You were born a fighter,
In the blood a mighty warrior;
Driven by desire,
Gory calls, it's waiting for you.
There's a burning passion
Deep inside, a silent power;
With a quick reaction
Lightning strikes, you fight for honor.
You'll never stop till you're number one,
It's only a matter of time.
You'll never give up, you'll never run,
You're laying your life on the line!
Never Surrender!
Never say die.
You've got the heart of a hero.
-Stan Bush, "Never Surrender"
|
Cybertron; 10 million years B.P.
The cityscape lay in ruins, the result of centuries of poverty
and neglect, and the quick, savage street-battles that erupted daily
between the residents resourceful and vicious enough to survive here.
What had once been gleaming buildings were now tarnished, burnt-out
husks, some partially toppled; what had once been efficient transport
ways lay shattered over the cracked streets, themselves an obstacle
course of shrapnel and broken glass and the occasional incendiary
device awaiting the trigger of a nearby footfall. Single individuals did
not survive here -- anyone foolish enough to venture into the streets
alone, quickly fell prey to the packs of robots that banded together for
protection and power. The Scraps, they were called, and they roamed
the streets and battled each other to the death for what meager
resources they could wring from the decay around them. While most
of them wore the Decepticon brand (Perihellia was nominally a
Decepticon city, after all), no Decepticon warrior would rightfully call
them kin -- for their animalistic survival here in the wreckage bore
little resemblance to the military pride and discipline of the
Decepticon armies to the north and south.
Perihellia was situated squarely on Cybertron's equator, and
thus had been given its name -- from "perihelion," meaning "the point
closest to the sun." Even the unpolished metal of the present-day ruins
flashed brilliantly in the relentless glare. The sun beat down like a
physical force. The heat was implacable and relentless, day after day,
sucking every trace of moisture out of the air and radiating back from
the broken buildings to bake the city as if in a stifling oven. And
indeed, the most precious commodity fought over by the Scraps was
not life-giving fuel or addictive narcotics, but coolant and lubricant,
even water. They would siphon the coolant out of a fallen rival or
hapless victim without even bothering to kill him first -- it took too
much time, time in which they might be interrupted -- and besides, the
donor would die soon anyway as his circuitry overheated and delicate
wires and chips began to melt. The members of the Scrap pack then
fought among each other for possession of the prize; they fell upon
their own weaker members if need be, and only the very strongest
remained alive.
So the city's name had long ago gained another meaning.
Peri-hell-ia: "in the vicinity of hell." And while Cybertron had been
wracked by advancing and receding waves of civil war for the past
countless millennia, even the great armies avoided it like a rust
plague. There was no strategic advantage to be gained by possessing
these scorched streets and broken buildings, this festering wound of
heat and misery and cut-throat survival. While the city had once
doubtless been habitable, even modern and civilized, it was so long
ago that no one living could remember it. The old adage was that
"nothing good ever came out of Perihellia" -- and nothing good that
went in, ever came out.
It was perhaps for this reason that the Total Warfare
Munitions Plant had set up shop deep in the heart of the city. Funded
with staggering sums from Decepticon high command, they were free
to develop, test, and manufacture weapons without fear of
intervention, and ship them to the Decepticon armies around the
planet. Assembly lines churned out the latest in lethal weaponry day
and night; scientists and technicians scampered round-the-clock to
invent newer and ever-deadlier designs. In addition to the huge,
blocky dark building that housed the assembly plant, laboratories, and
offices for the overseers, Total Warfare had its own landing pad and
fleet of transport shuttles -- and even its own small creation factory for
turning out the necessary perimeter guards, to keep the starving Scraps
at bay. Autobot high command knew of their location, but did not
dare enter the city to shut them down; besides, it was rumored that the
factory overseers dealt arms to the Autobots as well.
Tron-Unit 646 stalked along the perimeter of the heavily
electrified fence that enclosed the Total Warfare complex. In the city
beyond, half a dozen coils of smoke rose almost vertically into the
molten-brass of the sky. The distant clatter of a primitive rapid-fire
projectile weapon was barely enough to intrude on the stillness. 646
himself was armed with the latest in plasma blasters -- a pair of long
silver cannons ran the lengths of his arms, hooked directly into his
voluntary neurocircuitry, and would make short work of any Scrap
who dared to approach the munitions plant. Not many had tried it in
recent months, but sometimes desperation drove them to their deaths;
Total Warfare had nothing if not ample supplies of fuel on hand for
running its factory. Even here along the fence, 646 could feel the
subaudial vibrations of the massive assembly-line machinery as it
worked in the sublevels of the building behind him.
He passed another Tron-Unit patrolling in the opposite
direction along the fence. The other was identical to him, to all of
them -- a large, well-proportioned pale-silver robot with very little
needless ornamentation or color. They exchanged no words, not even
a glance. The overseers did not approve of conversation among the
Tron-Units. And in fact, there would have been little to talk about.
The Tron-Units were manufactured here at the plant, and knew
nothing except their duty -- to guard the plant and its products, its
overseers and their guests, at any cost. Their own lives were
irrelevant; it was the factory that was important. No Tron-Unit would
have hesitated to lay down his life in defense of the complex or at the
order of an overseer. They were the newest in a line of guards that
Total Warfare had been whittling to perfection for the last few years --
built to look sleek and menacing in both robot and cannon modes,
immensely powerful and well-armored, sentient, even intelligent.
Theory had it that a sentient guard was a more effective fighter --
though of course that sentience had to be kept tightly under control,
lest it should ever develop into a willpower of its own. That was
where thylazine came in.
646 felt the familiar tingling in his fuel tanks as the time for
his dose grew nearer -- a tingling that would soon turn to pain if he
was denied his twice-daily measure of thylazine too long. Sometimes
the overseers let the Tron-Units wait a while for their dose, to increase
their discomfort and remind them that they were utterly dependent
upon the drug, and that the overseers had the power to give or to
withhold. If the mind-numbing effect of the drug itself was not
enough to keep the perimeter guards in line, then the thought of losing
access to thylazine surely was. It had been infused into their circuits
from the first hour of their consciousness, and they were forever after
dependent on it.
Sometimes, though, the fog lifted just a bit. 646 felt deep
inside himself that something was indefinably wrong. When he
struggled to examine the feeling more closely, to put a name on it, the
thylazine haze closed in again and he lost the thought. But
sometimes, as now, he looked around at his fellow Tron-Units as they
patrolled the fence under the hot sun -- surely feeling the first traces of
withdrawal as he was, and never letting on, never flinching in the heat
-- and wondered if any of them ever questioned their existence.
"We're nothing but a bunch of addicts," he thought to himself, "the
most powerful robots in the city, even the overseers couldn't stand
against us, and yet we're just pathetic addicts -- and ..." And what?
And what was bad about that? The thought trickled away. 646
continued his patrol of the fence, ignoring the tingling in his fuel
tanks.
The soft hum of antigrav engines caught his attention as his
route took him close to the main entrance. Looking up, he saw the
wedge-shaped form of a small shuttle -- not one of the bulky transport
shuttles but one of the private ships used by the overseers.
Emblazoned along both sides were the red-on-black lightening bolts
that made up the Total Warfare logo, while a triangular Decepticon
symbol such as he himself wore, was painted down the ship's sloping
front. Its shadow passed over him as it slowly hovered downward
toward the landing pad some distance from the main building.
646 snapped to attention as the sliding doors beside him
opened to reveal Karrallis, a tall, slender Decepticon colored much
like his company's logo in red-on-black. As the founder of Total
Warfare and its most influential executive, he was seldom seen in
public and did not bother with visitors unless they were exceptionally
important. 646 himself had only caught a glimpse of him once before.
Now Karrallis looked at him directly. "Attend me, Tron-Unit," he
snapped, turning toward the landing pad.
Some wisp of protest darted through 646's mind. It was
getting to be time for his dose, dammit! He didn't have time to escort
some company executive who was afraid to step outside the building
without a bodyguard, and then perhaps some nameless visitor, back
and forth from the shuttle....
The tingling in his fuel tanks increased to a level approaching
discomfort. 646 looked at Karrallis and knew he could break the
overseer in half.
Karrallis started towards the shuttle pad. Meekly, 646
followed.
The small ship was still closed up tightly when they reached
the landing pad. Upon Karrallis' arrival, with the obligatory Tron-
Unit, the side hatch slid open and a smallish Decepticon stepped out --
one of the many pilots employed by the plant. He glanced around
nervously in the direction of the perimeter fence and the city beyond,
but nothing moved there except the flickering heat waves. Satisfied,
he stepped aside to let the shuttle's passenger disembark.
646, as was his duty, kept the bulk of his attention focused on
their surroundings, scanning for any sign of danger from beyond the
fence. But from the corner of his optics he watched the passenger, an
impossibly ancient female Transformer who bore no symbol of
allegiance. With the pilot's help she hobbled down the short ramp and
onto the landing pad to stand before Karrallis.
The overseer actually bowed a bit. "Sigma Drakona," he
intoned formally. "We are most honored to have you among us at
last."
"Yes," she rasped in a scratchy voice, "I know how long
you've been clamoring to get hold of my scientific talents. Especially
considering that I have spent my whole life in the study of antimatter -
- which you would so dearly like to use as a weapon. Well, I think I
can help you there. Seeing as you finally offered me the right price!"
She laughed, an unpleasant cackling sound -- which was
drowned out entirely in 646's perception by the sound of the whistle
back at the main building, that called the currently active Tron-Units
in for recharging and their dose of thylazine, and sent the next wave
out to take their place. The sound ran through him like an electric
shock. He just barely stopped himself from turning back toward the
building.
His slight motion caught Sigma Drakona's attention,
however, and she turned her eyes on him. Unlike the rest of her
battered and faded frame, her eyes were sharp and bright, with a
calculating, steely intelligence in their orange depths. She shot a look
at Karrallis. "My, but you're building the Tron-Units to be handsome
these days," she observed wryly.
Karrallis shifted his weight a bit uncomfortably. He certainly
did not want his state-of-the-art killing machines to be described as
handsome. But Sigma Drakona, by virtue of her age and
importance, could get away with saying just about anything, and she
knew it. She unleashed another brief cackle of laughter.
Then she suddenly became all business. "You have imported
the necessary materials to build the fusion cannon?" she demanded.
Karrallis nodded and began to lead the way back towards the
building, walking slowly so that the ancient scientist could keep up.
646 moved with them, keeping himself tightly under control to keep
from barreling past them and into the recharge bay for his dose. An
unpleasant buzzing had started up in his audial sensors, another side
effect of withdrawal, and he barely listened to the conversation beside
him.
"The first prototype was just a preliminary, you understand,"
Sigma Drakona was saying. "The accident at DeceptiTech
Laboratories was a learning experience. I know what went wrong
now. There is indeed a way to allow a standard fusion weapon to use
anti-matter -- but we were using the wrong source!" Her optics
brightened with a feverish excitement as she leaned close to Karrallis,
whispering conspiratorially, "The source, dear Karrallis, must be an
extra-dimensional object!" She grinned at him expectantly, as though
waiting for him to praise her brilliance.
Instead he looked at her in utter confusion -- and perhaps
some doubt about whether he should have put out so much energon to
bring her here.
Exasperated, she snapped, "A white hole, you simpleton! The
outlet in our universe of a black hole in another, which sucks matter
from that universe into ours!"
"I'm no scientist, but I know what a white hole is,"
Karrallis replied, obviously trying to keep a rein on his patience.
"Well, do you also know that some of these white holes are
documented sources of anti-matter? That they are, effectively,
carrying substance from an anti-matter universe into ours?"
"I have heard speculation of such a thing..." Karrallis
admitted cautiously.
"It's not speculation," Sigma Drakona snapped. "They exist -
- and I--" she drew herself up self-importantly-- "I have the
coordinates of the nearest one, and know how to establish a subspace
link to it. The anti-matter can then be drawn into the weapon for use
at will. The formulas are all worked out, the simulations have all been
run. All I need are the supplies and equipment to do it with. That's
where you come in."
Karrallis ground his teeth together. He had just been reduced
from the head of one of the most powerful munitions plants on
Cybertron, to a wholesale supplier of parts for the whim of a lunatic
scientist.
"Oh, scoff if you want to," Sigma Drakona hissed, "I expect
nothing better from the uneducated -- but wait till I talk to your
scientists and prove that it can be done!"
They had reached the front entrance to the main building.
646 was expecting to be dismissed, so that he could go around the
back and join his unit, but Karrallis made no move to let him go.
Instead he continued on into the building with Sigma Drakona, and
646 dutifully followed.
He had been inside this part of the building once or twice
before, so he knew what to expect, but it was still always a bit startling
to come into the entrance hall. In the middle of the most squalid city
on the planet, in the heart of a munitions plant whose products killed
thousands daily, this cool, luxurious waiting room seemed at best out-of-place, at worst sacrilegious. Here guests could be seated in suitably
impressive surroundings, or company executives could get together in
the relaxed setting of the comfortable chairs and couches. The
temperature was a cool and welcome relief from the relentless heat
outside, and the floor was lined with an intricate mosaic pattern of
colored tiles. A large recreational holo-viewer was nestled into one
wall, though currently deactivated. A broad skylight admitted the
sun's rays but filtered them from a harsh glare to a splendid gold. The
light glittered off the small fountain of energon that bubbled softly to
itself in the center of the room -- surely the height of wasteful opulence
during a planet-wide energy-shortage brought on by the long wars.
The floor vibrated ever-so-slightly beneath their feet from the
assembly-line machinery in full swing below; the reality of it was
never far away. Leading away from the waiting room, a maze-like
string of corridors led to laboratories, offices, and the private quarters
of the plant executives. 646, who took his rest periods in the barracks
packed in with all the other Tron-Units, could only imagine what
those private quarters must have looked like.
Sigma Drakona looked around, duly impressed. "If your
laboratories are as adequately furnished as your entrance hall, I may be
able to get something done here after all," she mused, almost to
herself.
As if on cue, two young technicians emerged from one of the
hallways.
"Escort our new arrival to the main lab," Karrallis ordered,
eager to be rid of the old scientist.
She whirled on him one more time, however. "You have
acquired the specified materials for manufacture of the fusion cannon,
according to my instructions?" she demanded of him again. "It must
be strong enough to contain the antimatter blast, after all! While this
will only be a small portable unit, the technology will be expanded for
use in full-scale assault cannons--"
"Yes, yes, of course," Karrallis cut her off hurriedly.
"Everything has been obtained according to your design. We are all
looking forward to the construction and test run. Now, if you will
accompany the technicians, they will show you to your work space."
Sigma Drakona nodded curtly and moved off slowly with the
two technicians. When she was out of sight, Karrallis curled his
hands into fists, letting his eyes flare bright red. "She had better be
worth my trouble," he growled.
He turned to glare at 646, though he had not really been
speaking to the Tron-Unit, and of course no answer was expected. A
cold light came into his eyes; he was in no hurry to dismiss the
perimeter guard. He knew 646 was overdue for a recharge, and was
going to make him suffer to vent his frustrations over Sigma Drakona.
"Do you have any idea," he fumed, "how much I paid that old
rattletrap to come here? The famous Sigma Drakona. Cybertron's
leading expert on antimatter. And then she comes here with insane
talk of white holes and subspace connections! I just want a weapon I
can develop and sell. A feasible weapon. Is that so very difficult?"
Again he was not looking for an answer, only an audience to
hear him rant. 646 stood perfectly still, while a dull ache spread itself
out from his midsection and the buzzing in his audial sensors
threatened to affect his sense of balance. It would have been
unthinkable, of course, to ask the overseer if he could be dismissed.
Karrallis looked him over with the trace of a cruel smile, then
settled himself leisurely into one of the sofas near the fountain.
Moving with a measured deliberation, he reached for one of the text
pads scattered about on the low table in front of him, and leaned back
to read.
The thought passed through 646's mind again that he was
more than the equal of this robot physically, that he could kill him
with a mental command to his arm-cannons or simply reach out and
snap his neck. Or at the very least, he could just walk out -- could get
the dose of thylazine that his body was clamoring for and that was his
due. Then why was he standing here like a complete idiot, waiting to
be dismissed? A drugged haze did not close down on the thought this
time, and for the first time, 646 held onto it, examined it more closely.
Why was he so bound to the overseers, his masters? A surge of
revulsion ran through him as he thought the word. Masters. By
what right were they his masters? Surely not by the right of physical
superiority. Because they had created him? ... And made him a
hopeless thylazine addict to keep him under control. The seeds of a
new emotion took hold in 646, someone who, like all Tron-Units, had
never experienced much in the way of emotion. But he experienced
this one, when he looked at Karrallis, sitting there paging casually
through the text on his little flat screen, the trace of a smile about his
mouth as though knowing of 646's suffering and enjoying it ... 646
knew without being told, what emotion he was experiencing. Hatred.
Not full-blown all-consuming hatred -- but the seeds of hatred none
the less.
Still, he was paralyzed by his training, and the shock of
temporarily being able to think with a halfway clear mind. He held
perfectly still and waited, the vast eternity of another fifteen minutes,
until Karrallis finally looked up from his reading. Feigning a look of
mild surprise, as though he'd forgotten that 646 was still there, he said
languidly, "Oh, by the way, you can go."
646 broke from his position and bolted for the door.
Karrallis' mocking laughter followed him out the building and rang in
his audial sensors, but he had lost concern for everything but his
destination. He burst out into the harsh glare of the sunlight and ran
alongside the building, past the on-duty Tron-Units who whirled to
track the unexpected motion, some of them reflexively raising their
arm cannons. He ignored them, and plunged through the door into the
anteroom of their barracks. The thylazine dispenser took up a whole
wall, a smooth, flat-black unit with interface hatches and a few
ominously blinking lights.
A few other Tron-Units were seated along the floor near the
dispenser. Their vigil was useless, since the machine would only give
out two doses of thylazine per day to each guard, at measured
intervals; those who had already gotten their dose in the last few
hours, would not soon receive another. Still, much off-duty time was
spent sitting near the dispenser, as though it was some kind of a
bizarre comfort. 646 had often done so himself.
Right now he was only interested in his current dose.
Ignoring the other Tron-Units, he plunged toward the machine. With
shaking hands he pulled open the hatch in his torso, opening the
access panel and nearly damaging the hinges. He positioned himself
before the dispenser and inserted his right hand into the identification
slot. A few lights flickered to life as the computer scanned his
identity.
For an interminable moment, nothing happened. 646
wondered in a burst of panic if Karrallis had somehow learned of his
subversive thoughts, and had cut him off from the thylazine. I take it
all back, he thought wildly; I will live my life this way and never
question it again, if only you give me my dose...!
The familiar injector slid out of the machine and plugged
itself directly into his access panel. 646 gasped as the potent drug
rushed into his fuel lines. He could actually trace the path it traveled
through his body, like a cool liquid displacing a searing heat. He
sighed with relief and slumped against the smooth surface of the
dispenser. The buzzing in his audial sensors and the ache in his fuel
tanks withdrew, and a pleasantly benumbing haze settled over his
mind.
It took a few days for the shock of that experience to wear off
-- for the memory of that painful withdrawal to die down a bit. And
when the memory of the pain faded, another memory remained in its
place -- that of humiliation, of being taunted and laughed at by the very
being who was responsible for his condition. 646 no longer knew
what it felt like to think clearly -- the thylazine haze prevented that --
but somewhere in his mind was the memory of what it felt like, to
think clearly, and that sensation kept pushing its way up into his
consciousness. 646 thought of the threat of losing access to thylazine
and repeatedly pushed away the nagging sensations -- but they came
back, would not let him alone. He had long had a vague sense of
disquiet about the lifestyle of the Tron-Units, but nothing he could
ever define clearly or had any real reason to pursue; now, something
had been awakened under the thylazine haze that would not entirely
go back to sleep.
A few nights later in the barracks, just before his shift went
out for guard duty, 646 pulled one of the other Tron-Units aside and
whispered to him, "Don't you ever wonder why we do this? Why do
we go out and patrol the fence for endless hours, endless days -- what
do we get out of it?"
Tron-Unit 390 stared blankly at 646 as though he had not
understood the spoken words.
646 tightened his grip on the other's arm. "Think about
it!" he hissed. "Why do we do this? Do you know?"
An expression of confusion crossed 390's features. He pulled
away from 646 without a word and headed out to resume his guard
post.
646 felt a flicker of disappointment, but headed out with the
others to take up his usual routine. The only variation consisted of a
change from day to night duty, and currently his shift was on night
duty. Banks of floodlights sent moving streamers of white light out
toward the surrounding city from just beyond the fence, and overhead,
the stars gleamed in brilliant patterns through the negligible
atmosphere. 646 scanned the darkness, reaching for the memory of
his brief period of clear-headedness, as though it were a comfort and a
precious thing that he could not afford to lose ... though he knew that,
day by day, night by night, that memory was growing ever more
distant. Soon he would only know that he had once felt differently
than now, but would no longer remember what the sensation was like.
A jolt of panic startled him at the thought. He looked around at the
other Tron-Units, moving with measured deliberation along the fence
perimeter, and seized on another vaguely-defined emotion: revulsion.
All the Tron-Units were built to be identical, and 646 wondered if he
too walked around with that vapid expression in his eyes, that
complete lack of personality in his face, that odd balance of hairtrigger
killing reflexes and utterly meek subservience. For the first time, he
pushed away not his unsettling thoughts, but the thylazine haze that
dulled them, tried desperately to retain what little sensation he had
experienced that made him in some manner unique. But it was a poor
effort at best; he had taken his latest dose of thylazine along with the
others just before starting his shift, and the drug was strong in his fuel
lines, allowing him little grasp of his own reflections.
646 moved mechanically along the inside of the fence on his
usual patrol route, his legs seeming to carry him forward of their own
accord. He passed Tron-Unit 390 coming in the opposite direction,
and looked directly at him, hoping to make some sort of connection --
but the other Tron-Unit did not even acknowledge his presence.
Despondently, 646 continued on.
When the first searing tendrils of sunlight put the compound
floodlights to shame and the whistle blew at the end of the shift, 646
turned and headed for the barracks with the others. The line for the
thylazine dispenser formed automatically; the Tron-Units were eager
for their dose, but orderly in the way they went about it -- they had
long since learned that trying to shove one another out of the way only
caused traffic jams and ultimately delayed them. So they lined up
before the dispenser in the same silent, mechanical way that they did
everything else, and waited their turn.
646 was carried forward by the robots around him, toward the
looming black dispenser. But the concentration of the drug in his
system was low enough by now, that his efforts to clear his mind were
a bit stronger. He looked at the dispenser suddenly not as salvation,
but as menace -- as that which would rob him of what little mentality
he could call his own. Slowing his steps, he slowed the line behind
him so that it split and flowed around him, others unwilling to wait
longer than they had to. 646 moved to the side of the room, letting the
others by, and stared with a newly horrified fascination at the
dispenser -- at the spectacle of the Tron-Units plugging themselves in
and receiving their dose, and turning away with dull pleasure to take
up their rest cycle in the crowded barracks. If the others noticed 646's
strange behavior at all, they did not let on -- they were too intent on
reaching the dispenser and obtaining their dose.
646 recognized 390 as the robot next in line, stepping up to
the dispenser and opening his access panel with movements just hasty
enough to seem eager, without being panicky. He reached up his
hand to slide it into the identification slot--
Almost without consciously intending to, 646 bolted forward
and slammed sideways into 390, knocking him away from the
dispenser. "Get away from that!" he shouted. "All of you!"
He started pushing the nearby Tron-Units back from the
dispenser, sending a few of them tumbling back into those behind
them.
Instantly their battle drives came online, and four of them
leapt for him at once. 646 swung his fists in a wide arc and connected
with the two foremost robots, sending each sprawling into an opposite
wall. The two others were upon him, though, and he kicked out at
them, leaning back against the smooth surface of the dispenser for
leverage. He sent them tumbling backwards into the crowd, but they
regained their balance almost immediately and lunged at him again --
followed by five or six new attackers. They dragged him away from the
dispenser, trying to drag him to the ground, but he managed to free
himself from their grip just long enough to send the nearest one
crashing to the floor under a battery of blows. 646 flailed balled fists
and kicking feet in all directions, desperately trying to maintain his
balance -- but every time he threw one robot off, two others tried to
tackle him in his place. Above the tangle of swinging arms and
clashing metal, 646 caught a glimpse of the thylazine dispenser.
Bizarrely, a good number of the Tron-Units were completely ignoring
the fistfight and continued their even, mechanical march toward the
dispenser, concerned only with their dose.
"Get away from that!" 646 shouted desperately, but the only
response was a crashing blow to the side of his head from one of his
attackers. 646 reeled, trying to keep his vision focused. He had not
used the plasma cannons on his arms because he had no wish to
severely injure his fellow Tron-Units -- but he realized now that his
best chance to free them all was to fire upon the dispenser, even if
there was someone in the way. While one of the attackers lunged at
him from the right and tried to throw him to the ground, 646 snapped
up his left arm and aimed above the heads of the surrounding robots at
the smooth black surface of the dispenser.
One of the others gave a shout, then, a horrified cry of
realization. As 646 fired, the other robot grabbed his arm and pushed
it upward and back, forcing the plasma blast up and through the
ceiling, where it melted a sizable hole clear through to the overlying
floor. 646 felt his shoulder gears grind against each other painfully as
the robot who had grabbed his left arm, now twisted it downward and
behind his back, while those that had attacked him from the right, kept
hold of him too and slowly forced him towards the ground.
646 struggled, throwing his weight from one side to the other
to break their grip. The three Tron-Units holding him did so with
difficulty, and he had almost torn away from the one on the left, when
a sharp demand sliced through the clashing metal of the battle: "What
under the triple moons is going on in here?!"
At the sound of their master's voice, every Tron-Unit in the
room froze, including 646. Karrallis stood in the doorway of the
dispenser room, flanked by two freshly-charged Tron-Units he had
brought along from outside, his optics blazing an incredulous fury.
Those Tron-Units who were not holding 646, snapped into a hasty
salute. Even the one at the dispenser turned away from it to stand at
attention.
Karrallis stepped into the room, glaring around at the
disorderly guards and the smoldering hole melted into the ceiling near
one corner. 646 witnessed the absurd image of several much larger,
bulkier Tron-Units drawing back as though in fear when Karrallis
neared them, clearing a path for him. The overseer moved to the
center of the room, took another silent, disapproving look around, and
then said with an air of icy calm, "I repeat -- what is going on in
here?"
Tron-Unit 512, standing near the battle group, pointed at 646.
"He tried to destroy the thylazine dispenser, my lord."
"What?" Karrallis exclaimed in disbelief. He looked
incredulously from the dispenser to the hole in the ceiling to 646.
"You tried to destroy-- But why--?"
646 gave a sudden lurch to the right, pulling his left arm out
of the grip of the robot that held it.
"Hold him!" Karrallis commanded sharply, jumping back.
Immediately two more Tron-Units had grabbed hold of 646 and kept
him firmly pinned in their grip.
646 struggled, to no avail. "Let go of me!" he shouted to the
robots who held him. "That dispenser -- don't you see? -- it's poison!
It's what puts us at the overseer's mercy. We've got to destroy it, be
free of them!"
At his words, three Tron-Units took up protective positions in
front of the dispenser and leveled their plasma cannons at him.
Karrallis stared at him in shock, and looked around hastily at the other
Tron-Units as though suddenly unsure of his safety. "You fool," he
hissed, "you would condemn yourself and your fellow Tron-Units to a
gruesome death without this life-giving nutrient. Something has
obviously gone wrong in your programming."
"No!" 646 shouted emphatically. "Something has gone
right, finally." He addressed the Tron-Units around him. "We are
stronger than they are -- that's why they have to keep us under control.
We've got to break away from the thylazine, so they have no more
power over us. Let go of me, and I'll destroy the dispenser right now.
We will be free!"
The Tron-Units around him registered a blank lack of
understanding, some even anger. Not a one of them seemed to
comprehend what he was saying.
Karrallis noted this, and relaxed perceptibly. He motioned to
the two Tron-Units who had accompanied him into the room, and
said, "Remove the unstable one's weapons."
As one they stepped forward and took hold of the plasma
blasters on each of 646's arms while the other robots held him. In one
sudden, violent motion they ripped the blasters simultaneously from
his arms. 646 screamed involuntarily as the direct links to his
neurocircuits were torn out along with the panels of his forearm
plating. Several sparking wires dangled from the open wounds,
hissing as their hot, torn ends contacted the leaking fuel that started to
seep down his arms.
"Bring him along to the main laboratory," Karrallis ordered
the four robots who were holding 646. "He is obviously deranged and
needs repairs."
Roughly the other Tron-Units forced him forward as they
followed the overseer out. 646 winced at the pain in his arms as the
robots to either side of him jostled against him, but tried none the less
to pull himself free. He cast a look back toward the dispenser, and saw
that the line had already re-formed. "You idiots!" he shouted back at
them. "Do you want to be slaves forever?"
The robots holding him gave him a savage shake, sending
bolts of pain down the lengths of his arms. The glare of the morning
sun momentarily blinded him as they left the barracks and he was
dragged toward the main complex.
Karrallis led the way in rapid, angry strides through the
lavish waiting room and into the maze of corridors that led from it.
Behind him he heard the Tron-Units dragging the damaged one, who,
incredibly was still struggling -- as though it was not obvious by now
that he had no chance of breaking free. But he seemed to want to
make their progress as difficult as possible.
Karrallis seethed, but under his anger was a current of fear,
feeding the fire like an upwelling energon spring. This latest line of
Tron-Units was the ultimate, the latest in advanced design, and they
had proven themselves to be flawless. They were intelligent enough to
think on their own in a hostile situation, to distinguish friend from
enemy, but so pliable to their owners' control that their tremendous
power need never be a threat. Until now. Something had gone badly
wrong with this one, and if it could happen to one, it might be a design
flaw that was inherent in the whole line. Perhaps only a matter of
time before it manifested itself in the others.
He resisted the urge to look nervously back over his shoulder
at the heavy footsteps that followed him. As long as the rhythm
remained uneven, the intact Tron-Units were still struggling with the
damaged one, and his insurrection had not affected them. Karrallis'
first impulse, purely survival-based, had been to have the defective
Unit melted down on the spot outside the barracks -- but logic won out,
with the realization that he'd best find out what exactly the
malfunction was, to perhaps keep it from affecting the others. If it
truly was a design flaw, then the whole line might have to be scrapped
-- a massive waste of resources which would rankle him for months
afterward -- but better than the alternative of having the Units turn
their massive firepower against him and the other Overseers. Karrallis
led the way toward the main research lab in the fervent hope that this
single defective Tron-Unit would be proven a unique case. He would
set the task to Sigma Drakona herself. Let the old bat earn her keep,
for once.
True, she had built the prototype fusion cannon rapidly
enough, and it functioned normally as a standard fusion cannon --
admittedly far more powerful than any that were currently in use. But
where its use of antimatter was concerned, the laboratory tests had
been endless and inconclusive. Karrallis was losing patience, and that
was another matter he intended to take up with her.
The door to the lab slid aside to let him enter without so
much as a warning chime to alert those within. He was First Overseer,
after all, and could go where and when he pleased. Behind him, the
Tron-Units dragged in their half-heartedly struggling conspecific, who
ceased his efforts at the sight of the lab. The huge room opened up
before them, separated into uneven sections by huge banks of
machinery and computer equipment. The walls of technology seemed
to lead inwards toward one central section. Without breaking stride to
return the hasty salutes of the nearby technicians, Karrallis strode into
the heart of the lab.
Sigma Drakona turned away from a stand that held a long
gleaming black cannon, a circular barrel that was as long as her entire
body -- though against the other machinery of the lab, it looked
downright insignificant. It was for this that Karrallis had brought her
here, for this that he had paid her outrageous sums of energon -- and
every time he saw the completed product, he had to suppress a sharp
surge of disillusion. He'd expected it to be so much more ...
impressive. Yet Sigma Drakona left one hand resting on the smooth
black barrel as she turned toward him; it was a possessive, almost
maternal gesture, while she regarded him with a cool, demanding
impertinence -- as though he had trespassed onto her realm.
Karrallis drew himself to his full height and glared down at
the scientist, reminding her just who owned the facility, and the results
of her efforts. He made a sharp little movement of his head toward the
cannon and demanded, "Well? Do you have results for me yet?"
The ancient, fragile-looking female never flinched, never let
her steady gaze waver. "It is as I told you, Karrallis," she said.
"Laboratory tests can only take us so far. This is a power we have
never dealt with before. We require a full-scale field test. To that end
I have had the back lot of the factory cleared of debris, and assigned
one of your Tron-Units to meet me there tomorrow to perform the
test."
"You have assigned--! Without seeking permission--?!"
Karrallis spluttered, outraged at her audacity, but she continued on as
though he had not even spoken.
"Here, you see," she said, running her fingers lightly through
a mane of wires that trailed from the underside of the cannon, "I've
designed the interfaces specifically to tie into Tron-Unit
neurocircuitry, using the plasma blasters they already carry as models.
The interface can be modified easily, of course. This is just for the
field test. Should the tester not survive -- and that is likely, as he will
be channeling a tremendous amount of untamed energy through his
own systems -- we will make the necessary modifications and perform
another test. Until we have it honed perfectly. The process may cost
you the loss of a few Tron-Units, I fear, but the end result will be
profitable enough to replace them a thousandfold. Once fine-tuning is
complete, we can customize the interface for whomever you wish. For
you, perhaps." She looked him up and down derisively and laughed
her cackling laugh, mocking him. It was quite obvious from his
physical build that he would have a hard time lifting the cannon with
both arms, let alone one.
A surge of anger flashed through him and brightened his
optics, but she went on as though not even noticing, not even giving
him time for a comeback. She craned her neck to regard the group of
Tron-Units behind him. "And these are test subjects? Have you
anticipated me, perhaps?"
Karrallis bridled his fury with an effort. "No," he said with
an icy calm. "The one in the center is malfunctioning, and I want you
to find out why."
Sigma Drakona looked at him as though he had just said
something completely absurd. "Do I look like a common repaireon to
you? My job is antimatter physics, not fixing minor glitches in your
horde of guards."
Karrallis shot out a hand and grasped her roughly by one
wrist, pulling her with him out of earshot of the Tron-Units. "This is
not a minor glitch," he hissed at the old scientist through clenched
teeth. "That Tron-Unit refused his dose of thylazine this morning,
even tried to destroy the dispenser -- and tried to incite the others to
revolt! That's not supposed to happen! This is serious, do you
understand? If this is a flaw in the entire line, and they all have the
potential for going crazy like this -- then we're sitting on a time bomb!
You know how powerful they are! And you propose to give one of
them use of the antimatter cannon in the field tests tomorrow!"
Sigma Drakona extracted her wrist from his grasp with a
pointed glare, but even she ventured a nervous glance over at the
group of Tron-Units. "Yes, I suppose your point is well-taken," she
admitted grudgingly. "But perhaps it is only this one...?"
"Then you are to find that out," Karrallis snapped, in a tone
that would allow no refusal.
Sigma Drakona gave a single nod, and hobbled over to the
group of Tron-Units. The four normal guards still held the
malfunctioning one securely, though he was no longer struggling -- he
seemed intent on looking around at the vast, complex room and taking
in everything he possibly could. Karrallis had never seen so much
obvious curiosity displayed by a Tron-Unit before, and it unnerved
him. Another thing that wasn't supposed to happen.
Sigma Drakona motioned the Units to secure their prisoner to
one of the nearby examination tables. The malfunctioning one began
to struggle against this again, but it did him no good -- within minutes
he was securely bound by invisible strands of energy, and the access
panels in his helmet, chest, and torso were open to begin testing.
Sigma Drakona ordered another of the Tron-Units to lie down on the
neighboring table for comparison, and he did so without protest, even
opening his own access panels without being asked.
The malfunctioning Unit shot his neighbor a look that could
only be described as incredulous contempt -- another emotion Karrallis
hadn't thought these creatures capable of. Sigma Drakona began her
diagnostic, not bothering to infuse any destimulant as she moved into
invasive procedures. The malfunctioning Unit gasped sharply as she
plugged an electrified sensor-tip into the neural nexus in the side of
his head. He dimmed his optics and drew his hands into fists,
remaining silent thereafter, as though determined not to cry out. The
other Tron-Unit reacted differently to the same procedure -- he
shuddered once as the sensor connected with his neurocircuits, but
then remained perfectly still, his optics glowing their usual even,
scarlet shade. Karrallis knew very well that an electrified sensor on a
raw neurocircuit should send an explosion of pain racing down the
whole net -- but the normal Tron-Unit barely seemed to feel it. The
malfunctioning one, though -- he seemed to feel it. And kept silent
only by a sheer act of will.
Karrallis paced, casting frequent critical looks at Sigma
Drakona. She seemed to be moving with a maddeningly slow
deliberation, as though she sensed his discomfort and was doing her
best to draw it out. This abnormal Tron-Unit on the table before her
threatened the stability of everything Karrallis had built. It had to be
stamped out, eradicated. It could not be allowed to spread its decay to
the rest of his empire.
Finally the old scientist put down her diagnostic tools and
scanners, and turned to face him. There was a genuine puzzlement,
even a trace of worry, in her face. She shook her head. "I found
nothing. No discernible difference between the normal and the
aberrant one. They are identical in every way, just as they were
manufactured."
Karrallis knew that the horror he felt, showed in his eyes, but
at this point he did not care. "Then how could this have happened?"
he whispered.
Sigma Drakona moved away from the examination tables and
motioned him aside. "Perhaps," she said, keeping her voice low and
her eyes warily on the two massive silver forms of the Tron-Units,
"you simply made them too well. In giving them sentience,
intelligence, you also took the risk of giving them individuality, a will
of their own. Some chance combination of creator input in the errant
one, that made his will stronger than the others. You should have
checked your personality donors more carefully."
"But the thylazine was supposed to take care of that!"
Karrallis protested.
"Shhh! ... Maybe all is not lost. Maybe your Tron-Units
have to be kept in line by more conventional means as well."
Karrallis looked at her blankly. "Such as?"
Sigma Drakona pointed a spindly finger at the
malfunctioning Unit, who was beginning to push against the energy
field that held him. His head turned from side to side and his optics
flickered unsteadily. "Make an example of that one," the scientist
hissed. "You see -- he's already going into thylazine withdrawal.
Make it clear to the others what fate awaits them, if they think to
refuse their dosage."
Karrallis looked at the two Tron-Units -- one lying perfectly
still and serene, the other pulling ineffectively at his bonds -- then
looked back at Sigma Drakona. An odd mixture of gratitude and
loathing overcame him as he regarded the unsteady form of the
ancient scientist. Then he cast brightly flaring optics on the struggling
Unit, and grinned maliciously. No mere slave would threaten his
empire and be granted a painless death!
646 fought, but much of his strength had left him. He could
feel himself trembling from the thylazine withdrawal, could hear the
buzzing in his audial sensors that seemed to be filling his whole
perception. Four other Tron-Units were dragging him back from the
lab, grasping his arms so tightly that bolts of pain shot from his torn
armor and frayed connections where his plasma cannons had been
ripped away. But this was a minor discomfort compared to the
wrenching agony that was building in his fuel tanks and spreading
outward.
He barely resisted when one of his captors jammed a
modelock into the base of his neck, preventing him from transforming
to cannon mode -- not that he would have had the necessary
coordination at the moment anyway. But Karrallis was taking no
chances. He kept a wary distance from the Tron-Units as he
accompanied them down the hall, but watched every step they made
with a piercing scarlet glare.
They stopped in the waiting room, where one of the Units --
646 recognized him with a shock of dismay as 390 -- staked a pair of
chains into the wall itself, and affixed the shackles at their ends onto
646's wrists. His arms were pulled upward above his head as the
chains were drawn tight. 646 shook his head, trying to clear his
vision, but everything had gone blurry. "Fools!" he snarled at the
other Units, hoping desperately to make some contact with a living
mind. "You could shatter Karrallis' helmet with a flick of your wrist!
Why do you obey him? All he has could be ours if--" A sharp pain
in his fuel tanks cut him off, radiating outward toward his limbs. 646
gasped and ground his teeth together, wanting to double over, but the
shackles on his wrists held him upright. All he could do was bow his
head and bring his legs up a little. The other Units finished their task
mechanically, assuring themselves at Karrallis' command that the
chains were firmly anchored into the wall, and then stepped back.
The wave of pain receded and 646 lifted his head, staring
incredulously at the other Units, the very ones he had shared patrol
duty with day after day, night after night. He saw no trace of
recognition in their chiseled features, no spark of self-awareness in
their eyes. "How can you accept this?" he asked them, almost
pleading. "How can you deny yourselves the right to a life of your
own? Refuse one dose of thylazine and see if it doesn't make a
difference! See if you don't realize that you could be more than you
are!"
"Silence, creature!" Karrallis stepped forward in one quick
stride and slapped him across the face. He barely felt the blow over
the other signals his body was sending, but the sharp metallic sound
shot through his head and triggered another wave of radiating pain
from his fuel tanks. He dimmed his eyes to darkness against the
sensation so as not to cry out.
Karrallis was addressing the others. "Refuse one dose of
thylazine and your fate is this one! Your errant brother has forgotten
his place, overstepped his boundaries, and now he pays the price.
Where do you think you get your strength from? And it is only the
overseers who can provide you with it!"
"No," 646 gasped weakly, "it's a lie...." But was it a lie?
Was it really thylazine that provided the guards with their strength? If
not for the chains holding him up, he would at this moment not even
be able to stand. Karrallis' statement struck him as wrong, so totally
wrong -- but his current physical condition was telling him otherwise.
Karrallis smiled an icy smile, and addressed the others. "You
see what your senses tell you. Remember this one's fate, and
remember it well." He turned and led the guards away, out the ornate
entrance hall and out of the building.
646 tried to shift his weight back to his legs and pulled
reflexively at his chains, but only managed to produce a faint rattling
of the links. He made an effort to focus on his surroundings. Some
bizarre sense of irony, some twisted love of contrast, had prompted
Karrallis to chain him up here in the waiting room facing the
sparkling energon fountain as the sunlight streamed through the
skylight above. He'd even used real, physical, metal chains, to make
the situation that much more uncomfortable. But the shackles that bit
into his wrists had already receded into insignificance. New waves of
pain wracked him as the concentration of the drug in his fuel lines
dropped ever lower.
In the hours that followed, a steady stream of Tron-Units
came in from outside and were marched past him as though he were a
display item -- sometimes with Karrallis there alongside them,
sometimes with Sigma Drakona who had hobbled out of her lab --
sometimes even with other scientists or overseers whom 646 did not
know by name -- but always telling the Tron-Units, "See, this will be
your fate if you try to deny your purpose in life; we know what's best
for you, and we will provide you with what you need." 646, for his
part, tried to counter their words with the insistent repetition that the
Tron-Units were being used as slaves, yet had the power to free
themselves. In the beginning he entertained notions that perhaps one
of the other guards would be startled to awareness, would listen to him
and actually hear -- would reach out to snap the chains. When he
became too weak to repeat his pleas, when his words were soundless
whispers, he would entreat the others with his eyes. At one point he
wished for nothing so much as a dose of thylazine, and that one of his
fellow guards would somehow be able to bring it to him. But they did
not understand his unspoken appeals, only marched past mechanically
as though they were mindless drones instead of living machines.
Nothing registered in their eyes. Nothing.
646 dropped his head and let the chains support him, stopped
struggling for awareness of his surroundings, consumed only by his
own pain. Yet on some level he knew what was being done to him,
and refused to give Karrallis and Sigma Drakona the satisfaction of
hearing him cry out. He clamped his teeth shut over the screams that
tore at his throat, and trembled in silence. The steady metallic tread of
heavy footfalls marched past him; the golden sunlight that filled the
room was a backdrop of painful brightness against his unseeing optics,
and the cheerful gurgling of the energon fountain laughed at him,
continuously.
It took a long time to become aware that the light had
dimmed, that the marching footfalls had ceased. The fountain still
splashed and sang happily to itself, and perhaps that was all he had
been aware of. A brief respite from the advancing and receding waves
of pain allowed him to draw in a breath, lift his head, and brighten his
eyes ever so slightly. A hazy violet dusk had settled over the room, the
skylight still showing a square of luminescence, but the color had
changed from burnished gold to a pale blue as the fiery orb of the sun
had ducked out of sight behind the cityscape. 646 became aware of
two figures standing together beside the fountain, regarding him.
Karrallis and Sigma Drakona.
A surge of hatred filled him, true, seething, all-consuming
hatred so powerful that it momentarily shoved aside all his physical
agony. He embraced it as a nurturing emotion, as a giver of strength,
and relished its taste. 646 lurched to his feet and threw his weight
against the chains.
Karrallis' eyes brightened in alarm as he took an involuntary
step back. Sigma Drakona did not react. And indeed there was no
need to, because for all his effort, 646 only managed to pull the chains
taut before his strength gave out and he collapsed in their grip.
"Complete thylazine withdrawal is invariably lethal, isn't it?"
Karrallis queried nervously.
Sigma Drakona chuckled, a grating sound. "Oh yes. There
have never been any survivors. You have nothing to fear, Karrallis --
your errant guard has a chance in a million of even living till
midnight. He'll be quite dead by morning." She beamed at 646 as
though she had just bestowed wonderful news, then turned and started
hobbling slowly toward the shadows of the corridor. "Tomorrow the
field test," she was saying to Karrallis, who kept pace with her and
actually offered her an arm for support. "Then you will see for yourself
that I know what I'm talking about, when it comes to antimatter...."
Their voices faded out as they drew away. The square of light
from above deepened into a darker blue, and a great shadowy silence
closed down over the room. Even the gurgling of the energon fountain
seemed part of this silence, a steady cadence in the absence of any
other interruption. 646 became aware of the rhythmic vibration of the
floor under him, even heard the low hum of the monstrous machinery
below in the factory, which never slept. But the waiting room had
receded into its own bubble of reality, untouched by any outside
activity. It seemed as though the entire complex had fallen silent, and
somnolent, even though the machines beneath the floor attested
otherwise. But almost certainly the overseers and their high-ranking
attendants had withdrawn into their private quarters for their rest
cycles -- as had the top scientists and engineers. It was likely that
lowly technicians still scurried about the labs, and of course the Tron-Units patrolled the fence outside -- but to 646 this was not a reality so
much as the whisper of knowledge that meant nothing to him
personally. He was alone in the great silence, and momentarily at
peace.
Suddenly an explosion of anguish tore through his body,
igniting the neurocircuitry as it raced along the fibers. He jerked
convulsively, no longer in control of his movements. His head
snapped up, optics fully bright, but he saw nothing -- nothing but the
white-hot sunburst of pain that seared every atom of his consciousness.
No longer knowing, no longer caring who would hear or whether they
would be pleased, he screamed, writhing in torment.
The last traces of thylazine in his fuelstream and the intense
physiological dependence that they evoked, warped his sensory input
so he was no longer aware of where he ended and the rest of the world
began -- he felt the armor melting off his infrastructure as he was
pulled under into a vast sea of pure white-hot agony. He saw his own
screams as blindingly bright ribbons of color; he tasted the convulsions
of his body as rivers of acid; he heard the starlight coming in from
above like high-pitched wails....
The starlight ... the starlight--! He surfaced, his head
flung back, his mouth open in a soundless scream, his optics streaming
lubricant but focusing on the skylight above him. A slice of
Cybertron's night sky floated there, suspended, and the bright clear
stars shimmered just a little from the distortion of the glass. He was
dying, and part of him knew it -- but part of him refused to accept it.
He wanted his life -- wanted it as badly as he had ever wanted
thylazine -- wanted it so desperately that he was willing to defy all the
laws of medicine and physics. He latched onto the image of the stars
and locked his focus onto that as though it could save him. His fuel
pump hammered irregularly inside him, each beat sounding like the
shriek of rending metal and sending pulses of fire through his body.
He drew great gulps of air into his infilters against the constriction in
his chest that tried to shut them down. He fought to keep his vision
focused as discordant images tried to block out his view of the stars.
He could see Karrallis and Sigma Drakona as clearly as if
they were standing there. The expressionless faces of the other Tron-Units
as they filed past him. The looming black monstrosity of the
thylazine dispenser. Great Cybertron, how he suddenly wanted a dose
of thylazine! But he saw Karrallis again, and a bright-burning hatred
filled him, a contempt for what thylazine had made him. He latched
onto that too, held the feeling fast. If I survive, he swore silently to
the stars, to the Universe, I will never bow to anyone again! I will
never call another being my master. I will exist on my own terms, and
others will bow to ME!
If I survive. If!
His body convulsed, the neurocircuits firing randomly,
confused by too much input. He felt as though his internal circuitry
had dissolved into liquid. He hung by the chains that bound his wrists,
thrashed involuntarily, and spit up the last of the fuel in his tanks.
With an almost impossible effort he flung his head back again to gaze
up at the skylight, and screamed, one long drawn-out scream of agony
and defiance. He would not lie down and die! He would live!
Live!
The words formed a drumbeat in his mind. I will survive! I
will survive!
His legs braced themselves quite by chance against the wall as
a wrenching convulsion pulled him forward. The chains snapped to
their full lengths and held, the shackles gouging into the lighter armor
of his wrists. And suddenly the pressure on the left wrist was gone.
He snapped forward and spun to the right as the chain tore loose from
the wall with a great clattering of metal. The seizure past, he hung
limply by his right arm, his every internal component trembling.
He found himself forming the words with his lips, although
no sound escaped him: I will survive ... survive....
He sucked in more gasping breaths, and forced himself to lift
his head. Slowly, working his left hand up along the wall, trailing the
shackle and loose chain, he pulled himself up, finally reaching the
chain that held his right hand. His legs could not support his weight --
he hung solely by the one chain. Groping, almost blindly, his hands
sought out the stake that had driven the chain into the wall. For the
barest of instants he was able to brace his legs against the floor, and
used the moment to close his grip on the stake and fling his entire
weight against the chain.
With a tremendous crash and clang and a shower of mortar,
he fell backwards onto the floor of the waiting room, free.
How long he lay there, too exhausted to move, he did not
know. The chant repeated itself in his mind of its own accord: I will
survive, I will survive.... And when he next brightened his eyes to
look up at the skylight above him, the stars had shifted position. It
was well past midnight.
His mind felt sharp and clear -- startlingly so. He had a
sudden, frightening sense of unlimited possibilities opening up before
him. As though his life was fully his own now, and he could never
again lay credit or blame at someone else's feet. It was terrifying. It
was exhilarating.
And with this sensation came a renewed strength to his body.
He found that he could move of his own volition again -- his joints
ached beyond words and every movement was anguish -- but it was
brought about by his own choosing this time, and he welcomed it.
Rolling over onto his stomach he pulled himself forward toward the
energon fountain. The gurgling, pinkish liquid gleamed softly under
the skylight. With an effort he hoisted himself up over the low rim
and plunged his face into the catchbasin. This energon had never been
meant for drinking -- it was ornamental only, a pretty, gleaming
fountain that was full of dust and particulate matter on close
inspection. It was the best energon he had ever had.
Renewed power flowed into him. He pushed himself up from
the fountain and sat crouched on the floor for a while, tracking the
sensations that were coursing through his body. A steady increase in
power, unmistakably. He reached back behind his neck and pulled the
modelock off, wincing slightly as the sharp point of the interface came
loose from where it was imbedded -- but it was a welcome pain, again,
because it made very clear that he was still alive. A warm trickle of
fuel ran from the tiny wound and coursed down his back as he cast the
modelock aside. He looked down at the shackles that still held his
wrists, and worked his fingers under them, snapping them apart one
by one. When the loose chains clattered to the floor he looked up,
suddenly afraid that someone would hear, that someone would come --
that someone would take his newfound life away from him again.
His optics flared bright scarlet with a newly-formed
determination. That would never happen. He was in control of his
own destiny now, and would be, from this time onward. And there
was one way to insure it beyond a shadow of a doubt.
646 rose and headed silently into the labyrinth of corridors.
Total Warfare's laboratories never slept. Even in the
darkness between midnight and the dawn, there was always some
instrument of battle being perfected -- always some new plan for mass
destruction being laid out -- always some buyer, sanctioned or
otherwise, being lined up to keep the profits rolling in. But even in
Total Warfare's laboratories, the pace slowed in the dead of night.
When 646 burst into the main lab, only a handful of
technicians stood to oppose him. He knocked them aside easily and
plunged for the heart of the chamber. He knew exactly what he
wanted, and where it was.
He snatched the gleaming black barrel off its stand and
clutched it tightly for a moment, his thoughts whirling. This weapon
was a tangible representation of power, of survival, and he regarded it
with something close to reverence.
A blaring alarm klaxon jolted him back into action.
Hurriedly he placed the cannon against his right forearm, which was
less damaged than the left, though the loose interface wires to his
plasma blaster still dangled. The back of the interface on the cannon
clicked into place with an unbroken edge of the access panel on his
arm, making the physical connection. The cannon's interface wires
snaked downward of their own accord and tied into his neurocircuitry,
making an almost seamless meld. A single loose wire from his plasma
blaster dangled out between his arm and the cannon, interrupting the
perfect fit. But it would do, for now. He would have those old
interface wires removed -- he no longer needed them.
A resounding crash from behind him made him spin around,
bringing up his right arm in an old battle-reflex. This fusion cannon
ran the length of his whole arm and was much heavier than his old
plasma blasters; his shoulder joint ground in a painful protest. But he
was not concerned with such trivialities at the moment. A whole
squad of Tron-Units had burst into the lab, Karrallis in their wake.
The guards circled him quickly, aiming their double sets of plasma
blasters at him. 646 spun, trying to keep them all covered with his aim
so they would not attempt to rush him, but it was impossible to keep
all of them in sight at once.
"Put down the cannon!" Karrallis ordered from some distance
behind the guards. Then changing his tone to one more persuasive,
more gently cunning, he added, "Put it down right now, and we'll get
you a nice dose of thylazine. That's all you really want, isn't it?
There's no need for this."
A surge of panic shot through 646 like a laser bolt up his
spine. He looked around into the blank faces of the other Tron-Units,
their drugged indifference. He would never go back to being that.
Never.
His mind reached out, probing for the cannon on his arm.
The same mental commands that worked on his plasma blasters were
applicable here -- though the cannon itself was imparting stored data to
him, an influx of knowledge about just how to use it. There was the
normal mode, that corresponded to his plasma blasters. Then there
was -- something more. 646 reached for that, activated the function
almost without consciously thinking about it.
Without warning the lab blanked out of existence. An
indescribably cold blackness closed down around him. In the center of
that was a churning maw of white energy spewing toward him,
flowing into him. From somewhere far away he sensed the cannon's
database imparting instructions. He knew suddenly, as though he had
always known, what he had to do. Gathering the energy that was
flooding him, he focused it down to a narrow beam lest it overwhelm
him completely and destroy him. The unbelievable power surged
through him, striving to be unleashed, but he restrained it -- just long
enough for it to reach a critical mass.
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