Just gets better

 

Ok man, I'm Jonesing here. Lol

 

Well, we can't have that!

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2.3: Media Relations
The Grand Slam Report
Global Newsfeed
Cybertron

“Tonight, as we explore the causes of the increasing tension in the Qosho Region, we welcome Lord Sarristec of Vos to the ‘feed.”
“And please let me say that it is a pleasure and a privilege to be here again, Grand Slam.”
“Hhm. Then let’s begin with the question everyone’s asking: is Vos moving towards pulling out of the Inter-State Accords and breaking away from the High Council completely?”
“You have a gift for cutting to the core of the matter. At this time, I can state categorically that it is neither Vos’ wish nor intention to break with the unity that has been the mark of our planet’s society for so long. At the same time, of course, we will continue to assert out individuality within that unity. Every city-state has the right to self-determination, to set its own long-term goals and to perfect its economic and social models. We are merely exercising that right – and since it is a right granted by the High Council in the first place, the accusations that we are deliberately opposing the Council seem to me somewhat absurd.”

“Surely it is also a requirement of unity under the High Council that every city contributes to supporting the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate?”
“As we have stated many times, we are not in any way shirking out responsibilities towards planetary security. I’m sure everyone’s getting quite bored of hearing us answer this particular question. Yes, we have reduced the energy allocated to Council administrative facilities within Vos’ borders but only to the administrative facilities. The Civic Guard base, the Defence Directorate communications relay – these remain fully operational.”
“Indeed. But one of the administrative facilities that has suffered from an energy reduction – some might say a crippling energy reduction – is the Fuel Distribution Monitoring Office. In light of the fact that Vos is one of the largest suppliers of fuel to not only Qosho but to the Lakatera region as well, is this not a self-serving move intended to prevent greater scrutiny of your city’s dealings with less powerful states?”
“Vos has nothing to be ashamed of with regard to our dealings with other cities. We consider it our duty to share the bounty of our mining operations with those states unable to conduct such operations themselves. And by and large, I think you will find that they will have nothing but good things to say about our conduct in this most vital of undertakings.”
“Certainly. I’m sure they don’t want to risk upsetting you. Tell me, Lord Sarristec, how do you respond to the accusations that Vos has been hording the cleanest fuel for itself and has been exporting largely only lower-quality product?”

“I’m sorry, was that supposed to be a shocking revelation? It is no secret that we reserve the highest quality fuel for our own citizens. Vos may strongly believe in sharing energy but fuel distribution is still an economic arrangement and we still owe a duty of care first and foremost to our own population. We are certainly not peddling low-grade fuel for exorbitant prices – indeed, we offer extremely reasonable rates on low-grade to the industrial centres it which it can be put to good use – but at the same time, we are not about to put profit above the needs of our people. They place their trust in us and we do everything in our power to support and maintain them.”
“And to maintain a healthy military force?”
“You said yourself that we are one of the largest fuel suppliers on Cybertron. We must be prepared to protect our infrastructure, for the sake of all those who rely on us, both within and without our borders.”
“Which is why you have been systematically upgrading the security of your pipelines and pumping stations?”
“Of course. I hardly need to remind the viewers of this feed that unrest is spreading throughout the more impoverished provinces. Unlike less enlightened states, we are not responding to this by curtailing civil liberties or closing our borders but by working positively to strengthen our society and improve life for the less well off. That said, we are not blind to the threat posed by those misguided individuals who believe they can force change on others through violence. We will take whatever steps are necessary to protect our investments and to ensure that we do not let down those who are relying on us.”

“So these security upgrades have nothing to do with the similar programme being undertaken by the Tarnian government?”
“I’m sure that Tarn is simply responding to the same pressures that we are. It is only logical to protect operations that are vital to Cybertron as a whole. Tarn is perhaps not as culturally sophisticated as other cities, but it is certainly run on very logical lines.”
“So, you can confirm that the Vosian upgrades are not influenced by Tarn’s upgrades?”
“I believe I have already explained our reasoning. I think perhaps we would be at risk of insulting your audience if we were to go over them again.”

“…Lord Sarristec of Vos, thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure as always.”
“Now, earlier today I was able to talk to one of the leaders of the militant group Fuel For All, an organisation that claims that the larger city-states are using their control of planetary resources to keep a privileged elite in power…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Gauun’s Studio
Praxus
Cybertron

The room did not look like a high-flying artist’s studio. Not surprising given that until recently it had been the home of a lazy, easily distracted no-hoper. Aratron looked around in the vain hope of finding some clean, clear space. There wasn’t the tiniest bit of floor that wasn’t covered in decal fabrication units, data columns, old oil cans or weird junk that could have been anything from medical equipment to abstract sculpture. Technically, it was supposed to be a resource-saving combination of workplace and living quarters but it was hard to imagine it as either.

The ‘artist’ himself was perched on top of a data column, optics fixed on the poor quality holograms being projected, fountain style, into the middle of the room. “Come on Wheels!” he urged, waving an arm encouragingly, “Stop standing around and come and watch! It’ll be on in a cycle!”
“Great…” Taking very careful steps, Aratron crossed to join his friend.
“Aren’t you even a bit excited?” Gauun asked, “Because I am! My work, out there on the feeds! It is great! It’s gonna be brilliant!”
“Good…yeah…”
With exaggerated effort, he tore his gaze from the feed and looked up at Aratron. “Gimme something here, will you? This is my big break – can’t you be the least bit happy for me?”
“I am happy for you.”
“You don’t sound it. I mean, that didn’t sound sincere at all. In fact you sound really scrapped off…”
“I’m not.” Aratron’s wheels turned slightly. “But not everyone’s having your luck right now…”
Gauun began to reply but a sudden shift in the central hologram snatched him back to the feed. “Hey, look! It’s on!”

An elegant winged mech with a yellow face, his sleek frame decked out in a perfect balance of greys, purples and blues, stood in the glare of a dozen spotlights, posing just a little bit too long for the cameras. “So what’s revving tonight?” he asked loudly, giving a little flourish with his hands. Images filled the air in front of him, people of all shapes and sizes decked out in the latest fashions. “For the trendy mech and feme seeking that up-to-the-cycle look – racing stripes are in! For the daring quad – check out this textured armour! For the dashing avir, get everyone staring up at you with these fractal wing decals! For the trac about town – it’s a classic and it’s still stunning – yes, chrome is back back back!”`

Suddenly the camera pitched, the host’s head lurching into close-up as a klaxon went off in the background. “Fashion warning! Spots, sun patterns and side fins are out out out! Lose them now or lose your fashion cred! Even if you have to go in for a total reformat, get rid, get rid, get rid!” The image lurched back to a full body view, following him as he glided casually across the stage. “Now, I’m not one for one-on-one violence myself but it’s hard to deny that the arenas have produced some of the most striking colours schemes out there. Have you seen Clench? I mean, wow! Pink neon and gold on midnight blue with a green trim? Gorgeous! I’d watch that guy swing a battle axe any day of the quartex! And it looks like Praxus’ West Sector Heavy Club want to look just as good while they’re grinding gears in the ring!”

Aratron jerked and looked questioningly at Gauun. “‘Heavy Club’?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“You said ‘athletics team’.”
“Um…yeah…” The artist shifted awkwardly. “Well, it’s a kind of athletics, isn’t it?”
“If you call two mechs trying to pulverise each other, ‘athletic’.”
“They have to run around and transform a lot when they’re fighting! That’s gotta count as athletic! Now will you shut up? This is it!”

A large, big-wheeled mech appeared, his black armour covered in Gauun’s swirling cyan patterns. He looked a bit stunned, as if someone had dragged him out into the spotlight having just hit him hard in the processor. The host fluttered around him wearing an exultant expression and talking non-stop. “It’s got style!” he enthused, “It’s got pizazz! It’s a look you won’t be able to tear your optics away from, even in the heat of battle!”
“They paid you to make them targets?”
“Whee-eels!” Gauun flapped an arm, frantically signally for quiet.
“And the best part,” the host gushed, “is that this is from a complete unknown! Yes, yes, yes! This is utterly exclusive first look at the first showing from a hot shot young designer who’s sure to be in high demand from now on!”

With much fanfare, Gauun’s info-net profile flashed across the feed, a burst of contact details and current projects. Then it was gone and the host was in motion again, yammering on about the latest upgrades and where to buy them.

“Was that it?” Aratron was not impressed.
Gauun, on the other hand, was bouncing up and down with excitement. “This is brilliant! I’m out there! My designs on the fashion feeds! I’ve arrived! I’m in the air! I’m ready for the big time! I’m –”
“Publicly linked to something everyone from the Magnus down has been trying to get banned for mega-cycles –”
“Trying,” Gauun emphasised quickly, “They’re never going to actually going to go through with it, are they?”
Aratron gave up. It was clear nothing was going to puncture his friend’s premature enthusiasm. Shoving the other mech gently aside, he tapped into the visualizer and switched feeds, searching for something more interesting than a million and one ways to make maintenance fun. Gauun protested but not much – he was already distracted, checking and rechecking his communications log for the flood of commissions that he obviously expected.

A newsfeed sprang up, an anchor feme talking over images of a stately blue mech at various high-grade social gatherings. The Civic Guard were appealing for witnesses to his last movements before he got himself murdered in a Dead End near Tagen. Apparently, he was a Praxian of some standing and it was a shocking sign of the times that he could have come to such an end. After watching for a moment, Aratron thumped his friend’s arm.

Refocusing on the outside world, the artist frowned at the holograms. “What?”
Aratron pointed at the murder victim. “Isn’t that the slagger who got us chucked over a cliff?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Palace of Law
Vos
Cybertron

Sarristec’s reflection admired him from the polished chrome that decorated the antechamber. The new navy blue detailing suited him perfectly, offsetting his otherwise maroon or white armour in a most pleasing fashion. Not too ostentatious, not too subtle, just enough to effortlessly draw the optic. The expense of external installation had been more than worth it. It really did make for a vastly superior finish.

A soft chime rang through the room, swiftly followed by the whisper of metal on metal as the far wall fractured and retracted, panels slipping aside to create a doorway. Pausing only long enough for the Palace’s security system to confirm once more that he had full Conclave authority, Sarristec strode through into Lord Taynset’s private chambers.

The room was a study in restrained opulence. Not for Taynset the showy grandeur favoured by so much of Cybertron’s political elite: the décor was sleek and streamlined, showcasing the same sweeping elegance for which Vos as a whole was justly famed. Silver and chrome dominated, shot through with delicate ultraviolet and the sheen of opals. Ranks of pedestals, set in the gaps between the curving support pillars, held examples of a dozen famous artists’ work. Delicate tracery followed the lines of the room, the major Vosian insignias a reoccurring motif within the complex patterns. There was light everywhere. It poured through the towering windows and was reflected again and again by a thousand mirrored surfaces until it too had been sculpted into a work of art.

If Vos was a hymn to flight, this room was the refrain sung soft and strong to anyone who stepped over the threshold.

Lord Taynset himself stood with his back to the door, staring out at the cityscape, information swirling around him. He did not turn to greet his guest at first and for a long moment, Sarristec was left in limbo, prevented by etiquette from doing anything but study the elder mech’s slim form, framed as it was against the sky. After an age, Taynset turned, wings stretching, the data-streams cutting out with unsettling abruptness. Sarristec pulled his own wings in slightly tighter and inclined his head. Lords of Vos did not bow to one another but a show of deference to the true power in the city was only proper.

Taynset lifted a hand, dismissing the formalities with a simple gesture. “My Lord Sarristec. It is good of you to take the time to answer my invitation.”
An invitation to attend the senior Lord in his private chamber was something you made time for, as everyone was only too aware. Sarristec smiled and folded his fingers together. “Thank you my Lord. I am honoured that you wish to speak to me.”
Taynset smiled back briefly. “I wished to say in person how well you presented yourself – and Vos – on the newsfeeds yesterday. You handled the interview with the skill and sensitivity I have come to expect from you. Now, more than ever, you are showing yourself to be the best public face our energy ministry could have.”
Accepting the praise with flattered gratitude, Sarristec drew up a mental list of everyone he had beaten to the position and quickly assessed how far ahead of them he still was.

“It is extremely pleasing to see one so young displaying so much potential – and fulfilling it.” Stepping down from the platform, Taynset walked slowly over to admire an example of early Vosian sculpture, a delicate crystalline figure depicting an athlete in their moment of triumph. “You are, I think, the most forward-looking Lord to join the Conclave in a long time.” He tilted his head to the side. “Certainly, you are one of the most dynamic.”
“I only wish to do what I can for Vos, my Lord,” Sarristec told him earnestly, running through the different meanings that ‘dynamic’ could have. The last thing he wanted to do was to be seen as threatening to a mech who could dismantle his career with a couple of words.

“As do we all.” Taynset straightened, turning his attention fully to the other flyer. “I have a request, one I am certain you will be able and willing to fulfil.”
Forcing his face to remain composed, Sarristec fought back both eagerness and panic. “How may I be of service?”
“The upcoming negotiations with Praxus. It is in our interests to continue to supply their fuel needs – particularly with that wretched Tarnian cyol doing his best to undermine our standing with the Lakatera city-states. And as much as I trust Vvnet’s economic judgement, I feel that you would be able to communicate our terms with greater…finesse. Will you be amenable to leading the discussions in her place?”

“Of course!” Inwardly, Sarristec cursed himself for the trace of giddy glee that had crept into his voice. “I would be honoured,” he added in a more measured tone and then, daringly, “And may I say that your trust in my abilities is inspiring.”
“That trust is not hard to give.” Taynset gave his brief smile, optics brightening. “I have no doubt that great things lie in your future, my Lord Sarristec.”

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love how the overall story is, you really are making this about the life of ordinary ppl, politicians, not just through the eyes of the big hitters of G1 ! I tip my hat off to you !

The murder mystery is interesting too

 

Thank you thank you thank you.
It's driving me nuts trying to figure out who everyone is or will be. Sarristec could be Ratbat or any of a ton of others. "Wheels" is another who could several guys that has my imagination running. Dude this chiz should be published!

 

Totally digging the political-civilian level so far. Interesting take on culture as well!   Keep it comin!

 

Thanks for the comments, chaps!

ARCTrooperAlpha: I think one of the main things I want to get into this story is a sense of Cybertron as a functioning world, not just a backdrop. I didn't just want to go from Golden Age to Civil War in one step, just because that's where things must end up - the build up should be a logical extension of what came before. And so I've ended up focusing on a lot of separate characters whose stories all contribute something to the eventual collapse, even if they don't necessarily end up being the ones who become famous through the war.

batmanprime: Heh. Thanks. And don't worry, all will (eventually) become clear. Almost all the main protagonists are on track to become named characters. I will tell you this for nothing - Sarristec isn't Ratbat. I've been wondering if I can work in a Ratbat cameo, but if I can't, I will say that I imagine that he's always been a bat and that he's currently some sort of blackmarketeer/back-street scavanger.

Acer: I shall! And the culture is something I've put a lot of thought into. I wanted Cybertron to seem alien while being understandable. I've deliberately tried to avoid using too many straight Earth parallels or English language quirks (no acronyms here!). I've also tried to mix in as much 'canon' stuff as I can. An awful lot of it will never actually get into the story but I have lots of notes about different bits of Cybertronian society and culture that helps me build up a picture of what it was like before the Great War!

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2.4: Fighting the Current
Civic Guard Base
Tagan
Cybertron

The coordinator for the Praxus Banking Network – a member of the Avir Alva line, naturally – regarded Diatrion with all the warmth and good humour for which the financial sector was renowned. “While our client is now tragically deceased, there are surviving interests in his affairs. At this time we do not have their permission to allow external access.” He looked coldly down his beak at the Civic Guardsmech. “Statutory privacy laws require me to deny your request.”

Diatrion’s patience had been straining ever closer to breaking point for the past two cycles. At this, it finally broke. “Sir,” he snapped, “Your client has been murdered. He is lying in our stasis crypt in pieces. I am trying to find out who is responsible and I have spent two deca-cycles being shunted between flunkies whose only purpose in life seems to be to stop me from doing my job. And now you’re saying I can’t view a mech’s personal financial records – and thus maybe find the reason he was hacked to bits in a slum – because of privacy laws?”
“Exactly,” the avir responded, “Thank you for your enquiry.”

The communicator cut out, leaving Diatrion to stare in abject disbelief at empty air.

As extremely inviting a course of action as it might have been, he did not give full vent to his feelings towards the coordinator by smashing the communication dais. Instead, he filed a disclosure request with the Magnus’ office in Iacon, shunting copies to his regional overseer and the local legal corps to make absolutely certain that everyone who needed to know about the request had been informed. The slightest failure to follow procedure could be used to block the disclosure and he couldn’t afford to let that happen.

Of course, by the time he actually got to see those damned records, every last shred of useful evidence would have been edited out in accordance with a new ‘privacy policy’ or scrambled by a ‘technical error’. Article One of the Inter-State Accords might well have decreed that all citizens were charged with assisting any and all efforts to bring a murderer to justice but, as always, the unspoken amendment was that the law only applied to those without a way around it.

If there had been a way around dealing with the Praxus Banking Network, Diatrion would have been an extremely happy mech. As it was, he had absolutely no choice. Every other line of enquiry – so far as he had been able to pursue it – had been a dud. No one had witnessed the crime, or at least, no one was admitted to having done so. The local Sky Spy network only covered the Dead End at twenty-cycle intervals, leaving gaps big enough for pitched battles, let alone a solitary brutal murder. And while footage of the inner city expressways was continuous, it was no less useless. All it showed was the victim driving away from an up-market landing pad and towards the Dead End, perfectly in keeping with the testimony of the private shuttle who had flown him in from Praxus.

What was more, only the shuttle seemed to have been aware of his boss’s travel plans. His personal assistant, his stockbroker, his accountant and his clique – it would have been going too far to call them his friends – had all claimed complete ignorance. Even the shuttle had only known the destination, not the reason for going there.

And that was the problem.

Right up to the point at which his face had been ripped off, Konn Mech Tyrn had been – in Glitter’s colourful assessment – a perfectly normal over-modded, over-revved, over-energised waste of raw materials. He had been one of the darlings of the Praxian social world, a high-grade who, if not well liked, was certainly well connected. The kind of mech who got invited to parties for his name rather than his company and who had never done a day’s work that he could avoid. Exactly the sort of person liable to incite the rage of a down-on-their-luck labourer or an empty, desperate for fuel. Exactly the wrong sort of person to be found anywhere near a Dead End.

Besides which, the attack had been too brutal to have been carried out by an empty. It took a lot of power to so thoroughly destroy a body. Glitter had scanned the corpse down to the sub-atomic level and had concluded that the damage was almost entirely due to blunt trauma, probably inflicted with bare hands. Everything else had been caused by Konntyrn’s own systems as they sparked and flared in the last moments of his life. No empty could have done all that. A labourer might have been able to, but labourers rarely hung around in Dead Ends if they could avoid it.

Everyone avoided Dead Ends. So why had Konntyrn travelled across an entire region to visit one?

Diatrion was becoming increasingly convinced that finding the answer to that question was the key to cracking the whole case. It made no sense and any investigator worth their oil knew to concentrate on the things that did not make sense.

He brought up the collated biography files, scanning them for the seven hundred and sixth time in an effort to find some deeper understanding of Konntyrn’s psychology. A stream of items clipped from the social feeds sped past, a window into a life that seemed to have contained little in the way of hardship. Cross-referencing with witness statements produced a picture of an opinionated bore without a care in the world. Reading it over yet again, Diatrion felt a twinge of sympathy with Glitter’s antipathetic summary of the mech’s character. In spite of himself, he could not help wondering if anyone would really miss Konntyrn.

He quickly put that thought aside – it was counterproductive and more than a little shameful – and focused instead on checking for any correlation between the companies in which Konntyrn had stakes and the recent bouts of rioting. He did not want to exclude the possibility that the death had been motivated by worker dissatisfaction – though as it turned out, most of the businesses were doing quite well. The worst of them had only made a few energy cuts, none of which were especially stringent. Not a particularly promising lead even if the crime hadn’t taken place a thousand hix from anywhere labourers with a grudge against Konntyrn might reasonably have been found.

That said, there was the sheen of something dodgy about a good many of those business interests. Among the numerous high technology companies were more than a few with dubiously vague remits and suspicious operating histories. Perhaps a scam had gone sour, leaving no option but to –

A message flag sprang into Diatrion’s awareness, the signature of the Magnus’ office pulsing out of the ether. He pulled the message up and was met with the formal declaration that his request had, after due consideration, been granted. The investigators working Case A-45967# now had full authority to request and receive the disclosure of all documentation relating to the financial dealings of Konn Mech Tyrn Verous Norne.

With a certain amount of satisfaction, Diatrion ordered the communications dais to reconnect him to the coordinator of the Praxus Banking Network.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Planetary Defence Directorate Garrison Optir Prima
Iacon
Cybertron

The protestors did not respond well to the ministrations of Simfur’s security forces. Their anger more than made up for their disorganisation and the law enforcement officers were swiftly overwhelmed, lost beneath a tide of furious labourers. Flashes of energy crackled through the crowds, electricity arcing freely from fresh wounds to strike victim and attacker alike. Arms and legs, even whole torsos went flying in all directions, torn free through sheer brute force. Ironically, the mob’s make-shift weaponry was doing far less damage. Laser torches and welding tools were little use against light armour, just as that armour was little use in preventing the user being torn limb from limb.

By the time the Civic Guard moved in to reinforce their local counterparts, the riot encompassed a whole sector. Spilt fuel, ignited by stray sparks, filled the air was flame and smoke. The sound of metal on metal mingled with the thrum of suppressor beams and the howls of those caught in them. Heavy transports thundered in low, swinging spotlights on those still fighting arrest, those trying to flee and those too damaged to move. The protesters were gradually driven back, herded into the open spaces and locked into stasis, their unconscious forms piled up to be sorted out later.

One particularly huge mech tried to break out of the closing trap, charging full-throttle in vehicle mode, treads flying, earthmover blade lowered to smash guardsmechs out of the way. The white figures swarmed him, grabbing hold and laying into him with their shock batons. Painfully, inevitably, his desperate flight was brought to an end, leaving him broken at the side of the road, reverting to bipedal form only to collapse to the ground in agony –

The footage froze on that image, the big green worker at the feet of the law. Megatron stepped back and folded his arms, examining the hologram with blazing optics. Suppressed rage introduced a new tension into his fighter’s posture, the tell-tale signs of fury barely contained.

“How did this happen?” he asked, so quietly that the untrained observer would probably have thought it a rhetorical question. Ravage knew full well, however, that when Megatron said something aloud, no matter how quietly, he expected a response.
The quad flicked a paw dismissively. “Too many people, too little fuel. Not a formula for contentment.”
Megatron scowled. “We have fought wars on a hundred planets to bring fuel to Cybertron! There should be more than enough! And even if there isn’t, this –” he gestured violently at the frozen holograms “– this should not have happened! This waste of time and effort, fighting that achieves nothing – it should never have been allowed to happen.” He lashed out, physically deactivating – and denting – the projector, and began to pace. Since the habitation cell was of military design and therefore not particularly spacious, this was not an effective means of dispelling his irritation.

Ravage examined his claws. “And yet it was. Are you really so shocked?”
This was greeted first with silence, then with an exasperated, “No.” Megatron continued to pace for a micro-cycle before rounding on his lieutenant. “But that isn’t the point. It doesn’t matter if everyone expects a failure to govern properly – it is still wrong! This world deserves better!”
“People have a right to decide how they are governed,” Ravage told him with rehearsed sincerity, “and who they are governed by.”
“People have a right to be governed by those who can actually govern,” he growled back.
“If they wanted to change things, they could. That is a matter of pure mathematics. They choose not to.”

With a disgusted snarl, Megatron turned away, treads fidgeting back and forth. He paced once, twice more and stared at the wall. Then he reactivated the viewer, recovering the hologram of the battered green mech and stared at that, scanning and rescanning every buckled panel and twisted limb. After a long while, he spoke again, low and angrily. “Every time I come back, the Cybertron I chose to fight for seems to have slipped further away. One day I think I am going to look up from the battlefield and it will be gone for good.”

Ravage stretched, extending his pistons and servos to their limits. He rose from his seat at the base of the recharge berth and padded across to his commander’s side, leaning his head on one side. The image of the fallen worker was mirrored in his bright golden optics, the scene of hopeless defeat taking on a new lustre in its reflection. “Then perhaps,” Ravage purred, “you are on the wrong battlefield.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Civic Guard Base
Tagan
Cybertron

“Nothing unusual? Absolutely nothing? No unexpected visitors, no unusual messages? No threats?”

Even via hologram the former head of Konntryn’s household managed to convey extreme discomfort at the questions. His single optic kept narrowing to a point of light, as if he hoped focusing in on Diatrion might make the investigator spontaneously combust. “I have already answered these questions.”
“Then you should have had a chance to rehearse your answers,” Diatrion told him flatly.
The red cyol bristled. “How dare – I resent the implication of that statement. My master – my former master was a legitimate businessmech. He would not tolerate anything illegal –”
“You and I know that is not true.”
“What are you imp –”
"I've seen the records," Diatrion told him, carefully noting the way he twitched at the statement, "Everything looks legitimate but I would bet my axels that it isn't. Some of those companies' profits are a bit too erratic, a bit too convenient... This ‘Dirvatech’, for example. Strange how they always seemed to do well when he needed a financial boost in a hurry, don’t you think?”
"I don't –"
"You know exactly what I mean. An Elite like Konntyrn lives or dies on his credibility as a reputable member of high society. I think he died trying to protect his reputation. I think he travelled halfway round the planet to die in a Dead End because he was terrified that someone would expose him as the cheating, hypocritical glitch that he was. And I think you can tell me who was blackmailing him –and what they were blackmailing him for, because it sure as slag wasn't money."

The servant’s image stood stock still, his eye a pin-point in the middle of his face. His hands were trembling slightly. “Feel free to take your time,” Diatrion prompted, gaze unwavering.
“I don’t know!” Optic brightening in panic, the cyol flung his arms wide. “My master was always discrete in his – his business dealings! He may have liked the sound of his own voice but he wasn’t stupid enough to say anything important in front of me!”
“And being discrete yourself, you would have heard nothing anyway.”
“I…”
“And seen nothing.”
“Well –”
“Which is why you’re so shocked by the idea that your master was breaking the law.”
“Of course! I –”
“Not because you’re terrified you’ll be implicated as an accomplice. Or the one who was blackmailing him.”

“I was not! That’s a lie! I would never do such a thing! You can’t possibly believe that I would –” His panicked outburst cut off abruptly and he leaned forward imploringly. “There was a box! I don’t know what was in it! He had it delivered from – somewhere, I don’t know where! He received it himself, didn’t let any of us see what it was! That was odd! He-he never received items in person! Never lifted a finger if he didn’t have to! But that’s all – that’s the only thing I can think of!”
The investigator watched him coolly for half a cycle. “Your memory glitched when you gave your initial statement I suppose?”

Waving aside the babbled protests, Diatrion demanded the exact date and time of the unusual delivery and reeled off the usual statements about the recording of evidence, the potential legal proceedings and the possibility of being called as a witness. He then broke the connection – presumably much to the cyol’s relief – and shunted the new data into the case file.

He smiled grimly. It had paid off. In those erratic transactions, buried deep in the Praxus Banking Network’s oblique terminology and arcane indexing systems, he had found a key to the case. He had been sure of that the moment he had found them. In themselves they told he little he had not worked out for himself, but if he could back his up his suspicions with something solid then so could someone else, opening up the possibility that it had not been Konntyrn’s choice to travel to Tagen at all. If Diatrion rattled enough cages with that idea, the clues to who had made the choice would eventually fall out.

Now he had the beginnings of why it had been made. Not to deliver blackmail money. One look at the accounts, relatively untouched of late, had ruled that out – unless Konntyrn had decided to stand up to a persecutor, but doing that alone and in person just did not fit with the way the mech had operated. To deliver that mysterious box, or at least its contents? Too soon to be certain.

Yet as he began a systematic review of the security footage from Konntyrn’s residence for the date the head-of-house had specified, Diatrion could not supress a surge of excitement. For all the distance that remained ahead of him, he finally had an idea of where the road was leading.

Justice would be done. He was sure of that now. It was simply a matter of time.

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

 

How I love convolution when it comes to research and data-diving!   The banking convo, plus Dia's frustration and keen turn of mind have been a pleasure to read so far.   <3

 

Glad you like him! Diatrion's going to be quite important to this story...

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

2.5: Friction
Underground Arena
Iacon Periphery
Cybertron

“One shall stand!”
The crowd rose at the announcer’s words, eagerly filling the air with the response. “ONE SHALL FALL!”

They screamed their approval, cheering and banging fists against their armour, their anticipation building like the fury of a storm. The announcer, his part concluded, backed away from the centre of the arena, spreading his arms wide to direct the crowd’s attention to the ground in front of him and the two gaping circular holes that had just appeared in it.

In plumes of smoke and sparks, the gladiators were lifted to the surface, theatrically imprisoned in hissing energy cages. They bellowed, their voices amplified so they could be heard even over the tidal roar of the crowds. Behemoths, they towered over the announcer, their bodies weighed down with layer after layer of armour and mods. Both seemed to have started out as construction mechs. One, the big purple and gold Iaconain, had a crane boom folded over his shoulder and elaborate approximations of hazard markings running up and down his arms. His opponent had a great shovel that curved across his chest, tempered metal bright against black armour coated in swirling cyan patterns. He beat his hands against it, adding the dull thumping to the rising din. A thunder of approval from the Praxians greeted his posturing, matched in kind a moment later by the home audience and their champion’s incensed howl.

On cue, with the audience’s anticipation whipped up to its peak, the cages rippled and broke apart. The announcer transformed and fled and the gladiators flung themselves at one another. It was a simple opening foray, a quick testing strike. The Praxian twisted at the last moment, deftly catching the Iaconain by the forearm and using his own momentum to fling him across the arena. The purple giant slammed into the ground, rolling with the impact and throwing up a cloud of dust. The Praxian supporters hooted appreciatively, but the Iaconian was already back on his feet, charging forward, transforming as he came.

A vehicle only a gun turret away from being a tank hurtled at the black and blue gladiator, crane boom extending like a lance, a wickedly sharp spike sliding out of the end. Responding in kind, the Praxian flipped into bulldozer mode and stood his ground, engine revving hard. The purple tank slammed into him, the spike jabbing viciously into his upper sections. Tracks grinding, he pushed back, resisting the awesome force being exerted against him.

Suddenly the Iaconian shifted and two powerful hands heaved the bulldozer clean off the ground, flipping him and slamming him back down with axel-shattering force. Without so much as a mirco-cycle’s pause, the purple mech jumped high into the air and came crashing down on his opponent’s body like some immense pile-driver. The crowd screamed, the Iaconians drowning out Praxian dismay with thunderous chanting.

“IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR!”

Victory, however, was not so quick and not so easy. With much squirming and straining, the black mech managed to free his legs from his vehicle form and kicked out, landing a fearful blow on Impactor’s chest, driving him backwards. In a flash, the Praxian was up and grappling with him, seizing him by the helm and trying to bury him face-first into the arena floor. A new chant echoed out down from the stands, the other end of the amphitheatre rising to cheer.

“RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE!”

Impactor, though, was quick to retake the advantage. He abruptly gave into Rampage’s pressure, dropping, throwing him off balance. He released his grip and lashed out with his feet but the Iaconain was too fast. A purple arm looped around his neck and heaved. With an unpleasant cracking noise, Rampage’s torso bent over backwards.

He responded by throwing his arms out and mashing his fists into the sides of Impactor’s head.

High up in the stands, watching from near the very top of the amphitheatre, Optrion winced. The crunch of bending metal elicited yet more frantic cheers, as did the grappling that followed, the two gladiators twisting in and out of each other’s grip, pounding and pummelling at every opening. There was a rhythm to the fight, a crowd-pleasing ebb and flow, but no grace, no elegance, nothing that really seemed like art. The gladiators were skilled, but brutally so, their blows intended to cause maximum damage, not end the fight quickly. Already they were scattering fragments of armour – and with a screeching wrench, Rampage pulled Impactor’s shoulder guard free in its entirety.

In retaliation, Impactor ripped his opponent’s right arm off at the elbow.

The crowd went wild, wilder still as the Iaconian champion ground the detached limb into its owner’s face. Optrion looked away from the ring and up at the benches, taking in row after row of whooping, hollering mechs. Frenzy and fuel-lust flashed from face to face, all those little pent up frustrations exploding in time to the kicks and punches. Conflict, even experienced vicariously, was a relief for these people, a way of escaping routine for a while and basking in reflected glory.

Visions of corpse-strewn battlefields flickered before Optrion’s optics and he turned away.

“What’s wrong?” a voice demanded from his left, “We’re winning!” Ratchet peered at him with a scowl, diagnostic sensors flickering on. “You’re not going to collapse halfway through a match, are you? Because if you are, you’ll wake up with your crankshaft up your –”
“I’m fine,” Optrion interrupted quickly, “Don’t worry.”
“What’s he got ta worry about?” Ironhide shouted from Optrion’s right, “We came here ta relax, didn’ we?” He broke off to give an audio-bursting hoot as Impactor hurled Rampage the length of the arena floor.
“You call this relaxing?”
“Sure do! HAHA! TAKE THAT YAH PRAXIAN SLAGGER!”
“You don’t,” Ratchet observed after giving a shout of his own.
“I…no, I don’t.” Optrion frowned. “I’m amazed you do.”
“You’re what? Amazed? This is great! This is the one time I can actually enjoy watching mechs being torn to bits! I don’t have to fix them up afterwards! SMASH HIM IN THE –”
“You enjoy seeing mechs being torn apart? You’re a medic!”

Ratchet fixed him with a cool blue stare. “Like I said, I don’t have to fix them. Oh for booting up cold,” he groaned as Optrion’s expression dropped from amazed to appalled, “You do realise it’s all for show, don’t you? Please tell me you know it’s for show, commander.” He put a friendly arm around Optrion’s shoulders, or as near as he could given how much taller the other mech was. “Gladiators are stupidly over modded,” he explained in a voice tailored to a particularly slow-witted protoform, “They have redundancies in their redundancies and backups spilling out their exhaust ports. You could put a sword, a spear, a whole fragging axe through one of those guys and they’d still be able to pull it out and ram it down your superstructure. Losing an arm is nothing! Give it back to ‘em for half a cycle and it’ll just reattach, good as new! It’s not real, commander. The damage is, the fuel is – but everyone’s going to be standing in the morning. That’s why it’s a sport. The only thing that gets broke – AND STAY DOWN, Y’ SON OF A GLITCH! – is the other guy’s pride when you GRIND HIS FACE INTO THE FLOOR! No one dies here, commander.”
“Yah want to see that,” Ironhide put in, “yer don’ look somewhere this public. Now can yah quit yer yappin? Ah’m tryin’ tah watch the fight!”

Realising this was neither the time nor the place for a protracted ethical debate, Optrion let it drop. Down below, Impactor leapt into the air again, landing hard on Rampage’s back and driving his already flattened body even deeper into the ground. Iacon called out its approval and Optrion tried very hard not to think of a hundred real battlefields and of everyone who had ever fallen so that Cybertron could stay on its feet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

In his more whimsical moments, Xaaron wondered if anyone had ever thought of selling tickets. After all, Graviitus and Haacano were at least as entertaining as the average no-holds-barred grudge match, if not more so. And while neither had yet committed any acts of grievous violence against the other, it was surely only a matter of time.

Lately, it seemed that the honoured Emirates of Vos and Tarn were determined to turn every Council meeting into a pitched battle. They had even begun to disturb the usually arbitrary seating arrangement, gathering allied states into opposing camps the better to glare at one another across the circle. Xaaron had the strange feeling that he was sitting between two continental plates that were drawing gradually further and further apart.

It was with some trepidation that he contemplated what would happen when they crashed back together.

“That is an outrageous slur!” Haacano, for once, was the one issuing the thundering outrage.
The object of his fury remained unmoved and extremely smug about it. “Is Tarn disputing the treaties on which its own status as an independent state is founded?” Graviitus asked, folding his arms and leaning back, “I have copies here if you want to check the facts –”
“This is a cynical attempt to take advantage of out-dated accords –”
“Hah! So Tarn admits the treaties defining its territory are outdated!”
“We admit nothing of the sort! Later treaties clearly delineate Tarnian territory as agreed by –”
“Those treaties make no mention of the Kahlian Ridge. Tarn has just been assuming all these mega-cycles that it has the right to build there when it has no. Such. Right.”
“That land is ours in all but name! It has been accepted as ours by every other state in the region. Vos is protesting the point simply to further its own agendas – and,” Haacano accused, jabbing a finger at his opponent, “because that area is ideally positioned for use as a fuel-distribution node.”

Graviitus rallied to the challenge magnificently, rising from his seat and drawing himself to his full height. “Tarn,” he boomed, “is moving to expand outside its legal borders by pretending that its annexing of the Kahlian Ridge has already been accepted by its neighbours!”
“WE ARE BUILDING SUPPLY NODES!” Haacano’s bellow echoed through the throne room. After a moment’s deafening silence, he got a hold on himself and continued, “Tarn is working to improve its energy distribution network to the betterment of every state that relies on us for their continued prosperity. We need to build on Kahlian Ridge and we have every right to do so.”
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!”

“Enough! Please, enough!” Traachon held up his hands, optics darting around the circle of councillors. “I move – Iacon moves to end this meeting now and reconvene once…and reconvene later.”
“Nova Cronum seconds,” Xaaron intoned quickly, half expecting Vos and Tarn to shout them down just so they could carry on screaming at each other. They did not. But nor did they go graciously from the chamber. It was embarrassing to watch the two camps rush to be the first to sweep imperiously out. A couple of the Emirates even managed to collide, if only fleetingly. They glared, then strode on, their entourages flowing after them. In under a cycle, the room was practically emptied, leaving only Traachon sitting at the circle, Xaaron standing opposite.

Wearily, the Emirate of Iacon got up and turned to bow to the Prime. Sentinel inclined his head, as if being entirely ignored by the rest of the High Council was of no consequence. Xaaron bowed too and followed Traachon from the hall.

They slipped into step quite naturally, their aides falling back and dispersing until the two were walking alone together. For a while, they continued in silence, then Traachon burst out, “Why does he not intervene?!”
“Who?”
“The Prime of course! That is the third time Haacano and Graviitus have dragged us into open squabbling! I swear, I truly believed they were about to physically assault one another this time!”
“An interesting thought,” Xaaron observed, “Haacano naturally favours his tank form, which one would think would put him at a disadvantage against a Vosian, but spacious though it is, I’m not sure the council chamber is really big enough to allow a jet to manoeuvre properly…”
Traachon shot him a look of utter astonishment. “How can you joke about this?”
“Because loud and infuriating as our erstwhile colleagues are, they are not the real problem.”
“Oh…yes…I suppose you are correct.”

The Emirate of Iacon stared gloomily at the ceiling, then added, “If only the Prime would intervene…”
“The Prime will not.” The reply came as a flat statement. “This is a dispute between two cities in one region. It is not a matter of planetary scope or a question of distributing the defence forces. Therefore, it is not his place to interfere.”
“You cannot possibly believe that!”
“No,” Xaaron agreed, “But I suspect that he does.”
Traachon shook his head sadly, not bothering to try to argue the point. “Where is this going to end, Xaaron?”

The golden mech stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. Traachon walked on a few paces before realising and turning back. “Xaaron?”
“I do not know,” the other Emirate answered eventually. He paused, then went on, “The problem is, Vos will never admit or accept that Tarn is not a threat to them, and Tarn will never agree to cease the activities that Vos sees as threatening. I for one cannot say I blame them. Tarn, I mean. But I am unfortunately prejudiced by having experienced first-hand what it was like there before Viilon’s logical revolution.” He held up a hand before Traachon could protest. “No, I do not agree with the way he has gone about things. But while he is no diplomat, he has done that commendable thing of following through on his beliefs and staying true to his principles. Which is, of course, extremely unfortunate. Both governments believe they are in the right and there is not one thing we can say that will convince them otherwise. The best we can hope for is to convince them that…overt action would be too costly.”

“And if we cannot?” Traachon asked hesitantly, clearly fearing the answer that he must surely have worked out for himself.
Again, Xaaron paused before answering. “In whole or in part, Tarn and Vos supply energy to twenty-seven cities,” he said, staring unseeingly at the intricate statuary that decorated the hallway’s walls, “That means around thirty percent of Cybertron’s fuel reserves is passing through their hands at any one time. As individual distribution hubs, only Iacon and Ankmor can match them. They’re also the biggest sources of trade in the Qosho region. Almost half of the traffic passing through the Tagan Heights is bound for, or coming from Vos or Tarn. And they operate or part-fund a considerable number of spacecraft and off-world bases – not just mining camps but scientific units and deep-range outposts. In fact, discounting commercial freighters, I would say each of them has a bigger presence in space than almost anyone else short of the Defence Directorate. If all this…aggravation starts going beyond empty threats and legal quibbling…” Xaaron spread his arms wide. “The disruption to fuel distribution alone would probably be enough to drive Simfur and Altihex into the ground. Tagan wouldn’t be able to cope with the loss of commerce. At least three important deep-space exploration programmes would collapse. And that is without going into the consequences of two of the most heavily armed states on Cybertron engaging in open hostilities, which would be…well…”

“Disastrous,” Traachon completed for him, a tremor in his voice. “The side-effects, the, ah, collateral damage…” A note of resolve replaced the tremor. “Xaaron, we must stop this now. Before it goes any further. We must stop this.”
“We must. How?”
“I…ah…we should…” He trailed off again, before finishing lamely, “I do not know…”
“No my friend,” Xaaron said with a sad smile. He began walking away up the corridor. “Neither do I. But I am trying to work it out as quickly as I can.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Energon Distribution Plant #4
Mahlex Industrial Sector
Tarn
Cybertron

Scientifically speaking, destruction is easy. A simple chemical reaction is enough to maim, a basic understanding of physical laws enough to kill. At their heart, even the most complex of destructive devices generally operates on very simple principles.

The black tube sitting beneath transverse pump five was an astonishingly complex device. If by some miracle another culture on a less advanced world had been able to decipher the technology it contained, they would have been catapulted from stone-age to spaceflight in the span of a few orbits of their sun. In a chamber stuffed with sensors and cameras and recorders, it went unnoticed, unseen, unrecorded: to all intents and purposes, it was invisible. In a rudimentary sort of way, it was aware of its invisibility and of the liquid light surging and swirling through the pipes that surrounded it. It watched. It waited. It counted.

At some point in the night, the right parameters were met. The tube split along its length, unfolding a little, certain delicate mechanisms drawing back, letting particular elements combine within its depths. There was a flash, a brilliant shard of star-fire momentarily dashing everything else into insignificance.

The pipes melted in an instant. The fuel met the air, met the fire the tube had released. And ignited.

It is a basic physical law that if a great force is contained within a sealed chamber, then that chamber will not stay sealed for long. On this simple principle the tube’s operation had been designed and it was this simple principle that reduced the pumping station to a cloud of debris. The flames bit into the sky with a victorious roar, leaping from building to building, the blazing energon falling as burning rain, the fire diving into the pipelines and cracking them like dry logs. Another pumping station erupted. Then a third. Within two cycles, half the Mahlex district was ablaze, the shrieking of tortured metal reverberating over and over again until it merged into a weird, frenzied applause.

And, as the city’s very fabric cheered its destruction, the inferno danced higher still.

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

 

You have an amazing way with language. Keep it comin.  

 

seriously I'm going to need a glass of wine every time I read this. Spot on !

 

Just as long as I'm not actually driving you to drink!

Thanks for the comments!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
2.6: Sparks in the Tinder Box
Mahlex Industrial Sector
Tarn
Cybertron

The fires raged throughout the night and well into the morning. Tarn’s emergency teams were stretched to breaking point, even with a dozen Civic Guard rapid response units backing them up. Efforts to contain the blaze were constantly thwarted as its snaking tendrils found new pockets of fuel on which to gorge. Even with the feed lines shut off, there was enough energon left in the district to keep the flames strong for hecta-cycles.

And when the fire-fighters finally won through, there was nothing left worth saving.

The Mahlex Sector had been utterly destroyed. Right down to the sub-strata, all that was left were twisted, blackened ruins, only the skeletal shells of buildings betraying the district’s former regimented structure. Over a hundred mechs had died there. Even with heavy automation, the pumping stations had still needed overseers, technicians, guards – a dozen functions, minor and major, that no dumb machine could be trusted with.

They had stayed at their posts to the end. The end had come too quickly for them to have done anything else. The few bodies that had been recovered were melted beyond any chance of recovery, their superstructures destroyed right down to the micro-technological level.

As soon as the area was cool enough, the investigators moved in. The Civic Guard was quick to establish its authority over and above that of the Tarnian police. The explosion had destroyed an important part of the regional fuel distribution network: the repercussions would extend far beyond Tarn’s borders. Much to the chagrin of his security officials, Governor Viilon accepted this without complaint.

He made no other official statements on the matter. He made no statements on the matter at all. Instead, he simply arrived at the disaster zone with his bodyguards and stood silently, watching a score of white mechs pick over the debris.

If he felt anything at seeing the destruction that had been wrought against the city he had built, his immobile faceplate hid it completely.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vos
Cybertron

“You’ve heard the good news?”

Vvnet rose parallel to Sarristec’s flight path, dragging his attention from the reams of analyses and predictions he had to process. He dipped his wings in dismissive salute, not missing the feme’s barely concealed hostility but choosing to ignore it. “Some time ago,” he confirmed, more than happy to point out the superior speed of his information gatherers, “It will no doubt be all over the city by now.”
“I’m sure.” Vvnet’s tails twitched. “I’m surprised the Tarnians aren’t trying harder to cover it up.”
“It’s hard to cover up having a major part of your infrastructure melted into slag,” Sarristec pointed out loftily, “Besides, I imagine there are more than a few mechs missing their rations this morning.”
“No doubt you’ve already promised to give them new, better rations at only three times the cost of the missing ones.”
“Of course not.” Sarristec resisted for a moment or two, then added, “We’ll let them miss another fuelling session first.”

Vvnet flicked onto a slightly higher flight path, as if distancing herself from something toxic. Her disdain amused Sarristec somewhat. Some people could not bear to watch another’s successes, even when those successes were to their benefit too. He stretched his fins and angled towards the Fuel Ministry tower. “I suggested to Lord Taynset that I deliver a suitable statement for the mid-day newscasts,” he mentioned offhandedly, “To express our collective sympathy for the Tarnian losses and to offer them any support we can in their hour of need…relieving them of the burden of the contracts they will no longer be able to fulfil, for example. My lord assured me that I would have access to all the major feeds for a full fifteen cycles. He was most impressed with my initiative.”

The trade minister bristled, her thrusters flaring. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” she grated, clearly implying the exact opposite, “Talking is what you do best, after all.”
Sarristec chuckled contentedly, making sure to broadcast his amusement. “If it wasn’t, I’d have to rely on my looks alone and then I would only be half as effective as I am.”

And he banked sharply, sweeping deftly into the tower’s landing hall. He snapped on to his legs and strode purposefully onwards. Bronze secretaries rushed to his side, beaming him reports in turn. Tarn had still not issued any statement. The Civic Guard were not responding to questions. The local markets were in chaos, with several major fuel distributors scrambling to cover their losses. Simfur was sending an envoy straight to Vos to negotiate new agreements.

Sarristec fixed on that for a moment. It was no secret that the Simfur oligarchy was hovering on the brink of self-destruction. Even a short interruption to the populace’s energy supplies might be enough to bring about a complete collapse of the government’s authority, to the point where even their famously heavy-handed enforcers would be unable to stem the tide of public violence. The obliteration of such an ugly slag-heap would be a blessing for anyone with an aesthetic sense but Sarristec supposed he could not allow that to bias the negotiations. After all, with Simfur entirely under Vos’ influence, that would be one more direction in which Tarn would be unable to extend its grip on the region.

A flunky hurried up, darting in as the corridor rearranged itself to give Sarristec a more direct route to his chambers. “The outline for your speech to the newsfeeds, my lord,” the diminutive hexe announced, “Direct from Lord Taynset’s office.”
Sarristec snatched the files from the ether and scanned them quickly. Then relaxed, happy to see that Taynset’s thinking was in accordance with his own. A few small amendments to the statement he had been composing since he first heard about the explosion and he would be set for the broadcast. Barring the necessary polishing and chromo adjustments, naturally. To the rest of the world, he would be the embodiment of Vos and it would be unforgivable if that body were not seen to be absolutely perfect.

Dismissing the hexe, he turned his thoughts inwards and began planning the best posture and intonation for delivering his people’s gravest regrets at Tarn’s loss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sealed Briefing Chamber
Defence Directorate Headquarters
Iacon
Cybertron

The scanners closed around Megatron, slithering across his frame, exploring him from head to foot. He tensed at the invasion, forcing himself to stay still under the scrutiny. At length, the probes retracted and the doors cycled open, allowing him entry to the conference room. Pausing only long enough to close the protective baffles on his armour, he stepped inside.

The chamber was alive with information, both visual and ethereal. Holograms circled overhead, the whole Qosho region rendered in minute detail. Tarn had prominence and the devastated industrial sector stood out as a gaping hole in the cityscape. Below, various Defence Directorate officers stood clustered in small groups, talking in low voices or on secure channels. At the far end, Supreme Commander Grandus held court, advisors and analysts orbiting his massive form, in the case of one avir, quite literally. Two more Supreme Commanders – Deftwing and Viktoleo – stood off to the side, the bulky flyer muttering darkly to the sleek tank as they poured over a complex web of movement information. And in the centre of the room, arms folded, face grim, was Deca Magnus.

Megatron had never been sure what to make of the Magnus. Physically imposing, the mech was by all accounts a formidable warrior, known to have held his own in the midst of riots and anarchist attacks. And yet he had never committed himself to a true battlefield. Even his stature was a sham. The red and blue armour made him taller even than Megatron but it was not really part of him. It was not unknown for a Magnus to fuse completely with the ceremonial trappings of the rank but Deca had never done so, preferring it seemed to shelter his original, weaker form rather than fully embrace the added strength.

It was hard to truly respect someone who treated might as something to be switched on and off at will.

“Field Commander,” Grandus boomed, gesturing him closer with one mighty pincer, “Good. We can begin.” The assembled soldiers moved quickly into a circle, the Supreme Commanders and the Magnus gathering together, the senior analysts and strategists fanning out before them. Megatron took his place directly opposite Grandus. The holograms reformed within the centre of the room, Tarn rendering afresh, the disaster zone bristling with labels and scan results.

“You all know what happened. I do not intend to go over details you have all already assimilated.” Grandus paused, waving new information on to the display. “What is important now is to minimise the fallout.”
The Magnus stepped forward and waved the epicentre into sharper focus. “The explosion appears to have been caused by a flash-point device located within one of the main pumping halls. Security feeds show it clearly in the moments immediately following detonation. Prior to that, the device did not register at all. The terrorists responsible most likely had inside help, probably from Tarnian security personnel. Investigations are on-going but there are already indications that some of the facility guards cannot be accounted for in the remains.”

“Excuse me,” one of the strategists interrupted, her tail arching, “but has there been some development I’m not aware of? Surely it’s too early to assume that this is the work of terrorists.”
A murmur of agreement ran around the assembly. Though he remained silent, Megatron could not help but note that it was an exceptionally skilled amateur who managed to plant a bomb in one of the most heavily guarded places on the planet without being detected.

Deca did not look happy. “The investigation is on-going,” he repeated slowly, “however, we are inclined to the view that pointing the blame at any…official party would be highly inappropriate. The last thing anyone needs right now is for accusations to start flying. Our working hypothesis therefore is that this was the work of an anarchist or criminal cell intent on causing wide scale destruction in an effort to further extremist agendas.”
So that was how it was to be. Megatron glanced at the hologram He imaged what it must have been like for those caught in the firestorm. For them, at least, the question of who had caused their deaths did not matter. And given that, did it really matter at all who was found guilty? Justice for the dead was nothing compared to the safety of the living.

Noticeably avoiding several accusatory looks from his audience, the Magnus continued, “Any terrorists currently or previously operating in the Qosho region must be located and detained. This will obviously be a large-scale operation and given the chaos that’s going to break out once the fuel shortages kick in, Civic Guard resources are likely to be stretched too thin to handle it properly. This being so, planetary defence forces will be deployed as well.”
Deftwing took over, red optical strip flashing as he spoke. “Two battalions will be dispatched to the Qosho region immediately. They will undertake the capture of any anarchist our intelligence operatives can identify. They will be coordinated by Civic Guard commanders but will be given operational authority during missions. We anticipate that at least some of the cells will be heavily armed and reasonably skilled in combat. It’s possible they’ll be expecting a response, so the emphasis here will be on striking as fast as possible.”

The commander three mechs to the Magnus’ left raised a hand. Megatron recognised him as the leader of one of the Homeworld Battalions. “My troops are being assigned, I take it?”
“Yours and Commander Megatron’s,” Deftwing agreed.

For a moment, there was silence save for the few hurried communications darting between some of the junior officers. Megatron broke it with a question. “What’s the other reason?”
Viktoleo frowned at him. “Your pardon, Field Commander?”
“You’re sending more troops than are usually sent to defend off-world mines from alien aggressors to deal with a few scattered terrorist groups,” Megatron stated flatly, “What’s the other reason we’re being deployed?”
“We cannot deploy peacekeepers before the peace has been threatened,” Grandus thundered, “But having defence forces ready to fulfil that capacity should it be required is not an unreasonable precaution. This cannot be your official function. Not without a Council edict permitting action against sovereign states. But that does not mean we should not prepare for the worst.”

The Magnus stepped forward again. “This situation cannot be allowed to get out of hand,” he insisted, banging a fist into an open palm. “We must do everything and anything we can to ensure that the status quo is restored as quickly as possible. A few hundred Defence Directorate troops should make any aggressor state think twice before attempting to stir up hostilities. And seizing every damned anarchist we can lay our hands on should show very clearly that we will not stand idly by and let honest citizens come to harm.”

Honest citizens. Yes. The honest citizens that each government needed to impress and please if they wanted to stay in power. The honest citizens with the money and influence that decided whether you kept your luxury office and high-grade fuel supplies or got kicked out on to the street and forced to haul cargo and maintain buildings with the common menials. The honest citizens who would sell weapons to any anarchist willing to pay if they thought it would net them a profit or undermine their competitors. Megatron wondered how many ‘honest citizens’ really gave a flying glitch about the death toll, or the status quo that had been disrupted. As long as they got what they wanted – and so many would get what they wanted, with Tarn reeling from the blow – what did it matter if hostilities were stirred up? What would it matter if a dozen anarchists were rounded up and shot?

Ravage’s words about battlefields suddenly came back to him and, for an instant, he imagined being able to move openly into the region and stand as a wall between Vos and Tarn, meeting any violence in kind. Perhaps even going further than that.

He pushed the thought aside. It would not happen, could not happen, so there was no point dwelling on it. Still. Tarn and Vos were military powers in their own right and were hardly likely to be intimidated by forces that did not have the authority to actually stand in their way. In such a situation, covert manoeuvres were a poor substitute for definite action. Indecisiveness, a lack of clear authority, the failure to openly assert your intentions – those were not the weapons by which peace was maintained. Especially not in the face of the deep-rooted suspicion that any misfortune must be caused by those who lurked just over the border.

Megatron had been proto-formed in Tarn. His first alternate form had been scanned from one of the ancient hulks raised on a podium at the heart of the manufacturing district while the walls around him shook and echoed to the sound of heavy munitions. He had lived through the frantic struggle that had marred the last days of the old regime and through the calculated viciousness of Viilon’s Logical Revolution. He had grown up hauling ore with the rest of labour-grades and had shared in their angers and prejudices. He knew all too well that blaming Vosians was the first impulse of any Tarnian who had come to harm. Mega-cycles of technocracy had not changed that. It was unlikely they ever would.

As the briefing moved on to specifics and logistics, Megatron examined the Magnus coolly. Status quo, Deca had said. Did he really know what that meant for those cities? Did he understand? Did Grandus? Did any of them?

And how could they be trusted to make the right decisions if they did not?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Central Processing Hub
Tarn
Cybertron

Viilon stood alone in the heart of his city, single eye contracted to a pinhole of dazzling yellow light. His thoughts raced from his body. They darted and dived through networks and control systems and information poured into his mind, the day-to-day lives of a hundred thousand citizens intersecting with his consciousness. Individual productivity figures and working patterns locked together one by one, every level of Tarnian society laid bare to its master’s scrutiny.

The loss of Mahlex had distorted the equations. In place of energon flow data were the Civic Guard’s investigation reports, static in the midst of the ever changing computer models. Security recordings unfolded under the findings, comparison algorithms spitting out reams of contradictions and omissions. New models grew from the opposing foundations, probable scenarios playing out side by side, merging and diverging as they evolved.

Viilon saw it all and incorporated it into his worldview, altering and updating his assumptions, reconsidering his options. Old possibilities collapsed and fresh ones took their place. The logic of yesterday gave way to the logic of tomorrow. The calculations shuddered on to new tracks.

His optic spiralled wide. The Civic Guard’s findings were not enough. He could not compute the correct course of action based on such limited and skewed inputs. Too many variables remained too poorly defined. More information was needed. A new perspective was required.

“Connect me to the Kalis municipal communications network,” he ordered, reeling his consciousness back into his body, “Locate and contact: Ident six-five-six-nineteen-tryptic-prima. Reference: commercial investigator, Masz Mech Adep Lyivas Keldon; sub-reference: Nightbeat.”

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Dramatic! It's fun watching all of these gears churn at their own pace, in their own places. Also, ttlly anticipating the Sam Spade of TFdom, woohoo! :-D

 

Love Megatron's inner monologue about "honest citizens" : ) Really wish a prequel of Armada was made like this !

 

It's truly awe inspiring the depth that you're giving characters. Seeing Megs as someone other than a tyrant is well, special. A great read. Thanks for putting so much soul into it.

 

Thanks guys!

Explaining Megatron, as opposed to excusing him, is one of the core ideas behind this. You don't just get a tyrant without something driving them into that position. Just waving it away as a popular uprising led by a gladiator doesn't explain how and why he got into that position of power. It'd be like trying to explain Hitler's rise without going into his personal history and the context of post-WWI Germany. Things have to fit together.

And...few people, especially those who seize power, ever believe they're doing the wrong thing. So why does Megatron think what he's doing is right?

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

2.7: A Fresh Optic
Remains of the Mahlex Industrial Sector
Tarn
Cybertron

There was no real reason to visit the blast site personally. For starters, the site itself did not exist anymore. The heart of the explosion had vaporised pretty much everything within the pumping hall, then the pumping hall itself. A few support struts remained, all but unrecognisable as architecture. They might have made good art. Perhaps Tarn could exhibit them. Though that would have required some sort of organised state art-appreciation-and-publicity ministry, which Tarn definitely did not have.

It was possible to recreate the distribution plant in minute detail, mapping visual information over the landscape or projecting a fully-realised holographic reconstruction over the blacked, smelted ruins. Working with the results of the city’s security scanner fetish, everything from ground to low-orbit could be rolled back in time to the instant of detonation. Which was useful. Context was everything. A thousand factors had shaped that moment and it was handy to have them ready to…hand –

Astronomical information. Source that from Tarn’s observatories and the half-dozen others that would have been monitoring the relevant areas of sky. Double check for sunspot activity, electromagnetic storms, passing freighters and so on and so forth. Disturbances. Disruptions in the ether. Anything that might have affected the security systems from afar. Could that have been planned? Of course. Everything could be planned, with enough information. Clearly the bomber(s) had known the layout of the plant. It would not be that much of a stretch to connect that with forecasts and shipping data –

What interference had there been from the sub-levels? Could that have been amplified? Looking down into the yawning pit that had been left after the surface-levels’ obliteration, there would have been a lot of room to plant something that could have subtly altered the sensors’ perception, though that would have meant accessing the sub-strata, which was notoriously difficult without a heavy-duty construction effort, meaning that they would have had to get in via existing routes, which would imply exceptional stealth abilities – already demonstrated by the fact they had got the bomb in at all – and/or access to security protocols that allowed them to bypass detection without any trouble. In which case, why bother with sub-levels and not just come from the front door? Unless both, one to disrupt the sensors, one to deliver the bomb, two agents working in precise coordination –

The point was there was nothing he could learn from visiting personally the scene of the crime that could not be learnt from downloading all the relevant information at some remote location. With all the physical evidence destroyed, the security feeds were the only source of forensic detail. Not an especially promising start, given that those feeds were the ones that had been deceived in the first place and so must be considered inherently untrustworthy, though that in itself was a relevant factor. The schematics. As complete as possible. Learn what had been fooled, that would narrow down the possibilities for what had done the fooling –

Of course, regardless of its practical use for the investigation, it always reassured the victim to see the detective striding confidently through the crime-scene, picking up clues as he went. Illogical, but there it was. Virtual interaction would never be a true substitute for physical presence –

Though, actually, Nightbeat thought as he climbed back up to the mobile observation platform, in this case it was a wasted effort. Governor Viilon did not do illogical. The chances of him being reassured by the usual show were low to non-existent. As were the chances of him needing to be reassured in the first place. Which would make things interesting.

“Good news, Governor. I can safely say that this is the most impressive case of industrial sabotage I have ever seen. And you’re a sure bet for ‘most impressive crater’ at this year’s Urban Landscaping contest.”
The large purple Tarnian with the one optic and zero sense of humour said nothing to this. It was fascinating, really. Cyols, like anyone else, usually had a certain amount of expression, if not in their faces, then in their bodies as a whole. But Viilon might as well have been a statue, or a computer terminal. Completely blank and unmoving. A calm eye in a stormy world. Or an unfeeling scientifically minded tyrant who had deleted most of his personality in an effort to expand his intellect to the next level. One of the two, depending on who was making the observation.

Viilon himself would pick the second option. He cared as much for poetry as he did for humour. An intriguing quirk, pure self-knowledge. If it really was pure. You had to wonder, didn’t you? How deep the scientific worldview really went?

Nightbeat brushed soot from his arms and succeeded mainly in smearing it a little more over his blue armour. Since it was of high unimportance what he looked like when dealing with a mech who saw him merely as a roving analytical subroutine, he did not bother to clean up further. “The bad news, Governor, is that I can also safely say that someone really doesn’t like you.”
“An uninteresting observation,” Viilon told him curtly, “One that adds nothing to my understanding of events.”
“And what is your understanding of events, Governor?” Nightbeat watched carefully for a sign of emotion, any hint that the purple cyol was angry or even irritated by what had been done to his city.

Nothing. Not even an answer. Just that unwavering yellow stare.
“Alright, better question.” Nighbeat tapped his chest plate. “What am I doing here?”
“You are the one who designated this meeting place.”
“Not what I meant. What am I doing here with you? Why do you want to hire me, Governor?”
Viilon stared at him. There really were not that many other options when you had one eye and no mobile faceplates. “You are one of the highest rated commercial investigators available.”
“I am. But some of the best investigators on the planet have been over this place. Weren’t they enough?”

For a moment, he thought the purple mech was going to blank him again. But instead, shifting his angular shoulders a little, Viilon replied, “This line of questioning is not relevant. I do not need to explain my reasoning to you.”
“No,” Nightbeat agreed, “You really don’t. It’s pretty obvious you don’t trust the Civic Guard’s findings. How could you? They have a vested interest in reaching a conclusion that doesn’t implicate anyone important and reaching it quickly. Even if they’re right, you couldn’t be sure that they hadn’t left out some vital detail. You can’t accuse them of that, of course, because if you did, your political rivals would accuse you of everything from breaking the Inter-State Accords to questioning the divinity of the Prime. You can’t have your own police double check for the same reason, plus which they’re all biased. I mean, come on – what Tarnian isn’t going to look at this and accuse a Vosian of causing it? You could investigate yourself, but aside from the fact that you’d have as much chance of getting underworld contacts to open up as a Circuit Master would of flying to the moons, you’ve got a city to run. You can’t afford the time. So you hire me. Because I’m not affiliated with anyone. Because I used to be in the Civic Guard, which gives me a bit more credibility. Because unlike the Civic Guard, I’m not afraid to do whatever it takes to close a case. And because I am very, very good at what I do.”

Viilon’s optic contracted. It was probably the single mode of expression he was actually capable of. “A demonstration of your ability is not required.”
“Hah!” Nightbeat laughed, throwing his arms wide. “Governor, that was me proving I’ve been paying attention. If I wanted to demonstrate my ability, I’d just ask if I can see the body now, please.”
“Body?” To give him his credit, there was no hint of guilt in the question. Of course, since there were low frequency hums that displayed more variety than Viilon’s voice, there was no hint of puzzlement or confusion either.

“The body,” Nightbeat repeated, leaning forward slightly, “The body. Probably a security mech, or a mid-level technician. Someone unimportant with just enough security clearance to be dangerous. Someone who might be bribed or threatened into sharing the daily routine and all those important little details you can’t find in the schematics. In debt? No, probably not, not in this city. Greedy? Almost certainly. And very, very dead. Necessarily. It’s the only way it could have been done. However they fooled your sensors, they needed insider information and a way to get the bomb in. They could have used auto-scouts or decoys or some sort of modified scraplet swarm, but those would be out of the ordinary and therefore set all the alarms off at once. No, the only sure way would be something that was meant to be there, something that didn’t rely on hacking an important control system.

“Of course,” he went on, waving airily at their surroundings, “the most obvious conclusion is that whoever the insider was, they died in the explosion. Except, it’s very hard to find people who’d be willing to blow themselves up in a good cause these days. And that’s assuming they believed in it at all. There are three main categories of terrorist at the moment. The religious fanatics who had decided that ‘all are one’ means ‘when entropy is maximum’ and have decided to lay on an express service to that oh-so final destination. Can’t rule them out but it’s probably safe to assume that your lovely little surveillance state makes it pretty unlikely they’ve got a hidden following among your power-plant workers – and what self-respecting, logical-revolution embracing Tarnian is going to be a Chaos-worshiper anyway? Then there’re those mad, dangerous lunatics who think that everyone on Cybertron is entitled to enough fuel to keep themselves online and out of the Allspark’s final embrace. Well, the mad dangerous, armed lunatics who think that and aren’t afraid to use large bangs to drive their point home. But I have to say, I can’t think of anything less likely to advance their cause than immolating the Qosho fuel-grid, so it’s probably safe to count them out of the running. And finally, of course, we have the anarchists – which means everyone who happens to disagree with any current government and does so at the tops of their voices while waving around a big gun, rather than from a position of power in a city-state that’s running their political system of choice. Everyone from the latter-day Re-unificationists to the actual anarchists.”

Breaking off, Nightbeat grinned widely. “There are even people who think that an autocratic military tyranny maintaining a constant watch on its citizens for any sign of deviancy or anti-state sentiments is unethicall. I mean, can you imagine?”
Viilon’s optic contracted again. He said nothing but still: there was just the hint that his patience might be wearing a little bit thin.

Taking that as a victory, Nightbeat resumed his lecture, pacing up and down the spacious inspection platform and tapping his fingertips together to emphasise his points. “The bottom line is, you would never allow extremists, proven or suspected, to work in your industrial complexes, and it seems unlikely that someone willing to blow themselves up for their cause would be able to hide their politics from your security sweeps. More importantly, you obviously doubt the Civic Guard’s claims that this was caused by fanatics. You must have some reason for that. At the very least, you must be unsatisfied with their explanations. The most logical conclusion from both is that someone who was not caught in the blast itself can be connected with it, if only by the suspicious coincidence that they have turned up dead afterwards. And whoever that inside agent was, they will be dead. Keeping them alive would be too dangerous for whoever was really behind this – who clearly want to remain anonymous since they haven’t jumped up and claimed this as a victory for ‘[insert cause here]’, which is surely what a fanatical group trying to make a point would do.”

He stopped and spun to face Viilon. “Which brings me back to my original question: can I see the body now, please, Governor?”
The purple cyol looked down at him. The Tarnian was much taller and considerably boarder, a consequence both of where he had been brought online and the military grade armour that had been added later. Doubtless the effect was calculated to be intimidating to those in his presence and as a reminder of his people’s physical might, both on a patriotic and a political level. That and reducing the chance of being shot dead. Nightbeat met his gaze steadily. If the Governor wanted someone to find out who was behind the destruction of the Mahlex district, he was unlikely to rip their head off with his bare hands.

“I will make arrangements for you to view the remains of Secondary Technician 3728: Vaseeltron on our return to the central district,” Viilon stated, signalling the platform to lift off. That was it. No dissembling, no irritation, nothing about the demonstration of the investigator’s art. Fine. That was actually a refreshing change. It was always easier to do the job when it was nearly impossible to offend your employer.

Nightbeat lowed himself into car mode and settled on to his wheels, content to let the journey pass in silence. His mind was already racing onwards, trying to second-guess what he would find in whichever of Viilon’s dungeons the late-lamented Vaseeltron’s mortal remains had been stowed. He could see the edges of the patterns before him, tantalising connections springing up wherever he looked. The familiar surge of excitement was taking hold.

Somewhere out there, the truth was lurking, a solution scuttling across the face of the planet, ready and waiting to be tracked down.

The hunt was on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Vosian State Newsfeed
Vos
Cybertron

“The Conclave of Vos is united in our horror at this atrocity. We are appalled at the loss of life and the destruction that has been wrought upon our neighbours. For all the differences we have with Tarn, let it never be said that the people of Vos would ever condone the actions of fanatics and anarchists. Whatever genuine grievances they may have had, there can be no justification for this attack. In striking against Tarn in this reprehensible manner, they have struck not just against one city – they have struck against all of us and denied their cause any sympathy that we might have offered it.”

Sarristec paused, seemingly overwhelmed by emotion. Composing himself, he drew himself up anew and gestured emphatically with a fist. “Rest assured that the full might of the Vosian Justice Ministry stands alongside the Civic Guard and the Defence Directorate in their efforts to track down the perpetrators. We shall not stand idly by and allow a few unbalanced individuals to disrupt this region at will. The Conclave is committed to fulfilling our obligations under the Inter-State Accords to ensure peace and stability for all free Cybertronians. And I know that, as ever, the people of Vos are with us.”

He shifted his stance, opening his hands and leaning imperceptibly forwards. “To those many thousands of honest, hard-working people who are suffering because of this tragedy, I say this: our commitment to the Qosho Region goes beyond aiding the search for justice. We are aware that the destruction of the Mahlex distribution centre has had repercussions far beyond Tarn’s borders. Vital supplies are no longer reaching many of those states presently reliant on Tarnian fuel. With no immediate resolution to this crisis in sight, we offer our own fuel distribution services to any city that needs them. We are already in negotiation with the Simfur government to provide emergency relief: we are willing to enter into talks with any other affected state.”

Spreading his wings wide, he raised his fist again. “We shall not surrender to those who threaten our way of life. We shall not give in to those who have abandoned the rule of law. If our intervention marks the difference between restored stability and decay into chaos, then we will not – cannot – stand aside and do nothing. If Tarn can no longer provide for you, we shall step into the breach. If you are empty, we shall offer you fuel. If you are in need, we. Will. Help. You.”

The Vosian insignia orbiting Sarristec’s image swelled, moving into prominence. His fist clashed against his chest in the ancient symbol of military fraternity. “Do not let those who cower behind acts of terror break us apart. Vos stands with you this day. Vos stands with you for as long as you need our support. This we swear! Till all are one!”

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Total thumbs up, loving it!   Viilon aka ahemshockwavelol was well-portrayed, and Nightbeat is as fun as always ;D

 

 

Next chapter!
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2.8: Fire-fighting
Underground Bunker
Qosho Region
Cybertron

The rumbler charge shattered the bunker’s roof in two-point-oh-four micro-cycles. The shockwave drove the resulting dust down into the chamber below, filling it with a thick metallic fog that smothered everything in an instant. Three anarchists gave themselves away at once by crying out and were tagged with disruptor claws. They collapsed in agony, twisting and morphing uncontrollably as the claws overrode their primary transformation relays.

Optrion’s combat subroutines were picking out fresh targets before his feet touched the floor, the variation of the fog's the content and density and the hum of burning energon providing more than enough data to map the room and everyone in it. Already thrown by the explosion and with their less sophisticated sensory systems struggling to adjust to the abrupt environmental shift, the terrorists were overwhelmed in moments. Those who managed to fire back did so with little accuracy and only scored hits by virtue of the confined space, and even then, military grade armour was more than a match for their limited arsenal.

The egress point secure, Optrion led the way deeper into the base, pausing at the first junction to allow Ironhide to scout ahead. A rocket burst against the red mech’s reinforced shoulders, shrapnel ricocheting across the passageway. While his lieutenant’s vision cleared, Optrion darted into the open and fired twice past his knee. The defender gave a short, sharp yell as the unexpected angle allowed the suppressor rounds to enter his body through his hip joint. A blaze of electricity and he crashed to the ground, smouldering and unconscious.

The anarchists’ staging post must have been created using malfunctioning shaper packages, or else they had deliberately avoided neat geometric tunnels. The passageways weaved haphazardly and awkwardly, with too many twists and blind-alleys for vehicular travel to be useful. The squad sent sensor drones whizzing ahead but the actual fighting was stop-and-start, a long sequence of ducking round and quick bursts of fire as they steadily rooted anarchists, one at a time from their hiding places. Larger chambers were filled with smoke and swept with suppressor fire, the exact make-up of the smog constantly altered to prevent the enemy from adapting to it.

Every so often, the anarchists would bring out heavier weapons, or grenades, perhaps hoping that a larger blast radius would make up for their impaired accuracy. At one point, they even detonated ramshackle bombs in the roof, trying no doubt to block the squad’s advance. Trailbreaker and Beachhead overlapped their forcefields, holding the walls up with a tunnel of silver light while two more troopers ran forward and deployed bracer staves, yellow rods that expanded and forked, forming a toughened framework to keep the passageway open.

With troops closing on them from multiple entry points, the remaining terrorists were driven to the centre of the complex, away from the easy escape routes. Warnings flashed across Optrion’s consciousness as energy emissions from that rapidly diminishing ‘safe’ region spiked drastically. A bass tone set the floor vibrating – the sound of some drastic counter-measure being readied.

Optrion signalled four of his heavy troopers to accelerate past the scouts and charge the remaining barriers. He took the fifth access route himself, keeping up a steady stream of fire against anyone and anything that stood in way. With Ironhide hot on his heels, he burst into an irregularly shaped room filled with packing containers and frightened anarchists. Several floor panels had been hastily thrown aside, no doubt giving access to a last-ditch escape tunnel.

The sound was coming from a large cylinder that stood off to one side, an ugly grey device pulsing with angry red light. Optrion’s weapons catalogues identified it immediately as a mark seven tri-phasic mining charge, designed to blast mountains into conveniently sized pebbles for swift processing. He shot a liquid-core slug straight through the control node and the lights snapped off, safeties kicking in even before the anti-conductive gel had finished hardening inside the casing.

In the time it took the mining charge to shut down, Geeniex, Thunderfoot, Icepick and Flak had wiped out the anarchists with a hail of low-yield fire. The last of them tumbled into the escape tunnel with a despairing scream. Diving past Optrion, Ironhide leapt after the falling mech, vanishing completely from view. The sharp retort of gunfire echoed up, a mix of controlled shots and wild firing, then silence.

“All cleah!”

Even though he knew the likelihood of Ironhide coming out worse in the engagement was low, Optrion still felt relieved at hearing his voice. He signalled an acknowledgement then took stock of the situation. The base had been secured, with twenty three mechs subdued and accounted for. No fatalities, seven stasis-locks, sixteen forced shut-downs. No casualties on the squad either, with only minor injuries. The captured material included large stockpile of small and medium arms, plus a few large explosive devices, several illegal modification units and a handful of auto-scouts in various stages of retrofitting. The communications experts were already hacking into the anarchists’ data recorders – which had been automatically scrambled but might still contain retrievable data – and into the anarchists themselves, who had had no time to blast their own processors to gibberish.

Across the Qosho region, three dozen similar raids were meeting with similar success. A steady stream of information over the command net showed terrorists and fanatics falling like hexnuts before a combination of soldiers and Civic Guard special operations teams. So far, things had gone remarkably well. There were two pitched fire fights in progress, however, one near Tagan, another in the vicinity of Simfur, where Megatron himself was leading the assault on a suspected Chaos-worshiper cult.

“This one’s got gladiator markings,” Icepick called out, heaving a stocky grey cyol from away from one of the munitions crates. “Kalis Red, ten seasons ago.”
“An’ this one’s got ah inbuilt energo-sword,” Flak called back, flipping another downed mech onto his back. The soldier knelt down and shook the offending arm. “Looks pretty badly made though.”
“There’s more crates an’ stuff down there,” Ironhide reported, heaving himself out of the escape tunnel, “All loaded on a truck ready ta send off ta the west. Tunnel curves, but not by much.”

“Get a tracer down there,” Optrion ordered. He turned to the troopers examining the weapons cache, intending to ask for an update on their progress. Before he could, the battalion command channel screamed for his attention.
“Lieutenant Commander Optrion.” Ravage’s voice cut in without preamble, security codes weaving around the communication. “Rendezvous with squads three and seven and proceed immediately to Commander Megatron’s location.”
“We are still processing targets two and seven,” Optrion protested, even as he relayed the order to his troops.
“Leave the rest for the White and Blues. You're needed here. We have encountered some…unexpected resistance.”

An image flashed across the network, presumably recorded from whatever vantage point Ravage was concealed in. Megatron’s forces were pouring fire into a large crater that had been blasted into one of Simfur’s ground expressways. A ragtag bunch of heavily armoured mechs and quads were swarming out of the crater, wielding everything from plasma rifles to a mining laser. At first, Optrion could not see why Megatron should need to call for assistance.

Then something massive surged out of the smoke and seized one of the troopers in its jaws.

Black and orange, with two great arms and a vicious streamlined head, it raced forward on four huge spiked wheels, moving with incredible speed for something that looked so unwieldy.
“Looks like some sort of over-modding experiment gone wrong,” Ravage commented dryly, “Or perhaps this is gone right, if you’re a chaos-worshipper.” Biting the trooper in its mouth clean through, the monster knocked three more aside with frenzied blows and roared in animalistic fury, energy bolts splashing off its scaled armour like so much water. “Either way, we are having some difficulty finding the off-switch.”

His troops falling in behind him, Optrion headed for the exit. “We’re on our way.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Civic Guard Base
Tagan
Cybertron

There was a large chunk of building sticking out of Diatrion’s arm. He regarded it dispassionately, pondering the force with which the shard of metal must have been thrown to lodge quite so deeply in his armour. The sheer fury necessary to rip a girder apart and then fling the bits hard enough that they stuck fast in the hapless glitches trying to calm everything down was impressive, even granting that riots were traditionally full of very angry people. If nothing else, it spoke volumes about the populace’s satisfaction at being told that their fuel rations were being cut yet again.

Having finally reattached Talainat’s lower leg – a process complicated by the need to drain a copious amount of liquid from it, the result of a particularly high-spirited rioter trying to fling the limb to the other side of the harbour – the medic bustled over to hum and ah over Diatrion’s arm. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of prodding and poking, she extended her micro-fingers, got a tight grip on the shard and pulled hard. Diatrion winced in pain as the metal scraped free.

The medic tossed it into a bowl, then briefly jabbed a matter agitator into the wound. “You’ll do,” she told him curtly, and moved on to the next injured guardsmech.
“Thank you,” he called after her, but she was already working to replace a shredded tyre.

He got up and walked to the door, surveying the damage as he went. Maybe thirty guardsmechs with minor injuries, and blessedly, minor injuries only. By some minor miracle, the crowds had been dispersed without a shot being fired, suppressor or otherwise. No one was happy about the property damage, true, but broken buildings were easy to fix. Broken people – not so much.

Speaking of which, he had information to cross-reference.

With riots and the threat of more, not to mention a full-scale anti-terrorist operation going on around them, Diatrion had become increasingly side-tracked from the Konntryn case. There were still investigators working on it, of course, and the amount of information he had to work with was steadily increasingly, but he personally had not been able to turn his full attention to it for a couple of days. The worst thing was that he could not argue with being put on riot duty. His line was known for their inherent strength and durability and he had scored highly in the combat tests at the Academy. It made sense. It was logical. And it was incredibly frustrating. Konntryn’s murder was his case. Not seeing it through to the end or, worse, permitting it to go unsolved, whatever the extenuating circumstances, would be his failure.

This thought followed him through the corridors. He made himself to go to the energon dispensary, hating the added distraction but knowing full well that he would be no good to anyone if he did not maintain his fuel levels. The size of the ration gave him pause and he felt momentarily guilty about taking the optimum amount having recently been face to face with those forced to exist on far less. He forced his mind quickly back to the case. Worrying about things beyond his control was a waste of precious time and even more precious energy.

He found the door to his office sealed, as he had left it, and beamed the appropriate codes to unlock it. The door promptly slid aside and he automatically stepped inside, signalling the lights. It was only after he had done so that he registered that the lights were already on and that there was a junior investigator standing on the communication-dais, flicking through his files.

Diatrion’s first reaction was to ask what it was the other mech was looking for. After all, he had been unavailable for some time and was not about to discipline someone who was doing their best to carry on cases in his absence. Then his processors caught up with his sensors and he registered both the oddity of the seal being put back on the door and the investigator’s energy signature.

“What are you doing here?”
The junior investigator spun around, grinned and spread his arms. “Waiting for you!” He brushed lightly at his chest plate. “Sorry about the false-colours. I needed to be sure I didn't get shot by accident.” His livery rippled and shifted, white to blue, blue to yellow, the Civic Guard insignias vanishing completely.
“I wouldn’t have shot you whatever you looked like,” Diatrion stated flatly.
“No, but then you’re a ‘cautious, reliable officer who rarely jumps into a situation before he has taken a good look at it first.’ Or that's what your files say. Incidentally, you're really overdue a raise, especially if you keep pulling all those double shifts…what am I doing. Not who. You know who I am.”

Diatrion pulled up the information that had been flagged the moment he had recorded the other mech’s signature. “Maszadep, formerly Junior Investigator with the Uraya division. Now a commercial investigator operating out of Kalis.”
“I prefer Nightbeat, and you left out the part about me being one of the highest rated mechs in my profession.”
“I’m not in the habit of flattering people who fabricate evidence.”
“I did not fabricate it!” Nightbeat sounded genuinely offended. “I extrapolated from the existing evidence and reconstructed the evidence that had been destroyed.”
“Totally exceeding the statutory limits on reconstructive procedures.” Diatrion placed himself calmly between Nightbeat and the door.
“Some would argue that those limits are unnecessarily stringent and are, in fact, intended to benefit those who don’t like the idea of functional laws.”

“I am not going to start debating legal failings with a civilian,” Diatrion stated flatly, “I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?”
Nightbeat leant his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. “I want to talk to you about the late, possibly lamented Konntryn.”
“There is absolutely no reason I should discuss that with you.”
The blue mech looked imploring. “I’m a fellow seeker of truth, a fellow sentinel against injustice!”
“You resigned.”
“Before they could throw me out! Wait –” He broke off, apparently in confusion. “Sorry, that usually happens the other way round. Anyway, the reason is that I can help. Obviously. I mean, the full force of the Magnus’ Office at your back and how far have you got? He was in the Dead End to deliver something that may have come from one of his companies to someone who slagged him to stop anyone learning what the something was. Legal history in the making.”

Diatrion took a step forward. He was much taller than Nightbeat and nearly twice as broad. He knew from the records that the commercial investigator was a competent hand-to-hand fighter but nothing spectacular. It would be a simple matter to subdue him and drag him to the cells – after charging him with illicit entry and hacking into official systems –
“Ok, ok!” Nightbeat waved his hands frantically. “You wouldn’t believe I’m acting for Konntryn’s clan, would you? No. Of course not. They don’t really care he’s dead, they just want to know what they can get out of it – oh, and you can stop looking at me like that, I am actually officially signed in at the front desk as a visitor. They gave me a tag and everything – see? I just got bored and ‘lost’ and you really should instigate better security around here. I mean, I didn’t actually realise it was locked until I was inside –”

Diatrion took another step forward.
“I’m working for Governor Viilon!” Nightbeat stopped, making sure the guardsmech wasn’t going to advance any further before continuing. “He wants me to find out who blew up his processing plant.”
“What has that got to do with my case?” Diatrion demanded, compiling at least seven possible answers to his own question, none of which were supported by any evidence in his possession.
“You’ll like this.” Rebooting the holo-display, Nightbeat brought up the scans of Konntryn’s corpse. “You see, turns out there’s one single solitary technician who wasn’t blown to Primus in the Mahlex explosion when he really should have been. Once I’d got everything I could from the corpse – he’s dead, by the way – I started running some comparisons, looking to see if I could match the cause with anything local. Eventually your little mystery came up and, well…”

He projected another hologram, one not from the case file. A second body materialised beside Konntryn, a figure of medium size and neutral colours who would have been completely unremarkable if they hadn’t been suffering from enough impact damage to destroy almost every identifying feature.

Side by side, the similarities between the corpses were painfully obvious.
“Viilon’s people do excellent autopsies,” Nightbeat explained, flicking readouts into the air, “And luckily, so do yours. I ran the comparison. The patterns are as identical as anything that’s caused by prolonged blunt trauma could ever hope to be.”
With a slow, measured tread, Diatrion walked around the holograms, taking note of every last detail. He too ran the comparison of the autopsy reports, Nightbeat watching impatiently. He had not been wrong. The resemblance was not just superficial. The size and shape of the wounds, the obliteration of identifying marks, the complete destruction of consciousness – they all indicated a common cause. And the security seals of the Tarnian Police were genuine, which suggested the evidence had not simply been ‘extrapolated’ from Glitter’s reports.

Impatience bubbling over, Nightbeat began to pace and gesticulate. “I cross-checked reports from across the region, murders, assault, solved or unsolved. This case stood out from all the rest – and the circumstances! I wasn’t sure until I read your files – stop looking at me like that and make your passwords harder to guess – look, I think we both had a good idea of what that something Konntryn was killed over might have been, and poor old Vaseeltron was definitely killed because he knew too much – and since they were both killed by the same person, that means –”
“Stop.”

Nightbeat did so, so fast he might as well have run head-first into the hand Diatrion held up. “Firstly,” the guardsmech told him, “any link between this case and the destruction of the Mahlex District is circumstantial at best. Just because you are convinced there is one does not automatically mean it exists. Secondly,” he continued over Nightbeat’s protests, “you are not a fellow officer, you are a private individual conducting an investigation for profit. I am under no obligation to help you. In fact, the regulations forbid it.”
“I know the regu –”
“And thirdly, the only thing I am under an obligation to do is to arrest you for breaking into my office and hacking into my files.”

For an instant, he thought Nightbeat was going to attack him. The blue mech tensed and raised his arms angrily, his faceplates shifting with frustration and disbelief. Then he spread his fingers and jabbed them at Diatrion. “One hundred and fifty seven innocent people died in that explosion. Vaseeltron sold them out but he probably didn’t really know what he was doing. The Pit knows how many others whoever’s behind this had to kill to make themselves safe – and Primus! Let’s even say that Konntryn didn’t deserve to be beaten into scrap! Someone out there killed these people and they are getting away with it! No, you stop, don’t say anything, hear me out. It is not circumstantial. I know there is a connection. I’ve run the numbers, checked the facts, calculated the probabilities. It fits. And even if it didn’t, Vaseeltron and Konntryn would still have been killed by the same person. This is part of your case. I’ve seen your profile, Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar. You are a good officer, you care about solving your cases and seeing that justice is done. You cannot ignore this any more than I could. But you won’t solve this without my help. Oh, maybe you’d get half the answers. But you’re a White n’ Blue. Whoever murdered these mechs was not someone in Konntryn’s social world. They won’t have an account with the Praxus Banking Network. They will not be refined and they will not try to dodge you by playing by the rules. They will run, they will stay silent or they will rip you in half. Most likely, you would never get near them. I can. I can find them, I can get close to them, I can find out why these people are dead.”

Crossing his arms, Diatrion looked Nightbeat straight in the optics. “I will not break the law to enforce it.”
“Then don’t,” Nightbeat replied, tone light again, “Just don’t lock me up for looking in your files. I will tell you everything I discover. That’s a promise. I will give you Konntryn’s murderer.”
“Don’t you mean, give them to Viilon?”
“My job is find out who was behind the attack on Tarn. No one’s said anything about what happens to them afterwards. Well, Investigator? Do we have an agreement?”

To let him go free would be a violation of the laws Diatrion had sworn to uphold with his life. That was simple fact. The Civic Guard did not collaborate with amateurs, it did not accept evidence through third parties and it most certainly did not allow its case files to be distributed to commercial investigators who had actively broken security and committed multiple criminal acts. It could not have been more clear cut. There should have been no ‘other hand’.

But of course there was.

The riots, obstructive bureaucracy, leads growing ever colder – and he could not ignore what he had just been shown, could he? He could not use it either, not without some extremely uncomfortable conversations with the Tarnian police, but that wasn’t the point. ‘Seeing that justice is done.’ Surely that the point. Did the methods matter?

Yes. They did. They always did.

“No.” Diatrion shook his head firmly. “No agreement.”
Nightbeat’s face fell and his arms dropped limply to his sides. He backed away as Diatrion walked over and stepped on to the dais, dismissing the holograms with a wave. Puzzlement quickly overtook his expression, however, as the guardsmech made no move to grab him.

And then he grinned.
“Can I help you?” Diatrion asked flatly.
“No…thank you, no.” Nightbeat shrugged expansively and went to the door. “Wrong room. I’ll find my own way out.” He paused on the threshold, grin showing again. “Investigator? You won’t regret this.”

But of course, he already did.

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

 

Diatrion and Nightbeat's exchange was pretty awesome.   Also, digging the methodical bunker raid -- I'm a huge fan of organization and tactics. The bit with the hackers checking out both devices AND the perps was definitely a rad inclusion too, I approve!