A Timeline of Human Evolution, Exemplified by the Case Study of Dylan Gould

Chapter 1

For a kid, going from elementary school to middle school was a big, exciting, scary deal. For Dylan Gould, it didn't seem all that impressive. It basically just meant he'd be going to a new building and might not have recess as often. Oh, sure, he'd have new teachers, but he had a new teacher every year, so that barely registered. And most of his classmates would be the exact same people who'd been his classmates all through elementary school; Daniel Gould wasn't quite stinking rich yet, but he was definitely starting to smell, and he'd made sure to send Dylan to the best schools money could buy. If a kid's parents hadn't been rich enough and stuck up enough to send them to the same elementary school Dylan had gone to, they probably wouldn't decide to send them to his new middle school.

It would all just be more of the same, in a slightly different place. No more of a big deal than going from fourth grade to fifth grade had been. And he was at that kind of fidgety, bored age where he was between milestones, past that weirdly exciting tenth birthday where he'd hit double-digits, but still a couple years away from being a teenager. His father was for some reason already making vague rumblings about him taking over the family business, but from what he could tell the family business involved a bunch of numbers and responsibility, and so it seemed, to a discerning eleven year old, to be deathly boring. There was absolutely nothing exciting about his life.

And then his father let him in on the secret.

There were, quite frankly, a lot of better ways he could have done it. After picking Dylan up from school one day, he suddenly turned and parked their car in the lot of a nearby clothing store, took a deep breath, and turned to face his son in the seat beside him.

"I need to go to a meeting," he said, "with my... business associates. And I think it's time you met them."

Dylan wasn't too sure about that, but he wasn't too alarmed yet, either. The way his dad talked to him about his 'dotdotdot business associates', always vague and a little nervous, Dylan had always just gotten the impression that his dad was dating again. He didn't know what the big deal was, or why he'd lie about it; he and mom had been divorced for a long time.

That long-running theory was finally shot down when his father continued, "You're going to be taking over my position someday, and you need to know-- you need to understand what we're dealing with, here. These people are... Well, they're scary, they might look like they're dangerous to you, but you'll be safe. They're not here to hurt us."

That little stress on us. This had suddenly gotten alarming -- but kind of fascinating, too. "Do you work for the Mob?"

Dylan actually found that kind of cool, kind of exciting, not just alarming and scary. He was eleven, after all. Part of him imagined it would be fun to be a mobster. Part of a Mafia family. Another part of him really didn't want to get shot, or arrested, and was alarmed at the sudden idea that his dad might get caught and arrested or... or taken out in a Mob hit or something, and his expression suddenly crumpled from fascinated disbelief to intense concern.

"No," his father said quickly. "No, nothing like that." He turned in his seat a little more. "There's a war, Dylan. It's been going on for a long time, and it's going to come here. And I've made sure that this family is going to be in the winners' good books."

He searched Dylan's face for understanding, didn't seem satisfied with what he found, sighed and turned back towards the windshield again, pulling them back out of the parking lot. "I'm telling you they might scare you because I'm going to need you to be polite anyway. I expect you to be on your best behavior, do you understand? These people -- they gave us all the funding we ever needed, they're the reason we can live in such a nice house, that you can go to the best schools..."

Dylan's mouth felt weirdly dry. This was sounding a lot more like treason, which didn't have the glamorous and exciting associations that the Mafia did. Even if "spy" was still a cool word, this didn't make his dad a spy, it made him... one of those people the spies dealt with, maybe. Informants. "Informant" just sounded like something you'd get in a lot of trouble for.

He swallowed, finally managed a few words, one of the many questions jumbled up in his head. "...What country?" The Soviet Union? Had to be. Probably had to be.

"None of them. These people... They aren't from any country on Earth." He spared a quick glance over, despite the traffic. "They're aliens, Dylan."

Dylan was abruptly annoyed -- no, honestly kind of pissed, all that excitement and disbelief and worry and fear crashing down with the realization that his dad was just messing with him. What the hell was wrong with him? He wasn't even a joker, ever, he didn't do things like this, and Dylan wished he hadn't decided to switch that up today.

"You're kidding me," he muttered, and slouched down in his seat, irritated and embarrassed at himself for buying any of it in the first place. He'd actually asked his father -- Daniel freaking Gould, an accountant, the new head of an investment firm -- if he worked for the Mob! If anyone found out about that he'd never live it down, he knew it. "Okay, I have homework, so can we just go home--"

"I'm not joking."

"Dad."

"Dylan Elliot!"

It wasn't just the use of his first and middle name, that clear sign that he was in trouble, that stopped him short. He'd only ever heard it said in that tone when his father was really, really stressed, or when he was in a ton of trouble. His mouth dropped open.

"You need to take this seriously," his father continued, more calmly, but with a strain in his voice that Dylan was pretty sure meant he was either angry or worried out of his mind -- either way, he was a lot more tense than Dylan had noticed before. "You need to understand the position that we're in. These aliens are powerful, and they are meant for war, and whatever is going to happen, it's going to happen on Earth. There are some things they need done, records changed, creative accounting, greased palms... A few words here and there. They're-- technologically brilliant, but they can't do it all themselves, not while keeping their presence here a secret. They need us, and we can take advantage of that. If we're useful to them, we'll survive, and thrive. And we will have the best lives money can buy us until the world changes. Do you understand that?"

Dylan was starting to get a sick, sinking feeling that his dad actually believed all of this. What... How did someone convince him that aliens were real? Was he just delusional? Or was it really some other country, pulling off some amazing hoaxes, ones that had convinced even someone so down-to-earth and boring as his dad that he was working for some alien army?

He'd used to think his father was down-to-earth, anyway. He wasn't sure what to think now. It sounded like he hadn't been boring for a while, if he'd thought he'd been aiding an alien war.

For years? Since Dylan was a baby?

"Dylan," his father repeated with exaggerated, obviously faked patience, in the face of his non-response. "Do. You. Understand?"

"No," he said, honestly, and looked away, out the window. He was suddenly scared again; they weren't going home, that was obvious, and the area they were driving through now had much less traffic, they seemed to be heading out to more deserted places. No -- he didn't understand.

He heard his father sigh, frustrated, heard the quiet drumming of his fingers against the steering wheel, just for a few seconds before it stopped again. "Maybe you aren't ready for this." His voice was flat. "But you're going to have to be."

Dylan didn't respond that time. He just shrank down further in his seat, and tried to figure out where they were going from the scenery passing by his window.

They ended up at a warehouse outside the city proper, abandoned, broken down, and not exactly reassuring to a kid who'd been quietly freaked out more and more as the ride had stretched on. This was a place Dylan could imagine people would get taken to be killed, or kidnapped, or threatened, and he thought about just refusing to get out of the car, until he remembered the way his father's voice had sounded, and he knew that wasn't going to fly.

His father sounded a lot calmer now, though, and he balanced somewhere between friendly and businesslike as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "Now, I told them I wanted you to get to meet them sometime, and that you should be old enough to know about all this soon, so they shouldn't be too surprised to see you. If you can't be charming, be polite, and if you can't be polite, be quiet, all right? Let me introduce you, and let them decide how they're going to address you. And-- don't be afraid of one of them has his... pet, with him. It's never attacked me; you'll be perfectly safe."

Do I have to do this? I don't want to do this, dad. Can't I just wait in the car? Dylan thought of all the different things he wanted to say to get out of this, but settled on, "Yeah. Okay."

"There you go." He favored his son with a strained smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "I knew you'd adapt. You're a natural, bud." He didn't call Dylan bud very often, and it always sounded fake.

Dylan unbuckled as his father's door banged shut, and slowly opened his own door, stepping out of the car. The sun wasn't quite setting, but it was still getting cool out, early October putting chill in the air. His father stood waiting for him, to lead him into the warehouse. Dylan looked at the busted up windows and faded letters on the side of the building, and he shivered.

He was expecting intimidating men in suits, or maybe army uniforms, something impressive, with scowls on their faces, "go-betweens" for these aliens his dad thought he was working for. Or maybe some kind of-- of robotics, something convincing enough that his father had been taken in, he'd braced himself a little for that, for being impressed by what someone had been able to pull off.

He hadn't been expecting a Toyota Corolla to be idling inside. Silver, a few years old, faded and a little scuffed up, a car just like everybody else was driving. Obviously they'd been waitings inside for them to show up, Dylan told himself, and then the engine growled and he could almost feel his heart stop, thought wildly, they're going to run us over and make it look like an accident.

And then the car shifted, its smooth surface separating into metal plates, and for a split-second Dylan thought that it had some weird advanced kind of sunroof, except that it wasn't just happening to the roof of the car.

Limbs and an almost human-like form, except way too big, distinguished themselves from the strange shifting mass, all to the tune of -- like some sort of factory equipment almost, only smoother. What might almost have been a third arm forming itself from the figure's chest detached itself completely, dropping to the ground and turning out to be a catlike shape instead, with a big circular light in its face, sharp teeth and a lashing tail. And then everything seemed to have clicked into place in a totally different way, the sounds stopped, and the larger figure had wound up settled almost kneeling, on its hands and knees.

Red lights flared to life on the larger figure's face as well -- red eyes -- and looked straight at them.

It could have been terrifying, it should have been terrifying. Hell, it should have blown Dylan's mind, shaken the foundations of his world, left him reeling. He could even have reacted with denial, maybe, rebelling against what he saw and clinging tight to the idea that someone was just trying to trick them.

Instead he was amazed, rapt, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, as the figure spoke, one simple word:

"Daniel."

"Soundwave." His father had slipped into his smooth, friendly businessman voice, all apparent warmth and comfort with the situation. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting, you know how it is. The traffic in the inner city." He chuckled, and clapped a hand on Dylan's small shoulder. "I'd like to introduce you to my son -- or rather, my son to you. This is Dylan. Dylan, this is Soundwave."

He'd been told to wait and let Soundwave decide how it -- he? -- wanted to address him. He didn't think he could have managed words yet if he'd been ordered to.

It was obvious that his father expected some sort of response, and it was hard to really tell, but Soundwave seemed a little irritated, but humored him anyway. "I see."

Well, that was hard to figure out how to respond to. If he was supposed to be following Soundwave's lead, it wasn't a very clear one. He decided not to try to speak yet, nodding to him in acknowledgement instead.

The giant robot (giant, transforming alien robot car! this was amazing, he couldn't believe how incredible this all was) didn't seem interested in him, and honestly Dylan couldn't blame him for that. Why would a being like that be interested in humans? They must seem like-- like ants, or something, to them. Ants that were sometimes useful.

And because they were sometimes useful, Soundwave was talking to his father, and Dylan listened, fascinated, as he said, "We will be leaving this world for a time. I expect you to continue to make sure another moon landing is not... financially feasible for your people."

His father grinned broadly. "You have my word, as long as you have me doing creative accounting, we'll never make it back up there. I'm sure we'll still be getting the... financial support that a project of this magnitude needs...? Enough to seem trustworthy, grease a few palms..."

"Enough to pay for whatever you desire." Dylan wasn't imagining it, was he? That was impatience in Soundwave's voice, annoyance, something surprisingly human. Soundwave didn't like his dad, and that suddenly made nervousness creep back in, nervousness that grew stronger when he heard a sound that was a little like a growl and a little like a motorcycle engine, close by.

He looked over. The catlike creature that had separated itself from Soundwave during his transformation had padded closer, and had its one big, glowing eye fixed right on him.

Dad said it's never attacked him, he said I'd be safe. But that thought was followed up, treacherously, by, Yeah, but Soundwave sounds like he really doesn't like dad...

The creature kept coming closer, and Dylan's alarm grew until he opened up his mouth to call over for help -- at which point it surged forward and headbutted him in the midriff.

He just about managed a squeak, the air sort of knocked out of him. It rubbed its face firmly against his hipbone then, circling around him and making another engine-growling sound, then rearing up to get its big metal claws -- paws? -- up on his shoulders.

Its weight hit him heavily, way too much for an eleven year old, and he tumbled backwards with a yelp, the creature on top of him. Landing really did knock the breath out of him, that time, and he heard his dad exclaim his name, sucked in a deep breath after a few tries and realized that the creature was rubbing its face industriously against his face, still rumbling.

Purring. It really was like a big robotic cat, he realized; it was acting like it was scent-marking him, though he didn't know if it was, and was purring up a mechanical storm, engine thrumming happily. By the time his father actually reached his side, he'd gone from fear to amazed laughter, and was stroking the big cat's head and behind its ears with both entire hands.

"Dylan--" his father began again, uncertain, but was interrupted by an unfamiliar sound -- an odd, rasping chuckle from Soundwave, who had followed him over, and Dylan looked up at him to see... Was that amusement he recognized in that alien face? A flash of interest in the eyes that looked infinitely more like turn signals than gooey human orbs?

"She seems to like him," he noted.

Dylan looked from him to the cat purring on top of him, who'd started licking at his hair with a long, strange tongue that looked like a hose and was dripping with some thick liquid that smelled like gasoline. "She's a she?"

"Her name is Ravage," Soundwave informed him.

"Ravage," he repeated. He gave her a few more scritches behind the ears, feeling as much as hearing the warm rumbling. "Hey, there."

"You..." Dylan's father didn't seem to know how to react to the situation, watching as Ravage groomed and slimed up Dylan's hair, glancing at Soundwave as he talked to him. Trying to get back to business, weakly. "You said you were going to be leaving, for how long...?"

"It could be years," Soundwave said, a bit dismissively. "We'll be keeping an eye on you. And of course our... other allies."

"Oh." Dylan's father didn't sound too thrilled with that, and Dylan wondered idly, as Ravage flopped down half beside and half on top of him, and panted, finally satisfied with her work, how they'd be keeping an eye on them if they were off planet. Then he thought, Duh, Dylan. They're the most advanced technology you've ever seen. You think they can't do surveillance from some other planet?

There didn't seem to be too much else for the two of them to arrange, and it wasn't long before they were heading back out to the car -- reluctantly, in Dylan's case and only Dylan's case, a complete reversal from the way things had been on the ride over. He crouched down to give Ravage a few more scritches as she lay curled on her side, watching him pleasantly, and she rubbed her face against his hand before he got up to leave.

Unexpectedly, Soundwave stopped him before he reached the warehouse doors. "Dylan."

He stopped short, surprised, then turned around and looked up at the giant robot, abruptly nervous again at being addressed directly and reminded of exactly how big and intimidating this particular alien was. "Y-Yes, sir?"

"Ravage isn't fond of humans." Despite Soundwave's words, there was that amusement in his voice, and again, that flash of what Dylan could almost swear was interest. And then, as if the two thoughts connected somehow, "You will make a good replacement for your father."

Dylan's heart jumped, and he tried to figure out how to respond. "Thank you. Really. Um... Goodbye. Have a safe trip," he blurted out, impulsively, then turned around and ran out, practically overwhelmed with embarrassment.

Have a safe trip! He'd told a giant robot to have a safe trip, through outer space.

His father was waiting about halfway to the car, and looked relieved when Dylan caught up, walking back with him in silence. It was a silence neither of them broke until the car had backed out of the warehouse parking lot, and was driving back towards home. His father was frowning, and said abruptly, voice short, "Take a shower when we get home."

Dylan knew he smelled like gasoline, the entire inside of the car smelled like gasoline already. "Okay," he agreed.

He ended up showering every day for nearly a week before the smell finally disappeared, but even though his father obviously hated it, he felt disappointed when it was gone.