Fic
Title: Borealis 74/92: Sigh No More - Part II
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing(s): Ensemble
Warnings: Violence, mild robot snuggles, vomiting.
Summary: Wherein the Autobots on Chaar have a bad time; friends gather for Winterthing; fun is had in snow; and Dani is morning sick.
Notes: With apologies to Mumford & Sons. Suggested listening for the first section is Theme from 300 (To Victory) by Tyler Bates.
~4100 words.
Part I
BOREALIS: Sigh No More - Part II
2042 - March
“Incoming!” Lodestar shouted. Kup joined him at the screens. “Twenty-seven. Missiles. From the sigs looks like…”
“Pinpoint nukes,” Kup said, already moving. “ABANDON SHIP! Minimum safe, lifeboats, wings or wheels I don’t care, GO!”
Slagging Pit slag glitching frag! This from Brace, who had been down in a narrow space inside the lower starboard engine, working on repairs. He didn’t object to Tap-Out hauling him out by one foot, though, and they both ran for the stern lifeboat. Almost had this fixed! Almost! Slaggit. The Trion’s unshielded hull could take one small nuclear strike, but a barrage? The ship’s weapons were offline and it would take too long to reroute enough power from batteries to charge those that had the range to take the missiles out at a distance that wouldn’t still fry them.
Kup and his crew scattered into Chaar’s tortured basaltic landscape, heading downhill when they could. Standing orders were to rendezvous at the Xantium. Ultra Magnus had passed his command of the Sparkreaver to Highbeam. Highbeam was a steady, serious mech, but they were busy up in the black, chasing and being chased by Turmoil. They couldn’t count on air support from that quarter.
When the blast hit, Kup knelt, shoving Flack down. Half-fried by the gamma burst, Tumult dropped out of copter form, shielding Kup in turn. His shadow left an irregular outline across the blackened, pitted expanse of Kup’s dorsal armor.
“Slag, Mul,” Kup whispered, tossing his ubiquitous rusty pipe aside. Flack helped him drag the copter to his feet. If Kup knew Macabre, he’d be sending ground and air troops out to pick off any survivors. “We got fifty klicks to run and no roads to roll on. Won’t get any shorter standing around.”
…
Guzzle’s team was coming in. Under heavy fire, as usual. Springer grinned and ordered the Xantium’s foreguns brought to bear. He leapt to a pinnacle, adjusting his optics. What the frag? It looked like Guzzle had picked a fight with an entire army this time. A dull-hued, crimson-opticked army. And was it his imagination or did all those Cons look pretty much alike? He transformed briefly to chopper mode, flipped to bipedal to land nearby as Guzzle came abreast of the narrow mouth of the canyon where the Xantium lay hidden. “What the frag, Guzz?”
“Trion’s been nuked!” Guzzle shouted, mowing down another line of pursuers. Whatever they were. Springer didn’t like this closer view. They moved with greater purpose than drones. He added his firepower to Guzzle’s
“There’s a valley full of these things between us and Kup’s people,” Guzzle continued. “Gonna have a hard time getting to us.”
“Get everyone aboard, we’re dusting off.” Springer backed slowly, guns hot already. Whatever platform Shockwave was using to launch the nukes, the Wreckers were equally at risk on the ground or in the air, and Springer liked having room to maneuver.
…
Well, Kup thought, they’d almost made it. More of the strange dull-iron and dun mechs were filtering behind them now. Tap-Out, Beacon and Groundspike were trying to cut a wedge through the forces massed in the valley, but they were badly outnumbered. Tumult had died five klicks back. They’d had to leave his body.
A flash of white caught Kup’s attention, though it didn’t distract him from the Con in his sights. The Con went down and Drift leapt over him, slashing into the ranks behind, cutting an arc that led him back to Kup and Flack. Drift stilled for a moment beside them, energon and other fluids dripping from his swords. Kup didn’t like the bleak expression that settled over Drift’s face.
“Kid,” Kup said, still firing. Drift flicked the twin blades clean and sheathed them.
“Ah, don’t…” Kup whispered, baring his denta. The Great Sword’s jewel glowed as Drift drew the blade from its housing.
…
Galaxies away, Prime fled the press conference as soon as he could politely do so. He touched his chest, head bowed. Mazerunner, he tight-beamed to Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Ultra Magnus and Prowl. Revo. Freewheel. Hubcap. Crumble. Lodestar. Roadrage. Powerflash…
Oh Primus, Ratchet said. We’ve lost the Trion, haven’t we.
Highjump. Tumult. Carillon...
And the Wreckers are trying to help, Prowl agreed.
…
Just what they needed, Springer thought, diving for the ground as his intakes were fouled. The volcano to the south had decided to spew. To his right, the Xantium was carving itself a landing space close to the biggest knot of Kup’s embattled troops. The strange Cons didn’t back off when the ship’s guns mowed them down rank after rank. They kept coming, hurling themselves into the beams as if eager to die; yet if they managed to reach an Autobot, they tore him apart with equal zeal.
There. The Xantium was down, landing ramp extending, Roadbuster leading the charge.
“WRECKERS!” Springer roared through the ashfall, jumping from jagged peak to pinnacle to join them. “TO THE GRAVEYARD!” Howls and roars of unholy glee answered. If they died, they’d have Prime respark them as Graveyard Legion.
…
Drift! Kup put as much power behind the tight-beamed transmission as he dared. He was running low on juice. Get your aft over here! We got Nornir inbound! A dun Con that would have blown Drift’s head off from behind fell to Flack’s sharpshooting. The air suddenly crackled with lightning, ionized both by the volcanic eruption and the weapons of the triplet sister interceptors roaring across the seething valley.
These Cons were silent, Kup realized, as Drift cut a path toward him. The subsonic rumble of the volcano underscored the clamor of weaponsfire and metal fists and blades on metal, but the shouts of the Wreckers grew clearer beyond those of the Trion's surviving crew. Kup blasted three more Cons, peering closely at the heads. Did they even have mouths?
Drift lunged beside him, optics dim. Two Cons fell in halves, but Drift staggered and Flack reached out to steady him.
“Don’t touch the Sword, Flack,” Kup warned, shooing the two younger mechs on. They’d meet Springer’s group in the middle of the valley. By the look of the volcano, that valley was about to become a lava field. Best get a move on.
…
Maserblade. Incendiary. Farcaster…
…
Macabre and Skyquake watched satellite feeds of the battle from Skyquake’s office. The new troops Galvatron had kindled were not as effective individually as Macabre would like, but Skyquake looked satisfied enough. Galvatron had pulled six hundred at a time from Chaar’s metal ore and rock; in two events more than doubling the Decepticon numbers. Most of the individual kindlings had been such failures, Macabre had no idea why these were so different. If they were, really.
“Not very smart,” he remarked, watching ranks of them march steadily into the Xantium’s covering fire.
Skyquake shrugged. “They don’t have to be. By numbers alone they’ll crush the stragglers.”
Macabre altered the zoom on the image of the Wreckers’ ship. Autobots were climbing aboard and on top of the ship, clamping themselves to the hull. They must have picked up survivors from Kup’s battalion. Macabre allowed himself a small smile. The loss of the Trion was a serious blow. The Autobots were running out of spaceworthy ships. This war would be over soon.
…
“Don’t touch ‘im.” Kup dragged Flack away, pushing him and Springer up the corridor. Drift had fallen into recharge there in the loading bay, the Great Sword safely stowed on his back - but the jewel still gleamed. Kup had the feeling the thing would protect the vulnerable mech. Urthr came in behind them, carrying her sisters, all of them charred and sparking.
“Roadbuster, set a rendezvous course with the Sparkreaver,” Springer said. The Wreckers were down to seventeen out of twenty. He’d think about replacements, if any, later. “Whisper, get a burst sent off to Optimus and Magnus.” Prime would know there had been trouble. Half of Kup’s 300 were dead, caught by the thermonuclear blast or chewed up by the masses of new Cons.
The Xantium heaved and shuddered its way up through Chaar’s acidic, soot-laden atmosphere, shields set on a modulation scheme that would hide them as long as they kept to the high cloud layer. They’d put a little more distance between themselves and the origin of the nuclear missiles, then make a break for space.
Meanwhile, they were going to have to squeeze a hundred and sixty-six mechs into a ship designed for a crew of fifty. Springer reached the bridge, glad Kup was relatively unhurt and by his side.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2042 - December
Lilac-pewter clouds obscured all but a pale pink band of sky along the western horizon, shading the desert peaks in eerie twilight. Sam looked up at Prowl, who stood at ease with him in the northern lookout. Keeping watch, but also simply watching the sunset.
Fishing around in his internal directory, Sam found the private channel for the Protectobots. They were in Argentina, doing the usual; repairing bridges, breaking up ice on rivers that usually didn’t get iced, finding people lost in blizzards. It was summer there, but that hadn’t mattered this year. It wasn’t really summer anywhere.
Hey, Spot, Sam transmitted. That never got old, calling the big fire truck “Spot”. Any chance you guys could knock off the hero business for a week and come home for the holidays?
Hello, Sam, Hot Spot answered right away. Sam had expected a subroutine, but this sounded like a big chunk of the mech’s attention. And Sam wasn’t sure how he knew that. Weird. Aid’s been talking about that. If nothing comes up we’ll be there by the 20th.
Awesome! See ya then.
Will do.
Mikaela would be really pleased. She had a soft spot for the Pbots about the size of Jupiter.
…
Snowball fights among the Autobots were an interesting exercise. The relative fragility of balls of actual snow - as opposed to ice, which was accounted cheating, and also too dangerous with humans around - meant they couldn’t throw with their full strength. Their main advantage, therefore, was that they had such big damn hands.
Even Bumblebee’s arsenal - who had opted for quantity rather than size - consisted of snowballs as big as Sam’s head. Jazz beside them had much larger spheres, which he was gouging a series of divots into, like golf balls, in order to make them fly farther. Bee and Jazz also had the best snow fort, so Sam and Mikaela had holed up with them for the duration of this particular round.
“Okay, now Prime’s gonna try to cut through here in order to flank the Twins,” Jazz said. “We just gotta sit tight and wait for our moment.”
“Um, Jazz?” said Bee weakly, looking up. Sam was busy making his own snowballs as perfectly round and compact as possible. A smaller missile, Sam had found, could nail a bot between armor plates, making them jump around in entertaining ways from the cold hitting their more sensitive bits. Sam had a pretty good arm.
“I am disinclined to acquiesce to your ambush,” said a deep voice above them. Sam looked around to find he was the last to realize their position had been compromised. Prime had climbed the ridge behind them.
And was holding aloft in one hand what was possibly the largest snowball ever created on this planet.
“You wouldn’t,” Sam whispered. Mikaela slapped his arm and glared at him as the sunlight dimmed in their vicinity. Bee and Jazz dove over the humans, shielding them with their bodies. Optimus let the giant snowball of doom tip gently from his fingertips.
For such an enormous quantity of snow, it had been packed lightly. It sifted between Bee and Jazz and got down every piece of clothing Sam had on. Laughing, Bee and Jazz burrowed themselves and the humans out from the new drift and salvaged their arsenals, ready for retaliation. Optimus was already sprinting away but Jazz pegged him with a fast double-throw, Bee following up with a rapid-fire barrage. Everyone was giggling by the time Optimus was out of range.
…
Later that evening.
Sam paced the mezzanine, deep in a conference call with a handful of very concerned officials who were upset by recent Decepticon attacks on their solar power stations. “I understand the loss of that many panels has a considerable monetary value attached, but I’d like to point out that the latest solar films are half the cost and twice as efficient…” He quirked a smile at Optimus as the Prime walked by. Optimus stopped and leaned closer, rather shamelessly listening in. Perfect.
The conference table was often littered with cups and mugs and even coolers or thermoses of various human comestibles. Sam scooped something out of a cooler and lobbed it at Prime in a single smooth motion. Prime’s faceplate came up just that fast, though, and the snowball smashed itself to flakes against its prow. Sam was disappointed for half a second, until some of the pieces fell down into the mechanisms surrounding Prime’s neck.
“Aaagh!” Optimus swiped ineffectually at the already melting chunks, knocking a few in deeper and hopping around as the cold got down into his workings.
Still listening to an earnest, if pleasantly accented, tirade, Sam did a victory jog around the table with arms uplifted.
…
Their annual ritual complete, Optimus lowered Mikaela to the hangar floor. The mistletoe sprig wasn’t exactly in the center of the domed ceiling - they’d need Skyfire’s help for that - but it was far enough from any of the archways or doors to be a surprise. Last year it had been about halfway down the stem corridor, which meant it got put to a great deal of use, but said use was not as public and on display as Mikaela and Prime liked.
Breakaway was the first to get caught beneath it; by Jazz, who, it must be said, could be trusted to lay in wait for every opportunity. Jazz tied the traditional green and white ribbon around Breakaway’s right audial so the young jet could proudly strut around for the rest of the season and get extra smooches.
Scattershot almost lost an arm for grabbing Afterburner, but pointed upward just in time. Not even Afterburner could bring himself to refuse with Mikaela standing right there, watching. It was strange the way the heat of hostility between the two of them transmuted to something else when they were kissing.
“So this is one of the devices the humans employ to absolve them of the responsibility of initiating courtship?” Elita gazed up at the sprig curiously. Prime scratched his cheek guard.
“It’s just an excuse to snog,” Ironhide said, dragging Chromia and Elita properly under for a three-way kiss that lasted almost an hour.
…
“What are you…? Ah.” Ratchet joined Maggie at the big TV, watching a video feed from the Canadian side of Lake Huron. Borealis, Polaris and Blueshift were learning to ice skate. Maggie was bent double, laughing, as Borealis took a particularly spectacular spinning fall, arms and legs and wings everywhere.
“I think they get more points for wipeouts than staying on their feet,” Maggie explained. “But it doesn’t pay to make it look too fake.”
“I see.” What’s your score? Ratchet tight-beamed Borealis.
Oh, were we keeping track? she laughed. I don’t know, ask Shifty.
Lissi’s ahead by ten, Blueshift provided. I’m dead last, but that means I’m the most graceful.
…
Watching the Protectobots arrive at the embassy was like watching family come home in every mushy holiday TV movie ever inspired by Norman Rockwell paintings or Hallmark cards. Except no-one was carrying plates of steaming food or packages of gifts. Groove had a knitted scarf, though. Glen hadn’t known yarn even came in that many colors. He wondered how Groove had kept it from getting tangled up in his bike mode.
Even the alpha Seekers got into it; rubbing Breakaway’s helm, and accepting hugs from Hot Spot and First Aid. No one escaped hugs from First Aid. Bluestreak had even come from Metroplex for the week. He had told Glen at length how he felt bad for leaving Plexie and Ultra Magnus all alone, but the humans stationed there were having parties too and appreciated the decorations Plexie had contrived for the plazas and main thoroughfares. Glen had agreed that probably Ultra Magnus was content anyway, as long as he was with Metroplex; and that this was very cute.
Groove wrapped himself around Smokescreen, looking like he wasn’t going to be dislodged any time soon. Streetwise had dragged Tracks off beneath the mistletoe first thing, with Tracks laughing and hugging him with unabashed happiness. Elita leaned close to Spandrel and Hot Spot, deep in conversation.
There was Prowl, holding Blades' hands, their arms double-cabled, looking into each other's optics, Blades standing tall, at attention, as if giving a report. Maybe he was. Prowl was taking it seriously. Their little conference ended, Blades put his arm around Prowl's shoulders, unconsciously careful of the door-wings, as Streetwise and Tracks joined them. Streets snuggled into Prowl, cheek to cheek, optics bright and just a little mischievous.
Perceptor and Wheeljack came in from the tower, laughing and shaking snow onto each other, immediately folded into the warmth of the hangar and the gathered mechs. Glen sipped his cocoa. No one was watching the Constructicons, he thought, letting the notion flit across his mind and linger. They mostly kept to themselves, as far as he knew. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them being in the vicinity, even after five years. Robot business, he supposed. Prime was okay with them, so who was Glen to argue?
Speaking of. There went Prime, striding through the hangar and outside. Glen raised his eyebrows at Maggie as she joined him on the mezzanine. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, that looked purposeful, didn’t it,” she agreed. About half the other mechs in the hangar were following Prime out.
Autobots incoming, Hound explained. His tone was hard to read. Glen thought he sounded happy, but…not entirely.
Kup’s group? Maggie asked.
Oh yeah. They’d taken heavy losses earlier that year.
Yes, said Hound. Oops. Ah, there they are. Had a bad second there with the EDF satellite net. Humans tended to consider approaching spaceships on a shoot and ask for IFF codes at the same time basis these days. Prime requested calm before the cloud mind could get rowdy.
Ten minutes later, the incipient party acquired a somber note as the survivors from Chaar were finally able to get out of the cramped quarters aboard the Xantium and stretch their limbs. Ratchet scanned everyone, grim-faced, though most repairs had been made during the journey.
Smiles returned to everyone’s faces, though, as Kup came in, practically dragging Hot Rod, who had clamped himself to his progenitor with typically uncurbed enthusiasm.
“Get off,” Kup scolded, prying at the arms around his torso. “Get off, lemme look at ya!”
Laughing, Hot Rod finally let go and stood back for a moment, turning slowly to show off his latest color scheme to the fullest. Kup crossed his arms, tilting his head to one side.
“One more time round,” he said, tilting his head to the other side. “Huh. Isn’t that combination kinda subdued? You sure you don’t want to add something a little brighter? You might be mistaken for a tropical sunset as you are…”
Hot Rod rolled his optics and struck a dramatically sulky pose as guffaws and laughter spread around them. Kup glomped him, lifting him off the floor and spinning around, setting him down hasty and embarrassed but not letting go. They pressed forehelms and stayed that way for a long time.
Tell me a story, Hot Rod tight-beamed.
I’ll tell you every story I know, Kup promised. No matter how long it took. The party skirled and surged around them where they stood and nobody minded.
Drift paused at the hangar entrance.
A white hart! Maggie tight-beamed, biting her lips.
He did look a little staglike, even without antlers, Glen agreed. Harry Potter’s Patronus in super-advanced alloy. Something about those pointy feet maybe, or the way he moved.
“Afterburner?” Drift peered around the crowded hangar. The Technobots were in a clump near the stem corridor. To a mech, they pointed at their brother, receiving glares and private-channel curses which they ignored. As Drift approached, Afterburner settled his armor in what he hoped was an inconspicuous fashion. Scattershot snickered. He’d get punched for that later.
Prowl, Nightbeat and Blades appeared out of nowhere. Looking around, Afterburner saw Mikaela and Dani watching from the mezzanine, next to Maggie and Glen. Great. An audience. At least most of the other mechs in the room weren’t overtly paying them much attention.
“Hi,” Afterburner said. First salvo.
“Hello.” Drift’s smile came on slow. Wry and small at first, shaded with regret, broadening as their fields bumped; anxious, tentative, curious. Afterburner turned a little sideways, holding one arm slightly away from his body, optics focused despite his unsettled expression. Drift beamed, unleashing full wattage it would take a far stronger mech to resist, and slid into the proffered embrace.
That was so cute! Blades tight-beamed to Prowl.
Prowl gave Blades’ waist a squeeze, then leaned in to nuzzle Afterburner’s cheek. And kiss Drift.
…
Strake and Thundercracker looked at each other, optic ridges and sensory vanes canted at mutually curious angles. They almost didn’t need comms. The newsparks Prime had kindled were interesting, yes. Youngsters were always fun. But there were some weird reactions going on among the older mechs. Kup and Drift especially, who seemed to have particular fondnesses for mechs they couldn’t have ever met. What was that about?
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Are you making snow angels or setting up a snowmobile mogul course?”
“Hm!” said Groove, lifting his head to blink at Sam. “Both?”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2043 - February
She wanted the searing luminescence of sparks merged. She wanted a tall crystalline tank full of glittering nanomachines. She wanted to build her children and watch them stride forth awake and aware, full-formed from her brow.
“I was born about a hundred years too soon,” she groaned to Roddy as she embraced the porcelain throne. There was no sign from the outside yet of the changes in her body. Dani could feel things, though, besides the nausea. Or so she told herself. She pestered Ratchet every few days for new scans, translated to holo, both of them watching cell division and tissue formation and neural tube closure with equal fascination.
She wished her daughter could open her eyes on her birth day and tell her her name. She wished her daughter could spend the next seven months watching and listening and learning things from the nets and the cloud mind. She wished the color of her daughter’s skin could be changed as easily as chameleon mesh.
Her daughter would be darker than her mother, who, like her mother, tanned easily; but she would be lighter than the anonymous sperm donor father. Dani had chosen physical traits as deliberately as mental. The man had multiple PhDs in both technical fields and humanities. Nightbeat had double-checked. This mythical paragon did indeed exist. Happily married for years; he’d probably paid for one or two textbooks at university with the sperm bank fee.
There were thus things her daughter would have to deal with that were outside Dani’s experience; at least in detail. Dani was angry, wanted to make a point. There were parameters humanity needed to grow beyond.
“I gotta say, dry heaves really look like they suck,” Hot Rod said helpfully. He’d held her hair, at least, since he could get one arm into the tiny bathroom.
Her parents had had mixed emotions at her revelation. They didn’t feel old enough to be grandparents already. Dani didn’t even have a boyfriend right now. She was popular at the lab where she worked, but the men who thought they could compete with Roddy for her time and attention really couldn’t. And the kinder, shyer men who knew they couldn’t didn’t try. Her mother in particular made certain Dani understood how difficult single parenthood would be, even if her financial situation was stable. Dani’s response that her village included more than enough robot nannies had been true but did not go over all that well with a Mikaela set on a lecture.
“Dry heaves definitely suck,” Roddy said softly. Dani spat once more into the bowl and curled up on the cool tile as he flushed the toilet for her and rubbed her back.
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Table of Contents
.
Author: tainry
Disclaimer: Not mine, no money.
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing(s): Ensemble
Warnings: Violence, mild robot snuggles, vomiting.
Summary: Wherein the Autobots on Chaar have a bad time; friends gather for Winterthing; fun is had in snow; and Dani is morning sick.
Notes: With apologies to Mumford & Sons. Suggested listening for the first section is Theme from 300 (To Victory) by Tyler Bates.
~4100 words.
Part I
BOREALIS: Sigh No More - Part II
2042 - March
“Incoming!” Lodestar shouted. Kup joined him at the screens. “Twenty-seven. Missiles. From the sigs looks like…”
“Pinpoint nukes,” Kup said, already moving. “ABANDON SHIP! Minimum safe, lifeboats, wings or wheels I don’t care, GO!”
Slagging Pit slag glitching frag! This from Brace, who had been down in a narrow space inside the lower starboard engine, working on repairs. He didn’t object to Tap-Out hauling him out by one foot, though, and they both ran for the stern lifeboat. Almost had this fixed! Almost! Slaggit. The Trion’s unshielded hull could take one small nuclear strike, but a barrage? The ship’s weapons were offline and it would take too long to reroute enough power from batteries to charge those that had the range to take the missiles out at a distance that wouldn’t still fry them.
Kup and his crew scattered into Chaar’s tortured basaltic landscape, heading downhill when they could. Standing orders were to rendezvous at the Xantium. Ultra Magnus had passed his command of the Sparkreaver to Highbeam. Highbeam was a steady, serious mech, but they were busy up in the black, chasing and being chased by Turmoil. They couldn’t count on air support from that quarter.
When the blast hit, Kup knelt, shoving Flack down. Half-fried by the gamma burst, Tumult dropped out of copter form, shielding Kup in turn. His shadow left an irregular outline across the blackened, pitted expanse of Kup’s dorsal armor.
“Slag, Mul,” Kup whispered, tossing his ubiquitous rusty pipe aside. Flack helped him drag the copter to his feet. If Kup knew Macabre, he’d be sending ground and air troops out to pick off any survivors. “We got fifty klicks to run and no roads to roll on. Won’t get any shorter standing around.”
…
Guzzle’s team was coming in. Under heavy fire, as usual. Springer grinned and ordered the Xantium’s foreguns brought to bear. He leapt to a pinnacle, adjusting his optics. What the frag? It looked like Guzzle had picked a fight with an entire army this time. A dull-hued, crimson-opticked army. And was it his imagination or did all those Cons look pretty much alike? He transformed briefly to chopper mode, flipped to bipedal to land nearby as Guzzle came abreast of the narrow mouth of the canyon where the Xantium lay hidden. “What the frag, Guzz?”
“Trion’s been nuked!” Guzzle shouted, mowing down another line of pursuers. Whatever they were. Springer didn’t like this closer view. They moved with greater purpose than drones. He added his firepower to Guzzle’s
“There’s a valley full of these things between us and Kup’s people,” Guzzle continued. “Gonna have a hard time getting to us.”
“Get everyone aboard, we’re dusting off.” Springer backed slowly, guns hot already. Whatever platform Shockwave was using to launch the nukes, the Wreckers were equally at risk on the ground or in the air, and Springer liked having room to maneuver.
…
Well, Kup thought, they’d almost made it. More of the strange dull-iron and dun mechs were filtering behind them now. Tap-Out, Beacon and Groundspike were trying to cut a wedge through the forces massed in the valley, but they were badly outnumbered. Tumult had died five klicks back. They’d had to leave his body.
A flash of white caught Kup’s attention, though it didn’t distract him from the Con in his sights. The Con went down and Drift leapt over him, slashing into the ranks behind, cutting an arc that led him back to Kup and Flack. Drift stilled for a moment beside them, energon and other fluids dripping from his swords. Kup didn’t like the bleak expression that settled over Drift’s face.
“Kid,” Kup said, still firing. Drift flicked the twin blades clean and sheathed them.
“Ah, don’t…” Kup whispered, baring his denta. The Great Sword’s jewel glowed as Drift drew the blade from its housing.
…
Galaxies away, Prime fled the press conference as soon as he could politely do so. He touched his chest, head bowed. Mazerunner, he tight-beamed to Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Ultra Magnus and Prowl. Revo. Freewheel. Hubcap. Crumble. Lodestar. Roadrage. Powerflash…
Oh Primus, Ratchet said. We’ve lost the Trion, haven’t we.
Highjump. Tumult. Carillon...
And the Wreckers are trying to help, Prowl agreed.
…
Just what they needed, Springer thought, diving for the ground as his intakes were fouled. The volcano to the south had decided to spew. To his right, the Xantium was carving itself a landing space close to the biggest knot of Kup’s embattled troops. The strange Cons didn’t back off when the ship’s guns mowed them down rank after rank. They kept coming, hurling themselves into the beams as if eager to die; yet if they managed to reach an Autobot, they tore him apart with equal zeal.
There. The Xantium was down, landing ramp extending, Roadbuster leading the charge.
“WRECKERS!” Springer roared through the ashfall, jumping from jagged peak to pinnacle to join them. “TO THE GRAVEYARD!” Howls and roars of unholy glee answered. If they died, they’d have Prime respark them as Graveyard Legion.
…
Drift! Kup put as much power behind the tight-beamed transmission as he dared. He was running low on juice. Get your aft over here! We got Nornir inbound! A dun Con that would have blown Drift’s head off from behind fell to Flack’s sharpshooting. The air suddenly crackled with lightning, ionized both by the volcanic eruption and the weapons of the triplet sister interceptors roaring across the seething valley.
These Cons were silent, Kup realized, as Drift cut a path toward him. The subsonic rumble of the volcano underscored the clamor of weaponsfire and metal fists and blades on metal, but the shouts of the Wreckers grew clearer beyond those of the Trion's surviving crew. Kup blasted three more Cons, peering closely at the heads. Did they even have mouths?
Drift lunged beside him, optics dim. Two Cons fell in halves, but Drift staggered and Flack reached out to steady him.
“Don’t touch the Sword, Flack,” Kup warned, shooing the two younger mechs on. They’d meet Springer’s group in the middle of the valley. By the look of the volcano, that valley was about to become a lava field. Best get a move on.
…
Maserblade. Incendiary. Farcaster…
…
Macabre and Skyquake watched satellite feeds of the battle from Skyquake’s office. The new troops Galvatron had kindled were not as effective individually as Macabre would like, but Skyquake looked satisfied enough. Galvatron had pulled six hundred at a time from Chaar’s metal ore and rock; in two events more than doubling the Decepticon numbers. Most of the individual kindlings had been such failures, Macabre had no idea why these were so different. If they were, really.
“Not very smart,” he remarked, watching ranks of them march steadily into the Xantium’s covering fire.
Skyquake shrugged. “They don’t have to be. By numbers alone they’ll crush the stragglers.”
Macabre altered the zoom on the image of the Wreckers’ ship. Autobots were climbing aboard and on top of the ship, clamping themselves to the hull. They must have picked up survivors from Kup’s battalion. Macabre allowed himself a small smile. The loss of the Trion was a serious blow. The Autobots were running out of spaceworthy ships. This war would be over soon.
…
“Don’t touch ‘im.” Kup dragged Flack away, pushing him and Springer up the corridor. Drift had fallen into recharge there in the loading bay, the Great Sword safely stowed on his back - but the jewel still gleamed. Kup had the feeling the thing would protect the vulnerable mech. Urthr came in behind them, carrying her sisters, all of them charred and sparking.
“Roadbuster, set a rendezvous course with the Sparkreaver,” Springer said. The Wreckers were down to seventeen out of twenty. He’d think about replacements, if any, later. “Whisper, get a burst sent off to Optimus and Magnus.” Prime would know there had been trouble. Half of Kup’s 300 were dead, caught by the thermonuclear blast or chewed up by the masses of new Cons.
The Xantium heaved and shuddered its way up through Chaar’s acidic, soot-laden atmosphere, shields set on a modulation scheme that would hide them as long as they kept to the high cloud layer. They’d put a little more distance between themselves and the origin of the nuclear missiles, then make a break for space.
Meanwhile, they were going to have to squeeze a hundred and sixty-six mechs into a ship designed for a crew of fifty. Springer reached the bridge, glad Kup was relatively unhurt and by his side.
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2042 - December
Lilac-pewter clouds obscured all but a pale pink band of sky along the western horizon, shading the desert peaks in eerie twilight. Sam looked up at Prowl, who stood at ease with him in the northern lookout. Keeping watch, but also simply watching the sunset.
Fishing around in his internal directory, Sam found the private channel for the Protectobots. They were in Argentina, doing the usual; repairing bridges, breaking up ice on rivers that usually didn’t get iced, finding people lost in blizzards. It was summer there, but that hadn’t mattered this year. It wasn’t really summer anywhere.
Hey, Spot, Sam transmitted. That never got old, calling the big fire truck “Spot”. Any chance you guys could knock off the hero business for a week and come home for the holidays?
Hello, Sam, Hot Spot answered right away. Sam had expected a subroutine, but this sounded like a big chunk of the mech’s attention. And Sam wasn’t sure how he knew that. Weird. Aid’s been talking about that. If nothing comes up we’ll be there by the 20th.
Awesome! See ya then.
Will do.
Mikaela would be really pleased. She had a soft spot for the Pbots about the size of Jupiter.
…
Snowball fights among the Autobots were an interesting exercise. The relative fragility of balls of actual snow - as opposed to ice, which was accounted cheating, and also too dangerous with humans around - meant they couldn’t throw with their full strength. Their main advantage, therefore, was that they had such big damn hands.
Even Bumblebee’s arsenal - who had opted for quantity rather than size - consisted of snowballs as big as Sam’s head. Jazz beside them had much larger spheres, which he was gouging a series of divots into, like golf balls, in order to make them fly farther. Bee and Jazz also had the best snow fort, so Sam and Mikaela had holed up with them for the duration of this particular round.
“Okay, now Prime’s gonna try to cut through here in order to flank the Twins,” Jazz said. “We just gotta sit tight and wait for our moment.”
“Um, Jazz?” said Bee weakly, looking up. Sam was busy making his own snowballs as perfectly round and compact as possible. A smaller missile, Sam had found, could nail a bot between armor plates, making them jump around in entertaining ways from the cold hitting their more sensitive bits. Sam had a pretty good arm.
“I am disinclined to acquiesce to your ambush,” said a deep voice above them. Sam looked around to find he was the last to realize their position had been compromised. Prime had climbed the ridge behind them.
And was holding aloft in one hand what was possibly the largest snowball ever created on this planet.
“You wouldn’t,” Sam whispered. Mikaela slapped his arm and glared at him as the sunlight dimmed in their vicinity. Bee and Jazz dove over the humans, shielding them with their bodies. Optimus let the giant snowball of doom tip gently from his fingertips.
For such an enormous quantity of snow, it had been packed lightly. It sifted between Bee and Jazz and got down every piece of clothing Sam had on. Laughing, Bee and Jazz burrowed themselves and the humans out from the new drift and salvaged their arsenals, ready for retaliation. Optimus was already sprinting away but Jazz pegged him with a fast double-throw, Bee following up with a rapid-fire barrage. Everyone was giggling by the time Optimus was out of range.
…
Later that evening.
Sam paced the mezzanine, deep in a conference call with a handful of very concerned officials who were upset by recent Decepticon attacks on their solar power stations. “I understand the loss of that many panels has a considerable monetary value attached, but I’d like to point out that the latest solar films are half the cost and twice as efficient…” He quirked a smile at Optimus as the Prime walked by. Optimus stopped and leaned closer, rather shamelessly listening in. Perfect.
The conference table was often littered with cups and mugs and even coolers or thermoses of various human comestibles. Sam scooped something out of a cooler and lobbed it at Prime in a single smooth motion. Prime’s faceplate came up just that fast, though, and the snowball smashed itself to flakes against its prow. Sam was disappointed for half a second, until some of the pieces fell down into the mechanisms surrounding Prime’s neck.
“Aaagh!” Optimus swiped ineffectually at the already melting chunks, knocking a few in deeper and hopping around as the cold got down into his workings.
Still listening to an earnest, if pleasantly accented, tirade, Sam did a victory jog around the table with arms uplifted.
…
Their annual ritual complete, Optimus lowered Mikaela to the hangar floor. The mistletoe sprig wasn’t exactly in the center of the domed ceiling - they’d need Skyfire’s help for that - but it was far enough from any of the archways or doors to be a surprise. Last year it had been about halfway down the stem corridor, which meant it got put to a great deal of use, but said use was not as public and on display as Mikaela and Prime liked.
Breakaway was the first to get caught beneath it; by Jazz, who, it must be said, could be trusted to lay in wait for every opportunity. Jazz tied the traditional green and white ribbon around Breakaway’s right audial so the young jet could proudly strut around for the rest of the season and get extra smooches.
Scattershot almost lost an arm for grabbing Afterburner, but pointed upward just in time. Not even Afterburner could bring himself to refuse with Mikaela standing right there, watching. It was strange the way the heat of hostility between the two of them transmuted to something else when they were kissing.
“So this is one of the devices the humans employ to absolve them of the responsibility of initiating courtship?” Elita gazed up at the sprig curiously. Prime scratched his cheek guard.
“It’s just an excuse to snog,” Ironhide said, dragging Chromia and Elita properly under for a three-way kiss that lasted almost an hour.
…
“What are you…? Ah.” Ratchet joined Maggie at the big TV, watching a video feed from the Canadian side of Lake Huron. Borealis, Polaris and Blueshift were learning to ice skate. Maggie was bent double, laughing, as Borealis took a particularly spectacular spinning fall, arms and legs and wings everywhere.
“I think they get more points for wipeouts than staying on their feet,” Maggie explained. “But it doesn’t pay to make it look too fake.”
“I see.” What’s your score? Ratchet tight-beamed Borealis.
Oh, were we keeping track? she laughed. I don’t know, ask Shifty.
Lissi’s ahead by ten, Blueshift provided. I’m dead last, but that means I’m the most graceful.
…
Watching the Protectobots arrive at the embassy was like watching family come home in every mushy holiday TV movie ever inspired by Norman Rockwell paintings or Hallmark cards. Except no-one was carrying plates of steaming food or packages of gifts. Groove had a knitted scarf, though. Glen hadn’t known yarn even came in that many colors. He wondered how Groove had kept it from getting tangled up in his bike mode.
Even the alpha Seekers got into it; rubbing Breakaway’s helm, and accepting hugs from Hot Spot and First Aid. No one escaped hugs from First Aid. Bluestreak had even come from Metroplex for the week. He had told Glen at length how he felt bad for leaving Plexie and Ultra Magnus all alone, but the humans stationed there were having parties too and appreciated the decorations Plexie had contrived for the plazas and main thoroughfares. Glen had agreed that probably Ultra Magnus was content anyway, as long as he was with Metroplex; and that this was very cute.
Groove wrapped himself around Smokescreen, looking like he wasn’t going to be dislodged any time soon. Streetwise had dragged Tracks off beneath the mistletoe first thing, with Tracks laughing and hugging him with unabashed happiness. Elita leaned close to Spandrel and Hot Spot, deep in conversation.
There was Prowl, holding Blades' hands, their arms double-cabled, looking into each other's optics, Blades standing tall, at attention, as if giving a report. Maybe he was. Prowl was taking it seriously. Their little conference ended, Blades put his arm around Prowl's shoulders, unconsciously careful of the door-wings, as Streetwise and Tracks joined them. Streets snuggled into Prowl, cheek to cheek, optics bright and just a little mischievous.
Perceptor and Wheeljack came in from the tower, laughing and shaking snow onto each other, immediately folded into the warmth of the hangar and the gathered mechs. Glen sipped his cocoa. No one was watching the Constructicons, he thought, letting the notion flit across his mind and linger. They mostly kept to themselves, as far as he knew. He wasn’t sure how he felt about them being in the vicinity, even after five years. Robot business, he supposed. Prime was okay with them, so who was Glen to argue?
Speaking of. There went Prime, striding through the hangar and outside. Glen raised his eyebrows at Maggie as she joined him on the mezzanine. “What’s up?”
“Yeah, that looked purposeful, didn’t it,” she agreed. About half the other mechs in the hangar were following Prime out.
Autobots incoming, Hound explained. His tone was hard to read. Glen thought he sounded happy, but…not entirely.
Kup’s group? Maggie asked.
Oh yeah. They’d taken heavy losses earlier that year.
Yes, said Hound. Oops. Ah, there they are. Had a bad second there with the EDF satellite net. Humans tended to consider approaching spaceships on a shoot and ask for IFF codes at the same time basis these days. Prime requested calm before the cloud mind could get rowdy.
Ten minutes later, the incipient party acquired a somber note as the survivors from Chaar were finally able to get out of the cramped quarters aboard the Xantium and stretch their limbs. Ratchet scanned everyone, grim-faced, though most repairs had been made during the journey.
Smiles returned to everyone’s faces, though, as Kup came in, practically dragging Hot Rod, who had clamped himself to his progenitor with typically uncurbed enthusiasm.
“Get off,” Kup scolded, prying at the arms around his torso. “Get off, lemme look at ya!”
Laughing, Hot Rod finally let go and stood back for a moment, turning slowly to show off his latest color scheme to the fullest. Kup crossed his arms, tilting his head to one side.
“One more time round,” he said, tilting his head to the other side. “Huh. Isn’t that combination kinda subdued? You sure you don’t want to add something a little brighter? You might be mistaken for a tropical sunset as you are…”
Hot Rod rolled his optics and struck a dramatically sulky pose as guffaws and laughter spread around them. Kup glomped him, lifting him off the floor and spinning around, setting him down hasty and embarrassed but not letting go. They pressed forehelms and stayed that way for a long time.
Tell me a story, Hot Rod tight-beamed.
I’ll tell you every story I know, Kup promised. No matter how long it took. The party skirled and surged around them where they stood and nobody minded.
Drift paused at the hangar entrance.
A white hart! Maggie tight-beamed, biting her lips.
He did look a little staglike, even without antlers, Glen agreed. Harry Potter’s Patronus in super-advanced alloy. Something about those pointy feet maybe, or the way he moved.
“Afterburner?” Drift peered around the crowded hangar. The Technobots were in a clump near the stem corridor. To a mech, they pointed at their brother, receiving glares and private-channel curses which they ignored. As Drift approached, Afterburner settled his armor in what he hoped was an inconspicuous fashion. Scattershot snickered. He’d get punched for that later.
Prowl, Nightbeat and Blades appeared out of nowhere. Looking around, Afterburner saw Mikaela and Dani watching from the mezzanine, next to Maggie and Glen. Great. An audience. At least most of the other mechs in the room weren’t overtly paying them much attention.
“Hi,” Afterburner said. First salvo.
“Hello.” Drift’s smile came on slow. Wry and small at first, shaded with regret, broadening as their fields bumped; anxious, tentative, curious. Afterburner turned a little sideways, holding one arm slightly away from his body, optics focused despite his unsettled expression. Drift beamed, unleashing full wattage it would take a far stronger mech to resist, and slid into the proffered embrace.
That was so cute! Blades tight-beamed to Prowl.
Prowl gave Blades’ waist a squeeze, then leaned in to nuzzle Afterburner’s cheek. And kiss Drift.
…
Strake and Thundercracker looked at each other, optic ridges and sensory vanes canted at mutually curious angles. They almost didn’t need comms. The newsparks Prime had kindled were interesting, yes. Youngsters were always fun. But there were some weird reactions going on among the older mechs. Kup and Drift especially, who seemed to have particular fondnesses for mechs they couldn’t have ever met. What was that about?
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
“Are you making snow angels or setting up a snowmobile mogul course?”
“Hm!” said Groove, lifting his head to blink at Sam. “Both?”
<{>~~~<(o)>~~~<}>
2043 - February
She wanted the searing luminescence of sparks merged. She wanted a tall crystalline tank full of glittering nanomachines. She wanted to build her children and watch them stride forth awake and aware, full-formed from her brow.
“I was born about a hundred years too soon,” she groaned to Roddy as she embraced the porcelain throne. There was no sign from the outside yet of the changes in her body. Dani could feel things, though, besides the nausea. Or so she told herself. She pestered Ratchet every few days for new scans, translated to holo, both of them watching cell division and tissue formation and neural tube closure with equal fascination.
She wished her daughter could open her eyes on her birth day and tell her her name. She wished her daughter could spend the next seven months watching and listening and learning things from the nets and the cloud mind. She wished the color of her daughter’s skin could be changed as easily as chameleon mesh.
Her daughter would be darker than her mother, who, like her mother, tanned easily; but she would be lighter than the anonymous sperm donor father. Dani had chosen physical traits as deliberately as mental. The man had multiple PhDs in both technical fields and humanities. Nightbeat had double-checked. This mythical paragon did indeed exist. Happily married for years; he’d probably paid for one or two textbooks at university with the sperm bank fee.
There were thus things her daughter would have to deal with that were outside Dani’s experience; at least in detail. Dani was angry, wanted to make a point. There were parameters humanity needed to grow beyond.
“I gotta say, dry heaves really look like they suck,” Hot Rod said helpfully. He’d held her hair, at least, since he could get one arm into the tiny bathroom.
Her parents had had mixed emotions at her revelation. They didn’t feel old enough to be grandparents already. Dani didn’t even have a boyfriend right now. She was popular at the lab where she worked, but the men who thought they could compete with Roddy for her time and attention really couldn’t. And the kinder, shyer men who knew they couldn’t didn’t try. Her mother in particular made certain Dani understood how difficult single parenthood would be, even if her financial situation was stable. Dani’s response that her village included more than enough robot nannies had been true but did not go over all that well with a Mikaela set on a lecture.
“Dry heaves definitely suck,” Roddy said softly. Dani spat once more into the bowl and curled up on the cool tile as he flushed the toilet for her and rubbed her back.
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Table of Contents
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