Technically, these were international waters, and this… well, this was probably piracy.
Yeah… tell that to someone who gave a damn.
"Cargo vessel Sensa Thetford – you are carrying contraband. Hold your speed and course!"
That was it, the third warning from their pilot to the ship below. That was all they were getting.
Lennox gestured to the crewman behind him, and the helicopter's side-door slid open, sending wind howling through the confined space. With an economical movement, he pulled his goggles down, his hands running over his weapon in a final check. Around him, the rest of his squad was doing the same, their movements rapid and competent. They all finished at the same time, and Lennox gathered the expected nods in a rapid circuit before tapping his earpiece.
"Ratchet, Bumblebee?"
"Get on with it!"
"Ready to roll!"
"Epps, report."
"Ready."
Lennox nodded, his expression shutting down into a familiar grim mask.
"Alpha squad, beta squad: go."
The descent lines unravelled in unison, their coils hitting the deck below. Black-clad, masked and heavily armed, the twelve NEST agents landed in ready-crouches. Within moments, their semi-automatics were steadied against their shoulders, deployed to cover every direction. The three large, matt-black assault helicopters hovering overhead had brought the ship's captain out onto the superstructure, and his crew on deck. Standard complement for a Panamax-class container ship was between seventeen and twenty-one officers and crew. What the Thetford was carrying was anyone's guess – the records NEST had been able to hack at short notice were not exactly forthcoming on the under-qualified, likely sub-legal crew. Lennox scanned the wide-eyed, shocked, and occasionally furious faces around him and counted nineteen. Most of them were yelling, a few gesturing with tools that could second as weapons at a pinch. The captain had grabbed a loud-hailer from somewhere and was shouting at them to leave before the authorities arrived.
No chance of that… at least not until NEST was long gone. Open waters stretched for two hundred miles in every direction before they reached the nearest ship. Even getting out here had pushed the assault 'copters pretty damn close to their limit. And that meant he needed to get this sorted, and need to get it sorted soon.
"No one move!" Lennox added his voice to the chaos of shouted commands and threats flying in both directions. He flicked his weapon into non-repeating mode and fired a single round, careful to send it away from the deck and over the sea where it could fall without harm. "I said: No one move!"
The percussion echoed off the steel hull, and the deck structure rising amidships. It echoed too from the stack upon stack of sealed shipping containers, slotted together like some parody of a child's Lego creation. This Panamax wasn't the biggest container ship on the ocean waves, not by a long shot, but for a miniscule human standing on its deck, it was plenty big enough.
Big enough to stay afloat with a few tonnes more aboard.
"Ratchet – "
"Finally!" The medic didn't give him time to finish the command. There was a roar from the big 'copters, a throaty engine note that contrasted sharply with the whine of their rotors. Ratchet drove from the rear hatch in vehicle form, the emergency vehicle hanging in mid-air above Lennox for a single, silent moment. Then Ratchet transformed, his bulky form twisting through space to land on the highest stack of containers, with 'Bee just seconds behind him.
The ship could take the weight, but even its vast metal bulk rocked under the impact of two free-falling Autobots.
Lennox gritted his teeth, his gun still braced against his shoulder as he swayed. It could be worse. It had taken a series of arguments about both fuel and displaced weight to keep Ironhide and Prime from joining the party.
Lennox's warning shot had won a brief silence. Ratchet's arrival stretched that out, and changed the tone of the cries when they did eventually arise. Epps already had Beta squad circling the crew, rounding them up with shouts, gestures and never-resting semi-automatics. Half of the deck-hands were still staring, open mouthed. The other half were crying, or praying, or both, certain that the devil was walking amongst them clad in sheet metal.
Lennox himself jogged to the base of the bridge structure, his own weapon held waist high as he intercepted a pale-faced captain at the bottom of the iron stairs. He didn't give the man time to speak, had no real interest in what he was going to say.
"Captain, tell your men to stand down. We're here for one thing, and one thing only. We take it and we're gone. This never happened."
Whether it was the note of command in Lennox's voice, the weapon in his hand, the assault helicopters still hovering overhead or the giant alien robots clambering across his deck, the middle-aged captain didn't seem inclined to argue. His accent was thick enough to obscure his reply, if he was speaking English at all, but Lennox was pretty sure "take whatever the frag you want" summed up the sentiment behind it.
Ratchet was moving towards the rear of the ship, Bumblebee in his shadow. Lennox snapped out an order, leaving his squad to double up with Epps', keeping the crew in order and watching for any unaccounted-for `heroes' who might cause trouble. The major himself jogged forward along gantries and around obstructions, tapping his comms ear bud rather than shouting to make himself heard.
"Ratchet, report!"
"He's here. Somewhere. There's a signal, but it's fragging weak and these damn boxes keep scattering it."
Ratchet gave a shove, his entire frame vibrating with frustration, and Lennox winced as the topmost shipping container on the pile beside him slipped overboard. He only hoped the ship's owners had insurance… although quite how this loss would be classified by the loss adjusters he had no idea. The thought flashed through his mind, come and gone in moments. The unease lingered as he mulled over Ratchet's words. Sunny was actually here, within a few tens of metres, and that was more than he'd dreamed possible a day ago. But every second counted, and too many were passing as Ratchet quartered the ship, homing in on a pile of truck-sized crates stacked maybe eight high, three wide and five deep on the aft deck. They were each trimmed differently, some in faded grey, others pallid green or muddy blue, with logos and company names barely visible through a layer of grime. All except…
"The red one!" Lennox yelled the words, and Ratchet half-turned to look at him. Lennox gestured to a crate buried deep enough that he'd barely caught a glimpse of it between its fellows. It wasn't the only red-painted container aboard, true, but it was the only one in Ratchet's target pile. The car-thief Reggie may have been a drug-addled loser, but there was one thing he'd been clear about. "Sunny was taken in a red crate!"
The Autobots didn't waste time on questions. Bumblebee put his shoulder to a pile of crates, and Ratchet lent his own huge mass to the effort. The topmost of the pile tumbled, one corner caving in as it hit the deck before tumbling into the sea. The others shifted slowly… so slowly…
Running into the narrow gap that had opened between two towering stacks wasn't the smartest thing Lennox had ever done. Frankly, he didn't care. He shouldered his gun, lowered his head and ran for it, trying to ignore the precarious balance of the shifting cargo and the creaking all around him. Five seconds of breathless terror later, he slammed into the red metal door. The shipping containers were still moving around him, Ratchet and 'Bee still trying to get space to excavate this well-buried crate. There was barely room for Lennox to crack the door open, just wide enough to slip his slender form inside. He twisted as he did so, his gun scraping against his spine as he squeezed through.
The interior was dark, the sliver of light coming through the door barely enough to shape the shadows. Lennox grabbed the flashlight from his belt, raising it to shoulder height as he flicked it on. The clustered LEDs flared with acrid white light. Blinking rapidly, Lennox looked around.
His heart fell, the circle of light from his torch flicking from label to label as he scanned dull brown cardboard boxes and industrial-sized canisters of paint. Somewhere beyond the range of his torch, one of those cans must have fallen open, or perhaps there were other petrochemicals deeper inside. His head was already spinning from the fumes… and hope rekindled.
"Sunny?"
Ratchet had said the warrior was suffering from carbon fumes. Surely that couldn't be a coincidence?
"Sunny?!"
He pushed forward, finding a way between the stacked goods, shoving to open one when he couldn't see a clear path.
He could still be wrong. Maybe the entire container was like this – filled with perfectly normal goods, shipped by perfectly legitimate merchants. Or maybe…
The beam of his torch fell away into a sudden void, the major stumbling a little as he found his path suddenly open.
There was something in front of him – something bulky, hidden by a dull green tarpaulin.
"Sunstreaker?"
He grabbed the thick sheet, tugging with all his strength. There was a little give, but not enough, not nearly enough! He drew the hunting knife from his belt in a single smooth movement, sawing through a bunched handful of fabric, desperate to see what lay beneath.
The metal surface was dull, the reflections a leaden grey in the beam of the flashlight, but smooth, oh, so smooth. Lennox gasped, relief and anxiety leaving him dizzy. Nothing on Earth could be as perfect as Sunstreaker's finish, as even and beautiful.
Still holding the slashed tarp, Lennox gave it another yank, feeling the tear stretch. The plasticised cloth fell away from the elegant contours of a front bumper that Lennox had seen haunting both wistful dreams and bitter nightmares, but Sunny was still silent, unresponsive.
The container was moving, rocking and trembling as the other bots fought their way through to it. Maybe it was the vibration that knocked him off his feet, or maybe just his knees giving out, but Lennox found himself on the floor of the container, diving forwards and groping blindly under the still half-concealed chassis.
He knew it when he found it. His fingers closed around the fist-sized box, its metal shell cold, its sharp edges alien to Sunny's smooth curves.
There was the long drawn out screech of tearing steel. Lennox blinked furiously, staring up through the unpeeled lid of the container, into giant faces full of concern and hope.
"Well, what the frag are you waiting for?"
Lennox yanked and rolled clear at the same moment, his fist closing around the car-killer he removed as if he could crush it out of existence. Already Ratchet was reaching into the container, lifting the inert form of Sunstreaker's alt mode out through the roof. Bumblebee waited until the pair were clear before reaching in himself, offering Lennox his hand. Exhausted from the adrenaline backwash, bruised from his exertions, the major was only too happy to accept it.
Together they watched, relief warring with fear, as Ratchet worked.
Sunstreaker and Sideswipe lay side by side, their colours mingling. Sunstreaker's gold frame reflected his brother's metallic red and vice versa, until they seemed almost to merge into one another.
That was as it should be.
Optimus Prime still couldn't quite believe he was seeing it.
He sat in silence beside the pushed-together berths, his optics resting on the twins' steadily improving status displays, his processor lost in meditation and prayers of thanks.
It had been close. His ever-troublesome, ever-loyal, ever-spectacular warriors had been no more than minutes from guttering… perhaps seconds. Even as Lennox and Ratchet boarded the cargo ship, Optimus had been here, lending his strength and that of the Matrix he carried to his wounded soldiers. He'd thought they were too late when Sideswipe convulsed, his readings flaring into chaos. Then Sideswipe settled and Lennox's voice came over the com, reporting that the car-killer had been removed and Sunstreaker was secure.
In all his long life, Optimus Prime had rarely been so relieved and joyful to acknowledge a single report. Even now, hours later, as he watched over the recovering twins and his recharging lieutenant, that joy burned strong and bright.
"You found him."
Prowl's voice startled him, although it shouldn't have done. His second had always moved with silent grace, and roused from recharge the same way. Ratchet had warned him the tactician would likely wake soon, even as Optimus chivvied the medic to his first real rest in days. Stilling his shock, Optimus nodded, his helm turning to regard his other deep source of concern.
"Thanks to your deduction." Prime kept his voice to the same low pitch as his Second's. Neither doubted that Ratchet had systems monitoring medbay for any disturbance. Neither wanted to wake the medic from his well-deserved recharge. Optimus raised a brow ridge, letting a small smile show on his faceplates as he went on. "Which the strategists of NEST are still unable to reproduce."
Prowl paused, glancing up at Optimus with slight surprise before continuing to push himself upright on his berth. "The disruption to Sideswipe's programming left him unable to resolve his own unconscious system readouts to those transiting the bond from his twin."
"Hence reporting the same location for them both?"
"Indeed."
Prime frowned, unable to follow his tactician's reasoning, even with the clue.
"He was giving an average of their coordinate positions."
Prowl said it ask if it was the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. Sideswipe's unconscious systems had cared for nothing but the shortest route to his twin. A line projected between them, linking them with scant regard for the curvature of this small planet, or the fact that the mid-point lay well beneath its surface.
The Prime frowned, checking the numbers again, wondering where he'd gone wrong.
"Not a straight mean." Optimus ran the calculation twice before speaking, through embarrassment in case he had made a mistake rather than doubt in Prowl's analysis.
His second in command eased himself to his pedes with a small sigh. The tall, door-winged mech moved slowly and with caution, as if testing his balance as he went. Optimus watched, his sensors extended no more than politeness dictated, but tuned to his lieutenant nonetheless. If Prowl needed help, he would be at the mech's side in moments. If he didn't, then Prime would not steal his friend's dignity from him. The Praxian glanced aside, his expression pensive before offering a silent nod of acknowledgement.
He reached Prime without assistance, one servo reaching out to touch the back of the larger mech's chair, either for support or to help calibrate his gyroscopic sensors.
Together, they looked down over the twins they had both known as younglings. Prowl's optics flicked over the medical displays, his door-wings twitching a little.
"Stasis lock?"
"Ratchet was able to establish stasis a quarter joor ago. Their self-repair is working now to correct the damage."
Prowl's optics dimmed, his vents faltering a little as he tensed and then relaxed his entire frame.
"They will recover completely."
"They will."
Prowl nodded, moving to sit on a nearby berth, his door-wings drooping a little.
"Sideswipe reported a weighted mean," he clarified, picking up on his Prime's earlier query. "The twins' core programming was honed in the pits of Kaon. They instinctually adjust calculations to apply a significance rating based on subject mass and momentum – the better to calculate applied force and threat level."
It made sense. Optimus ran the numbers without even thinking about it, the solution Prowl had identified obvious in retrospect. That was the gift his second brought them – the skill of seeing the logic that escaped all others.
At least, that was one of the gifts. Optimus loved Prowl for far more than his utility, and had missed his friend's compassion, unstinting loyalty and sly humour with each passing year of their diaspora.
The loyalty was beyond question, the compassion there whenever Prowl looked at the twins, or glanced at his Prime… the humour….
Optimus turned, capturing his second's optics, and was dismayed when Prowl looked down and away.
"Prowl…"
"What has Ratchet told you?"
Optimus paused, weighing his words carefully, wondering how to paraphrase his medic's exhausted ranting. His vents hitched, his systems reacting to his emotions, even as he tried to block them from his vocalisor.
"He told me that you were determined to reach help, and that you need it. He insists that you remain confined to base. And… he told me that Jazz wished you to survive. That he tried to give you the strength he no longer had, at the end. Ratchet said that Jazz pleaded with you to go on, and with Primus to permit it."
The sharp look from Prowl was a surprise. His friend studied Prime's faceplates, as if searching for more, probing for any hint of a lie or omission. Several sparkbeats passed before Prowl gave a short sharp nod and once again turned away.
"I do not wish to talk about Jazz."
It might have been a slap in the face. Optimus didn't react outwardly, but it took all his strength of will not to, and it would be foolish to think Prowl ignorant of his raised spark pulse and hitching vents. He nodded slowly. He could compel his second to talk, of course – both as Prowl's commanding officer and as his Prime. But not as his friend.
He schooled his voice to matter-of-fact acceptance, trying not to show his hurt at the rejection. "Would it help if I took you to see his frame?"
Now it was the turn of Prowl's vents to falter. It was a moment before the mech looked up, his optics flicking to Prime's for a moment before moving on.
"No."
It was as far as Optimus dared push. There would be time to help Prowl, he hoped, over the coming years, but it would have to be on the bereaved mech's terms, not on Prime's or anyone else's. Nonetheless, there was a question he still needed answered.
"Will you stay with us?"
Prowl didn't look at him, didn't move. For a few minutes, Optimus thought he would not answer the question one way or the other.
"I…" Prowl's vocaliser hummed, articulating his uncertainty. "I am uncertain."
Prime nodded, letting his own vocaliser rumble. "You are loved here. And welcomed. Never doubt those truths."
Prowl tilted his helm, looking sidelong at his Prime. "And needed?"
Optimus Prime's faceplates quirked in a rueful smile. "And now you are trying to trap me." He shook his helm. "I would not have you held captive by some misplaced sense of duty, Prowl. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings – including my officers. You and Jazz taught me that, many vorns ago." He reached out, his servo-tips resting lightly on his friend's arm. The touch drew Prowl's optics up, unwilling, to his Prime's face. "Of course, I need you. I have missed every moment of your counsel, as well as your company. If you wish to serve, then yes, I would welcome your return to our ranks with joy and relief. But I need to know you are content, and that you are doing what you wish and believe to be right, more."
Prowl shifted, breaking the contact between them. He was silent, letting the echoes of Optimus Prime's words fade into the quiet of medbay. The stillness of Cybertronians was alien to their human allies and Ratchet's domain was an oasis of peace against the chaos of NEST. A distant murmur penetrated the thin walls, but it was muted, meaning lost and blended almost to music. Outside there was politics and planning and the constant effort to understand their new world. Inside nothing would disturb the patients, or those tending them.
Prime rested his servos in his lap, his optics once more on the twins, enjoying the familiarity of the moment, and the company as his long-missed friend thought. It might have been a few minutes before Prowl spoke or hours.
"Thank you."
The mech's optics were noticeably dimmer than they had been when he woke. Ratchet had warned Optimus about that too. Prowl had exhausted his reserves reaching Earth. He would have little stamina, at least until he assimilated the repairs and refined fuel Ratchet was providing. His periods of full alertness would be short and end abruptly for some time to come, the joors of recharge and weariness lasting long enough to test the mech's patience.
Right now, he was swaying a little, his door-wings shifting to balance him, and Optimus struggled against the urge to reach out with an offer of support.
"Thank you for what, Prowl?"
"For everything." Maybe it was the power deficit, but Prowl's optics seemed a deeper blue than ever before. Prime had seen that depth of colour in his Third from time to time, when Jazz was pensive or troubled, but it was curiously jarring to see in his Second.
Prowl stood, and this time his lurch to one side before straightening was unmistakeable. His door-wings flared wide and low, his helm coming up in a gesture of unconscious defiance against his own weakness. He bowed, unsteadily, one hand coming up to his spark in a mark of respect to his Prime.
"I am not well, Optimus. This is fact. So, lest I am unable to say this at a more opportune time: Thank you for defying tyranny, for showing others that such defiance is both necessary and possible. Thank you for leading a people who were lost without you, for guiding my mate and I along a path that appeared dark and bleak and keeping alive within us the possibility of light. Thank you for your friendship, for never giving up, and for never failing us."
Prime was on his feet, his huge hands engulfing his friend's shoulders, his helm shaking in automatic negation as he tried to assimilate the words. The last few cut like a knife, the memory of failures great and small tormenting him – none so much as the worst failure of all.
"Optimus…" Now Prowl reached up, his servo resting on Optimus Prime's chest-plate in a gesture that mingled friendship with respect. "Jazz's death was not your fault."
What little strength Prowl had went into catching his claws between the folds of his friend's chest-plate, holding Optimus in place as the Prime tried to pull away.
"On the brink of the AllSpark, my bondmate reached out to me. I saw through his optics. I thought with his thoughts and our sparks pulsed as one. There was no hesitation and no accusation in his spark. Jazz died knowing you were fighting, just as he was fighting, as were Ratchet and Ironhide, and that none of you could change your role in what was to come, any more than you could change what you were. There was no failure there, and his regrets were all for me – not for you or the choices we made. Never for that."
Prowl's optics flickered, and Optimus found his grip on Prowl's shoulders was suddenly all that supported his friend's weight. His second was still conscious, but his systems, motor systems included, were shutting down in the effort to sustain his processor.
Optimus Prime looked down into a familiar small smile. He snorted. "You timed this conversation deliberately, didn't you?"
Prowl's vocaliser hummed static, the flickers of his optics growing more pronounced. "I am a tactician."
Prime scooped his friend up as the purr of active systems faded. An anxious moment later, he lay Prowl on a berth and allowed his vents to even out. The medical display wasn't green, true, but the amber lights across the board were better than reds and no worse than he expected. The mech was in recharge, his systems drawing power from the berth's ambient field and conserving his spark's strength at the same time.
Prime lay a hand on his friend's chest-plate, frowning a little as he felt a strange flutter in Prowl's field. Deep inside his own chest, the Matrix responded, a pulse of warmth and power passing down his arm and through his outspread servo. The sensation startled him, come and gone too rapidly for him to truly process. Again Optimus Prime glanced at the displays, checking for red lights, or any change at all, and venting a sigh when he saw none.
There would be time to talk more to Prowl later. For the moment, he returned to his seat, and his vigil over his sleeping soldiers.