Chapter 13
Disclaimers in Chapter 1
Sam closed his suitcase. "Carly, are you sure you don't need anything else done around here before I fly out to DC? Moved, or unpacked, or, or-"
His bride kissed him. "All I need is for you and Bumblebee to be careful. Something has Mearing upset, and I don't think that she upsets easily."
"I'm training in data analysis, Carly. I probably won't leave my office."
"And yet, things never seem to work out that way." Her dimples appeared.
"I'll be careful," he promised. They shared a last embrace, a lingering kiss goodbye.
He went out to Bee, and saw a crowd of bots and humans were gathered on the runway two streets over. He asked his guardian, "What's all that about?"
Bee's radio played, "Off we go, into the wild blue yonder..."
Sam gave his suitcase and carry-on to Bee. As the scout subspaced the bags, they watched a red, white and blue ultralight take off, circle the field, and touch down. Then it did another touch and go, this time accompanied by another plane, blue and white—wobbly, tentative, unsure, but flying. There were screams and cheers from the onlookers as the second plane leveled off, and banked around.
The red, white and blue plane came in for a perfectly smooth three-point landing. The blue and white one bounced, then dropped to all three wheels and slowed down.
The racket sounded like the Spirit of St. Louis had just crossed the Atlantic.
Bee got in on the act with a loud horn blast, then drove off toward Nellis and the plane that would carry them to DC.
-Sidhe Chronicles-
Diarwen stood next to Optimus' alt form, watching Skysong learn to fly all over again. After a few rounds of touch and go, her brothers were allowed to join Skysong and Parker in the air.
And if ever you wanted to contrast the definition of "pilot" with that of "flier," she knew, you could watch Skysong catching up to her brothers. If you wanted the definition of "love," you could watch them wait for her.
Parker waggled her wings, and talked them all into trying an Air Force formation.
To begin with, it was less "ragged" than "chaotic." But a few minutes later the boys had been up enough to settle in, and Skysong was out-of-the-gate perfect at formation flying.
Gradually, her brothers assumed their position relative to the little plane, which never varied its distance and direction from Parker's.
After Ratchet's allowed thirty minutes in the air, Parker would come down white as a sheet and say, "Those little maniacs! Did you know that they think 'sixty meters apart' doesn't mean 'wingtip to wingtip,' it means 'spark to spark'?"
Barricade set Skysong's ultralight down next to Parker's and said anxiously, "So you won't go flying with them again?"
"Oh, Barricade. Please, please request me. You cannot know how much joy that gave me."
He looked down at her, and then, improbably, smiled. "Return on investment, Doc."
-Sidhe Chronicles-
Flying demonstration over, Optimus, Ironhide, both sets of twins, and six Hummers full of NEST personnel went to the proving grounds. Mirage and the Sisters went part way with them, but turned off to patrol.
Que and Burnout were surveying a site for more housing. They had thought of building into the side of a cliff, if the rock turned out to be suitable for that—it was really the only way to beat the heat.
Killstrike and the gestalt were building a road already slated for that general area, whether the cliff-dwelling idea worked out or not. His clan bonds with the ex-'Cons were new and still tentative. Optimus got little from them other than their location and a generalized contentment.
That contentment was good news. The bond, still new, would deepen over time.
What did bother him was that he felt just as distant from Ratchet.
Jolt acknowledged his presence in the bond. The trine reached back to him, all innocent eagerness. Jazz returned a warm greeting, Brains and Wheelie as well. Even Barricade sent glyphs of startled respect—apparently Megatron had never used clan bonds to check on his people and make sure everyone was all right. The Autobots took pings like that, from Prime, cohort, or anyone else, for granted.
At one time Ratchet would have welcomed Optimus, and made some grumpy remark about frontliners beating each other halfway to the Pit and back, making more work for him. Now there was a scant acknowledgment, then the medic screened the link.
Optimus knew Ratchet would claim patient privacy, if he said anything. But when the patient in question was actively teasing at the clan bond like a kitten teased at string, that excuse fell a little flat.
Still, it was Ratchet's right, and quite possibly his professional obligation, to distance himself. Sadly, Optimus sent only the paired glyph that answered the medic's acknowledgment, then reluctantly screened from his side as well, respecting Ratchet's need for space and time. He would not intrude again until Ratchet indicated that he was welcome to do so.
By then, they had reached the proving grounds. Ironhide was teaching the NEST explosives experts to find and disarm various kinds of Cybertronian mines.
Lennox suspected that some of the 'Cons might join human criminal organizations. They split into two teams, developing tactics for use against mixed groups of opponents—something that previously only the 'Cons had needed to worry about. Having humans take cover behind the bots' ankles to shoot at each other complicated the battle.
One of Ironhide's mines went off. The mines themselves were relatively harmless dye bombs, but they did have a small charge in them—enough to propel a rock, which hit Diarwen in the stomach. The impact knocked the air out of her, but did no further damage.
Then she looked more closely. A chain mail link had snapped.
That one had been repaired before, and this time it had broken into three pieces.
She pocketed them; mithril was not to be wasted. But to repair her chain shirt, she would have to remove a link from the bottom.
Optimus asked her, "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I am fine. My gambeson took most of it."
"Sorry," Ironhide said. "I thought I threw all the rocks out, but I guess I missed one."
Diarwen shook her head. "It simply added a touch of realism," she joked, and took a long pull from her canteen. They went back to the exercise.
That evening, she sat on the back step of her apartment building to repair her chain mail. It was made with a decorative zigzag border, which allowed for many extra rings to repair broken ones, and they did not break that often. Still, it was a reminder that she was out of mithril arrowheads entirely, and if her sword or knife blade broke, she could not replace either.
She took the broken link over to the commons and looked around for Wheeljack. After a moment, she spotted him in a corner with Chip, Glen and Maggie.
"Que, have you a moment?"
"Of course. What do you need?"
"More of this," she replied, holding the pieces of the broken link out on the palm of her hand for the inventor to take.
He took the tiny bits with surprising delicacy for one so large, and scanned them. "This is a ring from your armor."
"Yes. It was repaired once before, you see, and when it was hit again today it shattered."
"On first glance I thought it might be titanium, but while it has similarities, it isn't. In fact, I cannot identify it."
"It is mithril, also known as true silver or star silver, in Tir nan Og from whence it came. It does not exist naturally in this world, but when there was regular trade through the portal, a great deal of it was brought here. It is light and strong, resistant to elemental fire, and easily enchanted. All of those qualities made it extremely valuable to the Sidhe. When my people fled, they took most of what they had back home with them. My arrowheads have been lost in combat with the Decepticons. My real concern, though, is that I might break one of my blades. If that happened I would be unable to replace it."
"I see. So, what you need is not mithril, but an adequate substitute."
"Yes."
"May I keep this for analysis?"
"Yes, of course."
"Of easily obtainable metals, titanium is a possible substitute. It is not a ferrous metal, so it should be safe for you to touch. But it would not be suitable for use with your flame abilities, as it loses strength at high temperatures."
Diarwen nodded. "That's a possibility, of course, as I cannot draw upon Fire at the moment anyway."
"Let me work on it for a while, Diarwen. I may be able to come up with something better."
"Thank you."
"Not at all. Will you stay for a while?"
The Sidhe smiled in genuine appreciation of the invitation, but she had overheard some of their conversation as she approached, and computerese was not a language in which she was fluent. "I will leave you to your discussion, my friends, as I am sure I would understand very little of it. Good night."
Chip Chase said, "Aw, come on, darlin'. Bring your little tiny ass over here and sit down with us."
He was suddenly aware of the heat behind those gray eyes, as Diarwen slid them to him and examined him like a side of beef. He flushed. Not even Jerk Armor, Grade One, could stand up to a Sidhe. Diarwen said, without the trace of a smile, "If that is southern charm, Chip, it would be best if you reserved it for someone else."
Maggie and Glen snickered at Chip's little crash-and-burn.
Que looked at all of them and blinked his optics, once. He did not understand that conversation at all.
Diarwen, for her part, simply nodded to the rest of them, saying, "Good night, rest well."
She opened her door to discover that a bookshelf had fallen, scattering books and papers and the odd datapad. She hung up her BDU jacket then picked up the mess, stacking everything on a chair until she could repair the shelf.
It had been put up with steel screws, which she discovered when she fished one out from under the bed. She dropped it with a yelp and a curse, and stuck her hand under the faucet for a moment. Some herbal ointment and a band-aid later, armed with a dishrag, she went hunting for the offending screw, which of course had skittered back under the bed.
In doing so, she came nose to nose with a picture in a magazine that had found its way under there as well.
She retrieved the screw, carefully using the dishrag this time, put it in the trash can, and swept out a few dust bunnies. Then she picked up the magazine.
It was open to an article that she had read a little while ago, on the finding of the tomb of an ancient Irish "princess."
On first reading, she had laughed at archaeologists' assumptions. She had known that woman, not a princess but the chief of her tribe and very nearly High Queen, and a more dangerous enemy on or off the battlefield Diarwen had never met. Historians were arguing about whose wife and mother she had been! While in her heyday, she'd had four husbands, and a covey of warriors vying to be number five. She'd also popped out fifteen or twenty children, most of them in war camps.
Diarwen had met her through service as a courier from Titania to the courts of Irish royalty. The "princess" had a Sidhe grandmother, who had bequeathed to her long life for one of mostly human blood—she was nearly two hundred and surrounded by a tribe of her own descendents when she passed.
Her grieving folk had buried her with a treasure trove. Titania's contribution had been a lovely gold brooch in the shape of a bird, whose wing feathers were made of mithril.
For that matter, Diarwen realized suddenly, mithril weapons and armor had sometimes made their way into the hands of Irish nobles in those long-ago days—a gift here, a dowry there—and they had still to exist somewhere. Some might be available in antique shops or estate sales; Diarwen was not willing to consider museum treasures.
Would it be worth a trip home to see what she could find? She might be able to start in New York City's pawn and antique shops...the city had had an influx of Irish immigration after 1845. Or perhaps she would end her search there, if it were without fruit in Ireland.
She put the magazine on the chair with the other things, and took a good look at the broken shelf to account for all the screws; she had no wish to run one into her bare foot in the middle of the night.
The next day she spoke to Optimus and Lennox about her intentions. Both of them agreed that it was a good idea, and wished her luck.
The upshot was that Optimus rolled to a stop at Nellis, where Diarwen would wait for the next seat her clearance entitled her to. Destination: RAF Mildenhall. The base was near Suffolk, England, and from there she could find her own way to Ireland.
He did not want her to go. It was necessary, Optimus knew that, and he would say no word to dissuade her. Still: he did not want her to go.
There seemed, with Diarwen, always to be one more thing to talk about: Skysong, his own training, the hundred and four amusing things the Trine did on a daily basis, hopes, fears, the future.
When they stopped, Diarwen had to leave as quickly as she could; a seat might come up and be gone within seconds. "I thank you, my friend," she said, and got out.
"A safe journey, and swift return," he offered.
Her hand lingered on his door for a long moment before she left him to join the crowd of military personnel and dependents.
He waited until he could no longer pick out her field among them before he put up his holoform, and drove back to base alone.
-Sidhe Chronicles-
Sector 13's Washington office appeared to be one brownstone among many others on a quiet, shady street. A small bronze sign beside the door said only "Braithwaite Associates." Most of the neighbors thought it was a law office, or possibly an accounting firm, if they thought of it at all. They characterized it as "Possibly mysterious, but much more likely to be uninteresting."
Mearing knocked at the plain wood door. A car passed by, followed by three children and their nanny out walking an Akita.
When the street and sidewalk were empty, the door swung open on its own. Mearing and Li stepped into a hallway that looked Victorian in every way, right down to the gas lights.
An older woman wearing a skirt and a lace-collared blouse stepped out of one of the rooms and smiled. "Director Mearing. Right this way, Mr. Braithwaite is expecting you."
Mearing thought, Of course he is. They followed the secretary to the door at the end of the hall. The only open door they passed allowed them a glimpse into a library.
The lady tapped on the door at the end of the hall, then peered inside. "Mr. Braithwaite, Director Mearing is here to see you."
He stood as they entered.
Braithwaite said, "Director. It's been a long time. Congratulations on your promotion."
"Thank you. It has been a long time, hasn't it? Myanmar, back when it was still Burma, I believe," she replied, shaking hands. "You're looking well."
"Thank you, so are you. Yes, Myanmar. That was an interesting three days, I must say. Please, have a seat." They took the indicated comfortable red velvet sofa. Braithwaite sat on a straight chair.
A silver tea set waited on a side table. The lady who had shown them in, apparently Braithwaite's secretary, attended to that. When each of them had been supplied with a proper cuppa and a biscuit, she withdrew and shut the door behind her.
"I wondered what you were doing when they told me you'd left the Company. Retirement didn't seem to suit you."
"As you see, I've been somewhat busier than you were led to believe."
"Yes."
"There's a saying, I believe. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Sector 13 is not broke."
"Certainly not, Quinn. You've done an excellent job here. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for all the other Sectors. The President had good reason to put everything under NEST's aegis. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news but Sector 13 and NEST are going to be quite busy cleaning up other people's messes for a while.
"The good news is that if you ever run across something else on the level of Sufri, you'll have reinforcements immediately available. Likewise, your assistance will be invaluable when other sectors' investigations fall within your areas of expertise."
Braithwaite leaned forward. "Sector 13's mission, even before we were officially known as S13, has always been as much to protect and assist those whose abilities are beyond the ordinary as to deal with the criminals among them. I need to know right now if that has changed."
"It has not," Mearing said, making eye contact. "The President was very, very clear on that point with me. You and I have had our professional differences, our rivalries, over the years. But we have always served with honor, and that is not going to change."
"Are you going to handle this like a Homeland Security situation?"
"In that I mean to coordinate all the Sectors, and to foster cooperation against threats too large for any one Sector to handle, yes. That means that due to the actions of other Sectors, I need to maintain a stricter oversight, so I will also need to see your reports."
"I'll see to it that they're made available to you," Braithwaite replied.
"Thank you."
"How do you want my people involved with the clean-up efforts at the other sectors?"
"Investigators are being brought in from outside. What happens after that will depend on their initial reports." She paused, and set down the delicate teacup on its fragile, beautiful saucer. "Let me be very clear with you. Your people are not accused of wrongdoing so far as I know. But Sector 13 too must be subject to these investigations."
"We will cooperate fully."
She nodded. "Thank you. For now, I believe the best thing is to continue with your work as you have been, and keep me apprised."
"Of course," he said, with the first genuine smile Charlotte had ever seen on Braithwaite's face. "It's a pleasure to be working with you again, Director."
-Sidhe Chronicles-
Beaverton, Oregon was a quiet suburb of Portland, ten minutes west of the city, with a nature park and a golf course in between. Phil Esterbrook had served his tour in Iraq and come home to a job as a letter carrier. He put up with a lot of bad "going postal" jokes, but the fact was, he liked the work. All the walking kept him in shape. It beat a desk job, trapped in an office all day, hands down.
He knew the people on his route, and the worst thing he had to worry about from day to day was whether Mrs. Stevens had remembered to put her chihuahua in the house if it was a sunny day. She never let him out if it even hinted of rain, and since it was Portland, that wasn't a very common occurrence.
Saturdays, like this one, were his favorite. His bag was lighter, for one thing, and for another, more people were out and around.
Except in the industrial parks. They generally pulled in the sidewalks on Friday and were ghost towns until Monday morning brought out the grouchy, coffee-deprived wage slaves to put in another forty hours.
He usually took the mail in and gave it, all in a bunch, to the receptionists, rather than stuff things through the mail slot one at a time. But on Saturdays, the offices were closed. There was occasionally a car in a parking lot, as people caught up on work or had a training day—but the business office itself was rarely open.
Premium Software was no different. He wasn't surprised to see some cars in the parking lot. Computer geeks made jokes about being chained to their desks, and he wouldn't have been surprised to find out that was true. They worked long hours here. The office, however, was locked, as he expected on Saturday.
Phil put their mail through the slot and heard it fall into the box. He shrugged and went on. There were lots more gray buildings identical to that one on his route, and most of them had a few envelopes or supply catalogs to be put through similar mail slots.
He didn't think anything more about Premium Software until he returned on a rainy Monday.
The same cars were in the lot. In Iraq, he had learned to pay close attention to cars that stayed in the same spot longer than usual. Even now, he wouldn't walk too close to a parked car.
The lights at Premium Software were still off, and the door, locked. He looked through the mail slot—the envelopes from Saturday were still there.
This wasn't right. Places went out of business—but when they did, there were signs on the door informing people of that fact—or at least a contact number.
Phil detached the can of pepper spray from his mailbag and went around to the side entrance.
There was a plain metal fire door there, employees came out here to smoke or take a shortcut to the bus stop. Therefore, against company regulations, it was often unlocked, as he found it today. He opened the door and called, "Mail carrier! Anyone here?"
His voice echoed in the silent building. Listening carefully, all he could hear was the quiet hum of computers still running.
Most companies were environmentally conscious—and conscious enough of their electric bills—to turn off or hibernate unused computers when they were closed.
Then he smelled something that he recognized all too well.
Death.
It wasn't strong, in an air conditioned office building, not like in the hot, dusty streets of Baghdad. But he knew that smell.
Holding tighter to the can of pepper spray—wishing it was his sidearm—he reached left handed for his cell phone and called the police. Then, because he thought about someone lying in there helpless, injured, in pain all weekend with no one to help them, Phil went inside, ignoring the police dispatcher's orders to the contrary.
He didn't want to get shot by an overeager rookie cop, so he kept up a running commentary of where he was and what he was doing. The break room and a supply closet were clear.
There was a large room full of computers and peripherals, work stations for twelve programmers.
In that room, eight people were sprawled across their keyboards or crumpled by their desks. When he reported that to the dispatcher, she had him check for signs of life, and when he found all of them several days dead, she told him in no uncertain terms to go outside and wait for the police. This time, he obeyed.
Each of the dead had two burns on their foreheads, the size of quarters. And each one of them looked horrified.
Phil had seen a lot of things in Iraq, and a lot of dead bodies, and a lot of awful ways for dead bodies to get that way. He had never seen that look frozen on the face of a corpse before.
Soon, the parking lot filled with police cars, and officers poured into the building. One of them took Phil aside to get his statement. Eventually, a pair of detectives also came over to question him. Another mail carrier collected Phil's bag and took over his route.
The coroner's office arrived, and with them, the CSI team.
Reporters started to gather, taking pictures of the police and unsuccessfully angling for interviews.
But there were no ambulances with flashing lights and screaming sirens, no rush to the emergency room, only grim faces doing their job.
By nightfall, there were speculations of a workplace massacre, or another Heaven's Gate cult. Since there were no other marks on the body besides the forehead burns, poisoning—either murder or suicide—was the main area of speculation. But then other tragedies took over the headlines, and in the lack of any more news about what had happened, the deaths at Premium Software dropped off the radar.
But then, NEST got word of it.
(To be continued in A Year in the Life of Optimus Prime: Three)
The End