Transformers Dark of the Moon (9 page)

Drillers were of Cybertonian origin, semisentient at best. They were essentially beasts of burden that obeyed simple commands and developed fierce loyalty to whoever their particular masters were. Typically they were used for mining operations, but not this one. This one had been bred for use in military operations and was much larger than any typical Driller, bigger than any Driller that Prime had ever seen.

Quickly Prime extended his arm swords and sliced deep into the Driller’s tendrils.

The Driller was holding what Prime recognized as a fuel rod, but it slid from its tentacles and clattered to the ground. Surprised by the attack, it slipped back a bit into the hole it had come from. Despite its military breeding, its instinct was to recoil in the face of danger or, at the very least, in the face of a being as powerful as Optimus Prime. Even though it was many times larger than Prime, its impulse was to submit to him and the authority—and weaponry—he wielded. The only way it would battle him would be if some guiding mind told it to.

And then a cockpit in the Driller slid open, and a form became visible within it. It seemed to look about, surveying the area. It was massive and gray, with a cannon on the end of its right arm and a single gleaming red eye set into its head, which had curved horns at its temples.

“Shockwave!”
said an astounded Optimus Prime.

Shockwave, utterly focused on his mission, was every bit the calculating scientist Prime remembered from ages
gone by. Typically, Shockwave had no time for useless emotions such as fear and surprise. His mission, whatever it might be, was of paramount importance, and anything that stood in his way was considered an obstacle. He wasn’t going to be lured into destroying Optimus Prime out of enmity or spite or a burning need for vengeance. Instead he would fight if he had to, destroy Prime as necessary, or simply avoid him if it served the mission. It was absolutely nothing personal.

He leveled his blaster arm, and Prime knew that the plasma energy he was capable of unleashing would be powerful enough to incinerate an M1 tank.

Lennox and the surviving humans had emerged from the plant below; their timing could not have been worse. Optimus immediately pulled two massive shields from his weapons pack and shouted, “Lennox! You and your men, get behind me!
Now!
”

He didn’t have to tell them twice. They hurled themselves behind the protection offered by the towering Autobot just as Shockwave fired his plasma blast. It fried the air, slamming against Prime’s shields with thunderous force. The Autobot was rocked by the impact but managed to remain upright.

Prime’s onboard cannons locked on to the newly presented enemy and opened fire.

Shockwave withdrew into the cockpit as the blasts exploded all around him. Another Decepticon, simply out of pride or from a determination to take advantage of the situation, would have pressed the attack. But Shockwave’s pride was centered entirely in his ability to accomplish whatever mission was before him. As for taking advantage, he was quite confident that another opportunity would present itself. There was simply no reason to jeopardize the mission at this point.

The cockpit slid closed, hiding Shockwave from both
view and assault. Seconds later the Driller had withdrawn, sinking down into the ground that was its first home and burrowing away, beyond Prime’s ability to pursue.

There was no point dwelling on the fact that Shockwave and the Driller had made a getaway. Instead, his attention immediately shifted to the fuel rod that the Driller had dropped. Lennox was holding it, turning it over and staring at it uncomprehendingly. “What the hell was that thing? And why was it after this?”

“It’s impossible,” Optimus said. “This is an engine part … from a long-lost Autobot ship …”

Alexi Voskhod sat alone in his car. He clutched a crucifix and a family photo to his chest. In the photo, two young children were standing in front of a Ferris wheel, with their mother behind them, her arms draped around their shoulders.

He had taken the photo himself. It had been on a family outing the day before Voskhod departed on an important business trip.

It was the day before the power plant would melt down and the Ferris wheel would be reduced to a large piece of junk, and Voskhod’s family would be wiped off the face of the earth.

The day before his life would lose all meaning.

“May God have mercy on me,” Voskhod whispered.

A shadow passed over his car. Naturally, he didn’t see it when it was on the roof, but then it moved across his hood and he spotted it. A small flying creature was zeroing in on him. It swooped past and then angled around and came straight at him. Voskhod had a brief glimpse of two red eyes glittering with pure malevolence.

Apparently God’s mercy, long delayed, had finally come.

“Thank you,” he whispered as Laserbeak unleashed his firepower on the car and shot it—and Alexi—to pieces.

How did it go, honey? Did all the interviewers fall in love with you? Were they all fighting for your services? Is there going to be a bidding war? Are you finally going to be able to start kicking in for the rent?

Oh, where to start, Carly? Where to start? Interview after interview in which they’re asking me about my job skills, and I’m saying stuff like “I’m a team player,” and “I’m good under pressure,” and “I’ve got experience with robotics.” And none of it really means anything to them because they don’t know the kind of high-tech government teams I was a part of, or the pressure I was under, or the gigantic freaking robots I was busy driving around or fighting alongside or running from or bringing back to life. Oh! Oh, and then there was the interview that was actually going pretty well until Mom stuck her head in and said, “We’re just running to the drugstore, dear. Lunch isn’t agreeing with your father.” Which pretty much ended
that
interview. You know what? Maybe it’s better if I just drive a marlinspike through my head. Best-case scenario, I manage to pick off the brain cells that contain the memory of this day and get rid of them. Worst case, I kill myself. You know what? On second thought, maybe I have that backward. Maybe killing myself is the best-case scenario …

Walking out into the sunlight after the very last of the series of horror shows that constituted his job hunting that day, he blinked like an owl faced with a barrage of spotlights and realized that he had the makings of the worst headache of his life, if not in the history of humanity. The only thing that was on his mind at that point, or at least what was left of his mind, was getting back home, shucking off (and possibly burning) the lousy suit, and waiting for Carly to come home. She was the only good thing in his life, and he didn’t like to contemplate what his existence would be like without her. He’d probably wind up like the male equivalent of a cat lady, except instead of a bunch of cats, he’d have little robots running around all over the place.

He smiled at the thought of her waiting at the door for him. In his imagination, she was wearing a diaphanous gown, with a cold washcloth in one hand to cool his fevered brow and a large chocolate chip cookie in the other.

He stopped.
I’ve
got
to start coming up with fantasies that have harder ratings than PG-13
.

Then the chime of an incoming text message caught his attention. He pulled out his phone and looked at it:

LATE ADD: FINAL INTERVIEW OF THE DAY: ACCURETTA SYSTEMS
.

Apparently the employment agency had decided that there was enough time in the business day to subject him to a little more humiliation.

He clicked shut the phone, sighed heavily, dismissed the last vestiges of his fairly tame fantasy, and climbed aboard his parents’ RV. “Home?” said his father from behind the wheel, displaying the singular lack of enthusiasm that was the hallmark of most of his interactions with his son, particularly where Sam’s career was concerned.

“Got another interview, actually.”

“I have a good feeling about this one!” his mother burbled, which was what she had said with equal enthusiasm about every one of the preceding interviews. Sam decided that either the woman had boundless optimism or he was witnessing the early onset of Alzheimer’s and she was just forgetting everything that had happened during the day. If the latter was the case, he envied her. Would that he could forget.

The nameplate on the desk read
BRUCE BRAZOS
, and under that was his title:
EXECUTIVE VP OF PERSONNEL
.

The desk was decorated with pictures, which Sam knew wasn’t all that unusual. The thing was, typically such photos were of family members or friends. In the case of Bruce Brazos, they were all of him. Brazos on a fishing trip, proudly holding up a trout. Brazos wearing a karate outfit, striking a martial arts pose. On one level, Sam had to admit grudging respect for a man so in love with himself that he was his own number one fan. On another, though … just how pathetic
was
that?

The office itself was fairly nondescript, but at least the man
had
an office, which was more than Sam could say for himself. So who was he to criticize?

Brazos, in his mid-fifties, was an intense sales-type guy. There were rolls of paper towels that were less self-absorbed than he was. He had a file folder in front of him that had Sam’s name carefully printed on a tab. “Okay,” said Brazos. “I got myself a Sam Witwicky, recent college graduate.” He took a moment to clap slowly, mockingly, showing just how much weight Sam’s major credit carried with him before continuing. “Previous experience next to zero, but … hmmm …” He had opened the folder and was looking at the only piece of
paper in there aside from the form Sam had filled out earlier. “He’s got a letter of recommendation from one of our board members.”

“That’s nice, but …” Sam frowned. “I’m blanking. Do I know someone on your board?”

Brazos leaned back in his chair and proceeded as if Sam hadn’t spoken. He folded his hands across his stomach and thumped on his chest with his thumbs. “Here’s the deal …”

Oh God. There’s a deal
, thought Sam.

“You know who we are,” and then, as if Sam didn’t know, he continued. “Accuretta Systems. Global leader in telecom, aerospace. Seventeen billion in profit last year. We contract for DARPA, NASA … you name it.” He then leaned forward, the chair creaking under him, and tapped the top of his desk for emphasis. “You perform here, doors open for you anywhere. Kids sat in your chair who run Congress now, who own major corporations. You know what they have in common? Me.”

And yet you’re stuck in personnel, so, y’ know, sucks to be you
. But he didn’t say that aloud, which was probably wise. He was starting to realize that it was comments like that that were going to keep him unemployed.

Brazos was far too interested in what he himself had to say to pay any attention to how Sam was reacting. “First job outta college is critical, kid. You either take a step onto the right career path or you fall into the life-sucking abyss. All depends on how you respond to two little words.”

Buzz off?

“Impress me.”

Well, that was better than “buzz off.” Sam cleared his throat and said with growing uncertainty, “Um … now?” He wasn’t sure what the guy was looking for. He
didn’t think that surviving a firefight between Decepticons and Autobots was going to be a marketable job skill, plus how could he demonstrate that for Brazos without getting the guy’s office shot to hell? Maybe he should pick up the guy’s photographs and start juggling them.

Once again, as if Sam hadn’t spoken, Brazos kept talking. “You a go-getter? A ramrod? A take-charge kinda guy? We’re not looking for that here. I want a machine.”

Damn. I should have had Wheelie apply
.

“Follows my orders,” Brazos said. “Questions nothing. But no brownnosing, no suck-ups. I hate that.”

Then Sam realized that Brazos wasn’t looking at him anymore, but instead past his shoulder. Sam turned in the chair and saw that Brazos’s attention had been caught by a young woman who was walking away from a coffee station, carrying a red cup presumably brimming with coffee. She walked past the glass windows that lined the outside of his office. Noticing that he was looking at her, she tossed off a wave. Brazos automatically waved back, but even as he did, he picked up his phone and punched a number as if it had done something to him personally. Sam didn’t know who the lucky individual on the other end was, but without preamble Brazos demanded, “Why is Jane using the red cup from the red floor when we’re on the yellow floor?” There was a muted response from the other end, and Brazos said, “Thank you,” brusquely before he hung up. Then he focused his attention on Sam and shook his head, displaying his incredulity over the state of affairs under his watch. “Total anarchy around here.”

Sam crossed and then quickly uncrossed his legs. “The listing said ‘administrative aide’ …?”

“You start in the mailroom,” said Bruce Brazos, as if he were informing Sam that he had just won the lottery.
“You know who else started there? Me. The CEO. And me. You know what a mailroom
is
at a company like this?”

“A large room where they sort the mail?”

“It’s the freaking cerebral cortex!” Brazos said in such a way that Sam suspected he hadn’t even heard his response, which was probably fortunate. “Sensitive documents 24/7. Land of total omerta. And I need a machine I can trust. So I’m giving you ninety seconds here. Impress me.”

Sam made a mental note to look up “omerta” when he had the chance. And considering what he knew he was about to say, he reasoned he was going to have plenty of leisure time on his hands to crack a dictionary. “Y’ know,” he said slowly, “I’m really looking for the right job. I just …” He shook his head. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

He stood up, shoulders bowed, not even bothering to reach across the desk and shake hands. He was mildly curious as to who it was who had recommended him but didn’t feel strongly enough about it to pursue it. Without another word, he turned and headed for the door.