A/N: I apologize in advance if this chapter seems long or boring. I, personally, loved the idea of seeing what goes on behind closed doors in a senate meeting. Maybe that's the paralegal in me talking, but it just tickled me to no end. Not to mention that such settings can truly be seen as the modern day "dueling pistols at dawn" of our age. Humans can show their true colors at the oddest of times. And sometimes good can come from the worst of meetings.
Thank you all for the reviews and suggestions on this story. I broke 100 reviews this last time! I was so excited, so thrilled that you all like this enough to review that much. It totally made my day. I promise that certain parts of the story will start to unveil themselves in the next two chapters. Some people have been patiently waiting for me to set things in motion. Soon, I promise! The wait will hopefully be worth it.
As ever, I don't own Transformers. I don't own anything except my OC's. Just playing with them, and promise to return them in good condition... if they let me. ::looks at Ratchet, Prowl, Ironhide and the brig with her name on it, and gulps::
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The overhead projector hummed its last and went silent, bathing the Senate chamber in near darkness, scarlet-tinted shadows cast about from the emergency exit lights of the huge room. Little bits of illumination blossomed here and there, like stars coming out once the sun had set. That radiance came from the lighted bottoms of special ink pens held by a few of the more senior and prepared Senators. She, herself, owned a few of those pens for this exact reason. There was always a tiny window of darkness and silence between the end of a presentation and the raising of the main lights.
That time was used to gather thoughts, to pen down final questions… and for those in the proverbial "hot seat" such as herself this time around… those precious seconds were used to brace one's self for the onslaught of declarations and verbal assaults.
Lydia used those moments frugally, taking a deep breath and letting the room remind her of that before-mentioned field of stars just after sunset. She imagined the gradient light, the blue of the sky looking as if it had melted and run thin near the horizon. Millions of fireflies danced over the darkened countryside of her youth, swaying much in the same way as the pen-lights did. Now it was the scribbling of senators and counselors, of aides and judge, where before it had been the gentle urgings of the wind directing the tiny insects.
It was a calming image, one she had clung to during some of the worst assignments and aerial dogfights she'd ever experienced. But being a fighter pilot, flying through a literally sea of enemies while trying to defend her country and its allies, had done nothing to prepare her for life as a politician/lobbyist. At least up in the air, the battle lines were clearly defined. You knew exactly who your enemies were.
Here… Here anyone could be the one to fire the final missile and blow your presentation out of the sky.
Predictably, Senator Glickson was the first to rise to his feet when the lights came back on. Oh, he made a show of rising slowly, straightening his snow-white suit jacket over his boney shoulders, the smile on his long and thin face the perfect mix of shy reservation and self-assurance. He even looked across the expanse of other senators and committee members as if giving way in case any wanted to take the lead in the examination and debate. When no one else looked ready to rise and present a question, he oh so graciously stood to his full height, assuming as he always did, the lead role of prosecutor.
He reminded her so much of the Puritan judges during the days of the Salem Witch Hunts. Only he wasn't lead around by superstitious dictum. Greed motivated him, made his sharp violet gaze all the more cutting.
"Now that was, indeed, an amazing presentation," Glickson drawled out in his thick Texan accent. Sounding for all the world like a good ol' boy. Just a harmless, average guy trying to make sense out of the information before him. Everyone in the room knew better. "Even I was swept away by the scope and power of what you've thought up."
He paused a moment, reaching up to take off his spectacles and clean them on a cloth from his pocket. More showmanship, Lydia thought, trying not to grind her teeth in frustration. If he was putting this much effort into showing how harmless he was—just a rail-thin, old, white-haired man with bad vision—she must have touched a nerve on him with the presentation. Something she had said or did put the old slagger on guard. She felt a touch of sheer pride for a moment, realizing that, by his actions now, she had just been moved up from airhead liaison on a less than useful assignment to a direct threat to his agenda.
But it was only a moment of pride before she mentally dug in, waiting for him to start throwing his verbal bullets at her. This wasn't going to be pretty by any stretch of the imagination.
Glickson put his glasses back on, stepping around the circle of desks to stand before her, staring up at the podium. "But I've to say, I've a few reservations as to what this could mean for long-term budget assessments," he continued. "Not to mention the ramifications for our beloved planet as well."
Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can…she repeated to herself, plastering her most kind and professional smile on her lips. "Planetary ramifications for our beloved Earth is, pardon the pun, the core of this presentation. Or need I refer you to page four of the handout?"
A few senators snickered here and there, amused at her gentle rebuke. Even Glickson, himself, gave a good-natured laugh. The emotion wasn't reflected in his eyes. If anything, there was a sort of perverse glee in those orbs, as if she had walked right into a verbal trap already. Inwardly, Lydia cursed herself, searching rapidly through her memory to see what trap the crafty old bastard had laid.
"Oh, your handouts were a thing of beauty, Ms. DeMarco," he assured. "But they failed to address the main concern here. While we all certainly applaud the Autobot's concern for our planet, and while we certainly feel for the plight of our Cybertronian refugees, I cannot see the mining of the asteroid belt as a plausible solution to their needs."
… and the wisdom not to kick the aft of the slag-headed nitwit before me that desperately needs it!
She had to bite down on the urge to rail at Glickson. That comment about the Autobot's being refugees had been phrased to make them seem weak, dependent upon the charity of the United States and of the rest of the world. Which wasn't anywhere near the case at all. If anything, the humans were the ones that needed the charity of Optimus and the others. They could have left once the All-Spark was destroyed. Knowing that they were a doomed race, unable to reproduce themselves, they could have set out for unknown space and left the humans at the mercy of the Decepticons.
Instead, they had decided to stay, to make this place their home, their last stand and the last memorial tomb of their species. And this was the thanks they got for their sacrifice…
"I fail to see the objection here," she said as diplomatically as she could. "The resources in the asteroid belt will reinforce the supplies needed without having to strip the materials from our planet's core. This operation could cut the budget in half, not to mention ease a future strain on precious resources needed for our species. This plan has nothing but our safety at its center."
"And that's just the point, isn't it," he snapped in response, the pretense of gentlemanly manners gone. "Did it not occur to you and your alien allies what purpose the asteroid belt serves for this planet? Other comets and heavenly objects pass through our solar system on nearly a daily basis, and the only thing that stops those bodies from striking us is that belt of floating rock out there."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few of the other senators sit up and take notice of the debate. Those that were less versed in the astronomic makeup of the solar system started to show a touch of concern. Which was exactly what Glickson had in mind with this plan of attack. Make the Autobots appear weak, useless, unable to protect the planet… and then seal the deal by implanting the fear of an asteroid apocalypse in the heart of the committee members. And she had fallen right into that trap.
Or so it appeared.
Thankfully, keener minds than Glickson's had also thought through this exact objection. She allowed herself to relax, to even spare a dashingly kind smile to the sack of slime standing before her. Casually, she flipped a few pages in her portfolio, pulling up the carefully constructed list of rebuttals she, Ratchet and Wheeljack's had compiled exactly for this reason. If the humans and the Cybertronians had one rule of combat it common it was this: Know Thy Enemy. And after serving with Glickson for a year or so, she had come to know him extremely well.
A slight shadow of fear danced across Glickson's eyes as she took her time to prepare her words, obviously having expected his first volley of objections to force her off the podium in tears.
Moron.
"As we all well know," she began, raising her voice to ensure it carried to the far corners of the room. "Our beloved planet is round, correct?"
"I should hope we all know that," Glickson interrupted snidely. "What we don't know is why you are giving us this rather basic and impromptu astronomy lesson. Is there a point in all of this, or are you wasting this committee's time?"
"Just a refresher, Senator Glickson," she said mock-sweetly. "Since we all agree our planet is round, and that the asteroids in question are in a stationary orbit much like a belt, then logically, we can also agree that the asteroids are not floating around our spherical planet in a constantly shifting pattern of protection. It's quite the opposite, exactly. If we continue with your proposed idea of the belt serving as a precautionary protective measure, then we must also understand and accept that the protective measure in question would only serve to protect less than ten percent of the planet."
Murmurs arose around them as her words sank in. She stared back at Glickson, the light in her eyes anything but calm and kind. Do it, she mentally dared him. Throw your next barb at me. But if you demean their efforts and sacrifices again, you son of a bitch, I'll make you eat more than your words.
The intensity in Glickson's eyes matched hers, his nearly seething with rage. "That is something we can all admit. But what about debris from the mining effort? Shattering asteroids this close to our planet could lead to meteor showers."
"Safety precautions have been outlined in the last pages of the presentation," she continued calmly, eyes glued to him. "Equipment and drilling plans will be provided, to be approved by the appropriate sub-committee once this committee agrees to allow the proposal to move forward. But I am authorized to tell you that the extraction of ores will be done in such a way to allow for minimum waste. Meaning that any pieces cut and not collected will be small enough to disintegrate upon entering Earth's atmosphere."
"And they can absolutely assure us of that?" He scoffed.
"Yes," she replied, deadly quiet. "They can."
"How?"
"That is not for this committee to decide."
"The safety of this world isn't for us to decide?" Glickson nearly sputtered, backing away from her as if she had just started to burn the American flag in front of them.
"No. Our job is to decide how to spend the money given to us by the citizens of this country. Defense is not our agenda."
"I'd like to think our decisions on what kind of defense systems we purchase with the money given to us by the citizens of this country counts as providing for the safety of this word."
Point, she conceded, inwardly wincing. She should have known better than to leave that large an opening. "Granted," she continued, trying to regain the upper hand. "However this isn't a discussion on defense systems. This is a discussion on an off-world mining operation. I suggest we stay on the topic at hand and not drift into unrelated issues."
The look he gave her could have killed her on the spot. "Very well," Glickson smiled, straightening his lapels again and going for that innocent appearance once more. "Let's talk money. How are they going to get the equipment to mine these asteroids?"
She tried again for calm, for that image of the stars at night, and surprised herself instead with an image of Optimus Prime, Ratchet, and Ironhide standing out on the airfield at dawn. They were battle-scarred and weary, silhouetted by a sky the color of fresh blood. Massive shoulders slumped slightly as they watched Jetfire bring in the last of the wounded from some battle or another. It had been poetic and sad, that image, bringing her to tears even though she had only been with them for less than a week. But the point of that image wasn't the cost of the fight, or the price of the war. No, the point was that they were calm, serene and sure in what they did and why they fought.
Lydia held onto that image, burned it into her brain.
"Self-funded. They have the equipment already." She fired back smoothly, steadily.
"And the transportation off planet and back?"
"See my previous comment."
"Storage of materials?"
"Again, see my previous comment."
If she thought he looked ready to kill her before, his gaze was damn near psychotic now. "What about alien organisms that may be on those rocks, viruses and bacteria?"
"Full cooperation with the CDC and NASA will be provided, as outlined in page twenty-five of the handout."
"I still don't like it," he stated flatly, tugging on his lapel so hard the fabric of that expensive silk suit almost ripped. "What about the American jobs they'll be destroying?"
She blinked, the serenity around her mind almost shattering. That was an unexpected turn, even for him. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," Glickson almost shouted. "Alien mining? Alien materials? I suppose the Aliens, themselves, will do all the smelting and fabrication, right? What about the people that supply the materials they already use? What will we tell them when the plants close due to lack of business? And speaking of smelting of strange ores, have you even considered the environmental impact of what gaseous by-products could be released? Has the EPA given their stamp of approval on this project? Frankly, I don't think you've even considered a fraction of what this so-called 'solution' could do to us all. I move immediately for the removal of this proposal from consideration," he turned back towards the assembled committee. "All in favor?"
"Hold."
Everyone turned at that bold word, eyes focusing on the slender Asian woman who rose to her feet. Lydia wracked her brain for everything she could about the woman. Dr. Song-Ming Tam was her name, if memory served, one of the foremost experts on astrophysics and applied aeronautic science. Anything else about the woman was a mystery to most of the senators. Dr. Tam was reserved, quiet, and rarely, if ever, voiced an opinion on the topics presented. So, naturally, when she opened her mouth, everybody listened. Hell, rumor had it that when she spoke, the President sat up and took notice.
Everyone listened… except for Glickson, of course.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Tam," he barked. "The motion has been presented. The vote must be carried out."
"Not correct," Dr. Tam said. "Motion has been asked. No one has yet seconded the motion for a vote. Until then, the debates may continue."
She turned away from Glickson, stepping around her desk and heading towards the podium. If ever there was a moment to compare and contrast the human race, it was right before her eyes. Part of her wished vehemently that Ratchet was there to observe. Glickson nearly towered over the tiny doctor, his six foot frame dwarfing her four foot height. His complexion was deep tan from decades of sun exposure, his hair as white as his suit from age. Lines creased his weathered face like tiny roadmaps, jewel-colored eyes bright like stars.
Song-Ming was unassuming, porcelain unlined skin almost glowing against the deep dark garnet of her simple suit and sensible shoes. Her hair was black as night with only a few strands of grey here and there, like silver Christmas tinsel, to betray her true age. Dark brown eyes, almost like chips of pure obsidian, studied and observed. But never judged, never cut and never, ever belittled. While Glickson demanded respect with flash and showmanship, Dr. Tam received it with humble grace. Not for the first time did she wish the other Autobots could meet humans like Song-Ming Tam instead of the constant stream of government scumbags like Glickson.
"Senator Glickson raises a few very valid points," she began, her English flawless. "We must consider the jobs of our fellow Americans, and most of all, we must consider the threats that may come at our planet as a result of this proposal. Be that as it may," she cut Glickson off with a glare, watching as the Senator had puffed himself up, obviously trying to wrest control of the situation once more. "There are a few inaccuracies to the Senator's speech. I would like to clear those up before the vote begins."
"The risk of contamination from so-called 'alien ores' is slim to none," she continued. "Notice I did not negate the risk completely. I agree whole-heartedly that a joint effort between NASA, the CDC, and the EPA must be part of the plan. However, it is a scientific fact that the elements that exist in the Earth are also the same elements that make up the rest of the planets and heavenly bodies in our solar system. We have no evidence to the contrary, and I see no reason why this committee should spend its time debating the 'possible' existence of 'alien ore.' I also find the objection based on bacteria and the like unfounded. Do not forget that in 1969, we successfully landed on the moon. Precautions were taken at that time and we have, again, no evidence of alien contamination from the samples brought back."
At this, she turned her shrewd and intelligent eyes on Lydia. "I do, however, agree with Senator Glickson on the issue of smelting and creation of the materials. We cannot stop the Autobots from mining the asteroid belt. We, as a species, do not have the capabilities or the gall to claim that as our own. We can ask, however, that whatever is brought back is shared—both in materials and labors—with us."
A hand rose from the back, an unknown senator's voice accompanying it. "Are you proposing a tariff on the import of the ores? Pardon me for saying this, but you do realize how ungrateful that sounds. I, for one, appreciate greatly the efforts put forth from the Autobots to keep their war to themselves as much as possible."
Another hand, again, from a senator Lydia did not recognize. "The war has cost us tremendously, both in resources and financial damage trying to repair our cities. A five-minute battle between the Autobots and the Decepticons can level thirty city blocks. If there is a new source of materials, why shouldn't we have a part of it?"
"I agree," another committee member piped in. "While we cannot exact total reparations from the Autobots for the cost of this war, we should be entitled to some kind of repayment. Perhaps something akin to a twenty-eighty split would be in order. Our part being the smaller end in recognition of the efforts they put out on our behalf…"
More hands rose, more voices carrying over until the room was flooded with comments for and against a tariff. That spiraled over into who would serve on what inspection committee, and who would oversee what part of the operation. Even Glickson's overblown voice couldn't get a word in edge-wise. Lydia grinned from the podium, catching a twinkle of amusement from Dr. Tam's eyes in response. There was some sanity to the committee after all, she thought. She had no idea which senator or member had shown support for the Autobots, but the simple fact that they recognized the effort and spoke for them… well, that made her proud all over again to serve in her current post.
She reached out a finger, tapping the microphone until the voices died down.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she smiled, fighting the impulse to either blow a kiss at Glickson or flash him a one-fingered salute. "A motion was presented by Senator Glickson. I second this motion. Let the vote begin."
Glickson's hatred hit her like a physical force, a force that grew larger and heavier as each vote was cast. Lydia pulled out her phone, covertly typing in a message and hitting 'send to all.'
LYDIA: All votes are in. Mark this on the calendar, boys and girls, mechs and femmes. The committee was almost unanimous in agreement—in our favor.
OUTATIME: Excellent! I'll get to work on the actual drill now. Great work, Lydia.
GRUMPY 1: What do you mean the actual drill? I thought you said that you worked all the issues out of it.
OUTATIME: Out of the prototype, sure. But that one was calibrated for Earth gravity and magnetic polarization. I need to reconfigure it to suit asteroid work in a zero-gravity environment.
GRUMPY 1: Slag it, I knew it! Prowl, let me out of this brig right now. If he's inventing, then something is going to need repairs.
OFFICER: Not without your promise to keep all parts of yourself, your weapons, your weapon's fire, and your wrenches far away from Wheeljack until you have calmed down.
LYDIA: Ratchet, what the eff are you doing in the brig?
GRUMPY 1: Not your concern, human.
RAMBO: Prime put him in there. Seems he's been threatening to slag anything that gets near him since you've been gone. 'Jack, apparently, has been his primary target.
TROUBLE 1: Among others. Put it this way, Lydia. When running for your spark from Ratchet, failure isn't an option.
TROUBLE 2: No, in your case, failure isn't an option. It comes bundled with your software.
TROUBLE 1: All show you failure, glitch-face!
Trouble 1 and Trouble 2, she wasn't certain which was Skids and which was Mudflap. Then again, when dealing with the two of them, the name rarely ever mattered. Unless they were busy blasting at Decepticons, the two were a tag-team of mischief that wasn't even worth differentiating. But Rambo? Who was Rambo again... and then it clicked. Ironhide. The grin on her lips widened, wondering if the mech would ever allow her to share that particular inside joke with the rest.
THE PRIME-INATOR: Enough banter. Prowl, release Ratchet. Ironhide, break up the fight between the twins and brig them if necessary. Ratchet, stay away from Wheeljack. Those are my direct orders and are not open for debate. Now, Lydia, what has this agreement cost us?
Her grin faded around the edges, becoming a smirk. Leave it to Optimus to cut right to the chase. The bot was smart enough to realize that a victory never, ever came for free. There was always a cost involved.
LYDIA: I'll fill you in later. Vote completed. Now comes the hard part.
