Retribution

by David J. Williams

That burden was getting ever heavier. There was so little that was known about the Quintessons in the first place. Where did they actually come from? How many other races had they subjugated over the centuries? Had they truly transformed an autocratic empire into a trading federation? How many Quintessons were there, anyway? The only one Optimus had met was the Curator and perhaps the doctor, Xeros. Were there others on this planet? What about elsewhere? The Curator had declined to specify the location of their home planet, though Optimus could understand that. No sensible race put that card on the table unless it had to. But there were so many other cards in play here. In the wake of the Curator’s revelations, an emphatic Jazz had told Optimus that they weren’t guests, they were prisoners. Perhaps that was true. But the Curator hadn’t asked for their weapons. Both Autobots and Decepticons were still heavily armed, and Optimus had told his Autobots to maintain maximum watchfulness. Jazz had taken that quite literally, insisting on standing guard outside Optimus’s suite.

  Leaving Optimus to his thoughts. Deep in his Spark he knew that the Quintessons once had been anathema to all he stood for. They had subjugated Cybertron long before his time, yet here they were offering their assistance, claiming that they had changed from the tyrannical conquerors they once had been. Could he actually take the chance and accept that they had given up their ambitions of universal dominance? How could he even think about trusting the beings whose ancestors once had attempted to enslave his entire race?

  Then again, perhaps the denizens of Cybertron were no better. After all, they had given rise to the Decepticons. Peace with the ones with whom war had been waged for eons … The Autobots might have believed it to be impossible, but Optimus was willing to give it a try because whatever anyone else might say, he knew that Megatron wasn’t entirely evil. If he had been, it would have been so much easier. There would be no dilemma whatsoever. But it was Megatron who had called him brother once, who had opened his eyes to the rotting caste system and the concept that all beings had a right to rise to their natural level.

  The problem was that Megatron thought his own level was above all others. Still, the idea of reaching past Megatron’s bluster and finding the heroic gladiator who had inspired him to be more than just Orion Pax … Well, that course of action held no little temptation. And if the Quintessons truly had changed for the better, perhaps their influence would help Megatron remember the sense of brotherhood that had united him and Optimus all those years ago. The stakes were getting ever higher, the situation ever more desperate, and Optimus could only wish the Matrix would give him some sort of signal, any kind of guidance. As it stood, he’d received nothing from it since it had sent them in the direction of this planet.

  That meant that perhaps the issue here was Optimus himself. Perhaps Ratchet was right; perhaps there were forgotten memories at stake here. Or perhaps it was more fundamental than that; perhaps he had simply lost faith in himself. If he could regain some sense of balance, maybe the Matrix would speak to him again. The ringing door chime drew Optimus out of his thoughts and back to his spartan accommodations.

  “Who is it?” Optimus asked.

  “You have a visitor,” Jazz said over the intercom.

  “Send him in.”

  The door opened, and the Curator entered with a broad smile.

  “Hello, Optimus,” he said. “May I speak with you for a few minutes?”

  “Of course,” the Autobot leader replied. He looked past the Curator at Jazz. “It’s all right. You can leave us.” Jazz gave him an “if you say so” look and closed the door. The Curator gazed at Optimus with a look of concern and extended his scaled hands.

  “You look worried, my friend.”

  “Of course I am,” Optimus said. “I’m not sure if I can trust you. No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  “And even if I can, I have little faith in the Decepticons’ desire for peace.”

  The Curator nodded gravely. “Doubts are only natural. Doubts about peace, doubts about us. It is all right. We expected as much. We realized that if we told you too soon, you would almost certainly have rejected us outright. You would have left, and the Decepticons would have caught up with you somewhere else. And then we would not have been able to help.”

  Optimus shook his head. “But what makes you care? Why are you so eager to broker a treaty, Curator?”

  “Because otherwise you will destroy yourselves. We almost did. For longer than we care to remember, we fought civil wars even as we fought wars of conquest. The same disease lies at the root of both kinds of conflict. Despite all your millions of years, you are still a young race. The races that survive beyond that—as ours has—owe a duty to those who have yet to reach maturity.”

  “Maturity,” Optimus repeated.

  “Please do not be offended if I use that word. I am not blind to nuances; I know there is a difference between you and Megatron. That is one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you in private.”

  “Because of Megatron.”

  “I am afraid so.” The Curator cleared his throat. “Optimus, you and I both know that Megatron is far less likely than you to agree to peace—and far more likely to harbor covert agendas in his heart.”

  “So why even put the question to him?”

  “Because our scenarios indicate that under the right conditions he will say yes.”

  “And what conditions would those be?”

  “All of them depend on you.”

  “I’m not following you, Curator.”

  “Optimus, you are the only person in the galaxy whose opinion matters to Megatron.”

  Optimus laughed. “I think you grossly overestimate his opinion of me.”

  “No,” the Curator insisted. “You are. Please don’t think me condescending if I say that our science of psychology is so advanced that we can map it out in mathematics. Let me assure you, Megatron only wants to kill you because you’ve seen the real him. The Megatron who fought for liberty, the Megatron who wanted to be free. Now he regards that original quest as a weakness. But you can still get through to him, Optimus.”

  “I can try,” Optimus said. “But that’s all.”

  “We can help.”

  “You already told me that.”

  “We might be able to do still more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Malice is very difficult to influence. But Megatron’s core is not malice. It is ambition.”

  Optimus sighed. “There are times I have thought the same thing. But it makes no difference.”

  “It does.”

  “Why?”

  “Recently, I received word from our homeworld that our scientists have made breakthroughs in somatic engineering.”

  Optimus searched his databanks without result. “You’ll have to define that.”

  “It’s a way to influence circuitry. Not fundamentally, of course. We can’t change someone’s nature. But we can—could—use ultrasonics in the Signature Room to make Megatron more—how shall I put it?—malleable.”

  “That’s a drastic step,” Optimus said slowly.

  “I’m not about to disagree with you.”

  “And I’m not sure I’m about to go along with it. Free will means everything to me.”

  “I would only ask that you think it over. Tomorrow, perhaps your words will be enough.”

  “And if they aren’t?”

  “Then either the conference fails or you give us permission to make Megatron more amenable to listening. To both of us, Optimus. I know you believe in free will—so do we. But what matters more, the choices of a bot enraged beyond all reason or the fate of millions?”

  “I’m still not sure if Megatron is beyond reason.”

  “Then tomorrow we will find out. If he still disagrees, then you and I will talk again.”

  “I’ll think it over.”

  “You should. And while you’re doing that, there is one other thing you should consider.”

  “Name it.”

  “Wha
t would you say if I told you that we know the location of the AllSpark?”

  Optimus did his best to hide his surprise. “I would say that seems like another fact that you should have told me about earlier.”

  “It would have been premature.”

  “How did you even know we were looking for it?”

  “By listening to your conversations, of course. Come, Optimus, you cannot blame us for paying attention to what is obvious. Ensuring that the AllSpark gets back to Cybertron and signing the treaty are the twin pillars of peace. It’s impossible to separate the two factors. Cybertron without the AllSpark is like a plant cut off from water. Your world is dying, and we propose to restore it.”

  “Let’s say I believe you,” Optimus said cautiously. “Why won’t you just tell me the location of the AllSpark now?”

  “If we do that, how do we know you won’t just return to Cybertron without coming to terms with Megatron? Trust must cut both ways, Optimus.”

  Optimus frowned. Something had just occurred to him. The Curator’s reticence … the Matrix pointing in the direction of this world and then offering no further clues. Perhaps the answer was very simple.

  “Is the AllSpark on this world, Curator?”

  The Curator shook his head. “It is not. Nor is it in our possession; otherwise we would have brought it here, I promise you. But we will give you the coordinates once you and Megatron shake hands and swear peace. We can end your quest, Optimus. We can fulfill everything you’ve ever fought for. So once again I ask you: Will you help us?”

  MEGATRON STOOD ON THE EAST-FACING BALCONY, barely able to keep his rage in check. The grandeur of the Pavilion was lost on him; all he could think about was the place burning down to the waterline as his proton ray set the whole scrap heap alight. How dare these Quintessons get in the way of his victory? Before this was all over, he was going to tear that smug look right off the face of the fish-bot who called himself the Curator. The sheer nerve of them interfering—they would pay. For them to think they could control the mighty Megatron was pure folly. He would soon show them what real power was, but for now that would have to wait.

  First he needed more information. It was axiomatic at this point that the Quintessons had access to advanced technology. There was no telling what else they had up their scaly sleeves. But it didn’t matter; Megatron knew it would all soon belong to him. While everybody else entertained this ridiculous farce of a peace summit, Megatron’s soldiers were secretly collecting the data he needed to perform a strike that would bring these fish-bots and the Autobots to their knees. Analyzing the energy sources in the planetary rings, obtaining some real data on what was going on beneath the oceans … Megatron decided it was time to check in again with the crew still up in the Nemesis. They’d already managed to restart some of the craft’s systems. He was just about to establish a covert uplink when the door chime interrupted.

  “Identify yourself or be destroyed,” he bellowed at the doorway.

  “It is I, the Curator.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I was wondering if you would grant me a brief audience, Lord Megatron.” The use of his title dampened Megatron’s anger a little. At least the Curator understood his place. Megatron hit a button; the door slid open, and the Curator entered, bowing as he did so. Megatron puffed out his massive chest at the smaller robot.

  “I certainly hope for your sake that this intrusion into my sleep cycle is warranted.”

  The Curator kept his head bowed in supplication as he spoke: “I believe it is, Lord Megatron. I come to you with an issue of the utmost gravity.”

  “Go on.”

  “My masters have long watched your conflict with the Autobots and have come to a singular conclusion.”

  “That conclusion being?”

  “That there can only be peace through strength. Strength that only you can provide.”

  “I see you’ve been studying my speeches.”

  “I am merely conveying word from Quintessa itself. To some tyranny is in diametric opposition to freedom. But those who rule must have freedom, too, no? And in some cases, tyranny and freedom go hand in hand.”

  “Some cases?” said Megatron sarcastically. “How about all of them? I see right through you Quintessons. What you call a trading federation is nothing of the kind. This planet isn’t a trade partner, it’s a colony world. Don’t even try to deny it.”

  The Curator smiled unctuously. “Your insight is precisely why I am here now. The Quintesson Imperium recognizes the same truths you do: Sentient beings need rules; otherwise there would be chaos. There must be a strong hand to guide them. In the case of Cybertron, we believe you are that hand.”

  “Of course I am,” Megatron snarled. “You don’t honestly think that librarian is capable of ruling anything, do you? It’s his weakness that’s brought us to this state of affairs, anyway.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.”

  “So you’re not telling me anything I don’t already know, fish-bot.”

  The Curator ignored the jibe. “What if I told you there was a way for you to rule all Cybertronians without question? To end this war in a single stroke?”

  “I’d tell you to stop dancing around the issue. How about you tell me exactly what it is you want before I lose my patience and throw you off that balcony?”

  “It’s very simple. The Autobots follow Optimus Prime not because of rank or caste or merit but because they feel that he was chosen to carry the wisdom of all the Primes contained in the Matrix of Leadership. They believe that he has an almost divine access to the sum total of all the wisdom that ever was and ever will be. When he speaks to them, they take his words as they would those of Primus himself, because they are one and the same as far as they are concerned.”

  “They are weak-minded fools.”

  “And yet, regrettably for Optimus, his Matrix has been proving unreliable lately.”

  Megatron frowned. “His decisions are asinine even when it works, so how would you know it’s been unreliable?”

  “I have my sources,” the Curator said.

  “You’ve been disrupting it, haven’t you?”

  “I see nothing escapes you, Lord Megatron.”

  “Nothing except the point of this conversation.”

  “Then let me say it plainly: The Matrix is not the only one in existence.”

  Megatron stared at him. “You’re lying.”

  “Am I?”

  “Primus himself created the Matrix so that a single Prime could act as his instrument. So why would he have created two?”

  “I didn’t say he did.”

  “Now you’re talking riddles.”

  “Who else besides Prime would have the power to create a Matrix of Leadership?”

  “No one else,” Megatron said. But then he suddenly realized what the Curator was driving at. “You don’t mean—Unicron?”

  The Curator smiled.

  Megatron fought to conceal his excitement. “So you’re telling me that a Decepticon Matrix of Leadership really exists.”

  “Not only does it exist, we can help you get it. And it would make you invincible.”

  “I already am invincible,” Megatron said.

  “Of course you are. That’s why it’s taken you several million years to win a simple civil war.” Before Megatron could put his fist through the Curator’s face, the Quintesson got to the heart of the matter: “Megatron, I will not bandy words. You are the most powerful Cybertronian alive today. But the Decepticon Matrix of Leadership would turn you into a living god. You would be the sword of Unicron himself. Why should Primus have all the advantages in the fight you’ve dedicated your life to?”

  Megatron pondered this. “So this ‘treaty’ that you claimed to want—”

  “We do want it. Just not tomorrow. Once you have your own Matrix, you can bring the Autobots the peace of the wasteland and dictate terms to the survivors.”

  “That is a pleasant vision. So where is this Matrix?”r />
  “At a location that we will reveal to you once you have performed one small favor for us.”

  Megatron’s face darkened. “I do no one favors.”

  “Then consider it a favor you do yourself. If you are truly worthy of the Decepticon Matrix of Leadership—or what you will soon know as the Matrix of Conquest—it will be an easy task.”

  “Name it.”

  “Kill Optimus Prime.”

  A broad smile crossed Megatron’s iron face.

  “Well, my friend, I was going to do that anyway.”

  “Then we understand each other.”

  “Indeed we do. I will kill him and take his Matrix for my own.”

  “His Matrix?” The Curator shook his head. “Believe me, you will discard it as a useless bauble when you have the Decepticon Matrix.”

  “Say I wish to claim both.”

  “Impossible,” the Curator said.

  “You dare defy me?”

  “I dare explain reality. The contact of Matrix and Anti-Matrix would destroy more than just you. It would be like a supernova detonating. There would be nothing left. Content yourself with the Decepticon Matrix; grind the one in Optimus’s chest to ashes.”

  “You wish me to destroy it?” Megatron frowned. “And here I was thinking that this was the part where you were going to say you wanted it.”

  “I have no need of such a thing,” said the Curator, and he said it with such conviction that for a moment Megatron almost believed him.

  Almost.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  STARSCREAM WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF ENJOYING THE many amenities of his lavish quarters when the knock at the door came. He cringed; only Megatron would even think of disturbing him at this time of night. He hated being at Megatron’s beck and call, hated the way his master condescended to him, hated the very fact that he had a master.

  Someday he would have to change that.

  “Coming, Lord Megatron. I hope there isn’t—” Starscream stopped in midsentence as the door opened to reveal the squat form of the Curator.

  “Air Commander Starscream, I was wondering if you and I might talk for a moment.” The Curator pushed past him without waiting for an answer.