Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 1.4 Side Effects
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 1: Twilight of a Golden Age
1.4: Side Effects
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron
“Of course it’s political.” Graviitus sounded astonished that the question even needed to be asked. “Sarristec has a very generous public face but no one really doubts that he’s got lofty ambitions.”
Xaaron did his level best to refrain from pointing out that surely everyone in Vos must have lofty ambitions. Was that not part of the point of a city renowned for its flyers? Much to his own surprise, he succeeded and uttered the much less flippant rejoinder, “But political which way?”
Graviitus frowned, wings flexing. “I’m not sure I understand you.”
This was not a vast surprise. The honourable Emirate for Vos was not widely known for his towering intellect. It was widely believed that his nomination to the post had been a deliberate insult to the High Council on the part of Lord Taynset. No one had actually questioned the Vosian leader’s choice, of course, largely from the misguided belief that a fool would be an easy target at the debating table. As it turned out, a fool with Lord Taynset’s words in his vocaliser was a positively terrifying opponent, made even worse by his natural belligerence and tenacity.
“I mean,” Xaaron began, turning his chair slightly towards the floor-to-ceiling window that dominated his office, “what is the ultimate end? Is this meant as a way of bolstering Sarristec’s popularity? Or of the ruling Lords in general? Is it a rebellion against the Council? Or just a precaution against energy riots? And then there is the issue of where the energy saved by reducing the Council’s allowance in Vos is being redistributed to.”
“What issue?” Graviitus demanded, “That energy will now be allocated to the hardworking menial-grades who maintain Vos’ standing as one of Cybertron’s greatest city-states,” he explained, regurgitating the official press release verbatim.
“Quite…” Xaaron pressed the tips of his fingers together. “But of course according to Vos’ own systems, many of its menials occupy positions in military organisations. Some might conclude that for all the public good intentions surrounding this new energy plan, it is fundamentally a means of strengthening the Vosian strategic position in the Qosho region.”
“That,” Graviitus snarled, slamming a clawed fist into an open palm, “is a conclusion that could only be the product of Tarnian paranoia. We have always been dedicated to peaceful coexistence with our neighbours. Whatever steps we take to ensure the protection of our citizens, we would never commit ourselves to any form of aggression.”
“Of course. Nova Cronum respects that and remains dedicated to maintaining its many partnerships with Vos.” Turning back round to face his fellow Emirate, Xaaron spread his hands. “We simply do not want anyone to have any doubt over Vos’ intentions in this matter.”
“In that case, I can assure you that Lord Sarristec proposed this plan first and foremost as a means of averting unrest in these troubled times. He looks to the people of Vos for his support - as all the Lords do - and does not wish to suffer the fate of the likes of Lamdatron of Protihex.” Gravitus rose from his seat with dignity, wings arching high. “And the Lords of Vos’ intentions in accepting the plan are nothing more or less than keeping our people fed and content despite the High Council’s inept handling of the current situation. I hope that Nova Cronum is satisfied with that explanation.”
“Of course,” Xaaron said mildly, rising also, “Thank you so very much for providing it.”
With a grunt and a curt bow, Graviitus swept out.
Xaaron sat back down, drumming his fingers against an armrest. After a moment, he gave a short, derisive hum and triggered a visual channel. The holographic image of Tryptatrion, Speaker for Nova Cronum, swam into existence before him.
“Good news,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “I can confirm that Vos insists it has no ulterior motives whatsoever. Now, returning to the Anska issue…”
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Lord Sarristec’s Apartment
Vos
Cybertron
They were talking about him on the news feeds again. The local ‘casters had been coming back to the new energy plan at regular intervals since it had first been announced and naturally that meant that his name kept coming to the fore. Reclining on a divan, Sarristec allowed himself a broad, satisfied smile as one particularly enthusiastic pundit praised his foresight and benevolence in advancing the plan. It was always so pleasant to have one’s ideas recognised, applauded even.
A chiming communication channel brought him out of his reflection. Composing himself quickly, he shunted the news feed aside and redirected the incoming call to the apartment’s holographic matrix. A stocky, drably coloured flyer materialised before him, bowing immediately and with little grace. The awkward gesture completed, he brought his hands up to his chest and began fiddling with a set of overlapping plates that presumably belonged to his vehicle form’s tail. He could not have more obviously have been a menial in the presence of his betters if he had appeared covered in grime and toting a load of some kind.
Sarristec gave his most charming smile and inclined his head just far enough to show respect without deference. “Workmaster Tesauun, isn’t it?”
“Um…” Tesauun began eloquently, “Most people just call me Hot House, sir.”
“Then permit me to do the same. What can I do for you, Hot House?”
“Well, actually sir…it’s about what you’ve done for me. For us.” The workmaster composed himself, forcing his hands back down to his sides. “We wanted to be the first labour union to thank you for all you’ve done. You’ve no idea what a difference this extra three per cent is going to make. Well, err, you probably do, sir, of course.” Hot House laughed nervously.
Chuckling as well, to put the mech at ease, Sarristec accepted the thanks graciously. “How soon do you expect to see visible benefits from the increased allowance?” he asked.
“Oh, right away sir, right away. Even if it just means we can go longer between shut-down periods, we think this might make us four or five per cent more productive.”
“Your crews are willing to work longer shifts?”
“Of course sir!” The workmaster sounded moderately offended by the idea that anyone could doubt it. “You give us the power, we’ll work. We’re not Tarnians - we don’t run off to play games when there’s work to be done.”
Making a noise that was broadly noncommittal but implicitly approving of Hot House’s casually nationalist slur on Vos’ nearest neighbours, Sarristec lifted a hand. “Of course you will. And despite the current shortages, as long as I am in power, I will work for and with the unions to ensure that they have all the energy they need.”
“We’re all behind you, sir. You need anything, Union One Four Three will be right there to help you out.”
“Thank you.” Sarristec made a show of consulting his schedules. “Now, please excuse me. I’d love to talk more but I have a very full day.”
With an effusive babble of thank-yous and apologies for disturbing him, Hot House’s image evaporated.
Sarristec settled back on the divan and returned to the news feed, contemplating whether he knew anyone who might be willing to trade some trivial favour for the services of a construction crew or two.
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Central Compound
Bn’rite Encampment
Anska
In spite of muscles that ached from fatigue, First Kor moved restlessly through the compound, his long, loping strides kicking up small clouds of dark green dust. The first time he had seen the mining site, the prevalence of that ugly colour, so like dried blood, had evoked equally ugly images of death and defeat. Time had only justified that unreasoning, instinctual response.
He had witnessed the battle from the fringes, allowing First Kirvi to lead the charge. She, the more aggressive of the two, had been the better choice. And to her credit, she had cut a swathe through the Machines’ ranks, her forces bringing many of them down before eventually falling to their overwhelming air power. Ultimately though, the attack had to be considered a failure. Too many of the Machines remained operational and, if the scouts spoke truly, many of those who had been felled were being rapidly repaired.
It was only a matter of time before the reprisals began.
Kor’s front nostril flared as he rounded the corner of an anti-aircraft battery and caught the distinct scent of fused metal. Arcs of light sporadically illuminated the brooding shape that lurked behind the camp’s control tower, making monsters out of the labouring technicians’ shadows. The geothermal siphon was but a few short spans from being finished and once it was, they would have the power to raise a deflection field around the entire hillside, barricading themselves in against the Machines’ onslaught.
Those few short spans might as well have been an eternity. Of the twenty heavy sects the Bn’rite had landed, Kor had three left at his disposal, along with the fragmentary remains of two more. His anti-aircraft guns would undoubtedly deter the kind of bombing raid that had destroyed Kirvi but they would be little use if the enemy got in close - and Kor did not believe for a moment it could not. He had seen the weird, shifting, bipedal things weather even point-blank tank fire, and they were ungodly fast. Nothing that large and unbalanced should be able to move so nimbly and yet they did, dancing around the lumbering heavy artillery, on legs one moment, on wheels the next.
Involuntarily, Kor’s upper shoulders slid inwards. He quickly coughed and rubbed at them, disguising the fear reflex as a reaction to the abominable chill that dusk always brought.
A Second hailed him, joining his left hands in a salute. “We’ve caught another one, First.”
Tossing his head in acknowledgement, grateful for the distraction, Kor demanded details.
It was a familiar story. They had been rooting out the infiltrators since the Machines had made their aerial sortie of the encampment. Rocks that mysteriously appeared near vital equipment. Small, scuttling things that registered on the energy detectors. Cable-like worms that burrowed down into the mine shafts. This instance was no different from the dozen previous to it. A rock had been caught shifting into the form of a small, six-legged creature. It had tried to slip into the control tower, only to be cornered and neutralised by observant sentries.
Kor told the Second to commend the soldiers in question and ordered the remains transferred to a laboratory in one of the other compounds. With all available science personnel working on the siphon, there would be no one to dissect the blackened tangles of gears and wires. Detailed studies of their foe’s spies would have to wait.
A rattling cheer from the technicians drew Kor’s attention and he felt a surge of hope as he saw that one of the three heat exchange vanes had been activated. The siphon’s great cylindrical body emitted a series of low moans as the machinery inside began to turn. Dismissing the Second, Kor loped across to where the chief engineer stood haranguing her aides.
“Three spans,” Pavra announced in answer to the First’s unasked question, “Though there’s a good chance installing the next two vanes with it powered up will tear the whole thing apart. And we’re going to lose more workers. I can tell you that for nothing.”
“Do you think we have a choice?”
She glanced sideways at him, hard violet eyes becoming angry vertical slits. “No. But if you’ve got any more troopers with technical training, we need them here.”
“They’re all already here,” he assured her, “Or they’re in the medical house, as good as dead.”
The chief engineer snorted and, without asking permission to leave, stormed off to supervise the installation of the next vane.
Crossing his arms, Kor looked up at the siphon, recalling how he had watched its components being loaded aboard the deep-space cruiser before lift-off from the homeworld. He had marvelled at their size and intricacy, and had planned for the siphon’s immediate construction on arrival, to strengthen what he already considered a very strong defensive position. The lethally agile aircraft that had forced the cruiser down a good way shy of its intended landing site had disabused him of the notion that securing the Bn’rite foothold would be so simple a matter. But it had not been until he had watched seventeen heavy sects torn apart by a relative handful of machine creatures that it had occurred to him it might be impossible.
With their shifting bodies and expertly camouflaged bases, the Machines seemed to have stepped out of the nightmare stories of Kor’s childhood: great metal ogres burrowing up from the ground to feast upon the unworthy. Surely someone must have built them. Yet in all their engagements with them, no evidence of any pilot or controller had been found. And the way they moved, the strange expressiveness of what must surely be their faces…
Kor spun on his hindmost heel and propelled himself towards the control tower. He could not afford to brood in front of his already demoralised forces. There were strategies to refine, tank deployments to revise, communications to send to the homeworld - a million trivial tasks to keep him from thoughts better left un-thought. Forcing himself to focus on military minutiae, he began to climb the staircase that led to the upper observation deck. Being able to see first-hand the layout of the position he needed to defend always helped with planning, if only by cutting through the overwhelming mass of data that computer readouts provided -
The compound’s klaxons screamed. Kor froze with two feet on the third storey walkway then bolted the remaining distance into the observation deck, shoving past the sentries to get a clear view down through the foothills. Symbols were flashing across the crystal windows, alerts and tactical data painted in bright blues and greens. Magnified images sprung up next to them, transmissions from perimeter drones whose proximity sensors were going wild.
Kor needed none of it. The observation deck offered clear line of sight right the way across the plains below and he could see with own eyes the clouds of dust billowing up on the horizon, the dark shapes racing ahead of them. And he was sure, even over the howling alarms, that he could hear the roar of alien engines, hungry for vengeance.
The Machines were coming for them.
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