Fic: That Still Small Voice: Chapter Nine

[lady_oneiros]

Title: That Still Small Voice
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: Sam has been pulled deeper into the conflict than anyone realized.
Author’s Note: I owe a huge debt of gratitude to lyricality and starofsacrifice for betaing this beast of a chapter. Any remaining mistakes are entirely my fault. I hope you all enjoy chapter nine, and be sure to drop me a line and tell me what you think!

Chapter One : Chapter Two : Chapter Three : Chapter Four : Chapter Five : Chapter Six: Chapter Seven: Chapter Eight



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Chapter Nine
“Caves and Tunnels”

“The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.”
--William Butler Yeats, ‘Sailing to Byzantium’

8888

Sam knew that he would have to hurry. Night was descending slowly but steadily, riding down on the backs of the forest pythons. Weak shafts of purple-green evening light filtered through the broad leaves of the canopy while frogs and night insects sang out carefully timed sonatas that filled the cool, light air. The ground was soft and spongy beneath his shoes, much of the leaves and decaying wood having been digested by fungi to be more soil than anything else. Sam kept a hand outstretched, waving away the thick white gossamer curtains of spider webs that stretched across the spaces between trees. They parted easily, folding away from his path before falling loosely back into place behind him. The spiders hurried to repair the damage.

Sam’s path ran windingly uphill as he sought the easiest trail, each step slow and deliberate as he made sure of his footing. As the light faded, and darkness crept up from its shadowed hiding places, his only guidance was the modified GPS navigator in his hand that beeped in quiet, even intervals. The compass needle swung at each turn, urging him in the right direction, pushing him forward. Far behind, Sam could hear the large, heavy steps of Bumblebee as his guardian worked through the tangles of vegetation-his size made for slow going. Sam stopped every so often to listen for Bumblebee, to hear the rustling of branches and leaves that marked his guardian’s movements. Satisfied at Bumblebee’s nearness, Sam kept up his pace, not bothering to call out. There was no doubt that Bumblebee had sensors trained on him and on each movement he made, so there was little chance of them becoming separated. As well, Sam was still angry from their earlier argument, and it made him bold, made him a little a reckless.

Shrugging his backpack higher up onto his shoulders, Sam stepped through a thick cluster of vines and hardwoods and onto a small muddy bank rising shallowly up from a narrow, rapidly flowing creek. Its waters were clear, like liquid diamond, tumbling over time-smoothed pebbles that glistened in the last of the dying light. Insects, drawn to the water, were quick to swarm around Sam’s face, their whine high-pitched and uncomfortably close to his ears, but Sam ignored them. The creek, and its smooth bed, offered an easier path to take than the cluttered, hazardous jungle floor.

The water was also wonderfully cool and soothing around his swollen ankles as it soaked through his shoes and socks. Sam made sure to note, though, that he would have to change his shoes later-fungal infections were an all too frequent companion in rainforest trips, the humidity their home turf. Sam traveled up the stream, millipedes darting out in dark, racing lines from under each stone his toe upset. Ah, but this was so much easier to walk than trying to pick around thorny vines and trying to climb over rotting logs, and Sam quickened his step. Bumblebee had been right-they had reached the mountains before nightfall, and according to Bumblebee, the location of the signal’s origin was only a few miles off the makeshift dirt road that wrapped its tender way through the dips of the Sierra Madre de Chiapas. But he still had to hurry.

Time had been the focus of Sam and Bumblebee’s second argument of the day. Though full night was still a few hours away and barely a hindrance for Bumblebee’s navigation, Bumblebee had wanted to wait. He had tried to persuade Sam to hang back, to remain hidden until the following morning while they collected data and could more fully analyze the situation. But Sam had been restless, filled with anxious energy that compelled him into immediate action. Intensive scanning of the surrounding area had produced no evidence of any Decepticon activity, and that had been good enough for Sam. The sound of the strange signal had seemed to echo in the back of his mind, playing in an endless loop, and its mystery was driving him into the mountains, high into the mist. He was nervous, his muscles quivering and breath shallow under the possible dangers, but instead of fueling his sense of self-preservation, his disquiet only seemed to undermine it, erode it, making him light-headed and striding into the waiting forest before he fully realized what he was doing.

Bumblebee, of course, followed him. Sam knew he would, and despite the frustration he knew Bumblebee was feeling, he was still grateful for such a reassuring presence at his back. Even if something were to go wrong, Bumblebee would be there to rescue him. Beyond anything else, Sam could count on that.

With little warning, the ground rose sharply before Sam, forming a small cliff over which the stream’s water tumbled and creating a fine mist that settled in tiny droplets on Sam’s eyelashes and skin. The navigator in his hand continued to beep, both compass needle and digital arrow pointing forwards. With a sigh, Sam placed the handle of the navigator between his teeth and began his ascent up the side of the waterfall. The stone was slick, covered with a thin film of water, and the moss and plants clinging to the rock provided no firmer footing. Their roots and stems, however, made for good anchors, and Sam clutched tightly at them as he climbed his way up the rock face. It was hard work, sharp edges of stone biting into Sam’s palms when the dim light altered his sense of depth and he scraped his hand in almost blind reaches for hand holds. At least the ridge was small, and he had made it over the top before Bumblebee caught up to him.

The land at the top of the waterfall was flattened out, but only briefly, as not another fifty feet in front of Sam, the land made another sharp tilt upwards, like a steep staircase, the view of its ceiling blocked by overhanging trees and ferns. Sam removed the navigator from his mouth and sighed, his heavy breath stirring the cloud of gnats that were swarming in front of his face. The digital arrow on the navigator’s screen flickered between pointing forwards and becoming a hollowed out circle, signaling that his destination had been reached.

“Damn,” Sam cursed quietly as he stood in the wide pool of the creek, watching the water ripple out through a dark arch in the gray rock. The cave’s entrance was black as tar, a hole in the mountain made all the more foreboding by the fallen tree hanging diagonally across its entrance and the vines swaying in the slight breeze across its roughshorn mouth.

Bumblebee came up behind Sam, pulling himself easily up onto the ridge. Bumblebee straightened, shaking out some of the leaves and branches that had gotten caught in between the yellow, armored plates of his exoskeleton. Sam did not turn to look at him; he kept his stare focused on the silent maw of the cave. He could practically hear Bumblebee’s processor racing with probability calculations and running systematically through a list of possible actions.

“Well,” Sam said, folding his arms across his damp torso, suddenly feeling the chill of his soaked shirt. “This complicates things a bit.”

8888

Ratchet drummed his fingers on his work table, checking his internal chronometer and shifting irritably when he saw that only a few minutes had passed since the last time he checked it. If there was anything he truly hated, it was watching time tick by unused, but his requested appointment with Optimus had been denied until late evening. That gave him not enough time to get any significant work done, and too much nervous energy to even attempt to start.

With a growl, Ratchet stood up and began to walk the perimeter of his medbay, checking the organization of already immaculately kept shelves. The motions were little better than pacing, but it helped to keep his hands busy-to at least pretend that he was doing something useful rather than burning off excess energy that rippled unevenly through his energon lines.

Ratchet stepped away from the shelving, unnerved by and untrusting of the tremor that seemed to be running through his fingers. He took several long strides back and forth through the bay, for a few moments contemplating a walk outside before rejecting the idea and turning back on his mindless rounds. He needed something to do. It should not be hard, there was always something that needed to be done…

IRON AND STEEL WILL BEND AND BOW
WOOD AND CLAY WILL WASH AWAY

The phrases had come from a song. More precisely, a children’s song, and one that seemed to be meant for nothing other than simple entertainment. Elementary research had revealed that the song was indeed well known and fairly common, just as Sam had said. But even knowing the phrases’ origin did not explain their meaning nor significance, if they had any at all. Entertainment. Ratchet stopped pacing, inwardly scolding himself. It was ridiculous to be this upset, to be so alarmed by something that was merely coincidental, easily explained away.

If only he could find those easy explanations.

Which he could do, of course. Which he was planning to do as soon as he spoke with Optimus. Ratchet had not been surprised when Optimus had refused to give him immediate audience earlier in the day. Despite attempts to soothe the tensions between them, Optimus had remained standoffish, making it clear that he was hesitant to take Ratchet back into such close confidence after Ratchet’s display of mistrust and thinly-veiled accusations of madness. Madness was a bit extreme, but no other qualification could be applied to believing in communication with the dead.

What he needed to do, Ratchet felt, was find out an alternative answer, an explanation that would settle the mystery of the message. Only once he did that could the air finally clear between himself and Optimus, and things could go back to normal. He never enjoyed fighting with Optimus, and he was eager to set the whole experience behind them and erase it from his memory banks. It would be good for Optimus, too. Ever since the beginning of the war, Ratchet had worried about Optimus’ fixation on Megatron-it was nearly as strong as Megatron’s return obsession with him, though it was better hidden, more controlled. Ratchet had not personally known Optimus on Cybertron; Optimus and Megatron both, as leaders of the planet, were of course recognized and Ratchet had appreciated how well they had governed Cybertron through its Golden Age. Gossip and daily news entries remarked on their apparent close friendship, sometimes even speculated on it, but Ratchet, like so many others, never knew the true extent nor depth of it. Ironhide and Jazz probably had a better idea of their relationship. After all, both Ironhide and Jazz had been members of the Imperial Palace and had both been friends with Optimus long before the war started. Neither had ever said anything, though, and Ratchet had never felt it appropriate to ask.

It had affected Optimus strongly, though-the start of the war. That much Ratchet could tell. Though they had never met in person before the war, Ratchet had seen Optimus from afar, giving planetary addresses, talking with proprietors of local establishments, walking the streets of Iacon, even visiting sparkling care centers and playing with the newly created. Optimus was…the bright light of Cybertron. His step was light, lively; he was fair and strong and willing to challenge Senate idiocy. After the uneasy times under Sentinel Prime’s rule and the dark, dangerous feelings that had arisen upon his assassination, Optimus Prime had been like a soothing balm, a calming and refreshing touch that seemed to stretch across the entire planet like a fresh breeze through old rooms. Relations with nearby star systems were friendly, and even the lower class workers of the planet found more government support and a higher standard of living.

A true Golden Age. And through it all, Lord High Protector Megatron was at Optimus’s side, enforcing the legislation set by the Prime and providing the Order to Optimus’s Law. Overheard conversations with elder ‘bots had told a young Ratchet that Megatron and Optimus worked in a harmony unseen before in a Prime-Lord High Protector pairing. They were balanced, in tune with each other, were equals in every sense of the word.

Just as Optimus had been full of life and light, so Megatron had been. Though more intimidating and less approachable than his counterpart, there had been pride in Megatron. Pride in Cybertron’s glory, in its peace and justice. He had been a pillar of strength, and Ratchet had lived out his daily life as a medic-in-training well content in the background knowledge that, far away in Iacon, the Lord High Protector guarded both the planet’s and Prime’s security with an unbreakable will.

Something happened, though. Somewhere along the way, the Lord High Protector had taken a sharp corner, and the warmth grew cold. Ratchet had reviewed his memory banks, had scoured them in fact, trying to find any sign of the change in the Lord High Protector. Trying to find where it started. But Ratchet had not been paying attention. Life had been good; he was a rising star at the med center in which he was training and, as such, had been unconcerned with the government’s functioning. The news out of Iacon had altered so slowly that no one had seen it coming. Almost overnight, Cybertron had gone from Golden Age to civil war-it was such a sudden change that it could only have started countless years back.

The only thing truly out of the ordinary that Ratchet had noticed was when reports from Iacon said that Optimus had fallen ill-he had contracted a virus that kept him out of direct command and under intense security in the palace for several weeks; only a select few were allowed to see him. Megatron had taken over Optimus’s duties, but nothing had changed then. Things continued on as normal until Optimus returned to his post. However, there had been the creation of the Cybertronian State Security Force, founded by Megatron to provide local and planetary law enforcement while his time was spent assuming Optimus’s diplomatic duties. Prowl had cited the CSSF as the protoform of the Decepticon army, but Ratchet had had a hard time believing that. It was true that the CSSF had been a little extreme and authoritarian, and their crest bore a faint resemblance to the Decepticon insignia, but Ironhide had been a part of it. That, Ratchet remembered, because it had made news-the fact that Ironhide, the well-known and respected military chief officer, had, at least temporarily, resigned his post in order to be the commandant of the CSSF. To think that Ironhide had been a member of the Decepticon army, even when it was under a different name, was beyond ridiculous. Even laughable. On top of that, the CSSF had been dissolved quickly after Optimus’s return to his post.

When war did break out, and the Decepticon army proper formed, Optimus had been taken hostage. The citizens could do little while Optimus was incarcerated in the Palace. Having no real leadership, and even less in the way of weapons, they could only watch as the Decepticons, at Megatron’s command, began to stretch out across the planet like a growing cancer and start taking control of the cities one by one. It had been easy for the Decepticons. Most everyone had been taken by such surprise that they were paralyzed by shock, unable to comprehend the switch from peace and friendship to such brutality and aggression. People fled from the Decepticons, running to the cities still untouched. Those refugees had been Ratchet’s first real test on his skills as a medic. His experience had been limited to work-related injuries, accidents, and the occasional scrape from energon bar brawls. War injuries had been only theoretical, passages in textbooks that described injuries and their respective treatments like they were museum pieces-artifacts from a more primitive age. Ratchet had been decidedly unprepared for limbs that had been deliberately ripped from their joints, for missing jaws, torn out optical lenses, entire systems pulled out by their wires. He and all the other students had never encountered cannon blasts to the torso and the deep, system-wide effects it started, had no idea as to how to comfort an individual slowly dying from a Spark impaled by its own protective casing.

Ratchet had lost more people than had been necessary-his inexperience causing him to fumble the lives that had been placed in his hands. Suddenly, the recommendations and praises and valedictorian speeches meant nothing. His impeccable skills and knowing all the answers on the tests withered and crumbled under the struggling voice of a street cleaner who had half of his main processors torn out and who kept trying to ask where his bond mate was. That individual had taken three days to die.

Ratchet had eventually fled-once the Decepticons had reached his city and were slowly but steadily approaching the medical sector-only taking with him the tools he could fit onto his person. Some of the students, his friends, had remained, but Ratchet never knew what happened to them. Either they had been incorporated into the Decepticon army or had been killed themselves. Ratchet could not bring himself to imagine it, not as he passed people huddling in the streets, screaming for the Decepticons to stop and to not hurt the sparklings or younglings in their care. Sworn to heal, and all Ratchet had done was run-ignoring those who saw the seal of the medical guild on his shoulders and tried to get him to stop and help their friends and bond mates. The justification Ratchet gave himself was that he could do little for them when he was refugee himself.

He ended up in Tyger Pax, Optimus Prime’s hometown and one of the last cities to be targeted by the Decepticons. Tyger Pax had been filled with refugees, all trying to escape the unstoppable Decepticons and trying to form a resistance. Ironhide and Jazz were at the head of it, perhaps not by choice but were those individuals to whom everyone else turned, but so little could be done without Optimus Prime. Some even said that Optimus Prime was not a hostage at all, but had helped Megatron form and lead the Decepticons. Those rumors, when heard, were viciously and sometimes violently countered by Ironhide, who insisted that, upon his own escape from the Palace, Optimus Prime was kept locked away by Megatron and was under intense security. Only Megatron could access Optimus’s rooms, and Ironhide’s attempt to bring Optimus with him had nearly cost him his own escape.

That had been when Ratchet met Ironhide for the first time, when the resistance forces cried for medical assistance, and he fought back his cowardice and previous failures to help. He did not go unnoticed for very long, and remarkably soon afterwards, he found himself part of discussions on plans to free Optimus. Their committee was in the final stages of planning an admittedly idealistic rescue when Optimus Prime himself stumbled into the room, extremely worn and weak-suffering from a planted virus-and clutching a tiny yellow sparkling in his arms as though it were the most valuable treasure in the universe. Apparently, Optimus had found him in his flight from Iacon, and even when he collapsed, his grip on the sparkling remained unbreakable.

Such was Ratchet’s first in-person meeting with Optimus Prime, and he was up to his elbows in the Prime’s wiring. If he had thought his final examinations were stressful, it could not compare to having to remove the virus from Optimus’s systems and repair his other, rather severe, injuries while the entire resistance force counted on his abilities to save their leader. But he succeeded, and Optimus Prime was able to form the Autobots and finally counter the Decepticons. From that moment, Ratchet was a part of Optimus Prime’s personal team, and he had never left it. Other Autobots joined and left them accordingly as teams were formed and restructured, but he, Ironhide, and Jazz were the only permanent members. Not to forget, of course, the sparkling for whom Optimus assumed responsibility and guardianship.

It was also the first that Ratchet saw the change in Optimus Prime. His change was not as dramatic as Megatron’s, but it was all too easy to see the betrayal, the hurt, as Optimus surveyed the ruined, burning cities of Cybertron. As dying ‘bots reached out to him from the rubble, seeking his comfort. All of Optimus’s former brightness dimmed, the lightness of his steps became heavy and scuffling. The proud line of his shoulders slumped with an invisible weight. His happiness turned to sadness that no one seemed to be able to touch. All of his purportedly miraculous abilities, and Ratchet had found one thing he could not heal. Optimus was beyond his reach. Was beyond everyone’s reach, really, and Optimus had to create his own inner tranquility in order to just survive.

Optimus never spoke of what happened during his imprisonment in the Palace, but Ratchet could tell that, whatever it was, it had damaged him. Damaged something that none of his tools could fix. And despite, or perhaps because of, these unnamed, unaddressed tortures, Optimus remained fixated on Megatron. He scrupulously examined each piece of intelligence that crossed Autobot communications about the Decepticon leader, and both Megatron and Optimus took turns pursuing each other across the galaxy. And, apparently, keeping up secret communications all the while. Millennia of obsession on both parts, both unable to kill each other, both having found their match in terms of strength, intelligence, and abilities. Megatron made no attempt to hide his obsession-orders were sent out to kill every single Autobot except Prime, and ridiculously high bounties were placed on Prime’s capture. Optimus was just as focused on his counterpart, but he at least attempted to fight his personal weakness, to place equal importance on his Autobots and find the strength to oppose Megatron.

Oppose him, not kill him. There had been times where Optimus had been in an excellent position to destroy Megatron, but something always seemed to happen that prevented him from placing a fatal blow. Optimus had the inner strength enough to resist Megatron, but he was not strong enough to kill him, and Ratchet knew that failing weighed upon him. Perhaps that was why Optimus had volunteered to be the one to unite the All Spark with his own Spark, choosing to sacrifice himself instead of trying to kill Megatron. He had not even attempted to consider plans of destroying Megatron. He already knew the outcome. Ratchet had argued with him, Jazz had argued with him.

Ironhide had not. He had not said a word.

Further evidence that Ironhide knew what was between Optimus and Megatron, and had agreed with Optimus’s self-diagnosis of weakness. For millennia, Ratchet had avoided asking Ironhide about Optimus’s and Megatron’s relationship, but it seemed that he would finally have to breach the subject that was silently understood as taboo. He would have to. This fixation of Optimus’s on Megatron was stronger than Ratchet had previously thought, if Optimus believed that a most-assuredly dead Megatron was still trying to communicate with him. It simply was not healthy for Optimus to believe this, and it prevented him from finally separating himself from Megatron. Optimus needed to be free of Megatron, and separation by death was apparently not going to be enough.

Ratchet had to find out the source of the message. For Optimus’s sake. Ratchet loved him too much to let him dwell so heavily on Megatron. And Ratchet hated Megatron too much to let him have such a firm grip on Optimus, especially from the grave. Ratchet was going to take Optimus away from him, and on that, Ratchet’s mind was made up. It was time for him to heal Optimus’s wounds, and he would do so, etching the conviction deep into the back of his processor.

The sound of a sliding door startled Ratchet out of his thoughts, and he was surprised to see that the light streaming in from the windows was almost completely gone, night having come while he was not watching. Ratchet turned around, Optimus’s name forming in his vocal processors and already rising when he stopped, choking the sound back as he stumbled slightly in surprise.

“Wheeljack,” Ratchet greeted, quickly gathering himself up. “Is anything wrong?”

“I came to ask you that,” Wheeljack replied as he stepped into the medbay. His optics swept across the room, taking in the environment before coming back to rest on Ratchet. “You’ve been in here all day by yourself.”

“I’m fine. Just trying to get some work done without any interruptions.”

Wheeljack’s optics slid to the worktable, undoubtably noting the lack of any unfinished projects and tools. Ratchet tensed, but Wheeljack did not comment on it. He merely hopped up onto one of the other tables, legs casually swinging.

“Well, I could use some company. Ironhide’s with Will and Optimus has been locked in his quarters all day. I’m bored.”

“Go study Earth environments.”

“I’ve been doing that. I was planning a trip to go see the Grand Canyon, but Banachek would not give me the clearance needed. You know, Ratchet, you didn’t have to tell him that I blow up everything I come into contact with,” Wheeljack said, giving Ratchet a long-suffering look.

Despite himself, Ratchet smiled. A few unfortunate, but notable, accidents had branded Wheeljack for life, and there was not a single Autobot that did not tease Wheeljack about it nor let him forget for even a second. Wheeljack was actually an extremely competent scientist, and more often than not his experiments and resultant creations were brilliant, if a bit eccentric.

Wheeljack was also one of the few individuals that could maintain a positive attitude no matter the situation, and could always be relied upon to lighten the mood whenever stress or tensions between Autobots ran high. Wheeljack had certainly been an interesting work partner to have around, especially during those centuries when space constraints had forced Wheeljack’s lab and Ratchet’s medbay to be one and the same, and Ratchet had spent more time in Wheeljack’s presence than any other Autobot. The partnership had been difficult at first, and certainly they were one of the odder pairings, for not a single day went by that they did not get into some sort of argument, be it about sharing space, tools, or the sheer craziness of one of Wheeljack’s ideas that would always somehow turn out to be sheer genius. They were ill-matched, complete opposites, of different rank and specialty.

Oh, how Ratchet had missed him. And now, with Wheeljack sitting here in his medbay and lightly bantering with him as though they had not spent thousands of years apart, Ratchet could feel the nostalgia wrapping its way around his Spark. It was good to have Wheeljack back. Part of him hoped that Wheeljack would move back into the medbay, like before, but their new base had more than enough room for the both of them to have their own workplaces. As well, it seemed an awkward thing for which to ask.

“Perhaps you could do something useful,” Ratchet teased. “Like working on deciphering the signal that Maggie intercepted.”

“Been working on that too,” Wheeljack replied. “And so far, I got nothing. As near as Maggie and I can figure, it’s just a bunch of sound.”

It helped ease the discomfort a little, at least, with sending Bumblebee and Sam on a mission to uncover the source of the signal. Ratchet had hoped it was nothing, an anomaly, and so far it was turning out to be just that.

“I am expecting to hear from Bumblebee fairly soon-within the next few days. The mystery should be solved by then.”

This was easier, talking about missions and tasks that needed to be completed rather than trying to break the tension inherent in a long-awaited reunion. Ratchet turned away from Wheeljack, moving towards his workstation to retrieve some of the files provided by Maggie. They had come in this morning, hand delivered by Will, and Ratchet had yet to give them to Wheeljack to review and turn into electronic data. There was probably little of great importance in the files, but every little bit of information was useful-

Ratchet’s reach for the files was halted as Wheeljack closed a hand around his wrist. He froze, embarrassingly rigid as Wheeljack guided Ratchet’s hand away from the shelves and downwards, holding it in the narrow space between them.

“Stop,” Wheeljack said, voice quiet. “You’re working yourself too hard. As usual,” he added, and Ratchet could a quirk of amusement in his tone. “I can tell that you’re stressing yourself out. Why don’t you come out with me for the evening-just to drive around. I’ve been wanting to explore the city. Or we can just drive around the desert, if you want. It’s up to you.”

It was strange, Ratchet thought, that he could not quite meet Wheeljack’s gaze, and that Wheeljack had yet to let go of his wrist. Strange, and a little dizzying.

“I-I have an appointment with Optimus this evening,” Ratchet said, finding himself unable to explain why his voice sounded shaky. A barely noticeable quiver, but still there.

“How long will that take? Not very long, right?” Wheeljack asked, taking a small step closer. Ratchet took a responding step backwards, only to run into the edge of the counter that ran along the wall.

“It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen you, Ratchet. And everyone’s been so busy lately, we haven’t had any time to catch up. Please?” Wheeljack continued. His grip on Ratchet’s wrist loosened enough for him to run a thumb along the forearm plating, touch light and calming.

“Wheeljack, I-“

“Hey, Ratchet, can you take a look at my right cannon? It keeps pulling to the left whenever I fire-“ Ironhide’s voice cut through the room as he walked into the medbay, stopping when he saw Ratchet and Wheeljack standing so close together. “Am I interrupting anything?” he asked, tone noticeably changing as his optics centered on Wheeljack. Wheeljack dropped Ratchet’s wrist, and Ratchet was quick to step out around him into a more open area.

“No, you’re not interrupting anything. Wheeljack and I were just talking.”

“I see.”

“You say your cannon’s pulling to the left?” Ratchet questioned, the plates in his hands already shifting to reveal examination tools. They were his field tools, and he had been able to assemble some proper medbay instruments, but millennia of habit and going without a decent medbay was a hard routine to break.

“I can come back,” Ironhide said, optics finally pulling away from Wheeljack to focus on Ratchet’s approach.

“Nonsense,” Ratchet countered, reaching for Ironhide’s arm to examine it. “You are our main defense-we need to make sure you’re operating correctly.”

Ratchet declined to mention that Ironhide also provided a good escape route from the previous uncomfortable situation. He was not afraid of Wheeljack, far from it, and he normally would have loved to spend some time with his old friend. But it had been a long time, and Ratchet still did not trust himself to not become…emotional. That was a situation he wanted to avoid, and he could do that by concentrating on his work. He already knew the cause of Ironhide’s cannon problem-a balancing weight had shifted out of place, causing the recoil to tilt to the side. Easily fixed, but Ratchet took a few extra minutes to make sure the weight was firmly back where it needed to be. No harm tightening a few bolts while he was there, too.

“So what do you say, Ratchet?” Wheeljack asked, coming up to stand next to him. “Do you want to go on a drive after you’re done talking with Prime?”

Ironhide straightened, looking sharply across at Ratchet.

“You’re going to speak with Optimus?”

Ratchet knew Ironhide was thinking of that night when he and Ratchet had fought-their brief scuffle driving home the point that Ironhide wanted Ratchet to fix whatever disagreement had come between him and Prime. Ironhide’s tone was a not-so-subtle reminder to Ratchet of this point, and the glare in his optics demanded an affirmative response.

“Yes,” Ratchet answered. It was the truth, but his conversation with Optimus would not be about what Ironhide was expecting-wanting-it to be. He had an idea concerning the author-less message that Optimus had received, but he could not tell Ironhide that. Nor Wheeljack, for that matter. The incident with the message was under the highest privacy restrictions in his processor, and Optimus had forbidden any communication with the others about it. At least for now, Ratchet had to keep Optimus’s secret.

“Good,” Ironhide said, relaxing as he pulled his newly patched arm away from Ratchet. Cannons shifted effortlessly back into place, their glow disappearing from the room. “I hope you can settle your dispute.”

Ratchet scowled at Ironhide, angry that he had to bring this up in front of Wheeljack.

“You fought with Optimus?” Wheeljack questioned, quite obviously surprised. Fights between Optimus and anyone were rare, even more so fights between Optimus and Ratchet.

“It was just a misunderstanding,” Ratchet snapped, hating to be under such intense scrutiny from both of the other ‘bots. He also hated being painted as the villain, as Ironhide was so obviously doing. The strain between himself and Optimus was just as much Optimus’s fault as it was his, but Ironhide did not seem to acknowledge that possibility.

“Get it cleared up,” Ironhide said, and Ratchet’s scowl deepened. It was true that Ironhide was, by default, in Jazz’s former position as second-in-command, but everything he said did not have to have the edge of an order behind it. He wielded his rank too often for Ratchet’s taste, especially when it was not needed. “I don’t want to see Optimus moping around the base anymore,” Ironhide continued.

“I’ve noticed that he’s been acting kind of strangely, too,” Wheeljack commented. “He’s been in kind of a funky mood. Do you know what could be wrong with him?” he asked Ratchet.

Where to start, Ratchet thought, but he kept his mouth shut, opting instead to shake his head.

“I have no idea.”

“No idea about what?” Optimus asked from the doorway. Ratchet sighed as Ironhide spun around to face Optimus, snapping to attention. He was definitely going to have to establish some rules about entering his medbay unannounced when there was no immediate medical emergency. As well as rules against using the medbay as a gathering area for non-medical related conversations. At least some locks on the door.

“No idea about what is going on with Bumblebee and Sam,” Ratchet lied. “We haven’t heard anything from them yet.”

“I imagine it will be another few days,” Optimus said. “I’m sure they are doing fine. You wanted to speak with me, Ratchet?”

“We’ll just be going, then,” Ironhide said, motioning to Wheeljack to follow him. Wheeljack was close at Ironhide’s heels, closing the door behind them as they left. That left Ratchet and Optimus alone, and Optimus stared expectantly at Ratchet. He had not taken more than a few steps away from the door, standing rigidly.

“Well, what did you want?” Optimus asked, and Ratchet forced back his irritation at Optimus’s curt tone.

“I wanted to talk to you about the message,” he said, making sure he kept his own tone neutral and unassuming. Judging by the way Optimus stiffened and narrowed his optics, it was a good thing he did. If Optimus was going to be this defensive, Ratchet was going to have to be careful of how he spoke.

“I did some research on the second and third lines of the message. Just as Sam said, the lines match lyrics from the song ‘London Bridge is Falling Down.’ It’s a fairly well-known song, there are even international versions sung in different languages. But I have been unable to uncover any real significance in the lyrics themselves. There is no meaning behind the words chosen, except for perhaps the preservation of meter, syllables, and rhyme.”

“My research revealed the same,” Optimus said, the brusqueness of his tone gentling at the lack of any attack on Ratchet’s part. Ratchet steeled himself for his next recommendation.

“However, I feel that internet research does not provide enough information, especially concerning connotations of the song during an individual human’s experience.”

“What are you suggesting?” Optimus asked, suspicious.

“I propose that we let the others know about the message,” Ratchet said, and Optimus immediately recoiled, shaking his head. Ratchet stepped up to him, ready to cut off the inevitable protest. “We do not have to share any beliefs we may have about the message’s origin. We could suggest that it may be of Decepticon origin-a code that we have never seen before. If we get the others’ help, including the humans, then we may be able to solve it faster than if we just did it ourselves. I already asked Will to obtain the version Sam was singing from Sam’s mother-“

Optimus startled, opened his mouth to either berate Ratchet or condemn him for going against his confidentiality, but Ratchet held up a hand, cutting Optimus off.

“I did not tell Will anything other than asking him to retrieve the song as a favor to me, since I obviously could not contact Sam’s progenitor myself. He does not know anything as of yet.”

Optimus dropped his gaze, staring fixedly at a point off to the side. He did not look happy by any means, but the fact that he was not dismissing Ratchet’s suggestion immediately out of hand was a good sign.

“You think we should get help?”

“Yes, I do. Especially from the humans. They may be able to offer viewpoints that we would have no conception of, especially since the message is in their language. They would be able to identify nuances and connotations that we have not yet learned.”

“I will think about it,” Optimus said at length, and Ratchet relaxed, easing tension that he did not know he had developed while waiting for Prime’s response.

“I think it will help,” Ratchet said quietly, finally gathering the courage to step up to Optimus and lay a hand on his arm. “I will be happy to solve this puzzle.”

“As will I, my friend,” Optimus replied, pausing minutely before including the addendum. Ratchet allowed a small smile. He knew Optimus hated disagreements between them, and it was such a heavy weight that eased as their dissonance faded. It was painful, yes, but Ratchet knew that it would take more than that to upset eons of close friendship. He would rather die than betray Optimus the way Megatron had, and he had personally vowed to protect Optimus, no matter what danger it was that threatened him.

No matter the cost.

8888

“Sam, I do not think that this is a good idea,” Bumblebee said as Sam dug around in his backpack for his flashlight, Bumblebee using his headlights to provide illumination for Sam’s search in the darkness.

“We don’t really have a choice, Bumblebee,” Sam replied. “We need to find out where that signal is coming from, and it’s somewhere in that cave. Besides, it should be safe. You said yourself that it was too small for Decepticons to hide in it, and your scans didn’t turn up any human presence either.” Finding the flashlight, Sam flipped it up into his hand and flicked it on, testing the bulb.

“Too small for Decepticons that we know that are on Earth,” Bumblebee corrected. “There are smaller Decepticons, closer to Skorponok’s and Frenzy’s sizes. You should not go in alone.”

“But you certainly can’t fit, even in your alt. form. All right, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go in just for a little bit, explore just the front of the cave and if I don’t see anything, I’ll come right back out and we’ll think of something tomorrow morning. Sound good?”

Bumblebee did not look entirely convinced nor pleased with the suggestion, and it was blatant manipulation, but Sam knew that Bumblebee would have a difficult time rejecting the motion of a compromise.

“All right,” Bumblebee conceded. “You can go in-you have ten minutes before returning.”

“Cool,” Sam said, shrugging his backpack high up onto his shoulders before walking towards the cave, flashlight on and barely piercing through the darkness of its entrance. “I’ll be right back.”

Sam followed the stream inwards, making sure to stay well away from the walls and the snakes and spiders that its crevices could be concealing. Only a few steps in, and Sam significantly slowed his pace, cautious of possible hidden dangers. The air in the cave was light, but slightly bitter, smelling of old clay and trapped moisture. Sam followed the water through the cave, shuffling his feet against the gentle current and mindful of his step. The cave itself was unremarkable, little more than a simple tunnel twisting itself deeper into the mountainside. Where the source of the strange radio signal could be, Sam had no idea. That his locator had directed him into the cave was a mystery, since the rock should have provided a buffering effect on the signal, and kept it hidden. No one should have been able to pick up on the signal, or at least its trail should have run cold, if its source were buried within the Earth. So far, Sam had seen nothing but rock and water, and the spiders that watched him from the ceiling.

Sam turned a corner, and the darkness grew heavier, thick as pitch, as the cave was finally cut off from whatever miniscule amount of light that had managed to trickle in from the oustide. Only the sound of water followed Sam through the tunnel, with a faint accompaniment of flapping insect wings above him. But even the darkness was not completely unbroken. With his flashlight pointing downwards, Sam could see, lining the ceiling, hundreds upon hundreds of tiny blue lights stretched out across the darkness like stars in a clear midnight sky. Glow worms, all hoping to attract an insect meal with their traps. By restricting their living and hunting space to the ceiling, the glow worms formed a veritable trail through the cave-a Milky Way of yet undescribed constellations. Without the flashlight immediately visible, Sam could almost feel as though he were walking through space itself, the air around him cool, the water underneath him making him weightless. It was a heady sensation, almost enthralling, and Sam had to look back down at his feet and the ground beneath them to regain his orientation.

A deep breath, and Sam urged his dizziness to ease before continuing onwards in the cave. He had set his watch on a timer, and he only had five more minutes before Bumblebee would undoubtably start tearing the mountain apart stone by stone to get him out. At the very least, his tardiness would start another fight, and it had been too long of a day to bother getting into an unnecessary argument. The path of stars dipped into a side passage, where the central stream forked, and the ground tilted upwards. A tiny waterfall marked the rise, and Sam easily made the ascent before following the glow worms’ track into a large gallery, where the water was still, forming a deep, clear pool. Sam quickly stepped clear of the pool and onto the wide, flat bank that separated the water from the room’s north wall.

The air in the round room was noticeably fresher, heavier, and far warmer. A glimmer of light flickered at the edge of Sam’s vision, and he looked upwards to see a crack in the ceiling. Vegetation hung in tangles through the crack, and Sam could just barely make out a crescent of purple night sky through a broken canopy. So the Black Hole of Calcutta did have a way out, Sam thought wryly. He was not too deep below the surface, and that calmed a nervousness that Sam did not know had settled at the bottom of his heart. The sharp tear of the hole into the rock, and the thin spider cracks running down the walls suggested that it had been an earthquake that had opened the room to the outside. Sam turned his attention back to the cave room, which had no other outlet save for the one through which he had come. A dead end, then, and the mark of his return to Bumblebee. His investigation would have to continue the next morning, and he would remember to take the other fork.

Sam moved to turn back, but the quick glance of his flashlight against the cave wall made him stop. Unsure of what he just saw as something strange or a mere trick of the light on colored rock, Sam stepped up closer to the wall, focusing the beam of the flashlight tighter against the stone, and his breath caught, briefly arrested in surprise.

Paintings. Crudely done and without much detail, but their depictions were clear enough: men and women, children and animals. Sam ran a gentle touch along the rock, careful against smudging even as the history buff within practically writhed in excitement. Distantly, his brain processed that he was indeed within southern Mexico, well within the ancient range of Mayan civilization. He vaguely remembered pictures from textbooks, passages that could not be recalled with much clarity but did not seem to have the capability to match up to what he was seeing anyway. Nothing when compared to the real thing, and how that sentiment sang through Sam’s blood.

Mission and time limit momentarily forgotten, Sam dropped his backpack to the cave floor and started to walk the length of the wall. The pictures were, at first glance, mundane, since they depicted little more than scenes of daily life within a village, but it was still an incredible find. Even more intoxicating were the paintings of men in elaborate dress of brightly colored skins and feathers, performing unknown rituals and kneeling before figures of strange animal-human hybrids: gods. A sudden, tiny beeping startled Sam, and he jumped, heart stuttering before he recognized the beeping as his watch announcing the end of his ten minute investigation. Sam rushed back to his pack, fumbling through the pockets before retrieving a phone specially set to Cybertronian communication channels. Sam flipped it open, quick-dialing Bumblebee’s channel. Bumblebee answered almost instantly, and judging by the inflection in his tone, was suitably surprised.

“Sam? What’s the matter? Is anything wrong-“

“No, Bumblebee, everything’s fine,” Sam replied, quick to reassure his guardian.

“How are you calling me? I lost you off of my sensor range, and the depth of the rock should not allow for communication.”

“There’s a hole in the ceiling of the cave. Walk around out there and see if you can find it-there should be a gap in the canopy; I can see sky. But hurry up, I found something.”

“The source of the signal?”

“No, something else,” Sam said, and he could hear the breathlessness in his own voice. He was feeling dizzy, the first signs of hyperventilation, and Sam forced himself to calm down. It would not help to get too excited, but he could not help but feel an extreme kinship with the Lascaux discoverers. “Paintings, Bumblebee,” Sam continued. “Hundreds of images. They’re a little worn, and some have really deteriorated, but I can definitely make some out-they may even be showing some rituals, if I’m not wrong.”

“You should be concentrating on our mission,” Bumblebee countered, and Sam felt a swell of irritation rise up in him. Had Bumblebee no concept of the significance of such a discovery?

“You don’t understand, Bumblebee. These look really old. They could date as far back as 1000 B.C., the time of the Mayan civilization’s start. We are in the right geographical range, after all, and this is the sort of stuff that National Geographic goes crazy over. Who knows what a research team could find in here.”

Sam returned to the wall, carefully examining each picture as he waited for Bumblebee to find the break in the ground. Most were images of daily life and animals found in the rainforest, but one showed a group of individuals clustered together, above them distinct arches of the sun and moon. Lines connected the heavenly bodies to a slab around which the people were gathered, even as some of the men were holding tools and gesturing back towards the sky.

“A calendar,” Sam whispered, the date of the paintings settling more firmly in his mind. The Mayan calendar, renowned for its accuracy, had not been invented until around 300 to 251 B.C.

“Sam?” Bumblebee’s voice filtered down from above, and Sam stepped back under the hole in the ceiling, flipping his phone off.

“I’m here,” he shouted back, and the light from Bumblebee’s headlights sliced the darkness in half, causing Sam to recoil and cover his eyes as he adjusted to the sudden change in illumination. The headlights formed a pillar of light, creating an aureole around Sam’s position. “God, Bumblebee, give me some warning. That hurt.”

“Sam, my sensors are indicating that the radio transmission is coming from your location,” Bumblebee said, either not hearing or ignoring Sam’s complaint.

“Really? From here? But I don’t see anything,” Sam said, taking another look around the cave. There was nothing except the paintings on the wall, rock, and the pool of clear green water. Sam paused, contemplating the pool for a moment before picking up his flashlight and moving to the edge of the pool, shining the light down into it. The light only penetrated so far, leaving the very bottom of the pool in darkness. It seemed an unlikely place for the signal to be coming from, but Bumblebee was saying that Sam was standing practically on top of it, and there was nothing on the dry rock.

“All right, Bumblebee, I think I know where to look. Just give me a minute.”

Sam set his flashlight and phone down as he stripped himself of his shirt, shoes, and socks. A touch to the water and Sam could feel that it was cool, but not unpleasantly so, and the lack of burning indicated that any sort of strong acid was absent-a common feature in caves and one of the great cave carvers. He brought his fingers to his lips, giving the water droplets a tentative taste. Clean, and most certainly fresh. Sam slipped into the pool, quick to push himself away from the edge and its sharp crystal structures. He had his flashlight with him; Will had had the foresight to give him one that was waterproof. Taking a few normal breaths, Sam inhaled deeply before slipping under the water and jackknifing to propel himself downwards.

At least the pool was relatively shallow-only about thirteen feet to the bottom, and there was little danger in it save for the pressure pushing on Sam’s eardrums. But it was enough that his breath could be held, and Sam quickly scanned the bottom, his vision bleary in the pressing darkness. Just as his lungs started to burn, the light from his flashlight caught a glimmer from underneath one of the rocks, and Sam hurried to turn it over. A small, vertically compressed box was revealed, its metal gleaming darkly through the slight corrosion on its surface. Brows furrowing, Sam gathered it up and followed his exhalation bubbles upwards.

Sam surfaced with a gasp, wiping his face clear with his wrist before paddling back to the bank, strange object clutched firmly in his grasp.

“Sam? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered, pulling himself onto the rock. “I think I found the signal source.”

“Yes, I can hear it much more strongly now. What is it?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Sam replied, sitting down and turning the box over in his hands. It felt like metal, what parts of it were not corroded, and he could feel seams in it, though they refused to part under his fingernails.

“Come back out of the cave. We need to examine it and bring it back to Optimus,” Bumblebee ordered, his voice sounding oddly distant to Sam’s ears.

“Okay, go ahead, I’ll meet you out front. I just want to take a few pictures of these paintings,” Sam said, standing up to walk back to his backpack and put on the dry change of clothes he had tucked away in there.

“Do not be too long,” Bumblebee said, and abruptly the light provided by his headlights disappeared, and Sam was plunged back into complete darkness, left with only his flashlight to keep orientation in his newly discovered netherworld.

Sam carefully packed the metal object into his backpack, folding the softer materials around it for cushioning before pulling out his digital camera and moving back to the wall. Using the camera’s flash and his own flashlight for a steadier, more solid illumination, Sam took pictures of the wall paintings in succession, careful to get as many as he could to form a complete panorama. As he circled around, Sam reached the far edge of the pool, where it had backed up against the cave wall, and he raised his camera.

Only to lower it again. Sam frowned, taking a step closer to examine what he was seeing. The other images had had gods in them-beings on thrones that were chimeras of man and beast, such as jaguar or lizard or bird. This god, as it was so obviously was by his sheer size-at least three times the height of the other humans portrayed-and the way that other elaborately dressed men were kneeling at his feet and accepting handed down gifts, was completely humanoid. His coloration was strange, though. The other humans were dark skinned, the paint used almost red with just enough of a brown tint to keep it from being called as such. They were also more defined, with a distinct set of features. This god was different. Instead of having dark skin, he was almost white, the grayness of him either aged or purposefully lightened. He was also covered in streaks of red, vague lines that could almost be declared as garments if the image were in better, newer condition. Frowning, and confused, Sam took a picture of it nonetheless, and moved on to the next image.

The strange god was absent, and instead the painting showed a group of people on the ground, staring up into a boldly painted sky that was a pounded cobalt, streaked with white clouds.

And that was on fire. Twin lines of fire ran parallel to each other through the blue paint, cutting through the clouds. Sam reached out and ran his fingers along them, following their trail to their source.

A jet plane. Sam recoiled, nearly stumbling as his foot caught the edge of the pool and causing strong ripples in the settled water. The image was faded, yes, but there was no mistaking the elegent, long lines of a plane, the fire pouring from its bright red engines, and its tilt upwards into strongly outlined stars in the lake of black overlying the blue sky.

Sam jerked back around to the previous image, pressing his face up close to the painting as his heart hammered against his ribs and his breath shallowed. It was not possible, could not be possible, but there it was. A giant man, gray, his place taken up by a jet plane in a following sequence. Sam backed away from the wall, a headache clawing at the spaces between his eyes even as his hands burned as though he had been stung.

“Oh, my God,” Sam whispered, tremors beginning to stumble their way up his legs and shoulders.

But…Optimus had said…it could not be possible…

Sam managed to regain his wits enough to take a picture of the plane before grabbing his backpack and sprinting back out of the cave, back to Bumblebee, the object a heavy weight against his spine.

Ancient Mayan myths tell of their gods visiting from outer space, bringing with them knowledge, and promising to one day return.

8888

TBC.