Compiler’s Notes

NONE OF THIS belongs to me; I lay no claim to any of it except these notes. I’m just a fan who hates to see something like this made unattainable because of the whims of time and copyright. As the TFWiki puts it:

The book went out of print almost immediately, and for years commanded at least 4–5 times the original cover price on the secondary market.

And that’s just not fair.

If the actual rights-holders — Hasbro, I assume — ever see fit to bring it back into print, please thank them by buying a legitimate copy, ideally from a charming little independent book shop that will only side-eye you a little for buying licensed fiction. My purpose with this isn’t piracy, it’s preservation.

All stories are included in their original order, and I’ve done my best to maintain any typos from the original without introducing any new ones. (And I apologize in advance, but there were a lot of typos.)

More information on this anthology can be found on the TFWiki at https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Transformers_Legends_(book).

-Trixter

Introduction

THE TRANSFORMERS UNIVERSE is big. Really big. Lots of stories, lots of characters, a whole library full of history. So, when I was asked to edit an anthology of original stories set in all these possible universes, I created some ground rules.

The rules, as the saying goes, were simple. Write a Transformers story, set in any of the various timelines and universes. Don’t break things, but have fun. Optimus Prime can’t show up with a heretofore unknown short-range tactical nuke in his helmet, but he can have an adventure that no one has ever heard before. Characters should behave in the way we’ve come to know them... but perhaps a story about a previously unknown Transformer, or a new adventure, lost over the millions of years of history, or a new side to an established character-these were all allowed. The important thing, you see, was to give a group of great writers a chance to play in the Transformers universe in a way they hadn’t before.

And that’s just what they did. From the serious to the comedic, the writers of this volume of The Transformers Legends took approaches that both surprised and pleased the fan in me. I also made it a point not to use only writers who have previously worked in the Transformers universe, but asked a number of other talented SF writers to dive in as well. From Simon Furman to Robert Skir, these authors were told to tell a Transformers story that a fan would enjoy — and a story that had never before been heard.

The results, I hope, will also please the fan in you. But remember, none of the stories in this volume are part of continuity. In other words, they don’t count for future “facts” in the Transformers universe except as they should: these stories are for fun, giving us the chance to read about characters we’ve come to love. Enjoy the journey!

-David Cian

September 2004

Simon Furman — A Meeting of Minds

MEGATRON WAS TALKING to himself again.

It wasn’t the first time Quickstrike had noticed, but — in common with his fellow Predacons — he had decided that discretion was the better part of valor. It didn’t do to incur the potential wrath of the all-powerful, semi-conquering — there had been one or two campaigns of late that had, let’s face it, been less than triumphantly conclusive — leader of the renegade Earthbound Predacons, moreso since his recent upgrade to fire- and ice-breathing dragon/super-mechanoid.

And especially now, with Quickstrike due to stand trial… accused of, well, trying to eliminate the said all-powerful, semi-conquering Megatron by dropping him into an active volcano! There were, of course, mitigating circumstances, such as being duped and played for a fool by scheming and conniving former comrade-in-arms, Tarantulas, but those aside, it plainly wasn’t the time to start pointing out strange character aberrations.

So it was that Quickstrike, usually prone to incessant and linguistically strangled “good ol’ boy” ramblings, chose, for once, to say nothing. But, really, it was becoming increasingly hard to ignore the animated and voluble solo dialogues that would suddenly erupt from Megatron’s direction. Quickstrike could feel the glib enquiry building in the sub-processors of his vocal interface net, the drawling quip that he knew, deep down, would only hasten his molten, and quite possibly fatal, chastisement.

Megatron himself appeared oblivious to the incongruity of his externalised monologues, happy and relaxed, it seemed, to ponder this or that strategy aloud with the immediate bit of empty local space. The other Predcacons had responded to the first few booming vocal outbursts with hopeful opinions of their own, believing — understandably — that Megatron was addressing them, or at least the base crew in general. Megatron would merely pause, as if wondering why they had dared to interrupt, look at them thunderously, and then resume the debate at a more secretive mutter. Now they knew well enough to keep quiet, but from the exchanged glances and furrowed brows, Quickstrike knew that he was not alone in his quandary. What to say? What to do?

Quickstrike would, in the past, have taken the dilemma to science officer Tarantulas, the closest thing the Predacons had to a brain trust, but of course Tarantulas was no longer in residence, having set up shop in a secret base, intent on his own twisted agendas. And anyway, Tarantulas would probably have just giggled gleefully and looked smug, another batch of insidious plots hatching like spider-eggs in his labyrinthine neural net. It was clear even to Quickstrike that no help would be forthcoming from that direction.

Unused to problem solving, Quickstrike had nevertheless begun what he believed was a measured and reasoned analysis of the situation. Basics first, yes, he was sure he’d data-tracked that somewhere. When had this all begun? Certainly after his own entry into the far flung — in time as well as space — series of conflicts between the Predacons and the Maximals that had become known as the Beast Wars. Roused from his protective Stasis Pod, Quickstrike’s newly reformatted mind and Fuzor body had recognized Megatron’s total authority immediately, happy to follow orders and wreak havoc in his name. Back then, Megatron was inspirational, rational — in a deranged, megalomaniacal kind of way — and limited to conversations with actual physical entities. Whatever happened had clearly happened since.

Megatron’s fortunes had certainly vacillated — a euphemism coined by Megatron himself — in the subsequent months. His efforts to eradicate Optimus Primal’s doughty squad of Maximal had largely come to nothing. The various Golden Disks and their encoded font of tactical information had slipped through his fingers time and again, until finally they’d been destroyed. His scheme to twist time itself and render a new future ruled by the Predacons had nearly destroyed them all. It was hardly, Quickstrike was forced to acknowledge, a glowing résumé. But was it enough to push Megatron over the edge?

Megatron’s latest gambit had involved a raid on the Ark, the downed spacecraft that housed, in essence, their ancestors. Locked in a sort of protective stasis, battalions of Autobots and Decepticons lay dormant, awaiting a point when the Earth would enter an age of mimicable technology and the ship’s onboard computers would kick in and reboot them accordingly. Megatron continually sought to plunder this pivotal piece of Transformer history, and had recently absorbed the Spark — the core life force — of his namesake in an effort to boost his power. Two Megatrons had become one, the collective knowledge and energy of the Megatron from the original Cybertronian civil war era with their Megatron, fugitive rebel and initiator of the current fracas. Like a phoenix, a new, combined Megatron had arisen from the boiling heart of the volcano into which he’d been thrown by Quickstrike, transformed, recreated.

There was something in all this, Quickstrike suspected, but exactly what proved elusive. Was he missing something? Something obvious?

Megatron was talking. And, if a little grudgingly, Megatron had to agree that he was making sense.

“You need an edge,” he was saying, “a monstrous, tactically enormous advantage, the precursor to a bold, decisive strike that your opponent will never see coming, not in a million years. But, first, you must consolidate your own position, ensure that whatever you initiate cannot be turned against you, or indeed encompass you. You need… immunity!”

Megatron considered, musing silently for a moment. In the past, he’d certainly been undone by the odd unforeseen circumstance, enveloped in an escalating situation of his own creation. In Quickstrike’s limited parlance, he’d been “bitten in the backside by his own snake.” More than once! Perhaps he was prone to a degree of rash action, guilty of not always connecting the tactical dots ahead of time and following events through to their logical conclusion.

“Immunity.” Megatron savored the word, trying it out for size. “Ye-es, I like the sound of that. But… how? What…? I’ve already tried — ”

“Think,” urged Megatron, cutting like a solar saw through Megatron’s knee-jerk negativity. “Use your acquired knowledge of this place, this time, and then apply them to your immediate and long-term goals. First consider your opponent…”

“Optimus Primal!”

“Yes! What is it he fears above all else? What burden does he bear? What innate weakness does his strength hide?” Megatron rode right on, steamrollering Megatron’s barely vocalised “ums” and “ahs.” “His concern, of course! For his fellow Maximals! In common with all heroic fools, he actually cares for those in his command, worries that his actions, or lack thereof, will have consequences, fatal or otherwise.”

“So… we attack them? Primal’s men?” Megatron looked doubtful.

“Indirectly, yes. In the true Decepticon ideology, nothing is quite as it appears. First we sow confusion, chaos, and then we reap the harvest.”

Expecting more, Megatron waited. Until finally, “What harvest… exactly?”

“Why, an army of course!” thundered Megatron, causing various heads to turn from tactical stations around the base’s central Command Hub. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, Megatron continued: “An army of giants, each one unswervingly loyal, totally obedient, dedicated only to your ascension to a position of universal domination!”

“How?” urged Megatron, excited now, rubbing his hands in anticipation. “Where is this… army?”

“Inside the Ark,” came the reply. “Inside the Ark…”

Quickstrike was bored. And nervous. Very nervous.

On Megatron’s orders, he’d been removed to a remote sub-level of the Predacon base, escorted by Rampage and Inferno. Still firmly secured by three energy compression rings, his arms pinned to his sides, he’d been frogmarched like a naughty child along passageways, into turbolifts, and finally into this strangely empty room.

Stripped of all hardware and furniture and sealed tight, the room was just bare metal walls, reinforced with solid bulkheads and soundproofing. No windows, no screens, no nothing, Nowhere even to sit. Rampage and Inferno had exited sniggering, something about “noone will hear the screams,” and the thick, heavy door had slammed shut and locked — with some finality — in their wake. Alone, Quickstrike had stood and waited, his mind running wild with the many and varied potential horrors and tortures that might await him in this cold, lonely cube. Any time now, he thought, glancing at the sealed door, but instead his “High Noon” came and went, and yet more hours rolled by. The nervousness remained, but somewhat muted by the passage of time, replaced instead by a restless boredom. Any longer staring at the same four walls, and death would seem like a mercy.

The sudden double clang of pressure bolts being withdrawn almost caused Quickstrike to shriek, the abject terror of his early moments alone in the room returning with a vengeance. The door was flung open, admitting a strangely buoyant Megatron to the stark environs of the room. Megatron seemed to pause, momentarily holding the door open, and then finally closing it behind him. Megatron loomed over Quickstrike, cold eyes appraising, almost as if measuring him up. Finally satisfied, he stepped back, motioned slightly to one side with his head.

“I like it in here,” said Megatron, his tone upbeat, conversational. “No prying eyes… or ears. No one to overhear what shouldn’t be overheard.”

“N-now, boss,” began Quickstrike, aiming for a steady timbre and getting a high-pitched squeak, “ah know it seems bad ’n’ all, what with me tryin’ ta kill ya, but y’see, ah’m a s-simple hombre, an — ”

As if he hadn’t heard, Megatron answered himself. “Yes, good. It’s just the three of us. No disturbances.”

Quickstrike looked around wildly. The three of us?

“We have a proposition,” Megatron continued, “a mission. It’s very much a case of take it or leave it. Of course, if you leave it, you die. But, well, we like to throw in as much room for maneuvers as we can.”

Quickstrike just stared, eyes bugging.

“Look on this as a chance to redeem yourself, demonstrate your true loyalties. Succeed, and we shall look… slightly more favorably on you in the upcoming trial. Fail, or simply refuse, and I’ll execute you now, with my bare teeth.”

Quickstrike struggled to keep his own mandibles from chattering. There was really only one thing to say:

“B-boss… ah’m all yours!”

And, as an afterthought, addressing the bit of empty space next to Megatron, “An’ yours, too!”

Some distance away, perched on a wide rocky ledge, high on the western face of the hollow volcanic peak the Maximals now called home, Optimus Primal stared desolately into the middle-distance of a misty primordial dawn and contemplated the terrible price of failure.

Already, the Beast Wars had cost the lives of three brave and noble Maximal warriors — more if you counted the assorted protoforms that had been subverted in their Stasis Pods, turned by an invasive “shell” program into Predacons. Many times he had vowed to stop Megatron’s insane schemes and end his threat forever… but until now he never truly stood back and considered the cost. How many more would be lost in the battles still to come, and would — ultimately — their sacrifice prove worthless?

The muted noise of boiling magma, churning and spitting as it ran in searing rivers through the volcanic interior, provided a restless backdrop to Primal’s thoughts. Some distance below and left of his position, the Ark sat on a broad spit of basalt, jammed awkwardly into a wide cleft in the surrounding rock, a looming reminder of the huge weight that rested on his shoulders. Neither a warrior nor a leader-born, Primal had nevertheless had both mantles thrust upon him. His was a survey ship, its crew trained technicians and explorers from an era of relative peace and prosperity on Cybertron. It was blind, bad luck that the Axalon was the nearest vessel to the sudden opening of Megatron’s Transwarp portal, the only possible means by which the renegade could be tracked, pursued through time and, the Maximal High Command hoped, thwarted. Rarely in the battles that followed had he shirked the responsibility that he had inherited, but after so many desperate trials and tortuous ordeals, near escapes and bitter victories, he was tired. Tired of the waste, the desperate futility of this private little war.

He had watched the other Maximals going about their early AM duties, repeating tired security checks and sweeps that they hoped against hope would protect the Ark and its sleeping passengers against Megatron’s increasingly demented tilts. None of them, bar Rattrap, who always spoke with an honesty that bordered on brutality, had even made passing reference to the events of the past few days, but he knew them well enough by now to read the subtle evasions and muted body-language that boded ill for general team spirit. And he, Optimus Primal, was to blame.

In the battle that had cost them the original Megatron’s Spark and very nearly the entire Ark, he had been turned against his fellow Maximals, controlled and directed like a puppet by Tarantulas and his lackey of the moment, Quickstrike. Yes, the Spark-tap device had been the root cause, and any one of them would have succumbed to its malign influence, but it didn’t change the fact that it was his hands that had brutalized his team-mates, his neural pathways that had provided the access codes to the Ark and its self-destruct protocols. All the trials and tribulations, and he had almost ended it all himself, at a stroke. Primal shuddered at the thought of what might have been. Those same hands that brutalized could as easily have killed!

Wallowing in a mire of self-pity, Primal failed to notice the airborne glider-pad that slid soundlessly overhead, positioning itself directly above the mountain and the jagged, open scar that marked its topmost point. At the control stick, flat on the pad’s running board, was Quickstrike, his whole posture taut and strained. Any second now, he thought, the autoguns will start firing and I’ll be swatted out of the sky like a nano-gnat…

But the expected barrage never came. Clearly the sensor buffer was acting as Megatron had assured him it would, shielding him from detection. Anxious to be gone, aware that such stealth technology was rarely foolproof or durable, Quickstrike immediately set about aligning the payload, positioning it in the drop-chute and adjusting the angle to compensate for wind-vector. Employing an optical scope, he plotted a laser-sighted trajectory that would take the payload right into the heart of the Maximal base. First though, the signal beacon, a tiny transmitter no bigger than a pebble, fired by pulse musket into the gently steaming mouth. Then, the payload itself, dropped on a set of tiny foil parachutes, homing in on the beacon.

The payload, a squat metal cylinder with a ring of external power cells, drifted to a gentle landing on a rocky column rising above the Maximal base camp itself, whereupon it grew stabilizing legs, locked itself into position, and raised a tiny uplink assembly.

Above, Quickstrike backed away, taking up a new position comfortably beyond Maximal sensor range. Lowering a telescopic visor over his optics, he settled in to watch, a sense of malicious anticipation now overriding his fear of imminent discovery. Any time now, he thought, things were going to get crazy…

Cheetor wasn’t in the mood. The dull thud of sub-cranial pressure that had been building since first light was twisting now into a tight knot of restless tension, and Rattrap’s incessant whine of complaint was making it worse. Why couldn’t he just shut up!

“It’s not that Monkey-boy is really to blame as such, though a’ course there’s no gettin’ away from the fact that he did soundly trounce his own team-mates and almost get us all wiped from the face of the planet, it’s more that he’s blamin’ himself, over an’ over, draggin’ about with that sad-sack simian face a’ his and apologizing about every tiny little thing, like he can control the weather anyway, or the all-pervadin’ smell a’ sulphur or how the silicon dust gets in your joints and corrodes the socket bearings, and, y’know, generally it’s just keepin’ the whole foul pot simmerin’, remindin’ us of how, basically, he’s to blame for the whole mess…”

And so it went, round and round in contradictory circles, with barely a pause. Stretched out in Transmetal beast mode on a long, slanted metal heat deflector some thirty feet above the base compound itself, Cheetor had hoped that the angle and elevation would discourage Rattrap, but no, he’d stuck fast to Cheetor’s tail as he climbed the crisscrossing support gantry, doggedly following his every twist and turn, talking incessantly as he climbed, and talking still now. On and on. Round and round. Cheetor watched as, below, Rhinox banged a huge, club-fingered fist on a recalcitrant console display, frustrated no doubt at some defective download or sporadic streaming. Silverbolt, on his way past, made some sniffy comment about brute force rarely being the answer, and Cheetor could practically see Rhinox bristle, cables of hydraulic musculature bunching under his thick, techo-organic hide. Blackarachnia, clearly bored out of her mind, was amusing herself — and ticking everyone else off — by snapping out filament webs, snagging small fragments of coal, and flipping them up and off a rocky overhang, whereupon they’d drop into the lava, briefly flare, and then disappear. Again and again, snag, flip, crack, plop, sizzle… snag, flip, crack, plop, sizzle…

And Rattrap was talking, talking…

Angry shouts drew Optimus Primal’s attention, snapping him out of his dismal reverie. He was halfway to his feet when the first series of dull metallic thuds reverberated through the rock; was partway down the slope when the thuds turned into screeching, grinding crashes; was heading at a steady lope for the main entrance as grunts of exertion and yelps of pain reached his audio receptors; was hauling open the makeshift double-doors as the first shots rang out…

Quickstrike smiled as Optimus Primal appeared on the periphery of his magnified field of vision, concern etched on his features. Quickstrike followed him with snake eyes, head motionless, tracking his speedy progress down and around the base of the mountain to the slabs of buckled metal hull plating that served as a door. As one slab was hauled open, Prima’s reaction and the flashes of energy discharge from within told Quickstrike all he needed to know. It had begun. A speedlink patch put him directly through to Megatron, who listened as Quickstrike described the scene unfolding before him. “Good, good…” was Megatron’s hypnotic, seductive response, promising reprieves and second chances. “Good, good…” Flat on his glider-pad, Quickstrike actually began to believe it would all work out, that his days were not quite as numbered as he had previously believed.

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing! Maximals at each others’ throats, in some cases literally, brawling in a variety of modes with a ferocity and lack of restraint that left him speechless. Weapons were drawn and in the process of being discharged, claws were bared and hackles raised. It was Optimus Primal’s worst nightmare. Had it finally come to this? Had successive frustrations, knock-backs and disappointments reached combustible level, the recent indiscretions on his part some kind of inflammatory catalyst to the whole unstable brew? Cheetor flashed past, using his rocket afterburners to close the distance on a fleeing Rattrap, who in turn utilised tail cannons to pepper the ground around his pursuer. Rhinox had Blackarachnia by the neck, twisting her into one of her own bio-electric webs, oblivious to both the feedback and Silverbolt’s savage, wing-beating efforts to loosen his grip.

Primal started forward and stopped. Started forward and stopped. He had no idea, he realised, what to do! Not a clue.

In dragon mode, his molybdenum-mesh wings spread wide, cleaving through the air currents like two massive oars, Megatron closed the considerable distance between the Predacon and Maximal bases in no time, urged on by the insistent and strident voice in his head. What had begun as gentle cajoling, even positive reinforcement, was rapidly descending into a form of tough love. Megatron’s previous sage advice, dispensed in amicable, fellow world-conquering style, had turned into a disparaging litany:

“Failure has dogged your leadership, its scent hangs on you like a shroud, tainting your decisions, undermining your position. Your underlings obey, but the respect they once held for you is gone, diminished by each humiliating retreat, each abortive scheme. Already the rot has set in… treachery, insubordination, defiance! How long before they say enough and the muttered unrest turns into open revolt?”

It was true, Megatron acknowledged silently, digesting the bitter pill as best he could. Try as he might to deny it, the cracks were showing. The original Dinobot, Blackarachnia, Tarantulas, Quickstrike… the list of disgruntled and openly insurrectional troopers was growing steadily. Inferno’s loyalty was to his delusional “Queen” and “Colony,” not to Megatron per se, and Rampage’s rebelliousness was kept in check only by a tight rein on the Spark he shared with the Dinobot clone. Even Waspinator, usually loyal in his blissful ignorance, was starting to wise up. A surly resentment was building in him… and in the others it was running over.

As if sensing a slight pause in Megatron’s digressive ruminations, Megatron continued: “You must show them once and for all that you are a leader of vision, a force to be truly reckoned with. It’s not enough to simply defeat the Maximals, you must humble and humiliate them first, bring them to their knees. And then, finally, when they beg for mercy, you show them… you have none to give! Now, more than ever, you must act decisively, sweepingly. This will send a wake-up call to one and all: don’t mess with Megatron!”

Ahead, the jagged range of mountains that marked the borders of Maximal-enforced territory was now in view. Quickstrike’s eager report had detailed “chaos and “disarray” at the Maximal base, but bitter experience had taught Megatron to never count the Maximals out, even in their darkest, most desperate hour. And besides, he suspected Quickstrike, desperate to please, was hyperbolizing. Security around the volcanic mountain base and the Ark itself was sure to have been stepped up since his last incursion, and he could easily be flying straight into a —

“Enough!” growled Megatron sharply, cutting off Megatron’s train of thought cold. “This muddy, uncertain thinking is what laid you low in the first instance. Doubt is an insidious foe, undermining one’s capacity for strong, committed action. The groundwork has been laid, the diversion initiated, now all that remains is to take what is rightfully ours… I mean, yours! Hesitate now… and all is lost.”

Megatron rolled smoothly in mid-air, turned in a wide arc, and looped around to the blindside of the volcanic peak before coming in for a pinpoint landing that barely ruffled the nearby treetops. “Make me proud,” the voice in his head whispered, as Megatron opened his jaws wide, building a thermite reaction in his tracheal injectors. “Be worthy of the name… Megatron!”

Inside the perimeter of the Maximal base itself, Optimus Primal decided enough was enough. It was time to stamp his authority — literally, if necessary — on the proceedings.

For several long, protracted moments, he’d just stared at the escalating melee, unable to think, let alone react. But slowly, surely, the qualities that had finally sculpted a true leader had begun to loosen recalcitrant limbs and stem the rising panic and guilt. Primal made a fast tactical assessment, deciding that if unchecked Rhinox, with the sheer, bludgeoning force at his disposal, was the greatest threat to life and limb. Blackarachnia had managed to sting her way out of his grasp, and Rhinox, perhaps searching for a softer target, had turned on Silverbolt, who — though he’d clearly inflicted some damage — at close quarters was at a disadvantage. Trapped between Rhinox and a rock wall, penned in above by a jagged overhang, there was nowhere for Silverbolt to go. Rhinox just kept coming and coming, a thundering tank of a presence, absorbing hits with barely a grunt.

Silverbolt was faster, the more lithe and skilled in combat terms, so thus far he had largely evaded Rhinox’s blows. But slowly, surely, Rhinox had boxed Silverbolt into a tighter and tighter corner. His winged-wolf mode was practically useless, and it was only a matter of time before he tired and Rhinox landed a solid blow. Unchecked, untempered by his usual placid restraint, one blow would be enough.

Primal flipped his feet up, swivelled his segmented torso in mid-air, and extended stubby wings. Afterburners flared and Primal swept forward in airborne mode, laying down a suppressing fire, a pinpoint accurate track of small artillery that forced Rhinox to back away from Silverbolt. Looping around again, careful to evade several low-hanging inverted spikes of rock, Primal came to an abrupt full stop, directly above Rhinox, before transforming and dropping like a stone in robot mode.

Anyone else would have been crushed, seriously injured by the deadfall impact, but Rhinox was merely winded, and — momentarily at least — pinned. Rhinox was shouting, struggling, expressing opinions about Primal’s protoformal heritage that were so far out of character that Primal finally saw the bigger picture. This wasn’t some random eruption of bottled-up frustrations and sub-surface antagonisms, it was enemy action. They were under attack!

Bent forward, busy trying to hold Rhinox down, Primal never saw Silverbolt take aim with his energo-lance, lower his head, and charge. To say the subsequent point of contact with Primal was acutely painful is to dally with understatement, and the resultant angry roar shook loose rocks from their moorings high in the cavern’s roof. Before he could stop himself, Primal turned and swung, catching Silverbolt solidly mid-chest, the impact lifting him of his feet. Silverbolt flew, unassisted by wings, into and through a pillar of rock, landing in a heap uncomfortably close to a cascading lava flow. Part of Primal was immediately concerned, appalled at his reaction; the rest — the majority — felt duly righteous and even a little smug.

Pausing only to slam the dazed, rising Rhinox back down to the ground, Primal turned, suddenly full of determined, angry zeal. Truth be told, Silverbolt’s holier-than-thou attitude had always kind of ticked him off. Maybe he’d be a little humbler after he’d been bounced off a few more rock faces…

Progress through the solid rock of the mountain and then the hull of the Ark itself was trying Megatron’s patience, and expending a whole lot of stored energy in the process. But Megatron was adamant, any rash action now — particularly a frontal approach and the sight of a more recognizable foe — could easily dispel the crimson fog that had descended on the Maximals. Stealth was required, stealth and focus. They were nearly through. “That,” Megatron commented, his voice now fairly dripping with icy disdain, “is really your problem. You lack the necessary resolve to see a plan through, to stick to the details and not run off on impromptu initiatives that, while satisfying in the short term, undermine the larger strategy.” He was, in Megatron’s disparaging opinion, a ‘reckless hot-head’.

Megatron simmered. Truth be told, the increasingly barbed invectives from Megatron’s direction were starting to annoy far more than motivate. His patience was being tested in more ways than one. Finally, though, the last layer of tempered titanium gave up its solid state, bubbled and disappeared, carried inwards on a final, superheated burst of fissionable elements. Closing off his internal feeder tubes and venting waste gasses with a duly satisfied belch, Megatron surveyed the resultant short, sloping tunnel down and through to the Ark’s main bridge. Beyond, lay sleeping giants… giants that would soon walk the Earth.

Megatron urged him on, berating and cajoling in equal measure: “Why do you pause? Your ultimate victory lies within, and yet you hesitate. Perhaps in truth your failures are more self-inflicted than I had at first imagined, that on the cusp of victory the notion of unlimited power is just too much to consider, let alone possess. Is that it? Is Megatron… scared?”

“No!” bit back Megatron immediately, fury overriding his innate self-preservation ethic. “No!”

“Then prove it! Grasp what I offer with both hands! Accept your destiny!”

And with those words ringing in his audio receptors, Megatron dove head first into the tunnel, the fused, frictionless sides easing his downward passage. Suddenly he was inside the Ark, and tumbling through space, dropping toward the thick decking below. Managing to twist in mid-air, his wings spreading just enough to ease the rate of descent, Megatron landed feet first, the clang of metal on metal resounding throughout the vast chamber.

Then silence. And for Megatron an unbidden moment of something approaching awe. An epic battle had been fought here, the combatants still locked in mortal combat when the Ark had plunged itself into the volcano in which it now rested. The system-shock had been huge, sudden, jarring, causing in-built safety interlocks to engage automatically and lock down sensitive neural pathways, in effect taking one and all instantly offline. Megatron turned in a slow circle, seeing faces immortalized in the history texts of his time, conjuring names effortlessly. Prowl, Jazz, Ravage, Soundwave, Hound… Autobots and Deceptions, thrown together randomly in the sudden, shocking moment of disaster… Rumble, Laserbeak, Sideswipe, Starscream…

Starscream! Sat propped against a cargo crate, his body slumped awkwardly, to one side, he looked for all the world like a puppet, just awaiting the manipulation of some unseen hand.

Megatron found his face set in a twisted smile not of his own making. “Witness,” he intoned, “my own bete noire, the bane of my command. It’s fitting, somehow, that he be the first, that through him we rule all creation!” A pause. “You know what to do…”

Megatron did, and after removing a safety plate and disabling a magnetic locking field, he opened his chest cavity, revealing his shielded Spark core. Within beat the life forces of two mighty beings, their essences mingled at a complex subatomic level. Power enough, if used sparingly, for three beings, four… an army.

“Just a fragment,” advised Megatron solemnly. “Enough to animate, but not to instill free-will or thought.”

Megatron nodded, bracing himself. The magnetic field surrounding the core suddenly blistered, as within, a puckered pore opened on the neo-metal encasement itself. A tiny amount of Spark energy was then released into the bubble, which was then cut loose, the primary field re-establishing around the core with its passing, the tiny pore closing. The process was not without sacrifice, and Megatron locked his jaws against the wrench. When it was done, he felt bereft, somehow less than before.

The Spark fragment, now wholly in its own magnetic field, was then bounced off a series of carrier waves, guided toward its new resting place. As it neared, it seemed to grow agitated, as if some competing mass was pulling it ever deeper into a new orbit. Gradually, as the magnetic field decayed, the fragment sunk deeper and deeper through layers of solid metal until…

Starscream’s body twitched, jerked, then seemed to settle. Megatron felt the sudden shock of connection a moment later, felt his mind roll across a foreign landscape, mapping mountainous heights of desire and oceanic depths of fear.

“Rise!” commanded Megatron, “Rise!” And Starscream did.

Like some titanic, mythological giant, the head lolled slowly in their direction, a hand gripped, hyper-hydraulics in one leg engaged, the whole body did a strange forward pitch before the braced leg took the weight and straightened. The other hand flailed in empty space, found purchase on a nearby cross-girder, and steadied himself. The second leg dragged into place, shuffled forward a step. Another shuffle, another… and the leviathan lurched forward, seeming to gain confidence and purpose with each step.

Megatron watched, rooted to the spot, as the giant came closer, closer, and was suddenly right overhead. It stopped, cocked its head slightly as if considering some new and unexpected input, then bent forward… and seized Megatron one-handed, crushing him in a grip that defied easy description. And in his head, Megatron laughed… and laughed!

Outside, Quickstrike lay on his back on the glider-pad, basking in the now fierce morning sun, his recent cares and woes forgotten. He didn’t know what Megatron was planning and frankly didn’t care. He’d done his bit, fulfilled his role, which meant he was duly reprieved. Locked in his own carefree reverie, Quickstrike barely registered the brief shadow that came and went, hiding the sun for the most fleeting of moments. Such a tiny cloud of imperfection in what was shaping up to be a flawless day was surely of no great concern.

Within the hall of fallen heroes and villains, Megatron was slowly overcoming his shock, struggling to understand what had happened. Had he miscalculated? Had he somehow granted sentience where he meant only to generate mobility? No, Starscream was staring at him with the same dull, glazed expression. Save for the crushing grip, he was immobile, unresponsive. But if not him, who? The terrible realization began to sink in as Starscream suddenly lurched forward again, each step taking them nearer and nearer to the forward bridge, where the deactivated and currently Sparkless body of the original Megatron sat immobile. The voice in his head had gone disturbingly quiet, but Megatron sensed his malicious, vengeful intent. He wanted out, wanted back in his body, wanted life!

“No!” Screamed Megatron, thrashing desperately, biting and slashing with teeth and wings. But what damage he could inflict at such close range was minimal, and the somnambulic automaton that held him clearly felt no pain, just shuffled ever onwards. Fighting panic, Megatron sought some elusive inner reservoir of calm, focus, an internal chemical reaction gradually building anew. Perhaps the grip that held him could be loosened with ice and fire. But the subsequent issuance was barely a coating of frost, followed only by a light summer’s breeze. His power reserves, he realized with a chill that this time went core deep, had been depleted, exhausted… exactly as Megatron had planned. He was helpless!

Ahead now, the figure of Megatron sat in solemn, judgemental repose. Unbidden this time, Megatron felt his segmented chest plates once more slide back to reveal his Spark core. A snaking connective filament began to deploy. “No!” screamed Megatron again! “You can’t do this to me! I’m Megatron… Megatron!”

“You are not worthy of the name,” thundered the voice in his head. “You are an insult to all that I was, all that I am! All that I will be again! Presumptuous scraplet… to even believe for a moment you could aspire to the greatness and majesty that was and is Megatron is beyond the pale! There is but one Megatron! One!”

Starscream came to a full stop in front of the static figure of Megatron and extended the hand that held his captive. The filament cable writhed as, with his free hand, Starscream opened Megatron’s chest casing, revealing his waiting Spark core. Face to face now, Megatron stared at his namesake, felt his words echo thunderously in his cerebral casing. “When all that I am has been returned to its rightful place, and I have taken what I need of you to reboot my master-systems, I’ll crush the rest with my bare hands. I should thank you at least for providing the means to my resurrection… and your own extinction!”

And in a moment of sudden clarity, Megatron thought: This is me. I’m doing this… to myself!

The stark realization brought a degree of control. Slowly, forcefully, gathering every bit of will and wit, turning outrage and anger into cold, clear intent, Megatron began to fight. But even as he broke the surface, drew clean air, he felt a sharp tug in his own consciousness, an ebb tide of resistance, pulling him back down. “It’s too late,” Megatron hissed. “I’ve won.”

The filament cable snapped forward, toward the waiting Spark Core of the original Megatron… then stopped, thrashing wildly in mid-air.

“This mind,” spat Megatron, “is mine! I am the master here! You are a ghost, a shadow of the past, a forgotten relic of a protracted, inconclusive war that brought our whole planet low, consigned the Predacons to humiliating contrition and compliance. Your day, such as it was, is done! Over!”

Each subsequent word was chewed out, enunciated with increasing force and authority. “I… am… Megatron!”

And with that, the voice inside his head was finally silenced. A thought, and he was released, Starscream’s fingers opening. Exhausted, weakened both mentally and physically, Megatron drifted to the ground. The victory had cost him much, but with the winning a new, delightful future beckoned. Not only was he master of two Megatrons, but he now controlled Starscream… and soon more like him. The battle, the war… he had won, won! All he needed was a few moments more to recover, for systems to recharge and weapons to re-empower…

“Megatron… of course!”

The voice was infuriatingly calm, measured, bursting all Megatron’s dreamy bubbles one by one. He turned…

Optimus Primal, Rattrap, Silverbolt, Cheetor, Rhinox and Blackarachnia had assembled in a V-shaped combat formation a short distance away, weapons trained and expressions promising swift and painful retribution.

“Quickstrike,” Megatron gasped, having automatically opening a comm-channel, “I need — ”

“He’s been dealt with,” cut in Primal, “just like we dealt with that transmitter of yours. What was that anyway? Some kind of variant on the shell program? Regressing us to the level of… well, Predacons?”

Megatron stared, sullenly silent.

“Ah well,” continued Primal, “it doesn’t matter. I’m sure Rhinox will enjoy taking it apart in due course. The fact is, you shouldn’t have tried the same trick so soon. The memory of my last, er, lapse was far too keen, the ‘what-might-have-beens’ too painful to easily bear… or repeat. For long anyway. And here we are, thanks in some small part to you, stronger and more committed than ever.”

“Ehh, enough chat,” urged Rattrap. “How’s about we cut straight to the bit where we toast his quasi-mythical tush?”

“No!” barked Primal firmly. “I don’t want a firefight in here — not with the Autobots and Decepticons so exposed, vulnerable! Blackarachnia…”

Sensing Primal’s intent, and too physically weary to fight back with any real chance of victory, too mentally drained to animate Starscream in any meaningful way, Megatron turned and fled, sweeping up into the air ahead of the unleashed energy-web that sought to envelop him. He heard Blackarachnia curse, Rattrap shout, and Primal rein them all in… and then was gone, back out through the fused tunnel he had carved in the rock and metal. It was over, for now… but he’d be back. He’d always be back!

After all… he was Megatron!

The Beast Wars were over. And though they had once more stared total defeat and the obliteration of their entire timeline in the face, the revitalized Maximals had finally triumphed.

Only one task remained.

Spitting with frustration and barely contained rage, the now captive Megatron was practically dragged by Optimus Primal into the Ark’s forward bridge. The Spark he had stolen, plus the fragment that the Maximals had subsequently extracted from Starscream, were promptly returned via a filament cable to their rightful resting place. As the transfer took place, for the briefest of moments the original Megatron’s eyes glowed hot, then faded to empty black again. And though it was surely a trick of the light, a strange quirk of optical resonance circuits…

…Megatron could have sworn he smiled.

Tim Waggoner — Collect and Save

(NOTE: THIS STORY takes place before events depicted in Transformers: The Movie.)

“Commander Salvage, I have something on long-range scanners.”

A sleek robot with a humanoid face and a dark blue armored exterior swiveled his command chair around to face the Reclamation’s science officer. “Please tell me that you’ve discovered something of more interest than that asteroid cluster you detected yesterday, Assessor.”

Though Assessor didn’t possess the capability of making facial expressions, the robot managed to project a sense of embarrassed irritation through a combination of body posture and minor fluctuations in the yellow glow of his optic sensors.

“I assure you, Commander, this is a legitimate — and quite significant — find.” The words emitted by Assessor’s speech synthesizer were even colder than usual.

At the helm, Convertor laughed, the tone far more organic-sounding than anything Assessor could match. The helmsman was a large, broad-shouldered robot with a dome-like head and a shiny black exterior that resembled an insect’s carapace.

“Let me guess: you’ve found two clusters of asteroids this time.”

The other Recyclons on the bridge — Torch, Detonator, and Extractor — joined in Convertor’s laughter. Assessor’s optical sensors were edging toward red, and Salvage decided his crew had had enough amusement for the moment.

“Silence!” he snapped, and then when the others grew quiet, he turned to Assessor and said simply, “Report.”

Assessor was the smallest of the Recyclons aboard, his metallic limbs pipe-thin. His primary color scheme consisted of a bright yellow and an equally bright green, which Salvage found most unattractive. Still, the small robot was packed full of more communications and diagnostic equipment than any ten Recyclons — a fact he was happy to remind them of at every opportunity.

Assessor looked down at his console’s sensor readout. “The reading originates two parsecs due galactic north. Sensors are picking up indications of vast quantities of metal — numerous ores and alloys, many unknown to our database. We’re also reading various power signatures, but it’s difficult to tell what sort. Sensors are having a hard time getting accurate readings at this distance. However, were we to move closer…”

Normally, Salvage would have rebuked Assessor for having the insolence to even hint at a course of action to his commander, but Salvage decided to let it go. He was too intrigued by Assessor’s discovery to worry about minor matters of discipline at the moment.

“Is it a planet?” Salvage asked. Assessor hesitated, so the Recyclon commander added, “You have my permission to speculate in the absence of complete data.”

“It might be a planet,” Assessor said, “or perhaps an artificial construction of similar magnitude.”

“Finally, something worth investigating!” Convertor said. “We’ve been out here for weeks without finding so much as an atom of energon.”

Salvage scowled. “Precisely what are you implying, helmsman?”

Convertor swiveled his seat around to face his commander. “I don’t mean to imply anything,” the robot said in a tone of feigned ignorance. “I’m simply glad that we’ve located something of interest. I’m sure our masters will be pleased with our progress.”

Torch snickered, and Salvage shot the robot a dirty look. The entire crew was aware that the Harvest Lords were less than pleased with the results of the Reclamation’s current mission. Salvage had taken a gamble by bringing his vessel into an unexplored region of the galaxy. He’d hoped that they might discover a treasure trove of resources to be processed, but weeks had gone by without success. The last communication Salvage had received from the Harvest Lords had hinted that if he didn’t produce results soon, he would end up being reprocessed. This planetoid might well be Salvage’s last chance to succeed in his mission, let alone save his cybernetic life.

The bridge was quiet, save for the soft thrum of the Reclamation’s ion engines. The Recyclons had all turned to look at their leader, eagerly awaiting his decision. Salvage knew what he was supposed to do. The protocols laid down by the Harvest Lords were most explicit: when an object of suitable interest was found, a probe was to be dispatched at once to investigate. Only after the probe had conducted its survey and confirmed the object’s suitability was a ship permitted to investigate fully. Above all else, the Harvest Lords despised waste — in this case, the possible waste of fuel, time, and effort.

But Salvage couldn’t wait that long. What the Harvest Lords don’t know won’t hurt us, he thought. Aloud, he said, “Convertor, access the data from Assessor’s console and plot a course to whatever it is. We’re going to take a closer look.”

“Yes, Commander!” Convertor’s metallic fingers blurred as they sped over the controls of the helm console. Seconds later, the air was filled with an urgent high-pitched tone as the stardrive activated.

“ETA?” Salvage asked.

“Forty-eight minutes,” Assessor answered.

Salvage nodded, settled back into his command chair, and did his best not to look as anxious as he felt.

Exactly forty-eight minutes later the Reclamation came within viewing range of Assessor’s find.

“On screen,” he commanded, unable to keep the excitement he felt out of his voice.

An image appeared on the main viewscreen. At first, Salvage thought he was looking at a sliver of a planet lit by sunlight while the rest remained cloaked in darkness. But then he realized the truth: the sliver was all there was to the object.

The object was roughly disc-shaped, thicker in the middle and thinner out toward the edges. The shadowy underside was smooth and featureless, but the surface was a reddish-orange landscape dotted with structures that at the same time resembled both mountains and buildings.

“What is it?” Torch asked. The Recylcon’s metallic skin was a fiery red, and his left wrist sprouted a nozzle instead of a hand.

“The surface of the planetoid is composed almost totally of various types of metal,” Assessor said. He flipped a switch on his console and magnified the image on the screen. At first, the landscape appeared to be nothing more than a barren rust-colored desert with hills, valleys, and mountainous spires. Assessor magnified the image one more time, and now Salvage could make out enough detail to see that what they were looking at was indeed an artificial construct of some type, one made entirely of piles of broken, twisted metal and husks of wrecked starships.

“It’s nothing but a planet-sized landfill,” Extractor said, clearly disappointed. The robot was medium-sized compared to the other Recyclons, his color pattern a cheerful white and light blue. But despite his exterior, he was an incurable pessimist.

“No,” Detonator corrected in a voice filled with awe. He was the least humanoid of the Recyclons aboard, a squat, squarish robot with gray metal armor and a small, nearly featureless head. “It’s the Planet of Junk.”

For a moment, none of the robots on the bridge of the Reclamation spoke, but then Salvage chuckled. “Surely you just be joking! The Planet of Junk is only a myth, a story told to entertain the newly assembled.” But then he examined the image on the viewscreen again, and suddenly the notion no longer seemed so ridiculous. The Reclamation was the first Harvest vessel to venture into this sector of the galaxy… and if the strange planetoid truly was the fabled Planet of Junk, the discovery would well please Salvage’s masters. So much so, in fact, that not only would they forget about reprocessing him, they might — just might — reward him with a promotion.

“Assessor, select an appropriate landing spot,” Salvage commanded.

“The strongest power signature emanates from a spire located on the midpoint of the planetoid’s surface.” The scientist paused. “Odd. The signal is so strong, it’s almost as if it’s being purposely broadcast. Still, since it is the strongest power source, I suggest we make planetfall there.”

“I agree. Transmit your data to the helm, Assessor. The rest of you prepare for landing.”

As the Recyclons hastened to carry out their commander’s orders, Salvage sat back in his chair and gazed at the image of the Planet of Junk on the viewscreen. Admiral Salvage… He liked the sound of that. Liked it very much.

A dozen yards behind the Recylcons, the Reclamation sat lopsided on the irregular surface of the Planet of Junk. It hadn’t been the prettiest of landings, but then, the planetoid’s surface wasn’t entirely stable. Salvage shifted his weight to get better footing. The “ground” here was nothing more than packed-together bits and pieces of scrap metal, and it had a tendency to move about as one tried to walk on it. The larger, heavier Recyclons were having the most difficult time maneuvering.

“How’s a ‘bot supposed to walk on this junk?” Convertor asked as he pulled his leg free from a pile of debris.

“Very carefully,” Salvage answered

The Recyclon commander took in their surroundings, his optical sensors set on maximum. The landscape — or rather, the junkscape — had been created from pile after pile of various metals and ferroceramics. Near the horizon, the sky was a layered blend of red, orange, and pink, while above them stretched only black space filled with softly glowing stars. The sun in this system provided more than enough light to see, as well as sufficient warmth so that the Recyclons had no need to activate their internal heating units. Not the most hospitable of environments, Salvage thought, but then they’d worked in far harsher climes than this.

The tallest structure in the vicinity was the spire Assessor had located from space. It was a crooked tower of half-rusted metal that stood twenty meters high. Salvage walked up to the spire and gave it an experimental kick. The impact loosened a shower of reddish-brown flakes.

“This object is most unimpressive up close,” Salvage said. “It doesn’t appear capable of standing on its own for much longer, let alone emitting a strong power signature.”

“Be that as it may,” Assessor said, “I assure you that this spire is indeed the most significant power source on the planetoid.”

“Maybe there’s a functioning reactor in there somewhere,” Convertor said. “One that’s left over from a wrecked starship.”

“Perhaps,” Salvage allowed. “But I wonder, where did all this debris come from?” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the junkscape around them. “And why is it here?”

“C’mon, Commander,” Torch said. “This is the Planet of Junk, right? It’s supposed to be covered with trash.”

“Yes, but to what purpose?” Salvage insisted. “Everything in existence has a purpose of some sort.”

“Right now, this planetoid has but one purpose,” Assessor said. “To be transfigured into energon for our masters.”

“True enough,” Salvage admitted. “And I suppose in the end that’s all that really matters. We’d best get to it then. Assessor, transform and scan.”

Assessor’s form twisted, shifted, and reconfigured until the humanoid robot had become a complex sensor array covered with all manner of diagnostic devices. Components hummed to life and information began to scroll across data-screens as Assessor went to work.

“Atmosphere type 2, temperature cool, gravity light, hydrosphere dry. Solar radiation well within tolerance levels. No sign of organic life.” Assessor paused, as if mulling over the next bit of data before relaying it to his companions. “No apparent signs of cybernetic lifeforms, though there are number of low-level power signatures that I’m having difficulty locking onto. It’s possible that the power readings from the spire are interfering with my sensors.”

There was a tone of uncertainty in Assessor’s voice, but Salvage decided to ignore it for now. And really, what did it matter if there were lifeforms of any sort here? Unless they proved an obstacle to the Recyclons’ work, they were of no significance. Besides, Salvage was eager to get on with claiming his prize so that he might hasten his promotion to Admiral.

“Final assessment?” Salvage asked.

“The raw materials on this planetoid can be processed with minimal effort,” Assessor said. “It will make a rich harvest indeed.”

Salvage’s humanoid mouth stretched into a smile. That was exactly what he’d wanted to hear.

“Begin the necessary computations for processing,” Salvage said. “The rest of you, transform and get ready to go to work.”

The remaining Recylcons — Convertor, Extractor, Torch, Detonator, and Activator — shifted forms until they had become components of the Prime Processing Unit. Each component then connected one to the other, until the last joined with Assessor. When they were finished, the Recyclons had become a single machine. Only Salvage didn’t transform. It was his task to operate the Prime Processing Unit.

The Recyclon commander walked over to the unit’s main control console and waited while its energon levels built up and Assessor finished performing the necessary calculations for the job ahead of them. As always before processing began, Salvage felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Yes, there was the relief that came with making a significant find, but more than that, he truly believed in his masters’ mission. The galaxy was a messy, inefficient place, and the Harvest Lords of Sigrath were dedicated to rectifying that. They’d created the Recyclons and sent them forth on hundreds of starships to, as their central directive stated, “claim and process” whatever underutilized resources they could find. The Recyclons’ primary function was to reduce those resources to their component atoms, and then reconfigure those atoms into energon for the use of the Harvest Lords. By doing so, the Recyclons not only helped sustain their masters, they also helped make the universe a tidier, more efficient place. And if the occasional sentient being happened to get in the way, it was regrettable, but hardly a tragedy.

A green light glowed on the central console, indicating that the Prime Processing Unit was ready to begin. Excellent! The sooner this planetoid was reduced to pure energon, the sooner Salvage could return to their homeworld with his bounty and claim his hoped-for reward. Salvage reached for the activation controls…

“And now let’s say hello to our first contestant!”

Salvage whirled around, wrist ports opening as his arm blaster units deployed. But he didn’t fire right away. Using weapons without a good cause was a waste of energon.

The Recyclon commander found himself looking at another robot. The newcomer stood 4.5 meters, somewhat taller than Salvage, and he carried an armor axe in one hand and an energy weapon of some sort in the other. Mounted on the same arm that held the energy weapon was a spike-studded shield. The robot was a mish-mash conglomeration formed from rusted metal scraps, manifold parts, bits of vehicle chassis, and dented odds and ends. It was as if the very substance of this strange world had suddenly come alive. The junkbot’s face was humanoid, with metallic tendrils simulating a mustache and a long, thin beard.

“Who are you?” Salvage asked. His translation program had done its best to decipher the robot’s words, but the Recylcon still hadn’t understood them.

The junkbot made a sound like a chiming bell. “Ding-ding-ding! And the answer is… Wreck-Gar! Now, why don’t you tell the audience a little bit about yourself?”

Salvage was beginning to wonder if the problem wasn’t that his translation program was faulty, but rather that this Wreck-Gar was some manner of lunatic. “I am Salvage, commander of the Harvest ship Reclamation.”

“And just what do you have to say for yourself, young man?” The words were nonsensical, but Wreck-Gar’s tone was clear enough. He wanted to know what Salvage and his crew were doing here.

Salvage considered his options for nearly an entire second before lifting his arms and firing both of his wrist blasters.

Twin beams of crimson energy sizzled through the air and struck Wreck-Gar in the chest before the junkbot could react. The hodge-podge machine was thrown backward by the impact in a shower of metal fragments and shattered cybernetic components. Wreck-Gar landed with a loud crash a dozen meters from where Salvage stood then lay still, his chest a ragged, smoking ruin.

Salvage quickly scanned his surroundings, sensors on maximum alert. While it was possible that Wreck-Gar was the only cybernetic being on the planetoid, it wasn’t likely. In Salvage’s experience, where there was one lifeform, there were usually more.

His audio sensors detected a rustling-clanking sound, and Salvage turned to see Wreck-Gar sitting up, his hands little more than blurs as they snatched up pieces of junk lying on the ground and inserted them into his chest cavity with deft, precise movements. Within seconds, Wreck-Gar’s injury had been completely repaired. The junkbot retrieved his axe and blaster from where they had fallen then stood, his optical sensors blazing with fury.

“That was some mighty nice shootin’, Tex,” he drawled. “But what goes down must come up.”

Salvage couldn’t believe it. He’d never seen repairs effected at such blinding speed before. Not even the Recyclons, as sophisticated as they were, could perform such a feat — and certainly not by using whatever refuse was at hand. Wreck-Gar might sound like a lunatic, but Salvage realized that the junkbot was a far deadlier opponent than the Recyclon commander had given him credit for.

Salvage was swift, strong, and cunning. But he doubted he was a match for Wreck-Gar one on one. He needed his crew.

“Recyclons!” he shouted. “Separate and transform!”

At the same moment, Wreck-Gar lifted his axe into the air and called out, “Ollie Ollie oxen free!”

As the Prime Processing Unit broke apart into its individual components and those components, in turn, began to shift back into their Recyclon forms, dozens of junkbots burst forth from the ground, as if the planetoid had suddenly given birth to them.

Salvage knew then what the “energy signatures” Assessor had picked up were, and why the scientist had had so much trouble getting a clear fix on them. The junkbots had hidden beneath the debris that comprised their world, using its metal shielding to confuse Assessor’s sensors. Clever.

“Junkions, start your engines!” Wreck-Gar ordered.

Half of the Junkions swiftly transformed into motorcycles, while the other half — Wreck-Gar among them — leapt onto the seats, grabbed the handlebars, and gunned the motors. Salvage wasn’t surprised to see that the Junkions had the capability to change form. There were numerous cybernetic organisms with the same feature spread throughout the galaxy. In fact, sometimes it seemed as if the universe was filled with nothing but transformers.

The Junkions raced forward, Wreck-Gar riding in the lead. But by now the Recyclons had regained their separate robot forms and were ready to meet the assault.

“Recylons attack!” Salvage commanded.

Torch released a gout of flame from his hand nozzle, while Detonator’s chest port opened and ejected a series of tiny but powerful energon grenades. Assessor and Extractor began firing energy weapons, and Salvage let loose once more with his wrist blasters. But the Junkions were in full battle mode now, weaving and swerving on their motorcycles to avoid the blasts of energy. Salvage managed to score several hits, and even knocked a couple Junkions off their bikes, only to see the dismounted robots transform into motorcycles while their vehicles resumed humanoid form. Rider and bike then switched places and resumed the attack.

Salvage had never seen such swift transformations before, and he began to worry about his crew’s chances against the Junkions.

The rusted hodge-podges came at the Recyclons wielding axes, maces, lances, bolos, lassos, and nets. Torch’s fire nozzle was destroyed by a Junkion mace, and the plasma build-up backfired and blew off half of his arm. Another Junkion hurled a bolo at Detonator’s chest port, jamming it just as he was about to release another salvo of energon grenades. A split second later, the grenades exploded and Detonator fell to the ground, his chest of mass of twisted metal and sparking wires.

“Freeze, punk!”

Salvage turned in time to see Wreck-Gar speeding toward him on the back of a junk-cycle. The Junkion leader leveled his blaster at Salvage and fired. Energy surged forth from the weapon to strike Salvage on the forehead. The Recyclon commander wasn’t knocked backward, however, as the energy hit him without any apparent force.

Salvage laughed. “Is that the best you can do, Wreck-Gar?” He started to raise his arms, intending to fire his wrist blasters at the Junkion leader, when he suddenly felt himself slowing down. It was as if his joints were rusting solid. His arms continued to move, but slowly, millimeter by millimeter. Salvage performed a quick self-diagnostic and realized that Wreck-Gar had hit him with a beam from a decelerator laser, a weapon that inhibited the flow of cerebral impulses in cybernetic brains. Salvage was telling his arms to rise, but they were getting the message far too slowly. All he could do was watch as the Junkion leader holstered his blaster and gripped the handle of his axe.

“Wreck-Gar steps up to the plate. Here’s the pitch… and he swings!” As the Junkion roared past on his motorcycle, he swung his axe in a vicious arc designed to separate Salvage’s head from his body. The axe blade struck the Recyclon’s neck and sent up a shower of sparks as metal skirled against metal. Wreck-Gar’s speed provided added momentum to his axe-strike, and the impact knocked Salvage to the ground.

“Touchdown!” Wreck-Gar shouted, then he roared off on his motorcycle to engage Convertor.

Salvage didn’t know what a “touchdown” was, but he did know that Wreck-Gar’s shout of triumph had been premature. While the Recyclon had suffered significant damage to the cybernetic nerve pathways in his neck, his head was still attached to his body, if only just. Salvage struggled to rise, but between the injuries caused by Wreck-Gar’s axe and the after-effects of the decelerator laser blast, the Recyclon commander feared he wouldn’t be able to get to his feet. But with an unsteady lurch, he managed to push himself up and stood, internal gyros straining to maintain his precarious balance. Salvage visually scanned the battleground and did a quick damage assessment of his crew. Detonator was down, and while Torch now fought hand to hand, without his flame thrower he was nearly useless. Convertor had been struck by Wreck-Gar’s decelerator laser, rendering him helpless. The Junkion leader roared toward Convertor, swung his axe, and this time succeeded in lopping off his enemy’s head.

So much for Convertor.

Extractor and Assessor were still functional for the most part, but neither robot was a powerhouse when it came to battle. It would only be a matter of moments until the Junkions managed to take them down as well.

Salvage briefly considered surrendering, but he quickly abandoned the thought. The Harvest Lords would not look kindly on him if he gave up. He’d surely be reprocessed then, provided the Junkions left enough of him intact. There had to be something he could do…

He glanced at the Reclamation several dozen yards away, and then it hit him. There was a chance, if they could act in time.

“Assessor!” he shouted. “Remote-activate the ship’s ion engines!”

The scientist gave no indication that he’d heard his commander. He continued firing his blaster at the attacking Junkions. But a low-pitched thrum of power came from the Reclamation, and the ground began to shake.

As Salvage had hoped, the sudden tremors made it difficult for the Junkions to continue their vehicular assault. Motorcycles wobbled and fell onto their sides, skidding across the ground and unseating their riders. The Junkions all went down — Wreck-Gar included — but Salvage knew the Recyclons had only moments before the junkbots righted their vehicles and renewed their assault.

“Recyclons! To the ship!” Salvage start running toward the Reclamation, not pausing to look back to see if his crew followed.

“Damage report.” Salvage’s speech synthesizer had been affected by the blow the Wreck-Gar’s axe, and the Recyclon commander’s words were punctuated with the pop and hiss of static.

“The Reclamation is once more in stationery orbit above the Planet of Junk,” Assessor said. His body had numerous scorch marks from blaster fire, and one of his optical sensors had been destroyed. “The ship itself suffered no significant damage.”

“Well, that’s something, anyway,” Salvage muttered. If he had the misfortune to lose a ship under his command, the Harvest Lords wouldn’t even bother to reprocess him. They’d simply disassemble Salvage and cast his pieces adrift in space. It was the worst fate imaginable for a Recyclon: being reduced to unwanted waste.

Salvage, Assessor, and Extractor were once more on the bridge of the Reclamation. Salvage sat in his command chair, Assessor stood at his sensor console, while Extractor manned the helm in Convertor’s absence.

“And the rest of the crew?” Salvage asked.

“Detonator, Convertor, and Torch are in the repair bay where the automechs are working on them as we speak. They should make a full recovery. Even Convertor, since Torch had the presence of mind to retrieve both his body and his head before boarding the ship.”

There was an edge of criticism to Assessor’s voice, as if he resented having to help Extractor bring Detonator aboard before they escaped the Planet of Junk. Or rather, resented Salvage’s not helping any of them. Salvage decided to ignore Assessor’s tone. After all, Salvage was commander; it was only proper that he’d been first aboard.

“Very good,” Salvage said. He knew that he, Assessor, and Extractor could use some attention from the automechs as well, but as their injuries were minor compared to the others, they could wait.

“What are your orders?” Extractor asked.

Salvage frowned. “What do you mean?”

Extractor turned around to face his commander. “The Junkions defeated us. There are far too many of them for us to fight. Since we cannot beat them, we are unable to process their planet. Therefore, I assumed we are going to leave. What course should I lay in?”

If Salvage had possessed teeth, he would’ve gritted them just then. “We’re not going anywhere, Extractor. One way or another, the Planet of Junk will be reduced to energon for our masters.”

“While I admire your persistence,” Assessor said, “I’m afraid I must concur with Extractor’s assessment of our situation. We have lost. There is nothing more we can do.”

“We haven’t lost until I say we’ve lost!” Salvage snapped. “I will not allow this crew to return to the homeworld as failures.”

“This crew?” Assessor said. “Or do you really mean yourself?”

Salvage didn’t answer. He knew he didn’t need to.

“There has to be a method of converting this planetoid into energon without having to battle the Junkions.” Salvage thought for a moment. “If only we didn’t need to land in order to form the Prime Processing Unit…”

“Technically speaking, we don’t,” Assessor said.

Salvage felt a spark of hope. He turned his chair around to face the scientist. “Go on.”

“The main reason why we land to process material is so that we might absorb the maximum amount of energon yielded with the least amount of waste. If we were to form the Prime Processing Unit in orbit and connect to the ship’s main communications array to transmit the processor beam to the planet, we could conduct the operation from here. However, a great deal of energon would dissipate into open space as a result. I’d estimate that we could lose as much as seventy-five percent of the total energon the planetoid would render, perhaps more.”

Extractor shuddered. “What a terrible waste!”

“Yes, but isn’t it even more of a waste to leave this planetoid unharvested?” Salvage pointed out. “Even if we lose three quarters of the total energon available, we’d still gain a quarter. And isn’t something better than nothing?”

“Especially if one wishes to avoid the wrath of the Harvest Lords,” Assessor said with a hint of mockery.

“Indeed,” Salvage said. “How long would it take to make the necessary preparations?”

“Once all of us are repaired, not long,” Assessor answered. “An hour at the most.”

Salvage smiled. “Excellent. Then that’s what we shall do.”

“But what of the Junkions?” Extractor asked. “Just because they have not pursued us into space does not mean they lack the capability. They might well attack again once we begin processing.”

Assessor looked suddenly thoughtful. “The Junkions could conceal any number of starships on their world. And we’ve seen how fast they can reconstruct themselves. There’s no reason to think they wouldn’t be able to repair other damaged machines, such as spacecraft. They certainly have more than enough parts to work with to maintain or for that matter even build their own fleet.”

“Then we’re right back where we started from,” Extractor said. “We couldn’t defeat the Junkions on the ground, so what makes us think we can beat them in space?”

Salvage thought for several moments. “Perhaps we don’t need to defeat them,” he mused. “Perhaps all we need to do is distract them long enough for the processing to get underway.”

“Interesting strategy,” Assessor said. “But how exactly do you plan to implement it?”

Salvage smiled. “I think it’s time the Recyclons made peace with the Junkions.”

Salvage brought the landing pod down near the spire where the Reclamation had made planetfall only a few short hours ago. There were no signs of the Junkions or that a battle had recently taken place here, save for some blaster burns on refuse here and there.

Salvage stepped forth from the landing pod and called out using his newly installed speech synthesizer.

“Wreck-Gar! I come under a banner of truce! I wish only talk!”

At first, nothing happened, and Salvage thought the Junkion leader was going to ignore him. But then the surface of the junkscap rustled and shifted less than ten meters from where Salvage stood, and Wreck-Gar emerged from beneath the debris.

The robot eyed Salvage warily, though he did not draw any of his weapons.

“Grand reopening this Saturday! Big, big sale! Get more, pay less!”

Salvage spread out his hands palms up in a gesture of apology. “I’m afraid I don’t fully understand your, ah, dialect. One of my crewmembers has conducted an analysis of your language, and he believes it is based on communication signals received from a distant planet called Earth. Is this correct?”

“We talk TV,” Wreck-Gar said cheerfully. “Do you talk TV?”

“Sorry, but no,” Salvage replied.

The Junkion leader looked crestfallen. “Side effects include headache, diarrhea, and abdominal pain,” he said sadly.

“Yes, of course.” Salvage decided to hurry on before the lunatic could continue with more of his inane ramblings. “As I told you earlier, I am Commander Salvage of the Harvest ship Reclamation. It is our mission to claim and process unused materials for our masters, the Harvest Lords of Sigrath. We are newcomers to this sector of the galaxy, and when we located your world, we didn’t realize it was inhabited. If we had, we never would have landed and set up our Prime Processing Unit. On behalf of myself, my crew, and the Harvest Lords, you have our most sincere apologies.”

Salvage waited for Wreck-Gar’s reaction to his words. The Junkion spoke nonsense, but did that mean he couldn’t understand more straightforward communication?

“The answer is collect and save. And the question is…?”

Salvage hesitated, uncertain whether Wreck-Gar expected him to answer.

But Wreck-Gar continued. “Alex, the question is what is the Junkions’ purpose?”

Salvage nodded. “I understand. We claim and process, but you collect and save.”

Wreck-Gar grinned. “You may already be a weiner!”

“Um… thank you. I think. At any rate, my crew and I will soon be leaving this sector, but before we depart, I wish to extend the hand of friendship to the Junkions.” Salvage held out his hand and waited.

Wreck-Gar regarded Salvage’s outstretched hand for several seconds before running at top speed toward the Recyclon commander. Salvage braced himself for an attack, but Wreck-Gar threw his arms around the other robot and gave him a powerful hug.

“Here’s looking at you, kid! Tonight’s top story: Junkions and Recyclons are friends! Film at eleven!”

Salvage could feel his metal body denting in several places from the pressure of Wreck-Gar’s embrace, but he nevertheless forced a smile. “I’m so glad you feel that way.” Salvage lifted the hand that he’d held out for the Junkion leader to shake and reached up, intending to press it against Wreck-Gar’s back.

But before Salvage could do so, Wreck-Gar frowned and cocked his head to one side, as if listening to a voice only he could hear. “Do you have problems with persistent scalp itch?”

“I’m afraid that ‘problem’ vou sense is the Prime Processing Unit powering up aboard my ship. Normally, I would need to be present to work the controls, but we programmed one of the automechs to stand in for me.” Without waiting for Wreck-Gar to respond, Salvage slapped his hand against the Junkion’s back and released a charge of energy.

Wreck-Gar let out a cry of pain, stiffened, then collapsed limply to the ground.

Salvage smiled down at his fallen foe. “That decelerator laser of yours is a powerful weapon. Assessor was able to analyze the energy residue it left in the positronic pathways of my brain and program the automechs to give me a similar capability. But instead of merely slowing nerve impulses, I can completely scramble them, rendering you incapable of controlling your own body. Or for that matter, commanding your people.” The Recylcon’s smile widened into a grin. “Within moments the Prime Processing Unit will transmit a burst of energy that will reduce your Planet of Junk — and all who inhabit it — to pure energon. We will then absorb the energon, store it within our ship, and depart for our homeworld to present our prize to our masters. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Wreck-Gar’s optical sensors blazed with anger, but the Junkion didn’t move or speak, for he could do neither.

Salvage chuckled. “Collect and save, eh? To what end? All the Junkions have managed to do is collect raw material and save it for the Recyclons to process into energon. And for that, I suppose we should thank you. Now, I’m afraid I must be going. I’d rather not be here when processing begins. Goodbye, Wreck-Gar.”

Salvage turned away from his foe and started back toward the landing pod, triumph surging through all his circuits. He’d done it! Perhaps he wouldn’t get a promotion out of this mission, but at least he’d survive to serve his masters in the future.

“This… just… in…”

Salvage stopped at the sound of Wreck-Gar’s voice. It was weak, the volume low but there was no doubt that the Junkion spoke. Salvage was impressed by how quickly Wreck-Gar was recovering, but it didn’t matter. The Junkion wouldn’t be functional in time to save himself or his world.

Wreck-Gar continued. “Nine out of… ten doctors recommend not counting your… chicken nuggets before they’re… fried.”

Salvage whirled around to face Wreck-Gar. The Junkion still lay on his back, but he’d managed to lift a hand and point to Salvage’s right. The Recyclon commander turned to see a group of Junkions swarming around the base of the spire, the one that Assessor said was the source of the strongest power signature on the planetoid. As Salvage watched, the Junkions opened panels in the base and began operating the controls inside. The tip of the spire began to glow and then an amber beam of energy lanced skyward. Salvage could only stand and stare up in horror as the Reclamation was pulled rapidly planetward by the Junkions’ tractor beam. The starship’s automatic pilot fired thrusters at full strength in an attempt to beak the tractor beam’s grip. But it was no use. The spire was simply too powerful.

The Reclamation picked up speed as it was drawn downward toward the planet’s surface. The ship glowed with bright white energy as the Prime Processing Unit prepared to activate, but before it could, the vessel crashed into the ground several kilometers away. The power generated by the Prime Processing Unit was released, and the Reclamation vanished in a blinding explosion, becoming nothing more than just so much additional junk cluttering the landscape.

The blast wave knocked Salvage off his feet. By the time he’d recovered enough to stand, he saw that he was surrounded by Junkions. Several of them swiftly attended to their leader, opening a panel on his back, making rapid adjustments, and then closing it. Wreck-Gar stood with his people, fully functional once more.

Wreck-Gar smiled grimly. “Why do the Junkions collect and save? Because we clean soap scum three times better than the leading brand.” Wreck-Gar took a step toward Salvage, his optical sensors gleaming intensely.

“Scum like you.”

And then the Junkions closed in on Salvage and went to work.

Jean Rabe — Paddles

HE COULD SENSE the sand shifting above him. He couldn’t feel it, at least not in the way the creatures of this world could register smooth and coarse sensations and pressure against their skin. But he could tell that the sand was moving… slowly and deliberately, not blown by the gusting wind as it usually was in this remote place. He could hear exceptionally well and there was not even a whistle of a breeze to speak of.

And so the sand was being brushed away by something, and this piqued his interest. He listened closely, trying to pick through the shushing sound the grains made as they rubbed against each other, trying to discover precisely what was unearthing him.

He’d been under the sand for… how long? He’d noted the passing of twenty-seven years before he stopped counting. No reason to continue, he’d decided early into the twenty-eighth year. Counting was not an easy thing to do, quite taxing to his limited brain. Besides, helplessly trapped under the sand, time didn’t matter.

He ceased to matter.

Sometime in the first year of his counting he’d wondered if he was dead and if his Spark had joined the Matrix — that perhaps he only imagined he was counting the passage of time. A dream of endless numbing numbers. But in the second year of his counting he’d become confident that the Matrix would not feel like being buried in the sand. The Matrix likely would be free of sand and earth and perhaps anything that one would stand on.

The Matrix would be something glorious. Wouldn’t it?

In the Matrix he would have contact with others of his kind who went before him. Perhaps Grimlock and Snarl… if they had also died in these more than twenty-seven years. But he’d had contact with no one — and he was certain he should have. Too, he was certain he would be able to see in the Matrix. The only thing his visual receptors discerned here was an unending sheet of black. The sand atop him blotted out all light.

So this was not death and not the Matrix, he’d decided well into his third year of counting. It was worse — it was life in a hopeless state of being buried beneath a mound of accursed sand.

It was a life of listening to the grains stir and the wind blow and sometimes a jet passing high overhead, all of it tedious and now terribly, terribly uninteresting and maddening. And the deeper the sand piled over him, the less he deigned to pay attention to it, and the more he prayed for some sort of release. And so he’d slept after he stopped counting time. It wasn’t the sleep creatures of this world enjoyed. There were no dreams and recuperation. It was more a cessation of awareness. Only occasionally did he wake himself and bother to pay attention, and this was when something out of the monotonous ordinary roused him. Those occasions had become increasingly rare and altogether fleeting as the years passed. And there had been nothing to prickle at his awareness in… how long he couldn’t say, though it felt like quite some time.

But today… his curiosity was being firmly nudged. The sand continued to be moved by something other than the wind.

It wasn’t an animal digging… he’d noted that sound late in the sixth year of his counting, and again in the eleventh and the twelfth. He’d noticed no animals investigating this area since then. This was rhythmic and persistent and almost careful. And this digging had been going on for… according to his internal clock that still functioned… more than three hours now. An animal lacked patience and would have given up and moved on. Whatever force was above him continued to push away the sand and seemed to have plenty of patience and time.

Time. How much time had passed since he’d stopped counting? More than twenty-seven years, he knew. Maybe twenty-eight years. Twenty-nine. Maybe one day more than that. Maybe one hundred.

He continued to listen, picking out a buzzing amid the shushing of the sand. Insects? He waited. Not insects. At length he decided that the buzzing was a string of words. He remembered words — and voices. His commander’s, his fellows’, his enemies’. Optimus Prime’s.

Was it any of them talking?

No, he decided sadly after a few minutes more. The loudest, clearest voice he picked out certainly was not Optimus Prime’s. And it was not those of any of his former comrades — Slag, Grimlock, and Snarl. The voices of his fellow Dinobots were all different than what he was hearing now. Those voices were metallic and loud, Grimlock’s especially booming and annoying and filled with himself: “Grimlock fly now! Grimlock smash Decepticons! Grimlock transform! Dinobots follow Grimlock!” Grimlock. Grimlock. Grimlock.

Oh, how he missed Grimlock’s irritating, thunderous, egotistical voice!

These voices were softer and rushed and nearly perfect. He continued to focus on them, and within several minutes he had mastered the nuances of the strangers’ speech. They were talking about him.

What passed for his heart leapt in joy.

“Randall, the imaging recorder says there’s something big buried a few more meters down. Really big.” The voice was clear and deep, almost musical. “Didn’t really expect to find anything way out here… except coconut fossils… if there are such things. I figured they sent us here to dig because our grades are sinking. Sent the ‘A’ students to China where there are plenty of things to find.”

“Good restaurants, the Great Wall to visit. Places to buy souvenirs. Temples.” This voice was pitched only slightly lower and was punctuated with a ‘tsk-tsk.’ “Yeah, I’d’ve really liked to see the Wall.”

“Sent the ‘C’ students here to this desert island to look for coconut fossils. My parents won’t be pleased their tuition money is paying for this… this… desert vacation.”

“Desert schmesert.” There was another tsk-tsking, then: “Desert island… now that makes me think of palm trees and pretty girls wearing flowers and not much else. A bottle of Toohey’s in a bucket of ice. Ed, my friend, this isn’t a desert island. It’s a hot, empty sandbox floating in the sea.” There was a pause as more sand was brushed away. “And you know I’m not usually a ‘C’ student. Just having a little trouble this semester.”

The voice called Ed laughed, and the buried Dinobot found himself enjoying the sound. Each word was a piece of priceless treasure to one that had been buried beneath the sand for more than twenty-seven years. Each word was superb.

Please, Ed, talk more!

There were other voices, but these were farther away and the conversations not so nearly as interesting, nor the pitches as pleasing. And the words were not about him.

The Dinobot wondered what Ed looked like, and more to the point what Ed was. Not another Dinobot… those were powerful, sentient robots, and they would have easily unearthed him by now. Not an Autobot… for the same reasons. Plus, he hadn’t heard the sounds of jets or wheels that usually announced the presence of an Autobot.

So Ed must be a man! The Dinobot allowed a hint of excitement to race through his brain. He’d been told about men, and he’d seen them from a distance — while he was flying behind Grimlock. And he’d heard tales of a youth called Spike, someone Grimlock and Slag counted as a friend. But he’d never seen Spike, and he’d never been up close to a man.

Dig faster, he urged. Please, please, please dig a little faster.

“Ed, does that imaging scope tell you what this ‘really big thing’ is?”

There was more of the wonderful laugh. “It’s a little scope, and cheap, Randall. Borrowed it from an archeology grad assistant before we left. Shelly Marie Willicott, you know her?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen her around. Okay looking. Nice smile. You sweet on her?”

Ed didn’t answer. “This scope is something of an antique, I ‘spose. You’ve got to whang it on the side to get it to work. So, no, Randall, it doesn’t tell me what this ‘really big thing’ is. Just that there is something really big down there.”

“You are sweet on her, aren’t you?”

Ed fiddled with a box the size of a large radio. There were several dials on it, and a cone-shaped device attached to a thick wire. He dangled the cone into the depression they’d been creating with their various sweeping tools. He muttered a string of curse words and ‘whanged’ the box on the side. It crackled and a dull green screen came to life, showing…

“See? It’s something really big.”

“Could be a rock. Bet it’s a rock. All this digging for a hunk of granite.”

For several minutes the voices stopped, and the only sound was the sand being brushed away and the crackle from the imaging recorder.

“It can’t be a rock, see? It’s an odd-shaped thing, with something like a curved tube coming away from it. It doesn’t look like… oh, I don’t know, Randall. It just doesn’t look like a rock. And, I don’t think this machine would pick out a rock anyway. I don’t think that…”

“All right, Ed, it’s not a rock. So let’s keep digging and find out just what it is. Maybe it’ll push us up to a ‘B’ before the term ends.”

“Careful, though. Uncover it just like the textbooks say.”

There was a chortle. “Careful? That would be for the ‘A’ students in China, wouldn’t it, Ed? You got me curious what’s down there. Let’s dig a little faster, and with luck we’ll get enough credit so we can skip the final.”

A few hundred yards behind the archeology students sprawled a base camp, a collection of canvas tents, satchels of equipment, and various-sized crates — the latter of which were open and ready to house whatever artifacts Ed, Randall, and the others dug up. Two more students worked just beyond the tents to the east. The rest were over a dune about a mile north. There were a dozen in all, currently supervised by a graduate student Randall slyly called Dim Tim, as the professor was currently with a second team of students on the far north end of the island.

Ed fiddled with the scope again. “Doctor Boxer’s going to be surprised we found something so big.”

Randall shook his head. “Yeah, the Prof.’s gonna be all over himself that we’ve found a prehistoric egg-shaped rock.”

“Just dig, Ran.”

The Dinobot would help them if he could, but his servos were too badly damaged. It was why he was under the sand instead of on top of it. The gears in his legs were slagged, taken out by a pulse canon burst from a Decepticon more than twenty-seven years ago. He didn’t have enough energy to repair even one servo, let alone an entire leg.

And so he couldn’t budge an inch.

It had been, he guessed, quite some days more than twenty-seven years since he’d been able to move. Quite some days more than twenty-seven years that he could walk, and when the mood struck him, or when Grimlock told him to, turn on his jets and fly.

That he was able to listen to the beings called Ed and Randall, and that he was able to think, was only because his brain hadn’t been damaged. It was the one thing intact. A blessing and a curse. His mind alive, he couldn’t reach the Matrix. His body dead, he couldn’t move.

If only he’d fared better in the last fight. It was he and Snarl against a trio of the enemy robots called Decepticons. They were all on the southernmost point of what Optimus Prime had dubbed Dinobot Island, a mysterious place that had been hidden by a power field and that was dotted with volcanoes and tar pits… an energy paradise. The Decepticons wanted to plunder the island, taking all the energy so they could turn it into energon cubes, not caring if they ruined the land and slew the real dinosaurs that lived there. But he and Snarl were protecting the island and the prehistoric reptiles, and they’d brought the fight to the southernmost point, where there was nothing but a big sandy beach and nothing of any real significance the Decepticons could destroy during the ruckus.

It had been a long and magnificent battle! He had replayed it in his mind hundreds of times during the past twenty-seven or so years. Two Decepticons sent limping away to hide in the sea, one remaining, he and Snarl closing in on it. He’d fared well, right up until the end when a lucky burst of fiery breath and a laser beam from the remaining foe cut into his armored hide. Then the pulse-canon burst found its way inside and slagged everything. As he was falling, he saw Snarl move in and finish the Decepticon.

Then the wind picked up and the sand started to cover him, and unable to raise his head for a better look, he could no longer spot his Dinobot brother. He expected Snarl to rescue him. Figured his brother would share a little energy, just enough so he could repair the servos and get his legs moving, or a little more so he could transform and kick in the jets to fly out of here.

He tried to call out to Snarl, but there was something wrong with the hinges in his jaw, no doubt locked because so much energy had leeched from his massive body. But he could still hear, and he heard Snarl trundling away, transforming and then flying. Perhaps he was going after the two Decepticons that had escaped. That was it! Snarl was going to challenge the two who fled, then was going to return.

Or if not return, at least not right away, Snarl was going to tell Grimlock. Then Grimlock, Snarl, and Slag would find him and share some energy so he could repair his servos.

But his brother Dinobots never came. Not in the more than twenty-seven years he’d been buried in the sand.

“Randall, look at this! I told you it wasn’t a rock. It’s just what we were looking for…. a friggin’ dinosaur. A big-as-you-please friggin’ dinosaur. What the rest of the class is digging for in China, and what they probably never thought we’d find here. A dinosaur!”

“Ed…”

“A big-as-you-please dinosaur.”

“Ed…”

“Big and gray…”

“Ed…”

“And red and yellow.”

Moments passed, and the faint breeze that picked up blew the sand and dried the sweat on the faces of Randall and Ed.

“Dinosaurs weren’t red and yellow, Ed.”

They continued brushing the sand away, piling it up around the edges of what had become a sizeable hole. It took the rest of the day, and the two days following that to completely unearth their find. Ed remarked that it should have taken them longer — had they followed the proper techniques in the texts, and had the professor, Doctor Boxer, not been at the north end of the island with the second team. And had Dim Tim been paying attention. Then they would have done everything by the proverbial book. But the professor was at the north end of the island, and so Randall had done things clumsily and quickly. And he let Ed know that their fellows in this very team were working a site just on the other side of the tents with the same rapidity and carelessness — in an effort to uncover their find first.

So it had turned into a contest, with some of the other students visiting to check on Ed and Randall’s progress.

“And we won,” Randall pronounced on the third day of digging. “If you can call that winning.” He spat in the hole.

What they’d thoroughly uncovered looked for the most part like an elasmosaurus — as those aquatic-based dinosaurs had been portrayed in various textbooks and in computer studies. It had an ovoid body that stretched roughly fifteen feet, and sported a tapering neck that was at least that long. It had fins instead of feet. The fins were red, the tail red at the tip. A ridge above its eyes on its heart-shaped head was yellow, and a navy-blue tooth stuck out from a lip frozen in a curl. A thin bony-looking ridge that ran down its back was alternating stripes of red and vellow.

“That’s an elasmo…” Ed scratched his head and searched for the word. “An elasmosaurus.”

“Sort of,” Randall said.

“Yes, an elasmosaurus.” Ed’s voice grew more confident. “I remember reading about them. They were aggressive and strong and fast. They could turn quickly. And when they were in the water, with their body submerged and their head and tail floating, they looked like a snake. Something would come to investigate, thinking there was an easy meal in the lagoon, and… bam! Old elasmo would strike.”

Randall made a sound like he was clearing his throat. “So the books say, Ed. No one ever saw a real dinosaur. You know that. It’s all just guesswork. Educated, but guesswork.”

There was a rent in the elasmosaurus’s leg, jagged and mean-looking, and a few thin wires stuck out that Randall smugly pointed to.

“Not a real dinosaur, huh, Ran?”

“If it was real, Ed, it only would be bones. Fossils. This is…”

“More than bones. It’s an entire dinosaur.”

“Yeah, one with red and yellow on it. A blue tooth. And look at the wires.” Randall made a snorting noise and waved his hand as if he was swatting a fly. “It’s metal. Ed.” Then he grabbed the imaging scope and tossed it in the hole. The contraption clanked loudly against the metal hide of the Dinobot’s leg and made a sputtering sound.

“Geeze, Randall. I told you I borrowed that scope from a grad student. Sheila Marie. If you broke it, I’ll…”

“Have to buy her another one? You shouldn’t have any trouble affording one a lot better than that. All you have to do is sell that thing for scrap metal.” A pause, then: “If you can find a way to get it off this sandbox.”

Ed stared down into the hole. “All right. All right. All right. It’s not a real dinosaur. I can see that. But it sure looks like one. Something maybe an artist did, welded it all together.”

Another snort. “Yeah, and put it on this island in the middle of the sea. Like that makes any sense. Something from an amusement park is more like it. Dropped off here with a boatload of trash. Sorta fits. Harcourt and his partner found a big jukebox.”

The two alternately stared into the hole at the Dinobot, and then at each other.

The Dinobot looked at them through a sand-dusted eye. Ed was the tall one, several inches over six feet, lean and always shifting back and forth on the balls of his big feet. He had arms that seemed overly long, and strong-looking hands that were covered with sweat and sand. His face was careworn and haggard looking, a thoroughly exasperated expression on it.

Randall was shorter and stocky, muscles upon muscles and a curly shock of black hair streaked white from the sand and sea salt. His eyes were small and steady and hinted at intelligence and skepticism.

Men, up close!

The Dinobot considered them beautiful.

“Makes no sense, does it Randall? This metal dinosaur buried in the sand?”

Randall looked at his tall friend, then back at the metal dinosaur. After a few moments of silence, he turned away and walked toward the collection of tents.

“Randall…”

Randall stopped and let out a great sigh. His big shoulders sagged. “No, Ed. It doesn’t make any sense,” he said as he glanced back. “Maybe Doc Boxer had someone put that thing there for us to find. A joke on the ‘C’ students. Maybe he thought we weren’t good enough to dig up the real thing. At least it’s a little more interesting than the oversized jukebox Rich and Harcourt are still working on. I’m going to get Harcourt so he can come take a look at our iron elasmo. And when Doc Boxer comes by tomorrow or the day after… when he’s done with team two… I’m going to ask him if this is all a joke.”

“And if it is?” Ed asked almost too softly for his friend to hear.

“Tm going to change my major to political science or English.”

The sun was setting before beautiful Randall and Ed shuffled away to join the rest of the students for dinner. All of them had ogled the Dinobot, and all had made comments about him being an amusement park attraction.

They didn’t know he was from another time and another world, a Dinobot brimming with power and ready to battle the forces of evil… battle them if he could just get the energy to repair himself.

And that was something he intended to do before this “Doctor Boxer” returned from the north end of the island and ordered him dismantled and crated up — something a student named Harcourt suggested and that the rest agreed upon. Even beautiful Randall and Ed.

His sensors told him something was cooking out of his range of sight. He couldn’t smell what it was, as his nasal receptors were clogged with sand. But whatever was being served was occupying all the students, even Dim Tim. No one watching, the Dinobot concentrated on the scope that lay atop his injured leg. There was energy in it, a crude solar chip array backed up by common batteries. Not much, but perhaps enough. He coaxed its waves to spill inside the rent in his leg, to flood the exposed wires and the cells beneath, then to pulse up toward the generator that was buried deep in his chest.

All he needed was a flash, a spark that would make the generator…

Yes! The Dinobot’s mind screamed in exultation. He felt the generator purr ever-so-slightly. The scope hadn’t provided much energy, and it wasn’t the type of energy he’d fed on before. But it had been just enough. The purring grew slightly louder and the Dinobot concentrated on first one damaged servo then another, the generator repairing itself in the process.

After several minutes, the Dinobot lifted its serpentine neck, its head barely reaching above the mound of sand that rimmed the hole. There were beautiful Randall and Ed, the latter laughing wonderfully at someone’s joke. A dozen men he counted. All so close! Wait until he told Snarl about this!

Wait until he found Snarl and Grimlock!

The men weren’t looking this way, and though a great part of him wanted to join them and study them up close, the cautious part kept him back. He didn’t know if the men would be afraid of him, or if they’d ever seen a Dinobot in action. He didn’t want to panic them — after all, they’d freed him from a sandy prison of more than twenty-seven years. And after more than twenty seven years, he could wait a little bit longer to join his brothers.

The stars began winking into view by the time the Dinobot had made as many repairs as he could. He needed more energy, a lot of it, to fully heal himself. The rent in his leg would take help — maybe Bumblebee if he could be found. He wasn’t a Dinobot, but he was a friend, and handy with repairing things. Bumblebee had been to Dinobot Island before.

He tried to be quiet, struggling to stand in the depression. It had been so long since he’d stood! More than twenty-seven years. The weight on his flippered feet was good, and he bent his knees and swiveled his head this way and that before climbing out. It was awkward, moving on the sand.

And there was so much sand!

When he’d battled the Decepticons at Snarl’s side, there’d been some sand, as they were on a beach. But now there was sand as far as his visual receptors could see. Where had all the sand come from? Where was the jungle?

To the north, he thought. There would be jungle and volcanoes, real dinosaurs and tar pits to the north. And there would be Grimlock and Snarl, other Dinobots. What passed for his heart swelled in happiness and anticipation. It would be good to see his friends.

Had they missed Paddles? Would they celebrate his return?

Paddles. It wasn’t an especially proud or powerful name, but it was what Grimlock dubbed him shortly after they’d all arrived on Dinobot Island. He was trying to navigate around the base of a volcano, having trouble on his flippered feet. That was the day Grimlock named him Paddies. He preferred using his dinosaur form only in the water, where the flippers worked to his advantage. He’d been jealous of Grimlock’s tyrannosaurus rex form… until he realized just how well he moved around in the water.

It would be good to hear Grimlock order him around again. “Grimlock want Paddles to patrol the shore!” “Grimlock want Paddles to transform!”

Paddles wanted to transform, too. Right now. It would be easier to walk on two manlike legs than on these four flippered ones. But he couldn’t transform without more energy to make the remaining repairs. And so he toiled to crest the sandy ridge that rimmed the hole, and then to waddle past the students’ camp and to the north.

He was certain they hadn’t heard him. Several were snoring, the sound a bit discomfiting and oh-so-foreign. If Paddles hadn’t studied humans, he would have thought the sound signaled their death-throes. Wait until he told Grimlock about the snoring… and about Ed’s wonderful laughter!

Paddles didn’t see Ed emerge from his tent, stretch and look to the north — wide-eyed to see what the students had thought a metal sculpture or amusement park attraction trundling away. And he didn’t hear Ed wake Randall, and the two of them rush to the pit to discover the drained imaging scope.

Paddles was too absorbed with the notion of finding his brothers and getting entirely healed, and of covering up that ugly tear in his leg that had allowed sand to slip inside and fill up the cavity around the servos and wires. He was sick of this sand… and he was seeing no end to it.

What had happened to all the trees? He remembered their leaves and branches being so thick they could block out he sky. But he had an unobstructed view of the stars and the still-darkening sky. Where in the name of Optimus Prime were the trees?

“Where?” His voice sounded scratchy, muted by the sand that was lodged in his throat. Bumblebee would help with that problem, too. “Where are the trees?”

And the volcanoes. He should see them rising in the distance. Instead, there were only mounds of sand. How could the island have changed this much in more than twenty-seven years? Unless a lot more than twenty-seven years had passed.

Had the Decepticons plundered all the energy, and the land dried up?

Or had so many, many years passed that time had naturally done this?

“Where?” He shouted the word, a boom of scratchy sound that stretched to the dune ahead. Too late he realized that his voice might wake up the students and send them searching. “Where?” This word much softer.

But a moment later there was another boom, then another even louder. It was a thrumming boom that became as steady as an energy pump.

THROOM, it sounded. THROOM. THROOM. THROOM. THROOOOOOOM!

Paddles swiveled his neck so he could see behind him. The sound was coming from the students’ camp, and before he could make out the details, the throoming was followed by shouts and screams.

“By the will of Optimus Prime!” Paddles croaked.

Looming above the tents, purple and black and cut by orange and silver stripes was a Decepticon. It was the one he and Snarl fought, the one who slagged Paddles’ servos… slagged everything and caused him to lie beneath the sand for quite a bit more than twenty-seven years.

“Raze!” Paddles shouted. It was the name of his foe. And it was just what the Decepticon was doing — razing the tents of the archeology students. Where had Raze come from? Why was he standing? From a prone position more than twenty-seven years ago Paddles watched Snarl finish Raze. How could the Decepticon have repaired itself? “How by the will of Optimus Prime? Not possible. Not possible!”

But it was possible, Paddles realized. Just as he had repaired himself by leeching energy from the scope, Raze had somehow repaired himself. Paddles remembered Ed and Randall talking about another find their fellows were unearthing. Something that looked like something called a jukebox. It was Raze, buried in the sand like Paddles! Was Snarl buried somewhere too?

And just how had Raze repaired himself? Was it possible a student left equipment nearby… with enough energy for Raze to steal? Was it possible Ed and Randall had discovered Paddles missing, saw the drained scope and thought to power up the jukebox? Had the students raised Paddles’ old foe?

The Dinobot had no way of knowing that Ed had done just that out of curiosity. All he knew was that the Decepticon looked in better shape than he did.

Raze had a manlike form, in that he had a barrel chest and thick legs. His head was boxy and for the most part uninteresting, but his eyes alternately flashed red and purple and highlighted the silver cables that ran from his cheeks and into the base of his segmented neck. His arms were heavy metal cylinders that he pounded against the ground to set off tremors. Left. Right. Left. Right. THROOM. THROOM. THROOM. THROOOOOOM!

Great cracks formed in the earth, the sand spilling into them, the tents and the students following.

“No!” Paddles shouted, sand bursting from his mouth. “Stop! Fight me, Raze! Leave them alone!”

In the starlight Paddles could see Raze’s face clearly. There was a smile dancing along those twisted metal lips.

THROOM. THROOM. THROOM.

Beautiful Ed and Randall slipped into a growing crevice.

“No!”

“Fight me, Dino-clutz!”

Paddles made a move toward what was left of the camp, then spun on his flippered feet and headed north again. He wasn’t running away — he would never, ever run away. But he was trying to lure the hated Deceptcion away from the archeology students. There were a few left on top of the sand, and maybe they could rescue beautiful Randall and Ed.

“Run away? Fight me, Dino-clutz! Fight me, you oversized robotic iguana!”

The ruse worked. Raze was following Paddles, throoming as he went. The Dinobot had trouble standing, the earth was trembling so.

What happened? Paddles wanted to ask Raze. Do you know where all the sand came from? Where is Snarl? Just how many years more than twenty-seven has passed? Did you count the years while you laid beneath the sand?

Instead, the Dinobot put all of his efforts into speeding up. If only he had the energy to transform. His manlike legs would carry him faster, or the jets on his back would take him above all of this, and then he’d… what? He’d swoop down on the Decepticon and finish the battle that was started more than twenty-seven years ago.

He reached the nearest dune and turned around to face Raze. The Decepticon filled his vision. He couldn’t see the students’ camp, and had no way of knowing how many had survived or if beautiful Ed and Randall had been pulled from the crevice.

“Please let them be safe.”

“Safe, Dinobot? Nothing is safe from Raze!” He throomed his cylinder-arms against the ground, opening another crevice and nearly toppling Paddles into it.

The Dinobot retaliated, pulling the energy from his servos and locking his legs in place in the process. He opened his mouth and more sand shot out — followed by a great gout of searing energy. The bolt struck Raze in the chest, sparks showering away and looking like a cloud of angry fireflies. The Decepticon staggered back, catching himself on his cylinder arms and barely managing to right himself.

Paddles breathed a second gout of energy, then a third, the first striking Raze in the abdomen, the next melting part of his ugly face. Paddles tried to breathe again, but the energy was gone. He’d asked too much of his body and the scant energy that had been powering it.

“Die, Dinobot!” Raze hollered. He drove both arms against the earth, widening the crevice. At the same time, the vibrations brought down the dune behind Paddles. “Die… now!”

The ground quaked and bucked and the Decepticon and Paddles toppled into the crevice. Like the maw of some great prehistoric beast, the crevice widened again then folded in on itself, the sand covering the seam and the earth swallowing the robots.

He could sense the sand shifting above him. He couldn’t feel it, at least not in the way the creatures of this world could register smooth and coarse sensations and pressure against their skin. But he could tell that the sand was moving… slowly and deliberately, not blown by the gusting wind as it usually was in this desolate place. He could hear exceptionally well, and there was not even a whistle of a breeze to speak of.

And so the sand was being brushed away by something, and this piqued his interest. He listened closely, trying to pick through the shushing sound the grains made as they rubbed against each other, trying to discover precisely what was unearthing him.

He’d been under the sand for… how long? He’d noted the passing of thirty-nine years before he stopped counting. No reason to continue, he’d decided early into the fortieth year. Counting was not an easy thing to do, quite taxing to his limited brain. Besides, helplessly trapped under the sand, time didn’t matter. He ceased to matter.

It wasn’t an animal digging. And it wasn’t Raze trying to dig himself out — Paddles had determined into the second year of counting that the Decepticon was truly dead. It was a man digging. Like Ed and Randall had dug more than thirty nine years ago.

Paddles patiently waited to be unearthed again.

Alexander Potter — Redepmtion Center

“DECEPTICONS ATTACK, DECEPTICONS retreat. Decepticons attack, Decepticons retreat.” Starscream stomped up the mountain path. “Megatron’s like a faulty circuit, repeating the same loop. We’ll never get anywhere with that Mega-moron leading us.” He chose to ignore the ornery internal voice reminding him his own plans hadn’t fared any better against the Autobots. Given the opportunity to lead the full strength of the Decepticons, without Megatron’s oversized head in the way, he would succeed. He would crush the silly do-gooders and bring his people the glory of genuine victory.

Not that he particularly cared about glory for every Decepticon. Certainly, Decepticons outshone Autobots in every way. That went without saying. When he thought about glorious victory for his race though, he pictured himself standing at the forefront of all the foolish followers of Megatron, acknowledged as the supreme leader of their kind. All Decepticons would bow before him. And Megatron would be there at the forefront too… on his knees before Starscream for all to see. What worth victory without a good share of humiliating defeat for his once-powerful nemesis?

He savored the image while surveying the dizzying steep drop that fell away from the narrow trail. Heights thrilled him. The only reason he wasn’t soaring over the mountaintop now was the ornery mood coloring his mental voices had seeped into every joint and circuit, surrounding him in a miasma of sullen rebellion. The others expected him to be out flying after Megatron’s latest set-down, complete with the expected overly-dramatic “get out of my sight!”

Starscream considered Megatron’s predictability one of his greatest faults, second only to his lame transformation that left him in a form requiring another Decepticon to employ it in order to be useful. He sneered down at the ground hundreds of feet away and kicked a stone, sending it plummeting over the edge. The way Megatron managed to frighten the others into obedience when his faults were so obvious kept Starscream in a state of perpetual frustration.

So rather than take to the skies, Starscream climbed. Not because he enjoyed it, simply because it was unpredictable. In fact, his distaste for walking instead of flying suited his mood entirely too well. Still, the heights called to him. He was never so comfortable as when he looked down on everything. Climbing the winding path fit both needs today, and should have improved his mood. Unfortunately, not even imagining Megatron’s inevitable downfall could shake his simmering anger.

When would his time come? For all his narrow-vision, predictability, rages, insults and cavalier disregard for the Decepticons under his command, still Megatron ruled, and the others gave him their loyalty. That rankled most. Why would they give Megatron what they wouldn’t give him? Starscream pounded his fist against the rock wall, hefting the resulting chunk of rock that chipped away. Flinging it upward and away in agitation, he watched it spin higher, his superior strength sending it almost further than his optics could track.

The destructive action brought a small release to his tension and he wandered to the edge of the path again. The buzzing whine of the rock’s descent pulled his attention around, and he watched to see where his makeshift missile landed. With a satisfying crunch, he heard it hit the mountainside above. Watching for it, his face was turned in exactly the right direction when the ricocheting chunk of mountain spun away from the impact. The airborne rock sailed straight into his left optic lens with shattering force.

Starscream yelped involuntarily, the surprise and impact driving him back a step. His arms wheeled at his sides and the sudden loss of half his optical input unbalanced him. He tumbled backward off the edge of the narrow path, in a disoriented free-fall. ‘Transform,’ his instincts shouted as the world spun. Jet form would prevent —

He actually heard the horrific crunch of the back of his head slamming into rock before he felt it. His consciousness flickered and all sensory input became scrambled. ‘Transform!’ screamed a panicked voice in his head, and he tried to force the transformation as the world spun again and his legs snapped up and back, intense pain shooting through his neural connections. His wings folded back but his legs wouldn’t respond, and in another jarring twist, he was upside down again with his face impacting the rock. The fight to remain conscious and in control of his limbs and form took more than he had to give, and the remainder of the fall was a confused jumble of rock, pain and the ground hurtling ever closer. The final impact slammed through his back as he landed face up, staring dazed and uncomprehending at the sky.

He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel his extremities. What felt like fire sizzled along his circuits and something liquid oozed from his chest. The world dimmed. The final, fractured image his one remaining optic sensor registered was a strangely doubled impression of a dark bird wheeling overhead.

Soundwave paused in his work. Laserbeak returns. He stood and watched for his minion, surprised to see Ravage padding along in the Laserbeak’s wake. He hadn’t been sure which he would need to track Starscream’s movements, so he’d sent both. Apparently both had succeeded.

They came to him and he rested a hand fondly on Ravage’s head while Laserbeak engaged replay. Ravage’s report confirmed. Two separate perspectives of Starscream’s fall, both lingering morbidly on the twisted mess of metal.

Watching two versions of Starscream’s… accident… had even him wanting to smile. He savored the final shot one more time, then rose and sought Megatron by following the sound of him mercilessly berating Thundercracker and Skywarp for some infraction. Casting a dismissive glance at the others, he caught Megatron’s attention.

“What is it, Soundwave?” Megatron snapped.

“Information you require.” Soundwave made his way back to his post.

Megatron arrived directly on his heels. “What do you have for me?”

Silently, Soundwave engaged the replays and watched in smug satisfaction as Starscream fell.

Megatron stared in fascination, then loosed his deep, maniacal laugh. “So that’s where he went. How… fitting. Shall we go collect the scraps? Eventually. He can lie there for a while… serve him right.”

Soundwave didn’t speak immediately, knowing Megatron’s question was rhetorical. Megatron would do what Megatron decided. Others opinions mattered not at all. “A question, Megatron.”

“Yes?”

“Why do you tolerate him?”

Megatron laughed again, and this time the sound held real amusement and less insanity. “Ah, Soundwave. I appreciate your distaste. But you must understand, those like Starscream are best kept as close as possible. At an arm’s length, I have some idea of what he’s doing.” He grinned. “Besides, the amusement factor cannot be underestimated.”

Soundwave didn’t reply. Megatron would go out and pick up all the pieces and have them put back together. Or more accurately, Megatron would send a flunky out to pick up the pieces. Perhaps he would send Soundwave. Perhaps one or two vital pieces would get lost on the way back to the base.

Bumblebee put on a burst of speed and careened around the base of the mountain, unsure if he’d actually lost Hound or if the other Autobot had just gotten distracted. Spike laughed wildly behind the wheel, a sound Bumblebee enjoyed and attempted to prompt as often as possible. Bumblebee suddenly braked, tires kicking up choking dust in clouds. The glinting metal far ahead took on the unmistakable cast of Transformer pieces.

“What’s wrong?” Spike looked out the window, but Bumblebee knew the human’s eyesight couldn’t make out what had brought him to a full stop.

“There’s a robot in pieces.”

“In pieces?”

“Let’s get a closer look.” He started forward again at a steady pace. Within moments, Hound drew up alongside him.

“What’s got you suddenly playing it safe?” Hound called as he pulled ahead.

“There’s a robot down up ahead,” Bumblebee relayed, passing the exact coordinates.

“We best check it out together,” Hound responded, staying close as they closed in on the wreckage.

When they were close enough for Bumblebee to make out the identity, he slowed to a stop and idled. “I don’t understand. It’s… Starscream.”

“STARSCREAM?” Spike and Hound chorused together.

“No doubt about it.”

Hound shifted forward. “Let me go in first. Could be a trap.”

Bumblebee continued scanning the area. He could see nothing unusual but the tangled jumble of Starscream. He watched Hound transform, walking the last distance to Starscream and inspecting the area carefully. With a wave to Bumblebee, he knelt next to the body. Bumblebee drove forward, fully alert, rolling to a stop next to Hound and opening his door so Spike could disembark, then transforming himself.

“What happened to him?” Spike saved Bumblebee from voicing the question as they both stared. If possible, it looked even worse close up. Bumblebee felt a cold dread inside at seeing any anyone in this state.

“I’m thinking… he fell.” Hound sounded puzzled by his own theory. “My scans are showing a lot of chipping and scoring on that mountainside.” Hound gestured in a straight line up from where Starscream lay. “As if a whole lot of metal came tumbling straight down, with a lot of force, at high speed. And hit every outcrop and pointed rock on the way down, which explains his… condition.”

“But if he fell, wouldn’t he just transform?” Once again, Spike’s plaintive curiosity prevented Bumblebee from asking the obvious question. Spike was handy that way.

“You’d think,” Hound muttered.

He paused then finally got to the point. “So what do we do with him?”

Hound stayed silent for long moments. “Good question.” He toed the right lower leg that only remained connected by a single twisted joint at the knee. It creaked and wobbled ominously. “I don’t like this. Finding him out here, no one else around. It feels like a set up. Like we’re supposed to bring him back to the Ark.”

“But we can’t just leave him like this,” Bumblebee objected.

“Why not?” Spike raised an eyebrow. “He’d leave you if he came across you in this condition.”

“Well, he is a Decepticon,” Bumblebee reasoned. He tried to figure out how to explain. “But… we’re not. I think we need to check in with Optimus Prime.”

Hound nodded. “You’re right, Bumblebee. We take him to Prime. He’ll know what to do. Load him up.” Hound transformed, and Spike and Bumblebee wrestled the lifeless machinery into the back of the jeep.

Transforming and swinging his door open for Spike, Bumblebee spun out to follow Hound back to Autobot headquarters. The jouncing bits of Decepticon proved a grisly distraction for the entire drive.

The Autobots clustered around the fallen robot laid out on Ratchet’s table. “— just lying there at the bottom of a mountain,” Bumblebee concluded. “No one else around, nothing.”

“Evidence suggests he fell,” Hound reported. “But it’s anyone’s guess how that came about, or why he didn’t just transform.”

“It’s a trick. A set-up. Gotta be,” Jazz insisted, crossing his arms and shaking his head. “Not buying this for a minute.”

Ironhide nodded. “I think he’s right.” Even his aw-shucks drawl had a worried edge to it. Having a Decepticon, even an unconscious and grievously injured one, inside headquarters had that effect on many of the Autobots. “Remember when they cloned you, Prime? And set us up to believe you killed Starscream, when it was just a clone of him? I bet this is just another clone.” He cuffed the detached arm and it clanked. “It’s probably got some transmitter that’s sending them information right now. Or maybe the thing is about to blow up in our faces.” He paused, then suddenly took a big step backwards. Inferno and Jazz followed suit.

Optimus Prime stepped forward. “Ratchet? Wheeljack?”

“Nothing is going to explode,” Ratchet scoffed. “Do you think I’d let this thing sit here if it was? It’s a nonfunctioning robot. Period.”

“We had Teletran-1 analyze him when we were diagnosing the damage. None of the scans turned up any devices and it is Starscream, as far as we can tell,” Wheeljack agreed. “Of course, that clone of you sure seemed to be you, and we know you a lot better than we know him.”

“True,” Optimus mused. “But there was reasoning behind setting up that charade for the clone of me to take out Starscream. What reasoning for leaving a smashed copy of him at the base of a mountain?”

“They couldn’t know we’d bring him back here,” Spike agreed.

“They could pretty well guess,” Jazz countered.

“Me Grimlock say you should throw garbage out,” the Dinobot sneered. “Scatter pieces.” Sludge grumbled agreement.

Optimus leaned forward, balancing his fists on the table. “I understand the urge. But I don’t believe that’s our course of action. What I want to know, is can it be fixed? Ratchet? Wheeljack?”

“If you all stop gawking and let me work, I’ll see what I can do. Can’t make promises but I’ve seen worse. Long as you give me the orders to fix him?” Ratchet clarified.

Optimus nodded. “Fix him, but keep him restrained and under guard. We’re not going to figure this out with him in this shape, but let’s not be foolish. Remove his power chips for the controls of his weaponry. Everyone, be alert. Red, let’s make sure security stays high.”

“Absolutely, Prime.”

“Everyone, to your duties.” He stayed at the end of the table as the Autobots dispersed, watching as Ratchet started to work, Wheeljack hovering nearby. As the inner workings of Starscream were opened up and examined, he wondered uneasily what he was getting into.

Awareness returned all at once. Power coursed through his circuits, his optical sensors fed him visual imagery, hearing came online. Internal systems registered slower, one by one. He felt… strange, but as his head lifted and his fingers curled, he couldn’t immediately identify what was wrong. His limbs wouldn’t move, but there was more to it than that.

He lowered his head back to the table, hearing someone speaking. “That’s done it. He’s awake. Better go get Optimus.”

The word sounded like it should mean something to him. Optimus. But nothing came as he automatically accessed his memory banks. The strangeness coalesced. His memory banks responded, but felt sluggish. Large gaps in accessible data registered and internal deficiency made him dim his sight and concentrate on his memory programming. The basic subroutines functioned fine. Above that…

“Starscream. Can you hear me?”

He focused outward again and stared at the robot leaning over him. The blue lights flashing on either side of the head in concert with his words wanted to create a connection, but it just wasn’t there. He knew he’d seen him before, but that was all he knew.

“Starscream?”

Starscream? Starscream. Yes, that… fit. Somehow. But how? He wasn’t sure, he just knew it was important. He concentrated. His neural circuitry felt almost painful as it strained to make connections.

“Starscream? Are you in there? Maybe that didn’t do the trick…”

He realized all at once that the flashing robot was addressing him, then felt stupid for being so confused. He was Starscream? A sudden wave of panic washed through him as he realized he didn’t know for sure. “Starscream?” he repeated dumbly, waiting for it to jar the memory banks into action.

“So you are in there.”

“Am I?” he asked automatically, disoriented. Then, in an effort to settle at least one issue, he clarified. “Starscream. That’s… me?”

“Huh. This is interesting.” His questioner leaned closer, studying him. “Assuming you’re telling the truth.”

Why wouldn’t I be? he wondered. Something kept him from asking the question, and the appearance of more robots on the other side of him banished the thought completely.

The large red and blue robot in the lead made the feeling of trying to establish connections over faulty wiring even worse. He knew beyond doubt he had seen this one numerous times, studied him, could even see his Transformation happening in his head. The image of an oversized gun superimposed itself over the impressive red cab of a semi rolling down a road and confusion reigned again. A sense of desperation filled him, followed quickly by a return of the panic. What’s wrong with me?

He didn’t realize he’d uttered the thought out loud until the large robot responded bluntly. “Don’t even bother trying, Starscream. You can’t attack. You don’t have access to your cluster bombs or your null ray. We may have put you back together, but there’s a limit.”

Cluster bombs? Null ray? At the words, he felt an internal connection. Yes, familiar. With the thought came an immediate mental reach for the weaponry that were as much as part of him as his hands. The dull void he felt confirmed the statement. He experienced a moment of intense vulnerability, then the rest of the words sank in — “attack”, “put back together” — not to mention the tone in which they were delivered.

Apparently he was not among friends, despite the feelings of familiarity.

“Ah, Optimus? I don’t think he was talking about his weapons. I think he may be asking that question in a more general sense. We were just having a kinda interesting conversation.”

While the blue-flashing individual talked about him as if he wasn’t there, explaining his apparent lack of self-recognition, he considered the situation. So this was Optimus. That fit the feeling of recognition he felt for both the word and the robot. Optimus had the air of some sort of leader, and oddly, Starscream felt confident of his own ability to judge power-standing even though everything else felt nebulous. Obviously, no one here trusted him, and also obviously, he had been badly injured. As his disorientation settled he found his impatience rising. Stripped of weapons and he couldn’t even move, yet they all stood around staring at him like he was about to explode. I must be extremely dangerous, he thought, then wondered at the flash of pleasure he felt at the idea.

“-doesn’t know who he is?”

“He’s lying. It’s some new plot.”

“I think he’s telling the truth. That was some serious damage and we’re talking straight to the center of everything.” The blue-flashing robot tapped his forehead meaningfully.

“Wheeljack’s right. We’ve seen this kind of injury affect the logic circuits and personality programming before…”

“Exactly!” The blue-flashing one — Wheeljack, apparently — seemed to be getting excited. Starscream finally broke into the overlapping, jabbering voices.

“Could someone explain things to me? What happened?” All attention shifted to him, and given the number of unfriendly looks he was getting, he started to wish he hadn’t spoken. Being able to sit up would be nice too.

Optimus moved closer, studying him so hard he had an immediate urge to squirm away. “You really don’t remember who you are? What happened?” The deep voice noticeably softened.

“Nothing. When you mentioned it I remembered I used to have access to cluster bombs and a null ray but when he mentioned my name… nothing.” He thought about trying to sound sincere, but frankly he knew he was telling the truth and he decided that would just have to be enough. “How did I get here?”

“A couple of the Autobots found you at the bottom of a mountain. No memory of what you were doing?”

Starscream tried. He concentrated again and tried to force an image, a thought, anything that might resemble a memory of being on a mountain. An accident, an attack, something, anything. Alas, nothing. Frustration chased the ever-present panic. How could he not remember? He met Optimus’ gaze and shook his head, making a noise of pure desperation. “I don’t understand.”

Optimus continued to stare down at him, then finally nodded once. “I’m sorry we can’t explain it to you. We’re not sure ourselves exactly what happened. What we can tell you is that you’ve sustained some extensive damage.” The steady voice was comforting now, the direct gaze and looming presence more solid than intimidating. Starscream found himself calming as Optimus continued, “We’ve repaired what we can, but apparently you’re still suffering some effects. With your permission, we can try to repair more.”

After a moment, Starscream realized Optimus was actually waiting for a response. For some reason, this surprised him. That kind of consideration just didn’t feel like the normal order of life. “I… yes. Please. Fix what you can.”

The one called Wheeljack leaned over him again, and opened his chest plate. Making a couple of adjustments, he said, “I’m going to have Ratchet put you into a suspended state while we look at those logic circuits, alright? You’ll be more comfortable.”

“Alright,” Starscream answered helplessly, unsure what exactly he was agreeing to but liking the sound of being more comfortable. Another joined Wheeljack and leaned over his opened chest.

A large hand fell on his shoulder from the other side of the table. He turned to see Optimus still standing close. “You’re in the best hands possible,” he said in that reassuring tone.

As the world faded to black once again, Starscream couldn’t help but believe him.

“Well? Where is he?” Megatron demanded, as they flew in, scouring the mountainside.

“I don’t understand,” Soundwave intoned. “These are the coordinates.”

“Look!” Thundercracker set down on the ground and pointed to the tire tracks in the dry earth.

Megatron stared at the tracks. His temper rose. Fists clenching, he alighted on the ground and released a howl of frustration and rage. “AUTOBOTS!”

As the light in Starscream’s optics went dark, Optimus Prime lifted his gaze from the table, to Wheeljack directly across from him.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Prime?”

“Logic circuits, personality programs…”

“Yes! This is the opportunity of a lifetime! I’ve always wanted to know what makes the Decepticon’s act the way they do. Haven’t you? I mean haven’t we all? Here’s our chance to find out if we can influence it at all! If they’re all lost causes who are just bad machines, or if there’s some way to… I don’t know… help them change. Make an impression, affect them somehow. We’ll never have a better shot! And just imagine if Starscream went back to them, as a different kind of Decepticon. Maybe not as a Decepticon at all, at least not in the way we understand the word!”

Optimus straightened and rested his hands on his hips. “It’s certainly compelling. Not that we know for sure it’s possible, or that he’s even telling the truth…”

Ratchet glanced up. “Do you honestly think he’s lying about not remembering? I’m telling you this boy has some fried wires. I think Wheeljack has the right idea.”

Optimus nodded. “I believe this is Starscream and I get a strong sense he doesn’t remember what happened or who we are, or even who he is. Which raises the question, even if we can, should we attempt to make any adjustments to his logic patterns? I’m not sure that feels entirely… ethical.”

“But Prime! It’s absolutely ethical! This is the fate of Cybertron, and Earth, and Transformers and humans everywhere. This is a potential way to end this war, to see the Autobot vision of peace and freedom for everyone. What could be more ethical?”

“He’s a sentient being, Wheeljack. He may not be a sentient being we agree with, but does that give us the right to mechanically alter the way he thinks? Talking him around to our way of thinking is one thing. Changing his programming sounds an awful lot like… brainwashing.”

Jazz chimed in from behind Prime. “Yeah, and it’s not like the Decepticons would ever stoop to something like mind-control, right?” Low murmurs of amusement circled the room.

Hound spoke up. “Bumblebee said it earlier. We’re not Decepticons. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t want to be.”

“But that’s just it! That’s what I’m talking about!” Wheeljack enthused. “That’s why I think this is ethical. What if he doesn’t choose to be the way he is? Who really knows why Decepticons are the way they are? Logically speaking, if you had a choice, who would think that way? Do the things they do? Follow Megatron?”

“Power is quite the incentive for some,” Optimus began, only to be interrupted by a snort.

“Me Grimlock say if Prime not throw out garbage, then brainwash it.”

Wheeljack laughed with the others, but shook his head. “I still say it’s not brainwashing if I just take a look at his circuits while we’re analyzing his memory banks and his personality programming, trying to figure out where the wires are crossed that’s got him so confused, and see what I see. Run some scans, make sure everything is really functioning properly. What I’m talking about is leaving him open to more personal choice, not taking it away. You know you can trust me to do that, Prime. This is an opportunity to see how much of the Decepticons behavior is open to influence. I don’t see how we can not look into it. Who’s to say that in ‘fixing’ him, we aren’t already putting an Autobot influence on him?”

Optimus pondered the options. He knew Wheeljack could indeed be trusted, and he made a persuasive case. Ratchet’s agreement solidified the decision. “Do the scans, fix what you can. Give him every opportunity to function at peak performance, with the exception of his weaponry. We still need to keep in mind that he’s very dangerous. Be cautious.” He paused. “But see what you can learn and if there are adjustments that would help him think for himself… do it.”

Soundwave considered the evidence collected. No doubt about it, the Autobots had picked up Starscream. The question now became what would they do with him? If they finished the job the fall started, and carved him up into scrap metal, Soundwave’s work was done, his objective complete. Nothing could be more perfect, actually, since it directed all of Megatron’s attention to the Autobots.

If, on the other hand, they took it into their incomprehensible heads to put him back together… Soundwave couldn’t decide exactly what that might mean. He couldn’t imagine that they would do so, but who knew with Autobots? They protected and consorted with humans, after all. He couldn’t understand how such a weak-willed, soft, and nonsensical group of beings such as the Autobots offered so much resistance to the clearly superior Decepticons.

Even if they fixed Starscream’s damage, Soundwave believed he could turn that eventuality to his advantage. As of yet, he hadn’t been sighted at Autobot headquarters, so his presence there was technically unconfirmed. Soundwave’s minions were already in place, monitoring the Ark. They would let him know the instant he appeared, if he did.

For now, that was all he could do. Disgruntled with his lack of options, Soundwave waited impatiently for news from his minions.

When he became aware again, Starscream found himself able to sit up, but still not able to get off the table. He remembered the prior conversations with his rescuers, but still couldn’t remember what happened to put him in a position to be rescued. He sat up and Wheeljack and Ratchet came to the table.

“How do you feel?” Wheeljack asked as Ratchet sent a smaller, yellow Autobot away to get Optimus Prime.

Starscream thought for a moment, doing a mental inventory. Still no weapons, still missing a lot of memory. But… calmer, and less confused. Whether it was due to already having woken once and understanding his circumstances, or whether the two had managed to clean up some mechanical problems, he found himself answering, “Better.”

“Good,” Wheeljack glanced at Ratchet. “How’s the memory? We weren’t sure how much might be affected by our work.”

“Still spotty. I remember the basics — how to Transform, flying. But the context for everything is just… missing. It feels like-“ He stopped suddenly, feeling silly.

“Go ahead,” Ratchet urged. “What does it feel like? Maybe we can figure it out with enough information.”

“It feels like it’s there, but I just can’t get to it yet. Almost like the circuitry is trying to make the leap, but there’s a bad connection.”

“Hmm.” Ratchet moved away and began making some notes at a computer screen. “Is there anything more there now than there was before?”

“I don’t feel so confused.”

“That’s gotta be an improvement,” Wheeljack offered.

“Yes,” he agreed readily. “Definitely. I feel like I know you all, and that there’s more I should be remembering about you. I can almost see what your Transformation shape is. We do know each other, don’t we? You assumed I knew who you were, before, didn’t you?”

“Yes, we all know each other.” Ratchet confirmed. “So, thinking feels clearer?”

“Yes.”

“And the memories feel closer, but still aren’t there?”

Starscream nodded.

“Still no recollect of the mountain though? Falling?”

“Falling?” The confusion resurfaced. “Why would I fall if I can fly?”

“We were wondering,” Wheeljack commented.

“No, nothing about a mountain, or falling.” For a split second, the image of a bird flew across his mind. But when he concentrated on it, it was gone.

The door opened and Optimus Prime reentered the room, with the small yellow robot at his side and two much larger and well-armed Autobots at his heels. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, but still a little… lost.”

“We’ve done as much clean up and repair on the personality programming as we dare to do for the moment, Prime. We’re not sure how much circuit damage is permanent memory loss, or how much is neural trauma that might heal itself,” Wheeljack explained. “We’ve analyzed and scanned all the logic programs and sifted everything for optimum performance. If he’s…” Wheeljack suddenly paused, then turned and addressed Starscream. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to just talk about you like that. If you’re going recover the memories, you’re in the top condition to do it.”

Starscream found himself smiling, acknowledging the courtesy. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Thank you all for doing this for me.” He cast his glance around the room. “I… gather from what’s been said that we’re not on the best of terms. I don’t know why vou would help me so much it we’re not, but I… appreciate it.”

“That’s what Autobots do,” the small yellow one spoke up. “Help.” He returned Starscream’s smile.

“Would you like to get out of this room? Go out and try your other form?” Prime asked, gesturing for the door.

With a start, Starscream realized he could move, more than just sitting up. He’d shifted on the table and no restraints bound him. Suddenly the alert presence of the large Autobots behind Optimus made sense. They’d planned to release him, and wanted to be prepared in case he… what? Attacked Optimus Prime with his bare hands? He glanced at the huge Autobot and almost laughed. Wondering at the wisdom of such a show of trust in him, he swung his legs off the table and stood. “Yes, I’d like that.” Together, he and Optimus exited.

Soundwave watched the replays with growing fascination and pleasure. Yes, it appeared Starscream was doing his work for him. Laserbeak’s careful espionage had resulted in the recording of any number of Autobots discussing the presence of the severely injured Decepticon among them. Damaged and in their custody, Starscream was either truly unaware of who he was, or pretending very very well.

All the same to Soundwave: When Ravage reported in some time after Laserbeak, with footage of Starscream flying and then returning to Optimus Prime’s side, Soundwave could hardly believe it.

He rose to alert Megatron. One piece of information came through loud and clear, and it was a simple matter to twist it to his ends. Starscream was not attempting to escape. Whether he bided his time for opportunity, or waited out more repair, the same result could be conveyed to Megatron. The smallest suspicions found fertile ground in Megatron’s paranoid mind, and suspicions about Starscream were hideously easy to plant given his own foolish grandstanding and constant plotting.

Finding Megatron with Rumble, Soundwave ignored the small Decepticon and spoke to Megatron. “Starscream is with the Autobots. He remains in their care and is established within the Ark.”

Megatron’s expression conveyed equal amounts of surprise and fury. “You’re telling me he is working with the Autobots?” The scathing tone made Rumble back up a step unobtrusively.

Soundwave neatly sidestepped the question with a simple, true, response. “We have always known of his duplicitous nature. He makes no secret of his disloyalty.”

“That’s for sure,” Rumble agreed.

“But working with Autobots? Even he wouldn’t stoop so low! Undoubtedly he’s hatching some new plot against me and trying to use their firepower. Of course potentially he’s their captive…”

Soundwave simply stood and let his leader’s paranoia work. He contributed one more smoldering fact to the growing fire of suspicions. “He is apparently well enough to Transform and fly. He has done so.”

“And not escaped?” Megatron’s volume climbed. “He plots against me with Prime! That despicable, traitorous…” He broke off and slammed one fist into the other palm. “The risk that he is trying to position himself for some new overthrow effort is too great. We need to get him out of there. Rumble, gather the Decepticons within the base. Soundwave, contact those outside the base and issue orders to meet us at the Ark. It’s time to pay Optimus Prime a visit. Him and his new guest.”

“…ended up on Earth.” Prime paused in his summarized history lesson and looked over at the rapt Decepticon. “Anything sounding familiar yet?”

Starscream shook his head. “Not yet. But… this war. You’re telling me you’ve been fighting — sorry, we’ve been fighting,” he corrected himself, “for millions of years? The prospect seems positively absurd.”

Prime nodded. “It does, doesn’t it?”

“Explain it again, why are we fighting?”

Prime tilted his head to one side. “You tell me. Autobots will fight for freedom, and for the safety of others, but we’ve been trying to end this war for a very long time. We won’t be ruled over, or attacked indiscriminately, but we could work together to find new resources. We find this all rather senseless.”

“Well, yes, I can see why,” Starscream nodded, for all appearances perfectly sincere.

Prime studied him, bemused. After successfully Transforming and enjoying some short flights, Starscream had walked and talked with him for longer than he’d expected, demonstrating no inclination to escape. Ironhide and Cliffjumper followed at a discreet distance in case of any sudden attacks, but Optimus felt less and less concerned about the possibility. The more they talked, the more… well, logical Starscream seemed. Amenable. Reasonable, even. His natural intelligence showed through, and even his penchant for guile made an appearance now and again as he asked questions about why the Decepticons or Autobots tried this particular gambit in that particular way, or why a given option wasn’t utilized. But he seemed honestly struck by the underlying differentiation between Autobot and Decepticon ideology, not to mention baffled as to where he fit in, and why the Autobots continued to treat him solicitously given their history. The sounding of Red’s electronic alert was almost a welcome distraction for Optimus from the conundrum this new and improved Starscream presented.

Ironhide closed in on the duo and Optimus heard his alarm going off as well. “Decepticons incoming,” Ironhide called as he and Cliffjumper took up protective stances and readied themselves.

Sure enough, moments later five Decepticons appeared, Megatron in the lead. Optimus stepped in front of Starscream reflexively.

“We’ve come to pick up what’s ours, Prime,” Megatron shouted.

“Do you really think you can hold one of us?”

“Do I look like I’m keeping him here by force, Megatron?” Optimus’ voice boomed out, calm and amused.

“I suppose you’re telling us he’s free to leave anytime he wants,” Megatron retorted sarcastically as his men fanned out and began to approach.

Optimus glanced at Starscream, who watched Megatron with a look of fascinated distaste. Optimus nodded and took the calculated gamble. “Actually, yes. He can. If he wants.”

Megatron glared. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Prime, and I don’t care. You, however…” His attention shifted to his wayward second-in-command. “What is this, Starscream? If you’re able to leave why don’t you? Can it be you’re throwing in with the Autobots?” His tone dripped with scorn. “I know you’re desperate to unseat me, but don’t be a fool. Whatever promises they’ve made you, they’ll break. You’re nothing but a worthless Decepticon to them, and they won’t think twice about destroying you once they’ve used you for whatever plan they’re hatching. Get over here now.”

Starscream didn’t move.

Megatron’s ire flared visibly. His voice rose to a harsh shriek. “I said get over here, now, you traitorous scum. You’re obviously up and walking around, flying even from what I hear.” At Starscream’s continued stillness, he shouted, “How dare you?!” then turned back to Prime. “And you… don’t think you can trust him! Trusting Starscream is a contradiction in terms. Whatever scheme you have planned, he’ll betray you just like he’s betrayed me all these years. This is a new low even for you, Starscream.”

Prime stepped slightly to the right and gestured to Starscream. “If you want to, you can go with him,” he offered. “Or, if you’d rather, you can stay with us.”

Starscream tore his gaze from Megatron, and looked around at the four other Decepticons moving ever closer, weapons at the ready. “I think I’ll be staying, thank you.”

Optimus nodded and faced Megatron. ‘He says he’ll be staying here, Megatron. So my recommendation would be that you and your goons not stick around.”

“Why you-” Megatron sputtered madly then shouted, “Decepticons, ATTACK!”

Already prepared, Ironhide and Cliffjumper burst into action before the final syllable of Megatron’s clarion sounded. As Cliffjumper fired his glass gas projectiles at the three closest Decepticons, Optimus leapt in front of Starscream again and fired his laser rifle in quick succession at the three weakened Decepticons. “You still don’t have access to your weapons! Stay back,” he commanded. Ironhide came barreling in from the side and added his bulk between Starscream and the other Decepticons. With a roar of sound, Autobots piled in from the distance, squealing tires and Transforming to open fire on the Decepticons.

“We have reinforcements on the way! You cannot hope to keep him from us,” Megatron shouted as he rose higher.

Prime laughed and took aim. “Don’t be surprised if they’re late, Megatron. They may be a little delayed by the Dinobots we set out on patrol. Do you think we didn’t expect this?”

Outnumbered and outgunned, Megatron fell back and took to the sky, hollering “Decepticons, RETREAT!” His troops Transformed and hit the air after him, projectiles and explosions chasing in their wake. “Don’t think this is over! We’ll be back!” Megatron screamed as he dodged the fire.

As the firefight died down, Optimus and Ironhide both turned to Starscream. “Alright?” Ironhide asked.

Starscream looked from one to the other, to the rest of the Autobots congratulating each other and Transforming for the ride back to the base. “I’m fine. Thanks. But why… would you risk yourselves, for me? I’m just what he said, if what you tell me about myself is true. And it certainly looks like it is. I’m the enemy. Yet you put yourself between their guns and me.”

Ironhide shrugged and smiled. “You don’t have your weapons, there. You couldn’t defend yourself. Hardly seems fair, now does it?”

“Why don’t we go on back to headquarters, just in case they get ideas to pick up reinforcements and try again immediately,” Optimus suggested. He began walking and Starscream followed suit silently. They were almost to the Ark before he spoke.

“Why do they follow him?”

Optimus didn’t need to ask for clarification. “We don’t know, exactly. He’s very powerful, and uses terror as a weapon. We were actually hoping you might be able to give us some insight into why the Decepticons fall into line for him.”

Starscream shook his head. “Maybe if I get my memory back. Right now, I have no idea.”

Back at the Decepticon base, Megatron stomped about in a rage, slamming his fist into anything that got within reach. Soundwave watched him from a safe distance, after dispatching Laserbeak to keep watch on Starscream.

This was really the most fun he’d had in years.

Starscream returned from another short flight lost in thought. The Autobots were a confusing, yet engaging bunch. He kept mentally replaying the interaction with Megatron and the Decepticons, matching it to everything Prime explained to him about their intertwined history. He wandered to a rock and sat down.

In his peripheral vision, he could see the standard two Autobots who shadowed him full time. Their presence was the only overt indication of any distrust the Autobots felt for him. Even the Autobots who clearly didn’t like or trust him treated him well, with a distant courtesy. From Optimus Prime and the ‘bots who engaged him in conversation, he received pleasant companionship and an apparent willingness to take him at face value, and not hold his past crimes against him if he stood with them. He struggled to understand that kind of open camaraderie and good will, the very fact that it took so much effort to understand telling him that he hadn’t experienced it much in his previous life.

He watched the Autobots interact with Optimus Prime, and thought about the Decepticons and Megatron. Having his past ideology and actions be a mystery, even to him, left him in an awkward but interesting position.

Every time he thought about the interaction with the Decepticons, the image of Megatron left him filled with disgust and anger. He had wondered if seeing the leader would be the turning point that would jar his memory, but so far no such luck. He had the same vaguely familiar sense about the Decepticons as about the Autobots. He knew he’d seen them before, interacted with them, but nothing more.

More than anything else what preyed on his mind about the brief attack and firefight was the memory of Optimus Prime stepping in front of him as if it were second nature. And even in the short time he’d known him, Starscream believed it truly was second nature. And not just Optimus, but Ironhide as well, stepping up to protect him. While Megatron and his old allies came to forcibly take him, attack him, without even finding out why he was with the Autobots.

Anger surged again and it felt… familiar. The hovering bulk of memories that he couldn’t — quite — access felt closer than ever. Something told him he’d experienced similar feelings about his “fellow” Decepticons in the past, harbored the same resentments, experienced the same feeling of isolation.

Watching the Autobots, he simply didn’t see that sort of isolation. Even the loner types among them integrated, a part of the whole, a team. He wasn’t surprised they held together in the face of the Decepticon attacks. Made perfect sense, really.

He found himself looking forward to going inside, joining the others in the Ark, talking with Optimus. The feeling of chances, opportunities opening up, swept through him and he rose from his seat on the rock. He tilted his head back and stared up at the blue of the sky, admiring the intense color.

A dark shape detached from the rocks above him and took wing. The distinct shape of a bird — a mechanoid bird he knew — took form against the painful blue. As it spiraled upward and away, the sensation of a dam bursting filled his head. A duplicate image of that exact shape spiraling above him, oddly doubled and seen through cracked and broken images, accompanied by pain and confusion and fear, sharpened and came into focus.

Like a key in a door, the sight of Laserbeak opened the floodgates. In an instant, Starscream knew. He knew himself and his history, remembered the accident. Knew the Decepticons, Autobots, Megatron, Optimus Prime. Knew the politics and the battles and the war. Knew the power struggles and the deceptions and the plotting. Knew.

Knew the rush of power, the lure of control, the superiority inculcated into every Decepticon.

Knew the loneliness and the isolation, the distrust and the backstabbing. The intrigues and false fronts, the arrogance and posturing The alliances and betrayals and cross-alliances and deeper betrayals.

Knew who he was. Knew the inevitability of who he was.

Stunned and shaken, he sat back down hard, the reality of the rock beneath him grounding him. He heard his name called, and turned to stare at Optimus Prime approaching him.

“I said are you-” Prime stopped short within feet of Starscream, and a heavy silent pause hung between them. “You remember.” It wasn’t a question.

“I remember.”

Prime nodded. “What now?”

Starscream rose to his feet. “Now… I leave.” He felt other words trying to form, other thoughts trying to emerge, but he clamped down hard on it all. He turned his back on Prime and Transformed, taking to the skies.

“He just left?”

“Just like that? He got his memory back and… zoom?”

“Pretty much,” Prime nodded at the questioning Autobots, waiting for someone to ask why he’d just let Starscream depart. He wasn’t entirely sure what his answer would be. He guessed he’d find out when he made it.

Jazz shook his head. “Told you the boy couldn’t be trusted.”

“And I guess this proves to all you doubters that going in and fiddling with logic programming isn’t brainwashing,” Wheeljack called out.

“And this was a learning experience,” Prime agreed, “which we should thank you for, Wheeljack. I think this did prove something about Decepticons.”

“That you can’t trust them, no matter what?” Cliffjumper asked.

Prime shook his head. “That there is a mind in there that can be reached. The fact that Starscream could listen to us and make a connection, choose to stay with us over going back to the Decepticons, when he wasn’t under the full influence of Decepticon conditoning and the weight of history and his own past… well, I think that says a lot.” The Autobots quieted, thinking about the implications. Prime paused, then continued. “Who knows what the future holds? Maybe his time with us will still prove to be the stronger influence.”

Starscream walked into Decepticon headquarters and glanced around with a sneer. Ignoring Megatron’s booming “YOU?!”, he walked straight up to the Decepticon leader and put on his most nonchalant air. “Thanks for giving such a good show to the Autobots, Megatron. And without even any advance planning on our part. Your display and my excellently acted reaction were just the final touches that managed to convince them I truly didn’t know who I was and might be ‘salvageable’.” He laughed. “Such nobility.”

Megatron paused in the midst of his gathering rage. “What?”

Soundwave stood up and came closer. “Your acting?”

Starscream gave them both an affronted look. “You don’t mean either of you — any of you — actually believed I’d cross over to the Autobot side?” He redoubled the disgust in his voice and added some anger. “I fell off a mountain. They found me and — who knows why — chose to fix me.” He paused and looked directly at Megatron. “I assume you were just a little slower in finding me,” he added sarcastically.

“We did come looking,” Soundwave stated.

“Mmm.” Starscream gave him a dismissive glance and turned back to Megatron. “I was there, inside the Ark, close to Teletran-1, and with my superior cunning and deception skills, decided to utilize the opportunity.”

“So you really did know who you were all along,” Thundercracker exclaimed

“Of course,” Starscream lied casually.

“What did you find out,” Rumble asked suspiciously. “Anything we can use?”

I found out they forgive. I found out they step straight into the line of fire to protect unarmed Decepticons who have done horrible things to them. I found out they give second chances. “I didn’t learn that much,” he heard himself say. “At first I was too disabled, then they kept me restrained, and then under close guard.” He shrugged. “I tried to take in as much as possible but it was getting intolerable staying there… surrounded by them. I finally just couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Understandable,” Megatron nodded, still looking vaguely suspicious, but no longer about to erupt. “They’re a trying group to be around. But tell me, how is it you came to fall off a cliff?”

Starscream paused, remembering the image that had restarted his memories. He turned and looked directly at Soundwave. “I had an accident,” he let a hard edge creep into his voice. “As I started to fall I must have hit my head hard enough to stun myself. I wasn’t able to Transform and pull out of the fall.”

“You need to be more careful,” Soundwave responded, blasé.

“Yes, I think I do. Don’t worry, I’ll make a point of it.” Starscream held his gaze for another long moment, then turned away. With a casual nod at Megatron, he started from the room. “If you’ll excuse me, it’s been a rough couple of days.” He heard someone speak his name as he headed out the door, but he didn’t look back or slow. So much was bluff and appearance here. He had to present a completely confident attitude that he had every right to be walking back in and picking right up as second-in-command, as if he’d never been gone.

As he wended his way down the back corridor toward his quarters, he heard Megatron’s voice snarling something about incompetent fools. His mind kept tossing up images and comparisons of Prime’s leadership and Megatron’s. As he rounded a corner and the voices faded behind him, he found himself pondering the team environment Optimus created and what the Decepticons could do if they could pull together in the same kind of way, around more than fear or jealousy or intimidation. The progress they could make with a leader like Prime, if he were just a little less scrupulous and-

Just as seeing the bird had opened the floodgates, suddenly he felt as if a switch had been thrown. Starscream stopped dead in the hall. Could that be it? The answer? Could it be that easy? Had he discovered the way to overthrow Megatron once and for all, and all by hanging out with the Autobots?

He started walking again slowly, turning the idea over and over, studying it from every angle. Reviewing all his unsuccessful attempts to get the Decepticons to follow him over Megatron. The pattern stood out clearly now. This could work.

He would have to be careful. Move slowly. Nothing too soon on the heels of his unexpected stay in the Ark. Megatron would remain extra suspicious for some time, and Soundwave… well. Soundwave would need to be dealt with. For all this to work, he would need to plan, and bide his time, and play every move just right. He opened the door to his quarters and entered.

Planning and patience — that he could do.

He felt a twinge when he wondered what Optimus Prime would say or do if he knew how Starscream was utilizing the lesson of his kindness of the last days. From his now fully-functional memory banks, Starscream saw again the broad red shoulders moving to block him from the circling attack. Heard the gentling voice calming him during his worst confusion.

Remembered the assurances that second chances were always possible.

And closed his mental doors on the haunting thoughts as firmly as he closed the door to his room behind him.

John J. Miller — Something Robotic This Way Comes

ON A FAR distant planet whose landscapes were metal and plastic, whose rivers flowed in concrete channels, and whose sky was constantly torn by the sounds of battle, lived a race of robots called the Mini-cons, who knew little but warfare. They had fought the Decepticons all their long lives, and even the relatively benign Autobots were sometimes their enemies. In fact, once they’d all fled their world in an attempt to find peace, but had long since returned to Cybertron to live with the fear and suffering of war nearly every single moment of their lives.

Except for one night of the year, and that greatly anticipated night had finally come again.

As darkness fell over their world, the Mini-cons gathered around campfires burning in metal containers and listened with wide eyes to the stories told by the elders of their race. Around one campfire one very young Mini-con said to a very old Mini-con, “Tell us how this night first began,” and the very old Mini-con nodded and started to speak.

Autumn came hard and fast to that far distant, very strange land called South Dakota. Even though it was still early afternoon in the forested hills outside Lincoln,

(What’s a forest?” interrupted the youngest of the Mini-cons.

(The ancient Mini-con paused momentarily, frowning.

(“It’s a place of trees,” he said.

(“What’s —

(The ancient Mini-con held up his hand, forestalling the youngster’s question.

(“If you keep interrupting, we’ll never have time for the Treating,” he said. There was a loud grumble from the other robots huddled around the blazing campfire, highlights from the flames dancing on their metal and plastic faces. “I have a disk you can download later that will provide all the details.”

(The youngest Mini-con nodded, and the ancient robot resumed his story.)

“the air had a cool edge to it and there weren’t many hours of daylight left. The three human children, Alexis, Carlos, and Rad (who was called Bradley by his parental units and other clueless adults) were glad that they had worn jeans and sweaters. Unlike robots, they could not go unclothed on their world. It was either always too hot or too cold, too wet or too dry for their thin skins. The three Mini-cons who accompanied them, however, were not concerned about the temperature of the wind that had blew against their fine polymer coating.

While taking a break from their exploration of the forest, something the Mini-cons were fascinated with because they had never seen one before, the humans ate sandwiches and drank soda to replenish their energy supply. The Mini-cons, Sureshock, High Wire, and Grindor, who were not much bigger than their human friends, of course didn’t need to refuel themselves so inefficiently. But they were still so newly awakened on this strange planet that they were constantly on guard for an attack that might come from anywhere at anytime, their instincts conditioned by the continual conflict they’d known on their home world.”

“I’m going as a zombie,” Rad said. He was tall for a human of his age, and lean with wiry muscles that were still much weaker than a Mini-con’s. His hair was blond. His blue eyes shone with mischievous energy. “With a fake knife stuck right through the middle of my head, and my shirt soaked with a lot of fake blood. How about you guys?”

Carlos, who had short, dark curly hair and soulful dark eyes that human girls were already swooning over, vigorously chewed a mouthful of peanut-butter sandwich — chunky, with raspberry jam — and swallowed loudly before answering.

(Some of the Mini-con’s made faces.

(“Disgusting, I know,” the old robot said, “but these humans, as strange as some of their ways are, are not totally to be despised. Listen further.”)

“I told you before, it’s a secret. I’ve been working real hard on it for a couple of weeks.”

Rad grinned at Alexis, nudging her.

“Knowing Carlos it’ll be something shiny with all kinds of bells and whistles.” Carlos was a tech-head whose idea of a good time was spending hours in his garage building gadgets of all imaginable, and some unimaginable, sorts. “How about you?”

Alexis rolled her eyes. She annoyed Rad by being taller than him, and also by being a lot more serious than him, but they were still friends.

“Trick or treat is kid stuff,” she said. “I’m going out tonight —“

“Ah-ha!” Carlos and Rad said in unison.

“— to collect money for UNICEF.”

The boys looked at each other, muttering, while the Mini-cons looked as perplexed as their steel and polymer features allowed them to.

“Pardon me,” Sureshock said, “but what are you talking about?”

“Tonight’s Halloween,” Rad said, as if that explained everything.

Sureshock, High Wire, and Grindor remained unenlightened.

“You know,” Rad helpfully explained further, “Costumes. Trick or treat. Candy. Ghosts. Ghouls. Bobbing for apples.”

“What are ghouls?” High Wire asked.

“What are apples?” Grindor asked.

“Honestly,” Alexis said, rolling her eyes, “how do you expect these poor Mini-cons to know anything about our customs?”

“Don’t you have holidays on your home world?” Carlos asked

“What are holidays?” the Mini-cons asked in chorus.

“Tm sure Alexis can explain it,” Rad muttered.

“Of course I can,” Alexis said. She turned to the Mini-cons, who were waiting with the patience of attentive children at story time. “Holidays are, well, special days set aside to celebrate something, uh, special. Like Halloween, tonight. It’s an old custom. Well —“ she paused, frowning, “old for humans, anyway. It started in Ireland about twenty-five hundred years ago — “

“From what they’ve told us,” Rad interrupted, “that’s just the blink of a Mini-con’s eye.”

The Mini-cons all nodded seriously.

“Yes, thank you for your helpful interruption,” Alexis said sarcastically. “Anyway, for the Irish, October thirty-first was the last day of summer and also the last day of the year. They believed that the ghosts of those who’d died would return that last night to possess the living.”

“I see,” Grindor said eagerly. “So the special event celebrated on this day is the possession of the living by the spirits of the dead?”

Alexis frowned. “Um, no. Naturally, no one wants to be possessed by someone else’s ghost, so the Irish would dress up in scary costumes and parade around their villages making noise to frighten them all away.”

Grindr looked crestfallen.

“Nice try, though,” Carlos offered.

“The Irish,” Alexis cotinued, “brought the custom of dressing in costume on Halloween to this country. Now, of course, today no one believes in ghosts and things, so the holiday has changed somewhat.”

“Yeah,” Carlos took up the story, “now we dress up in costumes and go around and people give us candy and chocolate and all kinds of good stuff.”

“People just give you edible treat-stuff?” Grindor asked. He looked about as dubious as a Mini-con with a blank orange faceplate could look.

“Well,” Rad said judiciously, “you have to ask for it.”

“By saying ‘trick or treat,’” Carlos added seriously.

The robots looked at each other. Their human friends were usually quite reliable, but they were not above occasionally, as their vernacular went, “pulling their legs” in a playful manner.

“We don’t understand,” High Wire said for them all.

The kids looked at each other helplessly, then Rad suddenly snapped his fingers.

“I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you come with us tonight, and see for yourselves?”

Alexis frowned. “I don’t think—”

Rad surreptitiously elbowed Carlos in the side.

“Hey — what a great idea,” Carlos said.

“Yeah,” Rad said. “You can come in your transport modes. Nobody will even realize you’re robots.” He winked at Carlos and added in a low voice, “And think how many houses we’ll hit with their help.”

Carlos eyes gleamed. “You got it, esse. Hey, we’d better bring two bags, each!”

“Two?” Rad snorted, indicating that he thought very little of Carlos’ lack of imagination. “Better make it three. At least.”

Alexis opened her mouth, but Rad forestalled her with an out-thrust hand.

“Think of all the money you can collect for UNICEF.”

Alexis subsided with a sigh. “All right,” she said. “Let’s meet at the schoolyard at seven.”

They all nodded, the robots as eager as their human friends.

It was already dark when Alexis reached the schoolyard, but she could catch the murmur of voices coming from the edge of the athletic fields and she realized that Rad was telling one of his stories to an audience consisting of Carlos and the Mini-cons.

The Mini-cons stood together in front of the jungle gym. Carlos, sitting at the adjacent picnic table, could barely suppress a smile. He held his face turned away from the robots so they couldn’t see the laughter threatening to convulse him at any second. Rad, with his back to Alexis, was in full declamatory mode. His voice rose and fell with dramatic emphasis as, wrapped in a long trench coat, he stalked back and forth before his enraptured audience.

The robots were enthralled. Grindor, who was the most imaginative of the three, the quickest to grasp alien thought and experience, was hanging on Rad’s every word. He gripped his team-mates’ shoulders with intense concentration as Rad’s dramatic oratory neared its climax.

In fact, everyone was so absorbed in the story that they didn’t see Alexis creeping up on them. Only a quick glance from Carlos told her that he’d noticed. She made a small gesture that asked him not to give her away. He replied with the briefest of nods and his hidden smile grew.

“ — and when they reached the driveway and the girl opened the car door they found a bloody hook hanging on the car door latch!’ Rad paused as the Mini-cons drew back, huddling closer at the intensity of his voice. He looked down at the ground for a moment and then leaped towards the robots, whipping his right hand out of his trench coat pocket where it had been concealed. “JUST LIKE THIS ONE!” he shouted, brandishing a shiny silver hook where his hand should have been, a hook that dripped thick, red gore.

There was instant pandemonium. High Wire, who was awkward while in robot mode, stumbled as he tried to thrust himself between the sudden attack and his teammates. Grindor, half transformed into a skate board, tripped over him and they rolled together on the ground, shouting at each other. Sureshock stood rooted, uncertain where to go and what to do. He barely managed to suppress his weapons systems, dubiousness turning into utter cluelessness as Rad leaned over, his hands on his knees, laughing out loud. It took Rad several moments to control himself.

“Jeez, guys, that was so funny—”

Alexis, a grim look on her face, stalked soundlessly behind him and grabbed him, hard.

Rad shrieked and jumped three feet in the air. He looked wildly over his shoulder, and Alexis couldn’t hold back her own laughter at the look of terror on his face. Carlos laughed so hard that he fell off the picnic table bench.

“That wasn’t funny!” Rad said.

“Neither was scaring our poor friends like that!” Alexis retorted.

“Jeez, what’s the use of Halloween if you can’t scare

some clueless goof—“ Rad huffed.

“Exactly!” Carlos replied, holding his stomach against the ache of hard laughter. “It’s funny because it’s so true!”

“Well—“ Rad was caught and he knew it. “It’s a good thing I didn’t slug you or something.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, still chortling. “That was a great karate move you executed.”

“We — we don’t understand,” Sureshock said as High Wire picked himself off the ground and Grindor transformed back to robot mode in as dignified a manner as he could manage.

“It was all a joke,” Rad said. “See. My ‘hook’ is tin foil.” He smacked it against his head a couple of times to show that it was harmless.

“Now you have blood in your hair,” Alexis observed.

“That’s all right,” Rad said. “It’s only Caro Syrup with food coloring. I’m going to add a lot more when I attach the fake knife blade to my skull.”

“A joke?” Sureshock asked.

Rad shook his head. “You guys have to lighten up. We’ll show you how.”

“First,” Carlos said, gesturing at a massive pile of what looked like junk and spare parts behind the picnic table, “you have to help me into my costume.”

“All right,” Rad said. He grinned horrifically. “After I split my own skull!”

He whipped another shiny weapon out of the depths of his trench coat, and ran around the picnic table, screaming horribly as he chased a laughing Carlos. The robots grimaced to see such a terrible sight.

Alexis sighed and shook her head. It was, she knew, going to be a long night.

“I got the idea from you guys, of course,” Carlos said as the Mini-cons and their human friends motored down the streets of the strange little city.

(“What was strange about it?” piped up the youngest Mini-con.

(The old story-teller looked askance at the youngster, about to upbraid the youth for interrupting again. But he caught himself. Curiosity wasn’t so common that he felt compelled to stamp it out at every opportunity. He checked the chronometer in his left eyeball. They had plenty of time before the festivities were to officially start.

(“Well,” the old robot considered, “for one thing their housing units were neither armed nor armored.” There was a vibrating hum of astonishment as the newly created Mini-cons considered this strange fact. “For the most part they were constructed of wood — that’s a living organism that grows rooted in the ground — and natural or synthetic stone. Metal was utilized in these units only sparingly, and only for structural or ornamental purposes, for humans had little fear of attack. Of course, that meant when Megatron did show up “there were hisses and catcalls at the mention of the Mini-cons’ ancient enemy — “he pretty much devastated their cities, just by crushing them under his feet.”

(“Weird,” one of the youngsters murmured.

(The ancient Mini-con shook his head. “That’s not the strangest thing about the human dwellings.”

(What is?” they all clamored eagerly.

(The old story-teller pondered, then shook his head. “It’s hard to say. Of course, if I told you all the strange things the humans did, we’d be here all night and miss the Treating, but maybe one of the oddest was their habit of keeping what they called lawns, which were carpets of thousands of living plants that they tended assiduously, watering and fertilizing them continually, but then chopping them down at regular intervals when they grew too tall.”

(The Mini-cons pondered this for a moment, and then the ancient story-teller roused himself.

(“Well, we will be here all night if I don’t get back to the story. Now, where was I?”

(“‘I got the idea from you guys, of course,’ Carlos said,” said one of the Mini-cons.

(The old story teller smiled.)

“I got the idea from you guys, of course,” Carlos said as the Mini-cons and their human companions motored down the streets of the strange little city. He was encased from head to toe in an all-enveloping suit that made him look like a Mini-con, somewhat, but a clumsy, poorly-designed one. His body was mostly fiberglass with rubber or soft plastic bands around arm and leg joints and at his waist. A powered metal exoskeleton helped him move about. He made a very poor robot, but Sureshock politely overlooked his appearance.

“What do you transform into?” he asked. As usual, Alexis rode him as he’d transformed into a scoooter. Rad rode Grindor, who was a skateboard. Alexis watched them both closely because Rad would encourage the Mini-con to rocket down the street on his jets, an idea that Alexis always quashed. Carlos, in his bulky robotic costume, was teetering precipitously on High Wire, who was a sturdy motorized mountain bike.

Carlos frowned. You could see his facial expression behind his plexiglass faceplate. “Nothing, yet. I’m still working on that.”

Though it was dark the streets were neither entirely deserted nor entirely quiet. Parties of human children, ranging from toddlers accompanied by parental units to teens the age of the Mini-cons’ companions, roamed the streets in packs. The whole thing made the Mini-cons vaguely uneasy. Everything seemed very vulnerable to attack which could come from virtually any direction, but their companions seemed unconcerned by such a possibility.

“Let’s hit this neighborhood,” Rad called out. “Looks like no one’s been on this street, yet.”

They stopped at the head of a cul de sac with brightly lit, well-maintained domiciles. It was a mistake, Sureshock thought, for the dwellings to be so brightly lit. Though they looked lovely and welcoming they’d be easy targets in case of a Decepticon raid.

“What are we going to do with the Mini-cons?” Alexis asked as they dismounted. “We can’t just leave them here on the street. Someone might take them, and then where would we be?”

“Hmmm.” Carlos and Rad exchanged thoughtful glances. The presence of the Mini-cons on this planet wasn’t exactly a secret, but neither was it widely known. Sureshock and the others could well imagine the stir they could cause, especially coupled with the night’s activities, whatever they might be. The Mini-cons were all still a little nervous on that score.

Suddenly, the boys’ eyes lit up simultaneously, as if they’d been struck by the same idea.

“Hey!” Rad said. “Why not bring them along?”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “We’ve got plenty of extra bags.”

“And,” Rad said diffidently, “they can share their loot with us. If they want to, that is.”

“Share?” Grindor asked.

“Loot?” High Wire said.

The three Mini-cons looked at each other uncertainly.

“We don’t understand,” Sureshock finally said.

“It’s easy,” Rad said. “You’ll catch on real quick.”

“Just follow us and do what we do,” Carlos said.

Alexis looked as if she might say something, but only sighed, unzipped her coat, and stuffed it in her backpack. There was no sense in making a special costume and then covering it up under a coat. Rad and Carlos looked at her closely. She felt a blush rise on her cheeks, but said furiously, “And I don’t want to hear anything from you two.”

“No, no,” Rad said. “It’s… nice. Real… nice.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “Looks like, um, you put a lot of work into it.”

“Harumph,” Alexis said.

“Very skillful blending of fabrics,” Sureshock said.

She turned to the robot. “Do you really think so?”

Sureshock nodded. “Of course. Very fine stitching and nice use of color.”

“It’s a princess costume. I saw it in a movie and fell in love with it.” She turned to glare at the boys, who looked at her with straight faces, and nodded. “I figured this would be my last Halloween costume, and I wanted something special.”

“Oh, it’s special,” Rad said.

“Very special,” Carlos chimed in. “Now, let’s get going.”

They went up to the first house. Rad — staggering in a stiff-legged manner that alarmed the Mini-cons — and Alexis were in the lead. The Mini-cons came next. Having transformed back into their robotic forms, they uncertainly held empty bags given them by Rad, looking as if they were ready for anything. Carlos brought up the rear. The servos that motivated his legs worked jerkily, making him slow and gawky. Sureshock knew that he’d be a liability in whatever action the humans planned.

Rad pushed a button by the side of the door and Mini-con’s sensors detected a chiming sound inside the structure. A tense moment went by — they knew neither if they would have to attack or run. Suddenly the door swung open, spilling a blaze of light from the hallway beyond, and the humans called out “Trick or Treat!”

The dwelling’s two human inhabitants were accompanied by a four-legged attack beast which made fierce sounds deep in its throat, but the vicious creature was held back by the female human. High Wire swivelled into attack position, but Grindor grabbed his arm and shook his head as the male spoke.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” He looked at Rad. “A zombie. How… nice.” He reached into the bag at his side, and Grindor had to restrain High Wire once again. When the human’s hand appeared again it was clutching… stuff… that he dropped into Rad’s bag.

“Thanks,” Rad said, and lowered his bag.

“And a princess!” the female human said. “How beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Alexis said. “I’m trick or treating for UNICEF.”

The man reached into his pocket. “I’ve got something for you, then.”

High Wire only looked at Grindor as the man put a bit of green paper into Alexis’ can. He was starting to catch on.

“Thank you,” Alexis said.

For the first time the humans seemed to notice the Mini-cons. Even the attack beast stopped making noise and looked impressed.

“And what have we here? Robots? Three, no four robots. Man, those are great costumes!” He frowned a bit at Carlos.

“Did you make them yourselves?”

“Yes sir,” Rad said immediately. “In shop class.”

The man shook his head. “You kids must all be very handy with tools.” He stuck his hand in his big and pulled out a handful of stuff. “Well, here you go.”

Rad kicked Grindor in the ankle, and the Mini-con held up his bag. The man dropped stuff into it. He turned to Sureshock, who said, “I, too, am trick or treating for UNICEF.”

“I guess I can find another dollar,” he said, and dropped it in his paper bag.

He gave more stuff to High Wire, and then he and the woman waved to them, said, “Have fun,” and closed the door.

“Not bad,” Rad told the Mini-cons as they went down the walkway and made their way to the next house, “but you kind of forget one of the most important parts.”

“What was that?” Sureshock asked.

“Saying TRICK OR TREAT!” the three humans yelled simultaneously.

Sureshock nodded. “Yes. I understand now. We give them the option and if they do not give us ‘treats’ as you call them, we destroy their domicile.”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Alexis said. “First, almost everyone gives you something when you’re trick or treating. Very few don’t.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said, “and those we mostly ignore.”

“Except,” Rad added, “if they’re really annoying, we might come back later and soap their windows or t.p. their trees.”

“Soap their windows?” Grindor asked.

“What is ’t.p.’?” High Wire said.

“We’ll explain later,” Rad said, as they reached the next house.

This time, the Mini-cons remembered to yell “Trick or Treat!” as the door swung open, dazzlingly them with bright, welcoming light.

“And that’s one of the great lessons we learned from our human friends,” the old robot said. “Can anyone tell me what it is?”

The youngest Mini-con leaped to his feet, excitement squeaking in his voice. “I know!”

“Yes?”

“There is power in numbers! United we can demand anything from anyone!”

The old Mini-con smiled. “No. That’s not quite it.”

“Make friends and you will receive gifts beyond number,” said a voice from the edge of the light thrown by the campfire. “Be generous in spirit, and others will be generous to you.”

The venerable Mini-Con nodded.

“Yes. That is the great lesson that we learned from Alexis, Carlos, and Rad. That is why we shall honor their names forever.” He stood up, his metallic joints creaking, no matter how assiduously he applied the lubricating oil. He knew that he didn’t have many centuries left before he wore out. “That’s why,” he said, taking a mask from a compartment near his heart and placing on his metal features the likeness of a girl who had been dust for thousands of years, “I wear Alexis’s face on the night of the Treating, and why I tell this tale as we gather together.”

There was a moment of solemn silence as the Mini-cons donned their smiling masks and their fake hooked hands and costumes they’d adapted from those of a strange, faraway world that nevertheless was close to the Mini-cons’ hearts.

Sureshock smiled.

“Who’s for Tricking?” he called, and the Mini-cons clamored around him with cries of joy, waving the rolls of t.p. and the bars of soap they always keep ready, just in case.

“Who’s for Treating?” he called, and their response was even more raucous and glorious.

The robots dispersed into the dark night, wearing smiles for once on their normally stiff and expressionless faces, without bombs, without machine guns or lasers blazing, ready to bask in the warmth of generosity and camaraderie, of friendships deeply-forged and never forgotten, as they walked among the welcoming shining lights that were for all of them, home.

Brandie Tarvin — Two for the Price of One

IT WAS THE worst deal he had ever made, and every passing moment seemed to emphasize the problem.

“I cannot be expected to use such sub-standard merchandise,” the high-pitched male voice ranted over the communicator. “Carbombia is in a war of liberation! How are we to free ourselves from foreign oppression if you will not give us superior quality guns? I demand the full shipment immediately, not in two months!”

Swindle barely kept his gears from grinding in annoyance. He stood in a large airplane hanger, empty but for a small group of armed escorts at the exits. Fortunately, his current client had left the negotiation table to confirm some details with her superior. She sat in the hanger’s office, speaking on a secured telephone line. “It’s not that simple, Your Majesty,” he transmitted calmly, grateful he didn’t have to speak out loud and be heard by the other humans. “I’m in another country at the moment and your order isn’t ready yet. I explained this to you when I gave you the test weapons. It takes time to build these guns.”

The voice on the other end of the communicator snorted in disbelief. “Your people have advanced technology. What about your gate of stars, time traveling police box or teleportation device? I’ve seen the television shows! I know the Decepticons have instantaneous transportation. Get me my weapons immediately!”

The office door opened and his client stepped out. Swindle diverted some secondary process threads to listen to his communicator so he could focus his primary processors on the more important conversation. The woman bowed her head respectfully as she approached him.

“Thank you for your patience,” she said.

He gave a slightly deeper bow in return. “It is a thing of no consequence.” Ignoring the continuous ranting coming over his communicator was more difficult than he had expected, but he was a professional. Swindle refused to be ruffled by sheer stupidity.

She removed a manila envelope from her briefcase, handing it to Swindle. “The guidance system is performing better than expected. My superior is pleased. These are the documents for your Swiss bank account. We have deposited the required funds minus the cost of the parts you have ordered from us. Additionally, we have included the location and access codes for you to pick up your order.”

Swindle barely managed not to grin. He had to be exceedingly formal with this particular customer. Her people required decorum and formality as a show of respect. He bowed deeply. “It is a pleasure doing business with you.”

“We are not finished.” she said.

Surprised, he straightened. “We’re not?”

“You are deliberately attempting to cheat us!” ranted the Carbombian in Swindle’s head.

Oblivious to Swindle’s internal conversation, the woman clasped her hands in front of her. “We have heard you also sell weapons. My superior would like a demonstration. However, due to certain political obligations, we are unable to supply a place for this demonstration or the volunteers for it. If you would find it within your abilities to arrange one that does not require disclosure of our involvement, we would be grateful.”

At that moment, his previous client chose to shout into the communicator. “You work for me, Decepticon! I am the Supreme Military Commander, king of kings, and President for life of the Socialist Democratic Federated Republic of Carbombia, and as long as I pay you, you will do as I say!”

Confronted with the angry voice of the Carbombian king in one audio circuit and the contrasting polite professionalism of the woman in front of him, Swindle laughed. The woman seemed startled. “Give me one moment, please,” he commented to her, allowing himself to smile. “I believe I have just the thing. But I will need your help with some of the arrangements.”

He re-directed his primary thought processes back to the radio conversation that had been going on without him. “Easy, Your Majesty,” he soothed in his best New York street hustler dialect. “You know, I think you’re right. I really should be at your continuous beck and call no matter what else I’m doing. Even if you haven’t paid me yet.”

The comment startled the Carbombian. He was silent for a moment, then replied, “Yes, you should.” as if he didn’t know what else to say.

“Then how about we get together in two days and I give you everything you’ve been asking for?”

There was a few seconds of hushed whispering as the Carbombian spoke to someone in the background. “Agreed. The full shipment. Two days from now at the usual place.”

“’lI see you then.” Deactivating his communicator, Swindle turned to his new client. “It just so happens that I know someone who can do this demonstration for you.”

“Foreigners leave! Carbombia for Carbombians!”

The muffled voice tried to shout out the every day sounds of cars and pedestrians. The video swung in the direction of the voice, only to catch two bright streaks of red light shooting out across the street into the side of a Belgian military vehicle. An explosion sounded, out of sight of the scene the camera was focused on, and the image went sideways as dust and debris blocked the lens for a moment. Screams could be heard through the static of the microphone, above the harsh cursing of the cameraman.

“The shooter, Craig! Get me a visual on the shooter!” The female reporter’s voice rang with excitement as the voice probably belonging to Craig cursed again.

“Shrapnel’s done hit my leg, Connie. You get the damn visual!”

The image on the 27 inch television screen shook violently, snowed, and finally straightened on several male Carbombian youths dressed in tattered pants and shirts. They were shouting slogans in English and their native language while firing black, blocky weapons which would not have been out of place in an old fashioned science fiction show. The red beams lancing out of the guns tore manhole-sized chunks out of the street and surrounding buildings while the Belgian N.A.T.O. contingent wisely took cover. Injured bystanders could be seen running from the small gang. What was left of the burning vehicle collapsed into a pile of charred metal and rubber.

Another explosion could be heard above the chaos and the camera tilted forward to a grand shot of the rubble filled streets of war-ravaged Carbombia. “What the…?” could be heard from Connie as Craig gasped, “The idiots hit a gas main. We gotta run…”

The voices, explosions and screams were all cut off abruptly as the secretary hit the stop button on the VCR remote and the lights in the small, closed room came back up. Joseph Bergstrum sighed as he looked around the table at the expressions of dread on his colleagues’ faces. He wasn’t looking forward to this discussion. At least the other N.A.T.O. representatives wouldn’t complain about him taking this video from the reporters by force. Unlike the United States, the other member nations didn’t have laws giving their citizens freedom of speech. And no one in this room wanted the kind of panic that would ensue if some international news agency broadcast this tape to the world at large.

“Laser guns,” the pudgy American in the cheap suit groaned. “The Carbombian Protectionist League has laser guns. Will someone please explain to me exactly how this happened?”

The German woman in the tan suit tapped her pen on her notepad. “Black market,” she replied. “Many countries have been doing work on making more practical use of the laser.”

“No, “ the Italian with frizzy hair insisted. “Scientists worldwide have tried to use the laser as a weapon since its discovery in the 1960’s. Not one of them has found a way around the conservation of energy principle. If those were truly human-designed weapons, they would have been connected to a huge power source. There is no other way to generate a beam that destructive. Especially given that the red frequency laser is so low in the spectrum.”

“We’ve read the reports, Cesre,” the American interrupted. “We do understand the theory behind the problem. So if the guns aren’t of human design, could they have scavenged the technology? The Transformers have weapons similar to this. All of our governments have found bits and pieces of it left over from their devastating battles. Perhaps the Carbombians have technologists who finally figured out how it worked and were able to apply it on a smaller scale.”

“Forgive me for interjecting, but there is another possibility.”

Five faces looked up at the back of the room to see a short and slender Japanese woman entering through the now open door. While her English was nearly perfect in its enunciation, her appearance was completely foreign to this meeting. She was dressed in a black skirt suit with a plain white blouse and a thin ribbon tie. Her hair, as black as the suit, hung straight and neatly combed, framing a petite face with an unreadable expression. In fact, she looked completely unassuming. Yet the two Military Policemen guarding the door had obviously let her in without a fight, simply closing the door behind her without comment.

Major Bergstrum stood up and dipped his head in a bow to the woman. “Agent Sato, welcome to N.A.T.O. headquarters. Thank you for coming. Representatives, may I introduce Agent Sato Noriko of the Public Security Investigation Agency, Department 2-2. Agent Sato, this is Edward Morris of the United States, Teresa Gruber from Germany, and Cesre Prado, the Italian scientific consultant to N.A.T.O. And I am Major Joseph Bergstrum, commanding officer of the N.A.T.O. peacekeeping mission in Carbombia.”

“Please,” he gestured to a chair at the table opposite of himself. “Have a seat.”

Sato bowed deeply to the committee. “Thank you, Major.”

Morris frowned at Bergstrum. “Mind explaining why Japan, which is not even a member nation of N.A.T.O., has sent someone to this highly secure meeting?”

“The Pentagon learned the P.S.I.A. had information concerning certain black market weapons sales recently made to the C.P.L. When contacted, the agency confirmed this theory and sent Agent Sato, at my invitation, to attend this meeting.”

Expectant looks were cast in Sato’s direction as she placed her briefcase on the table. “It is my agency’s hope that we may be of assistance to our allies in N.A.T.O. the way our defense force is of assistance to our allies in Iraq,” she explained as she opened the case. Pulling out a sheaf of papers, she closed the case and set it on the floor beside her chair.

Teresa nodded. “Well, then. You said there may be another possibility?”

“Indeed. Have you considered the idea that this technology was willingly sold?”

“Sold?” Prado sat up straight in his chair. “Carbombian assets have been completely frozen. They have no money with which to buy such weapons!”

“Impossible,” Morris agreed flatly. “The Autobots refuse to share their technology with any nation. And after the fiasco in Las Vegas, the Decepticons have not shared any either. Besides, the weapons the terrorists in Carbombia used are more powerful than those Starscream gave to the Americans.”

“True. However, we are not talking about the Transformers as a group. We are talking about a specific individual.”

“Who?” he demanded.

“A Decepticon named Swindle. According to our sources, he considers himself quite the businessman. He not only sold the C.P.L. the few test weapons they used in the assault on the Belgian checkpoint, but we have good information that he has a much bigger consignment up for sale. He will be meeting with the leaders of the C.P.L. tonight in the ruins of Carbombia’s university south of the city of Betah.” She passed copies of the P.S.I.A. intelligence reports around the table for the representatives to examine. After several moments of silent reading, Morris dropped his copy on the table and glared at Bergstrum.

“Well, Major? Your people have been looking for an excuse to get involved. Don’t you think it’s about time you got to work?”

Sergeant Hacklin spit in the sand, causing Sato to step away from him. Her bland expression didn’t seem to change as she stepped away from him, but her eyes held a hint of disgust.

Bergstrum suppressed a sigh. The P.SI.A. agent had insisted on joining the team to monitor the situation, which annoyed him to no end. He could have refused, should have in fact, except she would not give any more details about what Japanese intelligence had turned up on the situation until they reached the staging area. So here she was, tagging along in her dark suit and two inch heels where only soldiers dared to tread.

A small group of his most trusted people stood clustered under a tent on the grounds of the command post. The noise of off-duty servicemen filled the air outside as several people played an impromptu soccer game. Even this close to sunset, the heat trapped under the tent was unbearable. Bergstrum almost took his uniform jacket off, but a glance at Sato showed her to be cool and unruffled in a suit that had to be hot. She wasn’t even sweating. For a moment, he almost hated her. Instead, he concentrated on the map of Betah’s southern quarter spread out across the map table. Its corners were held down with a collection of coffee cups and a deck of playing cards. The bounds of the university were marked in yellow highlighter with a red dot a quarter inch from the eastern wall.

Bergstrum examined the map. “Captain Simmons, how does our target look?”

“The only structure left standing is the athletic arena.” The Englishman’s finger landed on the dot. “The rest of the university was all but demolished during the initial fighting of the civil war. There are places to set up an ambush here, here and here,” Simmons jabbed three unmarked spots on the map, “where the C.P.L. already has sentries. If we can take them down, we can set up teams to guard the ways in and out. This is certainly the only route vehicles can go, Sir. And there’s no good place to hide our own vehicles, so unless we want the C.P.L. to know that we’re here, we should really do this on foot.”

The Major nodded. “Sergeant Hacklin, pair your best snipers with your best hand-to-hand people. I want those sentries taken down as quietly as possible. Try to keep them alive. We’ll need someone to answer questions when this is all over.”

“Yes, sir,” Hacklin acknowledged, spitting on the ground again. If he was trying to annoy Bergstrum, it was working. Sato just ignored the crude man.

The Major gritted his teeth, holding his temper. “Agent Sato, just who is coming to this meeting?”

“Not counting the bodyguards? The key players attending will be Anton Surich, Pak Milaton and Faghadi.”

“What?” Bergstrum’s head shot up, his eyes wide with shock. “Faghadi! As in His Royal Highness, the ex-king of Carbombia? And you didn’t think to mention this at N.A.T.O. Headquarters?” He was trying very hard not to shout at her.

Sato inclined her head, still playing the unruffled Japanese. “The information was not relevant until now.”

Sergeant Hacklin swore colorfully. Behind him, someone slammed into the canvas of the tent. Laughter outside ensued. “Not relevant? We’ve been hunting him for months!”’

Bergstrum motioned to one of the M.P.s guarding the tent flap. “Tell those fools to keep away from here. We’re trying to work,” he muttered darkly.

The M.P. nodded and left.

“And now you will have him,” Sato continued, seemingly oblivious to activities outside and to Bergstrum’s order. “Assuming he does not decide to leave this meeting in the hands of his finance minister and munitions dealer.”

Simmons chuckled in delight. “Surich is wanted in ten countries, including his homeland of Switzerland, for embezzlement. It’ll be nice to see Faghadi’s money man finally behind bars. Though Milaton doesn’t give us much. He’s not even good at his job.”

“Hence Faghadi’s need for dealing with Swindle. Whatever poor opinion you may have of Milaton, he acquired his post through nepotism. He is Faghadi’s son-in-law. Arrest him and you will have your link to the king’s family. The P.S.I.A. is quite certain Milaton can be turned if the appropriate pressure is applied.”

The Major frowned as a thought suddenly occurred to him. “We have a problem.”

His staff silenced themselves and waited expectantly.

“Swindle,” he commented as he looked directly at Sato again. “I don’t know much about the individual Transformers. Tell me about this one.”

The Japanese woman put her briefcase on the table, popped it open and pulled out a folder. She handed it to the Major.

When Bergstrum opened the folder, a series of pictures spilled out across the map, each showing a different scene. The top photo was a purple and yellowish-ochre robot with dark optics, firing a large gun. Another showed a military jeep, in the same colors, parked on a city street. A third was a black and white picture of a giant robot smashing a building, its right leg circled in marker. The rest of the pictures, screen shots from various surveillance devices, showed variations on the first two themes. Jeep and robot, both with the prominently displayed faction symbol of a Decepticon.

“As I said before, Swindle is a businessman. He stands over four and a half meters tall, approximately fifteen feet in vour American measurement, and appears to be one of the most non-threatening members of the Decepticon Army. It is not that he can’t be violent or destructive. Swindle simply enjoys making deals more than he does fighting. If the P.S.I.A. reports are correct, he is willing to do business with anyone, possibly even the Autobots, if he thinks the risk is worth the reward. He has not only been noticed selling munitions to Carbombian terrorists. We have reason to believe that he has been buying supplies, including oil, for the Decepticons from various third world countries.”

Outside, the jeers and cheers continued, though the sounds seemed to have moved away a bit.

Simmons straightened his beret. “Forgive me, Agent Sato, but how long has Swindle been involved in these activities?”

She shrugged. “At least six months. We cannot be sure, but we suspect it has been much longer.”

“And he just now hit the radar?” Simmons stared at her incredulously.

“He just now started openly selling weapons to terrorists, Captain,” she coolly replied.

Simmons growled. Bergstrum shook his head in the Captain’s direction. He really didn’t need his people starting an argument at that moment. “Enough, people. I don’t know about you, but I don’t cotton to the idea of taking a Transformer, any Transformer, head on in a fight. How long do we have until the meeting, Agent Sato?”

Glancing at her watch, Sato considered for a moment. “Two and one-half hours. However, I do not doubt someone will show up earlier.”

“Barely enough time at all, then,” Hacklin groused.

“Enough time to take out the sentries and put our snipers into place. Captain, I want you to call out the heavy artillery. We’re going to need a couple of shoulder-mounted rocket launchers, rubber ammo and an A-10 tank killer on standby. I want the Decepticon taken down as soon as the money is exchanged. No sooner. Additionally, we’ll need forensics people on hand, preferably anyone who had previous experience with Transformer technology. Sergeant, locate a specialist with a video camera. Let’s not take any chances. I want to be able to prove something’s rotten in Denmark.”

Now, it was Agent Sato’s turn to frown. It was the first expression of any kind Bergstrum had seen on her face. “Denmark?” she asked. “What does Denmark have to do with our current predicament?”

The remaining M.P. yelped, “Duck and cover!” as a fast white missile swooshed through the open canvas door. It slammed into one of the coffee cups, splashing the hot liquid all over Bergstrum’s jacket, and bounced off the table right into Captain Simmon’s hands. Simmons blinked in surprise and glanced hesitantly into his C.O.’s eyes.

Bergstrum growled, “Simmons, get copies of these pictures distributed to the city checkpoints. We want Swindle passed through. M.P., find me the damn idiot who kicked that ball!”

Hacklin’s people were good at their jobs. The only noise Bergstrum was aware of when they took down the Carbombian sentries was the triple clicks on the radio acknowledging they had achieved their goals. A repeated double-click was the video specialist verifying he had settled in the arena. His people were in position. He himself stood with a small, armed group hiding behind the rubble of the building closest to the arena. Now all they had to do was wait in the darkness for the rest of the party goers to arrive.

“Excuse me, Major.” Private DeMarco, a petite young woman, looked up from her radio gear. “Checkpoint Mike just radioed in. A Carbombian claiming to work with the Red Cross just went through in a ochre and purple jeep hauling a small trailer. He’s heading in this direction.”

“Private, are you sure they said the jeep was ochre and purple?”

“Yes, sir. Positive. The jeep matches the description we were given.”

Bergstrum grinned fiercely as adrenaline hit his veins. “All right, Private, notify everyone to double check their positions. We’re only going to get one shot at this and I want it done right.”

“Yes, Sir.” DeMarco sent the order, then listened as something else crackled across her headphones. “Major, the Carbombian contingent has also been spotted. There are two vehicles, one car, one truck. Approximately ten people in all.”

“Acknowledge the message, Private. Then send radio silence.”

“Yes, sir.”

As DeMarco sent the order for radio silence, Sato moved closer to Bergstrum. “Are you sure you want to do this?” she whispered to him.

There were no street lights here, so the only light his people had was of the waning crescent moon. Her question was oddly of out of place. It was hard to see if she had an expression on her face. “What do you mean?” His reply was just a quiet.

“Attacking Swindle. He is a Transformer, an alien, and his fellow Decepticons may not take that very well. Perhaps we should let him go before arresting the terrorists.”

“Unacceptable, Agent Sato. I’m not going to let him sell weapons that might be used against my people to the C.P.L. or any other terrorists.”

“But…”

He made a slicing gesture with his hand as the sound of motors rose above the silence of the night. “Enough. I’ve made my decision.”

He raised his night-vision binoculars and positioned himself so he could see the approach to the arena without being spotted. The first vehicle to arrive, of course, was the jeep pulling the small trailer the checkpoint had noted. It was strange to see a Transformer allowing a human to drive him, but there was the Carbombian man, rifle on the seat beside him, driving Swindle into the arena. The other Carbombians arrived, the car sporting the royal seal of Carbombia on its front doors. Sure enough, Bergstrum could see Faghadi’s profile in the back seat. This was going to be the best night of his career.

Bergstrum waited until all three vehicles drove into the arena’s entrance, then signaled his people with several swift hand motions to move in. The scouts went first, leap frogging past one another to make sure the way was clear. The rest of the team followed with the rear scouts watching the road to make sure there were no extra surprises coming from that direction. It was a matter of moments before Bergstrum and his people reached the arena entrance. The two rocket launcher handlers took point on opposite sides of the entranceway. Bergstrum squatted down in the center of his team, as everyone picked a target, and sighted on Faghadi. The brown-haired, middle-aged statesman was dressed in a blue military uniform adorned with so many ribbons and heavy medals, it was surprising he could even move. Whatever else happened, the ex-king wasn’t getting away.

The jeep was about a hundred yards inside the arena. The trailer had been disconnected and was set off to the side with the armed Carbombian who had been driving. Fifty yards from the jeep, seven other Carbombians stood in a half circle, surrounding Faghadi, Milaton and Surich. The bodyguards had their weapons pointed in Swindle’s direction.

“Your pricing is unacceptable,” the former Carbombian king declared.

“Excuse me?” came a rough, metallic voice from the jeep, sounding like a cheap, two-bit hood. “What exactly do you mean, unacceptable?”

This is strange, Bergstrum thought. Why is Swindle still in jeep mode? Two closely placed red lights, winking on and off from above the stands, caught his attention. He frowned up at them, hoping the video specialist wasn’t going to be stupid enough to get caught.

“Your test weapons did not achieve the desired results. There should have been news coverage of the test! Neither I nor any of my subordinates have seen any sign that the world community has gotten my message.” Faghadi definitely sounded as arrogant as his file proclaimed him to be.

“Look, Faghadi, you asked for weapons that could take down N.A.T.O. forces, I got you some extremely advanced technology for the job. The guns did what they were supposed to, but I can’t help it if the newsies weren’t out that day. Twenty-five guns. Do you know how much I usually charge for that kind of merchandise? Not only did I give you a considerable discount, since you are such a nice guy, but I even agreed to let you wait on payment until this shipment. I don’t do that for just anyone, you know.”

Surich cleared his throat. “Extremely advanced technology? Swindle, please. Don’t try to chisel a chiseler. Many nations know how to wield the power of beam technology. We simply haven’t bothered to develop the requisite power source. Now, if you were to offer us something stronger, perhaps with a disintegration mode, we might be willing to do business.”

“Gentlemen, really,” Swindle protested smoothly. “Have I been anything less than forthright with you? You wanted beam weapons, small enough for any human to use. I not only procured them, I spent a lot of time rebuilding them per your specifications. Then you decided you had to have them sooner than originally requested. So, I called in favors people owed me to arrange the delivery of your initial package, despite not receiving the agreed-upon deposit. And now you want to change your order at the very last minute, despite all the effort I’ve put into this work, and still not pay me? Oh, I can find more powerful weapons for you, all right. Unfortunately, there is the problem of my other contracts. Deadlines, you know? Puttin’ together a new order for you, it’ll take some time…”

Milaton graced the jeep with a glare of disdain. “How long?” he asked abruptly.

Bergstrum could visualize the shrug he heard in Swindle’s voice. “Oh, I don’t know. I have a lot of other contracts I have to fulfill. Your order would go to the bottom of the list. Maybe next year?”

“No!” Faghadi interrupted in alarm. “We will take these beam weapons now and you will get us a list of these other weapons you have for sale. Surich, get the money.”

Milaton appeared confused. “Father…”

“Hush! I will not wait a year to see Carbombia free from Western interference!”

Surich silently retrieved a large duffel from the car. He brought it up within a few feet of the jeep and opened the top. “This is sufficient, I believe?”

Swindle chuckled, his voice sounding strangely pleased. However, he still remained in jeep mode. “It is. You can place it in my front seat. As soon as I leave, the toys are yours.”

Surich frowned, looking back at his employer. Faghadi waved impatiently. “Do it.”

Bergstrum caught a glimpse of color in the bag that looked suspiciously like a thin layer of American bills covering up confetti as Surich tossed it in the jeep. He inched forward so everyone on his team could see him and raised his hand. The soldiers tensed.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you.” Swindle said. “I hope you have as much fun with this as I did.”

Surich backed up beside Faghadi with a smirk on his face, keeping his eyes on the jeep, while the bodyguards made room for the jeep to drive to the entrance. Faghadi bounced eagerly on his toes, waiting for the Decepticon to leave so he could pull out the new weapons. And those two red lights intensified briefly, focusing on the unmoving jeep.

Bergstrum didn’t hesitate. His hand went down and all hell broke loose.

Two rockets howled towards the jeep, smoke whipping through the air behind them. The resulting explosion ripped into the vehicle, sending shredded metal flying everywhere. The Carbombian bodyguards yelled and turned. Several members of Bergstrum’s team fired rubber bullets into the group of terrorists, downing five in the first barrage. The two left standing strafed their weapons at the strike team, but by then, Bergstrum’s forces were in motion. The Carbombian fire ripped into the arena stands, barely grazing the western soldiers. Bergstrum reached Faghadi before the Carbombian king could run, seizing him in an arm lock and placing his gun against the terrorist’s head.

“Everyone surrender!” he shouted in his thunderous command voice. “Now!”

“You can’t do this to me!” Faghadi shouted. “I am the Supreme Military Commander, king of kings, and Pres…”

Bergstrum pistol-whipped His Imperial Majesty, who promptly fell unconscious to the ground.

Milaton cursed and lunged for Bergstrum. Simmons tackled him from behind and pushed him to the ground. Surich groaned, raised his hands and repeated the surrender command in the Carbombians’ native language. The bodyguards still standing dropped their weapons, glaring at the N.A.T.O. forces with sullen hatred. The soldiers swarmed from the shadows, handcuffs and batons at the ready to subdue their foes.

Simmon’s forensic specialists converged on what was left of Swindle, tool packs swinging from their hands. Bergstrum handed Faghadi into the care of a pair of M.P.’s. DeMarco, per previous orders, radioed for the troop transport on standby to come for the prisoners.

Taking his time, the Major made the rounds and verified his people had no casualties while the captured terrorists were shoved into the transport. When the video specialist came up to him, he growled at the kid. “Specialist, next time I tell you to be invisible, you become invisible.” He pointed up to the stands where he had seen the lights. “There were seven guards facing that direction who might have seen the lights from your camera up there.”

The specialist opened and closed his mouth a few times before he could get the courage to speak. “But, Major, that wasn’t me. I was filming from the stands right above the entrance.”

Agent Sato stepped up to Bergstrum’s side, interrupting the conversation. “Your people have done well, Major Bergstrum. Is there anything you would like to me attach to my report for the P.S.I.A.?”

“Ummm, not really. Are you leaving, then?”

Surprisingly, the agent smiled. “Yes, Major. I have verified everything I need to know. I will take the transport back to your headquarters, then make my own arrangements from there.” She gave him a shallow bow. “It was an experience working with you, Major Bergstrum.”

Both he and the specialist watched her climb up on the transport. He shook his head as the transport left, trying to clear the nagging feeling he had missed something important. Then he returned his attention to the specialist. “Above the entrance?” he inquired.

“Yes, Major.”

Bergstrum unclipped the flashlight from his belt, flipped it on and aimed it in the area of the red lights he had seen. He saw movement, the glint of light off a metallic bird-like shape and then nothing. He swept the area several times with light before giving up and flicking it off. “All right, Specialist. You’re dismissed.”

As the specialist walked off, the forensics team hesitantly approached him. One man carried a few brightly colored plastic items while the second held a small black box in his hand.

The first man cleared his throat. “Sir, we’ve checked the trailer. There are no weapons. Just these.” He handed the items to Bergstrum.

They were rectangular devices with hinged animal heads on the top. Bergstrum stared at them uncomprehendingly. “These are weapons?”

The first man shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “No, sir. These are candy dispensers.”

“Candy dispensers?” the Major echoed, still not understanding.

“Yes, Sir.” The man waited a moment, then added, “You put candy in them. It’s vaguely fruit flavored. It’s… Well, sir, these aren’t weapons. There aren’t any signs of weapons in the entire trailer.”

Bergstrum hissed under his breath, shoving the toys in his pocket. “Fine. No weapons. He must have known something about this deal was sour. What else did you find?”

“Major Bergstrum, about the jeep…” the second man hesitated.

A chill of forboding ran down Bergstrum’s spine. “What about the jeep?”

“Well, sir. It’s a jeep.”

Bergstrum took a deep breath to calm himself before replying, “I know it’s a jeep. That is supposed to be Swindle’s alternate form.”

The second man shook his head. “You don’t understand, sir. It’s a jeep. Literally. An honest-to-goodness American made jeep. The only Transformer technology in the whole pile of metal is this radio transmitter.” He held out the black box for inspection.

This was the other shoe dropping. If it wasn’t for the capture of Faghadi, Major Joseph Bergstrum would have been screaming madly at the sky. As it was, he had trouble keeping his voice below a bellow. “If that wreckage is just a jeep, then where the hell is Swindle?”

Several hours later, Sato stopped her borrowed car in a rundown village which had been devastated in the Carbombia’s civil war. She stepped out of her car and looked around. The inhabitants had yet to return and rebuild. Still, the rubble-choked warehouse she had parked in provided the perfect cover from spying satellites. She leaned against her vehicle, letting her eyes adjust to the dark. For a moment, she thought she saw two winking red lights, but when she blinked they were gone. She frowned in displeasure. Her contact should have already been here.

“Bonsowa-ru, Sato-sama.” From the other side of the warehouse, a metallic voice greeted her formally, with the respect due a senior business partner. She could barely make out the glow of two purple optics as they seemed to flicker off for a moment.

Sato returned the bow, knowing he could see hers even if she couldn’t quite see his. “Swindle-san. You are unharmed?” she asked in her native language.

“Not a scratch,” he replied smoothly in perfect Japanese. “Your superior is pleased with the demonstration?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “The weapons you are offering, they will be more powerful than those you sold to the Carbombians?”

“Indeed, Sato-sama. I will supply your people with the more powerful versions in addition to certain particle weapons I have access to. Japan no longer needs to be dependent on foreign goodwill to defend its interests. You have my word.”

“And your price for this generosity?”

“If your superior sees fit to grant my unworthy self the consideration of a favor sometime in the future when I may have need of honorable friends, I would be willing to forgo payment on this first consignment of weapons.” He reached down, handing her a list of the weapons he was offering. The weapons list, the size of an unfolded sheet of newspaper, was dwarfed by his meter-and-a-half sized hand.

Sato took the paper, refusing to be intimidated by the Decepticon’s size. She examined the list and nodded decisively. “I must first clear this with him, but I see no reason this agreement cannot be completed.”

In the darkness, Swindle grinned and quipped, “Two deals for the price of one.” Then he bowed deeply. “It is a pleasure doing business with you, Sato-sama.”

The video image of Swindle grinned and quipped, “Two deals for the price of one.” Then he bowed deeply. “It is a pleasure doing business with you, Sato-sama.”

The video playback on the monitor suddenly stopped. An over-sized tape cassette ejected itself from the main computer’s console, turning and twisting until it became the large metallic raptor and Decepticon spy known as Laserbeak. He circled in the air once, then landed on the outstretched arm of an even larger blue robot named Soundwave.

At the Decepticon headquarters, five Transformers had gathered in the command center. Soundwave, Onslaught and Skywarp stood in mute attendance to their awe-inspiring, gun-metal gray leader, the great Megatron. It didn’t take a genius to realize Megatron was upset. His fists clenched, he turned to his other minions.

“Soundwave, explain yourself. Why has Laserbeak been spying on other Decepticons?” Megatron’s voice was dangerously calm. He didn’t demand an answer. He was Megatron. Answers were his by right.

The Decepticon communications officer replied in unemotional monotone, “You ordered an investigation into the disappearance of our supplies and munitions. Laserbeak followed the trail to its inevitable conclusion.”

Megatron’s black fists clenched tighter as he swung around to face the second Decepticon. His narrowed optics burned with red fire. “You are the leader of the Combaticons, Onslaught. As such, Swindle is your responsibility. I have given you many opportunities to rectify his behavior. If you cannot perform this task, then I shall assign it to someone more capable.”

Barely concealing his own fury, the blue and green Combaticon brought his fist to his chest in a sharp salute. “Forgive me, Lord Megatron. My previous plan to contain Swindle’s activities has failed. If you will give me another chance…”

“Chance?” sneered the Decepticon Commander. “Is that what you think this is about? Giving you chances to not foul up? No. Skywarp, I have a problem for you to fix.”

The black and purple warrior, who had been watching Onslaught and smirking at the Combaticon’s humiliation, started. “Huh?” he asked. “I mean, what problem, Mighty Megatron?”

“Skywarp, go get Swindle!” Megatron yelled, not appreciating having to repeat himself. “And bring him here!”

Onslaught groaned. “First you lose a personality circuit, now this. Swindle, you idiot!” he muttered to himself.

Not daring to bring his leader’s wrath down upon himself with extraneous commentary, Skywarp nodded and headed for the door only to be brought up short.

“And, Skywarp?”

The warrior turned around slowly, flinching as Megatron uncurled his fists. “Yes, Megatron?”

“It is not entirely necessary for all his components to arrive at the same time.”

Skywarp grinned in understanding. “Yes, Megatron.”

Jenifer A. Ruth — Joyride

BUMBLEBEE SAT IDLING in his parking space, his engine hot from the high-speed rush getting here in time, and watched Spike disappear into the throng entering his school. The Autobots had been lucky the day they’d been discovered by someone as loyal as the kid, real lucky. He’d never forget that. The boy was a good and true friend, a person who depended on him. No one would hurt Spike while Bumblebee was around.

So much had happened since the battle that ended with the Autobots crash landing on this planet, this Earth. There were times he wondered if it was any use, their fight to keep the Deceptions from getting enough Energon to get back to Cybertron. How could a battle fought on this distant planet mean anything to the bigger picture? Did helping these people matter?

Then he thought about Spike and knew he could do no better for the boy’s people. With or without Optimus’s orders, Bumblebee knew he would defend a world that could produce such honor, even if his addition to the fight was minimal at best.

Bumblebee wandered deep in his own mind, so deep he lost track of his surroundings until a hand grabbed his door handle, opening the driver’s side.

“Hey, this one’s unlocked. It’s easy pickings,” a young male voice called out.

Bumblebee looked up at the kid bending to check out his interior. Slicked back brown hair, ripped blue jeans, a heavy metal t-shirt, and the smell of stale cigarettes pegged him as one of this world’s lost youth. Not the most savory of people, but not completely evil.

“Damn, Jack, it’s a slug bug,” another young punk in almost identical look, with the exception of a greasy mullet, replied, slapping Bumblebee’s hood hard enough to make Bumblebee wince. The kid had better not ruin his new paint job. It was hard enough keeping himself looking good while dealing with Decepticon attacks. He couldn’t count the number of times he’d had to be buffed and detailed after another skirmish. He didn’t need to deal with petty vandals messing him up, too.

“With all the prime rides lining the street, you want to take a bright-yellow slug bug?” the boy continued, a sneer gracing his rat-like, pimply face. “That’s pitiful, man. I want something with some power, some speed, not some crummy, cramped, girly car. What’s the point in racing around in that? It’s not like we could pick up chicks or anything. Where would they sit, on your lap?”

About to tell the first kid to get lost and pull the door closed, Bumblebee paused. Crummy? Cramped? Something with power? Girly car? I might be the smallest of the Autobots, but I’m still an Autobot, a warrior. I spend all my time fighting, protecting kids like this against the terror that the Decepticons let loose on my world, and this is the thanks I get. I’m not even worth stealing for a little dishonest fun, some criminal jollies? When is anyone going to realize there’s more to me than what’s on the outside?

Instead of slamming his door on his would-be thieves, Bumblebee waited to hear Jack’s response.

“Come on, Rick. It’s less work,” he whined, rubbing his moist hand across Bumblebee’s pristine, leather upholstery. “So it doesn’t have the horsepower of a ‘vette, so what? These little guys are tougher than they look. Think of what we can put it through, a little desert racing, some off-roading. It’s not as low slung, so you can put her through more demolition moves. That’s worth something.”

Yeah, give me a chance and I’ll take you on a ride you’ll never forget. And what is it with humans calling cars ‘her’? He’d show these two that he was more than they bargained for. They’d never call another Bug a girly car. He had to take that kind of abuse from the Decepticons, always looking down their noses at him. He didn’t have to take it from a couple of punk kids out for a ride on the wild side.

Rick eyed Bumblebee, his mouth pursed. Bumblebee waited anxiously, mentally daring the boy to go for it. Take the chance, punk. I’ll make it worth your while. Come on, kid, do it. It’s easy, and no one’s looking. Come and take me.

“What the hell,” the boy finally replied with an indolent shrug, “we can snag something better later. You want to blow the engine out of this crap heap first, why not. Plenty of other rides to take later.”

He pulled a screwdriver out of his back pocket and jerked his shoulder at his friend. “Scoot over, man. You suck at hotwiring as much as picking out a prime piece of machine. If you’re determined to take this pile of crap, I’m driving. I gotta get some thrill out of this.”

Jack grimaced, but slid over, screwing his bony butt into the passenger seat, pushing it back, and kicking his feet onto the dash. Bumblebee flinched at the dust and gravel grinding beneath the boy’s sneakers. He’d need to be buffed, polished, and fumigated after this, but it would be worth it to show these two idiots the errors of their ways.

No one should ever underestimate an Autobot, no matter how small and insignificant that ‘bot might be.

Bumblebee flinched as Rick jabbed at his ignition. He had no intention of letting either punk mess up his wiring with a screwdriver, but Bumblebee didn’t want to scare the two enough to have them try to bail out just yet. He let Rick fiddle around long enough to convince him that he’d done the job himself before jumping in and revving up his engine.

“See,” Rick smirked, tossing the screwdriver behind him before throwing Bumblebee into gear. “Piece of cake.”

Jack shrugged and stared out the window, tapping an imaginary beat on the dash as Rick eased them out of the parking space. He didn’t peel out, as Bumblebee expected, but carefully navigated the side streets, eyes out for cops. No burning rubber, all driving done within speed limits. The real show must be waiting until they got out of the city limits. Bumblebee didn’t wonder any longer if this was a first for these two. Rick at least seemed too cagey for this to be his first car heist.

Bumblebee swore it would be the boy’s last.

He let the kid have his way until they were out of town, watching how he worked. He and Jack didn’t talk much, both riding with their eyes scanning the neighborhood, all business. When they finally left the city behind, they looked at each other and smiled. Jack dropped his feet to the floor and grabbed for the handle above the door.

“Not bad for a glorified golf cart,” Rick laughed. “I’ll give you that it’s a smooth ride. But that’s not everything. Let’s see how fast this baby can go.”

Rick slammed his foot down. Bumblebee winced as his poor engine whined at the rough treatment, but let loose a little, glorying in the feel of the road hot beneath his wheels, the wind rippling over his hood. Ahh, the freedom of the open road, speed for no other reason but itself. How long had it been since he chewed up the road for the sake of the pure joy of it? How long had it been since he enjoyed the form he’d been given to fit in on this world, not just used it to get from point A to point B? No worries about an upcoming battle, no plans to remember. The excited energy flooding through his systems were linked only to joy, not the rush of the fight.

Yeah, it was his bad luck that a Volkswagen Bug popped up on the screen when he was being fitted for this new world. So, he wasn’t a manly car, like Jazz, or something with power behind it, like Optimus. He wasn’t as useful as Wheeljack or as single-minded as any one of the Dinobots. He was still an Autobot. He stood tall against the Decepticons, like any other Autobot. He did his duty, and he did it well.

If nothing else, he could show a couple of punk kids not to underestimate him.

With that thought, he took control. He disengaged the steering, gas, and break. He slipped himself into overdrive and locked his gears. Rick was so into his own little misdemeanor world, he didn’t even notice that he wasn’t doing the driving anymore, laughing with his buddy. So Bumblebee threw on the radio, blasting one of the tapes Spike was partial to, the heavy guitars and drums throbbing through his small interior.

“Jeez, Jack, give a little warning will ya. You almost made me run off the road,” Rick snapped as his hands jerked at the wheel.

Jack looked over at Rick, eyes wide and face slack. “I didn’t touch it,” he stammered, staring at the radio like it was a snake. “I thought you did.”

Rick rolled his eyes and slammed his fist against the dash above the radio. “Must be a short. Told you this was a piece of crap. No wonder the owner didn’t lock it. He was probably hoping someone would jack it so he could claim the insurance.”

Jack’s squeaky laughter sent shudders through Bumblebee’s windshield. That boy’s voice could shatter glass. He sounded more like a horse with a helium addiction than a half-grown human male. And how could the kid laugh? Didn’t he know when he was trapped in a possessed car? Didn’t he go to the movies? Didn’t he know when to be scared? This was a life-threatening situation. Moments like these never ended well for the misfortunate, misguided youths.

Not that he intended to hurt them or anything. That’s something a Decepticon would do. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t scare the living daylights out of the disrespectful little snots.

Bumblebee smiled to himself, gliding into the opposite lane before flipping back again. He slammed on the breaks, only to accelerate at an incredible speed, a speed no ordinary car could hope to match.

His passengers hurled sideways and then back into their seats, panic draining their faces of all color.

No one was laughing.

“What do you think you’re doing, Rick?” Jack gasped, his fingers digging into dash as his feet threatened to shove through the floorboards. For once, Bumblebee didn’t think twice about the poor treatment. He whistled to himself under the pounding, screeching sound of Spike’s tape.

“I’m not doing anything,” Rick yelled back, panic shooting his voice up several embarrassing octaves. “It’s out of control!”

Bumblebee spared a moment to worry about his upholstery getting an unclean bath for a split second, the fear so evident in the boys’ voices. But he gave a mental shrug. If there was one thing he’d learned in his years of battle it was that sometimes you had to take a little damage to get the job done. And this job would be a true pleasure, something he couldn’t say about most of his clashes with the Decepticons. These two were going to learn a little lesson about respect, respect for other people’s property, respect for under-appreciated automobiles, and respect for him.

He pushed his speed, zipping around any cars in his wake with mere inches to spare. One hundred, one-fifty, two hundred, Bumblebee watched the boys faces pale even more as the scenery whipped by. They had no idea that he was in perfect control, that they were as safe as could be. Nothing short of a direct attack would make him crash. He knew exactly how far he could push himself. He knew to the last bolt how much speed, how much pressure, how much shock he could withstand. He had no intention of harming the boys, just scaring them.

But they didn’t have to know that.

Bumblebee’s grin widened as he started swerving back and forth across the road. The boys swore, bracing themselves. Jack curled up into a little ball, one hand on the dash, the other on the passenger side door. Rick held the steering wheel with white knuckles, turning it left and right without the slightest effect. He slammed his foot on the brake over and over again, to no avail. They weren’t stopping until Bumblebee was ready for them to stop. And that wasn’t going to be any time soon.

He was having too much fun.

The open road beckoned, sliding beneath his wheels. The heat of the mid-day sun radiated up through his tires. Here was freedom, freedom from worries, freedom from fighting, freedom from the role fate had thrust upon him. Here he could enjoy life and all that this world had to offer.

“Jeez, Rick, do something already,” Jack whimpered as the shine of tears threatening to overwhelm his eyes.

“Tm trying,” Rick snarled, his face grim. “Don’t you think I’m trying?”

Bumblebee took a moment’s pity on his two human pinballs, slapping seatbelts on both of them before diving off the road. Both boys tugged at the restraints as they barreled out onto the desert floor.

Bumblebee grinned. Not bad for a little nobody so far down on the radar that his only use to the enemy was as a hostage, bait to lure in bigger game. He sped up as he approached a large dune, enjoying the gasps that came as he left the ground for a few seconds only to slam back to earth.

He was worth something. He was strong. He was fast. He was as much of an Autobot as anyone else on the team. Small did not mean useless.

He spun in a figure eight, shooting dust into the air. He swerved, he bounced, he plowed furrows into the dry desert earth. He played like a young stallion let loose in the pasture for the first time in weeks. He would have continued for hours, enjoying the rush, if Jack hadn’t turned a shade of green before slapping his hands over his mouth. He was making small animal noises between each round of gagging.

Some things came out of leather upholstery easier than others. Not to mention the smell would have been awful.

Bumblebee straightened up and headed back towards the road. The long, straight line of asphalt called to him, the sirens song of speed. His passengers gave little shrieks as they jumped back up, but that was nothing compared to the sounds they made when he really unloaded.

Wind whistled past them as he went passed the number the odometer measured. He fought the urge to shout out in elation as he let the miles fly by. These two thought a Corvette was fast? They didn’t have a clue. What was any racing car or muscle car when put up against an Autobot?

These two wouldn’t underestimate him again.

Jack stopped moaning and whimpering. Actually, Bumblebee wondered if he was still conscious, as he hadn’t heard a peep from the boy in the last few minutes. Rick, on the other hand, made up for it with his unending litany of curses mixed with prayers.

As the city limits drew closer, Bumblebee eased up on the speed, but kept control of everything else. No telling what these two geniuses would do if he let them have their way again. He eased down to the speed limit and navigated the surface streets back towards the high school.

He slid back into his spot and stopped, waiting to see what the two kids would do. Jack whimpered, folding himself into a tighter ball. Rick stared sightless out the windshield, convulsive shakes shooting through him.

“Was that a fast enough, thrilling enough ride for you, or would you like another go?” Bumblebee couldn’t resist asking.

Jack poked his head out from beneath his arms, and Rick looked down at the blinking dash. Neither boy replied.

“Well, you did say that I couldn’t possibly be worth the effort to steal, that a little car like me couldn’t stand up to the power of a better car,” Bumblebee snickered. “I just want to know if you still feel that way?”

Rick shook his head, his face losing what little color he’d gotten back since they’d come to a stop. “No,” he whispered.

“Good. Now, I think it’s time for you two to bail. Not that it hasn’t been fun or anything, but I’m waiting for a friend.” Bumblebee opened both door and released their seatbelts. “Have a nice day. And you might want to rethink this whole car stealing business. You have no idea what you might end up with.”

The boys didn’t waste time arguing. They scrambled out, leaving two slightly damp seats behind, and ran faster than Bumblebee thought their skinny little legs could carry them.

Bumblebee sat idling in the same parking spot he started in, smiling to himself as he heard the bell ring. Spike jogged out of the building, waving to a few friends before sliding into the driver’s seat. “Anything happen while I was gone?” he asked, tossing his books on the passenger seat and slipping a new tape into the cassette deck.

“Nah,” Bumblebee replied, a grin in his voice. “It’s been a quiet day. No Decepticon activity at all. You didn’t miss a thing.”

Spike nodded, but wrinkled his nose. “Man, Bumblebee, we need to get your interior washed. It smells like the inside of a locker room. What’ve you been up to?”

Bumblebee’s voice sounded more than a little smug as he answered his young friend. “Just out for some fun, a little down time. I’ll tell you all about it on the way back.”

David Bischoff — Lonesome Diesel

I.

“Ol’ Yeller, I guess this is it,” said the cowboy. “You, me, the moon and this shotgun. Any coyotes come sniffin’ round, we sure as shootin’ are prepared.”

The old man sat with his back against his rucksack. The campfire crackled. Its light danced on the bore of the ancient 12 gauge, leaning over the old man’s knee. The yellow lab retriever lay on the blanket, its eyes shining with mournful love for its Master. The desert smelled of sage, charcoal and the steak Jake Williams and his dog had just shared. Come in a little closer, and you’ll smell the whiskey.

In the cooling desert air, there’s the lonely but defiant sound of a Waylon Jennings song mumbling from the powerful battery of a 1957 Ford Pickup. In the sky there are stars. Lots and lots of stars, like there wasn’t enough room in the universe for so many darned stars, and they had to crowd in, real close like.

Jake picked up the shotgun. He clicked off the safety. The dogs ears pricked up and it barked.

“Sure is lonesome out here. Guess that’s what we want though. That’s why we came out here. A place to sit and think a while below the stars. A place to just BE,” said Jake. He picked up his fifth of expensive Kentucky Bourbon. He sipped at it. The sip turned into a gulp. Liquid sloshed. “We’re both getting’ mighty old, Jake. We gotta treasure every moment. Even so, with your dog’s years, your even more ancient than I am.”

The dog blinked, and stared off at the fire.

“Yeah, yeah, Yeller. Would be a heck of a lot better if I could go first. That’s not the way it works on the Planet Earth. It’s a Dog Eat Dog place, not a Dog Paradise.”

It had been two years since his son Bobby had gotten blown up by the suicide bomber in Iraq, and Jake had never really recovered. That, after his death of his wife, had pretty much placed the lid on his happy years. But times like this, when he could go out to the desert and just sit and look at the stars—well, it didn’t make him happy, and it didn’t give him peace—but it damped the pain some, and it kept him going.

And Yeller, his yellow retriever, liked to chase the rabbits.

The shotgun was in the back of his truck anyway. He didn’t really think he’d have trouble with coyotes or mountain lions, like he told Yeller. But somehow it made him feel more like a man, a cowboy with his weapon, keeping sentry on the Earth.

He looked up at the stars. Out here in the desert, they filled the sky. You knew that everywhere around, there was Light. Except maybe now—in Jake’s heart.

“Okay. Mr. Universe. So I’m sittin’ here, drinkin’ and thinkin’. So am I just a useless old bag of skin and bones? Or do I still have a purpose, here on this crazy old world? Give me a sign, huh?” He smiled slyly.

Yeller growled.

It was a low-throat, wolf-growl. All dog’s had ‘em. They learned ‘em in dog school. This one, though, was deep and meaningful and it came out of a cancerous body just as pure and clean as from a healthy canine. And when Jake looked at Yeller, under the starlight and with the light from the campfire pouring over him—he could see that the animal’s hackles had risen.

The dog’s nose was pointed up. He was growling at the sky.

Jake looked. The light bloomed like a torch. It rode down the sluice of night for a good six, seven seconds, splendorous and mighty. Then it winked out.

Jake blinked.

He took a great big swallow of Ol’ Grandad.

Yeller got up and howled at the sky. Jake put a shaking hand on him, stroked him, settled him.

“Yeller, boy,” he said. “Maybe there’s somethin’ around the bend after all… And not coyotes.”

He clicked the safety back on the 12 gauge.

When Jake woke up, the Ol’ Grandad kicked him in his right temple. He was a slender and slight man, with only a bit of a gut now, with thinning yellowish hair and a hard weathered face with warm liquid eyes. It was not a body that had been wracked with a hangover many times, and it didn’t like it.

“Ow,” said Jake.

He sat up in his sleeping bag. Dawn was creeping up over the mountains, and the campfire was damp and dead with dew. Yeller was snoring at his side. Jake looked around and sure enough there was the ’57 pickup—but there was something else.

“Oh, man,” he said, louder. “Oh, John Wesley Harding on crutches!”

On the other side of Jake’s ’57 tan Ford pickup truck, the most beautiful peace of machinery this side of a Mac truck—was a Mac truck. It was a streamliner, the kind they used to make back in the fifties, when trucks were pure and perfect… and it had modern lines and silver tone, and it glistened like something out of Max Fleisher Superman cartoon. It was parked so close to the ’57 Ford, it look like it was nuzzling the thing.

The shock was so great, it made Jake forget he had a hangover.

“Yeller. Yeller. Wake up. Take a look at this!”

The dog whimpered and managed to wake and get up onto all fours. He looked up to Jake expectantly.

“Let’s see who this company is, huh?”

The truck was silent. Jake walked up the to the cab, got up on the sideboard, looked in. No one was inside.

He scratched his head.

He looked down at his dog.

Then he started walking around the expanse of the huge truck and trailer.

“Yo! Mister Serling! Mister Rod Serling! I know you’re here! There’s a signpost up ahead, and it’s labeled THE TWILIGHT ZONE!”

The back door was locked.

The cab, however, was open.

Jake opened the door, and then stood back. It was the passenger’s side, and he’d opened it just to try it—but there it was—a cab. A truck’s cab, but not just any cab. There was a nice smell that came out of it, a new car smell. The seats were fresh vinyl, and there was some kind of excitement riding in it, although there wasn’t anything else in it now but air.

“Well, Yeller. Watcha think…?”

Without warning, the dog leaped up and into the legroom area, wiggled through and pushed itself up into the driver’s seat. It looked back at Jake and it barked happily. Twice.

“Get outta there.”

Twice more Yeller barked.

“Don’t make me come in there and get you. This is someone’s beautiful hunk of paradise, and you’re already covering it with drool!”

The dog barked again.

“Okay. Whatever.”

Jake stepped up onto the running board. He hauled himself into the passenger seat. It felt good. Damned good. It felt as though he’d just sunk his big butt into a chunk of heaven.

Jake had maybe ten seconds of peace before the door closed. It whammed right beside him with a metallic finality. The window glass was all closed up. The desert was shut out.

“What the heck—“ said Jake.

Suddenly, the diesel engine of the Mac started. The proud bulldog ornament on the front hood shuddered a moment, and then was still, shining in the new dawn sun. The vibrations shuddered through Jake, and although it felt alarming at first, there was a soothing quality to the Diesel engine sound. It felt like home.

Still, Jake didn’t like it. A trucker never locked his doors, because a trucker knew that outside was where he really lived, that a truck was just a way to get through Outside.

Jake tugged on the door handle. Pushed. The door did not move. It was locked.

Jack was about to say something. Something profane. But the truck spoke first.

“Biological creatures, hail.”

The radio in the dashboard had come alive. The voice came out of speakers buried somewhere in the depths of the floorboards, deep and resonant.

Suddenly, Jake’s world was all light and thunder.

“Jake.”

“Huh?”

“Jake, I’m speaking to you. Wake up!”

He woke up, and he was in that hospital room again. It seemed as though whatever he said, whatever he did, he ended up in the hospital room again. Over and over. In his daydreams. In his night dreams.

“Rose. I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep.”

“I told you to go home.

“I guess… well… I guess I just didn’t.”

She glared at him.

She still looked beautiful to him, even after thirty five years of marriage. Rose had that infinite female something that was always beautiful. The dying woman made wrinkles look sexy.

“Jake, I just have to say this. I couldn’t sleep last night. Just laying awake, thinking.”

Jake looked at the drug feed, buried in her arm. Jeez, he wished he could stick it in HIS arm.

“Oh?”

“Jake. I’m worried about you.”

“Worried… about me? Rose…. You’re the sick one.”

“Jake. I plucked you right off the vine. You never had a woman before me, did you?”

“Rose… and never after you.”

“That’s just what worries me. I spoiled you rotten. And now I’m going to die.”

“Rose…”

“You listen to me, Jake. I’m going, and you’re still gonna be around. When I’m gone, I want you to bury me, cry a bit… But then I want you to go out and get yourself another woman.”

“But Rose…”

“I’m serious Jake. You’ve got a dog and a truck when I’m gone. And I think you care more for that damned truck than you do for Yeller or me.”

He chuckled. “Well, it IS a ’57 Ford.”

“Yeah. And you’re gonna take some old lady to the drive-theater in your hot ’57 Ford. Wake up, you idiot. Women do not like trucks!”

“I do.”

“Okay, okay, so keep your truck. Just park it in the garage or something. Don’t let any woman see it until she’s sunk her claws into you! And it wouldn’t do any harm to keep Yeller outside while your spooning.”

“Rose…”

“You’re a good looking man, Jake. I sure couldn’t keep my hands off you, not a single day we were together.” She sighed and reached for the pump action on her drugs. “Ah. There we go. That’s better.” She closed her eyes a moment, then opened them again. “Not as good as my Jake, but better.”

“You’re going to be okay, Rose.”

“Sure. But not in THIS life. Are you listening to me? Jake? I had a great life. A woman prays for the kind of life I had.” She took a Kleenex and dabbed her eyes. “A great son to love. A wonderful husband. A mangy good-for-nothing dog.”

“We all love you, Ropey. Stick around.”

“Nope. Not in the cards. You stick around, Jake. And I’ll tell you why… And I’m just telling you to get yourself a new woman so you’ll have another couple of decades on this world.”

She was whispering a bit, so he had to lean forward.

“I don’t…” Something caught in his voice. “I don’t know if I want to be in a world without you, Ropey.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “Sure you do. And I’ll tell you why. You’re a special guy, Jake. Something I been meaning to tell you… never got around to it.”

“What’s that, Rose.”

“Sometimes… sometimes I feel like you’re broadcasting.”

“Broadcasting? What? You mean, like a radio?”

“It’s like, I can hear your thoughts. When you get excited or upset, especially.”

“Oh yeah. You did mention something like that once. Or twice.”

“I’ve told you about it lots, Jake. You know that. And you know well you like to listen to that Art Bell and George Nori Coast-to-Coast stuff when you’re working.”

“I do.”

She was silent for a moment, staring up at him.

“You got a gift. Maybe you should go in to see some scientists. Help mankind.”

He chucked. “Mankind. Mankind’s in a heck of mess now, I grant you. What with these Autobots and Decepticons from another planet…”

“You believe that stuff?”

“People have seen ‘em.”

“People have seen UFOs since the 1940s. People see lots of things. Don’t mean they’re real…” Her face softened and she reached out her hand and touched him. “What you have is real, though, Jake. And I sure wish you’d do something with it while you around. Don’t worry about me.” She laughed. “I see the light, and my old grandma at the other end. And she’s saying, Jump on in. Water’s fine.”

“Broadcast thoughts, huh.”

“I think you know what those science fiction books call it.”

“Yeah. Telepathy.”

“Right.”

He held her hand. “So. What am I thinking now, old girl?”

She squeezed. “Easy. And I love you too, Jake. So much.”

Yeller barked.

It sounded like the damn dog was right in his ear.

The bark came again. It wasn’t Yeller’s angry bark, that feral wolf stuff. It was an excited bark. It was Yeller happy and bouncy again, like a one year old.

Jake opened his eyes. Instead of these usual rheumy experience and the no-glasses blur, he could see everything clearly. They were in that big Mac truck cab… He and Yeller. His lab had its front paws up on the dashboard and was peering out the big front window.

The Mac was moving.

“What the—”

Sure enough, the big wheels were going round and round, and the big truck was turning. Jake was sitting behind the wheel—which moved now of its own accord. By the time he grew accustomed to astonishment, the Mac had stopped, having positioned itself immediately in front of Jake’s Ford ’57. The doors of the truck opened. A ramp moved down like some great iron tongue. It thumped down quietly into the sand by the pick-up.

“You are better now.”

The voice was mechanical, but not monotone. It had a mellifluous quality that spoke of a machine, but also of a being.

“What… Who…?”

“My name is QuickFire. I am known on my world as a Minicon. My world is the world of Transformers, the planet Cybertron.”

“No, you’re not. You’re a Mac truck! I know a damned Mac truck when I see one!”

Yeller barked as though in happy, emphatic agreement. His tail was wagging. He looked healthy and happy. Jake looked down at his usually palsied hands.

They were both steady as rocks.

“Wait a minute. Something about an energizer. My god, have I died and gone to Mac truck heaven? If I haven’t and I get to go back, Art and George are sure going to hear about this!”

“Yes. Life units depleted and tired. Addition minerals and vitamins transformed into corporal form, plus a simple electro-magnetic stimulus. A specialty of mine, you see.”

“I just got a tonic from a Mac truck. Well, who would have thunk!”

“I am a visitor to your world. Times are frightening. I seek sanctuary. I seek to hide here. I was flying overhead… And I heard your thought-beams. They were distressed. I could not help but notice the magnificent vehicle by your side. My sense of aesthetics is aroused!”

“Well yeah, it’s a darn beauty. Still runs like a top. It’s a diesel dream all right.” He tapped the seat beside him. Damn, he felt good! It was great not to be in pain. So delicious to feel like himself again.

“I wish… to cherish her as well.”

“Oh, well, I guess she’s old enough for that. But I’m not certain I know what you’re talking about. In fact, I’m going to just have to up and confess that I’m confused.”

“Little wonder, human being. Your canine friend seems to be happy enough. You will be companions for some time to come. But allow me to explain. And then I shall set before you my proposal.”

Jake listened.

He listened hard and carefully as the voice inside the cab talked of the planet known as Cybertron and its Well of All Sparks and its Sonic Canyons. The planet itself was sentient. It was in fact, at its heart, Primus, God of Light.

As the sun lifted its way up into the desert sky Jake heard about the City of Iacon, and the ideals of this race of sentient machines known as the Transformers.

“Despite the Light and the Good, Evil grew as well. A group of Transformers known as the Decepticons betrayed their Lord and sought power and control. Thus did eons pass, battle after battle.

“It was one such a battle where my partner—the Autobot known as Riptide—was caught in such a strong, pernicious energy beam that he was dreadfully wounded. I carried him here. Before his consciousness withdrew into stasis, he was able to camouflauge himself as a mechanical vehicle known as a Mac truck. I operate from the interior of what you would call an engine casing via one of the Autobot Powerlinx ports. I’m working with Riptide to hopefully heal him while his Spark is in stasis lock.”

“Such was the furor and terror of those battles with the Decepticons that the Mini-cons were scattered. Many, like me, in fear, seeking relief from those terrible, terrible wars. So much fighting, so little peace!”

“Sounds like the planet Earth to me.”

“Yes, the Planet earth has been haven to many Mini-cons. The Decepticons seek us out for their own nefarious uses. Thus, I need to hide.”

“You got yourself a pretty big hunk of truck to hide!”

“I do not seek to secret myself in a hole, Jake. This is my proposal. I scanned you thoroughly last night. I hope you do not mind. I thought energizing might be good recompense.”

“Don’t mind at all.”

“You are a truck driver. I, in my current guise, am a truck driver as well—with a fellow Transformer as my truck. Can we not make some sort of gainful arrangement? Transporting goods along the highways of your United States amongst so many other trucks… Yes, I think this would be a good place to hide.”

“Look, you fixed me, you fixed my dog. And now you want me to drive you—a gorgeous Mack truck. I have gone to Mac heaven.”

“But please, Jake—do not call this Art Bell or George Nori on their late night radio program.”

Oh well. Nothing in this life is perfect.

Jake happily loaded up the ’57 Ford into the back of the Mac. What else was he supposed to do? he thought. Oh no, Mister Galactic Space Robot. No go. Just leave me and my dog in the desert with our new lives, fiddling our paws.

Besides, something deep in Jake told him there was something good about this thing… No, this metal person. It was what, his telepathy, that did it. No, not telepathy. Just good old fashioned plain American instincts, the kind that got his great-great grandpa out all the way from the State of Maryland to Oregon. Pioneer instincts. And those instincts told Jake: Believe.

“Ah. Your vehicle feels good in my hold. I shall create a special hold for her, that will leave plenty of room for goods to be transported.”

“How are you gonna do that?”

“A mere matter of elongation.”

“You mean—you can grow longer? Sounds like magic.”

“Nothing of the sort. A simple operation.”

“Amazing.”

“What is your beautiful vehicle’s name.”

“Well I ain’t original. Yeller here’s named after a dog in a movie. And the truck—well, I call her Nelly Belle, after the jeep in Roy Rogers and Dale Evans shows.”

“Nelly Belle. Somehow that is unsatisfactory.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. May I have your permission to call her… Starheart?”

“Well, sure, I guess. Starheart. That does have kind of a nice ring to it. Yeller. You want to be Planet-growl?”

“Human being?”

“Yes, Quickfire?”

‘I believe you are making fun of me.”

“Having a little josh, I guess.”

“You are a most amusing being… Jake.”

“Not Comet-Jack?”

“Just Jake. Only special galactic beings receive special galactic names.”

Jake laughed. “You name names. Can’t wait to find out what else you can do,” he said. “Hey. Think you can rustle up some kind of breakfast for me and my dog?”

“Breakfast?”

“Food. Energy solids. Whatever.”

“Do you enjoy Energon?”

“Hmm. You know, QuickFire, I think I noticed a greasy spoon attached to a gas station on the road in here. Why don’t we just head out there and I’ll get some ham and eggs. Didn’t bring food with us, except for that steak we cooked up last night. Didn’t think we’d need any, I guess.”

“Do you wish to retrieve your other supplies?”

Jake thought no at first. But then he thought about the Old Grandad. He didn’t know where the heck he was headed, but anyplace was better with a bottle of good hooch available.

They ate a good breakfast, with some surprisingly decent coffee. One of the benefits of Western Oregon civilization hitting Eastern Oregon, Jake guessed. Yeller chewed on a hambone afterward in the passenger seat.

“Where to, human being?” said the truck.

“Let’s go to my house first and do some planning.”

“Are there sufficient trucks to disguise my presence?”

“I live in a blue-collar neighborhood called Beaverton outside of Portland here in Oregon. It’s right next to the biggest highway in the West Coast, Route 5. You can drive all the way from Canada through three big states to Mexico without hitting a stoplight. Yeah, I’d say there are plenty of trucks. And big rigs too. You can even modify yourself a couple extra trailers in Oregon.”

The Transformer was quiet for a moment. Pensive perhaps?

“I perceive your collar was green with some dirt. Are my spectral-readings incorrect?”

Jake slapped the dashboard jocularly. “QuickFire, I can sure tell that you and I are gonna have a lot to talk about on our journeys.”

“I believe I am looking forward to that, human being.”

“Oh come off that, huh? Call me Jake. That’s short for Jacob in case you wondered.”

“Jake. Very well, Jake.”

Yeller barked twice. He stuck his head out the open passenger seat window, as though to say, “C’mon, guys. Let’s move!”

Jake put his hand on the big black knob of the Mack truck’s huge stick shift.

“Say QuickFire. Seeing as how I know the way there back to my house…. Mind if I drive?”

“It would be a pleasure, Jake.”

The big diesel thrummed up.

It hummed with energy and life.

“You got a horn anywhere around here?” said Jake.

“Oh yes, I do believe so, Jake.”

“QuickFire, I think we’re on our way to a beautiful friendship.”

Jake double-clutched, shot the gears into first, and then turned the Mac truck wheel toward the future.

II

“And so, Stanton, old Buddy,” said George Nori on the Coast-to-Coast radio show radio show blaring from the Mac truck’s speakers. “Looks as though there are other creatures in this universe. Only they’re not quite what we expected.”

Stanton Friedman, the world-famous UFO apologist, cleared his throat. “That’s hard to tell, George. We’re going to have to go over all the material. But it looks as though they are a lot closer to the Autobot and Decepticon theories put forward by the Japanese scientists.”

Young Yeller barked twice at the radio. Then it turned its face back to the window and stuck out its snout into the cooling night wind.

“You tell ‘em, Yeller,” said Jake.

Yeller had gotten to start talking back to the radio. He was like a young pup again, all right.

Jake sipped at his fresh coffee, new from the thermos he’d just gotten on a stop in Ashland, Oregon. He was in a low gear, going up the Siskiyou grade easy-like. They had a load of some kind of electronics they were taking all the way from North of Seattle down to the Bay Area. Maybe a gift from Bill Gates at MicroSoft to Steven Jobs at Apple. Yeah, right.

“So where does that put all the work with Roswell and the like, Stan?”

There was a brief pause. “I’m sure there are plenty of room for grays and abductions in here somewhere.”

“Can’t let it go, can you, Friedman!” bellowed Jake. He looked out at the cool stars overhead. Nice thing about driving a big rig like QuickFire, you could enjoy driving manually as long as you wanted, and then take a snooze—without pulling off into a rest stop. QuickFire just kept on chugging.

They’d been together just seven months, and they were already cleaning up—without a whole lot of work. Jake just pulled the quick routes—fast and clean, and he had plenty of loads. Damned heavy loads too—and it was the damned funniest thing to check in at weight stations, have the attendent look at you like you were clearly criminals to have such a load—but then clock in a couple tons under.

As QuickFire would always say, “Anti-grav is one of my favorites!”

Yep, QuickFire seemed happy as a clam. They spent long weekends at Jake’s “hacienda” as he liked to call his polite ranch house, with QuickFire and Bessie canoodling and QuickFire monitoring solar signals or whatever the heck it was that QuickFire did with galactic whoosits and whatsits. And he seemed to take to hearing about Earth, and was happy to respond with incredible stories of the starways. In any case, the Mini-Con attached to the Transformer seemed to be helping to repair the larger Transformer, Riptide. There had been one whole week of vacation too, about six months along, when QuickFire just said, “No journeys this week, Jake. Please take care of Starheart. I need to hibernate a while.”

Well that was fine. Jake and Yeller took their tent and sleeping bags out to the coast and had a nice time howling at the moon. No Ol’ Grandad, though. Somehow, after his own healing from that bio-ray, Jake had lost the taste. Coffee was his drug of choice, and it always had to be good Pacific Northwest blends.

Jake took a nice sip of it now, as he listened to late night radio and QuickFire reached the top of the grade. He liked it with honey and two percent milk. Ah. Paradise.

“Just a minute, Stanton,” said George Nori on the radio. “I’ve got something coming over the ABC wire… Something Gail is calling urgent… I’m reading it even as I’m getting it. There are reports of a huge. Decepticon and Autobot battle—oh my God, Stan.”

“Greys? The greys have arrived?” said the other voice.

“No. It’s in Yellowstone National Park. Stanton… the seismic and volcanic pressures there are just incredible. We’ve done shows about Yellowstone. If the magnitude of force that’s pushing up from the center of the Earth blows out, it could bring unbelievable devastation. Geologists say a mega-volcano like that could possibly take out the whole West Coast.”

“And the size of the volcanic clouds…” said Stanton Friedman, sounding like suddenly Roswell New Mexico was more than sixty years and a government cover-up away.

“It would cause unbelievable havoc in the planet’s eco-system, Stan. So if someone’s out there that is actually communicating with these violent-crazed sentient robots from outer space… Could you tell them, please. Either cut it out, or take it to Mars or something.”

“Richard Hoagland would like that.”

“Oh yeah. Hoagland says that the Face on Mars is that of a Transformer…”

“I guess we were right all along,” said Friedman. “For the sake of the human race—I wish we hadn’t been.”

Jake tapped on the wheel. “Hey, QuickFire. You hear that?”

“Yes, Jake.”

“Those friends of yours…. If they want to duke it out, why not take it to Mars, like Stanton says?”

“You do not understand the evil of Megatron, and his minions, Shockwave, Skywarp and Starscream. They would enjoy such a huge explosion. Many beings have been crushed by their malicious… what is the proper human word for it?… shenanigans. In fact, I would not be surprised if Megatron somehow discovered such a tender part of the planet Earth and seeks such an outcome… And perhaps that is why Optimus Prime and the other Transformers are battling them.”

“That could be. But could it also be that this Optimus Prime doesn’t know?”

“That is a reasonable possibility.”

“And YOU can talk to Mr. O. Prime, QuickFire?”

“Yes. Humans can speak to him as well.

“But I don’t think there are going to be many around, with such havoc and devastation going on, right?”

“That is not for me to say.”

Jake thought for a moment.

He looked over at his dog. Yeller was bathed in the soft light from the radio. He stared at it. As though sensing Jake’s gaze, he turned to him. Then barked. Three times.

“You got that, QuickFire?”

“I have been happy, Jake. I have relinquished… death and the cataclysmic violence that causes so much death.”

“So you’ve become a pacifist. That’s what you’ve been trying to say all this time.”

“A pacifist. I believe that is a good enough word, although there is too much oil on my hands to deserve such an honor.”

“Killed a lot of Deceptions and their ilk, huh? I gotta tell you, these boys sound like they make the Nazis look good!”

There was silence from the Minicon who was partnered with the Transformer.

“Look, I tell you what, QuickFire. There’s no reason to not hate war. I sure do. Especially after one took my son away. But there’s also nothing wrong with guarding your own, and I’d say even now… these roads are yours, QuickFire. And Yeller and I wouldn’t be here now without you. So we’re yours now too, I guess.”

The Transformer took almost no time to respond.

“Your inference, your logic… Magnificent. My growing emotional values swell. Very well. We will warn Optimus Prime and the Autobots.”

“You bet… We can be at Yellowstone before dawn.”

“Oh, Jake—a good deal sooner than that, I think. I see you are well harnessed…” The Mac truck began to speed up. Somehow, roaring like jet turbines, the vehicle pushed its speed dial up to eighty… past ninety… past a hundred.

“However, please secure Yeller. Your arms will do.” Jake had just time enough to clamp his jaw shut, before he reached over and grabbed the lab. “What the heck are you doing?”

If QuickFire answered, the sound was lost in the clatter of the front bumper and grill of the Mac truck tearing apart the fence toward the edge of the mountain.

“QuickFire… that’s a cliff. You’re going off road and off a cliff!”

Then a greater force hit the Mac. The dial went to its limit… and then broken, it bounced back to zero. The ground seemed to fall away from below his feet. He felt like Slim Pickens in Dr. Strangelove, riding the A-bomb down to nuke Russia, but he did not fancy waving a hat and yelling “Whoopee.” He felt terror.

He did not however feel he and Yeller were going to die.

No he felt as though God had taken him up in his fist and was hammering him now toward a mission.

He felt… trust.

Jake then heard the awesome, teeth-shaking roar of rockets, and the g-forces ripped his lips back against his face, and finally he felt like making a good old fashioned American yell, but then he found that nothing was coming out.

So he just hung onto Yeller and the safety harness for dear, dear life.

Up and up the Transformer went, toward the stars, bursting up from the Siskiyou mountains toward Yellowstone National Park. Jake had heard the tales on Coast-to-Coast—and other media lately—of how these huge things from the stars could rocket up toward the stratosphere, and even while doing so could change into giant robots.

What kind of robot, he wondered, was QuickFire turning into? He’d never asked. He’d always thought of the Transformer as a Mac truck. It was kind of like being Clark Kent’s best friend without ever wanting to see that blue uniform and red cape beneath the suit and tie.

However, even as the g-forces abated, Jake could look out the side window. The cab had not morphed too much. It still looked as though they were in a Mac truck cabin. However, to either side, he noticed that bright silver wing-like appendages stuck out, to catch lift.

“Yeller! You okay, boy?”

Bark! Bark! Affirmative.

“Well I never,” said Jake. “Never thought I’d be up in a rocket. This is amazing.”

“Biological units unharmed?” asked the concerned voice of their host.

“Guess I’ve been better physically, Quickie… But ye—hah. That was some ride.”

“Ye—hah?”

“A cry of celebration. Usually from a human cowboy.”

“Oh yes. I can source it in my memory banks. It seems most appropriate. A cry a exaltation and release.”

“And butt-kickin’ triumph.”

“Yet I source much about ye-haw that is not triumph, my human friend.”

“Yeah, it’s being in the middle of something bigger than you are…. And experiencing life.”

“Sentience?”

“Yes, and all the sensory trimmings. Try it, Quick-Fire.”

“Try what?”

“Say ‘Yee-hah’.”

“Yee. Hah.”

Yeller barked.

“Yeller says you got to put some heart into it.” Jake peered out. He could see that somehow what had once been a Mac truck’s cab was now a blister riding atop a shiny metal airship. Below was Mount Shasta, its magnificent snow-topped peak riding like some King Rock above Northern California. Surrounding this were smaller peaks and majestic forests. Looking down on them was the most thrilling thing that Jake had ever seen. “And now were reaching up for the clouds and the stars. I tell you, Quick Fire. I may not live to see the dawn. But—Yeeeeee Haaaaaa!”

QuickFire said, “Yee Ha. Yee Ha. Yee… I fear that I do not reach the heights of your eloquence Jake. Perhaps I should concentrate on the internal turbo and magneto-repulsor components of my weapons systems that I may soon have to employ.”

“You do that. I’ll load my shotgun.” He reached back to the gun rack behind the seat. “Yeller here—he’s already loaded.”

“Soon” was indeed the operable word. With a quick parabolic flight, the Transformer named QuickFire and his two passengers were approaching their destination. It was not necessary to check the extensive navigational equipment that QuickFire had access to. Already they could see the glare and corona of explosions, rising up like stylized flames in the night.

“A mighty battle indeed,” stated QuickFire. “Both armies must have their full complement of aerial dynamic soldiers.”

“And these are the Autobots and the Decepticons?” said Jake.

“Yes,” said QuickFire. His voice was terse. He sounded almost—afraid.

The mighty voice of the Transformer known as Optimus Prime rang out across the ruined forests and wrecked lands and sulphurous smells of the National Park known as Yellowstone National.

“Megatron! I call upon you!”

Dust and fires parted. Hovering two hundred yards away, near a butte, were the Decepticons. The energies that drove them was beyond comprehension—and all of it was dark energy. It seemed to crackle between the space robots, renewing their enthusiasm for carnage.

“I listen, Prime Ignorant One—for now,” bellowed the arrogant reply from Megatron. The two were both hundreds of feet high—but somehow Megatron looked much larger than his Forces of Light counterpart.

“Might we not make a treaty for now? I have just received radio transmission from an associate of great dangers below our battles here,” said Optimus Prime. The others of the Autobots—arrayed to his flanks like some silicon and metal football team from the future—grunted and clanked in agreement.

“That’s right, Megatron!” cried the Autobot known as Hot Shot. “Looks like we tripped some kind of gasket with our clashing lasers and blasters.”

À mighty metal hand pointed down to the lake, bubbling madly. To the geysers, blowing up thousands of feet. Even now, the very land seemed to tremble with fright and fury below these dreadful forces from the stars.

“Let’s at least move to a less volatile battleground,” said the Autobot known as Smokescreen.

“Pah!” said Megatron. “Let this land blow if it likes. Let the very planet crack. What do we care. We are the Decepticons.”

“You will doubtless lose the Minicons then,” said Optimus Prime. “And your shortcut to the rule of the galaxy.”

“Hmm. Yes,” said Megatron. “I would indeed like to rule the galaxy. However, one way or the other, it will be mine.” He chuckled nastily. “And I do indeed feel like some death and destruction today. Destroy them, my minions! They plead for treaty because they are sorely wounded and secret cowards. Attack!”

“You must stay here, my friends,” said QuickFire. “Out there is no place for biological beings now.”

The Transformer had landed, bent down and carefully allowed his passengers to crawl out of him. Then, with equal care, it had disgorged Nelly Belle the truck. QuickFire’s Starheart.

“Looks like that firefight’s started up again. I thought it was over for a minute there,” said Jake. His hand tightened on his twelve gauge shotgun. “You be careful out there and come back in one piece. And if you don’t, we’ll just have to put you together again, I guess.”

Yeller barked.

“Farewell, my friends,” said QuickFire. “I go to my destiny.”

Rockets blared as the Transformer went off to battle.

“Right where I’ve always wanted you, Optimus Prime, said Megatron. “Receive eternal night with gratitude.”

The evil Transformer started to loose every last bit of its reserve energies upon the Autobot leader.

However, from the sky though seemingly from nowhere, a giant metal boot slammed down like the hammer of Thor, directly into Megatron’s face. The giant robot slammed back, wheeling its big arms in balance, failing and falling into a huge pool of hot mud below the cliff face of the butte.

“It’s QuickFire. And RipTide.”

“Where did they come from?”

“I thought they were dead.”

“In a way,” said the Transformer. “I was. However the life that had died beside me grew again, like a phoenix from the flames. And though I have hidden, I can hide no longer. I have returned to fight against evil—with all of my—“

With lightning speed, Megatron heaved himself from the mud pit, fell upon QuickFire. But not to fight. No, with surgical precision Megatron used a laser beam to pull QuickFire from RipTide’s chest. Then he stepped back beside the butte, holding the Minicon up, cackling.

“A Minicon. Oh, yes. I have a Minicon. I need but to attach it to myself and I will have more power than even I can imagine.”

“No,” cried QuickFire. “You cannot do this thing.” It stumbled forward.

The other Deceptions rammed forward, holding back the Autobots, to give Megatron time to achieve his task.

“Mine!” cackled Megatron, pulling the Mini-Con to one of his Powerlinx Ports on his arms while configuring the necessary connections. “All—“

A flying Ford 57 pick-up slammed into the Decepticon’s fist. The MiniCon was hurled away. It and the pick up truck sank immediately from sight.

“What?!” said Megatron. “Who has done this?”

“Yeee haw!” cried Jake from the butte. “Over here you bucket of rusty bolts. You may want to conquer the universe, but you ain’t never dealt with the like of Henry Ford’s Transformers before!” He laughed. “Oh yeah. Two more things.”

Jake lifted the twelve gauge. With cool sighting and good shooting, he slammed two shells worth of buckshot straight into Megatron’s ventral sensor array.

“Arggggh!” cried Megatron. Blindly, he rammed his fist down toward the attacker. Jake ran back, dodging it. Sheesh, it was the size of a monster boulder.

Even as he rolled back, he heard Yeller running up, barking.

“Yeller! I told you to stay put,” cried Jake.

Yeller ran straight up, lifted a leg and started peeing on Megatron’s fist.

“Arggh! Acid!” cried the Transformer.

Jake hurled forward, grabbed the yellow lab and yanked him away, just as the fist pulled back up again.

“I’ll get you, human!” cried Megatron. “And your little dog too.”

The giant robot loomed, even as Jake and Yeller crabbed away madly.

However, before Megatron could do a thing, another robot slammed into him in an earth-shattering collision.

“QuickFire. RipTide. Give that rotten Decepticon what for!”

Jake retreated as fast as he could, dragging his barking dog along.

“We have retrieved the Mini-Con,” cried Red Alert.

Jake watched as the Transformer hauled the dripping component up toward the more stable land.

“Excellent,” said Optimus Prime. He watched as the lights in the sky that were the Decepticons faded. “They were sorely beaten this day and have sustained much damage. However, doubtless they will return.”

Jake looked up at the giant robots. “You don’t look so good yourselves, folks.”

They all were smoking as badly as Yellowstone Park.

“Our materials are durable and our injuries will heal,” said Optimus Prime.

Jake shook his head. “Hey. You know… if you can fish the MiniCon out… Maybe you can fish Nelly Belle out.

“Nelly Belle?” said Optimus Prime.

From the component that had been knocked from Megatron’s fist came: “The vehicle that the human named Jake propelled from the cliff to knock me from the Decepticon’s grasp.”

“Oh,” said Optimus Prime. “That magnificent pick up truck. Yes indeed, and we shall use all our diagnotics machines and mechanical processes to restore it.”

“Quickie,” said Jake. “Your voice—it’s coming

from…”

“Yes. I told you… I am a MiniCon. A smaller Transformer.”

“But the Mac truck.”

“I am Riptide. It was I who had died… but through hope and faith—and something else…. I rose again from The Matrix.. And once more exist….”

“We must reconnect and join this group,” said QuickFire. Jake could see that he was human-sized.

“Not now,” said Optimus Prime. “There is too much threat that you will be wrested from our grasp again. But your method of hiding seemed very effective and was not seen by the Decepticons. Might you employ it again?”

“You mean, link up and transform into the tractor trailer truck, to ride the highways of this great country once more?”

“Yes, and in truth, I envy you,” said Optimus Prime.

“That would be fantastic. That would be great!” cried Jake. “Man, trucking for the stars!”

Yeller barked happily.

And after reattaching himself to the Transformer named Riptide, QuickFire and Riptide said:

“Yeeeee ha!”

With heart.

Sean P. Fodera — Prime Spark

THE POWER ARC building before the prow of the Decepticon ship blazed with pent up energy. As every gauge in the Autobase control center maxed out with the readings, Sideswipe and Jetfire dropped their hands from the controls and swung toward the viewscreen. Their young human friends, Alexis and Rad stared in horror at Megatron’s latest threat to the Autobots and Earth. Several Mini-Cons gathered about Hot Shot’s feet as he turned to Optimus Prime seeking some last, desperate solution.

He discovered that Optimus was no longer in the command center.

Minutes fled between the explosion of the comet that had alerted the Autobots to the existence of the Deception ship and that ship arming itself against Earth. Though the Autobots as a whole were unable to react, it remained clear to Optimus Prime that Megatron could not be allowed to harm the humans. In desperation, Optimus acted with a speed that precluded issuing orders to any of the other Autobots.

He lanced through the atmosphere, hurtling toward the Decepticon ship at maximum thrust. He saw the energy weapon gathering itself for firing. As he slammed himself to a stop, defiant in the face of doom, he felt he could almost hear Megatron laughing inside his head.

The weapon fired an intense beam of energy toward the Earth’s sole defender. Almost reflexively, Optimus activated the Matrix chamber embedded in his chest. The two forces, one constructive and one destructive, met with supernova glare.

In the midst of the energies coursing over his body, Optimus felt his armored shell begin to disintegrate. Systems began to fail, and bonded parts to separate. As the effect spread to encompass his entire form, Optimus’ optical system registered that the Decepticon ship was turning away from Earth. He managed one fleeting thought, “You may have killed me, but you lost the battle, Megatron.”

In the millisecond before consciousness vanished, one stray, illogical thought wafted through his mind. “Again.”

The bright light of a white and silver void sparkled across Optimus Prime’s vision. It washed over him in waves of silent peace, but it could not supercede the desire to pursue Megatron which clung tenaciously in his mind. Knowing that Megatron would be taking that weapon back to Cybertron made it impossible to give himself over to the alluring call of the void.

In a subtle transition that may have taken seconds or years, the void began to fade. After a time, through the misty fog that remained, Optimus could make out… a table and chairs? With a jolt, he came back to full awareness, and the fog faded completely, showing him a small room with metal walls and a bulkhead door opposite his position.

“I know this place,” he said.

“I should hope so. You still have a tab running,” said a voice from behind him.

Optimus spun and raised his arm to aim his blaster ports at the source of the voice. His arm seemed to have ideas of its own. It rose to aim, but continued rising until it was in front of his optical sensors. He could see that his arm and hand were cloaked in a white and silver fog. Incredulous, he looked down his entire body only to find that he was entirely wreathed in the gleaming substance.

“I have to admit, it’s a nice look on you, Optimus.” He looked up, and saw the speaker walking past him toward the table. He was a Cybertronian, blue armored and stern-faced for all his light banter. He carried a tray bearing an assortment of cups and a very large pitcher. He set the tray on the table, and turned back toward Optimus.

Recognition dawned. “You’re the bartender from Maccadams Old Oil House. But … that’s back on Cybertron,” Optimus said aloud.

“As you say,” said the bartender. “Sorry I can’t stay, but its a busy day out in the main room. I think this pitcher should be enough for you and the others. If not, just knock on the door, and I’ll get you more.” The bartender exited swiftly through the door by which he had entered.

Optimus had barely begun to process this information when a bright spot of white light began to grow in the far corner of the room. Optimus backed himself toward the wall, and again raised his arm in preparation for defense.

The light formed a ball, and grew again to nearly Optimus’ height. A figure coalesced as arms, legs and a head emerged. Optimus tried to get a sensor reading of the figure, but his sensors refused to activate. He found, in fact, that though he could see, hear, speak, think and move, he could not access any of his primary or secondary systems. A quick check even showed that he could not power up his blaster ports, though he kept them squarely aimed.

As the light glowed less fiercely, Optimus could see that the figure was also cloaked in a white fog. If it was as befuddled in adjusting to its new environment as he had been — was still — it would likely not be a danger right away.

As its form became clearer, something about the being struck Optimus’ awareness. He looked again. “It can’t be,” he said.

The figure turned toward him, also prepared to defend. One look at Optimus stopped it in mid-motion, and Optimus could now clearly see the odd detail that had surprised him.

Looking back at Optimus was his own face, though attached to a body like none he’d ever seen before.

“Optimus… Prime?” the figure asked.

Optimus could only stare silently, even unaware that they both stood aiming inactive weapons at one another.

The other figure was much broader through the shoulders than Optimus. A moment’s observation showed that its head was not exactly the same as Optimus, but close enough that they could have been brothers — were such a thing possible for Cybertronians. Further defining the oddity of the other, Optimus could see through the white mist that the other’s arms, hands, torso, legs and feet gave the impression of being … hairy?

Lowering its weapon, the other tried again. “It is you, isn’t it, Prime?” the other asked again.

Finding his voice, Optimus replied slowly, “Yes. I am Optimus Prime. Who…?”

The other partially bowed. “I am Optimus Primal. Leader of the Maximals.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t think I do either.” Primal said. “The last thing I remember is triggering a transwarp explosion in Earth’s orbit. Then I was here.” He looked around. “Is this where our Sparks go when we die?”

The thought raced through Optimus’ mind. “Perhaps, though the bartender seemed alive enough. What were you doing in Earth orbit? The last thing I recall is being hit by a Decepticon weapon, and there was no one else around.”

Primal noted the pitcher and cups on the table, and moved toward them. “I think I need a drink.”

Optimus stepped forward to join him, but stopped short. “Primal! You’re fading!”

Raising his hands before his optics, Primal saw that Optimus was right. Not only was the glow around him decreasing, he could now see partway through his arms, where before they had been white, but solid. Looking toward Optimus, he felt his optics dimming, and his energy draining. “What is it?” he managed to say. The sound was barely audible, and yet Optimus could hear it clearly in the back of his mind.

“I don’t…” Optimus found himself cut-off as Primal’s form faded swiftly until it nearly vanished. There was a moment where Primal seemed to hover on the edge of invisibility, when there came a blinding flash from his core. Optimus shied away as an agonized shriek exploded inside his head.

Just as when he had appeared in the room, a ball of white light grew. As it began to grow in size, it split into two parts, and the mental scream ceased. One of the lights moved laterally, until it paused a few meters to Primal’s right. It also began to expand to normal size, though in yet another configuration Optimus could not fathom.

This figure was shimmering between an approximation of Primal, and another form unlike any Cybertronian of Optimus’ experience. Bulky in a way even the massive Decepticon Tidalwave had never appeared, every part of its form bulged with power, and Optimus could not imagine how it even stood upright. Though it still retained the hairy aspects of Primal, its head was nothing like either Primal’s or Optimus’ — no antennae and no faceplate. Just watching it shimmer back-and-forth was making Optimus question his gyros.

As the figure came near to solidity, Primal also began to solidify, though both were not quite as substantial as Primal had been originally. As far out of his experience as things had been thus far, this sight took Optimus to a whole new level of confusion.

The new figure was looking directly at Optimus. “Optimus… Prime?” it asked. Its voice was eerily like Primal’s, though it echoed slightly in the room, and within Optimus’ head.

“Yes.”

The figure raised an arm that bulged and shrank as its form fluctuated, and Primal echoed the motion just slightly out of sync with him. With that motion, the new figure noticed Primal for the first time. He stood quietly for a moment and stared. “Optimus Primal?” A pause. “Hmm… yes. There is something familiar in all this.”

Primal returned the stare, “Who are you?” Primal’s voice echoed in the same way as the newcomer’s.

“You should probably just call me ‘Optimal.’ Both of you.” He gestured to include Optimus. “Where are we?”

Although still puzzling over the similarity between Optimal and Primal, as well as the manner of Optimal’s arrival, Optimus attempted to take the initiative. He stepped closer to the table, “We were just about to…”

His voice trailed off as he realized that he too was now fading from sight. With the realization came a sinking feeling, as if he was being drawn slowly away from the room and its occupants. His sense of his surroundings began to pull inward upon himself.

As if his mind had suddenly struck a titanic armored wall, Optimus let loose a monstrous silent scream. Though he could not see them, both Primal and Optimal were knocked backward as Optimus’ mental banshee shriek struck them.

Optimus reeled within himself, the sensation of being torn in two overcoming what little of his senses remained. Unable to seek an anchor in an endless void that threatened to consume him completely, he saw for a brief second a white flash move slowly away from him. Then, everything turned pitch black for an eternal span of moments.

When he came to his senses, he was back in the Oil House room. His gaze was directed downward, and he could see that he was now as foggily transparent as Primal and Optimal were. With a lurch, he looked up and to his right in the direction that Primal and Optimal were also looking.

Standing beside him was his own ghostly form.

With a look that was returned with mirror-like precision, he took in the figure again. The two skimmed their optics over one another, noticing minor physical differences. Yet, in total, they were apparently one and the same.

“Optimus Prime?” The echoes of their two voices reverberated for several seconds in the room and through all four minds. With it came a quick mental image of this new Prime handing his Matrix to another Autobot.

Without hesitation, Primal stepped forward boldly, and grabbed the pitcher from the table. He poured out a healthy measure of oil into a cup, and downed it.

He gazed at the cup. “Damned if that isn’t Maccadam’s finest. This must be Cvbertron.”

As this was the first concrete, remotely understandable thing that had happened to them, the other three each helped themselves to a cup, and drained their drink.

“You are right. That’s a sensation I would never mistake.” Optimus said.

“No question about it,” said his doppelganger.

“Would anyone care to figure out what’s going on here before someone else shows up?” Primal asked.

Optimal reached over for a chair, and settled himself at the table. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. We’re all here now.”

Jointly, Optimus and the latest Prime turned on him. “How do you know? Did you have something to do with bringing us here?”

“No.” Optimal said with great seriousness. “While I do have a certain ‘affinity’ for temporal issues, there are only four chairs and four cups. Whoever gathered us here apparently invited no one else.”

There was a calming logic in the observation, so the others also took seats.

Primal seized the initiative in getting back to his and Optimus’ original topic of conversation. “Before Optimal and… Prime, I guess… appeared, Optimus and I were wondering if this might not be the afterlife — the libations notwithstanding. The last thing I recall is a huge transwarp explosion. I think we all picked up the image that transmitted of Prime giving up his Matrix. What about the two of you?”

Optimus tipped his head in a nod. “I absorbed a huge hit to my Matrix while shielding Earth from a Decepticon weapon. I felt my form disintegrate before reappearing here.”

Prime clarified his memory. “Megatron and I were also fighting furiously near Autobot City on Earth when he damaged me severely before I killed him. I handed over my Matrix to one of my Autobots, Ultra Magnus, just before finding myself here.”

“Earth?” asked Optimus. “I know of no other Autobots on Earth. And we never founded any Autobot City. What are you…”

“Peace, Optimus,” Optimal interrupted. “We’ve found a common thread to follow. Moments ago, I was locked in battle with the Predacon Megatron within the clashing forces of a Plasma Energy Chamber and the Vector Sigma. I would guess that this…” he gestured to his still shifting form, “…has something to do with those forces.”

Prime spoke past his cup. “Other than that we all may have died at Megatron’s hands, I’m still confused by all this. Aside from the illogical idea that we are in Maccadams, where are we and why?”

The door to the main room opened, and the four heard the rumble of voices, the beat of music, and even the sudden sound of someone falling to the floor before the door swung shut behind the bartender. He eyed them swiftly, and approached the table with two more pitchers. “I figured you might all get to talking and forget to call me for a refill. Here you go.” He placed the pitchers on the table, and turned to go.

“Wait one minute.” Optimus called.

The bartender stopped and looked back, but there was clear amusement radiating from him. “Hmm…”

“You knew we were coming and that there would be four of us. I… we want to know what this is all about.”

An unnecessary round of agreement was heard from the others.

“I don’t know much that I can tell you. The room was reserved for four. I was asked to make our guests comfortable for a short while. Now, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to my other customers.” He started for the door again.

Primal leapt from his seat and was on the bartender in a single bound. He wrapped his arms around the bartender’s torso, and hugged with all his strength. It was a futile effort as his semi-transparent arms flowed off the bartender’s armor. Then, with a flash of white light, Primal was thrown off, and all three of the others were sent reeling backward in their seats as if they too had been struck.

The bartender continued to the door without pause. As he exited, he threw a quiet comment over his shoulder, “You know we don’t allow fighting in Maccadams.” The door closed behind him.

With a shake, Primal got up and staggered to the door. He tried to operate the handle several times, but his hand flowed off it like water. Each attempt tired him more until he gave up and returned to the table. He poured himself a cup, paying careful attention to his ability to grasp and use the pitcher. He downed the drink, then picked up Optimal’s cup and downed that one too. “We can drink with no problem, but we can’t walk out of here. Can’t even fight our way out.”

“Someone must still want us here,” Prime said.

“Yes.” Primal gazed at his arms and the bit of table showing through them. He brought them together, and they all heard a satisfying clang. They all felt the impact vibrate through their own forearms.

“Affinities,” Optimal said.

“You’ve lost me,” said Prime. “I’ve experienced an awful lot of strange things since my Autobots left Cybertron in the Ark, but this situation…”

Optimal sat straighter, though his fluctuating form disguised the motion. “This must have something to do with affinities. Relationships. Kinships. Particles and objects far from one another can be complementary and have an affinity for one another.”

“During my time on Earth…” Optimus said, “…I read a book by a human physicist named Robert Nagisa. Most human physicists believe that every particle has an equal and opposite particle somewhere in the universe. Nagisa, on the other hand, believes that it is probable that the complements for many particles in our own universe are actually to be found in other dimensions or universes. His work is controversial, but he is getting close to some proven principles of Cybertronian physics. Is that what you mean by ‘affinities’?”

Leaning forward, Prime said, “I’ve also read a great deal of human scientific research. I’ve never heard of Nagisa or his theory.”

“Humans didn’t play much role on Earth in my time,” said Primal.

“I haven’t read this Nagisa either,” said Optimal, “but I’d have to agree with your general interpretation. That’s exactly what I mean. Here is where it gets interesting. Prime? You said you ‘left Cybertron in the Ark.’ Do you recall much else about your battles on Earth with Megatron and his Decepticons?”

“I remember every battle as if it were only yesterday. I remember every fallen Autobot, every damaged human city, and the great many humans who fell to Megatron’s plans. I regret immensely that the flight of the Ark lead Megatron to that peaceful little planet.”

Primal tipped his cup toward Prime. “Your compassion is what makes you the Optimus Prime I’ve always admired.”

“Wait one moment!” Optimus interjected. “I am Optimus Prime!”

Prime turned to him. “I can’t help but see the resemblance between us, but I am Optimus Prime as certainly as my name was once Optronix.”

“That was before you received the Matrix from Sentinel Prime,” Primal added.

“It was, and a long time ago,” Prime agreed.

“How? How can there be two of us? I have been the Autobot leader for years. There is no reference in either the Autobot or Mini-Con archives to another Optimus Prime.” Optimus tried to ground himself in fact.

“Mini-Cons?” the other three chorused.

Optimus looked about at the group. “Mini-Cons. The human-sized mechanical race on Cybertron whom we Autobots followed to Earth to protect from Megatron.”

For the first time since his own arrival, the room was absolutely silent.

“What?” he asked.

“There are no other beings on Cybertron other than Autobots, Maximals, Decepticons, Predacons, and minor variations thereof,” Optimal stated. “I’ve never heard of Mini-Cons.”

“And I’ve only ever heard of one Optimus Prime,” Primal said. “I’ve always been a student of his career, so I know quite a bit about him. I thought you were Optimus Prime when we first arrived, but I can see now there are differences between you and the historical records. I don’t think you are Optimus Prime.”

“Perhaps then it was he who brought us here,” proposed Prime.

Before Optimus could respond, Optimal stepped in, “Set your doubts aside, Primal. And you, Prime. I believe that he is as much Optimus Prime as Prime there is.”

“What?!” Optimus and Prime asked.

Optimal set his hands down on the table, as if for support. “I think I have figured out a good part of this identity mystery. We are all ‘Primes’ in the sense that we are all the leader of a group, whether they are Autobots or Maximals, charged with protecting Cybertron.”

“What is a Max…” Optimus and Prime tried to ask.

Optimal cut them off. “Let’s not get bogged down in definitions. Suffice it to say we are all equals. In some ways more equal than we might think.

“Prime there is Optimus Prime - successor to Sentinel Prime, leader of the Autobots, creator of the Ark, and defender of Earth and Cybertron.

“Optimus there is also Optimus Prime - leader of the Autobots, protector of these Mini-Cons, and defender of Earth and Cybertron. Just not the same Earth and Cybertron.”

“I’m getting a little tired of having to ask these questions,” Optimus said. “What are you saying?”

Optimal appeared not to have heard. “Prime? Do you have any memory at all of Primal here?”

Prime sat quietly for a moment, gathering his memories. “Not that I recall. However, I have been thinking for a while that there is something familiar about him.”

“’I’m fairly certain I’d remember meeting my hero. Primus knows I’m not likely to forget today,” Primal added.

“I know you would. You just wouldn’t remember it, yet.” Optimal gestured to forestall more interruptions. “Let me lay this out carefully. Prime is the one and same Optimus Prime whom Primal and I have admired for all of our existence. Although the oddness of this situation masked it, I would also recognize him anywhere. Time is what is keeping us from making sense of this puzzle.

“Prime, once long ago, you were nearly awakened from your sleep in the Ark. Your awakening caused a timestorm, and in the course of it, your Spark merged with Primal’s for a short time. That is why you seem to remember him.” Primal started to object, but Optimal continued. “I know you don’t remember it, Primal. For you, it hasn’t happened yet. I think we have to figure out the full meaning of this meeting if it is to have any chance of happening.” “Go on. We’re listening.” Prime said.

“No we are not,” said Optimus. “None of this makes sense. You are speaking rather expertly about Prime and Primal, and other than marginalizing my involvement, you’re not addressing either you or I.”

“I’m coming to that, Optimus. Things are only becoming clearer as I continue. I came to this room as confused as you. I did say I had a certain affinity for temporal issues, and I am using it as best I can. May I please continue?”

Optimus grabbed the nearest pitcher for another refill. “Go ahead.”

Optimal took a long draught from his cup. “This is the hard part for me. I’m not sure how to explain it best.” He drew himself up straight in his seat, and actually reached out to take Primal’s hand in his own morphing one. “Primal? I am you. Or…I was you. Or…I am a future you. It’s all rather hard to explain. Just as there will be an event that unites you and Prime for a time, something is supposed to happen in your future that will lead to you becoming me.” Primal looked at the two ghostly hands on the table. Although there was no pulse of coolant or thrum of machinery to be felt in it, he could not deny the connection between them. Their thoughts had mingled and echoed since Optimal had arrived, and more so since Prime arrived.

Optimus looked at them, and reluctantly said. “That would explain why Optimal’s form separated itself from yours, Primal. I saw it happen.” Faintly in their minds, all four of them witnessed Optimal’s appearance as Optimus gave it serious thought.

Primal looked up. “But…that is what happened when Prime arrived. Only he emerged out of you. Could you be some earlier version of him?”

Prime and Optimus shared a look, and though they felt a kinship, it was obvious to them that it was not the same bond that joined Primal and Optimal. “No. That’s not it,” they said.

“Their connection isn’t temporal, like you and I,” Optimal attempted to explain. “That is why I said that Optimus is the defender of a different Earth and Cybertron.”

“Are you saying I’m from some other dimension?” Optimus asked.

After a pause, Optimal said, “Yes. I do believe that would explain it.”

All four of them sat back to consider this development. For long minutes, the only sound was the occasional tap as one of them set his cup on the table, or the clink of the pitcher touching the lip of a cup. Through it all, Optimal and Primal continued to hold hands.

“So?” Optimus finally broke the silence. “Since we were all dead before we arrived here, are we just supposed to sit here sharing drinks and war stories for eternity?”

“Almost certainly not,” Optimal said. “As I said, I’m the future Primal. I know for a fact that neither he, nor Prime, died in those incidents they reported. I know they go on to further adventure. You and I, Optimus, are the unknowns in this equation.”

“So, what then?” Primal asked.

“We’re here for Optimus,” stated Prime.

“Not that I want to question you, Prime, but how do you get to that answer?” Primal said.

Prime sat back. “I’ve been activated for a very, very long time, and have fought Decepticons for millions of years. I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I don’t know by whose hand we came to be here, but I feel certain we’re here for Optimus’ sake.”

He sat up, and looked at the group before him. He had become accustomed to recognizing respect and even adoration in the faces of his Autobots. Now, sensing the same from two like Optimal and Primal, who broadcast their Primeness in very strong fashion, he was disconcerted. Could he possibly be so influential to future generations for merely doing his duty? Was it for things he had already achieved, or for things which Optimal knew he had yet to accomplish? With a reflex born of long years of practice, he quashed his doubts. “If we are from different times, and even two different dimensions, we have been called to this place. Since Optimus arrived first, I’d suspect it was his death that triggered everything.”

Optimal and Primal nodded in tandem. Optimus remained silent.

“Optimus. I have had ages to become the leader I am now. Millions of years of battles and planning. And waiting. Much, much waiting.

“Primal seems to have spent a great deal of time studying my life. Though I don’t know it for a fact, I expect that study has informed his leadership of the… Maximals, was it?” A nod from Primal. “Of course, Optimal being Primal, or however one wants to understand their relationship, the same applies.

“But you, my friend? Or maybe even my brother? What is it that brought you to your confrontation with your Megatron? What makes you tick, as the humans say?”

Optimus spoke with no hesitation, “It is my duty to protect Cybertron, the Autobots and the Mini-Cons.”

“Why?” Prime asked.

Optimus looked about at the others. “Why? I am the leader of the Autobots. Protecting them is what I do.”

“What about the humans? And Earth?” Prime asked.

“Of course. It is my responsibility to keep them from harm resulting from our battles with the Decepticons. That should be obvious.”

Prime tapped a finger on the table. “Yet, harm has befallen the humans because of your battles.”

Optimus slumped a bit in his seat. “I’ve done all I could to keep them safe, but there have been too many factors to control. Megatron. That traitor Starscream. Sideways… what is he up to?” Optimus’ mind drifted from the conversation as he dwelled on the problems he had faced.

“And now, you are here. A ghost-figure like us who gave his existence to save that lovely little blue-green world,” Prime said.

That snapped Optimus back to the present. “What about it? Does it matter how I came to be here? You still haven’t explained why I must be the reason for this little council.”

“We know, from what Optimal said, that there must be some way to get Primal back to his team. If we do not, Optimal will never exist. While I still do not know what awaits me, I feel certain that we must also get you back to your reality.”

“How can you be so certain? You know as little about this whole thing as I do,” Optimus objected.

Optimal spoke up. “I think he’s right. I sense something important waiting for you. If I had access to the Oracle, I could probably quantify what it is, but even without it, my instincts say that you need to get back.”

Primal joined in. “Optimus? Ever since we got here, you’ve been questioning everything. ‘How did we get here?’ ‘Why are we here?’ ‘Is this really Maccadams?’ And even I see you questioning your actions back on Earth. Do you doubt yourself as Autobot leader?”

“Doubts? Don’t we all have doubts as leaders? Isn’t it in our nature to question our actions and our failures? To feel responsible for them?”

Three voices spoke as one. “Absolutely.” Then Prime’s voice separated from others, “Just not to the extent that it causes us to sacrifice ourselves to make up for those errors.”

Silence.

“What are you saying?” Optimus finally said, his voice barely echoing at all.

Prime touched Optimus’ hand. “We have all made mistakes that created setbacks for our causes, and cost human and Autobot or Maximal lives.” Agreement from the others as Primal touched Optimus’ other hand. “To battle past those things is what makes us leaders. Megatron ignores any death that doesn’t give him cause for joy. I expect that no matter the time or dimension, the evil that is Megatron is the same, and we each face it in our own way. Ultimately, our ability to feel those unnecessary loses and deaths is what will make us victorious. We are able to recognize that each of those lost lives meant something in the universe. Still means something even after it is gone.” Optimal said “Some deaths have meaning even across dimensions.” With that, he took Prime’s free hand, and completed the circle.

Instantly, all four Primes began to fade. As the room became indistinct about them, they felt their minds slipping away from themselves. However, unlike when Primal and Optimus had separated into Optimal and Prime, they now felt their Sparks come together. There were no screams this time as their minds, in a span of eternal seconds, united as one, and each recognized in the others the deepest kernel of Spark that they all shared. This was the Prime Spark entrusted to them by Primus, the Lord of Light, Cybertron itself. The Prime Spark grew within them, filling them with recognition of the historic task they had accepted along with their Matrix.

The only sound for a briefly vast time was a sigh of contentment that echoed about the room. Soon they found themselves eased out of their communion, and the four slowly came to their senses. They were still seated at the table, holding hands. They still glowed pearly white, but were no longer transparent.

Optimus rose to his feet. He scooped up the pitcher with the last of the oil, and filled all the cups. The others took their cups in turn, and also rose to their feet.

“Thank you, my brothers.” Optimus said. “I understand now. If there is a way back, I’ll take it.” His voice no longer echoed as it had earlier.

Cups clinked together, and they guzzled the oil down with satisfaction.

As they simultaneously set their cups on the table, the bartender came into the room again. “Time’s up. We need the room. Would you please leave by the rear door?” He stepped forward to claim the empties and to wipe the table.

yet.”

“Wait,” said Primal. “We’re not going anywhere yet.”

The bartender looked him up and down. “You’re not going to attack me again, are you?”

“No. I have a question I want answered before we go.”

“Fine. Ask it, so I can get this place cleaned up.” He continued to wipe the table.

“Do you know what a Mini-Con is?” The others all turned with acute attention.

The bartender looked at them. “Mini-Cons? Of course. They’re some of our best customers. Those little guys can really put the oil away. Good tippers, too. Though there aren’t as many of them around as there used to be. Still, I’m sure the ones that left Cybertron will come back someday. Who wouldn’t miss this place?”

Without a word, the four Primes headed to the rear bulkhead door. Before Optimus could key it open, Primal grabbed his arm. “I guess we’re the ones in the wrong dimension.”

“I couldn’t be more glad that you made the trip,” Optimus said. He keyed the door, and they stepped out into a rear access hallway with which none of them was familiar.

They had little time to take their bearings, for as they stepped out, another bulkhead door burst open just down the hallway. Out into the hallway jostled four glowing, white figures. Their voices were raised in an echoing cacophony of argument..

“By Primus!” the Primes shouted. Though it seemed their cry did not carry over the argument, the figures turned as one toward them. For a moment, all stood speechless.

There was no mistaking the four fog-wreathed Megatrons standing meters away. One was a large ‘bot, with a particle beam cannon firmly attached to his forearm. The second stood on clawed feet, with a jagged shield on one arm, and even more jagged teeth showing from the reptilian head that made up his other arm. The third was fluctuating like Optimal, though he flowed between a rough approximation of the dino-armed-Megatron’s form, and that of a giant dragon creature. The fourth was much like the first, though with bulky additions to its armor, and massive, pronged horns.

Four to a side, each cried out to his counterpart — his complement.

“PRIME!”

“MEGATRON!”

Each team of four raised and aimed weapons. Yet, just as before, there was no power to their armaments. Memory and realization of the fact asserted itself swiftly. The Megatrons launched themselves at the Primes, who set themselves to withstand the onslaught.

No defense was necessary. At the very instant the Megatrons touched their Prime counterparts, Cybertron exploded about them with a fierce white light, and a roar that blasted their minds into oblivion.

The universe was nothing but a sea of blazing brilliant light in which Optimus floated. He felt no residual tension from the sudden attack of the Megatrons. He simply lazed in the glare, and felt the pulse of his Spark deep within him. Knowledge he had seemingly always held anchored him in the peace. He had never been alone in his duty or responsibilities. He could be at ease knowing he’d done his best.

Gradually, he became aware of an image coming into sight. As his vision cleared, a field of asteroids appeared. Megatron hovered in space above a prone Hot Shot. Somewhere nearby, he could sense his Matrix, alive with power. With that realization, Megatron’s voice rose into hearing, “…you are, show yourself, or perish now!”

Optimus became instantly aware of the return of his systems and weapons to full power, and the weight of his form, the absence of which he hadn’t noticed in the… where had that been?

With returning clarity, he saw that Megatron was aiming the Requiem Blaster at him. The sense of his powers, ability and his mission flooded him with raw energy. “It’s over, Megatron!” he declared. Optimus Prime had never felt so ready to face his foe.

Donald J. Bingle — Parts

PART 1: 8.7 Million Years BG1; Cybertron.

This was not what he expected to find, certainly not what he was sent to find.

Geosensus rolled slightly forward and stared in disbelief at the fearsome and grisly tableaux spread out before him deep in the darkest, most inaccessible nether regions of Cybertron. His sundry sensors tracked the gruesome scene in parallel, servomotors purring softly as he scanned left to right to take it all in. His microprocessors burned red-hot in an effort to make sense of the data they were receiving, but failed to supply an answer that was in any way rational to his higher thought processes.

He repeated the scan automatically, the default mode of operation when the data was garbled or irrational, but it made no difference. The scene below was barbaric. It had no place in a civilization as advanced as Cybertron. Yet, there it was. His recorders and transponders reeled at the sight.

A makeshift arena of sorts dominated the dimly lit chamber spread below Geosensus. In its center was a ragged-edged pool of molten metal, its shimmering surface barely below the level of the floor. The silvery liquid contained in the deadly pit was hot enough that bubbles would periodically galumph to the surface, particularly near the edges, and spew forth yellow, acrid smoke that rose and circled around the arena, creating a sickly haze over everything.

Surrounding the arena floor, dozens of Cybertronians stamped their massive feet, rattled their arms and weapons in the air, and shouted raucously, their voices echoing off the cavern walls and mixing with the sounds of equipment to create a cacophonous din that was, itself, disturbing and terrifying.

But nothing could be more terrifying to Geosensus than the cause of their roars of delight and encouragement: a battle between two massive Cvbertronians on the floor of the arena. Cybertronian battling Cybertronian.

The larger of the two robot-form combatants featured large, hydraulic pincers at the end of his arms and high speed circular saws mounted on his shoulders. His massive legs ended in widely splayed feet with taloned grippers that dug into the steel floor for stability and traction. His chest was covered with what appeared to be rows of conveyor wheels. From the guttural cries of the crowd, Geosensus surmised that his name was Grabber.

The smaller fighter danced backward from the reach of his opponent, the twin steel treads mounted on the bottom of each of his legs giving him a quick maneuverability and easy pivot points. A short-range energy cannon was mounted on his left shoulder. Some sort of light fixture was perched on his right shoulder. His left arm ended in a hydraulic punch-press. His right arm had apparently once ended in a sonic disruptor, but now was only a truncated mass of wires and steel. The sonic disruptor lay on the ground, pinched off earlier in the battle by his opponent. Crowd noise identified the smaller combatant as Sting, but few seemed to be rooting for him.

Sting was certainly getting the worst of it. His torso was covered with gouges from Grabber’s pincers, while Grabber seemed almost unscathed. Às Geosensus looked on, Grabber bellowed confidently and charged at his smaller opponent, bending down and rushing at him in a clear effort to imbed his dual saws into Sting’s midsection. Sting tried to rotate counter-clockwise to avoid the blow. He took the force of the attack as sparks flew up to the delight of the crowd, but his pivot prevented the saws from cutting too deeply.

Sting swung at Grabber’s head in passing with his one good arm. It appeared to Geosensus that the strike would fall short, that the metal fist would miss its intended target by a crucial few centimeters. But a rapid stroke of the hydraulic-fueled punch-press mounted on Sting’s arm suddenly thrust out with a hissing whoosh, extending Sting’s reach and the force of his swing. The titanium shaft struck slightly off-center and glanced off the back of Grabber’s head with a reverberating clang and shower of sparks. The unexpected contact sent the behemoth spinning to the side, his legs pounding furiously into the steel floor as he sought purchase to steady himself near the edge of the slag pool.

Sting pressed his minor advantage, rushing at his still staggering foe, his short-range energy cannon firing with abandon, but Grabber was too well-constructed. Instead of melting under the withering fire and ablating onto the floor, his components merely began to glow in the heat of the onslaught.

Grabber caught Sting in the midsection with his giant pincers, gouging deeply as hydraulic pressure closed his deadly grip. He pulled his opponent upward along his body, the conveyor wheels covering Grabber’s chest easing Sting’s journey toward the spinning blade on his right shoulder, clearly maneuvering him so that Sting’s left arm could not reach to attack.

Sting tried desperately to stop his progress toward the whirring buzzsaw, revving his treads and pushing his now dangling feet into Grabber’s midsection. But the treads, capable of scoring into a flat surface, merely met the conveyor wheels and set them spinning even more madly.

Sting cried out as the blade on Grabber’s right shoulder cut into his still-firing, glowing energy cannon, igniting the fuel and causing a minor explosion that reverberated through the arena and severed Sting’s left arm, hydraulic fluid spraying in an arc, before falling with a hiss into the metal lake only slightly behind Grabber.

The audience roared its approval of the apparent deathblow, but their cries of victory were premature. In a last spasm of strategy, Sting flashed the strobe light on his right shoulder directly into Grabber’s optical receptors, blinding the giant, then extended the stump of his right arm and flung his legs wide, ceasing any resistance to the momentum that the saw was attempting to impart to his body as it tore him apart. The saw quickly flung his body forward, over the shoulder of Grabber, toward the shimmering pool of death behind, but Sting’s shortened right arm caught his vision-less opponent squarely under the jaw, causing Grabber to stagger two steps backward.

That was one step too many.

The blinded behemoth’s second step was mostly off the edge of the pit of boiling steel. More importantly, Grabber had not completely halted the momentum imparted to him by Sting’s final effort; he vas overbalanced. Servos whined in desperation, but he could not save himself. Sting met his molten doom first, but both fighters tumbled into the slag in quick succession.

Grabber had won only his own destruction.

A shower of metallic droplets splashed up from the pool and rained down on the arena and the audience. The smaller droplets congealed and firmed up in the air, falling down as tiny pellets. The larger drops spattered the floor and the crowd, quickly solidifying on the metallic Cybertronian bodies like dried mud.

The splash of metal did not reach as far as Geosensus, but it spurred him to action. He needed to leave. It wasn’t wise to be here. It was, in fact, an accident he had happened upon the scene at all.

He had been searching for sources of Energon deep within the bowels of Cybertron. The energy was needed to continue to fuel the growth and prosperity of the sentient robots that populated the planet. Mounted with sonic probes, seismic analyzers, and energy tracking equipment of all sorts, the energy waves from the battle—perhaps an early use of Sting’s sonic disruptor punctuating the heat waves undulating from the pool of slag—had registered on Geosensus’ data banks. He had confirmed the energy flux and triangulated, bringing him to this place—a place so deep within Cybertron that he had no expectation of encountering any other sentient life, much less the bizarre death games he had witnessed.

He turned to go, to roll back out the access tunnel he had come through, when a massive foot blocked his path. He turned his optical sensors upward and stared straight into the barrel of a fusion cannon mounted on the side of the right arm of the largest Cybertronian he had ever seen. Red eyes stared at him from a massive grey hulk. A deep voice thundered down over him, overloading his more delicate sonic sensors.

“Another volunteer for the death matches. What is your name, puny one?”

“Er, uh, Geosensus, uh, sir.” Geosensus retracted his wheels and settled his body solidly on the earth below. A relay clicked on.

“The name is Megatron, small warrior. Remember it well. It is my army you seek to join by surviving the death matches. Only the strong and worthy survive the tests. It is me you serve…will worship…should you live.”

“Yes, sir, er…Megatron. Actually, I wasn’t really intending to be here or to…volunteer. I was just on a routine Energon survey…”

“Transform into robot mode, recruit. Let’s see what weapons you can bring to bear,” thundered Megatron.

“Uh, I don’t actually have any weapons components in my current configuration. I swapped them all out for increased sensory components. Energon is increasingly difficult to locate, as you…”

“NO WEAPONS!!! NO WEAPONS?” Megatron thundered with disbelief and rage. The behemoth folded in upon himself, transforming into Hyper-Tank mode, bristling with concussion cannons, artillery launchers, and a particle beam accelerator, in addition to his still frightening fusion cannon. “How can you fight without weapons?” Small flecks of hot oil were flung from his massive maw as he spoke.

Geosensus stalled for time. “Why would a Cybertronian need weapons deep within Cybertron? We have no enemies here.” He spread his antennae horizontally on either side of his massive coring sample derrick in a gesture of questioning bewilderment.

“You are as stupid as you are worthless,” Megatron growled as he rotated his main turret toward Geosensus. Megatron jerked forward on his treads, threatening the motionless Geosensus. The red core of the Hyper-Tank’s optical sensors flickered toward the arena. “Too much metal has splashed out of the pool. You will re-supply it nicely, my passive volunteer.” The Hyper-Tank edged forward, connecting with the body of Geosensus with a jarring thud that crumpled a seismic analyzer component. Megatron began to push Geosensus, scraping the seated unit across the metal floor toward the arena and its pool of shimmering hot death.

The watching crowd began to chant. “Slag! Slag! Slag!” Geosensus attempted to engage his wheels, but they spun uselessly in the face of Megatron’s massive superior force.

Suddenly, a voice was heard above the crowd. “Alert! Alert! Our presence has been detected. Police forces are on their way. Immediate dispersion is recommended.” The voice came from a purple, black, and silver Cybertronian, a huge robot with a massive cannon as its left arm.

Megatron transformed back into robot form, disgust playing across his metallic features. “Perhaps it is time, Shockwave. Perhaps we should begin now by destroying those who approach.”

“The time will come soon, in accordance with your plan, mighty Megatron. Logic dictates that we increase our ranks, first. Strategy demands that our initial encounter be larger, more impressive, more terrifying.”

“More terrifying…” rumbled Megatron. “Yes, I like that.” He looked at the crowd, whose chanting had dwindled with Shockwave’s announcement. “Disperse. Our time will come and then all Cybertron will bow before us.”

The spectators immediately began to scurry off into various tunnels and pathways, chattering among themselves as they hurried away.

Megatron looked down at Geosensus, then raised a foot and brought it thundering down upon the helpless Energon seeker. Metal twisted and gave way. Sparks flew. “We are done here.” Megatron strode away with Shockwave. He did not look back.

All became dark.

Part 2: 4.0 Million Years BG1; The Ark.

“How many more?” Optimus Prime asked wearily. He sat with Prowl on the main deck of The Ark, which was still in the final stages of construction prior to its launch to destroy the asteroid on a collision course with Cybertron.

“You know as well as I do, Optimus, we have a complement of nearly three hundred aboard The Ark. As commander, your duty is to meet and become familiar with the entire crew. Besides, it is good for morale for the crew to meet you.”

“Why? I am no hero, Prowl. If I were, would the civil war still be waging? Would Cybertron be scarred by battle? Would Megatron and the Decepticons still be at large? Would a hero fail?”

“Continuing the struggle in the face of failure is what marks a hero. You have been to the Chamber of Ancients,” Prowl said respectfully. “You carry the spark, the Matrix of Leadership, within your chest. You are a hero whether you like it or not.”

“Or not. You have not answered my question,” continued Optimus. “How many left?”

“Only a few score.” Prowl consulted a checklist. “Geosensus is next. He is our Energon Location Specialist.”

“Little use for that on the primary portion of this mission.”

“Regulations. Besides, searching for Energon is a secondary mandate for The Ark.”

Optimus shrugged. “You are correct, my friend, and knowledge of crew capabilities is useful.”

“That’s the truth, sir. You can just never tell.”

Optimus sighed. “Call him in.”

“Next,” shouted Prowl.

The door to the bridge opened and Geosensus rolled in, antennae bristling, equipment gleaming. His main derrick barely cleared the doorframe.

Prowl looked at him sternly, disdain fluttering across his normally impassive countenance. “Transform into robot mode, soldier,” he snarled.

Geosensus stopped abruptly, antennae snapping upright at attention. “Unable to comply, sir.”

Now Prowl was perturbed. “Unable to comply?”

“I can no longer transform into robot mode.”

Prowl punched at some controls with his massive fingers and scanned through some data fields. “Wounded, almost killed, but that was long, long ago. Hasn’t anybody seen to fixing you properly?”

“My choice, sir.”

Optimus spoke for the first time. “Choice?”

Geosensus swiveled his arrays toward his commander. “Yes, sir. Choice. I am, and have always been, an Energon Location Specialist. As such, I have dedicated all of my effort toward such task. I have supplemented the usual configuration of sensing and diagnostic equipment with enhanced components for remote energy fluctuation analysis, rapid wave source triangulation, and sonic and seismic capacitors.”

“Prowl looked Geosensus over. “I don’t see any weapons. What if you need to bring weapons to bear?”

Geosensus swiveled back toward the snarling second-in-command. “I don’t have any weapons, sir. I don’t believe in Cybertronians killing other Cybertronians.”

Prowl momentarily lost his composure. “You’re on a military vessel. We’re in the middle of a civil war. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

Geosensus replied calmly. “I have been aware of the battle for Cybertron for longer than you, begging your pardon, sir.”

Optimus stood suddenly and gestured at the underling. “I’ve heard of you. You made the first report of Megatron’s death arenas. Sent out a subsonic distress call before he crushed you.”

“It didn’t stop the fall of Kaon or the war that followed. It was of no import, I’m sorry to say.”

Optimus paced behind the desk as he spoke. “Nothing could have stopped Kaon, but things could have been worse, would have been worse, if we’d had no warning at all.” Optimus turned to Prowl. “He need not carry a weapon. His functions will be satisfactory.”

Prowl’s face became impassive once more. “Yes, sir.” He turned to Geosensus. “You heard The Prime. Dismissed.”

After Geosensus had rolled out, Prowl turned to Optimus. “I can’t say I agree with you about the ‘no weapon’ thing, but that’s your call. What I don’t understand is his unwillingness to transform. Transforming—that’s the essence of what Cybertronians are all about, our evolutionary superiority.”

Optimus called up Geosensus’s file and looked over the specifications. “He’s bolted together components to increase his stability for seismic sensing and installed rubber dampeners to lessen internal vibration. Calibration on most of the equipment is fairly delicate. Obviously, he doesn’t want to stress it by transforming. He’s specialized to do what he does. He doesn’t want to do anything else.”

“But he can’t even transform when he wants to have a drink at the oil bar,” replied Prowl, one eyebrow arching uncharacteristically.

Optimus shook his massive head slowly. “I doubt if he has been to an oil bar for millions of years. He just wants to do his job and be left alone. I can understand that.”

Part 3: BG1; Shortly after Awakening on Earth.

Geosensus had few official duties during The Ark’s encounter with and destruction of the asteroid hurtling toward Cybertron, except to remotely scan the rock for Energon sources. He had even less to do during the treacherous attack by Megatron that quickly followed. That attack went badly and Optimus Prime was forced to crash The Ark onto Earth in order to prevent it from falling into the hands of Megatron. There it and its inhabitants lay dormant for four million years under the crust of the planet until a volcanic eruption jolted Teletran-1, the computer consciousness of The Ark to life.

Scanning the planet for life, Teletran-1 compiled data on the machinery of earth, reconfiguring the Cybertronians aboard to match the cars, trucks, planes, and heavy equipment of Earth when not in robot form, but not before dispatching Geosensus, in his usual form, to search for the desperately needed Energon sources essential to fuel the ship and its awakening inhabitants.

It was a vital and thrilling mission for the Energon Location Specialist.

Geosensus rolled along the vales and forests near the volcano in amazement and some confusion. His all-terrain treads and shock absorbers made for a smooth ride, as long as he did not challenge the natural contours of the surface.

Every sensor he had verified that the planet was teeming with carbon, tall green carboniferous materials swayed in the nitrogen/oxygen/carbon dioxide atmosphere. Soft, short, green carboniferous forms carpeted the ground. Small, mobile, life-form-like carboniferous creatures scampered away as he approached, while tiny, flying carboniferous forms swarmed around his arc lamps when it got dark.

Carbon fuel, though most of it of relatively low yield, was aplenty. His scans had considerably greater difficulty, however, in locating metals or radioactive elements in any appreciable concentration, especially uranium, a vital source to power the nuclear reactors of many of his compatriots.

And so, he rolled on, stopping intermittently to probe by drilling a coring sample or by sending off a sonic spike and measuring the seismic echoes. Even while trundling along the valley floors, he sniffed the radio-magnetic spectrum for energy fluctuations. Late that night, he monitored odd, green-hued lights in the northern sky for some period before concluding that the energy fluctuations giving rise to the colorfully vivid display, while sizeable, were not capable of being readily captured with the resources of The Ark. So he went still further, picking up signs of aluminum ore in some concentration, but few heavy metals.

He avoided the local life forms. He had been sent out hastily by Teletran-1, desperate for Energon, so his appearance had not been adapted to match the local forms. He would be noticed, perhaps attacked. So, he shied away from the streams of asphalt along which the indigenous transport forms sped and he hid under cover from the few flying bots he saw high in the sky, though none seemed to be directing any sensory equipment down at him. He was curious, to be sure, and excited to think that he could be first contact with an alien life form, but that was not his assigned task. His task was to quickly and quietly locate and retrieve the best available Energon source possible. It was up to Optimus Prime and the others to explore this planet more fully.

Finally, Geosensus located as high a grade source as he was likely to quickly find, established its coordinates vis-à-vis the ship, drilled down at highest possible speed, and extracted as much energy he could efficiently refine into Energon and carry using his own fuel tanks and empty equipment bays.

It was a start. He could return with more transport and extraction teams as soon as the entire crew was awake.

He began the trek back to The Ark, shutting down most of his sensory equipment to devote his entire power input to carrying his heavy load upslope.

That was a fatal mistake.

With his entire focus devoted to transport, Geosensus almost did not see the Deceptions before it was too late. They were small units, secondary probes lying over the green-carboniferous hillsides, but they were already diving directly at him by the time he saw hem. He did not know where they had come from; he did not know what they were doing on this planet. Were they indigenous to this place? Did they know of The Ark?

Questions swirled about Geosensus’ analytical nodes and bits of data surged through his circuits, but he found no answers. Even though he could project the precise location of energy deposits in real time through an algorithmic parsing of multiple sensory probe responses, correlating sonic, eltro-magnetic, geochemical, seismic, radioactive, and quantum flux data, he had no processing relays for military tactics.

He knew only this: He must not convey any information to the enemy. They must not find out from him the existence or location of The Ark. They must not find out from him the source of the Energon he carried. And, if they were to find out either of those things, they must not be allowed to report back.

The last time Geosensus had been faced with destruction by the Deceptions, by Megatron himself millions of years before in the depths of Cybertron, Geosensus had called for help. This time he could not do so; the Decepticons would note his transmission and figure out that help existed on this planet. He immediately deactivated his transponder. A fraction of a second later, he swiveled his sonic energizer forward and let off a sustained barrage to jam the Decepticons’ communications with each other and with their superiors.

There was little else he could do. He was without weapons and he doubted he could have brought himself to use them, even had he been so equipped. His microprocessors continued to speed through alternative courses of action without insight. All he could think to do in his desperation was to lead the Deceptions away from both the Energon source and The Ark, but he could not do that in his present form. He had rolled along the valley floors and crested small passes to go from The Ark in search of Energon, but now he needed to move laterally, over rocky terrain and up cliffsides if he were to draw them away. But he was not currently configured to walk or climb.

There was no other choice.

He began to transform.

His servomotors quickly redlined with the strain, but he diverted all power to the task. Welds cracked and bolts sheared with sharp pops as Geosensus attempted to unlimber, to unfold into the robot he had once been. Joints, long dry of any lubrication, whined and groaned; the screech of metal on metal matching the scream of the diving Deceptions as Geosensus unfolded and stood for the first time in more than eight million years.

The first Decepticon, startled by the transformation, could not pull up in time and slammed into one massive arm of the reconfigured Geosensus. It ricocheted off into the unyielding rock of a nearby cliff face and was no more.

Geosensus had not intended the attack, had not meant to kill a fellow Cybertronian, even a small probe, but there was no time for regret or reflection. He had to move.

The second Decepticon unleashed an energy beam at Geosensus, scoring a ragged charcoal gash across his chest, then turned and swooped back around for another go. Geosensus ignored the wound and took off running, perpendicular to his previous path, lateral to the nearby location of The Ark. He scrambled through green carbon, head and shoulders above it, clambering up the hillsides, loosing rocks and gravel as he tore heedlessly forward. He wasn’t running for his life. He was running for the life of everyone aboard The Ark.

Back at The Ark, Optimus Prime and Prowl were making an exploratory foray outside, while Teletran-1 continued working on reactivating and reconfiguring their compatriots. Prowl had transformed into his newly-configured Earth form.

“Highway Patrol,” read Optimus. “According to Teletran’s specifications, you are configured as a component of the local police constabulary. A fitting choice, don’t you think?”

Prowl unfolded back into robot form. “Who cares, as long as I’m fast, with plenty of firepower.”

“More poetically fitting than the tractor-trailer, long-haul truck I transform into,” said Optimus, having already tried out his new form a few moments before.

“Apparently not that much on this planet is big enough for you to look like. Besides the combat deck in the trailer is a nice upgrade.”

Their jocular conversation was interrupted by the sound of an explosion nearby. Both turned rapidly to see a small Decepticon low in the western sky, banking heavily and turning back toward the source of the explosion and smoke.

Prowl did not hesitate for a micro-second. “Attack alert, attack alert!” he shouted into his combat communicator automatically, but none of the force from The Ark heard the alert. They were not yet activated and reconfigured.

Optimus immediately contacted Teletran-1. “Status. Do we have any robots out there?”

Teletran-1 responded immediately in an unhurried monotone. “Energon Location Specialist Geosensus has been tasked…”

Prowl interrupted. “Fighting robots, you moron. Do we have any fighters out there?”

“Negative.”

Just as Teletran-1 responded, Optimus and Prowl both saw an unfamiliar robot crest the top of the nearby hillside, the Decepticon flyer following close behind it, undoubtedly in escort.

“I’ve got the flyer,” shouted Prowl, as his shoulder-mounted cannons automatically tracked and locked on the target.

“I’ve got the runner,” answered Optimus, as his keen eyesight transferred targeting data to his powerful laser cannon rifle.

A microsecond later, both Cybertronians had fired. They continued to lay down fire without respite, pouring lethal fire directly into the wounds the first few hits scored. This was no time for half-measures. Less than a minute passed before it was all over. Both targets were blown to smithereens.

It was only hours later, when they investigated the sites of the explosion and their shots, that Prowl and Optimus figured it out, that they knew they had killed one of their own, that Optimus Prime, hero of Cybertron, had annihilated Geosensus with friendly fire.

“Why wasn’t his transponder working?” growled Prowl.

Optimus bowed his head in respect and contemplation, then looked over at Prowl. “If he had been transponding, the Decepticons would have known there was someone here to receive the signal.”

Prowl snarled agreement. “Teletran says he didn’t reconfigure him before he sent Geosensus out, so how in blazes did he transform?”

Optimus sifted through the wreckage, noting the sheared bolts and burst welds. “He did what he had to do, it seems.” He thought back to his life as a records clerk on Cybertron, millions of years before. “We all do what we have to do.” He shook his head. “Time to get back and let the others awakening know what happened.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Prowl looked up, surprised.

‘It’s the truth. It’s the right thing to do. I made a mistake. Geosensus is dead because of it.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but ‘so what.’ His central processor’s a cinder—there’s no bringing him back from that. No one needs to know. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not. But it wouldn’t be right to cover up the mistake.”

“Why? Is there a lesson to be learned here? Don’t shoot at unfamiliar robots who are not transponding the appropriate clearance code? Wrong lesson; dangerous lesson. You should shoot at them; it’s standard protocol.”

Optimus nodded agreement as Prowl continued.

“Besides, how many non-transforming Cybertronians are there? Any? And how many are going to suddenly transform when you aren’t expecting it? Not a single one.” He stood tall and looked his leader straight in the face. “No sir. No lesson to learn. None. No reason to tell.”

Optimus stopped nodding. His face was as hard as his armor plating.

Prowl straightened his back to full attention and dialed down the volume of his next words. “I’ll take the blame if someone needs to, but I just don’t think it’s necessary.”

Optimus shook his head and flicked his massive hand dismissively. “Look, Prowl, just because I have the Matrix of Leadership doesn’t mean I’m perfect or that I need someone else to pay for my errors. The crew needs to understand that every one makes mistakes in a war. Everyone.”

Prowl looked at him sternly, his gaze drilling into Optimus Prime’s stony countenance. “Meaning no disrespect, sir, but no they don’t. Geosensus had a part to play, Energon Location Specialist. He played it, did his duty, and now he’s dead. That’s an unhappy fact. But you have a part to play, too, sir. You’re not Optronix, records clerk. You’re Optimus Prime, leader of the Cybertronians and the embodiment of courage and virtue and goodness. You don’t get to make mistakes. It’s bad for morale. It’s bad for the cause. Do your duty. Play your part.” The old soldier shuffled his feet as he finished up quietly. “We all do what we have to do.”

Optimus looked around at the wreckage. “What about this?”

“I’ll take the components back to the ship. Maybe Teletran can use some of it in the reconfigurations. Bits and pieces of Geosensus might save the day again somewhere, sometime.

Optimus inclined his head almost imperceptibly in acquiescence. “You never can tell.”

“You know what they say, sir,” Prowl replied, with a single, quick, military nod, “Parts is parts.”

Prowl saluted briefly and began the somber and methodical task of retrieving what was left of their comrade.

Optimus turned back to the ship. Though he had just awakened on this planet, he already was weary, but he knew he could never let it show. He was just a cog in a machine, ensnarled in a fate not of his making. He had to play his role, the role of a confident, unblemished hero.

The spark of the Matrix glowed bright and steady within his chest, but soft words of resignation and acceptance whispered forth from his mouth, so quiet he barely heard them himself over the whine of his servomotors and he walked back to The Ark, to his duty.

“Parts is parts.”

J. Steven York — Healers, Fighters, and Transformers

BANG!

The rain came down like a wall, so thick Stan “Stitch” Bennett could barely breath, so heavy that it seemed like it would be easier to swim than to walk. He tried to clear his eyes with his good hand, see where he was going, but it was no good.

His feet slipped in the grass and mud embankment leading back up to the highway. He fell on his face, the metal hook on the end of his left arm jamming into the mud and wrenching his shoulder painfully. He tasted blood and inhaled a snort of muddy water, leaving him coughing and gasping.

There’d been a time, in the deserts of the Middle East, with the sun beating down, sand in his eyes and mouth, bullets zipping past his ears like angry hornets, he’d have given anything to be back in the United States, to feel the rain on his face once more. Right now he was having second thoughts.

And thirds as well.

He rested there for a moment, on hand and knees, head hanging. The howling wind ripped at his soaked coat, his artificial hook hand held him down like an anchor. It would be so easy then to give up, just settle down and let the storm take him. But he couldn’t. A woman’s life depended on it.

“Get up!” He was yelling at himself. The road had been nearly empty in the fierce weather, and there was probably nobody within miles to hear. “Get up!”

He lifted one knee out of the mud, got his foot under him. With a grunt, he pulled the hook out of the dirt, shaking muck off the shiny titanium. The rain seemed to ease up a little. He lifted his head, and thought he could see the broken highway guardrail ahead of him, the muddy tire tracks leading from there, past him, and down the hill where the wrecked car and the trapped woman lay in the overflowing creek, rapidly being swallowed by rising water.

He remembered his Army drill instructor, a lifetime ago. “Get up, soldier! Move!”

He staggered to his feet, and as he did, he though he heard a snatch of something over the howling wind. The it was gone, and he wondered if he’d just imagined it. He looked up at the road hopefully, and saw a flash of light through the rain and underbrush. A car was coming!

With renewed vigor, he lunged forward in a shambling trot, past the broken guardrail and the fallen tree in the road, out into the path of the approaching vehicle.

He stood in the glare of the approaching headlights, arms spread wide and waving. “Stop! Stop!” For a moment, he was sure they didn’t see him, that it would all end this way, on this stupid road, in this stupid storm.

Bang!

The end of a stupid life.

No! In that moment, he realized he didn’t want it to end. As bad as things were, as messed up as his life had become, he didn’t want to die. Especially not when there was somebody who needed his help.

The tires made a hissing road as the boxy vehicle slid to a halt just a few feet in front of him. He looked past the glare of the lights at the rain-soaked windshield and hood. It was white, and he spotted a red cross. An ambulance! The one vehicle within ten miles, and it was an ambulance! Maybe his luck was changing!

“Get in,” a male voice said.

“I need help,” he waved down the embankment towards the rising creek.

“Get in!”

He staggered to the passenger side, opened the door. Out of the rain, he could explain. They’d go help the woman. Get her out of the car. Get her to the hospital.

He slid inside. The seat was soft, the interior warm. He slammed the door behind him and turned to the driver—

The driver who wasn’t there.

The motor idled at a low rumble. The wipers swished back and forth. He turned, looked into the back. The rear bay was cool, metallic, almost futuristic. An arm loaded with lights, instruments, and unidentifiable gadgets hung over a metal table far larger than it needed to be for a human being.

But there was nobody there, just a broken piece of machinery the size of a suitcase that looked kind of like a giant video camera with wings. He looked at the over-sized table, trying to make sense of it. Is this some kind of horse ambulance or something? Where did the driver go?

“Here,” said the voice.

It came from in front of him. He turned, and spotted the strange looking radio in the center of the dash. One of those satellite radios?

“You’re lucky I spotted you,” the voice came from the radio, its display flashing in time with the voice, “this hurricane has knocked out most of the Gulf Coast, and it’s just getting stronger. I’m on an important mission, but you’re welcome to ride along.”

The ambulance shifted itself into gear and started to roll.

There was no time to figure this out. Somebody was driving this thing, even if he couldn’t see them. “Wait! Stop! There’s a woman down that embankment. She needs your help.”

The ambulance braked to a stop, but the voice from the radio said nothing. The motor idled. The wipers swished. Finally the radio said, “I’m on a mission. Lots of people need help. If I can’t get that damaged Sky Spy in the back to Optimus Prime, so it can deactivate Megatron’s weather control machine—”

Stitch shook his head in confusion. Nothing was making sense. Maybe that bump on his head when they’d crashed was making him hallucinate. Maybe he was actually lying in the wreck, unconscious, dreaming the whole thing.

No. Insane thought it seemed, this was real, and that woman needed help. Maybe if she hadn’t stopped to pick him up, a hitchhiker in the rain with a hand-lettered sign reading “disabled veteran, she would have passed this spot before the tree fell across the toad. Maybe she’d be somewhere safe and warm by now. This was real, and it was his fault.

“Look, she’s injured, and she’s going to drown if I we don’t get her out of that car.” He looked around again. “Where are you?”

“Look,” said the voice. “I’ll help, but you have to get out first.”

He suddenly had visions of the ambulance driving away without him. “Why?”

“You’ve never heard of the Autobots?”

“Autowhats?” But even as he said it, he had some vague recollection of a supermarket tabloid cover, “AUTOBOTS: IS YOUR CAR ACTUALLY A ROBOT FROM SPACE?”

This was crazy, but he didn’t have much choice.

He opened the door and jumped back out into the rain. The wind plucked at his half-dried coat, but the rain had eased a bit. Looking down, he could just see the silver car pinned between two tree-trunks next to the over-flowing creek.

He turned back just in time to see the ambulance seemingly fall apart before his eyes. The front and lower portion of the vehicle rolled forward, while the rear bay separated and deployed two sets of caterpillar tracks, allowing it to stand on its own. The rest of the vehicle began an amazing transformation, folding, twisting and reconfiguring itself. The rear bumpers and tires turned into feet, the lower side-body into legs, the windshield into a chest, forward side-body and tires into arms. The transformation completed as a metal head popped up above the windshield.

Stitch found himself facing a twenty foot tall mechanical man who only vaguely resembled the ambulance he’d been before. A robot. An Autobot!

The thing saluted him with an enormous hand, and the metal face seemed to smile. “Autobot medic Ratchet at your service. Now, where’s this woman who needs help?”

Stitch shook his head in confusion. Disguised alien robots. It was a lot to take in, but there’d be plenty of time to figure this thing out later.

He gestured down the embankment and started in that direction himself. But in a moment, the big robot that called itself Ratchet swooped past him in twenty foot strides. He was down the bank in seconds to where the battered sedan lay, half submerged in the swollen creek.

Without pause, Ratchet waded waist deep in the churning brown water. The robot reached down and put one hand under the sill of the car’s frame, reaching through the shattered windows to grab the center door post with the other.

Then the Autobot seemed to hesitate. “I’m not Optimus Prime, but here goes nothing.”

Ratchet strained, and to Stitch’s surprise, grunted. For a moment, nothing happened, then the car slowly lifted from the muck. Water spewed from every joint, crack and opening, and as it did, the car became lighter. As the flow of water slowed, Ratchet seemed to have less trouble with the load.

He walked up the bank, carrying the car, then set it down gently on the bank. The Autobot bent low to peer in at the unconscious woman pinned behind the steering wheel.

Stitch ran up to help. “The floor buckled when we hit a tree on the way down. Her leg is pinned.”

The robot grabbed the passenger door and ripped it off as easily as a human might peel a banana. Then the tip of his finger opened to reveal some kind of tool glowing with energy. A cutting torch!

“Be careful you don’t burn her with that thing. We humans can’t take high temperatures.”

Ratchet glanced at him, looking somehow surprised. “I knew that.” He turned back to the job. “Don’t worry. I’m the Autobot’s medic, a master of metal surgery.”

True to his word, he made a few clean, precise cuts in the car’s crumpled floor, and seemed to know just the right spots to cut. A piece of the panel fell away, and the woman’s leg was free.

Then, to Stitch’s horror, the giant metal hand reached into the car ready to scoop her up like a doll. “Wait,” Stitch screamed, “don’t! You could kill her!”

Ratchet watched, fascinated, as the human named Stitch strapped the unconscious woman to the metal plate the man had instructed him to torch from the car. He’d had a name for the quickly assembled thing made of sheet metal, salvaged seatbelts, and foam from the seats. A backboard. The human said it was to immobilize the woman’s central wiring harness and prevent it from being damaged, or some such thing.

Ratchet realized that there was an irony to his Earthly disguise as a vehicle that transported injured humans. He knew Autobots inside and out. He could maintain them, repair them, even build them given the right materials.

But humans were a mystery to him. They were soft, fragile, short lived creatures. He’d almost injured this one while trying to help her. He thought of their new human friends back at their headquarters, Sparkplug Witwicky and his son Spike.

What if they were ever injured? Would have he have a clue how to help them? Would any of the Autobots? He resolved to pay close attention to everything this human Stitch did. “Are you a doctor?”

Stitch was focused on trying to tighten the straps. “I wanted to be, but I never finished medical school. I was a medic in the Army though.”

Ratchet was surprised. He knew humans had armies, of course, that they, like the mechanical beings of his native Cybertron, had wars. But it had never occurred to him that they would also have medics.

Then there was another surprise.

The human struggled with the straps, and held one up so Ratchet could pinch it carefully between two fingers. As he did, Ratchet got a good look at the strange hand holding up the strap, a shiny metal hook that opened and closed like a pair of pliers.

“Just hold it. Let me do the pulling from my end. You could just as easily crush her. I just can’t hold on tight enough with this thing,” he waved the metal hook.

Ratchet couldn’t take his eyes off the thing. “You’re part robot,” he said.

Stitch looked up at Ratchet, surprised. Then he laughed. “It’s just a prosthesis. An artificial hand. I lost my real hand to a land mine back in the war. That’s why I’m not a doctor. That’s why I never will be.”

Stitch was sure the big robot meant well, but as he carried the immobilized woman up the bank he kept hurrying. “Take it slow, big guy. Even strapped down like that, you could injure her spine.”

“I’m sorry Stitch. Like I said, I’m on an important mission. The sky-eye is the only thing that can stop this run-away weather, and I’ve got to get to Optimus Prime.”

Stitch still didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. Optimus Prime? Was that a place? A planet? Some kind of jargon like “ground zero,” or “mission objective?” As they opened the door of Ratchet’s separate rear module and loaded her onto the table inside, Stitch had a revelation.

What he was feeling he’d seen in the faces of countless peasants, women, children, and old men. They’d watched as the uniformed outsiders rolled through their villages and towns, riding fearsome armored vehicles. He’d seen how they suffered the fallout from a war they didn’t comprehend or understand. All they knew was their own loss, confusion and pain.

In that far away, long-ago war he’d been the warrior, the outsider, the invader. It didn’t matter that the intent was good, that they believed their cause was just. The people suffered just the same.

Now the tables were turned. “Cosmic justice,” he said, and laughed at the irony.

He climbed through the door and secured the woman to the table. He checked her pulse, which was weak and irregular, her skin cold and clammy. Through the rain and floodwaters had washed much of it away, her hair was still covered in blood from a head-wound above her right ear.

“Hold on,” he heard Ratchet say from outside. “I’m going to transform back to vehicle mode and link up. There could be a bump.”

Stitch heard a strange mechanical noise. The compartment shuddered momentarily and lifted up a foot or so. A panel slid open in the front of the bay, and he found himself looking though into the empty driver’s compartment. The robot was again a van. Almost immediately they began to roll.

“Mobile,” he said. “That’s probably the nearest hospital. Can you find Mobile?”

“Teletran One downloaded a full database of road maps into each of us when it rebuilt us as Earth vehicles.”

As Stitch continued to talk, he used his good hand to pull back the woman’s eyelids so he could examine her pupils. “’Yes’ would have been enough of an answer, thanks. I prefer the short version.” The woman’s right pupil was dilated. He glanced up at the arm loaded with instruments hanging over the table. “Will anything on this repair arm of yours work like a flashlight?”

“Sure,” said Ratchet. “What do you need me to light up?”

“I just need a narrow beam in the woman’s eye. Can you do that? Not laser bright or any such craziness, I don’t want to blind her.”

“Can do.” The arm moved closer, and a small tube extended and lit up.

Stitch studied the pupil. No movement. “Turn it off for a second.” Again, no response. “On,” a pause, “Off.”

“What are you doing to her?”

He sighed. “The pupil on the side of her head injury is fixed and dilated. I think she has a skull fracture. The injury is causing pressure inside the skull, compressing the brain. She needs emergency surgery to relieve the pressure. If something isn’t done about it soon, it could cause permanent brain damage.

“How long will it take us to get to Mobile?”

Stitch looked forward at the windshield, and was shocked to see it completely covered with a flowing curtain of water, as though they were under a waterfall. While his attention had been focused elsewhere, the storm had gotten even worse.

“It could take an hour or more,” said Ratchet, a touch of concern in his mechanical voice, “even if we don’t run into any washed out roads or collapsed bridges. We Autobots are fast, but I’m an ambulance, not a submarine. Even without the detour, I’d never get the Sky Spy to Optimus in time.”

Stitch closed his eyes in frustration. They were going to lose the battle and the war.

Against his will, his mind started playing back the day’s events like a video recorder. He remembered hitchhiking along the strangely quiet stretch of highway, and being caught out in the sudden storm.

He remembered the woman, taking pity on him, and pulling over to pick him up. It was only from her that he’d learned about the sudden reports of freakish weather all up and down the Gulf coast, and the massive hurricane that seemed to have come out of nowhere.

For the short time they’d been together in the car, they’d mostly talked about the weather. She didn’t ask about his hand, or the sign, or why he was carrying all his worldly possessions in a ratty duffle-bag. He didn’t ask who she was, or where she was going in this storm. All he really knew about her was a name: Susan.

That seemed wrong.

So they’d talked about weather, and he’d been just about to ask her if she knew what has causing the freak storm.

But he never got the chance. (Would she have answered, “giant, evil robots from outer space,” and would he have believed her if she had?) He flinched as he remembered the sounds of the crash. The woman’s cry as the huge tree fell in the road in front of them, and the rending metal as they crashed through the guard rail. Most especially he remembered the terrible crash as they hit the tree at the edge of the creek.

Bang!

His whole body seemed to convulse as he though of the impact, the shattering of glass, and the terrible silence that followed.

Then he realized that he wasn’t remembering the crash at all. He was remembering the Hummer he was riding in, hitting a land mine in a far-away desert. He was remembering the sound from when he’d lost his hand. The horrible sound where everything changed, where everything went horribly wrong.

Bang!

Ratchet’s internal camera watched the human named Stitch with concern. Stitch slumped forward, eyes closed tightly. Then man shuddered, and shook. His flesh-and-blood hand clenched tightly, until the knuckles turned white. Then he seemed to slump in on himself like melting metal.

“Stitch, are you all right? Stitch?”

The man didn’t answer. Ratchet’s transmission whined in a way that might have sounded to a human like a groan. He couldn’t help the unconscious woman, and now it looked like his new friend Stitch was in trouble too.

Friend? When had that happened? Yet that was truly how he thought of the human. They were kindred spirits, the two of them. Healers and reluctant warriors, both of whom had been damaged by the experience.

Damaged? Where was all this coming from? It had to be the frustration of the moment. He was failing as a healer and a warrior today. He couldn’t help Optimus stop the Decepticon’s plan. He couldn’t fix the Sky Spy. And he couldn’t help the humans who needed his aid either.

Maybe he was damaged. He was feeling lost lately, going on more and more combat missions. Increasingly he turned the repair duties over to others who shared his skills to some degree or another. Wheeljack, Perceptor, even their human friend Sparkplug had demonstrated some ability to repair Autobots. It was ironic Ratchet wouldn’t be able to return the favor.

Doubtless he had many of the tools to fix humans: laser scalpels, micro-manipulators, multimode interior imagers, fluid flow and pressure analyzers. But he didn’t know how humans worked, how they were supposed to look or function inside.

He’d turned his imagers on Sparkplug one day, just out of curiosity. The human’s insides had all been a snarl of mushy parts, all jammed together in a tangle, all moving at once, all hung on a frail skeleton like a glob of axle grease on stick. It was a wonder that humans ever worked at all.

Yet he longed to help them in some way.

“Stitch. Talk to me. You’ve got to help her.”

Stitch seemed to come back from far away. His head moved slowly, turning to gaze at the dashboard “radio” from which Ratchet’s voice emitted.

“I can’t.”

His voice was dull and tired. “I mean, in theory it isn’t hard. Prehistoric people managed a similar operation with little more than stone tools. But I don’t have so much as a scalpel or a bandage here, and we have to drill through the skull without damaging the brain that’s just millimeters underneath. And there’s this,” he held up the hook hand.

“Besides, look at me. I’m damaged goods, Ratchet. I’m banged up, my nerves are shot, and even my good hand is shaking near to the point of being useless. If it were just a matter of knowledge, or will, I could do it, but it’s not that simple at all.”

Ratchet considered the road ahead, the pounding rain, the water that climbed half-way up his hub-caps. It was a long way to where he needed to be, but that wasn’t going to stop him. That’s one thing Optimus had pounded into each of the Autobots again and again. The odds were always against them, but they could never give up.

You might lose, but you could never give up. “We’re healers, Stitch. We can’t sit by and do nothing. That woman needs us.

“Listen Stitch, how about this. You could help me do the repair — surgery. I’ve got all sorts of precision repair tools that would probably work, if I just knew how. You know how, and just don’t have the tools. We could make it work.”

Stitch looked up at the woman, considering, the slightest bit of hope on his face. Then he shook his head. “It’s just too delicate, Ratchet. There’s a fine line between surgery and butchery, and on Earth healers have a saying, ‘first, do no harm.’

“No offense, but you’re a robot, and it’s clear that in some ways you lack the understanding of how the human body works that even a small child possesses. You could make a fatal mistake before I could stop you. She needs help, but we could just as easily make things worse.”

Ratchet had to admit Stitch was right. His tools, no matter how precise, had the ability to slice through metal like a hot knife through ice. To be of use, those tools would have to be wielded not only with the greatest control, but with the care that comes only through intimate knowledge of the patient. “If only Teletran One had downloaded us a road map of the human body too.”

Stitch’s eyes widened slightly. “Wait a minute. Is that possible? I mean, I haven’t got a clue what is possible for you Autobots, but if I understand you, this Sky Spy sitting here is connected to Teletran one, like a remote terminal. Is there some way it can reprogram you for human medicine?”

“Well sure, in theory, but Teletran One was made on Cybertron. It doesn’t know human medicine any more than I do.”

“But it knew about human vehicles, to change you guys so you could disguise yourselves on Earth. How did that happen?”

“Teletran sent the Sky Spy out to scan your vehicles and add them to its database— Wait, I see where you’re going with this.”

“This thing can’t fly, but it’s working, right? Is there some way it could scan me?” He tapped his hook against his forehead. “It’s all up here, two years of medical school, medic training, real-world combat medical experience, all the reading I’ve done since. Not enough to make you a human doctor, maybe, but enough to be a darned good emergency medic, maybe even the best!”

Ratchet considered. “It could work, but the scan would have to be very intense, very deep for that kind of transfer. We’ve never tried anything like that before. And that’s a lot of new knowledge for me to take on at once. It could be dangerous. For you, and for me.”

Stitch looked at the unconscious woman, placed his good hand on hers. “Being a soldier, it taught me how to be brave, and how you sometimes have to be brave it you’re going to help those in need. I’m willing if you are.”

Ratchet considered. He wasn’t ready to end up on the scrap heap, but he wanted to help. All he’d ever wanted to do was help. “Let’s roll! Get the Sky Spy up on the table and point the lens end at that bench where you’ve been sitting. You probably should be sitting down during the scan. As for me,” he was already downshifting and putting on the brakes, “I’m going to pull over for a minute.”

Stitch wrestled the flying probe up onto the big table where it sat incongruously next to the injured woman. It wasn’t easy with his hook, but he managed. Then he sat down and looked up at Ratchet’s radio. “What do I do now?”

Ratchet wasn’t sure. This was all a big experiment, and they were both subjects. “Think good thoughts,” he finally said.

The Sky Spy came to life, and a beam of light lanced out to envelop Stitch’s head.

Bang!

Stitch’s eyes went wide as his mind was flooded with terrible sensation. He could feel the thing crawling around in his head. He had a sense of something very old, very powerful, very intelligent, and yet lacking the spark of sentience that both human and Autobot seemed to share. He felt powerless before the thing. It was not a pleasant sensation.

Memories flashed through his head, faster and faster, more vivid than he possibly could have remembered on his own. Every page of every medical book he’d ever read, every word of every lecture, every procedure he’d observed. But worse, every patient held ever treated: burned, ragged lacerations, broken bones, shattered limbs, organs blasted by bullets, flesh and gore and pain and blood. Oh so much blood.

Bang!

He remembered the death, the pain-wracked faces of those he could only try to comfort, but failed to save.

Bang!

No, not that! Don’t make me remember that!

The Humvee was tossed into the air like a toy, sunlight streaming through the ragged holes the landmine had ripped in the floor. Hanging upside down from his seatbelt, he could see the pulped ruin that was his hand, and knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Then his attention shifted, to the two other soldiers in the vehicle with them.

He was a medic. They needed him, and he was hanging there, bleeding and useless. They needed him, and all he could do was watch them die.

Bang!

Input flooded Ratchet’s cybernetic brain, images, facts, memories, sensations, smells Suddenly he knew what it was to be human, the miracle of life, the pain of loss and death. So amazing! So brief! So fragile!

No wonder they fought so hard to live. Every moment was a gift to them, even if they didn’t always appreciate it.

His circuits grew hot with the strain of processing all the data. How did they fit so much in such tiny heads? His own awareness dimmed as he was swallowed up in an unending torrent of data.

Bang!

Like a leaf in a flood, he was sucked under helplessly into darkness.

Ratchet reached out into the flood, searching for something, anything solid to hold onto.

He found it. A fragment of Stitch’s memory

Just three words, but they were enough.

Physician, heal thyself!

Stitch was first aware of the rain, pounding on the metal roof like tiny hammers. He blinked. The interior of the ambulance was quiet, but for the labored breathing of the woman and the pounding of his heart.

He tried to remember what had filled him with such dread, but all he could remember right now were the faces of people he’d helped. Every person he’d helped. Every wound he’d bound, every limb he’d splinted, every stomach-ache cured. He remembered the grateful brown eyes of a small village boy whose cut finger he’d bandaged. He remembered the look on a wounded young pilot’s face when Stitch told him he was being shipped home.

Where had those memories gone, when he’d been dwelling on the failure, blood, and pain? When had he forgotten why he wanted to help people in the first place?

“Ratchet, are you there?”

There was a long moment of silence. Then the ambulance’s motor cranked to life. “I’m here. I’ve got an ache in my CPU like you wouldn’t believe, but I’m here.” Ratchet began to roll again. “Don’t worry. Now that I know what I’m doing, my repair arm can compensate in microseconds for any road movement or shaking.”

The arm over the table came to life, poising itself over the woman’s head. Various tools popped out, micro-manipulators, clamps, laser scalpels. “I still need your help here, Stitch. I don’t come equipped with bandages or sponges, but if you can rip some out of your shirt I can sterilize them with my microwave emitter. The laser should cauterize as it cuts, so hopefully there won’t be much bleeding. And I could still use your expert advice. I’ve never done this before, even if I remember you doing it. And for what it’s worth, my scanners back up your diagnosis completely. There’s no time to lose if we’re going to avoid brain damage.”

Stitch nodded and started pulling off his coat and tee-shirt. It was uncanny. It was like talking with an extension of himself.

Before ripping into the shirt, Stitch took a moment to part the woman’s hair and point out a spot. “I’d make the initial incision here.”

“I concur,” said Ratchet.

It was amazing.

Stitch had read about robots developed to do brain surgery, but compared to Ratchet’s precision manipulators, they were just toys. The surgery was a complete success, carried out with inhuman precision and speed.

Stitch checked the crude dressings around her head, then checked her pulse again. It was strong and regular.

Ratchet’s scans showed the pressure on her brain had been relieved, and there appeared to be no permanent damage. It would still take a while to get to the hospital, but at least she’d survive the trip.

He settled back and felt the rocking of the vehicle, the Autobot, against his back. He felt a strange closeness with the alien machine, and somehow knew Ratchet was feeling the same sense of satisfaction that he was.

Then he noticed the immobile Sky Spy sitting there, and knew that Ratchet’s satisfaction wouldn’t be complete. If only there were some way he could help Ratchet, the way Ratchet had helped him.

Something flashed in his head. Schematics, circuit diagrams, program codes, material lists. He blinked in surprise. The transfer hadn’t been entirely one way. “Ratchet, why did you say you couldn’t repair the Sky Spy?”

“Starscream blasted some parts off it. I had some replacements on hand, and fabricated the rest, but I didn’t have enough—”

“Titanium.”

“How did you know? I just need a few ounces for the flight control gyro, but I don’t have any to spare.”

Stitch grinned, reached down, and started undoing the straps that held his prosthetic hand to his arm. He pulled the harness free and held the titanium hook up for Ratchet to see. “I knew this blasted thing had to be good for something!”

The brawny orderly pointed out the front door of the Mobile Veteran’s Hospital. “Your visitor is out in the parking lot.” He shrugged and shook his head. “I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself.”

Stitch stepped through the doors into the brilliant sunshine. It was a beautiful, warm day, the blue sky unmarred by a single cloud. A thin vapor trail cut across the sky, the bright speck of a jet at the end turning it into an exclamation point. If all isn’t right with the world, then it’s a heck of a lot better.

He strolled up to the ambulance, which looked right at home parked in front of a hospital. Maybe now it was. “Hello, Ratchet. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

“Just a follow-up visit,” Ratchet replied, a smile in his voice. Metal abruptly began to shift and reform, until the front part of the ambulance had transformed into a twenty foot robot. No, not a robot. A medic.

“Our patient is doing fine. She’ll be released in a few days, and she’ll walk out under her own power. The surgeons say that without your surgery, she might never have walked again at all. We did good.”

“Excellent,” said Ratchet.

“Judging from the weather, I guess we saved the world and all.”

Ratchet nodded. “The repaired Sky Spy shut down the weather machine long enough for Optimus to destroy it. The Autobots kicked Megatron’s metal butt, though he escaped to fight again another day. That’s the short version, of course.”

Stitch smiled and nodded. “You finally figured out I prefer the short version.” There was an uncomfortable silence, and Stitch suddenly realized the long version would have been fine too. “I guess you need to be going, huh? Important Autobot business, saving the world and all.”

“I came to check on you as well, my friend. How are you doing?”

“Better than I’ve been in a long time. I was treated for bumps and bruises, a touch of exposure. But I’m also in a counseling program for veterans with post-traumatic stress. It’s helping, but I think I’m already past the breakthrough stage, thanks to you.” He paused and grinned. “That’s the short version, of course.”

Ratchet nodded. “Glad to hear it.”

“I’m going back to medical school too. I thought I couldn’t help people without two good hands. I was wrong about that. Maybe I’ll never be a surgeon, but I still have my mind and my heart. There has to be another way for me to help people the way I originally wanted to. Maybe in counseling, or research. I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a way. They’re going to fit me with a new hook in a day or two, and then I’ll be out of here.”

Ratchet shifted from one huge metal foot to another, and his metal face seemed to grin. “I wanted to talk to you about that.” He stepped around and opened the door of his repair bay, reaching inside to remove a small object. He held it in his palm and kneeled down to show Stitch.

It was a hand. A metal hand.

“It’s probably not as good as your original part, but it’s top-of-the-line Autobot technology. The actuators and touch sensors should interface directly with the nerves in your stump. There’s a laser scalpel in the index finger. You know, just for fun.

“Maybe you can be a surgeon. With this, you can at least try.”

Stitch was stunned. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Ratchet shrugged. “It’s the least I can do, after cutting up your old hand for parts.”

Stitch slid the cuff of the hand over his stump. It tightened, locking firmly in place. Without thinking about it he wiggled the fingers. His fingers.

He looked up at the Autobot. “Ratchet, I’d like to buy you a can of oil.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Ratchet, “if I can buy you a soda.”

“We can tell each other war stories.”

“No” said Ratchet, “we won’t. I learned that from you. There’s always time for war, and never enough time to heal. We’ll talk shop, you and me, one healer to another.”

John Helfers — Fire in the Dark

LABNÁ RUINS, YUCATAN, Mexico

Jessica Theist awoke to find a completely inhuman face peering into her eyes with what might have been concern or curiosity. An eerie, glowing yellow visor seemed to float in front of her in the darkness, framed by the suggestion of a hunched body with some kind of device sticking out above and behind its squat head.

Since the last thing Jess remembered was falling through a hole into a deep chasm, her reaction was predictable. “Aaaaaarrgg—ooowwwww!” she said, her scream of surprise turning into a gasp of pain as she felt a crushing weight pinning her chest and arm.

The thing reared back in surprise, and she was able to get a better look at it by the light of her headlamp. It looked like a strange mechanical human formed out of what appeared to be an off road pick-up that had been taken apart and reconnected into a weird, moving sculpture. What would have been the rear half of the vehicle was now a pair of blocky legs, complete with what looked like a spare tire sticking out from its right knee. The underside of the off-roader contained the thing’s face, including that strange glowing visor, and a pair of stubby yet functional arms that extended from its sides. Jess also saw that the thing on its shoulders was a winch, and figured that the hood and windshield and maybe the two passenger seats formed its back.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” the robot said. “I was just checking to see if you were still functional.”

Jess looked down to see what looked like half of a large circular block of stone with strange glyphs carved into it lying across her chest and left arm. “Do I look like I am?”

The machine tilted its entire body to one side. “Well, your Spark is still with you,” it said without a trace of sarcasm in its voice. The robot’s voice sounded anxious, but steady, like a teenager trying to remain confident in a bad situation. “I was about to move the stone away when you began to awaken. You were very lucky not to have been killed.”

“Says you,” Jess replied, laboring for each breath. “I don’t suppose you can get this off me?”

“Of course, please hold very still.” The robot reached behind its head and pulled a large hook and steel towline out. It looped the cable around a broken corner of the rock that was pinning Jess and attached the hook to the line, then played out some slack, then stepped around to the other side of the large stone tablet.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked.

“Yes,” came the plain reply. The robot stepped right up to the fallen plate and braced his feet against it. Jess heard a dull metallic whine as the cable drew taut, then slowly pulled the stone tablet off her. She drew in a full breath, wincing as sharp pain lanced across her ribs. She tried to move away from the tablet, and found that, although her left arm was numb and useless, she was able to push herself out of harm’s way using her legs and good arm.

“I suppose I should thank you for saving me,” she said.

The robot looked at the floor, and although its expression barely changed, Jess got the strange feeling that it was embarrassed. “That’s all right—after all, I’m more or less responsible for sending us both down here anyway.”

Jess gaped in astonishment, then the missing puzzle pieces began to come back to her befuddled brain. “Of course, you’re one of the—what does Kelly call you—?”

“An Autobot. I am Ransack,” the robot said. “I was the one who was moving the stone tablet out of the way when you came to stop me, and—well, this is where we both ended up.” He lowered the broken half of the stone tablet down on the floor, then retracted his line and hook.

“Well, you certainly live up to your name,” Jess grimaced. “I’m not sure which is worse, letting Alexis talk me into bringing her nephew and you and those other two whirlwinds of destruction on this excavation, or the mess we’re in now—”

Shivering from the chill of the cave, Jess looked around her for the first time, her jaw dropping in astonishment. Every inch of the rock walls were covered with colorful, detailed pictographs that reached almost to the ceiling. Pictures of humans and strange beasts that combined animal features with bodies that she had never seen before. Villages and jungles and mountains, and what looked like a huge comet or meteor that looked like it was about to crash into the side of a volcano, were arranged in neatly painted rows from one end of the room to the other. None of it looked like any Mesoamerican art Jess had ever seen. She forgot about her injured arm, forgot about Ransack, forgot about everything and just stared, trying to take it all in. Jess would have stayed lost in the colorful pictures for hours, except for an echoing voice yelling at her from above.

“Hey Ransack, are you all right down there? Did you find Doctor Theist?” another mechanical voice asked.

Jess and Ransack both looked up at a hole in the cave ceiling that was ringed with bright lights.

“Yes, Dune Runner, I have located the doctor, but she is injured, and should be moved out of here—” the Autobot began.

“Moved! Not on your life, buddy!” Jess replied. “Not when I’ve just fallen into the discovery of the past hundred years.”

There was a loud flapping echoing throughout the cave, and seconds later a small yellow metal bird with two rifle scope-like eyes landed beside them, chirping in a series of beeps, whistles, and clicks. “Laserbeak says to check if your radio is working,” Ransack said. “Apparently there are several people topside that would like to speak with you.”

Jess felt at her side for the clip-on radio, finding it still in one piece, just switched off.. She turned it on, saw the green power button light up, adjusted the microphone attached to her helmet, and keyed the transmit button.

“Hey everyone, I’m all right, no serious injuries,” she fibbed, still unsure of her arm and chest. “Who’s there and uh, exactly what just happened?”

Two voices spoke at once, trying to drown each other out. One was a young girl, her words rushed and excited, the other an older man’s clipped British voice that tried to speak over the girl.

“Jess, I’m so glad you’re all right. It wasn’t Ransack’s fault, he was just—“

“—Dr. Theist, thank God we weren’t killed by that thing, as it is it nearly cost us the past month’s work—“

“—he was just trying to help, he didn’t know what that boulder was—“

“—if we’re going to get anything else done here, including get you out of there in one piece, those—things—need to leave, and this girl needs to go with them—“

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jess said, drowning them both out. “I do not need this on top of everything else that’s going on. Now, Dr. Sanford, please give me your version of what just happened here.”

Carter Sanford was among the top archaeologiest in the world, but he had brought his British sense of entitlement along with his brilliant mind. When Jess has been named joint head of the site excavation as befitting the U.K.-American team up, she had heard through the grapevine that Sanford had not been pleased. On site they had kept things professional, but she suspected that he was just waiting for a mistake to be made so he could discredit her and take over himself. She had to give him credit, he was clever enough not to attempt to orchestrate anything himself, at least nothing that could led directly back to him. However, if Ransack had damaged something here, then he’d have all the proof he needed to remove Kelly, her Autobot companions, and perhaps even Jess herself from the dig. But I won’t be going without a fight, she thought.

Mr. Sanford cleared his throat. “Thank you, Dr. Theist. At approximately 2100 hours we uncovered our first real find at site 11A. Seismic tests revealed that what had appeared to be a stone panel set into the hillside was actually a door covering the entryway to a room or tomb of some kind. I was waiting for you to arrive before opening it—”

I just bet you were, Jess thought with a sardonic smile as Sanford continued.

“—when this girl’s robotic...companion...decided to take matters into his own...clamps or whatever he uses, and open the door himself. That was when you arrived and tried to stop the operation. What it didn’t take into consideration was the combination of its weight along with the stone door. Anyway, the ground underneath collapsed, dropping it, you, and the stone into that cavern. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed, not to mention what kind of effect that would have had on our funding—”

“Calm down, Carter,” Jess interrupted. “I’ll admit those robots have been trouble at times, But they’ve also proven to be very useful for scouting locations and hauling equipment around the site, as well as probably saving my life down here. All right, Kelly, let’s hear your side.”

“Ransack and Dune Runner weren’t doing anything, they were just watching what was going on with the door,” Kelly said, fighting to keep her voice from trembling as she recounted what had happened. “Dr. Sanford and the others were conferring about the best way to move the tablet—at least that’s what I think was going on, when Ransack changed into his robot form and walked over there. Before I could stop him, he attached his tow line—” Jess heard the wince in Kelly’s voice at the Autobot’s breaking of several well-known excavation rules, “—and pulled the door open, undamaged, from what I could see. Sanford—”

“Dr. Sanford, if you please,” the Brit said.

Kelly continued, her tone cold. “Dr. Sanford had just started yelling at Ransack, who was trying to unhook his cable from the tablet when you came over. I saw the whole thing—the ground just gave way underneath you both, you and the tablet just vanished. There was a lot of banging and crashing noises—” Kelly winced again. “And then nothing. I wanted to see if Ransack was hurt, but Dr. Sanford wouldn’t let anyone near the hole.”

Carter’s voice was tight and clipped. “Of course I wouldn’t, young lady, it’s bad enough that thing fell down there, but I certainly wouldn’t want anyone else following suit. Now you have disobeyed my orders again and sent that bird down there as well—”

“Carter, enough!” Jess said. “Kelly, Dr. Sanford was right to keep the area cleared. If that ground is unstable, then it wouldn’t help anything to go charging in there, would it?”

There was a long pause. “No, I guess not,” Kelly muttered, a catch in her voice. “But they were taking too long to mount a rescue, and Laserbeak got down there without disturbing anything—”

“And I appreciate your concern very much,” Jess said, gently cutting her off. “However, even though you thought you were doing the right thing, Kelly, you still disobeyed orders. That’s something we’ll deal with later, what’s done is done now.”

“If you say so,” Carter said. “However, the most important thing is to get you out of there—”

“I’m not coming out yet, Carter,” Jess said. “In fact, you should come down here, there’s a lot here that you need to see.”

“Jess—you may be seriously hurt, and every minute counts in a situation like this,” Carter said. “Whatever’s down there can wait until we get you looked at, then we can explore it more thoroughly.

“I told you, I’m fine,” Jess said, trying to ignore the pain in her chest every time she took a breath. “It wasn’t that long a fall, maybe twenty feet, and I was wearing my helmet and dig pads, so I just got knocked around a bit.”

“Well there was the matter of that rock—” Ransack began.

Jess put a finger to her lips and shushed him with a frown.

“What was that? Did Ransack say something?” Kelly asked.

“Kelly, can you link up with Laserbeak? Carter needs to see what I’m seeing,” Jess said.

“Sure, I can remote view with the computer Alexis gave me before I left,” Kelly said.

Jess pointed at the walls above them. “Laserbeak, please record what we’re surrounded by and send it back to Kelly. Carter, you’re going to want to look at this.”

What is it?” Carter asked, irritation evident in his voice. What are you talking abou—”

“I don’t know what we’ve found here, but there sure it a lot of it,” Jess said. “Kelly, make sure you’re saving these shots.”

Jess could hear the British archaeologist mumbling under his breath. “What on earth is that—never seen anything like this—”

“Do I have your attention now, Dr. Sanford?”

She heard the Englishman sigh. “Dr. Thiest, I must say that you are as stubborn as I am. Very well, if you will not come up, then I’m coming down.”

Jess couldn’t resist one last jab. “Sure you’re up for it, Doctor?”

“My dear girl, I was climbing in the Swiss Alps while you were still in high school.” His tone turned serious. “However, I am bringing a first-aid kit, and if I deem it necessary, you will be extracted from the site, under sedation if I have to. I don’t want any more accidents here.”

Jess sighed, her opinion of him grudgingly improving a bit. “All right. Gear up and let’s see what we’ve found down there. I think we may have discovered something that predates the Olmec civilization.”

“Wha—are you serious? That would make this—site, or whatever it is, more than three thousand years old.” The British archaeologist’s usually even voice held hints of both curiosity and skepticism. “Are you sure?”

Jess kept looking around, hugging herself with her uninjured arm. “No, I’m not really sure at all. All I can tell you for sure is that I have never seen pictographs even remotely close to what’s down here. Just hurry up, will you? And bring a blanket.”

‘I’m on my way,” Carter said.

“Jess—is Ransack all right?” Kelly said.

Jess tore her gaze away from the walls to look more closely at the Autobot next to her. He was scratched and dusty, but appeared relatively undamaged.

“I think just his paint job was scraped up a bit, but he looks okay,” she said, shooting him a thumbs up, which he returned. “If Ransack dropped us into what I think this might be, I’ll be lobbying the university for an honorary doctorate for him.”

“Just as long as they don’t kick us off the site, that’s all I ask,” Kelly replied.

“Well, Ransack’s already helped me out down here, so I think I can put in a good word for him,” Jess said. “Make sure you save all of the data Laserbeak’s transmitting, I want a complete record of this.”

“I’m burning the data to DVD now.” she said. “And Laserbeak has lots more room in him, too. I think Dr. Sanford is almost ready to come down.”

“Good, stay on channel four,” Jess said. “That way you can hear what’s going on as well.”

Tess looked up to see a bundle of supplies secured to the end of a rope drop to the floor, followed by Carter, who rappelled swiftly down to her. He was startled by a winged form with glowing eyes that swooped out of the darkness close to his head. The Englishman cried out in alarm and swung wildly on the rope for a few seconds until he regained his composure, then finished his descent.

“I swear that bloody metal parrot has it in for me,” he said, wiping sweat off his brow and looking around. To his credit, he came over to Jess first, wrapping a blanket around her and giving her a quick check-up, although his eyes kept flicking to their surrounding.

“What on earth have we stumbled into here?” he said as he wrapped her ribs over her protests, the beam from his headlamp illuminating the strange tableau of creatures and events around them. “Hold on, hold on—almost got it,” he said, easing her arm into an improvised sling. “You were very lucky—that half of the door that pinned you was mostly resting on this other piece of stone, so it didn’t crush your chest to jelly. However, we should really get you our of here, you’re in borderline shock, with I’d say at least two cracked ribs, and that arm is at least sprained, and might even be fractured.”

“Not on your life, not until I get a better look at what we’ve found,” Jess replied. “Just give me a few more minutes, enough to film some of this, then I’ll go up.

Carter shook his head. “All right, I know better than to try and argue with you. At least let me give you something for the pain. But if you faint, you’re out of here, no argument.” The short man grinned. “And that’s probably the only way I’d get out up anyhow.” He glanced around again as he assembled a hypodermic syringe. “Do you know what period these are from?”

“I have no idea,” Jess said after taking a long drink of water. “None of these figures correspond to any of the traditional Mesoamerican god or goddess figures—I mean, what is that, it looks like a man with a lizard or dinosaur head for an arm? And this one, standing with these humans, is that a flying wolf? And what is it shooting at that spider creature—fiery feathers?”

“And here it shows that same wolf-creature transforming into a humanoid figure, with feather-like weapons and wings,” Carter replied, trying to look everywhere at once. “Look over in the lower corner, there’s a stylized jackal or coyote symbol carved out of what looks like stone, not wood, that appears more than once. The Mayans domesticated dogs during their time, but somehow I doubt that’s what it means. A symbol of a dog-headed god, like Anubis? An early example of the trickster Coyote, only a thousand miles from where it should be? Could this be something from, dare I say it, an Egyptian dynasty? Did they make it over here three millennia ago? This is just too much to take in all at once. You realize that this is going to make both of our careers. Hold still.” He tapped the syringe to expel any air bubbles, rolled up her sleeve and stuck the needle into her arm, and pressed the plunger down.

“And then some,” Jess replied. “And we owe at least some of it to Ransack there. Give me a hand, would you?” she asked. With Carter’s help, she struggled to her feet. “Where do you want to start?”

“Well, we definitely want to get all of this recorded, so why don’t you get that bird down here and see if you can get it to start recording all of this—”

Laserbeak squealed and clicked as he dive-bombed Carter’s head again, pulling out at the last second to settle to the ground next to the two humans.

Kelly giggled in Jess’s ear. “He said that was too much fun.”

“Um—glad he enjoyed it,” Jess said. “Kelly, why don’t you get him started?” Although it’s going to take forever until we decode the key to this new group of people, she thought. But how did they go unnoticed for so long? Where did they come from? “Start at the lower left corner of the wall beginning with that coyote/jackal symbol, record every symbol in the row through to the end, then proceed to the beginning and do the same thing, until you’ve got everything. Got it?”

Laserbeak’s head popped up, and twin beams of red light shot from its eyes as it began to record the pictographs on the wall. As soon as the laser beams touched the stone coyote head set into the wooden wall, the eyes of the carving lit up with their own golden glow, and the red rays turned yellow, as if they was emanating from the animal head on the wall rather than from the Autobot.

“Hey, Kelly, what’s going on, the light from Laserbeak just changed color,” Jess said.

“I don’t really know, it’s like there’s other data downloading into his memory, but that’s not possible—I’ve never seen anything like this—I’m not even sure what coding language this is, but—”

“Maximal Rhinox recording, to whomever finds this file,” a gutteral, loud voice suddenly issued from Laserbeak, making Jess jump back, startled. “Encoded in this storage unit is a permanent record of the oral and written history of the prehistoric human tribe that called themselves the Natiltec. The key to their pictographic entries has been downloaded to your recording device, and you will now be able to fully comprehend their history as it has been placed in this vault. To access the data, scan your recording device over the pictographs, and an audio or transcribed translation will appear. Please note that the translation will be as similar to Natiltec speech patterns as possible, although some symbols may not be completely clear on their first translation. End transmission.” As the words died away, so did the golden light, and Laserbeak seemed to power down, the light in his eyes fading away.

“What was that?” Jess, Carter, and Kelly asked simultaneously. Jess glanced down at Laserbeak, who was still staring at the coyote head, completely motionless.

“Jess—that sounded like an Autobot speaking, but one I’ve never heard before,” Kelly said, her voice tremulous.

You would know better than I, kiddo,” Jess replied. “What did it say about accessing the ‘data’?”

“Something about scanning the recording device over the pictures,’ Carter said, pointing to the walls, “and it would translate them? Is that possible?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jess said, taking a deep breath. “Kelly, please have Laserbeak record the first row of pictographs, exactly as we had discussed.”

“Accessing new data,” Kelly said, her voice subdued. “All primary and secondary systems are functional.” A second later Laserbeak’s head began moving, the beams from his eyes illuminating the pictures again. As he did so, the deep voice rumbled out of him again, echoing through the chamber.

“Our village had stood before our elders’ fathers’ fathers time in the old world, and we saw many things on our wondrous journey through space and time before coming here to live. Now, as my soul begins to leave my body, I place upon this rock the history of our people, and the events which brought us to this new place.

“In the dawn of the third sun, the goddess Chinatlitni had risen, and we were a people content to live in peace on the shores of the great river Ilchixtil. But that was before those that we would call the gods-made-flesh walked the lands, taking what they pleased and fighting their terrible wars among themselves.

“The blazing god-vessels fell from the heavens, one onto Uxurulati, the sleeping flames in the earth, which had awoken in my father’s father’s time to send forth its arms of fire into his village. The other god vessel came to the land nearer to our village, which we found out when they appeared among us, in the forms of strange and terrible creatures, ones known to us; the spider, the scorpion, the ant, the crab. But also came new and horrible creatures; the flying lizard with fangs and claws, the walking lizard, and others— ”

“Flying lizard—an early reference to Quetzalcoatl?” Carter muttered to Jess.

“Too early to tell—shh!” she said, not wanting to miss a single word.

“At first, these gods were content to battle among themselves, making the ground shake with their awful thunder, but leaving our village alone. Then one morning, some of the gods appeared in our village. They defeated our strongest warriors with ease, and brought us all together in the communal area.

“A lizard-god appeared to be their leader, and he spoke to another, this one who turned from the form of a giant spider into his avatar, and motioned that we were to travel with him. The elders of our village, not wishing to anger these strange gods, had no choice. I was only a young boy at the time, but the spider-god took every male with him with him. Another of this kind, a flying wasp-god, traveled with us, making sure no one tried to leave.

“Still, we had no choice but to journey with him into the jungle. We walked for a day and a night, until we came to a night-black hole in the earth. By now all of us were tired and hungry, but the two gods drove us all into the hole without mercy. As we felt our way through the darkness, we saw a glow ahead, as if Chinatlitni herself was about to appear before us.

“We came into a large room lit by glowing rose crystals of every shape and size in the walls and ceiling. The wasp-god grew very excited when he saw the crystals, and buzzed and trembled. The spider-god showed us how to take the crystals from the earth and collect them in piles on the ground.

“Thus began the dark time for us. We worked in that hole for a time that seemed without end, collecting the rose crystals and piling them up for the wasp-god to take away. We would work until we dropped from hunger and weariness, then we would sleep, and when we awoke food would be given, but never enough. The weaker ones of us would fall and not rise again, and the wasp-god would remove the bodies along with the crystals.

“All of us knew that we would never see our village again, that the spider god and wasp god meant to keep us here until we fell picking the rose crystals for them. Knowing there was no other choice, I volunteered to try to escape and bring help before we all perished.

“On the next work cycle, I only pretended to work, with the rest of the men hiding my actions. When we were allowed to rest, I stayed awake, and snuck out of the cave, retracing my way in the dark to the surface. Chinatlitni was low in the sky, yet her brightness dazzled my poor eyes. I did not hesitate, but ran into the jungle, fearful that the spider god or wasp god would soon come after me and take me back to the dark hole. I ran without knowing where I was going, only that I had to find help for my people. I ran until I could run no more, collapsing in a clearing that I had never seen before. When I next looked up, I saw a huge wolf on the other side of the clearing, bigger than the coyote, bigger than even the jaguar-god we had prayed to before these new animals that walked on two legs came among us. I knew that I was in the presence of another god, for this creature had beautiful wings of blue and gold that opened as it walked closer to me, as if preparing to fly back to the heavens.

“The wolf-god walked to me, not making a sound. Thinking I was to be devoured, I raised my arm to my face to shield it from the wolf’s fangs. But it stopped, and only sniffed at my hand. I turned my arm over to see dust from the pink crystals on my palm.

“The wolf leaped over me and began walking back the way I had come. I wanted to keep running, in hopes of finding another village, but I followed the wolf instead. He walked through the jungle, toward where Chinatlitni would soon be devoured by the earth-maw, Kundalxit. The wolf-god did not stop, but kept walking toward the hole in the ground. I followed, afraid that I had lead an ever more terrible creature back to my people, one that would devour them all.

“The wolf walked to the hole and then took on its own god form with gleaming eyes of gold, as if it was another of the creatures that walked among us. It entered the hole, and I followed. The wolf-god walked further down, until it approached the room with the rose crystals. My people still worked, gaunt and weak, still collecting the rose crystals. The spider-god was overseeing them, and the wasp-god was nowhere to be found.

The wolf-god roared in anger when he saw what was happening. The spider-god looked over and released a glowing web that had been suspended above the entrance. The wolf-god leaped forward, and the glow-web fell to the ground. The wolf-god extended its wings, which shone with a light unlike anything I had ever seen, and launched its very feathers at the spider-god, who shot one of them out of the air with a weapon that shot a spray of bitter liquid through the air. The other feather-darts struck him with a loud roar, knocking him off his many feet. The wolf-god drew two more feather weapons, longer ones that it wielded like swords. The spider god raised its venom-stick again, and the two were joined in battle.

My people huddled on the other side of the crystal room, watching the two god fight. I crept over to them, grabbed one of the men and motioned for all of them to follow. They crept behind me While the two beast-gods, wolf and spider, clashed in the cave, their almighty weapons sounding a fearful noise that I thought would bring the entire room down over our heads.

I ran to the tunnel and looked to see if the other god was waiting there for us, just as the battle noise in the room fell silent. I looked back to see the wolf-god standing over the spider-god, which lay unmoving on the floor. One of the villagers pointed to the dark tunnel, and I saw the gleam of two purple dots that swelled as the wasp-god approached, humming in anger. I looked behind me to see the wolf-god unaware of the danger flying toward him. I yelled, and the wolf god looked back to see the wasp-god fly into the cave. With a roar that shook the earth the wolf-god leaped into the air straight at the wasp-god, using its feather-swords to block the blinding lights that flew from the wasp-god’s eyes. The wolf-god clawed at the wasp-god, falling with it back to the ground. Their battle cries shook the cave again, and rocks began falling from the roof. I and the rest of the villagers ran from the sight, leaving the wolf-god and the wasp god fighting in the cave.

As soon as we had reached the surface, the tunnel collapsed with a mighty roar, sending a plume of dust into the air. We ran into the jungle, all of us, never to return to that place. Later, I returned to the dark place to see another hole in the ground, and claw marks, as if the wolf-god had climbed out of that deep tomb.

The story of how my village gained its freedom and how we traveled to this new world, will be told, but it was due to the one we have forever called “Fire in the Dark” that I live to set these stories on the stone now…

The voice fell silent as Laserbeak reached the end of the first row of pictographs. For a moment, every one in the cave was quiet.

“Well, that’s not something you hear every day,” Ransack said.

“This is—this is incredible,” Carter said. “Not only have we discovered a new Mesoamerica culture, but we also have a complete translation of their written language—and we owe it all to you two,” he looked at Ransack and Laserbeak. “I’ll never say an unkind word about either of you again.”

Laserbeak replied with a series of chirps and whistles. “He says fair enough,” Ransank translated. “But he can’t promise that he’ll never dive-bomb you again.

The British archaeologist took off his hat and ran a hand over his balding pate. “If this garners Jess and me just a tenth of the recognition we’re bound to get, little one, you can sit up there and pluck the rest of my hairs out one by one—but not right now,” he said, seeing the small bird take an eager hop forward.

“Jess—Jess, hello, earth to Jess?” Carter said as he turned back to her. Still cradling her injured arm, Jess was staring at the pictographs covering the rock walls, oblivious to Carter, the Autobots, or anything else. “Do you realize what this means? We’ll be busy for the rest of our lives here.”

“It’s an entirely new civilization, older than anything we know of in this region,” she muttered, almost to herself, trying to fight the sedative’s numbing effect. “And look at that one up there—is that a gorilla? They only exist in Central Africa. How did this culture learn of them? And what was “Fire-in-the-Dark? A god? A warrior? Both? Something else?”

“I don’t know, but we’re going to have a lot of fun finding out,” Carter said. “Now come on, we’ve got a lot of work to do. The grant apps alone are going to keep us up all night, not to mention the bribes, oh my god, the greasing alone is going to be enormous. As for you two,” he nodded to Ransack and Laserbeak, “I hope you like seeing your faces on magazines and newspapers, because you’re going to be very popular in the next few months, well, at least in my circles—”

Jess left Carter to his plans and walked closer to the coyote symbol carved into the wall. She reached out to it, hesitating to touch it. Right, like some dead animal god is going to possess me. Get real, she thought. Still, she had to force herself to brush her fingers across the smooth rock face—

—And for a moment she was transported back to a world unlike anything she had ever read or heard about. A savage world of desert and jungle and mountain, where creatures that turned from beasts to—something else—fought and lived and died. And among them, primitive humans that tried to live next to these “gods fallen to earth.” A purple (!) lizard was there with what looked like a T-Rex head for an arm, one that spat a torrent of energy at other creatures, including a cheetah (more evidence of a site in Africa, must check that out, her scientist’s mind stated) and a white tiger, a huge fire ant easily the size of a truck, a falcon, another spider, and that winged wolf, its blue fur and yellow feathers shining in the sun of an alien landscape that was both familiar and different—

“Jesus, somewhere, somehow, these things really existed, or I’m going completely crazy,” Jess muttered, taking a deep breath.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” Ransack asked.

She looked up at him seeing his dark silhouette against the lights that were being directed into the cave. “Yes, thanks, Ransack, I’m fine “ she replied, trailing off as she thought of his vehicle form, the SUV.

Jess looked back at the pictographs, seeking out the one that showed the winged wolf transforming into his god-form, a humanoid with clawed hands and feet, and outstretched wings. She stared at it for a long while, then back at Ransack.

If a primitive tribe saw him now, what would they think he was?

Would they think of him as another creature, completely different than any animal or human?

Would they think of him as a god?

She glanced back at the pictograph, then again at the Autobot standing in front of her, and her entire world spun as the implication of what it meant hit her. My God, of course they would.

Of course they did.

And with that came the sudden thought of other ancient cultures that worshipped animal-headed gods… Egypt… Africa… China. If these people did, who else might have? And did their “gods” really exist?

Robert N. Skir — Singularity Ablyss

I WAS A general, a leader of troops. I was a king, reigning over a planet. I am... I am... I am... results pending... neuroprocessors still collating data.

The world spins crazily beneath me. Above me. Around me. Through me.

Utter disorientation... had I a stomach, it would be flipping, making me nauseous. Yet another reason to revel in the fact that I am no longer sickeningly… organic.

A planet as grand and glorious as Cybertron does not spin crazily.

Clearly the whirling and swirling is my own, while my world lies relatively still.

Cybertron lies still beneath a Spark untethered to any body, Decepticon, Predacon, or even Vehicon.

Cybertron lies dying.

Infected. By the accursed Organics running rampant over its once pristine glory.

How came I to this sad and sorry state?

Once I was a general, planning tactics, masterminding strategies. Waging war on a prehistoric planet teeming with creatures of all shapes and sizes. That world was a mere battlefield, a place to destroy lifelong enemies that hounded me throughout the galaxy. Or so I thought.

In truth, that world was there to destroy us. From inside.

We didn’t leave that befouled and misbegotten planet behind us. We brought it back to our home world within our contaminated bodies. Within cells that no purely robotic body should even possess.

Could this have been the work of those malevolent alien beings, the Vok? Did their mysterious machinatons during the so-called Beast Wars ultimately lead to our being changed from within?

Infection bred mutation, as Maximal transmuted into... whatever beings my technorganic enemies have reformatted themselves into. And their presence here on this world... MY world... is an infestation I struggled to eradicate.

It would appear that my eradication came first.

Beast-machines infesting the purity of my perfect Cybertron. Bad enough machines should take on the guise of animals, as my troops were forced to on Earth. But machines sub-atomically mutating into quasi-organic creatures...

The very concept is too much to bear.

Neuroprocessors still collating data? An echo of my former state. I have no neuroprocessors. Nor receptors for sound or sight. I have nothing. I am nothing.

A Spark without essence, a mere wisp in the wind.

Energy without substance, thought without form.

My world lies in chaos. My enemies conspired and cheated their way to my demise... and soon the destruction of my hopes, my dreams, my glorious Cybertron.

I have nothing. I am nothing. Yet still I am, because still I think.

Defeated? Hardly.

Not while my thoughts are driven by reason.

Not while my reason is fuelled by hate.

Stolen from me at the very last instant, victory was at last firmly in my grasp. Every Spark on Cybertron was locked in my possession awaiting to be devoured, my enemies cowering beneath me awaiting the agonizing deaths I was only to willing to deliver. And then out from nowhere pounced that loathsome animal, that disgusting, snarling canine... more vile yet because it was that abomination’s all-too organic body which served as my cell following my previous apocalyptic battle with my prime (or would that be primal?) adversary. And when I ascended to my next state, into a body more befitting a ruler of my stature, my furry prison was reduced to a mindless slavering, savage driven by sheer animal instinct.

That creature represented nature in its purest form.

Such a pity I could only kill it once.

Is anything as satisfying as the howl of a dying beast?

Its death screams delighted me as pain and fear filled its very existence and its life force drained away. The creature’s agony was almost worth the loss of my own body as my Spark was forced from its latest (and, by the mercy of the Matrix, the mythical All Spark under whose whim we all suffer) purely technological shell.

My latest guise, the Grand Mal godhead which hovered over Cybertron like a malignant moon, was lost to me. And so were the Sparks, the souls of an entire planet, contained within its vastness. Lost to me as Optimus and his odious Maximals took possession of my former shell and the Sparks.

Now I am adrift, powerless to rid my planet of these walking, crawling, and flying viral infections.

Machines are machines. Animals are animals. And where the twain shall meet lies only madness.

Streaking along Cybertron, shooting between its skyscrapers through byways and alleys, I suddenly stop. Ethereal light glows before me, winking into existence and swelling with an almost heavenly aura. And from its blinding core a figure drifts toward me. Formless, and yet possessing form, utterly without mass, and yet possessing great weight. Drifting toward me, beckoning with arms of sculpted light. I know immediately that it is a Maximal (Does that term mean anything in my current state? Can living ethereal light yet contain designation?) by its very beneficence.

It would be beautiful, had I but eyes to see.

It would be breathtaking, had I but breath to take.

It reaches for me, reaches, reaches…

..and I flee, streaking away at lightspeed, skyscrapers whizzing past like fleeting thoughts.

And then the world crashes to a halt.

Reality courses through neuroprocessors as I again feel weight. And hear voices.

“How many excuses can you create to keep us apart? This is our chance at happiness.” The voice is shrill, fuming with anger, and immediately I recognize it as my former foot soldier and current enemy, Black Arachnia.

The whirring of my servos drowns out her whining as my arms lift my new body heavily from the ground, joints groaning from neglect and disuse.

I turn toward Black Arachnia, and immediately spot her compatriot, the angelically-winged stalwart knight I so easily turned into a vicious killer until Arachnia managed to free him from my thrall. Turning to be, his face fills with concern. “You seem to be damaged,” he says, clearly believing me to be a revived Cybertronian. “We can help you, now that the threat of Megatron has been—”

That he would dare utter my name! I blast him with pulse-fire, sending his hideously avian body spiraling into a crane, which collapses onto him in a way I find most satisfying.

How I’ve missed the sound of Maximal pain.

“Silverbolt,” Black Arachnia cries in horror, making me realize how I’ve missed that as well. “Whoever you are... that was a big mistake!” Her threat is followed by a volley of energy blasts, which affect me not in the slightest, making me realize that this pitifully battered body might not be so useless after all. She then tries to enshroud me in one of her cyber-webs, clearly seeking to direct a deadly pulse of energy at me. How sad for her that I emit mine first, turning her own weaponry against her.

Her body convulses and springs backwards, a plethora of arms and legs spasming as she lands in a heap far away. I tear free from her pitiful web, and advance upon them to take advantage of what I know will be a fleeting moment of vulnerability.

A moment is all I require.

Although this new body is in wretched condition, it yet takes mere microseconds to target my enemies. But before I can fire a torrent of pulse lasers, my robotic shell quakes and stutters as energy from within overloads. I run a diagnostic program to determine whether my Energon cells are the problem, but the source appears to be... myself!

I explode into a billion fragments, my Spark bursting free.

And again the world spins crazily around me as my Spark darts into a nearby electrical conduit, disappearing into the darkness. In the distance behind me I can hear Black Arachnia demanding, “What was that thing?!”

I am beginning to wonder myself.

Why did my Spark destroy its host?

What is happening to me?

As if in response, something drifts toward me from the void, a dreamlike figure moving languidly as if through water. It seems to be composed of living light.

“Welcome,” it beckons with its thick, throaty voice. A horn sprouts from the center of the apparition’s wide forehead, then elongates into a tank turret.

I know this being. I battled it endlessly on Earth, then, discovering it helpless on my native Cybertron, twisted it to serve my own ends... until it developed ambitions of its own and tried to destroy me.

Has it returned to renew its attack?

Impossible. Its very presence is a soothing comfort.

I am at once calmed and alarmed. I try to escape, but it remains all around me.

“You need not flee. In this place, none of the old conflicts need continue. I have come as your guide, to lead you on one final journey.” His fatalistic terms give me a start, and yet his presence continues to calm. “Come, and leave the old struggles behind.”

The world below becomes still, fading into strange hues, the vast Cybertropolis skyline looming as a black silhouette under a reddish brown moon. The streets glow bluish brown, while an olive mist wisps past. The colors are unnatural, wrong. “Beneath us lies the Kingdom, the corporeal plane. To those abiding in this realm, it appears to make up the sum total of reality; however, it represents less than a fraction of the top of an iceberg. Think of it as the surface of the mirror, a vehicle for creating an image that yet contains neither mass nor value. Like a painting which merely represents a landscape, The Kingdom is a mere façade behind which lies the larger world. You must release your grip on this realm, and allow it to release its grasp on you, for your ascent to begin.”

I have no idea what this mad apparition is talking about. Yet I feel the world slipping away as we rise into yet another sphere, our surroundings brightening into a purple glow. “We now enter The Foundation,” my guide tells me. “All that you experienced in the Kingdom was mere metaphor for the journey ahead, each step you have taken a lesson enabling you to understand the spheres we must traverse before reaching the Godhead. The Foundation is the gateway into the larger plane.”

“I’ve become unhinged,” I stammer aloud. “None of this is real.”

“’Reality’ is one of those concepts you are going to have to relinquish,” he replies.

As the purple glow subsides, amethyst pillars appear before us, set against a deep lilac sky lined with clouds of pale mauve. My rhinoceros guide is now wine-colored. I would find the sight disconcerting were it not so ridiculous. “Come with me,” he says, leading me though the pillars and into the realms beyond.

“The Foundation lies at the base of the great tree. The path we walk is an ascension, as we scale the trunk, exploring the many boughs, until at last we reach the great Crown, the wellspring we codify as The Matrix.”

I have no idea what this hallucination is yammering about, but I allow his words to flow though me like a river as the world around us is cast into hues of orange. The sight of an orange robotic rhinoceros tank espousing theological philosophy removes any of my prior doubts: my ordeal with my enemies has left me completely and utterly insane.

“The first realm is Splendor,” my hallucinatory pedagogic diceros bicornis explains.

Although he doesn’t exist outside of my delusion, his words yet carry meaning.

Splendor, to me, is perfect order. Programs designed with such finesse that no subroutine contains a single byte of extraneous code.

Splendor is a billion soldiers storming a planet as a single unit.

Splendor is a mountain comprised of fallen foes.

Splendor is power.

And yet he rambles on, this imaginary Rhinox that haunts my scrambled positrons. “Splendor is not a measure of opulence or acquisitions, but rather a reflection of universal symmetry.”

Amazing how even in this delusional fantasy world, the sound of his voice makes me want to blast him to pieces. What is he rattling on about?

And all at once it comes to me.

Woven from electrons and nuclei, the universe is but a singular tapestry.

Hydrogen atoms adrift in the void coalescing into massive clouds that collapse upon themselves, igniting into stars that meld its component atoms into heavier elements that are unleashed into the void upon the star’s dying explosion. These heavier elements, which in turn, coalesce into planets orbiting newer stars, which in coalesce into galaxies...

The reflection of the microcosmos and the macro-cosmos elicits but one response.

Splendor.

Matter transformed into energy transformed into matter transformed into energy, neither being destroyed nor created, merely converted from one state to another as quarks and mesons fuse into atomic nuclei fusing into stars fusing into galaxies, fusing into quarks and mesons... converting from one state into another in an endless dance without beginning, without ending, ongoing throughout...

“Eternity,” Rhinox offers, his hue warming into brilliant jade, as the atoms, stars, galaxies, and the very fabric of all that is and ever will be swells into vibrant hues of green. “Eternity is the sphere that balances Splendor.”

And all at once the vastness of time and space, indivisible sans beginning, sans end, flood over me.

And all at once, in total desperation, I flee this madness. Rushing into a vortex of spiraling light until my Spark smashes into a wall of iridescent darkness.

After seeming eternity (not the Eternity I gazed into with my imagined tormentor, but eternity nonetheless), I lift myself off the ground, gazing at the world around me. Soil beneath my feet, I immediately wonder if I am back on that prehistoric hell of Earth. Then I spot two robotic figures before me, and I know I have returned once again to Cybertron. And then I spot the trees surrounding them, strange proto-organic fruit hanging from cybernetic limbs… Is this some kind of techno-organic garden? What madness has Optimus Primal inflicted on my world now?

The figures, mere blurs in my uncalibrated receptors, approach. By their hesitation I can tell that they are as confused by me as I am by my surroundings. I look up at the sky for the moon, for the giant floating head that used to contain my very being... yet all I can see is soil.

Clearly I have reawakened in a subterranean chamber.

An underground, technorganic orchard. No wonder I never spotted it before.

Very clever, Optimus Primal.

“Is that thing online?!” the female asks in a strangely accented voice.

“It’s definitely on something!” the compatriot replies. I recognize the voice and the supposed wit as the hated Rattrap. Just as my internal sensors recognize my bodily configuration to be that of a Thrust Drone. Badly battered and missing an arm (as well as its plasma carbine).

It is then I realize that the ground around me is littered with Thrust grade armaments. Blasters, Pulse Cannons, and lasers.

Litter, perhaps. But very useful litter.

As my enemies continue their approach, I initialize my targeting modem, and all of the armaments around me spring to life like puppets on electro-magnetic strings.

I turn toward the Maximals. As does every discarded weapon within modem range.

They fire at Rattrap and Botanica (as this robot-tree hybrid has been designated), who take evasive action, eluding death by microns. The trees take on collateral damage, which pleases me because it clearly displeases my quarry.

“The orchard!” Botanica shouts.

“I know. I know. ‘It’s our future’,” cracks Rattrap. He trundles (and it occurs to me for the billionth time just how powerless he appears bumbling around on two wheels) desperately toward a discarded Thrust Plasma Cannon arm lying inert on the ground nearby. He aims it at me as if to fire.

Pitiful choice, Maximal.

With but a thought I bring the arm online, swiveling it and blasting him right in his pointy snout, blasting him into the trunk of a techno organic tree. He lands with a grunt beside Botanica and groans, “Maybe plantin’ petunias ain’t so bad after all.”

Botanica transforms into her Robot Mode and fires seedlike pods, which burst into a mesh to shield the trees from further damage. She then turns toward me and fires glowing pods toward me; I know immediately these pods do not contain shielding-mesh. “One bad seed deserves another,” she quips.

The pods explode, covering my decrepit Thrust body with roiling energy.

Another pitiful choice. The electricity quickly dissipates. I turn every weapon in the room on her. But before I can press the attack, she fires a round of pods at the ceiling directly over me. Debris rains down, burying me under solid granite.

It will take more than a few tons of rock to thwart me. Even when I am trapped in this pitiful body.

Using my Blaster arm and all of the armaments in the chamber, I quickly free myself. Angrily, I approach Botanica; her insolence will not go unanswered.

However…

Arcane power surges within; as did my last shell, my current body becomes unstable.

Rattrap streaks at Botanica, dragging her way, “Incoming!”

For the second time my body explodes around me, inopportunely displacing my Spark.

On sheer instinct, my now-vulnerable Spark heads toward an electrical conduit, disappearing into the safety of its darkness.

And again I find myself in a realm of infinite madness.

The ghostly specter of Rhinox awaits me, now shining like a golden statue. “You continue struggling to remain in the material world. The sooner you accept that your time there has ended, the easier your return to the source of all things, the Matrix.”

As he blathers on, I wonder how my operating system became so corrupted. Have my battles against the Maximals left my core programming so befouled that belief in such fairy tales is now embedded in my source code?

Perhaps if I allow this program to continue it will play itself out to its illogical conclusion and terminate of its own accord. Or simply freeze up so I can reboot in some saner state. Or, Matrix willing, maybe it will just crash.

Did I just say “Matrix willing”?

And so my madness babbles on, in the form of a golden rhino.

“As you can see, we have arrived at Beauty,” he tells me. “The next sphere in our rise through the Tree of Life.”

Beauty?

What use has Beauty to a machine?

My logic circuits have codified untold information since first I came online. Observing, gathering, and encrypting data. Formulating plans, battle tactics, long-term strategies. And never have I found even the slightest use for such nonsense. What use has a blossoming rose, the silver mist enshrouding a waterfall, or the dulcet tones of a Stradivarius violin?

White noise.

Extraneous information cluttering the datastream, filtered without effort in my endless quest for power.

“Beauty is the halfway point between the Kingdom and the Crown, the realm of the material and the wellspring of the AllSpark,” he continues, his words music woven in strands of golden thread, swirling and hovering in the ether. “As the center of all things, Beauty balances masculine energies with the feminine, thus balancing both sides of the tree.”

Still I have not seen this “tree”.

Yet I do see something else: a Spark, glowing brightly as it settles down upon a scale; I recognize it instantly as my own. How can I be watching my Spark when I myself am my Spark? On the other side of the scale, a feather drifts down silently. Amazingly, it counterbalances my Spark, the two of them teetering up and down, attaining equilibrium as both Spark and feather brighten blindingly until I can see nothing.

Nothing except... A beating heart. Its pounding sounds like... Majesty.

My Majesty.

My Spark pulses in tune with this heart, and I realize that everything, everywhere, everywhen, is in tune with a rhythm I have set.

All of Creation is a reflection of my Glory, as I am the King of a world filled with

Beauty.

“The way to attain Beauty is through balance,” the golden simulacrum of Rhinox continues, prattling on and on as I only feign to give him my attention.

His words have no measure for me here, because I have attained full understanding: the fundamental beauty of the universe resides in the majesty that has always dwelled within my Spark.

And as this glorious comprehension awakens within me, the heart throbbing before me deepens from its golden hues into the crimson one normally associates with such an organ. It reddens, as does the world around us, and I suspect we have emerged into an entirely different sphere.

“Indeed, Megatron. We have now entered the realm of Severity.”

My kind of realm.

“We have arrived on the Emotional Plane. Emotions drive our desires, igniting our ambitions. Severity propels us to achieve our goals.”

As if I needed a big, red rhinoceros with its horn flashing like a beacon to tell me that!

Before us swarms a cloud of scarlet fireflies, which pixel together, forming a mighty Decepticon. I recognize the configuration as my most illustrious ancestor. His right hand strobes alarmingly as energy emanates up its arm, threatening his existence. Without hesitation he reaches over with his left arm and tears off the offending appendage; throwing it into the air, he blasts it to pieces.

As the arm dissipates, I understand how deeply Severity has served as my personal engine, just as it has served Predacon and Decepticon alike since time immemorial.

“The true nature of Severity is not cruelty,” Rhinox explains, “but Resolve.”

In Severity lies the strength to know what must be done in order to attain success, and to do so without question or hesitation, no matter what the price to oneself or to others.

Severity is determination in its purest form.

Severity is the shortest line between aspiration and power.

Before me, the pixels form a simulacrum of me in all of my Predacon glory, slicing down enemies and allies alike. Severing Dinobot’s head, slicing Scorponok to ribbons, driving a flaming sword through Optimus’s chassis and sending his Spark descending into the fiery pits of The Dark Blast Furnace Below.

Severity is, and always has been, my greatest ally.

The purity of this epiphany is overwhelming. Had I a pulse, it would be racing.

The world around me brightens into the azure of a cloudless sky as the imaginary Rhinox inspired by my feverish insanity attains indigo hues.

“The next sphere is Mercy, which balances Severity on the Emotional Plane.”

Mercy. How quaint. I see no victories sired in the niceties of mercy. Mercy is the maxim of the weak, the final plea in a victim’s eyes, the final gasps in their dying breaths.

The azure and sapphire tones deepen as I am overwhelmed by a feeling I haven’t felt in ages.

Euphoria.

I am… intoxicated.

“Yes, Megatron,” the azure Rhinox proclaims, a tad too pedantically for my tastes, “Mercy lies within the capacity for compassion, yes. But not merely compassion. The realm of Mercy is defined by exhilaration, also. Enthusiasm swells in the sphere of Mercy. This realm places no value judgments, drawing no distinction between positive or negative actions. Thus while compassion resides here, so, too, thrives egotism. They flourish within the rush of enthusiasm. And with that rush runs the risk of addiction.”

His words carry great weight. I can feel my ambitions surging, limitless lust for glory and power. The heart that pounds before now sounds like the war drums of a thousand ships.

Mercy.

Compassion.

They do, in fact, carry power.

This madness overwhelms me yet again, as the world around me tips and slides away like the dark dreams of a psychopath. I pray to the void falling away all around me that this not what I have become, a lunatic Spark in some crazed purgatory, when the throb and hum returns.

Not the throbbing of some imagined heart.

The clockwork thrum of my beloved Cybertron.

Once again I have returned to her, or she to me.

And once again I find myself lying in a heap, a battered body among shattered shells.

I raise myself on arms of polytitanium alloy, joints scraping and grinding.

My legs will not move; I seem to not have any.

Turbines whine, then thunder as I rise from the ground. And gazing at the scattered bodies shrinking beneath me as I head into the sky, I realize that this time I have awakened into the shell of a Jetstorm drone.

Six-times supersonic speed. Short-range and long-range missiles. Pulse cannons.

It will do.

And as I rise past the highways and skyways, I hear angry voices. The very bickering which has made this world so impossible to unite in any meaningful way.

The very bickering I must crush if there is ever to be any Order.

A familiar voice rumbles with a thousand angry pistons, snarling, “Next time we cross paths, I’m smokin’ you traitors.” Rubber wheels shriek along cobalt blacktop as he roars away.

I rise to greet the others, anxious to deliver my brand of vengence to these turncoats.

Rising, I discover four figures on the skyway. My old nemesis Cheetor stands beside his cohort Nightscream. And with them stand their new compatriots, my loyal generals, Strika and Obsidian. I awarded them armies to command, and here they repay me by joining Optimus and his mongrel usurpers at the very first opportunity.

I cry out in naked fury, calling them traitors in a thousand tongues. But all that comes out is an electronic shriek; why I can’t access my vocal synthesizers is anybody’s guess. And not nearly a concern to me at the moment.

All that matters is that I have full access to my pulse lasers. I fire them at my unfaithful generals, missing by inches (damn this miscalibrated targeting system)! Strika and Obsidian do not even have to dodge my salvos.

“Who are you,” Strika haughtily demands. “Speak before…!”

She and Obsidian motion in the air, and in response vast armies (the armies I have granted them!) emerge from the clouds above, and on the skyway all around.

Attacking me with my own troops; words cannot convey my wrath.

I instead employ a different mode of communication.

My hatred seethes in the form of pure malevolent energy, which coruscates over the entire division of tanks and copters. Watching these mindless drones convulse and fall lifeless to the ground, the copter drones plummeting thousands of feet, is most rewarding.

Yet more rewarding is watching Obsidian and Strika exchange confused glances, realizing they now wield an army of broken toys.

Nightscream regards Strika with open contempt, “You were saying?”

My pulsefire sends the Maximals fleeing, which must come by mere reflex by now; they have been doing little but scurrying for safety since returning to discover Cybertron under my control. Strika transforms from her robotic mode into tank-mode just in time to be upended by a blast. Now lying on her side, she is helpless.

Having learned the value of mercy, I close in for the kill without making her suffer. See, Tankorrhinox? Am I not the very picture of compassion?

Before I can deliver the coup d’morte, Obsidian hovers between us, shielding her while she reverts to robotic mode, both of them firing at me. Although they are turncoats, my true ire is reserved for my enemies; I hate Nightscream because he is directly responsible for putting me in my current state when his sonic scream drove my Spark out from the Grand Mal Megatron head. And I hate Cheetor because… well, because he’s Cheetor.

I beeline toward the cybernetic cat, who yowls into his communication device, “Cheetor to Optimus. We’re under attack. Big Bot..? Jammed!” Realizing that none of his comrades will be coming to his aid, he unsheathes swords and uses their blades to deflect my salvo. “All right, smart guy,” he snarls, hiding his fear behind a mask of bravado, “Nobody uses these spots for target practice!” His swords deflect my own blasts back at me, and I merely reabsorb them. His disappointment at my survival is palpable, “Oh, man! What are you made of?!”

Nightscream then fires his taser fangs at me, quipping, “You can take a lickin’, ace! Now try a bite!” Does anything he says make sense? His tasers are meant to deliver a shock, but I merely use it to channel my own energy at him. He cries out in pain and falls to the ground as his comrades surround me to attack as one.

In response I raise my shields, rendering their firepower into the sound and fury of an idiot, signifying nothing. I glory in their helplessness, until…

Again my body surges and convulses. Not from my enemies’ combined assault, but from some internal, critical failure. My body explodes, and again my Spark is left helpless. I bolt for the security of the twisting canyons of the Cybertronian skyscrapers.

Why is my Spark destroying its host bodies?

I am damned, with a Cybertron beset by traitors and quasi-organic Maximals as my purgatory. And wandering madly with a rambling rhinoceros my own private Hell.

“Welcome back, Megatron.” Speak of the devil; his voice bellows as the buildings all around darken into rich indigoes. The streets, skyscrapers, elevated high-ways, the clouds... everything streams into flowing rivers of zeroes and ones which form into a gigantic rhinoceros head of flowing binary code.

“Understanding,” he says, as if this in itself would breed insight. “The penultimate level before reaching The Crown.

His words would carry more meaning if quadratic equations weren’t swarming all around like psychotic hornets. PiR² hovers overhead until E=MC² smashes it out of the way. And then... abject chaos as 2PiR’s dogfight with C=186,000 mph’s. I see great kings being born, rising to power, being assassinated by even greater kings as empires spread over continents, planets, star systems, galaxies... peace treaties written by diplomats and signed by statesmen, statesmen debating freedoms... dates of births, dates of deaths, more dates, more deaths, all being played out on a tableaux of 0’s and 1’s, all streaming in an endless river of knowledge until Rₛ=2MG/C² arrives and pulls everything into a star of seventy-five solar masses compacted into an area half the size of a grain of sand.

It crushes my soul to witness such a conglomeration of information being annihilated within that singularity.

And all is silent.

And all is peace.

Until that twice damned rhino trundles into view on tank treads I in my infinite wisdom provided him. (Mental note: enemies should be vanquished and slaughtered, not mnemonically-degaussed and reconfigured into unwitting allies. End note.)

“Understanding is information. Information is knowledge. And knowledge is power,” he explains. And finally he has employed a term to which I can relate: Power. Power is always worth exploring. And I smile, and he smiles back as our indigo world fades into bright gray.

“Gray is more your color,” I tell him. “Gray is definitely you.”

“Wisdom,” he replies. “The final stop before reaching our ultimate goal.”

“And what is the difference between Wisdom and Understanding,” I inquire. And then I wonder why I am trying to reason with an hallucination.

As if in response, the Black Hole spews a geyser of grey zeroes and ones of sublime information. Bit-streamed equations, theorems, and facts amassed across a thousand worlds. In a heartbeat, they recede into a tiny dot, a pinpoint at the tip of a quill held by great philosopher. As he writes, he transforms from a Terran into some reptilian being into a sentient plant into an Autobot (and why an Autobot should require a quill pen, or any writing implement, is a question for the ages. I take the imagery to be allegorical. Or perhaps just another manifestation of my madness.). This amalgamation of beings, in its many guises, writes feverishly about personal freedoms, the rights of the individual as balanced by the needs of the greater society, the true nature of the soul…

“Whereas Understanding merely involves cold equations and the gathering of facts, Wisdom runs far, far deeper,” Rhinox explains. “Wisdom entails how that data is applied in a wider context. Simply put: it’s the difference between the facts and the truth.”

My initial instinct is to balk at this hairsplitting doubletalk... until the creature(s) before me pixel(s) apart, transforming into a simulacrum of Cybertron. The specter of a wildly strobing Spark collides with Silverbolt, who hovers midair above the grand floating head that was, until recently, me. Sending the cyber-avian falling helplessly toward the ground, the Spark phases through the hull of the gigantic head, where both Strika and Obsidian await. Clearly these two have not learned from their earlier encounter; the madly strobing Spark handily dispatches them with a burst of Energon.

And without warning Understanding and Wisdom unite within me... and finally I see the truth.

Everything I have been experiencing has been real.

The battles on Cybertron against the Maximals and my former generals, while I wander aimlessly as an untethered Spark. That I always knew was real, a waking nightmare to be sure.

But here... talking to Rhinox and traversing this so-called Tree of Life…

This has been more real than anything I have ever experienced.

Smiling at my realization, Rhinox’s eyes brighten with brilliance that overwhelms my vision... and suddenly everything is white. Rhinox is now a white specter in a white landscape. The brightness is blinding, while the vision it bestows is overpowering.

“Congratulations, Megatron. You are seeing truly for the very first time,” Rhinox tells me, and I realize that he is entirely correct. “And at last you have arrived at the final destination in your journey: The Crown.”

I know now that I am surrounded by the very thing I never believed existed: The AllSpark. The Matrix, consisting of every Spark that ever existed. The wellspring from which the essence of every being emerges, and to which they must ultimately return.

Now is the time, irrefutably, for my own return.

Despite my ambitions, my every act driven by malice, spite, or naked greed, the almighty Matrix is prepared to receive me into the fold. Its purity is blinding, wondrous. A perfect realm of Truth and Beauty.

And upon my return, I will become one with the AllSpark, and it with me. In return for relinquishing my individuality I will once again assimilate into its infinitude, attaining omniscience and omnipresence.

I am giddy with the prospect of uniting with such a force.

And all it will cost me is my individualism.

Is attaining infinity worth my very soul?

Below me I can see myself in the realm of the Kingdom... a strangely strobing Spark battling with the insolent Rattrap, who wrestles to control my energized life-force using a Spark Extractor. Their grappling seems so petty from here. The stakes pathetically minute.

What is a world, or a thousand worlds, compared with the majesty of the Matrix?

And yet, the cost...

Rhinox again appears before me. “Why do you hesitate, Megatron? Submit and know eternal bliss.”

Bliss, I wonder. Or abyss?

I now understand my place in the grand scheme. I am but a tiny probe, sent out to learn and experience... accumulating knowledge to enrich the almighty AllSpark.

A mere probe? The Great Megatron?

Hardly.

Let the other damned Sparks face annihilation within the singularity of the ablyss.

Far below, on another plane, Rattrap struggles with my Spark, “We’ll see... how tough you... are when I repolarize your little—”

And then it comes to me. When Nightscream used his sonic weaponry against me, my Spark became depolarized, out of sync with Cybertron’s very magnetosphere. No wonder none of the Vehicon shells could contain it!

Rhinox reaches out for me with arms of sculpted light and purity of spirit.

Lure me back into that universal hive mind, will you? I think not.

I reach out to him with arms of pure energy entirely out of phase with his. Energy charged with purity of purpose.

His eyes gaze into mine (although in truth, neither of us has eyes) as he suddenly understands the enormity of his situation. You dare presume to enlighten me, Rhinox?

Better we should both face annihilation!

Matter meets with anti-matter, positrons colliding with electrons, compassion colliding with abject hate.

And in an instant that lasts a thousand eons, I learn that there is indeed something more satisfying than the howl of a dying beast: the death scream of an angel.

And in an instant I am back in what Rhinox called The Kingdom. Back on Cybertron and trapped in the shell of a puny Diagnostic Drone, no shielding, no ordinance, no weaponry of any kind. And surrounded by enemy Maximals.

I presumed that touching Rhinox would obliterate us both; however Rattrap’s repolarizing my Spark exactly as I was destroying Rhinox was enough to spare me his fate and restore me to this world.

And clearly the frail body I now occupy is penance of rejecting the cosmic majesty that is the Matrix... a cruel and vicious jest indeed.

Seeing that their true leader has returned to them, Obsidian and Strika immediately rejoin me, dragging me from the fray, and I hate them for it. In protecting me, they have left the Maximals in possession of every Spark on Cybertron.

But it matters not; soon the Sparks will once again be mine.

And when I reacquire them, rather than merely devouring their energies, I will merge their very souls under me. We will become one, with myself as the dominant entity.

With all of the Sparks subsumed under my will, I will return to the AllSpark, not as a supplicant pleading re-integration and the relinquishment of my individuality.

When next I ascend this Tree of Life, I shall assimilate the AllSpark under me!

I was a general, a leader of troops. I was a king, reigning over a planet.

Why did I ever trouble myself over such ridiculous minutiae?

Soon, so very soon, I shall be a god.

Yessssss.

- sequence terminated -