GUIDING HAND

	(A Tale of the Far Future)

		By Raksha


"Give me a firm spot upon which I might stand, 
and I shall move the Earth."
			--Archimedes


		1.

   He recognized his surroundings immediately 
as Cybertron -- the dull shimmer of dark metal 
stretching away to all directions in ribbons of 
streets and skyways, the towers and spires and 
buildings untouched and lightless and perfect -- 
the dead-cold silence, the stars reflecting 
faintly in the surrounding metal which had, in 
the absence of wear and tear, retained much of 
its luster.  Only for an instant did he wonder 
how he'd gotten here, and then the thought was 
gone.

   He stood before the black tower of the War 
Memorial that soared toward the sky in the very 
center of Polyhex City -- names upon names 
inscribed on all sides over every micron of its 
surface, names of those who had died in the 
battle against the Autobots.  At least, the 
names of all those who could be remembered and 
counted.  At its base ... his gaze was drawn 
inexorably, although he didn't want to look: a 
pair of guttering torches to both sides of a 
golden plaque.  Fed by a near-inexhaustible 
cache of fuel, these flickering lights in the 
dark were the only things that still lived and 
moved on Cybertron.  He knew the inscription on 
the plaque without looking; he tried not to look 
-- after all these years, the pain was still 
real.

	 In Memory of Soundwave
	If not for his sacrifice,
all these others would have died for nothing.
	Let it never be forgotten.

   Determinedly he focused on the wall above 
the plaque, the glossy dark surface reflecting 
his own image back to him, a bit blurred and 
surrealistically imposed over the many, many 
names.  A double shimmer of scarlet optics, a 
powerful silver frame whose sleekness belied its 
bulk, a pair of slender wing-planks rising from 
his shoulders, a tremendous, squared-off cannon 
running nearly twice the length of his right 
arm.  He leaned forward to read some of the 
names, and found that the inscriptions began to 
merge, the text coiling and writhing and 
refusing to be still.  He dimmed his optics for 
an instant and re-brightened them.  The text was 
still.  But another figure was now visible 
behind the reflection that was his own.

   He whirled around, startled and angry that 
someone had managed to sneak up on him without 
his awareness, for in his position, it was as 
likely to be a potential assassin as a potential 
ally.  From long years of practice, he sized up 
the fighting capabilities of the other at a 
glance as the power level in his arm cannon 
crept up a notch to ready-status.  Almost 
immediately he powered down again.  While it was 
never wise to underestimate a potential 
opponent, no matter their appearance, he felt it 
was a safe bet that this particular one, if he 
meant harm, would not require the full force of 
a fusion blast to eliminate.

   The robot was unlike one he had ever seen, 
nearly as tall as himself but spindly somehow, 
with ill-fitting limbs composed of an inelegant 
sequence of cylinders, cuboids, and coils of 
wire making for the joints.  The head was 
rounded, with a single, narrow yellow eyeband 
stretching across the middle, and no other 
facial features whatsoever.  The whole thing was 
encased in a steel-gray layer of armor that 
seemed the flimsiest of protections from any 
modern high-tech weaponry, and there looked to 
be no transforming capability at all.

   He could not tell if the thing was male or 
female, but when it spoke, the voice came out 
vaguely male:  "Megatron.  So good of you to 
return."

   "Who are you?" Megatron snarled in 
response, still irritated that he'd been caught 
unaware.

   The other robot seemed not at all taken 
aback, and replied calmly, "My apologies; I 
should have introduced myself.  Subcommander 
Astarquias of the Rebellion."  He brought his 
right fist against his chest in the traditional 
Decepticon salute.

   Megatron's optics narrowed - there was in 
fact a Decepticon symbol of sorts on the other 
robot's chest, though it was of a more 
simplified design than any he had ever seen.  
Several questions shot through his mind 
simultaneously, and he finally came out with, 
"Rebellion?"

   "Some things have changed much since my 
time, and some-" Astarquias dropped his fist 
away from his chest- "-have not.  The Rebellion, 
yes, it would have little significance to you in 
this age...."

   "What age? What time?" Megatron demanded.  
"What are you doing here?  Nobody lives here 
anymore."

   Astarquias nodded.  "Precisely why I am 
here.  Allow me to show you something."

   Before Megatron could agree or disagree, 
the silent city around them shimmered like a 
fading hologram, and they found themselves on a 
cliffside overlooking a golden plain in bright 
sunlight.  Far below, a horde of metallic beings 
-- Megatron would be hard-pressed to call such a 
disorderly grouping an *army* -- was locked in 
combat with monstrously huge robotic forms, 
while behind these, hovering spiral-shaped 
vessels took potshots at the rabble from above.  
In the distance, a few clusters of spires and 
other architecture dotted the opposite 
cliffside.

   Astarquias made a sweeping gesture toward 
their surroundings.  "Recognize the lay-out of 
the land?"

   Megatron looked again.  Of course!  Most 
of the landmarks of the cities were missing, but 
the plain below and the cliffsides surrounding 
it, were the approach from the south to the vast 
continental plateau that supported Polyhex; 
there, to the north, was the ridge beyond which 
should be – yes, even here in these oddly 
changed circumstances, a few narrow spires 
sprouted in the distance where the looming city-
state of Polyhex should have been visible as a 
shadow on the horizon.  "Cybertron," Megatron 
murmured.

   Astarquias nodded in apparent 
satisfaction, though it was impossible to read 
his facial expression.  "A good commander always 
has a sense for his surroundings, even with the 
more obvious clues removed."  He indicated the 
scene below them again with a slight motion of 
his head.

   Megatron turned his attention back to the 
slaughter raging below.  There was no other 
description for it.  Each blast from the huge, 
lumbering robots wiped out scores of the smaller 
ones, and while the shots lancing out of the 
spiral ships did not seem as powerful, they were 
precisely aimed and deadly-accurate.  Megatron 
recognized the huge robots as being vaguely 
similar to the Guardian Robots who had stood 
watch at the gates of many a city-state early in 
his own career.  These particular ones were more 
primitively built, but there were structural 
similarities to the monstrous machines that had 
been so favored by the Autobots for a brief time 
in the wars.

   The opposing force was unfamiliar to him, 
of the same strange physical design as 
Astarquias, built around some slight variation.  
Despite seeming to be awkwardly hinged-together, 
these spindly robots were agile and durable; 
Megatron saw many of them take three or four 
full-force blasts before finally going down for 
good.  Through the melee he thought he caught 
the occasional glimpse of a triangular purple 
symbol splashed on sections of armor.  In 
puzzlement he turned to Astarquias.  
"Decepticons?"

   "Indeed."  Astarquias pointed toward the 
battlefield below.  "Here is the critical moment 
now.  Watch closely."

   Although the Guardian Robots and the 
spiral ships were steadily decimating their 
ranks, the horde of oddly-built Decepticons had 
not given ground.  It seemed they clung to their 
position only to die trying ... when suddenly a 
brilliant explosion blossomed from the hull of 
one of the ships.  An instant thereafter, 
another burst into flame, and then another ... 
all across the golden plain, spiral ships were 
crashing toward the ground, exploding anew upon 
impact and showering the area with burning 
debris.  Simultaneously the Guardians stopped in 
their tracks and sank slowly to the ground.  
One, lacerated by pieces of hull from a crashed 
ship, exploded into a brilliant starburst of 
heat.

   Megatron suddenly found himself in the 
midst of the tumult, with robots rushing past 
him toward the remnants of the ships.  He looked 
around, startled, to find Astarquias standing 
calmly next to him.  None of the others seemed 
to pay them any heed, though Megatron could feel 
the heat from the nearby fires.  Someone was 
shouting commands -- a Decepticon built very 
much like all the others, though missing his 
left arm and marred by half a dozen lacerations 
and laser burns.  But he directed the others 
with confidence, directing them to plunge into 
the remains of the burning ships and pull bodies 
from the wreckage.  Megatron recognized a figure 
beside the commander, who was helping direct the 
flow of activity.  Astarquias!  In confusion he 
glanced aside, to find his strange companion 
still standing serenely beside him.

   Astarquias offered no explanation on that 
point, and said merely, "That was our leader, 
Salvo.  It was he who forged slaves into rebels, 
who inspired all these warriors to make this 
final strike.  It was he who had the vision and 
the determination that we be masters of our own 
destiny.  He was, you might say, your first 
direct predecessor, your philosophical 
ancestor."

   Robots were being pulled from the remains 
of the ships, many dead and charred beyond 
recognition, many in various conditions of life.  
Megatron recognized among those bearing the 
simplified triangular symbol, others bearing a 
simplified, squarish red emblem with an 
unmistakable resemblance to the Autobot brand.

   Astarquias explained before he could ask, 
"In this first Great Rebellion we all learned to 
work together.  The Autobots, being generally 
useless for combat, were used for domestic 
purposes by the slavers, allowing them access to 
some of the vital codes and keys we needed to 
break their security locks.  Working 
cooperatively in secret locations, we broke the 
codes together.  Under Salvo's direction, we 
began to stage attacks, though always outgunned 
by the slaver's superior technology.  Finally 
they realized their hold over this world had 
slipped, and unleashed the Guardian Robots on 
us, hoping to take out those who had turned 
against them, in retribution, leaving Cybertron 
a wasteland.  But everywhere, to each of their 
strongholds, we had sent infiltrators, who 
planted explosives, often carrying them within 
their own bodies.  This battle was the last, the 
one final attempt by the slavers to destroy our 
leadership and cut out our fighting spirit -- 
but even here, as you see, we had infiltrators 
on the ships who unleashed their primitive but 
effective sabotage."

   Something else was being dragged from the 
ships.  Not robots in any recognizable sense, 
but creatures that seemed to be all great 
bloated heads with multiple faces on all sides, 
trailing a sweep of tentacles.  Most were dead 
or dying, the misshapen heads crushed like empty 
helmets, the tentacles severed, the flesh 
charred, boiling organics oozing out of great 
gashes of wounds.  One remained more alive than 
most, and tried to push itself up on its 
tendrils.  Salvo caught sight of the movement 
and pushed his way through the crowd of 
warriors, to force his remaining fist through 
one of the creature's eyes.  Amidst a bubble of 
organic fluids, he ripped out a series of cables 
and coils, clenching his fist tight over the 
sticky mess while the multi-faced creature 
twitched and spluttered and finally lay still.  
Decepticons and Autobots helped each other to 
their feet as a cheer went up around Salvo, who 
exchanged a triumphant look with Astarquias ...  
the one he could see, in any case...


   They were on Cybertron again, the dark, 
cold, present-day world with its perfectly 
reconstructed and untouched buildings.

   "Who are these slavers you speak of?" 
Megatron asked.  "I know nothing of any of 
this."

   Astarquias inclined his head, it seemed, a 
little bit sadly.  "So much history has been 
lost to the subsequent wars.  There is no way 
for you to know.  But I will say this much.  
Soon after the development of civilization on 
Cybertron, the slavers descended upon us.  They 
claimed to be deities who had created us, to 
whom we were beholden, and many believed it and 
swore obedience.  It was a time when religion 
and superstition ran rampant and made us 
gullible, while more and more, the slavers -- 
the Quintessons -- bred us for their own 
purposes and sold us to offworlders as servants 
and warriors.  Even then we were divided into 
Decepticons and Autobots, and even then the 
seeds of future conflict were already in place, 
but all that was interrupted by the slavers.  
The Decepticons, in particular, being trained to 
battle and courageous and loyal by nature, made 
ideal soldiers, and I cannot estimate how many 
died on foreign worlds for alien causes.  In the 
end, many gave their lives for freedom -- their 
own."

   Astarquias looked up at the towering War 
Memorial that loomed into the night sky above 
them.  "It seems to me inappropriate, somehow 
... that a world which inspired such devotion, 
should have become a necropolis, a silent 
memorial at the heart of a grand empire.  An 
empire should have a living heart.  Don't you 
agree?"

   He looked at Megatron, his expression 
unreadable behind that single yellow eyeband -- 
and then vanished.

			* * *

   He awoke with a start to the first glimmer 
of sunlight seeping through the high windows, 
pushing reflexively against the familiar weight 
of coils that lay draped around him, struggling 
upward out of the normally comforting embrace ... 
Raksha stirred, a rustle of feathers and a 
glitter of scales as her long serpentine form 
slid smoothly past him and drew together upon 
itself to melt into the more compact biped mode.  
Not quite awake yet, she reached out to him with 
one taloned hand, but he was up off the bed and 
beyond her reach already, murmuring the word 
"Cybertron" as he stumbled out of the chamber 
and was gone.

   She found him sometime later, on the 
highest spire of the palace, at the lookout 
point from where one could see the entire 
panorama of Sky City stretching below.  The 
dazzling first rays of sunlight had not yet 
reached all the way to ground level through the 
wisps of clouds that separated the floating city 
from the brown-and-green map of the planet 
below, but already they caught the crystalline 
architecture  and set it alight in a thousand 
sparkling colors.  The Supreme Ruler of the 
Decepticon empire stood motionless as the light 
crept up the high spire and fell across his 
silver plating.

   Though Raksha's claws clicked softly on 
the smooth metal surface of the balcony as she 
approached, he seemed entirely unaware of the 
presence of his mate.  He stared out at the city 
and beyond it as though not seeing it, the fiery 
scarlet of his gaze unwavering, blank.  Puzzled, 
she tilted her head and reached toward him, 
asking softly, "Megatron?"


   "Megatron?"


   He spun from the circular porthole that 
provided the room's only view of the starfield, 
and found himself facing the statuesque female 
who had spoken his name.  Her plating was a 
burnished copper with black accents, and her 
optics were a deep maroon, almost purple.  She 
was too powerfully built and too heavily armored 
to meet the conventional Cybertronian standard 
of female beauty, but in the composure and 
dignity with which she carried herself, she 
could adequately be described as handsome.

   "Who are you and what do you want?" he 
snapped, having the strange sense that he'd said 
the same to her once before and just recently, 
before the incongruous notion slipped away.

   She smiled a bit, and replied calmly, "My 
name is Soleandra.  But I'm not the important 
one here.  Come, they're waiting for you."

   She turned away, even as Megatron asked, 
"Who's waiting for me?  What is this?"  
Soleandra continued toward the door, leaving 
Megatron to stare after her across the dark, 
barren little room.  Finally he followed, 
hurrying to catch up.

   She led him through the upper levels of 
what was obviously an orbital defense station.  
Somewhere in the record of Cybertron's past was 
the hint that these had once circled the planet 
to guard from un-named invaders -- and indeed, 
as they passed through various curving hallways, 
there was an occasional circular porthole window 
from which could be seen the distant curve of 
Cybertron's surface.  Megatron wanted to stop 
and look out, but Soleandra continued at a 
steady pace, and he was obliged to keep up, or 
loose track of her.  They passed others:  a 
quietly focused and efficient crew, manning 
countless sensor stations and weapons consoles, 
running constant maintenance and installing 
upgrades and testing and re-testing each system 
to insure that everything remained at flawless 
ready-status.  The crew consisted of Decepticons 
according to the symbol they wore, though their 
design was crude and bulky and primitive by the 
usual standards.  But there were still modern 
warriors who were built on some of those old 
designs, and other than the apparent lack of 
alternate modes, some of these Decepticons might 
have fit into Megatron's armies without evoking 
a second glance.  With an air of grim 
dedication, they went about their business and 
paid Megatron and Soleandra no heed as they 
walked past.

   She led the way into an all-but-hidden 
access hatch, from which the path led downward 
in a series of ladders, down shafts that were 
almost too narrow to let them pass.  As they 
descended, the rhythmic pulse of a vibration 
that Megatron had already been dimly aware of, 
increased to the point of noticeably shaking the 
surface below their feet.  Gradually a sound 
began to accompany the vibrations, a slow, deep 
pounding.  Megatron recognized it with a trace 
of alarm as the mark of a collision reactor, a 
power generator that was said to have been used 
extensively many billennia past, and had still 
been used up until very recently during times of 
great desperation – but the emissions played 
havoc with a Transformer's vital functions, 
especially over any length of exposure.  
Megatron stopped short of following Soleandra 
down the next series of ladders.  "Wait a 
minute," he demanded.  "Do you have any idea 
what's powering your space station?  Do you know 
what we're heading towards?"

   She paused halfway down the access hatch 
and looked up at him.  "Oh yes," she said 
inflectionlessly.  "Even in our time, we knew 
what the consequences of using this source of 
power would be.  Too long of an exposure, and 
one risks disintegration of the neurocircuits, 
disruption of electrical impulses – first a 
painful and debilitating loss of control over 
one's voluntary movements, then a slow descent 
into madness and death.  But it takes a while, 
as you know, and everyone tries to put it out of 
their minds, hoping they'll be rotated back 
planetside before the effects become 
irreversible.  It's a cheap and easy source of 
power, you see, and after all, we are only 
Decepticons."

   Megatron shook his head, not understanding 
– and most of all, not understanding why she 
kept climbing closer and closer to the 
generator.  The color of her optics deepened a 
little more in the dim lighting, though she 
smiled – a sad smile, full of some nameless 
regret.  "It's alright," she said quietly.  
"It's alright for us this time."

   She disappeared from view as she let 
herself down the ladder.  Megatron realized that 
the radiation warnings that should have been 
screaming from his internal diagnostics, had not 
activated themselves.  A bit fatalistically, he 
resigned himself to follow.

   They emerged on the lowermost level, in a 
crescent-shaped room curving about the generator 
core.  The thickly leaded walls were little 
shielding against the rhythmic pounding sound 
that thundered from just behind them, and the 
very deck at their feet shuddered with each 
impact.  None the less, the room was filled to 
capacity, a few portable lights hung from the 
ceiling to create irregular circles of 
illumination.  A massive, darkly-plated 
Decepticon with a single, diamond-shaped crimson 
optic, stood on a table and raised his voice to 
be heard above the thunder of the generator.

   Soleandra indicated him with a significant 
flicker of her optics and then looked back to 
Megatron, explaining, "Tarxus.  Another 
commander lost to your history and buried in the 
dim past, but he is the key here, the one 
individual who will bring about the turning 
point.  If he should live that long."  She fell 
silent, taking in the scene, while Megatron 
noted with very little surprise that she was 
both beside him as they observed, and part of 
the scene itself, standing at the base of the 
table with a calm, watchful expression that was 
disconcertingly familiar.  He realized then, 
where he'd seen such a stance before – it was 
typical of someone who was on the lookout for 
trouble and ready to prevent it, but not 
obviously drawing attention to themselves in the 
process.

   "How much longer?" Tarxus was demanding of 
the others.  "How much longer will we allow the 
Autobots to sit on Cybertron and make the 
decisions, while we are locked away on defense 
stations and border patrols?  'Valuable members 
of society,' they call us.  Valuable indeed – to 
*them*!  'Protectors of the peace.'  *Whose* peace 
are we protecting?  *Theirs!*  Do we have a say in 
the government?  Do we have a voice in the 
decisions?  You know the answer to that, all of 
you.  The Autobots make the decisions, and we 
are sent out to die for them.  Is *this* what our 
ancestors fought for, to free themselves from 
slavery, only to have us enter slavery anew?"

   An angry murmur rippled through the 
assembly, the gathered Decepticons nodding 
approval to the speaker even as their optics 
brightened indignantly and their hands reached 
to close on their weapons, ready at that very 
moment to turn them against their oppressors.  
But for one individual in the crowd, the gesture 
was more than symbolic.  A nondescript young 
robot near the front of the crowd suddenly 
snapped up a heavy-barreled handgun and fired 
off a shot—

   --at the same instant as Soleandra, 
standing beside the table, reached out and 
pulled Tarxus' legs out from under him, sending 
him crashing heavily to the tabletop.  The laser 
bolt sizzled past his left shoulder and impacted 
with the thick shielding that encased the 
generator, leaving a bubbling scorch mark that 
ate its way through the outer layer of the 
encasement before it cooled.

   The others fell upon the assailant and 
beat him to death even before Tarxus could shake 
off the stun and push himself up, but finally he 
shouldered his way through the crowd and pushed 
the others away from the mangled body.  
Soleandra stood back and watched in unreadable 
silence as Tarxus reached down and dug his 
fingers into the dead robot's chest plating, 
ripping away a sheet of armor adorned with a 
Decepticon symbol – to reveal the red emblem of 
the Autobots underneath.  Taking hold of the 
limp body, he thrust it into the air for all to 
see.  "There you have it!" he announced.  "Such 
are the lengths the Autobots will go to, to keep 
us under control.  Is this what you would 
subjugate yourselves to?!"

   Amidst cries for revenge and demands for 
freedom and pledges of loyalty, the scene began 
to blur and fade out.  The last thing Megatron 
saw was Soleandra, calm and composed at the edge 
of the impassioned crowd, her neutral expression 
shading just the tiniest bit into an approving 
smile.

   Then they were gone, and a faintly colored 
mist closed in all around him.  For a moment he 
thought he still sensed a presence beside him, 
something that was familiar and companionable – 
and then—


   --"Megatron?"

   Raksha's hand closed lightly on the silver 
plating of his forearm, startling him back to 
awareness.  For a long moment he looked at her 
blankly as though trying to remember who she 
was, where he was.

   She drew back a little.  "Are you 
alright?"

   Comprehension dawned slowly in his eyes, 
then, and he said, "Yes.  Yes of course."  He 
turned away a little, looking out over the city 
glistening in the first rays of the rising sun, 
and then turned back to her, deciding abruptly, 
"Hold the fort, Raksha – I'm off to Cybertron."

   "*Cybertron?*" she asked in disbelief as he 
strode past her to exit the balcony.  "Whatever 
for?"

   He glanced back at her and flashed her a 
rakish grin, reminiscent of the old days when 
he'd had some brilliant plan that he was about 
to set into action.  "An empire should have a 
living heart," he said by way of explanation.  
"Don't you agree?"

			2.

   He wandered the unlit streets of Polyhex 
City as though in a daze, trying to avoid and 
yet always seeming to circle back to the War 
Memorial.  He turned away again and plunged down 
the alleyways criss-crossing below the 
overpasses, swallowed in shadow, the streets 
spotless, the buildings cold and silent and 
untouched, as though an instant of time had been 
held fast and preserved for all eternity.

   What had he been thinking, when he'd set 
off alone with some mad plan to revitalize 
Cybertron?  Who would live here anymore?  And 
for that matter, what did he think he could 
accomplish, coming here all on his own? When 
he'd set out from Sky City, it had seemed the 
most obvious and most simple of tasks -- 
something had possessed him to return, but once 
arrived, he was at a complete loss.  It was not 
a simple task – for although the architecture 
remained in place and everything necessary 
remained, there was one critical ingredient 
missing, and that was *life* – that is, energy.  
He would have to funnel massive amounts of 
energy from elsewhere in the empire in order to 
reactivate this dead world, and what would the 
response be to that, from his warlords across 
the quadrant?  Would they think he'd lost his 
mind (and hadn't he, perhaps?) and use it as a 
ploy to try for the upper hand, attempt to 
depose him?  Cybertron was vital to the 
mythology of his species, to be sure, but it had 
become symbolic, even in the hearts and minds of 
those who had lived there and fought for it -- a 
reminder of what they had achieved, a relic of 
their past, and something not to be sullied 
further.  Should the dead, perhaps, be left at 
rest?  Every footstep seemed to stir ghosts ... so 
many had died, so many were lost ... the troops he 
had commanded against the Autobots ... Nightbird ... 
Soundwave...

   He was back before the Memorial, and 
Soundwave's name flickered before him on its 
golden plaque as in the dream – but no, this was 
no dream, this was real, and the endless night 
was cold and silent around him and he'd come 
here expecting – what?

   It would be a monumental project to revive 
Cybertron, a fool's errand; why weaken the rest 
of the empire for this?  He wished fervently at 
that moment for someone to share his goal, for 
with just one other individual believing in him, 
he could surely accomplish anything.  His mate, 
Raksha, he had left behind in Sky City, and for 
the briefest of instants he regretted it – but 
no.  She would likely be sympathetic to his 
plans, provided she understood them, but 
Cybertron was not her home.

   Some dim memory stirred in the back of his 
mind as he turned away from the Memorial, and 
headed toward the buildings that had stood empty 
all these years.


   The Darkmount repair bay remained as he 
had left it, or at least it seemed so at first 
glance.  It took only a moment to realize what 
was wrong – the room was silent and empty and 
lifeless, just like the rest of the planet, and 
he had never seen it like this.   At times it 
had been filled to capacity and beyond with 
damaged warriors, the repaireons working over 
them frantically in attempts to get as many 
stabilized as possible, until the luxury of 
full-scale repairs could get underway.  At times 
he'd come here to give encouragement to those 
who had proven themselves particularly valiant 
in battle, and some of those, as they lay dying, 
he had assured that their sacrifice would not be 
in vain, that their names would not be 
forgotten.  At times he himself had been subject 
to the purpose of this room, as Soundwave (it 
had always been Soundwave who repaired him, when 
the damage was extensive) worked over him with 
methodical patience, with unmatched precision, 
and the calm reassurance that promised they 
would cheat death together one more time.

   And then there were the long nights during 
the quiet stretches between battles, when he and 
Soundwave would come up here to gather materials 
and take them to the laboratories several floors 
down, and then they would work on their 
respective projects – Megatron generally on an 
experimental weapon of destruction, and 
Soundwave ... Soundwave, almost invariably, on the 
fantastically intricate cerebral circuitry which 
he would eventually infuse with life to result 
in yet another creation.  Life and death, side-
by-side, in the repair bay and in the Darkmount 
laboratories.

   There was still enough reserve power in 
the batteries to allow for some illumination, 
and Megatron examined the shelves of parts and 
bins of circuitry.  Everything was still here, 
fully stocked.  Barely thinking about what he 
was doing, he began to gather up the necessary 
pieces.

			* * *

   A luminous silver figure stood before a 
wall of fire, her wings flung out to both sides 
and catching the light in mirrored flashes, her 
optics and the Decepticon symbol on her chest 
nearly black in contrast to the intense light.  
Her fists were clenched in fury and 
determination as she glared down at the gathered 
warriors below her.  To all sides, buildings 
shattered apart as long-range incendiary 
missiles rained from the sky.

   "Sooner will I die," the silver flyer 
shouted, "than curl up and surrender!  Cowards, 
all of you, that you would lay down your arms 
and debase yourselves, rather than making this 
your final stand!  If we lose, we lose but our 
lives – and if we win, we win *everything*!"

   Megatron, viewing the scene from slightly 
above and somewhere to the left, felt a shock of 
horror run through him as the mirrored figure 
turned and flung herself without hesitation into 
the raging inferno.  "No!" he gasped, and 
reached out as though to stop her, but she was 
already engulfed, and he found he could get no 
closer.  The flames filled his vision, and for a 
moment he saw Soundwave before the plasma 
chamber, releasing the power needed to defeat 
the Autobots – a dark silhouette for just an 
instant before the white-hot energies swirled 
out and extinguished him forever.

   Shaken, he turned away – to find himself 
facing another female flyer of much the same 
design as the first, though this one was 
midnight blue.  The slope of her wings hinted at 
an alt mode of a sleek, arrow-shaped skycraft 
that had never entirely gone out of fashion 
among the Decepticons.  She was lithe and 
slender and delicate in appearance – the type of 
warrior who could use speed and agility to such 
advantage that the relatively greater mass of 
most of her opponents worked drastically against 
them.  Megatron had learned very early in life 
that those who dismissed such seemingly fragile-
looking females in combat, often lived only 
barely long enough to realize their mistake.

   This particular one was looking at him 
with kindness and compassion.  Her optics were 
so intensely violet as to be almost black.  "I 
know that brought back some painful memories," 
she said, and her voice was low and soothing, 
nearly musical.  "But please, look again."

   Reluctantly, Megatron turned and looked 
back into the flames.  As the missiles impacted 
around them in eerie silence, the tattered 
remnants of what had once been a Decepticon 
battle unit, collectively picked up their 
weapons and took to the sky.  They roared past 
the walls of fire and were lost from sight, gone 
to meet the enemy halfway, rather than wait to 
be hunted down.

   "When my sister, Silverdance, threw 
herself into the fire," the midnight flyer said, 
stepping up to stand beside Megatron, "it shamed 
the others into meeting their deaths like 
warriors ... and you can be sure they took a good 
number of Autobots with them."

   "Did any ... survive?" Megatron asked.

   "A few.  And they spread the word.  You 
see, that's not the end of the story."

   As Megatron watched, the landscape 
shimmered and the flames died down, leaving a 
blackened cityscape in their place.  By the pale 
light of two of Cybertron's moons, a dark figure 
picked its way carefully between the crumbling 
walls and across the scorched ground.

   Megatron looked questioningly at the flyer 
beside him, and she nodded in assent.  "That's 
me – Starsinger.  I was what, in your time, 
would be called a repairs specialist, but during 
this era I was simply a self-taught healer, as I 
found I had a talent for it."  Her words were 
matter-of-fact statements, without any trace of 
arrogance.  "It was rumored later, the way such 
things get out of control, that I could bring 
the dead back to life, but that was nonsense, of 
course.  It was only determination and 
perseverance, and the willingness to take a 
chance and try the unconventional."

   The Starsinger in the burnt-out landscape 
seemed to find what she was looking for, as she 
crouched down and dug briefly in the rubble, 
brushing away soot and debris – and then rose 
again with a fist-sized object in her hands, 
darting off and disappearing among the ruins.

   "The neural core," Starsinger said by way 
of explanation.  "That was the one part I 
needed.  Protected as it is in the cranial 
housing, it can sometimes withstand more than 
you might think.  It was worth a try, anyhow."

   Megatron next found himself in a small 
windowless chamber, lit by flickering 
torchlight, with a sense of being deep 
underground.  Starsinger had disappeared – or at 
least, the one standing next to him had, though 
before him in the uncertain light, she worked 
over an array of instruments spread out across 
several tables.  Some of the equipment, Megatron 
vaguely recognized, as it was clearly a less 
sophisticated version of the instruments used 
for the most delicate of repair work in his own 
time.  He recognized the magnifier -- though 
this one seemed crude in its manual adjustments 
-- and the silken strands of cerebral 
neurocircuitry spread out beneath it, with the 
tiny bead-like chips arranged in varying 
patterns along their lengths.  A faintly glowing 
flask of energon bubbled slowly as it was heated 
from beneath, a coil of glass tubing carrying 
the life-giving fuel to a dish in which yet more 
cerebral circuits and memory chips floated.

   Eternities seemed to pass, during which 
Starsinger would crouch for hours over the 
magnifier, making adjustments with tools so 
delicate that Megatron could not see their 
effect; at other times she would weave together 
the circuitry and add additional strands from 
her small supply cache; on occasion she would 
pause to ingest some energon or take a half 
hour's rest on the mattress in the corner; but 
always she would start awake again after only a 
short time, and be back at her work, tireless 
and dedicated, to the exclusion of all else.  
And very often she would sing to herself while 
she worked – strange, haunting melodies without 
recognizable words, which seemed to serve to 
keep her calm and focused, as much as they may 
have served to comfort whatever part of 
Silverdance might still be able to hear them.

   Megatron was again reminded eerily of 
Soundwave, the way he used to work exactly this 
way, and even play music softly to himself from 
his vast collection of Cybertronian and offworld 
recordings.  More often than not he played music 
only when he was working on something enjoyable 
– a new creation, a task for Megatron – but 
there were times even in the repair bay when he 
would hit upon just the right playback to soothe 
a panicked patient when nothing else seemed to 
work.  Megatron himself remembered faintly the 
sensation of being put back together again, 
piece by piece, and consumed in pain until his 
mind could latch onto the notes of some ancient 
Cybertronian melody that Soundwave was playing 
as he worked, notes that sounded for all the 
worlds like what Starsinger was warbling to 
herself just now.....

   His optics flickered a bit as he brought 
himself back to the "present," if such was even 
an applicable term.  Starsinger had finished her 
task, and on one of the tables, now clear of 
equipment, lay a fully-restored silver female 
flyer.  A tube ran directly into the main 
energon access port in her throat, into which 
Starsinger drained the last of the energon from 
its warmed flask.  Slowly, very slowly, 
Silverdance's optics shimmered to light.

   Her lips formed Starsinger's name 
soundlessly, and then mouthed the word "Why?"

   Starsinger took her sister's hand and 
said, "Why? Because your troops need you yet.  
If you inspired them this much in death, think 
how much more you will still inspire them in 
life.  The battle is not yet over, Silverdance, 
and the Decepticon cause needs you.

   "But rest now.  You'll feel better 
soon....."

   The words faded out as the scene dimmed 
and vanished into multicolored mist.

   "Wait!" Megatron called out to no one in 
particular.  "What happened to them afterwards?"

   Suddenly Starsinger was beside him again, 
her black eyes and the midnight blue of her 
plating standing out in sharp contrast to the 
pale haze.  "Silverdance recovered," she 
explained, "and went on to resume her command.  
She was left with some gaps in her memory, to be 
sure, and she was sometimes subject to violent 
and irrational outbursts of temper, but most of 
the time she could function.  And if her 
warriors were loyal to her before, they were 
devoted to the death to her thereafter.  During 
a time when the Autobots had the upper hand and 
were relentlessly forcing us back, she not only 
stemmed the tide, but reversed it.  It was 
through her efforts that the Decepticons gained 
half the planet back in those days, rather than 
being driven to extinction.  It's a shame, 
truly, that no record of Silverdance survives to 
your time."

   Megatron nodded thoughtfully.  "Another 
one lost to history."

   "Quite.  But her *actions* live after her to 
this day."  Starsinger regarded him in a long 
moment of silence, as though she expected him to 
come to some realization or conclusion ... but 
when he remained silent in turn, she shimmered 
and faded out.


   Megatron found himself staring down at a 
tangle of cerebral circuits spread out over one 
of the tables in the Darkmount laboratory.  How 
long he had been here, working at this, moving 
back and forth between the magnifier and the 
micro-welder, testing connectivity and 
conductivity and carefully splicing in each 
vital piece, he could barely begin to guess. He 
knew it had been days, at the very least.  A 
moment ago the filamentous neurocircuits had all 
looked like an organized network, each strand in 
its place and connecting logically to the 
others, with very apparent gaps where the rest 
of the strands still needed to be added.  Now as 
he looked at it, it appeared to be a snarled 
mess of haphazardly-connected wires, making not 
the slightest sense to him whatsoever.

   What was he *doing?* he asked himself.

   He had always been technically inclined, 
even without formal training; he and Soundwave 
had many times discussed principles of 
engineering and weapons design and taken them to 
new heights.  Megatron had always delighted in 
tinkering with new ways to gather energy, build 
bigger and better guns, design starships, and 
improve engine efficiency.  Although his 
background was purely that of a warrior, he had 
spent a good deal of time in trial-and-error 
self-education, and liked to think he could keep 
pace with the best scientific minds of his 
species on most subjects.  Cerebral 
neurocircuitry, however – that was a highly 
specialized field.  Even the most skilled of 
repaireons called in the experts when it came to 
cerebral circuitry damage; and constructing a 
set of datacores so that they could house a 
living mind, was on a level all its own again.

   Soundwave had been such an expert.  
Megatron was not.

   He leaned back a little in his chair at 
the magnifier, baffled anew at the clutter 
spread out before him.  He wasn't thinking 
clearly, he realized.  He'd been at this for 
days, non-stop, and suddenly exhaustion 
overwhelmed him.  He pushed the magnifier away 
from himself and let his head sink to the table, 
slipping almost instantly into a thankfully 
dreamless rest cycle.


			3.

   Raksha peered at the viewscreen and made a 
slight manual adjustment to the scoutship 
controls as Cybertron loomed into sight.  
Involuntarily her plumes bristled at the sight 
of the dead world, shrouded in darkness with 
only the faint silver of the surrounding stars 
glinting off its cold, preserved metal surface.  
The world that, to this day, drifted 
disconnected through the void, the world that 
remained as a mausoleum to the past, the world 
where Soundwave had died ... every circuit and 
fiber within her was loathe to return here.  And 
yet, Megatron had been gone for over a week 
without a word, and her puzzlement over his 
behavior had turned to restlessness, then 
concern, until finally she felt the need to come 
see for herself.  Fortunately the small personal 
scoutships in use by the Empire had been so 
upgraded in recent years, that they practically 
flew themselves when provided with the right 
coordinates; even the fantastically complex 
netherspace engines activated themselves on 
command and were pre-programmed to return the 
vessel to "normal space" at just the right 
moment -- therefore being maneuverable even for 
one such as herself who had never quite learned 
the intricate details of Cybertronian 
technology.

   She touched a control to begin the landing 
sequence as the planet's surface filled more and 
more of the viewscreen.  With the barest whisper 
of sound from the engines, the little 
streamlined vessel drifted down over the tops of 
the highest buildings of Polyhex City -- Raksha 
determinedly averted her eyes from the spire of 
the War Memorial that flickered momentarily 
across the screen -- and swept in a slow, 
graceful arc toward the massive blocky edifice 
that was Darkmount.  It was here during happier 
times that Decepticon High Command had been 
centered, along with countless warriors 
stationed there, who lived and fought and played 
and were repaired throughout the building's 
labyrinthine rooms, cubicles, and hallways, 
always ready to plunge into battle to defend the 
city's borders from the Autobots, and, when 
energy reserves allowed, to make pre-emptive 
strikes to claim more of the planet as their 
own.

   Raksha shook her head as the ship touched 
down lightly before one of the main entrances.  
What had she said?  Happier times?  These too 
were happy times, she reminded herself -- the 
Autobots were no more, and the Decepticon empire 
thrived and expanded in all directions.  And 
yet, she had loved those days in Darkmount and 
at Earthbase, where despite the constant Autobot 
threat, or perhaps because of it, the Decepticon 
fighting units had been closely forged teams, 
with a dedication, devotion, and loyalty to one 
another that made them more than just an 
assembly of warriors randomly thrown together.  
Oh, there had been interpersonal squabbles and 
clashes of character, great obstacles to 
overcome, and lethal challenges to face -- but 
in her memories she treasured the emotional 
intensity of those times, in victory as well as 
in desperation, and the cherished sense of 
*belonging*.  It was Soundwave, most of all, whose 
presence had always made her feel welcome -- and 
Megatron, of course, as the leader, whose 
indomitable nature set the standard for everyone 
else.

   And now Megatron had vanished into the 
preserved graveyard that was Cybertron, mumbling 
a few incoherent lines.  She knew from past 
experience that her initiative to follow him 
would be unwelcome, but she had never been cowed 
by the potential of Megatron's rages, which were 
brief and intense and over again quickly.  One 
way or another, she intended to find him.

   The scoutship landed with barely a tremor 
and powered itself down.

   The many irregularly-spaced small windows 
that broke the gray surface of Darkmount, 
remained lightless like extinguished optics ... 
and yet a few of them on one of the mid-levels 
seemed somehow less dark than the others, as 
though a very faint reserve lighting had been 
activated.  Opening the exit hatch, Raksha 
stepped out of the little scoutship into the 
cold metallic chill of Cybertron's eternal 
night, and made her way into the building.

   She found Megatron in the main research 
lab, following the faint light up its gradient 
and to the source.  He'd left the door open, 
perhaps to conserve the bit of power required to 
slide it open and shut, so he didn't immediately 
hear her come in.  He was leaning over one of 
the lab tables working on something she couldn't 
immediately see.

   She came in and walked around the table 
into his line of sight, so he would detect the 
movement and become aware of her presence.  
"Megatron, what are you doing here-?" she 
started to say, then froze in place when she saw 
what was on the table.  "Great Cybertron," she 
hissed, taking a step back.  "What are you 
*doing?*"

   He looked up very slowly, his optics a 
brilliant scarlet and absolutely unflickering.  
He straightened and regarded her blankly before 
the light in his eyes returned to a more normal 
shade.  "Raksha," he murmured in surprise.  "Why 
did you come here?"

   Raksha flickered a glance at what was on 
the table before Megatron and stepped back 
again, her tail lashing in agitation.  "That's 
what I was going to ask you!  You disappear 
without an explanation and without a word, for 
days, and then I come here to find -- *this*?"

   Megatron looked down at the workbench.  
His optics flickered for a moment of confusion, 
then he looked back up to meet Raksha's gaze.  
"I came here ... to revitalize Cybertron," he 
said quietly.

   Raksha just shook her head, 
uncomprehending.  "Revitalize--!  Megatron, the 
dead are dead, and you can't bring them back, no 
matter how much you might wish to.  I don't know 
what got into you.  Come back to Sky City and 
we'll get it sorted out."

   "No!" Megatron snapped, suddenly angry. 
"*You* go back to Sky City, that's where I told 
you to stay in the first place.  Or stay here 
for all I care, but stay out of my way.  I have 
work to do."

   Abruptly he stepped away from the lab 
table and stalked out of the room, leaving 
Raksha alone with the half-finished project, the 
sight of which made the energon turn to ice in 
her fuel lines.

			* * *

   Megatron's jetcannon mode was built for 
power rather than speed, but here, alone in the 
night, he seemed to tear through the deserted 
skyways at tremendous velocity, the roar of the 
powerful thruster engines rattling the dark, 
blind windows as he thundered past them.  
Eventually the sudden surge of fury that had 
sent him tearing out of Darkmount, gave way to 
the great vast silence of the planet around him, 
and finally he landed on the outskirts of 
Polyhex, where the buildings were lower and the 
streets smaller and darker and more 
labyrinthine.  Still agitated, he transformed 
and stalked off into the narrow alleys, walking 
rapidly past the featureless walls.

   He barely took note of his surroundings, 
how the shadows gathered behind him ... how 
something kept pace, just beyond the border of 
his peripheral vision.  Until a voice whispered 
out of the darkness, "You're going the wrong 
way."

   Megatron abruptly spun around, his optics 
flashing brilliant scarlet as he scanned the 
narrow alley behind him.  Although cloaked in 
deep shadows, it seemed deserted ... until one 
of the shadows seemed to move off to the left.  
Reflexively Megatron snapped up the fusion 
cannon on his arm.  He'd had enough of strange 
visitors and waking dreams.

   "No need for that," the voice whispered, 
coming suddenly from his right.  Megatron turned 
toward it, and just barely caught the outline of 
tall sickle-shaped wings that sloped down like a 
flared cape around a body that was 
indistinguishable from the darkness, a head with 
a glint of gray light where the eyes should be.  
With the barest of sidesteps it melted back into 
the shadows and the outline disappeared.  
Instead, the lights of the optics brightened 
into a pair of pale-white diamonds that peered 
at him in an eerily disembodied way out of the 
dark.

   "Alright -- what do *you* want?" Megatron 
asked, resigning himself to getting this next 
encounter over with.

   "Only to tell you" -- that same barely-
detectable whisper again, Megatron had to listen 
closely to hear it -- "-that you're going the 
wrong way."

   Megatron folded his arms across his chest 
and demanded, "Explain yourself.  And while 
you're at it, come out of hiding.  I don't like 
talking to someone I can't see."

   A feathery whisper of laughter.  "Ah yes.  
Renegade used to make the same complaint."

   "Renegade?"

   "You recognize the name?"

   "Of course!  He was the commander who 
secured Cybertron from the Autobots, 
initializing a three-thousand year stretch of 
Decepticon rule.  His strategies are still among 
the best, the tactics of unpredictability and 
second-guessing the enemy, beating them at their 
own game."

   More quiet laughter.  "Indeed," the voice 
whispered, "he had a certain talent.  He had the 
motivation, the strength of will, the ability to 
win the admiration and deathless loyalty of his 
troops, to an extent that I have only ever seen 
-- once, thereafter.  He also had something 
else."

   "What's that?" Megatron asked, a bit 
suspicious of the riddles and the barely audible 
voice.

   Quite unexpectedly the owner of the voice 
stepped out of the shadows to stand next to 
Megatron, though this act in itself didn't make 
him much more visible than he had been before.  
He was pure black, of a shade that seemed almost 
to absorb light, tall and slender with movements 
that didn't seem to connect with anything around 
him, and those cloak-like wings with their 
sickle-shaped tips that curved inward over his 
head.  The barest trace of a Decepticon symbol, 
faintly outlined in silver, glinted for a moment 
on the underside of one wing.

   "An advisor," the black figure replied to 
Megatron's question.  "An advisor who was not 
bound by protocol and rank structure and chain-
of-command.  One who would come to him now and 
again and provide a critical bit of information.  
Such as, for instance: 'You're going the wrong 
way.'"

   "I don't know anything about an advisor to 
Renegade," Megatron snarled, a little 
disconcerted by the steady white light of the 
other's optics and the form that seemed solid 
and yet not entirely physical, as though he 
could dissipate onto the darkness at a moment's 
notice.

   The black Decepticon smiled, or seemed to; 
in the shadows of his face it was hard to tell. 
"Of course you wouldn't know of me.  Even 
Renegade's closest underlings had no idea.  He 
himself tried to run me off at first, when he 
was out alone and I'd find him ... oh, he'd rant 
and rage and order that I show myself, and 
demand to know what right I had to attempt to 
point out a flaw in the strategy here and there 
-- but eventually he would calm down and 
listen." The whispered words softened a little, 
if that were possible, as though speaking with 
affection. "At times we would have almost normal 
conversations.  I should like to think we became 
friends.  But that was not until after the 
Battle of Agora.  You know of it from your 
history?"

   "Naturally," Megatron replied, recalling 
the story.  "The Autobot high command had holed 
up in Agora, a city whose defenses were already 
partly down, so it looked like an easy target -- 
too easy, since the Autobots were wanting 
Renegade to think just that.  While they tried 
to get him to attack the city, they'd be on 
their way through the rift valley to the south, 
to storm Polyhex and lay claim to its stockpiles 
of weaponry while the bulk of the Decepticon 
army was away.  Renegade started out for Agora 
like they expected, but switched routes halfway 
there to meet the Autobots in the valley, 
collapsing the canyon sides in on them.  They 
never knew what hit them."

   The other Decepticon chuckled.  "Quite 
right.  Though I assure you that Renegade was 
completely intent on the capture of Agora at 
first -- rich and decadent Agora with its rivers 
of fuel and treasures beyond count.  You have 
nothing like it in your time, even to this day.  
I had to ... persuade him ... that his 
possession of Agora would be short-lived when 
the Autobots secured themselves in Polyhex and 
from there came after him with his own weapons.  
Agora was an easy target precisely because it 
was difficult to defend in its current state -- 
for the Decepticons as much so as for the 
Autobots.  We went round and round with that 
argument half the night.  Sometimes I think he 
finally agreed to change plans only to be rid of 
me."

   The dark figure paused for a long moment 
as though indulging in some remembrance.  
Megatron wondered if he were just going to fall 
silent and fade away, when he continued 
abruptly, "Now, understand -- I am by no means 
saying that Renegade was no competent leader all 
on his own.  He was tremendously gifted.  For 
all that he could be impetuous and impulsive, it 
was his very passion that inspired his troops - 
and he was very much aware that it was his role 
to be the figurehead, the inspiration.  The one 
who had to slay the Autobot commander one-on-one 
when the time came.  His warriors were loyal to 
him unto death and beyond, and he to them in the 
way that great commanders always are ... in 
fact, he reminds me of someone else I once 
knew...." The words trailed off as the pale-
white optics regarded Megatron steadily, their 
expression unreadable.  "In any case, Renegade 
had one more virtue.  Much as he bristled over 
it sometimes, he was aware that one individual, 
no matter how brilliant, no matter how powerful, 
cannot remain aware of everything.  Sometimes it 
pays to listen to that voice out of the 
darkness."  Another pause, then, "This is 
another virtue that you share with him."

   "Alright," Megatron growled reluctantly, 
"what's your message for me, then?"

   "But I've given it to you already," the 
dark Decepticon whispered.  "You're going the 
wrong way."

   The figure shifted slightly and seemed to 
melt into the shadows, with only the lights of 
the optics remaining visible, and those slowly 
dimming.

   "Wait a minute!" Megatron demanded.  
"What's *that* supposed to mean?  Don't you just 
vanish off!"

   "Think about it," the voice whispered 
almost inaudibly.  "You wish to revitalize 
Cybertron.  You can't bring that much fuel to 
Cybertron -- it would suck your empire dry.  You 
have to bring Cybertron to a new source of fuel.  
And how might you go about that?"

   Megatron looked at the pale-white lights 
of the optics blankly.  Then the answer flashed 
on in his mind like the impact of a lightening 
bolt.  "There's an ancient infrastructure of 
machinery at the heart of the planet," he began 
slowly, as some old half-formed plans from the 
past began to play themselves back in his mind, 
"which could be converted into a massive 
starship engine, with the planet itself as the 
ship.  Cybertron could be steered on its course 
through space and locked back into orbit around 
an appropriate star -- where solar conversion 
cells could easily collect all the energy we 
need!"  Megatron felt a surge of delighted 
enthusiasm as he suddenly saw a viable solution 
to the problem.

   The pale-white optics wavered for a moment 
as though their owner had nodded.  "Then I ask 
you what you're doing out here, heading away 
from Polyhex, when the access shaft to the 
machinery lies in the city's heart?"

   The white lights flickered out abruptly, 
and Megatron was quite certain that he was 
alone.  His thoughts were racing.  Here he'd 
been worried about the gathering and transport 
of enough fuel to bring the planet back to life 
-- why hadn't he thought of moving Cybertron 
itself?  He had seriously considered the notion 
once, long ago, after Cybertron lost its 
original orbit, but so many other things had 
needed more immediate attention, so often the 
necessity of survival interfered, that he never 
quite got back to it.  The machinery that made 
up the infrastructure of the planet, looked as 
though it could be converted into mass-driver 
engines, but at the time it was theoretical at 
best; no one even knew why such extensive 
machinery had been built into the fabric of the 
planet to begin with, and every step of the way 
of such a project would have been hazardous 
trial and error -- difficult at the best of 
times, impossible while also fighting a full-
scale war.  But that war was over now, and 
technical knowledge had advanced considerably--

   Megatron's enthusiasm stopped short 
against a sudden trickle of doubt.  Did he have 
the technical knowledge to even attempt such a 
thing, without the help of a trained scientist 
or engineer?  For the briefest of instants he 
considered sending for the empire's top 
engineers to assist him, but that was out of the 
question -- they really would think he'd lost 
his mind.  No, this was a project that had to be 
delivered as a completed result.  It was too 
important to be derailed by the meddling, 
interference, and ridicule of others.  He'd have 
to go it alone.  If only Soundwave were--

   He shook his head to dispel the end of 
that thought, his mood darkening further.  The 
entrance shaft to the planet's interior, deep 
below Darkmount, was situated beside the old 
plasma energy chamber, now empty of course -- 
but too vivid still, sometimes, was the memory 
of that white-hot energy boiling out and 
vaporizing Soundwave after he'd released the 
locks.  Megatron wondered if he could even bring 
himself to go down there again.

   He barely noticed that he'd been slowly 
walking back toward the center of Polyhex all 
along.


			4.

   As it turned out, he *couldn't* bring 
himself to go down to the empty plasma chamber.  
At least not just yet, he told himself, and 
holed himself up in the lab.  A mental haze 
closed over him there that kept him lost in the 
intricate tangle of microscopic circuitry which 
he was slowly connecting up.  His movements were 
deliberate and certain, with mechanical 
precision, as though not his own, but he didn't 
pause to question his newfound skills.  He only 
knew that he had to continue with the project, 
that it was somehow vital to the overall success 
of his intentions.

   Raksha came and went, spoke words to him 
that he barely registered, looked upon his task 
with something akin to horror and beat a hasty 
retreat, only to reappear again later with 
energon cubes that she insisted he consume.  He 
did so in order to get her to leave, and then 
resumed work.

			* * *

   Raksha paced the length of the Darkmount 
command center, the iridescent plumes of her 
neck bristling in agitation.  She lashed her 
tail through a whipcrack motion and turned back 
toward the three silent Decepticons who had 
listened to her story in amazement and growing 
concern.

   They stood and regarded her:  Deathsaurus, 
the proud command figure in blue and silver 
whose robot mode all but hid his mixed alien 
heritage; Asura, lithe and golden and far more 
serpentine than her brother; and Kaliber, the 
rebel child who had eventually found his place 
not in rank and privilege, but in exploration on 
the fringes of the empire, and was all that 
remained to Megatron of his first consort 
Nightbird.  Oh, Megatron would be furious to 
hear that Raksha had called them away from their 
duties, but her priorities had always lain in 
slightly different realms.

   "So you see," she finished, "why I've 
called you here.  I say to him 'Let the dead 
rest, this is abomination,' and he just looks at 
me like he didn't even hear the words; I say 
'Don't you think I miss him as much as you do, 
don't you think I'd have done anything in the 
universe to bring him back, but the dead are 
dead, Megatron,' and he just turns away and 
keeps at it.  I fear for his sanity, now and 
when this horrific 'project' is complete and 
nothing comes of it.  I'm hoping that you three, 
as his creations, might be able to reach him 
somehow."

   They looked at each other uneasily at 
first, but Raksha could see them forming a unity 
of purpose, holding each others' gaze and 
nodding to one another slightly before turning 
back to her.  Her plumes smoothed slightly in 
relief.  Kaliber in particular had never had a 
harmonious relationship with his father, and 
Deathsaurus had had a good deal of conflict to 
work through; Asura was the one Megatron was 
really close to, but she moved in a different 
world than her brothers, whom she knew mostly as 
distant heroes, faces on a viewscreen.  Raksha 
found it some slight encouragement, at least, 
that they were all clearly willing to help.  
Whether their combined efforts would be enough 
to drag Megatron out of whatever had gotten hold 
of him -- that, she could only hope.

			* * *

   Megatron soldered the final piece into 
place carefully, and put his tools aside.  He 
became aware suddenly that he'd been standing 
hunched over the lab table for many hours -- or 
had it been days? -- and every joint and gear in 
his body protested with a dull ache.  He 
stretched a bit, then brought his hands to his 
optics, which burned from exhaustion.  He sighed 
... his task was done, some mental fog was 
slowly lifting ... he lowered his hands from his 
optics and saw for the first time what lay on 
the lab table before him.

   He stared at it with a creeping, horrified 
fascination.  Raksha's words came back to him 
now -- Great Cybertron, what had he *built*?  And 
*why*?  He staggered back and away from the table.  
In a sudden confusion edged with panic, he 
looked wildly around the lab as though expecting 
some answer there -- only to see a figure 
standing quietly in one corner.

   Uncharacteristically Megatron leapt back, 
his hand shooting out in search of some weapon 
as he'd unhooked his heavy fusion cannon days 
ago; glass flasks and a flurry of micro-tools 
spun to the floor and shattered as his grip 
swept past them and latched onto the magnifier, 
which he ripped from its moorings on the lab 
bench and hoisted like a club.

   The other robot took a step forward, 
holding out one hand in a gesture of 
appeasement.  "Please, don't be afraid," he 
said.  "My name is Telecon.  I'm here to help.  
I can help you with this."  He nodded toward the 
lifeless figure on the lab table.  He stood 
perhaps as tall as Megatron's shoulder, plated 
in deep green with optics to match and a dark-
purple Decepticon symbol of modern type adorning 
one shoulder; his outlines were curved, even 
somewhat rotund, more so than angular, and his 
voice and expression were kind.  There was a 
knowing look in his optics as though this was 
someone who seldom needed verbal explanations 
for others' actions.  Overall, he was hardly a 
threatening figure, and Megatron felt suddenly 
absurd, standing there with the magnifier in his 
hand as though he were going to bash in the 
helmet of some fuelthirsty enemy.  Slowly, 
mustering as much dignity as remained possible, 
he placed the magnifier back onto the edge of 
the lab table, determinedly averting his eyes 
from what else was there.

   His mind seized upon the name he'd heard, 
as it gave him something to focus on, and he 
repeated, "Telecon?"  There'd been a Telecon two 
generations back, during a brief lull in the 
wars, who founded a famous school of philosophy.  
It was said that warlords and city-state 
commanders were no uncommon sight on his 
doorstep, for his wisdom was legendary, and his 
insight was enhanced by that most rare and 
mysterious of Transformer abilities, telepathy.  
Practically non-existent among Autobots, it was 
rare even among Decepticons, and only very few 
had exceptional skill with it.  The identities 
of all of the political maneuverers of Telecon's 
day had been lost to history, lacking the all-
out warfare that would have made names for them, 
but Telecon's name remained, just as history 
occasionally remembered other unusually gifted 
telepaths here and there....

   "Yes, I am *that* Telecon," the green 
Decepticon answered, as though looking into 
Megatron's thoughts, and added with the trace of 
a self-effacing smile, "History tends to 
exaggerate, compact and condense, clip off a 
little bit of the truth here and add it again at 
a different angle there; you know how it goes."

   "Yes," Megatron murmured.  Once again he 
was having a conversation with someone who'd 
been dead for billennia, and the truly 
frightening part was that it felt almost normal.  
"What's going on?" he implored, suddenly 
desperate for answers.  "What's been happening 
all this time?"

   Telecon smiled reassuringly.  "The re-
vitalization of Cybertron, of course.  That's 
been your intention all along, hasn't it?  
Always somewhere in the back of your mind, even 
while you were out conquering worlds and 
building your magnificent Sky City ... always 
somewhere was the reminder that all was not yet 
well with the empire, because Cybertron lay 
deserted.  Am I right?"

   Megatron hesitated ... then nodded 
wordlessly.  It was indeed true, and he only now 
fully realized it.

   "Then it was surely about time," Telecon 
said gently, "that you made that intention a 
reality.  This--" he nodded again toward the lab 
table-- "is simply the first step.  As you've 
already deduced, you cannot complete the task 
alone.  Come, we'll take him down to the plasma 
chamber, you and I..." While he spoke, Telecon 
stepped toward the lab table and reached toward 
the figure lying atop.

   "Don't touch that!" Megatron shouted, 
suddenly flooded with rage and panic again.  He 
was next to Telecon in a single stride and swung 
his fist back as though to send the smaller 
Decepticon flying.  Telecon looked up at him 
with an expression of curiosity---

   --and Megatron's fist swung through empty 
air.


   He caught his balance in the darkness.  At 
first he was surrounded by complete blackness, 
total silence.  But slowly, infinitesimally 
slowly, lines of faint yellow light began to 
appear, like an irregular grid pattern far below 
him, to all sides, above -- as though he were 
hovering in place in the center of some vast 
convergence of light beams.  As the narrow 
ribbons of light intensified, so did the sound 
... very faintly at first, but soon recognizable 
as the discordant murmur of millions upon 
millions of voices, the occasional clank of 
machinery, the unmistakable whine of laser 
weaponry or the thunder of heavy guns.

   Megatron watched and listened as the 
ribbons of light grew into streams ... he could 
actually see what looked like pulses of light 
racing along their lengths and flowing out into 
some eternity far beyond his line of vision.  He 
listened closely, sometimes able to pick out 
snatches of words or bits of conversation.  He 
was startled to occasionally detect the voices 
of those he knew, both dead and living ... 
sometimes even his own voice, sometimes he was 
able to recognize things he'd said in the past, 
sometimes he heard things he knew he'd never 
said.


   "I entrust Cybertron to you..."

   "Such heroic nonsense..."

   "She's everything I've always wanted..."

   "I accept your terms..."

   "You may return to Earth as my 
   subordinate..."

   "The Autobots have taken their last 
   flight..."


   Intrigued at first, he grew increasingly 
uneasy as the pulsing lightstreams swelled into 
brilliantly blinding rivers; the accompanying 
tumult of voices rose into an unintelligible din 
that seemed to ebb and flow like waves.  He 
found himself at the center of a nexus of light, 
the torrents converging in on him from all 
directions and spinning off into infinity.  He 
tried to dim his eyes to fight the 
disorientation ... he no longer knew which way 
was up, or if there *was* an "up" in this place -- 
he no longer knew whether he was standing or 
spinning about, or if it was the universe that 
was spinning around him.

   The lightstreams seemed to sear through 
his mind.  The roar of sound caught him ... with 
a bolt of terror he sensed that perhaps he might 
be carried away in some direction which he 
didn't want to go, at the mercy of forces which 
he couldn't fight or control.  His vision filled 
with flashes of black-yellow black-yellow, as 
the cacophony of voices roared around him.  He 
struck out in terrified desperation, trying to 
free himself ... he didn't know anymore if he 
was alive or dead, but as long as he still had 
his consciousness, his inherent inner strength 
would fight to hang onto it.  He *would not* be 
sucked under and torn apart in this torrent of 
light and sound!  If only there was some way he 
could call for help ... was there anyone who 
*could* help, whom he could even bring himself to 
call to?

   Only one name came to mind.

   "*Soundwave!*"


   The instant the hand touched his shoulder, 
the lightstreams blanked out and the voices fell 
silent.  Megatron stood in perfect darkness.  
Slowly, very slowly, a threadlike trace of the 
yellow light-grid became visible again all 
around him, but at a vast distance away.  
Occasionally a node of the grid flickered up 
faintly like a tiny star being born and 
instantly dying.

   He turned, and the hand slipped away from 
his shoulder.  Soundwave was there, the warm red 
of his optic band brightened a bit in a smile.  
"You have not changed, my friend," he said, in 
his deep, reverberating monotone -- almost a 
physical shock, to Megatron, to hear it again 
after all this time -- "You are still drawn to 
the immediacy of every experience.  Sometimes 
you get a bit too close."  His optic flickered 
just a trace brighter for a moment, as he 
indicated the distant light grid of which he 
spoke.

   Megatron stared at Soundwave blankly.  
Somewhere within himself he felt he should be 
overjoyed to see Soundwave again, or alternately 
crushed with sorrow in the knowledge that this 
was all a hallucination from which he would soon 
awake, and Soundwave would still be dead ... but 
somehow those two conflicting emotions negated 
one another, leaving him feeling, for the 
moment, very little of anything at all.

   "What is ... *that*?" he asked finally, 
gesturing toward the distant light-grid.

   "Timestreams," Soundwave said matter-of-
factly.  "Many alternate pasts and alternate 
futures, coming together at many points.  I 
wanted you to see them.  To see how easily the 
course of a timestream can be shifted to another 
channel, and the entire outcome changes.  Look 
closely -- see where the nodes light up?"

   "Yes, I noticed that," Megatron replied.  
Faint stars continued to sparkle briefly at the 
intersections where the glowing threads crossed, 
always seeming to flare up for just an instant 
in a different spot.

   "Individuals," Soundwave explained, "who, 
through chance or design, have the power to 
shift the timestreams to other channels, or to 
create new ones.  Notice that the grid is 
forever growing new branches.  Nothing is pre-
determined."

   Megatron nodded.  "Okay ... but why show 
me this?"

   "For Cybertron," Soundwave said 
enigmatically.

   When Megatron looked at him questioningly, 
he explained, "So that you will understand the 
true course of your history, and have some 
concept of the future.  You see, at each of 
these critical points in the past--" he turned 
toward the part of the grid which he'd initially 
had his back to -- "things could have taken a 
different course.  There was one point, for 
instance, where there was considerable danger 
that your history, and by extension that of the 
Decepticons, might have ended very differently, 
where you would have died and your remains 
perverted into a creature who might have very 
nearly led the Decepticons to ruin.  In a 
universe alternate to the one you know, such a 
course was in fact taken, and a thousand other 
possibilities from that single instant that 
played out elsewhere.

   "But only your own universe need concern 
you here.  It was the timestream-changers, those 
individuals who had the extraordinary force of 
will, the courage, the dedication, the far-
reaching vision -- individuals such as Salvo, 
Tarxus, Silverdance, and Renegade -- who made it 
possible for the Decepticon empire to exist as 
it does today.  Individuals such as yourself, 
Megatron.  In fact, you were one of the 
brightest lights I have ever encountered."

   Megatron scowled briefly, to think of 
himself as a momentary flicker of light on a 
vast grid of infinity.  But something else was 
tugging at the edge of his thoughts, and he 
pursued it.... "Soundwave ... all those 
important leaders in Decepticon history -- they 
didn't act alone.  There was always someone 
without whom they might never have survived to 
direct history on a new course."

   Soundwave nodded.  "This is true -- and 
there you have hit upon one of the underlying 
secrets.  Without the visionary command figures 
who dare to take drastic action, the timestream 
remains relatively unbranched -- possibilities 
reduced -- not necessarily a bad thing, but an 
altogether less interesting universe.  Once 
possibilities spring up, however, the potential 
for disaster is as great as the potential for 
success.  This is where a critical word of 
advice, a well-placed warning, an occasional 
guiding hand, can make all the difference."

   Megatron regarded Soundwave closely.  "And 
that's where you come in."

   Soundwave inclined his head slightly, his 
optic band brightening again just a touch.

   Megatron turned away, following the 
distantly visible pulses of light along the 
timestream grid.  Soundwave stepped quietly up 
next to him, the way he used to when Megatron 
was surveying a battlefield or a future conquest 
or an overview of Decepticon territory -- silent 
and unobtrusive, yet ready to listen to whatever 
Megatron might want to say, and ready to give 
advice if asked.

   "So you see," Soundwave said softly, 
regarding the traces of light with Megatron, 
"why Cybertron should live again.  It first 
caught my attention because it had such 
potential, but that potential had to be nudged 
in the right direction, and a great deal of time 
and carefully-placed effort has gone into it.  
Our species -- yes, it feels right to speak of 
the Decepticons that way by now -- our species 
has done well for itself in a hostile universe.  
It has potential still.  For this reason I 
intend to return with you.  We have work to do 
yet."

   Megatron turned to look at Soundwave in 
surprise.  "Return?  Isn't that ... er, against 
the rules somehow?"

   Soundwave's optic band flickered with the 
trace of amusement.  "There are no rules, beyond 
those we make for ourselves.  You, better than 
anyone, should know that."

   "So this is all for real ... you somehow 
directed me to build an exact  replica of your 
body--"

   Soundwave nodded. "Yes -- and I do 
apologize for the emotional distress and 
disorientation that accompanied the process -- 
but I needed your help, if I was to have that 
physical form again."

   Megatron shook his head in bemusement, but 
found himself smiling.  "You devious old 
rustbucket," he muttered, smiling still, 
reviving the favorite old "insult" between them.  
Slowly he was beginning to have hope that this 
was not all some strange dream, that perhaps, 
under some circumstances, if the timelines 
converged the right way, the dead could live 
again.

   He mentally replayed the things Soundwave 
had said, trying to sift clues out of the words. 
His optics darkened a bit in thought.  Soundwave 
stood quietly and let him alone, only watched 
calmly.  Megatron finally looked up again and 
met his gaze.  "Soundwave," he said, "what are 
you?  What are you really?"

   Soundwave tilted his head a bit, as though 
in surprise.  His image converged smoothly into 
the primitive and spindly form of Astarquias, 
then bulked up into the armored warrior 
Soleandra, flowed into the graceful and 
deceptively delicate Starsinger, melted into the 
light-absorbing darkness that was Renegade's 
secret advisor, solidified into Telecon with his 
kind green optics, and unfolded again into the 
indigo Decepticon whom Megatron had known and 
trusted for most of his life.  "I am Soundwave," 
he said casually. "I thought you knew."

   Megatron gaped at him in astonishment.  
*Now* it all began to fit into place! "So it was 
you--  You mean all this time-- Cybertron's 
history-- *You*??" he stammered.

   The distant traces of the timestream grid 
were fading around them as a multicolored haze 
began to close in.  Soundwave started to turn 
away, to head into the mist.  He paused and 
looked back.  "Are you coming?  We should not 
leave Raksha and your creations waiting...."

			* * *

   Megatron and Soundwave stood in the center 
of the empty plasma chamber deep below 
Darkmount, when Raksha rounded the corner 
leading Kaliber, Deathsaurus, and Asura.  As 
one, the four of them stopped dead in their 
tracks, their incredulous optics fixed on 
Soundwave.

   Megatron smiled and stepped forward, 
placing his hands on Raksha's shoulders.  "I see 
you've called in the cavalry," he said, but his 
tone was amused rather than angry.  His next 
words conveyed the trace of an affectionate 
reprimand.  "Some day you're going to learn to 
trust my judgement.  Some day you're going to 
stop bypassing the chain of command and creating 
havoc when you pull my best commanders from 
their posts on a whim."  His gaze flickered to 
Deathsaurus and Kaliber as he spoke, then darted 
for a moment to Asura and shimmered a bit 
brighter for an instant in the conspiratorial 
wink he often shared with her.  He returned his 
attention to Raksha.  "As you see, your concerns 
were unfounded."

   Raksha craned her neck to peer around 
Megatron at Soundwave, standing quietly in the 
background.  Her expression was doubtful, even 
as his optic band brightened a bit in a smile 
and he nodded to her.  She looked up at Megatron 
again, bewildered, wordless confusion evident in 
the repeated bristling of her plumes and the 
restless lashing of her tail.

   Megatron impulsively drew her into a 
comforting embrace.  "It's alright, Raksha," he 
said.  "He's alive and real, I assure you.  As 
to how he got to be that way..."  He looked 
around at the others and decided, "Let's go 
topside.  Soundwave can tell the story better 
than I."



			Epilogue

   Six months later, with Megatron feeding 
power to the propulsion thrusters and Soundwave 
at the directional controls, Cybertron carefully 
edged into orbit around a white-hot star, not 
unlike the one it had circled many millions of 
years ago.  Together they corrected the minor 
wobble in the planet's rotation and settled it 
into its path.  Great banks of solar collector 
cells, installed across key locations before the 
journey through space even began, now unfurled 
and tilted their surfaces toward the sun, 
hungrily drinking power.  Gradually and 
steadily, the planet would become habitable 
again.

   As to how Soundwave, much like Cybertron, 
"returned to life," rumors in the Decepticon 
empire understandably ran rampant.  Only a 
handful of individuals retained an inkling of 
the truth.


			END