Transformers: Retribution (41 page)

As had Commander Gnaw. That was the point at which the Curator started to wonder whether it had been such a wise idea to send Tyrannicon through with the first wave. It would have been reassuring to have him by his side, ready to respond to whatever contingency was unfolding. Especially because the computer had just detected anomalies in the signals pulsating through the space bridge. They had been brief, but they seemed to coincide with loss of contact with the Sharkticons. The timing made the Curator more than a little uneasy. He could not quite put his scaly finger on it, but he sensed that the percentages that formed the basis of his operating assumptions might be a bit off.

But before he could order the computer to run full-scale diagnostics, the readouts from the gate indicated that a large number of beings were coming back through from Cybertron. That made no sense at all. No one was supposed to withdraw; all assault forces were to take up garrison duties on the conquered planet until further notice. The Curator turned from the computer to the wraparound window to get a better look, and much to his dismay, hundreds of angry Sharkticons poured through, diving into the water as they chanted and screamed in their brutal native tongue.

“KILL THE CURATOR! KILL THE CURATOR! KILL THE CURATOR!”

The Curator got the message. It was reinforced further as the Sharkticons began climbing out of the water, skittering up the cave walls by using their sharp claws, shooting their lasers at the command blister. The Curator watched in stupefied fascination as the heat began to smear the outer layers of that blister. It would take several minutes of sustained fire to melt it, but from the looks of the Sharkticons closing toward him along the cave roof, they weren’t going to have the patience for that. They were going to do their best to tear their way in.

And that just wouldn’t do.

The Curator’s hands flew over the controls. A turret lowered from the command blister, swung in the direction of the Sharkticons, and began spraying them with sheets of plasma, burning them right off the wall. Even before the charred bodies could hit the water, the Curator was lowering the angle of the gun, raising the temperature of the water toward the boiling point, frying the Sharkticons still swimming around down there. They didn’t seem to realize what was happening. So determined yet so very stupid, mused the Curator. He’d been
so looking forward to the new Cybertronian slaves he would soon have—primitives, yes, but undeniably smarter than these fishy idiots he’d had to work with for so long. But now something had gone catastrophically wrong.

Naturally, that was the moment when the console chimed, alerting him to an incoming priority message from Quintessa. The Curator’s subordinates might not have been answering him, but if he didn’t answer his bosses, there was going to be real trouble. He composed himself as best he could and prepared to receive the signal. He found that proximity to the space bridge’s energy made communicating with his masters on Quintessa easier, although in truth this was the one time he wouldn’t have minded a little interference.

“Hail Quintessa!” the Curator said as his shadowy masters came into view. “I was not sure if I would be able to receive your transmission. We have been having some solar activity that—”

“How proceeds the invasion?” The voice was colder than tundra.

“Excellently well,” the Curator said, trying to make his voice sound calmer than he was feeling.

“We detect plasma residue in the chamber behind you. Why is that?”

“Ah, yes, just a bit of light housecleaning. Nothing to worry about.”

“It would appear you have been under attack. Have hostiles reached the bridge?” It was a different voice speaking now, a voice that never spoke …

“Mere target practice. A drill that got out of hand. But it turns out my defenses are working just fine; in fact, they are more than up to snuff.” To his horror, the Curator realized that he was starting to babble. He was almost glad when he was cut off:

“Inquirata. Our calculations show a greater than 85.3 percent chance that you are not telling us the entire story.”

You got that right
, thought the Curator. He took a deep breath. “A few minor missteps, nothing more. The conquest of Cybertron is almost complete. Why, an hour ago I received word from Tyrannicon that the assault on Iacon was under way.”

“And what word have you received from him since?”

That was the decisive moment. The Curator could obfuscate and spin all he wanted; he could lie through omission and distort the truth to his heart’s content, but a direct lie would register automatically on at least a hundred different instruments. There was only one way out. He began slowly switching frequencies, ad-libbing while the static grew overwhelming. “I regret to say it seems that the solar interference has returned,” he said. “Another flare, most likely. I will report back as soon as I can.” With that he switched off the transmission and disconnected the line.

And took a deep breath.

The Curator knew that his only chance for survival now lay in being able to call back with a message of total victory. And he would need to do it soon. He turned back to the diagnostics he was running. The story they told sent a chill down his spine. The Sharkticons’ programming had been overridden. Someone had gained control of the replica Matrix and countermanded his orders. Had Xeros betrayed him? It seemed incredible, yet by this point nothing would have surprised the Curator. But whoever it was, they were in the city above, turning all systems against him.

There was only one way to stop them.

It was the greatest gamble of them all, but it was his only chance. With trembling hands, he removed the
fail-safes and keyed in the activation codes. The schematic of the city above him appeared on a screen, its surface almost completely submerged by the defense mechanisms Xeros had set in motion, its corridors teeming with furious Sharkticons and fleeing Aquatronians. The latter were in a state of panic; they had no idea what was happening to the only city they had ever known.

Nor did they know that it was no city …

T
HERE WAS NOWHERE FOR THE
A
RK TO TOUCH DOWN
, so Sideswipe kept the retros flaring, letting the craft hover right above the sinking
Nemesis
. He scanned the flooded cityscape, but there was nothing to shoot at. All the Sharkticons had made themselves scarce, and it wasn’t clear where they’d gone. Superion stood nearby, up to his waist in water, keeping a watchful eye on the flooded cityscape while Autobots scrambled onto the roof of the
Nemesis
and up ramps that were lowering from the Ark’s belly. The bridge of the
Nemesis
promptly hailed the Ark.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Starscream asked.

“Evacuating our people,” Sideswipe said.

“Our ship is sinking! You can’t just leave us here!”

“Can’t I?”

“We have a truce, Autobot!”

“Do you see me violating it, Decepticon?”

“You might see
us
violating it if you don’t help us.” The guns on the
Nemesis
swiveled to aim at the Ark. “We need you to keep us from going under while we make engine repairs. Our truce ought to hold until we get off this confounded planet.”

Sideswipe considered that. It was tempting to settle things with the Decepticons here and now. He could
drop a bomb straight on the center of the
Nemesis
and send it to kingdom come. Then again, he was so close that the resultant explosion might take down the Ark as well even if the Decepticons didn’t have time to fire their guns. Besides, technically, Starscream was right. There
was
still a truce in place.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll help.” He lowered the Ark still farther, extending clamps, going into docking mode, letting the Ark’s engines run to keep the
Nemesis
level.

“What are you
doing
?” asked Sunstreaker, entering the bridge.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m keeping the
Nemesis
afloat while they make repairs.”

“We should just leave ’em!”

“They’ll do their best to shoot us down if we try that.”

“Everybody stow this talk of shooting,” Jazz said as he came onto the bridge, Ironhide just behind him. “For all we know, we might still need the Decepticons. I don’t know what’s up with the Sharkticons or this planet’s defenses, but this may all be part of some Quintesson trap. We’ll help the
Nemesis
until it gets back into orbit.”

“Besides,” said Prowl, “it’s the honorable thing to do.”

“And we know the Decepticons are all about honor,” Sunstreaker said sarcastically.

Soundwave ignored him and kept scanning through the windows for any more signs of Sharkticons.

S
TARSCREAM PACED UP AND DOWN ON THE BRIDGE OF
the
Nemesis
, yelling at the engineers belowdecks to hurry up with the repairs. The holes beneath the waterline had to be sealed, water had to be pumped out, and the second engine needed a replacement fuel line. But now that they weren’t fighting Sharkticons, it wasn’t going to be too long before they could head back to
orbit. Deep-space travel might be a different story, but they could make more extensive repairs once they were off this planet. That meant that for now he wasn’t going to fire at the Autobots and they weren’t going to fire at him. Or so he hoped … The buzz of an incoming transmission sounded on the bridge. Soundwave put the call through.

It was Megatron.

Or at least it
looked
like Megatron. But it also looked like he’d had an accident in a teleport machine with at least a dozen Sharkticons. He was done up in Sharkticon colors now; his chest looked like a shark’s jaws, and fins were studded down his back. But though his eyes were now deep green, his face was unmistakably that of Megatron. And when he spoke, it was with Megatron’s trademark sneer.

“Starscream! Give me a status report!”

“Megatron … what happened to you?”

“What happened is that I am now lord of this planet! Where are the Autobots? Where is the
Nemesis
?”

“Just above where the Hall of Justice used to be. The Ark is docked to us, my lord. The Autobots are keeping us afloat while we make repairs.”

“What?!? No!! Attack them immediately!”

“My lord, it’s a delicate situation.”

“I’ll show you delicate, Starscream. Not only is Optimus no more, but I now control every Sharkticon in existence! I have only to give the signal and they will swarm to do my bidding!”

“Uh … really?”

“You dare doubt me? Now that they’ve killed their officers, they are loyal only to me. Stay there, fool. I’m coming up there to personally deal with the Autobots, and I’ll be bringing about a thousand of my finest Sharkticons with me. Is that clear?”

It wasn’t, but Starscream nodded anyway. The screen went blank. Starscream turned to Soundwave. “Did any of that make sense to you?”

“He is our lord and master,” Soundwave said tonelessly.

He’s also achieved a whole new level of crazy
, Starscream thought. But he kept that one to himself.

M
EGATRON HIT THE CONTROLS ON THE INNER SANCTUM;
the elevator car began climbing back up the shaft. Loyal Sharkticons stood at attention throughout the car, but it was the ones Megatron couldn’t see that he was most focused on. Now that he had them completely under his control, he was coordinating vast armies throughout the city. The search for the Curator had yet to bear fruit, but Megatron wasn’t going to wait for that before he took care of the Autobots once and for all. Especially now that Optimus was finally out of the way. The Autobots were going to get the surprise of their life when Sharkticon legions began swarming all over them. It made perfect sense to Megatron that the final defeat of the Autobots would coincide so directly with the forging of his new identity. To think he had been so narrow-minded as to believe that his destiny was limited purely to the Decepticons! He would gather all the lost Cybertronian colonies across the galaxy under his sway and proudly wear his Sharkticon colors while he did so. He was just admiring those colors in the reflection of a shattered viewscreen when the voice of the Curator came over the loudspeaker.

“Megatron. I should have known.”

“Nice of you to call,” Megatron said. “Why don’t you do my Sharkticons a favor and come out of your little hidey-hole?”

“Where is your friend Optimus Prime?”

“He met the same fate you’re about to.”

“I have to congratulate you, Megatron. You turned out to be far smarter than I gave you credit for. But you’re still a fool if you think my downfall can be engineered through a few disloyal Sharkticons.”

“A few? Try
all
of them. Why not surrender now? I promise to grant you a quick death.”

“I was about to make you a similar offer,” the Curator said. “But your insolence demands that your destruction be as unpleasant as possible.”

“And when does this ‘destruction’ start?” Megatron asked.

“That would be now,” said the Curator. Suddenly the elevator stopped climbing as though it had smashed against a barricade. The next moment, a huge slimy translucent tentacle slid through the hole in the wall through which Megatron had thrown Optimus. Megatron lunged backward instinctively as it grabbed a couple of Sharkticons and dragged them from the room. A second tentacle slithered in, and he blasted it to bloody flesh with his fusion cannon. But now the inner sanctum was rocking back and forth; more tentacles were tearing still more pieces from the walls. Megatron didn’t hesitate. He raced forward and leaped out of the inner sanctum, his momentum carrying him across the elevator shaft and onto the wall. As he held on with his hands, it took him only a few seconds to use his razor-sharp fins to carve his way through, and during that time another tentacle grabbed him. He severed it with his ax and rolled into a corridor that was shaking like the worst kind of turbulence. Water was pouring down from the ceiling.

Except it wasn’t water.

Megatron’s sensors registered the high acidic composition even as he kept running down the corridor, blasting
away at tentacles the whole time. The voice of the Curator echoed from a speaker at the passage’s end.