PSYCHOLOGICAL DEPENDENCE

			By Raksha

			    Part 1

	The Autobots are all over us.
	Plan was to drag this deep-space refueling station back to 
Charr, but those blasted Autobots are once again in our way -- how 
dare they?!  Feel it's their responsibility to protect all the insignificant 
life of the galaxy, and damn them, they're doing it.  There's just too 
many, they've got us pinned.  Laser fire flashing all over, seems like 
it's burning into my brain.
	I won't stand for it!  I am Galvatron, imperial ruler of the 
Decepticons, and I refuse to retreat!  If I can't have this space station, 
no one can.  I turn and fire on the fuel tanks.  Fireballs go up to all 
sides, incredible blasts of light and heat.  Beautiful!
	The entire structure of the station is crashing down around us.  
The Autobots are taking off, grabbing up stray flesh-creatures as they 
run.
	"After them!" I command.  I revel in the destruction, motion 
my Decepticons forward.
	A smoldering support beam collapses with a metal-rending 
shriek, slamming me down.  Can't get free -- flames all around me!  
"*Cyclonus!*"
	He appears instantly out of the smoke and flames, throws his 
weight against the beam, over and over, showering me with sparks 
from the impact.  It moves aside ever so slightly.  I try to pull free -- 
can't.  Heat so intense.... "Cyclonus, I'm burning up! Do something!"  I 
scream at him.
	He calls to Scourge and the Sweeps, slams himself backward 
into the beam and braces against the lurching floor.  The outer layers 
of the metal beam have turned molten and sizzle into his arms and 
shoulders.  He cries out in pain, but keeps pushing.  I feel the horrible 
weight lifting, feel the Sweeps grab me and drag me out from 
underneath.
	Through the smoke and fire, I see the last of the Autobots 
retreat out into space.  Scourge and Cyclonus drag me out the other 
way, through the nearest opening and out into the welcome cold of 
space.
	There's a small asteroid field nearby.  We land on one of the 
larger ones.  Cyclonus makes as if to examine my injuries, but I wave 
him aside.  "Look," I point out, "look at the space station!"  It explodes 
with an optic-sensor-searing burst of light and absolute silence in the 
vacuum of space.  The incredible display almost makes up for our 
failure in claiming its fuel for ourselves.  For a moment, I'm nearly 
pleased.
	"Too bad the Autobots weren't aboard when it went up," 
Cyclonus mutters.
	I remember the Autobots retreating out into space, away from 
us.  I whirl on Cyclonus.  "Autobots?!  Didn't I order you to go after 
them?"
	"Yes, but --"
	"Imbecile!  You let them escape!"  I hit him as hard as I can.  
My fist connects with his jaw in a satisfying crash of metal, sending 
him sprawling backwards.  That fool -- we would have had them!
	It takes a moment for Cyclonus to move, where he's fallen.  
Then he slowly drags himself up, keeping well back.  His eyes burn 
into the darkness, staring me down.  Don't think I've ever seen quite 
that look before, from him.  I'm somehow uneasy.  It's as though he's 
reached some kind of a momentous decision.
	Ridiculous.  Cyclonus always comes back for more, regardless 
of what I do.  Where would he be without me, after all?  I turn away, 
intent on enjoying the last smoldering embers of the space station as it 
burns itself out above us.
	"Galvatron."  Cyclonus' tone is a low, dangerous growl.  I 
turn back to look at him, curious.  Not preparing to fire on me, is he?  
That would be ... amusing.  I'd let him get in a few shots, then have 
the Sweeps hold him down so I could reduce him to a pool of molten 
metal with my fusion cannon -- very slowly.  I smile in anticipation.
	But he hasn't drawn his weapon.  "That was the last time," he 
says.  "The last time I pull you back from the edge of death, only to be 
rewarded by your own unique brand of gratitude.  No more playing 
mediator between your maniacal whims and the rest of the troops, who 
would have turned on you long ago if not for my intervention.  No 
more intercepting Autobot laser fire for you.  No more dragging you 
out of the way and taking missile hits meant for you.  Although, I 
would have done all that gladly, if you appreciated it.  But now, you'll 
have no more Cyclonus to scream at when you want to let off steam, or 
to bash around when you're angry with the universe and think that 
hitting me will make you feel better.  It's over, Galvatron.  Finished."
	His eyes are flame, his tone is ice.  Cyclonus has always been 
predictable.  This is not like him.  Why do I have that uneasy 
sensation?  Never mind.  He just needs to be put back in his place.  "Is 
there a point to this little tirade, Cyclonus?" I ask, letting each word 
drip sarcasm.  "Or are you just showing off for the Sweeps -- showing 
that every now and again you're able to stand up to your leader and 
voice a minor complaint?"
	I laugh; he is not amused.  "The point is this," he says, very 
calmly and without inflection.  "My faith in you has been misplaced.  
I'm placing it elsewhere.  I'm leaving."
	He doesn't mean it.  Never.
	He transforms into his space-fighter mode and hovers, 
prepared for takeoff.
	I taste something near to a tiny sizzle of panic in my brain.  
He means it.  "If you leave now," I scream at him, "I'll brand you a 
traitor to the Decepticon cause!  You'll never be welcome in my ranks 
again!"
	"Spare me your small favors, Galvatron.  See how well you 
get along without me."  He shoots away into space, bright flames 
jetting from his engines.
	"Without you?!" I scream after him.  "I'll be better off without 
you!  You think I need you for anything, you blundering incompetent?  
You can't even follow orders and finish off a few lousy Autobots!  
Good riddance!  I hope you crawl away and die with the dregs of the 
universe!"
	Shaking with fury, I turn on Scourge and the Sweeps.  Why is 
Scourge nodding as though he thinks Cyclonus did the right thing?  
Maybe he's next in line to get thrown out on his audial sensor -- no, 
wait.  Next in line, of course.  With Cyclonus gone, Scourge inherits 
the second-in-command rank.  Of course.  Cutthroat ambition I can 
understand.  Appreciate.  "Congratulations, Scourge, on becoming my 
new second-in-command."
	Scourge feigns amazement.  Nice touch, but false modesty is 
unbecoming a Decepticon warrior.  Unless he's not faking.  He grabs 
the Sweep closest to him, thrusts him forward.  "No, no, I'm not 
worthy of that rank," Scourge assures me quickly.  "This warrior has 
served me faithfully -- he'll be much more appropriate."
	The Sweep glares at him.  "Thanks a lot," he growls.
	Fine.  If Scourge wants to immobilize his career in a rut, let 
him.  Anyone stupid enough to pass up such an opportunity, I don't 
want as a second-in-command.
				* * *
	Back on Charr, the other Decepticons are less than pleased 
that we don't return with a space station full of fuel.  They say I 
promised them results.  I promised them nothing.  I'll feed them a few 
blasts of my fusion cannon if they don't settle down.
	My new second-in-command takes up his place beside me as I 
confront the crowd of warriors that has gathered before my fortress.
	"We need fuel, Galvatron!" shouts Motormaster from among 
the crowd.  "We're too low on energon.  If the Autobots attacked us 
now, we couldn't even defend ourselves!"
	"There are other sources of fuel."  I glare at him.  
Insubordination.  I'll remember this.
	"Translation:  he botched the plan," I hear Swindle say to his 
comrades, not even bothering to keep his voice down.
	"So what's the *new* plan, Galvatron?" Dragstrip demands.  
"At least tell us that."
	"I'll tell you my plans when I see fit to do so," I growl.  "I 
don't have to answer to underlings!  I am Galvatron, my power is 
supreme!  Now go away!"  The group mills about angrily.  "Cyclonus, 
get rid of them," I mutter, then realize my mistake.  The Sweep looks 
at me blankly.  "Well, what *is* your name?"
	"Razorwing, my lord," he says, inching backwards.
	"So get rid of them!"  I turn to enter the fortress.
	Behind me, I hear Razorwing trying to placate the crowd.  
"Look, guys, relax, okay?  Galvatron's got a plan, he's just -- yeah, he's 
just saving it for a surprise, that's all--"
	Oh, wonderful.  Maybe I should have kept Scourge as second 
after all....
				* * *
	The throne room is dark, empty.  The way I like it.  Easier to 
think.  Only the flames to both sides and slightly in front of the throne 
dance before me, casting leaping shadows on the cold metallic walls.
	Must come up with a line to feed the Decepticons -- at least 
long enough to shut them up, long enough to form a real plan.  
Cyclonus would know.
	The thought of him rouses renewed fury in me.  Damn him.  
Hope he got caught in an ion storm, a solar flare.  Hope he contracts 
cosmic rust and shrivels to pieces!  Desert me, will he?  Well, maybe 
after I've tracked down a suitable fuel source, I'll send a few Predacons 
after him and teach him a *real* lesson.  Yes!
	The thought delights me for a moment, but the clatter of 
metal from outside drifts in and distracts me.  Those idiot warriors!  
Low on fuel, and brawling to burn off even more.  Must think of 
*something*.  This is all the Autobots' fault anyway -- if they hadn't--
	Autobots!  The thought is like an electric bolt, a revelation.  
The Autobots have plenty of fuel!
	I leap up from my throne and rush through the fortress, out 
into the eternal cursed dimness that is Charr.  My warriors are actively 
engaged in a free-for-all at the gates of the fortress.  My first impulse 
is to wade in and join them, bash a few skulls.  Instead I let loose a few 
random blasts from my fusion cannon.  "Silence!" I scream at them.  
"You miserable wrecks!"  Activity ceases in a hush of dead silence.
	"Save your fighting prowess for the Autobots.  We will have 
energon.  We attack Cyberton at moonrise!"
	"Cyberton!" Scourge echoes, staring at me in open disbelief.
	A collective mutter goes up from the others.  I catch the 
phrases "lost his mind," and "totally crazy."  Some stare at me with 
undisguised hostility.
	How dare they?  This is *not* how it's supposed to go.  I am 
Galvatron, my power is everything!  Almost ... everything.  Any one of 
them I could take on alone -- but all of them together?  All at once? ... 
Maybe.
	Scourge is trying to be reasonable.  "We can't attack 
Cybertron, Galvatron.  The Autobots--"
	"Have energon!" I cut him off.  "You did say you wanted 
energon?"  I glare at the assembly.
	"But their defense systems--" Scourge begins again.
	"Are not prepared for the unexpected," I finish.  "Think of the 
element of surprise, you unimaginative clods!  The Autobots will never 
be expecting us few Decepticons to launch a direct attack on their 
strongest position!  We'll be in and out of there before they know what 
hit them!"
	They all stare at me.  The silence is deafening and 
interminable.  Why does this feel like I'm running a laser gauntlet 
without a deflector shield?  A single wrong move....  Wish Cyclonus 
were here.  He'd make them understand.  I realize I've never faced the 
Decepticons down before, without Cyclonus in the background.  
Maybe I was a bit hasty, throwing him out--
	"You know," muses Thrust, "it just might work."
	A slow ripple of agreement passes among the warriors.
	Yes!  I've got them -- they bought it!  "Decepticons, fuel up 
with what energon we have left, and prepare to attack!  Our supplies 
will soon be restored!"
				* * *
	I lead them against Cybertron.  We strike hard and fast, 
blowing out their defense shields on our first run.  Scourge leads half 
of the army to engage the Autobot sentries, while I lead the other half, 
smashing our way into the storage silos where glowing cubes of 
energon await us.  I summon anyone with any sort of cargo-carrying 
capacity -- Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Astrotrain, Vortex, Blast Off, 
Sweeps -- all of them loaded to overflowing with energon cubes.  
"Take off!" I command them, and they lumber clumsily into the air, 
ungainly with their heavy loads of fuel.
	The Autobot warriors have become wise to our presence in 
full force.  They're converging on us, trying to shoot down my 
transports.  I feel the thrill of destruction as I fire on them again and 
again, the delirious rush of carnage and desolation --*this* is what I 
live for, to crush and mangle, to rend and lacerate -- to gorge myself 
on the sweet taste of my enemies' agony, their twisted metal bodies 
shattering under my assault--!!
	Someone calls my name, as if from an immense distance 
away.  It is only some moments later that I realize it's Razorwing, that 
he's right beside me, shouting at the top of his voice.  "Galvatron, the 
transports are safe!  We must get away!"
	The Autobots surge forward like a breaking tsunami.  
Turning, I fire into a few of the broken storage silos, igniting the 
energon cubes that remain within.  I shoot up into the sky after the rest 
of my army, Razorwing close beside me.  Below us, the silos explode 
into blasts of flame and a hail of deadly, needle-sharp shrapnel.
	I ride the screams of the stricken Autobots all the way home 
to Charr.
				* * *
	So much energon -- my head spins from it.  Too much.  
Maybe I shouldn't have overenergized all that much.  But the others -- 
the others are worse off.  I lean back against the pillar at the entrance 
of the fortress and survey the evidence of the celebration, of the past 
few hours.  Most of the warriors have passed out from 
overenergization.  At best, some are semi-conscious, lying at all angles 
and in the most unlikely positions in the courtyard, draped over the 
stairs, leaning against the gate.  Some hum drunkenly to themselves 
before shutting down completely into oblivious sleep.
	Victory, delicious victory.  The floor spins under me, but I 
don't mind.  Even considering this little indulgence, we have enough 
energon cubes left to power us for weeks.  Through blurry optics I see 
the cubes stacked into an unruly pyramid just inside the courtyard.  
They give off a soft pink glow.  I let myself slip toward dormancy.  
Told you, Cyclonus.  Told you I didn't need you.
	Next thing I know, the air burns with laser fire.  I struggle up 
from unconsciousness to meet crashes and shouts -- for a moment, 
everything is hazy, in slow motion, can't be real -- but it *is* real, 
Autobots, crashing in through the gate, all lasers blazing.
	Can't move as quickly as I need to.  So dizzy.  I pull myself 
up along the pillar, try to aim my fusion cannon, but can't seem to 
stand steady, my shots go wide.
	"Decepticons, on your feet!" I command -- some trying to 
stand, some even shooting, but it's useless, the damn fools are so 
drugged up with energon that the Autobots are making off with our 
supply of cubes as easily as if they were taking it from their own silos.
	The glowing pyramid is all but gone.  "That is *my* energon, 
filthy Autobot thieves!" I scream at them, rushing toward the last of 
the cubes -- but the stairs catch my feet, sending me crashing down 
into the courtyard.  The impact sends daggers of pain through my head 
-- flashes of light explode behind my eyes, then everything goes dark.
	But I fight it.  Can't lose consciousness.  They're taking *my* 
energon!  I force myself partially up off the floor.  The fusion cannon 
on my arm feels like it's made of compacted lead.  I drag it forward, 
trying to get one of the retreating bastards into my sights ... *fire*!  
But the blast skitters along the ground, useless, hitting part of the 
mangled gate.
	"Losing your touch, Galvatron?" one of the Autobots jeers.  
"A little too much energon, maybe?"  The others laugh as they vanish 
from sight.  Laughing at me!  Of all the humiliations.... I let my head 
sink back to the ground.  Only hope none of my warriors saw that.  I 
think I'm going to be sick.
	But no time even for that.  Someone is shaking me, trying to 
pull me up.  "Galvatron, you'd better get it together!" comes the urgent 
voice of Scourge.  He and Razorwing drag me to my feet.  Still hard to 
find my balance, my head is throbbing.  I look up, and suddenly feel 
cold.
	The Decepticons are gathered before me in the courtyard.  
The sickly light of Charr's single moon glints in pale yellow off their 
plating.  Their eyes burn into the darkness with anger and accusation.  
Guns and laser swords are prominently displayed.  The menace is 
unmistakable.
	"You call yourself a leader, Galvatron," Motormaster 
rumbles.  "Of all the stupid--"  He gropes for the right words, too 
angry to find them.
	"Letting us overenergize like that," Swindle accuses, "leaving 
us as sitting targets for the Autobots!"  Good old Swindle.  Never at a 
loss for words.
	"*You're* the idiots that overenergized!" I accuse back.
	"And you didn't?" snaps Astrotrain.
	"Right!" Onslaught continues.  "It's *your* responsibility, as 
our 'leader,' to restrain our barbaric and self-detrimental impulses.  
Furthermore, leaving the remaining energon cubes in plain sight -- 
talk about inept strategy!  You might have at least forced the Autobots 
to break through several layers of defenses to steal them back."
	"Hell, even stashing 'em in the basement of the fortress 
would've been better'n leaving 'em in plain sight like that," Wildrider 
puts in.  "Kind-of makes it look like an open invitation -- you know, 
'Come and take our energon.'  Some leader."
	"*Cyclonus* would have considered that," Hook says 
pointedly.  "He'd never have let this happen.  You're out of control, 
Galvatron."
	"You ungrateful rabble!" I snarl at them.  "You wanted fuel -- 
you got fuel.  You're still not happy.  You're nothing but whiners and 
ingrates, not worthy of the name Decepticon."
	"Wrong, Galvatron," Motormaster growls.  He brandishes his 
laser sword in one hand, levels his gun at me with the other.  
"*You're* not worthy.  Not worthy to call yourself our leader!  Now 
get lost, while we're still willing to let you walk out of here in one 
piece."
	As one, the others train their weapons on me.  This is 
impossible!  Their brains must still be so fogged with energon, they've 
forgotten their proper fear of me.  "You're all crazy!" I shout at them.  
"You'll never survive without me!  I am Galvatron, my power is--"
	"Absolute, right," Swindle cuts in.  "We've heard it all before.  
Truth is, you've been more trouble for us than the Autobots!"  The 
others nod, their eyes flashing coldly.
	"Traitors!  The Autobots will run all over you, without a 
leader," I insist.
	"Some leader."  Motormaster spits the words contemptuously 
and raises his laser, ready to fire.
	"Scourge, Cyclonus -- I mean Razorwing -- take them!" I 
command hastily, ready to lead an army of two into my final battle.
	They step off to the side, away from me.  "Sorry, Galvatron," 
Scourge says.  "The others have a point.  You'd best leave while you 
still can."
	Without even that backup, what can I do?  For a split-second 
longer I stare down the eager gunbarrels of my warriors, and then 
make a dash for the sky.
				* * *


				Part 2

	It has been five weeks, as time is measured on Charr.  I have 
somehow drifted out of the populated sector of the galaxy -- nebula all 
around me, heated gases and ions pulsing in green and purple wisps.  
Some warmth in here, at least.  Was getting tired of flying through 
days of absolute zero, ice eventually forming in all my joints and 
shattering soundlessly with each movement.  That doesn't happen in 
here.  But it's still cold, like the ice has condensed into a core within 
my central circuitry and won't melt.  It's like bad melodrama -- cold, 
hungry, lost and alone.
	I'd thought of landing on the nearest inhabited world, of 
course -- gathering a few good warriors, leading them against the 
traitorous Decepticons -- but how long would they have followed me?  
How long before the same scene repeated itself?  No, better to keep 
flying, maybe I'd come across something useful.
	By the time I really started to get low on energy, I was too far 
away from any known fuel source to make it back.  So, I'm here.  
Maybe I'll drift in the nebula until -- until -- what is that up ahead?  
Like a shadow passing over -- maybe a ship?
	I fly up through the shifting ion clouds and dust particles 
until I'm above the plane of the nebula.  It rolls like wind-lashed 
clouds below me, lights flashing through.  Just ahead -- I was right!  
Not just one ship, but a small fleet.  Most look old, battered.  But well 
armed.  The smaller ones fly in a loose formation, surrounding a huge, 
hulking gunship in considerably better repair.  Instinct tells me it's a 
flagship of sorts.
	Can't take them all on, of course.  But I *must* have fuel!  
Only chance is to attack one of the small ships, one near the rear and a 
bit away from the others -- if I can drag it into the nebula and dispatch 
the crew, I can drink from the fuel tanks and vanish while the others 
are still searching the gas clouds.
	No margin of error here.  The maneuver will burn up all of 
my remaining fuel.
	I've targeted one of the smaller ships.  I don't think they know 
I'm here.  I shoot forward, raising my fusion cannon, ready to blast out 
the guidance systems and disable the vessel -- but I never get the 
chance to fire.
	Suddenly I'm tangled in a web of light!  Strands of pure 
energy bind me, and I fight them, kicking and struggling, but no use.  
Cannon won't fire -- I'm being dragged toward the flagship.  A hatch 
opens and I'm pulled in, drifting in darkness, still tangled.  The hatch 
closes, shutting off the outside light of the nebula.  Recompression -- 
light and gravity turn on, I'm dropped unceremoniously to the floor of 
a small, empty docking bay.  "Who's responsible for this?!" I demand.  
"Show yourself!  When I get my hands on you--!"
	A hatch slides back on an inside wall, two creatures enter.  
Organics, in pseudo-military dress, half my size.  Blasted energy net!  
Must break the strands -- can barely move!  "Release me this instant," 
I snarl at the organics.  "Release me or die a tormented death!"
	They look at me, at each other, back at me.  "Hey, look at 
this," one exclaims, reaching through the energy strands as though 
they weren't there.  He tugs at my fusion cannon.  "Slike, help me with 
this, will you?  I know a couple of Ferengi free traders who'd pay top 
credits for a weapon like that."
	"Touch my cannon and I will obliterate you!"  Trying to fight 
the net.  Each movement draws it tighter.  The organics detach the 
fusion cannon from my arm -- it takes both of them to lift it and lean it 
against the nearest wall.  "Pathetic weaklings!" I snarl.  "I'll vaporize 
you!"
	The one called Slike touches the receiver in his helmet, 
speaks into a small microphone.  "Yes sir.  Yes, we understand."  
Turns to the other.  "Sorry, Stardance -- we don't get to throw him into 
recycling for spare parts after all.  The boss wants to see him."
	"Waste of good materials," Stardance sighs, pulling out a 
control box with buttons and levers.  "Oh well. On your feet, robot."
	"I am Galvatron!  Supreme commander of the Decepticons!  
No one tells me what to -- *What*??"  The net is contouring itself to 
my body, moving my muscle cables against my will, making me stand 
and walk ahead of the two organics into the open door-hatch.
	"Did he say Decepticons?" says Stardance, daring to control 
my movements with his levers.
	"Maybe that explains it," says Slike in a bored tone.  "But 
who knows?  We may get him for spare parts in the end, after all."
	I try to fight every step, try to throw my weight backward 
against the relentless forward motion.  I'm not even slowing down.  
"You will all suffer for this!  I'll tear apart your whole armada!"
	They're not impressed.  We pass through vast corridors, 
sealed hatches and other passages leading off to both sides.  Realize I 
have been too busy fighting the net to have paid attention to directions, 
to the way back.  Surely this damn net is going to run out of power any 
second...?
	We stop before a huge doorway that slides up to reveal a dim 
chamber.  Stairs inlaid with blue fluorescent strip-lights lead up to a 
platform carrying a throne or command chair, its back to us, facing the 
wall behind it.  That wall is made up entirely of viewscreens -- must be 
two dozen or more, some dark, most showing some interior view of 
this, or maybe the other, ships.  One shows the cargo bay where I was 
brought in, my fusion cannon still lying against one wall.
	The net moves me forward and brings me to a stop at the base 
of the stairs.  Lousy organics stop behind me, snap to attention and 
hold a salute.  "We brought him in, sir," Slike says respectfully.  "Like 
you wanted. But he strikes me as a bit of a lunatic, sir, if you want my 
opinion.  I don't think he could be of much use--"
	With a mechanical "whirrrr," the throne swivels around to 
face us.  Cyclonus!  Its occupant is Cyclonus, I can't believe it -- ! -- 
can't believe I'm almost glad to see him.
	"I neither asked for your opinion, nor paid you to think," 
Cyclonus says to the organic.  "Now leave us."
	Stardance regards me dubiously.  "You sure?"
	"Out!" Cyclonus thunders.  They scurry away, hatch slides 
shut behind them.
	It takes me only a moment to get over my surprise.  
"Cyclonus, release me at once, or suffer the consequences!"
	"Of course."  He smiles fractionally, touches a button on one 
armrest of the throne.  The net dissolves away from me.
	"Now I'm going to tear you apart!"  I leap up the stairs, eager 
to get my hands around his throat -- but something slams me back, 
halfway up -- a bright clash of light and a physical impact that felt like 
a jolt of electricity.  Invisible force shield.
	Too low on fuel to try again.  I pick myself up at the base of 
the stairs, glare at him.  Notice he's got his laser gun resting on one of 
the broad armrests of the throne, and a tray of small energon cubes on 
the other.  About now, I'd trade him my fusion cannon for that tray of 
energon -- if I still had it.
	"Now that you've gotten that out of your system, "Cyclonus 
says, "perhaps we can talk reasonably.  I'm curious -- how long did it 
take for the Decepticons to throw you out?"
	"They didn't," I snarl at him.  "I *left*.  I refused to work 
with such blundering idiots any longer."
	"I see.  And you hope to find warriors of greater intellect out 
here in the nebula."  He offers me the slightest of superior smiles, sips 
absently at an energon cube.
	"Look, Cyclonus.  Maybe we can discuss this over dinner?"
	He watches me silently for interminable moments.  I'm 
starving, and damn him, he's enjoying my discomfort.  "Alright," he 
agrees finally.  "If you behave yourself."
	"Yeah.  Sure."
	He picks up his laser and comes down the stairs, the force 
shield letting him through with the slightest of electronic crackles.  
"Through here," he says, motioning me toward another door-panel in 
the wall, which slides back to reveal a storage room piled floor-to-
ceiling with energon cubes of all sizes and colors.  I can only stare at 
him.  "How did you---?--where did you--?--oh, never mind."  I plunge 
in, greedily drinking up energon. Never had such good energon.  But I 
remember what happened the last time I had too much -- this time, I 
drink only what I need, no more.
	Cyclonus has followed me in, and watches me, leaning 
casually against the inner wall.  Seems relaxed, but I know that type of 
relaxed -- the raised laser means he's alert and ready.  Could move and 
fire in a split instant if he had to.  That's what made him such a good 
second-in-command.
	Finished refueling, I turn to him.  Feel like being generous 
now.  It *was* good energon.  "Cyclonus, I forgive you.  I'll take you 
back into the ranks.  Now let's get started and leave for Charr before 
the others descend into total disarray without their leader."
	For a moment he stares at me in amazement, then bursts out 
laughing.  "*You* forgive *me*?" he splutters. "*You*??  Galvatron 
you really -- you really *believe* your own propaganda, don't you?"  
He shakes his head, still laughing.
	"What do you mean?" I demand.  If he doesn't stop laughing 
at me, I'll stuff his mouth with my fist.
	He's suddenly dead serious.  "I'm not going back," he says.  
"Remember what you said about the dregs of the universe?  Well, I 
own them now.  This fleet -- the Star Raiders.  Mostly space pirates, 
but they haul contraband also -- even an occasional legitimate 
transport.  I ran into them shortly after I freed myself from your 
clutches, and thought I might like to spend a piece of my life in control 
of such an outfit."  He tilts his laser into plainer view.  "Amazing, how 
a little superior firepower can win you instant acceptance.  That is 
probably the one useful thing I learned from you.  Too bad you never 
learned how to *maintain* your underlings' respect.  No, Galvatron.  
You've got nothing more to offer me back on Charr."
	Can't believe I'm hearing this.  He should jump at the chance.  
Be grateful.  I don't understand.  "But Cyclonus, you're not a space 
pirate!  You're a warrior!  You'll waste away and die for lack of 
action."
	"We see our share of action," he counters.  "I've used 
Decepticon technology to improve the weaponry and defensive systems 
of the fleet, allowing us to attack larger and more dangerous targets.  
You're welcome to stick around and see for yourself."
	Is it my imagination, or is Cyclonus offering me room and 
board?  I certainly can't go back to Charr.
	"You'd have to earn your keep, of course," Cyclonus adds.
	I glare at him suspiciously.  "What do you mean by that?"
	"Hold down a job.  Occupy some kind of a useful position."
	"Work for you?  Are you *crazy*?  -- What kind of job?"
	He regards me thoughtfully.  "Well, something appropriate.  
Something you'd be good at.  You were once my leader, after all.  I'd 
say ... we need a decent gunner on the flagship.  Weapons officer, if 
that suits you better.  But remember, *I'm* the leader here.  And you'd 
have to control your irrational outbursts of temper.  I don't like 
disorder on my ships."
	"You're insane, I won't stand for this!  Only Galvatron leads!  
Do you hear me?"
	He shrugs.  "Suit yourself.  You're free to leave, of course.  
I'm even willing to drop you off at the nearest inhabited planet -- you 
could melt down a few natives, carve up a few continents -- whatever.  
If nothing else, you got a free meal out of me."  He turns to leave.
	The bit about the inhabited planet sounds almost tempting.  
But the thought of being cast adrift again, in that vast, cold, empty 
universe.... I catch myself shivering.  Not that I need companionship 
or acceptance or any such nonsense.  I need nothing from anyone.  But 
... maybe Cyclonus needs me.  Of course.  He can't get along without 
me, that's it.  I call him back.  "Wait, Cyclonus.  I think you need a 
decent gunner for the flagship."
				* * *
	Sometime later Cyclonus shows me to the bridge.  It's 
sparsely furnished and utilitarian, with a raised command chair in the 
center, two console positions in front, and several computer stations 
ringing the perimeter in the background.  Huge forward viewscreen 
shows the slow passage of stars at the fringe of the nebula.
	Only two other creatures on the bridge as we enter.  One 
relinquishes the command chair to Cyclonus and takes up a position to 
one side.  He was once apparently a pure organic -- now, the right half 
of his body consists of machinery: half of the face along with one 
round, gleaming optic sensor, one metal leg, one metal arm tipped not 
in a hand but a circular sawblade.  A heavy chain is looped over his 
organic shoulder.  A jagged crest of black hair leans erratically over 
the metal half of his head.  He reaches barely to Cyclonus' shoulder in 
height, but is a bulky, powerful-looking thing, for an organic.
	The other creature is a female, seated at the left forward 
console.  Neon-pink swaths of hair are loosely held back by a dagger 
and sheath serving as a clasp.  Big, bright-purple eyes watch my 
approach -- must be artificially enhanced.  Her clothing is strategically 
tattered, in a way that almost reveals those sections of the body that 
organics, I suppose, find seductive -- but in contrast, between layers of 
spiked belts and colored material, I see the glint of concealed 
weaponry.
	Cyclonus indicates the empty console next to her.  "Here's 
your weapons station," he says.  "I think you'll find everything 
reasonably familiar."
	I sit down, try it out.  Not too bad.  Cyclonus stands beside 
me, as though awaiting something.  "If you expect me to say 'yes sir' 
and 'no sir' to your every utterance, you can wait forever," I snap.
	"I was waiting to see if you had any questions about the 
controls," he says.  "I did make a few -- improvements."
	"Nothing I can't handle."
	He nods, takes to the command chair behind me.
	"So who's the new recruit?" comes the gravelly voice of the 
male organic lounging indolently against the side of the command 
chair.
	"His name's Galvatron," Cyclonus tells him.  "He may require 
a period of adjustment."
	"Adjustment?" rasps the organic.  "Why bother with that?  
Cut him up for spare parts, I say."  I hear the whirr of the sawblade as 
he lets it rotate once at the end of his arm.
	I swivel my chair to keep him in sight -- wish I had my fusion 
cannon, I'd show him some spare parts!  Cyclonus glares at him.  
"Scrounger, I will make the decisions here," he says.  "Now get back to 
your computer station and see that we stay on course."
	Scrounger gives a grunt of assent, moves off to one of the 
empty computer stations behind us.  I turn back to my console, 
studying it.  Everything does look familiar, the usual lasers, torpedoes, 
shields and ion blasts -- all except a few controls in the upper right 
corner.  Wonder what they're for.
	"So you're Galvatron, eh?" says the female beside me, giving 
me an appraising look.  "Glad we finally found us a gunner.  I had to 
do double duty now and again, I did."  She thrusts out a hand at me.  
"I'm Toxicaria.  I fly this rig.  Navigator, you know?  My friends call 
me Toxic."
	I look at her hand, the neon-pink talons of fingernails.
	"Righto," she says, pulling it back.  "You robot-types don't 
shake hands, I gather."
	Not with organics.
	She adjusts a few controls, continues, "Now where have I 
heard your name before?  Don't tell me, now, let me guess -- 
Galvatron, Galvatron ... got it!"  She stares at me with her bright 
purple eyes.  "You used to be a big-shot among the Decepticons, didn't 
you?"
	Used to be?  I can't help but wince.  How quickly one becomes 
a used-to-be.  I *don't* have to stand for this.  Feel rage creeping up 
inside me again.  Turn to glare at Cyclonus.  What have you saddled 
me with?  He's watching with an amused expression.  "You'll get used 
to her," he assures me.
	Damn creature is still at it.  "Wait a minute -- 
*Decepticons*!" she exclaims.  "Cyclonus -- that's what you are!"
	"Yes, that's what I am," he says in a tolerant, almost bored 
tone.
	"So you guys--" she points at me, at him, back to me.  "You 
guys are like old friends, reunited?"
	"Something like that," Cyclonus says in the same tone, 
watching me closely.
	She grins at me.  "What a coincidence, don't you think, that 
we ran into you all the way out here, don't you think?"
	I clench my fists to keep from reaching over and throttling 
her.  "Toxicaria," I say, very quietly, very calmly.
	She wags a finger at me.  "Toxic -- remember?"
	"Yes.  Toxic.  Now will you do me a minor favor?"
	"I suppose," she shrugs.  "Depending on what it is, of course, 
because you never know how minor favors can grow into--"
	"SHUT UP!!" I scream at her.
	She cringes away from me, giving me a look of utter surprise, 
then busies herself hastily at her console.
	Cyclonus chuckles.  "Well, you passed the test, Galvatron.  
You didn't stand up and start dismantling the bridge.  Now enough 
chatter!  Toxic, keep us on course."
	"Righto, luv," she mutters, giving me a wary sidelong look.
	Luv?  This is his idea of discipline and order?  Ha!
	Not much for me to do at the moment.  I drum my fingers 
along the console, stare out into space, then back around the bridge.  
Scrounger steps back up on the platform and takes up his position 
beside Cyclonus, leaning against the command chair.  "Long distance 
scanners should be making contact any minute now," he says.  "We'd 
have reached the transports already, but we lost some time picking up 
Scrapmetal here."  He gestures at me with contempt.
	I stare back with equal contempt.  Would love to send a 
fusion blast through his skull.
	A few more crew members enter the bridge, take up positions 
along the computers.  From what I've seen, Cyclonus' Star Raiders are 
made up of all sorts, ranging from ratty space pirates like Toxic and 
Scrounger through polished paramilitary types like Slike and 
Stardance -- with every imaginable shading in between.  The one thing 
they have in common is greed -- a virtue, to be sure, but this is still no 
place for a Decepticon warrior.  What use could Cyclonus have, for 
instance, for gold loot?  That soft and useless metal isn't good for 
anything, and yet, to hear the Star Raiders talk, it's one of the fleet's 
most eagerly sought prizes.
	I hate this sitting around.  I long for action, destruction!
	"Long-range sensor contact, Cyclonus," rasps Scrounger, 
back at his computer post.
	"On screen," Cyclonus commands.  The starfield is replaced 
by a computer image of three bulky transport ships, and our fleet in the 
distance, moving to intercept.
	"Visual contact in four minutes," Scrounger announces.  
"*They'll* see *us*, too, unless we start scrambling their optics."
	"I'm aware of that, Scrounger."  Cyclonus watches the screen 
calmly for perhaps half a minute longer.  "Alright.  Galvatron, start 
jamming all their sensors.  Long and short-range scanners, visual, 
radio -- everything.  Feed them static."
	How?  I stare blankly at my controls.  Must be one of these 
buttons in the upper right.
	"No, not that one!" hisses Toxic, reaching across in front of 
me and flipping up a pair of switches.
	To her contemptuous look I reply, "I was *going* for those."
	"Keep watch on our fuel-levels," Cyclonus tells Scrounger.  
"You know how the scrambler system burns energy."
	"Almost in range, Cyclonus," Toxic announces.
	He touches a control along the armrest, opening a channel to 
his other ships.  "Star Raiders, this is Cyclonus," he says.  "Attack 
plan has been fed into your computers -- activate the sequence now.  
Do not alter course unless I so order.  Cyclonus out."
	"That's it?  That's all you're going to say to them?" I demand.  
"That's not the way to wring performance out of underlings!  
Cyclonus, you've got to elaborate on the rewards of success, and 
especially, on the consequences of failure!  I *knew* you couldn't do 
this on your own.  I'll handle the attack for you."   I start to rise from 
my place, find Scrounger suddenly beside Cyclonus, aiming a shrapnel 
blaster at me.
	"You'll do no such thing," Cyclonus says.  His eyes flash 
warning.  "I see no reason to waste time and effort elaborating rewards 
that these pirates already know of -- nor carrying on about the price of 
failure, which is more effective if left ominously unspoken.  All your 
ranting and raving about punishments you couldn't fully carry out 
anyway, is not nearly as effective as a single public execution for 
willful incompetence."
	"Yeah," Toxic whispers to me, "that's what happened to our 
last gunner!  Better sit down if you know what's good for you."
	Reluctantly, I withdraw back to my console.
	"Excellent decision," Cyclonus says.  "Now watch, Galvatron, 
and see how advance planning and strategy is superior to manic, 
uncontrolled attack."
	The screen still shows the computer graphics, tracing our 
ships as they slowly draw a snare around the three transports.
	"You've got a gaping hole in your circle," I point out with 
malicious pleasure. "Those ships will duck right down into the 
nebula."
	"Yes -- I'm counting on it," Cyclonus says.  "If you'd paid 
attention, you would see that the screen display shows less than half of 
our fleet.  Now turn off the scrambler system.  Let them know we're 
here."
	I flip those two switches back down.
	"Screen on visual," Cyclonus commands.  The bright graphics 
are replaced by the bulk of the transports, drifting before the black 
expanse of space and the churning nebula below.
	"Shields up, Galvatron!"
	Right.  I know what *those* controls look like, at least.
	"Transports preparing to fire, sir," one of the paramilitary 
types in the back announces.
	"Disable their weaponry," Cyclonus says.  "But keep 
structural damage to a minimum, and don't hit the fuel tanks."
	I have a brief vision of the space station flashing into flame 
all around me.  Was that really only a few weeks ago?  Seems like 
lifetimes.
	Photon blasts from the transports bounce harmlessly off our 
shields, rocking the ship ever so slightly.
	I power up a narrow, intense laser beam, locking it onto the 
gun turrets of the nearest ship.  *Fire*!!  I can almost feel the surge of 
the beam as it slices out at my touch.  This is delicious, the controls 
respond to my slightest whim.  Explosions flower against the hull of 
the transport as their gun turrets shatter.  Quickly I shift my aim and 
take out the weaponry on the other two.  No other aspects of the ships 
have been damaged.
	"Not bad," Toxic says appreciatively.
	Disarmed, the transports flee, dropping down through the 
obvious gap Cyclonus has left for them.  They plunge toward the 
nebula.
	"You'll lose them, you idiot!"  Knew I should've handled this.  
Never send a second-in-command to do a leader's job.
	Scrounger growls at me, but Cyclonus is unconcerned by my 
insult.  "Just watch," he says.
	The transports have almost reached the nebula, our fleet 
moving in behind.  Suddenly, more of our ships shoot up out of the 
nebula, right toward the transports.  Between them is strung a glowing 
energy net, a vastly larger version of that which captured me.  In 
moments, the three ships are wrapped immobile in glowing strands.
	"Okay, fine," I growl.  "Clever and elegant and all that.  But 
why not just blast out their engines and be done with it?"
	"We need their engines," Cyclonus explains, "to say nothing 
of their fuel.  Most of my fleet consists of old ships that have survived 
countless battles, and we need all the spare parts we can get.  I doubt 
there are any captured replacements that wouldn't fit a ship 
*somewhere* in this fleet."
	Toxic grins.  "Cyclonus is putting us back together again, he 
is.  The former boss -- why, he just let everything fall apart."
	"Care to come examine the loot, Galvatron?" Cyclonus offers.
				* * *
	That first shipment was full of quadrilithium crystals -- the 
best known channels for focusing and conducting power, be it through 
our faster-than-light engines, or in the most intense of laser beams.  In 
the last two weeks we have intercepted two other transport convoys, 
one carrying computer chips, the other, precious jewels.  In each case, 
Cyclonus' mode of attack has been carefully planned and precise, with 
every option accounted for -- if lacking the vital thrill that comes from 
plunging into the unknown, skirting the edge of danger.
	He keeps his crew carefully in line, allowing only so much 
celebration after each victory, and no more.  When I think of the 
disastrous consequences of the victory celebration back on Charr, I 
guess I can agree with that policy.  What drives me crazy is the 
damned inactivity between bouts of action, when I have to sit at my 
console and listen to Toxic's incessant chatter ("*Shut up*!" doesn't 
shut her up anymore), or trade menacing glares with Scrounger.  I'd 
*really* like to take apart Scrounger.  I'd really like to take apart just 
about anything by now.  Been too long since I've really torn into 
something, smashed up an Autobot or a recalcitrant Sweep or 
whatever got in my way.  Would be nice if we could swoop down and 
decimate an occasional planet, but this sector of the galaxy is almost 
entirely empty.
	Wish I still had my fusion cannon.  I'm told the two glitches 
who captured me sold it to the Ferengi.  Surprised I feel such a sense 
of loss about it, but then, it was part of me -- I can't even transform 
properly without it.  Feel a little bit unprotected and vulnerable 
without it, and I hate that.
	And the thought of Cyclonus in command.  Every day it gets 
harder, not easier, to accept.  Every time he tells me to do something, I 
have to struggle to keep from screaming at him, how dare he tell me 
what to do, I am Galvatron, the commander and destroyer...!  Not that 
his orders are ever unreasonable, I'll admit that.  But just the very idea 
... I don't think I can live with it much longer.
	It's very late, by ship's time.  Some hours past midnight.  
Cyclonus has assigned me reasonably comfortable quarters, I should be 
dormant.  Can't sleep.  Too agitated, too frustrated, living this way.  
Think I'll go have it out with him once and for all.  This can't go on.
	I leave my rooms, navigate through the huge, dim corridors of 
the flagship.  Cyclonus' private quarters are toward the forward 
section.  I reach the sliding entrance, finally.  Never mind the door 
buzzer.  I pound on the metal with my fist.
	After some moments, the entrance slides back.  "Galvatron, 
what do you want, at this hour?" Cyclonus asks.
	I push past him into the room.  What, no Scrounger lurking 
in the shadows?  No self-appointed bodyguard leaning against the 
furniture?  Dim inlaid lights along the walls.  One wall faces forward 
in the direction of the ship's flight -- it's entirely transparent starting 
from the floor up and arcing over into the gently curved portion of the 
ceiling.  Showing the stars.  Remote galaxies and nebulae spiral in the 
distance.  The ice-cold crystalline void of space.
	My annoyance cools somewhat.  "Quite a view."
	"Yes, I rather like it," Cyclonus says, coming up beside me.  
We watch the forward motion of the ship in silence for a few 
moments, as shown by the slow disappearance of stars along the edges 
of the transparency, with new ones becoming obvious in the distance.
	"Alright, Galvatron," Cyclonus sighs, as though bracing 
himself for the inevitable.  "What's wrong?"
	"This whole situation is wrong," I begin, suddenly on the 
verge of explosion again.  "I can't stand this anymore!  Sitting still and 
taking orders from you.  I'm a leader, it's part of my nature -- I've got 
to be in command!"
	Cyclonus nods, as though he's been expecting this.  "I know 
that.  And you do have certain leadership qualities that I lack -- the 
ability to electrify and inspire your troops, for example.  A talent for 
snatching victory from the talons of defeat, a willingness to take risks 
and go for larger goals instead of playing it safe -- that's what I always 
admired in you and found worthy of my loyalty.  But too often you 
completely lose sight of your objective and descend into irrational fuel-
thirsty destruction.  *That* is your downfall.  You let your own 
uncontrolled impulses carry you away."
	I wait, not sure how to respond.
	Cyclonus moves toward the nearest solid wall, touches a 
panel.  "You want an energon cube?"
	"Sure."
	A small hatch slides open, pink glow coming from inside.  
Cyclonus tosses me a cube, takes one for himself.  Moves back in front 
of the starfield.  "I'd hoped you would adjust to being here," he 
continues.  "In any case, it was never my intent to keep you under 
intolerable circumstances.  I guess you'll be leaving us."
	"Leaving?"
	He smiles slightly, ironically.  "You're not a prisoner here, 
you know.  You're free to leave at any time."
	Leave.  But where would I go?  I drain my energon cube, turn 
toward the starfield.  Among all those points of light and color, there's 
not one place that wants me.
	Sparks of anger flicker back on.  I turn on Cyclonus. "I want 
you to come back to Charr with me," I demand.  "You've had your fun, 
you've played your games -- enough of this nonsense already!"
	His gaze is steady, intense.  Fearless. "I'm not going back to 
Charr."  Each word spoken slowly, deliberately.  "Go back out there 
and make your own destiny, but don't drag me into it.  I told you.  This 
is my life now."
	"Oh, I see.  So now you're throwing me out?  Fine way to 
treat your leader, even your ex-leader--!"
	"You're the one that burst in here at four o'clock in the 
morning telling me you want to leave!"
	"I never said I wanted to leave!"
	We stare each other down in front of the starfield.  Cyclonus' 
eyes flash scarlet.  Reflexively my hands ball into fists.
	The alarm siren that suddenly shrieks through the ship makes 
us both jump.  For a split instant we stand frozen, then Cyclonus 
rushes forward, I'm right behind him.  We dash out into the corridors -
- corridors so vast that Cyclonus has room to transform and shoot 
forward in space-fighter mode, though at an angle and with wings 
tilted.  Room for me to fly too.  We reach the bridge in almost no time.
	Scrounger leaps up from the command chair as soon as he 
sees Cyclonus.  "Sentinel Enforcers," he calls out, pointing to the 
screen.  "They're tracking us!"
	Cyclonus slips smoothly into the command chair, punches up 
higher magnification on screen.  I take my place at weapons, look up 
at our pursuers.  First thing that strikes me is, those ships are new.  
Sleek, fast.  All systems functioning at optimum capacity.  Not like our 
rattletrap fleet.  Ten of them could make short work of twenty-five of 
us.
	"Where did they come from?" Cyclonus demands.  "How did 
they get so close without sensors picking them up?"
	Scrounger is for once at a loss for words.  "I -- I don't know, 
Cyclonus.  They were just suddenly, well -- *there*."
	"Cloaking devices," says Toxic's night-shift replacement 
beside me at navigation.  "A more sophisticated version of our 
scrambler system.  You don't even get static.  You just don't *see* 
them."
	"They're gaining on us, Cyclonus!" Scrounger exclaims.  
"Open a channel to the others -- I say we scatter!  We've got twice as 
many ships, and they can't follow all of us at once."
	"No!"  I swivel away from my console to look at Cyclonus.  
"He's wrong, they *can* follow us all.  Each of them will pick a target 
and destroy it, then come back for those that are left.  We've got twice 
their ships, but they've got three times our speed.  We're at a huge 
disadvantage -- our only chance is to stay together."
	Cyclonus opens a channel to the others.  "Cyclonus to Star 
Raiders.  We are under attack.  Do not break formation -- repeat, do 
not break formation."  Scrounger glares at me with pure malice.  
"Galvatron, see if you can slow them down," Cyclonus tells me.  "Keep 
all possible power to the shields, and maintain top speed."
	"We can't outrun them, Cyclonus!" Scrounger protests.
	He's right.  We can't.  I aim for one of the closest followers 
and launch the rear torpedoes.  My target tilts into an evasive 
maneuver, but I guide the torpedoes and score a direct hit to their 
underbelly.  Their shields take the blast in white-hot explosions, the 
ship is undamaged.
	"Attacker's shields at 46%," one of the computer-jocks in the 
back calls out.
	Good!  They won't be able to take another hit.  I hurry to 
reload torpedoes -- but, what's this?  The cowards are dropping back, 
letting another ship with full-strength shields take their place in the 
formation.  I fire.
	"Second attacker's shields down to 54%," comes the result.
	The second ship drops back, a third takes its place.
	"First attacker's shields powering up again!" yells the startled 
computer-jock.
	Damn.  Even if we had speed, they could play this game 
forever.
	"Full power to rear shields!"  Cyclonus commands, just as 
five lances of laser light slash out at us through the darkness.  Flagship 
lurches under the metal-jarring impact.
	"Rear shields at 23%."
	"Three of our ships are breaking formation!" calls another 
voice from the background.
	With a snarl of frustration, Cyclonus punches open a channel.  
"Star Raiders, remain in formation!  *Remain in formation*!"
	Can't stand any more of this.  I leap up and grab the armrest 
of the command chair, shouldering Scrounger aside so hard that he 
goes crashing to the floor.  "Star Raiders!" I command.  "Get back in 
formation this instant or forfeit your worthless hides!  Scattering won't 
help you, you idiots, and if the Enforcers don't get you, *we* will hunt 
you down afterward and blow you to pieces!   Now do as I say!"
	"It's working!" calls the tracker in the back. "They're 
returning to formation."
	"Now," I tell Cyclonus, "we turn and attack."
	"You're crazy, Scrapmetal!" shouts Scrounger.  He has leapt 
back to his feet, his right arm raised, sawblade whirling.  "Let me 
finish him, Cyclonus!"
	"Finish me?!" I scream back at him.  "Come and try it, you 
organic glitch--"
	"Silence!  Both of you!" Cyclonus thunders furiously.  
"Scrounger, turn off the sawblade!  Galvatron, get back to your 
station!"
	"Only if you turn this fleet around and attack!  It's the last 
thing they would expect us to do!  Don't you *see*?  The element of 
surprise, Cyclonus, are you so set in your ways that you can't see it?!"
	Another combined blast of laser fire slashes into us from 
behind.  I'm slammed back against my console by the lurching floor, 
Scrounger grabs the arm of the command chair to stay standing.  The 
rear shield fails with a crackle like shattering glass.
	"Now," I tell them, "our only chance *is* to turn.  We can't 
outrun them, and the next shot will take us out.  Dammit, Cyclonus, 
turn this fleet around and defend yourself!"
	"Scrounger, take over the ship-to-ship computers." Cyclonus 
snaps.  "I want every ship in the fleet to receive automatic instructions 
to mirror what we do.  Turn this ship around and attack!"
	I'm back at my weapons console, ready to feed the enemy 
torpedoes and laser bolts.  Our smaller ships turn faster than we do, 
but they wait until the flagship is in full position, and then we move in 
as one, all weapons blazing.
	"Concentrate all fire on one enemy at a time," I tell Cyclonus, 
and he relays the instructions to the rest of the fleet.  We're taking 
heavy hits, but one of the enemies is already in bad shape....
	A blinding supernova erupts on the screen as the Enforcer 
vessel explodes into a fireball of light and destruction.  Not having 
expected a full-scale counterattack, they're so closely spaced that it 
ignites the three closest vessels, which in turn disable three more.  
Beyond that, we can't see.  The light and energy has overloaded the 
screen, it shuts itself down to blackness.  Shockwaves from the 
explosions almost threaten to tear us to pieces.
	For a sickening moment, the lights dim and all sound from 
the electronic equipment dies down to silence.  Then emergency power 
kicks in, things start up again.  We're still blind with the screen down, 
but sensors are operating.
	"Status report?" Cyclonus says.
	"We've lost nine of our smaller vessels," Scrounger replies.  
"Some of the others are torn up pretty bad.  All things considered, the 
flagship's not so bad off -- except there's still three Enforcers out there 
gunning for us."
	As if on cue, the screen sparkles back to life.  All three 
enemies are converging on us, though one looks almost out of the 
running -- I send out the last of my torpedoes, and it novas into space 
debris.
	The others have kept a safe distance this time.  I've got lasers 
left, and ion charges.  If I can slice a hole in their shields, I can hit 
them with ions, which are useless against shields.  "Forward!" I 
command the navigator beside me.  He obeys without consent from 
Cyclonus.
	Both ships firing on us now.  Lasers.  I counter with lasers of 
my own.  Computer-jock in the back is keeping up a running report on 
the condition of the shields.
	"Leading enemy vessel has forward shields at 84%.  Trailing 
enemy at 72%.  Our forward shields--" Suddenly panic in his voice -- 
"losing power!  Power dropping rapidly, 64% -- 55% -- 40% --"
	"Evasive maneuvers!" Cyclonus orders.  "Drop down under 
them!"
	Yes, get under them, and I'll tear them up from below!  Laser 
light lances out at my command, feel like its shooting out through the 
ends of my fingers, through the controls and out into space, raining 
destruction -- *destruction*!
	"Galvatron, cease fire, we're too close--!"
	One of the attackers explodes into a glorious fireball.  Cease 
fire?  *Never*!
	Debris from the demolished vessel slams into our shields.  
Stressed metal shrieks as the shockwave tears through the 
infrastructure.
	"Shields are down, Cyclonus!  Forward shields are totally 
inoperative!"
	One more to take out!  One more magnificent hellfire-nova to 
light the depths of space!
	"Full reverse power!" commands Cyclonus. "Take us out of 
here!"
	"No!  No you will not rob me of my kill -- forward!  
*Forward*!"  I work the laser controls furiously.  Blasted navigator is 
pulling us back!  I'll mangle him, as soon as I get through with the last 
Enforcer!
	"Enforcer shields buckling!" comes the incredulous cry from 
behind.
	I've got you, crawler!  Die!  Die by the hand of Galvatron!
	"Incoming ion blast!" screams the navigator beside me.  The 
ship lurches and groans.  Sizzles of pure energy shoot up from my 
console, a burning electric cold that shoots up my arms -- but I refuse 
to release the laser controls, I've got them, just one more blast--!
	The navigator leaps away from the console, screaming, with 
scorched and smoldering hands.  Console's going to blow!   I don't 
care!  Can't let go of the controls, must keep firing -- will not rob me 
of my kill--!
	Cyclonus leaps forward from his command chair, tries to pull 
at my arm, but I shoulder him away.  "Galvatron, get away from that 
console!" he shouts.
	Never -- *never*!  The enemy tilts on the viewscreen, one 
more blast--!  The screen erupts into fires of destruction!  *Yes*!
	Cyclonus slams into me from the side, sending me sprawling 
just as the console shatters into a thousand pieces of burning shrapnel.
				* * *

				Part 3

	Scrounger glowers at me in cold fury, blocking the entrance 
to the repair ward.  "You got some nerve coming here, Scrapmetal," he 
snarls.  "This is all your doing.  *You* should have taken that blast, 
not Cyclonus."
	"If you don't get out of my way," I counter, "I'll forcibly 
remove you!"
	He offers me a twisted, humorless grin, lets the sawblade on 
his hand whine through a few rotations.  "I'd love to see you try, 
Scrapmetal.  Just your luck that I'm needed on the bridge and wouldn't 
have the time to carve you up properly."  He steps aside and stalks 
angrily away down the corridor.
	I enter the repair ward.  It's designed to accommodate 
organics, of course, and so would more properly be termed a sickbay, 
but even for that it seems pitifully inadequate:  an operating stage with 
only the barest possible equipment, a few cabinets of potions and 
serums, three unembellished beds, and a single intensive-care unit 
with some haphazard life-support equipment dangling down from 
above, including a viewscreen to monitor lifesigns.  A team of four is 
attempting to hook Cyclonus up to this equipment as best they can.  
There's very little they can do in terms of life support, of course.  But 
even equipment designed for organics can track electropulse and brain 
waves.  I watch the viewscreen, don't like the signals.  Weak, erratic.
	Finally the four organics step back.  One approaches me, an 
entirely hairless female whose skin, eyes, clothing all gleam a 
translucent blue.  "I'll give it to you straight," she says.  "It doesn't look 
good.  Half a hundred pieces of shrapnel tore into him, one that lodged 
itself in his fuel pump.  We didn't dare remove that one.  We've 
patched and soldered everything else as best we could, but there could 
be internal leaks that we couldn't reach...."  She trails off, shaking her 
head.  Seems genuinely upset.
	Another of the pirates, a tall male in a black cape, comes up 
beside her, puts a hand on her shoulder.  "We just don't have the 
technological expertise," he says.  "Sure, I've done a lot of tinkering 
with electronic gadgets and appliances, even repair work on our ships, 
but when you're dealing with a *living* machine, the complexity 
increases a thousandfold.  Can't *you* do something?  You're of his 
species, after all."
	"I'm a destroyer, not a healer," I tell them.  "I know nothing 
of repairs."
	"Well then," says the female, "I guess it's up to Cyclonus."
	"I'd sure hate to lose him," the male says.  "He's the best 
commander we've had."  All four of the organics seem agreed on this.
	"We'll leave you alone," says the female.  "We'll be just across 
the hall, so let us know if there's any change."
	Not that they could do anything about it.
	They file out of the tiny repair ward, leave me alone with the 
irregular beeping and blipping of the life-signs monitor.  And 
Cyclonus.  I step over to the intensive care unit, look down at him.  
His chest and torso are criss-crossed with improvised soldering and 
patches of various metals.  Even the most slipshod field-repair by one 
of our Constructicons during the heat of battle could have done better 
than that.
	He's not conscious, not anywhere near conscious.  His optic 
sensors are completely black, one cracked into a network of fissures.  
The left spire on his helmet has been halfway torn off.  I want to reach 
out, put my hand on his arm, but don't dare.  Might disturb some kind 
of tenuous internal balance.  Seems like he's fighting for every beat of 
the fuel pump, each infiltering of oxygen.
	Don't give up, Cyclonus.  It's not the Decepticon way.
	Footsteps behind me.  I turn to see Toxic, she comes up 
beside me, her eyes huge and glistening with suppressed tears.  "It's 
not true, is it?" she whispers.  "He's not ... dying?"
	The monitor blips sporadically.  Awful, empty, hollow dread 
in the pit of my being.  "Of course not.  He's a Decepticon.  We're 
survivors."
	She relaxes a bit, even smiles.  Then her expression turns 
cold.  "Next time I get hold of an Enforcer, I'll strangle him with his 
own innards, I will," she vows, unconsciously stroking the long, 
straight dagger strapped to her thigh.
	Can't help but wonder what it is about Cyclonus that inspires 
such loyalty, even affection, among this ragtag band of space pirates.  I 
question Toxic, "I keep hearing, Cyclonus is the best commander this 
fleet has had."
	She shrugs.  "Long as I been here, anyway.  No question."
	"What makes him so unique?"  *What's he got that I haven't 
got*?
	"Well, let's see."  She tilts her head slightly in thought.  "He's 
got -- what's the word?  Honor.  Yeah.  Nobody's got honor anymore.  
But Cyclonus -- he tells you he'll do something, and you know he'll do 
it.  He thinks he owes you something, he'll pay you back -- good or 
bad.  You get a feeling like he'd stand by you through anything, if he 
thinks you're worth it.  But then, I'm sure you know that already."
	So this is how guilt feels.  Like I swallowed hot acid.
	Toxic smiles at me fractionally, touches my arm.  "They need 
me on the bridge, luv.  You take good care of our commander, hear 
me, and see that he gets back into the action.  I'll check in later, I 
will."  She turns, leaves.
	Silence, except for the maddening blip of the monitor.  
Electropulse signal getting weaker.  I clench my hands into fists to 
stop their unaccustomed trembling.  My only friend in all the universe, 
and he'll die, unless I overcome my own inadequacies and *do* 
something.  Maybe Toxic was right, that first day on the bridge.   I am 
a used-to-be, a has-been.  But dammit, I'm still Galvatron!   My power 
may not be absolute anymore -- not without the fusion cannon -- but 
still formidable.  I won't let this be.  I'll make it up to you, Cyclonus.
	The would-be repair team has left his laser gun on a nearby 
shelf.  I snatch it up, stride quickly out of the repair ward, and ride the 
turbolift up to the bridge.  Scrounger, at hearing my entrance, begins 
to swivel toward me in the command chair.  I give him no chance to 
react, to say anything -- I grab him by the scruff of the neck and fling 
him forward out of the chair, toward the repaired weapons/navigation 
console.  He keeps his balance, whirls on me, sawblade spinning.
	"Stay where you are!" I tell him, aiming Cyclonus' laser at his 
stomach.  He freezes, even turns off the sawblade, the one mechanical 
and one organic eye radiating wrath.  I slide into the command chair, 
keep him in sight.  "Toxic," I command, "turn this ship around.  We're 
going to Charr."
				* * *
	Final approach to Charr.  The planet darkens the screen like a 
burnt-out cinder, an empire of ash and ruin.  The Decepticons might 
blow me to pieces when we land, but I know they'll help Cyclonus.  
The troops always had respect and admiration for Cyclonus.
	*If* we land.  "Encountering resistance," Scrounger 
announces from back at the computers.  Once he realized that the only 
way to save Cyclonus was to get him into the hands of the 
Constructicons, and I was the only one that knew the way back to 
Charr, Scrounger had settled down well enough and accepted the 
change of command.
	"Shields up," I instruct, and Toxic leans over from navigation 
to key the right sequence on the unmanned weapons console.  
Astrotrain and Blast Off are arrowing toward us on the screen, lasers 
flashing, the advance guard.  Behind them, Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, 
Scourge and the Sweeps escape the negligible atmosphere of Charr to 
join in.  Attack bounces off the shields, but we're still low on power 
from our battle with the Enforcers.
	"Forward shields weakening," Scrounger confirms.
	"Fire?" Toxic inquires.
	For one electric moment I want nothing more than to agree.  
Yes, fire -- in fact, I'll come up there and do it myself, grind them to 
dust, the traitors, throw me out, will they....?!
	No.  Feel my fuel pump racing with the lust for the kill -- but 
no.
	"Hold your fire, Toxic."  I flip open the communications 
panel on the armrest of the command chair, tune in the Decepticon 
frequency.  "Decepticons, cease your attack!" I tell them.
	"Galvatron!" comes the response from Astrotrain.  "You dare 
to return here?!"
	"With a warfleet, no less," Dirge puts in.  "Finish him!"
	"You idiots!  It's not a warfleet!  Have I fired a single shot?"
	"Forward shields almost down," Scrounger informs me.  "If 
you're going to do something, you better do it now."
	"Decepticons, cease fire and listen to me," I call out urgently.  
"I haven't come to attack.  Cyclonus is with me.  He's badly damaged -
- he'll die if you don't let us land, let the Constructicons repair him.  I 
promise you, I'll leave again afterwards."
	Maddening silence from the radio.  Then:  "Galvatron," 
comes the voice of Scourge, "I'll have to take the chance that you're 
telling the truth.  But -- I say this as much for your sake as anything -- 
if this is a trick, you're going to be very sorry."
	The attacking fighters break off their onrush and clear a path 
for us.  Toxic eases the huge flagship down toward the planet.  Our 
smaller ships, in loose formation, accompany us -- screen fills with the 
brown-black coloring of Charr, sharpens into details of scorched peaks 
and valleys, waste plains, rusted and tarnished ruins of a former 
civilization that perished long before we arrived.  I can see my fortress 
now, drawing closer -- movement below, the other Decepticons with 
weapons ready, tensed for our arrival.
	Engines whine with the strain of vertical descent.  Toxic 
adjusts controls, landing gear.  Feel the soft jolt as the ship touches 
down -- screen shows the rest of the fleet grounded around us on the 
only reasonably level plain near the fortress.
	Scrounger rises from his computer station as if to follow me 
from the bridge.  "No," I tell him, motioning him back.  "Let me deal 
with the Decepticons.  Cyclonus would expect you to watch the ship, 
be prepared."
	"Prepared for what?" Scrounger rasps.  "For your 
triggerhappy scrapmetal buddies out there to attack us?"
	"Let's hope I'll be enough of a diversion for them," I mutter.
	I ride the turbolift down to the repair ward.  Toxic has already 
opened entrance ramps, since one of the space pirates has led Scourge 
and the Sweeps to Cyclonus.  As I arrive, two Sweeps are carefully 
carrying Cyclonus out of the tiny ward, and start down the corridor.  
Some give me hostile and suspicious looks as they go by, but say 
nothing.  I fall in at the end of the column, next to Scourge.
	"I don't know if it's a terribly good idea for you to come out 
there with us," Scourge says.  "I can't guarantee your safety --- even 
from my own Sweeps."
	"I'm coming with you."  I dare him with my look to contradict 
me.  He shrugs, keeps walking.
	We reach the closest entrance ramp and file out into Charr's 
dimness.  Decepticons arranged randomly to both sides, weapons 
ready, watching in stony silence.  I try not even to look at them, try to 
stride confidently, pretend I still have the fusion cannon on my arm.  
Any trace of fear, uncertainty, and they'll be on me.
	I could have stayed on the ship, of course.  But feel I owe it to 
Cyclonus to stay close.
	We enter the small, flat, hangar-like repair bay off to one side 
of the fortress.  Hook and the other Constructicons are already waiting 
there, and they motion the two Sweeps carrying Cyclonus to follow, 
disappearing into one of the partitioned work areas.  The two Sweeps 
emerge again a few moments later, glare at me dangerously.  I glare 
back, draw myself to my full height.  Even without my cannon, I think 
I can take on the Sweeps.
	"We'll wait outside," Scourge intervenes.  Slowly, reluctantly, 
the others draw back and follow Scourge out, leaving me alone once 
again.
	I move to the closed door of the work room and lean close -- 
can hear the clink of metal, occasional hum and whine of equipment, 
snatches of conversation that sound clipped and tense, but can't make 
out the words.  I drift over to the single window facing out onto the 
plains of Charr, see the Decepticons arranged in what might be a 
perimeter guard position if the pattern were more organized.  Close by, 
Motormaster is slashing his laser sword through the air to punctuate 
his argument with Scourge, who's backed up by Razorwing.  This I 
must hear.  Quietly I creep to the door leading out, slide it back a tiny 
crack, then a tiny bit more--
	"--don't seriously doubt that Cyclonus' condition is *his* 
fault, do you?" I hear the angry growl of Motormaster's voice.
	"We don't know what happened," Scourge counters.  "I, for 
one, don't want to lay blame or extract revenge without knowing all 
the facts."
	"And he did say he'd leave again afterward," Razorwing adds.
	"And you believe him?" Motormaster challenges.  "With that 
armada sitting out there, awaiting his orders -- probably with all guns 
trained on us right now!  I say we finish him now, while he's 
distracted!"
	"He could just as easily have fired on us from orbit," Scourge 
says.  "Could have taken the rest of us out, and *forced* the 
Constructicons to repair Cyclonus.  He didn't, did he?"
	"Right," says Razorwing.  "I think that's pretty good evidence 
for his sincerity."
	Feel the flicker of a strange sort of warmth, deep inside me.  
Scourge and Razorwing are defending me!  They don't know our 
damaged shields and weapons wouldn't have lasted long against an 
all-out Decepticon assault -- nor that the fleet doesn't generally take its 
orders from me.  They may let me walk out of here alive after all.
	"Alright," Motormaster growls. "But I'll be watching that 
demented mechanism, and if he makes one wrong move -- even 
*looks* like he's *thinking* about it--"  I hear the slash/hum of the 
laser sword as he swings it in demonstration, then hear the crunch of 
footsteps and pull quickly back from the door, letting it slide shut.
	I look around the empty waiting room.  Only a few benches 
against the walls.  I choose one a few paces to one side of the window, 
along the same wall, where someone looking in from outside couldn't 
see me.  Don't trust someone like Motormaster or Onslaught not to 
take a shot at me through the glass.  If I wasn't so worried about 
Cyclonus, I might dwell on the absurdity -- Galvatron, supreme 
commander of the Decepticons and terror of the quadrant, hiding out 
from his own warriors.
	Seems like it's been hours already.  I can see a small sliver of 
the sky out the window from here, track the infinitely slow shift of 
stars in Charr's constant night.  A few times I actually get up and look 
out -- Decepticons outside are clustered in small groups now, talking -- 
occasionally a verbal shoving match erupts into swinging fists until 
someone else intervenes, then everything settles again for a while.  
Motormaster paces restlessly, swinging his sword; Scourge and 
Razorwing sometimes join him, sometimes pace separately.
	I return to my bench.  It's been forever.
	The door to the workroom slides open.  I leap to my feet in a 
surge of anticipation and anxiety -- do I really want to hear the news?  
All six of the Constructicons file out, it can't be good.
	They seem too worn-out from their long efforts to muster any 
hostility or blame against me.  "He's alright," Scrapper says.  "Good as 
new."
	Relief floods through me like a tide, like smoldering-metal 
support beams in flaming space stations lifted away.
	"You got him back here just in time," Hook adds.  "Another 
half hour--"
	"--he would have been gone," Scavenger finishes.
	"We'll tell the others," Long Haul says, and all six of them 
leave the building.
	Cyclonus comes out of the workroom.  Impulsively I go to 
him and clasp his shoulders, then step back and look him up and 
down.  No trace of damage.  The Constructicons have even put a new 
coat of polish on him.  "You look wonderful!"
	He smiles.  "I understand I owe that to you. The 
Constructicons too, of course, but you're the one that brought me here 
in time.  You saved my life."
	"We're even, then."  But I think of all the times he's dragged 
me out of Autobot firing lines, and correct myself, "Well, a little 
*more* even, anyway."  Another thought strikes me.  "Why did you 
endanger yourself by shoving me away from that console?  Of all the 
stupid, thoughtless things to do!  And they say *I'm* a few chips short 
of a full circuit board!"
	He shrugs.  "Old reflexes.  Next time I'll know better."  But 
his fractional smile and intense eyes tell me he'd do it again.
	"Right."  Some moments pass in uncomfortable silence.  "So 
what now?" I ask finally.
	"Now, I suppose, I take my fleet and continue on my way," 
Cyclonus says, moving to the window and looking out into the 
distance.  "You're still welcome to join me.  Or--" he turns his head to 
look at me curiously, "--will you be staying here?"
	"*Here*?" I echo, incredulous. "That rabble out there wants 
to melt me down!  I've got no choice but to go with you."
	"The way I see it," Cyclonus muses, "you have *two* choices.  
You can either return to the Star Raiders with me, and live the life of a 
space pirate, which you hate --- or you can fight for your true destiny 
here, as a leader -- as is your nature."
	I think of Motormaster and his laser sword.  "The 
Decepticons will never accept me as their leader," I'm forced to admit.  
"Not unless -- not unless you stay too."
	Cyclonus sighs.  "We've been through this, Galvatron."
	"But why?" I demand, trying not to sound too plaintive.  
"Why won't you stay?  Look, maybe I am just ... a *little* ... out of 
control -- maybe I do need you as a rational counterbalance, to deal 
with the troops as someone they respect."  He regards me somewhat 
skeptically, but at least I have his attention.  Could it be that all he 
really wants is an apology?  Think I may choke on these next words, 
but-- "Cyclonus, I ... I'm ... sorry ... I treated you so badly earlier.  
You're right, I took your loyalty for granted and just let my fuel-thirst 
carry me away.  I didn't realize until you almost died that I've been 
deluding myself.  You don't need me, but I ... I need you.  Not just as 
backup and intervention with the other Decepticons -- but as a friend."
	He looks at me with surprised respect.  "I know how hard it 
was for you to say that," he acknowledges.  "For that reason alone I 
think you mean it."
	"I do," I assure him quickly.  "And I wouldn't bash you 
around anymore, or hurl undeserved insults at you, or -- hell, I'd even 
take your advice on occasion!"
	He holds up one hand as though to ward off further words.  
"Don't get too far ahead of yourself, Galvatron.  You mean it now, but 
I know you -- as soon as you get the next Autobot in your gunsights, 
all promises are forgotten."
	"Then it's up to you to remind me."
	He considers this, watches me thoughtfully for a few 
moments.  "I'll remind you *now*," he says.  "Remember that I have 
another life now, that I could always go back to."
	"Could?  You mean you'll stay?"
	He smiles fractionally.  "Yes, I'll stay."
				* * *
	The other Decepticons seem as pleased as I am that Cyclonus 
will stay.  When we step out of the repair bay, they swarm around him 
in welcome.  They all seem in agreement with Scourge, who tells 
Cyclonus, "We sure have missed you around here."
	I keep to the background, try to remain as unobtrusive as 
possible for the moment.  The others ignore me, even when Cyclonus 
disentangles himself from the crowd to go send the Star Raiders on 
their way.
	I accompany him to the open entrance ramp of the flagship.  
Looks like the entire crew of the fleet has gathered to say their 
farewells.  One by one or in small groups, they take their leave of 
Cyclonus and return to their vessels, awaiting liftoff.
	Finally only Toxic and Scrounger remain before the ramp -- 
and two other figures lingering in the background, a pair of helmeted 
and uniformed organics that I recognize as Slike and Stardance, the 
two that originally brought me into the fleet.  Cyclonus motions them 
forward, says, "Stardance, Slike, go retrieve that item I told you to 
hang onto."
	Stardance protests, "But sir, we could still make a good 
profit--"
	"*Right now*," Cyclonus cuts him off.  "That is my final 
order as commander of this fleet."  His eyes flash dangerously.  The 
two organics snap into a salute and hurry off into the ship.
	"You know, Cyclonus," I venture, "you've gotten so used to 
giving orders, I hope you won't have a problem with taking second 
place again.  I don't need someone contradicting me every step of the 
way, or worse, someone with designs on the Decepticon leadership -- 
now that you've had a taste of command, I mean."
	"Not to worry, Galvatron.  I much prefer being second-in-
command.  It gives me almost as much power, but if things should go 
wrong, the blame falls to you."
	"Why you devious--!" I begin, then realize he's only kidding.  
Isn't he?
	"Actually," he says, "I can lead if I must, but I don't have a 
psychological addiction to command.  I'll leave that to you."
	As though to offer proof of that, the two organics re-emerge 
from the flagship -- dragging my fusion cannon between them!  
Cyclonus takes it from them, hands it to me.
	"I thought you sold this to the Ferengi," is my incredulous 
and delighted response.
	Cyclonus' eyes flicker conspiratorially.  "Don't think I wasn't 
tempted."
	I grin at him, slide the cannon onto my arm.  There!  The last 
missing piece falls back into place.  A surge of renewed confidence  
rushes through me -- I turn eagerly toward the plain where the other 
Decepticons await.
	Cyclonus puts a restraining hand on my shoulder.  "One 
moment, Galvatron.  I think you'll need a mediator."
	Impatiently I turn back toward the ship, where Scrounger and 
Toxic have been waiting.  They come forward now.  Toxic, as usual, 
bubbles over with talk.   "You really are gonna do this, aren't you, 
Cyclonus, luv?  Leave us at the mercy of Scrounger in charge, eh?"
	"He can handle it," Cyclonus assures her.
	"But it's not fair, it isn't," Toxic protests half-heartedly.  "I'll 
*miss* you."
	"You'll live," Cyclonus says in the casual, tolerant tone that 
he takes with her.
	"She's got one thing right," Scrounger puts in.  "We'll kind-of 
miss you.  If Scrapmetal over there doesn't treat you right, you know 
you can always come back."
	"Careful, organic," I growl at him, "or I might melt you to 
protoplasm as a parting shot."
	Scrounger gives me a disdainful look, but Toxic turns her 
bright purple eyes on me and says, "I still think you'd of made a good 
space pirate.  Not much on stimulating conversation, you weren't, but 
you sure could lance out those laser beams.  Now I gotta do double 
duty at the weapons console again, I do."  She turns away, shaking her 
head in resignation.  Scrounger, with a final nod to Cyclonus, 
accompanies her up the boarding ramp.
	"Now -- about those Decepticons," I begin, not even wanting 
to wait for liftoff.  The flagship's powerful engines hum to life behind 
me as I turn away from the landing site, stride toward the assembled 
warriors.
	Cyclonus hurries after me, falls in at his usual place beside 
me.  The warriors are looking at each other uncertainly as we 
approach, as the fleet leaves without me.
	"You got an excuse, Galvatron?" Swindle challenges as we 
stop before the assembly.  "You promised you'd take off again 
afterward!"
	"He's doing you a favor by staying," Cyclonus answers before 
I can reply.
	"Hey, we said we wanted *you* back," Brawl says pointedly.  
"*Not him.*"
	"Oh really?"  Cyclonus' casual tone is deceptive, leading up to 
something.  "Then tell me -- what inroads have you made against the 
Autobots without Galvatron's leadership?"
	The warriors exchange glances.  "Well, nothing just *yet*...." 
Onslaught admits reluctantly.
	"Any particular reason?"  Cyclonus' tone is still 
conversational.  The Decepticons respond with silence.  "No?  Then 
let's try another approach -- who's in command here these days, 
anyway?"
	Instantly half a dozen voices clamor for recognition, begin 
arguing among themselves.  "That's enough!" Cyclonus silences them.  
"*There* you have your problem.  You've all descended into anarchy!  
How can you fight the Autobots if you're this busy squabbling among 
yourselves!  This ends, now.  Galvatron and I are back, and there's 
going to be some order around here from now on."
	"But Galvatron is--" Motormaster begins, but stops abruptly 
as Cyclonus aims a laser at him, point-blank.
	"Galvatron is your leader," Cyclonus growls, "and you will 
obey him."  He includes the others with his gaze.  "All of you.  Or go 
through me first."
	The tense silence that follows is broken unexpectedly by 
Scourge, who steps forward to stand beside us, laser drawn.  "That 
goes for me, too," he tells the assembly.
	A moment later Razorwing joins us, and then Soundwave, 
and the Constructicons, and after that, the rest of them are easy.
	They're mine again!  Already I feel the thrill, the anticipation 
-- the plans, the conquests, the terror we'll wreak apon the surrounding 
stars!  I am Galvatron, my power is absolute!  Let the Autobots 
beware!

			END