[真人电影]DOTM小说摘录 [复制链接]

http://www.tfw2005.com/transformers-news/transformers-movie-toys--products-30/an-excerpt-from-transformers-dark-of-the-moon-novelization-172168/
该小说由Peter David执笔，除了纸面版外，还会推出电子版读物，包括 Kindle 和Nook 两种格式

• 出版日期: 2011年5月24日
• 出版社: Random House Publishing Group
• 销售商: Random House
• 格式: NOOK Book (eBook)
• ISBN-13: 9780345529169
• ISBN: 0345529162

图片:Transformers-3-Dark-of-the-Moon-Adaptation-Novelization-Peter-David_1305503934_thumb.jpg

以下摘录：

Cybertron— The War Years
We were once a peaceful race of intelligent mechanical beings. But thencame the war between the Autobots, who fought for freedom . . . and theDecepticons, who dreamed of tyranny . . .
I am Optimus Prime, and I remember my world from ages long gone andmourn for what my planet had been. I wonder whether it could ever berestored to the glory that had once permeated every inch of its glorioussurface, and I am saddened to realize that the answer is very likely aresounding “no.”
Once . . .
Once the sky above had been a shimmering, cloudless blue.
Once the surface had been a vast stretch of gleaming silver composed ofan array of flat metal continents that were interlocked with each otherin perfect geometric shapes. Between the continents were vast valleysthat served both as the homes of the population of Cybertron and as aplace to take refuge should anyone be foolish enough to try to attackour small but hardy world.
We have lost the gleaming. That is our greatest loss: the loss of the gleaming.
The once-silvery world is now burnished and dark and gray, carbon-scoredwith countless battles that have ranged above the surface, upon it, andbelow it. The sky is permanently blackened through the haze of smokethat resulted from the constant explosions and battles that had rangedfrom one pole of Cybertron to the other.
The incessant battles have been destructive to far more than just theexterior of the world. It has suffered on every level. Once Cybertronhad been teeming with life, the paragon of scientific research anddevelopment in its particular corner of the galaxy. The technologicaladvances were beyond anything that was known for any other race. Nor hadits advancements been limited to science. The arts were treasured aswell. The residents of Cybertron wrote poetry . . . mostly of the greatachievements by their ancestors.
We scream defiant howls of challenge in combat. We scream through theair, inflicting brutal punishment and damage and death upon each other.We scream in pain, and we scream in death.
Once we were a proud civilization. Now our very world is a victim ofwar, wounded and dying, and the only thing we have left to be proud ofis simply surviving from one day to the next. And how much pride can wetake in that when we think of all that we have lost?
I tread across the battlefield. To my immediate right runs the edge of avalley that is steeped in the shadow of death. I step carefully aroundrandom pieces of deceased brethren. It seems that every day sees thefall of another brave warrior. Will there ever come an end to it? Well,yes, obviously. It will end when all of one side or the other is dead.What would happen then? Would it be possible to rebuild and perhapsrestore Cybertron to its former glory? Those very words have been askedby my devoted followers. I nod in confidence, as a Prime is expected todo, and assure those who believed in me that Cybertron can and willsurvive—has to survive—and it is upon them to make certain that it doesso.
What else am I supposed to say? That Cybertron is doomed? Surely theycould see that with their own eyes. But they need to believe insomething greater than simply endeavoring to survive another round ofassaults from their enemies. There has to be more to living than simplynot dying. There has to be—and it is my job to make sure that it isprovided even though I suspect it may be hopeless. This is no longer aworld. It is simply a battlefield with pretensions of something more.Pretensions that will never be realized.
A noise rips through the air above the field, jolting me from mymelancholy reverie. I see an aircraft, a large one that is moving farfaster than its considerable size would have made seem possible.
I know the craft. I know what it contains and its importance to our future.
There are six Decepticon fighters howling after it.
Out of reflex, I whip my Energon sword into a defensive position. “No,” Isay, and then louder, “No!” I wave my sword in a vain attempt to try todraw attention to myself. But the Decepticons are paying me no heed.They have their sights locked on to a far more formidable target.
The aircraft being pursued is far larger than the Decepticons that arechasing it, but the attack vessels have the advantage of both number andspeed. Apparently aware of that, the aircraft is determined to shakeits hunters rather than try to fight it out. It dives into the canyonthat is to my immediate right. Without hesitation, the six smallervessels dive in after it.
I start running, desperate to keep the larger air- craft in sight and perhaps provide aid if it is remotely possible.
This particular valley is a maze of towers and outcroppings. The largeraircraft darts into their depths, threading the needle of obstructionsas the smaller ships follow behind, fast and hard.
The common wisdom would have been for the aircraft to try to gain evenmore speed. Instead it slows abruptly, twisting sideways to avoid blastsfrom the pursuing vessels while permitting a couple of them to getcloser than they had expected, faster than they were prepared for. Theaircraft flips its wings quickly, first in one direction and then in theother, slapping the pursuing vessels broadside and sending themcrashing into the canyon walls. They erupt in balls of flame. Flyingshrapnel is hurtling in all directions, cutting through yet anothervessel, riddling it with holes and destroying its ability to maneuver.It flips end over end and strikes a tower, bending around it with ascreech of metal.
On flies the larger aircraft, picking up speed, diving even lower into the canyon. Two more ships go after it.
It should have been impossible for the large aircraft to accomplish whatit does next. It fires its reverse thrusters, and the ship flips over180 degrees. It is suddenly flying backward, staring directly down itsbarrels at the ships pursuing it. The airship fires off a few quickshots, blasting aside the two ships, sending them colliding into eachother. Then it flips back, narrowly avoiding smashing headlong into anoutcropping before zipping around it and going faster than ever.
It is everything I can do to keep up, to be able to see what ishappening. Five of the six pursuers are gone, and I allow, just for amoment, hope to swell within me.
Then I recognize the remaining Decepticon fighter, and dread fills me once more.
It is Starscream, leader of the air command. I know all too well thatonce Starscream is locked upon his quarry, he will never give up. Infact, he probably could have destroyed the target at any time. ToStarscream, this is more of a game than a challenge.
But it is a game that he is still going to win, and furthermore, it is a game that he is tiring of.
“Starscream! Stand and face me!” I shout.
It is impossible to determine whether Starscream hears me. If he does,he ignores me. He probably even chuckles to himself inwardly at thedesperation of my plea, a desperation that I could scarcely keep out ofmy voice.
With the section of the canyon coming to an end, there is nowhere elsefor the airship to go. Now it is simply going to be a matter of speed.The airship angles straight up a split second before reaching the end ofthe trench, hurtling vertically toward the outer atmosphere. Starscreamdoes not slow a whit as he goes after it.
I have never felt more helpless. My grip tightens in frustration on theEnergon sword. I can only watch as the battle plays out toward whatseems an inevitable conclusion.
Higher and higher speeds the airship, and suddenly it puts on a burst ofspeed that threatens to leave Starscream behind. There is what soundslike a howl of outrage from the Decepticon, or it might just have beenthe screech of the air being rent asunder. Either way, for one gloriousmoment, it seems that a miracle might well occur and the airship willmanage to elude its pursuer.
I should have known better.
Starscream locks on and fires. A single pulse from his cannon catches the aft wing of the fleeing ship.
The result is instantaneous and catastrophic. The blast tears off astabilizer. It sends a shudder through the airship, and seconds laterthe cargo door blows open. Debris spills down from it, tumbling to thedirty gray surface of Cybertron like metal rain. The airship tries tocompensate but fails completely. Instead, with no control at all, theairship spirals off into the darkness of space, the distant starsgleaming at it silently.
With his job done, Starscream banks sharply away. Again it could well bemy imagination, but I think I may have heard mocking laughter asStarscream departs.
The Decepticon wouldn’t even do me the simple courtesy of facing me inbattle. Either he is worried that I would destroy him or, more likely,he is arrogantly convinced that he would destroy me.
Which means he wants me to live. He wants me to be saddled with theawareness of what had just happened and my helplessness at preventingit. He wants it to eat at me, to make me dwell as long as possible uponthe catastrophe that had just befallen the Autobots.
Disappointment hangs heavily upon me. I am all too aware of theimportance of that ship that had been blasted away into space. Itrepresents a horrific loss not only to the Autobots but to Cybertronitself.
I am not one to give up, ever. Yet three words go through my mind, threewords that I dare not utter lest one of the other Autobots hear me andfall into despair to hear their Prime speak so.
And those three words are: we are lost.
Earth—1961
i
Doctor Aaron Brooks had come to a conclusion: He was wasting his life.
How in the world he had wound up in the Mojave Desert, staring at abunch of screens that were in turn linked to row after row of radiotelescopes, looking for . . .
Nothing. He was looking for nothing.
He glanced around the room at others who were just like him. Half adozen scientists who had gone into various fields, such as astronomy ortheoretical physics. All of them had once been young students, lookingforward to careers of accomplishment and exploration.
And one by one, they had wound up here.
If they were anything like Brooks—and he knew they were—they had joinedup with the same ambition to do something remarkable: to be the veryfirst to find a signal from outer space that was a sign of intelligentlife elsewhere. There was little doubt that it would be the greatestmoment in humankind’s history since the invention of the wheel.
Yet as year rolled into year, Brooks had monitored magnetic beats frompulsars or the background radiation left over from the big bang itself,searching for one signal out of a billion. He had felt the enthusiasm heinitially had for the project slowly, steadily being sucked out of him.The most depressing thing was watching the same realization creepingover the other scientists in the control room.
Ah, the control room: crammed with the latest technology, lined withscreens and instrumentation that could chart everything and anythingthat came within the considerable range of the telescope array. Once ithad seemed vibrant and alive to him. Now it just seemed sterile. It waswhere dreams of close encounters went to die.
He was going off shift soon. The setting sun was casting its red glowacross the desert, and soon Aaron Brooks would witness yet another dayof disappointing emptiness come to an end. Just one more, the latestdropped on the stack of—
That was when the center lit up.
A Klaxon sounded, so deafening that Brooks leaped straight up out of hischair, mashing his knee on the underside of the console. He grabbed hisearphones and shoved them hard against the sides of his head. He neededto hear the signals for himself, even as a message scrolled across thelit screens with as much dispassion as if it were listing stock marketprices:
ufo detected. collision course
Aaron Brooks was the team leader, his predecessor having dropped deadtwo months earlier (of boredom, some had morosely joked). Even thougheveryone knew what to do, even though they all had trained for asituation just like this one, still every eye turned to Brooks. Theyseemed to be seeking confirmation from him—or perhaps they were hopingthat he would shake his head, laugh, punch a button that would shut downthe alarms, and inform them that it was a false positive or a test oreven just a sick joke to shatter the ennui. They would all yell at himif that last one were the case and then would mutter that they knew thewhole time he was just messing around and they hadn’t been fooled, notfor one second.
Every one of these men, wearing the unofficial uniform of black slacks,white short-sleeved shirt, and thin necktie, was a professional. None ofthem was going to outwardly panic. There would be no throwing of papersinto the air, no screaming of, Oh, my God, we’re all going to die! Noone was going to soil himself or vomit up the tacos he’d brought in forlunch. Nevertheless, Brooks said firmly, “Stay on task, people. We have ajob to do.” Even though it may well be that no one is going to be aliveto know whether or not we did it. “Station One, confirm contact.”
“Confirmed,” Ralph Simmons said from Station One, and rattled off what his sensor apparatus was telling him.
Methodically, Brooks went from one man to the next until all six weighedin with identical readings. Then Brooks turned to Kelly—tall, bookish,the seismolo- gist who knew this stuff cold and could come up withconclusions without having to run numbers through computers—and simplyuttered two words: “How bad?”
“If it hits us? Very. Bad,” Kelly said with his typical understatement, adding the second word as if it were an afterthought.
Brooks turned to Newman, the expert when it came to tracking collisioncourses. “Is it going to?” Brooks had looked at the same numbers aseveryone else, but there were still variables: too many plus or minuseswithin the margin for error to be certain. Newman was the only one whomight have a lock on it.
Newman wasn’t looking at him. He was running the numbers. He wasn’tinputting anything or even writing anything down; he was just staring.
Then, slowly, he turned and leveled his gaze on Brooks.
“Too close to call,” he said.
Dead silence.
“Nobody breathe,” Aaron Brooks said in what he realized might well be the last order he ever gave.
ii
(The object—or, as half a dozen men would now describe it, thecontact—hurtles through space, as it has for uncounted years. It is adead thing, frozen and dark. All this time, all this way, it has managedto avoid falling into the grip of the gravity field of any astronomicalbody. Despite the vastness of space, this has not been as easy a featas one might think. If it had endeavored to accomplish this by design,such a task would have been formidable. Since it has transpired by luck,it is nothing short of miraculous. It seems to be a compelling argumentfor the notion that there is some unknowable, unseen being who isguiding matters along—although whether it is because of some grandmaster plan for the betterment of the universe or just perverse personalamusement, it would be impossible to say.)
(Whatever the reason, though, luck has obviously run out for the object;a collision is imminent. And the target appears to be a blue/greensphere dead ahead, the third sphere in orbit around the Type G2V starhanging a mere 93 million miles away . . . a vast distance under mostcircumstances but a mere stone’s throw in astronomical terms. Moving at33,000 miles per hour, when the object hits—depending upon where thatshould occur—the results will be catastrophic. If it hits the water,tidal waves or an underground seismic event will certainly result. If itstrikes land, then the outcome will be a crater the size of severalcities and perhaps another seismic event, possibly enough to split orsink a continent. Or it might not even reach ground. It could wellsuperheat in the atmosphere to in excess of 40,000 degrees Fahrenheitand explode with a ferocity two hundred times greater than an atomicbomb. This had happened before, ripping apart eight hundred square milesof Russian forest, leaving 80 million trees flattened in a radialpattern.)
(Except this object might well detonate above a major city, levelinghundreds—even thousands—of skyscrapers and snuffing out the lives ofmillions of people. There are only so many times that a single planetcan escape cosmic catastrophe.)
(Closer it comes to the blue/green sphere, and faster, and yes, it isgoing to be a city, a city that a group of scientists in the Mojave arepowerless to warn because it’s going to take too long and an evacuationwould require hours, perhaps a full day, and they have only minutesleft. All they would have time for is to pray to the deity that hasseemingly abandoned them to a random and capricious fate.)
(And then a small, silver-gray mass of rock—that doesn’t have anythingon its plate except affecting the tides and serving as inspiration forboth romantic poets and suckers for werewolf legends—puts itself betweenthe blue/green sphere and the intruder. With no atmo- sphere in whichthe intruder can superheat, with no population to die, it has nothing tolose. It is an undead soldier throwing itself upon a grenade to savethe troops.)
(Mission accomplished.)
(A journey that began oh so long ago is brought to an abrupt and terminal halt.)
iii
“Lunar impact!” Aaron Brooks shouted. He didn’t bother to poll the other men but instead simply called out, “Confirmations?”
“We have impact!” “Lunar impact, confirmed!” “Way to go, baby!” Theshouts were coming quickly, overlapping one another, laced with cries ofrelieved laughter and all the tension that they had managed to keepbottled up in the face of an impending crisis. They were clapping oneanother on the back, congratulating one another as if they themselveshad somehow managed to move the moon directly into the intruder’s path.
Brooks sagged into his chair, his chest heaving, putting his hand to hishead and realizing that his hair was now drenched in sweat. As hewaited for his pulse to return to something approximating normal, Newmanwalked straight over to him, all business. Brooks wasn’t surprised atNewman’s detachment. The man lived and breathed numbers and had icewater in his veins. To him, the object striking the moon was aninteresting outcome to a mathematical exercise in trajectory and nothingmore.
“It’s not a meteor,” he said with certainty.
Forcing himself to take a slow breath and then exhale just as slowly,Brooks said, “So when the computer’s saying UFO, it really means . . .”
“Yeah,” Newman said. “The telemetry leaves no question. Whatever thatthing is that hit the moon, it’s not a meteor or a fragment from a cometor anything that’s understood by anyone, except maybe those lunaticsout at Area 51. We have a genuine unidentified flying object.”
“So you’re saying there may be an alien corpse lying on the far side of the moon right now.”
“Or several alien corpses. Or maybe . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Or maybe what?”
“Or maybe alien weapons.”
“You,” Brooks said immediately, “read too much of that sci-fi crap.” Buteven as he said it aloud, the truth of Newman’s speculation burrowedinto his imagination and promptly began to eat away at what little peaceof mind he had left.
At that moment, Brooks’s aide, an attractive young British woman—CarlaSpencer—came running up to him and pointed at a blinking red line. “Mr.Webb’s ready to take your call now,” she said breathlessly. “They kepttrying to put me off, and I told them they would bloody well speak toyou now if they cared about the future of their bleeding planet.”
Brooks couldn’t help himself; he laughed. Spencer, normally brimmingwith British reserve, chuckled in response as she realized how she’dcome across. Brooks felt as if he were truly seeing her for the firsttime. He had always been a single-minded workaholic, and there wasnothing that focused someone on matters other than work more than anarrowly averted catastrophe. He reached for his receiver, but justbefore he pushed the button to connect it, he said, “You wanna go outfor a drink after work?”
“Desperately,” she said.
He nodded, then put the phone to his ear and, just before he startedtalking, decided that perhaps boredom was underrated after all.

日！
太长了！
不看了！

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求翻译~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

同楼上…

纯支持了，太长啦，哈哈

- -静待国内有志之士翻译后拜读。。比起电影有时候我喜欢看文字

求翻译啊

晕，我要是有时间还能不翻译么？关键是它太长了……我都没看完……

看不懂…求翻译……。

翻译版本请看这里

妹子啊……你单独把翻译出来的东西开个新帖吧。
要不看的人太少了。

哦好，只翻了一点先贴上来。翻完这段再开新帖吧。