Brother, you never fail to impress.

 

Gadzukes! Another longer break than I'd hoped - but I've managed to build up a few chapters in the bank over the past few months, so hopefully I'll be able to post them weekly for a bit!

Enjoy!


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.4: Desperate Measures
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

“I'm sorry Emirate, but the Prime is not holding audiences today.”

The guard did not sound in the least bit apologetic. In fact, there was a faint edge of satisfaction in the refusal. Xaaron suspected this was a natural consequence of having to stand around all day guarding a pair of doors and acting with respectful deference to a lot of pompous diplomats. He would probably have taken immense pleasure in being able to frustrate their endeavours as well.

“I was assured that the Prime would speak to me,” he wheedled, trying to sound as if he had believed it at the time. “This is an extremely important matter and it cannot wait.” That was easier to say with conviction. With every passing day, the High Council was splitting further and further into the Vos and Tarn camps. “I am certain that the Prime is aware of the magnitude of the issues I need to discuss with him.” Not that Sentinel had shown any inclination to actually do anything about it. He preferred, it seemed, to sit in silence and stare over the Council's collective heads. “Even a few cycles of discussion could be extremely useful.” More like vital, but that might have sounded like desperate exaggeration.

A handful of states had rallied behind Nova Cronum and Iacon in calling for calm and compromise. It made no difference to the screaming matches between Graviitus and Haacano. Pitched battles raged in every Council session, the opposing armies hurling insults and legal quibbles at one another with unparalleled enthusiasm. Throughout it all, the Prime remained aloof and unmoved. He barely bothered to demand order any more. A few measly calls for consolation and understanding were the sum total of his contribution to halting the impeding crisis and Xaaron strongly doubted that the honoured Emirates for Vos and Tarn had even been paying attention. They were far too caught up in mentally rehearsing their next tirades to heed platitudes.

A loud, firm declaration from the Prime might not actually put an end to the feud but it would go a long way to cooling it down. And if Xaaron had to batter down every door in the Celestial Temple to get that declaration, he would just have to do so.

That plan, unfortunately, did not factor in battering down guardsmechs as well.

“I am sorry, Emirate,” the mech repeated, large wing-plates fanning out in a slightly threatening manner, “We cannot permit you to enter. The Prime is not to be disturbed. When he opens his chambers to audiences again, you will be informed. In the meantime, I am afraid I must ask you to leave.”
Xaaron ran through a thousand arguments, ranging from reasonable to insult-riddled. He looked up into guard's engraved mask and knew that each would be as pointless as the last.

“Thank you for your assistance,” he grated, jerking in a sharp bow, “I will return at a more appropriate time.” He spun on his heel and marched away, the golden floor ringing with every furious step. It was almost too much to believe, that the Prime would deliberately retreat to his inner sanctum while the great alliance of city-states faltered around him and lurched towards...towards...

War. Xaaron felt something inside him shudder at the word. Old images, memories of ruins and flames filled his thoughts. But that had been in Tarn, confined, more or less, to one ravaged state. There had been no real, open conflict between two separate states since the days before the High Council. Petty squabbles, border disputes, all manner of underhanded interference in internal affairs – but not open war. Not two armies brazenly crossing recognised boundaries with hostile intent.

A horrifying scenario. After all, modern warfare had come a long way since Helix Magnus led the charge across the Primon Flats swinging a battle hammer.

Xaaron eased his hands out of fists and ran through everything he had done so far and the pitifully small difference it had made. And now he could not even count on the Prime, with the full glory of the Matrix Flame and the Covenants at his back, to step down from his tower and lend a few words to the cause.

He stopped. He stared at the statues at the end of the corridor, the figures of past glories rearing up above the intersection.

There was another way. The same tactic from another source, one with a vested interest in keeping things stable. Perhaps not as authoritative, maybe not as effective, but definitely more approachable.

Dionaat had fallen into step behind him some while ago, respectfully silent while his Emirate fumed. Xaaron turned to him now, a slow smile creeping across his mouth grill. “I am going to need transport to the Qosho region. Preferably fast.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Defence Directorate Command Platform
Vos/Tarn Border
Cybertron

Megatron stalked around the edge of the map, considering the lay of the land. Vos curved with the coastline, following the arc of the Iron Sea, then swept inland, towers and minarets eventually giving way to gently rising slopes. The Kahlian Ridge cut northwards from the sea, as clear a division as the edges of a continental plates. Beyond the ridge, Tarn squatted in neat, geometrical patterns, streets and express-ways as precisely constructed as those in Vos but with none of the artistic flare. Functional buildings in functional rows, the architecture well matched with the vast industrial complexes that ringed the city.

The Mahlex District stood out as a blacked hole, an ugly stain on the picture of scientific precision.

Icons swarmed in the spaces between the two ancient cities, troops moving in waves as first one army then the other tried to guess where best to be. A constant influx of information from scouts and monitoring stations kept the map up-to-date and filled the war room with a background mutter of quietly exchanged messages, murmured analyses and humming calculation. The sounds filled the air, ceaseless and restless, rising and falling with moments of excitement and long stretches of monotony.

Like the audience before a fight.

The thought made Megatron want to strike his fist against the projector table. He was badly suited to watching from the sidelines. He yearned to stride in and do something. Standing by while others made mistakes was torture, always had been. In the pits he could have strode in and taken matters quickly into his own hands. Here, he was trapped outside the ring, unable even to shout down the idiots.

All that effort, all those mechs and machines, and for what? To waste precious fuel on securing the dominance of one set of petty fools over another? How could they not see the ruin that they would create, the harm they would do Cybertron?

Mega-cycles of hatred and mistrust, until the reasons were forgotten or reinvented as excuses. Anger and suspicion reinforced in every protoform until it was all but hard-wired into them. That was how. He had gotten out. He had seen the bigger picture, had seen threats to the world that made borders and ancient grudges seem trivial by comparison. But there was a time when he would have welcomed a war between Vos and Tarn. A chance, finally, to prove that Tarn was the stronger and in the right. No doubt that was what all those hundreds of soldiers thought as they scuttled across the map, making great shows of defiance.

If only he could force them to see what he saw.

Scowling at the map, he stabbed a finger towards one of the confirmed Vosian missile sites, a blazing red circle ringed with guard battalions. “Simultaneous disruptor strikes to that silo and the Trasvehl Advanced Base. Take out Vos’ outer launching facilities.” A layer of the map peeled upwards, duplicate icons flashing and scattering as the strategy playing out. Vosian patrols panicked and streaked after the intruding Defence Directorate forces, peeling away from their allotted perches.
“Disrupting the Tarnian installations won't be as easy,” Bentwing said from the other side of the map, gesturing. A miniature flight of Air Guardians skimmed Tarn's outer defences, warning symbols blazing as they tried to block missile launches and were forced back by a maze of anti-aircraft guns.
“We'll end up shooting down missiles in flight,” Optrion pointed out, using his own input into the map to demonstrate this. “Which is possible.”
“But not certain,” Megatron growled as dozens of purple daggers weaved through the red arrows trying to blow them apart.

He stood back, folding his arms. As ever, on the edge of his perception, he sensed Ravage's presence, a second shadow filtering the colossal influx of data from the front. The commanders around the table – Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade, two of Vieuxuun's mechs – looked expectantly at him.

“Move the Air Guardian staging ground twenty hix to the south and deploy the slower squadrons at the extreme edge of the neutral territory. That will get better coverage of the airspace.” He paused, then added, “Camouflaged interceptor batteries. They won't be as effective as jets but they can cover any gaps.”
“If Razortail takes half the light flyers and sets up camp in the west,” Bentwing suggested, “that would improve the distribution even further.”
“Can you maintain effectiveness like that?”
“Hm. Yes. Should be able to. If we split out some of the scout planes and –”

“Commander Megatron!”

Vieuxuun's voice boomed over the background muttering, sharp and definitely irritated. The green field commander strode determinedly across the war room, his face contorting. Megatron looked at him but did not speak. He was dimly aware of Ravage moving closer. The squad leaders and lieutenant commanders saluted smartly. Vieuxuun noticed neither, his attention fixed on the map and its glimmering tactical overlays. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“Strategy planning. A normal function of a military operation. These officers were providing their input on the best way to use the forces at our disposal.”
“That is not –” Stopping short, he glanced around with a grimace. “I would like a word with you in private, commander.”
“If you have something important to say about the proposals on the table, commander, I would prefer you said it here in front of the mechs expected to carry out our decisions.”

For a micro-cycle or two, Megatron was sure that Vieuxuun would insist on privacy or back down for fear of looking bad in front of his troops. But instead, he draw himself up. “Very well. This is pertinent to everyone assigned to the operation so it probably would be as well to have it said openly.” He half turned away from Megatron, the better to proclaim to the room at large. “We are here to represent the High Council. Our presence is a reminder to Vos and to Tarn that they have responsibilities to Cybertron at large and that action will be taken should they break the Inter-State Accords. In the discharge of that duty, however, we remain bound to those same Accords. Vos and Tarn are sovereign city-states. Without the express order of the Council, we cannot engage Vosian and Tarnian forces. Without the Council's authority, we cannot deploy long range weaponry along their borders. If there is even a hint that we are not behaving in a manner expected of the Defence Directorate, it could undermine any and every political effort to calm the situation down. Need I remind you all how the efforts of the Civic Guard have been twisted into anti-Council propaganda?” He thumped a fist into his open palm. “We are here to discourage rash action while the diplomats do their job. We are most certainly not here to prepare a full-scale attack on two of the oldest cities on Cybertron!”

His speech made, Vieuxuun flicked a hand firmly across the map, dispersing the tactical overlays in a gesture of finality. He turned back to Megatron, chin jutting. Megatron looked at him with a flat expression, his optics simmering orange. “And if it comes to war?” he asked, frigidly calm, “If the missiles start flying? Will you wait for the Council to give you permission to stop a massacre?”
“No one wants a war, Megatron,” Vieuxuun explained, patronisingly patient, “Anyone who started one would be acting not just against the Accords but against the First Covenant. They would be condemned before the Prime and would lose any support from their allies. It would be an act without reason.”

No one spoke. Megatron's hands flexed. Tearing Vieuxuun in two would be the work of a moment. He pictured the act exactly, in every detail, down to the feel of the green armour as it buckled and broke apart. His fingers twitched again as imagined electricity arced between them. “This. Is. Not. Iacon,” he snarled. The words came in time to the punches he was throwing in his mind, each a vicious, joint-shattering blow. “You think that because you believe in the divinity of the Primes and the wisdom of the Council and the Inter-State Accords, that everyone else must as well?” Of course he did, the blind fool. Jab. Crunch. “No one in Tarn gives a flying glitch about the Council and the Vosians would sooner break every Accord ever written than give up one fraction of their power.” Jab. Crunch. “I know these people. They do not care about the Prime or the Covenants. All they see is the enemy across the border, the threat that needs to be dealt with, by any means necessary.” Jab. Crunch. “They will not stop because you think they are being unreasonable.”

Vieuxuun's head tore free in his hands, optics dying, neck sparking emptily. He raised the broken skull and the crowd roared his triumph for him.

Vieuxuun's faceplates shifted, his optics narrowing. If he had been annoyed before, he was angry now. Even so, he tried to hide it. Megatron could see him scrambling for dignity and self-justification, the way people like him always did. They could never just give in to their rage. They had to convince themselves they were right first. Had to be sure they would win in the correct way.

“It is clear we disagree,” Vieuxuun grated eventually, “And while I understand your perspective on this issue, our orders and our duty remain unchanged. There will be no further talk of moving disguised batteries to the border and I would appreciate it if you included me in any future strategy sessions.”
Megatron opened his mouth but Ravage cut smoothly across him. “Commander... Commanders, I have a priority signal that I think demands your attention.”

Without waiting for instruction, he switched the main projectors to a communications feed. Static-riddled images of hundreds of mechs shouting and screaming at a Vosian building sprang up, a full-blown riot seen from a dozen different angles. Another image appeared in the centre, a panicked hexe in Civic Guard white and blue speaking rapidly to the camera. “*!&^*&–under siege! All guardsmechs have been recalled but we–!£&^^”$!!!**&*–hold out – they've started attacking anyone who tries to get out–!£^%&(**&–no help from Vosian security, no way to get –”

The communication cut out abruptly. Megatron spun on his heel and shouted to the nearest technician. “Get them back, now! Find out what's happening and how it started! Ravage, link me to the Magnus' Office. Bentwing, Optrion – get me extraction options for the Vosian Civic Guard base. Can we access it by air?”
“The Air Guardians have the biggest cargo capacity of our present compliment of flyers,” Vieuxuun stated, moving to examine the map as it refocused on a single Vosian district, “But we must consider the political ramifications of sending in an extraction team.” He looked up. “Connect me to the Vosian security authority,” he instructed, “I'll find out how much resistance we can expect.”

He caught Megatron's optic. The anger and mistrust was still there, clear as a loaded gun. The argument was not over. Megatron nodded all the same and turned his attention back to the map without a second glance.

In his head, the crowd bayed with disappointment at a fight left unfinished. But he cast them aside and focused his mind on the battle at hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Civic Guard Base
Vos
Cybertron

A few cycles ago, they had started throwing building supplies. Panels and pipes ricochetted off walls and armoured shutters and filled the air with a din that threatened to match the shouting for ferocity. One enterprising group of heavy lifters found some waste oil and set fire to it, carrying it high into the air and flinging it down at the tower's upper windows. Others were using their on-board holo-projectors to paint obscene messages in the air or to highlight particularly energetic protesters as they thundered out their rage.

The Civic Guardsmechs huddled behind their barriers, any effort to appeal to their assailants' better nature long since given up. Once or twice, someone had tried to make a dash through the crowds, probably to try and find out why the Vosian security forces were not answering their calls for help. They had been forced back before they had managed more than a dozen steps, pelted with scrap and struck by any blunt instrument that could reach them. Any white and blue mech trying to get in from elsewhere in the city received an identical reception.

It could not have been going better if Sarristec had planned it all himself.

He had been tempted to give instructions to Hothouse and the other workmasters who owed him favours, but his better judgement had prevailed. Better by far simply to plant the suggestion that the Civic Guard had compromised Vos' security. Of course he had not incited them to go out and riot. No Lord of Vos would do such a thing. He had just called for their vigilance. Their help in ensuring the safety of their fellow citizens. If they had come away with idea that the Civic Guard was in league with the Tarnians, that too was a regrettable misunderstanding on their part. All he had said was that those appointed by the Council might not be paying attention to Vos' best interests in the execution of their duty. That they might not make the right decisions as Tarnian aggression threatened everything that Vos had strived to achieve.

This rioting was contemptible, the worst possible reaction to something that was little more than a vicious rumour. But even though that went without saying, it had to be admitted that the Conclave could not ignore such a violent public reaction. The Lords governed by the people's will and if that will had turned against the Council's appointed representatives...

It was regrettable. It was a shame. It was of course no reflection on the Council itself. But what could they do? The people had spoken.

Loudly.

In some cases with their fists.

Sarristec allowed himself a small smile and settled back to enjoy the show.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Defence Directorate Staging Ground
Vos/Tarn Border
Cybertron

“Make certain your weapon packs are powered down. The Vosians will turn you back if they detect active weaponry.” Vieuxuun seemed more than a little absurd, shouting orders up at the towering Air Guardians. Contrail and Aerodyne were each about six times his height and their wingspans made them look even bigger. They obeyed him without question though, swiftly pulling the power-packs from their inbuilt cannons and shrugging off some of their detachable weapons.

“They're gonna be sitting targets if tha Vosians turn on 'em,” Ironhide muttered from Optrion's left, fingering his own rifle.
“They have the speed to get out of there if they need to,” Optrion pointed out, “Besides, both of them were protoformed in Vos, and the Vosian authorities know it. They have public image on their side.”
Ironhide made a noise that indicated just how much time he had for political concerns like that. Optrion could not blame him. The situation had seemed bizarre even before their two field commanders had had an open row about it. Now it felt ridiculous. He could see Megatron moving restlessly up and down the landing strip, glowering at everything that moved and occasionally flipping in to tank mode to glare along his barrels at the horizon and its crown of spires.

If he was honest, Optrion felt like doing the same thing. Perhaps it would have relieved the tension of not knowing if there was going to be a battle or not. Then again, looking at Megatron, he rather suspected it wouldn't. The extraction team was assembled on the runway now, eight mechs, three large avirs and four femes, all armed with nothing more than deflection shields and grappling hooks. It made sense yet it was hard not to think of the size of the crowds around the Civic Guard base and how small and unprotected the group seemed by comparison.

Megaton suddenly charged across to join the team. Vieuxuun saw it and ran to intercept him, the Air Guardians catching up in a few, massive strides. The two field commanders exchanged angry, muted words, and then Megatron tossed down his rifle, followed by several of his tank barrels. He stared defiantly at Vieuxuun, who shook his head in disbelief.

Megatron shouted an order up at the waiting Air Guardians and, exchanging a single glance, they transformed, mighty engines blazing into life. They swept in lazy arcs and lowered their access ramps. The extraction team split up, Megatron waiting until they were all in before following the group that had boarded Contrail. Vieuxuun shouted one last time, accusing him of disregarding protocol and endangering the operation. It had no effect. Megatron vanished inside and the ramp slammed shut behind him.

“Shoulda gone too,” Ironhide grumbled, optics following the huge white jets as they rose and banked towards Vos.
“You can't fly and there's a limit to how many passengers they'll be able to carry back. In fact,” Optrion added with a frown, “Megatron's mass might compromise the operation anyway.”

Vieuxuun came storming back towards the command platform. Optrion saluted as he drew near and the field commander slammed to a halt, optics narrowed to slits. “What?” Optrion took a step backwards, perplexed. Then Vieuxuun turned away. “Say that again,” he ordered, obviously speaking into an open communication channel, “When?”

Whatever was said, it made him throw up his arms, though he caught himself halfway through the motion. He looked around wildly, then fixed on Optrion. “Lieutenant Commander! I have just been informed that the Emirate for Nova Cronum has chosen to pay an unannounced visit to the Qosho region. He will be landing in four cycles. You will take a small contingent of troops and escort him to the Tava Szenda birthing well. Once his business is concluded, you will see that he returns safely to Iacon. I hardly need stress,” he stressed emphatically, an edge in his voice, “that he is to treated with the utmost respect and deference due to his position.”
“Of course sir,” Optrion agreed, saluting again, “I will see to it immediately.”
“Very good.” Vieuxuun offhandedly returned the salute and disappeared into the command platform.

Optrion frowned after him. “Today just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?”
“The boss-mechs layin' inta one another, Vos Civic Guard under siege an' now a slaggin' Emirate come ta drop in an' visit?” Ironhide shook his head in disbelief. “Ah don't know 'bout you but ah'm expectin' a meteor strike by sundown.”

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

 

And the next  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.5: Divine Intervention
Tava Szenda Birthing Well
Tarn
Cybertron

Xaaron was not at all what Optrion had expected.

He looked like an Emirate, emblazoned with the lustrous gold and silver of his rank, and he presented himself with the easy confidence of someone used to high office. At the same time, he was...small. A middling-sized tank with an antiquated military exo-structure and the sort of mouth grill that had once been favoured by Tarnian soldiers – physically, there was nothing especially awe-inspiring about him. He bore no ornamentation and had made no effort to disguise his original function or form. Used as he was to the High Council being a grand, distant concept, Optrion found it disconcerting to come face to face with a Council member who was only a colour scheme away from any other veteran commanding officer.

“Good of you to be here to meet me, Lieutenant Commander.” He greeted Optrion warmly, saluting smartly as he stepping down from the transport, “I apologise for the inconvenience. I did try to avoid you but my transport was challenged by your guards and thought it best not to lie about his cargo.”
“That's quite all right, sir,” Optrion reassured him, “We are here to assist you in any way you require.”
“Very kind of you.” Xaaron clapped his hands. “Well, let's not waste any time.”

He walked past the squad lined up at attention and stared down into the canyon before them. Far below, the lake of proto-matter glinted in the sunlight, swirling sluggishly from side to side. The temple sat on the far shore, a collection of buildings that looked more like filigree than architecture. Tiny figures moved through bridges and cloisters with sombre grace, intent on mysterious errands.

“I hope they let us in,” Xaaron muttered, apparently to himself. He turned and transformed, shifting shape with evident difficulty. His panels and levers ground against one another, not quite fitting together properly. Optrion had heard of symptoms like that caused by age but had never met anyone old to suffer from them. It took Xaaron several micro-cycles get get fully into tank form, and a few more for his drive systems to properly engage. The entire squad was in vehicle mode by then. They fell in behind Xaaron as he drove on to the great ramp that wound down into the canyon, Optrion just behind the Emirate.

“Do they know you are coming, sir?” he asked, wondering if they were going to have to stand guard while the old mech argued with the gatekeepers.
“I sent a message ahead requesting an audience. I have not received any reply. So far.”
“You intend just showing up at the gate?”
“That tends to be the easiest way to gain admittance to somewhere.” Light, good humoured sarcasm. “And this is important, Lieutenant Commander. We do not have time for perfect social niceties.” Harder words, brooking no argument.

Optrion kept quiet and followed Xaaron down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Close to, the Birthing Well was alive with waves and shapes. The road leading to the temple gates skirted the very edge of the pool and Xaaron found it hard not to become mesmerised by the half-formed patterns that writhed and surged through the silver mass. Was that how the Circuit Masters had started out? Had they stared so long into the proto-matter, looking for order in the primordial chaos, that they had forgotten how to look away?

A cynic might claim that was why the Order of the Dai existed: that the Circuit Masters, supposed guardians of the Birthing Wells, were so lost in their own deep and meaningful thoughts that the actual duty of defending the unborn generations had to fall on others. But of course there was more to it than that. True, the Order stood guard against outside threat, but it was the Circuit Masters who cared for and cultivated the Wells. They intimately understood the proto-matter – how it ebbed and flowed, when it was ready to be energised, the best moment to stamp a template upon it. That was their science and their art: the shaping of life. Obsessive focus upon such a task was surely forgiveable.

Two members of the Order stood guard at the temple gates, a mech and a hexe. Both held their swords ready as the little column of troops approached. Anyone coming towards the temple was always presumed hostile until proven otherwise. The merest sign of aggression and they were honour bound to retaliate until the offender was a smouldering heap of spare parts. Many jokes had been made about the Order's inflexibility but that single-minded devotion to duty had kept the Birthing Wells safe through countless wars, major and minor. They had stood firm in the face of strife and upheaval that had shattered governments and torn up alliances.

Xaaron could not help wondering if the first Dai had truly understood what he was starting when he first carved the Second Covenant into his armour.

Lieutenant Commander Optrion transformed and presented himself to the guards, arms held out to the side, weapons systems disconnected. It was an impressive display of correct protocol, thankfully so as Xaaron was too busy changing form to make the gesture himself. His sub-structure groaned with the effort and he was sure a couple of minor spurs gave way as his torso rotated. It was so easy to dismiss his age in the comfortable confines of Iacon, where transforming was seldom necessary. Out in the real world, his body betrayed itself.

“We are here to escort Emirate Xaaron of Nova Cronum to his meeting in the temple,” Optrion explained, careful not to move, “My orders are to ensure that he reaches his audience safely and to escort him away again on the conclusion of his business. I defer to the Order on security within the temple and would request only that I be allowed to accompany the Emirate so that I may do my duty and provide him with such assistance as I am able.”
The guards examined him in silence. A long while passed before the hexe nodded and he and the mech drew aside. The gates shuddered and opened, segments untangling and retracting in turn.

Optrion nodded his thanks and turned to Xaaron. “Emirate?”
“Oh no, Commander, please. You appear to have everything marvellously in hand. I defer to your expertise in protocol.” This evidently startled the big red mech and he stammered an apology that Xaaron was forced to cut short with a raised hand. “I am quite sincere, Commander. I am grateful to have been assigned someone so conscientious.”
“Then, forgive me Emirate, but it would be far more appropriate for you to lead the way.”
Xaaron smiled. “Of course. After me, then.”

Ancient architecture always gave the impression of being designed to over-awe everyone and anyone who beheld it, whatever their station in life. There was a grandeur to it lacking in modern buildings built for more practical purposes in a less energy-rich age. The temple was a perfect example of the style: a series of golden arches, deceptively large and strong, woven together to form chambers and hallways. In some places, the arches had been guided into spirals, creating towers – the better to watch over the Well.

Inside, all was light and silence. Elaborate patterns of mirrors and prisms guided shafts of sunlight into vaulted passages, filling them with webs of colour that illuminated ranks of bejewelled statues. History's saints stared down at them as they passed, benign and untroubled by the eons that had left them behind. These were the figures that the newly proto-formed looked up to in their first cycles of life – the Celestial Dai, the Highest Circuit Masters, the Primes – the ideals to which all of Cybertron was to aspire. They were hallowed. Inspirational. Their names resonated with everyone, high and low, in every society, in every city.

That was the theory, anyway. The idea of ideals that every protoform was given on the day of their birth.

Time to find out how much power those ideals really had.

An initiate met them at the gate, swathed in a flexible covering to protect its still-hardening electrum coating. Without a word, it guided them through halls and cloisters and into a large semi-circular room dominated by a towering frieze covering the straight wall. The initiate abandoned them before it, gliding away, still unspeaking. They both relaxed into the stance of people who have endless patience for standing around doing nothing. Xaaron found it amusing that the posture had not changed in the many, many mega-cycles since he had been a solider, and he suspected his amusement must have shown because Optrion began an intense study of the figures engraved on the wall.

Xaaron stepped back to get a better look. “Impressive, isn't it?”
Optrion jerked, ever so slightly. “Yes, Emirate.” He seemed about to say something more but stopped himself, either out of deference or embarrassment. It was hard to tell.
“You know what it represents, yes?” Xaaron kept his voice neutral, trying to avoid sounding patronising.
The soldier hesitated, probably unsure what he was supposed to say. Then he nodded. “The aspects of Primus.” He raised a hand, pointing to the images in turn and tracing the lines between them. “Mech, hexe, feme, quad, trac, cyol, avir, plex, joined in the light of the Matrix Flame. The many-formed, the half-sparked, the dwellers-in-the-deep. The Celestial Temple, the Sonic Canyons, the Manganese Mountains. Towers and chasms and the spans between. The moons. And the whole. Cybertron as Primus. That’s the point,” he added after a moment’s thought, “That’s why the figures are intertwined. Parts of the whole, a whole built from parts. Primus in totality.”

“Very well put.” Xaaron smiled, optics still scanning the frieze. “You clearly know your theological symbolism.”
“I was a hauler for the archives in Iacon,” Optrion told him by way of explanation, “I helped move several totality maps for restoration.”
“Ah. Which also explains your familiarity with the ways of the Order. It must have been interesting work.”
“It was. I...I actually considered becoming an archivist myself for a while.”
Xaaron clasped his hands behind his back. “I assume the feeling did not last.”
“No. It seemed too much like shutting myself away from the world. That did not...” The big red mech trailed off discontentedly. Not entirely surprising. Discussing his past life plans with a member of the High Council was surely not what he had expected when he was assigned as escort.

Time to move the conversation elsewhere. “There's another layer to it, of course.” Xaaron nodded towards the engraved figures. “The faces. It's an ancient pictographic language. They spell out the Covenants.” He raised a hand, indicating them in turn. “Defend life in others and in yourself. Care for that from which you arose and to which you shall return. Transform yourself beyond that which you are. Hm. Transform and transcend. Of the three, I've always thought that was most open to interpretation.”

If Optrion had an opinion on the matter, he did not get the chance to share it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The chamber door opened and the High Circuit Master swept in, much to Optrion's relief. He had not been prepared for holding a conversation with the Emirate, much less getting into a theological discussion with him. As unassuming as Xaaron was, it still felt wrong to be making small talk with someone in such an elevated office. Optrion was much happier to stand at attention and focus on fading professionally into the background. As much as he could fade into the background in such grand surroundings. He felt dwarfed by it all, yet certain that everyone was staring at him, the ungainly red intrusion into a world of golden elegance.

The High Circuit Master could not have been more fitted to the temple if it had been one of the ancient statues come to life. A tall, spindly figure moving with slow, stately grace, it hummed with the clicking and shifting of all the functions normally hidden by panels and armour. An electrum skin polished to mirror brightness reflected the world around it, so much so it seemed to be wearing the glory of the past in place of any normal covering. Calm, steady white optics blazed from a domed head stripped of all adornment and expression – the kind of face Optrion remembered from his first moments of consciousness, speaking reassuring words as he struggled to make sense of suddenly being alive.

He looked down, not wanting to stare. The High Circuit Master continued towards them, staff of office tapping rhythmically on the floor. Xaaron bowed, lowering himself to one knee. “Master, I greet you in the name of the people of Nova Cronum, by whose will I am honoured to serve, and in my own name, for I return to you as a scion of Tava Szenda, from which the Flame lifted me and into which, Primus willing, the Allspark will take me again.”
It was a pitch perfect ritual greeting. Optrion could not help but be impressed by the smoothness with which the Emirate switched from idle conversation to formal protocol. The golden mech had not missed a beat.
“Xa Mech Aron Tava Szenda,” the High Circuit Master intoned, planting its staff and making a 'get up' motion with its free hand, “I gladly welcome you to the Well from which you rose and to which you will one day return. Come freely in the name of life and the Flame and speak with me of what you will. I serve you as I serve all.”
Xaaron got to his feet, offering another, less extravagant bow. “Master Velan. Thank you for agreeing to see me at such short notice. Normally I would not dream of being so abrupt but circumstances dictate an unusual degree of haste.”

Velan passed its hand between them. “We are not completely insulated from the world here, Emirate. I believe your agitation to be well-founded.”
“Would that it were not.” Xaaron grimaced. “I need your help, Master.”
“Then let us talk.” It turned its white gaze to Optrion. “And this one...?”
“Op Mech Trion Novus Zar, Master,” Optrion introduced himself, uncertain whether he was expected to bow as well. He had never encountered a High Circuit Master during his time with the archives, dealing only with the novices and initiates who ran the temples from day to day.
“The Lieutenant Commander can listen or not as he wishes,” Xaaron said with gentle indifference.
“Very well,” Velan acknowledged with another glance at Optrion, “Make your proposal, Emirate, and we shall see if it pleases Primus that I agree.”

Xaaron paced once before speaking, turning back to the frieze for a moment. “We are on the brink of a war,” he began bluntly, “Tarn and Vos are actively and aggressively threatening one another's sovereign authority and it is my belief – and the belief of the High Council at large, whether it admits it or not – that it is only a matter of time before they escalate to open conflict. Neighbouring states are being swept up in the hostilities, often without much choice. Those two cities control vast economic and military resources: they can force support for their causes and are doing so. If the tension is not defused, this entire region will be drawn in and set alight.”
It was an extremely bleak assessment and it matched perfectly with the tactical and strategic analyses Optrion had been working on since being assigned to the Qosho Region. Master Velan did not appear all that shocked by it either. “We have watched the anger grow with great sadness,” it said sonorously.
“And I am sure that I do not need to tell you that the loss of life in a full scale war between two of the most powerful city-states on the planet would be horrendous. Even if the fighting were restricted to Vos and Tarn's armies – and it would not be – many hundreds would perish. The collateral damage and the suffering that would result...” Xaaron let that hang there, not needing to finish.

Velan contemplated his words, then asked, “You think you know how to stop this?”
“I hope I do, Master, sincerely. I fear it will bring only a respite from the conflict but at this stage, any time gained is valuable.” Pressing his fingertips together, Xaaron moved a step closer to the Circuit Master. “If the two sides could be brought together, publicly and on neutral ground, I think that they might be persuaded into some sort of truce, however temporary. Much of their power rests on how they are perceived by other states –and they know it. They want to be seen a certain way, to prove that they are better than their enemies and to hold the moral authority. On those terms, I think it might be possible to reach them. If a person of sufficient cultural, social and moral strength were to call upon them to attend talks in Iacon to settle the peace...then they would likely agree if only to preserve their image.”
“And you would ask me to be this...person of strength?” Velan sounded worried by the notion and the clicking of its fuel regulators grew agitated.
“I would. You are a High Circuit Master, one of the oldest and most respected. More to the point, your temple and the Well that you care for sit right in the middle of the battle lines. A plea from you on behalf of the lives this war would endanger, living now and yet to come, would carry enormous weight.”

Velan's fingers drummed on its staff. It stared at Xaaron with half-dimmed optics, body quieting. “You ask much of me, Emirate. For surely it is the Prime's voice that must speak, the Prime who must stand forward in life's name to halt this horror born of pride and anger.” Its voice remained mild and was all the more dangerous for it. “Would you ask me to act in the Prime's stead, Xa Mech Aron?”
Xaaron smiled. “If I had not come prepared for that accusation, Master, I should not have come at all.” He spread his hands. “The Prime has taken a position of neutrality. He has called for moderation but he will not risk legitimising either the Vosian or Tarnian stance. And he may well be right to do so.”

That was the first time that Xaaron said something Optrion was not convinced the Emirate himself believed. It did not sound like an out-right lie, but there was the slightest hint of sarcasm buried deep in the modulation of his voice, not unlike the almost-concealed contempt Megatron displayed when he talked about Commander Vieuxuun. Maybe it was just the turn of the conversation reminding him of the manoeuvring of his superiors, yet Optrion did not think he was mistaken.

If Velan picked up on it as well, it made no comment and Xaaron went on, “The Prime is bound up in the Council's politics. You are not, Master, and you are also hold the respect of all peoples in this region, no matter their alignment. You are not seen as an outsider – and regrettably, the Prime is. I hesitate to presume so much on your behalf, Master, but it is quite possible your voice would carry more weight in this matter than Sentinel's.”
“You do presume a great deal, Xa Mech Aron.” The Emirate actually flinched at the High Circuit Master's tone, and Optrion came very close to doing the same. Velan's staff scraped across the floor as it turned half away, optics flickering. It paced stiffly to and fro, fingers drumming once more.

“And you, Op Mech Trion?” it asked abruptly, looking back, “What would you have me do?”
Jolted by the question, Optrion stood dumbly for half a cycle, utterly at a loss for words. He could feel Xaaron's optics boring into him just as much as Velan's, willing him to answer correctly. He managed to open his mouth and forced his processors to function. “I...” He wanted to say it was not his place, that this was a matter far beyond a simple soldier. But the sheer intensity of the Circuit-Master's gaze permitted no such evasion. “If something could prevent the war, Master, then it should be done. And if words from you could bring Vos and Tarn to the conference table...”
“Then I should speak.” It was physically impossible for it to do so, by Optrion was sure that Velan smiled wryly. “How straightforward it sounds. Never mind that I should be allowing trust of a sacred office to be used for political manipulation. Never mind that I should be presuming a position above the Prime. Never mind that what authority I have should be claimed by Nova Cronum and its allies. The end is just and so the act is.” The Circuit-Master lifted its staff and rotated it, absorbed in the way the light bounced off the carvings along its length. “We stand guard over the future. We owe no allegiance, we respect no authority higher than the will of Primus. Our lives are given not to the world but to life yet to come. We abandon everything beyond the rim of the Well in order that we can guide each new generation up into the sunlight without favour and without prejudice. The end is just and so the act is. And I hear your argument already, Emirate Xaaron, that the war would threaten this Well and those nearby and all those lives who have sprung from them. It has been an age since the Wells were themselves threatened and an age beyond that since the Order of the Dai could not protect them from harm. I would dearly like to hope that it will be an eternity before that changes. That this conflict will blow over like a passing storm, doing no more harm and leaving no more scars.”

It slumped, letting the staff strike against the floor. “But hope is a poor shield against falling bombs and the horrors of science turned against the First Covenant. This may fail, Emirate. They may not listen to me any more than they have listened to you.”
“Yet we must try,” Xaaron said softly, meeting its eye.
“Yet we must try,” Velan repeated, looking at the floor. “Very well, Emirate of Nova Cronum. I will speak. I will call for peace talks. I will pledge my support to those in the Council who work for an end to these pointless hostilities.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Thank me when this works. For now, speak to me of specifics. What exactly would you have me do next?”

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

 

Sorry again for the continued erratic update schedule. But good news! I have several chapters in the bank and so should be able to go weekly for a fortnight or two!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
3.6: Channel Hopping
02.065.1012 Summary Run
Global Newsfeed
Cybertron

“Violence in Vos – rioting labourers lay siege to the city's Civic Guard base! Anti-Council protests become open confrontation as anger at alleged cover-ups leads to attacks on officers! Conflicts escalate and angry workers drive guardsmechs back behind barricades!

“A daring rescue mission – Commander Megatron leads an unarmed Defence Directorate team into Vosian airspace! The Hero of Kolidahl shields Civic Guard personnel as they are evacuated aboard Air Guardians! Even as the crowds grow increasingly hostile, these mechs focus on the task of getting their civilian comrades to safety!

“A direct hit on Commander Megatron! Drenched in flaming oil, he stands firm and lets out a terrifying war cry, momentarily startling the rioters into silence! Surely, they must be ashamed to lash out at a mech who has done so much in their defence!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Grand Slam Report
Global Newsfeed
Cybertron

“...after which Vosian military flyers escorted the Air Guardians to the border, where they rejoined the Defence Directorate task-force currently undertaking peace-keeping duties in the region. Questions remain however as to why Vosian internal security did not come to the assistance of the Civic Guard during the disturbance, and why they allowed the incident to get so out of hand. I am joined by Lord Sarristec, representing the Vosian Conclave.

“Lord Sarristec, many are seeing the lack of support for the Civic Guard and the general apathy shown by internal security forces towards what amounted to a full scale riot as further indications that the Vosian government is now taking an anti-High Council stance as part of its official policies. How do you react to those who say that this is a first step towards Vos splitting completely from the Council and the Inter-State Accords?”

“Well, first of all let me say, as I always seem to when I'm on your feed, Grand Slam, that Vos remains committed to a peaceful, unified Cybertron. We would never adopt a position that threatened the stability and prosperity our planet has enjoyed for stellar-cycles. This incident was extremely regrettable and I can assure you that investigations are ongoing at the highest level.

“At the same time, we cannot ignore the growing discontent with the way that recent events have been handled by many Council-backed organisations. Given how high frustrations are running – as recent troubles in the Tagen Heights have highlighted – it may well be time for some serious questions to be asked about the relationship between those tasked with keeping order at an inter-state level and those they are supposed to be protecting...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Planetary News Feed
Qosho Region Local
Cybertron

“High Circuit-Master Velan's broadcast comes amid increasing military activity along the Vos-Tarn border. Blockades of trade routes across the region remain in place, with Vosian soldiers occupying the Drem-Vitzix Interchange and Tarnian forces continuing to turn merchant convoys away from Simfur. Despite repeated protests by leading businessmechs, neither city has lifted its restrictions. Trains entering the region are being diverted into holding loops and land traffic is being intercepted and turned back along most major routes.

“As yet, neither Vos nor Tarn has officially responded to Master Velan's call for peace talks, but unofficial sources close to the Vosian Conclave have indicated that they will support a conference provided that Tarn shows willingness to abide by any agreements reached. It is expected that any such conference would be held in Iacon and the factions within the Council that have been attempting to mediate between Vos and Tarn – led by Nova Cronum and Iacon itself – have welcomed the High Circuit-Master's support.

“Several commentators have expressed surprise that a traditionally apolitical religious figure has come forward to join the debate. While Circuit-Masters have in the past advised governments on matters concerning the Birthing Wells or wider spiritual issues, this is the first time in recent memory that one has taken a stance on a purely political issue. It is surely an indication of how serious the situation has become that Master Velan has done so now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Special Report
Tagen Local News Feed
Cybertron

“ –started just as the morning work shift was beginning, when a group of Tarnian merchant mechs seized a Vosian freighter. The Tarnians claim that the crew were attempting to transport controlled technology to augment Vos' military forces. They have taken over the freighter's command module and appear to be attempting to destroy the cargo. The Vosian crew is resisting them and the fighting has spilled over on to the dockside, where pent-up frustrations among the work-crews have ignited.

“This reporter understands that the violence is not limited to Vosian and Tarnian nationals and that Tagan labourers have been seen taking sides. The Civic Guard has now cordoned off the immediate area and they are moving in to contain the situation.

“I'm going to move in closer and see if I get a comment from the officer commanding the operation.”

“ – take patrol squads two and three around to the west side and try to cut the Vosians off before they reach the volatile store on platform five. Clutch, I need you with the fire suppression teams. Make sure they get the best vantage points. Glitter, are those mobile repair bays active yet?”
“Damnit Diatrion – I'm a pathologist, not a field medic! Why couldn't you have grabbed someone else to pitch out into the middle of a riot? And yes, yes they are!”
“Good. The North Sector med-techs have the other side covered. Just patch up anyone who needs evac –”

“Investigator Diatrion – Squawktalk, Tagan Local Feed. Can you tell everyone at home how you're planning on regaining control of the situation.”
“What the – sir, this is a hazardous area at the moment. Please fly back behind the cordon.”
“Will you be attempting to storm the occupied ship? The docking clamps have been locked solid: do you believe there is a risk that the Tarnians will attempt to move the freighter out of the docks?”
“Sir, please – Dinuxx, watch out for the lifter on platform seven! Sir, I am trying to coordinate with my colleagues. Please get back to a safe distance.”
“Is there a risk of this conflict spreading? Is it likely that conflict between work-crews and their employers will be reignited by this incident? Is the Civic Guard prepared for an escalation in incidents of this kind as tensions between Vos and Tarn increase –”
“Sir, if you do not remove yourself immediately, I will be forced to ask one of my constables to –”

KATHOOM

“Ack! Viewers, a massive explosion just ripped through the freighter's cargo pods, showering the immediate area in shrapnel and flame! There are fires all across the dock now, some of them right in the middle of the rioters and –”
“Get him out of here, right now! Fire suppression teams one and four, move in – patrol squad six, cover them –”

[Connection terminated]

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Priority Message to the Directors
Silver Ridge Technological Foundation
Polyhex
Cybertron

It is my unpleasant duty to report that we can no longer afford to continue operations at our Tagan complex. Unrest among the labour grades coupled with increasing restrictions on goods traffic in the area mean that it is no longer viable to maintain the facility or its staff. All essential materials and staff will be transferred to the Yuss facility pending reassignment. All non-essential staff will be laid off and non-essential materials will be sold for as good a price as can be attained in the current climate. In the interests of public relations, one-time redundancy payments will be offered to all workers in lieu of benefits and energy allowance.

It should be noted that the Tarnian government has extended an offer to purchase a number of research projects and prototypes that were previously being developed at the Tagan complex. At this time, I would not recommend accepting this offer. It remains extremely unclear who will gain the upper hand once the current political manoeuvring is complete. Moreover, previous dealings with Tarn have proved unprofitable and to be a significant public perception risk. Tarn's well-known technological advances have largely been focused in the military sector and this Foundation has always sought to distance itself from that area.

I will transfer to the Yuss facility immediately to oversee the fitting out of laboratory space. My deputy will handle arrangements at the Tagan end. We will continue to keep the board appraised of our progress.

I remain your servant:

Casst Avir Ina
Executive Operations Coordinator
Qosho Region

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Encrypted message
Low-level communication channel
Simfur
Cybertron

Heavytread,

We're not going to last here, brother. The Tarnians have stepped up their patrols again. The so-called government just lays down and lets them roll out whatever damn thing they want. The curfew's just an excuse to given Viilon's thugs something to shoot at. We lost Swingwing last night. Don't know if they took him but either way he's dead.

If you think you have a shot at getting the Vosians to help us, take it now. Everyone's saying that it was them who blew up the security post in the gardens of Light, and Mystionn swore he helped some foreigner cross the border. If they can get stuff to us, weapons, fuel –

Could be our last chance. We all hate it, but we need someone to help or this is all going to have been for nothing.

We're counting on you.

Moonshine

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Internal Communication: Elita to all senior Temple Guards
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

You all know what's happening in three days' time.

Functionally, the peace conference will just be a meeting of the High Council with a few extra chairs. We are not expecting any trouble inside the Temple itself, although the Bodyguard will be conducting regular sweeps for unauthorised objects, spies, assassins and journalists. Your job will, as always, be to stand around looking impressive and to keep everyone moving in the right direction. If Vos and Tarn start a war in the Council Chamber, your first priority is to defend the Prime. Protect the Emirates and other delegates to the best of your ability but Sentinel's safety comes before everything else.

The media, gawkers and protesters are going to be out in force, so we will create a two hix exclusion zone around the Triumphant Steps. The Civic Guard will handle everything outside that. You have responsibility for all visible security within the Temple boundary. The Bodyguard will be maintaining the scanner stations on all the entrances and the Red Watch will be on crowd control duty. Everyone who is not absolutely necessary to proceedings will be barred from the Temple precincts and will need to be cleared out tomorrow. They have all been notified, which is why my console is now full of messages from angry clerks.

One complication is that Circuit-Master Velan is going to be attending as well and the Matrix Keepers have insisted on handling his visit themselves. That should not be too much of a problem but it will mean a couple of extra golden-bods cluttering up the halls. Orinixx, you are in charge of looking after them. Maybe if you have your hands full with religious types, you won't get caught making faces at Emirate Tomandii again.

Individual orders are enclosed. Brief your teams. I want everyone at their professional best for this. Anyone makes Temple Security look stupid when the world's watching and I will personally feed them piece by piece to the Great Devourer.

Good luck to us all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Needlenose's Need to Know
Gold Fashion Feed
Praxus
Cybertron

“Yes yes yes! He's done it again! Up-and-comer Gauun – who first broke out on this very feed – has secured one of this season's top contracts as the personal designer for the Red Ridge Race Team! We have an exclusive first look at what he's bringing to the game and WOW!

“It's sleek! It's stylish! It flows with every line of those hot rods' bodies! And just look at the way it moves! Stay on this feed for the full showroom download!

“FASHION ALERT! Spots are back back back! Get down to the nearest body-shop and get them on!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Encrypted feed
Protihex
Cybertron

“The blockades are becoming a problem. A little restriction is good for business but this...they're cutting too many routes off.”
“You want to pull out?”
“Much more of this and it won't be a choice. Our buyers in Vos aren't making it worth our while to run Tarnian checkpoints. They've got squads down in the low sub-levels now for Pit's sake. The Vosians are smuggling most of their contraband themselves anyway.”
“Do we really want it said that the Black Shadow doesn't honour its promises?”
“Do we really want our best couriers shot or locked up?”
“...you make a good point. Fine. Suspend Vosian transfers for the moment. But I want you to monitor the other players, especially those who do well in this crisis. We are not happy that business is going elsewhere.
Of course not. I've got my optics on a few concerns who seem to be doing better than they should be. Looks like the Tarnians are using some of them to infiltrate Vos.”
“Typical politics. Always messy.”

“You got any idea what'll happen if this all goes up?”
“You're the one on the ground. You tell me.”
“Hard to tell from down here. It's getting damn tense though. Everyone's on edge, even my top mechs. Had a feme nearly rip Trilock's tail off last night because he was shooting off about how Tarn'll wipe Vos out.”
“You able to keep order?”
“Of course I am. Doesn't mean that I like having to cut down my own.”
“Just ride it out. It'll pass.”
“It better. I don't want to be around here if the Big Two can't keep their missiles in their silos.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Secure channel
Government Section 4:55
Tarn
Cybertron

Unregistered Simfur mech identified from records as anarchist combatant “Heavytread” intercepted attempting to cross Vosian border.

Negative response to order to halt.

Combat ensued – subject terminated.

Returning body to Tarn Central from memory retrieval/cross-reference: location of resistance bases.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nova Cronum diplomatic channel
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

“Tell me Xaaron: do you really think this conference will make a difference? You have put so much energy into it and yet I still cannot see Vos and Tarn settling their differences at one Council meeting.”
“Any time gained will make a difference. My sources tell me there's a possibility that at least one member of the Conclave is advocating a less aggressive stance. If we can give her time to strengthen that position...”
“Heh. I do not suppose it can hurt that Lord Taynset will be in Iacon, either.”
“One would very much hope not. And even if it's foolishly optimistic to expect grudges mega-cycles in the making to be resolved with a few carefully chosen words by an outsider, we can at least establish the grounds for a dialogue.”
“And stop them just shouting deafly at one another. Yes. That would be a step forward by anyone's reckoning. Will Traachon lead the mediation?”
“As is the right of Iacon. He knows what is at stake. I trust him to serve the role well.”
“And what of the cost of failure? Xaaron, I have never been a soldier and I have little conception of what a war would mean. The facts and figures I ordered our intelligence service to release to you seem terrifying but what do they mean on the ground?”
“That both cities have arsenals the likes of which have never been known before. Heavily modified and augmented soldiers. Enough troops to conceivably stage full-scale invasions of one another. And long-range weaponry that...concerns me greatly.”
“You think they would go so far as to launch missile attacks against each another?”
“I know they would. The question is, under what circumstances would they do so? Even knowing the temperaments of the two cities, I am not certain... Traachon shared information with me recently – you will have seen it in the encrypted dispatches – the Defence Directorate's analyses of Tarn and Vos' border defence grids. There is the suggestion that each city has erected rings of sensors linked directly to the main silos. If one steps on the other's territory...”
“They would do that?”
“Tryptatrion, Vos feared Tarn's rise so much they once broke the Accords in all but name by sending soldiers to help the most violent warlords in massacring their own people. Tarn has never forgotten or forgiven that and the hatred that comes from the memory united them behind Viilon when he promised to make them the strongest city on Cybertron. I am honestly amazed that the slaughter has not already begun and I'm sure that it is just the desire to be seen as the defender rather than the aggressor that is holding them back.

“Thank you for trusting me enough to give me the freedom I needed to try and stop this insanity.”
“My friend, if I did not trust you to do the right thing in the name of Nova Cronum, I would not have ratified your election to Emirate in the first place.”
“I...know there has always been some objection to my appointment though. I came to your city late in life and, in truth, I think there are many who expect me to turn my back on you and join with Viilon at any moment.”
“I am not one of them. I know you better than that. As for the rest – those who join the Defence Directorate swear to leave allegiance to city and state behind. You left the military calling nowhere on Cybertron home and I am proud that you chose to come here.”
“Thank you...I...am proud to have been accepted.”
“You earned it. And I will be glad to have you standing beside me in the Council Chamber.”
“I'm glad that you and I will not be the only ones standing there.”
“Iacon, Nova Cronum, Altihex, Uraya, Hexima, Tygr Pax and Ankmor. Quite the coalition.”
“Master Velan's words reached many. Our careful outlines of the consequences of a war reinforced the message.”
“Luckily, those words reached Vos and Tarn as well.”
“As I said, they each want vindication. Our job will be to persuade them that they can have it by being the first to agree a peace, not to start a war.”

“Let us hope we are up to the task.”
“We have to be.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Personal Log – Field Commander Vieuxuun
Defence Directorate Command Channel
Qosho Region
Cybertron

I continue to be concerned by Commander Megatron's reckless attitude to combat situations. His undoubted heroism in leading the rescue mission to the Vos Civic Guard base could easily have resulted in another Simfur-style incident whereby the presence of a well-known Tarnian-born soldier incited the rioters to even greater acts of violence, thus endangering all involved. It is extremely lucky that his theatrical outburst did not have such an effect all on its own.

Megatron's single-minded approach to problems may be fitted to the kill-or-be-killed environments on the uncivilised frontier of Cybertronian-controlled space but it is hardly suited to delicate domestic operations requiring significant political awareness.

Morale remains variable. I am aware that some troopers, particularly those in Commander Megatron's battalions, are expressing frustration at having to exercise restraint and not interfere with on-going Vos/Tarn military activity. I am glad to say that such complaints within the ranks I myself command are minimal. My soldiers appreciate that while such action is confined within the cities' respective borders, our place is here, monitoring events, not intervening.

Fortunately, the grumbling has not resulted in any more inappropriate 'strategy sessions'.

On a separate note, I am pleased with Lieutenant Commander Optrion's handling of the recent visit to Tava Svenda by the Emirate of Nova Cronum. It is pleasing to see that time spent on the frontier has not diminished the reverence for tradition and protocol that he, as an Iaconian, must inevitably possess. I may make overtures to him with regards to transferring him to my command. His record is moderately impressive, but shows signs that he has learnt perhaps too much from his present superior. It would benefit him to spend so time in a more disciplined environment.

Vos and Tarn troops continue manoeuvring along the border. They remain on high alert but have not taken any overt action against one another. I am still of the opinion that these displays of hostilities will not escalate. It is simply not in anyone's interest to allow it to do so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Local News Feed
Iacon
Cybertron

“As preparations continue for the Tarn/Vos peace conference, residents in the Upper Temple and the South Orbital districts are being asked to submit to security checks ahead of the delegates' arrival tomorrow. The Civic Guard has requested citizens' cooperation as there are concerns that extremist groups may attempt to disrupt proceedings. Protests are expected throughout the conference, with radical group 'Fuel For All' threatening direct action against members of the Tarnian government in retaliation for reductions in fuel exports. From this evening, traffic through the city gates will be suspended, and additional restrictions on aerial movement within the city limits will remain in effect for the duration of the conference.

“For more information on how the security measures will affect you, please tune to the official Civic Guard public information feed.

“In other news, concerns have arisen about the stability of Iacon-based industrial giants Silver Ridge Technological Foundation and Inter-State Solutions following their decisions to pull out of the Qosho region. The closure of their major facilities in Tagen and Vos, respectively, is expected to leave hundreds out of work. While the Vosian Conclave has pledged to transfer skilled personnel into state-run industry, no such aid is expected from a Tagen administration facing increasing labour-grade dissatisfaction. A key transport hub, Tagen is nevertheless struggling to support a rapidly increasing population.

“Silver Ridge's decision to close its research complex in Tagen's Under-Town district comes after consolidation of a number of other scientific units across the planet and a retraction of its bid for mineral rights in the newly claimed Si-prima star system. The Foundation, which is owned in part by the prestigious Avir Ina clan, had previously invested heavily in the failed Anska mining operation. Inter-State Solutions had been expanding rapidly in recent stellar-cycles thanks to the support of several Solaria Region cities but is now facing a downturn in customer –”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Scrambled Channel
Unidentified Location
Tarn
Cybertron

“I know you can hear me Viilon. I know you can because you hear everything in this damned city and I know you listen to it all.

“You have to see what you're doing. You have to see where this is going. You have to stop.

“You're smart. As smart as me. Smarter, maybe – which, trust me, is hard to admit. You've got to see it too – the patterns. The consequences. Where this is all going.

“Pull back. Stop and pull back.

“Listen to me Viilon. I'm still here. I'm not going away. Your thugs can't find me. And I'm just going to keep sending this until you listen.

“Come on Shockwave! Think. Use that logic of yours and look at it all. See where the patterns are leading. Do you want a war you can't win? Do you want everything you've built to fall down?

“I know you can hear me. Listen to me. Stop now, before it's too late. Before you can't stop it.

“Stop before the patterns run out of control. Listen to me.

“I'm not going to stop. I'm still here. I'll keep sending until you listen –”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Priority Channel
Air Traffic Control (North Arc)
Iacon
Cybertron

“Iacon Control, this is Syska Mech Liomm on flight 29-27, carrying Lords Taynset, Sarristec and Omnitron of the Vosian Conclave. I am inbound on final approach requesting landing beacon.”

“Understood, Syskaliomm, landing beacon now being beamed to you. Your escorts are to pull back to course 10-00-07. Air Guardians will fall in with you for the final hundred hix and Red Watch flyers are standing by to guide you through the outer defences. Welcome to Iacon.”

 

Only a few chapters to go in this act. Things are, as they say, hotting up....

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

3.7 Last Chances
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

Many years ago, when Sarristec had been just another scientist-in-training at the Vosian Academy, he had visited Iacon as part of an exchange programme. Then, as now, he had been struck by how ancient the Golden City was.

Iaconians prided themselves on it. The foundation of Cybertronian civilisation. The first city-state. The fortress of the First Primes. Here was where the Matrix Flame had ignited. There stood the beacon forged by Helix Magnus to mark the end of the First Chaos War. In the shadow of those great walls, champions had fought and dynasties had risen and been overturned. Ideologies and theology that had come to be known across the planet had originated in this place, with scholars who spent their days looking up at the immense spire of the Celestial Temple. For the people of Iacon, their greatness lay in the great weight of monumental events for which their city had been the backdrop.

Yet the truth was that as those events receded into history, Iacon remained unchanging. It stood as it had always stood, a city of shrines and monuments steeped in ceremony and tradition, any advancement or innovation quietly hidden away in case it altered the way things were done. Cybertron moved on while Iacon rusted beneath its gilding and it was left to others to lead the way into the future.

Looking around the Council Chamber, it was clearer than ever that only Vos could carry that burden.

The ring of seats had been expanded to nearly twice its normal size to accommodate the delegates. Two additional sections had been created within the ring for Vos and Tarn and a short arc in front of Sentinel's throne had been separated out for the mediators – to give them the appearance of having the Prime's support, if not the reality of it. They sat there now, a gathering of mediocre states clinging to the vestiges of relevance. Small wonder that Iacon's Emirate was at their head.

The rest of the Council awaited the start of proceedings with noticeable nervousness. Emirates and other dignitaries arranged themselves to show their support for one side or, for a few, their neutrality. Irritatingly, the Vosian and Tarnian 'sides' were about equal, although those who were aligned with Tarn looked far more uncomfortable about it. Obviously they were beginning to realise the mistake they were making.

As the Vos delegation entered, the murmured conversation filling the hall died away. Sarristec schooled his face into a solemn, stern expression. It would not do to show open contempt just yet. He walked a few steps behind Lord Taynset, side by side with Emirate Graviitus. Omnitron trailed behind them, a spare part scarcely distinguished from the aides who followed. The old mech had always been one of Taynset's staunchest allies but he was severely lacking in charisma, not to mention appearance. A tank, even as sleek an example of the type as Omnitron no doubt was, was never going to be an impressive sight next to two of Vos' most elegant jets.

Taynset did not bow to the mediators so neither did the other members of the procession. He took his seat without ceremony, shifting his wings to a more comfortable position and folding his hands together. Sarristec sat next to him and did likewise. Muted discussions began again, a few of the mediators surreptitiously comparing documents and updating one another's files. A flunky scurried up to the Speaker of Nova Cronum and spoke in an urgent whisper. Whatever was said, it clearly disturbed the heavily ornamented mech and he turned to exchange urgent words with the dull-looking Emirate next to him. They looked across at the Vosians with dismay.

“Just look at this rabble!” Graviitus beamed smugly, “And they dare to try to censure us? You have nothing to fear speaking before these strutless fools, Sarristec.”
He bristled at the familiarity presumed by a blustering second-rate ex-politician, but Taynset said smoothly, “My Lord Sarristec is eminently capable of representing Vos in any forum. He need never fear otherwise.”
Which was most pleasing to hear and Sarristec acknowledged it with a small smile. “I am honoured to serve –”

The voice of one of the guards boomed through the chamber. “Viilon, High Governor of Tarn!” All optics turned to the doors. Quite naturally, Sarristec expected to see a procession of Tarnian diplomats, if such a thing were believable. Barbarians playing at being civilised. A carnival of brutes affecting the trappings of refinement.

But no. A single figure stalked into the room, a single massive figure with a single vivid optic.

There was indeed something brutal about Viilon, but it was nothing to be mocked. Strength and power emanated from him. He seemed built entirely from thick slabs of indigo armour that would have been artless if they had not fit together with such precision. This was no mere back-street brawler or petty murderer, as politically useful as those images were. This was a superbly engineered warrior and it was totally believable that he had ended stellar-cycles of war virtually single-handedly.

Sarristec was not intimidated easily. He was a Lord of Vos, one of the Conclave, a mech of significance and influence, and more than accustomed to dealing with powerful people. This though, this was different. There was no aggression in Viilon's posture, no emotion of any kind save perhaps a quiet confidence. But his sheer, unrelenting presence filled the chamber completely and it was all Sarristec could do to keep his own emotions in check. A quite un-Lord-like surge of fear made him wish he was somewhere, anywhere else.

Only when he looked across at Lord Taynset's calm, unconcerned face did the panic die down. He got a hold of himself and composed his expression similarly, adopting the air of one to whom physical power is an extravagance making up for a lack of wit and intelligence. Of course it was all a front. A 'logically calculated' show of might designed to impress the weak-willed into believing that Tarn possessed either merit or true strength. Fear as an argument, violence as a means of government. How simplistic. How contemptible. How very Tarnian.

Viilon did not take his seat but stood near it, staring ahead, not so much as acknowledging the presence of the Vosian delegation. Emirate Haacano followed a moment later, composed and dignified yet irrelevant next to his superior. They were really inordinately dissimilar. True, Haacano had some indigo plates in his armour but otherwise, he was a shiningly obsolete ornament next to a terrifying weapon of war. The contrast would have been amusing under other circumstances.

On an unspoken signal, the rest of the gathering rose to join the Tarnians on their feet, the Vosians doing so slowly and with dignity. The Prime entered solemnly, curiously unimpressive after Viilon's arrival. The spear seemed less a badge of office and more a means of support. Sentinel moved with an unnatural stiffness, his footsteps falling heavily and with no real strength. For all his undoubted stature, the world was leaving him behind, just as it had already left behind the decrepit figures who shuffled in behind him: Master Velan and a couple of lesser Circuit Masters followed by four sombre Matrix Keepers swathed in their all-concealing coverings, all of them carrying staves of office. Sarristec wondered why it was that religious leaders should feel the need for such ridiculous signifiers of authority. Were he ever to be so desperate to need to impress others with his importance, he prayed he would at least have the sense to do it with something less ostentatious. A crest or a crown. Not a massive great pole that served no practical purpose.

The gruesome procession split around the Prime's throne, taking up positions flanking him and settling down to watch over proceedings with the solemn dignity of eroding statues.
“This Council is in session,” Sentinel announced, his voice echoing through the hall, “Praise the Allspark. Hail the Flame.”
“Praise the Allspark,” came the refrain, “Hail the Prime.”
His duty done, he sat. And seemed almost to switch off, becoming still and somehow removed from events. An irrelevance, there only because he had always been there.

Emirate Traachon of Iacon rose. Here then was where it truly began. Ceremony and public opinion had been appeased. Time for more serious matters.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Traachon spoke for several deca-cycles, laying out exactly where a war between Vos and Tarn would lead and offering the mediators' preferred solutions for consideration. He spoke well, with feeling, channelling all the frustration, desperation and fear the situation had caused, while still managing to stay calm and reasonable. Do not break the unity and peace that Cybertron has enjoyed for thousands of stellar-cycles, he implored. Do not turn on your brothers when there is another way.

The moment Lord Taynset signalled Sarristec to take the floor in response, Xaaron knew it had all been for nothing.

It was the same swaggering figure he had seen so often in the propaganda broadcasts, the embodiment of forward-looking Vos. All smooth lines and oiled movements, wealth and power wrapped in cobalt and crimson, smaller in real life but no less charismatic. Contempt flowed off Sarristec's wings like rain. His speech was full of respectful words for the Council, the Circuit-Masters and the Prime but they rang hollow amidst a landslide of Vosian nationalism. Vos had never been the aggressor, came the old cry, it had always acted to protect its people, to build its future, to inspire a better Cybertron. If the Inter-State Accords needed to be bent out of shape to achieve Vos' goals, ran the subtext, that was their failing. Let all change to suit Vos because Vos' aspirations should be those of all peoples.

Familiar rhetoric, delivered with passion and without irony. Perhaps the elegant young jet really believed what he was saying. Perhaps he said it because he knew his power depended on others believing it. Whatever the case, he gave ground to neither opponents nor moderators. Vos was right and that was the end of it.

Xaaron had to turn his face aside to hide his frustration. Had he known, deep down, that the talks would be simply another round of argument? The same tired old lines delivered by fresh players? He had hoped beyond hope that the two sides would come inspired to find a rational, sane way out of the trap into which they were driving themselves. He had hoped they would be able to at least see the trap and want to escape it, no matter what their pride told them.

But here was Lord Sarristec prating and posturing, pouring his spark into slogans and sound-bites, allowing no concessions and no room for debate. He was absurd, regaling the High Council with election rally propaganda. And he was terrifying because he was the face that Vos wished turned towards the whole world, here where the future of the planet lay in the balance.

Opposite, Viilon sat listening, head slightly tilted at exactly the right angle to indicate he was doing so attentively. When Dionnat had told him that the governor was the only member of the Tarnian delegation on his way to the Council Chamber, it had filled Xaaron with dread. Tarn as a single implacable monolith: the image that the Vosians held up at every turn as the reason everyone else should fear their old foe.

The last thing Xaaron wanted was for the rest of the Council to look on Tarn as the threat Vos told them it was and react accordingly. There were many things wrong with Tarn but bitter experience told him trying to level the city would solve none of them.

Sarristec's monologue extolling the righteousness of his city and the barbarity of its neighbour slowed to a conclusion that would have no doubt raised a cheer from the people who had elected him into power. The Council greeted it with strained silence and averted gazes. Many among those representing Vos' allies and trading partners looked uncomfortable now, far more so than they had at the start. Maybe they too were appalled at the unflinching stance their masters were taking.
“We respectfully attest,” Sarristec finished with a graceful bow to those before him, “that Vos will have no part in any resolution that infringes on our right to self-determination and the improvement of our nation, within our boundaries and within the sparks of our citizens, that is the right and privilege of every Cybertronian ignited in the light of the Matrix.”

He resumed his seat amid a flurry of activity. Every comm-channel in the room jammed with frantic chatter between the delegates, Emirates and city leaders babbling to one another while trying to maintain a façade of polite consideration of Vos' position.

Xaaron pressed his fingertips together, half-shuttered his optics, looked across at Viilon and braced himself for whatever was going to come next.

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

Lord Taynset gave the slightest of nods and the smallest of smiles. Sarristec returned the nod and sat back with a feeling of immense satisfaction. The optics of the room were upon him still, the Council and all those city-states fixated on Vos' glory.

It was good. It was a triumph. He had been the one to stand before them and show that his people would not be bowed or pressured or cajoled into being something they were not. He had carried the Vosian standard and planted it before the Prime himself. His ascendancy among the Conclave was assured with that single speech. No one would dare contest his right to stand beside Lord Taynset. And perhaps, one day, far into the future, when the Conclave required a new leader –

Viilon stood and the room grew still. For one uncontrolled instant, Sarristec was almost painfully envious of how easily the hulking purple cyol commanded the attention of everyone present. But of course that was down to fear, not respect or statecraft. Like all Tarnians, the only way for him to interact with the wider world was to try and intimidate it.

That unwavering optic lifted to stare directly at the Prime, as if he were the only important part of the proceedings and the mediators and the Council and the delegations were irrelevant. The old fool that Iacon had elected as their Emirate made a token attempt to regain control of the situation, getting up as well and offering a belated invitation to Viilon to make his address. He was fooling no one.

Viilon continued to stare at the Prime. “Under my leadership,” he began flatly, “Tarn has always acted within the bounds of the treaties that ratified its foundation and within the accords that created the union between Cybertron's many states. Each city has the right to determine its own form of government and to be bound by the operations of that government without external interference. Each city is permitted to improve its infrastructure, to exercise its code of justice and to pursue its social, technological and economic advancement free of external interference. And each city has the right to call on the assistance of its neighbours for support where its own internal institutions are deemed to have failed it. Whatever contradictions these principals create, Tarn has adhered to them. Within those boundaries, it has become ordered and prosperous and has created stability for its neighbours. Tarn has been responsible for fifty-seven deep-space expeditions, forty-nine of which have culminated in the exploitation of resource-rich worlds for the good of Cybertron as a whole. It is now an energon hub that supplies the fuel needs, in whole or in part, for seventy-three separate states.”

The yellow eye contracted, ever so slightly. “Tarn has no need to act aggressively. Tarn has no need to expand beyond the territories it has been allotted. What it has achieved with the resources it commands surpasses the achievements of any state that has attempted to annex, conquer or otherwise place another under its dominion. Many have claimed that the deployment of Tarnian troops in Simfur constitutes the beginning of such an expansion. It does not. Those troops were deployed at the request of legitimately elected members of Simfur society whose statuary right to represent their people was being overridden by a biased and corrupt government in contravention of Article Fifteen of the Inter-State Accords. Tarnian troops remain in place at the request of the properly elected officials to oversee the hand-over of power and the creation of new social and judicial processes. As soon as this is complete, the troops will be withdrawn. This is not a plot to seize power over another state. This is the enactment of a duty that all states share under the agreements and treaties that grant them their authority.”

Now, at last, Viilon's head swung round to look at the Vosian delegation. Directly, it seemed to Sarristec, at him. He quailed under the blank, impersonal stare. Rationally, he knew that he was in no danger, that there was zero actual possibility of the hulking purple monster striking him down then and there. It made no difference to the overwhelming urge to flee, to fly away as fast as he could and not look back.

“In response to the statements made by other city-states that have misinterpreted or chosen to ignore Tarn's intentions, it has been deemed necessary to implement defensive policies. Military operations have already been carried out to secure Tarn's borders against external threats and to prevent its closest allies from being targeted by extremist elements. Security levels have been raised throughout Tarnian territory and travel within Tarn will be restricted until further notice. In addition, I will now make clear certain facts about Tarn's front-line defences in order to deter any rash action on the part of those willing to escalate their irrational fear of Tarn into aggressive action. First – Tarn's borders and airspace are protected by a sensor grid of unparalleled sensitivity incorporating cutting-edge technology developed by myself and the upper cadre of the Tarnian scientific elite. This sensor grid can detect, triangulate and pinpoint for destruction any object that enters without prior authorisation. In addition, it can track back and identify the origin of any such object within zero-point-zero-seven-four hix. Second – should any attack succeed in breaching the outer defence perimeter, automatic systems will lock on to the point of origin of said attack and commence a proportional counterstrike up to and including the launching of photonic-warhead missiles capable of obliterating the infrastructure of any city on Cybertron's surface. Third – advanced weapons systems incorporated into Tarn's long-range weapon stockpiles include anti-countermeasure functions that have a ninety-eight percent chance of fully neutralising any attempt to defend against such a counterstrike.”

The Council chamber rang with silence. No one spoke or moved or dared to take their optics off Viilon for a single instant. Sarristec was sure he felt several important pumps stalling deep within his superstructure. In a flat, emotionless monotone, his voice devoid of any overt anger or menace, the High Governor of Tarn had just threatened every city of Cybertron with utter annihilation if they lifted a finger against him. The shock of it was matched only by the utter horror of realising that he meant every word and, moreover, was coldly certain that he was fully capable of carrying that threat out.

In all his life, Sarristec could not remember ever once being threatened with death. Disgrace yes, poverty occasionally, pain perhaps, but never death. Never the end of his existence and the end of everything he knew. He had absolutely no idea how to respond. This wasn't a political exercise. There was no rhetoric in Viilon's words and he was not taking an extreme position for the sake of negotiating down to a reasonable settlement. This was absolute intent, with no attempt to evade or dissemble or covert the support of others.

It was utterly terrifying.

“Given these facts,” Viilon added as a perfunctory conclusion to his grotesque mockery of a speech, “continued attempts to advance an aggressive policy with regard to Tarn would be highly illogical.” And with that, he sat down, as perfectly composed as when he came in.

Emirate Traachon got up again, visibly shaking. But to Sarristec's astonishment, it was an enraged Lord Omnitron who spoke first, surging from his seat and radiating righteous fury. “How dare Tarn!” he rasped, tracks shifting and snarling, “How dare this unelected tyrant stand here and attempt to intimidate us into doing as he says! How dare he twist every letter of the law to try and justify his unrepentant interference in Simfur! Attack him, he says, and he will respond a thousand-fold! Well know this, Governor Shockwave – Vos stands ready for you! We have our own sensor nets and our own defences and the first Tarnian soldier to set tread or wheel or foot on Vosian ground will unleash the full might of those defences against his masters! You threaten us but we promise you that for every Pit-forsaken weapon you use to kill Vosians, a hundred more will fall upon you!”

Utter chaos erupted the instant Omnitron stopped speaking. Traachon called for order and a dozen other Emirates shouted him down. Violent outbursts were screamed from every corner of the room, declarations of opposition and support mingling in a thundering, unintelligible mass of noise. The Prime's spear struck the floor but was drowned by the pounding of delegates' feet and the flapping of their wings and the revving of their engines.

Sarristec wanted to throw his hands over his audio receptors and seal off his optics and only the vestiges of decorum kept him from doing so. He knew he should be joining in the fray, should be adding his voice to Omnitron's and venting Vos' anger until it echoed above the rest. Yet he was frozen, lost for words and caught in inaction, unable to move or speak. All he could do was watch the conference dissolve out of all semblance of civilisation until only two points of stillness remained untouched.

Viilon, whose gaze moved slowly from face to face, as if assessing the abstract results of some vaguely uninteresting experiment.

And Lord Taynset, who looked from Omnitron to Viilon and to the room at large and smiled the smallest of smiles.

 

Only two more chapters to go after this one to the end of Act 3!

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

3.8 Falling Stars
Vos/Tarn Border
Cybertron

With a growing sense of dread, Optrion watched yet another Vosian troop transport set down and begin offloading a column of mechs and supplies. They were coming every few hecta-cycles now, streaking out from the centre of the city to drop sharply down behind one of the hundreds of forward positions that had been set up along the border. There seemed to be no end to Vos' army – and worse, no end to the Tarnian soldiers lining up to oppose them.

Which was more than could be said about the Defence Directorate forces expected to keep peace between them.

“So, you want to go stand between them and shout 'stop' now or shall we wait for someone to actually start shooting?” Bentwing dead-panned. He was hovering maybe a hix up and seven to the north of Optrion's position, just far back enough from the border for neither side's sensors to be worrying about him.
“At this point, would that do any good?”
“At this point, how can it make anything worse?”
“Good point,” Optrion agreed, “I wish I could think of something that wouldn't.”

The peace conference had done nothing to stem the build-up. Both armies had continued to pour into battle-ready formations, almost absurd in how inexhaustible they seemed. Combined, Megatron and Vieuxuun's battalions numbered maybe seven hundred if you included the support crews as well as the combatants. Vos and Tarn had already committed well over a hundred times as many troops and showed no sign of stopping. At some point, logically, there had to be an end to it. Given how deep the pride and enmity of the two cities ran, Optrion fully expected them to have emptied their streets down to the substrata before either admitted to being the first to be unable to bring more soldiers to the front.

The Defence Directorate had pulled a dozen battalions off other duties ready for the inevitable worst but they remained on standby, unable to move in without the backing of a High Council that was to all appearances in the middle of tearing itself apart. Everyone from the pundits down had gone from wondering what would happen if a war began to wondering how long it would be until it did. According to Ironhide, only the crazy money was on anything longer than a quartex.

“Maybe we should just start praying to Primus and be done with it,” Bentwing suggested, veering west, “That's the traditional way of dealing with lost causes isn't it? Invoke Primus and wait for the ground to open up and give us a mighty sword of light or reformat us all into demi-Primes.”
“It worked for Solus Prime,” Optrion replied, forcing himself to try for a joke.
“Wasn't he the one who declared war on the colour blue?”
“That was Polemaarchos. Widely considered to be the counter-argument to the divinity of the Primes.”
“Ah, right. Good to know. I'd hate to die in the cross-fire with an incomplete knowledge of theology.”

He barrel-rolled and flared his thrusters. “I'll see you back at camp. Need to complete the circuit. Have fun crawling the ground, Commander.”
“Good flying, Commander.”

Optrion watched the jet arc away and quickly become lost among the hundreds of other energy signatures filling the night sky. Rolling down the slope, dutifully logging the progress of the squads he had dispatched on patrol, his thoughts turned back to the sheer hopelessness of it all. As futile as it undoubtedly was, a good part of him really did want to drive straight between the two armies and yell at them to turn back. How could anyone be party to such insanity? How could they not see what they were doing, the chaos and destruction they were on the brink of unleashing?

Nationalistic pride. Anger at crimes committed by the long dead. Unreasoning hate that did not respond to reasoned argument, that did not even see that there was a reasoned argument to be had.

It was not about territory, it was barely even about defending their borders from outsiders. All those soldiers could see was the despised enemy at the other end of their guns, aiming back, a target to be destroyed because it represented everything they insisted they were not. Never mind the blameless who would suffer because of it. Never mind that the enemy thought exactly the same. Kill or be killed, attack or be attacked. Fight for your flag because it's not the other one. And in the end, it would all be for nothing. Or it would start all over again and in another hundred thousand stellar-cycles there would be another war and millions more would perish because of a line on a map.

Optrion gunned his engine that little bit harder and swerved violently out on to the road back to the encampment.

If only he could show them what he saw.

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

“Can't we at least keep the noise down?”

Xaaron twitched with irritation at Traachon's plaintive cry. Beside them, the red and silver guardsfeme retained her steely composure but there was a new edge to her voice when she answered. “If you would like to go out and ask them to leave, Emirate, I will be happy to give you a full armed escort. Unfortunately, as it is, they are have the right to make as much noise as they want.”

A right the crowd that had occupied the Triumphant Steps were exercising to its utmost, sending chants and cries up to echo through the Temple corridors with ever increasing fervour. When Xaaron glanced down through the windows that lined the Thunder Gallery, he could see a seething mass of protesters washing up and down like the tide, banners and placards and towering holo-projections pushing the very limits of what the security forces would let them get away with. There were the pro-Tarnians and the pro-Vosians, the pro-Council supporters and the neo-Anarchists, the Free-Fuelers and the Caste Fanatics, and a dozen more factions besides. Some of those present did not seem able to chose which manifesto to cheer for and were just locking on to whichever took their fancy at any one moment. Others were so passionate about their causes it was a wonder they were not exploding from sheer zealousness. Harassed members of Red Watch haunted the edges of the fray, making an effort to contain it but little else. Though they were hidden from his view by the architecture, Xaaron knew the Temple Guard were doing their famed impression of a wall in front of the entrance itself, no doubt hoping against hope that their impassive appearance would be enough to discourage those who longed to try something reckless.

It was loud and chaotic and utterly and completely irrelevant.

“Thank you for your time, Elita,” he said firmly before Traachon could make any further complaints, “We must not detain you from your duties any longer.”
The tall feme gave a stiff bow and marched away, a pair of equally massive guardsmechs falling in behind her.
Traachon had the decency to look embarrassed. “I'm sorry, but I am finding it so hard to concentrate with all that going on.” He waved vaguely at the windows.
“Funny. I find the imminent obliteration of two of Cybertron's most populous cities focusses my mind wonderfully.”

“I know, I am sorry!” Traachon repeated, flinging up his arms. His face collapsed into gloom and despondency. “How could it have gone so wrong? They cannot possibly want a war!”
“They want to not lose a war. Everything else is irrelevant. So we need to explore other options.”
“What is there left to explore? Xaaron, we have tried everything –”
“No. Not yet. There are still the corporations. The trader guilds. The Defence Directorate. If we could get enough backing for an intervention or an arms limitation pact –”

“Xaaron!” Traachon put a hand on Xaaron's arm, forcing him to slow down. “Please. We may have to accept the inevitable.” He cast blindly around for some scrap of good news. “Or perhaps now, when they see how close they are coming to disaster, the moderates will find their voice. Surely they must?” And this seemed to buoy his mood, a sliver of genuine hope filtering into his voice.

“Which moderates would those be?” Xaaron demanded harshly, shaking his friend off violently, “The Tarnian moderates who have no say in how their city is run? Or the Vosian moderates who have no say in who runs their city?”
The look of hurt that had replaced the hope was supplanted in turn by one of confusion. “What do you mean by that?”
“What do you mean, what do I –” He broke off and stared sharply at Traachon. “You haven't heard, have you?”
“Heard what?”

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

Sarristec stepped down from the shuttle with a feeling of immense relief. The flight back, cooped up, unable to properly stretch his wings, had been abominable. Ever since the conference had broken down, he had been straining under the need to remain collected and hold up Vos' flag. They had the moral high ground, he told himself. Among a fractured, confused council, only Vos saw the way clear and only Vos would be willing to stand up to Viilon's threats. That was what they had to show the world. That was what Sarristec had to believe. Because it had to be true. It was ludicrous to think otherwise and it would be fatal weakness to admit that it could be otherwise and besides, it was true. Any fool could see that. Vosian superiority was self-evident to all right-thinking mechs and only pride kept others from seeing it. Eventually, the other states would see past their own limitations and side against the threat of Tarn's barbarism. One way or another they would have no choice.

And then Sarristec remembered Viilon's calculated certainty, his cold warnings and brutal honesty.

Taynset stepped down beside him, folding his wings tidily behind his back and tilting his head slightly in quiet thought. Back in the Council Chamber, the blue mech had risen to cut through the hubbub with a few carefully chosen words. Omnitron's passion had got the better of him, he had said. Vos deplored the use of violence and acted only to defend itself. Threats could not be ignored but equally, war could never be welcomed. As long as the Council sought a peaceful solution, they would have Vos' support. It was deeply unfortunate however, Taynset had concluded, that Tarn did not share this spirit of cooperation and, with regret, until they did, Vos would be unable to enter into negotiations with them. He had swept from the room without looking back, quiet and masterful amidst the storm of protest. With that one act, he had proven Vos' restraint and unwillingness to compromise their principals, had shown that they would not give in to threats and that they were, ultimately, the only side any Cybertronian could support.

And then Sarristec remembered that little smile Taynset had given when Omnitron had begun the frenzy, so brief it might have been a trick of the light.

He needed time to think, away from the media and the pressures of office. Time to muster his thoughts into coherence and work out what he should do. The chance to power down and let his processors cool.

All luxuries he was unlikely to enjoy. Taynset had been nothing but complimentary about his performance before the Council and had impressed on him how important he was as the face of the Vosian cause. Omnitron would have to step back for a while, Taynset had confided. Too much passion there, with too little control. But Sarristec, well, Sarristec knew how to shape his message to his audience. Sarristec was who the media expected to see and in him, they saw all of Vos. Taynset would be relying on him more than ever before. In many ways, the elder Lord admitted, Sarristec would have to bear the burden of being the voice of the Conclave, a burden he knew the younger jet would carry with aplomb.

Sarristec forced himself to modestly accept the trust being placed in him, no matter how much the thought of it now made him want to scream. It was not as if he really had much choice.

The sight of the Conclave and its attendants assembled to greet them did not improve his mood one jot. The last thing he wanted was to face his peers when his mind was fizzing with uncertainty. There they were though, lined up to welcome the delegation home. Such was his preoccupation that he did not immediately notice that something was off. It only dawned on him slowly that the group was not arranged as it should be, that there were too many guards, that Taynset's diminutive grey attendant had taken an unusually prominent position –

The grey mech stepped forward to greet Taynset before any of the Lords and Sarristec realised that something was seriously wrong.

Taynset listened with concern to his flunky, then cast an optic towards one of the two groups into which the Conclave had been split. Vvnet was there, backed by Geneion, Telmuruus and half a dozen others. The bulk of the guards had them surrounded, energy-pikes angled inward.

“My friends,” said Taynset gravely, “I do not quite believe what I am being told. It is a betrayal. There is no other word for it.”
“It was a vote of no confidence,” Vvnet growled back, arms folded. “A vote of no confidence in your leadership,” she clarified, louder, unashamed.
“While I was not present to contest it. While I was distracted by issues of state. That is not a vote, my Lord Vvnet. That is a coup.”
The feme's optics were slits. “You are taking us into a war we cannot possibly win! You may have dazzled your little collection of shooting stars and old fools into thinking this is going to be glorious but some of us can see things as they really are.” Her voice rose, loud and clear, carrying right across the landing pad. “Lord Taynset is leading us into destruction! We will gain nothing from open conflict with Tarn and will lose our credibility with all those we consider allies! If any of you have any shred of true patriotism in you, you will help us stop this before it is too late!”

Everyone looked nervously at everyone else. No one dared move, much less speak. Sarristec was rooted to the spot, afraid to twitch lest it be interpreted the wrong way. He was uncomfortably aware of the grey mech's optics scanning lazily to and fro. There was something extremely unpleasant behind that bland stare.

Taynset hummed sadly and shook his head. “This is most regrettable,” he said softly “Most regrettable. You are the last people I would have expected to abandon their principals for political greed. And to do so when we need your support the most. I am sorry. I truly am. I see no choice but to have you removed from the Conclave pending an investigation into this most unfortunate and misguided act. For the sake of the people, you must do this voluntarily and without objection. Perhaps when all this is over we can all re-evaluate our positions. Until then, I pray that you will reflect upon your loyalty to this great city and how far you have allowed yourselves to stray from it.”

Politely yet forcefully, the guards began to move Vvnet's people back into the tower. She fixed Taynset with one last vicious glare before jerking her head aside and marching away, stiff, straight backed, wearing her contempt like a cloak.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Defence Directorate Command Platform
Vos/Tarn Border
Cybertron

“Whatever authority the Civic Guard had in the Qosho region, it has now evaporated.” Deca Magnus said it with angry resignation. Even through a hologram, bitter powerlessness radiated from him. “We just don't have the resources on the ground to help you. The most we could offer would be disaster relief afterwards.”
“We have the troops to intervene but we have no pretext to send them in.” Viktoleo flicked invisible dust dismissively from the yellow plates on his forearm. “Unless anyone thinks Vos and Tarn will take kindly to training exercises right outside their territory?”
“There are Air Guardians and heavy transports lining up to volunteer for a rapid deployment mission,” Deftwing countered, “The instant the word is given, they'll be in the air.”
“I hope they will be disappointed,” Vieuxuun quipped, lightly adjusting the tactical display, “The build-up remains steady and there is no sign of any movement towards cross the border from either side. And with the Council still in session –”
“The Council remains in session because it is being torn in three different directions,” Megatron snapped, frustration too great to be held in check any longer. His fingers ground against his palms. Day after day they went through the same charade, making empty plans and longing for support they did not have while the politicians busied themselves a mockery of their every last effort. “Is there no way we can bypass them?” he demanded, “There must be some grounds for bringing in a larger force.”

Everyone turned to look at Supreme Commander Grandus, who shook his head ponderously. “Our mandate is too explicit. Unless there is a clear and imminent danger to Cybertron as a whole, we must have a majority of the Council authorising a Defence Directorate operation.”
Megatron gestured violently, dashing parts of the tactical map to pixels. “And what is this if not an imminent danger to Cybertron?”
“Commander Megatron, please!” Scandalised, Vieuxuun held up his hands. “Consider what you are saying!”
“I think we're all considering it, Field Commander,” Grandus rumbled darkly, “Megatron makes a good point. I will be putting it forcibly to whichever Council members will answer my calls.”
“I will be doing the same with a group of city leaders in three deca-cycles,” the Magnus put in, “With luck I will be able to get their agreement to move Guardsmechs into a better position to assist you. Either that or they'll beg me to send them more white-and-blues in case Vos and/or Tarn tries to annex them.”
“Then until we do this again tomorrow.” Viktoleo touched his crest. “Primus-In-Many-Forms smile on us all.”

The holograms winked out one by one and Megatron rested his fists on the projector table. He remembered once when he had been very young listening to a fan-winged avir preach the Primal Creed. Over the din of a packed market place, he had recited the Covenants to a knot of apathetic mechs and told them that their lives were sacred things that they were privileged to have, that they were all part of a whole greater than they could conceived, that Primus' spark existed in all of them and should be cherished. The avir had been convinced, it seemed, that everything was part of a single divine machine and whatever suffering was endured by the components of that machine, the end was worth it. Ultimately, Primus would bring all the children of Cyberton back to the Allspark.

Megatron wondered what the sanctimonious bird would have thought had he seen the map with its neat lines of killers waiting impatiently to be unleashed. Was this part of Primus' plan too? At the time, barely scratching an existence in Tarn's over-crowded factory districts, those beliefs had seemed the deranged optimism of the truly desperate. Now they were laughable.

If Primus truly cared for the children of Cyberton, there would be a wall of peacekeepers between Vos and Tarn sixty hix high.

Instead, the only thing there was a token gesture and a smouldering pile of deranged optimism.

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

“The Brixian Bulletin is asking for a quote, my Lord, and there has been a request for you to attend an emergency meeting of the Union Committee to be held tomorrow. You could make it, however it would mean delaying the tour of the Avenix Plaza Archive's deep defence chambers by a hecta-cycle. And I have finished compiling those statistics your requested. They have been uploaded to your personal database.”

The bronze attendant, who had not stopped prattling on since the Conclave had dispersed, finally shut up. Such was his preoccupation that it took Sarristec a good two micro-cycles to absorb the silence and several more to respond appropriately. “Thank you . . . erm . . . Zacarii. Give them the generic line about confidence in the crisis. And decline the invitation. The Archive's more important than a collection of – than the Unions. Give my apologies. Tell them I am working to ensure their prosperity.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“And from now on, I will not be making any public appearances that are not absolutely essential to the war effort. I don't have time to deal with petty engagements!”
“War effort, my Lord?”

Sarristec looked around sharply, cursing his ill-chosen words. Zacarii's uninspired features were pulled into a perplexed frown. Everyone might be expecting a war, might know full well just how close it was, but you sure as Pit did not go around saying so. “The effort to avoid a war. I meant – I said, the effort to avoid a war.”
“Yes, my Lord.” The attendant composed himself back into respectful unobtrusiveness. “Will you be requiring my services further this evening, my Lord?”
“What? No. No I won't. Thank you. You're dismissed.”
“Very good, my Lord.”

Zacarii glided away, displaying no evidence whatever of the burdens of office and state. Naturally. He wasn't the one expected to bear them, was he? All he had to do was take messages and oil the cogs of government. A simple life for a simple mind. Typical of those who could not lead themselves.

Safe inside his office, the door sealed against the world, Sarristec collapsed into his chair like a heap of disconnected spares. Head lolling, he let out a slow grinding moan. There was so much to be done and yet he did not have the will to do it. The Conclave were relying on him to be the face they turned to the world. The much-reduced Conclave. The Conclave that hardly dared voice anything other than total support for Lord Taynset.

No! He could not afford to think like that. Taynset knew what he was doing. He had led Vos for hundreds of stellar-cycles and it was his hands that had dragged a city that had languished in decadence up into a position of power and influence, his hands that had shaped it into a shining beacon of the future, his hands that had brought them to the brink of –

“What statistics?”

Jerked clean out of his line of thought, Sarristec stared dumbly at his desk. The statistics he had asked for. That was what whatever-his-name-was had said. But Sarristec could not remember asking for any statistics. Certainly not recently, certainly not since he had returned from Iacon. He had been far too busy for research. Media appearances alone had consumed almost all of the time not spent in the Conclave chamber.

Some stupid mistake? Obviously the attendant had blundered. Except when Sarristec checked the order log, he found an entry requesting a download of statistics for the import of self-actuating stark bolts from Kalis over the past mega-cycle. Which was, to his certain knowledge, a topic in which no one had the slightest interest, least of all him.

And yet there the order was and there was the data, dutifully downloaded for his perusal.

Paranoia, fuelled by too much stress and too little rest, kicked in immediately. Was it a viral bomb, primed to frag his consciousness into random code? A spy program designed to lure him in and duplicate all his innermost secrets for public dispersal? A crank propaganda burst ready to incriminate him in some crazy plot to bring about religious reform? If he had been thinking straight, he would have immediately called security and gotten a viral disposal officer to come in and deal with it. Instead, he just sat there and fretted, rolling one disastrous scenario after another around his mind.

A state of affairs that was cut short when the data package unwound itself and snaked into the nearest holo-projector.

Sarristec stumbled from his chair as an image of Vvnet winked into existence before him. She looked as worn and tired as he felt, her optics dimmed and her fins flattened to her body. When she spoke, though, it was with a degree of command he could not recall her ever possessing before. “Don't cry out.”

His vocaliser seized up half-way through forming a shocked exclamation. Quite without intending to, he clamped his mouth tight shut.

The hologram put its hands on its hips. “You're probably surprised to see me. If there is something capable of thought in that pretty frame of yours, it's probably wondering how I've managed to get this message out of house arrest. Let's just say that Taynset is not as all seeing as he likes to imagine he is. Now. I don't have long and you don't have a very great attention span so let me make this quick: high and mighty my Lord Taynset is going to destroy us all and, Primus help every one of us, you are the only one left who has a chance of stopping him.”

A faint squeak escaped Sarristec's mouth.
“The truth is,” Vvnet went on, “you are the most obnoxious, conceited, self-serving, self-deluding attention seeker it has ever been my misfortune to meet. Which means that if someone is about to cause you harm, you will turn on them like a cornered turbo-fox.” She shifted her stance, leaning back a little. “So I want you to consider very carefully what is happening. Even to you, it must be obvious by now. He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us. Taynset is using you to further his own agenda and once he is done with you, you will be tossed aside.” A brittle smile crossed her face. “My use to him was at an end when he realised I couldn't be pushed into going along with his big plan. And you're probably thinking that's a reason to be a good little jet and do as you're told. But as I said, even to you it must be obvious that whatever Taynset hopes to get out of all this, he is going to drag us down to the Pit with him. You think we'll be safe from Tarn because of our missile grid? You think that'll stop Viilon flattening every spire to powder? Taynset is going to kill us all and he needs to be stopped.”

Vvnet's dismissive air was completely gone now. She was looking at him – though of course she wasn't really – with a kind of intense desperation, as if trying to make him do what she wanted through transmitted force of will. “You can stop him,” she said quietly, “He's done his work too well with you. You're adored, a symbol of the nation, the pride of Vos itself. Speak out! Speak out now and condemn him, as publicly as possible. Use that stirring voice of yours, appeal to the sparks of the Vosian people, say whatever it takes but get people doubting! Get them to see the mech behind the mech for what he truly is! Bring all those shadow dealings out into the open! And if we're lucky, we might just avoid extinction. And you –” Then hologram jabbed a finger straight at him. “You might just live to get another coat of enamel. Go on, shooting star. Time to save yourself!”

The image snapped off as abruptly as it had appeared.

Sarristec sunk slowly to the floor and buried his head in his hands.

 

3.9 Diplomacy by Another Means
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

“The motion that a contingent of Defence Directorate observers be sent in to oversee a bilateral scale down in the military build-up is…” Traachon paused, perhaps in desperate hope that the outcome of the vote would change if he strung the announcement out long enough. “…defeated.”
This barely caused a stir among the rest of the Council. Graviitus became a little more smug, Haacano a little less tense. Both quickly returned to mutual animosity, metaphorically gathering their strength for the next argument.

Not that it would really be much of an argument. Whatever semblance of formal debate remained was squandered on the minutiae of proposals that were inevitably shot down by one or both of the factions. Those factions were, admittedly, dwindling in size. A number of states had visibly jettisoned their allegiance to Vos or Tarn in favour of more self-evidently stable allies. This did little to shift the balance of power in the Council, however, since by the same reasoning none of them wished to oppose their former partners.

Xaaron folded his hands together and shuttered his optics. Endless notes and reports filled his mind. At a glance, he could track the interplay of political alignments, the movement of the trading markets, the distribution of planetary defence forces, the latest sporting results from the Protihexian orbital tracks – anything and everything that might influence the next few days. And behind it all, behind all the background noise of a planet trying to go about its ordinary business, real-time updates from the Vos/Tarn border hovered like some vast avian predator – the only thing in the whole mass of information that really, truly mattered.

The future of Cybertron balanced on that thin strip of land. Thousands of hix away, safe inside Iacon's golden walls, the Council sat and bickered. On the front, peering anxiously out of his barricade or over the top of his gunnery platform, some young soldier was becoming impatient. Some commander was hoping that the enemy would make a move so she could prove her mettle. Someone, somewhere, was ready to snap.

Haacano was beginning another call for the Vosians to retreat. To Xaaron's eyes, he was looking increasingly desperate. Even if he supported the governor's policies, he clearly appreciated just how poorly Viilon's speech had been received. It was just unfortunate that his defensiveness translated to increasing displays of exasperation and hostility, to the point where, if he had stood up and accused Vos of stealing energy-boosters from protoforms, it would not have come as a great surprise.

Graviitus meanwhile was glowing with smugness and the satisfaction of someone who knows he just has to let his opponent keep talking to win, an assumption that was having more or less the same effect as the Tarnian threats of retaliation. No one could be sure what Vos would do to those who did not accept its righteousness and no one was in a hurry to find out.

Round and round they went, saying much and going nowhere. Xaaron's head filled with memories of burning towers and burning mechs. In his chest, he felt again the twisting blow of a bomb-burst, the shock wave of a detonation so close it scoured the armour from his back. He saw friends and enemies alike disappearing beneath the rubble. He tasted the stench of smoke and ignited fuel.

Haacano was railing against Vosian arrogance. Graviitus was scoffing at Tarnian belligerence.

And they. Would. Not. Stop.

“Enough!”

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

“Come in, my Lord Sarristec. I've been expecting you.” Taynset was standing by the windows, optics turned to the sea of minarets. He had a goblet of high-grade energon in his hand, half-raised to his mouth.

Sarristec froze on the threshold. All of a sudden the elegant office and the elegant mech within seemed awfully like a trap waiting to be sprung. Every sense was screaming at him to get out of there, to turn and run before it was too late.

Why? Nothing had changed, had it? There was nothing more sinister in Lord Taynset's appearance than there had been on so many past visits. This was the inner sanctum, the place of true power in Vos but that was where Sarristec belonged. Taynset had as much as said so. Hadn't he?

Forcing his legs to function properly, he stepped inside and walked slowly towards the windows. The door slid silently shut behind him and then the room was a box, locked tight. No way in. No way out.

His feet were like blocks of lead, awkward and unwieldy. Taynset had not even turned to look at him yet Sarristec felt as if he was at the centre of a packed arena, a million people staring at him. Not adoring or cheering his every word, just...staring. When he threw a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the grey flunky standing quietly in the corner, his fuel pump nearly gave out in fright. He turned his head quickly away, wishing the mad wish that no one was there.

After an eternity of faltering steps, he was at Taynset's side. The blue flyer still did not look at him. The goblet hovered where it was, motion arrested before its time.

“My Lord.” Sarristec bowed and flashed a humble smile. “Forgive the intrusion. There is a matter of some urgency I must bring to your attention. I have...that is to say, certain files have been forced upon me. I fear that...which is to say, I am concerned that there are factions within Vos that are continuing to –”
“Vvnet,” Taynset said, lifting the energon and sipping it at last, “Yes. I know.”
“Ah.” Panic was creeping into Sarristec's processors now. The panic of not knowing where one stood, of not knowing the right answer. “Well, naturally I had to bring it to your attention. That there was a risk that these foul lies could escape into the public sphere, that I could have been – that she could have tried to make me act against you – the very idea that I could even begin to contemplate doing what she suggested – I had to come to you immediately so that we could stop this before it –”

Slowly, Taynset turned and looked him full in the face. His ruby optics glowed hypnotically, polished crest reflecting some of the sunset outside. “You came because you had to confront me,” he explained, as one might explain gravity, “Because your ego would not allow you to do anything else. My Lord Sarristec must be the one to face the accused and persuade himself of innocent or guilt. My Lord Sarristec could never take the word of another or accept that his every success may have been engineered for the ambitions of another.” He lifted the goblet again, tilting it in ironic salute. “My Lord Sarristec is obviously the centre of the universe.”

Dumbfounded, Sarristec tried to voice some sort of protest, managing a few spluttering syllables that Taynset cut off with a waved hand. He moved to his desk and set the goblet down gently. Another brief gesture summoned a flock of holograms, abstract diagrams and readouts that Sarristec was too stunned to make any sense of. The High Lord of Vos settled himself in his chair, wings flapping once.

“It is always the same,” he said, apparently to the holograms, “They never can see past their own pretensions. They always assume that they are favoured because they are special.”
“Special?” Sarristec repeated, then louder, “Pretensions?!” Much to his own surprise, he sounded angry. “What are you talking about?” He was angry. How dare Taynset sit there and – “I am a Lord of Vos! Do you have any idea of how hard I worked to get where I am?! I was elected on my merits! I earned this position!”
“Perhaps,” Taynset conceded, “but only because I allowed it.”
“Allowed it?!”
“Yes.” The blue mech pressed the tips of his fingers together. “This is my city. It has been for a very long time. Nothing of any significance happens here without my permission.”
“The Conclave rules Vos! The Elite! We are the few who speak for the many, we are the ones who lead our people –”

Softly, Taynset began to laugh.

Infuriated by the sound, Sarristec lurched forward a few steps. A movement on the edge of his vision brought him up sharply. The grey mech in the corner nodded once and sank back into a neutral stance, the long-nosed blaster vanishing back into his arm. Sarristec stood very still, mid-stride, all his anger transformed into joint-locking terror. “We're not irrelevant...” he managed to say, pathetically, “I am not irrelevant...”

“No. No, I suppose not. Within strict limits, you are very relevant.” Taynset shrugged. “You are a voice. An attractive voice, a beautiful, passionate, stirring voice perhaps. But ultimately, that is all you are. That is all I have ever required of you. Every rally, every speech – the words were always be of my choosing.”
“You – you used me?!” He is using you, little shooting star, just like he's using everyone of us. That was what Vvnet had said. Maybe he had half-known that she was right, but Sarristec had not believed Taynset would acknowledge it aloud. Had wanted to believe he never would. “You used all of us?”

“Yes.” Blunt. Callous. Honest. A single word to blow apart every last one of Sarristec's dreams.

In that moment, he wanted to kill Taynset more than anything he had ever wanted before in his life.

“Why?” he demanded, taking another step, beyond caring about the consequences, “Why?!”
Taynset's serene expression disintegrated. A sneer warped his face, twisting the mask of quiet wisdom with disgust. “To save Vos once and for all! To make this city greater than any other!”

A map rose out of the holographic cloud, the Qosho region in its entirety spreading out before them. “All of this is ours by right! Yet none of those who came before me were strong enough to claim it! Every concession they made to the Council, every treaty they signed with that festering sink hole of a city – all the weakness they showed – it cost us the glory we should have seized millennia ago! There should be no Tarn! There should only ever have been Vos!” Taynset's fist slammed into his desk. “We became a second-rate power, living in fear of that one-eyed emotionless freak!”

“Buh-but we know that!” Sarristec wailed, “We wanted to take Vos into the future, become the greatest city on the planet – we all wanted that! I wanted that! I've always wanted that!”
“Oh yes.” Taynset's voice dropped back down to a purr. “Oh yes, you want it. You all want it. But not a single one of you was ever prepared to do what was necessary to achieve it.”

“To do...” Uncomprehending, Sarristec leaned closer. “What do you mean? We would have done anything. What weren't we prepared to do?”

“This,” Taynset said and touched a button on the desk.

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

Xaaron had the Council's full attention. His utter disregard for protocol by actually standing and striding into the middle of the circle guaranteed that. “Enough,” he repeated in a slightly calmer tone, “We have heard these arguments over and over again. We have dissected them, demolished them, resurrected them and reiterated them until they have lost all meaning. This is all just noise! We are achieving nothing! Is this the leadership that Cybertron looks to us for?”

Discontented murmuring rose from the seats around him. He did not let them interrupt him. “In all the mega-cycles I have sat in this chamber, I have never before felt such shame at doing so. We are charged with carrying our city's voices. Each of us represents a government charged, in its turn, with supporting the hopes and wishes of our peoples, with guiding and protecting them and ruling over them with wisdom and respect. What does it say about us, our cities and our people that we are bickering over whether a war should be prevented? Not how to prevent it. Not what must be done to prevent it. But whether we should stop it at all! Where is the commitment to peace and unity on which this Council was founded? Where is the courage to admit that we have allowed this to go too far and to set about righting our mistakes?”

Graviitus began to speak, as did Haacano and they glared rockets at each other. Emirates of cities still aligned with Vos and Tarn exchanged nervous glances, the aether around them alive with crosstalk and instructions from home.

Xaaron steeled himself and continued. “The truth is that we have already failed. We have allowed ourselves to fall to infighting, to be swayed by – no!” he thundered over the chorus of angry shouts, drowning them by sheer volume, “No! We have failed! We failed the moment we did not step back from this brink, the moment we did not unite and say to Tarn and to Vos, no more! We failed when we convinced ourselves that it was better to go along with them than to tell them that we would not stand for their flouting every treaty, every accord and every Covenant in the name of power!”

He looked around slowly, daring any of them to shout him down. None of them moved, not even Graviitus.

“So now I say we have forfeited our authority. We have lost the right to decide what is to be done because we cannot be trusted to do what is right and necessary. But there is one left who does have that right, who can do what is right, who must act when we cannot.” Xaaron turned and reached out his hand to the throne, so long forgotten outside the little political wars. “My Prime. In the name of Cybertron itself and all the children of Primus, I call on you to use your Right of Veto. Command the withdrawal of Vosian and Tarnian troops. Send in the Defence Directorate peacekeepers. Forbid this war, now, before it is too late. In the name of life itself, do what your Council cannot. Stop this madness.”

Sentinel did not react at first. His white optics remained distant and his great frame remained still, as if it too were part of the throne and the Temple around him. He did not look up, did not give any indication that he had heard anything that had transpired. Horror mounted within Xaaron as he considered what would happen if his words really had had no effect.

And then the Prime's hand tightened on the shaft of his spear. With monumental solemnity, he rose to his feet, shedding his apathy like breaking ice. Planting his feet and lifting his spear from the floor, his eyes lighting anew with the fire of the Matrix, he spoke, his words filling the chamber as though it were the Temple itself come alive. “The Emirate of Nova Cronum is right. For too long I have sat and watched. There will be no war. Defence Directorate Command!”

Beams of light burst from the walls, weaving a hologram in the air above the circle. Three mechs, the Supreme Commanders of Cybertron's combined military, each staring in astonishment at the image of the Prime. “Commanders,” Prime said, “Hear me –”

An alarm cut him off. Grandus and Deftwing turned away for a moment, looking at something out of the holo-field. When they looked back, one after the other, their faces were grim. “Forgive me, my Prime,” Deftwing said, unnaturally calm, “but please make this quick. Tarnian forces have just crossed the Vos border.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Palace of Law
Vos
Cybertron

Sarristec watched in utter confusion as icons representing Tarnian tank regiments slid inexorably across the line that divided one city from the other. Taynset merely nodded, as if this was just the final piece of some puzzle sliding neatly into place.

“How...” It was hard to know how to ask the question, let alone contemplate an answer. “How did you do that? How could you do that?!”
Taynset hummed contentedly and smiled slightly. “A Tarnian communications encoder. Stolen from the forces deployed in Simfur under the cover of apparent sabotage. The coding on the transmission was probably not entirely accurate but under the circumstances, that did not matter. Those soldiers were just waiting for an excuse to attack.”
“But –” Sarristec tried to grasp what he was hearing. “You can't have known that would work! Those are trained soldiers – Viilon's soldiers – they're – they wouldn't – you couldn't have just...told them to do what you wanted!”
“It is all a matter of background noise,” Taynset said, tapping his fingers on his knee, “That is something Viilon has never really understood. He can build a perfect society along logical, rational lines, an emotionless city, free of distraction or complication or beauty. But he cannot control what people think. What they believe. What they feel. If the Tarnian people are angry, confused, frightened, ready to do anything to protect themselves...why then all the governor's tactical genius and precisely calculated plans are irrelevant. All undone by simple emotion. I just had to create atmosphere in which every Tarnian on that front line would obey any order given to them, so long as it was 'attack'.”

It all slotted together in Sarristec's mind. In an instant, he knew what Taynset had done, as though it had already been explained. As if he had known all along. “The Mahlex District bombing. That...that started all this. That really was your doing?”
“Indirectly. I planted the idea. Gellrauon was pathetically eager to strike a blow against the enemy. Although I will grant that he almost did too good a job. His hired thugs were excellent at covering their tracks. Whisper there had to ensure that they did not properly dispose of one of their victims, to make certain they would be discovered.”
The grey mech in the corner radiated satisfaction without his expression actually changing by more than a minuscule degree. Sarristec moved as far away from him as he dared, backing up against the windows.

“You can't have been sure it would have been found out,” he insisted, “You can't have been sure about anything that happened afterwards! Are you telling me you gambled Vos' future on some crazy scheme to make the Tarnians think we were behind something while it looked to everyone else that we weren't?”
“Crazy?” Taynset seemed to consider the word. “No, I do not believe it could be called 'crazy'. Viilon is essentially predictable. I knew I could trust in his ability to uncover any scheme launched against him so I made a virtue of that. Besides, I had you. Even without that explosion, your oration would have had the most steadfast of Tarnian troopers reduced to rank paranoia.”

Sarristec eyed the map, on which icons on both sides of the border were now writhing about and occasionally disappearing in flashes of casualty numbers. “So what now? You've started a war? Was the plan? Is that what all this has gotten you? Vosians dying at the hands of Tarnians?”
“Not at all.” Taynset smiled again. “All this, as you put it, has gotten me a reason to fulfil our promise.” His face darkened. “For every weapon fired, let a hundred more fall upon them.”

New displays appeared, numbers rapidly scrolling down to zero, range-finders, authorisation codes. On the map, target locks materialised above Tarn.

“No!” Sarristec spun round in horror to see the missiles screaming up into the deepening night, flung high over the western horizon. The first salvo was barely out of sight when a second shot up, then a third, the flights so thick they blotted out the evening stars.
“Don't panic, my Lord Sarristec,” Taynset soothed from behind him, “Our missiles contain enough anti-detection technology that Tarn's defences will not know they are there until they burst on the roof of the Central Processing Hub. Soon all that will be left of Viilon's Logical Revolution will be dust and ashes.”
“No,” Sarristec repeated, remembering when Lord Myyoc had told them about the missiles, about the technology used to hide them from detection, “The Dirvatech baffles. They were used in the bombing. Viilon might have found a way around them!” He looked back at Taynset, imploring him to see the truth. “They'll be detected! Don't you see? They'll be detected before they can destroy Tarn's ability to fire back! They'll fire on us, they'll send missiles back, photon warheads – you've got to stop it! Now! Cancel the attack, detonate the missiles before they hit, it's our only chance!”

But Taynset was not even listening to him any more. He was watching the display with rapt attention, waiting for the explosions that would level Tarn, content that his plans were about to come to pass. And there was 'Whisper', gun extended again, ready to spring forward and prevent any interference.

It was too late anyway. The missiles would already have reached their targets. Yes, there it was, the first bloom of heat and destruction, redrawing the map.

It was too late.

Sarristec transformed, unthinking panic driving him in a way no emotion had ever done so before. He pushed his thrusters as far as they would go, further, until he could feel his internals start to melt, and hurled himself at the windows. The pain of the impact was excruciating but the toughened panes shattered and the tower's defences were all designed to stop outside attack and then there was nothing to stop him.

Free, his engines shrieking in agony, he flew. He flew as fast and hard as he could, blindly, desperate to escape, knowing without a shadow of a doubt he would not.

Somewhere, high above, he imagined he could hear a thin whistling, just audible over the rush of air over his own wings. The whistling of something falling, closer and closer, phenomenally fast.

Then a sound like the sun ripping in half tore the world to cinders and the sky caught fire and all was light.

 

...............wow...........just wow...............

 

And here we have the epilogue - with which, Act 3 is concluded. I have started writing Act 4 but it's slow going at the moment, so I probably won't start posting that for another month or two, to give myself a chance to build up some more chapters in the bank.

Until then, thanks to everyone who's been reading!

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


3.10: Second Strike
Defence Directorate Command Platform
Vos/Tarn Border
Cybertron

Ravage sprang out into the new-born evening and galloped to Megatron's side, head ringing with alarms and warnings. His commander was already issuing orders, voice booming across the camp as, high above on the Kahlian Ridge, gunfire ripped through the darkness.

“Optrion, take the advance force in on wheels and commence rapid strikes on all military targets. Maximum shock charges wherever possible, full-weapons free if necessary.” He put a hand on the red and blue mech's shoulder. “I'm trusting you to do what has to be done.”
The Iaconian saluted quickly, battle-mask sealing over his face. “I won't let you down, sir,” he promised and flipped into truck mode, gunning his engine and racing away, the rest of his troops falling in behind him.

Megatron spun to the flyers and Air Guardians. “Bentwing, Contrail, get your mechs airborne ready to intercept a missile salvo. Go now, while we still have –”
“Stop!”

Vieuxuun stormed down the platform steps gesturing frantically. “Stop this at once! We have no authority! The Council has not –”
“The Council be damned!” Megatron roared, “Bentwing, go – all of you go! Stop those missiles!”
“That is an illegal command!” Vieuxuun shouted, jabbing a finger at the ground. “Anyone who obeys will be breaking their oath as a member of the Defence Directorate!”
“Bentwing, GO!”

The veteran flyer hesitated for a fraction of a micro-cycle, then flung himself into the air, folding into jet form, leaping towards the border –

A single shot punctured his fuselage just behind the nose-cone. The cobalt jet pitched dramatically and plunged back to the ground, striking hard enough to break open. An instant later, a line of fire coursed across his back, his fuel igniting under his skin. His body exploded into flames and thick, acrid smoke.

Those watching were a tableau, Megatron's mouth still open to shout his commands, Contrail halfway transformed, Vieuxuun's particle cannon glowing with the heat of the shot.

Ravage sprang. He slammed into the green Field Commander, claws sinking deep into parade-ground bright armour. His jaws closed around the particle cannon and ripped it free, flinging it away. A single slash of his tail sliced across Vieuxuun's legs, cutting deep, destroying essential mechanisms. They went down hard and Ravage pinned him to the ground, teeth held ready above his face.

“Hold him there!” Megatron bellowed, “Contrail, take the flyers NOW! Stop those missiles!”
Already it was too late. Ravage could hear the platform's sensors tracking launches across Vos, faulting as they tried to lock on to the missiles themselves. Barely a cycle later, Tarn's counter strike was away, just as slippery, just as deadly.

The centre of Tarn became a new star, whole buildings subliming into metallic gases. The heart of Vos vanished, spires flattened, minarets melted, palaces and plazas reduced to indistinguishable dust. Megatron stood silhouetted against twin suns, silver body blazing with reflected fire, every line quivering with helpless, futile rage.

Now, Ravage thought, digging his claws deeper into Vieuxuun's worthless hide, now at last my commander, you see.

At last you see how far Cybertron has fallen.

And at last you see what you must do to save it.

End of Act 3​

 

We're back! And on Cybertron, only cycles have passed since I left you....

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.0: After-image
Qosho Region
Cybertron

Within three cycles, the cities of Tarn and Vos had ceased to exist. When the light from the explosions cleared, what was left lay shattered and broken around the rims of the craters, wreathed in smoke and dust billowing up from the gaping wounds in the landscape. Along the Vosian coast, the heat boiled the Iron Sea to vapour. In Tarn's industrial out-lands, factories popped as cleanly as overheated rivets. Munitions, armed and ready for a pitched battle that never came, combusted in their silos, opening fresh chasms in the scorched ground.

Everywhere, people died. Those caught at ground zero were gone in an instant. Those unfortunate enough to be just outside the initial blasts faded more slowly, becoming their own funeral pyres as their fuel ignited in their bodies. Thousands more were left crushed under the wreckage, their lives seeping away as their consciousnesses shattered and distorted with the damage. By the time the echoes of the detonating photon bombs reached Tagen, five million people had been snuffed out. By the time the shock waves reached Kalis, another three hundred thousand had joined them in the Allspark.

The ground would not cool properly for days. From space, the glow of molten metal was a double blotch smeared across three continental plates. They would be distorted forever, marking a million stellar-cycles of history more indelibly than any tower or orbital hub.

Vos had been a jewel, a hymn to flight. Tarn had been a machine, a search for scientific perfection. In their time, they had been among the greatest cities ever built. Their enmity had shaped the world around them. Who would finally emerge from the inevitable conflict had been a topic of speculation and debate for mega-cycles.

Now the academics finally had their answer.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Council Chamber
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron

The projectors filled the air above the circle with an unrelenting stream of devastation. Every sky-spy that got through the electromagnetic storm revealed some fresh scene of horror until it became impossible to distinguish the two cities any more and they threatened to blur into a single, immense vision of the Pit itself.

Xaaron let his optics fall. On opposite sides of the Council, the Emirates of Vos and Tarn watched their cities burn, their endless arguments finally rendered utterly meaningless.
“Vosian scum!” Hacaano howled, surging from his seat, transforming to tank mode as he came.
“Barbarians!” Graviitus rose into the air, thrusters blazing, wings snapping open.

Sentinel Prime's spear struck the floor like thunder. “SILENCE!”

They looked up at him in shock and dread, their anger crumbling into hopelessness. The spear slashed downwards in an arc of crackling light. “BEGONE FROM THIS PLACE! For the slaughter they have unleashed on their own citizens, Vos and Tarn are forever expelled from this Council!”
Dignity shredded, shame etched on their faces, the two mechs stumbled out of the circle and half-ran to the doors. They threw despairing looks back at the Prime and, seeing no mercy there, fled, their footsteps echoing back along the Temple's cavernous hallways.

His mouth set grimly, Sentinel spoke to the Supreme Commanders whose holograms still haunted the aether above the Council. “The Defence Directorate will deploy immediately to render aid to those caught up in this atrocity. You will disarm and contain any and all Vos and Tarn soldiers still functional and will extract all survivors to safety. Deca Magnus!”

Another hologram flared into existence, the massive figure of the Magnus jittering and shimmering with movement as it rendered him in the middle of frantic coordination. He bowed the briefest of bows to Sentinel. “My Prime. Civic Guard units are on route to the disaster zone. Special medical teams have already reached the Qosho Region and will be on the ground in less then two deca-cycles.”
“We are grateful for your swiftness of action, Magnus. Defence Directorate forces are on their way as well.”
Magnus nodded. “So I understand. That's good. We are going to need as much help as we can get. Now, forgive me, my Prime, I am boarding a flight as we speak –”
“Go well. You have the full backing of the Council. Whatever you need, you shall have.”

Deca's image vanished and Xaaron wondered if the practical-minded mech believed that the Council really would be bound by that promise – if anyone from the highest Elite to the lowest labour grade would believe it. On recent evidence, it would have been easy to think otherwise. Even the Prime's intervention had come so late in the day as to be ultimately useless.

Sacred trusts had been shattered, perhaps irrevocably. The consequences were appalling and were counted in the number of the dead. To set it all right was going to take a great deal of will and effort, more perhaps than Cybertron's many governments had shown since their foundations.

Xaaron quietly resumed his seat and signalled for his brother Emirates' attention.

There was no more time to waste.

 

whistle ~

 

4.1: Fallout
Vos/Tarn border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

A shell whizzed over Optrion's head, just missing his right antenna, and blew a massive hole out of an already-gutted tower on the other side of the expressway. The ruin gave way with a tremendous screech, slumping forward and cascading into destruction. Flinging himself flat, Optrion tried to get a proper lock on the gunner. With all the interference kicked up by the dust and the after-effects of the bombs, it was near impossible but he finally managed to punch through the electromagnetic blizzard enough to make out a tight knot of energy signatures, less than half a hix ahead.

Charging his gun, cycling in a fresh accelerator cell, he rolled over, braced himself behind an up-ended shard of the road surface and swung out into the open.

A shot impacted an arm's length in front of him, the blast throwing him violently backwards. He tumbled out of control over the rim of the crater behind him and landed on his side with servo-jarring force.

Moments later, Ironhide plummeted in on top of him, half his armour on fire.

“Slag fraggit!” He struggled out of vehicle mode. “This is slaggin' ridiculous! We'll nevar get near 'em!”
“Chemicals no good?” Optrion asked, disentangling himself from his lieutenant.
“Not a slaggin' hope! Didn' do a scrap-damned thing!” Ironhide waved his water gun in disgust. “Slaggin' useless!”
Keeping low and moving fast, they struggled up and across to where fallen debris had created a more secure stretch of cover. There, Trailbreaker and four cavillers were gamely keeping up a return-barrage against the entrenched Tarnian troops. Since the Tarnians had both range and armour on their side, this was mostly an exercise in wasting ammunition but it did at least seem to be discouraging them from advancing on the beleaguered squad.

“Never get into a shooting fight with a Tarnian, eh Commander?” Trailbreaker quipped cheerily as his forcefield flared against a fresh salvo of disruptor fire.
“A motto to live by,” Optrion agreed, hunkering down and peering over the torn-up roadway, “Can anyone tell if they're near one of the lower-level access ramps?”
“I think so.” One of the cavillers transformed her forearm into a sensor package and waved it about. “Damn thing keeps cutting out . . . I think they're near one of the down-traffic tunnels but I can't tell how intact it is. Getting a lot of weird shapes between here and there so I'm guessing 'not very'.”
“Lemme see.” Another soldier, larger and with heavy shutters folded over her back, slid across and jacked into the other's systems. She frowned and shifted the visor that covered much of her face. “That's passable. Gonna be tough but it's passable. Only problem is, we don't got a ramp over here.”

Another shell slammed down on top of them and Trailbreaker's forcefield flared white above them. His shout of pain was drowned out by the noise of the impact, but the strain of protecting them drove him to his knees. “Any time you want to suggest a way out of this is fine by me, Commander,” he said weakly through shivers of pain.
Optrion pressed a supportive hand to the black mech's shoulder and spoke quickly to the larger of the two femes. “If we could get into the tunnel, are you certain you could force a way through?”
“Yessir. Was in the engineers before transferring.” She shrugged. “Found building things too slow, even when someone was shooting.”
“Excellent. Ironhide. How much acid have you got left?”
“Three cartridges.” He clicked one firmly into his water gun. “Gonna take all that an' then some ta get through.”
“Good. Get started. Slalom, show him were to break though and cover him.”

The feme threw a salute and hurried Ironhide a little way back from their improvised barricade, the shutters on her back unfurling to shield them while they worked. Optrion turned to the cavalier with the sensor package. “Quasar, once the way is clear, I need you to get up behind those Tarnians, charge up and hit them with everything you've got.”
Quasar nodded, folding the sensors away and shifting her arms. Panels flickered open, the emitters within beginning to glow with a steadily brightening blue light.
Optrion looked over his shoulder. “Trailbreaker – how long can you keep us shielded out in the open?”
“Do you want me to be able to walk afterwards?” The soldier shook his head. “Three, maybe four cycles. Maybe six if I can keep it compressed.”
“Good enough.”

Behind them, a dense cloud of boiling road surface billowed up around Ironhide, the hole at his feet gradually widening to the point where someone would be able to drop through. “So what's the plan, sir?” asked another of the cavillers, an orange mech with the flame pattern that designated a driving ace.
“While Quasar's getting into position, we're going to mount a frontal assault on the Tarnians' position. We'll advance as quickly as possible behind the forcefield. Quasar, you'll have two cycles to make it up there, charge and cut loose. Once the Tarnians are stunned, we'll accelerate up and take them at close quarters. Their armour's thick but if we can get in under it, we can bring them down like anyone else.”
“So.” With some effort, Trailbreaker grabbed one of the armoured canisters of ultra-refined energon he carried at his waist and plugged it into his chest. Almost immediately, the forcefield became denser and expanded slightly. “We're going to pretend to charge straight at them, shock 'em, and then actually charge straight at 'em. Sounds like a winner, Commander!”
“Glad you approve.”

“Through!” Slalom shouted, “Going in to clear the way!”
Quasar darted over to the hole as Ironhide ejected the last empty acid cartridge from his gun. Slalom had already jumped down out of sight. She had not waited to ask Optrion's permission to act as a pathfinder for her fellow cavalier but it was the right thing to do. He signalled Quasar to follow her, then quickly surveyed the four remaining soldiers at his side.

“Form up. Trailbreaker, you're in front with me. Ironhide, prep a round of homing rockets. Turbine, Sprint – keep close in behind me and don't risk firing. We can't risk compromising the forcefield to shoot back.” He hefted his rifle and looked each of them in the face in turn. “Let's go.”

It was the longest walk and longest two cycles of Optrion's life. The Tarnians' bombardment was unceasing and became heavier and heavier the further they advanced towards them. Trailbreaker's shield did much to disperse the energy being hurled at it but it rapidly got to the point where Optrion and Sprint were having to push him into the incoming fire just to keep them all moving. Constantly zigzagging to avoid the Tarnians' attempts to blow the expressway out from under them did not make things any easier.

The noise was incredible. Optrion had to disable his audio receptors to stop them overloading as detonation after detonation ripped the air apart around them. He still felt the shock of every shot and shell and every explosion. It was worse than any charge he could remember. Heaving Trailbreaker over the lip of a crater, the black mech shaking and overheating from the stress of keeping the forcefield extended, knowing that every faltering step forward was bringing them all closer to a very quick death, Optrion had to wonder if this was what all those alien soldiers had experienced facing down remorseless Cybertronian weaponry. He had always tried his hardest to act decently on the battlefield, to never cause more terror and death than was necessary to protect his people. Was this a kind of cosmic punishment for fighting at all? To die at the hands of those self-same people – to feel the helplessness and futility he had inflicted on others, weaker than himself?

For all that he willed himself and his mechs to keep going, to do their duty, to stop the Tarnian soldiers before they could do any more harm, there was a part of him that would have welcomed the peace failure would bring.

The Tarnians stopped firing. It took a few precious nano-cycles for his vision to adjust, but when it did, Optrion saw the collection of tanks and guns writhing about as their armour and insides fizzed with electrical fire. Just in time, Quasar had struck.

There was no time to waste. Trusting that Trailbreaker would be resilient enough to recover now he did not need to maintain the shield, Optrion let the soldier fall and leapt up the last short rise to the Tarnians' position. He landed among them as the electromagnetic storm subsided and fired his rifle point-blank into the nearest tank. The energy bolt lanced into the exposed superstructure and the tank yelled with pain, stuttering through the first half of his transformation sequence before locking solid. Still moving, Optrion pivoted and fired again, this time nailing a cannon who had been caught cooling down in bipedal form. The deep blue mech was blown sideways, colliding with another and crashing down in a tangle of panels.

Sprint rocketed over them and flung himself bodily at a heavy armoured vehicle that had recovered enough to aim its guns at Optrion, physically wrenching the weapons off target and driving a super-heated fist through the power lines. A red blur rushed past on Optrion's left and then Ironhide was tangling with another of the tanks, heaving him over onto his side, blasting away as he tried to switch forms and right himself. A jet of super-compressed air tumbled a third Tarnian, Turbine's cyclone cannon whining with the effort. At close range, their enemies already half-stunned, Optrion's makeshift squad briefly had the edge.

But a couple of the larger tanks managed to get their act together enough to tackle Ironhide to the ground. A lucky shot fired in haste and Sprint's chest exploded in a shower of fragments. Optrion leapt to defend the cavalier and a massive backhand sent him sprawling. He rolled on to his back, raising his rifle as fast as he could. A truly immense Tarnian stood over him, aiming an implausibly large cannon. The vast black maw of the vast black tube flared to starlight brilliance, sending radiation warning symbols cascading across Optrion's vision.

At the last instant, he fired, knocking his attacker's aim just enough that the colossal stream of raw energy ploughed into the expressway behind him rather than into his head. He fired again and again, to no effect. Fully transformed, the Tarnian had his armour locked in place and it was simply soaking up everything that was thrown at it.

Optrion had just enough time to decide that whatever deep self-destructive thoughts he might harbour, he very much did not want to die –

Then a huge white hand descended from above, clamped around the Tarnian's head and flung him effortlessly over the edge of the expressway.

“Got your back, boss!” Aerodyne boomed, touching down with deceptive lightness. Towering above them all, he swept tank after tank out of the way, his kicks and punches demolishing any Tarnian unlucky enough to be in reach. A couple of gunners who had managed to scurry out of range fired a desperate salvo at the giant Air Guardian, staggering him, forcing him to one knee. A silver figure sprang from his back and slammed down on top of them. A dark shape at his side bit and sliced at the gunners' tracks, immobilising them as the he fired repeatedly into their turrets. They gave twin piteous screams and fell silent.

Staggering to his feet, Optrion lurched across to Ironhide and dragged him upright. The red warrior's head was badly crushed in on one side and one of his arms was hanging loose but all his readings were strong. The same could not be said for Sprint, whose power core was flickering erratically. Quasar was at his side, hands glowing, trying to trip her comrade's status-lock protocols before it was too late. Looking at the orange mech through a medical scan, Optrion feared it already was. Slalom too had sustained massive injuries to her mid and lower body and was losing fuel faster than Turbine could effect temporary repairs.

A shadow fell across him. He looked up. Commander Megatron's face was eerily still, lacking any trace of expression. His optics glowed crimson. “How many of your soldiers can move?” he grated.
Optrion did a quick count. Besides Sprint and Slalom, the rest of them had survived with only minor injuries. Even Trailbreaker was recovering, limping up to join them and hand out emergency energon supplies. “All but two of us, sir. But we need medical evacuation on –”
“No. No time. We need to press on. There's a group of Vosians massing two hix to the west of here and a Tarnian brigade advancing on them fast. They're about to start a pitched battle in the middle of one of the few intact residential districts so we need to neutralise them fast. Get your mechs aboard the Air Guardian. Leave the wounded.” Megatron's optics flared that little bit more red. “We'll come back for them when we have reinforcements.”

Optrion wanted to argue, knew it was pointless. Megatron was right. Too many lives hung in the balance. Too many had died already. Even if it meant sentencing Slalom and Sprint to death, they had to keep moving. Angrily, he began to form the order –

“Look!” Aerodyne pointed skywards. A cloud of angular shapes was boiling towards them over the northern horizon, ablaze with heat signatures. In moments, they resolved into flights of Air Guardians and the great crescents of sub-orbital transports, angling out across the ruined cities. Ravage, appearing at Megatron's heels, hissed and transformed, communications arrays humming and buzzing as he fought to punch through the interference and reach out to the approaching aircraft.

After an age, a much-distorted voice crackled across the main comm-channel. “–ander Jaantanon of the Second Homeworld Battalion. We are on route to your position, awaiting your orders. Repeat, calling Field Commander Megatron. This is Field Commander Jaantanon of the Second Homeworld Battalion. We are on route to your position, awaiting your orders. Please respond.”
“Get me a response channel!” Megatron shouted, “Now!”

Ravage must have managed it because he almost immediately began transmitting. “Jaantanon, this is Megatron. Direct your vanguard to these coordinates and intercept Vos/Tarn forces. Neutralise with all available speed. Distribute containment squads in the following districts and order them to guide any and all civilians out to safe-zones beyond the edges of the cities. Also, dispatch immediate medical team to my position. We have soldiers down.”

Excited comm-chatter twisted in the aether around him, Jaantanon responding, other commanders and squad leaders requesting orders. Hope surged up in Optrion as he comprehended the sheer volume of reinforcements that were descending towards them.

He set Ironhide down and rushed towards Slalom, reaching out to help stabilise what remained of her core systems.

And was just in time to see those systems fade into darkness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Northern Transport Hub
Tarn
Cybertron

“More proto-matter tanks? Get them over to section three! They've just pulled a bunch of people out with severe crush injuries! Wrench! Stop messing around with that guy's rotators and lock him off. He can get new arms later! Caayrin, where's my electro-pump –”
“This guy's fading!”
“Slaggit – hold this on. Piledriver, stop panicking and start stasis-locking! What the Pit were you thinking, opening him up without surge protectors? Right. There we go. Box him up. Fix him later. Go help Tourniquet sort out the bits of those two cars over there. Caayrin! I told you to hold that on! Do I have to do everything myself – what the slag do you want?”

Diatrion shifted on his wheels, adjusting his trailer. The white and red medic was up to his elbows in what was left of a big grey hauler and barely spared him a glare. “Are you Medical Officer Toiinat? I'm with the Tagen Civic Guard. We've just moved in another load of equipment –”
“I'm Ratchet,” the medic interrupted, snatching a large spike-like device from his assistant and jamming it into the hauler's power core, “You're slagging late. Get that stuff set up across the square.”
“We've brought more medics, too. What do you want them –”
“What the slag do you think I want them to do? Aren't there enough bodies lying around? Tell them to fix anyone who needs fixing! Wrench – the hexe behind you – his core's overheating. Emergency shut-down – now!”

Figuring he would not be getting any more instructions than that, Diatrion drove on, ordering the rest of his team to follow his lead.

The transport hub had once been an imposing building set in the middle of an expansive plaza. It had probably been grand and neat, like everything else in Tarn. Now, the clean lines had been destroyed and bodies of all shapes and sizes lay strewn across the square, mangled and smashed beyond recognition. Dozens were still on fire, their energon not yet exhausted even as they melted. Many more were little more than scraps, scarcely distinguished from the wreckage around them.

In the middle of the square, the military medics had set up row after row of repair slabs. Already, they were having to load two or three bodies on to the same slab, the wounded piling up faster than they could be saved.

Slewing to a halt, Diatrion unhitched the trailer and commanded it to open out. Beside him, nineteen other officers did the same, adding more slabs and equipment into the fray. White and blue medics raced in to join their military counterparts, taking their cue from senior mechanics like Ratchet, who seemed to be everywhere at once, directing three operations for every one he performed himself. The non-medical Guardsmechs formed up beside Diatrion, waiting for him to tell them where to start.

“You lot expectin' an invitation or somethin'?” demanded a green tank, swerving around them, “Get diggin', ya buncha' dead-weights!” It drove on, ploughing a way through some of the looser rubble to reach a largely intact shop module.
Diatrion hesitated only a moment. “Clench, Talaniat – three groups. One sweeps the west side, one the east and the other with me to help dig into the main building. Coordinate with any military personnel working your sections and scan for any access to the sub-levels that might have provided shelter. Ferry moveable injured back to the repair bays and alert medics to any who can't be shifted. Any questions? Good. Go.”

Deca-cycles passed in a frenzy of wreckage, dust and body-parts. The Civic Guard was helping. Diatrion could see that with every fire Inferno and Red Hot put out, with every body Borebit and Trencher heaved from under the debris, with every life Simmer and Unitron saved. Yet the disaster dwarfed them. They could work for a quartex and still be no nearer to recovering every survivor and every victim.

In the middle of easing the tangled remains of a support girder away from the quad it had been pinning, he wondered what fraction of Tarn's population still lived. Or of Vos'. How many would never be found, alive or dead? How many would die while they waited for rescue, their sparks scattered by injury, their fuel slowly burning up until awareness left them forever?

With the girder finally out of the way, he was able to gently lift the quad out of the ground. The little form shivered in his arms, wheels twitching, shredded stub of a tail thrashing back and forth. “Can you hear me?” Diatrion asked, eyeing the damage with concern. The quad shuddered and managed a brief radio burst before lapsing back into insensibility, head lolling.

Diatrion carried him as carefully as possible to the field infirmary, not wanting to risk the jolt of transformation. Thick oil slipped through his fingers, leaving dark puddles behind him with ever step. It took him cycles to find a clear space on one of the repair slabs, fitting the quad in beside a battered avir and a heavily damaged trac. The medics working on them shot Diatrion identical despairing glances. The nearest quickly scanned the quad and fed a power lead into his side. “He'll stabilise,” she said briskly, going back to pulling glass shards from the avir's wings.
“Keep up the good work,” the other murmured, her fingers racing through the trac's innards.
He nodded and dropped into truck mode, the quicker to get back to digging.

A sound, high and unsteady, rose over the general din. Jet engines, he realised, cutting in audio-enhancers. His first thought was that it was a transport bringing in new supplies or doing an aerial sweep. But the pitch was all wrong somehow, as if something in those engines were starting to come loose.

Someone shouted and an orange flyer appeared overhead with such abruptness it might have sprung from empty air. Wings twitching frantically as it tired to keep steady, it screamed down at them, voice grating as badly as its turbines. “D-DIE, T-TARNIAN SCUM!”

There was an instant between the yell and the jet's guns reaching full charge. Just long enough to transform. Just long enough to leap in front of the repair slabs.

The first rounds slammed into his chest mid-leap. It was all Diatrion could do to twist enough to land on his feet. His body was on fire, his vision blurring into a white-out of energy backwash and warning symbols. He leaned blindly into the torrent, aware that at any moment the shots were going to start going clean through him and –

The jet stopped firing. The pitch of its engines became even more tortured and receded. Diatrion's knees gave way and he collapsed, mildly annoyed that he could not stop himself. Energy bolts sang overhead and the jet squawked with pain, its anti-gravs finally and loudly giving out.

Someone ran over to Diatrion's side. He heard their footfalls rushing closer over the surrounding din. With some effort, he managed to roll on to his back. It was Ratchet, a smoking blaster in one hand, a laser in the other, face fixed in a furious grimace. He glowered at the jet as it spiralled to the ground, then looked down sharply at Diatrion. The blaster clicked away and he knelt, waving over Diatrion's half-melted chest.

“Severe dermal overheating, impact cracks on seventeen plates, shock damage to primary sub-structure. Hmph.” The medic reached out to help him stand. “If you're going to make a habit of jumping in the line of fire, Guardsmech, get some stronger armour. Can you still see?”
“Just about.” He winced. “Was anyone hit?”
“Apart from you, you mean? No. You drew the idiot's fire real good.”

Ratchet heaved him up and waited for him to settle on his feet, which he did heavily and uncomfortably. His whole torso was numb, all the sensors burnt out. “Thanks.”
“Don't thank me,” the medic said with a shrug, “Don't think I got him once. Probably Bombshock who shot him down.” Another medic working close by snagged his attention. “Slag it! Oi! Stop messing around getting him looking pretty and get on to the next! You've locked off the fuel pump, he's not going to seep to death!”

The target of this minor tirade quailed under the onslaught and meekly hurried over to the next slab along. Ratchet frowned after him, then back up at Diatrion. “Give your systems a cycle to get a grip on the internal damage and you'll be fine. And . . . thanks.” He nodded once, curtly, and charged away, shouting at another group of medics who were trying to keep an agonised tank from ripping free of the construction brace they'd fitted her into.

It had all happened so fast. The attack, the defence, getting back to work. Normally, in normal life, the important thing would have been to detain the shooter, to find out why he had opened fire, to invoke the local laws and prepare him for trial. Yet here, now, that was not going to happen. Because this was not a crime scene. It was a battlefield and on a battlefield, it was not 'assault with the the intent to cause physical impairment', it was an encounter with an enemy combatant and there was no time to do anything but shoot them down and get back to work. That was how war worked. If you stopped to observe the niceties of legal process, people died.

That was the justification. That was what turned murder into warfare. Everyone agreed to change the rules and suddenly it was acceptable to open fire on each other, to bomb and destroy and to instantly meet force with force, unto the utmost degree.

Diatrion pressed a hand to his buckled chest plates. It was wrong. Fundamentally, basically, primally wrong. This was not how civilisation was supposed to function. It was not what he was meant to uphold. But here he was and here he would have to stay, scratching about in the ash to salvage something, anything that remained. Digging out the dead and dying. The only thing the law could do when faced with a holocaust.

Ratchet had said he needed thicker armour.

Before this was over, Diatrion was entirely certain that he would be proved right.

 

4.2: Breaking the Spear
Defence Directorate Command Platform
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“Report. Quickly.”
“We have isolated the remaining Vosian command units and are standing by to shut them down. Air Guardians have been dispatched to take point at all locations but are facing heavy fire from Vos' surviving aerial forces. A lot of their heavy flyers are more manoeuvrable than anything we have and they're taking a long time to go down.”
“Send in the squads to take out the command units now.”
The tactician – Megatron had barely registered his security clearance, let alone his name – hesitated. “Sir . . . without Air Guardian support, I'm not sure they'll have the fire power to overwhelm –”
“I don't need them to overwhelm the Vosians, I need them to keep them so occupied they can't keep coordinating the forces preventing the Air Guardians from getting through. Do it.”
“Oh. Yes, Commander. Of course.”

Megatron rounded on the other side of the war room. “The Tarnian situation?”
“Almost no central control of remaining city forces.” Hevacce pointed at the scattered icons on the map. “They're totally uncoordinated. We're seeing groups of them firing on anything that moves, others throwing down their guns to help civilians. Not that that's making it any easier to contain them. Tarn's topography is too complicated – there are too many places for them to dig in and they are much better at weathering aerial bombardment than the Vosians.”
“Use the sub-surface passages,” Megatron ordered, commanding the map to show the layers beneath the streets and expressways, “Optrion and Turbo have been able to make use of them at close range. Let's expand on the idea. Send in driller squads to get in under the hold-outs.”
“I'll get on it.” Hevacce refocused the view and highlighted several large structures. “These will be another matter. Most of the central bunkers were cracked open by the blast but these are still mostly intact . . . and if those warheads didn't get through . . .”
“For now, we do nothing. They haven't fired on the rescue teams sent into those areas. Until they do or until they send out more soldiers to attack the Vosians, we're not wasting resources on them.”
“Understood.”

The red squad leader turned away to begin issuing orders. Megatron took a long look at the map, considering the shifts in geography the twin missile strikes had caused. So much destruction, so little purpose to it all. Had any of those responsible survived their idiocy? His fists closed involuntarily. For their sake, he hoped not.

“I will move in to join the ground forces in Vos,” he announced to the room at large, “I want two heavy squads ready to depart in three cycles. We'll clear a path for the rescue teams and reinforce the containment squads. The Vosian commanders' most likely rallying point will be here, the Coppermount fortress. We'll co-opt any local defences along the approach corridors and let them retreat towards us. That way we decide the terms of engagement and minimise further collateral damage.”

A flurry of activity met his words, the preparations getting under way before he had finished laying out the plan. He flashed load-out instructions and route maps as he spoke, updating the map and his mechs simultaneously. In moments, the tank squads would be armed, fuelled and ready to board the combat shuttles. If all went well, they could slip in amidst the chaos in the skies over Vos and be on the slopes of Coppermount before any of the locals were any the wiser.

If all went well. As he headed for the door, Ravage slipping after him, Megatron sneered at the phrase. Nothing about this insanity had gone well so far. Could he really believe this to be the exception?

“A moment of your time, Field Commander?”
He stopped abruptly at the interruption, ready to snap angrily at whoever was making such a stupid request. Supreme Commander Viktoleo met his glare with mild blue optics and the most patient of expressions.

Megatron saluted automatically. “Sir. I'm afraid I need to deploy out into the field immediately,” he added, trying not to sound unsure as to what in the Pit a Supreme Commander was doing in his command platform.
“I promise not to detain you for long. And I believe there are still two and a half of those three cycles you mentioned remaining . . . ?”
There was absolutely no way to refuse. Not without going against every shred of protocol and openly insulting one of the three highest-ranking members of the Defence Directorate. Megatron gestured to the corridor outside. “Of course, sir. If we can talk on the way?”

Viktoleo nodded graciously and fell into step beside him, perfectly matching his long strides. “This is extremely inconvenient for you so I will cut straight to the point,” he said, vocalising it so that only Megatron – and Ravage, of course – could hear him, “Field Commander Vieuxuun.”
Megatron nearly crashed to a halt again. “What about him?”
“He is currently sitting mode-locked in a detainment cell with several severe injuries to his outer armour and weapons systems. You appreciate that this is not a natural position for a ranking office of the Defence Directorate to be in.”
“I put him there.” Megatron made a cutting gesture. “I take full responsibility and will answer for it later if needed to. But right now –”
“Right now you are doing an admirable job of dragging some sort of organised response out of this disaster. Which I am here to help with by telling you that we back your judgement entirely in this matter.”

This time, Megatron did stop. “Excuse me?”
Viktoleo's mouth formed something that was almost but not quite a smile. “Effective immediately, your decision to relieve Vieuxuun of duty has the retroactive approval of Grandus, Deftwing and myself. Your actions in moving swiftly and decisively to disable the Vos and Tarn military infrastructure have our complete backing and all the available forces are indisputably under your command.”
“You came here to tell me that I have the job I already had?” Megatron asked in disbelief, “And that locking up the mech who murdered one of my best soldiers was the right thing to do?” He did not know whether to be relieved or disgusted.

“Not at all. I am here to be seen to give our approval to you for the benefit of everyone watching this crisis unfold and believe me, that is everyone who can watch.” Bafflement must have shown on Megatron's face because Viktoleo went on, “Consider this a signifier of your authority. Not for your troops, but for the world outside the Defence Directorate. By being seen to come here and emerge at your side as you go off to bring an end to this conflict, I am showing Cybertron as a whole that you are the legitimate instrument by which order will be restored – rather than, say, a lone field commander who astronomically exceeded the remit of his orders to launch a two-pronged invasion of two sovereign states with a hilariously out-numbered contingent of planetary defence soldiers.”
“With the greatest of respect,” Megatron said firmly, “I do not have time to play political games.”
“No,” Viktoleo said, matching his tone exactly, “That is why we are playing them for you. But make no mistake about this, Field Commander: everything you do from here on out will have political ramifications. The Prime himself authorised – commanded – this intervention. You understand? We are conferring on you Primal authority.”

He stared at the Supreme Commander, not really seeing him at all. Primal authority. The permission of the Prime to cut through the ridiculous snarl of laws and regulations that had kept them from doing anything until it was too late. Legitimacy for what he needed to do. Although not necessarily to do whatever it took. And all the consequences that came with that. The responsibilities. The weight of expectation, anticipation, speculation and condemnation. As Viktoleo said: political ramifications. All on him.

“I understand,” he acknowledged solemnly, placing his fist against his chest, “I will do what I must and what I can to save these people.”
“We know.” The Supreme Commander returned the salute, horns tilting slightly. “That is why we're giving you the job. Now.” He indicated the platform exit. “Let me walk you to your dropship. Wouldn't want you to be late with the world watching, would we?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Iesyn District
Tarn
Cybertron

“Please! If you won't stand down, at least let us airlift the civilians out of here! We know they must be heavily injured! Please let us remove them to a safer area for medical treatment! At least let us –!”

Optrion ducked quickly back behind a barricade, nano-cycles ahead of a blaster bolt. He leaned heavily against the reinforced barrier and grunted. “I'm getting a bit tired of people trying to shoot me in the head.”
“It gets a bit dull after a while, yeah,” Trailbreaker agreed from his observation post a few barriers along, “Although I don't think shouting at them any louder's gonna help, actually.”
“Any other suggestions gratefully received.”
“Uh.” Quasar held up her fingers. “They're walled up tight in that refinery. By walls, we mean massively thick shields meant to contain energon detonations. Even if we could blast through, there are still energon stores in there. And a bunch of civilians that those soldiers have rounded up believing they're protecting them from an invading army. And we can't get around the back because of that . . . um . . . I'm trying to come up with a better description than 'wall of fire' but I'm not sure how else to describe what happens when you use a photon bomb to ignite an entire fuel distribution network. Also there's so much radiation this far into the city that the civilians are probably already cooking in their own oil, so if we don't get them out soon . . . uh. So, in short . . . um . . . I got nothing.” She slumped despondently. “Sorry sir.”

Adjusting his optics yet again to try and compensate for the fierce light, Optrion looked at the troops lined up awkwardly beside him. Despondency hung heavy in the boiling air. Everyone present was sullen and frustrated, trying hard to concentrate as every cooling system in their bodies strained against the heat from the fires. A few were uncomfortably adjusting and readjusting their weapons, the more technically minded among them trying to configure their way to a solution. Unfortunately, so far no one had come forward with an inventive way of melting the refinery shields or opening a fold-space aperture through them or something equally useful.

Perhaps if they had another means besides shouting to communicate with the entrenched Tarnian soldiers, more options would be apparent. But this deep into the city the interference was so thick every communication channel had been ripped to random shrieks.

Perhaps it would have made no difference. The Tarnians did not want to listen. Trapped as they were in the burning wreckage of their home, it was understandable that they would prefer to shoot anyone who came close.

Optrion slammed a fist into an open hand. No way to talk them down, no way to flank them, no way to breech the walls or burrow underneath and certainly no chance of taking them safely from the air. This was Cybertron. Not an alien planet with unknown geography and geology. This was his home territory. That should have been all the advantage he needed. Yet a strategy evaded him and his failure would likely trap them in a pointless siege.

“Excuse me? Commander Optrion?”
Grateful for the slightest distraction, he turned to find a short white and blue armoured mech clambering towards him. “That's me. You're with the Civic Guard?”
“Ah, yes. I'm Chief Medic Coiiynn – ah, I need to talk to you about those people in their.”
“If you have a way of getting them out of there, please feel free to share it.”
“Ah . . . I'm afraid not. It's the civilians.” Coiiynn fiddled with the wheels in his forearms. “I'm sure I don't need to tell you that they're in danger. Your sky-spy operators tell me that the shields on the other side of the refinery are cracked. The radiation is hard enough on us – and we've all been toughened. What I'm saying is that, in my opinion, we can't draw this out more than another day before the people in their start to suffer irreparable damage. Even your mechs aren't going to be able to weather this indefinitely.”

Trying very hard to remain patient, Optrion fixed the little medic with a level stare. “I am well aware of the danger, Chief Medic. I fully intend to resolve this situation soon.”
“Yes. Of course. I'm sorry. I just feel . . . rather useless standing out here.” He hesitated, then looked down at his feet. “The worst of it is, I'm Tarnian. I feel that should give me some insight I could offer you.”
“You're . . . Tarnian?” Optrion did not mean to sound so surprised but Coiiynn seemed resigned to the response, not offended.
“Before I joined the Guard, yes. I know, I know. I'm very short for it. As I say, I feel I should be able to give you some psychological insight that'll let you talk them down.”
“But you can't?”
“No.” Coiiynn grimaced. “They're Tarnians. Stubborn, patriotic, scared, angry Tarnians. They won't come out because they don't trust anything outside. I can't honestly say I blame them.”

It was so obvious that Optrion audibly cursed himself for not thinking of it immediately.

He spun, leaving Coiiynn to splutter in surprise. “Quasar – how far out would you need to get a transmission through to the command network?”
“Um – I – ah – two, three hix to minimum clearance? I'm not sure but if I run it at maximum power I think I could get through at two.”
“Then I need you to do that as fast as possible and send this to all points . . .”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Coppermount
Vos
Cybertron

Megatron roared, guns flaring one after the other, broadsiding the jet trying to bank out of his line of fire. He wheeled around as its wing-mates tried to follow through on dive-bombing him, blowing their wings from their fuselages. The Vosians plummeted from the sky, helpless and screaming.

All along the ground approach to Coppermount, Defence Directorate tanks were pounding away at Vosian squadrons. They kept coming and throwing themselves towards the fortress. Seeking sanctuary, trying to regroup, simply attempting to drive out the intruding forces – Megatron did not know and did not care. What mattered was that they were being drawn there, away from any civilians who might get caught in the crossfire. As long as they kept funnelling themselves into the killing zone, he was content to take them down.

Coppermount stood on the far side of Vos from Tarn, a defiant red shard stabbing at the sky. A relic of the distant past, it had been left behind by modern Vos as the centre of the city moved towards the coastal trade routes. It had not been forgotten – modern emplacements peered from the battlements and modern weapons ringed the perimeter – but that had almost been a reflex action, the Vosian military adhering to old habits out of a sense of tradition. It was only now that everything else was gone that it seemed like a reasonable place to fall back to. Perhaps they thought that behind the solid, reliable walls of the past they would be safe from the insanity of the present.

Idiots.

He surged forward into the fire from another wave of flyers. They were good – very good – dodging and weaving and banking and breaking off with expert timing. It earned them a few extra cycles of consciousness and wasted a few more cycles of his time. Subduing morons who could not see that there was nothing left to fight for was a distraction best ended quickly. Soon the only ones left flying would be the ones with some actual ability. And that would just draw it out further.

“Commander.” Ravage's voice buzzed inside his head. “Optrion has just sent a request into the command net that you should see.”
Pausing long enough to transform and boost himself to a more secure position, Megatron acknowledged. If Ravage felt something important enough to disturb him with mid-battle, it was. “Go on.”
“He has just asked that the highest ranking Tarnian officer who has either stood down or been placed in custody be taken to his current location. He . . . believes that they will help him resolve a situation he has encountered.”
“Authorised,” Megatron said without hesitation, folding back down and reopening fire. It was easy to see what Optrion was planning and it might even work. The Tarnian ethos under Viilon had always included faith in authority.

“Understood,” Ravage purred, with the faintest hint of criticism of how fast he was to trust 'the Iaconian'. But that was Ravage. No faith in anyone.

Still the Vosians kept coming. Still they threw themselves towards Coppermount and against the Defence Directorate. Was that a lack of faith too? A lack of trust of anyone now their world was destroyed?

It did not matter. He would keep shooting them down until they learnt to stay there.

Perhaps then they might start listening to reason.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Keesin District
Tarn
Cybertron

“They're here!” Trailbreaker pointed to the white spot of a shuttle flying low over the expressway towards them. Ordinarily the gesture would have seemed silly but with the heat and the radiation swamping their sensors, looking and pointing was pretty much all they had left.

The shuttle carefully touched down on a piece of intact roadway, settling uneasily. Its side opened up and two figures jumped out, one jumping again into a jet form and allowing the other to grab hold. They flew up to the barricade, coming swiftly and as close to the ground as possible to avoid taking fire from the Tarnians.

The passenger – a truly gigantic grey and blue mech – dropped down right in front of Optrion and saluted smartly. The jet unfolded into Deca Magnus, at which point everyone else saluted.
“Sir.” Optrion stepped forward. “Forgive me, this is unexpected.”
“No doubt.” Deca indicated the grey mech. “I was in discussion with the captain here when your message came through. We agreed it would be quickest to use my shuttle and while I admit I am unlikely to be much help in talking these soldiers down, I hoped I might be able to offer some assistance.”
“Ah, thank you, sir . . .”
“Don't mind me, Commander. Consider an me observer until you need me to be otherwise. Continue as you planned. This is your operation.”

Trying not to find that statement overly ominous, Optrion turned to the Tarnian captain. He had red optics and a solid frame that suggested he turned into something heavily armed and immobile. “You want me to talk to them,” he said, nodding at the refinery.
“Yes. I know you stood your mechs down to help with the relief effort and I hoped that you might be able to convince these soldiers to do so as well. There are a significant number of civilians in with them and we need to get them to safety as soon as possible.”
“I understand. I will do it. I don't suppose you can get a channel through this . . . ? No of course not. Very well then.”

He stepped up to the barricade and out into the gap between two of the barriers. A shot immediately ricochetted off his armour, though this caused him little obvious damage. He stood out in the open, letting the Tarnians see him clearly. They did not fire again.

“I AM CAPTAIN Ci-114 OF THE THIRD DEFENCE UNIT,” he shouted in a voice that shook the ground, “MY NAME IS CERRE MECH BOS TAVA SZENDA. I AM OF TARN. LIKE YOU. I AM SOLDIER, LIKE YOU. AND LIKE YOU I HAVE WATCHED MY HOME DIE. EVERYTHING I WAS SUPPOSED TO DEFEND IS DESTROYED. THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE. AND YOU ARE RIGHT TO TRY TO PROTECT THOSE WHO SURVIVED. YOU HAVE DONE YOUR DUTY. BUT YOU CANNOT STAY HERE. THE PEOPLE YOU ARE PROTECTING CANNOT STAY HERE. I KNOW YOU WANT TO FIGHT. I KNOW YOU DON'T TRUST THOSE WHO HAVE COME INTO OUR CITY. I DIDN'T. BUT THIS IS TOO BIG. THERE ARE TOO MANY WOUNDED. WE CANNOT DRIVE OUT THE DEFENCE DIRECTORATE AND SAVE OUR BROTHERS AT THE SAME TIME. WE . . . NEED THESE PEOPLE TO HELP US. OUR DUTY HAS TO BE TO THE SURVIVORS NOW. PLEASE DON'T LET ANY MORE TARNIANS DIE TODAY.”

Falling silent, he waited. They all waited. Optrion scanned the refinery, looking as best he could for any sign that Cerrebos' words had fallen on receptive audios. For a very long time, there was nothing. No shots, no open doors. Nothing.

Cerreboss shifted his stance, looking back at the rest of them uncertainly. Trailbreaker fidgeted about, half readying his forcefield projectors. Quasar's emitters snapped open and closed compulsively. Arms folded, the Magnus remained utterly impassive.

Something moved at the top of the refinery wall. A shape against the sky. It rose up and detached itself, a mech leaping over the edge and falling towards them. Slowing his descent with jet plumes, he dropped closer until he could land in front of Cerrebos. Massive, with the same grey/blue colour scheme, he was clearly of a kind with the Tarnian captain. He did not make any gesture of respect or recognition but looked Cerrebos up and down, then glanced past him at the Defence Directorate soldiers. When he saw the Magnus, his optics widened. “Sub-Captain Ci-086-6,” he introduced himself after a moment, “of the Seventh Defence Unit. For standing down when there are invaders in the city, I should consider you a traitor.”
“I can't argue with that,” Cerrebos replied evenly, “I disobeyed my orders. But the Central Command is gone. The High Governor is gone. Tarn itself barely exists any more. Primus, even the enemy is gone. All we have left are the people and we won't protect them by fighting these people.” He waved one massive hand at Optrion and the Magnus and the rest of them.
Ci-086-6's optics flared slightly. “I know. I understand that. I don't like it but I understand it.” Drawing himself up, he went on, “Which is why we'll allow you to enter and evacuate the civilians. Just the soldiers. Not the White and Blues.” He stabbed a finger at the Magnus. “They betrayed us, covering up for those Pit-damned Vosians. Soldiers only. Understood?”

“Yes,” Optrion agreed, because it seemed this last was addressed to him, “What about you though? Your mechs?”
“We're staying,” Ci-086-6 told him flatly, faceplates tightened. “We've all agreed. Everything's gone. It's all over. But we'll do our duty. Protect this place, what's left of it. There's nothing for us out here. We're staying.”
Cerrebos opened his mouth to argue but it was Coiiynn who spoke first. The little medic had been standing forgotten off to one side and he stepped forward angrily. “You can't. You'll die. Even if you can survive it for now, constant exposure will kill you. You're armours' already starting to ionise. If you stay here –”
“Then we die here.”
“But –”
“Medic, stand down,” the Magnus ordered quietly. He was looking at the ground now, his fists resting against his hips. “This is wasting time.”

“Yeah.” Ci-086-6 sneered. “It is.” He turned to Cerrebos one final time. “You are a traitor. You should have done what we were built for. But . . . if you can live with that . . . make sure something good comes out of this.”
“I'll protect our people,” the captain promised, offering his hand.
Ci-086-6 gripped it briefly, then spun and made finger signals at the refinery. Painfully slowly, the shield cracked open, a bridge reaching out over to the barricade. Not looking back, the Tarnian soldier marched stiffly away across to the gaping doorway, where his comrades were already beginning to guide walking wounded into the open.

Cerrebos watched him go sadly. Coiiynn all but stamped his foot in frustration, biting off a bitter curse.

Determined that no more time would be wasted, Optrion ordered his mechs to fold away the barricade and begin extracting the Tarnian civilians. He sent Trailbreaker up to generate a forcefield bubble around those most in danger from exposure to the fallout and had Quasar go and summon their shuttles. The Civic Guard medics would board the transports to treat injuries on route back to the main infirmary camps while the military medics did the work on the ground. That way they could keep Ci-086-6's conditions and still make use of the resources to hand.

Directing his troops' efforts, Optrion found himself standing next to Cerrebos. The Tarnian's face was blank as he watched the first civilians crossing the bridge.
“Thank you.”
Cerrebos looked down in surprise. “There is nothing to thank me for, Commander. I did this for my people, not for you.”
“I know.”
“May I stay?” he asked, “To help. Perhaps I can reassure them that they won't be harmed.”
“I think that would be an extremely good idea.” Optrion frowned, then said, “If you don't mind me asking, what did he mean, what you were built for?”
The captain did not answer for several micro-cycles. When he did, it was reluctantly. “I . . . he and I are . . . they called us Fortresses. We were supposed to be the first line of defence against a ground invasion. They remade us. Gave us one function. Fight to the death to keep the enemy out. We should all have died before allowing a single Vosian to enter the city. But . . .” He rolled his huge shoulders. “They didn't need to, did they?”

“No.” The Magnus had come up beside them, footsteps masked by the surrounding din. “They did not.” The light turned the white of his armour fiery.
“Why?” Cerrebos whispered, his optics reflecting that same fire, “Why did they . . . why did it come to this?”

Optrion had no answer for him. And if the Magnus did, he kept silent about it.

 

New chapter!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.3: Survivor/Guilt
Remains of the Torvccl Galleries
Vos
Cybertron

It was dark and he was in pain.

He was in pain and he could not see. Could not move.

He could not move, he could not see and everything hurt. Oh Primus, was he dead? Was this death? Being trapped in darkness and pain, unable to move?

No. He was thinking. He could think and feel and so he must still be alive. Trapped. Nose-cone. Wings. Trapped. Engines burnt out. Fused. Pinned. Something was pinning him down. There was something immensely heavy pressing on top of him, pressing him into the ground. No room to transform. No room to do anything. And the parts of him that did not hurt, he could not feel at all.

Sarristec began to panic.

Time passed. He had no idea how long. The world stayed dark. Sometimes his consciousness faded out completely. The pain persisted.

In a more lucid moment, it occurred to him that that was a good thing. If he hurt all over, then his spark could not have been scattered. He was still a coherent whole.

But then . . . what about the parts of himself he could not feel? Did that mean that parts of his mind had just gone? No. No, that couldn't be true. It couldn't.

Light. A chink of light falling across his fuselage. Noise too. Voices.

Rescue!

He tried to call out, to scream at them so they would come and save him. His voice would not respond. His antenna stayed silent. Nothing responded. Everything was locked up, blank, crying out in agony.

It couldn't end like this. It couldn't.

It could. He could die here. Salvation could pass him by. Easily. He could so easily be beneath its notice.

Beneath everything's notice.

No! No. Please, no. Please –

“Hey! We got a live one here! Help me get this lot shifted!”

Vibrations reached him dimly through his prison walls. Footsteps hurrying. The straining of pistons and servos. The chink of light wobbled and distorted and split wide open. Air and dust rushed about as the rubble above him – yes, rubble, that was what it was, of course – was lifted away. Suddenly, he could move again. Could flex his wings, however weakly. Fresh pain flooded his body as he did so. Grit ground in his joints. His tail-fins were twisted beyond use. Nothing felt the right shape.

But he was rescued. He would live. That mattered. That was all that mattered.

Someone jumped down close by. A green mech. Lithe. Blue optics. Big hands. He carefully cleared the wreckage from around Sarristec, easing him free. He spoke as he did it, reassuring words about everything being all right. With a shout, he summoned other mechs, a hexe, two quads. Together, they lifted Sarristec up and away, carrying him roughly out into a big flat space and setting him down there. One of the quads fiddled with a canister and connected it to his side.

There was a rush of liquid power. Fuel. Precious energon flooding into empty tubes. Awareness came with it, connections restoring, repair systems coming online at last. He could think properly again. His body was his again. He could remember –

In one great spasm, he transformed and screamed with the agony of it. He collapsed to the ground whimpering. The green mech and the quad offered reassuring hands, helping him ease into a sitting position. “Easy there, lad,” said the mech, patting his shoulder, “Take it easy. You're doin' fine.”

Sarristec ground his mouth shut and fought through the hurt. He let automatic processes numb the parts that were beyond repair, let them consolidate him within safer places. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his mind focused.

The ground before his optics was blackened and covered in fragments of melted glass. There was a shard of a girder. A distorted frame. The grotesquely warped remains of someone's leg. All wrong. The ground should not look like that.

He lifted his head.

Desolation. Utter and complete desolation in every direction as far as he could see. The world had been turned to black and grey. His city, his glorious Vos had been broken. Smashed. Ravaged. A landscape that had made the spark soar had turned to a wasteland of husks and broken shells. He no longer recognised it. Every landmark had been burnt away. Where once was beauty and glamour and greatness, now was only destruction and defeat.

Sarristec hugged himself, desperate not to believe it. It had to look worse than it was. There had to be something left. There had to be.

Missile locks on Taynset's displays. Columns of fire diving into the night sky. Light beyond description. The howl of a new-born star.

No. This was real. There was no escape from that.

No escape . . .

“What's your name, lad?” asked the green mech kindly, kneeling beside him.
Sarristec met his optic. “Zacarii,” he said shakily, lying on instinct, picking the first name he could think of.
“Nice to meet'cha, Zacarii. I'm Pikup. I'm with planetary defence. We're pulling all survivors out'a the city and taking 'em to a safe medical camp. You feeling up to the trip?”
“Y-yes.” Yes, oh yes. He had to get away from this place, away from the corpse of everything he had ever known and ever wanted.

Away from the betrayal and the destruction and the memories.

He let Pikup help him to his feet, wobbling uncertainly as he tried to walk. It became easier after a few steps and weak as he was, he was able to make it to the soldiers' transport under his own power. There was seven, eight other Vosians crammed into the little shuttle, all coated in grime and crush injuries, all staring out at what was left of their home. They glanced Sarristec's way as he got on board but there was no recognition there. No doubt he was just as dirty as they were, everything unique and special buried under filth.

Good. That was good. The soldiers had freed him from the wreckage. Anonymity would free him from . . .

Reprisals? Recriminations? Guilt?

Settling awkwardly against the bulkhead, he put his head in his hands, hiding his face just to be sure. Free to make a fresh start, that was it. A fresh start without having to fear the misguided anger of those who would not understand that he too had been betrayed. Because there would be such people. There always were.

So he would be Sarristec of Vos no longer. He was Zacarii, lucky survivor, victim like all the rest. Just another lost nonentity, blasted back to square one.

A mech to whom the only way was up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Aratoq Tower
Red Ridge District
Praxus
Cybertron

“Causality estimates are still climbing as rescue teams continue to scour the ruins for survivors. Current reports indicate that seventeen thousand people have been brought to temporary shelters on safe ground to the north of the Kahlian Ridge where they are receiving emergency treatment. There are now over three thousand Defence Directorate and Civic Guard officers in the region with more expected to be sent in tomorrow morning. Word on the ground is that ongoing hostilities with the remains of the Vosian army are winding down following yesterday's pitched battle at the Coppermount fortress. Sporadic fighting is continuing in Tarn, impeding the rescue effort in several key sectors, but there are reports from both cities of military units voluntarily standing down or surrendering –”

“Why the scrap are you stuck back here on your own?” Gauun demanded, putting his head through the doorway with a scowl.
“Shut up.” Aratron did not look away from the newsfeed. He could not. For as long as the report had been running, he had been standing there, fixated on every picture of death and destruction, trying to . . .

He wasn't sure what. Understand it? Grasp the scale of it? Imagine what it was like for those who woke up to find their homes blown down around them, their friends gone? All of those things. The things you were supposed to do with tragedy. Empathise. Feel sorry about it. Grieve for people you'd never known. The things you were supposed to feel before getting on with life like nothing had happened.

“It's on all the 'feeds out here, too,” Gauun pointed out uncertainly, failing to keep quiet because, well, because it was Gauun, “You don't have to watch it alone . . .”
“Yeah, and I don't have to watch it surrounded by people going, 'well, this will put a bit of a dent in my investments and no mistake. Another tube of Hiverin Special, anyone?' either.”
“None of them talk like that . . .”
Aratron shut his mouth tightly.

“ – extensive ramifications in the political sphere. Questions are being asked at the highest level as to how the situation was allowed to deteriorate into all-out war. Already, there have been calls for many high-ranking officials to resign. In Kalis and Prodium, protesters have taken to the streets demanding immediate elections. The standing governments are known to have supported Vos and to have helped the Vosian Conclave block disarmament proposals put to the High Council –”

“D'you remember Xennatron? Same batch as me?” Aratron shuttered his optics to block out the images of banners and slogans. “He was the first one to call me Wheels after you. Made Merchant Guild in less than seven stellar-cycles? He set up in Vos. Stellar-cycles ago now. Haven't seen the guy since we were protoed. And we didn't have anything in common except batch. . .” He trailed off, hissing. “And now all I can think is, was he in there? Did he get out or is he . . . is he dead? All those people and I'm just imagining this one mech . . .”
“But that's . . .” Gauun moved closer behind him. He reached out, almost touching, then thinking better of it. “That's just psychology, right? Association – uh, cognitive filtering. Picks out what you know first. It's normal, yeah?”
“I don't even know if he was still working there. No idea what kind of person he was. No idea what kind of person any of them were, except what everyone thinks about Vosians and Tarnians.”

This time, Gauun put his hand on Aratron's shoulder. “Hey, it's OK. Really. I get it. This is . . . glitch it, there aren't words for this stuff. This . . . slag like this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to die like that. Pit, how many people have you ever heard of dying like that? I heard once about this kind of organic turbo rat out on one of the colonies, lives and dies in the space of a quartex. How does that even work? How does it get anything done? That's not how life's supposed to work. And then this . . .”
Aratron reached up and slapped his own hand across Gauun's. He took the hint this time and fell silent.

“ – coming in of renewed riots in Tagen Heights following clashes between Tarnian and Vosian freighter crews. The fighting appears to have spilled out of the dockyards and is spreading down into the city wards. Civic Guardsmechs are in attendance but their numbers are drastically reduced given commitments in the disaster area itself. More on these events as they develop.”

“Sorry,” Aratron said quietly.
“What for?”
“For . . . I don't know. Telling you to shut up.”
“You always tell me to shut up.”
“I just . . . those people out there . . . not now. Not now.”
Gauun's fingers twitched. “Then I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you to this stupid party in the first place. I don't know most of these people. I don't like 'em much either. They don't care about art. Weird. All the money they spend on it and I don't think any of them really get it at all. But it's the boss-mech's show and he wants – wanted – to show me off, I guess. A bit. My work, anyway. And I wanted to have someone to talk to – slag. You know that. It doesn't matter. You don't want to be here, I don't want to be here and I'm just talking to say something because . . .”
“Because that's what you do.” Aratron didn't – couldn't – smile. But he would have done, if they'd been somewhere else and the newsfeed was not showing what it was.

“Following the Defence Directorate's seizing of the orbital refineries formally under the control of Vosian interests, the Altihex Polity has petitioned the High Council for permission to take over running the operation. Given the extensive nature of the facilities in question, however, it is likely that there will be considerable competition for their future ownership. A tense stand-off between a squadron of Air Guardians and the crew of the primary Tarnian refinery is now entering its second hecta-cycle. The crew are refusing to stand down and allow the military to take them off. They have deployed a number of weapons that greatly exceed the strictures on armaments aboard civilian orbital platforms. Analysts have suggested that they represent clear evidence of how far Tarn had flouted the Inter-State Accords on a far deeper level than previously suspected.”

“Do you want to leave?” Gauun asked tentatively, “I mean, leave the party properly. Go somewhere else. Um. Somewhere you want to be.”
“I know what you meant. Thanks. But you can't just run out on your patron, can you?”
“He'll understand. He's very . . . understanding.”
“Really?”
“I dunno. I hope he is. Especially since my last design went horribly wrong. Really bad day. Turns out too much high-grade makes me thing orange on amber on orange chrome is a good idea.”

Shrugging off Gauun's hand, Aratron half turned around. “The world has gone crazy, more people than I've ever met are dead and you're making stupid colour-scheme jokes?”
“What else am I supposed to do?” He flung his arms wide, the wheels in his legs jittering on their axles. “I can't do anything about this. You can't. We can't.”

Which was true. Even Ibriina and all the wealth and power of his great Line couldn't bring back the dead. So why shouldn't he carry on with his party? Why shouldn't all his Elite friends carry on worrying about their investments and swilling high-grade?

“You know what they said when they turned me down for medic training?” Aratron asked, fixing his optics on the wall, “They said Cybertron had enough medics. Didn't need any more. Wasn't worth training someone who wasn't in the top eight percent unless I wanted to go into the military. Better to be a bodyworker, because that's what people wanted.” He waggled his fingers. “That's what everyone's always told me. I've got the kind of hands people want. Not that they need.” The newsfeed was back to images of the craters. He looked at them and slumped a little. “Wonder what they'd say now.”
“That you couldn't get trained fast enough to make a difference there. That Racetrack still needs you. That people will still want bodyworkers when this is all over. And there's no point glaring at me because it's not going to change any of that.”

“All right! Point taken.” Aratron thumped him on the shoulder. “You want me to watch this out there with you? Fine. Why not? It's not like that'll make any difference either.”
“Right! So come help me clear Ibriina out of Skyiom Blend. He can afford it and we need to stop you feeling guilty over things that aren't your fault. So come on!”

Gauun grabbed Aratron and physically dragged him to the door. The last thing he caught from the newsfeed before he was pulled back out into the party was that, in a shock move, Polyhex had instituted a massive scale-back in its weapons stockpiles.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Virulex District
Tarn
Cybertron

He was alive!

Probably. The presence of sensory input – sound, light, pressure – suggested that was the case. On balance, continued awareness was a reasonable indicator of continued life. The clues added up, so to speak.

So yes, he was alive. Which was more than he could say for the mech lying next to him, with arms blown off and chest caved in. That was lucky. Lucky for him. Not for the mech. Obviously.

He struggled to get up. The ground shifted around him. Which made sense. He had been in a residential block when whatever it was happened, so the 'ground' had likely been there as well, or holding 'inside' up or being the roof.

Whatever it was that had happened. Yes. Except it was pretty obvious what had happened, wasn't it? Viilon hadn't listened to him. Hadn't stopped anything. And the Vosians had pulled the trigger. Boom. And of course Viilon's logic would have come up with the obvious answer. Double boom. All hail the might of the Shockwave.

Should have killed him when he had a chance. Not that he had had a chance. Being in the same room as Viilon was not an opportunity to kill him. Likely it wouldn't have solved anything anyway. Someone would have blamed it on the Vosians and everything would just have gone to the Pit faster. Bad idea. Stupid idea.

Pointless line of thought. It had happened. They had blown it all up. Game over. Everyone lost. Obvious outcome. Easy to predict. Success. Yay.

Someone's face was tangled in his foot. Just the face, blown clean out of the head. Optics shattered, mouth gaping. Big. Probably a tank. That was funny. The scrawny investigator survives and the big tough tank gets smashed to bits. Little, little bits.

His laugh did not sound good. Had his voice been damaged? There was dents all over him. Broken internals. Some oil leakage. If it was his oil. It might not be. His forensics package seemed to be offline and his eyes were still crackling with static so he couldn't tell right off. Better save a sample for analysis later.

Was Viilon still alive?

Hypothesis: as the logic-worshipping head of a cult of unhindered scientific advancement that had taken a broken city, remade it, then made it extremely powerful before getting it exploded, Viilon had the wherewithal and technical know-how to construct some sort of shelter from even the worst bombs.

Antithesis: given that Tarn had, in fact, been exploded, there were obvious flaws in Viilon reasoning that meant such a shelter was not a dead certainty nor guaranteed to have worked out properly.

Synthesis: pending. More evidence required.

That's what he needed to do. Get more evidence. Look for clues. Dig up the dirt. Get to the gears of the matter. Go on the trail again!

Yes. The rearrangement of the local topography was going to make this harder than it might otherwise have been. But what was life without challenge? And it was the same matter, after all. Just . . . rearranged. There would be a clue, a trail, a lot of dirt.

One great big wide gaping open lot of dirt –

Oh yes. He still had a face on his foot.

He shook his leg vigorously until the offending article detached and bounced and clinked away across the former-tower, current-pile-of-rubble.

That was better.

After a micro-cycle of processor-burning thought, he decided that following where it fell was as good a direction to start in as any other.

You had to be methodical about these things, else what was the point?

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

“This is intolerable! How much longer are you intending to keep me here?” Haacano did not stop driving up and down the room to shout at the Temple guardsmechs barring the door. His turret tracked them as he turned, his barrel glaring. “It has been two days! I am a ranking official and I –”

“Not any more,” Elita said bluntly, cutting loudly across the rant, “Any rank you possessed has been abolished by the expulsion of Tarn from the High Council. As has been explained – repeatedly – you are being held by request of the Magnus' Office pending a investigation and judgement on the actions of the Tarnian government –”
“The Tarnian government?!” He shot into biped form so fast his body shrieked. “The Tarnian government reacted to AN ATTACK! Vosian missiles were already BURNING MY HOME TO SLAG when we fired back! Are we to be judged for trying to DEFEND OURSELVES?!
Utterly unmoved, her arms at her sides, Elita looked him in straight in the optic. “Naturally the Vosian government is also under scrutiny. You are not being singled out and you are not being victimised and my mechs are here as much for your safety as to keep you in here. While you are shouting at us all day long in here, Red Watch and the Civic Guard are busy outside keeping Tarnians and Vosians from killing each other on the streets.”

Haacano's face quivered with barely contained rage. That he contained it at all was something of a minor miracle. But he did and slowly the anger drained from his frame, flared plates and snarling tracks settling back down. He folded his arms and opened his mouth.
Before he could say anything, Elita continued, “Permission has been granted for you to receive approved visitors. I suggest that you address any questions you may have to them.” She stepped aside to allow a slender golden figure to enter.

“Xaaron!”
The Emirate acknowledged Haacano with a slight nod, then spoke to Elita. “May we have some privacy?”
She did not look happy about the idea. “If you wish, Emirate. We will be outside.”

The guardmechs trooped out after her, masked and impassive as always. What they thought of it all was anyone's guess. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Haacano stepped eagerly forward. “Xaaron, please tell me you're here to –”
He stopped as the other mech held up a hand. “I am here,” Xaaron began evenly, “on behalf of my government. They are considering their response to the developing situation and feel that you may be able to offer some insight into how events may continue.”
“Xaaron . . .” Haacano repeated bemusedly, “I'm certain you know more about what's going on than I do! All I've had are these damn newsfeeds! You're the first reasonable person I've seen since – What do you want from me? I haven't even been allowed to try to contact my government!”

Xaaron looked past him at the engravings in the walls. His optics slid across to the image of Atraplex rising from the Iron Sea and he hissed quietly. “Do you realise that you are probably the only member of your government left alive?”
“What?” The tank's mouth dropped open. “I . . . that can't be true. I assumed – there were contingencies. Surely someone has – there must be someone!”
“If there is, they have not been located. The most we have managed to find – by which I mean, the most the combined efforts of the Defence Directorate and the global diplomatic channels have been able to find – is an operational overseer in charge of the Simfur occupation. Who is understandably perturbed by the idea that she has just outlived everyone further up the chain of command.”
“This is not a time for jokes!”

“Who's joking?” He walked over and traced the line of fins along Atraplex's tail. “The point is that there is no one left to speak for the people of Tarn. Or Vos. We haven't been able to find a single surviving member of the Conclave either.”
“But that's . . . there must be someone. I cannot be . . .”
“It would seem you can. You and Graviitus appear to be the only ones left to represent your peoples. And to be held accountable for their actions.”

Haacano came up beside him, urgently bright optics reflected in the golden metal of the wall. “What are you saying?”
Xaaron hissed again. “You know exactly what I mean.”
“So we are to be punished for defending ourselves? And all the while, the scavengers strip-mine everything left behind. Oh yes, I know the Altihexians are already trying to take the Vosian refineries. How long until someone goes after our energon reserves? Will they even bother to wait for Council permission?”
“Nova Cronum at least will be doing all in its power to ensure that the focus remains on helping the survivors,” Xaaron told him tiredly.
Haacano rolled his tracks derisively. “Please. As if any state is going care about the fate of my people when there are fuel and technology reserves for the taking!” He swept his arm in a great, cutting arc. “No wonder you wouldn't all stand with us against Vos! This is the best outcome you could have hoped for! Now we're both ripe for the picking and to the Pit with everyone who has died –”

“Did you hear about Polyhex?”
Xaaron’s interruption threw him off mid-gesticulation. What had been a furious stride forward became a stumbling step. “What?”
“Polyhex. I assume you must have since you have been paying attention to the ‘feeds. They’re destroying their photon missile stocks. Not just vowing to scale-back their stockpiles. They are actually and publicly dismantling them. Every last one of them. The Stanix Parliament is voting on an action to halve their missile stocks in their entirety. There are a dozen similar proposals being discussed across the planet. If the Prodium government doesn’t go through with it, they will likely be dragged screaming from office.” Xaaron drew his forefinger back from the engraving. “Tarn and Vos have appalled the world. That could yet mean an atrocity on this scale will never be allowed to happen again.” Walking slowly past a depiction of the Fall of Cronum, he circled around the room before facing Haacano again. “It will certainly mean no sympathy for those responsible.”

The Tarnian shifted uncomfortably. Whatever righteous indignation had fuelled his earlier outbursts had drained from him now. “I . . . Xaaron, I cannot . . . I represent my people, I did not decide their path. You cannot hold me responsible for everything that . . .”
“I do not. Broadly speaking, my government does not. But soon the initial horror will be over and the reality of life without the Vos/Tarnian fuel reserves will start to sink in and then it really won't matter whether you had any control over what happened or not. As I said, you and Graviitus are the only ones left to be held responsible.”

“But . . .” Haacano stood there, utterly lost, the full meaning of Xaaron's words finally working its way under his armour. All the pride and bluster of the seasoned politician faded, leaving a lost old mech with no idea what he was supposed to do next. “It . . . it was never supposed to go this far,” he whispered hollowly.
“Yes.” Xaaron shuttered his optics. “That was exactly what Graviitus said.”

 

Bravo! Cant wait for another chapter

 

Please accept the usual apologies for an update schedule that is eccentric in the same way that Pluto's orbit is. I have a store of chapters built up that should last the next couple of weeks at least, but we'll see how it goes. This arc is a bit more tricky than what's come before - as anything set in the immediate aftermath of a massed nuclear weapon induced slaughter ought to be....


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

4.4: Small Differences
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“If we can't be certain this is the last of them, can we are least be sure that this is most of them?”
Megatron stared down at the rows of temporary shelters stretching across the wasteland below them, his mouth set in a grim line. A few micro-cycles of silence passed before he responded to the Magnus' question. “Ravage?”
“The refugees account for seventeen percent of the combined populations of Vos and Tarn,” the lieutenant stated blandly from his position at his commander's side, “Considering the size of the areas that remain intact or at least accessible, the analysts are saying this represents the kind of numbers they would expect.”

Everyone looked over the side of the hover platform, each no doubt performing their own mental calculations about how bad those numbers were. Ravage looked up at Megatron, contemplating the movements of his optics and the minuscule changes in his expression.
“We've allocated shelters as the refugees have arrived,” Optrion observed, probably just to say something, “There hasn't been time to work out how best to distribute them outside of prioritising the wounded . . .”
“So we can expect a certain amount of . . . friction.” Deca Magnus nodded solemnly. “It's unavoidable I suppose.”
“Would you expect them to just lie down and give up their differences?” Megatron said, not quite snapping.

The blue and red mech moved fractionally, his gaze rising to meet the horizon. “No. I would not. It is pointless, a complete waste of energy and a depressing failure to learn anything from this atrocity but I fully expect the factionalism and fighting to continue. The best we can hope for in the short term is that the need to care for the injured will outweigh the need to cause more damage.”
“Forgive me, sir.” The Civic Guardsmech at the back of the platform overlaid the landscape with icons and statistics as she spoke. “but we are already seeing instances of sporadic violence between the relocated civilians.”
“I did say it was the best we could hope for.”

Optrion spoke up again. “I spoke to the engineers this morning. They think they can bring the top strata online and generate some more robust housing even though the local control linkages are decayed.”
“How exactly would that help?” Megatron demanded.
“Better accommodation. It help ease tensions. It would certainly aid the recovery of the injured.”
“No amount of domestic comforts are going to ease tensions. We need to separate the Vosians from the Tarnians.”
“So we can replicate the stand off that created this mess?” The Magnus almost sneered. “We cannot expect these people to cooperate willingly but equally we cannot just accept their hostility. We are not going to have the resources to create two camps.”

Megatron's hands twitched. Ravage slunk aside as he stepped over to talk quietly and fiercely to the taller mech. “If we do not separate these people, there is going to be more death. The anger – it will not go away with a few words.”
“Of course not. But for the moment at least we need to do this on the ground, not by drawing new lines on the maps.”
The phrase hit home and Megatron frowned. “So, what? We put a soldier at every door to guard against arguments?”
“Soldiers and Guardsmechs,” Deca corrected. His fingers drew lines over the paths between the shacks. “Visible patrols, roving medical teams. Enough to reinforce that we are here to help and that we will not tolerate continued violence.”
“So they can resent us rather than each other?”
“If that is what it takes.”

“That will not help us when it comes to getting them fuel and repairs.” Optrion drew his own lines over the camp. “Any infrastructure we put in will be limited. We're going to have to hand supplies out by hand. We need their cooperation –” He broke off, distracted by something below them.
“Another reason not to split the refugees, sir,” the Guardsmech said, “Central distribution will be easier.”
“And bring the two sides together even if they are actively trying to avoid one another.” Megatron snarled dismissively. “We'll be forcing the conflict on them!”
The Magnus rounded on him. “You seem determined to have us believe conflict is unavoidable. At least if we set the location for distribution –”
“We are not talking about some quaint local dispute or a sporting event that needs marshalling! These people have watched their friends and brothers burn to nothing!”
“I am well aware of that! Please do not assume I don't appreciate what is going to happen here. But whether they like it or not, we are going to need them to cooperate with us and with one another –”
“That is optimism beyond the realm of sanity!”

Ravage could only agree and made a cursory assessment of the Magnus' physical vulnerabilities. Megatron had moved even closer to Deca now, passion overriding protocol. If this disturbed the other mech, he did not show it and his response was delivered with calm sincerity. “No. It is a goal that we must achieve or this has all been an appalling, unforgivable waste.”
Megatron backed up, hissing. Slowly, his anger ebbed. “Perhaps. Yes. A . . . noble goal.”
“A practical one.”
“Not in the short term. Whatever you say about keeping them apart, that is exactly what you propose we do, one fight at a time.”
“At least that way some of them might realise they are in the same –”

“Would you excuse me, Magnus, Commander, sirs?” Optrion asked suddenly, “I need to attend to something.”

And without another word, he jumped off the platform.

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

It was not the only fight he had seen. But it was the one furthest from anyone else who could break it up and the one that looked the most one-sided: three heavily built hexes against a lone blue mech, pounding away at him with their claws and tails.

Optrion aimed his fall just behind the larger of the three, flaring his armour as make-shift ailerons. He struck hard, throwing up a cloud of dust and jarring every system in his body. Luckily, the shock of his arrival stunned the hexes long enough for him to recover the use of his motors and by the time they started to react, he was already moving.

He grabbed the biggest of the three first, catching him around the shoulders and flinging him bodily into a nearby wall. The nearest of his two friends shrieked in anger and stabbed at the interloper with his tail, unfurling a wicked spike. Optrion shifted easily around the inexpert attack, battered the tail away and drove a fist at the owner's unguarded optic strip. It connected with an unpleasant crunch.

The remaining hexe took advantage of being as-yet untargeted and, leaving the blue mech lying in a pool of his own oil, circled around behind Optrion. He sprang as the soldier was busy pulling his fingers out of his friend's face, using all his legs to execute a tremendously powerful leap that would have propelled him squarely on to Optrion's back. Would have, if Optrion had not spun aside at the last instance and allowed one hexe to collide with another.

The first attacker got back on his feet and faced him warily, one arm hanging loose and useless at his side. His four optics contracted to points, flicking to his groaning comrades and back again.
“Stay there,” Optrion advised. Keeping careful watch on the hexes, he walked slowly backwards to the blue mech's side and knelt. The instant he looked down, the big hexe surged forward. Without looking up again, he raised his right arm and launched a shock grenade from just behind his wrist. The grey disc hit the hexe in the chest and he went down squawking and spasming.

The blue mech's injuries were extensive but thankfully not life threatening. He was larger than average, a flyer from his design, and that size had undoubtedly let him survive the worst of the beating. Not that it was much better than 'survive'. Closer examination showed that the mech's internal systems were responding in the slowest way possible. Which likely had something to do with the massive stretches of scorched and melted plating across his back. What was left of his wings hung limp and useless from his shoulders.

He moaned, voice corrupted with static as Optrion eased him on to his side. “No . . . please . . .”
“It's all right. I'm here to help. Just try and stay calm.”
Orange optics slowly focused on Optrion's face. “Who . . . ?”
“I'm here to help,” he repeated, “Can you move?”
“I . . . yes. Yes.” Joints grinding, the flyer managed to struggle to his knees. “Th-thank you.”
“Vosian scum!” shouted the big hexe, surging forward
“Sir.” Optrion lifted his arm again. The Tarnian slammed to a halt, throwing up his claws defensively. “Thank you. Just give this mech some space and then we can all go about our business in peace.”

Worried faces were emerging from the surrounding shelters, no one quite committing to forming a crowd yet but everyone eager to see what was going on. Some started working their way around to join the three attackers and he could only hope that they would not want to follow their example.
“I . . . my friends –” The flyer abruptly reached out for Optrion's hand. “They're hurt! I was trying to get help when – I . . .” He shrank back, looking fearfully at the hexes.
Optrion took his hand and gently helped him up. “I have medical training. Show me where they are and I'll do what I can, at least until we can get a proper team to them.”
“We have wounded too!” cried the hexe with the spiked tail.
“Yeah!” echoed one of the mechs who had been gravitating towards them. “We've got people hurt all over here!”
“Why're you helping a fragging Vosian and not us?” the big hexe put in, emboldened by the support.

Optrion looked over at him and held his gaze, expression neutral. “Because you attacked him.”

The crowd shifted, still angry, no longer quite sure of where it was aiming that anger. The three hexes bristled, flaring and snapping. The one with the spike jerked forward –

Without anti-grav lift and landing so the full force of the impact resounded across the immediate area, Megatron slammed down in front of them. None of his weapons were active but that hardly mattered. His sheer mass was more than enough to make the Tarnians back off.

“There will be no. More. Fighting.” The words ground from his mouth, vocaliser barely containing the simmering fury that showed in his optics. He glared down the hexes then swung around to address the rest of the crowd. Above him, the hover platform slowly descended, the Magnus leaning forward and resting his hands lightly on the guard rail.

“We will help you all,” Megatron declared, “regardless of where you are from! You will all receive the same aid. You will all be held to the same standard. There will be no. More. Killing. There will be no. More. Violence. You will not harm the injured! You will not squabble over who is to be treated first! You will not be treated better than the Vosians and they will not be treated worse than you!” He stood there for a moment, as if daring anyone to contradict him. The echoes of his voice chased between the shelters and the absolute silence of the crowd.

In ones and twos, the Tarnians started to slip away. Optrion saw the spiked hexe pause, eyes flaring, before disappearing with a contemptuous flick of the tail.

Megatron's feet crunched on the uneven ground. “Is this one all right?”
Optrion glanced at the flyer, who was leaning heavily and awkwardly against him. “He should be. Thank you.”
“Hn. Wouldn't want you to think I discouraged your acts of suicidal morality.” His optics were slowly fading back to yellow. He crossed his arms, studying the shelters and the people watching from the shadows. “Even if you can't actually break up every fight on your own.”
“Perhaps not, sir,” Optrion acknowledged with the slightest of shrugs, “I will let you know if I come up with a more general solution.”
“Good. You there. Where are these friends of yours?”

The flyer stared at him. “A – ah – th-they're east of here. I c-can show you.”
“Show me,” Optrion said firmly, “With your permission, Commander? I might be able to save the medical teams the trip out.”
“Very well. You are excused duty acting ballast on a hover platform. Report in to the coordination hub when you've assessed the situation.”

“Yes sir!” He could not actually salute and support the flyer at the same time but he tried to put the intention into his voice. Moving carefully, he began guiding the blue mech away, plotting a path through the camp. Behind them, the platform slowly descended to retrieve Megatron.

As it touched down, Optrion paused and glanced back. “Commander – the Magnus is right: splitting the Vosians and Tarnians up is the worse option. We'll never prove to them that we're treating them all the same if they can't see us doing it.”

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

Megatron stared after Optrion until he and the Vosian were lost from sight among the shelters.

His fingers curled and uncurled compulsively. It was a habit he had developed a long time ago, when control of his emotions started to become important. The movement substituted for whatever he actually wanted to do, which was usually an inappropriate display of violence. Likely this had saved numerous people from an inconvenient level of damage.

Optrion's words chased from processor to processor, his mind working to dissect the Iaconain's observations. Megatron had learnt to value his subordinate's observations. For a temple-minded mech, the truck had a sound tactical sense and a deep streak of stubborn loyalty that put the soldiers he served with first. Off-world, those combined to make him a useful counterbalance to the more mission-focused members of the battalion. Now those same instincts were leading him to observations on what would serve the refugees and if he was anywhere as near the mark as he usually was . . .

It was not that Megatron objected to being questioned. Only an idiot failed to accept judgement on his plans from other perspectives. No. The issue was that he knew the people they were dealing with. He knew that violence between the survivors was an inevitability and his very spark rebelled against anything that would perpetuate that violence.

Yet . . . Optrion was correct. Neither side would accept that they were being given equal attention if they did not see it. Of course they might not even then, but divided they would certainly start to make claims of unfairness. And the Magnus was right as well – if no attempt was made at reconciliation was made, thousands would have died achieving nothing. That too was unacceptable.

Ravage appeared at his side, examining him curiously. Megatron was aware of the Magnus and the Guardsmechs on the platform behind him, no doubt wondering why he was staring into the middle-distance. Let them wonder.

“I assume the Lieutenant Commander will not be returning with us?” Ravage purred rhetorically. He would have monitored the entire exchange and would already have fed the relevant information to the communications net.
“No. It seems he feels the need to remind me he joined up in the medical division.”
“You seem . . . troubled.” The black quad hesitated over the observation. It was rare for him to voice such comments in the open. Perhaps this time it was simply too obvious to ignore.

Megatron said nothing. He allowed his hands to relax and jerked his head up. The sky above was full of drifting dust clouds and the smoke rising from the burning energon fields. He cycled through different wavelengths and resolutions, tracking the mingling particulates.

Central distribution would be easier. He stiffened, the thought taking him off-guard. The idea that formed around it was equally unexpected but in moments he was sure of its worth. Its simplicity alone might be enough to make it successful.

“Come.” He marched back to the platform, Ravage following at his heels.
The Magnus stepped aside to allow him back on board. “This diversion is over?”
“Yes. Pilot: take us back to the hub. I need to address the camp.”

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

Ravage opened the emergency channel as ordered and moved aside to allow Megatron to step up on to the transmission dais. A swift check of the ping-backs from across the camp confirmed that his image would be broadcast to every working receiver in the area, whether the owners wanted it to or not. There were benefits to etheric warfare that sometimes outmatched those of the physical kind.

Deca Magnus walked slowly around the dais. He had said little since Megatron announced his intentions and his posture was guarded, giving little clue as to what he was thinking. Purely for fun, Ravage painted him with the outcome of his earlier tactical assessment, picking out the lock points for his armour, the slightly slow rotator on his lower left arm, the sub-optimal sensor coverage on his right flank.

“Are you sure doing this will be helpful?” the Magnus asked, sending the question under heavy privacy shields.
Megatron looked sideways at him, hands clasped behind his back. “You aren't?”
“I am not certain. I want to know if you are.”
“Certain that it will work? No. Certain that it must be tried? Completely.”
The Magnus looked away, at the feeds covering the walls with images of the refugees and the people trying to help them. He nodded, once, sharply. “The arrangements the Civic Guard is responsible for have been made. I suggest you go ahead and make your announcement.”

Adjusting his stance minutely, Megatron triggered the dais.

“Attention. I am Field Commander Mega Mech Tron of Defence Directorate Off-World Battalion Four, acting commander of all Defence Directorate forces operating in this region. I am addressing you from this camp's coordination hub. Over the past nine days, my soldiers have been working to extract all surviving citizens of Vos and Tarn and bring them here for medical processing ahead of rehousing. At this time, we and the Civic Guard emergency response units are still attempting to deliver proper treatment to all those who require it. Further – it is unlikely that rehousing will be possible in the immediate future. The entire region has been compromised by the destruction of Tarn and Vos' superstructures. We do not know where you will be able to go.

“Therefore, for now, this camp is your home. It is also ours. We will continue our efforts to care for you and will live beside you until such time as a more permanent solution can be found. We will live beside you and you will live beside one another.

“I am aware of the tensions that exist in this camp. Many among you are attempting to maintain the divisions that caused the war that brought you here. Many have chosen to continue fighting, even though those they fight are often incapable of defending themselves and are innocent of the crimes for which they are attacked.

“This is what I say to that: as hard as it may be for you to accept, you have suffered equally and you shall be helped equally. If you wish to respond to that by continued hatred, that is your choice. But from this moment on, fuel supplies will be divided precisely. Distribution nodes have been set up at key points across the camp. You will have already been made aware of their locations. Energon rations will be distributed from these nodes to two people at a time. To one Tarnian and one Vosian at a time. There will be guards at each of these nodes to prevent any coercion. What you do with the fuel once it has been collected is up to you. As I said, it is your choice. Waste it on maintaining divisions and putting up walls if you wish.

“Just remember that you will need to cooperate the next time you start to run dry. Megatron out.”

The dais powered down. Megatron shuttered his optics briefly. The Magnus crossed his arms. Ravage lingered with his mind in the networks, collating feedback from the broadcast points, the faint beats of receivers being struck in anger or left to fizz into silence.

All optics turned to the feeds and the people they showed and everyone waited to see what would happen next.

 

4.5: Walking Wounded
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

Optrion folded away his sub-fingers and withdrew his hand from the green and black flyer's chest, letting the panels seal up her endostructure. Her optics glowed briefly then settled back into dim quiescence.

“Will she be all right?”
He smiled across at the blue mech anxiously watching from the other side of the little dug-out hut. “She's going to be fine. I've put her into restorative stasis-lock. If you make sure she gets a steady supply of fuel for the next couple of days, she should make a full recovery.”

The blue mech – whose name was Cashcoui – relaxed a little, shoulders dipping in relief. His other friend, a smaller, stockier flyer in yellow, was already slumped in peaceful shut-down at his side, the temporary patches Optrion had fitted across his cracked injection systems already merging with the lines of his torso. Left untreated, both would have been dead within the day but proper outside attention was all that was needed to fix them up.

He flexed his hands, relishing the opportunity to exercise his medical training. It felt good to remake rather than break. “Now then,” he said, standing up, let's take a look at you.”
Cashcoui grimaced but obediently sat down on the floor, where it would be easier to get a good look at the injuries to his back.

“Does your commander really mean it?” he asked as Optrion began probing the damage, “About only giving out fuel to a Vosian and a Tarnian together?”
“If Megatron says something, he usually means it.”
“But . . . they hate us. It won't work. No one will get any fuel.”
“Is hate stronger than hunger?”
“I . . . I don't know.”
“Then I suppose we'll find out together. Hm.”

The damage was, in some ways, more extensive than on the other two flyers. Whilst they had suffered heavy impact injuries from crashing, Cashcoui had taken the full brunt of a shock wave while in flight. Most of the panels on his back were warped out of shape, some burnt away entirely. It pushed the limits of what his systems could hope to restore and was busy draining all their resources into the attempt.

“Can you feel anything in this?” Optrion asked, digging delicately at a blackened actuator.
“Not much. Most of it's just dead metal.”
That was hardly a surprise. Heat wounds were always the worst for sensory loss. And then there were the wing mounts. Burnt away almost completely, what was left fused down to the most basic level. It would require far more than a patch job and field repairs to restore function there.

He stepped back, considering the pattern of the damage before glancing at the green and yellow flyers. “You tried to shield them from the heat-flash.”
Cashcoui laughed harshly. “I wasn't trying to be a hero. We were all going down, knocked out of the air, and I . . . I spread my wings as wide as I could. Thought it might protect me.”
“And them?”
“I guess so. Wasn't really thinking.”
“It's a good instinct.”
“Yeah. Lot of good it did.” He turned his head, looking over his shoulder. “It's bad, isn't it?”
“It's not good. But it's not irreparable. I can give you a set of medical packages that should help seal up some of these gaps.”
“All right . . . but . . . what about my wings?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Will I ever fly again?”

Optrion hissed and laid a hand on Cashcoui's arm. “ The wound is deep. Likely it will need an infusion of active proto-matter. Even if you went for physical reconstruction, you would need to regrow the armatures.”
“And . . . you can't spare any 'matter. Can you?”
“I'm sorry. As bad as the damage is, it's not life-threatening. Given that . . .”
“Yeah.”
“Once this is all over, I am sure you will be able to –”
“Hah!” Cashcoui jumped to his feet, throwing off Optrion's hand. The thrusters in his legs flexed open and closed again. “I'm a low-grade cargo lifter. I'd never be able to afford that kind of repair. And there are hundreds more like me. No one would bother funding it for me.”
“Even if that's true, you could still go in for reformatting –”
“And never fly again?!” He stared at Optrion, aghast. “I'd sooner die!”

“I'm sorry.”
Cashcoui slumped again. “It's not your fault. Thank you for . . . for helping me. Really.”
“It's my duty,” Optrion told him. He let his diagnostic systems close down and then reached into one of his storage compartments. “Here.” He took out a canister. “This is battlefield energon. It packs more of a kick than standard fuel, so it should last a fair while. I'm going to hook it up to your friends with iso-locked feeds. No one else will be able to access it. I can't promise no one will try, but they won't be able to get it open without wasting the contents.”
The flyer took the canister, optics wide. “Th-thanks. You're sure you won't miss this?”
“I will, but I'm more efficient than a civilian. I'll cope. Just hold on to it while I pipe them in.”

He fished out a couple of feed tubes and fixed them to the canister before extending them to reach Cashcoui's friends. “As I said, it will be a couple of days before they're up and about. This is for you in the meantime.” The connections made, he handed Cashcoui a standard emergency ration, the same kind they had been giving out to all of the refugees on arrival. “Use it up slowly and don't move about much. Once this runs out, go to one of the distribution nodes.”
“And find a Tarnian willing to collect fuel with me instead of beating me up?”
“Yes. Don't worry. We'll get things calm. I promise.”

The Vosian put his head to the side. He looked at the fuel in his hands, then at the other two. “I don't believe you,” he blurted suddenly, “No – I mean – I believe you'll try but the Tarnians – they hate me. Us. They want us dead. Doesn't matter how clever your commander tries to be, he's not going to change that. And I can't fly away! I want to! I want to leave them alone and go somewhere they'll leave me alone but I can't! I can't.” He broke off, dropping heavily to the ground.
“Cashcoui . . . did you fire missiles at Tarn? Did you want their city levelled?”
“What? No!” His eyes were wide again. “I never . . . that was just . . . everyone was always saying how terrible the Tarnians were but I'm just a – a lifter! I wouldn't have . . . as long as they weren't bothering us – well, that's all we wanted. Them to leave us alone!”
“I think if I asked the same question of a lot of the Tarnians in this camp, I'd get the same answer. Maybe even from the people who attacked you. And don't forget: they now need your help to get fuel as much as you need theirs.”

Taking one last look at his patients, Optrion stepped out of the shelter and into the darkening night. Half a micro-cycle later, Cashcoui stumbled after him, grabbing hold of his arm. “Hey! Thanks. Again. Really. I . . . get it. What you're saying. I'll . . . try and do what your commander says. Sounds like he's trying. Maybe it's about time someone did.”
“Maybe.” Optrion gripped his hand for a moment. A gesture of solidarity. “I will try and see you again.”
“Thanks,” the flyer repeated.
“Now. If you don't mind, I think if I'm going to try and do what my commander says as well, I had better go and help a Tarnian or two.”

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

It was hard to stay out of sight, especially in the daytime. He had to skulk between the ramshackle shelters and makeshift living spaces, keeping close to the tilting walls and away from the camp's thronged thoroughfares, trying to move about as much as possible and so avoid the risk of being recognised. Layers of grime clung to every facet of his body but he dared not try cleaning them off. The dust of his city protected him. Without it . . .

Being flown in to the camp, he had imagined himself taking a position in organising the Vosian refugees, perhaps joining some form of committee of influential persons dedicated to rebuilding. They would need something of that kind, a group who could lead the survivors into restored fortunes. He would present himself as having been a humble adjutant, responsible for little in the old government but knowledgeable about its workings. He would impress with his understanding of due process and the practical requirements of forming a new leadership. And yes, he would have hidden talents as an orator that would gradually come to the fore. Rising to prominence would be but a matter of time.

Only there were no influential Vosians in the camp. No focal points around which the refugees were rallying and no one inclined to do so. Chaos ruled, people milling around in confusion when they were not huddled on the ground nursing debilitating injuries. Worse yet, they had to share the camp with the damned Tarnians. Brawls were a daily occurrence and the scatter-shot manner in which people were housed made it impossible for the two sides to avoid one another.

And then someone recognised him.

Sarristec hugged himself at the memory, pulling his body further into the meagre shade of an overhanding metal sheet. The big red and white workmaster half-rising, focusing through furiously working repair packages, optics narrowing, words forming in his mouth, the unmistakable beginnings of angry realisation on his face –

Sarristec had fled and not looked back, stumbling along walkway after uneven walkway until he was sure he was unseen again and was hopelessly lost. Only luck kept him from straying into a nest of Tarnians or colliding with a soldier or a Guardsmech. His mind filled with paranoia, his senses running hot and at cross-purposes.

It left him wandering in a kind of panicked delirium for a while, running from pursuit real or imagined until warning symbols flashed up in his vision, telling him insistently that he had nearly burnt through his fuel ration. So here he was, a scuttling turbo-rat hiding from the morning light, watching hungrily as people gathered around the knot of soldiers and their energon tank. There were maybe twenty refugees all told, both Vosians and Tarnians, congregating in groups of threes and fours on opposite sides of a rough circle of empty ground. The soldiers eyed them nervously, shooting encrypted messages between themselves and fiddling with their weapons systems. The refugees murmured, their disgruntlement clear. No one wanted to make the first move.

Clearly, the mech in charge of this fiasco was deranged. To inflict this nonsense of co-collection on them was an act of insanity as much as it was one of injustice. To expect them to cooperate with those barbaric murderers –

He shuddered again, this time from the pangs as his fuel pumps began struggling to find energon to circulate. Half a cube! That was, if not all he wanted, all he thought he would need to keep going. But he might as well have wished for one of the moons. No one would follow through with this absurd 'equality' notion. It was an insult! What true Vosian would debase themselves by acknowledging unity with some Tarn-born thug?

One of the Vosian refugees stepped hesitantly forward. A quad, wide-chested with a tail that trailed ragged wires and scars that dug deep into his shoulder blocks. He pawed the ground then took another step, loping out into the clearing but not approaching the soldiers yet. His green optic strip swung left and right before fixing on the largest group of Tarnians. He planted himself on his haunches and waited.

The Tarnians looked at each other. The Vosians too, several of them calling out to the quad to come back. He stayed his ground and kept staring at the mechs opposite, tail flicking. One of the Tarnians began to walk forward but was held back by his fellows, their voices rising in anger. The soldiers became fully alert, their private banter evaporating. One of them transformed her arm into a gun. Her captain glared at her. He did not tell her to disarm.

A truly enormous feme broke away from the Tarnian crowd. She too was shouted at but simply ignored the calls for her to stop. Her great bulk thumped forward, tracked feet pummelling the ground until she was standing an arm's length from the quad. Bits of her crude body actually hissed with relieved pressure as she settled to a stop.

The onlookers fell silent, not daring to move. Sarristec shuffled a little way out of his hiding place for a better view, in turns disgusted and astonished by what he was seeing.

The feme spoke first. Her voice, of course, was grating and rough. “How many cubes you need?”
“There are seventeen of us,” the quad told her, tail stilling, “including the ones who can't get out here.”
“That one each?”
“Yes. What about you?”
“Thirteen. But . . . some of us ain't very efficient. Seventeen of the size they hand out won't be enough.”
“I see. How many?”
Her hands, little more than huge clamps, opened and closed. “Twenty-one. Minimum.”
“Very well.”
“Yeah. Except . . .” She gestured at the other Tarnians. “They don't want to see you stockpiling. We're all weak. Some Vosian heavy gets to full power . . .”

“Yes.” The quad turned his head. “So we need four more people. I don't think that will be hard. Are you willing to wait a couple of cycles?”
The Tarnian actually laughed. “You think we got a choice here?”
“Not so much, I suppose. All right!” he shouted at the Vosians, “You heard! We can fuel four more. There must be someone nearby. Yeah – you hiding back there! Are you really going to run yourself empty over pride? What about you? And you – yes, you! You Vosian?”

Sarristec stared back at the quad in blind terror. He couldn't – the risk – the Tarnians.

But his hunger won out and he dragged himself up, staggering to join the other refugees. If it were over quickly, if he got away before anyone really noticed him, then it would be fine. It would be. He'd be fuelled and it would be fine.

“There,” the quad said, “That's twenty-one.”
“Yeah,” the feme agreed, “Fine. Let's get this over with.”
Together, not quite at the same time and not quite in step, they went over to the soldiers. The captain put his hands on his hips. “Twenty-one cubes each. Sidetrack, fill 'em up.”

The soldiers started handing out the energon and Sarristec kept his optics lowered. Those around him were not really paying him any attention. They were too focused on the fuel, even those who had been rightly decrying the whole thing. That was good. They wouldn't notice him. It would be fine.

A sharp, startled noise made him glance sideways. And he nearly cried out in horror.

As smeared with dirt and grime as the rest of them, one claw snapped clean off, his face-plates twisted and his fine detail work crumpled and torn, Lord Myyoc was still eminently recognisable. He was poised precariously on his three intact limbs, tail rigid with shocked recognition. The former defence minister of Vos, reduced to a beast at bay. Different only from the former energy minister, perhaps, in responsibility for their situation.

Sarristec did not dare speak, or move, or do anything in case it provoked the other to give him away. Would that paralyse Myyoc too? If so, for how long? How long would it take to get the fuel and escape? What were the escape routes? Was the way clear behind him? He couldn't tell. His sensors were still failing him. The sky was lost to him. And if Myyoc did chose to –

“Here pal.” A boxy mech who might once have been brown held an energon cube out for him. “Don't use it all at once, hey?”
With trembling hands, Sarristec accepted the prize. There. That was it. Now to leave.
The mech's optics narrowed. “Hey,” he repeated, colder, “You look just like –”

“That's Myyoc!” He barely thought about what he was doing, what he was saying, just reacted, pointing, accusing, raising his voice as high and loud as it would go. “Lord Myyoc!”

It worked. Around them, people turned, seeking the source of the disturbance. Myyoc cringed, splaying his neck plates and skittering backwards. His mouth worked, trying to summon words. Too late.
“Myyoc?”
“Yeah, Myyoc!”
“The one who ran the Defence Ministry?”
“Yeah, that's him!”
“That's the slagger who said we'd be safe from Tarnian missiles!”
“He let them fire at Tarn!” Sarristec shouted over Myyoc's stuttering protests, “He did this! He's the reason we're in here!”

It was so easy. One cycle there was calm, the energon being shared out, a moment almost of accord between Tarn and Vos, the unimaginable – the next, a dozen Vosians were shouting, raging, oblivious to the soldiers calling for order. Sarristec did not see who threw the first punch. Someone must have though because suddenly Myyoc was being assailed from all sides. There was no plan to it. No coordination. A stray blow knocked Sarrsitec over and the world spun around him, filled with noise and confusion and screams of pain.

His energon cube landed just out of reach. A foot cracked down on it, splintering one side, spilling the precious liquid. Desperately, he threw himself at it, managing to wrap his body around it and roll aside as more people homed in on the fight and the cause of the fight. Vosians, Tarnians too. One of them! One of the people responsible! One of those who are to blame!

He half-crawled, half ran away, clutching the broken cube to his chest. Behind him, Myyoc's screeches cut off and the soldiers opened fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Refugee Camp – Eastern Approach
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“Another two fights yesterday evening.”
“That's still six down on the day before.”
“Lot of people getting hurt.”
“And some starting to cooperate with each other. There are reports of people starting to share across the city divide. It is getting better.”
“At the moment. A little.”

Diatrion braked to a stop at the top of the rise, testing his suspension against the uneven terrain. “There is a difference between realism and pessimism, you know.”
Clutch slewed up behind him, transforming and crossing his arms. “S' that what you are? A realist?”
“I'm looking at the facts and drawing a realistic conclusion about how things are progressing. So yes.”
“Right, right. That's what it is. 'Realistic conclusion'. Not 'insane optimism'.”
“All I am trying to say is that treating the situation as being worse than it is will be as unhelpful as saying it's better.”
“And all I’m saying is that Vosians and Tarnians have been hatin' each other for longer than any of 'em can remember and that's not going to change just because Commander high-and-mighty Megatron orders 'em to stop.”

“You really don’t like him much, do you?” Diatrion observed, wheeling a little further so he could look down on the camp. It stretched for maybe a hundred hix in all directions, row after row of hollow cubes, built in all sizes to accommodate all kinds of people. In theory, everything was arranged on a standard grid pattern. Theory had not survived contact with reality however, and thanks to geography and hasty construction, the layout of the camp became increasingly confused the further out you got from the central hub. On the fringes, the shelters were being thrown up without the slightest concession to municipal planning.

“See this is why you’re the investigator and I’m just a lowly constable,” Clutch said, transforming back to truck mode and revving his engines, “That keen deductive insight o’ yours.” He steered north, following the curve of what was left of the road, Diatrion following with a soft chuckle. “S’ not exactly him, I suppose,” the Guardsmech went on, “Just soldiers. Don’t like them. Never have, never will.”
“We would never have been able to handle this without them.”
“They’re shooting people, Dia. I know it’s only stun charges and I know we’d probably be doing the same eventually but it’s what they do straight off.”
“To stop the fights you were complaining about.”
“How many people you know get up from a stun charge in a good mood?” Clutch rocked on his axles. “Military's fine for blowing up aliens but you don't want their sort on crowd control when it's actual people they're dealing with.”

“Actual people as opposed to aliens.” Diatrion let that hang in the air between them.
“You know what I mean! Those poor slaggers down there have lost everything. How do you expect them to act with a bunch of gun-modded tanks pushing them around?”
“Would they react any better if it were a lot of white and blues pushing them around? This is the situation we're in. We have to deal with it as it is.”
“I know that. Going to be hard, is all I'm saying.”

Diatrion chose not to point out that had been obvious from the start.

On the horizon hunched the still-burning ruins of Vos, the dull glow of the fires a lingering reminder of just how many had not been lucky enough to make it out, in any shape. The latest estimates suggested it would be another quartex before the ground cooled enough for anyone to enter the shattered core of the city. The energon fields? They would likely keep burning long after that. A million million atroleders of fuel in storage tanks and refinery tunnels, all of it feeding the inferno.

There would be no going home for the survivors. But there were survivors. Hundreds, even thousands had been saved. As difficult as the days ahead would be, that was reason for at least a little optimism.

“What's that?” Clutch asked, breaking carelessly across Diatrion's train of thought.
His sensors were pointed at the opposite horizon, where the air was clearer and the distant lights were the perfectly ordinary kind. Diatrion followed his gaze, searching for whatever it was that had attracted his companion's attention.

It was not hard to find: a slab, sharp and black against the sky. Zooming in revealed its scale (immense) and its method of propulsion (a series of huge anti-gravity engines). The finer details matched with a Class Seven bulk transporter platform, prospector/refinery sub-type. A kind that hadn't seen service in mega-cycles, not since the last great drive to extract endo-Cybertronic energon. A museum piece.

Out-riders swarmed around it, a small army of helicopters and avir. Together, they made a truly impressive sight.

And the whole lot was slowly flying on a direct course for Vos.

 

4.6: Upheaval
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“Heave!” Megatron thundered, tightening his grip on the chain.

As one, they obeyed, every soldier in the line and the two Air Guardians towering on either side dragging at the grapples sunk into the crust fragment. It ground in its housing, lifting fractionally before mega-cycles of corrosion halted its progress.

“Again!” he roared, winding the chain around his hands another couple of times. Behind him, the others braced themselves afresh. “Now! Heave!”

That did it. With a great, grinding and crunching, the fragment finally came loose from its ancient prison. Working with the momentum, the Air Guardians bore the brunt of the weight, firing their jets. The piece of Cybertron's skin rose up and up, thicker than Megatron was tall. Immediately, the engineers sprang into action, driving gravity-repulse spars into the sides, which hummed into life to take the load, letting the jets haul it aside.

Megatron stood back to watch the fragment drift lazily away. More engineers and a horde of technicians scurried around him, swarming down into the chasm left behind. They busied themselves opening up ports in the ancient geological machinery, the technicians transforming and seamlessly interfacing into the walls. Soon, the fissure was full of humming silver boxes, faintly glowing in the darkness.
“Have to say,” said a bronze mech, coming up beside Megatron with holograms flickering around his hands, “this is looking a lot better than I expected. The surface linkages are corroded but the sub-structure is responding fine. And the fuel lines connecting out to the Tarn and Vos networks are pinging back as sound. Should be able to use that.”
“What for? I assumed this would all work off local planetary energon reserves.”
“The actual elevation will, sure, but we need something to power the pumps to draw it up into the mechanism. Shouldn't be a problem, we won't need much to get it going. The fires in the main fields haven't reached down to where those lines connect.”
“Very well.” Megatron nodded. “How long until you can begin?”
“We can get started right away. In fact . . .” The engineer checked some of his calculations with a frown. “We should get started right away. The corrosion not going down as far as I expected means the geo-stasis response is kicking in already.”
“Understood.”

Triggering a communication channel, Megatron reached out to the immediate area. “All units: clear the uplift zone immediately. Squad six, hold the perimeter and prevent and onlookers getting too close. Ravage, lock sky-spy feeds with a three hix border.”
His soldiers sprang into action, falling back as ordered and taking up new positions. He did not really expect any of the refugees to actually try getting close but it paid to be cautious and there were the observers – members of the Vosian and Tarnian military and a few civil officials – to consider. If something went wrong, he wanted them as far back as possible and not getting in the way while the engineers tried to fix it.

The bronze mech nodded, confirming that the area was clear to his satisfaction. He of course would need to remain on station with his technicians, monitoring their activity throughout the process. Megatron intended to be at his side throughout. He accessed the feed from the platforms hovering far overhead and examined the long, barren strip of land that had been chosen. It stretched, not quite entirely, from the far boundaries of one city to the next. Waste ground, abandoned by societies that had exhausted their natural resources, it contained very few existing structures and those were limited to ancient monitoring stations. Nothing anyone would consider a loss when they were subsumed.

The chatter between the technicians spiked. The engineer focused his holograms into a single monitoring sphere, routing in every facet of his mechs' activity. He wove a representation of the local sub-strata, a fraction of the great sleeping machinery of the planet, all tunnels and channels and vast, twisting columns. Icons flickered around them, almost too fast for even Megatron's senses to track.

Far below them, something groaned expansively. Lines of power flashed across the image, signalling that the pumps were running. The engineer flexed his hands. “All right. Generation online. Power levels rising. Commencing primary unlocking.”

The ground shook. Rattled. Megatron felt the minor seismic shifts of connection ports and panel-to-panel seals disconnecting. That, as he understood it, was the easy part. The entire area would now be unsafe, a minefield of loose geography. But in real terms, it was just the equivalent of putting feet on the ground. A necessary preamble to the main event, nothing more.

“Begin formation sequence,” the engineer ordered. His projection flickered and sparked. The technicians' cross-talk changed, becoming faster and more complex. Another shudder ran through the ground. Something rumbled, something deeper than anything awakened so far.

It happened all at once. There were reasons for that. The interplay of the mechanisms within the continental plates, the necessity of ensuring an even transformation. It was not simply a matter of elevating the surface. The entirety of the plate needed to be rebuilt, restructured, each part resting on the others and providing them with support. When they rose, they rose as one, a great tide of metal washing into the sky.

Pillars jumped up and curved into arches and spans. Walls and walkways were lifted around them, doorways falling naturally into place. Modules piled one after the other into whole buildings. Looking over the edge of the island of stillness at the centre of it all, Megatron caught glimpses of the voids left below being turned into yet more levels. Living quarters, maintenance bays, homes and infirmaries desperately needed, springing into being.

He knew many who looked down on technicians as a kind. With their boxy, immobile alternate forms and total lack of distinguishing features, they were as far from the ideal the fashion-setting elite cultivated as it was possible to get, never mind that any self-respecting labourer would sooner chop off their arms than inhabit such a defenceless frame. His own contempt had seldom been hidden. Never again after seeing this though. The ability to reshape the very planet, to raise towers from the ground . . . there was power there. True power, not just the exercise of strength, blow by blow –

Yet another shudder, far more violent than before. Their island was not still any more. Megatron barely kept his footing and it was only his thrust-out arm that saved the engineer from tumbling into one of the chasm his team had created. His optics were wide and fearful as he tried to restore his scattered projections. Around them, the buildings slewed and bent, their advance grinding to a stop.
“What is happening?” Megatron demanded, grip tight on the engineer's shoulder.
“Power loss. Vos-side pumps are shutting down. We've losing momentum.” He spun and shouted at the technicians, bombarding them through the ether. “Lock the structures! Seal everything!”

With a crash of bolts, the transformation ceased completely. The buildings stilled, fixed into shapes that were not quite right. They slanted and hunched, some of the openings distorted to the point of uselessness, some of the walkways collapsed to leave higher levels inaccessible. The grand new town, warped before it was finished.

Groaning, the engineer sank to his knees, extending knife-like probes from his fingers and driving them into the ground. For nearly two cycles, he was still like that, analysing, comparing readings with the technicians who, one by one, detached and climbed from the fissure. Megatron paced impatiently behind them, keeping his temper in check to let the them work.

Finally, the engineer stood up. “The structures are stable,” he said, “Mostly usable. There aren't any weak points, thank the Flame. We might be able to make some improvements on a case by case basis, interface directly with areas where the access points are functional. But we need balanced operation from both sides to effect large scale change and the Vos side is . . . dead. I'm not getting any reading from the inflow pipes. Either one of the controllers has burnt out or . . .”
“Or?” Megatron's voice turned deadly, already at the conclusion.
“Or someone deliberately deactivated the flow from the Vos energon fields and shut off the feed to the pumps. Without them, the macro-mechanisms starved. We were lucky to catch it before collapse really set in.”
“It wasn't a malfunction? Damage to the feed lines?”
“No. I checked them myself and we had an entire survey team out there yesterday tracking which lines we could use and which were damaged. No way did they just break on their own.”

Megatron forced his hands to open. His mind spiralled through monitor reports for traffic in the Vos area, although he knew for certain that there was only one relevant entry. With a growl, he triggered a communication channel and ordered Ravage to gather a squad. Then he hurled himself into tank mode and drove west in a roar of treads and fury.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Silver Ridge Technological Foundation Reclamation Base
Remains of Vos
Cybertron

The chief prospector was, at first, oblivious to Megatron's anger. He hurried to greet the cohort of soldiers bearing down on his platform with evident enthusiasm, smiling and rolling his shoulders. Perhaps he viewed the impending encounter as a welcome relief from the tedium of his work.

Any such thoughts were dispersed the instant Megatron transformed and seized him by the neck.

Ignoring the prospector's wings beating at his arm, he shook him hard. “What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?”
“What are you –”
Megatron shook him again. Behind him, his soldiers fanned out, weapons systems inactive but primed. “You interfered with the energon fields. Before we were finished. We told you how long we needed. We gave you the minimum time we required. And yet you began to drain the energon fields before we were finished.” He brought the prospector's optics level with his. “Explain. Now.”
“We completed our surveys! Head office ordered us to start immediately! They ordered us to –”
“And you did not think to inform us of this?”
“There was no time – we've been hired to extract as much energon as possible! The longer we leave it the more burns off in the fire – when they said immediately, they meant it! There wasn't time! Just look out there!”

Gesturing with his left wing and claw, the prospector flapped at the inferno raging beyond the platform's shields. “There are thousands of atroleders of high-grade going up in smoke every cycle longer we leave it!”
“That fuel belongs to the people we were try to provide proper shelter for!” Megatron bellowed into his face.
“That fuel belongs to the Kalis Trade Authority! They bought it before the Vosians decided to commit suicide by photon missile! That means they get to decide what to do with it and they want it transported to their reserve tanks. You have a problem with that, sir, you take it up with them!”

Utterly disgusted, Megatron flung him away to land in a heap amid the half-circle of mechs who had gathered in response to the commotion and watched with their rotors spinning nervously. The prospector shrugged off their offers of help and turned a frightened, determined stare on Megatron, half-daring him to do more and risk a full-blown incident, with all the potential for military tribunals and disgrace that implied.

Megatron's mouth twisted. He spun to glare at the web of pipes and lines sunk into the fuel fields, stabbing down beneath the flames consuming the surface. “Oh, believe me, I will do better than that!”


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Command Platform
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“We fully sympathise with your position,” the shimmering figure of the Emirate said, “and Nova Cronum is more than willing to donate resources to your efforts. But we do so from a position of luxury not shared by those states formerly dependent upon Vosian fuel. Kalis' actions were precipitous but they are understandable. It is unlikely the Council will censure them for what they have done. And it will almost certainly embolden other states to begin to claim fuel they believe they are owed. If Silver Ridge's work to extract energon from beneath the fires is successful, they will no shortage of employers.”
Megatron hissed with frustration. “I am well aware of that. But thanks to them, we were not able to provide the refugees with the shelter they desperately require. I would like to remind the Council that air currents continue to spread contaminated matter over this area. Temporary shelters are not going to protect these people long-term and with the planned elevation incomplete, we do not have enough room for everyone who needs it.”

Emirate Xaaron folded his arms and tapped his chin. “I appreciate that, Commander. The full resources of the Defence Directorate are one thing but they cannot be expected to conjure fuel and shelter from thin air. Unfortunately, that is not an appreciation that all of my colleagues share. Certainly not within the individual governments. They see resources being mobilised and assume that those alone will be enough. Or don't care if they aren't.”
“I see. So these people here are just to be left to their fate. Is that it?”
“Perhaps. The wonderful thing about the Council is that it allows such views to be balanced by those of us who do not concur. Please send me full records on the incident. It will be helpful to our arguments to have proof of the consequences that blindly seizing resources from the Vos/Tarn ruins will have. I wish I could promise you an immediate reversal in attitudes. More likely it will simply provoke some better behaviour in the future. Would it help you if the feed lines from Vos were reactivated and placed at your disposal again?”

Grimacing, Megatron shook his head. “Uncertain. My engineers are still assessing the impact of the sudden stop. It is possible some of the control mechanisms have fused.”
“Meaning the underlying structure will be stuck as it is until the planetary repair systems have cycled through the damage. Unfortunate. I'm sure Deca Magnus will already have this covered but if you require any civilian expertise that you cannot otherwise obtain, please let me know. My contacts are at your disposal.”
“Thank you Emirate.” He frowned, then straightened, “And thank you for your time.”
“Not at all, Field Commander.” The Emirate smiled. “You were given an unenviable task. What you have achieved so far is highly commendable. I am certain your efforts will be remembered for a long time to come.” His smile faded. “I would however suggest that you prepare for things to get worse before they get better. Iacon out.”

The image died. Megatron rested his hands on the rim of the projector, resisting the urge to ball them into fists. It would not help. Not with this. I am certain your efforts will be remembered. Perhaps they would. But what was the point if they had no effect? And what had caused the Emirate to sign off with such an ominous sentiment?

“Did you really expect anything helpful from a politician?” Ravage asked, responding as easily as he always did to thoughts Megatron had yet to voice. He was curled around himself, lying in the corner still enough that the casual observer might have assumed he was shut-down.
“The Council is supposed to serve Cybertron's people.”
“They have no idea how to serve. What experience of real life do they have? How many battles have their fought? How many times have they had to deal with people starving in the ruins of their homes?”
“The Emirate of Nova Cronum was a soldier. He left Tarn to join the Defence Directorate and served off-world. The Emirate of Protihex was on the front-lines during the Siege of Paradron. The Emirate of Iacon served too, even if it was as a medical officer. They're not all ignorant.”

Ravage's tail flicked dismissively. “Perhaps they're not. But they serve the ignorant. There's not one government out there that isn't riddled with Elite dross, overflowing with wealth and privilege and very much lacking in common sense. The Kalis Trade Authority is a pack of gabbling merchants and they practically run their city. The Tagen government flails about because no one in it has the respect of their own people. And those are the kinds of people who really control the Council. The Emirates are at most pleasing figureheads.” He stretched and rose on to his haunches. “You know that as well as I do. In other times it has been you who have called them fools. Why did you expect this time to be different?”
Megatron shuttered his optics, feeling a tremor of emotion run down his arms. He hissed again. “I hoped. I hoped it would be. That the suffering and destruction might have made them . . . might have forced them to change. The Council has the backing of the Prime, the Prime tried to stop it, I thought – I hoped – that might be enough.”

“You are a soldier,” Ravage told him after a moment, “You are forced every day to react to circumstance, to adapt and change so that you may do something greater. It makes you strong. They are removed. They can pick and chose what they react to and how they react to it. And they chose self-interest. Always. They know no other way.”

Releasing his hold on the projector, Megatron let his arms fall to his sides. He spoke to the far wall. “Sometimes your way of thinking disturbs me.”
Ravage laughed, soft and low. “Of course it does. If it did not, I would not be so useful to you.”
“Still. Some days even I think you're too cynical.”
“You have never disagreed with that attitude.”
“Hn.”

That hung between them for a little while, the unspoken accord. Megatron's gaze fell on the empty surface of the projector, his own hard expression reflected at him from the black glass.

“Enough wasting time.” Ravage slipped into step with him as he walked to the door. “Time to begin moving the refugees into the new buildings. We can't wait. Contact the chief medical officers. Their equipment should be in place by now. Get me lists of critical cases that will need to be moved first. After that, medical priority will decide the allotment of quarters. Instruct the engineers to begin setting up fuel distribution points in key structures.” Megatron bit off the words and stopped for a micro-cycle. Then quietly added, “And once that's done, we're going to start preparing for the worst.”

 

Megatron and Ravage's relationship is super intimate............really nice job !

 

It is......and that is going to have its fair share of consequences.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4.7: In Memorial
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

“Hm.”

Ratchet let that hang in the air for a couple of micro-cycles, examining his readouts with studied thoughtfulness. The trac fidgeted uncomfortably and looked up at him with the kind of worried expression that can only really be caused by a medical professional making a non-committal noise.

“You're gonna be fine,” he admitted after savouring the moment for just long enough that it was not actively cruel, “The abrasions on your wheels should close up in the next couple of days. Everything else has sealed over already.”
The trac's bristling antennae relaxed in relief and he tested his wheels a little to confirm the diagnosis. “Thanks!”
“Yeah, yeah, don't mention it or everyone will be expecting me to miraculously cure them.” Ratchet clambered awkwardly to his feet and ducked back a few steps. “Stay under cover and keep your wheels under you as much as possible. And go easy with the transformation for a bit – don't go changing shape just 'cos you want the latest racing results.”
The trac laughed cracklingly. “No fear. Never got to place that bet anyway.”

Ratchet left him to trundle a little deeper into a nest of protective sheeting and settle in between an off-line mech and a feebly twitching quad. He climbed out of the loosely constructed shelter and felt the usual pang of despair at seeing the camp in the daylight. Everything around him was grey. Not just the temporary structures or the artless, lopsided towers local satirists were already calling 'The Kalis Concession', though those were all uninspiringly drab and lacking even the most basic infra-red signposting to break up the monotony. The whole landscape was processor-meltingly dull. The fires on the horizon had dimmed to a distant simmer and in their place was dust. Lots and lots of dust, blowing in on the winds from the Iron Sea.

It turned the resolution of the world down a few notches and made the people as drab as their surroundings, to the point where Ratchet wanted to shout a lot and try to get everyone he could find over-energised just to shake some life back into the place.

If only it were that easy to shake life back into the people too.

“Bad news?” The reassuringly red shape of Lieutenant Commander Optrion appeared beside him, looking down in concern.
“Not this time,” Ratchet said darkly, shutting his diagnostic tools down with a firm snap, “But since every poor slagger out here's one radioactive particulate away from going straight back to 'barely functional', I'm not throwing a parade for it. You found any more room inside?”
Optrion glanced towards the tower he had just left. “Not any that would offer much protection from the weather.”
“Hn.”
“The engineers have started building some more permanent shelters at the western end though.”
“I know. They're still trying to get panels to bond to the ground. This rusted-over sink-hole doesn't like modern building materials, apparently. Meaning, it actively hates them.”

For a well-built warrior capable of stopping fights with a look, Option could look adorably crestfallen sometimes. Some perverse part of Ratchet's psyche found it quite cheering to see him metaphorically slump at the news. “Oh come on, don't be like that. What did I teach you about misfortune?”
“To let it make you bitter and miserable, then drink high-grade until you forget about it.”
“So I was trying to be a counter example. And it's not like you ever paid me much attention anyway.”
Optrion looked away.

Because of course memories of that argument were the last thing he wanted to think about right now. Ratchet dug a foot into the rough ground and ploughed on before the big guy could start feeling ashamed. “Which is way down on the list of things making me bitter today. You get anywhere with those Tarnian slaggers you were going to try and talk down from – what was it? Tearing down one of the Vosian buildings or something?”
“I don't think they really knew what they wanted to do,” Optrion said with a shrug, “They were just angry about people being stuck outside. There was some talk about trying to empty out buildings some of the Vosians were using but I think they had managed to talk themselves out of that before I arrived. It's starting to sink in that everyone's in the same position.”
“About damn time.”
“They ended up proposing a sort of . . . not quite militia, more a kind of public watch to keep each other from doing something rash.”
“Or to keep the Vosians out of their territory.”
“Perhaps . . .”

Ratchet could see Optrion straining to believe that the more optimistic interpretation was the right one. And maybe he could see some truth to it too, even through the cynicism of a life spent at the edge of mortality. People adapted to the circumstances they found themselves in and past the savage patriotism and mutual hatred, the truth was that they were all stuck in a Pit of their own making. In such a situation, grudging cooperation was the only long-term survival strategy worth a damn.

Of course that overlooked the fact that most people were idiots.

“Come on.” He thumped Optrion in the side. “I've still got rounds to do and you haven't got anything better to do than keep me company.”
“Actually, I'm supposed to be checking in with the west-side patrols. There's some coordination issues with the Civic Guard officers assigned to that area.”
“That's not for another twenty cycles and I'm going west anyway. Through here, keep up.”
“How is it you always seem to know where everyone is supposed to be at any given time when you don't come to half our briefings and barely pay attention when you do?” Optrion wondered, ducking to follow Ratchet under a warped flyover.
“Who says I don't pay attention? Anyway, I need to know where all you blockheads are so I can anticipate the damage you'll do to yourselves. Which Guardsmech is it you're seeing?”
“Not sure. That's part of the problem, communication between us and them. Why do you ask?”
“Eh, there's one of 'em you should meet. You'd get along: you have the same attitude to life and limb.”
“You're always telling me I recklessly endanger myself and you want to introduce me to someone who'd encourage that behaviour?”
“Ah, shuddup.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Remains of the Caltok Exchange
Tarn
Cybertron

Coming back had been pointless.

Navigating from the gutted remnants of the cargo interchange tower, he traced the streets he had once known only to find them so changed as to be unrecognisable. Precious few of the old landmarks remained even when the damage was factored out. The warehouses where he had worked were long gone, replaced with densely automated facilities whose inner workings now gaped at the sky from behind shattered walls. The paths he used to run daily twisted away from him on to new tracks, making unexpected turns around alien structures of undefined purpose. Even the descent shafts, plunging into the substrata, the nearest thing to true immovable objects in the city, had been modified to the point of being unrecognisable – tangled debris spoke of barriers and anti-grav matrices bolted across once-open levels, ancient elevators subsumed by the latest science.

Megatron peered into the depths and wondered if Viilon's inexorable technological improvements had eradicated the illegal gladiator pits or merely driven them further underground.

It was strange, realising how little he felt at the annihilation of the world of his past. He had lived and laboured in this place for mega-cycles. From the first time he had taken an alternate form until the Chromite War, Tarn had been home. He supposed that entitled it to some claim on his affection, yet looking around at what it was now reduced to, his only real emotion was lingering anger at having failed to prevent its destruction. He could detect no sensation of loss within himself, not even for the scores that would now go forever unsettled. The place, even the people he had known – they were irrelevant except that their loss harmed Cybertron. And in many cases, not even that.

So many of them were criminals. He had worked for them, shifting their wares, then fighting and killing for their greed or amusement until it bored him. They were small-minded, insignificant mechs, trapped in tiny cycles of profit and revenge. They meant little to him and mattered less. In offering himself up to the state as an athlete, he had escaped their existence for a larger world where their limitations became only more blatant. The anger, threats and even physical retribution that had come after him had been so easily dismissed.

He spun on his tracks and drove back towards the interchange. Two heavies, sent to drag him back in defeat. He remembered the sound of their armour buckling, the satisfying grinding snap of their limbs ripping loose. His last kills for a while. The official bouts were staged things, run on the rules of entertainment, not survival. They required a different kind of viciousness: more directed, more controlled. Fighting for his city's pride in front of baying crowds had taught him restraint, of a kind. He had needed that.

When exactly had he first seen the bigger picture? Prejudice against Vos did not survive contact with their athletes. Good, honest thugs in the pay of mindless aristocrats, they were hard to hate. But actually understanding how small and narrow the life he had led was . . . that took time. He saw the mighty engines of Polyhex, the crystal gardens of Altihex and the golden walls of Iacon before his horizons expanded far enough for him to see Cybertron as it truly was.

How little he thought about that. A turning point in his life and yet merely a passing moment. It had been soon after the first time he had visited the Celestial Temple. The tower, the halls of heroes – they had impressed him more than he would ever admit. Their age, their defiance of time, the enormity of a city that could shield itself bodily from harm, all those things combined to leave him with a respect for the ancient Iaconians that he would never otherwise have allowed. But in truth, that had just been dazzle and spectacle. No. What had really changed him was going up to one of the sub-orbital complexes and looking down.

Cybertron had stretched out beneath him in a vast arc of cities and spans and chasms, all alive with motion and energy, all building and growing. Iacon was a hub, an axis for that movement, but it was just one among many and the scale of it all had left him speechless. All those lives, all those people, all that industry, coalescing into something greater, something that had lasted and would last far beyond any single state or government. A mechanism, orderly in the chaos of stars that surrounded it, spinning on from the beginning of time to the end.

It was not religion. Not the belief in some transcendent meaning in the world. But the belief in the world itself, in its right to exist and to become better and mightier the longer it continued.

Then the war had come, another empire trying to steal the place Cybertron's children had made for themselves in the cosmos. Unacceptable. Unforgivable. Megatron had gone to war and had stayed at war ever since.

He transformed before the interchange tower and stared up at its broken form, hung with train tracks torn loose by the detonations, cursing again the fools responsible. The magnificent whole he had glimpsed all those stellar-cycles ago was wounded now, vital components damaged perhaps beyond repair. At least he was not alone in his horror. The Prime saw it, clearly. The Magnus too, and even some of the Council. They shared the anger, the fury and shame of onlookers faced with the consequences of standing by and being able to do nothing. If they did right by it, if they took strength from it, they would stand against the fools who remained among them, the parasites who would pick over the corpses and learn nothing.

Ravage doubted they would show that strength. Ravage doubted everyone and saw only the worst in others. Megatron had never asked why. But he hoped that this time, the cynic was wrong. More than hoped. He needed him to be wrong.

If all the people he had known from his life in Tarn were reduced to slag and vapour, it meant nothing. What little they ever added to Cybertron was far outweighed by what they had taken. They did not matter. Their deaths did not matter. The rest though . . . Tarn and Vos in their entirety, two whole cities' worth of useful and productive citizens, the strong and the clever alike . . . the only way that cost could be justified was with change for the better.

He did not think himself prepared to live in the world where that did not happen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Verous Arena
Iacon
Cybertron

Blades spinning in time to the frantically whirring tracks of the tanks below, a cloud of heli-forms rose through the amphitheatre and swept low over the crowd, counterpointing their motion-distorted sound with strobing light. The mourning chant deepened in pitch, the tanks whirling slower, the singers reforming so their words reverberated over and over. A lone avir soared skywards then plunged to the ground in a spiral of complex databursts, the faces of the dead superposed with the flames of war. It was a spark-rending theme within a composition that combined the best parts of Tarnian and Vosian musical artistry in a fitting and affecting tribute to those who had been lost. One would have expected nothing less of the Lor-Galun Choir.

Xaaron was fairly certain he could count the number of actual Vosians and Tarnians in the arena on the fingers of one hand and all of them were in the choir itself. The audience was Iaconian, Praxian, Cronium, Paxian – all those who looked in on the crisis and grieved by proxy. The show was for them: a nice, clean expression of shared distaste for what had happened. One that, ultimately, achieved nothing but a few eased consciences.

If, indeed, there were consciences that needed easing.

“You need to stop this proposal.”

Tomaandi ignored him at first, schooling his face to look suitably downcast as the choir moved into a second act and set about conjuring up images of long-dead glories. Xaaron persisted. “Your government must know that in the long run this will be as self-destructive as allowing Vos to dictate your energy policies in the first place.”
The crimson mech shifted irritably in his seat and glared sideways at his neighbour. “This is hardly the time!
“I think it's exactly the time. Or are you not paying attention to the scale of what is being commemorated here?”
“'Commemorated'? You make it sound as if we are celebrating!”
“Not at all. Although some might question the motive behind commissioning a memorial to those who have died and not inviting the survivors to the performance. But that is not the point. The proposal from Praxus, Kalis and Prodium. You have to stop it.”
“I personally? Don't be ridiculous.”
“You as a representative of your people! Tomaandi, you cannot seriously expect me to believe that this sits well with you? What is being suggested . . .”
“Is necessary.” He flicked another scowl at Xaaron. “We have to secure our people's future.”

“It is wrong.” It was hard to keep from actually vocalising the word. He wanted to get up and shake Tomaandi until he got some sense from the mech.
“No,” the other Emirate corrected coolly, “It is distasteful. There is a difference.”
“You talk about destroy hundreds of lives and you call it 'distasteful'. Your powers of understatement amaze me.”
“Whereas your sarcasm merely irritates me.”

Tomaandi actually turned his head to look at Xaaron, optics narrowed accusingly. “Whatever the cost of this decision – and in spite of what you think, it was not taken lightly – this needs to be done. Someone needs to take over where Vos and Tarn left off. And – fortunately or otherwise – it makes sense for the fuel concerns to be divided between those of us who are not already overburdened with existing mining projects.”
“By which you of course mean Praxus?” Xaaron asked, with as much sarcasm as he could convey.
“And why not?” Tomaandi rejoined angrily, “Nova Cronum has more than its fair share of mining colonies. Time I think for the rest of us to get a chance.”
“Will you listen to me? I – we – don't care if you have more mines to you name! By all means, take over managing those colonies. But for Primus sake, work with the miners already there! They have the expertise, the experience – they know their planets. Use that! Don't cast them aside just because of who put them out there!”
“We couldn't possibly trust them. Besides. They would hardly want to work for us, would they? It was their own deranged patriotism that led to this situation.”

Regaining some composure, Tomaandi returned his attention to the choir. The heli-forms were forming shapes in the air now, patterns that intersected with the hypothetical extensions of those being created by the tanks and a set of racers who zipped between their slower brethren like lighting between clouds. There motion spoke of the conflict between the lost cities, etching it as some tragic historical imperative that could have ended no other way.

“I respect your position, Xaaron. Really, I do. The problem is, I do not live in a city that has a the luxury of placing higher morals above practical realities. This needs to happen. And we have the support. Not just Kalis and Prodium. Altihex, Tyger Pax, Tagen – they'll all be behind us on this.”
“Tagen would support anyone who give them a lifeline out of the social implosion they're heading for!” Xaaron struck his fists on his knees, going for one last, hopeless appeal. “It was ignoring 'higher morality' that got us into this mess! Can you really not see that this will end with exactly the same mistakes being made, not to mention life being made intolerable for –”
“Xaaron. Shut up and watch the show.”

And of course there was nothing else he could do except exactly that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Triumvirate Chamber
Planetary Defence Directorate Command
Iacon
Cybertron

They had removed the restraint claw, which was somehow far less reassuring than he expected. He stood pinned in a beam of light at the centre of the darkened chamber, quite unable to find any comfort in being freed. Given where he was, 'freed' was an extremely relative term.

“Field Commander Vieux Mech Uun Novus Hexus.” Supreme Commander Grandus' voice boomed from wall to wall. “You stand before us charged with the unlawful destruction of a fellow solider, the reckless endangerment of civilian lives and extreme dereliction of your duty as a member of the Defence Directorate. What say you in your defence?”

Vieuxuun focused through the glare and the darkness, discerning the shape of his accusers. The Supreme Commanders, all three of them standing in judgement above him. A crowd of onlookers fanned out around them, soldiers every one. All condemning him for following his orders.

“I have nothing to say,” he answered bitterly, “except that I was carrying out my assignment within the parameters set by my superiors. We were ordered to observe and contain, not to intervene. Megatron disobeyed those orders and incited others to disobey them. I acted to prevent open mutiny.”
“It is a primary requirement of all Defence Directorate officers that they be adaptable to circumstances beyond their mission parameters,” Viktoleo stated blandly, “Megatron's actions were in fulfilment of that requirement and undertaken in defence of the people of Cyberton.”
Deftwing made a disgusted noise. “His 'mutiny' might well have saved more lives if you hadn't taken it upon yourself to act as a one-mech court-martial.”

Vieuxuun folded his hands behind his back and drew himself up. If he was to be humiliated, he refused to let it been drawn out into a farce. “It sounds as if you have already reached a decision, sirs. I would appreciate it if you would deliver your verdict now.”
He saw Grandus shift his massive bulk. “Very well. Vieuxuun: in light of the severity of the charges and your refusal to accept responsibility for your actions, we have no choice but to find you guilty on all counts. With immediate effect, you are stripped of all rank and fuel privileges. Henceforth, you are forbidden from military service. You will be forcibly reformatted into a non-combat form and will be relegated to labour grade operations on the outer planet stations for the next ten thousand stellar cycles. You will never again be permitted to advance yourself or to hold sway over your brothers. May this punishment bring justice for those who can no longer seek it for themselves.”

Vieuxuun felt nothing at the judgement. Nothing at all as he was led away to where his form would be torn from him.

They had chosen an ill-disciplined thug over a model soldier who obeyed his function without complaint or contradiction. He just prayed he lived long enough to see them suffer the inevitable disaster that would bring upon them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Refugee Camp
Vos/Tarn Border
Qosho Region
Cybertron

Ravage listened and heard all.

Even though the radioactive sleet, he could tap into the feeds showing the stirring eulogy being performed in Iacon and marvel at the crassness of the spectacle. They postured and made a show of grieving for the people they could have saved, the destruction they could have prevented and paraded it before the world as something to take pride in. Look at us, they screamed with their chants and dances, we are the pinnacle of civilisation, the elite of Cybertron, and we persist. Never mind all those poor workers and soldiers boiled to vapour: after this, we can forget and go back to our comfortable lives at the top of the heap.

Below Ravage's perch on the command platform antenna, medics toiled to maintain the broken, engineers struggled to provide shelter for the homeless, and soldiers and Guardsmechs fought to keep the peace between the desperate. A futile exercise in trying to salvage the wreckage, ordered by the same people who were stealing the resources necessary for it to succeed. Did they appreciate the irony of their hypocrisy? Would they even notice the deepening flaws in the Cybertron they were creating, the fractures and contradictions and weaknesses formed by their every inane decision?

Ravage doubted it. They – all those parasites and fools – they would never see beyond their own petty ambitions, never dream of a whole greater than themselves.

So be it. In time, the future would belong those who did see and could dream, who looked at Cybertron and saw what it could become.

And as he arched his back and flicked his tail, Ravage looked past the mismatched 'Concession', past the walls of the camp, past the ugly platforms creeping in to drain Tarn dry, and focused instead on the silver dot driving back from the jagged horizon.

Oh yes. That future would come and he would stand proudly at his commander's side when it did.