Hello people!

I've been adapting the official Binaltech story as a fanfic and thought I'd share the results a bit. I've posted some pieces of it before on other boards, but I've been giving the whole thing a bit of a polish lately.

It's a mixture of different styles ranging from straighfoward 3rd person to 1st person narrative, and a few "historical documents" thrown in for good measure. Hope you don't find it too off-putting, but I like to tell a story from a few different angles.

Hope you enjoy it and feedback is always welcome.

Happy times & places,

Wreckie

 

(History essay by M. McNaughton, , student at the University of Western Australia, submitted on 18th August 2035.)

THE HISTORY OF BINALTECH​

It was the year 2003. In the nineteen years since the Transformers first awoke on Earth, the heroic Autobots had made an alliance with the newly-formed Earth Defence Command (EDC), an alliance which yielded benefits for both races. With the permission of the EDC the Autobots began construction of Autobot City, a more permanent base for their operations on Earth. With assistance from the Autobots, humanity started taking its first steps into outer space, establishing a colony on the moon.

But despite these advances old problems and old enemies continued to plague the Autobots. Leaving Earth with vast amounts of stolen energon, Megatron had launched a new all-out offensive to conquer Cybertron. To prevent his sworn enemy from taking over the Autobots’ home world, Optimus Prime led a large number of Autobot warriors back to Cybertron to aide the counter-offensive.

Some Autobots, led by Ultra Magnus, stayed behind to guard the Earth against further Decepticon attacks and prevent Megatron from using more of the Earth’s resources to fuel his war. Some Decepticons also stayed behind. Lacking either the numbers or the courage to attack their foes directly they remained on Earth in secret, scheming and searching for a more insidious way to attack their enemies... And eventually they found it.

It took a group as war-obsessed as the Combaticons to look to the bloodthirsty humans for inspiration. And it took a mind as devious and unscrupulous as Swindle’s to think of applying the idea of bacteriological warfare to mechanical life. Uncovering samples of the Cosmic Rust kept from a previous outbreak 18 years ago, he finally discovered the cause of it: microscopic versions of mechanical parasites called Scraplets.

By modifying these parasites on a genetic level, Swindle created a Cosmic Rust which was faster, deadlier and even resistant to the miracle chemical Corostop. Experimenting further using Autobot captives transported from Cybertron, he created a strain which seemed particularly partial to certain trace elements in the Autobots’ metal bodies. Having perfected his weapon, Swindle unleashed it upon the Autobots – with devastating results.

While a small number of Autobots seemed to have a natural resistance to the Rust’s effects, most found their bodies corroding, falling apart before their eyes. Smokescreen, Hound, Tracks, Sideswipe, Bluestreak, Sunstreaker and Trailbreaker were damaged beyond repair within days, with many others showing initial signs of infection.

The Autobots considered a retreat to Cybertron. Ultra Magnus vetoed the idea: not only would it mean abandoning the humans to the Decepticons, but the Cosmic Rust plague was highly contagious. If the infection spread on Cybertron, the Autobot race could become extinct! Magnus ordered an immediate quarantine, ordering that the Cosmic Rust plague must be contained, no matter the cost.

Cutting themselves off from their only hope of rescue and reinforcements, the decimated ranks of the Earth-bound Autobots prepared to meet their fate.


After decades of protecting the Earth from Decepticon attack, the Autobots had fallen into the habit of assuming the humans were helpless. Their relative size and strength had made the Autobots almost as arrogant as the Decepticons. And yet the greatest threat to their lives had been inspired by these “helpless” flesh creatures. If the Autobots hadn’t been so near defeat they might have appreciated the irony. It was therefore fitting that the human race proved to be the Autobots’ salvation.

The EDC called in a team of experts to find a solution. Some were top scientists, others military officers... and one was a retired car mechanic from Oregon who complained about the food. He was also the only person at the meetings who refused to sign the EDC’s confidentiality agreement. Thanks to his stubbornness, he was able to give this insight into what went on behind closed doors.

“Yeah, they got really narked when I wouldn’t sign, but they kinda had no choice. Oh sure, they’d got boffins and bigwigs from everywhere, but I was the only guy in the whole group who’d ever worked on a Transformer. Hell, I’d even helped put a few of ‘em together!

They brought one of the Autobots in to look at the disease firsthand; Bluestreak, I think it was, but it was hard to tell who was under all that rust... man, he was a mess! We worked round the clock looking for a cure, trying every chemical we could think of, but it was no good. That Combati-creep Swindle had done his job too well, nothing worked and we were running outta time.

It sure was lucky I was babysittin’ my grandson. I’d taken him along and he was mostly bored, just playin’ with his action figure thingies. But then young Daniel runs up to me bawlin’ his little eyes out, holdin’ pieces of his favourite toy. I took one look and knew it couldn’t be fixed: they make ‘em outta plastic these days, not like they used to. Anyway, I tell him it’s okay, I’ll get him a new one tomorrow. And that’s when it hit me. The Autobots’ bodies couldn’t be fixed... but we could make ‘em new ones!” ​

There is no reason to disbelieve Sparkplug’s story (although one is entitled to question the words of a man who wears blue overalls and yellow rubber boots everywhere he goes.) The solution was indeed childishly simple: give the Autobots new bodies made from Earth materials. The EDC gathered experts in the fields of robotics, IT and military hardware. In return for access to the new technology, car manufacturers donated whole factory floors and staff to the program. Millions of dollars were raised from the government and private industry to fund this grand experiment.

And the Binaltech project was born.

A lecturer has scrawled some notes on the last page:

“Well done in general. You have an obvious enthusiasm for the subject. However you must be careful to reference your work more fully. (Which text did you quote Witwicky from?) Also you must examine the EDF’s motivations a little more closely: do you think they were purely atruistic? It’s easy to buy into the EDF’s official line of good verses evil, but those kinds of absolutes rarely exist.

75%”

 

TEETHING TROUBLES​

The project had a rocky start: it’s one thing to have a theory, but quite another to put it into practice. Car manufacturers and research facilities around the world started to build new bodies for the fallen Autobot warriors, but the initial results were not encouraging. The first experimental replacements for the Autobots’ bodies were total failures, either falling apart under the stresses of transformation or proving incompatible with the Autobots’ electro cells, their primary power source.

Things changed for the better when technicians hit upon a way to network each facility’s intranet with the Ark’s mother computer Teletran-1. Under its supervision, the Binaltech team finally achieved a synthesis of Cybertronian and human technologies and came up with a working prototype. An experimental alloy developed for military vehicles was worked into the fabric of the exostructure. (After years of making cars to crumple easily, the manufacturers took positive delight in creating a body which, by human standards, was indestructible.) And thanks to Teletran-1’s input, each rebuilt Autobot would still be able to alternate between vehicle and robot mode at will.

The Autobot formerly known as Bluestreak was the most badly damaged by the Rust. He was therefore the first to be hauled out of a stasis pod and have his spark transferred to its new home. While he was a courageous warrior, Bluestreak’s personality could be unstable at the best of times. He was never comfortable with his role as a soldier to begin with and the shock of finding himself in this new, alien form was almost too much for him.

Silverstreak, as he became known, had this to say about the experience:

“I’ve been reformatted before of course. The first time was when the war broke out back home. After I signed up I got an upgraded to vehicle mode, had a weapon cavity added, downloaded a few combat protocols, that kind of thing. The second time was after the crash, when we got revived on Earth. And that was actually kinda fun, ‘cause human cars look pretty exotic by Autobot standards.

But this was totally different. Everything seemed... well... wrong somehow. I literally saw things differently, as if my optics were tuned to a different wavelength. And the way these bodies moved was totally different, too. Everything that was second nature to me before had to be learned from scratch. I was over nine million years old but I had to learn to walk, know what I mean?

But as the humans said to me, every cloud has a silver lining. It took a lot of self-discipline to master this new body and it changed me a lot. That’s why I decided on a new name. I’d grown so much from the experience, so I thought I should go for a totally new start, right? I used to babble on about anything at all, but now I’m so much more disciplined and focused all the time. My mind never wanders anymore and that makes me a much better soldier...

Hey, is that a dog over there? What kind do you think it is? I ran over one once, I was upset for weeks afterwards. Poor little thing didn’t stand a chance ... I’m sorry, what was I talking about? ”​

Once the EDC inspection team had run a series of tests - and once they had been reassured by Ultra Magnus that babbling on inanely was perfectly normal for Bluestreak – he was returned to active duty. With a working prototype now operational, the EDC ordered each facility to begin construction of a designated Autobot. Within weeks the Autobots would once again have a viable force on Earth to counter the Decepticon menace. It seemed that the worst was over.

But humans, unlike Autobots, can be easily corrupted. They are corrupted by power, by forbidden knowledge and by the promise of wealth. Since the Binaltech project offered so many of those things in abundance, it’s not surprising that a small number of team members began to dream of the fortunes that could be made selling the technology to the highest bidder. They became greedy.

And greed is an emotion which the Decepticons exploited very well indeed...

 

Interlude

INTERLUDE​

I.I.I. LAB SUBJECT X-9.
CAPSULE OF UNKNOWN ORIGIN.
EXTRACT FROM DATACORE AND RECORD:​

I remember... I remember my creation, gazing up into the cold, blue face of my progenitor. Indoctrination. War. Assassination. Covert operations became my speciality. I was feared by enemy and ally alike.

I remember feelings. Emotions. The fear that came before crash all those millions of years ago. Centuries of darkness, of near oblivion before the resurrection came. The feeling of comfort as I folded up in my creator’s chest, waiting ‘til I was needed again. The feeling of unity with my fellow soldiers. War makes comrades of us all.

I remember the downfall. The last great battle lost. The inevitability of defeat. The humiliation of surrender. The ignominy of imprisonment. I remember the contempt I felt for those who claimed to inherit our cause, even as I agreed to serve them to gain my freedom. I remember centuries of pointless operations, wasting my skills on petty squabbles and trivial crimes.

I remember the hope that our cause was not lost. I remember meeting my leader’s namesake and thinking that perhaps he could be our salvation. I remember standing on the bridge of my craft as it hurtled towards oblivion. Screaming the credo that had sustained me for nine million years. I remember the darkness that followed.

I remember my life. I remember my death. Memories are all I am.

RECOMMENDATION: MOVE TO PHASE 2.​

 

DATALOG OF ULTRA MAGNUS
EARTH YEAR 2004​

EXTRACT BEGINS:

It’s been three Earth months since this plague descended upon us. Although we are still no closer to a cure, the Binaltech project has at least ensured our survival, and one by one my fallen comrades are being resurrected. The process is still not perfect and we have a long waiting list, but the pall of hopelessness that fell over us has lifted. We have hope now. We have a chance.
Three of those worst affected by the rust are now fully operational: Smokescreen, Sideswipe and Blue- ahem - Silverstreak. Hound is awaiting clearance on his final tests before returning to active duty, a mere formality in his case. Construction of BT-05 is on schedule, so Sunstreaker should be back online before long.

Morale was also improved by the successful attack on the Decepticon’s space bridge. We have succeeded in enforcing the quarantine, keeping this infection off Cybertron, at least for the time being. Needless to say, that’s improved the mood considerably. But that mood is as fragile as it is crucial. The Autobots need hope as much as they need the Binaltech solution.

And that’s why I can’t tell them.

I can’t tell them of Perceptor’s findings. We had been proceeding under a false assumption; that the rust was only infecting some of us, while others seemed to have a natural immunity to it. We accounted for the possibility of new infections while the rust particles remained in the atmosphere, hence my decision to quarantine Earth, but it seems we were wrong. The studies have been done and the results leave no room for doubt.

We are all infected. Every last one of us.

Every Autobot on Earth carries the rust in his system and although the rate of infection is slower in some of us, eventually all will succumb. It might be days, weeks, months or years, but in the end we all will turn to rust. The Binaltech project might have bought us time, but we still need a cure.

I can’t tell them that not every spark is suitable for transference to a Binaltech body. For some, the trauma would prove too great, resulting in permanent deactivation. So far we’ve been lucky, but luck never holds out for ever. Eventually we’re going to lose someone permanently.

I certainly can’t tell them about me. They need me. They need leadership, especially now, especially without Prime around. I’m not him, but he left me in charge and I intend to do my duty for as long as I’m able. I just don’t know how long that is anymore.

I found a few specks of rust on my armour a few days ago. It’s not much, and thanks to some cosmetic paint it’s almost invisible now. But I know it’s there, eating away at my armour, corroding me a little with every passing second. I can’t tell them that.

But I should perhaps focus on the positive. Perceptor did discover something else: the rust is mutating. It’s shedding some of the Decepticon engineered components, reverting to something like its natural state. While unfortunately it’s no easier to cure, in the words of the scientist himself: “the rusts’ attacking molecular identifier is now far more generic than was formerly the case.” What this means in non-Perceptor speak is the rust can’t tell the difference between Autobot and Decepticon anymore. Any day now, the Decepticons will begin to reap what they’ve sown. And as far as the Autobots are concerned, that’s pretty good news.

Yes. I can tell them that.

EXTRACT ENDS

 

THE CONCURRENCE​

There were only five of them, but five of the worst. They gathered from all over the world, as if for some international conference, yet they represented nobody but themselves. And international conferences don’t usually take place in air craft hangers, no matter how luxurious and well concealed.

Count Von Rani, a would-be tyrant and now a wanted war criminal sat preening himself at one end of the table. Former General Garrison Kreiger, disgraced and dishonourably discharged, now a “consultant” to several large arms manufacturers, sat next to him trying not to look uncomfortable. Beaming genially, chatting casually about the latest efforts to resume commercial whaling to anyone who would listen, was an Englishman by the name of Lord Chumley. The others were perfectly aware that his title was as fake as his accent, but who cared as long as his money was the genuine article? Chumley was co-financing this little gathering and that kind of generosity could buy a lot of tolerance.

Sean Berger Junior, the other source of funds, had squeezed himself into a seat and was having fight with a bottle opener, sweating despite the dim lights and air-conditioning. He’d been sweating on and off for most of the last 20 years’ worth of police investigations and Senate hearings, so perhaps it was just habit.

The oldest and strangest of the group sat in his wheelchair by the exit, mumbling into his earpiece. The dim light glinted off the top of a chrome plate which completely covered the top of his head, his remaining hair sticking out over his ears. In the semi-darkness it was impossible to see just how old he was. From the tremor in his voice, he might well be into his seventies, but then again he could just have been nervous. He certainly had every reason to be; Doctor Archeville was wanted by the International Criminal Court and countless national jurisdictions.

“Binaltech offers massive advances in weapons and vehicle design, to say nothing of robotics and IA. We have an opportunity here to move ourselves light years ahead of the competition. And make enough money to buy the Bahamas for somewhere to go on weekends.”

“You make it sound like we can just go and take it, Krieger. The BT installations are tightly guarded, only authorised personnel get in or out. The security screenings have kept out all our agents and thanks to that clever bastard Chip Chase, their Extranet is un-hackable. We can’t get in.”

At this, Doctor Archeville cleared his throat. Or tried to. When he’d finished coughing, he began again. “That’s something I can help you with, gentlemen. Some years ago I developed a little device called a hypnochip...” He was interrupted by Chumley.

“Which would’ve got you 25 to life in Club Fed if you hadn’t skipped town. Your hypnochip was less use than a chocolate teapot, my chrome-plated friend. Sure, you can make someone do whatever you like with it, but it turns them into absolute zombies. I’m fairly sure that even the EDC is going to notice if their staff suddenly stop blinking and go around saying “I obey, oh master...”” Several of those present noted with wry amusement how Chumley’s upper-class accent began to slip as he got more excited, giving a clue as to his less than aristocratic background. Archeville had the good sense not to raise the issue.

“I agree there were – ah – problems with the prototype, but I have not been idle for the last 20 years. With perseverance and a little outside help, these devices are far more subtle.

Gentlemen, the key to successful mind control is to make sure the subject doesn’t know he’s being controlled. The previous model forcibly overrode the subject’s own synaptic responses, leaving nothing of the subject’s personality present, making them easy to detect. Given time, the subject’s suppressed personality would attempt to reassert itself.

My new chip avoids this problem altogether. It works on the same broad principle as post-hypnotic suggestion: the subject is given a series of subconscious commands which he will carry out to the letter while his conscious mind believes it is doing something else. For example, the subject’s perceptions can be altered so that he believes he is delivering a report on the Binaltech project to his superiors, when in fact... I’m sure you see the advantage.” Archeville smiled, having proven his worth and, as he no doubt saw it, his genius.

Chumley, now calm enough to remember to keep his lordly voice intact, was the first to congratulate him. “My dear Sir, you’ve hit the nail on the head. Unfortunately there’s more than one nail. Yes indeed, ah-hah. Even if we did gain access, the technology operates on utterly different principles to our own. It would take decades to reverse engineer without help.” If he expected to dent Archeville’s ego, Chumley was very disappointed.

“And that is where I believe my friend can be of help.” With a flourish, Archeville pressed a large button on the wall behind him, causing the large roller door to ascend.

Framed in the opening, silhouetted in the moonlight and looming large despite the scale of the hanger bay, was a robot. “May I introduce Swindle, representative of the Decepticon forces on Earth.”

“I can introduce myself, fleshbag.” The voice, sounding like someone was gargling with metal filings, was filled with contempt. It spoke again, this time addressing the whole gathering. “You want to understand the Cybertronian tech and we can help you do that.”

“And what do you want in return?” called out Von Rani.

Swindle took two paces inside the hanger, moving out of shadow for the first time, allowing the conspirators to see him properly. His body was a mass of rust.

“What do you think?” he spat.

 

SYMULTECH LABORATORIES:
HOME OF THE BT-05 PROJECT​

“Great to be working on the Autobots, ain’t it boss?”

“Sure is. And that Sunstreaker’s a great guy. He’s gonna be so pleased when he wakes up in that bee-ootiful frame.”

“One thing, boss. Why’d you change the colour of the Viper at the last minute?”

“Huh?”

“Well, wasn’t he going to have a gold finish? Now we’re doing him all in black”

“Um... guess the ‘bot must have changed his mind. They can be weird that way sometimes.”

“No shit?”​

The two engineers smiled vaguely to each other. Everything was fine, no need to worry. Everything would be... just... fine...

Starscream stood over the two staffers, trying not to laugh out loud. True to his word, Arkeville’s new device worked like a charm. He’d just walked through the security gates without being challenged, taken a tour of the facility, almost stepped on the facility manager – who’d looked straight through him – and then made his way to the main construction hanger.

“Are they painting it black now? I want it in black.”

Starscream clenched his jaw. “Not that it matters, but yes. They’re painting it black. Don’t complain if you change your mind later.” Why do I bother, he thought.

“Whose body is it anyway?” came the voice again from the box at Starscream’s feet.

“Just a body,” he responded. “Doesn’t matter whose it should have been, we adjusted the system specs to ensure compatibility.”

“Just a body? There is no just about it, my cacophonous companion. I don’t want to go around looking like just anyone!”

Starscream sighed, grateful the humans had been programmed to ignore him. If only he was able to ignore the idiot in the proto-pod, he’d be a very happy Air Commander.

It had all started out so well, he reflected.

Megatron had gone to Cybertron in yet another ‘power and glory’ exercise, appointing Starscream to lead the remaining Decepticons on Earth. Well actually, Starscream had pretty much appointed himself, having first secured the security codes to the spacebridge and the energon store. As Megatron was off-world and everyone needed to refuel, there wasn’t really a lot anyone could do about it.

For the first time in 8 million years, Starscream had been happy. He’d finally been given an opportunity to prove himself, not to mention showing Mr. “I’ve got a bloody big cannon” that his days were numbered. Finally he had centre stage. Finally he’d have a chance to demonstrate his amazing capacity for leadership.

And then it had all started to go horribly wrong. After ordering yet another retreat from engaging Ultra Magnus’ troops, Starscream had begun to experience something truly alien and frightening: self-doubt. Was he the reason for the failures in battle? Was he truly up to the task? Was he really leadership material after all, or had he just been deluding himself all this time?

In a microsecond, Starscream’s monumental ego came to his rescue, dismissing even the remote possibility that this could in any way be his fault. The answers, he realised in a flash, were clearly no, yes and yes respectively. Instead he began looking around the remaining Decepticon Earth forces, first with suspicion, then with outright contempt. He reviewed each officer’s performance over the last few months and came to one inescapable conclusion.

They were awful.

Megatron had taken the elite forces back to Cybertron with him. Most of his aerial attack squadron had gone too. The ones left fell into roughly three categories: morons, weirdoes and cannon fodder. Some of them managed to be in all three simultaneously.

Heading up the moron camp were the Stunticons. Glorying in senseless destruction was perfectly acceptable behaviour and Starscream wholeheartedly approved of senseless destruction in general. But there were limits! None of them seemed to understand that there was a time and a place for such things, and Decepticon HQ laboratories was neither the time nor the place for a demolition derby. It was entirely possible that the current rust outbreak among the Decepticons could be result of Motormaster and his chums “lettin’ off a little steam,” as they called it. And yet, despite their similar attitudes, the Stunticons as a team just couldn’t get along. They argued all the time! Which was not a good trait in a team that merged into a single entity.

Along the same line of thought, and every bit the Stunticons’ equal in the idiocy stakes, was Bruticus. Starscream was well versed in the notion of Collective Intelligence: how a non-intelligent individual could be a component in a mind far greater than the sum of its parts. Looking at Bruticus, it seemed to Starscream that applying combiner technology to the Combaticons had created just the opposite.

Bruticus was, in Starscream’s opinion, a Collective Stupid.

Individually the Combaticons were clever, skilled in the complex art of war and excellent battlefield strategists, but their combined form of Bruticus had a hard time with anything even remotely complex. Such as saying “Combaticon,” for example.

The Insecticons were just weird, period. Starscream wouldn’t place much faith in anything that feasted on organic matter and then regurgitated it, and that was just the start of the Insecticons’ strange behaviour. And as for the method they used to clone themselves... disgusting didn’t even begin to cover it.

Then there was the rest: Runabout, Runamuck, Frenzy, Buzzaw and Ravage. Rumour had it that Runabout and Runamuck had managed to get expelled from the Stunticon team in its pre-combiner days. Soundwave, tailpipe kisser that he was, had accompanied Megatron on the Cybertron campaign and without him around, Frenzy, Buzzaw and Ravage were simply unmanageable. Frenzy refused point-blank to follow Starscream’s orders, Buzzaw refused to even acknowledge his existence and Ravage had taken to wandering off by himself, presumably sulking somewhere. Nobody had seen him in weeks.

The rest were quite simply cannon fodder: he didn’t know their names and didn’t think it was worth finding out. Concluding that leading this collection of misfits into battle again would have more or less the same effect as coating himself in copper and wearing a sign saying “slag me,” Starscream had decided to re-think his strategy. It was time to get creative and attack the enemy another way.

The Cosmic Rust solution was Swindle’s idea, and now that half of Earth’s Decepticons were infected with it, Starscream was quite happy for him to take the credit. He’d have been perfectly happy to turn the devious little yellow freak into a scapegoat for the whole affair, but unfortunately it wasn’t that simple. Firstly, as Swindle pointed out in that annoying cheerful manner of his, it was impossible to be one hundred percent sure that this was indeed Swindle’s strain of the rust. Laboratory tests were inconclusive, he insisted. Swindle’s tests, naturally.

Secondly, Swindle had certain... abilities Starscream needed to negotiate with the Concurrence to gain access to the Binaltech labs and save his army. So far Starscream himself was not infected, but the thought of every Decepticon on Earth dying while under his command was unbearable. Megatron would never let him live it down.

“Well?” The voice – that annoyingly clipped and prissy voice – snapped him out of his thoughts.

“Well what?” He snapped. Nobody need ever know, he thought. I could shut off his voice module, disconnect the power supply from his spark and tell everyone there’d been a terrible accident with the proto-pod. It’d be a kindness... to me.

“So whose body is it?”

Starscream decided just to get it over with. “It’s that poser Sunstreaker’s, if you must know. Happy now?”

“Oh,” said Dead End, in a completely different tone of voice. “That’s alright then.”

 

THE EMAIL OF THE SPECIES IS DEADLIER...​

SUBJECT: Performance of Mazda BT Team.
SECURITY: HIGHEST
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]

On behalf of the inspection team, I wish to convey my congratulations regarding the successful deployment of the first BT unit from your facility. Tests regarding the quality of materials used and synthesis between human and Autobot tech have proved more than satisfactory.

As you know, the disappearance of BT-05 unit shortly after completion has prompted a full review of security at all Binaltech facilities. While the physical security of your facility is satisfactory, the inspection team is less than happy with the conduct of your staff in the following matters:

1. Redesignating BT-08 as ‘Meister.’
You made this decision without consulting either the inspection team or the Autobot involved. The fact that your Public Relations department (a somewhat irrelevant group in a top secret R&D facility, surely!) recommended ‘Meister’ because it was more marketable is irrelevant. We made it clear from the start that this was NOT a marketing exercise. The Autobots are sentient beings, not toys to be re-badged for the purposes of publicity and sales.

2. Unauthorised duplication of BT-08
A surprise inspection of your premises revealed that you have produced a red copy of BT-08, even going so far as to install your own variation on the TORQ 3000 system as its primary CPU. It has since emerged that you were planning to use ‘Zoom-Zoom’ (as you call it) as part of a sales campaign for the Mazda RX 8.

Jazz (to give him his proper name) has volunteered for the Binaltech Project for the purposes of carrying out a number of missions in secret! Your campaign would endanger those missions, his life and the citizens of the world.

The EDF inspection team hereby makes the following directives:


1. You will cancel all planned advertising and related materials featuring the likeness of BT-08, in either colour scheme.
2. You will surrender the duplicate of BT-08 to the Autobot command immediately.


Failure to comply with these directives within 7 days will result in the cancellation of your status as a member of the Binaltech group. It will also result in the forfeit of patents to technological advances you have made as a result of your participation in the programme and all equipment at your facility will be confiscated by the EDF.

While we value your contribution too much to cancel your status immediately, your reckless and irresponsible actions will not be tolerated in future.

_ _
Chip Chase
EDF Inspection Team – Facility Liaison Division

 

Please sir, can I have some more?  

 

Of course you can... once my fingers mend. Had a bit of an accident with a van door that's left me typing one handed. Makes typing slow... and painful.

Thanks for commenting by the way  

Wreckie.

 

I like the fic and its an interesting story. I rather like how you're using different angles to tell the story. Gives it variety. Can't wait to read the next one.

 

CAT NAP

Darkness.

Timeless oblivion.

“Can it hear us?”

“Probably not. We’ve jerry-rigged some audio sensors, but there’s still no CPU. To put it bluntly, it’s got nothing to think with.”

”Who cares? Can’t we just pull what we want out of its databank?”

“We managed to extract a limited amount of data before by stimulating the electro-receptors, but nothing meaningful. This isn’t a hard drive. It’s more like a digital representation of a human brain. Just because we know what it looks like doesn’t mean we know how it works. If you want it up and running, I’ll need a – ahem – donor.”

“We don’t have many left. Which one?”

“I’ve found one that’s an almost exact match for subject X-9’s system.”

Darkness.

Then light.

EFFECTS
A wave, invisible and intangible, washed across the galaxy and out into the void beyond. Despite its intangibility, its effects were felt in subtle ways on many worlds.

Deep within Cybertron, Vector Sigma convulsed, sending out random signals to its networked components, knocking out several sub-stations. On the outskirts of Iacon, Optimus Prime was putting the last of the Decepticon’s occupying forces to flight when he suddenly fell to his knees and clutched his chest.

On the planet of Junk, Wreck Gar strode over to the flickering TV, gave it several well-placed thumps and sat back down in satisfaction as the picture cleared.

In Washington DC, several early warning security systems went off for no apparent reason. The Department of Homeland Security hastily issued a statement saying there was no cause for alarm, but raised the alert level just to be on the safe side. Across the Atlantic, the USA’s allies took the hint and did the same. The world shuffled a tiny step closer to Armageddon without pausing to consider why.

In Autobot City, Perceptor noticed a tiny flicker in the life signs of a dozen Autobots lying helpless in suspended animation. Overdrive, steadily deteriorating in sick bay, awoke from stasis lock as if he’d just had a nightmare.

In his private quarters, Ultra Magnus was too busy shaking feverishly to notice anything. He forced himself to be still, re-routed some minor nervous system responses and attempted to switch off the pain. He silently vowed to go on, and turned back to the Covenant of Primus for comfort and inspiration.

In his weakened state, it is perhaps forgivable that he failed to notice the text had changed.

 

Fascinating.

Reading this alongside my own efforts at telling an Alternator/Binaltech tale and I find myself drawn towards your tale where the forces of both sides still hold some form of cohesion rather than an odd collection of individuals.

One hole in the story is Sunstreaker. Supposedly Binaltech continuity is set prior to the TFTM, (although just what happened to all bar one of the Gestalts and any of the year two Autobot cars is anyone's guess), and Sunstreaker is in the film, confusingly manning Kup's barricade to 'Lookout Mountain' along with Huffer and Bluestreak, and yet co-piloting Optimus Prime's shuttle of reinforcements. How Prime was able to out accelerate Hound in his attack on the decepticon raiding party, much less Sunstreaker, is an argument for another time. Have you killed Sunstreaker, or is he suspended pending his revival?

There was a paragraph in the last which reads quite familiarly, have you read 'Doctor Who: Battlefield' by Marc Platt? The paragraph about Armageddon slipping closer struck a chord. Could be memory cheating. That happens quite a bit.

Still much enjoying. Hope fingers are better soon and typicng can recommence apace...

 

You could be right about 'Battlefield.' I haven't read that book in years, but I really enjoyed it when I did. It's difficult not to subconsciously copy things I like. (Still, I'm in good company. When writing a book a couple of years ago, Stephen Fry woke up in a cold sweat one night: he'd just realised he was 2/3 of the way through writing the 'Count of Monte Cristo.')

While I was getting better I decided that Sunstreaker & Trailbreaker's life support capsules went "missing" when the Decepticons infiltrated their BT facilities. Who knows what fate they met? (Not even me at the moment. I haven't decided yet.   )

The Binaltech story is indeed set prior to TF:TM, but the official story (which I'm "sort of" following) seems to be diverging from the movie timeline due to some temporal interference. Or maybe not. Nobody seems quite sure, which is what makes it so much fun.  

By the way, your stories are uber cool! Keep it up.

 

When Giants Walked the Earth

It's been a while, but I've got a new chapter. Again, I'm experimenting with different styles and POV's, so I hope you don't find it too confusing...

I've also only done a basic spell check so far, so please forgive any errors.

WHEN GIANTS WALKED THE EARTH

(Somewhere in America. Sometime in the future.)

Saul didn’t know the date. No living person could understand the words ‘Gregorian Calendar’ or ‘Anno Domini.’ Saul vaguely remembered grandfather’s pronouncements, that it was the fifth of something, or the twenty-second of thingy, but the words were meaningless to him. Why would days have numbers? Numbers were for counting, for adding and taking away from each other. The Chieftains would use numbers when bartering with other tribes, exchanging skins for wheat and daughters for cattle.

Numbers had their uses, Saul reflected, but why would you bother numbering days? One day was pretty much like another, after all. When the sun rose, the day had begun. When it set, it was over. Nothing simpler. Time was measured by the passing of the seasons, the marriage of his siblings and the long walk from north to south and back again.

But today time didn’t seem to pass at all. Saul had nobody to talk to, or play with. His brothers, all older than him (twelve summers had passed since Saul had been born,) were all before the Chieftains, receiving their punishment, leaving Saul alone. Perhaps it was for this reason that he decided to go up to the Old Men and pester them for a story. The Old Men never had anything important to do, they were too slow to hunt and too stiff to gather wood. So they just sat around in the shade of the Big Tree, playing their silly games with the black and white squares.

Shayde was there. Apart from his grandfather, Shayde was the only Old Man Saul knew by name. The others always glared at the youngsters, but Shayde actually seemed to take an interest. “What brings you here, young man? Why aren’t you out making a nuisance of yourself with those brothers of yours?”

Saul shifted uncomfortably. “They’re being punished, Sir. They climbed the Lookout Mount.” While the other Old Men gasped and tutted at this heinous act, Shayde seemed amused rather than scandalised.
“And why did they do that?”
“They were trying to see the silver city, Sir.”
“Ah!” laughed Shayde, “The home of the giants! And did they?”
“They wouldn’t say, Sir.” Saul didn’t hide the disappointment in his voice. They hadn’t let him go with them and they wouldn’t tell him a thing about what they had seen.
“Do you know why no man should look upon that place, boy?”
Saul thought for a moment. “Because... it’s not allowed?”
“Apart from that.”
“Well... no.” He’d always wanted to ask.
“Have you never heard the parable of the Three-eyed Tribe and the Jaguar? No? What do they teach you in that school of yours? Anyway, sit down and I’ll tell you...

‘Long ago, before the Long Winter, giants walked this land. They were wise and powerful, each one was as strong as a hundred men and their skin was like iron. They could change their shape at will, becoming the likeness of chariots, huts and ships of the time, which were much larger and more beautiful than anything we have today.

And these giants belonged to one of two tribes. One tribe was noble, wishing only to help and protect. One tribe thought only of itself, seeking to pillage the mortal world for its bounty, to aid them in their war. For it was their wish to conquer Heaven itself, overthrowing the Gods themselves.

And the giants’ warred across the land, and in the seas and rivers, and in the skies.

There were tribes of mortals back then, too. Some resented the giants for the suffering they had visited upon our land, wishing them gone. Others welcomed the noble giants and tried to aid them in their struggle, helping them as much as a mortal ever can help a demigod. But there were two tribes that grew jealous of the giants’ great powers, seeking it for themselves. One of these tribes was known as the Concur Ants, for reasons best known to themselves, and-”

***

“Wait! We did that one in school!” snapped Saul impatiently. “It’s the tale of the wheel-man and the screaming star.” He’d wanted a new tale, not a piece of old homework.

Shayde held up a finger. “That was the first tribe,” he said. “I said there were two, remember?”

“Sorry. Carry on.”

***
“Anyway, the other tribe was older than the first, and more strange. They looked like you and I, yet legend says they were special in one way: they had three eyes.

The tribe of the three eyes had once been great and powerful. But their power was waning. They had betrayed and deceived too many times, seeking yet greater power and knowledge. No other tribe would ally with them, or even barter for goods, for all men knew the three-eyed tribe could not be trusted. Even their god deserted them, taking away their special food, called Fun Ding. And without it the tribe knew they would not survive long.

But their greed and fear grew together. Even starving, they would not turn back. Still they sought more knowledge, scavenging pieces of the giants’ bodies when they fell in battle, desecrating the sacred metal burial mounds. And in their relentless, desperate pursuit of the giants’ power, they found the burial mound of the Jaguar.

The Jaguar was one of the worst and most ancient of the giants. As a hunter and a deceiver he had no equal. It is said that he could become invisible at will, fading away like the sun in a dust storm. He was so skilled, and so vicious, that it had taken the all the other giant beasts and the fire of the inferno itself to slay him in battle. That battle had happened long, long ago, even before the first Long Winter. But being a giant, he did not die as mortal men do. Instead he lay in his tomb, sleeping a deep, dreamless sleep. The Tribe of the Three Eyes neither knew or cared about any of this. They knew the Jaguar was powerful and they wanted that power. Their lust for power overcame all caution and guile.

So they desecrated the Jaguar’s burial mound and found the sarcophagus he was imprisoned in. Using forbidden knowledge they had stolen from the giants of their own time, they awoke the Jaguar from his slumber. “Teach us,” the chieftain said to the Jaguar, “and we will free you.”

The Jaguar, realising he was bound in his sarcophagus, replied. “Free me,” he said. “and I will teach you all you will ever need to know.”

Fear – and some common sense – began to creep back into the tribe. They said to each other: “if we free him, we will pounce upon us and eat us all. We know the way of Jaguars, they cannot be trusted.”

But the Chieftain would not be swayed. “We will bind him,” he said. “Before we free him, we will take his weapons from him and he will be helpless.” The Jaguar agreed, saying that he would not harm those who released him from his endless sleep. And anyway, how would he be able to do so without his weapons? Hearing this, the tribe was greatly relieved, and their fear once more turned to avarice. The Chieftain gave the order to free the Jaguar from his sarcophagus.

As the Jaguar’s bonds came free, the lamps in the hut were blown out by a strange, cold wind. The Jaguar leapt to his feet. “Thankyou!” he cried, as he bounded around the Chieftain’s tent with his powerful legs. “At last I have my freedom! I am forever in your debt and I will repay you by teaching you all you ever need to know the power of the Jaguar!”

“You are welcome,” said the Chieftain. “Now teach us this power – now!”

“Very well,” said the Jaguar... and vanished into the darkness of the Chieftain’s tent.

The Chieftain looked around him wildly, wondering where the Jaguar had gone. “Jaguar!” cried out the Chieftain. “Where are you?”

The Jaguar stayed silent for a moment, toying with the Chieftain. Then he pounced.

The Chieftain felt the Jaguar’s claws, harder than diamond and sharper than the sharpest spear, pierce his flesh. As he felt the lifeblood slip from his veins, he gazed up into the giant’s red eyes and wailed: “Will you not honour our bargain?”

“I will,” said the Jaguar, licking his lips. “And all you need to know is this: the power of the Jaguar does not come from weapons. The Jaguar is a weapon. And his power cannot be contained.” The last thing the Chieftain saw was those red eyes and white fangs bearing down upon him.

The Jaguar, free to ravage the land once more, stalked out of the hut, picking up his weapons as he did so. The Tribe of the Three Eyes perished that very same night, having finally met their match in cunning and power.

There eventually followed the wars, then the Great winter. The noble giants left this land out of shame, knowing their power had visited this disaster upon it. They placed a curse on their silver city, forbidding any to go near it. The evil giants left too, simply because there was no longer anything in this land to plunder. The towns of the old tribes were either burned in the wars or frozen in the winter and many men died.

Those who did not vowed to heed the noble giants’ warnings, for they had learned the hard way that the giants’ power is not for mortal men to wield. For it is their nature that makes them so powerful, not their weapons.

We can never be like them and, unless we wish to end up like the Tribe of the Three Eyes, we must not try.”

***

“That was a bit boring,” said Saul. “It doesn’t seem fair that we can’t go exploring because of that story.”

“Suit yourself,” sniffed the old man. “It’s as good a reason as any.”



Saul wandered to his favourite spot on the edge of the village. Sitting on a long-dead tree stump, he picked up a twig and idly poked the sand in front of him. To his surprise, the twig went and hand’s width into the earth, then snapped off. He seemed to have struck something solid. Using first one hand then both, he began to remove the topsoil until he saw what was underneath. The edge was rounded, like a shield or a plate, smoother and harder than any material Saul had seen before. The portion he had uncovered shone in the late summer sun.

A golden disk.

He wanted back to the village, getting his father, his mother, anyone, and showing them his find. But then he thought of the trouble his brothers were already in for their expedition: it would just end up causing him the same problems. He sighed and began covering up his find. As the soil covered the gleaming object once more, he wondered if this was what the old man had been trying to tell him.

Some things have been buried for a reason. Digging them up will only lead to trouble.

 

This. is good 

 

Is it? Oh. Glad you're enjoying it  

 

I'm enjoying this fic, but for some strange reason the last two chapters have been a bit... confusing.

The chapter with tribe is supposed to be in the future right? And that Ravage he was talking about was X-9 Ravage? Right?

 

the only bit i didn't get was the ravage bit

 

You mean the last part I wrote or the part before that?  
I promise I'll let go of my Ravage obsession for a little while and concentrate on some of the others for a while. Grimlock's coming up