9.Sept.06
Part Ten
Inside her, the entire open bridge shrieked with battle chatter and damage alarms, sparks flying from busted circuitry and crew alike. Her captain flinched in shared agony as energy discharge shuddered through his chair’s shockframe, but he rode that command chair like a handbasket surfing through Hell. “Pull us over, 27 degrees to port,” he barked with a voice of steel even as his spark wailed for his beloved ship. Accept the damage to the ship; ships could always be rebuilt--but dear Primus above--“Get the pod bay hatches away from them, slag you!”
His navigator’s face was fear-locked in a rictus grin, red optics narrow and strain-bright as she fought the ship’s mass for fine control. “Damage on starboard thrusters, sir!” she called back hoarsely. “I’m losing her!”
“Then get her back!” The captain’s fist slammed down on his armrest, his wrist download jack dropping him into the communication net. A hundred panicked voices blurted forth from crewmembers trapped in a hundred different compartmentalized pockets of the Pit he inhabited, pained confusion roiling through the starship even as the tiny darting figures on the radar screen turned for another run. He flinched, dreading the new wave of destruction rolling down his Eternal Hope, and his link flicked through the com channels to the one he needed. “Palebreak! I need power to the starboard thrusters!”
“Palebreak’s dead,” a flat voice replied immediately, and the captain grimaced. “This is Getaway. We’ve lost most of the work crews on the starboard side, sir, but I’ll send who I spare.” Getaway paused, and the suppressed fear felt by the replacement head of Engineering could be heard in his silence. “Sir, Damage Control reports a loss of 94% of the crew on the front weapons’ mounts, and Emergency’s overflowing with casualties. I can repair controls, but I can’t replace personnel.”
The captain closed his optics for a fraction of a second. He
didn’t need an engineer to tell him what would happen if they couldn’t
fight back or run. One direct hit to the Transwarp drive would do more
than stop them from warping…”Understood, Getaway. Do your best.” He
cut the link and switched to Damage Control’s line, listening to the grim
flow of reports while his crippled ship writhed in the midst of the
firestorm burning her through.
“Who the fraggin’ Pit ARE these people?!” the assistant astronomer howled, hands flashing over his controls. The dripping remains of his superior slumped in the seat beside him, head crushed where the shockframe had failed and slammed him into the primary Astronomy console. Since the only course plotting they needed in this situation was simply ‘away from here,’ Skewstraight had slaved the starship’s poor excuse for weaponry over to his console. The lasers mounted on the bow and aft of the ship were meant for nothing heavier than clearing a path through minor asteroid fields, but he’d managed to take out two and damage a few more of the attackers before they wised up and approached at angles the lasers couldn’t reach.
Now his captain shot him a furious look clearly meant for the malicious flock arrowing in for another attack run. “Pirates of some kind, but better armed than I’ve ever seen or heard of.” Although a dark suspicion had formed at the beginning of the firefight, and he glanced over at Communications’ station before yanking his attention back to the sensor readouts. The vicious little hostiles spat missiles as they came, and his death’s-head grin manifested the aura of hatred flooding the bridge. “Brakes, bring her 90 degrees across their line of attack--stand her up on her tail! All weapons: aim for their formation leaders!”
The navigator’s acknowledgement came out in a fear-maddened snarl that sounded like Eternal Hope’s own voice; the cumbersome starship reared, bucking against the push of sputtering thrusters. Her frenzied crew clung to walls and seats while down in Engineering, Getaway held the ship’s power system intact with a welded prayer, and Emergency personnel hunched over surgery patients dying under their hands. The captain’s blue optics blazed brighter than even the main viewscreen, and his grin turned hungry as six of the biggest blips on the screen were speared by lasers that reduced them to disintegrating flotsam.
The screech of Eternal Hope’s abused metal echoed Skewstraight’s howl of victory. “YEEEESS!” The oncoming fleet clawed away from the starship’s flanks while the remaining crew on the weapon mounts continued to target the dying attack leaders.
“Point us away from them and give her full power!” the captain snapped to Brakes, and then nodded to Skewstraight. “Good job. That bought us a few minutes, but they’ll regroup and come after us. They got cocky, but it’s not going to be that easy from here on out, now that they know you can burn them.”
“They won’t fall for that again,” the assistant astronomer agreed, elation falling away into practicality. “Right. I’ll find us another trick, sir.”
“We’ll need it,” he predicted bitterly and dropped his hand down to link into the communication network. “Bridge to Engineering.”
“Getaway here.”
“How soon can we try for a Transwarp jump? We’ve broken away, but it’s only a temporary escape. There’s too many to--“
“They’re organized again,” Roadslip reported from the Communications’ section, never lifting her gaze from the sensor readouts. “See if you can get a clearer reading on that distortion beyond them. It may be their main vessel,” she said quietly to her assistant.
The captain nodded to show he’d heard her. “Correction, they’re back in pursuit. Getaway?”
“Sir, we can’t do it,” the de facto head of Engineering said bluntly. “There are cracks the size of my head running down the fuel rods already from running the thrusters under so much damage, and if one--just ONE--of them breaks, we’re all dead down here.” The sound of a hard swallow came through the link, and the captain frowned. “I know what’s on the line, sir. The cracks won’t take the stress of a full jump, but the backwash from the reactive mix won’t eat through the Transwarp cells until at least after the initial gravitics kick in. That’ll take out everything but maneuvering thrusters, but it will give you one huge, short-term boost outta here. We might be able to outrun the slaggers.”
Perhaps, although the captain doubted so. It was more likely that the pirates would pursue, and it would only stretch the attack out an agonizingly long time further. And at what price? “That would also kill everyone in Engineering,” he said quietly.
Getaway’s voice stayed flat, but the same bare honesty that characterized his reports did nothing to hide his fear…or determination. “Sir, I’ve evacuated everyone I could spare already, and we’ve sealed the area as best we could.” With a kind of gallow’s humor, he added, “Between those cracks and running the thrusters hot, we might not live much longer, anyway.”
The captain hesitated. “…No. I’ll hold that option only in reserve. Most pirates take survivors prisoner for ransom or slavery, and unless I know for certain that they intend to slaughter us, I’ll keep surrender as a better option.” A cruel, humiliating option, but one that could save his crew and their precious cargo; as such, it was his duty to remember it. “In the meantime, keep working on the cracks. By some miracle, we may yet give you time for repairs.” He cut the link before the engineer could reply and turned to his communication’s officer. “Talk to me, Roadslip.”
“I’m still not getting any response to our hailing,” she said promptly, “but if they’re changing formations like that, there’s obviously an open radio link between the fighters and their main ship. They’re ignoring us. Redline?”
Her assistant shook his head. “I’m working on it. The best I can say is that it’s similar to our designs.”
She sighed and finally lifted her optics from her display to meet her captain’s steady blue gaze. “That rules out the Sitian Confederacy, then,” she said, and a nonsound of relief swept across the bridge as she named one of the more ruthless piracy rings. The Sitians had a reputation for no mercy, and their technology was so complexly alien that Cybertronian tech wouldn’t mesh at all with it; surrender, suicidal as it would be to Sitian pirates, just wasn’t possible when no one could communicate it.
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Peritors?”
“This is way out of their territory,” Roadslip replied after a moment, looking back at her console. “They COULD be from the Barrar Kal’s operation in the Ice Storm asteroid belt, but it doesn’t make sense. There’s no REASON for a pirate ship to be out this far, sir. We’re not anywhere near the major trade routes, and the reason we’re out here in the first place is because this sector is barely explored; except for us, there’s nothing out here to raid--not even an outpost.”
Blue optics sharpened with interest. “You think they’re here for us?” A trap? That had been his first gut instinct when the extent of the oppositions’ weaponry had slammed into his ship. True, independent pirates had managed to set up worse before, but not many pirates would be gutsy--or stupid--enough to dare snatching up a ship belonging to the Cybertronian Alliance. They HAD to know what lengths Cybertron and its allies would go to catch them. No spaceport, no matter how disreputable, would open itself to the political and military backlash of harboring such criminals.
Redline leaned closer to his superior. “The sensors have cleared enough that I think I can try hailing the main vessel directly. Shall I?”
She took in his sensor array with a critical look and nodded shortly. “Try it. I doubt they’ll reply, but attach our identification number under Cybertron’s heading. I don’t think it’ll warn them off, but it’s worth a try.” She paused and added more slowly, “See if you can catch an echo bounce off their receivers. It could tell us if these are total unknowns.”
“We are on the edge of explored territory,” the captain said, catching the end of her instructions. “It’d be a monumental coincidence, but it’s just barely possible that we’re invading someone’s home territory.” He brought one hand up automatically to check his shockframe’s locks while he thought it over. “That would explain why they’re so heavily armed.” But at the same time, the weapons were familiar. It could be a fluke of fate, but…
Around him, the rest of the bridge crew updated their intercept plots as the pirates gained. Skewstraight uploaded firing plans to the weapon mounts for their crews, averting his face with a soft sound of grief when two ‘bots from Damage Control arrived to cut the corpse from the main Astronomy console beside him and carry it away. Roadslip and Redline bent over the Communications section intently, conferring over the noisy sparks spitting from the damaged Weaponry console. Emergency’s personnel had already rushed its operator away. The navigator quietly discussed thruster capacity with someone down in Engineering, the lines of her face angular and gaunt with panic at the answers she was getting. The captain was silently proud that she could keep her head under such frightening circumstances. None of the people on his ship had signed up for anything like this, and their inexperience showed. That they were holding up so well made his spark ache with pride and sorrow.
“Anything?” he asked, and his communications officer looked up.
“We know they can hear us,” she said, “but no reply. We’re broadcasting I.D. and name along with a request for end to the attack, and our beacon is squealing a continuous cry for help, but so far they haven’t ordered us to heave to or even shut the beacon up. Either they’re not worried about anyone hearing us, or they’re jamming our signal.” Shifting uneasily, Roadslip brought up something they’d all been thinking: “Do you think they know why we’re out here? We haven’t taken any damage to the main cargo holds, but no pirate would be aiming for them.”
No, they wouldn’t. But any pirate who knew exactly where to ambush the Eternal Hope had to know why she was all the way out here, and he eyed the approaching swarm of blips on the radar screen apprehensively. “Keep working on a firm identification for the main pirate vessel,” he ordered Roadslip’s assistant. “If we’re lucky, they’re one of the merchant predators. We might be able to bargain with the equipment if they’re just looking for quick profits.” Unspoken was the opposite situation: these were slavers, and they didn’t want just equipment.
His mouth tightened, acidic guilt smoldering throughout his mind. The two-ship escort his starship was supposed to have had been delayed at port for minor repairs, putting the two fighters at least a week behind them. He’d been assured by the Alliance embassy representative at the spaceport--and convinced, which haunted him bitterly now--that an escort was superfluous because Cybertron’s shipping rarely came under attack by even the most foolhardy pirates.
Or the cleverest?
“Here they come,” someone murmured needlessly. Brakes coiled into a ball of tension, her fingers poised in talons over Navigations’ controls while Roadslip transferred her work to her assistant’s console and focused on pinpointing each blip in the oncoming assault. Skewstraight spent the last seconds before the horde closed in plotting an escape route that wouldn’t be used; he felt very far away from his job as assistant astronomer.
“Make it count, people,” the captain said, his steely voice pulling them together against the fear tearing them apart.
The first missiles streaked in, rocking the Eternal Hope right before the first lasers stabbed out to jolt her to down to her mainframe. The massive starship’s skeleton weaponry crews fought--manually, where they had to--the laser mounts around to lock on individual attackers, knowing that each blast they managed highlighted them as a target for the rest of the dodging, weaving, hungry throng. Beams of terrible, scorching light blew entire compartments open to space, hurling the occupants on Flying Dutchman trajectories into the airless void without the time to scream. Survivors called for help that wasn’t there, clinging to their duty as a bulwark against their terror.
Their captain snapped orders on the bridge, face a mask of pained hate. He didn’t flinch as a missile explosion punched through to the bridge, the sudden airloss slapping the ‘bots inside against their shockframes with enough force to leave them gasping. The navigator shrieked, scrabbling at her console as the suction broke her chair at the base. The shockframe succeeded only in keeping her locked into the chair as it tumbled across the bridge and out of the hole, slicing through Skewstraight’s chest at an angle on the way and carrying Brakes wailing to her death. The assistant astronomer convulsed for an agonizing minute, body pouring mechfluid and gurgled shrieks silent in the airless bridge.
Roadslip eeled out of her shockframe and bounded across the bridge to Navigation the moment the air disappeared completely. “Take the weapons!” the captain bellowed over his personal comlink, already slaving Navigation’s controls to his own console. The communications officer flipped in mid-jump, heading for Skewstraight’s chair.
The dying ‘bot saw her coming through dimming optics, and his one weakly functioning arm flailed at the shockframe’s release. The restraints let go a second before Roadslip reached him, dumping Skewstraight to the floor in two separate pieces that slid apart in their own fluids as the captain barrel-rolled the starship. The head twitched once and was still, optics dark. She leapt over the grisly corpse and strapped herself into the stained shockframe while the download jack at her temple linked into the network. “Two functioning lasers, sir!” she reported in a controlled shout over her own comlink. “Damage Control’s secondary station is gone, and primary reports atmosphere loss on levels 3, 5, 6, 8, and 9!”
The robot in the command chair swore vibrantly as his ship stuttered and lost most of its thrusters. His wrist linked in. “Getaway, what’s happened?” He paused, but only static answered him. “Getaway, report!”
“They’re coming in again!” Roadslip spat. “I don’t have anyone left to man one of the mounts, sir; we’re down to one forward laser.”
He queried Damage Control directly and gritted his teeth at the answer. “There’s no one left in Engineering,” he ground out, radio static roughening an already harsh voice, and both his surviving bridge officers gaped at him. “The fuel rods must have ruptured.” The lost head engineer had sealed the area off just for that condition, but who knew how well? The Transwarp cells wouldn’t last under the corrosion from the backwash, and thruster power was still dropping. The engine itself was melting away. And after that? The bridge controls had failed from power loss and damage, and there was no one left alive down there to vent the backwash manually. The corrosive mix would eat through the bulkheads in minutes, seals or no.
His options had just disappeared. All he had left was the worst-case scenario no captain ever wanted to play out.
“Get me what you can for a direct line to the pirate vessel,” he forced out, and the assistant communications officer ducked his head in a nod. The captain dropped back into the network and cued a ship-wide transmission. “All hands, prepare to roll pods.”
Redline looked up. “You’re live, sir,” he said meekly over his comlink as a green ready-light lit on the captain’s dented shockframe. “Audio only.”
Optics fixed straight ahead at nothing, the captain sat up ramrod straight and dropped into the new link out of the ship’s network. “Unknown vessel, this is Captain Sheer of the Cybertronian Alliance. We surrender. I repeat, we surrender. Call your attack off.” He didn’t look to the viewscreen, didn’t look to see if the tiny darting shapes were starting their finishing run. He had more than his crew riding on this, and there was nothing he could do if it didn’t work. “This is Captain Sheer of the Cybertronian Alliance. We surrender. I repeat, we surrender--“
“They’re breaking off, sir,” Roadslip said quietly.
He sagged slightly in his chair. “Unknown vessel, we are
critically wounded over here. Our engines--“
“THAT’S A PREDACON SHIP!” Redline yelled suddenly, briefly giving the two officers dazzle headaches as he maxed out the comlink volume, and the ready-light flashed off as both superior officers whirled toward him. “I got a clear bounce off their receivers, sir, and the mainframe computer KNOWS that ship--that’s the Flamedrop,” he gabbled, halfway incoherent with disbelief at what his console was telling him. “She’s supposed to be stationed off of one of the Alliance’s orbital stations. According to this…” he faltered. Slowly, incredulous optics raised from the readout. “According to this, she’s been temporarily released from station duty in order to engage in ‘live-fire engagement training exercises’.”
Dumbfounded, they stared at him, then at each other. Why would a Predacon--? Live-fire--? How did--?
A thousand questions beginning with ‘why?’ flooded his mind, but the captain couldn’t begin to answer them. What he DID know was that the Predacon ship had to know who the Eternal Hope was. If they’d heard his surrender, they had to have heard her identification as well, and being a Cybertronian Alliance ship instead of a Maximal or Predacon ship meant that he had a mixed crew on board. It couldn’t be an attack of Predacons on Maximals. This wasn’t a spontaneous act of deep-seated anger leftover from the war. This was premeditated. The Predacon ship was on official leave, with an official excuse for the expense of the weaponry used here, and--and--
The same tactical instinct that had gotten him a captaincy coiled in his gut, dead certain of the answer to all the questions. A leap of intuition that saw the entire trap in sick perspective.
No.
He simply couldn’t wrap his mind around a betrayal of such magnitude.
No.
The Maximal High Council wouldn’t allow…CYBERTRON wouldn’t allow…
No.
No pirate could hope to escape Cybertron’s wrath, but if everyone blamed pirates…He sickly wondered how many other ‘pirate attacks’ hadn’t been, and what had happened to the poor victims like him. Worse, what would happen to his cargo?
“Bring the line back,” he ordered with a defeated voice that seemed to belong to someone else. Redline stared at him a second more before jerking a nod. The green ready-light came on again, and the captain closed his optics and did what he had to, knowing he was doing what the attackers had wanted all along. “Flamedrop, this is the colonial starship Eternal Hope. We’ve taken heavy damage to our engines and must flush the stasis pod holds before they become casualties. Please,” that foreign voice pleaded, leaden with despair, “these are COLONISTS. Don’t fire on them. I repeat: do. Not. Fire.” He dropped out of the link and hooked into his dead ship’s communications network. “All hands, roll pods. I say again, roll pods.”
Roadslip looked to the main viewscreen, her red optics pained. Predacon-red, if one stuck strictly to a stereotype with many fallacies but just as many truths. As dozens of little speckles launched out of undamaged pod hatches along the ship, she reported, “Pod launch.” She grimaced when the flock of blips on the radar cruised in like sharks closing to feed. “They’re picking them up on tractor beams, sir.”
Just as he’d suspected they would. So. They’d been betrayed for the colonists, not their equipment. Enough equipment to set up a brand new colony, millions of credits worth, and the traitors only wanted the stasis pods. Who had ordered the attack, and what would happen to the colonists? Somehow, he doubted he’d live to find out. An operation like this couldn’t afford to leave witnesses, and he felt pity for his crew.
He leaned his head back against his chair, abruptly dizzy. He idly checked his internal diagnostics and frowned lightly. He wasn’t made for spaceflight like the Predacons out there stealing his cargo, and it was starting to show. Power to the life support systems might not have failed, but the systems couldn’t do anything about a compartment open to space. It was a safe bet that if it was happening to him, it was happening all over his ship. Or what was left of her, anyway.
“All hands, evacuate. Volunteers may stay to aid those trapped without access to lifepods, but the rest of you,” he had to stop to clear his intakes, “get out. Offer no resistance if you’re picked up.” He stopped again, but this time it was emotion, not crystallized fluid, that stopped him. Every crewmember that could hear him heard what he didn’t say, and he said more in that silence than he struggled to put into words: “You’ve…done me proud. You did the best you could, but it’s over. All I ask is that you get out alive, now. Primus be with you.”
The line cut off, and he rattled a gasp that no one could hear in the airless bridge. If Redline hadn’t been watching him, it would have gone unnoticed in the quiet resignation of his bearing. “Sir?” he asked, unhooking his shockframe and standing. “Sir, are you alright?” That made Roadslip turn as well, and they both watched in alarm as their captain smiled at them. It was a shockingly peaceful _expression. “Sir?!”
“Wasn’t…made for space. Marine ship…,” he slurred out. “F’rst planet…I landed. Liked th’ ships. Alt’ mode’s…powered by,” he coughed, lips coating with ice chips from his intakes, “hydr’gen dioxide rea…reactions…”
Roadslip got it first. “Slaggit, he’s FREEZING! Get him to a lifepod!” Thank Primus Cybertronians tended to have sealed systems, or their servofluids would have boiled away during the bridge’s decompression. That didn’t help when temperature froze them, however.
Her assistant communications officer sprang across the bridge and pulled at the captain’s shockframe, but the bigger robot had stiffened in the frame when his joints froze. “Capt’ns…” he sighed over his comlink, and the crackle of crystallized water could be heard in his voice box, “g…go down wi…with…”
“Not you, sir,” Redline said staunchly, forcing limbs to bend out of the shockframe. He yanked the bigger robot into a fireman’s carry and ran for the bridge door. “You want us to survive, you gotta keep the other side of the bargain and set an example.”
The captain could barely hear him.
He’d failed his cargo and his crew.
His homeworld had betrayed him.
Perhaps most personal and painful, Captain Sheer had lost his ship.
As he faded into stasis lock, he thought that there was no irony in dying with his Eternal Hope. It seemed like the right time to do it, actually. He’d always followed his hope, wherever it led him. Why should today be any different?
* * * * *
Depth Charge had never been one for waiting. Patience was a virtue, yes, but not one that he enjoyed practicing. He had a goal to reach, and it wore on his nerves that he wasn’t actively progressing toward that goal. In fact, each second that ticked by felt like it was administered by some sadistic torturer working him over, slowly and methodically gnawing away at his self-control until a scream bubbled up in his throat.
Luckily, the long work-day on Clieforma’s spaceport had ended hours past, leaving the Maximal alone on the Cutting Edge’s bridge. There was no one to look askance at his muffled cry of impatience, or offer assistance when he collapsed into a chair. If someone had made such an offer at this point, he probably would have handed it back with a suggestion of where to stick it. That would have done nothing for his relations with the natives, not to mention he’d feel exceptionally guilty about it later however much he meant it at the moment.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful for the Clieforman’s help; he was, really. And he knew what he owed them for making the battered starship operational again sans payment--how could he not, when every time a new component mysteriously appeared in place of the old broken one, no one would even tell him who to thank for donating it? His cause had apparently turned into a planetwide charity, an entire religion that understood his need for justice. From every possible source came technicians with a few hours or even minutes to spare toward working on the Cutting Edge, a social sciences specialist willing to help him plan his presentation to the Rarmet media, and a half dozen reporters who wanted to edit the surveillance videos of the last weeks of disappearances among the Cutting Edge’s crew in order to maximize impact on limited time. The planet’s leading politicians, military officers, and religious figures interviewed him endlessly about Cybertron and the extent he felt the corruption he’d witnessed had spread through the Alliance.
He could see why Clieforma hadn’t had much contact with Cybertron and its allies: the planet was simply too…cultic. Their focus was extensive, yet at the same time very specific. If his search for justice hadn’t interested the fervently religious public, it would have continued to ignore the entire sector of space that belonged to the Alliance. Instead, they’d turned against Cybertron on the evidence he held and taken his cause as their own.
And it was driving him CRAZY.
Oh, it was what he’d wanted. By presenting his story and backing evidence to Clieforma and inciting such a response, he had confidence that he’d be a monumental headache for the Maximal High Council once he reached Rarmet and its wide spread of media. Allies and neutrals alike would turn on Cybertron’s government, and no political cover-up could blunt the damage the truth would render. So Depth Charge knew what he owed Clieforma, as a controlled test environment and a generous supporter.
It was just…gratitude and impatience were a virulent mix. There was no way he could repay the natives for their help, and the unbalanced gratitude became an oppressive burden that was made even worse because he KNEW he shouldn’t resent it. He HAD to reach Rarmet. It was an obsession driving him to exhaustion, and even the freely supplied energon from the Clieformans couldn’t keep him on his feet forever. A part of his mind knew that it was unhealthy, just as that logical part of his mind knew that his impatience was feeding off itself. Every hour the technicians put in drew him that much closer to his goal, but it was hard to see progress in tangles of wires and new panels when he stayed trapped in this backwater planet’s spaceport.
Yet knowing his current mindset was illogical and petty did nothing for his temper, which is why a beep from his internal computer interrupted the Depth Charge equivalent of a hissy fit in the middle of the empty bridge.
He immediately scrambled for his lost self-control, bringing himself back under the iron discipline created by years on the hunt for justice. An impersonal computer voice reported the closing distance, but the raybot was busy working at a minor task in the mainframe by the time Rampage drew near enough to see through the propped-open doors of the bridge. Lingering resentment made Depth Charge ignore him studiously. Rampage was another rankling thorn in his side.
The irony was that the crab wasn’t doing anything wrong; in fact, he’d managed to forge a rather strong impression of shy friendliness with the deluge of Clieforman volunteers--which was why Depth Charge irrationally hated him for it. It seemed completely unfair that the psychopath he watched like a hawk could be such an utterly charming ‘bot when around any of the natives. Somehow, the crab’s overpowering aura of menace became subdued into a kind of amused interest, a constant watchful benevolence that made the raybot twitch nervously. It was so…WRONG. For once, Rampage was actually acting his age with an air of youthful innocence that had endeared him to the sympathetic natives, and Depth Charge could do nothing to warn them of the crab’s deception.
Not a hint of Rampage’s true nature could be exposed, or his house of cards would tumble down. He knew the reasoning: if he’d lied about Rampage, how much of the true story was actually false? He’d had no choice but to portray Rampage as another victim of the A.L.H. Research Center. In Rarmet, his testimony as prisoner and victim would strengthen his case even more, but the crab currently played the part of a young Predacon guard horribly betrayed by his own government.
The facade only made Depth Charge want to leave all the sooner. Lacking that, he’d taken the risk of spending as much time as possible away from the other ‘bot. It was bad enough to hear about Rampage from the natives he worked with, but being forced to act the part of a ‘fellow guard’ whenever the crab was around was too much to take. Most of the time he wanted to slam the murderer back into chains. But part of the time…part of the time, he wondered how much of the childlike curiosity was real…
The red-purple Predacon paused at the threshold of the bridge, watching his captor/ally thoughtfully. Depth Charge, who carefully did NOT look at him in return, couldn’t see the considering look cross Rampage’s face. It disappeared into a theatric mask of woe, and the crab staggered into the room to throw himself wearily into a convenient chair. He leaned haphazardly on his beast mode’s claws, head back, legs akimbo, and one hand hanging down to brush the floor.
“I,” he said dramatically, pointing at the ceiling with the other hand, “am going to retire.” He let his hand fall. It clanged when it hit his chest before slipping off as if he were too tired to keep it in place.
Alright, not even an irrational mood of impotent fury could dismiss THAT statement. “Huh?” Depth Charge looked up and blinked, concentration broken. He took in the crab’s odd pose with wide optics and furrowed his brow. “What slag are you talking?” he asked finally, when it sank in that Rampage wasn’t going to elaborate on his strange statement.
One optic lit dimly, looking over at and considering his less-than-sympathetic companion. The crab heaved a put-upon sigh and brought his other optic online again. “Retirement. It’s a bizarre practice the natives have. Apparently, these fleshies work like maniacs for 40 or so planetary orbits, storing everything they earn to spend in last 20 orbits of their lives. I can’t decide if it’s intelligent preparation or just plain disgusting,” he labored to gesture with his hand before letting it fall limp again. “They make slaves of themselves for two-thirds of their lives so they can relax from then on.”
Depth Charge continued to look at him blankly. “It’s an organic concept.”
He stared back. “No animal on Earth did it.”
“You weren’t around the proto-humans much.”
Rampage’s hand twitched dismissal of the ape-like beings. “They stored supplies for immediate survival. That I can understand. This business of constant labor to build up a stockpile of resources for the far future seems backward to me. Why starve yourself of enjoyment in the present in favor of a future that might not come?”
That was edging on philosophy instead of minor confusion over another culture’s practice, and Depth Charge decided to dodge the heavier discussion. “Most organic beings die of old age, and they want to supply themselves with comfort for the time when their bodies break down.” He started to say something else but stopped and cocked his head in irritated query. “Cybertronians don’t tend to retire like they do,” he stated, the question in the annoyed undertones.
The crab rolled his head back lazily. “Just planning for the future, Fish Face. My life’s been hectic, so far. I think I’m due to retire.”
Like a riptide flowing beneath the surface of an ocean wave, deep-seated hatred abruptly overwhelmed illogical anger. “Most of your life was spent in a LAB,” the Maximal hissed.
“Like I said: two-thirds slavery,” Rampage replied without lifting his head.
His blue-silver body tightened into a rigid statue, only the blazing magenta optics showing life. “You KILLED everyone you met!”
“Work, work, work.”
He was despicable. He was a mass murdering, psychopathic, lying, manipulative monster, and every bit of the Maximal’s building tension came to a head in the boiling mass of hate he felt right that moment. Depth Charge arched in on himself, preparing to loose a verbal assault that would only be matched by the physical blows he’d launch--
--and he caught himself so suddenly it almost materialized as a full-body jolt.
Because in that timeless second of raw hate, the rest of him echoed hollow. The chaotic badly-woven blanket of feeling over the Clieforman situation folded in on itself and was redirected. Everything he’d been feeling drained into the molten furnace of familiar rage, and for the first time in days, his head was clear. This was a hatred he knew; this was something he knew how to deal with. It wasn’t an obligation of gratitude he didn’t know how to express, or the slow creep of time. This was Protoform X. This was a monster.
A, as he’d known all along, MANIPULATIVE monster.
“You’re trying to make me mad,” he said, voice stuck somewhere between marveling and bewildered. The hate he pushed aside in order to turn wondering optics on the one who’d roused it. “You did that on purpose!”
“Did I?” Rampage let his head fall sideways to direct glittering optics toward his Maximal playmate. Those emerald optics, no longer veiled by overly dramatic weariness, scanned over the silver-blue ‘bot. “Perhaps.” He shrugged neutrally.
Bemusement turned to straightforward annoyance at, once again, being successfully manipulated. “My life,” Depth Charge said, “is not a game.”
“Oh ho, but it is,” the crab said, his playful tone not backed by his narrow-eyed _expression. “And when you stop making an amateur’s mistakes, I may even stop making your moves for you. Yes,” he interrupted the outraged tirade before it could pass the raybot’s vocalizer, “I purposefully brought up a topic guaranteed to press your buttons. Get over it. Alienating our hosts because you are frustrated will not advance us to Rarmet; in fact, it would lead to delays and a tangle of morals that would take me days to unravel in you.” The words had lost their lighthearted tone and were by now terse, snapped out at the increasingly shocked Maximal. “You’re letting your obsession take over. Get this through your slagging head, Fish Face: they. Are. DEAD. All of them. Your Maximal friends, the Predacons, and whoever else Jirex fragged on the orders of Cybertron’s leading group of thugs. They’re dead!”
No longer pretending to be too tired to move, the red-purple Predacon flung himself out of his chair to pace, radiating exasperation and talking too fast for Depth Charge to interrupt with any sort of protest. “They don’t CARE when you get to Rarmet. We’re not starving and drifting in space anymore, so get rid of this absurd timetable you’ve set for us and realize that the dead don’t give a slag when you get their vengeance!”
“Justice,” the raybot interjected feebly.
The crab turned a hot glare on him and enunciated clearly, mocking, “What. Ever. You won’t draw me into a fight over your twisted set of definitions. We’ll leave this planet when this hunk of space debris is ready and not before, so get rid of the emotional rollercoaster before I put my fist in your face to derail it next time. And in the meantime, Fish Face,” Rampage shook his head sardonically, “learn to say ‘thank you’ without acting like the fleshies are handing you a timebomb instead of a gift.”
The sparkbox slipped into his hand unheeded by reflex at the threat, and Depth Charge leaned forward, ready to start into a counterargument against the slagging crab’s uninvited criticism.
The words simply didn’t come. He stopped dead, struck by several things at once.
One: the Pit-take-him crab was right, slag him. The only thing he could blame for his rising impatience and inability to take charity was himself. His was not the kind of personality to take waiting calmly, or accept something freely given without looking for the catch.
Two: not only could he not argue with Rampage’s points, but he had the insane urge to apologize for making him point out the obvious. It was the same feeling he used to get when the first Security Chief he’d served under on Starbase Rugby had taken time out of his busy days to drag one rookie guard aside and set him straight on incredibly stupid things he’d done. It was enough to make him squirm under the Predacon’s piercing green gaze, and the fact that it was Rampage, of all ‘bots, bringing back that feeling made him slightly queasy.
Three: he was listening to Rampage. To PROTOFORM X. And, despite realizing this, he couldn’t find any reason NOT to. Take the lecture with a healthy dose of caution, yes, but it would be more foolish to ignore him than listen. This was the same ‘bot who regularly peeled apart the raybot’s mind in the middle of firefights, and as manipulative as the crab was, he’d rarely been wrong about what he exposed in the Maximal.
Four: either he’d lost his insight into the immortal killer completely, or there was more going on with Rampage than exasperation and stifled bloodlust. Oh, yes, Depth Charge had seen the murderer beneath the benign ‘guard’ working with the natives, and if he took the crab’s rant at face-value, he’d say it was only his own behavior that had set it off. But he knew better than to take anything Rampage did at face value. Or dismiss it.
So when he spoke, the words came out slow and holding hard onto calm. “Have I been that bad?”
“Yes.” Rampage sat down again, emerald optics meeting magenta. “You were merely grating on me, but I’m the one who has to explain your behavior to the puny fleshbags you scare off. Imagine that, if you will.” More disgruntled than exasperated now, the crab folded his arms while Depth Charge suffered a stab of guilt for the native Clieformans he’d unintentionally put at risk by sending them to, er, cry on Rampage’s shoulder. “At the risk of you abusing my spark,” ah, that reminder caused a bit of a flinch in the raybot, “you’re less the old friend who followed me around the galaxy and more comparable to whining baggage.” Hot anger rose at that comment, which was quite a relief after the stubborn stagnation he’d been tolerating for the last couple of weeks. “I’ve thought you equal to Cheetor at his most naive in a pitched battle lately,” he added and cocked a browridge sternly.
Depth Charge snarled and subsided, common sense beating anger to his voice box. “What do you mean?” he demanded curtly. He shunted Rampage’s sparkbox back into subspace to take it out of temptation’s way--out of experience, since he’d never taken the crab’s manipulations well--and leaned against the new wall panels.
“You know exactly what I mean!” Rampage retorted unexpectedly, and the raybot jerked back upright in surprise. The Predacon leaned forward in his chair, massive hand a pointed accusation at the Maximal. But instead of a threat, the crab’s _expression conveyed rage tamped down into irritation. “Am I playing a game with your life, or have you let your life become a game? Must I attack you in order to force you to control your own mind?!” Rampage shook his head, seething visibly. “Fish Face, stop making dumb mistakes. I took advantage of your hatred, and Jirex used it to twist you into working for the Center, once. Our enemies already know how to use your hate, and they’ll do it again. Do I need to explain that, or will you finally think for yourself?”
The Predacon’s tone could have frozen water, and Depth Charge glared under the lash of words. Anger pushed against anger as they locked gazes, magenta and emerald, and the raybot looked away first, casting his optics down. His fins trembled at how rigid he held his body, but trying to hide his weaknesses from this ‘bot was less than useless when the act of hiding became a weapon in and of itself. Rampage, unfortunately, was right in forcing those weaknesses out before they became exploited flaws.
As for who would exploit his flaws…well, it told the same old story, with new and more sinister characters. A story of an obsession with justice that clouded his judgment, and a person too stubbornly self-sufficient to accept help. All the elements of the tale were there, down to his impatience causing trouble with people who were only trying to help him. But unlike last time, he couldn’t push away from the Maximals to become a loner. This time, he couldn’t do it himself, and he desperately needed the help however much he might resent it. And that in itself was circular, because why did he resent the help?
He did indeed know what Rampage meant in comparing him to Cheetor. Obsession had limited his mental processes the same way the Maximal catbot’s lack of experience had hobbled him in battle. He should have seen it happening, should have remembered the early days of hunting Protoform X, and he definitely should have remembered Rampage ripping holes in what he’d thought he’d known for certain over the past weeks. Hatred could blind--HAD blinded him.
That didn’t mean he could stop easily. Or gracefully, for that matter. Slaggit, the Predacon was right. He’d backslide into living a game instead of taking control of the board, and swallowing that truth took a chunk of his pride with it.
Looking up, a chill ran down his back at the look in Rampage’s optics. Had that been what the crab wanted all along: a true ‘playmate’ instead of a game piece? “I understand,” he said quietly, suddenly tired of the whole mess. “I’ll…work on it.”
“Good,” his prisoner/ally/tormentor grunted, sitting back in the chair and folding his arms. His voice reverted to the somewhat playful tone he’d started with. “At least you don’t pity yourself,” he offered grandly, as if giving a consolation prize. “I’d have done more than baited you, then. I can’t slagging stand self-pity.”
Depth Charge leaned his fins against the wall and stared at the Predacon for a moment, then looked to the ceiling. “Woe is me. What did I ever do to deserve this?” he asked dryly, and Rampage chuckled.
When the crab didn’t say anything more, the raybot eventually returned to the work he’d been pretending to do when the conversation began. Rampage slouched comfortably in the chair and watched his companion while the Maximal worked. He didn’t bother to disguise his study. Why should he? Except for a level of constant tension from his presence, most of the raybot’s attention was for his own problems. Since that was exactly what he wanted, Rampage shut up and let it happen, dipping into his extra sense to feel how things would level out.
He hadn’t lied. Depth Charge’s preoccupied slide into irrational behavior actually had pulled on his own spark in disturbing and aggravating ways…but it was in the interest of continued help from the Clieformans that he’d finally intervened. Making sure they’d reach Rarmet fell in the area of self-interest that was slightly more important than his personal experiment in seeing how the Maximal’s change in mood and mind would affect him in turn. As in tune as he was with Depth Charge’s spark, he’d discovered that focus on that one spark among many lifeforms allowed him to remain in control, but that spark had that much more power over him. There was only one direction to be pulled instead of many different ways.
But oddly enough, knowing Depth Charge--or rather, having practically reconstructed him from the spark out--allowed Rampage some autonomy in emotions. More than before, anyway. He remained a psychopath, but one with at least a mask of control. Just knowing the difference of the feel between his emotions and the raybot’s made it easier to keep that control, even during stressful times like this.
This issue should resolve itself, however, and the Maximal would return to his usual level-headed self. Depth Charge was a ‘bot of deep passions, both hot and cold--Rampage should know, since it was the extent of those feelings that had held his hand back from the final blow when he’d discovered the survivor pursuing him. One lucky survivor who’d used the vast wells of hate, rage, and determination to hammer a Security Chief into another role, a new shape meant for justice. And from that hardened core, Rampage had taken blazing rage and freezing hate and used it to mold a hunter. He’d pared the Maximal down to basics, a survivor balanced between obsession and realism.
It was a pity that he’d never managed to break Depth Charge of his obstinate Maximal idealism. Tempered it, yes, but for a while he’d thought Optimus Primal’s simpering group had messed up his plans.
Fortunately, they’d all died. And that had led to today and its newest confrontation. While he enjoyed the pain and fear his revelations often inspired in his captor/ally, openly urging the Maximal to take control of his mind wasn’t as subtle a solution as he normally opted for. He wanted someone to match wits with, but honestly, today he hadn’t been in the mood for games. Acting the part of the poor Predacon guard taxed him. It would be so easy to kill, or even just torture a few Clieformans with some unfounded doubt about his true motives; internal turmoil wasn’t as good as physical pain, but he liked it as well.
They couldn’t, however, afford anyone’s ill-will.
Which had left him with the mental equivalent of stopping a sieve from leaking. Every action and word had to be checked before it contradicted the role he supposedly filled. It…tired him. Restraint didn’t come naturally to one such as him.
Rampage found he’d resumed his original pose in the chair, arms dangling limp at his sides and head back. It was a surprisingly comfortable position because of how his beast mode sat on his back, and it brought his mind back to the way he’d started the conversation with Depth Charge. Retirement still seemed like a strange concept to him, and yet it appealed to him.
He’d never really given the far future much thought. He’d planned for the immediate future because that’s all he’d ever thought to reach. Things changed too rapidly to try and predict, things he couldn’t control, and since his escape from Omicron, Depth Charge had been the only constant in his life. Hence, the Maximal had been the basis of his only long-term plan, and now it was finally coming to fruition. Once he reached that goal, then what?
Maybe if he’d never been stopped in his planet-hopping killing sprees, he’d never have had to wonder. Maybe if Megatron hadn’t enslaved him and given him a taste of what relatively normal life held. Maybe if the Center hadn’t thrown him into a situation where he’d been immersed in learning he’d formerly been deprived of. Maybe if he’d remained a killer on the run with the hunter close behind, he wouldn’t have seen possibilities beyond the chase. There were options, now, that he knew how to exploit.
Vengeance on Jirex and Kilju lay in his immediate future. Beyond that, what would he do?
Rampage looked into a future of mass murders and running, and wondered suddenly if he wanted what he saw. Cybertron had caught up with him once, twice. Could he keep running forever?
Uncomfortable with his train of thought, the Predacon rolled his head toward Depth Charge. Resolution had stiffened the silver-blue shoulders. A good sign, that. Another week, at most two, and they would bid Clieforma goodbye. After that would be Rarmet and the Maximal’s media blitz against the Maximal High Council and its illegal activity.
Green optics sharpened, troubled by an echo: after that, what would the raybot do?
“Depth Charge,” he asked slowly, “what are your plans?”
Depth Charge looked sidelong at the Predacon sprawled in the chair, taken aback by the serious note in the raspy voice. Without its customary mocking overtones, it almost sounded like concern. His first instinct was to evade the obvious question until he had more information on what was actually being asked. “What do you mean?”
One massive hand waved impatient dismissal. “I don’t mean going to Rarmet. What are you going to do afterward?” He noticed the raybot’s optics narrowing and blocked the next issue. “Assume that I’m dead somehow, Fish Face. What will you do?”
Depth Charge shook his head and started to answer automatically as he turned back to his work, but then he hesitated. His throat was empty of the blithe words he’d assumed were there. His hands, paused in mid-motion when the crab had spoken, remained still long enough that the pause became a full stop. His entire body felt frozen, caught in a moment that he was helpless to end.
What would he do? Before Rampage’s first capture, before the slag judgment by the High Council and the crash on Earth, his vague plan had been to return to Cybertron. He’d find closure in Protoform X’s punishment, and that justice would let him pick up the pieces of his life. From there, he’d be able to start again, maybe on another colony or in some other job. On Earth, his vague plan had solidified into a return to Cybertron with Primal’s crew. They’d been a bunch of loonies, but being dragged out of his obsession and into their fight had practically forced him start living instead of merely hunting. Despite his grumbling, they’d grown on him. If Primal had decided to head out again on another exploration trip, Depth Charge had no doubt that somehow all of them--probably protesting the whole way--would have ended up going along for the ride.
Then the A.L.H. Research Center had blotted that future out. One way or another, he’d never be able to go back to Cybertron. His enemies had too long a reach for that, even if he managed to take down the visible rot in Cybertron’s government. If--WHEN--Rampage died, the hunt would be over. What would he do?
He’d pursued Protoform X for so long, he didn’t know what would happen when he stopped.
The easy answer was that he didn’t have time to worry about that, that he’d deal with it when justice was dealt. He didn’t have to answer the crab’s question right now. The problem with taking control of his side of the gameboard, however, was that he took responsibility for making the moves. If he didn’t want to be manipulated, then he had to play, and if he wanted to survive, then he had to play well. He couldn’t take the easy way out.
It wasn’t about decisions or planning. At this point, the question wasn’t what would he do, but what COULD he do.
He didn’t know. And suddenly finding that out scared him more than he cared to admit.
Rampage took in the blank stare and inward-turned _expression his question had created, and he winced. He’d hoped, a little stupidly, that Depth Charge had the answers as he had when the manuals hadn’t explained things sufficiently. Seeing and feeling the impact of his inquiry, he realized that no matter how closely the previous hunt and their current alliance bound them, they were on their own when it came to the future. Neither of them were prepared for that.
He stood, deliberately quiet, and left the raybot to his silent cloud of apprehension. Whatever reaction or solution would ultimately come of this wouldn’t help him, so he’d leave Depth Charge to find it himself. His feet wandered aimlessly, taking him through the ship until he stopped at the door to the recreation room. He rested a hand on the access panel for a second before entering, but the array of viewscreens and monitors he’d torn from all over the ship had been left undisturbed. The pinpricked darkness of space surrounded him as the door slid closed. To one side, the screens faithfully showed the spaceport the Cutting Edge docked at, but Rampage turned to face the stars. They seemed so close and so far away, opposition and goal in one.
“What have they done to us, old friend?” he whispered. From half a ship away, he could feel Depth Charge’s confusion and sadness, and his brow furrowed. Maybe he should spend some time thinking of his future as well. He had options to consider, now, along with plans playing out already. He could find something to work on while he did that. The engines had some small repairs he could do, if he remembered correctly.
Already lost in thought, the crab turned toward the door. Behind him trailed a soft wake of notes hummed under his breath, and only the stars heard him.
* * * * *
Dr. Kilju surveyed the long rows extending down the secure storage area. Ranks and ranks of dull, glassy surfaces and polished metal met his gaze, rounded edges reflecting the scrolling blue lines of light on each stasis pod’s read-out. The dim shapes contained within the pods were motionless, alive but off-line. According to the datapad in the doctor’s hand, some of the colonists were dissolved into basic components, waiting to be reshaped to fit their new world’s environment, but the rest had retained their specific forms and were merely waiting for arrival to start their duties.
Perfect.
“I’m impressed,” Admiral Jirex murmured, hands clasped behind his back as he turned to address the Predacon at his side. “When the Alliance promised more test subjects, I hardly expected…this.” One hand freed itself and gestured down the rows of stasis pods.
The Predacon, one Captain Sharpfear, inclined his head with respectful pride countered by the hint of a sneer on his face. Since the captain’s contempt came naturally against someone with a Maximal insignia, Jirex didn’t take it personally. “The Tripedicous Council ordered that the colonists be our primary target. I believe that is what you wished for your tests?”
The comment was directed to Dr. Kilju, who had moved down the first row toward a particular stasis pod. He nodded without bothering to turn around. “I had not believed the Alliance capable of disappearing an entire colony ship without causing undue notice to my project, but these are the type of sparks theorized to be the most durable in the experiments.” Any other ‘bot would have included an _expression of gratitude for acquiring such desired objects, but Kilju didn’t even consider it. Sharpfear had been under orders. He and his crew were nothing but tools for furthering his research, and one did not thank his tools for fulfilling their function.
Admiral Jirex understood his long-time comrade’s single-minded focus and moved quickly to soothe the Predacon captain before offence could be taken. “Indeed, and I’ll make sure to mention your obedience to the Council when I convey our progress to them. The Alliance will take note of your unquestioning service in the future.” He smiled thinly when the Sharpfear inclined his head in acknowledgement of the emphasis on ‘unquestioning.’ The report of the ambush of the Eternal Hope had shown the captain of the Flamedrop to be a more than adequate strategist, but the fact that the Tripedicous Council trusted him with the assignment spoke of his discretion as well. The captain had a grasp of subtly and brute force that would do well in politics instead of on the bridge of a fighter ship, although the danger was no less.
“I trust that there will be no investigation into the disappearance of the colonists?” Kilju asked, uninterested in the odd pair’s political ambitions. Maximal and Predacon returned their optics to him. “The less attention drawn to the incident, the better.” The doctor found the pod he wanted and marked it for disposal on the datapad; from the information he held, the Maximal within would be useless to him. Perhaps one of the other scientists in the Center would have claimed the unused pods for their own needs, but the rejected pods were already destined for another end.
Captain Sharpfear drew himself up, defensive pride stiffening his shoulders. While he couldn’t say that he respected any scientist as he would a warrior, he’d seen something impassively ruthless looking back at him when they’d first met, and that he could respect. “We picked up any life pods that managed to launch, and our scanners showed that by the time we left the colony ship adrift, whatever survivors remained trapped within it had expired. A team of specialists went in and destroyed the bridge computer to scramble its data. Without its scanner data or bridge recordings, or a witness, the missing stasis pods will lead investigators to blame the attack on slavers. Any hunt will be directed toward the pirate sectors, not here.” The captain’s angular face split in a wolfish grin. “Don’t worry, doctor. We’ve tied up the loose ends.”
“Have you.” The doctor looked at him, level gaze somehow knowing. It gave Sharpfear the impression that he was a specimen under observation, which disturbed him strangely. For a brief moment, he had the feeling that this scientist, though no warrior, posed a larger threat to him than any battlefield he’d fought on.
But the moment passed, and he shrugged it off. The Maximal at his side politely offered him a tour of the A.L.H. Research Center, and he accepted with similar politeness. Underneath the official mannerism, there was real curiosity. He’d never heard anything but vague rumors of this moon until his orders had been delivered, nor had there been a hint of what experiment could call for so many ‘volunteer’ sparks. That he’d been included in the Tripedicous Council’s--the Cybertronian Alliance’s!--secret indicated a level of trust he’d hardly dared dream of.
Yes, he would like a tour of the Center. Secrets had power, and this place brimmed with it. With any luck, some would spill over onto him.
Admiral Jirex watched the Predacon captain stride out of the storage area, seeing the controlled eagerness in the aggressive ‘bot. An ambitious captain of many talents, as the Tripedicous Council had promised. If not for the Alliance’s orders concerning the Flamedrop, he’d have requested that the Predacon fighter ship be kept here for the Center’s small garrison; however, sometimes an official and very visible leave of absence for ‘live-fire engagement training exercises’ proved more useful than an unofficial fleet.
He sighed. It was a pity, though. A waste of potential.
Shaking his head, Jirex walked down the rows of stasis pods until he caught up with Kilju. The doctor nodded a casual greeting to him, obviously intent on his work. Again, Jirex understood what could have been seen as insubordination, and he only nodded back. He watched his comrade mark pods for disposal and waited, knowing that the doctor understood the difference between just watching him work and waiting to talk. He thought nothing of leaning against one of the pods. To him, the Maximals and Predacons within this room were already dead and therefore beneath notice.
Yes, these two understood each other.
“Where are the remaining crew members?” Kilju asked, continuing to move down the rows. “I assume they are alive?”
“As specified in the Tripedicous Council’s orders, of course. They’re in cells aboard my ship, awaiting their final destination.”
The doctor glanced at him, frowning lightly. “If possible, I would like the surviving officers. From what I understood, most of them will be unnecessary for the next phase, and their sparks might be strong enough to survive the tests.”
“Only a few remain, but you’re welcome to them.” Jirex idly tapped his fingers against the read-out on the pod he leaned on. “I’ll have them delivered to you when I return.”
Now Kilju turned toward him, finally distracted from his work by the conversation. “All of them? Is that wise, Jirex? Even with the Maximal High Council diverting the media, the least hint of foul play will cause scrutiny we cannot afford. I would rather sacrifice a potential test subject than lose the entire project.”
“Relax, Kilju,” the Admiral said, smiling. “The colony ship’s captain died during the ambush, but we recovered his body. The officers will be assumed missing in action or after the fact as long as the captain is found. His presence will imply that. Trust me, this would be convincing even if the High Council didn’t touch it.”
“We can’t afford an unresolved mystery,” Kilju cautioned. “Don’t make it convincing--make it CLOSED. No suspicions, no further investigation.”
His smile widened. “The High Council’s already feeding the Alliance the first half of the story, and we’ll simply be giving them the ending everyone wants to hear. The public loves a circus, and the bloodier, the better.”
And what a bloody circus it would be. By now, the Eternal Hope’s silence would have been noted back on Cybertron. Nearby stations would be ordered to investigate the colony, and someone would eventually backtrack the ship’s route to find the missing colonists. Once the starship’s drifting hulk was discovered, the damage, dead crew, and missing stasis pods would tell a tale of battle and slavers. It wouldn’t take much but the evidence to prompt Cybertron and its allies into a murderous pirate hunt.
Before any attention could turn toward deeper investigation, however, the hunt would be called off by the simplest means: killing the guilty ‘pirates.’
Jirex didn’t know what ship and crew had been designated as the guilty party, but it wasn’t his job to find criminals. One of the High Council’s various allies would deliver a shady captain and crew with an appropriate ship; his job was to frame them. His small fleet would soon leave the moon for a designated sector, where they would destroy the ‘slaver pirates’ and scatter the wreckage with Kilju’s discarded stasis pods and the dead bodies of the Eternal Hope’s survivors. The colony ship’s captain would be included in those bodies. Since no one else would survive the battle, the captain’s dead body would only make it easier to identify the dead ‘pirates’ as those who had destroyed the Eternal Hope.
As for the gallant attackers who’d brought justice to the brigands, well, they’d run into them by chance while out on a training run in the sector. The High Council would praise the brave Predacons who’d given their lives to avenge the colonists. A pity that they’d all died, but just because they’d been silenced didn’t mean that their actions couldn’t speak for them.
“Don’t worry, doctor,” Jirex said silkily. “We’ve tied up the loose ends.”