Title: In the Arms of Surya
Rating: R/M
Continuity: G1
Characters/Parings: Beachcomber, Hoist, Hound, Wheeljack, Beachcomber/Sun, implied Beachcomber/Hound
Words/Time/Prompt: 1932 words, 110 minutes prior to editing, Advent speedwriting prompt - warmth
Summary: Earth's proximity to her yellow dwarf star feels downright hedonistic to mecha who have been energon-starved.
Content Notice: Solar induced overload, references PnP and spark interfacing

Notes: Written for the livejournal TF_speedwriting 2011 Advent Calendar, Dec. 7. Three stories spurred my imagination for this one. The first is Tainry's Borealis with its many mesa-top sunbathing scenes (found at transit-the-sun . livejournal . com / 6188 . html ). The second is ch. 16 of Taralynden's Story of a Lifetime (found under author's penname here on ff . net) which highlights the newly onlined Ark crew's response to the sun. The third and most recent is Caiusmajor's oneshot, Scandal, which considered just how wasteful, dangerous and horrifyingly excessive certain kinds of interfacing would seem to those who had been starved for energon (found at archiveofourown. org / works / 285403). All are outstanding reads.

Beachcomber was brought back online in the third wave, along with several of the other Autobot civilians, scientists, and support personnel who had voluntarily entered deep stasis when energon supplies had gone critically short in Iacon. While always one to hope, the geologist had never truly thought to online again. They had been losing the war, starving, processors and systems functioning at a fraction of what they were capable of. It was difficult to imagine even the bravest of the Autobot frontliners holding off the Decepticons much longer.

He, of course, had no memory of the frantic loading of the Ark, nor of the horrible choice that had to made to launch before even a tenth of those in stasis had been secured on board. With no memory of the attack or crash, or of the initial onlining of the most essential personnel, his first Earth memory would be bright, friendly optics and merrily flashing vocal indicator fins.

"Welcome ta Earth, Beachcomber. Other than the Decepticreeps, you're gonna love it here. Stay put 'til Ratchet checks ya out, then make sure ya go outside, first thing. Meanwhile, go ahead 'n integrate this packet. It'll bring ya up ta speed."

Bewildered, but put at ease by the relaxation and genuine happiness so transparent in Wheeljack's field, Beachcomber transmitted a glyph of acknowledgment underlined with deep gratitude as he accepted the data packet. His own vocalizer still needed time to initialize from its disuse...

...over four million years of disuse, apparently, as the local sentients accounted for time! Beachcomber was astounded. That they had survived in stasis for that long was beyond his ability to explain scientifically. Perhaps Perceptor, with his superior understanding of their physiology, could account for it, but Beachcomber had always been a spiritual mech, and he could only call it an act of Primus or some other force of fate.

He partitioned a portion of his processors to continue integrating the data packet, and set the rest of his attention on reaching out with his myriad of sensors, designed for energy exploration on alien worlds - and he certainly was on an alien world, with an abundance of energy!

What he found astounded him. Harnessing the geothermal forces at work at their crash site alone could power all of Iacon, if an efficient means of transport were found. He vaguely wondered why the first round of Autobots to online had not harnessed that potential for the Ark. Doing so safely was certainly within their abilities. Then he extended his sensors beyond and let out a static-filled shout that had Hoist running to check on him.

"What's the matter, Beachcomber?" the maintenance mech asked after his scans picked up nothing amiss.

"The star!" Beachcomber quickly accessed the linguistic file for the region they were located in. "The sun!" he repeated.

"I know," Hoist patted him on the shoulder. "We all felt the same way when we onlined. Make sure you go outside, as soon as Ratchet clears you, which will be soon. Only two others to go before you. Should be plenty of time before sunset."

If wasn't that Beachcomber had not been on worlds with such an overabundance of solar energy before. It had just been so long since he had experienced it! Cybertron had been without a star and without enough energon for propulsion for so many eons that it was difficult to recall that it had once orbited a star that had been a source of energy. And it had been so long since there had been energon to spare for his research missions, even if said research could have lead them to energy sources. Even if they'd had the energon, the likelihood of being shot out of the sky attempting to launch had been too high.

Rejoicing at where he found himself, Beachcomber began perusing the files he was integrating. Most life-bearing worlds, in his experience, had to fight hard to produce organic life. They were either slightly too far or slightly too close to their system's star or stars. They produced lifeforms that were hardy and scarce, evolved for scraping out an existence in the most difficult of circumstances. Intelligence, if it evolved, nearly inevitably led down the path of technorganic advances, because it made survival easier in such conditions. In some cases, especially for species who left their birth-world, they made the full leap to robotic life, leaving their organic natures behind in everything but their collective unconscious. The vast reaches of space were far friendlier to robotic lifeforms, after all.

This little watery world was located at just the right distance from its magnificent little star to evolve endless and ridiculously fragile permutations of organic life. As Beachcomber perused the files he was integrating, he laughed in delight at some of the examples that by every rule of evolution he knew should not even be, yet still filled their niche.

All of them were alive because of their perfect proximity to the sun.*

*Beachcomber has not accessed his files on chemosynthetic life on Earth yet, though he will find those hardy lifeforms more similar to what he has encountered on other worlds.

When Ratchet finally gave him clearance, Beachcomber sped past mecha he had not seen in over 4 million years to get to the entrance of the Ark. Not a single one of them was in any manner put off. They understood, and had all, in their own way, experienced the love affair with the little star that the geologist was about to meet.

While any other time it would have been the stark and fascinating geological features or the plethora of desert life that would have captured Beachcomber's attention, this time, all he could process was the excessive abundance of radiant energy, a downpour of photons on his frame as he reached his blue hands toward the sky.

There was something hedonistic about being at this perfect distance from a star. Too close, and without the protection the atmosphere gave, and his shielding would need to protect his systems and would not enable his plating nanites to do what they were now - greedily converting that deliriously abundant radiant energy into a form of energon he could use. Too far, and the conversion process would take more energon than it gave.

It was a slow process, not as efficient as fueling with a cube of midgrade, but it meant survival! And an endless supply, at least for as long as the little star continued its current phase of existence and nothing upset the watery world's orbit. Beachcomber's nanites were exceptionally well tailored to this process, having been designed for efficiency on long-term expeditions. While other, less efficient mechs might have to soak up photons for nearly three local cycles to completely refuel (and then, only if they shut down for recharge during the dark portion of the cycles), Beachcomber calculated that he would only need to sunbathe for a single day during the current season to be at full capacity.

Not that he wasn't already fully fueled, thanks to those who had onlined him, so all of the energon his nanites were converting were going to reserves. Reserves! When was the last time he had been fully fueled, much less had reserves? Certainly not since his days teaching at the Academy, long before the war, perhaps when preparing to leave on an expedition. Those memory files were difficult to access, and he had never been terribly conscientious about organizing or flagging them. He was a mech who liked to take functioning as it came, including what memories his core decided retain, delete, associate, or bring to his attention.

However, he had a feeling that this was a memory he would access on a regular basis.

He found a perfect spot on top of one of the mesas (the fascinated striation with its geological and evolutionary history would have to wait), and was now splayed out on his back like some earth reptile, armor loose to expose as much area as possible to the photons raining down on him. He could hear his metal pinging as it swelled in the heat. He felt so warm! The charge building in his surface nanites made him to feel tingly and even warmer.

Fully fueled, and knowing there was plenty more where it came from, Beachcomber could afford to do something he had never done before. With a signal, instead of converting the photons to a form of energon for his backup fuel cells, the energy began feeding directly into his systems, overcharging him. The warm tingles that had been running on his surface extended to every system deep within him, like a lover cabling up and sharing charge.

They had been so short of energon that overloading that way had been an unthinkable excess. One might share energy with an Autobot in need, but overcharging? Unless a medical necessity, it had been forbidden. Not that starving mecha were able to even process that kind of interfacing.

Now he could soak up the sun, and overload would inevitably follow.

As his charge slowly but steadily grew, he offlined his visor and all his sensors save his internals, haptics, and thermoceptors, and just floated in the sensations, a pure bath of warmth, of tingling pleasure reaching every circuit. He imagined himself caught up in the sun's embrace, wrapped in the sensuous tendrils of its eruptions, caressed by its particles, coaxed to open and finally offering his own spark to merge with the lasciviously generous lover. The sun's corona met his own, and he found not a ball of non-sentient plasma, but a consciousness, far older and wiser, laughing lovingly at him and wrapping him up all the tighter in an unconditional affirmation of life itself. With a final, warm laugh, the sun erupted with another flare, right into his spark that sent his every circuit into fiery bliss.

When he onlined, his glorious new lover had slipped below the horizon in a garish display of color across the western sky. Another mech was sitting nearby. He vaguely recalled that the mech had followed him to the mesa and had been there all along, guarding. He had been too taken by the photons to consciously care about him or the other recently onlined mechs who had found their own spots in the sun.

"It's Hound, right?" he asked the scout whose spark resonance he vaguely recalled running into from time to time in Iacon.

"Yep. Welcome to Earth Beachcomber."

"I'm sorry I didn't notice you, my friend."

"Frag, no need to apologize for that. You ought to have seen me the first time. I think I actually opened my chest plates and exposed my spark." The bulky green mech chuckled. "Since then, we always make sure someone is standing guard, when mechs go outside for the first time. I must say, you were a lovely sight."

"It must be distracting, being able to sunbathe for an overload any time you want," Beachcomber said, sitting up, and stretching out his joints in a deliberately slow and seductive way.

"You know what's even more distracting? Knowing that you can do the same with your fellow mech without worrying that one of you will gutter your spark, or that you'll end up in the brig for wasting resources. There's... a lot of 'facing happening on the Ark... and on the mesas," Hound explained, transmitting a blatantly suggestive glyph as he grinned rakishly.

Beachcomber flared his field in a decadent manner, leaving no doubt of his response. He was going to love this world.