One morning in early September, the residents of Newport, Montana woke up as usual and, around breakfast tables and diner counters around town, might have read a little of the following article, barely a snippet of news, buried far in the Classifieds on page 14 of the Newport Guide:
|
NEWPORT - Local residents of Newport may have been given yet another reason to worry anew over their close proximity to Oregon, a stricken neighbour living in a perpetual state of fear since it became the official bivouac of the occupying Autobot robots. Since June 8, many residents have spotted an unfamiliar military jet - which several local aviators and aviation enthusiasts have identified as an F-16 Falcon - making low passes over the empty countryside surrounding the town. Although no reports of hostile behaviour on its behalf have yet been documented, its appearance has been viewed by many as a reasonable cause for fear. In a country living in terror of invading robots that can assume the shape of nearly any of our machines apparently at will, the sudden arrival of any military vehicle in a town as small as Newport seems ample proof for suspicion.
|
The valley was a small one. It cut east to west along the sloping foothills of the Rocky Mountains. It eventually disgorged itself into a gravel river bed a little east of the Idaho border. It was so isolated amidst the great, ragged swatches of blue-black pine trees that only from a distance could you make out the gradual change where the urban fringe ended and the forest gulped up the unclaimed land beyond it.
A few signs still pointed towards suburbia, however. An old blacktop state road spattered with tar and cracked potholes ran between the hills. A weed field spat up scraps of garbage and then turned over into the back lot of a Texaco gas station. There was a small lunchroom where the road grew broad and divided into a two-lane highway, and a hamburger stand had fastened onto the entrance drive like a remora to a shark, its tires dug deep in the gravel verge. A long line of billboards and road signs carried traffic back into town, and along the side of the highway was an idle garage with a convenience store tacked on like an afterthought. And that was it.
To the west the Rocky Mountains were just a faint outline against the empty sky. In the summer the entire area between their rounded foothills and the garage baked quietly beneath the yellow sun, ripe with green and yellow grass, food refuse and garbage. Thick, shimmering waves of heat, exhaust, and gasoline filled the air. Now in September the sky was overcast with a high ceiling of thin grey clouds. The heat was still there, but the humidity smelt of rain rather than the reek of a sweaty intersection. The roads were largely empty, although a few cars still buzzed across the highway. The air felt sleepy, moist, and ugly. A sullen, unseen menace seemed to hang over the place where civilization gradually shrank back against the face of the pine forest, a voiceless warning that took over where the trees ate the land without swallowing.
A little further back along the foothills was the valley itself. It was hidden, within the heart of the hostile forest. Two broad-shouldered hills cropped thick with trees muscled in on it protectively from both the north and south, making it a natural gorge through which an old river had once flowed with digested rain running down off the slopes. Nearly fifty years ago the waters had dried however, and now the valley was little more than narrow strip of dusty, pebbled grassland that covered the long stretch of ground between the hills. It wasn't much wider than one hundred feet wide at its broadest point, and measured roughly half a mile in length. To the east it tapered into the treeline, and several miles to the west it eventually wound down into a shallow salmon river.
The northern hill was a gentler slope than the other, and the trees growing at its foot were mostly elm with a few watery cedars mixed in, all thin and grey, exhausted from insects and sunlight. The southern side of the valley had been taken over by a robust forest of red pines. It made a sharp treeline at the edge of the field, for it had been cut back by the telephone company in order to make way for a twin row of gigantic hydro towers that now dominated the valley with a grotesque, unnatural majesty. Steel cables snapped tight under thousands of pounds of pressure shot down the entire length of the valley and disappeared over the tops of the trees to the east and west. In the evening air the metal titans hummed with electricity, and most animals running wild in the area instinctively avoided them with the same leery caution of children around an electric fence. Weeds took refuge within the tall grass growing strong beneath the towers, flourishingly wildly; great clumps of yellow mustard and goldenrod and thistle and white-topped milkweed exploded out of the ground which, like a ditch, was slightly damp where the undergrowth grew so thick that their shadows rarely needed to retreat from the expiring glare of the mid-afternoon sun.
Aside from the towers there were few signs of human life; there were no damp leaves of newspaper falling apart with rot caught in bushes, or discarded bottles with soiled labels lying lonely in the grass or aluminium cans stripped silver and scoured from the elements, or even burnt stubs of cigarette butts dropped in amidst the gravel underfoot. The usual detritus of even the most conscientious backpacker was nowhere in sight, and it seemed as if any intruders upon the towers rarely came on two legs.
The valley was not totally cut off from civilisation, however. Years ago the hydro company had cut a path through the trees to the south, and laid down a road so that their heavy trucks could travel the miles separating the field from the main highway. It had never been paved and remained little more than a rutted gravel strip overgrown with ferns and moss. Overhead the trees closed in and little sunlight filtered through them, so deep springs beneath the ground kept the earth damp even during the late afternoon hours. Humidity and insects hung in the air like a curtain. About midway along its length there was a small bridge that rattled its boards whenever a car passed over it, and at the entrance by the highway was a rusting iron gate that was never closed. Other than that, the road was entirely unremarkable.
Beyond it the land lay still. Being caught between the hills and the hydro towers meant that the valley was remote, and it carried about it the air of a forgotten room in a much grander mansion. Even the wind became subdued when it dropped into the gorge, sounding like a thousand rattling nails in the bone-dry grass as it obliquely blew across the field. There were tire treads pressed into the ground where the earth stood dry and dusty around the concrete bases of the towers, but they were very old tracks, and had become partially baked into the hard mud. The valley field was flat, yellow, and barren, apart from an entomological cocktail of insects breeding furiously in the tall grass. It was broad and exposed enough to encourage animals to skirt around it rather than risk stepping into plain view, and offered little cover for shelter; most predators disliked crossing the open ground directly beneath the wires anyway. Even visits from the hydro company were rare, as the towers did not require either repairs or servicing often, save for in the wake of the very worst weather, when debris could be blown against the wires and damage them. More often than not the area between the hills remained isolated from outside intruders.
In this circumstance, however, 'more often than not' did not in include today.
A grey jet was closing in on the field from the north at a clipped pace, cruising so low that waves of noxious jetwash blasting out from its engine were buffeting the tops of the trees it passed, churning up a furious wake of bark and needles. On a scissoring path it cruised in towards the southern tree line, instantly silencing the cicadas lurking in the grass. It coasted gently over the top of the hydro wires in a leisurely manner that subtly suggested that something totally alien from the usual physics was actually keeping it aloft. As if to further snub its nose in the face of gravity it made several impossibly slow circuits overhead, casually circling over the field in lazy orbits as if searching for something, before it rolled over onto its back and tumbled down like a leaf in November.
A small aircraft by most military standards, but nevertheless a monstrously large object plummeting from the sky, it managed to flit between the lines of hydro wires as if nothing more than a sparrow. Before it could put an end to the spectacle it was making by smashing unceremoniously into the ground as any proper jet should have, it flipped in midair and swiftly unfolded into a lanky grey robot that briefly flared thrusters in its heels before touching down lightly on two burnt patches in the grass.
The robot was silent for a moment, standing stock still, as if savouring the drama.
"Ahoy," it finally said.
Silence. For a long time nothing happened. Clouds blew over the sun, the sky turned to the colour of lead and the air chilled; the birds perched up high on the hydro wires suddenly darted down to treetop level and disappeared through the woods to the far east. Then the black pines of the southern treeline swayed unsteadily, their tips lashing at the sky as they shed needles nervously. There was a sound of a very large body smashing its way through the distant brush, and a cacophony of crackling wood as trees snapped unseen in the forest. A low rumble rolled out across the ground, making the leaves quiver and the branches dance. And then another followed. And another. And another, until a slow and steady pulse of footfalls could be discerned, rhythmically drumming out the approach of some great beast-
A red robot poked its head out from between the trunks.
It gave the thumbs-up sign.
"No problem," it said, and its voice rang with triumph.
The first punched a fist into the air.
"Primus above, thanks from the grateful," it crowed. "I didn't know what we were gonna do if it didn't work."
"Go home?" said the red one dryly.
"There was no interference at all?" said the grey robot. It glanced back at the twin rows of ugly hydro towers marching grimly across the landscape.
"Nadda, zilch, nothing," said the red robot. "Not even a whisper of static. You weren't kidding when you said that equipment packs a hefty punch."
The other laughed. "Hey, it doesn't look like much, but it got me through the storm season back on Diagalus, didn't it? Now hoof it over, Big Red, I'm coming back in. I feel positively naked out here. Evil eyes are everywhere on this damn planet."
An interesting struggle took place as both robots tried to squeeze in through the pine trees at once, one in reverse and the other ploughing forward.
"It's not that bad," the red robot continued once they'd both crashed back into the cover of the forest. "Strategically speaking, we've done pretty good for ourselves. I can still receive your transmissions despite some fearsome interference, the Autobots are miles and miles away, they can't pick up any of our radio signatures thanks to those things sitting in the open out there, those- what did you call them, again?"
"Hydro towers," said the grey robot absently, more concerned with picking broken branches out of the chinks in his frame.
"-Hydro towers, thank you. And since we arrived there hasn't been a human in sight. How can you complain?"
"Are you kidding?" said the grey robot, and chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "I was poking around the field out there earlier, and the ground is just littered in those little plastic shotgun shell cases. Somebody's been hunting around here."
"I saw them too," said the other. "And your eye for detail is a little off, Deuceball. They're all so worn and beat up and tramped into the mud they've gotta be at least a year old. Relax, buddy. Nobody's here."
The grey robot gave him a long-suffering look as they stomped through the trees. "Ace, babe, I know you're no rookie at this, but I've been doing this foreign correspondence crap for millions of years now, in a thousand different galaxies with more freak quirks of culture and nature than you can shake a stick at, and in my experience when you're hashing it out on a foreign planet anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and usually in a very spectacular fashion."
His optics wandered distastefully over the immediate scenery as they stepped from the forest. The two robots were standing in the middle of a small clearing that had evidently been made when several very large objects had beaten and stomped back the woods with a vigorous show of force. Smashed branches dangled limpidly from battered pines, and whole trees had been snapped in half to make more room, the exposed wood standing out fresh and white against the black forest beyond. The earth underfoot was damp and mired, the ferns trampled down and the loose debris cast down from the trees crunched into smaller pieces and scattered. Watery sunlight slanted down between the gaps in the thick canopy far overhead; motes of dust and tiny insects drifted aimlessly through the beams, and every now and then a few dry orange needles would detach themselves and lazily helicopter down to earth. The air smelt briskly of pine and sap, and the tops of the trees far above rocked gently, their needles rustling together with a soothing sound.
The clearing was roughly circular. At the far end there was a heavy metal generator half-hidden beneath the green skirts of a low-squatting fir tree. Several thick coils of cable octopused out from sockets around its base, slithering through and over the compacted underbrush to connect to other strange pieces of equipment scattered around the edge of the trees: a small control panel with dials and switches on it, a small antennae, and a microphone with a headset thrown carelessly beside it. Finally, ropes of cable climbed the trunk of a nearby pine like reluctant creepers and grounded themselves into a stiff metal rod fastened to the tree, pointed obliquely towards the sky, cleverly hidden within a bushy growth of needles. The scene it made seemed to give off the quiet air of a camping trip.
"This place isn't going to be earning itself any beauty points anytime soon," said the grey robot. "At least it looks a little more organized when you're flying over it, else I'd be washing my hands of the whole deal."
Ace gave his partner an apprehensive look. "I hope you uploaded some maps of this region before getting off Sirius' ship, Deuce."
"Relax guy, it's all taken care of. I nabbed them before I left, so you don't have to worry about losing me over the goddamn-"
His words faltered as he did a quick recall. "-The goddamn Rocky Mountains, or anything."
"That's one plan down the tubes.".
Deuce savagely hurled himself down onto a clump of pine trees. Ragged splinters and snapped off needles exploded out in all directions, hosing down the rest of the immediate vicinity with debris. The grey robot leaned back against the branches and extended his legs out far in front of him, lacing his fingers together over his midsection, looking for all the world like a tall man lounging idly in a beat up bean bag chair.
"Comfortable?" said Ace.
"Not really. I've got some mother of a stump digging into my back like you wouldn't believe."
The other robot laughed at that. He dropped to his haunches next to the generator. "Well, we're going to be camped out here for a while, so feel free to redecorate as convenience dictates."
"Great, I'll throw up some drapes," Deuce drawled. "Whatcha doin'?"
"Hiding the generator a little better. It catches the light when the sun comes down through the trees, stands out like a sore thumb. I figured I'd just drag it over where the underbrush gets thicker and, I don't know, throw some branches and stuff over it."
"I suggest burying it," said Deuce.
"We're not burying it."
"Why not? That seems the proper rugged survivalist thing to do."
The red robot gave him a dour look. "Have you actually sampled the soil here yet? It's amazing how much water this planet is made up of. A couple cycles in the ground and it would rust out faster than a cheap Stratos."
"Ooh, I bought one of those once, back before the war," said Deuce. He grimaced in disgust. "It was a sporty little thing, but five years later the displacement bar rusted solid after an acid shower and fell out while I was flying back from covering the district primaries in Lithtate. I had to dump it off at a Triapolis lot and flag down a passing shuttle back to the city before I could be arrested for littering."
"Rough luck."
Deuce shrugged. "Not really, 'cause I wrote it off through E-Bit. Their accountants never did seem quite as fond of me after that, though."
"Primus knows my editor gives me an evil look if I tried to slip anything past him on my statements," said Ace, tentatively pushing and tugging the generator out into a new position for easier access. "Where do you think I should dump this thing?"
Deuce surveyed the clearing with a critical eye. "I see some fairly robust looking bushes over there."
"Good enough," the red robot said, and squatted like a weightlifter in front of the generator.
"Lift with your knees," Deuce suggested helpfully.
Ace complied, and let out a pained groan when the heavy device sagged gratefully into his arms. His spinal column felt as if it were two seconds away from compacting into itself like an aluminum can. His pelvic structure seemed ready to fuse with his legs. Blinding explosions were going off in front of his optics like fireworks.
"That's the way," said Deuce.
"Gyuh," Ace replied wittily.
"I wish my boss had allowed me to bring along at least one photographer," Deuce griped, leaning back and crossing his legs at the ankles. "It's a lot easier splitting this kind of work between three guys than two."
"Can't," Ace grunted, staggering under the weight of the generator while ropey cable dragged along the ground behind him. "Developing planet. No illegal recording."
"I know. What a pain in the ass. Lousy monkeys."
From his reclining seat in the trees Deuce watched his partner agonizingly manhandle the blocky device across the clearing. Finally he said, "Need some help with that?"
"It's all good," Ace wheezed, and dropped the generator into a bush.
One of Deuce's fists was resting comfortably on the flat top of a broken stump; the thumb shot up in a seal of approval. "Lookin' good, Big Red. Now you just need to drag some crap overtop of it and nobody will ever know it's there."
"I'll do it later," Ace gasped, sinking to the ground. "Much later, when my back stops exploding."
"Suit yourself," said the other robot magnanimously. "So, who'd you say you're writing for?"
"The Underground," said Ace, turning his head back and forth to work out a crimp in the mechanics of his neck. He smoothed his hand over the metal plating for a minute, and then let it drop into his lap. "The staff has been chopped nearly in half since the war started, but I know some guys who still work there and they managed to shuffle me aboard without attracting any notice. They're putting together a whole series on the foreign invasions and Earth's getting the spotlight as the newest conquest."
He blew out a dismal sigh and added, "Providing, of course, that the project doesn't get stomped down by the Autobots back home as 'objectionable material' before even getting started. You?"
"Plastic Fantastic," said Deuce casually.
Despite himself, Ace perked up at the name and listened curiously. Plastic Fantastic was one of the most popular galzines in space, one that ostentatiously targeted its reports to the sleek and the stylish and the politically and culturally savvy. Because it was based on an autonomous planet bought out by the company itself, and extended its influence in constant spacenet communication between servers erected on moons and dead planets scattered throughout the galaxies, it could write and comment on whatever its staff pleased without fearing any sort of government or official reprisal. As such, it had earned a hearty reputation for attracting some of the most prolific and acerbic writers known throughout civilised space, particularly those whose candour had earned them a swift banishment from their original home worlds and powerful political enemies beyond that. Blacklisted writers were a prize to be sought after above all others within its nebulous sphere of information and influence.
As a result, their journalists were famous throughout civilized space for their wit and audacity, and for the fact that they didn't just hoist their personal freak flag, but wore it as a toga to all the best parties. Deuce, his careless mouth, his unhappy hordes of personal enemies and the extremely illegal peril-spray he subsequently kept close at hand in subspace would have been welcomed with open arms, Ace reasoned dryly. "Plastic Fantastic? Nice. I thought they weren't interested in coverage of the Cybertron war, though. Too mundane, I heard."
Deuce shrugged. "Eh, they weren't originally, but then it got taken to Earth. Now there's the whole 'human element' angle to cover, and my editors are totally eating it up, not just for the discovery of a primitive new species, but the fact that this new brand of organic is now involved in our war against its own will. Viewers totally dig that sort of sick, voyeuristic stuff, apparently."
"So they sent you to check it out?"
Deuce mimicked a pair of guns with his hands and pointed them at the other robot. "Ba-boom. You just nailed it, bro. They figured I was the best guy for the job, being Cybertronian and everything. When I mentioned I've already been blacklisted by the Autobots for several reports I did previously on the war, man, they all but bullied me into taking it."
His expression grew obnoxiously smug. "Extended my contract for another two thousand years, even. Yoink. Do I kick ass, or what?"
Ace drew up his legs and gave him an amused look from his seat on the ground. He had only known the grey journalist for the past two months. They'd been introduced to one another back on a foreign studio on a foreign moon, and shortly afterwards had discovered that they shared a mutual story that was slowly unfolding on a small blue planet neither of them had ever heard of before. They had decided to team up together to make the voyage to Earth shortly after that, partly in order to split the expenses of crossing that much space, to cover the rental cost of the equipment they would need, and partly for the safety two pairs of optics and sensors could provide for two civilian bodies stranded on a planet occupied by a hostile force embroiled in war. Previous to that chance encounter the entity known as Deuce had only existed to Ace as a blistering column of words shot as invisible bands of data through the cold depths of space, one that was looking for just the right kind of outrage to connect with.
During the long flight to Earth he'd taken the opportunity to warily size up the other journalist from the corner of his eye, well aware that Deuce was doing the exact same thing. Along the way he'd discovered that the grey Neutral had an unusual gift that had a chance to manifest itself every time they made a stop during the trip: an almost unconscious ability to absorb local culture like a sponge, from its traditions and customs and political climates right down to the slightest nuances of speech and grammar and language. He was a... a chameleon, a talented mimic, but one that didn't copy the colour of its surroundings so much as it adopted them as its own. It was a valuable skill that often left him completely unrecognisable to his own species, one that had probably gone a long way in earning the journalist his infamous reputation as a clever freak, totally alien even on his own home planet.
During their first week on Earth Deuce had promptly sent out his feelers and done little more than fasten himself like a leech to whatever outlets the local human culture provided. A few days later he'd already talked like a native of the planet, perfectly camouflaged in mind, if not in body. Ace was a respected scholar himself, but even he couldn't adapt even halfway as quickly. He couldn't help but admire his eccentric partner, and recognise the advantages Deuce's newfound expertise on the planet provided, even if he didn't understand half of what the other journalist was saying at times.
"You lucked out there," said Ace. "Chances are I'll be lucky to find myself still employed after this job, considering the survival rate of Neutral literature on Cybertron."
"Stick with me and I'll hook you up at PF," said Deuce carelessly. "The pay's pretty good, and you get to travel all over space and meet all sorts of different and interesting species that'll likely make a spirited attempt to kill you at some point or another."
"Oh," said Ace with a vast lack of enthusiasm. "Boy."
Deuce gave him a curious look. "You did most of your writing on Cybertron?"
"Yeah, before this. There's a lot of stuff that desperately needs to be said there."
"Mmm. Well, buck up. Off-planet correspondence may get pretty hairy when you're bunkered down knee-deep in boiling sludge inside a shelled-out row of muddy trenches two miles ahead of the front line on the Avarada warfront, patiently typing out your column beneath the heady glare of the anti-aircraft fire on a malfunctioning datapad begged off of some cheeky scamp in the sports department because that cheap little corporal with an evil three-eyed squint back at the press tent hates you for accidentally backing your ship into his anti-grav jeep at the dispersal and therefore wouldn't lend you a pencil and a sheet of paper to save his life, all for the sake of some dope back at Fantastic who thought that 'WAR KILLS' would make a really keen headline for the next edition - but at least you die young."
"Great!" Ace enthused. "I think I'll go shoot myself for bringing this up."
Deuce laughed at that, slapping his hands down over his thighs.
Ace grinned and decided that this line of conversation was worth pursuing after all. "You must have seen your fair share of ghastly slag on other planets," he said.
"Oh hell, yeah," said Deuce. "Some of the stuff I've seen would curl your cables."
"For the sake of comparison, what would you say was one of the worst experiences?"
They grey robot thought hard for several minutes, staring off into space. "Well, there was this one incident I've been trying to forget that took place about two hundred years ago, back on Gosgard- you know Gosgard, right?"
"Sure," said Ace. "Pretty planet, ugly people."
Deuce let out a short bark of laughter. "You've got that right. Well, back then I was on the job for Fantastic, and one of the photographers was travelling with me, ostentatiously to capture images but more likely there to keep me honest. He was a nice guy, so I'll forgive him either way."
The grey robot scratched his chin pensively. "We were assigned to cover a big electoral debate that was supposed to happen between the top swine of the three provinces that were vying for official residence of Presidency that year- Primus only knows why folks back on Cybertron were interested in recording the whole hoopla, but you know how boring things used to get at home after the Autobots took over. Anyway, these three big, self-important Gosgard cats had not only collected every minor dignitary and government official on the planet they could get their mitts on, but invited all sorts of press critters from some of the more influential planets in the area to whoop it up at the Four Hundred Day Capital, and we were the undeclared Cybertronian delegation. You wouldn't believe some of the familiar faces wearing press credentials that had hauled themselves out to see this shindig: those three Beleese pricks from The Star were there, and I spotted Riggert cruising around the crowd at one point, looking like somebody'd dug him out of hibernation early- Primus, even The Letter O was there, reading palms or some stupid shit like that."
"The press prophet?"
"Yeah, that's the guy. He drives me insane. I always seem to run into him during the post-parties after he's osmosised up some drinks and he always predicts I'm either going to die or go blind within the next vorn. Anyway, this was the first year I'd attended the debate, so I didn't know what the hell was going on. I remember that for all the glitter and posh there was something funny in the air at the time, a sort of tenseness you get when there's a bad secret that you don't know about yet, but everyone else does, and they're collectively trying to pretend that you never will. The whole time I was there I had this nagging feeling that all I really wanted was to just to cover this thing with minimal fuss, grab my by-line, a couple quotes, and cut the evening short before whatever was making all the natives so nervous popped up for an unfriendly 'hello'."
He shrugged. "But you know how those things get: eventually you start to forget what's important in favour of what's drifting past you on a tray. My photographer and I, we're talking, we're shmoozing it up with the bigwigs because we privately hate our jobs and want these guys to get really drunk and set us up with something cushy and governmental, people are blundering around into each other, nobody knows where the washrooms are, I'm making a serious effort not to step on any of the smaller species while trying to figure out where they hell they might be serving some sort of energon, if I should look in the press tents or cross the square and try sneaking past the guards at the Delegate Wing and crash the private party that's going on in there, and suddenly there's a big flash at the north end of the square and a sharp retort, and the next thing you know there's bits of dead organics texture-coating the scenery and people are screaming and after a shocked pause everything starts stampeding in the opposite direction and you have no idea what's going on because five seconds ago the only thing that was on your mind was if the Defense Minister's wife actually holographs her hair or if it's for real."
Ace sucked in a sympathetic hiss. "I think I see where this is going."
"Here's a hint," said Deuce. "It starts with a "c" and ends with a "p" and has lots of dead people in between."
"I remember passing over an article once talking about recent problems on Gosgard," Ace mused. "There was a rebel faction in one of the North Sea Power countries that the local government was trying to stomp down because it was attempting to replace the old Passive administration with a Proactive regime. There had been some bloodshed over the whole thing, a few nasty skirmishes between the rebels and government forces - I didn't think it would ever escalate beyond that, it rarely does."
"Well, at least I can say I knew for certain where my back was when the revolution came: it was running like hell for the exit," said Deuce grimly.
"Primus. I think I remember reading about this. So, what happened?"
Deuce shrugged. "Well, to make a long story much shorter, the whole thing was orchestrated by the same faction you're thinking of, only it's a lot bigger that anyone ever suspected. I guess originally these rebels were just aiming for the head of the third Presidency candidate, the one they had a serious grudge against - but then they got there and realised that hey, the other two candidates would be just hanging around the party anyway, and they got ambitious and decided it might be nice to cut off three heads with one stroke."
He made a violent motion in the air with his hands. "So they swooped in, killed a bunch of people, and seized power, all in sixteen hours, then sat back and declared themselves in charge and that the surviving members of the old government and all of its friendly correspondents were now wanted war criminals, whether they were military supporters or civilians, or even just foreign visitors or members of the press - which is a bit overdramatic, I mean, war criminals, but what are you gonna do. These guys were totally serious about cutting the ties to the old regime completely, and they were out to kill anyone even remotely connected to the government they'd just overthrown. Which was insane considering that the majority of the people who had come out to see the debate were just low-ranking bigwigs or ether-chasing minor officials and visiting tourists there for the free buffet - but that's the inconvenient thing about a coup: they're rarely very precise, and this one was no exception. It was just one big desperate sweep made by desperate people and was intended to bring about maximal results with minimal collateral damage, and all sorts of poor souls got sucked into it accidentally."
"What about the army?"
Deuce made a disgusted face. "Traditionally on Gosgard the Confederate Army is a strictly neutral entity that follows whoever is in charge. They don't have much imagination, so they don't distinguish too clearly between a legitimate head of state and some smug little anarchist with blood on his hands. Besides, everything happened too fast. Anyone dumb enough to be loyal was rounded up before they could move."
Ace laced his fingers together over his knees and rested his chin on top of them, listening with great interest. "What did you do?
"Mostly just followed the crowd with my photographer," said Deuce, wincing in memory. "We robots gotta stick together, and neither of us liked the idea that a rebel with a laser might get a good long look at us and start having some thoughts about the neat things they could make out of our corpses, like blast shields or abstract sculpture. It was pretty awful, because nobody was stopping for anything, and all the smaller species were getting crushed underfoot. I'm not a small guy, but even I was nearly trampled when this massive Andromedan jackass wearing a Lilliwall press badge - figure that one out! - became so crazed with fear that he started ploughing through whatever was in his path. So in the middle of this carnage my photographer and I decided we'd be terribly clever and follow the biggest dignitary we could find in the crowd, figuring that they were bound to have some sort of military protection or a squad of armed guards that might be overwhelmed enough with horror and the bonding spirit of camaraderie against shared adversity to take a few badly rattled journalists in under their wing."
"So we latched onto this one guy who looked pretty important - he kept hysterically screaming 'international incident' the whole time we were with him, and later I found out he was actually the former Gosgard Foreign Affairs Minister. He bolted straight for the Delegate Wing when the shooting started, and the guards outside the building were so badly distracted that they didn't bother trying to kick us out when we ran in with him. Next thing I know we're being ushered down into the basement and unceremoniously herded with about three-dozen other survivors, mostly press and civilian, through a couple big doors before being jammed into a natural rock cave with a sharp drop at the far end extending some three hundred feet down into the belly of the planet."
"Emergency tunnels?" Ace hazarded.
"Made just in case this sort of unpleasantness ever happened. It's nice to know that somewhere along Gosgard's history was a ruler with foresight, or at least a healthy dose of paranoia."
"How long were you stuck down there?"
Deuce's face creased with the effort of recall. "About a week, to use their reckoning. We must have stumbled along for a couple miles before hitting the first quarter station. Gosgardians aren't a very big species in general, so my photographer and I were stooped the entire time. I must have ripped at least three seperate cord bundles in my back from being forced to walk in that position, and at one point my photographer cracked his head against a rock jutting down from the ceiling, so badly it left a dent the size of his fist. To make matters worse they had Persplex lighting installed overhead, but a generator must have been shot out at some point, because after a couple hours the whole thing went blacker than the Great Crevice at midnight, and as the only species capable of self-illumination we were shoved up to the head of the line to grope out a path."
"Nice."
"Oh, it gets better," Deuce assured him. "Apparently the rock this insane cave was made of was still holding a thirty billion year old electromagnetic charge, one that dated back to the first days of the planet's creation, back when it was nothing more than a big damp hunk of rock swirling through space. A massive iron ore comet or something carrying the original charge flew past the planet and passed on the charge, which jump-started the creation of teeny little nano-bacteria that eventually spawned into all sorts of interesting critters."
He shrugged. "That's how they've got it written in their history and religion, anyway. Personally I'm more inclined to blame the birthin' of life on the rusting of iron flakes that were shed from the comet and sucked into the planet's atmosphere than something silly like electromagnetism, but hey, how are you gonna argue against both history and religion?"
"Anyway, to get to the point, my photographer was smart and had read about the electromagnetic charge held by the indigenous bedrock and had installed shielding against it before we left Cybertron, but I was a big dumb cockup and didn't do my research and went in entirely unprotected. A week stuck in those caves with a bunch of hysterical government officials and semi-drunk press members and curiosity seekers unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire while a hundred thousand tons of magnetic rock crushed in on me from every direction and my head was so scrambled I didn't know whether to shit or go blind."
Ace smiled benignly. He could only assume that was another colourful human saying, absorbed like culture into a sponge. "It must have been pretty bad."
Deuce threw up his hands. "You can only imagine it if you've been there. Thirty-plus organics gone completely insane with fear, knowing at any minute they might be found and killed - thirty-plus organics that don't stay clean very easily, might I also add - trapped two miles underground, crippled and betrayed, backs against the wall, milling about, terrified, nobody knows what the hell just happened or what to do next or who's even in charge anymore - and stuck right in the middle of this, getting screamed at no matter which way were turned, was my photographer and yours truly, and I'm too strung out on crazyrock to know which way points up, never mind figure out a way to get out. It was all too ugly to deal with, so my processor just shut down."
"What did you do?"
The other robot laughed bitterly. "I didn't! I let my photographer handle the whole mess, not that I could rouse the mental power to do much myself anyway. He eventually dove back into the mob and found out from somebody with their head still on straight that there was a tertiary shaft, curved like a bow, some two hundred feet beneath the cavern we were in that eventually led back up to the surface. He dragged me down the length of the whole thing like I was nothing more than another piece of equipment, and two cycles later he and I were back aboard our ship and limping into a service station on one of Gosgard's moons looking for someone cheap that could de-scramble my head."
He grimaced. "Much later on I did some tentative poking around and found out that we got off the planet just in time. The former rebels eventually discovered the caves before most of the poor swine inside could get their heads on straight, and dropped some gas pellets. The stuff wouldn't have hurt us, but the clean-up parties that descended afterwards to mop up whatever was left probably would have left a dent. Everyone they caught alive was either scrubbed up nice and sent home, if they were civilian visitors accidentally caught up in the violence, or shipped off for Perspecticution."
Despite himself, Ace had to chuckle. "Per-what?"
Deuce gave him a severe look.
"Yuck it up, man," he said sternly. "Perspecticution is seriously not cool, pal. It's like electrocution, only instead of one mother of an electrical shock, you get a strong blast of Infinity shot straight into your brain. It doesn't kill organics - just completely turns their frontal lobes into mush - but apparently it fries the circuitry within a modern computerized neural processor. Pow! Instant sludge! Melts it like a damn smelter. Needless to say, we were rather inspired to get out of that corner of the galaxy in a damn hurry when we spotted our names on their list of escaped war criminals."
"So I guess you're not going to be taking any trips to Gosgard anytime soon, huh?" said Ace, no longer smiling.
"Naw. Well, maybe. The rebels pulled off the coup all right, but by the time we turned tail and ran they hadn't figured out a new government to replace the old one yet. Immediately after the bloody mess the whole region was so destabilized a robust thunderstorm could have overthrown it. I haven't kept track of what has happened since I took off, but I'm willing to bet another government is in charge now, and has possibly erased all the old standing criminal records and made a whole lot of sincere apologies."
His expression grew wistful as he leaned back against the trees, his arms crossed behind his head. "That's what I'm hoping, anyway. Gosgard had some pretty gorgeous beaches I've started to miss in recent years. You haven't lived until you've gone solar-gathering on the City Cyris one. It's fifty miles long, totally baked into white glass, and sits directly on one of the planet's rotation points, so for half a vorn it's always in direct sunshine. Just awesome."
Deuce sighed lustily. His gaze burnt smoky memories into empty space as he stared across the clearing, a lopsided leer slithering his lips into obscene shapes. "I once spent a fifty-cycle vacation there back in the old days, and did nothing more than laze around in the sun, run up a monstrous tab at the wetware bars, and soak up energy like a damn solar lizard. By the time my allowance credit from E-Bit ran dry and the resort staff got nervous of looking at my face and kicked me off the beach, I was bleached as white as a bone and had sand scouring so bad down one side I could hardly walk straight for all the corrosion."
He suddenly propped himself up on one elbow and grinned like a shark. "I was with this cute little Neutral photographer I picked up on the way in to Gosgard at the time - she was supposed to be doing some freelance stuff for Fantastic, but had run out of credit halfway there and was hitchhiking out of a ship stop on one of the planet's moons - and when I crawled back to where I had parked my ship out on the Boardwalk she laughed so hard that I nearly kicked her out to fend for herself right then and there. Instead we spent the rest of the afternoon bunked in my quarters trying to repaint me. I tell you, that was the best four hours I ever spent in my life."
Ace was silent for a moment, and then he said in a pained voice, "How did we get to this line of conversation from you being a wanted war criminal?"
"Hey, you asked," said Deuce, unperturbed.
"Earth seems a little less daunting now," said Ace, adroitly changing the subject.
"And anytime you find yourself thinking otherwise, just grab your nuts and thank your lucky stars that it isn't a cave under Gosgard. I still jump online some nights with the screaming horrors thanks to that damn planet."
Deuce slouched down further into the trees and gave the dark forest around them a long, moody glare. As if on cue, two crows began a noisy rapport someplace beyond the hydro towers, calling harshly across the field. A thin wind whistled keenly through the valley, stirring the needles, and the clouds swirled aimlessly overhead.
"Well, this place looks pretty tame in comparison, if you ignore the Autobots. And hey, look, it's only, what-?" Ace did some fast calculations. "-a year we're stuck here? Sirius said he'd swing by again around that time to check up on us, and if things are really bad we can hop a lift out of here with him."
"Rar," said Deuce, unconvinced.
Ace gave him a puzzled look. "Surely Fantastic plans on keeping an eye on your well-being?"
"Oh, sure," said Deuce darkly. "They gave me this."
He plucked a tiny, flat black box from subspace and held it distastefully between his thumb and index finger, like a society lady who has just picked up something dead and unpleasant. Even from that distance Ace could spot the little acid yellow serpent that was Plastic Fantastic's logo stamped on the bottom of the gadget, just beneath a neat row of sensor buttons and a miniscule liquid crystal screen.
"What is it?" said Ace, leaning forward, fascinated. "Homing device in case of an emergency?"
"I punch in a code, it automatically tells their server to stop paying credit to my account," said Deuce. "In the event the worst should happen, of course."
"Yeow. That's rough."
The other robot pocketed the device with a scowl. "For insurance purposes they don't rescue stranded journalists, no matter how dismembered."
"Ouch."
"I think its part of their Embarrassment Clause."
The other robot groped desperately for something a little more upbeat to say.
"It's not like we're facing a serious deadline here, or will be fighting the Autobots hand-to-hand ourselves," said Ace. "We're just here to record what happens and not get killed in the process, not win the war singlehandedly."
"Yeah, no pressure," said Deuce, staring up through the trees. "I just want to grab a story and get in a little altitude cruising. Maybe they've got some nice abandoned islands around here, or something. I could use a good solar recharge."
"I'd love to meet the locals," said Ace, a little mistily. "I haven't had the opportunity to meet very many foreign species on their native planet, and aliens on Cybertron tend to be a little stressed."
Deuce looked about himself with the air of one who is too polite to comment. "Huh. Well, I imagine that the humans were an interesting enough species once. It's a pity they're so horsewhipped now."
"It's not 'horsewhipped,'" said Ace, sitting up straight. "It's 'endangered.'"
An expression of concern and chagrin neglected to cross Deuce's face. "Tomatoe, tomato."
Ace didn't want to get into an argument over the subject while they were both were facing a self-imposed exile together in the middle of nowhere with no company other than their own, so he tactfully let the subject drop. A wall of silence immediately fell between them, like the curtain at the end of the show. Deuce continued to stare up at the sky, as if it were the most interesting sight in the world. Ace turned his gaze to the ground as he plucked up a small branch stripped of needles and jabbed the sharp, broken end into the soft earth by his feet, making random patterns through the thick mat of compressed undergrowth. Off in the far distance the crows continued their angry squabble, but it sounded as if they were now in flight; their guttural yodeling gradually receded as they chased each other off through unseen trees.
Deuce's suspicious voice cut through the silence. "What are you thinking about?"
"I'm not thinking of anything," said Ace, much too softly.
The grey robot's steady frown hardly looked convinced, and Ace winced internally.
"I was just mulling over how much I'd love to get an interview with an actual human," he admitted, falling back on his palms. "Get their perspective on a war fought long before their species ever existed, one they never would have known about it if fate hadn't dumped it onto their laps."
Deuce gave him a long, patient look from over the tip of his feet.
"Don't get your hopes up too high, buddy," he said. "Objective reporting, remember? We're here to get a story, not go crusading."
"Objective reporting?" Ace looked up. "There is no such beast, just a pretentious oxymoron."
"That is probably true," Deuce admitted, and extended his hands in a pleading fashion. "But let's just pretend, okay? Like we really believe it? In a year, or whatever, I want to get off this mudball alive, with all my bits intact, if you please."
"That seems an uncharacteristic display of self preservation. Aren't you the one who once referred to Magnus as swine for a Neutral report?"
"Ha! Yeah, it was a good lesson for him."
"I bet that's what he thought."
"All in the spirit of political dialogue."
"Yes," Ace agreed. "It makes impotent ghosts."
The other robot had to laugh at that. Ace smiled and stood up abruptly, gently brushing debris off of his legs with the flat of his hands.
"I'm going to go get in a little scouting. A little ground level scouting," he added quickly when Deuce opened his mouth. "Don't worry, I'll keep a low profile, stick to the backroads, refrain from voicing my political opinions and rallying the enslaved masses to open revolution."
"I was just going to ask you if you'd swipe me a newspaper," said Deuce bemusedly. "But sure, knock yourself out."
He dragged himself to his feet as well, and together the two robots wrestled their way out of the clearing to stand uncomfortably on the edge of the treeline, facing the open field. The hydro towers buzzed irritable electric warnings high overhead, and Ace shifted his weight from foot to foot in unease, feeling as though a great, inexorable mass was pressing down on him; the grass was full of spies he couldn't see, the sun was no longer just a solitary star in the sky, but a single, searching eye, blind and white but armed with a fierce and piercing stare that saw more than simple form.
Ace winced, and looked away. He couldn't think of anything appropriate or even remotely witty to say, so he simply dropped into his alternate mode, debated momentarily with himself about the prudence of honking his horn in farewell, and settled with simply revving his engine instead.
Deuce cupped his hands around his mouth as the red car began to crawl out awkwardly over the rough ground, his speed kept low to spare his suspension and his tires crunching through the gravel beneath the grass. He shouted, "I'll pull some branches over the generator while you're gone. When you get back it'll be so well hidden even Primus won't see it."
Ace spun his tires appreciatively.
"And I'm changing all the locks while you're gone!" the grey robot yelled in mock insult when the red car had rolled away a safe distance.
This time Ace did honk, a brassy, outraged sound amplified loudly in the empty valley.
The trailer was a small vehicle, maybe forty feet long and ten feet wide. It had once been white, but had long since faded to a shade of smoky grey from the clouds of diesel fumes it had encountered on many old trips on the highway, and from exposure to a wide variety of American northwest elements. The sides were sturdy and strong, however, and bore only a few small bumps and nicks and scratches that bore proud testament to careful use. A broad orange strip was stencilled down each flank and was also stained from smoke and dust, the paint chipped but still thick and tidy. The windows were shuttered for road travel and the yellow drapes inside drawn tightly closed. A green sunscreen was folded down over the right side and vibrated intensely against the wind.
Cruising ahead of it was a midsize forest green Toyota Tacoma, looking similarly road worn. It wasn't a large truck, but had heavy all-terrain tires that gripped the wet asphalt with ease, and had been jacked up so that it rode comfortably well above the blacktop, giving it a rugged rural appearance. An hour or so it had driven through a rain shower, and now the truck beat along the highway looking shiny and clean, with the wind of its passing blowing back a spray of leftover water still caught against the tailgate. The bumper was scratched and scoured, and bore a muddy Oregon licence plate.
Inside the cab of the truck it was warm and dry, if a little stuffy from the overworked heater. The seats were upholstered in a chequered green fabric worn smooth from use on the top, but still rough and coarse along the lower sides. They were well scrubbed and vacuumed, but bore small faded spots where something had been spilt and left to stain the material, and a faint sour smell of old coffee and powdered cleaner lingered in the air. A small rip beside the driver's side door had been inexpertly sewn with black thread, and left a puckered mark behind. Resting on the empty seat between the driver and passenger side, just behind the gearshift, was a mound of books and magazines and discarded clothing. The middle seatbelt lay twisted and tangled beneath it, and a crumpled map lay half folded overtop.
The vinyl dash was dusty and scratched, but swept clean where someone had frequently passed their hand over the flat surfaces to impatiently wipe away grime. Gauges for speed and engine temperature and gas levels flickered steadily behind the usual dirty glass. The controls for temperature and the radio were likewise smudged, and some of the letters printed in plastic had been worn clean away with use, particularly the buttons on the tape deck. Below that was a low shelf with two circular impressions for drinks; one held a near empty coffee cup. The other was packed with various human detritus: a pair of loose keys, several paper clips looped together, caramel candies half-fused with age, several dry old stamps, and a little wad of rock hard gum sealed tightly in its wrapper. Dirt and sand and lint had worked deeply in the corners of this cup, and a sticky ring of brown sludge at the bottom bore testament to its use as a beverage holder. On top the dashboard were several loose sheaves of paper anchored down with cassette tapes, and a couple uncapped pens rolled listlessly back and forth beneath them in obedience to inertia whenever the truck hit a curve in the road.
Hanging from the rear view mirror was a small collection of kitsch, including a pine tree air freshener that had long lost its scent. A little plastic skeleton hung itself next to the tree, and dangling below it was a tiny grey robot on a chain, arms raised and outstretched in an ominous fashion. Godzilla roared silently, and swung restlessly from his string loop, while beside him flapped an outdated parking permit. The sun visors overhead were folded up, and driver's side one had a thick wad of maps and vehicle information strapped to it with elastics. A pair of sunglasses had been poked into the papers by one arm, and someone had stuck a shiny silver sticker onto a corner of the visor next to it.
Inside the truck were two passengers. A young man was behind the wheel, his fingers gripping it tautly. Similar stress was reflected in his arms, in his hunched position, and in the harsh lines across his face. He had messy brown hair, kept short, and clear blue eyes, although the latter were slightly rumpled by crowfoot lines made from squinting tiredly at the road ahead. The splintered end of a toothpick drooped from his lowered lip; he'd already chewed out that end, and simply reversed it in his mouth so he could worry the opposite one. He was clean-shaven, if a little stubbly at the moment, and a little white scar was visible on the lower edge of his jaw, just to the left of his chin.
Like his hair, his clothing was quite bedraggled. He wore two T-shirts, a navy blue one overtop of a smaller white one that poked through at the collar. Both were sitting on his tall frame somewhat off-kilter, half stuck to the back of the seat with static. His bare arms were long and tanned and lean, his knuckles heavy and scarred, and his fingers strong. Although it was still September he wore a pair of scuffed brown corduroy pants that were neatly folded over a heavy pair of black hiking boots. A wristwatch with a braided leather strap and a neon blue face was lashed to his left wrist, and he frequently rolled his hand along the wheel to bring it into view for a quick glance.
A girl was slumped in the passenger seat. She was slim and blonde. Her coppery hair was well-brushed and soft, and roped back into a springy ponytail at the back of her head. Her face was clean and lightly freckled from the sun and free from makeup, but a certain polished shine to her lips suggested an impatient touch of gloss rather than chapstick. She wore a pair of round-lensed orange sunglasses over the bridge of her nose like a brigadier general, and the grey-eyed gaze that peered over the plastic rim was stony and focused. There was a hard set to the corner of her mouth that suggested a similar cool disinterest, an unsmiling look mirrored in lips and eyes.
She wore a plain white T-shirt that had slightly rumpled with use, and now rode down low over one shoulder where she'd sagged against the seat, revealing the thin and sensible strap of the white bra underneath. Her shorts were a scruffy pair of denim cut-offs that had been trimmed a modest length up her thigh. They were worn down to a faded milky blue colour from frequent washing and had little white flowers sew in thread at the top of each pocket. She also had a pair of simple sandals with cork soles that buckled onto the foot with by two crossing leather straps, although they had long been kicked off and left on the floor of the cab underneath the glove compartment. An hour ago she had been asleep, and while she had slept her bare feet had ridden against the edge of the seat with her knees pulled up to her chest, the toes crinkled and furrowed into the fabric to ward of a chill in the air the truck's heater had yet to dismiss. A thin band of leather with a single blue bead was tied to her left ankle.
For a little while after she'd woken up she'd simply leaned against the door and stared out the cab window with her forehead pressed against the glass, aimlessly watching the telephone poles go whipping past. For a half hour or so she might as well have fallen asleep again, but then she'd roused herself, bent over and tugged out her purse from underneath the seat. It had popped out from concealment within a shower of old chocolate bar wrappers and balled up bits of used Kleenex and Popsicle sticks; she'd brushed it off negligently and unzipped the front pocket with the nails of her thumb and index finger. A brief rummage through the papers inside, through crumpled old check books and business cards with people's phone numbers penciled on the back, through slim silver pill packages slightly rumpled with use and capless Bic pens and old train tickets and crinkly peppermint candy wrappers; then she pulled out a little bottle of baby blue nail polish smudged with ink and oil from her fingertips, unscrewed the lid, and swirled the timy brush attached through the paint left inside. With the air of one who has nothing better to do she'd leaned back in the seat, propped her bare feet up on the dash, and from then on spent the rest of her time diligently scraping the last bit polish from the bottle and applying it to her toenails with a peculiar attitude of methodical carelessness.
And as she painted every now and then whatever hand was free would creep down over the seat and her nimble fingers would raid a box of crackers sitting crosswise on the seat between the two occupants. This had not escaped the boy's attention, and after miles of silence he'd finally worked up the energy to speak up about it.
"You still want to stop for breakfast?" he said, eyes fastened on the road.
"Yep," she said. "I'm starving."
"I don't know why you're hungry. You've been eating animal crackers since you woke up."
"Yom," said the girl, and bit the head off of the last lion in the box.
"Thanks for saving me some."
She crunched it up and swallowed. "Alpha leaders eat first."
"Hey!" he protested. "Who scraped up the money for this trip? Who dug up the trailer?"
"My truck," she said. "My animal crackers."
And that was the end of that chapter.
The atmosphere inside the cab was tense. Both of its occupants were tired and worn from the road, although neither would admit it aloud. They had driven straight through the night, determined to make it over the border before dawn, which had left little time for sleep. There was also the problem of lodging; they had already been turned away from two other parks that morning, both of which were already packed with campers desperate to make the escape out of Oregon and Idaho. Only a couple hours ago they had pulled out from between the trees of the main drive at the Coeur d'Alene Parkway and crawled out onto the highway again under a blue cloud of exhaustion and dismay.
"Must be the busy season," the boy had remarked dourly as he spun the wheel to turn the heavy truck back out onto the county road.
The girl had only shrugged. "Nice time of the year for a mass exodus."
She'd then eyed a mud-spattered Dodge Ram limping tiredly into the park drive behind them, a beat up grey camper crouched over its box. "I wouldn't bother if I were you, buddy."
Eventually the pewter-grey morning had given way to the rosy glow of the early afternoon. Lumpy clouds were forming up to the west, glowing sullenly in the sun. The blacktop was still wet, and far ahead the asphalt shone near silver as the light struck it. A cockstail of mist sprayed up from the rear tires as the truck hissed along the highway, the trailer bumping along behind it, nearly hidden in the wet haze. The boy was hoping to reach Great Falls by mid-afternoon, where they would likely have a better chance of finding camping grounds with enough room left to admit them. The girl would have settled with a gas station, so long as it had a washroom and hot water to clean up in, and a little store to grab some high-caffeine essentials from. Rest stops along the highway had been hard to come by the closer they'd gotten to the Rockies, and since crossing the mountainous border between Idaho and Montana they'd had little luck in finding a place to pull into, to buckle down for a hot meal and a couple hours sleep. For the past ten hours the boy had subsisted on nothing but M&Ms and black coffee and whatever little candies the girl could dig out of her purse. When she wasn't poured over a cheap map they'd picked up at a convenience store back in Wallace, the girl at least had the opportunity to snatch an hour or two of sleep against the cab door along the trip. She knew that her companion would be expecting her to take over at the wheel soon enough, however.
The landscape hadn't changed much since crossing over from Idaho into Montana. The Rocky Mountains were still a heavy presence behind them, visible to the west and in flashing glances in the truck's side mirrors. They were nearly blue with atmosphere, although the top peaks still glowed a violet-brown in the sun, with snowy patches here and there reflecting back a vivid white. The foothills along the base of the mountain range were lushly rounded and rolled with trees, mostly great red and white pines with some feathery blue spruces mixed in. The highway they were on ran straight down from the hills and into a flat stretch of open fields, all yellow-green hay cropped short where the baling machines had cut it, and wild, grassy, overgrown verges where it ran up against the side of the blacktop and into the ditch. Gigantic round bales of hay dotted the countryside, and telephone poles and fence posts dominated the side of the road.
This was all in the distance however, a promising change of scenery still on the horizon. The area they drove through now was still in the hills, and heavily forested. The road wound and twisted through the trees in unhurried curves, and tall pine trunks worn grey and smooth with age soared up to either side in dense black woodlots. The asphalt was dappled in shadow and sunshine, and the wet truck flickered with light as it flashed along the road through the trees. Far overhead the needled treetops grew thick and bunched, and blocked out much of the sun; a chill had fallen over the inside of the cab. The boy had turned up the heat to compensate, and the low drone of the fan was a subtle background noise behind the rumble of the trailer and the perky garble of the radio. Earlier on the girl had occupied herself by flipped through local stations with the hope of stumbling across a station playing classic rock, but in the face of static and sweet easy listening she had eventually given up and settled with a dry news station.
The truck drove on, the engine turning over with a monotonous hum that threaten to lure its occupants into the inviting arms of sleep. The girl could already feel its alluring tendrils seeping into her brain like ivy, and her eyelids drooped sluggishly. On impulse, she dropped the nail polish bottle into her lap and reached for the paper coffee cup still sitting in the dash holder. She tilted it back and peered inside, but the last mouthful at the bottom was cold and fogged over with old cream. Her lips pulled back in distaste as she picked up the cup with one hand, rolled down her window with the other, and emptied it out onto the road. Brown droplets flew off into the wind.
"Hey!" said the boy, catching the action out of the corner of his eye and rousing himself with a stab of fussy outrage. "Don't do that."
"Why not?" said the girl, dropping the empty cup onto the floor and rolling the window up again.
He looked cross and haggard. "Because it splatters back against the truck, that's why."
She shrugged and resumed attacking her nails with the polish. "I need to wash it anyway. Now I've got another reason to."
"Your truck," he said, half under his breath.
Charitable, she decided to ignore that. "How far are we out from Newport?"
He glared at the road signs assaulting the side of the road. "About ten miles, I think. We're just outside the town now, so we should be hitting some sort of gas station or truck stop pretty soon."
"I'll keep my eyes open," she said, blowing on her nails. "I'm dying for something to eat."
"I need to find a washroom before I explode," he admitted.
"We could always just pull over to the side of the road, you know."
"No thank you, it can wait."
"Suit yourself."
The girl paused, hands poised over her feet, and yawned like a cougar. "I don't suppose there are any camp sites on this side of Newport, huh?"
"Don't look at me," he said. "I was eight the last time I came up this way."
"With your dad?"
"Yeah. He used to drag mom and me out to Great Falls all the time in the spring, but we usually only stopped at Coeur d'Alene."
He suddenly winced as a thought struck him, a look of pain tightening the corners of his eyes and compressing his lips into a thin white line.
"Mmm," the girl murmured. "Oh well, we've still got the map, if we need to find a spot."
"I really need some sleep," said the boy, blinking wearily. He flashed her a warning glance. "You're taking over in twenty minutes, right?"
"I know," she said, not looking up from her feet. "As soon as we find a place to pull over."
"Julie-"
"I said I would, relax."
He frowned, his brow drawing over his eyes in a worried line as he decided it was time to let the subject gracefully drop. Instead he asked, "How well would breakfast out fit into our budget?"
"It'll be fine, so long as we don't make this sort of thing a habit," she said. "But if we want to have enough money to make it to Maine we're going to have to start cooking in the trailer a lot more."
"All right," he said. "That means junk food and crap is out."
"Yeah," said Julie.
"And we aren't stopping for anything," he went on grimly, his hands growing white-knuckled over the wheel. "I mean, piss about with hotels or sightseeing or shit like that. It wastes money, and I just want to get the hell out of here as fast as we can."
"No arguments from me," said Julie calmly. "Just keep cool, Dan."
He shot her an dark look. "Julie, Portland's a crater and Oregon's flooded with giant robots."
"And we aren't two little briquettes next to them," she said. "So there's something to be happy about."
Dan only shook his head incredulously. Julie's optimism in the face of the destruction wrought in the city behind them wasn't something he could share in. No, it wasn't even that, because optimism suggested hope and concentration, an active participation in life: hers was just a general disinterest in the events around her, a broad stroke of apathy, a complete lack of concern. It was something Dan couldn't quite grasp, at least not well enough to make it his own; he could see and understand her indifference as being simply part of what made her Julie, but not feel it for himself. The horror of the situation was imprinted too sharply across his mind, driving him east to escape it. The horror was fading over time maybe, dulling down to a dull throb of memory, but the significance of Portland's black ruins hadn't left him for an instant. The event was over, the fires dimmed and the rubble settled and the dead collected, but this was like a mental arthritis, and he still lived with the ache long after the injury was done.
In the end Dan could only shrug and try to write off his companion's cool unconcern as her own coping mechanism. If it made her happy to view the world through her own veil of bland disregard - or at least staved off the misery and hopelessness currently preying on most of their fellow refugees - then he wasn't going to berate her for it. It was just Julie's way. It wasn't his way, and probably never would be, but he could live with that. Besides, he could appreciate the support she'd provided after the Autobots had left the city in ruin - it wasn't moral support she gave him, didn't have a flicker of emotion in it at all, but like an I-beam in an earthquake it had been enormously helpful it its own practical way. After the initial shock of the attack on Portland had worn down, she'd sprung back up again like an elastic band into the eye. She had been the one to suggest fleeing to Maine to live with Dan's parents, and then quietly gone about the business of preparing for the trip in the face of panic and complete disorder. He couldn't help but feel foolishly proud of her for that.
And now the East Coast beckoned like a beacon in the night. He had no idea if the robots had ravaged that side of the country as badly as they had the west - communication both in and out of Portland in the dark days following the Autobot attack had been wretchedly poor, virtually non-existent - but he was willing to give it a shot, even if it were a blind one. A distant state like Maine couldn't be any worse off than Oregon, he reasoned glumly. And other than his old university apartment, now converted into a shelter block for the worst off of the new homeless still bunkered down in the city, he had no real ties to the desert state, at least of the kind that truly counted - but he had family back in Maine, and Dan was of the sensible nature that knows best when it is time to get ones priorities straight.
Instinctively he sensed that Julie felt the same way. Unlike him she had little family left in the world - every now and then she spoke of a stepbrother living in New Zealand, with a crisp edge to her words that suggested a civil concern for his welfare rather than an emotional one - but he knew that she'd been interested in meeting his parents for a while now. Her had first met her at the university, back when he was in his first year of Police Foundations and she still studying English, and all his parents knew of her was of an written existence affectionately summed up in letters sent back home. They would be happy to finally meet her too, even under the worst circumstances. Julie hadn't had much in Portland either other than a cheap basement flat and an impressive collection of books and CDs, but he supposed that meant she had a lot less to lose, too. No wonder she'd been so cool about the idea of abandoning the city, when at the same time several thousand lost souls were still ghosting about the wreckage in a half-life, desperately clinging to what was left of it.
Something caught his eye from the side of the road. It was a green highway sign stating that they were only two miles out from Newport. This caught him slightly by surprise, as the truck and trailer were still belting through a heavy section of the woods. He supposed they'd hit the town after a couple more bends in the road. There was a broad curve directly ahead of them, with a small gravel side road coming up through the trees on the right. He could see little of the landscape beyond that, and was looking forward to spotting the first signs of civilisation once they rounded the bend, fate permitting.
Something else caught his eye, and without thinking first he immediately slammed both feet down onto the brakes. "Jesus!"
A racy red Camaro with vivid white Z/28 stripes down the hood had just shot out of the gravel drive and swung out onto the road directly ahead of the truck, fishtailing madly as all four tires spun wildly through the gravel. It was a speedy beast with poisonous lines not meant for backroad driving. Dirt and silt spattered back against the asphalt, and a large cloud of yellow dust immediately swallowed the red car from sight. Seconds later it burst through the other side of the bubble of dust and went hurtling off down the road, weaving from ditch to ditch as if the driver were either drunk, blind, or under attack from poisonous snakes. Eventually it straightened out smartly and pelted off into the distance, skimming lightly over a slight hill and disappearing around the sharp curve ahead.
Everything resting quietly in the back of the cab had flown to the front when Dan had stomped on the breaks; Dan now shook himself free from a disturbed mound of dirty T-shirts and crumpled paper coffee cups and dishevelled magazines, fuming. "What a fucking idiot, pulling out like that! Did you see that, Julie?"
"I saw it," she said quietly.
Dan continued ranting. "Some drivers! I bet he didn't even look over once to see who was coming, the stupid ass."
Julie only frowned at her feet, which were still up on the dash. Her hand had been jolted when the truck's brakes had slammed on, and as a result she'd neatly painted a bright blue streak across her toes and down the outer arch of her right foot. "What a bastard."
"You didn't even look up once, did you?" he sai, risking an annoyed glance over at the passenger seat.
"Yeah, I'd love a sandwich," she said absently, scraping paint off her skin with her nails.
Dan was fixating on the car again, and thus engaged he apparently missed her last comment. "I mean, okay, we're in the middle of a national emergency here, but that doesn't excuse driving like an asshole. Am I right?"
"Sure, why not."
"And did you see the tint on those windows?" said Dan scathingly. "Probably running drugs, or something."
Julie snorted. "That's what you said about that house with all the curtains. Don't be such a cop."
Dan grumbled at that, but tactfully decided to keep the rest of his suspicions private. Something about the red car had rubbed his cop instincts the wrong way. Granted, they were only fledgling, half-formed cop instincts, but their roots were there nonetheless.
With her usual vast lack of concern, Julie only sat and swirled her nail polish. She frowned, gave the bottle a little shake, and then held it up to eye level and peered down through the stem. "Did you want me to drive now?"
"Eh, don't worry about it," he said, still nettled. "I can wait until we find a stop. We should be seeing Newport anytime soon now anyway."
"Great. I seriously gotta stretch my legs."
A new expression came over Dan's face.
"Hey, did you know that this is, well, the first time we ever really tried driving anywhere together?" he said, giving the blonde girl a shy, sideways looks.
"Yep," Julie said, and rolled down the window again and callously hucked the empty nail polish bottle into the ditch. "You poor thing."
They ended up pulling into a little lunchroom at the side of the road on the fringe of Newport. It was a low squatting, attractive log building clearly built with a tourist bent, as it carried about it an air of quaint and dusty desperation. It crouched beneath a sprawl of oak trees, the only ones for miles in all directions, and while the rest of the gravel drive and the asphalt blacktop beyond it baked silently in the open sun, it remained cool and temperate within the fall of the shade. A wooden porch with plastic beer advertisements stapled to the railing wrapped around the front of the building, and a dark green awning littered with dry oak leaves and dead tent caterpillars hung directly above it. There were green shutters on the windows as well, and blue and white curtains were visible through the glass. A weather beaten sign erected on new iron beams painted black on the low sloping roof read "Bailey's Corner", and another one like it was perched on the top of a tall wooden pole at the corner of the drive, evidently meant to flag in traffic from the main road. It seemed to have done its job well, for by the time they crawled into the drive there were already heavy tire treads deeply rutted into the hard packed dirt where the gravel ran thin, and three other cars were parked in the lot in front of the porch; a dusky red Harley-Davidson motorcycle smeared with dirt and grime and smoke from the road was leaning wearily on its kickstand between two of them.
To one side of the building was a wooden addition with two doors, one that was marked "Men" and the other "Women". After carefully swinging the truck and trailer around into an empty space beneath the shade of oaks Dan unbuckled himself from his seat, leapt eagerly out of the cab, and made an immediate beeline to the appropriate door. Julie lingered by the trailer with her purse slung over one shoulder, aimlessly snapping the elastic cords keeping the sunscreen folded down against the side of it with the tip of one finger, until he reappeared around the corner of the building again; they met up on the porch at the entrance and walked inside together.
"Uh oh," said Julie as the door jangled shut behind them, peering about herself.
"What?" said Dan, looking down at her.
She didn't reply, and only ambled further into the lunchroom.
The room inside was long and narrow, and at the back wall was a set of swinging doors that lead to the kitchen, which was visible only as a stripe of yellow tiled floor at the bottom of the doors and a glimpse of brushed steel at the top. At the front of the room, on the left side there was a counter with orange-topped stools to sit on. Several plates and empty coffee mugs still sat huddled together along the counter, with little stacks of silver pocket change knocked beside the cups. Menus, chipped ashtrays, and salt and peppershakers roamed freely between them. Behind the counter was a shelf stacked with cereal boxes and canned fruit, and on another there were rows and rows of clean mugs and shiny silver milkshake tumblers. A refrigerated glass cabinet behind the cash register was topped up with bottled juice and cream containers for serving coffee, and another glass display case in front of it held a few peach and apple pies with fresh slices already carved away. A coffee maker with three half-full pots sat against the back wall next to a line of soda taps, and dirty dishes were piled haphazardly in the sink.
Down the right side of the room and towards the back were the tables for customers that wished to sit and eat at their leisure. Each had its own clean tablecloth, chequered blue and white like the curtains, and a neat arrangement of plastic yellow flowers to prop up the menus. The chairs were wooden and had blue cushioned seats, most of which were in various states of well-worn scruffiness. Paintings of cottage landscapes and old black and white photographs of the area decorated the walls, and long windows offered a view of the parking lot outside. There was a line of wooden pegs beside the door for coats, and a rack on the wall was packed with well-folded magazines, mostly Time and ancient National Geographics. A ceiling fan sat in the centre of the ceiling, but the blades sat still and motionless instead of thumping away aimlessly overhead.
Two tables at the back were already occupied, and an older woman in a white blouse and black slacks was busy scooping vanilla ice-cream behind the counter with a hurried air. A dusty radio was perched in the window beside the cash register, but it wasn't turned on. Dan noticed right away that it was also unusually dark inside the lunchroom; the overhead lights were turned off, although weak sunshine still slanted in through the windows. He hesitated at the door, bemused by the dimness, and then followed Julie to the counter.
The blonde girl had seated herself atop one of the stools with her purse slung underneath it and was idly studying a menu. A large blackboard hung on the wall beside the waitress. There was nothing written on it, but it was heavily smudged with white chalk in the corners, as if something had once been there earlier in the morning and then hastily wiped away with a towel.
Dan glanced down at Julie as he drew up beside her. "Know what you want?"
"Nope," she said, lazily flipping pages.
"I kinda feel like an omelette," he said, sniffing the air. There was a peculiar smell to it, like carpet cleaner, instead of the usual cocktail of cooking fragrances you would find lingering inside a small restaurant. At the end of the room the kitchen seemed dark and silent, and he couldn't hear any trace of the powerful ovens fired up beyond its doors, of the whisk and sizzle of food spattering fat and oil on the grills, or the clatter of pots and pans and stainless steel skillets.
Evidently the waitress overheard him, for she glanced up from the dishes she was briskly spooning ice-cream into and grimaced. She was a small woman, broad across the shoulders and hips, with iron-grey hair worn in stiff curls and a deep, frowning mouth. "Sorry," she began apologetically, "But we can't make any hot meals at the moment."
Dan stared at her blankly for a moment before it finally clicked: the dark room, the motionless ceiling fan, the silent radio. His head sagged down to his chest and he muttered, "No power, of course."
"It's been going on and off all day," the waitress explained, gingeringly poking an unsteady mound of ice-cream into place with the tip of one finger. "For the past couple weeks this has been happening, I guess. Mostly just out around here - further in town they seem to be fine."
Glancing over from the blackboard, Julie said, "Any salads left?"
"Nah, all sold out. After the power went out they were one of the first things people went for."
Julie folded the menu she was holding and slid it back across the counter. She stood, scooped up the strap of her purse, and turned back to the boy standing beside her, ponytail bouncing. "I'll just run back to the truck and grab us some stuff from the stash, then. What type of chips do you want?"
Dan was disgusted. "Chips for lunch?"
"Yeah. Want a Coke, or something?"
He cringed. "Just a bottled water, please."
Faced with dwindling customer interest, the woman seemed to feel that she was obligated to be helpful at that point, and spoke up. "We've still making sandwiches, though, if you want one. And there's fruit in the case."
"Hey!" Dan yelled in protest, turning to Julie. "Hang on! We need that stuff for the road!"
"So we'll buy some more," she said sensibly.
He glowered. "What happened to the no junk food thing?"
"I want to eat, buddy," she said, amused, and strolled back across the lunchroom. Her blonde head soon disappeared out the door.
The waitress watched her leave. "Where are you kids coming from?"
A pained look wrinkled Dan's forehead.
"Portland," he said, with some reluctance.
"Oh," said the waitress, and then added, with an awkward show of sympathy, "I'm sorry."
He shrugged it off. "We didn't have much, so we didn't lose much."
"Did you live there?" the woman ventured.
"Not exactly. We just studied there - me and her," he broke off, pointing back and forth between himself and the space Julie had just occupied. "At university. But now we're heading home, back east."
"I heard it's a little quieter out there."
"Yeah, that's what we're hoping." He sighed. "I guess I'll just have a ham and cheese sandwich."
The waitress wiped her hands on a towel and picked up a notepad and a little nub of pencil from the counter. "Would you like anything else?"
"No," he said, and then through the window he caught sight of Julie's lower half sticking out of the truck from around the open passenger side door, one leg slightly bent at the knee as she dug through the cab. "Yes. A chicken sandwich."
The woman nodded absently. "Give me a few minutes and I'll bring them around to your table."
As she returned to her ice-cream, Dan stepped down from the counter and turned back around to face the rest of the lunchroom. Julie had already slipped back inside and had grabbed them a table with two chairs at the front of the room, in a bright little alcove in between two big windows. Two stained glass baubles, one blue and the other green, hung against the glass, and as the sun struck them they cast cheerful crescents of colour down into her hair. She had pulled off her sunglasses and now wore them, folded, on the collar of her T-shirt. Her legs were crossed under the table, and one cork sandal hung playfully from her toes. On his side of the table sat a plastic water bottle, and on hers a can of Coke. A bag of chips lay popped open on her lap, and the blonde girl was munching its contents happily; her grey eyes followed him amiably as he weaved his way over to the table.
"Not bad," said Dan as he drew near. "At least we're in the sun."
She grinned faintly. "It ain't candlelight, but I'm not complaining."
He slung up the water bottle between the crooks of two fingers and twisted off the cap. "Hey, it's better than the truck."
"So, whaddya wanna do?" said Julie after he'd settled himself into his chair.
"Huh?" said Dan intelligently, giving her a blank look as he pulled up his seat and swung his arms up and onto the table.
She had a handful of chips, so she pointed with her little finger at the trailer parked out in the shade. "I'm driving anyway, but how would you feel about trying to find a campsite here?"
"In Newport?"
"Yeah."
He frowned slightly. "What, spend the whole day?"
She shrugged. "It couldn't put that big a crimp in our schedule."
"You just don't want to drive," he said.
"I don't mind it that much," she said, smiling slightly. "But it would be nice to spend some time out of that damn truck."
Dan thoughtfully slurped at his water. "I guess it wouldn't hurt."
Julie only popped another chip into her mouth in reply.
"Truthfully, I wasn't crazy about the idea of trying to sleep in that thing anyway," he confessed.
"Murder on your knees," said the girl, who'd tried it already.
"Do you think we'll find a site, though?"
Another non-committal shrug. "It's a pretty rural area. I'd say there's a good chance."
They broke off the conversation for the shuffling arrival of the waitress, who carried two plates with her and a desert menu tucked under her chin. One of Julie's eyebrows shot up to the level of her hairline when the older woman set one of the plates down in front of her with a glassy 'clink', and then began to lay out napkins and cutlery.
"I got you a chicken sandwich," said Dan lamely, meeting her quizzical gaze.
She blinked, then pushed the chips aside and pulled it closer to her. "Wow. Thanks."
"Excuse me?" said Dan politely, now addressing the waitress, who cocked a tired eye down at him as she smoothed out the menu. "Do you know if there are any camp sites or parks around here?"
The woman frowned and leaned back on her heels. "Are you driving that little trailer?"
"Yeah. We just need a place to take it for the night. With water. And some facilities."
"Hot water," Julie amended.
They both waited eagerly as the waitress sucked on a tooth in thought, arms folded, staring out the window. "There's a spot called Red Creek about twenty miles out from here," she said finally. "It's just off the highway, heading west - there's a big sign out front of the drive, so you can't miss it. They might be closed for the year, though, since they're shortening their summer season to make time for repairs, but you can always give it a shot."
Beneath the table, Julie kicked her companion lightly on the ankle. "There you go."
Dan gave her a tentative look. "Wanna give it a shot?"
"Yes."
He grinned at her enthusiasm, delivered in her usual dry monotone. "It'd be nice to sleep lying down for a change."
"And shower standing up," she added.
"Thanks," he said, to the waitress.
She smiled at him crookedly, a weary tilt to her lips, and quietly shuffled away. Bereft of distraction, the two travellers fell about to attacking their plates.
They ate for a while in companionable silence, idly taking in the sounds of the traffic on the highway outside, the low murmur of the people at the back of the room, and the occasional heavy clump of the waitress' shoes as she walked back and forth behind the counter. The front door hadn't shut tight, and a light breeze frisked through the room, playing with the drapes and teasing the ends of their hair. Dan had just popped the last bit of crust from his sandwich into his mouth when he suddenly stopped in mid-chew and stared out the window next to their table, his mouth gaping open.
Julie looked up from her plate as she reached for her Coke and grimaced at the sight. "Thanks for sharing that with me."
"It's that damn car!" Dan exclaimed, spraying crumbs, his face flushing with anger.
She set down her can and glanced over herself, following his line of sight. There, parked at the edge of the grassy verge just inside the lunchroom drive, one set of tires on the dirt and the other in the ditch, half-hidden behind the signpost, was the red Camaro from the gravel side road.
By the time Ace returned to the hydro field, heavy clouds had moved in overhead and given birth to a downpour, which fell straight to the ground in glossy sheets of rain. Everything lay shiny and wet, and the grass trembled as the drops thundered into the ground. A thick mist was draped motionlessly above the earth, swirling only where the wind blew through it. The rain never stopped, but the wind came in fits and starts, slackening and then roaring, and then gusting away again. It blew in the rain and wrapped it around everything like a sheet made of water. It blew through the grass and nearly flattened it to the ground. The field had turned into gravy, and rivulets of water snaked through the gravel. Everything was plastered with mud, and dead leaves were slathered to the earth. Far overhead the hydro towers loomed through the fog, gleaming silver with moisture. Out on the foothills it was raining as well, turning the distant Rocky Mountains into pale grey contours that faded in and out of view as the wind blew and the fog drifted.
Ace gingerly drove through the mud at the edge of the field, sloshing damply at every revolution of his tires. Soft explosions of water sprayed up whenever he sagged into a wet patch. His sides were spattered with mud and broken bits of grass, his racy silver chrome stained grey with dirty water. He kept to the verge in order to avoid the worst of the mud, but even there the ground was turning thick beneath the pine needles, and it sucked greedily at his tires. He soldiered roughly through the slop, feeling saturated with exhaustion. His engine strained to pull him through the field. Clouds of curling steam escaped every nook and cranny of his hood. His suspension felt ready to fuse with his undercarriage. Parts he didn't even know he had were groaning metallically as his exhaust blew out clouds of blue smoke. His windows were streaked with water, save for two half circles of glass on the windshield that were swept clean by the wipers. His headlights made a feeble glow through the mist.
The rain continued. It showed no signs of stopping for the rest of the afternoon. Drops hit the ground like thousands of little hammers. It pounded down like a waterfall, flattening everything. The sky was a dark grey overhead, and lumpy clouds lay thick and low above the trees. Underneath the hydro towers the mud was turning as thick as clay, the colour of pewter, gently freezing into slush as the chill sank in. Ace's tire tracks stood out in silver lines that snaked off towards the road, and his old footprints made mirrors of the sky in the dirt along the edge of the pine forest. Ace could see the needles flashing as the rain struck them, and his olfactory sensors could easily pick up the tangy odour of crushed balsam and pine sap amplified in the damp air.
The road was now far behind him. It wasn't even visible through the trees anymore. The field and the hydro towers stretched out ahead, with the pines growing tall and black and rank beside him, pale grey in the distant fog. Ace was struck at the sense of isolation. Everything he looked at seemed empty and alone. There were no signs of any other living creatures, which he knew would make Deuce happy. The rain drummed down onto his hood and windows, and the sound of it was loud and hollow in his audio sensors. His wipers swished from side to side in a gentle counter beat. Inside his cab it was dry and warm, and he had the same insulated sense of protection against the miserable weather outside as a human in a heavy raincoat. The rain and wind and seclusion made him lonely, and the thick mud dragging down his tires made him tired and strained, but at least a dry interior left him with a delightful sense of security.
Inside, the seats were upholstered in a gaudy burgundy fabric. Deuce's newspapers sat on the driver's side, still in their plastic bags, which were slightly damp with rain. Ace had surreptitiously pilfered them from the front lawns and mailboxes of some remote houses on the rural fringe of Newport. The driving rain had kept the humans indoors, which meant no nosy neighbours poking about their garages and yards. Additionally, had been careful to only steal from houses that appeared empty for the afternoon. Originally he planned to only get one newspaper; then he'd remembered how frail paper materials became once wet, and reasoned he was safer grabbing a couple. With any luck, they wouldn't be missed.
Ace desperately hoped he hadn't been spotted taking them. Newport was the only town for miles in all directions, and the wild forest beside the hydro towers was a perfect hiding place for two extremely alien robots. Therefore, Ace and Deuce wanted to keep their profile among the humans as low as possible. The last thing either of them needed was a horde of panicking humans to raise the alarm while the two Neutrals were this close to Oregon and the Autobots. It would be hard to come across another camp spot as well concealed as this one, and it would be dangerous to expose themselves now by moving to a new location. The Autobots guarded Oregon jealously, and patrolled its borders with a keen interest. They would be quick to spot any unusual activity. It was far better to just sit tight and avoid their notice in the first place.
For now, though, Ace looked about himself and saw the lonely rows of trees and the heavy fog and the driving rain and felt reasonably confident that no prowling Autobot would spot their hideout in weather as miserable weather as this. And with the menacing hydro towers crossing invisible bands of electricity overhead, he also felt assured that no other creature would hear them either. It was easy to feel safe in the rain, particularly when you are warm and dry and sheltered from it.
Which he actually wasn't at the moment, Ace realised as his front bumper sagged into a nasty depression in the earth and splashed a grimy sheet of ice-cold rainwater over his hood. Grumbling sourly, he scythed his tires hard to the right and bumped awkwardly up to the edge of the trees, where he transformed into his robot mode. His feet promptly skidded in the greasy mud, and his hands shot out for balance. Grasping a trunk firmly in one hand, he stood perfectly still for a moment and patiently allowed the torrential rain to wash some of the mud off of his body. He bowed over slightly and watched the rainwater hit his head and shoulders and fall straight down to the earth. He felt absurdly like the world's largest watering can. Muddy rivers streamed down his legs and puddled in the grass around his feet. They flooded some of his joints with grit and rinsed others clean. Rain streaked over his optics, blurring his sight. After a moment of this he stood upright and pulled himself into the forest, squeezing tightly through the pine trees.
The woods were cold and wet and dark. Little rain slanted through the furry branches, and only the fattest drops splashed down from high overhead. The naked trunks were damp and radiated chill. Shadows lay deep and dark amidst the underbrush. Lethargic wreathes of mist, ice cold, unlike steam, blew through the trees. The air smelt of green wood, pungent and sharp, of moist earth and fern and sage. Ace's feet squelched damply against the forest floor. He shouldered his way through the trees, gently brushing back wet branches as he pushed deeper into the forest. Save for the soft swish of the needles against his metal frame, silence reigned supreme in the ancient woods.
When he finally reached their camp he was greeted with an odd sight. He paused at the edge of the clearing and frankly stared.
"What in Primus' name are you doing?" he said, baffled.
Deuce's head popped up and the grey robot gave him an irritable look from over the top of the control panel.
"A little home maintenance," he grumbled.
Ace cautiously stepped into the clearing, looking about himself. The generator still sat half-concealed within the thicket, and hummed cheerfully to itself in the background. Wires still slithered across the forest floor in ropey coils, and the ground was damp, if not as saturated as the fields outside of the woods. The headset and microphone still sat discarded on the rectangular control panel that housed all of the radio equipment, but now the dish was affixed to one corner and was pointed upwards as if silently probing the sky. A panel had been prised from the back of the terminal and carelessly pushed aside. Now it was propped up against a trunk a few feet away. Deuce's body was visible from around the corner, crouched and tense, and the grey transformer seemed to have buried his hands into the tangled mess of wires inside.
Ace was instantly wary. Admittedly, he hadn't known Deuce for very long, but during the time they'd spent aboard Sirius' ship on the trip to Earth, the other Neutral hadn't exactly displayed a lot of mechanical aptitude to match his interest in technology. Ace recalled an incident where a recharge bed had malfunctioned, and Sirius insisted that one of them attempt repairing it or else pay for the cost of taking it to a real mechanic. Deuce had sagely volunteered his services, and succeeded only in badly electrocuting himself. Ace had sadly forked over a hefty sum in Cybertronian credits shortly after to pay for the damage. If that episode had been any indication, then Deuce seemed to follow the 'I'll just jiggle this wire a bit' school of thought for engineering.
Ace tried a different tack. He walked around the clearing and stood behind the other Neutral, and peered down over his shoulder. "How's it going?"
"Fantastic," grunted Deuce. He turned his attention back to his work and cursed loudly when something inside the terminal zapped his fingers. "Agh!"
"How fantastic?"
"The best kind there is."
Recognising unhelpful sarcasm when he heard it, Ace decided to just get to the heart of the matter. "Deuce, why are you dismantling valuable equipment?"
"Dismantle, nothing," said Deuce in disgust. "I'm trying to get the damn Canopy to work."
Ace nodded knowingly. The Canopy was a piece of equipment that Deuce had possessively dragged down with him from Sirius' ship. It was little more than a small, streamlined white antennae with a tiny box fixed to the back, and it plugged neatly into the control panel. It must have already seen a lot of work on previous journalistic assignments on other foreign planets, for the antennae was scoured grey with sand, badly chipped and scratched, and dark rust-coloured stains crept down the sides. Deuce had explained its purpose while they were on the ship: apparently when properly hooked up, the little antennae would emit an invisible barrier that would not only act as a roof over a campsite and keep out unwanted precipitation, but provide effective camouflage by holographically mimicking the natural scenery. It wouldn't shield them from unfriendly radar, but at least it could be trusted to beautifully conceal everything underneath it from unfriendly eyes.
Deuce swore by the Canopy, and had fussed over the antennae since their arrival on Earth. Now he looked ten minutes away from punching it through an electric fan.
Ace decided it would be prudent to ward off violence against the Canopy. Deuce's love of the little device bordered on indecent, and Ace suspected that the other robot would mourn for days if something happened to it. He cleared his throat and said, "Would you like some help with that?"
"No, I've got it," said Deuce. There was a meditative frown on his face as he sat back on his haunches and held up two coloured wires. "Twenty-five thousand vorns worth of working with this thing, and I can never remember if it's black to red, or red to green. Oh well, what the hell. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?"
"Try not to electrocute yourself this time, would you?" said Ace. "Sirius isn't here to stomp out the fire."
"Ah, shut it. Okay, here we go."
Deuce plugged in the two wires with a flourish. Absolutely nothing happened.
"You miserable swine!" Deuce shouted at it, incensed. "Now you're just defying me!"
"Why don't we dig out the instructions?" Ace suggested.
"To Hell's bloody gates with the instructions! I'll get this figured out even if it kills me."
"Famous last words."
"Ahaha, funny guy. Okay, so red to black didn't work. Let's try red to green this time and see what happens."
"If you burn down the woods I'm going home," said Ace. He wandered over to the other side of the clearing and sat down beneath a sturdy pine.
"Don't be such a sissy. It's not going to- oh, wow."
Deuce's head ducked back behind the control panel again. "Wow, man. Uh, geez, there are more green wires in here than I remember."
"Oh, this bodes well."
"Ah, quiet. Ha! I found it, here we go. All right, prepare to be blown away with explosions of amazement, you squirrelly red safety humper. Voila!"
He slammed some more wires together. A shimmering barrier of light and energy neglected to spring forth from the Canopy antennae.
"What the hell?" Deuce snarled, leaping to his feet as if stung. He staggered back a few steps and pointed down at the antennae, which remind quiet and complacent on the corner of the control panel. "Ten vorn spent out in the sandstorms on Diagalus, and you crap out on me now?"
He aimed a savage kick at the control panel and was rewarded with a reverberating gong from someplace deep inside its bowels.
Ace was momentarily torn between looking intelligent and saving the valuable equipment. Prudence eventually won the struggle. "Don't do that."
"Nuts to you," growled Deuce.
"Why are you kicking it?"
"Because it's a cheap piece of crap?"
"I don't think that's going to help."
"Nonsense. The manual said that this is perfectly acceptable discipline."
Ace only shrugged. "Suit yourself."
Deuce didn't reply. Instead he slowly dragged his hands down over his face in order to buy the time to get his temper back under control. The sound of rain thundering into the thick foliage overhead became very loud in the abrupt silence, and the steady drip-drip of water into the clearing made a soothing tempo as it pattered against the forest floor. Twigs snapped unseen off in the distance, and the wind blew restlessly through the pine needles. After a minute or two Deuce lowered his arms again, and Ace could see that his familiar oily salesman smile was firmly planted back on his lips.
"All right," he said. "Why don't we just try this again?"
Ace leaned back comfortably against the tree. He crossed his legs at the ankles and his arms over his chest and smiled the broad sort of smile that most people want to bash the teeth out of. There was an amused glint in his optics. "Knock yourself out."
Deuce glared. "I hope you know that you're on duty to get the radio calibrated to the Pollux Fantastic satellite, pal."
"Yes, no problem. Now come on, let's go, chop chop. I want to see some magic happening here."
Deuce gave him an ugly look before crouching back down behind the control panel. After a moment he said, "Where the hell did I buy this thing anyway? Radio Shack?"
"Where?"
"Eh, human joke. Okay, I just jiggled some stuff. Did anything happen?"
Against all odds, the antennae began to hum in a promising fashion. Ace gave it an appraising look. "Hey! Something worked that time!"
Deuce didn't pop into view, but his voice sounded amazed. "What? Shut up, it didn't?"
"No, I'm serious!"
Ace heard the other robot laugh delightedly. "Finally, I get a break! I knew this thing wouldn't let me down. All right, hang on, I think I know what the problem is. If I just reverse these and flip this back over to the converter, and then switch this back to channel three- okay, what about now?"
Luck was finally back on Deuce's side. Ace's sensors registered a soft change in pressure, a nudge in the air. He looked up. The atmosphere quivered. There was an impression of fleeting whiteness flashing through the branches overhead, like smoke from an invisible fire, or a beam of light played up into the sky. Suddenly a shimmering dome of energy surrounded the clearing, the top soaring nearly forty feet above the ground to make a nebulous ceiling that curved gently downwards. It gave off a dim glow against the dark needles and wavered faintly, as if no more than a filmy veil, or a wisp of luminous gas. Branches and pinecones were visible straight through it, the shapes distorted and blurred as if viewed through glass. For half a minute the Canopy shield rippled gently in the air like the surface of a soap bubble. Then it drew taunt and promptly disappeared with a gaseous 'pop'.
Ace stared up apprehensively. He didn't know whether to cheer or steel himself for an explosion of temper. Was it supposed to do that?
After a minute or so he voiced his uncertainty aloud. "Did it work?"
Deuce took one look at the invisible barrier and shot to his feet. He punched both fists up into the air in triumph. "He scores!"
"Well, I guess that answers it," said Ace. "Good job, Deuce."
"Yes, I am a god," said Deuce, looking pleased with himself as he lowered his arms. "It was such a dumb mistake, too. I had the bypass set to four and the wrong wires crossed, which meant that the signal was getting reversed. Oh well, you live and learn."
Calming by degrees, he bent back down and began to wrestle the rear panel back into place.
It was then that Ace noticed that rain was no longer gusting into the clearing. He craned back his head and looked up into the sky, and witnessed an interesting spectacle. Instead of falling straight to the ground, big drops of water were rolling off of branches and apparently splattering themselves impotently in mid-air. Ace realised they were striking the invisible barrier. Fascinated, he watched the rain streak down against its unseen surface as if it were a pane of glass. It was a little unnerving to see fat rivers of water snake to the ground in a half-globe around the clearing, and even more unnerving when some dead needles were shaken loose in the wind and swished down to earth, only to be arrested in empty space by the Canopy. Ace caught himself wondering if they would ever need to hose it off.
Ace held out his hands. Not a drop of moisture touched his metal palms, and the gentle sound of the rain pattering into the screen overhead made a soothing beat.
"Hey, neat," he said. "This is a handy little comfort adjuster."
"Of course it is," came Deuce's voice. "I never leave home without it anymore. It saved me five thousand credits worth of expensive digital recording equipment on Ascard once during an aluminium storm. Tripshot and I threw it over the Cybertronian camp while were were covering the big Crosslite Domoleague Desert Rally. Originally we did it just to confuse the neighbouring Eisil reporters, who were one site down from us and were being complete slagholes about sharing public energy stores for the generators while the races were on, but then the storm hit and everything that wasn't under cover was slashed to pieces. Ours was the only equipment that wasn't ruined on the spot thanks to the Canopy. It was glorious."
"That's, uh, nice."
"They were declared illegal on Ascard shortly after," said Deuce mistily. "Apparently those aluminums storms are great for local electronics business, and the merchants complained. We spent the rest of the trip dodging rally officials who were looking to confiscate it. Tripshot ended up hiding it in his dash compartment. We had to bribe three toll operators just to get it off the planet."
Ace only smiled benignly and said nothing. Deuce liked to talk in much the same way that really large rocks like to roll down hills: swiftly, randomly, and unstoppably. It was better to just go limp once he started. Eventually you got to the bottom in once piece.
Deuce gave the panel a hearty thump and stood up again. He planted his fists on his hips and gazed down at it with a satisfied air. His good mood seemed miraculously restored. "Well, I'm happy to say that we're back in business. The Press Tent is officially tented. With the Canopy going we don't have to worry about anybody spotting us now, particularly any pesky aerial anybodies."
He grinned and rubbed his hands together devilishly. "Time to have a little fun! Where's my foam hat and air horn?"
"You'll remember, of course, that we're only two hundred kilometres away from Autobot occupied territory," said Ace dryly.
Deuce laughed. "This coming from the same guy hot to interview the natives and study their tribal habits."
"Hey, I seem to recall you were the one doing all the paranoid moaning about keeping your limbs intact earlier this morning."
"Ah," said Deuce, waving it aside. "The Canopy has helped to lessen my fears. And if we're both careful we shouldn't raise too much attention with our alternate modes. In fact, once I figure out the routes and schedules of the Autobot patrols I'm going to start doing a little snooping over Oregon myself and figure out where the best stories are. Apparently the Autobots are still sacking the hell out of some of the bigger cities and are moving slowly down the west coast towards California, so I'll just shadow them from above. I should be able to nab some good material on their bloody rampages and whatnot. It ought to make an exciting read for all the crazy sadists out there."
Ace scrambled to his feet and stretched out stiff tensor cables that had grow cold and damp while he was sitting. "Sounds good to me. I'll stick to Newport and other nearby settlements and try to put something together from the human angle: how the occupation is affecting the dominant species, what measures they're taking to adapt to the new hierarchal climate, post-traumatic stress, rebellion groups, that sort of thing. It should make for an interesting study anyway, and maybe it'll help convince Underground readers and Neutrals back home that a stronger movement needs to be made on Cybertron to prevent the Autobots from invading foreign planets at will."
Deuce looked amused. "How socially conscious of you."
Ace only shrugged. "I try."
Deuce eyed him thoughtfully and continued talking. "Anyway, if luck stays on our side we should be able to pick up each other's transmissions from between here and central Oregon. Ideally, the four extra transmitters in this terminal should boost our private radio signals by a good eighty-eight percent and allow us to communicate directly over greater distances. If not, well, we'll just have to cobble something together that will. The receiver and relay set-up inside this control panel is surprisingly strong. It used to have a pretty decent range. Of course, I've kind of, um, dropped it a few times since then, but the batteries are fully charged and it passed all of the safety scans on Sirius' ship."
"I think it'll be all right," said Ace. "I'm a little worried about interference from more severe weather patterns, though."
"Same here. Hopefully the Canopy will block out most of it. The electrical storms on this planet are a little different from what I'm used to."
After walking over to stand in front of the control panel, Ace flipped a few switches and twirled a dial. He picked up the headset and pressed it to the side of his head and listened closely to the quiet static coming through. "At least when I tried it out earlier it seemed to be in good working order."
"With minimal static, right?'
"Almost no interference at all."
Deuce threw himself back down onto his clump of pine trees. After spending several comfortable hours sitting in it, the broken stumps and bent trunks had neatly formed a cavity in the foliage that his body fit into perfectly. "Yeah, I'm fairly certain it still sends and receives over short distances pretty well. We'll have to do some tests over longer ones before getting down to serious business. And once you calibrate it to the Pollux satellite I'll be able to upload information straight into my directory aboard the closest Fantastic server."
Ace suddenly brightened. His fingers froze over the dial he had been spinning. A smile crept over his face. "Hey! I just found a human radio signal!"
Deuce leaned back and crossed his hands over his midsection. "Yeah, we should be able to pick up their frequencies with this thing. When you get right down to it, the basic technology between our radios and theirs isn't all that dramatically different. What do you hear?"
"Music," said Ace. There was a note of wonder in his voice.
"At least we know they're civilized apes."
"This is great, it's an actual human song- wait, no, it just stopped. All I hear are voices now."
"I hope your translator's on."
"Ah? Yes, of course it is."
"Good."
Ace listened intently. After a minute he turned back towards Deuce and said, "Wow. This is the first time since arriving I've had the chance to stop and actually listen to human speech without interruption. Deuce, get over here and listen to this."
Deuce neglected to look impressed. "I've already had my fill of it, thanks."
"This is really quite interesting," said Ace, ignoring him. He slipped the headset behind his neck and plugged it into his audio receptors. "They have their own broadcasts and announcers and commentators, even journalists. Radio personalities! Ha! This is amazing. I think I'm actually listening to a traffic report now."
"How dreadfully exciting," said Deuce dryly. "Why, it almost reminds me of the time-"
"Aw, no!" said Ace.
Deuce stared at him in alarm. "What, what is it, what's wrong?"
Ace pointed down at the radio panel. "A human forecaster just predicted thunderstorms for the evening."
Relaxing back into his homemade reclining chair, Deuce gave the other journalist a disgusted glare. Furry pine branches framing his head gave him a comical look as he said, "Don't you have work to do? And where the hell is my newspaper, come to think of it?"
Without removing the headset, Ace only turned around far enough to haul the wet bags out of subspace and tossed them in the general direction of Deuce's voice. He charitably phased out the other transformer's annoyed grumbling as Deuce hauled himself out of his seat to retrieve the stolen papers. Ace bent back over the control panel and put his hands to either side of it and braced himself against on his arms, listening intently. Absorbed in the world of human voices coming over the radio, he completely missed the entertaining spectacle of a twenty six foot robot trying to unfold a four foot newspaper from a foot long plastic bag.
We assure you it was suitably hilarious.
The Red Creek Park turned out to be small, cramped, and damp. There was a large hand-carved sign on the edge of the highway that pointed towards the entrance of the park, which was a narrow gravel drive nearly a mile long. It wound off through the pine trees in a series of unhurried curves, with sloping hills and little marshy valleys scattered in between. It had become quite overgrown during the summer season, and the woods closed in on it hungrily. Ragged weeds and wildflowers flourished wildly in the shade. There were bushy ferns and chopped off tree stumps underfoot. Dead branches and wind debris lay across the road. Small potholes cratered the dirt, and the deeper tire ruts were beginning to erode uncontrollable. Whole chunks of earth had sloughed away into the ditches in places, and the rain washed away the rest. When it was dry and sunny out the dust clouds kicked up from passing vehicles would hang in the air for hours, and when it was damp and rainy the mud was rinsed into the ditch. The gravel was trampled and churned, the verge mangled with footprints.
At the end of the drive the road split. The left hand path led down to the sandy swimming hole, and the other snaked off into the woods towards the campsite area. A small wooden booth stood in the middle of the fork. There was a candy machine standing beside it, and a rail gate barred the entrance. During the normal summer season park officials would man this station, and their job was to inspect and register every vehicle that passed through. Now the booth was abandoned, and the gate into the park was raised. The rangers had given up trying to moniter the travellers arriving daily at the camp now that the mass exodus out of Oregon was underway, and a flood of trailer traffic passed in and out of the gates unhindered. Already three trucks with campers attached and two big RVs were crawling past the booth, engines grumbling, driving slowly because of the thick mud. The air was blue with exhaust.
The left path was open and the white pines hung back to give the road plenty of room for a grassy border. A flat hill rose gently up and then down again to the edge of Flathead Lake, and a shallow freshwater bay with a sandy bottom. Rain had swelled the lake and turned the lawn silver and wet. The field was sparsely covered in fine green grass kept carefully mown, and patches of sand lay bare here and there. There were several weatherbeaten picnic tables standing away from the water. Most had a folded beach umbrella in varying states of sun bleached disrepair erected in the middle, and a few even had portable charcoal barbeques chained to their legs. Empty barrels served as garbage cans, and they were streaked with rust and old paint. Grass grew up wild around the base, rough and uncut.
Back at the edge of the forest the road flattened out into a parking lot. Weeds and tiny yellow buttercups flourished in the gravel. Several cars were parked there, sprinkled with rain. Their wheels had dug long lines into the hard packed dirt, and tire tracks criss-crossed the lot. Back a little further the thick pinewoods lingered to the north and east, growing tall and straight with their shaggy branches sweeping down to the earth in dark bundles. Southwest there were little more that wild grasslands to look at, and the faint outline of the Salish Mountains on the far horizon.
Meanwhile, back at the booth, the right hand path dove into the woods. Inside the air was damp and cool, and deep black shadows cast an impenetrable gloom under the trees. The red pines grew so thick together that there was little space between them, and only the road cut a clear path through. Screened in on all sides, it was very dark and winding, and little light fell down through the shaggy brushwood overhead. The gravel was smooth and well grated, and thin brooks of rainwater trickled in the mud between the larger pebbles.
After half a mile the road cleared the woods and the grounds opened up onto the main campsite area. Here the grass was cropped short and full of dust, although the rain had turned it into wet silt. Trees, mostly bushy white pines, were scattered across the compound, which was already packed with campers and trailers parked in neighbourly rows. New arrivals were still pulling up into empty spaces, which were dwindling at the day dragged on. Nobody bothered to sign in, and nobody bothered to stop them. There was a public eating area at the west end of the clearing with fire rings, rustic picnic tables and benches. Now that the rain had finally tapered off it was crowded with children and dogs and barbequers. Even more people had drawn up blankets and lounge chairs so they could sit next to their fires and dry off and drink companionably. The pungent, smoky aroma of charcoal and grilled hamburger jumbled in with onions and hotdogs drifted from one corner of the campsite to the other. The garbage containers were rapidly filling up with empty beer and soda cans.
Apart from the trailers were three log buildings, arranged in the shape of a "U", which squatted the edge of the woods. Long flowerbeds filled with big purple pansies were planted beneath the windows, and plastic sheeted corkboards mounted on the walls kept a schedule of old summer events. The closest building was the lounge, which housed the registration office, the manager's office, the cafeteria and the recreational areas, which had televisions and sofas and public payphones. The main entrance led into this wing, and ne