Chapter Text
Chapter 1: Bailiwick
It was one of those long desert highways, straight and black, stretching off through the dust and the sun to mountains on the horizon. Horizons out here seemed bigger than they were most places. This was the kind of road made for cruising, full-throttle on a steel horse, going so fast it felt slow again, the world falling behind you. This was a road meant for putting speed up like a barrier between you and your troubles, bringing you calm.
It wasn't the sort of road meant for a Vespa scooter way, way past its prime... but there it was, rising up from the heat shimmer like a... well, exactly not like a proud leviathan up from the sea. Rising up... backfiring, stalling... rising up again, thundering down the highway with all the might of a flatulating octogenarian. It had an engine that growled like a legion of depressed mosquitoes. It was the color of pea soup – the good kind, with the bits of ham, but that was only because of the rust spots. It had a brand-new cargo box behind the saddle – neon orange.
“Sonofabitch! Go!”
It had a rider.
Terry was used to his morning commute on his own hog, a classic-lined long-fork cruiser, throttle-down with the wind in his face, fast enough to stay cool, even in the desert. Fast enough to out-race your own worries, leave all your troubles behind. It was where he found his quiet place, somewhere over eighty with the engine and the wind screaming at each other and the endless sun coming down hard. It was a better wake-up than coffee.
The scooter was, in every way, and with great distinction, not his chopper. He pawed at the unfamiliar controls, fighting to get the diminutive two-wheeler over forty.
The whining mosquitoes ratcheted up to a higher pitch, then fell silent. The engine sputtered and died.
“Goddamn murrafurra Eurotrash toy shitbox!”
Terry cranked the key almost hard enough to snap it, stomped the kickstarter and yanked into first. The scooter let out an elephantine fart and stumbled forward.
+++++
Maureen smirked when Terry entered the breakroom, hooking a thumb out the window to the employee lot. “Didn't know your hog could transform, Terry.”
“Just can it, Maureen,” said Terry.
“Used to make fridges that color fifty, sixty years ago. Granny had one.”
“I said can it. Ain't in no mood.”
“Yeah, well neither is Jones.” She slurped her coffee. “You better walk soft today. Some kind of inspection or something, Fed-types all over the facility. I'm kinda annoyed, having to stay late for you, but Jones is straight up pissed. He'd be even madder if he knew you were out all morning joyriding on a clown-bike.”
“Hell! Look, I woke up this morning and my hog was trashed. Engine torn all apart. Had to take her in, and that damn scooter is Mark's idea of a loaner.” He took a drink of water, swished it around, and spat mud into a potted plant. “Asshole thinks he's real funny.”
“You know that ain't a real plant, right?”
Terry studied the plastic plant, scowling, watching the mud-spit squidge down into the faux-moss. Then he shrugged. “What about these inspectors?”
Maureen shook her head. “Real cagey, you know, Washington types. Snooping around inside. Heard they even got the new Vault locked off. Jones's been ridin' our asses hot all morning with them around.”
+++++
Terry ticked a few boxes on his tablet, thumbed the print scanner, and waved the truck onward. It moved off with little more than a hissing whine. All deliveries came on new-fangled hydro-lectric trucks; the big-wigs had something against any sort of combustion engines in the tunnels. Go figure.
Terry sat back in his chair on the in-bound side of the gatehouse to wait for the next delivery. He picked up his conversation with Bob, who was handling the out-bound side. “Weird thing is they weren't even trying to steal it. I know how to hotwire a bike, and that's not what they were up to.”
Bob blinked lazily, eyes not leaving his ratty James Rollins paperback. “Who?”
“The assholes that trashed my hog! They weren't trying to steal it. They just tore the engine up. Told you, I woke up this morning and my bike's guts were all over the place. Looked like it'd been hit by a bear...” He stared off at the horizon, picking over what he'd just said. Something didn't make sense... ah, there it was! “Some kinda steel bear,” he corrected.
Bob shrugged. “Heard the Decepticons got one as can turn into some kinda wildcat.”
“And just why would a 'Ceptic wanna trash my hog?”
“I dunno. Good taste?”
“What?”
“I told ya to buy a Buell, not that toilet-water-colored trumped-up crotch-rocket.”
“Say it again Bob.” Terry put his hand on the folding knife on his belt. He was only half-joking with the threat. “I know more about bikes than anyone in Beatty. You can spit on me and call me names, but no-one picks on my hog.”
Bob didn't even flinch, just kept reading. “Down boy.” He pointed over his shoulder. “You got another one.”
Terry huffed and puffed... and grabbed his tablet and stood to wait for the truck. Down the road stood the outer fence and the automated gateway, all shiny and new and packed with advanced security measures. Beside the gate stood a sign reading “Yucca Mountain Nuclear Waste Repository.” A few years back the Decepticons hit the country's other waste sites – they'd hatched some scheme to lord it over the humans by poisoning the water or building a bunch of dirty bombs or something. Autobots stopped them, but the other waste repositories had been trashed. That had put the Yucca Mountain project back on the table; it was one site, deep in a mountain, in the middle of nowhere, easily secured. The desert for miles around was packed with energon detectors, mines, auto-turrets and packs of remote-guided stalker drones. USAF prowled the skies night and day. There were no transformers – Autobot or Decepticon – anywhere near the site. The only way into the site without a major firefight was through the gates, burdened with heaps of access codes, past the scanners, schedulelers, dense defenses... and Terry. He brought what the DOE called “the human element” to security.
He flagged the truck down, interviewed the drivers with all the form questions, scanned the manifest, matched the security codes, inspected the seals for tampering, dotted his T's and crossed his I's. He shot the breeze for a second with the crew, then waved them on to the inner gates, and the gaping maw of the tunnel into the mountain. The protesters had managed to spray the words “roofies 4 Gaia” on the side of the truck. Terry chuckled. That was a new one. Someone would have to spend hours scrubbing it off.
The original plan had been for the waste to come to Yucca Mountain from all around by rail, but that idea was scrapped; too easy of a target, now that they knew that the 'Ceptics wanted the radioactive waste. So they'd built a new kind of transport cask, small enough to fit inside reclaimed standard shipping containers that already had a nice, beat-up, natural look to them. New-style hydro-lectric rigs were common enough that they didn't stand out. DOE kept mum to the public about the shipping schedules, no matter how much they grumbled. For two years every shipment had made it to Yucca Mountain, on time and undetected. Decepticons weren't the only masters of deception.
Terry looked back at the outer gate. Two years after the site opened for business, there were still protesters marching in the shade of the welcome sign on the other side of the massive electrified fence. They held up signs and chanted “Nevada aintcha trashcan! Nevada aintcha trashcan!”
Terry snorted and got back to his seat in the shade of the gatehouse. “Hippies.”
Bob grunted. “Whaddya think about Buenos Ares?”
Terry scowled.”What about it?”
“Dontcha catch the news, kid? 'Sudden Catastrophic Deluge' is what they're saying. Power's out, communication's down, and all the big-wigs are hush-hush, saying the disaster's being assessed.”
“Oh.”
“They're stressing it was just a storm. Just a normal storm.” He smiled knowingly.
Terry hummed. “You thinkin' it's Decepticons?”
“I'd bet. It always is, ain't it?”
“Yep. Assholes. Wonder what they're plotting this time?”
“Wonder why they keep trying.”
“Thought it was over when Prime trashed Megatron. He was worse than ol' Bin Laden was, but these new characters are a step past even him!”
“Eh, we'll nab 'em all sooner er later.”
The day grew hotter. Trucks came and went in a malaise of routine and check-boxes. Terry itched for the thrill of speed, throttle-down and wheels blazing, but reminded himself how lucky he was to have a job at all.
“Lotta shipments today,” said Bob.
“What I don't get,” said Terry as he settled back into his chair, turning his face into the blow from the little desk-fan, “is we let the Autobots settle here. Let 'em and their civil war get nice and cozy on our planet. We do that, and they can't even clue us in on some new tech, some cheap energy so we wouldn't have to store all this crap.”
“We'd still have tons of it from before. 'Sides, most of this is leftovers from makin' all those nukes we used to repel the last big 'Ceptic invasion.”
“Oh.”
Bob turned a page. “Anyway, I wouldn't be so quick to talk myself out of an easy government job, if I was you. We've seen a lot of trouble since they dropped in. But lookin' at the bright side, all that rebuildin' and the new industry they have given us pulled this country outta the bog.”
“Yeah, and what'll the construction crews do when they've finished putting Chicago back together?”
Bob shrugged. “'Ceptics'll have busted something else by then. It's what they're good at. Assholes.”
Terry snorted. “Not all by themselves.”
It's easy to feel the air go cold in an uncooled gatehouse in Nevada. Bob snapped his book shut – made a big noise, even for a paperback – and looked Terry in the eye for the first time that day. “You weren't there.”
Terry lifted his hands, placating, “Hey, sorry man. I didn't mean--”
“You don't say nothing about Optimus and the Autobots, and I won't say nothing about your bike. Allright?”
“Allright. Sorr-”
“Allright. I got work to do.” Bob grabbed his tablet and stood. He paused for a moment, touching the picture of his wife he had taped to his monitor, then limped out of the gatehouse to check out the next out-bound truck.
...Leaving Terry feeling like a dog.
He was still struggling with how to try to apologize when he heard the outer gates buzz and open. His head snapped up, eyes wide, then narrowing. There wasn't another scheduled delivery for half an hour, and nothing happened at Yucca Mountain off the schedule.
The gate opened, and an SUV drove through... followed by another... by a small convoy of plain black SUVs and white cargo vans. They had government plates, but no other markings. Terry flagged the lead vehicle down, his hackles rising.
There was one small marking, under the door's handle; just the word DARPA, stenciled in simple block letters. Whatever was going on, Terry knew he wanted nothing to do with it. The window slid down when Terry knocked, hitting him with a blast of AC, and he stared into his own reflection in a pair of mirrored aviators. The man wearing them was bald, thin, and had a face made for expressing disdain for inferior beings... which it was doing right then.
“You guys get lost?” said Terry.
The guy showed an ID badge, which named him “Mr. Braithwait.” All he said was, “We're from DARPA. We have business inside.”
Terry tapped his tablet. “Don't see you on the schedule.”
“We have business inside. DARPA business.”
Terry shook his head. “Nope. You got business with me. Now, as I bet you know, this is the truck gate, where schedueled shipments of nuclear waste come in. In trucks. We don't take tourists here.” He could have let them through... maybe. Painting DARPA on a truck was easy, but getting properly-coded RF tags embedded in the vehicles was not; sure sign that someone with proper authority wanted these guys to get in. Without the tags, they'd have been blasted outside the main gate. But that didn't mean anything; Terry had his orders and, RF tags or not, these guys were off the schedule. Anyway, Mr. Braithwait's face made him want to grab his pepper spray. “Why do you think I should let you and your ID badge in?”
Braithwait snarled and brandished his badge again. “You see those letters below my name.”
“'SCI-U Clearance.'” He snorted. “Sensitive Compartmentalized Information. I know. Yeah, so you got a clearance. Doesn't mean that-- wait. What's the U?”
Braithwait smiled. It wasn't pretty. “'Universal.' Means I eat, drink and crap info that goes way beyond your narrow little bailiwick. Now open the gates.”
“Oh! Oh, whoa, hey!” Terry raised his hands in feigned placation. “Hey, sorry professor. Didn't mean to step on your airs there.” He raised his radio. “Yo Jones, got a little army a' DARPA skid-marks out here think they own the place. Advise?” He smiled back at Mr. Braithwait. “There, see, Jones is on the case. Meantime, my narrow little... ahem... bailiwick happens to be a highly-secured nuclear waste repository, and I take my narrow little job pretty seriously. Clearance or no clearance, I clear what goes through this gate.”
Mr. Braithwait leaned forward. “Little watchman, what part of--”
“Cool it, Merl.” The passenger, an asian lady with shades almost as big as her head, put a hand on his arm. “I like him. Let him do his job.”
Terry smiled at her, then scowled at the driver. “Yeah, Merl, just doin' my job. Now, shut off that gas-guzzling pile of tax dollars and get your people out in the sun to present their IDs. I'll try to expedite the inspection while--”
“Terry!” Squawked the radio on his belt.
Terry turned on his earpiece. He could already tell that this was going to be bad. “Yeah boss?”
“What the hell do you think you're doing?!”
“You expecting guests, sir?”
“Let them through!”
“They're not on the list sir. It's against regs to allow anyone through without pre-scheduled authorization. Just thinking about the security of the site.”
“You can wipe that smile off your face and cram it up your ass! Let them through. Now!”
It must have showed on his face that Terry had just been dressed-down. Mr. Braithwait didn't so much as wait for a go-ahead before stepping on the gas. He led the convoy toward the inner gates without any hesitation, knowing that they'd open for him, on his schedule. Braithwait was a man used to doors opening for him.
Though two years of a good, steady job had helped him forget, Terry was suddenly and sharply reminded that he was a man used to seeing them shut.
His radio clicked on again as the convoy passed, and Jones' voice crackled in his ear. “You can't imagine how much ass you're gonna have to kiss to not get fired over this.”