Chapter Five

The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.
—Dante, Purgatorio (III, 78)

Cheetor watched them walk away, feeling decidedly ill. Illusion turned from her waving and noted the look on his face. “Are you okay? You look terrible.”

“P-prowl …”

Understanding dawned clear in Illusion’s river blue optics. “Oh. You were taught that he died by Megatron’s hand in 2005.” She sighed. “Well, yes, that’s true. Prowl did die – so did Wheeljack, Brawn, Ironhide, Ratchet and Windcharger. But when we learned that Optimus had been revived through Quintesson intervention, many of us began wondering if the same technology could be applied to the Ark crew.” She looked at him expectantly. “It’ll be a while before the others arrive. Would you like me to tell you how while we wait?”

Cheetor looked back towards the shuttle, with its bright red Autobot symbol painted so proudly upon its burnished side. “Please. I want to know.”

“All right then. Not long after Optimus returned to us, Perceptor managed to persuade the captive Quintesson to tap into the Matrix and bring back the other sparks.” She paused and took a seat on a small bench built into the wall of the dome. Cheetor shuffled, hesitant, before Illusion patted the empty space beside her. “It was difficult to do, because the Quintesson spoke of temporal repercussions, of how time and space and the nature of things would be disrupted, because the dead stay dead, and that those sparks should not be brought into new bodies; rather, they should be recycled, reincarnated, as proper.” A small smile flitted across her sharp-planed face. “Mom told me of how Perceptor and the Quintesson argued for days on end, even to the point of physical blows.”

Cheetor’s brow furrowed as he tried to imagine what that brawl might have looked like. “But he relented.”

“ ‘It’, really. We’re unsure what gender the Quintesson possessed … but no matter. So, yes. For days, weeks even, Perceptor and the Quintesson worked, separating the veil between worlds to bring back the sparks of Wheeljack, Ratchet, Prowl, Brawn, Ironhide and Windcharger. Because their original bodies had been destroyed by Optimus –” She paused, looking at Cheetor. “You know this part, right?” He merely nodded, not wanting to disrupt her lovely storytelling. “Okay. So I won’t go into that. Well, new bodies were built for them. As close to their original Earth altforms as possible. And that’s about it.”

Cheetor gaped at the mention of all of this; Illusion recited it as if the events happened just yesterday – which, for her, they almost had. Still. Quintessons. The supposed progenors of the Transformers – the ones who had enslaved them, only to be overthrown by the first Great War. He’d never seen one, not personally. A few pictures here and there in school, but the teachers tended to stay away from that side of history. “And … they’re okay?”

Illusion shrugged. “Perceptor and the Quintesson warned of psychological repercussions, what with being ripped from another dimension and whatnot. But they seem to be fine. Ratchet is as gruff as ever, Prowl’s as stiff as ever … though, Windcharger will stare off into space for a minute or two, and his magnetic powers were augmented after his reincarnation; but other than that …” She trailed off, nothing more to say on the subject.

The techno-organic Cheetah looked at his clawed feet for a moment or two, trying to form some sort of intelligent comment, but all he could think of were questions about the Ark warriors. He didn’t want to seem like all he was capable of was hero-worship; he’d done a lot of growing up on prehistoric Earth, and he wanted to show them that. But, he thought, I just look at them and I can’t think of anything else. I was raised on their stories, grew up wanting to be like them.

“Do you know what’s going to happen?” he asked at last, trying to sound cultured, like Mirage. And failed miserably.

Illusion shook her head so that the feathers along her brow swayed. “No.” And that was it.

In due time, more shuttles landed and parked along side the first. Each one was different, but they all had one thing in common: the face of Primus displayed for all to see. More Autobots than Cheetor could name descended, greeted Illusion, looked at him with a mix of facial expressions, and moved on through the tunnel.

When the last warrior of the Ark, Bumblebee, had disappeared inside, Illusion rubbed a hand along her brow. “All right, we can go in now.” Cheetor stood up respectfully as she passed. The white-silver femme reached up along the wall to toggle a switch when the soft whine of another anti-gravitational generator filled the air. Shock exploded across Illusion’s face and she immediately punched a series of keys embedded into the wall.

“IDENTIFY!”

“Slaggin’ pansy-pants. Don’t close fraggin’ dome on me, Grimlock.”

“GRIMLOCK!”

“Right. Now, gonna open dome or does me, Grimlock, have to blow a new one?”

“Primus!” Illusion hissed through clenched teeth. She spun around and entered a new combination. “That old lizard told me he wasn’t going to come! Dad’s going to have his head.”

Cheetor hardly thought that plausible. From what he recalled, if it came to blows, Grimlock would have had the spy’s head.

“Dad?” Illusion spoke low and close to a comm-unit set by the control panel.

A slight pause. “What is it?”

“Grimlock’s here.”

Unintelligible static. Then: “Oh, for the love of Primus. He better hope he did it right this time. Flare, get another chair – a large one.” Total comm-silence. Illusion stepped away to watch with Cheetor as the small personal craft – bare of any symbol – came to a staggering halt inches from the others. It powered down, then began rocking from side to side, a large, bulky shadow swaying within the darkened cabin. After a moment, a door slid open, a ramp descended and the Dinobot leader Grimlock stumped his way over, not caring that he trampled several rows of tulips as he deliberately avoided the marked path.

Illusion coughed. “Uncle Grimlock. You said you weren’t coming.”

Cheetor looked up – and up – into the optics of the Dinobot. Based on his appearance, Grimlock hadn’t taken well to the upgrade: he was as chunky as ever, if only stuffed into a smaller package. There was no smoothing of his form, as he still sported the classic style he’d been designed with. Pocket Grimlock.

“Who this tabby?” the Dinobot inquired roughly, jabbing a beefy black finger into Cheetor’s unprotected chest. Air whooshed from the Cat’s ventilators and he staggered backwards, coughing. Brow ridge drawn down in concern, Illusion rushed up and gently lowered Grimlock’s arm; her fingers could barely clamp onto his thick wrist.

“Cheetor,” she explained, trying to keep his arm down as it went up again for another test of Cheetor’s mettle. “Uncle, please.”

Grimlock’s snort of contempt blew Illusion’s silver-barred crest flat against her helm. “Not like tabby’s form. Remind me, Grimlock, too much of Black Cat.” He peered close, red wrap-around optics piercing. “Not Decepticon in disguise?”

“Grimlock, you old antique!”

Cheetor watched as Grimlock swept Illusion aside, and despite being winded, he managed to stagger forward to steady her as she swayed from the force of the Dinobot’s gesture. He turned to see the Autobot Jazz leaning up against the hall entrance, an easy, affable grin on his face. “Get your grey tail inside, man. We’re about to start.”

“Hrmph. Jazz. Grimlock no need escort. Coming.” With slow, decisive steps, Grimlock stumped towards the white and black. As he passed, Jazz lifted a hand in query; Illusion pushed herself off Cheetor (though, not in revulsion) and tilted her head in acknowledgement. Jazz nodded and turned to follow Grimlock back through the hall.

“Well,” Illusion remarked, flicking her wings out and smoothing them into some semblance of order. “I guess that’s it – hopefully.” She looked skywards, but only the smooth golden orb of the Cybertronian sun met her questing optics. “Let’s go.”

Illusion did not lead Cheetor back down the same way they’d come. Instead, she bade him follow her up a winding staircase to another level of the extensive estate house.

“You sure have a big house,” he commented lamely.

She laughed. “You get used to it. It used to be smaller, but we had renovations to accommodate everyone after it was named the de-facto place for conferences.”

They trudged on in silence until Illusion suddenly stopped outside a grey ornamental door with more than a few scrapes along the frame. “You wait in here. It’s the antechamber, of sorts, to the main conference room. Your crewmembers will be inside; I have to go the other way. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Cheetor paused with his hand on the doorknob, an interesting piece of metalwork that had been formed in the shape of a turbofox. “Illusion – wait –” But she was running away, quick and light on taloned feet. Sighing, Cheetor turned the knob and joined the rest of the Maximals.

Illusion paused at the end of the hall and sighed. She could see it in his optics, an eagerness to please, as well as the beginnings of infatuation. For all his outer maturity, Cheetor was still very much innocent inside. Hopefully it wouldn’t go further, and whatever they decided tonight would have them relocated.

An argument was already in progress when she entered the conference room. The wide table brimmed with Autobots, both large both small; some were shaking their fists and raising their vocalizers. Happens every time, she thought ruefully, sliding around the edge and closing the door behind her. Spectrum stood in one corner, out of harm’s way, and she slid down the wall to join him.

“I can’t believe you left this time bomb alone in his cell!” Red Alert was roaring at the top of his vocalizer. Thin wires bulged under his malleable facial plating, giving him an apoplectic look.

“Listen, pinhead,” Sunstreaker bellowed back, his middle finger waving like a standard at the ex-security director, “we moved his slaggin’ ass to another, more secure, hold before we left. So don’t start.”

“Our hard-fought peace is hanging in the balance and you want me to take it easy? Don’t be a fool, Sunstreaker.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“You haven’t changed!”

“In the last ten years since I’ve seen you? Hardly!”

“ENOUGH!” Prowl roared, swinging his fist down as an impromptu gavel. Cups and mugs of Energon bounced off the table to splatter on the floor. “Sunstreaker, might I remind you that pre-Pax Cybertronia ranks are instituted while we’re in conference? Red Alert, stand down. Optimus?”

By their own assent, Optimus Prime retained his leader of the Autobots rank, thus leaving him at the head of the ovoid table. He stood up and looked over those of his old command. “Where did you put the imposter?”

“Down fifteen levels, with a contingent of ten guards,” Sideswipe replied swiftly, watching his brother’s face return to its normal silver shade of grey. “And a panoramic security camera. I checked everything personally. If he’s to get out of there, he needs to walk through walls – and he can’t.” A feral grin stretched across the old Lamborghini’s cherubic face.

Prowl groaned, Red moaned and Optimus passed a hand over his face plate. “Since that part of the problem has been taken care of, perhaps Flare and Mirage can enlighten us about their guests?”

To Optimus’ right, seated with Windcharger to her left and Mirage to her right, Solarflare stood up. “The survey ship Axalon was launched three years ago; from what they told us, the Predacon vessel Darkside engaged them in combat and they spun into a wormhole, one that dropped them on prehistoric Earth.” With all optics focused on her, Solarflare recounted the tale that had been fed to them on their way to the estate.

“And when they told you this,” Perceptor inquired after she’d finished “was there any indication that it had been fabricated?”

“No. They are sincere, and the looks on their faces, as well as the set of their bodies tell me that it is entirely true.”

“Mirage?” Optimus indicated.

The spy rose along side his bondmate. “I question the fact that they told us the whole tale. However, from what they did tell, I agree with Flare.” He sat back down.

Wheeljack leaned an elbow on the table, his facial lights blinking as he spoke. “Well, if you both think they’re telling the truth, even though they left some things out, I see no reason to question them about it.”

“We’ll see,” Prime replied. “Flare, in the two short days they’ve been with you, what else have you learned?”

She shrugged. “They want to take this ‘Megatron’—” And there were growls and frowns all around the oval table. “—back to the Maximal Council of Elders, to stand trial.”

“Then why are they still here?” Tracks inquired urbanely.

Trailbreaker leaned over. “Would you like to see someone called Megatron being put on trial on all the news vids?”

Tracks blinked. “No – but what does a public trial have to do with it?”

“The Preds, man,” Jazz told him. “It’d rile up the Preds.” He looked towards Mirage for confirmation. The spy nodded assent.

“So no one knows about this, then, that’s it?” Prowl asked.

“No one,” Mirage confirmed.

“At least you hope,” Red Alert griped.

The spy turned his head slowly. “True.” He shrugged. “They were out in public space for a while before Spectrum cloaked them. I wouldn’t doubt that the Predacons have a few illegal satellites bouncing around out there. Given that, we can conclude that someone on the other side knows.”

“Great,” Red sighed, turning his head away.

Bumblebee tapped the tabletop reflectively. “And they called us heroes,” he murmured forlornly.

Heads turned. “What do you mean?” Ratchet grumbled.

The yellow ex-Minibot rotated his shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “I mean, how heroic are we when the Preds are still out there?”

“That’s annihilation, Bumblebee,” Optimus replied quietly. “And as Autobots, we don’t stand for that.”

Along the right side of the ovoid, Solarflare looked at Mirage out of the corner of one optic. He twitched one finger along her thigh in reply.

“We’re hardly Autobots – or heroes, not anymore,” Brawn sniffed. “Look at us, meeting in secret, living in secret. We win for this damned planet and they shove us off in favor of the Maximals.”

“Well, we’re doing them a favor, aren’t we?” Windcharger murmured, resting his hands on the tabletop. “In a sense, we’re keeping evil from rising up again.” He looked along both sides of the room. “I vote we destroy this troublemaker and get back to obscurity.”

“You’d like to live like that, wouldn’t you?” Sunstreaker hissed.

Prowl shot the yellow melee warrior a LOOK. “Perhaps we should bring in the Axalon crew, Optimus. Then decide.”

The tall red-white-blue once-supreme commander of the Autobots looked towards Spectrum and Illusion standing respectfully in the corner. At his barest of nods, they moved towards the back of the chamber. Illusion readied the six chairs that had been left empty at the far end of the ovoid table; Spectrum laid his hand on the silver door bar and opened it a crack, just enough to poke his head on through. He said something to the Maximals within the antechamber and stepped back, pulling the door wide.

The Autobots of the Ark scraped back in their seats, pushing up on the table and leaning forward to get a good look at these “descendants”. At the other end of the table, Optimus Prime remained standing, his arms folded, chin tucked against his chest, watching judiciously from under his helm. Elita-1 exchanged a short glance with Solarflare before standing up beside her bondmate.

No one came forth. Spectrum looked ahead, then back inside. He coughed and ducked into the antechamber. Slipping out once more, the Autobot turned his head and announced: “Warriors of the Ark, I am pleased to present the crew of the survey ship Axalon: Rattrap, Cheetor, Silverbolt –”

“SILVERBOLT!” Cosmos exclaimed, only to be shushed by Smokescreen and Tracks. The former Minibot gripped the table and hopped up on his chair to see better.

“—BlackArachnia, Rhinox … and the captain of the Axalon, Optimus … Primal.”

It was like walking through the National Cybertronian History Museum. There were the Twins, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe; over there were the Protectobots; Jazz, Prowl, Ironhide … Ratchet, Wheeljack, Perceptor …

“Ohhh, man,” Rattrap muttered, his hands clenched tight to his sides, fingers reflexively reaching for his firearm in case things got ugly. But they’d been stripped of weaponry, which was now sitting in a safe somewhere on this outrageously large plantation. “Wouldja look at ’em, Rhinox?”

Through teeth that were clamped tight, the scientist could only reply, “That’s a lot.”

They filed out and towards the chairs Illusion was indicating to them. All but one.

Optimus Primal stood rooted to the spot, back behind the doors. He knew who was out there – Optimus Prime, his hero, his … The very Optimus Prime who they saved during the timestorm, the one whose spark he had carried for a short time.

Spectrum stuck his head around the corner. “Captain Primal,” he hissed. “Your presence is necessary.”

A thousand and one emotions rolled through his core. Could he face Optimus Prime?

“Captain.” Spectrum was growing impatient, and Primal had no doubt that if worse came to worse, the son of the spy would get behind him and shove him through the doors. And that would have been more humiliating than facing Optimus Prime.

Slowly, but surely, Primal eased himself out from behind the doors. At the sight of his large gorilla’s foot peeking about the bend, the whispers started. There was a short rap on a table and conversation instantly ceased.

“Welcome, Maximals,” a deep, resonant voice began. Something stirred in Primal’s spark at those words. Something lifted within him, threw all his cares away, let him know that everything was going to be all right. He lifted his head and stared across the room at Optimus Prime.

For the second time, the two Optimuses’ optics locked. But this time, Prime did not fall back into stasis. No, this was a completely different Optimus Prime: one who had awoken in 1984, who had battled Megatron for over 20 years after that, who had lost his life and then was reborn to finally destroy Galvatron at the gates of Iacon.

Optimus Prime.

“Welcome, Captain Primal.”