Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.8: Fire-fighting
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.8: Fire-fighting
Underground Bunker
Qosho Region
Cybertron
The rumbler charge shattered the bunker’s roof in two-point-oh-four micro-cycles. The shockwave drove the resulting dust down into the chamber below, filling it with a thick metallic fog that smothered everything in an instant. Three anarchists gave themselves away at once by crying out and were tagged with disruptor claws. They collapsed in agony, twisting and morphing uncontrollably as the claws overrode their primary transformation relays.
Optrion’s combat subroutines were picking out fresh targets before his feet touched the floor, the variation of the fog's the content and density and the hum of burning energon providing more than enough data to map the room and everyone in it. Already thrown by the explosion and with their less sophisticated sensory systems struggling to adjust to the abrupt environmental shift, the terrorists were overwhelmed in moments. Those who managed to fire back did so with little accuracy and only scored hits by virtue of the confined space, and even then, military grade armour was more than a match for their limited arsenal.
The egress point secure, Optrion led the way deeper into the base, pausing at the first junction to allow Ironhide to scout ahead. A rocket burst against the red mech’s reinforced shoulders, shrapnel ricocheting across the passageway. While his lieutenant’s vision cleared, Optrion darted into the open and fired twice past his knee. The defender gave a short, sharp yell as the unexpected angle allowed the suppressor rounds to enter his body through his hip joint. A blaze of electricity and he crashed to the ground, smouldering and unconscious.
The anarchists’ staging post must have been created using malfunctioning shaper packages, or else they had deliberately avoided neat geometric tunnels. The passageways weaved haphazardly and awkwardly, with too many twists and blind-alleys for vehicular travel to be useful. The squad sent sensor drones whizzing ahead but the actual fighting was stop-and-start, a long sequence of ducking round and quick bursts of fire as they steadily rooted anarchists, one at a time from their hiding places. Larger chambers were filled with smoke and swept with suppressor fire, the exact make-up of the smog constantly altered to prevent the enemy from adapting to it.
Every so often, the anarchists would bring out heavier weapons, or grenades, perhaps hoping that a larger blast radius would make up for their impaired accuracy. At one point, they even detonated ramshackle bombs in the roof, trying no doubt to block the squad’s advance. Trailbreaker and Beachhead overlapped their forcefields, holding the walls up with a tunnel of silver light while two more troopers ran forward and deployed bracer staves, yellow rods that expanded and forked, forming a toughened framework to keep the passageway open.
With troops closing on them from multiple entry points, the remaining terrorists were driven to the centre of the complex, away from the easy escape routes. Warnings flashed across Optrion’s consciousness as energy emissions from that rapidly diminishing ‘safe’ region spiked drastically. A bass tone set the floor vibrating - the sound of some drastic counter-measure being readied.
Optrion signalled four of his heavy troopers to accelerate past the scouts and charge the remaining barriers. He took the fifth access route himself, keeping up a steady stream of fire against anyone and anything that stood in way. With Ironhide hot on his heels, he burst into an irregularly shaped room filled with packing containers and frightened anarchists. Several floor panels had been hastily thrown aside, no doubt giving access to a last-ditch escape tunnel.
The sound was coming from a large cylinder that stood off to one side, an ugly grey device pulsing with angry red light. Optrion’s weapons catalogues identified it immediately as a mark seven tri-phasic mining charge, designed to blast mountains into conveniently sized pebbles for swift processing. He shot a liquid-core slug straight through the control node and the lights snapped off, safeties kicking in even before the anti-conductive gel had finished hardening inside the casing.
In the time it took the mining charge to shut down, Geeniex, Thunderfoot, Icepick and Flak had wiped out the anarchists with a hail of low-yield fire. The last of them tumbled into the escape tunnel with a despairing scream. Diving past Optrion, Ironhide leapt after the falling mech, vanishing completely from view. The sharp retort of gunfire echoed up, a mix of controlled shots and wild firing, then silence.
“All cleah!”
Even though he knew the likelihood of Ironhide coming out worse in the engagement was low, Optrion still felt relieved at hearing his voice. He signalled an acknowledgement then took stock of the situation. The base had been secured, with twenty three mechs subdued and accounted for. No fatalities, seven stasis-locks, sixteen forced shut-downs. No casualties on the squad either, with only minor injuries. The captured material included large stockpile of small and medium arms, plus a few large explosive devices, several illegal modification units and a handful of auto-scouts in various stages of retrofitting. The communications experts were already hacking into the anarchists’ data recorders - which had been automatically scrambled but might still contain retrievable data - and into the anarchists themselves, who had had no time to blast their own processors to gibberish.
Across the Qosho region, three dozen similar raids were meeting with similar success. A steady stream of information over the command net showed terrorists and fanatics falling like hexnuts before a combination of soldiers and Civic Guard special operations teams. So far, things had gone remarkably well. There were two pitched fire fights in progress, however, one near Tagan, another in the vicinity of Simfur, where Megatron himself was leading the assault on a suspected Chaos-worshiper cult.
“This one’s got gladiator markings,” Icepick called out, heaving a stocky grey cyol from away from one of the munitions crates. “Kalis Red, ten seasons ago.”
“An’ this one’s got ah inbuilt energo-sword,” Flak called back, flipping another downed mech onto his back. The soldier knelt down and shook the offending arm. “Looks pretty badly made though.”
“There’s more crates an’ stuff down there,” Ironhide reported, heaving himself out of the escape tunnel, “All loaded on a truck ready ta send off ta the west. Tunnel curves, but not by much.”
“Get a tracer down there,” Optrion ordered. He turned to the troopers examining the weapons cache, intending to ask for an update on their progress. Before he could, the battalion command channel screamed for his attention.
“Lieutenant Commander Optrion.” Ravage’s voice cut in without preamble, security codes weaving around the communication. “Rendezvous with squads three and seven and proceed immediately to Commander Megatron’s location.”
“We are still processing targets two and seven,” Optrion protested, even as he relayed the order to his troops.
“Leave the rest for the White and Blues. You're needed here. We have encountered some…unexpected resistance.”
An image flashed across the network, presumably recorded from whatever vantage point Ravage was concealed in. Megatron’s forces were pouring fire into a large crater that had been blasted into one of Simfur’s ground expressways. A ragtag bunch of heavily armoured mechs and quads were swarming out of the crater, wielding everything from plasma rifles to a mining laser. At first, Optrion could not see why Megatron should need to call for assistance.
Then something massive surged out of the smoke and seized one of the troopers in its jaws.
Black and orange, with two great arms and a vicious streamlined head, it raced forward on four huge spiked wheels, moving with incredible speed for something that looked so unwieldy.
“Looks like some sort of over-modding experiment gone wrong,” Ravage commented dryly, “Or perhaps this is gone right, if you’re a chaos-worshipper.” Biting the trooper in its mouth clean through, the monster knocked three more aside with frenzied blows and roared in animalistic fury, energy bolts splashing off its scaled armour like so much water. “Either way, we are having some difficulty finding the off-switch.”
His troops falling in behind him, Optrion headed for the exit. “We’re on our way.”
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Civic Guard Base
Tagan
Cybertron
There was a large chunk of building sticking out of Diatrion’s arm. He regarded it dispassionately, pondering the force with which the shard of metal must have been thrown to lodge quite so deeply in his armour. The sheer fury necessary to rip a girder apart and then fling the bits hard enough that they stuck fast in the hapless glitches trying to calm everything down was impressive, even granting that riots were traditionally full of very angry people. If nothing else, it spoke volumes about the populace’s satisfaction at being told that their fuel rations were being cut yet again.
Having finally reattached Talainat’s lower leg - a process complicated by the need to drain a copious amount of liquid from it, the result of a particularly high-spirited rioter trying to fling the limb to the other side of the harbour - the medic bustled over to hum and ah over Diatrion’s arm. After what seemed like an unnecessary amount of prodding and poking, she extended her micro-fingers, got a tight grip on the shard and pulled hard. Diatrion winced in pain as the metal scraped free.
The medic tossed it into a bowl, then briefly jabbed a matter agitator into the wound. “You’ll do,” she told him curtly, and moved on to the next injured guardsmech.
“Thank you,” he called after her, but she was already working to replace a shredded tyre.
He got up and walked to the door, surveying the damage as he went. Maybe thirty guardsmechs with minor injuries, and blessedly, minor injuries only. By some minor miracle, the crowds had been dispersed without a shot being fired, suppressor or otherwise. No one was happy about the property damage, true, but broken buildings were easy to fix. Broken people - not so much.
Speaking of which, he had information to cross-reference.
With riots and the threat of more, not to mention a full-scale anti-terrorist operation going on around them, Diatrion had become increasingly side-tracked from the Konntryn case. There were still investigators working on it, of course, and the amount of information he had to work with was steadily increasingly, but he personally had not been able to turn his full attention to it for a couple of days. The worst thing was that he could not argue with being put on riot duty. His line was known for their inherent strength and durability and he had scored highly in the combat tests at the Academy. It made sense. It was logical. And it was incredibly frustrating. Konntryn’s murder was his case. Not seeing it through to the end or, worse, permitting it to go unsolved, whatever the extenuating circumstances, would be his failure.
This thought followed him through the corridors. He made himself to go to the energon dispensary, hating the added distraction but knowing full well that he would be no good to anyone if he did not maintain his fuel levels. The size of the ration gave him pause and he felt momentarily guilty about taking the optimum amount having recently been face to face with those forced to exist on far less. He forced his mind quickly back to the case. Worrying about things beyond his control was a waste of precious time and even more precious energy.
He found the door to his office sealed, as he had left it, and beamed the appropriate codes to unlock it. The door promptly slid aside and he automatically stepped inside, signalling the lights. It was only after he had done so that he registered that the lights were already on and that there was a junior investigator standing on the communication-dais, flicking through his files.
Diatrion’s first reaction was to ask what it was the other mech was looking for. After all, he had been unavailable for some time and was not about to discipline someone who was doing their best to carry on cases in his absence. Then his processors caught up with his sensors and he registered both the oddity of the seal being put back on the door and the investigator’s energy signature.
“What are you doing here?”
The junior investigator spun around, grinned and spread his arms. “Waiting for you!” He brushed lightly at his chest plate. “Sorry about the false-colours. I needed to be sure I didn't get shot by accident.” His livery rippled and shifted, white to blue, blue to yellow, the Civic Guard insignias vanishing completely.
“I wouldn’t have shot you whatever you looked like,” Diatrion stated flatly.
“No, but then you’re a ‘cautious, reliable officer who rarely jumps into a situation before he has taken a good look at it first.’ Or that's what your files say. Incidentally, you're really overdue a raise, especially if you keep pulling all those double shifts…what am I doing. Not who. You know who I am.”
Diatrion pulled up the information that had been flagged the moment he had recorded the other mech’s signature. “Maszadep, formerly Junior Investigator with the Uraya division. Now a commercial investigator operating out of Kalis.”
“I prefer Nightbeat, and you left out the part about me being one of the highest rated mechs in my profession.”
“I’m not in the habit of flattering people who fabricate evidence.”
“I did not fabricate it!” Nightbeat sounded genuinely offended. “I extrapolated from the existing evidence and reconstructed the evidence that had been destroyed.”
“Totally exceeding the statutory limits on reconstructive procedures.” Diatrion placed himself calmly between Nightbeat and the door.
“Some would argue that those limits are unnecessarily stringent and are, in fact, intended to benefit those who don’t like the idea of functional laws.”
“I am not going to start debating legal failings with a civilian,” Diatrion stated flatly, “I’ll ask you again: what are you doing here?”
Nightbeat leant his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly. “I want to talk to you about the late, possibly lamented Konntryn.”
“There is absolutely no reason I should discuss that with you.”
The blue mech looked imploring. “I’m a fellow seeker of truth, a fellow sentinel against injustice!”
“You resigned.”
“Before they could throw me out! Wait -” He broke off, apparently in confusion. “Sorry, that usually happens the other way round. Anyway, the reason is that I can help. Obviously. I mean, the full force of the Magnus’ Office at your back and how far have you got? He was in the Dead End to deliver something that may have come from one of his companies to someone who slagged him to stop anyone learning what the something was. Legal history in the making.”
Diatrion took a step forward. He was much taller than Nightbeat and nearly twice as broad. He knew from the records that the commercial investigator was a competent hand-to-hand fighter but nothing spectacular. It would be a simple matter to subdue him and drag him to the cells - after charging him with illicit entry and hacking into official systems -
“Ok, ok!” Nightbeat waved his hands frantically. “You wouldn’t believe I’m acting for Konntryn’s clan, would you? No. Of course not. They don’t really care he’s dead, they just want to know what they can get out of it - oh, and you can stop looking at me like that, I am actually officially signed in at the front desk as a visitor. They gave me a tag and everything - see? I just got bored and ‘lost’ and you really should instigate better security around here. I mean, I didn’t actually realise it was locked until I was inside -”
Diatrion took another step forward.
“I’m working for Governor Viilon!” Nightbeat stopped, making sure the guardsmech wasn’t going to advance any further before continuing. “He wants me to find out who blew up his processing plant.”
“What has that got to do with my case?” Diatrion demanded, compiling at least seven possible answers to his own question, none of which were supported by any evidence in his possession.
“You’ll like this.” Rebooting the holo-display, Nightbeat brought up the scans of Konntryn’s corpse. “You see, turns out there’s one single solitary technician who wasn’t blown to Primus in the Mahlex explosion when he really should have been. Once I’d got everything I could from the corpse - he’s dead, by the way - I started running some comparisons, looking to see if I could match the cause with anything local. Eventually your little mystery came up and, well…”
He projected another hologram, one not from the case file. A second body materialised beside Konntryn, a figure of medium size and neutral colours who would have been completely unremarkable if they hadn’t been suffering from enough impact damage to destroy almost every identifying feature.
Side by side, the similarities between the corpses were painfully obvious.
“Viilon’s people do excellent autopsies,” Nightbeat explained, flicking readouts into the air, “And luckily, so do yours. I ran the comparison. The patterns are as identical as anything that’s caused by prolonged blunt trauma could ever hope to be.”
With a slow, measured tread, Diatrion walked around the holograms, taking note of every last detail. He too ran the comparison of the autopsy reports, Nightbeat watching impatiently. He had not been wrong. The resemblance was not just superficial. The size and shape of the wounds, the obliteration of identifying marks, the complete destruction of consciousness - they all indicated a common cause. And the security seals of the Tarnian Police were genuine, which suggested the evidence had not simply been ‘extrapolated’ from Glitter’s reports.
Impatience bubbling over, Nightbeat began to pace and gesticulate. “I cross-checked reports from across the region, murders, assault, solved or unsolved. This case stood out from all the rest - and the circumstances! I wasn’t sure until I read your files - stop looking at me like that and make your passwords harder to guess - look, I think we both had a good idea of what that something Konntryn was killed over might have been, and poor old Vaseeltron was definitely killed because he knew too much - and since they were both killed by the same person, that means -”
“Stop.”
Nightbeat did so, so fast he might as well have run head-first into the hand Diatrion held up. “Firstly,” the guardsmech told him, “any link between this case and the destruction of the Mahlex District is circumstantial at best. Just because you are convinced there is one does not automatically mean it exists. Secondly,” he continued over Nightbeat’s protests, “you are not a fellow officer, you are a private individual conducting an investigation for profit. I am under no obligation to help you. In fact, the regulations forbid it.”
“I know the regu -”
“And thirdly, the only thing I am under an obligation to do is to arrest you for breaking into my office and hacking into my files.”
For an instant, he thought Nightbeat was going to attack him. The blue mech tensed and raised his arms angrily, his faceplates shifting with frustration and disbelief. Then he spread his fingers and jabbed them at Diatrion. “One hundred and fifty seven innocent people died in that explosion. Vaseeltron sold them out but he probably didn’t really know what he was doing. The Pit knows how many others whoever’s behind this had to kill to make themselves safe - and Primus! Let’s even say that Konntryn didn’t deserve to be beaten into scrap! Someone out there killed these people and they are getting away with it! No, you stop, don’t say anything, hear me out. It is not circumstantial. I know there is a connection. I’ve run the numbers, checked the facts, calculated the probabilities. It fits. And even if it didn’t, Vaseeltron and Konntryn would still have been killed by the same person. This is part of your case. I’ve seen your profile, Dia Mech Trion Novus Zar. You are a good officer, you care about solving your cases and seeing that justice is done. You cannot ignore this any more than I could. But you won’t solve this without my help. Oh, maybe you’d get half the answers. But you’re a White n’ Blue. Whoever murdered these mechs was not someone in Konntryn’s social world. They won’t have an account with the Praxus Banking Network. They will not be refined and they will not try to dodge you by playing by the rules. They will run, they will stay silent or they will rip you in half. Most likely, you would never get near them. I can. I can find them, I can get close to them, I can find out why these people are dead.”
Crossing his arms, Diatrion looked Nightbeat straight in the optics. “I will not break the law to enforce it.”
“Then don’t,” Nightbeat replied, tone light again, “Just don’t lock me up for looking in your files. I will tell you everything I discover. That’s a promise. I will give you Konntryn’s murderer.”
“Don’t you mean, give them to Viilon?”
“My job is find out who was behind the attack on Tarn. No one’s said anything about what happens to them afterwards. Well, Investigator? Do we have an agreement?”
To let him go free would be a violation of the laws Diatrion had sworn to uphold with his life. That was simple fact. The Civic Guard did not collaborate with amateurs, it did not accept evidence through third parties and it most certainly did not allow its case files to be distributed to commercial investigators who had actively broken security and committed multiple criminal acts. It could not have been more clear cut. There should have been no ‘other hand’.
But of course there was.
The riots, obstructive bureaucracy, leads growing ever colder - and he could not ignore what he had just been shown, could he? He could not use it either, not without some extremely uncomfortable conversations with the Tarnian police, but that wasn’t the point. ‘Seeing that justice is done.’ Surely that the point. Did the methods matter?
Yes. They did. They always did.
“No.” Diatrion shook his head firmly. “No agreement.”
Nightbeat’s face fell and his arms dropped limply to his sides. He backed away as Diatrion walked over and stepped on to the dais, dismissing the holograms with a wave. Puzzlement quickly overtook his expression, however, as the guardsmech made no move to grab him.
And then he grinned.
“Can I help you?” Diatrion asked flatly.
“No…thank you, no.” Nightbeat shrugged expansively and went to the door. “Wrong room. I’ll find my own way out.” He paused on the threshold, grin showing again. “Investigator? You won’t regret this.”
But of course, he already did.
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