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        Ultra Magnus stepped into command and control. At the communications console, Jazz was trying to talk some sense into Wreck-Gar while Rodimus Prime stood over him, tapping his foot impatiently. Magnus sighed inwardly. It was a good thing he got here when he did; he recognized that look on Rodimus’ face, and if he had been any later, the treaty between the Autobots and the Junkions would probably have gone up in a cloud of transtator particles from the ruined comm station.

        "Rodimus, I came as soon as I heard. What’s the trouble?"

        Rodimus turned toward Magnus, grateful for the distraction. "It’s Wreck-Gar. Apparently, this week there’s some kind of marathon of Earth television shows. Have you ever heard of ‘Bozo the Clown?’"

        Magnus couldn’t say that he had. "Let me guess—the Junkions don’t want to do anything until this marathon is over."

        Rodimus nodded. " I’m getting tired of this. Every time we’ve asked them to do something, they keep making up one excuse after another, about this TV show and that TV show. What’s the use of a treaty if they don’t stop watching television long enough to honor it?" Rodimus said the last loud enough so that Wreck-Gar would be able to hear it over his chatter with Jazz. Both of them stopped and looked at Rodimus, Jazz turning in his chair to do so.

        Magnus winced inwardly, reached out for Rodimus’ shoulder. "Rodimus, let’s step over here for a moment, I need to talk to you about something."

        Rodimus frowned at the image of Wreck-Gar on the screen, then walked with Magnus to the far corner of the nerve center of Iacon. "Alright, Magnus, let me guess—time for another lecture?"

        Magnus shook his head. "Rodimus, I’ve told you time and again—a true leader isn’t plagued with impatience, but allows the situation to develop around him, watches it, then seizes control over it. You can’t just talk to the Junkions like they’re spoiled children, you’ll only wind up alienating them and making them dishonor our treaty."

        "They already are!"

        "That’s not the point, Rodimus, and you know it—you’ve got to find another solution, something other than yelling. In all my time serving with Optimus, and with other leaders, all the great leaders never needed to raise their voices to get their point across. Think of another solution, that’s all."

        Rodimus’ optics were tight. "Well, do you have any solutions?"

        Magnus shrugged. "That’s why you hold the Matrix, Rodimus. I wasn’t meant to be a leader."

        In other words, Rodimus thought, you haven’t got a clue, either.

        Rodimus nodded, then walked slowly back toward the communications console, where both Wreck-Gar and Jazz were getting more and more frustrated over a conversation that didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. Once he had gotten halfway across the room, Rodimus snapped his fingers and picked up his pace.

        Leaning over Jazz, Rodimus smiled and asked, "Wreck-Gar, I’m sure you’ve heard of the VCR. . ."

        Magnus smiled. He wouldn’t have thought of that—it was a good idea. If the Junkions couldn’t figure out how to build a videocassette recorder themselves, Rodimus could easily send Sky Lynx, Cosmos, Omega Supreme or somebody else to give them one and show them how it works. His smile broadened as he imagined Omega Supreme on gopher duty, then he turned and left for his quarters, where he would have a light energon refill before returning to reconstruction duty.

        Rodimus, he thought, would shape up to be a good leader. Granted, he was young yet, and consequently had much to learn, but he was learning much, and well. He remembered some of the last words Optimus Prime had said to him on his deathbed, when he had been named as Prime’s successor. He had told Prime that he wasn’t ready to take command, that he was just a soldier—Prime replied that he had not been ready either, when he first took command of the Autobots. Yes, Rodimus wasn’t quite ready for leadership, but he would be. With his help, with Kup’s, with all the Autobots standing behind him, he would make a good—no, a great—leader.

        A momentary thought passed through Magnus’ mind, one that disturbed him. He will be the leader that I never got the chance to be.

        It was at moments like these that Magnus wished his race had never been constructed with sensory devices, as at the moment that thought occurred to him, his outer layers went dreadfully cold. It wasn’t right, that thought. It didn’t fit with what he wanted to be, who he wanted to be. He was a soldier, not a leader, and was quite content with just that—

        —but the idea remained. He hadn’t been the first to touch the Matrix of Leadership when it left Prime’s body. Optimus had dropped it—Hot Rod caught it. He handed it immediately to Ultra Magnus, he hadn’t intended any fault. But perhaps the Matrix thought that Hot Rod was the Autobot meant to have the Matrix, not Ultra Magnus, because of that accident. If that hadn’t happened, he might be Magnus Prime right now, destroyer of the Chaos-Bringer and the leader who retook Cybertron. A hero.

        Magnus was grateful he was alone in the elevator taking him to his quarters as he slumped against the wall and massaged his optics. Or the casing over them, anyway. These thoughts were wrong. The Matrix did not change him because it realized he did not have the potential that Hot Rod did, because it realized that he was not leader material. He was already hero enough—anything more would be undeserved. He knew it as he and the other Autobots were fleeing earth during the Unicron crisis. When Hot Rod, Kup and the Dinobots were attacked and crashed on Quintessa, he had told Springer that he "can’t deal with that now." And he was right. But not just about his brothers’ crash—he was right about his leadership capabilities. So why would such a notion come to him?

        He didn’t know, but it made him nervous. Was he only tutoring Rodimus in the "ways of leadership" because that way he could keep some of the power stolen from him when Rodimus was chosen by the Matrix? So that he could control the Autobot Commander, and thus essentially be the real power behind the throne? Another chill passed over him as he realized he didn’t know the answer.

        The doors to the elevator finally opened, and he went to his quarters without pause. While consuming an energon cube, he decided that he would have to stay on the watch for these emotions in the future, and guard against them. He needed to make certain his motivations were pure—if all he was after was power, then he knew he would have to stop tutoring Rodimus immediately. Yes, perhaps that was wisest. After all, all he had been doing lately was repeating the same tired lessons over and over again. He couldn’t imagine where Rodimus would appreciate that terribly much.

        Yes, that’s what he would do. He was a poor teacher, anyway. Leading and teaching, not his strong suits. Both required aspects of the other, and by being good at neither he was only doing the Autobots as a whole a disservice.

        He couldn’t ever recall such thoughts passing through his mind before his association with the humans. From what little he knew of them and their literature, these shifts of emotion were common with them. He had no idea how they could stand it—but, then again, it did seem beneficial. If he went through his entire existence without questioning himself, he might find himself going mad without ever realizing it.

        But then again, insanity was a kind of emotion, too.

        Magnus shook his head rapidly. Enough of these thoughts! If he stood here thinking all day, all he’d do is go in circles while no work got done! His energon levels back at full, he left his quarters to get back to doing much-needed repairs on the surface of Cybertron.

        Quintessa was a deformed world with a metallic surface and metallic rings that made Cyclonus’ mind ache just looking at them. Whoever had constructed that world, or perhaps reconstructed would be a better term, had a sense of aesthetics very much alien from his own. Let them keep it—as long as they listened to his reason, as long as they obeyed his wishes, let them keep their ugly planet. The Decepticons needed energon, and as long as these Quintessons could extract the conversion technology from Unicron, he could care less what they felt was beautiful.

        The purple crank-winged starfighter approached Quintessa at top speed, slowing down only to avoid the incomprehensible rings, and set his scanners to maximum to try and find the inevitable clusters of lifeforms that would indicate a city. Detecting one, Cyclonus shifted course and increased his speed to this new target. There—a city of screw-shaft towers surrounding an enormous arena. It was not entirely unlike some of the cities he remembered barely from Earth—no doubt the arena was a center for sporting events.

        Each of the spiraling towers was indistinguishable from its neighbors, the most uniformly bland city Cyclonus had ever seen. Even the surface of Unicron had more character than this place. He had no intentions of wandering around in the city in the hopes that he would stumble across the rulers of this place. No, he would instead land in the center of the sporting arena, where there were many lifeforms gathered, and demand that they take him to their leaders.

        Something about that seemed almost comical to Cyclonus, but he couldn’t place quite why. . .

        Cyclonus approached, saw that there was a pit in the center of the arena, with a long plank extended out over it. Before the pylon was a high dais upon which three inverted-egg shaped beings hovered. Despite the high degree of life-energy in this area, Cyclonus saw no crowds, only the three floating eggs; a being similar to them, only with a head and barbed whips for arms; and several bulky, stupid-looking robots with ridiculous backward-swept prongs on their heads.

        Cyclonus decided that the plank, despite its central location, was too unsafe a place to land—either it was trapped to fall out from anyone on it, or a shot from somewhere on firmer ground would knock anyone on it over the side, into the pit below. Not exactly a prime position to be in, in either case. The three eggs on the dais were the important ones here—their location at the highest point in the arena proved as much. Very well, then—he would land on the dais, next to the five-faced creatures. The stairs below them would indicate his arrival as a suppliant. He would arrive as a conqueror.

        Cyclonus swept low over the arena and transformed, his starfighter form shifting and condensing into his horned robot mode. He liked the horns—it gave him some semblance to Unicron, a being feared across the universe, and horns shared a unique symbolism nearly everywhere of fear and respect. True, much of this was from beings who feared being gored, and Cyclonus had no intentions of using his head in such a primitive manner, but such core neuroses could work well to the advantage of a true conqueror.

        His two metal feet landed on the dais with a twin thump. The three five-faced eggs hovered around his feet, coming no higher than his knee joint. All of them were displaying a rather jovial, mustachioed face.

        "May we help you?" They asked in unison.

        Excellent. No small talk was necessary with these Quintessons; they got right down to business. Cyclonus almost felt a kinship with them. Of course, this feeling was not quite strong enough to prevent him from lying to them and conquering their people, but it did give him a certain respect for them.

        "I am Cyclonus, Supreme Leader of the Decepticon Empire." It couldn’t hurt to make his shattered people seem powerful—it gave him backing. If they knew or otherwise discovered the truth of the matter, he would look a fool, but well-placed photon charges had a remarkable habit of silencing opposition. "I have come to demand your ai—urrggk!"

        Multiple barbed whips wrapped around Cyclonus’ neck, choking him and pulling him off balance. He stumbled down a few steps clumsily, his hands at his throat trying to tear off the whips. Their barbs were hooked into his epidermal shell. He flared with anger at this humiliation. He turned his head slightly, first one way, then the other, bringing his optics to bear that he would be able to recognize his attackers when it came time for revenge.

        The bodies of the three Quintessons whirred until they displayed a green-and-gray death’s head. "For your impertinence, Cyclonus Supreme Commander, you are sentenced to death!" The three spoke in unison.

        Cyclonus’ eyes narrowed. Did they rehearse those lines?

        He felt himself leave the ground as the two guards who had him in their grasp hurled him from the steps, over the plank entirely, and down into the pit. Cyclonus could see now that there was water at the bottom, and he could see also that all the lifeforms he had detected earlier were down here, swarming in the now-frothing water.

        Sharkticons.
 

       To Chapter Three