International waters east of Florida, North Atlantic Ocean.
Onslaught had successfully infiltrated the uppermost deck of the Dancing Sea Star luxury liner. A minor alteration to the cargo registry, a nighttime stroll up the boarding ramp, and strategic use of a tarp had secured his position on the cruise ship. Onslaught sat in truck mode next to the starfish-shaped swimming pool and watched miniature humans splash around amid the shallows. Larger humans basked in the afternoon sunlight outside the pool, chattering to each other in excitable voices.
The humans had thrown a few odd glances in Onslaught's direction at first, but two days of pretending to be a lifeless truck had dulled their curiosity. Nobody pointed at the tarp-covered lump by the corner of the pool anymore. Onslaught became just another part of the ship's aesthetic, much like the starfish-shaped pool or the tricorn pirate hats that all of the staff wore to distinguish them from the masses.
The Dancing Sea Star had maintained a consistent eastward heading ever since leaving Port Canaveral on the coast of Florida. Two days into the cruise, they were about a quarter of the way to Bermuda, yet Onslaught felt no closer to understanding humans than when he had first set foot upon the ship. They traversed the ocean purely for the purpose of human entertainment. Onslaught had known this ever since he read the travel itinerary, yet it was still fascinating to behold with his own optics. Such a show of opulence was utterly novel. Even before the war, Onslaught had been entrenched in military assignments, far removed from the extravagance of those who could afford to squander their days in idleness and leisure.
It was difficult to understand why humans felt the need to build an artificial pool of water atop a cruise ship that already traveled through an ocean of water. Onslaught contemplated this puzzle for a while. Out here in the open ocean, he could not directly access the continental internet to query human databases. Instead, he mulled through the knowledge that he had already absorbed regarding Earth creatures. Given the small size of the humans relative to much larger ocean-dwellers, such as giant squid or whales, predation was probably a major concern.
A new presence in the ambient frequencies seized Onslaught's attention. Near port, the Dancing Sea Star had used radio to communicate with other ships in coastal patrol while, but those signals had faded out with distance. Wireless internet, cell phone, and television broadcast channels had also faded into inaccessibility as they moved away from the North American continent. Out here, only satellite-based GPS telemetry connected the ship to external human networks. This GPS signal had suddenly doubled. It now came from two directions: the overhead human satellite was still there, but a new source much closer to sea level had appeared as well.
Onslaught's directional comm array enabled him to isolate and differentiate signals that approached from separate directions, but the human ship was not equipped with equivalent technology. The low-altitude signal was much stronger than the old one, making it impossible for a single receiver antenna to separate two data inputs vying for control over the same frequency channel. Thus, the pilots of the Dancing Sea Star would be unable to distinguish between the two GPS signals, only seeing the new, stronger broadcast from the false source.
Onslaught checked both data streams against his internal navigation systems. The satellite telemetry was accurate, but the low-altitude signal had rotated the map by forty-five degrees. According to the false GPS readout, the ship's true eastern heading now appeared to be northeast. Correcting to the false east would send the ship southeast, deep into the open waters of the Bermuda Triangle.
This was precisely what the human pilots did. Within minutes of the new signal appearing, the ship's course adjusted to match the false map. The ship carved through the waves as it arced around toward a new southeastern heading.
Perfect.
The false GPS signal grew louder as the Dancing Sea Star approached its source.
As with the previous two days of the cruise, the cool evening winds drove the sunbathing humans away from the pool to seek refuge indoors. However, the weather tonight was different. As the sun began to set, skies that had been clear for two days now grew fuzzy with fog. Water vapor prickled against Onslaught's plating, condensing like a ghostly blanket across his outer layers of armor. He was glad for the small car tarp that he had the foresight to drape over himself when first boarding the vessel. It kept most of the wind and moisture away from his plating, leaving his processors free to consider more important tasks. Onslaught maintained his position beside the deserted pool, straining his sensors into the distance.
Three uniformed human staff emerged from a hatch carrying a tarp many times larger than Onslaught's own cloak. Every night, these three came by to cover the pool with the tarp. Every morning, they rolled up the tarp and put it back into storage. On a boat full of humans existing purely for their own entertainment, these three appeared to be among the rare few who actually did any work.
While unfolding the tarp, one human noticed the overcast sky and pointed it out. The other two glanced up as well, surprised at the sudden presence of fog. They spoke to each other in low tones of confusion. Though they were too far away for Onslaught to discern their words, he understood. The weather predictions along the planned cruise route had promised clear skies all along. Indeed, if the Dancing Sea Star had kept to its original path, they would still be cruising under a beautiful starry night. The southward diversion instead sent them toward a region more prone to natural fog.
The rhythmic pulse of helicopter rotors chopped through the air, and Onslaught brightened at the familiar sound. If Vortex was in the air, then he must have had minimal damage and sufficient fuel reserves for energy-consumptive flight. Searchlights slashed open the clouds, spilling white light across the upper deck of the Dancing Sea Star. Vortex's alt-mode emerged from the fog directly over the swimming pool. Lights flooded over the three humans while he hovered.
As Vortex approached, the false GPS signal screamed across the ship deck, echoing off every metal wall and floor plate in a most jarring cacophony. Were Onslaught a less patient mech, he might have given away his presence right then with a furious demand for silence. Instead, curiosity tempered his irritation. What had Vortex been up to during the week following their fall from the Nemesis? Onslaught could guess, but he did not know, and the lack of certainty about a subordinate's activities irked him more than he cared to admit. After all, formulating an effective strategy required not only knowing one's enemy, but also knowing oneself—and, by extension, one's team.
Vortex descended toward the three humans with impressive slowness. Their limited auditory senses were unable to detect the screech of the false GPS signal wreaking havoc on their navigational instruments, but they shielded their faces from the strong wind of the rotor wash. They waved at Vortex, puzzled but unafraid. Searchlights blinked back, mimicking the flutter of human hands.
Something shifted in the airwaves—perhaps a momentary stillness in the infernal screeching of GPS data, or a new discordance in the thrum of spinning rotors. Onslaught suddenly recognized the careful approach of a predator stalking hapless prey, of Vortex stalking his latest target, and had barely a moment's notice to magnetize himself to the deck before a tornado struck.
The deck was aluminum. Onslaught's magnets had no effect, and his front wheels lifted off the ground. Switching tactics, he activated his anti-gravity module in reverse—not to reduce effective weight, as per typical use, but to multiply that weight. All ten wheels slammed back onto the deck.
Nearby, pool water erupted in a magnificent spout. Everything not bolted down flew into the sky: lounge chairs, tables, swimming toys, life jackets, three humans, and two tarps. Although Onslaught had attached himself to the deck just in time, the flimsy polymer of his tarp was not secure. It ripped away in the suction of the artificial tornado, fluttering into the distance.
Now that he had been revealed, the observation time was over. Onslaught blinked headlights in a simple binary greeting.
The winds ceased. Vortex stopped broadcasting the false GPS signal. Blissful silence prevailed.
Vortex descended to the upper deck. Landing gear touched down on the flat space that had once hosted an array of picnic tables. Up close, the matte gray of his paint was decorated with a powdery white web of salt stains. A strand of seaweed poked out from the edge of one cockpit door. Crimson liquid streaked his rotor blades from an encounter with the flying humans. It sprayed everywhere as rotors spun to a halt.
"Onslaught! Long time no see, boss. What brings you this way?" Vortex sounded as chipper as ever.
"You're too conspicuous, Vortex. In less than ten days, the humans have already identified you." Via short-range databurst, Onslaught sent over the picture that he had downloaded from the human internet. It was a nighttime photo of Vortex tearing apart a small fishing dinghy.
Vortex took one look at the picture and chuckled. "Identified me? With such poor resolution, that could be anyone with dark paint and a visor. Maybe an Insecticon. Or maybe it's you, boss. Been feeling short-tempered lately?"
Onslaught's engine rumbled in warning. "Anyone could have found this image on the global datanet. Consider yourself fortunate that I was the first to investigate. From now on, you will avoid frivolous contact with humans."
"Spoilsport."
"If necessary, yes." As far as priorities went, keeping his team online was near the top of the list, while their entertainment ranked somewhere below figuring out what Starscream was up to these days.
"Alright, alright. No more shipwrecks... on camera, anyway," Vortex said solemnly. "Hold on. Datanet? What datanet? I couldn't find anything of the sort. There's only this sat-nav service, and the humans don't even trust it half of the time. Do you know how hard it was to convince your ship to come all the way out here?"
There was no internet in the ocean, and Vortex might not have ventured close enough to land to pick up a wireless signal. By way of explanation, Onslaught sent over a summary data packet with access instructions and a few translation keys for the more common data encoding schemes.
"The landmasses have a primitive network with limited geographical coverage. Autobot and Decepticon surveillance teams no doubt monitor it for signs of Cybertronian life."
Rotors twitched. "Autobots on this planet? Starscream didn't say anything about Autobots."
"Starscream failed to mention the Insecticon swarm as well. His information is unreliable at best." Onslaught was still cross-referencing Starscream's historical account against his own observations from the past several days, searching for any hints as to the accuracy of that information. Based on the events he had personally witnessed, Onslaught could only say this: "The Autobots are in competition with the native humans for salvaged Cybertronian biotech."
"Hm. Not so high and mighty anymore, are they? Looting the dead just like any 'Con. Funny what desperation can lead a mech to do."
"Regardless of the situation, we face the threat of discovery from both factions. Stealth is critical. We must gather the others before the enemy finds them."
Onslaught inspected the gestalt link. Vortex was beside him, Brawl west, Swindle southwest, and Blast Off almost directly south. Onslaught compared the direction of Blast Off's lifesign against the curvature of the Earth, calculated the intercept of line and sphere, and found corresponding coordinates in the Southern Atlantic Ocean. He traced a route on a human-made map of the Earth and sent the edited version to Vortex.
"Direct this ship south toward Cuba. From there, we will proceed to South America and remain on land until the southernmost tip of the continent. Retrieving Blast Off from the ocean is our first priority. We need his rapid transport capabilities."
"Right." Vortex began to transmit the GPS signal again, thankfully at a more reasonable volume. His easy cooperation was most uncharacteristic. Suspicious, Onslaught unraveled the simple data stream and checked it against his internal navigation.
The coordinates were wrong. Onslaught's engine rumbled. "I said Cuba, not Antarctica."
"This way is faster. It might surprise you, but the shortest distance between two points is a straight line—"
"Vortex. Cuba. Now." Onslaught had selected an overland route for good reason. The most direct path to Blast Off would be via boat, but the longer they commandeered this Dancing Sea Star, the more likely it would be for someone to notice its absence. Human investigations could alert the enemy to their presence, and they were ill prepared for a seafaring conflict. Engaging in a naval battle would be tactically unsound. It was better to abandon this vessel as quickly as possible.
"Fine." The transmission flickered, and Vortex sent a more acceptable set of GPS data.
As the Dancing Sea Star swept around to its new heading, Onslaught allowed himself to indulge in a rare moment of contentment.
One down, three more to go.
Southern Atlantic Ocean.
All things considered, the relic hunt in Antarctica had been a success. Sure, Starscream had lost the hover-scooter and suffered the indignity of being pushed around by both Dreadwing and Optimus Prime, but results were what mattered in the end.
Who had walked away wearing the Apex Armor? None other than Starscream himself.
Starscream was quite pleased indeed with this outcome. In the background, the faint musical thrum from migrating organic whales almost resembled the fanfare of a victory parade.
Granted, Starscream had walked away on the bottom of the ocean, but why bother arguing over semantics? With the Apex Armor shielding his frame from the intense water pressure, standing on the ocean floor felt just like standing on regular land. Better, even, since the Apex Armor prevented the sand underfoot from getting jammed between sensitive gears and flight mechanisms.
Dreadwing and Optimus Prime, both confined by their expectations of aerial or overland travel, would never suspect that Starscream had taken an underwater escape route. Even if they did, no one would dare to open a ground-bridge to the bottom of the ocean. Soundwave would not risk flooding the entire Nemesis. Any Autobot with half a processor would probably have similar reservations against bringing the Atlantic Ocean into their headquarters. Being on the bottom of the ocean gave Starscream a much-needed vacation from the constant threat of discovery or attack.
A little bit of three-dimensional thinking could get someone a long way. In just under a week, the underwater route had brought Starscream all the way to the Scotia Sea. A few more days would lead him to the point of South America. Once on land, he would be free to activate his own ground-bridge and return to the Harbinger without emptying an ocean's worth of water in the ship.
For once, energon was not a problem. Starscream had prepared well before embarking on the mission to Antarctica. The hover-scooter he brought with him was only one of many from the ship's cargo, and all of the scooters had independent fuel tanks carrying energon. After reserving one scooter for transport purposes, Starscream had emptied out the rest for his own use. Several energon cubes were now safely tucked inside his subspace compartment. The Apex Armor was just roomy enough inside that, if he contorted his limbs and retrieved a cube from subspace at exactly the right angle, he could refuel with minimal mess.
The designers of the Apex Armor had been both efficient and practical in its construction. Despite the thick metal exosuit encasing Starscream's limbs, his navigational systems scanned over the surroundings as aptly as they normally would. Optical input was useless in the darkness below kilometers of water and ice, but other sensor arrays easily mapped the topography of the ocean floor. He could even feel the direction and turbulence of the deep-sea water currents brushing against his flight sensors. The Apex Armor artificially translated all of these external inputs directly to Starscream's built-in systems while still shielding him from environmental pressures that would have crumpled his frame like a tin can.
If one ignored the saltwater and the high ambient pressure, the ocean floor had the same terrain as dry land on Earth. Flat plains of seagrass and forests of kelp were interspersed with underwater mountain peaks formed from tectonic and volcanic activity. Starscream marched up one such slope now. The Apex Armor boosted his strength as well as his durability, making the tedious task of walking like a ground-frame much easier than normal. As Starscream crested the ridge marking the northernmost edge of the Antarctic continental shelf, sensors that were no longer confined by rocky obstacles swept outward into the basin below.
Out there among the hydrothermal vents, someone was screaming for help in Galactic Binary. The distress signal sounded faint, barely more audible than the low chirp of whalesong from hundreds of kilometers away, but it transmitted on a frequency band that no organic creature could possibly produce without sprouting a hyperspectral antenna. Starscream recognized the simple repeated pattern as a standard locator beacon that pre-war interstellar explorers had been trained to broadcast in the event of emergency. Nobody used such a generic beacon nowadays; everyone used faction markers and encryption to ensure that they were found by the right side.
Too intrigued to let the beacon pass uninvestigated, Starscream boosted his sensor input to better triangulate its location. A pre-war distress signal here, of all places? How very unlikely. Even setting aside the rarity of such an ancient beacon, what Cybertronian spacefarer would have ever ventured to an organic-infested backwater planet such as Earth? Then again, maybe the organic infestation would have piqued scientific curiosity in, say, a xenobiologist.
Starscream terminated that line of thought. Nobody called themselves scientists anymore, unless one counted that hack Shockwave, and Starscream most certainly did not. Calling Shockwave a scientist was akin to calling Megatron a mere poet: applicable only in the loosest sense of the definition.
Anyway, what self-respecting spacefarer would manage to crash-land themselves more than three kilometers underwater? This had an easier answer. Earth had plenty of unpredictable weather. Starscream had never crashed into the ocean—or anywhere else, for that matter, since he was an expert at aerial maneuvers, of which not crashing was fundamental enough that it barely even qualified as a skill. However, an accidental crash due to inclement weather was possible. Highly embarrassing for whichever flight-impaired moron had crashed here, of course, but still possible.
Curious, and vaguely hoping for some useful salvage, Starscream marched toward the beacon.
As he approached the source of the signal, atmospheric analyzers detected the unmistakable chemical signature of refined energon permeating the water. The crash victim must have been injured to the point of bleeding out, yet they still had enough fuel left to transmit the emergency beacon.
The promise of energon motivated Starscream to pick up his pace. If he arrived soon enough, he might be able to reappropriate any remaining fuel for his own much more important purposes. After all, powering an emergency beacon at the bottom of the ocean was a waste of perfectly good energon.
Near the top of a small mountain, Starscream found the source of the distress signal. A pile of Cybertronian metal rested on a hydrothermal vent. The pale brightness of energon pooled on the rocks below. Glowing rivers trickled down the sides of the underwater mountain. A glittering halo of energon particulates diffused into the surrounding water, making it hard to discern the shape of the injured mech.
Once Starscream came close enough to run a detailed scan, he discovered that the injured mech was, in fact, a large disembodied arm. The size and shape greatly resembled the right arm of Bruticus, if Starscream remembered correctly—and he always did.
The right arm of Bruticus. The shuttle Combaticon. Blast Off.
Finding Blast Off here solved one mystery, at least.
"So this is what has become of my short-lived Combaticon army." Starscream prodded the disembodied arm with an armor-clad toe. "Such a pity that you not only failed to extinguish Megatron, but also failed to inform me of your demise in a timely manner."
The automated distress signal was suddenly overlaid with Blast Off's voice. "Spare me the gloating."
Even while made invulnerable by the Apex Armor, Starscream flinched. "What? You're still alive? Ahem, that is... I'm delighted that you survived, Blast Off. What providence that you should land in my path yet again."
The sentiment was more honest than Starscream would have liked. Opposing the Autobots and Decepticons all on his own had been trying, to say the least. Though Starscream was loath to admit it, the prospect of sharing the terrible burden of independence with another mech was most welcome.
"Where is the rest of Bruticus?" While speaking, Starscream scanned the nearby area for other signs of metal or energon. Nothing else of Cybertronian origin appeared on the scan results.
"Gone," Blast Off transmitted, burning through what was surely the last of his energy reserves with that last flicker of consciousness. The beacon's communication channel switched off entirely. Even the distress signal ceased.
"Uh, Blast Off? Are you still online?"
All was silent except for the distant hum of whalesong. Blast Off must have slipped into emergency stasis lock from injury or energon loss.
Frowning down at the motionless arm, Starscream weighed his choices. It would be easiest to abandon Blast Off here and continue with the original plan of walking to land. On the other hand, Blast Off was a capable soldier and a useful asset. Any sense of debt or gratitude invoked from helping Blast Off to dry land would prove valuable to Starscream's goals in the future. The extra strength granted by the Apex Armor would make rescuing Blast Off a simple enough task, while the potential rewards of loyalty and obedience were great enough to justify the inconvenience of hauling a bulky arm.
Also, as a fellow winged Cybertronian, it just did not seem right to leave another flier trapped in these oceanic depths, stolen from the open sky to which they both belonged. Rusting away in a watery grave was not a fate that Starscream would wish upon any shuttle who had not personally wronged him.
Cursing his own soft spark, Starscream grasped Blast Off's wrist and hauled him over an armored shoulder. Blast Off was coming back to the Harbinger with him, even if he had to carry a stasis-locked arm the whole way.
Riviera Plains Ranch, Texas, United States of America.
Splotchy black and white four-legged organic creatures walked around Brawl, occasionally bumping into the sides of his tank alt-mode or poking their noses into the grass underneath his treads. They were good company: quiet, polite, and slow-moving. They minded their own business, and Brawl was very glad for this. In his present state, he did not have the patience to deal with the more screechy bipedal variety of organics.
Brawl was not a mech prone to regret. Regrets were for weaklings and hypocritical Autobots, not hardened soldiers. Today was an exception, though. As Brawl coughed strands of sticky black sludge onto the grass, he understood the meaning of regret.
The crude oil that Brawl consumed two days ago showed a decent chemical energy density when scanned. It combusted when exposed to heat, suggesting further utility as ammunition. Both of these traits were usually found in good fuel. How was Brawl supposed to know that drinking the oil would lead to days of unending misery?
Taking crude oil directly from the drilling rigs had been a mistake. His energon levels had increased by two percent, but his fuel intake filter lifetime had dropped by two orders of magnitude in the first day after consumption. After three days, filter lifetime had entered the negatives. Brawl's visual field was obstructed with enough blinking alerts about fuel processing errors that he could barely see in front of himself.
Another shuddering cough racked Brawl's frame, and a black lump flew out of his primary fuel intake. It splattered on the ground, staining the nearest grass with semi-processed oil.
Even drinking congealed energon from a long-dead mech's fuel lines was not this bad. Brawl had done that before out of necessity, during those desperate times when his unit had been left for scrap on some shelled-out battlefield on the outskirts of the Rust Sea. His fuel processing system had rebelled against cannibalized energon, but the only other option was stasis lock and certain termination. The whole unit had faced the same choice. Everyone who refused to refuel had perished. Determined to avoid the same fate, Brawl had forced himself to keep down any energon that he could manage.
Back then, at least, he had the benefit of a heavily wounded but lucid Onslaught ordering the unit to survive, as well as the promise of a skilled medic awaiting anyone who managed to reach the nearest Decepticon outpost. Brawl and Onslaught made it. The rest did not. The medic had replaced their fuel intake filters, warned them to avoid decomposing energon in the future, and sent them off as good as new.
Here, Brawl had no inspirational commander and no waiting medic. As he coughed and heaved and spat sticky goop onto the grass, he was alone in this misery. The organic lifeforms did not care; they probably lacked the processing power to understand.
"What's going on here? A tank in the middle of the cattle pasture?" A small and fleshy voice caught Brawl by surprise, startling him enough that he froze mid-cough. A strand of black slime slowly dripped onto the growing puddle below his fender.
Maybe one organic creature did understand his problem. Amid the herd of quadrupedal cattle, this smaller bipedal human had quietly approached Brawl from behind. He had not noticed it sneaking up. The human raised a small hand and tapped on Brawl's side.
"Hello? Are you alright inside there?" the human asked. Its voice was shrill but not hostile.
"No, I am not alright," Brawl said, carefully enunciating his words to ensure that the human understood them. "This crude oil sludge is worse than Vortex's glue! Do you have energon?"
The human seemed taken aback by this response. Its squishy faceplates contorted. "What is energon?"
"Energon. You know, energon."
"Uh, do you mean energy?" The human appeared confused, and Brawl felt his limited patience waning.
"Energon, you dim flesh creature. Are your language circuits broken? Energon. 能量块. Энергон. エネルゴン." Brawl cycled through various human languages, but the human only looked even more perplexed. Seeing as this track was not working, he switched back to the original setting of English. "Fuel. Food. Propellant. Oil. Gasoline."
This, at least, sparked some comprehension in the human. "Oh, I get it. Your tank needs gas to keep driving. Yeah, I have some gas for the mower. Do you want that?"
"Yes." At this point, Brawl was desperate for any fuel that was even marginally better than raw crude oil. The clogged fuel intake filters had sent self-repair systems into a frenzy, burning through his limited supply of energon even faster than before. He needed to replenish his energon levels in order to enable self-repair to fix the damage.
The human scurried off to fetch some gasoline.
Internally, Brawl revised his opinion of humans. Maybe they were not so bad after all.
Miguel's Garden Essentials, Rondônia, Brazil.
Swindle drove up to the back side of the gardening shop and double-checked his map. The coordinates matched those supplied by his contact, but the setting looked completely irrelevant to his current purpose. Flowers cheerfully poked out from arrays of planters, fluttering in the breeze as Swindle rolled past. Cement squirrels and garden gnomes lined the sides of the driveway.
The end of the path had an underground parking garage. A gray-haired man sat in front of the gated entrance, reading a newspaper. There was an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth and a Glock tucked into the back of his waistband, concealed from any human observer. Swindle's scanners easily identified the gun.
Deciding that this was the correct place after all, Swindle beeped his horn. The old man looked up and sighed. As though burdened by a great weariness, he tucked the newspaper underneath one arm. He then walked over.
Bemused, Swindle activated a holographic driver. After scanning multiple humans, he had a wide assortment of body shapes and sizes stored in his holo-projector memory banks. This particular driver was the one with the dashing good looks that had sent exactly fifty percent of human test subjects into a cooperative daze, while the other fifty percent had fled from the hologram with extremely disturbed expressions. Fifty-fifty chances were always fun odds to play when the stakes were virtually nonexistent, and there were so many humans around that it hardly mattered if a few were frightened off. Earth truly was a paradise of boundless opportunity.
"Good morning!" The holographic driver flashed a grin.
"No parking here. The lot is for customers only. Go somewhere else," the old man said, looking slightly unnerved. Swindle added this old man to the second category of humans in his mental tally.
"Well then, it's good that I don't need parking," Swindle replied, "I'm looking for a fellow named Big Al."
"Nobody here by that name. Sorry. Have a good day." The old man unfolded his newspaper again, walking back to the chair as he flipped through the pages. He sat down facing Swindle, by all appearances engrossed in the newspaper again.
The back page of the newspaper showed an ad from local law enforcement offering monetary rewards for information on a certain Alberto Vaz, wanted for firearms smuggling and distribution, along with a long list of other crimes. Good marketing, that—especially because the wanted ad was dated to over two years ago, while the newspaper itself had been printed just last Monday.
Swindle interpreted the newspaper ad as encouragement. The old man was a decent liar, but the gun on his belt spoke otherwise. Most civilian humans did not carry around weapons.
"Pity. That means nobody would be interested in the five grand in my trunk."
The newspaper shut, and the old man peered at Swindle's hologram suspiciously. "Depends. What's your business here?"
The hologram gave an intentionally off-kilter grin—the one that Swindle had nicknamed 'Vortex holding a sharp object' in his database of common hologram poses—and made finger guns. "Gardening."
The old man glanced between the hologram's face and hands, assessing. After a long moment, he nodded.
"Gardening? You came to the right place for that." As the old man spoke, he went over to a keypad on the side of the gate. "We have many gardening supplies here. Rare plants, of course. Fertilizer. Power tools. Pest removal service." Quick fingers punched in a string of numbers: 6-2-3-1-7-7-4. The gate swung open, and the old man turned around with a smile. "Anything we don't have, you can get custom-made for only a minor service fee."
Swindle drove into the underground garage. The entrance tunnel was narrow, with barely enough room for two cars to pass side by side. It was a practical and defensible layout: one way in, one way out. Cameras dotted along the path provided the inhabitants plenty of warning about visitors. Overall, it was a good place to conduct illicit business.
The lower level of the garage had been repurposed into a warehouse. Handguns and ammunition spilled out of open crates. Heavier assault rifles and automatic weapons were lined up against any vertical surface. Some of the weapons were legal to possess with a license in this country, but most were not. A chemical tingle in the air hinted at the presence of high explosives, though those must have been stored somewhere beyond Swindle's sensor range.
Big Al was paradoxically over twenty centimeters shorter than the average adult human height. Big Al and a half-dozen upstanding employees met Swindle at the warehouse entrance. Swindle parked just beyond the end of the entrance ramp. As his door swung open and the holographic driver stepped out, Big Al gave him an unimpressed once-over.
"Looking for guns, punk? You better have enough cash. Quality doesn't come cheap."
The holographic driver brought a hand to its chest in mock offense. "Is that any way to speak to a paying customer? Anyway, I'm not interested in your peashooters. I'm here to collect an order."
Big Al's eyes narrowed, but he pulled a notepad from his pocket. "An order, you say. Do you have a name?"
"Winters. Salmon Winters." Swin for short, as the reasoning went. He already had dozens of false human identities anyway, so a few humorous aliases were permissible. Besides, among the sort of humans he normally interacted with, no one would look twice at him for using an absurd alias.
Big Al flipped through the notepad. "Winters, S. One order for... oh." His whole demeanor shifted from hostile to amicable. "Well, why didn't you say that when you came in? Of course we have your items ready." He waved at the employees. "Bring out the jet fuel."
Two burly men disappeared between the stacks of crates. They came back pushing a wheeled cart with two steel drums full of high octane jet fuel. Swindle's scanners verified that the fuel was legitimate. Jet fuel was the closest energon substitute that Swindle had managed to find on this planet. It left a strange smoky residue in his fuel filters, but it was orders of magnitude more palatable than the swill that humans poured into their cars. Swindle's energy converters had billowed smoke for hours after an ill-advised attempt to refuel on regular gasoline.
"Do you want us to put these somewhere?" one of the handlers asked.
"Passenger seat," Swindle said, indicating the portion of his bench seat that was not obstructed by a steering wheel. The two handlers looked at the holographic driver with mild horror, but they did as instructed.
The holographic driver helped the two humans lift and position the fuel drums securely on the bench. The hologram's hands slipped through the surface of the drum slightly, and Swindle increased the power to his holo-projector. Hard-light projections always required more energy when interacting with physical objects, but the extra expenditure was necessary in this instance. Swindle did not fancy the idea of a fireball erupting in his front seat due to sloppy handling on the humans' part.
Once the fuel drums were loaded, Swindle glanced at Big Al again. "Is the other item ready?"
Big Al frowned. "Almost. We used all the materials you provided and followed your schematics to the last wire, but it's an awfully strange design—fact of the matter is, it simply doesn't work. You'd need some serious explosive payload in the chamber to set that thing off."
"It doesn't work? Let me see." The schematic Swindle had provided was a modified version of one of Brawl's ideas—untested, to be sure, but all of the design principles were sound. Presuming the humans had correctly constructed it, the design should work precisely as intended.
Sighing, Big Al waved at his subordinates again. The same two handlers returned a few minutes later, dragging a man-sized cannon cobbled together from human technology and salvaged Vehicon parts. A third employee wheeled in a crate of steel spheres the size of golf balls.
Swindle verified the cannon's integrity with a detailed scan. It indeed matched his design, living up to Big Al's reputation for quality manufacturing. The holographic driver picked up one of the steel balls from the ammunition crate. By tossing it up and catching it, he estimated the weight from the force exerted on the hologram's hand. Solid steel, and a good alloy at that.
"Excellent. Mount it on the back," Swindle directed. While the front of his alt-mode had windows and doors like a car, the back seats were open to the air, and the raised weapon mount between the seats was the perfect size for this custom cannon.
Once the humans lifted the cannon onto his weapon mount, Swindle triggered a partial transformation of the surrounding mechanisms. Cybertronian circuits repurposed from a salvaged Vehicon blaster recognized Swindle's presence, streamlining the integration process. The cannon smoothly locked into his energon lines, subspace ammunition feedthroughs, and targeting subsystems. Swindle had transferred these relevant circuits to Big Al's subordinate without explaining their purpose. The humans—clever little creatures that they were—had followed Swindle's schematics well, unknowingly creating this successful hybridization of Earth and Cybertronian weapons.
The holographic driver posed next to the newly installed cannon. "How does it look?"
"Looks fancy, but it won't work." Big Al forced a smile. "We pride ourselves on helping customers find working equipment to suit their needs. I tell you, if it's artillery you want, you're much better off getting some of our tried and true automatics, military grade and everything. Or maybe a mortar? RPG?"
"Good point. With all the money you're getting, this cannon had better be up to spec." The holographic driver patted the cannon, producing a hollow clang that in no way resembled the sound of malleable human flesh hitting metal. Swindle readjusted the holo-projector settings and hoped that the humans had not noticed. "A practical demo would set both of our minds at ease. Is there a shooting range around here?"
The humans led Swindle to the back of the parking garage, where the floor had been cleared over a decent twenty-meter space. Human shaped targets were painted on a few empty crates near the far concrete wall. Swindle made a show of being guided there by the holographic driver, parking himself opposite the targets. He examined the makeshift shooting range with some disappointment.
"I'll leave out the buckshot for this demo," Swindle told the employee who had brought over the crate of metal balls. "Wouldn't want anyone getting hurt."
The skeptical expressions of the humans suggested that, if anyone would get hurt here, it was Swindle's holographic driver, who stood a good chance of blowing himself to pieces with a strangely designed cannon and two drums of jet fuel riding shotgun.
"You'll need gunpowder, at least. That thing isn't loaded," Big Al said, sounding hopeful. Naturally, as an arms supplier, he had plenty of gunpowder for sale at a very competitive price.
"No need." The holographic driver in Swindle's front seat pretended to press random buttons on the radio while the cannon swiveled to align with one of the targets. The cannon hummed with power, drawing pre-processed energon directly from Swindle's fuel lines. This form of purified energon could easily outperform any human-made gunpowder in terms of energy yield and destructive power. When the cannon charged to ten percent of full power, he fired.
A hexagonal array of energon pulses shot from the cannon, each one offset from the center by a small angle. Across the shooting range, a cone of superheated energon punched through the target and shredded the cement wall. Rubble scattered around the area. Compacted brown soil was visible beyond the hole in the concrete wall of the underground garage.
When the dust cleared, Big Al's mouth hung open. He turned toward Swindle's holographic driver with pure astonishment.
"How?"
"Trade secret, my friend."
"But—but this kind of destructive power—even if your Jeep has some kind of supercharged engine that you wired to the cannon—it isn't possible."
"It most certainly is. And schematics for a miniature handheld design can be yours, too, for the low, low price of three more fuel drums—if you manage to find more of the circuits I gave you for this one. I'm afraid those were a limited quantity item, and now they're all out of stock." Now it sounded like Swindle was the one selling the cannon, and not the other way around.
Big Al's fists clenched, a spark of rage flashing across his face. "Let's get one thing straight. I am selling. You are buying. Don't get cocky just because you're holding a big gun, kid. This is my domain, and you haven't paid for the merchandise yet."
Swindle chuckled. "Of course. Do forgive me. Old habits. Anyway, you have the cannon schematics. I'm sure that you'll figure it out eventually."
Fat chance of that ever happening. They would need to figure out how to refine energon first, which would probably take a few thousand years, given the current state of human technology.
"After seeing it in action, I've come to realize that the original asking price was… underpriced. Twenty grand, or the cannon stays with us." As Big Al spoke, his employees drew semi-automatic handguns from belts or concealed holsters. "Step away from your car, slowly, if you don't want to end up as Swiss cheese."
Swiss cheese indeed. Swindle had learned from the internet what happened to humans when they were shot. It was an extremely messy process, and Swindle was not confident that his holo-projectors could accurately replicate all the requisite gore without first-hand scans of reference material. He also had no wish to blow his cover, since that would attract the attention of Decepticon search parties.
The holographic driver stepped out, hands up, and slowly walked far enough away to keep Swindle himself out of the line of fire. Those copper bullets the humans favored might scratch up his paint, and he had treated himself to a full-frame repaint just yesterday. The tiny fingers of his holographic driver were surprisingly useful for fine detail work.
"That wasn't our deal," Swindle said, scowling through the holographic driver's supremely malleable faceplates. "We agreed on five thousand for the fuel and the cannon. Twenty is highway robbery!"
Big Al smiled. "We all have to make a living somehow. You do like living, don't you?"
The henchman at Big Al's right side cocked his gun in warning.
Swindle sighed. "You drive a hard bargain. Fine. All of my money is in the trunk. Take twenty grand, but the cannon stays with me. The fuel and buckshot, too."
One of Big Al's goons poked meaty fingers around Swindle's back side, searching for a manual trunk release. Since his alt-mode was a Jeep, and thus did not have a trunk, Swindle obligingly popped open a storage compartment instead. Inside were piles and piles of cash—coincidentally, an exact amount of twenty thousand Brazilian reais in cash. The goon whistled.
"It's all here." They unloaded all of the cash and heaved the crate of steel balls into its place. As soon as the trunk was closed, Swindle shunted all of the balls into a subspace ammunition pocket.
"Pleasure doing business with you. If you need more goods, you know who to call," Big Al said, flashing the smuggest grin that Swindle had ever seen on a human face. He saved a 3D image capture of the sight in his memory banks for later analysis.
"The pleasure is all mine." Swindle's holographic driver returned an appropriately cowed grimace, slowly climbed into the front seat, and drove off. On the way out, Swindle wirelessly hacked into the cameras in the underground garage, calling up the video feeds on his internal display.
Once Swindle emerged from the underground parking garage, he parked near the old man reading a newspaper. With his windows rolled up, there was no more need to keep the holographic driver active. Swindle switched it off and focused his attention on a camera with a good view of Big Al's group and the cash.
Big Al reclined on a chair with three of his employees, drinking black liquid from a mug. They watched the other three henchmen paw through the pile of money, counting every last banknote. One man finished counting his portion of the cash and laughed.
"It's all here. Seven grand. Add in your piles, and that makes twenty, easy. What an idiot. Paid twenty grand for less than five worth of fuel and ammo, plus that weird cannon thing."
"Paid everything in hard cash, too," a second chimed in, almost done with his own pile. "None of that foreign currency nonsense the last guy tried to pull."
The third counter worked more slowly, taking the time to inspect each banknote. He turned to the others with a frown. "Something's wrong with this cash. It doesn't smell right."
"Who cares how it smells—hey, stop that!" The one with the mustache swatted him upside the head. "Why are you licking the money, moron? You're supposed to be counting it, not drooling on it. Any cash soaked with your spit is coming out of your pay."
The second counter held a banknote up to the light. "It looks fine to me. Has the right watermarks and everything."
Indeed, the money looked fine… but that was the whole point of a hologram. Chuckling to himself, Swindle deactivated his holo-projector.
Fifteen thousand Brazilian reais disintegrated into thin air before Big Al's very eyes. The humans lunged for the disappearing money with cries of dismay, but those fifteen thousand had been mere hard-light holograms the entire time. All that remained in their grasp was a paltry five thousand in real paper money.
Never let it be said that Swindle was not an honest businessmech. He had kept up his end of the deal.
