THE GOLDEN AGE AND ITS ENEMIES
THE DECLINE AND FALL OF CYBERTRON—A BIOGRAPHY
PREFACE
As a Classics-major-in-training, fascinated with Enlightenment philosophy and society, and more than a little familiar with every period the writers of IDWverse Transformers seemed to wish to reference, the idea of writing an epic chronicl of Cybertron's history is one that's been nagging at me for a while. Of course the only problem is—where to start? I'm no Tacitus and certainly no Gibbon, and besides, Transformers never gave us that kind of history. They gave us ideas implicit in individuals.
Consequently, I chose to write a biography. I debated with myself as to whether I ought to write a picaresque, Voltaire-ish satire, perhaps focusing on a character like Smokescreen or Jazz; ultimately, this medium failed to convey the dark, nostalgic quality of a magnificent and enlightened society crumbling to nothing, except with a wry and pessimistic tone, which was not what I wanted. Ultimately, the character whose life I chose to chronicle was Mirage. A product of the Golden Age himself, to relate the story of his own decline and fall, and to see the destruction of civilization through his optics was precisely the tone I wanted to achieve.
So, while this is a biography of Mirage, I hope it also serves to shed some light on the whole institution of Cybertronian society merely teasingly hinted at by the canon. Please enjoy it!
CHAPTER ONE
The sky over Altihex was liberally spattered with stars, but when viewed from the ground all but the brightest were extinguished. The surface of the planet shone brighter, casting a warm glow that reflected from every surface, a golden aura cast about Cybertron. The planet's halo enhanced the beauty of every edifice, and there were few places on the face of the planet more beautiful than the district covering the north of Altihex, the magnificent, glittering skyscrapers and their sprawling grounds that were home to Cybertron's aristocracy, known de facto as the Towers.
It was a part of Cybertron, but it could almost have been another planet; the dense dwellings and commercial sectors vanished suddenly into uncultivated, flat expanses of land, the sharp, clean lines of the slender towers rising up into the inky sky punctuating the landscape. Undisturbed by the buzz of a town or a city, the Towers were still and silent, the very air given a quality of refined and private decorum. Every few cycles the distant cry of a hunting horn could be heard, pealing across the land, or else the soft strains of music might be heard floating out from some drawing room, hall or private quarters.
It was a realm where culture and civilisation reigned; the source of Cybertron's wealth, the home of its patricians and patrons, the resting-place of many a library unparalleled by the best University Cybertron had to offer, or art collection unrivalled by the most long-established of galleries. It was the domain of reason, of learning and of liberty; it was the domain of peace.
Perhaps a megamile or so out from one such skyscraper, two young noblemechs lounged together on the ground, a decanter of high grade set between them.
"To go."
"Ago, agas, agat, agamus, agatis, agant."
The larger of the two, a kind-faced young mech painted in various shades of crimson, sat with his knees drawn up. Dashboard was several stellar cycles the senior of his companion, and his build and armor distinctly more bulky; not that he was in any way ungraceful as a result. The Alpha class were marked simply by sight by their delicate, elegant appearance.
"To throw."
"Iacio, iacias, iaciat, iaciamus, iaciatis, iaciant. Give me something harder."
Stretched out on his front, the younger and smaller leaned on his elbows and kicked his feet idly, gazing at the ground as he mouthed his way around the syllables of Old Cybertronian. Mirage, renowned even amongst his young peers for his haughty reserve, his icy glossa, and his kindness and companionship to those he had accepted as friends.
"Alright, alright… to dare."
"Audeo, audis, audit, audimus, auditis, audint."
"Audant."
Mirage made a soft sound of annoyance and rolled on to his back, sitting up and resting his elbows on his thighs.
"Oh. Blast."
Dashboard smiled indulgently, coaxing his younger friend into his arms. Mirage, reticent and aloof as ever, stiffened before gradually relaxing against Dashboard's chest. The scarlet sparkling nuzzled the back of his companion's helm, reaching for the decanter and tipping it against Mirage's lips, playfully and indulgently feeding the smaller mech. Mirage drank, the pale lavender liquid a welcome refreshment after his deep concentration.
"Dashboard, there is no need to feed me," he protested feebly. "Just because I'm younger than you are doesn't mean I need your help to refuel."
Dashboard smiled. "But I like you, Mirage, very much indeed. Shall I just hug you then?"
"If you insist," Mirage sighed, but the relaxed press of his small, slender body against his friend's betrayed his cold tone.
It didn't take long at all for them to resume their game, this time with Mirage settled neatly between Dashboard's legs, head against his friend's shoulder.
"To walk."
"Ambulo, ambulas, ambulat, ambulamus…"
---
Senator Cicarix's reputation was renowned throughout Iacon—his name was a byword for fairness, reason and upstanding morality. In the Senate his oratory was all but unparalleled; his word did not guarantee the sway of a debate, but his skill with words and the power of persuasion not by trickery but explanation that he commanded made him one of the most celebrated orators Iacon had ever given Cybertron.
With both rank and class of the highest degree—an Alpha, of the oldest patrician estate—it was all but taken for granted that Cicarix would align himself with the Optimae, the aristocratic faction of the Senate. Yet even those siding with the populist coterie, the Conaequalae, were hard-pressed to smear him; his unsmiling, stubborn character and his devotion to justice and rationality, coupled with both the reserve and the benevolent kindness befitting of an Alpha, often rendered his precise allegiance of little account.
The Senate had closed session, and Cicarix, exhausted after more than thirty-seven cycles of debate, left the Curia Primus. He departed the Forum, making his way through the low-storey buildings cut through with wide roads characteristic of Iacon City's center, greeted with a flurry of salutes from the civilians. Cicarix was of unusually large build for a patrician, but managed, barely, a more august bearing than an ungainly one, by virtue of the grace and elegance inherent in the nobility's programming. Draped from shoulder to ankle in the white robes of a Cybertronian Senator, he bore a majestic image indeed.
He turned down a side road and let himself into his apartment—as most Senators, Cicarix owned quarters in the capital as well as his estate in Altihex—and the door hissed quietly shut behind him, blocking out the noise of the street. As promptly and faithfully as ever his attendant, Silere, was at his side, ushering him into the main room. The slender, diligent servant divested Cicarix of his robes, carrying them through to his rooms before returning with a decanter of energon. Cicarix sank down gratefully on to the couch, stretching his legs out and taking the flute of pale lavender energon from Silere.
"Have there been any calls?"
Silere stood dutifully at ease. "None, sir, since you began session."
Cicarix was pensively silent for a few moments, and then he drained the flute of high-grade—Silere was already reaching to take it from his hand.
"Put me through to Altihex," he said at last. "I wish to speak to Mirage. Leave us and prepare me a bath; I will bathe after I terminate the call. I'm exhausted. It seems the senate has chosen to charge me with the solution of Cybertron's every mishap. Poor Consul Decimus barely maintained control of assembly."
Silere smiled slightly. "Your reputation precedes you, sir," he said softly.
Cicarix made a dismissive noise. "I am Cybertron's lawyer, it seems," he replied drily. Silere said nothing more, still smiling gently, and put through a call to Altihex before vacating the room to clean the flute of energon and heat Cicarix's bath.
---
"This is Mirage speaking." The young noble was aloof and well-spoken, his voice preceding his image appearing on the screen of Cicarix's comm unit. "Oh-! My Lord." A gracious acknowledgement of his creator, but now there was an undercurrent of warmth in his voice, even the hint of a smile in his optics.
"Hello, Mirage." Cicarix, reclining on his couch, smiled at his young heir. "How are you?"
"I didn't expect you to call, Sir," Mirage answered truthfully, settling back into his chair with a proud lift of his chin. "But I'm glad you did."
"That's always good to hear. What have you been doing in my absence?"
"I played with Dashboard today, Sir," Mirage relayed dutifully. "We played at Ancient Cybertronian. I'm getting good now," he added proudly.
Cicarix smiled. "I didn't know you knew any Ancient Cybertronian," he remarked.
"I like it, Sir. It's fun. I've only been learning it for about half a decacycle."
"I have really been away too long," Cicarix sighed. "Is Pervalia taking good care of you? Has anyone been troubling you?"
Mirage was starting to outgrow his governess, Pervalia, but she remained in Altihex as his guardian, for the most part due to Cicarix's frequent absence.
"Pervalia has been very good to me," said Mirage, smiling. "One of the chambermaids broke a flute of energon about two megacycles ago, but I told her off and left it at that. It wasn't a very important glass."
"Very good, Mirage. I am glad my house can be run smoothly in my absence, at least." Though really it was Sedulor, the butler, that kept the household running, nonetheless his son's own conduct pleased Cicarix, and there was warmth in the Senator's optics and pride in his voice. Mirage's optics dimmed happily.
"Will you come home soon, Sir?" asked the sparkling, trying not to sound too hopeful—all too often Cicarix spent long periods of time in Iacon, and it would not do to sound too excitable when circumstances were out of either of their control.
Cicarix sighed. "I hope so, Mirage, but I don't know. Consuls Decimus and Ratbat's term is coming to an end—you know I must stay in Iacon during such times."
Mirage nodded, and did not let his disappointment show in his face. "Of course, Sir, I understand."
"Very good, Mirage. Go and play now—I shall call again, when sufficient time is at my disposal."
"Yes, Sir. …Thank you for calling."
"Take care, Mirage. Cicarix out."
The line went dead, and Cicarix picked himself up to his feet, walking out to the washroom where Silere and his bath were waiting for him.
---
Mirage leaned back in his chair after the line was cut, arms dangling down and head tipped back. He sighed softly, swallowing his dismay. Truth be told, he'd been looking forward to seeing his creator again after so long—Cicarix had not been in Altihex for nearly a stellar cycle. Return trips had been planned and then postponed, interrupted by various pressures on Cicarix's time, minor upheavals in the Senate that required the respected Senator's presence.
It wasn't as though Mirage didn't understand.
He got to his feet, wandering rather listlessly out of his quarters through the halls of his creator's Tower, the glass walls of the skyscraper facing out on to a vertiginously high drop, the grounds of the estate stretching out and away, the spires of other Alphas' dwellings dimly visible in the distance.
"Mirage?"
He turned at the sound of his governess' voice, wide golden optics meeting narrow green.
"Yes, Ma'am?" he responded politely.
Pervalia walked unhurriedly up to him, laying a black hand on his shoulder and bending down to meet his height a little better.
"It's most unusual to see you indoors at this time," she observed. Her voice, as ever, was quietly authoritative, self-possessed and devoted.
"My creator called," Mirage replied, and he must have been more upset than he realised because his neutrality failed him, and his governess' optics dimmed in sympathy. Mirage held back a frown. He disliked others' concern, found it overbearing and oppressive.
"He is staying in Iacon, I suppose," she murmured compassionately, and Mirage nodded.
"Indefinitely."
"Oh, what a shame," the femme mused, and put her hand about Mirage's narrow shoulders, leading him firmly away from the window. When he was younger she might have picked him up, cradled him against her chest, but he was old enough now that he would have resented it. She was not, however, above comforting the proud little sparkling. "Don't be down, Mirage. Come with me, and I'll teach you some madrigals."
She spoke gently, but in a way that indicated she would not take any argument, and Mirage let himself be led away to the music room. Though he was loath to admit it, he was grateful for the companionship.
Notes:
I use Latin, one of the main precursors of English, as Old Cybertronian, on the basis that it holds similar connotations to the English eye as Old Cybertronian does to the Cybertronian optic.
Whilst I tend to try and base my appraisal of the Golden Age on the Roman Republic, to the extent that it is based on Roman history, I recognise that this is rather against the intention of the IDW writers, who based it on the empire. Thus, while I grant considerable power to the Senate and Consuls, I keep the office of Prime above that of Consul, which position is occupied by Sentinel currently as it is in the canon. I hold that Sentinel was the ruling Prime during the entire golden age, his predecessor being Nova Prime, and his successor naturally being Optimus. However, I also will relegate the powers of the Prime to military and religious duties; the affairs of state are still, largely speaking, in the hands of the Senate, due to the moral-political climate of the era, excepting law enforcement, which here is considered a subdivision of the military.
Finally, massive thanks to Soggy-Phoenix who helped me with some of the OCs, and to Ironical_Jester who put up with me blathering about Mirage for months.