Retribution

by David J. Williams

  Something called Sharkticons.

  Shockwave had no idea what they were, and he wasn’t waiting to find out. Chain guns sprouted from the nose of his maglev and lit up the tunnel, shredding the bots to pieces. As the train ripped past the place where the Sharkticons had appeared, Shockwave caught a quick glimpse of a larger cave adjacent to the tunnel that was swarming with those bots. Some of them fired at him, but he was already shooting past, opening the throttle as he surged toward Iacon and the surface. His mind was racing as fast as his vehicle. Who the slag were Sharkticons?

  And what were they doing on his planet?

  “THE BEST TRAP IS ONE THE VICTIM SETS FOR HIMSELF,” Alpha Trion muttered.

  That was the first coherent sentence he’d uttered since they’d dragged him out of the command bunker and back into the maglev train in which they’d arrived. They’d accelerated away at supersonic speeds, only this time they were running in reverse, back toward Iacon, Wheeljack driving while Ratchet manned the guns. Ultra Magnus was doing his best to get Alpha Trion to elaborate on what was going on, but that venerable robot seemed to be in something approaching a state of shock. And no wonder: He’d obviously been tortured at length by Shockwave, and now he seemed to have lapsed into some kind of paranoid fugue state, babbling about how Cybertron itself was lost.

  That was bizarre, because as far as Wheeljack could tell, things had never looked better. By rescuing Alpha Trion, the Wreckers had scored their biggest victory against Shockwave yet. Surely they’d turned the tide of the war tonight. He slowed the train, approaching the point in the tunnel where they’d entered. It seemed an eternity ago. Wheeljack braked the train and opened the doors. Ultra Magnus and Jetfire helped Alpha Trion out while Wheeljack, Springer, and Rack n’ Ruin moved in front, their guns out. The denizens of the undercity hadn’t messed with them on the way in, but that didn’t mean they weren’t going to hassle them on the way out. Wheeljack was ready for anything.

  Or at least he thought he was.

  The entire undercity was a chaos of noise and motion. Every ladder and stairway and shaft seemed to be crowded with bots, and none of them were trying to stop the Wreckers. In fact, none of them paid any attention to the interlopers. Nor were they fighting one another. It was several seconds before Wheeljack realized exactly what they were doing.

  “They’re fleeing,” Ultra Magnus said.

  Just what had them so scared, Wheeljack didn’t know. But the rumbling of machinery was echoing from somewhere deep below, and at the limit of his sensors Wheeljack could make out what might have been shots. Incredible as it seemed, there was heavy combat going on deep in the undercity.

  “What the slag is going on?” Springer asked.

  “Does it matter?” Jetfire said. “We’ve got to get upstairs.”

  SHOCKWAVE WAS MORE THAN A LITTLE RELIEVED WHEN he got back to the surface, and his guards were more than a little surprised. They hadn’t even realized there was trouble down in the bunker, so compartmentalized was the hierarchy that Shockwave had imposed.

  Though they were starting to get it now. Alarms rang throughout the tower as Shockwave soared up through the levels in his personal elevator. Sirens sounded across the city as he strode into his luxurious penthouse and called up wall-screen readouts in an attempt to get a grip on what was happening.

  The view from the windows told its own story. The horizon flushed with the light of explosions just beyond them. Iacon’s defenses swung into action—lasers powered up, missiles aimed skyward, guns loaded—but there wasn’t anything to shoot at yet. There was just confused babbling on every Decepticon channel:

  “Under attack—under attack—Unicron help us!”

  “Repeat, we are surrounded, request reinforcements—aarrgh!”

  “Identify yourself, identify yourself, I said—noooo!!”

  “They’re everywhere! Every bot for himself!”

  Schematics on the wall gave Shockwave some insight into the overall situation. It was a total mess. Most of the datanet was down, half the cities on the planet were no longer reporting, and he still didn’t understand the nature of the attack. Except that it was overwhelming and was falling on his garrisons like the mother of all storms. As though in a dream, he heard himself giving orders to all units that could still hear him to fall back into Iacon, to man the walls, to seal the undercity. Shockwave wasn’t a bot given to introspection—and certainly not to self-doubt—but in the back of his head was the dawning awareness that he just might be responsible for the disaster now unfolding.

  Yet what he needed most was hard data. He was relieved to see that his mainframe still had access to the archives beneath Iacon. Forcing himself to remain calm, he called up all the data he could find on Sharkticons. To his surprise, there was only one reference, and it wasn’t very helpful: Sharkticons were the warrior caste on a world on the far side of the galaxy known as Aquatron. That was it. That and a single cross-reference to another creature entirely. Shockwave called up data on that entity, trying to remember just why the word Quintesson seemed so eerily familiar.

  TYRANNICON STOOD ON THE BRIDGE OF HIS FLAGSHIP. Of course, technically it wasn’t a ship anymore, since Cybertron had the misfortune of being almost exclusively land. But that didn’t matter; the myriad vessels in the Sharkticon fleet had sprouted treads and wheels and were rumbling forward, armored leviathans crushing everything in their path. The invasion was going like clockwork. The attackers had achieved complete surprise and were ahead of schedule both above and below the ground. Within minutes of exiting the space bridge, Sharkticon commandos had seized the Well of All Sparks. The Cybertronians had contaminated it with Dark Energon, presumably as a scorched earth strategy. Not that it would matter. Once all resistance on the planet had been crushed, Quintesson scientists would arrive with the requisite technology to clean up the well, remove the stains of Dark Energon, and start harnessing its secrets. It was said that the Cybertronians’ god was chained somewhere below the well. If that was true, so be it, for Cybertronian religion would prove no match for Quintesson science. The Quintessons had faced down creatures that called themselves gods before, and they hadn’t lost yet. They didn’t intend to do so this time, either.

  Especially now that the computer known as Vector Sigma was in Sharkticon hands. Another team of commandos had captured it mere minutes after the Cybertronians who were there had fled. Apparently they’d been fighting among themselves—one more way in which Tyrannicon’s Quintesson masters had turned Cybertron’s civil war to their advantage. The Decepticons had enjoyed the upper hand in that conflict; they’d become complacent and thus had received a very rude awakening when the dormant space bridge suddenly had revved up and legion after legion of Sharkticon troops had poured out. It was ironic, really: The Cybertronians had fought a war among themselves for millions of years, but the war now under way would be over within hours.

  That was a pity, because Tyrannicon enjoyed a good fight. And he hadn’t yet given up on getting one here. Most of the resistance was coalescing around Iacon, which was precisely what the Curator had told him to expect. Not only was that the capital, but all remaining key objectives were there: the Hall of Records, the vaults, and the last of the Primes. Tyrannicon wasn’t so sure about that last one, but the Curator had been emphatic that one of the Thirteen—whatever that meant—was still alive on Cybertron and had to be captured. The Curator had said this with enough of an edge that Tyrannicon realized that these orders were coming from way up the food chain, that this Prime—who went by the unlikely moniker of Alpha Trion—wouldn’t just be sent to Aquatron, he’d be going all the way back to Quintessa for close analysis from the very top Quintesson scientists. The Curator’s tone made it clear that he hoped to count himself among that elite group one day. Tyrannicon could barely suppress his contempt for such piddling ambition. He had no interest in climbing any ladder or licking the boot of any bot. He was achieving his ambitions right now, carving out his legacy in smoke and flame. He gave orders t
o his pilots to pour on the speed as the fleet moved out over the shattered polar badlands. Ahead lay Iacon.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  “THIS PLANET DISGUSTS ME,” MEGATRON SAID.

  Optimus wasn’t about to disagree. For several minutes now, he and the Decepticon leader had been making their way through a maze of service tunnels and natural caves. Some were filled entirely with water, but most ranged from half flooded to just very damp. Many of the caves had deep tidal pools that were teeming with lesser forms of Aquatronian life—small blind crabs, eels, weird little fish. Many were albino. None of them were remotely intelligent or strong enough to be interested in the two Cybertronians passing through their habitats. That was good, because the last thing Optimus wanted right now was yet another fight. He had enough to worry about with getting through this quasi-aquatic warren and back up to the surface so that he could rescue his men.

  The problem was that as far as he could tell, he and Megatron were moving away from the Hall of Justice. The challenge of navigation was compounded by the high iron content in the area. Their compasses weren’t much help at all, and Optimus knew better than to trust the Matrix. He’d left it on, of course, since it was providing him with valuable energy. But as to listening to what it had to say … Well, listening was all he was going to do. And even that was a little hard to take. Right now it was projecting images into his brain showing the birth of the Cybertronians. Quintesson scientists presided over assembly lines to produce Autobots and Decepticons alike. Optimus watched in horrified fascination while each Cybertronian vehicle received a final modification: a cockpit within which a Quintesson pilot could sit.

  “It’s a lie,” he said out loud.

  “Are you talking about your leadership?” Megatron asked sarcastically.

  “The Matrix is trying to tell me that it wasn’t Primus that created us. That it was the Quintessons themselves.”

  “They claimed that during the trial, remember? Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

  “What about our cockpits? Ever wondered about those?”

  “Sure I have,” Megatron said. “But if they conquered Cybertron, they could have made those modifications then.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely. Look, Optimus, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but these Quintessons are really good at lying.”

  “That says a lot coming from a Decepticon.”

  Megatron ignored the jibe. “In fact, they’re so good that my advice is to believe the opposite of anything they’re telling us. If they say they created us, that’s the best argument I can think of for assuming they didn’t.”

  Optimus mulled that over. “You’re probably right.”

  Megatron laughed. “I’m impressed, librarian. I know how much it pains you to admit that I’m right about anything.”

  “That’s not true,” Optimus said. “You were right about the old caste system. You were right when you said every Cybertronian has a right to chart his own destiny.”

  “So in that case why did we ever go to war?”

  “You know why, Megatron. Because you think that all destinies aren’t created equal. That the strong should rule the weak.”

  “It’s not a matter of should, librarian. It’s just what happens naturally.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” said a deep voice.

  There was a rumbling, and several cave walls collapsed at once, revealing a much larger chamber, most of which was filled by a large tidal pool. Emerging from that pool was a monstrosity like nothing Optimus had ever seen.

  “What in the name of Unicron is that?” Megatron blurted out. Half metal, half flesh, it seemed to be an enormous mutant lobster. The creature’s semitranslucent body was made up of three key segments: a massive tail covered in spikes, a midsection resting on six legs, and a front section sporting four giant claws and a gaping mandible-covered maw. Two dark yellow eyes glared down at Optimus and Megatron from the ends of long stalks.

  “They told me lunch was on the way,” said the creature, saliva dripping from its maw.

  “Who dares challenge Megatron?” Megatron asked, dropping into a combat stance.

  “It’s one of the Curator’s creations,” Optimus said.

  “The most successful of them all,” said the lobster-bot. “I’m the Gamekeeper. This is my lair.”

  It was quite a place. The walls were covered with kelp-stained carvings even weirder than the ones Optimus and Megatron had seen earlier. Phosphorescent fungi grew in tufts from fissures in those walls, emitting a glow that bathed the whole room in an unnatural light. The lobster-bot heaved his bulk farther out of the pool, moving toward the two Cybertronians …

  “I tend to the creatures down here,” he said. “The Piranhacons, the Eelcons, and anything else used for the pit and the trials. But very occasionally, some of the innocent escape their punishment, forcing me to become involved more … directly. And you have special distinction, since you are the last of the Cybertronians.”

  “What do you mean, the last?” Optimus’s heart sank. “Our men on the surface have been executed?”

  The Gamekeeper chuckled, a horrible burbling noise. “Dear me, no. At least, not yet. I think they’re still holding out, actually. Putting up quite a fight from what I hear.”

  “So what are you talking about?”

  Now the Gamekeeper was laughing openly. Saliva dangled down onto the rocks. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” Megatron demanded.

  “Your planet. The Quintessons are invading it even as we speak.”

  And in one terrible instant Optimus understood. This was why they had been lured to Aquatron. This was why the Quintessons had played such games with him and Megatron. This was why they’d woven a web of such sick manipulation, why they’d been so eager to manipulate the Matrix and toy with his mind. Because it wasn’t about him. It was about something much, much larger.

  “You lie,” Megatron said slowly. “Your kind always lies.”

  “No,” Optimus said, “he speaks the truth.”

  “There is a space bridge far beneath this city,” said the Gamekeeper. “The Curator opened up a door; Tyrannicon and his legions went through. Your planet will have no chance against their might. The Quintessons have sought retribution against your kind for eons, and today they will have it at last. Soon Tyrannicon will begin sending the first batches of captured Cybertronian slaves back through the bridge. Some will be fodder for the pits. Some will be food. Some will be experiments. But all will be doomed. Because this time there will be no liberation.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Megatron snarled as he aimed his fusion cannon. But a giant claw swung out, knocking him against the wall. Suddenly it was all too clear that the painstaking way the creature had hauled its bulk from the pool had been just for show; a second giant claw snatched up Optimus and hurled him into the ceiling with no little force. A third claw sliced through the air to finish off Megatron, but he’d already rolled out of the way.

  Optimus wasn’t so fortunate. As he landed with a thud, the creature held him down with his fourth claw and went for the kill; Optimus looked up to see the monster’s toothy mouth descending toward him; long sinewy tendrils slid out of that mouth and reached for him. Thinking fast, he kicked up his legs and braced them against the sides of the mandibles, managing to hold the beast’s snapping jaws a few feet from his head. But the lobster-bot was exceptionally strong; Optimus knew he couldn’t hold out for long. And he knew, too, what would happen when he lost. From his position right beneath the creature, he could see a gelatinous sack filled with what looked like the half-digested remains of its previous meal. And past that he could see—

  Megatron.

  Charging in at the underground fiend, yelling a gladiator’s battle cry. The thing swung its great bulk to meet Megatron head-on; four claws lashed out, a virtual buzz saw of death as they sought out the Decepticon leader, but Megatron anticipated the claws’ movements, vaulting onto one of them and
leaping from there onto the lobster’s back. The creature reacted instantly, arching its huge spiky tail like a scorpion in an attempt to sweep away the nuisance, but as it did so Optimus grabbed on to that tail, pinning it against the lobster’s body. The creature thrashed frantically, trying to reach the two Cybertronians with its claws. Optimus felt himself losing his grip on the tail; as soon as he did, he knew he was going to be battered against the floor with a force that almost certainly would be lethal.

  “Can’t hold much longer.” He grimaced.

  “You don’t need to,” said Megatron, who reached forward and plucked off both eye stalks as if he were picking a couple of flowers. The creature howled; Megatron jumped from its back, ripped a stalagmite from the floor, and drove it straight into the monster’s heart. The lobster convulsed and emitted a horrendous death rattle. Optimus let go of the still-quivering tail.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said to Megatron. “We do make a pretty good team.”

  But Megatron didn’t answer. At first Optimus thought he was injured, but then he realized that the Decepticon leader’s attention had been caught by something on the far wall: one of the more striking carvings. It was a particularly bizarre one, to say the least. A giant bot stood there, covered in shark fins, its arms raised in triumph, hapless opponents at its feet. Optimus thought there was something familiar about that bot, and as he studied it more closely, it occurred to him that it bore more than a passing resemblance to—

  “Me,” said Megatron. “That’s me.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would it be you?”

  “I don’t know, but you have to admit the similarities are rather striking.”

  “So are the differences. Notice the fins? Notice how you don’t have them?”

  Megatron shrugged. Optimus knew that the Decepticon leader was such a narcissist, he was fully capable of seeing his own reflection in virtually any image that was put before him. Though it did occur to Optimus that the carving might have been added at the eleventh hour by the Quintessons as still more psyops warfare. After all, they’d used the Matrix to mess with his head; why shouldn’t they have come up with some way to mess with Megatron’s? He became aware of a burbling voice that was half whisper, half gasp.