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        To Chapter Twenty-One
 

        The news of Springer’s death, and the loss of the mission to find the Decepticons, spread through Iacon like wildfire. And, with a sadness born of true empathy for one of their own, the Autobots mourned their fallen comrades, and the work rebuilding the Autobot strongholds on Cybertron from the recent Decepticon attack became heavy with the anguished silence of the workers.

        Reconstructing a wall torn apart by Devastator, Air Raid snorted. "Sentimental fools!"

        Silverbolt walked over to his fellow Aerialbot. "Are you all right, Air Raid?"

        Air Raid started, then frowned. "I’m fine, Silver. . .bolt." He’d almost slipped up, there, called the Autobot Silverdolt. That would have given him away as fast as if he had appeared in his own body amidst the wreckage. He would have to watch his behavior—his position was just as precarious now as it was when he was plotting against Megatron in the early days of the war on Earth.

        "You mentioned something about sentimental fools. Care to talk to me about it?"

        Air Raid sighed. Autobots—all talk, no action. If a Decepticon ever said that to me, I would shoot him on the spot. "I was just thinking that the energon wasted mourning Springer might be better utilized on the repair efforts."

        Silverbolt nodded. "Your desire to finish the project is commendable, but you’ve got to realize they have to grieve their lost friend. We Aerialbots never really had the chance to serve with Springer, so we haven’t the depth of grief that the others do. But, for them, this is no less sad an occasion than when Optimus Prime himself died."

        Air Raid nodded in mock understanding and went back to work, thinking things that no Autobot would ever think. No less sad than when Prime died? I celebrated!

        "You! You are responsible for the Autobots discovering us!" Dead End snarled, pointing a finger of dangerous accusation up at Galvatron’s melted, half-skeleton face.

        One optic orb rolled down to take in the smaller Decepticon. "You dare speak this way to Galvatron? I am leader of the Decepticons! I alone rule the Decepticons! You call me a traitor? Am I then a traitor to myself?"

        "No, Galvatron—you are a traitor to us." Motormaster, propped up between the supporting hands of Breakdown and Wildrider, stepped out from the crowd of Decepticons, the enormous hole blasted in him earlier by Galvatron still leaking fluids onto the dusty ground beneath him. "You led us straight here after the battle on Cybertron. A battle you fled from before any of us. It would take a fool not to realize they couldn’t trace us back here."

        "So, Galvatron, are you a fool or a traitor?" Drag Strip asked, careful to word the question in such a way that Galvatron would prove himself dangerous to the Decepticon cause, such as it was after the last brutal year, no matter his answer.

        And Galvatron knew it. His one good optic narrowed, and his jaw clenched and unclenched in frustration, easily visible through the tear in the side of his face. He didn’t know what to do, what to say—even through the pain that touched every circuit of his being, his logic circuits were functioning well enough to realize that he couldn’t simply destroy the Stunticons—that would be precisely the action they would be anticipating, the action of a raging idiot or a traitor to the Decepticons. He knew he was no traitor—but he saw the looks the other Decepticons were giving the Stunticons, especially Motormaster. They had not forgotten how he had nearly gutted the leader of the Stunticons only a few hours before. Indeed, Motormaster wore his damage like a badge, a reminder to the rest of the Decepticons of exactly what Galvatron was capable of.

        Motormaster continued on, without waiting for Galvatron’s answer. He turned back to the Decepticons, raised his voice so all would hear him clearly. "Now the Autobots return to Cybertron, their homeworld. . .our homeworld, by rights, and they will come upon us with their army and destroy us once and for all! And where can we run, where can we hide, that they will not find us? Nowhere, that’s where! They know where we hide now. . .they will be able to track us no matter where we go from here."

        Motormaster swung around on Galvatron again, pointing at the Decepticon leader. "And it is your fault, Galvatron! You have destroyed us!"

        This last sentence opened a floodgate among the Decepticons gathered around Galvatron and Springer’s shattered body. Their voices joined together like an approaching train, getting ever closer, ever more dangerous, ever more inevitable. There was nothing he could do, now, save destroy all those he ruled over—in his rage, he almost did this. But what would be left for him?

        Staring into Motormaster’s optics, he saw only hate. Not simply hate, though—something more. Revenge. Motormaster did not care about the other Decepticons, the great cause they had fought for on hundreds of worlds for millions of years. He cared only that his bid for power had failed, that he himself had been crippled—and now he wanted Galvatron to suffer that same pain, that same anger.

        All this was revealed in a simple twitch at one corner of Motormaster’s mouth, the beginnings of a smile.

        On a nearby hill, Cyclonus watched as the Decepticons, at first talking among themselves, began to howl, to scream out their rage. This landing of an Autobot shuttle on Charr was not a unique event. . .could not be. And with their comrades lost in the battle for Cybertron, there was no way they could stand against a united Autobot assault. What was left for them, then? To flee, again, to run across the galaxy, across the universe, ever away from the Autobots?

        Scourge stood by his side and behind them, the Sweeps. Together, they had led the Decepticons away from Cybertron after Unicron’s attack, had given them some measure of dignity, and the promise that one day they would reclaim what was theirs. Together, they had searched the galaxy for their leader and found him. Together, they watched as, within a few short days of command, Galvatron destroyed what they had worked for, however little it was.

        Scourge stepped forward, about to leap into the fray, but Cyclonus barred him with one outstretched arm. Scourge turned to him, confusion etched across his features.

        "We must intervene! They’re going to kill him!" His voice was filled with fear for the life of the Decepticon leader. All the work in bringing him back from the dead, bringing him to Charr, making him once more their leader—would it all go to waste now, because of one outstretched arm?

        Cyclonus shook his head. Scourge understood, painful as it was for him. What was coming was necessary—what was coming could not be stopped, must not be stopped. For the good of Galvatron, and for the good of the Decepticons, the scene before them had to be played out.

        On the field below, Galvatron’s optics searched among the crowd arrayed before him for allies. Finding none, he stepped back, desperately searching for someone, anyone, to help him. His optics fell on Cyclonus, ever loyal, who returned Galvatron to his rightful place in command of the Decepticons, standing apart from the rest of the Decepticons, with only Scourge and the Sweeps with him. The Decepticon elite forces, created, as was Galvatron, by Unicron. Surely they would aid him.

        "Cyclonus!" Galvatron called, reaching out with one hand for the warrior, beckoning him to come forward and aid his leader.

        Cyclonus stood still, staring down at the field.

        "Cyclonus!" Galvatron called again, hoping desperately that his second-in-command had simply not heard him.

        Cyclonus did not move.

        Angry now, Galvatron focused his attention on Cyclonus alone. "Where do you stand, Cyclonus?" His voice was low, but no less emphatic or dangerous for that fact.

        Cyclonus drew himself up. This was the moment of truth. What he said now would follow him throughout his days. If he had made the slightest miscalculation, he would bring disaster upon the Decepticons, upon himself, upon Galvatron. Was there any other way to help Galvatron, to make him the inspirational leader he once was, to cure him of his madness, then by forcing him out of the ranks of the Decepticons, that he could find some way to regain his faculties? Cyclonus did not know. His laser core stung him with the foul ache of this treachery he was contemplating. He had to do what he must, but there was little comfort from that fact.

        "I am a Decepticon," Cyclonus said, and Galvatron screamed in rage.

        The particle cyclers in Galvatron’s arm whined to life, and he fired at the horde of Decepticons before him, making them duck and run away from him as he fired again and again into their ranks, felling more than a few. He looked up at Cyclonus again, saw that neither he nor Scourge nor the Sweeps had moved a micromillimeter. They just stood there, watching, and this more than anything infuriated Galvatron.

        Then, like a new dawn, he realized that Cyclonus did not fear him. Cyclonus knew that Galvatron would not fire upon him. Indeed, he saw sadness in the optics of his second.

        "I do not need your pity!" Galvatron cried, firing at the hill, making sure to miss the Decepticon elite standing there. Scourge and the Sweeps reacted to this outburst, flinching as the blast struck the hillside and kicked up a cloud of dirt and dust that enveloped them. Cyclonus stood still, even then, watching through the haze as Galvatron scooped up Springer’s corpse with one hand, unceremoniously, and flew off, away from Charr, away from the Decepticons, away from the pitying eyes of Cyclonus.

        "I am Galvatron! I am Power Incarnate! I need no one’s pity!" He screamed into the vacuum around him, over and over again, louder and louder—if he was loud enough, if he was forceful enough, if he willed it enough, the sound of his rage would carry, and someone, somewhere, had to hear him.

        It was the only launchpad on this side of Cybertron that hadn’t been damaged by the recent battle. On it, its hull winking golden-gray in the light of the stars overhead, sat a lone Autobot shuttle of the same model that had carried the Decepticons to Autobot City one year before. . .and the Autobots away from that same city, to Quintessa and the Planet of Junk. The same model that had carried Optimus Prime from Moon Base One to his death, on Earth, at Megatron’s hands.

        At Megatron’s hands, yes, but only because of Hot Rod’s interference. And now Hot Rod was Rodimus Prime, leader of all the Autobots, and still they were dying because of him.

        Kup, Ultra Magnus, Blurr, Perceptor. . .all the friends Arcee had made among the Autobots were lined up along the pathway to the round launchpad. All of them knew she was leaving, and why—none of them tried to talk her out of it. As she walked toward the shuttle, she stopped to say goodbye to each of them. Rodimus imagined they were all very sad to see her go—he knew he was. He wondered if she was sad at this parting. . .no doubt she was, and no doubt it was a sadness at Springer’s death, and at leaving all these friends behind—not a sadness that she would never see Rodimus Prime again.

        He didn’t know what was worse for him—that he’d probably never see her again, or that she wouldn’t be sad if she never saw him again.

        She finally finished her parting words with her closest friends and, with a final sad wave, stepped into the shuttle and closed the entrance ramp. They all stood by and watched as she made her way to the cockpit and fired up the shuttles engines. They stood, watching, as Arcee lifted off and disappeared in the sky, becoming just one more star in the heavens. Only then, after they could no longer see her, did they turn and file away.

        Rodimus looked down at them, watched as they turned and walked away from the launchpad. There was only one who remained where he was, watching the sky even though he couldn’t see her, as if he expected her to return at any moment, as if he expected her to realize that her parting would solve nothing. Rodimus felt much the same way as that lone Autobot—or was he simply imparting his own feelings on him? He didn’t know.

        That lone Autobot finally turned to leave—but before he did, he looked up at Rodimus, directly at the Autobot leader, with ghostly yellow optics that frowned at him from out of the past. Optics that made him shrink backwards, so cold was their judgment of him. There was no love in those optics for Rodimus, as there had been for every other Autobot, and even a few Decepticons, that they had gazed upon. There was only anger, and sadness, and the assessment that Rodimus had failed, that there was nothing he could ever do to live up to the example given him. Those optics stabbed Rodimus through the core, caused him a physical pain that he should not have had. Was he so terrible, then? So terrible that not even he could forgive, not even from beyond the Matrix? Rodimus leaned back against the wall, shut his optics, felt a shudder pass through him.

        When he opened them again, Optimus Prime was gone.
 

        To Chapter Twenty-Four