GUIDING HAND
(A Tale of the Far Future)
By Raksha
"Give me a firm spot upon which I might stand,
and I shall move the Earth."
--Archimedes
|
1.
He recognized his surroundings immediately
as Cybertron -- the dull shimmer of dark metal
stretching away to all directions in ribbons of
streets and skyways, the towers and spires and
buildings untouched and lightless and perfect --
the dead-cold silence, the stars reflecting
faintly in the surrounding metal which had, in
the absence of wear and tear, retained much of
its luster. Only for an instant did he wonder
how he'd gotten here, and then the thought was
gone.
He stood before the black tower of the War
Memorial that soared toward the sky in the very
center of Polyhex City -- names upon names
inscribed on all sides over every micron of its
surface, names of those who had died in the
battle against the Autobots. At least, the
names of all those who could be remembered and
counted. At its base ... his gaze was drawn
inexorably, although he didn't want to look: a
pair of guttering torches to both sides of a
golden plaque. Fed by a near-inexhaustible
cache of fuel, these flickering lights in the
dark were the only things that still lived and
moved on Cybertron. He knew the inscription on
the plaque without looking; he tried not to look
-- after all these years, the pain was still
real.
In Memory of Soundwave
If not for his sacrifice,
all these others would have died for nothing.
Let it never be forgotten.
|
Determinedly he focused on the wall above
the plaque, the glossy dark surface reflecting
his own image back to him, a bit blurred and
surrealistically imposed over the many, many
names. A double shimmer of scarlet optics, a
powerful silver frame whose sleekness belied its
bulk, a pair of slender wing-planks rising from
his shoulders, a tremendous, squared-off cannon
running nearly twice the length of his right
arm. He leaned forward to read some of the
names, and found that the inscriptions began to
merge, the text coiling and writhing and
refusing to be still. He dimmed his optics for
an instant and re-brightened them. The text was
still. But another figure was now visible
behind the reflection that was his own.
He whirled around, startled and angry that
someone had managed to sneak up on him without
his awareness, for in his position, it was as
likely to be a potential assassin as a potential
ally. From long years of practice, he sized up
the fighting capabilities of the other at a
glance as the power level in his arm cannon
crept up a notch to ready-status. Almost
immediately he powered down again. While it was
never wise to underestimate a potential
opponent, no matter their appearance, he felt it
was a safe bet that this particular one, if he
meant harm, would not require the full force of
a fusion blast to eliminate.
The robot was unlike any he had ever seen,
nearly as tall as himself but spindly somehow,
with ill-fitting limbs composed of an inelegant
sequence of cylinders, cuboids, and coils of
wire making for the joints. The head was
rounded, with a single, narrow yellow eyeband
stretching across the middle, and no other
facial features whatsoever. The whole thing was
encased in a steel-gray layer of armor that
seemed the flimsiest of protections from any
modern high-tech weaponry, and there looked to
be no transforming capability at all.
He could not tell if the thing was male or
female, but when it spoke, the voice came out
vaguely male: "Megatron. So good of you to
return."
"Who are you?" Megatron snarled in
response, still irritated that he'd been caught
unaware. "What do you want?"
The other robot seemed not at all taken
aback, and replied calmly, "My apologies; I
should have introduced myself. Subcommander
Astarquias of the Rebellion." He brought his
right fist against his chest in the traditional
Decepticon salute.
Megatron's optics narrowed - there was in
fact a Decepticon symbol of sorts on the other
robot's chest, though it was of a more
simplified design than any he had ever seen.
Several questions shot through his mind
simultaneously, and he finally came out with,
"Rebellion?"
"Some things have changed much since my
time, and some-" Astarquias dropped his fist
away from his chest- "-have not. The Rebellion,
yes, it would have little significance to you in
this age...."
"What age? What time?" Megatron demanded.
"What are you doing here? Nobody lives here
anymore."
Astarquias nodded. "Precisely why I am
here. Allow me to show you something."
Before Megatron could agree or disagree,
the silent city around them shimmered like a
fading hologram, and they found themselves on a
cliffside overlooking a golden plain in bright
sunlight. Far below, a horde of metallic beings
-- Megatron would be hard-pressed to call such a
disorderly grouping an army -- was locked in
combat with monstrously huge robotic forms,
while behind these, hovering spiral-shaped
vessels took potshots at the rabble from above.
In the distance, a few clusters of spires and
other architecture dotted the opposite
cliffside.
Astarquias made a sweeping gesture toward
their surroundings. "Recognize the lay-out of
the land?"
Megatron looked again. Of course! Most
of the landmarks of the cities were missing, but
the plain below and the cliffsides surrounding
it, were the approach from the south to the vast
continental plateau that supported Polyhex;
there, to the north, was the ridge beyond which
should be yes, even here in these oddly
changed circumstances, a few narrow spires
sprouted in the distance where the looming city-
state of Polyhex should have been visible as a
shadow on the horizon. "Cybertron," Megatron
murmured.
Astarquias nodded in apparent
satisfaction, though it was impossible to read
his facial expression. "A good commander always
has a sense for his surroundings, even with the
more obvious clues removed." He indicated the
scene below them again with a slight motion of
his head.
Megatron turned his attention back to the
slaughter raging below. There was no other
description for it. Each blast from the huge,
lumbering robots wiped out scores of the smaller
ones, and while the shots lancing out of the
spiral ships did not seem as powerful, they were
precisely aimed and deadly-accurate. Megatron
recognized the huge robots as being vaguely
similar to the Guardian Robots who had stood
watch at the gates of many a city-state early in
his own career. These particular ones were more
primitively built, but there were structural
similarities to the monstrous machines that had
been so favored by the Autobots for a brief time
in the wars.
The opposing force was unfamiliar to him,
of the same strange physical design as
Astarquias, built around some slight variation.
Despite seeming to be awkwardly hinged-together,
these spindly robots were agile and durable;
Megatron saw many of them take three or four
full-force blasts before finally going down for
good. Through the melee he thought he caught
the occasional glimpse of a triangular purple
symbol splashed on sections of armor. In
puzzlement he turned to Astarquias.
"Decepticons?"
"Indeed." Astarquias pointed toward the
battlefield below. "Here is the critical moment
now. Watch closely."
Although the Guardian Robots and the
spiral ships were steadily decimating their
ranks, the horde of oddly-built Decepticons had
not given ground. It seemed they clung to their
position only to die trying ... when suddenly a
brilliant explosion blossomed from the hull of
one of the ships. An instant thereafter,
another burst into flame, and then another ...
all across the golden plain, spiral ships were
crashing toward the ground, exploding anew upon
impact and showering the area with burning
debris. Simultaneously the Guardians stopped in
their tracks and sank slowly to the ground.
One, lacerated by pieces of hull from a crashed
ship, exploded into a brilliant starburst of
heat.
Megatron suddenly found himself in the
midst of the tumult, with robots rushing past
him toward the remnants of the ships. He looked
around, startled, to find Astarquias standing
calmly next to him. None of the others seemed
to pay them any heed, though Megatron could feel
the heat from the nearby fires. Someone was
shouting commands -- a Decepticon built very
much like all the others, though missing his
left arm and marred by half a dozen lacerations
and laser burns. But he directed the others
with confidence, directing them to plunge into
the remains of the burning ships and pull bodies
from the wreckage. Megatron recognized a figure
beside the commander, who was helping direct the
flow of activity. Astarquias! In confusion he
glanced aside, to find his strange companion
still standing serenely beside him.
Astarquias offered no explanation on that
point, and said merely, "That was our leader,
Salvo. It was he who forged slaves into rebels,
who inspired all these warriors to make this
final strike. It was he who had the vision and
the determination that we be masters of our own
destiny. He was, you might say, your first
direct predecessor, your philosophical
ancestor."
Robots were being pulled from the remains
of the ships, many dead and charred beyond
recognition, many in various conditions of life.
Megatron recognized among those bearing the
simplified triangular symbol, others bearing a
simplified, squarish red emblem with an
unmistakable resemblance to the Autobot brand.
Astarquias explained before he could ask,
"In this first Great Rebellion we all learned to
work together. The Autobots, being generally
useless for combat, were used for domestic
purposes by the slavers, allowing them access to
some of the vital codes and keys we needed to
break their security locks. Working
cooperatively in secret locations, we broke the
codes together. Under Salvo's direction, we
began to stage attacks, though always outgunned
by the slaver's superior technology. Finally
they realized their hold over this world had
slipped, and unleashed the Guardian Robots on
us, hoping to take out those who had turned
against them, in retribution, leaving Cybertron
a wasteland. But everywhere, to each of their
strongholds, we had sent infiltrators, who
planted explosives, often carrying them within
their own bodies. This battle was the last, the
one final attempt by the slavers to destroy our
leadership and cut out our fighting spirit --
but even here, as you see, we had infiltrators
on the ships who unleashed their primitive but
effective sabotage."
Something else was being dragged from the
ships. Not robots in any recognizable sense,
but creatures that seemed to be all great
bloated heads with multiple faces on all sides,
trailing a sweep of tentacles. Most were dead
or dying, the misshapen heads crushed like empty
helmets, the tentacles severed, the flesh
charred, boiling organic liquid oozing out of great
gashes of wounds. One remained more alive than
most, and tried to push itself up on its
tendrils. Salvo caught sight of the movement
and pushed his way through the crowd of
warriors, to force his remaining fist through
one of the creature's eyes. Amidst a bubble of
organic fluids, he ripped out a series of cables
and coils, clenching his fist tight over the
sticky mess while the multi-faced creature
twitched and spluttered and finally lay still.
Decepticons and Autobots helped each other to
their feet as a cheer went up around Salvo, who
exchanged a triumphant look with Astarquias ...
the one he could see, in any case...
They were on Cybertron again, the dark,
cold, present-day world with its perfectly
reconstructed and untouched buildings.
"Who are these slavers you speak of?"
Megatron asked. "I know nothing of any of
this."
Astarquias inclined his head, it seemed, a
little bit sadly. "So much history has been
lost to the subsequent wars. There is no way
for you to know. But I will say this much.
Soon after the development of civilization on
Cybertron, the slavers descended upon us. They
claimed to be deities who had created us, to
whom we were beholden, and many believed it and
swore obedience. It was a time when religion
and superstition ran rampant and made us
gullible, while more and more, the slavers --
the Quintessons -- bred us for their own
purposes and sold us to offworlders as servants
and warriors. Even then we were divided into
Decepticons and Autobots, and even then the
seeds of future conflict were already in place,
but all that was interrupted by the slavers.
The Decepticons, in particular, being trained to
battle and courageous and loyal by nature, made
ideal soldiers, and I cannot estimate how many
died on foreign worlds for alien causes. In the
end, many gave their lives for freedom -- their
own."
Astarquias looked up at the towering War
Memorial that loomed into the night sky above
them. "It seems to me inappropriate, somehow
... that a world which inspired such devotion
should have become a necropolis, a silent
memorial at the heart of a grand empire. An
empire should have a living heart. Don't you
agree?"
He looked at Megatron, his expression
unreadable behind that single yellow eyeband --
and then vanished.
* * *
He awoke with a start to the first glimmer
of sunlight seeping through the high windows,
pushing reflexively against the familiar weight
of coils that lay draped around him, struggling
upward out of the normally comforting embrace ...
Raksha stirred, a rustle of feathers and a
glitter of scales as her long serpentine form
slid smoothly past him and drew together upon
itself to melt into the more compact biped mode.
Not quite awake yet, she reached out to him with
one taloned hand, but he was up off the bed and
beyond her reach already, murmuring the word
"Cybertron" as he stumbled out of the chamber
and was gone.
She found him sometime later, on the
highest spire of the palace, at the lookout
point from where one could see the entire
panorama of Sky City stretching below. The
dazzling first rays of sunlight had not yet
reached all the way to ground level through the
wisps of clouds that separated the floating city
from the brown-and-green map of the planet
below, but already they caught the crystalline
architecture and set it alight in a thousand
sparkling colors. The Supreme Ruler of the
Decepticon empire stood motionless as the light
crept up the high spire and fell across his
silver plating.
Though Raksha's claws clicked softly on
the smooth metal surface of the balcony as she
approached, he seemed entirely unaware of the
presence of his mate. He stared out at the city
and beyond it as though not seeing it, the fiery
scarlet of his gaze unwavering, blank. Puzzled,
she tilted her head and reached toward him,
asking softly, "Megatron?"
"Megatron?"
He spun from the circular porthole that
provided the room's only view of the starfield,
and found himself facing the statuesque female
who had spoken his name. Her plating was a
burnished copper with black accents, and her
optics were a deep maroon, almost purple. She
was too powerfully built and too heavily armored
to meet the conventional Cybertronian standard
of female beauty, but in the composure and
dignity with which she carried herself, she
could adequately be described as handsome.
"Who are you and what do you want?" he
snapped, having the strange sense that he'd said
the same to her once before and just recently,
before the incongruous notion slipped away.
She smiled a bit, and replied calmly, "My
name is Soleandra. But I'm not the important
one here. Come, they're waiting for you."
She turned away, even as Megatron asked,
"Who's waiting for me? What is this?"
Soleandra continued toward the door, leaving
Megatron to stare after her across the dark,
barren little room. Finally he followed,
hurrying to catch up.
She led him through the upper levels of
what was obviously an orbital defense station.
Somewhere in the record of Cybertron's past was
the hint that these had once circled the planet
to guard from un-named invaders -- and indeed,
as they passed through various curving hallways,
there was an occasional circular porthole window
from which could be seen the distant curve of
Cybertron's surface. Megatron wanted to stop
and look out, but Soleandra continued at a
steady pace, and he was obliged to keep up, or
loose track of her. They passed others: a
quietly focused and efficient crew, manning
countless sensor stations and weapons consoles,
running constant maintenance and installing
upgrades and testing and re-testing each system
to insure that everything remained at flawless
ready-status. The crew consisted of Decepticons
according to the symbol they wore, though their
design was crude and bulky and primitive by the
usual standards. But there were still modern
warriors who were built on some of those old
designs, and other than the apparent lack of
alternate modes, some of these Decepticons might
have fit into Megatron's armies without evoking
a second glance. With an air of grim
dedication, they went about their business and
paid Megatron and Soleandra no heed as they
walked past.
She led the way into an all-but-hidden
access hatch, from which the path led downward
in a series of ladders, down shafts that were
almost too narrow to let them pass. As they
descended, the rhythmic pulse of a vibration
that Megatron had already been dimly aware of,
increased to the point of noticeably shaking the
surface below their feet. Gradually a sound
began to accompany the vibrations, a slow, deep
pounding. Megatron recognized it with a trace
of alarm as the mark of a collision reactor, a
power generator that was said to have been used
extensively many billennia past, and had still
been used up until very recently during times of
great desperation but the emissions played
havoc with a Transformer's vital functions,
especially over any length of exposure.
Megatron stopped short of following Soleandra
down the next series of ladders. "Wait a
minute," he demanded. "Do you have any idea
what's powering your space station? Do you know
what we're heading towards?"
She paused halfway down the access hatch
and looked up at him. "Oh yes," she said
inflectionlessly. "Even in our time, we knew
what the consequences of using this source of
power would be. Too long of an exposure, and
one risks disintegration of the neurocircuits,
disruption of electrical impulses first a
painful and debilitating loss of control over
one's voluntary movements, then a slow descent
into madness and death. But it takes a while,
as you know, and everyone tries to put it out of
their minds, hoping they'll be rotated back
planetside before the effects become
irreversible. It's a cheap and easy source of
power, you see, and after all, we are only
Decepticons."
Megatron shook his head, not understanding
and most of all, not understanding why she
kept climbing closer and closer to the
generator. The color of her optics deepened a
little more in the dim lighting, though she
smiled a sad smile, full of some nameless
regret. "It's alright," she said quietly.
"It's alright for us this time."
She disappeared from view as she let
herself down the ladder. Megatron realized that
the radiation warnings that should have been
screaming from his internal diagnostics, had not
activated themselves. A bit fatalistically, he
resigned himself to follow.
They emerged on the lowermost level, in a
crescent-shaped room curving about the generator
core. The thickly leaded walls were little
shielding against the rhythmic pounding sound
that thundered from just behind them, and the
very deck at their feet shuddered with each
impact. None the less, the room was filled to
capacity, a few portable lights hung from the
ceiling to create irregular circles of
illumination. A massive, darkly-plated
Decepticon with a single, diamond-shaped crimson
optic, stood on a table and raised his voice to
be heard above the thunder of the generator.
Soleandra indicated him with a significant
flicker of her optics and then looked back to
Megatron, explaining, "Tarxus. Another
commander lost to your history and buried in the
dim past, but he is the key here, the one
individual who will bring about the turning
point. If he should live that long." She fell
silent, taking in the scene, while Megatron
noted with very little surprise that she was
both beside him as they observed, and part of
the scene itself, standing at the base of the
table with a calm, watchful expression that was
disconcertingly familiar. He realized then,
where he'd seen such a stance before it was
typical of someone who was on the lookout for
trouble and ready to prevent it, but not
obviously drawing attention to themselves in the
process.
"How much longer?" Tarxus was demanding of
the others. "How much longer will we allow the
Autobots to sit on Cybertron and make the
decisions, while we are locked away on defense
stations and border patrols? 'Valuable members
of society,' they call us. Valuable indeed to
them! 'Protectors of the peace.' Whose peace
are we protecting? Theirs! Do we have a say in
the government? Do we have a voice in the
decisions? You know the answer to that, all of
you. The Autobots make the decisions, and we
are sent out to die for them. Is this what our
ancestors fought for, to free themselves from
slavery, only to have us enter slavery anew?"
An angry murmur rippled through the
assembly, the gathered Decepticons nodding
approval to the speaker even as their optics
brightened indignantly and their hands reached
to close on their weapons, ready at that very
moment to turn them against their oppressors.
But for one individual in the crowd, the gesture
was more than symbolic. A nondescript young
robot near the front of the crowd suddenly
snapped up a heavy-barreled handgun and fired
off a shot
--at the same instant as Soleandra,
standing beside the table, reached out and
pulled Tarxus' legs out from under him, sending
him crashing heavily to the tabletop. The laser
bolt sizzled past his left shoulder and impacted
with the thick shielding that encased the
generator, leaving a bubbling scorch mark that
ate its way through the outer layer of the
encasement before it cooled.
The others fell upon the assailant and
beat him to death even before Tarxus could shake
off the stun and push himself up, but finally he
shouldered his way through the crowd and pushed
the others away from the mangled body.
Soleandra stood back and watched in unreadable
silence as Tarxus reached down and dug his
fingers into the dead robot's chest plating,
ripping away a sheet of armor adorned with a
Decepticon symbol to reveal the red emblem of
the Autobots underneath. Taking hold of the
limp body, he thrust it into the air for all to
see. "There you have it!" he announced. "Such
are the lengths the Autobots will go to, to keep
us under control. Is this what you would
subjugate yourselves to?!"
Amidst cries for revenge and demands for
freedom and pledges of loyalty, the scene began
to blur and fade out. The last thing Megatron
saw was Soleandra, calm and composed at the edge
of the impassioned crowd, her neutral expression
shading just the tiniest bit into an approving
smile.
Then they were gone, and a faintly colored
mist closed in all around him. For a moment he
thought he still sensed a presence beside him,
something that was familiar and companionable
and then
--"Megatron?"
Raksha's hand closed lightly on the silver
plating of his forearm, startling him back to
awareness. For a long moment he looked at her
blankly as though trying to remember who she
was, where he was.
She drew back a little. "Are you
alright?"
Comprehension dawned slowly in his eyes,
then, and he said, "Yes. Yes of course." He
turned away a little, looking out over the city
glistening in the first rays of the rising sun,
and then turned back to her, deciding abruptly,
"Hold the fort, Raksha I'm off to Cybertron."
"Cybertron?" she asked in disbelief as he
strode past her to exit the balcony. "Whatever
for?"
He glanced back at her and flashed her a
rakish grin, reminiscent of the old days when
he'd had some brilliant plan that he was about
to set into action. "An empire should have a
living heart," he said by way of explanation.
"Don't you agree?"
2.
He wandered the unlit streets of Polyhex
City as though in a daze, trying to avoid and
yet always seeming to circle back to the War
Memorial. He turned away again and plunged down
the alleyways criss-crossing below the
overpasses, swallowed in shadow, the streets
spotless, the buildings cold and silent and
untouched, as though an instant of time had been
held fast and preserved for all eternity.
What had he been thinking, when he'd set
off alone with some mad plan to revitalize
Cybertron? Who would live here anymore? And
for that matter, what did he think he could
accomplish, coming here all on his own? When
he'd set out from Sky City, it had seemed the
most obvious and most simple of tasks --
something had possessed him to return, but once
arrived, he was at a complete loss. It was not
a simple task for although the architecture
was still in place and everything necessary
remained, there was one critical ingredient
missing, and that was life that is, energy.
He would have to funnel massive amounts of
energy from elsewhere in the empire in order to
reactivate this dead world, and what would the
response be to that, from his warlords across
the quadrant? Would they think he'd lost his
mind (and hadn't he, perhaps?) and use it as a
ploy to try for the upper hand, attempt to
depose him? Cybertron was vital to the
mythology of his species, to be sure, but it had
become symbolic, even in the hearts and minds of
those who had lived there and fought for it -- a
reminder of what they had achieved, a relic of
their past, and something not to be sullied
further. Should the dead, perhaps, be left at
rest? Every footstep seemed to stir ghosts ... so
many had died, so many were lost ... the troops he
had commanded against the Autobots ... Nightbird ...
Soundwave...
He was back before the Memorial, and
Soundwave's name flickered before him on its
golden plaque as in the dream but no, this was
no dream, this was real, and the endless night
was cold and silent around him and he'd come
here expecting what?
It would be a monumental project to revive
Cybertron, a fool's errand; why weaken the rest
of the empire for this? He wished fervently at
that moment for someone to share his goal, for
with just one other individual believing in him,
he could surely accomplish anything. His mate,
Raksha, he had left behind in Sky City, and for
the briefest of instants he regretted it but
no. She would likely be sympathetic to his
unexpected obsession, but Cybertron was not her
ancestral home. She would see no real logic in
pursuing this mad quest.
Some dim memory stirred in the back of his
mind as he turned away from the Memorial, and
headed toward the buildings that had stood empty
all these years.
The Darkmount repair bay remained as he
had left it, or at least it seemed so at first
glance. It took only a moment to realize what
was wrong the room was silent and empty and
lifeless, just like the rest of the planet, and
he had never seen it like this. At times it
had been filled to capacity and beyond with
damaged warriors, the repaireons working over
them frantically in attempts to get as many
stabilized as possible, until the luxury of
full-scale repairs could get underway. At times
he'd come here to give encouragement to those
who had proven themselves particularly valiant
in battle, and some of those, as they lay dying,
he had assured that their sacrifice would not be
in vain, that their names would not be
forgotten. At times he himself had been subject
to the purpose of this room, as Soundwave (it
had always been Soundwave who repaired him, when
the damage was extensive) worked over him with
methodical patience, with unmatched precision,
and the calm reassurance that promised they
would cheat death together one more time.
And then there were the long nights during
the quiet stretches between battles, when he and
Soundwave would come up here to gather materials
and take them to the laboratories several floors
down, and then they would work on their
respective projects Megatron generally on an
experimental weapon of destruction, and
Soundwave ... Soundwave, almost invariably, on the
fantastically intricate cerebral circuitry which
he would eventually infuse with life to result
in yet another creation. Life and death, side-
by-side, in the repair bay and in the Darkmount
laboratories.
There was still enough reserve power in
the batteries to allow for some illumination,
and Megatron examined the shelves of parts and
bins of circuitry. Everything was still here,
fully stocked. Barely thinking about what he
was doing, he began to gather up the necessary
pieces.
* * *
A luminous silver figure stood before a
wall of fire, her wings flung out to both sides
and catching the light in mirrored flashes, her
optics and the Decepticon symbol on her chest
nearly black in contrast to the intense light.
Her fists were clenched in fury and
determination as she glared down at the gathered
warriors below her. To all sides, buildings
shattered apart as long-range incendiary
missiles rained from the sky.
"Sooner will I die," the silver flyer
shouted, "than curl up and surrender! Cowards,
all of you, that you would lay down your arms
and debase yourselves, rather than making this
your final stand! If we lose, we lose but our
lives and if we win, we win everything!"
Megatron, viewing the scene from slightly
above and somewhere to the left, felt a shock of
horror run through him as the mirrored figure
turned and flung herself without hesitation into
the raging inferno. "No!" he gasped, and
reached out as though to stop her, but she was
already engulfed, and he found he could get no
closer. The flames filled his vision, and for a
moment he saw Soundwave before the plasma
chamber, releasing the power needed to defeat
the Autobots a dark silhouette for just an
instant before the white-hot energies swirled
out and extinguished him forever.
Shaken, he turned away to find himself
facing another female flyer of much the same
design as the first, though this one was
midnight blue. The slope of her wings hinted at
an alt mode of a sleek, arrow-shaped skycraft
that had never entirely gone out of fashion
among the Decepticons. She was lithe and
slender and delicate in appearance the type of
warrior who could use speed and agility to such
advantage that the relatively greater mass of
most of her opponents worked drastically against
them. Megatron had learned very early in life
that those who dismissed such seemingly fragile-
looking females in combat, often lived only
barely long enough to realize their mistake.
This particular one was looking at him
with kindness and compassion. Her optics were
so intensely violet as to be almost black. "I
know that brought back a painful memory," she
said, and her voice was low and soothing,
nearly musical. "But please, look again."
Reluctantly, Megatron turned and looked
back into the flames. As the missiles impacted
around them in eerie silence, the tattered
remnants of what had once been a Decepticon
battle unit collectively picked up their
weapons and took to the sky. They roared past
the walls of fire and were lost from sight, gone
to meet the enemy halfway, rather than wait to
be hunted down.
"When my sister, Silverdance, threw herself
into the fire," the midnight flyer said,
stepping up to stand beside Megatron, "it shamed
the others into meeting their deaths like
warriors ... and you can be sure they took a good
number of Autobots with them."
"Did any ... survive?" Megatron asked.
"A few. And they spread the word. You
see, that's not the end of the story."
As Megatron watched, the landscape
shimmered and the flames died down, leaving a
blackened cityscape in their place. By the pale
light of two of Cybertron's moons, a dark figure
picked its way carefully between the crumbling
walls and across the scorched ground.
Megatron looked questioningly at the flyer
beside him, and she nodded in assent. "That's
me Starsinger. I was what, in your time,
would be called a repairs specialist, but during
this era I was simply a self-taught healer, as I
found I had a talent for it." Her words were
matter-of-fact statements, without any trace of
arrogance. "It was rumored later, the way such
things get out of control, that I could bring
the dead back to life, but that was nonsense, of
course. It was only determination and
perseverance, and the willingness to take a
chance and try the unconventional."
The Starsinger in the burnt-out landscape
seemed to find what she was looking for, as she
crouched down and dug briefly in the rubble,
brushing away soot and debris and then rose
again with a fist-sized object in her hands,
darting off and disappearing among the ruins.
"The neural core," Starsinger said by way
of explanation. "That was the one part I
needed. Protected as it is in the cranial
housing, it can sometimes withstand more than
you might think. It was worth a try, anyhow."
Megatron next found himself in a small
windowless chamber, lit by flickering
torchlight, with a sense of being deep
underground. Starsinger had disappeared or at
least, the one standing next to him had, though
before him in the uncertain light, she worked
over an array of instruments spread out across
several tables. Some of the equipment Megatron
vaguely recognized, as it was clearly a less
sophisticated version of the instruments used
for the most delicate of repair work in his own
time. He recognized the magnifier -- though
this one seemed crude in its manual adjustments
-- and the silken strands of cerebral
neurocircuitry spread out beneath it, with the
tiny bead-like chips arranged in varying
patterns along their lengths. A faintly glowing
flask of energon bubbled slowly as it was heated
from beneath, a coil of glass tubing carrying
the life-giving fuel to a dish in which yet more
cerebral circuits and memory chips floated.
Eternities seemed to pass, during which
Starsinger would crouch for hours over the
magnifier, making adjustments with tools so
delicate that Megatron could not see their
effect; at other times she would weave together
the circuitry and add additional strands from
her small supply cache; on occasion she would
pause to ingest some energon or take a half
hour's rest on the mattress in the corner; but
always she would start awake again after only a
short time, and be back at her work, tireless
and dedicated, to the exclusion of all else.
And quite often she would sing to herself while
she worked strange, haunting melodies without
recognizable words, which seemed to serve to
keep her calm and focused, as much as they may
have served to comfort whatever part of
Silverdance might still be able to hear them.
Megatron was again reminded eerily of
Soundwave, the way he used to work exactly this
way, and even play music softly to himself from
his vast collection of Cybertronian and offworld
recordings. More often than not he played music
only when he was working on something enjoyable
a new creation, a task for Megatron but
there were times even in the repair bay when he
would hit upon just the right playback to soothe
a panicked patient when nothing else seemed to
work. Megatron himself remembered faintly the
sensation of being put back together again,
piece by piece, and consumed in pain until his
mind could latch onto the notes of some ancient
Cybertronian melody that Soundwave was playing
as he worked, notes that sounded for all the
worlds like what Starsinger was warbling to
herself just now.....
His optics flickered a bit as he brought
himself back to the "present," if such was even
an applicable term. Starsinger had finished her
task, and on one of the tables, now clear of
equipment, lay a fully-restored silver female
flyer. A tube ran directly into the main
energon access port in her throat, into which
Starsinger drained the last of the energon from
its warmed flask. Slowly, very slowly,
Silverdance's optics shimmered to light.
Her lips formed Starsinger's name
soundlessly, and then mouthed the word "Why?"
Starsinger took her sister's hand and
said, "Why? Because your troops need you yet.
If you inspired them this much in death, think
how much more you will still inspire them in
life. The battle is not yet over, Silverdance,
and the Decepticon cause needs you.
"But rest now. You'll feel better
soon....."
The words faded out as the scene dimmed
and vanished into multicolored mist.
"Wait!" Megatron called out to no one in
particular. "What happened to them afterwards?"
Suddenly Starsinger was beside him again,
her black eyes and the midnight blue of her
plating standing out in sharp contrast to the
pale haze. "Silverdance recovered," she
explained, "and went on to resume her command.
She was left with some gaps in her memory, to be
sure, and she was sometimes subject to violent
and irrational outbursts of temper, but most of
the time she could function. And if her
warriors were loyal to her before, they were
devoted to the death to her thereafter. During
a time when the Autobots had the upper hand and
were relentlessly forcing us back, she not only
stemmed the tide, but reversed it. It was
through her efforts that the Decepticons gained
half the planet back in those days, rather than
being driven to extinction. It's a shame,
truly, that no record of Silverdance survives to
your time."
Megatron nodded thoughtfully. "Another
one lost to history."
"Quite. But her actions live after her to
this day." Starsinger regarded him in a long
moment of silence, as though she expected him to
come to some realization or conclusion ... but
when he remained silent in turn, she shimmered
and faded out.
Megatron found himself staring down at a
tangle of cerebral circuits spread out over one
of the tables in the Darkmount laboratory. How
long he had been here, working at this, moving
back and forth between the magnifier and the
micro-welder, testing connectivity and
conductivity and carefully splicing in each
vital piece, he could barely begin to guess. He
knew it had been days, at the very least. A
moment ago the filamentous neurocircuits had all
looked like an organized network, each strand in
its place and connecting logically to the
others, with very apparent gaps where the rest
of the strands still needed to be added. Now as
he looked at it, it appeared to be a snarled
mess of haphazardly-connected wires, making not
the slightest sense to him whatsoever.
What was he doing? he asked himself.
He had always been technically inclined,
even without formal training; he and Soundwave
had many times discussed principles of
engineering and weapons design and taken them to
new heights. Megatron had always delighted in
tinkering with new ways to gather energy, build
bigger and better guns, design starships, and
improve engine efficiency. Although his
background was purely that of a warrior, he had
spent a good deal of time in trial-and-error
self-education, and liked to think he could keep
pace with the best scientific minds of his
species on most subjects. Cerebral
neurocircuitry, however that was a highly
specialized field. Even the most skilled of
repaireons called in the experts when it came to
cerebral circuitry damage; and constructing a
set of datacores so that they could house a
living mind, was on a level all its own again.
Soundwave had been such an expert.
Megatron was not.
He leaned back a little in his chair at
the magnifier, baffled anew at the clutter
spread out before him. He wasn't thinking
clearly, he realized. He'd been at this for
days, non-stop, and suddenly exhaustion
overwhelmed him. He pushed the magnifier away
from himself and let his head sink to the table,
slipping almost instantly into a thankfully
dreamless rest cycle.
3.
Raksha peered at the viewscreen and made a
slight manual adjustment to the scoutship
controls as Cybertron loomed into sight.
Involuntarily her plumes bristled at the sight
of the dead world, shrouded in darkness with
only the faint silver of the surrounding stars
glinting off its cold, preserved metal surface.
The world that, to this day, drifted
disconnected through the void, the world that
remained as a mausoleum to the past, the world
where Soundwave had died ... every circuit and
fiber within her was loathe to return here. And
yet, Megatron had been gone for over a week
without a word, and her puzzlement over his
behavior had turned to restlessness, then
concern, until finally she felt the need to come
see for herself. Fortunately the small personal
scoutships in use by the Empire had been so
upgraded in recent years, that they practically
flew themselves when provided with the right
coordinates; even the fantastically complex
netherspace engines activated themselves on
command and were pre-programmed to return the
vessel to "normal space" at just the right
moment -- therefore being maneuverable even for
one such as herself who had never quite learned
the intricate details of Cybertronian
technology.
She touched a control to begin the landing
sequence as the planet's surface filled more and
more of the viewscreen. With the barest whisper
of sound from the engines, the little
streamlined vessel drifted down over the tops of
the highest buildings of Polyhex City -- Raksha
determinedly averted her eyes from the spire of
the War Memorial that flickered momentarily
across the screen -- and swept in a slow,
graceful arc toward the massive blocky edifice
that was Darkmount. It was here during happier
times that Decepticon High Command had been
centered, along with countless warriors
stationed there, who lived and fought and played
and were repaired throughout the building's
labyrinthine rooms, cubicles, and hallways,
always ready to plunge into battle to defend the
city's borders from the Autobots, and, when
energy reserves allowed, to make pre-emptive
strikes to claim more of the planet as their
own.
Raksha shook her head as the ship touched
down lightly before one of the main entrances.
What had she said? Happier times? These too
were happy times, she reminded herself -- the
Autobots were no more, and the Decepticon empire
thrived and expanded in all directions. And
yet, she had loved those days in Darkmount and
at Earthbase, where despite the constant Autobot
threat, or perhaps because of it, the Decepticon
fighting units had been closely forged teams,
with a dedication, devotion, and loyalty to one
another that made them more than just an
assembly of warriors randomly thrown together.
Oh, there had been interpersonal squabbles and
clashes of character, great obstacles to
overcome, and lethal challenges to face -- but
in her memories she treasured the emotional
intensity of those times, in victory as well as
in desperation, and the cherished sense of
belonging. It was Soundwave, most of all, whose
presence had always made her feel welcome -- and
Megatron, of course, as the leader, whose
indomitable nature set the standard for everyone
else.
And now Megatron had vanished into the
preserved graveyard that was Cybertron, mumbling
a few incoherent lines. She knew from past
experience that her initiative to follow him
would be unwelcome, but she had never been cowed
by the potential of Megatron's rages, which were
brief and intense and over again quickly. One
way or another, she intended to find him.
The scoutship landed with barely a tremor
and powered itself down.
The many irregularly-spaced small windows
that broke the gray surface of Darkmount
remained lightless like extinguished optics ...
and yet a few of them on one of the mid-levels
seemed somehow less dark than the others, as
though a very faint reserve lighting had been
activated. Opening the exit hatch, Raksha
stepped out of the little scoutship into the
cold metallic chill of Cybertron's eternal
night, and made her way into the building.
She found Megatron in the main research
lab, following the faint light up its gradient
and to the source. He'd left the door open,
perhaps to conserve the bit of power required to
slide it open and shut, so he didn't immediately
hear her come in. He was leaning over one of
the lab tables working on something she couldn't
immediately see.
She came in and walked around the table
into his line of sight, so he would detect the
movement and become aware of her presence.
"Megatron, what are you doing here-?" she
started to say, then froze in place when she saw
what was on the table. "Great Cybertron," she
hissed, taking a step back. "What are you
doing?"
He looked up very slowly, his optics a
brilliant scarlet and absolutely unflickering.
He straightened and regarded her blankly before
the light in his eyes returned to a more normal
shade. "Raksha," he murmured in surprise. "Why
did you come here?"
Raksha flickered a glance at what was on
the table before Megatron and stepped back
again, her tail lashing in agitation. "That's
what I was going to ask you! You disappear
without an explanation and without a word, for
days, and then I come here to find -- this?"
Megatron looked down at the workbench.
His optics flickered for a moment of confusion,
then he looked back up to meet Raksha's gaze.
"I came here ... to revitalize Cybertron," he
said quietly.
Raksha just shook her head,
uncomprehending. "Revitalize--! Megatron, the
dead are dead, and you can't bring them back, no
matter how much you might wish to. I don't know
what got into you. Come back to Sky City and
we'll get it sorted out."
"No!" Megatron snapped, suddenly angry.
"You go back to Sky City, that's where I told
you to stay in the first place. Or stay here
for all I care, but stay out of my way. I have
work to do."
Abruptly he stepped away from the lab
table and stalked out of the room, leaving
Raksha alone with the half-finished project, the
sight of which made the energon turn to ice in
her fuel lines.
* * *
Megatron's jetcannon mode was built for
power rather than speed, but here, alone in the
night, he seemed to tear through the deserted
skyways at tremendous velocity, the roar of the
powerful thruster engines rattling the dark,
blind windows as he thundered past them.
Eventually the sudden surge of fury that had
sent him tearing out of Darkmount, gave way to
the great vast silence of the planet around him,
and finally he landed on the outskirts of
Polyhex, where the buildings were lower and the
streets smaller and darker and more
labyrinthine. Still agitated, he transformed
and stalked off into the narrow alleys, walking
rapidly past the featureless walls.
He barely took note of his surroundings,
how the shadows gathered behind him ... how
something kept pace, just beyond the border of
his peripheral vision. Until a voice whispered
out of the darkness, "You're going the wrong
way."
Megatron abruptly spun around, his optics
flashing brilliant scarlet as he scanned the
narrow alley behind him. Although cloaked in
deep shadows, it seemed deserted ... until one
of the shadows seemed to move off to the left.
Reflexively Megatron snapped up the fusion
cannon on his arm. He'd had enough of strange
visitors and waking dreams.
"No need for that," the voice whispered,
coming suddenly from his right. Megatron turned
toward it, and just barely caught the outline of
tall sickle-shaped wings that sloped down like a
flared cape around a body that was
indistinguishable from the darkness, a head with
a glint of gray light where the eyes should be.
With the barest of sidesteps it melted back into
the shadows and the outline disappeared.
Instead, the lights of the optics brightened
into a pair of pale-white diamonds that peered
at him in an eerily disembodied way out of the
dark.
"Alright -- what do you want?" Megatron
asked, resigning himself to getting this next
encounter over with.
"Only to tell you" -- that same barely-
detectable whisper again, Megatron had to listen
closely to hear it -- "-that you're going the
wrong way."
Megatron folded his arms across his chest
and demanded, "Explain yourself. And while
you're at it, come out of hiding. I don't like
talking to someone I can't see."
A feathery whisper of laughter. "Ah yes.
Renegade used to make the same complaint."
"Renegade?"
"You recognize the name?"
"Of course! He was the commander who
secured Cybertron from the Autobots,
initializing a three-thousand year stretch of
Decepticon rule. His strategies are still among
the best, the tactics of unpredictability and
second-guessing the enemy, beating them at their
own game."
More quiet laughter. "Indeed," the voice
whispered, "he had a certain talent. He had the
motivation, the strength of will, the ability to
win the admiration and deathless loyalty of his
troops, to an extent that I have only ever seen
-- once, thereafter. He also had something
else."
"What's that?" Megatron asked, a bit
suspicious of the riddles and the barely audible
voice.
Quite unexpectedly the owner of the voice
stepped out of the shadows to stand next to
Megatron, though this act in itself didn't make
him much more visible than he had been before.
He was pure black, of a shade that seemed almost
to absorb light, tall and slender with movements
that didn't seem to connect with anything around
him, and those cloak-like wings with their
sickle-shaped tips that curved inward over his
head. The barest trace of a Decepticon symbol,
faintly outlined in silver, glinted for a moment
on the underside of one wing.
"An advisor," the black figure replied to
Megatron's question. "An advisor who was not
bound by protocol and rank structure and chain-
of-command. One who would come to him now and
again and provide a critical bit of information.
Such as, for instance: 'You're going the wrong
way.'"
"I don't know anything about an advisor to
Renegade," Megatron snarled, a little
disconcerted by the steady white light of the
other's optics and the form that seemed solid
and yet not entirely physical, as though he
could dissipate onto the darkness at a moment's
notice.
The black Decepticon smiled, or seemed to;
in the shadows of his face it was hard to tell.
"Of course you wouldn't know of me. Even
Renegade's closest underlings had no idea. He
himself tried to run me off at first, when he
was out alone and I'd find him ... oh, he'd rant
and rage and order that I show myself, and
demand to know what right I had to attempt to
point out a flaw in the strategy here and there
-- but eventually he would calm down and
listen." The whispered words softened a little,
if that were possible, as though speaking with
affection. "At times we would have almost normal
conversations. I should like to think we became
friends. But that was not until after the
Battle of Agora. You know of it from your
history?"
"Naturally," Megatron replied, recalling
the story. "The Autobot high command had holed
up in Agora, a city whose defenses were already
partly down, so it looked like an easy target --
too easy, since the Autobots were wanting
Renegade to think just that. While they tried
to get him to attack the city, they'd be on
their way through the rift valley to the south,
to storm Polyhex and lay claim to its stockpiles
of weaponry while the bulk of the Decepticon
army was away. Renegade started out for Agora
like they expected, but switched routes halfway
there to meet the Autobots in the valley,
collapsing the canyon sides in on them. They
never knew what hit them."
The other Decepticon chuckled. "Quite
right. Though I assure you that Renegade was
completely intent on the capture of Agora at
first -- rich and decadent Agora with its rivers
of fuel and treasures beyond count. You have
nothing like it in your time, even to this day.
I had to ... persuade him ... that his
possession of Agora would be short-lived when
the Autobots secured themselves in Polyhex and
from there came after him with his own weapons.
Agora was an easy target precisely because it
was difficult to defend in its current state --
for the Decepticons as much so as for the
Autobots. We went round and round with that
argument half the night. Sometimes I think he
finally agreed to change plans only to be rid of
me."
The dark figure paused for a long moment
as though indulging in some remembrance.
Megatron wondered if he were just going to fall
silent and fade away, when he continued
abruptly, "Now, understand -- I am by no means
saying that Renegade was no competent leader all
on his own. He was tremendously gifted. For
all that he could be impetuous and impulsive, it
was his very passion that inspired his troops -
and he was very much aware that it was his role
to be the figurehead, the inspiration. The one
who had to slay the Autobot commander one-on-one
when the time came. His warriors were loyal to
him unto death and beyond, and he to them in the
way that great commanders always are ... in
fact, he reminds me of someone else I once
knew...." The words trailed off as the pale-
white optics regarded Megatron steadily, their
expression unreadable. "In any case, Renegade
had one more virtue. Much as he bristled over
it sometimes, he was aware that one individual,
no matter how brilliant, no matter how powerful,
cannot remain aware of everything. Sometimes it
pays to listen to that voice out of the
darkness." Another pause, then, "This is
another virtue that you share with him."
"Very well," Megatron growled reluctantly,
"what's your message for me, then?"
"But I've given it to you already," the
dark Decepticon whispered. "You're going the
wrong way."
The figure shifted slightly and seemed to
melt into the shadows, with only the lights of
the optics remaining visible, and those slowly
dimming.
"Wait a minute!" Megatron demanded.
"What's that supposed to mean? Don't you just
vanish off!"
"Think about it," the voice whispered
almost inaudibly. "You wish to revitalize
Cybertron. You can't bring that much fuel to
Cybertron -- it would suck your empire dry. You
have to bring Cybertron to a new source of fuel.
And how might you go about that?"
Megatron looked at the pale-white lights
of the optics blankly. Then the answer flashed
on in his mind like the impact of a lightening
bolt. "There's an ancient infrastructure of
machinery at the heart of the planet," he began
slowly, as some old half-formed plans from the
past began to play themselves back in his mind,
"which could be converted into a massive
starship engine, with the planet itself as the
ship. Cybertron could be steered on its course
through space and locked back into orbit around
an appropriate star -- where solar conversion
cells could easily collect all the energy we
need!" Megatron felt a surge of delighted
enthusiasm as he suddenly saw a viable solution
to the problem.
The pale-white optics wavered for a moment
as though their owner had nodded. "Then I ask
you what you're doing out here, heading away
from Polyhex, when the access shaft to the
machinery lies in the city's heart?"
The white lights flickered out abruptly,
and Megatron was quite certain that he was
alone. His thoughts were racing. Here he'd
been worried about the gathering and transport
of enough fuel to bring the planet back to life
-- why hadn't he thought of moving Cybertron
itself? He had seriously considered the notion
once, long ago, after Cybertron lost its
original orbit, but so many other things had
needed more immediate attention, so often the
necessity of survival interfered, that he never
quite got back to it. The machinery that made
up the infrastructure of the planet looked as
though it could be converted into mass-driver
engines, but at the time it was theoretical at
best; no one even knew why such extensive
machinery had been built into the fabric of the
planet to begin with, and every step of the way
of such a project would have been hazardous
trial and error -- difficult at the best of
times, impossible while also fighting a full-
scale war. But that war was over now, and
technical knowledge had advanced considerably--
Megatron's enthusiasm stopped short
against a sudden trickle of doubt. Did he have
the technical knowledge to even attempt such a
thing, without the help of a trained scientist
or engineer? For the briefest of instants he
considered sending for the empire's top
engineers to assist him, but that was out of the
question -- they really would think he'd lost
his mind. No, this was a project that had to be
delivered as a completed result. It was too
important to be derailed by the meddling,
interference, and ridicule of others. He'd have
to go it alone. If only Soundwave were--
He shook his head to dispel the end of
that thought, his mood darkening further. The
entrance shaft to the planet's interior, deep
below Darkmount, was situated beside the old
plasma energy chamber, now empty of course --
but too vivid still, sometimes, was the memory
of that white-hot energy boiling out and
vaporizing Soundwave after he'd released the
locks. Megatron wondered if he could even bring
himself to go down there again.
He barely noticed that he'd been slowly
walking back toward the center of Polyhex all
along.
4.
As it turned out, he couldn't bring
himself to go down to the empty plasma chamber.
At least not just yet, he told himself, and
holed himself up in the lab. A mental haze
closed over him there that kept him lost in the
intricate tangle of microscopic circuitry which
he was slowly connecting up. His movements were
deliberate and certain, with mechanical
precision, as though not his own, but he didn't
pause to question his newfound skills. He only
knew that he had to continue with the project,
that it was somehow vital to the overall success
of his intentions.
Raksha came and went, spoke words to him
that he barely registered, looked upon his task
with something akin to horror and beat a hasty
retreat, only to reappear again later with
energon cubes that she insisted he consume. He
did so in order to get her to leave, and then
resumed work.
* * *
Raksha paced the length of the Darkmount
command center, the iridescent plumes of her
neck bristling in agitation. She lashed her
tail through a whipcrack motion and turned back
toward the three silent Decepticons who had
listened to her story in amazement and growing
concern.
They stood and regarded her: Deathsaurus,
the proud command figure in blue and silver
whose robot mode all but hid his mixed alien
heritage; Asura, lithe and golden and far more
serpentine than her brother; and Kaliber, the
rebel child who had eventually found his place
not in rank and privilege, but in exploration on
the fringes of the empire, and was all that
remained to Megatron of his first consort
Nightbird. Oh, Megatron would be furious to
hear that Raksha had called them away from their
duties, but her priorities had always lain in
slightly different realms.
"So you see," she finished, "why I've
called you here. I say to him 'Let the dead
rest, this is abomination,' and he just looks at
me like he didn't even hear the words; I say
'Don't you think I miss him as much as you do,
don't you think I'd have done anything in the
universe to bring him back, but the dead are
dead, Megatron,' and he just turns away and
keeps at it. I fear for his sanity, now and
when this horrific 'project' is complete and
nothing comes of it. I'm hoping that you three,
as his creations, might be able to reach him
somehow."
They looked at each other uneasily at
first, but Raksha could see them forming a unity
of purpose, holding each others' gaze and
nodding to one another slightly before turning
back to her. Her plumes smoothed slightly in
relief. Kaliber in particular had never had a
harmonious relationship with his father, and
Deathsaurus had had his own set of conflicts to
work through; Asura was perhaps the one Megatron
was closest to, but she moved in a different world
than her brothers, whom she knew mostly as
distant heroes, faces on a viewscreen. Raksha
found it some slight encouragement, at least,
that they were all clearly willing to help.
Whether their combined efforts would be enough
to drag Megatron out of whatever had gotten hold
of him -- that, she could only hope.
* * *
Megatron soldered the final piece into
place carefully, and put his tools aside. He
became aware suddenly that he'd been standing
hunched over the lab table for many hours -- or
had it been days? -- and every joint and gear in
his body protested with a dull ache. He
stretched a bit, then brought his hands to his
optics, which burned from exhaustion. He sighed
... his task was done, some mental fog was
slowly lifting ... he lowered his hands from his
optics and saw for the first time what lay on
the lab table before him.
He stared at it with a creeping, horrified
fascination. Raksha's words came back to him
now -- Great Cybertron, what had he built? And
why? He staggered back and away from the table.
In a sudden confusion edged with panic, he
looked wildly around the lab as though expecting
some answer there -- only to see a figure
standing quietly in one corner.
Uncharacteristically Megatron leapt back,
his hand shooting out in search of some weapon
as he'd unhooked his heavy fusion cannon days
ago; glass flasks and a flurry of micro-tools
spun to the floor and shattered as his grip
swept past them and latched onto the magnifier,
which he ripped from its moorings on the lab
bench and hoisted like a club.
The other robot took a step forward,
holding out one hand in a gesture of
appeasement. "Please, don't be afraid," he
said. "My name is Telecon. I'm here to help.
I can help you with this." He nodded toward the
lifeless figure on the lab table. He stood
perhaps as tall as Megatron's shoulder, plated
in deep green with optics to match and a dark-
purple Decepticon symbol of modern type adorning
one shoulder; his outlines were curved, even
somewhat rotund, more so than angular, and his
voice and expression were kind. There was a
knowing look in his optics as though this was
someone who seldom needed verbal explanations
for others' actions. Overall, he was hardly a
threatening figure, and Megatron felt suddenly
absurd, standing there with the magnifier in his
hand as though he were going to bash in the
helmet of some fuelthirsty enemy. Slowly,
mustering as much dignity as remained possible,
he placed the magnifier back onto the edge of
the lab table, determinedly averting his eyes
from what else was there.
His mind seized upon the name he'd heard,
as it gave him something to focus on, and he
repeated, "Telecon?" There'd been a Telecon two
generations back, during a brief lull in the
wars, who founded a famous school of philosophy.
It was said that warlords and city-state
commanders were no uncommon sight on his
doorstep, for his wisdom was legendary, and his
insight was enhanced by that most rare and
mysterious of Transformer abilities, telepathy.
Practically non-existent among Autobots, it was
rare even among Decepticons, and only very few
had exceptional skill with it. The identities
of all of the political maneuverers of Telecon's
day had been lost to history, lacking the all-
out warfare that would have made names for them,
but Telecon's name remained, just as history
occasionally remembered other unusually gifted
telepaths here and there....
"Yes, I am that Telecon," the green
Decepticon answered, as though looking into
Megatron's thoughts, and added with the trace of
a self-effacing smile, "History tends to
exaggerate, compact and condense, clip off a
little bit of the truth here and add it again at
a different angle there; you know how it goes."
"Yes," Megatron murmured. Once again he
was having a conversation with someone who'd
been dead for billennia, and the truly
frightening part was that it felt almost normal.
"What's going on?" he implored, suddenly
desperate for answers. "What's been happening
all this time?"
Telecon smiled reassuringly. "The re-
vitalization of Cybertron, of course. That's
been your intention all along, hasn't it?
Always somewhere in the back of your mind, even
while you were out conquering worlds and
building your magnificent Sky City ... always
somewhere was the reminder that all was not yet
well with the empire, because Cybertron lay
deserted. Am I right?"
Megatron hesitated ... then nodded
wordlessly. It was indeed true, and he only now
fully realized it.
"Then it was surely about time," Telecon
said gently, "that you made that intention a
reality. This--" he nodded again toward the lab
table-- "is simply the first step. As you've
already deduced, you cannot complete the task
alone. Come, we'll take him down to the plasma
chamber, you and I..." While he spoke, Telecon
stepped toward the lab table and reached toward
the figure lying atop.
"Don't touch that!" Megatron shouted,
suddenly flooded with rage and panic again. He
was next to Telecon in a single stride and swung
his fist back as though to send the smaller
Decepticon flying. Telecon looked up at him
with an expression of curiosity---
--and Megatron's fist swung through empty
air.
He caught his balance in the darkness. At
first he was surrounded by complete blackness,
total silence. But slowly, infinitesimally
slowly, lines of faint golden light began to
appear, like an irregular grid pattern far below
him, to all sides, above -- as though he were
hovering in place in the center of some vast
convergence of light beams. As the narrow
ribbons of light intensified, so did the sound
... very faintly at first, but soon recognizable
as the discordant murmur of millions upon
millions of voices, the occasional clank of
machinery, the unmistakable whine of laser
weaponry or the thunder of heavy guns.
Megatron watched and listened as the
ribbons of light grew into streams ... he could
actually see what looked like pulses of light
racing along their lengths and flowing out into
some eternity far beyond his line of vision. He
listened closely, sometimes able to pick out
snatches of words or bits of conversation. He
was startled to occasionally detect the voices
of those he knew, both dead and living ...
sometimes even his own voice, sometimes he was
able to recognize things he'd said in the past,
sometimes he heard things he knew he'd never
said.
"I entrust Cybertron to you..."
"Such heroic nonsense..."
"She's everything I've always wanted..."
"I accept your terms..."
"You may return to Earth as my
subordinate..."
"The Autobots have taken their last
flight..."
Intrigued at first, he grew increasingly
uneasy as the pulsing lightstreams swelled into
brilliantly blinding rivers; the accompanying
tumult of voices rose into an unintelligible din
that seemed to ebb and flow like waves. He
found himself at the center of a nexus of light,
the torrents converging in on him from all
directions and spinning off into infinity. He
tried to dim his eyes to fight the
disorientation ... he no longer knew which way
was up, or if there was an "up" in this place --
he no longer knew whether he was standing or
spinning about, or if it was the universe that
was spinning around him.
The lightstreams seemed to sear through
his mind. The roar of sound caught him ... with
a bolt of terror he sensed that perhaps he might
be carried away in some unwanted direction, at
the mercy of forces which he couldn't fight or
control. His vision filled with flashes of
black-gold black-gold, as the cacophony of
voices roared around him. He struck out in
terrified desperation, trying to free himself
... he didn't know anymore if he was alive or
dead, but as long as he still had his consciousness,
his inherent inner strength would fight to hang
onto it. He would not be sucked under
and torn apart in this torrent of light and sound!
If only there was some way he could call for
help ... was there anyone who could help,
whom he could even bring himself to call to?
Only one name came to mind.
"Soundwave!"
The instant the hand touched his shoulder,
the lightstreams blanked out and the voices fell
silent. Megatron stood in perfect darkness.
Slowly, very slowly, a threadlike trace of the
golden light-grid became visible again all
around him, but at a vast distance away.
Occasionally a node of the grid flickered up
faintly like a tiny star being born and
instantly dying.
He turned, and the hand slipped away from
his shoulder. Soundwave was there, the warm red
of his optic band brightening a bit in a smile.
"You have not changed, my friend," he said, in
his deep, reverberating monotone -- almost a
physical shock, to Megatron, to hear it again
after all this time -- "You are still drawn to
the immediacy of every experience. Sometimes
you get a bit too close." His optic flickered
just a trace brighter for a moment, as he
indicated the distant light grid of which he
spoke.
Megatron stared at Soundwave blankly.
Somewhere within himself he felt he should be
overjoyed to see Soundwave again, or alternately
crushed with sorrow in the knowledge that this
was all a hallucination from which he would soon
awake, and Soundwave would still be dead ... but
somehow those two conflicting emotions negated
one another, leaving him feeling, for the
moment, very little of anything at all.
"What is ... that?" he asked finally,
gesturing toward the distant light-grid.
"Timestreams," Soundwave said matter-of-
factly. "Many alternate pasts and alternate
futures, coming together at many points. I
wanted you to see them. To see how easily the
course of a timestream can be shifted to another
channel, and the entire outcome changes. Look
closely -- see where the nodes light up?"
"Yes, I noticed that," Megatron replied.
Faint stars continued to sparkle briefly at the
intersections where the glowing threads crossed,
always seeming to flare up for just an instant
in a different spot.
"Individuals," Soundwave explained, "who,
through chance or design, have the power to
shift the timestreams to other channels, or to
create new ones. Notice that the grid is
forever growing new branches. Nothing is pre-
determined."
Megatron nodded. "Okay ... but why show
me this?"
"For Cybertron," Soundwave said
enigmatically.
When Megatron looked at him questioningly,
he explained, "So that you will understand the
true course of your history, and have some
concept of the future. You see, at each of
these critical points in the past--" he turned
toward the part of the grid which he'd initially
had his back to -- "things could have taken a
different course. There was one point, for
instance, where there was considerable danger
that your history, and by extension that of the
Decepticons, might have ended very differently,
where you would have died and your remains
perverted into a creature who might have very
nearly led the Decepticons to ruin. In a
universe alternate to the one you know, such a
course was in fact taken, as well as a thousand
other possibilities branching from that single
instant that played out elsewhere.
"But only your own universe need concern
you here. It was the timestream-changers, those
individuals who had the extraordinary force of
will, the courage, the dedication, the far-
reaching vision -- individuals such as Salvo,
Tarxus, Silverdance, and Renegade -- who made it
possible for the Decepticon empire to exist as
it does today. Individuals such as yourself,
Megatron. In fact, you were one of the
brightest lights I have ever encountered."
Megatron scowled briefly, to think of
himself as a momentary flicker of light on a
vast grid of infinity. But something else was
tugging at the edge of his thoughts, and he
pursued it.... "Soundwave ... all those
important leaders in Decepticon history -- they
didn't act alone. There was always someone
without whom they might never have survived to
direct history on a new course."
Soundwave nodded. "This is true -- and
there you have hit upon one of the underlying
secrets. Without the visionary command figures
who dare to take drastic action, the timestream
remains relatively unbranched -- possibilities
reduced -- not necessarily a bad thing, but an
altogether less interesting universe. Once
possibilities spring up, however, the potential
for disaster is as great as the potential for
success. This is where a critical word of
advice, a well-placed warning, an occasional
guiding hand, can make all the difference."
Megatron regarded Soundwave closely. "And
that's where you come in."
Soundwave inclined his head slightly, his
optic band brightening again just a touch.
Megatron turned away, following the
distantly visible pulses of light along the
timestream grid. Soundwave stepped quietly up
next to him, the way he used to when Megatron
was surveying a battlefield or a future conquest
or an overview of Decepticon territory -- silent
and unobtrusive, yet ready to listen to whatever
Megatron might want to say, and ready to give
advice if asked.
"So you see," Soundwave said softly,
regarding the traces of light with Megatron,
"why Cybertron should live again. It first
caught my attention because it had such
potential, but that potential had to be nudged
in the right direction, and a great deal of time
and carefully-placed effort has gone into it.
Our species -- yes, it feels right to speak of
the Decepticons that way by now -- our species
has done well for itself in a hostile universe.
It has potential still. For this reason I
intend to return with you. We have work to do
yet."
Megatron turned to look at Soundwave in
surprise. "Return? Isn't that ... er, against
the rules somehow?"
Soundwave's optic band flickered with the
trace of amusement. "There are no rules, beyond
those we make for ourselves. You, better than
anyone, should know that."
"So this is all for real? You somehow
directed me to build an exact replica of your
body--"
Soundwave nodded. "Yes -- and I do
apologize for the emotional distress and
disorientation that accompanied the process --
but I needed your help, if I was to have that
physical form again."
Megatron shook his head in bemusement, but
found himself smiling. "You devious old
rustbucket," he muttered, smiling still,
reviving the favorite old "insult" between them.
Slowly he was beginning to have hope that this
was not all some strange dream, that perhaps,
under some circumstances, if the timelines
converged the right way, the dead could live
again.
He mentally replayed the things Soundwave
had said, trying to sift clues out of the words.
His optics darkened a bit in thought. Soundwave
stood quietly and let him alone, only watched
calmly. Megatron finally looked up again and
met his gaze. "Soundwave," he said, "what are
you? What are you really?"
Soundwave tilted his head a bit, as though
in surprise. His image converged smoothly into
the primitive and spindly form of Astarquias,
then bulked up into the armored warrior
Soleandra, flowed into the graceful and
deceptively delicate Starsinger, melted into the
light-absorbing darkness that was Renegade's
secret advisor, solidified into Telecon with his
kind green optics, and unfolded again into the
indigo Decepticon whom Megatron had known and
trusted for most of his life. "I am Soundwave,"
he said simply. "I thought you knew."
Megatron gaped at him in astonishment.
Now it all began to fit into place! "So it was
you-- You mean all this time-- Cybertron's
history-- You??" he stammered.
The distant traces of the timestream grid
were fading around them as a multicolored haze
began to close in. Soundwave started to turn
away, to head into the mist. He paused and
looked back. "Are you coming? We should not
leave Raksha and your creations waiting...."
* * *
Megatron and Soundwave stood in the center
of the empty plasma chamber deep below
Darkmount, when Raksha rounded the corner
leading Kaliber, Deathsaurus, and Asura. As
one, the four of them stopped dead in their
tracks, their incredulous optics fixed on
Soundwave.
Megatron smiled and stepped forward,
placing his hands on Raksha's shoulders. "I see
you've called in the cavalry," he said, but his
tone was amused rather than angry. His next
words conveyed the trace of an affectionate
reprimand. "Some day you're going to learn to
trust my judgement. Some day you're going to
stop bypassing the chain of command and creating
havoc when you pull my best commanders from
their posts on a whim." His gaze flickered to
Deathsaurus and Kaliber as he spoke, then darted
for a moment to Asura and shimmered a bit
brighter for an instant in the conspiratorial
wink he often shared with her. He returned his
attention to Raksha. "As you see, your concerns
were unfounded."
Raksha craned her neck to peer around
Megatron at Soundwave, standing quietly in the
background. Her expression was doubtful, even
as his optic band brightened a bit in a smile
and he nodded to her. She looked up at Megatron
again, bewildered, wordless confusion evident in
the repeated bristling of her plumes and the
restless lashing of her tail.
Megatron impulsively drew her into a
comforting embrace. "It's alright, Raksha," he
said. "He's alive and real, I assure you. As
to how he got to be that way..." He looked
around at the others and decided, "Let's go
topside. Soundwave can tell the story better
than I."
Epilogue
Six months later, with Megatron feeding
power to the propulsion thrusters and Soundwave
at the directional controls, Cybertron carefully
edged into orbit around a white-hot star, not
unlike the one it had circled many millions of
years ago. Together they corrected the minor
wobble in the planet's rotation and settled it
into its path. Great banks of solar collector
cells, installed across key locations before the
journey through space even began, now unfurled
and tilted their surfaces toward the sun,
hungrily drinking power. Gradually and
steadily, the planet would become habitable
again.
As to how Soundwave, much like Cybertron,
"returned to life," rumors in the Decepticon
empire understandably ran rampant. Only a
handful of individuals retained an inkling of
the truth.
END
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