Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.6: Sparks in the Tinder Box
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.6: Sparks in the Tinder Box
Mahlex Industrial Sector
Tarn
Cybertron
The fires raged throughout the night and well into the morning. Tarn’s emergency teams were stretched to breaking point, even with a dozen Civic Guard rapid response units backing them up. Efforts to contain the blaze were constantly thwarted as its snaking tendrils found new pockets of fuel on which to gorge. Even with the feed lines shut off, there was enough energon left in the district to keep the flames strong for hecta-cycles.
And when the fire-fighters finally won through, there was nothing left worth saving.
The Mahlex Sector had been utterly destroyed. Right down to the sub-strata, all that was left were twisted, blackened ruins, only the skeletal shells of buildings betraying the district’s former regimented structure. Over a hundred mechs had died there. Even with heavy automation, the pumping stations had still needed overseers, technicians, guards - a dozen functions, minor and major, that no dumb machine could be trusted with.
They had stayed at their posts to the end. The end had come too quickly for them to have done anything else. The few bodies that had been recovered were melted beyond any chance of recovery, their superstructures destroyed right down to the micro-technological level.
As soon as the area was cool enough, the investigators moved in. The Civic Guard was quick to establish its authority over and above that of the Tarnian police. The explosion had destroyed an important part of the regional fuel distribution network: the repercussions would extend far beyond Tarn’s borders. Much to the chagrin of his security officials, Governor Viilon accepted this without complaint.
He made no other official statements on the matter. He made no statements on the matter at all. Instead, he simply arrived at the disaster zone with his bodyguards and stood silently, watching a score of white mechs pick over the debris.
If he felt anything at seeing the destruction that had been wrought against the city he had built, his immobile faceplate hid it completely.
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Vos
Cybertron
“You’ve heard the good news?”
Vvnet rose parallel to Sarristec’s flight path, dragging his attention from the reams of analyses and predictions he had to process. He dipped his wings in dismissive salute, not missing the feme’s barely concealed hostility but choosing to ignore it. “Some time ago,” he confirmed, more than happy to point out the superior speed of his information gatherers, “It will no doubt be all over the city by now.”
“I’m sure.” Vvnet’s tails twitched. “I’m surprised the Tarnians aren’t trying harder to cover it up.”
“It’s hard to cover up having a major part of your infrastructure melted into slag,” Sarristec pointed out loftily, “Besides, I imagine there are more than a few mechs missing their rations this morning.”
“No doubt you’ve already promised to give them new, better rations at only three times the cost of the missing ones.”
“Of course not.” Sarristec resisted for a moment or two, then added, “We’ll let them miss another fuelling session first.”
Vvnet flicked onto a slightly higher flight path, as if distancing herself from something toxic. Her disdain amused Sarristec somewhat. Some people could not bear to watch another’s successes, even when those successes were to their benefit too. He stretched his fins and angled towards the Fuel Ministry tower. “I suggested to Lord Taynset that I deliver a suitable statement for the mid-day newscasts,” he mentioned offhandedly, “To express our collective sympathy for the Tarnian losses and to offer them any support we can in their hour of need…relieving them of the burden of the contracts they will no longer be able to fulfil, for example. My lord assured me that I would have access to all the major feeds for a full fifteen cycles. He was most impressed with my initiative.”
The trade minister bristled, her thrusters flaring. “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing,” she grated, clearly implying the exact opposite, “Talking is what you do best, after all.”
Sarristec chuckled contentedly, making sure to broadcast his amusement. “If it wasn’t, I’d have to rely on my looks alone and then I would only be half as effective as I am.”
And he banked sharply, sweeping deftly into the tower’s landing hall. He snapped on to his legs and strode purposefully onwards. Bronze secretaries rushed to his side, beaming him reports in turn. Tarn had still not issued any statement. The Civic Guard were not responding to questions. The local markets were in chaos, with several major fuel distributors scrambling to cover their losses. Simfur was sending an envoy straight to Vos to negotiate new agreements.
Sarristec fixed on that for a moment. It was no secret that the Simfur oligarchy was hovering on the brink of self-destruction. Even a short interruption to the populace’s energy supplies might be enough to bring about a complete collapse of the government’s authority, to the point where even their famously heavy-handed enforcers would be unable to stem the tide of public violence. The obliteration of such an ugly slag-heap would be a blessing for anyone with an aesthetic sense but Sarristec supposed he could not allow that to bias the negotiations. After all, with Simfur entirely under Vos’ influence, that would be one more direction in which Tarn would be unable to extend its grip on the region.
A flunky hurried up, darting in as the corridor rearranged itself to give Sarristec a more direct route to his chambers. “The outline for your speech to the newsfeeds, my lord,” the diminutive hexe announced, “Direct from Lord Taynset’s office.”
Sarristec snatched the files from the ether and scanned them quickly. Then relaxed, happy to see that Taynset’s thinking was in accordance with his own. A few small amendments to the statement he had been composing since he first heard about the explosion and he would be set for the broadcast. Barring the necessary polishing and chromo adjustments, naturally. To the rest of the world, he would be the embodiment of Vos and it would be unforgivable if that body were not seen to be absolutely perfect.
Dismissing the hexe, he turned his thoughts inwards and began planning the best posture and intonation for delivering his people’s gravest regrets at Tarn’s loss.
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Sealed Briefing Chamber
Defence Directorate Headquarters
Iacon
Cybertron
The scanners closed around Megatron, slithering across his frame, exploring him from head to foot. He tensed at the invasion, forcing himself to stay still under the scrutiny. At length, the probes retracted and the doors cycled open, allowing him entry to the conference room. Pausing only long enough to close the protective baffles on his armour, he stepped inside.
The chamber was alive with information, both visual and ethereal. Holograms circled overhead, the whole Qosho region rendered in minute detail. Tarn had prominence and the devastated industrial sector stood out as a gaping hole in the cityscape. Below, various Defence Directorate officers stood clustered in small groups, talking in low voices or on secure channels. At the far end, Supreme Commander Grandus held court, advisors and analysts orbiting his massive form, in the case of one avir, quite literally. Two more Supreme Commanders - Deftwing and Viktoleo - stood off to the side, the bulky flyer muttering darkly to the sleek tank as they poured over a complex web of movement information. And in the centre of the room, arms folded, face grim, was Deca Magnus.
Megatron had never been sure what to make of the Magnus. Physically imposing, the mech was by all accounts a formidable warrior, known to have held his own in the midst of riots and anarchist attacks. And yet he had never committed himself to a true battlefield. Even his stature was a sham. The red and blue armour made him taller even than Megatron but it was not really part of him. It was not unknown for a Magnus to fuse completely with the ceremonial trappings of the rank but Deca had never done so, preferring it seemed to shelter his original, weaker form rather than fully embrace the added strength.
It was hard to truly respect someone who treated might as something to be switched on and off at will.
“Field Commander,” Grandus boomed, gesturing him closer with one mighty pincer, “Good. We can begin.” The assembled soldiers moved quickly into a circle, the Supreme Commanders and the Magnus gathering together, the senior analysts and strategists fanning out before them. Megatron took his place directly opposite Grandus. The holograms reformed within the centre of the room, Tarn rendering afresh, the disaster zone bristling with labels and scan results.
“You all know what happened. I do not intend to go over details you have all already assimilated.” Grandus paused, waving new information on to the display. “What is important now is to minimise the fallout.”
The Magnus stepped forward and waved the epicentre into sharper focus. “The explosion appears to have been caused by a flash-point device located within one of the main pumping halls. Security feeds show it clearly in the moments immediately following detonation. Prior to that, the device did not register at all. The terrorists responsible most likely had inside help, probably from Tarnian security personnel. Investigations are on-going but there are already indications that some of the facility guards cannot be accounted for in the remains.”
“Excuse me,” one of the strategists interrupted, her tail arching, “but has there been some development I’m not aware of? Surely it’s too early to assume that this is the work of terrorists.”
A murmur of agreement ran around the assembly. Though he remained silent, Megatron could not help but note that it was an exceptionally skilled amateur who managed to plant a bomb in one of the most heavily guarded places on the planet without being detected.
Deca did not look happy. “The investigation is on-going,” he repeated slowly, “however, we are inclined to the view that pointing the blame at any…official party would be highly inappropriate. The last thing anyone needs right now is for accusations to start flying. Our working hypothesis therefore is that this was the work of an anarchist or criminal cell intent on causing wide scale destruction in an effort to further extremist agendas.”
So that was how it was to be. Megatron glanced at the hologram He imaged what it must have been like for those caught in the firestorm. For them, at least, the question of who had caused their deaths did not matter. And given that, did it really matter at all who was found guilty? Justice for the dead was nothing compared to the safety of the living.
Noticeably avoiding several accusatory looks from his audience, the Magnus continued, “Any terrorists currently or previously operating in the Qosho region must be located and detained. This will obviously be a large-scale operation and given the chaos that’s going to break out once the fuel shortages kick in, Civic Guard resources are likely to be stretched too thin to handle it properly. This being so, planetary defence forces will be deployed as well.”
Deftwing took over, red optical strip flashing as he spoke. “Two battalions will be dispatched to the Qosho region immediately. They will undertake the capture of any anarchist our intelligence operatives can identify. They will be coordinated by Civic Guard commanders but will be given operational authority during missions. We anticipate that at least some of the cells will be heavily armed and reasonably skilled in combat. It’s possible they’ll be expecting a response, so the emphasis here will be on striking as fast as possible.”
The commander three mechs to the Magnus’ left raised a hand. Megatron recognised him as the leader of one of the Homeworld Battalions. “My troops are being assigned, I take it?”
“Yours and Commander Megatron’s,” Deftwing agreed.
For a moment, there was silence save for the few hurried communications darting between some of the junior officers. Megatron broke it with a question. “What’s the other reason?”
Viktoleo frowned at him. “Your pardon, Field Commander?”
“You’re sending more troops than are usually sent to defend off-world mines from alien aggressors to deal with a few scattered terrorist groups,” Megatron stated flatly, “What’s the other reason we’re being deployed?”
“We cannot deploy peacekeepers before the peace has been threatened,” Grandus thundered, “But having defence forces ready to fulfil that capacity should it be required is not an unreasonable precaution. This cannot be your official function. Not without a Council edict permitting action against sovereign states. But that does not mean we should not prepare for the worst.”
The Magnus stepped forward again. “This situation cannot be allowed to get out of hand,” he insisted, banging a fist into an open palm. “We must do everything and anything we can to ensure that the status quo is restored as quickly as possible. A few hundred Defence Directorate troops should make any aggressor state think twice before attempting to stir up hostilities. And seizing every damned anarchist we can lay our hands on should show very clearly that we will not stand idly by and let honest citizens come to harm.”
Honest citizens. Yes. The honest citizens that each government needed to impress and please if they wanted to stay in power. The honest citizens with the money and influence that decided whether you kept your luxury office and high-grade fuel supplies or got kicked out on to the street and forced to haul cargo and maintain buildings with the common menials. The honest citizens who would sell weapons to any anarchist willing to pay if they thought it would net them a profit or undermine their competitors. Megatron wondered how many ‘honest citizens’ really gave a flying glitch about the death toll, or the status quo that had been disrupted. As long as they got what they wanted - and so many would get what they wanted, with Tarn reeling from the blow - what did it matter if hostilities were stirred up? What would it matter if a dozen anarchists were rounded up and shot?
Ravage’s words about battlefields suddenly came back to him and, for an instant, he imagined being able to move openly into the region and stand as a wall between Vos and Tarn, meeting any violence in kind. Perhaps even going further than that.
He pushed the thought aside. It would not happen, could not happen, so there was no point dwelling on it. Still. Tarn and Vos were military powers in their own right and were hardly likely to be intimidated by forces that did not have the authority to actually stand in their way. In such a situation, covert manoeuvres were a poor substitute for definite action. Indecisiveness, a lack of clear authority, the failure to openly assert your intentions - those were not the weapons by which peace was maintained. Especially not in the face of the deep-rooted suspicion that any misfortune must be caused by those who lurked just over the border.
Megatron had been proto-formed in Tarn. His first alternate form had been scanned from one of the ancient hulks raised on a podium at the heart of the manufacturing district while the walls around him shook and echoed to the sound of heavy munitions. He had lived through the frantic struggle that had marred the last days of the old regime and through the calculated viciousness of Viilon’s Logical Revolution. He had grown up hauling ore with the rest of labour-grades and had shared in their angers and prejudices. He knew all too well that blaming Vosians was the first impulse of any Tarnian who had come to harm. Mega-cycles of technocracy had not changed that. It was unlikely they ever would.
As the briefing moved on to specifics and logistics, Megatron examined the Magnus coolly. Status quo, Deca had said. Did he really know what that meant for those cities? Did he understand? Did Grandus? Did any of them?
And how could they be trusted to make the right decisions if they did not?
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Central Processing Hub
Tarn
Cybertron
Viilon stood alone in the heart of his city, single eye contracted to a pinhole of dazzling yellow light. His thoughts raced from his body. They darted and dived through networks and control systems and information poured into his mind, the day-to-day lives of a hundred thousand citizens intersecting with his consciousness. Individual productivity figures and working patterns locked together one by one, every level of Tarnian society laid bare to its master’s scrutiny.
The loss of Mahlex had distorted the equations. In place of energon flow data were the Civic Guard’s investigation reports, static in the midst of the ever changing computer models. Security recordings unfolded under the findings, comparison algorithms spitting out reams of contradictions and omissions. New models grew from the opposing foundations, probable scenarios playing out side by side, merging and diverging as they evolved.
Viilon saw it all and incorporated it into his worldview, altering and updating his assumptions, reconsidering his options. Old possibilities collapsed and fresh ones took their place. The logic of yesterday gave way to the logic of tomorrow. The calculations shuddered on to new tracks.
His optic spiralled wide. The Civic Guard’s findings were not enough. He could not compute the correct course of action based on such limited and skewed inputs. Too many variables remained too poorly defined. More information was needed. A new perspective was required.
“Connect me to the Kalis municipal communications network,” he ordered, reeling his consciousness back into his body, “Locate and contact: Ident six-five-six-nineteen-tryptic-prima. Reference: commercial investigator, Masz Mech Adep Lyivas Keldon; sub-reference: Nightbeat.”
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