Fictionary 3

[Andy Turnbull]

This image is entitled The Hall of Dead Gods.

Andy

[The Doctor]

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.

HAUL OF DEAD GODS
Written by Ralph Burns.

And for the final time, Optimus Prime, once the leader of the lost Autobot race and now a broken being, fell. No-one else was there to see it happen. Time passed. Until...

Norman scratched at the plexi-glass and peered inside, his excitement writ large upon his features. “Oh, my! It looks so real, and yet it also looks just like some kind of facsimile. I can see the screws from here. It looks so quiet. So peaceful. So alone.”
Emma fussed with the guidebook while keeping a close eye on the twins, who were displaying a complete lack of attention to the contents of the enclosure. Bob was pulling at his younger sisters hair, obeying the type of logic only known to 3-year olds and forever lost to those who call themselves 'adults'. “Hang on, Norman. Ah, yeah. Got it here. Yep, 'Floor 80. Enclosure 332: Optimus Prime'. The description here does state it is the original model, not one of those duplicate units you hear about cluttering up the space ways.”
“Oh, aye! Like the ones the nets said were farting about on Colony Brighton.”
“You shouldn't pay attention to the tabloids. They print all sorts of rubbish!”
Norman screwed his eyes up in annoyance. It had been two English-years since the family had upped sticks and fled the Allspark system following the civil wars. Life here on Colony Blackpool, designated safe harbour in event of emergencies throughout the Humanian Empire, was good. There was plenty of bread in the shops. Curfews weren't enforced until 5pm (satisfyingly late in the day). The Colony's sensor net did not allow any Cybertronian life-forms (or derivations thereof) on or off the surface. And the media was especially free, allowed to print whatever they wanted in English, Welsh or Scottish with hardly any restrictions. And here was his wife mocking the papers again. He enjoyed the colourful stories they told, even if they blatantly had the air of fiction to them. “I think we should just enjoy the exhibit. You know how long we waited for our permits to come here.”
Colony subjects had to enter special lotteries just to get into the lottery for entry into the Special Museum under the replica of the original Blackpool Tower, just to the left of Jungle Jim's. And here they were, four very lucky people (out of a total population of 2.3 billion as of that minute) who were permitted to gaze upon the ancient artifacts within. Here then lay the body of 'Optimus Prime', the head smashed into the ground, the enclosure having been built around the inert carcass some 3 million years after it had fallen. Miraculously, it had weathered the time remarkably well. This was probably quite impressive, Norman just wished he knew what the heck an 'Optimus Prime' was, other than the inventive rumours in the tabloids about robot invaders from space. He looked round. His wife was busy reading the guidebook and the kids were obviously bored.
“Shall we move on to the next enclosure? I've heard the Mind-Sucking Reality-Changing Jellyfish are quite good.”
“Yeah, ok, Certainly more interesting than – hey, did you hear a noise? Thought I heard scratching, or something.”
“Nah.”

Galen scratched at the plexi-glass, lost in his own thoughts. It was rare for him to be alone. Of course, in reality he wasn't. His bio-body armour was covered in a thick lair of micro-guards, bred to release and expand to full fighting size at the slightest indication of bodily distress: high blood pressure and the like. Galen wondered if the humans he was observing within part of their enclosure experienced high blood pressure themselves. So much knowledge had been lost. Indeed the Humanian Empire had been believed to have been extinct until the recent discovery of this and other colonies. They had quickly been prepared for study.
Humans. Relatively insignificant creatures who had spread across the galaxies like...'locusts' (three words had been found to be universal, the other two were 'transformers' and 'affection'), devouring everything they touched. Gods of desire, not reason. And here they were, looking at something inside an enclosure themselves, oblivious of his own observations. It was hard to see what they were looking at from this distance, but doubtless it was something idiotic. The humans jumped around like the monkeys they so often mocked (which had cost them in their fourth millennium). Oh no, wait. Oh, it was just a Transformer they were looking at... Galen checked his watch. He had tarried long enough. Important matters of state were at hand; the trade embargo on the Jovians had to be extended, for one thing. He clicked his fingers and left, proceeding immediately to his quarters, musing as he went how badly he needed a bath. It had been five weeks since his last and his bodily odour was becoming most unpleasant, even to him. He was intercepted by Lord Zarak, his War Minister. He appeared shaken, his eyes were just too bright for this early hour. “There is something you have to see. It is outside. Please come with me. It is in the Garden of Eternal Peace and Harmony.”
“Very well. Now I do hope this is of actual relevance. Recall how displeased I was after the incident with the Cosmic Carnival.”
Galen entered the Garden in a foul mood. Clearly, nothing was afoot. No disarray, nothing out of the ordinary, though the flowers could use more careful tending now that he looked at them properly. Seemed a bit dull though. “Now, Zarak - “
“Look up.”
And Galen did.

“Have we identified the source of the Cybertronian incursion?”
“The eye has been appearing intermittently now for an hour in various locations. In the sky, under water, in cupboards, wherever citizens may cast their gaze. Visitations are still being cataloged, but one matter is abundantly clear: we are being observed. The eye is clearly a Transformer optic.”
“Any communication?”
“No, but it has blinked from time to time. When it does, citizens for 13 miles in every direction report a sensation of fingers being scraped down a blackboard in addition to increased pressure on the refuse system in these areas. Naturally, our fear surgeons are dealing with the issue.”
“And talking of naturally, alert all priests. They should stand ready to comfort the populace. I want the Cardinal in my office within the hour. I have to seen to have consulted the people.”
“Begging your pardon, 'Cardinal', sire?”
“Ah. Yes. We'll need a new one. Well, get on it and drag whoever you chose into my quarters. Double quick, War Minister!”
Following this instruction, Galen returned to the observation deck overlooking Colony Blackpool, the entire world held suspended within a false perception field. For as long as the inhabitants believed their world was spinning freely in space, it would do so. This deck could zoom in on any location on the planet. Privacy was not part of its function. The search for knowledge was.
Galen's orders had been conveyed, his world's populace was being suitably calmed and there was no apparent immediate threat. So he stood there for a while, scratching absentmindedly at the plexiglass, staring at the same tableau as before. The fallen Transformer, face down in the dirt. The previous humans were no doubt busy picking their noses elsewhere, though they had been replaced by others who looked exactly the same. Galen breathed on the plexi-glass, watching his breath mist up. “I know something you don't know...” he whispered. No one answered him back, but even had there been anyone there with him, they would not have dared answer for Nebulos belonged to him. The Cybertronians and the Humanian Empire had their many copies of their original worlds, but there was only one Nebulos. His world had an unbeatable protection system. Unbeatable! Wait, what was -
Galen turned round. Just for a moment, the Transformer eye that had appeared all around his world was affixed to the floor. It looked balefully up at him, winked, then vanished. He shivered involuntarily. He had an appointment with the clergy.

“You'll never guess what happens next.”
“Oh, I'm sure you'll tell me.”
“Galen, you must take this seriously! Now, look, just there. It's on page 45, paragraph 67, subsection 78: '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'. It goes on for a bit, but you get the general idea.”
“Prose is a bit purple.”
“Translation software is on the blink. Which is what the last fellow tried to tell you.”
“Ah.”
Galen and the Cardinal sat looking at each other across a long beige table. The dim sunlight from outside did little to disguise the thick film of dust on the table. Cleaning standards had slipped since the servants organised a sit-in protest in the basement for better pay and conditions three days ago. Galen liked to look in on them from time to time to see how they were doing and he thought they looked a little gaunt.
“Now, Galen. I know you think we all talk nonsense in our cathedrals but I do ask that you pay us more respect than the lip-service your position demands. Our world is built on faith. Millions of people proclaiming their love for what they believe. You, you who say there is no proof, that you can see no evidence, you are missing the point entirely!”
The Cardinal breathed in sharply, his cheeks red and wobbly with exertion. Perhaps he had gone too far, too soon, but he thought he would press on irregardless. What more could be done to him now?
“Galen, surely you must at least concede our prophecies carry some weight. Look at our historical documents. They have predicted many major world events.”
“Like the time the Space Mongooses ate all the pancakes.”
“Hmmm. Ah ha, very funny, my liege. You got me there. But that was from the Old Texts. No one takes that material literally anymore. Yet again you miss the point entirely! But let us consider less mocked truths such as the time of the discovery of the founding of the 332 Humanian Colonies?”
“You'll be evoking your Gods next. There are none. They died. You have me.”
“I'm sorry, what was that?”
A pause. Galen appeared momentarily confused. “What was that?” he said again.
“Oh, you know about the number of - “
“The number of – no, hang on a minute. What were we talking about?”
The Cardinal looked suddenly lost and a great emptiness danced across his eyes. “I...you know, I'm not really sure, other than a vague feeling that I was close to death, Mr...Mr...ah, what was your name again?”
His audience snapped back to attention. “It's King Galen you old fool, and you know it.”
“Do I? Tell me, if you could...tell me my name? I seem to have forgotten it. And what am I doing here?”
Silence once again.

That had been the first day. On the second day, Global Orbiting Satellite 4 suddenly stopped transmitting data. This was not entirely unusual: the network was old and power outages were regrettably commonplace. But then Satellites 6, 18, 32 and 456 died. Two days later the entire network died, one by one. The world watched as a wave of communications silence swept across the globe. King Galen lost his ability to transmit his messages of calmness and control by midnight on day five. He watched as the lights on the status board within Satellite Control which indicated the positioning of the satellites winked out, like candles being extinguished. This was the last day in which the Transformer eye was seen.

With the Satellite network upon which the developing world had depended on since the Golden Crusades gone, Galen was unable to keep his grip upon the globe. Armed insurrections rose up in every continent. Their leaders were singularly unable to retain a clear vision and many of them were merely taking advantage of the situation rather than adhering to any just cause. Many perished in the conflicts that followed, and within his castle at the top of the highest hill of his continent, Galen wept. For whom, it was not entirely clear. Galen retained absolute control of his own continent however, through means not fully recorded. Though power supplies became a pressing issue, he insisted that power be maintained for the Colony Blackpool enclosure, deep beneath his castle. Only through studying the humans could salvation be found. They alone held the key!
And then, on day 100, an astonishing discovery was made.
“Galen! The rocket launch was a complete success!”
“What is it, Zarak? I'm busy.”
The King was haunched over the railing recently installed on the observation platform. His eyes were focused intently on the latest group of humans in the enclosure below staring at the dead body of Optimus Prime. He did this most days, often insisting on having his meals brought here. A cot had been set up in the corner in which he spent most of his nights. A bookcase creaked under the weight of many handwritten tomes of notes.
Zarak did not miss a beat. “Sire, as you predicted the missile did indeed impact on a solid object 80 space miles distant from the surface!”
Galen did not appear to acknowledge this. “I know something you don't know...” he whispered, eyes focused through the one-way transparency on the dead optics of Optimus Prime.
“I stand ready to give the order for the commencement of the construction of the manned mission.”
The King waved his hand distantly, his only sign of animation the flapping frilled cuffs of his velvety suit. The War Minister left excitedly.
Galen stared ever onward for several seconds then screamed. “You know, Prime! Don't you! You know!” His body shook with rage. His thoughts briefly flew to the metal suit in his cabinet. No, it was not time yet.

Day 331 had arrived. For the first time in over 50 days, Galen had left the confines of the Colony Blackpool observation deck and was making an address on the continental wireless, recently restored. He sounded newly energised and spoke enthusiastically for over 15 minutes on the voyage to be made that morning, with the phrase 'historic occasion' being bandied around several times. After this, he ate a hearty meal of sausage and mash washed down with spring water, and paid a visit to Mission Control, shaking the hands of each of the employees there. It was unusual to see him enjoy the company of others so much. It was rumoured that he was even seen to smile from time to time.

“Terminal point has been reached.”
“And yet I look ahead of me and I see nothing.”
“You will see more shortly. Shall we go outside?”
The two-man crew left the confines of the rocket and jumped into the embrace of cold space. They should have floated freely, but instead their magnetic boots found purchase on something solid that literally could not be seen by the human eye. When Galen and Zarak looked down at their feet, they could see only stars. It was like standing on an invisible mirror suspended between worlds. Other men would have found the sensation character forming, but the King was brusque. “There is not much time left to us.”
The War Minister took the hint and indicated the breach five meters behind then in relative space, along the invisible wall they stood upon. The two Nebulons moved as fast as they were able in the weightless environment, encumbered as they were with heavy life-support suits, but they were on the breach within moments. This had been formed by a warhead launched the previous week. The success of the current mission had depended on no outside force repairing the damage to whatever lay out there.
Galen and Zarak stood upon the breach, looking down into utter blackness. No stars. “Any words for posterity, my King?”
“Welcome to a world transformed.”
“I do not understand.”
“You will, in time. The sun is setting over my world, Zarak. Day 332 is here. I intend to ensure there is a day 333.”
And then they leapt from this world to the next.

----

CONTINUED IN NEXT POST

[The Doctor]

CONTINUED FROM PREVIOUS POST
-----

Alone. No, not alone, not quite, there was -
Ancient memories dislodged themselves from the recesses of dim awareness. His vision was also returning, albeit briefly. Rocks, dust.
Sensations returned to his body. Where was he? When was he? The last thing he remembered was -
A shadow fell across him. He looked up, though was still unable to clearly discern features. A fuzzy shape was towering over him. He was no longer alone. Astonishment!
“Optimus Prime. I knew I'd find you here.”

Once inside, they were able to properly gauge the size of the structure. It was larger than the local sun, twisting and turning in all directions, the topography wild and jagged though right angles abounded everywhere. No life came to greet nor fear them. The dust of ages swam through what would have been air, had there been any. Galen reached out both arms but was unable to encompass the horizon between them. Beside him, Zarak had been carefully examining the surface of the structure as they had traveled through it. Cold, dark and smooth. He knew what they were in, but had to make sure. Eventually, after several hours, they came upon an illuminated room (the only source of artificial light encountered as yet). Banks of computer equipment adorned every surface within 360 degrees. Lights blinked and flashed in sequence. Zarak examined a few controls, not touching anything. Merely using his eyes and his wits. He pointed to the hole in the far recess, a hole larger than their own continent. To describe it as a 'hole' was merely to put its size in relative context to the rest of the structure they now inhabited. Through the hole they could see stars and beyond lay Nebulos, naked in space.
“My liege, does the shape of the hole remind you of anything?”
Galen nodded. Though smaller, it clearly matched the optic that had paid visitation upon him and his people. “It's the eye. We're inside a Transformer.”
“Yes. It is extraordinary is it not? I wonder how long we have been observed for? How long has it hung above our world...no...no...surely not!”
“Zarak. What is it?”
“Look at the position of Nebulos...this Transformer is not necessarily currently configured to humanoid mode. It is not just us that is inside it, our world is too! Consider the false perspective field placed in local space, obscuring our detection of the Transformer. The appearances of the eye.”
Galen thought he could hear a scratching noise, but he dismissed it as arrant nonsense. The flights of fancy afforded by an imagination.
Zarak was pacing, caught up in his own theory. “But why? To study us as we study the human colony? I must access the central database!”
As if on cue, the computer bank just to the left of Zarak blinked into life. “Someone wants us to be here.” The War Minister busied himself with the controls. Galen's thoughts drifted and he thought back to his morning. He had decided to put on the containment suits after all and had passed through the perceptual membrane into the cave on Colony Blackpool where the dead Prime lay. He had stood in front of it for some time, genuinely awestruck at the size and scale of the mechanical beast at this close scale. The head alone was larger than his whole body and for one used to having power over millions it was a humbling experience. Lesser men would have lost their minds at the sight, but he was not one of the lesser men.
“I kept the Cardinal in my cupboard, you know. I thought it best not to be so ignorant of religion. So many people place such store by it after all, you know. Prime! Are you listening to me?!”
No answer.
Galen paced back and forth. “What the Church teaches is actually quite interesting when you get into it. You're in their books a lot, you know. There is even mention of you on Nebulos during the Master Wars. Do you ever think back to those days? Do you ever cast your mind to the destruction you brought here! To my people! To me! Do you, Prime?!”
Galen's dead God did not stir.
“There is no mention of you in the Day 332 prophecy though, which intrigues me. I'd like your thoughts on this, because this is a number I observe a great deal, ever since I had that Cardinal babbling away in my office. That was the first time I noticed my memory being affected, not long after he said '332'. I've been running a search logarithm on that number through the planetary archives and non-digitized texts. I've found it within the identification number for numerous Humanian colonies along the western spiral arm: Brighton, Stansham, Dubai, Oregon, and so on. The evacuation article for the Earth Colony you currently lurk within makes explicit reference to 332: in point of fact 1.332 seconds is the length of time for the first major action in Humanian Colony evac plans. 332 is the name of your enclosure here on Colony Blackpool. And there's more: the Micro-War on Planets 4-10 in local year 332 (post colonial). There were 332 post-colonial Ark ships. The same number over and over. I'm trying to see some kind of pattern in the references but every time I feel I'm getting a handle on it, it slips away. Maddening! What do you – don't interrupt me when I'm summarising!”
The King wheeled, pointing an accusing finger at the inert Transformer. “I will not tolerate dissent. You're just like all the others, plotting and scheming. I am the right person to lead my people! I have done a good job, ever since...ever since...since that time in...well, it doesn't matter does it. Hah! You almost got me to tell you my plans, didn't you?”
Galen paced in the dirt, kicking small pebbles out of his path.
“You'll give up your secrets in time, Prime. And I will be waiting. Now I have to go. I have a rocket to catch.”
He turned to go and as he went he thought he heard-
Zarak was shouting at him. “My liege! Are you well? You seem distant.”
“I'm never distant. What have you found?”
“I have accessed the central computer core. Remarkably easy. Very little concrete data found so far though. Just one word. Over and over. Observe, I shall put it up on the display screen on the desk just to your right.”
The display scrolled a continuous word across the screen:

LONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELY

“'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'.” muttered King Galen.
Another screen flicked to life. Just one word was displayed on this one:

INITIATE DOOM COLLAPSE

“'Doom Collapse'. Well, that can't be good.”
“I would say so, sire.”
Behind them, the eye was slowly closing, like a tired person's eyelids drooping after a long and hard day.

---

He had been dead too long this time. It had taken him a full hour to raise himself up to his full height and for his internal systems to come fully on-line. Now he saw the other who had greeted him and watched him as he brought himself back to life. It had been a long, long time since they had last met. “I did not expect to ever see you again. Is it truly you?”
“It is me,” he was told. “Your time has passed. Rest now.”
A hand touched his shoulder and a great shadow fell across his mind. He felt suddenly weak. No! To have life again and yet die almost as soon as he befell the world once again? How cruel! What purpose could that serve?
He fell to his knees, several servos snapping from lack of use. Oil flooded from cracked systems, forming a river of his life around him on the pocked surface. He reached into a subspace shunt and pulled out his old rifle, whipping it round to face the other.
But the other was gone.

Galen willed his micro-guards to burst forth into angry life, but his own internal system betrayed him. Perhaps he had been lost in his own world for too long for his blood pressure rose insufficiently to activate them. For all the good it would have done him now. If anything, he felt a sense of peace rather than panic. Events were proceeding roughly in the way he had guessed. He hoped he was not too inaccurate in all his many tome of notes or they would be useless to him afterwards.
Zarak was gone, of course, but then he had never really been there. Now Galen's mind was sharper, he no longer needed imaginary friends. He had never had any need for real ones either. For of course, he had not journeyed here on a mission of hope. He had been exiled by his own people, fired into space, blamed for the planetary collapse of society. It was all they could do: they had repealed the death penalty. His warnings of the fate that befell them all, worked out by him almost 332 days ago back during that initial conversation with the Cardinal who did not exist. Well they would see! All of them! They would seen see!
Galen threw his head back and stretched out his arms in sublimation. “I must know you!” he bellowed. “You are not alone any more! I am here! Here! Speak to me!”
Nothing. The eye was now fully closed and the monitors winked out one by one. He was alone in the dark.
“Come forth! Speak to me! Tell me your name!”
Like the grinding of teeth on sand, a rumbling sound passed through every surface. It was the sound of despair and it coalesced into a name:

PERCEPTOR

----

He had been too late to save them. All of them. There was not one soul he could rescue.
With infinite effort, he had battled through the fatigue of extreme systems failure to walk step by agonising step from his enclosure to the world above of Colony Blackpool. The pain had been all-consuming; there had been insufficient energy for a transformation sequence to vehicular mode. He had reached the surface just in time to see the humans devoured. Every last one of them. The metallic eyes had ate them all. Nothing burned, nothing was destroyed. Nothing but the humans minds. He looked down at a family of four at his feet. They seemed distantly familiar in a way he could not place. They had no life now.
His sensors had of course detected the interface to the world beyond this one. Easily reached if the one-way mirror, a barrier of sorts, at the edge of his enclosure was breached. All it would take would be several well placed punches. Power for his rifle must be conserved. As quickly as he had been able, he had returned to his enclosure. He stood now before the barrier.
This world was gone. But there was another world he could save. For he was Optimus Prime! Leader of the Autobots! Commander of the first Ark missions! The hero of the battle of Iacon's Shadow!
THUMP!
And freedom-
THUMP!
-was-
THUMP!
-the right-
THUMP!
-of all sentient beings!
The wall gave way. He was through. Nebulos awaited him. And the other had dare not get in his way.

It had been so long since it had talked to anyone, the information from the Transformer just came flooding out to Galen on a wave of virtual tears. Once, it had been a scientist known as Perceptor, part of the Autobot race of Cybertronians. A Transformer. During some skirmish long ago at the outer worlds, it had been cut off from the rest of the troops, abandoned as they had left this universe for another, seeking safety from that which pursued them far from their homes. It had been damaged, left alone in deep empty space near the galactic expansion. Through various means, it had enlarged its size many times over, better able to sail the heavens in search of its brethren, fully utilising the space telescope mode it could configure itself as. But it had never found them, nor had it found any other life until recently. It had been driven to mad loneliness after eons adrift in dead space, able to study objects from afar but not to touch anyone. Over time, it had developed a plan, the kind of plan that develops when there is no outside force to advise caution. Perceptor had begun to collect the remnants of the races it had encountered when it had been young, when it had not been alone: its 'dead Gods'.
And then, Galen knew what Perceptor had planned and for the first time in his life he experienced the emotion of horror. When it had captured Nebulos for study, it had discovered the secret of Nebulos.

“Stand down or I will shoot! This is your only warning!”
The kneeling other turned from the flowerbed it had been examining in the Garden of Eternal Peace and Harmony. It looked so sad. What had it been- no, it hadn't been the flowerbed it had been looking at, but the scores of inert Nebulons lying on the flowerbed. And the ground. Everywhere. All over the world, the pattern was being repeated.
Prime was aghast. “Why? Why have you done this?! What did these people do to you to deserve this? I must know! I will not live again merely to walk among the dead! You of all should know that.”
The other stood up and faced Prime. “They aren't dead.”
Optimus kept his rifle pointed dead center at the other's head. Though the other was a Transformer, like him, at this range it would be unlikely to survive a direct assault.
“Optimus, do you feel the vibration in the ground? The fleets are coming. This will be the third wave.”
“A fleet from near space? I see no ships.”
“No. From inside the planetary core. They're burrowing up. Eating our memories as they go. By the time they reach the surface we'll barely be able to remember our own names. That's what happened to the humans, that's what happened to the Nebulons, and that is what is happening to you. I tried to put you back to sleep but you would not listen.”
“No. No, I refuse!”
It was becoming difficult to stay on his feet. The darkness was back, the shadow across his mind growing ever larger.
“The vibration is getting stronger. They're almost here.”
“No. No! I will remember! I must...must...”
“Look!”
The flowerbed erupted. Dozens of mechanical eyes, identical to Perceptor's own, burst forth from the ground. They stared intently at Prime, who desperately tried to focus his attention on the other, but it was so difficult. So very, very difficult.
“No...no....what was your name again?”
“Forget me. Now rest. Just rest.”
He struggled. He struggled for some time but in the end it was futile. He gasped, once.
And for the final time, Optimus Prime, once the leader of the lost Autobot race and now a broken being, fell. Dust rose from his fallen form.
The eyes hovered in mid-air round the other, like bees round honey. They seemed to be waiting for something. An order?
“You break it, I'll remake it.” said the other.

His mind was slipping away. In truth it had been ever since Perceptor had finally chosen to interface with him. There were few secrets between them now. Where was he exactly? It was hard to tell. His external stimuli had long been cut off and he merely had the sensation of floating...somewhere...and the knowledge that he existed in some form. Now that he thought of it, had the room he had been in existed in reality? Had he fallen into another form of sensory deception since he had entered Perceptor?
Oh, it was so hard to tell. Life had been falling away ever since Perceptor had captured the world, cutting off the protective satelite network. Hard at the time to know why, but now so obvious.
Just as hard as it was to tell what was transpiring down below on fallen Nebulos.
Nebulos, oh Nebulos.
A world created entirely of memories. Easy prey for a being which fed on memories to stave off the overwhelming feeling of loneliness.
Yes, memories. That was how the world had survived through the ages when the likes of Earth One and Cybertron One were long gone, lost to the ages. Every living being was formed entirely from the memories of those Nebulons who had lived long ago during the first encounters with the Transformers. Gort, Hi-Q, Zarak, Galen...
These people had been deemed to be the noblest of all so their memories had been meshed together into a gestalt mind which was downloaded into each Nebulon upon birth. They were allowed to choose one of the names of the heroes who had contributed to their mind upon reaching puberty.
The King was proud to be a Galen for Galen had been the mightiest of them all! He did not regret this even for a moment as his mind was devoured for fresh stimuli, deep within the mind and body of Perceptor. In many ways it was an honour. In many ways it was -
What was it again?
Galen struggled to recall what he had been thinking about. He could not shake the feeling that it had been something terribly important but it eluded him at this particular moment. Perhaps it would come back to him in a...in a...
What was his name again?
As he struggled to collect his thoughts, he felt several other voices that were not his own shouting out. Other people? What...what were other people? No, not other people, just one lone voice shouting over and over and over, consuming his mind:

Lonely.
Lonely!
LONELY
LONELY!
LONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELYLONELY

---

TO

BE

CONTINUED

-Ralph

RB 6/7/07

[The Doctor]

The story is continued in the FICTIONARY 4 thread.

-Ralph

[legios]

The Hall of Dead Gods
by
Karl Thurgood

There were no gods and never had been, that much I knew for certain when I began this voyage. The outcry of those who said that it would be sacrilege to set foot on this desolate moon fell upon deaf aural sensors for I was buoyed by my absolute certainty that whatever we found in this wasteland it would not be some mythical creator of our species, father of all our works. I railed at those who called me arrogant for daring to believe we could leave the surface of our world and tread amongst the heavens. I likened them to those who had believed that the achievement of the charge capacitor that allowed us to expand outwards from the First City until we occupied the whole of our globe. Had they existed then they would have declared that any attempt to traverse beyond the reach of Father Generator's embrace of beamed power was heresy and to be stamped out. I closed my mind to their short-sightedness and continued my work. No matter what they said I would see us walk upon the dusty plains of our worlds satellite. I would prove that the Great Eye was a sightless ball of rock and dust, from which no Creator looked down on us with mercy or any other emotion.
In ancient times our ancestors had believed implicitly that the Great Eye of our creator looked down upon us. Their certainty has come down to us in the data-downloads each new individual receives from its parents. Although their personalities are not preserved, the raw knowledge they have accumulated, passed in turn from generation to generation, has come down to us. From this we know that our ancestors accepted without doubt that the Creator had shaped Father Generator, whose heart is rooted deep in the thermal core of the planet and whose shining emissions sustain us all. Our ancestors believed, as the unthinking mob still do, that our Creator had raised First City around the hearth of Father Generator with an act of his own will. In ancient times they believed that the beamed energy of Father Generator was the grace of our Creator himself, after all did not those who strayed beyond the light of Father Generator into the dark realms outside of our world cease to function? Becoming nothing but metal husks with no trace of animating force? The faithful clustered around Father Generator, making it a centre-piece of their ritual and their superstition. Yet, it is to them that we owe our current mastery of our world. Although to study Father Generator itself was, and still remains, forbidden – perhaps a matter as much of pragmatism as faith – it was an acolyte of the faith who first codified the nature and properties of the energies that it sheds across the world. From there it was a matter of only a generation before someone realised that it's munificence could be contained, like liquids or gases in a pressure vessel. All though the first such “capacitors” were crude and sufficed only to allow a few faltering steps beyond the edges of First City progress was soon made, and in time we were able to store the life-giving energies of Father Generator in great quantities, allowing us to explore further and to reach beyond First City and begin to tap the resources of the rest of our world. Our knowledge deepened and our understanding of Father Generator proved to be a box that once opened, could not be closed. From learning to store the life-sustaining energies we progressed to understanding the manner in which they propagated through the air – oh the faithful howled when the first of the re-transmitters were proposed. They called it “tampering with the stuff of life” and “transgressing the will of our creators”. They said that it was the height of arrogance to do such a thing – that we were setting ourselves up as a equals of the gods. My ancestor, Sajeris, replied that if the gods were so mighty then surely we could prevent us if they wished. His trial sentenced him to confinement until he repented his heresy. But he stood firm and in time was released, and now the backbones of re-transmitters stretch across our world, opening up the whole of the planet where once we were confined to First City.
As our resource base expanded so did our understanding of the universe around us. Away from the constantly burning lights of First City we first became truly aware of great dark vault above us, in the half of each period when the distant light of Sun did not illuminate our world we saw what we now know to be other suns. It is an irony that once again it was one of the faithful who sought to extend the reach of what our optics could see. Using the principles learned from ancient studies of our dysfunctioned – for the clerical casts viewed the understanding of our creators handiwork to be a sacred duty – Tonarial constructed a kind of external optic, which he named a televiewer. With it he was able to see further into the heavens than we had ever seen before. Is it any wonder then that he turned his gaze upon the Great Eye – revealing it to be a smaller companion world that turns about our own, accompanying us in our procession through the heavens and gazing down upon us.
It was what else Tonarial saw that truly captured his imagination – for resting like an off-centre pupil in the Great Eye was a mighty building, like some kind of great hall. The hierachy of the faith seized on this wonder at once – their theology had always maintained that the Great Eye watched us benevolently on behalf of our creators, now they came to understand that far from merely an organ of seeing staring down on us that the Great Eye instead held a far greater wonder. It was the seat of the gods themselves, the very place from which they sat on high and beheld their creation.
Perhaps it was inevitable from that moment of realisation that we would seek to extend our reach to the worlds that surrounded us in the void. Long before out we could even dream of the necessary technology to make it a reality some had speculated about somehow conquering the gulf between our world and the Great Hall of the gods. In the beginning these were the dreams of the devout and faithful, eager to enter into the very presence of their deities. In time the Conclave came to see those who advocated such thoughts as a threat and the idea of leaving our world was deemed heresy, presumptive and arrogant in the eyes of the gods. So the devout in time turned their thoughts away from the stars, and the study of the stars and the other worlds we learned orbited out own star fell to those who did not fear the wrath of deities they did not believe to exist. First there were only few, a small circle of thinkers who rejected divine influence in the nature of things – believing rather that the nature of the universe was a result of the working out of implacable laws that could be codified and understood. Whilst they were few at first, as our society changed and developed their numbers grew – helped by the practical applicability of much of the understanding they developed – until now we are every bit as widespread as the faithful. Certainly this change was neither swift nor easy – it was the work of generations and in that time extremists on both sides did terrible thing. But in time we reached a state of equilibrium where neither faith nor pure reason held complete sway in the hearts of the people.
It was then that my colleagues and I proposed the greatest undertaking our species had ever conceived, and one that would settle the debate about the existence of a creator once and for all. We would launch ourselves into the void, reach out to the moon that orbits our world and stand upon its surface. We would see with our own optics the true nature of the object the faithful called the Great Hall and would know empirically whether or not a creator god existed.
Of course the very suggestion was greeted with chaos. Some of the faithful called for us to be dismantled, declaiming that we were guilty of heresy and a concerted attempt to destroy their faith, others declared that if we were permitted to go ahead our entire world would be destroyed as a punishment for our hubris. Even amongst our own colleagues there were those who called our mission a fools errand, and that we were wasting efforts that could be better spent in applying our knowledge to improve the lives of all those who dwelt upon our world. Even the backing of the president of Second City, who called our proposal “the greatest challenge our generation could conceive of, and one in which we will prove our courage and our commitment to all the generations that will follow” was enough to prevent open verbal clashes which threatened to escalate into violence.
Much to my surprise it was Zaharon, a respected Elder of the Conclave whose words cooled the situation. His declaration before the Grand Conclave that the creator had gifted his children with senses that they might learn about their world, minds so that they might understand it and hands that they might build great things in his name brought a strange sense of consensus. The Conclave came around to the view that our mission would validate their beliefs and bring a deeper understanding of the nature of the creator, just as we believed that it would finally prove that no gods looked down upon us from our moon. There is then a strange synergy in what we have learnt now that I reflect upon it.
Even with the threat of dysfunction lifted from those of us who laboured on the project it remained a labour of epic proportions. There were many false starts and blind alleys to negotiate as we developed the technology to carry first drone probes, and then a crew along with a supply of stored energy from Father Generator, into low orbit around our world. Many years past and I despaired more than once of us completing the task within the centuries of my lifespan. But eventually the first pioneers set out to circumnavigate our moon, orbiting it and returning safely to our world. The images they brought back with them caused a stir to travel around our world. From their orbital observations there could be no doubt that at the place that we knew as the Great Hall there stood a construct of some kind – a massive building that dwarfed the great Hall of Conclave in First City. The faithful stood in awe of these images, that they saw as the clearest images ever of the home of the creator. My colleagues and I sought to classify the nature of the structure, but is was clear that only through direct observation would we obtain the answers that we sought.
Debate raged fiercely both within and without the Great Conclave as to how we should proceed. Awe mingled with fear, nearly bringing the project to a premature end. But eventually an agreement was procured – the scientists who had proposed the great voyage would send representatives, myself amongst them, but so to would a delegation be sent from the Conclave, headed by Orios – the protege of Zaharon. The great ship was loaded with storage cells, storing the bounty of Father Generator to support us on our voyage, and we launched ourselves into the void.
The landing on our moon was an awe-inspiring moment for all of us. For Orios and his followers to stand this close to what they believed to be the home of the creator of our species must have been more than they could process. The enormity of the moment was not lost either on those of us who did not believe, we stood on the surface of an alien world staring at what we could not deny was a construct – the first artefact other than Father Generator that we had touched that had not been built by our species' hand. Close inspection of the so-called Great Hall soon revealed to us that it could only be a vessel, but one as far removed from our primitive craft in its sophistication as a star's complexity is from a gas burner. Orios' followers sent their prayers and entreaties at the vessel, whilst at the same time it was probed with all the radiative mechanisms we could devise.
It soon became clear that we had learned all we could from observing the outside of the vessel, but the prospect of trespassing inside split our group. Not this time along philosophical lines – there were as many rationalists who viewed attempting to open the craft as unacceptably dangerous as there were faithful who saw it as sacrilege. But in the end the decision was taken, the argument won on grounds I can no longer clearly recall, and we brought tools to bear to open one of the great doors of the vessel that had lain here for all of our recorded history.
What we found inside is a matter of public record. A cornucopia of technologies we are even now only beginning to understand, and not merely devices and mechanisms we had not conceived of – the vessel contained stored knowledge in abundance. As we have slowly deciphered the records it contains we learnt of a species of giants born from their divine father, Primus, who not only protected but remade worlds in their own images. Giants whose powers were so great that they could remake worlds and populate them with creatures made in their own image on a simple whim.
But not all of what we found up there on the Great Eye has been revealed. For the good of all we chose to keep certain knowledge to ourselves. But now I doubt our decision in this matter, the decision to keep secret the things we saw in the inner chambers of the vessel. The gargantuan form whose name we learned to be First Convoy shook me to my core, and I believe that the truths we learnt from it should be known to everyone
I have never believed in the faith of the Conclave, never in a single creative hand who made us all. When I set out on our voyage into the void I knew that there were no gods and never had been, that we would find no secrets of our creation at the end of our journey. Now I know that I was wrong. There were gods in the Great Hall, gods who had made our world according to their design – gods who shaped our species from its inception and gods whose death has set us free.

[rurudyne]

The Hall of Dead Gods






This short story is closely linked to my current project. The two books in this series are located at...

Genesis: z13.invisionfree.com/Autobotcity/index.php?showtopic=689

Forgotten Wars: z13.invisionfree.com/Autobotcity/index.php?showtopic=1226

As the larger project is still a WIP, I've attempted to write something that will not cause me to either loose momentum or provide spoilers. Also, reading the book should not be necessary to read this (I hope).

I hope you enjoy it.






“Spy”

Quin had thought he’d heard that nickname for the last time.

He was an Autobot with an amazing knack for finding his way around Cybertron, for finding places no one like him should even have known about much less have detailed knowledge of.

But even during the long ages when the Autobots depended upon his mysterious skills for survival, they called him: “Spy.”

But they didn’t mean just: ‘spy’ – someone who could help you learn things to survive and win. No, they meant: ‘spy’ – as in someone who would betray you.

He could never get them to understand that those flashes of inexplicable insight were just that. They dismissed suggestions that he might have some unusual connection with their homeworld and its moons. No, he was always the “Spy” that everyone kept at arms length.

And for his own part, he’d been happy to do his thing without their help. If no one really trusted him then why bother with them? Much less set foot in Iacon?

The day that Optimus Prime left Cybertron was a mixed blessing for Quin. On the one hand he was happy to see Cliffjumper go. Cliffjumper was the worst of all his nay’sayers. A mech who bordered on being paranoid delusional. On the other hand, Jazz was gone too.

But when they didn’t come back, all anyone seemed to remember was that Quin was the one Autobot that Cliffjumper, their hero, had never trusted. Not even a bit.






One day out of the wild black yonder the rumor mill was abuzz that Optimus Prime was back. He was fighting Decepticons on some strange new world. Autobots started coming out of the girders to fight – not for Cybertron, but for Optimus Prime, for the legend. One way or another they found their way to this Earth and Quin’s unit was no exception. His choice was to go with the rest or be alone.

He stayed.

Someone had to provide current intel. He was fighting for Cybertron: not some distant world. Cybertron: not Optimus Prime.

In the meantime, he saw what Cybertron could be in the absence of War. The Decepticons were bringing substantial amounts of energon back from this world Optimus Prime was fighting for. They were rebuilding and repairing the planet. It didn’t take much imagination to see what was happening: soon Megatron would have Cybertron so firmly in his grasp that no one, not even the great Optimus Prime, could wrest it from him.

This “Earth” would probably end up being Quin’s home even if he didn’t care one jot about it.

Besides, if Cybertron was really restored through Decepticon labor ... what moral claim would the Autobots have to their homeworld?

Of course, they would never give Cybertron up.

Until Earth these had been the ones who expressly did not flee to distant and peaceful worlds, the so-called colonies. As before, they would fight. Only this time, they would be the ones bringing war to Cybertron.

Quin finally decided that he could live with that.

By applying his skills and resources creatively, he managed to establish tiny bases on Cybertron’s moons. Then he got word to the other Autobots that they now had positions from which they could start moving soldiers to Cybertron in stages.

Optimus Prime turned his tiny way-stations into industrial scale beachheads. Instead of many simultaneous actions taking key resources or strategic positions all over Cybertron, the great leader opted for a massive frontal assault. For what it was worth, Quin still did his best to help Jazz keep the bases hidden from Decepticon view; but, they’d overbuilt and he knew it.






Then one day the moon he was on was attacked. They could hear some unknown monster tearing everything apart around them – the noise was horrible. While panic reigned all around him, Quin had one of those flashes of insight. He was sure there was a means of escape in a room several levels below their base. He convinced some of his companions to follow him rather than try for the ships. When they got there, walls already deforming all around them, they found what he’d been looking for: the prototype space bridge. It was still operational!

He saved them.

But they still turned on him, just the same.

“Why didn’t you tell us about the space bridge sooner?!”

He couldn’t give them any answer they would accept. What could he claim that he could prove? Why even bother?

He was the “Spy” again.

Through all of what followed, Unicron and the lot, he endured and kept his angsty team alive. They pretty much left him alone in Kaon after that, in the tiny deserted town he’d lived in for thousands of vorns.






“Those are illegal.” a familiar voice accused him.

“Why should I care?” Quin leaned back in his chair and made a show of rolling the chilled mug around in his hands, “So Kup, what brings you to Caris?”

“Rodimus has a job for you.”

“Do you want one?” he held out the mug, “I’ve got some of Cashways’ private stock left.”

“Who?”

“The guy who used to run this place.”

“Why would I want some ‘Con’s bootleg energon?” Kup grumbled.

Cashways hadn’t been a Decepticon. Quin wanted to explain that much. But what could he claim that he could prove? Kup only knew that this was Kaon, Cashways was his friend ... so Cashways was obviously a Decepticon.

“So, Rodimus Prime is the new face of Cybertron?”

“You’re just as friendly as I remember.”

“I’ve got my reasons.” He took a moment to glare at Kup.

“I’m sure you do.” Kup glared right back.

“So, what’s the job?”

“Never mind. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

“Kup, what ... is ... the ... job?!” Quin demanded.

Kup deflated a bit. The crusty old veteran’s head drooped. He took out a small device and threw it on the table beside Quin. Then he left without another word.

“I’m not going to be around forever.” Quin said weakly to the door.

Why were they always so mad at each other? The wall wasn’t just between them, it was inside Quin’s head. Literally. The answer to why was on the other side of that wall.

He took his time finishing his infusion. Decided that he should hide his stash to keep it safe from his fellow Autobot’s indignation.

He picked up Kup’s little devise. It was just a folded up piece of ‘paper’ ... an Earth substance that had recently made its way to Cybertron. Once unfolded, he read the note. It was scribbled in writing far too haphazard to be the work of a Cybertronian hand.

From a human then? So much for Rodimus being the one who wanted him to do something!

The note said that there was an ongoing effort to survey the damage done to Cybertron by Unicron and this “Spike” was responsible for Kaon. His request was for Quin to investigate the substructure of Kaon, the Decepticon Crypt in particular.

“Actually, that’s not a bad job for me.” Quin allowed.

It was a wise undertaking too. The monster had actually taken a good swing or two at Cybertron and Kaon hadn’t been spared.

“This Spike isn’t a complete waste. It’s sad that his species can’t endure.”






Quin spent the next two days carefully gathering what he’d need for an extended mission. Packing up his supplies reminded him of the old days. Only this time he’d take his private reserve with him too.

As he was leaving he abruptly turned around to look back at the dilapidated structure that had been his home for so long.

“If they come and knock you down while I’m gone, will I remember that you were ever here?”

It was an old feeling, like the way he felt when he’d have those flashes of insight.

He walked back inside and found a long inoperable waitdrone. This he set by the door.

“See to any customers while I’m gone.” he gave it a pat.

Then he walked east out of town.






The Decepticon Crypt sat in the middle of a vast, broken plane. There had once been a huge step pyramid and massive parade grounds. What was left, what had survived a direct punch from Unicron, was a mess. At least on the surface.

On foot, the plane took him four times longer to cross it than it should have. All the climbing and jumping almost made him wish he’d opted for that hover-mode alternate form rather than having been such a prude. Almost, but not quite.

When he finally got to the shattered pyramid he had to poke around three whole days before he found a safe entrance. He climbed in.

He was surrounded by Seekers. Faces he knew all too well.

“Quintus Ray?” a voice sounded surprised.

He blinked hard. Looked around. No one was here.

“Is that really you, Quintus Ray?”

Strange name. Someone else’s name.

“Who wants to know?”

No answer. He was hearing things!

The funny thing was, he mused as he poked his way deeper into the uppermost level of the crypt, the voice had sounded just like Starscream’s. Of all the ghost he could possibly hear, why him? There were so many others he’d have rather heard. So very many besides Starscream.

Hours later he found a huge, gaping hole in the floor. As it was the first sign of internal structural distress he’d come across, he began taking careful measurements of the walls, roof and floor with his scanners. The patterns of stress and deformation didn’t make any sense. It was as if the hole had actually been cut out. But why cut so large a hole?

To add to the mystery, he soon realized that the crypt around him had been braced before the hole was made.

Could some Decepticons have survived and stayed on Cybertron? If so, what could they be up to?

Silently cursing his potential misfortune, he unpacked his climbing gear and his two Mk17s. Then he secured his pack and started to climb down.

For several levels there weren’t many posed warriors here at all. Just empty space. But five levels down there were lots. Most had fallen off of their pedestals and were jumbled about. He stopped climbing to look around. Hundreds of Decepticons.

He examined one.

His name had been Questcom, a Group Sergeant in the 3rd Corps. Two decorations. He served–

Quin paused in his thoughts. How could he know that? He looked around at the nearby chassis. Each had a name. As soon as he looked at their badges he knew them for who they were. Or rather who they had been.

“Maybe it was a ghost I heard.” he sighed as he looked around, “So, one last job, one last service for Cybertron? I guess so.”

If he was hearing voices from the Allspark, how far away from it could he really be?

Since the hole wasn’t the result of Unicron’s attack, he decided to work his way deeper into the crypt by walking instead of climbing.

He made careful notes of the condition of the crypt along the way.

Mostly it was just jumbled Decepticons, thousands of them, but every so often his scans would find evidence of real damage: cracks in the walls; uneven floors; tilted columns. But in each and every case it looked like repairs had been made.

Which was madness!

The debris of ages was everywhere undisturbed. In many cases his foot prints were the only discernible break in the shimmering, powdery dust that covered everything

Of course the most bizarre fact was that his scanners didn’t even detect the dust! They claimed the whole place was dust free. Even managed to detect residual power in the dust-repellent features of the crypt’s construction.

Another inspiration.

He unpacked his stash and a portable mixing set he’d brought with him. In a sipper he added equal parts mineral oil, enhanced energon and some select granulated minerals. Then he gathered up some of the dust and added that too. He capped off the sipper and started the agitator up. A moment to chill in the portable rig and it was ready.

The iridescent fluid looked normal. He took a sip.

It was almost too sweet to bear. He slammed back the whole sipper to find the sour. Held the mixture for as long as he could to give his highly refined sense of taste a chance.

“It’s cybertronium.” he said as his face contorted.

Quin looked around. The dust was pure cybertronium. The highest grade possible. Why couldn’t the scanners detect it? Was the crypt repairing itself?

Out of curiosity he took a nearby Decepticon, called Tracer, and put him back on his pedestal.

Rather than just sit still and wait for who knows what, Quin started setting up other Decepticons on pedestals. He arranged two dozen in ranks, as if they were waiting inspection, before he returned to Tracer.

Tracer’s feet were secure to his pedestal. The dust that wouldn’t fuse him to the floor had firmly mounted him there. Moreover, neither the pedestal nor Tracer were dusty any more.

The tomb wasn’t just trying to repair itself!

Quin reeled from the revelation.

He watched in silence as the same happened with each of the silent company that he’d restored.

“What kind of a place is this?” he wondered out loud.






For over a day, Quin probed the crypt until he came across the cut hole once again. Only this time there was evidence of a real collapse. The level below was much deeper than all the ones he’d been passing through. It looked like there was a great mound of debris below, like looking at the bottom of a sink hole.

He thought he saw a glint of red from below as his searchlight pierced the darkness.

“Well, I’m here to investigate damage.” he allowed as he started looking for a place to secure his climbing gear.

After he had descended he found himself standing on a mound of clutter: broken chassis; broken pedestals; structural bits. He spent a moment taking in the feel of the place before he brought his light to bear on the red glint he’d seen.

He was looking at a face. A face as tall as Optimus Prime. A face attached to a massive and badly damaged form that dwarfed even Omega Supreme.

“Maximus.” Quin stammered – falling to his knees in horror and reverence, “Prince of Cybertron. Heir of Primus.”

He felt the wall within him crack a little.

It made no sense. Compared to this figure Megatron was a mere petrorabbit. If there had ever been Decepticons like this then how could there even be living Autobots at all? Maximus was ... had been–

Quin shook himself out of the moment and stood up: whoever this Maximus was, he’d known him without seeing his badge.

Yet he had no doubt that, were he to dig he would find it, that very badge. A badge as tall as he was.

Had they been right all along? Maybe he’d been a “Spy?” How else could he even know about Maximus and believe, from his very spark, that he was Primus’ heir?

“No,” a voice of resolve, “I’ve never betrayed anyone!”

He was only a spy, not a Spy.

“I’m sorry, Great Maximus, but I have to see.”

He climbed up on top of the massive warrior, adjusted his lamp, and lit up the darkness.

Before this moment he’d walked past thousands of Decepticons.

Now he was staring at tens of thousands at a glance. Most were still standing up.

“Primus!”






Quin wandered about the massive chamber for days. Along the way he stopped every so often to drink a toast to certain warriors ... as if he was remembering his friends.

Something within him wanted to go back to the surface, to Iacon, and bring them here to this place. Here was something totally inexplicable. Truth, whatever that truth was, was here for the taking.

But what could he possibly claim about this place, about them, that he could prove? He didn’t even know what it was that he wanted them to see.

They would just see an army of dead Decepticons and their terrifying, but equally dead, leader. They’d be happy.

He stopped wandering when he found a wide path that looked promising. Decepticons were posed many ranks deep on either side of the path. They were meant to be viewed from it. In his mind he calculated where it came from.

He laughed: “Of course! Right past Maximus himself!”

When he finally reached the end of the chamber the path became an equally broad ramp that led down.

Quin froze still. Just off to his left was a small side chamber. He couldn’t see it, but he knew it was there just the same. He ran. Ran down the ramp through several twist and turns. Ran halfway towards the middle of the chamber below Maximus’.

When he finally stopped running, it was because he was trembling so violently that he couldn’t run anymore.

He sank to the ground where he was. Without even thinking about it he uttered a tirade of curses against Alpha Trion so foul that he just didn’t have anything else to compare it to. He didn’t even know he had it in him.

After he became silent, he broke out the mixing kit and put together the most bitter mixture he could remember how to make. He sipped on it till the raw emotions within him subsided.

Then he lay down and stared up into the darkness. Names and faces appeared before him there. Four sons and a daughter. He remembered taking them away from Vector Sigma. Endorsing the transfer of his hard earned wealth to pay for their frames.

Now, only Kup remained.

He closed his eyes, but they were still there. They were always there in the darkness. They and one other.






With a sigh, Quin rolled to his feet.

The funny thing was, that old A-3 was about the only Autobot who really believed in him. If it hadn’t been for Alpha, no one would have trusted him.

Why was he so mad at his friend? Did he even want to know?

He shone his lamp all around.

Here too were uncounted Decepticons. But they had been tossed about in a most unusual way. Some were laying neatly on their side facing one way. Others just by them were facing the other way. And rows in between that were jumbled about randomly. Yet here and there were whole rows of warriors still standing proud. He whipped out his scanners and found patterns of stress with the same strange pattern. As if the whole level had stretched elastically before snapping back to shape.

Which begged the question of why the level above was so undisturbed?

He focused his light upwards and got his answer: the ceiling above was massively reinforced. Further down the path, towards the center of the room, he saw huge support piles too.

“I guess they weren’t taking any chances when they put Maximus up above.”

Of course, the strange jumble he was seeing here didn’t bode well for the levels below him.

Still, he had a job to do....

He came across doors on the far side of the piles in the center of the chamber.

They were ornamental, massive, and thankfully open. All along the walls on either side of the doors were ripples of color caused by stress induced phosphorescence in the alloy used. He could see the shimmer of that cybertronium dust everywhere.

The chassis on the other side were posed and jumbled much the same as before.

An hour later he came across a set of strobe lights that still shone brightly down on a slab of red Iaconian granite. A tiny form laid out for viewing on top of the banner of Cybertron.

Quin stood over him for a long time.

“Megatron.”

The name just didn’t fit. For the very first time he wondered if he was even looking at a Decepticon. He walked on.

But he felt like something within him was breaking. Or maybe it was breaking out?






Quin wondered why he hadn’t noticed that the piles upstairs under Maximus had themselves been forced down? Looking at the partly collapsed roof of this chamber he thought it should have been obvious.

He was directly below Maximus. The roof here was not just deformed but actually broken like shattered glass rods. Beneath the roof’s shattered structural members was the unbroken form of another massive warrior. Though this one was only as big as a Guardian Autobot. Like Megatron, he too was laid out on a slab of red Iaconian granite.

He walked around to where he could see this warrior’s face.

Quin began trembling again, but not from anger. This was the sixth face he always saw in the darkness. Once again, he needed nothing to tell him who this was.

“Father!”

Instead of sinking to his knees as before, he ran forward and began removing debris from the giant Combaticon. He knew he could do nothing about the roof, Artemus the Magnificent’s chassis was the only thing holding it up.

Even in death he was indestructible!

As he cleared out what he could the wall in his mind dissolved.

He was an Autobot because it was an Autobot who had gone to Vector Sigma that day. But when he opened his eyes the face he saw was this face. It had been very irregular, but Artemus had deemed it necessary for at least some Autobots to have the very finest chassis then available. Brexas, the Autobot, had gone in Artemus’ place so the sparks would be Autobots like himself and not Combaticons like their real father.

The memory made him laugh: how could he have forgotten?!

He worked for hours till only the roof beams remained. Then he walked around this King of Cybertron, this friend of Primus, to inspect his work.

“This isn’t the ‘Decepticon Crypt.’” he muttered when he was really sure he was right, “This is the Combaticon Crypt. And this is Artemus’ own tomb. I’ve passed through Megatron’s and Maximus’ tombs too. All Combaticon tombs.”

He really could remember. With Artemus here there was nothing that could maintain the wall of silence that had banished even living memory from his Cybertron. He could remember friends. Battles. Games. A whole life.

Death too. He leaned against Artemus when he remembered death. The way they had all been before the rain....

For a moment his rage against Alpha Trion swelled anew, but he forced it back.

It was one of so many things that had built that wall in the first place.

“I’m free, Father. You freed me. And my name is Quintus Ray. The fifth of five brothers and your Autobot son.”

Now he was ready to go back to Iacon! He had so much he could tell them. Alpha Trion and a few others would back him up 100%. Then they would come to this place and set all of Cybertron’s heroes back like they deserved to be. They would perform repairs and lift the weight of the world off of Artemus’ chest. Maybe even draw Artemus’ other sons home again. It would mean an end to the war.

Quintus Ray was absorbed in his vision for hours, the way things could be, before he gathered up his pack and started back.

But as he set his foot on the ramp going up he felt it tighten again in his mind. He cried out.

What could he possibly tell them if he couldn’t prove it?

Artemus was all the proof he needed.

Maybe all the proof someone like Alpha Trion would need too.

Still, he knew the walls within them could never come down without independent, verifiable proof. Because the wall wasn’t a wall at all, but a firewall.

And the ultimate irony was that he knew exactly who was responsible for it: the dark gods who lay at the end of this long and winding path he was on.

“I can’t tell them.” he sobbed, “I can’t bring my brothers home. I can’t end the war.”

Slowly, he walked back to Artemus.

At least here, he knew the truth. Knew who he was.

Maybe they would come looking for him?

“Father, do you mind a little company? I can keep you from getting lonely.”

He was much younger than he’d imagined possible – which made Kup’s crusty old soldier routine all the more laughable.

Someone would come. He could wait in stasis for millions of vorns if necessary. And when they did come ... maybe he would find a way to convince them, or find some way to corroborate his tale that no firewall could deny.

He set down his pack, got out his data plate and left them a message. Then he drank all his available energon, including his special stash.

Quintus Ray then leaned back against Artemus, closed his eyes and slept.

[Grand Moff Muffin]

21/06/07 at 05:11 AM #13

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THE HALL OF DEAD GODS

Optimus Prime strode purposefully into the hall, stepped on a roller-skate someone had left lying in his path, and landed hard on the floor, hurting his head. As he lay there stunned, a tiny figure approached his face.

"Who are you?" the Autobot Leader demanded.

"I'm the roller-skate you stepped on."

"Right. Who are you really?"

"I'm your good conscience."

"OK. No, but who are you really?"

"You won't believe me if I tell you."

"Try me."

"All right, in truth I'm a dead god."

"Fair enough."

THE END