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“-so, hold on,” Law hears as he shuffles into the main lounge, intent on coffee before anything else. “There’s two up and down guys each, right? One set for this Prime person and the other for the Protector?”
“Lord High Protector,” Tang clarifies, voice coming from one centrally displayed speaker mounted on the front wall, even though, obviously, she’s all around them. “And no, the clarification isn’t that important considering we’re lightyears away from Cybertron, but my friend in Theological Studies would get very persnickety about using the full title each time.”
Penguin sniggers. He’s seated upside-down upon the shorter sofa, legs hanging over the backrest, and can just barely stretch far enough to pat Jean Bart’s shoulder where the bigger man is stretched out across the padded floor. “When Tang tells you that someone else is ‘persnickety’, that’s really saying something.”
“Noted,” their newest addition says dryly.
“Okay, so- back to what I was saying. Two sets of these Most High Aids or whatever you call ‘em-” Tang makes a hedging noise but doesn’t protest, “And you’d think they could have all their job specifications neatly laid out, but no.”
“No?”
Tang sighs. “No.” The exasperation in her tone makes Law snort, even as he focuses on coffee. No matter what cries of ‘heathen’ get tossed his way, rather than make a fresh pot, he prefers a stronger brew that’s been left to steep overnight, and as such heads for the percolator someone’s been generous to power on already. At the other end of the counter is a more modern ‘steam and drip’ device, surrounded by all the various additions that different members of the crew claim they ‘need’ to have on hand, as well as a small refrigerator for milk and cream and such. The concoctions that Clione can assemble, animal faces in the foam included, are something Law privately enjoys seeing - but not inside his own mug, thank you very much.
...although if he does add enough milk to turn the day-old brew from pure black to a light brown this morning, no one besides Tang is paying enough attention to notice.
“No, they argue about who gets what jobs, and this is, like, literally built into their system of government, different administrations bickering about who did what in the past to decide who’s gonna do what in the present.”
Jean Bart hums, a note of revelation. “Such as you and Shachi.”
“Exactly!”
“Does that make the captain our Prime or Protector, then?”
“I’m a doctor, not a politician,” Law cuts in, dry, before the debate can begin in earnest. He’s heard this argument before, the first time Tang tried explaining her homeworld’s way of doing things, several years ago.
“Neither of them are strictly politicians,” Tang points out, before dropping her volume into a ‘whisper’ that Law can still hear perfectly. “Although we eventually settled upon the Lord High Protector title, on account of his need to be the first in line for a fight.”
While she’s able to track movement and heat signatures and so on throughout most of her frame, Tang technically only has visual sensors in a few key locations, which does not include this particular room. Law hopes she can tell he’s rolling his eyes regardless.
“So the divisions are between religious and military power, then?”
“Well- yes and no. Matters of ruling the planet fall within the Prime’s purview on account of, ah, our god IS the planet. A Cybertronian of immense size and power, who transformed himself into a vessel capable of sheltering and nurturing our entire race.” Tang sounds a bit wistful as she lays that out. Not for the first time, Law considers the millions of years she’s been away from home, and feels an ache in his chest for Flevance. “The Prime bears the Matrix of Leadership, a direct conduit to Primus Himself, and thus holds governance of all things that affect our home, our livelihoods, our spiritual selves, so on and so forth.”
“And the Protector defends all of that?”
“Indeed. But it’s not simply a matter of marines defending a nation, you understand - the inverse of Primus, order and creation, is Unicron, chaos and death. The original and ultimate undertaking of the Lord High Protector is to raise up Cybertron’s armies and give battle against the Unmaker, if and when he should ever return from exile in deep space to attempt to devour our planet.”
...hm. Sounds a bit like how the World Government might describe the Revolutionary Army, honestly. Law takes a sip of his cooled coffee.
“Each successive Prime is selected by the Matrix, sometimes from candidates brought before it by the Senate, sometimes via a pilgrimage undertaken around the holy Equatorial Passage. Then, each Prime chooses their Protector from a pool of options raised up via elections from the military divisions, and from there they bring along or else seek out their respective Left and Right hands, who all go on to select their own staff, so on and so forth until the new administration is up and running.”
A long process, it sounds like. But then again, for a mechanical species capable of living for millions of years, setting a handful of those aside to build an entirely new government once every so often probably doesn’t mean much. (Law asked, once, what counted as ‘old age’ for her people. Tang hemmed and hawed a bit over the answer, before putting it tentatively at 12 million, and then added the oldest individual she knew of, some big name archivist in their capital city, has been around for easily twice that long and still going.)
“Technically,” Tang goes on, “When I first left on this trip, the current layout put me in the jurisdiction of the Lord High Protector’s Left Hand, the Up-Up Guy as Shachi put it. An off-world excursion focused on study of extraterrestrial formations, planet oriented but not our planet, of course.”
Jean Bart makes an agreeable noise. “Of course.”
“Taking into account that I have now made a transition to actual interaction with alien lifeforms, however, I may have inadvertently shifted myself into his counterpart’s realm of management, the Up-Down Guy, arguable by any number of prior precedents from days gone by. Or,” she adds, slightly rueful, “Considering the rather dreadful nosedive of Sentinel Prime’s polling numbers just before my departure, it’s entirely possible there is a whole new administration in place by now, and I’ll need to submit my findings to someone I’ve never even heard of.”
“Do you think there’ll be a lot that’s different?” Penguin pipes up. He’s now slid mostly off the couch, legs occupying the cushion, while the rest of him lays on the floor shoulder to shoulder with Jean Bart. “Whenever you head back?”
“Hm, not likely. For all that we’re a species literally built on the concept of adaptation, Cybertron itself doesn’t change much. New overlays built in the cities, fancier towers for the fancier folk when they desire an altered aesthetic, but the Academy, the Senatorial Complex and Primal Basilica, the moons and satellite stations, the Rust Sea and the Equatorial Passage...” ‘Wistful’ has fully shifted into downright nostalgic, and Law drains the remainder of his coffee with a sudden pressing need to exit the room. “I’m looking forward to seeing it all again. I suspect with as long as I’ve managed to extend my trip without being pinged to return, I’ll have quite a bit of required vacation time piled up! Perhaps I’ll sign up for one of those silly guided tours that hit all the big sites- usually they’re for visitors from colony worlds who wouldn’t know the Prime’s Right Hand from his Left, but I expect I’d have fun regardless!”
She keeps going, back to good cheer as Penguin starts suggesting ways for her to mess with wide-eyed tourists. Jean Bart gives Law a nod as he heads for the door; Law returns it, and gives Tang’s warm plating one brief pat, then firmly puts all thoughts of home aside as he heads for the bridge for a status update.