Burnt Bridges: Part 5: Size Matters (Side 1)
Burnt Bridges: A Five-part saga from the planet Cybertron
Part 5: Size Matters

Conquest is made from the ashes of one’s enemies. That is the maxim that has helped guide my life for as long as I care to remember. Plunging into the atmosphere of Gigalonia, feeling the heat against my hull and seeing the flames accompanying my re-entry, I cannot help but wonder if it is possible to make a conquest from one’s own ashes.

Placing that unseemly and negative thought aside, I concentrate my efforts on descending without the aid of an anti-gravity funnel. It is all very well being capable of inter-atmospheric flight but usually I am cocooned from the less savoury elements of the process. A shame then, that my current plans involve the maintenance of the illusion that I lack such convenient abilities.

It is a sad fact of life that one really can trust nobody. Commanders are usually wise to delegate risky tasks to those capable and expendable subordinates who comprise the bulk of an army, yet some things simply cannot be left to others, no matter how mundane they may at first appear. Temptation is an irresistible force and I fear it would be distinctly unwise to allow someone I am not absolutely sure of to undertake the locating of the Tertiary Key. Having tasted the power of the Spatial Key, I know just how intoxicating the presence of such an artefact can be. And while Nightscream may be counted on to be ruthlessly efficient and Soundwave is most adept at infiltration and espionage, neither can be said to have my complete confidence. Especially since the latter has yet to satisfactorily explain the acquisition of his new form and knowledge of Cybertron’s deepest secrets.

Essentially, as tiresome as it may be, one has to sometimes get one’s hands dirty.

The clouds part and I return my concentration to the urgent business of decelerating so that I may halt somewhere above sea level. This proves less difficult than I expected given that I have not had to exercise my arrester rockets for a long time. It is gratifying that the moves learnt as a novice flier are never lost.

My underside kisses the water and I cut in my hover drive, rising gently to a more comfortable height. The ocean stretches in all directions; as such features are apt to do, mirroring the greyish aquamarine of the sky. There is nothing remotely solid as far as the optic can see. More the better. I orientate myself, scanning for energy emissions. Ah ha. Several thousand clicks to the east, a concentration of distinctly odd signals. As fast as I dare, I set course for land.

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The sun was past its zenith when I arrived so by the time the coastline drags itself above the horizon, dusk is setting in. Thus it is that my first glimpse of Gigalonia’s civilisation is stained a deep, rust red.

Glimpse…a feeble word to describe the opening up of a neigh-impossible vista. A better one might be…wall. A sheer wall of buildings. Another feeble word. These are as to the buildings I have known as I might be to a fleshling child. Vast columns of metal and glass that fill the space between ground and sky. But this is no monotonous field of tower blocks. Each column is different, in shape, in construction, in design, in materials – cylinders, cuboids, spires, domes, minarets, arches, spirals, pyramids… For an instant, the image of pre-war Vos is before me. Only, this is my beautiful home writ large, writ immense.

I fly over a broad swathe of white sand, leaving the sea behind me. The chasms of architecture enfold me, the sound of my engines barely troubling the soaring walls. Is this how an insect feels? Not only are the buildings massive but the doorways I can see below would tower above me in humanoid form. Have I wandered into a world of giants? Giants when compare to us?

Throwing myself into a steep climb, I bank across the first few towers. The ones further in grow taller and taller. Even this high up, I cannot see past the inner buildings. Broad streets transect the metropolis, boulevards that put the widest Cybertronian expressways to shame. Yet I can see no traffic, no pedestrians, not one of the manufacturers of this spectacle. A city but no citizens. A work of art but no artists.

Which is rather annoying, especially given that I came here specifically to meet and greet. My sensors aren’t picking up individuals, just a general, background roar of electricity and heat. The old problem of densely packed emitters.

A flick of my wings sends me down onto the nearest rooftop, halting and transforming. Cocking my head, I listen. At first I can only discern the crashing of waves and the gentle whirring of my own cooling systems. The city might as well have been abandoned. Slowly though…yes, a distant…rumble reaches me. Coming from somewhere to the northwest, around the curve of the headland.

I throw myself from the roof, the air howling at my passage. My suspicion is that a jet fighter of my size bearing down on one of the local inhabitants would result in a casual swatting so I remain in a form capable of engaging in a decent conversation. A roadway wends in the general direction of the noise and I glide along it, passing monolith after monolith. It takes a while but I eventually realise that they are growing older as I proceed, neither dilapidated nor run down yet somehow less shining and spotless. Interesting…

The rumbling gets continuously louder, resolving into a rhythmic, resounding thum-thum-thum. The road ends at a long, relatively low building, which I skip over. And the source of the noise becomes all too apparent.

Beyond the building is a scene of devastation so utter and complete that it can only have been produced by careful calculation. Where once there were presumably towers are now heaps of dust, bare of any recognisably structure. The city has stopped short, to be replaced by a barren, grey desert, with not a single twisted beam or lump of shattered masonry to break the monotony.

In the face of such unending dullness, my gaze is drawn automatically to the source of the thuming…and it is my turn to stop abruptly. There is one tower, one collection of towers that has not been destroyed. Not yet. It is in the process of being demolished, if that is not yet another inadequate word. Eaten might be better, from the ground up, each successive floor being undermined in just the right fashion to bring the ones above collapsing down neatly and controllably.

The machine doing the eating is one of the largest ground-bound vehicles I have ever laid optics on. I am not sure quite where to begin describing it. It looks not unlike a crouching animal, possibly one of those great lizards, the remains of which some humans obsess over, one that is black and purple with turquoise trim. The ‘head’ lies between two caterpillar track assemblies, the cowlings of which form ‘paws’. A complicated collection of pipes and tubes leads from the front to a bulky mid section, which in turn gives way to two massive armoured rollers set either side of a triangular construction that rises from the rear, tapering into some kind of chute. Within the head, set into a mouth flanked by slender tusks, are a number of immense, teeth-covered wheels that are chewing up everything in their path. It appears the shredded material is sucked in, processed in some manner and ejected through the chute at the back. Into, as a matter of fact, the transporter that is tailing this engine of destruction.

My mind is filled with images of this thing tearing across a battlefield, leaving nothing standing in its wake… It really does look like a mighty, predatory beast, right down to some orange view-port ‘eyes’ in the head. It takes mere minutes for the remaining building to be reduced to so much powder. As the final specks lands in the transporter, the block shaped craft reverses direction and trundles off out of sight, leaving the monster to come to a halt and hum contentedly.

Hoping that its appetite has been sated, I drift towards it, appreciating its size all the more as the intervening distance dwindles. This should be close enough so…
“Hello there!” Even my voice at full volume seems suddenly insignificant. “Greetings! May I speak with…you?”
Response there comes none.
“HELLO! Can you hear me?”
“Of course I can.”
The voice that emerges is as vast as the body. I resist the urge to back away. Then promptly give in as the whole machine shudders into new life.

I am not sure it is possible to appreciate the full complexity of transformation until one sees it on this scale. Pistons expanding, plates retracting, girders extending, gears shifting, parts grinding aside to allow others to fill their places – a thundering symphony of mechanical reorganisation. What had been the head becomes the feet. What had been tracks become arms. What had been rollers become shoulders. Anti-gravity drives restore balance while emergent joints take the strain produced by the colossal body, all accompanied by the roar of a hidden power plant…

When things have finished settling into new positions, I am left facing a being of titanic proportions. Humanoid, with standard hands and a normal looking head but so tall that I have to fly back even further to take it all in. Aforementioned head is comprised of a silvery face set into a black helmet that looks curiously like a dragon’s skull, with a gaping jaw and a translucent orange horn sweeping up from the forehead. A visor covers the optics but their blazing light is still intense enough to make it hard to look at them.

Feet planted wide apart, arms crossed, the giant examines me in silence. I realise that I’m staring. Idiotically.
“My name is Starscream. I’m a stranger on your world. I…”
“I am Trypticon, Destron foremech. What do you want?”
The voice is powerful enough to push me backwards in a most undignified manner. I get the strangest impression that Trypticon is arching an optic ridge behind his visor.
“My apologies.”
Reduced in volume but still very loud. And not a trace of regret in the words. Not a good diplomat, then.
“No…no need. I’m sorry. Your…voice and…stature startled me a little. Where I come from, beings on your scale are practically unheard of!”
My nervous chuckle fails miserably. The giant stares at me impassively.
“Yes, well…I am an explorer. I’m afraid I strayed into you system more or less by accident – a problem with my fold-space drive, I think. I got caught in your gravity well and came down over your ocean. My approach may have been detected…I hope I didn’t startle anyone…”
“I’ve heard nothing of it,” comes the dismissive answer, “Hn. I suppose Metros will want to see you.”
“Ah…who is Metros?”
“Metros Prime,” he replies, speaking slowly and clearly, “Our leader.”
“I see! Yes, I would be most grateful for an audience! Your world is…incredible! I would be honoured to meet whomever has the fortune to rule over it!”

So far so good. Better than I’d hoped, in fact. As formidable as Trypticon appears, he is treating me without the least interest, which suits me just fine. The more chance I get to learn about these people, the better my cover story can become.

Trypticon raises a hand. Within the complex of pipes and cables sitting on his forearm, something stirs and jumps away. A tiny car, of all things. It transforms in mid-flight and lands on his shoulder.
“Wipeout, go and inform Metros that we have a visitor.”
“What is he?” The midget’s voice is quavering and grating.
“He said ‘explorer’. Go.”
“Alright, alright, I’m gone.”

With a whoosh of engines, the Minicon – he couldn’t be anything else – leaps away and vanishes across the wasteland.
“There are Minicons here?” I ask, astonished, “And they can fly?”
“Naturally.”
And apparently so obvious that not knowing it has branded me even more of a moron. I get the feeling Trypticon is not a people person.

Something else rather obvious that I’ve missed is what’s branded on his chest, wrists, shins and feet. I hadn’t exactly been expecting anything of what I’ve seen on this planet but that takes the fuel.
“You’re a Decepticon!”
“A what?”
I gesticulate, trying to convey what I mean and getting nowhere.
“I told you, I’m Destron Foremech, not a Decepticon, whatever that may be.”
“But those brands! Those insignia!” I point.
“What about them?”
What indeed? Hmm. Better to keep that particular information to myself until I learn more, just to be on the safe side. I change the subject.
“This is a most impressive scene of destruction. Very thorough.”
For the first time, something other than disdain enters Trypticon’s voice.
“Thank you,” he admits, albeit grudgingly.
“You are most welcome. But tell me: to what end? Why destroy such marvellous structures?”
The disdain returns with a vengeance.
“You have to clear the old to build the new. I would have though that would be obvious to anyone.”
Something about standing next to a mech with hands big enough to crush one between thumb and finger has an astonishing effect on one’s temper. Normally, a tone like that would have irritated me. Here and now, I accept it without comment. Astonishing.
“I see…yes…of course.”
Seeing is the last thing I’m doing. I start wishing fervently for annotations.
“But, ah, where I come from…”
The thought dies mid word as three small figures glide towards us. And towards me in particular.

Wipeout, when seen up close, is indigo, stocky and nondescript, with a square, masked head. His companions are an odd pair. The most immediately eye catching is a grey and purple femme with shoulder-mounted wings and clamp-like hands. She too is masked, below a thick red visor. The mech next to her is oddly familiar. White and blue, powerfully built, with wheels on his shoulders and thighs…he looks almost like that runt Megatron used to use. He’s taller though, and his face isn’t hidden.

This last shrimp comes forward, all smiles. I distrust him instantly.
“Welcome to Gigalonia! I am Flex, linked to Metros Prime. This is Overhead, linked to no one. Wipeout, linked to Trypticon, I believe you already know.”
“Yes…I am Starscream…um, explorer and scientist. Thank you for such a warm welcome.”
Flex bows.
“We are happy to welcome a lost traveller. I hope that we can make you visit enjoyable. Metros has asked that I guide you to him so he may talk to you in person. He will hear all that passes between us, of course, but he prefers speaking face to face.”
“Ah! I quite understand! Please, lead the way!”

The beaming cretin turns to Trypticon.
“Do you have time to accompany us, Foremech? Metros hasn’t had the pleasure of your company for some time. I’m sure he would be pleased to see you.”
“Very well.”
Without the least ceremony, Trypticon collapses back into vehicle mode.

Our strange convoy sets off northwards, along the edge of the wasteland. We pass more spires in the process of being dismantled by giant demolition engines, though none of them can quite compare with Trypticon. Unable to contain my curiosity, I hurl questions at Flex.
“I will admit to some confusion as to why you’re letting these buildings be knocked down. They don’t look damaged…”
He laughs.
“But they are old. We need the materials and the space. Let me explain…our society is founded on the simple belief that to build is to grow. The city you see around you is the expression of that belief. But to us, it is the process of building not the final product that is important. Very few buildings hold value for us once they are in place. Originally, our builders would simply construct the new on top of the old. But that was wasteful and a drain on the planet’s resources. So instead we gave free reign to those who found satisfaction in the clean dismantling rather than the construction. The materials gleaned from the old were then recycled as building materials for the new.”
“And you build in the cleared space?” That would seem to be logical; to use old one-eye’s terminology.
“Eventually,” Flex confirms, “Construction and destruction travel around the centre of the city, opposite one another. The centre is only added to, not replenished. I’m sure you will want to visit the Central Plaza while you are here. It is a spectacular sight!”

I ponder this bizarre system, trying to work out what practical purpose it can have.
“But…what’s it for?” I say, voicing the thought, “What purpose does this serve?”
“Purpose?” He’s still being annoyingly amused. “No purpose other than to allow us to use our skills. The Geotrons mine the materials, the Architrons design, the Buildtrons build and the Destrons disassemble and replace the depleted resources. We all have our individual skills and we can all employ them.”
“You mean this city is nothing more than a glorified art gallery?”
“If I understand your meaning, then yes, I suppose it is.”
“And…your people are satisfied with this way of life?”
“If we were not, we would not lead it! There are some who are more restless, who leave to find pastures new among the stars but those of us who remain are content.”

I imagine they are if this grinning gear-head is any indication. Setting the unforgivable waste of talent to one side, I change lines of enquiry.
“So…you Minicons…you are…linked to the giants?”
“The Minicons and the Gigacons have a symbiotic relationship. While they have the skills to build vast buildings, their size limits their capacity for small, fiddly work such as electrics and fine detailing. That’s where we come in. A Gigacon and a Minicon will bond and work together as a team.”
“The process is voluntary?”
“Of course! To be honest, not enough Minicons can bond. There are over one point five million of us and only about five thousand Gigacons. The waiting lists tend to be extensive, even though some of us actually prefer working alone – Overhead here for one.”

He stops and looks at me curiously.
“Why should you suggest that the process might not be voluntary?”
Ah. I give him my most comforting smile.
“There are some among my people who have, in the past, used force to effect such a gestalt state. Such a thing is of course abhorrent, so I could not help but be worried…”
The look changes to one of incomprehension.
“What would be the point…?”

Fortunately, before I have to bend my mind to ‘explaining’, a small city flies past. Small in comparison to the Gigalonian’s sculpture park, true, but nonetheless enormous.
“What the…oh…a spaceship?”
Flex glances round.
“Hmm? Yes. The Atlantan, one of our exploration craft. It’s going through a test flight.”
“Very…impressive.”
“It is, isn’t it? Ah, we turn here.”

‘Turn here’. How quaint. I don’t usually stand on ceremony but to encompass our next manoeuvre with such paltry language only adds to my infuriation. The feature we have to turn around is, simply put, a hole. I imagine on any other world it would be a reasonably sized mineshaft. But reasonably sized is something this planet is simply incapable of. The metaphorical construction of it may have gone somewhat like this: take an open cast mine from somewhere dusty. Enlarge it a few thousand times over. Edge the rim with steep cliffs. Drop the centre into a vast pit. Punch ragged holes at irregular intervals in a spiral pattern winding deeper and deeper. Gouge out ledges following that pattern. And populate the whole flaming lot with hundreds of mutant mining machines the size of space cruisers.

There are Minicons there as well, flitting between their titanic ‘brethren’, but they are practically irrelevant. Those machines…each one of them could change the tide of a battle with the briefest of exertions. Do these people not realise how formidable they are?

Having turned onto a long, downwards sloping track, we pass by the sinkhole at a fair turn of speed. Then another…and another…and another. Each is shallower than the last until we reach one that isn’t deep enough to loose a small moon in.
“Here we are. Not much further,” Flex jovially contradicts himself.
“This is…most impressive,” I tell him needlessly.
“These fields were once where the Destrons deposited harvested materials. Now we mine and reuse the same. Ah! Starscream, allow me to introduce Metros Prime.”

I am rapidly running out of adjectives for large objects. On the far side of the mine is something I can only describe as a big blue wheel. A wheel thousands of paces tall, made up from hundreds of toothed buckets, slowly chewing its way through the cliff-side. It’s mounted on the end of a long white boom, which is itself mounted on a structure not entirely unlike a respectably sized industrial complex, a mess of grey towers and cavernous processing plants. Taken as a whole, it positively dwarfs Trypticon and the other Gigalonians. But…no. No, I don’t believe it. It can’t all be one mech, not even here…

Flex bows.
“Excuse me.”
He darts past, transforming into some kind of mobile drill. With a squeal of motors, he’s shooting across the crater floor, aiming straight for the mining platform. His approach serves to emphasise the size difference. The tiny shape is soon lost from sight, impossible to discern from the machinery.

What happens next makes me very grateful that I’m in flight. With a thunderous rumbling, Metros starts to collapse. The towers telescope downwards as gantries and roadways fold upwards. Immense caterpillar tracks whirl into life, dragging sections this way and that. The wheel turns once more, the buckets spiralling inwards like a flower’s petals, while the opposite end of the boom flexes. For a moment, the counterweight gapes like a vast mouth, a huge scoop. Then that closes up again and the digger assembly lifts away in its entirety, held aloft on a wave of antigravity. Huge limbs emerge from the shifting mass, two great arms then one leg after the other, raising the great bulk high into the sky. At length, a head emerges, a calm, workman-like face in a dome shaped helmet set between a pair of massive pylons.

When the transformation has finished and the world has stopped shaking, Metros Prime stands there, towering up and up, far greater in size than Trypticon, enough to make the foremech look positively short. Red optics ignite and his right hand seizes the wheel and boom, hefting it like a staff. His exo-structure is covered in pipes and compacted towers, mingling with gantries wound up like coiled wire. Motivators howl and the figure takes a step towards us. And another.

The movement rattles the mine. But…but, but, but…the strange thing is that with his approach, the giant gets no larger. The opposite in fact. He…dwindles. When I realise what is actually happening, it nearly knocks me out of the air. By the time he has reached our little group, he is perhaps twice my height, little more, and we are optic to optic.
“Greetings to you, my friend. I am Metroplex.”

All right. First things first.
“‘Metroplex’? You…aren’t you supposed to be Metros Prime?”
He smiles, an upsized version of Flex’s and just as infuriating.
“I am both the Prime and the Minicon Flex. When we bond, we are Metroplex. Metros-Flex. It is the convention among Geotrons and Buildtrons to combine names thus.”
“I see…” How ridiculous. “And you…shrunk… How… Mass shifting, I take it? But…on such a scale…I didn’t think such a shift was possible.”
Again, that smile, the one that says ‘pity the poor offworlder – so much for him to learn’.
“To us, size is negotiable. The ability to control the molecules from which our bodies are composed is engrained upon our souls. This is about as small as I can comfortably compact.”
I glance at the now transformed Trypticon.
“You can all mass shift to such a degree?”
Metroplex nods.
“Indeed.” He addresses his fellow Gigacon. “Come now Trypticon. You are hardly being polite.”
The Destron grunts, giving a clear impression that he sees absolutely no reason to be polite. Nevertheless, he does start to shrink, energy discharges playing across his gargantuan frame.
“The power requirements for this…” I murmur, “They must be astronomical. In fact, how can you afford to have such large bodies in the first place?”
“I suspect you will enjoy exploring our city, Starscream.” He lets out a booming sound, which I can only assume is supposed to be a chuckle. “Our power stations are the result of the efforts of thousands of Architrons. They are constantly being refined as new theories are put into action. Efficiency and output have been maximised to the nth degree and are still being improved upon. And even without that, the Great Cog designed us to function in the most effective manner. We want for little in the way of energy, despite our stature.”

Great Cog? You can hear the capitals. ‘Designed them’? Which means it is capitalised in the same sense that ‘Matrix’ or possibly ‘Tertiary Key of Matter’ might be. Excellent…
“I will be allowed to explore you city?” I ask innocently.
“But of course! We can hardly consider ourselves artists if we do not welcome others to admire our work! My only regret is that my duties prevent me from showing you round myself. But then Overhead here is far more suited to the task…”
The Minicon femme, who I must admit I’d almost forgotten about, floats forward and gives a formal bow.
“I am happy to be of assistance,” she tells nobody in particular.
“This is most hospitable of you all.” And more than a little convenient. “There are many worlds who would not be so forthcoming and welcoming to strangers.”
Metroplex nods sagely.
“You speak truly. But here, we have no reason for secrecy or defensiveness. We have nothing to hide from the universe.”

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“Why is Metros, Metroplex, whatever you call him, your ruler?”
Flying alongside me, Overhead doesn’t hesitate with an answer to the idle question.
“He’s a master in all the disciplines. He can mine, design, build and destroy with equal skill, often better than those of us who devote our lives to only one of the four.”
At least she doesn’t give me a pitying smile – mostly because she can’t – or gently mock my lack of comprehension.
“Is that all?”
“It’s the only criteria we’ve needed. My race cares little for anything that has no bearing on our art. Thus only artistic qualities are of any true value.”

Our surroundings are once more the skyscrapers of the Gigalonian gallery. Now that I have grown accustomed to the scale, I can study them more closely and I comprehend even more the magnificence of their design. The giant levels are interspersed with far smaller ones: self-contained Minicon hives woven into the fabric of the Gigacons’ world. Or infesting it, depending on one’s point of view.

Now that is an interesting thought. As Overhead sees things through an artist’s optics, so I see things through those of a conqueror’s. Another point in my favour, I think.
“This is the communication centre.”
I follow Overhead’s pointed clamp to a slender, cylindrical tower coated in some very artistically arranged antenna. In fact, they’re still being arranged. A collection of Minicons overseen by a lanky mech rendered in shocking neon green is teasing aerials and dishes into presumably more aesthetically pleasing positions. The disastrously hued mech waves at Overhead, then smacks one of his companions on the audio, pointing at the wire he’d just adjusted.
“Highrise,” my guide explains, “He’s something of a perfectionist. Likes to make sure the job’s done properly.”
“Hm. I can sympathise with that!”

We float on a little way, towards a cluster of spires that put those of Iacon to shame.
“Do you understand much of art?”
That was sudden. It takes me a moment to formulate my response.
“I have…an appreciation for it. I have never been much of an artist myself but I admire the skill in others. I am more…technically minded. Long ago, I trained to join the scientific elite of my world and though my path diverged from that, I still enjoy making things work.”
“I see. Tell me Starscream: what world are you from?”
Hn. At last someone asks.
“I come from a world called Cybertron. It is a great distance from here, so far that this may well be the first time our two races have met.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if that was a little abrupt. Your form is…different from ours yet so similar. I was curious.”
“Most of my kind are around my size. Except for the Minicons, of course. They are the same as you.”
“It’s not just size.” Overhead peers at me intently. “You’re body is far less efficient than ours. Your endoskeleton is, proportionally, considerably stronger, reinforced with far more energy fields than has ever been necessary here. Your internal systems contain many units the function of which I do not understand from simple observation. It’s very interesting.”

A twinge of dumbfoundment toys with my processors.
“You know what my internals look like?”
She nods.
“How?”
“The same way I know there has been recent trauma to your structure, concentrated on your upper torso and helmet, that your main drive has been extensively upgraded even more recently and that you entered Gigalonia’s atmosphere without the appropriate shielding.”
I look down at myself. Whatever burns and scorches I suffered are long gone. My nanites saw to that. I know the wounds inflicted by Evac, damn him to the pit, healed up completely. And there is absolutely no external indication of what the Spatial Key did to my engines. There is only one conclusion to draw.
“Your sensors must be incredibly powerful.”
She shrugs modestly.
“Perhaps. They’re useful for spotting flaws in new buildings. A lot of us have similar though I suppose mine are more powerful than most. But, yes, I can see right through you.”

What a…portentous choice of words.
“Your world continues to fascinate! Now…Flex mentioned a core, a Central Plaza that was continuously added to and Metros was right in saying that your power systems interest me. Would we be able to move a little further into the city?”
“Certainly. Follow me…and I suggest we switch to vehicle form. We have a long way to fly.”

Overhead’s body unfolds and a ‘second later she’s become a miniature transport plane. Transforming myself, I take up position just behind her and we soar across the urban sprawl.

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Roughly an earth rotation later – apparently this world shares diameter with the inestimable mud-ball – and I’m not entirely sure whether I should feel despondent or triumphant.

The tour was pretty comprehensive and confirmed everything the varied and assorted company had told me earlier. The power plants were astounding, the Central Plaza one of the most fabulous sights I have ever laid optics on and the Great Cog…

The Great Cog is at the heart of the city, deep within the maze of towering, twisting buildings that dominates the hub of the circular upheaval. It is constantly guarded…although perhaps attended would be a better word, by a considerable number of Gigalonians. It is buried in enough machinery to be completely hidden from the casual viewer. And all in all, I stand very little chance of extracting it from its present whereabouts.

I could try blasting my way in. These people would probably just raise an optic ridge at the little middling’s funny ways. For the fifteen ‘seconds before they squashed me flat. As pleasant as they seem, I somehow doubt they will take kindly to the removal of their most precious possession. I could send a fold-space pulse to the Stormbringer. But Nightscream will be still far too far away to be of any immediate assistance. My arrival here was, after all, the result of a Key-granted hypercharge. An unceremonious and unexpectedly potent hypercharge at that. I suppose I could ask Metros if I can borrow it. But he can’t be that gullible. Blast it all! The problem is a lack of time. I have no idea when the Autobots will come crashing into the field of play. I may have beaten them here but it can’t be long before they arrive and start interfering…

Sighing, I look up and around at the dockside. The shipyard is huge. Surprising, no? And while it may be built by the sea, what they are building are star ships, golden craft as big if not bigger than the one that flew by earlier. There are about five nearby, in states of construction that range from skeletal to nearly finished. The most complete seems to lack only go-faster stripes. It floats just off shore, a construction rig wrapped around its engines. As I watch, a white, grey and green ogre breaks the surface beside it, hands blazing in the manner of welding torches as he draws them across the burnished hull.

Tidalwave, like so many here, would make a magnificent warrior but chooses instead to play the part of master craftsmech. According to little Overhead, he’s the finest shipbuilder among the Gigacons. If only such skill could be turned to something useful…

The great, crested head turns to look at me. I flinch and nearly kick myself at the lapse in self-control. Then I realise he’s not actually looking at me, just in my direction. Something shoots past, a scrawny Minicon with wire-thin limbs and stubby wings. He flies out into the bay and lands on Tidalwave’s shoulder. The larger mech goes back to his welding.
“We gotta problem, sir!”
“It had better be important, Guttersnipe. This tracery is delicate.”
“Menasor’s back.”
The reaction is instant. Tidalwave whirls, seemingly forgetting that Guttersnipe will move with him.
“WHAT! WHERE?!”
“Dock five!” the Minicon yells in his audio, “He’s ripping it apart!”
“Dock…five…THE ILLUSTRIOUS!”

Tidalwave falls apart. In a bizarre and remarkably rapid series of movements, his body collapses into three aquatic craft that power away across the harbour with Guttersnipe buzzing about wildly as he tries to keep up. Having nothing better to do now that my guide has abandoned me, I give chase.

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“Boom! Boom! BOOOOM!”
Before dock five has even made its appearance, the thundering voice is clear to the audio. It would seem someone has taken it upon themselves to make their own sound effects in addition to the row they’re causing. Mixed into the ‘boom boom booms’ are ripping, crashing noises, irregular and discordant to the point of being painful to hear.

It does not take too long for the source of the disturbance to become obvious. A blue and gold Gigalonian is smashing the aforementioned dock into a great many pieces. The mech is, to put it mildly, very strange looking indeed. Instead of sensible hands, his bulky arms end in enormous drill bits, which he applies with reckless abandon to anything within reach. A horned, almost hexagonal head sits above a broad chest stamped with the Decepticon – excuse me, the Destron symbol. Two great triangular wings decorate his shoulders and crusted grime decorates everything else. How disgusting.

As we close in, he moves along the pier, crushing girders and huts as he goes, but not by walking. His feet are soled with tracks and he skates along on those, his target apparently the narrow, blade shaped ship moored at the far end.
“Boom BOOOOOMMM!”
Something inflammable does so, adding to the scorches and tears in his armour. And through the flames comes a newly reassembled Tidalwave, tackling what I presume is Menasor into the sea.
“You stupid excuse for a pile of SCRAP! How DARE you even come NEAR my ships! I’ll rip you LIMB FROM LIMB!”
“Bublfga bublfgaaaoooom!”
The drills slice across Tidalwave’s abdomen, sending up plumes of sparks. Regrettably for the monosyllabic vandal, the only outcome is a further enraged shipbuilder. He catches the drills in his vast hands, bringing them to a standstill.
“I promise you will SUFFER for this!”
“Booooom…boom?”
Tidalwave’s huge, crested head arcs forward to grind into Menasor’s. The red slash of his optics flickers and dims. He drops back, going limp in his attacker’s grip. At which point I think Tidalwave would have fulfilled his earlier threat and ripped arms from their sockets if a familiar figure had not appeared on the smouldering pier.

Trypticon crosses his arms and glares down at the combatants.
“Leave them. They’re mine to deal with.”
“NO! They go too far!”
“You over reach yourself. He is a Destron and therefore under my jurisdiction. You are an Architron. It is not you place to discipline him.”
“And how many more rampages must there be before you realise that your punishments are utterly ineffective?! They’re violent, uncontrollable MANIACS!”
“Menasor is a simpleton. We must be patient.”
“PATIENT!”
Waving his captive around like a rag doll, Tidalwave storms towards Trypticon.
“I have BEEN patient! I have been VERY patient! But every time this HOOLIGAN puts my craft in danger, I become less and less so!”
The Destron stares at him. Wipeout and Guttersnipe, hovering close to their partners, exchange worried glances. Tidalwave’s face contorts and he makes prolonged explosive noises.
“Grrrrrrr…very well! But this, this is their last chance! If they so much as look at my ships again, I will not be held responsible for my actions!”

I don’t pay much attention to his storming off. Or to the anxious onlookers. My optics are locked onto Menasor. Violent? Uncontrollable? Simpleton?

What extraordinary luck.







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