Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen

"THE FALLEN SHALL RISE AGAIN. . . ." This cryptic warning is ignored by the national security adviser who feels the ruthless Decepticon threat is no more. The allies are victorious, the enemy has been defeated, and the world is safe. Small attacks around the world have been contained, and the remaining pieces of the coveted Allspark are locked in an electromagnetic vault on one of the most secure Naval bases in the world. But nothing is at it seems, and there is a shift in the shadows. Things can change in an instantand fragile peace will become all-out war.

Alan Dean Foster has written in a variety of genres, including hard science fiction, fantasy, horror, detective, western, historical, and contemporary fiction. He is the author of the New York Times bestseller Star Wars: The Approaching Storm and the popular Pip & Flinx novels, as well as novelizations of several films, including Transformers, Star Wars, the first three Alien films, and Alien Nation. His novel Cyber Way won the Southwest Book Award for Fiction, the first science fiction work ever to do so. Foster and his wife, JoAnn Oxley, live in Prescott, Arizona, in a house built of brick that was salvaged from an early-twentieth-century miners’ brothel. He is currently at work on several new novels and media projects.

Chapter One


Despite rampant, not to say runaway, development in the course of the preceding decades, the sprawling megalopolis of Shanghai still boasted areas that could be relatively dark and quiet—especially after ten at night. Even in bustling modern China, not all enterprises operated around the clock. Not every commercial venture burned power by keeping its lights on when the last shift had left for the day. The outskirts of the business park that was home to assorted heavy industries was nearly silent. A minimum of lights pushed against the darkness at an assortment of locations where such illumination was deemed necessary for security reasons.

A sizable chunk of the ancient city had sacrificed its homes and alleys, its noodle shops and kiosks, to make way for the extensive industrial compound. A few of the old neighborhoods still clung to its fringes, saved from demolition when the developers’ voracious appetite for land had finally been sated. Most of those who dwelled within the surviving houses counted themselves fortunate. Their homes had been spared, the living was cheap, and they had benefited from good jobs in the factories while being spared the need for an expensive commute. Their preserved hutong was safe, too. Spillover from the advanced security that protected the commercial development kept thieves and vandals away from their homes.

In the absence of the delivery trucks that rumbled to and from the industrial complex throughout the day, the surrounding streets were comparatively quiet. Exhausted workers slept, while behind closed doors and windows those who could not rest parked themselves in front of garrulous televisions or plied the Internet. Young lovers stole moments of intimacy where they could in a city where privacy was among the scarcer commodities. Elders contemplated how much their lives had changed in the preceding de?cades, much as elders have done since the time when their predecessors prowled for food in fields and jungles instead of massive grocery stores.

A nomadic distributor of such food was presently plying its lonely way among the district’s deserted streets and avenues. The ice-cream truck was squat and battered, and had visibly been heavily used. Its bells tinkled an oddly familiar melody while the intensity with which its headlights illuminated the surrounding streets and structures suggested hidden power quite out of keeping with its scruffy external appearance. Equally iconoclastic was the English- language sticker that decorated part of the truck’s rear bumper:

DECEPTICONS—SUCK MY POPSICLE

Out of the darkness a trio of powerful motorcycles came thundering. Their leather-clad female riders were beautiful, alluring, and as alike as identical triplets. Occasionally their outlines wavered like the advanced holograms they were. Though not real, they were all part and parcel of the single entity to which they belonged.

The lateness of the hour neither inhibited the two children who came running after the ice-cream truck nor diminished their desire for its produce. Waving yuan, the boy and girl tried desperately to intercept it. Short legs being no match for large tires, they were too late. Despite their imploring shouts they rapidly fell behind, slowed, and finally came to a discouraged and disappointed stop. Then the truck abruptly halted, turned, and with headlights dimmed came straight toward them.

Brother and sister, too startled to get out of the way, could only stare as the truck bore down on them. In the absence of an adult to snatch them up and carry them to safety, scream at them to run, or deliver any other instruction, they stood dumbly in the middle of the street and gaped at the oncoming vehicle. At the last possible instant the truck did the impossible: it split perfectly in half. As if mounted on individual gyroscopes, each section sped past the paralyzed children, one on each

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Excerpted from Revenge of the Fallen by Alan Dean Foster
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