Transformers: Prometheus

CHAPTER 18

Time passed. Jack wasn’t sure how long. He did his best to keep track, counting silently, after they loaded him into one of those SUVs—but then they took one jarring bump, and he lost count. They could’ve been taking him anywhere. The black bag around his head kept anything everything darker than midnight. The musty heat of his breath made the inside of the bag more suffocating than it already was.

But he’d gone through resistance training in Ranger School. He could get through this. Still, a part of him wasn’t so sure. Something was very wrong. He’d identified himself, and he and Arcee hadn’t made any hostile moves toward the men in black—and yet, they’d fired anyway. If they were with the government, then surely there had to be some sort of mistake. And yet, the weirdest thing, was that it was like they weren’t surprised to see an Autobot. Like it was business as usual. Like they’d been waiting for them.

And how the hell was that possible?

They’d dragged him somewhere and made him sit. Nearby, a door opened. Jack heard someone enter, walk closer, and then set something down near him. Then, whoever it was, yanked the black bag from Jack’s head. The light was blinding. Jack blinked his eyes as quickly as he could, hoping it’d help them adjust—and there, looking down at him, was the government shark.

“Hey, kid,” he said, giving him a smile. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Coffee?”

That was what he had placed on the table. Two styrofoam cups of coffee that’d surely come out of a cheap machine. Jack shook his head. The agent might’ve swapped out his tactical gear for a simple black uniform, but that didn’t mean anything. There was an American flag on his right breast, and a logo on the left that Jack had never seen before: a hexagonal shield with a cube in the center and, beneath it, a Latin phrase: ‘Americae protogens de aetheres.’

“How about a nice cup of telling me who you are,” Jack said.

“Simmons,” he replied. “Seymour Simmons.”

His name didn’t mean anything. Who’d he think he was, James Bond?

Simmons shrugged off the silence. “Are you sure you don’t want your coffee?”

Jack didn’t answer. Instead, he cased the room. Bare institutional walls, and a mirror that—if these guys were as half as clever as they appeared to be—was a one-way window. Who knew was looking at him right now. Being careful, Jack kept his attention on Simmons.

“The only thing I want right now, Simmons, is my motorcycle.”

“Well, more for me,” Simmons said, and slid the second cup of coffee over to his side o the table. “Now, this motorcycle... Oh, you mean the motorcycle that was standing there on two legs, the one whose registration is an identical copy to one on the other side of the country, the one that can talk? That motorcycle?”

“Yeah,” Jack replied. “Where is she?”

“Not here.”

Jack hopped to his feet. Simmons’ grin split wider, and he did not take a single step back.

“Whoa, easy there, cowboy,” he said. “If you so much as take one more step, no matter how small, I’ll shout so loud that a dozen very large men with very small egos will burst in here and show you just how enhanced we can make this interrogation.”

Slowly, with the cool awareness that he had very few cards to play against a man who might’ve been one or two short of a full deck, Jack sat back down.

“Interrogation, huh. So, who are you guys? The CIA?”

“Please,” Simmons said, as if insulted. “CIA? Do I look like someone who’d be satisfied in knocking over some tinpot South American cocaine salesmen?” He laughed, like it was hilarious, and then flashed back to cold. “No, I’m with Sector Seven.”

“Never heard of it,” Jack replied.

“Never should have.”

“Well, should I ask what happened to Sectors One through Six?”

“You’re very funny,” Simmons said flatly. “But I wonder how funny you’ll be when you find out Miss Miranda Kamisar isn’t here to hold your hand.”

Who?

Jack squinted at him. “I’m... sorry?”

Simmons took a long drink from his coffee, shaking his head. “Yale Kamisar! The Miranda rights! My intellect is wasted on you. Of course, I shouldn’t have expected an army boy to know about the constitution he swore to uphold. Long story short, kid, we’re spitting all over your constitutional rights. Not that I ever would, of course, because I’m a patriot—but you, my friend, do not exist outside these four walls, and constitutional rights do not apply to people who don’t exist.”

“Whatever, Simmons,” Jack replied. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Alright, tough guy, suit yourself,” Simmons said, taking another sip from his coffee as he turned and headed for the door. “I’ll just show myself out—but, wait,” and he turned, reaching into his back pocket. “I forgot something. I have something to show you. Something that might let us cut through all this braggadocio.”

One by one, Simmons set a trio of white squares on the table. “Turn these over for me. Because I think Lady Luck’s been real kind to me today, kid.”

A slow chill crept over Jack’s shoulders. He knew what he was going to find, but he turned each square over anyway, hoping to be wrong—but he wasn’t. They were Polaroids. Portraits of disheveled captivity. Maggie. Glen.

Mom.

Simmons met his glare with a slick smile. “Way I see it, Action Jackson, that’s a straight flush. Only thing that beats it is a five of a kind. An alien kind. One little lady motorcycle does not a winning hand make.”

Simmons had a few inches of height on him, and presumably similar training. Jack had no idea if he could beat Simmons in a fight, but he knew, in that moment, he wanted to try. His hands clenched, vision narrowing—but then, nothing. He caught himself. Simmons hadn’t bluffed with the photos, and probably wasn’t bluffing about the men outside. To say nothing of whoever was observing this ‘discussion.’ Or what he might do to Maggie and Glen and his mom—his mom—if he didn’t cooperate.

And Arcee, Jack thought. Arcee was out there somewhere, too.

“So, give us those,” Simmons said, “and we’ll give you them. And then we can go our separate ways.”

“You really expect me to believe that?”

“Well, you’d live in worry that we’ll come find you forevermore but, I mean,” Simmons replied, and scoffed like it was nothing—and then, in a split second, his demeanor shifted intense. “The en-bee-ees, kid. I want names. I want to know what they’re doing here, why four of them came down last night like the Four Horsemen. You gave the big one something, the truck—what was it?”

Jack met his gaze. “Here’s what I don’t get. En-bee-ee? What the hell is that? How do you know what they are?”

“Non-biological extraterrestrial, kid. Try to keep up with the nomenclature.”

Non-biological extraterrestrial. NBE. So they knew. Somehow they knew. Someone knew, and they’d known for longer than three months. You couldn’t outfit a whole government task force with uniforms and logos and advanced weapons in that amount of time. Which meant they had to have known about the visitors from Cybertron for, what, years?

“And you let everyone think I was crazy?” Jack asked, and he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “One of them wiped SOCCENT off the face of the planet, and not a single person said ‘you’re not crazy, Sergeant, that’s a Decepticon, and we’ve known about them for a while.’ And now you’re shooting at the ones who want to help us? Where’s Arcee?”

“We can talk about—”

“Where is she?!”

Unfazed, Simmons slowly, very slowly, set his cup of coffee back down on the table. “Listen, I’m going to be ‘real with you, dawg.’ You think I’m scared of you? You think you were doing something useful over there, running around the desert, hunting down Osama and pals, watching everyone die for the President’s oil profits? Well, think again, tough guy—I’ve been fighting the good fight, the real fight, the only fight that matters, since before you were ever born.”

That was something. Just how old was he? Jack focused on Simmons’ face—the lines there, the greying of his black hair. Middle-aged, sure. Forty. Maybe fifty. Which would mean...

Hadn’t Glen said something about the Eighties?

Had they known for that long?

“Let me tell you something. That helicopter is NBE-9,” Simmons continued. “The ninth non-biological extraterrestrial to intrude upon our planet.”

Nine? It was such a small number in the grand scheme of things, yet the implications were massive. Jack had no idea where to begin. “Look,” he said. “There’s two factions, and Arcee—”

“Is an alien combatant. That’s the thing, Sergeant—they’re all bad. We don’t know how, we don’t know why. But it’s like asking if you want a shark to bite you in half, or to take a sweet lick right down the back of a poison dart frog. And here at Sector Seven, we’re not into any alien robot monkey business, no sir.”

Jack shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

“Maybe,” Simmons replied. “Now, I want names, I want goals, and I want to know whatever it was you handed to them. Just how long have you been in communication with them? You want to get off the treason train, then you better start talking.”

Jack took a deep breath. “Fine,” he said. “Like you said. I’ll give you something, and you give me something. I give you the names of the five Autobots—and then you let your three hostages go.”

Simmons scoffed. “You really think you can hustle me?”

“Yeah. I do. Because I’ve spoken to all of them, and I know a helluva lot more than you do. And the price for the rest of my information is that—”

A buzzer sounded, harsh and metallic. Simmons flinched, grimacing. “No! No, no, no! I’m on the verge of a breakthrough here!”

The door unlocked, and opened. The man who entered was as tall as Simmons, but a bit heavier, and his black hairline was well on the way to receding. He wore the drab blue suit of a bureaucrat, and around his neck was a lanyard with a keycard, emblazoned with the same shield-and-cube logo that Simmons had on his uniform.

The newcomer said, “Wait outside, Simmons.”

Simmons whirled, spluttering. “Now, come on! You can’t take this away from me! I brought him in! Him and the NBE!”

“I can’t, no. But Director Banachek can.”

Simmons sighed in open exasperation, utterly incredulous. He looked at Jack and then back to his dark-skinned counterpart. “Fine,” he said, waving his hands. “Fine! We’ll play it this way, that way, whatever way you want to play it. But just make sure that you both know we’re playing for all the marbles.”

He stalked out, and slammed the door shut behind him. The other agent stared at the door and then, sighing, shook his head and turned to face Jack.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “I’m Special Agent William Fowler. And I really am sorry about Simmons. He’s the head of our tactical operations and he’s, well, eccentric.”

“Not the word I’d use,” Jack said, crossing his arms. “And you’re the good cop, of course.”

“That’s right,” Fowler said, and at least he had the temerity not to deny it. “I would’ve been here earlier but, well, bureaucracy.” He gave Jack a small, polite smile.

“If you’ve been listening in, like I’m pretty sure you have, then you know what I have to say.”

Fowler nodded. “I’ve notified the Director. Given the situation at the moment, everything has to go through him. If he agrees, we can play ball.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Well,” Fowler replied, shrugging. “Let’s just hope he does.”

Jack leaned forward.

“Listen, whatever else that happens, it’s important that you understand. The Autobots you attacked aren’t connected to the SOCCENT attack. They’re on our side. Simmons said you guys were tracking them. You need to call it off.”

“Well, you’re in luck,” Fowler said. “The Director called our units back to base, until we have a better idea of just what we’re dealing with. But listen, whatever else happens here today, that attack—on behalf of the government, we owe you an explanation.”

“What do you mean an explanation?”

“I’m not the guy to go into it. Look, we’re on the same side here. You just need to understand that everything here is classified beyond Top Secret.” Fowler nodded to the far wall. “Send him in.”

So, he was right. There was a one-way mirror there. The door opened again while Jack processed that, and then the turned to look at whoever was entering.

The man who stepped inside was wearing the black-on-black service uniform that Simmons had been wearing, beret and all. But where Simmons looked like, well, a wild-eyed provocateur, this guy looked like a walking propaganda campaign. The kind of soldier that every recruit wanted to look like by the end of boot—the sharp jaw, the friendly brown eyes, and a confidence that was too simple to call inspiring, yet all the more compelling for it. The soldier nodded like they knew each other—and, after a second of vertigo, Jack realized they did.

Or had.

“What the hell?” Jack asked him, the room, everyone.

“Hey, Darby,” Captain Lennox said, with a slight smile. “It’s been a while.”