Chapter 20: Over (and Under) Troubled Water
"Oh, what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
That the sun shines sweetly on?"
"Oh, yon are the hills of heaven," he said,
"Where you will never win."
"Oh, whaten a mountain is yon," she said,
"So dreary with frost and snow?"
"Oh, yon is the mountain of hell," he cried,
"Where you and I will go!"
He struck the top-mast with his hand,
The fore-mast with his knee,
And he broke that gallant ship in twain
And sank her in the sea.
- "The Demon Lover", ballad
The water exploding through the portal could have been considered a wave, except a wave eventually subsides and this was wholly continuous. The roaring surge hurtled the two bots backwards, slamming them against the walls and each other. Bumblebee came to a stop after he crashed into Soundwave's legs, but Knock Out was almost at the junction of the hallway before he rolled to a halt. Soundwave, farther away from the door, had managed to keep his footing. Still, pressurized water hissed on the flat planes of his arms, which were raised to protect to faceplate.
His mask dropped to regard Bumblebee, lying at his feet, and the Communication Officer didn't have to say anything to convey his disapproval. What were you thinking? every line of him said.
Keeping his arms up, Soundwave stepped forward, forcing his way through the spray. His narrow design proved an advantage, splitting the water into hissing streams. The sting of it increased to outright pain, and now he had to lean forward, bracing himself with each footstep until it was simply impossible for him to progress any further. He remained a good eight feet from the door, unable to proceed and unwilling to retreat. Bumblebee hovered further down the hall, wanting to help but uncertain how he could.
Knock Out did not hover; he picked himself up and waded out into the wider corridor. The current swirled around his legs, carrying with it all the organic debris one would expect from Earth—dirt and coarse washes of grit, long strands of long, rubbery plants that tangled themselves around his plating, and the occasional very confused fish. Water rippled eagerly ahead of him, lapping down every hallway and growing deeper by the second, and could hear—oh scrap.
"—must be a hull breach," Starscream's voice floated around the corner, accompanied by splashing footsteps. "That wretched Wheeljack, no doubt, or Bulkhead—"
"Indeed, Starscream," growled a deeper bass. "But never fear, we shall find the Autobot responsible."
Bad. Bad, bad, bad. Knock Out started to back away down a side corridor, only to slip on the layer of organic silt settling on the floor. His flailing arms did nothing to save him from falling on his face just as Megatron and Starscream rounded the corner.
He decided to make the best of it by pulling himself up on one knee, pressing a hand over his chest, bowing his helm, and generally trying to look like he had chosen to drop into the disgusting liquid.
"My liege," he said brightly, focusing on the enormous golden feet in front of him.
"Arise, my little gladiator." Megatron gripped his shoulders, not painfully but firmly, and pulled him upright, setting him on his feet. "And speak. Have you been harmed? Where is your companion?
"And where is the water coming from?" Starscream added.
"Ah. The water. Yeeees . . . There was a bit of an accident with one of the outer hull doors . . ."
Starscream's expression became shrewd. "I see." She reached out to pluck a tangle of seaweed off the red mech's shoulder.
"As for Bumblebee, he's back there with Soundwave—"
"Soundwave!" Megatron and Starscream said in chorus.
"Where?" Starscream asked sharply.
Knock Out pointed, then trailed after them as they splashed through the deepening water to investigate. Bumblebee was just coming out of the narrow hall—he was having no better luck keeping his footing than Knock Out and was actually clutching at the wall to keep upright—and Soundwave was just a flash of dark blue hardly visible through the white rush of water still exploding through the open door.
Megatron strode forward, growling as he raised his cannon arm to break the force of the water, and drew level with the Communications Officer, then passed him. Fingers gripping the edge of the metal frame, Megatron's cannon arm shook as he plunged it into the water. Blindly groping fingers caught the door by its edge and he heaved backwards. Metal creaked and strained as the pressurized water narrowed into a hissing stream. Soundwave hurried forward to pull as well, and the roar of water receded to a gurgle, then to a drip-drip.
Starscream, who had stayed well back eyeing the broken, half-submerged remains of the Vehicons, now strode up to Soundwave, frowning at him. "How are you feeling, my dear? Count backwards from ten."
Soundwave obediently pinged her the decreasing number set. She nodded, satisfied. "Take these two to the med bay. The new med bay." Seeing Bumblebee draw back and Knock Out looking dubious, she added, "He's all right now. Hurry up, it's not safe here. And when you see Knockdown, tell him you've had contact with saltwater."
"Salt?" Knock Out gasped, attempting to recoil from the water, which was difficult since he was standing in it. His efforts involved drawing his arms tight against his chest as he drew one leg out of the liquid, pushing up on the tip of his pede with the other. "This liquid has salt in it? By Primus, it does! The effects on my systems—"
"The good doctor will attend to you," Megatron said, striding back down the hall.
"And to you, Lord Megatron," Starscream said firmly. "And to Soundwave, for that matter."
"I'm sure the corrosion will hold off until we have finished with the remaining Vehicons, my Second. Come, let's finish what we've started. You," he added, looking down at Bumblebee and Knock Out, "I will speak with later."
Which was not exactly the reassurance either of them wanted.
On the bright side, Smokescreen had escaped from the boulder, dispatched any Vehicon miners who might be inclined to tattle, and made it back to Jasper. On the down side, Smokescreen had lost the Phase Shifter.
He was so dead. Maybe literally. No one had noticed its absence yet (it wasn't like he'd asked permission to "borrow" it), but when they did . . . Everyone knew it was his favorite relic (and OUGHT to be given to him permanently, he used it the most skillfully!); the fact that they didn't have proof that he'd taken it would not save him. Optimus Prime had strong feelings about theft, except theft from unworthies like the Decepticons, of course.
Decepticons. A scowl crept across his face as he remembered the two Decepticons who had stolen the precious relic. The Decepticons' head medic, apparently refitted as a grounder, and a bot he hadn't recognized, the one with the screwed up voice.
Screwed up voice. That . . . seemed familiar, somehow. Hadn't someone been telling him about . . .
"Hey Arcee . . ."
"Busy." She and Cliffjumper were ostensibly guarding the Vehicons that had been readied for the push, but these particular Vehicons had been loaded with such thorough loyalty programming that it made the exercise moot. You could tell them to pat their helms or stand on one leg or offline themselves and they would; it ran that deep.
In this case Arcee and Cliff had told them to stand there and wait, so the Vehicons stood and waited. Meanwhile the two mercenaries were engaged in a game of cards. The only thing they were guarding were their respective hands.
"Busy? Whatever," Smokescreen said impatiently. He watched as Arcee lost a hand, and cursed. "Optimus doesn't approve of gambling."
"Optimus doesn't approve of anything," Arcee sneered, but she lowered her hand, the cards fanned and hidden as she draped her arm over her knee. "What?"
"Wasn't there a Decepticon who couldn't talk right? Like, he had a fragged up vocalizer. Know who I'm talking about? Black and yellow guy."
Cliffjumper was the one who responded, the emerald green grounder snorting with laughter. "What, are you stupid? Yellowjacket. You're talking about Yellowjacket."
"Yellowjacket?" That name sounded familiar. Smokescreen turned back to the monitor and ran a query for the name. Sure enough, the picture in the file matched the bot he'd fought, although his color scheme had run more heavily to black when the picture was taken and his optics were . . . red? "Hey, he's an Autobot!"
"No fragging kidding," Arcee said. "Count yourself lucky he's rust, rookie. If he heard you calling him a 'Con, you'd be wishing you were offline."
"Wait, he's dead?" Smokescreen blurted.
"Not one for reading, huh, Smokey?" Cliffjumper smirked. "Or maybe you don't know how."
"You're not exactly Mr. Intellectual yourself." Arcee sounded bored. "Are we playing or what?"
"We're playing, we're playing." The two of them lifted their cards and went back to ignoring Smokescreen.
Just as he was about to delve deeper into Yellowjacket's file, Ratchet emerged from his laboratory. The medic's plating was white cut across with an electric shade of cyan, the color of fresh-spilled energon. "Oh. You." Ratchet gave Smokescreen an unimpressed look. "What was the idea, asking for a ground bridge and never coming through?"
Smokescreen frowned. "Long story."
"Then it'll have to wait. I'm starting the raid." The medic strode self-importantly over to the monitor. "Are you ready?" he asked Arcee and Cliffjumper.
"Yeah, yeah." Arcee stood up, sweeping the cards into a neat pile.
Each Vehicon squadron was directed through a different ground bridge—carefully directed, because the level of reprogramming that Ratchet had inflicted on them had reduced them to almost mindless creatures. Their orders were simple, fortunately. Go through the ground bridge. Spread through the ship. Fight the Decepticons. Die.
The final instruction, though not vocalized, was the most important one.
"Now the fun begins," Cliffjumper said, moving up to stare at the monitor as the last ground bridge closed. The interior of the Heretic was a mystery to the Autobots, but a mystery that was beginning to clear. A rough wire mesh rotated on the screen, a lumpy sort of shape with thin corridors strung out from it. Little blue triangles marked the inside of the mesh, not at equal intervals, but in little clusters.
As they watched, two new triangles appeared on the screen and the mesh expanded slightly to account for new data.
"That was quick," Cliffjumper remarked.
"The Decepticons aren't fools," Ratchet said briskly. "They'll have patrols watching the areas most likely to be breeched. Ah, but look here." He pointed as another triangle appeared, this one initially floating by itself, away from the three-dimensional model. The computer hummed and within seconds a little mesh corridor had extended to encompass and account for the path of the triangle.
"Better," the green Autobot admitted grudgingly.
"There's two more over there," Arcee pointed. More pathways splintered off the main as two new symbols appeared.
"They still go down too fast if you ask me," Smokescreen said. "We oughtta give them bazookas or something."
"That would be a great way to give the Decepticons a pile of weapons, all right. Try again, rookie."
"Shut up, Cliff."
"Make me."
"Both of you shut up," Ratchet snapped. "I'm working here."
They all fell silent, watching as more blue triangles blipped onto the screen. The Vehicons continued to die.
"Don't lose your head."
The words, hissed into Bumblebee's audial as they were led to the emergency hangar ("out of the way until the med bay is less of a madhouse", Knockdown instructed) told the scout that Knock Out's thoughts were running along the same lines as his were—aware that they might be blamed for trying to sabotage the Heretic. "Autobot clones", a portal opened to the boundless ocean . . . well, who could blame the Decepticons for being suspicious? Bumblebee braced himself for the inevitable, upcoming accusations.
But strangely, their escapade had the opposite effect, utterly convincing the Decepticons—even the previously skeptical Airachnid—that they truly were hapless clones. Fleeing Soundwave's rampage was viewed as nothing short of sensible. ("I'm really very sorry," Trauma had apologized, looking guilty. "He does get upset, but I didn't think he'd be so completely out of control.")
The fact that there had been an large body of water behind their chosen escape route was accepted as an unfortunate coincidence, and Soundwave's recording of the events—which Starscream had gone through the effort of teasing out of him after explaining that, no, she really did want THAT FILE from THAT TIME SEQUENCE and not a random video of kittens falling asleep in their food—had clear audio of Bumblebee saying, "I don't think this is such a great time to be an Autobot clone."
Bumblebee was not sure how he felt about his ironic line being taken literally. He . . . supposed it was a good thing, under the circumstances?
At any rate, the sheer panic he and Knock Out had shown—painfully evident in the video, to the scout's embarrassment—was as much of a factor as what he'd said. Not to mention the still-frame he later found Ampule giggling over, of Knock Out being pushed backwards by the first surge, his face a study in shock, while Bumblebee's arms flailed out of the water.
That said, the Decepticons still exhibited an air of incredulity that annoyed Bumblebee—and, for that matter, Knock Out. They just couldn't seem to believe there was anyone planetside who didn't know the Heretic was submerged.
"Well, you see, Air Commander," Knock Out said with a false sweetness, "nobody told us the ship was underwater and so, it being a spaceship and all, we felt it was safe to assume that it was wasn't underwater. Silly of us, I know."
"But surely the Autobots talked about it?" Starscream asked.
"Not that I recall," Knock Out said promptly. "Bumblebee?"
"Um. No. Maybe they . . . forgot."
"Unlikely," Megatron said, "seeing as they disabled the vessel themselves."
Knock Out drew back, looking surprised and actually a bit outraged. "The Autobots disabled the Nemesis?"
The Heretic, you idiot, Bumblebee thought despairingly. Not the Nemesis. The worst part was that he had made the same mistake at least twice during his initial questioning. Primus only knew how the Decepticons would interpret that.
"Indeed, the Autobots coordinated a stealth attack on the engines of the . . . ship." Oh yes, Starscream had definitely noticed that slip-up. Great. "And so, here we are." She strode over to the wall and pressed a sequence of numbers into the datapad there. Gears grinding softly, the hangar's doors swung forward.
"Wait a minute!" Bumblebee yelped; Knock Out was backing away. "Aren't we under—oh."
A frigid wind swept into the room, whistling through the seams in Bumblebee's armor as he moved to stare out at the slate-grey water rolling beneath him. The thick fog rolling over the water could not entirely hide the distant arc of shoreline, nor the mammoth masses of ice simultaneously stretching up the valleys and overhanging the water. Directly below, shallow sweeps of water washed over the main deck of the Heretic, but the tall structures at the bow of the ship reared out of the bay, just as the Towers did.
"Well, that explains a lot," Knock Out mumbled. He drew back as Starscream tapped the pad again, swinging the doors closed again. "I can truthfully say," he went on, "that we didn't know any of this. At least I didn't. Did you, Bumblebee?"
"No, Knock Out, I did not." Bumblebee resisted the urge to roll his eyes.
"I believe you . . . but you could have refrained from wandering off on your own, at least," Starscream scolded. "Vehicons aside, you could have gotten lost."
There was no way she could have known he was a fully trained scout, but Bumblebee still felt somewhat offended. Even if he had, in fact, become temporarily . . . disoriented . . . for a time. He could've found his way back on his own. He could've! "That wasn't—wouldn't have been—a problem. I wanted to stretch my legs and someone had already shown Knock Out around—"
"Trauma," the red grounder supplied.
"So it's not like we didn't know where we were going."
"That's right. I took him to the Library," Knock Out said. "Then the Vehicons attacked, and before we knew it we were being chased all over the N—"
Bumblebee pinged him, once.
"—Heretic," Knock Out finished with barely a break. He did not so much as glance at Bumblebee.
"The young learn best by doing, Starscream," Megatron said indulgently. "And although the raids are unpleasant, our young newcomers will have to learn to deal with them sooner or later if this is to be their home."
"There are five Citizens in the med bay who 'dealt with' the Vehicons by dying at their hands, Lord Megatron, and I would prefer to lessen the odds of these younglings meeting the same fate," Starscream said drily.
Megatron's face became grave. "They shall be mourned. But such things are inevitable in war, my Second. Still—you have a point."
"Of course she has a point." Knockdown was standing in the doorway, watching. Impossible to say how long he'd been there. "Knock knock," he added. His temperament differed so much from Knock Out's that there was no hint of irony or playfulness in the words. He was alerting them to his presence, not indulging in wordplay.
"Ah, Doctor. You have a suggestion?" Megatron inquired.
"Yes; they should be fitted up with communicators, obviously. But that's not what I'm here about. These two need treatment for saltwater before it starts effecting their internals. And so do you, Megatron, and Soundwave as well. You," he looked at Starscream, "get off easy. Wash your feet and legs thoroughly with solvent—including the ankle joints—and you'll be fine."
"Gladly, Knockdown," Megatron said, "as soon as I relieve the ship our Vehicon prisoners. We are thinking of dumping them in Death Valley this time—"
"No, now. I know how you are. If I let you sneak out you'll never come back." The cyan medic crossed his arms, head tilted back to give the gladiator towering over him a stony look.
"You see how it is," Megatron turned to Bumblebee and Knock Out, amusement mixed with pride. "My crew is not to be trifled with. Even those not meant for warfare. Very well, Doctor, now it shall be."
"I'll find Soundwave and get him to the medical bay," the black, gold, and maroon Second-in-Command said briskly. "He's easier to direct in person than over the comms."
"Thank you. The rest of you, follow me." Knockdown led them back to the medical bay, then began searching through the cabinets for the appropriate chemical additives to neutralize salt contamination. He found two packets.
Unfortunately they had a bitter taste. Because of this, he would make sure that Megatron drank first. Like many gladiators, Megatron would fearlessly face down certain death, but balked at minor unpleasantness. Knockdown had never understood it.
"Knock Out." Gesturing for the red grounder to come over, he set three cubes of energon in front of him, plus the two packets. "Stir this in until it dissolves. Not too fast."
No time like the present to start training his new assistant, and Knock Out nodded amicably at the order. The grounder stirred the gritty powder into the energon while Knockdown hunted behind bottles and boxes for a third packet. There had to be one somewhere . . .
"Sooo . . ."
The jet looked over his shoulder at the sound of Knock Out's drawling voice. The clone was stirring lazily, watching the granules dissolve into the solution.
"Lord Megatron said you weren't meant for warfare. Does that mean you don't fight?"
"I've had to fight my way to patients before and sometimes I fly on strafing runs with the Armada. But generally speaking, no. I'm a medic. Most valuable saving lives, not taking them." He couldn't quite interpret Knock Out's expression—a smile, but a slightly crooked one, and a surprisingly shrewd look in his young optics. Knockdown had seen Soundwave's video. He'd seen the energon splattering the red paint before the water blasted it off. And then there'd been the Vehicons back at the energon mine. "You won't be put in the line of fire again if we can help it. If I can help it."
"Glad to hear it. Although I don't know what difference it would make at this point." Knock Out gave a little snort of laughter, running a hand down his scratched and scarred chassis with a rueful expression. Setting the first energon cube aside, he began stirring the second one. "You spoke raaaather . . ." He searched for the right word. "Rather forcefully to Lord Megatron. Considering."
"Well, he doesn't listen otherwise," Knockdown said, standing on tiptoes to feel around the back of the cabinet. Ah, finally . . . he plucked a third packet out. He paused before handing it to Knock Out. "You don't have to call him 'Lord', you know. Starscream's the only one who does and that's just her personality. He won't demand it from you. Or from anyone."
Knock Out tore the packet open and poured the contents into a cube, tapping it against the rim to get the last grains out. "I'd rather not get out of the habit."
"Well, if it makes you more comfortable." Maybe Trauma would get somewhere with him. If not, Starscream, at least, would be pleased. She did like formality. Unlike Megatron. "I'd still like to work on your arm tonight, if you're feeling up to it. We've cleared out the more serious injuries from the Vehicons." Airachnid's evacuation protocols had worked well, although five unfortunates had still lost their sparks when they got trapped in a supply room.
Knock Out rubbed his hand down his arm, wincing as his fingers grazed over hinges where his door had been attached. "Fine by me."
The drugs didn't wear off until quite some time after the operation to rewire his arm. This was fortunate, as his hazy state prevented Knock Out from really taking a good look at the replacement door on his left arm until much later, after the med bay had emptied for the night.
Thus there was no one around to hear his shriek of horror and rage.
The replacement was . . . it was HIDEOUS, that's what it was! A plain white panel, cheap plastic (cheap plastic touching his chassis!), and, and, and it wasn't even a door, just a vaguely door-shaped THING!
Knock Out pushed off the berth and paced, hands gesticulating towards the ceiling and describing angry arcs as he called his absent counterpart a hack, a fraud, undoubtedly a medical school dropout, and an Autobot sympathizer bent on demoralizing the Decepticon cause. It wasn't until he reached the more mundane insults—slagsucker, fragger, and so on—that Knock Out calmed down and remembered that Knockdown had told him, while he was still drugged up, that the paneling was temporary.
"Just until we can fabricate something better," he'd said. "We haven't done much with automotive parts, but I'm sure we'll manage."
"You'd better manage," Knock Out hissed, but nevertheless he was mollified as he righted the chair he'd overturned.
Temporary. It was a Pit-damned piece of scrap and a crime against good taste, but it was temporary. He wanted so badly to rip it off the way Smokescreen had ripped off his actual, perfect, glossy door. The pain hadn't been that bad. He could endure pain better than he could endure this insult to his chassis. But that wouldn't fit in with the wide-eyed innocent clone persona he'd worked so hard to establish, now would it?
"Ugh." Knock Out tipped his head, taking in not only his arm, but the scrapes down his chest, the scratches, the furrows . . . He'd been trying to ignore the constant abuse to his beautiful finish, partly because he'd been too busy trying to survive to attend to it, partly out of a vague, superstitious fear that if he complained too soon, something even worse would happen to it. (He blamed a traumatic experience with a train in a certain New York City subway tunnel for that little bit of paranoia.) But at this moment of quiet in the dead of night, he had to face the facts: he looked awful. And oh how he hated that, when he didn't look like his true self, the gleaming, polished mech he could see so clearly in his head.
Moping wouldn't change anything, though, and there was no one to rant at. Knock Out took the more practical approach, exiting the room—he was the one in the Auxiliary this time, he had no idea where they'd stashed the scout—and poking around the med bay until he found a stack of polish cloths. Polishing first, buffing later. Soon he had worked up a sort of shine to what remained of his paint and even to the silver underneath.
He swept the room again, looking for a buffer or, oh, anything to make himself feel shinier still. The lights were dimmed down, this late at night, and he couldn't find anything that fit the bill. He expanded his search, looking under counters, in drawers, in cupboards . . .
When he opened the cupboard Knockdown had rooted through earlier, three bottles fell out; he just managed to catch them all. His lip curled as he stared at the clutter . . . empty boxes shoved in the back, jars sitting sideways on top of other jars, dusty decanters, at least one of which had a live spider in it, and two which had dead ones.
Maybe he couldn't clean up his chassis to his satisfaction, but he could at least tackle this chaos.
He started by taking everything out of the cupboard, dusting the shelves, and setting aside all the empty vials and boxes for disposal. The decanters and flasks didn't even belong there; he washed them and moved them to the other side of the lab. He crushed the spider, smirked down at its tiny corpse for a moment, and washed his hands. Organics. Even the tiny ones were disgusting and filled with ooze.
Now the medications. He sorted them by type, sneering at the sheer amount of painkillers. What utter weaklings Autobots were. Or in this case not Autobots, but . . . well, anyway. Weaklings. But as long as the stuff was there anyway . . . He tossed back two pills of the appropriate prescription. His arm ached from the surgery and, unlike some, he deserved a little relief.
Plenty of room in the cupboard with the empty boxes and glassware gone. Knock Out restocked it and leaned back to regard the neat rows of bottles and carefully sorted boxes. He crossed his arms, feeling a rare, warm glow in his spark. Not only had he improved a tiny corner of the universe, but he would score major points with Knockdown. Oh yes, he was such a sweet, helpful little clone. Knock Out prowled around the lab again in a sort of victory lap, feeling saintly and smug and triumphant.
And what was this? He twitched a thin sheet off a gurney tucked in the corner and found himself looking down at a dead Vehicon. One of the orange Decepticon ones, what did they call them again? Citizens. What a silly name. Four more corpses were stashed nearby, two to a gurney. This one, the first one, was the most presentable, having taken one shot to the chest, right to the spark chamber. A quick, merciful death.
A death that had left the rest of the frame completely undamaged . . .
Hmmm.
Knock Out had to search around a bit before he found the controls for the overhead light. He brought them up out of their night-time dim before dumping the corpse onto the main table. He straightened its limbs, carefully righted the head that was lolled limply to the side.
He smiled widely as he flipped out his buzzsaw.
So helpful.
