Fic: That Still Small Voice: Chapter Seven
Title: That Still Small Voice
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Sam has been pulled deeper into the conflict than anyone realized.
Author’s Note: Fun with adjectives. Thanks a million for all the reviews! It means a lot to hear what you guys think, so drop me a line and let me know!
Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six
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Chapter Seven
“The Fog of War”
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“The important thing is this: To be able at any moment sacrifice that which we are for what we could become.” -Charles DuBois
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“Will you love me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you are the only one who can.”
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Think of dolphins, Bumblebee had said.
One idea that had always bothered Sam, whenever he watched movies with scenes of large-scale battles or listened to his History teacher lecture on international confrontations that had thousands of soldiers on both sides, was how soldiers could tell in the chaos who was on their side and who was the enemy. Certainly confusion was commonplace, as ‘friendly fire’ was too often listed as a cause of death for troops. This confusion was even given a name: the fog of war. It had led French regiments in the 1600s to tie white scarves to their flags, and for more modern troops to identify themselves with anything from fluorescent panels to balloons to using anti-aircraft weaponry to fire red smoke. The “Identification Friend or Foe” technology was developed from SSR radar systems created by the military during World War II. But even in knowing that confusion, mistaken identities, and strategical placement errors did often result in fratricide, even contemplating how troops could function in close combat and not simply kill everyone in their range of vision was still mind-boggling.
This question followed Sam for weeks after the Mission City clash of factions, as the normal pandemonium of battle seemed amplified by the fact that it was giant robots who were fighting, their size and power causing nothing but upheaval. Even the battle-hardened troops of Lennox’s unit, so used to guns and cannons and running for your life, sometimes spun in confusion, disoriented by the sheer volume of the explosions and by soldiers that could cross immense distances with just a few steps. So, when Sam could not stand not knowing for one more day, he asked Bumblebee how the Autobots managed to deal with and avoid the fog of war. Granted, the Autobots had spend hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years together and could probably tell each other in a dark room with all of their sensors disabled, but still-not one shot from either side had gone astray.
Think, Bumblebee said, of dolphins.
In murky water, where visibility was poor, dolphins used their echolocation to not only navigate and hunt, but to communicate with other members of the group. Each dolphin had a unique ‘voice,’ which acted as a sort of signature for that individual. While not using echolocation exactly, each Autobot was equipped with a specialized set of sensors, typically located at the outside corner of each optic, that both transmitted and received within a range of paired negative and positive signal frequencies that could be ‘heard’ even over the noise of battle and did not interfere with normal communications. These sensors operated on a background program in the main processors that could run continuously, creating nonstop, nonsensical chatter between the Autobots, and the time between sends and receives-and through the patterns of alternating positive and negative frequencies-could function not only to tell which Autobot was present, but also to provide a real-time calculation of distance and orientation on the battlespace. Each Autobot transmitted a unique set of signal pulses to create a signature, and each team had their own dialect. Their sensors were equipped so to recognize primarily their own team’s dialect and member signatures and secondarily the overall ‘language’ used by the Autobot faction. This way, Decepticons appeared as silent, or dark, spots within the sensors’ field of sensitivity and as such could be targeted. Through this, an Autobot could continue to fight even when visual and audio feeds were disabled.
It was technology developed by Wheeljack, in partnership with another Autobot named Perceptor, and while the mathematics and physics of it went over Sam’s head, the concept of it was fascinating. Especially so were the stories of how Decepticon intelligence had stolen the technology and were also using it, modified for their own purposes, and had drastically reduced their exceptionally high counts of fratricide. Though the Decepticons held little love for their brethren, it did help with combat efficiency; after all, a weapon pointed at a fellow Decepticon was not pointed at an Autobot.
At the very least, it explained how, when Bumblebee and Ironhide sparred as a demonstration, they could anticipate within the barest instances of time where the other was going to be, their distance and speed, and appear to dance with precise movements rather than clash in a frenzy. They could keep away from each other and mirror each other, even when facing opposite directions, crucial in a real battle. To watch was wondrous.
Also, the lesson taught Sam how to recognize the signs of a Wheeljack about to go into a several hour long lecture, and that the other Autobots were entirely unsympathetic to his plight. As the unofficial newest member of Optimus Prime’s team, Sam had to be the one who actually had to stay and listen-a designation that Bumblebee had been more than grateful to turn over to Sam. It also taught Sam that scientists were the same everywhere in the universe; get them started on a topic of which they were knowledgeable, and they can speak for hours-a need for air or breaks meaning nothing. It really was not that bad, however, as Bumblebee had been right: Wheeljack was exceptionally friendly, and Sam did indeed like him very much. Wheeljack was one of those people who, upon meeting someone for the first time, would launch into a casual, personal conversation as though they had been the oldest of friends and simply had not seen each other in a long while. Wheeljack had latched onto Sam as well; so eager was he to speak with a native species of Earth that personal space boundaries had been breached early on. But Sam did not mind. It was a refreshing change from the other Autobots, who could be a little too standoffish. Sam’s acceptance of Wheeljack’s abundance of personality did lead to Wheeljack offering to take Sam on as an apprentice and to teach the young human everything he knew. As Bumblebee’s stories of what had happened to some of Wheeljack’s past apprentices ran through Sam’s mind, Sam quickly declined.
“I don’t think so, Wheeljack. I’m not that much of a scientist,” Sam said. “In fact, I’ve been banned for life from handling any of my old Chemistry teacher’s supplies or performing any experiments in the lab.”
“Hey!” Wheeljack exclaimed, happy to have found a kindred spirit. “Me too.”
They were seated on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the vast, pebbly red plain upon which the makeshift Autobot base was located. Sam inwardly cringed every time he looked at the base. The land was government owned and had been given to the Autobots, who would be left well enough alone. But, really, that was just it. The base and surrounding land was an abandoned Air Force and missile testing facility, only half-built and the structure that was present was rusting and corroded from disuse and weather. It was embarrassing, how the Autobots had risked everything to save Earth and the best the government would do was give them a rotting piece of unwanted junk out in the middle of Buttfuck, Nevada. Sam felt as though he had to apologize for someone else, and he always hated feeling that way.
Pulling his knees up to his chest, Sam hooked his fingers around his ankles and sighed, enjoying the feel of the warming morning sun on his back. The shadows of the rocks and Joshua trees were long and still cool, interspersed with brightly lit streaks of baking sand. Only a few high, wispy clouds were threaded through the sky, and Sam knew it was going to be a hot day. Briefly, he wondered what Wheeljack thought of the scenery. Even amongst humans, it took a special sort of person to love the desert-the dust and heat and redness of it had be bred down though the generations into the blood to make a true desert person, and for all that those in the lake countries had it, they knew nothing of rain. What it was like for the Autobots, Sam could only imagine. Was it boring? Ugly? Dusty? Or was it the best thing they had ever seen? What was Earth to the Autobots? From what Sam gathered from Bumblebee, Earth was out in the back forty of the Milky Way, and it was a nice place if someone wanted to lay low. How it measured up to other planets, Bumblebee had not commented, and it seemed like an improper topic about which to ask.
“Something wrong, Sam?” Wheeljack’s voice cut through Sam’s musings.
“No, I’m just thinking. Sorry that this is all you have,” he answered quietly, feeling a shameful warmth flush through his face.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Wheeljack replied. “We’ve had worse housing, believe me. And it won’t stay like this-all we’re doing is waiting for some soldiers and engineers to get the security clearance from the President to come here and help build. The construction isn’t even the problem, though. If we had the materials, we could do it ourselves. What we really need are the computers, and I believe Optimus has already put in that request.”
“You want to use our computers?” Sam asked, a little more than dumbfounded by the statement. Wheeljack shrugged.
“Your technology isn’t that primitive. From what I understand, you humans reverse engineered it from Megatron’s form, so it is not that different in its basic design and operation from ours, though the power and memory storage may be a little lacking, but I can help with improving that. All your technology needs are some upgrades. And a few size adjustments.”
Sam suspected that this was a grand understatement. However, more intriguing was the fact that in the past couple of weeks, Bumblebee had seemed excited about Wheeljack’s arrival and how it meant that he would no longer be trying to work in a “flint stones and rubber tubing” world anymore, and those had been his exact words.
“Bumblebee had said that you were bringing stuff with you.”
“I have a little,” Wheeljack shrugged. “Like everyone else, I arrived by myself, without transport, and I can carry only so much. I was separated from my team a while ago, and have been cut off from my usual supplies. When I received Optimus’ message, I thought it better to come here and wait for the Ark, rather than go alone in trying to find it.” Here, Wheeljack laughed a little, the sound of grating gears and air systems strange to Sam’s ears. Had he never heard Bumblebee laugh? “Any Decepticon will tell you the Ark’s slaggin’ hard to catch. Though it can cause sub-optimal communications, no ship can match it for outpacing and hiding.”
Hiding. Blending in. It is what the Autobots are best at. When an animal on Earth uses camouflage, it is to hide from predators. Or the animal is a predator, waiting for its unsuspecting prey to come by. Sit and wait. Ambush. Disguise. Who are the real deceivers here? Perhaps separating the Autobots from the Decepticons is not as easy as they say it is.
Sam straightened, curiosity piqued.
“The Ark?”
“The Autobot flagship,” Wheeljack explained. “Technically, it’s Prime’s commandship, but he left it to chase after the All Spark and Bumblebee’s signal.”
“Who’s commanding it now?” Sam questioned as he rubbed his palms against the rough gravel that was haphazardly strewn across the rock’s surface.
“I don’t know,” Wheeljack answered, and Sam heard the wispy tone. “By default the position would go to Jazz, but since he went with Optimus, it would have to go to Prowl. But Prowl and his team weren’t on the Ark by then-they had been sent on a mission to take out a small Decepticon cell in a different system. I was off the Ark for a couple of years before Optimus left it, so I have no idea who’s on it now. You’ll have to ask Optimus for that answer.”
It was strange, Sam thought, that Wheeljack had not gone to Optimus for the same answer already, but decided not to comment on it. Sam settled back against Wheeljack, his exoskeleton surprisingly cool even after sitting for so long in direct sunlight. As he did whenever he sat with Bumblebee, Sam dropped his hand to run it idly back and forth over the dark blue metal. Unlike the decidedly not-alive cars he had touched before, Sam could nearly feel the pulse of electricity and fuel running beneath his fingers-the cool stretch of it beneath his palm-the metal almost shifting and adjusting and responding to everything around it, like being able to feel the billions and trillions of cells at work in a patch of human skin. What Wheeljack felt of his own tiny touch, Sam did not know. It was hard to imagine that, despite being remarkably human in so many other ways, the Autobots felt the world around them in the same way that humans did. There had to be some sort of tactile distinction though, as Sam vividly remembered Ironhide’s disgust at Mojo having ‘leaked lubricants’ on his foot. More and more questions, though Sam hesitated on asking Wheeljack. There was little doubt that Wheeljack would ask him the same thing in turn, but during his mental practicing of responses, Sam found himself utterly unable to describe the color blue to a blind person. What seemed more important was that neither Bumblebee nor Wheeljack seemed to mind the absent petting, and the action was relaxed, soothing.
“And you, Sam?” Wheeljack asked, his large hand coming to rest next to Sam-the long, dexterous digits spreading flat across the rock and bending back the few shrubs that were present. Sam tilted his head back to look up at Wheeljack, blue optics staring down at him in open curiosity.
“Huh?”
“Where are your friends? Bumblebee told me about a female named Mikaela, and I briefly met Captain Lennox, but where are the rest of your friends?”
The question, Sam knew, should not be that hard to answer, but for some reason the response turned sticky in his throat, and would not rise. He had not never been considered ‘popular,’ and his circle of close acquaintances seemed at times to be pitifully small in comparison to some of the groups he had seen around school. Keeping company with Mikaela had seemed to open the possibility of more social activities, but that had been near the end of the year, and summer had dissolved those opportunities as quickly as it dissolved ice at the lemonade stands. There was Miles-
Guilt instantly flooded Sam at the thought of Miles. Best friends since second grade, both set of parents complaining of them being inseparable, and all of that had been reduced to practically nothing with the arrival of the Autobots. All too easily, Sam had left it sitting with the rubble of Mission City, reflected in the broken pieces of glass.
“My…” God. When had it become so hard to say? “-best friend, Miles, he…I haven’t told him about all of you,” Sam answered, fingers curling against Wheeljack’s frame.
“I can understand that,” Wheeljack assented. “It is a very delicate situation. So what else do you do with him?”
It was a completely innocent question, bred out of nothing but curiosity, and nothing could have made Sam feel more ashamed than that. And if he hated feeling as though he had to apologize for someone else, having to apologize for himself was worse.
“We haven’t really hung out that much lately,” Sam explained. “I guess I don’t have that many friends.”
The look in Wheeljack’s optics changed, but to what, Sam could not quite decipher. After a moment of silence, Wheeljack replied.
“All the more reason to keep those you do have close,” he said. Wheeljack looked away from Sam, returning his gaze to the Autobot base and keeping it pointedly there. “Be careful of how long you keep your distance, Sam. After a while, you don’t know if you’ll be able to go back to where you were.” Here, a sound like a sigh. A star’s breath. “And that can be worse than losing them altogether.”
Everybody knew that broken glass could never be put back the same way again.
“Ah,” Wheeljack said suddenly, leg shifting slightly under Sam’s back. “I see Bumblebee finished his appointment with Ratchet early.”
Sam sat up at the sound of Bumblebee’s approach, the slight quake in the ground from his weight so much more notable sitting down than while standing. Bumblebee made it up the outcropping in only a few climbing strides, and Sam grinned at the sight of his friend appearing over the tiny cliff’s edge.
“Greetings. I come in peace,” Bumblebee hailed over his radio before stepping up next to Wheeljack and Sam.
“Klaatu barada nikto,” Sam responded in kind, earning a vintage laugh track over Bumblebee’s speakers. No, Sam decided. He had never heard Bumblebee’s own laugh.
“Wheeljack, Ratchet is free to harass, now,” Bumblebee said, and Sam had to catch himself as Wheeljack abruptly disappeared out from underneath him. Wheeljack stood, kicking out to shake some of the gravel out from in between the plates of his legs.
“Excellent. Our computer order should be arriving shortly, and I need to make sure that Ratchet understands that he cannot keep me away any longer,” Wheeljack explained valiantly and left Sam and Bumblebee on the rock. Sam watched him go, his forward stride hampered only by the occasional side trip to watch a lizard or snake make trails through the dry shrubs. A small tremor in the ground announced Bumblebee sitting down where Wheeljack had been, and Sam shifted to make room, falling easily back to lean against his guardian. Like Wheeljack, Bumblebee’s shin plates were cool and hard against his spine, and they pushed insistently into him before Sam absently reached out to run his fingers against the metal, and the pressure eased.
“What’s Wheeljack going to do to Ratchet?” Sam asked as Wheeljack disappeared into the base.
“I would not worry, Sam,” Bumblebee answered, English accent lilting its way across the words and through the rust of a still raw processor. “Probably little more will happen than simple pestering. Though if Ratchet is really stubborn, a few explosions may be in order. Just to disrupt things a little.”
“I thought all of those explosions I heard about were accidents.”
“I suppose you were told that, yes,” Bumblebee replied, and Sam decided not to press any further, chuckling instead. “I received an e-mail from Mikaela,” Bumblebee continued. Sam scooped a handful of red sand and rubbed it between his palms, the grit of it feeling good against the itch in his skin.
“She seemed somewhat concerned, and I was hoping that if there were something wrong, you would tell me, Sam,” Bumblebee said, voice quiet and unassuming. Sam sighed and brushed off the clinging gravel before twisting so that his arm draped across Bumblebee’s shin, and, tucking in his legs, laid his head against the metal. It felt good against his sun-heated skin. Bumblebee’s hand also moved, coming up to cup against Sam’s back so that he was supported.
“There’s nothing wrong, Bumblebee,” Sam assured. “It’s just…I don’t know. Things have been kind of weird, lately. Mikaela’s been so excited about applying to UCLA, and I guess I just don’t want to get in the way.”
“I do not believe that Mikaela considers you a nuisance, Sam.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam said, and he tried to pull back, but Bumblebee’s hand kept him firmly in place, so he relaxed again. Sam curled his hand slightly, gently raking his fingernails along the shiny yellow metal and drumming the pads of his fingers against it. In the polish, Sam could just see his muted reflection, blurred by the color and sun glare. “Bumblebee, what would you think about me breaking up with Mikaela?”
Sam waited as Bumblebee considered the question, undoubtedly checking the internet for all the meanings and nuances of the phrase. As he waited, the day grew hotter, the sun whiter. He would have to go inside soon, once Bumblebee grew tired of shading him and answering cowardly questions.
“I would not have you unhappy, Sam,” Bumblebee finally answered. He added, “Nor would I wish to see Mikaela unhappy. Though may I ask why you wish to do so?”
Sam allowed himself a small smile at Bumblebee’s formal phrasing. For all that Bumblebee was apparently the “baby” of the group and was nearly as well-renowned as Wheeljack for causing daily upheavals in the Autobot ranks, he had yet to relax from proper English that was more suited to university professors than a slick and sporty Camaro. Sam may have thought at first that Bumblebee was Japanese, but perhaps his guardian was indeed more British than anything. A mental image of Bumblebee as the stereotypical British chauffeur almost made Sam laugh, before he remembered that Bumblebee carried substantially sized cannons and the topic about which they were discussing.
“I don’t want to be unfair to her,” Sam explained. He hated to find himself using the ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ cop out, but any other explanation sounded weak. “I don’t think I’ve been a good boyfriend.”
It was painful to say, but even from the day that he had given Mikaela a ride home from the park, the relationship did not sit completely comfortably. Mikaela was a wonderful, kind person, brilliant with cars, gorgeous as hell, and perhaps braver than he had been, but he could not be quite convinced that she was giving the relationship her all, either. And, truth be told, Sam still felt a little awkward. Since the first grade, he had not been part of the ‘popular’ crowd, though he was still far from being a reject from all social groups. More, he had simply gone through school relatively unnoticed by the majority of the student population and left to admire Mikaela from afar.
“Are you…are you new to school this year? It’s your first year?”
“Oh, no, no. Uh, we’ve been in the same school since first grade.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Long time.”
Mikaela had been a dream for years, a fantasy that had become reality due to his purchase of a rather unique vehicle. After all, such a small fantasy loses its purpose after being overwhelmed by a larger one. And, like all dreams, after years of dreaming of what is wanted, the reality never quite measures up.
“I think she can find someone better than me.”
“I do not believe that either, Sam,” Bumblebee countered earnestly, fingers tightening around Sam. This time, Sam did laugh and gave Bumblebee’s leg a fond pat.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, for now. I’ll wait and see how it works out,” Sam answered. “Right now, it’s more important to work out how I’m going to keep dodging my parents. You can only go to the garage so many times before they will start getting really suspicious. I don’t think they believed me either when I said that I was going to a Highlander convention this weekend and that I absolutely had to go because there is only one.”
“Do you wish to tell them the truth about me?” Bumblebee inquired, leaning forward to look down at Sam. His massive form blocked out the sun, and the sky turned to dark metal, focused into two optic lenses.
“No,” Sam answered, and for once the reply came easily. “I don’t want them to become involved in all of this. Optimus told me himself that I am most likely a high-profile target for the Decepticons, and sooner or later they’ll figure out how to target my parents if they’re involved. For my parents, a catastrophe involves the arrival of a crabgrass blade, and the last thing they need is for Starscream to be targeting them. I’m going to keep them out of this. The same with Miles. I just need to figure out how to lie better.”
“I understand your fears, Sam, but that is not an admirable goal. And it does not sound as though you are giving your parents nor your friends much credit or power to decide for themselves.”
“That doesn’t matter, Bumblebee!” Sam snapped, craning his neck up to stare at his guardian. “I can’t let them get hurt. Maybe once this is all over with, but not now.”
“It will make you unhappy-“
Sam pushed away from Bumblebee with enough force to convince Bumblebee to move his hand, and Sam stepped away, brushing off his pants.
“That doesn’t matter, either. No sacrifice, no victory,” Sam said, the Witwicky family motto clipping past his lips in cold, cutoff consonants, giving them a fibrous, coconut feel. With a glare, Sam turned away from Bumblebee and started walking towards the edge of the outcropping, planning his path down, when the thunder of Bumblebee’s hand coming down in front of him shattered his stride. He refused to look back, though.
“Sam, that only applies when you are fighting for something,” Bumblebee intoned. Sam dropped his shoulders, the line of them slumping like the edges of the crumbling rocks being eaten away by wind. Bumblebee’s fingers curled back towards his palm, effectively caging Sam. “Please, believe me, Sam. I have been through enough battles to know that a soldier must also decide not only his sacrifice, but whether or not that sacrifice will be too great a loss so as to make the victory be worth nothing.”
Bumblebee’s hand unfolded, not waiting for a response from Sam when none was needed. It opened palm up, beckoning.
“Please climb on, Sam. It’s a long way down. Let me carry you.”
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“I don’t know. It just seems a little strange.”
Sam frowned as he and Bumblebee approached the-there was not yet an official term for this particular room in the base. Formerly an aircraft hangar, it was one of the few areas large enough where both Autobots and humans could gather comfortably without the Autobots having to fold into their alt. forms. With a decent amount of work, it could easily be turned into a recreational area with plenty of space for the occupants to move around in; but for the time being it was simply a sort of command room, a welcoming foyer for the few guests allowed, and its awkwardness lied in not having a decent purpose. As well, there were no windows, and the electric lights that were present were in high strips and lamps across the ceiling, their aged and flickering illumination colored orange by the layer of desert dust on the bulbs, speckled dark by countless dead insects. It was dark, dreary at best, and though the Autobots did not seem to mind it all, Sam felt it entirely unacceptable.
However, his focus for the moment was more directed at the person who had spoken, the distinctly feminine voice carrying through the open hangar door and out across the sand. A woman, voice lingering over and drawing out the vowels with a thicker accent than Bumblebee’s, and it took Sam a few moments to place where he had heard it before. In his mind’s eye, a face took shape, framed by blonde hair, though the eyes would not hold their color. Brown, were they not? Or they were blue, though their color seemed unimportant against the thought of never seeing his car again, Bumblebee being held somewhere unknown and having God knew what done to him. But her name-
“Has there been any mobilization by the Army?”
This voice, Sam recognized. It was Lennox, and he quickened his step, for the moment disregarding the deep concern in the older man’s voice for curiosity.
“Our intelligence shows that there is no more movement than usual, and Calderon hasn’t opened his mouth. So far, we have no reason to suspect-“
The newest speaker cut off as Sam stepped into the entranceway, the immense door of the hangar open for the moment. Sunlight poured in through the open arc, creating a yellow-white parabola on the sand-blown cement floor. It also created a fishbowl effect, and Sam blinked as he tried to adapt his eyes to seeing in to the lesser light of inside. Why everyone had stopped talking he did not know. He knew that his steps had been quiet, unobtrusive, but perhaps the exaggeration Bumblebee had placed on his own approaching shuffle had helped to end the conversation. Sam stepped in to the hangar, Bumblebee ducking in next to him, and he was faced by a broad circle of Autobots and humans, two of them only half-familiar. Lennox he knew, and the woman’s face solidified Sam’s memory of her presence in the helicopter and Hoover Dam, though her still would not settle. The other human he knew, not just from the Hoover Dam, but from the news papers and televised press conferences: Secretary of Defense John Keller. And far from the harassing of Ratchet he had promised, Wheeljack stood next to Ironhide, who was near the wall and had his arms crossed, looking sullen, serious. Ratchet was across from them, placed behind the woman, and at the head of them all was Optimus, who was watching Sam and Bumblebee intently. Sam stared back at him, almost physically unable to look anywhere else, as the leader of the Autobots nearly commanded attention, silent and steadfast. A modern, alien King Arthur and his Round Table.
“Bumblebee, you and Sam are back early,” Ratchet said, and underneath the seemingly casual observation, Sam could hear the pointed bite.
“I thought it best,” Bumblebee replied in an astonishingly good replication of Ratchet’s tone. “The heat index was starting to approach ninety-five degrees with a high UV strength, and Sam had not put on any sunscreen. I did not wish to compromise Sam’s health.”
If it was merely an excuse, it was a good one, suited to Bumblebee’s position as Sam’s guardian, and if he were to judge by the look on Ratchet’s face, Sam suspected that Ratchet knew he could not argue with Bumblebee.
“Very well,” Ratchet said, the casual ease dimming to make room for a little more irritation and command. “Take him to the medical bay, and I’ll be there shortly to check for any sunburn damage.”
Sam spread his feet apart a little, giving him more balance and ability to dig his heels into the ground. He was not going to let them keep talking about him as though he were not present, or at the very least stupid, and Sam was sick of being left out of the loop. He had saved Optimus’ life, had destroyed the All Spark, and he would very well call that in if it meant getting a little more consideration. Before Bumblebee could move or speak, Sam asked,
“So what about Mexico?”
Everyone in the room turned from the exchange between Ratchet and Bumblebee to him, but Sam refused to back down from the attention. No use in being a coward, and he could show that despite social awkwardness and the clumsiness inherent in teenagers, he was not stupid. When no answer immediately came, Sam elaborated.
“Secretary Keller mentioned Felipe Calderon, the President of Mexico. I was just wondering what you all were talking about.”
Ratchet quickly stepped up to Sam, bending over so that the lengths of his fingers were pressed against Sam’s back, gently pressing, herding him to go back outside.
“Come, Sam. Let me make sure you did not suffer any ill effects from being out in the sun for so long. I should have thought of it this morning.”
Though Sam knew that Ratchet could move him easily if he chose to make it forcible, but the principle of the situation made Sam stand his ground, keeping calm but firm. And it helped that Bumblebee also did not move from behind Sam, providing an extra barrier that Ratchet would have to work through to remove Sam from the apparently secret meeting. It could have easily and quickly become unpleasant and ugly, but Optimus’ voice stopped the inevitable argument.
“Government satellites have picked up some unusual signals from the Mexican State of Chiapas, near the Guatemalan border,” Optimus said, deep voice floating over the names with flawless Spanish pronunciation. “They appear to be nothing more than radio signals, aged signals at that, but their unique frequency signatures have raised some concerns, which Secretary Keller thought to bring to our attention.”
“Handy, since we do not have any of our own equipment to analyze the signals properly,” Ironhide grumbled. Keller sighed tiredly and held his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I promise that you will have whatever you need,” he said, turning to face Optimus. “The President himself is working personally on getting it to you. It’s just taking a little longer than we thought it would.”
“Beauracracy at its best,” Will muttered, and Sam nodded, agreeing with him.
“I understand the security measures that you must take, Secretary,” Optimus said, nothing but the picture of polite diplomacy. “We all do. Once more of our comrades arrive, we will be better equipped and will be willing to share our technology in turn. Until then, I do wish to emphasize that with interim equipment, we will be more able to provide protection against any further Decepticon attacks.”
“Understood,” Keller said, and Optimus nodded to him in acknowledgement.
“That’s what this is all about then?” Sam asked, cutting through the courteous tip-toeing to hear the blunt truth. “You think that the signals are coming from Decepticons?”
Making a disgusted sound, Ratchet moved away from Sam to return to his former place, though pointedly a little farther away from Optimus than he had been. Sam did not know why Ratchet appeared to be so angry, but he decided to ignore it for the time being. It was not as though Sam were a spy for the Decepticons, and he had proven himself more than capable of standing up to them. If Ratchet were thinking otherwise, Sam would just have to prove him wrong. As well, Sam was tired of being left out of the loop. It had taken Optimus forever to allow Sam to come to the base for any extended period of time, and if anyone had a right to listen in, he did.
“It isn’t like the signal we captured from Qatar,” the woman said, and Sam started, almost having forgotten that she was there at all. “It’s entirely different, even radio based, where the one in Qatar wasn’t.”
“Have you been able to interpret it, Maggie?” Wheeljack asked, to which Maggie replied with a shake of her head.
“There’s nothing to interpret. It’s not even gibberish, it’s just sound, clicks. Here, I brought the chip with a recording on it.”
Maggie stood and held out the tiny computer chip, its casing sparkling in the stray sunbeams. Wheeljack accepted it, the tips of his large fingers holding it far more delicately than Sam could have imagined, and inserted it into thin slot near what would be called his right temple, if he were human. Within seconds, Wheeljack was playing the chip, the recording amplified to fill the hangar. When Maggie had said it was nothing more than sound, Sam had believed her but had certainly not expected this. It was bizarre, at the very least, like the sound of a propeller plane’s engine raised a few octaves to a higher pitch. It was broken only occasionally by a deep pulse, like a heartbeat, before returning to its previous monotone hum. It was like the sound made by the emergency announcement station on television whenever there was a severe thunderstorm, only the scream being made to sound as though sandpaper had been dragged across it, or crackling through a bad connection.
He looked at Will, whose brows were furrowed in confusion, and his expression looked pained at having to listen to the unearthly sound that was itself tearing across Sam’s eardrums. Wheeljack obligingly shut the signal off after a minute, and Sam’s ears rang with its echoes.
“The closest sound we can match it to in our databanks is that of the pulsar B1937+21, but how that sound is coming from the Mexican highlands, I don’t know,” Maggie said. Will looked at her, tilting his head.
“Pulsar?”
“A magnetised neutron star,” she explained. “A fraction the size of our sun but with greater mass. They rotate at immense speeds, and the radiation beams out from the poles, passing over Earth. Radiotelescopes can pick up the sounds of their ticks, which are usually quite regular, like a clock. The speed of the star’s rotation dictates the radiation’s wave frequency. B1937+21 has the second fastest rotation that we know of.”
“Okay, and how did you know all of that?” Will questioned.
“I looked it up,” Maggie replied matter of factly.
“Pulsars have interfered with our communication operations in the past, and have fooled us before,” Wheeljack said, and everyone looked back at Optimus, who seemed to be in deep contemplation, as though he were replaying the signal over and over again in his head. “As Maggie said, there seems to be no real language embedded within, and even as I slow it down, it does not match any communication code that I know, Morse code included.”
“They can do that that quickly?” Sam heard Will whisper, to which Keller only shrugged helplessly.
“Are there any radiotelescopes in operation near the site of the signal’s origination?” Optimus asked at length, and Maggie shook her head.
“Not that I could find, and NASA has not set up any cooperatives in that area as well. The terrain is mountainous, and not very accessible, especially due to some regional instability due to illegal immigration from Central America.”
“Could be an amateur astronomer,” Will suggested.
“In a State whose population is mostly impoverished rural farmers? No offense to the peoples of Chiapas, but I highly doubt that possibility,” Maggie returned.
“Not all of the Decepticons on Earth have been accounted for,” Ironhide spoke up. “Starscream left during the battle in Mission City, and Barricade and Frenzy never arrived. And without sufficient technology, we would be unable to pick up the arrival of any others who are truly wishing to hide their presence outside the range of the western United States.”
“Not to mention that scorpion one,” Will chimed. “I don’t think we killed it.”
“It should be investigated,” Bumblebee finally said. “As you all have said, most likely it’s nothing, mere interference or echoes bounced off of a transmitter, especially as the Mexican government has not reacted to anything suspicious. But we should not take any chances.”
Sam straightened, his blood quickening at the thought of Decepticons, dark and murderous, lingering in the cloud forests of the tropical mountains, waiting. Looking. Calling to their brothers to join them in whatever revenge or plain carnage they could start. It was a chilling picture, sobering and terrifying, but it gave Sam a chance to do something, to help. He would not be made into something useless, and he could start instantly.
“I’ll do it,” Sam said, and once more every pair of eyes and optics turned to him, Bumblebee shifting back in surprise to look down at his charge. Ratchet made that disgusted sound again before glaring at Optimus, the blue light of his optics hardened like the sharpened edge of a mountain-carving glacier.
“Absolutely not, Sam.” It was Bumblebee who first broke the stunned silence. “I refuse to put you into that sort of danger.”
“You just said yourself that it was probably nothing!”
“Probably!” Bumblebee exclaimed. “And on the chance it is a Decepticon? Or worse, a group of them? I will not let you go in like that with a target painted on your back. It’s foolish to go and do something so reckless, Sam.”
“As if you’re one to talk. What about your impromptu solo mission on the Semptanus II asteroid?” Sam countered, and Bumblebee snapped his head up to glare at Wheeljack.
“What makes you think I was the one who told him about that?” Wheeljack said defensively, posture self-righteous but still taking a step behind Ironhide’s larger form.
“It’s obviously out of the question, Sam,” Ratchet said, and it was Sam’s turn to glare.
“Why? Out of everyone here, I’m the one most available to go.”
The most expendable. Even Optimus would not be able to ignore that.
“Maggie and Secretary Keller obviously can’t go. And Will just got back from his service term in Qatar, and needs to spend time with his family.”
“It will be an Autobot who will go,” Ratchet countered harshly, and Sam walked out from underneath Bumblebee to stand imperiously in front of the Autobot medic.
“That doesn’t work either. Optimus can’t leave, and neither can Ironhide. You all have said that the base is still unprotected, and Ironhide is best for that. Wheeljack is needed to upgrade and modify the technology that you’ll all be getting, and Ratchet, you need to stay in case anything goes wrong and they get hurt. And Bumblebee’s my guardian. We stick together. If he went, then I’d just be going with him anyway.”
“Unless you are temporarily assigned to one of us, and Bumblebee goes alone,” Ironhide mused. Sam was unimpressed by the suggestion.
“He won’t.”
“And why do you say that?”
Here, Sam remained firm, not even looking back at Bumblebee. He already knew that his guardian was watching him closely, if not a bit in frustration. “Because when we got back from Mission City, he promised me that he’d never leave me.”
Utter silence again, and Sam turned to Optimus, who at least seemed to be considering the possibility. As well as Sam could read their expressions, anyway.
“Optimus, please. I can do this. Bumblebee can come with me in case there is a problem, and if it involves interacting with humans, I’ll be needed anyway. Let me help.”
“Optimus-“ Ratchet again, with an equally pleading tone, but the rest of the plea was silent to all humans in the room.
“I don’t know, kid. It doesn’t seem like a very good idea,” Will tried, but Sam was ready for him.
“Will, tell me, and tell me honestly. Why did you join the Army?”
Will considered him a moment before quietly replying.
“I wanted to make a difference.”
Sam did not say anything more, only twisting back on his spine to face Optimus. The length of time that passed seemed interminable, but he would wait. The arguments of the others, even Bumblebee’s, did not matter. At last, Optimus seemed to slump slightly, his decision made.
“Very well,” he said, and Sam beamed while Ratchet visibly tensed and retreated back into the shadows along the wall. Bumblebee stepped forward, ready to argue, but Optimus held his hand up to keep the silence. “Sam, I will trust you with this. However, you must take Bumblebee along and should you encounter any Decepticons, avoid engaging them in battle in favor of returning to our base. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam grinned, feeling lighter than air at Optimus’ declaration of trust, despite the dark anger radiating from behind him, from Bumblebee.
“Good. We will work up an explanation for your extended absence and get you prepared. Be ready by the end of this next week. Everyone dismissed,” Optimus said and left the hangar, leaving Sam to deal with the repercussions-his associates’ reactions-for his own actions.
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Ratchet followed Optimus out, finally catching up to him outside of his quarters. Ratchet reached out and grabbed at Optimus’ wrist, placing every ounce of indignation into his grip.
“What in the universe do you think you think you’re doing?” Ratchet hissed out, voice crackling like a live wire. “Letting him go on a mission like this? I wouldn’t even consider him out of his sparkling stage, and you’re sending him out like a lamb amongst lions.”
“You thought the same way about Bumblebee when I first sent him out,” Optimus replied quietly, but that was far from a mollifying remark.
“Yes, and look what happened. He would have been tortured if we hadn’t gotten him out of there so quickly.”
“Bumblebee had proven himself more than a capable warrior when I gave him his first mission,” Optimus said, voice low and unyielding, falling into the familiar lines of this old argument. “And he completed it admirably. He was ready, and so is Sam.”
“Ready to die, but I suppose that hardly matters to you, Optimus. You used to care what happened to all of us, but you’ve come to just think about how to win a battle.”
Optimus tore his wrist from Ratchet’s grasp and drew himself up to his full height, tense but careful to bank his anger.
“I would have preferred nothing more than for Bumblebee to grow up on a free Cybertron where he had nothing to worry about other than how to cause a little mayhem for the local law enforcement. Just as I want Sam to live his life as a normal human, safe and sheltered and deciding which university to attend. But that is impossible, Ratchet, and Sam has valuable skills to contribute to our cause. We need all of the help we can get.”
“Our cause,” Ratchet repeated bitterly. “Now you are starting to sound like-“
But he never got to finish, as Optimus reached out with lightning speed and pushed against Ratchet, pinning him to the wall in a rare display of irritation.
“I am tired of getting into this same debate with you, Ratchet. I understand your position, I sincerely do, and I am working my best to end this war so everyone can live their normal lives. Sam will be safe with Bumblebee, I trust no other more highly with the task. I believe in them, Ratchet.”
“You believe in people too easily.”
“And sometimes you not enough, and apparently least of all me. But if you do not have the faith for it, Ratchet, then know this: it is my order, and everyone will comply. Understood?”
“Yes. Sir.”
Optimus released him and disappeared into his quarters, the door sliding shut with a resounding bang as the metal collided. Ratchet remained in place for several long minutes before straightening up again and walking back towards his makeshift medbay, feeling the usual misery after fighting with Optimus. After so long spent in each other’s presence, it was inevitable, but all arguments were about the same thing: Optimus would listen to everyone’s opinion, their advice and concerns, and then do whatever the Pit he wanted, despite sometimes grave consequences. Including sending a young human boy to an early grave. Ratchet slammed his hand against the wall as he passed, letting the frustrating ripple away before he got back to work. Why Optimus refused to acknowledge Ratchet’s concern over him was frustrating beyond all measure, and the dark memories pooling like acid in the back of his processor-Optimus lying motionless on the energon-stained ground, optics dark and Spark cold-Ratchet quickened his step, refusing to go back to that. It still hurt beyond measure, that despair and grief-the sight of Ironhide suffering the equivalent of human sobbing-and he refused to let that happen again. If only Optimus would let him help…
Ratchet opened the door to the medbay, the sight of his work area calming him slightly. Optimus was right. There was nothing he could do about it. He could not complain without it being in vain, and he had work to do. Now if he could only stop trying to cry.
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TBC.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Sam has been pulled deeper into the conflict than anyone realized.
Author’s Note: Fun with adjectives. Thanks a million for all the reviews! It means a lot to hear what you guys think, so drop me a line and let me know!
Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six
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Chapter Seven
“The Fog of War”
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“The important thing is this: To be able at any moment sacrifice that which we are for what we could become.” -Charles DuBois
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“Will you love me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you are the only one who can.”
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Think of dolphins, Bumblebee had said.
One idea that had always bothered Sam, whenever he watched movies with scenes of large-scale battles or listened to his History teacher lecture on international confrontations that had thousands of soldiers on both sides, was how soldiers could tell in the chaos who was on their side and who was the enemy. Certainly confusion was commonplace, as ‘friendly fire’ was too often listed as a cause of death for troops. This confusion was even given a name: the fog of war. It had led French regiments in the 1600s to tie white scarves to their flags, and for more modern troops to identify themselves with anything from fluorescent panels to balloons to using anti-aircraft weaponry to fire red smoke. The “Identification Friend or Foe” technology was developed from SSR radar systems created by the military during World War II. But even in knowing that confusion, mistaken identities, and strategical placement errors did often result in fratricide, even contemplating how troops could function in close combat and not simply kill everyone in their range of vision was still mind-boggling.
This question followed Sam for weeks after the Mission City clash of factions, as the normal pandemonium of battle seemed amplified by the fact that it was giant robots who were fighting, their size and power causing nothing but upheaval. Even the battle-hardened troops of Lennox’s unit, so used to guns and cannons and running for your life, sometimes spun in confusion, disoriented by the sheer volume of the explosions and by soldiers that could cross immense distances with just a few steps. So, when Sam could not stand not knowing for one more day, he asked Bumblebee how the Autobots managed to deal with and avoid the fog of war. Granted, the Autobots had spend hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years together and could probably tell each other in a dark room with all of their sensors disabled, but still-not one shot from either side had gone astray.
Think, Bumblebee said, of dolphins.
In murky water, where visibility was poor, dolphins used their echolocation to not only navigate and hunt, but to communicate with other members of the group. Each dolphin had a unique ‘voice,’ which acted as a sort of signature for that individual. While not using echolocation exactly, each Autobot was equipped with a specialized set of sensors, typically located at the outside corner of each optic, that both transmitted and received within a range of paired negative and positive signal frequencies that could be ‘heard’ even over the noise of battle and did not interfere with normal communications. These sensors operated on a background program in the main processors that could run continuously, creating nonstop, nonsensical chatter between the Autobots, and the time between sends and receives-and through the patterns of alternating positive and negative frequencies-could function not only to tell which Autobot was present, but also to provide a real-time calculation of distance and orientation on the battlespace. Each Autobot transmitted a unique set of signal pulses to create a signature, and each team had their own dialect. Their sensors were equipped so to recognize primarily their own team’s dialect and member signatures and secondarily the overall ‘language’ used by the Autobot faction. This way, Decepticons appeared as silent, or dark, spots within the sensors’ field of sensitivity and as such could be targeted. Through this, an Autobot could continue to fight even when visual and audio feeds were disabled.
It was technology developed by Wheeljack, in partnership with another Autobot named Perceptor, and while the mathematics and physics of it went over Sam’s head, the concept of it was fascinating. Especially so were the stories of how Decepticon intelligence had stolen the technology and were also using it, modified for their own purposes, and had drastically reduced their exceptionally high counts of fratricide. Though the Decepticons held little love for their brethren, it did help with combat efficiency; after all, a weapon pointed at a fellow Decepticon was not pointed at an Autobot.
At the very least, it explained how, when Bumblebee and Ironhide sparred as a demonstration, they could anticipate within the barest instances of time where the other was going to be, their distance and speed, and appear to dance with precise movements rather than clash in a frenzy. They could keep away from each other and mirror each other, even when facing opposite directions, crucial in a real battle. To watch was wondrous.
Also, the lesson taught Sam how to recognize the signs of a Wheeljack about to go into a several hour long lecture, and that the other Autobots were entirely unsympathetic to his plight. As the unofficial newest member of Optimus Prime’s team, Sam had to be the one who actually had to stay and listen-a designation that Bumblebee had been more than grateful to turn over to Sam. It also taught Sam that scientists were the same everywhere in the universe; get them started on a topic of which they were knowledgeable, and they can speak for hours-a need for air or breaks meaning nothing. It really was not that bad, however, as Bumblebee had been right: Wheeljack was exceptionally friendly, and Sam did indeed like him very much. Wheeljack was one of those people who, upon meeting someone for the first time, would launch into a casual, personal conversation as though they had been the oldest of friends and simply had not seen each other in a long while. Wheeljack had latched onto Sam as well; so eager was he to speak with a native species of Earth that personal space boundaries had been breached early on. But Sam did not mind. It was a refreshing change from the other Autobots, who could be a little too standoffish. Sam’s acceptance of Wheeljack’s abundance of personality did lead to Wheeljack offering to take Sam on as an apprentice and to teach the young human everything he knew. As Bumblebee’s stories of what had happened to some of Wheeljack’s past apprentices ran through Sam’s mind, Sam quickly declined.
“I don’t think so, Wheeljack. I’m not that much of a scientist,” Sam said. “In fact, I’ve been banned for life from handling any of my old Chemistry teacher’s supplies or performing any experiments in the lab.”
“Hey!” Wheeljack exclaimed, happy to have found a kindred spirit. “Me too.”
They were seated on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the vast, pebbly red plain upon which the makeshift Autobot base was located. Sam inwardly cringed every time he looked at the base. The land was government owned and had been given to the Autobots, who would be left well enough alone. But, really, that was just it. The base and surrounding land was an abandoned Air Force and missile testing facility, only half-built and the structure that was present was rusting and corroded from disuse and weather. It was embarrassing, how the Autobots had risked everything to save Earth and the best the government would do was give them a rotting piece of unwanted junk out in the middle of Buttfuck, Nevada. Sam felt as though he had to apologize for someone else, and he always hated feeling that way.
Pulling his knees up to his chest, Sam hooked his fingers around his ankles and sighed, enjoying the feel of the warming morning sun on his back. The shadows of the rocks and Joshua trees were long and still cool, interspersed with brightly lit streaks of baking sand. Only a few high, wispy clouds were threaded through the sky, and Sam knew it was going to be a hot day. Briefly, he wondered what Wheeljack thought of the scenery. Even amongst humans, it took a special sort of person to love the desert-the dust and heat and redness of it had be bred down though the generations into the blood to make a true desert person, and for all that those in the lake countries had it, they knew nothing of rain. What it was like for the Autobots, Sam could only imagine. Was it boring? Ugly? Dusty? Or was it the best thing they had ever seen? What was Earth to the Autobots? From what Sam gathered from Bumblebee, Earth was out in the back forty of the Milky Way, and it was a nice place if someone wanted to lay low. How it measured up to other planets, Bumblebee had not commented, and it seemed like an improper topic about which to ask.
“Something wrong, Sam?” Wheeljack’s voice cut through Sam’s musings.
“No, I’m just thinking. Sorry that this is all you have,” he answered quietly, feeling a shameful warmth flush through his face.
“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Wheeljack replied. “We’ve had worse housing, believe me. And it won’t stay like this-all we’re doing is waiting for some soldiers and engineers to get the security clearance from the President to come here and help build. The construction isn’t even the problem, though. If we had the materials, we could do it ourselves. What we really need are the computers, and I believe Optimus has already put in that request.”
“You want to use our computers?” Sam asked, a little more than dumbfounded by the statement. Wheeljack shrugged.
“Your technology isn’t that primitive. From what I understand, you humans reverse engineered it from Megatron’s form, so it is not that different in its basic design and operation from ours, though the power and memory storage may be a little lacking, but I can help with improving that. All your technology needs are some upgrades. And a few size adjustments.”
Sam suspected that this was a grand understatement. However, more intriguing was the fact that in the past couple of weeks, Bumblebee had seemed excited about Wheeljack’s arrival and how it meant that he would no longer be trying to work in a “flint stones and rubber tubing” world anymore, and those had been his exact words.
“Bumblebee had said that you were bringing stuff with you.”
“I have a little,” Wheeljack shrugged. “Like everyone else, I arrived by myself, without transport, and I can carry only so much. I was separated from my team a while ago, and have been cut off from my usual supplies. When I received Optimus’ message, I thought it better to come here and wait for the Ark, rather than go alone in trying to find it.” Here, Wheeljack laughed a little, the sound of grating gears and air systems strange to Sam’s ears. Had he never heard Bumblebee laugh? “Any Decepticon will tell you the Ark’s slaggin’ hard to catch. Though it can cause sub-optimal communications, no ship can match it for outpacing and hiding.”
Hiding. Blending in. It is what the Autobots are best at. When an animal on Earth uses camouflage, it is to hide from predators. Or the animal is a predator, waiting for its unsuspecting prey to come by. Sit and wait. Ambush. Disguise. Who are the real deceivers here? Perhaps separating the Autobots from the Decepticons is not as easy as they say it is.
Sam straightened, curiosity piqued.
“The Ark?”
“The Autobot flagship,” Wheeljack explained. “Technically, it’s Prime’s commandship, but he left it to chase after the All Spark and Bumblebee’s signal.”
“Who’s commanding it now?” Sam questioned as he rubbed his palms against the rough gravel that was haphazardly strewn across the rock’s surface.
“I don’t know,” Wheeljack answered, and Sam heard the wispy tone. “By default the position would go to Jazz, but since he went with Optimus, it would have to go to Prowl. But Prowl and his team weren’t on the Ark by then-they had been sent on a mission to take out a small Decepticon cell in a different system. I was off the Ark for a couple of years before Optimus left it, so I have no idea who’s on it now. You’ll have to ask Optimus for that answer.”
It was strange, Sam thought, that Wheeljack had not gone to Optimus for the same answer already, but decided not to comment on it. Sam settled back against Wheeljack, his exoskeleton surprisingly cool even after sitting for so long in direct sunlight. As he did whenever he sat with Bumblebee, Sam dropped his hand to run it idly back and forth over the dark blue metal. Unlike the decidedly not-alive cars he had touched before, Sam could nearly feel the pulse of electricity and fuel running beneath his fingers-the cool stretch of it beneath his palm-the metal almost shifting and adjusting and responding to everything around it, like being able to feel the billions and trillions of cells at work in a patch of human skin. What Wheeljack felt of his own tiny touch, Sam did not know. It was hard to imagine that, despite being remarkably human in so many other ways, the Autobots felt the world around them in the same way that humans did. There had to be some sort of tactile distinction though, as Sam vividly remembered Ironhide’s disgust at Mojo having ‘leaked lubricants’ on his foot. More and more questions, though Sam hesitated on asking Wheeljack. There was little doubt that Wheeljack would ask him the same thing in turn, but during his mental practicing of responses, Sam found himself utterly unable to describe the color blue to a blind person. What seemed more important was that neither Bumblebee nor Wheeljack seemed to mind the absent petting, and the action was relaxed, soothing.
“And you, Sam?” Wheeljack asked, his large hand coming to rest next to Sam-the long, dexterous digits spreading flat across the rock and bending back the few shrubs that were present. Sam tilted his head back to look up at Wheeljack, blue optics staring down at him in open curiosity.
“Huh?”
“Where are your friends? Bumblebee told me about a female named Mikaela, and I briefly met Captain Lennox, but where are the rest of your friends?”
The question, Sam knew, should not be that hard to answer, but for some reason the response turned sticky in his throat, and would not rise. He had not never been considered ‘popular,’ and his circle of close acquaintances seemed at times to be pitifully small in comparison to some of the groups he had seen around school. Keeping company with Mikaela had seemed to open the possibility of more social activities, but that had been near the end of the year, and summer had dissolved those opportunities as quickly as it dissolved ice at the lemonade stands. There was Miles-
Guilt instantly flooded Sam at the thought of Miles. Best friends since second grade, both set of parents complaining of them being inseparable, and all of that had been reduced to practically nothing with the arrival of the Autobots. All too easily, Sam had left it sitting with the rubble of Mission City, reflected in the broken pieces of glass.
“My…” God. When had it become so hard to say? “-best friend, Miles, he…I haven’t told him about all of you,” Sam answered, fingers curling against Wheeljack’s frame.
“I can understand that,” Wheeljack assented. “It is a very delicate situation. So what else do you do with him?”
It was a completely innocent question, bred out of nothing but curiosity, and nothing could have made Sam feel more ashamed than that. And if he hated feeling as though he had to apologize for someone else, having to apologize for himself was worse.
“We haven’t really hung out that much lately,” Sam explained. “I guess I don’t have that many friends.”
The look in Wheeljack’s optics changed, but to what, Sam could not quite decipher. After a moment of silence, Wheeljack replied.
“All the more reason to keep those you do have close,” he said. Wheeljack looked away from Sam, returning his gaze to the Autobot base and keeping it pointedly there. “Be careful of how long you keep your distance, Sam. After a while, you don’t know if you’ll be able to go back to where you were.” Here, a sound like a sigh. A star’s breath. “And that can be worse than losing them altogether.”
Everybody knew that broken glass could never be put back the same way again.
“Ah,” Wheeljack said suddenly, leg shifting slightly under Sam’s back. “I see Bumblebee finished his appointment with Ratchet early.”
Sam sat up at the sound of Bumblebee’s approach, the slight quake in the ground from his weight so much more notable sitting down than while standing. Bumblebee made it up the outcropping in only a few climbing strides, and Sam grinned at the sight of his friend appearing over the tiny cliff’s edge.
“Greetings. I come in peace,” Bumblebee hailed over his radio before stepping up next to Wheeljack and Sam.
“Klaatu barada nikto,” Sam responded in kind, earning a vintage laugh track over Bumblebee’s speakers. No, Sam decided. He had never heard Bumblebee’s own laugh.
“Wheeljack, Ratchet is free to harass, now,” Bumblebee said, and Sam had to catch himself as Wheeljack abruptly disappeared out from underneath him. Wheeljack stood, kicking out to shake some of the gravel out from in between the plates of his legs.
“Excellent. Our computer order should be arriving shortly, and I need to make sure that Ratchet understands that he cannot keep me away any longer,” Wheeljack explained valiantly and left Sam and Bumblebee on the rock. Sam watched him go, his forward stride hampered only by the occasional side trip to watch a lizard or snake make trails through the dry shrubs. A small tremor in the ground announced Bumblebee sitting down where Wheeljack had been, and Sam shifted to make room, falling easily back to lean against his guardian. Like Wheeljack, Bumblebee’s shin plates were cool and hard against his spine, and they pushed insistently into him before Sam absently reached out to run his fingers against the metal, and the pressure eased.
“What’s Wheeljack going to do to Ratchet?” Sam asked as Wheeljack disappeared into the base.
“I would not worry, Sam,” Bumblebee answered, English accent lilting its way across the words and through the rust of a still raw processor. “Probably little more will happen than simple pestering. Though if Ratchet is really stubborn, a few explosions may be in order. Just to disrupt things a little.”
“I thought all of those explosions I heard about were accidents.”
“I suppose you were told that, yes,” Bumblebee replied, and Sam decided not to press any further, chuckling instead. “I received an e-mail from Mikaela,” Bumblebee continued. Sam scooped a handful of red sand and rubbed it between his palms, the grit of it feeling good against the itch in his skin.
“She seemed somewhat concerned, and I was hoping that if there were something wrong, you would tell me, Sam,” Bumblebee said, voice quiet and unassuming. Sam sighed and brushed off the clinging gravel before twisting so that his arm draped across Bumblebee’s shin, and, tucking in his legs, laid his head against the metal. It felt good against his sun-heated skin. Bumblebee’s hand also moved, coming up to cup against Sam’s back so that he was supported.
“There’s nothing wrong, Bumblebee,” Sam assured. “It’s just…I don’t know. Things have been kind of weird, lately. Mikaela’s been so excited about applying to UCLA, and I guess I just don’t want to get in the way.”
“I do not believe that Mikaela considers you a nuisance, Sam.”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sam said, and he tried to pull back, but Bumblebee’s hand kept him firmly in place, so he relaxed again. Sam curled his hand slightly, gently raking his fingernails along the shiny yellow metal and drumming the pads of his fingers against it. In the polish, Sam could just see his muted reflection, blurred by the color and sun glare. “Bumblebee, what would you think about me breaking up with Mikaela?”
Sam waited as Bumblebee considered the question, undoubtedly checking the internet for all the meanings and nuances of the phrase. As he waited, the day grew hotter, the sun whiter. He would have to go inside soon, once Bumblebee grew tired of shading him and answering cowardly questions.
“I would not have you unhappy, Sam,” Bumblebee finally answered. He added, “Nor would I wish to see Mikaela unhappy. Though may I ask why you wish to do so?”
Sam allowed himself a small smile at Bumblebee’s formal phrasing. For all that Bumblebee was apparently the “baby” of the group and was nearly as well-renowned as Wheeljack for causing daily upheavals in the Autobot ranks, he had yet to relax from proper English that was more suited to university professors than a slick and sporty Camaro. Sam may have thought at first that Bumblebee was Japanese, but perhaps his guardian was indeed more British than anything. A mental image of Bumblebee as the stereotypical British chauffeur almost made Sam laugh, before he remembered that Bumblebee carried substantially sized cannons and the topic about which they were discussing.
“I don’t want to be unfair to her,” Sam explained. He hated to find himself using the ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ cop out, but any other explanation sounded weak. “I don’t think I’ve been a good boyfriend.”
It was painful to say, but even from the day that he had given Mikaela a ride home from the park, the relationship did not sit completely comfortably. Mikaela was a wonderful, kind person, brilliant with cars, gorgeous as hell, and perhaps braver than he had been, but he could not be quite convinced that she was giving the relationship her all, either. And, truth be told, Sam still felt a little awkward. Since the first grade, he had not been part of the ‘popular’ crowd, though he was still far from being a reject from all social groups. More, he had simply gone through school relatively unnoticed by the majority of the student population and left to admire Mikaela from afar.
“Are you…are you new to school this year? It’s your first year?”
“Oh, no, no. Uh, we’ve been in the same school since first grade.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Yeah. Long time.”
Mikaela had been a dream for years, a fantasy that had become reality due to his purchase of a rather unique vehicle. After all, such a small fantasy loses its purpose after being overwhelmed by a larger one. And, like all dreams, after years of dreaming of what is wanted, the reality never quite measures up.
“I think she can find someone better than me.”
“I do not believe that either, Sam,” Bumblebee countered earnestly, fingers tightening around Sam. This time, Sam did laugh and gave Bumblebee’s leg a fond pat.
“Thanks, buddy.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, for now. I’ll wait and see how it works out,” Sam answered. “Right now, it’s more important to work out how I’m going to keep dodging my parents. You can only go to the garage so many times before they will start getting really suspicious. I don’t think they believed me either when I said that I was going to a Highlander convention this weekend and that I absolutely had to go because there is only one.”
“Do you wish to tell them the truth about me?” Bumblebee inquired, leaning forward to look down at Sam. His massive form blocked out the sun, and the sky turned to dark metal, focused into two optic lenses.
“No,” Sam answered, and for once the reply came easily. “I don’t want them to become involved in all of this. Optimus told me himself that I am most likely a high-profile target for the Decepticons, and sooner or later they’ll figure out how to target my parents if they’re involved. For my parents, a catastrophe involves the arrival of a crabgrass blade, and the last thing they need is for Starscream to be targeting them. I’m going to keep them out of this. The same with Miles. I just need to figure out how to lie better.”
“I understand your fears, Sam, but that is not an admirable goal. And it does not sound as though you are giving your parents nor your friends much credit or power to decide for themselves.”
“That doesn’t matter, Bumblebee!” Sam snapped, craning his neck up to stare at his guardian. “I can’t let them get hurt. Maybe once this is all over with, but not now.”
“It will make you unhappy-“
Sam pushed away from Bumblebee with enough force to convince Bumblebee to move his hand, and Sam stepped away, brushing off his pants.
“That doesn’t matter, either. No sacrifice, no victory,” Sam said, the Witwicky family motto clipping past his lips in cold, cutoff consonants, giving them a fibrous, coconut feel. With a glare, Sam turned away from Bumblebee and started walking towards the edge of the outcropping, planning his path down, when the thunder of Bumblebee’s hand coming down in front of him shattered his stride. He refused to look back, though.
“Sam, that only applies when you are fighting for something,” Bumblebee intoned. Sam dropped his shoulders, the line of them slumping like the edges of the crumbling rocks being eaten away by wind. Bumblebee’s fingers curled back towards his palm, effectively caging Sam. “Please, believe me, Sam. I have been through enough battles to know that a soldier must also decide not only his sacrifice, but whether or not that sacrifice will be too great a loss so as to make the victory be worth nothing.”
Bumblebee’s hand unfolded, not waiting for a response from Sam when none was needed. It opened palm up, beckoning.
“Please climb on, Sam. It’s a long way down. Let me carry you.”
8888
“I don’t know. It just seems a little strange.”
Sam frowned as he and Bumblebee approached the-there was not yet an official term for this particular room in the base. Formerly an aircraft hangar, it was one of the few areas large enough where both Autobots and humans could gather comfortably without the Autobots having to fold into their alt. forms. With a decent amount of work, it could easily be turned into a recreational area with plenty of space for the occupants to move around in; but for the time being it was simply a sort of command room, a welcoming foyer for the few guests allowed, and its awkwardness lied in not having a decent purpose. As well, there were no windows, and the electric lights that were present were in high strips and lamps across the ceiling, their aged and flickering illumination colored orange by the layer of desert dust on the bulbs, speckled dark by countless dead insects. It was dark, dreary at best, and though the Autobots did not seem to mind it all, Sam felt it entirely unacceptable.
However, his focus for the moment was more directed at the person who had spoken, the distinctly feminine voice carrying through the open hangar door and out across the sand. A woman, voice lingering over and drawing out the vowels with a thicker accent than Bumblebee’s, and it took Sam a few moments to place where he had heard it before. In his mind’s eye, a face took shape, framed by blonde hair, though the eyes would not hold their color. Brown, were they not? Or they were blue, though their color seemed unimportant against the thought of never seeing his car again, Bumblebee being held somewhere unknown and having God knew what done to him. But her name-
“Has there been any mobilization by the Army?”
This voice, Sam recognized. It was Lennox, and he quickened his step, for the moment disregarding the deep concern in the older man’s voice for curiosity.
“Our intelligence shows that there is no more movement than usual, and Calderon hasn’t opened his mouth. So far, we have no reason to suspect-“
The newest speaker cut off as Sam stepped into the entranceway, the immense door of the hangar open for the moment. Sunlight poured in through the open arc, creating a yellow-white parabola on the sand-blown cement floor. It also created a fishbowl effect, and Sam blinked as he tried to adapt his eyes to seeing in to the lesser light of inside. Why everyone had stopped talking he did not know. He knew that his steps had been quiet, unobtrusive, but perhaps the exaggeration Bumblebee had placed on his own approaching shuffle had helped to end the conversation. Sam stepped in to the hangar, Bumblebee ducking in next to him, and he was faced by a broad circle of Autobots and humans, two of them only half-familiar. Lennox he knew, and the woman’s face solidified Sam’s memory of her presence in the helicopter and Hoover Dam, though her still would not settle. The other human he knew, not just from the Hoover Dam, but from the news papers and televised press conferences: Secretary of Defense John Keller. And far from the harassing of Ratchet he had promised, Wheeljack stood next to Ironhide, who was near the wall and had his arms crossed, looking sullen, serious. Ratchet was across from them, placed behind the woman, and at the head of them all was Optimus, who was watching Sam and Bumblebee intently. Sam stared back at him, almost physically unable to look anywhere else, as the leader of the Autobots nearly commanded attention, silent and steadfast. A modern, alien King Arthur and his Round Table.
“Bumblebee, you and Sam are back early,” Ratchet said, and underneath the seemingly casual observation, Sam could hear the pointed bite.
“I thought it best,” Bumblebee replied in an astonishingly good replication of Ratchet’s tone. “The heat index was starting to approach ninety-five degrees with a high UV strength, and Sam had not put on any sunscreen. I did not wish to compromise Sam’s health.”
If it was merely an excuse, it was a good one, suited to Bumblebee’s position as Sam’s guardian, and if he were to judge by the look on Ratchet’s face, Sam suspected that Ratchet knew he could not argue with Bumblebee.
“Very well,” Ratchet said, the casual ease dimming to make room for a little more irritation and command. “Take him to the medical bay, and I’ll be there shortly to check for any sunburn damage.”
Sam spread his feet apart a little, giving him more balance and ability to dig his heels into the ground. He was not going to let them keep talking about him as though he were not present, or at the very least stupid, and Sam was sick of being left out of the loop. He had saved Optimus’ life, had destroyed the All Spark, and he would very well call that in if it meant getting a little more consideration. Before Bumblebee could move or speak, Sam asked,
“So what about Mexico?”
Everyone in the room turned from the exchange between Ratchet and Bumblebee to him, but Sam refused to back down from the attention. No use in being a coward, and he could show that despite social awkwardness and the clumsiness inherent in teenagers, he was not stupid. When no answer immediately came, Sam elaborated.
“Secretary Keller mentioned Felipe Calderon, the President of Mexico. I was just wondering what you all were talking about.”
Ratchet quickly stepped up to Sam, bending over so that the lengths of his fingers were pressed against Sam’s back, gently pressing, herding him to go back outside.
“Come, Sam. Let me make sure you did not suffer any ill effects from being out in the sun for so long. I should have thought of it this morning.”
Though Sam knew that Ratchet could move him easily if he chose to make it forcible, but the principle of the situation made Sam stand his ground, keeping calm but firm. And it helped that Bumblebee also did not move from behind Sam, providing an extra barrier that Ratchet would have to work through to remove Sam from the apparently secret meeting. It could have easily and quickly become unpleasant and ugly, but Optimus’ voice stopped the inevitable argument.
“Government satellites have picked up some unusual signals from the Mexican State of Chiapas, near the Guatemalan border,” Optimus said, deep voice floating over the names with flawless Spanish pronunciation. “They appear to be nothing more than radio signals, aged signals at that, but their unique frequency signatures have raised some concerns, which Secretary Keller thought to bring to our attention.”
“Handy, since we do not have any of our own equipment to analyze the signals properly,” Ironhide grumbled. Keller sighed tiredly and held his hands up in a placating gesture.
“I promise that you will have whatever you need,” he said, turning to face Optimus. “The President himself is working personally on getting it to you. It’s just taking a little longer than we thought it would.”
“Beauracracy at its best,” Will muttered, and Sam nodded, agreeing with him.
“I understand the security measures that you must take, Secretary,” Optimus said, nothing but the picture of polite diplomacy. “We all do. Once more of our comrades arrive, we will be better equipped and will be willing to share our technology in turn. Until then, I do wish to emphasize that with interim equipment, we will be more able to provide protection against any further Decepticon attacks.”
“Understood,” Keller said, and Optimus nodded to him in acknowledgement.
“That’s what this is all about then?” Sam asked, cutting through the courteous tip-toeing to hear the blunt truth. “You think that the signals are coming from Decepticons?”
Making a disgusted sound, Ratchet moved away from Sam to return to his former place, though pointedly a little farther away from Optimus than he had been. Sam did not know why Ratchet appeared to be so angry, but he decided to ignore it for the time being. It was not as though Sam were a spy for the Decepticons, and he had proven himself more than capable of standing up to them. If Ratchet were thinking otherwise, Sam would just have to prove him wrong. As well, Sam was tired of being left out of the loop. It had taken Optimus forever to allow Sam to come to the base for any extended period of time, and if anyone had a right to listen in, he did.
“It isn’t like the signal we captured from Qatar,” the woman said, and Sam started, almost having forgotten that she was there at all. “It’s entirely different, even radio based, where the one in Qatar wasn’t.”
“Have you been able to interpret it, Maggie?” Wheeljack asked, to which Maggie replied with a shake of her head.
“There’s nothing to interpret. It’s not even gibberish, it’s just sound, clicks. Here, I brought the chip with a recording on it.”
Maggie stood and held out the tiny computer chip, its casing sparkling in the stray sunbeams. Wheeljack accepted it, the tips of his large fingers holding it far more delicately than Sam could have imagined, and inserted it into thin slot near what would be called his right temple, if he were human. Within seconds, Wheeljack was playing the chip, the recording amplified to fill the hangar. When Maggie had said it was nothing more than sound, Sam had believed her but had certainly not expected this. It was bizarre, at the very least, like the sound of a propeller plane’s engine raised a few octaves to a higher pitch. It was broken only occasionally by a deep pulse, like a heartbeat, before returning to its previous monotone hum. It was like the sound made by the emergency announcement station on television whenever there was a severe thunderstorm, only the scream being made to sound as though sandpaper had been dragged across it, or crackling through a bad connection.
He looked at Will, whose brows were furrowed in confusion, and his expression looked pained at having to listen to the unearthly sound that was itself tearing across Sam’s eardrums. Wheeljack obligingly shut the signal off after a minute, and Sam’s ears rang with its echoes.
“The closest sound we can match it to in our databanks is that of the pulsar B1937+21, but how that sound is coming from the Mexican highlands, I don’t know,” Maggie said. Will looked at her, tilting his head.
“Pulsar?”
“A magnetised neutron star,” she explained. “A fraction the size of our sun but with greater mass. They rotate at immense speeds, and the radiation beams out from the poles, passing over Earth. Radiotelescopes can pick up the sounds of their ticks, which are usually quite regular, like a clock. The speed of the star’s rotation dictates the radiation’s wave frequency. B1937+21 has the second fastest rotation that we know of.”
“Okay, and how did you know all of that?” Will questioned.
“I looked it up,” Maggie replied matter of factly.
“Pulsars have interfered with our communication operations in the past, and have fooled us before,” Wheeljack said, and everyone looked back at Optimus, who seemed to be in deep contemplation, as though he were replaying the signal over and over again in his head. “As Maggie said, there seems to be no real language embedded within, and even as I slow it down, it does not match any communication code that I know, Morse code included.”
“They can do that that quickly?” Sam heard Will whisper, to which Keller only shrugged helplessly.
“Are there any radiotelescopes in operation near the site of the signal’s origination?” Optimus asked at length, and Maggie shook her head.
“Not that I could find, and NASA has not set up any cooperatives in that area as well. The terrain is mountainous, and not very accessible, especially due to some regional instability due to illegal immigration from Central America.”
“Could be an amateur astronomer,” Will suggested.
“In a State whose population is mostly impoverished rural farmers? No offense to the peoples of Chiapas, but I highly doubt that possibility,” Maggie returned.
“Not all of the Decepticons on Earth have been accounted for,” Ironhide spoke up. “Starscream left during the battle in Mission City, and Barricade and Frenzy never arrived. And without sufficient technology, we would be unable to pick up the arrival of any others who are truly wishing to hide their presence outside the range of the western United States.”
“Not to mention that scorpion one,” Will chimed. “I don’t think we killed it.”
“It should be investigated,” Bumblebee finally said. “As you all have said, most likely it’s nothing, mere interference or echoes bounced off of a transmitter, especially as the Mexican government has not reacted to anything suspicious. But we should not take any chances.”
Sam straightened, his blood quickening at the thought of Decepticons, dark and murderous, lingering in the cloud forests of the tropical mountains, waiting. Looking. Calling to their brothers to join them in whatever revenge or plain carnage they could start. It was a chilling picture, sobering and terrifying, but it gave Sam a chance to do something, to help. He would not be made into something useless, and he could start instantly.
“I’ll do it,” Sam said, and once more every pair of eyes and optics turned to him, Bumblebee shifting back in surprise to look down at his charge. Ratchet made that disgusted sound again before glaring at Optimus, the blue light of his optics hardened like the sharpened edge of a mountain-carving glacier.
“Absolutely not, Sam.” It was Bumblebee who first broke the stunned silence. “I refuse to put you into that sort of danger.”
“You just said yourself that it was probably nothing!”
“Probably!” Bumblebee exclaimed. “And on the chance it is a Decepticon? Or worse, a group of them? I will not let you go in like that with a target painted on your back. It’s foolish to go and do something so reckless, Sam.”
“As if you’re one to talk. What about your impromptu solo mission on the Semptanus II asteroid?” Sam countered, and Bumblebee snapped his head up to glare at Wheeljack.
“What makes you think I was the one who told him about that?” Wheeljack said defensively, posture self-righteous but still taking a step behind Ironhide’s larger form.
“It’s obviously out of the question, Sam,” Ratchet said, and it was Sam’s turn to glare.
“Why? Out of everyone here, I’m the one most available to go.”
The most expendable. Even Optimus would not be able to ignore that.
“Maggie and Secretary Keller obviously can’t go. And Will just got back from his service term in Qatar, and needs to spend time with his family.”
“It will be an Autobot who will go,” Ratchet countered harshly, and Sam walked out from underneath Bumblebee to stand imperiously in front of the Autobot medic.
“That doesn’t work either. Optimus can’t leave, and neither can Ironhide. You all have said that the base is still unprotected, and Ironhide is best for that. Wheeljack is needed to upgrade and modify the technology that you’ll all be getting, and Ratchet, you need to stay in case anything goes wrong and they get hurt. And Bumblebee’s my guardian. We stick together. If he went, then I’d just be going with him anyway.”
“Unless you are temporarily assigned to one of us, and Bumblebee goes alone,” Ironhide mused. Sam was unimpressed by the suggestion.
“He won’t.”
“And why do you say that?”
Here, Sam remained firm, not even looking back at Bumblebee. He already knew that his guardian was watching him closely, if not a bit in frustration. “Because when we got back from Mission City, he promised me that he’d never leave me.”
Utter silence again, and Sam turned to Optimus, who at least seemed to be considering the possibility. As well as Sam could read their expressions, anyway.
“Optimus, please. I can do this. Bumblebee can come with me in case there is a problem, and if it involves interacting with humans, I’ll be needed anyway. Let me help.”
“Optimus-“ Ratchet again, with an equally pleading tone, but the rest of the plea was silent to all humans in the room.
“I don’t know, kid. It doesn’t seem like a very good idea,” Will tried, but Sam was ready for him.
“Will, tell me, and tell me honestly. Why did you join the Army?”
Will considered him a moment before quietly replying.
“I wanted to make a difference.”
Sam did not say anything more, only twisting back on his spine to face Optimus. The length of time that passed seemed interminable, but he would wait. The arguments of the others, even Bumblebee’s, did not matter. At last, Optimus seemed to slump slightly, his decision made.
“Very well,” he said, and Sam beamed while Ratchet visibly tensed and retreated back into the shadows along the wall. Bumblebee stepped forward, ready to argue, but Optimus held his hand up to keep the silence. “Sam, I will trust you with this. However, you must take Bumblebee along and should you encounter any Decepticons, avoid engaging them in battle in favor of returning to our base. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Sam grinned, feeling lighter than air at Optimus’ declaration of trust, despite the dark anger radiating from behind him, from Bumblebee.
“Good. We will work up an explanation for your extended absence and get you prepared. Be ready by the end of this next week. Everyone dismissed,” Optimus said and left the hangar, leaving Sam to deal with the repercussions-his associates’ reactions-for his own actions.
8888
Ratchet followed Optimus out, finally catching up to him outside of his quarters. Ratchet reached out and grabbed at Optimus’ wrist, placing every ounce of indignation into his grip.
“What in the universe do you think you think you’re doing?” Ratchet hissed out, voice crackling like a live wire. “Letting him go on a mission like this? I wouldn’t even consider him out of his sparkling stage, and you’re sending him out like a lamb amongst lions.”
“You thought the same way about Bumblebee when I first sent him out,” Optimus replied quietly, but that was far from a mollifying remark.
“Yes, and look what happened. He would have been tortured if we hadn’t gotten him out of there so quickly.”
“Bumblebee had proven himself more than a capable warrior when I gave him his first mission,” Optimus said, voice low and unyielding, falling into the familiar lines of this old argument. “And he completed it admirably. He was ready, and so is Sam.”
“Ready to die, but I suppose that hardly matters to you, Optimus. You used to care what happened to all of us, but you’ve come to just think about how to win a battle.”
Optimus tore his wrist from Ratchet’s grasp and drew himself up to his full height, tense but careful to bank his anger.
“I would have preferred nothing more than for Bumblebee to grow up on a free Cybertron where he had nothing to worry about other than how to cause a little mayhem for the local law enforcement. Just as I want Sam to live his life as a normal human, safe and sheltered and deciding which university to attend. But that is impossible, Ratchet, and Sam has valuable skills to contribute to our cause. We need all of the help we can get.”
“Our cause,” Ratchet repeated bitterly. “Now you are starting to sound like-“
But he never got to finish, as Optimus reached out with lightning speed and pushed against Ratchet, pinning him to the wall in a rare display of irritation.
“I am tired of getting into this same debate with you, Ratchet. I understand your position, I sincerely do, and I am working my best to end this war so everyone can live their normal lives. Sam will be safe with Bumblebee, I trust no other more highly with the task. I believe in them, Ratchet.”
“You believe in people too easily.”
“And sometimes you not enough, and apparently least of all me. But if you do not have the faith for it, Ratchet, then know this: it is my order, and everyone will comply. Understood?”
“Yes. Sir.”
Optimus released him and disappeared into his quarters, the door sliding shut with a resounding bang as the metal collided. Ratchet remained in place for several long minutes before straightening up again and walking back towards his makeshift medbay, feeling the usual misery after fighting with Optimus. After so long spent in each other’s presence, it was inevitable, but all arguments were about the same thing: Optimus would listen to everyone’s opinion, their advice and concerns, and then do whatever the Pit he wanted, despite sometimes grave consequences. Including sending a young human boy to an early grave. Ratchet slammed his hand against the wall as he passed, letting the frustrating ripple away before he got back to work. Why Optimus refused to acknowledge Ratchet’s concern over him was frustrating beyond all measure, and the dark memories pooling like acid in the back of his processor-Optimus lying motionless on the energon-stained ground, optics dark and Spark cold-Ratchet quickened his step, refusing to go back to that. It still hurt beyond measure, that despair and grief-the sight of Ironhide suffering the equivalent of human sobbing-and he refused to let that happen again. If only Optimus would let him help…
Ratchet opened the door to the medbay, the sight of his work area calming him slightly. Optimus was right. There was nothing he could do about it. He could not complain without it being in vain, and he had work to do. Now if he could only stop trying to cry.
8888
TBC.