Yellow Ribbon - Chapter 4 of 11
Chapter 1 -- Chapter 2 -- Chapter 3
Red Alert - The Big Picture
“Slag it.”
Red Alert didn’t often indulge in profanity. This seemed to be the time for it. He glanced up at the bank of security monitors on the wall above him as much to reassure himself with their familiarity as to check their content. Venting a sigh, he let his optics sink back down to the report on his desktop display, and the undeniable facts it contained. A frown creased his brow-ridges. His tanks churned, but there was no avoiding this, and every klick of delay was an unacceptable risk. With an abrupt, decisive motion, he stood, reaching for a box stored on the shelf behind his desk before heading to the door.
“Enter.” Optimus Prime responded at once to his office door chime. The Prime’s deep voice was level, and as calm as it could be given the situation. Despite that, Red found he had to pause, cooling his systems and reaching for the professional air he strived to maintain at all times.
He knew that he couldn’t honestly be blamed for the mistake. His analysis of the data their scout team brought back from the site of last orn’s Decepticon skirmish had been thorough and completed to the best of his abilities, based on the information he had at the time. In retrospect though…
“I stand by 83 percent of my initial analysis,” he announced without preamble.
Prime, well accustomed to his Security Director’s focus, merely waved him to a chair, optics intent.
“The Utah incident?”
“Paint flakes scraped from their armour - pale purple and mid-blue respectively - confirm the presence of Skywarp and Thundercracker. The third pair of Seeker thruster-marks are almost certainly Starscream’s, based both on his trine’s presence and his proven skill in avoiding paint-chipping damage.” Red Alert knew he was being defensive. Even so, he couldn’t help laying out the correct findings in advance of the errors. He perched on the edge of Prime’s guest chair, box resting on his knees as he went on. “Fusion cannon damage on some of the township’s buildings strongly imply Megatron’s presence, while a range of smaller footprints and associated damage trails place Soundwave, or at least several of his cassettes, on the ground.”
The deep blue glow of Optimus’s optics had faded through the roll call, despite the fact that he’d already seen the initial version of Red Alert’s report and nothing in it had changed thus far.
“Most of the Decepticon high command, in fact.”
Red Alert nodded. “It’s possible others were present, but left no trace detectable by the time we surveyed the area.” They hadn’t looked hard. The obvious traces had been deemed sufficient. If the amount of damage, and the drying pools of corrosive energon, were anything to go by, the battle had been fierce.
“Go on,” Prime said softly, sensing his officer’s hesitation.
There was nothing for it. Red Alert cycled his vents, his optics sliding away from his commander’s. “We also detected flakes of unfamiliar black and white paint in several locations, one piece of damaged white thigh-plating not attributable to any known mech, and indications of an acid weapon in use.”
Optimus Prime greeted his words with a flat silence. Red shook his head, his optics glued to the desk as he went on.
“We initially interpreted these to indicate the arrival of a new Decepticon on Earth, perhaps one insane enough to challenge both Megatron and Starscream for the leadership. In light of new considerations…”
Even now, after several Earth hours to absorb Bluestreak’s insistence that Autobots were involved and Prime’s surprising support for that assertion, Red Alert still felt his processors trying to fritz over the implications.
“… I am forced to revisit that conclusion. Acid pellets have conventionally been considered an Autobot weapon. White is an unusual colour for a Decepticon, and both black and white carried a gloss finish that most Decepticons would reject as impractical and undesirable. Reanalysis of the battle damage suggests at least one, perhaps two, ground-based mechs, with some evidence for tyre tracks that may originate from their alt forms - again comparatively unusual for a ‘Con.” Red Alert looked up, reluctantly. “The evidence is circumstantial. But given the independent testimony of Bluestreak and Elita One, I can only conclude that there were indeed Autobots involved in the incident in question.”
This time it was Optimus Prime who looked away, dimming his optics for a few seconds. This time it was his voice that trembled a little.
“There was damaged plating?”
Red Alert nodded sombrely, looking down at the box on his knees. It had been searched, scanned and examined at length for any sort of hazard, before being stored in the Security Office until Perceptor was well enough to reopen his analysis lab. Now he opened it slowly, gazing down at the specks of white and black paint and the three-foot-long strip of Cybertronian metal within. He swept it with another security scan, just in case, before reaching in. Lifting the mud-streaked white metal plate out, cautious of its jagged, energon-tinted edges, he studied it for a long moment, trying to place the mech who had worn it, or feel anything other than frustration and a mild dread at the implications of this small fragment of armour.
Venting and shaking his head, Red Alert lifted it across the desk, presenting the plating to Optimus Prime with considerably more respect than he’d have shown to some ‘Con’s cast off.
“It is…difficult… to accept that this belonged to a friend,” Optimus noted carefully. He didn’t add that it might be the last fragment of the mech they ever found. Both already knew that and a glance was all the mutual acknowledgment they needed.
“Optimus, are you sure?” The question burst from Red Alert before he could censor it. “Are you really sure that this not some elaborate Decepticon ruse to force us to accept this ‘Jazz’ and ‘Prowl’ as our own? There’s one person aboard - just one - that has any real belief that the mechs even exist! Are you truly certain of they’re not infiltrators, trying to steal past our security and allow the Decepticons to overwhelm us all as we recharge…?”
Prime looked up at him, more sympathy in his eyes than Red Alert had any right to expect. Red felt his plating heat, and dropped his eyes in shame as his voice trailed away. If he was honest with himself, the possibility of a Decepticon ploy - beyond that already exposed - was slim to say the least. In truth, it wasn’t that Red Alert didn’t believe his Prime’s calm statement that two of their officers were missing… simply that he didn’t want to.
Everything within Red Alert, all that he was, recoiled in horror at the mere thought that this could happen. The Decepticons had taken captive two of the Ark’s own. They’d violated the integrity not only of the Ark, but every single mech aboard her. Not even the finest rose-tinted visor Inferno had to offer could disguise that as anything but the grossest of failures on Red Alert’s part.
“Are you sure?” Red whispered again.
Optimus vented a deep sigh, cradling the torn plating in his huge hands.
“Can I afford not to be?”
“We all got it from Teletraan One?” Ironhide summarised Red Alert’s opening statement in one sentence, glancing at Ratchet for confirmation.
Suppressing his sigh, Red Alert looked around the Senior Officers’ meeting to check everyone else was following before he nodded. Even with Bluestreak as a nervous and fidgety interloper, there was still a vacant chair at the table. He gazed at it with mild resentment, unable to hide his displeasure. Ratchet had already been over this point, albeit in medical jargon. Red Alert had merely intended to put it in the context of his own report, not reopen it for debate.
“Every mech interfaces with Teletraan on a routine and regular basis. Infections would have been passed on rapidly. Initial infection most likely originated in either a radio transmission or a casetticon infiltration.”
He couldn’t help but flinch as he spoke. The persistence and creativity the Decepticon cassettes showed in infiltrating the Ark was his longest-running processor-ache, and his greatest ongoing failure.
“And Teletraan seems to be forgetting things just like the rest of us,” Ratchet jumped in, taking advantage of his hesitation. The medic looked tired, massaging the base of his broad chevron with one finger, as if that would ease the processor ache behind it. Red held onto his patience with an effort, counted under his breath and jumped ahead in his prepared notes, past the point that Ratchet had just blurted out.
“Using the duplicate records in, ah, Prowl’s office for comparison, I’ve made progress on identifying several distinctive signatures that indicate an altered file.” He glanced down at his notes. “I am still working on an algorithm to recover the missing material, but in the majority of cases, it looks like a simple deletion of names from mission reports and schedules, as well as personal records, room assignments and similar.”
“But that wouldn’t…”
Red Alert cut Ironhide’s eighth interruption of the afternoon off with a glare. The red-clad mech held up a placating hand.
“Whoa, okay, Red, I’ll hold my horses for a while and let you get what you’ve got to say off of your chest.”
The older officer’s human colloquialism was met with a blank stare of incomprehension from Red Alert and a chuckle from the rest of the table despite the serious atmosphere. Red vented a sigh, rubbing his sensory horns to calm himself.
“Where deletions in a file exceeded some coherency threshold, it appears the file was removed in its entirety. I’ve identified several Special Ops files extensively referred to in cross-references but apparently no longer extant.”
“Jazz,” Bluestreak murmured sadly.
“I assume so.” Red paused, rubbing again at the sides of his helm. He could feel the pressure building there, the static charge mounting. “There could have been crucial strategic and security information in those files. The extent of the loss is incalculable - we could be on our back pedes against the Decepticons for vorns if the files can’t be recovered! For all we know, they may even now be massing at some forward base we’ve forgotten we know about!”
“Red Alert,” Prime’s deep rumble cut through the jumble of chaotic thoughts in Red’s processor. It was like soothing balm on his frayed nerves. The losing battle he’d been fighting for the last twenty-four hours - trying to both identify and curtail the access of two officers considerably more senior than himself - had left him not far from fritzing and suspicious of anything he was told. Nothing in Red Alert’s programming however, or in his years of loyal service, would allow him to disbelieve his Prime. “Red, I think it’s unlikely we would have dispatched two senior officers on a… school tour?” he glanced at Bluestreak for confirmation, “…if we had any intelligence of an impending attack.”
“Yes.” Red cycled his optics and sent a mental plea to his cooling fans to handle his overheating frame. The red mist subsided from around the edges of his mind and he vented hard. “That makes sense, yes. Thank you, Prime.”
He stared blankly at his notes for a few seconds, struggling to recall what he had been saying.
“File deletions. Yes. Perhaps the most striking example - and the strongest indication that both Teletraan and individual bots are experiencing a similar phenomenon - is the fall of Praxus.”
A hiss from Ratchet broke Red Alert’s concentration, and he twisted slightly in his seat, only then remembering the company he was in. Young Bluestreak hadn’t made a sound, but he was sitting bolt upright in his seat, his optics so bright they were almost white, the tips of his door-wings quivering and his expression curiously blank.
Red Alert was not a naturally cruel mech. He pursed his lips, head tilted to one side and vented a sigh. “Bluestreak, perhaps you’d like to wait outside for a breem or so?”
The sound of his name seemed to draw the young gunner out of his daze. He blinked at Red Alert, and then looked towards Ratchet, before shaking his head. He was still tense, painfully so, but the unnatural glow of his optics faded a little. He drew in a vent before speaking, his voice shaky.
“I want to stay. I want to help. You said… you said… Praxus?”
“There are scarcely any records of that major incident or its immediate aftermath in Teletraan 1’s databanks.” Red Alert went on, optics drifting between Bluestreak and Ratchet, ready to stop and return to this topic later if need be. “Having examined my own memory core and queried several other mechs, it’s clear that the memories of all the command crew are similarly scarce. I know that the Autobots attended the scene. I clearly remember a certain youngling exploring every possible security hazard on base in the orns that followed.” Bluestreak stared, and then managed a weak smile despite his trembling wingtips, surprised to find himself the subject of one of Red Alert’s rare, self-deprecating jokes. “However my memories of the incident itself are disjointed and fragmentary at best. I believe the presence of our Praxian second in command, and possibly our third as well, was a significant factor in our thoughts and actions that day - too significant to be easily overlooked.”
Optimus Prime vented hard, raising his brow ridge as he was forced to relive even fragmentary memories of that day’s genocide.
“It is a potent example,” he murmured. His calm, eternal gaze turned to Bluestreak, still trembling a little but less so now, with Ratchet’s hand on his arm to anchor him. “And, as difficult as they may be, those memories should not be forgotten.”
Red sighed, one hand coming up to touch the side of his helm before returning to the datapad. His processor ached, but he wouldn’t rest until he’d put his failures right. “I believe it will be possible to recover much of Teletraan’s data given time, and assuming it isn’t overwritten with new input in the meantime. Unfortunately, it would appear that the process will take several orns, given the volume of data affected.”
“Still a slag-load easier with Teletraan 1 than with our own memories,” Ratchet muttered, rubbing the back of his helm. “I’ve not figured out where to start with that.”
“Red’s picking things out using the copies in this Prowl’s files, right?” Ironhide had a frown of concentration on his face. “So what about using the Auxiliary Crew?”
Bluestreak perked up hopefully, seeing what Ironhide was getting at. Prime looked interested. Red Alert had to pause and think about what was being suggested. The Ark’s auxiliary crew - mechs who’d volunteered to ride out the ship’s primary mission in stasis to eke out their depleted energon supply. At first, after they woke on this strange new world, the surviving sleepers had been left alone for the same reason. Since their alliance with the humans secured the Autobots’ energy needs, there’d been talk of bringing the stasis-locked crew around. The rapid pace of this world had simply left them no time to do it. In stasis, isolated from Teletraan 1, the auxiliary crew wouldn’t be affected by the memory loss, but...
“Wouldn’t work,” Ratchet stated flatly, just as Red was reaching the same conclusion. “It’s not like having an identical copy of an altered file to train a reconstruction algorithm. The mechs in stasis have memories of their own. They couldn’t tell you what’s missing from yours any better than Blue here can.”
Bluestreak’s wings drooped, his expression turned thoroughly miserable at Ratchet’s blunt words. Red Alert tried not to let the distraught youngling distract him. Dragging his attention back to his notes with an effort, he leaned back in his chair and fixed his optics on Prime, not allowing side issues to divert him from his key point.
“However, the fact remains that we have significant gaps in our tactical and reference, as well as our personal, databases.”
He hesitated, glance darting to the still-jittery Bluestreak before returning to the datapad in his hands. “And that is before we consider the probability that after an orn in captivity, one or both of our officers may have been compromised…”
“They wouldn’t tell the ‘Cons anything!” Bluestreak cut in indignantly.
“All officers are trained to resist interrogation for a finite period,” Red Alert agreed. “And there appears to be no doubt regarding their loyalty. However…”
“Jazz would tell them to stick it up their thrusters,” Blue insisted. “And no one can keep a secret like Prowl.”
Eyes resting on the stubborn youngling, Red Alert wondered how to phrase what had to be said. He shook his head, closing his mouth and turning to Ironhide with a silent appeal. The older officer leaned forward, reaching out gently to put a hand on Bluestreak’s arm.
“Ah, lil’ Blue, I know it’s kinda hard t’take in, but Red’s right. It’s been an orn an’ the ‘Cons won’t be being gentle, not with these two bein’ officers.”
“Prowl and Jazz would rather give up their sparks than betray us!”
The young gunner’s outburst fell into a grim silence. Bluestreak stared around the table in confusion for several seconds and then gasped. His door-wings jerked up in alarm, his vents stuttered and they all heard the revving of his engine as his systems reacted to his stress.
“No!” Bluestreak shook his head vehemently. “No! They can’t be gone. They just can’t be. They’re too good for that. They wouldn’t… they’d find a way to escape. You’ll see, they’ll find a way. They’ll get back here and walk through the door and we’ll all laugh about how dumb the ‘Cons were to think they could get away with this, and everything will be all right.” Bluestreak looked around the table of sombre faces. His door-wings wilted, falling slowly until they lay flat against his back. “They’re not dead,” he insisted. “They wouldn’t give up… they wouldn’t leave us.”
“Bluestreak, listen to me.” The gentle approach had failed. Now Red Alert put a sharp note in his voice, catching the attention of the rambling youngling. It was oddly satisfying to be able to return Prime’s favour and bring the other bot back down to Earth. Bluestreak’s too-bright optics snapped towards him, the young warrior hanging on his words. “It’s unlikely in the extreme that the Decepticons would put this much effort into their capture unless they were planning a lengthy and detailed interrogation. They would have no intention of allowing Jazz or Prowl to terminate after a mere orn - not given the amount of strategic information at stake and the unprecedented opportunity they have here. As far as they know, we remain unaware of even the potential for a security breach. They will not be unduly hasty in disposing of their new assets.”
Bluestreak, calming, held Red Alert’s optics for a few seconds before nodding. Red Alert vented, breaking the tension in the room. The Autobots present settled back in their chairs, shifting and glancing away to hide their discomfort.
“Nonetheless,” Red went on. “Preparing for a security breach is a straightforward and obvious precaution.” He glanced at Bluestreak, back down at his notes and took a guess based on what he’d learned about the missing officers. “Prowl would expect it of us,” he noted, satisfied when Bluestreak gave a reluctant nod.
“And you have that in hand, I assume?”
Red Alert turned towards his Prime, nodding. “It is a work in progress,” he conceded. “However, the defensive perimeters have been reprogrammed to alert me of any attempted access, whether or not it uses authorised codes, and Wheeljack has assisted me in designing several additional, ah…”
“Surprises,” the engineer offered helpfully, head-fins flashing a cheerful orange.
“Indeed,” he inclined his head towards his fellow officer in acknowledgement. “‘Surprises’ in the event that either our physical or data-security precautions are breached.”
Ironhide frowned and even Optimus Prime looked a little concerned at that, but didn’t ask anything further, placing his trust in his officers.
“Very well.” Prime shifted in his chair, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. There was a determined expression in his optics and a frown furrowing his brow. “Which leaves only the most important question of all. Autobots, two of our own are in the hands of Megatron and his Decepticons. How are we going to get them back?”
The silence that followed Prime’s question was deep and discouraged.
Red Alert looked around the room, his optics skimming away from Bluestreak’s increasingly worried ones. He’d hoped that at least one of his fellow officers would have a suggestion more workable than his own.
“Prime, I’m reluctant to suggest we send Mirage into the Nemesis to investigate.” That was an understatement. There was no appeal at all to the thought of putting the noble spy in so delicate a situation, all for the sake of two mechs that Red had never heard of a day ago. Especially when - reassuring words to Bluestreak notwithstanding - there was a significant probability he’d locate nothing but a pair of greyed-out frames. “Without some way to offer him an advantage it would be a substantial risk. We still have an incomplete picture of the situation, and we have to consider the possibility that Mirage’s abilities are now known to the Decepticons.”
Prime sighed, lifting one hand to still Bluestreak’s inevitable renewed protest. His hand shifted to his facemask, rubbing it tiredly. “I keep looking around, expecting someone to interrupt with a bold plan. Expecting there to be a voice of reason keeping us grounded, and seeing options that the rest of us have missed.” He looked around the room, expression almost hopeful, only to be met with blank faces. Whatever dim echoes Prime was getting from the Matrix, the rest of them could only go by their own fractured memories.
“You were friends for a long time,” Bluestreak volunteered, speaking nervously to fill the silence. “A really long time. You and Jazz and Prowl, and you, Ratchet, and all of you really. I thought maybe I remember them because I know them best, but you know, I’m not sure that’s true. I mean, you were working together before I was even sparked - long before.” His face crumpled in dismay. “It must be really hard for you having them not here.”
Ratchet and Ironhide exchanged looks. Red Alert glanced down, scanning his datapad for the sake of something to do. Even Prime shifted in his seat, discomforted. The honest truth, the one no one wanted to share with young Blue, was that it wasn’t hard at all. The violation was distressing, and the inconsistencies arising from it disconcerting, but it was hard to feel anything in particular about the absence of two mechs that they couldn’t recall ever having known.
Optimus seemed at a loss of words. Red Alert did his duty, speaking up to distract attention from his Prime.
“What might give our captives a little time and, perhaps give us the element of surprise, is that the Decepticons think us oblivious. We should attempt to prolong that. I advise we keep this information at an officer-only level, and limit the chances of the Decepticons learning of our discoveries. We must allow them to believe their virus has had the planned effect.”
“Planned effect…” Wheeljack mused, head-fins shading pale pink. His gaze drifted to Ratchet as he hummed thoughtfully. “And we want to give Ops an edge…”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“Is there anything about this situation to like?” Red Alert asked of no one in particular. No one could give him a good answer.
“Red!”
Red Alert hit the ground hard, rolling into the shelter of a rocky outcrop partly under his own volition, partly from the forceful shove that had sent him to the ground in the first place. Seeker-fire rained around them, and he didn’t need Inferno’s yell of warning to keep his head down.
Giving an inarticulate yell of frustration himself, Red tucked himself into the meagre shelter and fired off a where-are-you? ping at Mirage.
This wasn’t working. In this format he might be a Lamborghini, built for speed, but he was also in fire-chief colours, designed to be seen. He watched more battles from the Ark than from the ground, and even then would usually hang back with the long-range snipers and command element. He wasn’t good at being inconspicuous in the thick of things. Particularly with an overprotective and even more noticeable fire truck insisting on dogging his every step.
“The Seekers will lose interest in a few moments.” Red Alert predicted with more confidence than he felt, trying to get his head above the rocks for long enough to study their situation, and getting another gentle but very firm shove for his trouble.
“Keep down,” Inferno urged, hunkered down beside him. “I don’t get it, Red. What are we doing all the way out here?”
“I must say I was wondering the same thing.” The unexpected voice had both mechs twisting around, weapons in hand, before its refined accent and air of gentle sarcasm penetrated. Mirage gave them a moment to identify him before fading into view. The blue and white Ligier crouched beside them, sharing their shelter despite the fact that neither had heard him approach.
Red Alert vented a sigh of relief.
“You were close by?” he noted unnecessarily.
It hadn’t been a forgone conclusion when Red pinged him. Special Ops mechs worked outside the direct line of command in battles - even completely unexpected, skirmish-turned-minor-battles like this one - free to exercise their skills where they thought best. For all he’d known, Mirage could have been half an hour away on the other side of the unusually chaotic, impromptu battlefield. It was a relief to find him closer.
Mirage nodded, venturing a glance over their outcrop and unfolding a little. He huffed a shallow breath through his vents, inclining his head towards the hollow where Bluestreak and the other ranged fighters who’d rallied to support their ambushed scouts had set up.
“Bluestreak has been somewhat distracted of late. I felt he could use another pair of eyes watching his back.”
There was no time in the midst of battle for the thought that Bluestreak was the weak link in their façade of ignorance. Red Alert put it firmly aside, knowing he was being uncharitable. If all went to plan here, it’d soon be of little importance. Catching Mirage with his optics, Red Alert held his gaze, trying to convey the import of what he was about to say. He reached into his subspace, pulling out a compact metallic disk - the transmitter Wheeljack had pressed into his hands as they headed out of the Ark.
“How close can you get to the ‘Con lines?”
“As close as I need to be - if the cause is sufficient?” Mirage let his voice drift upwards on a questioning note, his wary optics and, no doubt, elaborate sensor suite scanning the device.
Red Alert risked another glance around the outcrop that sheltered them, taking advantage of Inferno’s confused distraction. Megatron and Prime were exchanging insults in the centre of the battlefield. Soundwave surveyed the skirmish from a small hillock a little behind them, his cassettes covering him, and Starscream’s elite Seeker trine swept overhead. A little off to the south, three of the Constructicons were engaged with Ironhide and the makeshift squad he’d been able to pull together. A good fraction of the Earth-based Decepticons, in other words, drawing the Autobots out to test their strength after the viral attack. It was as good an opportunity as they were going to get. Certainly the best they’d had in the two frustrating days since Wheeljack suggested their only workable plan.
Aware of Mirage’s attention still on him, even if the spy’s optics swept the skirmish in a constant survey, Red Alert nodded.
“It’s sufficient.”
He hefted the device, flicking a panel on its base open and arming it as Wheeljack instructed. He held it out and Mirage accepted it warily.
“This will send out a radio pulse to every Decepticon in range. It’ll register as a simple location ping on Decepticon frequencies.” Ratchet might not have been happy as he retooled the virus to bypass Decepticon firewalls, muttering about the evils of viral warfare, but if he was going to do this, he was going to do it carefully and well. “They won’t even realise anything out of the ordinary has happened.”
“A sensor ping?” Mirage studied the disk, giving Red Alert a baffled look. “That’s all?”
“That’s all they’ll see. Make sure as many of them as possible get it.”
Mirage pushed Red Alert to the ground a moment before the Security Director registered Laserbeak zeroing in on their location. Inferno dived beside them as laser fire flashed overhead, Red reaching out to pull his friend into what meagre cover there was. Mirage didn’t take his optics off their attacker. The Ligier turned, drew his weapon and fired in one graceful movement, forcing the cassetticon to retreat.
“Range?” he demanded, weapon still in one hand even as he held the transmitter in his other.
Red Alert told him, relieved. “And, Mirage, if you can’t do it - if something goes wrong - let me know. I’ll have to try another way.”
“It’s that important?” Mirage asked, his voice distorting subtly as he faded from sight.
“More than you can imagine, Mirage,” Red Alert murmured into thin air, not knowing if the Special Ops mech was still in range or whether he was already gone. He turned to Inferno, waving for his bewildered companion to lead the way as they headed towards the ranged fighters, ready to take Mirage’s place in support of their young gunner. Even as he ducked and ran, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder searching the field for the long-gone spy. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
Red Alert - The Big Picture
“Slag it.”
Red Alert didn’t often indulge in profanity. This seemed to be the time for it. He glanced up at the bank of security monitors on the wall above him as much to reassure himself with their familiarity as to check their content. Venting a sigh, he let his optics sink back down to the report on his desktop display, and the undeniable facts it contained. A frown creased his brow-ridges. His tanks churned, but there was no avoiding this, and every klick of delay was an unacceptable risk. With an abrupt, decisive motion, he stood, reaching for a box stored on the shelf behind his desk before heading to the door.
“Enter.” Optimus Prime responded at once to his office door chime. The Prime’s deep voice was level, and as calm as it could be given the situation. Despite that, Red found he had to pause, cooling his systems and reaching for the professional air he strived to maintain at all times.
He knew that he couldn’t honestly be blamed for the mistake. His analysis of the data their scout team brought back from the site of last orn’s Decepticon skirmish had been thorough and completed to the best of his abilities, based on the information he had at the time. In retrospect though…
“I stand by 83 percent of my initial analysis,” he announced without preamble.
Prime, well accustomed to his Security Director’s focus, merely waved him to a chair, optics intent.
“The Utah incident?”
“Paint flakes scraped from their armour - pale purple and mid-blue respectively - confirm the presence of Skywarp and Thundercracker. The third pair of Seeker thruster-marks are almost certainly Starscream’s, based both on his trine’s presence and his proven skill in avoiding paint-chipping damage.” Red Alert knew he was being defensive. Even so, he couldn’t help laying out the correct findings in advance of the errors. He perched on the edge of Prime’s guest chair, box resting on his knees as he went on. “Fusion cannon damage on some of the township’s buildings strongly imply Megatron’s presence, while a range of smaller footprints and associated damage trails place Soundwave, or at least several of his cassettes, on the ground.”
The deep blue glow of Optimus’s optics had faded through the roll call, despite the fact that he’d already seen the initial version of Red Alert’s report and nothing in it had changed thus far.
“Most of the Decepticon high command, in fact.”
Red Alert nodded. “It’s possible others were present, but left no trace detectable by the time we surveyed the area.” They hadn’t looked hard. The obvious traces had been deemed sufficient. If the amount of damage, and the drying pools of corrosive energon, were anything to go by, the battle had been fierce.
“Go on,” Prime said softly, sensing his officer’s hesitation.
There was nothing for it. Red Alert cycled his vents, his optics sliding away from his commander’s. “We also detected flakes of unfamiliar black and white paint in several locations, one piece of damaged white thigh-plating not attributable to any known mech, and indications of an acid weapon in use.”
Optimus Prime greeted his words with a flat silence. Red shook his head, his optics glued to the desk as he went on.
“We initially interpreted these to indicate the arrival of a new Decepticon on Earth, perhaps one insane enough to challenge both Megatron and Starscream for the leadership. In light of new considerations…”
Even now, after several Earth hours to absorb Bluestreak’s insistence that Autobots were involved and Prime’s surprising support for that assertion, Red Alert still felt his processors trying to fritz over the implications.
“… I am forced to revisit that conclusion. Acid pellets have conventionally been considered an Autobot weapon. White is an unusual colour for a Decepticon, and both black and white carried a gloss finish that most Decepticons would reject as impractical and undesirable. Reanalysis of the battle damage suggests at least one, perhaps two, ground-based mechs, with some evidence for tyre tracks that may originate from their alt forms - again comparatively unusual for a ‘Con.” Red Alert looked up, reluctantly. “The evidence is circumstantial. But given the independent testimony of Bluestreak and Elita One, I can only conclude that there were indeed Autobots involved in the incident in question.”
This time it was Optimus Prime who looked away, dimming his optics for a few seconds. This time it was his voice that trembled a little.
“There was damaged plating?”
Red Alert nodded sombrely, looking down at the box on his knees. It had been searched, scanned and examined at length for any sort of hazard, before being stored in the Security Office until Perceptor was well enough to reopen his analysis lab. Now he opened it slowly, gazing down at the specks of white and black paint and the three-foot-long strip of Cybertronian metal within. He swept it with another security scan, just in case, before reaching in. Lifting the mud-streaked white metal plate out, cautious of its jagged, energon-tinted edges, he studied it for a long moment, trying to place the mech who had worn it, or feel anything other than frustration and a mild dread at the implications of this small fragment of armour.
Venting and shaking his head, Red Alert lifted it across the desk, presenting the plating to Optimus Prime with considerably more respect than he’d have shown to some ‘Con’s cast off.
“It is…difficult… to accept that this belonged to a friend,” Optimus noted carefully. He didn’t add that it might be the last fragment of the mech they ever found. Both already knew that and a glance was all the mutual acknowledgment they needed.
“Optimus, are you sure?” The question burst from Red Alert before he could censor it. “Are you really sure that this not some elaborate Decepticon ruse to force us to accept this ‘Jazz’ and ‘Prowl’ as our own? There’s one person aboard - just one - that has any real belief that the mechs even exist! Are you truly certain of they’re not infiltrators, trying to steal past our security and allow the Decepticons to overwhelm us all as we recharge…?”
Prime looked up at him, more sympathy in his eyes than Red Alert had any right to expect. Red felt his plating heat, and dropped his eyes in shame as his voice trailed away. If he was honest with himself, the possibility of a Decepticon ploy - beyond that already exposed - was slim to say the least. In truth, it wasn’t that Red Alert didn’t believe his Prime’s calm statement that two of their officers were missing… simply that he didn’t want to.
Everything within Red Alert, all that he was, recoiled in horror at the mere thought that this could happen. The Decepticons had taken captive two of the Ark’s own. They’d violated the integrity not only of the Ark, but every single mech aboard her. Not even the finest rose-tinted visor Inferno had to offer could disguise that as anything but the grossest of failures on Red Alert’s part.
“Are you sure?” Red whispered again.
Optimus vented a deep sigh, cradling the torn plating in his huge hands.
“Can I afford not to be?”
“We all got it from Teletraan One?” Ironhide summarised Red Alert’s opening statement in one sentence, glancing at Ratchet for confirmation.
Suppressing his sigh, Red Alert looked around the Senior Officers’ meeting to check everyone else was following before he nodded. Even with Bluestreak as a nervous and fidgety interloper, there was still a vacant chair at the table. He gazed at it with mild resentment, unable to hide his displeasure. Ratchet had already been over this point, albeit in medical jargon. Red Alert had merely intended to put it in the context of his own report, not reopen it for debate.
“Every mech interfaces with Teletraan on a routine and regular basis. Infections would have been passed on rapidly. Initial infection most likely originated in either a radio transmission or a casetticon infiltration.”
He couldn’t help but flinch as he spoke. The persistence and creativity the Decepticon cassettes showed in infiltrating the Ark was his longest-running processor-ache, and his greatest ongoing failure.
“And Teletraan seems to be forgetting things just like the rest of us,” Ratchet jumped in, taking advantage of his hesitation. The medic looked tired, massaging the base of his broad chevron with one finger, as if that would ease the processor ache behind it. Red held onto his patience with an effort, counted under his breath and jumped ahead in his prepared notes, past the point that Ratchet had just blurted out.
“Using the duplicate records in, ah, Prowl’s office for comparison, I’ve made progress on identifying several distinctive signatures that indicate an altered file.” He glanced down at his notes. “I am still working on an algorithm to recover the missing material, but in the majority of cases, it looks like a simple deletion of names from mission reports and schedules, as well as personal records, room assignments and similar.”
“But that wouldn’t…”
Red Alert cut Ironhide’s eighth interruption of the afternoon off with a glare. The red-clad mech held up a placating hand.
“Whoa, okay, Red, I’ll hold my horses for a while and let you get what you’ve got to say off of your chest.”
The older officer’s human colloquialism was met with a blank stare of incomprehension from Red Alert and a chuckle from the rest of the table despite the serious atmosphere. Red vented a sigh, rubbing his sensory horns to calm himself.
“Where deletions in a file exceeded some coherency threshold, it appears the file was removed in its entirety. I’ve identified several Special Ops files extensively referred to in cross-references but apparently no longer extant.”
“Jazz,” Bluestreak murmured sadly.
“I assume so.” Red paused, rubbing again at the sides of his helm. He could feel the pressure building there, the static charge mounting. “There could have been crucial strategic and security information in those files. The extent of the loss is incalculable - we could be on our back pedes against the Decepticons for vorns if the files can’t be recovered! For all we know, they may even now be massing at some forward base we’ve forgotten we know about!”
“Red Alert,” Prime’s deep rumble cut through the jumble of chaotic thoughts in Red’s processor. It was like soothing balm on his frayed nerves. The losing battle he’d been fighting for the last twenty-four hours - trying to both identify and curtail the access of two officers considerably more senior than himself - had left him not far from fritzing and suspicious of anything he was told. Nothing in Red Alert’s programming however, or in his years of loyal service, would allow him to disbelieve his Prime. “Red, I think it’s unlikely we would have dispatched two senior officers on a… school tour?” he glanced at Bluestreak for confirmation, “…if we had any intelligence of an impending attack.”
“Yes.” Red cycled his optics and sent a mental plea to his cooling fans to handle his overheating frame. The red mist subsided from around the edges of his mind and he vented hard. “That makes sense, yes. Thank you, Prime.”
He stared blankly at his notes for a few seconds, struggling to recall what he had been saying.
“File deletions. Yes. Perhaps the most striking example - and the strongest indication that both Teletraan and individual bots are experiencing a similar phenomenon - is the fall of Praxus.”
A hiss from Ratchet broke Red Alert’s concentration, and he twisted slightly in his seat, only then remembering the company he was in. Young Bluestreak hadn’t made a sound, but he was sitting bolt upright in his seat, his optics so bright they were almost white, the tips of his door-wings quivering and his expression curiously blank.
Red Alert was not a naturally cruel mech. He pursed his lips, head tilted to one side and vented a sigh. “Bluestreak, perhaps you’d like to wait outside for a breem or so?”
The sound of his name seemed to draw the young gunner out of his daze. He blinked at Red Alert, and then looked towards Ratchet, before shaking his head. He was still tense, painfully so, but the unnatural glow of his optics faded a little. He drew in a vent before speaking, his voice shaky.
“I want to stay. I want to help. You said… you said… Praxus?”
“There are scarcely any records of that major incident or its immediate aftermath in Teletraan 1’s databanks.” Red Alert went on, optics drifting between Bluestreak and Ratchet, ready to stop and return to this topic later if need be. “Having examined my own memory core and queried several other mechs, it’s clear that the memories of all the command crew are similarly scarce. I know that the Autobots attended the scene. I clearly remember a certain youngling exploring every possible security hazard on base in the orns that followed.” Bluestreak stared, and then managed a weak smile despite his trembling wingtips, surprised to find himself the subject of one of Red Alert’s rare, self-deprecating jokes. “However my memories of the incident itself are disjointed and fragmentary at best. I believe the presence of our Praxian second in command, and possibly our third as well, was a significant factor in our thoughts and actions that day - too significant to be easily overlooked.”
Optimus Prime vented hard, raising his brow ridge as he was forced to relive even fragmentary memories of that day’s genocide.
“It is a potent example,” he murmured. His calm, eternal gaze turned to Bluestreak, still trembling a little but less so now, with Ratchet’s hand on his arm to anchor him. “And, as difficult as they may be, those memories should not be forgotten.”
Red sighed, one hand coming up to touch the side of his helm before returning to the datapad. His processor ached, but he wouldn’t rest until he’d put his failures right. “I believe it will be possible to recover much of Teletraan’s data given time, and assuming it isn’t overwritten with new input in the meantime. Unfortunately, it would appear that the process will take several orns, given the volume of data affected.”
“Still a slag-load easier with Teletraan 1 than with our own memories,” Ratchet muttered, rubbing the back of his helm. “I’ve not figured out where to start with that.”
“Red’s picking things out using the copies in this Prowl’s files, right?” Ironhide had a frown of concentration on his face. “So what about using the Auxiliary Crew?”
Bluestreak perked up hopefully, seeing what Ironhide was getting at. Prime looked interested. Red Alert had to pause and think about what was being suggested. The Ark’s auxiliary crew - mechs who’d volunteered to ride out the ship’s primary mission in stasis to eke out their depleted energon supply. At first, after they woke on this strange new world, the surviving sleepers had been left alone for the same reason. Since their alliance with the humans secured the Autobots’ energy needs, there’d been talk of bringing the stasis-locked crew around. The rapid pace of this world had simply left them no time to do it. In stasis, isolated from Teletraan 1, the auxiliary crew wouldn’t be affected by the memory loss, but...
“Wouldn’t work,” Ratchet stated flatly, just as Red was reaching the same conclusion. “It’s not like having an identical copy of an altered file to train a reconstruction algorithm. The mechs in stasis have memories of their own. They couldn’t tell you what’s missing from yours any better than Blue here can.”
Bluestreak’s wings drooped, his expression turned thoroughly miserable at Ratchet’s blunt words. Red Alert tried not to let the distraught youngling distract him. Dragging his attention back to his notes with an effort, he leaned back in his chair and fixed his optics on Prime, not allowing side issues to divert him from his key point.
“However, the fact remains that we have significant gaps in our tactical and reference, as well as our personal, databases.”
He hesitated, glance darting to the still-jittery Bluestreak before returning to the datapad in his hands. “And that is before we consider the probability that after an orn in captivity, one or both of our officers may have been compromised…”
“They wouldn’t tell the ‘Cons anything!” Bluestreak cut in indignantly.
“All officers are trained to resist interrogation for a finite period,” Red Alert agreed. “And there appears to be no doubt regarding their loyalty. However…”
“Jazz would tell them to stick it up their thrusters,” Blue insisted. “And no one can keep a secret like Prowl.”
Eyes resting on the stubborn youngling, Red Alert wondered how to phrase what had to be said. He shook his head, closing his mouth and turning to Ironhide with a silent appeal. The older officer leaned forward, reaching out gently to put a hand on Bluestreak’s arm.
“Ah, lil’ Blue, I know it’s kinda hard t’take in, but Red’s right. It’s been an orn an’ the ‘Cons won’t be being gentle, not with these two bein’ officers.”
“Prowl and Jazz would rather give up their sparks than betray us!”
The young gunner’s outburst fell into a grim silence. Bluestreak stared around the table in confusion for several seconds and then gasped. His door-wings jerked up in alarm, his vents stuttered and they all heard the revving of his engine as his systems reacted to his stress.
“No!” Bluestreak shook his head vehemently. “No! They can’t be gone. They just can’t be. They’re too good for that. They wouldn’t… they’d find a way to escape. You’ll see, they’ll find a way. They’ll get back here and walk through the door and we’ll all laugh about how dumb the ‘Cons were to think they could get away with this, and everything will be all right.” Bluestreak looked around the table of sombre faces. His door-wings wilted, falling slowly until they lay flat against his back. “They’re not dead,” he insisted. “They wouldn’t give up… they wouldn’t leave us.”
“Bluestreak, listen to me.” The gentle approach had failed. Now Red Alert put a sharp note in his voice, catching the attention of the rambling youngling. It was oddly satisfying to be able to return Prime’s favour and bring the other bot back down to Earth. Bluestreak’s too-bright optics snapped towards him, the young warrior hanging on his words. “It’s unlikely in the extreme that the Decepticons would put this much effort into their capture unless they were planning a lengthy and detailed interrogation. They would have no intention of allowing Jazz or Prowl to terminate after a mere orn - not given the amount of strategic information at stake and the unprecedented opportunity they have here. As far as they know, we remain unaware of even the potential for a security breach. They will not be unduly hasty in disposing of their new assets.”
Bluestreak, calming, held Red Alert’s optics for a few seconds before nodding. Red Alert vented, breaking the tension in the room. The Autobots present settled back in their chairs, shifting and glancing away to hide their discomfort.
“Nonetheless,” Red went on. “Preparing for a security breach is a straightforward and obvious precaution.” He glanced at Bluestreak, back down at his notes and took a guess based on what he’d learned about the missing officers. “Prowl would expect it of us,” he noted, satisfied when Bluestreak gave a reluctant nod.
“And you have that in hand, I assume?”
Red Alert turned towards his Prime, nodding. “It is a work in progress,” he conceded. “However, the defensive perimeters have been reprogrammed to alert me of any attempted access, whether or not it uses authorised codes, and Wheeljack has assisted me in designing several additional, ah…”
“Surprises,” the engineer offered helpfully, head-fins flashing a cheerful orange.
“Indeed,” he inclined his head towards his fellow officer in acknowledgement. “‘Surprises’ in the event that either our physical or data-security precautions are breached.”
Ironhide frowned and even Optimus Prime looked a little concerned at that, but didn’t ask anything further, placing his trust in his officers.
“Very well.” Prime shifted in his chair, leaning forward and resting his arms on the table. There was a determined expression in his optics and a frown furrowing his brow. “Which leaves only the most important question of all. Autobots, two of our own are in the hands of Megatron and his Decepticons. How are we going to get them back?”
The silence that followed Prime’s question was deep and discouraged.
Red Alert looked around the room, his optics skimming away from Bluestreak’s increasingly worried ones. He’d hoped that at least one of his fellow officers would have a suggestion more workable than his own.
“Prime, I’m reluctant to suggest we send Mirage into the Nemesis to investigate.” That was an understatement. There was no appeal at all to the thought of putting the noble spy in so delicate a situation, all for the sake of two mechs that Red had never heard of a day ago. Especially when - reassuring words to Bluestreak notwithstanding - there was a significant probability he’d locate nothing but a pair of greyed-out frames. “Without some way to offer him an advantage it would be a substantial risk. We still have an incomplete picture of the situation, and we have to consider the possibility that Mirage’s abilities are now known to the Decepticons.”
Prime sighed, lifting one hand to still Bluestreak’s inevitable renewed protest. His hand shifted to his facemask, rubbing it tiredly. “I keep looking around, expecting someone to interrupt with a bold plan. Expecting there to be a voice of reason keeping us grounded, and seeing options that the rest of us have missed.” He looked around the room, expression almost hopeful, only to be met with blank faces. Whatever dim echoes Prime was getting from the Matrix, the rest of them could only go by their own fractured memories.
“You were friends for a long time,” Bluestreak volunteered, speaking nervously to fill the silence. “A really long time. You and Jazz and Prowl, and you, Ratchet, and all of you really. I thought maybe I remember them because I know them best, but you know, I’m not sure that’s true. I mean, you were working together before I was even sparked - long before.” His face crumpled in dismay. “It must be really hard for you having them not here.”
Ratchet and Ironhide exchanged looks. Red Alert glanced down, scanning his datapad for the sake of something to do. Even Prime shifted in his seat, discomforted. The honest truth, the one no one wanted to share with young Blue, was that it wasn’t hard at all. The violation was distressing, and the inconsistencies arising from it disconcerting, but it was hard to feel anything in particular about the absence of two mechs that they couldn’t recall ever having known.
Optimus seemed at a loss of words. Red Alert did his duty, speaking up to distract attention from his Prime.
“What might give our captives a little time and, perhaps give us the element of surprise, is that the Decepticons think us oblivious. We should attempt to prolong that. I advise we keep this information at an officer-only level, and limit the chances of the Decepticons learning of our discoveries. We must allow them to believe their virus has had the planned effect.”
“Planned effect…” Wheeljack mused, head-fins shading pale pink. His gaze drifted to Ratchet as he hummed thoughtfully. “And we want to give Ops an edge…”
Ratchet’s optics narrowed. “Whatever you’re thinking, I’m not going to like it, am I?”
“Is there anything about this situation to like?” Red Alert asked of no one in particular. No one could give him a good answer.
“Red!”
Red Alert hit the ground hard, rolling into the shelter of a rocky outcrop partly under his own volition, partly from the forceful shove that had sent him to the ground in the first place. Seeker-fire rained around them, and he didn’t need Inferno’s yell of warning to keep his head down.
Giving an inarticulate yell of frustration himself, Red tucked himself into the meagre shelter and fired off a where-are-you? ping at Mirage.
This wasn’t working. In this format he might be a Lamborghini, built for speed, but he was also in fire-chief colours, designed to be seen. He watched more battles from the Ark than from the ground, and even then would usually hang back with the long-range snipers and command element. He wasn’t good at being inconspicuous in the thick of things. Particularly with an overprotective and even more noticeable fire truck insisting on dogging his every step.
“The Seekers will lose interest in a few moments.” Red Alert predicted with more confidence than he felt, trying to get his head above the rocks for long enough to study their situation, and getting another gentle but very firm shove for his trouble.
“Keep down,” Inferno urged, hunkered down beside him. “I don’t get it, Red. What are we doing all the way out here?”
“I must say I was wondering the same thing.” The unexpected voice had both mechs twisting around, weapons in hand, before its refined accent and air of gentle sarcasm penetrated. Mirage gave them a moment to identify him before fading into view. The blue and white Ligier crouched beside them, sharing their shelter despite the fact that neither had heard him approach.
Red Alert vented a sigh of relief.
“You were close by?” he noted unnecessarily.
It hadn’t been a forgone conclusion when Red pinged him. Special Ops mechs worked outside the direct line of command in battles - even completely unexpected, skirmish-turned-minor-battles like this one - free to exercise their skills where they thought best. For all he’d known, Mirage could have been half an hour away on the other side of the unusually chaotic, impromptu battlefield. It was a relief to find him closer.
Mirage nodded, venturing a glance over their outcrop and unfolding a little. He huffed a shallow breath through his vents, inclining his head towards the hollow where Bluestreak and the other ranged fighters who’d rallied to support their ambushed scouts had set up.
“Bluestreak has been somewhat distracted of late. I felt he could use another pair of eyes watching his back.”
There was no time in the midst of battle for the thought that Bluestreak was the weak link in their façade of ignorance. Red Alert put it firmly aside, knowing he was being uncharitable. If all went to plan here, it’d soon be of little importance. Catching Mirage with his optics, Red Alert held his gaze, trying to convey the import of what he was about to say. He reached into his subspace, pulling out a compact metallic disk - the transmitter Wheeljack had pressed into his hands as they headed out of the Ark.
“How close can you get to the ‘Con lines?”
“As close as I need to be - if the cause is sufficient?” Mirage let his voice drift upwards on a questioning note, his wary optics and, no doubt, elaborate sensor suite scanning the device.
Red Alert risked another glance around the outcrop that sheltered them, taking advantage of Inferno’s confused distraction. Megatron and Prime were exchanging insults in the centre of the battlefield. Soundwave surveyed the skirmish from a small hillock a little behind them, his cassettes covering him, and Starscream’s elite Seeker trine swept overhead. A little off to the south, three of the Constructicons were engaged with Ironhide and the makeshift squad he’d been able to pull together. A good fraction of the Earth-based Decepticons, in other words, drawing the Autobots out to test their strength after the viral attack. It was as good an opportunity as they were going to get. Certainly the best they’d had in the two frustrating days since Wheeljack suggested their only workable plan.
Aware of Mirage’s attention still on him, even if the spy’s optics swept the skirmish in a constant survey, Red Alert nodded.
“It’s sufficient.”
He hefted the device, flicking a panel on its base open and arming it as Wheeljack instructed. He held it out and Mirage accepted it warily.
“This will send out a radio pulse to every Decepticon in range. It’ll register as a simple location ping on Decepticon frequencies.” Ratchet might not have been happy as he retooled the virus to bypass Decepticon firewalls, muttering about the evils of viral warfare, but if he was going to do this, he was going to do it carefully and well. “They won’t even realise anything out of the ordinary has happened.”
“A sensor ping?” Mirage studied the disk, giving Red Alert a baffled look. “That’s all?”
“That’s all they’ll see. Make sure as many of them as possible get it.”
Mirage pushed Red Alert to the ground a moment before the Security Director registered Laserbeak zeroing in on their location. Inferno dived beside them as laser fire flashed overhead, Red reaching out to pull his friend into what meagre cover there was. Mirage didn’t take his optics off their attacker. The Ligier turned, drew his weapon and fired in one graceful movement, forcing the cassetticon to retreat.
“Range?” he demanded, weapon still in one hand even as he held the transmitter in his other.
Red Alert told him, relieved. “And, Mirage, if you can’t do it - if something goes wrong - let me know. I’ll have to try another way.”
“It’s that important?” Mirage asked, his voice distorting subtly as he faded from sight.
“More than you can imagine, Mirage,” Red Alert murmured into thin air, not knowing if the Special Ops mech was still in range or whether he was already gone. He turned to Inferno, waving for his bewildered companion to lead the way as they headed towards the ranged fighters, ready to take Mirage’s place in support of their young gunner. Even as he ducked and ran, he couldn’t resist a glance over his shoulder searching the field for the long-gone spy. “More than you can possibly imagine.”