Transformers Dark of the Moon (14 page)

“You’re a porn star?” Sam was totally lost.

“Don’t you know history?” Wang said in mounting frustration. “Went to Ivy League school! Watergate! Deep Throat! I’m talking code to you!”

Actually it was more like gibberish to him, although some of what Wang was talking about was starting to sound vaguely familiar. He’d seen a movie about it with Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffman.

Wang was still going, pointing around ominously. “They watch … they listen. Everywhere. Can’t go to the
government, but you! You can! This shit is going down. It’s Code Pink, you hear me?”

“As in breast cancer awareness?”

“As in Floyd! The dark side! Why you think no one’s been up there since 1972?”

“Sir, I know you’re speaking English, but it’s not normal English.”

Then, to Sam’s alarm, Wang undid the tops of his pants and dropped them around his ankles.
Not good. Not good
.

But Wang reached down and ripped off an interoffice envelope that was taped to his leg. He forced it into Sam’s hands. Sam counted himself lucky; there were far worse things Wang could have shoved at him.

“My manifesto!” said Wang. “They’re whacking us out! They want us all silenced! Everyone who knows … what’s on the dark side!”

There was the sound of hinges squeaking. Someone else had entered the men’s room.

Wang heard it, glancing nervously in that general direction. His voice barely above a whisper, he said, “Your alien friends are in danger. You know: the good ones. It’s up to you.”

With that pronouncement, he burst out of the stall, doing up his trousers. Sam stuck his head out and saw to his horror that Bruce was standing near the entrance to the men’s room, staring at Wang in confusion. Instinctively, Bruce snapped into a Krav Maga defensive posture, but Wang brushed it aside and, grabbing Brazos by the shirtfront, shoved him up against the wall.

“Yo, dawg! Getting up in my shit?” Wang said, his voice going up an octave. “Who you working for?
Who you working for?
”

When a stunned Bruce wasn’t able to provide any immediate response, Wang shoved him aside and bolted from the men’s room.

It left Sam and Brazos staring at each other in a moment that would have qualified as the textbook definition of the word “awkward.”

The moment extended seemingly to infinity.

Finally …

“Bruce,” Sam said formally, as if they had simply bumped into each other in the hallway.

“Sam,” Bruce replied in a “I really don’t want to know” voice.

Sam then practically sprinted out of the men’s room. He kept going until he finally made it back to his office, a place he never would have thought in a million years he would be glad to see. It was only upon reaching his desk that he realized he was still holding the envelope that this Wang guy had handed him.

Immediately he dropped it into the garbage can next to his desk. It was the only reasonable thing to do. The guy was obviously some sort of psycho who was fluent not in English but in conspiracy theory.

But still …

He knew about the Autobots. Not what they were called, certainly, or their background, but he knew about them. And he had deduced Sam’s connection to them. So whatever else the guy was, he sure wasn’t stupid. There was a fine line between genius and insanity, and Sam wasn’t all that certain where on the tightrope of that divide this guy was standing.

But still …

If the Autobots really were in danger … if this Wang guy knew something that needed to be conveyed to Optimus and the others …

What kind of friend and ally would Sam be if he refused to at least give the guy’s concerns a cursory glance? Just out of concern for the safety of the bots.

He reached down and extracted the envelope from the trash can. Undoing the string that kept the interoffice
envelope closed, he removed the contents of the “manifesto” and began to study them.

And several words leaped out at him.

“The dark side … of the moon?” He knew that that was a misnomer. That the correct term for it was the far side, since it was perpetually facing away from the earth, even though it received just as much sunlight as any other part of that lifeless sphere. Still, there was no denying the exotic sound of it that to a nut job like Wang would have an undeniable appeal.

He looked over the rest of the material, and the longer he did so, the more he was forced to realize there were two possible opposing conclusions to be reached here:

Wang was insane, and no one was in any danger except Wang himself should the men with the butterfly nets get anywhere near him.

Wang was perfectly sane, and everyone was in danger.

There was only one way to find out.

It was one of the few instances in which working in the mailroom proved to be a major plus. Sam had a comprehensive directory to the place at his fingertips. It took him only minutes, operating on the assumption that the guy’s name really was Wang, to track him down. There were three guys named Wang working for the company, but checking their bios, two of them were approaching retirement age. Only one seemed to be the right fit, and he wasn’t just some random nut job. He was Jerry Wang, vice president of satellite R&D, and he worked over in the aerospace division.

Leaving the pile of unfiled documents on his desk, Sam hurried one floor up, toward the company’s executive section. Wang’s office, and indeed the entire department in which he worked, couldn’t have been more different from the environment in which Sam spent his
days. No cramped spaces or cubicles here. Everything was wide open, and the offices—each of which had large windows looking out over Washington—had big, brassy nameplates on the outside. Sam’s eyes scanned them quickly, but as it turned out, he didn’t need to find it. He heard Jerry’s voice before he spotted the office itself, and that drew him right to it.

Jerry was speaking loudly and with obvious concern: “But I did it! I did what you want!”

Sticking his head around the corner of the doorway, Sam saw that every available bit of wall space was occupied by lunar maps. Jerry was standing on the far side (the dark side?) of the office, gesticulating, speaking seemingly to nothing. Was the guy so far gone that he was really ranting to midair?

Sam rested his hand on the door, and it creaked open slightly more. Instantly, Jerry spun to face Sam, and it seemed as if he were repositioning his body to hide something. “You! Why are you bothering me? Can’t you see I’m working?” He raised his voice as if he were talking to the back row of a balcony. “You total stranger, lost office bitchboy!”

“But …” He frowned. “I’m Sam. Bathroom. We were in the stall together? You pulled out your—”

Jerry jumped as if he’d just been tickled with an electric cattle prod. “We’re not boyfriends!” and his voice went even higher. “You lie! One phone call, I’ll have you fired! I’m a PhD, VP, R&D, A-OK boy.” He pointed at the door. “Knock first!”

Sam blinked, confused. It wasn’t just Jerry’s crazed attitude, denying that he knew Sam after spending all that time seeking him out; that was bewildering. Even the office setup was strange. He had two computers: one white, one jet-black. Who needed two computers?

“Is something … wrong?” Sam said slowly, beginning to have an uncomfortable feeling.

“Never met you, Caucasian orphan child. Leave me be!”

Jerry was leaning with one hand on his desk, and Sam noticed that he seemed to be trying to signal him with his eyes. He was indicating mutely that Sam should look down toward the hand.

Sam did so. At first there didn’t seem to be anything odd. His hand was next to the mouse of his black computer.

Then Sam looked closer and thought he could feel his heart stopping.

The mouse had teeth, which were sunk into the fleshy part of Jerry’s right hand, which was flat on the desk.

“Uh …” Sam gripped the edge of the door frame as the world seemed to tilt under him. “I’ll come back.” Then he amended that by saying, “Wrong office.”

He backed out as quickly as he could and sprinted away. Any remaining doubts that he might have had about Jerry Wang were gone.

There was a Decepticon in Wang’s office.

The instant Sam Witwicky was gone, Laserbeak dropped his computer camouflage and resumed his normal state. He leveled his malicious gaze upon Jerry.

Jerry pointed in the direction in which Sam had just fled. “Don’t know him! I’d never say anything! I sabotaged the mapping satellite like you told me! I put a blind spot in the program as a bonus. They can’t see a thing!” He gulped. “What more do you want from me?”

Laserbeak hissed fiendishly, “Suuuuuu-i-ciiiide …” With that, he turned his attention to the white computer and extended his talons. They tapped over the keyboard and the words “
I’M SICK OF THIS PLANET. I HATE IT HERE.—JERRY
” appeared on the screen.

Seeing it, Jerry sank into his chair as if the air were being slowly released from him.

“Mission abort, moon man,” said Laserbeak. “Decepticons no need you anymore.”

And suddenly Jerry was back on his feet, and Laserbeak realized belatedly that the human had pulled two pistols out from under his desk. Apparently he had some fight left in him. “Ooooh! What up now, bro?” Jerry said defiantly. “Who wants some chicken dinner? Somebody played with the wrong Wang today!”

The human’s amusement value expended itself almost immediately. With a grunt of annoyance, Laserback slapped Jerry, knocking him back into the office chair. He sat there, stunned, and Laserbeak grabbed the chair and sent it crashing into and through the large office window.

“What up?
You
not up,” Laserbeak said. “You down. All the way down.”

Sam’s mind was racing almost as fast as his heartbeat.

Everything Jerry had been saying now made complete sense. It wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get you, and that was clearly the case here. There was no telling how long Decepticons had been watching him or what the hell he had gotten himself into.

Sam knew only two things for sure: One floor above him a man was being menaced by a Decepticon, and he, Sam, had to get word to the Autobots.

Then, as he dashed past a conference room, he heard a distant scream and, to his horror, saw what looked to be Jerry Wang plummeting past the window.

Now he only knew one thing for sure.

He didn’t even remember getting back to his office. One moment he was looking out the window of the conference room, and the next he was back at his desk,
grabbing his jacket in one hand and the manifesto envelope in the other. He turned to leave and discovered that Bruce, looking extremely agitated, was blocking his path.

“Witwicky! Mission critical! The stall thing … forget it. Don’t ask, don’t tell. We got sticky HR, but weird. Look … we had a jumper. That whack job, Wang. I coulda called it. We’re all lucky he didn’t take more of us with him. So here’s the drill. I’m spearheading press. You”—he thumped Sam’s chest—“clean up. Wang’s everywhere. Get a powerwash team ASAP. Strip his name off his parking space, box his personals, send his kids something nice.”

That was when cubicles started to blow up.

(Laserbeak has learned the art of disguise from the master himself: Soundwave. A computer is no longer going to be of any use to him. It is too stationary. Tracking his target to the lower floor, he scans an office copier, and in moments he has assumed the exact shape of the equipment, save that he is black instead of white.)

(He makes his way along the wall, making sure to stop every time a human happens to pass by. It isn’t in his interest to attract the attention of any Autobots by turning this human place of business into the site of mass slaughter.)

(Unfortunately, even Laserbeak has his limits. When an unsuspecting office worker tries to lift his lid and make a copy, Laserbeak’s arms extend and he unceremoniously throws the guy against the far wall. Deciding that subterfuge has reached its limits, Laserbeak—still in his disguise but capable of accessing his weapons—starts blasting aside cubicles, clearing the way so that he can get to the human who had been talking to Wang. Because he thought he recognized him, and if the human
was who Laserbeak thought he was, this is an opportunity worth seizing.)

(The human he was seeking spots him just as he draws within range. There is another human standing in front of him, blocking his egress, but the target is looking over the other human’s shoulder, and his eyes widen. “Behind you! The copier!” the target shouts, and shoves the other human obstruction out of the way. The former obstruction tumbles over a desk, knocking aside stacks of papers, before ending up crashing into a wall and being buried under all the piles.)

(Upon drawing nearer, Laserbeak’s red eyes zoom in on him.)

(It is he.)

(It is Witwicky.)

“You,” said Laserbeak. “I know you. Laserbeak never forgets.” Then, getting down to business, he snarled, “What did the moon man have to say?”

Sam backed up, then suddenly spun, took several running steps, and threw himself forward like a diver. He landed belly down on a mail cart and hurtled away.

With a roar of fury, tossing aside the last vestiges of subtlety, Laserbeak reverted to his normal appearance, pounding across the floor after the runaway Sam.

He let loose a blast, clipping one of the wheels of the fast-moving cart, and it tumbled over, spilling Sam to the floor. There was a cubicle to his right, and, recovering quickly, Sam darted into it. The cubicles were empty, thanks to most employees running outside to discover what had happened to the late Jerry Wang.

Laserbeak sped around the corner and fired into the cubicle Sam had just entered. He was annoyed and surprised to discover that Witwicky was no longer there;
instead he had clambered upon the desk and over into the next cubicle.

Hoping to cut him off, Laserbeak took the low road, dashing around the cubicle and into the next one. He had Sam cold; the human was standing upon the desk, one foot poised to climb over to the next one.