Retribution

by David J. Williams

  Despite his misgivings about the Aquatronian leader, Optimus found the planet’s way of life orderly and efficient. He couldn’t help thinking that if the Cybertronians had been more focused on peace, maybe they could have built a society such as this. Until all are one—it seemed to him that the Aquatronians had perfected that principle, all working toward a common cause without malice or tyranny. These machines indeed had much to be proud of.

  “We Aquatronians are a humble people,” said the Curator. “What little ambition we have centers on living in harmony with our ecosphere. As you can see, we have no war here, no hunger, no disease. We have been able to dedicate our existence to helping others like ourselves.”

  “So you’ve encountered Cybertronians before?” Optimus asked.

  “Millions of years ago, yes. Back when our space bridge was functioning, perhaps even before your Golden Age. Some say not long after your Thirteen Primes left, your world found us. We were such grand friends then. We all prospered from the Energon trade.”

  That might explain the similarity in architecture, Optimus thought. “You know of the Thirteen?”

  “Of course we do,” the Curator said. “Anybody who knows anything about you Cybertronians knows of the legendary Thirteen. That being said, we have never actually seen a Prime until now. I cannot begin to tell you how honored we are that you have found us again.”

  “Yes, well, the honor is all ours. Perhaps this exchange of ideas and knowledge will bring our two races together in ways that benefit us both.”

  “Indeed,” said the Curator, “that is as it should be. Once we served as a hub for trade for many worlds. The galaxy was different then. Now all the planets have fallen into isolation, alas.”

  “We are doing our best to pick up the pieces,” Optimus said. “Our head scientist, Perceptor, would be most interested in conducting some tests to see if our species are related. After all, there are few mechanoid races at this level of sophistication.”

  “We would welcome whatever testing you would like to perform,” the Curator replied. “Though I assure you we are not one of your lost colonies. Which does not mean we cannot be brothers, no? Tell me, Optimus, what of events on Cybertron?”

  “Civil war rages there now.”

  The Curator shook his head slowly. “We had heard rumors, but I had hoped they weren’t true.”

  “They are. In fact, the Decepticons have driven us into exile.” Optimus decided not to mention the AllSpark to the Curator. It didn’t seem prudent. Maybe after they had gotten to know each other a little better but not right now. Nor did the Curator seem to notice his reticence; instead, the bot waved his hands expansively.

  “Well,” he said, “even though our star charts are old and outdated, you are welcome to them. We also possess the charts of many of the races we used to trade with. As you didn’t know our planet was here, maybe they will fill in the gaps in your own.”

  “That would be most welcome assistance.”

  “Perhaps our help should not stop there.” For a moment the Curator almost looked sly. “Since we once had so much contact with other worlds and other species, we are quite proficient at the art of negotiation. Might it be that we can aid you in finding peace with these Decepticons?”

  “Peace with the Decepticreeps?” Jazz said. “I wouldn’t bet my racing stripes on it.”

  “Easy, Jazz,” Optimus said. He turned back to the Curator. “Though his words are harsh, I fear that my comrade Jazz may be right. The Decepticons do not want peace; they want total dominion over all the races they encounter. You should bear that in mind should they ever find your planet.”

  The Curator shrugged. “Well, should you change your mind, we will of course do everything we can to assist you, Autobot friends.”

  “Perhaps there is—” But Optimus stopped in midsentence as an image filled his mind. It was the clearest image yet and the most disturbing. He was still Orion Pax working in the data labs, but he found himself overwhelmed by a singular feeling—a fear of a savage invader bent on enslaving him … an unrelenting force seeking to become his master and make him its eternal servant. For the briefest of moments he was deep in the bowels of Cybertron with some implacable predator bearing down on him. Was the vision the product of the Matrix? Was it an actual memory? Was he nothing more than a puppet of the Matrix? Was that the true nature of being a Prime? A giant shadowy figure loomed over him, intoning words that chilled him to the bone:

  You rejected us once, but we never turned our back on you. The gift we have bestowed upon you will forever bind us. By the time you realize your error and folly, it will be far too late. You belong to us now and forever, Optimus Prime. Your destiny lies in our hands, and our hands are around your throat …

  That was when he saw Megatron’s laughing face.

  “Megatron!” Optimus cried out as he fell heavily to the floor.

  There was a moment’s shocked silence. Then Ratchet rushed to his side and popped his external diagnostic panel.

  “Optimus! What’s wrong? What do you see?”

  Optimus tried to speak but could not form words.

  “Whatever is the matter?” the Curator asked with what seemed to be deep concern.

  “I don’t know,” Perceptor said. “We should get him back to the Ark.”

  “That’ll take too long,” Ratchet said. “I’ll examine him in the dropship’s med-lab.”

  “That lab is nowhere near as sophisticated as the one we have on the Ark,” said Perceptor.

  “I’m telling you, there may not be time.”

  The Curator stepped in. “If time is of the essence, then by all means use our medical facilities. We have a fully equipped lab scarcely a few blocks away, thank goodness.”

  Perceptor and Ratchet exchanged a concerned look. They knew they had to act fast.

  “Okay,” said Ratchet. “Your med-lab it is, then.”

  Perceptor shifted into his science-vehicle mode; the others loaded Optimus aboard. None of them noticed the smirk on the Curator’s face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  RODIMUS, KUP, AND BUMBLEBEE WATCHED WITH CONCERN from the launch pad while Perceptor, Ratchet, Bulkhead, and a few others went with the Curator to the Aquatronian med-lab, disappearing through the door to one of the towers. Rodimus paced back and forth while Kup fired up his new cy-gar and filled Ironhide in on what had happened to Optimus. Bumblebee seemed content to sit back and calibrate his sensors as he scanned the water around them.

  “No, sir, I don’t like it,” Ironhide said as he checked the dropship’s security systems. Any unauthorized intruder who had the ill-advised idea of trying to steal the ship would be in for a big surprise.

  “What do you think is wrong with Optimus?” Rodimus asked.

  “No clue, kiddo,” Kup said. “Hopefully the sawbones will figure it all out.” Then, seeing how worried Rodimus looked: “Honestly, it’s probably nothing.”

  “Of course it’s nothing,” Ironhide said with his usual bluster. “Optimus is a Prime, and there’s nothing that can stop a Prime. You can take that to the credit depository!”

  “There’s something about this place that rankles my olfactory sensors,” Rodimus said.

  “These fish-bots seem friendly enough,” Kup offered.

  “Sure they seem friendly, but what do we really know about them? How do we know they aren’t the reason Optimus collapsed?”

  “Well, we don’t, kiddo. But so far we have no reason to suspect them of being duplicitous, now, do we? So keep an open mind.”

  “Don’t tell me what kind of mind to keep,” Rodimus said. Bumblebee blipped and beeped in assent. Rodimus nodded. “See, even Bumblebee thinks there’s something fishy going on here. Um, no pun intended.”

  Ironhide nodded. “I have to admit, I think Bumblebee and Rodimus might have a point. I’m not sure how keen I am on these fish types either.”

  “Yeah,” said Kup, “but you’re suspicious of everybody.”

  “So? Somebody has t
o be.”

  “So you three don’t trust the Aquatronians. What do you recommend we do about it?”

  Ironhide smashed his fist into his palm. “Easy. We grab one of these fish fellas and squeeze him until he tells us everything.”

  “Not so fast,” Rodimus said. “We don’t know if they have some way of communicating distress to each other. Putting the question to one of them might tip our hand.”

  “You got a better idea?” Ironhide asked.

  “I say we go on our own little intelligence-gathering expedition. Take a closer look around here and see just exactly what it is these people are hiding.”

  Ironhide thought about it. “Okay, that is a better idea,” he admitted.

  “And what if they aren’t hiding anything?” Kup asked.

  Rodimus shrugged. “Well, then I’ll admit I was wrong, you can say I told you so, and we’ll call it a day. But doesn’t this all seem a little odd to you? A little too convenient? If you ask me, these people are too friendly by half. I mean, do you really believe they’ve just been sitting on all this Energon for millions of years simply waiting for us to show up again and take it off their hands?”

  “If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that there’s no such thing as a free lunch,” Ironhide said.

  “Exactly,” said Rodimus. “This whole place makes no sense. I’m telling you these robots are up to something, I just don’t know what it is.”

  Bumblebee stepped forward and issued a series of low-pitched beeps. “See?” Rodimus asked. “Bumblebee says—”

  “I heard him,” Ironhide said. “Yes, our scans picked up elaborate undersea structures beneath here, but chances are they use them to store more Energon.”

  “How do you know that for sure?”

  “Because they’re right next to the Energon-mining facilities.”

  “You mean they’re right next to what we’ve been told are Energon-mining facilities.”

  Ironhide frowned. “And you think we should go down there uninvited and snoop around?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Kup threw the remains of his cy-gar on the ground. “Okay, say I’m with you on this, kid. What’s the plan?”

  “The plan is we sneak into the undercity and find out what these bots are really up to,” Rodimus said.

  “And what about the chain of command?”

  “Optimus will forgive us if we’re wrong.”

  “And if we’re right?” Kup asked.

  “Well, then we’re going to have much bigger problems than not having followed the chain of command. Ironhide, will you cover for us?”

  “Will I … Wait a second. You mean I don’t get to go?”

  “Well, if you disappear as well, Optimus won’t know where we went.”

  Kup was mulling things over. “In order for us to do this quickly, we’ll have to take the dropship.”

  “What? No.” Ironhide crossed his arms across his barrel chest. Kup stepped forward and placed his hand on his old friend’s shoulder.

  “If this plan is going to work, we need an edge. If we take the dropship, we can scoot out to the seabed and take a closer look at this operation from a new angle. Maybe one these fish-bots aren’t expecting.”

  “And with these sensors we can cover a lot more ground a lot sooner,” Rodimus added. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

  Ironhide’s metal brow furled at the notion, but he knew deep down that they were right; there was no sense in going halfway on a caper like this. Sure, he knew Jazz would read him the riot act, but every ounce of his combat experience told him that the only way to be sure about anything was to see it with one’s own optics. And in a situation like this, Kup’s eyes were as good as his own.

  “Fine,” he said. “You go ahead and I’ll keep a lookout here.”

  “Thanks, old buddy,” Kup said.

  “Not a scratch on that dropship, you hear?”

  As Rodimus, Kup, and Bumblebee piled inside, Ironhide couldn’t help thinking that this was the second time that day he had been left behind. He wished he was speeding off to do some exploring, but deep in his circuits he knew somebody had to mind the store. Through the ship’s forward viewports, he watched Rodimus climbing into the pilot’s acceleration chair while Bumblebee joined him at the navigator’s station. Then Rodimus shot him a crisp salute; the next moment, the engines roared as the ship lifted off the pad, swerved to the side, and then plunged into the gray ocean. All Ironhide could do was thank Primus that Kup was going with them.

  The kids these days were getting harder and harder to reason with.

  THE CURATOR LED THE AUTOBOTS DEEPER INTO THE city, along ramps and down elevators, to an area that he described as their social service complex, a group of buildings that apparently served as one of many energy distribution hubs when the city was fully inhabited. At the center of the annex stood a huge hospital. Ratchet, Perceptor, and Jazz escorted Bulkhead as he carried Optimus’s body inside; Prowl and the rest of the Autobots stood guard out on the streets. It wasn’t as if there were any other bots in sight, but as far as Prowl was concerned, that was all the more reason to stay vigilant. His optics swept over empty roads and buildings while he wondered what the hospital looked like inside.

  The answer was impressive, to say the least. It was all Ratchet could do not to stare in awe at the scope of the Aquatronian infirmary. With its high ceilings and flying buttresses, the medical lab looked more like a house of worship than a place of healing. It was only upon closer inspection of the rows of medical bays and transorganic medical computers that its true function became apparent. Channels of water cut through the room; through them could be seen an additional, underwater level.

  “This is really quite a facility you’ve got here,” Ratchet said with a slight twinge of envy. The Curator waved them over to a pool from which climbed a puffer fish-bot covered with spines—as they watched, it shifted into a medium-size greenish robot with an enormous black mustache. The Curator cleared his throat.

  “Allow me to introduce our planet’s senior medical physician, Doctor Xeros.”

  The doctor bowed. “Always a pleasure to meet another practitioner of the medical arts,” he said to Ratchet. “Very pleased to meet you indeed.”

  “Well,” said Ratchet, “allow me to complement you on this facility.” But as he spoke, he was scanning the equipment, trying to decide whether they could entrust Optimus to it. “Most impressive.”

  “You’re too kind,” said Doctor Xeros. “Most of what you see here is millions of years old. I daresay that most of the technological advances we’ve made over the years have been geared toward the Energon trade.”

  “Where should I put Optimus?” Bulkhead broke in impatiently.

  “Oh, yes, over here. Over here.” Xeros led him to a med-bay and gently lowered Optimus down into it while the Curator drew back, watching intently.

  “You’re conversant with Cybertronian physiology?” Perceptor asked the doctor.

  “Have no fears on that score,” Xeros said as he warmed up the med-bay. “We have a comprehensive codex of over three thousand different species. Some aren’t even robotic in nature, if you can imagine. Did you know that there are some places in the galaxy where carbon is the primary building block of life?”

  “Carbon-based life-forms?” Perceptor said. “That sounds incredible.”

  “It’s true. Purely organic beings. With life spans that don’t even last for a fraction of ours. In some cases they never actually leave their larval state and exist only for a matter of days before their spark terminates.”

  Ratchet pondered this while the robotic arms of the med-bay whirred to life, reaching out with a multitude of wires, probes, and contact sensors that slotted into parts of Optimus’s body. “First things first,” Xeros said. “We’ll run a class-one diagnostic.”

  “I just did that a few days ago,” Ratchet admitted.

  “And the results?”

  “Nothing out of the ordina
ry.”

  “Well,” Xeros said, “so far it would seem that all of his systems are functioning at high capability. Curious. Let’s take a closer look.” He leaned over Optimus and began gingerly prying open a few of the chest plates, only to let out an exclamation at what was revealed.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is that a Matrix of Leadership?”

  “The Matrix of Leadership,” Jazz said with a hint of trepidation. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Amazing. I heard that such a thing existed. Simply amazing. But this could be the problem. Were you able to do a diagnostic on whether it’s functioning correctly?”

  “The diagnostic said it was.”

  “Did you remove the Matrix to ensure an isolated environment without interference from the host bot?”

  “Of course not. Look, Doctor, I appreciate your efforts, but the Matrix has built-in safeguards. It’s intended to be self-diagnosing. And if there’s a problem with it, it should let Optimus or his potential successor know.”

  The doctor mulled that over. “Are you that successor?” he asked a little too casually.

  “The Matrix will make the decision when the time is right,” Jazz said curtly.

  “But how do you know that decision is right if you can’t be sure the Matrix is functioning properly?”

  Jazz looked flummoxed. “Well, now that you put it that way … I’m not sure.”

  “Perhaps if I were to attach my instruments directly to it.” As Xeros’s hands moved toward the Matrix, Optimus’s hand shot up and grabbed the doctor’s wrist.

  “That will not be necessary,” Optimus said.

  “It appears that your leader is awake,” the Curator said superfluously.

  “Where am I?” Optimus asked.

  “The Aquatronian medical lab,” Ratchet said. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

  Optimus stood up, albeit a little unsteadily.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Xeros.

  “Who are you?”