Chapter 265: The Space Shuttle

The following day. The second day since the Decepticon fleet descended over Chicago.

Washington, Kennedy Space Center.

An intelligence agency transport helicopter circled low over the salt marshes before banking toward the secure pads. Inside the passenger cabin, Sam and Mearing sat across from each other in silence.

After Sam had demanded to join the transfer detail yesterday, Mearing had cleared his access without resistance. Today, she brought him straight to the tarmac to witness the final departure of the Autobots from Earth.

Whether she brought him along as a civilian monitor or merely to keep a close eye on a loose cannon was known only to Mearing herself.

“Sam, what else do you have? What are you holding back?” Mearing pressed, leaning forward against the vibration of the rotors.

Throughout the flight from Diego Garcia to the launch facility, she had peppered him with relentless debriefing questions.

From the street ambushes to his first encounter with Optimus Prime in the alley behind his house, all the way to the carnage in the Egyptian desert, Sam had answered every prompt with flat exhaustion.

Hearing the familiar edge in her voice once again, Sam merely shook his head, signaling that his memory was completely dry.

A moment later, he looked up, his tone hollow. “Don’t you realize what you’re doing? The Autobots don’t have the hardware to leave this rock on their own.”

“You have your facts wrong,” Mearing said, snapping her field tablet shut and gesturing toward the reinforced glass. “Look down there.”

Rising from the concrete launch pad below was an orbital shuttle stack standing as tall as a downtown skyscraper, mated along its spine to a heavily armored interstellar cargo pod.

“They have a functional transit craft,” Mearing explained, watching the silhouette grow larger through the haze. “That vessel is the Xanthium. It carried their second wave across the stars.”

“The administration ordered the departure carried live on international broadcast feeds. We mounted the Xanthium directly to a decommissioned orbital booster stack to haul their ship and its passengers through the thermosphere.”

“Once they clear orbital insertion, whatever path they take is their own affair.”

“This is our sovereign soil. We dictate the terms of the withdrawal.”

The calculation from high command was elementary: they simply did not trust the Autobots to depart cleanly. Loading them onto a staged rocket assembly ensured the exit was absolute and verifiable.

While they spoke, the helicopter touched down smoothly on the perimeter helipad. Stepping out onto the tarmac, Sam and Mearing immediately spotted several massive metal figures gathered beneath the base of the gantry.

“Those three belong to the Wreckers,” Mearing said, crossing her arms and adjusting her dark sunglasses. “Unruly, foul-mouthed saboteurs. I never cared for their lack of discipline.”

“Fortunately, the entire pad is under military lockdown. Until the ignition clears, they won’t have an opportunity to cause friction.”

The launch pad sat isolated amidst an expanse of coastal brush. Armed soldiers patrolled the perimeter fences with rifles slung across their chests, keeping civilian eyes far beyond the restricted line.

Near the base of the Xanthium, the three Wreckers—Roadbuster, Topspin, and Leadfoot—were locked in a heated shouting match around a collapsed hoist assembly:

“That hydraulic arm requires over ten thousand foot-pounds of torque, you blundering scrap-heap! Your butter-fingered servos just cost the entire squad twenty minutes! When Optimus rolls in, I’m logging a formal complaint right to his faceplate!”

“Shut your exhaust port, you whining wrench-turner! You were supposed to haul the retaining cable on the left flank! How else was the frame going to buckle?!”

“This sits entirely on your shoulders!”

The Wreckers fought with savage ferocity on the front lines, and they treated one another with the exact same lack of tact in private.

The trio had been using heavy loading rigs to stow critical salvage aboard the Xanthium when a securing clamp sheared off, sending the transport rig crashing onto its side.

As the long-time caretakers of the vessel, the Wreckers had rushed ahead of the main column to secure the launch site before Optimus Prime arrived.

They were genuinely terrified the human engineers would dismantle their engines under the guise of pre-flight modifications.

After substantial swearing and several heavy blows with an alloy wrench, the trio finally hammered the damaged gear back into alignment.

“Roadbuster… are we genuinely packing up and leaving?”

Topspin stared up at the access ramp, his optics dim with genuine worry. He desperately wanted someone to confirm whether they were truly being cast into the cold dark of space.

Optimus had departed the main base for an entire night, returning at dawn in stony silence. Then, without a word of explanation, the alert sounded across the bays: vacate the facility immediately.

None of them knew the actual board state.

Meanwhile, leaving Mearing behind by the tarmac vehicles, Sam walked toward the launch gantry alone, only to cross paths with a familiar face near the support scaffolding.

“Robert?”

“Hey there, kid! Long time no see!”

Wearing grease-stained mechanic coveralls, Robert Epps offered his trademark grin as he limped forward. He bumped his fist against Sam’s knuckles before pulling him into a firm handshake.

Reconnecting with a veteran comrade—especially the man who had pulled his neck from the fire in the desert—brought a rare, genuine smile to Sam’s exhausted face.

“What are you doing working out here?”

“Discharged a little while back,” Epps said, a brief flicker of melancholy passing through his eyes before he smoothed it over with a laugh. “Doing fine now, though. Landed a civilian contractor gig turning wrenches on heavy hardware. Couldn’t ask for much better.”

“How have you been holding up, man?”

During the brutal engagement at Chernobyl, Epps’s right leg had been crushed under collapsing concrete, leaving him with permanent structural nerve damage that forced an early medical retirement.

Noticing the hitch in the sergeant’s stride, Sam hesitated. “Robert… your leg…”

“Old war trophy from the Decepticons, you know how it goes,” Epps chuckled casually, gesturing for Sam to walk with him toward the service elevator.

“I spent over a decade in uniform, traded fire across half the globe. Nowadays, I just run technical maintenance and logistics for the big guys. No firefights, no metal monsters trying to peel my scalp off. I’ve learned to appreciate the quiet life…”

“Robert,” Sam cut in, his voice cracking with quiet urgency. “They’re deporting the Autobots off Earth. Can you actually believe this is happening?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Epps gave a small shrug as they stepped directly beneath the towering shadow of the Xanthium and its booster rocket.

Looking up at the colossal assembly stretching into the morning clouds, both men felt a profound, crushing insignificance.

Humans were agonizingly small against such scale.

“Where do you honestly think they’re sending them?”

“Any place that isn’t our backyard.”

Epps’s answer was quiet, but it reflected the unvarnished sentiment of a weary public.

Sam stood speechless, swallowing the frantic arguments he had prepared to make.

While the two men stood under the gantry, another commotion stirred near the outer security gate.

Someone was forcing their way past the sentry post.

“Where is the senior director on this site?! I demand an immediate audience with command!”

Simmons sat upright in a motorized wheelchair, with Chuck pushing the handles from behind, flanked by three imposing private security guards.

Mearing, who was reviewing telemetry checklists near the operations tent, turned on her heel to meet them. “Agent Simmons. Or rather, former Agent Simmons. Currently known as Simmons the author.”

The two had already crossed paths once before—inside that temporary military depot where Sentinel had unveiled his betrayal.

Their initial encounter had been anything but cordial, trading barbs over authority, and this second meeting picked up right where they left off.

Simmons scowled up at her, digging up old grievances without missing a beat. “Hate to disappoint your paperwork, ma’am, but I survived that blast, and I intend to stay above ground for a good long while.”

During Sentinel’s ruthless strike on Ironhide and the ensuing volley directed at Mearing’s transport, Simmons had been caught in the concussive fringe, suffering severe shrapnel lacerations to both legs.

“Mr. Simmons, I am thrilled to see you on the mend,” Mearing said, her tone dripping with rehearsed administrative indifference.

“However, this terminal is under active military exclusion protocols. A civilian has zero clearance on this tarmac. I have no idea whose operational pass you borrowed to breach the gate, but—”

“Save the boilerplate executive nonsense for the cameras, Director!” Simmons fired back, leaning forward in his chair.

He rolled his wheels forward half a turn, glaring straight into her eyes. “You think you’re holding all the cards? Back in my day, I ran that exact same intimidation routine on every soul who crossed my desk.”

Simmons jerked his thumb toward the gantry where Sam stood. “That kid over there? He was on the receiving end of the full agency squeeze.”

“If your brilliant strategy for global security is packing every Autobot into an aluminum can and firing them into the void—”

“The decision is entirely out of my hands!”

Mearing cut him off mid-sentence, spinning on her heel to walk away.

“Ah, the classic upward delegation! Protecting the career path, are we?!”

Simmons signaled Chuck with a sharp flick of his wrist, following right on her heels like an unyielding shadow.

At ten o’clock sharp, Optimus Prime and the remaining Autobots arrived at the launch complex under heavy military escort.

Arriving ahead of the convoy were mobile broadcast vans, their directional antennas locking onto satellite arrays.

Dozens of high-definition camera lenses tracked the column as it rolled through the perimeter. In this hour, silence carried more weight than any formal declaration.

Human leadership held no direct communications channel to negotiate with the Decepticon high command, so they used the global media to send an unmistakable signal:

Look upon the screen. Your demands are met. We are expelling the Autobots.

The armored column moved in a slow, solemn line through the iron gates of the launch site. Under the watching eyes of the ground personnel and millions of viewers glued to live screens worldwide, the Autobots rolled toward the waiting shuttle stack.

Every single Autobot remaining on Earth was present in the column, including the smaller units like Brains.

“Sam! Don’t let them shove us into that tin can! This whole thing is a Decepticon setup!”

Spotting Sam standing near the base of the access tower, Brains shrieked at the top of his mechanical lungs.

Sam barely registered the shouting; he had eyes only for the commander.

“Optimus!” Sam sprinted across the concrete to meet him.

“Complete pre-ignition diagnostic!” Optimus commanded his crew, overseeing the final preparations before turning his heavy gaze down toward the young man.

“Sam, the leaders of your nations have spoken with clarity. This conflict was born of our civil war, and its consequences belong to our kind. It is time for us to depart.”

“No, Optimus, that’s wrong!” Sam shook his head frantically, his voice cracking. “None of this is your fault! I begged them to see reason, I told them who to trust, but they refused to listen—”

“This burden does not rest upon your shoulders, Sam.”

“You did everything within your power, far more than anyone had a right to ask. The Autobots will forever honor your loyalty.”

Optimus knelt down, his optics softening with profound, solemn warmth. “Remember this, Sam: humanity may lose faith in us, but whatever darkness falls upon this world, you must never lose faith in yourselves.”

Hearing words that sounded like a final eulogy, Sam panicked completely. He glanced nervously at the guards standing along the perimeter before leaning close, his voice dropping to a desperate whisper:

“Optimus, I know you have an operational fallback!”

“Tell me how you plan to counter-strike! You have to have a tactical retreat in play, a contingency to swing back around and hit them! There has to be a real plan!”

Sam repeated the plea like a man trying to convince himself against all evidence, but Optimus answered with three crushing words:

“There is none.”

“No, that’s impossible! There has to be!” Sam refused to let go. “Tell me the frequency, Optimus. I swear I won’t breathe a word to anyone! Not a single human will know!”

“We simply complied with the diplomatic mandate. We have always respected your sovereignty,” Optimus said, his optics dipping toward Sam’s left wrist for a fraction of a second before he slowly shook his helm. “From this cycle onward… you must wage this war alone.”

“Optimus, please—”

“Sam,” Bumblebee stepped forward, his faceplate filled with unmistakable sorrow.

The yellow scout knelt beside him, his vocal processor emitting soft, mournful radio chirps. “Sam, you will always be my truest brother. I will carry your memory across the stars.”

“When the storm passes… I hope you find a way to make your life extraordinary…”

“Bumblebee, wrap up the farewell. We are boarding,” Optimus called out from the gantry ramp.

Bumblebee rose slowly to his full height, looking down one last time.

“Goodbye, Sam. I have to go.”

Ground technicians cleared the staging area one by one, while the security details retreated beyond the reinforced blast barriers.

Sam walked back toward the observation lines like a walking corpse. Simmons rolled his wheelchair up alongside him, looking skyward through the midday heat:

“Generations from now, if our bloodline survives, our grandchildren will look us in the eye and ask: when the invaders claimed this world, where did you stand?”

“Assuming anyone is left alive to ask the question.”

Like Sam, Simmons had fiercely opposed the expulsion order from the beginning.

“Are we really just going to sit here and watch it burn?”

“What else can we do, kid?” Simmons shaded his brow with an open hand, tapping the armrest of his wheelchair. “You saw what happened. You and I barely scratched the surface of Sentinel Prime’s betrayal, and look where it landed us. One in a grave, one in a chair.”

“I’m sorry, Seymour…”

Before Sam could finish his apology, the phone in his jacket pocket began vibrating violently.

He pulled out the handset, his jaw tightening the moment he saw the caller ID. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”

Stepping away from the group, Sam answered the line, his teeth grinding together. “Congratulations, Dylan. You got exactly what you wanted!”

“Correction: what we wanted, Sam,” Dylan’s smooth voice drifted through the speaker.

“I have a habit of getting my way, and today is certainly no exception.”

“What do you want, Gould?” Sam spat, pure venom in his tone. “Why are you calling this line?”

“A brief operational verification.”

“Verify what?”

“Did every single Autobot board that vessel?”

Sam turned to look at the massive rocket stack. The loading ramps had retracted, and not a single Cybertronian remained visible on the concrete pad.

“Yes. Every last one of them is inside the ship. Exactly what you and your alien masters demanded. The Autobots surrendered without firing a shot!”

“Surrendered without a shot? I like the phrasing, Sam. Very succinct.”

“Our new order is about to be inaugurated. That will be all for today. Farewell, Sam.”

“Wait! Dylan, what is that supposed to mean?!”

Click.

The line went dead with three sharp disconnect tones.

Inside an executive suite on the third floor of the Chicago museum, Dylan lowered his phone, tossing it casually to a waiting security contractor. He turned toward the sofa with an easy, mocking smile.

“Look at that, Carly. Your boyfriend is running operational field tasks for our clients now, just like me.”

“What are you planning to do to them?” Carly demanded, her knuckles white against the upholstery.

“You will see very shortly,” Dylan smirked, giving his lapels a light tug before turning to the guard at the door. “Keep her secure in this room. I need an audience with Lord Megatron.”

“Understood, boss.”

Launch Complex, Cape Canaveral.

“All personnel clear the pad! Terminal count initiated!”

The launch announcer’s voice echoed across the flat coastal scrub as the automated sequence locked in.

“Five… four… three… two… one…”

“Ignition!”

A concussive roar tore through the atmosphere, followed by a blinding wall of pure flame erupting from the base of the rocket.

BOOM—

Millions of gallons of cooling water vaporized in an instant, throwing up a colossal mountain of blinding white steam that swallowed the Xanthium and its booster stack, cutting off the view from the perimeter.

A heavy silence fell over the gathered onlookers. From Sam and the intelligence details to the military escorts and visiting officials, everyone stared in solemn stillness at an event destined to alter the course of human history.

Yet inside the hardened blockhouse of the launch control center, the quiet was shattered by a sudden, shrill alarm:

Warning! Unidentified aerial contact detected!

Priority alert! High-velocity interceptor tracking into sector airspace!

“Plot that intercept trajectory right now! Forward the tracking feed directly to command! Wait… sound the perimeter siren! Tell everyone outside to take cover immediately!”

The launch director was drenched in cold sweat, his hands shaking over the console.

The orbital stack had barely cleared the tower, and an unregistered, hyper-velocity contact had materialized directly above the coastal corridor.

To claim this was a coincidental flyby was an insult to basic logic.

Out on the observation field, and across millions of television monitors tuned to the live feed, the heavy booster was climbing smoothly through the lower clouds when a jagged black silhouette suddenly dropped from the upper atmosphere, plunging like a bird of prey straight toward the rocket’s nose cone.

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