Part 1

There is a memorial on the Far Worlds for them. In the Hall of Remembrance stands a fifty metre statue shaped from steel and plastic. It is a defiant figure, a soldier holding a lock-loaded plasma rifle, worn by the battle and yet still holding his territory. The material to make this statue was brought here at great expense, from the mines of Ceros II, from the smelting pits of River-Rock. It is a creation of great skill and artifice. At the base of the statue is carved a name.
Onslaught.

And in smaller lettering down the bottom, that you wouldhave to be of sharper eye and skill to see, another set of words:

'The Combaticons: In our Darkest Hour they Turned the Tide .."

Part 2

The distant whine of jetcopters cut the early morning sky. Smoke drifted up from a gutted warehouse. It was situated too far away from the spaceport for redevelopment: indeed, this part of Andraxus Minor was a dilapidated block of old buildings now used for cheap, insecure storage, well away from the usual patrols by Enforcement. It was, according to a casual remark by one of the jetcopters: " ... a sorry haven, a breeding ground for low life and the criminal element ..."

As they descended they split off from the flight pattern to perform their designated duties: some went to check the warehouse itself for clues, some moved to seal off the area, and others dropped down, transforming to their mobile bipedal modes as they did so, to apprehend the suspect who lay curled up in a crumpled heap by one side.

The suspect, according to records carried by one of the jetcopters, was of the standard S&T designs for cargo haulage, wheeled transport. A small, lightly built model with a massive trailer retracted on the back, polymer wheels inset into the arms and legs, with a protruding chest weighed with engine blocks and cylinders. It was a sluggish, bulky design, but economical to produce, sacrificing mobility and grace in the bipedal primary mode to have a sturdy, reliable secondary mode that would be used primarily for road freight and carting building supplies from one site to another. The suspect was coloured in bright yellow and orange, with a soft grey as a tertiary colour.

" Examine him ! " snapped the leader of the patrol to the MedTech. In turn, the MedTech nodded, and examined the crumpled form of the truck, noting the sharp spikes of shrapnel protruding from the suspect and the serious stress marks in the weak, non-combat armour plate of the suspect.
It required only a mild inhibitor shock to bring him around.

Part 3

Sting awoke.

" What's wrong with me ? " he whined to the emptiness of his mind, the imagery of his past confused, out of chronological sequence. It was important, and yet he couldn't remember properly. He tapped at his cracked faceplate, and stared down at the rips in the polymer coating his hands, through which pale endostructure could be glimpsed.

" Processor damage. Shellshock. You may get some of it back as your secondary datacore compensates for the error. However, that remains unlikely ... " A cold, clear voice, ringing out of the dark. " Sir, nothing more to the suspect than MedTech Class 89/7 damage, due to exposure to a flash-mine without proper protection."

Another voice: " Very good. Cuff the suspect."

Sting tried to work out where he was. A glimpse of sky, pale-red through the overbearing layer of smog. Hard ground beneath him. Something burning to his left.

The warehouse !

The shipment !

The contract !

Sting groaned, and tried to stagger to his feet but firm hands forced him down. He glanced around, seeing seven identical figures in matt-black plate with reflective optical visors. Thrusters jetted out of leg-mounted turrets. Retracted rotors reclined on their backs, protruding like grim blades of doom. A complex sigil printed on their chests, lilac against ebony.

" Enforcement ... " he said numbly.

This was the end then. They would book him. They would carry out the termination order immediately. He clenched his fists, noting the severity of the damage to them. Oh, how that fool who set him up would pay ! He had one lead, the name accidently dropped by one of the hired goons to protect the shipment. " Lowlight."

He would remember that face, that smug, polished collection of mannerisms that oozed charm and oiled confidence. The way the figure strode casually off, as the hovertruck gunned its engines and slid out into the maze of dilapidated streets of the Minor. Lowlight had robbed him off the deal. Lowlight would die.

A cold voice from one of the identical Enforcement units.Perhaps the leader ?

" We require your name. Your registration number. Then you will be entitled to make a statement. "

Another chipped in, this one with an edge of mockery to its voice, " And please don't lie. I hate lies. And I'll know if you do. Neurotech, oh, its the most wonderful thing they ever developed ! I love it ! "

" Shut up, Vortex. " The leader snapped chillingly. "You'll get to do your job when its done."

The one called Vortex paced off sulkily, coming back after walking around in a small arc. " Alright. " he shrieked. Sting winced: Vortex had an annoying high-pitched voice that ate into his audio-processors in a disquieting manner.

" Talk, scum ! " Another hissed at him.

" Please don't hurt me ... " Sting said quickly, " I was just coming back from the pits when ... "

" He's lying ! " Vortex crowed, raising a small, streamlined pistol in the air.

Sting winced as a heavy shock throbbed through his system, flooding his mind with alarms and critical read-outs. He tried to rise, out of frustration, to do anything to escape it but he was quickly knocked down once more.

" Your name. Your registration number. And then you will be entitled to make a statement." The leader repeated once more.

Sting nodded, knowing that he lacked the capabilities to resist. This was more than the average streetsmart patrol that could easily be bluffed. It seemed that they were Federal Enforcement, some of them reconfigured Great War veterans maybe, with enough toys to make his life very unpleasant. You could never tell with Enforcement.

" I'm Sting ... " he rattled. He sighed inwardly, after tonight he would have had enough credit to buy the false identity he was aiming for. Now it was too late. His future was gone, snuffed out like a smoke from a gun barrel.

He gave them his registration number and pitched them a convincing statement of the nights activities, relying on the memory loss caused by the shellshock to mask his activities. He suspected that he could withhold some information if he was careful. He'd studied enough interrogation records to think he could be convincing. His strategy was simple, he'd tell them everything that they didn't need to know and not enough of what they did.

It was worth a shot, anyway.

Part 4

Sting had discharged himself from the Shipping and Transport Executive after his compulsory service, where he'd payed off the financial debt he owed to Andraxus for his creation and construction. Now a full citizen, he was expected to stay on, earning a small wage that he could have spent on the Pits or saved up for a career somewhere in the towering government bureaucracy.

But Sting had dreams of ... wealth, power, fame ... he wasn't sure. Only that he lacked the patience to kill, bribe, maim and blackmail his way through to the top of the S&T Executive, and that he had far too much ambition to be hauling raw materials from one end of the city to the other.

As a Class 232/23GH Cargo Hauler (Wheeled Transport) his career options were limited. He was a labourer, fit for menial tasks, but lacking the knowledge to join a more influential Executive (Science, Engineering, Tech). He lacked the raw physical power to join the most powerful Executives (Enforcement, Defence). He had his wits, his fluke intellect, and yet he was taken at face value during the phase where he went through repeated attempts to join up with another Executives.

(" I'm sorry, sir, but there's no way a dump truck will be of use to the Finance Executive. Have you thought of a career in Public Sanitation ?")

He sighed. Most people were created for a particular function. S&T operatives were supposed to be hard-working, good-natured boors who wasted all their credits at the pits.

Perhaps something went wrong at the Manufacturing Station, and he'd either been given the wrong bodyshell or the wrong personality. Whatever the reason, he knew that once he'd paid off his Life Debt, that he wouldn't be with S&T much longer.

Once he'd judiciously saved up enough credit, he went to the Hall of Honours, during his first trip to the Spires, where he went through a brief, formal ceremony that gave him full citizenship. He'd lined up, sighing inwardly as he creditline was paid over, watching centuries of labour spiral down the drain and entered a small booth, one of thousands in the public Hall.

The Well Access Port flickered, and he waited nervously as it scanned him. He was hoping for a decent name. Something like " Strong Haul" or "Carry Hard", or any other piece of nomenclature that described his cargo capacity or cheeriness to do a lifetime of monotonous, manual labour would have crippled him.

" I bet their all randomly generated. " thought Class 232/23GH Cargo Hauler (Wheeled Transport), rather bitterly.

Yes, he reflected, that's what they did. They simply scanned your Executive and went to the appropriate file, and chaotically mished words together. What else would they do for the lower castes ? In Defence, he'd heard, they won their names, inheriting them from those fallen in battle. Some names had millions of years of history attached to them, and entire battles were fought over the right to a single name.

" Greetings, Citizen." squeaked the flickering, blotched holograph of the Lord Commander. " You are now a respected member of the society that is Andraxus. May you fulfil a glorious role, in making ... "

Class 232/23GH Cargo Hauler (Wheeled Transport), yawned mentally, impatiently waiting through the long, rambling speech.

The holograph continued: " I now bestow upon you the name
..."

A sudden pause.

" Great, " he thought. " It's broken down, just my luck."

" ... Sting ... " the holograph said slowly, in its digitised voice. " Citizen ... Sting ... welcome to Andraxus
!"
He muttered something about the dubbing, as he received his new registration number and his records were upgraded, thinking " 'Sting ?' What's that supposed to mean ?" He thought randomly of General Scorponok and his Screaming Commandos, the local sim that was showing in the S&T Viewing Hall. He shrugged mentally, and went off to tender his resignation.

" I'm sorry to see you go. " Wide Load, his foreman, said, shaking his head. " You were a good worker."

Sting waved a hand in the air with a disparaging gesture. " It's nothing personal, you know. I just want to find something else to do with my life."

" 'Sting ?' Wide Load rumbled " That's a funny sort of name."

He shrugged. " I didn't choose it."

Andraxus Minor drew him like a moth to a light. It was centred around Andraxus' secondary spaceport, where all the heavy import/export shipping occurred, where alien traders wrangled with the Customs Division, and the Import and Export Executive over rates, taxes, duties and contraband.

Andraxus Minor was filled with dozens of small, second-rate Pits that swallowed lives and careers into a sucking whirlpool of LifeDebt. You had to pay to get modified so you qualified as Pit-Worthy, you had to pay on armour plating, weapons: spikes, caltrops, maces, blades. If you were damaged, you lost capital, and owed the Government even more.

If you placed misjudged bets and couldn't recover the lost income, you owed the Government. If your creditline dropped too low, the Financial Executive posted a Ninth-Class Termination Order on you, and they would get their credit back by recycling your bodyshell.

In Andraxus Minor, surrounded by neon-glittering signs that strobed off the heavy hang of industrial cloud-cover, the chatter of hundreds of alien languages, a continual hum of business, the distant roar of ships continually jetting out of the spaceport, the clank as heavy ore-crates were loaded and refined, processed and polished, ready for export, Sting felt that this was the place to make his mark.

He'd discovered his knack for business, finding the right markets and making them work, storing his profits as small amounts into numerous accounts, well below the creditline where the Finance Executive would have tagged his ID# for tax and for further observation.

Most traders in the designated area wanted their cargo turnover as quick as possible, those that were too cheap to bribe Customs went through hundreds of small-time operators, who cut deals for a fixed percentage of the gross profit. The exceptional operators stayed in the game, the others were caught and terminated.

Sting was running contraband weaponry between a consortium of Minor Pits, and a trader from Dhagoven-5.

While the rules for the Major Pits were strictly enforced, you could get away with anything in the Minor Pits; energy weapons, glass-gas, short-range warheads, thermonuclear grenades. If one of those weapons went off within sensor range, the Enforcement jetcopters would be there within seconds. However, the Minor Pits could afford to place strategic bribes: as long as contraband weapons remained within the Minor Pit, Enforcement would turn an optic the other way.

Sting was the middleman, he had to run back and forth with offers and counter exchanges. If questioned by the suspiciously paranoid patrolling Enforcement Officers, he played the dumb dump truck, using his form to good advantage. An S&T worker on the way down, caught by the bright lure of the Pits. The patrol would transmit quiet chuckles to each other, knowing that any day when he stepped over his Creditlimit they'd have to enforce yet another Ninth-Class.

And one day he got lucky.

He scored the deal of a lifetime.

An entire cargo of soft-plastic explosives that were to go to the Brite Nite Pit over on the south side of the Minor. And it was all his ... two suspicious competitors had been "coincidently" tipped off to Enforcement.

He had to make the final payment in person, and then he could collect on his three percent. It would be, as the military said, a walk. Only something had gone horribly wrong. When he got there, he saw a group of people, loading the cargo onto a hovertruck. One of them had look at him, given him an oh-so-apologetic smile, and then casually leapt up onto the truck's bow, and left. Someone with a smooth, oily charm, enough to give him a slight wave as the truck jetted out into the night. With a cry out of concern for his employers, (not to say his credit) he rushed forward, only to find a pile of what looked like explosives wired to a timing mechanism. He'd turned out once, charging out of the warehouse, when:

Shrapnel fragments peppered his light, civilian plating.

He howled in terror ... the charge went off.

He was slammed to the ground.

Flash dampers clicked in.

A halo of white light.

Chaos. (As his datacore was swamped with random elements as his metaprocessor tried to adapt. He had none of the military programs hardwired into him that made it easier to deal with shock. The metaprocessor could learn of course, but that would take time. Time that he did not have. You could either learn things through being taught manually, through trial and error or you could get a program chipped in and all the skills, knowledges and reactions would be there.
He had nothing.)

His mind screamed and he shut down. Images came to him through the cracked haze, the name Lowlight, that smug self-effacing face, the distant whine of Enforcement jetcopters chiming through the heavy air.

One more thing flooded his datacore: Revenge.

Part 5

When he'd finished he looked up calmly at the leader, trying to be as calm and pleasant possible. There was silence for a while, and then one of them said, " You have finished your statement ?"

Sting nodded cheerily, locking his wreaked fingers together in hope or supplication. He suspected more of the latter than the former.

" Terminate him. " said the leader quietly, turning back to others who had been investigating the blast site.

" Wait a minute ! " he protested. " I have rights, I have
..'
" The only thing you got going for you is my gun in your back! " Vortex chuckled, lowering his pistol.

" You should give this fellow some time off. " Sting advised the silent circle of waiting jetcopters. " He's got too much tension, you know what I mean ? Actually, I know this great stress-relief program. It's contraband, but what the hey ? You guys seize contraband the entire time, so it must go somewhere. Anyhow, check out Gutcruncher's on Third and Fifth Quarter and ... "

" Are you finished, you prattling maggot ? " Vortex hissed, slowly cocking the gun. " Here we go ..."

Sting sighed. " At least one of us is enjoying this."

" Sir ! Sir ! We have orders to let the suspect go ! " cried an officer running forward, half-gliding on his thrusters.

" What ? By whose jurisdiction"

The Enforcement officer gulped, looking upwards. " From above ... " he said quietly.

" Damn ! " snapped the leader. " I will not play the games of the High Council. We shall release the suspect but I will abort the investigation. I was promised no interference
!"
The one called Vortex snapped. " No ! No ! No ! It's not fair ! We're close enough to smell him and you want to call it off ! " He fired several shots into the ground near Sting, cracking and smelting the resin-based footpath.

Sting watched with amusement the two Enforcement officers facing off with each other, both visually identically with their sleek black bodyshells, yet Vortex was enraged, quivering, his movements erratic and jerky as he held his smooth, moulded pistol in his hand; the leader was tall, calm, resolute.

" I was promised Swindle ! And that is a promise I intend to claim ! With or without you all !!! " Vortex shrieked loudly.

" That is enough, Vortex. We have our duties to perform." The leader turned away. " I've deactivated all your weaponry with a microwave frequency. I take it you don't want me to bring you in by force ?"

Vortex scowled and threw his pistol hard at Sting, and then stomped away, retracted rotor blades starting to spin nervously. Sting winced as the weapon crashed into his head.

" Ouch. "

" On your feet. " An officer grunted.

" You mean, you're going to let me go ? " he whined hopefully, relief stabbing through him.

" Yes. " The officer grunted. " Orders are orders."

One of the jetcopters (Vortex, he thought) hissed : "Don't think that you've got off so easily. There's still a seventh-class Termination Order hanging over your head. And that's something I'll collect on, one of these days. I'll remember you, Sting. I've got your numbers ... "

Another said, appalled, " We have to give this criminal scum up ? "

Furious mumblings fled through the small group. A rifle butt dug into his head, denting his armour and flooding his datacore with alarms and shrill warnings.

The leader pointed disgustedly to his comlink. " You heard the boss. I tell you, this doesn't smell right at all. The department's riddled with filth. "

One of them said: " Well then, we'll have to do what the writ says. I don't want to face charges of disobeying a superior officer. We'll let the little scrag go ... "

A heavy electro-club slammed into his back, disrupting inner electrical circuits and systems.

" ... but not in one piece ... "

Someone laughed.

Part 6

Wounded, gutted, smouldering, Sting crawled to a hideout in the dilapidated Chemical Industries Quarter, and lay low for nine days, getting his repairs done at an affordable blackmarket chopshop, using credit he had previously arranged for an occasion such at this. Unfortunately, it consumed nearly all of the meagre resources he had left.

He worked methodically, plotting his revenge.

Against Enforcement.

Against that humiliating little prat Vortex.

Against Lowlight.

Lowlight consumed him, filled his thoughts, his future plans and goals. He had only a name to go on, and that was it. He knew a place where he could ride a tapped line to the Well, to the Hall of Records, and after selling off some now-useless contraband at a pitiful price, he set off. And arrived at Falchion's.

In a seedy portside bar somewhere, Sting motioned to the datapirate in a quick gesture, in a sign language descended from the old Decepticon military fieldsign used by the irregular infantry.

" What is it, runt ? " the heavy ex-Enforcement jetcopter snarled at him. Falchion had been "purged" for corruption a while back, and eked out a small leaving doing various "odd jobs" for various clients. He ran a untapped link to the Well, that could be jacked into the Hall of Records: information for the right price.

" I need to a do a search. " Sting said desperately.

" Can you pay ? Fifty-four grand upfront. "

Sting winced inwardly; that was more than one years gross income for him. Unthinkingly, he transferred the credit into the front account Falchion used, and grunted when Falchion gave him the okay to enter the tap, his optical visor glittering a steady gold-green light, his chrome faceplate glinting, implacable.

Sting dived into the Well, skimming, seeking. His mind interfaced with the mesh of dataforms and newscapes. He was in an abstract smog of colour, motes of light fluttered past him and dim orbs of cold throbbed somewhere below him. Above him: thousands of legal operators, interfacing with structures and waveforms in their daily rounds of business. Somewhere in the undefined depths below, the Well CoreMinds existed, members of his species that had evolved on a divergent track some time ago. Existing as all mind, having no physical body to move around, concerned with this metaphorical realm that paralleled the physical world outside.

Sting knew what to look for, he cut into the great pool of data that formed the Hall Records, and cut his way in along the small, illegal entrance tap that gave him access. Hunting his hunter, he searched.

There were was record on " Lowlight", an undistinguished story of a low-payed clerk in the Finance Executive who was forced to make constant trips at irregular times to support a heavy gambling addiction. It was all there: his creditline, his military service, his accounts. And it reeked to Sting of falsity, this cardboard personality appeared little more than a two-dimensional shape to him, a ghostform mimicking reality.

And then he sagged inwardly, as the cold knife of failure gutted him. Lowlight was a front for another identity, someone he couldn't touch or reach, someone hidden behind layers of information that he'd never be able to cut through. Bitter, dejected, he untapped.

Afterwards, he went to another bar.

Dyuch Algirr, a trader from Syvens, Rigel, leased a bar near the spaceport, turning in a small profit after various heavy taxes. Aliens, especially immigrants, were discouraged from setting up business in Andraxus, being forced to where a remote collar at all times and not being allowed out from the Minor, except on "official" business.

But Dyuch Algirr bribed several key officials in the Finance Executive, and managed to avoid the worst of the taxes, and the constant "raids" of the Customs Officials (Enforcement Subdivision) as they periodically broke in, searching for contraband. His bar was a meeting spot, good for drumming up business. Sting was a regular.

" What happened, my friend ? " Dyuch said carefully. " It seems bad business, yes ? "

Sting glowered, pale gold light splattering the walls in his anger as his optical visor glittered coldly in the bar's harsh lighting. " Bad business ? " he muttered, savagely drumming his fingers against the counter. " You could call it that. "

Dyuch quietly placed a tray of small soft-pastel glowing cubes in front of him, small fuels that served a purpose in social exchanges as "refreshments." Sting absorbed some of the small cubes greedily, filling his emergency reserve tank.

Dyuch nodded. " Here, everything is confidential. You tell Algirr, he not talk. In return he can point you to other information, help you with your problem. You good customer, Sting. Always bad to see good customer down on his knees, like this."

Sting sneered: " I lost it, that's what. I had this deal, everything was riding on it, and this scrapheap set me up. And then I waste what little cash I have left on a stupid database search over at Falchion's, which gave me nothing to go on, nothing to get back at this ... "

" This "scrapheap", yes ? This person you want your vengeance on, what his name ? You tell me, and because you good friend, I tell you what old Algirr knows. " The bartender squatted back on his tail, his spines flattening along his back in a manner that Sting wasn't sure how to interpret.

" Lowlight ... " Sting mumbled though his cracked faceplate. " Its a front, but I don't know anything more than that, I ... "

The bartender snarled, revealing long, interlocking white fangs. Dyuch Algirr was vehement, his manner savage and barely controlled. " This "Lowlight" ... " he paused to spit over the bar, onto the floor. " He is scum of the worst kind. The kind that will leave you dead, or handed over to Enforcement by the end of the deal. He has many names, he was from the old war, long ago. He very smart, very clever. Your Enforcement, yes ? They hunt him for many years, only when they have him in their claws, he vanish like smoke. They say he wealthiest in all Andraxus, he runs big circles, big markets. No one get hold of him. "

Algirr raked his claws on the soft cloth covering the counter. " But he surface, from time to time. He not like to dull his edge, he likes to get satisfaction, yes ? From doing small things from time to time. In many things he finds amusement ... "

Sting leaned back on the counter, tapping at the small rack of hollow cubes. " You don't say ? " he said quietly. " And where would ... "

Part 7

Salagers was an exclusive bar and casino that catered to interplanetary diplomats and ambassadors. There was no way he could get in unless he was on a pre-arranged list. But after a concentrated study of the premises, Sting found a garbage-collector who was heavily in debt in pit money whom he recognised from a previous encounter. After some heavy blackmail, he managed to enter the club through the tradesmen's entrance, spray his armour clean with a pump he'd brought for that purpose, and casually sauntered into the most exclusive casino in the Minor.

He had a lead, a vague one. He'd remembered what the frustrated, whining Enforcement jetcopter said, the one called Vortex: " I was promised Swindle ! And that is a promise I intend to claim ! With or without you all !!! "

After that it was easy, if somewhat daunting. More searches and cashing in favours indicated if nothing else, that this Swindle was the greatest blackmarketeer in all of Andraxus. He'd been in the Great War, serving under the Lord Commander. Special Ops, the rumours went. And there were lies and scandals thick about this seemingly legendary identity. That he was secretly one of the High Lords, that he owned most the city in a network of bribes and corruption, that he controlled the flow of illicit goods from one side of the system to the other. Sting felt cowed, knowing what he was up against, but he had little else to do with his life. He had a Termination Order logged against him, suspended maybe, but not erased. Time would wear him down, eventually. He didn't want much. He just wanted to take the person who'd set him up with him.

After a quick access through a jury-rigged tap into the public information system, he tracked down " Lowlight ", in the Polyhex Room, involved in a complicated gambling game with two aliens. Sting studied the game from the bar, " fivecut ", which had a high, random factor based upon selection of thirty-two numbered markers from a deck. " Lowlight" was losing heavily, and the aliens were laughing, putting more credit on the line when " Lowlight" had a "lucky" hand, and swept all the credit off the table. Sting had had enough, and stamped forward, the explosives sealed into the fake comlog mounted on his wrist.

" We have to talk, Swindle. " he sneered, his optics blazing. Swindle ignored him, and dealt out another hand. Sting felt rather gauche in the posh atmosphere of the bar, with his heavy, clunky bodyshell, coloured in cheerful S&T bright orange and yellow. The few transformers here all appeared to have select, individual designs in a tasteful array of individualised colours. He'd never seen a design like Swindle's either, and suspected it to be a one-of-the-kind format. He was coloured in unobtrusive tans and blacks, and the odd wings and pipes that jutted from his back indicated a jet-based or hovercraft secondary mode.

Sting felt he was losing ground here, especially as sleek, black Enforcement guards were definitely moving in his direction. The aliens gibbered at him, spraying hissing corrosive fluid in all directions.

" Now, now, gentlemen. "Swindle said apologetically. " I'm very sorry about the interruption. Sting, if you'd like to sit over there and shut up until my friends and I finish our game?"

Sting was about to launch himself his enemy, when he noticed the way the guards were strategically moving around him. He stood to one side, giving one of the guards a beatific smile. He waited impatiently as the game progressed, Swindle clearing the table in a seemingly lucky win.

" Lowlight" shook his head at his gambling companions, if amazed at his own prowess. " Well, well, well ... " he chuckled. " Fancy that ? "

The aliens shook their heads ruefully and gibbered out something, that Sting, lacking a translation matrix, was unable to comprehend. Swindle bowed towards them with a deep flourish and watched them slowly leave the room. When they'd gone, he turned once more to his impatient guest who'd been fidgeting and sulking, fingering the loaded comlog mount as he glowered at Swindle, his cracked optical visor shimmering with erratic, static light.

Swindle carefully shuffled the cards. " Can I get you a drink, Sting ? " he offered politely.

" It's bad for you that they didn't go through with that Termination order ! " Sting blustered. " Now I can ..."

Swindle leaned back in his seat. " Oh, is that all you wanted to see me about ? The reason that they didn't go through with that Termination order ... " he said dryly, pausing to load a small cube of energy into its correct chamber, " ... is because I paid them not to."

" What ? "

" You were good, just got into a bad run of luck. It's hard to find good help these days, so I thought that if I'd saved your head then, we could come to a little arrangement later. That was why I though you were here, actually. Never mind."

Sting leered, swaggering impatiently over the table. " I found you so I could terminate you, you miserable heap of scrap .. "

Swindle nodded amiably, elegant leaning back into the padded crashcouch as he gently refuelled from a small 0.005 cube.

" And how did you find me, Sting ? "

Sting stopped for a few seconds, his anger draining as he tried to find his "edge", his cunning and business skill that he used for talking, bargaining, cutting deals.

" The bartender at Algirr's ... " Swindle continued wryly, " I take it that I'm right, judging by your sudden silence ?"

" How'd you ... ? " Sting snapped, and then trailed off. " You tipped him, I take it. You wanted me to come here. May I ask why ?"

Swindle grinned and ran his fingers along the glittering surface of the gambling table. " So I could see if you had what took, in a roundabout way. I like to give all my prospective employees a screening process."

Sting stood stock-still. To work for the greatest black marketeer in Andraxus would be the best work experience he could hope for. But ...

Sting tilted his head forward. " I don't know. " he said coldly. " You seem to be rather eager, even downright obvious to get me to join you. I'm not that stupid. You took the cargo which was rightfully mine and you owe me over two hundred grand in lost credit. I want that back. "

Swindle waved his hand in the air apologetically. "Firstly, in our sort of business, who gets there first, wins. You were too slow, and there's no way you could get any legal ownership on that shipment. Secondly, "your" credit has been invested elsewhere, to have that lying around would just be like waving a red flag to Enforcement. And if you think I have been too eager to get you here to offer a job, its just that you remind me of a young fellow I once knew, trying to get that one good deal going before he went on to the high stakes." Swindle tapped at the fuel tray. " It's sort of the compensation you were after. I can teach you things, and I need someone I can use. Starscream's glorious civilisation
..."
(Sting gaped at the open, off-hand, even casual use of the Lord Commander's name.)

" ... tends to stifle initiative, I've found. " Swindle continued. " Its hard to find people to be of use in my sort of organisation. I suspect the old bastard has finally found a way to control the output of datacores, making personality archetypes that conform perfectly to his template of a good little Andraxan. Which brings me to my final point: I think you've got what it takes to be of use in a job I've got coming up. I can't promise you much of the final cut, as my backers are quite insistent, but let me tell you this, it will be far higher than the paltry two hundred grand you're squabbling about now. I don't work for chicken feed. And neither will you, after this job kicks off."

Sting thought about taking Swindle's offer and throwing it back in his face, going out into the dark smog-coloured night to begin another existence of petty deals and squabblings, all the time with a seventh-class Termination Order hanging over his head. They'd get him in the end, they waited, so they'd have more to take away from you when the end came. Or he could work for Swindle, and get what he suspected would be the short-end in the deal. But it was the notion of playing a bigger game that grabbed him, dealing with stakes he'd previous unimagined. Sting considered for a few moments longer, and finally nodded at Swindle, but only just.

Part 8

As soon as he'd accepted Swindle's offer he'd been ushered up to a private room somewhere with a window that holoprojected a field of stars. He'd been told very little. That they were going to the Strip to do a job. That time was against them. That he would be wealthy by the end of it.

" Oh and one thing ..." said Swindle absently, coming out of a well tap. " You'll gave to be converted ... "

" Why ? " he demanded, and then thought about it for a while. " To a jet ? " he said excitedly. " Skyhawk class ?"

Swindle laughed. " Don't be stupid. Even to get you the right programs would cost more than this entire building. I'm hiring you as an unregistered shipping loader. All you have to do is get my stuff from point 'A' to 'B', file it, secure it, and then I can give you the credit."

Sting stood back, a little aghast. " That's all you need me for? Transport ? "

Swindle nodded drolly. " I told you, I need a "trustworthy" hauler. The Strip's services are all strictly under contract. For this job I'd have to supply my own hauler, one without registration, which is hard to get. And I'm pressed for time, I might add, I'm in a race to get my supplies together before I can make the run ... You realise that you are legally dead ? Seventh-Class Termination order ? They've frozen your credit, resources ... everything ... "

" You set me up ! " Sting protested, glowering. " If you want a hauler go and get one yourself ! "

" Uh huh. And before you walk out, I'm the only one who can set you up with a new identity, and credit to go with it. You leave now, and Enforcement will get a pleasant surprise ... Now, don't look at me like that, Sting. This is business, after all, and we are gentlemen, are we not ?"

Sting leaned against the wall, frantically thinking, checking, examining. All of his options were exposed. Every one of them. He cursed inwardly. There was no way out but down.

" What sort of conversion ? " he said, resigned, noting that at the first opportunity to get, Swindle would pay.

" Class 2342/AHSC. " Swindle said distantly as he rummaged through a pile of hardfax.

Sting winced. " I won't be able to move ! That's a heavy rig, sixteen wheeler ..."

" Sting, you whine at me one more time and I will have that Order carried out. Shut up. I have my job to do, and you have yours. Clear ?"

Sting nodded grimly. " But I don't have to like it ... " he thought savagely.

Part 9

" Yeah, you stick with me, kid. I'll teach you a few things. " Swindle drawled as they crossed the spaceport commerce centre.

Sting glanced around. Traders of all races were screaming, haggling, yelling at each other at over products that ranged from scrap ore to delicate holographic works of art. " In the Strip ? " Sting asked his employer dubiously. The asteroid belt wasn't exactly the place you'd go for a deal. High Lord Thunderwing ruled the sector with an iron fist and the extreme militaristic culture wasn't kind for those looking to a little honest business.

" We're after a little more than rocks. Trust me. " Swindle said pleasantly.

" The last time you said that Enforcement had me lined up for the mindwipe-chamber. " Sting muttered.

" And who got you out of that one ? Sheesh, have a little more faith in your partner. "

" Partner ? I'm only getting three percent ! " Sting glowered.

Swindle looked offended. " That's what you always work for, isn't it ? Anyway, its a bit too late to be changing things now.
"
Sting sighed inwardly and watched as they came to the Customs office. Swindle raised his hands up. " Nothing to declare. " He said pleasantly, as a complex variety of scanners and spectrographs rippled over him as he stepped through the barrier.

Sting followed him, wincing at the static that temporarily filled up his visual display.

The customs officer grunted, " Go ahead then."

Sting nervously flashed a glance towards Swindle, and trotted after him trying not to stare back at the customs barrier.

[*Relax*] Swindle transmitted angrily.

[Look, I've got this bad feeling ...] He beamed back hesitantly ... [Something's going to go wrong, I know it ...]

[Will you shut up ? I have everything under control. If you're not ready for the big time, go back to Andraxus Minor. I have bigger things to worry about.]

Sting sighed inwardly, and sullenly tagged after Swindle.

He peered through the crowd that surrounded them, jostling, pushing pass. He moved slowly, sluggishly, taking staggering, clanking steps. The conversion had taken three days, as chopshop technicians probed and prodded at this innards, removed plates and clacked on new ones. He resembled his old model, physically, but had extra bulk jutting out at awkward angles. He'd have a hell of a lot of cargo room, but very little in the way of speed. " As soon as I get rich, " he promised himself, " I'll get a conversion to the latest model Skyhawk, no matter what."

Swindle guided them to a gravlift on the far side of the bazaar, and inputed a destination. Sting winced as his gyro-stabilisers spun and twisted, awkwardly trying to accommodate him to the sharp twists and bends of the route. It wasn't fair, he though, that everything seemed to cater for those who had flight in their secondary mode. Andraxus was a nation of jets, fast planes, streamlined hovercraft, stratocruisers and dropships. It was the groundcrawlers who were looked down upon, the ones who lugged things, the ones who missed out on the top seats at the Pits, or the bars that glittered atop the delicate architecture of the Spires in the Foundation Quarter.

Sting hated the city, it had been planned and was logically ordered and was kept continually clean. He preferred the random, haphazard, slapdash growth of Andraxus Minor: buildings and tenements spilling everywhere, where other races crouched in ghettos, radio collars ringing their sad, hollow necks. It was full of filth, illegal pits, shoddy bars and backneck bazaars full of contraband. Sting wouldn't have it any other way.

The gravlift crashed to a halt and Sting was slammed against the far wall. Swindle hovered in the air, elegantly, thrusters throbbing, keeping him in the one position, hovering. He shook his head. " When you recover, Sting, follow me. " He jetted out the door that clacked open, and Sting lumbered to his feet and stumbled out, longing for his older, more mobile (by comparison) form.

They were met by a detachment of Strip Military. Interceptors coloured slate-grey, holding heavy concussion rifles, small laser batteries glittered on turreted shoulder mounts. " Follow us. " One of them ordered in a cold, dispassionate voice.

Feeling an estranged sense of deja vu, Sting nodded quickly and lumbered after Swindle, while the group flanked around them, blocking off any attempts to leave the premises.

They were guided to a large chamber and left by their escort, who headed back in the opposite direction. The chamber was paved in dark stone, with a vaulted ceiling of clear polymer, so that one could look out and see the great sweep of the galaxy cutting overhead. It was like standing on the surface of a dead asteroid, naked of atmosphere, exposed to the empty arch of the black, pitiless universe.

A dull flicker of green caught Sting's attention, drawing him away from that mind-numbing, soul-swallowing view; he could see a massive chair on some sort of dais, and a figure reclining back there, verdigris optics illuminating the night like small explosions of chlorine, a heavy bodyshell with a thick coating of carefully-lacquered armour. Great upturned wings locked back into position, small gleams of bright, flamboyant light clung to his fingers, casting his pale armour with sickly, pallid sheen. A great voice rumbled out of the gloom: " So you have come, Swindle. The first part of the agreement has been met."

" Lord Thunderwing. " Swindle bowed with a saucy flourish. " I am honoured. Though I wish we had come to some other arrangement. Its was very dangerous for me to come here
... "
" Quiet ... " The High Lord said slowly, in tones like thunder approaching. " I have summoned you here for a purpose. To give you this device. "

The High Lord rose to his full, monolithic height, and held out a small cube-shaped object composed of glittering energy fields.

Thunderwing boomed: " I had to give you the device in person, Swindle. It can only be opened and utilised by you."
Swindle nodded. He seemed quite relaxed.

Thunderwing pushed the device into Swindle's outstretched
hands, grunting to himself as the energy fields locked onto Swindle's signature.

" You may leave now ... I have other preparations to make. " Thunderwing said distantly. " Take your transport. The supplies will be at the docks."

The High Lord raked Sting with emerald light. He glanced at him up and down. " Yes. All is in order."

" Fine then. " Swindle muttered swiftly, turning briskly and heading out from the room. " Everyone's happy ?"

After they'd both gone, the sleek, matt-black Enforcement-model jetcopter stepped out from behind the dais, hands twitching constantly, retracted rotor-blades spinning, creating a nervous draft of air. " We could have had him now ... " he hissed, his reflective faceplate glittering. " And you let him go ! "

" Patience, Vortex. " Thunderwing rumbled, an amused light dancing over his optical visor. " I promised you Swindle, and you shall have him ... once he performs this small task for me ... "

" Yeah ? Well I'm sick of waiting ! He owes me for years and years of pain, suffering ... he killed all my brothers and I'm the only one left ... "

Thunderwing tapped his fingers against his Seat of Office, relaxed, as if listening to impatient diatribes was something he did often.

" The Great War ended some time ago, Vortex. " he said calmly. " Why have you borne this grudge for so long ? Why did you come to me with this elaborate ruse for smoking out your former comrade ? "

Vortex shrieked, " It was plan ! A plan that you twisted for your own filthy ends ! I should have known better that to trust the Coalition High Lords ! "

Thunderwing said in a cold tone, edged like a sword-blade: " The Foundation Party holds its own. You came to me because none of Starscream's allies would sanction your quest. You came to me because I am the only one you could turn to, the only one you could trust."

" You promised me Swindle ! " Vortex howled. " Instead, when you have him in your grasp you send him back to Andraxus! "

Thunderwing nodded. " To complete a task that is very important, not only to myself, but to the future of the Empire. Rest assured, Swindle will return. He will be yours to do with as you will."

Vortex hissed, " I'll be waiting, Thunderwing ! " and stormed out, feet clacking on the black, polished tiles of the Conference Room. The door clicked shut behind him and the High Lord was left in the darkness.

Thunderwing steepled his long, elegant fingers together. " It interests me, I suppose, Ashraker. Such single minded purpose ! Such devotion to a cause ! If only we could have steered Vortex to a more noble purpose, a higher destiny than this petty quest for vengeance ! "

" Not so petty to Vortex, my lord. For him, it is the only thing in his life which fuels him. " Ashraker whispered hollowly in his quiet, unobtrusive voice. He uncloaked, and leaned back against the far wall that rippled and shimmered like smoke.

Thunderwing idly drummed his fingers on the massive armrest of the chest. " Still, I shall be glad when this charade is over, Ashraker. I distrust mercantile filth."

Part 10

" What was all that about ? " Sting asked. " I'm utterly lost. "

" Then stay lost. " Swindle muttered.

" Where are we going now ? " Sting persisted.

" The Spires. " Swindle said coldly.

" Andraxus ? We come all the way here just to have to go back to Andraxus ? " Sting said, slowly, astonished.

" Look, you're a bright kid, but try not to stretch that brain of yours too far, okay ? You might break something. " Swindle said abruptly.

Sting sighed. " What is it we have to get on Andraxus ? "

" The Matrix. " Swindle said cheerfully.

Part 11

It went like this.

The freighter, Far Horizons, docks at Andraxus Minor.

A big, unregistered hauler, rumbles from the spaceport, carrying a load of raw ore from the strip, which has to be taken to the Mining and Processing Quarter.

On the way there, the hauler has an "accident", a faulty guidance systems glitch. It slams right into the walls of the Finance Executive, slap-bang in the middle of the Foundation Quarter. The Spires is pretty close by. Being unregistered, the hauler doesn't conform to S&T safety codes, consequently there's this big delay while Enforcement sorts out all the legal mess. Another cargo hauler, a drone hovertruck, has another disaster at the opposite end of the block. This one is trickier, it's carrying contraband soft-plastic explosives.

Yup. Those explosives.

BOOM.

There's chaos, anarchy, a lot of confusion in the city. Strangely, a lot of specialised security systems were taken out in the bizarre parade of "accidents" that quickly followed.
The Hall of Remembrance gets a lot of tourists. Everyone wants to see the statues of the fallen heroes of Andraxus. Everyone wants to see the Matrix. No one wants to touch it.

But there's a lot of confusion on the streets that day. No one really notices this little fellow saunter into the Hall, casual like, and come out again with this crackling containment field under his arm. He vanishes quickly into the Mining and Processes Quarter. Several days later, he's at this real exclusive bar near the spaceport at Andraxus Minor.

Several days later, the unregistered hauler gets released from custody. The ore he was carrying gets delivered, albeit belatedly, to the factory concerned. However, being unregistered, the hauler has to cough up big fines for every infringement Enforcement could stick on him.

You know what ? Those guys at Enforcement, they're real imaginative. Anyway, this hauler makes his way south, loses himself in the Minor. Pretty soon, he's at the spaceport.

Part 12

" What do you mean, it comes out of my percentage ? " Sting demanded, aghast. " I had to risk my life back there ! Not to mention, put up with Enforcement for ... "

Swindle snorted. " I let you handle the diversion in your own way. If you get caught by Enforcement, you have the sense to pay the fines incurred by your stay there."

" That's not fair ! " Sting whined.

Swindle shrugged. " Look, stay here and write me a bill. I have to meet with our contact at the spaceport for a little while. Man the trenches in my absence."

Sting nodded, moving off to the rear of suite, hoping to catch a decent pitfight on the media.

Swindle was walking out the door, when it struck him.

He staggered forward, his heavy bulk crashing into the door before Swindle could slip out.

He wasn't that stupid.

Neither was Enforcement. They had his records. If they had any sense, they knew who he was. And that he had a Class Seven hanging over him. Yet they'd released him from custody.

And tailed him.

Back here.

And Swindle had been just about to leave him.

" You stop right now ... " he hissed. " 'Partner' ... "

" I gotta run Sting, talk business. We'll chat later."

" There won't be a 'later.'" he snapped coldly.

" Not for you. " Swindle said mildly, procuring a small stun weapon from subspace. Stun. By the time he'd come 'round he'd be up to his optics in Enforcement goons.

" Wait ! " he screamed, hands up in the air.

Swindle chuckled, aiming the small photon laser at his chest. " No hard feelings, " partner ". It's just business. You know how it is."

" You fire at me, and, and ... " he started to rattle off.

Swindle snorted. " Don't make me laugh, kid."

" Why ... " he choked off. " You want to make me take the rap, while you get off and ... "

Swindle nodded sublimely, " I hear that stealing the Matrix is a capital offence."

" There's no evidence against me. " He said, starting to panic.

Swindle nodded, " There wasn't, so I made some up."

" Why you ... "

Swindle cut loose a blaze of white fire.

Part 13

The cell was small, barely enough to hold the two of them, paved in slate-grey nonconducting materials. There were no windows or discernible exits. It was like being sealed inside the hollow innards of stone-cold cube.

Swindle sat in his corner, laying out a game of fivecut in front him. Sting crouched in one corner and brooded. Sting was angry. Sting was getting mad.

" If you hadn't ... " he began.

" Look, Sting, I'm not in the mood right now, capache ? Talk if you want. Accuse me later." Swindle said distantly.

Sting clenched his fists, his optical visor flaring pale gold in the near-darkness. He shuffled about. Kicked one leg in and out.

He'd been stunned. Twice over Swindle had played him for a fool. He'd come around once more. Only, not in the energon-splattered walls of the Enforcement interrogation chambers. In the clean, plush offices of the United Mining Corporation, controlled directly by the government of the Belt Mining Strip.

Surrounded by slate-grey Interceptors.

He'd blabbed his guts out. Fear. Reprisal.

They wanted to know where IT was.

He said he didn't know.

He said Swindle had IT.

They wanted to know were Swindle was.

He said he didn't know.

He worked it out though, Swindle had hidden IT. Swindle was trying to squeeze more credit from Thunderwing. Swindle had stepped outside the bounds of the original contract.

Bad mistake.

You didn't fuck with the High Lords.

They seemed to get bored with him. Left him alone for long periods of time. And then they'd brought Swindle in.

They wanted to know where IT was.

He said he didn't know.

He said Sting had IT.

And so it went.

Bashed, mangled, they'd been jammed in a small cell together. They'd screamed, ranted, accused. It didn't get them anywhere. Sting brooded in his corner, Swindle played card games in his. Sting wanted to talk though. He hated silence. So he asked:

" Why does Vortex hate you so much ? " He muttered quietly.

" Oh, that ... " Swindle lay down another card. " Well, its a long story ... "

" I'm not exactly pressed for time."

" Well, in the Great War, I was part of this five-mech team, see ? Special operations. Me, my boss Onslaught ... Anyhow, events ... contrived to bring us together, part of this gestalt team, and ... "

" You told me your were the Second in Command. " Sting sneered. " So you're just another bit for a gestalt. Big deal."

" I was the Second in Command. " Swindle said dryly. "For a little while. "

" That is just so much scrap ... "

" Onslaught took command of the Decepticons from Straxus
in a coup. For nine days he was Decepticon Commander. For nine days I was Second. "

" And then what happened ? " Sting jeered.

" Iacon Point is what happened. You shut up while I tell this. Iacon Point, where the Carnabots first appeared with that techo-virus of theirs. They decimated everyone.

" Anyhow, the gestalt we all merged to form, Bruticus, was needed to hold the pass while the bulk of the army retreated back into the Glass Plains. I'd seen what the Carnabots did. To go off down there, to face 'em would have been suicide. To cut a long story short, Carnavorus was bearing down on us. Sheesh, that thing was bigger than Trypticon. He blasted our station, covered us in rubble. I took advantage of the situation to escape. It was what anyone would have done. Any one who had sense, that is."

Sting beckoned. " Go on."

" I let them die ... " Swindle muttered. " Cut a deal with the Autobots. Onslaught swore he'd come after me ... "

" Did he ? " Sting asked.

" I went back after the battle, looking for parts I could sell, to get away ... Everyone I knew was gone ... I looked all over for Onslaught but I never found any sign of his remains. "

" He'd be dead then. " Sting finished reasonably. "Nothing to worry about. "

" Yeah ? Well no one ever saw him again. But there were stories, of how he didn't die ... and then people started to see him everywhere, and they'd tell of how he'd show up at the last moment of a battle to turn the tide, sort of like the ghost commander, always there. And there were all these soldiers shot with death-wounds, and yet they'd come crawling back into base and just as they were about to give up and self-terminate, they'd see this massive figure in the distance ... Onslaught, I tell ya .. "

" You're full of scrap. " Sting growled

" Yeah ? I wish I was, kid. But Onslaught's ghost has been following me around like a homing missile. Just when I think I've left all the rubbish behind me, something happens, and this 'apparition' appears. "

Sting felt that they had moved off the subject. " What about Vortex ? "

" Him ? He was on the team as well. An interrogator. Blast Off was there, a transport, and Brawl, he just blew things up. Hmm, what happened to them ? Blast Off fell at Iacon, I think. Brawl and Vortex made it to Andraxus. Brawl died in one of those pit fights, a while back. Vortex hooked up with Enforcement. " Swindle snorted. " Enforcement is full of ex-War jerks like him. Hmm, I had to get the Autos off my back. You'd understand. And Vortex was wanted for certain "crimes" ... such as gutting Rodimus' pal Springer over a slow fire and then dropping the tapes of the "interrogation" down over AHQ. So, me and the Autos, we came to an understanding. We made a deal."

Sting snorted. " You sold Vortex to the Autobots as a POW in exchange for your life ? "

" Plus a week's worth of supplies, five grand of credits and a safe escort to the border. " Swindle grinned ruefully.

Part 14

" We're gonna die in here ... " Sting moaned, rocking back and forth.

" Nonsense. " Swindle said cheerfully. " They'll release us in exactly two hours from now, with a formal apology."

Sting glared. Sting glowered.

" Even if they do there's that mess you set me up with ..."

Swindle waved a hand. " I can have all that stuff removed. If I want. " He leaned back nonchalantly against the wall.

Sting was about to move forwards and lock his fingers firmly around Swindle's neck when the far wall flickered and a slice of light appeared. The dim figure of a guard could be dimly seen.

" You, Lowlight. " It hissed. " We'll see you now ..."

" Later, Swindle." Sting remarked doubtfully.

Swindle casually sauntered passed him, out of the room. Sting ground his hands against the matt-surface of the floor. Things were getting worse, and worse and ...

Swindle returned a few hours later, sat back in his corner and began shuffling the fivecut deck cards with earnest.

" Well ? " Sting spat out, almost screeching.

" Good news, Sting. " Swindle remarked casually. "They've taken that Seventh Class off your head. "

Sting let out a sigh of relief. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was a Seventh Class Termination Order.

" It's now First Class. " Swindle observed.

" You piece of SCRAP ! " Sting screamed. " How could you
do this to me ???!! "

Swindle shrugged. " Business, I guess. I am good with records. I gave you a nice history of previous offences. Plus, don't forget, you stole the Matrix. Not me."

Swindle smirked.

Sting clenched his fists together. He sagged back against the wall. Drained.

" Why, Swindle ? " He asked rather hopelessly. First Class ? He didn't even have a future. It was gone in a holocaust of smoke and flames. He tightened his fists. If he was going to be terminated, he would make sure that Swindle would go with him, one way or another. Talk to him first, his instincts whispered. Get him relaxed and then hit 'im ! Sting started to get to his feet.

The wall flickered. The slice of light cut the far corners of the cell. A dim figure appeared throw the haze dazzling Sting's optics.

" Move it you two. Up on your feet. "

Sting sighed inwardly.

Part 15

" Why did they let us go ? " Sting whined.

" Because they're dumb cops. And dumb cops always think the same way. They think we've stolen something, and then kept us locked up for a bit, run us through the grinder so that we'll dance to their tune. Soon as they release us, they think we'll be so scared we'll be running off to get the goods we've stashed in some place. So they can tail us. "

Sting sighed. " So where are we going now ? "

" To get the thing they want."

" Isn't that playing right into their hands ? "

" Yup. " Swindle said cheerfully.

" Do you know what you doing ? " Sting demanded.

" Nope. Shut up for while, eh kid ? You've caused a nasty
ring in my audio-receptors ..."

Part 16

They were moving quickly through the backstreets of Andraxus, cutting towards the Minor through under-pipes and crossways. Once, they stopped to load up Sting with half a cargo full of specialised explosives (yup, those explosives), and then headed out on the main road, and then ducked into the streets again. After a short-lived reign of arson, as Swindle quickly detonated key sites, as the crowd screamed around them, pushing past to escape the conflagration, as mortar and rubble showered down everywhere, Swindle announced that he thought they'd caused enough of a mess to shake off Thunderwing's goons. Operatives were at work, sowing to the chaos. It was, as Swindle announced proudly, a royal mess. Oh, and he'd picked IT up earlier, so stop worrying about it. Where ? You should have been watching for it. Time to head towards one of the 'ports, time to ...

And then they heard a noise in the far distance. A heavy, chiming throb, the beating of rotors in the chill air. It was a sound Sting had heard all his life in Andraxus Minor, a sound of numb fear, a sound that urged all to hide in their safe, snug burrows and wait out in silence the coming executions.

" Enforcement ... " he muttered, watching the jetcopter streak towards them. Not now, not when they were so close.

Swindle cursed. " Even worse ... "

" I can't go any faster ... " he snapped.

" Drop the cargo. " Swindle ordered.

" Got the containment chamber ? "

Swindle nodded. " I'm going to pass it to you. It's me he wants. I'll lose him. Meet me at that dive you frequent ..."

" Swindle, I .."

Swindle transformed into a light hoverjet and gunned forward, his rear-mounted engines quiet and powerful. He streaked ahead, a pale blur.

But the black thunder rolled over the horizon. The jetcopter slipped forward, light flashed, and Sting screamed ...

He stumbled about in a groggy haze of pain. He'd transformed, and was lumbering about aimlessly, whips cutting and cracking into his back. He clutched the containment field to his chest, knowing that it was IMPORTANT and that he couldn't let go. Had to grasp it, hold it, keep it ...

He dropped to the ground, hands over the shielded cube, cradling it to him as he struggled to crawl away anywhere, somewhere, it didn't matter.

" Remember me ? " shrieked a high-pitched voice. " I bet you do, Sting."

" No ... " he sobbed through his shattered faceplate. "Leave me alone ... "

" I've come to collect, weasel ! " Vortex crowed.

Again and again the bolts surged through him, his datacore a klaxon of alarms, displays, internal warnings. His unprotected inner circuitry was turning to slag as the disruptor shortcircuited vital functions, fried nanotech and prevented them from restructuring the mess inside.

Shutdown. He lay there unmoving, his visor cracked, vision flickering in and out of static. He could hear Vortex moving away from him, wasting no time as he pumped the disruptor into Swindle, again and again.

Swindle. Shit. He hadn't got away.

Sting dribbled away into oblivion, listening. It wasn't even the promised, " lengthy torture ", it was overkill. Swindle couldn't move, but he was holding out better than Sting, his expertly engineered system absorbing the disruption flows far better.
But Vortex had other toys. And it was going to be a very long night. Once, Sting groaned too loudly. Vortex hissed, and fired a final, fatal shot from his disruptor.

Sting screamed.

No !

The disruptor had shorted out the containment field ! No, he begged, as he crashed into the slick black cube.

Not like this.

Sting died, coughing up fuel.

Part 17

And then he woke up again. He couldn't move, but he could hear. This surprised him. Final shutdown was irrevocable.

But he could hear something in the background.

Hideous snappings and crackings. Sizzling hisses. Whining
bit-toothed drills. Long, shuddering squeals as clamps bit into metal. A continual clinkclinkclink, taptaptap. Juddering crunches. A heavy clack now and then.

Sometimes a high, lost voice, drifting on the wind, in and out of tone, lost in old dreams of the past, a world long dead. " That was for Blast Off. That for Brawl. That was for Onslaught. And this is for Vortex ... I waited for this moment, for years and years, pity it never came until now, don't you think ? I would have been sated much sooner. Far sooner. Ohh, do you like these colours ? Very nice, shimmering and sparkly, the colour of your innards as I gut them, rip them, hang them. The cool, dribbling of the energon cord as I cut it here and here. Huahuaha ! Watch it as it all spills out, over me and you, and our mutual friend here ! Clip-Clip, come, meet the one I promised you so long ago, on the plain of red dust, where we worked. Clip-Clip goes Clap-Clap. Huahuha ! I see the sun when it goes down to die, Clop-Clop ... "

Sting winced, Shut up ! he screamed inside his head. He clenched his fingers and managed to roll onto his feet.

He saw Vortex, crouched like a gibbering scavenger-ape over Swindle's prone body which had been pared open and small, devious tools littered the place.

" Leave him alone ... " Sting said hoarsely.

Vortex said nothing. He was on another world, somewhere, inside the twisted maze of his own head. Sting savagely leaned forward and burned him, kicking the felled bodyshell as he leaned over to one side and ...

In the distance, a dark cloud of distant specks cutting towards him. A flight of jets. Interceptors. Gaining fast.

Sting got up. He stared rather stupidly at his hands. Glowing. Wow. He stared rather stupidly at the Matrix he was clutching tightly and tossed it about from hand to hand. The containment field had been shorted out, which worried him, but the Matrix was telling him that it was alright, everything would be alright, there was nothing to worry about at all. He stroked the cube lovingly, stumbling past the broken chunks of Swindle and Vortex. He wondered what he was supposed to do. He wanted nothing more than to sit down and stare into the ebon depths of the Matrix, but the fleet of Interceptors baring down on him could prove a problem. He decided to walk away then. Maybe they would go away. Oh dear. They were firing at him. Heavy mortar shells, whistling missiles, flashes of laser fire. Sting cursed, noticing that the damage ripped into his shredded bodyshell. Hmm. And then he snapped out of it ! Firing at him ? A fleet of *Interceptors ? He was going to die !

Sting panicked, and ran, stumbling, then crawling. His ANDRAX hadn't got the hang of things yet, not to cut all that firepower. Oh no, craters beneath his feet ! Rubble ! Face it, he was going to die ! To die ! Like Swindle, like Vortex. Sting screamed. He curled up in a ball, not wanting to move, hoping that it would be all over very quickly. The ground shuddered beneath him. Sting whimpered, flashing a quick look at the ground in front of him.

And then he saw the figure standing ahead of him. Untouched by the rain of plasma fire or the chunks of flying rubble or the guttering shower of sparks.

It was tall and somehow ancient. A warrior in dull-green and matt-blue armour plate, with blaring yellow optics and a mounted missile rack locked into an inaccessible position on his back that would become part of some deadly mounted launcher in his secondary mode. He held a rifle in one hand and Sting could see great pits and craters in the armour.

He had the demeanour of a general, a presence that inspired a sense of trust, of calm. Sting felt rather irrationally that if this warrior told him to leap off the top of the Lord Commander's Rise, he would do so at once.

He was pointing, to the north. Sting groped at the raw earth, dragging his shattered body northwards, for what seemed like ages and ages. The Matrix was precious to him, it was the only thing he had left now.

And then the ground fell away beneath him. The flickering image of the tall warrior vanished as if somehow it never had been. And he was falling, falling downwards, hands clasping at the air. A high-pitched whine howled out from his malfunctioning synthesiser. Sting's hands clutched at empty air.

A short time later, he awoke in the dark. Bomb-hole. They wouldn't find him here. Not if he lay low and didn't hide. He felt the Matrix, felt its slick, glittering surface, clenched it tightly. It was his. He'd never give it up, not for anything. Something worried him. Swindle, that was it. Guilt tugged at him. But he was dead ... wasn't he ? Sting stared into the black depths of the Matrix. Vaguely, he focused on glint of light in the corner ... and then he was seeing Swindle, a jumbled piece of parts spread out over the terrain. Sting rubbed at a piece of cord looping out of his chestplate. Wasn't he divinity now ? Couldn't he do anything with the Matrix in his hand ? Laughing, he rocked forwards on a tide of rising power. A wave of his hand, there was Swindle spread out in front of him. He absently kicked Vortex's head into a ditch. A wave of his hand, and a dim light appeared in Swindle's cracked optics. A wave of his hand, and he'd transformed, with Swindle loaded in his rear trailer, rumbling towards the Minor and its haven of chopshops and bodysplicers. Afterwards, he decided to celebrate in a big way.

They'd go to a bar.

Part 18

Sting was high, far higher than what he'd ever been in his life. " I'll go to Andraxus ... " he rambled dreamily. " And walk right up main steps to the Hall of Judgement. And I'll slap the Lord Commander on the back, and say, " Hey Starscream, watch out ! 'Cause Sting is here to take his place on the High Council ! And I'll be the most powerful citizen, I'll have luxury slaves serving me, I'll have S&T paying me over and over and again, and I'll .."

Swindle sighed, and toyed with his small rack of half-emptied cubes. " If you've finished ? "

Sting broke of, and sat back, staring at his companion. " What do you mean ? " he hissed, finger-servos whining beneath their moulded polymer coating, light dancing, rippling over his limbs.

Swindle tapped his fingers against his matt, tan chest plating. " You want to be a High Lord, right ? What do you know of running a whole frigging planetary macroeconomy ? What do you know of markets and trade and the stock exchanges that it takes to get a whole civilisation off the ground ?"

Sting got up, fury searing him, the pale blaze of ANDRAX fire whirling about him like motes of light, like fallen leaves. " I managed quite well on Andraxus Minor, thank-you ... " he snapped bitterly.

Swindle flashed him a weary half-smile. " Right. That was strictly small-time. The High Council is a whole new arena. You know nothing of politics, m'boy. The amount of backstabbing, deal-cutting, handshaking that goes on .. They'll bleed you dry in seven years, from whatever misbegotten chunk of rock Starscream hands to you ..."

Sting stopped, clenching his fists, stubbornly banging his fists on his battered shank-armour. " I can learn ... " he stated firmly.

Swindle drained his energon-cube and clinked it back onto its rack. " Case in point, Mindwipe. Newest High Council member, and not one of Starscream's original cohorts. So they give him Khalhyer, sucked dry of all resources, nothing going for it ... and still expect him to pay tax for a Seat with the economy of the Strip. They'll roast you alive, Sting. Can't see you, as new boy, getting any breaks."

Sting grunted and played with the butt of his assault pistol. " How'd you like a job ? As my Minister of Finance ?"

Swindle laughed. " What a joke .."

Sting grinned. " And this from the chap who claimed he could make a profit out of anything."

Swindle said thoughtfully, " You get me an official pardon and I'll think on it."

" Pardon ? " Sting asked, genuinely interested.

Swindle coughed politely. " I'm afraid, in my early days, I stepped into a spot of bother and they slapped a Second Class on me. It makes it hard for me to conduct legitimate business. There's so much bother added into it, when I have to juggle different accounts and identities ..."

" Who do you work for ? " Sting asked, suddenly intensely curious. " I mean what motivates you and stuff ?"

Swindle optics glittered, a rich purple mirth. He cut the deck and slipped the cards back into place. " Anarchy, political instability. That's who I'm working for these days. If you don't work for yourself first, then there's no point in working. Starscream, Thunderwing ... they've been at each other's throats for years. Even since the Foundation. Each wants to go one way, leaving the other to rot. Only Starscream had the Matrix, so Thunderwing was forced to tag along. Pretty soon they'll both be without the Matrix, so we'll see ... "

Swindle snorted. " Thunderwing wants to take us back to the dark ages, when all form neat little military ranks and march to his tune. Starscream wants to make everything Starscream's. A nice, organised little society run by a strong centralised government. Who, coincidently enough, were the same guys who told us what to do during the War. Nothing's bloody changed, when you get down it. See, I rock the boat, I force change, I make things happen. Without guys like me, Thunderwing and Starscream would have buried each other ages ago ..."

Sting grinned, and fiddled with his energon-tray. " I could get to like this. You work for me, High Lord Sting ... I'll not only have you cleared, but you can have a shot at running an economy and becoming the richest transformer in Andraxus."

Swindle laughed. " I already am the richest transformer in Andraxus."

Sting gestured, " So why do you play all these markets then? What not sit back retire inside your 'fortress of solitude'?"

" Because I get bored stupid, that's why. Without something to occupy me, I exist in paranormal fear of dulling my edge. I'm afraid my little neuroses make it hard for me to like a normal life. But, I've never ran a planetary economy before. It'll keep me busy for a bit." Swindle said quietly, trailing off.

" And then what ? " Sting prompted.

Swindle shrugged. " Who knows ? There'll be something else on the horizon. "

Sting grinned, and raised his energon cube high in the air. " A toast ! To Sting, High Lord of the Seat of ... "

" Whatever chunk of rock the council gives you. Probably a moon somewhere on the edges of the solar system. " Swindle drawled.

Sting waved a hand elegantly in the air. " Of a moon somewhere on the edges of the solar system. And here's to my minister of Finance ! "

They shook hands.

Sting ordered another round of drinks.

Swindle dealt himself another hand.

Part 19

And then something penetrated the very fabric of Sting's mind. It seemed to cut through to the core of his being. The closest analogy would be a radio link, a communications tap. But the link was wreathed with sentience, an almost visual, booming tone rolling out of the dark. And it spoke to him.

[Do you hear me, Sting ?]

[Uh, wow, Thunderwing ! Er, I mean Lord Thunderwing, of course, this is a great honour sir, and I, oh yeah, it wasn't me, it was Swindle who did this and ...]

[Trifle me not with your foolish prattling. I shall speak to you in your own language, in terms that you would be sure to understand. I have an 'offer' to make you. And before you blather further on, or try to extort me, I will point out that I am being generous here. At one word I could crush your foolish life. I could bind you in rock for millennia, and no one would hear you ... ah, I can guess that your thoughts are thinking that you could challenge me, my power versus yours ? Yes, both of us have been touched by the Matrix. But do not hold me in disregard. You are in your infancy, barely able to rein in the power you are dribbling everywhere over the spectrum. I have been here since the dawn of Andraxus. I have studied long, and been where your mind cannot begin to conceptualise. I would crush you like a worm beneath my heel.]

Well, Sting reflected, there's goes that option.

[What are your terms ? What do you want with me ?]

[Vortex is dead, but I have terms to uphold. His contract, if you will. I fear that you will not understand me if I speak in terms of personal honour, no, such graces would be beyond your limited comprehension. He was charged with smoking out Swindle, the only one capable of removing the Matrix from Starscream's clutching grasp. He served me well, but it cost him his life. My payment was to have given him Swindle, to be used in what ever capacity the interrogator desired.]

[But ...]

[A life for a life, Sting. That was the contract, and it behoves me to see it through. Swindle lives, by your hand, despite the will of the ill-fated Vortex. Give Swindle to me and I shall finally settle Vortex's estate.]

[Wait, you're going to kill him ?]

[Such was the contract.]

[And you won't kill me ? That's the deal ?]

[No. I will have the Matrix as well. In return, I shall 'set you up'. I believe that is the colloquial term. I shall give you profits to manage, resources to govern. I shall train you in planetary management. I shall give you units that will operate under your supervision.]

[Hey, I could go to Starscream and get the same thing off him ! What makes your offer any better, eh ? You hate each other, been hating each other for years. And what makes you think that I can't do anything on my own, eh ?]

[You are a fool, a guppy biting at a warship in its overbearing arrogance. If you 'go alone', then either Starscream or myself will ensure your termination. And if you go to Starscream, expecting alms and open arms, you will be sorely disappointed. He will have you executed on the spot.]

[You got it wrong, I've got an ANDRAX now ! Can't die, can't run out of fuel. Not now, not ever ! Pah, you ...]

[I was speaking metaphorically. There are worse fates that death. You could be sealed in stone, or chained to a null-tap, or be networked into the Well, and become a mute ghost dealing with facades and hollow echoes of reality. You would go mad, you would cease to be an effective threat.]

[You hate Starscream ! Of course you're going to crap on to me, say he's going to give me the short end of the stick ! Why should I trust you ?"]

[Because you must. I could tell you about the pits Starscream fills with failed rivals, of the caverns full of compacted bodies. I could tell you stories that would stun even you with there vileness and foul disrespect for other life. ... He is obsessed with this loathsome city, he will do nothing that endangers or compromises it. He will despise you, as he cannot control you. He will loathe you, as you have endangered the pathetic shell of what he holds most dear. Oh, yes, he would welcome you ... and the minute you relaxed your guard he would have you silenced. There are many who possessed the ANDRAX; they passed the Trial of the Matrix. But they did not pass the test of Starscream. He has no dissenters in his ranks. Because the ones who did are all dead.

But I am not so callous. I need like-mined High Lords who share my visions. I need those who will support the Foundation Party in the Senate. I need your word, your trust, and I will give you mine. I can shield you from Starscream's wrath. But he will not stop to shield you from me.]

[Wait ! Let me have time to think about this, let me make
up my ..]

[It must be now. Give me your word Sting. And I will honour it.]

[Okay, but ...]

There was a sharp crackle as the line snapped apart. Radio silence. Worriedly, Sting rubbed at his cracked faceplate. He hated being put on the line like that, being forced to make a deal when he didn't know the full story ! Who could he trust ? Thunderwing ? Starscream ? Neither ?

Nervously he played with his energon tray. Gloomily, he reflected that it was too late now.

" What's the matter, kid ? " Swindle inquired, idly shuffling the cards through his fingers. " Something wrong ?"

" No, no ... " he blathered, and then realised that Swindle was too perceptive. He'd been reading him like a book. Sting covered, " Well, there is ... I'm worried about people setting onto us, I mean we can't just start up a business with all this stuff on our heads and ... "

Swindle frowned, " There is something wrong. And whatever it is, you're not telling me. Kid, there has to be trust between partners. Otherwise, it doesn't work. You're making me nervous. The deal's off. I'm booking."

Sting squeezed the Matrix between his fingers, not wanting to let it go, ever. But he'd made a choice.

And then it happened all too quickly. Grey-armoured warriors entered the room, flooding in through the three main. Differing from those who had interrogated them earlier, these ones had intricate five-pointed stars lacquered on their chestplates. Fivestrike. Thunderwing's elite guard.

Sting looked over to his associate, and made a small, apologetic gesture. " Sorry partner ... " he smirked. "Business. You know how it is.

The End