CHAPTER 17
The rendezvous point was a parking lot for a scenic overlook. The sort of place that, Jack figured, could be one of Los Angeles’ many Make Out Points. The universe sure had a sense of irony. Jack chuckled, thought about mentioning it to Arcee, just to see her confusion—then bit his tongue.
Arcee slowed to a stop, and Jack hopped off. He took a breath, removed his helmet, and then walked the perimeter. Behind him, he heard Arcee shift humanoid, saw it in her the metamorphosing shadow. The skies were clear, at least. He looked up at the stars, wondering if any of them were also Autobots. Or Decepticons. How many of them had heard Bumblebee’s message.
Maybe he was just nervous. It hadn’t even been a week, and his idea of humanity’s place in the universe had been tossed on its head. Sure, vehicles were people now, but not all the unusual models and makes he saw were heralds of the robotic Antichrist. Still, he thought of Maggie. Knew that, if he was going to launch an operation against multiple targets, you’d want to hit as many places at once before they knew what was happening.
Shock and awe.
But there was nothing he could do, not until Optimus had the journal. Jack leaned up against a tree and glanced at Arcee, who was facing away, gaze fixed somewhere on the horizon. Shrugging it off, Jack fished around for his MP3 player and slipped his earphones in, pressed play. I feel so extraordinary...
He’d shuffled through four songs when Ironhide arrived. The black pickup truck halted in the middle of the parking lot and, after a brief interlude of scraping metal and shifting plates, stood up. It was interesting, Jack noted, how human the Autobots seemed at first glance. Only when paying attention to how Ironhide moved did Jack really realized that his legs were digitigrade, with three projections that weren't really toes. The armor and truck components were almost like dazzle camouflage.
Well, maybe he’d be more talkative than Arcee, and maybe they had something in common.
“Hey, Ironhide?”
The Autobot paused between steps and turned his head to glance at him past the armored collar of his chest plating. The left side of his face had been scarred, like a clawed beast had done its best to take his head off. The optic there glimmered, but less than its counterpart. Jack thought it was a miracle he’d kept it at all.
“Yeah?”
“I thought we might get to know each other.”
“Yeah.”
Jack nodded. “So, are you a warrior? Arcee said something about a caste system.”
“Yeah.”
Jack nodded a few times. Ironhide stared back at him.
“You must’ve seen some battles,” Jack began.
“Yeah.”
“Or have some stories...”
“Yeah.”
Okay, not more talkative. Or any degree of talkative.
“Alright,” Jack said. “Good talk?”
Ironhide grunted and moved on. Several meters past him, Jack heard Ironhide ask Arcee, “Is your human always so... chatty?”
She replied, “If you can believe it, he’s usually worse.”
“Well, I’m on watch.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t let him bother me again.” It was the longest phrase the walking pickup had said yet.
Arcee crossed her arms. “I believe the saying is, ‘we’re not on speaking terms.’”
“Your problem.”
She glanced over at Jack, cobalt eyes gleaming in the night, but he pretended not to see it.
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For a time, Jack listened to the sounds of the wilderness. It felt like an eternity but, when he checked his watch, it hadn’t even been ten minutes. Awkward silences had a way of doing that.
Then, the sound of rumbling engines drew his attention back towards the road. First, Bumblebee came tearing around the corner—and, goddamn, Jack had to admit he looked sleek and shiny. Sam waved at him from the shotgun seat. Then, the others: Ratchet and Jazz. And, finally, bringing up the rear, Optimus. They converted themselves, practically as one. Jack glanced between them, watching components and parts shift and slot into position. He wondered if he’d ever find it any less astounding.
Optimus, with that steady care, took a knee. “Sergeant Darby,” he intoned, holding out one hand. “I believe you have something for me.”
Jack nodded, and pulled the journal out of his back pocket. He set the small, worn, leather-bound book into Optimus’ great metal hand. His optics shifted to it, and then lit up. A hundred beams of cobalt light tracing every edge and every surface, every single page...
“Whoa,” Sam murmured.
“Yeah, I know,” Jack replied. “Crazy, right?”
“Sure. But I was meaning more, like, look at the book in his hand.”
“Kinda goofy, yeah.” He chuckled. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
“Here you are,” Optimus said, and let Jack take the journal back. He passed it over to Sam, glancing up at Optimus. His expression was thoughtful, distant. When he blinked, it was loud enough that Jack could hear it.
“What's it say, Optimus?” Jazz asked.
“Arcee was correct,” Optimus intoned. “It appears that Captain Witwicky did have contact with Megatron. The recording of these glyphs is imprecise, but the ones that are more exacting appear to fit within a standard numerical pattern.”
“Like a code?” Jack asked. “For what?”
“A Cybertronian navigation array. These are coordinates—but for what, I do not know. I shall cross-reference them against the data we have from your world. It is of vital importance that we understand what Megatron was looking for,” Optimus said, and his expression shifted grim. “Or found.”
The idea of saying anything to Optimus made Jack feel like he was about to bother Zeus at the peak of Mount Olympus. He cleared his throat. “Yes?” Optimus asked. That helped.
“Listen, Optimus. Prime. I’m... still not sure how to refer to you. While you decode those numbers, Arcee and I need to go take care of...” Jack paused, feeling the back of his neck crawl—and then, he heard the trigger: the thump-thump-thump of his nightmares.
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“Sergeant?” Optimus asked.
And not just a helicopter. In the distance, roaring closer, an engine, burning hard. More than one, Jack realized. Ironhide whirled, sending a tremor through the ground. “Optimus!” he barked. “Incoming! It’s the humans!”
“What?” Jack shouted—but Ironhide was right. A pair of black helicopters, roared into view, searchlights blinding. Which meant the ground vehicles would be on them any second. Which meant Maggie had been right—but how?
How the fuck did the government know to roll out the black helicopters and unmarked vehicles?
“Autobots, hold your fire, and evade the humans,” Optimus ordered. “Roll out!”
The Autobots were vehicles again, faster than Jack could recall seeing it. This was how things went bad. How situation normals went all fucked up. He raced for Arcee, clambered over her—and she was already moving, engine roaring, and Jack clutched her handlebars as if she’d throw him off.
The Autobots hit the road and scattered. Half going left, half going right, and then splitting into singular entities. Whoever these guys were, they surely didn’t have the resources to keep up a pursuit of them all. One of the helicopters kept on Arcee, and Jack watched her speedometer push higher and higher as she led them on a chase, deeper into the hills.
They had two choppers in the air, and they’d be keeping them on their primary objectives. Jack turned his head, trying to get a look at them, but between the visor of helmet, the glare from their lights, and Arcee’s twists and turns, the only thing he really got was that he didn’t see any obvious weapons.
A pair of those souped-up DPVs tore up the road behind them, running them down. Jack didn’t know much about cars, but he knew enough to know it was not a good contest. Sure, size gave Arcee the edge in wind resistance, but a motorcycle was a motorcycle. The four-wheeled vehicles were larger, which meant bigger engines, and more horsepower. Arcee would’ve had them beat in a sprint, but...
But Maggie had said it herself. Whatever power Arcee had as an Autobot, as a vehicle, as a motorcycle, she was limited to horsepower. A motorcycle had better power-to-weight ratio than anything on four wheels, sure, but that was only the deciding factor when performance depended on sheer acceleration alone. On a long straight stretch, yes, Arcee would have left their pursuers in the dust. But the roads were winding left and right. It wasn’t a sprint, but a marathon.
“Arcee!” Jack shouted. “Two cars, six o’clock!”
“I see them!”
“We need to get clear of the chopper!”
“Tell me something I don’t know!”
Arcee took the turns like she was dancing on two wheels, and Jack had the terrible thrill of realizing his knees were only inches from the asphalt. But the black buggies cornered just about as well as she did, if not better, and each and every turn she took cut into her lead.
He might not have been driving, but he was already feeling the burn in his arms and core. Just holding tight to Arcee as she twisted around the corners was enough to make Jack realize that he was the weak link here. How long could the chase continue? The guys chasing them would have to think about fuel versus operational range at some point, and Arcee didn’t, but they could still keep up the chase until they were halfway to Arizona or Nevada, and further still if they were willing to run on fumes or zero out...
Jack wasn’t sure if he could keep it together for that long.
The chase took them further into the hills, where rocky cliffs rose up on either side of the road, and so many of the corners were blind. The gap between Arcee and their pursuers grew slimmer and slimmer. Then, they were racing down hill and into a long stretch. Arcee’s speedometer crept higher and higher. And Jack, glancing into her mirrors, caught someone in the lead buggy stepping up into the cupola—
“Arcee!” Jack barked, “Evade, evade, evade!”
But there was nowhere for her to go, not at that speed. The mounted weapon swung to bear—and there was a bright flash, a sense of vertigo, and Jack felt the hairs the back of his neck stand up. His muscles twitched, his fingers tightening around Arcee’s handlebars, and a flicker ran through Arcee’s dashboard, flashing Cybertronian runes.
“Arcee?”
She shuddered. He had the thought of a horse spooking, throwing its rider into the dirt—and at the speed she was going, he doubted he’d be getting back up, helmet or no helmet.
“Arcee! Talk to me!”
Arcee slewed about, tires screeching, wheels going perpendicular: “Hang on!”
Jack’s stomach slammed into one of his kidneys, felt his shoulders wrench within their sockets, and he had the single loud thought that, oh, yes, just like a horse as he lost his grip on Arcee’s handlebars. For a second, he was weightless, and then the ground came rushing up to meet him.
The world blinked, and he found himself on his back. Arcee was on her hands and knees, shaking her head. Jack forced himself to stand up, even if he wasn’t quite able to shake off the pain, nor to make the world stop spinning. “Arcee?”
“They shot at us,” she replied, optics turning to him. “By Primus, that had to be an null ray.”
“A what?”
The pair of buggies skidded to a stop, and behind them came a pair of black, unmarked SUVs. The helicopter was circling them, keeping its spotlight on them. Jack put his hands up. These guys were government. There had to be a mistake.
“Arcee,” Jack called. “I think we’re caught. Where’re the others?”
“Too far to assist.” She looked up at the helicopter, then at the buggies, and stood up as the SUVs slid to a stop.
“Freeze!” someone barked over a loudspeaker. “Don’t move! Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head or we will shoot you!”
There had to be a mistake, Jack thought. There had to be. A dozen men in black combat gear with armored vests and weapons he didn’t recognize poured out of the black vehicles. He didn’t get down on his knees, but he did raise his hands.
“Easy!” Jack shouted, “Easy! Easy! We’re all friends here! I’m Sergeant Jack Darby, 75th Rangers! I’m American! That’s my bike! Hold your—”
Arcee slammed against the ground, on her front, something like steel cables wrapped around her shin armor. It took Jack a moment to realize what’d happened—a bolas, they’d hit her with a bolas, taken her legs out from under her—and the unmarked cars and black-garbed operators came forward as one.
They grabbed Jack first. Two of them, one on each arm. He thrashed, but they were strong and good at what they did, like they’d done it a thousand times before. “Let go of me!” Jack snapped. “Who’s your commanding officer?! I have to speak to whoever’s in charge! Arcee!”
She was trying to rise, trying to rip the bolas free from her legs with one hand, but all it did was snare her hand, too. She rolled like a wounded animal as a dozen operatives with backpacks circled her like they were setting a perimeter. The backpacks were connected to weapons that Jack had never seen before. Not rifles. Closer to flamethrowers.
“Arcee!”
As one, the circling operators raised their weapons—and fired.
Twelve gouts of crystalline vapor washed over Arcee like the world’s smallest blizzard. So cold that, even meters away, Jack felt the chill of it split him to his marrow. His teeth chattered. Arcee struggled, spluttering in Cybertronian—and already her voice was ebbing into a low hum, like a machine losing power.
“Stop!” Jack shouted, hard enough that he thought his throat would bleed. “You’re hurting her! You’ve got the wrong— She’s not fighting— She’s not fighting back!”
The hands clamped down harder on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees. Somehow, it wasn’t a mistake. They were going to kill her. And if he struggled, if he pushed them too much further, they’d kill him, too. The world was humming. He was breathing so hard, so fast. There were tears on his cheeks, and they might have been his, and—
Arcee was still, and silent.
It was happening again.
Roaring, Jack jerked his head back and felt the nose of one of the men break. He leapt free, sprinting, and tackled the closest of the guys with one of the cold-throwers, turned his goddamn freeze ray on him, and was heading for the next when someone tackled him from behind. He fought, and he thrashed, and he bit, until the goddamn monsters had to kick him hard enough to drive the air from his lungs, over and over and over, until there was nothing in his world but pain. They held him there, his face pressed against the asphalt, and put one final boot into his ribs to ensure his brain got the message. All he could do was lie there and stare at Arcee, frozen and unmoving, frost lining her green armor, ice wrapped deep through and around her metallic protoform.
Another pair of boots stepped into his field of view. The guys holding him down hauled him up and held him there. Before him, there was a middle-aged man with olive skin, and carefully-kept mass of black curls, and the disdainful smirk of a government shark.
“Load the en-bee-ee for transport,” he said, not looking at Jack. “It’s like they say—one in the hand is as good as five on the road, and we’ve got tabs on them now.”
It took all of Jack’s composure not to spit on him.
He turned his attention to Jack, then. “As for you, Sergeant—well, you might just be on the Black Bag Express to High Treason stay-shee-ohn.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue like he was talking to a child.
The man stood up and looked over his shoulder, at the immobile and frozen Arcee. “Hope she was worth it, kid,” he said, and gestured with his right hand, and someone threw a bag over Jack’s head and cast his world into darkness.