Interrogations - 11 of 52

Interrogations
A Transformers: Armada Story
By William Rendfeld



   “Now then, Wheeljack, allow me to see if I understand this,” Megatron noted, pacing about the command center of the Nemesis. “You found your target. You proceeded to heavily damage him. You separated him from his Mini-Con. You were within perfect position to deliver the killing blow.” He turned to the younger Transformer and said, “Why did you not deliver the killing blow?”

   “Another Autobot showed up out of the blue,” Wheeljack explained. “I managed to damage him, but...”

   “But you didn’t finish him, either,” Megatron interrupted his subordinate.

   “There was incoming fire,” Wheeljack explained. “How was I supposed to...?”

   “You could have eliminated them right then and there,” Megatron noted. “You could have at least taken his Mini-Con!”

   “They’re as good as deactivated,” Wheeljack pleaded.

   “‘As good as deactivated’ and ‘deactivated’ are two entirely different things!” Megatron bellowed. “In the future, Wheeljack, confirm your kill before you move onto the next! Am I clear?”
  
   Wheeljack paused for a moment, and then finally said, “Yes sir.”

   “Good,” Megatron noted. “You’re dismissed.”

   Megatron’s icy gaze followed him out of the chamber.


   “I hardly see how this affects us,” the imposing visage of Scourge noted via the communications line.

   Jetfire silently collected his thoughts. Autobot High Command still been unable to raise communications with the colony on Nebulos, and they’d received the equivalent of a busy signal from Velocitron. Thus far, all they’d gotten was the reply from Animatros.

   “According to everything we’ve seen so far, there are indications that something else is going on out there,” Jetfire said, trying his best to relay his point without sounding crazy. “I’m not asking for troops or support or anything like that. Just like the colonial charter said, you have full autonomy on your world. I’m just giving you the warning.”

   “That we may be dealing with an ancient fear?” Scourge countered. “Jetfire, there has been no direct evidence, beyond speculation and baseless concern, that the Chaos Bringer truly exists. And until you can provide proper evidence, then I see no reason to panic the local population needlessly.”

   “I never said you should, Scourge,” Jetfire replied. “Just keep your eyes open. Please?”

   Scourge grimaced, then said, “Very well. We shall keep watch in our system. But be aware that I am hardly fond of baseless speculation.”

   The transmission cut off, and Jetfire wired in, “Scattorshot, any word from Velocitron or Nebulos?”

   “Velocitron’s sent back word that they’ll get in touch soon,” Scattorshot replied. “Mechanical problems, they’re saying. Still nothing from Nebulos.”

   Jetfire narrowed his optics in thought, then said, “Send a ship as soon as we can spare one. Something about this doesn’t add up. Also, get me the files for Checkpoint’s unit; I’ve got a few things I want to discuss with them.”

   “Understood sir,” Scattorshot replied as the line cut off.

   Jetfire slumped in his chair. “Hope things are going better at your end, Optimus.”


   Red Alert groaned as Scavenger entered the medical bay. “Things don’t look good, I take it.”

   Red Alert turned to face his comrade, and with a downcast look replied, “No. They’re both in poor shape.”

   Laid out upon two medical platforms were the prone forms of Hot Shot and Smokescreen. Hot Shot’s bright yellow chassis was darkened and scarred, numerous areas attesting to the damage he’d received. Smokescreen had far less of that particular form of damage, but with the injuries he’d experienced in previous battles, he still looked terrible.

   “I’ve managed to stabilize them,” Red Alert explained. “But the damage to their bodies may be too much for anyone to repair.”

   “Sustained blows with modified stun batons,” Longarm explained, walking up to the duo on a console. “Most of Hot Shot’s internals are charred beyond recognition. And between the shock he had and the extensive damage he had from the last couple battles, I’m surprised Smokescreen hasn’t rejoined the Allspark yet.”

   “Their sparks are still holding in there,” Red Alert replied. “If I weren’t a doctor, I’d call it a miracle.”

   Rollbar jumped up upon the panel and examined the findings. “You may want to anyway. A little luck and you might be able to get them out of danger.”

   Red Alert looked to his two patients glumly, then said, “I wish I had your confidence.”


   Sideways silently entered his new guest quarters aboard the Ark. The room wasn’t much; a recharge unit, a computer kiosk, very little beyond that. Still, it would work. For now.

   He walked up to the kiosk and asked, “Computer, access General Archives. Load historical files; begin at earliest possible date.”

   “Request processing,” the computer noted as data began to fill the screen.


   Elsewhere, Wheeljack looked up into the lunar sky, his gaze fixed upon the Earth. Hot Shot was there, as were several other Autobots. His former comrades...

   “Energon cube for your thoughts?”

   Startled, Wheeljack turned to see his visitor. “Starscream?”

   “You seemed lost in thought, Wheeljack,” Starscream noted as he walked toward the younger warrior. “Something’s troubling you.”

   Wheeljack took a minute to collect his thoughts, then turned his gaze back to the Earth and said, “Have you ever wondered why you do what you do? Why you fight for what you fight for?”

   “Not really,” Starscream noted. “I’ve always known what I fight for, Wheeljack.”

   “I’m beginning to wonder,” Wheeljack admitted. “Back on Cybertron, I was trapped in some wreckage. A training mission. I still remember the flames, Starscream; I remember my fear. I honestly thought I was done for, that I’d been left by my brother. Then someone came for me that I never expected. Megatron saved me. I owe him my life, and my loyalty.” Wheeljack turned to the elder warrior and said, “You remember it, Starscream. You were there.”

   “Yes,” Starscream noted. “Wheeljack, allow me to tell you a pair of very simple truths. This is the first; loyalty is a commendable trait. When one is loyal to you, a bond is formed that is stronger than the toughest alloy. However, you still must choose whom you are loyal to. That is your choice and yours alone.”

   Starscream turned and walked away, prompting Wheeljack to turn around and ask him, “What about you? Who are you loyal to?”

   The elder Transformer paused, then turned to the younger one and said, “Cybertron,” before walking away.


   “Man,” Carlos gasped as he looked upon the unconscious forms of Hot Shot and Smokescreen. “They look terrible.”

   “That’s no surprise, considering the beatings they’ve been through,” Alexis noted.

   “Hey, don’t worry about it, guys,” Rad assured them. “They’ll be okay, right? I mean, they can be fixed.”

   “I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” a voice intoned from behind them.

   The three kids turned to find the towering form of Vector Prime behind them, Safeguard connected to his left arm.

   “I apologize if I have startled you, children,” Vector Prime said.

   “No, don’t,” Alexis asked. “And I think I understand what you mean.” Her two friends looked at her, and she said, “Well, we know by now that the Transformers are more than just robots, right? They’re as alive as we are. And if they’re anything like us, then they probably...”
   
   “Die?” Carlos asked, a gulp in his voice.

   “Yes,” Safeguard noted as he disconnected from Vector Prime and flew over to the kids. He transformed, landed, and continued, “And no.” Noting their perplexion, Safeguard asked, “You know that each Transformer carries a spark, correct?”

   “Yeah, it’s what makes you different from other robots,” Rad recalled. “Sparks are like your souls, right?”

   “Correct,” Vector Prime noted. “And each spark for each Transformer, be they Autobot, Decepticon, or Mini-Con, comes from the Allspark, the life essence of Primus, our creator.”

   “Each individual spark is a tiny fragment of his own,” Safeguard explained further. “When a Transformer is deactivated, his or her spark returns to Primus, enriching him and all Cybertronians in turn, before being given a new body. With some exceptions, nearly every Autobot and Decepticon you have seen so far has sparks which have been through such a process.”

   “So you guys kinda have reincarnation?” Carlos asked. “That means you can’t really die, right?”

   “A spark cannot be extinguished, no,” Vector Prime explained. “But once it leaves a body and rejoins the Allspark, the memories which it carried within that lifetime fade, like writing upon the sand of a beach after a wave has come.”

   “So...is that going to happen to Hot Shot and Smokescreen?” Alexis asked.

   “I know many things, young lady,” Vector Prime noted. “But I do not know for certain either way how any Transformer will ultimately fall. The fact that they have remained in their bodies, that their sparks are still with us, is a positive sign that this is not their time. They are heavily injured, yes, but they are still alive. And so long as there is life, there is hope.”

   The three kids turned back to the two unconscious Cybertronians as Rad said, “Yeah. Hope.”


   Elsewhere, else when, Hot Shot looked around. He stood in an area of near-infinite blackness; there was just enough light for him to see his own armor. Aside from him, however, no one was to be seen. He was completely alone.
   
   “Hello?” Hot Shot called out. “Anyone?” He looked around and asked, “Where am I?”

   “You are between two planes,” a voice replied. “Your body is on the verge of dying, yet your spark longs for life. Thus, you are in a state of flux. Thus, you are here.”

   Hot Shot turned to the source of the mysterious voice. Before him stood a tall Transformer, with red and yellow armor. An indent in his chest was most prominent, resembling the Matrix, and no faction symbols could be seen.

   “That’s not exactly a promising answer,” Hot Shot replied.

   “It is the only one which I can give,” the Transformer replied. “If you want more information, then I suggest that you ask different questions.”

   Hot Shot looked around, and said, “What do I have to lose?” He turned to the newcomer and asked, “Okay then. Who are you?”

   “I would have thought you’d already know the answer to that question,” the Transformer replied. “After all, Brother Vector was always quite talkative.”

   “Brother...?” Hot Shot asked. “You’re one of them. One of the First Ones.”

   “The First Thirteen, yes,” the Transformer replied. “By the current naming style, I would be Sentinel Prime. The first to walk Cybertron’s surface, the first born of Primus...and the first to fall.” He looked directly into Hot Shot’s optics and said, “Perhaps this is why I am here, speaking to you. We were both attacked by our brothers.”

   “What are you talking about?” Hot Shot asked. “According to the old legends, most of the First Ones fell at the Initial Reckoning.”

   “Yes, most of us did,” Sentinel Prime replied. “Only six of us survived. But what do you know beyond that?”

   “Not much,” Hot Shot replied. “History was never a strong subject for me.”

   “Then prepare for illumination,” Sentinel Prime said.

   All around them, the surroundings began to change. Darkness turned into light, cast by fire. The surface of Cybertron became clear to Hot Shot as the darkness faded.

   “In the beginning, there was the One,” Sentinel Prime recounted. “From the One came two heralds, born to explore. But where one saw light, another saw darkness. The darkness sought order by causing chaos, consuming chaos. The light sought to encourage the chaos, in the hopes that it would find its own order. Primus was that light; from him we came. And the darkness...” Sentinel Prime looked into the sky and said, “The darkness needs no introduction.”

   Hot Shot looked upwards, a terrible visage filling his vision. It looked like a planet, easily as large as one of Cybertron’s moons. But directly connected to it was a massive ring, running along its equator. From its front emerged two massive forms, like the mandibles of an insect. Positioned directly between them, the actual mouth of the planetary beast, was something that made Hot Shot think of a black hole.

   “Unicron,” Hot Shot realized.

   “Primus gave us forms, gave us life, so that we would be better able to face the coming chaos,” Sentinel Prime narrated. “Thirteen were created. Six were granted powers over elements; we never quite understood why. Seven were given artifacts, told to keep them safe. When the time is right, the seven, used in tandem, would allow for the defeat of Unicron, and insurance of the balance. But something went wrong; just as Primus was forced to face Unicron, so were we faced to force one of our own.”

   Hot Shot looked to one side; before him, five Cybertronians stood, one kneeling down and cradling a sixth in his arms. Six more lay strewn about, their bodies gray and crumbling. The one who knelt, cradling his fallen comrade, was Vector Prime. The fallen one was Sentinel Prime himself.

   “My body was shattered, my spark fading,” Sentinel Prime explained. “With what little was left of my strength, I unleashed the power of the artifact I was entrusted with.”

   A surge of energy built up within the projection of Sentinel Prime, focusing on the astral form’s chest. Something detached from his chest plate and floated upwards, barely leaving contact with his body. Suddenly, a blinding flash of light burst forth from the artifact, surging upwards towards the form of Unicron and directly impacting it. A massive growl rang out through the night, chilling Hot Shot to the spark. Unicron, meanwhile, faded and dissipated, as if into nothingness.

   “My sacrifice was not in vain,” Sentinel Prime continued. “Unicron retreated, taking the traitor with him. Of thirteen, five were left; Vector, Accellas, Methius, Draco, and Gaeus, all keepers of an artifact.”

   “Why didn’t it end then?” Hot Shot asked.

   “I was the first to be struck, Hot Shot,” Sentinel Prime replied. “And we hardly expected to be attacked by one of our own. We had not the time to arrange the artifacts so that they may be unleashed against the Chaos Bringer. One alone is enough to stun him, hurt him, discourage him. All seven are needed to halt his coming.”

   “So, what happened?” Hot Shot asked. “And why are you telling me?”

   “Primus stretched forth his power to a nearby planetoid, a dead moon, and split it in four,” Sentinel Prime described as the images faded. “The four ships were given to the four to still retain their original artifacts alone, and sent forth to hide them. Three went in one direction, one in another. Vector Prime remained, the last of the Thirteen to live, entrusted with the last three artifacts; his, mine, and that of Iunct.”

   “The artifacts,” Hot Shot realized, looking at his companion’s chest. “You carried the Matrix. And Vector Prime still has his sword.”

   “Yes,” Sentinel Prime replied. “They are two; the Matrix of Leadership, and the ChronoSaber. The remaining five, however, are tied together closely. What became of them, I cannot tell you.”

   “Why not?” Hot Shot asked. “You sound like you know everything else.”

   “You do not turn to the dead for wisdom, Hot Shot,” Sentinel Prime replied. “I only know that which I know based on what I saw, and what others saw. The images we just witnessed were from Aeolus, who passed on just as Unicron was turned away. What I know of what happened to four of the artifacts I learned only because I remained alive long enough to hear them. You know of two of them, yet know little concerning the third. That suggests it is moved elsewhere.”

   “But why don’t you know?” Hot Shot asked. “I thought dying meant that you found out all the answers in the end.”

   “It does, for the Second Generation,” Sentinel Prime replied. “For the First Generation, however, we cannot pass on until we do so as one. All thirteen of us must leave our mortal forms before we can truly return from whence we come. Until then, we are left between planes, between the physical and the spiritual. Just as you are for now.” The sagely Transformer straightened up and said, “I can allow you one more question, and one more answer. Then, I must leave.”

   “If all that is true,” Hot Shot asked, “does that mean that I’ll...”

   Sentinel smiled. “No. Your case is different from mine. We didn’t believe it; you did. We didn’t accept; you did. Our betrayer didn’t hesitate in the end; yours did. Wheeljack is not Iskaros, Hot Shot. That is our difference.”

   Sentinel’s form seemed to shimmer and shift as he finished that sentence. Suddenly, where Sentinel Prime once stood, seven sparks took form, swirling around one another seemingly at random.

   “Remember our words, Hot Shot,” seven voices spoke out. “Remember that which we have told you.”

   The seven sparks stopped their swirling, then shot off in seven different directions, leaving Hot Shot alone once again.


   Onboard the Nemesis, Demolishor silently walked the ship’s charcoal gray halls, silent and cautious. He finally arrived at his destination, and gently rapped upon a door.

   “Enter,” Starscream intoned from within.

   The door slid open, and Demolishor quickly entered the darkened room, black as a moonless night. The door slid shut behind him as Starscream asked, “I trust you weren’t followed.”

   “Not that I could tell,” Demolishor replied.

   “Good,” Starscream noted. A light beep issued through the room, and the lights gradually turned on.

   Demolishor found himself in Starscream’s assumed quarters; the furnishings were sparse, almost Spartan, but arranged carefully. A large window afforded him a view of the lunar landscape on the far wall. Demolishor also found that he wasn’t alone with Starscream, much to his relief.

   “Of all the ones I figured you’d get to side with you, Screamer,” Skywarp noted as if he were appraising Demolishor, “I never thought he’d be one.”

   “Thrust is concerned with his own interests, and will side with whoever will give him the greatest power,” Starscream replied. “Such an ally is fickle, at best. And Cyclonus is a berserker, plain and simple.” With an appreciative look, however, he noted, “Demolishor, however, is one we can trust.”

   “A fine recommendation if I’ve ever heard one,” Mudflap said appreciatively. “Welcome to our little conspiracy then, Demolishor.”

   “You’re welcome,” Demolishor replied, still taken aback. “So, they’re with you?”

   “And have been for some time,” Starscream replied. “Skywarp and Thundercracker joined me in infiltrating Megatron’s group in order to give me some support. There are most likely others. Mudflap, meanwhile, found us out on his own and chose to join us.”

    “An Autobot taught me how to fight,” Mudflap explained proudly. “He gave me purpose and a sense of direction. And after finding out what Megatron was truly capable of once I joined him, however, I felt obligated to try and stop him. That, my friend, is why I’m here.”

   Demolishor looked at his new comrade with surprise, then asked of Starscream, “What about Wheeljack? Is he with us?”

   “No,” Starscream replied. “Not yet, anyway. He may yet join us, but that remains to be seen.”

   “Speaking of,” Thundercracker chimed in, “we have other things to discuss. Megatron, for one. We need to deal with him eventually.”

   “Yes,” Starscream replied. “Now, however, isn’t the time. I’d rather we had a little more support beside us before we strike against him, as well as fewer independent variables.”

   “The Destruction Team, you mean,” Skywarp noted. “Aside from maybe Buzzsaw, they’re effectively under Dualor’s guidance. So far as they’re concerned, Megatron is a means to an end more than anything else. How Dualor can think that, I have no idea.”

   “He’s overconfident, foolish,” Starscream noted. “He thinks that as long as Megatron has need of him, he’ll continue to function. Unfortunately for him, he underestimates Megatron, and the depths he will go to in order to accomplish his goals. And I doubt we’ll be able to convince him otherwise.”

   “What about someone on his team?” Thundercracker asked. “Buzzsaw isn’t quite as certain of his leader’s goals. We could try and convince him to shift Dualor’s opinion.”

   “An intriguing idea, but I don’t think we should implement it just yet,” Starscream replied. “For now, we wait.”


   Hot Shot was left with a lot to consider. Why had Sentinel Prime come to him? Why show him all that? Obviously it was important, but why tell him? As much as the story of the First Ones was interesting, it didn’t seem to relate to his situation.

   Except, of course, for the part about the traitor. Only it wasn’t Wheeljack who could really be called a betrayer.

   It didn’t matter what the others said, or what he’d intended then. The fact of the matter was that Hot Shot had left him, and hadn’t come back in time. Wheeljack had every right to be angry, every right to feel abandoned and betrayed. They were brothers, and brothers were supposed to look after one another.

   That’s why they were there, together.

   That’s why he went to get help.

   That’s why he defied orders, came back.

   It didn’t matter that he might’ve been too late; brothers look after one another.

   Wheeljack was alive. He’d failed to get him out of the rubble, but he was still alive. Somehow, that meant something.

   Smokescreen had risked his life to save him, despite his own damage. Despite the fact that Hot Shot himself was willing to die.

   Not again.


   “Still nothing, Red?” Optimus Prime asked solemnly as he and Vector Prime entered the medical bay.

   “Actually, I finally have some good...” Red Alert started before the medical readouts on Hot Shot began to shift. The three quickly moved to Hot Shot’s side as the color returned to his optics. “Hot Shot?”

   “Definitely not one of my better days,” Hot Shot noted. “How long have I been out?”

   “A few Earth days,” Optimus Prime replied. “You’ve had us worried.”

   “Sorry about that,” Hot Shot replied weakly. “How’s Smokescreen?”

   “Almost as bad as you, kid,” Smokescreen’s familiar voice replied, strained and weakened. Red Alert stepped to the side to allow Hot Shot to see Smokescreen himself. “Whoever that ‘Con was, he packed a wallop.”

   “That ‘Con was Wheeljack,” Hot Shot began. “He...”

   “We know,” Optimus Prime replied. “Jolt told us. It doesn’t matter; you two are alive.”

   “That, unfortunately, is the bad news,” Red Alert noted. “Both Smokescreen and Hot Shot are maintaining consciousness, yes, but neither can remain in this state. I can’t repair their bodies; the damage is far too severe, even for me. Eventually, they’ll go into terminal stasis lock.”

   “There has to be something that can be done,” Optimus stated, his words sounding more like a declaration than a plea.

   “If there is, I can’t think of it,” Red Alert replied.

   “Sparks,” Hot Shot weakly noted. “They’re supposed to be able to maintain memories from their current incarnation, right?”

   “That’s correct, yes,” Vector Prime noted. “So long as they are contained.”

   “An unproven theory at best, but...” Red Alert began before stopping. “Wait a moment; that could work. If I could rig a device capable of extracting and containing sparks without damaging them in the process, I could implant them into a new form.”

   “Thus saving Hot Shot and Smokescreen,” Optimus realized. “Can it work?”

   “Nothing like it has been done before,” Red Alert replied. “In theory, it’s possible, but no one’s ever dared make an attempt.”

   “Then perhaps it is time to set a precedence,” Vector Prime declared. “Properly charged force fields are enough to contain a spark within a given Transformer for brief periods. If a device were to use such force fields as one would use a scoop to collect materials, it could safely contain a spark for a brief period of time.”

   “I have a few containment modules that we may be able to modify for that purpose,” Red Alert replied. “We’ll have to work quickly to build them new forms, call in a few favors, but we may be able to do it.”

   “Then get started as soon as you can,” Optimus replied. He turned to his two officers and said, “Pull through, ‘bots.”

   “Will do, sir,” Hot Shot replied firmly.

   With those words, Optimus Prime exited the medical chamber. Red Alert turned to the two of them and noted, “I’ll need to put you back into stasis temporarily, to help prevent further damage.”

   “Do what you have to, Red,” Smokescreen asked. “Just make sure you don’t unscrew my head or something.”

   “Easily done,” Red Alert promised as the pair’s optics dimmed.

   As Hot Shot went into stasis, he thought to himself, “I’m back.”


   Elsewhere, a military truck rolled through the Alaskan wastes, trundling to a halt in front of a massive prefabricated complex. A heavily-dressed figure, buffeted by intense wind and snow, slowly walked out of the complex as two similarly dressed figures emerged from the truck. The first motioned for the other two to accompany him; they did so, and the three entered the building.

   “Sudden snowstorms don’t entirely help, Lieutenant,” Colonel Franklin noted as he pushed his hood down and uncovered his face. “Now, what’s so important that you had to get me up here? The President...”

   “He was informed about this as soon as we found it, Colonel,” the officer noted as he let them into the complex towards a massive room. “Those robots of yours? I think we’ve found some of their friends.”

   The three soon found themselves in a massive chamber, numerous chains holding a large device in place. It was silver, and vaguely looked like a thumb tack or small nail with a wide, tall head. A hatch was clearly visible on one side, as was a great deal of alien writing.

   “We haven’t opened it yet,” the lieutenant noted. “As soon as we realized what it was, we contacted General Abernathy. Between the construction of the complex we put up to shield the dig from the storm and the storm itself, we don’t think any proper transmissions this thing may be giving off have gotten through.”

   “Let’s hope you’re right,” Franklin noted. “Send a call out. We’ve got as many as six robots in there with four million years of catching up to do, and we’d better get started.”


                                                                  The End