replied, “You’ve chosen your path, Sam. And it’s not with me. The truth is … you left me first.” Then she threw open the door. Brains, who had his head pressed against it, fell in and she stepped over him.
Sam followed her out to the car—that superb car dear old Dylan had lent her, parked in the driveway—trying to put some distance between them and the guys in the living room. He tried to get her to stop, tried to think of what to say to avert this.
She was in the driver’s side, and Sam leaned in through the passenger side. The rabbit was wedged into the seat next to Carly. In a single move, she grabbed the rabbit and tore the foot off it. Then she thrust it through the window and handed it to Sam.
“Good luck,” she said as sincerely as she could. Then she pulled the car back out of the driveway and, moments later, was heading off down the street.
He heard a footfall behind him. Simmons draped an arm around him like an old grizzled veteran of many battles. “Better off this way, kid. The warrior’s path is a solitary one; take it from me.” Then, sounding intrigued by the idea, he added, “We’ll figure out code names and secret handshakes later.”
“Sounds great,” Sam said hollowly.
“Sure does.” He patted Sam on the back. “Now let’s go solve this Decepticon space thing.”
NEW JERSEY
i
A caravan of Autobots took Exit 3 off the Jersey Turnpike, merged onto Route 168, and headed for Route 42, which would take them to the Atlantic City Expressway. This was fortunate since they were, in fact, heading toward Atlantic City.
It had been no effort for Bumblebee to summon backup. Simmons, riding in the backseat of his silver Maybach, turned around to make sure that the rest of their caravan was still behind them. Sure enough, the sports car and the Corvette that were the disguised Mirage and Sideswipe were following Bumblebee in his Camaro form. Simmons couldn’t help noticing that the distance between them was precise, each exactly one car length behind the one in front of it. Perfect.
“Nothing like going to a gig with Autobot backup,” he said cheerily, “right, Dutch?”
“Yes, sir,” Dutch said from up front in the driver’s seat.
Simmons turned to Sam, who was seated next to him. “Right, Sammy?”
Sam said nothing. He’d been barely verbal since D.C. and hadn’t said a word since Delaware. “Kid?” Simmons prompted him. When he still didn’t reply: “Kid, you gotta stop thinking about her and get your head in the game. On the off chance she comes crawling back, it won’t do you any good if you’re dead.”
“Whatever,” Sam said.
“Oh, good, he speaks.” Simmons hadn’t brought Sam up to speed yet because the kid seemed so disengaged that he felt it would be best to give him some distance. But now that they were drawing close to their destination, it was time to get down to business. “So … okay: Brains came up with three USSR cosmonauts back in ’72. Claimed some conspiracy shut down their
scheduled manned program to the dark side of the moon. They spoke out, then went into hiding. Defected under Brezhnev. But my Dutchman”—he pointed at his manservant, who tossed a wave from the front seat—“former NSA cybersleuth extraordinaire, tracked ’em down to Atlantic City. Remember, the thing about Russians is they never like to talk.”
“Isn’t that going to be a problem?”
“Nah.” Simmonssmiled. “I have a way with people.”
ii
At the end of the boardwalk, with all the cars parked and three out of the four of them waiting for something to happen, Sam looked on in astonishment as Simmons and Dutch unloaded their gear from the trunk of Seymour’s car. He’d always known that Simmons was a bit overzealous and maybe even kind of crazy, but this was just beyond the pale. He’d traded Carly for this guy?
Sam started picking through the equipment: wireless communications, scopes, night-vision goggles. Night vision? It was broad daylight.
“Is, uh … is all of this stuff necessary?”
“Yes, very necessary,” Simmons said firmly. “It’s gonna take a little of the ‘international language.’ ”
Sam heard a few authoritative clacks of rounds being chambered. Guns made noises like nothing else, and sure enough, Dutch was busy locking and loading several guns. His expertise was evident; he was whip-fast and professional in his movements. It was quickly becoming clear to Sam that when Simmons had mentioned the international language, he wasn’t referring to love.
Then Dutch turned and held out a gun to Sam, butt first. Sam held up his hands defensively as if Dutch were threatening him with it. “Whoa! Hey. Hang on.”
Dutch looked to Simmons for instructions as to what he should do. Simmons stepped forward, took the gun from Dutch’s hand, and shoved it into Sam’s. It felt cold and heavy. “You hang on to your cojones,” he said, unsympathetic to Sam’s discomfort. “Lemme show you how the dirty, filthy espionage game is played.”
Then, without bothering to see if Sam was following, Simmons headed toward a nearby social club. Dutch followed close behind. Sam hesitated and then ran after them, shoving the gun in his jacket pocket so that it thumped against his body and felt awkward. But it was better than shoving it into the top of his pants, which he was quite sure would result in vital body parts being shot off.
They approached the back door of what appeared to be a social club. The word “Transformations,” which was presumably the name of the place, was embossed on a piece of rusting metal over the door. Sam considered that bleakly appropriate. Simmons strode up to it as if he had every right to be there and knocked briskly on the door. An eye slot slid open, like something out of a Depression-era speakeasy, and a pair of bored but dangerous-looking eyes appeared. Simmons promptly shoved his gun into the slot, making it impossible to close and obviously providing a hazard to anyone within.
“Dasvidania, gentlemen,” Simmons said confidently.
From the other side they were able to hear a rough voice say contemptuously, “Dasvidania means ‘goodbye.’ ”
“Oh.” Managing to sound no less sure of himself, Simmons said, “Okay, well … what’s ‘hello?’ ”
“Zdrastvueetee.”
“You’re kidding. Is he kidding?” he said to Dutch. Sam saw that Dutch was hurriedly fumbling through a book called Russian for Dummies. “Is he trying to get me to say something dirty?”
There was a guttural “Oh, for God’s sake” from within, and the door was thrown open so abruptly that Simmons had to yank his gun away to prevent it from flying out of his hand. Sam was almost surprised that it didn’t result in Simmons blowing his own face off.
They entered the dim interior. The man holding the door open was in his mid-fifties and looked more annoyed than formidable. Within was an open dingy room populated by three old men playing backgammon at one table and several old Russian women wearing fur coats in the corner. The women cast curious, even appraising, glances in the direction of the three Americans. One cocked an eyebrow invitingly at Sam. It creeped him out; it was like being scoped out by someone’s grandmother. The men, engaged in their game, ignored the newcomers completely. The only other furnishing in the place was a dusty portrait of what Sam assumed to be some Russian leader hanging on the wall.
But Simmons was acting like they’d entered a spy stronghold that might be frequented by James Bond, with the same level of potential jeopardy. “Cover the standard-issue henchman, Agent Witwicky,” he ordered, pointing at the doorman. The doorman stared at Sam for a moment, then rolled his eyes and shook his head as he closed the door again. Sam didn’t even bother to pull the gun out of his pocket. It was like Simmons was operating in his own world. Why did I even bother? Sam wondered. I needed Daniel Craig and I get Weird Al Yankovic.
“Dutch,” Simmons said, pointing with authority, “gimme something tough I can say to them. Y’ know, show ’em who’s in charge.”
Dutch started thumbing through the phrase book.
The men playing backgammon had finally deigned to notice the three Americans. A bartender, heavyset and low-browed, was watching from behind the bar. One of the three backgammon players finally said, “My friend, we speak English.”
“Da? Do you?” Simmons said challengingly. “Or do you want us to think you do?” Snapping his fingers impatiently at his manservant, he said, “Line, Dutch. Line.”
Dutch started tossing out random names while he continued to consult the book. “Uh, Kalashnikov! Baryshnikov! Mein Gott,” and his frustration became evident as he paged helplessly through the guide. “This is not a language!”
Simmons stared at him in disgust. “Dutch, you suck.” Dutch, not taking the hint, kept trying to find something useful to say, at which point Simmons, fed up, knocked the book from his hand. Meanwhile, Sam was wondering why it had become his lot in life to stand around feeling embarrassed on behalf of various people—himself, Americans, the whole human race—because of the actions of others.
Turning back to the small group of Russians, who apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to be intimidated by him, Simmons announced, “Agent Seymour Simmons, Sector … Eight.”
Sam was starting to think he should have just waited in the car.
“We know who you are, cosmonautchiks,” Simmons continued. “You were supposed to travel to the dark side of the moon. Then it all got shut down. The question is: Why?”
As he spoke, Simmons strolled over to another table, where a half-empty bottle of vodka was sitting open. He took a seat and then, to establish his hardiness, picked up the bottle and threw back a shot. The moment it hit his throat, he started to gag, and then he began choking violently. He coughed several times, and some vodka blew out of his nostrils.
At that point, Sam was finally ready to pull out his gun. Not to show the others how threatening he was but instead to put it to his own forehead and pull the trigger. He would have shot Simmons, but that would have been a mercy killing, and Sam wasn’t feeling all that merciful just then.
One of the Russian women appeared to agree with Sam’s unspoken sentiments. “This man is an imbecile,” she said dismissively. With a leisurely wave, she gestured toward the bartender. “Take him.”
Suddenly the bartender had a shotgun in his hand, produced from under the counter.
Sam couldn’t believe it … and yet, somehow, he also could. These days it seemed like every time he blinked, someone was pointing a gun at him. “Great, this is nice! Save the world twice, get a medal, and die in some gangland shootout. Probably won’t even find my body! If I played guitar, I’d end up being the subject of one of those tragic hourlong documentaries on MTV!”
“That’s on VH1, idiot,” said the cranky Russian woman.
That was when Dutch moved.
He might well have been useless with a Russian phrase book, but there was no denying what he was capable of in hand-to-hand. He was across the room before the bartender had time to react, and he grabbed the barrel of the gun, shoving it upwa
rd so that it was aimed at the ceiling. One quick twist and it was out of the bartender’s hands and in Dutch’s. Dutch then swung the shotgun, slapping the bartender hard across the side of the face, knocking him to the floor behind the bar. All business, Dutch chambered a round and aimed it meaningfully at the bartender.
“Move and I blow your damned head off,” Dutch warned him, and he looked so agitated that he might well have fired even if the bartender remained completely immobile.
“Dutch, easy!” said Simmons. “Back in the cage! Safe zone!”
“You said cosmonauts! Not some mafia!” Sam said in agitation.
Simmons scowled. “Russians. One and the same.”
The old man, the one who had initially told them that they spoke English, got to his feet. He looked proud, unafraid, in control. In short, the polar opposite of Sam. “We have seen men like you before. Come to try to buy our silence. We did not fear you then, we do not fear you now. So you tell son-of-bitch aliens you work for—”
“Aliens?” Sam was totally bewildered. “We don’t work for … aliens …”
The old man was pointing defiantly to the floor near Sam’s feet. He looked down and let out a startled yelp. Brains was standing there, watching the proceedings with interest.
Son of a … how the hell did he …? Oh, forget it. “Okay, but we don’t work for them. It’s more like with them. And not the bad ones. We’re with the good ones!”
That seemed to perk Brains up. “Yeah, the good ones! Autobots! Our side!” At which point he rattled off a lengthy string of flawless Russian that seemed to catch the old people off guard.
Then he stopped talking, and Sam said worriedly, “Uh … what did he—?”
The old Russian replied, “He say, ‘Go ahead. Ask me anything about the universe. How it started, how it will end. Where the … ’ ” He stopped and looked to the woman for help.
“Lame,” she said.
“Yes, yes. ‘Where the lame planets are, where the fun planets are. Trust me, I am …’ What is phrase? ‘Good for it.’ He say, ‘Trust me, I’m good for it.’ And he say that all you want to know is what is on dark side of moon.”