Transformers: Retribution (11 page)

The answer was impressive, to say the least. It was all Ratchet could do not to stare in awe at the scope of the Aquatronian infirmary. With its high ceilings and flying buttresses, the medical lab looked more like a house of worship than a place of healing. It was only upon closer inspection of the rows of medical bays and transorganic medical computers that its true function became apparent. Channels of water cut through the room; through them could be seen an additional, underwater level.

“This is really quite a facility you’ve got here,” Ratchet said with a slight twinge of envy. The Curator waved them over to a pool from which climbed a puffer fish-bot covered with spines—as they watched, it shifted into a medium-size greenish robot with an enormous black mustache. The Curator cleared his throat.

“Allow me to introduce our planet’s senior medical physician, Doctor Xeros.”

The doctor bowed. “Always a pleasure to meet another practitioner of the medical arts,” he said to Ratchet. “Very pleased to meet you indeed.”

“Well,” said Ratchet, “allow me to complement you on this facility.” But as he spoke, he was scanning the equipment, trying to decide whether they could entrust Optimus to it. “Most impressive.”

“You’re too kind,” said Doctor Xeros. “Most of what you see here is millions of years old. I daresay that most of the technological advances we’ve made over the years have been geared toward the Energon trade.”

“Where should I put Optimus?” Bulkhead broke in impatiently.

“Oh, yes, over here. Over here.” Xeros led him to a med-bay and gently lowered Optimus down into it while the Curator drew back, watching intently.

“You’re conversant with Cybertronian physiology?” Perceptor asked the doctor.

“Have no fears on that score,” Xeros said as he warmed up the med-bay. “We have a comprehensive codex of over three thousand different species. Some aren’t even robotic in nature, if you can imagine. Did you know that there are some places in the galaxy where carbon is the primary building block of life?”

“Carbon-based life-forms?” Perceptor said. “That sounds incredible.”

“It’s true. Purely organic beings. With life spans that don’t even last for a fraction of ours. In some cases they never actually leave their larval state and exist only for a matter of days before their spark terminates.”

Ratchet pondered this while the robotic arms of the med-bay whirred to life, reaching out with a multitude of wires, probes, and contact sensors that slotted into
parts of Optimus’s body. “First things first,” Xeros said. “We’ll run a class-one diagnostic.”

“I just did that a few days ago,” Ratchet admitted.

“And the results?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Well,” Xeros said, “so far it would seem that all of his systems are functioning at high capability. Curious. Let’s take a closer look.” He leaned over Optimus and began gingerly prying open a few of the chest plates, only to let out an exclamation at what was revealed.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but is that a Matrix of Leadership?”

“
The
Matrix of Leadership,” Jazz said with a hint of trepidation. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is.”

“Amazing. I heard that such a thing existed. Simply amazing. But this could be the problem. Were you able to do a diagnostic on whether it’s functioning correctly?”

“The diagnostic said it was.”

“Did you remove the Matrix to ensure an isolated environment without interference from the host bot?”

“Of course not. Look, Doctor, I appreciate your efforts, but the Matrix has built-in safeguards. It’s intended to be self-diagnosing. And if there’s a problem with it, it should let Optimus or his potential successor know.”

The doctor mulled that over. “Are you that successor?” he asked a little too casually.

“The Matrix will make the decision when the time is right,” Jazz said curtly.

“But how do you know that decision is right if you can’t be sure the Matrix is functioning properly?”

Jazz looked flummoxed. “Well, now that you put it that way … I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps if I were to attach my instruments directly to it.” As Xeros’s hands moved toward the Matrix, Optimus’s hand shot up and grabbed the doctor’s wrist.

“That will not be necessary,” Optimus said.

“It appears that your leader is awake,” the Curator said superfluously.

“Where am I?” Optimus asked.

“The Aquatronian medical lab,” Ratchet said. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

Optimus stood up, albeit a little unsteadily.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Xeros.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Doctor Xeros. Your friends brought you to me after you became unresponsive. You had us all very worried.”

Jazz placed his hand on Optimus’s shoulder. “Optimus, are you—”

“I’m fine, old friend.”

“You mean you
feel
fine,” Ratchet said.

“What’s the last thing you recall, Optimus?” Xeros asked.

Optimus shook his head, still obviously a bit dazed.

“We were walking through the city …” His voice trailed off. “That’s all I can remember. What happened then?”

“Then you screamed out Megatron’s name and blacked out,” said Jazz.

“I did?” Optimus asked.

“Who is this Megatron?” Xeros inquired.

“The leader of the Decepticons,” Jazz said. “Our sworn enemy.”

“Then maybe he had something to do with this,” said the Curator.

“Impossible,” Perceptor insisted.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because Megatron doesn’t have any
mental control
over me,” Optimus said. “If he did, we’d have lost long ago.” But even as he said those words, something was pressing at the fringes of his memory.
Mental control
 … 
lost
 … 
long ago
 … It didn’t make any sense. Or did it? Had Megatron found some way to undermine him from afar? He heard Xeros cough tactfully.

“Well, since there appears to be nothing wrong with you physically—and since you seem convinced that the issue is not the Matrix—then perhaps there might be another explanation.”

“And that is?”

“You might be suffering from a neurological issue.”

“What kind of junk statement is that?” Jazz towered over Xeros, looking both offended and alarmed.

“I’m a physician. It’s my job to assess the condition of my patients. And I’m simply raising the possibility that a lot of what we’re seeing here might be due to an imbalance in Optimus Prime’s cognitive circuitry. Neurological, processing, psychological—call it what you like. But it would explain a lot.”

“Armchair quackery,” Jazz said, getting more incensed by the moment.

“Patient resistance to diagnoses is something I’m used to,” Xeros said icily. “I’m simply inviting you to consider the possibility. The pressures of leadership can weigh heavily on even the strongest mind. I might even say that part of the duty of leadership is for a leader to assess how much strain he’s under. The very least you can do is be alert for any related symptoms.”

“What kinds of related symptoms?” Optimus asked.

“They would vary,” Xeros said. “Sudden mood swings. Impulsive rage. Buried trauma. Repressed memories.” As he said the last two words, a cold chill ran down Ratchet’s spine. He had been thinking along the same line himself. And if Xeros was right, it meant that more surprises were almost certainly in store. Ratchet cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound matter-of-fact.

“An interesting prognosis.”

“It is indeed,” Xeros said in a tone that made Jazz
want to slug him. “But for now all we can do is wait. Optimus, I’d recommend a good Energon recharge. And you’re only too welcome to stay here where we can keep you under careful observation.”

“Thank you,” Optimus said. “I appreciate the courtesy, but you’ve already done enough.”

“Well,” said the Curator, “in that case, you’ll excuse me while I attend to some details for tonight’s celebration. I certainly look forward to seeing you at our Coliseum shortly.”

“Of course.” As Jazz watched the Curator leave, he couldn’t help thinking that there was something disconcertingly familiar about him. Something that—far down in the depths of his circuits—he disliked immensely.

A
LL IN ALL
,
THE
C
URATOR WAS QUITE PLEASED WITH
himself.

Certainly these Autobots were not as clever as they believed. Tricking them was easier than he’d expected. His initial predictions had put his chances for immediate success at just above 65 percent, but the gambit had paid off in spades. The Curator made a mental note to himself to revisit his underlying algorithms; perhaps they had been too pessimistic.

Because right now he felt only optimism. By the time he got back to his inner sanctum, the data was awaiting him: a comprehensive set of Optimus’s medical scans freshly downloaded from Xeros’s medical facilities. The Curator would have preferred the actual Matrix of Leadership itself—or at least detailed specs of that Matrix—but precise data on Optimus Prime was the next best thing. He hoped the scans would show how the Autobot was able to interface with the Matrix. Did the Matrix create new connections? Or were old ones simply rerouted?

The Curator loaded up the schematics and projected them onto his viewscreen. Optimus’s systems lit up, the only blank spot being the core where the Matrix of Leadership was situated. The Matrix was the key, of course. It was probably the most powerful of all the Cybertronian artifacts, certainly the most powerful known to actually
still exist. And as to its actual powers … The ancient legends said that the Matrix contained the essence of Primus himself and allowed its possessor to converse with former Primes. The Curator could barely restrain his excitement. To think he was so close. There was nothing he couldn’t achieve with such knowledge. Some rumors even said that the Matrix possessed the power to restore life itself. No wonder that among the Autobots the Matrix was held to be little short of divine. The Curator viewed it somewhat more pragmatically: a weapon of pure science. Now he had an opportunity to discover its true nature.

“Incredible,” he said to no one in particular as he examined the Autobot leader’s systems. The Curator could not contain his awe at the way the Matrix was integrated into Optimus. Most tantalizing of all, the connection seemed to eschew traditional physical contact. In fact, the interface resembled something along the lines of telepathy, a type of robot empathy that allowed direct contact with the deepest part of the Cybertronian’s brain. If only the Curator could hack the Matrix itself—or seize it altogether … As it was, the data on the interfaces would make the job of interfering with it even easier than it had been already. Certainly far more so than tampering with it when the Ark had been out in the depths of space. The Curator smiled at the thought of how lost Optimus must be feeling. Once again he activated his own Matrix-simulation protocol; the facsimile rose up out of the floor, filling the room with its intense red glow. A broad smile spread across his face.

But it quickly faded as he noticed the alert flashing on the secure command channel. The Curator waved his hands over the isomorphic controls set to his command circuit. A hologram of one of his guards appeared and bowed in a military salute.

“Report,” the Curator stated crisply.

“A group of Autobots have taken one of their ships into the Kraken Sea. How would you like us to proceed?”

“Show me the video.”

The Autobot dropship came into focus, cruising through the underwater depths. Alongside it were coordinates. They were vectoring in toward the seabed and had started scans of various underwater facilities adjacent to the city. But so far they had found nothing of significance.

“Keep them under close surveillance,” the Curator said.

“What if they venture into the restricted zones?”

The Curator sighed in frustration. As though he were going to issue any categorical rules to his subordinates in advance of that eventuality. Yet it was in the nature of his underlings to welcome precise orders and be uncomfortable with ambiguity. It was a necessary price of not programming them to see the big picture. Besides, the Curator knew that the Autobots’ chance of stumbling onto anything of consequence was less than 6 percent. He met his guard’s eyes.

“If and when that happens, I will take care of the situation personally,” he said.

The guard saluted; the holograph winked out. The Curator turned back to his facsimile of the Matrix and made some adjustments.

“Y
E-HAAAAAAAAAA
!” R
ODIMUS EXCLAIMED AS HE TOOK
the dropship into a power dive. The green sea churned behind them as the ship picked up speed, a trail of bubbles obscuring the huge complex they were leaving behind. For long minutes they thundered down through blue water that quickly turned black. Lights in the cramped cockpit showed false-color imagery of the seafloor below: long
stretches of underwater fissures, endless sprawled reefs, all of it shot through with—

“Machinery,” Kup breathed.

The ocean floor was covered with a complex spider-web of conduits, ministations, and full-blown refineries. As they got closer, they could see pipes running back the way they’d come, presumably connecting this underwater infrastructure with that above the surface. Schools of fish-bots moved gracefully along the seabed, apparently conducting maintenance work across the various installations. At the last moment, Rodimus leveled out the ship, bringing it to an abrupt stop over a refinery of some kind.

“This baby handles like a dream underwater,” he said.

Kup looked less enthused. “Easy on the stick there, junior; we don’t want to crash this thing.”

“Look, the faster we get down there, the faster we get back. What do you make of the activity on the scanners, Bee?” Bumblebee chirped and pointed out the window at a small school of mecha-fish that had just finished cleaning the refinery’s walls and were moving away to the north, along the seabed. “Sure, I see them,” Rodimus said. “What are you suggesting?” Bumblebee made a series of low blurps punctuated by a high-pitched tone. Rodimus whistled.