Chapter Eight

"Reason, thou see'st, hath all too short a wing."
—Dante, Paradiso, Canto II, Line 57

Spectrum was all too happy to see the familiar form of his mother winging down over the alleyway. Though he might be over three hundred years old, one was never too mature to gather strength from a parent, or to take comfort in the fact that they were here to set your mistakes aright.

Yes, Spectrum still believed that he was responsible for the unknown mech slipping into the detention center and setting the imposter Megatron free. Nothing his father could say would convince him otherwise. After cutting the connection with Mirage, Spectrum had given command to his second and made the trek across the landing strip and down into the bowels of the cells. The bodies of the guards had been cleared away for internment at the local mausoleum, their names to be inscribed on the wall of honorees with a sigil for bravery below. Spectrum had enough on his mind; the last thing he wanted to do was to explain to the grieving families the how and the why of the matter that led to termination.

Standing in the middle of the hall, he let his special sensors flow out into the room. It was at that moment he realized that Megatron had not escaped of his own methods. To him, sparks carried a certain, distinct “flavor”, an imprint of the personality of the ’bot that surrounded it. Beyond his visored optics, a glowing trail of ions floated a few feet above the steel floor; one was mixed with red and purple, the other red and black; a pulse of evil was attached to each particle. Not far from this trail lay the imprint of the ten terminated warriors.

Glancing behind him, Spectrum transformed. Early in life, before the Reformatting, he’d been a triplechanger, a present he’d asked Mirage for on his one-hundredth birthday. At that time, he held Formula-1 and eagle modes, nods to the forms of his parents. Afterwards, he looked to something more unique; the beast technology was in full swing for reconnaissance and exploration, and with his mother reverting to a full-fledged Harpy Eagle, and Illusion following suit with a Gyrfalcon, the port commander was faced with a dilemma. Squander his father’s gift or improve upon it? In the end, he traded his old parts for the highest price and followed his mother and sister into full beastmode – but with a twist. He chose a chimaera, a combination of red fox and Philippine Eagle – for his father’s love of turbofox hunting, and for Solarflare’s avian preference. Before he met the Maximal Silverbolt (did he really know that there was another of the same name spinning among the clouds of Earth?), he thought it completely inimitable. Still, it was nice to be the first.

In this mode, Spectrum crawled along the halls, his head swiveling from side to side, schematics and complex equations flowing in a steady stream along the lower right-hand corner of his optics. These chambers were quite old: Mirage had said even older than the most of the Transformers on Cybertron. Perhaps they had been built as far back as the first Great War, the War of Autonomy.

The longer the distance Spectrum put between he and the main cell hold, the faster his gait became. His wings beat a soft tattoo against his flanks, itching to flare open wide. Beak gaping, the fox-eagle drew dank, fetid air through his intakes and lengthened his stride. At places, the passageway grew tight, and he was forced to rip rock and old metal plates from the sides in order to push on through. Part of him recognized how artfully the two who had passed through ahead of him had set up these obstacles. They seemed so natural, but Spectrum had an eagle’s eye and a vulpine sense of smell. He knew the difference.

After an hour and a half, Spectrum pushed through to the outside. The wide Cybertronian sky pulsed above him, hardly a star visible, outshone by the tens of millions of lights that rose upwards. The son of the Towers circled back, making sure he was following the correct sparks; that fear assuaged, he sat on his haunches and pointed his beak towards the sky, sending a low, pulsating beacon he hoped the Maximals would recognize.

“Coming,” his mother’s familiar voice called out.

And then they were there: a strange conglomeration of animals, warped by even stranger waves on prehistoric Earth.

“What have you found?” Solarflare asked, flicking her black-barred pinions over her back.

“They’ve remained on foot,” he explained, rising and padding around the gaggle of Maximals to point down a parallel alley. “This way. I gather a few hundred yards in that direction; any further is speculation.”

Optimus Primal, wearing the face of a smooth blue gorilla, pursed his primate lips. “Are you able to join us?”

As much as Spectrum would have liked – it would have been easier for them – he could not. “No. I need to return to the port before they figure I’ve spelunked too far. No one outside a chosen few need to know what went on here.” He sighed, once again thinking of the guards. “I have some issues to clear up with the warriors who guarded the prisoner.”

Solarflare walked over to him and idly preened his neck feathers. “Lu and your father are remaining at home with Optimus and Prowl. Call them if necessary.”

Spectrum’s vulpine ears flicked back in embarrassment; the giant metallic rat and feral cheetah were eying him with interest. “Aye, Mother.” He turned with a flick of his bushy tail.

“Good luck, everyone.” And then he was off, a brown-white swatch of color against the otherwise pallid environment.

Optimus clunked forward on his knuckles, peering into the shadows that were slowly being pushed aside by daylight. How could have he been so foolish as to have considered bringing Megatron back? Perhaps he should have ordered the Predacon to be dumped in a black hole, as many of the Autobots had suggested. The act might have weighed heavily on his conscience, but that guilt was nothing compared to the guilt he now felt coiling in a tighter band around his spark. Visions of Autobots’ countenances, lined with grief and the after-effects of a millennia-long war swam past his optics. All Maximals owed their very lives to their sacrifices, and he had just possibly thrown those braveries in their face. Had it not been for them …

Primal stomped the ground with his fists, startling his crew and the avian femme. Well, he would right those wrongs; come hell or high water, he would seek Megatron out and finish this private war for good. He owed Optimus Prime and the Autobots that much.

“Done with your tribal dance, Boss-Man?” Rattrap inquired, rising up on his hind legs and planting his paws on his hips. “It’s getting light out, if you didn’t notice, and Megs’ll have fled underground by now.”

Solarflare transformed and pulled a thin datapad from a slot in her right upper thigh. “I’ll check. Catch, Cheetor.” The feral Cat hurriedly transformed, just in time to save the pad from plowing into the cracked steel floor.

“What is it?”

“A viewer. It’s hooked up to my optics. Wait till I reach the top and I’ll turn it on.” With a grin, the grey femme was off, setting talons and claws into the nearest façade. The other Maximals transformed and watched her ascend, some recalling how deeply they missed Airazor. Optimus Primal was among them. While she might not have been overjoyed to be on Cybertron, having considered Earth her home, he knew that Airazor would have relished the challenge of canvassing the miles and miles of metal jungle that was this world. As Solarflare continued to climb, he was stricken with a vision of the falcon femme; from behind, Solarflare bore a slight resemblance to her, but not enough to confuse. Still. Megatron was part of the equation that brought Airazor and Tigertron to their deaths – twice. As he had vowed before, he would lose no more comrades.

Solarflare continued to climb as Primal went through his personal reflection; she slung one taloned foot, then the other, over the fragmented warehouse ledge. Bits and pieces of the old structure broke away and clattered to the ground, mixing with the dust below to create an unsavory miasma. Coughing, the Primal clawed the grime from his optics, blinking furiously.

“All right. Here we go,” Solarflare called down. She walked over to the edge and set her hands along the rusted iron filigree that covered the perimeter, leaning forward. They gathered around Cheetor, anxious to see what magic the Tower-dweller possessed.

The datapad spluttered to life with a soft hiccup. The resulting image was slightly unsteady, as they were truly seeing through Solarflare’s optics, and her head bobbed up and down as she canvassed the immediate area.

Silverbolt peered close. “To what extent must we look?” Primal had to agree – there seemed to be nothing but miles and miles of uninhabited, decrepit storage facilities, left to rot and be used as primative housing for those Transformers down on their luck. Or Predacons hiding from the authorities.

“Solarflare?” he called up.

As if she knew, she replied, “Increasing magnification.”

And then they were zooming across acres and acres, past unrefined buildings, condemned and falling apart. “That’s as far as I can go,” she announced without turning her head. Staring up from the confines of the datapad were the walls of Cybertropolis, five miles off. They could clearly see the flashing lights of the entertainment district, the neon signs proclaiming all sorts of delights, both innocent and bawdy.

Rattrap whistled. “Now this is the kind of stuff I wish I could get if I had the dough,” he muttered, a waft of appreciation underlying his slight snub.

The image shifted as Solarflare stood up on the ledge; wobbled as she fought for a steady perch. “I need to move to higher ground,” she announced. “I’m not getting anything from up here.” A hiss and spit from the viewer, and it went off. She leaned over the edge. “Captain?”

Primal looked up at her; surreptitiously, he felt inside a subspace pocket for the grey, black-banded feather that she had given him as a sign of her loyalty, a symbol that she would follow him as a superior for this mission. Commanding a high-ranking former Autobot, and a member of the elite, made him uncomfortable at first. Nevertheless, Solarflare had assured him that it was quite all right, and she told him in no uncertain terms that she was more than familiar with taking orders than giving any out. “No, come down,” he said. “I know it would do us a world of good if we had you up there, but I don’t want anyone knowing what we’re up to.”

“Aye, Captain.” And then she was pushing herself off the ledge, feet first, grey, black-banded wings spread wide to slow her descent.

Turning, Primal looked to his increased crew. “Any suggestions?”

Silverbolt’s ears pricked. “Well, I might not have Spectrum’s special talent, but I have my nose.”

Rhinox shrugged. “It’s as good an idea as any.”

Primal nodded. “Anyone else?” When none of them answered, the Transmetal-2 continued, “I agree, old friend. Well, Silverbolt, lead on. Weapons at the ready, mechs – and femmes,” he added, nodding to BlackArachnia and Solarflare. Silverbolt dipped his head in acknowledgement and transformed, immediately setting his keen canine nose to the fetid ground. As they watched, he circled once, twice, before lifting his head.

“I would know that stench anywhere,” he declared, and set off at a steady lope down the alleyway parallel to the current one, just as Spectrum had indicated, the Maximals and lone Autobot close on his heels.

This one’s cortex is never still, Laserbeak reflected sourly. Perhaps I was in error of taking him by myself. Silence on part of a captive reeked of dark disasters. This was one of the things that the Condor missed the most about the Great War – Autobots, especially those infernal Twins, were constantly talking, even if it were only insults that spewed forth. That assured him that they were not thinking of ways to escape. A fertile mind remained silent.

Laserbeak, while concerned, remained silent himself. It did him no good to talk to the imposter, lest he believe the Condor was trying to distract him from any plans he might be conjuring up. From what the old Decepticon had observed, this fool was cunning and very shrewd, almost (and Laserbeak shuddered internally at the thought) more so than the original Megatron. Yet, there was a pomposity to his personality that Megatron never possessed, and that knowledge alone assuaged part of his fear.

But only a little.

At some length, the lizard opened up his mouth. “So, tell me, Laserbeak –” He had learned not to address Laserbeak with any companionable word, “— how much farther?”

The Condor shifted his grip on the Energon regulator. Silence worked both ways. There was an exasperated sigh from the Dragon. You know as well as I do that you’ll see when we get there. From the safety of his black cowl, Laserbeak looked around, trying to remember where the entrance was, exactly. Every alley looked like the one they had left behind. Still, he kept moving at a measured pace, eons of war honing his stealth capability.

By pure chance, a voice hailed from the shadows: “You’re late.”

Laserbeak grew still. Attached as he was to the regulator, the imposter had no choice but to halt as well. Experimentation early on gave him the knowledge that if he struggled or tried to pull the plug, the nodes attached to his system would alert the main computer and drain him completely.

Slowly, the Condor turned to face the source. A shadow in the corner of one of the warehouses detached itself and leaned forward. “Your silence speaks for itself, my one-time comrade,” the pteropine spectre continued, making no effort to hide the superiority in his tone.

Laserbeak was glad for the anonymity the cowl provided him, but he believed that Ratbat still possessed unerring night-sight, and thus could see right through it. Though the newest of Soundwave’s slaves, Ratbat never hesitated to boast about his pre-eminence; Ravage’s body language might have proclaimed that self-important fact, but the Bat was quite vocal.

“Does Tripredacus know of your side-bar, my friend?” Ratbat maintained.

“You’ll find no credits to be bartered in this matter,” Laserbeak allowed at last. He was anxious to get on, and out of the corner of his optic, he saw that the imposter was drinking this conversation in, words and movements all. The Condor snarled under his breath; yet another lever against him.

Ratbat smiled humorlessly, gleaming white fangs flashing from underneath his bifurcated lips. “There’s always money to be made.” He pushed himself off the wall, the light of the new day glinting off his purple and black armor. He walked around the pretender, looking him up and down as he would a drone or servantbot hologram on the Marketing Channel. “Interesting technology. However did you come by it?”

Laserbeak’s finger hovered over the control box, ready to drop the Dragon where he stood if one moan passed his lip components. To his credit, whatever that was, the false Megatron remained silent. “Your ears are large enough, Ratbat, surely you know?” Laserbeak allowed a minute smirk of satisfaction as the pteropine Decepticon’s muzzle drew down in a noiseless snarl.

“Ever insolent, Laserbeak,” Ratbat said at last. And as smooth as the wind, he was gone.

And Megatron merely smiled.

Time passed and the roving lights above the decrepit district fluctuated so wildly, Megatron knew that they were close to the entertainment quarter of Cybertropolis. Baring the giant plug sticking out of the center of his back, he was actually enjoying this little romp. The more he learned about the old Decepticons, the deeper his plan for Predacon domination grew. What had started out as a genocidal dance to eliminate the Maximals quickly turned into destroying all the old guard, reformatted or not, first.

Out with the old, in with the new, yes. Sooner or later, he would have to find a way to transform this Transmetal body into something that could not be penetrated by such simple things as Energon regulators. But the question remained: before or after his domination of Tripredacus? Details, details.

“This way.”

Megatron had forgotten about Laserbeak. Then again, he tended to forget about everyone besides himself. The Condor slipped past his blind spot and was in front of him – still holding that blasted control box! – before Megatron could blink.

Cunningly cut into the grimy surface of one of the crumbling buildings was a door. Laserbeak merely pushed it open – no secret knocks or codewords, he simply walked on through. A short gust of recycled air brushed past the Condor’s cowl, lifting it up and away from his face, giving Megatron the first true glimpse of his captor. Needless to say, he was not impressed – if he were capable of pity, that was probably what he would be feeling. Poor fool, stuck with the head of a scavenger!

As Megatron hung back in his observance, Laserbeak lifted the control box. “Oh, do put that away,” he scoffed, sweeping by the Decepticon and into the deep darkness. “I swear, you like that too much.”

To his chagrin, this room was not the end-all. Optics glowing with a feral, slightly-mad light, Laserbeak led Megatron into the back, skillfully avoiding every object the Transmetal dragon managed to slam into his shins. Dust rose in great quantities, sticking fast to his olfactory equipment and coating the back of his throat. Utter humiliation! Soon, every crack and joint on his beautiful body was smothered in the stuff, and the deeper they went into this insane labyrinth, the worse the smell and the amount that was thrown up.

To the front, something clanged. “Well, well. So this is the new Megatron. Rather unimpressive, don’t you think?”

“Turn on that slaggin’ light … light …”

The first speaker uttered a sigh of irritation. “Oh, shut up, Shrapnel.”

Megatron leaned forward; what was this – a Decepticon reunion? He really should have spent some time, perhaps five minutes or so, researching the Decepticons who had followed the original Megatron to Earth; here, he was at a disadvantage, and that did not make him happy.

A click and clack later, a low-powered Earth bulb flickered on, illuminating the five creatures of history who sat in various careless states around a three-legged table. Two were Insecticons, another a dark mirror of Laserbeak; yet another might have been green and purple, but those colors had long since faded and were now covered in a permanent layer of filth. The last was propped up in the corner; an indeterminable amount of wires ran from a large generator to various points on his cracked body. This Decepticon looked as if he hadn’t moved since the Autobot victory!

“About time,” the mirror-Condor snapped. In its corner, the ancient and decrepit mech muttered something that was just deep static. “Quiet!” He turned back around. “So, brother, this is he? Rather taller than his warrant poster.”

“Yeah,” the grime-covered mech agreed. “And completely reformatted. Not something I expected to be dragged out here to see. He’s nothing like Megatron, no matter how he covets the name.” Standing at the edge of the cone of light, Laserbeak’s frown deepened. Megatron’s capacious cortex simply had a field day. If he were reading the signs correctly, the sole reason he was brought down here was to revive some prehistoric Decepticon sentiments! How droll!

In the face of Laserbeak’s silence, one of the Insecticons hooted. “Turbofox got your tongue, birdie? I don’t know what you’re planning, but you’re not going to get anywhere with the Maximals with this guy. He doesn’t even look like Megatron.”

“Just a big lizard … lizard …” Shrapnel echoed.

The other Condor nodded gravely. “We don’t need – or want – another Megatron, Beaker.”

At long last, Laserbeak spoke; the voice that issued from his vocalizer was soft, as inky as his stride. “No one will stand behind the name of Shockwave, or Soundwave, for that matter, Buzzsaw” he began. “What, did you think you could rally our brethren with such? Not even Tripredacus has that amount of pull. And you wonder why we have gotten no where in the past three centuries.”

Megatron watched the taunt pull of the other’s jaw as the barb hit home. Well, blast it; this was more fun than shooting primitives in a barrel! He wondered how long it would be before they realized he was still here.

Buzzsaw snorted, but it was the lead Insecticon who answered: “Oh, not true. Sometimes, for fun, we prop ol’ Soundwave in the window and scare the oil out of little Maximals.”

“Enough, Bombshell,” the orange-black former Cassetticon cut in.

Indeed, Megatron had had enough. He coughed, drawing their attention. “Do pardon me, but I could not help but overhear your conversation. It seems to me that you gentlemen are in a dilemma – you want to overthrow the Maximals – and I mean, who doesn’t – but you think someone of my divine stature is not good enough to lead the way? Gentlemen, gentlemen, have you learned nothing? Of course everything is in the name – with a good dash of powerful persona behind that appellation.”

Buzzsaw tapped the crumbling tabletop with long, curved claws. “Megatron failed, pretender. The Predacon movement needs a fresh name, a new face, to spearhead our rise back to domination. You are none of those.”

A low growl started in the back of Megatron’s throat and bubbled out through his fanged mouth. “How dare you –”

But Buzzsaw was quick; he snatched the control box from his brother’s hand and cranked the power down. Energy popped out his ankle and flowed like water from his system. Down he went again on his knees, managing to avoid cracking some more teeth on the ancient table. Oh, they would pay!

“I dare,” the other Condor growled. “Now, get up. Understand this,” he said, as Energon returned to Megatron’s abused system, “you might have had some semblance of godhood wherever you were for three years, but that is over. Maybe you might have had a chance had you kept your real name, but you blew it. Now you are stuck, and I tell you, no one will follow a failed name.”

Wrong, Megatron hissed in his cortex. And when I rise again, you shall be the first to fall.

Buzzsaw turned back around. “Now, brother, have you anything interesting to add, or did we convene for nothing?”