Burnt Bridges: Part 1: What came before... (Side 2)
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The hall is massive. Huge columns hold the roof hundreds of metres above us. Thousands of mechs and femmes stand around us, their attention fixed on a platform at the far end. Atop this rather makeshift affair are a group of powerful looking figures, clustered around a large sphere of golden screens. The stage party are chanting but the language defies translation.

Fortunately, we have a guide.
“Behold: Primus’ legacy. His gift to his children, the font of all life: Vector Sigma.”
The mechs, and several femmes now I look, move back from the sphere, raising their left hands towards it.
“This is the heart of the Light Lord’s spark, his very essence given physical form.”
“Erm, excuse me.” Hot Rod holds up a hand like a human schoolboy. “Isn’t Vector Sigma just an ancient name for the Matrix?”
“Myths are a strange species. Often they are the truth under a different name. Listen and I shall explain.”

On the stage, five of the group lower their arms again and climb down, leaving six of their fellows.
“When our Creator withdrew to his slumber, he split his spark in seven and passed the pieces to the First Ones, to ensure that we would continue to grow and evolve. The greatest fragment became Vector Sigma, the repository of all His wisdom and the architect of every spark ever created. The other six…”
Balls of light coalesce around the raised hands.
“…became the Keys.”
Six discs pop into existence, made from some transparent material, and slam into to sides of Vector Sigma. The room vanishes into a supernova bright glare.

“These were the lesser fragments, each imbued with different parts of Primus’ power.”
Vector Prime carries on talking as if nothing has happened. Images unfold in front of my optics, the six discs spinning in whiteness.
“The Primary Key, that of energy.”
A red disc marked with a gold thunderbolt.
“The Secondary Key, that of force.”
A green disc marked with a gold hand.
“The Tertiary Key, that of matter.”
A purple disc marked with a gold cog.
“The Spatial Key, that holds sway over actuality.”
A blue disc, marked with a gold sunburst.
“The Temporal Key, that holds sway over causality.”
A turquoise disc, edged with some kind of mechanism and marked with silver versions of all four symbols and, if my eyes don’t deceive me, a tiny Autobrand.
“And the Master Key, that guides and links all the others.”
A deep indigo disc clamped between two handle-like devices and stamped with a huge scarlet Autobrand.

“On their own, each of these Keys is capable of fantastic things, not least being the ignition of sparks. From them have sprung many, many generations, far more than have sprung from Vector Sigma itself. It was the Keys, taken across the world, that drew life into being.”
I see a barren landscape of flat metal. A mech comes into view, clutching one of the Keys. It has grown a set of prongs, making it look like it could really open a lock. He holds it at arm’s length for a ‘second then plunges it into the ground. The surface begins to warp and bubble, lifting, rising, changing. Humanoid figures pull themselves out of the planet, protoforms forged from Cybertron’s skin.

“But as mighty as the Keys are alone, together, united with the Computer, they are so much more.”
The golden ball is back, hanging in the whiteness. The Keys orbit it, taking up set places, one at each pole and four around the equator. They lock into place, merging into a single sun-like object, so unimaginably bright that I have to shield my eyes – or try to, as I appear to be disembodied at this point.
“They allow the unhindered channelling of Primus’ power. Together, they can reshape reality itself, transforming worlds in an instant, manipulating whole solar systems as easily as one might shape clay.”

Abruptly, our little group is hanging over a long table, watching some kind of conference –wonderfully elaborately designed mechs engaged in heated discussion.
“The rulers of Cybertron knew all too well what this power could do in the wrong hands. They realised that there would always be the chance that someone would be able to seize control of all seven fragments and turn them to evil ends. Despite the safeguards in place on the planet, this chance was still too great. So they decided to scatter the Keys.”

A fleet of city-sized interstellar star cruisers blazes past, silently roaring in the void of space. It’s one thing to have an ancient ghost walk straight through you but having a star-drive on full a few inches from your face is distinctly unnerving.
“The first three Keys were taken to the ends of the galaxy. In the charge of mechanoids designated ‘Prime’, they were carried to three distant worlds.”
Said worlds spin into view for illustration purposes.
“On each, distinct civilisations rose, built around the wills of the Primes.”
Rolling views of almost-but-not-quite alien cityscapes pass by.

“The fourth Key was secured within a dimensional pocket, a microcosm used as a meeting ground between the Ancients and beings who matched and even superseded them in power.”
Another pillared hall flashes by, this made from blue and gold stone – at least, it looks like stone…

“The Temporal Key was passed into the keeping of the order known as the Guardians. It was our task to oversee and defend our brothers, ensuring that the threats to our people could never drag us down. Our home was Xenothos, a planet-sized observatory, capable of tracing anything, anywhere and at any time. Wherever Cybertronians went, we were there to look after them.”
There’s a great sadness in Vector Prime’s voice, an echo of a loss beyond anyone’s comprehension.

“The Master Key remained on Cybertron, in the care of another Prime. That way, the homeworld could continue to flourish alongside its cousins. And flourish they all did. We pushed aside the boundaries of space. We carved our place in the universe. Energy flowed between the Keys; linking them no matter how far apart they were taken. We harnessed that power, using it to carry immense spacebridges across the tracts of the infinite. Thus linked, trade and communication between the colonies was assured. Technology, wealth, stability, health – we had everything we could wish for.

“Alas, it all came to naught.”

A diagram draws itself in the air, a web of lines and circles, presumably representing these colonies, Cybertron and the spacebridges.
“I had been Prime of Xenothos for nearly fifteen thousand orbits – vorns, you call them now – when it happened. Something went horrendously, unstoppably wrong.”
The lines twist and snare, blown this way and that like string in a tornado. Then they fracture.
“I do not know what happened. Perhaps no one ever will. But in an instant, the links were gone. And worse, in their place was a wave of ferocious, ravenous force that tore space asunder. It rebounded on the Keys like the wrath of Chaos. In desperation, I time jumped, taking the Temporal Key a few astroseconds into the future in an effort to prevent catastrophe…but I was too slow. On Xenothos, as everywhere else, the Cataclysm struck.”

Reality reappears, solid, dependable Goldmount. It is as if the pain of what happened is too much for the ancient mech to relive.
“I returned to a world in ruins. The wave had rent our civilisation to shreds. Worse by far than the destruction it had brought to the cities was what it had done to those who lived within them. Every mechanoid, from scribe to warrior knight had been reduced to shadows of what they had once been. Their minds had been wiped completely blank, save for a few, distant echoes. I was able to restore them to full life with my Key but…their memories…their selves…the souls of all those I had known and cherished…were gone forever. Such as it was on my world, such as it was everywhere else.

“It took millennia to heal the tiniest fraction of the damage. I taught them everything I knew, every iota of my learning, and in time we were able to reclaim some of our technology. By some unfathomable miracle, the equipment in orbit, mindless computer-driven sensory satellites, had escape relatively unscathed. With all that was stored there back in our hands, we scoured the heavens, searching for our lost brethren. We found war.

“I cannot say how Cybertron was reborn. Chance, I expect. One being happened upon the Master Key and its life was rekindled. From then on, a steady spread of restoration. I cannot be certain. But reborn it had been – only to descend into civil war. We could not act while the war rampaged over Primus’ form. We waited and searched, trying to find the other colonies, drawing whispers and gleanings from across known space. Eventually, I was able to piece together a picture of what had happened. The Keys had been caught in the Cataclysm and had been transformed beyond all recognition. They had become totems, items of power and respect but lacking their original purpose, their function forgotten. They were coveted, fought over, even –”

“Wait.”
Optimus reaches to his chest. There is the snap and hiss of locks opening. The shield-like plates on his chest side apart. Nestled within, in a wrapping of super-dense metals and delicate circuitry is the absurdly small looking crystal we call the Matrix of Creation.

Our leader looks askance at the Guardian.
“Yes indeed, Optimus Prime. You now hold the Master Key. The first of the lost Keys to be recovered.”
He stands tall, holding out his hands imploringly.
“I have waited an eternity for the War to end. Now it has and Cybertron is at peace. And I come seeking your help. Help me find the scattered Keys. Help me bring them home and return them to their former state. Help me find the cause of the Cataclysm. Help me reverse what it did. Together, we can reunite the lost Children of Primus. We can rebuild the spacebridges, link our worlds once more.”

He looks around.
“Help me, my brothers. Help me give our people back what they have lost.”

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“Do you believe a word of this?”
Silverbolt’s question disrupts my reverie. The heights of Iacon shine in the midday sun. I’ve been mentally comparing them to the ancient towers we saw on our excursion through the time-stream. By my reckoning, we are at least a millennium away from rebuilding and advancing enough to replicate the most minor of those unbelievable structures.

Vector Prime was right: we have lost so much.

“I keep asking myself the same thing,” I murmur back, still looking through the windows of the main access corridor, “and I keep returning to the same answer: Isn’t this all too extravagant for a lie?”
My commander leans against the same handrail as me, though his bigger frame means he has to bend down quite a bit more.
“But it’s also more than a little unbelievable. I mean, how could everything have been wiped out like that? Why aren’t there clues or bits of these ‘Ancients’ that survived?”
“In a sense, everything was in plain view all along.”

I drag half an hour’s thoughts into something coherent.
“Our First Ones were, if we take Vector Prime’s word, the Ancients who survived the Cataclysm with their memories wiped. We haven’t got a clue how long they just wandered about before someone happened upon the Matrix. Mechs could have been walking over cliffs, knocking down walls, trampling ruins for a thousand vorns. And when they ‘woke up’, what would they have thought of their surroundings? Wouldn’t they have just considered them the natural environment? Think about all those legends about Primus and Unicron and how both worlds were left devastated. Don’t you see? They must have just accepted things as they were, as a natural landscape, as normality. The thought of any sort of civilisation before wouldn’t have occurred – didn’t occur in fact until earlier today!”

I pause to let this sink in.
“And don’t forget: there have been clues all along. The legends of wars between gods, the Matrix being called Vector Sigma in some of the early history tracks, klicks and klicks of carvings in some of the lower levels – it’s all been there, we just haven’t realised the significance.”
“But what about those Keys?” He shrugs. “Doesn’t that bit strike you as unlikely? The power of our god in physical form?”
“No more unlikely than spark energy or the Matrix. We’ve never been able to quantify either but we still accept their existence. Just because you think something is impossible, it does not necessarily follow that it is.”

He nods, optics flitting over the long drop outside.
“Like not believing several tons of metal can hang in midair.”
“Exactly. Not understanding something does not preclude its existence.” I look over my shoulder at the closed hatch behind us, the one leading into the Stellar Cartography Suite. “Any idea what they’re up to in there?” I know the answer before he does.

“Not a clue. I’m not a Stellar Cartographer or a Prime or a Prime’s hanger-on so I wasn’t invited.”
“That is a little bit unfair on Hot Rod, isn’t it?”
“Who’s talking about Roddy? He gets in by boyish charm. It’s old Logic Chips who always seems to be on Optimus’ tailgate.”
“Jetfire is one of his closest advisors…”
“And a stuffed afterburner.”
“Granted. But I don’t suppose you’re being a little bitter about not being invited in, o’ great and mighty Aerospace Commander?”
“Watch it senior tactician! Nah, I just didn’t want to sit there pouring over holographic star charts.”
“Plus which they make you feel sick.
“Plus which they make me feel sick. Hey!” He pouts then looks back himself. “You know, if those things can do half of what he says they can, we’re sorted.”

“In what way?”
“Think about it. Cybertron could be fixed up in a microsecond! All the damage would just vanish! We could put everything back the way it was before the War. Slag! The way it was before the Cataclysm!”
“That’s an awful lot of power…” I tap out a gentle rhythm with my toe. “And very tempting to abuse. That is why these things were supposed to have been scattered in the first place.”
“You think VP’s after them for himself?”
“The thought had crossed my mind but I doubt it somehow. He seems to truly want to put everything back the way it was – although it strikes me that he didn’t come to us because we were Autobots but because we had control of Cybertron… Still, it isn’t him I’m worried about. If certain Decepticons got wind of this, they’d be climbing over one another to get hold of a Key or two. If we start a search in earnest, they are going to start noticing.”
“Ah, we can switch the optics off for those buckets of rust. But, why don’t you think VP came to us because we’re ‘bots. He’s wearing the ‘brand for Primus sake!”
“But where did that symbol come from, eh?” I reply from over steepled fingers, “We got it from the inscribing on the Matrix casing. Which would seem to make it something from ancient Cybertron. We should ask him what it means.”

A crash echoes through the hallway. We turn to look and catch a glimpse of someone white and black brushing off the remains of the data-tape rack he’s just walked through. Another mech hollers obscenities at his back, which he returns in kind before storming away.
“Wingsaber?” Silverbolt asks.
“Yes, and thankfully going the other way.”
“Whew.” He stretches his right shoulder. “Do you think we have a chance of finding our lost colonies?”

“Oh yes. We’ve been rather preoccupied for the last few millennia so we haven’t had our optics wide-scoped but I doubt planets full of beings like us will be that hard to find. Assuming they are like us. It’ll be fascinating to see what different evolutions might have gone on. Those worlds hopefully won’t have had Megatrons to tear them apart. Think how advanced they might be compared to us.”
“Hmm. That’s one incentive I suppose. At least there won’t be a lack of volunteers from the brains. The brawns…well, we could suggest that one of the planets might be inhabited solely by beautiful femmes who haven’t seen a mech for eons.”
“You do that and Airraid will take off in the first spaceship he finds and we’ll never catch up with him.”

Silverbolt throws back his head and guffaws. I’m distracted for a moment by something like a shout of triumph coming from the closed door. When I look back, he’s starring fixedly at the transparent roof plates.
“Did you see that?”
“Pardon?”
”I thought I saw…hmm…a shadow…something on that buttress…”
I look but can’t see anything.
“You mean overlooking the Suite?”
“Yeah.”
“Better have a closer look then.”

I leap and hover up to the ceiling.
“Hmm…can’t see…wait.”
Something moves in the shadows cast by the arching buttresses that cross the dome. Something perched by the main skylights into the Suite. Something with…wings?

I drop slowly down.
“There’s something up there. A…bird of some kind.”
“Bird?”
“And I doubt it’s nesting up there.”
“Sound the alert?”
“And we’ll probably scare it off.”
“In which case…”

Shattering glass seen through split-second exposure optics with in-linked trajectory plotters and casual projectors is quite pretty. It’s also rather loud and as Silverbolt smashes through the reinforced transplex window like a bullet through glass, the bird-thing gives an astonished screech and erupts skywards in a frenzy of black metal feathers and whirling engines.

Hard on my gallant leader’s tail fins, I send out the all channels alert he neglected. And, as an afterthought, a note to main city repair squad. We soar after the spy, folding into jet form and opening out our throttles.

“He’s heading for the power stacks!”
“Computing intercept course,” I respond.
“Scrub that.”
A vane running along the underside of Silverbolt’s forward section begins to crackle. The bird wings over Iacon, an obsidian shadow outlined against the gold. With a shriek of released energy, shimmering flashes rip towards the creature. It weaves through the first shocks but a stray arc snaps against its tail ‘feathers’.

“Yeah!”
It spirals down towards the towering generators, vanishing into their deep shadows.
“Intercept and restrain?”
“Yep. Time to live up to your name, Skydive!”
We plunge.

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In half darkness, the pipes and gantries of the power station district weave above our heads, a metal jungle every bit as daunting as the Amazonian interior.
“You are sure it came down here?”
“Yes, for the third time, sir, I am.”
We look round again.
“Present circumstances to the contrary, I’ll admit.”
“Well, I’m stumped. Where’d he go? It took us ten ‘seconds to get down here and last we saw he –”

SSSSCCCCRAAAWWWAAAAKKKK!

A macabre, shadow-magnified monster comes swooping towards us. Crimson sparks spew from turrets alongside its neck whilst its eyes blaze the same colour. Searing beams lance from them, striking me squarely in the chest. We both go down under the onslaught. We don’t even have time to realise how diminutive our attacker is.

The bird gives a triumphant squawk as it wheels over us, glaring down malevolently, optic lasers charging up again.

BOOOOOOMMMMM!

A red shape zips past and suddenly everything is engulfed in burning smoke. It is extremely fortunate that our designers had the forethought to armour us against each other’s more unconventional abilities. Fireflight’s ‘fire fog’ washes over us, unpleasant, cloying, stinking and stinging. But it does considerably worse to the bird.

Feathers aflame, turbines clogged up, the creature plummets, landing hard and skidding across the ground, coming to rest a few microns from my face. I peer through the mist at the vicious face, the wicked beak, the narrowed, callous optics…and something clicks.

“Laserbeak?”
“Can’t be.” Silverbolt gets to his knees. “That little runt looks like a flying saucer. This thing…it’s like an earth bird…a condor or something.”
“You two OK?”

Airraid and Slingshot descend through the acidic clouds.
“Fine,” I call back, “What kept you?”
However, before we can engage in further witticisms, a shot rings out. A look of bewilderment crosses Airraid’s face. Then he falls to the ground, a neat hole through his chest.

We don’t freeze. We can’t afford to. Electricity and photon pulses leap towards the source of the fresh assault while I leap to my brother’s side.
“He’s functional – shocked into stasis!”
“Attacker in quadrant Z-Z-ZZ-Alpha.”
I draw my own gun and join in with the others. Fireflight appears at my side, batons glowing. He starts to say something but is cut off by the loudest sound I’ve ever heard.

It is so pure a cacophony; so intense a roar that it feels like the whole world is splitting in two. We tumble. We have no choice. The wave of sonic vibrations, more force than noise, knocks us aside like skittles. Something looms above me.

For a second I think that I’m dead and that an angel or a demon has appeared to bear me away to the Allspark.

Then rationality kicks in again and I realise that the vision of swept back wings and cruel, bladed angles has to be just another mech, a comrade for the bird. Which is when a slash of deep purple splits across the apparition’s face and his willpower bores into my skull.

I can feel the assault as it smashes its way through what meagre mental defences my mind can throw up. I can sense it rifling through my memories, scanning this encoded recording or that as one might browse through a library. I can hear its voice whispering to itself as it searches for what it wants –

As brusquely as it entered, the probing intellect departs.

A ‘second later, I hear the thwip-twang of the object that caused the retreat. Slingshot’s harpoon cable zips past, the needlepoint embedding itself in my assailant’s chest. He inclines his head to look at the offending object before casually extracting the barb. The following yank results in a loud scraping noise and a muffled curse. I try to bring my blaster to bear but I’m still dazed from having my brain pawed at.

I have no choice but to brace myself for the impending oblivion as a tri-barrelled rifle starts to hum…

The coup de grace does not come. Instead, the winged mech jerks, like someone who’s heard a small, sudden sound in a silent room. The gun vanishes and he stoops, sweeping the bird – sweeping Laserbeak into his arms. Angled plates and sleek fins blur. A predatory arrowhead hangs over our heads for a moment and then vanishes towards the atmosphere.

I struggle upright with moderate success just in time to hear the approaching engines. My brothers totter to their feet as well, with the obvious exception. I press my hands to the sides of my head, trying to block out the incessant ringing that fills it.


“What the fragging scrap was that?” Slingshot demands.
I struggle to answer, trying to pull the name out of my chaotic thoughts.

“Soundwave.”

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“Soundwave?”
I peer at the hologram before me, trying to ignore the stabbing sensation at the back of my head. The Decepticon’s communications officer’s original bulky, tank-tracked form revolves steadily.
“Yes, Soundwave. Call it instinct but when someone starts rummaging through my mind, he’s the first person I think of.”
Ratchet pulls the sensor needle out of my spinal linkage.
“Hmm. And if it wasn’t for one tiny little problem, I’d agree.”
“Problem?”
“These readings.”
“What about them?”
“There shouldn’t be any.”
He shows me the readout plate.
“Given the amount of ionisation that’s gone on in your tin-plated cluster, it’s amazing you can still think. OK, I’d guess that someone ‘read your mind’ but this kind of scale is completely beyond anything fixed-face was capable of.”


“And laying the smack down on us like that wasn’t?” Airraid quips.
“Shut up and lie still!” snaps the frosty MO, “The micro filaments haven’t fixed yet. You wanta tear fresh holes in your frame, that’s your look out but you ain’t doing it on my watch.”
“Sorry – I mean, shutting up.”

Ratchet turns back to my holograms and I.
“What you described didn’t even look like Soundwave.”
I focus, sending impulses into the holo-emitter. A new shape forms, based on the silhouettes and hazy glimpses I got in the ‘stacks. Boxy versus slender, squared off versus sleek – he’s right they look nothing alike.
“But…I’m certain that bird-thing was Laserbeak. Only a hunch, but I cannot shake the idea.”
“I though you strategic sorts didn’t like hunches.”
“Consider it a tactical realisation then.” I shift uncomfortably. “Have you finished with me?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Your internal repair systems’ll compensate for most of the damage. I’ve added a few speci-nanites just to be sure.”

He delicately closes the access port and I clamber off the bunk. Ratchet crosses to Airraid – the latter giving him what I suspect is supposed to be winning smile. He harrumphs and examines the medical system.
“Hmm. Hn. Hh. Hmm.” He presses the release switch. “Fine, you’re cooked. But go easy for a few days. If I find you back in here with a loose connection because you’ve been playing the idiot, I’ll have your bearings for paperweights.”
“You don’t use paper!”
“Think that’ll stop me?”

“You realise that even if it wasn’t Soundwave, the logical conclusion is that it was a Decepticon.”
“I’d think that the whole city realises that.” The medic helps Airraid to his feet.
“And we can guess what they were after. What, indeed, they got.”
“See above.”
“And what that means for us now.”
“Ditto.” Ratchet dusts his hands down. “And in about five minutes, we’ll find out what we’re gonna be doing about it.”
“Eh?” asks his slightly wobbly patient.
“I know there’s something between his audio ‘cause I’ve poked about inside it but, Primus, you wouldn’t know to look.”

“Be fair, he was semi-offline when the announcement was made.”
“I’m a doctor, ‘dive. I can’t afford to play fair. Go on, scoot! You might just make some empty seats if you get moving. If anyone asks, I’m on my way too.”
With that, he vanishes into the depths of the infirmary.

Airraid tosses him a casual salute – at least, I hope that’s what it was – and we head for the door. I hold it open for him.
“Shall we, holey monarch of the skies?”
“With pleasure, info-point.”

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Saying the amphitheatre is packed would be to seriously understate the situation. I can honestly say that I haven’t seen so many mechs in one place since the aftermath of the fall of Polyhex. We have to fly over several rows before we can get to some empty seats and we only secure those because Slingshot and Fireflight have been saving them for us. To be precise, Slingshot has pushed the red ‘bot over so that he’s lying on his side across three places. Having removed this hindrance by means of a few prods and a shove, we join them.

Due to this manoeuvring, we’ve managed to miss most of Optimus Prime’s opening address. The stage at the centre of the great conical chamber is filled with officers – Jetfire, Springer, Silverbolt and so forth – along with holomatter projections of those currently stationed off world. Drones orbit them, recording and transmitting the proceedings. This conclave will be sent the length and breadth of Autobot space; under the most secure encryptions we have, naturally.

His words of welcome over, Optimus cedes control of the lectern to Vector Prime. The clockwork warrior bows his head in greeting and then raises his optics to the crowd. A fire burns in them as he begins to repeat his tale. There are no temporal projections this time, just a mech and his words. He is a passionate, warm, remarkable speaker – there really is no need for imagery. The past we had no idea existed fills the hall, springing into life from the High Guardian’s vocaliser.

By the time he’s finished, I suspect that most of those in here would follow him into the heart of a black hole if it meant we could recover that past.
“Help me my brothers,” he repeats, “Help me reclaim what we have lost.”

The silence gives way to whispers, to mutters and to something close to a standing ovation.

Optimus takes his counterpart’s place, lifting a hand for peace.
“Gentlemchs, ladies.”
Hush.
“As I said, I hope that this will lay the rumours that have been circulating to rest. I have already pledged my support to Vector Prime’s mission. Will you stand by my decision?”

“AYE!”

The response is reminiscent of the sonic barrage. A smile briefly crosses Prime’s face.
“Thank you for your enthusiasm. But we must not loose sight of our priorities. The restoration of Cybertron must take precedence over everything else, even the search for such miraculous artefacts. This is why the parties sent to seek the Keys will be drawn from those not presently engaged in construction work and from those on duty outside of the home system.”

He pauses to let this sink in. I spot a few disappointed looking engineers and suddenly glum scientists. I’d bet my right wing that most of them would kill to be out looking for machines from before the dawn of time rather than rewiring computer networks or building roadways.
“It would also be a great folly to look to Primus and forget the devils that bite at our heels. We have a tenuous ceasefire with Starscream’s forces but it seems our enemies have not given up their desires for destruction. On the very day that we learnt of our lost history, the Aerialbots caught a spy within the walls of Goldmount. They were also attacked by a second mechanoid who came to his comrade’s aid. We have no means of linking these two to any one faction but I am sure you will agree that we must prepare for the worst. From this moment on, we work under the assumption that the Decepticons know everything we know and that they too will pursue the Keys to Vector Sigma.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Slingshot grumbles softly.
The rest of us hush him as furiously as we dare. Back on the stage, Prime lifts a ball not so different in design from the Matrix casing.
“This is our map. By combining the knowledge and information that Vector Prime’s people amassed with our own star charts and databases, we have been able to home in on the Keys’ locations. Once the search teams have been assembled, they will travel to the appropriate star systems and, if possible, return the Keys to Cybertron for recalibration. If not, we must simply protect them from the Decepticons’ attentions until an alternative can be found. With luck and Primus’ blessing, we will be able to rebuild the spacebridges and deprive those who would take Megatron’s place of a vital tactical advantage.”

He depresses a control on the side of the map. A holographic representation of the galaxy unfolds above it. Six regions are highlighted along the length of the spiral arms. Prime points with his free hand.
“These are the predicted current locations of our cousins and their worlds. Furthest is Gigalonia. Then Animatros. Then Velocitron. Xenothos sits in a region of dead space here. This is of course Cybertron itself. And this…”

I swear, I swear that from the heights of the theatre, I can see the great Optimus Prime’s face struggling to contain a grin.
“This is the nearest planet to hold a Key.”

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“Earth? EARTH?!”
I’ve never seen Fireflight so animated.
“How can there be a Key on Earth? How? I thought it was supposed to be locked away in some dimensional doodad? What’s it doing on Earth?”
“From what I’ve gathered, the Xenothoian satellites detected the Spatial Key’s return into reality in the sector of space currently occupied by our favourite mud-ball,” comes Silverbolt’s answer, “But after that things get a bit hazy.”
“Their sensors could pinpoint a single atom in a nebula but they still needed calibration from time to time.” I stop to adjust the box I’m lugging about. “For all we know, the planet could have formed around the Key. In which case, Evac’s team will have a heck of a job getting to it.”

The runway is bathed in evening light. Devoid of the endless arrays of refraction shields and force-barriers, our sky has lost its permanently black-tinted hue and the sun shines through. The three Arc-class cruisers line up ahead of us, great rounded off wedges of grey steel. I can see the other groups already congregating around the entrance hub.
“So let me get this straight.” Airraid puts down his crate and sits on it. “Jetfire’s taking a bunch of squadies and boffins to this Animatros place, Hot Rod’s swinging by Arc 7 to pick up some speedsters and medics then heading for Velocitron, Evac’s boys are going to look for the Key on Earth and we –”
“And we get stuck with Optimus Prime and the Wreckers on a Primus-knows-how-long trip to some hole called Gigalonia,” completes Slingshot.
“It should take us a week, maybe two at maximum warp,” I clarify, “And you missed out the part where Vector Prime keeps hopping between groups to make sure we’re on the right track.”
“I still don’t get why he can’t just zap us all to the right place in one of his time-tunnels.”
“Because he can only carry himself through them. And Roots, of course, but they’re one and the same in alt-mode.”

“Stop dawdling, you lot!” Silverbolt orders, “We’ve got to get aboard. Excitement, adventure and mystery await!”
Muttering to ourselves, we follow our fearless leader towards the ships.

Optimus does not waste time with pre-flight briefings or speeches on the rostrum. He simply says a few words before we board.
“What we do now is for all of Cybertron and for all of those who sprang from it. May Primus guide us all to what we seek. Till that day, till all are one!”

“Till all are one!”
“Till all are one!”

The refrain lingers as our craft thunder skyward. I look out as we reach orbit, down at the glinting, glittering globe where I was built. I imagine it must have looked just as serene from up here when the Decepticons were pounding the tar out of Cronum or when the nucleic bombs undermined Kalis.

Things never turn out the way you expect or want them to.

A cheery thought to carry us to Gigalonia.










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