chapter Six

"Wisdom supreme! how dost thou show thine art
In heaven and earth and in the pit profound,
And of thy justice make exact the chart!"
—Dante, Inferno, Canto XIX, Lines 10-12

Primal could not seem to exhale; his breath seemed trapped in his ventilators, and his system seized. Spectrum reached up and placed a careful hand on the highest point of Primal’s body he could reach – his upper thigh. Shocked into movement, Optimus Primal shuffled forward and took his seat next to Cheetor. Though built to his size, the sheer weight of his frame caused the chair to tremble. Surprisingly, though, it held.

“What fool is this?” a great grey hulk of a mech thundered from the corner. “Why captain look like Optimus Prime? And named like Optimus Prime?”

“Grimlock,” Optimus Prime cautioned, lifting a blue hand to stave off any more comments. “At ease. Names are not the matter to be discussed tonight.”

“Me, Grimlock, think this is stupidity.” And the Dinobot turned his head from the proceedings. Prime’s shoulders heaved and he shook his head slowly.

“As I said, welcome. Solarflare and Mirage have told us your tale, but we would like to hear it from you, if you could.”

Without being asked, Silverbolt stood. “Sir,” he began with a deep bow. “Let me say that standing before you is an extreme pleasure. I have heard countless tales of your bravery and heroism –”

“Enough skid-kissing,” Sunstreaker rumbled. “Get on with it.”

Silverbolt blinked, taken aback by the sheer abrasiveness of the Autobot melee warrior. “Uh, well, yes.” And launched into a perfect rendition of the story they’d told the Tower-dwellers.

Primal watched the reactions of the other Autobots in order to keep his mind off of Optimus Prime. He was sure that while Prime had his attention directed at Silverbolt, he was also watching Primal. There were far too many for him to put names to faces; some were frowning, others had their chins in their palms, some took notes, and some snored. There was one silver-colored Autobot with a chevron similar to Prowl’s whose face was going through the most peculiar contortions as Silverbolt described Megatron. Quickly, Primal turned away lest he be caught staring; instead, he focused his optics on the other side of the room. He noticed that Solarflare had her head tilted towards a red-grey mech, while Mirage’s frown was deeper than the rest. The green Autobot known as Hound was tapping his forefinger on the table, a burnt-yellow and green mech scowled, and a mainly-white mech with lightbulbs for ears was hunched over.

After a time, Prowl leaned forward, lacing his fingers over his datapad. “You profess a desire to have this ‘Megatron’ taken before the Maximal Council of Elders,” he stated after Silverbolt’s recitation was through and the Fuzor had taken his seat. “While noble, I must ask ‘why’?”

It took a moment for Primal to realize his crew was looking at him to reply. “Because I believe in justice,” he said at last. “I believe that crimes no matter how heinous deserve their day in court.”

Along the left side of the ovoid, someone cut back a loud sob. Optimus Prime’s head swung around. “Bluestreak? Have you something to add?”

Bluestreak’s cry echoed around the chamber and the table shook as his fists slammed down upon it. “All six of you are completely crazy if you think this is going to work. I lost everything to Megatron, and now you want some imposter to stand up before the world and rant? I won’t stand for it! Mirage!” Voice rising in pitch, the ex-gunner jabbed a finger at the spy. “You know what I mean, don’t you? You lost everything, too! Tell them; convince them to kill this maniac before the Predacons can start the war again.” Legs trembling, Bluestreak gripped the table for support.

Mirage blinked and slowly slid his chair back. He looked at Bluestreak, who could barely contain the trembling of his lower lip; twin streams of fluid flowed unchecked down his silver cheeks. “I did lose everything,” he began softly. “But what I lost cannot be compared against what Bluestreak went through. I was fortunate enough to find a pillar of strength to lean against,” and he looked towards Solarflare. She smiled softly and reached out to touch his arm with gentle black fingers. “Still. I do not want to lose anything again. I worked too hard, spent too many hours, to give everything up.” His hands clenched tight against his sides. “I have a family, dammit, and no one named Megatron is going to take that from me again.”

Rattrap, Cheetor and Rhinox looked at each other, then up at Primal. “I think we touched a nerve,” the metallic rat muttered.

“Indeed,” Rhinox agreed.

“But – but – you won the war,” Cheetor interjected, confusion clear on his face. “Maximals have control over Cybertron – what harm can putting Megatron on trial cause?”

“Look here, kid,” the rust-red warrior named Ironhide rumbled, “t’you, this whole shebang is ancient history. Not t’us. I got my fraggin’ head blown off by Megatron. Y’think I want that t’happen again?”

Cheetor’s shoulders slumped, crushed by the old warrior’s remarks. “I –”

“Save it, Spots,” Rattrap snarled. “It’s obvious t’me that they don’t give a flying slag about what we think. They’re gonna scrap old Megs whether we want it to happen or not.”

Rhinox raised a hand. “We lost comrades, too,” but his words of comparison were drowned out. Angry shouts and curses flew in every direction at Rattrap’s words. Through it all, Optimus Prime sat and listened. Until Sunstreaker got a little too carried away – he had to be restrained from climbing the table to get to Rattrap. Rising, the red-white-blue ex-commander lifted both hands; Prowl pounded the surface before him until a flurry of cracks split the fine exterior.

“Enough. Enough, all of you,” Optimus began. “I think we’ve had enough talk for today. I suggest we retire to the quarters Mirage and Solarflare have so generously provided for us and mull things over until tomorrow.”

“But I’m just getting started, Prime,” Sunstreaker whined, running one hand up the “bicep” of his other arm, a murderous gleam in his optics.

“Sunstreaker.”

The yellow melee warrior snarled and snorted, but relented. Even after all this time, Prime commanded complete attention. Slowly, the Autobots of the Ark stood and began filing out the door. “Prowl,” Optimus Prime called out. “Jazz, Ratchet, Ironhide, Mirage, Flare, Grimlock, remain a while.” He turned his head slowly and looked at Primal, tucking his chin before swiveling to help Elita-1 from her seat.

Rattrap rubbed his knuckles. “So, what do we do now?”

Silent and stealthy, Spectrum appeared at their end of the table. “You’re free to go,” he announced.

Rattrap rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s just peachy. Thanks a lot.”

Spectrum shrugged. “I never said any of this would be easy. Just … roll with it. They’re old, and some are cranky, but believe me, they know what they’re talking about.”

Rhinox snorted. “They sure have a delightful way of showing it.”

“As we’ve tried to tell you, they’re fearful of their hard work going down the tubes.” Spectrum heaved a sigh and shook his crested head. “Uhg. Anyway, they’ll probably stay on the floor above yours; if your paths happen to cross, I suggest you don’t discuss matters until tomorrow.”

Primal remained seated, staring across the long ovoid at the place Prime had been standing. “Thank you, Spectrum. We appreciate your generosity.”

“Yeah, right,” Rattrap sniffed. “Generous captivity.”

“Oh, be quiet, Big R,” Cheetor snapped – and stepped back as Rattrap’s finger flew up to prod him in the nose.

“Listen, Tabby. I’ve about had enough with the ‘shut up Rattraps’, capiche? I’m in a place I don’t wanna be, and I’d like it if everyone just stopped houndin’ me!”

Spectrum merely blinked as Cheetor took a step backwards, then another, before retreating to Primal’s side. “Again, good evening.” In a flurry of brown-barred feathers, he strolled to the arching door.

Quiet throughout the debate, BlackArachnia lifted her head and called to the young Autobot. “Do you have a library?” There was no masking the surprise on Spectrum’s face as he turned back around.

Silverbolt blinked. “Are you all right, beloved? You said nothing during the proceedings.”

She waved him off. “I’m fine, Jojo. So, do you, Spectrum?”

“Of course,” the brown Autobot assured her. “I’ll take you there, if you like.”

“I’m her guardian, I’ll take her,” the wolf-eagle announced, sticking out his chest proudly.

Spectrum eyed him with a mixture of pity and annoyance. “I’m not interested in your wife, if that’s what you’re implying,” he stated firmly.

It was rather remarkable to watch Silverbolt deflate. His ears went back, chest and wings dropped. “I – wife?”

“Earth-term, forgive me,” Spectrum replied tersely. “Bondmate. Anyway, I’ve got to be getting back to the spaceport. If you want to come, BlackArachnia, do.”

Curling her hand around Silverbolt’s, BlackArachnia stood on tip-toe to give him a peck on his silver-furred cheek. “I’ll be fine, Bowser. I can take care of myself. Lead on, Spectrum.” With a dainty wave that was easily translatable as “I’ll rip his head off if necessary”, BlackArachnia followed Spectrum out the door and into the hall.

Though she didn’t particularly like playing hostess, Solarflare busied herself with mixing glasses of high grade for the others. Over the years, she’d forged a new identity for herself, that of a warrior and communications specialist – and after the war, she specifically told Mirage she wouldn’t take the part of waitress for social functions. However, this was a different matter entirely.

“Thank you, Flare,” Prowl said as she offered the old second-in-command his glass. She smiled at him; it’d taken years for the old stiff to finally call her by her nickname. “Anyway, as no one else seems to want to be the one to start the discussion – this Captain Primal, he looks like you, Optimus.”

“Figured you’d want to bring it up, man,” Jazz grinned, prodding Flare in the tailfeathers playfully as she passed. He winked at Mirage and held up his glass in a mock toast. Flare hit him with a folded napkin.

Elita crossed her legs. “I chalk it up to those storms that other Silverbolt spoke of. He does think highly of you, Optimus, enough to take your name in homage. It could be that these storms, whatever they were made of, picked up on it.”

“That’s a good hypothesis,” Ratchet murmured, “but they were there long enough, and with equipment sophisticated enough – I assume – to analyze it however minutely.”

Optimus nodded. “That is something we can delve into tomorrow,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair.

Prowl’s optics narrowed shrewdly. “He bothers you somehow.”

A low laugh bubbled out from behind the mask. “Always watching, aren’t you, Prowl?” Optimus mused. “Honestly, yes, this Primal makes me uneasy.” He sighed. “It’s not just the similarities – that I can live with – but the feeling I get from looking at him.”

“Such as?” Elita pursued.

“As if I’ve seen him before.”

The wall creaked as Grimlock leaned up against it. “Grimlock make this known at beginning. Still stupid Autobots refuse to listen.”

“I’m listening now, Grimlock,” Prime returned quietly.

Silence. The large Dinobot’s optics blinked behind his red visor. “Hrmph. Well, since you no want to hear Grimlock out in beginning, Grimlock remain tight-mouthed. Me, Grimlock, speak at next meeting.”

“Suit yerself, you ol’ rustbucket,” Ironhide muttered, then looked at his hands. “Mebbe y’did see him, Prime.”

Flare finished her waitress duties and took up a perch on Mirage’s lap. “He’s right. They did say it was prehistoric Earth.”

Ratchet rubbed his chin. “Wait, wait. You’re implying that they were there at the time we were in stasis?”

“Interesting,” Prowl mused. “It’s a possibility. Where else would they have gotten a shuttle?” He turned towards Mirage and Flare. “Do you still have it?”

“Yes. In a bunker at the port,” Mirage replied. “I can have Spec send some holos over tomorrow morning.”

“If this is true, why didn’t they tell us?” Jazz asked.

Prowl looked at him. “Would you tell someone that you went back in time and possibly messed with history?”

Jazz’s brow ridge furrowed. “No.”

“Exactly.”

Elita frowned. “So, how do we get them to tell us the truth? We can’t exactly open the meeting with an accusation. That’ll only push them further from us.”

“As if they aren’t already,” Mirage groused. “Look, it’s obvious to me that we’ll never reach a consensus with them. I thought this conference would make them see our side, but the more I watch them, and the more they say, they’re bound and determined to blow everything.”

“We both think we’re right, Raj,” Flare murmured.

Optimus leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Retirement and obscurity were bad enough, but to be faced with another 9 million year war? No, no. “Tell me, my friends, what should we do?”

“Termination,” Prowl answered succinctly, tapping a stylus against his chest, right where he had been hit back in 2005.

“Seconded,” Ironhide echoed.

“Agreed,” Jazz replied. “As much as I wish there were a better way.”

“Grimlock?”

The grey Dinobot looked a little over his shoulder. “Should not have brought fool anyway. Fool twice over for that decision.”

Prime nodded. “Yes, but –”

Grimlock threw his hands in the air. “I stomp good, Op-timus Prime. Let me, Grimlock, loose.”

The Autobot commander lifted a hand in quiet refusal. “In time. Ratchet, Elita, Mirage, Solarflare?”

One by one, the remaining Autobots voiced their assent for termination. And as much as it pained Prime, he agreed with them – wholeheartedly. Cybertron and its people deserved far better than to have a maniac with an old name running around. An old, powerful, and frightening name. Optimus shuddered and touched his aching temples.

Ironhide laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Prime, let’s hit it for tonight.”

Looking at the rust-red trooper askance, Optimus nodded slowly. Feeling as old as he was, despite the new body, he took Ironhide’s proffered arm in getting up. “Goodnight, my friends.” With Elita supporting him on the other side, Optimus Prime, once-leader of the Autobots, called it a night.

In the day and a half that he’d been chained up to an Energon regulator, Megatron had figured about a thousand different ways to get back at his captors. Various means of death included, but were not limited to, spark-extraction with miniscule scissors, smelting an inch at a time, and body-part removal – one square inch over the course of several cycles.

Never in all his functioning days had he been subjected to such indignity. While it had been bad enough being hauled back to Cybertron strapped on the hull of an Autobot shuttle – he was still spitting out asteroid particles – the two primary-colored mechs who had been put in charge of him took amusement in others’ pain to a new level. First, he had been bound with energy wraps; then they tossed him head-first into a cell half his size. After they “found out” that he wasn’t fitting in properly, they used their feet to stamp him into place. Leaving him there for a few hours, they figured that this punishment wasn’t enough. Dragging Megatron out by his dragon tail scalp lock, they bounced him (literally) down the hall and put him in a slightly larger cell. This time, they brought an Energon regulator with them. Once implanted into his system, the regulator kept his power down to bare minimum – enough to keep normal functions, but left him in a perpetual state of exhaustion. Of course, he wasn’t able to fall into recharge. The brutal mechs poked, prodded, spat and stamped at his body until he was both exhausted and aching along every neural path he possessed.

“And he calls himself ‘Megatron’,” the yellow one had sneered. “Old Buckethead was twice the mech this loser is.”

The red one grinned. “Just goes to show you that you can have the name but not the power that goes with it.”

“Wonder what would happen if I torqued the regulator to full? One second on high.”

“Naw, Sunny. That’d be ‘bad’.”

“Bad!” the yellow one scoffed, holding his hips while he laughed. “Awr, fine. Can’t give porthead here any excuse to capitalize.”

But now, they were gone, and Megatron was in yet another cell. Ten Transformers garbed in shadow ringed his cell, moving into various positions every few minutes. The Maximals, it seemed, were leaving nothing to chance. Megatron could not see their faces, nor could he distinguish body type due to his optics malfunctioning in light of the lack of Energon.

This indignity, this … charade… it would be repaid, a hundred-fold! Oh, the red one had it all wrong – true, the bearer of a name might not have the power, but the name itself was all one needed. Yes, the Universe had trembled at the name of Megatron … and as he had promised Primal, it would do so again!

Through slack optics, Megatron watched as the guards changed once more. Was it his imagination, or did one seem to float? With a rumbling sigh, he attributed it to another one of his indignities and began playing back one of his favorite fantasies.

“So, tell me, was it you who destroyed Ravage?”

Megatron looked up, annoyed that he had been broken away from twisting Primal’s head off. Something inky and black seemed to hover at the edge of his peripheral vision; no matter which way he turned his head, there it stayed. A ghost, of sorts.

“Did you destroy the Black Cat?” the spectre insisted.

“ ‘The Black Cat’?” Megatron mused in a breathless whisper. He paused a moment to collect his energy; it seemed this regulator drained him for every motion or movement, no matter how small. “How … droll … yes. No, no, I did not … kill … the … agent.”

The black-garbed guards shuffled. “Call topside,” someone said. “The prisoner is speaking to himself.”

“Unnecessary.”

From the corner of his optic, Megatron watched as an inky stain, darker than the cloths the guards had draped over their metallic forms, spread like fog over a cold pond. One by one, they stiffened and topped to the ground, legs jerking in some crazed neural response. Only one remained upright; this one was shorter than the rest and seemed to have a hump in the middle of its back. Twin golden orbs flickered in the shadow of its voluminous cowl.

“Simpering fools,” came the vocalized words, followed by an equally dark caw. “Nothing has been accomplished when one Decepticon can overtake ten Maximals. Of course, that is how it should be, how it was.”

Judiciously, Megatron watched the hooded figure flow around the downed guards. Optics narrowing shrewdly, he took in all he could of this odd benefactor.

“So,” his savior continued, “you did not kill Ravage. Who did?”

“Free … me.”

The robed creature turned around, lowered the cowl and revealed a condor’s head upon a metallic Transformer’s body.

“Laser … beak.” Ah, how could he have not known? So it was more than Ravage who remained of the original Megatron’s old guard. And if he was understanding the situation properly, this old Decepticon had a long-standing grudge with the non-functioning covert agent. Something to be used to his advantage, yes.

The Condor flowed over to the energy bars and looked down at Megatron’s twisted form. “Out of this cage you shall be; free to do as you please – that unfortunately cannot be so. Tripredacus has a bounty on your head and it sent me to finish the job Ravage could not do.”

Megatron’s optics narrowed. “You … would not … kill me. I am … on Cybertron.”

Laserbeak’s shrug was liquid. “What does that matter? You think your name alone will gather troops to your door? Fool. You are not Megatron!”

You are the fool, he thought. “So.”

Laserbeak smirked, reaching up and prying the Energon regulator control box off the wall. “Up you get, imposter.” The rush of Energon through Megatron’s system nearly blacked him out. Reeling, he reached around to pull the cord out when he was suddenly drained. His head hit the rock floor with a jaw-cracking thud. “None of that. I hold the control box. You will follow me and do as I say, otherwise you’ll be left to the Maximals.”

Through broken teeth, Megatron hissed reluctant compliance. Laserbeak turned off the energy bars and allowed more Energon to flow through his system. Reaching down, the Condor freed Megatron’s legs of one band, leaving the others to bind his thighs together so that he could only hobble at an outrageous pace. “This way,” the old Decepticon indicated.

BlackArachnia wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for – proof of some dark secret she was sure these money-guzzlers were keeping. Anything to be used as insurance in getting them out of this Neverland and on with their lives.

Spectrum had generously guided her to their library before sketching a bow and leaving to return to his duties at the spaceport. BlackArachnia had stood in the doorway before entering, completely taken aback by the volume of datatracks the Tower-dwellers kept. In a room the size of the conference hall, datapads, discs, and even paper books resided in several tiers, beginning at the floor and rising to the ceiling. A small comm unit sat in the center of the white-silver room, and that’s where she began. After a quick check determined that this unit was not connected to any other port in the household, she set about hacking in. How droll, she ruminated, that these people were so comfortable in their idyllic existence that they put their personal information, including tech schematics, into the database. Within a few minutes, she learned about Mirage’s electro-disrupter, as well as noted Spectrum and Illusion’s altmodes (a curious, almost chilling, resemblance to Silverbolt in that Spectrum appeared half-eagle and half-fox; Illusion took the form of a Gyrfalcon) and the circumstances of their “births”. However, information regarding the grey femme Solarflare was almost nonexistent. And no amount of poking around the comm’s innards would reveal an answer.

“Autobot Solarflare,” it intoned, “joined the Ark in 1986. Function: communications. Altmode: Harpy Eagle. Weapons: lasers, wrist-mounted fire-projectiles, energy pistol. Special ability: magnified vision.”

“What are you hiding?” BlackArachnia murmured, tapping her talons against the tabletop. Could her previous prediction about the correlation between the human woman and Solarflare be true?

Frustrated with the inability of the comm unit to produce any viable results, she pushed the chair back and began strolling along the wall. To her chagrin and annoyance, most seemed to be Earth novels of various genres, including children’s books. Others held Cybertronian history tracks she was quite familiar with, thus held no importance. She tried poking around some of the tracks to see if there were any encoded information, but that proved a worthless endeavor.

About ready to give in, she came across a section holding the scanned pages of old Earth news feeds. On a whim, she picked the file labeled “1986”, the year Solarflare had joined the Ark. Flipping it open, the she-spider frowned, seeing that everything was written in one of the humans’ languages; she then saw that there was a translator built into the track. Smirking in good humor, BlackArachnia powered it up.

After a few minutes of irreverent material (who cared if a human shuttle named Challenger exploded?), the electronic voice began a most interesting article.

“August 12, 1986. The parents and brother of Alina Michaels laid their family member to rest today at the River View Cemetery in Portland. Ms. Michaels, 26, was the lone victim of an attack by the Decepticon Ravage that left the Multnomah County Library in ruins on August 8. Two robots, Mirage and Hound, from the defending Autobot army, were the representatives of their faction at the burial.”

The article went on to describe the heroics of the Autobots, how they arrived quickly to save the building from collapsing and evacuate everyone else. There was even a quote from Optimus Prime, expressing his intense regret and guilt, and how they had come to value Alina as a friend. BlackArachnia slammed the case shut, closing off the holographic projection of the deceased, fuchsia optics gleaming. She’d seen that face before – if but in profile. It was too easy to piece together – a human woman dead in the same year a femme joins the foray?

BlackArachnia slipped the record back into place, but not before downloading the information, and walked back to the comm unit. She rescanned the file pertaining to Elita-1’s ragtag band of femmes, finding no reference at all. No results under “flare” – “solar”, or otherwise. No flyers, no grey-white-and-blacks, either.

Yes, she had it. Hopefully. If anything, the fact that she had sensitive information about the Tower-dwellers might be enough leverage. Leaning back in the chair, the Transmetal-2 femme eyed the remaining material in the library. What else could this chamber hold? But before she could rise, a dark red pall descended upon the room; simultaneously, a claxon began blaring.

“AUTOBOTS! ASSEMBLE!”