4.3: Survivor/Guilt
Remains of the Torvccl Galleries
Vos
Cybertron
It was dark and he was in pain.
He was in pain and he could not see. Could not move.
He could not move, he could not see and everything hurt. Oh Primus, was he dead? Was this death? Being trapped in darkness and pain, unable to move?
No. He was thinking. He could think and feel and so he must still be alive. Trapped. Nose-cone. Wings. Trapped. Engines burnt out. Fused. Pinned. Something was pinning him down. There was something immensely heavy pressing on top of him, pressing him into the ground. No room to transform. No room to do anything. And the parts of him that did not hurt, he could not feel at all.
Sarristec began to panic.
Time passed. He had no idea how long. The world stayed dark. Sometimes his consciousness faded out completely. The pain persisted.
In a more lucid moment, it occurred to him that that was a good thing. If he hurt all over, then his spark could not have been scattered. He was still a coherent whole.
But then . . . what about the parts of himself he could not feel? Did that mean that parts of his mind had just gone? No. No, that couldn't be true. It couldn't.
Light. A chink of light falling across his fuselage. Noise too. Voices.
Rescue!
He tried to call out, to scream at them so they would come and save him. His voice would not respond. His antenna stayed silent. Nothing responded. Everything was locked up, blank, crying out in agony.
It couldn't end like this. It couldn't.
It could. He could die here. Salvation could pass him by. Easily. He could so easily be beneath its notice.
Beneath everything's notice.
No! No. Please, no. Please –
"Hey! We got a live one here! Help me get this lot shifted!"
Vibrations reached him dimly through his prison walls. Footsteps hurrying. The straining of pistons and servos. The chink of light wobbled and distorted and split wide open. Air and dust rushed about as the rubble above him – yes, rubble, that was what it was, of course – was lifted away. Suddenly, he could move again. Could flex his wings, however weakly. Fresh pain flooded his body as he did so. Grit ground in his joints. His tail-fins were twisted beyond use. Nothing felt the right shape.
But he was rescued. He would live. That mattered. That was all that mattered.
Someone jumped down close by. A green mech. Lithe. Blue optics. Big hands. He carefully cleared the wreckage from around Sarristec, easing him free. He spoke as he did it, reassuring words about everything being all right. With a shout, he summoned other mechs, a hexe, two quads. Together, they lifted Sarristec up and away, carrying him roughly out into a big flat space and setting him down there. One of the quads fiddled with a canister and connected it to his side.
There was a rush of liquid power. Fuel. Precious energon flooding into empty tubes. Awareness came with it, connections restoring, repair systems coming online at last. He could think properly again. His body was his again. He could remember –
In one great spasm, he transformed and screamed with the agony of it. He collapsed to the ground whimpering. The green mech and the quad offered reassuring hands, helping him ease into a sitting position. "Easy there, lad," said the mech, patting his shoulder, "Take it easy. You're doin' fine."
Sarristec ground his mouth shut and fought through the hurt. He let automatic processes numb the parts that were beyond repair, let them consolidate him within safer places. Slowly, oh so very slowly, his mind focused.
The ground before his optics was blackened and covered in fragments of melted glass. There was a shard of a girder. A distorted frame. The grotesquely warped remains of someone's leg. All wrong. The ground should not look like that.
He lifted his head.
Desolation. Utter and complete desolation in every direction as far as he could see. The world had been turned to black and grey. His city, his glorious Vos had been broken. Smashed. Ravaged. A landscape that had made the spark soar had turned to a wasteland of husks and broken shells. He no longer recognised it. Every landmark had been burnt away. Where once was beauty and glamour and greatness, now was only destruction and defeat.
Sarristec hugged himself, desperate not to believe it. It had to look worse than it was. There had to be something left. There had to be.
Missile locks on Taynset's displays. Columns of fire diving into the night sky. Light beyond description. The howl of a new-born star.
No. This was real. There was no escape from that.
No escape . . .
"What's your name, lad?" asked the green mech kindly, kneeling beside him.
Sarristec met his optic. "Zacarii," he said shakily, lying on instinct, picking the first name he could think of.
"Nice to meet'cha, Zacarii. I'm Pikup. I'm with planetary defence. We're pulling all survivors out'a the city and taking 'em to a safe medical camp. You feeling up to the trip?"
"Y-yes." Yes, oh yes. He had to get away from this place, away from the corpse of everything he had ever known and ever wanted.
Away from the betrayal and the destruction and the memories.
He let Pikup help him to his feet, wobbling uncertainly as he tried to walk. It became easier after a few steps and weak as he was, he was able to make it to the soldiers' transport under his own power. There was seven, eight other Vosians crammed into the little shuttle, all coated in grime and crush injuries, all staring out at what was left of their home. They glanced Sarristec's way as he got on board but there was no recognition there. No doubt he was just as dirty as they were, everything unique and special buried under filth.
Good. That was good. The soldiers had freed him from the wreckage. Anonymity would free him from . . .
Reprisals? Recriminations? Guilt?
Settling awkwardly against the bulkhead, he put his head in his hands, hiding his face just to be sure. Free to make a fresh start, that was it. A fresh start without having to fear the misguided anger of those who would not understand that he too had been betrayed. Because there would be such people. There always were.
So he would be Sarristec of Vos no longer. He was Zacarii, lucky survivor, victim like all the rest. Just another lost nonentity, blasted back to square one.
A mech to whom the only way was up.
Aratoq Tower
Red Ridge District
Praxus
Cybertron
"Causality estimates are still climbing as rescue teams continue to scour the ruins for survivors. Current reports indicate that seventeen thousand people have been brought to temporary shelters on safe ground to the north of the Kahlian Ridge where they are receiving emergency treatment. There are now over three thousand Defence Directorate and Civic Guard officers in the region with more expected to be sent in tomorrow morning. Word on the ground is that ongoing hostilities with the remains of the Vosian army are winding down following yesterday's pitched battle at the Coppermount fortress. Sporadic fighting is continuing in Tarn, impeding the rescue effort in several key sectors, but there are reports from both cities of military units voluntarily standing down or surrendering –"
"Why the scrap are you stuck back here on your own?" Gauun demanded, putting his head through the doorway with a scowl.
"Shut up." Aratron did not look away from the newsfeed. He could not. For as long as the report had been running, he had been standing there, fixated on every picture of death and destruction, trying to . . .
He wasn't sure what. Understand it? Grasp the scale of it? Imagine what it was like for those who woke up to find their homes blown down around them, their friends gone? All of those things. The things you were supposed to do with tragedy. Empathise. Feel sorry about it. Grieve for people you'd never known. The things you were supposed to feel before getting on with life like nothing had happened.
"It's on all the 'feeds out here, too," Gauun pointed out uncertainly, failing to keep quiet because, well, because it was Gauun, "You don't have to watch it alone . . ."
"Yeah, and I don't have to watch it surrounded by people going, 'well, this will put a bit of a dent in my investments and no mistake. Another tube of Hiverin Special, anyone?' either."
"None of them talk like that . . ."
Aratron shut his mouth tightly.
" – extensive ramifications in the political sphere. Questions are being asked at the highest level as to how the situation was allowed to deteriorate into all-out war. Already, there have been calls for many high-ranking officials to resign. In Kalis and Prodium, protesters have taken to the streets demanding immediate elections. The standing governments are known to have supported Vos and to have helped the Vosian Conclave block disarmament proposals put to the High Council –"
"D'you remember Xennatron? Same batch as me?" Aratron shuttered his optics to block out the images of banners and slogans. "He was the first one to call me Wheels after you. Made Merchant Guild in less than seven stellar-cycles? He set up in Vos. Stellar-cycles ago now. Haven't seen the guy since we were protoed. And we didn't have anything in common except batch. . ." He trailed off, hissing. "And now all I can think is, was he in there? Did he get out or is he . . . is he dead? All those people and I'm just imagining this one mech . . ."
"But that's . . ." Gauun moved closer behind him. He reached out, almost touching, then thinking better of it. "That's just psychology, right? Association – uh, cognitive filtering. Picks out what you know first. It's normal, yeah?"
"I don't even know if he was still working there. No idea what kind of person he was. No idea what kind of person any of them were, except what everyone thinks about Vosians and Tarnians."
This time, Gauun put his hand on Aratron's shoulder. "Hey, it's OK. Really. I get it. This is . . . glitch it, there aren't words for this stuff. This . . . slag like this isn't supposed to happen. No one's supposed to die like that. Pit, how many people have you ever heard of dying like that? I heard once about this kind of organic turbo rat out on one of the colonies, lives and dies in the space of a quartex. How does that even work? How does it get anything done? That's not how life's supposed to work. And then this . . ."
Aratron reached up and slapped his own hand across Gauun's. He took the hint this time and fell silent.
" – coming in of renewed riots in Tagen Heights following clashes between Tarnian and Vosian freighter crews. The fighting appears to have spilled out of the dockyards and is spreading down into the city wards. Civic Guardsmechs are in attendance but their numbers are drastically reduced given commitments in the disaster area itself. More on these events as they develop."
"Sorry," Aratron said quietly.
"What for?"
"For . . . I don't know. Telling you to shut up."
"You always tell me to shut up."
"I just . . . those people out there . . . not now. Not now."
Gauun's fingers twitched. "Then I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you to this stupid party in the first place. I don't know most of these people. I don't like 'em much either. They don't care about art. Weird. All the money they spend on it and I don't think any of them really get it at all. But it's the boss-mech's show and he wants – wanted – to show me off, I guess. A bit. My work, anyway. And I wanted to have someone to talk to – slag. You know that. It doesn't matter. You don't want to be here, I don't want to be here and I'm just talking to say something because . . ."
"Because that's what you do." Aratron didn't – couldn't – smile. But he would have done, if they'd been somewhere else and the newsfeed was not showing what it was.
"Following the Defence Directorate's seizing of the orbital refineries formally under the control of Vosian interests, the Altihex Polity has petitioned the High Council for permission to take over running the operation. Given the extensive nature of the facilities in question, however, it is likely that there will be considerable competition for their future ownership. A tense stand-off between a squadron of Air Guardians and the crew of the primary Tarnian refinery is now entering its second hecta-cycle. The crew are refusing to stand down and allow the military to take them off. They have deployed a number of weapons that greatly exceed the strictures on armaments aboard civilian orbital platforms. Analysts have suggested that they represent clear evidence of how far Tarn had flouted the Inter-State Accords on a far deeper level than previously suspected."
"Do you want to leave?" Gauun asked tentatively, "I mean, leave the party properly. Go somewhere else. Um. Somewhere you want to be."
"I know what you meant. Thanks. But you can't just run out on your patron, can you?"
"He'll understand. He's very . . . understanding."
"Really?"
"I dunno. I hope he is. Especially since my last design went horribly wrong. Really bad day. Turns out too much high-grade makes me thing orange on amber on orange chrome is a good idea."
Shrugging off Gauun's hand, Aratron half turned around. "The world has gone crazy, more people than I've ever met are dead and you're making stupid colour-scheme jokes?"
"What else am I supposed to do?" He flung his arms wide, the wheels in his legs jittering on their axles. "I can't do anything about this. You can't. We can't."
Which was true. Even Ibriina and all the wealth and power of his great Line couldn't bring back the dead. So why shouldn't he carry on with his party? Why shouldn't all his Elite friends carry on worrying about their investments and swilling high-grade?
"You know what they said when they turned me down for medic training?" Aratron asked, fixing his optics on the wall, "They said Cybertron had enough medics. Didn't need any more. Wasn't worth training someone who wasn't in the top eight percent unless I wanted to go into the military. Better to be a bodyworker, because that's what people wanted." He waggled his fingers. "That's what everyone's always told me. I've got the kind of hands people want. Not that they need." The newsfeed was back to images of the craters. He looked at them and slumped a little. "Wonder what they'd say now."
"That you couldn't get trained fast enough to make a difference there. That Racetrack still needs you. That people will still want bodyworkers when this is all over. And there's no point glaring at me because it's not going to change any of that."
"All right! Point taken." Aratron thumped him on the shoulder. "You want me to watch this out there with you? Fine. Why not? It's not like that'll make any difference either."
"Right! So come help me clear Ibriina out of Skyiom Blend. He can afford it and we need to stop you feeling guilty over things that aren't your fault. So come on!"
Gauun grabbed Aratron and physically dragged him to the door. The last thing he caught from the newsfeed before he was pulled back out into the party was that, in a shock move, Polyhex had instituted a massive scale-back in its weapons stockpiles.
Virulex District
Tarn
Cybertron
He was alive!
Probably. The presence of sensory input – sound, light, pressure – suggested that was the case. On balance, continued awareness was a reasonable indicator of continued life. The clues added up, so to speak.
So yes, he was alive. Which was more than he could say for the mech lying next to him, with arms blown off and chest caved in. That was lucky. Lucky for him. Not for the mech. Obviously.
He struggled to get up. The ground shifted around him. Which made sense. He had been in a residential block when whatever it was happened, so the 'ground' had likely been there as well, or holding 'inside' up or being the roof.
Whatever it was that had happened. Yes. Except it was pretty obvious what had happened, wasn't it? Viilon hadn't listened to him. Hadn't stopped anything. And the Vosians had pulled the trigger. Boom. And of course Viilon's logic would have come up with the obvious answer. Double boom. All hail the might of the Shockwave.
Should have killed him when he had a chance. Not that he had had a chance. Being in the same room as Viilon was not an opportunity to kill him. Likely it wouldn't have solved anything anyway. Someone would have blamed it on the Vosians and everything would just have gone to the Pit faster. Bad idea. Stupid idea.
Pointless line of thought. It had happened. They had blown it all up. Game over. Everyone lost. Obvious outcome. Easy to predict. Success. Yay.
Someone's face was tangled in his foot. Just the face, blown clean out of the head. Optics shattered, mouth gaping. Big. Probably a tank. That was funny. The scrawny investigator survives and the big tough tank gets smashed to bits. Little, little bits.
His laugh did not sound good. Had his voice been damaged? There was dents all over him. Broken internals. Some oil leakage. If it was his oil. It might not be. His forensics package seemed to be offline and his eyes were still crackling with static so he couldn't tell right off. Better save a sample for analysis later.
Was Viilon still alive?
Hypothesis: as the logic-worshipping head of a cult of unhindered scientific advancement that had taken a broken city, remade it, then made it extremely powerful before getting it exploded, Viilon had the wherewithal and technical know-how to construct some sort of shelter from even the worst bombs.
Antithesis: given that Tarn had, in fact, been exploded, there were obvious flaws in Viilon reasoning that meant such a shelter was not a dead certainty nor guaranteed to have worked out properly.
Synthesis: pending. More evidence required.
That's what he needed to do. Get more evidence. Look for clues. Dig up the dirt. Get to the gears of the matter. Go on the trail again!
Yes. The rearrangement of the local topography was going to make this harder than it might otherwise have been. But what was life without challenge? And it was the same matter, after all. Just . . . rearranged. There would be a clue, a trail, a lot of dirt.
One great big wide gaping open lot of dirt –
Oh yes. He still had a face on his foot.
He shook his leg vigorously until the offending article detached and bounced and clinked away across the former-tower, current-pile-of-rubble.
That was better.
After a micro-cycle of processor-burning thought, he decided that following where it fell was as good a direction to start in as any other.
You had to be methodical about these things, else what was the point?
The Celestial Temple
Iacon
Cybertron
"This is intolerable! How much longer are you intending to keep me here?" Haacano did not stop driving up and down the room to shout at the Temple guardsmechs barring the door. His turret tracked them as he turned, his barrel glaring. "It has been two days! I am a ranking official and I –"
"Not any more," Elita said bluntly, cutting loudly across the rant, "Any rank you possessed has been abolished by the expulsion of Tarn from the High Council. As has been explained – repeatedly – you are being held by request of the Magnus' Office pending a investigation and judgement on the actions of the Tarnian government –"
"The Tarnian government?!" He shot into biped form so fast his body shrieked. "The Tarnian government reacted to AN ATTACK! Vosian missiles were already BURNING MY HOME TO SLAG when we fired back! Are we to be judged for trying to DEFEND OURSELVES?!
Utterly unmoved, her arms at her sides, Elita looked him in straight in the optic. "Naturally the Vosian government is also under scrutiny. You are not being singled out and you are not being victimised and my mechs are here as much for your safety as to keep you in here. While you are shouting at us all day long in here, Red Watch and the Civic Guard are busy outside keeping Tarnians and Vosians from killing each other on the streets."
Haacano's face quivered with barely contained rage. That he contained it at all was something of a minor miracle. But he did and slowly the anger drained from his frame, flared plates and snarling tracks settling back down. He folded his arms and opened his mouth.
Before he could say anything, Elita continued, "Permission has been granted for you to receive approved visitors. I suggest that you address any questions you may have to them." She stepped aside to allow a slender golden figure to enter.
"Xaaron!"
The Emirate acknowledged Haacano with a slight nod, then spoke to Elita. "May we have some privacy?"
She did not look happy about the idea. "If you wish, Emirate. We will be outside."
The guardmechs trooped out after her, masked and impassive as always. What they thought of it all was anyone's guess. As soon as the doors shut behind them, Haacano stepped eagerly forward. "Xaaron, please tell me you're here to –"
He stopped as the other mech held up a hand. "I am here," Xaaron began evenly, "on behalf of my government. They are considering their response to the developing situation and feel that you may be able to offer some insight into how events may continue."
"Xaaron . . ." Haacano repeated bemusedly, "I'm certain you know more about what's going on than I do! All I've had are these damn newsfeeds! You're the first reasonable person I've seen since – What do you want from me? I haven't even been allowed to try to contact my government!"
Xaaron looked past him at the engravings in the walls. His optics slid across to the image of Atraplex rising from the Iron Sea and he hissed quietly. "Do you realise that you are probably the only member of your government left alive?"
"What?" The tank's mouth dropped open. "I . . . that can't be true. I assumed – there were contingencies. Surely someone has – there must be someone!"
"If there is, they have not been located. The most we have managed to find – by which I mean, the most the combined efforts of the Defence Directorate and the global diplomatic channels have been able to find – is an operational overseer in charge of the Simfur occupation. Who is understandably perturbed by the idea that she has just outlived everyone further up the chain of command."
"This is not a time for jokes!"
"Who's joking?" He walked over and traced the line of fins along Atraplex's tail. "The point is that there is no one left to speak for the people of Tarn. Or Vos. We haven't been able to find a single surviving member of the Conclave either."
"But that's . . . there must be someone. I cannot be . . ."
"It would seem you can. You and Graviitus appear to be the only ones left to represent your peoples. And to be held accountable for their actions."
Haacano came up beside him, urgently bright optics reflected in the golden metal of the wall. "What are you saying?"
Xaaron hissed again. "You know exactly what I mean."
"So we are to be punished for defending ourselves? And all the while, the scavengers strip-mine everything left behind. Oh yes, I know the Altihexians are already trying to take the Vosian refineries. How long until someone goes after our energon reserves? Will they even bother to wait for Council permission?"
"Nova Cronum at least will be doing all in its power to ensure that the focus remains on helping the survivors," Xaaron told him tiredly.
Haacano rolled his tracks derisively. "Please. As if any state is going care about the fate of my people when there are fuel and technology reserves for the taking!" He swept his arm in a great, cutting arc. "No wonder you wouldn't all stand with us against Vos! This is the best outcome you could have hoped for! Now we're both ripe for the picking and to the Pit with everyone who has died –"
"Did you hear about Polyhex?"
Xaaron's interruption threw him off mid-gesticulation. What had been a furious stride forward became a stumbling step. "What?"
"Polyhex. I assume you must have since you have been paying attention to the 'feeds. They're destroying their photon missile stocks. Not just vowing to scale-back their stockpiles. They are actually and publicly dismantling them. Every last one of them. The Stanix Parliament is voting on an action to halve their missile stocks in their entirety. There are a dozen similar proposals being discussed across the planet. If the Prodium government doesn't go through with it, they will likely be dragged screaming from office." Xaaron drew his forefinger back from the engraving. "Tarn and Vos have appalled the world. That could yet mean an atrocity on this scale will never be allowed to happen again." Walking slowly past a depiction of the Fall of Cronum, he circled around the room before facing Haacano again. "It will certainly mean no sympathy for those responsible."
The Tarnian shifted uncomfortably. Whatever righteous indignation had fuelled his earlier outbursts had drained from him now. "I . . . Xaaron, I cannot . . . I represent my people, I did not decide their path. You cannot hold me responsible for everything that . . ."
"I do not. Broadly speaking, my government does not. But soon the initial horror will be over and the reality of life without the Vos/Tarnian fuel reserves will start to sink in and then it really won't matter whether you had any control over what happened or not. As I said, you and Graviitus are the only ones left to be held responsible."
"But . . ." Haacano stood there, utterly lost, the full meaning of Xaaron's words finally working its way under his armour. All the pride and bluster of the seasoned politician faded, leaving a lost old mech with no idea what he was supposed to do next. "It . . . it was never supposed to go this far," he whispered hollowly.
"Yes." Xaaron shuttered his optics. "That was exactly what Graviitus said."