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Not-so Random Musings  Burnt Bridges: A Five-part saga from the planet Cybertron Part 4: The Need For Speed... Sometimes I think it’s a shame that Cybertronians have such complicated internals. The songs end up being terrible. “Oh, the primary hydro injector is connected to the secondary axial mount. The secondary axial mount is connected to the lateral structural core. The lateral structural core is connected to...” You get the point. Snappier names would have been a good idea too. And a way of getting young caviller officers to stop breaking bits of themselves in an effort to win a race for the most powerful object on the small but heavily populated planet of Velocitron, a world obsessed with speed and racing above all else. To summarise: there are some things in life you just can’t have. I would give anything to not be up to my elbows in Autobot insides every day but then again, I should have realised the risks when I signed on. Come to think of it, I don’t actually remember signing on. Just someone advancing on me with a large blunt instrument and waking up the next day in the Medical Corps. Anyway, the point is that I seem to be stuck constantly welding the bits that get lost in battle back onto their respective owners. Case in point: Hot Rod, our erstwhile and earnest commander for this jolly little sightseeing trip around the outer galaxy. He’s not done too badly this time. Only half his power regulators have blown as opposed to all of them. The speeds the people of this planet reach are fundamentally unsafe and trying to match them is looking to be a terminal career move. Not that that stopped little red driving hood here. He gave us a long speech of quotes from Optimus Prime concerning duty, bravery, death wishes, freedom, well priced energon and so forth. I must admit that I allowed my mind to take a quick stroll while it totted up the potential butcher’s bill. I’ve heard much of the same from many a mech trying to escape from the med bay early. I’ve contracted Ratchet’s immunity to the like. Hmm. Now that shouldn’t be in there. I carefully remove the shard of pale blue material from the sleeping youngster’s chassis. Grief, listen to me! Youngster indeed! I am getting to be more like Ratchet, Primus preserve me. The day I get that melancholy and party killing is the day I present myself to the Decepticon technical staff as a teaching aid. The material is some sort of plastic, the same as most Velocitronians are made from. Tough, durable, light and hard to break. Wondering about how it got there is pointless. It could have been in any one of the half dozen collisions that brought our boy into first place. How anyone finds the prospect of hurtling around rollercoaster like tracks at mind-boggling speeds against cheerfully homicidal competitors fun is beyond me. But then, I’m not a speedster or a caviller. Sideswipe, Racetrack and Roulette have fallen as much in love with the place as HR. In fact, and on the subject of love, Roulette has managed to inflame our trainee leader’s all too wide jealous streak by hitting it off rather too well with a local by the name of Blurr. Or Blather, as her tenuous paramour has taken to calling him. Not far from the truth, although it must be stressed that most of the denizens of these endless roadways speak overly fast. No time for small talk, all rushing hither and thither as if life were too short to idle. Which, as the burning hulks that dot the landscape would testify, it can be. Ah. Nearly done. A good job I decided to bring our space cruiser’s MARB with me. You never know when fifteen extra pairs of clamps, scalpels, lasers, drills and assorted manipulators will come in handy. I connect a few final connections and step back from the sleeping victim – which is a technical term for anyone foolish enough to find themselves at the mercy of a member of the AMC. “Now that is some of the finest tool-work I’ve seen in my life.” A complement to be sure and, given that I was the only other conscious being in range, directed at me. I registered this fact only after restraining myself from vacating my epidermal exoskeleton in a most undignified fashion. La. I’ve got to stop lying up at night with Cog’s Anatomy in my data-reader. The mech who has appeared silently at my side is small and black shelled, with massive yellow wheels forming his shoulders. He is peering into the open access hatch with the trained optic of someone intimately familiar with others’ guts. ‘Thank you’ appears the operative sentiment and so I employ it. “I’m Pitstop,” he mentions in passing as he takes a closer look at my soldering. “Tourniquet at your service,” I respond, taking a moment to holster some of my tools back on the MARB, “Pleased to meet you.” “If you can show me how you do some of this, pleased to meet you.” Have I missed something? This guy’s voice isn’t exactly languid but it is less then half the speed of most of what I assume are his kind. He has the same tapering, streamlined body with glowing, translucent tyres, after all. But not one person I’ve encountered so far has been the slightest bit interested in anything other than velocity and winning. I’d formed the notion of planet wide hyperactivity. Me thinks I reassessment is in order. “I hope you won’t think this is rude...but I’d got the impression that Velocitronians only cared about racing.” He looks at me fully for the first time, a wide grin on a weather-beaten, open face. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Most of them out there couldn’t give a puncture about how they actually work. Me, well, there’s always a few exceptions to the rule. Not many of us, true, but we do our best to keep the others alive.” I perch on a nearby ledge (outside of their monumental racetracks, Velocitronian architecture is a bit hit and miss, with odd features added wherever they’ll fit) and cross my arms. “Intriguing. Tell me more.” He shrugs. “A lot of people call me the father of medicine here. I’m not really that old but I’ve been around a fair while. I wanted to know how we worked so I started poking about crash victims. Up till then it was down to fate if you recovered from racing injuries or not. Either your systems could handle the damage or they couldn’t. Simple as that. It seemed to me that that was a damned stupid way to live so I tried to do something about it. Didn’t get very far. You ever tired to fix someone who didn’t want to be fixed?” I give a grim nod. “Oh yes.” “Here it’s like that all the time. When they loose major races some of them just want to give everything up. Others try to go on with half their engine hanging out. They really couldn’t care less so long as they can drive.” He’s getting quite voluble. This is clearly and understandably a subject close to his spark. “As I said, I do my best. There are a few who’ve let me teach they a thing or two, show them the basics. Some of them have got good. We go from track to track patching and fixing where we can.” His shoulders slump and he leans against an oddly angled pillar. “And we do too damned little.” “From the sound of it and from seeing what happens out there, you and your pupils deserve a whole cabinet of medals and several gallons of high-grade energon…um, that’s what you call nucleon.” “Maybe.” Pitstop sighs then shakes himself. “Either way, maybe we could compare notes on methods.” “Sure. We’d better leave sleeping beauty here and go somewhere more companionable. Our Arc’s parked close by. If we go there I can show you a few data tracts.” He beams and we walk to the workshop door. ---------------------------------------- From space, Velocitron looks not unlike a massive marble covered in lots of thin wire. Most of it’s desert of the sinking sand variety. The bits that aren’t are either highly mountainous or, at the poles, freshwater seas edged with rather unpleasant wetlands. Those ‘wires’ are immense and practically unending roadways that, taken as a whole, have the surface area of a large moon. And those are just the ones above ground, held away from the treacherous dust by arrays of huge pylons. The planet’s crust is riddled with tunnels, many flooded for the convenience of the surprisingly large aquatic population. Then there are the constantly rearranging aerial obstacle courses, the gorge spanning bridge networks, the helter-skelter urban tracks… The whole thing is an almost unimaginable fete of engineering. And as far as I can tell, its only purpose is so that the Velocitronians can go as fast as the laws of physics will let them. For all that, the courtyard outside is remarkably peaceful and the sunlight on the smooth grey stone is not at all bad on the optic. We stroll past the ranks of tune-up sheds that make up the start of the ‘Ultima Track’, the main raceway. “How soon do the competitors arrive?” I ask my companion. “’Bout twenty turns before Nitro Prime arrives.” I do a quick mental sum. “Twenty turns? That isn’t very long to get ready.” “If you can get here, you’re ready for anything.” “Ah.” Something zips past on the track, far too fast to see properly and followed by a sonic boom. “Was that Nitro Prime?” Primus, if it is, we’re in deep trouble. Hot Rod can’t keep speeds that high up for long with all the hyper-blast systems in the world. Pitstop throws me another lopsided smile. “Nope. That was Doubleclutch, Nitro’s brother. He likes to run around the track on his own sometimes. Bit of an odd-axel, him. Likes speed but can’t stand racing.” “Nitro’s…brother. Right. How do they compare?” “Let me put it this way: that’s about the speed Nitro goes when she wants to take her time.” I suppress a gulp. “And…generally speaking, how close do the other competitors get to those speeds?” “That’s about average. But you’ll want to impress her. Which means beating the best of the rest.” I take it the conversation has slightly gotten ahead of you? Let me explain. When we got to this crazy place, it didn’t take us long to find out where the Primary Key of Energy must be. On the principle that it would probably be held in high regard like the Matrix, we went looking for the planet’s ruler/leader/mentor/head-of-department or whatever they happened to be. We found her, or at least where she lived. That towering mountain you can just see on the horizon? That’s the Ultima Track proper. Thousands of klicks of track twisted up and round like ribbon on a cone, intertwining and weaving together as they go. And once you get to the top, you have to go down the inside as well. Which is the only way you can even get to speak to the Velocitronian’s Prime. From talking to those locals we managed to stop long enough to get a decent answer out of (and wasn’t that fun), we gathered that she will only acknowledge your presence if you can put up a good fight on her home track. Anyone else is beneath her consideration. Of course, if our boy was to win the race…that would mean he’d suddenly be in charge of the whole planet… Thank the Allspark for small mercies then. Pitstop’s expression becomes mock serious. “Now you’ve got information out of me, how about a bit of payment?” “Oh, certainly. What do you want to know?” “Well for start –” Which is when I hear the voice. It drifts out from one of the sheds, a deep, bass rumble. A very, very familiar voice of the worst variety. Pitstop notices my reaction, mostly because I stop dead and stare wide-opticed at said shed. “What’s wrong?” “Is there any way to look inside there without being seen?” I whisper the question as urgently as I can. Pitstop looks quizzical, then beckons. He leads me round the back of the sheds and to a small grate set into the stone. I ram my standard issue but heavily tinkered with sensor baffle up to full and peer inside. Primus, I wish my hearing wasn’t so good. Steamhammer. Definitely Steamhammer. I’d know that acid green anywhere. And – joy of joys – I can clearly see at least three of the other Constructicons in there. They’re clustered around the green gruesome on the left, facing a group of mechs who have to be Velocitronians though clearly not the most savoury kind. I can also hear a strange thwip-thwip sound that seems to be coming from – A slender, kaki form floats into my field of vision, suspended in the air by two sets of orange rotors. Oh, terrific. Not only do we get Decepticons, not only do we get Constructicons but we get Obsidian as well. Primus – whatever I said to upset you, I take it back and humbly request a reprieve. “Our proposition still stands.” The heli-con’s neck stretches out as if to push his words forward. “It will be to your advantage to accept.” The Velocitron representatives are...tough looking. Actually, that’s about as much an understatement as, oh, the sun is hot or space is cold. They look like they have not only been through a large number of pileups but that it was the other guys who came off a lot worse. Think: battered. Think: crumpled. Think: dangerous. Think: bruisers of the first order. Two are just plain huge. They’re quite similar, big, ape-like thugs who can barely stand up. One of them is green (someone really ought to tell these people that viridian is completely last millennia) and menacing. The other is black and orange and menacing with assorted fins and spikes stuck on for good measure. The next two also don’t vary much except in colour. They’re pretty weedy compared to the towering twins and it’s only the over-sized double-barrelled guns that make them look worrying. The red one huddles close to the green giant while his black counterpart is nervously picking at his leg-mounted tyres. It is, however, the one at the front who I’m most concerned about. Garish purple with a sickening lime trim, you’d certainly see him coming...though from those monster-truck wheels fixed to his back, that might not be much help. His face is strange. Half of it is covered by a set of lens in a rotating mount, as if someone’s jammed a microscope into his head. What is visible...nasty. That’s what that face is. Nasty. I’m the last mech to judge on appearance alone but that is not the expression of someone who feeds little birdies and skips alone humming a merry tune. “Dirtboss,” Pitstop hisses in my audio, “Big and green is Landbullet, big and black, Crumplezone, red and weedy, Gasket, the other one, Ransack. They are not nice people.” Having gathered this, I nod and concentrate on my eavesdropping. This Dirtboss character seems to be mulling over Obsidian’s words. At least I assume waiting a few seconds before answering is mulling over for someone from around here. “I’mtemptedtotellyoutoshoveitupyou’reexh You see why I said Pitstop was somewhat slower than his comrades? Allow me to run a speed-adjustment filter. “I want that Cup,” he growls, “and I want to win it against a decent opponent.” “Perhaps we have not made ourselves clear.” Obsidian bobs down to eye level. “You will win the trophy. It will simply be in a different manner to that which you are used to.” Dirtboss snorts. “The only manner that matters is on the track and against Nitro.” “And how much success have you had there, mmm? Do you honestly believe that this race will be any different from the thousands that you have lost before? The power that fuels Nitro makes it virtually impossible to defeat her. Hardly a fair race.” “It isn’t supposed to be fair. It’s supposed to be a challenge.” “To test what? Simple speed? How can that qualify anyone to lead?” I think I see something flicker in Dirtboss’ uncovered optic. “Speed is strength. Speed is everything.” Obsidian draws back. “Is it indeed?” He floats up over the Constructicons, out of my line of sight. “Let us see.” The words are no sooner out of his voicoder when the other Decepticons open fire! A volley of energy bolts scream towards the natives, sizzling globs of destruction that whiz across the room to – Splatter against the wall. The racers move like greased lightning. The Constructicons go down under a wave of high-speed punches. I don’t get the feeling that this was one of Obsidian’s better strategies. At least, I don’t until Dirtboss’ gang start reeling about the place, clutching at their audios and yelling. Steamhammer stands up, a little dented perhaps, but disruptor array working perfectly. After a few seconds, he lowers his scoop arm and the assault ceases. Obsidian whirs back down, arms spread wide. “When one way of winning fails, it is time to change tact. Just because you’ve done things one way all your life doesn’t mean it’s the right way. Help us and I will show you how to become the greatest mech on this planet.” Dirtboss gets up, still shaking from the ultrasonic onslaught. Then he pulls himself together, squares his shoulders and glowers at the hovering creep. “Tell me more.” Obsidian gives the impression of a broad grin. “With pleasure…” He’s about to go on when Steamhammer holds up his hand. “Wait a ‘second.” With slow, deliberate steps, he walks towards…oh…dear. “Hello Tourniquet.” I try to back away but my joints seem to have seized up. “Hello Steamhammer.” We look at each other through the grate. “Can we do something for you?” he asks. “Oh no, just passing.” “Good. Pass along then.” “Um.” “Don’t let us keep you.” “I won’t.” “Good.” His face toys with a nasty grin. “See you on race day.” ---------------------------------------- “And they just let you go?” “Trust me Roddy, I’m having enough trouble believing it myself. And it’s worrying the Pit out of me.” He scratches his head, looking gormless. “It doesn’t make sense!” There is never a suitable wall around when you really need to ram your head into it. “I think he knows that,” Sideswipe points just before I loose my temper and start adjusting the lad’s pistons with a hacksaw, “and shouldn’t we be thinking about what we’ll do next?” Hot Rod nervously drums his fingers on the shuttle’s command desk. “Well…yes…yes, right. What are we…I mean, any suggestions, people?” Roulette, off to one side, puts a hand over her optics. Racetrack, however, gives it serious thought. “T’ main problem is we d’nay have any idea what the ‘cons are up to in the first place. Recruitin’ the locals, yes, but fer what?” “To win the race for them?” suggests Sideswipe. “No.” I answer, recalling Obsidian’s swindling, “They’re up to something more than that. Obsidian was going on about different ways of winning…they aren’t going to just sit back and watch Dirtboss and his bully boys do the work.” “It’s the Constructicons that have me worried, lady-bot.” Cliffjumper stretches and leans back in the navigator’s chair, winking at Racetrack. “All them here means one thing and it begins with a capital ‘D’.” “They must be pretty confident if they let ‘Quet go…” Roulette taps her chin. “Ok, how about this: they want to mess up the race, distracting everyone while the Constructicons break into the citadel and steal the Key.” “Yeah, that makes sense Rou…” Hot Rod starts to nod but then shakes his head. “We just can’t be sure.” Through all this military panic, Pitstop has been quietly sitting in a corner, watching us all with interest. I turn to him. “How exactly is the Key…um, Planet Cup protected? Just by the track or is there something else?” “Well…it’s difficult to explain. There is another defence, one that can only be breeched if you’re going very, very, very, very fast. And that’s by our standards.” “What kind of defence? A force field?” “A what?” Oh dear. My anatomy lessons had better include some basic physics as well. “A sort of wall of energy that stops people passing through it.” “Yes, that sounds right. It’s a barrier of red light that surrounds the Cup on all sides. Nitro’s the only person who can just walk up to it. Not that she does that very often. Only goes near the thing on race day.” Hot Rod shakes his head. “Seems weird to leave it on its own like that. What does she do with it?” Pitstop’s optic-ridges rise. “After she’s won the race she does a few laps around the planet with the Cup.” “Why?” “To start up the next generation of racers, of course.” It’s a joy to see Roddy’s face. If he were human, he’d be blushing. How Earth has changed some of us. “Not much different from the tours of Cybertron the old Primes did before the war,” I reassure the bashful youth, “taking the Matrix between different city’s protoforming fields.” Doesn’t that seem like an eternity away? Heck, it makes me feel old. “Yes, anyway.” The lad pulls himself together – nearly – and tries to look serious. “We still have to work out what the Deceps are planning!” “We can’t.” Cracking his knuckle joints (Argh! Why can’t people have a care for those of us who end up fixing all this self-inflicted damage?), Cliffjumper leans forward. “And we won’t know what they’re up to for sure ‘till they start causing trouble. So we should concentrate our forces on stopping ‘em when they do start.” “And how t’ heck dyae expect us to be in t’ right place when they do?” Racetrack smiles faintly. “Nae offence Roddy lad but ye’ cannae exactly match t’ racers, can ye’?” A glum look replaces the serious glare. “I know…I know.” “Maybe we could get one of the locals to help?” I ask. “Yeah. Rou, how about you get Blather to race for us?” The temperature in the room drops sharply. “His name is Blurr, commander, and I’ve already asked him. He said no.” In a vain effort to defuse the frosty situation, I turn back to Pitstop. Mouth half open, I stop. He’s staring at Hot Rod as if he’s seen a ghost. “Something wrong?” “…um…no…not really…um.” He realises we’re all looking at him. “You know…I think there’s someone you lot should meet.” ---------------------------------------- I have begun to hate racetracks. Particularly ones populated by hundreds of overcharged, overeager, over-revving speed freaks with the collective patience of a housefly that’s drunk a gallon of adrenaline. Or, if you happen never to have encountered humanity, of a turbo-rat plugged into a power plant. The air stinks from fumes and burning not-really-rubber. Racers jostle each other this way and that, aggressive, brightly coloured predators straining at the leash of protocol. I’ve been bumped fifteen times, shoved twenty-three times, kicked eight times and bodily thrown clean across the track once. My mood is rapidly going downhill. Pitstop is leading us through the crowds, slipping effortlessly past everyone else simply because he can move just as fast as they can. The rest of us are stuck pushing and punching our way after him as best we can. If it weren’t for Cliffjumper, we’d get absolutely nowhere. And we still don’t know where we’re actually going. Pitstop just said to meet up thirty turns before the race started and he’d take us to someone who might help us. Which is what we did and what he is hopefully doing. ‘What?’ I hear you cry, ‘haven’t you made any other preparations for certain unpleasant eventualities? Back up plans and the like?’ Back up plans? Hah! We laugh in the face of unprepared-ness! And basically we haven’t been able to come up with anything more definite than the ‘hang around and wait for the trouble to start’ approach. Doesn’t a lack of proper intelligence take all the fun out of councils of war? A vicious little maroon runt knees me in the pelvic armour. He zooms past and transforms before I can hit back. As he rockets up towards the starting line, I catch a glimpse of his bonnet. Specifically, of the massive Autobrand painted onto it. I should probably be surprised by this. But then again since I’ve been on this planet, I’ve seen the locals wearing Deceptibrands, Autobrands, the Allspark symbol, numerous variations of the ancient Masks and (I swear this is true) a large smiley face icon. Common ancestors and all that again… At last we reach some kind of destination. This part of the track is oddly deserted, save for a couple of cars. One is a cyan dragster, one of the many that seemed to be dotted throughout the crowd. I have the feeling that they may be some kind of police force. Have to ask Pitstop about that. Come to think of it, with his configuration, he could easily transform into something very similar… But that’s beside the point. The point being a blue and yellow racing car sitting in the middle of this open space and radiating an air of defiance, bad-temper and general attitude. Pitstop indicates the rest of us. “Excellion? I think these people might need your help.” The car glares at us. Hot Rod steps forward. “My name is Hot Rod. I’m the commanding officer of this team. We’re called Autobots. We come from a planet called Cybertron. We’re here after something called the Primary Key to Vector Sigma. We think it’s currently inside your Planet Cup. We need to speak to Nitro Prime about it urgently – very urgently because some creeps called Decepticons have turned up after the Cup as well and we think they might try something during the race. We –” Excellion rolls towards us. Very slowly, he transforms. Oh Primus. Why didn’t I see it sooner? His bonnet splits in two, exposing dull red arms as his rear section folds down into legs. His canopy rotates and his head extends from a trapezoidal torso. His doors end up attached to his wrists, three tubes extending slightly from each. An Autobrand – a proper one, not just a decal, sits inside his left shoulder. He’s got a golden visor sitting on his forehead, between two stubby antennas and above a pair of sapphire optics. In fact the only things missing are the wing-like spoilers and the astounded gawp. He runs a cold eye over us, clearly unimpressed. “Isn’t this a coincidence?” His voice is lower pitched and much faster than Roddy’s. A twinge of sympathy makes me hesitate…but Ratchet’s voice pushes it away, “It’s an MO’s solemn duty to make life a living hell for any poor sap who gets themselves put in command.” And who am I to argue with a maxim like that? “Tell me Hot Rod…when were you planning on telling us you had a twin brother?” “I…wha…um…haven’t. Didn’t. Not that I know of…” This does not help us gain Excellion’s favour. He glowers at Pitstop. “And just why did you bring them to me? I don’t what anything to do with them.” Roulette decides to try bailing her boyfriend out of the scrap. “You’re actually an Autobot, aren’t you?” she asks the grumpy blue mech, “That symbol isn’t just a pattern you picked up from somewhere.” “And that’s your business because…?” He brushes angrily at the ‘brand, as if trying to sweep it off. “It is, as a matter of fact, yes. But it might as well not be for all I care about Cybertron.” “How did you get here?” Hot Rod has stopped stuttering. “You can string sensible words together, can you?” Excellion sneers, “And again it’s none of your business. But then again I don’t have much more idea than you. All I remember is finding some weird red disk in the Dead-End. Then zap, I’m here in paradise.” I take a long, hard look at his scowl. “You don’t seem very happy to be in paradise.” “I ‘don’t seem very happy’ about stocky little fraggers asking questions!” He lurches forward, fist half raised. But before I’m forced to defend myself, Hot Rod’s voice leaps between us in a reasonable impersonation of Ironhide’s best drill-sergeant shriek. “Stand to attention!” Excellion stops, more out of surprise than obedience. “Now!” Our leader stalks past me. “I am a battlefield commander in the Autobot Army and you are the next best thing to a deserter so when I say stand to attention, you fragging well MOVE!” The moment of shock gone, the doppelganger rears up to his full and considerable height, looking Hot Rod straight in the optic. “Deserter?” he hisses, “Do you know what I was? A courier. A simple, slagging data courier. Not a soldier or a cavalier or anything fancy like that. A messenger. How the Pit you got to be a commander, I don’t know or care but you have as much right to order me about as I have to – ompf!” He doubles over as another of Ironhide’s methods is employed. I’d say Roddy’s over the stunned-at-an-unexpected-twist stage. He draws back his fist and smiles grimly. “‘Do you know what I was, sir?’ Was that what you meant to say?” “No.” Excellion straightens in a micro-‘second, his arms disappearing into blurs of motion. The punches cascade down on Hot Rod with enough force to make his knees buckle. Roulette and Cliffjumper start to move to help but Racetrack cuts them off. “Nay…Let’s wait.” I nod agreement. You see, Excellion’s alt-form was heavily modified – this being why I didn’t see the similarity straight off – and modified for speed. In this place, that’s hardly surprising. Which means he’s got used to racing, not brawling. And Autobot cavaliers have very tough armour… Hot Rod calmly weathers the blows, waits for an opening and sweeps Excellion’s legs from under him. The racer goes down and his twin pounces, pinning him down with a hold no one should be able to get out of without snapping their arms off. “Finished, fast-bot?” I clap. “Ah, machismo, that wonderful universal constant.” “Let go.” “Uh…no.” Hot Rod tugs a little tighter. “You’re gonna stay put and listen to what we’ve got to say.” “Wrong.” A slow humming noise starts to come from the downed mech. His armour is vibrating. Hot Rod carries on regardless. “There are Decepticons on this planet. They are after the Planet Cup.” “Not my business.” The humming becomes a whine. My infrared scope blinks. Ambient heat levels are on the rise…ah. “We think they’re going to try something during the race.” “Don’t care.” Smoke starts to drift up from where their armour’s touching. Wincing but ignoring, Hot Rod ploughs on. “Look you fragger, we need your help! For Primus sake, this planet, its Prime, its people – they’re all in danger as long as the Deceps are here!” Excellion goes still. “What?” “This planet, its Prime –” “Nitro?” “Er…yes?” The friction-heat dies away. “She’s in danger?” “Probably.” “Go on.” ---------------------------------------- “Dare I ask why the mere mention of Nitro Prime made him change his mind?” Standing beside me, Pitstop shakes his head. “It’s complicated.” “I thought it would be.” “You have to understand…here everything revolves around the races. Everything. Life, death, property, respect…feelings. And from the moment they saw each other, Excellion has been trying to beat Nitro...” “Ah hah. I see.” He wrinkles his nose. “It’s become an obsession for him. You saw his car-mode? All those alterations and changes…he’s done everything he can to make himself go faster and faster. It’s worked, in a way. He’s one of the fastest people around…but it’s not good enough. There are still too many who come in ahead of him. If you want him to talk to Nitro for you I don’t think you’ll get anywhere…” “That stopped being a priority the moment the Deceps showed up.” I make a final adjustment, close the access port and deactivate the MARB’s stasis field. Excellion stirs. “All done, blue. You’re a fine figure of a mech, inside and out, plus which you are now the perfect undercover operative.” He sits up and glares. The expression must be a default setting. “What did you do?” “Installed a link between your sensor package and mine. I can tap into what you’re seeing, hearing, smelling etc. I’d have liked to do more and link you to the Arc but there isn’t time.” It’s like having a monstrous case of double vision. I test the comm-link. #Testing, testing…# He claps a hand against the side of his head. “I’d forgotten how damn loud those things are.” “Sorry. Do you want me to twiddle the volume?” “Don’t bother.” In one smooth motion, Excellion’s off the bench and shoving past us to the door. “All this is wasting time.” From the elevated trackside plaza, it looks like the competitors have got into some kind of ordered place. Grief, what a sight. It’s not just Velocitronians either. There are some pretty alien looking vehicles dotted among the…well, already alien-looking throng. Off-world competitors are apparently welcome as much as the home team. Purple rocket-cars, things like houses on wheels, hovering domes, dart-like skimmers, even jets on souped-up landing gear for Primus sake! Every colour in the rainbow and several billion more beside. Excellion soon vanishes into the crowd, to reappear close to the front of the pack. Starting positions seem to be decided based on respective speed – obvious, really. Pitstop drifts over to a group on one side that I presume are his protégés. I drift over to Hot Rod. “Everything ready, ’Quet?” “As it can be. The others in place?” “Yep. It’s about now that I really start wishing Optimus had sent more than skeleton crews on this mission.” He gives me a nervous grin. “If Devastator turns up, we probably won’t be able to bring him down without flying the Arc into him.” “Oh, well, as long as we’ve got a plan.” That at least makes him chuckle. “Are all you medics taught to be…‘funny’? Even Ratchet does it.” My grin is real and broad. “Who do you think taught me?” My roving optics hit on something. I point it out. The purple and green monster-truck has to be Dirtboss. And he’s practically in poll-position. “Trouble?” my commander asks. “Probably. But he’s alone. I can’t see any of his henchmechs. Then again, in that crowd…” Something’s happening. There’s an arched bridge over the start-line proper. Onto this frail strand steps an even frailer looking mech rendered in ivory, orange and blue. He lifts his arms to the sky. “That’s Clocker,” I’m informed by the suddenly nearby Pitstop, “Nitro’s public voice.” Said public voice speaks. “STANDONYOURMARKS! THEPRIMECOMES!” Just like that, she’s here. I have never…I mean …wow. This is my reaction. Hot Rod’s is a full-blown, open mouthed, speechless boggle, one beyond even his reaction to Excellion. Nitro is…speed. That’s the only way to put it. Every line, every curve, every piece – everything about her is almost supernaturally sleek. The thrumming of her engine shakes the track. It takes picoseconds for her to take humanoid form. It’s as if she just flickered between modes without bothering with the transforming bit. She takes a look at everyone, head flicking from side to side. When she speaks, the words are too fast, so close together that my sensors simply cannot keep up. I look helplessly at Pitstop. “‘I greet you all in the name of the Cup. Race well.’” An instant later, Nitro’s back in vehicle mode and right at the front of the line up. I expected a bang or a flag or a shout or…something. But, no. Instead, the Prime starts and everyone follows. More accurately, the Prime jumps into over-drive and everyone else plunges full tilt into her dust. The word ‘zoom’ doesn’t cover it. “Most impressive.” The deep, resonant voice erupts a few microns from my audio sensor. I’m getting really tired of people appearing immediately behind me. Vector Prime looms over us, ivory armour glittering. Roots is by his side, the little Minicon’s head turning back and forth to take in the sights. Hot Rod nods. “I suppose you’ve seen this before, sir?” The Xenothoian smiles. “Not precisely. Things have changed a great deal. But I still enjoy the spectacle.” “You received the message?” “Indeed so. It is most disturbing that our enemies have once again arrived on a key-holder planet before we can retrieve the Key.” As the higher ranks get chatting, I concentrate on the spectacle itself. The view, both through my optics and Excellion’s, is dizzying. Twisting and turning like crazy, the racers ricochet their way across the plain. My other-vision jerks and jumps through the mass of moving parts. Dirtboss comes into view for a moment, his bodywork sunk between his giant wheels. Blurr zips by, only to vanish again as Excellion leaps forwards. None of them get close to Nitro, although she most certainly isn’t vanishing into the distance. From my point of view, it’s as if she’s playing with them. She’ll drop back, slowing to a still fairly unreasonable speed, and let the leading competitors get close, then leave them standing. They’ll push their engines to try and catch up, and she’ll match them again. Quickly, the not-so-fast are weeded out… One car is starting to close on the Prime. She goes a little faster. The car matches. She goes faster still. The car matches. She’s giving up her game now. The car is keeping pace, spikes and fins carving up the air. Something’s wrong. I check Excellion’s eyes. It’s difficult to get a clear line of sight but…oh no. “Holomatter construction!” The others look at me as if I’d flipped. “That car! It’s a holomatter construct! They’re drawing Nitro away from the others!” It’s working too. She’s left the pack far behind, the car still just about beside her. Dirtboss is at the front of the rest but he abruptly veers off the track onto a side lane and then… Two things happen at once. A net of blue light springs up a klick ahead of Nitro. She reaches it in a ‘second and there’s an almighty flash. More dramatically, the ground shakes, the track buckles and the road beneath the pack explodes, a towering green form rising higher and higher, arms outstretched, mouth wide, bellowing in victory. The Constructicons are having a day at the races. “Autobots – destroy Devastator!” The yelled command barely reaches me as I struggle through cartwheeling sensory data. Cars are flying in all directions as the titan rips his way through the tangled tracks. As fast as the Velocitronians are, they can’t escape when the ground is whip lashing about beneath them. I fight the urge to duck, since it’s not me caught in the middle of the chaos, and join the charge. But as I do, I realise that Excellion is already out of the fray. He’s driving out into the desert, after someone. After Dirtboss. And Landbullet as well. There’s something slung across the green rocket car’s back, just visible at the limits of Exy’s sight, a red and white shape wrapped in a frizzing blue cocoon. Realisation arrives like a sledgehammer to the CPU. #’Quet to Hot Rod: the Decepticons have Nitro!# But the signal gets nowhere. Slagging Steamhammer. His array‘ll be turbo charged thanks to the Powerlinx process. I dither for a second, trying to work out what to do and cursing my lack of tactical systems. “Tourniquet!” A black, running shoe shaped car screeches up and turns into Pitstop. “What is that thing?” “No time. The Decep’s have your Prime. Excellion’s gone after them. Have to get –” “Go! Leave that…giant to Breakdown.” A phalanx of the light green dragsters hurtles past. “What…which one’s Breakdown?” “All of them.” One of the dragsters suddenly…displaces. In a few seconds, there are two of the things. Another of the cars does the same. And another. The first to reach Devastator transform and start to grab a hold of anything in reach. In seconds, hundreds of them are swarming up the giant’s legs. “Get going!” Pitstop gives me a shove. “I’ll let your friends know. Go!” I go. ---------------------------------------- Transformers and associated characters are owned by Hasbro Even at full power, I’m not even close to matching Excellion and Dirtboss’ speed. Which makes it very fortunate that as I rush over the unending desert at top velocity, I can tap into what Roddy’s twin is seeing. He has the sense to keep enough distance to avoid immediate detection. They’re approaching some kind of outcropping, slabs of dull rock rearing against the sky. The Decepticon’s stooges are headed straight for the gap between two of the biggest chunks. As he/we get closer, the gap becomes a downwards-sloping tunnel, into which Dirtboss and Landbullet vanish. Excellion slows and slews to a stop. He waits a moment – the cursory minute or two by Velocitronian standards – and transforms. When the data-feed’s stopped jittering, I find him creeping along the tunnel. The only sound is the gentle moan of a faint breeze caught in the passage. Underfoot is loose sand, overhead smooth rock. A slight amount of radiation is leaking from up ahead, the merest hint that something odd is going on. The tunnel narrows before widening out into a far more regular, obviously mech-made one. Steamhammer’s gang has been busy. Moments later the place branches off into five identical, circular sub-tunnels. Excellion halts. #Any ideas?# I don’t know which is more startling, the sudden reminder that we’re comm-linked or that he’s asking for my help. I consider. #Yep. Third one from the right# #How can you be sure?# #Just trust me. I know how Steamhammer works# Without further comment, he goes on. I’m glad I don’t have to explain exactly why I can be so certain about Steamhammer. It’s a long time since I’ve had to face up to having put that…Decepticon back together and the guilt is very nicely suppressed, thank you. Besides there are more important things to be concentrating on. The radiation has grown in intensity, to slightly worrying levels. One sharp bend later and voices join the EM waves. And a very familiar row it is too. “My patience wears thin, sweet Prime.” A harsh crackling sound underlines Obsidian’s words. “How do we lower this shield?” “She’snotgoingtotellus. Iwarnedyouthiswouldn’twork.” The lovely Dirtboss is still in evidence then. “Bettertojusttearherarmsoff. Thissparkythingjustwastestime!” At a guess, that would be one of his scrawny little helpers, not sure it matters which. Excellion creeps a little closer. Light’s filtering around another corner. It’s not a warm light but an angry, dull glare, the sort of light that makes a shriek-bat’s eyes look friendly or a smelting-pool appear attractive. Closer still we go, close enough to sneak a look around the turn. Obsidian, Dirtboss, Ransack, Landbullet and Gasket are grouped together in front of a curtain of red fire, one that obscures half of a wide cave. What holds Excellion’s attention for obvious reasons is the figure at the centre of the macabre gathering. Nitro Prime, kneeling, held down by thick energon chains. I know it shouldn’t be possible for emotion to travel along the sensor tap-in. But a wave of anger rises up inside me that I know isn’t entirely my own. Obsidian’s tendril-fingers are at full extension, wrapped tightly around Nitro’s neck. Every second or so, electricity coils along them, biting into the femme. Then it really hits me. She’s moving slow. At normal speed for me and you, perhaps, but her jerks and recoils are…snails pace compared to what she was like at the start of the race. Primus alone knows what the Deceps have done but that must be the most horrendous torture imaginable. Back in my world, I reach the outcrop, having picked up enough grit in my undercarriage to defrost a road in Antarctica. Every fibre optic in me screams to throw myself into the tunnel, gun arm blazing. Excellion seems ready to leap as well. Which makes the impact of someone’s fist against one or other of our backs even more shocking. Turns out it’s him face down, not me. The unseen attacker tries to hoist the former-courier up in an arm lock but they’re too slow and he evades them. Unfortunately, this makes him stumble headlong into the cave and the clutches of Crumplezone, who shouldn’t have the right to appear from nowhere like that. “What the frex is the leadfoot doing here?” Dirtboss snarls in the second it takes Obsidian to look round. “An Autobot?” “And one who seems eager to assist the damsel in distress.” I don’t recognise the scratchy voice and we can’t see who’s speaking, although it’s presumably whoever gave Excellion a shove. “Spying on us too! Honestly, a mech can’t trust anyone these days!” “Quite.” The heli-con’s neck cranes to point his snout at Dirtboss. “You know him?” “Yeah.” With deliberate steps, the purple bruiser advances. “He’s a no-hope, broken-axled, puncture-ridden excuse for an off-worlder who thinks he can cut it on the tracks but never. Stood. A. Chance.” Some very well placed blows to the jugular, abdominal and knee sections neatly punctuate these last three words. Excellion howls incoherently and struggles futilely. “Cease.” Obsidian releases the Prime and drifts closer. Dirtboss stops punching. “Why? I’ll enjoy beating the bearings out of him.” “Possibly but I would like to know how long it will be before we can expect company from his comrades.” “Comrades?” Excellion spits, “What comrades? Listen to your hired grunt! I’ve been here vorns. I haven’t seen another Cybertronian since I materialised.” “Funny that,” says the shoving voice, “given that you seem to be transmitting telemetry to someone. And there’s the life-sign reading I’m getting from the other end.” “From around about here, I’d say.” Odd, I could have sworn…frag. I turn round. The Decepticon holds out his hand. “I think this is how those funny little squishes do it, isn’t it? How dya do? “ Apparently this mech was built specifically to be a Decepticon. No one on the side of the angels would voluntarily choose to coat himself in quite so many black, sharp edges. Almost no one, anyway. The guy looks like he magnetised his shell and stood in the middle of a razorblade factory. What isn’t black and spiny is orange or gold and interspersed with smooth aircraft components. A cockpit forms his upper torso, wings act as leg armour and a large armoured plate sits on his left arm, a shield from which project clusters of scythe blades. There’s a Deceptibrand inset into this defensive weapon but another, stranger symbol on his chest catches the optic. It looks a bit like a star burst. Odder still, it’s familiar though I certainly couldn’t tell you what it is. It’s his face that really holds my attention though. Or lack thereof. Just a blank, glowing window set into a horned, inverted triangle of a head. Depending on how you looked at it, it could be an abstract butterfly or an insane grin, an effect helped along by the two faux eyes that form part of his crest. This rapid and clinical analysis out of the way, I get round to snapping my left arm into a firing position and charging my laser-torch to weapon-level output. “Whoa there!” The stranger backs away and turns his shield to face me. “You really don’t want to do that.” There’s a hiss from within the plate and the scythes fold inwards. At the same time Decepticon insignia slides upwards…and an Autobrand fills the space. “Allow me to introduce myself: Sideways, Cybertronian State Intelligence Division deep cover operative. And boy o boy do you Autobots put your lead-feet in it!” Funnily enough, the sign-change has been accompanied by his voice lowering and becoming less scratchy. Even funnier how it’s the little things that make sense when the rest of the universe has looped the loop. “The CSID went out of business vorns ago.” Even simple facts are probably about a secure as a Vehicon’s firewall with all that’s been happening recently but it does buy me some thinking time. “True,” Sideways acknowledges, “But its agents didn’t. And I’m damned if I’m going to let an artefact of that power fall into the Decep’s hands. Don’t worry, I have everything planned. Or had, anyway. Might still work. As long as you and the other nosy twerp play along. Honestly, a guy has to wonder how you lot carry on surviving when all you do is get in the way of people who actually know what they’re doing.” For a second, his eye-mask widens. Perhaps it is a grin after all. Or maybe I’m just going cuckoo. “‘Play along’?” “Yes, you know, I’ll pretend to capture you and we can take it from there.” “And I can trust you on this because…?” He contrives to look pained. “That hurts! And isn’t this enough?” The Autobrand is waved under my nose. True enough, it does give off the right signals. But then again, I try not to be gullible. “There is this wonderful thing called ‘forgery’ you know.” “Oh come on! Do you really think I’d waste time like this if I were really a Decep? And besides…” His body breaks up as if his personal reception just went bad. Then he’s standing right behind me and whispering into my audio. “If you aren’t going to play along I’m afraid I’ll have to consider you a liability to my mission.” A broad sword comes swinging over my other shoulder and settles against my throat. “And that would not be pleasant.” “How do you know I won’t expose you?” My voice is thankfully free of absolute, gasket blowing terror. “Who are they going to trust? Someone who’s been a loyal little soldier for Primus knows how long or an Autobot just caught with his hand in the cookie jar?” “Um.” Good point, you must admit. “Can I take some time to think about this?” “Certainly. Take five ‘seconds. Tick tock!” Well, when someone puts things like that… “All…right…I’ll play along. But tell me something…” “Why, certainly! Anything!” “Isn’t ‘Sideways’ a bit of a stupid name for an undercover operative?” “Not when you fly like I do!” And who can argue with that? ---------------------------------------- Teleporting is not nice. Especially if you know what’s happening to you. I’m no physicist but I do have some idea how being molecularly disassembled and squeezed through a minute crack in sub-space is supposed to work. It feels rather like being dissolved in acid and crushed through a sheet of filter paper while someone jabs you with a cattle prod. I assume. Not nice at all. And when we reassemble in the red-lit cavern, the sight is equally unpleasant, what with Excellion hanging balefully in Crumplezone’s grip and the other creeps clustered round the captive Prime. The only cheering point is that the barrier is still in place. Obsidian’s fingers are coiling across Nitro’s face now, seeking a way behind. It takes every bit of self-control I have not to snap Sideway’s false energo-cuffs and try to pummel the living scrap out of the airborne fragger. All that I can settle for is a yell and a stream of obscenities that represent another Ratchet-given aspect of being a medic. “One Autobot spy,” Sideways proclaims as he jabs me forward, “Sorry I didn’t have the time to gift-wrap him.” Executing a neat pirouette, Obsidian bears down on us, emanating something close to abject fury. Not, I think, directed at me. “A medic.” His voice is on the verge of shaking. “The medic. Kill him. No. Wait.” Sideways, very thankfully, lowers his sword. “Dirtboss. Kill him. And the other one.” He goes back to getting nowhere. The purple brute comes towards me, fists clenched. I try to back peddle but Sideways is blocking my way. I silently pray he’s actually going to do something sooner rather than post-me. “Brilliant.” I pour as much scorn as I can muster into my voice. “I get done in by the new running dog.” If he doesn’t get the terminology, he gets the meaning. “I’m no one’s ‘running dog’!” Ah, thank Primus for that other universal constant: villains’ pride. “Hah! And what are you then? ‘Cause you seem to be jumping a mile when old chopper-face up there says hop!” He hisses. “I want the Cup. And if I have to break your axles with my dental plates, I’ll have it.” “Which is why you’re letting the Deceps take it from you?” I’m ready for the punch. Still hurts. Dirtboss leans close, the scope-eye rotating with a click-clack noise. “You think they’ll take it, do you?” “Obviously. But, then, I’ve never seen why people want to rule places so I don’t really see any problem with them having it – the universe conquering and world smashing bit aside, of course.” His lips twitch. “Funny. But I suppose you haven’t been chasing that damn femme’s tail for thousands of giga-turns, have you? Always not quite there while she gets faster and faster, feeding off that thing’s power. Close but never close enough. Watching again and again as she vanishes into the distance. NEVEREVERFASTENOUGH!” Oh heck. I look into the crazed optic and the twisted face. “Fragging marvellous. You’re not only stupid; you’re off your axis as well. Abso –fragging – lutely marvellous.” I don’t know which of us screams loudest: Dirtboss as he hammers his fist into my face, me as Dirtboss hammers his fist into my face, Obsidan as he furiously and futilely jams his fingers against Nitro’s apparently impenetrable skin or Nitro as the needle points bore into her face. “STOPTHISANDLISTENTOME!” Excellion’s voice cracks out with all the force of a sonic boom, freezing us to our respective spots. “I’ll open it.” We gape at him, for varying reasons. “I’ll open it.” His face contorts at the words – to use a human expression, he looks like he’s chewing a wasp. “Didn’t you hear me? I can lower that damn shield for you!” Obsidian looks incredulous and thoughtful at the same time. Dirtboss glares. Gasket and Ransack keep right on cowering while the bigger, bulkier twins still hover between suspicion and dimness. Sideways is, naturally, unreadable. “Look it’s the only way you’ll get in! Let me go and let me get that thing down so you can frex the Pit out of here!” Nitro makes no sound but her jaw works furiously, mouthing for him to stop. He doesn’t. “Well?” “Hmm.” Obsidian rubs his prominent chin. “Very well. Put him down.” Crumplezone hesitates for a fraction of a second. Dirtboss gives a sharp nod. Excellion hits the floor. He gets up slowly and rubs at the dents along his arms. Then he approaches the crimson fire. Weirdly like a conductor about to start conducting, he lifts his hands into to the air. And with one smooth motion, plunges them into the barrier. Playing with strange energies is not a nice business. I’ve heard that whenever a Prime uses the Matrix it feels like they’re having their own Spark torn out even as they give life to others. You only have to watch him around us to know that energon hurts Kicker. Ask anyone who’s ever rewired live circuits or dealt with plasma bursts and they’ll tell you what it feels like. Primus take me if I know what that force field is made of or how Excellion pushed his hands through it but if I know anything about anatomy, he should feel as if they’ve been cut off and someone’s using a flame-thrower on the stumps. He doesn’t even wince. The redness shimmers, flickers and gradually, bit by bit, starts to fade. Not evenly though. A slice there and a patch here thin out, as vermilion lightning bolts up Excellion’s frame, cutting through him as it goes. As the process goes on, two wing-like prongs cast in amber emerge from his backpack, identical in shape to Hot Rod’s icy blue pair. Which brings home to me exactly what’s going on. Energy absorption. Of course! Same in structure, same in power! Only this isn’t just the extraction of kinetic energy from air molecules. This is the full-blown sucking up of ambient power of any kind, the kind of ability that can let a mech win against an army. I’ve seen something like this before, in the accounts of Darkstar wielding the Star Sabre over Polyhex, but this is something else. The field vanishes. Excellion drops to one knee, spoilers glowing like suns, stray arcs earthing themselves all around him. Beyond, the cave carries on into the distance. Immediately before us stands a stepped alter, a huge block of metal and circuitry which is at the moment smoking slightly. Atop it is, quite simply, the Planet Cup. Cup in fact as well as name. A golden bowl on a slender stem. Nothing fancy, nothing mythic. Just a plain, empty cup. Admittedly, it is hovering above the surface and throwing out enough raw radiation to flash fry any nearby organics but I can’t help a twinge of anticlimax. Obsidian and Dirtboss leap forward, both greedy and grasping, the Velocitronian much faster. Faster still though, is Excellion. He flings his arms out again, jumps up and makes a hurling motion. Not at the Deceps but at Nitro. The flash is as blinding as the trap she was caught in. And its effects are as startling. The chains explode. She stands. She moves. The leaders go down first. Nitro practically snaps Obsidian in two, leaving him to crash dive. Dirtboss finds himself pummelled from all sides, trying to resist a blur that is speed incarnate. With my ‘captors’ distracted, I slip my bonds. In the time it takes me, Landbullet hits the deck, so badly dented that it’d take a panel-beater months to get them all out. Sideways dissolves, reappearing by the pedestal, plasma charges erupting from his shield. It may have been bad luck or good planning but each of them misses and catches a goon somewhere unfortunate. The one-femme tornado doesn’t need the help. She mows down the already snivelling shrimps even as they try to get to motorcycle mode. Crumplezone fares no better. His fins and spikes get bent inwards right before his face does. Sideways though…he manages to evade Nitro’s vengeance by the tips of his wings, spiriting himself down to the far end, then back again. For a second, the Prime halts, trying to catch her bearings. Sideways stops too. On the altar. With a triumphant hoot, he seizes the Cup, vanishing the instant before Nitro can reach him. He half reforms above Obsidian’s crumpled shape and then there’s just the three of us and the unconscious goons. “Theymusthaveashipnearby!” Excellion shouts it out just as I think it and head for the exit. Nitro catches us both before we can reach it. Whiz. The desert dusty settles around us and the Prime drops me. Five severely battered figures loom out of the sand. Steamhammer’s face is a mixture of confusion, anger and relief. We all look up. The lower tower of a Vitriol-class warship protrudes from the sky, the sleek bulk of the craft blotting out the sunlight. A smaller, blacker vehicle, a boomerang mixed with a saucer, flits between us and the ship, dissolving and appearing at random as it follows a zigzagging flight path. It’s going mostly sideways in fact. The Constructicons vanish, swept up in his wake as he abruptly zips past our very noses. His wings dip jauntily as he angles for an already closing hanger entrance. I raise my arm and fire, knowing that my gun won’t so much as scratch the indigo hull. Ignoring us, leaving us to curse helplessly and me to waste my remaining weapons’ reserves, the ship lifts away, stealing the Key from it’s rightful home with arrogant grace. Or not. A second sun bursts into existence in its path, a sun with billowing wings and a sword held high. Every micron the avenging knight, Vector Prime descends on the Vitriol, the possibly quite literal wrath of Primus. But there’s no impact. Instead, reality parts before his blade and the white warrior passes through the hull even as the ship accelerates to ramming speed. It carries on, leaping towards the stars. And the Xenothoian comes out through the thrusters, a golden cup clasped tightly to his chest. He lands among us as the ship vanishes and the rest of the Autobots arrive, flanked, incidentally, by several thousand Breakdowns. With the utmost reverence, he holds the Cup out to Nitro. “Blessings to her whom the Keys have embraced. My spark at your service, my sword at your side.” She frowns, as if in incomprehension. Then snatches the Key from the Ancient’s fingers, flipping it almost casually under her arm. Her optics fix on Excellion, who’s hobbling a little. His wings have folded away again and he certainly looks the worse for wear. They’re eyes, as the cliché goes, meet. Zoom. And they’re gone, leaving me to face Hot Rod and chums. He rolls up, in equal parts bemused and triumphant. “What the…?” he begins. “ARRRRRRRGGHHHHHHHH!” The congregation looks over my shoulder. So do I. Dirtboss staggers out of the cave, all but foaming at the mouth, apparently incapable of coherent sentences beyond the obligatory insane yell. I reach into a leg storage compartment as he sees me and totters menacingly in my direction, clearly intent on murdering the evil-plot-foil-er nearest to hand. Just before he reaches me, I draw back my left arm and hit him squarely between the optics. With the hammer I usually use to beat dents out of people. He goes down as if I’d just whipped out all his servos. “Now that felt curiously satisfying.” I grin at the others. “Please don’t ask any questions right now. I need a long, hot oil-bath and to deactivate this sensor link before I start blushing.” Funnily enough, no one argues. ---------------------------------------- Sorting things out doesn’t take long. Well it wouldn’t, would it? We can take the Key with Nitro’s blessing the moment she’s done activating the next generation of Velocitronians. The only condition is that Excellion go with it, as a sort of official envoy. No one pries into how the Autobot and the Prime hammered that out – and I use the phrase while wincing – but the deal was settled. It all came through Excellion, Nitro still having no time for any slowcoaches except (now) the blue bot. But we have what we came for and who knows, maybe one day there’ll be some kind of diplomatic relationship between our planets. If we get round to breeding a bunch of super-speedsters. Pitstop, between goggling at and lapping up the medical information I swamp him with, simply shakes his head. “Doubt it. What could you give anyone around here that they don’t already have?” He looks pensive for a moment. “Don’t know though…maybe one day…here, what does that bit do?” Everyone’s very intrigued by my description of Sideways. Communications are already zipping back and forth on priority channels. As far as central command knows, the CSID is dead as a doornail, ruined thanks to the Decepticon’s reverse infiltration. Not that it would be impossible for a few cells to have survived ‘till now. Just very unlikely. All in all, the mission has been a general success. With only one loose end. Or should that be two? “The good news: there’s enough differences in these scans to rule out cloning.” With the command crew, the Guardian and a gaggle of trainee race-medics all eagerly watching as I prod and probe our unlikely duo, the Arc’s med-bay is a touch on the crowded side. “You were, however, built in the same place at the same time. Perhaps even split from the same spark. Basically: congratulations, it’s twins!” “That’s impossible!” Hot Rod props himself up on his elbows. Excellion copies the movement almost exactly. “He’s right. I never had a twin.” “And I wasn’t brought online ‘till the war had started and he was already off the planet!” I shrug unconcernedly. “I just read out what the scans tell me. Excellion, where were you protoed?” “Um…” The racer’s face goes blank, then he frowns. “I…it’s a bit fuzzy. So long ago, you know?” “Hot Rod?” He lies back, sighing exasperatedly. “I don’t know. Everyone knows I don’t know. It was in Pion but during the attack that levelled the place and I was found in the rubble.” “Pion?” Excellion’s frown deepens. “I suppose it might have been…” He clams up again, optics daring anyone to intrude further. “There are these wonderful things called ‘stasis tubes’,” I remind them as I scroll through the data, “And anyway, that’s not the most interesting part. You’re systems are virtually identical and you have equally wonderful personalities but it would appear that Excellion is…more evolved than you, Roddy.” “More evolved?” Roulette joins the twins in frowning. “Sloppy term,” I admit, “but it fits. They both have exactly the same potential but in Excellion, things are more advanced. Hot Rod will one day be able to access the same power transferring abilities but in the other guy they’re already at…oh, half they’re possible strength. Most likely the constant racing and general head start in life were responsible. All those physical ‘upgrades’? Just window dressing really.” I rap my knuckles on an extraneous intake for emphasis. Excellion winces. Hot Rod meanwhile has taken on a bedazzled expression. “You mean I could do what he can do?” “Give the boy a coconut, he’s got it! You’ll have to have practice. A lot. But yes, there’s no reason why not. And another thing I’ll tell you for free: the more I look at it, the more I’m convinced they were built the same. Not formatted afterwards like Seekers but intentionally constructed or directed along the exact same lines.” “Why?” Pitstop peers at the readouts. “Who’d go to the trouble of building two identical mechs? What for?” “I must admit to curiosity myself,” Vector Prime intones, “I have never heard of such a thing.” Everyone looks at me expectantly. I glower. “How the frag should I know? I’m a doctor not a fortune teller!” ---------------------------------------- It’s only later, in flight, with Velocitron disappearing behind us, Excellion on the tour of the ship and the Cup safely in the hazardous materials chamber, that I have a really good look at the information I gleaned from my rummaging around in the twins’ superstructures. On a whim, I cross-reference their bio-static signatures with the entire known Cybertronian population. Might as well check for triplets. Nothing shows up. I widen the search, introducing a few variables. Not sure why I’m doing this but it fills in time. The computer pings. I scroll through the list, realising that I’d somehow included the decreased as well as the living. Showing snags at my attention. On yet another whim, one born from the chill in my endoskeleton, I type one extra criterion. ‘Prime’. Readout reads: Aven (nx Avenus) Vitus (nx Vitron) Centuros (nx Guardian) Optix (nx Optimus) I slump in my seat, wondering who up there is taking perverse pleasure in throwing these ever more unlikely curve balls in my direction. Steamhammer. The Keys. Velocitron. Nitro. Excellion. Dirtboss. Sideways. And now this! Enough of it! My finger stabs into the ‘clear’ button and the search screen is wiped away. I think I’ll pretend I never saw that. Go on. Just ask me. I’ll say ‘never saw what?’ right back at you. Hmph. Not as if there could have been anything in it. Coincidence. Wonderful force. Maddening but quite wonderful. Now, where did I put my list…ah, here we go. Next up for routine inspection: Cliffjumper. Two days early but what the heck. Nothing like a full medical examination to take one’s mind off…that stuff I never saw. And the crazy events on that crazy planet. It’s my lot in life to leave the action to the heroes, tag on behind and pick up the pieces. That’s what medics do. All the others can get on with winning wars and saving civilisation. We’re content to weld up the wounds and save the lives. And, once in a while, kick tailgate with the best of them. Transformers and associated characters are owned by Hasbro |
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