Half an eternity spent in spark isolation, as a frameless consciousness suspended in the veil between reality and nonexistence—and for what? What purpose did those unending eons of solitary confinement serve? To teach the would-be usurpers a lesson? To set an example for others whose ambitions might threaten to destabilize the great Cause?
Absurd. After four million years, High Command had done a fine job of that on their own.
Starscream's historical account placed the once-proud Decepticon Empire in a truly dismal state of current affairs. Their homeworld was a barren ruin devoid of energy. The population of billions, reduced by wartime attrition to a few tens of thousands at the time of the Combaticons' imprisonment, had further shrunk to mere hundreds of confirmed active survivors. Some further two thousand soldiers remained on Cybertron, stasis-locked to conserve energon, awaiting a call to service that never arrived. A few military outposts were scattered across the stars, uncoordinated and outside of communications range. Countless famed warriors had perished in the war. Even the Guardian of Cybertron and fourth in command of the entire faction, Shockwave, had been assassinated by Autobots only a few years ago.
"One less name on the payback list," Swindle noted. It was only a pity that the Combaticons had not been around to inflict their jailor's demise personally. Vortex could have orchestrated a far more fitting end for the one who had stolen four million years' worth of freedom from each Combaticon.
In Shockwave's absence, Decepticon contact with the Cybertron troops had ceased. The last bastion of High Command was the flagship Nemesis, which now orbited an organic-dominated planet in search of energon. This was the very same planet that Starscream and the Combaticons now stood upon. Of the hundreds of elite warriors on the flagship's original crew roster, less than a dozen remained. To replace the fallen, Shockwave's early experiments in fractured-spark technology had been repurposed to mass-produce Vehicon troopers from the limited supplies onboard the Nemesis. The comparatively weak frames and minimal training of the freshly built Vehicons proved to be an endless source of consternation for Starscream, who spent a good portion of his explanation detailing the many shortcomings of Vehicon aerial squadrons compared to the Seeker armada of the old glory days.
When questioned on what exactly had become of said armada, Starscream muttered shiftily about Megatron and madness and an unending quest for dark energon. Starscream had been second in command since long before the Exodus, and he had witnessed the full extent of Megatron's deepening obsession with mythical powers. Only recently had Starscream parted ways with the crew of the Nemesis, for he could no longer bring himself to obey a warmonger who was clearly losing his grasp on sanity.
"And this is where the Combaticons enter the picture. You will be the instruments through which I may take my rightful place as leader of the Decepticons," Starscream concluded.
Driven into a rare state of astonishment, Onslaught processed this information.
Four million years ago, the Decepticons had been near victory when the Autobots fled Cybertron in what would later become known as the Great Exodus. High Command pursued them into space via the Nemesis, bidding the troops left on Cybertron to await a swift victory. Those who stayed behind spent their time exterminating Autobot stragglers.
As planetary energon resources dwindled and off-world expeditions returned no news of the promised triumph, the soldiers on Cybertron grew disillusioned in the Cause and began to battle among themselves for power. Shockwave, left planetside by the other three-fourths of High Command as the nominal Guardian of Cybertron, was too focused on his scientific experiments to mind this infighting. Amid this anarchy, the Combaticons took it upon themselves to clean house, starting with gangs of renegade soldiers and ending with the so-called Guardian of Cybertron who had permitted such chaos to fester.
A successful Combaticon overthrow would have revived the splintering army with competent and unified leadership. Instead, it all went sideways. Shockwave anticipated their arrival, and the laboratory that should have contained one scientist instead had fifteen heavy-grade sentinels armed with enough firepower to take out a small battalion. The Combaticons were arrested mere moments away from complete takeover, and their revolution ended on Shockwave's dissection table.
The first coup attempt had cost the Combaticons four million years apiece, and yet Starscream now wished them to initiate a second attempt with far less potential reward.
"By all means, do enlighten us: where exactly was the Decepticon second-in-command while the Empire fell into disarray?" Onslaught asked pointedly.
"I… I was busy with important work! Between setting an example for the lower ranks and managing Megatron's unrealistic expectations, I had hardly any time to spare."
"I see."
"Excellent! Then we shall proceed at once—"
"I see that you've run this organization into the ground, Starscream. You and the rest of High Command." This was the only lesson that Onslaught had derived from imprisonment. "Now, you ask for our help to restore order? Us, whom High Command condemned for that very same goal? You have some nerve."
Starscream's claws slashed through the air. "Make no mistake: it is Megatron's incompetent leadership that has led the Cause to such dire straits. During these years, I have labored tirelessly to preserve Decepticon lives and interests, while Megatron thinks of nothing but continuing his age-old grudge match with Optimus Prime. It is well past time for a change in leadership. Thus, I bid you, esteemed Combaticons: arise, and tear down this outdated tyrant who plagues us, such that I may bring about a new era of Decepticon triumph."
"That sounds very profitable for you as Megatron's successor. What's in it for us?" Swindle asked, arms crossed.
"The unparalleled honor of serving under the new Emperor of Destruction, of course." Wings flared outward as Starscream posed majestically before the Combaticons.
Vortex cackled at the theatrics. Swindle shook his head: honor was not a quantifiable payment for one's services. Blast Off swirled air through cooling vents in a drawn-out sigh. Brawl glanced at Onslaught.
Onslaught, for his part, considered this with all of the regard it deserved. "No."
"Eh… in addition, you will get revenge on the one who ordered your imprisonment."
This was a better offer. After Shockwave had arrested the Combaticons, Megatron had personally called in from half a galaxy away to deliver their sentence. Unexpectedly, it was not execution that Megatron demanded, but rather a torturous eternity deprived of all sensory input.
"The Combaticons will deal with Megatron in due time. Do not doubt that. But serving you, Starscream, is not part of the plan. Our vengeance will proceed on our own terms," said Onslaught.
The Combaticons followed Onslaught's lead and headed for the laboratory door.
"Suit yourself, Onslaught. Your pride will not keep your team fueled," Starscream called out to their retreating backs. "Enjoy drinking organic muck instead of energon."
Blast Off, who was just half a step behind Onslaught, tensed and turned around. His broad wingspan effectively blocked the door frame, preventing Vortex, Swindle, and Brawl from joining Onslaught in the corridor.
"Organic fuel?" Blast Off echoed with considerable disgust.
Swindle frowned. "You said that this planet was rich with energon."
Starscream chuckled. "Indeed, in the inert crystal form. I doubt any of you have the right sensors to track that, or know how to refine it into consumable fuel... I, on the other hand, once commanded the Energon Seekers. My scanners can track down one energon crystal across half a continent."
Even as Starscream spoke, his optics dimmed and flickered erratically in the telltale signature of long-term energon deprivation. The dynamic sweep of limbs and wings in synchrony with Starscream's speech, while just as extravagant as the Combaticons remembered from past encounters, was slower and less precisely timed than expected. His steps landed heavily upon the ground in the manner of someone not fully powering energy-consumptive anti-gravity systems. To thermal sensors, Starscream's frame also appeared cool in the vicinity of the jet engines. This suggested that Starscream was either relaxed enough to forgo taking off at a moment's notice—unlikely given that, in past times, Starscream had existed in a perpetual state of battle-readiness bordering on paranoia—or too low on fuel to keep those engines active at all times.
Blast Off looked down at Starscream, managing to convey supreme disbelief despite the visor and mask obscuring his features. "Half a continent? Exactly how small is this planet?"
"Hehehe, perhaps a smaller continent," Starscream clarified. "Besides, I know the coordinates of Megatron's mining operations. With your brute force and my strategic brilliance, we could easily raid large quantities of energon from the mines."
Onslaught's engine rumbled with the depths of his indignation. His plans had seized countless mission successes from impossible odds. It was insulting to even consider the notion that the Combaticons operated as simply brute force. Only one mech in the laboratory merited an acknowledgement of "strategic brilliance," and it was not Starscream.
On an encrypted short-range radio channel, Onslaught sent his team a request for fuel status updates. The results were not promising. Everyone had energon levels below a third of full capacity, arranged in inverse proportionality to their size. Swindle had the highest fuel level at 31% capacity, while Blast Off ran at 19%. They had sufficient energon to sustain normal operations for a few Earth days without risking systems shutdown from lack of power, but leaving the planet entirely was out of the question. Blast Off would need at least twice as much energon to safely break out of planetary gravity, and far more to have any hope of reaching Cybertron. At his current fuel level, Blast Off was confident that he could manage a low Earth orbit, but aiming for geosynchronous heights would be dangerous.
As long as Starscream controlled the energon, the Combaticons were stuck on Earth.
Starscream had spoken persuasively on one point: the Decepticon Empire was indeed overdue for a change in leadership. Perhaps the time had arrived for the Combaticons to finish the coup that they had long ago started.
"Our goals align temporarily," Onslaught conceded. "We will help you, but not for free."
Swindle stepped forward with a radiant grin. "In return for our services, you will pay us in energon. We'll charge only seventy-nine percent of the usual rate—rescuer's discount, just for you, as gratitude for freeing us. It's a real bargain!"
Starscream chuckled darkly. "Splendid, splendid! Of course, you will get the energon after you bring me Megatron's head."
Swindle's smile slipped just a fraction. Payment after services rendered could not be trusted.
"Full payment in advance is preferred. Of course, all prices are negotiable," Swindle replied.
Starscream scowled. "No negotiations. That was my final offer."
"In that case, no deal—"
"Swindle, not now. Starscream, you will have payment ready when we return," Onslaught decided. Here and now, with the Combaticons stuck on an alien world and millions of years out of known times, Starscream held all the power. The Combaticons could afford to bend some business practices while Starscream controlled their access to critical energon resources. Later, once the Combaticons found ways to procure fuel without relying upon Starscream's conditional support, they would have the leverage to oppose Starscream more freely.
Onslaught turned to his team. "Brawl, lead a munitions test outside. Check all weapon and alt-mode functions; I expect each of you to prepare a status report when you are done."
Brawl nodded enthusiastically. The turret on his back rotated and clicked into a combat-ready position. "Now we're talking. Move out!"
As the others filed out of the laboratory, Onslaught remained behind to talk with Starscream.
Outside the Harbinger, the crimson hues of sunset flooded the horizon and plunged into the darkness of sheared metal corridors. Brawl charged out of the hole in the holo-sim room, transformed into a tank, and rolled down the rocky slope with a front-liner's fearless bravado. His tank treads handled most of the boulders in the sloped terrain, but a few were too large to overcome. Brawl shot those into pieces, delighting in the easy explosion of sandstone—so much more fragile than the reinforced alloys used in Cybertronian infrastructure and armor. Rubble and dust settled in Brawl's wake, overlaying dark green paint with the paler hues of sand. At the base of the cliff holding the wreckage, Brawl returned to bipedal form and waved at his comrades.
Swindle passed Blast Off, who had stopped just within the threshold of the Harbinger to admire the sights. Swindle descended at a more measured pace than Brawl, climbing around what few boulders had survived Brawl's passage. Inquisitive optics roved over the surrounding canyons and terrain. Value assessment calculations already spidered across Swindle's internal displays, overlaying each object with estimated cost breakdowns and potential customers. The information was four million years out of date, rendering absolute prices irrelevant due to demand and scarcity fluctuations, but the relative values of different objects could still be useful. For instance, Brawl was the most valuable object in Swindle's forward field of view, distantly followed by a fist-sized chunk of Harbinger hull. Two varieties of red and gray rock registered as low-value individually, but sellable in bulk to a Vossk manufacturing company.
Blast Off stood at the edge of the torn-off lower decks, Earthen debris below and pale sky above. His gaze turned upward with an air of immeasurable longing. Though Blast Off lacked the energon to truly break orbit, nothing could quell his fondness for the limitless expanse of space. Beyond the gaudy crimson and gold shades of planetary dusk, the vastness of the universe called to Blast Off, making his thrusters itch with the memory of countless past launches. Out there, above the squabbles of small-minded individuals and the binds of gravity, was the celestial serenity amid which Blast Off truly belonged—
"Freedom!" Vortex cried in delight. He bowled past Blast Off and dove headlong into open air, transforming into helicopter mode as he fell. Rotors whirled into action, and Vortex twisted from freefall into a languid hover in front of the wreckage. His downwash flung sand and dust everywhere. Debris coated the metal floors, the holo-sim generators, and one unamused shuttle.
"Agh! Watch it, Vortex!" Air circulation vents automatically sealed off to reduce the risk of sand clogging internal filters. Sand covered Blast Off's visor, obscuring his vision.
"Check out this atmosphere, Blast Off. How long has it been since you last had a proper flight? Without anyone shooting at you, that is."
In response to Blast Off's compromised vision, secondary sensors associated with his precision targeting systems had automatically activated. A targeting overlay projected inside Blast Off's visor showed one large, slowly moving helicopter outline hovering in front of Blast Off. Structural weaknesses at the cockpit windows, tail fin, and rotor mast were highlighted as priority strike zones on the overlay.
"If you do not quit blowing dirt on me, I shall shoot you," Blast Off warned.
Vortex hummed and cut power to his tail rotors. This did nothing to reduce the dust clouds, but it did make Vortex spin slowly in place overhead. "Come on out. Some air under the wings will cheer you up."
Blast Off wiped at his visor with middling effectiveness and managed to reclaim partial vision on the left side. Targeting systems registered visual confirmation. Leg-mounted ionic cannons clicked into ready positions for a moment before Blast Off triggered the manual control to set his weapons at their lowest power output.
"Time for target practice," Blast Off said, a hint of amusement entering his voice. He fired a warning shot across Vortex's fuselage. At this low power setting, a direct hit would do little more than harmless cosmetic damage to paint.
Laughing, Vortex returned fire with his own lasers and darted away on an erratic flight pattern. "Catch me if you can!"
Clearing away the remainder of the dust coat with a full-frame ripple of armor plates, Blast Off powered on the primary thrusters in his pedes and launched from the ground in root-mode. Two starburst scorch marks remained where he had stood on the edge of the Harbinger deck.
On the ground, Swindle and Brawl were checking inventories. More accurately, Swindle was lamenting the loss of an extensive inventory of mods and equipment upgrades that had not transferred to his new frame, while Brawl had already discovered a satisfactory supply of ammunition stored within his subspace and moved on to test-firing at various rock formations.
"No shields—great, just great. Do you know how much Nebulan shield generators cost?"
A granite boulder twice as tall as Brawl exploded into shards. Brawl unfolded into a standing position and inspected his handiwork. "Don't need shields if you shoot 'em first."
"Heh, that's not what you said when I dragged your melted frame out of Simanzi," Swindle retorted. "Add in four million years of inflation, and I'll be lucky to afford another shield within my lifetime—if they even make those anymore. Not to mention the prismatic cloak and the EMP generator…"
"At least you still have the little guns." Satisfied with the destruction, Brawl transformed back into a tank and loaded a different type of explosive ordinance.
Swindle transformed one hand into a standard plasma blaster and back. "Oh yes, the little guns, and none of the rest. No assault rifle, no precision lasers, no gyro-gun, and no scattershot cannon. Even my magnetic grapples are gone!"
The thunder of rotors swept by overhead as Vortex approached. His downwash blew sand everywhere, covering Swindle from helm to pede. Brawl became less dusty. Directly over Swindle, Vortex transformed and dropped to the ground, landing in a crouch. He straightened and slung a companionable arm around Swindle's shoulders.
"Don't look so glum, buddy. All is not lost. I still have my grapples." Vortex demonstrated with his free arm, extending and retracting a physical grappling cable from its housing in his wrist armor. His gray paint was covered in black splotches from Blast Off's low-power cannon strikes.
"Good for you," Swindle grumbled, not cheered up in the slightest.
Thrusters roared in from the sky. Blast Off descended to the ground on the other side of Swindle, flicking a speck of sand from his plating. "About time you surrendered, Vortex—"
A laser bolt flew past Swindle, striking Blast Off in the center of his chassis. The blackened impact spot was over his spark chamber, starkly visible against the solid purple of his torso. Vortex whooped in triumph.
"Ha! One-five, you slowpoke!"
Blast Off's visor blazed. Cannons on both legs realigned and hummed with charge. "Who are you calling slow, you planet-bound hovercar reject?"
Sensing impending doom, Vortex retreated a step sideways and backwards. The arm around Swindle's shoulders tightened into a grab, and Vortex shoved Swindle in front of himself as a shield.
"Hey, lemme go!" Struggling against Vortex's headlock, Swindle brought a blaster to bear and fired blindly behind himself. Stray shots flew every which way as Vortex attempted to simultaneously dodge blaster fire, keep Swindle between himself and Blast Off's cannons, and retaliate with his own lasers. Some stray shots went in Blast Off's direction.
Blast Off lost all patience and opened fire.
Half an hour later, Onslaught found his team locked in a three-way shootout moderated by Brawl, of all mechs. Laser and plasma fire peppered the ground with holes. As Onslaught picked his way down the rocky slope beside the Harbinger, the sounds of a firefight triggered his own combat protocols into an action-ready state. Twin anti-aircraft guns twitched and locked into position on his back, prepared to shoot despite the conscious knowledge that this was not a true battle zone.
Starscream, who had followed Onslaught out of the Harbinger, yelped and dove to the side a moment before blaster fire cut through the boulder he had perched upon. Molten glass puddled on the ground where Starscream had once stood. Onslaught eyed the pool with considerable disappointment. Such damage was most certainly not from weapons set at training output levels.
To put it plainly, Onslaught was not amused. With energon in short supply and repairs less feasible than previously anticipated, this was hardly the time to fool around—yet here they were, shooting at each other instead of conducting the requested status evaluations. What had happened to his team's discipline?
Onslaught went over to the most responsible member of his team. "Status report."
To his credit, Brawl did not flinch upon noticing Onslaught's presence, which was better than could be said for the other three. While Brawl drew into a sharp salute, the others scrambled out from behind various defensible rock formations, exchanging a stream of muttered profanities.
"Onslaught, sir. All weapons are good to go," Brawl reported.
Onslaught inspected the crater-pocked terrain. "I see. Alts?"
Blast Off transformed, and everyone quickly backed away to give his mass-shifting mechanism sufficient space to expand. His alt-mode was a Cybertronian shuttle that superficially resembled an Earth shuttle on the outside. However, the interior was completely Cybertronian in design, with appropriately sized seats for passengers. As a shuttle, Blast Off was large enough to transport the other four Combaticons with some spare room for cargo. "Systems are functional."
"Yep." Swindle flipped into a Jeep and back.
"Works fine." Vortex's rotors spun, but he neglected to transform. The others had seen him as a helicopter earlier, though, and they nodded confirmation. Onslaught deliberately did not react to this show of insolence.
Brawl demonstrated his own. "All in order."
That left only Onslaught. He transformed into a blue and green missile truck and selected a target. One anti-aircraft missile spiraled into the air, whistling down half a kilometer away. The impact decimated an entire sector of the canyon. Brawl cheered, and even Blast Off looked a little bit impressed behind his usual disinterested bearing.
Starscream was most pleased with the results. "Excellent. Megatron will never see this attack coming!"
Returning to bipedal form, Onslaught outlined the plan that he had developed using Starscream's knowledge of the Nemesis. Using sensors aboard the Harbinger and Starscream's memory of shipwide flight patterns, Onslaught had decided to board the Nemesis while it entered the lower atmosphere for a routine resource pickup. This precise attack timing would vastly reduce fuel expenditure on Blast Off's part compared to directly aiming for typical orbital altitude of the Nemesis. When Onslaught was done describing the mission parameters and assigned tasks, even Starscream seemed inspired.
"Well said, Onslaught," Starscream replied, all smiles. "A strategic processor almost on par with my own."
Onslaught turned slowly. "I beg your pardon?"
"Ehh... anyway, time is wasting. We only have a narrow window of opportunity while the Nemesis descends from orbit. Strike now, before it is too late."
Blast Off transformed into a shuttle, and the others marched aboard. Onslaught led while Swindle brought up the rear.
Starscream remained at the site of the wreckage—someone had to remain at the Harbinger and guard their base of operations, after all. Onslaught had seen the wisdom in that reasoning. As the door to Blast Off's cargo hold began to close, an odd expression of foreboding came over Starscream's faceplates.
"Good luck," Starscream called from outside.
Large purple optics glinted over the top of the closing door, glowing in the night. "Luck is for other mechs. Combaticons make our own fortune."
The cargo hold snapped shut with multiple clicks of locking mechanisms. Inside the cabin, infrared lights activated and inertial dampener systems engaged. Blast Off launched into the sky, a sonic boom rippling out in his wake. Within moments, the stern of the Harbinger dwindled to a mere speck on the horizon.
According to Starscream, the Nemesis would have just concluded its surface visit by the time Blast Off launched. Their goal was to intercept the Nemesis before it ascended above the mesosphere. The projected flight route brought the Combaticons from the human state of Arizona to the skies over southern Texas: a fairly long distance of fifteen hundred kilometers to anyone with a ground-based alt-mode, but a few minutes' hop for Blast Off's space-worthy engines.
Blast Off had chosen a flight path that remained below the highest cloud layers to reduce the likelihood of being spotted by orbital surveillance. The very tips of tail fins skimmed the lower edge of the altostratus cloud layer. At this altitude, the ground was visible as a fractal of abstract patterns, alternating between clear and blurry as smaller puffs of cloud passed below. Above them, a pale and wispy blanket of water vapor tinted the night sky a fuzzy gray.
As Blast Off steered toward the Nemesis with all the grace of a ballistic rocket, the other Combaticons admired the alien planet speeding by far below. Onslaught had the privilege of sitting in Blast Off's front cabin where a pilot seat would have existed on an equivalent lifeless craft. Naturally, this seat had the best view of the sand dunes and rocky mesas unfolding below; Onslaught's visor had not strayed from the windows throughout the ride. Back in the cargo hold, Swindle, Vortex, and Brawl clustered around the much smaller viewports built into either side of the cabin.
"No signs of war at all," Brawl said, amazed.
Where were the shelling craters, the scars carved into the very crust of the planet, the cities reduced to molten scrap that would glow with radiation for centuries to come? Nothing of the like existed here. Only the gentle forces of water and wind had sculpted the surface of this Earth. Artificial lights of human habitations spiderwebbed across the ground, built laterally like microbial colonies rather than three-dimensionally in the manner of modern Cybertronian construction. To soldiers' optics, these flat human dwellings seemed foolishly vulnerable: such sprawling locales with a high surface area-to-volume ratio were indefensible against aerial attack.
During the initial briefing, Starscream had sent the Combaticons a summary data-packet on native Earth flora and fauna, including language translation programs and the technological status of the semi-sentient "human" species. The data indeed matched the sights outside Blast Off's windows, but simple awareness of human existence was quite different from observing those primitive cities with one's own sensors.
Swindle smiled, sensing opportunity. "The natives, those humans, have no idea how much danger they're in from the mere proximity of Decepticons. I bet they'd pay most generously for some expert advice, if they only realized."
Vortex turned from the viewport to look directly at Swindle. "Starscream would never catch us if we went AWOL right now, and we've done plenty of stealth missions before. Avoiding Decepticon scanners shouldn't be hard. We could disappear on this planet. Make our own path among the natives. With their level of tech, we'd be ruling the place within the year." Claws tapped against metal near the viewport. "What do you say, Blast Off?"
"We need energon. I refuse to drink organic fuel." A full-frame shudder rocked through Blast Off, jolting the otherwise smooth flight path more severely than any turbulence thus far. Everyone inside the cabin scrambled to brace against something solid.
Quitting outright, it seemed, had been vetoed by their ride.
"How about this? We go ahead with the job and find the Nemesis. Shoot our way in," Swindle suggested.
"Good idea. Shooting stuff always works," Brawl agreed.
Swindle was not finished. "Once aboard, we loot their energon storage. They must have refined fuel reserves for the crew. As soon as we get enough energon for Blast Off to break orbit, we drop Starscream and head to Pz-Zazz. I know several contacts who could set us up with weapons and a ship. At least one of them should still be around."
"Pz-Zazz?" Vortex tilted his head. "Why not Monacus?"
Swindle glared. "You know very well why not, Vortex!"
"Still worked up over that little incident? Hehehe..."
In the pilot seat, Onslaught resisted the urge to ask. Vortex and Swindle had kept silent on the specifics of that particular mission. They had returned from the offworld trip strangely glum despite having successfully completed the mission objective. Onslaught only learned after the fact that further visits to that trading hub were firmly off the table. Whatever happened on that mission had cost the Combaticons one of their major offworld weapons supply lines, which in turn left the higher-ups none too pleased. It had taken three stellar cycles of voluntary reassignment as experimental test subjects in Shockwave's combiner program to restore the Combaticons to the good graces of the Decepticons. The physical upgrades had been worthwhile, but the loss of a key munitions supplier was still a heavy blow.
"The Consortium doesn't forget. You want to pay up or what?" Swindle sighed wistfully. "Sure, they always had the best quality products, but I like living."
Rotors wilted. "Fine. Not Monacus. Get me a new glue-gun, and I'm in."
Brawl perked up at the mention of weapons. "Yeah, I want a gatling gun too."
Onslaught had been content to watch the sights for the duration of the trip, but the conversation between the three Combaticons in the cargo hold drifted further from the plan with each passing minute. A reminder was needed before the team grew too distracted.
"We will maintain the original objective," Onslaught ordered. "Stealing energon while Megatron's centralized command structure remains intact leaves us vulnerable to organized retaliation, whereas removing the threat at its source will leave the shipwide forces in a chaotic state ideal for further maneuvers. There will be ample time to gather the spoils after we show Megatron why he should never have crossed the Combaticons."
Nods all around. Brawl slammed a fist into the opposite palm. "Yes, Sir! Let's do this!"
Cabin lights switched from night settings to zero output. Three visors and one pair of optics blazed in the absolute darkness.
"Two minutes to intercept," Blast Off reported.
The world tilted as Blast Off angled upward for the final approach sequence. Engines roared with the increased strain of transitioning from a level low-altitude flight into rapid ascent. Viewports filled with pale fog as Blast Off pierced through altostratus and cirrostratus cloud layers in quick succession.
As they broke through the final layer of clouds, the darkness sharpened into a field of stars. Amid the bright pinpricks of starlight, one jagged speck ascending through the mesosphere glowed with the warm hues of infrared radiation. Distance made the behemoth appear deceptively small, but even from afar, the sleek fins and razor edges of the Decepticon flagship were unmistakable.
"As magnificent as the day we first set foot upon it." Onslaught rose from the pilot seat, visor nearly pressing against the window as he shifted to get a better view of their target.
"We were only on the Nemesis that one day," said Blast Off.
It had been a memorable one indeed. The Combaticons had been on the original Nemesis crew during the initial launch. When the Nemesis intercepted the Ark between Cybertron and the orbital space bridges, the Combaticons were among the first boarding groups to engage the enemy. It was a battle hard fought, yet puny Autobots had managed to punt their combined form off the hull of the Ark. Heavily damaged from battle, they fell back to Cybertron. They could only watch in helpless rage as the space bridge activated, flinging the two starships far beyond their reach.
"Do try not to get us shot off the hull again. It took Cybertron's best medics to rebuild us after the Ark. I doubt Starscream has the skill or motivation to do the same." Blast Off's tone bordered on insubordination.
Onslaught's fists clenched and released. Blast Off spoke words of challenge, but his concern was reasonable. Their combined form had been defeated once before during a spacefaring attack, to disastrous results. However, such a failure would not happen again. Onslaught's new strategy ensured that.
"Stick to the plan, and we will prevail," Onslaught said simply.
The pointy shape of the Nemesis expanded as they flew closer. Using Starscream's information, Blast Off had chosen an approach vector covered by two cameras that intentionally malfunctioned at specific time intervals. Right now, they had a three-minute window during which the camera feeds would loop historical replays instead of useful data. The sensors on this edge of the ship would still detect Blast Off's presence, but those sensors did not have precise enough resolution to distinguish him from a standard aerial Vehicon without camera confirmation. When the Combaticons came within two kilometers of contact, a transmission appeared on all of their internal receivers.
"Identify." The transmission was unencrypted, and data tags indicated the sender as the Nemesis Perimeter Sentry.
Per Onslaught's plan, Blast Off transmitted a series of Vehicon authorization codes that Starscream had graciously provided. The four passengers braced themselves against the nearest solid structures, preparing for the rapid jolt of evasive maneuvers if the codes did not work.
Another transmission arrived. "Identification accepted. Proceed to landing, Eradicon Steve."
The cabin filled with anticipatory clicking of armor plates and weapon systems. Blast Off accelerated toward the landing site. With his speed, they arrived well before the three-minute camera malfunction window closed.
The flight deck consisted of a runway and a pair of heavily reinforced hangar bay doors. The ship's outer hull, including the hangar doors, consisted of alloys reinforced against battlecruiser-grade weaponry; the Combaticons could expend all of their ammunition pounding against the exterior without making a dent. Entry would require more finesse than a direct frontal attack.
As they flew in over the upper flight deck of the Nemesis, Blast Off rolled sharply to the right, ejecting his passengers and transforming in the same motion. Five Combaticons landed on the deck, magnetizing their pedes to the ship's hull to avoid being blown off by the wind. They quickly dispersed to positions that would not be monitored once the malfunctioning cameras returned to normal operation. Onslaught and Brawl moved to spots directly in front of the hangar bay doors, while Vortex and Swindle took up positions on either side of the entrance. Blast Off crouched behind Swindle.
The thin air of the upper mesosphere rendered vocal communication ineffective. Instead, Onslaught addressed his team over a short-range radio channel.
"Combaticons, prepare to engage. Remember, use internal radio only when critical, and keep your long-distance communication links offline. Soundwave will be monitoring all standard broadcast channels." Onslaught turned to look directly at Blast Off. "Begin."
On one side of the flight deck, the parabolic dish of a communications array protruded from an otherwise featureless hull. During an active battle, folded metal plates on either side of the array would close around the dish, protecting the comparatively delicate machinery from damage. However, the Nemesis was not currently expecting an attack, and the array stuck out undefended.
Blast Off shifted into position and fired a single precise shot. The top of the communications array burst in a shower of sparks. Fragments of the dish scattered into the wind. The damaged array would not affect intra-ship communications, but any ship-to-external communications would be hindered. More importantly, the loss of external communications would register as a priority repair task for the Nemesis maintenance division.
Now, they only had to wait. The repair crew would open the doors for them.
