(Verstand tanzt)

Dances of the Mind

Bourrée: Hot Stepping

Chapter 7:

Connections

            "So what does this mean then, Hugh?"
            "Well, Barbara, it means that we're finally looking at some real progress on the part of the allied forces.  The Allied command is even expecting to regain full control of home soil by Christmas at the latest."

            "More in-depth news at eleven, when we will be joined by the Secretary of State…"

            A shadowed hand turned off the television in disgust.  Media, politics, mass hysteria—all were the more troublesome variables to the art of war.  Of course they had their uses, but survival and combat could do very well without them.  Survival.  The word almost made him laugh.

            Indeed, the humans would be very surprised to find out that they were not the superior beings they supposed themselves to be.  Despite years of co-existence with transformers, they still seemed to keep the notion that they were equal or even superior to the Cybertronian race.  Time will school them enough, and they will eventually learn to accept the fact that these steel-bodied aliens were their Darwinian superiors.

            Tango-six-one-nine looked at himself in the mirror.  He did not yet have enough rank for a unique designation, or callsign.  His most recent tour of duty, though, would certainly shine a favorable light on him.  Looking at his physical features in a somewhat detached manner, he shut off his internal computer in irritation.  How long had it been since he'd actually looked at himself?  Strange how things looked so different without electronic enhancement, composite scans, or targeting information.

            "Unit tango-six-one-nine, is there a problem?" a voice materialized from nowhere.  Someone was contacting him on his internal communications circuit.  "Your computer is off."

            "No, just a routine systems check," he replied.  Big Brother was watching again, he thought to himself.  He found himself amused that he had made such a reference of human literature—that his first thought was of a twentieth century novel.  Perhaps even more amusing was the fact that it was relevant at all.  Humans were particularly insightful beings, but it seemed not to help them in anything other than trite entertainment.

            He could not wait for the moment he could leave the forsaken planet of Earth.  When he finished his tour, he would head straight home—if he were given leave that is—straight home back to the familiar settings of Cybertron.  Just thinking about the sheer masses of fleshy beings surrounding him, their foreign oils, asymmetric proteins, and chains of complex carbohydrates.  At times it even went so far as to invoke certain internal chemical reactions he had not felt since the earliest of his training.

            Walking efficiently to the bedroom of his small apartment, he gave a final check of his supplies for tomorrow—weapons, equipment, external data storage, external power backup, the usuals.  Then, he ran a quick diagnostic and lay down on the mattress staring at the ceiling.  "Tango-six-one-nine powering down."  He couldn't wait for that promotion, when he wouldn't have to report every single miniscule movement.  He gave himself the luxury of sighing.  A moment before he shut down, he wondered what it was like when humans went to sleep.

            "So," the young officer said brashly, leaning forward in confidence, "have they chosen yet?"
            "Bug off, flesh-'n-bones," the decepticon grumbled.

            "Hey hey, now, what's the hostility?  We're allies remember?"

            "Temporary allies," the decepticon pointed out, but then added reluctantly, "but allies nonetheless."

            "Now that's more like it!" the officer said, pulling up a stool.

            The decepticon looked up from the machine he was refitting.  "Will you continue to metabolize as such while I exercise my efficiency?"  The officer looked at him blankly.  The decepticon shook his head and returned to his work.  "Very well.  I shall tolerate you for the time being."

            The officer smiled.  "Well, my name's Ryan.  Ryan Lurst.  Lieutenant Ryan Lurst," he repeated with a smile, emphasizing his rank.  "Just got promoted.  Yours?"

            A shower of sparks flared from the machine for a moment, but Ryan was unfazed.  The decepticon did not turn from his work.  "Blackburn," he replied laconically.

            "Nice, nice.  Good to meet you," Ryan said in a jovial manner that irked Blackburn.  "Heh heh, I don't know how much your boss is telling you, but they don't have us knowing much.  I was kind of wondering if you had any news to share.  You know, maybe where we're attacking next?  If they've chosen the next battlefield?"

            "Ours is to do, not to know, and definitely not to question."

            Ryan whistled.  "A little extreme don't you think?  I mean, come on, I'm sure there was something you did for entertainment back on that steel rock of yours."

            "We did not have the luxury."

            "Ah, sure sure, blame it on war."  He scooted his stool closer and lowered his voice slightly.  "But come now, a human is a human just as a bot is a bot, eh?  You know what I mean?"
            Another shower of sparks flew and a hideous screeching sound ensued.  Ryan did not seem to notice.  "Some know.  I'm sure there was something.  I mean, even if just staring at the empty space, or resting.  Dear god, though, I'm sure that you've got some kind of reproductive…"

            A huge crashing sound and an explosion of gas and smoke finally got Ryan's attention.  He leaned back and blinked rapidly a few times.  There was a large dent in the machine that had not been there before.  As the smoke cleared, he could see the glow of Blackburn's eyes, staring straight at him.  The fingers that held the insta-weld twitched a few times.  A silence followed that pervaded through the surrounding areas.  Finally, Ryan put up his hands.  "Okay, okay, I can take a hint."  He smiled.  "You're single then."

            Blackburn lifted a finger as if to say something, then held his thoughts.  After a few attempts to start speech, he finally made an awkward grunting sound before returning to work.

            Jet frowned as he tried once more.  "So how did they penetrate so deeply without being noticed?"

"I'm sorry, I can't give you any more information," the man replied.  "You'll need clearance."

"But I was the victim!  They attacked me!"  He turned to Scratch for help, but he was spinning in circles on a desk chair behind him.  Sighing in frustration, he gave the chair a little kick and followed it as it slid down the hallway.

            Scratch laughed.  "Whoo!  Do that again!"

            "Scratch, how old are you?"
            "Bah, age has nothing to do with it.  You humans need to appreciate the little things of life."

            "Like your processor?"

            "Hey I told you, it may be smaller but its faster!"

            "Only because there's less work to do…"

            "Grrrr.  When I think of something, I'll get back to you!" Scratch retorted.

            "Anytime, bobcat.  Let's scram before they decide to put up a file on us."

            The two walked out of the intelligence headquarters at Haltley Base.  When they were out the doors, Scratch asked, "So…anything?  I was kind of occupied; I didn't pick up much."

            Jet rolled his eyes.  "Nah nothing.  I just don't understand how even one unit could get that far into our camps without triggering any security alarms."

            Scratch shrugged.  "A fluke?"

            Jet shook his head.  "We were at least a few hundred miles from the nearest camp.  Anything heading our way would have to plow through at least a division or two just to get to us.  The only way is straight on the ground.  We've got air superiority, satellites, radar, EMP scanners, the works.  Even transformed the decepticon would have a hard time making it through.  In fact, the only way any decepticon could make it past all the security is with such special circumstances that its absurd."

            "Improbability drive?"
            Jet raised an eyebrow.  "You read too much.  For a Cybertronian, that is."

            In his nonchalant way, Scratch shrugged.  "Picked up a digital copy somewhere.  Beats staring at a wall when you're waiting around for nothing."

            "Anyway, I think there's something up."

            "You always think there's something up."

            "Yeah well this time I really think there's something up."

            "If I had eyes like yours I'd be rolling them right know.  Then again, if I had anything like yours I'd be trying to take a piss on you right now."

            "Scratch, when was your last checkup?"

            "Last week.  Did it myself," he replied, smiling.

            "Ah, I…see.  You know, you've got to lay off on the energon.  What, you like doing five kilos a minute or something?"

            "Ha ha ha.  I am the epitome of efficiency!" he said, pounding his chest with a metallic clank.

            "Oh really?  You couldn't start up on anything less than a few hundred amps."

            "Hah!  Well…well you…you're human!"

            Jet gave Scratch a dubious look.  "Nice cheap shot Max."

            "Anytime Joe."

            Jack Henley looked at the spread of papers on his left, and then the spread of papers on his right.  On one side there were reports of various security breaches and irregularities.  On the other were schedules and timetables of security officers, their assignments, and other log-in log-out information.  Sighing, he fingered through the left pile until he found a particular report.

            "Sergeant Jack Artley, suicide," the folder was titled.  "Classified" was stamped on it in huge red block letters.  Opening it up, Jack read the title of the cover page.  "Sergeant Jack Artley, murder."  It seemed that central intelligence wasn't trying as hard as it used to cover up incidents like this.  There was a time when even the official reports were faked, and one had to go high up to even ascertain the existence of a hidden truth.  He could not say that he approved of such laxness, but the pocketbooks were tight these days.

            "Suspects: Bruce Martin."  There was only the one name.  "Front security, 12 AM – 6 AM."  There was something disquieting about the fact that a security guard should murder another.  For instance, there was no clear motive.  No links were found between Martin and any outside sources, though it is dimly possible that he could have taken an on-the-fly contract.  However, psychological profiles of Martin showed no inclinations towards such behavior.  His record was spick and span—almost too clean.  Something was definitely up.

            Leafing through the file, he went through his record in reverse chronological order, checking up papers and documents.  There was a social security number, driver's license, passport—it was all there, but those were easy to fake.  More interesting was the work and residence records.  Everything checked up.  He'd even called local towns asking for records and they all checked up consistent.  Still, his instincts tugged at the corner of his mind.  Was he being too paranoid?  Maybe it was a simple crime of passion?  They would never find out—Martin disappeared after the crime, and very cleanly too.  No trace of him at all, not even on the security monitors, which were blackened out for half an hour.

            The crime scene was still taped up, and investigators were combing the area for evidence of security tampering, but none could be found.  If he had done anything, he covered himself clean.  In fact, the only aberrant entry found was of the security guard for the next shift.  Cameras show him visiting at 3 AM, about an hour and a half after the murder.  Sighing, he put the file folder aside.  He'd have to go over it again later.

            Glancing down at a recent report that was just filed, he shook his head.  A Decepticon unit was found deep within allied territory, perhaps on some sort of intelligence-gathering mission or a surgical strike.  Something was tearing at his mind, but he couldn't pinpoint it.  He'd been staring at the papers for hours, and his eyes were beginning to burn.  Finally, he got up and strode down the hall to the lounge in search of caffeine.

            "Hey Jack, working late?"  Jack Henley looked up to see the face of Ian Pershing.  "Don't work yourself too hard.  I still need you for my project!" he said in passing.  Jack stopped and frowned for a moment before he recalled their interesting discussion.  Then he hit himself on the head in sudden awareness and ran back to his office.