CHAPTER 16: Honored guest .. Or reasonable suspects?

SOME WORDS TO KNOW..

Mire – (Mi-r) The site of a ancient factory, it’s a unhabitable plot of land in Cybertron constantly plagued by acid rain and radiation.
Aubades - (Ow-baw-dee-s) Like the other Herak, his name (much like the other seekers) is related to music. His meaning ‘a serenade done in the morning’; The Herak Wingleader who keeps Lieden. His wingmates are Blázon and Carillon.
Lieden - (Lee-den) Quodlibet's ever troublesome sister. She is kept by Aubades. Her name means "Sorrowful".
Blázon - (Blahy-son) A trumpet blast. He's the Herak with no volume control. His wingmates are Aubades and Carillon.
Carillon - (Carol-lawn) A song played on bells; He's the dull looking Herak who first appeared with Canticle when they came upon Cyclonus and Metatisic in the barrens. His wingmates are Blázon and Aubades.
[ ] – Words between brackets [ ] indicate that another language (Delepic) is being spoken.

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Bractos - G9-D4; Dock station
(service and repairs center)

‘Go’ was easier said than done. Apparently Cyclonus had forgotten where he was. There hadn’t been anything to warn Rumble of what the jet was going to do. It had been a split-second moment of pure horror for the Cassetticon.

They’d hit open air, and Cyclonus had just transformed and hit his thrusters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Mostly because it was-- but it wasn’t a really good idea. It was a really, really bad idea!

“OH SLAG!” Rumble screeched.

Scourge grabbed the cassette by the arm. “Transform. We have to stop him. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing.”

The Cassetticon didn’t ask questions for once. He transformed and Scourge tucked him in his paneling. Then he took off in full pursuit of the jet. The purple cassette heard the sounds of Scourge’s anti-gravity initiator wailing in conjunction with the heavy boosters firing. Rumble wasn’t aware of much beyond that, except a loud thump and the noise of Cyclonus cursing Scourge’s claws. The sound of him transforming was the only thing that cut off the swearing.

“Damn you, Cyclonus! Do you want to get us all caught?!” The sweep leader demanded.

Then light. A faint breeze of the thin, open air. Sounds of the living city below and around them made an impression on the cassette’s senses. Rumble transformed and was immediately caught under his arms by Scourge, even though he could fly on his own.

Cyclonus hovered in midair, a cross look on his face. “Of course I don’t, but we’ve wasted enough time already and now we’re wasting even more!”

Scourge’s optics narrowed. “You’ll end up getting us all figured out! These people have never seen alt-modes like ours -- Heck, they have less than twenty planes, and none that look as complex as you.”

Galvatron’s saboteur blinked, unable to reply.

“Don’t forget where we are and what would happen if our technology were to be used by these ancients.” The Sweep slowly released Rumble to free float on his own. “There may be no home to go back to.” A frown passed across his face and then Scourge shook his head. His tenor descended to its normal harsh tone. “Snap out of it and do the leader thing.”

Cyclonus looked away, over the towers and spires. His expression was as introspective as it was speculative. “This whole place becomes more ominous to me by the moment. Some things are so… familiar. I feel like I’ve been here before.” He frowned sharply. “The sensation of familiarity made me careless.”

Rumble shook his head. “Just a product of the time slip, probably.”

“Yeah, time slip or whatever. Screw your head on right. I just want to get this over with as fast as possible.” Scourge complained.

The jet nodded almost regretfully. “Follow me.”

It was a short flight up to the dome and, for that, Rumble was grateful. It was a good landmark to start from and close to the Dourjer’s private quarters, and the Long Hall. “Yeah, this is near it. Take a right Cyclonus. We ought to drop down right in terrace outside.”

Cyclonus sighed. “I do have a navigation system designed for deep space.”

“Uh, sorry.”

Scourge just chuckled as they descended. Alighting near the fantastic arched hallway was easy. The next part wasn’t so great. That weird yellow seeker, the one who’d been talking to Shockwave when Rumble had stumbled on Soundwave, was out and about again.

“There you are!” His too cheerful voice got on Rumble’s nerves immediately. Far removed from the warrior tones he’d used with Shockwave. This must be the poor sap’s normal setting. Urg, the Cassetticon thought, Gag me with a socket wrench.

Cyclonus didn’t move a millimeter. He seemed rooted to the spot.

Taking the jet’s posture to be one of confusion, the Herak offered.“I am Quodlibet. The master has been greatly anticipating the return of his Arms Bearer and those he arrived with...” He smiled. “If you will follow me.”

“What’s up?” Rumble asked when he didn’t immediately obey.

Cyclonus batted before his face with a hand, as if to remove some sort of obstruction. “…nothing… I thought.”

“Oh well,” Rumble shrugged. “We’ve wasted enough time right? Follow the yellow brick roa… uh, dude.”

Cyclonus rolled his optics at him. They did follow, but the lieutenant mused quietly with a faraway expression on his face. Rumble was getting antsy. When Quodlibet went inside to announce them, he discovered he had good reason beyond his fear of interacting with the Autobots before the Dourjer.

Scourge leaned over to Cyclonus. “You too, eh?”

“Me what?”

“That Seeker. I had a similar reaction out on the battlefield when I was discovered. One of them touched me --- and these weird sensations came over me.” The Sweep frowned.

Cyclonus glanced at them both and then back to the door where the dusty yellow herak had gone. “Effects of our being here, I’m sure. Rumble is correct. We really do not belong here and there’s no telling what our being here now is doing to the vorn we left…”

Shrugging, the blue repulsor-craft indicated he didn’t buy that explanation. “Maybe. It’s strange though. I felt like I knew him.” He shook his head. “…creepy, isn’t it?”

Rumble interrupted. “Hey, what are you guys upset about? Try meeting mini-me Soundwave. Now THAT feels weird.” He laughed, “Surged my systems. Hard to think of him as so small -- and yet know that it’s his database that’s saving our afts. I mean, he’s the only reason we aren’t being chewed on by graters right now. That’s wayyyyyy heavy.”

Smirking, Cyclonus nodded. “Indeed.”

“More respect! Geez, why can’t I get this back home?” The Cassette sighed. “I want to go home.” That was an understatement. He wanted to fold up and hide in Soundwave’s chest for awhile. This was way too much adventure, even for Rumble. He’d never complain about being bored ever again, if they could just make it back.

“You and me both, Rumble.” Scourge agreed.

The seeker returned. “The Dourjer will see you now.”

.

1

.

Cyclonus scanned the group of Autobots who were entertaining the Decepticon leader with an exhibition of their various alt-modes. Metatisic truly seemed delighted with each one, though his face showed only a faint but growing smile. The General, on the other hand, scowled at each one. Pycon and Chamfer, who stood with the line of seekers between him and the Cybertronians, mirror his attitude.

Shockwave was speculative, his optic half-dimmed as he watched each successive transformation. The herak seemed genuinely interested and only the red-orange one closest to Chamfer bah’ed faintly. The jet led Scourge and Rumble past their protective line, bowed to the Dourjer, then backed away before turning slightly so they might watch as well.

Various hovercars presented themselves… a single three repulsor speeder… a communications tower…

"Great Master," the big one rumbled. The tricolor mech looked as if he could punch through duranium, but spoke as if he were as timid as a robo-puppy. "I'm gonna step out a little further here, if that's alright. I take up one huge parkin' spot."

"Certainly, Gridlock." Metatisic allowed.

The Autobot paced back further, judged his distance, and then transformed into one of the largest construction vehicles that Cyclonus had ever seen. He resembled some sort of super-dozer with grader attachments. He almost reminded the jet of some form of archaic tank.

"Fantastic. Such detail rendered on such a large scale."

Gridlock sounded embarrassed. “Uh, thank you, Master.”

“You may return to root mode, Gridlock.” Metatisic nodded and his wishes were immediately obeyed. Cyclonus was starting to notice the confusion pulling at him again. He had expected to feel some sort of animosity towards these Autobots-- but found very little to be had. They seemed almost childlike from this angle, eager to show off what they could do and be to those they considered new friends. Foolish, true, but the jet could not hold onto any sort of anger in respect to it.

“Transformation is an art that I have cultivated among my mechs,” the Dourjer spoke. “It pleases me to see that your Emirate follows the ways of the future.”

The big red fembot bowed. “Primus?”

Cyclonus almost gasped. Next to him, Scourge did. He could hear the Sweep have to stifle down some sort of response. It wasn’t loud, not loud enough to draw attention, but it made the jet give him a hard stare. Rumble was in shock, his mouth partially open.

“You speak out of turn, femme.” Sarterius ground out.

The monarch held up a hand for him to be silent. “What is it?” Metatisic’s voice had a warning edge to it.

She bowed again, with great apology. “Ah’m powerful sorry, Great Master. But you ain’t seen my transformation yet.”

There was a smile from the Decepticon leader. Small, but forgiving, the expression was indulgent. “Very well. Demonstrate.”

The girl transformed into some sort of heavily shielded transport. Her windscreen was small and her only window, as if something were either to be kept out-- or in. Cyclonus’ best guess was that she was a prisoner transport, or dealt in noxious substances.

“Very interesting,” Metatisic commented. He sounded more than a little puzzled. “You may transform.”

She did and was all smiles, though she may not have been had she been as close as Cyclonus was. Shockwave’s estimation of her was quite unflattering. It brought a minute grin to the jet’s face.

“A transport,” the empurpled guardian mused quietly as he leaned down to the Dourjer. “A most unfeminine alternative.”

“A femme that fights, leads mechs and transforms? Highly dubious,” Sarterius added to the hiss.

The Dourjer’s brow tightened almost imperceptibly. “Cyclonus?”

“My Liege?” The jet spoke up.

"Arms Bearer." He finally picked him out in the crowd and excitement, his optics falling on him alone.

Cyclonus bowed with reverence, turning completely towards the ancient leader. "You requested our presence, Lord?"

Sarterius’ optics narrowed as the jet and his companions approached Metatisic. They were threads of fire when the ruler himself rose from his throne to clasp the saboteur on the shoulder. Suspicion and doubt were Sarterius' predisposition; clearly a natural by-product of his personality constituent. It was a quality Cyclonus respected and scorned all in the same thought.

His curiosity over the foreign alt-modes was still palpable, gestured to the Autobots. “Fascinating. Don’t you agree?”

In his time, Cyclonus had seen entire cities transform -- planets even! No one even made construction equipment as big and ugly as Gridlock anymore. He answered the monarch’s wonder with an equally amazed, but phony smile. “Yes.”

“They come from Cybertron where you and your comrades had been. How is it that you could not have seen these… Autobots?” His voice was clear and sharp; he stressed the last word. This was the million credit question and Cyclonus almost grinned.

“Mighty One, we were studying an abnormal place just outside the Dead Zone where there is near perpetual acid rain. We had hoped to gage the acid’s effects on the Cybertronian landscape… Other than the ancient remains of a severely irradiated factory, there was nothing to indicate anyone living there or anywhere around the area.” The jet’s lie was so smooth that he almost believed it himself.

One of the general’s eye-ridges twitched. The Dourjer glanced at him and then back at Cyclonus. Then his attention turned to the smallest mech among the Autobots. He was a thin, whip-like creature with bulbous blue optics. “Voyager, is there such a place on Cybertron?”

“I believe so, Majesty. It sounds a great deal like ‘the Mire’.” His reply was near instantaneous. “It is extremely close to the Zone. We skirted it on our way here.”

“There are no cities nearby?” Galvatron's parent probed again.

It was the girl that replied this time, “No, Lord. Ah can’t think of anyone who’d willingly go to that awful place.” She glanced at Cyclonus with a shy sort of apology.

Smirking, the jet asked, “May I respond, Master?”

Metatisic gestured to indicate that it was allowed.

“You will find, Dear woman, that we Decepticons dare much when there is something worthwhile to be had. In our case, we sought knowledge to increase our understanding of the strange landscape outside the Zone. We then succeeded in capturing our target.” Cyclonus’ tone was blunt.

She looked uncomfortable, her optics flicking to the blue Herak for a quartex, but tried to mask it with a nod. “Well, that explains that.”

"To be sure," Metatisic chuckled but a moment. "But I am curious, Decepticon Cyclonus. When you were first before me you said, "Autobots". His focus shifted Scourge's direction. "You did actually." His focus floated back to Cyclonus to complete his question: "How did you know of them if you had not seen them as you say?"

Sarterius crossed his arms. He didn’t have to say a word at all to acknowledge his own doubt.

"Well... we weren’t sure to be perfectly honest." Galvatron’s lieutenant gestured apology.

"Explain." Metatisic’s voice was not harsh, but it did demand exactly what he stated with implied alacrity.

Cyclonus nodded respectfully. "While we were measuring the caustic precipitation in that strange area, we discovered what appeared to be the remains of an old factory center. There were several old shipping crates there marked with the signs: Auto. Bot.-- Automatic service robotics. We read the name and figured that's how it translated."

Scourge continued even those he was not directed to. "We detected no forms of life, only wrecked buildings and the dead. We determined -- " He scanned over the Cybertronians with a critical optic. " -- Incorrectly it appears, that Cybertron's inhabitants, if there had been any, had died or abandoned the place... the entire planet surface, perhaps."

There was a hushed whispering among the Cybertronians gathered. With his bulbous blue optics almost comically shuttered by his thin brow ridges, their little scientist spoke up again. "It does sound like the Mire." Voyager made a motion to come forward until Pycon's huge foot stepped into his path. The thin mech continued without much notice, "Was there anything more to be seen there?"

"Aside from what I'm sure were older, decommissioned models just left in their packing; we saw others who were not, but they were extremely strange-- tossed about in plain sight with no identification. We don't know what those sort were." Cyclonus replied.

"They had five faces." Rumble added to the lie, gesturing to his own as if in disbelief. "But twisted and ugly. Tentacles and stuff." He wiggled his fingers for effect. The statement, perfectly casual like it had been no big deal at all, lit up his audience.

The fembot pounded one black hand into the other with a sharp clang and an air of satisfaction. “Quints! Thems were Quints!”

Voyager nodded seriously. “Or at least their metal shells. It was indeed the Mire then.”

Perfect. Cyclonus could have smiled at the Autobot female’s reaction. It was exactly the impact he’d wanted. “Quints?” He feigned his ignorance with a perfection only Soundwave could have seen through.

“Quintessons.” Gridlock supplied with a soft voice. Obviously this was not a topic he liked. “Ugly monsters. Like your little buddy said.”

Cyclonus kept his aspect of confusion in the forefront. What he would have really liked to do is laugh his afterburner off and call them idiots. He valued his life too much to give into the whimsy of the moment though. “Are they Automatic Service Robotics as well?”

“No.” It was the blue Herak that supplied this time. This was the one called Coronach. For some reason he struck Cyclonus as someone he would have respected and been honored to serve with. He’d seen the Commander kneeling to the Dourjer when Canticle had brought them in. “As far as I’ve been able to ascertain, they are some sort of demonic fiends --”

“Cyborgs.” Voyager interrupted.

The girl interjected fervently, as if she hadn’t heard the Aerial Commander or her fellow Autobot, “They ain’t like we are atall! They’re evil, nasty critters!”

"Demonic monsters?" Cyclonus actually sounded shocked. In part he was. He couldn’t believe that a Decepticon could be so backward. "The mostly intact creature we saw hardly looked like a evil spirit ...of course it was dead as well. Hard to tell through the rust layers really so who am I to say?"

“It is written that Those Forsaken can take on any form they desire, including sheathing themselves in metal.” Coronach’s tone was sharp.

“Heh .. Like renegades I’ve known,” Sarterius added darkly.

Cyclonus noticed Metatisic's sweeping glance even more riveted on him and his party than before, "I apologize, Mighty One. We may only repeat what we have seen…" He added to smooth the explanation further, "And it had been your question."

Coronach too, bowed in apology – as did the Cybertronians, at his gesture. They seemed to take their cues from the stick, the chic and the hulk. He glanced at Rumble, interrupting his thoughts. Cyclonus almost smirked. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but the cassette’s method of description must be rubbing off on him. He focused back on the ‘bots briefly. Those three though, took their cues from the blue flyer. The wheels were already turning to figure out how to use that to his advantage if he had to, even as he returned his gaze respectfully to the king. The jet was always prepared for the worst.

.

2

.

The Dourjer pondered them all silently. They had talked the talk and walked the walk, but Scourge could not read any of it’s effect on the Decepticon monarch’s expression. He had moved away from Cyclonus without saying anything at all, as a matter of fact. That could just be sign of Metatisic's deep thought, but Scourge couldn't shake the feeling that there was something terribly wrong going on here. He glanced at the Autobots and could barely reign in his panic.

These very moments would shape everything that came after them. This little rag-tag handful of Autobots would bring more and it would all end in the greatest war ever fought by their people. It would threaten the very extinction of the Decepticon way of life. And their’s too. Worst of all? This growing anxiety wasn’t some sort of weird error. Scourge would swear he’d been in this room before --- more than once. He even knew what song the floor played. The ghostly notes passed across his processors in a pair like a chase on extremely light feet had played them, weaving in and out of the colonnade, but he just couldn’t access the archive.

"Shockwave." Metatisic’s loud call interrupted the wonder.

Scourge almost cringed. This is it, he thought ruefully: Bye Cyclonus, Half-pint. You too Galvatron, you big jerk, whenever you are. Too bad I didn’t get back to tell you what was really on my processors. You want to know why I pulled at that slag? We bust our afts for you, risk our damn lives, and you treat us all like we’re out to get you. Cyc....

“Shockwave I am satisfied in the explanations given by Cyclonus' fellow scientists. By the Cybertronians own reaction it would seem to me they were telling the truth." He nodded now, "They have been into Cybertron, indeed." He sat down in his seat.

The sweep leader was still tense, but hope had started to paint his probabilities in rosy tones. Maybe, just maybe, this really was going to turn out alright.

"Decepticons; Scourge and Rumble. You are Cyclonus' fellows and I see you were both wrongly accused. You have my pardon."

Scourge could have sworn that he saw the stress release drain from Rumble in that instant-- as if he was going to transform into a puddle of molten relief with optics. He himself? Scourge felt a million times better, but amazed even more that General Sarterius, who had always been ready with words on every other occasion before, offered no verbal protest at all. The Sweep leader still didn’t want to be here, and the Autobots were really making him uncomfortable, but he wasn’t petrified of dying at any moment anymore. A decent improvement, if he said so himself.

Shockwave nodded with the kind of grave authority one would expect of a robot of his attribute. Metatisic said only this further, “But this is business best conducted in private. We’ll speak on it later.”

Scourge bowed even before Cyclonus or Rumble did. He felt like he could just about kiss Cyclonus at this point. Rumble was right. That jet was truly the mech.

Metatisic smiled at them before turning serious attention back to the Autobots. "In the meantime --- Voyager?"

"Yes, Lord-sir?" The needlebot spoke up. Scourge decided he hated his voice. It was nasal and pretentious and the more he heard it, the less he liked it.

"About your Emirate Xaaron. You have made contact with him in Cybertron prior from our lands, I am told?"

"We had made contact from Bractos itself just prior to the Apex,” Voyager responded. “We lost transmission and I was unable to reestablish the link-up.”

“Even if we’d awanted to, Commander Coronach said we were getting summoned all up for an audience with you, Yer Majesty." The girl replied. Scourge almost frowned. He-- he didn’t like her. That must be it.

“Voyager was?” Shockwave asked, turning his bright yellow optic to scan the Autobots.

The thin mech nodded enthusiastically. "The communications tower you saw, Sir Shockwave."

"Ah, yes." Shockwave nodded.

Metatisic’s face grew thoughtful. “Could you in fact contact your Emirate again now?”

Voyager was hesitant. “I’m not sure, Majesty. The stellar interference has waned, but is still quite strong. My systems are advanced but my transmissions are limited by my own output capabilities.”

"Hmmm… Shockwave?” Metatisic turned his head slightly. “Do you think Legate would be able to boost the output?”

Shockwave spoke, “Perhaps. His communications center has a great deal of wave magnification equipment and he is quite familiar with the eccentricity of the Karna’s exceptional radiation.”

“If we were to provide you with the means, you would contact your Emirate then?” Metatisic’s optics flicked back to Voyager.

“Oh, instantly, Your Majesty-sir.” The thin mech chirruped. Scourge still had the urge to smack him every time he vocalized.

“Excellent.” The burgundy ruler clicked his console, “Legate, acknowledge. ”

The mech on the other end replied, “Legate, Mighty One. What is your need?”

“Would it be possible to align your equipment, with the proper focus-- say a mech who could take on the form of a communications tower and switch signals-- to send a transmission beyond the Dead Zone and into Cybertron?” Metatisic seemed to meander with the question, but his optics remained sharp.

The Autobot needlemech was practically bouncing, he was so excited. Blessedly, the little freak kept quiet. Pycon had the most absurd expression on his face and kept glancing at Chamfer, as if wondering almost aloud how much trouble he would be in if his foot slipped and crushed the thin mech. Chamfer narrowed his optics. He obviously thought it wouldn’t be worth it. Scourge almost wished it were.

A pause. It was a short one. Then Legate replied, “A moment, Great Master. Let me consult with Inpentshisi.” There was some animated conversation just out of audio range on the other end. Metatisic leaned on the arm of his grand chair, listening as intently as everyone else. When that died off, Legate, his voice ever so smooth, spoke again. “Inpentshishi feels that such communication is quite possible, My Lord. Preparations for the attempt will be finalized in five to six megacycles.”

“That long?!” Metatisic was shocked.

Legate apologized immediately. “Our tele-communications equipment has never been used to broadcast outside of Ta'nak, Master. Not even to Saria. There has never been a need to do so.” He explained, “We must have time to properly re-calibrate the systems.”

The Dourjer looked disappointed, but he replied in a reasonable tone. “Very well. Proceed.”

“As you Command, Master.” Legate replied as Metatisic clicked the console again.

Scourge watched as the little Autobot tower turned his head this way and that, then checked his own panels. Something was up.

“Majesty?”

Metatisic looked up from his own disappointment to find the little Cybertronian --- Autobot, he really must remember to call them that — trying to get his attention from just the other side of Pycon’s massive foot. His optics were lowered, but the Dourjer knew that hardly mattered with this one. “Yes, Voyager?”

“I know this is greatly important to you,” the little tower began, then stopped. “I’ll try to broadcast myself now, and raise Xaaron. I cannot promise I can, but I’ll try.”

“Then do so.” Metatisic commanded. He watched with interest as Voyager walked a short distance away. He shifted to his altmode again. There was a great deal of bustle between the Air Commander and the fembot as they adjusted arials and dishes to the appropriate angles dictated by Voyager. Obviously this was exactly how they’d transmitted out of the city before and it gave the Dourjer a sense of great anticipation. It would work. He knew it would.

The girl was allowed to borrow the Commander’s transmitter without so much as a word passing between them. She was twisting wires next-- attaching cables with the kind of precision he would expect in a mech. No expression dusted her face beyond an extreme focus. “Ah think that’s as much damage as Ah can do, Voyager. All that mess I done check out?” She asked.

“I believe so. Everything’s responding,” Voyager said. “Prepare to transmit.”

“By yer leave, Lord?” The fembot turned and bowed.

“Yes, yes. Go ahead.” Metatisic attempted a control over his enthusiasm he just didn’t feel.

She turned back, kneeling down, and worked the controls on the transmitter, “This is Steelheart callin’ Servo. This is Steelheart callin’ Servo. Y’all still there or what?”

The Dourjer almost winced. These Autobots had strange ways. Not the least of which was their informality with each other. Their… rampant talkativeness… the…

Static. The static grew louder and there were snatches of sound. A voice! It was a voice from the other side of the Zone. Metatisic leaned forward on his throne, excitement thrilling through him.

“Say that again. Ah didn’t catch that.” Steelheart transmitted.

“Bzzz ..not Servo ..-bzzz.. Stickshift.”

“Well hello again there, Stickshift. We had us a nice conversation afore. Ah’m…” The girl started, but didn’t get to finish.

The mech on the other end, Stickshift, was shouting loud enough for mechs. “Ste--bzzz-heart… Another message! Don’t just -bzzzzz- get someone!” There was a sound like a hundred pairs of heels clanging against flooring all at once. A massive wave of static and some sort of whine interrupted what happened next, but Metatisic saw some of Voyager’s dishes turn and the static slowly evaporated. The signal was now clear, if faint. “Steelheart?! Are you still there?!” The mech’s voice sounded like it was coming from down a long tunnel.

Steelheart sighed. “Yeah, Stickshift. Ah’m here. Ah’d really like to speak to…”

“Are you still in their capital? Are they the gladiators?” He asked, interrupting her.

“Well, Ah need to talk to…” Steelheart tried again.

Other voices broke in, almost as if the one called Stickshift had been shoved out of the way.

“Did you meet their Prime?”

“Is Primus really there?”

“They let us see the pictures! The city was amazing!”

Wave after wave of questions, some of which that Metatisic shared. Most of which seemed to be repeating. He imagined a tangle of bodies, jammed up against the transmitter — everyone jockeying for a turn. These people… were almost charming in their simplicity. They reminded him of cultivators or weavers to a certain extent.

“Alright, all of you, get back.” A new voice presented itself.

Steelheart’s expression brightened. “Servo?”

“Out of my face-plate, I can’t even hear her.” He spoke to someone else, then to her. “Yeah, kiddo. It’s me.”

“Ah can’t believe yer still there.”

“Can’t believe me? Darlin’ the whole damn city of Iacon is in here, practically.” Servo popped, “It was nuts and bolts everywhere after the first transmission cut out. What happened?”

There was a short wave of static that resolved itself easily with another tiny shift in the dishes. Steelheart’s mouth set in a grim line. “Look, Ah can’t talk about that right now. Ah need to know if the Emirate is around there anywhere. Ah’ve got someone mighty important here that’d like to talk to him.”

“Nah. He was pretty upset after that slag-flinging session on the council floor. He left to the annex after Delusion got carried out. When...” Servo began.

Sirens went off on the other end, followed by the distant roar of an explosion. The Cybertronians had barely recognized that anyone else was in the room before now they seemed to completely forget. Riveted on Voyager and Steelheart, their optics were large with mounting horror. Metatisic’s intended question died on his lips. This did not sound like a transmission -- it sounded like an audio patch into hell. The boom reverberated like the entire building was coming down around their audios.

Servo sounded as startled at Steelheart looked. “Can diggin’, piston pullin’…”

Gridlock had grabbed her shoulder. Her optics had become huge pools of still blue. “What’s goin’ on?! Servo?! SERVO!”

“Fraggin’ Quints!” He bellowed. “Somebody get me a gun!”

“Quintessons?!” Someone else shouted from what sounded like the far end of the Assembly hall. The acoustics shifted again as an explosion distorted the signal and another voice added, “PRIMUS! CURSE THOSE QUINTESSONS!”

The tinkers postures had stiffened. Even the girl’s fists had curled. Her jaw was set and she seemed taller, somehow, even from the floor. There was a hard blue shine on her strange optics, as if death itself sat behind those windows. It was not an expression the Dourjer was familiar with on too many female faces, nor was it one he liked.

“Darlin’ it looks like those brutes homed in on your signal. We’re gonna have to go and show em it’s not nice to listen in to other people’s calls.” Servo growled, though his voice was tight. He spoke to someone else, “Hey, you sure this thing’s loaded?”

“Yeah! I loaded it myself.” Was the response --probably Stickshift.

“Great. Probably blow off my damn hand.” Servo then spoke to Steelheart, “You take care. Your brother’d never forgiv--- ” another explosion cut off whatever he was going to say. The burst of static was followed by an eerie silence.

Metatisic blinked.

“Servo! SERVO!” Gridlock shouted. He shook Voyager. “Get him back! GET HIM BACK!” Gridlock’s deep voice was almost a wail. Steelheart was on her feet, trying to soothe him, but he wasn’t paying attention.

The tower transformed, slipping out of the giant’s grasp and sitting dazedly on the floor. “I can’t! The signal cut off on their end… not ours…” Voyager put his face in his hands.

A sob was the only warning the girl had before behind embraced by the huge behemoth who called himself Gridlock. He was bawling, “He’s gonna die! Steelheart, they’re all gonna die!”

“Oh, no he’s not. The transmitter just fell over or something… don’t worry none.” She patted his arm and tried to extricate herself.

The Dourjer shook his head faintly. When he had finally thought to ask something, the little tower was already back in robot mode and fighting vainly not to go into a fit of weeping like Gridlock. When he did finally ask-- he had as many as those on the other side of the transmission had. “Who is this Servo fellow? Who were those people? What were those whooping noises? Why did the transmission cut out?”

Put on the spot, the girl tried even harder to shove herself out of Gridlock’s hold, all the while apologizing to him for being so rough. The big mech sniffled and finally let her go, “Well, he’s mah brother’s boss, Lord. He runs a supply company — warehouses. Gridlock worked for him too.”

The big robot nodded. “I crushed crates f-for him and fixed the pavement when it wore down. The parking lot and delivery bays get a lot of t-traffic…” His whisper was almost a plea. He obviously wanted everything to be as he remembered it when he got back to Cybertron. Metatisic was not unmoved, but he was terribly confused. Every one of these mechs, including the girl, seemed to be workers. The littlest was possibly a scientist. Who sent workers – including one who admitted that his job was fixing pavement and waste disposal – and a single scientist on an emissary to a king?

“Those people, Ah reckon, were some of the council-mechs and maybe a guard or two. Well… and Stickshift. He’s a courier, but he works for Servo.” Steelheart had continued. Her voice sounded far away, as if she were there fighting Quintessons alongside them. “And those noises were them proximity sirens. All the big cities got em. They warn of aerial assaults and can be tripped by them watch guards if’n somebody notices somethin’ going sideways on us.”

“Bombs,” one of the tinkers interrupted. “They were bombing Iacon!”

“Ah know that. Don’t have yourself a fit.” Steelheart scolded, “They do that every other astrocycle, seems like. I bet you forgot we was fightin’ a war with all that trudgin through the Zone and then all this beautiful city Primus’ got here.” She turned her head and gave a small bow. “And it is a right beautiful place. Thank you heartily for showin’ it to us, Great Master.”

The tinker looked at his own peds. A frown creased Metatisic’s brow. There still was one question yet to be answered.

“Voyager, what happened to the signal?” The Dourjer asked again.

The slender tower sounded like he had been beaten and left for dead. His tone was hollow and his optics far away as he spoke, “I don’t know what cut off the signal on the other side. It– it could have been anything. Jamming equipment. The transmitter could have fallen over or the dishes detached. The building may have come down.” He shook his head slowly. “I just don’t know. I don’t know.” Almost curling into a ball where he sat, he apologized again. “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

Metatisic looked over these strange Autobots with a concerned expression. Vibrating with nervous energy, depressed and angry, they were darker than their fascination had made them before. These were not mere children. Uneducated though they were, they were full grown mechs-- Mechs whose ways and motivations were uncertain.

He glanced to his right. Shockwave, impassive, watched everything with a quiet sort of intensity. It was a mood shared by Cyclonus and his band of scientists. The Arms Bearer seemed to be formulating, mulling over the experience, like any good mech of discipline might.

To his left, Sarterius was glowering harder than ever –– an expression shared by his men. They had no pity in them for these strangers. Pycon and Chamfer would grab their weapons in an instant, if so ordered, and slaughter every one of the aliens. They would do it without question or thought.

The Heraks, who had spent some time with the Cybertronians, were in various stages of upset. Canticle had his arms crossed over his chest, as if he’d been personally insulted. There was a cold frown on his face, as if to say, were he there in Iacon, the Quints – or whatever they were — could not run from him. Quodlibet, his notorious joviality gone, seemed close to tears himself. He kept glancing at Voyager and the others and worrying his lower lip. Coronach’s face was one of quiet concern. It was he who made brief, but respectful, optic contact; an entreaty the Dourjer almost heard, it was so clear. Can’t we help them, My Lord?

Metatisic’s processors ached with the overload. “Commander Coronach.”

The blue Herak bowed deeply. “Master?”

“You and your flyers take the Cybertronian ..the Autobots to the Officer’s Mess. They look fatigued and in need of cheer. Few things provide that with more ease than a full fuel tank.” He made his voice carefully pleasant, but noncommittal. He had much to ponder.

“By your leave, Great Lord.” Coronach rounded up the Autobots by name, as if they were his own soldiers. Each tinker bowed before his throne, very respectfully — if clumsily —, before joining his fellows. The girl was last and offered her apologies in relation to what had happened and thanked him for his hospitality. Metatisic acknowledged it with a wave of his hand, his mind already engaged with things far removed from niceties. Coronach himself, as was his duty since she was the alien leader, walked alongside her. With Canticle before and Quodlibet bringing up the rear, the rest were marched from the hall.

Once they were long gone, Metatisic rested his chin on his fist, his elbow digging into the arm of the grand chair.

.

CHAPTER 17: Truth revelations .

Bractos - PL-D2; The Great Hall - The Iysurus
(Something amiss ...)

They had come into his house, into his land and domain, looking about themselves as though they were among miracles. Not sometimes, but always. The Cybertronians had gazed hungrily at the bronze flutes of photon that dotted the corridors along side unselective dances of fire-light. Even the sudden thrum of one of the many bridges was enough to have one of the Autobots pointing again. Simple things; commonplace technology that he himself had long since dulled appreciation for. It was passive behavior at first, but —

Metatisic sat in silence, his hands clasped, his observation still held the exit ahead they had departed through and arrested upon one of the twin feldspar bowls that defined the doorframe. Cyclonus watched from the Dourjer’s right. Metatisic never left focus off the dish, not even for Sarterius and Chamfer’s offhand chatter between them – regarding the Autobots no doubt, even if the future jet couldn’t understand their Delepic speech.

A spring of photon nearby infused a hint of warmth into the moonstone basin’s translucent coldness, while liquid blue, toned to indigo, shimmered a wintry variegation. Metatisic stared into the feldspar’s depths, like some old-fashioned clairvoyant gazing into a crystal ball, as though fascinated by the subtle shades; in truth, the Decepticon monarch looked beyond that interior, seeking perhaps the in-most part of his own self. But searching for something else as well: grasping for a link, a connection, ---an access code.

"You don't think they may have come here looking for new territory away from these creatures they’ve mentioned do you?"

Metatisic’s sudden enquiry was unexpected. His attention left the exit now and landed squarely on Sarterius.

"If they have, they've thought wrong."

“I’m saying that it is peculiar.” The Dourjer explained. He shooed off a house-servant who had just come to see if he might need a refill. “No.” He said and then focused back on his chief-general.

“Imagine. Trekking the entire stretch of the zone. No means of flight. Even if I had fancied meeting them at last, their reasons for actually coming into Ta’nak doesn’t appear to have a purpose to it.”

“At least not one they were willing to give.” Chamfer, with his arms crossed, offered without a moment’s hesitation. Much like his commander, Sarterius, he was always ready to dish out speculation whether it was deserved or not. Handling renegade networks had taught him that quality, but it wasn’t any less evident in his king and god either.

“The thinner one .. What’s his name?” Metatisic asked.

“Voyager?”

“Yes, him --the post. He said that their Emirate knew legends enough to have expected the probability of there being mechanoids already here.”

The Dourjer rose. So deep in thought that it pinched his brow and made slits of his optics, he passed Cyclonus’ shoulder, circled to the rear of his seat and stopped there resting crossed arms along it’s back and propping his chin upon a fist.

“They haven’t come to trade.” Metatisic assess. “They’ve brought nothing with them to do so, but him .. him him!” He spat, “He snaps pictures and records everything in sight!”

To Rumble, Metatisic appeared as though he were in pain. Not the physical sort, but the mental variety delivering it’s war of logic and reason with tiny repeated knife jabs that forced Galvatron’s parent to close his eyes. The Dourjer believed their rouse easily, but still that new trust didn’t deny facts: “Scourge, you should have just shut your damn yap.” Rumble didn’t say it out loud opting to grind his heel into the Sweep leader’s boot instead when he was sure those in the room were not looking.

“This is your fault.” The cassette cursed vaguely.

“How is the Autobots coming here my fault?”

“That.” Rumble muffled into his hand in between a cough. “Because you just had to call them, ‘Autobots’. He fake coughed again, “Metatisic is already assuming stuff.”

“Cyclonus.” Metatisic leaned up on his elbow first before he left the throne cantering towards him. His helm tipped just slightly. “What do you think?”

“Mighty one?”

“The Autobots. What do you think?”

Cyclonus thought about what he ‘could’ say: “No! Don’t do it! We’ll eternally regret the affair!” Rumble was right! Even with the added quantum of Metatisic’s new blessings. As remote as it may seem, their words and their presence had the probability of alternating their future lives – or, even worse, maybe even destroying it! Scourge could not have known that the Cybertronians had not taken the title of ‘Autobots’ just yet in this time line, but they obviously didn’t. Was it a small and minor thing? Perhaps, but if he offered a sentiment now based on what he understood from the future.

“Cyclonus?”

“Is it fair, my league, for me to offer an opinion of the alien robots?” The lieutenant opted for no judgement at all, “After all, I, myself, and my own comrades were discovered in much the same manner."

“I think they’re spies.”

For once Cyclonus was so thankful that Sarterius had chosen to interrupt.

“Master, I am sure they’ve been sent here to count our numbers.” The general flared and took a position between the jet and the Dourjer. “The thin one spoke of wrestling Cybertron away from it’s current owners and the female one backed it.”

Metatisic regarded him for some time before speaking again. Cyclonus saw that same deep focus being inducted again as he had so studious on the Great Hall’s exit earlier. The brightness was gone from the windows of his optics, but replaced with a different kind of gleaming.

“So did the large one.” He added, thought for a moment more and then continued, “And you heard that on what little contact they managed. ... Sarterius, what type of ruler, in the midst of war, licenses independent diplomats out into the middle of absolute nowhere?” Metatisic tone shifted suddenly. His voice was hollow, the tail end of an echo with allegation, “To take pictures .. To take data recordings?”

He lingered on a ‘hmmm’ looking wide and stern at his chief-general who only sniggered:

“Spies, master.”

.

1

.

Bractos - OM-T18; Officer’s mess - The Iysurus

Coronach sighed as the band meandered towards the Officer’s Mess. That had gone… less than smoothly. The Cybertronians were a curious people already and now, though he hated to admit it, they had become even more mysterious.

He glanced at Steelheart. Her expression unguarded, she looked as if she could chew titanium and spit rivets. She was thinking of home, there was no doubt. At war in her own mind, fighting the enemies of Cybertron, lost amid explosions and the dying. War, when she should have only known...

She noticed him watching and small nervous smile dusted there instead.

“Ah got somethin on my face, Coronach?” she asked in a low voice. “With Gridlock a sobbin all over me, Ah wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Uh, no. No. You look very nice.” He resisted the urge to slap himself, and hurried to add. “No, there isn’t anything on your face.”

She looked away, her optics downcast. “That’s good to know.”

He frowned and focused straight ahead. There was something wrong. He knew it, but simply could not put his finger on it.

“Commander Coronach!” Canticle announced and keyed open the doors to the Mess. He waited by the controls with a dour expression on his face. Coronach stopped and let the Cybertronians, herded by Quodlibet, enter in front of him. They milled around, fascinated by the door as much as the actual interior of the hall. Their inquisitiveness had diminished, but it was not gone completely. Voyager passed, strangely enough without his recorder in gear-- though he did stop and admire the controls.

The blue Herak felt a rather rough thump against one of his legs.

“Sorry, Commander.” Gridlock mumbled as he passed. “Those graders sometimes get in my way.”

Coronach looked down at his leg and tried to ignore Canticle’s snort. Finding nothing more than a little scrape, he replied, “No harm done, Gridlock.”

When the Commander did finally enter the Officer’s Mess, he saw two more of his own Heraks --the only ones besides the servants and the Cybertronians in the hall-- at attention and waiting to be allowed to finish their meals. He shook his head. “Blázon, Carillon ..don’t stand on ceremony.” He ordered.

The purple and gold Herak grinned and said, too loudly, “THANK YOU, SIR!”

Carillon cringed and shoved on his wingmate’s arm to get him to sit back down. “Be quiet.”

“I AM BEING QUIET.” Blázon responded, in a wounded tone.

Coronach had never exactly figured out what had happened to that seeker’s volume control, but whispers from him were near deafening. His shouts could wake the dead. Someone tugged at his arm. At this point, he half expected it to be Voyager. The blue Herak was surprised to find it was not.

“Please, Commander,” Quodlibet almost sniffled. “That mention of Steelheart’s brother made me think of my sister. I haven’t seen her in awhile and if Carillon and Blázon are here-- Aubades is probably somewhere close by with her.”

“I will not keep you. Go and see Aubades’ Lieden.” Coronach put his hand on the yellow Herak’s shoulder. “And wish her well from Canticle and myself.”

The red flyer snorted. “Ha!”

“Thank you, Coronach.” Quodlibet smiled. He was gone with a salute and a newly returned spring in his gait.

The blue Herak rounded on Canticle. “Must you ever be so negative?”

“It is my nature to be negative, wingmate. One of my more endearing qualities.” Canticle smiled nastily. “Besides. Someone must counter all the light ‘Libet puts forth or you’d be so blind you couldn’t see for him.”

“You frequently walk the line of getting a fist in your faceplate, my friend,” Coronach chuckled.

Canticle grinned and drifted over to the other two seekers. Alone, Coronach decided to take a turn around the Mess. He’d never much liked this room. The ochre tones were supposed to hide dirt and wear-- but didn’t. There had been enough fights in here to dent the walls in several places, there were burn marks from energon being thrown and the floor was badly scuffed in areas. One of the tinkers smiled at him as he glanced down. Coronach nodded in response as he kept walking.

The Autobots, at least, remembered how to order fuel. Engaged in consuming it, they’d drifted around to various tables- most were talking quietly in between mouthfuls. Voyager was sitting by himself, swishing his energon this way and that, a morose expression on his face. Coronach did not feel like having his hardfiles inspected microscopically at the moment, no matter what kind of mood the little mech was in, so he ignored him.

Even though the mech’s size would seem to preclude it, he didn’t find Gridlock immediately. Scanning further, he found the big mech leaning in one of the arches that led onto the landing ledge. The balcony was quite wide, in fact, but had no rail. With the Cybertronian fear of heights, it seemed odd that he would be so close…

Where was Steelheart?

Taking the entire room in almost at once, he found her to be missing. Surely she was not out there too. He had thought her upset, not suicidal.

Careful not to stomp and draw attention, regardless of his mood, Coronach crossed the Hall and walked through one of the other arches. Without even acknowledging Gridlock, he scanned down the length of the ledge. There she was, hand safely braced on the wall, watching the mechs and femmes going about their business in other places. He sighed. She had induced more panic in him in two astrocycles than vorns of being Commander of the Master’s Herak had managed.

“Gridlock, why don’t you go get some fuel and sit down. I’m sure you’re tired.” He said, with a pointed look up at the large mech.

“Uh… sure, Commander Coronach.”

The blue Herak watched him leave, then walked along the ledge towards Steelheart. Deep in thought, she didn’t notice him. There wasn’t anything special about the view. He corrected himself as he scanned over her head. To him there wasn’t anything special. To someone without the ability to fly, the swarms of people going here and there must seem almost like magic. It was an odd thought.

“I hope the battle goes well.” He ventured after a moment.

No answer met his statement. Only the noises of the city and the semi-muted conversation from the Mess behind them touched his audios.

“You cannot fight your war at home by destroying yourself from within, Steelheart. It is not your fault you are not there.” He put his hand on her shoulder.

That got a reaction. Her head lowered and then she glanced over her shoulder at him.

“You’re weeping.” Coronach stated, almost dumbly.

“Yeah. Ah didn’t want the others to notice.” She admitted, looking away. “Gridlock goin ta pieces was enough for everyone. They look at him as be’in damn near impervious ... so somebody else has gotta be until he gets a good grip back on hisself.” Bowing her head again, she wiped at her face. “And thanks for the well-wishin, Coronach. Ah’m sure all those good thoughts’ll hitch up to mine and help em out… Primus willin’.”

The blue Herak watched her for a long time. This-- self flagellation Steelheart was putting herself through had a great deal more to do with the city she was looking at, he realized, than the battle back on Cybertron. It was not hate-- but what was it? There were far too many questions and he wanted answers.

“What troubles you?”

Her voice caught. “Ah…Ah realized that…” She half turned. “You don’t hafta be nice to me anymore, Commander.”

“Commander?” He scoffed. "...What is this? You will call me by my name or you will not speak to me."

Steelheart grimaced. “Ah ain’t got the right to.”

“What?! Did I correct you? Of course you have the right,” Coronach insisted. He put a hand to his forehead, his temper finally showing. “Your behavior becomes progressively more bizarre! Is this self-depreciating manner something your people often exhibit? Is that why you would march into the dust, unknowing of what you would meet? Is that why you torture yourself now? Tell me!”

She’d turned the rest of the way somewhere during his tirade. Those extraordinary blue optics looked up at him. Her brow furrowed and Steelheart glanced down, then back quickly. It was as if she was getting herself worked up to answer all his questions.

“Tell me.” He repeated in a softer voice.

“We left cause we was desperate…”

Coronach didn’t dare even vent as she finished. Dread crept up along his cables, causing him to tense. Now he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers.

“Ah ain’t meant to be hateful or not appreciate all this.” She gestured to Bractos. “Ah was thinking again, an astro-second ago, that it woulda been better for me to just cease functioning in the Zone and not know… because now Ah realize what it must be like to be really free — and Ah ain’t sure we’ll ever get there.”

“You ... you’re a. You’re a slave you mean?” He stated the obvious in astonishment.

Steelheart nodded, wrapping her arms around herself to keep the very answers she was giving at bay. “Ah was. We all were.” She continued quietly, “Ah’m sorry for not tellin’ you afore… but… Ah was ashamed. Awhile back before y’all found us, we made a deal not to tell if’n we didn’t have to…” Her lips pulled tight in a grimace. “And here Ah am, breakin mah promise. Some leader Ah am.”

She forced her arms down and one went back to the wall. A brace.

Coronach put a hand on her shoulder again and let it linger this time. He hoped it would impart some sort of comfort. “I think that you are a very good leader. Better even than some of the mechs I know.” He looked out over the city. “Though I am ever awed by our mighty Bractos… I too have taken it for granted like the others. Perhaps that is why your party alone has been able to cross the Zone. To remind us of all we have — all our ancestors fought and died for. We speak the words… but do we listen to them?” The blue Herak shook his head, falling silent. The view was magnificent, and he’d seen it almost every day for vorns. What else had he been missing?

He almost didn’t notice her hand coming away from the wall. Steelheart gave no sign of having moved, and, had he not felt the slight vibration through her shoulder, he would not have acknowledged the movement at all. The implied trust was pleasing. She knew he would not let her fall.

“What was your Master like, that you would run so very far from him?” Coronach asked, at length. He wasn’t quite sure what reaction he would have to the answer, whatever it might be.

“It was a Quint, and they only make them horrible things one way — brutal.” Steelheart glanced at him, but didn’t make a move to dislodge his hand. “Ah didn’t think Ah ran, but now that you put it that way, Ah didn’t feel free even after Ah speared that ugly…”

“CORONACH!”Quodlibet interrupted. He was running fast through the Mess Hall by the heavy staccato of his feet. The other Herak were trying to get him to slow down, by the sounds of things and the Cybertronians were getting restless.

The blue Herak sighed. Damn his timing.

“Pardon me, Steelheart. I must see what new crisis has flustered my wingmate.” He released her shoulder reluctantly, stepping away.

The fembot smiled. “Sure.”

Finding himself smiling in response, he tamped down on it. He turned and strode through the archway

“What is it now, Quodlibet?” He asked with a quirked brow ridge.

“Sar--Sarterius…” The yellow Herak was practically gasping, he was venting so hard. “V-voyager. General Sarterius is coming for Voyager!”

The Herak looked at each other and then at their Commander. Coronach could offer no solution. He was just as confused, but in new instant alert. “Why?”

“D-don’t know!” Quodlibet choked out.

Canticle frowned. “Let me round them up at least. It won’t do us any good to have them scrambling to finish their lunches — The general is not patient.” He clapped his hands and called for all of them to hurry up and make themselves presentable.

“Sarterius is furious!” The yellow Herak grabbed Coronach’s arm. “FURIOUS!”

“What about? What happened?!”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t hear. I just — I w-wanted to warn everyone.” Quodlibet’s admission was almost a whine.

The blue seeker put a hand to his forehead in frustration. This wasn’t his life. It couldn’t possibly be. It was someone else’s that had been rudely thrust on him. He knew what his life was like, and it didn’t involve all this rampant chaos.

“Warn us of what?”

With a sick feeling, the bottom almost dropped out of Coronach’s fueltank. “Steelheart, do not step in front of me. Stay behind me and face the front — do not turn, do not raise your optics off the floor.” He called to Canticle, “Form them up behind us. Don’t let them stray.” Then to Blázon and Carillon, “Stand at the ledge. If Sarterius’ Decepticons are coming from that direction, I want to know.”

He was obeyed instantly, but dread still settled tightly near his cyclotron.

“What’s going on, Coronach? Y’all are settin’ yourselves like there’s gonna be a fight.” Steelheart whispered.

“No. We are forming up to prevent one. Sarterius… has a temper.” Once everyone was in place and Canticle and Quodlibet flanked him, he heard the sound of approaching peds thundering beyond the closed doors. “NO ONE SPEAK UNLESS THEY ARE SPOKEN TO!” It was the last order the blue Herak was able to give before those doors were whisked open.

.

2

.

Curious. Very curious.

Though he did not reveal himself, the massive green thundercloud – heavy with acid – that had settled on Sarterius’ processes experienced a brief blast of confusion. Everyone in the Officer’s Mess was on their feet and all spaced just so, at parade rest. With his wingmates flanking him, the Aerial Commander stood at rest as well and before them all. It was like he thought himself some sort of shield. The chief-general did not know how they had been prepared for the arrival of he and his mechs, but he did not like it.

Pycon, who marched through the doorway in step with Chamfer, reached the strange little mix of flyers, soldiers and aliens. “The data recorder.” He put out his hand to Coronach.

“May I know why you seek property that is not even mine to give?” The Commander’s voice was not insolent, no, but it was very close to it. And there, just behind him, was that wretched fembot looking so meek and mild at his elbow. Sarterius’ optics narrowed.

“My orders were for the data only. Not questions,” Pycon stated flatly, but put his hand on his pistol. Chamfer copied the gesture, but with a great deal more menace.

Coronach snapped, “I do not appreciate being threatened. Especially not by Decepticons I outrank.”

That tore it. His massive feet striking sparks off the floor due to his furious momentum, Sarterius marched through the doorway. He shoved aside a slave who had the bad luck not to have noticed him. The servant’s body slammed into the floor and went sliding. “You do not outrank ME, Commander!”

Sarterius glowered at the ragtag collection of mechanoids. It was truly annoying, but the expression on Coronach’s face did not change. Though the yellow one quailed and the red one narrowed his optics, the blue seeker had no reaction at all. He simply pulled himself to attention and gave the command for all the others to do so as well. Then he offered a respectful, “General Sarterius.” He bowed.

He did not know Coronach anymore. The bright, eager youth that had charmed him when none of the other winged gadabouts who served the Dourjer could-- had become this creature. This creature whose optics were shuttered and face revealed nothing. His very posture was a study in hidden motives. “I want every one of the Autobots out in the hallway, this instant!”

“As you command, General.” Coronach called to the Cybertronians and his own wingmates and they all marched outside and into the hall.

“Pycon, Chamfer… keep watch on them. If any of them break and run, give no quarter.” Sarterius ordered.

A blue-grey Herak, plain but silvery, stepped through the arches just as Sarterius was going to join the merry little crew out in the hall. The General recognized this one. Carillon’s face was a mask of ice. This insolent whelp was like all the others. They fooled themselves by believing that they, by virtue of their fancy technology, were so much better than everyone else. They were nothing. Their little airframes were foil compared to a real battlemech and their time would pass.

“Have you a complaint, Herak?” Sarterius demanded.

“No… Sir General.” Carillon’s voice was quiet.

And all of them were cowards. Sarterius sniffed angrily, turning. Every last one. Not worth the metal they were made out of. The doors whooshed shut behind him. He found the group out in the hall maintaining the same stillness they had in the mess. It had become infuriating. The unnatural calm, the fact that he was expected… it was not normal. It smacked of treachery.

“And now… I want the recorder.” Sarterius stood before Coronach, his great fists on his hips.

The younger mech dipped his optics respectfully, but only just – no more. “May I ask you why, General Sarterius?”

“It is not your place to question me.” Sarterius snarled. “If you do not place the device in my hand now, I will take it by force!”

There were several barely contained gasps, but Coronach remained calm. “Voyager.”

“B-but…” the little mech pled.

“Just give him your scanner, Voyager. The Dourjer will see you have nothing to hide.” Quodlibet’s voice was soft but firm, belying his almost cowering posture. Coronach didn’t attempt to correct him for speaking without command. Sarterius scowled.

It then crawled out from behind the yellow seeker. The trembling little needlemech held the box to his narrow chest and looked up with huge blue optics. Before he could beg or otherwise speak at all, Sarterius ripped it out of his hands. He shook it before him.

“What,” he growled. “Is THIS?!”

Voyager gaped in shock.

“What is it for?!” Sarterius snapped. For all their magnificent acting, these Autobots were little better than terrorists. They obviously sought to take information back to their government so that they could then return and swarm Ta’nak.

“It, it’s a s–scanner.” Voyager mumbled. He was shivering so badly that his plating had started to rattle.

The General leveled his cannon at the tower and snarled. “WHAT IS IT FOR?!”

“Coronach!” The frightened gasp belonged to that miserable girl.

The Commander of the Herak began. “General…”

“Out of this, Coronach.” Sarterius grunted.

“I only wish to know why this has occurred. If the Dourjer was displeased, I feel it may have been my fault. I did attempt to teach the foreigners what to say and — ” Coronach’s tone was level, even. No tension. No anger. Only a note or two of confusion managed to break through.

“Perhaps a little too pleased.” Sarterius snapped. His ruby windows flicked from Voyager to the girl. “Sweet talking maybe?” He finally charged.

The red Herak exploded, “How dare you accuse my Commander of such base behavior!” Canticle didn’t even have time to react, Pycon’s fist slammed into the alloy alongside his cockpit doubling the Herak with a shriek of his fuselage warping. Still Coronach did not move — even as the girl clasped his arm in terror and the Autobots cowered. Voyager had thrown himself back behind the yellow flyer and peeked out nervously under one wing.

Sarterius shoved Pycon back, thrusting the scanner into his hands. Then he snatched the red plane off the floor by his throat. His fingers tightened like a vise. “No! How DARE you --YOU!”

Canticle forced out passed the static in his emitter, even as he choked. "S...o...so... I am... corrected..."

Uncaring of the sucking, straining noises that the mech’s internal works had started to make, he dropped the traitorous Herak like the garbage he was. Canticle landed with clatter of plating. One of his glossy orange-red wings, with a sick metallic sigh, deformed on impact. He did not cry out. Instead he vented short and shallow, obviously trying to control the pain.

“These are my Herak. I found the Autobots,” Coronach’s voice was absolutely flat. “I’m in charge of them. I deserve to know why all of this is being allowed.”

"Very well, Coronach. Your inexperience is as clear to me now as I thought it was before. Metatisic and myself both have reason to believe these Autobots might be spies." Sarterius said in a too kindly tone.

That provoked a reaction like nothing else had. “What?! Spies?!” Coronach’s face registered profound confusion.

"Yes. Isn't it obvious?” He snarled at Coronach, then turned his full attention on girl. “Sent here under the command of your Emirate did you not say? Fighting a horrible war?" His voice mounted strength until he shouted. "Taking lands?! And now you've come here to our lands to count our numbers haven't you? Eh? .." Sarterius laughed suddenly. He almost sounded insane, even to his own audios. "You expect the Dourjer to believe your leader, in the midst of such a horrible war, would send out an envoy to snap VACATION PHOTOS!" The General didn’t even await an answer. “Why are you here?!”

The femme did not move. Her optics were dead, her limbs tense. Sarterius almost wished she’d fly at him now. He’d tear her to pieces.

“We don’t have a choice. We gotta tell him.”

It was the big mech, the one who had leaked like a perforated oil pan before the Dourjer.

Some of the Autobots gasped. “Gridlock!”

At last. At last, the truth. Sarterius almost smiled in savage joy. He would be vindicated and the Autobots would be dead. One less threat to the glory of the Dourjer ..the glory of the Empire.

“Stop it!” The huge mech’s hands tightened symbolically squeezing their moment of uproar, “Stop! .. We have no choice no more! We HAVE too!--- Steelheart?”

Steelheart sighed. "We came because —-- w-we can't go nowhere else. We ain't got no damn armies. We're fighting from house to house as it is... trying to free the rest of the slaves as we go." She frowned. "From what Ah understood, the Emirate hoped y'all could help... but Ah'm startin to think that some."

The General blinked. She didn’t finish, but this was not exactly what he had expected to hear. Where was the sudden admission of collusion with the Rougeons? Where was the affirmation of the evil designs of their Emirate on the lands of Ta’nak?

“Slaves?” Sarterius blinked, “What’s this to do with slaves?”

“We are.” Gridlock rumbled.

Steelheart affirmed. “We all are.”

The post sniffled. “Even myself. We’re all fleeing from the Masters.”

"You may be fleeing, Veeg. Not me. Ah gotta go back. Ah gotta help mah brother,” Steelheart retorted sharply. “Ah ain’t leavin Airnhide to get hisself killed.”

Gridlock nodded. “Yeah. Me either. We just want some help.”

"Interesting."

The new voice seemed to come from nowhere and it certainly wasn't any of them. Even Sarterius glanced left and to the right for a moment.

"Interesting indeed."

Metatisic, Shockwave at his side, stepped out of the shadows. He swept those assembled with a look. All this new data was quite… informative.

"Master." Coronach moved forward first with a bow and ready apologies. "Sire, I .."

"Silence. You don't have to explain because I've already heard." Metatisic walked towards them with the guardian called Shockwave keeping pace by his side.

Sarterius wasn't so sure if he had. "Dourjer, you don't seriously believe such a story?"

"You said yourself, Sarterius, that desperate mechs will do anything to preserve their function cycle." He washed a thoughtful glance over Steelheart and flicked another at the giant Gridlock, “... what could be more forlorn than a terrified slave? That could drive a mech to trek across such a forsaken landscape as the Zone more surely than any whip or command."

His consideration came to rest on Steelheart. It was so simple. This explained her odd forcefulness, her lack of modesty or manners. “…or a femme.”

It all made sense now. All of it. The awe they carried, or the lack thereof --he noticed Voyager hiding behind Quodlibet-- ALL of it.

His gaze was so intense and peering so deep that Steelheart seemed compelled. She stepped forward and bowed, "Ah'm sorry. Ah was …well we were … e-embarrassed."

"You've got so much... we didn't want to seem... w-we didn't want you to think that we were moochin, Yer Master-sir" Gridlock added.

Voyager mumbled, stepping out from behind the yellow Herak. "B-but it happened anyway."

"Fear of taking advantage still does not explain the obsessive need for recording though." Sarterius reasoned, "Even for slave mechs. What required such exhaustive data collection?"

Metatisic had a much softer approach. "Perhaps you should tell me — entirely."

Voyager nodded. “The Assembly felt that the idea of a power capable of challenging the Quintessons did not exist. Many of them still demand proof. Assemblymech Alpha Duon alleged it was foolish desperation to believe in what he called fables."

Steelheart added, "So Voyager was supposed to collect data and prove the legends there was true-- if’n we found it."

Voyager gestured his helplessness. "Alpha Duon is extremely hard to convince. I had to get everything so that he would know that we were telling --t-the truth."

Metatisic had yet to say anything and a worried look crossed Steelheart’s face. She stepped forward, unthinking, her attitude one of near hopelessness. "Please! You gotta believe us!! You can have the recorder... You can check it for yourse---!"

His hand on her chin was shocking and completely unexpected. She fell silent instantly. Smoothing the jaw, his stare was on the verge of cutting through her optics and into her processors. The faint blue glow was strange, it cast weird shadows over her face.

Not the open warmth of red…

"The eyes. I can always tell by the eyes... hmmmm…"

…but the brightness of the noon sky when the Karna is nearing Apex…

"Sire?" Voyager shifted from foot to foot.

…and without clouds brooding.

There was no shadow in the light itself. "I believe you." He released her chin.

Steelheart blinked, standing as still as a statue. “Oh… mah… stars…” She whispered, hastily backing up. The girl actually bumped into Quodlibet.

“You'll forgive the suspicion, but even you must agree your exact nature was tenuous at best." Metatisic smirked only a tad.

The girl nodded with emphasis. "And mah flippin out at the General didn't help none..."

Gridlock grimaced. “Or me about ta shake poor Veeg to pieces…”

Voyager said, “And now I realize how suspicious I looked.”

There were murmurs all around as each of the Autobots recounted something that in some small way may have added to the misunderstanding. When there was a brief moment of silence, Coronach spoke in a contrite tone. "I should apologize myself, Great Master. I had learned truth just before Pycon and Chamfer arrived."

Sarterius frowned darkly at the Aerial Commander. Metatisic gestured with two fingers. Not now.

"However, the most serious concerns are no longer yours. As this was officiated by your Emirate Xaaron and his Assembly, I must speak with him." The Dourjer continued, speaking to the Autobots.

"And then you'll make a decision?" Gridlock wondered aloud.

"That is something I will not promise. I've decided nothing at all as I don't know of your situation from an official source." Metatisic glanced at the huge Cybertronian. It seemed strange to be speaking to slaves on such an informal level — aliens though they may be. Their natures were in constant conflict. They did not seem to know their place, though they wanted very much to please. He had not forgotten their display before him. Now he was sure it had been honest awe. They very much wished to give him respect, but did not know how. Were their Masters irresponsible? Wicked? Both were possibilities. Or were these slaves badly trained? Rabble-rousers? Neither of those things excluded bending knee before the living heir of Megadyne and striving to please their god. That just meant they were troublemakers — not Rougeons. Troublemakers only needed a firm hand, stern correction and good training. He took them all in a sweeping glance. The girl had proven it, they were not evil by nature.

Gridlock was meek. "Sorry."

He almost smiled. No. Not evil by nature. Metatisic mused aloud, more for their benefit than his own, "I'm not in the habit of aiding and abetting escaped slave constructs. Was your flight justified? --perhaps. Should I return you to your Masters or is there another reason that further supports your escape? No.. these are questions best reserved for your leader and not his messengers."

"Sir ... I mean, Great Master." Voyager began, worried of what he had just heard. "A-are you going to return us?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Metatisic paused. Really these Autobots should understand. If his own slaves had fled, he’d want them returned. But then, he might decide it were better not to involve himself at all. He might not return them, in fact… he may keep them. He was a great appreciator of new technology and these Cybertronians were rife with it, slaves though they may be.

"I am delighted to finally learn that the reports of your existence are verified.” Metatisic began, “but understand my reasoning: You have come into my territory bringing with yourselves your problems." He explained further, "These are not the concerns of my Decepticons and nor did we cause them, but yet you have brought them here with you. I've seen slave escape attempts before ...more often than I would care to."

Steelheart looked down. It was as if the light died out of her optics. Her dark hands clasped, pulling against each other.

"What will they think when they find that I'm harboring their property? You call them monsters — demons…" His gaze raked over them again, his brow furrowing. "You have escaped here. Here – to my Lands. There is threat enough in that your Quintesson Lords may come here looking for you and what then does that do to my people? My cities?" The Dourjer gestured.

Voyager offered, "We did not mean to intrude, Sire."

"This I understand, but it is also why I must speak with your Emirate and further clarify your situation." Metatisic said in a judicious tone.

"I knew this was going to happen." Gridlock sounded obliterated, like he would burst into tears again. "You know Servo told me those stories about the gladiator’s revolt… there’s no way I’d have come if I didn’t think he was tellin’ Primus’ own truth." It was a stray comment. A long mumble really and not even directed at anyone in the room, but Metatisic caught it.

The rouge glass panes twinkled. "Excuse me?"

"He said that if we found the warriors, that you’d understand because the Gladiators fought the same war mega-vorns ago." Gridlock’s voice was thin; he seemed to be trying to hide inside himself.

“Delusion told me something similar,” Voyager supplied.

Gridlock glanced at him, confused. “Really?”

"How would your people know this?" And, before the Autobots could think to answer – another question, "Who’s Delusion?"

Voyager replied. "He's one of the councilmechs, Sire. He's the one who brought the legend of your people to the assembly in the first place. He said that many thousands of Vorns ago there had been another revolt against the Quintessons and that all the warriors escaped across the border." The tower chuckled, "And no one believed him. Duon thought he was insane."

"Oh Duon's an old slag gasket," One of the tinkers retorted. “Everybody knows it.”

Metatisic hadn't spoken a word. Panthering the hall for a moment, his aspect was one of intense thought. He actually slapped one of the pillars, leaning against it for only a quartex, before continuing his steady prowl.

It was Shockwave who actually spoke. "I've heard this."

"Yes, yes." Metatisic nodded quickly and repeated the old chant, "We will not forget... I know."