Transformers Dark of the Moon (5 page)

“Eagle, do you read?”
came the concerned voice of Johnson.
“It’s been—”

“I know what it’s been, Houston,” Armstrong said wearily. “We’re clear. Repeat, we’re clear. Although the flight surgeon’s probably going out of his mind; our bio-med readings must be—”

“They’re all reading normal, Eagle,”
Johnson assured him.
“We’ve taken care of that.”

Armstrong didn’t quite know how they would have gone about feeding false data to the med heads in Mission Control and decided he was fine with that. He already knew more than he wanted to.

And as he and Aldrin got to their feet, Armstrong said with wonderment, “We’re not alone, after all, are we?”

Buzz said, “No, sir. We are not alone.”

Aldrin had never heard anyone sound quite as relieved in his life as when CAPCOM reestablished contact. McCandless was a good guy, one of the best, and Aldrin hated what the man must have been put through during that interminable blackout. At least the astrounauts knew what was going on; McCandless had been in the dark. He deserved better than to be going out of his mind with worry.

Couldn’t be helped, though.

Everything else about the mission had been utterly routine. That was what happened when the best minds
in aerospace put their heads together and mapped things out. It was amazing how quickly one’s world could shift. One day walking upon the moon is the stuff of science fiction, and the next day the entire world knew it was science fact.

But there was other previously believed fiction that had to remain in the realm of speculation, at least for now.

As the lunar capsule hurtled toward the earth, planning its angle for reentry with perfect precision, Aldrin realized that he was devoting only a portion of his attention to his assigned tasks. It wasn’t happening in such a way as to endanger their safe return, but every so often his thoughts kept drifting back to what he had experienced on the moon’s far side. He thought about that vessel with the pitted hull and that gigantic machine buried deep within. The machine with a face … presuming it was a machine at all. But if not … then what? A once-living creature that looked like a machine? Was that even possible?

What a silly question to ask. If there was one thing Aldrin had learned in this endeavor, it was that anything was possible.

The earth loomed before them, welcoming them home. Welcoming the first men to walk on the moon.

Not just that
, he thought in awe.
The first men to make contact with an alien civilization
.

And then he thought of all the reports he’d heard over the years about so-called alien visitations. Reports that he had once dismissed out of hand as the results of overly imaginative fools or drunks.

Or … are we?
he wondered, and then returned his full focus to completing the job at hand.

(The great ship, or at least what is left of it, continues to rest upon the moon. But something remains deep
within it, undisturbed by the recent visitors from a small planet. Deep within the ship, beyond where the astronauts could safely journey—at least not without elaborate climbing equipment that they simply didn’t have—there sits an enormous vault. It is vast, like a crypt, and it houses the remains of a massive mechanical being.)

(And surrounding the strange being are five pillars with mystical markings, arranged around like the spoils of war in a Celtic king’s barrow. His face is noble, and his eyes emit a faint blue light.)

(And he waits.)

It wasn’t all that long ago that Sam Witwicky would have been intimidated by the idea of a visit to the Oval Office, a photo op with the president, and being awarded a medal of freedom, whatever the hell that was.

But that was before he had found himself repeatedly facing death at the hands of gigantic killer robots. When someone survived all of that, it tended to put things in perspective. Short of the president suddenly sprouting guns from his arms and trying to shoot him or his medal going berserk, turning into a robot and trying to strangle him—neither of which seemed impossible, given the vagaries of Sam’s life—it required quite a lot these days to throw Sam Witwicky off his game.

At least that was what he thought.

Then, as he was hastily ushered out of the Oval Office so that the president could pose for more photos—this time with the British ambassador—he discovered that his game wasn’t quite as set as he thought it was. He discovered his one area of vulnerability.

It shouldn’t have been that much of a surprise.

Emotionally, Sam had shut down when Mikaela had left him. He kept telling himself that he couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t signed up for the life of constant assault that seemed to have enveloped the two of them. She told him that it was nothing personal, that she was still crazy about him. That it wasn’t him; it was her.

And he had nodded and kept his smile frozen into place, but he knew that it wasn’t really her.

It was him. All him.

He had even told his parents that he was done with relationships. His mother actually looked a bit relieved, which was mildly disturbing, but his father had just snickered and said, “Yeah. Sure. Right.” Then his mother had punched his father in the arm and insisted that he wasn’t being sympathetic to his son’s pain. And his father had just shrugged and said, “I wasn’t trying to be. I just know better, that’s all. Sooner or later—”

“Never,” Sam had told him firmly.

“Whatever,” his father had said.

Now, as it turned out, it looked like his father had been right, after all.

The girl he was looking at was breathtaking. She’d come in with the rest of the delegation from the British embassy, but she looked like she’d stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. She had long, gorgeous brown hair that draped around her slender shoulders and down her back. There was an aura of utter self-confidence about her, a worldly-wise attitude. It said to him that she was someone who wouldn’t be fazed by anything, up to and including skyscraper-tall Decepticons bent on annihilating all life on the planet.

Sam had to admit that he might be just imprinting upon her what he wanted her to be. After all, she hadn’t even given him the slightest glance, so there was no reason for him to be conjuring up all these …

She turned and looked at him with the most piercing blue eyes he had ever seen. Her lips were thick and lustrous, and she appeared amused to see that he was staring at her.

You’re staring at her! Holy crap, Witwicky! Get it together!

He cleared his throat, trying to effect an attitude of composure. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said. She imitated his tone, but her crisp British accent made even the most trivial words sound exotic.

“I’m Sam Wickwitty.”

She frowned slightly. Even when her forehead wrinkled, she looked gorgeous. “I thought it was Witwicky.”

“It is.”

“You said Wickwitty.”

“No, I didn’t.” He paused. “I did?” When she nodded, he continued, “Well, at least one of us knows my name.” Then he paused again. “You know my name?”

“Yeeess,” she said, sounding amused. That was good. Girls liked guys who made them laugh. “Your name was on today’s list.”

“It was? I mean, yes,” and he squared his shoulders. “Yes. It was. I fight aliens from outer space.” He winced because that sounded remarkably stupid, and the last thing he wanted to sound at that moment was remarkably stupid. “And you are—?”

“Carly. Carly Spencer. Actually, Carly Brooks-Spencer, but I go by the shorter version these days. So … you fight aliens from outer space, eh?”

“You into things like that, Carly?” he said with what he imagined was a certain amount of confident swagger.

“Somewhat. Runs in my family, actually, going back to my grandparents. I was named after my grandmother Carla.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He waited for her to go on, but she didn’t. Instead she simply continued to regard him with what seemed mild curiosity mixed with amusement.

He’d been wearing the medal around his neck for the photo shoot but had since transferred it into a small
box. Determined now to keep the conversation going and also wanting to impress her, he held up the box and said, trying to sound nonchalant about it, “Just got this. From POTUS. POTUS means president of the United …”

He tried to flip open the box with one hand and in doing so almost dropped it. He half twisted to reach down and grab it with his other hand and as a result swept around and banged an elbow into a crystal vase that was standing on a pedestal.

From which it promptly tumbled off. Sam grabbed for it, but it deftly managed to slide right between his hands, eluding his desperate grasp, and hit the floor. It shattered into what looked like a thousand pieces.

Oh, God. Oh, God
.

Sam looked at the demolished vase and for the life of him couldn’t decide which was worse: that he had just destroyed what might well be a priceless antique or that he had done so in front of this girl he was totally failing to impress on any level.

How could things possibly get worse?
he wondered, and as he did, he was quickly provided with the answer.

Carly was reading a small sign on the wall near where the vase had previously been standing. “Wow. A gift from Winston Churchill.”

Perfect. A British woman who worked for the embassy had just seen a clumsy American demolish a present from arguably the most renowned prime minister in the history of England.

He heard the pounding of feet from down the hallway, and at that instant, with his all-too-brief moment of glory spiraling down the toilet—or, in deference to the young lady, the loo—Carly gave him a conspiratorial look that he would come to know and love in the months and years to come and said, “I can create a diversion if you want to run.”

Sam stayed right where he was and grinned lopsidedly. “Um … did Churchill ever fight aliens?”

She didn’t have the chance to answer before the Secret Service showed up, their guns at the ready, but as it turned out, the answer was no.

At least, not that anyone knew for sure.

Carly had let Sam sleep for as long as she possibly could. She’d tried to wake him up earlier, but he had moaned so pathetically that just as she always did, she took pity on him and let him sleep a little bit longer.

Their apartment was modest, a duplex furnished in an eclectic style that Sam casually referred to as “early whatever we can afford.” They certainly had a decent location, which in real estate was everything, with a balcony that opened out onto a view of K Street. Particularly nice were the hardwood floors, although there was a lovely area rug under the coffee table in the living room. The floors had been a major selling point because, as Sam had put it to Carly (prompting a confused look from the realtor), “Hardwood is better. That way, we won’t have to worry about constantly having to smooth out tire treads in the carpet.”

She strode into the bedroom and surveyed the bed with clinical detachment. It was a crumpled mess of sheets and blankets, with a single foot sticking out from under the end. That foot was a blessing; otherwise she wouldn’t have been sure what position the sleeper was lying in or even if he was there at all. As it was, she wasn’t a hundred percent certain he was alive. She listened for a moment, and then a ragged snore from someone deep within the sheets verified that yes indeed,
the man of the hour from two years ago was still sucking oxygen.

Since Sam was getting off to a slow start this morning, it had given Carly the opportunity to go out and acquire something to get him off in the right spirit on this particularly important day. She had settled on a gigantic white stuffed bunny that had been gathering dust in the front window of a card store down the street. Approaching the bed, she gyrated the toy around so that it looked as if it were dancing. As she did that, she called to him in a singsong voice, “My hero needs to wake up! Motivate! Today”—she paused dramatically, shoving the rabbit down so that it would be face-to-face with Sam when he emerged—“is the day!”

“Mondays suck,” came back Sam’s voice from under the covers. At least it was two coherent words, which was something of an improvement. It certainly beat the grunts she’d gotten earlier. He pulled the blanket off his head and squinted in the offensive sunlight that was pummeling his face. His hair was matted and askew, and his five o’clock shadow was well into 11
P.M
. and still growing. Rubbing his eyes but still not quite lifting his head clear of the pillow, he stared at the plush face that was mere inches from his. “What’s this?” He sounded as if he were gargling gravel.

“For luck!” Carly said with far more cheer than should have been legal, as least as far as Sam was concerned. “It’s your new lucky bunny! You’re getting a job today!”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“No worries. I’m sure enough for the both of us.”

He certainly couldn’t deny that. Propping himself up on one elbow, he rubbed away the last of the stubborn sleep that was in his eyes. “Um, Carly? Love the thought, but … just this.” He pumped the rabbit’s foot
as if shaking its hand on a receiving line. “It’s supposed to be just the rabbit’s foot.”

“Well, this is a bunny,” Carly said, undeterred by her tenuous grasp of superstitions. “Easter bunny, really, on sale,” which made sense since Easter was some weeks back. “And they rip off his foot? I mean, that’s just cruel!”

That was also something Sam couldn’t argue with, which was usually the case with Carly. She was so filled with both determination and exuberance that often what he needed to do was just hold on with both hands and pray that he could keep up with her.

She pulled back the blanket because he wasn’t doing it fast enough and went on. “Anyway, it’s to start you thinking positively. Wear your nice tie. Do you need twenty dollars for lunch?”