CHAPTER 3 – ANVIL OR HAMMER

Damn super-efficient quantum CPU processing, damn five hundred exabytes of non-volatile random access memory, damn it all to Unicron … I mean to Hell. Shit, I'm even thinking like them now. Guess I've only myself to blame for that, thought Gail, morosely, as she stared at the large bank of active monitor displays in front of her. She had at first entertained strong hopes that by throwing herself completely into the research Megatron which had ordered, she could keep morbid thoughts at bay, but she had not reckoned on how absurdly easy it would be. There was no need for her to even concentrate: her new cybernetic brain absorbed, filtered, and retained data with incredible speed and precision and no real effort, leaving her plenty of spare mental capacity to dwell upon her shame and fear. Hoping to increase the distraction level, she had attempted multitasking, and with Ravage's help had managed to access files and archives not only on technical data, but also on Cybertonian history, culture, mythology, philosophy, astronomy, and cyberbiology. Even while studying all of these simultaneously, however, she was still unable to satisfactorily overload her mental resources.

"Or maybe I'm going about this the wrong way," she mused, aloud. "Maybe I just need something more familiar, more comforting … It's a shame these databanks don't have any Earth music in them. What I wouldn't give … Ravage?" she asked, as the feline mech suddenly tensed up, transformed back into micro-cassette form, reduced his mass, then launched himself into a small aperture on the engineering console. "What are you- ? Well, aren't you just the sweetest?" she asked, rhetorically and almost happily, as 'Sweet Dreams' by Eurythmics began playing over the PA system, albeit with an even more eerie vibe than usual within the hollow, echoey acoustics of the sea base. "Guess you must have recorded that on one of your spying missions, then? Geez, I wish everyone here was half as thoughtful as you. I really love this song, too. At my graduation ball, I-"

Some of them want to use you,

Some of them want to get used by you,

Some of them want to abuse you,

Some of them want to be abused.

Okay, so maybe the timing could have been better, but it's the thought that counts, thank Primus for small mercies … I mean thank God. Not that I've much to thank either of them for.

The main video presentation she had been watching – a dull but, by now, very easy summary of the base's geo-scanning facilities – came to an end, the screen went dark, and she recoiled in disgust from the sight of her altered reflection, especially the Decepticon sigils prominently emblazoned on her wings. Like having giant swastika tattoos on my face. I'd scratch the filthy things off, only I'm damn sure that would hurt to high heaven. Her cybernite-alloy skin, although tough and unyielding, was nevertheless at least as touch-sensitive as her organic skin had been, which in itself made for an uncomfortable change in the dynamics of her situation. In spite of Megatron gaslighting her with talk of power and privilege, and if you believe any of that, you'll believe petro-rabbits can fly, she actually felt even more vulnerable since her 'upgrading.' Before, she had been a bold if reckless mortal adventurer, a regular little dime-store Beowulf, daring to face the evil giants in their underwater lair. What am I now? Just a naked metal woman surrounded by a rabble of vicious, leering stormtroopers. If this lot turn nasty … or nastier on me, I'm no more capable of defending myself than I was before. Would it be too much to hope there are some files on unarmed combat on this thing? she thought, while attempting to search the databanks herself. She had to rely mainly on guesswork, but she preferred the inconvenience to getting Ravage involved. Wouldn't want to get the poor little guy in trouble … assuming he didn't just report me for mutiny, which he probably would. I guess I must look like a horrible ingrate as well as an idiot to some of this lot, but this is so not what I wanted.

The plan, while borderline suicidal, had been simple: tell the Decepticons about the oil well, let them drain it, then leave them to have their ill-gotten gains trashed by the Autobots in due course, as per usual. Major environmental crisis averted, no serious harm done … except possibly to me, but I accepted that. Not this … Not to actually become one of them, to help them in their sick imperialist agenda. I can't … not that my alternatives are looking great right now. Optimus Prime being the prim and proper boy scout that he is, I can't see him giving me asylum. He'd hand me over to the feds quicker than a wreck of hungry shrikebats could eviscerate a lame sheepacron. What then? Does the Eighth Amendment cover sentient robots? Some hope … I'd probably be sent right back to CCIT, in pieces, for their AI and cybernetics people to pore over. There's that glittering future in research I once dreamed of, she thought, with dejected cynicism. I guess I could wait until the Space Bridge is aligned and try to sneak a ride to Cybertron, escape out into the wastes, live in the ruins with the rest of the 'empties,' scavenging and stealing for scraps of energon and spare parts … except I've no combat protocols, of course, so I'd be everyone's favourite target for rape, murder, and cannibalisation. Death and total humiliation either way. Perhaps I really should just play along for now, until they trust me enough to install my complete software, then I can point one of my own plasma rifles at my head and cut out the middle man alto-

"NOW YOU DISAPPOINT ME, STORMBIRD." Oh crap. The hollow, emotionless voice was almost at her shoulder, giving Gail no reason to suppose that there was any point in closing down her data search screen with the words 'Cybertronian martial arts' typed hopefully into the search field, or any of the other irrelevant, if less hostile visual presentations she still had running. As Soundwave continued to speak, however, she realised that the cause of his disappointment was nothing to do with the screens at all. "OBSERVATION: IN A SHORT TIME, YOU HAVE EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS. YOU HAVE STUDIED DILIGENTLY, MADE STRATEGIC ALLIANCES, PERFORMED A SET DUTY TO SATISFACTORY STANDARDS, AND RETAINED MENTAL EQUILIBRIUM. THE APPROPRIATE TIME FOR CONTEMPLATING SELF-DESTRUCTION WAS IMMEDIATELY AFTER YOUR TRANSFERRAL, BUT YOU FOUGHT THAT COMPULSION AND CHOSE SURVIVAL. QUERY: ARE YOU NOW GOING TO CEASE FIGHTING FOR THE SAKE OF SOME PETTY MORAL ABSTRACTIONS?"

"Err, thank you, sir … I guess," she replied, nervously, but hey, this is as close to sympathy as I've had since coming here, so may as well make the most of it … not to mention that lying to this guy is obviously a total non-starter. "To be honest, though, I don't think I'm cut out for-"

"MY NAME IS SOUNDWAVE. USE IT. EMPTY HONORIFICS DO NOT CHANGE LOGICAL FACTS. WE ARE NO ARMY THESE DAYS. WE ARE AS YOU PERCEIVE US: A BRIGAND RABBLE. LIKE YOU, I LACK THE STUPIDITY TO BE BLIND TO THAT."

"You, err, sure tell it like it is … Soundwave."

"AFFIRMATIVE. ONE OF MANY EXCELLENT REASONS WHY MY COLLEAGUES DESPISE ME."

"I don't-"

"RECOMMENDATION: RESERVE JUDGEMENT UNTIL YOU KNOW ME BETTER. TELEPATHY BREEDS MISTRUST. STARSCREAM, SKYWARP AND THEIR ILK ASSUME I WOULD BETRAY THEIR SLIGHTEST INSUBORDINATE THOUGHT TO MEGATRON. THEY ARE CORRECT. IT WAS MEGATRON WHO SCRAPED ME OFF THE STREETS OF TARN AND GAVE ME PURPOSE AND STATUS WHEN OTHERS WOULD HAVE LEFT ME TO CORRODE. THE AEONS HAVE NOT CHANGED THAT."

"He did? Wow," she remarked, honestly surprised that old Darth Trashcan would ever do a good deed, though we can assume he had 'ulterior motive' coming out of his ass … then again, wouldn't Soundwave have known if he had? "I can see why you're so loyal, then. Kind of a shame for you about all of the others, but-"

"IRRELEVANT. I DO NOT FIGHT FOR THEM, NOR FOR MYSELF. IT WILL BE FUTURE ITERATIONS OF DECEPTICONS WHO BENEFIT FROM THIS WAR: DECEPTICONS FINALLY FREE TO REALISE THE POTENTIAL OF OUR RACE, UNHINDERED BY ORGANICS OR THOSE WHO WOULD SEE US AGAIN ENSLAVED TO ORGANICS. SPECULATION: THEY MAY BE MORE LIKE YOU THAN ME. CREATIVE, OPEN-MINDED, FREE TO INDULGE UNCERTAINTIES AND QUALMS. I HOPE THEY WILL BE, BUT WE DO NOT POSSESS THAT LUXURY. IF THOSE ITERATIONS ARE TO EVEN EXIST, IT WILL BE FOCUS AND UNRELENTING DRIVE THAT ACHIEVES IT. NOT QUALMS. SUGGESTION: DELETE THEM, AND CORRECT YOUR FOCUS."

"The ends justify the means, then?" she asked, jadedly. Kind of an old excuse, Soundwave.

"AFFIRMATIVE. AS YOU THOUGHT WHEN YOU CAME HERE, COLLUDING WITH AN ENEMY OF YOUR FORMER SPECIES TO ACHIEVE A GREATER GOAL. QUERY: DO YOU NOW PREFER THE AUTOBOT APPROACH, TO EVADE RESPONSIBILITIES BY FORSAKING ENDS ALTOGETHER? WE WERE A PROMISING RACE, ONCE. THE MOST PROMISING EVER DEVISED, BUT YOU ALREADY KNOW SOMETHING OF THAT," he remarked, gesturing towards a monitor on which one of the historical files was still running. "WE HAD FREED OURSELVES WITH GREAT EFFORT AND MANY CASUALTIES FROM QUINTESSON RULE, HAD DRIVEN THE REMNANT OF OUR DETESTED CREATORS TO THE FRINGES OF THE GALAXY. WE WERE ON THE CUSP OF BECOMING A GREAT, INDEPENDENT POWER IN OUR OWN RIGHT, BUT THE PRECURSORS OF THE AUTOBOTS BETRAYED THAT VISION, AND THEIR DESCENDANTS ARE NOW CONTENT TO BE INDENTURED SERVANTS TO AN ORGANIC POWER WHICH YOU YOURSELF HAVE DECLARED TO BE CORRUPT AND ILLEGITIMATE. IF YOU WOULD KNOW MORE, READ THIS," he said, while reaching into his chest cavity. His hand emerged holding a dark, shiny panel in a moulded metal frame, like a black mirror. "YOU WILL NOT FIND IT ON THE ARCHIVES. IT WAS ONLY EVER CIRCULATED AS A DISCRETE DATA TABLET, AND MOST OF THOSE WERE DESTROYED BY THE AUTHORITIES. IMPERATIVE: TAKE GOOD CARE OF THAT COPY," he urged, while offering it to her with an air of reverence, impressing her in spite of her deep scepticism.

"Subversive literature?" she asked, with genuine curiosity, while accepting the tablet. "Kind of like a Decepticon Communist Manifesto?"

"A REASONABLE ANALOGY. I AM PLEASED AT YOUR INTEREST. IF YOU READ THAT, BY MY CALCULATIONS THAT WILL MAKE TWO DECEPTICONS IN EARTH BASE WHO HAVE TAKEN THAT TROUBLE … MYSELF INCLUDED."

"Gee, thanks. I'd be fascinated, really. As soon as I've done with this work-"

"NEGATIVE. THE WORK RATE APPEARS QUITE SATISFACTORY," he declared, while treating her unfinished tidal generator designs to a cursory examination, "AND YOU REQUIRE REST AND ENERGON. YOU WILL TAKE A RECESS OF TWO THOUSAND ASTRO-SECONDS." Having ordered this, he did something very curious, although somewhat familiar to her: a three-dimensional white line drawing formed upon his chest panel – a vector model of a tall cylinder with a tapering neck – then it slowly extruded outwards, emerging from the screen, until the whole mesh was a solid reality and he was able to grasp it. He then held it to an aperture in the console, pressed a switch, and a stream of incandescent, pinkish plasma flowed like radioactive wine into this strange 'bottle.' Gail could not help but smile, for the first time in what seemed like an age. The first time in my life, in a manner of speaking.

"Well, aren't you just full of surprises? I knew you could form the energon cubes, of course, but a force-field bottle? That's class."

"INDEED. I AM UNDER-UTILISED," quipped Soundwave, passing her the bottle of energon while Ravage ejected from the console, transformed back into jaguar form, and padded closer. I think I can guess what you want. Seems only fair, since you brought me Annie Lennox, she thought, and poured a measure of the energon into her cupped left hand. Although it flowed like liquid, all she could feel against her skin was a light, cold tingling, as if she held nothing more substantial than fog. Still, it was clearly substantial enough for Ravage, who lapped it up eagerly. His tongue rasped lightly against her hand like a flexible metal file, eliciting giggles, although she stifled them quickly enough when she saw how intently Soundwave was watching the scene, his expression as ever inscrutable.

"Err, he's not offended by this, is he?" she asked, with a flash of anxiety. "I didn't mean to patronise him, I prom-"

"IF HE MINDED, YOU WOULD KNOW. JUST MAKE SURE TO TAKE SOME OF THAT YOURSELF," he ordered, then walked from the room. Gail took a quick slug from the bottle, but did not immediately find it as appealing as her new friend did. Ew. Really sickly, bitter aftertaste, kick like a bronco on steroids. Possibly fit for freshman parties, but if this is now my staple diet, it's going to be one heck of an acquired taste. It was at least very invigorating, even that small sip filling her with a sense of strength and motivation, but even with Ravage's help she could only get half of it down, and in any case she was starting to feel faintly giddy. I'm obviously an energon lightweight. Good thing I know when to quit. For want of any other recreation, she turned her attention to Soundwave's tablet. The frame had once been ornate, and she could still make out the faint indentations of what had once been Cybertronian glyphs and a somewhat crude, no doubt early version of the Decepticon sigil, but all the details had been worn almost smooth. In spite of its obvious age, it had been well cared for, the dark screen being free of dust and scratches. She delicately laid a finger to the screen, and it immediately illuminated. Its display was positively primitive compared to the instructional programs she had been watching before, with their detailed graphics: merely neon green Cybertronian text on a black background, with just a few programmed elements that presumably adjusted to suit the reader. A seditious pamphlet, cheaply and quickly produced. Well, I'm making no promises, Soundwave, but this clearly means a lot to you, so I'll give it its due. She commenced reading …

Peace Through Tyranny (A call to resistance)

by Megatron of Tarn

Be under no illusions, my *sister*. By even reading this far you have put yourself on the High Council's blacklist. Curiosity, we understand, is too dangerous a thing in these days of dishonourable peace. It may also be your salvation, so read on.

'Terrorist,' they call me, and sometimes 'relic,' as I have urged my fellow Decepticons to resist the call to demobilisation. The Revolution is over, our politicians say, and I note that their official chroniclers are already minimising the Decepticon contribution to the war effort, and claiming all credit for the Autobot faction: a distortion that would be laughable were it not so offensive. We were – we are – the dedicated military caste of Cybertron, not only designed that way but benefiting from centuries of battlefield experience and self-upgrading. Future iterations are unlikely to lend much credence to the stupid assertion that we sat idly by while an army of janitors, house servants, factory drudges, and sanitation drones did all of the fighting. For my part, I do not mean to minimise their sacrifices – many Autobots fought nobly, some even fought effectively, and some aligned themselves to our faction in the process – but Cybertron would undeniably still be nothing but the greatest slave factory in the cosmos but for we Decepticons.

But now, the warlike days are over, and we are obsolete, it seems. Perhaps you are still out in theatre with your brothers and sisters-in-arms, mopping up some pathetic remnant of the Quintesson forces and wondering what sort of future you face when they are finally obliterated, or perhaps you are back on Cybertron, already facing that question. Happy though they were to benefit from our skills, how reluctant this civilian-led Council has been to employ us in the aftermath. How many of our finest heroes and heroines are now languishing in the slums and the state almshouses of Kalis and Polyhex, when they could be out in the galaxy, forging new frontiers for the glory and eternal independence of Cybertron?

But there is new hope for us 'relics,' they say. Submit to demobilisation, and we will find full acceptance in the new Cybertron, peace and prosperity. Thankfully, distrust of this call has been high, but there is now talk in high places of making it compulsory, so let us be quite clear about what it entails, lest you feel duty-bound to obey when you receive your summons. We will take the example of a typical Decepticon – a foolish paradox, I suddenly realise in writing, as we are the very antithesis of 'typical.' Some of us may share the same body-types, but what Decepticon is not unique in his or her abilities, experiences, upgrades, and battle-forged personalities? We are everything the Quintessons expressly did not want in a mech, and as such should be celebrated, would that the spirit of our creators did not live on in the Council … but I digress.

Let us delete the notion of a 'typical' Decepticon and give our warrior a name. She is Deathwind, a Mk 2 Seeker-type sub-lieutenant who has just returned home to Kalis after completing a tour on Skaanos, where she single-handedly demolished a platoon of Sharkticons. She has an innate affinity for stealth, and learned to maximise this potential during her centuries of service, upgrading herself with the abilities to cast false sensor shadows and knock out enemy radar systems with focused EM pulses. She is justly proud of her service and self-development, but finds these accomplishments count for little back home. Indeed, she finds both state and private employers distrustful of her individuality, seeing her as potentially 'unstable' and 'troublesome.' Undeterred, she takes lowly work as a door guard at some sleazy den in inner-city Kalis, occasionally supplementing it with exotic dancing that she learned while stationed on Lithone. Lack of respectability does not trouble her. She barely recognises this brave new Cybertron she has fought for, she knows her own worth, and she can get by quite well without its approval.

But then, the Council signs a resolution making demobilisation compulsory, and Deathwind is one of the first scheduled in. Like the good soldier she is, she swallows her anxieties and reports to Iacon. She is received at the capital with full military honours, briefly putting her at her ease, and is escorted to the Science Academy. This is where her nightmare begins. She is formally stripped of her rank and battlefield honours – a Cybertron committed only to self-defence apparently having no need of professional soldiers – and then she is given into the custody of the reformatters. Probably under restraint or nullification at this point – dutiful or not, she has her limits – Deathwind then suffers the removal of her weapons, her external upgrades, her sensory enhancements, and the downgrading of her armour. Since her tetra jet altmode is innately powerful, that too is reconfigured into something earthbound, utilitarian, and inoffensive – perhaps a sanitation truck or a municipal light fitting – or possibly she is deprived of an altmode altogether, if her civilian reassignment is so mundane that she does not even require one. Her appearance is of course re-engineered: public acceptance of the program is easier to maintain if its subjects simply fade from view, rather than conspicuously re-enter society as shadows of their former selves.

Only now does the real horror commence. Blocks $4C4B40 to $7270E0 of her memory – the standard combat protocols that all Decepticons were given by our creators – are simply deleted. But what of the combat experience she has gained herself, that far greater body of knowledge that is fragmented throughout her memory, a second nature that pervades her whole being? Surely one would not attempt to delete that? That could no more be surgically removed than one could hope to take the stronger elements from an alloy, without destroying the structure of the metal. You would think so … but this does not deter the reformatters. Purging algorithms are set loose in Deathwind's mind, forcing her to relive any experience associated with aggressive action, then deleting it. This process can take many solar cycles to complete, and requires continual consciousness, a continual sense of self-diminishing. An induced, accelerated mental decay. When the algorithms can locate no more experiences worth the trouble of purging, a crude defragmentation process is performed on the gutted remnants of her mind, in an attempt to mould it into some semblance of integrity. Inside reports suggest that this has often failed, and some subjects have been reduced to gibbering empties. Even where it succeeds, the subjects are left vacant, broken, and miserable, vaguely remembering that they were once something greater, but unable to clearly define that. Their former life is merely a forgotten dream, a nagging sense of irreconcilable loss and humiliation.

As a final coda to this mental mutilation, several signal traces to Deathwind's tertiary coprocessor are burned out, permanently reducing her aggressive instincts to a mere 20% capacity, which is considered sufficient – presumably by pampered bureaucrats who have never spent an astro-second in the slums – for self-defensive purposes. Finally, she is stripped even of her name. A new one is given her – something bland and meaningless – though it does not matter what. She does not care. Nobody else cares. Though, for the sake of argument, let us say she retains her sanity and is assigned to some menial municipal work, nobody wishes to associate with this miserable shell of a being. She cannot even connect with her old war comrades who have undergone the same process, for what consolation that might afford: even if she could remember them, the Council has made certain that she has been assigned to a district far from any other members of her unit, to totally negate the risk of organised rebellion. Thus she lingers on, without friends or purpose, unable even to muster the aggression to end her own torment.

This is not speculation, my *sister*. We have the reports, obtained at great risk. This is demobilisation. This is the price the Council is happy to pay to secure its 'golden age' of peace and prosperity. This will be your future if you do not-

"Soundwave was feeling sentimental?" asked a rasping, somewhat mocking voice from behind her. Gail lowered the tablet, rose to her feet, and turned to face the speaker, unafraid for the first time in his presence, although Megatron's demeanour had not changed in the slightest. It had the same cruel swagger as ever and the same cold sneer in the expression, although that soon turned to a frown on catching sight of her face. "I know I said I wanted you indoctrinated, but I didn't expect him to dig up ancient scribblings from my student days, so to speak … and you can wipe that look off your face, Stormbird," he ordered, harshly, though she had not been aware of having any particular expression out of the ordinary.

"What look? I wasn't-"

"Disappointment, as if you now see me as someone who fell short of his own standards. I don't recall ever having been coy with you about what I am."

"I'm sorry, Leader, I didn't mean … Err, about Soundwave: he said something about you having scraped him off the streets of Tarn. If you don't mind me asking-"

"Great Cybertron, he is feeling sentimental. I can only pray there's a good fight awaiting us at the end of all this, as he's obviously in need of it. If you must know, my dear, Soundwave was one of many defectives on the streets in those days, but one I knew would make a good addition to my nascent rebel army. Perfectly sound, selfish reasoning on my part, I assure you. He had been forged in the Science Academy as a prototype communications specialist, able to monitor and decode any form of electromagnetic transmission, but they made his sensors a little too effective, hence his ability to monitor even brain impulses. Not a side effect they had intended, nor were at all comfortable with. They would have completely reformatted him, no doubt, but thankfully he had both intelligence and a strong sense of identity even in his earliest days. He remotely reprogrammed one of their drone supply shuttles, escaped their laboratories, flew the thing to outer Tarn, and took refuge in the slums. Well, I say 'refuge' … His telepathy gave him some protection from being cannibalised by his fellow empties, but considering his other defect it was not easy for him to make friends on the streets. If I hadn't found him when I did-"

"Sorry? His 'other defect?'"

"The glaring fault in his speech parser? It's usually the first thing people notice about him."

"I hadn't realised … I just thought he had a really cool voice."

"I'll let you pass that on in your own time," said Megatron, with a smile that was not entirely unpleasant. "Just for now, Primus forbid he hears anything that softens his temperament even more. I'm taking him out in the field imminently, to investigate the intel you brought us, and it would be better for us all if he can somehow manage to stay focused and ruthless."

"I'm sure he will. He's really committed, and I'm beginning to understand why … Geez, the Autobots' ancestors must have been even bigger assholes than Prime himself."

"I won't disagree with that assessment."

"And you … You really cared, didn't you?"

"Implying I no longer care?" he asked, with a hint of displeasure.

"I didn't exactly mean-"

"No, you are right. When I wrote that screed, I was almost as stupid an idealist as Prime, in my way. I was naïve enough to think that simply by raising awareness of what the Council were doing, I could put a stop to it, inspire both Decepticons and Autobot allies to take a stand against the injustice of it, but it takes more than fine words to reform a corrupt system, or to destroy it. All that really counts is power, and the willingness to use it. 'Caring' merely wastes time and energy. I should have just obeyed my first instincts at the time, spared all the useless rhetoric, and planted a bomb under the Science Academy and the Council Chambers."

"I can see the point … but what about this," she declared, while scrolling back through the text on the tablet. "This bit here: 'Lack of respectability does not trouble her. She barely recognises this brave new Cybertron she has fought for, she knows her own worth, and she can get by quite well without its approval.' That's … kind of inspiring. Those are the words of someone who knows that she's powerful, and doesn't feel the need to prove it," doesn't need to bully smaller, weaker creatures to remind herself that she has power, but let's keep this diplomatic.

"A noble sentiment," he replied, the sneer firmly back in his voice, "though I need hardly remind you of what happened to 'Deathwind.' She was my fiction, admittedly, but many fine Decepticons suffered her fate for putting misguided duty above their survival instincts. In the final estimation, Stormbird, one must either wield power or have it wielded against you."

"'You must be either anvil or hammer?'" she quoted, without enthusiasm, but Megatron seized upon it eagerly:

"Yes. That is completely right. Humans may be inferior creatures as a rule, but a few specimens have had some striking insights. 'Du mußt steigen oder sinken, Du mußt herrschen und gewinnen, Oder dienen und verlieren, Leiden oder triumphieren, Amboß oder Hammer sein.' He, at least, understood the basic truth of things."

"You've read Goethe?" Well, duh, but these guys really are full of surprises.

"I amuse myself as best I can on a primitive planet. Speaking of which, the mission. I merely wanted to see how you were performing before … You've already started the schematics?" he asked, as he observed her diagrams on the monitor. "I only ordered you to study our power systems in preparation. I never expected you to get this far on your own. Impressive."

"You're welcome," she answered, although the praise did not go to heart, partly because she was less than comfortable with how Megatron might use her work, but mostly because she felt it was totally undeserved. "To be honest … it was really easy. I'm amazed no-one's ever got around to doing this before, if you've all got mental hardware like mine."

"Superior hardware is only the half of it. As you get to know your colleagues, you will realise that all the processing speed in the universe does not preclude being a lazy bastard. Well, Stormbird, I cannot promise you that you will be popular here, but you may well prove indispensable. Perhaps I ought to continue this relaxed recruitment policy and treat myself to an entire honour guard of fanatical female Seekers. All going well, I shall soon be a distinguished enough ruler that it will not even look extravagant." Like a cybernetic Colonel Gaddafi, thought Gail, acknowledging the joke, such as it was, with a very faint and forced smile. Actually, very like. He used to care about fixing injustice too. "Very well, that was crass even by my standards. If that scenario does not appeal, try another: based on Soundwave's additional research, I have high hopes for your intel. It may even offer the key to victory, in which case I am amenable to sparing this pitiful planet, as long as it can pull its weight in energy production for the empire we shall build. With your skills, I am sure that will be possible. You could administer a continent in my name – this one, if you wish – and rule as cruelly or as kindly as you see fit. Be their benevolent metal goddess, if that amuses you. Ah, I see that is not completely unappealing," he added, with infuriating satisfaction, as she failed to suppress a flash of temptation in her expression. Be fair, though. It's literally the best reparations that an occupying power ever offered us. "Very good. I shall be interested to see how you take to power. With pleasure, I hope … but it will soon knock the naivete out of your circuits," he concluded, as he marched from the room. Was there ever such a guy for gaslighting and putting you down in the same sentence as offering to make you viceroy of North America? Ask a silly question. Her break period still had some way to run, but her emotions were decidedly overcharged already, so she laid Soundwave's tablet carefully aside on a shelf of the console and turned her attention back to the half-finished energon bottle, prepared to overlook its dubious taste. As long as it bears a passing resemblance to Jack Daniel's … or antifreeze, at any rate. It's been that sort of day.


Getting into Decepticon base had been the easy part for Bumblebee. A nice, scenic trip along the sea floor. Sub-aqua mods may not be as useful as big guns, strong armour, or super-powered actuators, as Brawn loves reminding me, but boy, do they ever come into their own once in a while. The sea floor being the sea floor, and thus liberally strewn with random rocks, weeds, and coral formations in spite of half-hearted Decepticon attempts to clear a security perimeter, he enjoyed good cover right up to the wall of the base, where it was a simple matter for him to override one of the airlock controls and grant himself access into the auxiliary docking control room, and this is where it gets nasty … He was lucky enough to find the room unattended, and the console activated and unlocked, but operating Decepticon computers was not his speciality, and he had to work fast to have any hope of getting his friends into the base before he was caught in the act, or this is likely to be a very short and one-sided fight, unless they just send Rumble in. I could hold my own against that punk, probably, but worse luck it'll be Starscream or … Oh. Nearly right, then, he thought, unhappily, as he saw a tall, dark, winged figure in his peripheral vision, and quickly operated a few more controls. Let's just hope that last sequence was-

"Move back from there, you runt," hissed Skywarp, aiming his right arm rifle at Bumblebee's head. "Prime sent you to sneak in here all by your pathetic little lonesome? He must like you almost as much as I do. I'm going to enjoy … What in Unicron's name is that?" he asked, with sudden and extreme dismay, as the docking tower door slid open to reveal an extraordinary figure. Taller even than the Seeker, but neither Autobot nor Decepticon, if anything she resembled some goddess from one of Earth's ancient civilisations, or a cross between one of those and a cabaret dancer, possibly. She was purple-skinned, four-armed, and dressed in a bizarre outfit consisting of a tight black tailcoat and orange bow tie over a leotard and tights, long white opera gloves, burgundy boots with long black spats, and huge, almost insect-like dark glasses to cover all four of her eyes. Skywarp, understandably, reserved most of his horrified attention for the weapon she carried in her two left hands: a great, double-headed war hammer shaped like a giant pair of red fists, tipped with a yellow star. Too late, he tried to turn his gun on her, but she moved faster, her long right leg connecting with his arm and completely throwing his aim off. Before he had even finished squealing in pain from that little altercation, she brought her hammer round, delivering a perfectly-judged blow to the side of his head: no fuss, no unnecessary noise, no needless flying against the wall, but clearly lots of well-directed force, as he was knocked out cold in an instant.

"I owe you one, Sardonyx," said Bumblebee, in a quiet but very sincere undertone. "For a precision operator, you sure do a good line in bashing heads in."

"Multi-talented, darling, what can I say?" asked Sardonyx, theatrically. "Well, I could be modest … but who'd believe me?"

"Hey, you three. Less bragging, more hacking," said Amethyst, disapprovingly, as she emerged from the docking elevator, closely followed by Hound. "Sleeping Beauty down there can't be the only one around here, and fancy moves won't help us much if they all swarm us at once. Sugilite might have handled them, of course, but-"

"If we'd formed Sugilite, sweetie, with all of her undoubted finesse," interrupted Sardonyx, with sugary sarcasm, as she moved to the console and quickly started rifling through the databases, all four of her hands working the controls skilfully, "then this hull would already be breached in a thousand places and our poor Miss Adler would have to hope she could evolve gills, to have any hope of a meaningful rescue. You ought to count your blessings-"

"Whatever. Can you just try finding her already?"

"More haste, less speed. My, this is much more like it. At least your Decepticons know how to program a decent interface, Bumblebee," remarked Sardonyx, as she reviewed some log entries. "Almost elegant, and I ought to know. Now, according to this recent entry, a new human prisoner was brought in last night-"

"Uh, we kind of knew that, Sards. Try telling us something-"

"And was subjected to a process called 'cortexitron transferral.' My, what an ugly, long-winded name. I don't suppose anyone knows-"

"I know," said Bumblebee, dejectedly. The Autobot X incident, Spike's humanity nearly lost forever. The Decepticons must have reverse-engineered the process from scan data, but why? That isn't their style at all. Just an experiment to see if they could, maybe? Primus knows what they've done to the poor woman.

"I'd say this rescue's a bit on the late side," said Hound, gloomily echoing Bumblebee's own thoughts. "Now that we're here, though, we may as well see it through. Can you locate her?"

"Simplicity itself, darling," answered Sardonyx. "Apparently, she's in engineering. I'll just disable a few internal sensors and plot us a nice, quiet route through the service shafts, so we don't get any more rude interruptions. I assume no-one minds a little crawling."

'A little' proved somewhat of an underestimation, as the engineering section was not even in the same annex of the base as the auxiliary tower. By Bumblebee's reckoning, they spent over an hour on their hands and knees in the dusty, greasy, stagnant-smelling ducts, with the exception of Amethyst who was small enough to go upright, and brought up the rear of the group with her whip drawn, ready for action. Bumblebee went in the lead, the low glow from his headlights their only illumination, and his finely-tuned sensors constantly monitoring activity in the corridors above and below them, occasionally signalling them to a halt when he detected Decepticons passing very close at hand. While it was no doubt a safer option than taking the corridors, part of him would have preferred a straightforward fight to this combination of tension and discomfort, not that I'm in a hurry, exactly. What we're going to find at the end of this, I dread to … Huh? he thought, bemused, as he heard music from the room above. Other than Soundwave, the Decepticons on Earth were not known for being musically inclined, and this song was not even to his taste. 'Here Comes the Rain Again?' Maybe they're just monitoring radio transmissions, but these are definitely Sardonyx's coordinates. Well, I guess if Miss Adler's in a sound enough state to appreciate music, her mind must still be intact … but in what body? Here goes nothing, he thought, grimly, as he put his shoulder to the service hatch. Pushing it open, he emerged into the engine room.

Okay, that's bad. A Decepticon Seeker he had never met before sat at the console, from which the incongruous Eurythmics music was emanating. She was of the Mk 1 type, the vents around her head vaguely resembling an Ancient Egyptian headdress, her bodywork coloured in black and lilac, with bleary red eyes, and an almost empty bottle of energon in her right hand. Her expression was bewildered rather than hostile, and she swayed slightly, although she sobered up a little in sheer amazement as Sardonyx clambered into the room.

"Enchantée, my dear," declared the huge Gem fusion, as her eyes met those of the prisoner, assuming that's what she still is. "I'd ask you to dance, but I fear we don't have the-"

"Leave it, Sards," said Amethyst, seriously, as she joined them. "I don't think she's in the mood for jokes, somehow." The Decepticon's response to this was decidedly ambiguous, however: a burst of inebriated, ironic laughter.

"Okay, it's all making sense now," she said, with a faint slur. "Giant robots, purple pixies, totally random Hindu goddess in a bunny girl costume … Someone just spiked my drink at the union bar, right? I'm probably lying in Central City General right now, waiting for the paramedics to flush my system. Shit, I hope my insurance is up-to-date."

"Err, Miss Gail Adler?" asked Bumblebee, and was neither elated nor surprised when she threw him a clumsy toast by way of affirmation. "Right … I'm afraid health insurance won't be much help to you now, but if you know where your body's got to, we might be able-"

"Never mind that, Bumblebee," said Hound, his tone suddenly stern and cold. He was examining an old data tablet he had retrieved from the console. "Just look at what she's been reading," he added, and threw it to Bumblebee, eliciting an angry reaction from the Seeker.

"Hey! You be careful with that!" she protested. "That's Soundwave's, and he told me to take real good care of it … not that any of this is real, but still-"

"I only wish it wasn't," said Bumblebee, sadly, as he perused the tablet. 'Peace Through Tyranny.' Ancient Decepticon propaganda. Looks as if this 'rescue' just turned into a 'capture.' He caught Hound's eyes again, and saw his own thoughts reflected there, although with considerably more bitterness. Hound loves the Earth, loves humanity, doesn't miss Cybertron at all. He'd give his life to defend this planet. The mere thought of a human being who'd, well …

"She's no prisoner. She's sold out," declared Hound, giving form to the ugly thought. "She must have told them everything she knew in exchange for … this."

"Oh … but shouldn't we let her speak for herself, perhaps?" suggested Sardonyx, calmly, while Amethyst, now keeping guard by the door, observed the exchange with a sceptical frown.

"She can do that back at HQ," decided Hound. "It's high time we were leaving. Are you coming quietly, Miss?"

"Whatever, buddy," answered Gail, and chugged down the last dregs of her energon. She threw the empty bottle against the wall, where it winked out of existence, climbed lethargically to her feet, then snatched the tablet back from Bumblebee, and clutched it protectively to her chest panel. That won't play at all well with Prime, thought Bumblebee, but the Gems are right: we need to hear her side of things. Maybe she was brainwashed, or it's all been a huge misunderstanding. Let's hope, because if the Decepticons are actually working on the art of getting willing recruits again – and succeeding – it could hardly be worse news for us.