PSYCHOLOGICAL DEPENDENCE

By Raksha

You called me strong, you called me weak,
But still your secrets I will keep;
You took for granted all the times

I never let you down.
You stumbled in and bumped your head,
If not for me then you'd be dead;
I picked you up and put you
Back on solid ground!

-- Three Doors Down, "Kryptonite"

Part 1

The Autobots are all over us.

Plan was to drag this deep-space refueling station back to Charr, but those blasted Autobots are once again in our way -- how dare they?! Feel it's their responsibility to protect all the insignificant life of the galaxy, and damn them, they're doing it. There's just too many, they've got us pinned. Laser fire flashing all over, seems like it's burning into my brain.

I won't stand for it! I am Galvatron, imperial ruler of the Decepticons, and I refuse to retreat! If I can't have this space station, no one can. I turn and fire on the fuel tanks. Fireballs go up to all sides, incredible blasts of light and heat. Beautiful!

The entire structure of the station is crashing down around us. The Autobots are taking off, grabbing up stray flesh-creatures as they run.

"After them!" I command. I revel in the destruction, motion my Decepticons forward.

A smoldering support beam collapses with a metal-rending shriek, slamming me down. Can't get free -- flames all around me! "Cyclonus!"

He appears instantly out of the smoke and flames, throws his weight against the beam, over and over, showering me with sparks from the impact. It moves aside ever so slightly. I try to pull free -- can't. Heat so intense.... "Cyclonus, I'm burning up! Do something!" I scream at him.

He calls to Scourge and the Sweeps, slams himself backward into the beam and braces against the lurching floor. The outer layers of the metal beam have turned molten and sizzle into his arms and shoulders. He cries out in pain, but keeps pushing. I feel the horrible weight lifting, feel the Sweeps grab me and drag me out from underneath.

Through the smoke and fire, I see the last of the Autobots retreat out into space. Scourge and Cyclonus drag me out the other way, through the nearest opening and out into the welcome cold of space.

There's a small asteroid field nearby. We land on one of the larger ones. Cyclonus makes as if to examine my injuries, but I wave him aside. "Look," I point out, "look at the space station!" It explodes with an optic-sensor-searing burst of light and absolute silence in the vacuum of space. The incredible display almost makes up for our failure in claiming its fuel for ourselves. For a moment, I'm nearly pleased.

"Too bad the Autobots weren't aboard when it went up," Cyclonus mutters.

I remember the Autobots retreating out into space, away from us. I whirl on Cyclonus. "Autobots?! Didn't I order you to go after them?"

"Yes, but --"

"Imbecile! You let them escape!" I hit him as hard as I can. My fist connects with his jaw in a satisfying crash of metal, sending him sprawling backwards. That fool -- we would have had them!

It takes a moment for Cyclonus to move, where he's fallen. Then he slowly drags himself up, keeping well back. His eyes burn into the darkness, staring me down. Don't think I've ever seen quite that look before, from him. I'm somehow uneasy. It's as though he's reached some kind of a momentous decision.

Ridiculous. Cyclonus always comes back for more, regardless of what I do. Where would he be without me, after all? I turn away, intent on enjoying the last smoldering embers of the space station as it burns itself out above us.

"Galvatron." Cyclonus' tone is a low, dangerous growl. I turn back to look at him, curious. Not preparing to fire on me, is he? That would be ... amusing. I'd let him get in a few shots, then have the Sweeps hold him down so I could reduce him to a pool of molten metal with my fusion cannon -- very slowly. I smile in anticipation.

But he hasn't drawn his weapon. "That was the last time," he says. "The last time I pull you back from the edge of death, only to be rewarded by your own unique brand of gratitude. No more playing mediator between your maniacal whims and the rest of the troops, who would have turned on you long ago if not for my intervention. No more intercepting Autobot laser fire for you. No more dragging you out of the way and taking missile hits meant for you. Although, I would have done all that gladly, if you appreciated it. But now, you'll have no more Cyclonus to scream at when you want to let off steam, or to bash around when you're angry with the universe and think that hitting me will make you feel better. It's over, Galvatron. Finished."

His eyes are flame, his tone is ice. Cyclonus has always been predictable. This is not like him. Why do I have that uneasy sensation? Never mind. He just needs to be put back in his place. "Is there a point to this little tirade, Cyclonus?" I ask, letting each word drip sarcasm. "Or are you just showing off for the Sweeps -- showing that every now and again you're able to stand up to your leader and voice a minor complaint?"

I laugh; he is not amused. "The point is this," he says, very calmly and without inflection. "My faith in you has been misplaced. I'm placing it elsewhere. I'm leaving."

He doesn't mean it. Never.

He transforms into his space-fighter mode and hovers, prepared for takeoff.

I taste something near to a tiny sizzle of panic in my brain. He means it. "If you leave now," I scream at him, "I'll brand you a traitor to the Decepticon cause! You'll never be welcome in my ranks again!"

"Spare me your small favors, Galvatron. See how well you get along without me." He shoots away into space, bright flames jetting from his engines.

"Without you?!" I scream after him. "I'll be better off without you! You think I need you for anything, you blundering incompetent? You can't even follow orders and finish off a few lousy Autobots! Good riddance! I hope you crawl away and die with the dregs of the universe!"

Shaking with fury, I turn on Scourge and the Sweeps. Why is Scourge nodding as though he thinks Cyclonus did the right thing? Maybe he's next in line to get thrown out on his audial sensor -- no, wait. Next in line, of course. With Cyclonus gone, Scourge inherits the second-in-command rank. Of course. Cutthroat ambition I can understand. Appreciate. "Congratulations, Scourge, on becoming my new second-in-command."

Scourge feigns amazement. Nice touch, but false modesty is unbecoming a Decepticon warrior. Unless he's not faking. He grabs the Sweep closest to him, thrusts him forward. "No, no, I'm not worthy of that rank," Scourge assures me quickly. "This warrior has served me faithfully -- he'll be much more appropriate."

The Sweep glares at him. "Thanks a lot," he growls.

Fine. If Scourge wants to immobilize his career in a rut, let him. Anyone stupid enough to pass up such an opportunity, I don't want as a second-in-command.

* * *

Back on Charr, the other Decepticons are less than pleased that we don't return with a space station full of fuel. They say I promised them results. I promised them nothing. I'll feed them a few blasts of my fusion cannon if they don't settle down.

My new second-in-command takes up his place beside me as I confront the crowd of warriors that has gathered before my fortress.

"We need fuel, Galvatron!" shouts Motormaster from among the crowd. "We're too low on energon. If the Autobots attacked us now, we couldn't even defend ourselves!"

"There are other sources of fuel." I glare at him. Insubordination. I'll remember this.

"Translation: he botched the plan," I hear Swindle say to his comrades, not even bothering to keep his voice down.

"So what's the new plan, Galvatron?" Dragstrip demands. "At least tell us that."

"I'll tell you my plans when I see fit to do so," I growl. "I don't have to answer to underlings! I am Galvatron, my power is supreme! Now go away!" The group mills about angrily. "Cyclonus, get rid of them," I mutter, then realize my mistake. The Sweep looks at me blankly. "Well, what is your name?"

"Razorwing, my lord," he says, inching backwards.

"So get rid of them!" I turn to enter the fortress.

Behind me, I hear Razorwing trying to placate the crowd. "Look, guys, relax, okay? Galvatron's got a plan, he's just -- yeah, he's just saving it for a surprise, that's all--"

Oh, wonderful. Maybe I should have kept Scourge as second after all....

* * *

The throne room is dark, empty. The way I like it. Easier to think. Only the flames to both sides and slightly in front of the throne dance before me, casting leaping shadows on the cold metallic walls.

Must come up with a line to feed the Decepticons -- at least long enough to shut them up, long enough to form a real plan. Cyclonus would know.

The thought of him rouses renewed fury in me. Damn him. Hope he got caught in an ion storm, a solar flare. Hope he contracts cosmic rust and shrivels to pieces! Desert me, will he? Well, maybe after I've tracked down a suitable fuel source, I'll send a few Predacons after him and teach him a real lesson. Yes!

The thought delights me for a moment, but the clatter of metal from outside drifts in and distracts me. Those idiot warriors! Low on fuel, and brawling to burn off even more. Must think of something. This is all the Autobots' fault anyway -- if they hadn't--

Autobots! The thought is like an electric bolt, a revelation. The Autobots have plenty of fuel!

I leap up from my throne and rush through the fortress, out into the eternal cursed dimness that is Charr. My warriors are actively engaged in a free-for-all at the gates of the fortress. My first impulse is to wade in and join them, bash a few skulls. Instead I let loose a few random blasts from my fusion cannon. "Silence!" I scream at them. "You miserable wrecks!" Activity ceases in a hush of dead silence.

"Save your fighting prowess for the Autobots. We will have energon. We attack Cyberton at moonrise!"

"Cyberton!" Scourge echoes, staring at me in open disbelief.

A collective mutter goes up from the others. I catch the phrases "lost his mind," and "totally crazy." Some stare at me with undisguised hostility.

How dare they? This is not how it's supposed to go. I am Galvatron, my power is everything! Almost ... everything. Any one of them I could take on alone -- but all of them together? All at once? ... Maybe.

Scourge is trying to be reasonable. "We can't attack Cybertron, Galvatron. The Autobots--"

"Have energon!" I cut him off. "You did say you wanted energon?" I glare at the assembly.

"But their defense systems--" Scourge begins again.

"Are not prepared for the unexpected," I finish. "Think of the element of surprise, you unimaginative clods! The Autobots will never be expecting us few Decepticons to launch a direct attack on their strongest position! We'll be in and out of there before they know what hit them!"

They all stare at me. The silence is deafening and interminable. Why does this feel like I'm running a laser gauntlet without a deflector shield? A single wrong move.... Wish Cyclonus were here. He'd make them understand. I realize I've never faced the Decepticons down before, without Cyclonus in the background. Maybe I was a bit hasty, throwing him out--

"You know," muses Thrust, "it just might work."

A slow ripple of agreement passes among the warriors.

Yes! I've got them -- they bought it! "Decepticons, fuel up with what energon we have left, and prepare to attack! Our supplies will soon be restored!"

* * *

I lead them against Cybertron. We strike hard and fast, blowing out their defense shields on our first run. Scourge leads half of the army to engage the Autobot sentries, while I lead the other half, smashing our way into the storage silos where glowing cubes of energon await us. I summon anyone with any sort of cargo-carrying capacity -- Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Astrotrain, Vortex, Blast Off, Sweeps -- all of them loaded to overflowing with energon cubes. "Take off!" I command them, and they lumber clumsily into the air, ungainly with their heavy loads of fuel.

The Autobot warriors have become wise to our presence in full force. They're converging on us, trying to shoot down my transports. I feel the thrill of destruction as I fire on them again and again, the delirious rush of carnage and desolation -- this is what I live for, to crush and mangle, to rend and lacerate -- to gorge myself on the sweet taste of my enemies' agony, their twisted metal bodies shattering under my assault--!!

Someone calls my name, as if from an immense distance away. It is only some moments later that I realize it's Razorwing, that he's right beside me, shouting at the top of his voice. "Galvatron, the transports are safe! We must get away!"

The Autobots surge forward like a breaking tsunami. Turning, I fire into a few of the broken storage silos, igniting the energon cubes that remain within. I shoot up into the sky after the rest of my army, Razorwing close beside me. Below us, the silos explode into blasts of flame and a hail of deadly, needle-sharp shrapnel.

I ride the screams of the stricken Autobots all the way home to Charr.

* * *

So much energon -- my head spins from it. Too much. Maybe I shouldn't have overenergized all that much. But the others -- the others are worse off. I lean back against the pillar at the entrance of the fortress and survey the evidence of the celebration, of the past few hours. Most of the warriors have passed out from overenergization. At best, some are semi-conscious, lying at all angles and in the most unlikely positions in the courtyard, draped over the stairs, leaning against the gate. Some hum drunkenly to themselves before shutting down completely into oblivious sleep.

Victory, delicious victory. The floor spins under me, but I don't mind. Even considering this little indulgence, we have enough energon cubes left to power us for weeks. Through blurry optics I see the cubes stacked into an unruly pyramid just inside the courtyard. They give off a soft pink glow. I let myself slip toward dormancy. Told you, Cyclonus. Told you I didn't need you.

Next thing I know, the air burns with laser fire. I struggle up from unconsciousness to meet crashes and shouts -- for a moment everything is hazy, in slow motion, can't be real -- but it is real, Autobots, crashing in through the gate, all lasers blazing.

Can't move as quickly as I need to. So dizzy. I pull myself up along the pillar, try to aim my fusion cannon, but can't seem to stand steady, my shots go wide.

"Decepticons, on your feet!" I command -- some trying to stand, some even shooting, but it's useless, the damn fools are so drugged up with energon that the Autobots are making off with our supply of cubes as easily as if they were taking it from their own silos.

The glowing pyramid is all but gone. "That is my energon, filthy Autobot thieves!" I scream at them, rushing toward the last of the cubes -- but the stairs catch my feet, sending me crashing down into the courtyard. The impact sends daggers of pain through my head -- flashes of light explode behind my eyes, then everything goes dark.

But I fight it. Can't lose consciousness. They're taking my energon! I force myself partially up off the floor. The fusion cannon on my arm feels like it's made of compacted lead. I drag it forward, trying to get one of the retreating bastards into my sights ... fire! But the blast skitters along the ground, useless, hitting part of the mangled gate.

"Losing your touch, Galvatron?" one of the Autobots jeers. "A little too much energon, maybe?" The others laugh as they vanish from sight. Laughing at me! Of all the humiliations.... I let my head sink back to the ground. Only hope none of my warriors saw that. I think I'm going to be sick.

But no time even for that. Someone is shaking me, trying to pull me up. "Galvatron, you'd better get it together!" comes the urgent voice of Scourge. He and Razorwing drag me to my feet. Still hard to find my balance, my head is throbbing. I look up, and suddenly feel cold.

The Decepticons are gathered before me in the courtyard. The sickly light of Charr's single moon glints in pale yellow off their plating. Their eyes burn into the darkness with anger and accusation. Guns and laser swords are prominently displayed. The menace is unmistakable.

"You call yourself a leader, Galvatron," Motormaster rumbles. "Of all the stupid--" He gropes for the right words, too angry to find them.

"Letting us overenergize like that," Swindle accuses, "leaving us as sitting targets for the Autobots!" Good old Swindle. Never at a loss for words.

"You're the idiots that overenergized!" I accuse back.

"And you didn't?" snaps Astrotrain.

"Right!" Onslaught continues. "It's your responsibility, as our 'leader,' to restrain our barbaric and self-detrimental impulses. Furthermore, leaving the remaining energon cubes in plain sight -- talk about inept strategy! You might have at least forced the Autobots to break through several layers of defenses to steal them back."

"Hell, even stashing 'em in the basement of the fortress would've been better'n leaving 'em in plain sight like that," Wildrider puts in. "Kind-of makes it look like an open invitation -- you know, 'Come and take our energon.' Some leader."

"Cyclonus would have considered that," Hook says pointedly. "He'd never have let this happen. You're out of control, Galvatron."

"You ungrateful rabble!" I snarl at them. "You wanted fuel -- you got fuel. You're still not happy. You're nothing but whiners and ingrates, not worthy of the name Decepticon."

"Wrong, Galvatron," Motormaster growls. He brandishes his laser sword in one hand, levels his gun at me with the other. "You're not worthy. Not worthy to call yourself our leader! Now get lost, while we're still willing to let you walk out of here in one piece."

As one, the others train their weapons on me. This is impossible! Their brains must still be so fogged with energon, they've forgotten their proper fear of me. "You're all crazy!" I shout at them. "You'll never survive without me! I am Galvatron, my power is--"

"Absolute, right," Swindle cuts in. "We've heard it all before. Truth is, you've been more trouble for us than the Autobots!" The others nod, their eyes flashing coldly.

"Traitors! The Autobots will run all over you, without a leader," I insist.

"Some leader." Motormaster spits the words contemptuously and raises his laser, ready to fire.

"Scourge, Cyclonus -- I mean Razorwing -- take them!" I command hastily, ready to lead an army of two into my final battle.

They step off to the side, away from me. "Sorry, Galvatron," Scourge says. "The others have a point. You'd best leave while you still can."

Without even that backup, what can I do? For a split-second longer I stare down the eager gunbarrels of my warriors, and then make a dash for the sky.

Part 2

It has been five weeks, as time is measured on Charr. I have somehow drifted out of the populated sector of the galaxy -- nebula all around me, heated gases and ions pulsing in green and purple wisps. Some warmth in here, at least. Was getting tired of flying through days of absolute zero, ice eventually forming in all my joints and shattering soundlessly with each movement. That doesn't happen in here. But it's still cold, like the ice has condensed into a core within my central circuitry and won't melt. It's like bad melodrama -- cold, hungry, lost and alone.

I'd thought of landing on the nearest inhabited world, of course -- gathering a few good warriors, leading them against the traitorous Decepticons -- but how long would they have followed me? How long before the same scene repeated itself? No, better to keep flying, maybe I'd come across something useful.

By the time I really started to get low on energy, I was too far away from any known fuel source to make it back. So, I'm here. Maybe I'll drift in the nebula until -- until -- what is that up ahead? Like a shadow passing over -- maybe a ship?

I fly up through the shifting ion clouds and dust particles until I'm above the plane of the nebula. It rolls like wind-lashed clouds below me, lights flashing through. Just ahead -- I was right! Not just one ship, but a small fleet. Most look old, battered. But well armed. The smaller ones fly in a loose formation, surrounding a huge, hulking gunship in considerably better repair. Instinct tells me it's a flagship of sorts.

Can't take them all on, of course. But I must have fuel! Only chance is to attack one of the small ships, one near the rear and a bit away from the others -- if I can drag it into the nebula and dispatch the crew, I can drink from the fuel tanks and vanish while the others are still searching the gas clouds.

No margin of error here. The maneuver will burn up all of my remaining fuel.

I've targeted one of the smaller ships. I don't think they know I'm here. I shoot forward, raising my fusion cannon, ready to blast out the guidance systems and disable the vessel -- but I never get the chance to fire.

Suddenly I'm tangled in a web of light! Strands of pure energy bind me, and I fight them, kicking and struggling, but no use. Cannon won't fire -- I'm being dragged toward the flagship. A hatch opens and I'm pulled in, drifting in darkness, still tangled. The hatch closes, shutting off the outside light of the nebula. Recompression -- light and gravity turn on, I'm dropped unceremoniously to the floor of a small, empty docking bay. "Who's responsible for this?!" I demand. "Show yourself! When I get my hands on you--!"

A hatch slides back on an inside wall, two creatures enter. Organics, in pseudo-military dress, half my size. Blasted energy net! Must break the strands -- can barely move! "Release me this instant," I snarl at the organics. "Release me or die a tormented death!"

They look at me, at each other, back at me. "Hey, look at this," one exclaims, reaching through the energy strands as though they weren't there. He tugs at my fusion cannon. "Slike, help me with this, will you? I know a couple of Ferengi free traders who'd pay top credits for a weapon like that."

"Touch my cannon and I will obliterate you!" Trying to fight the net. Each movement draws it tighter. The organics detach the fusion cannon from my arm -- it takes both of them to lift it and lean it against the nearest wall. "Pathetic weaklings!" I snarl. "I'll vaporize you!"

The one called Slike touches the receiver in his helmet, speaks into a small microphone. "Yes sir. Yes, we understand." Turns to the other. "Sorry, Stardance -- we don't get to throw him into recycling for spare parts after all. The boss wants to see him."

"Waste of good materials," Stardance sighs, pulling out a control box with buttons and levers. "Oh well. On your feet, robot."

"I am Galvatron! Supreme commander of the Decepticons! No one tells me what to -- What??" The net is contouring itself to my body, moving my muscle cables against my will, making me stand and walk ahead of the two organics into the open door-hatch.

"Did he say Decepticons?" says Stardance, daring to control my movements with his levers.

"Maybe that explains it," says Slike in a bored tone. "But who knows? We may get him for spare parts in the end, after all."

I try to fight every step, try to throw my weight backward against the relentless forward motion. I'm not even slowing down. "You will all suffer for this! I'll tear apart your whole armada!"

They're not impressed. We pass through vast corridors, sealed hatches and other passages leading off to both sides. Realize I have been too busy fighting the net to have paid attention to directions, to the way back. Surely this damn net is going to run out of power any second...?

We stop before a huge doorway that slides up to reveal a dim chamber. Stairs inlaid with blue fluorescent strip-lights lead up to a platform carrying a throne or command chair, its back to us, facing the wall behind it. That wall is made up entirely of viewscreens -- must be two dozen or more, some dark, most showing some interior view of this, or maybe the other, ships. One shows the cargo bay where I was brought in, my fusion cannon still lying against one wall.

The net moves me forward and brings me to a stop at the base of the stairs. Lousy organics stop behind me, snap to attention and hold a salute. "We brought him in, sir," Slike says respectfully. "Like you wanted. But he strikes me as a bit of a lunatic, sir, if you want my opinion. I don't think he could be of much use--"

With a mechanical "whirrrr," the throne swivels around to face us. Cyclonus! Its occupant is Cyclonus, I can't believe it -- ! -- can't believe I'm almost glad to see him.

"I neither asked for your opinion, nor paid you to think," Cyclonus says to the organic. "Now leave us."

Stardance regards me dubiously. "You sure?"

"Out!" Cyclonus thunders. They scurry away, hatch slides shut behind them.

It takes me only a moment to get over my surprise. "Cyclonus, release me at once, or suffer the consequences!"

"Of course." He smiles fractionally, touches a button on one armrest of the throne. The net dissolves away from me.

"Now I'm going to tear you apart!" I leap up the stairs, eager to get my hands around his throat -- but something slams me back, halfway up -- a bright clash of light and a physical impact that felt like a jolt of electricity. Invisible force shield.

Too low on fuel to try again. I pick myself up at the base of the stairs, glare at him. Notice he's got his laser gun resting on one of the broad armrests of the throne, and a tray of small energon cubes on the other. About now, I'd trade him my fusion cannon for that tray of energon -- if I still had it.

"Now that you've gotten that out of your system, "Cyclonus says, "perhaps we can talk reasonably. I'm curious -- how long did it take for the Decepticons to throw you out?"

"They didn't," I snarl at him. "I left. I refused to work with such blundering idiots any longer."

"I see. And you hope to find warriors of greater intellect out here in the nebula." He offers me the slightest of superior smiles, sips absently at an energon cube.

"Look, Cyclonus. Maybe we can discuss this over dinner?"

He watches me silently for interminable moments. I'm starving, and damn him, he's enjoying my discomfort. "Alright," he agrees finally. "If you behave yourself."

"Yeah. Sure."

He picks up his laser and comes down the stairs, the force shield letting him through with the slightest of electronic crackles. "Through here," he says, motioning me toward another door-panel in the wall, which slides back to reveal a storage room piled floor-to- ceiling with energon cubes of all sizes and colors. I can only stare at him. "How did you---?--where did you--?--oh, never mind." I plunge in, greedily drinking up energon. Never had such good energon. But I remember what happened the last time I had too much -- this time, I drink only what I need, no more.

Cyclonus has followed me in, and watches me, leaning casually against the inner wall. Seems relaxed, but I know that type of relaxed -- the raised laser means he's alert and ready. Could move and fire in a split instant if he had to. That's what made him such a good second-in-command.

Finished refueling, I turn to him. Feel like being generous now. It was good energon. "Cyclonus, I forgive you. I'll take you back into the ranks. Now let's get started and leave for Charr before the others descend into total disarray without their leader."

For a moment he stares at me in amazement, then bursts out laughing. "You forgive me?" he splutters. "You?? Galvatron you really -- you really believe your own propaganda, don't you?" He shakes his head, still laughing.

"What do you mean?" I demand. If he doesn't stop laughing at me, I'll stuff his mouth with my fist.

He's suddenly dead serious. "I'm not going back," he says. "Remember what you said about the dregs of the universe? Well, I own them now. This fleet -- the Star Raiders. Mostly space pirates, but they haul contraband also -- even an occasional legitimate transport. I ran into them shortly after I freed myself from your clutches, and recognized their potential." He tilts his laser into plainer view. "Amazing, how a little superior firepower can win you instant acceptance. That is probably the one useful thing I learned from you. Too bad you never learned how to maintain your underlings' respect. No, Galvatron. You've got nothing more to offer me back on Charr."

Can't believe I'm hearing this. He should jump at the chance. Be grateful. I don't understand. "But Cyclonus, you're not a space pirate! You're a warrior! You'll waste away and die for lack of action."

"We see our share of action," he counters. "I've used Decepticon technology to improve the weaponry and defensive systems of the fleet, allowing us to attack larger and more dangerous targets. You're welcome to stick around and see for yourself."

Is it my imagination, or is Cyclonus offering me room and board? I certainly can't go back to Charr.

"You'd have to earn your keep, of course," Cyclonus adds.

I glare at him suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hold down a job. Occupy some kind of a useful position."

"Work for you? Are you crazy? -- What kind of job?"

He regards me thoughtfully. "Well, something appropriate. Something you'd be good at. You were once my leader, after all. I'd say ... we need a decent gunner on the flagship. Weapons officer, if that suits you better. But remember, I'm the leader here. And you'd have to control your irrational outbursts of temper. I don't like disorder on my ships."

"You're insane, I won't stand for this! Only Galvatron leads! Do you hear me?"

He shrugs. "Suit yourself. You're free to leave, of course. I'm even willing to drop you off at the nearest inhabited planet -- you could melt down a few natives, carve up a few continents -- whatever. If nothing else, you got a free meal out of me." He turns to leave.

The bit about the inhabited planet sounds almost tempting. But the thought of being cast adrift again, in that vast, cold, empty universe.... I catch myself shivering. Not that I need companionship or acceptance or any such nonsense. I need nothing from anyone. But ... maybe Cyclonus needs me. Of course. He can't get along without me, that's it. I call him back. "Wait, Cyclonus. I think you need a decent gunner for the flagship."

* * *

Sometime later Cyclonus shows me to the bridge. It's sparsely furnished and utilitarian, with a raised command chair in the center, two console positions in front, and several computer stations ringing the perimeter in the background. Huge forward viewscreen shows the slow passage of stars at the fringe of the nebula.

Only two other creatures on the bridge as we enter. One relinquishes the command chair to Cyclonus and takes up a position to one side. He was once apparently a pure organic -- now, the right half of his body consists of machinery: half of the face along with one round, gleaming optic sensor, one metal leg, one metal arm tipped not in a hand but a circular sawblade. A heavy chain is looped over his organic shoulder. A jagged crest of black hair leans erratically over the metal half of his head. He reaches barely to Cyclonus' shoulder in height, but is a bulky, powerful-looking thing, for an organic.

The other creature is a female, seated at the left forward console. Neon-pink swaths of hair are loosely held back by a dagger and sheath serving as a clasp. Big, bright-purple eyes watch my approach -- must be artificially enhanced. Her clothing is strategically tattered, in a way that almost reveals those sections of the body that organics, I suppose, find seductive -- but in contrast, between layers of spiked belts and colored material, I see the glint of concealed weaponry.

Cyclonus indicates the empty console next to her. "Here's your weapons station," he says. "I think you'll find everything reasonably familiar."

I sit down, try it out. Not too bad. Cyclonus stands beside me, as though awaiting something. "If you expect me to say 'yes sir' and 'no sir' to your every utterance, you can wait forever," I snap.

"I was waiting to see if you had any questions about the controls," he says. "I did make a few -- improvements."

"Nothing I can't handle."

He nods, takes to the command chair behind me.

"So who's the new recruit?" comes the gravelly voice of the male organic lounging indolently against the side of the command chair.

"His name's Galvatron," Cyclonus tells him. "He may require a period of adjustment."

"Adjustment?" rasps the organic. "Why bother with that? Cut him up for spare parts, I say." I hear the whirr of the sawblade as he lets it rotate once at the end of his arm.

I swivel my chair to keep him in sight -- wish I had my fusion cannon, I'd show him some spare parts! Cyclonus glares at him. "Scrounger, I will make the decisions here," he says. "Now get back to your computer station and see that we stay on course."

Scrounger gives a grunt of assent, moves off to one of the empty computer stations behind us. I turn back to my console, studying it. Everything does look familiar, the usual lasers, torpedoes, shields and ion blasts -- all except a few controls in the upper right corner. Wonder what they're for.

"So you're Galvatron, eh?" says the female beside me, giving me an appraising look. "Glad we finally found us a gunner. I had to do double duty now and again, I did." She thrusts out a hand at me. "I'm Toxicaria. I fly this rig. Navigator, you know? My friends call me Toxic."

I look at her hand, the neon-pink talons of fingernails.

"Righto," she says, pulling it back. "You robot-types don't shake hands, I gather."

Not with organics.

She adjusts a few controls, continues, "Now where have I heard your name before? Don't tell me, now, let me guess -- Galvatron, Galvatron ... got it!" She stares at me with her bright purple eyes. "You used to be a big-shot among the Decepticons, didn't you?"

Used to be? I can't help but wince. How quickly one becomes a used-to-be. I don't have to stand for this. Feel rage creeping up inside me again. Turn to glare at Cyclonus. What have you saddled me with? He's watching with an amused expression. "You'll get used to her," he assures me.

Damn creature is still at it. "Wait a minute -- Decepticons!" she exclaims. "Cyclonus -- that's what you are!"

"Yes, that's what I am," he says in a tolerant, almost bored tone.

"So you guys--" she points at me, at him, back to me. "You guys are like old friends, reunited?"

"Something like that," Cyclonus says in the same tone, watching me closely.

She grins at me. "What a coincidence, don't you think, that we ran into you all the way out here, don't you think?"

I clench my fists to keep from reaching over and throttling her. "Toxicaria," I say, very quietly, very calmly.

She wags a finger at me. "Toxic -- remember?"

"Yes. Toxic. Now will you do me a minor favor?"

"I suppose," she shrugs. "Depending on what it is, of course, because you never know how minor favors can grow into--"

"SHUT UP!!" I scream at her.

She cringes away from me, giving me a look of utter surprise, then busies herself hastily at her console.

Cyclonus chuckles. "Well, you passed the test, Galvatron. You didn't stand up and start dismantling the bridge. Now enough chatter! Toxic, keep us on course."

"Righto, luv," she mutters, giving me a wary sidelong look.

Luv? This is his idea of discipline and order? Ha!

Not much for me to do at the moment. I drum my fingers along the console, stare out into space, then back around the bridge. Scrounger steps back up on the platform and takes up his position beside Cyclonus, leaning against the command chair. "Long distance scanners should be making contact any minute now," he says. "We'd have reached the transports already, but we lost some time picking up Scrapmetal here." He gestures at me with contempt.

I stare back with equal contempt. Would love to send a fusion blast through his skull.

A few more crew members enter the bridge, take up positions along the computers. From what I've seen, Cyclonus' Star Raiders are made up of all sorts, ranging from ratty space pirates like Toxic and Scrounger through polished paramilitary types like Slike and Stardance -- with every imaginable shading in between. The one thing they have in common is greed -- a virtue, to be sure, but this is still no place for a Decepticon warrior. What use could Cyclonus have, for instance, for gold loot? That soft and useless metal isn't good for anything, and yet, to hear the Star Raiders talk, it's one of the fleet's most eagerly sought prizes.

I hate this sitting around. I long for action, destruction!

"Long-range sensor contact, Cyclonus," rasps Scrounger, back at his computer post.

"On screen," Cyclonus commands. The starfield is replaced by a computer image of three bulky transport ships, and our fleet in the distance, moving to intercept.

"Visual contact in four minutes," Scrounger announces. "They'll see us, too, unless we start scrambling their optics."

"I'm aware of that, Scrounger." Cyclonus watches the screen calmly for perhaps half a minute longer. "Alright. Galvatron, start jamming all their sensors. Long and short-range scanners, visual, radio -- everything. Feed them static."

How? I stare blankly at my controls. Must be one of these buttons in the upper right.

"No, not that one!" hisses Toxic, reaching across in front of me and flipping up a pair of switches.

To her contemptuous look I reply, "I was going for those."

"Keep watch on our fuel-levels," Cyclonus tells Scrounger. "You know how the scrambler system burns energy."

"Almost in range, Cyclonus," Toxic announces.

He touches a control along the armrest, opening a channel to his other ships. "Star Raiders, this is Cyclonus," he says. "Attack plan has been fed into your computers -- activate the sequence now. Do not alter course unless I so order. Cyclonus out."

"That's it? That's all you're going to say to them?" I demand. "That's not the way to wring performance out of underlings! Cyclonus, you've got to elaborate on the rewards of success, and especially, on the consequences of failure! I knew you couldn't do this on your own. I'll handle the attack for you." I start to rise from my place, find Scrounger suddenly beside Cyclonus, aiming a shrapnel blaster at me.

"You'll do no such thing," Cyclonus says. His eyes flash warning. "I see no reason to waste time and effort elaborating rewards that these pirates already know of -- nor carrying on about the price of failure, which is more effective if left ominously unspoken. All your ranting and raving about punishments you couldn't fully carry out anyway, is not nearly as effective as a single public execution for willful incompetence."

"Yeah," Toxic whispers to me, "that's what happened to our last gunner! Better sit down if you know what's good for you."

Reluctantly, I withdraw back to my console.

"Excellent decision," Cyclonus says. "Now watch, Galvatron, and see how advance planning and strategy is superior to manic, uncontrolled attack."

The screen still shows the computer graphics, tracing our ships as they slowly draw a snare around the three transports.

"You've got a gaping hole in your circle," I point out with malicious pleasure. "Those ships will duck right down into the nebula."

"Yes -- I'm counting on it," Cyclonus says. "If you'd paid attention, you would see that the screen display shows less than half of our fleet. Now turn off the scrambler system. Let them know we're here."

I flip those two switches back down.

"Screen on visual," Cyclonus commands. The bright graphics are replaced by the bulk of the transports, drifting before the black expanse of space and the churning nebula below.

"Shields up, Galvatron!"

Right. I know what those controls look like, at least.

"Transports preparing to fire, sir," one of the paramilitary types in the back announces.

"Disable their weaponry," Cyclonus says. "But keep structural damage to a minimum, and don't hit the fuel tanks."

I have a brief vision of the space station flashing into flame all around me. Was that really only a few weeks ago? Seems like lifetimes.

Photon blasts from the transports bounce harmlessly off our shields, rocking the ship ever so slightly.

I power up a narrow, intense laser beam, locking it onto the gun turrets of the nearest ship. Fire!! I can almost feel the surge of the beam as it slices out at my touch. This is delicious, the controls respond to my slightest whim. Explosions flower against the hull of the transport as their gun turrets shatter. Quickly I shift my aim and take out the weaponry on the other two. No other aspects of the ships have been damaged.

"Not bad," Toxic says appreciatively.

Disarmed, the transports flee, dropping down through the obvious gap Cyclonus has left for them. They plunge toward the nebula.

"You'll lose them, you idiot!" Knew I should've handled this. Never send a second-in-command to do a leader's job.

Scrounger growls at me, but Cyclonus is unconcerned by my insult. "Just watch," he says.

The transports have almost reached the nebula, our fleet moving in behind. Suddenly, more of our ships shoot up out of the nebula, right toward the transports. Between them is strung a glowing energy net, a vastly larger version of that which captured me. In moments, the three ships are wrapped immobile in glowing strands.

"Okay, fine," I growl. "Clever and elegant and all that. But why not just blast out their engines and be done with it?"

"We need their engines," Cyclonus explains, "to say nothing of their fuel. Most of my fleet consists of old ships that have survived countless battles, and we need all the spare parts we can get. I doubt there are any captured replacements that wouldn't fit a ship somewhere in this fleet."

Toxic grins. "Cyclonus is putting us back together again, he is. The former boss -- why, he just let everything fall apart."

"Care to come examine the loot, Galvatron?" Cyclonus offers.

* * *

That first shipment was full of quadrilithium crystals -- the best known channels for focusing and conducting power, be it through our faster-than-light engines, or in the most intense of laser beams. In the last two weeks we have intercepted two other transport convoys, one carrying computer chips, the other, precious jewels. In each case, Cyclonus' mode of attack has been carefully planned and precise, with every option accounted for -- if lacking the vital thrill that comes from plunging into the unknown, skirting the edge of danger.

He keeps his crew carefully in line, allowing only so much celebration after each victory, and no more. When I think of the disastrous consequences of the victory celebration back on Charr, I guess I can agree with that policy. What drives me crazy is the damned inactivity between bouts of action, when I have to sit at my console and listen to Toxic's incessant chatter ("Shut up!" doesn't shut her up anymore), or trade menacing glares with Scrounger. I'd really like to take apart Scrounger. I'd really like to take apart just about anything by now. Been too long since I've really torn into something, smashed up an Autobot or a recalcitrant Sweep or whatever got in my way. Would be nice if we could swoop down and decimate an occasional planet, but this sector of the galaxy is almost entirely empty.

Wish I still had my fusion cannon. I'm told the two glitches who captured me sold it to the Ferengi. Surprised I feel such a sense of loss about it, but then, it was part of me -- I can't even transform properly without it. Feel a little bit unprotected and vulnerable without it, and I hate that.

And the thought of Cyclonus in command. Every day it gets harder, not easier, to accept. Every time he tells me to do something, I have to struggle to keep from screaming at him, how dare he tell me what to do, I am Galvatron, the commander and destroyer...! Not that his orders are ever unreasonable, I'll admit that. But just the very idea ... I don't think I can live with it much longer.

It's very late, by ship's time. Some hours past midnight. Cyclonus has assigned me reasonably comfortable quarters, I should be dormant. Can't sleep. Too agitated, too frustrated, living this way. Think I'll go have it out with him once and for all. This can't go on.

I leave my rooms, navigate through the huge, dim corridors of the flagship. Cyclonus' private quarters are toward the forward section. I reach the sliding entrance, finally. Never mind the door buzzer. I pound on the metal with my fist.

After some moments, the entrance slides back. "Galvatron, what do you want, at this hour?" Cyclonus asks.

I push past him into the darkened room. What, no Scrounger lurking in the shadows? No self-appointed bodyguard leaning against the furniture? Dim inlaid lights along the walls. One wall faces forward in the direction of the ship's flight -- it's entirely transparent starting from the floor up and arcing over into the gently curved portion of the ceiling. Showing the stars. Remote galaxies and nebulae spiral in the distance. The ice-cold crystalline void of space.

My annoyance cools somewhat. "Quite a view."

"Yes, I rather like it," Cyclonus says, coming up beside me. We watch the forward motion of the ship in silence for a few moments, as shown by the slow disappearance of stars along the edges of the transparency, with new ones becoming obvious in the distance.

"Alright, Galvatron," Cyclonus sighs, as though bracing himself for the inevitable. "What's wrong?"

"This whole situation is wrong," I begin, suddenly on the verge of explosion again. "I can't stand this anymore! Sitting still and taking orders from you. I'm a leader, it's part of my nature -- I've got to be in command!"

Cyclonus nods, as though he's been expecting this. "I know that. And you do have certain leadership qualities that I lack -- the ability to electrify and inspire your troops, for example. A talent for snatching victory from the talons of defeat, a willingness to take risks and go for larger goals instead of playing it safe -- that's what I always admired in you and found worthy of my loyalty. But too often you completely lose sight of your objective and descend into irrational fuel- thirsty destruction. That is your downfall. You let your own uncontrolled impulses carry you away."

I wait, not sure how to respond.

Cyclonus moves toward the nearest solid wall, touches a panel. "You want an energon cube?"

"Sure."

A small hatch slides open, pink glow coming from inside. Cyclonus tosses me a cube, takes one for himself. Moves back in front of the starfield. "I'd hoped you would adjust to being here," he continues. "In any case, it was never my intent to keep you under intolerable circumstances. I guess you'll be leaving us."

"Leaving?"

He smiles slightly, ironically. "You're not a prisoner here, you know. You're free to leave at any time."

Leave. But where would I go? I drain my energon cube, turn toward the starfield. Among all those points of light and color, there's not one place that wants me.

Sparks of anger flicker back on. I turn on Cyclonus. "I want you to come back to Charr with me," I demand. "You've had your fun, you've played your games -- enough of this nonsense already!"

His gaze is steady, intense. Fearless. "I'm not going back to Charr." Each word spoken slowly, deliberately. "Go back out there and make your own destiny, but don't drag me into it. I told you. This is my life now."

"Oh, I see. So now you're throwing me out? Fine way to treat your leader, even your ex-leader--!"

"You're the one that burst in here at four o'clock in the morning telling me you want to leave!"

"I never said I wanted to leave!"

We stare each other down in front of the starfield. Cyclonus' eyes flash scarlet. Reflexively my hands ball into fists.

The alarm siren that suddenly shrieks through the ship makes us both jump. For a split instant we stand frozen, then Cyclonus rushes forward, I'm right behind him. We dash out into the corridors - - corridors so vast that Cyclonus has room to transform and shoot forward in space-fighter mode, though at an angle and with wings tilted. Room for me to fly too. We reach the bridge in almost no time.

Scrounger leaps up from the command chair as soon as he sees Cyclonus. "Sentinel Enforcers," he calls out, pointing to the screen. "They're tracking us!"

Cyclonus slips smoothly into the command chair, punches up higher magnification on screen. I take my place at weapons, look up at our pursuers. First thing that strikes me is, those ships are new. Sleek, fast. All systems functioning at optimum capacity. Not like our rattletrap fleet. Ten of them could make short work of twenty-five of us.

"Where did they come from?" Cyclonus demands. "How did they get so close without sensors picking them up?"

Scrounger is for once at a loss for words. "I -- I don't know, Cyclonus. They were just suddenly, well -- there."

"Cloaking devices," says Toxic's night-shift replacement beside me at navigation. "A more sophisticated version of our scrambler system. You don't even get static. You just don't see them."

"They're gaining on us, Cyclonus!" Scrounger exclaims. "Open a channel to the others -- I say we scatter! We've got twice as many ships, and they can't follow all of us at once."

"No!" I swivel away from my console to look at Cyclonus. "He's wrong, they can follow us all. Each of them will pick a target and destroy it, then come back for those that are left. We've got twice their ships, but they've got three times our speed. We're at a huge disadvantage -- our only chance is to stay together."

Cyclonus opens a channel to the others. "Cyclonus to Star Raiders. We are under attack. Do not break formation -- repeat, do not break formation." Scrounger glares at me with pure malice. "Galvatron, see if you can slow them down," Cyclonus tells me. "Keep all possible power to the shields, and maintain top speed."

"We can't outrun them, Cyclonus!" Scrounger protests.

He's right. We can't. I aim for one of the closest followers and launch the rear torpedoes. My target tilts into an evasive maneuver, but I guide the torpedoes and score a direct hit to their underbelly. Their shields take the blast in white-hot explosions, the ship is undamaged.

"Attacker's shields at 46%," one of the computer-jocks in the back calls out.

Good! They won't be able to take another hit. I hurry to reload torpedoes -- but, what's this? The cowards are dropping back, letting another ship with full-strength shields take their place in the formation. I fire.

"Second attacker's shields down to 54%," comes the result.

The second ship drops back, a third takes its place.

"First attacker's shields powering up again!" yells the startled computer-jock.

Damn. Even if we had speed, they could play this game forever.

"Full power to rear shields!" Cyclonus commands, just as five lances of laser light slash out at us through the darkness. Flagship lurches under the metal-jarring impact.

"Rear shields at 23%."

"Three of our ships are breaking formation!" calls another voice from the background.

With a snarl of frustration, Cyclonus punches open a channel. "Star Raiders, remain in formation! Remain in formation!"

Can't stand any more of this. I leap up and grab the armrest of the command chair, shouldering Scrounger aside so hard that he goes crashing to the floor. "Star Raiders!" I command. "Get back in formation this instant or forfeit your worthless hides! Scattering won't help you, you idiots, and if the Enforcers don't get you, we will hunt you down afterward and blow you to pieces! Now do as I say!"

"It's working!" calls the tracker in the back. "They're returning to formation."

"Now," I tell Cyclonus, "we turn and attack."

"You're crazy, Scrapmetal!" shouts Scrounger. He has leapt back to his feet, his right arm raised, sawblade whirling. "Let me finish him, Cyclonus!"

"Finish me?!" I scream back at him. "Come and try it, you organic glitch--"

"Silence! Both of you!" Cyclonus thunders furiously. "Scrounger, turn off the sawblade! Galvatron, get back to your station!"

"Only if you turn this fleet around and attack! It's the last thing they would expect us to do! Don't you see? The element of surprise, Cyclonus, are you so set in your ways that you can't see it?!"

Another combined blast of laser fire slashes into us from behind. I'm slammed back against my console by the lurching floor, Scrounger grabs the arm of the command chair to stay standing. The rear shield fails with a crackle like shattering glass.

"Now," I tell them, "our only chance is to turn. We can't outrun them, and the next shot will take us out. Dammit, Cyclonus, turn this fleet around and defend yourself!"

"Scrounger, take over the ship-to-ship computers." Cyclonus snaps. "I want every ship in the fleet to receive automatic instructions to mirror what we do. Turn this ship around and attack!"

I'm back at my weapons console, ready to feed the enemy torpedoes and laser bolts. Our smaller ships turn faster than we do, but they wait until the flagship is in full position, and then we move in as one, all weapons blazing.

"Concentrate all fire on one enemy at a time," I tell Cyclonus, and he relays the instructions to the rest of the fleet. We're taking heavy hits, but one of the enemies is already in bad shape....

A blinding supernova erupts on the screen as the Enforcer vessel explodes into a fireball of light and destruction. Not having expected a full-scale counterattack, they're so closely spaced that it ignites the three closest vessels, which in turn disable three more. Beyond that, we can't see. The light and energy has overloaded the screen, it shuts itself down to blackness. Shockwaves from the explosions almost threaten to tear us to pieces.

For a sickening moment, the lights dim and all sound from the electronic equipment dies down to silence. Then emergency power kicks in, things start up again. We're still blind with the screen down, but sensors are operating.

"Status report?" Cyclonus says.

"We've lost nine of our smaller vessels," Scrounger replies. "Some of the others are torn up pretty bad. All things considered, the flagship's not so bad off -- except there's still three Enforcers out there gunning for us."

As if on cue, the screen sparkles back to life. All three enemies are converging on us, though one looks almost out of the running -- I send out the last of my torpedoes, and it novas into space debris.

The others have kept a safe distance this time. I've got lasers left, and ion charges. If I can slice a hole in their shields, I can hit them with ions, which are useless against shields. "Forward!" I command the navigator beside me. He obeys without consent from Cyclonus.

Both ships firing on us now. Lasers. I counter with lasers of my own. Computer-jock in the back is keeping up a running report on the condition of the shields.

"Leading enemy vessel has forward shields at 84%. Trailing enemy at 72%. Our forward shields--" Suddenly panic in his voice -- "losing power! Power dropping rapidly, 64% -- 55% -- 40% --"

"Evasive maneuvers!" Cyclonus orders. "Drop down under them!"

Yes, get under them, and I'll tear them up from below! Laser light lances out at my command, feel like its shooting out through the ends of my fingers, through the controls and out into space, raining destruction -- destruction!

"Galvatron, cease fire, we're too close--!"

One of the attackers explodes into a glorious fireball. Cease fire? Never!

Debris from the demolished vessel slams into our shields. Stressed metal shrieks as the shockwave tears through the infrastructure.

"Shields are down, Cyclonus! Forward shields are totally inoperative!"

One more to take out! One more magnificent hellfire-nova to light the depths of space!

"Full reverse power!" commands Cyclonus. "Take us out of here!"

"No! No you will not rob me of my kill -- forward! Forward!" I work the laser controls furiously. Blasted navigator is pulling us back! I'll mangle him, as soon as I get through with the last Enforcer!

"Enforcer shields buckling!" comes the incredulous cry from behind.

I've got you, crawler! Die! Die by the hand of Galvatron!

"Incoming ion blast!" shouts the navigator beside me. The ship lurches and groans. Sizzles of pure energy shoot up from my console, a burning electric cold that shoots up my arms -- but I refuse to release the laser controls, I've got them, just one more blast--!

The navigator leaps away from the console, screaming, with scorched and smoldering hands. Console's going to blow! I don't care! Can't let go of the controls, must keep firing -- will not rob me of my kill--!

Cyclonus leaps forward from his command chair, tries to pull at my arm, but I shoulder him away. "Galvatron, get away from that console!" he shouts.

Never -- never! The enemy tilts on the viewscreen, one more blast--! The screen erupts into fires of destruction! Yes!

Cyclonus slams into me from the side, sending me sprawling just as the console shatters into a thousand pieces of burning shrapnel.

Part 3

Scrounger glowers at me in cold fury, blocking the entrance to the repair ward. "You got some nerve coming here, Scrapmetal," he snarls. "This is all your doing. You should have taken that blast, not Cyclonus."

"If you don't get out of my way," I counter, "I'll forcibly remove you!"

He offers me a twisted, humorless grin, lets the sawblade on his hand whine through a few rotations. "I'd love to see you try, Scrapmetal. Just your luck that I'm needed on the bridge and wouldn't have the time to carve you up properly." He steps aside and stalks angrily away down the corridor.

I enter the repair ward. It's designed to accommodate organics, of course, and so would more properly be termed a sickbay, but even for that it seems pitifully inadequate: an operating stage with only the barest minimum of equipment, a few cabinets of potions and serums, three unembellished beds, and a single intensive-care unit with some haphazard life-support machinery dangling down from above, including a viewscreen to monitor lifesigns. A team of four is attempting to hook Cyclonus up to this equipment as best they can. There's very little they can do in terms of life support, of course. But even equipment designed for organics can track electropulse and brain waves. I watch the viewscreen, don't like the signals. Weak, erratic.

Finally the four organics step back. One approaches me, an entirely hairless female whose skin, eyes, clothing all gleam a translucent blue. "I'll give it to you straight," she says. "It doesn't look good. Half a hundred pieces of shrapnel tore into him, one that lodged itself in his fuel pump. We didn't dare remove that one. We've patched and soldered everything else as best we could, but there could be internal leaks that we couldn't reach...." She trails off, shaking her head. Seems genuinely upset.

Another of the pirates, a tall male in a black cape, comes up beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder. "We just don't have the technological expertise," he says. "Sure, I've done a lot of tinkering with electronic gadgets and appliances, even repair work on our ships, but when you're dealing with a living machine, the complexity increases a thousandfold. Can't you do something? You're of his species, after all."

"I'm a destroyer, not a healer," I tell them. "I know nothing of repairs."

"Well then," says the female, "I guess it's up to Cyclonus."

"I'd sure hate to lose him," the male says. "He's the best commander we've had." All four of the organics seem agreed on this.

"We'll leave you alone," says the female. "We'll be just across the hall, so let us know if there's any change."

Not that they could do anything about it.

They file out of the tiny repair ward, leave me alone with the irregular beeping and blipping of the life-signs monitor. And Cyclonus. I step over to the intensive care unit, look down at him. His chest and torso are criss-crossed with improvised soldering and patches of various metals. Even the most slipshod field-repair by one of our Constructicons during the heat of battle could have done better than that.

He's not conscious, not anywhere near conscious. His optic sensors are completely black, one cracked into a network of fissures. The left spire on his helmet has been halfway torn off. I want to reach out, put my hand on his arm, but don't dare. Might disturb some kind of tenuous internal balance. Seems like he's fighting for every beat of the fuel pump, each infiltering of oxygen.

Don't give up, Cyclonus. It's not the Decepticon way.

Footsteps behind me. I turn to see Toxic, she comes up beside me, her eyes huge and glistening with suppressed tears. "It's not true, is it?" she whispers. "He's not ... dying?"

The monitor blips sporadically. Awful, empty, hollow dread in the pit of my being. "Of course not. He's a Decepticon. We're survivors."

She relaxes a bit, even smiles. Then her expression turns cold. "Next time I get hold of an Enforcer, I'll strangle him with his own innards, I will," she vows, unconsciously stroking the long, straight dagger strapped to her thigh.

Can't help but wonder what it is about Cyclonus that inspires such loyalty, even affection, among this ragtag band of space pirates. I question Toxic, "I keep hearing, Cyclonus is the best commander this fleet has had."

She shrugs. "Long as I been here, anyway. No question."

"What makes him so unique?" What's he got that I haven't got?

"Well, let's see." She tilts her head slightly in thought. "He's got -- what's the word? Honor. Yeah. Nobody's got honor anymore. But Cyclonus -- he tells you he'll do something, and you know he'll do it. He thinks he owes you something, he'll pay you back -- good or bad. You get a feeling like he'd stand by you through anything, if he thinks you're worth it. But then, I'm sure you know that already."

So this is how guilt feels. Like I swallowed hot acid.

Toxic smiles at me fractionally, touches my arm. "They need me on the bridge, luv. You take good care of our commander, hear me, and see that he gets back into the action. I'll check in later, I will." She turns, leaves.

Silence, except for the maddening blip of the monitor. Electropulse signal getting weaker. I clench my hands into fists to stop their unaccustomed trembling. My only friend in all the universe, and he'll die, unless I overcome my own inadequacies and do something. Maybe Toxic was right, that first day on the bridge. I am a used-to-be, a has-been. But dammit, I'm still Galvatron! My power may not be absolute anymore -- not without the fusion cannon -- but still formidable. I won't let this be. I'll make it up to you, Cyclonus.

The would-be repair team has left his laser gun on a nearby shelf. I snatch it up, stride quickly out of the repair ward, and ride the turbolift up to the bridge. Scrounger, at hearing my entrance, begins to swivel toward me in the command chair. I give him no chance to react, to say anything -- I grab him by the scruff of the neck and fling him forward out of the chair, toward the repaired weapons/navigation console. He keeps his balance, whirls on me, sawblade spinning.

"Stay where you are!" I tell him, aiming Cyclonus' laser at his stomach. He freezes, even turns off the sawblade, the one mechanical and one organic eye radiating wrath. I slide into the command chair, keep him in sight. "Toxic," I command, "turn this ship around. We're going to Charr."

* * *

Final approach to Charr. The planet darkens the screen like a burnt-out cinder, an empire of ash and ruin. The Decepticons might blow me to pieces when we land, but I know they'll help Cyclonus. The troops always had respect and admiration for Cyclonus.

If we land. "Encountering resistance," Scrounger announces from back at the computers. Once he realized that the only way to save Cyclonus was to get him into the hands of the Constructicons, and I was the only one that knew the way back to Charr, Scrounger had settled down well enough and accepted the change of command.

"Shields up," I instruct, and Toxic leans over from navigation to key the right sequence on the unmanned weapons console. Astrotrain and Blast Off are arrowing toward us on the screen, lasers flashing, the advance guard. Behind them, Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Scourge and the Sweeps escape the negligible atmosphere of Charr to join in. Attack bounces off the shields, but we're still low on power from our battle with the Enforcers.

"Forward shields weakening," Scrounger confirms.

"Fire?" Toxic inquires.

For one electric moment I want nothing more than to agree. Yes, fire -- in fact, I'll come up there and do it myself, grind them to dust, the traitors, throw me out, will they....?!

No. Feel my fuel pump racing with the lust for the kill -- but no.

"Hold your fire, Toxic." I flip open the communications panel on the armrest of the command chair, tune in the Decepticon frequency. "Decepticons, cease your attack!" I tell them.

"Galvatron!" comes the response from Astrotrain. "You dare to return here?!"

"With a warfleet, no less," Dirge puts in. "Finish him!"

"You idiots! It's not a warfleet! Have I fired a single shot?"

"Forward shields almost down," Scrounger informs me. "If you're going to do something, you better do it now."

"Decepticons, cease fire and listen to me," I call out urgently. "I haven't come to attack. Cyclonus is with me. He's badly damaged - - he'll die if you don't let us land, let the Constructicons repair him. I promise you, I'll leave again afterwards."

Maddening silence from the radio. Then: "Galvatron," comes the voice of Scourge, "I'll have to take the chance that you're telling the truth. But -- I say this as much for your sake as anything -- if this is a trick, you're going to be very sorry."

The attacking fighters break off their onrush and clear a path for us. Toxic eases the huge flagship down toward the planet. Our smaller ships, in loose formation, accompany us -- screen fills with the brown-black coloring of Charr, sharpens into details of scorched peaks and valleys, waste plains, rusted and tarnished ruins of a former civilization that perished long before we arrived. I can see my fortress now, drawing closer -- movement below, the other Decepticons with weapons ready, tensed for our arrival.

Engines whine with the strain of vertical descent. Toxic adjusts controls, landing gear. Feel the soft jolt as the ship touches down -- screen shows the rest of the fleet grounded around us on the only reasonably level plain near the fortress.

Scrounger rises from his computer station as if to follow me from the bridge. "No," I tell him, motioning him back. "Let me deal with the Decepticons. Cyclonus would expect you to watch the ship, be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Scrounger rasps. "For your triggerhappy scrapmetal buddies out there to attack us?"

"Let's hope I'll be enough of a diversion for them," I mutter.

I ride the turbolift down to the repair ward. Toxic has already opened entrance ramps, since one of the space pirates has led Scourge and the Sweeps to Cyclonus. As I arrive, two Sweeps are carefully carrying Cyclonus out of the tiny ward, and start down the corridor. Some give me hostile and suspicious looks as they go by, but say nothing. I fall in at the end of the column, next to Scourge.

"It may not be a good idea for you to come out there with us," Scourge says. "I can't guarantee your safety --- even from my own Sweeps."

"I'm coming with you." I dare him with my look to contradict me. He shrugs, keeps walking.

We reach the closest entrance ramp and file out into Charr's dimness. Decepticons arranged randomly to both sides, weapons ready, watching in stony silence. I try not even to look at them, try to stride confidently, pretend I still have the fusion cannon on my arm. Any trace of fear, uncertainty, and they'll be on me.

I could have stayed on the ship, of course. But feel I owe it to Cyclonus to stay close.

We enter the small, flat, hangar-like repair bay off to one side of the fortress. Hook and the other Constructicons are already waiting there, and they motion the two Sweeps carrying Cyclonus to follow, disappearing into one of the partitioned work areas. The two Sweeps emerge again a few moments later, glare at me dangerously. I glare back, draw myself to my full height. Even without my cannon, I think I can take on the Sweeps.

"We'll wait outside," Scourge intervenes. Slowly, reluctantly, the others draw back and follow Scourge out, leaving me alone once again.

I move to the closed door of the work room and lean close -- can hear the clink of metal, occasional hum and whine of equipment, snatches of conversation that sound clipped and tense, but can't make out the words. I drift over to the single window facing out onto the plains of Charr, see the Decepticons arranged in what might be a perimeter guard position if the pattern were more organized. Close by, Motormaster is slashing his laser sword through the air to punctuate his argument with Scourge, who's backed up by Razorwing. This I must hear. Quietly I creep to the door leading out, slide it back a tiny crack, then a tiny bit more--

"--don't seriously doubt that Cyclonus' condition is his fault, do you?" I hear the angry growl of Motormaster's voice.

"We don't know what happened," Scourge counters. "I, for one, don't want to lay blame or extract revenge without knowing all the facts."

"And he did say he'd leave again afterward," Razorwing adds.

"And you believe him?" Motormaster challenges. "With that armada sitting out there, awaiting his orders -- probably with all guns trained on us right now! I say we finish him now, while he's distracted!"

"He could just as easily have fired on us from orbit," Scourge says. "Could have taken the rest of us out, and forced the Constructicons to repair Cyclonus. He didn't, did he?"

"Right," says Razorwing. "I think that's pretty good evidence for his sincerity."

Feel the flicker of a strange sort of warmth, deep inside me. Scourge and Razorwing are defending me! They don't know our damaged shields and weapons wouldn't have lasted long against an all-out Decepticon assault -- nor that the fleet doesn't generally take its orders from me. They may let me walk out of here alive after all.

"Alright," Motormaster growls. "But I'll be watching that demented mechanism, and if he makes one wrong move -- even looks like he's thinking about it--" I hear the slash/hum of the laser sword as he swings it in demonstration, then hear the crunch of footsteps and pull quickly back from the door, letting it slide shut.

I look around the empty waiting room. Only a few benches against the walls. I choose one a few paces to one side of the window, along the same wall, where someone looking in from outside couldn't see me. Don't trust someone like Motormaster or Onslaught not to take a shot at me through the glass. If I wasn't so worried about Cyclonus, I might dwell on the absurdity -- Galvatron, supreme commander of the Decepticons and terror of the quadrant, hiding out from his own warriors.

Seems like it's been hours already. I can see a small sliver of the sky out the window from here, track the infinitely slow shift of stars in Charr's constant night. A few times I actually get up and look out -- Decepticons outside are clustered in small groups now, talking -- occasionally a verbal shoving match erupts into swinging fists until someone else intervenes, then everything settles again for a while. Motormaster paces restlessly, swinging his sword; Scourge and Razorwing sometimes join him, sometimes pace separately.

I return to my bench. It's been forever.

The door to the workroom slides open. I leap to my feet in a surge of anticipation and dread -- do I really want to hear the news? All six of the Constructicons file out, it can't be good.

They seem too worn-out from their long efforts to muster any hostility or blame against me. "He's alright," Scrapper says. "Good as new."

Relief floods through me like a tide, like smoldering-metal support beams in flaming space stations lifted away.

"You got him back here just in time," Hook adds. "Another half hour--"

"--he would have been gone," Scavenger finishes.

"We'll tell the others," Long Haul says, and all six of them leave the building.

Cyclonus comes out of the workroom. Impulsively I go to him and clasp his shoulders, then step back and look him up and down. No trace of damage. The Constructicons have even put a new coat of polish on him. "You look wonderful!"

He smiles. "I understand I owe that to you. The Constructicons too, of course, but you're the one that brought me here in time. You saved my life."

"We're even, then." But I think of all the times he's dragged me out of Autobot firing lines, and correct myself, "Well, a little more even, anyway." Another thought strikes me. "Why did you endanger yourself by shoving me away from that console? Of all the stupid, thoughtless things to do! And they say I'm a few chips short of a full circuit board!"

He shrugs. "Old reflexes. Next time I'll know better." But his fractional smile and intense eyes tell me he'd do it again.

"Right." Some moments pass in uncomfortable silence. "So what now?" I ask finally.

"Now, I suppose, I take my fleet and continue on my way," Cyclonus says, moving to the window and looking out into the distance. "You're still welcome to join me. Or--" he turns his head to look at me curiously, "--will you be staying here?"

"Here?" I echo, incredulous. "That rabble out there wants to melt me down! I've got no choice but to go with you."

"The way I see it," Cyclonus muses, "you have two choices. You can either return to the Star Raiders with me, and live the life of a space pirate, which you hate --- or you can fight for your true destiny here, as a leader -- as is your nature."

I think of Motormaster and his laser sword. "The Decepticons will never accept me as their leader," I'm forced to admit. "Not unless -- not unless you stay too."

Cyclonus sighs. "We've been through this, Galvatron."

"But why?" I demand, trying not to sound too plaintive. "Why won't you stay? Look, maybe I am just ... a little ... out of control -- maybe I do need you as a rational counterbalance, to deal with the troops as someone they respect." He regards me somewhat skeptically, but at least I have his attention. Could it be that all he really wants is an apology? Think I may choke on these next words, but-- "Cyclonus, I ... I'm ... sorry ... I treated you so badly in the past. You're right, I took your loyalty for granted and just let my fuel-thirst carry me away. I didn't realize until you almost died that I've been deluding myself. You don't need me, but I ... I need you. Not just as backup and intervention with the other Decepticons -- but as a friend."

He looks at me with surprised respect. "I know how hard it was for you to say that," he acknowledges. "For that reason alone I think you mean it."

"I do," I assure him quickly. "And I wouldn't bash you around anymore, or hurl undeserved insults at you, or -- hell, I'd even take your advice on occasion!"

He holds up one hand as though to ward off further words. "Don't get too far ahead of yourself, Galvatron. You mean it now, but I know you -- as soon as you get the next Autobot in your gunsights, all promises are forgotten."

"Then it's up to you to remind me."

He considers this, watches me thoughtfully for a few moments. "I'll remind you now," he says. "Remember that I have another life now, that I could always go back to."

"Could? You mean you'll stay?"

He smiles fractionally. "Yes, I'll stay."

* * *

The other Decepticons seem as pleased as I am that Cyclonus will stay. When we step out of the repair bay, they swarm around him in welcome. They all seem in agreement with Scourge, who tells Cyclonus, "We sure have missed you around here."

I keep to the background, try to remain as unobtrusive as possible for the moment. The others ignore me, even when Cyclonus disentangles himself from the crowd to go send the Star Raiders on their way.

I accompany him to the open entrance ramp of the flagship. Looks like the entire crew of the fleet has gathered to say their farewells. One by one or in small groups, they take their leave of Cyclonus and return to their vessels, awaiting liftoff.

Finally only Toxic and Scrounger remain before the ramp -- and two other figures lingering in the background, a pair of helmeted and uniformed organics that I recognize as Slike and Stardance, the two that originally brought me into the fleet. Cyclonus motions them forward, says, "Stardance, Slike, go retrieve that item I told you to hang onto."

Stardance protests, "But sir, we could still make a good profit--"

"Right now," Cyclonus cuts him off. "That is my final order as commander of this fleet." His eyes flash dangerously. The two organics snap into a salute and hurry off into the ship.

"You know, Cyclonus," I venture, "you've gotten so used to giving orders, I hope you won't have a problem with taking second place again. I don't need someone contradicting me every step of the way, or worse, someone with designs on the Decepticon leadership -- now that you've had a taste of command, I mean."

"Not to worry, Galvatron. I much prefer being second-in- command. It gives me almost as much power, but if things should go wrong, the blame falls to you."

"Why you devious--!" I begin, then realize he's only kidding. Isn't he?

"Actually," he says, "I can lead if I must, but I don't have a psychological addiction to command. I'll leave that to you."

As though to offer proof of that, the two organics re-emerge from the flagship -- dragging my fusion cannon between them! Cyclonus takes it from them, hands it to me.

"I thought you sold this to the Ferengi," is my incredulous and delighted response.

Cyclonus' eyes flicker conspiratorially. "Don't think I wasn't tempted."

I grin at him, slide the cannon onto my arm. There! The last missing piece falls back into place. A surge of renewed confidence rushes through me -- I turn eagerly toward the plain where the other Decepticons await.

Cyclonus puts a restraining hand on my shoulder. "One moment, Galvatron. I think you'll need a mediator."

Impatiently I turn back toward the ship, where Scrounger and Toxic have been waiting. They come forward now. Toxic, as usual, bubbles over with talk. "You really are gonna do this, aren't you, Cyclonus, luv? Leave us at the mercy of Scrounger in charge, eh?"

"He can handle it," Cyclonus assures her.

"But it's not fair, it isn't," Toxic protests half-heartedly. "I'll miss you."

"You'll live," Cyclonus says in the casual, tolerant tone that he takes with her.

"She's got one thing right," Scrounger puts in. "We'll kind-of miss you. If Scrapmetal over there doesn't treat you right, you know you can always come back."

"Careful, organic," I growl at him, "or I might melt you to protoplasm as a parting shot."

Scrounger gives me a disdainful look, but Toxic turns her bright purple eyes on me and says, "I still think you'd of made a good space pirate. Not much on stimulating conversation, you weren't, but you sure could lance out those laser beams. Now I gotta do double duty at the weapons console again, I do." She turns away, shaking her head in resignation. Scrounger, with a final nod to Cyclonus, accompanies her up the boarding ramp.

"Now -- about those Decepticons," I begin, not even wanting to wait for liftoff. The flagship's powerful engines hum to life behind me as I turn away from the landing site, stride toward the assembled warriors.

Cyclonus hurries after me, falls in at his usual place beside me. The warriors are looking at each other uncertainly as we approach, as the fleet leaves without me.

"You got an excuse, Galvatron?" Swindle challenges as we stop before the assembly. "You promised you'd take off again afterward!"

"He's doing you a favor by staying," Cyclonus answers before I can reply.

"Hey, we said we wanted you back," Brawl says pointedly. "Not him."

"Oh really?" Cyclonus' casual tone is deceptive, leading up to something. "Then tell me -- what inroads have you made against the Autobots without Galvatron's leadership?"

The warriors exchange glances. "Well, nothing just yet...." Onslaught admits reluctantly.

"Any particular reason?" Cyclonus' tone is still conversational. The Decepticons respond with silence. "No? Then let's try another approach -- who's in command here these days, anyway?"

Instantly half a dozen voices clamor for recognition, begin arguing among themselves. "That's enough!" Cyclonus silences them. "There you have your problem. You've all descended into anarchy! How can you fight the Autobots if you're this busy squabbling among yourselves! This ends, now. Galvatron and I are back, and there's going to be some order around here from now on."

"But Galvatron is--" Motormaster begins, but stops abruptly as Cyclonus aims a laser at him, point-blank.

"Galvatron is your leader," Cyclonus growls, "and you will obey him." He includes the others with his gaze. "All of you. Or go through me first."

The tense silence that follows is broken unexpectedly by Scourge, who steps forward to stand beside us, laser drawn. "That goes for me, too," he tells the assembly.

A moment later Razorwing joins us, and then Ramjet, and the Constructicons, and after that, the rest of them are easy.

They're mine again! Already I feel the thrill, the anticipation -- the plans, the conquests, the terror we'll wreak apon the surrounding stars! I am Galvatron, my power is absolute! Let the Autobots beware!

END

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