Fic: That Still Small Voice: Chapter Ten
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: Much love to my betas, lyricality and starofsacrifice. They help me immensely. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter, and I hope that you will drop me a line and tell me what you think!
Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six:
Chapter Seven:
Chapter Eight : Chapter Nine
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Chapter Ten
“Old Stories”
The universe is a machine where you have been placed, and like a machine the outcome can be known. Every battle has already been won or lost. All that is left is for you to choose your side.
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There was little else left but dust. Millennia of prevailing winds had reduced the land to grains of sand and the remnants of the planet’s last civilization to flakes of rust. All of the planet’s life had died out ages ago, killed off by their sun’s devolution into a white dwarf: its light was small and low on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the countless other stars that were strewn across the dark arch of sky. It was a cold, hollow world; it was the dwelling place of loneliness. Only one place resisted utter destruction, albeit it was succumbing to slow decay. This place and its purpose had long since been lost, swept away by the relentless winds. Beams of steel and alloy that once supported a grand capitol building were twisted, arching above a sole inhabitant like ancient tree roots. Great slabs of pale rock inlaid with precious, hard crystals, by this point considerably degraded, lay in heaps around the former building. They provided at least some protection against the weather.
But the one left-the only one, a life smothered by the wait of centuries-did not care about the weather. He had long since grown used to it, had disregarded it, had never tried to resist it. The weather had been harsh to him, that could not be denied: gears and cabling were lined and fraying with grit, panels had lost their edges and were lined with cracks; most of the paint was completely dulled or peeled away, leaving him to slowly rot from exposure. Sub-freezing temperatures left him immobile, as he had adopted a cold-blooded lifestyle to conserve precious energy.
He could last indefinitely at this pace. He had regressed into a shadow of his former self: any motion had been ceased when the last of this planet’s life had taken its final, shuddering gasp. He had left himself blind and deaf; he had not heard his own voice since the sun had collapsed in on itself. He endured the corrosion-he had gone completely numb and had turned off all unnecessary programs and systems. In this half-stasis, only his Spark revealed that he was even alive, but even that pulsed quietly, dimly, in somnolence. Full stasis would have been preferable for indefinite energy conservation, but he had been ordered to wait; as such, he had reduced his awareness to mere consciousness.
Years, centuries…time in all of its forms slipped around him, unnoticed. It piled up around his feet, buried his shelter in sand. Loneliness tapped at his door, but it went unanswered. The planet, the sun, the system crumbled out from underneath him like old paper, but he had spun himself a cocoon, surrounded by the nothingness that only comes with the deepest of sleeps: the nothingness of the space between galaxies. Not even dreams could follow him in.
He was waiting. He was listening for the sign, a call that had been promised to him, and he would wait for it while everything around him was slowly ground to wind and dust.
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Sam knew that Bumblebee did not believe him.
Sam was lying on his back, stretched out as best as he could on Bumblebee’s backseat, with his head pillowed on his backpack and his feet crossed, propped up on the door’s arm rest. They had decided to camp outside of the cave for the night-it was isolated and secret, and Bumblebee had felt more comfortable staying on the ridge than having to expend the time and energy in finding a different hiding place farther down the mountain. Sam had agreed, so they settled into their nighttime routine that they had developed during their trip.
It was late, past midnight, but Sam could not fall asleep. Despite the fatigue that was tugging at him, Sam could not stop scrolling through the pictures he had taken on his camera. The light from the screen was bright, almost blinding in its contrast with the darkness, and it hurt Sam’s eyes. But he could not look away; he kept returning to those last two pictures of what seemed like a painting of a Cybertronian. Bumblebee had disagreed.
After his discovery, Sam had sprinted from the cave, almost panicked and desperately seeking answers. Optimus Prime had said that Earth was an unknown planet to Cybertronians, hidden in a corner of the Milky Way. It probably would have stayed hidden, too, had the All Spark not crashed upon it. Megatron had come in search of the All Spark, followed by Bumblebee and then the other Decepticons. There had been no others, and Sam could not think of a reason why Optimus would have lied about something like that. Bumblebee had backed up Optimus’s account of things, and despite their earlier arguments, Bumblebee had no reason to lie to Sam either. On top of that, during Sam’s compulsory visitation to the Hoover Dam, both Banachek and Simmons had only known and mentioned Megatron; they had named him NBE-1 and had made no reference to other Cybertronians on Earth outside of its newest arrivals.
Sam flicked back to the last picture on the memory card-the jet was slightly blurry from the camera’s flash, but its shape was still unmistakable. It certainly seemed like another Cybertronian on Earth, but if Sam thought about it, when seemed to be the greater concern. If he was correct, it was during the time of the Mayan civilization, anywhere from 1000 B.C. to 900 A.D. The painting of the calendar had the potential to narrow the timeframe down a little bit, but that was still unreliable. The paintings could have been done well after the calendar’s creation, and the Cybertronian could have come before. In addition, at some point, Megatron had to have arrived, crash landing in the Arctic. Whether there was any sort of overlap, Sam did not know. Tried as he might, Sam could not recall Simmons or Banachek saying when Megatron had arrived on Earth. Carbon-14 dating had placed the All Spark’s crash around 10,000 B.C., so Megatron had to have come somewhere in between then and 1875 A.D. It was not the most narrowed down of time frames, though Sam thought if he wanted to realistically account for the amount of snow and ice overlying Megatron’s body as described by Archibald Witwicky, he could subtract a thousand years or so from the tail end of the timeframe.
“Bumblebee, when did Megatron arrive on Earth?” Sam asked, turning his head slightly to look at the dash, which was barely visible in between the two front seats. For several long minutes, Bumblebee was quiet, and Sam thought perhaps that Bumblebee would not answer, but eventually he said,
“We do not know. Megatron disappeared from all reported battles over fifteen thousand years ago, before the All Spark landed on Earth. And according to Sector 7 files, they were unable to date Megatron’s body-cryostasis badly degenerated the carbon to prevent any reliable reading, and they were unable to analyze oxygen isotopes from the surrounding ice. They cited poor preservation and rough transportation methods in the early 1900s as the cause.”
Sam frowned. That seemed strange, to be able to date the Cube but not Megatron.
“Does it matter?” Bumblebee asked, breaking Sam’s contemplation.
“I suppose not,” Sam replied. “I was just wondering aloud.”
“Sam, it is highly unlikely that the being depicted in the paintings is Megatron. He crashed into the Arctic; he had not been anywhere else on Earth.”
“I didn’t think it was him,” Sam said, knowing he was snapping, but he was already aware of the basics of his great-grandfather’s discovery; he did not need Bumblebee thinking that he was stupid as well as useless. “I was thinking that it could be somebody else.”
“I have spent the last hour and a half going through my memory banks, and I have not been able to turn up any case of an Autobot venturing anywhere near Earth. And even the Decepticons did not have a range that extended into the Orion Spur of the galaxy,” Bumblebee said. He sounded a little exasperated, but Sam ignored it. Decepticons. Sam turned his attention back to his camera, considering the idea. He had not thought of Decepticons, but perhaps the concept was a possibility due to Megatron’s obsessive fixation on locating the All Spark-it stood to reason that he had had assistance in his search.
“Can you be sure of that?” Sam asked, voice quiet. Bumblebee was silent for a moment before answering.
“No. But I am well aware of when and where I have lost friends.”
Flinching, Sam put his camera down, resting it on the seat as he turned over on his side to lay a hand against the leather.
“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. I didn’t mean it like that. It just seems so strange, though. I mean, it’s a plane. What else could be the reason?”
“I will admit that it is peculiar, but we cannot be sure that it is not a simple case of vandalism, since we do not know if we are the first visitors to this cave system. We also cannot be sure of when these paintings were created.”
They were valid points, but Sam could not quite convince himself to accept them. The whole situation was too coincidental, too bizarre, and it had settled like a deep itch that he could not reach. Sam dropped his gaze down to the flattened metal box lying on the floor-he had moved it out of his backpack to make for a more comfortable pillow. The box was dark, and rather small: it was not too much larger and thicker than a standard DVD case, and its time spent in mildly acidic cave-water had lent it to corrosion along the corners. Bumblebee had confirmed it as the source of the radio signal, and it was still transmitting, though it was beyond Sam’s range of hearing. Bumblebee did not know what the object was, but preliminary investigation had revealed it to be harmless. They had to get it back to the base quickly, though, so that Maggie and Wheeljack could more closely examine it and find out why such an unassuming object could be projecting a radio signal.
Sam stretched out an arm to run his fingers along the box, its metal having been chilled by the air conditioning vents near the floor. It was smooth, almost impossibly so, save for the rough spots of oxidation. A thought swirled in the back of Sam’s mind, lazily, like silt in a slow river. It was a coincidence-paintings of a silver god, a plane, and a strange box of unknown origin and purpose-but perhaps not. And yet, Bumblebee did not know what the object was, so it was probably not Cybertronian in origin. It could have been left by humans, be of human design, thus supporting Bumblebee’s adamant claims that no other Cybertronian had been on Earth other than him, save for Megatron.
Sam groaned as he draped his arm over his head. It was beginning to ache, and every attempt at solving the puzzle only led him in circles, raising more and more questions. Here, he finally had the chance to do something, to help out the Autobots and he was coming up with nothing. Optimus had trusted him to be a valuable member of the team, and Sam had wanted so desperately to prove himself, and he was turning out to be nothing more than a simple retriever.
“It’s late,” Bumblebee murmured, voice low through the radio. “You need your sleep.”
He was right, of course. Sam could feel the tightness around his eyes, knew his thoughts were hazy and desperate from exhaustion. Bumblebee was right, just as he had been right about this mission being pointless, about Sam have no clue as to what he was doing. And Sam was so sick of Bumblebee being right.
“You’re my guardian, Bumblebee, not my babysitter,” Sam replied angrily, pushing back his fatigue to sit up and gather up his backpack and the box. Clutching the box against his chest, Sam threw open the door and climbed out, kicking it shut behind him with just as much force as he intended. Whether out of anger or hurt, Bumblebee let him go. Sam walked back towards the cave, where the ground made a sharp rise to form a cliff, and Sam sat against it, pulling his knees up to his chest. He was not too stupid as to head into the forest at night, but it was far enough away from Bumblebee for him to feel that his point had been made. Whatever that point was. Sam sighed and dipped his head, resting his forehead against his knees to block out the sight of yellow and black metal catching flickers of moonlight through the trees.
“I had hoped that I was giving advice as a friend,” Bumblebee said. Sam winced at the gentle hurt in Bumblebee’s voice, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around his legs. Remorse threaded itself through him, tangling itself with his tiredness. What was wrong with him? He knew that he was being overly-sensitive and irritable, but he could not quite get himself into a good mood. Whatever the problem was, it was causing him to insult his best friend and instigate arguments between them. All he wanted to do was sleep, but even that eluded him, insomnia whispering old stories in his ears to keep him awake through the long night hours.
“I wish to apologize, Sam,” Bumblebee murmured from across the clearing, causing Sam to lift his head in surprise. “I think that perhaps I have been overly critical of you in the past couple of weeks. I am still learning how to be a good guardian, and I am sorry if I overstep any boundaries.”
Bumblebee sounded a little rehearsed and formal; his voice was weary and full of self-disappointment, as though he had reviewed this apology several times in secret before finally voicing it aloud. The apology did not ease Sam’s guilt, however. Bumblebee was feeling more hurt than he had realized: he was essentially backing off, interpreting Sam’s hostility as a desire to not become friends and as such, Bumblebee was reverting to the more formal relationship of a guardian and his charge. That thought clenched tightly around Sam’s heart and made him want to throw up. They still had a long way to go, apparently, before their fights could be overlooked, before arguments could still happen and yet mean nothing.
“No, Bumblebee, I’m sorry,” Sam said, his own voice rough shorn and struggling out through a dry, scratchy throat. “I didn’t mean it.”
And what exactly do you mean? Sam thought, but he pushed it away. He was too tired to answer. He sighed, rubbing a hand along his forehead. The skin there was beaded with sweat, warm beneath the pads of his fingertips. It was a little worrying; the last thing he needed was to get sick, and he made a mental note to drink more water and take it easy. Sam had not exactly been conscientious of his health in the past several days, and he suspected that he was paying the price for it. All the more reason for Bumblebee to be concerned, and Sam’s guilt increased. Bumblebee was worried about him, trying to care for him, but afraid to say anything that could further ostracize him from Sam’s ephemeral good temper.
“I really am sorry,” Sam repeated, letting the words sit on the humidity between them. Around the clearing, and in it, frogs chanted out their throaty sonatas, while the snakes shadowed their quarry in the high branches. Sam could practically hear the beetles moving through the soil, smell the fungi devouring the dead and the dying. The forest was eating itself, was an ouroboros that had found immortality by feeding upon its own life-force. For the briefest of moments, Sam found himself to be hyper-aware, absorbing in the sounds, sights, and smells like a sponge. Even after the moment passed, he was still dizzy. “I guess I’m just really tired. Please don’t be mad at me.”
There was a pause before Bumblebee moved to stand up, the sound of his transformation so completely alien in the forest that it startled some of the sleeping birds from their nighttime perches. Bumblebee took the couple of large steps over to where Sam was sitting, his footfalls rippling the water in the stream and upsetting the few small mollies scavenging for algae. Bumblebee stopped in front of Sam, kneeling down so that they were closer to eye-level.
“I wish to keep you safe, Sam,” Bumblebee said, bracing his weight on one hand, his long fingers stretching along the ground next to Sam. The light of his optics was bright, casting a blue glow that clung to tiny droplets of moisture in the air. Sam stared up at Bumblebee, studying the lines of his facial plates that were in strong relief from the shadows created by the radiance of those large, closely set optics.
“I want to help,” Sam replied, helping Bumblebee set their goals for their friendship. It was going to have to be an equal partnership, with neither having any more power or control than the other. It would mean having to compromise, but Sam trusted both himself and Bumblebee to be able to do so without degrading their friendship. It was a difficult thing in which to trust, but he was willing to try if Bumblebee was. Bumblebee shifted lightly in front of Sam, waiting for him to continue. “I want to help out the Autobots. I know that I haven’t had any military training like Will, or mechanical smarts like Mikaela, but I want to do something. I guess I just…don’t want to be left behind. I don’t want to be useless, anymore.”
Bumblebee did not immediately respond. He just stared at Sam for a long while, contemplating his human friend and partner. Sam shifted uncomfortably under Bumblebee’s intense observation, scuffling his feet against the soil and leaves.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bumblebee answered. “Just thinking of someone else who said something like that, a long time ago, and finally understanding why Optimus responded to that headstrong individual the way he did.” Though the structure of his facial plates did not allow for it, Sam caught the distinct impression of a smile from Bumblebee. “I understand your frustrations, Sam. And I apologize for not recognizing them sooner. Perhaps I have been a little overprotective, and I see now that it has been stifling-exactly what I have protested against Ratchet and Jazz.”
“Ratchet and Jazz are overprotective?” Sam asked, feeling the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile, however stiff the motion was from disuse.
“You have no idea,” Bumblebee said, and it was such a wonderful feeling to have the air between them lighten, to have the conversation flow easily.
“And how did you rebel against it?” Sam questioned, his smile in danger of becoming an amused grin. “Tell me you were the rebel of the Autobot group.”
“Sorry, Sam, but I’m afraid I’m rather boring in that respect. Mostly my strategy was to get Optimus on my side, but I did pull a few stunts.”
“So you played the ‘I’m the baby of the group so I should be the favorite and get away with crap’ card, huh?”
“You’ll be surprised at how well it can work,” Bumblebee countered. “Especially with Optimus. It is a little uncreative, but to be honest, I think it frustrated Ratchet more than the havoc caused by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“You sound as though annoying Ratchet is a game played by you guys,” Sam said with a small laugh. “Who are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe?”
“Remind me to show you the tally, sometime. The last I checked, Ironhide was in the lead by twenty points. As for Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, they…well. They are rather difficult individuals to explain. You have to meet them to get a true idea of what they’re really like.”
“I can’t wait,” Sam murmured, stretching a leg out to lay it against Bumblebee’s outstretched fingers. Bumblebee moved his hand slightly, just enough to lift his thumb and drape it across Sam’s calf.
“Sam, if you truly believe that that painting in the cave is one of another Cybertronian, then I am willing to consider the possibility and help you find out if it is true.”
At this, Sam finally grinned, feeling some of the tension ease out from his shoulders and leaving only the deep fatigue and slightly feverish warmth that was humming through his blood. “I was thinking that we should stop in one of the nearby cities,” he said. “See if we can find any books or something on the Mayan civilization and look for any evidence. We might not be able to get this information back in the States.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Bumblebee conceded. “The object we found does not seem to be of any harm, and I do not think it is related to the Decepticons. We could probably detour our mission for an extra day or two.”
Sam nodded, leaning forward to stroke a hand along Bumblebee’s fingers that were encasing his outstretched leg. He could get used to compromising, and he would make sure to remember to hurry and not take any unnecessary risks in his investigation-he would follow Bumblebee’s direction. For the moment, though, he was tired and ready to try and go to sleep again.
“Sounds good, buddy.”
They still had a long way to go to forming their equal partnership, but Sam took this conversation has a good sign. He and Bumblebee were different in many ways, but Sam challenged anyone to find a team with more potential than they.
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Ratchet knew that he had no reason to be nervous. He had called in a few of their human contacts, as well as Ironhide and Wheeljack, ready to ask for their assistance in deciphering the mysterious message that Optimus had received. Ratchet did not suspect that any would decline or too deeply question the explanations and theories that he had been rehearsing for the past several hours; he knew that all he had to do was hint that the Decepticons could possibly be behind it and have hidden a code somewhere within the fragmented sentences, and the humans would be quick to start deciphering it. The humans had plenty of zeal; they were frightened enough of a power still so much greater than theirs that they would be quick to act without much analyzing of the situation. Ironhide and Wheeljack had the potential to cause some problems, though, since they had had enough experience with the Decepticons that they might question such a strange method of communication; they would wonder why it would be so beyond the normal behavior of the Decepticons. However, Ratchet was relying on the fact that, as of late, Decepticon activity was practically nonexistent, and Ironhide especially was getting bored and wanting some action. Wheeljack would want to solve it just for the sake of deciphering a puzzle; he was less likely to care about why so much as whether or not he could. As a last resort, Ratchet had Optimus to back him up and turn assistance into a direct order without any explanation. It would work; there was very little that Ironhide and Wheeljack would not do for Optimus, even when just going off blind faith.
Optimus was the potential person to cause the most problems. Not by any direct route, Ratchet was fairly sure of that, but in letting Ratchet ask for help, Optimus was entrusting Ratchet with his integrity. Optimus had already reacted badly to Ratchet’s mistrust; Ratchet doubted that he would be able to handle intense scrutiny about his beliefs from both Ironhide and Wheeljack. It was cause for concern, since Optimus usually displayed a front that was the epitome of confidence, but for some reason the message had him rattled enough for even his façade to crack. But Ratchet would worry about that later. For the time being, he would focus on being careful with what he said and how he said it.
Will was the first to arrive, followed shortly by Ironhide, who had been sent to pick him up. Ratchet had set the meeting up in the old hangar-the one place in the base where both humans and Autobots could gather comfortably-and Will was quick to settle onto one of the old sofas that he brought during a previous visit. Ratchet greeted him, but distanced himself soon afterwards, retreating to the large projector and pretending to fidget with its controls in order to be kept from any in-depth conversation or questioning about the meeting. Will did not seem to mind; instead, he fell into an easy banter with Ironhide, arguing that it was not a sport to try and hit the animals that happened to be crossing a given road. Apparently, Ironhide had been trying to set up a point system for this activity, and inwardly, Ratchet was pleased. If Ironhide was indeed that bored, then convincing him that this strange message was a Decepticon code would be all too easy: he would want to believe it.
Mikaela, who had been given a ride to the base by Wheeljack, was next to arrive, and she did little more than spare Ratchet a wave hello before taking a seat next to Will. All that was left was Maggie and Glen, and Optimus, and then they could get started. Glen had been a difficult choice to include, and had taken some convincing for Optimus to agree to his presence. Optimus did not have anything personal against the hacker, but Glen’s connection to the Autobots was the weakest of all their human contacts-his loyalty and commitment to secrecy would be the most in question. But his skills had proven invaluable in dealing with communications and cracking Decepticon signals, and there was always the chance that the message Optimus received was a real Decepticon code. An incredibly small chance, but not one worth risking if it happened to prove true.
Wheeljack left the humans and Ironhide, who was still trying to convince Will that humans were suffering an overpopulation of deer anyway, and came up to stand next to Ratchet.
“Need any help?” he asked, looking down at the projector to see the trouble that Ratchet was having.
“No,” Ratchet answered. “It’s all set. I’m just waiting for the others to show up.”
“What’s this all about?” Wheeljack questioned, voice modulator dropping to a low pitch so that the others would not hear him. Ratchet paused. He had meant to wait until everyone was present, but in leaking a little information to Wheeljack, he could get an estimate of how the others would react and be able to adjust his method of presentation accordingly. It would also have the benefit of removing some of the surprise-by the time Ratchet told the others, Wheeljack would already be trying to figure everything out; a calm mood could be just as contagious as an agitated one. It was a good strategy. If Ratchet’s medical instructors had taught him anything, it was how to give a group of people unwelcome news. On top of that, the move would be diplomatic: on withholding even simple information, it would seem that Ratchet and Optimus were hiding something-they were, of course, but this would keep Wheeljack from suspecting as such.
“We may have intercepted a Decepticon signal,” Ratchet replied, making sure to keep his tone quietly concerned while still far from outright distress. Neither patients nor their friends ever did well when the doctor himself was clearly troubled. Wheeljack looked at him sharply in surprise, but other than that, he remained hushed and still.
“When?” Wheeljack pressed, stepping up closer to Ratchet so that Ratchet’s response would be shielded from the others. They could have communicated silently, but in speaking, it would appear that they were discussing mere technical difficulties with the projector.
“Just recently,” Ratchet answered. It was true, relatively speaking, and medics across the galaxy specialized in giving vague time frames. “Optimus captured a message while listening for Autobot activity. It had not been traveling on any human-used frequencies, but its content is unusual. We were hoping for assistance in deciphering it.”
Wheeljack nodded, dropping his gaze off to the side-the same gesture he had been using for millennia whenever he was thinking about something-for sure pondering all previous instances when the Decepticons changed their method of communication. It was such a familiar gesture of Wheeljack’s that Ratchet felt himself calming at the sight of it, his Spark humming in recognition. He suddenly felt a lot better about the situation. If anyone could figure the message out, it would be a Wheeljack who was thinking about it.
“What does it say?” Wheeljack asked.
“I’ll tell you in a few moments,” Ratchet responded before moving away from the projector, catching sight of Maggie and Glen entering the hangar.
Though he had a lack of any connection with Glen and Maggie beyond a weak acquaintance-alliance by association-Ratchet always felt it amusing to watch them interact. Glen was brash but good-natured, still infused with enough puerile enthusiasm to cause embarrassment to his more professional friend but intelligent enough to be taken seriously and make valuable contributions. He was distantly reminiscent of Wheeljack, and so Ratchet found himself willing to tolerate a few of his more peculiar comments and observations. Maggie, on the other hand, was long-suffering, looking worse for wear at having to spend seven hours on planes and in airports with only Glen as her company. Though he was far from being close friends with either of the two humans, Ratchet could tell in an instant that they made a good team. He was glad that he had been able to convince Optimus to include them.
Maggie and Glen took their places next to Mikaela and Will, Glen greeting Will wholeheartedly while Maggie neatly placed her shoulder bag at her feet, giving her own hellos to Mikaela and Ironhide. She leaned back against the cushions of the ratty sofa, fingers going to her necklace as she regarded Ratchet with friendly but calculating eyes. Ratchet made a mental note to not underestimate her-he would have to be just as careful around her as he would be around Wheeljack and Ironhide; she too would be able to pick up on the tiniest of missteps.
“Thank you all for coming on short notice,” Ratchet said. “We will get started as soon as Optimus Prime-“
“I’m here,” Optimus said from the doorway, his deep voice traveling lightly in the dusty air as the tremors of his stride shivered their way through the ground. Ratchet obediently fell silent, falling back a tiny step as Optimus came up to stand next to him. Ratchet approved of Optimus’s improvisation; it would be better for them to stand together, showing a united front instead of standing apart and showing the tensions that were still between them. Ratchet suspected that Optimus’s staging was more for Ironhide’s benefit than anyone else, and Ratchet briefly wondered if Optimus was aware that Ironhide knew of their fight-Ironhide had probably tried to speak with Optimus just as he did Ratchet. He would have to find out exactly of what that conversation had consisted.
“I know you are all curious as to why I called you here, so I will get straight to the point. While listening for Autobot activity, I intercepted a message that may be of Decepticon origin.”
“Decepticon?” Ironhide demanded, immediately straightening, his weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Ratchet could see the gears in Ironhide’s arms twitching in and out of place, ready to form the formidable cannons at a pin-drop. “Why didn’t you inform me of this earlier?”
“I will explain in a moment, Ironhide,” Optimus replied patiently. As Ratchet predicted, Wheeljack remained quiet, looking more pensive than upset. The humans were understandably more tense, more nervous, but they were paying close attention and not interrupting.
“I had been unsure of the message and its contents, until with Ratchet’s assistance we determined it may be encoded with Decepticon orders. We ask for your aid in decoding it,” Optimus continued.
“Why do you need us? Defense Secretary Keller and Banachek have set up a team at the Pentagon for this sort of thing,” Maggie said, closely watching Optimus with those questioning, calculating eyes. Optimus nodded to acknowledge her question before taking a step to the side, bowing out to Ratchet’s greater expertise.
“Ratchet,” he said, and Ratchet stepped up to take his spot. The switching of who took the lead was well played, as Optimus demonstrated their true partnership. Despite previous issues, Optimus understood all too well the need to portray teamwork through disagreements, as otherwise he opened all of them up to questioning and mistrust. Ironhide did not look happy with having been kept out of the loop, especially with his position as interim second-in-command, but he kept mercifully silent while Ratchet explained the situation.
“We had thought the message to be nothing more than telecommunication anomalies on human frequencies that had transposed themselves onto Optimus’s own channels, but there is just a little too much organization for us to dismiss it. Here is a transcript,” he said, remotely turning on the projector. They did not have a screen large enough to fit the image, so the side of the hangar, with the lights dimmed, had to suffice. The words and phrases stretched against the weathered metal plates of the wall, burning themselves into the aluminum and dipping in and out of the seams and rust patches.
IT SAID: I AM
IRON AND STEEL WILL BEND AND BOW
WOOD AND CLAY WILL WASH AWAY
THE IMPERFECT AND DIVIDED COUNTENANCE
HITHERTO CALLED MINE
AND WHO LAUGHS AT THE PRIESTS OF OC?
THE INVISIBLE NONENTITY
I KILL DOGS. EYES LIKE RED HOT COALS
LURKED ALL THAT WAS MONSTROUS, EACH A MENACE
AND A WARNING OF SOMETHING COMING, THE ADVENT OF SOME UNSPEAKABLE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD, WHOSE VERY SHADOW WOULD BURST MY SOUL
IDEAL BOUNDS I SHOULD FIRST BREAK THROUGH
SILLY HALF-BRAINED THINGS; THE LIE OF SILENCE AS EVIL AS THE LIE OF SPEECH BUT HER MANNERS ARE EXCELLENT
WHO ARE YOU WHAT YOU SAY TO BE
I AM
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE
---
Ironhide and Wheeljack simply stared at the message, but all the humans were frowning, their brows furrowed in confusion.
“I don’t get it,” Mikaela said, looking to Ratchet and Optimus for confirmation. “Is this a translation?”
“No, it’s an exact transcription,” Ratchet replied. “The contents were entirely in English, and were in this same format. You can understand our bewilderment now, I’m sure. As I said beforehand, we thought the phrases were simple anomalies that we happened to catch, but there does seem to be some organization between the phrases, however fragmented they are.”
“Hey, I recognize some of it,” Will spoke up, pointing upwards at two specific lines. “Weren’t the second and third lines from ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’?”
“Yes, Captain,” Ratchet answered. “It is why I had you retrieve the full version from Sam’s mother.”
Ironhide looked sharply back at Ratchet, expression extremely displeased, but Ratchet ignored him. Ratchet knew that he would be confronted later, with Ironhide demanding to know why Ratchet and Prime were working behind his back, but Ratchet decided to worry about that later. He had to keep his attention focused on the moment.
“As we were unable to determine anything significant from the lyrics, Ratchet and I were hoping that you all could provide assistance in deciphering any possible hidden message,” Optimus said, taking the lead back from Ratchet. “Though we understand the English language, there may be connotations of words of which we are unaware. Mikaela and Will, I believe you both well-suited to the task, with myself assisting you. Maggie, Glen, perhaps you could assist Wheeljack and Ratchet in analyzing the message for hidden codes or signals.”
“What about me?” Ironhide demanded, shifting irritably in place.
“You may assist wherever you feel you would be of most use,” Optimus replied. Ah, yes, Ratchet noted. Ironhide had confronted Optimus, and Optimus was retaliating, however in the most subtle way. He was forcing Ironhide to choose between working with one of the two groups, and either way, it would minimize Ironhide’s tendency to pry. In other words, Optimus was telling him to just work, rather than try and get involved with affairs that were none of his business.
“I’ll work with Ratchet and Wheeljack,” Ironhide said at length, the tautness in his voice revealing that he was aware of Optimus’s manipulation and his inability to do anything about it. Optimus nodded, turning his attention back to the gathered humans.
“Are you all willing to assist us?” he asks.
Will and Glen immediately and enthusiastically nodded, but it took a few moments longer for Maggie to agree.
“Will you provide us with the frequency it was received over?” she questioned, and Ratchet cursed inwardly. He had not thought of a lie to cover that question, and it was one of the most important aspects to consider. Optimus had received the message over a private channel only known to and usable by Optimus and Megatron. And now that Maggie had asked about that aspect of the message, Ironhide and Wheeljack would want to know the answer as well. Worse, they would expect it. Once more, Ratchet cursed his carelessness.
“Certainly,” Optimus answered her, and just in time Ratchet prevented himself from startling in surprise. He glanced at Optimus, but Optimus was not looking at him. Whatever it was that he had planned, Ratchet would have to wait and find out. “It was transmitted over radio waves, and I will have Ratchet make a copy of it for you. Until then, you will all be provided with a transcript of the message. I also ask you all for discretion; there is no reason to cause any concern when there is no need for it.”
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Through the dust, a call danced on faded channels, its signal badly degraded.
The one left, the eternally sleeping inhabitant of a dead planet, finally woke from his slumber.
He twitched, fingers curling-the first movement in thousands of years. Dust fell in sheets from his arms and torso at the delicate, rusty movements. Systems crackled and hummed and ground out their effort to bring tertiary systems online, opening a malaria yellow gaze to the rest of the world. Filters opened up to the fresh trickle of energy from the power reserves, ready to empty it of all the settled residue. He was stiff; it would be a while longer before he could finally rise from his resting place, longer still before he could leave.
But with the first surges of welcome, warm energy through his body, he listened to the call. He listened, verified the patterns of origin, and responded.
“I am here,” he said, his normally rich, honeyed voice as granulated as the sand. “Your servant, Shockwave, is listening. Yes. I will come to you. I live to serve, Lord Megatron.”
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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: Much love to my betas, lyricality and starofsacrifice. They help me immensely. I hope you all enjoy this next chapter, and I hope that you will drop me a line and tell me what you think!
Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six:
Chapter Seven:
Chapter Eight : Chapter Nine
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Chapter Ten
“Old Stories”
The universe is a machine where you have been placed, and like a machine the outcome can be known. Every battle has already been won or lost. All that is left is for you to choose your side.
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There was little else left but dust. Millennia of prevailing winds had reduced the land to grains of sand and the remnants of the planet’s last civilization to flakes of rust. All of the planet’s life had died out ages ago, killed off by their sun’s devolution into a white dwarf: its light was small and low on the horizon, barely distinguishable from the countless other stars that were strewn across the dark arch of sky. It was a cold, hollow world; it was the dwelling place of loneliness. Only one place resisted utter destruction, albeit it was succumbing to slow decay. This place and its purpose had long since been lost, swept away by the relentless winds. Beams of steel and alloy that once supported a grand capitol building were twisted, arching above a sole inhabitant like ancient tree roots. Great slabs of pale rock inlaid with precious, hard crystals, by this point considerably degraded, lay in heaps around the former building. They provided at least some protection against the weather.
But the one left-the only one, a life smothered by the wait of centuries-did not care about the weather. He had long since grown used to it, had disregarded it, had never tried to resist it. The weather had been harsh to him, that could not be denied: gears and cabling were lined and fraying with grit, panels had lost their edges and were lined with cracks; most of the paint was completely dulled or peeled away, leaving him to slowly rot from exposure. Sub-freezing temperatures left him immobile, as he had adopted a cold-blooded lifestyle to conserve precious energy.
He could last indefinitely at this pace. He had regressed into a shadow of his former self: any motion had been ceased when the last of this planet’s life had taken its final, shuddering gasp. He had left himself blind and deaf; he had not heard his own voice since the sun had collapsed in on itself. He endured the corrosion-he had gone completely numb and had turned off all unnecessary programs and systems. In this half-stasis, only his Spark revealed that he was even alive, but even that pulsed quietly, dimly, in somnolence. Full stasis would have been preferable for indefinite energy conservation, but he had been ordered to wait; as such, he had reduced his awareness to mere consciousness.
Years, centuries…time in all of its forms slipped around him, unnoticed. It piled up around his feet, buried his shelter in sand. Loneliness tapped at his door, but it went unanswered. The planet, the sun, the system crumbled out from underneath him like old paper, but he had spun himself a cocoon, surrounded by the nothingness that only comes with the deepest of sleeps: the nothingness of the space between galaxies. Not even dreams could follow him in.
He was waiting. He was listening for the sign, a call that had been promised to him, and he would wait for it while everything around him was slowly ground to wind and dust.
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Sam knew that Bumblebee did not believe him.
Sam was lying on his back, stretched out as best as he could on Bumblebee’s backseat, with his head pillowed on his backpack and his feet crossed, propped up on the door’s arm rest. They had decided to camp outside of the cave for the night-it was isolated and secret, and Bumblebee had felt more comfortable staying on the ridge than having to expend the time and energy in finding a different hiding place farther down the mountain. Sam had agreed, so they settled into their nighttime routine that they had developed during their trip.
It was late, past midnight, but Sam could not fall asleep. Despite the fatigue that was tugging at him, Sam could not stop scrolling through the pictures he had taken on his camera. The light from the screen was bright, almost blinding in its contrast with the darkness, and it hurt Sam’s eyes. But he could not look away; he kept returning to those last two pictures of what seemed like a painting of a Cybertronian. Bumblebee had disagreed.
After his discovery, Sam had sprinted from the cave, almost panicked and desperately seeking answers. Optimus Prime had said that Earth was an unknown planet to Cybertronians, hidden in a corner of the Milky Way. It probably would have stayed hidden, too, had the All Spark not crashed upon it. Megatron had come in search of the All Spark, followed by Bumblebee and then the other Decepticons. There had been no others, and Sam could not think of a reason why Optimus would have lied about something like that. Bumblebee had backed up Optimus’s account of things, and despite their earlier arguments, Bumblebee had no reason to lie to Sam either. On top of that, during Sam’s compulsory visitation to the Hoover Dam, both Banachek and Simmons had only known and mentioned Megatron; they had named him NBE-1 and had made no reference to other Cybertronians on Earth outside of its newest arrivals.
Sam flicked back to the last picture on the memory card-the jet was slightly blurry from the camera’s flash, but its shape was still unmistakable. It certainly seemed like another Cybertronian on Earth, but if Sam thought about it, when seemed to be the greater concern. If he was correct, it was during the time of the Mayan civilization, anywhere from 1000 B.C. to 900 A.D. The painting of the calendar had the potential to narrow the timeframe down a little bit, but that was still unreliable. The paintings could have been done well after the calendar’s creation, and the Cybertronian could have come before. In addition, at some point, Megatron had to have arrived, crash landing in the Arctic. Whether there was any sort of overlap, Sam did not know. Tried as he might, Sam could not recall Simmons or Banachek saying when Megatron had arrived on Earth. Carbon-14 dating had placed the All Spark’s crash around 10,000 B.C., so Megatron had to have come somewhere in between then and 1875 A.D. It was not the most narrowed down of time frames, though Sam thought if he wanted to realistically account for the amount of snow and ice overlying Megatron’s body as described by Archibald Witwicky, he could subtract a thousand years or so from the tail end of the timeframe.
“Bumblebee, when did Megatron arrive on Earth?” Sam asked, turning his head slightly to look at the dash, which was barely visible in between the two front seats. For several long minutes, Bumblebee was quiet, and Sam thought perhaps that Bumblebee would not answer, but eventually he said,
“We do not know. Megatron disappeared from all reported battles over fifteen thousand years ago, before the All Spark landed on Earth. And according to Sector 7 files, they were unable to date Megatron’s body-cryostasis badly degenerated the carbon to prevent any reliable reading, and they were unable to analyze oxygen isotopes from the surrounding ice. They cited poor preservation and rough transportation methods in the early 1900s as the cause.”
Sam frowned. That seemed strange, to be able to date the Cube but not Megatron.
“Does it matter?” Bumblebee asked, breaking Sam’s contemplation.
“I suppose not,” Sam replied. “I was just wondering aloud.”
“Sam, it is highly unlikely that the being depicted in the paintings is Megatron. He crashed into the Arctic; he had not been anywhere else on Earth.”
“I didn’t think it was him,” Sam said, knowing he was snapping, but he was already aware of the basics of his great-grandfather’s discovery; he did not need Bumblebee thinking that he was stupid as well as useless. “I was thinking that it could be somebody else.”
“I have spent the last hour and a half going through my memory banks, and I have not been able to turn up any case of an Autobot venturing anywhere near Earth. And even the Decepticons did not have a range that extended into the Orion Spur of the galaxy,” Bumblebee said. He sounded a little exasperated, but Sam ignored it. Decepticons. Sam turned his attention back to his camera, considering the idea. He had not thought of Decepticons, but perhaps the concept was a possibility due to Megatron’s obsessive fixation on locating the All Spark-it stood to reason that he had had assistance in his search.
“Can you be sure of that?” Sam asked, voice quiet. Bumblebee was silent for a moment before answering.
“No. But I am well aware of when and where I have lost friends.”
Flinching, Sam put his camera down, resting it on the seat as he turned over on his side to lay a hand against the leather.
“I’m sorry, Bumblebee. I didn’t mean it like that. It just seems so strange, though. I mean, it’s a plane. What else could be the reason?”
“I will admit that it is peculiar, but we cannot be sure that it is not a simple case of vandalism, since we do not know if we are the first visitors to this cave system. We also cannot be sure of when these paintings were created.”
They were valid points, but Sam could not quite convince himself to accept them. The whole situation was too coincidental, too bizarre, and it had settled like a deep itch that he could not reach. Sam dropped his gaze down to the flattened metal box lying on the floor-he had moved it out of his backpack to make for a more comfortable pillow. The box was dark, and rather small: it was not too much larger and thicker than a standard DVD case, and its time spent in mildly acidic cave-water had lent it to corrosion along the corners. Bumblebee had confirmed it as the source of the radio signal, and it was still transmitting, though it was beyond Sam’s range of hearing. Bumblebee did not know what the object was, but preliminary investigation had revealed it to be harmless. They had to get it back to the base quickly, though, so that Maggie and Wheeljack could more closely examine it and find out why such an unassuming object could be projecting a radio signal.
Sam stretched out an arm to run his fingers along the box, its metal having been chilled by the air conditioning vents near the floor. It was smooth, almost impossibly so, save for the rough spots of oxidation. A thought swirled in the back of Sam’s mind, lazily, like silt in a slow river. It was a coincidence-paintings of a silver god, a plane, and a strange box of unknown origin and purpose-but perhaps not. And yet, Bumblebee did not know what the object was, so it was probably not Cybertronian in origin. It could have been left by humans, be of human design, thus supporting Bumblebee’s adamant claims that no other Cybertronian had been on Earth other than him, save for Megatron.
Sam groaned as he draped his arm over his head. It was beginning to ache, and every attempt at solving the puzzle only led him in circles, raising more and more questions. Here, he finally had the chance to do something, to help out the Autobots and he was coming up with nothing. Optimus had trusted him to be a valuable member of the team, and Sam had wanted so desperately to prove himself, and he was turning out to be nothing more than a simple retriever.
“It’s late,” Bumblebee murmured, voice low through the radio. “You need your sleep.”
He was right, of course. Sam could feel the tightness around his eyes, knew his thoughts were hazy and desperate from exhaustion. Bumblebee was right, just as he had been right about this mission being pointless, about Sam have no clue as to what he was doing. And Sam was so sick of Bumblebee being right.
“You’re my guardian, Bumblebee, not my babysitter,” Sam replied angrily, pushing back his fatigue to sit up and gather up his backpack and the box. Clutching the box against his chest, Sam threw open the door and climbed out, kicking it shut behind him with just as much force as he intended. Whether out of anger or hurt, Bumblebee let him go. Sam walked back towards the cave, where the ground made a sharp rise to form a cliff, and Sam sat against it, pulling his knees up to his chest. He was not too stupid as to head into the forest at night, but it was far enough away from Bumblebee for him to feel that his point had been made. Whatever that point was. Sam sighed and dipped his head, resting his forehead against his knees to block out the sight of yellow and black metal catching flickers of moonlight through the trees.
“I had hoped that I was giving advice as a friend,” Bumblebee said. Sam winced at the gentle hurt in Bumblebee’s voice, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around his legs. Remorse threaded itself through him, tangling itself with his tiredness. What was wrong with him? He knew that he was being overly-sensitive and irritable, but he could not quite get himself into a good mood. Whatever the problem was, it was causing him to insult his best friend and instigate arguments between them. All he wanted to do was sleep, but even that eluded him, insomnia whispering old stories in his ears to keep him awake through the long night hours.
“I wish to apologize, Sam,” Bumblebee murmured from across the clearing, causing Sam to lift his head in surprise. “I think that perhaps I have been overly critical of you in the past couple of weeks. I am still learning how to be a good guardian, and I am sorry if I overstep any boundaries.”
Bumblebee sounded a little rehearsed and formal; his voice was weary and full of self-disappointment, as though he had reviewed this apology several times in secret before finally voicing it aloud. The apology did not ease Sam’s guilt, however. Bumblebee was feeling more hurt than he had realized: he was essentially backing off, interpreting Sam’s hostility as a desire to not become friends and as such, Bumblebee was reverting to the more formal relationship of a guardian and his charge. That thought clenched tightly around Sam’s heart and made him want to throw up. They still had a long way to go, apparently, before their fights could be overlooked, before arguments could still happen and yet mean nothing.
“No, Bumblebee, I’m sorry,” Sam said, his own voice rough shorn and struggling out through a dry, scratchy throat. “I didn’t mean it.”
And what exactly do you mean? Sam thought, but he pushed it away. He was too tired to answer. He sighed, rubbing a hand along his forehead. The skin there was beaded with sweat, warm beneath the pads of his fingertips. It was a little worrying; the last thing he needed was to get sick, and he made a mental note to drink more water and take it easy. Sam had not exactly been conscientious of his health in the past several days, and he suspected that he was paying the price for it. All the more reason for Bumblebee to be concerned, and Sam’s guilt increased. Bumblebee was worried about him, trying to care for him, but afraid to say anything that could further ostracize him from Sam’s ephemeral good temper.
“I really am sorry,” Sam repeated, letting the words sit on the humidity between them. Around the clearing, and in it, frogs chanted out their throaty sonatas, while the snakes shadowed their quarry in the high branches. Sam could practically hear the beetles moving through the soil, smell the fungi devouring the dead and the dying. The forest was eating itself, was an ouroboros that had found immortality by feeding upon its own life-force. For the briefest of moments, Sam found himself to be hyper-aware, absorbing in the sounds, sights, and smells like a sponge. Even after the moment passed, he was still dizzy. “I guess I’m just really tired. Please don’t be mad at me.”
There was a pause before Bumblebee moved to stand up, the sound of his transformation so completely alien in the forest that it startled some of the sleeping birds from their nighttime perches. Bumblebee took the couple of large steps over to where Sam was sitting, his footfalls rippling the water in the stream and upsetting the few small mollies scavenging for algae. Bumblebee stopped in front of Sam, kneeling down so that they were closer to eye-level.
“I wish to keep you safe, Sam,” Bumblebee said, bracing his weight on one hand, his long fingers stretching along the ground next to Sam. The light of his optics was bright, casting a blue glow that clung to tiny droplets of moisture in the air. Sam stared up at Bumblebee, studying the lines of his facial plates that were in strong relief from the shadows created by the radiance of those large, closely set optics.
“I want to help,” Sam replied, helping Bumblebee set their goals for their friendship. It was going to have to be an equal partnership, with neither having any more power or control than the other. It would mean having to compromise, but Sam trusted both himself and Bumblebee to be able to do so without degrading their friendship. It was a difficult thing in which to trust, but he was willing to try if Bumblebee was. Bumblebee shifted lightly in front of Sam, waiting for him to continue. “I want to help out the Autobots. I know that I haven’t had any military training like Will, or mechanical smarts like Mikaela, but I want to do something. I guess I just…don’t want to be left behind. I don’t want to be useless, anymore.”
Bumblebee did not immediately respond. He just stared at Sam for a long while, contemplating his human friend and partner. Sam shifted uncomfortably under Bumblebee’s intense observation, scuffling his feet against the soil and leaves.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Bumblebee answered. “Just thinking of someone else who said something like that, a long time ago, and finally understanding why Optimus responded to that headstrong individual the way he did.” Though the structure of his facial plates did not allow for it, Sam caught the distinct impression of a smile from Bumblebee. “I understand your frustrations, Sam. And I apologize for not recognizing them sooner. Perhaps I have been a little overprotective, and I see now that it has been stifling-exactly what I have protested against Ratchet and Jazz.”
“Ratchet and Jazz are overprotective?” Sam asked, feeling the corner of his mouth pull up into a smile, however stiff the motion was from disuse.
“You have no idea,” Bumblebee said, and it was such a wonderful feeling to have the air between them lighten, to have the conversation flow easily.
“And how did you rebel against it?” Sam questioned, his smile in danger of becoming an amused grin. “Tell me you were the rebel of the Autobot group.”
“Sorry, Sam, but I’m afraid I’m rather boring in that respect. Mostly my strategy was to get Optimus on my side, but I did pull a few stunts.”
“So you played the ‘I’m the baby of the group so I should be the favorite and get away with crap’ card, huh?”
“You’ll be surprised at how well it can work,” Bumblebee countered. “Especially with Optimus. It is a little uncreative, but to be honest, I think it frustrated Ratchet more than the havoc caused by Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.”
“You sound as though annoying Ratchet is a game played by you guys,” Sam said with a small laugh. “Who are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe?”
“Remind me to show you the tally, sometime. The last I checked, Ironhide was in the lead by twenty points. As for Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, they…well. They are rather difficult individuals to explain. You have to meet them to get a true idea of what they’re really like.”
“I can’t wait,” Sam murmured, stretching a leg out to lay it against Bumblebee’s outstretched fingers. Bumblebee moved his hand slightly, just enough to lift his thumb and drape it across Sam’s calf.
“Sam, if you truly believe that that painting in the cave is one of another Cybertronian, then I am willing to consider the possibility and help you find out if it is true.”
At this, Sam finally grinned, feeling some of the tension ease out from his shoulders and leaving only the deep fatigue and slightly feverish warmth that was humming through his blood. “I was thinking that we should stop in one of the nearby cities,” he said. “See if we can find any books or something on the Mayan civilization and look for any evidence. We might not be able to get this information back in the States.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Bumblebee conceded. “The object we found does not seem to be of any harm, and I do not think it is related to the Decepticons. We could probably detour our mission for an extra day or two.”
Sam nodded, leaning forward to stroke a hand along Bumblebee’s fingers that were encasing his outstretched leg. He could get used to compromising, and he would make sure to remember to hurry and not take any unnecessary risks in his investigation-he would follow Bumblebee’s direction. For the moment, though, he was tired and ready to try and go to sleep again.
“Sounds good, buddy.”
They still had a long way to go to forming their equal partnership, but Sam took this conversation has a good sign. He and Bumblebee were different in many ways, but Sam challenged anyone to find a team with more potential than they.
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Ratchet knew that he had no reason to be nervous. He had called in a few of their human contacts, as well as Ironhide and Wheeljack, ready to ask for their assistance in deciphering the mysterious message that Optimus had received. Ratchet did not suspect that any would decline or too deeply question the explanations and theories that he had been rehearsing for the past several hours; he knew that all he had to do was hint that the Decepticons could possibly be behind it and have hidden a code somewhere within the fragmented sentences, and the humans would be quick to start deciphering it. The humans had plenty of zeal; they were frightened enough of a power still so much greater than theirs that they would be quick to act without much analyzing of the situation. Ironhide and Wheeljack had the potential to cause some problems, though, since they had had enough experience with the Decepticons that they might question such a strange method of communication; they would wonder why it would be so beyond the normal behavior of the Decepticons. However, Ratchet was relying on the fact that, as of late, Decepticon activity was practically nonexistent, and Ironhide especially was getting bored and wanting some action. Wheeljack would want to solve it just for the sake of deciphering a puzzle; he was less likely to care about why so much as whether or not he could. As a last resort, Ratchet had Optimus to back him up and turn assistance into a direct order without any explanation. It would work; there was very little that Ironhide and Wheeljack would not do for Optimus, even when just going off blind faith.
Optimus was the potential person to cause the most problems. Not by any direct route, Ratchet was fairly sure of that, but in letting Ratchet ask for help, Optimus was entrusting Ratchet with his integrity. Optimus had already reacted badly to Ratchet’s mistrust; Ratchet doubted that he would be able to handle intense scrutiny about his beliefs from both Ironhide and Wheeljack. It was cause for concern, since Optimus usually displayed a front that was the epitome of confidence, but for some reason the message had him rattled enough for even his façade to crack. But Ratchet would worry about that later. For the time being, he would focus on being careful with what he said and how he said it.
Will was the first to arrive, followed shortly by Ironhide, who had been sent to pick him up. Ratchet had set the meeting up in the old hangar-the one place in the base where both humans and Autobots could gather comfortably-and Will was quick to settle onto one of the old sofas that he brought during a previous visit. Ratchet greeted him, but distanced himself soon afterwards, retreating to the large projector and pretending to fidget with its controls in order to be kept from any in-depth conversation or questioning about the meeting. Will did not seem to mind; instead, he fell into an easy banter with Ironhide, arguing that it was not a sport to try and hit the animals that happened to be crossing a given road. Apparently, Ironhide had been trying to set up a point system for this activity, and inwardly, Ratchet was pleased. If Ironhide was indeed that bored, then convincing him that this strange message was a Decepticon code would be all too easy: he would want to believe it.
Mikaela, who had been given a ride to the base by Wheeljack, was next to arrive, and she did little more than spare Ratchet a wave hello before taking a seat next to Will. All that was left was Maggie and Glen, and Optimus, and then they could get started. Glen had been a difficult choice to include, and had taken some convincing for Optimus to agree to his presence. Optimus did not have anything personal against the hacker, but Glen’s connection to the Autobots was the weakest of all their human contacts-his loyalty and commitment to secrecy would be the most in question. But his skills had proven invaluable in dealing with communications and cracking Decepticon signals, and there was always the chance that the message Optimus received was a real Decepticon code. An incredibly small chance, but not one worth risking if it happened to prove true.
Wheeljack left the humans and Ironhide, who was still trying to convince Will that humans were suffering an overpopulation of deer anyway, and came up to stand next to Ratchet.
“Need any help?” he asked, looking down at the projector to see the trouble that Ratchet was having.
“No,” Ratchet answered. “It’s all set. I’m just waiting for the others to show up.”
“What’s this all about?” Wheeljack questioned, voice modulator dropping to a low pitch so that the others would not hear him. Ratchet paused. He had meant to wait until everyone was present, but in leaking a little information to Wheeljack, he could get an estimate of how the others would react and be able to adjust his method of presentation accordingly. It would also have the benefit of removing some of the surprise-by the time Ratchet told the others, Wheeljack would already be trying to figure everything out; a calm mood could be just as contagious as an agitated one. It was a good strategy. If Ratchet’s medical instructors had taught him anything, it was how to give a group of people unwelcome news. On top of that, the move would be diplomatic: on withholding even simple information, it would seem that Ratchet and Optimus were hiding something-they were, of course, but this would keep Wheeljack from suspecting as such.
“We may have intercepted a Decepticon signal,” Ratchet replied, making sure to keep his tone quietly concerned while still far from outright distress. Neither patients nor their friends ever did well when the doctor himself was clearly troubled. Wheeljack looked at him sharply in surprise, but other than that, he remained hushed and still.
“When?” Wheeljack pressed, stepping up closer to Ratchet so that Ratchet’s response would be shielded from the others. They could have communicated silently, but in speaking, it would appear that they were discussing mere technical difficulties with the projector.
“Just recently,” Ratchet answered. It was true, relatively speaking, and medics across the galaxy specialized in giving vague time frames. “Optimus captured a message while listening for Autobot activity. It had not been traveling on any human-used frequencies, but its content is unusual. We were hoping for assistance in deciphering it.”
Wheeljack nodded, dropping his gaze off to the side-the same gesture he had been using for millennia whenever he was thinking about something-for sure pondering all previous instances when the Decepticons changed their method of communication. It was such a familiar gesture of Wheeljack’s that Ratchet felt himself calming at the sight of it, his Spark humming in recognition. He suddenly felt a lot better about the situation. If anyone could figure the message out, it would be a Wheeljack who was thinking about it.
“What does it say?” Wheeljack asked.
“I’ll tell you in a few moments,” Ratchet responded before moving away from the projector, catching sight of Maggie and Glen entering the hangar.
Though he had a lack of any connection with Glen and Maggie beyond a weak acquaintance-alliance by association-Ratchet always felt it amusing to watch them interact. Glen was brash but good-natured, still infused with enough puerile enthusiasm to cause embarrassment to his more professional friend but intelligent enough to be taken seriously and make valuable contributions. He was distantly reminiscent of Wheeljack, and so Ratchet found himself willing to tolerate a few of his more peculiar comments and observations. Maggie, on the other hand, was long-suffering, looking worse for wear at having to spend seven hours on planes and in airports with only Glen as her company. Though he was far from being close friends with either of the two humans, Ratchet could tell in an instant that they made a good team. He was glad that he had been able to convince Optimus to include them.
Maggie and Glen took their places next to Mikaela and Will, Glen greeting Will wholeheartedly while Maggie neatly placed her shoulder bag at her feet, giving her own hellos to Mikaela and Ironhide. She leaned back against the cushions of the ratty sofa, fingers going to her necklace as she regarded Ratchet with friendly but calculating eyes. Ratchet made a mental note to not underestimate her-he would have to be just as careful around her as he would be around Wheeljack and Ironhide; she too would be able to pick up on the tiniest of missteps.
“Thank you all for coming on short notice,” Ratchet said. “We will get started as soon as Optimus Prime-“
“I’m here,” Optimus said from the doorway, his deep voice traveling lightly in the dusty air as the tremors of his stride shivered their way through the ground. Ratchet obediently fell silent, falling back a tiny step as Optimus came up to stand next to him. Ratchet approved of Optimus’s improvisation; it would be better for them to stand together, showing a united front instead of standing apart and showing the tensions that were still between them. Ratchet suspected that Optimus’s staging was more for Ironhide’s benefit than anyone else, and Ratchet briefly wondered if Optimus was aware that Ironhide knew of their fight-Ironhide had probably tried to speak with Optimus just as he did Ratchet. He would have to find out exactly of what that conversation had consisted.
“I know you are all curious as to why I called you here, so I will get straight to the point. While listening for Autobot activity, I intercepted a message that may be of Decepticon origin.”
“Decepticon?” Ironhide demanded, immediately straightening, his weight shifting restlessly from foot to foot. Ratchet could see the gears in Ironhide’s arms twitching in and out of place, ready to form the formidable cannons at a pin-drop. “Why didn’t you inform me of this earlier?”
“I will explain in a moment, Ironhide,” Optimus replied patiently. As Ratchet predicted, Wheeljack remained quiet, looking more pensive than upset. The humans were understandably more tense, more nervous, but they were paying close attention and not interrupting.
“I had been unsure of the message and its contents, until with Ratchet’s assistance we determined it may be encoded with Decepticon orders. We ask for your aid in decoding it,” Optimus continued.
“Why do you need us? Defense Secretary Keller and Banachek have set up a team at the Pentagon for this sort of thing,” Maggie said, closely watching Optimus with those questioning, calculating eyes. Optimus nodded to acknowledge her question before taking a step to the side, bowing out to Ratchet’s greater expertise.
“Ratchet,” he said, and Ratchet stepped up to take his spot. The switching of who took the lead was well played, as Optimus demonstrated their true partnership. Despite previous issues, Optimus understood all too well the need to portray teamwork through disagreements, as otherwise he opened all of them up to questioning and mistrust. Ironhide did not look happy with having been kept out of the loop, especially with his position as interim second-in-command, but he kept mercifully silent while Ratchet explained the situation.
“We had thought the message to be nothing more than telecommunication anomalies on human frequencies that had transposed themselves onto Optimus’s own channels, but there is just a little too much organization for us to dismiss it. Here is a transcript,” he said, remotely turning on the projector. They did not have a screen large enough to fit the image, so the side of the hangar, with the lights dimmed, had to suffice. The words and phrases stretched against the weathered metal plates of the wall, burning themselves into the aluminum and dipping in and out of the seams and rust patches.
IT SAID: I AM
IRON AND STEEL WILL BEND AND BOW
WOOD AND CLAY WILL WASH AWAY
THE IMPERFECT AND DIVIDED COUNTENANCE
HITHERTO CALLED MINE
AND WHO LAUGHS AT THE PRIESTS OF OC?
THE INVISIBLE NONENTITY
I KILL DOGS. EYES LIKE RED HOT COALS
LURKED ALL THAT WAS MONSTROUS, EACH A MENACE
AND A WARNING OF SOMETHING COMING, THE ADVENT OF SOME UNSPEAKABLE DWELLER ON THE THRESHOLD, WHOSE VERY SHADOW WOULD BURST MY SOUL
IDEAL BOUNDS I SHOULD FIRST BREAK THROUGH
SILLY HALF-BRAINED THINGS; THE LIE OF SILENCE AS EVIL AS THE LIE OF SPEECH BUT HER MANNERS ARE EXCELLENT
WHO ARE YOU WHAT YOU SAY TO BE
I AM
THE GHOST IN THE MACHINE
---
Ironhide and Wheeljack simply stared at the message, but all the humans were frowning, their brows furrowed in confusion.
“I don’t get it,” Mikaela said, looking to Ratchet and Optimus for confirmation. “Is this a translation?”
“No, it’s an exact transcription,” Ratchet replied. “The contents were entirely in English, and were in this same format. You can understand our bewilderment now, I’m sure. As I said beforehand, we thought the phrases were simple anomalies that we happened to catch, but there does seem to be some organization between the phrases, however fragmented they are.”
“Hey, I recognize some of it,” Will spoke up, pointing upwards at two specific lines. “Weren’t the second and third lines from ‘London Bridge is Falling Down’?”
“Yes, Captain,” Ratchet answered. “It is why I had you retrieve the full version from Sam’s mother.”
Ironhide looked sharply back at Ratchet, expression extremely displeased, but Ratchet ignored him. Ratchet knew that he would be confronted later, with Ironhide demanding to know why Ratchet and Prime were working behind his back, but Ratchet decided to worry about that later. He had to keep his attention focused on the moment.
“As we were unable to determine anything significant from the lyrics, Ratchet and I were hoping that you all could provide assistance in deciphering any possible hidden message,” Optimus said, taking the lead back from Ratchet. “Though we understand the English language, there may be connotations of words of which we are unaware. Mikaela and Will, I believe you both well-suited to the task, with myself assisting you. Maggie, Glen, perhaps you could assist Wheeljack and Ratchet in analyzing the message for hidden codes or signals.”
“What about me?” Ironhide demanded, shifting irritably in place.
“You may assist wherever you feel you would be of most use,” Optimus replied. Ah, yes, Ratchet noted. Ironhide had confronted Optimus, and Optimus was retaliating, however in the most subtle way. He was forcing Ironhide to choose between working with one of the two groups, and either way, it would minimize Ironhide’s tendency to pry. In other words, Optimus was telling him to just work, rather than try and get involved with affairs that were none of his business.
“I’ll work with Ratchet and Wheeljack,” Ironhide said at length, the tautness in his voice revealing that he was aware of Optimus’s manipulation and his inability to do anything about it. Optimus nodded, turning his attention back to the gathered humans.
“Are you all willing to assist us?” he asks.
Will and Glen immediately and enthusiastically nodded, but it took a few moments longer for Maggie to agree.
“Will you provide us with the frequency it was received over?” she questioned, and Ratchet cursed inwardly. He had not thought of a lie to cover that question, and it was one of the most important aspects to consider. Optimus had received the message over a private channel only known to and usable by Optimus and Megatron. And now that Maggie had asked about that aspect of the message, Ironhide and Wheeljack would want to know the answer as well. Worse, they would expect it. Once more, Ratchet cursed his carelessness.
“Certainly,” Optimus answered her, and just in time Ratchet prevented himself from startling in surprise. He glanced at Optimus, but Optimus was not looking at him. Whatever it was that he had planned, Ratchet would have to wait and find out. “It was transmitted over radio waves, and I will have Ratchet make a copy of it for you. Until then, you will all be provided with a transcript of the message. I also ask you all for discretion; there is no reason to cause any concern when there is no need for it.”
8888
Through the dust, a call danced on faded channels, its signal badly degraded.
The one left, the eternally sleeping inhabitant of a dead planet, finally woke from his slumber.
He twitched, fingers curling-the first movement in thousands of years. Dust fell in sheets from his arms and torso at the delicate, rusty movements. Systems crackled and hummed and ground out their effort to bring tertiary systems online, opening a malaria yellow gaze to the rest of the world. Filters opened up to the fresh trickle of energy from the power reserves, ready to empty it of all the settled residue. He was stiff; it would be a while longer before he could finally rise from his resting place, longer still before he could leave.
But with the first surges of welcome, warm energy through his body, he listened to the call. He listened, verified the patterns of origin, and responded.
“I am here,” he said, his normally rich, honeyed voice as granulated as the sand. “Your servant, Shockwave, is listening. Yes. I will come to you. I live to serve, Lord Megatron.”
8888
TBC.