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        Hound stood up and shook his head. He had just finished his examination of the battle on Darios IX, and had no better conclusions about what had happened at the battle than did Cliffjumper and Sky Lynx. He turned around to face Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, who were both sitting on the ramp leading into the Autobot shuttle, waiting for what he had to say.

        Hound shrugged. "It was Cyclonus, all right. The residual energy readings on this carbon scarring is the same as the readings we got when he fought against us at the capture of Cybertron. But other than that, I’m afraid I can’t do anything to track him. The residual ion trail from his engines is too faint to track, and has already begun to break up. I’m sorry, guys."

        "Aw, that’s no problem, Hound. We’ll get this Decepticreep some other way. Right, bro?" Sideswipe glanced over at his fellow Autobot.

        "As long as we can take him down without scratching my finish, I’m fine with it," Sunstreaker replied. "Now, seeing we can’t do anything here, let’s return to Cybertron before the dust here corrodes my enamel."

        As they got in the shuttle, Hound took one last look at the bodies strewn across Darios IX. Now that he had examined the area for any traces of Decepticons, and confirmed the survivor’s story, the team from Earth would be free to take the bodies back home for burial. He shook his head and closed the hatch, hiding the scene from view. He had hoped the Decepticons would be gone for good, this time. That the war had ended with the death of Optimus Prime. But that wasn’t the case. It would never be the case. He had started to wonder if this might not just be more evidence that the only good Decepticon was a dead Decepticon.

        "Ah, I’m glad to be out of there," Sunstreaker said as he took the co-pilot’s seat. "It’s going to take forever to get that dust off my chassis. Do you realize how much work I put into this paintjob? Ah, I guess you can never have something this nice for too long."

        Hound stared at Sunstreaker as Sideswipe pulled the throttle levels forward and the shuttle rose off the surface of Darios IX. He knew the brothers’ levity was a crutch—a way for them to be able to live with the carnage around them. But sometimes, every once in a while, Hound just couldn’t take it any more. "Nothing lasts for very long, Sunstreaker. Especially not peace."

        Bumblebee sighed. He had asked Rodimus for some company up here on long-range scans duty, like Spike used to keep him company, but Rodimus had refused, stating that all the other Autobots were needed elsewhere, especially during this crisis. He had understood, of course, but that made moon duty no less boring for the smallest of the Autobots.

        He could hardly believe it. He had only heard the secondhand reports from Jazz, of course, but apparently the Decepticons had returned, and had destroyed a human colony on the mining asteroid of Darios IX. If Hound came back to Cybertron and said that Decepticons were indeed responsible for the massacre, that would mean the war would be back on. And, boredom or not, Bumblebee preferred the peace they had had for the last year.

        "Beep."

        Bumblebee leaned forward to look at what had just come up on his long-range scope. It was fairly big—roughly the size of one of the deep-space fuel transports the humans had been building since the turn of their millenium. It was coming in at a normal cruising speed—everything looked all right. But since the incident at Autobot City, all vessels approaching Autobot or EDF installations had to get prior authorization. And when Bumblebee checked the logs for incoming ships, he didn’t find any fuel transports listed for coming in today—or, indeed, any ships coming in until nearly ten hours from now.

        An ambassadorial ship from Earth. That would mean Spike, and Bumblebee smiled at the thought of seeing his old friend again. Earth had never really approved of Spike’s combat-close involvement with the Autobots after they made him their ambassador to the Transformers, and they were almost proven right during the Unicron crisis, but Bumblebee wouldn’t have things any other way.

        But this wasn’t the time for reminiscing—there would be plenty of time for that once Spike got back to Cybertron. For now, his concern was the unidentified vessel approaching the planet. He leaned forward and toggled the communications array. "Unidentified vessel, come in. You are approaching Cybertron airspace. Please identify yourself immediately."

        After nearly a minute without a response, he tried again. "Unidentified vessel, come in. You are approaching Cybertron airspace. Identify yourself immediately, or we may be forced to fire upon you."

        Another minute passed with no response. Bumblebee sighed. The ship was now close enough to be identified as an Earth deep-space freighter, just as he had suspected. It looked battle-damaged, too—its defensive weaponry had been smashed, and several areas of its hull were blackened with carbon scarring from laserfire.

        "Wow. Looks like you were in quite a fight," he said to himself. "I’d better let Iacon know, so they can send up some help." He reached forward to toggle the communicator to Cybertron—

        —and the console in front of him exploded. He was flung back in his chair, his right hand damaged and immobile. He howled in pain, grabbing his wounded arm with his left hand.

        "Little Autobot, I shall enjoy this."

        Bumblebee looked up, his mouth agape with shock and pain, to see the Decepticon warrior Cyclonus stepping into the sensor control chamber from the exit to the shuttle dock. Cyclonus fired again, clipping Bumblebee in the shoulder and blowing his left arm off his body. Bumblebee screamed again as he fell out of his chair onto the floor. Sparks crackled out of the open holes in his body as he tried to clumsily slide away from Cyclonus.

        Cyclonus walked casually into the room over to the control panel, examining it carefully. "Excellent. You weren’t able to contact Cybertron. I was hoping I would get here in time." He looked down at Bumblebee, began walking slowly toward the severely damaged Autobot. "I was most pressed for time—I had to wait for you to notice the freighter, for it to take up all your attention, so that I could fly in from a rather circuitous route, staying in the sensor shadow this moon casts from Cybertron, but also staying clear of the sensors you, little Autobot, were no doubt training entirely on that one. . .little. . .ship."

        "You won’t get away with this!" Bumblebee gasped as Cyclonus knelt over him. He tried backing up further, but bumped into a wall and could go no further.

        Cyclonus smiled. "I already have, little Autobot. You, unfortunately, will not be living to learn from this mistake." He aimed his gun directly at Bumblebee’s head, the tip of its barrel ever so gently touching the yellow plating on Bumblebee’s forehead. He fired, and Bumblebee knew only darkness.

        Cyclonus stood up, his face expressionless as he looked down at the now-unrecognizable face of the little Autobot. He had never met this one in combat—he had no idea of its name. He admired its attempts at bravery, though—even with both its arms useless to it, it was kind enough to tell him of the consequences of his actions. Not that it mattered to him. The Autobots’ early warning systems had failed them, and the freighter—and the Decepticons in it—would be free to approach Cybertron without fearing its long-range anti-ship cannon. His job was done—now it was his responsibility to stay out of sight until Galvatron deployed the troops.

        Galvatron. After his hour-long fit after hearing Cyclonus mention Unicron, he seemed perfectly fine, displaying none of the mood swings or destructive tendencies that had characterized his initial reappearance. Cyclonus hoped he remained this way, and it was very plausible that he would. After all, if it was the lava from Thrull that had been causing him harm, it would certainly have been frozen to inactivity by the cold vacuum of space. Still, though, he would have to be on the lookout for the resurgence of such erratic behavior.

        Cyclonus looked down at the yellow-painted Autobot, where it lay still twitching on the floor. He wondered at himself for telling his enemy how he had defeated him—but then he decided that he wanted the Autobot to know how he was beaten. It was simply not enough for Cyclonus to win. Victory was seeing the fear in an opponent’s eyes before offlining him. Victory was in seeing an opponent realize that he was thoroughly outmatched. Cyclonus, here, was victorious.

        He frowned at the still-twitching Autobot carcass. The laser core would still be active—that was the only explanation for it. He aimed at the center of the Autobot’s chest—staying away from the little robot this time, as when his head exploded he made a much greater mess than Cyclonus had been anticipating—and fired several times, until the yellow chestplate had blackened and completely caved in, and the sparks from cut power lines finally died to nothingness.
 

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