Stage 5: Creatures of Fire

And one cried unto another, and said, Holy, holy, holy,

is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory.

And the posts of the door moved at the voice of him that cried,

and the house was filled with smoke.

-Isaiah 6:3-4 (KJV)

o0o0o

Nothing was happening. The strange 'eruptive anomalies' (as Perceptor had termed them) had shown no further signs of untoward activity. They'd made no reaction to Beachcomber's cautious dissection, or to Cosmos's quizzical prodding. They hadn't moved or changed, not even while the green minibot hummed the same tuneless three-note phrase for hours, which was enough to strain the nerves of even the ever-mellow Beachcomber. Once Cosmos tripped and caught himself against one of the smaller outcrops, and it collapsed with a cringing rasp of macadam. Yet still, none of the other growths seemed to take the slightest notice.

Eventually, the two minibots gave it up as a lost cause. They'd run all the tests they could think of. They'd spent several more breems shooting off wild theories. There was no way to logically explain why the outcrops had appeared, or why they were no longer appearing.

They wandered aimlessly a while, but gave it up after only a few breems, because the place was so depressing. In the end, they simply slumped down with their backs to the largest pillar, and set their systems to low-power mode. The two minibots resigned themselves to a very long, very boring wait.

"Wanna try some o' this?" Beachcomber asked. He brought out a flask of his home-brewed energon.

Cosmos shook his head. "Uh, no thanks." He distrusted anything with claims to that many improbable health benefits. Especially if it was a "secret recipe."

They sat there a few breems longer.

"I think the universe is telling me I'm a lot less important than I think I am," said Beachcomber. "Don't know what I was expecting to find up here, but we probably shoulda just gone down with all the others."

"Yeah..." Cosmos shifted unhappily. "I wonder what's taking them so long?"

Beachcomber powered down his optics. "Maybe the universe has a message for them, too."

Cosmos fell silent, and tried not to worry. "You know," when he could no longer bear the stillness, "Bluestreak told me a funny story once, about an old custom he'd heard about on Nebulos. He said that, if two members from different tribes meet in the desert regions, they have to-"

But that's when the landscape decided to make things much more interesting.

It started with a subterranean rumble. The two minibots exchanged glances, and leapt to their feet: back-to-back, weapons raised.

In worried hope, Cosmos began, "You think the other teams are coming back?" But at that moment the ground beneath them thrust upward into gyro-spinning height. The minibots fell flat on their faces, holding onto the roaring ground for dear life. Cosmos groaned, and shuttered his optics. Upon this narrow, groaning plinth, the shuttle-bot had as much chance of transforming as the bouncing pebbles underneath him had of sprouting wings and flying. They were trapped.

Like a great Serpent from the Sea of Rust; like the clash of continents fast-forwarded a million times, like a god stretching out cramped limbs, a city-wide arch of rough iron rose out of the crumbling crust of flaking metal, passed slowly overhead with a low wailing screel of metal, and came to rest at last in a long, low curve far away to the left. A battalion of copper-smooth spears surged up to unguessed heights a few miles off from the two quavering Autobots. And at the foot of the same cliff to which their fingers clutched, the planet cracked open to reveal a chasm of such unguessable depths, that Cosmos thought he could see a faint glow of white fire at the bottom. He shuddered, and held on tighter.

The sound of the planet in upheaval was far more than clamorous racket. It was a deep, harmonic chord: a sonata of chaos that rattled the armor on the protoform, and pressed in against the very spark. Beachcomber's audios shut down in self-defense. He tried to hail the away team; but could not loosen his clenched vox-box to form words. He could only lie there on his stomach as his fuel tanks sloshed and heaved, and try not to purge his energon (it would make the ground more slick.) Beachcomber drove his fingers deep into the shifting scree, and held on for dear life as the planet transformed over and around him.

Slowly as life drains from a wound, the planetary paroxysm ground away into the distance. The minibots caught far-off glimpses of other vast risings and settlings, some huge as city-states. Shockwaves from distant clashes out beyond the horizon came to buffet the two small robotic bodies. But at long last, after what seemed like several millennia, the air and the ground grew still, and suffocating silence fell.

Beachcomber raised himself up on a trembling elbow, and ventured a cautious whisper. "Cosmos! You OK?"

The rotund shuttle-bot rolled unsteadily back against the base of their broken-off pillar. He glanced down into the pit yawning beneath them, and shuddered. "I think so," he replied hoarsely. "You?"

"I still function." The blue dunebuggy gave a small, shaky laugh. "Better call this in, I suppose." Still flattened on the ground, he flipped open his communicator; it was scuffed where he'd held fast to the convulsing rock.

Jetfire? he squeaked. Shockwave? Wheeljack? Is anyone receiving me?

"Since evolution became fashionable, the glorification of Man has taken a new form."
-Bertrand Russell

o0o0o

Dead End still took comfort in staring out the porthole windows, long after it had gone out of fashion to pine over their dead homeworld. The worst had already happened, and it was nice in a way to know that all this time, he had been right.

The glum Stunticon took out a lens-cloth from his sub-space, and began to calmly polish his optical lenses. He'd heard that mental glitches were a common side-effect of extended time spent in a spacecraft, so hallucinations were to be expected. When he was certain there was no chance of interference from an errant speck, he looked out at the planet one more time, slowing his vents.

Its surface was still moving.

After a klik, he shrugged, and turned back to his dwindling energon. "We are doomed," he said to no one in particular. Which was just as well, because the sudden squawk of multiple alarms drowned out his voice in any case.

I was a young man with uninformed ideas.

I threw out queries, suggestions, wondering all the time over everything;

and to my astonishment the ideas took like wildfire. People made a religion of them.
-Charles Darwin

o0o0o

A lab with windows in a spaceship was a very bad idea - especially a lab containing Wheeljack. So perhaps the fleet might be forgiven for installing the two scientists in the inmost room of the toughest old frigate, and evacuating the rest of its inhabitants. Besides, not even Shockwave spent much time staring out at his dead homeworld any more. It was too depressing.

For millennia, Shockwave's lab had been the finest on Cybertron. It was equipped with a wide range of sensors, quantifiers, monitors, and data-crunching super-computers that could tell him not just what the planet and the universe were up to, but more often than not, what bots from Megatron to Moonracer were thinking. If he'd been working in his accustomed place, the oversight would never have occurred.

But instead, here Shockwave had a banged-up spectrometer, a back-pocket microscope, two wobble-legged tables, and a some crates of instruments so outdated they made him want to cry. (It didn't help matters that Wheeljack seemed to be in his element in this travesty of a lab.) Perhaps, given these circumstances, the Decepticon scientist could be forgiven his myopia. He simply didn't notice, when the planet started shifting.

Wheeljack would not have noticed anything amiss if it had hit him on the head. He was working. And he was humming to himself, because the work was so darn interesting.

The Autobot engineer had never bothered with alarms. They were useless and noisy things that all too often interrupted his work just at the most delicate stage. Over time, he'd become deaf to them. But when the sudden chorus of half-hearted bleating from the various lab alerts was joined by the ship's main klaxon, and then by the universal fleet alarm, the Autobot engineer raised his head and took bleary-eyed notice. He was surprised, not by the noise; but because for the first time in memory, the alarms did not seem to be his fault. He double and triple-checked his work to make certain of that. No, this was something bigger. He looked up at the monitor that till now had shown a featureless gray wasteland. He gasped, and dropped the box of surface samples he'd been carrying.

It was at this point that the three Commanders, with a gray and purple shuttle-train in tow, burst through the door. "What's happening?" demanded Megatron.

In the year that king Uzziah died I saw also the Lord sitting upon a throne,

high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple.

Above it stood the seraphims: each one had six wings;

with twain he covered his face, and with twain he covered his feet,

and with twain he did fly.

Isaiah 6:1-2 (KJV)

o0o0o

When Jetfire came online, he almost wished he hadn't. His optics were still blurry from the shock his systems had received when he'd reached out toward the great white light. He blinked to refresh their display several times before looking around, because he feared what he might see.

Bundles of ducting hung from the ceiling in a circle around the pulsating core. Here and there a familiar hand or a foot would stick out from the tangle. Not one of them was moving.

Jetfire knew he should be glad his optics had been left uncovered. He knew an effective Captain would assess this situation and devise some clever escape from it. But deep down he wished he'd been left blind to the full horror of his team's situation. That way he might have some excuse for not having a clue how to get them all out of it.

He twisted in the wrappings, but fell instantly stock-still as he felt an ominous pull at his spark casing. He shuddered. This was all too familiar. He'd been hooked in, again, his life-spark jacked into something he had absolutely no data on.

Interesting, said a bipartite voice within his head. After all you have learned, it is only now that you fear us?

But in science the credit goes to the man who convinces the world,

not to the man to whom the idea first occurs.

Not the man who finds a grain of new and precious quality

but to him who sows it, reaps it, grinds it and feeds the world on it.
— Francis Darwin

o0o0o

Thus far, Wheeljack was handling the commotion much better than Shockwave.

"What about the mechs we sent to the surface?" Prime asked, all business.

"We lost contact with both away teams around the same time the planet did this." He jerked a thumb up at an overhead monitor, which showed a real-time model of the planet's convulsions (Shockwave's work), and held a datascreen out to the Command triad with the other hand. On its cracked screen (he'd dropped it when he'd seen what was happening), a shaky film from the camera mounted on Jetfire's drop-ship played in a repeating loop. It was hard to see some of what was happening; and they'd missed the beginning. But eloquent as a thousand reports was the vertiginous view of an opening chasm into which the ship tilted and fell for many harrowing seconds before exploding in a violence of white.

The leaders drew in a shared breath. Not even Megatron, who had once wanted to technoform other planets should this one fail, had ever imagined such a complete revision of a world.

"Do we know if anyone has survived down there?" asked Prime again.

"We can't be sure. Not even their locator beacons are online."

Optimus hunched his shoulders in. Elita put a quick hand on his arm.

The overhead comm clicked. -nyone up there receiving?

Prime's hand lept to his audial. We hear you, Beachcomber. What happened?

-chk- whole planet- You see this? -kk- like a Metrotitan rolling over-

Optimus cut in. Where are you? Are you functional? Is anyone there with you?

The tubby green shuttle-bot's warbling voice came on the line. I'm all right, Prime. Cosmos -chk- fine in a klik or two. Just -ktsh- gyros -tschhh- can transform and get us out of here.

Have you been able to make contact with the others? Megatron asked.

Beachcomber answered, sounding worried. I sent out a message, but I haven't -chk- anything back. They all went down -kkschhh- the core.

Right then. Stand by. Orion Pax looked at his bondmates. They nodded. The red and blue mech once again put a hand to his transmitter. Come on home, boys, he commed. We'll take it from here.

"What about me?" said Astrotrain.

"You'll take us down there, of course," said Megatron, flashing him an evil grin. "These Autobots can't fly."

Then flew one of the seraphims unto me, having a live coal in his hand,

which he had taken with the tongs from off the altar:

And he laid it upon my mouth, and said, Lo, this hath touched thy lips;

and thine iniquity is taken away, and thy sin purged.

Isaiah 6:6-7 (KJV)

o0o0o

It was not calling him by name. It was not reading off his serial number. It was not even shouting, "Hey, big guy; I'm talkin' to ya!" No, this call was much more personal, more knowing.

Child, it said; and the sound was both in his head and a subsonic hum that vibrated throughout his whole body: Be welcome.

Sixshot had never been a mech of many (or of any) friends. He was too big, too powerful, too scary to befriend. Under Megatron's orders, he had done things that no self-respecting Decepticon wanted to think about. Not even the most tipsy bot at the engex bar dared to swap war stories with Sixshot.

But despite all that, this somehow-familiar Voice that called him "Child" was unafraid. For all his armor and his size, Sixshot had never felt so naked or so small.

Nor had he ever felt such shame.

He was captive to a force he did not recognize or understand, bound head to toe in the same tubes of liquid light that he had once found beautiful. And one of those tubes was jacked into his spark core.

Sixshot was no stranger to a direct core download. Megatron, as a disincentive to treachery by his powerful Phase-Sixers, demanded more than just a verbal report when they returned from their devastating missions. He would plug them into the nearest HD datalog upon each return. This, though, was different. This was alien. But at the same time it was far more intimate than the datalog download had ever been.

"Don't!" the six-changer cried out. He had no comprehension of what was happening, but he knew the light was pure; and he was not. He struggled against his bonds. "Don't!" he cried out. "You'll ruin it!"

The Voice shushed him. You cannot alter or diminish us, child.

"I'm no child. I kill children." Sixshot squirmed and tried to shake his head. "Don't do this. You don't want to know...

The Voice laughed: a high, true tone. I formed you from my very being, child. I have known you from the beginning.

Sixshot blenched. "I ruined it then," he whispered.

Hush, the Voice ordered. Then deeper, darker; perilous yet somehow more familiar: This one is one of mine.

"You don't need to claim me." Sixshot, the mighty, struggled to find words to stop this thing he did not understand. "I'm just Megatron's pet hand of destruction."

You think I know nothing of destruction, child? More than mere sound, the words slapped through the very atoms of Sixshot's metallic frame, leaving him gasping and undone. His puny ability to lay waste to a planet was as nothing before the great thunder of the Voice.

"What are you?" Sixshot asked, afraid he knew, but still compelled to hear it for himself.

A finger-thin hose unwound from his body. But unlike all the others, this small pipe was open-ended. We are One: Light and Darkness, said the Voice. Sixshot watched, transfixed, as one of the millions of tiny lights swam through it to the opening, emerged, and hovered trembling mere inches from his face. We are life. And we are death. Partake, if you desire to know us as we know you, child.

"Will I die if I do it?" asked Sixshot.

The voice was gentle. Yes, child. The knowledge we offer comes with death.

The bright, darting mote swam closer. It quivered against his lips. He felt it humming with strange power, tempting him.

"Will I be allowed to report back to Jetfire before I go offline?" Sixshot asked. "I owe him that much. He needs to know you're here."

You will, the Voice promised.

"All right," Sixshot said. It was not the death he'd have chosen, perhaps. But it did mean that his life might now be good for something. He opened his mouth.

The speck of light swam in.

Sixshot closed his mouth. His head was full of sound and fizz.

He swallowed.

He blinked. "Oh," he murmured, confused. And then again in wonder: "Oh."

Surely there is a mine for silver, and a place for gold to be refined.

Iron is taken out of the earth, and copper is smelted from ore.

Miners put an end to darkness, and search out to the farthest bound the ore in gloom and deep darkness.

They open shafts in a valley away from human habitation;

they are forgotten by travelers, they sway suspended, remote from people.

As for the earth, out of it comes bread; but underneath it is turned up as by fire.

Its stones are the place of sapphires, and its dust contains gold...

But where shall wisdom be found? And where is the place of understanding?

Job 28:1-6, 12 (NRSV)

o0o0o

The planet was completely unfamiliar. But this was no longer because everything they knew had been melted to slag. As Astrotrain flew low over the surface, he had to dodge under great spans of copper bridges, avoid mountains of molybdenum, and dart around soaring titanium towers that shimmered with muted colors in the dim starlight. Underneath they could see lakes of bright silver mercury and dune seas of rust. Once or twice they flew over chasms so deep that Astrotrain's disbelieving radar-ping yielded only a question-mark.

Optimus stared out through the triple-changer's windshield, for once struck dumb. Cybertron was transformed. The distant stars were mirrored in shimmering lines of dimly-glowing light that ran along the bridges, towers, planes, and ridges of this new-made world. The light was brighter, though, at the bottom of the pits that plunged toward the planet's core. They found Cosmos and Beachcomber staring down into one of these, mesmerized by all that far-away white light.

The little bots rose blearily when the Commanders landed, and dusted themselves off in an awkward attempt to show some military discipline. But all their words came in a daze, and they could offer little in the way of useful information. In the end, Prime commended their diligence, told Cosmos to transform, and sent the two minibots back to the fleet medbay for a checkup from Ratchet.

Megatron all but ignored their departure. He was staring down into the chasm which had so unnerved Cosmos.

Astrotrain watched his Leader with increasing apprehension. "You're not thinking-" the triple-changer cut his words off short, but not short enough.

"Can you think of a faster way to reach them?" Megatron challenged. "The original drill-bore is obliterated."

Astrotrain crossed his arms. "You lunatics can go for it. I'm not crazy. And I'm not a Commander. It's not my responsibility to go after lost strays."

Megatron grinned, the smile that had terrorized whole civilizations. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, my dear Lieutenant. We have two Autobots with us. You will carry one of these flightless birds, and I the other."

"What?!" Astrotrain threw up his hands.

Optimus craned his neck to look into the pit, then glanced back at Elita. "He's got a point," he said. "We're not getting down there without help. Would you mind being carried for a bit?"

Elita pursed her lips. After all, Prime was heavy, and Megatron was the obvious choice to carry him. But Astrotrain was radiating fear and anger, and besides, she didn't know him. "Do you mind?" she asked the triple-changer, gesturing to Prime. "It's just that I'm more comfortable with Megatron. Ironic, I know," she added.

Astrotrain glared at Megatron, and swore. "Do I have any choice?" Still grumbling, he turned his back and hunched his shoulders. "Climb aboard, oh Worthy and most Glorious of Primes." He knew he looked ridiculous; for Prime, who was more than a full head taller than he was, had to stoop down for what was surely the most ridiculous piggy-back ride ever given. "Try not to choke off my oil and air lines," the triple-changer said, "Or they'll have to peel both of us up from the bottom of this thing." He turned to Megatron. "I'm holding you responsible if my thrusters can't take it." He jumped first into the pit, aiming, he supposed, to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible.

His thrusters lasted almost two-thirds of the way down. Then they sputtered, and he fell several fuel tank-lurching yards.

"Grab onto this," Megatron called, unleashing the energon flail he kept folded into his left arm.

Astrotrain grabbed hold of the proffered help, and bade farewell to the last rags of his pride.

If at first the idea is not absurd, then there is no hope for it.

-Albert Einstein

o0o0o

It was like being in a dream - a dream of neverending tunnels. Megatron followed Optimus with trust and confidence, never questioning why he still felt so confident in Prime's link to the core. Elita walked hand-in-hand with her Orion, her head turning every which way to take in all she was seeing. Astrotrain scuffed along behind, sullen and silent. He was stuck here with these loonies until his overtaxed thrusters cooled. He had not wanted to remain alone at the bottom of the chasm; but with every step he grew more certain that they were all going to their doom.

The four bots walked forward into darkness, but wherever they went, translucent pipelines all along the walls lit up with a white-glowing substance. Though it seemed crazy, Elita felt that the light was sentient - that it was watching them.

They picked their way down ever narrowing tunnels, until they had lost all track of time and direction. It was warm; it was quiet; it was, all things considered, rather pleasant. But they were hopelessly lost, and no nearer to finding the lost bots than they'd been when they had started.

A shadow, moving up ahead, did not draw their prompt attention as it perhaps should have done. This labyrinth was nothing but the swinging play of light and shadow, and the steady tread of eight feet clumping on the curving ground. Everything moved. So they'd stopped watching movement. It was Astrotrain, still tense, who called out the first alarm.

A figure detached itself from the darkness and strode out to meet them. Taller even than Prime and Megatron, it appeared not to notice as the four bots rapidly assumed defensive positions and readied their weapons. Astrotrain recognized the shape, and squeaked out a very naughty word. The figure approached to within easy speaking distance, and stopped. "I will take you to them," it said. "This way."

It was Sixshot.