No Grand Ambition

Handling the fate of your world and its people is like—well, I don’t know to be honest. But no matter how hard you try, you’re bound to get it wrong.

“Here they come now,” Cheetor announced, his hands pressed proudly against his hips.

He watched wave upon wave of Maximals and Predacons race over the techno-green fields towards the small group. Botanica stood patiently and gracefully, blinking at the sun. Next to her, Rattrap revved backwards and forwards excitedly on his wheels. Silverbolt frowned with his arms folded tightly against his chest. Blackarachnia gripped his upper arms, glanced up and then across towards Cheetor, smiling. Nightscream flicked back his hair with one hand and lazily swatted at Waspinator with the other.

Cheetor ignored the burning pain in his left forearm and started walking forwards, ready to greet his newly liberated brethren. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, thinking of Optimus and the secrets that died with him. It was up to Cheetor now; to lead the Maximals and finish Optimus’ work. The job was only half done and the task ahead was not going to be easy.

A silver and black robot at the front of the herd of Maximals suddenly leapt up into the sky and transformed into jet mode. The jet blasted towards Cheetor and unfolded back into robot mode. The Maximal—called Hardwired—landed no further than a metre away from Cheetor.

Hardwired jabbed his index finger into the golden Maximal’s chest: “What the hell have you done to our planet?”

Jonathon awoke to see Sarah smiling down at him. Her mouth was white teeth and there was a spark in her eyes that reminded him that he was alive. For two years now she had been visiting him this way. He never asked too many questions, he was just glad of the company. She reached down to help him to his feet and there was a warmth in her touch that seemed to permeate through his skin and tickle his soul. He was in love with her.

“It’s Thursday,” she said.

“Fantastic!” Jonathon smiled. “Meat day.”

“I won’t keep you; Ralph will be here any minute with your meal.”

Sarah glanced around her shoulders. Ralph—the “Meat Man”—was three doorways away, serving up the weekly meal to the homeless. The homeless were a small group of men and women who had set up camp outside a space shuttle—an Autobot space shuttle. It had been here for nearly one thousand years and currently—in the year 2984—it was under the control of Colonel Katrougalos and his army. “Have you given any more thought to what I said about your father?” Sarah asked.

“A little,” Jonathon hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

The girl squeezed his hand tightly. “This is important, Jon. You don’t realise just how much, but it is your destiny to return the human race to Earth.”

“What?”

“Your father thinks it’s him, but it’s not. It’s you.”

“But, how—?”

“We’ll finish this later,” Sarah whispered, “your meal’s here.”

Jonathon smiled at Ralph, holding out his hands for his plate of food. It smelled delicious. He turned to offer Sarah some, but she was gone. He plunged his dirty fingers into the food. It was some kind of meat stew, hot, chewy and extremely tasty!

“This is great,” Jonathon dribbled.

“Glad you’re enjoying it, lad,” Ralph replied. “But I’ve got some bad news, it’s Hogarth.”

Jonathon’s jaws stopped. The exquisite taste quickly overrode the fleeting guilt. “Shame,” he said, mouth full. “I was quite fond of him.”

“Plenty more in the pen,” Ralph said dismissively, pushing his trolley to his next customer.

Sarah appeared again. “You could be having this every night.”

“If I storm the shuttle and depose my own father? Look at me. How am I supposed to get near the shuttle, let alone get past the guards and get inside?”

“I can help you, Jonathon.”

“Well I don’t believe that,” he said, finishing the last drops of his stew. “And what makes you think I want to be helped. Maybe I’m perfectly happy living like this with no grand ambition.”

Sarah laughed. “Well I don’t believe that. Whether you like it or not, you’re here for a reason, to put things right.”

Before Jonathon could argue any further, Sarah entered him. Her skin glowed and shimmered and her physical form evaporated in front of his stunned eyes, and she moved towards him, reaching into his very soul.

“Hey!” squeaked Rattrap. “Hands off the Boss Cat. You should be grateful for what we’ve done.”

“Flowers?” Hardwired barked, barely able to say the f-word. “I should be grateful for these flowers?”

Botanica grunted.

“We saved you from assimilation,” Cheetor said sternly. “If it wasn’t for us, you’d be part of Megatron right now.”

Hardwired backed down for a moment. “I guess.”

“No problem,” Rattrap said sarcastically.

“So what happens now?” asked Silverbolt.

Cheetor cleared his throat and absently scratched at the inflammation on his arm. “There’s a lot to be done. I need to call some kind of meeting, there’s something I need to share with you all.” He turned to Rattrap. “But there’s something I need to do first, and I’m going to need your help, Rattrap. Silverbolt, I want you and Nightscream to retrieve Obsidian and Stryka from orbit—"

Silverbolt protested. “You want us to go get our old enemy?”

“No arguments. I put them up there, and I’d like them back.” Cheetor turned to Blackarachnia and Botanica. “I want you two to explain the situation to the others and have them assemble in the Forum in twelve hours.”

Blackarachnia nodded, keeping her gaze away from Hardwired.

Hardwired laughed. “Just hold on now. Who died and made you Maximal Leader?”

Cheetor catsnarled.

Blackarachnia said: “Optimus Primal did!” Her voice was like venom.

Hardwired turned to Blackarachnia, regarding her feminine form. Her bright green eyes watched him suspiciously. Her face was light and delicate, complementing her slim and elegant body. It tapered gently towards her chin, past thin lips and small cheeks. Her neck seemed fragile as his gaze dropped from her flowing black hair to her graceful shoulders. Her arms were folded over her breasts and slender fingers tapped gently and a little impatiently on her upper arms.

He glanced back up at her eyes and then down again to her stomach. It was flat and smooth and looked to be as fine-spun as her neck. Blackarachnia moved her hands down to her hips. He fixed his gaze upon them for a second. They were full, rounded and strong, and he could see the muscle fibres within them tense and heave as she moved.

In keeping with her slender and tapering form, her legs gradually narrowed via her knees and ankles until they ended as points with her feet. She side stepped coyly in the grass. Something about him made her nervous.

The Maximal lifted his view back up to her face, pausing just briefly at her flawless breasts. He looked her square in the eye and folded his arms.

“So what’s your purpose, sugar?” Hardwired sneered. “A bit of T&A for the troops?”

“How dare you!” Silverbolt lunged towards Hardwired, teeth clenched.

Cheetor darted in between them. “Stand down!” he commanded, trying his best to emulate the late Optimus Primal. “There are more important issues at hand.”

“We’ll continue this later,” Silverbolt snarled.

“Leave it,” said Blackarachnia.

Nightscream moved towards Silverbolt and escorted him towards the spaceport. Cheetor signalled to Rattrap, but before he could go, Botanica grabbed him. She whispered something in his ear.

“Copy and paste right back at you,” Rattrap laughed, embarrassed.

Cheetor rolled his eyes. “Come on guys, let’s go.”

“Warm, isn’t it?”

Megatron stepped onto the bridge of the Axalon. He glanced around. It was just as he remembered it from the Beast Wars.

“We kept the temperature up for Dinobot, what with him being cold-blooded,” said the figure who was sitting at the navigation console.

“You always were far too accommodating for that traitorous turncoat, Optimus Primal.”

“And you’re surprised?”

“I am continually surprised by you, old friend,” Megatron smiled. “You’ve finally managed to kill me.”

“You think we’re dead?”

Megatron regarded the quiet hum of the Axalon’s systems. “This isn’t real. Where are we?”

“On board my exploration ship.”

“No!” shouted Megatron, losing his temper. “This is just more of the Oracle’s mystical mumbo-jumbo!”

“Maybe,” Optimus smiled. He wasn’t paying that much attention, his focus was elsewhere. Come on Cheetor, he channelled, I need you more than ever, to finish my mission.

Megatron ran towards his nemesis, grabbing him by the throat, the anger rushing into his fingers like pyroclasm. “Why?” he demanded. “Why your quest? Why follow the Oracle’s wishes?”

Optimus calmly held Megatron’s hands and moved them down from his neck. He got up from his seat and walked towards the port window. Outside, tens of thousands of humans walked towards the Axalon, almost zombie-like, entranced. Their faces were expressionless—they’d each dealt with their personal demons—and they walked as if marching. Everything was in time to an invisible beat. It unsettled Megatron.

“I did it for them,” Optimus said.

Blackarachnia had slipped away unnoticed from the crowds, leaving Botanica to explain the reformatting. Since Megatron’s defeat, it was time once again to consider her options and—

“So I’m assuming no one knows your little secret, candy-cane?” Hardwired sprang from the shadows and grabbed Blackarachnia’s arm.

“Ow, you’re hurting me!”

“Good.”

Blackarachnia wrestled free from Hardwired’s grip and crouched down, poised to counterattack.

“Now, now,” Hardwired smiled. “If you attack me now, the Maximals will start to ask questions.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the exact nature of your original mission, when you were put on the Axalon as a protoform.” Hardwired paused. “Before you were rather unfortunately reprogrammed by Tarantulas.”

“How do you know about that?”

Hardwired’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s just say, sugar, that I’m in a position to know a lot of things.”

Obsidian floated above the planet, unconscious in orbitspace. He mind wandered to the past.

Earth-date, 2385. Soundwave marched confidently into Onslaught’s quarters, interrupting the Combaticon leader’s downtime. There was a near-silent whirr as his optical cover lifted. The last thing he wanted to wake up to was Soundwave’s face.

“What do you want?”

“You always know when I want something, Onslaught.”

“It’s like I can read minds, isn’t it?”

Soundwave ignored the comment and cut to the chase. “Lambda-Omicron 258389. You submitted it to the Vault back in 2003.”

Onslaught paused for a nanosecond, accessing his memory. “Should still be there, unless Swindle’s taken it to use as a trade.”

“I have it. I want to know how to use it.”

“For the purpose of?”

The suburbs of Cybertroplis. Cheetor continued to scratch at the inflammation on his arm. Rattrap sped ahead on his wheels.

“Hey, slow down!” Cheetor called to him.

Rattrap halted himself and turned back. “And what happened to the Golden Rocket?”

Cheetor faked a smile and slouched his shoulders.

“Leadership taking its toll on you already?”

“I guess,” Cheetor shrugged. “I just don’t see why everyone has to be so negative all the time.”

“Ah, come on,” Rattrap winked. “Not all of us.”

Cheetor smiled. “Well I’m glad things are working out between you and Botanica.”

“She gets my whiskers twitching, I’ll say that. And—“ Rattrap grabbed Cheetor’s arm suddenly. “What is that?”

The Maximal leader peered down. “I’m not sure, but it’s getting more painful all the time.”

“Hmmm,” said Rattrap, flipping down his visor to take a better look. “I wonder if it’s something to do with the reformatting.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Maybe it’s some kind of, I dunno, allergic reaction.”

“Weird,” said Cheetor. “Still, it’ll be no problem to replace the damaged components, right?”

Rattrap laughed. “You forgotten that we’re tech-nor-ganic now? I had a feeling something like this was going to happen. And I think I have just the thing.”

“What?”

“Come on, we’ll stop off at my workshop, it’s only a quick detour from the Citadel. We’ll get you sorted out no problem.”

Cheetor was surprised at how utterly immaculate Rattrap’s workshop was. It had been untouched for the last five years; since the pair had been commissioned for the Axalon. Cheetor whistled. “Nice.”

It was more of an atrium than a workshop. Stainless steel walls reached up towards a plexi-glass roof. Sunlight poured down through a lattice network, casting squares of light onto the workbenches below. A vast cylinder shape stood in the middle. There was a control panel and a small monitor screen embedded into the side. “That’s the Zodiac Drive,” Rattrap commented.

“Which is?”

“Oh you know, a replacement for Transwarp. Much safer and more accurate. And I’m hoping to get it to allow us to cross dimensions.”

Cheetor had already lost interest and was looking at a hologram of a white robot. “Who’s that?”

Rattrap smiled up at the picture. “That’s an Autobot called Wheeljack. Kind of a hero of mine. He was their greatest engineer and quite the daredevil.”

“Sounds a lot like someone I know,” Cheetor grinned.

“Legend even has it that he designed a prototype of the Axalon,” Rattrap continued to muse.

Underneath the hologram, Cheetor noticed a small pile of what looked like silver powder. It looked out of place. He reached down and rubbed some between his fingers. He noticed that each grain was actually a tiny microchip. “What’s this?” he asked.

“A mixture of Bliss and Stardust,” Rattrap said quickly and dismissively. He knocked the powder out of Cheetor’s hand and swiped at the pile, dusting it away. “It was a long time ago.”

Rattrap dragged Cheetor away and deeper into his lab. He escorted Cheetor to a small cooling unit that hummed quietly in the corner. “This is what we’re interested in.”

“And that—?” Cheetor interrupted himself, aware that all he’d done was ask questions since they’d arrived.

Rattrap tapped his own chest. “Remember at first how much I hated this reformatted body?”

“Who could forget?”

“I started a small project in case we ever needed to reverse the process.”

Cheetor looked down at his wound. “So you want to reverse the reformatting on my arm so it can be replaced?”

“No. I never got that far,” explained the Maximal engineer. “But I knew that if we needed to repair ourselves, the organic parts would somehow have to be reprogrammed. Which is where this comes in…” Rattrap removed a vial of silver liquid from the cooler. “Liquidchip.”

“And what will it do?”

“It’s like an organic computer. I can inject it into your technorganic cells and use it to reprogram your DNA.”

“Sounds kinda tricky.”

“Not really, we just set it to reprogram the DNA of your wound, add a protein wash and presto: your cells rebuild themselves.

“Think of it as an improved Regeneration Chamber.”

“Well stick one on me, doc,” Cheetor laughed.

Rattrap extended his friend’s arm onto the surface of one of the workbenches. “How long have we been friends?” Cheetor asked him.

“About five years.”

“And what did you think of me back then?”

“I thought you were a jumped-up young cat with his tongue firmly bonded to Optimus Primal’s skid-plate.”

Cheetor laughed. “And now?”

“The same,” Rattrap said. “I somehow get the feeling Optimus’s plan isn’t complete, and you’re gonna get us all running around and falling down holes for another two years on yet another crusade that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me, Rattrap,” Cheetor replied, taking offence. “And it will to you too, once we get to the Citadel.”

“Time enough for all that later.” Rattrap activated an electron scanner. He concentrated for a second and then looked up at his patient. “You got any other unusual symptoms?”

Cheetor thought for a moment. “Sometimes I feel like I’m overheating. Why?”

“I’m not too sure. I’d have to get Botanica’s opinion, but it looks like you’ve got some kind of infection.”

Silverbolt activated the shuttle’s autopilot, setting the scanners to hone in on the two Vehicons. He drifted in and out of Nightscream’s monologue: “I was, like, all fsh fsh fsh!”

He had a lot on his mind. For a start there was Blackarachnia, the once dark poison of his heart. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her now…

“And he was all ‘gotta-ack’!”

… There was the issue of being a Vehicon. An issue he hadn’t yet worked up the courage to confront…

“So I was then all fdoom, blam!”

… But maybe what troubled Silverbolt the most was how quickly the others were prepared to accept Cheetor as their leader. He was still too young. Inexperienced…

“But once it was over, I was all, like, fnar fnar fnar!”

… In all honesty, Silverbolt quite fancied himself as Maximal leader.

“Get your xylem round this little lot,” Rattrap told Botanica via radio. “I’m wiring a sample of what looks to me to be the causative agent.”

“Received and ready to analyse,” Botanica replied. “Once we’re done here sorting out the crowds, I’ll take it down to the orchard for further analysis.”

Rattrap nodded, looked at the worried Cheetor and inched away slightly. “Hey, it could be contagious,” he whispered.

“Hold on, Rattrap,” Botanica said. “I’m just performing a cursory scan with my internal sensors. I recognise this.”

“What is it?” Cheetor called out.

“Nothing too serious,” she replied, sounding guilty. “I’ll explain later, but you do need to get it sorted out as soon as possible before it spreads to the rest of your body. Get yourself to—“

“No time for anything like that right now,” Cheetor interrupted. “There’re a few more important things I need to deal with. Just keep talking to the troops out there. We’ll be in touch.”

“Are you going to tell me what this thing is that you need my help with?”

“On the way, Rattrap. Now that this little problem is near enough solved, it’s time we were back on our way to the Citadel.”

“You’re the boss,” Rattrap sighed.

The pair of Maximals made their way out of the workshop. Cheetor thought he heard something above. He looked up. He saw a shadow move.

He glanced back at the picture of Wheeljack and the mess of Stardust underneath. Something caught his eye. He walked quickly over to the workbench and stared in shock at a message written in the silver powder.

It read: “He’s going to kill you all.”

Inside his shuttlecraft Colonel Katrougalos raised his glass. This was his castle, and outside, his kingdom—a small settlement, and his subjects—the small group of humans who were rationed meat every Thursday. The Colonel was tall and broad, his hair short and his eyes glassy. When he spoke it was like his jaw was chewing on a leg, or worse—a baby’s neck. “Soon, soon,” he whispered to himself before taking a sip of the blood-red liquid.

He was a spiritual man, convinced of his own destiny. He always believed he would be the one to return the human race to Earth. He was visited in dreams by his own future. And the past of his race had been recorded on his shuttle’s databanks. The Earth had been Cyberformed by a race of robots called Transformers. One Transformer—Ultra Magnus—took a space shuttle’s worth of humans and transplanted them here in the Nebadon System. Ultra Magnus vowed to return, but he never came. The humans waited nearly a thousand years and he never came. The Colonel had been waiting all his life and was sure that Ultra Magnus—someone—would come soon.

He closed his eyes.

His second-in-command burst into the room without knocking.

Colonel Katrougalos pointed at his lieutenant’s chin. “What’s this?” he said angrily.

“What’s what?” Lieutenant Klein replied.

“This!”

Katrougalos pushed his finger into the cold sore, digging in his ragged nail. Klein winced. His commander picked off the scab and held it up to his eyes. Blood ran down Katrougalos’ finger and into his palm. “You’ve been at the pussy again.”

“No sir.”

“You know the rules. Mouth stays above the waist of the breeders. We have enough problems without spreading infection.”

“Yes sir.”

Katrougalos glanced down at the blood in his hand. “Herpes Simplex Virus. Your blood is full of it.” He was a large man: wide shoulders, thick arms. He pressed his finger into his palm. “This blood is like our galaxy. The Transformers are an infection, spreading without control or restraint.”

Klein rolled his eyes. He’d heard this speech a thousand times. Katrougalos was arrogant, bordering on megalomania, believing his family line had been destined to return the Human race to Earth.

“We will not let it spread any further,” Katrougalos continued. He wiped the blood on his trouser leg and tapped a key sequence on his computer. A schematic image of a satellite dish appeared. “The Pulse will see to that.”

“So what did you think of me back then?” Rattrap asked Cheetor as they approached the Citadel.

“Oh just a conniving, calculating vermin who looks after no one but himself,” Cheetor replied.

“And now?”

“The same,” Cheetor smiled. “No, you’ve changed.”

“Good or bad?”

“I dunno. Let’s just say you’ve changed. Because of Botanica.”

Rattrap blushed. “I don’t know really know how to explain it. It’s like she—I dunno—I feel like she validates my life.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“What I mean is that my entire life I’d been a drifter: topless serving-droids, Stardust, moving from job to job. I’ve been an energon miner, demolitions expert, sharpshooter, spy, you name it. Aimless. No grand ambition. And then when the Axalon mission came up, it was like a kind of retirement for me.”

“And look how that panned out.”

“I know. But it’s all over now and we’re at peace again and I have found something with Botanica. I have found my worth.”

Cheetor stretched out his arm and rested in on his friend’s shoulder. “Keep a hold of it, Rattrap.”

“Oh, I intend to!” Rattrap smiled, speeding off towards the Citadel’s main doors.

“Hang on,” Cheetor called. “We’re going round the back this time.”

It was dark by now as Cheetor and Rattrap cautiously made their way to the rear of the Citadel. They remained vigilant, half-expecting a Vehicon attack or some of Megatron’s spark extractors to come snapping out of the darkness. The sound of Rattrap’s engine echoed up the tall walls.

“I don’t like this,” commented Rattrap.

Cheetor motioned for Rattrap to shut up. “Optimus wants us to do this. He would have done it himself, if he was still here.”

“Well I wish he was still alive—so that I could be elsewhere. And just when are you going to explain by Unicron’s swollen lugnuts!” Rattrap didn’t believe his eyes. “The Axalon!”

“Not the Axalon, Rattrap,” Cheetor said calmly. “The Aurora.”

“But—”

“Later, Rattrap.”

”I heard about this place,” Rattrap said. “But I never got the chance to see it.”

The two Maximals entered the rear of the Citadel. It was home to the political leaders of Cybertron—The Maximal Elders. They were the ones that drew up the Pax Cybertronia with the Tripredacus Council, and they were the ones that commissioned the twin missions of the Axalon and the Aurora.

“I did,” said Cheetor, “many times.”

“Well one of them was your pops.”

They heard a sudden noise by the far wall. Rattrap flipped his visor down and activated his torch. The beam sliced the darkness, picking up the set of stairs that led to where the Elders usually sat. He moved the beam slowly over the chairs. A figure sat motionless in the centre chair.

Rattrap jumped. “There’s somebody up there!” He shone his torch on the same place again but the chair was empty. “Gone!”

Cheetor froze where he stood and grabbed his swords from behind his back. Rattrap moved his torch quickly, scanning the entire room. Nothing.

There was a scratching noise on the far side, metal against metal. Rattrap zeroed in on the tinny echo, his torch shining forwards, casting the shadows of three bodies against the wall. They were the dead bodies of the Maximal Elders.

He felt something brush past his tail.

There was a sudden noise, and Rattrap spun around, shining his torch at Cheetor. He was being held by the throat.

“Thunderjaw,” Rattrap hissed.

In space, no one can hear Nightscream.

It all happened so quickly. The two Vehicons—Obsidian and Stryka—had set a trap for the pair of Maximals. Obsidian was his usual calm, Zen-like self. Stryka was angry. She was angry at the Maximals for putting her here, and she was even angrier at them for leaving her here. Silverbolt dealt with Obsidian, and Stryka was more than happy to deal with Nightscream. Unfortunately for the Maximal bat, the deal wasn’t exactly in his favour.

His sonic-based weapons were useless in the vacuum of space. Cheetor probably never even considered that, and it was a fatal mistake.

Nightscream didn’t stand a chance.

Silverbolt watched it all happen before his very eyes, bewildered. And despite his relationship with Blackarachnia, he was even more bewildered with Stryka’s next act. Silverbolt would never understand those that assimilated female characteristics such as Stryka as she laughed, her anger vented with the act of murdering Nightscream, and then agreed to come peacefully and join the Maximals.

Jonathon crawled gingerly underneath the barbed-wire that separated the camp from his father’s shuttle. The air was thick and gloomy as twilight fell. He heard an off-tune whistle and turned to see Ralph the Meat Man nonchalantly feeding the livestock. Jonathon paused by Hogarth’s empty cage and then glanced at the other young boys, wondering who would be served up next Thursday.

A hot and sharp sensation flowed through him, directing his focus to the shuttle. There was a blockade of three soldiers, each armed and with express permission to shoot dead anyone that came near. Jonathon blinked, the sensation reaching a peak. He opened his eyes and found himself inside the shuttle.

Thunderjaw relaxed his grip on Cheetor’s throat. “I was expecting Optimus Primal.”

“He’s dead,” Cheetor replied coldly.

“What the hell happened here?” Rattrap squealed. “Why are the Elders dead and where the heck are your fellow Dinobots?”

“Long story,” Thunderjaw growled. He tightened his grip on Cheetor’s neck. “I need those co-ordinates, Primal promised them to me.”

“Let go, and they’re yours.”

The massive Maximal dropped Cheetor to the ground. “Give. Now.”

“And are you going to give me to tape?”

Rattrap threw his arms in the air. “What co-ordinates? What tape? Someone going to explain to me what’s going on?”

“Quiet, Rattrap.”

Cheetor and Thunderjaw handed each other a small disk.

“You sure you want me to go and get them?” Thunderjaw asked. “I know Primal was pretty adamant, but—"

“Yes.”

“I won’t be long,” Thunderjaw promised. “The Aurora can get me there and back in no time… one of the many improvements implemented by the Oeth.” Without pausing for a response, Thunderjaw darted into the shadows.

Cheetor turned to Rattrap.

“Never mind,” Rattrap pre-empted. “I don’t even want to know, ‘cause I figure it’s all leading to just one thing.”

“Which is?”

“We’re all gonna die.”

Colonel Katrougalos dropped his glass. His son stood in the doorway, arms folded. “How did you get in?” he asked Jonathon.

“Unnoticed.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m here to relieve you of command.”

The Colonel spat. “I don’t think so, son. It’s all mine now.”

“It was meant to be mine.”

“Well isn’t that gratitude for you. I put you in the camp instead of the cages, sparing your life, and the next I know, you’re in my castle threatening deposition.”

Jonathon’s eyes glowed an inhuman green. His father gasped and took a step back. “What—?”

The young man’s body glowed brightly, green light bursting out of every pore. The flash faded and in his place a young girl stood: Sarah.

“What is this? Who are you?”

The girl stepped forwards and removed what looked like a photograph from her pocket. She handed it to the Colonel. He looked closely. It wasn’t a photograph at all, but a sonogram of an unborn foetus. In the corner of the picture, the date read: 20/04/2003.

“That’s me,” she said. “But I was never born. The plans were cut short.”

“I don’t understand. What plans?”

“God’s plans.”

“Are you saying you’re an angel?”

“I am a fragment of the whole,” she smiled. “But yes, some might call me an angel.”

The Colonel shook his head, not quite believing her. “And what were these plans, what was your mission?”

“Everyone always asks God, ‘Why do bad things happen to good people?’” Sarah explained. “And do you know what the answer is?”

“…”

“Because God doesn’t want good people, he doesn’t like good people. He wanted you all to be bad, to be prepared. All those wars between religions and countries, it was all training.”

“What for?”

“So the Earth could defend itself.” Sarah paused then sneered at him. “But look what happened. Somehow I never came to be, and instead society developed to the point where the good outnumbered the bad, and the Earth was left defenceless.”

“From the Transformers?”

“Amongst others,” Sarah walked towards the window that overlooked the cages and the camp. “But now look. The bad outnumber the good. You live on this shuttle, you mate with the females and you eat your offspring. And who knows whatever else your soldiers get up to. It really couldn’t get any worse.”

The Colonel smiled, a sense of warped pride flowed through his veins. “I knew I was going to be the one. We’re ready to take back what is rightfully ours.”

Cheetor walked nervously onto the stage. To his right, the crowd of Maximals and Predacons filled the Forum to the walls. To his left, there was a long table and around it sat Blackarachnia, Silverbolt, Botanica, and Rattrap. Silverbolt glared at him and Cheetor’s heart sunk, thinking of Nightscream’s death. Blackarachnia winked and smiled at him and Rattrap gave him a thumbs-up. Cheetor glanced down at himself. The infection had spread up his arm and to his shoulder and part of his chest. Botanica smiled sympathetically and nodded, reminding him that after the announcement he was to accompany her to the orchards where she had treatment for him.

Cheetor reached the podium and cleared his throat. The noise echoed around the forum and the discord of mutters faded into an abrupt silence. “Maximals and Predacons,” he began, “I know you have many questions about the state of the planet, but first—“

“What’s with the flowers?” A voice piped up from the crowd. (It was Crosscut.)

Cheetor ignored him. “But first I want to pay tribute to the late Optimus Primal, whose valiant efforts freed you all from Megatron’s tyranny. And it is with great regret that he cannot see us continue his quest.”

“Continue his quest?” Silverbolt whispered to Blackarachnia. “I thought this was all over. What’s the kid talking about?”

“That’s why he arranged this little audience, featherbrain,” Rattrap replied sarcastically.

Cheetor continued: “I have some disturbing news for you all. This planet, what we call Cybertron, and what we call home, is not really Cybertron at all.”

Silverbolt stood up abruptly and slammed a fist on the table. “Preposterous!”

The crowd’s reaction was the same.

“Hear me out, please. This planet was Cyberformed by the Cybertronian Empire in the 24th Century and we were…” Cheetor paused, looking for the right word, “…planted here and our society developed over the last six hundred years, leading us to believe that this is Cybertron.”

Silverbolt marched over to Cheetor. “What proof do you have?”

“Optimus himself came from the real Cybertron, intent on finding us and showing us our true origins. But he was taken by the Elders and reprogrammed. They found out the truth, but didn’t know the location of the true Cybertron.”

“Lies!”

“Which is why missions like the Axalon and Aurora were commissioned,” Cheetor pressed. “To find our true home.”

From the crowds, Hardwired gave Blackarachnia a knowing smile.

“I don’t believe any of this,” Silverbolt shouted. “You’re so in awe of Optimus that you’ll believe anything he says. You’ve blindly led your life following his every command with no grand ambition of your own.” His words cut deep. “You’re just an insignificant puppet animated by the memory of Optimus Primal.”

“Optimus had his reasons. This planet was once Earth, and a few of the humans were saved and transplanted elsewhere, so that one day, once the organics were returned to the planet, they could return here.”

“Well, you’re not going to lead us the same way,” Silverbolt growled, ignoring Cheetor. “I’m taking over.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Rattrap shouted, joining in. “The kid has some proof to show you all.”

“Fabricated, no doubt,” Silverbolt said dismissively.

“I have here,” Cheetor said, pulling a data disk into view, “a copy of a transmission sent by a Predacon scout vessel that was received by Thunderjaw and his crew.”

Silverbolt regarded the crowds. “Are you going to stand for any of this? It’s just an excuse concocted by Primal to give credence to him for reformatting our planet.”

Rattrap snatched the disk from Cheetor’s hands. “Let’s just cut through the cheese here and play the slaggin’ tape! Oy.” His visor slid down over his head, and Rattrap beamed the footage from the disk onto the wall of the Forum.

The crowds fell silent as a square of white noise captivated their attention. The static dissolved into the face of a panicked blue and green insect-like Predacon. He was hunched over, staring right into the camera. There was loud noise behind him, like the tearing of metal.

The Predacon spoke in short breaths, almost screaming: “I’ve found it! Transmitting co-ordinates on a coded frequency. Do not inform the Tripredacus Council, I repeat—”

A large and broad robot suddenly loomed behind the Predacon. He was red and silver and an Autobot logo could be seen on his chest. “Neogen, scum!” he growled as he brutally ripped the screaming head from its body.

The footage then cut back to static.

No one in the Forum uttered another word. Cheetor clutched at his shoulder, the pain from the mysterious infection becoming almost too much to bear.

Rattrap was the first to speak. “I’m picking up a signal,” he said. “The Aurora has just entered the atmosphere.”

“Everyone outside,” Cheetor commanded.

“Here they come now,” Cheetor announced, his hands pressed proudly against his hips.

He watched the Aurora gently touch down on the grassy field. The humans had finally returned to their home and Optimus’s work was finished.

Cheetor ignored the burning pain in his chest and started walking forwards, ready to greet Thunderjaw and the people of Earth. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes tight for a moment, thinking of Optimus and the secrets that were now shared among the Maximals and Predacons.

Two humans—one man, one woman—exited the Aurora via one of the hydraulic lifts that served the bridge. They walked nervously towards Cheetor, unfamiliar with the technorganic grass and the hundreds of robots that surrounded the area. Cheetor, himself the size of a human, walked up to the pair.

Colonel Katrougalos jabbed his index finger into the golden Maximal’s chest: “What the hell have you done to our planet?”