Chapter 20

"Sixth gear"

The ground was crusted with black molten rock that had cooled a millennia ago - all that was left from the mantle's last heated death throes before the cold grasp of entropy finally overtook it. Fossils scored across the surface, unveiled by curious passerby after passerby, and some of the relic bones had been crunched into powdery dust beneath all the foot traffic. It was a popular world: one Seeker Elites more often than not visited after mastering their newest implanted tool - the warp engine. Not instantaneous travel-wise like the space-bridge was, but space-bridges were expensive to maintain and next to impossible to use to reach previously unexplored worlds. They sometimes needed receiver bridges too, which was a hell in and of itself in terms of both practical resource administration and the sheer chore of trying to establish communication with somewhere quite possibly on the other side of the galaxy.

Ergo - Seekers were the next best thing towards expanding Cybertron's borders. Or at least adding new info to the collective Vosian Exploratory Institution's datalogue concerning the worlds and territories of wild space.

"You are now capable of performing all the basic functions a mobile Energon Seeker needs - whether in a fleet, a trine, or alone," Contrail told her. He was sitting on the ossified skull of some massive, long-dead reptilian beast. "All we can do now is rush you through more sims - and you've already covered most of the essentials."

Hawkmoon said nothing. She didn't know what to say.

"It's not enough," Contrail said, lips twisting with distaste. "The intricacies had been barred from you - and our culture, our people, suffers for it. You're a star, Hawkmoon. You're a better student than I ever anticipated. Gifted. Gifted. Despite the hand you were dealt, you excelled. I'm proud of you."

"I only wanted to get away," she admitted. "I didn't want to die - that's all."

"Be that as it may... you're welcome. In the Institute, my office, my home at any time." Contrail stood up, approached her, and gave her a solemn nod. "It's not impossible for you to improve, to reach the level of education that all Seeker Elites should receive, but it'll be a slow process - by exposing you to us, the Institute, as its own subculture and little else. Lacking, I know, but-"

"We don't have a choice."

"No. We don't." Contrail sighed, turning away. "You'll have two decaorns before you're to be deployed. Have fun. Enjoy yourself. Make every moment last before we call you to fly, and fly fast." He paused, shooting her a firm, stoic look that said more about what it hid than what it didn't. "We - Cybertron - needs energon, as quick as you can get it. Find us worlds to harvest - at any cost. I don't care what you have to do, what deals you have to make, what battles you have to fight. Just save our world before we consume ourselves."

"I will," Hawkmoon told him.

It was only half a lie too, so she only felt half as bad for doing so.

They were ready, at least according to Iacon - and not a few instructors. They had done brilliantly, Hawkmoon mused. Didn't make the rushed initiation period any easier. That said, there were some positives to glean from the great, big, horrible mess - like forming a trine with mecha she liked, mecha she trusted, and then some. She personally felt better than ever; honed like a perfect blade, a Seeker armed with training, skills, every natural advantage of being a member of the strange, wonderful race and propped up with weapons she was finally permitted to own - which she fully intended on smuggling back to Earth, to arm humanity with the kind of technology that would finally knock the Hive down from their eons-old pedestal.

It wasn't all bad - and she was adamant to improve on that, to turn the 'not bad' into something 'good'.

The first thing Hawkmoon did when they returned to Cybertron, to Vos, was to take Cyberwarp alone for a flight into the wilderness surrounding the city and watch the sun set while sitting at the summit of a long-forgotten mountain. It was almost as good, almost as beautiful as what happened when they got back. Interfacing, Cybertronians called it. Less so animal instinct as primitive (she meant that fondly) humans were wont to, more a brushing of two souls, offering close company in an otherwise lonely existence. It gave her hope; hope that, eventually, the void left in Gecko's yawning wake would close over, heal, lose its razor edge.

A vain thought, that, but Hawkmoon was nothing if not desperate.

"I'll be heading offworld soon." Hawkmoon leaned against the doorframe, Rook once more on her shoulder.

"So I've heard," Minerva grunted, gathering up a kit of... something and tossing it into one of her chest's internal compartments. Hawkmoon cringed squeamishly; it was just too... ick for her tastes. "Another decaorn, right?"

"Yep. What about you?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh. Well. Good luck?"

Minerva shot her a mystified look. "What do you want?"

"To wish you good luck," Hawkmoon said, more certain of herself. "I thought that was obvious."

"Blatantly so."

Hawkmoon rolled her optics. "And to say thank you."

"You're welcome-"

"So thank you again."

"-despite being so weird."

"... Ah."

Minerva snorted. "Who's minding your symbiote?"

Hawkmoon glanced at Rook - who was suddenly paying her very close attention. Mute he may have been, the bird was too damn smart for his own good. "Contrail. Or one of his mechlings. Oh yeah, Contrail's got a family-unit by the way. Didn't find out myself until a couple of orns ago..."

"That's great."

Hawkmoon sighed happily. "That's what I wanted to hear. Your snark. Oh, I'm going to miss it, big time."

Minerva shot her a faux-smile. "Okay."

"I really will."

"That's... that's great."

"I hope to see you again, Minerva."

"Bye, weirdo."

Sometime into the second decaorn, Hawkmoon was invited by Cyberwarp to her home in upper Vos - to meet her creators and her brother, a troublesome little mechling by the name of Gateway - for some obscure Cybertronian celebration. A winter solstice thing, not totally unlike Earth's Dawning, but nowhere near the same level of giddied cheer. Hawkmoon made sure her paint was done up and her demeanour was a polite one before going - and honestly, she had a blast. Cyberwarp's family-unit were funny, nice, welcoming, and they adored her. She adored them in turn.

It was hard to leave, but Cyberwarp eventually ushered her out the front door - giggling all the while. They'd both had a little too much high-grade and were left in high spirits for the rest of the evening as a result. Hawkmoon memorized everything about the orn, adding it to the pitifully small pile of what she called "treasured moments". They spent the rest of their free time in each other's company, often with Nacelle too, and wandered Vos and the surrounding hinterlands guided by pure whim - drawing out each moment as long as they could and savouring each day of freedom before they were to be thrown out into the cold, unfeeling universe beyond.

The dreaded orn came - creeping up on them in broad view, taking its sweet time. Hawkmoon, Cyberwarp and Nacelle reported at the Institution's launching fields, some distance outside Vos, and packed up as much as they could in terms of spare energon rations, engine coolant, ammunition cells and repair kits. Despite how much she abhorred doing so, Hawkmoon filled her internal storage compartments almost to the brim - because there was no telling what would happen in the wilderness of uncivilized space, and she wasn't going to chance getting caught lacking.

The good news, though, was that Contrail - among other concerned mecha in the Institution's governing board - had arranged for them to fly with a group: two other trines, one led by Northwind (which they were ecstatic to learn about) and one by their former flight instructor, Swiftsear. Their mission was the same as most already sent abroad - to scout out energon rich worlds and log in their coordinates for the rest of the Seeker fleets to mine right to the core. To help with that, they'd been assigned a commercial exploratory shuttle/decommissioned Quintesson-era gunship to tack on the extra energon rations and store their own miniature mining lander. It was large enough that all three trines could have been semi-comfortably housed within, though there was a startling lack of individual cabins - more like a pre-Golden Age space-RV than anything else. Perhaps towards that end, there were docking clamps on the gunship's exterior for their alt-modes to attach to while they recharged.

The ship was to be run by what Northwind called, whispering lowly to her, true ab-Seekers - smaller flight-orientated Cybertronians from another sub-polity within Vos's own borders, with more blocky bodies and whose helms were built into the tops of their chest, all of them having a single purple optic and no visible mouths. Less energon-costly what with the diminutive frames that barely reached up to Hawkmoon's midriff, but they couldn't explore as far as the classic Seeker could in open space. Expert marksmen and communications officers, though - which she honestly should have expected, given that their alt-modes, at least from what she had seen, were more like automated satellites than actual jumpship-esqe spacecraft.

Swiftsear named them Wall-Crawlers - which was particularly apt of a description, given that their servos and pedes were arranged in such a way that they could cling to almost any surface like some sort of robotic houseflies. They themselves cheerfully referred to themselves as Dartwings - which was, again, apt given that they pretty much did dart all around the gunship's interior, almost constantly moving to and fro. There were four of them, which was apparently a normal trine size for them (a quadrine?), and Hawkmoon found it hard to distinguish between them on an individual basis. They didn't much help that either, since all of them had the same basic form, silver-and-black paintjobs, and only barely divisible voices. There was Voltadron, Ampitude, Eletrov and Deciforge. Odd names, but then who was she to talk - she'd stolen her designation from a gun.

A fantastic 'cannon at that, though. Traveler above, she missed handcannons...

Largely, she was glad for all the company. Hawkmoon wouldn't have minded having just Nacelle and Cyberwarp along, but heading into unexplored territory without any real prior experience in doing so... well, it wasn't encouraging. And it felt... safer, to have Swiftsear along - as well as Northwind, Quell and Skydive, who were each mecha she knew she could count on. The Dartwings were funny, too. She genuinely found that she liked them - little busybodies idly tinkering away at every conceivable part of the ship, their Aurorus, and generally acting like they hadn't a care in world besides running the damn thing. It was hilarious to watch.

They departed at midday. Cyberwarp's creators came by to wish them luck; Contrail did as well. Nacelle's brother came by, said nothing, just nodded to the younger Seeker and left. Hawkmoon was left with the realization that she hadn't anybody else herself, beyond maybe Contrail - that those she'd come to know and care for were either present and readied to go with her, or were in Stanix and hadn't heard anything about her after Nightbeat had abducted her. Not Phosphora, not Overwatch, not Daybreak or Complexius, not even Knockout.

And that this was quite possibly the last orn she was to spend on Cybertron, if she figured out which way was home.

Regret bloomed in Hawkmoon's spark. If Nacelle or Cyberwarp picked up on it, they didn't show it; their trine-bond was mostly closed off, each of them choked up with their own emotional baggage. When they transformed, took off and circled around the Aurorus, not one of them said a thing.

There was nothing left to say, anyways.

Their heading, in Swiftsear's own words, was one of 'galactic north-east', towards the largely unexplored Hierva Sector. The old, crumbling hyperlanes of the ancient Cybertronian Empire were thin and desolate there - which was a good sign, as less infrastructure meant less natural resources processed and devoured by their own ancestors. The astral maps kept by the Institute regarding the area were sparse and old besides, filled with brief entries on local phenomena and the rare development of the most primitive of alien species. Their trajectory, warping first through the neighbouring star-systems of Cybertron's own seat of power, was to take them directly to Freeport Azal - once a resupply station for the grand relief-fleets of the Cybertronian Armada, presently a semi-safe trading haven for the outcasts, wanderers and other detritus of what few metal-life worlds survived the apocalyptic Rust Plague. It had only recently discovered a dozen or so vorns prior by a stray expeditionary group of other Energon Seekers.

It took them five orns to reach the place, and Hawkmoon's first impression was of awe - because it was huge and had probably been a formidable craft in its heyday - and disappointment - because she was told that the population within barely reached the heights of a couple of hundred, a mere fraction of what the facility could house. They landed by one of the hangers near the Freeport's upper towers and found, to their surprise, only a few mecha around - if they could even be called that.

Apparently, Cybertronian life had been seeded far and wide - and so long ago that it really shouldn't have come to anyone's shock that said live adapted to new terrains and realities in varying ways, particularly in the great divide between the individual colonies and the Cybertronian heartland after the Plague - wherein most of the interplanetary space-bridges were destroyed to prevent the spread of the virus. The most well-known and well-researched were Aquatron and Velocitron, where one was a water-world and other a place of vast flatlands - and the denizens there had evolved into their own unique neo-Cybertronians. There were others too, Swiftsear told her when she prompted him, but only Aquatron, Velocitron and a couple of others were actually known - mostly because of their close proximity to Cybertron's own star-system.

If that was the case, then Hawkmoon was surprised Cybertronian genealogists hadn't raced to visit the Freeport and record all they saw within the moment it had been discovered, because it was almost like walking into an open zoo.

"We're here to trade in information only," Swiftsear told them. He ordered for his trine-mate Vale along with Northwind, Nacelle, and Hawkmoon to tag along, and for the rest to remain with the Aurorus. "Keep your weapons configurations on standby, all of you. Don't let anyone you don't know near you. Primus knows how many viruses are running unchecked through this place..."

Where the archaic, daunting outside was impressive and incredible in so many ways, the interior of the station was either totally abandoned or, in the inhabited elements, a cesspit of lawlessness and greed. Hawkmoon kept her claws splayed and wings tucked tight against her back; she could feel the optics of a couple of haggard-looking mecha following their group as they made their way through.

::Stick close,:: Swiftsear ordered, ::And whatever happens, keep your vocalizers offline - unless asked a question.::

::Where are we going?:: Northwind asked.

Swiftsear didn't turn around - just kept delving on ahead into the recesses of the ruined station. ::We need information. There might just be someone who can give us that. Now cut the chatter.::

Hawkmoon kept her silence easily enough; this wasn't her first time in the gutter. Felt a little like being home, actually. The shadowed figures slinking between the alleys and corridors, the din of Cybertronian Scramble and other mechanical dialects flying through the air, the chattering of small, hideous little symbiote pests straying by the edges of sparse stalls and small gatherings of wary-looking mecha - just like the old days, really. Before order had come back to humanity, when anarchy and one's own killing power were the only laws to live by.

She hadn't been around long enough to get a true taste of what the Dark Ages had been like, but what she'd seen had been enough - and this wasn't any different.

Just when she thought the universe couldn't get anymore ironic, it threw her up against something like this. Hawkmoon stifled a snort and stood with her spinal-struts straight and servos by her side as Swiftsear stepped forward, just in front of where the two armour-less mechs crossed their energy-glaives, and said, "We're here to deal."

Upon a throne of soldered scrapmetal, the arms of the grand chair capped with the lifeless helms of two dead maybe-mecha, maybe-symbiotes, sat the Cybertronian equivalent of the Shore's own Spider - and this one actually lived up to the name. "Are you, now?" the svelte, many-limbed femme purred, leaning forward. She was a slim-framed creature, with two arms and two legs, but with six spider-like appendages rising out of her back behind her. A web of steel-wire cabling cushioned the seat below her, electrified at the edges and offlined in the centre. A great monstrous symbiote resembling a five-eyed wolf paced in front of the throne, fanged jaws hovering open and staring each Seeker up and down with feral hunger. "It's been a time since your kind last passed through these halls, little birds." She gestured to her guards. They lifted their glaives and stepped back, but the wolf didn't move.

Swiftsear warily approached, halting a meagre leap away from the symbiote. "By order of the High Council of Cybertron, we're here-"

"To mine energon, I know." The femme yawned. "News reached us about your... dilemma. That's it, yes? That's why you're here?"

"Yes, but-"

"There's no energon for another two hundred parsecs. None that isn't claimed, that is. And those who hold those fuel-worlds would... well, I doubt they'd be keen to give it up."

"What about outside those two hundred parsecs?" Swiftsear stiffly inquired.

The femme laughed. "How desperate you must be, to grovel before me for help."

"Blackarachnia, we're willing to pay honestly for any assistance you can offer."

"In what?" The femme leaned forward. "How will you pay?"

Swiftsear clasped his servos behind his back. "In shanix. The High Council is willing-"

"Bah, shanix. Disgusting." Blackarachnia waved the offer away. "And useless. Your Cradle-World data-credits don't hold any weight out here, wanderling."

Swiftsear shifted. "You want something specific?"

"No more offers?"

"We're pressed for time. Say your piece or don't; we're not here to play games."

Blackarachnia pouted playfully. "Aw. I prefer it when you beg."

Swiftsear turned around to leave.

"Alphanus! If he goes, tear his spark out," she snarled. Her wolf howled and ran in front of Swiftsear - who quickly transformed his servos into blaster cannons. The rest of them did the same; Hawkmoon brought out her shoulder-mounted nucleon-charge cannon alongside a shard carbine - and left one of her servos handy, talons splayed to grapple. The glaive-bearers lowered their weapons at them like lances, their optics blank and battlemasks deployed.

"Come, now," Blackarachnia whispered. "Sell me a dream - and you'll leave with your life and a guide. How's that?"

Swiftsear glared at the wolf. "Kill us," he growled, "and you'll have the entire might of the Vosian Expeditionary fleet crashing down on you."

"Oh, please," Blackarachnia snorted. "I'm almost certain they'll be too busy running around for planets to crack open to bother with little old me. So is that it? Is that all you have to bargain?"

Hawkmoon rocked on her heels, eyeing the closer of the guards and calculating the time it would take for her to jump and disarm him - or, if things got real ugly, tear his spark out.

"Mercantile rights," Swiftsear seethed. "I'll petition the High Council to allocate trading territory into your jurisdiction."

"You have no jurisdiction. Not here. Not anywhere, really."

"Not right now."

"Is that a threat?" Blackarachnia laughed.

"A promise," Swiftsear vowed. "Cybertron's low on fuel. We're branching out. Sooner or later others are going to come this way, no matter what happens to us here and now. You can be a part of the new order, or you can die off with the rest of the vermin."

"It is a threat..." Blackarachnia murmured. "How much?"

"The parsec."

"No. The entire subsector."

"Who do you think you are?" Swiftsear turned around, optics hard and a grim, bitter smirk affixed to his faceplates. His blasters reverted back into servos. "You'll get your parsec, insect, and you'll thank Primus we gave you and your riff-raff anything at all."

Blackarachnia's own smile disappeared. She stared daggers at him. "I could have you killed, you know"

"You'd die in the crossfire."

"Are you sure about that?"

Hawkmoon realigned her Nucleon Charge cannon's targeting matrix on the spider-like femme. "I am," she coldly promised.

Blackaranchia glanced at her, looked over all the Seekers present, and grimaced. "Cybertronians," she sneered. "You're all the same - imperialist dreamers. Fine, have your Cyst Stars - and give me this fragging parsec. I want your oath, bird."

"I will petition to allocate the local parsec-"

"No, not local." Blackarachnia leaned forward. "I want 26J27B."

Swiftsear paused, optics flickering as he consulted the datalogue. "Dead space. Nothing there."

"I want it."

"Why?"

"I. Want. It."

"Fine." Swiftsear clenched his servos into fists. "I swear to petition the High Council of Iacon to allocate parsec-26J27B to Blackarachnia, merchant leader of the Freeport Azal Conglomerate."

"That'll do," Blackarachnia purred once more, anger suddenly all but forgotten. She stood up - on her extended insectoid stilt-legs, which elevated her humanoid form into the air. "You'll need your guide; it can get terribly hazardous by the way of the Cyst Stars. Worry not - I'll bring you to him myself."

AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!