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        "Rodimus!" Ultra Magnus stepped around a corner in the shattered Iacon base and half-jogged up to the Autobot commander.

        Rodimus, who was slowly making his way to the repair bay, turned gently to look up at the larger robot. The temporary repairs were breaking down, and Rodimus was finding it harder and harder to move. He doubted his laser core would extinguish because of his injuries, but it would be tremendously embarrassing for him to fall over in stasis lock from the damage. He could imagine the other Autobots coming upon him, dragging him unceremoniously to the repair bay, snickering as he was repaired. He could hear them now. Optimus was never let this happen to him. He doesn’t deserve to be a Prime. Even Roller was tougher than he is.

        "What do you want, Magnus?" Rodimus spoke weakly. "I’m a little preoccupied with keeping myself together at the moment." He didn’t stop walking.

        "Rodimus, I can take you there—let me transform, you can hop on my back—"

        "No, thank you." His pride wouldn’t allow it. Magnus had been denied the power of the Matrix. For him to now be needed for the simple task of taking Rodimus to the repair bay would be intolerable—he would be not a chariot that Rodimus could ride in on gloriously, but an ambulance taking their crippled leader in because he couldn’t do it for himself. "What do you want, Ultra Magnus?"

        "I heard that you put Springer in charge of tracking down the Decepticons."

        "Yes, I did. So?"

        "Rodimus, I think I would be a wiser choice to lead the search team in this instance. Springer is an excellent warrior, yes, but he doesn’t have my experience, nor is he as powerful as I am. Should the Decepticons discover the search team, they’ll be in great danger—and I would be a better choice in leading them." Magnus’ tones were calm, as if to suggest that he knew Rodimus would see the wiser course of action and give him command of the search team.
But Rodimus was not going to allow his actions and decisions as the leader of the Autobots be dictated to him by anyone, Ultra Magnus especially. Rodimus understood what was hiding behind Magnus’ pretty words and measured tones—not concern for his fellow Autobots, or for Springer, or for finding the Decepticons. No, Ultra Magnus was worried about his own bruised ego, trying to clamor for as much glory as he could without actually being the leader of the Autobots. He wanted to be remembered as the Autobot who discovered the Decepticon base for the assault that would end the war. He wanted to undermine Rodimus’ authority. Well, it wouldn’t happen.

        "Permission denied."

        "But Rodimus—"

        Rodimus spun as quickly as he could, screwing up his face painfully in anger. "But nothing, Magnus! You are needed here, to aid in the rebuilding of Cybertron and the preparation of what troops we have left. Especially so while I’m being repaired. I do not need you rushing off to find your own glory when there are better places for you to be. Do I make myself clear?"

        Magnus appeared chastised, almost shrinking away from Rodimus. "Of course, Rodimus."

        "Good. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t contradict my orders again." Rodimus liked seeing Ultra Magnus like this—it set him in his proper place. Rodimus was the bearer of the Matrix, not he, and he would do well to remember that.

        "Yes, Rodimus. I’m sorry." Magnus stepped back, away from Rodimus, turned and disappeared down the corridor he had appeared from.

        Rodimus continued on the way to the repair bay, his joints growing stiffer by the astrosecond, weary with the effort of moving and fighting off Magnus.

        As soon as Magnus rounded the corner, he virtually collapsed against the wall, leaning all his weight on it because he suddenly found his legs could not support him. It was becoming more difficult to speak with Rodimus Prime, and he doubted it was through any fault of the Autobot leader. He had once felt that he should be the rightful leader of the Autobots, that Prime had passed the Matrix not to Hot Rod but to him, and that Rodimus had usurped his command unfairly. Those thoughts now rushed back to him, and he knew they were the source of his conflict with Rodimus. Rodimus was right—he was trapping after his own glory, trying to show the Autobots that he, not Rodimus, was meant to be leader. These were his true motivations, presenting themselves to him from deep in his subconscious as concern for his fellow Autobots, for their mission of ending the reign of terror of the Decepticons. He was living a lie, and Rodimus had seen through him, seen what he truly meant even when he himself hadn’t.

        Ultra Magnus hated himself for it.

        The shuttle landed on the surface of Cybertron’s moon with a thud that resounded across the landing pad. Its doors opened with a hydraulic hiss, and Hound stepped out, his gun at the ready. They had seen the Decepticons flee from the surface of Cybertron, yes, but if they had taken up fallback positions on the moon, it wouldn’t be the first time one of Cybertron’s moons was used for that purpose.

        Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stepped out of the ship behind Hound, and they slowly descended the ramp onto the moon’s surface. Hound motioned for them to spread out, Sunstreaker to his right and Sideswipe to his far left, while Hound himself took the middle, and open, road to the outlook post just off the landing pad. In these positions, if there were any Decepticons at the listening station, they’d be able to keep them in a crossfire while avoiding being stuck in one themselves.

        Hound walked up to the open entrance to the sensor station and slid in along the wall, looking around for evidence of a Decepticon trap. The only thing he saw was Bumblebee, his head and chest destroyed, the only evidence of life in him the occasional spark from frayed wiring and shattered circuitry. He sheathed his gun and ran over to his friend to examine him, to see if there was any hope.

        "Sideswipe! Sunstreaker! Get in here, Bumblebee’s hurt bad!" Worry tinged Hound’s voice as he yelled to his fellow Autobots. He had served with Bumblebee for thousands of years, had grown fond of the little Autobot. To see him so badly damaged was like being stabbed with a blade of raw energon.

        Sideswipe and Sunstreaker appeared at the doorway within seconds. The usually jovial brothers, when they saw Bumblebee, were silent. It was one of the things Hound liked about them—when the time came for action, not words, there were few Autobots so grimly determined than the brothers. They both sheathed their weapons and ran over to where Hound kneeled over Bumblebee.

        "Is he. . .?" Sunstreaker was uncharacteristically soft-voiced.

        Hound shook his head. "No, I don’t think so. But with this much damage, it’s only a matter of time. Come on, get him into my cab—we’ve got to get him down to Perceptor and First Aid, STAT." Hound transformed, and the brothers gently picked Bumblebee up and settled him into Hound’s open cab. Sunstreaker got coolant oil and battery acids on his paintjob, but not a single complaint escaped his lips.

        Once Bumblebee was settled in him, Hound drove as quickly as he could out to the shuttle without jostling his injured passenger. Sideswipe took a quick look at the ruined control panel, frowned as he decided that there was no way he could contact Cybertron from there, and transformed to get out to the shuttle before Hound, in order to fire up the engines and be ready to fly as soon as Hound and Bumblebee got aboard. Sunstreaker remained behind, to see what he could salvage of the sensor operations board, and to check the moon base for hidden Decepticons.

        The shuttle launched outside, its engines creating a deafening roar, and Sunstreaker watched it go.

        "Primus help you, Bumblebee." He turned away from the window overlooking the landing pad, looked at the paintjob that was even now being eaten away by the fluids which had dripped on him. He decided that he would let his finish be marred, to honor Bumblebee should he not make it.

        "Just lie down here, Rodimus, and we’ll get right to work." Perceptor said, motioning toward a diagnostic table on one side of the room. "Judging by your appearance, we shall need to do a significant amount of restoration to return you to full capacity. It will be a daunting enterprise, but I suspect First Aid and myself should be able to manage commendably."

        "I don’t understand a word you just said, but if you said you’re going to get me back to prime condition, then thanks." Rodimus got up on the table with Perceptor’s help, then lay flat on his back. Most of the damage sensors on his back had been destroyed, so he felt no pain as his shorn-open back scraped against the table. He suddenly felt very relaxed—he was no longer supporting his full weight, and his circuits flooded with the relief of no longer having to feel the ache of legs not strong enough to support him. He closed his optics, enjoying the respite.

        He could still hear Perceptor moving about in the room, preparing his equipment for the extensive repair job that would be necessary to get Rodimus back into fighting condition. Then, almost like a crash, First Aid burst into the room, startling Rodimus into a sitting-up position to look at him.

        "Sorry for coming in like this, but we’ve got an emergency coming in." First Aid said, looking at both Rodimus and Perceptor. Then, turning solely to Perceptor: "They’ve gone to Moon Base One, and found Bumblebee there. He’s badly damaged, most of his superstructure’s gone, and they suspect that his laser core’s cracked and leaking. They’re gonna be landing topside in a few clicks—this is a Priority One!"

        With that, First Aid turned and ran out of the room, transforming on the way and heading out to the shuttle pad. Perceptor looked at Rodimus Prime.

        "I’m terribly sorry, Rodimus, but if Bumblebee’s laser core is breached. . ."

        Rodimus raised his hand and smiled slightly. "He’s in worse shape than me, I know. Go help him out, Perceptor. I’ll be fine."

        Perceptor appeared relieved, walked out of the room, leaving Rodimus by himself. Rodimus lay back down, closed his optics, and thought about the stasis lock he could feel descending upon him like a cold wave. Again, the Autobots were doing their best to show him how much they hated him—from First Aid lying about Bumblebee so they would repair him first, to him being left here alone, without even one of the Autobot mechanics here to aid him, hoping he would be so drained of energy that he would just die quietly so they could pull the Matrix from his grayed-out corpse and give it to Ultra Magnus.

        Well, he wouldn’t let that happen. He would hang onto his life until the Autobots respected him not merely as their commander, but as their leader. Let them fawn over their little friend—Rodimus never understood why Bumblebee was so popular with his fellow Autobots, anyway. He was, after all, the bearer of the Matrix—and he would remain so, badly damaged and left to die or not.

        "How are we supposed to be repaired when the Constructicons’ve been captured?" Motormaster complained, cradling his left arm, which had been partially blown off in the battle. "All we’ve managed to do is waste our energon and get ourselves damaged. What did we accomplish? Nothing, that’s what!"

        Cyclonus watched the Stunticon leader stir up trouble among the Decepticons. Cries of agreement swept through the crowd of battered Decepticons while the elite troops—Cyclonus, Scourge and the Sweeps—stood to the side, watching, refusing to get involved for fear of provoking Galvatron’s ire. Cyclonus knew he could stop the ruckus—the Decepticons respected him, understood he cared about their welfare above all else. But he knew also that he couldn’t get involved in this, not now—Galvatron was here, now, in command of the Decepticons, and if he stepped in to intervene, things would never be settled between the Decepticons and Galvatron. They needed to see his power, feel his rage, learn the lesson that only he could teach.

        "Even when we were fleeing Cybertron, at least we could be repaired of our damage! Now? Now, under the leadership of Galvatron, we are torn apart, destroyed, for no victory! We lose the Constructicons, the Combaticons. . .we are humiliated! Better to have stayed here, on Charr, than waste what little energon we had in attacking Cybertron!" Motormaster continued, pushing the Decepticons on and on. Even Soundwave was nodding in affirmation of the Stunticon’s words.

        "I say a new leader must be made the head of the Decepticons. Galvatron has proven he is unfit to lead us—even the lowliest among us was not fool enough to wish to attack Cybertron!"

        Cyclonus watched the reactions in the crowd—Motormaster had just overstepped his bounds, and the Decepticons knew it. The cheers that met his demands for a new leader were not as loud as the cheers before, were scattered in small groups throughout the crowd, while most of the other Decepticons simply looked around them, as if not wanting to acknowledge that they were a part of this. They had forgotten how they had cheered on Galvatron in much the same way as they were now cheering Motormaster. Perhaps some of them were now remembering—their enthusiasm for Motormaster had dropped considerably.

        "And who do you suggest be the new leader, eh, Motormaster?" Galvatron appeared from the cave that he had of late claimed as his throne room. Of all the Decepticons who had been able to return from Cybertron, Galvatron was in the worst shape. His faceplate was partially melted away, revealing the skeletal frame underneath, as were his hands. His armor was cracked and holed in a number of places, and he walked with a limp caused by the firepower of the Autobot cruiser that had forced him to flee the battlefield. He was still, though, for Cyclonus, an impressive sight to behold, standing tall and proud before the Decepticons even in his battered condition.

        "Galvatron!" Motormaster cried as he turned to face the leader of the Decepticons. The crowd began to hurriedly disperse.

        "Stand where you are, traitors!" Galvatron bellowed, freezing the Decepticons in their tracks. He began to make his way slowly down the steps carved in the rock leading to his throne room. "So, Motormaster, you think the Decepticons need new leadership, do you?"

        "Galvatron, I—" Motormaster had suddenly lost his power to speak, and was visibly quivering in fear of the Decepticon leader. "I—I meant no—"

        "No what? No disrespect? Well, it’s a little late for that, don’t you think, Motormaster, eh?" Galvatron walked right up to Motormaster, leaning into the Decepticon’s face. "You question my leadership, you demand an end to my authority, and now you claim you meant no disrespect?"

        Galvatron moved so quickly, so smoothly, that Cyclonus’ optics were barely able to follow his action. He stepped back slightly, swinging his right arm forward so his particle cannon was pressed lightly against Motormaster’s belly, and fired directly into the Stunticon commander. The energy from the blast tore straight through Motormaster, exploding out of his back and sending melted fragments of his internal components to clatter on the dusty ground. Motormaster collapsed, twitching, on the ground, his vocoder making unpleasant hiccuping noises. Galvatron then lifted his foot and slammed it down into the hole in Motormaster, sending up a shower of sparks from the Stunticon. He turned to look out over the crowd.

        "Does anyone else want to question my authority?" Galvatron’s voice was low and mean, threatening the Decepticons, daring them to challenge him. The slight smile on his face was made terrible by the fact that one could see through it, through Galvatron’s open cheek into the darkness beyond. To challenge was death for, in that moment, he was death.

        The Decepticons remained silent.

        Galvatron nodded. "And so that you remember this lesson—" Galvatron raised the cannon on his arm and began firing into the crowd, striking several Decepticons dead-on while the rest scattered like frightened insects, scurrying under cover so they wouldn’t personally feel Galvatron’s wrath. Even some who did could not escape his anger, though, as he blew through several large boulders to get at the Decepticons cowering there. Finally, after the plain was a smoking ruin littered with the bodies of dead and damaged Decepticons, Galvatron laughed. Cyclonus, shocked at the destruction his commander had wrought, dimly realized that he had been laughing the entire time.

        Galvatron whirled on Cyclonus, staring with wide, wild optics at Scourge, the Sweeps and himself with them. Laughing, he raised his particle cannon on them. Scourge and the Sweeps scattered, falling to the ground or flying away, or ducking behind nearby rocks. Only Cyclonus stood there, unmoving, staring down the barrel of Galvatron’s anger. His optics narrowed as he stared at Galvatron, daring him to fire. He had not cowered before Unicron, he had not cowered before the Autobots. He would not cower before Galvatron.

        They stood like that, staring at each other, neither Galvatron’s anger nor Cyclonus’ pride allowing them to part. Their optics remained locked, staring each other down. Cyclonus knew that he could not follow a commander that would fire at him for no reason. If Galvatron fired, he would know that the only hope of salvation for the Decepticons would be if he himself took Galvatron’s place. Galvatron knew that—Cyclonus could see it in his cracked optics. He could see the slight widening of those optics as Galvatron came to realize what would happen if he fired. He would have to kill Cyclonus if he fired, or he himself would be destroyed.

        Galvatron looked away. "Bah! I return to my chambers! No one is to disturb me!" Galvatron pulled his leg out of Motormaster, who was still twitching and hiccuping, limped back up the steps to disappear into the darkness of his throne room.

        Cyclonus looked around at the Decepticons who had fled for their lives. He wondered, briefly, what it now meant to be a Decepticon, in these dark times after the coming of Unicron. He wondered if anyone else remembered what it had once meant. He wondered if he wanted to continue to call himself a Decepticon, surrounded as he was by pretenders.
 

        To Chapter Nineteen