Fic
Title: Borealis 72/90: Inflorescence - Part II
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): Metroplex, ensemble, Red Alert/Prowl
Warnings: PnP, a bit of angst.
Summary: Wherein Dani and Red remember things; Metroplex gets her shakedown cruise; Impactor and Beta have a chat; Prowl shares an early memory with Prime; the Constructicons show up at the embassy; and things go boom.
Notes: I am happily indebted to dreams_of_all for her take on the Constructicons in her "Sheer Dumb Luck" series. <3
~4100 words.
Part I
BOREALIS: Inflorescence - Part II
2037 - April
Silence fell among the onlookers as they realized what Bluestreak was carrying. Red Alert and Smokescreen flanked him solemnly. Metroplex had hollowed a little space in one of the gardens between her spiral arms; a niche to contain the sculptured column that held Kalis’ damaged consciousness.
Kalis had made no sound since Vector Prime had touched him, but Smokescreen assured everyone that the AI remained viable. Listening. Smokescreen thought perhaps a quiet nook in the new city might be the balm Kalis needed. As Bluestreak had opted to be one of the dozen or so mechs taking up residence in Metroplex, he promised to visit Kalis every day - barring emergencies - and talk to him.
…
Her father would probably have a spaz if he saw her walking the spun-steel catwalks between towers; he could get weird about heights sometimes. There were railings, but the wind here above the moisture sails had risen with the night. Roddy would never let her fall.
Watching Metroplex unfurl had reminded Dani of a weekend when she’d been wandering the embassy, exploring. Bored. Sometimes new corridors and chambers could appear suddenly, and while Dani could access the shortwave map, it was more fun to find them on her own. Mom said body memory could be important.
…
Four months earlier.
A short but broad corridor led down a spiral ramp to a closed door almost as big as the main hangar entrance. Dani leaned forward to let the key dot read her left iris. Nothing happened.
That was new. Dani hadn’t encountered a door in the embassy she wasn’t allowed to open since she was twelve.
“Danaela Witwicky,” said Red Alert behind her. Dani jumped.
“Hi, Red,” she said, the image of studied casualosity.
“You want to know what’s in there,” Red said.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Dani said, pulling her ponytail forward and twirling it around her fingers. “I was just…”
Red Alert gave her a tolerant look. The door unlocked - Dani heard massive bolts sliding back, echoing in the stone corridor. Inside, dim lights came on in the high ceiling. About three hundred meters in diameter, the chamber was neatly filled with massive spools of dark grey material eight meters tall and about half that wide. Spools wasn’t the right word, Dani thought. Spools implied that the material was wound around something. This stuff, whatever it was, stood in coils on its own. More like giant, cylindrical skeins of cable.
“This is the protomass Optimus Prime and the rest of us have been donating over the past ten local years for Metroplex,” Red explained. He touched one of the skeins, running his fingers over the irregular, smoothly nubbed surface.
Interpreting this as permission, Dani touched it as well. It was warm; warmer than room-temperature metal should feel. Alive. The texture reminded her of the silk dress Bee had commissioned from Judith Straeten in New York years ago. Dani’s mother, Bee had asserted, needed a nice dress for formal occasions. It had been dyed a shimmering blue to precisely match Mikaela’s eyes; the silk manipulated into tiny pleats in the Fortuny technique thought lost until Ms. Straeten recreated it. It draped Mikaela’s statuesque form like something out of a Greek fantasy, the nigh-weightless silk anchored by Venetian glass beads around the hem. Mikaela hadn’t found out how expensive it had been for several months, but by then there was no question of her refusing the gift. Dani, when she’d been little, had thought the dress the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“You’re going to be a part of Metroplex too?” She looked up at Red. “You’re all going to be a part of her?”
“We are,” Red said, smiling.
Dani pressed her cheek against the warm, living metal for a long moment. She returned Red’s smile, then ran from the chamber so Red could lock it up again. Precious cargo.
Red allowed himself another moment to caress the protomass skein, remembering.
…
Four days earlier.
Teletraan? Red Alert tight-beamed. I’m taking Prowl below. He’s wound tighter than Skywarp’s-
Please do not provide me with further imagery, Tel responded hastily. I will monitor the screens.
Thank you. Red grinned. Keeping the overall tone of the cloud mind positive and hopeful aided Prime in coping with his anguish. Prowl was having some difficulty contributing to this. Red placed his hands on Prowl’s back between the door-wings, leaning in to murmur, ”Prowl. My antennae are throwing auras.”
“Hm? Oh.” Still mentally distracted, Prowl allowed himself to be led down the stem corridor, down the broad spiral ramp and into the protomass storage chamber. It was easy to find one of Prime’s skeins. Most of them were his. Red pushed Prowl unceremoniously up against a skein and slipped cables in the moment Prowl uncovered his ports.
Flattening his door-wings, Prowl took in the scent and feel of Prime. He arched his lower back and raised his arms, sinking fingers into the strands of protomass, spreading his legs and armor. Red’s hands and mouth took full advantage, lingering on every edge, every buried line and wire, feeding his own charge from Prowl’s. Slow, delicious; their heat radiating into and reflecting from the skein. Prowl rubbed himself against it, head tossing, denta half extended as if in aching need to bite. Red growled, arousal surging at the sight of Prowl like this.
No. Let the charge build. He kept his chest closed, though he could see the alloy whorls of Prowl’s spark chamber between trembling plates of parted armor. Red was so hot he could feel electrons moving.
Red slipped his hands deeper, lifting Prowl bodily, St. Elmo’s fire ghosting across their helms. Prowl shifted his grip on the skein, pulling himself higher until Red could get his mouth on the lower curve of Prowl’s chamber, the feverish spin of the spark within transmitting a hum through denta and jaws and neck and helm. Prowl lowered one hand and drew silver fingers slowly down Red’s antenna, chased with blue fire.
From cores and partitions the charge leapt like lightning in a volcanic cloud. They slid to the floor, retaining consciousness but taking comfort in one another’s silence.
“Tell me what you see,” Red whispered, stroking Prowl’s face, kissing him gently. Prowl was a fantastic resource. While others might accept his predictions with disquiet, Red - and Smokescreen - understood the complexities of the future wave-states that Prowl’s CPU handled with such facility. When Prowl gave you a percentage, you were to take that percentage with exactly the level of certitude the numbers described. No more, no less.
Based on Skyfire’s scans and Wheeljack’s extrapolations of the observed weapons capabilities of the Flay and the Vivisector, I estimate an 87.5 percent probability that they are extending said weapons’ range. They’ll rake Earth from Jupiter’s orbit or farther.
I concur. Red settled himself on Prowl’s body, resting a cheek spar on Prowl’s slowly cooling chest. Fortunately Jhiaxus and Bludgeon don’t appear to know that not only did Perceptor survive that initial engagement over Saturn, but eight of his and Beachcomber’s progeny have built light cannons of their own.
Prowl’s optics widened. This had not been common knowledge. Perceptor must be…
Flattered but not ecstatic, given what happened to the original Light Brigade.
Prowl nodded, shivering a little. After a moment, he relaxed. Red felt him shutting down auxiliary systems, preparing for recharge. Smiling, Red followed suit.
...
2037 - April
“Comeon, Ratchet, joinusit’sfun!” Blurr tugged at his arm, blinking suspiciously large optics up at him.
As the sky began to lighten in the east, Jazz and Scamper were leading two intertwined conga lines - human and Cybertronian - among Metroplex’s towers. Blurr wisely declined to mention that it had been Sideswipe’s idea.
“Pleeeease?” Blurr hopped on one foot then the other.
Ratchet made a grinding gears noise, but let Blurr lead him down to the plaza to join the line. “Very well, but if this turns into the Bunny Hop I’m leaving.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2037 - May
In the cold northern starlight, Hook had reassessed many things. The launch of the Allspark into space, for example. He now saw it as an act of desperation motivated by existential terror, not psychotic terrorism.
His gestalt had never entirely taken Megatron’s gradual and repeated waves of reprogramming. They needed to remain flexible and creative in their intelligence. Because of the gestalt, they tended to reinforce their own modes of thinking, which were thus less easily influenced from the outside.
So much had happened on this ridiculously obscure little dirtball; simply because the Allspark had fallen here. Hook shook himself and glanced over his brothers. They were ready. Chameleon mesh altered to new forms, chromatophores shifted to brilliant white. They had decided.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Three…two…one…” Hot Rod whispered, watching the small readout screen at human height, though his own chronometer was properly synched. Beside him, Dani decided that she was far too old now to jump up and down, clapping her hands, and settled for hugging Roddy’s shin and grinning wildly.
“Inshallah…” Metroplex whispered back, a smile in her harmonics. Ultra Magnus lifted an orbital crest, but he was smiling, too.
YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE, Metroplex’s voice boomed through towers and parks and plazas. EVACUATION CODE: VALKYRIE. I REPEAT. EVACUATION CODE VALKYRIE. PLEASE GO TO YOUR ASSIGNED EVAC STATIONS NOW. TRANSFORMATION WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES.
The first wave of Metroplex’s occupants were pure military; EDF personnel, roughly half from Morocco, the rest a truly international mix. They had performed drills for several days now, until every human could get to a command/observation bubble or safe bunkers concealed in the between-arm gardens within five minutes. The second wave would be a mix of military and scientists - most of whom would also have some military training. Once they were established, they and Metroplex would consider the possibility of allowing civilian families willing to face the inherent risks.
Dani felt briefly dizzy as Metroplex adjusted the gravity field in the command bubble. Roddy looked down at her to make sure she was okay, because for certain Ultra Magnus was far too rapt to pay attention to anything but the feel of the city changing shape around them. The process wasn’t anywhere near as noisy as Dani had thought it would be, though there was something to the air, a frisson of immense, leashed power on the move. When a section of wall phased transparent, Dani saw they were closer to the ground than they had been, but still high up the mountain.
The view lurched as Metroplex leapt down the mountain. Dani whooped and clutched Roddy’s shin tighter.
Down the mountain, hurdling the Ifoulou valley, each eightfold stride placed with exacting care; she veered east to avoid the Draa valley, crossing the Jebel Sahro, crossing from rocky ground to sand as she passed into Algeria and out into the Sahara. Arms swept back like a mane or wings, the footfalls of the passing goddess left little imprint despite her vastness, the sound of her like the desert wind.
…
2037 - June
YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. EVACUATION CODE: MACROSS. I REPEAT. EVACUATION CODE: MACROSS. PLEASE GO TO YOUR ASSIGNED EVAC STATIONS NOW. TRANSFORMATION WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES.
The city compressed, rose up, unspiraled herself, lifting on her AG drives to avoid damaging the mountain and the gardens left behind. Weapons jutted and swiveled from sturdy towers and heavily shielded recesses. Higher and higher, until the sky turned dark, spangled with stars. Dani - standing this time between her parents - pressed her hands to the not-glass of the window and watched her homeworld drop away.
On the Moon, the deltas and Aerials watched a bright speck rise from the cloud-jeweled orb.
Boom de yada, said Borealis.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Within/throughout the notplace of the Allspark, the pattern that was Impactor moved/thought of moving/arranged his focus beside the pattern that was Beta.
What do you think? Take another swipe at embodiment?
Beta changed her orientation within/through him in such a way that he lost focus for a nanosecond/supereon. All are/were/will be one. What? Leave this? Why?
Impactor coalesced again with some difficulty. …All right, there is that. I’ve been thinking about Prowl’s sentence ending. And the war ending. And I think there are a few more things I’d like to see and feel before returning to Source for eternity.
Huh. Whatever turns your screws.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Optimus Prime was afraid. Soon, he feared, he would do anything to make it stop. He could tell his people that Omega Supreme was alive and he could send Skyfire out to wake the giant from his 75,000 year stasis. He could drag the last omega back into war and death and order him to slag everything and everyone on Chaar. In the end it wouldn't help. Galvatron would survive, regenerate and begin again.
“Prime?” Prowl had found him. Kneeling in the empty protomass chamber, arms wrapped tight around himself. The mis-kindled spark had been non-viable this time, extinguishing as swiftly as it had been forced into being. Prowl went to him, reaching up to touch Prime’s face.
"Garden?"
Under better circumstances, Prowl would have smiled. It was sweet how Prime held that particular memory in such affection. Prowl didn't mind reliving it himself, though at the time the incident had been uncomfortable. He seated a pair of cephalic cables and initiated the link.
...
5.2304 million years ago.
“We thought we’d spend the afternoon at the Helix Gardens,” said Spiral as Warrant and Aequitas entered their suite. Warrant’s observation time with Aequitas was done for the day, so they both nodded. The gardens were on Warrant’s map of Praxus of course, but he’d not yet been there in person.
The five of them took the 0-15 transport tube to the Helix station and disembarked, transforming and driving down the gracefully arching ramp to the plaza that served as the garden’s primary entrance. Passing between elaborate white columns, they followed the amethyst-paved road down another level and through the methane containment fields. Warrant stopped and transformed to root mode.
Gigantic crystals, shading from cerulean points to lapis to deep cobalt at their hearts, floated around them, turning and tumbling majestically in currents of air. Warrant thought at first the crystals had been allowed to form naturally, their structure random within the constraints of their chemistry. A small plaque set into the slender column of a filigreed copper and titanium arch explained, however, that the crystals’ structure corresponded to certain numerical sequences. If the numbers were then matched with glyphs, each crystal told a story.
Warrant stared in awe, his processor spinning out the correspondences, unfolding the nested tales.
Somewhere, a small group of musicians playing varied flutes from half a dozen worlds filled the atmosphere with a deceptively simple melody. Warrant could perceive more complex harmonics and subharmonics, but lacked the programming to analyze it properly.
The music slowly grew louder and louder, until the crystals chimed in harmony. Warrant felt his entire body stiffen, though he had not sent any command to his articulation locks. Spiral and Rede were watching him closely. Something very odd was happening to him.
When next he came to a semblance of coherence, he was cradled in Aequitas' arms. Spiral, Rede and Veracity nestled beside them. They had not left the garden, but had drawn him aside to a curving bench etched with intricate verdigris designs and padded with soft copper. As people passed, they stopped to touch him and murmur encouragement. New people weren't kindled often but everyone remembered their own early days. Fourth-level acquaintances and strangers brought them vials of energon. Warrant was given a special mix of high and mid-grade to boost his exhausted systems without overwhelming them. Once, Aequitas had to recharge.
"I'll hold him if you like," offered a mech of approximately Aequitas' size. "Is he thrashing much?"
"Only in spurts," Spiral said, smiling. "Thank you."
Warrant felt himself lifted, and then the chest, and beneath that the spark, against which his cheek rested was a different one, but the big engine rumble was friendly, and Warrant slipped into recharge too.
…
2037 - June
“Can you recharge?” Prowl murmured, cradling Prime’s great head against his chest. Optimus liked the feel of Prowl’s voice transmitted through their metal.
“I’ll try.” Cybertronians don’t dream, and waking was - for now - the nightmare.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Arrogant slagger, Scrapper tight-beamed. There he was, the great and worthy opponent, Optimus Prime. Standing at parade rest in front of the mesa that hid (not very well any more) the supposed Cybertronian Embassy.
Scrapper and his team had driven across the Arctic. It had been a colder year than usual for this century, and Scavenger’s sonar had easily led them across the thickest layers of ice. They’d suppressed their energy signatures, but Scrapper had assumed the Autobot jets had probably spotted them at some point.
What none of them had been prepared for was seeing Mirage appear beside them as they turned onto the embassy driveway.
“Little glitch!” Ruckus shrieked, transforming and jumping ten meters away.
“How long have you been there?” Mixmaster asked, things in his tanks sloshing unpleasantly.
“Since Yellowknife,” Mirage said, none too happy about it. Flicking the last traces of mud off his tires, he transformed and strolled over to Prime, chirping a report. Prime nodded.
“Frrrraaaaag,” said Longhaul.
“We’re strictly neutral, got it?” Scrapper said, swaggering up to Prime and eyeing the Sec Def beside him. The fleshies were learning at a frightening rate. Scrapper wanted it to be clear they weren’t looking to start any trouble in this system. “What Vector Prime said, that’s true, yeah?”
“Yes,” said Prime. “We’d be grateful for your help.”
“Grateful!” Perceptor stalked out of the hangar, sensory fins fanned sharp and stiff, hands clenched. The light cannon was locked in firing position but not powered.
“So, how’re we doing this, Percy?” Scrapper asked, grinning. “Old Vector wasn’t forthcoming with details.”
“The mathematics involved are exponentially beyond your processor’s substandard yet habitually underutilized capabilities,” Perceptor asserted.
“Which probably means it doesn’t work, right?” Scrapper said. (Hook facepalmed.) “You might as well hand over the specs now so I can get to revising ‘em.”
“I’d sooner stuff my cervical data ports with Mentos and stand in a soda fountain. You lot can start by flushing out the carbon tetrachloride tanks and scrubbing the sodium deposits out of Wheeljack’s distillation apparatus.”
“Sounds like you need the sodium scrubbed out of your exhaust. Remember that time you got thiepane switched with oxipane and Professor Archenteron made you decontaminate the entire organic chemistry level?”
“That was azepane not oxipane, you undercycled hydrogen-eater. It’s astounding you can remember your own name. Oh, that’s right, your team shouts it at you all day.”
“You always were a miserable pedant, Perceptor,” Scrapper sneered.
Perceptor folded his fine-arms across his chest, propping his strong-hands on his hips. “At least I can tell a minicon from a housecleaning drone.”
“THAT NEVER HAPPENED!” Scrapper roared. Hook and Trample, having eased into place beside their leader, grabbed his arms before he could launch himself.
“Woo!” said Wheeljack, hurrying into the line of fire, waving his hands. “Hey, so you guys are neutral? I’m fine with that. Wanna come down and see what we’re working on?”
…
Two days later.
“No!” Perceptor shouted. “Stop! Wheeljack has a-”
BOOOM!!!
Literally fuming, Perceptor dragged Scrapper from the tower and threw him to the ground, deploying all four arms to hold him there and initiate repairs. Scrapper’s lower chest and hands were mangled and melted. “You NEVER use a fermion beam in the presence of a tertiary dichorial field! Even a novice comprehends that. I don’t care what you were compositing - you’re trying to kill us!”
Scrapper shoved at Perceptor’s fine-hands with blackened forearms. “Who would keep a tertiary dichorial field emitter INSIDE a planetary atmosphere?! You’re insane!”
“I’m sorry!” Wheeljack cried, following Hook who was half-carrying Scavenger and Ruckus. “I use it to anneal the astatine coating on the polyphasic control rods...” Longhaul, Tread and Trample were still down in the tower wondering why everyone else had left in such a hurry.
“Hold still,” Perceptor snarled at Scrapper. “You entered Wheeljack’s workspace and you didn’t even, oh, I don’t know, look around? Are your optics as non-functional as your processor?”
“Get your filthy organic-crusted hands off me, you incompetent hack!”
“Maybe for now we can find somewhere else for that?” Ratchet offered, sidling up to a dejected Wheeljack.
“Okay.” Wheeljack brightened. “I’ll haul it up to Oregon! Feldspar says she won’t mind tucking it into one of the tunnels they’re digging, and they can also use it to prep alpha-emitting radiocolloids.”
“Great,” Ratchet said drily.
…
The rift in communications between the parties involved was negatively affecting the production and testing schedule. The Constructicons weren’t speaking to Perceptor, so they made Scavenger do it.
Perceptor was in the damaged storey of the tower, repairing the equipment. Scavenger decided to take down the flattened and charred wall panels. That needed doing anyway. “Do…do you think we could rebuild Crystal City?” Scavenger asked. “When Cybertron’s been moved?”
Perceptor didn’t look up. “Why ask me? Large enough planet, I’m sure you can do as you will, as long as you can refrain from killing and maiming other people in the process.”
Scavenger lowered his cutter, his tail wrapping around his leg. That was how the Autobots thought of him and his brothers. That was what they were, wasn’t it? What Megatron had wanted. Killing machines.
“I’m sorry,” Perceptor said at last, lifting his tools from the innards of the emitter. “I’m afraid I remember Hydrax too well. 10,000 civilians slaughtered when you and your gestalt blew the base of the plateau.”
Civilians? Megatron had said they were Autobot sympathizers. That was as bad as being Autobots, right? Scavenger’s spark felt small and dim for a moment. But Perceptor wasn’t the only one who remembered things. “The Light Brigade killed the entire Cerulean Seeker Flight. You cut them in half vertically. CPU and spark.”
Perceptor hadn’t known it at the time, but that Flight had been the last of the rho subclass. “And then Megatron led the battle at Nova Cronum where seven-tenths of the Light Brigade died.”
“Then you and Vanguard and Shearpoint broke into the rift base south of Polyhex and killed everyone.”
Perceptor retracted his tools and let his arms fall to his sides. “…Yes.”
“Prime is right,” Scavenger said in a small voice. Perceptor would have thought it frightened, coming from someone other than a Constructicon. “We have to stop.”
The ability to finely gauge the emotional state of his fellow mechs had spared Scavenger, by his own estimation, 5,183 beatings of various potential severity. If this had been Hook or Longhaul, Scavenger would have thought him overenergized into a maudlin funk. Scavenger would know just how to comfort him into recharge. But this wasn’t Hook or Longhaul. This was Seekerbane. And Seekerbane wasn’t overenergized. The opposite in fact. Scavenger estimated he had about two local hours of low-power functioning before forcible recharge protocols kicked in. The war had taught them, however, that people could overcome their design specs in surprising ways. Scavenger couldn’t assume that Seekerbane didn’t have the reserves to prime the light cannon.
He put up another new wall panel. If he approached too cautiously, Seekerbane might feel he was being snuck up on. Too bold an advance would be interpreted as aggressive. Perceptor hadn’t moved, aside from the slow, thoughtful waving of his sensory vanes. He was so beautiful. And those arms! Scavenger wanted to touch them. He thought about the marvelous things those four hands could do. He continued around the circumference, determinedly not looking at Perceptor, until the damaged sections had all been replaced.
“Yes,” Perceptor said softly. “The expertise of your cohort will be of inestimable value when the time comes to rebuild. If we get the chance.” Perceptor wondered what was wrong. He wasn’t usually this cynical. Checking his chronometer, he realized how long he’d gone without recharge. Again. Oh. “Pardon me, I must…I…” He rose slowly, staring ahead - or maybe behind - and left the tower.
Scavenger wanted to follow, to make sure Perceptor made it to the recharge bay all right. Instead he gathered the damaged wall panels, carrying them down to the tower’s lowest level, and dumped them in the smelter.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2037 - August
As Perceptor arrived at the Oregon base, his habit was to do a cursory scan. A small assurance that his people were there, were well. His tally this time, however, had a few holes in it.
Polaris? Azimuth? Blueshift? Where are you?
“They went down to Nevada,” Seaspray told him, giving Perceptor’s shoulder a pat as he passed on his way to the beach. “Borealis flew ‘em. They’re in Metroplex’s tank.”
“Whatever for?” Perceptor asked, though he suspected he knew.
Seaspray grinned. “They’re rebuilding themselves into deep-Seekers.”
Table of Contents
.
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairing(s): Metroplex, ensemble, Red Alert/Prowl
Warnings: PnP, a bit of angst.
Summary: Wherein Dani and Red remember things; Metroplex gets her shakedown cruise; Impactor and Beta have a chat; Prowl shares an early memory with Prime; the Constructicons show up at the embassy; and things go boom.
Notes: I am happily indebted to dreams_of_all for her take on the Constructicons in her "Sheer Dumb Luck" series. <3
~4100 words.
Part I
BOREALIS: Inflorescence - Part II
2037 - April
Silence fell among the onlookers as they realized what Bluestreak was carrying. Red Alert and Smokescreen flanked him solemnly. Metroplex had hollowed a little space in one of the gardens between her spiral arms; a niche to contain the sculptured column that held Kalis’ damaged consciousness.
Kalis had made no sound since Vector Prime had touched him, but Smokescreen assured everyone that the AI remained viable. Listening. Smokescreen thought perhaps a quiet nook in the new city might be the balm Kalis needed. As Bluestreak had opted to be one of the dozen or so mechs taking up residence in Metroplex, he promised to visit Kalis every day - barring emergencies - and talk to him.
…
Her father would probably have a spaz if he saw her walking the spun-steel catwalks between towers; he could get weird about heights sometimes. There were railings, but the wind here above the moisture sails had risen with the night. Roddy would never let her fall.
Watching Metroplex unfurl had reminded Dani of a weekend when she’d been wandering the embassy, exploring. Bored. Sometimes new corridors and chambers could appear suddenly, and while Dani could access the shortwave map, it was more fun to find them on her own. Mom said body memory could be important.
…
Four months earlier.
A short but broad corridor led down a spiral ramp to a closed door almost as big as the main hangar entrance. Dani leaned forward to let the key dot read her left iris. Nothing happened.
That was new. Dani hadn’t encountered a door in the embassy she wasn’t allowed to open since she was twelve.
“Danaela Witwicky,” said Red Alert behind her. Dani jumped.
“Hi, Red,” she said, the image of studied casualosity.
“You want to know what’s in there,” Red said.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” Dani said, pulling her ponytail forward and twirling it around her fingers. “I was just…”
Red Alert gave her a tolerant look. The door unlocked - Dani heard massive bolts sliding back, echoing in the stone corridor. Inside, dim lights came on in the high ceiling. About three hundred meters in diameter, the chamber was neatly filled with massive spools of dark grey material eight meters tall and about half that wide. Spools wasn’t the right word, Dani thought. Spools implied that the material was wound around something. This stuff, whatever it was, stood in coils on its own. More like giant, cylindrical skeins of cable.
“This is the protomass Optimus Prime and the rest of us have been donating over the past ten local years for Metroplex,” Red explained. He touched one of the skeins, running his fingers over the irregular, smoothly nubbed surface.
Interpreting this as permission, Dani touched it as well. It was warm; warmer than room-temperature metal should feel. Alive. The texture reminded her of the silk dress Bee had commissioned from Judith Straeten in New York years ago. Dani’s mother, Bee had asserted, needed a nice dress for formal occasions. It had been dyed a shimmering blue to precisely match Mikaela’s eyes; the silk manipulated into tiny pleats in the Fortuny technique thought lost until Ms. Straeten recreated it. It draped Mikaela’s statuesque form like something out of a Greek fantasy, the nigh-weightless silk anchored by Venetian glass beads around the hem. Mikaela hadn’t found out how expensive it had been for several months, but by then there was no question of her refusing the gift. Dani, when she’d been little, had thought the dress the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
“You’re going to be a part of Metroplex too?” She looked up at Red. “You’re all going to be a part of her?”
“We are,” Red said, smiling.
Dani pressed her cheek against the warm, living metal for a long moment. She returned Red’s smile, then ran from the chamber so Red could lock it up again. Precious cargo.
Red allowed himself another moment to caress the protomass skein, remembering.
…
Four days earlier.
Teletraan? Red Alert tight-beamed. I’m taking Prowl below. He’s wound tighter than Skywarp’s-
Please do not provide me with further imagery, Tel responded hastily. I will monitor the screens.
Thank you. Red grinned. Keeping the overall tone of the cloud mind positive and hopeful aided Prime in coping with his anguish. Prowl was having some difficulty contributing to this. Red placed his hands on Prowl’s back between the door-wings, leaning in to murmur, ”Prowl. My antennae are throwing auras.”
“Hm? Oh.” Still mentally distracted, Prowl allowed himself to be led down the stem corridor, down the broad spiral ramp and into the protomass storage chamber. It was easy to find one of Prime’s skeins. Most of them were his. Red pushed Prowl unceremoniously up against a skein and slipped cables in the moment Prowl uncovered his ports.
Flattening his door-wings, Prowl took in the scent and feel of Prime. He arched his lower back and raised his arms, sinking fingers into the strands of protomass, spreading his legs and armor. Red’s hands and mouth took full advantage, lingering on every edge, every buried line and wire, feeding his own charge from Prowl’s. Slow, delicious; their heat radiating into and reflecting from the skein. Prowl rubbed himself against it, head tossing, denta half extended as if in aching need to bite. Red growled, arousal surging at the sight of Prowl like this.
No. Let the charge build. He kept his chest closed, though he could see the alloy whorls of Prowl’s spark chamber between trembling plates of parted armor. Red was so hot he could feel electrons moving.
Red slipped his hands deeper, lifting Prowl bodily, St. Elmo’s fire ghosting across their helms. Prowl shifted his grip on the skein, pulling himself higher until Red could get his mouth on the lower curve of Prowl’s chamber, the feverish spin of the spark within transmitting a hum through denta and jaws and neck and helm. Prowl lowered one hand and drew silver fingers slowly down Red’s antenna, chased with blue fire.
From cores and partitions the charge leapt like lightning in a volcanic cloud. They slid to the floor, retaining consciousness but taking comfort in one another’s silence.
“Tell me what you see,” Red whispered, stroking Prowl’s face, kissing him gently. Prowl was a fantastic resource. While others might accept his predictions with disquiet, Red - and Smokescreen - understood the complexities of the future wave-states that Prowl’s CPU handled with such facility. When Prowl gave you a percentage, you were to take that percentage with exactly the level of certitude the numbers described. No more, no less.
Based on Skyfire’s scans and Wheeljack’s extrapolations of the observed weapons capabilities of the Flay and the Vivisector, I estimate an 87.5 percent probability that they are extending said weapons’ range. They’ll rake Earth from Jupiter’s orbit or farther.
I concur. Red settled himself on Prowl’s body, resting a cheek spar on Prowl’s slowly cooling chest. Fortunately Jhiaxus and Bludgeon don’t appear to know that not only did Perceptor survive that initial engagement over Saturn, but eight of his and Beachcomber’s progeny have built light cannons of their own.
Prowl’s optics widened. This had not been common knowledge. Perceptor must be…
Flattered but not ecstatic, given what happened to the original Light Brigade.
Prowl nodded, shivering a little. After a moment, he relaxed. Red felt him shutting down auxiliary systems, preparing for recharge. Smiling, Red followed suit.
...
2037 - April
“Comeon, Ratchet, joinusit’sfun!” Blurr tugged at his arm, blinking suspiciously large optics up at him.
As the sky began to lighten in the east, Jazz and Scamper were leading two intertwined conga lines - human and Cybertronian - among Metroplex’s towers. Blurr wisely declined to mention that it had been Sideswipe’s idea.
“Pleeeease?” Blurr hopped on one foot then the other.
Ratchet made a grinding gears noise, but let Blurr lead him down to the plaza to join the line. “Very well, but if this turns into the Bunny Hop I’m leaving.”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2037 - May
In the cold northern starlight, Hook had reassessed many things. The launch of the Allspark into space, for example. He now saw it as an act of desperation motivated by existential terror, not psychotic terrorism.
His gestalt had never entirely taken Megatron’s gradual and repeated waves of reprogramming. They needed to remain flexible and creative in their intelligence. Because of the gestalt, they tended to reinforce their own modes of thinking, which were thus less easily influenced from the outside.
So much had happened on this ridiculously obscure little dirtball; simply because the Allspark had fallen here. Hook shook himself and glanced over his brothers. They were ready. Chameleon mesh altered to new forms, chromatophores shifted to brilliant white. They had decided.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Three…two…one…” Hot Rod whispered, watching the small readout screen at human height, though his own chronometer was properly synched. Beside him, Dani decided that she was far too old now to jump up and down, clapping her hands, and settled for hugging Roddy’s shin and grinning wildly.
“Inshallah…” Metroplex whispered back, a smile in her harmonics. Ultra Magnus lifted an orbital crest, but he was smiling, too.
YOUR ATTENTION, PLEASE, Metroplex’s voice boomed through towers and parks and plazas. EVACUATION CODE: VALKYRIE. I REPEAT. EVACUATION CODE VALKYRIE. PLEASE GO TO YOUR ASSIGNED EVAC STATIONS NOW. TRANSFORMATION WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES.
The first wave of Metroplex’s occupants were pure military; EDF personnel, roughly half from Morocco, the rest a truly international mix. They had performed drills for several days now, until every human could get to a command/observation bubble or safe bunkers concealed in the between-arm gardens within five minutes. The second wave would be a mix of military and scientists - most of whom would also have some military training. Once they were established, they and Metroplex would consider the possibility of allowing civilian families willing to face the inherent risks.
Dani felt briefly dizzy as Metroplex adjusted the gravity field in the command bubble. Roddy looked down at her to make sure she was okay, because for certain Ultra Magnus was far too rapt to pay attention to anything but the feel of the city changing shape around them. The process wasn’t anywhere near as noisy as Dani had thought it would be, though there was something to the air, a frisson of immense, leashed power on the move. When a section of wall phased transparent, Dani saw they were closer to the ground than they had been, but still high up the mountain.
The view lurched as Metroplex leapt down the mountain. Dani whooped and clutched Roddy’s shin tighter.
Down the mountain, hurdling the Ifoulou valley, each eightfold stride placed with exacting care; she veered east to avoid the Draa valley, crossing the Jebel Sahro, crossing from rocky ground to sand as she passed into Algeria and out into the Sahara. Arms swept back like a mane or wings, the footfalls of the passing goddess left little imprint despite her vastness, the sound of her like the desert wind.
…
2037 - June
YOUR ATTENTION PLEASE. EVACUATION CODE: MACROSS. I REPEAT. EVACUATION CODE: MACROSS. PLEASE GO TO YOUR ASSIGNED EVAC STATIONS NOW. TRANSFORMATION WILL COMMENCE IN FIVE MINUTES.
The city compressed, rose up, unspiraled herself, lifting on her AG drives to avoid damaging the mountain and the gardens left behind. Weapons jutted and swiveled from sturdy towers and heavily shielded recesses. Higher and higher, until the sky turned dark, spangled with stars. Dani - standing this time between her parents - pressed her hands to the not-glass of the window and watched her homeworld drop away.
On the Moon, the deltas and Aerials watched a bright speck rise from the cloud-jeweled orb.
Boom de yada, said Borealis.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Within/throughout the notplace of the Allspark, the pattern that was Impactor moved/thought of moving/arranged his focus beside the pattern that was Beta.
What do you think? Take another swipe at embodiment?
Beta changed her orientation within/through him in such a way that he lost focus for a nanosecond/supereon. All are/were/will be one. What? Leave this? Why?
Impactor coalesced again with some difficulty. …All right, there is that. I’ve been thinking about Prowl’s sentence ending. And the war ending. And I think there are a few more things I’d like to see and feel before returning to Source for eternity.
Huh. Whatever turns your screws.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Optimus Prime was afraid. Soon, he feared, he would do anything to make it stop. He could tell his people that Omega Supreme was alive and he could send Skyfire out to wake the giant from his 75,000 year stasis. He could drag the last omega back into war and death and order him to slag everything and everyone on Chaar. In the end it wouldn't help. Galvatron would survive, regenerate and begin again.
“Prime?” Prowl had found him. Kneeling in the empty protomass chamber, arms wrapped tight around himself. The mis-kindled spark had been non-viable this time, extinguishing as swiftly as it had been forced into being. Prowl went to him, reaching up to touch Prime’s face.
"Garden?"
Under better circumstances, Prowl would have smiled. It was sweet how Prime held that particular memory in such affection. Prowl didn't mind reliving it himself, though at the time the incident had been uncomfortable. He seated a pair of cephalic cables and initiated the link.
...
5.2304 million years ago.
“We thought we’d spend the afternoon at the Helix Gardens,” said Spiral as Warrant and Aequitas entered their suite. Warrant’s observation time with Aequitas was done for the day, so they both nodded. The gardens were on Warrant’s map of Praxus of course, but he’d not yet been there in person.
The five of them took the 0-15 transport tube to the Helix station and disembarked, transforming and driving down the gracefully arching ramp to the plaza that served as the garden’s primary entrance. Passing between elaborate white columns, they followed the amethyst-paved road down another level and through the methane containment fields. Warrant stopped and transformed to root mode.
Gigantic crystals, shading from cerulean points to lapis to deep cobalt at their hearts, floated around them, turning and tumbling majestically in currents of air. Warrant thought at first the crystals had been allowed to form naturally, their structure random within the constraints of their chemistry. A small plaque set into the slender column of a filigreed copper and titanium arch explained, however, that the crystals’ structure corresponded to certain numerical sequences. If the numbers were then matched with glyphs, each crystal told a story.
Warrant stared in awe, his processor spinning out the correspondences, unfolding the nested tales.
Somewhere, a small group of musicians playing varied flutes from half a dozen worlds filled the atmosphere with a deceptively simple melody. Warrant could perceive more complex harmonics and subharmonics, but lacked the programming to analyze it properly.
The music slowly grew louder and louder, until the crystals chimed in harmony. Warrant felt his entire body stiffen, though he had not sent any command to his articulation locks. Spiral and Rede were watching him closely. Something very odd was happening to him.
When next he came to a semblance of coherence, he was cradled in Aequitas' arms. Spiral, Rede and Veracity nestled beside them. They had not left the garden, but had drawn him aside to a curving bench etched with intricate verdigris designs and padded with soft copper. As people passed, they stopped to touch him and murmur encouragement. New people weren't kindled often but everyone remembered their own early days. Fourth-level acquaintances and strangers brought them vials of energon. Warrant was given a special mix of high and mid-grade to boost his exhausted systems without overwhelming them. Once, Aequitas had to recharge.
"I'll hold him if you like," offered a mech of approximately Aequitas' size. "Is he thrashing much?"
"Only in spurts," Spiral said, smiling. "Thank you."
Warrant felt himself lifted, and then the chest, and beneath that the spark, against which his cheek rested was a different one, but the big engine rumble was friendly, and Warrant slipped into recharge too.
…
2037 - June
“Can you recharge?” Prowl murmured, cradling Prime’s great head against his chest. Optimus liked the feel of Prowl’s voice transmitted through their metal.
“I’ll try.” Cybertronians don’t dream, and waking was - for now - the nightmare.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
Arrogant slagger, Scrapper tight-beamed. There he was, the great and worthy opponent, Optimus Prime. Standing at parade rest in front of the mesa that hid (not very well any more) the supposed Cybertronian Embassy.
Scrapper and his team had driven across the Arctic. It had been a colder year than usual for this century, and Scavenger’s sonar had easily led them across the thickest layers of ice. They’d suppressed their energy signatures, but Scrapper had assumed the Autobot jets had probably spotted them at some point.
What none of them had been prepared for was seeing Mirage appear beside them as they turned onto the embassy driveway.
“Little glitch!” Ruckus shrieked, transforming and jumping ten meters away.
“How long have you been there?” Mixmaster asked, things in his tanks sloshing unpleasantly.
“Since Yellowknife,” Mirage said, none too happy about it. Flicking the last traces of mud off his tires, he transformed and strolled over to Prime, chirping a report. Prime nodded.
“Frrrraaaaag,” said Longhaul.
“We’re strictly neutral, got it?” Scrapper said, swaggering up to Prime and eyeing the Sec Def beside him. The fleshies were learning at a frightening rate. Scrapper wanted it to be clear they weren’t looking to start any trouble in this system. “What Vector Prime said, that’s true, yeah?”
“Yes,” said Prime. “We’d be grateful for your help.”
“Grateful!” Perceptor stalked out of the hangar, sensory fins fanned sharp and stiff, hands clenched. The light cannon was locked in firing position but not powered.
“So, how’re we doing this, Percy?” Scrapper asked, grinning. “Old Vector wasn’t forthcoming with details.”
“The mathematics involved are exponentially beyond your processor’s substandard yet habitually underutilized capabilities,” Perceptor asserted.
“Which probably means it doesn’t work, right?” Scrapper said. (Hook facepalmed.) “You might as well hand over the specs now so I can get to revising ‘em.”
“I’d sooner stuff my cervical data ports with Mentos and stand in a soda fountain. You lot can start by flushing out the carbon tetrachloride tanks and scrubbing the sodium deposits out of Wheeljack’s distillation apparatus.”
“Sounds like you need the sodium scrubbed out of your exhaust. Remember that time you got thiepane switched with oxipane and Professor Archenteron made you decontaminate the entire organic chemistry level?”
“That was azepane not oxipane, you undercycled hydrogen-eater. It’s astounding you can remember your own name. Oh, that’s right, your team shouts it at you all day.”
“You always were a miserable pedant, Perceptor,” Scrapper sneered.
Perceptor folded his fine-arms across his chest, propping his strong-hands on his hips. “At least I can tell a minicon from a housecleaning drone.”
“THAT NEVER HAPPENED!” Scrapper roared. Hook and Trample, having eased into place beside their leader, grabbed his arms before he could launch himself.
“Woo!” said Wheeljack, hurrying into the line of fire, waving his hands. “Hey, so you guys are neutral? I’m fine with that. Wanna come down and see what we’re working on?”
…
Two days later.
“No!” Perceptor shouted. “Stop! Wheeljack has a-”
BOOOM!!!
Literally fuming, Perceptor dragged Scrapper from the tower and threw him to the ground, deploying all four arms to hold him there and initiate repairs. Scrapper’s lower chest and hands were mangled and melted. “You NEVER use a fermion beam in the presence of a tertiary dichorial field! Even a novice comprehends that. I don’t care what you were compositing - you’re trying to kill us!”
Scrapper shoved at Perceptor’s fine-hands with blackened forearms. “Who would keep a tertiary dichorial field emitter INSIDE a planetary atmosphere?! You’re insane!”
“I’m sorry!” Wheeljack cried, following Hook who was half-carrying Scavenger and Ruckus. “I use it to anneal the astatine coating on the polyphasic control rods...” Longhaul, Tread and Trample were still down in the tower wondering why everyone else had left in such a hurry.
“Hold still,” Perceptor snarled at Scrapper. “You entered Wheeljack’s workspace and you didn’t even, oh, I don’t know, look around? Are your optics as non-functional as your processor?”
“Get your filthy organic-crusted hands off me, you incompetent hack!”
“Maybe for now we can find somewhere else for that?” Ratchet offered, sidling up to a dejected Wheeljack.
“Okay.” Wheeljack brightened. “I’ll haul it up to Oregon! Feldspar says she won’t mind tucking it into one of the tunnels they’re digging, and they can also use it to prep alpha-emitting radiocolloids.”
“Great,” Ratchet said drily.
…
The rift in communications between the parties involved was negatively affecting the production and testing schedule. The Constructicons weren’t speaking to Perceptor, so they made Scavenger do it.
Perceptor was in the damaged storey of the tower, repairing the equipment. Scavenger decided to take down the flattened and charred wall panels. That needed doing anyway. “Do…do you think we could rebuild Crystal City?” Scavenger asked. “When Cybertron’s been moved?”
Perceptor didn’t look up. “Why ask me? Large enough planet, I’m sure you can do as you will, as long as you can refrain from killing and maiming other people in the process.”
Scavenger lowered his cutter, his tail wrapping around his leg. That was how the Autobots thought of him and his brothers. That was what they were, wasn’t it? What Megatron had wanted. Killing machines.
“I’m sorry,” Perceptor said at last, lifting his tools from the innards of the emitter. “I’m afraid I remember Hydrax too well. 10,000 civilians slaughtered when you and your gestalt blew the base of the plateau.”
Civilians? Megatron had said they were Autobot sympathizers. That was as bad as being Autobots, right? Scavenger’s spark felt small and dim for a moment. But Perceptor wasn’t the only one who remembered things. “The Light Brigade killed the entire Cerulean Seeker Flight. You cut them in half vertically. CPU and spark.”
Perceptor hadn’t known it at the time, but that Flight had been the last of the rho subclass. “And then Megatron led the battle at Nova Cronum where seven-tenths of the Light Brigade died.”
“Then you and Vanguard and Shearpoint broke into the rift base south of Polyhex and killed everyone.”
Perceptor retracted his tools and let his arms fall to his sides. “…Yes.”
“Prime is right,” Scavenger said in a small voice. Perceptor would have thought it frightened, coming from someone other than a Constructicon. “We have to stop.”
The ability to finely gauge the emotional state of his fellow mechs had spared Scavenger, by his own estimation, 5,183 beatings of various potential severity. If this had been Hook or Longhaul, Scavenger would have thought him overenergized into a maudlin funk. Scavenger would know just how to comfort him into recharge. But this wasn’t Hook or Longhaul. This was Seekerbane. And Seekerbane wasn’t overenergized. The opposite in fact. Scavenger estimated he had about two local hours of low-power functioning before forcible recharge protocols kicked in. The war had taught them, however, that people could overcome their design specs in surprising ways. Scavenger couldn’t assume that Seekerbane didn’t have the reserves to prime the light cannon.
He put up another new wall panel. If he approached too cautiously, Seekerbane might feel he was being snuck up on. Too bold an advance would be interpreted as aggressive. Perceptor hadn’t moved, aside from the slow, thoughtful waving of his sensory vanes. He was so beautiful. And those arms! Scavenger wanted to touch them. He thought about the marvelous things those four hands could do. He continued around the circumference, determinedly not looking at Perceptor, until the damaged sections had all been replaced.
“Yes,” Perceptor said softly. “The expertise of your cohort will be of inestimable value when the time comes to rebuild. If we get the chance.” Perceptor wondered what was wrong. He wasn’t usually this cynical. Checking his chronometer, he realized how long he’d gone without recharge. Again. Oh. “Pardon me, I must…I…” He rose slowly, staring ahead - or maybe behind - and left the tower.
Scavenger wanted to follow, to make sure Perceptor made it to the recharge bay all right. Instead he gathered the damaged wall panels, carrying them down to the tower’s lowest level, and dumped them in the smelter.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2037 - August
As Perceptor arrived at the Oregon base, his habit was to do a cursory scan. A small assurance that his people were there, were well. His tally this time, however, had a few holes in it.
Polaris? Azimuth? Blueshift? Where are you?
“They went down to Nevada,” Seaspray told him, giving Perceptor’s shoulder a pat as he passed on his way to the beach. “Borealis flew ‘em. They’re in Metroplex’s tank.”
“Whatever for?” Perceptor asked, though he suspected he knew.
Seaspray grinned. “They’re rebuilding themselves into deep-Seekers.”
Table of Contents
.