Tanktanica

Part I

I

I rub my optics, staring at the blinking message light on my console that seems intent on blinding me. Who is contacting me at this hour? It dawns on me that there are a hundred inhabited planets in the sky, and no telling where on the net they are. They don't have to be on this vermin infested mudball. Primus, it's too early for this. I open the message while surfing three screens at once. MadLoveHandle98 is showing off a rare Nicene fertility sculpture from Nicene XII. Rare my big, treaded foot. I've seen three in person and held one. This is a forgery.

My friend, Electric, is in the chat log, admonishing the bragard for his poor attempts at fabrication. I'm just about to jump in the chat as Tank_Gurrl and rip him a new one when my optics glance back over at my message box. That's new. I stare, not believing what I am seeing. It's an image of a painting "Voyeur in Steel", and an exceptional fake at that. Clean lines and edges, but the colors are utterly mesmerizing. Iridescent greens and oranges that shift into the UV spectrum. It takes me more than a few minutes to recognize the artist. It's a Les Obus. This is no fake. Even as a still image it is captivating; in person it would dominate any room. Whoever this messenger is, they have an honest to goodness Les Obus.

I quickly check the rest of the message. There's nothing else, just the image and an address. Diolex. I pull up a map, check the time and access my credit account, the internet troll already forgotten. Diolex was a small hub port eight systems away. Silently I curse.

Any lone female on her own has a hard time of it, Decepticon or not. Normally Fury would take care of me, finding us jobs, but I have been scraping by on my own after we… parted ways. My jaw is still broken in two places from that 'discussion'. I've had nothing to eat and need to be at work in four cycles. I have nothing to sell. I am indebted to my employer for the foreseeable future. I have nu chance of scraping together enough credits to get off this mudball. I would still need to jump three shuttles across eight backwater systems, just to reach the hubworld.

And once I arrived a week late, then what? Did I really think this mysterious stranger would just wait around? How many other art collectors have they told? Not to mention the scoundrels and cutthroats that would undoubtedly get word of this. I personally know a slimy little Vykine who had killed three men for a Sanatran broach ten times less valuable than this. A hundred times less valuable. A Les Orbus has almost no measurable value. No, there's not a chance in the universe I'll ever be able to get there in time.

The conversation in the chat room has slowed, and Elee asks me if I'm okay. Exactly what I need to not hear right now. She's too kind for her own good; too much if an Autobot. I sign off, throwing my tablet against the wall with a curse. I hate my life. I hate myself. I stare in the mirror, making out my appearance in my darkened hovel, outline cast by the harsh light of the monitors. I see a broken girl, her scars adding nothing to her homeliness. I see a quiet Decepticon who likes books and history over punching and killing. I see someone with a rage problem, with no future, who would probably take too strong to drink if she could afford it. Someone who people use but never see. Someone who will never amount to anything.

In short, a loser.

I smack my face a few times, being careful of my tender jaw. I have to put that message out of my mind. It is clearly someone mocking me, showing me what I can't have and will never achieve. I raise off the packed dirt floor, turn off my computers and walk out the door. My first shift at work is still some time off, and daybreak even further than that, but I don't care. It's not like I've got anywhere else to be.

I work as a bodyguard for a local crime baron. His mansion is extensive, and even with guard dogs and snipers on sight, he feels better with a dedicated tank on patrol. Show of force and all that. Personally I think he just likes the feeling of control. We're so far off the beaten path that I doubt anyone actually knows what a Decepticon is. Yet I've found there's a certain satisfaction that comes from ordering killer death machines around. It also tends to shorten one's life expectancy. I hope he realizes that.

I clock in and nod to the other guards on my way to the perimeter fence. They're very young, like me; like everything else on this very old planet. Most don't survive long enough to become old on a backwater world like this. I'm the oldest thing here by several thousand years, but counting for local conversion, I'm still only in my early twenties.

I stoop through the doorway, but not low enough, making sure to give my head a crack on the doorframe with a muttered curse. I'm taller than most Cybertronians and I practically tower over organics. Species from all over seem to call this forgotten place home, but I am the only transformer I have seen. I shift into alt mode, feeling my gears and panels rearrange themselves unconsciously, folding into an alternative diametric shape. Where moments before a tank of a femmebot stood, now a girl as a tank resides.

It's still a few hours till dawn yet. The world is quiet. Even with the floodlights around the perimeter, there is solace to be found. I stall my patrol on the backside of the estate, pulling into a grove of fruit trees and killing my engine. I can't get my mind off that painting.

The more I think about it, the weirder it gets. Someone wanted me, specifically, to know what they had. The image sent matched no known photo on the net, and no one would have found my contacts accidentally. This wasn't some drag net scammer. This was intentional.

I like mysteries. I like crime novels and whodunnit stories. I like the hidden things of the world, the little moments that make history come alive. But I don't like it when they are a potential threat to my life. I don't like being ordered to charge a ridge, I don't like darkened alleys with shady clients, and I don't like strangers sending me cryptic messages.

I am contemplating these things when I hear the distinctive click of a radio off to my right. It is a quiet night, still and placid. Nothing seems amiss. I turn my receptors to full and perform a passive sensor sweep.

In the grove of trees, lying prone on the ground, are two humanoid individuals. They are staring at me with wide eyed trepidations, trying very hard to be very still. Dressed in the local military uniforms as they are, I conclude they are a forward unit, given they have enough surveillance equipment to spy on even the most elusive if targets. A drug lord, for instance.

I roll my turret their direction and watch both their faces go pale. They've been here a while, there's no telling how long they've gone unnoticed. I don't usually patrol the back part of the property.

I hear the double click from their radio and stop. They just gave the go signal for whoever is listening in on the other end. Then I begin to hear it, the steady whump whump of mechanical blades chopping the air. I never would have detected them this far out if my sensors hadn't been cranked to the max.

I transform and fix the two spied with a sly grin. They will live, their roles already committed. My earlier assessment proves correct, they've never seen a Transformer. I'm pushing 25', and my shoulder mounted Main Battle Cannon is enough to take the piss out of most beings. Which the one on the left does and promptly relieves himself.

Flicking them a salute, I turn and run back to the main house. The missiles are already streaking overhead. The alarms sound as the choppers appear on the horizon, opening fire. The missiles strike the house and everything explodes into flame. Just like that I'm back on a battlefield.

The hired mercenaries have all scattered and run, their contracts worthless in the face of the local government or rival kingpin. On this planet, they were essentially one in the same. The ones with more loyalty than sense stay and pay the ultimate price quickly enough. The choppers roar past me, peppering me with rounds. I have to shield my face from the ammunition and the heat of the flames. Fortunately they did not come prepared to deal with me. I scream in rage as they circle around again, but I don't have time to mess with them.

Back at the house I don't bother with a door. I just make my own. Inside is pure bedlam. Bodies lie scattered about, flames consuming all. The gold-plated staircase is puddling. The faux-painted ceilings are curdling. I smell Napalm, or some local variant. It's getting too hot in here, even for me. I can't breathe, I can barely see, flipping through the spectrums.

I test what is left of the stairs, praying they will hold. They do, but just barely. Things are better on the second floor. More still on the third. People are running and screaming. They're wounded and scared, but alive. That will soon change once a second salvo arrives.

I know where I am now. I have a mission. Two doors to the right is the boss's quarters. They take the whole southern wing. Liquin fire is oozing from the ceiling as I enter. He's not here, but I expected that. There's a panic room in the closet. I tear the doors off like they're made of candy. The boss is inside, clinging to two barely-clad women, all three are screaming.

"Oh, good. It's just you, Tanktannica. You've come to get me out?"

"You have the passcodes to the treasure vault?" I coldly survey the situation.

"I have my assets in off world accounts. We'll be fine."

"We're going to need traveling money."

"That… is not the worst idea." The aging drug lord contemplates. "You know, for a robot you're actually pretty smart."

I'm stooped low in the room already and my head is getting hot, so I decided to ignore the jab. "Let's go."

I escort the three frightened fleshlings across the mansion to the northern wing. Snivvling and pitiful creatures, they cower at every gunshot and missile impact. These are no warriors.

We find the outer limits if the northern wing already looked. Opportunistic vultures. Further in though is another story. Several small lock boxes are set into the walls, lining the hall leading to the main vault. It is one of these smaller ones the boss opens, pausing just long enough to hide the code from us.

"Alright. Let's get out of here." He holds up a small bag of gold coins. There's barely enough there to buy me a meal.

"We need more than that. Open the big one." I actually need him for this one. I can't get into the vault without the passcodes, and I can't blast my way through the door. It would take a ship's cannon to blow your way in.

"What are you talking about? This is fine. Let's go." He insists.

"I said, open it. I am not asking." My cannon flips down over my shoulder.

"What are you going to do?" He scoffs. "Shoot me?"

"No. Not you."

An interesting fact about organics is they are comprised mostly of water. I don't know if why, maybe the gods' idea of some perverse joke. But this means if you can rapidly heat one to the congruous temperature, the water in their cells to turn gaseous, expanding rapidly till they literally burst.

The boss, now wearing the visceral gore of what is left of his girlfriend simply stares in disbelief. His other girlfriend begins screaming. The noise is grating to me, so I shoot her too.

"Open the vault, please. I'm not going to ask again." I turn my cannon on him now.

"No, no, please don't." He begins sobbing, now wearing little bits of both women. I make a circle gesture and he complies, keying the vault open. I step past the blubbering man, eager to be done with this.

Inside is more gold than I thought this planet capable of producing. Coins of silver, titanium, precious stones, they all litter the floor, heaped into piles. There's a full suit of ceremonial armor, obviously stolen. There's some expensive stuff in here, but by knowledge is limited to paintings and sculptures. The truly choice pieces are in the art. I grab a few items, two paintings, a statue, and pack one of my storage compartments with gold jewelry, just for good measure.

When I turn back the boss has sealed the door behind me. Stupidly, the hinges are on this side. I'm almost tempted to sit here and wait out the invasion, but no, the looters will be here soon enough.

I don't even need to blow anything up to escape. I simply remove the pins from the hinges and lift. Seconds later and I am outside, standing over the goss and his prone form, holding the door above my head. Truthfully it is a bit heavy even for myself, but it sure makes a stunning image.

"That was a dumb move." I strain.

"What… what are you going to do to me?"

There comes a rumble and I can tell the floor above ours has just collapsed. I am out of time.

"To you? Nothing. You can stay here and rot for all I care." With a heave I hurl the discus, knocking a hole in the outer wall. Outside is even more bedlam than I left it half an hour ago. "I have to go see a man about a painting."

I leave the boss laying there and never look back. The military seems mostly to ignore me as a sprint across the yard. I give them no reason to attack me and plenty of reasons not to follow. Within fifteen minutes I am halfway to the spaceport. I need to hock these pieces and buy my way onto a ship. This planet is so backwards they still use solid fuel booster rockets. It will take at least a week before I can get to the hubworld. But I'm going for it. For the first time in a very long time, I feel alive.

"Hang on, baby. Mamma's coming." I whisper to my mythical Les Orbus painting. Now all I have to do is get there.