Chapter One

Everyone confusedly conceives of a good in which the mind may be at rest, and desires it; wherefore everyone strives to attain it.
—Dante, Purgatory (Canto XVII, line 127)

Spectrum refused to acknowledge the port’s security captain, even though he laid a hand on the mech’s arm. “—Sir.” Spectrum ignored him, completely occupied with the holographic feeds coming from the satellites. He could barely believe his own optics, but proof was staring him in the face: an Autobot shuttle – and a working one at that.

“Hijack, get me a magnification of that bump on the top,” he ordered, though the security captain still held onto his arm.

“Working, sir,” Hijack reported from down below. Spectrum’s brow ridge furrowed as the magnification increased, click by click; it was pixilated beyond belief.

“Can you smooth it out?”

“No, sir. Too far away. Once it gets closer I can.”

That wouldn’t do. Spectrum fingered the control panel, tapping the heel of his taloned foot against the bottom of his chair. “Send out a probe.”

Along the side, Firewall swiveled to look up at him. “Sir: we have no camera-probes available.”

A light pulse began to work its way along Spectrum’s temple, running along the ridge of his brow and through the dagger-sharp prongs on either side of his head. “Send out a scanner, then. I want this identified before the central Cybertronian satellites get to it. I was put in charge of defense, dammit, and we’ll slaggin’-well do it! I don’t want the media involved.”

Someone along the bottom of Spectrum’s dais grumbled under his vocalizer about the commander’s connections leading him to receiving this post. Spectrum ignored the snide remark. He stood up, knocking the security captain’s hand away and stepping up to the rail that separated his station from the rest of the tower. Before him was a panoramic Plexiglas plate, affording him a complete 360-degree view of his domain. All around, shuttles were landing, taking off, or being serviced. Hundreds of Transformers milled the grounds, all doing their part to make everything as efficient as possible. Hanger bays lay to the side, gleaming gold and ivory in the light of the sun, thin lines of blue ran parallel along their walls.

“Probe sent, sir,” Firewall relayed.

“From which satellite?”

“Fifth-ring. Contact with craft in five, four, three … Visual.”

From a thin projector in the center of the tower, a wide image appeared. Spectrum leaned on the rail, his wings rising over his back as he studied the time-lapsed image. Though not a camera’s hologram, the probe was built with a device that produced a grainy, but serviceable, line-drawing. There was the outline of the Autobot shuttle – atop it, appearing to be stapled, was a creature no one had ever seen. But Spectrum, raised off Cybertron, recognized it: an old Earth legend, a dragon. But a head on what seemed to be an arm?

Beast-technology. It had to be. But what reconnaissance team had been sent to such a planet? And where had they gotten an Ark shuttle? “Rebound, get me a list of all reconn ships. Which ones had protoforms?”

There was silence, save for the hum of the projector, the subtle whistle of ventilators, and the click of digits on comps.

“None, sir, not in the last stellar cycle.”

“Expand. Hijack – run a scan on that thing’s face. Run it through the database. Firewall, increase.”

“Aye, sir,” the chorused.

Spectrum’s wings twitched abominably. Reaching around, he soothed the errant pinions and came into contact with another hand – one that he recognized. “Illusion.”

His sister smiled, her own wings rising in greeting. “Just got in. What have we here?”

“Don’t know,” he replied, turning about. “Is he still in session with the Maximal Elders?”

Illusion slipped beside him and nodded. “Yes. Should be for another few mega-cycles.”

“Dammit.” Spectrum sighed. “You’ll have to break him out. They both need to be here.”

She grinned, flicking a slim silver finger over his crest. “I don’t think he’ll mind.” Leaving him to fan his crest back into place, she turned, plumage ruffling in mirth about her neck and shoulders. With a step that was the envy of all highborn femmes, Illusion danced out of the command center.

“Accurate visual in five, sir,” Firewall chimed.

“Audio?”

“On my mark, sir … ten, nine …”

Rhinox should have been prepared to be hailed, but when it actually happened, he was surprised. Turning in his seat, he looked over his shoulder at Optimus Primal and stated the obvious.

“From where?” Primal lurched to his oversized feet and in one step, was at Rhinox’s side.

“This ancient technology is just that – old. It says ‘Iacon Spaceport’ … but that can’t be right. Iacon was remodeled into Cybertropolis Spaceport stellar-cycles ago.”

“You mean one of those squeaky-ports wants to talk to us?” Rattrap exclaimed, flicking his hands in a comical imitation of the elitists. “Well, I’ll be! Let me shine my hiney –”

“Shut up, Rattrap,” they chorused, and Primal backhanded the espionage specialist to stave off any further comments. “It might not be the Elder’s platform, but it’s close enough. We can’t afford to waste fuel, or give Megatron more time to break free. We’re landing.”

A green light atop the command console beeped discreetly. Rhinox looked at Primal and reached up to accept the connection.

“Cybertropolis Spaceport Commander Spectrum,” blared an unfamiliar, but resonant voice, touched with the accent of the elite. “Identify yourselves.”

Optimus leaned over the console, taking control. “Captain Optimus Primal, formerly of the survey ship Axalon. We receive you.”

A click of silence. Then: “Captain Primal. Stay your course. We are clearing the landing strip for your arrival. Upon landing, please remain in your craft. Your passenger will be taken care of first, and then you will be boarded.”

Shocked looks all around. “They can’t do that – can they?” Cheetor exclaimed.

Primal kept his hand off the “reply” button. “We’re hardly in a position to refuse, Cheetor. Best let the proper authorities handle him now.”

Rattrap sniffed. “Yeah, just like they handled him before. Prob’ly’ll give old purple-face over to the Preds and he’ll be off again.”

Optimus frowned, but this time, Rattrap made complete sense. He turned around. “Commander Spectrum, with all due respect, you don’t understand the situation –”

“Captain Primal,” came the cultured reply, “I might not ‘understand’, but anyone strapped to the top of a shuttle hardly deserves a warm welcome. He will be taken care of and put in stasis.” Another pause. “Rest assured, we have accurate enough information to identify you and your crew, and the passenger you carry. This new Megatron shall not escape again.”

“Hm, seems they thought of everything.” Rhinox cast a thoughtful glance at the console. “We don’t have to worry.”

Optimus sighed, eying the remnants of his crew. “About Megatron? I always worry.”

“Captain Primal?”

Optimus depended the “reply” button. “Yes, Commander?”

“Do sit back and relax. Tractor beam is in place. Welcome home, Maximals, welcome to Cybertropolis.”

Again, Rattrap sniffed. “Hardly a homecoming I’d’ve wanted, crating horn-head …”

But there was Cybertron, in its golden glory, looming far above their heads, beacons of light from a hundred thousand points on the planet shining towards the deep onyx of space. Moment by moment, it grew until it filled their field of view, overwhelmed their senses with a thousand different emotions. Among the gold were shots of silver and ivory, some of blue and white, others of green and yellow. The shuttle tipped to the side, banking for entry. Over the gleaming hub-capital of Cybertropolis, formerly the old Autobot seat of power, they flew, headed for a massive spear of silver-grey jutting savagely, beautifully, towards the sky. Around them, the sky was completely clear of traffic; they had grounded everything.

Anticipation fluttered through the bridge; Cheetor fairly bounced off his seat and resorted to sitting on his hands. Silverbolt and BlackArachnia simply gazed at each other, thoughts of how to fit into this strange new world running through their heads. Rhinox mused, Rattrap frowned, and Optimus worried. Faintly, they could hear the roar of Megatron as he realized where they were going.

Lower and lower they dropped, the fine details of the Cybertropolis Spaceport becoming more apparent as time passed. With a final banking curve, they angled towards the tower and the completely-cleared landing strip. Down below, tiny figures milled, some sitting atop equipment, others appearing to be holding long-range weaponry.

“Cutting jets,” Rhinox announced quietly. The beam held them in place, but it was the scientist who lowered them to the ground, in the direct center of the strip. With a shift from side to side and the hiss of pneumatics, the craft settled and there was peace.

Well, save the snick of a gun being prepped. “Put that away,” Optimus snapped, rising. Rattrap affected a hurt mien.

“Awr, man. Sorry, old habits.”

With a sigh and a glance to heaven, Optimus lumbered between the seats of the shuttle to stand at a respective distance from the shuttle’s main door. Beyond, Rhinox and Cheetor looked down and out from the view screen, and the port authorities looked back up at them. Momentarily, there was a knock on the hull; a scraping and pounding on the roof echoed around. Though muted though the thick metal hide of the shuttle, harsh, vulgar voices called out as Megatron roared.

“Hope they hit him hard,” BlackArachnia mused, clenching her hands into fists.

“Alas, I do agree with you, my love,” Silverbolt murmured.

There was a discrete knock on the side paneling. “Lower the ramp, Rhinox,” Primal ordered. Rhinox, though thrilled to be home, couldn’t stem the hesitation that filled his spark as he reached over to pull the outrageously-large lever. Ancient hydraulics whined and clattered, but the ramp went down all the same. Light poured golden and welcome across the floor of the shuttle, illuminating Optimus’ armor. Shading his optics, he peered through his fingers to see three figures standing at the end of the ramp. One was decidedly taller than the others who flanked him – long, lean and with a carriage that bespoke his position, the mech Optimus mentally identified as Commander Spectrum and his guards stepped up and entered the shuttle.

Yet, whatever pride the mech might have had flew out through his exhaust port as he laid optics on Optimus. Clear, sky blue orbs did a little dance of disbelief inside his head as he took in the sight of Optimal Optimus.

“Captain … Primal.”

Internally, Optimus sighed with relief. This was no self-important port commander, not if he allowed himself to betray his emotions. As the commander took in Optimus’ appearance, so did Optimus take in his: the commander was tall, true, but not as tall as he. The mech had a beast-form, which was unusual for someone of his rank: what it was, exactly, Optimus could not tell, but he was able to find hints of a bird, or four-legged animal in the commander’s features. A hybrid, like Silverbolt? True, there were those broad brown wings that laid folded with precision along the commander’s back, and taloned feet; but, like Silverbolt, there was evidence of paws linked over the mech’s shoulders, and a hint of a plumed tail between them.

And then there was his face: Spectrum’s helm design tugged at Optimus’ databanks, a wisp of a memory, of a glance he’d taken at a history book at the Academy. Dappled brown and white, edged with blue, it formed about his silver face with almost regal care. Two long spines rose up on either side of his head, between which ran a brown-white crest of feathers. Flanking him, Spectrum’s guards appeared downright plain – one was predominately green, the other beige.

“Welcome home, Captain Primal,” Spectrum declared, extending a slim but strong brown metal hand. No, Optimus conceded, not fey at all, despite appearances. Gingerly, he took the proffered hand, but his attempts at reigning his own unknown strength proved for naught, as Spectrum took control, exercising a firm, strong grip.

“Thank you, Commander.”

Spectrum grinned, showcasing a set of fine, pointed teeth set in a sharp-planed face. “Spectrum, if you will.”

“Optimus, then,” he compromised, watching the shift of Spectrum’s face at his name. Elite he might be, but subtle – not particularly, it seemed.

“And your crew?” Spectrum linked his hands behind his back, wings fanning slightly as he craned his neck to look over the high backs of the Autobot chairs.

One by one, they came forward and Optimus introduced them. Spectrum’s brow ridge lowered in thought and his lips pursed as he took in their appearances. The mech was thinking – hard. “Well, welcome home, all of you,” he said at last. “Please, come with me, we’ll go up to my office and you can tell me how you call came to be this way – and to have a criminal strapped to a relic.”

But the courtesy was too much to afford. Optimus held up a courteous hand. “Commander – Spectrum,” he amended, “we need to see the Elders, immediately.”

Spectrum rocked back on his heels, all strappings of insecurity removed. He was now the port commander. “Alas, no.”

“WHAT!” Rattrap exploded. Beside him, Rhinox cuffed the metal rat into silence.

“Yes, why?” Optimus peered down at Spectrum, brow ridge drawn down in disbelief. “We have to warn them about the Predicons – and of Megatron.”

“I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans, Optimus. You see, no one outside of this spaceport knows you are back. Since we hooked you with the tractor beam, your arrival has been cloaked.”

“On whose authority?” Rhinox demanded, curling a fist and shifting one bulky foot forward.

“Not of these Elders,” Silverbolt mused, running a hand over his own short head-spines.

Spectrum flashed a thin smile. “You are correct, Silverbolt. Not the Elders; they do not know about your arrival, either. And those in charge do not wish them too – not yet.”

“But – why?” Optimus repeated in disbelief. “Megatron –”

“If you didn’t hear, he’s been taken care of. Believe me, with the two set to escort him, you have no need to worry about him escaping. But, the Elders – if we bring the criminal-under-the-name-of-Megatron to the Council of Elders, the Predacon Alliance will be notified out of courtesy. I suspect they know, however, but they won’t act – not unless we announce it. They’re as touchy about this subject as we are.”

“Politics,” Silverbolt spat.

“Aye,” Spectrum agreed, tilting his head in an odd gesture to the wolf-eagle.

“So why don’t we slag him right here?” Rattrap insisted, tapping his fingers along the stock of his gun.

“Politics,” Spectrum replied, shrugging. “Catch-22. For now. But, please, join me. I have some people wishing to meet you.” In a flurry of feathers, he turned with his escort and began walking back down the ramp.

Optimus sighed. “Let’s go, crew.”

“But Optimus – the Council,” Rhinox protested.

“We go, old friend,” the large mech replied, the weight of a new war pressing down upon his shoulders.

“Well, I want to see what the inside of the spaceport looks like,” Cheetor piped up, a little too brightly. But no one chastised him, for Spectrum had turned around and gestured for them to follow.

They fell into place behind the strange port commander. Around them, workers scrambled over the Ark shuttle, attaching lines to pull it into a hanger for inspection. In the distance they could see Megatron being hauled off, bound head to toe with energy bonds. Dimly, Optimus could see that the two mechs escorting the prisoner were large – one red, the other yellow. And then they were gone, vanishing into a hole in the port floor, presumably into a holding area out of sight.

The command tower loomed substantially above them, great lines of silver and blue shooting through the golden metal. But it was not towards this building that Spectrum led them – he took a turn to the right, and dismissing his escort, bade them enter a smaller building. “My office,” he offered, holding the door open.

Optimus had to duck, but as of late, it was hardly unusual. Still, he was surprised when he was able to straighten fully – the ceiling was vaulted, completely belaying the outer Unitarian appearance. Spectrum directed them along the hall; all around were holographic pictures, statues and models on crystal pedestals. They paused at intervals, hardly believing their own optics – these weren’t the standard fare of Cybertron panoramas or space-shots, no: they were portraits of the Great War heroes and heroines, of Fortress Maximus, Autobot City … of an Earth city he could not name, one after the other. The statues were also of honored warriors, and there was a perfect model of the Ark itself.

Spectrum led them up a short flight of stairs and a door whooshed open to showcase a rather plush office. The sight of more memorabilia was too much for Optimus to bear. “Just who exactly are you?” Primal demanded, his patience snapped. The others merely gawped and gaped, astonished.

Spectrum smiled and turned around, his wings rising and falling above his shoulders. “Not a Maximal, that’s for sure.” He lifted one sleek brown hand and waved it over his left shoulder; the air shimmered and bent upon itself to reveal the face of Primus: the symbol of the Autobots. “As I told you, I am Spectrum, but I am also an Autobot. Surely you were taught that many of us were reformatted?”

Of them all, only Rattrap had the gall to sneer, “So? How come we never see any of you?”

“You do,” Spectrum replied smoothly. “We just don’t tell you. Many of us wear the Maximal symbol, but it is but an illusion. At the cores of our sparks, we are still Autobots. Smaller, yes, but the spirit remains the same.”

Optimus glanced at Rattrap before he could fire his mouth off once more. “Then this display …” he gestured around to incorporate the model of the Ark, of the holograms of Cybertron’s greatest heroes, “… is not a homage? You were in the Great War?”

Spectrum grinned. “Of course it is in homage. I do this to honor my parents, as well as their comrades who fought so bravely to win Cybertron’s freedom.” He paused, watching their expressions turn from surprise to utter amazement at his words. “And no, I did not fight in the war; I was born not long after, however.”

It was Optimus who asked the question that was on everyone’s minds. “Parents?”

“Yes. My father was the one who both spearheaded and sponsored the spark-fusion program after the shut-down of Vector Sigma, before the construction of the Matrix. I was one of the first created through the process.”

Spark-fusion; it was not a concept they were too familiar with, but had definitely heard of. Instead of going to the Maximal Matrix of Creation for a protoform, a slight sampling of two Transformer sparks were extracted and melded into a new spark, a unique soul. This was then implanted into a blank body; however, the mental gender of the Transformer could not be chosen, thought the body could. Expensive, very much so; only the richest of Maximals could afford the luxury.

Cheetor stepped forward, unable to take his optics off the holos on the wall. “Then … you’re related to one of these Autobots?”

“Of a sorts,” Spectrum replied cryptically. He stepped back towards his desk and pressed a small button among the many there. “My parents aren’t on the wall. It wouldn’t do for business if their identity was known to everyone who passes through. But, I suppose you should meet them for yourselves.”

Beyond, a panel in the wall slid open. Spectrum stood by his desk, his hands linked respectfully behind his back. “Captain Optimus Primal, Rhinox, Rattrap, Cheetor, Silverbolt and BlackArachnia, I am pleased to introduce my parents, Counter-Intelligence Officer Mirage and Communications Specialist Solarflare of the Towers.”