4.8: Crisis of Faith
“The Kalis Concession”
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“And the Vosians agree that the peace must be kept?” Megatron did not turn or slow down, simply forged ahead and expected his companions to keep up.
“Of course we do,” the battered workmaster huffed, “We . . . we just want to get through this.”
“We all want that,” Captain Cerrebos murmured from the other side of Megatron. Powerful as he was, he provided a disconcerting counterpart to the scrawny flyer. If he had seemed less broken inside, he might even have been threatening.

“Good.” Megatron glanced once over each shoulder, once at each of them. “The two of you have accepted responsibility for your people's conduct. We can impose order from above but you can actually enforce it on the ground. You understand?”
Cerrebos studied the street they were walking through, the warped, overflowing towers and the people huddling in doorways. “You want us to stop the fights before they begin. Because we understand our people.”
“You think they'll listen to us,” the Vosian simplified, rubbing at the fin on his forearm, “So we can do your job for you.”
“I hope so. That will mean I can stop posting soldiers on ever street corner.”

Breaking off, Megatron stared at a medic attending a nearby group of labour-grade mechs. Obviously exhausted by the day's efforts, the soldier was still working to stop a fuel-leak in one of the bigger cyols. He fumbled his way through the patch-up process then stopped, hand in his storage module. There was panic on his face.

“What's wrong?”
The medic started at Megatron's question, optics darting up. “Oh, sir! Um – no spare fuel, sir.”
“Can any of you spare any?” Megatron demanded of the cyol's comrades. They all looked at him with dull, drained expressions. Clearly not.
“Let me.” The workmaster stepped forward, opening his chest plates. But before he could disengage a fuel line, Cerrebos' hand stopped him.
“No. You can't spare the fuel either. Let me.”
The workmaster jerked away. “These are Vosians.”
“I know,” the big Tarnian said simply.

No one said anything more as the medic connected up the lines and siphoned enough energon to stabilise the cyol. Cerrebos staggered a little when the process was finished and Megatron reached out to steady him. The workmaster got there first. He helped the fortress regain his balanced then quickly stepped away, not meeting his eye.
“Thank you,” Cerrebos acknowledged, without a hint of irony.
The Vosian just nodded.

Megatron folded his arms, waiting to make sure the medic had finished his work. The short mech sealed off the cyol's access ports and nodded. “All done.” Getting up, he tapped the back of his neck. “On to the next,” he said resignedly.
“No, get back for refuelling,” Megatron ordered, “You're no good to anyone on an empty tank yourself.”
“I – ah.” Whatever protests he had been going to make faded at his commander's expression. “Yes sir.” Saluting once, he transformed and drove away.

“Your troops are dedicated,” the workmaster observed.
“Of course.” He was about to return to the matter at hand when a communication from one of Optrion's soldiers snagged his attention. “Go ahead,” he ordered.
“Uh, sorry ta break in, Commander. We gotta situation out at the east perimeter.”
Megatron frowned at the unusual lack of specifics. “What kind of situation, Ironhide?”
“Sorry sir. Ah'm just not quite sure myself. There's a couple a' Circuit-Masters and some Dai warriors shown up with a whole bunch a' protoforms in tow.”
“What?!”
“They, uh, say they need ta speak ta yah – ah mean, they want ta speak ta whoever's in charge.”
“And they won't tell you what they want?”
“No sir. An' ah haveta say, some a' these protoforms ain't looking so good.”

Given the environment around the camp, Megatron did not doubt it. “Understood. I'm on my way.” He dropped into tank mode and gunned his engines, sparing only a glance for the two mechs beside him. “We will have to continue this later. I will expect your ideas on how to promote greater cooperation.”

Their expressions mingled horror and determination until he turned out of sight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The protoforms were not totally without protection from their surroundings. Each had been swaddled in the kind of covering religious mechs sometimes wore, and two of the Dai warriors were protecting a low-yield force field around them to deflect the worst of the airborne hazards. But regardless of that, they were a sorry looking lot. Megatron thought back to his earliest moments, when frailty and confusion had held sway. He doubted they had any idea what was going on or why they were there.

To be fair, they were not the only ones.

“You are responsible for this?”
The Circuit-Master turned at his question, white optics flickering briefly. It looked up at him with a hint of irritation somewhere in the blank curve of its face. No doubt it was used to a more respectful tone of address. “You are in authority here?” It spoke slowly, using an awkward, ritual language full of complex meaning.
“Yes,” Megatron snapped back, sticking to the standard military linguistics. He did not have time to play games.
“I am Tonshu, Circuit-Master of Lyivas Keldon. I am, as you say, responsible for these protofoms.”
“Then would you kindly tell me why you have brought them here?” He flung his arm out. “I'm sure you've noticed that we are not exactly fit to receive guests.”

The Circuit-Master tightened its grip on its staff. “They require your help,” it explained stridently, “They would have been allotted to Vos and to Tarn but that is, Primus preserve us all, no longer possible. Since the other cities refuse to accept more than their quota of protoforms, and in the absence of any other authority, responsibility for their formatting and fuelling falls to you. In the name of the Allspark, we deliver them into your care.” It slammed its staff against the ground, punctuating its words with a resounding thump.

Megatron stared at it, utterly speechless, almost too astonished to be angry.

“You . . . are . . . serious?” When he spoke, it was slowly, not trusting his own voice to hold steady. “This is . . . this is not a joke?”
“A joke?” The Circuit-Master sounded scandalised. “Most certainly not!”
“You are seriously suggesting that we attempt to care for these newborns in the midst of trying to handle the biggest crisis in this hemisphere's history? Are. You. Insane?”
“How dare you –”
“WHY ARE YOU STILL CREATING MORE PEOPLE WHEN WE CANNOT SUPPORT THE ALREADY LIVING?!” Every one of the protoforms flinched at the shout and the Dai warriors raised their swords fractionally but Megatron was far beyond caring. “I have had to deploy soldiers to stop civilians tearing each other apart! I have forced people into the same rooms as those they blame for the death of everything they have known because we do not have the space to protect everyone from the fallout! We can barely fuel the survivors because THE COUNCIL ITSELF IS PERMITTING THE THEFT OF ENERGON THAT RIGHTFULLY BELONGS TO THEM! And into. All. This. You would bring the newly formed?! HOW DARE YOU?!”

Tonshu quailed before the sheer volume of his words. It struggled to maintain its poise, pulling its skeletal limbs around itself. “There is no other option! The other cities – they do not have the room – these protoforms –”
“THEN STOP MAKING THEM! If this region is so overcrowded – if no one can support them – stop. Creating. Them. Still the Wells! Wait until Cybertron can cope with more children!”
“St-still the Wells? Y-you court blasphemy! The First Cov –”
“TO THE PIT WITH BLASPHEMY!” It was all Megatron could do to keep from tearing the staff from its grasp and beating it around the head. “This is simple resource management! Can you not grasp that? DID THAT ELECTRUM FUSE YOUR PROCESSORS –”
“Commander! Commander Megatron!”

Brakes screeching, Optrion veered out into the open and sped towards them, transforming at the last moment to offer a deep bow and salute to the Circuit-Master. “My sincerest apologies for this unforgivably rude interruption – but Commander Megatron's presence is required at once in the camp proper. I would not have been so abrupt except that it may well be a matter of life or death. Sir?”

He looked so earnest and full of desperate urgency that Megatron knew at once that it was a ploy. And that should have been as infuriating as the Tonshu's blunt stupidity, expect the very fact that his subordinate was resorting to such a transparent tactic made him realise just how close he had come to doing something phenomenally regrettable.

So while the Circuit-Master of Lyivas Keldon stuttered that of course, if it was so urgent a matter, then they would have to continue their . . . discourse later, Megatron clamped his mouth shut and allowed Optrion to lead him away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I wish to formally report myself for lying to a superior officer,” Optrion announced as soon as they were safely out of sensor range, “I will of course accept any punishment you deem appropriate, sir.”
Megatron grunted. “My anger is damped by the fact you just stopped me from killing my career. Ironhide summoned you, I suppose?”
“I'm not sure he used the correct signal code for 'Field Commander about to martyr an honoured guest' but I got the message.”
“Hm. I'm . . . grateful you did.” He twitched his main turret in irritation. “I . . . lost my temper.”

Optrion did not disagree. “I think anyone in your position would have done, sir,” he said instead.
“Hah! Not you. You’re too pious.” Megatron wrestled with his rage, forcing it beneath rational considerations. “Look – you're more familiar with these . . . religious types than I am. Explain to me what it is that leads them to birth people who have no hope of being properly supported.”
“Well . . . there are a number of interpretations of the First Covenant.” Optrion hesitated, perhaps wondering how deeply into the subject Megatron expected him to go. “The orthodoxy the Circuit-Masters hold to is that the creation of life is a sacred duty, as inviolate as life that already exists. Because we all live in the shadow – it's generally phrased in terms of the Great Devourer, but it mostly just means death – because of that, the Wells can never be stilled or allowed to stop producing sentient protoforms. Life must persist. No matter the cost.”
“But Cybertron's resources are finite! That would lead to extinction, not persistence!”
“Well . . . yes. I can't disagree with that, sir. The interpretation dates from the era of the First Prime, when Cybertron was overflowing with fuel and raw materials. Back then, I think they believed the planet would provide for everyone. Primus would provide for all of us forever.”

Megatron surged forwards, pouring his anger into acceleration. “And they still believe that?”
“A lot of the Circuit-Masters are ancient,” Optrion reminded him, speeding to catch up, “They see the world a particular way and it might be hard for them to accept that it has changed. The younger ones . . . it's hard to overstate how much obedience to the Covenants is drilled into them sir. It makes a kind of sense. They do care for the very young and the base stuff we're made from. You'd always want them to respect the sanctity of that. They have to be trusted with it.”
“But not trusted to do what is right for the real Cybertron instead of the one they imagine!”

They sped past the command platform and on through the rows of equipment bays. Megatron fumed silently down the length of one section, then growled, “I will have to speak to the Magnus. Unless you have some brilliant insight into how we resolve this?”
“Sorry, sir. I know enough theology to be dangerous, not to get Primus' personal comm frequency.”
“Hmh.” Braking hard, Megatron jumped to his feet. “Heh. No, I suppose not. Fine. I'll handle the calls. You – well, you wanted to be punished, yes?”
Optrion transformed and nodded warily. “Yes, commander?”
“Good. You can go and calm Circuit-Master Tonshu down for me.” He grimaced. “Tell him . . . tell him I apologise for my inappropriate outburst. And that I am going to set this right.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gold and vermilion, shining bright against the grey dirt, the many-wheeled vehicle rumbled towards the camp, flanked by the rolling forms of equally polished guards. A blue and red jet glided above, keeping a respectful distance behind the convoy, and behind that followed another aircraft, one that seemed as much tank as jet. Tracks and drills were crammed together along its body with wings and blades, the whole not as ungainly as such a combination should have been.

Megatron watched the procession approach and wondered how different things would have been if it had come a few quartex earlier. The Prime, the Magnus and the Dai – the Life-giver, the Law-keeper and the Battle-master: the three icons of Cybertron, united by the plight of the new-born. The very plight that their unity could have prevented if it had been deployed sooner.

The officers lined up to receive them came to attention, military and Civic Guard alike. The Circuit-Masters genuflected and beamed songs of welcome into the local ether. Sentinel Prime braked and transformed, rising to his full height and hefting his spear. Deca Magnus and the Dai landed on either side of him, mismatched in design but sharing the same solemnity. The protoforms looked at them in awe.

Sentinel stepped closer. “Megatron,” he greeted without warmth, “Cybertron salutes you for your efforts. But it grieves me to learn that you have refused aid to these most helpless of brothers.”
“Not out of choice.” A few words in and already Megatron was irritated by the ritual of the exchange, the posturing for the historical record. Drawing a matter of logistics out into a full ceremony when it could have been solved in a couple of cycles over a secure channel. Pointless. But if this was what it took to do the right thing, then it had to be done. “I would never refuse aid to my brothers if it was in my power to give it. But here and now, it is not.”

“As I have been reporting to you, my Prime,” the Magnus cut in, “the people here struggle to make do with what little they have retained. The added strain of more tanks to fill would be catastrophic.”
The Prime looked over at the camp and past it to the Concession, expression immobile. Megatron was trying to decide if that was the result of hiding guilt or due to true indifference when he became distracted by the way the Dai was studying him. Mostly black and blue, the warrior was covered in golden ornamentation that included an over-sized fin on his helm, clearly designed to draw the eye away from his face. Looking past that, though, revealed optics full of keen intelligence. They reminded Megatron a little of Ravage's, the same analytical light that meant the owner was considering all the ways in which you could be destroyed.

Which was surely only fitting for the head of an order that placed the protection of the Wells above even the Circuit-Masters' hallowed First Covenant.

“I am appalled by what has become of the people here,” Sentinel was saying, “and I mourn all they have lost. I would not consent to their suffering being prolonged. It is to be hoped that this is only a temporary ill and that they may one day reclaim their potential and rejoin us in the light of the unified Cybertron. Here and now, as you so rightly say, Commander Megatron, there is nowhere for those newly risen from the Allspark. For their sake, as much as for the lost and the broken, I forbid any protoforms being allotted to this place.” He lifted his spear. “Until such time as new cities rise here, it is my will, in the name of Primus and the Matrix, that the protoforms from all Wells in this region be split between those states that remain functional. Circuit-Masters, do you consent to this?”
The feeble golden figures nodded and swayed their agreement, murmuring incantations and prayers.
“Dai Altus, will you commit your Order to ensuring this comes to pass?”
The Dai signalled his assent with the barest of nods.
“Then let it be done.” Sentinel extended a hand to the still-gaping protoforms. “My brothers, worry not. You shall find your homes this day in Tagen and in Kalis, in Prodium and Dramor. But look around and remember this desolation. Understand that this is the consequence of breaking the Covenants and placing selfish gain over the welfare of all. Let what you see here guide you into a better future.”

With that pronouncement, the ceremony appeared to be over. The Circuit-Masters gathered their charges and guided them to the transports waiting to convey them to their new homes. The Dai spoke briefly and deferentially to the Prime then transformed and took up the position of escort, presumably to guard the protoforms from any resistance to the news that the other Qosho cities would have more than the expected number of new citizens.

An admirably direct approach, Megatron thought.

Sentinel turned to him. “I would walk among the survivors,” he said quietly, suddenly more tired than regal, “Expulsion from the Council should not – does not – mean they are beyond the light of the Allspark. I want them to know that. I want them to know that I am not blind to their suffering.”
Behind him, Deca Magnus briefly wore a look of pure horror at the idea of the Prime walking, unannounced, among the refugees. Judging by the slight shift in his optic colour and the twitch of his aerials, he went straight from that to communicating frantically with his Guardsmechs.
Megatron squared his shoulders. “As you wish, sir. If you'll follow me?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well that was suitably traumatising,” the Magnus muttered, accepting the energon cube Megatron handed him.

They were standing on the command platform observation deck, watching the last of the Prime's entourage lift off and angle towards distant Iacon. Megatron took a cube of his own from the ration stack. “No one actually attacked him. So we have that.”
Deca drank slowly. “I saw more than a few who looked like they wanted to. Although balanced by those adoring him for sorting the latest mess out.”
“Thank you for arranging that.”
He shifted and tilted his head dismissively. “Hardly my doing. The moment Sentinel heard, he was determined to come straight down here and do something about it. He would have driven here on his own if he had to.”
“Hn.”

Rolling his enormous shoulders, the Magnus drained the cube and carefully set the empty container down. “The one thing I have learnt about the religious class in my stellar-cycles of service,” he told Megatron, “is that from the Prime down to the lowliest initiate, they all view their duties as the most important thing in the universe. Whether you believe or not, do not underestimate what that drive can achieve – and do not make them your enemies.”
Accepting the admonishment, Megatron downed his energon and crushed his cube to powder. “I regret my outburst. Not my anger.”
“Fair.” Deca opened and closed his wings. “For what it is worth, I would not have reprimanded any of my officers for experiencing that anger.”
“You would have reprimanded them for acting on it.”
“True. Fortunately, I am not your superior so that responsibility falls to someone else. Besides.” He half-smiled. “You channelled it in the right direction. Made a fuss, shouted at the right people, did not just accept what you had been presented with.”

“Channelled anger is useful to a soldier,” Megatron said, considering, “Next time I'll try and remember that before I start shouting.”
“Good.” Smile vanishing, the Magnus turned to a display console and brought up a cluster of resource deployment charts. “Since I do not have to leave until the morning, perhaps we should resume our long-term planning?”
“Agreed. I'll summon Jaantanon.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ravage was waiting for him when he returned to the operations chamber, poised overlooking the main map. The light from it vanished into his armour, drained away into the blackness. Only his optics reflected the patterns of the camp.

“I think this is the longest you have avoided me since you were first assigned to my command,” Megatron said, amused by the idea, “Did my arguing with a Circuit-Master offend you?”
“It wasn't you I was avoiding,” his lieutenant replied, not looking up.

With a bat of his claws, Ravage triggered a newsfeed window. “And I thought you might be interested in the result of the Prime's latest decree.” He stepped aside.

Tri-State Proposal Passes With Slim Majority! the feed screamed, All Remaining Vos/Tarn Resources To Be Siezed Immediately! Off-World Interests To Be Reassigned! New Protoform Requirements Cited As Reason For Dramor Reversal! Vos/Tarn Personnel To Be Decommissioned And Returned to Cybertron! No Word Yet On Where They Will Be Housed!

More On This Story As It Develops!

 

Great writing as usual, I really love your Megatron very much ! And the closing lines of the chapter....... WTF is going on now ?!

 

Thanks! Sorry for the longer than usual (even longer, I mean) break - my proof reader only recently got time to read the latest chapter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

4.9: The Simfur Revolt
Tidora, Lakatera and Qosho Regions
Cybertron

It took nearly three days for the consequences of the Council's ruling to come to a head.

Defence Directorate spacecraft lifted off within hecta-cycles of the announcement, escorting the miners and security detachments who would be taking over the colonies. The speed with which they were deployed led many pundits to make snide remarks about collusion and foregone conclusions. They were not privy to the mad scramble among the quartermasters and pilots to prep enough cruisers and equipment to meet the demand, nor to the heated arguments between the Supreme Commanders and city governments who simply expected full military support at a moment's notice.

Neither were the protesters who gathered outside the Celestial Temple and the Praxian parliament, running their voicoders hot in anger at institutional greed and the mistreatment of their brother mechs. The residual Vos/Tarn merchant population in Kalis and Tagen were just as loud, and within a day and a half, the local police were contending with more than just raised voices. Soon the crowds had turned violent and, with worrying frequency, into weapons.

Clamp-downs followed in short order, becoming increasingly severe as word came back from the nearest space colonies that Vosian miners were actively resisting being expelled from their homes. 'Active resistance' in this instance being a euphemism for barricading themselves in the mines and sending driller drones out to put holes in anyone trying to reach to them. More and more arrests were made. Two days after making their decision, the High Council reconvened in an emergency session, spurred equally by second thoughts, original objections and demands for a harder stance. The newsfeeds buzzed with opposing opinions from everyone involved and quite a large number of people who were not.

Kalis reiterated that its intention to provide for its citizens depended on the continued viability of the colonies. Tyger Pax returned a cautious judgement that it was unlikely the existing miners could be convinced to keep supplying fuel to Cybertron. Dramor condemned the violence at all levels and offered token conciliation to the aggrieved parties.

On the evening of the third day, the Tarnian military detachment who had been posted to Simfur in support of the revolutionary government – subsequently left as the only remaining functional and armed part of Tarn's mighty army – marched on mass into the Simfur governmental complex and declared that they were seizing the state as a new home land for their people.

History would later record this as a very bad thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Central District
Simfur
Cybertron

“Keep your slagging head down!” Clearsight shoved his companion back behind the parapet, hiding him from the troopers rolling up the street below. “You want to get it shot off?”
The young anti-aircraft gun wriggled furiously out of the grip. “Ger'off. I know what I'm doing!”
“Like slag you do,” the sniper said philosophically, uncovering optic strips on his finger tips and poking them over their cover. “Keep down until I tell you, got it?”
“All right, all right, got it.” The gun shuffled about, trying to get comfortable. His tracks kept snagging on the ridiculous frilled bits the Simfurians had for some reason packed on to their roof-tops. “How many are there down there then?”

“Too many,” Clearsight hissed, “The captain's mad if he thinks we can hold out against the entire Defence Directorate.”
“We're dug in deep,” the gun reminded him, “And we got hostages. They wouldn't dare attack straight out.”
“Wouldn't they? How much attention you been paying, cog? That's the Hero of Kolidahl out there, leading the charge. Greatest soldier Tarn ever produced, some say.”
“He's a traitor! Siding with them over us!”
Clearsight shrugged. “That's his duty. Can't blame a solider for doing his duty.” He shifted his fingers, sweeping his gaze up from the ground forces to the flock of Air Guardians circling the rim of the district. They were unnerving him, keeping back like that but not actually landing. You did not keep air troops hovering unless you intended them to move in . . .

“Hey, what was that?” The gun jostled him suddenly, throwing off his line of sight.
“What was what?” He looked where the trooper was pointing, along the run of the roof and back towards what was, for the moment, central command. As far as he could tell, there was nothing there that was no supposed to be.
“Uh . . . it's gone.” Sounding confused, the gun shook his head and frowned. “Sorry.”
“Defrag your optics and get your processors in the game, cog.” Clearsight resumed scanning the Defence Directorate forces, adjusting for the increasing darkness. “We got one Pit-damned job to do, might as well do it right. Even if it is crazy.”
“You shouldn't say that! So it's your precious Hero's job to stop us? It's our duty to do what's right for our people!”
“And you reckon that's taking over an entire city? You're as mad as the Captain.”
“The Captain's not mad! Slag it, why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you can't take a whole city with a dozen squads. Just can't. We were barely holding this place with the Simfurians fighting us every step of the way. You reckon it'll be easier facing down all that out there? The Overseer would never have allowed this to happen.”

The gun snarled and transformed, spinning his turrets angrily. “The Overseer ran off to Iacon the first chance she got! Didn't want to be stuck in the slag with the rest of us!”
“The Council called her to account for the entire army's actions, numb-nodes! She didn't have a choice.”
“She could have told them to go scrap themselves! They're the ones who allowed the slagging Vosians to slag our home!”
“Get your sensors out of your exhaust, you dumb lock-form! This is all a lot more complicated than that. Isn't a chance the Council'd allow Vos to slag us any more than they'd let us slag Vos. This is all outside they're control. And we're not making anyone's lives easier by trying to steal someone else's home for ourselves.”
“Our people are rusting in a slagging prison camp! They need us to do this! Slag you if you can't see that.”
“Will you shut up about things you know nothing about and let me concentrate? Those jets are forming up and the ground troops –”
“Shhhhiieiieeeearrrrgh –!”

Clearsight whirled, rifle snapping into place. The gun was convulsing, plates twisting and arcing. His scream cut off almost immediately, his barrels flinching once then drooping, lifeless. A shape, black as starless space, hunched atop him, claws sunk deep into his armour. Clearsight fired, but in the nano-cycle it took for his weapon to react, something whipped through the air and sliced his arm clean off at the elbow.

He collapsed backwards. A tail. The thing murdering the poor dumb cog was a quad and its tail was covered in atom-edged blades. He saw its optics now, bright gold in the empty void of its head, its mouth gaping and full of dagger-teeth. He triggered his comm. All the channels were swamped with interference, vicious in its intensity. The quad pulled its claws free of the gun.

It sprang for him and Clearsight would have screamed, but he was far too slow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hall of Governance
Central District
Simfur
Cybertron

“You were sent here to help us!” Representative Correear thrashed against the cables holding him in place, unable to pull the barbed tips free of his armour. “Not to become another set of oppressors!”
“Save your fuel,” barked the trac tied down next to him, “This is exactly what they came here to do. Or did you miss the armed patrols keeping our people trapped in their homes?”
“That does not make it right, Taliwaen! Captain, whatever your grievance with the Council, we have done you no harm! Stop now before this goes too far!”
“It already has!” Taliwaen dragged himself as far as he was able, rising up on his wheels. “Whatever sympathy you people might have got, you've just thrown away! No one will seriously believe you're victims after this. Not that I ever thought you could be anything of the kind . . . blindly following that one-eyed tyrant, trying to make the whole world march in step. We were going to be free, you Pit-fragged drones! You think you can just walk in and take our city? We've fought you every turn of the wheel! And now the rest of the world's going to do the same! I hope the Defence Directorate melts you into the ground and every one of those damn colonies with your!”

“QUIET!” Taliwaen's rant dissolved into a sharp cry of pain. The trooper who had jabbed him turned to the towering figure at the centre of the room, pike-staff raised eagerly for a second strike. “Want me to shut this one up for good, captain, sir?”
“Killing us won't help your cause,” Correear muttered, drawing his arms tight around himself, “None of this will help you.”

The Tarnian captain raised his hand. “If they speak again, shock them into stasis.” He waited to watch the representatives sink back into obedient stillness, then turned back to his communications officer. “Straight answer: can we hold this perimeter?”
“Not for long,” she replied, adjusting her projections, “Consolidating our forces is not going to buy us as much time as we hoped. They've sent nearly a whole battalion in. Must have pulled hundreds of mechs off duty at the camp – and there are more inbound from the Laketera bases.” Her optics flicked away. “Sir . . . what's the plan here? We've got this place locked down, most of the Simfur insurgents were already in custody, but . . . there's no one out there who can reinforce us.”
“Wrong.” The captain put his fists on his hips. A fortress, built for ranged bombardment, his hands were bigger than the communicator's torso. The cannons on his arms and legs stood out stark red against his grey plating. “If we can just get a couple of runners to the camp, we'll have an army.”

Exchanging a glance with the tactical officer standing opposite, the communicator said, “Who do you plan on sending, sir?”
“I was going to ask for volunteers. Have them take one of the transports up. And decoys. We'd need decoys.”
“Yes sir,” the tactician agreed gruffly, “It's going to be hard enough to punch through the airborne forces out there while maintaining a ground defence. I've got scouts out looking for underground access roots but the last Simfur governemnt didn't develop the sub-strata very well –”
“Sir!” The communicator cut him off. “Incoming signal, priority override!” She convulsed and transformed, the broadcast codes forcing her into base-station mode.

A hologram filled the air above her, a stern-face feme staring angrily down at them all. “Captain Ci-636. You have overstepped your function. Stand down immediately and return control of Simfur to the local authorities.”
“Overseer Rff-52,” the captain grated, not changing his stance in the slightest, “Your orders are no longer recognised.”
“Because I am attempting to work with the Council?”
“They betrayed Tarn. You have betrayed Tarn.”
The Overseer narrowed her optics. “The Council has made a mistake. They are debating how to put it right at this very moment. Logic demands you stand down immediately to prove we are not beyond reason.”
“Logic demands we acquire safe refuge for our people!” Ci-636 shouted back, “If you will not help with that, you are the enemy! Let your fellow traitors know that if any move is made against us, we will start killing the hostages! End transmission! And lock out all external communications! I don't want to hear any more of their lies!”

“I'll . . . try, sir,” the communicator said, struggling back into bipedal form. The effort to fight the override put a visible strain on her and the tactician had to steady her.
He flapped his wings and then stilled abruptly. “Captain . . . they're moving in. The Defence Directorate. And – I can't contact the south perimeter anti-aircraft posts.”
“Sound battle alert! All soldiers, shoot to kill! We will hold this place! For our brothers! For the new Tarn! We must! Our brothers will come to our aid, if we set them free or they do it themselves! They will!” Optics blazing, Ci-636 turned and stabbed a finger at the representatives. “Take these two out into the open and slag them! We'll show the world what happens to those who stand in Tarn's way!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“The Kalis Concession”
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

Driving at top speed, Diatrion reached the emergency barricade just in time to see an incensed earth-mover slam straight through it. Scattering riot shields and the Guardsmechs holding them in all directions, the massive vehicle cleared a path for the equally enraged people behind him. They boiled out, a crowd of Tarnian workers and decommissioned soldiers, all determined to use what power they had left to make a run for Simfur. Not all the refugees, not by a very long shot, but enough to cause trouble. Enough to cause harm.

Putting everything he had into his engine, Diatrion held his course and drove straight for the earth-mover. The blade filled his vision, a sheer wall of pitted industrial green. The size of it reminded him unpleasantly of Earthquake. He heard the earth-mover laugh.

At the very last instant, he swerved around the blade, transformed and activated his riot shield. The rapid expansion of the forcefield hit the earth-mover broadside on, creating an electromagnetic flare that knocked him clean out of vehicle mode. He crashed messily to the ground, smoke rising from his limbs.

Diatrion landed neatly behind him, shield burnt out by the stunt. He threw the smouldering device aside and activated his blaster. Four military-grade Tarnians loomed over him, faces displaying varying degrees of extreme displeasure at seeing their compatriot go down.
“Stand where you are,” he said, half-raising his gun, all too aware of the time he needed to buy the Guardsmechs converging on his position, “By the authority of the Inter-state Accords, I am charging you with disturbing the peace. Please come quietly or I will take appropriate action.”

The Tarnians looked at him, then at each other. One of them laughed. Another turned his forearm into a very large hammer and struck Diatrion full-force in the chest.

He managed to get off several shots as he flew through the air, hitting a couple of the mechs with stun-bolts, which had about the same effect as pelting a mountain with hex-nuts. Rolling with the landing, he got back to his feet just as they came thundering after him, swinging fists and assorted in-built blunt objects at his head. Deploying a baton in his left hand and firing repeatedly, he was able to keep them from caving in his torso, if barely. They were too close though, too fast. He was quickly overwhelmed. Stripping the soldiers of their ranged weapons and in-built defences in theory made them less dangerous but they were still engineered to full military standards, with all the speed and precision that entailed. Running on fumes and anger, they were still a match for him one-on-one. Against four, at close quarters, he was not going to –

Engine roaring, an armoured six-wheeler in Defence Directorate livery rammed its way through the Tarnians' legs, knocking three of them clean over and staggering the fourth. The truck transformed and, planting himself between Diatrion and the rioters, punched the still-standing Tarnian in the face. With the space directly in front of him thus cleared, he snatched a curved black panel from his back and drove it forcibly into the ground.

The Tarnian with the hammer scrambled up and lurched forward again, just in time to run head-first into the heavy-duty energy-field that came spewing out of the panel.

It was the same technology as the riot-shields, scaled up to provide protection from artillery barrages. The Tarnian rebounded off it with a yelp, armour singed. His friends backed off a little, recognising what they were up against and that beating it with their fists would do no good. Another sheet of flickering energy sprang up beside the first, a second Defence Directorate soldier laying the foundation unit, followed by another on the other side. Soon there was a wall of shields stretching across the entire street, a far more effective barricade than the Guardsmechs alone had been able to create.

The red and blue mech turned. “Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing Diatrion with concern.
“Mostly. Thank –”

Diatrion flung himself forward, seizing the other mech bodily around the chest. A crate sailed over the top of the barrier and crashed down with impressive force on the ground they had just vacated. Stuck on the other side of the shield, the Tarnian responsible growled with annoyance at missing.

“Thank you,” Diatrion continued, propping himself up on his elbows.
“Shouldn't I be the one saying that now?” the Defence Directorate soldier asked wryly. Going by his rank insignia, he was a lieutenant commander and the unit badge placed him in Megatron's battalion. He tilted his head towards the barrier and beamed something into the ether. Micro-cycles later, flyers started dropping down between the buildings and embedding extra projectors in their walls, creating angled fields on top of the ones on the ground, positioned to deflect anything else the Tarnians felt like throwing.

The lieutenant commander helped Diatrion up. “You look very familiar,” he commented as Diatrion too processed the similarities between their base forms.
“Mech Trion Novus Zar.”
“Likewise. Good to meet a line-brother. What do you make of the situation?”
Diatrion looked at the Tarnians. “Concerning.”
“I assume they want to reach Simfur. Help their comrades steal the city.” The other mech shook his head, sadly it seemed. “I thought we were starting to get them to listen to reason.”
“If your Commander can contain the situation across the border, perhaps they will.”
“Perhaps. Good move with your riot shield, by the way. Quick thinking.”
Diatrion hummed non-committally, checking his systems. Luckily, the damage to his armour was largely superficial. “If I had thought it through more, I would have tried to land a bit further away from his friends.”

“No one's perfect. Optrion,” the soldier introduced himself properly, saluting.
“Diatrion.” He returned the salute, then pointed east, to the next block of buildings and the alarms emanating from within. “It looks like that will be the next flash-point. Can your soldiers help us intercept it?”
Optrion flexed and transformed, engine revving up. “We're at your side, officer. Lead the way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Central District
Simfur
Cybertron

Ci-636 lived to protect Tarn. It was his sole function, his reason for existing. The High Governor had personally selected him for the Fortress programme: he had been a logical choice for transformation into a living arsenal.

The restructuring had been excruciating. Far more than a simple reformatting, it had stretched the limits of what his basic form could support and ultimately broken them so that he could become something immeasurably more powerful. The core of his being had been torn open and rebuilt through Viilon's science. Memory of that pain sang in every facet of his body, as heady a fuel as the weapons-grade energon on which he thrived. It bound him to his city, sealed his loyalty with sacrifice. He would have defended Tarn to the death.

Only it had been Tarn's death, not his. Vosian treachery had snatched away the reason for his existence while his back was turned, leaving him stranded in a foreign city, without orders, without backup, without purpose.

In the dark, shameful depths of his spark, Ci-636 would sooner have died in the fire storm.

There was only one way to live on after that. The Simfur rebels were already incapable of holding their state without outside support. Sweeping aside their joke of a government would be a simple matter and from then on, the city would become the focus of a new Logical Revolution. The refugees would be liberated from the Council-created Pit to which they had been abandoned. In time, the people of Simfur would come to realise how much better off they were under Tarnian guidance. Viilon's vision would come to pass once more. The pain of the transition would sing in its every perfect line, another worthwhile sacrifice.

It would be glorious. A triumph that would stand forever while every other state fell to confusion and –

“Captain!” The communicator's voice was frantic. “The whole east line has collapsed! We can't –”
“Stand fast!” Ci-636 shouted, routing every last fraction of power into his weapons. He fired again and again, looking past the overheating warnings that crowded his vision to watch the world explode. Defence Directorate troops blazed away to nothing under the rain of shells he brought down upon them. Let them burn. Let all who opposed the future burn.

“Captain, we cannot hold position – there are too many of them, coming in too fast. If we do not fall back –” The tactician was cut off in a scream of static. To the north of the Hall of Governance, an entire tower sagged and tilted, another vantage point lost to the enemy.
“Keep fighting! We are Tarnian! We do not give ground!” Silence answered the rallying cry. The channels buzzed emptily around Ci-636, the few soldiers who still stood with him focused entirely on defending themselves. The Defence Directorate's counter-attack tore through their remaining cover, splinter grenades dropping mechs in clouds of energised shrapnel.

Ci-626's main cannons burnt out in a final burst of screaming agony. He transformed, raising an arm to shield himself from the next bomb burst. The world was awash with interference, the shapes of the enemy distorted and constantly in motion. He activated as many of his secondary weapons as he could, unfolding guns from his hands and shins. Let them come closer. Let them fight him face to face. They would all fall.

A silver tank hurtled out of the smoke and fired point-blank into his body. He retaliated, routing himself away from the sections of his body that melted under the onslaught. The tank weaved deftly around his shots and transformed, fists swinging in a punch that knocked him sideways. The body of one of his mechs crunched beneath his feet as he righted himself, his weight too much for it to bear.

Grim fury filling every processor, Ci-636 backhanded the tank with all his strength. The silver mech was bowled over, flung into a wall hard enough to cave it in. Ci-636 levelled his blasters. “Die,” he commanded.

But in the instant he fired, an energy burst struck him across the face, making him turn, throwing the shot wide. Dazzled, he reeled and saw belatedly a group of mechs approaching from the Hall of Governance, a deep black quad loping along at their head. The one who had fired ran beside him, gun still raised. Impossibly, it was the damned Simfur Representative, Correear.

“I ordered you killed!” Ci-636 roared, switching his aim, fully intending to correct the disobedience.
“And I ordered them saved.” The silver tank's fist crashed through the weakened armour on his abdomen and punctured his inner structure.

He screamed, in shock and horror at the speed with which the warrior breached his defences. He reached for his head, determined to crush it. And suddenly the black quad was on him, claws and fangs scraping his armour, tail slicing across his gun barrels. The tank pressed his advantage and tore Ci-636 wide open. The Tarnian stumbled backwards., frantically trying to pull the quad loose. There was a moment in which he thought he would succeed. Then the tank pushed a laser rifle into the breach and fired over and over.

Radiation bursts filled Ci-636 with heat and light. His fuel lines ruptured and ignited. He could not move his spark fast enough and essential parts of his being fragmented as his processors flash-fried. He fell slowly, his great fortress body collapsing, motors blown apart. The world toppled and pitched and the future whirled out of his grasp. His senses began to fail, sound and sensation lost to the fire that was consuming him. Distantly, he felt hammer-blows smashing his joints, crippling what was left until there was no hope of struggling against his fate.

The last things he saw before his consciousness shattered into darkness were his killer's optics staring down at him with a crimson intensity that could only have been Tarnian.

 

Field commander badass! Never thought I'd be cheering Megatron.

 

scary. Any chance you can write a political commentary on each chapter ?