Transformers: Retribution by David J. Williams, Mark Williams Page B

properly?”
    Jazz looked flummoxed. “Well, now that you put it that way … I’m not sure.”
    “Perhaps if I were to attach my instruments directly to it.” As Xeros’s hands moved toward the Matrix, Optimus’s hand shot up and grabbed the doctor’s wrist.
    “That will not be necessary,” Optimus said.
    “It appears that your leader is awake,” the Curator said superfluously.
    “Where am I?” Optimus asked.
    “The Aquatronian medical lab,” Ratchet said. “We didn’t know what else to do.”
    Optimus stood up, albeit a little unsteadily.
    “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Xeros.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Doctor Xeros. Your friends brought you to me after you became unresponsive. You had us all very worried.”
    Jazz placed his hand on Optimus’s shoulder. “Optimus, are you—”
    “I’m fine, old friend.”
    “You mean you
feel
fine,” Ratchet said.
    “What’s the last thing you recall, Optimus?” Xeros asked.
    Optimus shook his head, still obviously a bit dazed.
    “We were walking through the city …” His voice trailed off. “That’s all I can remember. What happened then?”
    “Then you screamed out Megatron’s name and blacked out,” said Jazz.
    “I did?” Optimus asked.
    “Who is this Megatron?” Xeros inquired.
    “The leader of the Decepticons,” Jazz said. “Our sworn enemy.”
    “Then maybe he had something to do with this,” said the Curator.
    “Impossible,” Perceptor insisted.
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “Because Megatron doesn’t have any
mental control
over me,” Optimus said. “If he did, we’d have lost long ago.” But even as he said those words, something was pressing at the fringes of his memory.
Mental control
 … 
lost
 … 
long ago
 … It didn’t make any sense. Or did it? Had Megatron found some way to undermine him from afar? He heard Xeros cough tactfully.
    “Well, since there appears to be nothing wrong with you physically—and since you seem convinced that the issue is not the Matrix—then perhaps there might be another explanation.”
    “And that is?”
    “You might be suffering from a neurological issue.”
    “What kind of junk statement is that?” Jazz towered over Xeros, looking both offended and alarmed.
    “I’m a physician. It’s my job to assess the condition of my patients. And I’m simply raising the possibility that a lot of what we’re seeing here might be due to an imbalance in Optimus Prime’s cognitive circuitry. Neurological, processing, psychological—call it what you like. But it would explain a lot.”
    “Armchair quackery,” Jazz said, getting more incensed by the moment.
    “Patient resistance to diagnoses is something I’m used to,” Xeros said icily. “I’m simply inviting you to consider the possibility. The pressures of leadership can weigh heavily on even the strongest mind. I might even say that part of the duty of leadership is for a leader to assess how much strain he’s under. The very least you can do is be alert for any related symptoms.”
    “What kinds of related symptoms?” Optimus asked.
    “They would vary,” Xeros said. “Sudden mood swings. Impulsive rage. Buried trauma. Repressed memories.” As he said the last two words, a cold chill ran down Ratchet’s spine. He had been thinking along the same line himself. And if Xeros was right, it meant that more surprises were almost certainly in store. Ratchet cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound matter-of-fact.
    “An interesting prognosis.”
    “It is indeed,” Xeros said in a tone that made Jazzwant to slug him. “But for now all we can do is wait. Optimus, I’d recommend a good Energon recharge. And you’re only too welcome to stay here where we can keep you under careful observation.”
    “Thank you,” Optimus said. “I appreciate the courtesy, but you’ve already done enough.”
    “Well,” said the Curator, “in that case, you’ll excuse me while I attend to some details for