Chapter Text
Engine wine and hydraulic depression. It is reminiscent of planes going overhead though much closer. It is easy to think of the cessnas skittering under the cloudcover in that podunk hole you came from but the reality here has more gravity. Quantum engines churn and growl and hum when the ship is running full and you know nothing of them as they do. But now it is quiet. There is that steady rhythmic hiss as the components expand and toil and it is a firm rumble into your legs that no one feels but you.
It is the early hours yet not in this empty bay. Hours are no longer hours and the crew abides by their own time and you fit somewhere in it. Yet now is the time it is most quiet in every rotation, where the things that sleep finally do so. There is a skeleton crew that you often see, though mostly hear; metal clunking underfoot, not clumsy but not quiet. Doors suck open to hush closed.
You flick your wrist and the watchface there lights up easily. 07:00 UTC but that means nothing now. The courthouse bells in the town diamond would be caterwalling in the very distant faraway and you would ignore them just like the rest do if you were there. You are here. Learning their names and units and religion and culture. There is always more to learn and that is your role.
It has been five months since the onboarding and it is a miracle it happened at all. The UNEC—United Nations Extraterrestrial Coalition—came close to sunsetting this sector of the program for reasons they would not disclose, and when they shook your hand goodbye, it felt like an apology.
They had cleared you as not mentally disturbed and then selected you for the most needful host. You have no next of kin and could be misplaced without worry. You never said no. The aptitude tests and placement reports didn’t illuminate a keen foundation in theoretical calculus but they did not want a scholar. They wanted a humanist. A liaison to further enmesh humanity with the creatures from a dead planet. As they love and laugh and hate and kill as we do, and isn’t that just strange.
It was proposed as allyship, and it is tentative and cordial as dogs are on neutral territory. We may study and question their function and they may decide not to answer; they say they see a reflection of themselves in us and that they cannot bear another dead planet. They know what we are after and they are quick to deny it. They say that sharing all knowledge across the gap would do more harm than good.
Diplomacy is a tenderfooted ideal. They have been here publicly since the eighties and longer and there are things we are learning about our planet that bind us closer whether it is wanted or not. Hosts have had human companions for generations by the time you stepped foot into the Pentagon but no one ever told you that they used to send crews of ambassadors when it was no longer topside. Never just one human; partners, even to the moon.
Your representative in the UNEC and NSA had said that the ship was on a short tour and was only stopping for fuel and resources. Then it was found that a passenger of theirs was not allowed on Earth soil and they would not tell anyone who.
They were quick to board you and even quicker to leave. Your safety was personally guaranteed by the one with the grim line for a mouth—their Magnus—and that was it.
Now you are here, pressed up against the not-glass of the bay window where there is some calm. A place only their smallest can go comfortably even if it serves no purpose.
They had tried sending a single person with a host years ago, you came to find shortly after boarding. The public report was maybe a paragraph in length and the ambassador’s status was never mentioned nor concluded.
You may not be mentally disturbed but there is an assumed insanity with what you’ve agreed to and the aptitude tests had a wide margin of allowance.
There is a patron-saint of one way trips. You look for Laika out the large bay window but there are only green smears of infant stars in patterns no one has ever seen. And you.
✪ ✪ ✪
You are expected at a High Command meeting. There is a memo attached with the invitation notice but you are running late, and you do no cursory reading; there have been many in the past where your presence was expected and all you were was the minutes-taker when there was no one else. You and the Magnus. You are not a fan of those meetings, rare birds though they are.
Bimonthly—you cannot correctly pull the proper wordage or terms now for that—you meet Ultra Magnus for a one-on-one. A meeting with your supervisor, though he is your sponsor, not your boss, so I would like for you to be at ease during these councils. How are you doing?
He seems almost human in these meetings—as close as he can be. He does not smile but there is levity. Rodimus is a weight most days but you attend every meeting he asks of you. You submit reports on time, you are courteous. Quiet in a way the other co-captain is not.
Megatron. Quiet, yet an orator when needed. There is no better way to explain it.
✪ ✪ ✪
The meeting has barely begun when you slip in, yet there is no sneaking with a door that has no concept of cracking open the inches needed to scrape by; the whole thing sucks open and all eyes—optics—turn to you despite your otherwise silent entry. You tilt your head down and sling your bag tighter to the side of your body and make the path to the duly appointed reporter-corner.
Ultra Magnus continues without preamble, and without context it is beguiling. You listen as you set your datapad down on the human-sized table and you have no idea why you are here. Safety codes and fire hazards and something about telemetry.
You sit and shift over to your datapad for the itinerary and go very still. Liaison Efficacy Check-In. You might have eaten rocks for the pit you feel you have fallen into.
Rodimus leans back in his chair that has no suspension or bend but the front feet off the floor is an easy sight. Regular. He mouths, Okay?
You manage a thumbs-up even if your heart is running its fingers down your ribs and roughly. He turns back around and you see Megatron look at him before sparing you the barest glance over his shoulder plating. Red. Discomfort, there.
It is not only you who thinks you are doing well, but it suddenly seems all very small and insignificant. Reports twice a month, interviews several times a week. You have been here five months, and never an ‘efficacy check-in’.
Sit and wait.
✪ ✪ ✪
“Ms. Liaison,” Ultra Magnus speaks to you directly. His face never gives anything away in these meetings. No good humor, no footholes of fondness to cling to and ascribe some sort of hope or meaning. “We are at the segment of the meeting dedicated to your performance. Please,” he directs a hand toward one end of the U-shaped table the rest of the room sits at.
He stands in the bend of it, in front of the podium, before rescinding back as you stand. This you are used to—distance being made whenever you move. Cautiousness. You make your way over and brace yourself for the other part you are used to but hate, though you would never say it. Rodimus sets his hand down, palm up, and sets you with a wink onto the table.
Your steps are quiet but loud, standard-issue boots with the heavy soles sticking somewhat to the surface. You groom yourself and adjust your sweater and lament that you are underdressed; you used to wear the uniform, but it was stodgy and awkward and then no one seemed to care when it got replaced with your grandfather sweaters and jeans.
Awkwardness still clings to you, but you will not show it. There are powerful people in this room.
You press your hands together. “Sir,” you regard. “I’m ready to report any findings or anything else you may inquire to determine my performance levels.” You lick your lip. “I hope everything is satisfactory.”
The Magnus does ask for further clarification on your reports, critiques slightly on your grammar in a way that makes your cheeks burn, but compliments other aspects of your writing. You almost feel dizzy. He asks you about conclusions made on staff files, and any notes regarding the interviews and if anything at current could possibly preclude them—if there is anything they can do to make you more efficient at your task.
“Come again, sir?”
He repeats himself. “If there is anything you can think of in the future that we can provide, please inform me.”
Rodimus eases up from his slouch. His plating was loose and turned out but now slides tight and sleek, like a seal. He taps a digit on the table near your feet. You find it interesting how you hold onto the smile he gives you—the seemingly first ever in this room. “Yeah, we could get you like one of those little motor bikes or something. Getchu round the ship faster.”
Your grin is easy, your laugh timid and cordial. “That would be nice, actually—”
“Is this truly necessary?” Megatron. It is the first he’s spoken, apart from one other time in your distant memory. A monosyllable, then; No. Both instances, the room shut down.
You shut down, pull closed. Rodimus nearly pouts. “Buzzkill.”
Ultra Magnus. “Captain Rodimus, more decorum, please.” He shifts to Megatron. “Please, elaborate. I am open to other considerations.”
Like Magnus, Megaton’s face gives nothing away. Not that you look for any footholds of anything there—nothing about him exudes warmth or the possibility of fostering anything related. He displays dislike, condescension. “Is a liaison necessary? And if we are indeed duty-bound to have an organic on our ship, is it wise to extend further resources better used elsewhere?”
“Are you inferring that the current use of resources is wasted on our organic diplomat? And that further re-allocations of them should be avoided?”
“I am.” Megatron looks at you and it takes everything not to wilt in a way they can see. You keep your shoulders square and your back straight but you have heard the stories. You had read them, too. A retired warmonger, now co-captain of a prolific ship. He is one of the few you actively avoid and have no desire to interview. You carefully position yourself behind his scrutiny in meetings, but you are on the table like a small pet instead of a person and there is no avoiding that now.
He frightens you and has now wounded you. Your dislike is quite easy.
“Sir,” you start, eyes not quite on his, “surely you’ve seen my stature. Comparatively, I don’t require the same amount of accommodation as you.”
He is impassive—no tells, plain or embedded, otherwise. You shrink an inch anyway.
“Most areas of the ship now require breathable oxygen,” Megatron states. “This also requires power and its own circulation system, so that you do not suffocate. You require perishables, so that you do not starve. Sleeping quarters that could serve better use, and now—” He exhales. He gestures a dark servo at Rodimus. “Proposed transportation.” He interlaces his digits on the table, but nothing else of him moves. “Is this necessary?”
“Clarification,” you correct, “am I necessary.”
“Yes.” Absolute. That red is searing. “To this ship; I believe you are superfluous.”
You internally recoil but you give him no satisfaction. You do not tell him there is a reason you’re here, and if it weren’t for that reason, you would be home. Home; familiar, usually welcoming. Trees and plants and animals. Dirt and loam.
It takes digging within, but you remain peaceable. Calm. “Thank you for your input, sir.”
For once, Megaton’s face changes. A minute twitch of his brow, or the plating above it.
Rodimus is halfway saying something, but you cut in politely and ask to be set down. You go to the corner and collect your things and actively place a barrier against the rest of the room in your head. It is not there. Ultra Magnus is speaking about time to consider and points to revisit but the only way you have survived here this long is by shutting off what you cannot think about without splintering.
When he finally announces the meeting is adjourned, you are the first to exit.