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Boiling oil poured from the faucet, sloshing and spilling into the bath. He regarded it, despite his resolve, with some trepidation. Machiavellian though he may be, the means used to achieve one’s justified end were no less painful, dangerous or potentially fatal.
In time, the bath filled to the required level. He wrenched off the faucet with a slight grunt of exertion. The same pressurised system designed to stop accidental flow made it horrendously difficult to end a controlled release. Still, his strength was considerable and he would not be denied. Not ever. Not for anything.
Grimacing, he raised one leg over the lip of the bath and lowered it in. Every sensor howled as the impossibly hot, viscous liquid scalded his steel skin, peeling the purple and tan colouring off his armour. It was too hot – too painfully, maddeningly hot. He had to pull his leg out, now, or risk permanently injuring himself.
He stood straighter and thrust his other leg into the searing fluid. Then, before he lost his nerve, he plunged his whole chassis into the oil, laying back in the bath. Static corrupted his vision and alarms sounded within his processor. His internal temperature rose, soaring past the recommended safety limit. Read-outs on his visor warned of imminent stasis lock, of permanent processor crash and then… fell silent.
Sky Shadow opened his optics and looked around. Almost all of his bulky, tan-and-purple form sizzled beneath a sheen of boiling oil. Only his wings remained uncoated, acting – just as he’d hypothesised – like giant heat diffusers. His body temperature was running out along his wings and dissipating in the cool of the chamber. It had taken almost a vorn to rig up the special area, with its miniature smelting pool and refrigerated walls, floor and ceiling, but it had been worth it.
He spared one more quick glance around the place – ensuring the door was bolted, the walls were blue with frigid cool, the ventilation system in the ceiling working – then settled into his personal inferno. Exposed wiring sizzled and melted away, but he didn’t care. Indeed, the loss of a couple of systems would likely help him achieve his goal at long last. What was personal pain, after all, when measured against success? Nothing.
Overcast…
No – not yet. Sky Shadow pushed the thought to one side. It was too soon for that. Certain measures had to be implemented first. Shakily, he drew one hand from the bath – trying not to look at the black paint running from his fingers like liquid coal – and reached out. Taking a specially-treated cup from a nearby ledge, he dropped it and his hand into the oil. The cup filled quickly, its polymer resin protecting it from the insanely high temperature. He raised the cup, studying the reflection in it – a purple helm, crested with gold, split with visor and blood-red mouth plate – then poured the oil over his head.
His protesting optics died instantly, filling his processor with white light before going offline. The brilliance faded to black within astroseconds, leaving him alone with just the sounds. The noise of his fuel pump thundering… his internal fluids bubbling… his servos grinding… his Spark pulsing, somewhere within his chassis.
Overcast…
How well Sky Shadow remembered that day. No, not Sky Shadow… Jetfire. Yes, Jetfire remembered the day very, very well. All he’d ever wanted, his entire existence, was to unlock the mysteries of science. Others claimed that, the moment his protoform had solidified, Jetfire had asked: “what does that instrument over there do?”
True or not, it was an apt description of his insatiable thirst for knowledge, his desire to just know about the world around him. He’d followed the impulse from one faculty to another, devouring class after class, accessing every data track he was permitted and hacking into the ones he was denied. He would never be stymied, never stop. Not ever. Not for anything.
Until Overcast. The brilliance of his white, blue and red armour had been dazzling. So very different from Jetfire’s dull green and grey hues, so attention-getting. Overcast was aloof, unflappable, always ready with a cutting remark or cynical observation. For half a vorn, Jetfire had lingered at the edges of his social circle, watching him ace tests after little or no preparation, listening to him discuss art and culture with the same vigour he felt for science and mathematics. Overcast had finally noticed him, the fringe-dweller, and asked him to join a “crawl” through the local Energon pubs. By the next cycle, an unbreakable bond had been forged.
A warning claxon wailed in his processor. Sky Shadow moved just enough to turn more of his wing toward the refrigerated wall. The twisting silenced the wailing and exposed another circuit board to the boiling oil. His perceptions altered, mind reeling with garbled sensory input. He didn’t fight the “rush” and instead rode it, letting it overcome him. Taking the journey.
Journeys… they changed everything. With such high grades, Overcast was awarded his choice of exploratory missions. Jetfire’s Spark had wrenched when his friend opted for a solo mission to the outer rim, an area where scholars believed mechanical life flourished. Jetfire had pleaded with everyone, from their tutors to the High Council, to let him go as well. For the first time in his life, he was denied. Turned down, with no chance of appeal. Overcast had comforted him, the cycle before he departed, assuring Jetfire they’d see each other again soon. But vorns passed without word. “Soon” went from something hopeful to a relative term, to the bitterest of ashen tastes.
Sky Shadow wallowed deeper into the oil. The burning liquid flowed into his aural cavities, hissing and spitting as it echoed through him. He was deaf, robbed of all sonic stimuli except for the thudding of his own fuel pump.
The last time that device had worked so hard, so desperately, was the day Overcast had returned. Jetfire had embraced him, not caring about the awkwardness of it – the public spectacle he made of them both – and welcomed him home. But Overcast had changed… something out there, in space, had robbed him of his passion. Oh, it was still there for the casual observer, but Jetfire knew the truth. His friend had been wounded in the Spark, horrified by events of which he would not speak.
Cycles after his return, Overcast took Jetfire aside. “I’ve made the most important decision of my life, and I want to share it with you,” he’d said, making the scientist’s neural net fire with anticipation. Jetfire had leaned forward, determined to savour every word of his long-awaited reward, in time to hear: “I’m joining the defence forces.”
Things were never the same again. Nor did they ever become what Jetfire wanted them to be. Meetings between the friends were infrequent, sporadic, from that moment on. Conversations were fragmented, wasted exercises. “Don’t ask,” Overcast would reply if quizzed on his movements. “Can’t say,” was another favourite. Jetfire would talk for hours about his new theories, his latest discoveries, and Overcast would regard him with no affection. His steely face plate was, on occasion, mildly contemptuous… as if Jetfire were some kind of innocent, naïve fool!
Furious, Jetfire had avoided Overcast on his next “visit”. He’d ignored his messages, refused to answer his door. He was no one’s fool, and would not be treated as such! He had his pride… and it would cost him any chance of seeing his friend again.
For megavorns, the official records had listed Overcast as a casualty of an off-world conflict. In the wake of recent events, Autobot High Command had finally admitted the truth… that Overcast and his unit, the “Wreckers”, had been slaughtered in a misguided, pre-emptive strike against the Decepticons. Murdered by his own kind, as surely as if Optimus Prime himself had fired the fatal shot.
The circumstances, ultimately, were irrelevant. Overcast had died and, with him, Jetfire had perished. All that was left was a vague echo of them both… a dark cloud of neutrality, high above every battlefield… a broad-winged shape too aloof to become involved with either faction… a Sky Shadow.
Gossamer wreaths of smoke and gold swirled through Sky Shadow’s mind. Oily droplets of sins remembered and virtues forgotten flowed through his aurals and into his skull. His jaw bolts snapped and popped with words unspoken. The world around him decayed as his physical form atrophied. So badly punished was his body that he disconnected from it, moved out of it, to a higher plane. The welcoming static of the land of the ghosts tickled his consciousness as it ascended. Oh, how beautiful was its siren song… clearer than he’d ever heard it before, crisper!
Fools believed it to be mere rubbish noise, the pulses of quasars and other celestial objects. Idiots! He alone knew the truth, and would prove it. Somewhere within this ether, this other-realm, was Overcast. He would pluck his dear friend from purgatory and deliver him unto paradise, to rapture, to freedom and reunion and togetherness and…
… and it all slipped away.
“No!” he screamed. “No!” His ruined, corrupted voice grated harshly, bouncing off the ice-cold walls of the chamber. The oil drained from beneath him, a vacuous plug hole gulping down both it and large, molten sections of Sky Shadow’s own body. As his form was swallowed, so too was his higher perception sucked away. The ghostly chorus faded away, its music cruelly curtailed, and Sky Shadow was certain he could see Overcast’s face pulling away rapidly, blurring into jet lines of smog and smoke.
He wailed, the sound unintelligible, his mind incapable of coherent thought, and lapsed into stasis lock.
-----
Shortround winced. Most of the time, he was convinced Sky Shadow wouldn’t survive these escapades. His boss was one intelligent mech, all right, but that didn’t always translate into what you might call “street smarts”. He could be more mad professor than scientist when he really got going. And his voice, right after the latest brush with the Allspark, was like something out of Earth’s horror movies.
“Eight cycles,” the small robot gulped. “I know you’re going to be mad, Sky Shadow, but I was only doing what you asked me to. Waiting until your systems red-lined, then hitting the emergency kill switch.”
No answer. The little mech shivered, wrapping his rubberised arms tighter around himself. Sky Shadow was trussed up inside a CR chamber of his own design, separated from Shortround by several feet of plexiglass and plasteel. That was no comfort… and no protection if the giant wanted to take issue with his assistant’s performance.
“Let… me out,” Sky Shadow growled.
No way, you big freak, Shortround thought. “That’s not advisable at this time, sir,” he said meekly. “You not only sustained intense damage from the… um… experiment, but you received subsequent injuries during the transfer to the CR chamber.” Because you’re twice my height, three times my weight and too frelling cheap to hire any more help, weirdo.
He wandered away to check another data screen. It was an act, of course. All Shortround wanted to do was keep his optics off of the CR chamber. Sky Shadow’s design used transparent walls rather than opaque, meaning you could actually watch the sickening regeneration of Transformer parts, if you so wished.
Yeah, right. Total heef and lorf, if you ask me. Repairs weren’t really Shortround’s thing… he liked the kind of chemistry that made things go boom, not that put them back together. Still, working for the brilliant neutralist had kept him out of the way of both the bigger Transformers and the war, so he never complained too much.
“Shortround.”
He turned to look, his optics settling on the gemstone set into his employer’s crest. A tiny light glowed within it, capturing all of the smaller robot’s attention. It was so beautiful, set into the golden metal and all, with the slash of ruby red beneath it. He felt his knee servos relax, then weaken… and snapped out of it. “C’mon, boss, you know that hypnosis hoodoo doesn’t work on me,” he said.
Sky Shadow muttered something. “I’ll remain… here, then,” he said finally, making it sound like it was his own idea to heal up some more. “Wake me when… it’s all done.”
Shortround waited until his employer closed his optics, then threw the big jet a one-fingered salute. Of course, with hands like his – part of the skirt of his hovercraft mode – one-fingered anything was the default. Stupid frelling Terran alt mode.
If Sky Shadow hadn’t been convinced, a megacycle ago, that Cybertron was going to be swallowed by the black hole, Shortround would still look like a normal Iaconian mech. But no, he had to look like “something that will blend in with the humans” in case “we need to evacuate to more hospitable climes”. Puh-lease!
Eight point one million years of trying to contact the Spark of a dead friend. You’d think a mech would give up. It’s a waste, Shortround thought, not for the first time, of a damn good processor. Sky Shadow’s the sort of ‘bot who could have done great things. He doesn’t just have a head for science, he’s nifty on strategy and military stuff, too – even though he wouldn’t pick a side in the war. He’s kept this lab defended from Autobot and Decepticon alike, but imagine what he could’ve done if he’d sided with either one of them! Ol’ Optimus probably would have made him second-in-command, with what he knows.
-----
“Really, really low,” came the reply. “If you want to repeat the experiment, we’re going to have to go into Iacon.”
Sky Shadow frowned, but resigned himself to the necessity. He’d come so achingly, frustratingly close last time – he could still see that image of Overcast – and the process had to be repeated as soon as possible. This time there would be no hesitation; he would dive into the oil to ensure he ascended before his systems passed beyond the point of no return. More than eight million years of trail and error had led him to this point. He would be denied no longer.
“I’ll come with you,” he said, noting the surprise on Shortround’s face plate. They never left the lab at the same time – usually, he insisted on it being manned constantly. But after his experience in the chamber… which had unnerved him more than he cared to admit… Sky Shadow wanted to get out for a while. Wanted to fly, to be up in the air and, just maybe, closer to wherever Overcast was now.
He transformed, his wings trimming and his body elongating. Sky Shadow knew his assistant hated their Earth modes but the neutralist liked the military jet he had become. Capable of high altitude flight, self-sustainable, heavily armed and armoured… it fit him to a tee. And, whether Shortround wanted to admit it or not, a hovercraft – full of hot air, skimming surfaces without ever delving deeper – was just as perfect a choice.
They rocketed from the secluded base, leaving the Manganese Mountains behind. Iacon was but a short distance away, given their relative speeds, and the supplies would be easy to come by. In the old days, Sky Shadow would have to barter with the Decepticons, offering them some sort of weaponry in exchange for Energon and other necessities. None of the weapons had ever worked, of course, but the fools had eagerly accepted them anyway. Dug in as they were, on the outskirts of Iacon, they could ill afford to refuse any form of help – even from the “mad mech of the mountains”.
If a warehouse guard had been particularly difficult… or if there were no “weapons” to exchange… Sky Shadow’s hypnosis had ensured a smooth transaction. Decepticons, as a whole, were weak-minded and easily ensnared. It was likely Runamuck still had no memory of “loaning” a half-tonne of Energon to the scientist a few megacycles back.
The Autobots, by their very nature, were more altruistic. They welcomed non-allied mechs into the capital city with open arms, giving them free run. Red badge or no badge was fine but purple badges were banned… unless you were some sort of pompous “ex-Decepticon” gifted in manipulation and sword play.
Most of the buildings in Iacon were gleaming towers, stretching high into the sub-orbital regions. They were gold and pleasing to the optical sensor, harkening back to a time when Cybertron was at peace and knowledge was the only real vice. One wasn’t. It was the oldest building in the city and it squatted – not stood – on the very edge of the business district. It was neither golden nor a tower. It was a short, dumpy grouping of pillars, each with a rounded top that vented fire and smoke. The Underbase.
Without a word, Sky Shadow deviated from their usual path, forcing Shortround to take a sudden jarring turn. An idea had started to form.
During the battle for Iacon, the Autobots had re-activated the Underbase. The data warehouse was, according to rumour, more expansive than ever due to unexplained events. If that was the case, then likely there’d be some sort of information about reinforcing one’s superstructure to withstand fatal heat. If Sky Shadow could improve his armour, he could withstand the smelting pool longer and finally reach Overcast. His long search would be ended by rifling through data tracks. Solved by the very means that had always, always served him well. It made perfect sense!
“Is there a supply outpost near the Underbase?” he asked through the communicator.
“Right next to it, actually,” Shortround confirmed, clueing in on his employer’s intentions. “Just as well I brought my library card, eh?”
Below them, a group of mechs were scurrying around forklifts and moving equipment. Sky Shadow transformed and dropped to the ground. Shortround skimmed up next to him, almost slipping over as he resumed robot mode. A tall, powerful-looking Autobot ran across to meet them.
“Hey there!” he said brightly, a dumb grin spreading across his face plate. “The name’s Ironhide – what can I get’cha?”
Sky Shadow, his expression stony, turned his gaze on their new friend. “What I’d like,” he said, the gemstone in his forehead flickering with internal radiance, “Is to go for a walk through the Underbase.”
Ironhide blinked once, gulped, then nodded. “Right this way,” he said. “I’d love to take you though. It never hurts to help, right?”
Shortround laughed. “That’s gotta be some kind of hypnosis record. Took less than an astrosecond. This loser’s got 356K in a one gig box.”
-----
Once again, Shortround was reminded of horror movies… this time, haunted house films. It was a dumb thought – he didn’t believe in ghosts, despite his choice of employer, and knew that Optimus Prime himself had worked in the Underbase, once upon a time. So if there’s no such thing as ghosts, and big ol’ Prime worked here… what’s with all the voices?
A million whispers filled the cavernous halls, muttering and shouting and screaming and proclaiming. Some were vaguely familiar, others were frightening and disturbing… more again alien and unintelligible. It was like a web of sound, tangling Shortround’s limbs in verbal vines. Intellectually, he knew he was hearing sound recordings, playing and looping and rewinding as they were endlessly sifted by the Underbase. That didn’t make it any less unsettling.
He saw Sky Shadow stop dead, his head cocked to one side. A face flashed across a view screen and was gone. Shortround had seen it thousands of times before – Overcast, the object of the boss’ obsession. Uh oh, he spat. He’s only gonna be more focused now.
“Ironhide,” Sky Shadow purred, his voice thick with false friendship. “How did the Underbase evolve to this level?”
Their Autobot thrall pointed stupidly. A sky-blue disc jutted from a nearby console. The gold-trimmed artifact pulsed gently, as if absorbing data into itself and then pushing it back into the system. “That’s the Planet Key, all the way from Earth,” Ironhide said amiably. “It makes the Underbase work. I heard it also amped up that loser Starscream, and even gave little Scattorshot a boost in the power department.”
“Power boost?” Shortround asked. He liked the sound of that. He remembered Scattorshot from a few brief encounters, back before the siege of Iacon. They’d been pretty similar, if he recalled properly, in terms of size and overall firepower. If that little Tyrestian runt got the sort of boost this big, dumb chump would remember, the hovercraft thought, then it’s got to be good.
“How,” Sky Shadow demanded, “did these Transformers become more powerful?”
Ironhide’s head lolled. One of the side effects of the hypnosis was that, eventually, it overloaded the victim’s neuro-sensors and rendered them unconscious. “They… they just… just touched it,” he slurred, them dropped to the floor with a loud clang.
“Sounds great!” Shortround exclaimed, transforming. He zipped across the polished floors, all thoughts of ghosts discarded. The blue disc was less than an inch away, and…
Laser fire tore up the ground around him. Shocked, he glanced out of his rear scanners. Sky Shadow was firing on him! “back off, little mech,” the jet growled, leveling his twin rifles. “Whatever this power is, it won’t be yours. Not ever. Not for anything. It’s mine!”
Shortround pivoted and transformed, bringing up his small snub-nosed blaster. “You really have gone crazy, haven’t you?” he shouted, firing in a purely defensive pattern. “Didn’t you here what the dummy said? The disc thingie juiced up two Transformers! There’s enough here for both of us, you slagging idiot!”
“I can’t take that chance,” his employer sneered. “This has to be it… it must be the solution. It must!” He flexed his massive arms, bringing his engines online Shortround knew what was coming next but wasn’t fast enough to avoid it. Twin waves of pressurised air shot out from Sky Shadow’s turbines, buffeting the smaller robot and hurling him into a data screen. The glass shattered musically as sparking wires gouged and scorched his face plate.
He tried to dig himself out of the tangled mess, surfacing just in time to see Sky Shadow reach out for the disc. Shortround transformed to vehicle mode and spun his fans, catapulting across the gap and slamming into the neutral scientist. Crackling blue energy wreathed around them, tearing into their systems. Sky Shadow clung to the disc, even when Shortround changed back to robot mode and started beating on his back.
Anger fuelling his blows, the little robot wished for some decent artillery. Then he howled as something slammed into his back. His rear scanners caught a brief glimpse of another blue disc, dissolving into his back, before fans split in two. Razor-edged seams let his fans rotate, painfully, and transform into vicious-looking fusion torpedo tubes. “All right!” he yelled.
Shortround planted his feet on Sky Shadow’s back and activated his fans, jetting away. When he had enough range, he loosed two torpedos from each tube. “Consider this my resignation, you frelling weirdo!” he whooped, revelling in the explosion. The orange fireball filled the massive chamber, its shockwave hurtling the little mech out of the Underbase and back onto the street. He collided with the supply stand, knocking it over, as pieces of mech rained down on him.
“Now that’s my kind of science!” he crowed. Giddily, he reached down for one of the Transformer chunks littering the area. “And if I can find your head, Sky Shadow, I’ll tell it to your face. Ah, here it is…”
He lifted the decapitated cranium… and blanched. The lifeless steel-grey eyes of Ironhide stared back at him. “Oh slag,” he whispered. “Wrong guy. Oh man oh no oh sweet Primus…”
The billowing clouds parted, revealing a nightmare. Sky Shadow, his armour shining with dark radiance, thundered onto the street. A blue glow coalesced, then vanished, behind him. A split second later, his entire tail assembly rose up, over his head, and drew bead on Shortround. Each one of his four engines had transformed into gun barrels, while two enormous Energon missiles jutted from a brand-new assembly.
“If you’re quitting,” the jet rasped, “then this can be your severance.”
Shortround whimpered, just once.
----
Sky Shadow flew as fast as he could, revelling in his enhanced speed. He spared but a thought on his former assistant – if the Autobot medics got there fast enough, the destructive little nerd would survive his wounds – preferring to concentrate on the success to come. If he could survive four plasma explosions, then he would surely endure the oil bath with little problem. No need for an assistant anymore, nor a kill switch… he would be embracing Overcast’s Spark long before his new armour even warmed.
Smoke wafted up and encircled his nosecone. The scientist looked down in horror – his lab was a smouldering, ruined wreck! His mountain retreat, all his records, his experiments, the chamber… even from this height, he could tell it was lost.
Forgetting the danger, trusting his enhanced frame, Sky Shadow transformed and plummeted to the ground. He landed in the very midst of the blaze and clawed at the debris, desperate to salvage anything. The analytical part of his mind knew he was much too late. Shortround’s blasted explosives, combined with the oil, would have been enough to level an entire Iacon block.
“Don’t waste time blaming yourself,” said a smooth, oily voice. “This was no accident.”
Sky Shadow pivoted, training his rifles on the sound. He knew the mech standing behind him. Predacon, the Decepticon scientist and religious zealot. The technorganic dinosaur’s expression was of utter anguish.
“I have nothing but sympathy for you, my fellow intellectual,” Predacon said consolingly. “Believe me, I know what it is to have your life’s work wiped out in an instant – it’s part of the reason I’ve left the Decepticons. Such a loss is all the worse when it happens to those of us who are ridiculed by our peers, yes?” His clawed foot scraped through a pile of ash. “But there’s nothing worse than simple, petty revenge getting in the way of scientific achievement.”
“What do you mean?” Sky Shadow demanded.
Predacon tutted. “You didn’t really think the Autobots would let the murder of one of their own go without retribution?” He shook his head. “Oh no. Optimus Prime and his lackeys knew, the moment Ironhide exploded, who was responsible. The missiles were in the air before you even finished emptying those new weapons into your former assistant. For which I congratulate you, by the way,” he spat. “Little nerd.”
Sky Shadow shook his head, confused. “How do you know what’s happened here?”
The dinosaur grinned. In his left hand, he held a glowing green disc, similar to that which operated the Underbase. “The blue Key is but one of four, my dear Sky Shadow,” Predacon breathed. “I have possession of the green Key and, with it, the means to pass undetected beneath the surface of this world. I know all that goes on, and chart a True Path through it.”
“You could be lying,” Sky Shadow yelled. He pointed to the gem in his forehead. “I could force you to tell me the truth!”
Predacon nodded. “You could,” he mused, unconcerned. “Or, you could listen to my offer. Your attempts at contacting the Sparks of the deceased have been… stymied… at every turn because you can’t transcend the limitations of metal.” He pointed to himself. “I have done just that, yes. And so have my followers. The True Path leads to enlightenment, Sky Shadow… a higher plane of existence.” He held out his right hand. “Surely, your science and mine could combine to carry you that final step to… your dearly departed?”
Overcast…
The scientist nodded. It made sense. Through his studies, he’d learned of the trance states and drug-induced peaks reached by organic beings. Might not flesh prove to be the missing link between a Transformer and a higher being? Fool he was for not seeing it before now! It meant giving up his neutral stance… choosing a side, for the first time in nine million years… but wasn’t that a small price to pay? Would he let his own beliefs hinder him, deny him?
Not ever. Not for anything.
-----
He took in the view. Truly, the Manganese Mountains were a spectacular place. No Animatros, of course, but delightful. He looked very much forward to improving on such a near-perfect view, and soon. Yes… soon.
A dark shape slither from the ruins of his lab. A large, technorganic lizard – its flesh mottled with green and brown – slunk over to Predacon. “Excellent work, Reptilion,” the Terrorcon leader said. “The place really does look like a bomb hit it.”
Reptilion grinned, flashing rows of serrated teeth. “But of course it does,” he hissed. “Is there anything in this universe more deceptive than an iguana with a degree in propulsion systems?”
“There is,” Predacon chuckled. He opened his arms to the view, imagining he could wrap his hands around everything within sight. “Me.”