3.4: Desperate Measures

The Celestial Temple

Iacon

Cybertron

"I'm sorry Emirate, but the Prime is not holding audiences today."

The guard did not sound in the least bit apologetic. In fact, there was a faint edge of satisfaction in the refusal. Xaaron suspected this was a natural consequence of having to stand around all day guarding a pair of doors and acting with respectful deference to a lot of pompous diplomats. He would probably have taken immense pleasure in being able to frustrate their endeavours as well.

"I was assured that the Prime would speak to me," he wheedled, trying to sound as if he had believed it at the time. "This is an extremely important matter and it cannot wait." That was easier to say with conviction. With every passing day, the High Council was splitting further and further into the Vos and Tarn camps. "I am certain that the Prime is aware of the magnitude of the issues I need to discuss with him." Not that Sentinel had shown any inclination to actually do anything about it. He preferred, it seemed, to sit in silence and stare over the Council's collective heads. "Even a few cycles of discussion could be extremely useful." More like vital, but that might have sounded like desperate exaggeration.

A handful of states had rallied behind Nova Cronum and Iacon in calling for calm and compromise. It made no difference to the screaming matches between Graviitus and Haacano. Pitched battles raged in every Council session, the opposing armies hurling insults and legal quibbles at one another with unparalleled enthusiasm. Throughout it all, the Prime remained aloof and unmoved. He barely bothered to demand order any more. A few measly calls for consolation and understanding were the sum total of his contribution to halting the impeding crisis and Xaaron strongly doubted that the honoured Emirates for Vos and Tarn had even been paying attention. They were far too caught up in mentally rehearsing their next tirades to heed platitudes.

A loud, firm declaration from the Prime might not actually put an end to the feud but it would go a long way to cooling it down. And if Xaaron had to batter down every door in the Celestial Temple to get that declaration, he would just have to do so.

That plan, unfortunately, did not factor in battering down guardsmechs as well.

"I am sorry, Emirate," the mech repeated, large wing-plates fanning out in a slightly threatening manner, "We cannot permit you to enter. The Prime is not to be disturbed. When he opens his chambers to audiences again, you will be informed. In the meantime, I am afraid I must ask you to leave."

Xaaron ran through a thousand arguments, ranging from reasonable to insult-riddled. He looked up into guard's engraved mask and knew that each would be as pointless as the last.

"Thank you for your assistance," he grated, jerking in a sharp bow, "I will return at a more appropriate time." He spun on his heel and marched away, the golden floor ringing with every furious step. It was almost too much to believe, that the Prime would deliberately retreat to his inner sanctum while the great alliance of city-states faltered around him and lurched towards...towards...

War. Xaaron felt something inside him shudder at the word. Old images, memories of ruins and flames filled his thoughts. But that had been in Tarn, confined, more or less, to one ravaged state. There had been no real, open conflict between two separate states since the days before the High Council. Petty squabbles, border disputes, all manner of underhanded interference in internal affairs – but not open war. Not two armies brazenly crossing recognised boundaries with hostile intent.

A horrifying scenario. After all, modern warfare had come a long way since Helix Magnus led the charge across the Primon Flats swinging a battle hammer.

Xaaron eased his hands out of fists and ran through everything he had done so far and the pitifully small difference it had made. And now he could not even count on the Prime, with the full glory of the Matrix Flame and the Covenants at his back, to step down from his tower and lend a few words to the cause.

He stopped. He stared at the statues at the end of the corridor, the figures of past glories rearing up above the intersection.

There was another way. The same tactic from another source, one with a vested interest in keeping things stable. Perhaps not as authoritative, maybe not as effective, but definitely more approachable.

Dionaat had fallen into step behind him some while ago, respectfully silent while his Emirate fumed. Xaaron turned to him now, a slow smile creeping across his mouth grill. "I am going to need transport to the Qosho region. Preferably fast."


Defence Directorate Command Platform

Vos/Tarn Border

Cybertron

Megatron stalked around the edge of the map, considering the lay of the land. Vos curved with the coastline, following the arc of the Iron Sea, then swept inland, towers and minarets eventually giving way to gently rising slopes. The Kahlian Ridge cut northwards from the sea, as clear a division as the edges of a continental plates. Beyond the ridge, Tarn squatted in neat, geometrical patterns, streets and express-ways as precisely constructed as those in Vos but with none of the artistic flare. Functional buildings in functional rows, the architecture well matched with the vast industrial complexes that ringed the city.

The Mahlex District stood out as a blacked hole, an ugly stain on the picture of scientific precision.

Icons swarmed in the spaces between the two ancient cities, troops moving in waves as first one army then the other tried to guess where best to be. A constant influx of information from scouts and monitoring stations kept the map up-to-date and filled the war room with a background mutter of quietly exchanged messages, murmured analyses and humming calculation. The sounds filled the air, ceaseless and restless, rising and falling with moments of excitement and long stretches of monotony.

Like the audience before a fight.

The thought made Megatron want to strike his fist against the projector table. He was badly suited to watching from the sidelines. He yearned to stride in and do something. Standing by while others made mistakes was torture, always had been. In the pits he could have strode in and taken matters quickly into his own hands. Here, he was trapped outside the ring, unable even to shout down the idiots.

All that effort, all those mechs and machines, and for what? To waste precious fuel on securing the dominance of one set of petty fools over another? How could they not see the ruin that they would create, the harm they would do Cybertron?

Mega-cycles of hatred and mistrust, until the reasons were forgotten or reinvented as excuses. Anger and suspicion reinforced in every protoform until it was all but hard-wired into them. That was how. He had gotten out. He had seen the bigger picture, had seen threats to the world that made borders and ancient grudges seem trivial by comparison. But there was a time when he would have welcomed a war between Vos and Tarn. A chance, finally, to prove that Tarn was the stronger and in the right. No doubt that was what all those hundreds of soldiers thought as they scuttled across the map, making great shows of defiance.

If only he could force them to see what he saw.

Scowling at the map, he stabbed a finger towards one of the confirmed Vosian missile sites, a blazing red circle ringed with guard battalions. "Simultaneous disruptor strikes to that silo and the Trasvehl Advanced Base. Take out Vos' outer launching facilities." A layer of the map peeled upwards, duplicate icons flashing and scattering as the strategy playing out. Vosian patrols panicked and streaked after the intruding Defence Directorate forces, peeling away from their allotted perches.

"Disrupting the Tarnian installations won't be as easy," Bentwing said from the other side of the map, gesturing. A miniature flight of Air Guardians skimmed Tarn's outer defences, warning symbols blazing as they tried to block missile launches and were forced back by a maze of anti-aircraft guns.

"We'll end up shooting down missiles in flight," Optrion pointed out, using his own input into the map to demonstrate this. "Which is possible."

"But not certain," Megatron growled as dozens of purple daggers weaved through the red arrows trying to blow them apart.

He stood back, folding his arms. As ever, on the edge of his perception, he sensed Ravage's presence, a second shadow filtering the colossal influx of data from the front. The commanders around the table – Optrion, Bentwing, Cascade, two of Vieuxuun's mechs – looked expectantly at him.

"Move the Air Guardian staging ground twenty hix to the south and deploy the slower squadrons at the extreme edge of the neutral territory. That will get better coverage of the airspace." He paused, then added, "Camouflaged interceptor batteries. They won't be as effective as jets but they can cover any gaps."

"If Razortail takes half the light flyers and sets up camp in the west," Bentwing suggested, "that would improve the distribution even further."

"Can you maintain effectiveness like that?"

"Hm. Yes. Should be able to. If we split out some of the scout planes and –"

"Commander Megatron!"

Vieuxuun's voice boomed over the background muttering, sharp and definitely irritated. The green field commander strode determinedly across the war room, his face contorting. Megatron looked at him but did not speak. He was dimly aware of Ravage moving closer. The squad leaders and lieutenant commanders saluted smartly. Vieuxuun noticed neither, his attention fixed on the map and its glimmering tactical overlays. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded.

"Strategy planning. A normal function of a military operation. These officers were providing their input on the best way to use the forces at our disposal."

"That is not –" Stopping short, he glanced around with a grimace. "I would like a word with you in private, commander."

"If you have something important to say about the proposals on the table, commander, I would prefer you said it here in front of the mechs expected to carry out our decisions."

For a micro-cycle or two, Megatron was sure that Vieuxuun would insist on privacy or back down for fear of looking bad in front of his troops. But instead, he draw himself up. "Very well. This is pertinent to everyone assigned to the operation so it probably would be as well to have it said openly." He half turned away from Megatron, the better to proclaim to the room at large. "We are here to represent the High Council. Our presence is a reminder to Vos and to Tarn that they have responsibilities to Cybertron at large and that action will be taken should they break the Inter-State Accords. In the discharge of that duty, however, we remain bound to those same Accords. Vos and Tarn are sovereign city-states. Without the express order of the Council, we cannot engage Vosian and Tarnian forces. Without the Council's authority, we cannot deploy long range weaponry along their borders. If there is even a hint that we are not behaving in a manner expected of the Defence Directorate, it could undermine any and every political effort to calm the situation down. Need I remind you all how the efforts of the Civic Guard have been twisted into anti-Council propaganda?" He thumped a fist into his open palm. "We are here to discourage rash action while the diplomats do their job. We are most certainly not here to prepare a full-scale attack on two of the oldest cities on Cybertron!"

His speech made, Vieuxuun flicked a hand firmly across the map, dispersing the tactical overlays in a gesture of finality. He turned back to Megatron, chin jutting. Megatron looked at him with a flat expression, his optics simmering orange. "And if it comes to war?" he asked, frigidly calm, "If the missiles start flying? Will you wait for the Council to give you permission to stop a massacre?"

"No one wants a war, Megatron," Vieuxuun explained, patronisingly patient, "Anyone who started one would be acting not just against the Accords but against the First Covenant. They would be condemned before the Prime and would lose any support from their allies. It would be an act without reason."

No one spoke. Megatron's hands flexed. Tearing Vieuxuun in two would be the work of a moment. He pictured the act exactly, in every detail, down to the feel of the green armour as it buckled and broke apart. His fingers twitched again as imagined electricity arced between them. "This. Is. Not. Iacon," he snarled. The words came in time to the punches he was throwing in his mind, each a vicious, joint-shattering blow. "You think that because you believe in the divinity of the Primes and the wisdom of the Council and the Inter-State Accords, that everyone else must as well?" Of course he did, the blind fool. Jab. Crunch. "No one in Tarn gives a flying glitch about the Council and the Vosians would sooner break every Accord ever written than give up one fraction of their power." Jab. Crunch. "I know these people. They do not care about the Prime or the Covenants. All they see is the enemy across the border, the threat that needs to be dealt with, by any means necessary." Jab. Crunch. "They will not stop because you think they are being unreasonable."

Vieuxuun's head tore free in his hands, optics dying, neck sparking emptily. He raised the broken skull and the crowd roared his triumph for him.

Vieuxuun's faceplates shifted, his optics narrowing. If he had been annoyed before, he was angry now. Even so, he tried to hide it. Megatron could see him scrambling for dignity and self-justification, the way people like him always did. They could never just give in to their rage. They had to convince themselves they were right first. Had to be sure they would win in the correct way.

"It is clear we disagree," Vieuxuun grated eventually, "And while I understand your perspective on this issue, our orders and our duty remain unchanged. There will be no further talk of moving disguised batteries to the border and I would appreciate it if you included me in any future strategy sessions."

Megatron opened his mouth but Ravage cut smoothly across him. "Commander... Commanders, I have a priority signal that I think demands your attention."

Without waiting for instruction, he switched the main projectors to a communications feed. Static-riddled images of hundreds of mechs shouting and screaming at a Vosian building sprang up, a full-blown riot seen from a dozen different angles. Another image appeared in the centre, a panicked hexe in Civic Guard white and blue speaking rapidly to the camera. "*!&^*&–under siege! All guardsmechs have been recalled but we–!£&^^"$!**&*–hold out – they've started attacking anyone who tries to get out–!£^%&(**&–no help from Vosian security, no way to get –"

The communication cut out abruptly. Megatron spun on his heel and shouted to the nearest technician. "Get them back, now! Find out what's happening and how it started! Ravage, link me to the Magnus' Office. Bentwing, Optrion – get me extraction options for the Vosian Civic Guard base. Can we access it by air?"

"The Air Guardians have the biggest cargo capacity of our present compliment of flyers," Vieuxuun stated, moving to examine the map as it refocused on a single Vosian district, "But we must consider the political ramifications of sending in an extraction team." He looked up. "Connect me to the Vosian security authority," he instructed, "I'll find out how much resistance we can expect."

He caught Megatron's optic. The anger and mistrust was still there, clear as a loaded gun. The argument was not over. Megatron nodded all the same and turned his attention back to the map without a second glance.

In his head, the crowd bayed with disappointment at a fight left unfinished. But he cast them aside and focused his mind on the battle at hand.


Civic Guard Base

Vos

Cybertron

A few cycles ago, they had started throwing building supplies. Panels and pipes ricochetted off walls and armoured shutters and filled the air with a din that threatened to match the shouting for ferocity. One enterprising group of heavy lifters found some waste oil and set fire to it, carrying it high into the air and flinging it down at the tower's upper windows. Others were using their on-board holo-projectors to paint obscene messages in the air or to highlight particularly energetic protesters as they thundered out their rage.

The Civic Guardsmechs huddled behind their barriers, any effort to appeal to their assailants' better nature long since given up. Once or twice, someone had tried to make a dash through the crowds, probably to try and find out why the Vosian security forces were not answering their calls for help. They had been forced back before they had managed more than a dozen steps, pelted with scrap and struck by any blunt instrument that could reach them. Any white and blue mech trying to get in from elsewhere in the city received an identical reception.

It could not have been going better if Sarristec had planned it all himself.

He had been tempted to give instructions to Hothouse and the other workmasters who owed him favours, but his better judgement had prevailed. Better by far simply to plant the suggestion that the Civic Guard had compromised Vos' security. Of course he had not incited them to go out and riot. No Lord of Vos would do such a thing. He had just called for their vigilance. Their help in ensuring the safety of their fellow citizens. If they had come away with idea that the Civic Guard was in league with the Tarnians, that too was a regrettable misunderstanding on their part. All he had said was that those appointed by the Council might not be paying attention to Vos' best interests in the execution of their duty. That they might not make the right decisions as Tarnian aggression threatened everything that Vos had strived to achieve.

This rioting was contemptible, the worst possible reaction to something that was little more than a vicious rumour. But even though that went without saying, it had to be admitted that the Conclave could not ignore such a violent public reaction. The Lords governed by the people's will and if that will had turned against the Council's appointed representatives...

It was regrettable. It was a shame. It was of course no reflection on the Council itself. But what could they do? The people had spoken.

Loudly.

In some cases with their fists.

Sarristec allowed himself a small smile and settled back to enjoy the show.


Defence Directorate Staging Ground

Vos/Tarn Border

Cybertron

"Make certain your weapon packs are powered down. The Vosians will turn you back if they detect active weaponry." Vieuxuun seemed more than a little absurd, shouting orders up at the towering Air Guardians. Contrail and Aerodyne were each about six times his height and their wingspans made them look even bigger. They obeyed him without question though, swiftly pulling the power-packs from their inbuilt cannons and shrugging off some of their detachable weapons.

"They're gonna be sitting targets if tha Vosians turn on 'em," Ironhide muttered from Optrion's left, fingering his own rifle.

"They have the speed to get out of there if they need to," Optrion pointed out, "Besides, both of them were protoformed in Vos, and the Vosian authorities know it. They have public image on their side."

Ironhide made a noise that indicated just how much time he had for political concerns like that. Optrion could not blame him. The situation had seemed bizarre even before their two field commanders had had an open row about it. Now it felt ridiculous. He could see Megatron moving restlessly up and down the landing strip, glowering at everything that moved and occasionally flipping in to tank mode to glare along his barrels at the horizon and its crown of spires.

If he was honest, Optrion felt like doing the same thing. Perhaps it would have relieved the tension of not knowing if there was going to be a battle or not. Then again, looking at Megatron, he rather suspected it wouldn't. The extraction team was assembled on the runway now, eight mechs, three large avirs and four femes, all armed with nothing more than deflection shields and grappling hooks. It made sense yet it was hard not to think of the size of the crowds around the Civic Guard base and how small and unprotected the group seemed by comparison.

Megaton suddenly charged across to join the team. Vieuxuun saw it and ran to intercept him, the Air Guardians catching up in a few, massive strides. The two field commanders exchanged angry, muted words, and then Megatron tossed down his rifle, followed by several of his tank barrels. He stared defiantly at Vieuxuun, who shook his head in disbelief.

Megatron shouted an order up at the waiting Air Guardians and, exchanging a single glance, they transformed, mighty engines blazing into life. They swept in lazy arcs and lowered their access ramps. The extraction team split up, Megatron waiting until they were all in before following the group that had boarded Contrail. Vieuxuun shouted one last time, accusing him of disregarding protocol and endangering the operation. It had no effect. Megatron vanished inside and the ramp slammed shut behind him.

"Shoulda gone too," Ironhide grumbled, optics following the huge white jets as they rose and banked towards Vos.

"You can't fly and there's a limit to how many passengers they'll be able to carry back. In fact," Optrion added with a frown, "Megatron's mass might compromise the operation anyway."

Vieuxuun came storming back towards the command platform. Optrion saluted as he drew near and the field commander slammed to a halt, optics narrowed to slits. "What?" Optrion took a step backwards, perplexed. Then Vieuxuun turned away. "Say that again," he ordered, obviously speaking into an open communication channel, "When?"

Whatever was said, it made him throw up his arms, though he caught himself halfway through the motion. He looked around wildly, then fixed on Optrion. "Lieutenant Commander! I have just been informed that the Emirate for Nova Cronum has chosen to pay an unannounced visit to the Qosho region. He will be landing in four cycles. You will take a small contingent of troops and escort him to the Tava Szenda birthing well. Once his business is concluded, you will see that he returns safely to Iacon. I hardly need stress," he stressed emphatically, an edge in his voice, "that he is to treated with the utmost respect and deference due to his position."

"Of course sir," Optrion agreed, saluting again, "I will see to it immediately."

"Very good." Vieuxuun offhandedly returned the salute and disappeared into the command platform.

Optrion frowned after him. "Today just keeps getting better and better, doesn't it?"

"The boss-mechs layin' inta one another, Vos Civic Guard under siege an' now a slaggin' Emirate come ta drop in an' visit?" Ironhide shook his head in disbelief. "Ah don't know 'bout you but ah'm expectin' a meteor strike by sundown."