Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.5: Friction
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.5: Friction
Underground Arena
Iacon Periphery
Cybertron
“One shall stand!”
The crowd rose at the announcer’s words, eagerly filling the air with the response. “ONE SHALL FALL!”
They screamed their approval, cheering and banging fists against their armour, their anticipation building like the fury of a storm. The announcer, his part concluded, backed away from the centre of the arena, spreading his arms wide to direct the crowd’s attention to the ground in front of him and the two gaping circular holes that had just appeared in it.
In plumes of smoke and sparks, the gladiators were lifted to the surface, theatrically imprisoned in hissing energy cages. They bellowed, their voices amplified so they could be heard even over the tidal roar of the crowds. Behemoths, they towered over the announcer, their bodies weighed down with layer after layer of armour and mods. Both seemed to have started out as construction mechs. One, the big purple and gold Iaconain, had a crane boom folded over his shoulder and elaborate approximations of hazard markings running up and down his arms. His opponent had a great shovel that curved across his chest, tempered metal bright against black armour coated in swirling cyan patterns. He beat his hands against it, adding the dull thumping to the rising din. A thunder of approval from the Praxians greeted his posturing, matched in kind a moment later by the home audience and their champion’s incensed howl.
On cue, with the audience’s anticipation whipped up to its peak, the cages rippled and broke apart. The announcer transformed and fled and the gladiators flung themselves at one another. It was a simple opening foray, a quick testing strike. The Praxian twisted at the last moment, deftly catching the Iaconain by the forearm and using his own momentum to fling him across the arena. The purple giant slammed into the ground, rolling with the impact and throwing up a cloud of dust. The Praxian supporters hooted appreciatively, but the Iaconian was already back on his feet, charging forward, transforming as he came.
A vehicle only a gun turret away from being a tank hurtled at the black and blue gladiator, crane boom extending like a lance, a wickedly sharp spike sliding out of the end. Responding in kind, the Praxian flipped into bulldozer mode and stood his ground, engine revving hard. The purple tank slammed into him, the spike jabbing viciously into his upper sections. Tracks grinding, he pushed back, resisting the awesome force being exerted against him.
Suddenly the Iaconian shifted and two powerful hands heaved the bulldozer clean off the ground, flipping him and slamming him back down with axel-shattering force. Without so much as a mirco-cycle’s pause, the purple mech jumped high into the air and came crashing down on his opponent’s body like some immense pile-driver. The crowd screamed, the Iaconians drowning out Praxian dismay with thunderous chanting.
“IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR! IM-PAC-TOR!”
Victory, however, was not so quick and not so easy. With much squirming and straining, the black mech managed to free his legs from his vehicle form and kicked out, landing a fearful blow on Impactor’s chest, driving him backwards. In a flash, the Praxian was up and grappling with him, seizing him by the helm and trying to bury him face-first into the arena floor. A new chant echoed out down from the stands, the other end of the amphitheatre rising to cheer.
“RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE! RAM-PAGE!”
Impactor, though, was quick to retake the advantage. He abruptly gave into Rampage’s pressure, dropping, throwing him off balance. He released his grip and lashed out with his feet but the Iaconain was too fast. A purple arm looped around his neck and heaved. With an unpleasant cracking noise, Rampage’s torso bent over backwards.
He responded by throwing his arms out and mashing his fists into the sides of Impactor’s head.
High up in the stands, watching from near the very top of the amphitheatre, Optrion winced. The crunch of bending metal elicited yet more frantic cheers, as did the grappling that followed, the two gladiators twisting in and out of each other’s grip, pounding and pummelling at every opening. There was a rhythm to the fight, a crowd-pleasing ebb and flow, but no grace, no elegance, nothing that really seemed like art. The gladiators were skilled, but brutally so, their blows intended to cause maximum damage, not end the fight quickly. Already they were scattering fragments of armour - and with a screeching wrench, Rampage pulled Impactor’s shoulder guard free in its entirety.
In retaliation, Impactor ripped his opponent’s right arm off at the elbow.
The crowd went wild, wilder still as the Iaconian champion ground the detached limb into its owner’s face. Optrion looked away from the ring and up at the benches, taking in row after row of whooping, hollering mechs. Frenzy and fuel-lust flashed from face to face, all those little pent up frustrations exploding in time to the kicks and punches. Conflict, even experienced vicariously, was a relief for these people, a way of escaping routine for a while and basking in reflected glory.
Visions of corpse-strewn battlefields flickered before Optrion’s optics and he turned away.
“What’s wrong?” a voice demanded from his left, “We’re winning!” Ratchet peered at him with a scowl, diagnostic sensors flickering on. “You’re not going to collapse halfway through a match, are you? Because if you are, you’ll wake up with your crankshaft up your -”
“I’m fine,” Optrion interrupted quickly, “Don’t worry.”
“What’s he got ta worry about?” Ironhide shouted from Optrion’s right, “We came here ta relax, didn’ we?” He broke off to give an audio-bursting hoot as Impactor hurled Rampage the length of the arena floor.
“You call this relaxing?”
“Sure do! HAHA! TAKE THAT YAH PRAXIAN SLAGGER!”
“You don’t,” Ratchet observed after giving a shout of his own.
“I…no, I don’t.” Optrion frowned. “I’m amazed you do.”
“You’re what? Amazed? This is great! This is the one time I can actually enjoy watching mechs being torn to bits! I don’t have to fix them up afterwards! SMASH HIM IN THE -”
“You enjoy seeing mechs being torn apart? You’re a medic!”
Ratchet fixed him with a cool blue stare. “Like I said, I don’t have to fix them. Oh for booting up cold,” he groaned as Optrion’s expression dropped from amazed to appalled, “You do realise it’s all for show, don’t you? Please tell me you know it’s for show, commander.” He put a friendly arm around Optrion’s shoulders, or as near as he could given how much taller the other mech was. “Gladiators are stupidly over modded,” he explained in a voice tailored to a particularly slow-witted protoform, “They have redundancies in their redundancies and backups spilling out their exhaust ports. You could put a sword, a spear, a whole fragging axe through one of those guys and they’d still be able to pull it out and ram it down your superstructure. Losing an arm is nothing! Give it back to ‘em for half a cycle and it’ll just reattach, good as new! It’s not real, commander. The damage is, the fuel is - but everyone’s going to be standing in the morning. That’s why it’s a sport. The only thing that gets broke - AND STAY DOWN, Y’ SON OF A GLITCH! - is the other guy’s pride when you GRIND HIS FACE INTO THE FLOOR! No one dies here, commander.”
“Yah want to see that,” Ironhide put in, “yer don’ look somewhere this public. Now can yah quit yer yappin? Ah’m tryin’ tah watch the fight!”
Realising this was neither the time nor the place for a protracted ethical debate, Optrion let it drop. Down below, Impactor leapt into the air again, landing hard on Rampage’s back and driving his already flattened body even deeper into the ground. Iacon called out its approval and Optrion tried very hard not to think of a hundred real battlefields and of everyone who had ever fallen so that Cybertron could stay on its feet.
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The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron
In his more whimsical moments, Xaaron wondered if anyone had ever thought of selling tickets. After all, Graviitus and Haacano were at least as entertaining as the average no-holds-barred grudge match, if not more so. And while neither had yet committed any acts of grievous violence against the other, it was surely only a matter of time.
Lately, it seemed that the honoured Emirates of Vos and Tarn were determined to turn every Council meeting into a pitched battle. They had even begun to disturb the usually arbitrary seating arrangement, gathering allied states into opposing camps the better to glare at one another across the circle. Xaaron had the strange feeling that he was sitting between two continental plates that were drawing gradually further and further apart.
It was with some trepidation that he contemplated what would happen when they crashed back together.
“That is an outrageous slur!” Haacano, for once, was the one issuing the thundering outrage.
The object of his fury remained unmoved and extremely smug about it. “Is Tarn disputing the treaties on which its own status as an independent state is founded?” Graviitus asked, folding his arms and leaning back, “I have copies here if you want to check the facts -”
“This is a cynical attempt to take advantage of out-dated accords -”
“Hah! So Tarn admits the treaties defining its territory are outdated!”
“We admit nothing of the sort! Later treaties clearly delineate Tarnian territory as agreed by -”
“Those treaties make no mention of the Kahlian Ridge. Tarn has just been assuming all these mega-cycles that it has the right to build there when it has no. Such. Right.”
“That land is ours in all but name! It has been accepted as ours by every other state in the region. Vos is protesting the point simply to further its own agendas - and,” Haacano accused, jabbing a finger at his opponent, “because that area is ideally positioned for use as a fuel-distribution node.”
Graviitus rallied to the challenge magnificently, rising from his seat and drawing himself to his full height. “Tarn,” he boomed, “is moving to expand outside its legal borders by pretending that its annexing of the Kahlian Ridge has already been accepted by its neighbours!”
“WE ARE BUILDING SUPPLY NODES!” Haacano’s bellow echoed through the throne room. After a moment’s deafening silence, he got a hold on himself and continued, “Tarn is working to improve its energy distribution network to the betterment of every state that relies on us for their continued prosperity. We need to build on Kahlian Ridge and we have every right to do so.”
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!”
“Enough! Please, enough!” Traachon held up his hands, optics darting around the circle of councillors. “I move - Iacon moves to end this meeting now and reconvene once…and reconvene later.”
“Nova Cronum seconds,” Xaaron intoned quickly, half expecting Vos and Tarn to shout them down just so they could carry on screaming at each other. They did not. But nor did they go graciously from the chamber. It was embarrassing to watch the two camps rush to be the first to sweep imperiously out. A couple of the Emirates even managed to collide, if only fleetingly. They glared, then strode on, their entourages flowing after them. In under a cycle, the room was practically emptied, leaving only Traachon sitting at the circle, Xaaron standing opposite.
Wearily, the Emirate of Iacon got up and turned to bow to the Prime. Sentinel inclined his head, as if being entirely ignored by the rest of the High Council was of no consequence. Xaaron bowed too and followed Traachon from the hall.
They slipped into step quite naturally, their aides falling back and dispersing until the two were walking alone together. For a while, they continued in silence, then Traachon burst out, “Why does he not intervene?!”
“Who?”
“The Prime of course! That is the third time Haacano and Graviitus have dragged us into open squabbling! I swear, I truly believed they were about to physically assault one another this time!”
“An interesting thought,” Xaaron observed, “Haacano naturally favours his tank form, which one would think would put him at a disadvantage against a Vosian, but spacious though it is, I’m not sure the council chamber is really big enough to allow a jet to manoeuvre properly…”
Traachon shot him a look of utter astonishment. “How can you joke about this?”
“Because loud and infuriating as our erstwhile colleagues are, they are not the real problem.”
“Oh…yes…I suppose you are correct.”
The Emirate of Iacon stared gloomily at the ceiling, then added, “If only the Prime would intervene…”
“The Prime will not.” The reply came as a flat statement. “This is a dispute between two cities in one region. It is not a matter of planetary scope or a question of distributing the defence forces. Therefore, it is not his place to interfere.”
“You cannot possibly believe that!”
“No,” Xaaron agreed, “But I suspect that he does.”
Traachon shook his head sadly, not bothering to try to argue the point. “Where is this going to end, Xaaron?”
The golden mech stopped and clasped his hands behind his back. Traachon walked on a few paces before realising and turning back. “Xaaron?”
“I do not know,” the other Emirate answered eventually. He paused, then went on, “The problem is, Vos will never admit or accept that Tarn is not a threat to them, and Tarn will never agree to cease the activities that Vos sees as threatening. I for one cannot say I blame them. Tarn, I mean. But I am unfortunately prejudiced by having experienced first-hand what it was like there before Viilon’s logical revolution.” He held up a hand before Traachon could protest. “No, I do not agree with the way he has gone about things. But while he is no diplomat, he has done that commendable thing of following through on his beliefs and staying true to his principles. Which is, of course, extremely unfortunate. Both governments believe they are in the right and there is not one thing we can say that will convince them otherwise. The best we can hope for is to convince them that…overt action would be too costly.”
“And if we cannot?” Traachon asked hesitantly, clearly fearing the answer that he must surely have worked out for himself.
Again, Xaaron paused before answering. “In whole or in part, Tarn and Vos supply energy to twenty-seven cities,” he said, staring unseeingly at the intricate statuary that decorated the hallway’s walls, “That means around thirty percent of Cybertron’s fuel reserves is passing through their hands at any one time. As individual distribution hubs, only Iacon and Ankmor can match them. They’re also the biggest sources of trade in the Qosho region. Almost half of the traffic passing through the Tagan Heights is bound for, or coming from Vos or Tarn. And they operate or part-fund a considerable number of spacecraft and off-world bases - not just mining camps but scientific units and deep-range outposts. In fact, discounting commercial freighters, I would say each of them has a bigger presence in space than almost anyone else short of the Defence Directorate. If all this…aggravation starts going beyond empty threats and legal quibbling…” Xaaron spread his arms wide. “The disruption to fuel distribution alone would probably be enough to drive Simfur and Altihex into the ground. Tagan wouldn’t be able to cope with the loss of commerce. At least three important deep-space exploration programmes would collapse. And that is without going into the consequences of two of the most heavily armed states on Cybertron engaging in open hostilities, which would be…well…”
“Disastrous,” Traachon completed for him, a tremor in his voice. “The side-effects, the, ah, collateral damage…” A note of resolve replaced the tremor. “Xaaron, we must stop this now. Before it goes any further. We must stop this.”
“We must. How?”
“I…ah…we should…” He trailed off again, before finishing lamely, “I do not know…”
“No my friend,” Xaaron said with a sad smile. He began walking away up the corridor. “Neither do I. But I am trying to work it out as quickly as I can.”
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Energon Distribution Plant #4
Mahlex Industrial Sector
Tarn
Cybertron
Scientifically speaking, destruction is easy. A simple chemical reaction is enough to maim, a basic understanding of physical laws enough to kill. At their heart, even the most complex of destructive devices generally operates on very simple principles.
The black tube sitting beneath transverse pump five was an astonishingly complex device. If by some miracle another culture on a less advanced world had been able to decipher the technology it contained, they would have been catapulted from stone-age to spaceflight in the span of a few orbits of their sun. In a chamber stuffed with sensors and cameras and recorders, it went unnoticed, unseen, unrecorded: to all intents and purposes, it was invisible. In a rudimentary sort of way, it was aware of its invisibility and of the liquid light surging and swirling through the pipes that surrounded it. It watched. It waited. It counted.
At some point in the night, the right parameters were met. The tube split along its length, unfolding a little, certain delicate mechanisms drawing back, letting particular elements combine within its depths. There was a flash, a brilliant shard of star-fire momentarily dashing everything else into insignificance.
The pipes melted in an instant. The fuel met the air, met the fire the tube had released. And ignited.
It is a basic physical law that if a great force is contained within a sealed chamber, then that chamber will not stay sealed for long. On this simple principle the tube’s operation had been designed and it was this simple principle that reduced the pumping station to a cloud of debris. The flames bit into the sky with a victorious roar, leaping from building to building, the blazing energon falling as burning rain, the fire diving into the pipelines and cracking them like dry logs. Another pumping station erupted. Then a third. Within two cycles, half the Mahlex district was ablaze, the shrieking of tortured metal reverberating over and over again until it merged into a weird, frenzied applause.
And, as the city’s very fabric cheered its destruction, the inferno danced higher still.
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