The Veiled Threat by Alan Dean Foster

aim; one consisted of a revolving cannon,while the other was heavy with missiles of advanced design. “I will make an entrance.”
    One metal arm came down to restrain another. “That would be unwise. While I, too, am eager to make use of the material within, Starscream warned me that as creative as they are, these humans have not yet learned how to properly stabilize much of their weaponry. I fear that your method of choice might result in the activation and consequent loss of that which we seek to utilize.” He stepped forward. “Defer if you will to a more localized and gentler methodology.”
    Folding in upon itself, a weapons-holding hand gave way to a quintet of incredibly sharp carbon-edged blades. A deep whine filled the air as they began to spin at an impossible speed. Bending forward, Macerator touched his cutting blades to the side of the squat building before him. He proceeded to cut through the thick outer wall of the structure as delicately as a surgeon cracking a chest cavity. Several slices later, Payload joined him in lifting the excised section of roof and setting it aside. The need for the structure’s massive, angled concrete walls stood revealed.
    Within lay enough industrial explosives to destroy a small city. Or reduce a basalt gorge to transportable rubble.
    Gesturing with both hands, Macerator stepped aside. “After you.”
    “No, no.” Payload waved one hand deferentially. “After you. The one who gains entrance always precedes.”
    “As you wish.”

Anyone traveling down the southern part of the narrow island’s single-lane road of hard-packed coral rubble would hardly have looked twice at the motorcycle and tow truck parked side by side facing the open ocean. Workers from the main part of the atoll or from NEST itself often relaxed by taking short drives away from their respective work areas. While the inner lagoon at Diego Garcia offered quiet water, the ocean side was cooler and richer in sea life.
    Had such visitors paused, however, they might have been puzzled to see that no one was snorkeling or diving in front of the parking area. No laughter drifted in on the Indian Ocean wind from picnickers enjoying a day off. No daytime idlers were visible beachcombing for sea glass or shells. The two vehicles sat by themselves, to all intents and purposes abandoned and alone. They were neither, of course. They had each other for company. A visitor might also have noted that no one sat behind the vehicle of the brawny tow truck, and that in defiance of normal motorcycle physics, the powerful two-wheeler somehow managed to remain upright without its kickstand deployed.
    “I still don’t understand why we weren’t asked toaccompany the expedition.” Seeking a temporary perch from which to watch for meandering crabs, a seagull settled down atop one of the motorcycle’s gleaming handlebars. A sharp blast from the bike’s horn sent it squawking seaward.
    Longarm was amusing himself by alternately flashing his headlights at a feral cat. The cat would jump at high beam, retreat, then leap at the other, always falling back before making contact. This world was an endless banquet of fascinating organics, the Autobot mused, and in his personal opinion humans were not necessarily the most attractive ones.
    “You heard what Optimus said. Sending all of us after Starscream might better ensure success, but if they fail to find him and another crisis should erupt while the bulk of our forces are occupied elsewhere, NEST must be able to draw on at least a minimum of Autobot strength to counter it.” The big towing arm swung sideways so that the tip of its heavy hook barely grazed the motorcycle’s seat. “That’s you and I here, Bumblebee elsewhere.”
    “But why us? Salvage and Beachbreak are just as new to this world as we are. Why not have them stay behind?”
    “I don’t know, but I’m sure Optimus has his reasons. My lineage is longer than yours, Knockout, and if there’s one thing I know