Retribution Page 9

  “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.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ALL IN ALL, THE CURATOR 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.

  “YE-HAAAAAAAAAA!” RODIMUS EXCLAIMED AS HE TOOK the dropship int
o 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.

  “You want to track them, huh? I’m game.”

  “So now we’re just gonna follow these freaky fish-bots around?” There was more than a hint of foreboding in Kup’s voice.

  “Look,” said Rodimus, “I don’t know what it is exactly we’re looking for, but if we follow these bots to their home, we might get a better idea of what these Aquatronians are up to.”

  “That’s thin, sonny.”

  “Well, for right now it’s all we’ve got.” Rodimus cranked the underwater drives up to quarter speed and proceeded to trail after the school, following a pipe farther and farther out along the seabed. The mecha-fish paid no attention to the dropship a few hundred meters behind them. Maybe they weren’t programmed to notice.

  “You might want to keep an eye on that fuel gauge, kiddo.”

  Bumblebee beeped agitatedly. Almost as one, the fish were diving out of sight. Rodimus increased the dropship’s speed ever so slightly, and suddenly the seafloor dropped away beneath, tumbling down a cliff into—

  “Nothing,” Rodimus breathed.

  They were looking down on an incredibly deep system of trenches. It was a veritable maze, and it seemed to stretch on forever, filled with canyons several dozen kilometers across. Along the walls of the trench over which they were floating were more facilities, protruding out like barnacles. Rodimus peered down into the abyss.

  “Bumblebee, scan that trench. I want to know how far down it goes.” Bumblebee quickly came back with an answer that made Rodimus grin and Kup cringe.

  “You’re not thinking of taking us down there, are you?” the veteran asked.

  “We’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “See, when you say things like that, that’s when I start to worry.”

  “This dropship can handle the pressure,” Rodimus insisted, adjusting the ship’s ballast to initiate a slow descent into the darkness. He switched on the dropship’s floodlights, illuminating the structures clinging to the side of the cliff wall. Out the window Kup could see all manner of facilities. It was almost as though they were in some underwater city and the cliffs were the skyscrapers. But in between the rows of pipes and conduits, he could make out more of the strange runes they had seen in the city above, only these were carved directly into the rock past which they were dropping. They must have been etched there millions of years ago, he thought, long before the Aquatronians had covered the walls with their complex machines and automated factories.

  Suddenly the ship’s collision Klaxon sounded. Alarm lights flashed.

  “What’s going on?” Kup demanded.

  “Sonar picking up a contact below. Closing on us. Something big.”

  “How big?” All three Autobots stared at the sonar screen as the data scrolled past: well over forty meters in length and heading right toward the dropship. Bumblebee bleeped frantically.

  “Hang on!” Rodimus yelled. He blew the remaining ballast in a desperate attempt to rise out of the trench and gain maneuvering room. But the signal kept closing. It was almost on them …

  “Brace for impact!” Kup yelled. Rodimus threw the ship to the left in a last-ditch evasive maneuver, and then the entire dropship shuddered under the impact of a titanic force. Rodimus’s reflexes ensured that it was only a glancing blow, a mere fraction of what it might have been, but that was small consolation as the structural integrity of a portion of the hull gave way and water poured in. Rodimus sealed off the bridge from the flooded compartments, doing his best to regain control of the ship. But whatever had hit them had knocked out too many of the key systems. For a moment everything went dark, and then the emergency lighting kicked in. Rodimus felt the stick go dead.

  “Okay, guys, maybe it’s time to worry,” he muttered. Kup peered out the window just in time to see the tail of the biggest fish-bot he had ever seen disappearing back into the depths. The crippled dropship rolled over and started to float back down like a falling leaf, gradually spiraling out of control into the dark of the trench, gaining speed …

  “Scrap me,” Kup said.

  Everything went black.

  OPTIMUS AND THE REST OF THE AUTOBOTS SAT IN PLACES of honor in the Aquatronians’ Coliseum as honor guards marched by with their streaming pennants. The Curator had just finished a long, boring speech on the theme of kinship lost and found. He’d expressed his fervent hope that now that the two species had found each other again, they would be able to fulfill their mutual destinies. Indulging in a rather poetic rhetorical flourish, the Curator suggested that perhaps the great Primus himself had stopped by their world during his long journey at the beginning of time.

  None of that stopped Optimus from having grave misgivings about this planet. But if the Matrix really was malfunctioning—however slightly—maybe that was also the cause of his suspicions. Maybe he was jumping at shadows. Yet even as he watched the ceremony, Optimus felt like he had seen it all before, like he’d witnessed a similar procession long ago, back on Cybertron. But wasn’t that the nature of déjà vu—that feeling that a thing had happened before even when it hadn’t? There was very little he was sure of now. The Coliseum’s walls were adorned with that script Optimus knew he had seen someplace back on Cybertron. Memory was one thing, giant block letters carved in stone was another, and he couldn’t help thinking that the Aquatronians and the Autobots were much more closely related than this “Curator” was willing to admit. When Optimus had asked earlier about the nature of the Coliseum, the Curator had replied that it wasn’t used for games, that it stood as a testament to the Aquatronian legal system, which required the participation of a large proportion of the populace to ensure that justice was properly served.

  Justice.

  There was something in the way the Curator used that word that was odd, a peculiar emphasis. Optimus couldn’t help noticing the precision in the robot’s cadences, the careful way he always chose his words. Optimus now felt it was a mistake to have let the Curator’s doctor examine him. Sure, Xeros had claimed merely to have confirmed what Ratchet had already discovered, that physically there was nothing wrong with him. But if they had found something, would they have told him? And if his robotics really were fine, that meant the unthinkable was still a possibility: There was something wrong with the Matrix of Leadership and they had no way to fix it or even to find out what it was.

  There was another possibility, though, and it was the one Optimus found the most disquieting. Maybe he had done something to fall out of favor with the Matrix. Maybe the sparks of the great leaders contai
ned within it felt that Optimus was failing them as a Prime. After all, what had he done so far? Fight a losing war on Cybertron and then career halfway around the galaxy looking for the AllSpark that he himself had ejected into space, all the while being pursued by a vastly superior force of Decepticons, even as—he felt it in the depths of his circuitry—unspeakable events occurred on Cybertron. He truly believed that at every step of the way he had made the best of a series of bad options. But perhaps a real leader would have found a better way. Perhaps the Matrix had judged him and found him wanting. Perhaps the spirits of past Primes were saying that he just didn’t have what it took.

  But if that was the case, why didn’t they just tell him?

  “Optimus,” Ratchet said, stepping up behind him. “Can I have a word in private?”

  “Of course.” Optimus rose and walked with Ratchet to an empty section of seats. It looked like the two of them were simply enjoying a better view, but Ratchet obviously had something to say.

  “I’ve been studying the diagnostics I did earlier,” the physician said. “Trying to cross-correlate them against the seizure you had.”

  “Seizure?” Optimus grinned ruefully. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

  “I don’t know how else to refer to it.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, earlier you were talking about being in a cage. That may involve the problems you’ve been having with the Matrix. But Xeros may be right—it also may be linked to dormant memories.”

  Optimus frowned. “I take your opinions far more seriously than that so-called doctor. Tell me more.”

  “Well, you know that our life spans can be very long. But the Cybertronian brain can only store a finite amount of information. There have been some studies that suggest our brains take key information and compress it, storing it for later use. How much do you remember of your time as Orion Pax?”

  “I know I spent much of that time in the Hall of Records.”

  “But you don’t remember every single second of that time, do you?”