Fictionary 4

[Andy Turnbull]

Andy

[The Doctor]

NB:
This story relates generally to:
Fictionary 1: 'There but for the grace of...'
Fictionary 2: 'The Escape'

And is a direct continuation of:
Fictionary 3: 'Haul of Dead Gods'

And now, the conclusion.

---
Five billion years ago, they came from Cybertron One, a world composed entirely of machinery...a world torn by age-old war between they who called themselves the 'heroic' Autobots and their enemies, the 'evil' Decepticons. These incredibly powerful living robots, capable of converting themselves into land and air vehicles, weapons and other mechanical forms, continue their conflict throughout the ends of time and the wastes of space. They are...THE TRANSFORMERS.

332
Written by Ralph Burns.

“The stars are falling.”
Chief Medical Officer Ratchet's head ducked out from the entrance to the cave. “What are you – ah. Yes. I see what you mean.”
His companion, standing outside and fiddling with all sorts of mildly perplexing electronic equipment, nodded briefly in his direction but otherwise kept his attention fixed on his dials. Though considering they had just met, 'companion' was stretching the nature of their relationship a little.
“Well, couldn't you transform into something more helpful? Didn't you say you were a scientist?”
His companion appeared momentarily perplexed. “Don't you remember who - . No, you wouldn't. Forgive me. Your suggestion, however, has merits.” He quickly transformed into space-telescope mode and greedily assimilated more data. While he analysed, he considered it might be useful if he engaged in small-talk, especially given the situation they were in. “So...you're a...a...”
“A medic.”
“Well. That's interesting, I suppose. I'm Perceptor. That's my name.”
A scream yelled out from within the cave. Ratchet's expression furrowed. “I thought I had welded that head back on properly.”
“You did say it was your 5003rd operation for the day.”
“No excuse!”
Ratchet dived back within the cave. Just over the horizon, dull whumps and thuds were the only indication of the front-line, just three miles away. The acoustics in the valley were strange and unearthly. And it was a literal front-line. The wall stretched all around the valley, 100 feet tall.
It was unearthly. Interesting turn of phrase. But it was the stars, the stars that interested Perceptor. Always so out of reach, so apparently cold, yet in reality so very very hot. With the fullest of magnification, he could see the stars closer than he could have seen Ratchet a moment ago. But the stars were indeed falling. The enemy had torn them loose from their orbits and set them on a collision course with this world. He transformed back into robot form and coolly strode into the cave, sanctuary for the native population of the survivors of the Ark colony here. The cries and screams of the dead and dying would have distressed him, so he tuned out the appropriate frequencies from his auditory sensors and put some light jazz he had acquired from Earth One on his internal audio systems. The style of music interested him, being hard to exactly quantify and catalog. After some time, he reached his goal and placed his hand on the left shoulder of his new friend, ignoring that he was ankle deep in oil spurting from the Autobot soldier he was desperately trying to save.
“Chief Medical Officer Ratchet. I have analysed our situation and have calculated our odds of survival. We must leave at once.”
Perceptor was resoundly ignored. He thought he would try again. “Judging by the shouting I can hear from beyond the wall, I believe our enemy is a battalion of Diaclone Men. Surely you will have heard of their massing on the Humanian frontiers? War is coming.” There, that should be enough.
Ratchet continued with his work. He reached behind him and grabbed a spanner from a torn gurney. His watcher tried again. “I said - “
Rapidly fixing a leak, Ratchet whirled around, his expression ablaze. “Be quiet!”
“Why?”
“I have a laser scalpel.”
“And?”
Ratchet's in-built scalpel enfolded itself from his left forearm. The end-tip glowed a dangerous orange. “Burny burny.”
“Ah.”
The scientist decided perhaps it would be prudent to walk outside. By the time he got there, the sky was on fire. He checked his red-outs. The stars were still coming and would annihilate this world soon. Should he not be feeling some kind of emotion about that? He wondered what his other friend would say, the one who had sent him out here.
Perceptor opned his left hand and a mental command ignited his recording facility. An image of Springer appeared on his palm. He looked at the image of his commanding officer for quite some time.
“Springer isn't coming.”
Perceptor almost started. He should have detected Ratchet approaching from behind.
“He will. He's my friend.”
The physician sat down on a dusty rock just by the entrance of the enormous cave. Strictly speaking, such an action served no useful purpose for a robotic life-form. It was an affectation picked up from Earth One, no doubt.
All across the top of the wall, an unbroken line of unmoving Diaclone Men looked down into the valley. The sound of fighting from outside this valley had ceased. “Well, Perceptor. I really don't recall how I got here. Perhaps my brain center was damaged, but I am sure of one thing. Those...things up there, on the wall. I think they've killed everyone else behind them and injured our fellows back in the cave. I wonder...I wonder what they are waiting for? Why they are waiting?”
Perceptor switched off the image of Springer. “The stars are falling.”
“The stars are – oh. Oh! I see. There's no need for them to do anything anymore.”
The scientist thought to start a countdown. It seemed the thing to do, though he mostly did it in his head so as not to unnerve his new companion. New companion? That didn't seem right. Still, perhaps best to default to Small Talk Programme 01:
“So, Ratchet. Why don't you tell me about yourself.” He forget the to raise his voice at the end of the sentence to indicate a question.
Ratchet looked up at the silent wall of Diaclone Men for a while. “Who am I? Oh, I'm completely the wrong person to be here, in this battleground. I'm not a warrior. I don't know how to fight. Well, sometimes fighting happens to me and I muddle through and do my best but I really don't mean to hurt anyone.”
At which point Perceptor's clock whirred down to zero. Well, it hadn't been a very long count-down. The world, and everything on it, was smashed to pieces.
...or at least that's how he remembered it. Now he came to think about it, a few of the details seemed vague. Would there not have been evidence of gravimetric stress before the stars hit? And had the Diaclone Men really been so silent? Hmmm, it was peculiar how memory worked sometimes. How what we remember can be completely and 100% true as to how we recall it, yet be missing large chunks of important data. Something to think about. After all, what else was there to do?
Far, far into the future, Perceptor's giant lonely body floated between star systems. He had to no-one to talk to other than his own memories and even they doubted him.

“I love you.”
Ratchet awoke to sensory awareness with a sudden start. Circuits fizzled and burned with unexpected awareness. Where was he now? Ah, yes - “Capital City. Planet Three. Western Spiral Arm. The Sixth Humanian Empire. Local Year : 2,359,001AD. Current location – bedchamber of Emperor's daughter, Gabrielle. Desig – oh. Oh! Oh dear.”
The small soft humanoid woman fussed over him. “I love you,” she repeated.
“Er, yes. Yes. You mentioned that. Oh, my head!”
“Oh, don't worry about that. You suffered a little damage during the battle. And our mechanics replaced your left leg, but they did quite a good job, considering records of your species are sketchy. “
Ratchet stood up from his lying position and looked round himself at his new environment. Luckily the rooms round here were pretty tall or he would have put his head through the roof. Actually, a pretty good job on his leg had been done, all things considered, though he would have to do something about the green colour. It didn't suit him at all. “ Now,” he muttered while testing the load bearing capacity of his new leg, “When you say 'love', do you mean literal love or metaphorical love? I've had trouble with this sort of thing before, you see.”
“I love you.”
“Right. Ok. Now my memory systems are rebooting and I'm recovering lost data so I'm getting an idea of where you're coming from but the thing is: I'm a giant robot from a race of massive destructive robot death dealing machines in general and you're a...well a lovely small fleshy thing who probably does knitting in the evening and -”
Gabrielle scowled. It didn't suit her. “If you could just come to the balcony.”
Ratchet considered his next move. He really should just run away, but he'd done an awful lot of running in his life. It couldn't hurt to stick around this one time? So he did as he asked and staggered over to the balcony. About a hundred thousand beaming human faces in the courtyard outside cheered back at him. One elderly woman near the front shouted for his autograph.
“You see,” explained Gabrielle. “You saved us from the other 'robot death dealing machine' which came to enslave us. So that is why I love you. And so do they.”
“But I didn't really do anything!”
“You brought a mighty fire down from the heavens and smote our enemy!”
“I fell from orbit and landed on top of the other robot after being blown into this star system after the last planet I was on blew up when someone threw some stars at it.”
“I...do not understand.”
The former Chief Medical Officer under the command of the late Optimus Prime saw great compassion within the humans eyes, and there was trust too. Trust in him, a member of a race they had every reason in the worlds to hate and fear. And all those other people out there cheering him on! They seemed happy when they must have felt great fear in their recent history. Such amazing creatures. Oh what the hell.
“Yes. Yes. Ah, I brought that fire stuff down from...from up there!” He pointed up at sky. “And did some smiting, ah, stuff. That other robot fellow, he won't bother you again. Probably. Er, presuminghisbrainmodulewascompletelyincineratedtha tisyounevercantell. Yeah, I got him. But good!”
The cheering was tremendous and unfettered. Gabrielle, who he was fast taking a liking to, smiled up at him. This was good. This was nice. He could get used to this.
It certainly was better than being in Jn'wann.

Where had his friend gone?
Just a moment ago they had been engaged in a fruitful chat over the crossword puzzle and then -
he was here. In the fog. Initially, there were no sounds until slowly but surely they emerged exactly in sync with the clearing of the fog. They were...they were the sounds of battle.
No! Not here! Not now! He wanted to go back! He had to go back!
In there had been peace, his life quest at an end, but it appeared that life had not yet finished with him.
And so Optimus Prime was ejected from heaven, from Jn'wann, and fell back in the world of war. The shadow of a tower fell across his face as the last of the fog cleared. No, it hadn't been fog after all, but smoke. The dwellings all around and beyond him burned. Sinister mechanical sounds choked the air beyond. Through the haze from distant fires, an enormous golden dome could just be glimpsed.
He was on the Humanian Empire Colony, Blackpool, 56 years into the battle of Iacon's Shadow, and this was where he would fall, five years hence, broken and alone. No-one else was there to see it happen. Not until after, when what would have been a familiar figure to him, stood sadly over his prone body.
“Oh dear. Not again.”

“Hi, and welcome to this Saturday's edition of 'Rat-Chat'! I'm Zhu Yuanzhang!”
The crowd, naturally, went wild. Or rather, the canned crowd did for this was radio.
“Thanks once again for coming on to the show, Emperor Ratchet!”
“Uh, hi, Yuanzhang. There's really no need to be so formal. Ratchet will do, or Mr Ratchet if you really want to use a title.”
“Right, ok, rock and roll! Let's just get into it then. We have a few listeners on the line! Hello! Who is this?”
“My name is Megatron! Fear me!”
“Ho ho! That sounds like one of our younger listeners! Way to go on that ring modulation! Been paying attention to the Emperor's history tapes, sounds like! Ok, 'Megatron', what's your question?”
“Dear despicable 'Emperor' Ratchet whom I defeated many times in battle especially that time with the nasty Dinobot creatures in the snow drift...what is your favourite food?”
“Hi there, 'Megatron'. It's certainly been a long time! Why, in all my many years here my robot systems have yet to adapt to Humanian food, though those heat-tempered protein cylinders look as tasty as ever!”
“Thank you, er, may you be blasted to oblivion and beyond! Autobot fool!”
Some canned laughter filled the gap.
“We've just got time for one more caller before the commercial break! So, who is this on the line?”
“Ratchet, it's me. If freedom is the right of all sentient beings, why did you leave me?”
It sounded like something was caught in the Emperor's mechanical throat. It took him a moment to respond. It really did sound like...”Optimus...is that you?”
“...”
“Hmmm, that young man must have got star-struck and hung up! Let's move on to...”
“Hello there, Mr Ratchet, my name is Simon. Is it true you have been watching over us for billions and billions of years?”
“Thanks for phoning in, Simon. Yes, I have indeed been here for a long time! And I'm so old that my original body has been replaced in certain areas. You lot really like your green coloured metals! I even got my head replaced just last week. It's quite a change, I must say!”
“Well, thanks for your great question, little Simon. So, 'Mr' Ratchet, what would you say to the rumours of robot eye sightings we've been hearing about? The mechanical eyes that appear without warning?”
“Oh I'd say some people have a fanciful imagination.”
“OK, well stick with us here on Radio 1. We'll be back for some more 'Rat-Chat' after these important messages.”

It was a beautiful day. Exactly the kind of weather everyone had hoped for come dedication day. For one thing, it would have been harder to haul the 80 feet by 40 feet plaque up to the top of the mountain. Many of the Emperor's closest friends had been flown in specially to the summit to witness the historic occasion. This was not something that would ever be seen again in their lifetimes. The media of the world were focused on this sight. Billions huddled by their wireless sets, eager for the latest updates.
When it came time though, it was actually quite perfunctionary, quick, and strangely lacking in ceremony despite the hype and attention. The Emperor was still quite shy with regards to public speaking in person so kept his remarks brief. “For too long this world has been known only by the dry descriptor of 'Planet 3'. The people have grown and developed too far for their world not to have the name chosen by them for them. Already other worlds in neighbouring system are following suit. I am honoured, as an outsider, to re-name this world!” He held up the massive plaque for all to see and welded it directly into the waiting stand at the stop of the mountain which for reasons too obscure for anyone other than Ratchet had itself been re-named 'Mt St Hilary' by him several centuries earlier, just before the worldwide literacy rate had reached 100%.
'EARTH COLONY 'BRIGHTON', 332AF1984.' read the plaque in large gold letters in English, Welsh, Sanskrit, Binary and several other prominent languages.
Earlier in the day, the President had asked Ratchet what the numerical designation meant. 'AF1984' was a reference to the ancient Humanian Empire/Transformer war, the inclusion of which was symbolic considering how this one Transformer had so influenced the world in positive ways, but...
“Why 332?”
“It's an important number for me. One I'll easily recognise and remember. I've also codified it through various important historical documents, evacuation plans, emergency medical care plans, and so on.”
“I see. Or rather I don't, to be completely honest. Still, you are the Emperor. Watching over us since the before time, but before we go to the mountain I have something to give to you. My youngest, Bob, made this chocolate lollipop for you. You will see the wrapper bears your visage. I know you do not eat our food but please accept this gift.”
“I am honoured. I have always been honoured to serve your people. Now, we had best be going or we'll be late! Hop in and I'll transform to my vehicle mode. Did you know it is patterned after an ancient Earth emergency vehicle?”
Back in the present, Ratchet felt great contentment. He'd never known peace like this. In fact -
The robot eye hovered silently in the still air just to the left of his vision. He had kept up to speed on the sightings, of course, but until now he had never seen one for himself.
Below him, the humans scattered in fright. Several other eyes had appeared. Some apparently popped out of the air, others burrowing out of the ground. Though they had as yet taken no direct action, there was more than a hint of malevolence to them. An itch spread through the humans minds as they looked at the unearthly, unblinking objects. They pleaded with their Emperor to save them.
But their Emperor knew there was nothing he could do. A soldier's mind was needed to combat...whatever this was. No wait, the shape...it was only now when he saw the eyes up close that it became stunningly obvious. He had seen that eye before, many times, in one of his past lives.
“Perceptor! I know it's you.”
The eye watching Ratchet bobbed up once, sharply, then down again. For all the world, it appeared as if it had nodded at him. Then, as one, the eyes dove upon the helpless humans. Each one they touched spasmed once, then fell.
“No! NO! Perceptor! Why, why are you doing this?!”
The primary eye tapped the Emperor on the shoulder. He felt deep and terrible energies coil themselves around his mind, burning through critical systems. It felt like he was being lobotomised while still conscious. Memories were flicked through like cards being turned over in a rolodex. It was agonising.
“Arrrrrgh! Perceptor! Why? What...what is...”
At this point the distant mind of Perceptor, for it was his eyes feeding upon the world, directly contacted Ratchet for the first and last time: “Left. Alone. All gone. They all left me. Springer. All of them. I must touch the thoughts of others. I just cannot bear to be alone.” Then he was gone. Ratchet's vision turned to red, then black, then back to normal.
All the eyes were gone and all the humans lay prone on the dusty ground for as far as he could see. All their sounds were silent. Once he had recovered, the Emperor walked the world for a hundred days. He found not one single human who had not been touched by the eyes. Not one. On the hundredth and first day, he commandeered a space vessel and left the world for the stars. As he left orbit, he muttered just one thing:
“332.”
In time, Earth Colony Brighton was settled by another hardy band of humans, but of the original inhabitants, they did not walk the world again. Civilizations rose and fell, sometimes touched by the presence of the Transformers race, sometimes not. The planetary dedication plaque on Mt St Hilary rusted away, uncared for and unnoticed.

Throughout the remaining epochs of Humanian history, Ratchet was there, weaving his legacy into the fabric of this galaxies western spiral arm and beyond. Sometimes he was accompanied and more often not, but in the shadows of the human race he could be found. Where there was trouble and strife, the Autobots' former Chief Medical Officer strode and every human world and system he tried to save or preserve he codified with the prefix of 332. Always 332. There were times when he would arrive on a world that had been visited by Perceptor and on those worlds he would walk the surface for a hundred days. It was his way of paying respect to those who had fallen.
He couldn't save everyone and in the end he might not be able to save himself but he would give it a darn good try. It was all anyone could have asked of him. It was all Optimus Prime could have asked of him. Ah, Optimus.
In time, a plan began to form. Perceptor had to be stopped and by the evidence so far there was no one able to defeat him as he drifted through space, his form now bloated far beyond original specifications, enough to blot out suns.
Eventually, after some time in the Universe next to ours, Ratchet returned. The relative local calender had cycled through to year 332 (old date: 5 Billion AD), partway through the ninth micromaster war. The Diaclone Men had returned from inner space and were rampaging through star systems without apparent motive or mercy but other agents were at large now and so Ratchet felt able to concentrate on his main mission for the time being. Also, it had been some time since the Fictionary had contacted him. Now, now...Perceptor had been detected heading towards Nebulos...and Prime was there, in a sense. So he set sail in his battered ship. As per the prophecy he had harmlessly planted throughout various otherwise completely legitimate humanian (and related species) belief systems, he would arrive there on day 332.
Perceptor had no idea what was coming. Dimly, Ratchet wondered if the human, Gabrielle, long since dead and turned to dust, would approve. He decided that she would have, and left it at that.

Galen, former tyrant and king of Nebulos, roused from apparent sleep.
“The stars are falling.”
The King blinked with eyes that were no longer there, out of sheer force of habit. He may have returned from the memory from which he came, but he missed his physical body, now withered away in a forgotten corner. Nonetheless, after a moment he saw, and shared, a distorted fragment of Perceptor's tortured memories.
“Look, Galen. Do you see? His name was Ratchet. Him, over there, the medic. Oh, he's just gone back into the cave. Here, let me show you something else.”
Galen saw Perceptor stretch out his hand. An image of a predominantly green, heavily armoured Transformer appeared there. Red tribal markings clearly marked it out as belonging to the same race as the scientist robot who had consumed Nebulos, the world of memories, not that long ago, relatively speaking.
“His name is Springer. He was my commanding officer on the mission on which I was lost. He was my friend. And he left me. He left me! HE LEFT ME! And I had no-one to talk to but that medic. No-one! And then the stars came down and smashed the world and I was cast adrift. All alone. So lonely. So very very lonely. Perhaps...you shall be my new Springer.”
Though many had died by his hand, both directly and indirectly, Galen found that he could relate to his mechanical master's plight, even through the sheer madness of the situation he now found himself embroiled within. Was he alive? Was he dead? It was so hard to tell.
Ah, Nebulos...proud Nebulos...only one vowel away from 'nebulous' and how much more true that name would have been. Perceptor's attentions occupied once more with self-pity, Galen found himself reflecting back...back to the beginning, when the world was new again.
----

CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

[The Doctor]

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST
-----

Ratchet's ship disintegrated immediately upon contact with the Nebulos star system as it hit the leading edge of the massive memory buffer that formed the contents of the system within. Evidently, it was not only the planet of his destination that was created by, powered and sustained by the minds of Nebulos itself. His ship, older than any of the old Ark vessels still in operation in various pockets of space, was simply not designed to withstand the pressures and strains it was encountering and rusted away faster than any eye could see. Ratchet found himself free floating in space, momentum carrying him the rest of the way. His outer shell tingled all over. Though the special coating he had picked up on his travels beyond this physical universe on the Fictionary's fourth world was fully protecting him from the ravages of a billion long ago thoughts and feelings drifting through the stars, there was nonetheless a physical sensation associated with it. And a smell like cinnamon with a hint of the lemon. This was the way the past of the universe smelled.
Through most of his travels, even when passing the outer planets, he was still mostly unable to detect any of the lingering memories from without other than general impressions, which usually had something to do with gardening or funerals. Sometimes the two impressions were intermingled in strange and curious ways.
Then, just by the primary moon of Nebulos itself, the full assault began as the intensity of the tingling increased from gentle to stabbing. The difference between a light shower and a thunderstorm. The impressions, however, remained general, right up until the point at which Ratchet hit the outer atmosphere. Instantly, a myriad of random thoughts, feelings, ideas, hopes and dreams assailed him from every angle, pouring through every surface:
-A young boy finds his father lying very still in his chair, an empty prescription bottle sitting on the armrest.
-The igniting of the star Fornax in the 34th millennium, just after the Cybertronian peace accords were dissolved.
-”Put the mask away.”
-The birth of a second child. It weighed 7lbs exactly and was called Mark. He died at the age of 78, having climbed Mt Verona for the first time.
-The front lines of the assault on Earth Two. Jim asks his mate for a cup of tea just before he is shot by a sniper.
-”The concubine is mine!”
-Earth Colony Blackpool is clouded in a perceptual field and brought within the observational gallery. Only 1.2% of the original inhabitants are actually aware of this and plans are made to re-educate them.
-The taste of a pint of beer for the first time. It tastes foul. She'll have another sip though.
-The original Hi-Q resolves to improve his wardrobe. The high collar look is out of fashion this season and the mocking is intense. He'll do something about it as soon as he has finished construction of Optimus Prime's Powermaster body and is rid of these annoying robots.
-Fly-by of the Fifth Ark Fleet over the main capitol buildings
-”Face facts, you are going to have a gorilla.”
-The atmosphere of the original Nebulos is ripped away following the campaigns along the Fifth Divide
-Formation of the Memory Vaults
-Death of the last Nebulon. He trips over a blade of grass and cracks his skull on a world far from here.
-The fabric is excellent! It will indeed be a good choice for making these vests!
-”There is no truth to the rumour that Cybertron has returned to this dimension.”
-332. 332. 332. 332. 332.
-He knows the truth. He knows this reality is false and that he and all on his world are nothing more than continually perpetuated memories. He thinks long and hard about what he should do. In the end, he decides that the memory membrane would burst if all suddenly doubted their existence. What good would killing the world do? So he takes his findings and publishes them as a very popular work of fiction entitled 'The Stone Roses'.
-”Die, Doctor, die!”
-The Astronomer Royal discovers the fabled Humanian Empire Colonies. She is so excited by this she accidentally stabs herself in the eye with her pen. It was a good pen and was given to her by the lad she really fancied down in the village.
-And the eye shall judge us and then ye shall tremble for the time of the end be on high. The lonely Transformer will observe us until the 332nd day and then the earth itself shall consume our minds'.
-From orbit, he watched Earth Four burn. It felt good.
It would take Ratchet 332 days to reach the planetary core. He had been falling for less than one trillionth of a trillionth of a second. And when he eventually reached the core, having experienced the sum memories of all who had ever walked on Nebulos, there were the robot eyes. They hovered, apparently ignoring him, so he apparently ignored them back. Perceptor had arrived in orbit and would be initiating the Doom Collapse any moment now. Time, amongst other things, was limited. His first task was completed. Now he had to reach Earth Colony Blackpool. Prime would be awakening soon, and he had to be stopped. Ratchet did, however, allow himself to have a look around. For it was a pretend world and so the core itself was pretend. No heat, no pressure. Just a grey empty cylindrical room. Empty except for two sentences marked with orange crayon, on what Ratchet perceived as the 'floor'. Once run through his translational matrices, the first sentence roughly translated as:
'you are here'.
Just beneath was inscribed:
'bob lvs angela 4evah'
Ah, graffiti. The one constant in the Universe.

What does it feel like to be truly alone? To have no-one to share your hopes and fears with? To have the corners of the mind fold in on themselves? All you have left is the trivia of everyday events and the excitement that banality can bring when there is nothing left to divert your thoughts.
“The humans were the key. That's why I studied them.”
All this Perceptor knew and more. The scratchings and itchings of the mind of the latest in a long line of Galen's crawled at the dull edges of his awareness.
“Despite their many technological advancements, much of them gained through military applications launched during their many wars, they never did quite work out how to preserve their experiences.”
It was, in a way, quite impressive that it kept babbling.
“Our ancestors achieved that, of course, through careful application of the Masters technology. The human delegation, led by Delgado and Ainley were most impressed. Plans began straight away for the license for the Mindmasters to be given to the humans but inevitably war intervened.”
Having, however, is not the same as wanting. A routine can become so entrenched in the mind, however much it is hated, that any disruption itself brings distress. The emptiness remained within him, despite the modifications he had made to the tiny mind babbling within him.
“The Extinction Level Event was itself not immediately obvious, but of course everyone and everything began to die almost straight away. So the Mindmaster technology was perfected and we lived on. Nothing more mysterious than that and as the orbit shifted, so Nebulos drifted away from history, lost to myth, legend and superstition. For we became nothing more than echoes of former glories with no true lives of our own. I always thought if I studied the humans I would learn what we had lost. I had to do something, I mean, yes I did many horrible things, but it wasn't my fault, don't you see? I'm just re-iterating the legacies of men long dead. It wasn't my fault! But if I studied the humans, perhaps I could break the circle. I couldn't help doing all the things I did! The shadows of history made me do it! You believe me, don't you?”
No.
“And...I sense something has changed, hasn't it?”
It had taken only a little thought but at the time Perceptor had considered that it would help bring back what he had lost, give him a bit of company that meant something.
“I...am being whittled away. Oh...oh I don't even look the same anymore. And my face...”
The sculpting had been quite easy. In one of his mind's eyes, flickering on his outstretched hand, he could see what Galen had been transmogrified into. An image of a predominantly green, heavily armoured Transformer. Red tribal markings clearly marked it out as belong to the same race as Perceptor.
“But I am not this Springer! I am not him! I am Galen of Nebulos! Galen of Nebulos! Galen...of...of...”

Typical. He had told him to rest but had he? No! So when Prime had inevitably revived on Colony Blackpool, Ratchet had put him to sleep. He would only have run around the place being all heroic and ruining everything. This act had saddened the doctor but it had to be done. He was more than the scared robot who had awakened to his second life back on Earth One in that far distant year of 1984AD. He had seen and experienced a great deal since then and he had changed.
But he was still intrinsically the same being. He told himself that now as he stood upon the surface of Nebulos, in the Garden of Eternal Peace and Harmony and waited for the fleet of eyes to burrow up from the planetary core.
Prime, of course, had returned. He always did. He never could stay dead. Ratchet could understand that intimately. An awkward conversation had ensued before Optimus had succumbed to the same general malaise that had struck down the inhabitants of Colony Blackpool and planet Nebulos. They weren't dead, not in the literal sense, though they were far from a fruitful life now their memories had been taken away.
By now, the last of the fleets of the eyes had burst forth from the ground and were swooping round the planet, chasing down any survivors who may have escaped the initial waves. A dozen of the eyes hovered in mid-air round the medical officer, like bees round honey. They seemed to be waiting for something. An order? Oh well, it was now or never. Best just to get on with it. Had he been organic, he would have taken a deep breath. But he took a metaphorical one anyway. He turned to directly address the eye which had been hovering over his left shoulder.
“You break it, I'll remake it.”
Nothing happened.
Well, maybe it took a minute or two.
Hmmm. Nope. No reaction. Ah well, perhaps not. He slapped his forehead.
“I had a plan! A good plan!”
The complexion of the eyes grew darker. He wondered how that would affect his protective layer as many many more came down from the sky, which quickly became completely obscured by them. Blue sky quickly became black sky.
“It was a good plan! It's just not fair!”
Perhaps time for Plan B then. Ratchet leaped over to the fallen form of his one-time commanding officer and friend. Quickly he activated his laser scalpel and made several quick incisions at the back of the head, popping open a hatch and deftly manipulating several controls inside. It was amazing how so many deeply old fashioned wires still remained within the design. “OK, OK. You can come back to life now.” he muttered.
Optimus did not stir.
“Fine! In your own time then.”
The eyes dove for them both.
----

CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

[The Doctor]

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST
-----

The buzzing of the Galen thing had almost completely subsided now, though Perceptor had paid it less and less attention after it had started crying. As he had done this, he experienced a new emotion. Or rather, perhaps it was not a new emotion as such but rather one that had been re-awakened in him as he had absorbed and broke down the final memories of Galen. There, it was gone now. It had been a mistake to make it into Springer. It...it.
No, not an it, a he.
Now this was most puzzling. Perhaps it would be prudent to examine this in further detail. There was sufficient time for study, his eyes had not returned with their new data as yet. There, King Galen's files had been stored in that memory wall. His most recent thoughts were duly accessed.
Perceptor tried to filter through what they meant. Something about 'cloying' and 'heavy feelings' mixed with past associations. Hmm, still puzzling. The data was cross-checked through all available data banks until the entry was found for the most likely identifying emotion:
Guilt.
A shock rippled through the scientist's mainframe. Guilt. It felt cold and clammy and as it spread through his feelings, he knew what the Nebulon had done. For reasons that had been its own and were lost to him, it had concentrated hard on that one emotion. It had been a mistake to transmogrify it into a Transformer body, however briefly, for it had then known how to transmit the emotion directly from one Transformer to another. Galen had wanted Perceptor to know what guilt was. Why?
With a shock, long dormant memories of his own early life, long since suppressed, shot back to the forefront. He remembered when back on Cybertron One in pre-history, he had over-ruled his comrade Blaster's pleas to rescue his friend, Scrounge, from the scourges of the smelting pools. His friend...
With a shriek of metal, Perceptor's main drive failed and systems all across his body crashed one by one. The sudden and literal complete breakdown flowed from his mind out to his body. It spiraled out of control.

Prime jumped up suddenly, startling his friend. The former Autobot commander swayed groggily on his feet for a moment before fixing his gaze on his fellow Cybertronian.
“Ratchet! You've changed! You're green.”
“Yes indeed.”
“Also, your head design has changed considerably. I would have mentioned this earlier but there was a lot to take in. But I knew it was you.”
“Talking of having a lot to take in, an awful lot of nasty floating robot eyes are about to try devouring our life experiences, leaving us dull shells incapable of any independent action.”
Prime looked up and round. “Yup.”
“This would be a bad thing.”
A rifle sight was aimed directly at his forward cranium. “Last time, I checked, it appeared as though you were colluding with them.”
Ratchet looked panicked, putting his hands up in a frantic placating gesture. “I haven't really got much time to explain, but they are part of Perceptor, who has gone mad with loneliness and is drifting through space absorbing the memories of everything he comes into contact with in an effort to stave off those negative feelings. So I've been tracking him to Nebulos, which is built entirely from memory engrams. I absorbed them myself while sinking to the planetary core and the plan was that by speaking aloud the activation code : 'You break it, I'll remake it', they would re-progamme themselves to give everyone back their memories and no-one dies! Hurrah! The eyes don't seem to be having it though.”
During the lengthy speech, Ratchet had looked increasingly harassed. Prime studied him carefully for a beat before dropping his weapon.
“Good exposition. I see. Well, I could shoot them with my rifle, but I doubt that would help much.”
“You never know.”
And the eyes were upon them, stabbing at their minds with their slightest touch. They felt soft, despite their appearance. Prime cocked his rifle and aimed at the nearest one at point-blank range. Nothing happened. He activated the trigger mechanism several more times. “Well it is very old. Maybe if I try hitting it.” he muttered. No effect, so he swung it violently, swatting dozens of eyes out of the sky.
“We've no chance here. Transform into vehicular mode and roll out!”
Quickly converting to truck and emergency vehicle modes, the two Transformers sped off. The eyes followed closely behind. Out through the garden gates they crashed. Rear-view mirrors illustrated their dogged pursuit. Down through the valley they rode, eyes veering in from above, below and around them, acting much like disturbed bats in a cave.
And room to flee was quickly running out. Though it had appeared flat land full across the horizon, without warning, it dropped away and both Transformers roared off a precipice, falling into an abyss.
Quickly converting into robotic forms, arms jutted out for handholds, but there were none. The eyes stabbed at their minds as they fell. Below them, the onrushing ground rippled with static of the kind found on ancient Humanian television sets. It glitched once, twice, changing from water to lava.
“Optimus! With no-one left able to remember it, the planet is breaking up! Random fragments of bleeding memories are altering the landscape at fantastic speeds! Where I not falling to my death, this would be very interesting!”
“But lava! Why does it always have to be lava?”
Overhead, the sun was going out. No, not going out as such. Rather it was being obscured by a massive object eclipsing it, coming closer at an erratic speed. “Also, Perceptor is about to crash into what is left of Nebulos.”
There wasn't much time left. Here came the heat. How would they survive this time? Both Autobots hit the lava hard. The intense heat within cracked and fizzled outdated circuits, already long past pushed their tolerance. Painfully, Prime and Ratchet crawled onto a newly forming embankment of ice forming just beside the molting lake. Snow and frozen water sizzled and melted as they heaved their damaged forms upon it. All around, the static buzzed and hopped. Landscapes morphed and re-formed at fantastic speeds. The eyes had retreated, now forming a dark hovering cloud round the falling form of the former Autobot scientist Perceptor, lost in a time that had long since passed him by. Perhaps their job was done.
Flashes of frozen memory popped and cracked across the melting landscapes. Prime and Ratchet sat and watched as a myriad of thoughts and feelings of people long gone floated around them until slowly but surely they all faded away. All that was left was their shrinking block of ice, now free floating on an planet-wide ocean of lava. Soon, that too would disappear and all that would remain of this world would be less than dust.
After a time, Prime turned to face his friend.
“Death comes for us again, it would seem. I should be used to it by now, hmmm? I thought I was rid of it when I was in Jn'wann, when I was in heaven, but you brought me back, didn't you?”
Ratchet smiled. Of course, Prime would know. “Yes, yes I did. People needed to be saved. The Universe needs an Optimus Prime. Sometimes I even heard your voice, calling out to me, testing me, but that couldn't have been right, could it?”
“Of course not.”
Ratchet stood up and paced around the small island of ice. “The irony is, looked at from this side of history, the idea that the Transformers were always at war with each other is a myth. Peacetime broke out more often than conflicts.”
“Yet the need for us remained. Our presence on history...”
“Ha! Like human vampires, we go on and on.” Ratchet chipped away at a piece of ice and examined it carefully. “I spent some time in Jn'wann too. It's just a holding pen. There is no afterlife. Not for us. But perhaps for them...”
Prime looked amused. “Different body form or not, I know that look. You have found a solution to the current predicament?”
A hundred metres away, Perceptor landed with a fiery splash. Ratchet indicated he was about to jump over. Optimus motioned to come with him.
“No, Prime. You stay here. I will see to Perceptor myself.”

Having made an opening on the outer skin, it did not take long to reach the centre of his brain. Artificial neurons flared and burst around him, a dazzling lightning show in multiple colours. A withered humanoid body was scrunched up in a dusty corner.
“Galen has left us,” announced the reedy disembodied voice of Perceptor. “Are you my friend? Have you come back to keep me company?” Ratchet felt an image being pushed into his mind's eye. A holo-image of the long dead Autobot warrior, Springer.
“I'm not him,” muttered the medic darkly. “I remember him. He was not your friend.”
Perceptor challenged this, recounting their time dealing with the Ark colony survivors.
“You are wrong!” shouted Ratchet, “That's not how it happened. Springer had nothing to do with that mission. But then, would it have mattered? Did you really know him? You have an unreliable memory, Perceptor. 'Springer' is a cipher, could have been anyone. You've been on your own so long even your past is lost to you. Ten people may experience the same event, but they all remember it differently. Who is to say which recollections are more viable? Perhaps I too misremember that long-ago memory.”
Perceptor answered with silence.
“Memories, Perceptor. You absorbed all of those which belonged to others. You should pay. Remember Earth Colony Brighton? No, I doubt you can anymore. Going on and on, eating more and more minds but never sated! I tried to save them, I tried to save them all. I've been alive so long this time, I have compassion fatigue. However, I at least still have a useful purpose. But the Universe doesn't need you. Maybe you should just die.”
The neurons fired with increasingly frenetic activity. The voice of Perceptor spoke slowly. “I...could not bear to be alone. I wanted to hear the lives of others. Just to stave off the night long enough to bear living, but now I fear you are putting that to an end. Perhaps...perhaps I should...”
Ratchet grabbed the nearest neuron and sliced into it, inserting small broadcast antenna. “No. Die on your own time. I will give you useful purpose.” He paused as he finished the connections. “Used the wrong activation code last time. Should have realised. The planet experienced my memories as I experienced its own. Right here we go...'332'.”
Nothing happened.
“Oh come on-”
Then the light dimmed and the control message was broadcast directly from Ratchet through Perceptor's brain and out through to his many eyes. Perceptor, of course, now knew what was going to happen next. Just before the light vanished completely, he asked one short question: “Will it hurt?”
Ratchet did not answer.

In his own pocket universe, the Fictionary waited patiently for the ink on the page to dry. Excellent, most excellent! That was volume fourteen of the Shortwave Proclamations completed at last! Without turning round, he addressed his new visitor. “Well, don't just stand there! Come in! And shut the door, there's a terrible draft this evening.”
Perceptor walked in stiffly. His form was indistinct and difficult to fully interpret, as though he had not yet decided on a distinct body form to take. Not surprising, considering he had been born again. “Ratchet sent me here.”
The Fictionary chuckled. He had indeed tought the errant physician well. “And I am glad he did. Well, I do have a daft title but you can call me John Grant. Not John for short. I like to use my full name. Well, you are probably confused and wondering where you are. It's quite simple. I write stories and you know what stories are like. It can feel as if they take on a life of their own sometimes!”
Perceptor tried to sit on the wooden rocking chair at the other side of the Fictionary's cluttered oak table in this far too small study but it was difficult as he was still apparently undecided about what he looked like. The room was crammed with stacks of books. “Ratchet sent me here.” he repeated mechanically.
“Yes I know.” The Fictionary poured himself a cup of tea. “He told me all about you. Well, you're better off here. You hold the memories of a multitude of worlds in your mind. Together, we shall write down those recollections and those people shall live again. Also, I could use an assistant to help me anyway. I can just never get all these ideas out of my head! Yes, you shall help me write my stories and through these you will meet the most extraordinary characters!”
The Fictionary dipped a digestive in his steaming beverage and flashed a toothy grin.
“You will never be alone again.”

After ensuring Nebulos had been fully restored, Prime and Ratchet began their voyage to Earth Colony Blackpool, which the latter had instructed be freed and returned to its former position in space once the Nebulon society had fully re-established itself. The people never quite fully recovered all their memories but they did get enough back to function and begin again. The planet had recovered almost instantly after Ratchet's mental command had been relayed to all the eyes which was this: transmit all the memories of Nebulos gathered by medical officer Ratchet during planetfall back to the people. They had quickly complied, roaring round the world of Nebulos and Earth Colony Blackpool and as their first touch had taken minds, so their second had restored them. Then, the eyes vanished, never to be seen again.

The Autobot veterans sat on specially crafted seats large enough for their bulks on the ship's observation deck. Through the window, Earth Colony Blackpool loomed large. They had sat silently through most of the journey, lost to their own musings, until Prime broke the silence.
“So...why 332?”
“It's the number of times I've died. My last death was when Perceptor attacked Jn'wann, oh long ago, and ransacked it for memories. Who knows how he escaped his own death. But I was revived and escaped. Three hundred and thirty two. I remember them all. My deaths pushed me on, motivated me in my actions.”
“Only 332 times? More for me.”
They both allowed themselves a chuckle.
“I've been doing some reading, Ratchet. I have to ask. Is every reference in Humanian culture to '332' your doing?”
“Sometimes a number is just a number.”
Two old soldiers sat and looked out the window, gazing not just at the small planet, but at their pasts and their futures. Though unspoken, they knew they were possibly never to see each other again, if that. All journeys must end and all friendships are dissolved.
“Oh, and I have renamed Nebulos as 'Planet Ratchet'.” Prime's expression took on a mocking astonished appearance. “Come on, Optimus! Allow me some ego.”
The planet spun closer. The intercom beeped once, the captain informing all passengers that planetfall would be made in 24 minutes.
Ratchet rose from his chair. “I'd best be off. Need to get to my shuttle, before we hit orbit.”
Prime also stood up and placed his hand out. Ratchet grabbed it and shook it warmly. A human expression of friendship the two had adopted long ago, along with many other things they had learned from the humans. It hadn't always been about death.
The doctor walked through the door to the corridor beyond. Prime grabbed him by the shoulder.
“And where will you go?”
Ratchet's expression darkened for a moment. “I'm not sure. I have to find my new mission in life. Maybe it's out there somewhere. Time to start looking. Who knows, perhaps I'll just settle down somewhere and retire!”
Prime never said a word. Perhaps he couldn't.
“Goodbye, Optimus Prime of Cybertron. And remember, freedom is your right too.”
And then Ratchet walked through the threshold and into a new adventure. One that, for the first time in his 332nd life, would be of his own making.

Prime patiently waited until his new assistant finished his report.
“...and lastly, we have detected on long-range radar that an evacuation ship sent out some time ago from Earth Colony Brighton is just entering the system at sub-light speeds. It'll be here in...around 432 years. The designation is the SS. Birmingham. Something for my descendants to worry about, I suppose.”
Prime thanked the man. He was still unsure of the protocol in the Planetary Operations Centre of Earth Colony Blackpool, which was ironic considering he had been given the job of watching over the people and their world. Out here, long past his own time in this far-flung corner of the Universe, he had challenged himself to look after this small corner of humanity. He considered it his duty, and it felt good to have a useful purpose again. He had not allowed the citizens to give him a job title though. Just 'Optimus' would do.
Prime indicated the man take a walk with him outside. It was a lovely day. They quickly strode along the bridge that crossed the local river. The air felt refreshing and cool, the sun blazed down and the temperature was pleasant for organic and mechanical life alike. Beautiful. They stepped off the bridge and on to the parkland.
“I am sorry, this is all so new to me. You must forgive me, but I do not fully recollect your name.”
“Oh, don't worry about it. I'm Norman and, you know, the wife and kids are thrilled that I'm working with you-”
The human cut himself off, apparently embarrassed. Prime looked down. Oh well, bound to be some teething problems.
“Ah. Forgive me, Norman. I stepped on a flower. Probably shouldn't do that in the future. Now...where were we?”

THE END

RB 28/07/07

-Ralph

[legios]

Authors note: This story takes place in the 2350's era of TMUK continuity.

Leaping to Conclusions

by Karl Thurgood

The small craft touched down on the surface of Holiwall. It's registry suggested that it hailed from the Kafarian Confederacy, but anyone taking a quick look at the design would have realised that it wasn't of Kafarian design. Not that this was unusual on Holiwall. In fact, it could be argued that having an accurate registry would have drawn far more attention. Inside the vessels cabin it's occupants were having the same conversation they had already had several times on the journey here.
“All I'm saying is it would be easier, I just tag him with a Cerebro-shell and job done. We wouldn't even have to pay him,” Bombshell pointed out, “I mean, why not?”
“Because,” Shrapnel repeated, for what seemed like the fifteenth time, “the party whose fronting the money for the job doesn't want it done that way. And besides, how sure are you that your cerebro-shells would even work? They didn't work on Prime.”
“This guy is no Optimus Prime, they'd work fine.”
“Our payee wants it done this way, and with what he's paying us it is worth while playing along. If we're going to disappear for good the resources may well be useful anyway.”
“If you say so...."
“Look, just stay here and keep the engines on hot standby in case this doesn't work out. We need to be gone from here before anyone alerts the Autobot intelligence network that we are here. Remember, they still have active bounties out on all our heads. Kickback, you know the drill.” Shrapnel turned the holocorder with it's encoded identification schematic of the target over in his hand
“Find a doorway or a rooftop and keep an eye on the front door of the place,” Kickback replied.
“Right, let's get this over with.”

Sixshooter swooped down towards Holiwall's landing field. The planet below him wasn't much to speak of. Barely even a planet in honesty, but this barren rock ball had it's uses. Snugged in close to a gas giants magnetosphere as it was the electromagnetic emissions from the few establishments on the planet were quite well protected from detection. This convenient quirk of location had made it quite useful for the first deserters from the splintering Empire who stumbled across it. In time others had been attracted until Holiwall served as a valuable node on the galactic underworld. Pirates, Mercenaries, smugglers and criminals of all stripes and species came here to seek weapons, work and the vital services of their trades. Fixers, fences and arms merchants found it a useful place to set up shop and so it had become one of the rare worlds where Khyaxian mercenary bands might rub shoulders with former Imperial soldiers without either side immediately resorting to bloodshed. Holiwall was a valuable resource indeed, especially to freelance.... problem solvers like Sixshooter and to his clients.



Sixshooter swept down to the landing field and was able to dispense with the formalities of paying the exorbitant prices demanded for a parking spot. He simply transformed from his orbital craft mode to his tracked ground vehicle mode and drove towards Holiwall city. That was the nice thing about being a six-mode multichanger, you had a form for every occasion. He didn't waste any time seeing the sights, or window-shopping. Whilst those new thermal forcefield generators looked interesting, and might make a useful upgrade one of these days, and that Kreissling Gauss Rifle with it's saboted penetrator rounds was an interesting little toy, he had work to do and an appointment to keep. So he kept moving until he came to the place he was looking for.





The cantina was shabby on the outside, but inside it was a hive of activity. Literally in one corner, a group of insectoid Orgroids were huddled in one corner chittering away to each other at high speed. Sixshooter could have called up a translator package and decrypted what they were saying, but there was little point. Orgroids didn't generally have much to do with the outside universe. If they were here it was probably to purchase more black market weaponry to shore up their “exclusion cordon”. The Orgroids were about the only things out of place, inasmuch as they didn't conform to the usual neat divide that split this place in two. The bar in the middle of the room might be circular but the room was bisected neatly down an axis. Bounty hunters and mercenaries to one side, and smugglers and criminals to the other, and never the twain did meet. Not out of any expectation of trouble – this was neutral territory, a place to agree business, not to settle it on pain of swift and brutal mob justice – more that the two groups didn't have anything really in common with each other. They might not care what species each other was, but profession was it's own kind of racial difference. There were only a few who went back and forth between the camps with impunity. A few like Sixshooter who didn't care about species, genders, profession or affiliation. His life operated according to simple rules – someone pays, someone else dies. As he walked up to the bar he could sense optics of various kinds watching him, sizing him up and trying to work out what group he belonged to, and how much of a threat or an asset he could be. He ignored them, and the watchers swiftly realized that it was better that Sixshooter's business was none of theirs. That was a nice thing about having a sniper-modified beam rifle for a left arm – you made a powerful statement without having to waste your time speaking. Sixshooter spoke briefly with the bartender, a Feminaxian of impressive build, who nodded towards one of the screened off booths. Sixshooter nodded his thanks and crossed to the booth – his single optic monitoring more of the bar and it's patrons than most 'bots could manage with two.

Sixshooter felt the privacy curtain reform behind him as he passed through, cutting off both sound and transmission wavelengths, it's light-scattering capabilities shrouding everything back in the main bar in grey twilight. He took a seat in the booth and stared at the robot sitting at the other side of the table with an unblinking optic.
“I'm not interested in taking sides in your war,” he said.
“I'm not here representing the Decepticons,” Shrapnel replied, “this is strictly a private arrangement on behalf of my client.”
"Your client should have dealt through the usual channels.”
“Black Shadow did suggest you wouldn't be happy to have to meet the principal directly. However, I'm sure we can make it worth your while,” Shrapnel named a figure that made Sixshooter pause a moment. The last time he could remember being offered a sum of that size was for the entire Royal family of the Galfraxian cluster. Even then the client had paid far more than the job was really worth,
“A lot of money.”
“It is, but along with the money goes an invaluable opportunity to add to your already impressive reputation.”
“Go on.”
“My client has, shall we say, a personal interest in modern Autobot politics and would like to see them steered in a certain direction. He feels that one of the best ways to do this would be to remove a certain person in a sudden and abrupt manner.”
“Why doesn't he just do it himself?”
“Lets just say that there are times when you just can't get the help without going to an outside contractor.”
“So, someone too many of Star Saber's own loyalists might balk at dealing with under the table, and either too smart or too experienced to fall into a sting.”
“Conclusions as to the full nature of the situation are of course yours to make. I have no more an idea of the identify of the principal and his motives than you do. All I know is the identity of the person to be removed.”
“Whoever it is he is already deactivated.”
“Then you are prepared to take on the commission?”
“There is only one principle in my line of work: someone pays, someone else dies. You are paying, so your target dies.”
“The usual arrangements will be made for payment, half your fee paid into a numbered account with the other half paid on completion is the usual arrangement isn't it?”
“Correct,” Sixshooter nodded.
“You'll find the details of your target in here,” Shrapnel passed over a small holocorder. Sixshooter picked it up the flat device and thumbed the on-switch. A schematic sprang into existence, like a tiny homunculus of the target. He didn't have to ask the targets identity, the massively overtuned leg servos and the heavy, sloped armoured form were unmistakeable. The target wasn't carrying the heavy square-tipped cutting sword for which he was know, or the stubby laser that served as a sidearm, but their was no way anyone even vaguely versed in the Cybertronian wars could have mistaken his identity. Sixshooter looked at the hologram for a moment,
“Autobot City:Earth 2's commanding officer. You weren't exaggerating when you said your principal wanted to create a political shift.”
“You can see how this could enhance your reputation,” Shrapnel observed.
“Yes,” Sixshooter nodded, “The 'bot who killed Springer....”His single optic stared at the hologram a moment longer. Then he clicked the projection off and put the holocorder down on the table. “Tell your principal to keep his money Shrapnel,” Sixshooter stood up.

“But I thought you said that...”
“There's one other unspoken principle. Never take a job that will see you dead whether you succeed or fail. Reputation is no good to a dead 'bot.” Sixshooter turned and stepped back out through the privacy curtain. He didn't look back as he went. One of the nice things about being a freelancer rather than enlisted in anyone's army was that you had the freedom to refuse the obviously suicidal missions.

Shrapnel stepped out of the cantina onto the street. He opened an intra-Decepticon communication channel to the shuttlecraft,
'Bombshell, can you hear me?'
'Yes, how'd it go?'
'You'd better break out the list, we'll have to keep working down it. Oh, and get a message off to our principal. Let him know that this might end up costing him more than he expected. I'm on my way back to the ship.'

Sixshooter stood at the edge of the landing field and watched the shuttle take off. His optic tracked it's ascent until it broke through the upper boundary of the atmosphere. Then he pulled a small com-unit out of a storage compartment. He connected it to his internal signal booster and decryption system and accessed a secure Autobot command channel that he certainly shouldn't have been able to gain access to. A small image of an Autobot commander with heavy, rounded armour and an angry scowl materialized in the palm of his hand.
“How in the name of Primus did you get access to this channel?” Springer demanded
“Not really important. I believe you are offering a bounty for any information regarding the current location of the Insecticons?”
“What?”
“They are using a Sorbek class Autobot long-range shuttle. Given their current position they'll need to make a refueling stop on either Athos Four or Deranis. Also their engine is mistuned. I'm sending details of the energy system to you now,” Sixshooter paused, “also I'm sending you details of a numbered account you should pay the money into.” The small holographic Springer glowered at him. In fairness the glower was probably more intimidating when the glowerer wasn't palm-sized.
“Is this some sort of joke?”
“No.”
“Your information had better check out.”
“So had your money.” Sixshooter replied. He closed the channel, the tiny Springer wavering and then vanishing into thin air.

Sixshooter tucked the com-unit back into the storage compartment. His day was definitely going rather well. That was the nice thing about not having any principles, you could always turn a profit even on the jobs that you turned down.

[rurudyne]

Vengence in Kind!



With special thanks to another source of inspiration.

Not that I'm taking any stance about any issue that said source may or may not be involved in with respect to any Transformer franchise or any hard feelings that may have resulted ... as a result.




"That's that ... ummm, 'bouncy' guy." the gaudily dressed human said as he peered at the imaging devise in Megatron's hand.

"Springer." the Decepticon leader informed with hardly a trace of malice.

"Yeah, 'Springer.'" the man breathed a sigh of relief – he wasn't going to die after all!

"Do you know what I want you to do?"

"Yes, Sir! Your men will present him bound and unconscious at my studio in time for filming next week's show and we're to give him the works!"

"Excellent! And to insure your good behavior I'll leave my associate Ravage with you."

"Megatron, mighty Decepticon leader, I would never turn down so generous an offer!"

"You hear that Starscream? He grovels even better than you do!"

"Filthy worm!" the Seeker grumbled.

"Starscream, the man is an artist. Apologize right now."

"Yes. I apologize human." he said insincerely.

"Well, we're done here then?" Megatron stood to leave, "Oh, and human, if you do a really good job I'll reward you handsomely.... But fail me and my wrath will be unquenchable!"

"Y-yes, Sir! Megatron!"

With that the huge alien robots left, leaving one scared and confused human in their wake. Of course, neither he nor his crew were in the clear yet ... there was that black cat-thing in his office.

One of his posse approached cautiously.

"Yo! We staying for the night?"

The man nodded: "Several days. Call for Pizza."

He inhaled deeply and went into his office. Killer robot or no, the bills wouldn't pay themselves.



-------



Springer was delivered more or less as promised, though the robots that dropped him off looked worse for wear.

"He's really beat around."

"Ravage knows how to keep him sedated." the nearly faceless robot said in a voice that sounded like organ pipes talking.

"Right! Well, lets get to work!"



-------



Cameras in hand they began by hammering out the dents, all while under the cat-thing's watchful eye.

Then they managed to transform him into his car mode.

"Man that thing's got NO style." one of his crew emoted.

But it couldn't be helped. It was all they had to work with. And besides, the man realized, it could be worse....



-------



Springer first noticed the steady humming of his chronometer, then a subprocessor singing a silly earth tune badly.

He was ... Primus! What he was!

In car mode apparently.

What happened?

The Autobot fought back the haze and tried to remember where he was or how he'd gotten here. Where ever here was? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Well ... there was that old fashioned flask of energon he'd found....

Energon? Found?

Still hazy.

He absent mindedly caused the giant red fuzzy dice hanging from his rear view mirror to sway back and forth as he tried to get a sense of where he was or what he was doing.

He could swear that he heard a human talking nearby. A low growl and then the sound of metal feet on concrete.

Then he felt like someone was pouring pure, undiluted life into ... wheeeee!



-------



The throbbing was back and the Autobot was sure he'd been off-line for hours.

"Ghaaaa!"

"Hey, he's up!" someone said.

"Who?"

More undiluted goodness.

"Primes gonna be really upset! Cause' I ... I ... good stuff!" Springer merrily chimed as the darkness closed in again.



-------



As the haze cleared again, Springer just sat there.

Humans were climbing all over him with polishing rags and a buffer and ... it felt good! He thought he could smell wax. Not the cheap stuff but the real good kind. The stuff Ratchet wouldn't let anyone use, not even Prime. "Intemperate waste!" that's what he called it.

"Blaster and Jazz would like this music."

He'd finally noticed the music. Really driving stuff. Humans called it hip-hop or something like that.

Why was he so very out of it?

"Drunk? Am I drunk?" he asked himself.

He remembered the flask of energon. Had to have had an energy resonance signature well below Cybertron's norm. Well below even Earth's best. Deep space good. Really good.

Primus! Was Prime ever going to be mad at him.

Overenergized and drunk!

How humiliating!

But there was something that happened next. Something.... What?

"So, your awake again?" a familiar growling voice.

"No! Wait!"

More resonance enhanced energon.

He could feel it run through his system.

"Waste! Giving me so much I can't even enjoy it!"



-------



Sounds like horns blowing and cheers.

Old friends laughing.

Laughing the haze away.

Someone saying how famous he was now.

Bumblebee maybe?

Then that punk kid Hot Rod laughing about the fuzzy dice.

Wait? Fuzzy dice!

Unlike before, this time Springer's mind snapped to attention and he became aware of his surroundings.

"What?! Where?!"

"I see the energy drain has finally kicked in." Ratchet said.

"Energy drain?"

"You went missing days ago, lad." it was Kup.

He couldn't see.

"I can't see!!"

"Transform. They just painted over your sensors."

He complied and as he did so memory of several days of hazy confusion began to come back to him.

Here they were, his fellow Autobots. All standing around bemused. Even Optimus looked like he was throughly entertained.

"I'm glad you're all so happy."

"IneverknewanyonefamousonEarthbefore! Youarereallyfamous! Recordratingsuparallelled! Sorrywedidn'tfindyouintimethough."

"In time for what, Blurr?"

They all looked so very amused.

"Payback would be my guess." Optimus finally announced.

"Payback?"

"There was a box left on your hood." the Autobot leader informed, "It should be self explanatory."

Springer looked around. Sure enough, there was an opened box laying there on the ground beside him. He reached down ....

Pink!

His hand was pink!

Not 'Arcee' pink but pink, pink!

And his handsome green hue had been replaced with a pastel blue.

There were stylized rainbows too.

And deformed horses with weird cutesy symbols on their hind quarters.

That was when he noticed the fuzzy dice now hanging from either side of his helmet.

"I told you it was a bad idea." Prime announced.

Springer looked at the box. Knew exactly what it was.

There was Japanese writing and the toy company's logo. There was a video tape. Presumably of his transformation. Did Blurr say something about record ratings? Primus!!!

Inside the box was a beautifully detailed toy that Springer himself had ordered for special delivery to a certain someone not many days ago.

"Yeah. I guess you were right, Optimus. It was a bad idea."

"Nice box art though." Prime seemed to smile.

Springer grimaced and looked down again. The box art....

www.deviantart.com/deviation/43397486/

-------

I would also like to thank Martin who's entry in the old forum got me thinking about "repaints" and sending me down this demented path.

[Grand Moff Muffin]

21/07/07 at 07:28 AM #3

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SUBJECT TO AMENDMENTS

1985.

The tech showed Emirate Xaaron a holographic representation of the first of his new Autobot Triple Changer designs.

"I call this one Broadstorm. He transforms into a car and a helicopter and will act as the team's scout."

"Show me the alternate modes."

"OK, here's the car..."

"Right."

"And here's the helicopter."

Xaaron's face fell. "But the helicopter is just the same as the car but with rotor blades on top!" The pink colour was also silly. Maybe the Decepticon Triple Changers would laugh themselves to death?

The tech looked hurt. "That's not true! But it's a work in progress. The team leader is much more impressive. Look."

As usual in Transformers teams, the leader was bigger than his followers. Why this was the case, no-one knew. Tradition perhaps.

"Look - a giant aircraft carrier to act as a base for the two helicopters. It turns into a giant jet that looks nothing like the aircraft carrier, and a giant robot."

"I thought you were going to use size-changing technology to make this one shrink to normal size in jet and robot modes."

"Yeah, I was. But I thought we could use a giant to smash the Mayhems in Operation: Volcano."

"What's his name?"

"Broadplex."

"All right, well done. I'll take your proposals to my fellow commanders, and we'll be back to you shortly with constructive feedback."

THE END