Part Eight: Amsterdam

Distance, wind and movement were all calculated and compensated for. Circuits made connections, metal shifted and twelve shatter-rockets struck from above, destroying two anti-aircraft guns, four aerial opponents, five ground troopers at strategic points and part of the ground.

   “A-11, A-4, A-23; the enemy communications hub is exposed, lock in and destroy. Squad C; move in. B-7, B-1, B-41, B-19; Maximals are heading for A-11, A-4 and A-23, please intercept and annihilate. All troops, be careful not to damage the Pit.”

    The Pit, the mammoth facility linked to the Vector Sigma supercomputer that wielded the power to grant Transformer life. For centuries it had been placed in the centre of the planet, equally accessible to both Elders and Tripredacus. Now the most vicious fighting of all took place at the Pit, as the two sides kept capturing and losing the facility and the means to create new, more powerful soldiers. Predacon general Obsidian was succeeding in capturing it, but he knew that it would only be three weeks at the most before it would be captured by the Maximals (and he had countermeasures in place that would enable him to capture it back after a mere two days).

    A more stupid general would try to blow it up rather than let the enemy have it but Obsidian was no

    (Galvatron)

   fool. They’d need to be able to further the race after the war.

   <Galvatron? Where’s THAT come from?>
   He transformed and landed, quickly forgetting his thought and remaining unaware of his reprogramming. He had no time for trivialities, he had a job to do.

   The Pit was where the fighting was worst, where heroes and villains were made.

   Our protagonists are hundreds of kilometres from the Pit. We merely felt you could benefit from a wider perspective of the war.

************************************************************************

I hate it here.

   This petty war, this dead hunk of metal placed over soil and fossils, the retarded Empties who I have to fight with. Curse Skyhammer for leaving me isolated like this!

    We are now halfway through the year 2625. Since I came under Rodimus Primal’s command, I have seen the death of around 40% of the original group and their replacement by new recruits, and I’ve estimated around 27% of THEM are dead too. We never even got to advance past the ruined city from two years ago- instead the Predacons forced as into a deep and fortified trench five kilometres long. The enemy have nice little armoured bases, of course.

   I’m off sentry duty, so I’m in my quarters- well, not mine, per say. I share them with three others. It’s cramped, the walls between chambers is thin and we have to scramble across each other like vermin to get to the supplies and vehicles. And there is the constant claustrophobia, the reminder that we’re under thirty metres of compressed iron, and the only reason we’d ever come out would be to climb over the top and try to storm the Pred bases.

   I’ve considered killing Rodimus. Doubt it would work. The Council of Elders would just replace him with someone just as bad, since all the good generals like Stryka are off on the _important_ fronts.

   Nobody really notices me. I’m a generic design, an recycled name, a scout that might as well have a target painted over my Spark. This makes it easy for me to pick up information- I’m a former spy, it’s the only thing around here that stops me self-destructing.

   I know about the Syk dealing, about the secret Earth-music and underground feedsite files that get downloaded from Maximal to Maximal. I know all the rumours about our commander, reading from chemical addict to Predacon plant. I know who wants to be fighting in the thick of things because of their inane bloodthirstiness, I know who resents the Council for getting them drafted, I know who’s scared or plain apathetic.

   I know that Overload and his close friends haven’t been reprogrammed. They mention events that I know for a fact were airbrushed out of the “Sabertron” history, and I distinctively heard Pincher mutter about Xenon. They bear close watch. If I was still in contact with Star Former space, I’d assassinate them, but hey! Skyhammer left me in the lurch! Why should I give a slag whether these people are a threat to the Star Formers?!
    Of course, they could be either a threat to me or the eventual key to getting off this dump of a world.

   Maybe. Pincher is too depressed and suicidal to be of any possible use, and Big Daddy hangs around with that git Vroom. They seem to be becoming best mates, awwwww. Less said of that skidplate kisser Powerflash the better. Maybe Overload…

   I have fantasies of escaping the trench, grimly trekking through decahics of occupied territory, heroically taking out the staff at a Predacon air base and stealing a small craft that manages to get me to Star Former space, where Flame and Gripper are waiting for me and have already offed Skyhammer. I really wish I could stop having those fantasies, because it makes living here far harder to bear.

   First chance I get, I’m running back to Cybertropolis. They’d never catch me.

   But why bother? Sooner or later the city will get attacked. It happened on the real Cybertron, it’ll happen here. Four million years of war, all over again, and maybe even a new Empire will spring out of it and join the few cowering remnants of the old, just like before. One big slagging cycle.

    I hate it here.

-Diary of Maximal scout Lightspeed, 3/1/2625.

Part Nine: Waiting For The Miracle

They’d gone over the top.

   It was an attack intended to overpower three of the Predacon bases near the trench simultaneously. What was actually happening was that the Predacon’s defensive weaponry was swatting the Maximals like flies.

    Big Daddy gave out a garbled scream as heated plasma impacted on his chest. The armour melted away to expose his circuitry and he flung himself to the ground to avoid taking internal damage. Next to him, a random soldier had his face burnt off.

    Strong arms picked him up and threw him over their shoulder. It was Vroom- the order had been given to retreat and he wasn’t leaving his Micromaster buddy behind.

   “My hero,” said Big Daddy sardonically. “How long before you pull out a glowing Maguffin and light our darkest hour?”
   “I’m workin’ on it.”

   The two leapt into the Maximal trench, leaving the battlefield behind.

   After a while, the medics came out to salvage the wounded.

   Fixit’s siren blared as he trundled along, Catscan packing soldiers into his internal repair bay. Once inside, tiny appendages performed delicate circuit surgery, welded wounds shut and put the patients in ISS. Catscan would occasionally stop next to a badly wounded Transformer and remove his brain module, judging the body unsalvageable. He kept having to wipe fuel off his leg.

   It was grim work, with the sounds of wailing sirens penetrating all- there was an unspoken agreement that neither side would shoot the other’s medics, and nobody wanted their medics mistaken for combatants.

   Fixit went back, dropped off the wounded, came back.

   Inside his mind he was sobbing in frustration. There was just so many…

***********************************************************************

The two Maximals huddled together, looked around, connected up and downloaded. One walked away, his mind now containing new files that included several Tyroxian paintings and several extremely bad early 21^st Century Earth pop songs. Still, he could live with having “Dilemma” literally stuck in his head. It kept his mind off reality.

   Powerflash moved forwards to reprimand the Maximal but after seeing it was Pincher he backed off. The dealing of alien leisure data had been declared illegal, but he wasn’t going to report on Pincher. Pincher was a special case. For one, he was under a hugely severe depression and anything that helped him deal with that was allowed to continue. Secondly…

   …he was one of Them. A refugee from Cybertron who’d come to this world to make a new life for themselves. They watched out for each other.

   So Powerflash turned a blind eye. It went against all his training and his ethics, but he did it. Training be damned.

***********************************************************************

Overload inched his way through the trenches, nodding to the soldiers who called his name, and finally crawled into his cramped quarters. The medics were busy with borderline cases again, so it looked like he was going to have to extract his own shrapnel again…

   He looked up as a strange Transformer came into his quarters. “Uh, yes? Are you the feedsite guy?”

   “No, I just want to chat. Name’s Lightspeed; I do recon work. Or I’m meant to, anyway.”

   “Yeah? Well, since we’re all being reduced to cannon fodder here, I doubt it’s anything personal!” he laughed.

   “Yeah.” His voice was surprisingly bitter. “Hey, haven’t I seen you hanging around with that Big Daddy fellow? The one who’s friends with Vroom?”
   “Yes.”
   “Seems a bit odd. From what I hear, you’re a smart guy. Why would you associate with Maximals who idolise that vicious slagger?”
   “Well, Big Daddy and I go back a long way,” said Overload. “But I don’t like the idea of him being so friendly with Vroom. I’ve heard that guy talking, seen him in battle. He’s dangerous. But Big Daddy is fascinated by him. He always was interested in the Asphalt Wars, and there we have the greatest veteran of the Asphalt Wars hanging around our trench!”
   “Ah.” Lightspeed frowned. “The Asphalt Wars weren’t that big a deal though.”
   “What?! Lightspeed, they were the bloodiest campaign of their time. So bloody that the area where it was fought was called Slaughter City by the Decepticons. They literally welded Decepticons to the walls.”
   “There’s been bloodier conflicts. Remember the Eugenesis Wars?”
   The Micromaster shuddered. “Yeah, I see what you mean- what did you just say?!” Overload’s optics glowed a frantic light blue and he stared slack-jawed at the scout. He’d mentioned the Eugenesis Wars. Nobody on this planet was meant to know about the Eugenesis Wars. What was going on?
   Lightspeed smiled a cold little smile. “Well, well, well. I was right. You haven’t had your memories reprogrammed, and probably aren’t meant to be on this planet at all. How interesting.”

************************************************************************

“Aftsuckers, every last one.” Vroom slammed his fist on the wall. “Damn Preds.”

  “Now, now, us Autobot descendants aren’t meant to hate our enemies, we pity them,” said Big Daddy with mock reproach.

   “Ha! I was in the Asphalt Wars. Those Optimus Prime values didn’t apply there. We had to simply inflict as much damage and terror on the Decepticon convoys as possible, and they were doing the same to us. There wasn’t no one there who didn’t hate the enemy with a burning passion. We’d never have made alliances with ‘em. And the Preds are the same. Murdering evil little aftsuckers.”

   “Eh, I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “A lot of ‘em probably don’t want to be here, same as us.”
   Vroom stared at him. “They’re Decepticon descendants. Bet you they’re loving every minute of this war.”
   The Micromaster kept quiet. Vroom was an great guy, fun to be around- most of the time. But every so often he’d go into one of these moods. When that happened, it was best to stay silent and let him vent.

   Vroom stared into space, seeing the dark images that played constantly behind his optics. Finally he grinned again.

   “Anyway, nuts to ‘em. You remember the State Games? Well…”

*********************************************************************

“What do you want?”

 Lightspeed stared intently at his hands, his voice taking a soft and friendly tone. “Me? Oh, I just want what all the Maxies here want. I want Rodimus out and a competent general put in. Since Stryka is fighting on another front, we have to look to our own ranks.” He looked up at Overload. “And I remember you from old military records. You have a record of showing tactical insight. And I was there when we were being shipped to the front line and got shot down by those Predacons, and you got us out alive. And I notice you’re a popular guy- news of you saving us when we got shot down has spread throughout the whole trench.”
   “You’re asking me to mutiny?”
   “Yes.”

   Overload folded his arms. “How would that help? We’d still be in the same position, and the Council of Elders would just send a bigger force in to pacify us! Plus, I’d have to keep everyone from running, because we need to hold our ground and the Predacons will have an opening in to several Maximal cities.”
   “They won’t run if they think they have a fighting chance,” insisted Lightspeed. “Underneath it all, they are Transformers. Fighting is in our code. Promise them that you can get them out of the trenches, that you can have us win, and they’ll follow you like you were a Matrix bearer.”
   “I can’t promise that! I don’t know if I could pull it off!”
   “I doubt Optimus Prime knew that he could pull off an alliance with Scorponok, but he took the chance.”
   “I’m not Optimus Prime.”

   Lightspeed sighed. “Look, I’ll make this simple. Either you lead a mutiny and take Rodimus’ place as our general, and suffer the consequences- or watch everyone in this trench be killed. One. By. One.”

   Lightspeed left. Overload waited until he was out of earshot, then slammed his fist into the wall.

   “Bastard.”

Part Ten: Fight Music

Drum, drum, drum.

   Powerflash’s fingers pounded down on the wall as he scanned the battlefield for any sign of Predacon advancement. There was none, and probably never would be, because the Preds just had to sit tight and let wave after wave of Maximals to be thrown at their guns.

   Outside of the trench, the war kept escalating. Maximal and Predacon cities were captured and lost again every other month, and casualties were constantly mounting. He wished he was on one of the other fronts, getting involved in all that, than wasting away here.

   “See anything up there?” called up Pincher, scuttling by in his scorpion form.

   “No.”
   “Then why not come down?”
   “Because something could happen.” He risked a downwards glance, hoping the Pred hordes wouldn’t notice his lapse. “Where are you going?”
   “To see someone. Get something.”
   He didn’t press the issue. “Fine. Good luck.” And back he turned to seriously menacing the empty landscape.

*********************************************************************

It played over and over in his head. “Either you lead a mutiny… or watch everyone in this trench be killed.” That’s what Lightspeed had said three weeks ago. During that time there’d been another attack on the Predacons. More deaths and injuries. He tried to not think about it.

    Lead small groups in emergencies, yes. But an entire legion when they were already trapped in an impossible situation? How could he do that without screwing up?

   (Either you lead a mutiny… or watch everyone in this trench be killed)

  Pincher’s tortured face kept flashing through his mind every time he remembered what Lightspeed had said. It was getting rather monotonous, and he didn’t know how much more he could take.

   Soon something had to give.

**********************************************************************

“Man, how do you get this stuff?!” Big Daddy chugged down the high-grade oil and gave Vroom the thumbs-up. “Gotta get more of this stuff in here.”
   The saboteur shrugged. “I get it from one of the aerial squadron. Dunno where he gets it from.” He gulped more of it and slumped against the trench wall. “Another reason to hate the slagging Preds- they’re making it hard to get a good drink round here!”
   “Don’t most of the drinks companies operate from places like Neo-Kalis?”
   “Huh! I never drunk from there. Like I’m giving them my money.”
   “A drink’s a drink,” said Big Daddy. “If it screws up your motor functions, it’s OK by me!”

   Vroom fixed him with a steely glare. “You drank Pred waste?”
   “Never really paid attention to where it came from. It’s not like anyone put faction symbols on drinks!” He thought for a bit. “No, I tell a lie- Straxus did, trying to wean the ‘Cons off going to Maccadam and other Neutral fuel holes and stick to regime-approved drinks & bars. Course, said drinks and bars sucked major aft.”
   “I bet,” said Vroom, the smirk returning to his face. “What was it made from?”
   “Fuel from dead Empties, Neutrals and Autobots, I think. Nobody really wanted to find out.”

  “Bet you the Preds do it.”

  “Aw man, do you have to keep going back to that? It’s not like the Predacons were trying to screw us up before the war!”
   “What?!” Vroom was shocked. “They’re Decepticon descendants! They have their origin in genocidal imperialism! They’re a literal race of Megatrons!”

  “They’re not all bad.” The Micromaster was becoming irritated. “And it’s not like the Autobots were without sin, either.”
   “Ha!” Vroom chugged down more oil and continued, his voice becoming a quiet hiss. “Yeah right. I was in the Asphalt Wars. I saw Autobots strung up by their circuitry. I saw people running screaming as burning fuel gushed over them. I saw fragments of Transformer decorate the street after a high-speed collision with a missile. That was all the Decepticons. And yet we let their bastard offspring wander around our cities. Screw that, I can’t let that slag happen in front of me. So I remove a few of them. Is that wrong? How can it be wrong to take them out before they can do it to us?”
   Big Daddy froze. Unbidden, the memory clawed up from the depths of his mind. Bugout, lying against the wall with half his head caved in and crushing his brain module. Bugout, his friend, dead.

   “FUCK YOU!”
   His fist smashed into Vroom’s face, knocking him down, and then he was upon him, pounding whilst screaming out Earthen and Cybertronian curses, how he’d take his optics, take his Primus-damned optics…

   Vroom kicked upwards, knocking the Micromaster away and giving him a chance to get up before Big Daddy came at him again; a swift punch to the gut avenged by a punch upside the head. His vision obscured by a growing red mist, he grabbed the Micromaster by the throat and prepared to squeeze.

   He reached up, grabbed Vroom’s hand and pulled it away, dislocating the wrist. The grip loosened, he transformed and rammed into the saboteur at high speed, knocking him down and running him over before transforming back.

   By now the soldiers had begun to notice and crowd around, yelling out support and encouragement. Powerflash could be heard trying to push his way through.

   Big Daddy cricked his neck, noting that his fuel pump was leaking and fuel was now trickling from his mouth. Vroom got up, his chest bashed in and his optics aflame.

   “Primus-damned Pred lover, I’m gonna take you down for this-“
   “Slag it!”

   A few seconds of watching, psyching up, deciding where to hit next.

   Then they charged, Vroom lashing at his arm and knocking the Micromaster to the side of the trench, followed up by three swift savage kicks to the groin and legs. Raising his good fist back, he slammed it towards the face-

   -and Big Daddy caught it, applying pressure and trying to push it back, before concentrating his strength into his other arm and delivering one punch to the optics.

   Crack.

   Vroom fell back, screaming as broken glass fell inwards and he was left blinded. As he fumbled in the darkness, he was hit in the head once, twice, thrice, four times-

   Powerflash reached out and grabbed Big Daddy’s arm. “That is enough!”

   “It will never be enough! You have no slagging idea what he’s DONE-“
   “PRIVATE BIG DADDY!” screamed Powerflash, causing him to flinch. “VROOM IS UNCONSCIOUS! YOU WILL LEAVE IT AT THAT AND NOT BREAK THE AUTOBOT CODE, AM I MAKING MYSELF CLEAR?!”

    “…” Big Daddy stood down. “Yes.”

   “Good.” The Actionmaster led his friend away to the medical quarters, leaving others to salvage the battered and bleeding body of Vroom.

Part Eleven: Fall Into Place

“He didn’t deserve a death like that. Head smashed in by some bigot in an alleyway. That’s not right.”

    “Welcome to war,” said Pincher.

    “But there wasn’t a war then.” Big Daddy looked down at his knuckles, where some of Vroom’s fuel still clung. “And beating up his killer doesn’t make me feel any better. Just makes it worse, because… Slag, I was hanging around with him for months. Never suspected.”
    “At least you had the chance to find out what he was really like. I never got that chance with Doubleheader. I just got called into Siren’s office one day and told that not only was Longtooth missing, presumed and eventually confirmed dead, but that Doubleheader had been a Decepticon suicide bomber who’d just near-killed Rodimus. Bang. In a stroke, two friends are dead and I’m left feeling stupid for trusting one of them.”

   “And would have knowing beforehand he was a traitor have helped?” cut in Powerflash.

   “…No.”
   The Micromaster drummed his fingers on the wall. “Those are the breaks. That’s what happens when you’re just the soldiers in the background. We just soak up the lead meant for the bigger guns. What else can we expect?”

*********************************************************************

 “…Predacon forces captured the city of Ryf earlier today, while forces under general Stryka faced heavy resistance to their forward march…”
   Airhammer turned the radio off and looked up at the Maximals crowded round. “Well, that’s the news folks. Seems it’s not just us that’s in the slag.”
   The Maximals slowly began to drift away, leaving only Overload behind. Cautiously, he checked around him and then began speaking.

   “You ever think of mutinying against Primal?”
   “Idly. Can’t really be arsed to act on it though- I’m no leader, I couldn’t take control.”
   “Yeah.”
    <Damn it,> he thought, walking away. He’d spoken to quite a few Maximals over this, and all echoed similar sentiments. He still remembered Lightspeed’s plea to rebel. Remembered his fear that he’d just make things worse if he did.

    But how could he stand back and not act?

    How should he act?
    Things couldn’t go on like this forever. Something would have to give.

**********************************************************************

It was a few days later. And a whole new plan from Rodimus Primal made itself known.
   Same basic strategy as the last few- fire heavy weaponry at the Predacon bases to damage their defences, then send in the troops. The difference to this is that they’d be taking with them a new form of paralysing Cybervenom created by Pincher, which could be sprayed over a large area. The vat containing it would be driven on a small vehicle.

   It was good in theory.

   “GET DOWN!”
   Powerflash flung himself to the ground immediately, heated plasma whizzing over his head. To the side of him, one of the Maximals melted away under the barrage, his voxbox giving out before he had a chance to scream.

   Powerflash crawled forwards, firing as he went. He glanced over at the Cybervenom-carrier, the drivers swerving all over the place to dodge Pred fire and Pincher trying to get the device ready for spraying. They were in range- fire there, distract the fire to over here…

   Oh hell.

   “This is Powerflash- one of the Pred gunners has a clear shot at the carrier! Will someone slagging distract him?!”
   One of the Maximals ran over to provide fire, but it was too late. The Predacon has already fired.

   There was a small explosion on the top of the Cybervenom vat, and it sprayed upwards and over the Maximals.

    Pincher looked up from his work, up at his creation that spread above him, up at this weapon he had make that was now coming down to strike his own side, the very people he’d made the weapon to assist… and he giggled. It was rather funny when you thought about it. Funny-

    It hit and forty Maximals went into paralysis at once.

**********************************************************************

Overload and Big Daddy waited outside the med-room for their comrades. Eventually, Powerflash came out, looking shaken.

   “Where’s Pincher?”
   The Actionmaster looked at Overload and his face crumbled away into an anguished screaming mask. “He-he-he…” Powerflash looked away. “He’s been hurt badly,” he whispered.

   “But it was just meant to paralyse, right?” Overload’s voice grew hysterical. Pincher had to be fine, he couldn’t be

    (Either you lead a mutiny… or watch everyone in this trench be killed)

   “Yes. But… I don’t know. Fixit said that-” He broke off, collected himself and continued. “He said that Pincher’s mind had been damaged. All the stress and depression, and then this, it must have just been…” Silence again.

   Overload could feel the world slipping away from him.

   “So.” He clenched his fist tightly, his look hardening. “That’s how it is, then. No more of this.”
  And he walked off.

***********************************************************************

Yet another plan ruined. Luckily no-one had died this time round, all the damage was treatable (barely). So Rodimus Primal could give himself that it could’ve been worse.

   <The Pred bases are within quick walking distance, but how to breach them? We’ve tried six times now, and each one ended in failure. What can->

    Rodimus’ door slammed open. He stood up to protest, and Overload shot him once in the chest.

   He checked the body- merely offline, not dead. Could be repaired. Good, he had a bargaining tool for when the Council of Elders found out.

   Overload settled himself into Rodimus’ chair, pressed a button on the communications switchboard and prepared to make a general broadcast.

Part 12: Running Through The Garden

The first thing Overload did when he took control was order for Pincher to be taken to a Cybertropolis asylum.

   The second thing was to begin working on how to take out the Predacon bases.

    It wasn’t easy. It was a given that they couldn’t do it by a direct assault, they were too well fortified- and there was no way to go by land without doing a direct assault. There was aerial assaults, but they couldn’t launch their aircraft from the trenches, so that would rely on flying Maximals which they had too little of for an effective strike.

    What to do, what to do…

    “Sir, we’re picking up a transmission from the Council of Elders.”
    <Slag,> he thought. “Put them through Broadband.”
     The screaming voice of Elder Leontos came over the radio. Overload ignored him until his words became legible.

    “You have slagged over our war effort with this mutiny! If you believe a mere soldier like yourself can hold the same position as a general, you are sadly mistaken! You-”

   “Shut up. Rodimus Primal was unfit for his position, and another year in this position and the troops would have mutinied against him, leaving a hole in your defences for the Preds to get through. And you did nothing about him. I have, and I am going to sort this out. You may not like the way I’m doing this, but be quiet until you know whether or not I can get results.”
    “I don’t care if you can or not. You’ve committed treason. The penalty for that is execution.”
    “Carry that out, and nobody will be in charge here. See how long you remain in power then.”

    Silence.

   “Disconnect.”
   Broadband did so, his optics bulging. “I can’t believe we just hung up on the Elders.”
  “Fun, wasn’t it?”
  “Well, yes.”
   Overload went back to strategising. There had to be a way to deal with this from the trench. Had to b-

   There was.

   “Heh.”

**********************************************************************

They were long, bizarrely formed things, designed to melt holes in metal and either store or vapourise the resulting liquid. They were the Diggers, machines once used for mining on the real Cybertron and which had been used to create the Maximal trench. They’d been stored afterwards in a specially enlarged chamber under the ground, and now Overload stood in front of it with a group of techs.

   “I want to know if these things can make us a tunnel leading from the trench to underneath the Predacon bases.”
   Bigmos looked at them with a critical glare. “Could be, could be. They make a lot of noise though and we don’t want to tip off the Preds. But we could vastly reduce that by bringing the power levels down- that’ll make the Diggers slower though.”
    “Not a problem.”
    “Then there’s the problem of getting the Diggers into the right place- they’re big machines and we’re in a trench, we’ll tip off the Preds. They’ll notice a large bundle of Maximals getting out and then back in again.”

     “We’ll have to take that risk. How long will it take before they’re ready?”

    Bigmos shrugged. “A week maybe,” he said. “Will take another week to make each tunnel- if you want all the bases grabbed, that’s five weeks.”
   “I can wait,” said Overload. “Start work now.”

***********************************************************************

The work was indeed slow. Over the six weeks that followed, Overload had three small attacks ordered on the Predacons- Rodimus had done many of them, and he didn’t want the Predacons realising things had changed. Extra medical supplies and ammunition were brought in from Cybertropolis. And crucially, he took delivery of several missile-launchers to fool the Predacons into thinking he was planning a strategy of shelling.

    The soldiers were getting restless. The rumour was sweeping round that they’d soon be out of the trenches for good, and so remaining in the trenches was becoming unbearable. Little fights broke out sporadically and the trade in chemical stimulants increased sharply.

   Overload watched over it all, assuring everyone in calm tones that it would all be over soon. He wasn’t too sure if it would be or not, but no need to tell them that.

    Squads were organised and commanders assigned to them. Crude strategies were hammered out for when they got inside the base.

    Soon it was time to do it, and Overload just prayed he’d covered everything. Taking control from Rodimus had been easy- just point and shoot him. Actually doing his job was hard, especially when you considered the starting point.

    <I’m doing the right thing. I’m doing the right thing.>

**********************************************************************

The Predacon bases were theoretically staffed by 40 professional soldiers all the time. In theory, the soldiers walked around the base unarmed and never really expecting a combat situation- after all, the Maxies were stuck in a hole in the ground and the base had the big guns keeping them out. This was an unimportant front, and the Predacons knew it- they were just here to sit down and block the enemy’s path. They weren’t here to do any real fighting.

   Overload had guessed this, and theorised they would have a maximum of four minutes before the Preds began a proper counter-offence. If they moved quickly, they’d be OK.

    And in all six bases, small explosive charges blasted a whole in the floor and the Maximals rushed out.

    Each squad split into four groups and began securing each floor of their respective base. Most of the Predacons, unarmed and confused, surrendered on the spot.

    Others didn’t. And in three minutes they were armed and ready to fight.

Big Daddy stuck his head round the corner and was yanked back by Powerflash a nanosecond before Pred fire whizzed past.

   “Do that again and you’ll be demoted!”
   “To what? I’m already a lowly private, remember?”
   “Then I’ll- I’ll-” He gave up. “Daddy, Oook- on my signal, prepare for knee-height firing.”
   Powerflash spun round the corner, firing off missiles as he went. The Predacons ducked into a crouch to avoid them, and that was when Daddy & Oook opened fire, blasting off part of the enemy’s lower legs.

   “Good work! Collect them as prisoners and move forward!”

   The Maximals began moving, feeling confident due to the lack of casualties and that they’d have the base in under a minute.

    And they did. Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for several other groups involved in the attack. By the end of it, the Maximals had taken nine injuries and five fatalities.

*******************************************************************

Overload took a deep breath and amplified his voice.

    “OK, effective immediately we will begin moving out of the trench.” He paused to let the cheering subside. “Our technicians are sealing up the tunnels we made as I speak, and the trench will be used to store our Predacon prisoners, after their injuries have been repaired. There will be four guards watching them at all times; any, any, abuse given to them by these guards will be severely punished by me. And that punishment will not be demotion, menial labour or any of that- it will be getting sent back into the trench. To stay there with the Preds. The same ones you abused.”
   He let that sink in before continuing.

   “We can’t all fit in the bases, so open-air camps will be set up on the ground between the bases and the trench. The bases themselves will be refitted so their guns are now attached to the opposite side, to protect us from Predacon attack; the insignia will be changed to a Maximal one; and the computers & broadcast systems are being reprogrammed to pick up Maximal feedsites.

   “Any questions?”
   “Just one,” said Vroom. “All these prisoners we’ve got- we’re not giving them our own Energon to refuel on, are we?”
    “Yes.”

    “The slag?!”
    “They have to refuel, and the Preds are hardly going to send Energon supplies over here for our POWs, are they? We’ll manage, I’ve ordered more supplies.” 

    “Could just execute them, not bother having prisoners.”
    Overload pursed his lips. “That is completely out of the question. I will hear no more on this topic. Next question?”

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He slumped down into his chair and tried to stop thinking. He was tired of thinking. He’d spent weeks doing it, straining his processor as he tried to concentrate on every variable and tactic at once. Thinking about the attack over and over, planning it in clinical detail.

   And he did not want to think about the funeral service being held for the five soldiers cut down, or how many more would be likely to die in future battles he planned, battles where the enemy would be better prepared. Or how murky and grim the future seemed from here, how unpredictable and confusing.

    “So where do I go from here?” he asked aloud.

   Outside, he could hear the faint hissing sound as the dead were vaporised. A waste of Energon, but it was Neogen tradition.

    He frowned and got up out of his seat. Sod this angst and worry- he was going to find his friends and get thoroughly drunk. He’d deal with the future later.

TO BE CONTINUED