Post by grahamthomson on May 6, 2011 9:02:53 GMT
The Transformers in
HOLD TIGHT, IACON!
By Graham Thomson
HOLD TIGHT, IACON!
By Graham Thomson
Note: You can catch up on previous chapters here: bit.ly/iacon This story will be serialised online over the coming weeks and collected in a printed edition afterwards
Chapter 3: A HIGHER PLACE (Part 1)
Fear, so Prowl had always thought, was but the passing shadow of a Decepticon.
He functioned in the instant, preoccupied only with the given moment. The past had already been chronicled and he saw no point in fearing the future. Thoughts, experiences and perceptions were processed, actioned and archived as fast as the pulse of a spark. He lived with an error tolerance of an ion’s width, leaving little time for the wasteful concepts of sentiment and emotion. It was an efficient way to live. But it was a cool way to live.
Surrounded by the utter maelstrom that was The Deck, barking orders, dodging shards of splintering debris and shielding himself from the white-hot burn of plasma bursts, Prowl remained calm and collected. Though his face remained in a twisted position of intense authority, his mind was as clear as a defragmented hard drive.
Freeway, a young cobalt Autobot, dashed past Prowl, covering his head and diving for cover. Prowl twisted his waist, aimed his rifle and fired a stream of acid pellets out of one of the Deck’s broken windows and into the night sky. His targeting systems did not miss a beat and, though he couldn’t see into the thick night blanket cast over the city of Iacon, he heard the falling howl of a Decepticon whose external fuel tank had just been ruptured by a well placed shot. His swift reaction bought him a split-second of peace, at least enough time to check that Freeway hadn’t been injured.
What are we doing here? Prowl asked himself.
The Deck, formerly Iacon’s premier tourist attraction, was a high rise observation tower offering unparalleled views of Cyberton. See the curve of the horizon, the marketing literature had promised. It was now a ruined Autobot outpost, a low tech early warning system that relied solely on bravado and a god-guided aim.
Above him Prowl could hear the rallying cries of the self-styled Battle Patrol; four Autobots with a lust for violence he’d never seen before. Their captain, Flak, herded the other three with a tirade of rotten-mouthed insults. The angrier they became, the more firepower they exhausted.
Prowl reminded himself that these were, indeed, desperate times.
“How much longer, sir?” Freeway asked.
A thousand years. “Less than a minute,” Prowl replied. “Every attack follows the same pattern: a seemingly relentless barrage and then--”
Freeway’s jaw dropped. He pointed out through a window at an incoming missile. Prowl winced. The missile erupted before it hit the Deck.
“Sidetrack!” Flak bellowed from above. “Concentrate for pity’s sake! We almost let one slip through.”
Prowl listened for an apology, but before it came the four members of the Battle Patrol clattered down the steps from the roof to the main staging area, eager to refuel and reload.
“We have sixteen minutes!” Prowl shouted, as if anyone needed a reminder.
He turned to Freeway: “We’re ready for Blaster. Send him up.”
* * *
Prowl regarded Blaster as he entered the Deck. Almost all traces of his signature red paint had worn away leaving behind a dirty, scorched, dulled-silver robot. He did not smile.
“The comm station is there. Install yourself,” Prowl ordered.
“Not even a hello?” Blaster asked.
Prowl dipped his head. “Namistai,” he said.
Blaster shook his head. “Haven’t heard that in a long time.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve abandoned a lot of Autobot customs over in Polyhex,” Blaster said coldly. “On account of Iacon abandoning the rest of the planet.”
“We’re consolidating.”
“Really.”
Prowl attempted a smile. “But I am grateful you came.”
“Me too!” said Freeway.
Blaster shrugged his shoulders. “Perceptor would never have let me hear the end of it if I didn’t.”
Freeway looked up at Blaster. He felt like he was standing in front of a legend. “How did you get past half a world’s worth of Decepticons?”
Blaster smiled. “I’ve been fighting them a long time. I know what they’re thinking.”
Prowl was eager to get to business. “Look, Blaster, we’ve been tasked with the protection of Iacon, but the Decepticons have blocked all communications. Prime is out there, as are other commando groups. We can’t co-ordinate our counter-measures.”
“I see.”
“I called for you because I need your expertise.”
“It’s nice to be so highly regarded.”
“You will help us?”
Blaster looked around. Already he felt claustrophobic inside the Deck. The ceiling dipped and the walls were slowly caving in. He preferred to be out in the field. “I’ll see what I can do for you. But this is strictly short-term.”
“Thanks,” said Prowl.
The Battle Patrol had finished their recharge. They’d been continuously online for over a month now. Prowl wondered how much longer they could go before their fatigue would herald a mistake.
Sunrunner nudged Bigshot and they both erupted into laughter. Prowl always wondered what was so funny. He turned to Freeway to see the small Autobot in some kind of peculiar pose. There were some things Prowl would never understand.
Blaster settled into the communications console, allowing numerous cables and conduits to snake out of his arms and connect with the equipment. He looked up at Prowl. “So what are you now?” he asked.
“Strategist.”
Blaster narrowed his eyes. “You mean military strategist.”
“How?”
“Prime’s formed an army hasn’t he? Without the Council’s approval?”
“We do what we do to defend the people,” Prowl said.
“There is it,” Blaster said, turning his attention back the console. “Interference field.”
“Can you cut through it?”
Prowl’s personal communicator suddenly came to life. An orchestra of static and voices filled the air. Prowl felt his spirits lift.
“Prime,” he whispered. Then he shouted: “Prime!”
“Here, Prowl. I’m so glad to hear your voice!”
“Me too!”
Prowl turned to Blaster, nodding furiously. Blaster disconnected himself from the console and rubbed his hands.
“Prowl, we’ve got seven aerial Decepticons on a strafing run. We’ve held out as best we can, but there’s no stopping them.”
“Yes there is,” Prowl replied. “They’ll be in V formation: One leader with a row of three flanking behind each wing. Right?”
“Right.”
“Hit the intake of the first port-side flanker.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. The Decepticons seem to favour near-identical designs for their flyers. Once Megatron hits on a perfect design, he sticks to it. You take out the intake and that Decepticon will ignite like a bomb and spiral into the rest of the formation. Trust me.”
The communicator went quiet for a moment. Then Prime’s voice sounded again. “Seven Decepticons taken down with one shot. Most economical. Thank you, Prowl.”
Prowl clenched his fist in triumph. “Blaster! What you’ve done. The hope you’ve--”
“Job done,” Blaster said. “Now I need to get back to Polyhex.”
“Wait,” said Prowl. “Prime will want to thank you himself.”
But Prowl’s communicator offered only static again.
“What’s wrong?” he said.
Blaster looked back at the console, his shoulders sinking at the realisation of what was happening. “The interference field... it’s modulating.”
“Which means?”
“Which means I’ll have to continuously readjust the dampening signal to keep up. I’ll have to stay here, in Iacon. I’ll never get back to Polyhex.”
To be continued!
