Exiles (11 page)

From the torrent of Blurr’s answer, Optimus Prime deduced that the Speedia trophy had existed in its current form as long as the Speedia itself had been contested, which was as long as anyone on Velocitron could remember, and that as far as Velocitronians were concerned, they had brought the trophy with them on their initial emigration from Cybertron, which was so long ago that the real story didn’t matter because any story that lives long enough for everyone to believe it became the truth more or less and there was no real point in making everyone uncomfortable by trying to change their minds about things that they had been believing forever …

At which point Optimus Prime became uncomfortably aware that Blurr was talking about the Speedia and the trophy in much the same way that some Cybertronians were inclined to think about the Thirteen. That was the problem with being around Blurr. He even sped up and scrambled the thoughts of the bots around him. It was difficult to keep what he said separate from the regular tumult inside Optimus Prime’s head, where so many competing imperatives and interests grappled for his attention and focus.

The two fragments created a powerful resonance, that was certain. And Optimus Prime was equally certain that they were part of an as yet incomplete set. How many other fragments were there? How would he know when he had them all? Without any way to answer those questions, Optimus Prime focused on immediate priorities. He had two of them. There were more, or at least that was his instinct.

And something had led Blurr to bring him the second piece. He had not just shown up there, forgetting some errand from Override. He had been guided there by a force that had yet to reveal itself.

Careful
, Optimus Prime said to himself.
Don’t go
looking for meaning in everything. Sometimes things just happen
.

Yet he could not shake the impulse to reconstruct the story. The Star Saber pieces must, after all, have been scattered from a single location. What if that location had been Velocitron and two of them had never made it off-planet? Or what if the scattering had originated at a location where the only available Space Bridge led to Velocitron and something had waylaid the carriers of the pieces before they could go on? Other possibilities also presented themselves. The loss of the two pieces could have happened millions of cycles apart … or could all of the pieces be present on Velocitron, unknowingly regathered over the course of time and waiting for Optimus Prime to arrive and put them back together at this moment of dire necessity?

Too many questions, not enough answers. Optimus Prime had the vexing problem of not knowing what he did not know.

He decided he would ask Override why she had sent Blurr. That would be the prudent thing to do before he started to get invested in mystical interpretations of perfectly ordinary coincidences.

Also, he had some other questions for Override, having to do with recent events that had taken place near Velocitron’s south pole. “Blurr,” Optimus Prime said. “Do me a favor and let Override know I need to speak to her.”

“Sure will, I’ll do it right now on my way to the track long as it doesn’t take too long, all that talking gets in the way of racing, gotta go for another heat, keep the piece of metal, hey, same with the trophy, it’s just weighing me down.” Blurr collapsed back into his alt-form and revved out of the hangar.

The Autobots stood looking at the two pieces of what was surely an artifact of the Thirteen. The Star Saber.
Optimus Prime was more and more certain of it. He also was becoming more and more certain that they would have to leave Velocitron very soon. If the attempted assassination was not convincing enough, Blurr’s destruction of the Speedia trophy—and his surprising willingness to let them take the blame for it—cemented the matter. Blurr had his reasons, no doubt. Or perhaps he was exactly what he said he was, a racer so focused that he could dispose of such a unique symbol without a second thought. Either way there would be consequences. Optimus Prime was not looking forward to the imminent conversation with Override, and he could only imagine what his next interaction with Ransack might be like.

“Man,” Jazz said. “Wears me out just listening to him.”

“Me, too,” said Optimus Prime. “But he told us a couple of things we badly needed to know. Our way forward is clearer now.”

“To you, maybe,” Jazz said. He was about to go on, but Prowl returned with a Velocitronian Optimus Prime thought he had seen before, low-slung and square, his demeanor all business.

“Armco,” Prowl said by way of introduction. “An engineer on the track, and he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

So now we’re going to build a fake Speedia trophy?
Optimus Prime almost laughed, so brazen was this idea, but maybe it was the best thing to do. After all, the story of the trophy was the important thing …

The thought had barely formed itself in his mind when the dull crump of an explosion shook the earth below their feet. “What was that?” Ratchet said. He was already in motion, his medic’s training moving him reflexively in the direction of the sound in anticipation that his services would be required. Optimus Prime was moving, too, following Ratchet at a run to the edge of
the vast staging area between the hangar and the speedway, where the sounds of a qualifying heat still competed with the howling wind. Through the swirls of sand, Optimus saw the chilling sight of smoke and flame billowing in a stream from the stern of the Ark, where it had come down at the edge of the staging ground.

“Get that fire out!” he commanded. Already he saw other Autobots running around the Ark. An alarm sounded from the hangar, and automated firefighting equipment deployed, semisentient first responders with just enough initiative to detect the kind of fire they were fighting and tailor their approach accordingly. Streams of retardant powder blasted from their nozzles, also covering the closest Autobots, who immediately had dropped everything they were doing to save the Ark.

Whether they had been successful, Optimus Prime could not tell. Things looked bad.

From the speedway, a stream of curious Velocitronians poured in the direction of the Ark. Optimus Prime could still hear a race going on, and he found a brief moment to be surprised that anything could tear a Velocitronian away from the spectacle of a race. But some of the locals pitched in, helping to put out the fire and assist the Autobots damaged by the explosion. There were two, neither seriously impaired; between Ratchet and the race, medics were always on standby, and both injured bots soon were taken care of and on their feet again. Not long after that, the fire was out and Optimus Prime could send Silverbolt in to assess the damage.

A number of possibilities tumbled through his mind. The Ark was an ancient machine, lost for millions of orbital cycles in the thickets of Cybertronian lore and uncovered only thanks to Alpha Trion’s research during the escalation of the war with the Decepticons. The Autobots had jump-started it out of the wall of the Well of the AllSpark at the last moment without time to run
more than cursory checks and diagnostics. Then it had suffered the tremendous stress of traversing a collapsing Space Bridge after weathering the attacks of pursuing Decepticon forces on their takeoff from Cybertron. Possibly something had just worn out, catastrophically failed. Or one of the maintenance bots could have had an accident with a volatile compound; the explosion looked to have taken place near the Ark’s thrusters and fuel reservoir, though Optimus couldn’t be certain of that through the slashing sand and wind. He stayed back, out of the way, waiting for his subordinates to report and hoping against all hope that his worst fears would not be confirmed.

But when Silverbolt approached him to report, it was bad news indeed that he brought. “Hate to tell you this, Prime, but someone planted a bomb on the Ark’s hull. The fuel reservoir is blown wide open, and there’s damage to the fuel delivery systems and one of the thrusters. That’s the bad news.”

“There is good news?” Optimus asked over the shriek of the wind.

“Not all of the charge detonated,” Silverbolt said. “If it had, the Ark wouldn’t have survived. As it is …” His voice trailed off.

“As it is?” Optimus Prime prompted.

“The damage is localized but pretty bad. The only reason the fuel didn’t explode is that the damping chemicals didn’t have time to evaporate.” The Ark’s fuel was highly efficient but also highly unstable. To enable safe handling and storage, it was mixed with damping compounds that were filtered out as the Energon, which fueled the ship, was delivered to the engines. Those compounds had performed their function, keeping the fuel from accelerating and intensifying the explosion and fire.

“We’ll take whatever good news we can get,” Optimus
Prime said. “Silverbolt, take Mainspring and do a complete workup on the Ark. Find out what we need to get it spaceworthy again.” Silverbolt called out to the Velocitronian pit chief, who already was braving the wreckage to look over the extent of the damage. The two of them met near the Ark’s midsection and started planning, Mainspring pointing out areas on the Ark where secondary damage was either apparent or suspected.

“Optimus Prime. What has happened here?”

Optimus turned to see Override approaching from the direction of the speedway.

“It appears that someone has tried to destroy the Ark,” he said. He was on the brink of accusing Ransack in front of every Velocitronian close enough to hear, but he restrained himself. In the unsettled circumstances such an accusation might well provoke something like a civil war. Optimus Prime had seen enough of civil war. He would hold this particular truth to himself a little longer, and he would have to make sure Clocker did the same, since Clocker had been there for the ambush at the south polar beacon. If the excitable Velocitronian started spreading his story, the consequences could quickly spiral out of control.

What Optimus Prime really wanted to do was kill Ransack and root out all of his followers who had begun this campaign of sabotage and ambush. That was what Megatron would do.

It would work after a fashion. Velocitron would be pacified. But pacification was not the Autobot way and not the way a Prime should proceed. Control was crucial. Optimus Prime held himself back and waited for the initial assessments to come in. Override would declare for the Autobots—of that Optimus Prime had no doubt—but it would be best to allow her to come to that decision herself.

Blurr came racing out of the crowd to report to Override that no Velocitronians had been hurt and collateral damage to race facilities was minimal. The storm had begun to lessen, and automated maintenance drones were sweeping sand from the staging area and the hangar bay entrances. “Thank you, Blurr,” she said. “You raced well today.”

“I sure did!” Blurr agreed before racing off again on some unspecified errand.

The crowd of gawking Velocitronians had grown larger now that the qualifying races inside the speedway seemed to be over. Optimus Prime was struck by the way great groups of them seemed to materialize at any event of even passing interest. A paradoxical side effect of their manic devotion to speed was that any nonracing event drew attention far out of proportion to its actual importance, although it was hard for Optimus Prime at the moment to envision something much more important than the health and function of the Ark. The entire quest, along with the survival of the Autobots, could well be at stake. He felt exposed and wished that his conversation with Override could take place in less public surroundings.

Luckily, she had other things on her mind. “Who did this?” Override asked.

He had a feeling she knew. She must know. Who else would have an interest in crippling the Ark? What Override wanted, Optimus Prime realized, was exactly what he was not yet ready to give her: a direct accusation that would provide her with an excuse to purge Ransack from Velocitron’s leadership.

“I’ll find out,” he said, and went looking for Jazz, glad to postpone for the moment the request he knew he must make. “Tell me I’m wrong when I think that one of us is responsible for this,” he said to Jazz in the shadow
of the damaged Ark, interrupting a close conversation between Jazz and Prowl.

“No can do,” Jazz said. “The Ark’s security routines don’t record any bot working on it but us, and the problem is, just about every bot who came here on the Ark has done some maintenance on it at some point.” He paused, working through something in his head, and then shrugged.

“Only thing I can figure is that we’ve got a ’Con on board,” Prowl said.

This was the last thing in the universe Optimus Prime had wanted to hear, but if Jazz was right about the Ark’s security protocols, it was also the undeniable truth of the situation. One of the Autobots—someone who had fought and suffered alongside Optimus Prime and dared to make the perilous exodus from Cybertron—was a traitor. Optimus felt a wave of anger so intense that he had to hold himself still to keep from lashing out and destroying something. The force of it blacked out his optics for a moment. When he had gotten control of himself again, he said, “Don’t answer this right now, but I want you to think about who it might be.”

“It might be me,” Jazz said. “I mean, it isn’t, but that’s the problem with having a traitor in your midst. It could be the person who notices that there’s a traitor in your midst.”

Nodding, Optimus Prime said, “I know. But it isn’t you. If I can’t trust you, Jazz, there’s not a bot in the galaxy I can trust. And if I’m wrong about that, then there’s no hope for any of us.”

“Don’t get sentimental on me, OP,” Jazz said.

But Optimus Prime had to get sentimental on someone, in Jazz’s phrase. He wished they were hoisting a can back at the Maccadam’s Old Oil House, but too much history had happened since then. “Just think about it,” he said.

“I will,” Jazz said. “But here’s something else for you to think about. I’m betting that the bomber used Velocitronian materials. It appears they didn’t work too well because part of the timing mechanism didn’t function properly. Local materials means local symapthizers. At least that’s how it looks to me.”