World of Steam: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

     Sparks flew from Nichol's torch, illuminating the impassive face of the Decepticon leader.  Megatron watched the human do the minute repairs to his body from a distance, flanked by Ravage.

     How damaged is Starscream?  Report.

     Ravage didn't move a servo.  He laid like a statue carved from stone at Megatron's left.  He should be fine.  Nichols will be able to fix him after he completes the repairs on your body.  Starscream has changed, I'm not sure he's trustworthy any longer.

     I have never trusted him, said Megatron flatly.  Still, we will need every available Decepticon to build a ship off this planet.  The energy output of the earth is high, but I have a distaste for the natives.

     We are in agreement there, mighty Megatron.  I believe there is a way to get the humans to work for us, they are quite industrious and could build large portions of the ship, Ravage watched his human jailer work, finding that he had a begrudging respect building for the man.  Nichols might not be terribly imaginative but he did good solid work and had a mind that was highly adaptable.  Talking to Nichols will give you a better idea of what i have in mind.

     The inventor sat back on his heels, pulling sweat stained welding goggles from his eyes and wiping a smear from his face.  He hadn't worked this hard since his early days as a blacksmith on his father's farm.  With a satisfied heart he ran a rag over the seams of the huge silver chassis that sat before him, “I think this looks rather well if I do say so myself.”

     Megatron begrudgingly agreed.  “Man, Nichols.  Come before me, I have questions.”

     Obediently the man knelt down in front of the severed head of the Decepticon leader.  He had been amazed by Ravage's intelligence and ability to transform himself from a powerful cat-like creature into what amounted to a small box.  When they had unearthed and reassembled Soundwave, Thundercracker, and Astrotrain, then brought them back to full function, he had been in complete awe at the massive mechanical men.  However, it wasn't until they began to assemble Megatron that he realized the full potential of these creatures.  There was a deep intelligence to the giant mech that the others did not seem to touch.  He seemed to be constantly thinking and calculating, running his organization with complete efficiency.  

     Megatron's voice was deep and hollow sounding, like a bell tolling a funeral, “Tell me then, why are you helping us?  What is in it for you?”

     Nichols took a deep breath, organizing his thoughts.  Ravage shut off his aural receivers, not wanting to sit through another of Nichol's tirades.  “Well you see, sir, the short of it is my country is going to hell in a hand basket.  Positively rotten.  My nation is one of the greatest- no IS the greatest and most powerful nation on the face of God's earth and what are we doing with it?  We're squandering it.  People languish in poverty while the rich count their money and earnings.  When my forefathers settled this great country they did not intend for the American spirit to be tethered down by the political ambitions of fools and sycophants.  Our nation was not built to support the fat asses of the wealthy, pardon my language.  Our presidents are impotent and our congress squabbles like pig-faced children over who gets to lick clean their mother's baking bowl.”  Megatron raised an eye ridge, but said nothing. Nichols continued on, “A president can only serve so long as he is elected and his hands are tied by congress and the judicial system.  We call for reform, but that will take years.  I don't believe our great country has years to wait for such reform to become effective!” He stood up a little straighter, preening at his grand speech.

     Megatron quashed his own irritation, such small goals the humans had,  “What is your solution then?”

     “There was a project by my government to produce large mechanical men like yourself for our protection.  They called them the Iron Knights.  Each Knight could withstand the firepower of an entire army!  There were two being built before I left.  Ravage thinks that with all the spare parts we've found here we could possibly build half a dozen more.  I believe I could use those as a perfect incorruptible army to set myself up as ruler of this country.  I would hold myself to the ideals our nation was founded upon.  With my unbiased opinion I could dole out true justice and stability unhindered by political bureaucracy to stand in my way.” The scientist scrutinized the giant metal face, trying to find some expression by which to measure the success of his words.   He found nothing.

     “I see.  And when you die?  What then?”  Megatron knew that these humans only lived to be a meager sixty or seventy earth years on average.  Nichols had maybe twenty or so years left of life.

     Nichols coughed politely,  “Well, I had thought of that as well.  I believe I could make an exoskeleton based on your designs and pickle my brain inside it.  I would become like you and live indefinitely.

     Megatron barked a cruel laugh, “This will not work, Nichols-man.  Your minds could never be separated from your bodies in such a manner.  Our technology would not be able to... regress... so far to accommodate something like that.” He considered Nichols' crestfallen face, “On the other hand... one of us could simply take over for you.  You see, our home planet of Cybertron is a wartorn place.  We left it to find a people who were willing to make order in an effort for peace.  Our world was much like yours, swamped in petty arguments and wars.  They needed someone wise to help them make the right decisions, but instead they chose to continue in their foolish bickering and we Decepticons left.”

     Nichols scratched his chin, “This... is an arrangement that I would have to consider.  You'll forgive me if I don't completely trust you.”

     “Oh no, no, no.  I understand completely,” the head smiled fiercely.  He waited until Nichols had begun to walk away before he added, “And of course we would not take over until after you'd ceased functioning... and we would also help you build your army.”

     Nichols stopped.  He'd put restraints in each of the mechs he had repaired, just like the one he had placed on Ravage.  They would hold and if he decided to pass his kingdom on to another human, he would give them the mastery they needed for the restraints as well.  “Very well, Megatron, you have a deal.”
------

     “Are you sure... they're friendly?” asked Mrs. Witwicky, watching the large blue and red mech take another nasty spill across the far lawn.  Speaking to them individually they seemed to possess an adequate level of manners, however watching them spar with one another was quite alarming.  

     “Of course, Ma.  They're gentle as kittens...” Sam patted his mother on the shoulder.  Optimus righted himself and took out Ironhide's legs while Sideswipe clobbered his instructor from behind.  “Um, really big metal kittens.”

     “Giant metal kittens have giant metal claws, Sam,” said Hawthorne darkly.  Seeing the scorch marks and the damage done after the skirmish with Starscream had brought doubts to the old man.  He did not share his grandson's optimism about their visitors.  Watching them spar these last few weeks had not reassured them.  For all their friendliness, they were still very war-like.

     “Well, yeah they would, but I mean, they don't... ” Sam waved his arms around, trying to figure out how to say what he meant, “Some of them are like me, you know... young.  Like the twins... or Bee. And some of them are more like Grandfather...”

     “Cranky and a terrible taskmaster,” Mikaela chimed in from behind them.  She took a seat beside Sam's mother.  She steadied the tea tray as another tremor rippled the ground thanks to the distant dueling robots.  Hawthorne grinned into his cup.  Personally he thought she was a good match for his grandson.  Mikaela's quick wit complimented Sam's.  Her pretty face hid a brain that was no less sharp than any man he'd ever met.  Mikaela too seemed to possess a particularly keen interest in mechanical things, ever as much as any prodigy he had encountered in his time.

     The autobot called Jazz stalked towards them, almost unheard.  If there was a cat among the Autobots, it was him.  For all that he was larger than Bee, Blaster, or Perceptor, he made almost no noise.  He was as good natured as anyone and seemed to have become the unofficial human liaison along with Bumblebee.  “Sorry for all the noise, folks.”

     “At least it's a highly entertaining way to spend the afternoon.  Will  they be alright?” Mrs. Witwicky watched Ironhide yelling at his two students in Cybertronian.

     “They'll be fine... They need to learn to work together better as a team. “ Jazz sighed inwardly.  Optimus would make a good leader if he'd just learn to trust himself, and if the younger set would learn to trust him.  Sunstreaker was still chaffing at new authority and tended to be obstinate just because he could.  Sideswipe wasn't nearly as frustrating as his brother, but he had trouble trusting the big bot's movements as well.  The twins were naturally sleek and skilled, but the same couldn't be said for their commander.

     Jazz could remember when Optimus had first joined the Autobots.  At the time the Autobot troops had been decimated and there was a certain amount of excitement in finding that the huge bot had joined their ranks.  It wasn't until the first few practice sessions that they realized that the mech was incredibly clumsy. He had been built for labor, not for soldiering.   Their team had been Prowl, a tracker named Hound, the haughty Mirage, and himself.  The others never teased Optimus to his face, but they did lament his inability to fight when they thought he couldn't hear them.  

     Eventually Ironhide had stepped in and trained Optimus one on one.  The other Autobots had seen the clumsy mech become a skilled warrior, able to handle the massive cannon he alone could wield.  The addition of his fire power had helped turn the tide and end the war.  And then they banished us for being involved in it at all.

     “So Sam,” said Mikaela as she rubbed her temple, “When is your father coming home?”

     Sam tossed his empty cup from hand to hand.  “In a week or so... “

     “Yes, he's due here in a few days.  He planned to stop at the fair before he returned home,” said his mother.  Mrs. Witwicky was not at all sure how she was going to tell her husband that their son, ever the kind hearted boy, had taken in a handful of homeless aliens robots.  She's been shocked, but after spending twenty years living around two inventors, she had learned to take everything in stride, “I've no idea how to tell him that his second best workshop is now being run by a giant metal man trying to contact his brothers in outer space.  He's so protective of his workshop...  and what are we going to do about all the footprints in the garden?”

     Sam stood up, his expression clouded, “I'm going to go see if Bee needs any help... I'll... see you all later.”   He ignored his mother's puzzled look and took long strides towards the other workshop.  That was where Wheeljack was attempting to build some kind of device to contact their home planet, along with help from Blaster and Bumblebee.  

     He took a seat next to where Bee was splicing wires.  The little yellow bot didn't need to question Sam to know that something was wrong.  Instead, he put Sam to work peeling the protective coating off the ends of the wires and separating them into un-knotted piles.  They'd been pulled out of various parts of the ship before they abandoned it.  The activity was mind numbing, which was what Sam wanted.  

     It was different working with the Autobots instead of his father.  His father was constantly telling Sam to what not to do, “Sam, now don't touch that.  It's not a toy.  Don't get fingerprints on those copper plates, you'll ruin them.  Don't get near the electroplating tanks, they're very delicate.”  Eventually his father would simply run him out of the workshop and tell him to go bother his mother.  Sam knew his father cared for him, but it was so hard to get close to someone who worked constantly, but didn't want you near his work.

     Wheeljack, who was seated awkwardly in one corner of the workshop, turned to see the neat piles of wires that Sam had made.  Each pile was organized by length.  He grabbed a pile with a hand the size of a steamer trunk, “Wow, thanks for doing that.  That'll help me get this thing working faster!”

     Blaster was squashed behind the contraption, plugging the wires in and soldering them into place.  He hummed a tune he'd heard on the little phonograph that Mrs. Witwicky had brought back from her travels.  He and Jazz were the only bots that were very interested in making music, rather than just listening to it.  Cybertronian music was mostly rhythm.  Here the music seemed to be oriented more on melody.  When they had more time perhaps they could try combining the two to get something new.

     “Alright,” Wheeljack shoved the last panel in place, “This is our benchmark.  It's not ready to send a signal to Cybertron... but it should pick up the signal that Ratchet and Sunstreaker are projecting from the other side of the canyon.”
------

     “Tell me again why I'm out here?” Sunstreaker was sitting on a rock that he'd covered in branches to minimize the chance of getting anymore scratches on his paint.  In all his years of serving, both in war and before, Ratchet had only met a handful of bots that were so concerned about the state of their surface.  Of all of them, Sunstreaker was possibly the most narcissistic.

     “We're going to use this thing to create a mock signal.  It's just to test whether or not we'll be able to receive signals and send them,” Or if the stupid slagging thing will just explode.  Why it was that at least half of the things that Wheeljack worked on tended to explode, he had no real idea.  They just did.  Perhaps it was just the perversity of the inanimate, more likely it was the perversity of Wheeljack's luck.

     The long lanky Autobot flicked a twig off his arm, a frown crossing his features, “No, I know that.  I mean, why are Sides and I split up all the time right now?”

     Ratchet wrenched a knob on the device, “Prowl and Ironhide are of the opinion that the two of you work as well together as you're ever going to-”

     “Of course we do.  We're twins,” Sunstreaker replied with irritation.  The humans seemed confused by why or how a machine could be a twin, especially when their features weren't identical.  Humans had two types of twins, identical and fraternal, but the autobot twins didn't fit wholly under either definition.  

     Every bot essentially looked the same as a protoform; thin, unarmored black limbs, too many exposed servos, and no distinguishing markings.  It wasn't until they went in for upgrades that they began to form into something individual.  For Sunstreaker and Sideswipe their spark had started as one and split sometime during the batch recognition phase; they were twins in the core of their being, not necessarily on the surface.  Their protoforms had gone to different chambers, been built by different manufacturing plants, but when they came on-line they immediately sought each other out. With each passing upgrade they fluxed between being identical and being separate.

     Each protoform had three basic upgrades in their lives.  It was always a tumultuous time when they became cranky and their surface began to itch terribly.  It wasn't completely unlike how earthling insects shed their skins.  In addition to their normal intake of energy converted into energon, they also started ingesting any scrap of metal they found.  The added material was then used by their bodies to form new armored parts and bulk out their forms.  

     Ratchet was glad that both Sunstreaker and Sideswipe had already completed their last upgrades.  The last thing he wanted was for Sunstreaker to get any more cranky than he already was.  He also wasn't sure how much metal they'd find for the two of them to munch considering their size already.  It wasn't that they were big all around, like Optimus, but they were tall and packed plenty of firepower.  

     No, the only two bots who were young enough to not have reached their last upgrade before they left for Cybertron were Blaster and Bumblebee.  It was possible that neither of them would have another major upgrade.  Perceptor hadn't, he'd had a minor one just after the war ended.  All he had gained was a few inches to his already small frame.  That was just fine for him, he liked being small.  However, Ratchet knew that lack of stature chaffed at Blaster and Bee.  

     Sunstreaker batted at a large buzzing insect peevishly.  Sideswipe irritated him, but everyone else irritated him even more.  The tall yellow bot was a combat model.  He considered himself the best fighter in their current unit, everyone else was sub par.  Sideswipe understood the way his brother fought and vice versa.  There was a distinct lack of running into each other or crashing into stationary objects when the two of them worked together.  This was not so when he was working with Bumblebee or Wheeljack.  It had to be them, he was sure, “So?  If they think we work so well together, why split us up?”

     “The two of you may work well with each other, and Sideswipe does alright with the others... but you,” he poked Sunstreaker in the chest for emphasis, “You do not work well with anyone but your twin.  And that's going to get you or someone else killed someday.”

     Sunstreaker set his jaw and rubbed the spot Ratchet had poked in irritation.  “So?  Just always pair us together.  Our skills compliment each other, we'll be fine.”

     “And what if you're not?  What if something happens to one of you?  What will you do then?” Ratchet rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a pain in his servos.  Maybe young bots were just stupid by nature.

     “Nothing will happen if you keep us together!”  Sunstreaker rolled his eyes, was he the only one with a working cerebral cortex here?

     Before Ratchet could reply the machine came on.  The others had made contact.  “Hello hello?  Are you kkkkkzzzt getting this?  Hello?”

     Ignoring the sulky warrior, Ratchet fiddled with the dials on the device, trying to get a clearer signal.  No matter what he did he seemed to continue getting interference on the line.  It was coming in almost sequential bursts, very strange.

     Back at the workshop, Blaster was working on the same problem.  “This doesn't make any sense.  Why are we getting this garbage in here?”

     “What is it?” asked Sam, trying to listen.

     “It's some kind of human interference,” Wheeljack snapped.  He took out his frustrations by wrenching the panels back off his invention, “Probably someone's slagging grocery list.”

     Jazz listened to it a moment, “It's got a beat to it.  There's a pattern.”

     “Of course it does!  It's probably more of that slagging morse code stuff,” Wheeljack's voice was muffled as he bent over the machine awkwardly.

     Blaster tapped the beat out on one of the panels, looking at Sam expectantly, “Make any sense to you?”

     “No... if it's morse code someone doesn't know what they're talking about,” Once translated the noises didn't say anything at all.  It was just a series of gibberish. “It sounds like parts of it are missing.  Maybe it's getting swallowed up in our signal?”

     Jazz frowned, “Any way we can isolate it?  Then we can tell what it is.”

     Blaster shrugged, “Worth a shot, just give me a minute here.”  He squeezed himself back behind the machine again.  He batted Wheeljack's arms out of the way and began re-arranging the wires.  

     The sound that came through was a series of clicking noises and tones.  It grew stronger in intensity and then would soften, as if the source was going in and out of range. Sam listened to it, fascinated by the rolling sounds, “W-what is it?”

     Bee's blue optics were wide, “It's an Autobot signal.  A corrupted Autobot signal, but still one of ours.”