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6.
Telemetry of MistrustDiego Garcia
Hangar Alpha One“I’m just not sure we’ve thought through all the variables,” Prowl said, patiently. “One of them being, what use they could possibly put him to.” The morning sun streamed through the high clerestory of the hangar, limning Prowl’s armor to the color of tarnished silver.
Optimus frowned. He trusted Prowl’s logic, and his certain sort of logic-driven instinct implicitly. But logic didn’t always work. Especially, as Prime was discovering, when humans were involved. They were young, he told himself. But sometimes it was hard to understand their motivations, much less their priorities. And to be honest, he was still reeling from the Russians. The Russians, who had seemed so, well, he couldn’t call them friendly, exactly, but…willing to work together, who had suddenly then dropped a warhead on the battlefield. “Yes,” he said, carefully. “I am afraid of their reverse-engineering. And Barricade, because of his position in the Decepticon hierarchy, doubtless has some advanced technology.” One reason they had tried so hard to isolate Starscream during his captivity: the jet’s weapons would have kept the human engineers busy for years inventing new and horrifying variations and fugues of warfare.
“Not weapons, though,” Prowl corrected. “But you’re right. Even if all he’s got is signals, they can…revolutionize their current technology. Then again, they had Megatron for how many years? They weren’t able to understand enough to do much.”
“True, but they’re catching up. Alarmingly.” He looked at the broken down racks that had once held NEST’s computer assets on a gantry, now propped against the wall. Computers that were unheard of, unthought of, until Megatron’s body had been found and studied.
“Again, a valid concern. Any others?”
“Mistreatment. Either from ignorance or by design, they could easily cause Barricade to suffer.” Optimus knew that Ratchet felt he’d failed to provide enough care to Starscream. One reason Ratchet had been bouncing back and forth between Cliffjumper’s pod and the back corner of the hangar where they’d isolated the Decepticon.
“According to Ironhide, that would be just deserts,” Prowl said, mildly. Optimus knew he didn’t believe that himself. Prowl was the one who had reminded him earlier, by the same sort of blunt unpleasant questioning, of his priorities.
“We will not hand over even an enemy to the likelihood of mistreatment.”
Prowl nodded. “The humans call it ‘rendition.’ Turning an enemy over to someone whose morals are…less squeamish. The donor gets to keep their clean conscience while still garnering the benefits of torture.”
“Benefits of torture,” Optimus echoed. “That is why we cannot do that. We cannot allow that to happen.”
“The other options are,” Prowl said, flatly, “We keep him—either to interrogate or terminate or both—or we return him, somehow.”
“We never did interrogate Starscream,” Optimus said. “I do not know if I have the stomach for it.”
“I do,” Prowl said. “But I think that termination should be off the table. At this point. As long as we call ourselves Autobots.”
That soothed Optimus. He knew Prowl was harder in spark than himself, seeing reality through the harsh light of logic. But it reassured Optimus to know that Prowl still recognized the Autobot priorities. If only Ironhide….”Returning him?”
“Perhaps later. If we find a useful way to leverage him.”
Optimus frowned. “Remember we said that about Tracer. They executed him after we returned him.”
“I do not think it likely they will do that with him.”
‘Too valuable?”
“Perhaps. However, the humans insist that they have law on their side and Barricade is theirs, don’t they?”
“Yes. I didn’t completely follow their logic, but that’s the basis of it.”
“Could be garbage,” Prowl said, bluntly.
Optimus frowned, moving to look at the hangar door. The skeleton crew of Air Force personnel were out for their morning run, their cadence filling the morning air like militarized birdsong. “I know that, Prowl. But the issue is, if we expect to have a working relationship with the humans, we might have to let them win this one.”
“Do we want one? With the Americans?”
“They have certainly been more trustworthy than the Russians,” Optimus said, a little surprised to hear a dull chord of anger in his voice. "But again, he cannot be mistreated.”
“So, you’re thinking safeguards.”
“Yes. The humans have a ‘Red Cross’—they go into detention facilities and make sure the prisoners are not being mistreated.”
“You want more humans to verify that humans are not mistreating Barricade?” Teetering at the brink of calling Optimus ridiculous.
“No. It would have to be one of us.”
“Who?”
“Someone he can’t twist.”
“That leaves out Flareup. And Ironhide, obviously. Arcee?”
“Not after Flareup.”
“That leaves the two of us, really.”
“Yes.” Maybe one of us: Optimus wasn’t sure of himself. Right now, after the Russians, he felt his own beliefs raw and vulnerable, an open wound to be salted.
“There is one other thing.” Prowl’s normally impassive face creased with a kind of worry. “While we think about that. To get to his location, we will need the assistance of the humans. We have no air transport of our own.”
“They will not refuse us.” Optimus spoke with a confidence he did not entirely feel. “They will understand our concerns.”
Prowl nodded, as if Optimus’s word was good enough as law for him. Optimus knew that Prowl never questioned him with sedition in mind; only to have his objections dealt with. Prowl had supreme faith in Optimus’s ability to do that. Optimus wished he had the same confidence.
“There is, however, one last thing I have thought of.” As if this had been what he’d really wanted to ask. “Diego Garcia is an island. In effect the humans have us already in a prison. They seem to be in no real hurry to get us to move, to insist we begin preparations to move.” Prowl’s optics hooded under his chevron-crest. Optimus knew Prowl hadn’t been pleased with the lack of preparations on their own side. “My concern is…without their assistance for transport, and without their assistance in getting raw materials to generate energon….”
Optimus frowned. It was rare that Prowl was unable—or unwilling—to finish a thought. He didn’t need to in this case though: without human assistance, the Autobots on Diego Garcia could be left to starve to death. No, he tried to tell himself, they wouldn’t do that. Humans are not capable of such savagery.
Are they? The fact that that voice had any volume in his processor sent a shiver of cold worry through him.
7. Unavoidable Reunion.
Nemesis
It should not have been a surprise, Starscream realized, that Skywarp was waiting for him outside his recharge station. He acknowledged his Trine mate with a brisk nod, brushing past him to code his door. Skywarp’s hand took his arm.
“Starscream,” the black jet said, quietly. “It has been…megacycles.” Implying: is this how you greet me? Is this all the Trine means to you? Starscream felt his mouth pinch. Reminded of failure, right away.
“I have…kept in touch,” he replied, stiffly. His eyes would not leave the black-armored hand on his arm.
“You have sent messages on significant dates. You have never live-commed. You have never replied to any sent to you.” More blame, recrimination. Not even credit for the incredibly tedious calculations across different time spreads and local calendars to figure out the correct dates and transmission lag. Of course not. Bad leader, according to Megatron. Bad Trine mate, according to Skywarp. Bad…everything else as well. Starscream blinked, slowly. Trying not to see himself. The image flashed in his mind again of Barricade’s little mirror. Know your enemy. Oh. Yes.
“Yes, well,” he hedged, “I have been busy.”
“Too busy for your Trine?”
Starscream squirmed, trying to twist his wrist out of Skywarp’s grasp. “No,” he said, softly. “I just had nothing worthwhile to say.”
Skywarp’s optics studied him for a long moment. He released the bronze jet’s wrist as the door coded open. Starscream stepped through, but did not code the door closed. Halfway between an invitation and a rejection. Skywarp stood in the doorway, his broader wingspread brushing the sides of the door’s frame.
Starscream crossed to his daily maintenance facility, squatting to pull a bore brush from a bin.
“Nothing worthwhile,” Skywarp echoed. “You’re the fragging Second in Command.”
“Do not be vulgar,” Starscream said, wetting the brush with cleanser from one of the taps. Skywarp waited for him to say something else. Starscream cycled the barrels of one chain gun around, ramrodding each with the brush.
Skywarp rested against one side of the doorframe. “Fine. You’re angry at me. Tell me why and I’ll apologize.”
Starscream paused, put the brush down, turned to the door. Picked the brush back up, concentrating on his actions as though cleaning the barrels was an all-encompassing task. “I am not angry at you.” He spoke as if the words themselves cut into him.
“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Starscream. You’re angry about my call to leave Tunguska. You feel that I usurped your authority.”
No! No. That was not it at all. “I was…I was not thinking clearly. Again.” He winced as he shoved the bore brush in one barrel, hard enough to hurt.
Skywarp winced as well. “You thought clearly enough to command this unit in Megatron’s absence.”
“And such a brilliant job I did of that,” Starscream said, bitterly. “Mutinies by my own fr—mechs,” he corrected. He threw the bore brush into the sink, where it rattled, the sound cutting through the tense silence.
Skywarp stepped into the room. “Starscream,” he began, gently.
“Why are you here?” Starscream turned, leaning against the sink. “Why are you even here?”
“I—I wanted to talk to you.”
Starscream’s optics narrowed. “You came all this way, because you missed talking to me.” The sarcasm was palpable.
“Starscream,” Skywarp gestured with his hands, soothingly. It irritated Starscream. Would they ever stop treating him like this?
“Oh, do NOT try that with me, Skywarp. I know more than you think. I know, for example, that Megatron sent for you.” He gritted his jaw in satisfaction at the stricken look of surprise on Skywarp’s face.
“Who told you that?” Halfway between a tentative denial and alarm.
“Someone who would not lie about something like this.” Barricade had a love/hate relationship with the truth, but Starscream had known him long enough to know there were some things Barricade would not lie about. Not to Starscream.
“The one we lost at Tunguska?” Skywarp tilted his head, still trying to wrap his processor around the situation. He barely knew anyone’s name, and he was searching for answers he didn’t even know the questions to.
“We did not lose him!” Starscream shrieked.
“Starscream,” Skywarp began again. The bronze jet swore that if he heard his name pronounced once more in that unutterably condescending way by his Trine mate, he would tear out the other’s vocalizer. “It is not your fault. You can’t control everything in a battle. It happens.”
Starscream reached for something, anything. His talons closed around the bore brush. He threw it, hard, at Skywarp, snarling as it bounced harmlessly off the black downswept wing. Skywarp looked at the brush as it clattered to the floor. He looked up, a little sadly. “Is this what you want, Starscream? Really?”
“You do not know what you are talking about!” Starscream yelled, ignoring Skywarp’s appeal. “This is not about what happens in battle. Do you think I have not seen enough battles to know that by now? You insult me! Always!” He gripped his hands together, the metal barbs squealing against each other.
Skywarp’s look of surprise cycled through ‘hurt’ and then to something Starscream could not name. He cycled a deep ventilation. “All right. I don’t know what I’m talking about. Because you don’t let me in. Tell me.” He crossed over, uninvited, to perch on Starscream’s recharge berth. Starscream had half a mind to throw him out, bodily, if necessary. But still…Skywarp. His Trine mate. Starscream had no idea why he was here, and half of his suspicions were unpleasant, but…his Trine mate. After so long. Did he really—could he really throw away the last even semi-functional relationship he had? He had lost Barricade. Blackout along with him. And now?
“I cannot explain the reasons,” he said, slowly, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Because I do not know them myself in a way that I can put into words. But I must get Barricade back.” He forced himself to look at Skywarp.
Skywarp paused, as if digesting this, and then, hesitating, picking his words, so careful not to make the bronze jet feel his authority was challenged again, “Can I help?”
8. Fateful Meeting
Diego Garcia
Hangar Delta 2
Ratchet bustled over the repair frame. He was really beginning to irritate Barricade. Which, admittedly, didn’t take much. So Barricade was doing his best to return the favor. “Stop it,” Barricade squirmed, trying to turn his face out from under Ratchet’s attempt to scrape the dried energon and coolant from the armor plating. He’d been here for…solars apparently, and no one had risked taking him to a proper washrack. “Think I’m handsome enough for this already.”
“Stop…moving,” Ratchet muttered, pinning the ‘con’s head to the back of the repair frame with one hand, while he daubed a dilute solvent on the dried-on gunk.
“Ow!”
Ratchet sat back. “Oh, come on, Barricade. After what you’ve been through, you don’t think I’m going to buy that the sting of a little solvent is torture to you?”
The ‘con shrugged one-shouldered. “Worth a shot.”
“You have a very odd sense of humor.”
“Could say the same about your bedside manner.”
Ratchet sighed. “Look, Barricade. I know you’re nervous. It’s okay. You don’t have to put on this abrasive act. I’d be terrified if the humans were taking me, too.”
“See? That’s what I mean about your soothing bedside manner. And I’m not scared.” I’m dead already. Just a matter of time until reality catches up. And it’s not an act.
“Sure. Anyway, just so you know,” Ratchet lowered his voice, as if he wasn’t supposed to tell Barricade this, “I have installed the motion-blocks in your legs. The same as you had put in Ironhide.”
Barricade grunted. “A little guarantee of good behavior, served with a delicious sauce of irony, huh?” He met Ratchet’s eyes, level. “Only issue I have with that is getting that fraggin’ psychopath’s used parts.”
Ratchet shook his head. He was used to hearing too much from his patients—they normally opened up to him, telling him things they’d never told anyone. Perhaps the repair process bored them, or, unlikely, Ratchet’s persona seemed to emanate trustworthiness. But Barricade hadn’t opened at all; remained like a tightly coiled prickly animal. It reminded Ratchet of something he had scene on a human television show. A porcupine, he thought it was called. Or prickly-pig. Something like that. But it suited Barricade.
A tap at the door—they hadn’t ever installed proper Autobot door chimes, and now there was no point, so they all stuck with the human custom of knocking. Impossible to do, Ratchet had noted many times with increasing irritation, when one’s hands were full. “Yes.”
The door rolled open—despite himself, Barricade turned to look. A blue cycle bot holding a small human-sized chair, and next to her, apparently, the human for the chair. Male, middle-aged, hair a faded blond. Uniform: military. Barricade spent the first few seconds translating the uniform: Master Sergeant. Sternburgh. Air Assault. HALO. Jumpmaster. Hello, human. Barricade determined to be unimpressed.
He turned his gaze insolently to the cyclebot. “You must be Chromia.” He switched to English, so the human could play along. He enjoyed the flicker of emotions across her face, from surprise to how she figured out he knew her name. “Good to see they brought someone so brave to guard the human against vicious big bad me.” He flexed his sensor blocked talons, watching them respond slowly, inefficiently. “Heard you went at it with Starscream.”
“Shut up, ‘con,” she barked.
“Chromia,” Ratchet soothed, gesturing her back against the wall.
“What?” Barricade blinked in feigned innocence. “I just wanted to know how her repairs were progressing. I hear she lost an arm.” He winced, showily. “Painful.”
“Con, shut UP!” Chromia said. Ratchet shook his head, warningly. As if Barricade actually had to listen to him. Right.
“How’s Flareup, by the way?” He felt a little dirty asking this one. Part of him actually wanted the answer. Chromia rolled forward, arming her missile launcher, her face a hard mask of fury.
Between them, the human, who had settled himself in the folding chair, started laughing uproariously. A little too much, but then again, Barricade was throwing acting subtlety out the window himself. “Jesus H Tap Dancing Christ!” he laughed, “You are gooooood!”
“Supposed to care what you think, human?” Barricade snapped. Still, it was a little gratifying to have his work appreciated. Maybe.
“Only if you want to live.”
Barricade rolled his optics. “Really. Well then, take me to the fraggin’ casting couch.”
The human sat forward, eyes glowing. “You,” he said, “are going to be so much fun.”
“To break? Try me.” Already broken.
9. Battlefield Walk
(A/N: Going back to what I know here: in the Middle Ages, it was common after a battle for both sides to visit the battlefield, under a sort of ‘truce’ where each could search for friends, comrades, family members. The Middle Ages were a warrior culture, as both Cybertronian factions seem to have evolved into, so I thought it might not be a stretch that they would have evolved a similar ritual.)
Tunguska
It had been a dumb idea, Blackout thought, to do a straight atmospheric drop. Right into the chaotic up drafts and magnetic upheavals left over from the cycles-past nuclear blast. It had fallen off target, he noticed, when he could finally get his navigation grids to give him a read through the interference. Skywarp and Starscream had headed off to intercept, and maybe this was the result. They’d certainly bought time. Blackout struggled to find some gratitude, but just like it was hard to see with the radiation buzzing his optics, it was hard to feel any gratitude to Starscream. Who had left Barricade to die. Ordered Blackout to leave.
He supposed if Dead End were with him, the stupid red runt would feed him some line about at least he’d saved the drones. Yeah. He had. It was something. But it didn’t add up to Barricade. Sure, in every tactical assessment, they had specific algorithms to calculate how many drones were worth the life of one sentient mech. Blackout hadn’t pulled the variables for this mission, and didn’t care.
It doesn’t make any difference, really. And in a way, he was inured to this…process. He’d walked hundreds of battlefields, in the tense awkward posture of a mourner looking for a fallen comrade, carefully avoiding the eyes of the enemy engaged in the same thing. For fear of…apology. Connection: I share your loss.
We share nothing, he thought, angrily. Before the war, those who would become Autobots had willingly thrown their military into harm’s way, again and again, without any real sense of what it cost. Oh, they complained about the cost. ALWAYS the cost. Energon: costs too much. Find a way to make do with less. CR? The rehabilitation would take too long. Not cost-effective. We can train another drone to be a warrior, two drones, for less than it costs to rehabilitate a fallen soldier. He hoped they choked on the costs now.
As if the only cost were financial. Even now, Sideways was held tenuously to life in a CR pod, not discarded, not thrown away. For whatever bad (and there was plenty) that might be said about Megatron, he knew, he respected that much: Sideways would not die for lack of regen. And now, that they had the energon, his repairs could commence in earnest.
Calm down, he told himself, fighting emotion and tension. It had taken solars to clear a mission window to do this—they’d all been put to work helping to process the rough chunks of ore into useable energon. It had been exhausting, but no one complained. They all knew what they were doing was saving lives. And, he told himself, Barricade is not any more dead for your delay. He will be here. You will find him. And mourn him. At least you will find him. Unlike…Scorponok. Gone, disappeared. Dead? Held captive and tortured by the humans the way that they had tortured Megatron? Blackout swallowed bitter disappointment at himself. He would do better by Barricade.
Even here, as he landed, transforming to land solidly on his splayed feet, even far from ground zero of the blast, the land still bore the effects of the blast—everything shatter-sensitive. Grass burst into powder as he brushed it with a toe plate; a tree snapped sharply, brittle, as he pushed by it; even the mud had been dried to a compacted powder. He turned, slowly, trying to get his bearings. His nav system was too affected by the radiation to pinpoint the former LZ, and trees had been strewn like dropped rods, their branches and leaves entirely blasted away.
There. That looked like the LZ. It looked different, more exposed, now that the trees surrounding it had been destroyed, but a thin layer of whitish ash caught like snow in the dried mud where there had once been an upchurning scuffle. Everything smelled like bitter ozone.
Blackout climbed the small rise, brittle-baked trees splintering under his feet into puffs of powdery dried mud. Here. Here he was. Over there…that was where Barricade had shot round after round of suppressive sniping at Sideswipe, splatting the Autobot into the then-gooey muck. And? Where was the stand of trees where Barricade had thrown himself to warn the cyclebot? Blackout rotated, his memory cortex replaying the battle, Barricade’s route, in front of him…here. Or maybe here. Blackout couldn’t pinpoint his own location, so the best he could manage was a loose vector to his right.
Still, it was a start.
A cycle later, all he had for his effort was a dull ache in his exposed joints, where the radioactive ash had worked into the mechanisms, as he’d dug through piles of downed trees. Finding…nothing. Empty shell casings. One or two hastily-disposed-of missiles. A few of the humans’ weapons—tiny fragile things that snapped like spun sugar as he touched them, their barrels warped and melted, as mute testimony to what he’d find if he found Barricade’s body.
IF. It had become an if. It sickened him.
It struck him—what if the Autobots had taken him? They obviously got out of here—he was pretty sure in his digging he’d’ve found even the hint of a slagged Autobot. Had they? A brief flare of hope. Sputtered. What they would do with Barricade if they had him…didn’t bear thinking about. Blackout remembered watching Ironhide casually abuse Barricade, twisting the small sensitive fairings behind his neck with obvious pleasure. Yes. War was an ugly business. And Barricade was going to discover it the hard way. In a way, no fault on Ironhide—a ‘con would have done the same, most likely. He’d done the same, if he were to be brutally honest. Didn’t mean he wanted anyone he considered a friend to be on the receiving end of it. Didn’t want to imagine. Didn’t want to think of it. Problem was: he could imagine it all too well. As well as imagine the enjoyment the inflicter would get. He knew that, too.
Or…the humans could have taken him. Where were the humans? He realized suddenly what had disturbed him this whole time, nagging at his cortex about this battlefield. There was no trace of the fallen. Discarded weapons, empty shell casings, yes. But no bodies. Not even human. It was like a giant hand had come and erased all sentient presence; blasted nature the only thing left. No bodies. It gnawed at Blackout. He pushed it aside—that wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Barricade.
His shoulder gyros slumped in defeat. First Scorponok, and now Barricade. He had let them both down.
