Deep Space Earth Date: 2052

Part 1

The immense star cruiser Stratofortress hung motionless against the backdrop of space. The size of a small moon, it was painted a matte-black that reflected only little of the surrounding starlight. Some steel gray accents highlighted its austere design, and the foremost hullplates bore a pale-violet Decepticon insignia that spanned the width of an entire landing field. Against the bulk of the ship, however, it was almost insignificant in size, and was conspicuous only for its color. Stratofortress itself had no sleek lines, no eye- pleasing streamlined shape. It was almost reminiscent of an old-style mobile projectile cannon, blunt and boxy and ponderous in a way that suggested a thunderous power, a slow, relentless forward assault that could crush all in its path.

At the moment, however, the massive space station Destron blocked the cruiser's path. Larger even than the huge ship, it bristled with intimidating spires and projections, an array of gunports and swiveling laser turrets. Unlike the almost unbroken surface of Stratofortress, irregular clusters of lights were scattered across the station's surface, which looked like pinprick colors against its immense rounded structure and gave it a vaguely jewel-like and mysterious glitter. Boldly painted against the dark metal, a bright- purple Decepticon symbol stood out above a pair of sealed hangar- doors that might have accommodated a small armada.

Like two opponents staring each other down, the two structures drifted together in the void, as though locked together, their distance from one another never changing.

The deceptively tranquil silence of deep space was sliced apart abruptly by a barrage of laser beams that lanced out from Stratofortress and flared bright against the space station's shields. An instant later the defensive spikes and spines along the station's nearest edge returned fire. The cruiser unleashed a volley of missiles at almost the same moment that Destron responded with plasma bolts. Shields on both sides flared bright. One missile broke through and arrowed toward the center of the station, only to be blasted apart by a well-aimed laser beam. The sharp-edged debris knifed into the station's hull, causing minor damage to one small section; a few pinprick lights flickered and died. A retaliatory plasma blast shattered the weakened left forward shield of the cruiser, and a follow-up burst of laser light scored the ship's side before the damaged shield was powered up again. The star cruiser and the space station had been pounding each other for days, and the defenses on both sides were beginning to falter.

Aboard the bridge of the Stratofortress, Megatron glowered at the forward viewscreen from his command chair. The ship rocked noticeably under the counter-assault.

"Shields weakening," Skywarp warned unnecessarily from his station at the laser controls.

Megatron could see the power read-out for himself. "Very well, cease fire," he growled reluctantly. "Divert weapons power to the shields and activate the repair crews."

The same pattern had been going on for days, except that the battles were growing progressively shorter, and the resulting damage was becoming more extensive, requiring ever-longer repair periods between assaults. Stratofortress' resources were slowly but surely being depleted. Megatron's only consolation was the knowledge that Destron could not be faring much better.

A few last laser bursts from the station flared bright against the ship's fortified shields, and then ceased. The other side, it seemed, was also more interested in undergoing repairs than in continuing the battle.

Megatron regarded the screen thoughtfully. He would try one last ultimatum, he decided, before taking a more drastic course. "Open a channel to the station commander," he told Soundwave.

A moment later the image appeared on screen. Deathsaurus was a powerful, ambitious warrior who had taken command of the Decepticons during Megatron's absence. But Megatron had returned now, and he wanted his command back. "Deathsaurus," Megatron addressed him, "I'm giving you one last chance to surrender and turn command over to me. You've done well for yourself in my absence, and I might be inclined to let you live -- even to let you retain some rank. But you will not continue to lead the Decepticons in my place. Surrender now, while you still can."

The other Decepticon laughed mockingly. "You would have to destroy me before I surrender to you or to anyone. And you seem unable to do that!"

"Our conflict has barely started," Megatron said. "I have plenty of time to destroy you. I'll remind you that you're the one under siege."

"A siege that you can't keep up for much longer," Deathsaurus retorted. "Your energy reserves are running low, and you can only repair your shields so many times. We can wait you out."

"You've got it backwards," Megatron snapped. "How many times have you repaired your shields? And don't think we haven't noticed, the intensity of your laser beams has gone down considerably over the last few battles."

"As have yours, Megatron," Deathsaurus said pointedly.

The two commanders glared at each other over the viewscreen. It had become a matter of pride to both of them: they would destroy each other before Deathsaurus would surrender or Megatron would back down. Megatron was secretly pleased, despite his frustration, that Deathsaurus was reacting exactly as he himself would, were he in the same situation. He could judge his opponent's moves by what he himself would do -- and in truth, he would have been disappointed in Deathsaurus if the other Decepticon had simply handed over his command without resistance at Megatron's arrival. But there were limits to Megatron's patience, even toward Deathsaurus. Aside from mutual destruction, there was now only one honorable way out of the stalemate for both of them. Megatron had rather hoped it wouldn't come to this, but there seemed to be little choice left.

Megatron leaned back in his command chair and regarded his opponent with a calculating intensity. "Deathsaurus," he said almost casually, "do you agree that our forces are, at this point, fairly evenly matched, and further hostilities would result in considerable damage to both sides?"

Deathsaurus' scarlet eyes, so similar to Megatron's own, narrowed in suspicion. He hesitated as though expecting a trap, but then inclined his head fractionally. "I might agree with that assessment," he said guardedly.

"And -- while we still have a mutual enemy on Cybertron -- is it right for us to take so many of our best warriors to their deaths in our conflict?"

"What do you suggest?" Deathsaurus asked cautiously.

"I suggest..." Megatron paused for dramatic effect, "that we settle this in the traditional manner, the way Decepticons have always settled disputes over leadership or territory."

The other commander's eyes brightened slightly with an eagerness he couldn't quite conceal. "Combat to the death," he mused slowly. "Yes. Yes, I accept your challenge, Megatron. And I look forward to commanding that impressive star cruiser of yours."

"Don't plan a boarding party just yet," Megatron replied, unperturbed. "My tacticians will contact yours to work out a mutually acceptable time and location. Then we'll see who takes command of the star cruiser -- and the space station." He broke off the contact, and Deathsaurus' arrogant smirk was replaced by the bristling, jeweled shape of the space station against the backdrop of stars.

Megatron stared at the screen in silence for a few long moments. Now that the challenge was issued, he began to have second thoughts. Wasn't there, perhaps, another way? Gradually he sensed someone watching him, and looked over to see Soundwave regarding him quietly from his communications station. Megatron could read the question in his friend's eyes: "Are you really willing to kill him?" Megatron shot Soundwave a look that said the decision had been made, and it could hardly be taken back now. All things considered, perhaps this was the best way, after all. Megatron rose abruptly from his command chair and headed for the turbolift, making it clear to Soundwave that he was not willing to entertain discussion on the matter.

Sometime later, Soundwave watched from the darkened observation deck as Rumble, Frenzy, and Kaliber moved through the ruined-city environment they had programmed for themselves. He was glad to see the young Decepticons making use of the cease-fire to improve their battle skills in one of the ship's holographic simulator chambers.

Each robot's kill-ratio was displayed on a readout in the observation deck. Below, in the chamber, a simulated enemy sprang forth from the wreckage, and as one the three turned on it with lasers, blasting it apart. It was Kaliber's score that increased the most; he had scored the first hit, reacted fastest. It was interesting, Soundwave thought, how Kaliber was always happy to leave the command of such "missions" to Rumble. He was younger than Rumble and Frenzy, but had been their companion almost since the time of his creation. He displayed little of his father's command ambition, but of the three, he was easily the most skilled fighter. Soundwave supposed that was partially due to the way he was being raised. Soundwave himself made few demands of his creations, while a great deal was expected of Kaliber.

Light, almost imperceptible footsteps approached from behind and caught Soundwave's attention. He recognized the sound, even as it hesitated at the door. "Come in, Nightbird," he said without turning, as he was still watching the simulation below.

Nightbird laughed softly as she entered the darkened room. "You're the only one who can ever hear me coming," she said.

Casting a glance at the scores, she observed, "Kaliber's doing well."

Soundwave nodded. "He has been practicing. Which I cannot say for Rumble and Frenzy. Maybe I should suggest it to them more often."

"They're doing fine," Nightbird countered. "Megatron's just such a perfectionist where Kaliber is concerned. His creation has got to be the best, and all that." She laughed softly again, ironically.

Soundwave turned toward the darkly beautiful female. He had the definite sense that Nightbird had more on her mind than an exchange of parental anecdotes. It was not his way, however, to pry with questions. He watched her quietly, waiting for her to bring up the subject herself.

Just then the simulation program ended. Frenzy, Rumble, and Kaliber half-ran, half-flew up into the observation deck in their eagerness to see their scores. Noisily they burst through the door leading from the stairway.

"See, what'd I tell ya?" Rumble exclaimed. "Kaliber won again!" He seemed a little annoyed at this, all the more so perhaps because Frenzy's score, and not his, had come in second.

Frenzy slapped Kaliber good-naturedly on one spiked shoulder and said conspiratorially to his brother, "Next time we tie one hand behind his back!" They laughed and continued out into the hallway, with a quick wave to Soundwave and Nightbird.

After this brief flurry of sound and activity, a deep silence settled into the small observation room. Nightbird had unconsciously slipped a pair of throwing stars out of one of her hidden compartments, and began fidgeting with them in one hand, sliding them against each other. The resulting whisper of metal against metal grated on the stillness. It was the only visible sign of Nightbird's agitation, but from the normally calm and imperturbable female, it was a glaring statement.

Soundwave moved toward the door and keyed it shut, turning the interior lights up a bit. Maybe the added privacy would help.

"What do you think of this challenge of Megatron's?" she burst out abruptly.

"It is the traditional method for Decepticon leaders to settle their differences," Soundwave replied noncommittally.

"I know that. But is it necessary? 'You could negotiate with Deathsaurus instead of fighting him,' I said to Megatron, but no, 'That's not the way it's done.' 'Leave him his space station, then, and we can attack Cybertron ourselves' -- but no, he won't hear of it. 'It would undermine my command position,' he says. He's absolutely determined to go through with this combat to the death."

"Megatron has triumphed in such combat many times," Soundwave pointed out.

"Yes, but--" Nightbird broke off and sighed in exasperation. "I just have a bad feeling about this. Deathsaurus looks tremendously powerful. And -- I hate to put it this way, but he's a lot younger than Megatron. I'm afraid, Soundwave. Afraid for Megatron."

"I know," he replied.

Had Nightbird known what Soundwave knew about Deathsaurus, she would have had far more reason for her fears. He had been built as the ultimate killing machine -- nearly invulnerable, with his father's sheer physical power and his mother's agile speed. Soundwave himself had worked extensively on his structure and internal circuitry. Ironic to think that the product of his own skill, the meticulous care he had taken on the project at Megatron's command, might now become the instrument of Megatron's demise.

"You know?" Nightbird echoed, bringing him back to the present. "That's all you're going to say?"

"What else would you have me say?"

"Well, talk to Megatron. Try to make him see reason. You're his best friend, after all."

"Affirmative. But that does not mean he invariably takes my advice. You are his consort, after all, and he does not seem inclined to take your advice."

Nightbird turned away, obviously upset and fighting for control.

"There is one thing I can attempt," Soundwave said gently. He hadn't meant to say anything about his plan, but he could see that Nightbird desperately needed some hope.

She whirled on him, eyes bright. "What is it?" she asked.

Soundwave hesitated. "You may not like it."

"I don't care what it is, as long as it saves Megatron."

"I may have to remind you of that."

"No. Tell me what you're planning."

"It is best that I do not share the details with you. But if Megatron inquires as to my whereabouts, tell him you know nothing."

"That's not far from the truth," Nightbird said, a little exasperated, but her visible agitation had subsided. She had found her way back to her usual calm, at least outwardly. Soundwave noticed that she had somehow replaced her throwing stars into storage while he wasn't looking.

She turned to leave, then paused, reached out, and lightly touched his arm. "Thank you," she said, then keyed the door open and vanished almost soundlessly into the corridor.

Deathsaurus could see the dark, motionless bulk of the star cruiser from where he stood at the rectangular and slightly convex viewport. Destron was in its night-cycle and his quarters were lightless, making it easy to see out. He regarded the shadowy form of the ship and absently ran a finger lightly along the razor-sharp edge of the scimitar he held. He had always had this scimitar, as long as he could remember -- before the positron cannon, the energy-mace, or the breastplate launchers. Despite all the sophisticated long-range artillery that was available to him, the scimitar was still his favorite weapon. He would undoubtedly use it against Megatron in their upcoming combat.

The former Decepticon leader had disappeared half a century ago in a space battle under enigmatic circumstances. That had been before Deathsaurus' time, so he knew the story only from the fragmentary historical records that remained to the expatriate Decepticons. What reports there were, contained garbled and unintelligible references to Death Gods and Chaos Bringers -- more like bits and pieces of a fairy tale than a historical event. Deathsaurus doubted that much more complete information was left on Cybertron either. The long civil war had not left much standing -- and although the Decepticons had been driven from the planet decades ago, the Autobots' rebuilding had been a slow and laborious process that was far from finished.

Deathsaurus knew much of this information only from what historical reels he had been able to scrounge up in the course of his self-education. As best he could, he had studied the Decepticon leaders of the past -- had examined their strategies, their successes, their failures. To Deathsaurus' frustration and disappointment, it seemed that most had been complete idiots. Some had been marginally good commanders; a few had been worthy of true respect. Of these, the one that had always stood out in Deathsaurus' mind was Megatron. He had consciously tried to model his life and his leadership style after this mysteriously vanished Decepticon leader -- had admired, in fact idolized, what was probably a somewhat mythological image of a great leadership figure. On occasion Deathsaurus had come across Decepticons who had served under Megatron and remembered him; invariably they spoke of Megatron's ruthlessness and intensity in battle, his highly demanding nature, though also of his courage, his calculating intelligence and inspiring charisma, his indomitability in the face of overwhelming odds. Deathsaurus had come to see himself as carrying on that tradition, and strove to follow in Megatron's path as a true Decepticon leader.

It had been easy when Megatron was an abstract concept, a long-dead and fragmentary chapter in the annals of history. And then, a few days ago, the legend had come to life. The star cruiser Stratofortress had appeared out of the void; Megatron was not only alive but very much the Decepticon leader -- he wanted his command back, and expected Deathsaurus to give it to him. And, much as Deathsaurus had idolized the image, he found himself in enmity with the real fuel-and-metal Decepticon. He found that he could not just step aside and allow someone else, anyone else, to take command from him. He had fought too hard for it.

Still the realization hurt, on some level, that he would have to kill Megatron -- kill the legend that had sustained him in his darkest hours, when he had battled for his own identity as well as the respect of those he would come to command. But he would do it. He would kill to remain in power, and that, too, was following in Megatron's path.

A soft rustling behind him caught his attention. He turned his head to see Ptera stir slightly among the bedding of his recharge platform. Her large crimson optics brightened a bit. "Death?" she asked sleepily. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said, but more sharply than he had intended. "Go back to sleep."

Ptera's eyes brightened further. She propped herself up on one elbow and regarded him with a concerned frown. Megacheiroptera, called Ptera, had been the prototype for a design that Deathsaurus had applied to himself and six of his best warriors: a removable breastplate that transformed into an animal for additional attacking power, or into a weapon for added firepower. Ptera's breastplate, a tiny duplicate of her own bat mode, was called Microcheiroptera, or Micra, and transformed into a handheld pistol. Micra was in fact a sentient Transformer, though remained essentially deactivated when nestled into Ptera's chest, until a mental command awakened her. The scientific records that documented the technology had for the most part been lost, as had the records for the superficially similar "Targetmaster" technology. So Deathsaurus' technicians had had to work backwards from the finished product, Ptera and Micra, in order to duplicate the effect. It had not been entirely successful. Deathsaurus' breastplates, and those of the Liokaiser team, were only semi-sentient beings, more like pets than partners -- though they responded to mental commands, startled the enemy, and increased attacking power, and Deathsaurus was not displeased with them.

In the course of working with her on the project, Deathsaurus had found himself attracted to Ptera, and they had embarked on a brief but torrid affair. Their ardor had cooled over time, but they still occasionally found their way into each others' quarters at odd hours of the night.

"Not worried about that combat with Megatron, are you?" Ptera asked.

"Don't be ridiculous," Deathsaurus muttered, turning back toward the viewport.

"You shouldn't be, you know," she continued, as though she hadn't heard him. "You can take him. Easy."

A deep growl formed in his throat, a warning sound that came to him unbidden sometimes, that Ptera should have heeded.

"I mean, he's just an outdated old clunker," she continued instead. "Think what we'll be able to do with that starship. We could--"

Deathsaurus whirled to face her in a sudden burst of fury. "That's enough from you!" he snarled. "Megatron is hardly a 'clunker.' Get out!"

Ptera sat bolt upright in bed, her eyes brightening to their full intensity. "But--"

"Out!" Deathsaurus thundered. His scimitar caught the starlight and flashed silver as he whipped it up and used it to point toward the door.

"As ... as you command," Ptera stammered and hastily disentangled herself from the blankets. She backed toward the door with quick, light steps and ducked through as it slid open. With a soft whisper the door slid back into place and she was gone.

Deathsaurus drew the scimitar close to him, cutting edge upward, and curled the tips of his short sharp claws over the lethal blade.

Normally it would not have been this easy to make off with a shuttleship unnoticed -- but in the last few days, attention had been focused on the ongoing repairs to shields and weapons, not on internal security. Added to that was the generalized agitation and excitement of the crew, first of all over returning to their home sector after fifty years, and secondly over the upcoming showdown between Megatron and this new Decepticon commander, which promised to be a truly exciting event. So Soundwave, in possession of all the access codes anyway, had had little problem in disabling the unauthorized-activation alarm and piloting a shuttle out of one of the hangar decks in the belly of the immense Stratofortress.

He moved away from the star cruiser at high sublight speed, half-expecting at any moment to be hailed by the Stratofortress, snared in a tractor beam, or simply blasted out of the cosmos. But no one was looking for a small shuttlecraft. All attention was focused forward onto the space station that receded behind him, its lights blending with the pinprick colors of distant stars.

Soundwave shifted to low superlight drive. His shuttle was one of the larger ones, and one of only two in which the new netherspace engines had been installed. The energy field they generated, hurled the ship into a realm which was "beneath" normal space into what had come to be called netherspace, where time and distance had completely different meanings. It was in fact possible to "tunnel" underneath the normal fabric of the Universe, and to re- surface almost anywhere. It was in some ways similar, but not identical, to a naturally-occurring wormhole or space warp effect, except that with these engines, the process could more-or-less be controlled. It was not yet well-understood or completely failsafe -- but without the netherspace engines, the journey home from the Zhiacsa Quadrant, that had taken Stratofortress mere hours, would have taken 500 years at even the highest of superlight speeds.

Soundwave was hoping to retrace that route, at least in part. He entered his calculations into the onboard computer and re-checked them carefully, making minor adjustments and modifications. The netherspace effect was still relatively crude, and was only useful for traveling immense distances; it was far too easy to overshoot closer targets by hundreds of thousands of light years. Even distant targets had to be plotted with the utmost precision, and even then, it was never certain how close one would actually come to the intended coordinates.

Soundwave re-checked his calculations one last time. He could not afford to spend weeks at superlight speed, searching for the planet, if the engines fell short of their target. At last he was satisfied that his coordinates were as close as he could possibly make them. Bracing himself, he activated the new engine system.

The shuttle lurched as though leaping forward at tremendous speed; then all sensation of movement ceased. The instrument panels and viewscreens went blank, but out the forward windshield Soundwave could see the characteristic effect of swirling, multicolored clouds. The netherspace engines generated a force field that encapsulated the ship and protected it from the discordant energies of this "beneath-space" -- but normal matter was still out of phase with this realm, and it made for some strange and unpleasant effects. Another problem that would have to be refined, Soundwave thought, as the interior of the ship seemed to elongate around him, and its solid lines and edges began to waver like heat-mirages in the distance. A wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him, and he dimmed his eyeband, but the effect wasn't visual -- he himself was out of phase with this realm. He gripped the semi-solid surface of the console in front of him, keeping his eyes dim and waiting for it to end.

There was no way to tell how much time had passed. Had it been too long? He resisted the urge to reach for the engine controls, or to brighten his eyeband and look at those few read-outs that still remained functional. He would have to trust his own calculations, and the less- than-reliable new engines. Still, it seemed that he'd been in the netherspace realm for a minor eternity, and he was growing concerned, not to mention increasingly uncomfortable.

The ship shuddered and lurched. The console solidified into a smooth, cool surface beneath his hands, and the mind-numbing dizziness drained away. Soundwave slowly brightened his eyes. Out the forward viewshield, the normal deep black of space was a welcome sight. The instrument panel came back to life, with its multicolored lights and faint sounds, and Soundwave scanned his surroundings. Calling up a star map, he matched it to the nearby constellation patterns and was pleased to find that he was not all that far from his target. In fact, out the viewshield he could see the sun that he wanted to aim for, as a small red fireball slightly off to the left. Larger than the glittering pinpricks of more distant stars, and yet still only a tiny disc, it would take perhaps eight hours to get there under normal engine power. Soundwave kicked the shuttle up to its highest superlight speed and arrowed toward his destination.

Megatron paced the spacious anteroom of his quarters aboard the Stratofortress, swinging the heavy spiked warclub rather carelessly with one hand. To really swing it upward and bring it crashing down effectively required a two-handed grip, even for him, but he was not really practicing with it at the moment, merely awaiting news. He glanced over the array of weaponry, both his and Nightbird's, that hung displayed on much of the wallspace of this room. Where he had taken down the warclub, a blank space glared incongruously between a laser-enhanced battle axe and three intricately designed sword-hilts, that would generate long straight energy-blades when activated. Traditional inter-Decepticon combat tended to rely heavily on sheer brutal force rather than high-tech firepower, and so blade and impact weapons were the customary armaments of choice. Though of course Megatron had his fusion cannon, that attached to his arm and was basically a part of him; the new upgrade was even more powerful than the original, and he would use it if necessary, just as Deathsaurus had some inbuilt long-range weaponry that he would not hesitate to apply if he needed it.

The door chimed, and Megatron turned towards it. "Enter," he commanded, leaning the warclub against the wall beside him.

The entrance slid back to admit Onslaught and Skywarp. "Commander," Onslaught began, stopping before Megatron at respectful attention. "Deathsaurus' tacticians have sent the suggested coordinates for a nearby battle site. There's an asteroid belt half a lightyear from here, in orbit around the nearest star. Some of the larger planetoids have a marginal atmosphere. Deathsaurus suggests this one." He handed Megatron a computer pad that displayed part of a starmap, with a small solar system and an irregular object highlighted in its orbit.

"Have you taken scans?" Megatron asked. "Atmospheric and geological readings, radiation counts?"

Onslaught nodded. "I dispatched Blast Off and Starflight to thoroughly check the asteroid itself and the surrounding area of space. They found nothing amiss. The data is in the report." He indicated the pad in Megatron's hands.

Megatron touched a button and the starmap faded, to be replaced by extensive lists of data. He scrolled quickly through the various subsections, assuring himself that the most important readings fell within the normal range. "Alright," he said then, handing the pad back to Onslaught. "Tell Deathsaurus this will be acceptable."

"As you command, Megatron," Onslaught replied, and stepped back.

"Skywarp," Megatron addressed the other warrior, "is your team ready?"

The black jet grinned. "Ready and waiting, Megatron. Don't worry about a thing."

Megatron gave him a dubious look. He'd had too many underlings screw up his plans in the past, whether on purpose, from downright incompetence, or from sheer unlucky chance, to ever fully trust anyone's word. At least Skywarp's intentions were always in the right place, he had to admit. "Just see that you don't fail me," he said, casually reaching for his warclub.

Skywarp's optics flickered toward it for a fraction of a second, and then back to his leader. "Don't worry," he repeated confidently.

Megatron nodded, and dismissed them both. He swung the warclub in a shallow arc, turning away from the door to see a dark, silent shadow enter from the other room. Nightbird paused in front of him, then came forward wordlessly and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing herself close. Megatron braced the warclub against the floor and curled his other arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry about a thing," he murmured to her. "Everything's going to be fine."

The planet Shintu-Ka, Zhiacsa Quadrant.

Soundwave had set the shuttle down where, fifty years before, the battered and limping Stratofortress had more crashed than landed amidst the dense jungle foliage. Not a trace remained of that impact site -- no broken treetrunks, scorched plants, gouged earth or packed soil. The jungle had re-claimed that patch of ground so thoroughly that Soundwave had had to hover and burn clear a small landing circle with the shuttle's lasers, in order to set down.

He stepped out into the steaming atmosphere of the tropical planet. Immediately condensation beaded on his plating and ran down his sides in rivulets of water. The normally red-tinged light of this world's sun was deepened by approaching twilight, and the green, blue, and purple foliage was lined with scarlet where sunlight reflected from a sheen of moisture. He had to hurry. He needed to move out into the jungle, but was not certain he could find his way back to the shuttle in the tangled vegetation, once darkness fell.

He pushed aside a curtain of rope-like vines and stepped forward between the scaled trunks of massive trees. He tilted his head and listened. From all directions a cacophony of bizarre animal calls and chirps rose from the forest to greet the approaching night. The sound he wanted would have been unmistakable above all of these others, but it remained absent.

Soundwave activated his playback mode. A tape reel moved in his chest, and the desolate, multi-harmonic cry rang out, that he had recorded so long ago. He had quite a few of these "songs" on tape -- had been fascinated with them, in fact, but had not listened to the recordings in quite a while. Now he hoped they would attract what he sought, the reason he had come this long way and perhaps risked his career. He upped the volume on his playback function, and ran the tape again.

As the cry faded to silence he listened intently, but heard no hint of a reply. Moving forward between the trees, he ran the tape at regular intervals, always pausing to listen in between. Nothing. He walked faster, pulling aside the tangle of understory vegetation that blocked his way, and kept playing the tape.

Shadows deepened around the tentacle-like root systems of the trees, where the distant canopy branches blocked the red twilight. Soundwave could still see by the light that filtered halfway down the tree trunks, but that would fade quickly. He upped his volume one more notch and broadcast the cry, then stood still to listen. The sound had the effect of silencing the nearest insect noises, but these started up again within moments. In the distance something whooped and chattered, a flock of birds or monkeys. Soundwave sighed and moved on.

He was about to run the tape again when he heard the faint, almost soundless whisper of soft, wet leaves sliding against each other. He turned, peering into the shadows, but the movement had died. Experimentally he broadcast the cry, then waited. Nothing. He turned away and walked further. A faint rustling came to him again and he whirled, certain this time that it was close, and that it had followed him. Determinedly he moved toward that patch of underbrush, clawing aside vines and ferns. Leaves murmured together behind him. Whatever it was had circled around. He was going to reach for his gun as he turned, when something burst out of the bushes and launched itself at him. He staggered backwards as he was suddenly enveloped in a flurry of metallic coils and iridescent feathers. A drumbeat of wings pounded around him, and he instinctively tried to struggle free, almost expecting to feel those coils draw together into iron bands of constriction, or to feel the hot needles of poison fangs sink into his metal.

But the scaled coils withdrew and melted into a slender bipedal form that stood silhouetted in the shadows before him. In this mode she launched herself at him again, flinging her arms exuberantly around his neck. "Soundwave!" she exclaimed. "How wonderful to see you again! What are you doing here?"

"I will tell you, Raksha, as soon as I manage to restart my fuel pump," he replied.

Raksha laughed. "Oh, come now -- you heard me coming! You're the only one that ever could." She drew back and looked up at him, the faint light catching in her eyes and reflecting fluorescent green.

"Yes, but how was I to know it was you?" he chided.

"Are there any other members of my species left in the Universe?" Raksha grinned, showing her long fangs. She was so delighted to see him that even the bitterness with which she would normally have said those words, was absent from her voice.

She curled her arms around one of his, hugging tight. Her eyes glittered with happiness. "I've loved it here, Soundwave, but I missed you a lot, you and the others. I almost went looking for you a few times, but...." She trailed off, and shrugged. "Where are the others?" she resumed eagerly. "In orbit?"

"No, back in the Cybertron sector. We were finally able to make our way back."

"Oh, well, then it wasn't as much of a problem as you thought at the time, was it?" Raksha remarked.

Soundwave tilted his head in amusement. "It did take us fifty years to develop the technology."

Raksha stared at him in amazement. "Fifty years? I've been here that long?"

Soundwave nodded. He was not surprised that Raksha had totally lost track of the passage of years; that was simply a characteristic of her species.

"Then a lot has happened in all that time," she mused.

"Affirmative," Soundwave agreed thoughtfully.

Raksha smiled at him brightly. "Well, you can tell me all about it while I show you around the planet. Come, one of my favorite spots is just beyond--"

"Raksha," Soundwave cut her off, hanging back as she tried to urge him deeper into the jungle, "ordinarily I would be most pleased to see your planet. But I did not come on a social call. There is a matter of great urgency that we must deal with, and we have no time to lose. I will explain on the way, but right now we must find our way back to the shuttle."

She sobered visibly, even in the almost total darkness. "Oh. Well in that case, I'm with you, of course."

"This way, I think," Soundwave said, starting back the way he'd come.

"No," Raksha said, moving off at a different angle. "This way." She kept a light grip on his arm and led the way into the underbrush. Soundwave followed without protest. In this sort of environment, he trusted her sense of direction far more than his own.

Megatron swung his heavy warclub and stood waiting at one end of the open, naturally-formed "arena" that was bordered on three sides by jagged red cliffs. Around his half of the battlefield, a sizable majority of the Stratofortress crew gathered in an approximate but attentive semicircle. In the background, on the level plain beyond, a cluster of shuttleships perched on the cracked, dusty ground. Those Decepticons who had not made the journey to the planetoid, were patched into the battle scene back at the ship, and Megatron supposed the same was true on Deathsaurus' space station. He didn't know exactly how many warriors resided under Deathsaurus' command, but it looked as though a majority of them had made the journey as well, situating themselves around the opposing end of the arena.

Deathsaurus himself emerged from a group of his immediate underlings on the other end of the arena. He took a few swift, confident strides forward, folding his long wings back behind him. If one watched closely, he did not move entirely like a Transformer, but with a hint of alien, animal grace. His scarlet eyes burned like flames in the distance. The thin, cold atmosphere of the planetoid lent a harsh glare to the sunlight, and it caught and flashed on the broad- bladed scimitar that Deathsaurus swung experimentally. Recognizing it, Megatron felt a brief pang of regret. Things might have been different. But his honor as Decepticon leader was at stake, and it was too late to back out now. Best to get it over with quickly and move on, to forget about what might have been.

He had no doubt that the upcoming battle would be hard- fought, but he did not seriously entertain the possibility that he could lose. He knew Deathsaurus' precise strengths and weaknesses, after all. It was mostly a matter of avoiding his speed and wearing him down.

Megatron turned one last time toward his warriors. His eyes swept the assembled masses, picking out Nightbird in the foreground. She stood poised and perfectly composed, even looked unconcerned, but her eyes were the wrong shade of amber, somehow darker than normal. Shadore stood close beside her, ostensibly offering moral support. Some distance from them Megatron could see Starscream, who looked undecided about who he was rooting for; perched on his wing and leaning against one shoulder sat Kaliber, his eyes glittering a bright gold with excitement and concentration. It annoyed and concerned Megatron that Kaliber spent so much time with Starscream, and after today's business was taken care of, he would see that something was done about it ... his optics narrowed as he scanned the rest of the crowd. Where the hell was Soundwave? Did the Communications Expert have some perverse moral objection to his killing Deathsaurus, Megatron wondered? His grip tightened on the warclub in a surge of anger. Megatron was not a leader who stood on great formality, but he did expect his ranking officers to be present at official functions. Friendship or no friendship, he would take Soundwave to task for this later.

His attention focused itself sharply on Deathsaurus as the other Decepticon stepped forward. Slowly, deliberately, Megatron moved toward the center of the arena to meet him.

Deathsaurus' hand tightened reflexively on the hilt of the scimitar. The pale sunlight flashed off of Megatron's silver plating as the other Decepticon moved forward with a deliberate, imperturbable confidence. His physical form did not quite match the few pictures that Deathsaurus had seen in the history reels -- the most notable differences being the wing-like planks that projected from his shoulders, and the larger, silver, and more squared-off fusion cannon on his arm. There were subtle differences in his helmet-shape, and his body looked even more powerful than it had in the old holo- images. But his eyes smouldered with the same scarlet fire. He moved smoothly and with the utmost self-assurance, swinging his spiked warclub. Despite Ptera's ignorant statement of the night before, Megatron was definitely no easy kill.

Deathsaurus' mind reeled momentarily. This was a scene straight out of Decepticon history, the glorious days of the old empire, and he was living it! He was closing in with the greatest military commander his species had ever known! Gripping his scimitar, he fought down the dreamlike sense of unreality that was coming over him. He had to focus on the battle, nothing but the upcoming battle. He would kill Megatron in the dust of this dry, red planetoid and replace him as the ultimate conqueror in the records of future history.

The two Decepticons drew together in the center of the arena and began to circle each other slowly, each looking for an opening, a fraction of a moment when the other's concentration wavered. Deathsaurus struck first, whipping up his blade and slashing down in a movement that was so sudden and unexpected, he was surprised when Megatron blocked it with the shaft of his warclub. Megatron used the heavy weapon's momentum to swing repeatedly at Deathsaurus, forcing him to back up. He retaliated with slashes of his blade, which Megatron in turn had to avoid. They resumed circling, still in the stage of testing each other.

Megatron launched the next assault, slamming his club upward and trying to strike Deathsaurus' head from below, but Deathsaurus easily evaded the move. Faster than Megatron, he spun around his enemy to attack him from behind, but was met by the club coming at him from the opposite direction. It was as though Megatron had known he would make this move! Deathsaurus snapped up his scimitar to block the club, but not in time; the impact forced the dull edge of the blade back against him and sent him reeling backward. Rather than losing his balance and falling, Deathsaurus sprang a few rapid steps backward. Megatron followed up with relentless strokes that gave Deathsaurus no time to regain an offensive position. It was all he could do to block, and keep backing up.

Ducking under the latest swing of the club, Deathsaurus sprang a few paces to the side, giving himself some maneuvering room. Dropping his scimitar, he transformed to dragonbird mode and blasted Megatron with a jet of scalding flame. A purple-glowing energy shield materialized instantly at the edge of Megatron's fusion cannon, deflecting the blast -- but not all of it. Megatron backed up as the narrow wing-planks on his shoulders were singed and visibly blackened. As the column of flame faded, Megatron dropped his shield. His eyes flashed scarlet fury. "So, you want to play the transformation game, do you?" he snarled. Discarding his warclub and leaping into the air, his body folded into a new shape, a huge, hovering cannon with wings out to both sides and powerful thrusters in the back.

This was new. This definitely did not match the configurations that Deathsaurus had seen in the history reels. He dodged barely in time to avoid the thunderous blast of light that streaked toward him, gouging a smoking furrow into the hard red earth of the arena. Megatron swung to follow his movements, and Deathsaurus sprang into the air, avoiding an interwoven pattern of repeated blasts. Only his speed and extreme agility saved him from the full impact of Megatron's deadly fusion blasts -- though the edge of the lightstream caught one of his wings and sent him tumbling toward the ground. Deathsaurus screamed as the liquid fire ate into his wing, but managed to catch his balance just before crashing to the ground. His scream of pain became one of fury as he pushed himself off from the surface and launched himself upward toward the hovering Megatron, blasting forth a jet of flame. It had caught Megatron enough off-guard to delay a further fusion blast until Deathsaurus was upon him, tearing into the silver plating with his razorlike claws and teeth.

Megatron whirled in the air, trying to shake him. Deathsaurus lashed his tail from side to side, keeping Megatron off balance and preventing directional flight. He reached out with one taloned forelimb and raked his claws into the nearest thruster. He was rewarded by a bright shower of sparks, and a cry of pain and frustration from Megatron as the hovering cannon reeled and spiraled toward the ground. Deathsaurus tilted the cannon so that it crashed heavily to the hard ground, with himself on top. A plume of red dust rose all around them. Deathsaurus sunk his fangs into the gunbarrell, jerking his head from side to side amidst deep-throated snarls, trying to tear chunks out of the metal.

The plating shifted beneath him and a fist impacted with his jaw, snapping his head backwards. Megatron, in resumed robot form, swung a sparking and crackling fusion cannon at him. Not very effectual as an impact weapon, the raining blows still prevented Deathsaurus from regaining his feet, and he scrambled backward, transforming to his own robot mode for greater mobility as he did so. He lifted his arms to fend off the furious assault, and noticed the end of the warclub lying in the dust close beside him. Enduring a blow that came crashing down onto his helmet, he twisted to the side and grabbed the club -- only to have it nearly wrenched away by Megatron, who had realized almost too late what he was doing. Deathsaurus hung on tenaciously, using the entire weight of his body to drag the club down and away from Megatron, who stood above him and was trying to wrench the club upward.

Megatron's left arm was gouged with teeth-marks, and black fuel flowed down freely onto Deathsaurus's plating. The two Decepticons' eyes locked, both relentless, both unyielding. "Give it up, Megatron," Deathsaurus gasped. "Yield and I'll grant you a quick death. You're damaged, you can't last much longer."

"Watch me," Megatron snarled.

"Watch this." Deathsaurus gave the mental command and his chest-shield launched itself upward, springing into its tiger form and tearing into Megatron's already damaged left arm. With a shriek of startled agony he staggered backwards, losing his grip on the warclub. Deathsaurus scrambled to his feet and swung the club, just as Megatron ripped the Tigerblaster from his arm and pounded it into the ground, partially crushing its head. Deathsaurus' blow glanced off his shoulder. He lurched forward but did not fall, rising to face him. The Tigerblaster lay in the dust, twitching and emitting sparks.

A second command detached Deathsaurus' other chest shield, and sent the Falconblaster spinning towards Megatron. His eyes brightened in momentary surprise, but when Deathsaurus swung the club forward he reached up and blocked it, grabbing the handle and trying to wrench it away once again. The Falconblaster fired repeatedly on Megatron, but the lasers did little more than leave thin scorch-marks on his plating. He all but ignored it, putting his entire concentration into wrenching the club from Deathsaurus' grasp.

Deathsaurus felt his grip slipping. Even damaged as he was, even under attack from the Falconblaster, Megatron had him outmatched in raw physical power, if only slightly. With a twisting motion he wrenched the handle from Deathsaurus' grasp and immediately followed up with a blow that impacted with the front of his helmet. Only the protective spire that jutted out to the front prevented that Deathsaurus' optic lenses were shattered. Still the crushing pain shot through his head, and fuel seeped into his eyes. He staggered, but kept his feet, straining to see Megatron through the dark haze that veiled his vision.

An old survival instinct rose in him, one so old he did not even know its source. All conscious thought faded from his mind. The instinct took over, guiding his movements -- a lightening defense that intercepted and turned away the next clubstrike, using Megatron's own momentum to throw him off balance. Deathsaurus lashed out, kicking Megatron's legs out from under him. As he fell, Deathsaurus' eyes caught the glint of the scimitar in the dust. Moving with a fluidity that seemed not his own, he snatched it up and raised it above his head, just as Megatron tried to roll out from under him. But there was no more escape. Megatron's eyes went bright in horror and disbelief as the glistening blade streaked down toward his throat.

An eerie, multi-harmonic shriek cut into Deathsaurus' consciousness -- a primal and desolate cry that made his fuel run cold. He recognized that sound! Its after-echoes had haunted his dreams on many an occasion; its memory was so far back in his mind that he often wondered if it was merely some old hallucination from the first stages of consciousness. And yet it stirred something deep inside him that made him hesitate for a fraction of an instant, that slowed his blade and forced his eyes skyward---

That fraction of a hesitation was all that Megatron needed. He brought his feet up and slammed them into Deathsaurus' stomach, forcefully kicking him away. Megatron sprang up as Deathsaurus crashed heavily backwards onto the ground. Megatron snatched up his fallen warclub and brought it crashing down over Deathsaurus. Deathsaurus rolled, faster than he ever thought he could, and the first blow missed him by a fraction; the second shattered the edge of his wing, and still he rolled, frantically, until he was suddenly slammed to a stop against the edge of the cliffside. Megatron raised the club in a slow arc above his head, holding it poised with both hands for an interminable moment. Once again the opponents' eyes locked and held. Megatron's optics flashed fury and battle-lust, and something else: triumph! He aimed the blow that would shatter Deathsaurus' helmet.

Something moved beside him; from the corner of his optics Deathsaurus thought he saw a long, serpentine, winged shape drop down from the sky and melt into a wingless bipedal form. He turned his eyes to the creature fully -- a female of some kind, slender and reptilian -- just as the warclub began its final descent.

"No don't kill him!" the reptilian female cried out, rushing to Megatron's side and reaching for his arms, for the club high above her.

The club froze in mid-air. "Raksha!" Megatron exclaimed, glancing briefly aside at her. His shook off his momentary astonishment and raised the club back to its former height. "Get lost, I'm busy."

"No!" Raksha cried as Megatron once again started to swing down toward Deathsaurus' helmet. "Megatron -- don't you remember what you said when we created him? That he was going to be the culmination of both our species, the best of both our worlds -- that he was going to carry both our heritages, yours and mine, into the future? You can't have forgotten that. You can't fail to realize, if you kill him now, all that grand purpose comes to nothing! Megatron...." She was not even reaching for the club now, only touching him lightly with her fingertips, imploring him with the intensity of her eyes, which never left his face.

The club trembled in his grip. With an inarticulate cry he turned and flung it away, then whirled on Raksha. "What the hell are you doing here?!" he demanded.

"Nice to see you again, too," she murmured, dropping her gaze, though through her relief she seemed vaguely amused and not at all apologetic.

Deathsaurus only now noticed, the spectators from both sides had come streaming onto the battlefield, crowding around in an expectant circle for the final kill, and now milled about in confusion. He pushed himself to a sitting position against the cliffside, and followed Megatron's gaze as it came to rest on an attractive black-and- gray female, and then on a large dark-blue Decepticon who stood some distance back from the front rows. "I see," Megatron said, almost to himself. "So that's where you were." His eyes flashed a warning, a promise of further discussion to come.

The dark female turned away, but the blue warrior met his leader's gaze calmly, neither smug nor contrite.

"Well, isn't this the charming little family reunion?" a high-pitched voice spoke up. A red-and-silver flyer elbowed his way to the front of the crowd. With a start Deathsaurus recognized him as Starscream, from the history reels. A notorious traitor, still alive after all this time...!

"Looks like you have a long-lost half brother, Kaliber," he addressed the little black-and-silver robot who sat perched on one of his wings. He grinned with malicious delight and regarded Deathsaurus with an amused crimson gaze. "Kinda shoddy that Megatron never bothered to tell you this, isn't it?"

Megatron took a threatening step toward him. "Starscream, no one asked for your opinion." He gestured at the assembled Decepticons. "Do something useful with yourself for once; take this rabble and load them onto the shuttles."

"Oh, but I'd much rather--"

"Now!" Megatron commanded, partially raising a clenched fist.

"Sure, sure," Starscream agreed hastily. "I was just on my way." He began directing the others away, toward the shuttles, and the crowd started to thin out.

"I have to agree with Starscream," Deathsaurus said. Slowly and painfully he pulled himself to his feet, bracing himself against the cliff. "Is it true?" he asked Megatron. "You're my creator? You and - - her?" He looked at Raksha, her obvious alien-ness, her sleek reptilian design with its diamond scale-pattern, visible under what looked like a layer of tarnish and grime; the row of iridescent metallic feather-plumes that ran down her head and neck; her long serpentine tail, clawed feet, and four-fingered hands with their long sharp talons at the fingertips.

"Yes, it's true," Megatron said. He sounded suddenly very tired.

Deathsaurus stared at him mutely, shaking his head.

"Don't you think I might have liked to know?" he exploded finally. "Don't you think I might have liked to have some idea of who I was, instead of being left in a stasis chamber, to be found and activated by chance, to have no idea why some of my internal systems were so -- abnormal?" Here he glared venomously at Raksha. "You might have left me some information, at least!"

"There wasn't time, Death," Megatron said. "The Stratofortress was lost in the Unicron War shortly after we built you and infused you with life. There just wasn't time to activate you, or even to leave you any instructions for later."

Deathsaurus shook his head, uncomprehending. Overwhelmed by emotions he couldn't name, and unable to maintain his anger, he continued softly, "Don't you think I might have liked to know that I was the offspring of the greatest Decepticon commander in our history? And that I was not even a true Decepticon? It might have helped, or at least explained some things, while I was fighting for what I needed. I had to fight for everything I have, you know."

"I know," Megatron said, "and that's why you value it. That's why you've come as far as you have. Look at Kaliber -- when you get to know him, you'll see that he's not interested worth a damn in leadership, in rank or power. He's had everything handed to him, and he's not interested. But you -- you've had to fight for what you have, and that's why you're willing to fight to keep it."

"And you are a true Decepticon," Raksha added. "Genetically you are not a pure Cybertronian -- but being a Decepticon has less to do with genetics than with loyalty. As I well know." She traded a glance with Megatron, who smiled fractionally.

"But what are you?" Deathsaurus asked her.

She folded down her feathers and tilted her head so the harsh sunlight reflected in her eyes, a strange, intense fluorescent green. "I'm a Plumed Serpent," she said. The sound she made, following her words, was like a brief series of trill-notes and clicks; grammatically it meant nothing to Deathsaurus, but the sound itself struck some kind of a reverberation inside him. He had heard this language before, somewhere, somehow, long ago.

He looked back at Megatron, fighting an odd sadness that rose within him. "Still, you might have left me something," he repeated, not really expecting an answer.

"But I did," he said. He turned and scanned the deserted battlefield, then walked over and picked the scimitar out of the dust. Returning, he handed it to Deathsaurus. "This was my favorite weapon when I was a gladiator on Cybertron, before I was Decepticon leader. I kept it for years, but I wanted you to have it."

Deathsaurus gripped the handle, not trusting himself to speak for a moment. Then a spark of anger flickered back on. "And if you'd told me who you were, I might not almost have killed you with it!" he accused.

Megatron shrugged wordlessly; he had no reply. He turned away, in the direction of the shuttleships that were still parked in the distance. "We should get back up there. I want to complete repairs to my ship and my station--"

"Your station?" Deathsaurus interrupted. "You still expect me to hand Destron over to you?"

Megatron turned back to him and offered him a feigned look of surprise. "Oh, no need to hand anything over to me, Death. The station's mine already."

Deathsaurus stared at him without comprehension.

Megatron smiled with a trace of self-satisfaction, and activated a small microphone that slid out from the edge of his helmet. "Skywarp, come in," he said.

"Megatron!" replied a voice, sounding distinctly relieved. "You're alright!"

Megatron frowned slightly. "Of course. What did you expect?"

"Then Deathsaurus is--?"

"Alive," Megatron said. To the puzzled silence he added, "I'll explain later. What is the status of the station?"

"Oh, that's secure, Megatron. We didn't have any problem at all. Most of the defensive force was down on the planetoid watching you."

"Excellent," Megatron concluded, re-absorbing the microphone into his helmet. To Deathsaurus' shocked expression he said, "Did you really think our little showdown was the only action that took place today? You still have a great deal to learn about being a Decepticon leader!"

The shuttle carrying Megatron, Raksha, and Deathsaurus was among the last to dock in the cavernous hangar-bay of the Stratofortress. Nightbird was there waiting for them as they disembarked. Her words to Megatron were quiet but intense. "I knew you had a relationship with Raksha before I returned," she said, "but I didn't know you created offspring with her!" She spun and vanished into the crowd of returning spectators. The look in her eyes had been more hurt than anger, which Megatron found much harder to deal with -- but he couldn't very well go chasing off after his consort, here in front of all his warriors.

"You want me to try and talk to her?" Raksha offered.

"No," he said. "I'll do that myself, later." He turned to Deathsaurus. "You and I have some technical details to discuss first."

"Such as, who leads the Decepticons?" Deathsaurus asked pointedly. "I don't think it was ever conclusively settled."

"I lead the Decepticons, Death. Make no mistake." He fixed Deathsaurus with a level glare, then ushered his creation into the nearest turbolift, leaving the others behind. "Your status will remain high; in fact you may eventually end up with a good portion of the empire to control -- but you answer to me."

"What empire?" Deathsaurus asked, a bit scornfully, as the turbolift shot upward.

"The one we're going to build. You and I." Megatron met Deathsaurus' eyes. "I want you to work with me, not against me. I'd like to be able to trust you. But if that turns out to be impossible ... well, I'll take steps to correct the problem." He paused, watching the younger Decepticon closely. "Do we understand each other?"

Deathsaurus held his gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded assent.

The turbolift whispered to a halt, and Megatron led the way into the large conference room across the hall. It was otherwise empty, and Megatron closed the door behind them. He took a seat at his usual place at the head of the long table, and gestured for Deathsaurus to sit down beside him.

"Now," Megatron began, "tell me the state of the war. How in the Universe did you manage to lose Cybertron?"

"I didn't lose Cybertron!" Deathsaurus bristled defensively. "I haven't been the only Decepticon leader in your absence, you know!"

"Really? There have been others -- in a mere fifty years?"

"Two others. Both of them staggering incompetents, which is why they didn't last long. The one who took over immediately after you disappeared was a warrior named Scorponok."

"Scorponok!" Megatron repeated incredulously. "I would have expected Thunderwing, or maybe Shadowlord, but Scorponok? He was nothing more than a petty warlord in the southern hemisphere. If he ever had an original thought in his life, he would have died from the systems-overload! And you tell me he aspired to the Decepticon leadership?"

"Yes, unfortunately. From what I know of history, he spent more time and effort copying a new Autobot battle-innovation, than fighting off those same Autobots who were trying to force the Decepticons from the planet. It seems that, in those days, our numbers were badly depleted by some sort of catastrophe, and the Autobots had the advantage...?" He looked questioningly at his creator, hoping Megatron could shed some light on this mystery.

"Yes, that would be the Unicron War," Megatron said thoughtfully. "I won't go into all the details now -- the account is in our ship's memory banks if you want to review it later -- but it was the event that hurled Stratofortress through a warp tunnel in space, all the way to the Zhiacsa Quadrant. A significant number of our troops were aboard, of course, and that cut down on Decepticon numbers. Of the ones that remained behind on Cybertron, I'm sure a good many died. We didn't even know for sure if Cybertron had survived the assault, until we returned to this sector a few days ago. Unicron's attack must have given the Autobots the advantage they needed, to drive us from the planet."

"Scorponok's troops actually held their own for a while," Deathsaurus said. "It's just that Scorponok was putting so much effort into this new technology that he ignored most everything else, including potential assassins. A Decepticon named Overlord killed him and took his place."

"Overlord," Megatron reflected. "There's a name I don't know."

"He must have been created after your disappearance. He incorporated some of the new Autobot technology into his design. It was under his reign that I was activated. Not long afterwards we were forced from the planet, all of us. We scattered throughout space, some to Earth, some to other planets. Overlord couldn't keep things together. I ... showed him how it was done." Deathsaurus smiled, savoring the memory, the victory. "After Overlord's death I gathered the Decepticons back together and regrouped on Earth. We used that planet's raw materials to fix up and improve a derelict alien space station that we found adrift in a nearby solar system. We named it Destron. It was going to be a launching platform for the complete takeover of Earth."

"Interesting," Megatron mused. "So what was this new Autobot technology you spoke of?" he wanted to know.

"Most of the records have been lost," Deathsaurus answered. "But from what little I could piece together, it sounded like a singularly bad idea. Binary-bonding organic beings to Transformers, having the organic replace either the robot's head or some other vital part of the body, and having the life-force channeled through the organic. I suppose there was a merging of minds in the process also. Imagine trusting your actions, your mind, your life, to a fragile organic! Never mind that the idea alone is repulsive!"

"Yes," Megatron agreed. "It never would have happened under my command. But it's just the sort of garbage the Autobots would come up with -- and just the sort of thing an unimaginative clod like Scorponok would try to imitate. Is this process still in use?"

"Not on our side, though I suppose the Autobots still use it, to a limited extent."

Megatron leaned forward slightly. "Who leads the Autobots now?"

"Star Saber," Deathsaurus answered. Megatron did not miss the trace of venom in his tone.

Megatron laughed softly to himself. "So, my old enemy Optimus Prime has finally been put out of his misery."

"Well, not exactly. I very nearly killed him, but it wasn't quite enough. He was re-built into a new form, a totally new being, with a totally new personality. I don't think he has many memories left, of his former life. He goes by the name Victory Leo now, and he's no longer a leader among Autobots. But he is, technically, Optimus Prime."

Megatron's optics narrowed in disgust; then he smiled conspiratorially at Deathsaurus. "We'll just have to correct that oversight, won't we?"

Deathsaurus inclined his head in agreement.

Megatron's gaze drifted to the row of empty seats along the far side of the conference table as he considered what he had learned. "Our first priority is to re-take Cybertron," he concluded finally, bringing his attention back to Deathsaurus. "We can't have Decepticons scattered randomly across the galaxy, or even based on Earth; it's -- demoralizing. Cybertron is our home, and it will be ours again." He pushed himself away from the table and stood, then continued, "Death, I want you to put together a report for me. I need the exact numbers and locations of your troops, the number of ships you have at your disposal, the numbers and types of weapons, the exact capabilities of Destron, and everything you know about the Autobots. You can take a shuttle back to the station if you need to. We'll meet here again tomorrow morning and discuss your report."

Deathsaurus too rose from his seat. "You really think we can reclaim Cybertron?" he asked, a bit dubiously.

"Count on it," Megatron replied.

Nightbird spun, slashing at the much larger Autobot with her paired, triple-pronged daggers. Dodging to evade the one behind her, she shot forward and imbedded one dagger to the hilt in the center of the first Autobot's chest. He clutched at it and arched backwards, staggering and finally falling, with crackling streamers of electricity sizzling from the wound around the dagger blades.

Nightbird turned her full attention to the other one, leaping high into the air and planting both feet against his chest, twisting as she did so to maintain her balance as she went down with him. The second dagger found its mark in his midsection, and Nightbird sprang away, just as a plume of acrid black smoke billowed from her fallen opponent.

The next attacker seemed to come out of nowhere, snatching up one of the daggers as he ran at her, and Nightbird barely managed to avoid the swipe of the razor-sharp prongs. Her hands withdrew into her wrist sockets, and a pair of serrated, whirling sawblades appeared in their place. These she flung at the Autobot, knocking the dagger from his grasp but only lightly marring his plating. The sawblades came back to her and she retracted them, replacing them with hands; she reached behind her and grabbed the hilt of the energy-sword that was magnetically locked to her back, and rushed at the Autobot.

He was ready for her, whipping out a stun-pistol half the length of his arm. But she hadn't meant to execute such a direct frontal attack anyway. At the last moment she dodged aside, hearing the muffled explosion of the stun pistol as it went off very close to her left audial sensor. Her sword blade hummed as she brought it down on the Autobot's gun arm, severing it at the elbow. Her next stroke was lethal, cutting upward along his chest and throat, slicing through the fuel lines. With the sickening gurgle of choking on his own fuel, the Autobot went down.

Nightbird's energy blade withdrew into its hilt and she looked around, surveying the bombed-out cityscape. Twisted spacescrapers tilted and leaned erratically on the horizon; beyond them the sky seemed a sheet of flat steel gray. Closer about lay the shattered wreckage of what must once have been a bridge. And beneath her feet, the squadron of dead Autobots. Nightbird kicked at one of them in annoyance. The damn things died too easily for her to fully vent her frustrations.

"You look like you're practicing to kill someone," Shadore observed. The glossy black-and-purple female sat on a fallen beam from the bridge wreckage, slightly above Nightbird's eye-level. "Like maybe Megatron?"

Nightbird only glared at her in reply, began to turn away, and then spun back towards her. The words tumbled out, seemingly unbidden. "Soundwave warned me that I might not like his plan. I told him I wouldn't care, whatever it was. But I do care. I do, Shadore, and I can't help it."

"Why?" the other female asked guilelessly. "Because of this Raksha? Who is she, anyway?"

"She left us in the Zhiacsa Quadrant, before you joined us," Nightbird replied. "And I won't say she doesn't concern me. She and Megatron had a -- history together."

"I don't think you have anything to worry about. Megatron's crazy about you, that's obvious to anyone."

"Ah, but it's Raksha who can get away with almost anything. I can't. I'm expected to maintain decorum as the leader's mate. No one but Raksha would have intervened in a traditional battle to the death. It just isn't done among Decepticons -- which is why Soundwave brought her. And much as it would have torn me apart, I would have stood there and watched Megatron die, like a good leader's consort, if it had come to that. But Raksha has always danced just outside the limits of the rules and expectations, and I don't see where she thinks she has the right. Or why Megatron lets her."

"She's just an alien," Shadore said tolerantly. "She doesn't know any better."

Nightbird fixed her with a sharp look, which softened when the other female flinched back. "I'm an alien, Shadore," Nightbird told her.

"What?"

"Yes. I was created on Earth, by humans. Haven't you ever wondered why I never transform?"

"Now that you mention it, I guess I have," Shadore replied. She looked at Nightbird closely, as though seeing her in a new light for the first time. Then she smiled. "But you blend in so well with Transformers that no one would ever guess."

"Well, exactly. I was able to adapt myself to this culture. I don't see why others shouldn't be held to the same standards."

"Nightbird--"

"You know what else gets to me?" Nightbird interrupted. "Deathsaurus. And the fact that Soundwave knew all about him. Soundwave knew, and of course Megatron, and Raksha, and I'm the only one that wasn't let in on this little secret."

"Deathsaurus didn't know," Shadore pointed out.

That fact seemed less than trivial to Nightbird, for she continued as though she hadn't heard, "I'm fond of Soundwave, really I am; he's always been good to me. But sometimes I resent the fact that he's closer to Megatron than I am, in many ways. It's almost as though Megatron doesn't completely trust me."

"More likely, he just doesn't want to see you hurt," Shadore countered. "Think about it. Why do you suppose he didn't tell you? Why do you think he was willing to kill his own creation in battle? Sure, he needed to maintain his leadership position and all, but maybe it was more than that. He could have just told Deathsaurus who he was, and it might never have come to a battle. Could it be that, with Deathsaurus dead, the problem would be solved? Megatron would never have to tell you, and you would never be hurt." Shadore shrugged. "That's my theory, anyway."

Nightbird regarded her intently. "Do you really think it was like that?" she asked, forming the words slowly, thoughtfully.

Shadore offered her a semi-apologetic smile. "Like I said, it's just a theory. I'm not a telepath like Soundwave."

"No -- but you do have your sibling's insight and judge of character."

"Do I?" Shadore seemed vaguely surprised.

Nightbird nodded. "Indeed you do."

Something moved behind her, and Shadore leapt off the railing like a black-and-purple bolt, shooting past Nightbird. As Nightbird turned to watch, Shadore snatched up a long, broken metal bar with a jaggedly torn end. Holding it like a javelin, she flung it at the bulky Autobot that had just emerged from the wreckage with a drawn laser. He raised his arms to deflect the projectile, and the makeshift javelin glanced harmlessly off his plating. But in that moment of distraction Shadore had leapt in close; raising her legs high, she kicked at him with the sharpened tips of her feet, throwing him further off-guard. Unexpectedly she wrenched the gun from his hand and sprang back a pace, firing at almost point-blank range. Daylight was visible through the hole in his chest, before he crumpled to the ground.

Nightbird regarded the scene with calm approval. "You've become a good fighter," she observed.

"I had a good teacher," Shadore replied, meeting Nightbird's eyes and smiling a bit self-consciously. Then she tilted her head slightly, as if listening to something. "Time for me to go," she decided, dropping the dead Autobot's laser gun amidst the wreckage. She was gone so fast that Nightbird could only stare after her in bafflement.

The cybernetic cityscape around her, with its twisted ruins, distant spires, and dead Autobots, shimmered and vanished into pools of deep shadow. From these shadows a new landscape took form around her. Nightbird gasped as she recognized it: the jagged peaks of dark stone, laced with tufts of dry brush and stunted conifers; the scarlet sweep of the sunset that lit the tips of the mountains at one horizon, and the deepening indigo-purple that gathered at the other, where the first stars could just be seen. One of the jagged mountains that rose before her was not a mountain at all, but a Decepticon base masquerading as a mountain; though the huge stone Decepticon symbol that had been carved into its face, made it a less-than-perfect disguise. The light of the sunset seemed to lend it an edge of fire, a supernatural luminescence. Nightbird almost imagined she could feel the chilly night breeze stirring, hear the last few forlorn notes of insects chirping in this cooling season of Autumn on Earth. She looked around carefully. Yes, windblown leaves lined many of the crevices between the rocks around her, caught in drying and colorful bushels between the bare stone and the whisps of tall, rough grass.

It was here, in these mountains, in the shadow of Megatron's largest land-base on Earth, that he and Nightbird had really gotten to know each other, had fallen passionately in love with a kind of desperation that seemed to sense the future and know, they had only a short time together. It had been merely a week, but the memory of that week had sustained Nightbird through twenty long years of subsequent captivity, before she'd been able to break free of her human captors and make her way back to Megatron once again. She had never been back to Earth, after that -- but the illusion here in the holochamber was so perfect that she felt she was there, felt the rush of all those old feelings coming back to her. The picture needed only one more element to make it complete....

Megatron seemed to dissolve out of the gathering shadows at the base of the mountains, and moved towards her, stopping a short distance away. His physical design was a bit different now than it had been back then, but he was still Megatron, her Megatron. Nightbird felt her fuel pump beat faster, though she took care to remain composed. Megatron said nothing, just looked at her expectantly, and maybe a little bit warily, with those fiery-scarlet eyes that she loved so much.

"This..." Nightbird gestured vaguely at their surroundings, "...isn't fair."

He grinned. "All's fair in-- well, you know how the phrase goes." But his expression turned serious again as he took another step towards her; he reached out to touch her but she pulled back, and he let her. "If you'll give me some idea of what you're upset about...?" he suggested.

"You don't know?" Nightbird asked incredulously. "Try the fact that you have a creation with another female, that I didn't know about!"

"He was created before you returned," Megatron said. "Since we didn't plan on activating him anytime soon, I didn't see the point in telling you. And when Unicron flung us through that space warp, I didn't know if we'd ever get back to Cybertron again -- or if Cybertron had survived the assault -- or if Deathsaurus' stasis chamber had survived the assault, for that matter. Again, I didn't see the point in upsetting you with something we might never be confronted with. I knew you would react like this, you see." He looked at her significantly.

Nightbird sighed. It was hard to maintain her anger in these surroundings, though she still felt hurt, and thought he should know it. "I just feel ... lied to," she admitted.

Megatron considered this for a moment. "Nightbird," he said, and there was something more calculating in his tone, something that sharpened Nightbird's attention -- he seemed on the offensive now, rather than the defensive -- "Who was it that sprang Kaliber on me?"

"Kaliber?" she repeated, not comprehending.

"Yes -- remember, when you returned, and said in effect 'oh, by the way, this is your creation'? You had -- how did you put it? -- stored the digital pattern of my mental and psychological impulses, and used them along with your own to infuse life into the body you had built for Kaliber."

"But -- I thought you'd be pleased," she said. "I thought you were." She felt the foundation of her grievance start to slip away.

"I might have been, " Megatron agreed, "if I'd had any say in the matter -- if I had even known about it! As it was, you sprang something on me that I wasn't sure I was ready for, or even wanted at the time. But I accepted it, didn't I, because in the end it wasn't Kaliber who was most important to me, but you."

Nightbird's shoulders slumped. "I guess you have a point," she said quietly. "At the time I didn't know how these things were done among your species -- didn't know the unspoken traditions and expectations involved -- but I should have thought it through. Should have consulted you. But what can be done about it now? Kaliber exists--"

"As does Deathsaurus," Megatron finished. He moved close to her again and lightly took hold of her shoulders, and this time she did not pull away. "I'm not trying to hurl old accusations at you," he said. "I'm just trying to show you, there's no reason for you to feel betrayed."

He could do this so well -- talk to her soothingly, tell her with absolute conviction that everything was fine, and she wanted very much to give in to it. But there were troubling doubts that kept her hanging back, and she voiced them, tentatively: "I'm not sure how I feel about having Raksha around again--"

"Oh, now, don't pull the jealous consort routine on me," he said, dropping his hands away from her and sounding vaguely disgusted. "You should be above that sort of thing."

"I just can't stand the thought of losing you!" she exclaimed. To hell with her pride, she thought; she couldn't imagine her life without Megatron. "Why do you think I was so worried about your battle with Deathsaurus? And now Raksha--"

"You're not going to lose me," Megatron interrupted. "Not to Deathsaurus, not to the Autobots, and not to Raksha. As far as Raksha goes, she's been a loyal ally to me, and a good friend, and I can't just flip a switch and turn that off. You'll have to accept it.

"But if you really can't stand the thought of Raksha's presence ... I'll send her back to Shintu-Ka. Even though our forces number only a few thousand, and we need every warrior in our assault on Cybertron. Especially one with Raksha's unique battle skills. But I'll send her away, if that's what you want."

Nightbird stared at him in silence, assessing his sincerity. "Would you really?" she asked.

The microphone slid out from the edge of Megatron's helmet. "Let's see if her internal radio still works," he said.

"No -- Megatron, wait," Nightbird said before he could activate the communication. "There's ... really no reason for Raksha to leave. You're right, we do need her against the Autobots. And you've ... effectively made me feel foolish for my concerns. I'm sorry."

Megatron resorbed the microphone and took hold of her shoulders again, pulling her closer. "Don't feel foolish," he said, gazing intently into her eyes. "Not ever. You are perfection, and I love you beyond all things. Never forget that."

The Earth-surroundings, with the majestic sunset frozen in the sky, and Megatron's nearness, threatened to overwhelm her. She dropped her gaze to hide the tears that suddenly gathered in her eyes, and focused instead on the unrepaired bite-wounds on Megatron's left arm. Lightly she touched the jagged metal with its crust of dried fuel. "You should get this looked at," she said softly.

"Later," he decided. He tilted her head upward and insistently kissed her dark facemask.

It was much later, well past the middle of the ship's night cycle, that Megatron strode down the dimmed corridor on the upper deck that led toward the officers' lounge. With its wide sweep of forward-facing windows, it was a likely spot to look for someone fascinated with a view of the stars, as planet-bound species tended to be. Raksha was a rare exception for her kind, as she had traveled the stars both in ships and in flight -- but she'd never lost her fascination with staring at them out the viewports.

The lounge was dark when Megatron slid the door back, but she was there, perched atop the backrest of a couch that faced the windows, silhouetted against the panorama of space. She was turned toward him, watching, as though she'd heard him coming from a long way off, and she probably had.

Megatron turned the lights up to half brightness, pleased to note that the room was otherwise empty. He walked over to stand against the window, a few paces from her. "I thought I might find you here," he said.

"Yeah." Her long iridescent feathers smoothed back a little as she regarded him. "I didn't get a chance to tell you earlier, but I like the new look." She indicated his upgraded physical design with a sweep of her strange, lightless eyes.

"It's serviceable," he replied casually. "You, on the other hand, are a mess."

"Oh, thanks."

"You look like you haven't seen a can of polish in fifty years."

"Funny." She rubbed some of the tarnish away from the fading Decepticon symbol on her chest. "Better?"

"Better," he agreed, and grinned.

"You're different somehow, too," she mused. "It's not just the new body. You seem more--" she groped for the right word -- "...centered?"

Megatron felt his eyes brighten a little in surprise. "Hadn't really thought about it," he admitted. "But with fifty years away from the war, and having Nightbird around ... I guess it's possible."

She smiled. "In the old days you would have taken Soundwave's head off, right there on the battlefield, for 'daring to interfere'."

"I've still got half a mind to do that," he growled. "He had no permission to do what he did."

"Don't be angry with Soundwave," she said protectively. Megatron recalled how she'd always been more indignant when he snapped at Soundwave than when he raged at her. "He was just trying to keep you from getting killed -- or doing something you'd regret later."

"Nobody put him in charge of my physical and emotional well-being," he countered.

"I think he put himself in charge, and a long time ago," Raksha said with a knowing smile.

"Yes," Megatron said, as there was little arguing with that fact, "and someday I'll have to beat it out of him." But they both knew he didn't mean it.

Raksha slid down from the backrest of the couch and came to stand beside him at the window. Megatron let his gaze wander absently to the stars as he thought about the last decades, about the things they had experienced in the Zhiacsa Quadrant. "I suppose half a century is no time at all to a Plumed Serpent," he murmured, more to himself than to Raksha.

She answered, "Honestly I was surprised when Soundwave told me. I would have guessed a few years, at most. But it takes more than a few years for some internal wounds to heal ... and I think, mine have healed. As much as they will, anyway. I guess I can judge the passage of time by that."

Megatron looked at her searchingly. The loss of her homeworld was a wound that would never heal entirely, of that he was sure -- it was like a shadow in the back of her eyes, and always with her. But maybe she too was prepared to look to the future again, rather than to the past.

"At some point the sensory overload of your society got too much for me," she admitted. "Being flung away from Cybertron, my second home, and seeing so many good warriors die.... I needed that time in the jungle."

Megatron nodded. "Stick around and help us reclaim Cybertron, and we'll see if we can't restore you to your 'second home.'"

"I was planning on it," she said, then shot him a playful look. "No need to bribe me." She turned away from him and paced the length of the windows, her thoughts racing. When she came up to him again she seemed to have reached some important conclusion. "Megatron," she began, "when I first joined you, you assigned me to an assault squad of individuals that you had selected."

"And it worked out perfectly," Megatron recalled. After he'd made good on his threat to put the Constructicons and the Stunticons together on the same team, it seemed that Raksha's presence among them diffused much of the tension, as she would not tolerate them harming or killing each other. "They'll be delighted to have you back."

"No," Raksha said. "I think I would be a distraction to them now. And as I recall, you put me among them because you didn't really know where else to assign me. What if I could select my own team this time, something more in keeping with my abilities? To be more effective. I'm thinking of a smaller group, too."

"Easier to protect?" Megatron guessed.

She nodded.

"Raksha, you can't defend each one of your team-mates. You can't be everywhere, it's just not possible. This is war, and casualties happen."

"Not in my squadron," she said, meeting his eyes steadily. "Not again."

Megatron swallowed the logical counter-reply that was on the tip of his tongue, and sighed. "Have it your way, Raksha. Somehow you always do."

She smiled. "So can I have access to the personnel records?"

He scowled at her. It was unheard-of, for Decepticons to select their own assignments, but what was protocol to a being like Raksha? And, he knew from his own experience that it wasn't a good idea to get too set in the traditional ways. Trying a new approach often yielded surprisingly good results. "I suppose," he said grudgingly. "As long as you don't crash the whole computer system again like you did last time."

They laughed together at the memory -- how utterly baffled Raksha had been over the computer technology, and how unreasonably furious Megatron had been in response. It seemed like a million years ago.

Raksha's tail flickered out and brushed lightly against Megatron's legs, her signal for requesting intimacy. Involuntarily he responded to it, as he always had, aware suddenly of how close she was to him and how the half-light glimmered in her plumes and caught in her eyes in flashes of green iridescence. Raksha's was a species that did not understand the concept of exclusive mates. Megatron wasn't sure he understood it himself -- it seemed so pointless and restrictive. But it seemed to mean a lot to Nightbird. Megatron thought of his consort, who slept peacefully back in their quarters -- who had followed him around the land-base so many years ago and had looked at him with such sincere devotion -- and decided to decline Raksha's invitation, this time.

"I think you have some research to do," he said to Raksha. "I'll still make the final call on your selection, of course."

For a moment he wasn't sure if she would take the hint. The subtleties of Decepticon society were difficult for Raksha, always had been.

"Okay," she said then. Did she look disappointed for the briefest moment? It was hard to tell, because then she smiled and turned away. The tip of her tail licked softly at his legs as she headed for the door, her movements fluid and feral, the sound of her claws tapping very lightly over the hard floor. Megatron looked after her for a good while, even after the door had slid shut behind her. She was a wild thing, out of place here among these metal walls -- and yet she had joined her destiny to the Decepticons a second time.

He turned back to the window, toward the stars. It was out there somewhere -- Cybertron, the homeworld. With Deathsaurus as an ally they would swoop in and crush the despicable Autobots before they had time to muster their defenses. From there the Decepticon Empire would spread outward like ripples on a pond, swallowing planets and star systems until his reach extended to the very brink of the galaxy. Megatron felt the old battle-anticipation growing within him. He smiled, and caught the fiery reflection of his eyes from the window glass, like flames superimposed over the starfield. Soon, very soon, Cybertron's rightful ruler would return home!

END