Retribution

by David J. Williams

  “Decepticons,” Jazz said. “Heading straight for that Pavilion.”

  “Megatron doesn’t look too happy,” said Prowl.

  “He’s not the only one,” Ironhide muttered.

  THE SHUTTLE ALIGHTED ON THE VERY APEX OF THE PAVILION. The Autobots stepped out to find the Decepticons already waiting for them. Amazingly, no one fired at anybody. That was partly because Optimus and Megatron had both impressed upon their followers the wisdom—if not the necessity—of heeding the Curator’s wishes. But it undoubtedly also was due to the sheer surrealism of the situation: the Autobots disembarking from the craft, staring at the Decepticons only about twenty meters away, at the edge of the Pavilion’s roof. Though Megatron was certainly happy to try to provoke the Autobots into doing something that might bring the Curator’s wrath down on their heads.

  “Optimus,” said Megatron, “so nice to see you.”

  “Megatron,” Optimus said coldly, though he raised a hand in formal greeting.

  “You’ve led us on a merry chase across the galaxy. And you might have saved us a lot of trouble.”

  Optimus said nothing. Megatron laughed, warming to the task of provocation. “So let’s see … The only reason you’re still alive is because the Curator took a liking to you. What did you have to do to achieve that? What favors did you offer him?”

  “I offered him no favors,” Optimus said stiffly.

  “But maybe one of your clueless minions did?” Megatron glanced at Jazz. “Perhaps Jazz here has betrayed you the same way you betrayed me?”

  “Why you—” Jazz started forward, only to be held back by Optimus’s outstretched arm.

  “We agreed to a truce, Jazz.” Then, turning back to Megatron: “Though I would suggest you are straying dangerously close to shredding the spirit if not the letter of that law.”

  “Law,” Megatron scoffed. “A figure of speech and a maladroit one at that. What law do you speak of?”

  “Mine,” said the Curator.

  He rose through a trapdoor that irised open in the middle of the roof, halfway between the two rivals.

  “I have a confession to make,” he said.

  “This ought to be good,” Megatron said.

  “I have been less than forthcoming with you.”

  “Then you should tell us everything,” Optimus said.

  “And so I shall. I am a representative of the Quintesson Co-Prosperity Sphere, of which this planet Aquatron is a proud member.”

  Everyone stared blankly at him except Optimus, who looked appalled.

  “The Quintessons?” he said. His days spent in the library had given him access to databases containing much bygone lore; he knew that the Quintessons were a race that had fought many wars with Cybertron in the distant past. They had even landed on Cybertron itself once, and had temporarily occupied the planet. Which meant that—

  “You are our enemy,” he said.

  The Curator looked embarrassed. “Once that may have been true. Our ancestors were a primitive people, and like many primitives, they saw force as the only solution to problems.”

  “Whereas you just lie,” Ironhide said.

  “This is a dangerous galaxy,” the Curator told him. “And like our ancestors, you Cybertronians do believe in violence as a solution. Can you blame us for proceeding with caution? If I engaged in subterfuge, I did it only to protect this planet.”

  “Which is not Quintessa,” Megatron said, trying to get things straight.

  “No,” said the Curator. “It truly is Aquatron.”

  “So where’s Quintessa?”

  “Far away,” the Curator said, gesturing at the stars overhead. “I see no particular reason for you to know its exact location. Perhaps that moment should await our becoming better friends.”

  Starscream spoke up for the first time. “So Aquatron is part of your empire?”

  “Not empire,” the Curator said. “Co-Prosperity Sphere.”

  Megatron laughed skeptically. “And what’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that we no longer engage in war and we no longer attempt to dominate others. All worlds within our Sphere are trading partners. Aquatron has its own self-government and is free to leave the Sphere at any time.”

  “Let me guess,” Megatron said sarcastically. “You’d like to incorporate Cybertron into your empire—sorry, I mean Co-Prosperity Sphere.”

  “Only if Cybertron someday wished it. But right now your world is at war. A civil war no less, between the two groups standing here. Autobots and Decepticons.”

  “An accurate summary of the situation,” Optimus said. “And we should not have brought our conflict to your planet.”

  The Curator waved that aside. “Optimus, Megatron. There is a better way.”

  Megatron scowled. “And that is?”

  “Peace.”

  “A fine word,” Megatron scoffed. “But only possible when every traitor has been destroyed.”

  “Traitor is just a word, too,” said the Curator. “But definitions can change. As can hearts and minds. Our people are proof of that. We have spent eons trying to atone for the acts committed by our ancestors. And today I seek one more such atonement.”

  “Namely?”

  “I have brought you both to this Pavilion so that you may sign a peace treaty.”

  There was a moment’s stunned silence.

  “Impossible,” Megatron said.

  “If it turns out to be so, then you may both leave freely. But I believe your differences can be resolved, and I ask for twenty-four hours to help you bridge them. You may stay at this Pavilion during that time, in luxury accommodations. Our trading expertise has made us masters of negotiation. If there is a way to solve the problems that plague Cybertron, we will find it. If there is not, then both Ark and Nemesis may depart with full stocks of Energon.”

  “What do you gain from this?” Optimus asked.

  “If you are no longer at war, there is likely to be more trade. But as I said, our motives also involve less material concerns.”

  “My faith in peace has been battered by millennia of fighting,” Optimus said. “But perhaps all the blood that has been shed demands that I be willing to at least talk.”

  The Curator turned to Megatron. “What say you?”

  “Yes,” Megatron said to everybody’s surprise.

  “We cannot do that,” Starscream protested.

  “I am in command,” Megatron snapped. “And you are still under my orders. We will try for peace.”

  Though his mind was on anything but that.

  Chapter Twenty

  CYBERTRON

  THE DECEPTICONS HAD FORTIFIED IACON AGAINST ASSAULT from an army and deployed their forces accordingly. That meant that sneaking inside was easier than their propaganda claimed. The trick was to go in the same way bots were getting out. Refugees were attempting to escape from Iacon all the time. Most of them were caught, of course, and then summarily executed or sent to the labor camps, which in practice amounted to the same thing. But Iacon’s garrison had yet to come close to sealing all the bolt-holes out of the city. Thus did Ultra Magnus, Wheeljack, Springer, Jetfire, and Rack n’ Ruin get in without anybody realizing it—sidling up to the walls along a fissure cracked open by a long-ago bomb and then creeping through a series of abandoned pipes, making their way through some shattered industrial plant, and climbing rusty staircase after staircase until they emerged into Iacon.

  Which had changed.

  “Primus save us,” Wheeljack said as he gazed at the battered skyline. The only lights visible were those of the gleaming spire of the tower in the distance and—substantially closer—the Decagon, which had been turned into the headquarters of the city’s defenses. Rumor had it that they were under the control of Ratbat now, which didn’t surprise Wheeljack in the slightest. That wretched little bot was the ultimate opportunist; he’d been the slimiest of politicians in the days of the corrupt caste system, and the fact that he was now loyal to Shockwave only conf
irmed Wheeljack’s view that someone should have taken care of Ratbat a long time ago.

  But now was not that time. They had more important matters to focus on. Ultra Magnus had been adamant that making straight for the tower would be suicide, that they needed more information not just on the tower defenses but also on the exact location of Alpha Trion. But they couldn’t stay on the streets for long, because Shockwave had turned the city into a web of surveillance. Cameras were everywhere. So were patrols, particularly during the evening hours of curfew. The next few hours were a nightmare of crawling through ruins and sewers as the group gradually made its way across the city. Wheeljack couldn’t believe how squalid life had become under the Decepticons. The Energon pools were dry. The Stellar Galleries were shattered. And gangs were everywhere, steering clear of the Decepticons while they concentrated on fighting one another and preying on the innocents who remained.

  Not that there were many innocents left. Most had been corrupted by now, and it broke Wheeljack’s heart to see bots crouching in the wreckage of once-great halls, furtively imbibing the Dark Energon they had purchased from the very gangs from which they were now trying to hide. He couldn’t believe Shockwave wasn’t trying to put a stop to this.

  “He encourages it,” Ultra Magnus said, as though reading his mind. “Helps keep the population docile.”

  “It’s more than that,” added Rack n’ Ruin.

  “He’s evil,” Springer said with some feeling.

  “He’s a Decepticon,” Wheeljack said, glancing at Jetfire, whose attention was elsewhere. “What do you expect?”

  But it was Jetfire who answered. “Shockwave is no ordinary Decepticon,” he said.

  “I guess you should know,” Springer said.

  “Stow that right now,” Ultra Magnus growled.

  “The typical Decepticon believes in straightforward control,” Jetfire said as though neither of the other two had spoken. “Shockwave takes it a step further. He sees this city as his laboratory, just one big experiment. And seeing how Dark Energon addiction plays out in a semi-controlled environment is the least of it. Everybody here is just a rat in a maze.”

  “Including us,” Rack n’ Ruin muttered.

  “We’re the random factor,” Jetfire said. “The ghost in the machine.”

  “That’s great,” said Springer, “but where exactly are we going?”

  “There,” Ultra Magnus replied, pointing.

  IT WAS ONE OF THE FEW INTACT BUILDINGS IN A LOWER east sublevel that was otherwise mostly wreckage, though “intact” was probably too generous a description. The building had fallen into a bad state of disrepair. The windows were boarded up, and on the door was a sign that said PROPERTY CONDEMNED: NO ENTRY. Wheeljack couldn’t imagine why they’d come here. It didn’t make any sense. Ultra Magnus went up to the door and knocked loudly. The banging of his fist echoed down the deserted street, making Wheeljack look around nervously. But Ultra Magnus didn’t seem to care. He just kept knocking.

  And then the door opened, sliding aside automatically; that was surprising since it barely looked like it was capable of operating manually. Ultra Magnus led the way into a darkened room. They shone their lights this way and that, revealing chairs stacked on circular tables. A canvas had been tossed over furniture that ran down the entirety of the far wall. The place was desolate.

  But suddenly Wheeljack recognized it anyway.

  “This is Maccadam’s Old Oil House,” he said.

  “The one and only,” said a voice.

  A shadowy figure appeared in the far doorway. The lights flickered on, though the room was still lit only dully. The bot who stood there was old but squat and powerfully built. His armor was done up in resplendent purple and gold, and he sported a particularly fancy goatee.

  “Close that door,” he said, “or you’ll have a patrol trying to follow you in.”

  “Maccadam,” said Ultra Magnus as Springer hastily closed the exterior door. “It’s good to see you.” The two bots shook hands.

  “Welcome,” Maccadam said. Wheeljack couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Maccadam had always been an enigma, lurking in the shadows of his establishment, giving rise to all sorts of rumors about which of the staff he actually was or whether he ever showed his face in the first place. But now his face was plain to see, and it was one that Wheeljack realized he’d seen many times before.

  “You were the piano player,” he said.

  “I still am,” Maccadam said. “Though in truth I’m not much given to music these days.” He glanced at Rack n’ Ruin, but if he was surprised by the composite bot’s bizarre appearance, he didn’t show it.

  “When did the Decepticons close you down?” Springer asked.

  “They never did,” Maccadam told him. “I just declined to do business with them.” He pulled the canvas away to reveal the bar, not to mention a full array of spigots. Rack n’ Ruin eyed them thirstily.

  “Let me pour you gents a drink,” Maccadam offered.

  A COUPLE OF ROUNDS OF DRINKS AND AN HOUR OF conversation later and Wheeljack finally was beginning to piece it together. Maccadam’s Old Oil House had kept functioning during the early part of the war, a neutral ground where Decepticons and Autobots alike could rub shoulders even as they studiously ignored one another. But all that changed when the Decepticons finally got the upper hand and took over Iacon. There was no more neutrality. You either served the Decepticons or you were en route to the camps. Neither choice endeared itself to Maccadam, so he’d closed up shop.

  But he’d dispensed with his neutrality, too, seeing as how the Decepticons had left him no choice. And he’d kept on doing business, only now it was an entirely different kind. What had been the center of Iacon nightlife was now the hub of a spy network dedicated to bringing down the rule of Shockwave. Wheeljack could see the logic. Maccadam knew everybody. He had contacts all over the city, and some of them were even Decepticons only too happy to meet Maccadam in camera-free locations over a keg or two. Some of them had been his friends before the war and simply figured they were giving him immunity from arrest in return for some under-the-table refreshment.

  “They’ve got no clue you’re guilty of far worse than bootlegging,” Ultra Magnus said. The conversation had been almost exclusively between him and Maccadam while the others sipped their drink and listened. They didn’t really have much to contribute. It was obvious that Maccadam and Ultra Magnus had been in surreptitious contact for a long while now, that Maccadam had placed his network at the disposal of the Wreckers and was furnishing Ultra Magnus with grade-A intelligence on events within Iacon.

  “Things have gone from bad to worse,” Maccadam said. “Shockwave isn’t even interested in maintaining the city’s population at basic subsistence levels. He’s practically encouraging mass shutdown. And when bots break down, they just become scrap to feed his factories.”

  “You’re risking the same fate yourself,” Ultra Magnus said. “And I know we’re dramatically increasing that risk by coming to you, but we’re obviously in a bit of a bind and—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Maccadam said with a wave of his hand. “But the situation’s complicated. Alpha Trion has been moved from the tower.”

  “Where to?” Ultra Magnus asked.

  “That’s what I’m still trying to figure out.”

  Ultra Magnus swore under his breath. “Shockwave’s trying to keep us all guessing.”

  “Not just trying,” said Maccadam. “Succeeding. My contacts in the tower are scared slagless. Anyone who knows what’s up isn’t talking. But Shockwave has disappeared as well, so it seems safe to assume that he’s personally overseeing whatever’s going on.”

  “And you don’t know the what or the where.”

  “I will soon. I’m meeting in an hour with an engineer who helped build the tower. He said he’s got something for me. He’s now a member of Ratbat’s staff and—”

  “Can I go with you?” Rack n’ Ruin asked.

  “No,” Ultra
Magnus replied.

  “Why would you want to?” Maccadam asked.

  “Because I was one of the slaves who worked there. And once you’re done talking with this engineer, I wouldn’t mind killing him.”

  Maccadam’s expression was a mixture of empathy and sadness. But he shook his head. “Do you think you’re Shockwave’s only victim? The bot I’m talking to lost his entire family in the camps. He may be a Decepticon, but he has every reason to hate Shockwave. As does everyone in this room. And all of you are going to stay here till I get back. Are we clear?”

  “We’d better be,” said Ultra Magnus, looking at each member of his team. They all nodded. Rack n’ Ruin emptied his can and reached for another.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  OPTIMUS PACED BACK AND FORTH IN THE LAVISH SUITE the Curator had given him. Night had fallen, but to say his sleep cycle was disturbed was the height of understatement. So much had happened in the last few hours that he was having a hard time processing it.

  The Quintessons … So they were more than just a myth. History had come back to life, and it wasn’t the most glorious of histories, either. The Quintessons really existed. They really had invaded Cybertron once. They really had occupied the planet.

  But had they really changed?

  Optimus walked to the balcony and gazed up into the night sky. Somewhere up there were the Nemesis and the Ark, orbiting the planet over and over. The Quintessons had reenabled ground communications, and Optimus had spoken at length with Sideswipe, briefing the worried pilot on the events taking place down below. There was a place called the Pavilion, he’d told him; the Decepticons were quartered in the east wing, and the Autobots were in the west. In the morning, the Curator would preside over negotiations for a treaty. Optimus had congratulated Sideswipe on his heroics in saving the Ark, but Sideswipe was more concerned about what would happen next on Aquatron. Optimus had brushed aside those concerns, keeping his doubts to himself. Such was the burden of leadership.