Chapter 22: Rats in a Maze

I see the ship in the harbor;
I can and shall obey.
But if it wasn't for your misfortune
I'd be a heavenly person today.
And I thought I was mistaken,
And I thought I heard you speak.
Tell me, how do I feel?
Tell me now, how should I feel?

- Orgy, "Blue Monday"


Most Decepticon frontliners—real Decepticons, the ones from Knock Out's world—scorned the legitimacy of psychology, psychiatry, and generally any branch of science that didn't involve vials of colored liquid, explosions, or exploding vials of colored liquid. Anyway, Decepticons were supposed to be strong, unemotional (unless the emotion in question was fury or bloodlust), and in control of themselves. Being wounded physically was bad enough; mental distress was considered a sure sign of a weak spark.

Most Decepticons medics, on the other hand, were fully in favor of the mental health disciplines. Whether their support arose from a genuine desire to help the war-strained, the depressed, and the struggling was questionable; more likely they wanted to dump some invalids on someone else. It was no secret that the field surgeons regarded their patients as a sort of second enemy. As the war dragged on and the number of medics dwindled, it was not uncommon to hear comments such as "Fifteen dead and only two survivors—thank Primus."

At the best of times, wounded Decepticons lashed out—out of pain or fright or just because they felt like everyone around them should be suffering as much as they were. And while that most final of gifts, mercy, was sure to inspire a final burst of wild aggression in a soldier, the non-fatally wounded were almost as bad—stronger, more alert, and more capable of inflicting damage. The old quip was often bandied about the field hospitals: "There are only two types of dangerous patients . . . The mercy cases, and the rest of them." Decepticon medics learned to dodge.

So the fact that, in addition to all that, an otherwise cooperative patient might suddenly lash out, triggered to the point of violence by some innocuous phrase (and every medic had seen it happen—Knock Out had once dealt with a Seeker who started blasting indiscriminately if anyone said the word "Cybertron") was not something that made the doctors rejoice.

In the view of the Decepticon High Command, on the other hand, a 'Con trooper only needed as much mental stability as was required to move towards the enemy while shooting in the right direction. And the medics gave a collective shrug and accepted that because, really, what else could they do?

So, like most of his colleagues, Knock Out held a benign view of psychology in general . . . even if he tensed up a little at the thought of it being applied to himspecifically.

But that's what you get, Knock Out, for getting involved, he thought to himself. You should have sniveled out an apology and left it at that. Who cares if they cosset their dead Vehicons?

Too late to correct that mistake, though. Nothing to do but soldier on. He had only a vague notion of what therapy actually entailed (the Trauma from his worldhad been a field medic), but he'd always imagined it was a more touchy-feely form of interrogation. And he had certainly proved his skill in that arena. Yes. He was going to win this thing. Yes. He glanced around the field of battle.

Trauma's office was set far away from the Towers, adjacent to the old, abandoned Med Bay, and it was so homey that Knock Out had initially assumed they were in his personal quarters. An adjustable chronometer ticked on the wall, set to match Earth's rotation, although the numbers around the edge (one to twenty-four) were in Cybertronian. Pushed to the wall, a desk had attracted a clutter of datapads, holopaper, and dust. High shelves ran around the top of the room, crowded with datapads and even a few Human books, and below them various framed pictures, paintings, and sketches crowded the walls—pictures of Cybertronian cities, of famous Decepticons (Knock Out recognized some despite their alternate color palettes), holo-photos of Trauma himself with friends (Knock Out recognized a few of them, too), even a few Earth scenes. The light from the window wavered over them, sunlight rippling through water.

"Does it bother you?" Trauma asked, his hand hovering over the shade. "The movement makes some bots nauseous."

"No, it's fine." Knock Out watched the lavender jet as he perched on the chair across from him. The datapad kept slipping in his hands and Trauma's smile was a bit uncertain. A bit nervous. That made Knock Out feel better. Not just that Trauma was nervous, but that the emotion made him seem more unfamiliar, more of a stranger. He was a stranger. Remember that. He's just a copy, like that femme Starscream. You never shared energon with him or played cards with him or . . . anything else. Just a stranger.

He braced himself with a smile, summoned all his glibness, and began to talk.


"Do you like humans?"

The question came suddenly as they walked down a corridor lined with plexiglass windows.

"I'm interested in humans," Bumblebee said cautiously. He thought of Raf and felt that familiar ache of loneliness. "I guess you could say I like them."

Skyquake didn't say anything else until they stepped out under a curved wall of windows that went straight up to the ceiling. "This is the Observatory. One of 'em."

Bumblebee moved close to the windows, almost leaning against the plexiglass as he cupped his servos around his optics, trying to see anything but his own reflection.

"Hang on," Skyquake said, reaching for the controls for the lights. They gradually dimmed into darkness. Skyquake took Bumblebee's arm and pulled him back a few steps. With the interior lights off, the scout was able to see a faint wash of sunlight filtering through the water, giving it a gradient from turquoise to a deep, deep blue farther down. Little specks of organic material freefloated past, sometimes pursued by silvery schools of fish.

"It's beautiful," Bumblebee said.

Skyquake shrugged, the action marked by the shifting of the strangely patterned light across his shoulders. "A lot of water." After a moment of silence he said, "What is it you like about humans?"

"What?" Bumblebee turned around, but all he could see in the darkness were two blue eyes burning somewhere near the door. He tried to tell himself that there wasn't any hostility in them. That he just couldn't see them clearly. "Well, they're imaginative and innovative and even though they don't live very long, but they do a lot with their lives," he said cautiously.

"Those aren't real reasons," Skyquake said, and there was a definite growl in his voice now. "Tell me something REAL."

"Real. Right." What was this all about? Why did Skyquake even care? "Real. Well, humans are great builders—considering their level of technology—and can survive in almost any environ—"

"That's a load of generic scrap!" the Seeker snarled, and the blue eyes drew closer. "Anyone could say that! It doesn't mean anything!"

"They play racing games!" Bumblebee burst out. "They play racing games, and they have these little electric cars that race around, with antennas on the back, and they'll cheat by giving you the one with the bad battery! They learn about their world in school, and they save their favorite subject for last 'cause then it's like a reward, unless they're the type who does their favorite first and then runs off to play! They fight with their friends, but they always come through, and their little optics always look so fragile and wet, even when they aren't crying, and they'll break your spark when they do cry. And they run so lightly, and they look so free . . ." He couldn't go on. He couldn't.

The blue eyes had disappeared, and he didn't have to. A moment later the lights turned on. Skyquake was facing away from Bumblebee. He waited a few minutes while Bumblebee wiped at his optics and got himself under control.

"Come on," was all he said, his voice gruff but not angry. "I gotta show you the rest of the ship."


Later, Trauma would characterize his first session with Knock Out as "interesting." Not always pleasant, but interesting.

Difficult, too, because the red grounder's answers were colored by a deeply rooted distrust. He obviously thought there were "right" answers that Trauma wanted to hear; when Trauma just listened, without either praising or scolding, he became frustrated. Trauma truly sympathized with him, but at the same time Knock Out's frustration was useful. When he became frustrated, he became careless.

Because there was no doubt about it, Knock Out was a fantastic liar.

This did not surprise the therapist; being raised by Autobots, lying had not only been socially acceptable, but very probably necessary for Knock Out's survival and sanity. The Autobots barely treated each other with any respect; how would they treat a physically unimposing clone with a Decepticon frame? Someone created as a thing, to be used?

"I don't know," Knock Out kept saying in answer to Trauma's questions about his life with the Autobots. "I don't remember." Trauma made notes each time, mentally translated the words into their more likely meaning, "I don't want to remember" or "I don't want to talk about that." And that was fine. Trauma had all the time in the world to gain the little red mech's trust. Airachnid might be upset that the clone wasn't being pumped for information, but the sessions were about Knock Out's mental health, not about recon.

And I doubt if he'd have any useful intel anyway, Trauma thought. Goodness, he didn't even know our base is underwater. They clearly kept him and Bumblebee in the dark as much as possible.

"Sooo . . ." Trauma tapped his stylus to his chin. "At the energon mine, you told the Vehicons you were a Decepticon."

"That's right." Knock Out dragged his left foot back a bit, tracing the brake lights on his heel with the tip of his toe.

"Was that something you'd thought about for a while? Becoming a Decepticon?"

"Oh . . . yes, for a while," Knock Out said. "It was the first time I actually said it, though. Out loud."

"And what does that mean to you—being a Decepticon?"

"Autonomy. Self-control. Strength. Superiority."

"Superiority?"

"Moral superiority." Knock Out had that wary look again. "Compassion and kindness and . . . and so on."

"You can tell me the truth," Trauma said gently. Knock Out smiled and gave a slight shrug, but an underlying tension remained underneath the studied casualness.

Trauma's mind went back to that first night, watching Knock Out in the mirror as he frantically tried to pull free of the stasis cuff chaining him to the bunk. Clink, clink, clink, CLINK, until he had abruptly stopped and just sat there, thinking.

Soundwave's right, he's afraid. And Trauma would do what he could for him, but there was no magical, instant cure. It would take time. In the meanwhile, the lavender jet began working his way around to the subject of Vehicons and Citizens.

And here Trauma discovered the third interesting thing about Knock Out—that he had an almost rabid hatred of Vehicons.

Oh, his statements started out carefully neutral—he "didn't care for" Vehicons, they were dull and uninteresting. But before long, after a minimal amount of coaxing and prying on Trauma's part—

"They're disgusting, that's what they are." Knock Out was wearing a slight yet undoubtedly sparkfelt sneer. "Worthless, nameless, untrustworthy genericons—they'll stab you in the back as soon as look at you—"

"Genericons?" Trauma interrupted. "Meaning . . ."

"You know. Genericons." Knock Out waved a hand. "Generics. Copies."

"Hmm. And you?"

Knock Out looked annoyed at having his rant cut short. "What do you mean, 'me'? What about me?"

"Well, I was wondering if you saw yourself in the same terms as the 'genericons'."

"Are you . . . are you comparing me to a Vehicon? ME?" Knock Out placed a hand on his chest, incredulous and affronted.

"I'm just saying," Trauma said patiently, "that perhaps you know what it's like to be seen as less than unique."

"But I am unique," Knock Out snapped. "Ah . . . ahhh, that is to say . . . almost unique," he added. "Knockdown, of course . . . but aside from him . . ."

"Did you always know you were a clone? I mean, did they tell you?"

"Um. Ummm, yeees. Yes."

Trauma noted the hesitation, but he had no reason to doubt Knock Out on this point. The red bot had, after all, strolled up to Knockdown without the least sign of surprise at their initial meeting. "And your name? Was it given, or were you allowed to choose it?"

He answered more readily this time. "Given. Given. It was given."

Trauma wondered if Knock Out knew that Cybertronians normally chose their own names. "Does it bother you, that it's a derivative of someone else's name?"

"It's not—I mean—" Knock Out seemed to be struggling through some inner battle. "No! It doesn't!"

Of course he hated Vehicons, Trauma reflected. He could project everything he hated about himself onto them. He felt slightly guilty about finding the whole thing so interesting. "You can change it if you want. Choose a new identity."

"I am not changing my name," Knock Out said with finality. "It's mine."

Trauma let it go. If Knock Out was happy with his name, that was all that mattered. "In the corridor, when I was taking you to the Library—that the first time you'd seen a Citizen, correct?"

"A what? Oh, them. That. Right. Yes, that was the first time I'd seen one of your . . . Citizens. I thought it was an orange Vehicon."

"It. Yes." Natural, Trauma supposed, that Knock Out would have that view. They could break him of it in time, but would the Citizens be safe around him in the meanwhile? "You understand they're an important part of this ship and that—"

Knock Out held up a hand to stop him. A smile was tugging at the side of his mouth. "Pardon me, doctor, but I believe what you're reeeally wondering is 'will I kill them in their sleep?'. Well, I'm not that stupid—and why would I, anyway? As long as they don't harass me, I won't harass them. I'm not getting thrown out into the wilderness for any . . . Citizen. They aren't worth it."

"Ah . . . yes." Well. It would have been nice if Knock Out had indicated, somewhere in his little rebuttal, that he valued the Citizens as Cybertronians, or as crewmates, or at least as people, but it was an honest answer, Trauma supposed. And yet . . .

"Why did the Autobots equipped you with buzzsaws?"

Knock Out looked at him a few seconds before answering. "Because Knockdown has them. I'm based on his frame."

"But Knockdown doesn't have saws. He has scalpels."

Knock Out looked genuinely taken aback. "Then they must have wanted me to be able to cut things apart more quickly."

"Like Vehicons?"

Knock Out stared at him, so suddenly quiet and still, and there was something unnerving in it. "Yes. Like Vehicons." The red optics were fixed on his face, but they seemed a little unfocused too. "Among other things."


Bumblebee walked alongside Skyquake in a silence that he found increasingly uncomfortable. The jet was basically ignoring him, and Bumblebee wondered if the large aerial would even notice if he quietly fell behind and just left. But he didn't, because he wanted to know. He wanted to know why Skyquake had asked him about humans, why he'd been so angry, and why he'd dropped the subject just as quickly as he brought it up. He wanted to know where they were going now, or if they were going anywhere now. Maybe they would just walk through the corridors of the ship in silence forever, until they ran out of energon . . .

"Here. This is it," Skyquake said suddenly, stopping and putting the flat of his hand against a door, just as though Bumblebee should know where they were, as though Skyquake had been talking it up instead of not saying a word.

The black and yellow bot stared at the door. It was identical to every other one in the corridor, except there was a rectangle of recently applied paint on it, two-thirds of the way up. "What is it?" he asked after a few seconds, once it became clear that Skyquake wasn't going to reveal any more without prompting.

"Crew quarters," the jet said. Well, Bumblebee had figured out THAT much.

"Whose?"

Skyquake rocked back and forth on his heels, glaring at the patch of paint. "Dreadwing's," he said finally.

"Oh . . . your brother." Bumblebee shifted guiltily. Maybe he hadn't been responsible for Dreadwing's death, but he had killed Skyquake, back in his own universe. What had he been like, really? Beyond just "loyal to Megatron", what had he been like? Had he been angry and sullen, like this Skyquake? Or had he been different, happier, since Dreadwing was alive? "Listen . . . I'm sorry about . . ."

"Here." Skyquake scribbled something on a scrap of holo-paper and shoved it into Bumblebee's hand. Numbers. A series of numbers. "That's the door code."

"Uh, thanks, but what—"

"The stuff in there. You can have it. It's yours now."

"Oh. Oh, wow. Thanks, but if it's Dreadwing's—I mean, I appreciate it, but you should have it."

"I do have it. It's mine. 'Cept now I'm giving it to you, got it?" he said almost threateningly. "Take it, leave it, throw it out . . . I don't care." He turned and started down the hall.

"Thank you, Skyquake," Bumblebee called after him. "I think," he added more quietly.

He looked at the door. He looked at the code in his hand. Finally he gathered all his courage and typed in the passcode. The door slid open, juddering just slightly.

Lunchboxes. Snowglobes. Chairs so impossibly tiny even Bumblebee couldn't have sat in them. An equally tiny desk. Real wood. Posters covering the walls. The Beatles. Queen. Slash Monkey.

Bumblebee stepped inside, trembling, and closed the door behind him.

Something unusually soft under his feet. Fluffy. A carpet. A chess set on the tiny desk, plastic, and a second, Cybertronian sized set on the full-size desk, the pieces framed from twisted strands of wire. Some other signs of Cybertronian habitation, too: a sketch of Starscream leaning on her hand, half-asleep, a watercolor of Knockdown standing alone on the bridge of the Heretic, a drawing of Airachnid and Dreadwing, or maybe Airachnid and Skyquake—impossible to tell the difference when the medium was black and white. But mostly—the cat statue in the corner with the uplifted paw, an old computer, the bin full of tiny hats, the tiny scooter, the television set, the books made of real tree pulp—mostly Human paraphernalia, collected by someone who must have loved Humans so very much.

Bumblebee leaned back against the door and wept. And if someone had asked if it was because he was happy or because he was sad, he would have said "yes."