Phoenix to the Dust

4.3.06

Phoenix to the Dust

A set of candles burnt in the small Necronian house, and the elder sat down wearily as a group of children gathered about his feet. He smiled downward at the children, and remembered a time, long ago, that he had anxiously awaited the stories as well. He spread his arms outward as he prepared his tale.

“Children, tonight’s story is about something that happened not too long ago. Some of you might have even been alive for it. I know that we, the Elders, remember it very well. Tonight, I will tell you about the visitor from the stars--the Agent of Death.”

At this point, a small female child rose to her feet, placing her hands behind her back and keeping her head bowed. A sign of respect for her Elder. “But Elder,” the little girl stated, “I think we’ve heard this story. About how the Agent came from the stars, and killed our Priestess in vicious combat, and how a new Priestess was named. And we also heard about what happened next, about how our Lady Nahara journeyed to the stars and helped end the eternal hunger, and how the Agent tried to kill her once more.”

The Elder smile once more. “Of course, child. But that was not the end of the story--by all means, no. The Agent of Death, having failed in his second attempt, found himself on the run--in a quest for his very survival. And this is that story.”

The Elder re-adjusted himself on the chair, and then began his long tale as the children listened intently.

The planet Midian proved inhospitable to most visitors. Mountainous, cold, the otherwise barren world housed a simple, tribal people. Most of the Midians lived lower to the ground, where the snow melted and provided life-giving liquid water. Groups of dedicated Midian monks survived atop the summits, relatively safe from the weather in their thick monasteries.

Now, though, one of the monasteries was being used for a decidedly more diabolical purpose. The five-faced figure stared down at the bodies of the slain Midian worshipers inside one of the temples, hovering only a few feet above the dried pools of blood that now soaked the stone floor. “Is everything in readiness?” the Quintesson demanded.

A green, lizard-like guard finished slitting the throat of the last monk and then turned his attention towards his master. “Yes, my liege,” he responded. “We are expecting our honored guest at any minute.”

Click. Whir. The Quintesson rotated in place, now showing the face of Death. “Excellent. When he arrives, we will take proper . . . measures . . . with him.” The Quintesson then let out a long, low laugh, causing the green executioner to cringe as it reverberated throughout the narrow hallways and corridors.

A sentry situated near a slit-like window suddenly turned around, his eyes wide with apprehension. “My liege,” he called. “His ship. It just touched down outside. He’s approaching the monastery now.”

As if on cue, the double doors at the far end of the hallway swung open, and their heavy wood forms banged against the stone walls. A cloaked figure strode confidently into the dim light of the monastery, his robe trailing the floor behind him.

He approached the Quintesson, and then extended a hand outward. A collection of interstellar credits fell from his down-turned palm and clattered noisily against the stone floor. A heavily-accented voice then emerged from underneath the hood of the robe, “there. As we agreed upon. 100,000 interstellar credits. Now produce the weapons.”

The Quintesson rubbed his tentacles together in anticipation. “Of course, Ravage, of course. But must we be so blunt? Surely you have enough time to discuss matters other than business?”

“No. I don’t,” came the reply.

The Quintesson laughed again, the cackle sounding strangely hollow in the tight confines of the monastery. “Of course, of course. Off to wage your revolution again, yes? Your name is feared throughout sixteen systems now. Ravage, the renegade Predacon. For the glory of the Decepticons.”

No reply came from the shadowed figure, and the Quintesson whirred in place once more, showing a different face. “Ah, but I must be boring you. Guards! Bring our customer what he requested. An orbital ion cannon and five thermal explosives, all packed into a convenient case.”

A hover cart appeared from a narrow hallway near the end of the central corridor, and Ravage approached the armament carefully. He rubbed a single hand on the orbital cannon, and then nodded in assent. “Excellent. This will do nicely.” Ravage then opened the case, and ensured that all five explosives were in place.

“I will take my leave now,” he stated. “I bid you good day.”

“Ah, but there is, unfortunately, a problem,” the Quintesson replied. Click. Whir. Ravage noted with a sense of unease that the Quintesson resumed the face of Death. “The Predacons placed a hefty bounty on your head, as have the Maximals. Although it pains us to betray one of our best customers, we do need to make ends meet. I’m sure that you understand.” A pair of Quintesson guards moved to either side of Ravage, each one gripping an energy staff.

Ravage pushed back the hood from his head, revealing his cat-like features. He then smiled smugly at the Quintesson. “Of course I understand,” he replied. “I’ve prepared for this eventuality.”

His hands flew down to his sides, and the dual blasters sprang upward. He then held his arms outward, and a pair of shots reverberated throughout the monastery as Ravage shot each Quintesson guard in the head. He then tugged at the drawstring of the cloak, allowing the garment to flutter to the ground.

Ravage rolled behind a pillar and assumed a crouching position as the other guards began firing at his position. Bits of stone and plaster splintered and chipped from the walls as the shots missed their mark. “Guards! Execute him!” the Quintesson bellowed. Ravage looked upward, and noted that the floating alien was waving its twin tentacles wildly as it tried to retreat down another hallway. A gate clamored open near the entrance, and another host of Quintesson guardians spilled forth, ready to fight.

Ravage primed a grenade, and rolled the small explosive across the floor. The explosion went off a second later, and debris and severed limbs scattered throughout the central corridor. Ravage then sprinted from his position, letting off a salvo of shots before diving behind another pillar.

Ravage pushed his back against the pillar, and peered out to his left. There were five guards remaining. A sudden motion to his right caught his attention, and Ravage turned as another guard rounded the pillar where he was hiding. Ravage dealt the Quintesson guard a backhand, causing the being to fall to his left. Ravage then grabbed the sentry around the front of the neck, and, holding the guard before him, the former Tripedicus Agent used him as a living shield.

The Quintesson guard absorbed six rounds intended for Ravage, and his body went limp in death. Ravage exchanged fire, taking the remaining sentries out with five well-placed shots. He then allowed the dead guard in his grip to slump to the floor, and then he placed the blaster in his right hand on the holster hanging from his side. He removed an energon knife and held the blade upside down, and then sprinted down the narrow hallway after the Quintesson.

Another sentry rounded the corner as Ravage ran, and he brought the blade downward, catching the guard across the face with the knife. Ravage then whipped the weapon about in an arc, and jabbed the bio-organic being in the jugular. A deluge of blood spurted forth, and Ravage withdrew his blade and continued his pursuit.

He found himself in a large, single-story library, and he noted the numerous bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling. The smell of dust and yellowing papers wafted across his olfactory sensors, but there was something else . . .

A pungent odor, one that most decidedly did not belong in this monastery, or even on this planet. That of a Quintesson. Ravage could never forget such a foul stench.

He rounded the corner, and found the five-faced figure cowering against a row of bookshelves, out of places to run. He approached the Quintesson cautiously, allowing the full effect of inevitable doom to sink into his prey’s psyche.

“The verdict is innocent,” Ravage stated.

The Death’s head rotated into place, and Ravage noted--with pleasure--that the Quintesson looked absolutely terrified. Ravage reached down and grabbed hold of the creature’s tentacles, and deftly ripped them from their sockets.

The Quintesson bellowed in pain, and Ravage placed a hand on the top of the alien being. “Shhhhh,” Ravage crooned. “It will be over soon.”

He then pulled a sticky plastique explosive out of his satchel, and crammed it into the Quintesson’s gapping mouth. “It’s unfortunate that you no longer have any limbs,” Ravage stated as he turned and walked away. “Otherwise, you might be able to pull it out and spare your life. But I’m sure that you understand.”

A muffled scream bellowed out as Ravage left the library, and then the sounds of an explosion reverberated throughout the narrow hallways of the monastery. Ravage picked up his cloak from the floor of the central room, and then placed it over his shoulder. Retrieving his hover-cart full of weapons, the shadow agent took his leave of the planet Midian.

It had been well over a year since his secession from the Predacons.

Ravage piloted the ship through the outer edges of the system, carefully looking out for signs of pursuing vessels. Running from threats now enveloped his entire existence.

The Predacons proved much more dogged than he originally anticipated. Sending agent after agent after him had began to wear on his nerves and battle senses, and Ravage sometimes wondered when and where the chase would eventually end.

But other concerns wrapped around his mind. His fledgling Decepticon army needed him still. Recruiting proved difficult, slow, agonizing, but he somehow persevered. Already, he commanded seventy-odd troops, each one proudly wearing the insignia of a warrior race. The galaxy knew that the Decepticons had returned, and that they provided a grave threat.

Already, Ravage ensured that the Maximals felt his wrath. The assassination of the Maximal ambassador to Earth proved to be a particularly harsh blow to the Maximal Elders. Ravage kept his Decepticons busy with other tasks, as well: arms procurement, kidnappings, ransom, whatever needed to be done to ensure that the Decepticons rose again.

The Predacons, the proclaimed descendants of the Decepticons, feared him, although Ravage had yet to target them directly. But the Tripedicus Council and their High Proctor, Cryotek, would feel the influence of his Decepticons soon enough.

He approached a large asteroid, and then punched in the code for a secure radio frequency on the sub-space communicator. The face of Smokejumper appeared on the screen a second later.

“Welcome back, Ravage,” he stated. “I take it that your journey to Midian proved fruitful?”

Ravage shook his head. “No,” he stated. “We can’t rely on the Quintessons for our arms any longer. They turned against us. I left them a very clear message that I dislike such treasonous behavior, though.”

Smokejumper nodded in understanding. “But the weapons--you did get them, right, boss?”

“Of course,” Ravage stated matter-of-factly. “They’re on the ship. Open up the landing hatch.”

A small, crater-like opening on the asteroid suddenly opened, and Ravage brought his ship down gently through its entrance. Asteroid ships were small in number and extremely difficult to track. It proved the best possible base of operations for the Decepticons, but Ravage still moved them around frequently. A smile came to Ravage’s face as he remembered stealing the ship from the black market merchant in the VsQs system.

The landing gear touched down gently, and Ravage looked upwards to ensure that the opening above closed shut. He then lowered the ramp at the back of the ship and disembarked. Smokejumper crossed the bay, a single rifle gripped in his right hand.

“What’s the reason for the weapon?” Ravage asked.

“Checking the ship,” Smokejumper explained. “Just to be sure.”

Ravage laughed. “By all means, do so. There’s no stowaways, though. I didn’t leave anybody alive to do that. When you’re done, gather a detail to get the ion cannon and the explosives out of there. I want to get the cannon into orbit of our asteroid within the next two hours. I’m retiring to my quarters. You have command.”

Smokejumper saluted smartly, and Ravage made his way down the corridors of the massive vessel. He smiled slightly to himself as he remembered recruiting Smokejumper.

A former colonel in the Predacon Strategic Air Corps, Smokejumper agreed to join Ravage’s band of Decepticons upon a chance meeting at the Point Horizon station. The Colonel had stopped off at Point Horizon to refuel while on a journey back from delivering intelligence information to one of the rim worlds, and Ravage had approached the short Predacon as he sat in the corner nursing an energon drink. Smokejumper revealed much to Ravage about his past, of his enlistment in the Decepticon air command under Cyclonus when the Decepticons still stood as a prominent faction. It had not taken much to coerce the Colonel to his new Decepticon army after Ravage revealed his identity. Smokejumper now served as his de facto second in command, providing training and logistics to the Decepticons that housed themselves in Ravage’s so-called “War World.”

In fact, Ravage relied upon Smokejumper more than he liked. There was still far too much of a loner in Ravage’s fuel lines. Too much of the covert operative that relished in infiltrating enemy lines unseen--and unaided.

Ravage reached his chambers, and reached down and punched in his personal access code. The room proved dark and small; exactly as he liked. Let Smokejumper and the other officers have the large rooms closer to the top of the asteroid. This suited Ravage just fine.

He poured himself a small glass of energon drink, and took a seat in a chair. He surmised that if he were to lead this new Decepticon force that he needed to stop going on these arms procurement missions alone. It proved dangerous, and the Decepticons needed all the leadership they could muster at this point of time.

But still . . . he liked it far too much.

Ravage sighed as he pushed the thoughts from his mind, and then reached down and gripped a datapad. Smokejumper ensured that intelligence summaries reached him whenever he left the asteroid, and Ravage sat back to read about the latest Maximal and Predacon developments in his dim chambers.

In a darkened room atop a tall spire on Charr, the Tripedicus Council met in secret.

Although there were over fifty members on the full Council, the true power ultimately fell to three beings; Sea Clamp, Jetstorm and Ram Horn. The remainder of the Council simply provided the aura of democracy. At this juncture, the three Predacons conferred into low tones underneath a dim overhead light.

“I fear for the continued existence of the Predacons,” Sea Clamp began. “The threat of Ravage continues to weigh upon us.”

“Ravage has yet to pose us any threat,” Jetstorm argued. “May I remind you, Sea Clamp, that it was Cryotek’s meddling in these affairs that eventually turned the Covert Agent against us. Had he not double-crossed Ravage by sending Death’s Head after him, Ravage would still be under our control.”

The final member, Ram Horn, considered the words for a long moment before adding his thoughts to the discussion. “I must agree with Sea Clamp. Either sanction Ravage or wage another war with the Maximals--at the time, the choice seemed clear. Losing a finger to save the hand, I believe the expression goes. But I must also agree that High Proctor Cryotek has been allowed far too much influence with our internal dealings. Revenge against Ravage’s betrayal has engulfed him. How many secret police agents have we lost to date?”

“Twenty-six,” Sea Clamp supplied. “Cryotek sent twenty-six agents after Ravage in the past year. None returned. The latest, of course, was Manterror. A garbage crew uncovered his headless and charred corpse on Junk eight days ago.”

“Uncharacteristic of Ravage,” Jetstorm stated matter-of-factly. “Barbaric. But the fact remains that he has not done anything against the Predacon Alliance.”

“Need I remind you,” Sea Clamp interrupted, “about the Maximal ambassador to Earth that they assassinated? The Maximals know that Ravage conducted that operation, and that he used to hold ties with the Predacon Alliance. He’s doing us more harm than good, even though he no longer affiliates himself with us!”

Ram Horn interceded again. “Of course, it is the underlying goal of the Council to eventually route the Maximals from Cybertron and reclaim our homeland. Ravage is working within his best capacity to accomplish that end. His influence is certainly felt here on Charr. Many Predacons have adopted him as a folk hero of sorts.”

“Another valid concern!” Sea Clamp roared. “He’ll turn the populace against us!”

“Enough,” Ram Horn finally stated. “I believe that we hold a two-thirds majority that Ravage is a threat. However, continuing to send agents after him has not alleviated our concerns. I move that we give High Proctor Cryotek a final chance. Either the agent he selects brings in Ravage, or we stop sending agents after him and see what Ravage does with that relative freedom. Ravage may yet serve our needs.”

Jetstorm nodded in assent, but Sea Clamp looked abashed. “I don’t like it,” he stated with a shake of his head, “but I’m willing to go along with it . . . for now. But as soon as Ravage bites us, we must retaliate--with powerful measures.”

The other two members of the Council nodded their heads in agreement. They then departed the dim chambers, taking their plans with them.

Night fell over the planet of Necros, and the Maximal Valkyrie sighed as she watched the moon rise over the Eastern horizon. Small, grey, crater-pocked--the moon of Necros resembled the planet’s surface in many ways.

She stared down at the fields of sooty ash, and recalled a time, not but a year ago, that the native populace of Necros relied upon ritualistic cannibalism to survive. But the Galactic Federation stepped in, sending humanitarian aide to the planet.

The effect was immediate. Although seeds took well to the soil, vegetables and crops proved incompatible with the Necronian diet. Having never digested plants before, the Necronians quickly developed stomach pains. Instead, the Galactic Federation brought in numerous types of livestock, a commodity that proved much more viable to the Necronian people. Although the people still did not eat often--with such low metabolic rates, there was no need--they could at least sate the hunger pains that racked their bodies. For the first time in their lives, they did not have to live in pain or want.

The extra energy provided growth for the society, as well. Already, the Necronians devoted much more time and effort into schools for children, and also taught their written word to every citizen--something that had only been limited to the religious leaders a year before.

She stood in the tower of the religious chambers, staring down at her adopted people as they went into their houses for the evening. A glance outward, and she could see the humanitarian camp. It was amazing, the amount of support that the Necronians received. Maximals, humans, Junkions--even the Predacons supplied a single representative, although Valkyrie surmised that it was purely for political appearances.

What gall the Predacon Alliance has, Valkyrie thought bitterly. She remembered them sending their best agent, Ravage, to kill her comrades and capture her on Necros last year. Now, here they were, supposedly giving humanitarian support. It infuriated her, but she supposed that quite a bit of her current situation was her own doing. After all, she disavowed any participation that the Predacons held with Ravage in an effort to spare a costly war. She looked up at the stars, thinking back to the murderous covert agent that nearly took her life on two occasions. He still existed, she supposed; she received reports from the Galactic Federation that a new batch of Decepticons had emerged.

Irony. She recalled how she explained Ravage away as a rogue Decepticon--and he became exactly that. Believed to run a terrorist cell, Ravage now conducted operations throughout several systems, ensuring that the original Megatron’s intent of a Decepticon Empire was being realized.

She heard footsteps behind her, and Valkyrie glanced over her shoulder to see Wolfgang standing at the entrance to the chambers of the Necronian tower. She smiled as the fellow Maximal approached, and then turned her attention back over to the landscape.

“It’s amazing,” Wolfgang surmised. “What we’ve accomplished here in so little time. We’ve given new hope, new life, to a civilization that had none before. You’ve done well.”

Valkyrie laughed slightly. “It’s not my doing,” she stated. “Although the Necronians still regard me as their spiritual leader, they’re slowly becoming more self-reliant. I believe that I can finally convince them to elect one of their own into this position before too much longer.”

“Really?” Wolfgang asked. “You think that after millennia of being told who their leader is going to be, that the Necronians will learn about the democratic process?”

“I think so,” she stated. “They’re learning fast. All they needed was a little bit of help and a chance. Primus willing, they’ll continue along this course.”

“What do you mean?” Wolfgang asked.

“I’m still worried that the Predacons will mess this up,” Valkyrie sighed. “I know that they are not sincere. I’m worried what they’ve got up their sleeve.”

“Ravage?” Wolfgang asked.

Valkyrie shook her head. “No. I don’t think that’s it. I know he’s still out there, somewhere. But I think that his days of interfering with the Necronians--and me--are over.”

Cryotek rubbed his optics as he stared out at Charr’s midday sun from his office chambers. That morning, the Tripedicus Council put forth an ultimatum; to bring in Ravage with the next agent, or to cease and desist.

His body shook with rage. A year later, he still had trouble grasping the fact that Ravage betrayed the Predacons. His most loyal, most dedicated agent, now a Decepticon terrorist. His optics drifted towards his desk, and he picked up a datapad and read a news report.

He scanned the report carefully, looking over the crime reports in Charr’s capital city of Cypopulus. The crime rates remained relatively low for fear of the Predacon secret police. He read about a break-in at a shop, a mugging in the hover transit system, the vandalization of a government office . . .

But his eyes stopped as he looked at the picture. The Decepticon insignia had been painted on the exterior of the building.

Even though he no longer remained on planet, Ravage was turning his own populace against him. Cryotek roared in anger, and then threw the datapad across the room. It collided into the far wall, where it shattered and slid noisily to the floor. Cryotek stopped and breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down. Such displays of rage would not go over well with his new--and final--agent.

The inter-office intercom cut on a moment later, and the secretary droid in the reception room spoke, “sir, your requested guest is here. Should I go ahead and send him in?”

Cryotek sighed again, still trying to regain his composure. “Yes,” he finally stated. The door slid open a second later, and the massive, purple, winged figure entered the spacious office.

“General Razorclaw,” Cryotek said as he rose to his feet and extended a single hand outwards in greeting, “the pleasure is all mine, to be sure.”

Razorclaw smiled and returned the handshake before taking his seat. Cryotek did the same, before asking the next question. “So? How does the revolution on Cyran Nine go?”

Razorclaw nodded his massive head once. “Well. We nearly have the native populace subdued. But I know this isn’t the reason that you requested my presence, High Proctor. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get straight to the matter at hand.”

Cryotek laughed. “I should know better than to try to small-talk the best general in the Predacon army,” he stated. “Very well. The reason that I summoned you here today is to remove you from your current assignment.”

Razorclaw’s mouth fell open. “High Proctor, I must protest. The insurgency on Cyran Nine needs my continued presence. It would be folly to remove the division’s commander now!”

“I trust that the Cyrans are subdued enough,” Cryotek stated. “General Scourge has relieved you already. I summoned you here today to discuss your new assignment--Ravage.”

“The Decepticon terrorist?” Razorclaw asked. “High Proctor, surely there must be Predacons better suited than an infantry general to hunt down a rogue agent.”

Cryotek placed his upper appendages on the top of the desk and leaned over, staring the General in the optics. “I will give you anything you need. Any equipment, weapons, troops, you name it and I will provide it. Ravage poses a much greater threat than I think you realize, General. He must be brought to face justice.”

“High Proctor,” Razorclaw stated, rising from his chair, “I have met this covert agent of yours before, and I do not believe that he will target the Predacons directly. He has a sense of loyalty and honor, and much of the population--and my own troops--support him in his cause to restore the Decepticons. Already he has--“

“Tread carefully, General,” Cryotek hissed through clenched teeth, “for what you say borders on treason.”

Razorclaw stared daggers at Cryotek for a long moment. He then drew himself straighter and offered a salute. “As you command, High Proctor,” he finally stated. “If Ravage is my objective, I will bring him to you.”

As the interior lights fell dim to simulate night on the asteroid ship, Ravage dreamed.

His dream was one of a memory--an event that occurred a year prior. He found himself locked in battle with the bounty hunter Death’s Head once more, felt the axe sink into his armor skin.

Suddenly, he saw himself falling in a rain of internal mech fluid and glass. His left arm flopped by his side, nearly useless from the axe wound. He pulled the energon dagger from his belt and frantically tried to find purchase in the side of the building.

Finally, after a seeming eternity of spiraling through space, the knife sunk home and his descent halted. Ravage hung by the blade for a relief-filled minute, and then his optics scanned the sides of the building for an entry point. He finally managed to kick in a window, and then struggled through its shattered frame into the dark office beyond.

He fell to his knees, realizing that he needed to get moving, lest the Maximals find him. He pulled--painfully--at the axe that still remained wedged in his shoulder. Finally, the massive blade pulled free, and Ravage allowed it to fall to the floor with a massive thump.

He then remembered the hurried retreat out the front of the building, relying upon the personal cloaking device that he used to initially infiltrate the tower. Finally, he managed to escape to a spaceport, and take one of the numerous ships that stood empty.

The dreams dissipated, and Ravage sat up inside of his dark chambers. He sighed heavily. The dream had become a recurring one, and while not technically a nightmare, it still staved off stasis. Ravage emerged from his chambers and took the elevator to the bridge.

“Attention on the deck!” Frostbite, the night captain, called as Ravage entered. A wave from the former Tripedicus Agent sent the Decepticons back to their tasks. Frostbite approached Ravage, his bladed arm hanging awkwardly at his side. “Anything we can do for you, sir?” the blue, wolf-like Decepticon asked.

Ravage shook his head. “No,” he stated. “I just came up here to check on the ship, that’s all. Anything to report?”

Frostbite pulled forth a datapad. “Not too much, sir. A small freighter came by the asteroid ship about three hours ago, but it didn’t hang around. We took no action against it, since it didn’t pose us any threat.”

Ravage stroked his chin. “Interesting,” he mumbled. “A freighter, you said? We’re not anywhere close to the interstellar trafficking lanes.”

Frostbite shrugged. “We checked the markings, sir. We identified it as Cthulian. Pardon my saying, sir, but that explains it right there. It continues to astound me that race of tentacled, bug-eyed monsters mastered space travel at all, much less something like walking upright.”

“Cthulian,” Ravage repeated, and then snorted a laugh. “I suppose you’re right. The entire race couldn’t maneuver their way out of a box.” Ravage took the datapad from Frostbite’s hand, and then looked over the log. Seeing nothing else that interested him, he returned it to his fellow Decepticon. “I’ll be in my quarters,” he finished. “A day of reckoning is quickly approaching, don’t forget.”

“Of course, sir,” Frostbite smiled. “The raid on the weapons plant. Colonel Smokejumper has been making rehearse this every day for the past month.”

Ravage nodded in assent. “We’ve got to make sure that this goes off properly,” he stated, as he turned to leave. “We not only need the weapons, but it’s striking out at the Maximals and their ridiculous Pax Cybertronia. We’ll convince the Predacons that they’re outdated yet.”

Charr. Two weeks later.

As the sun bored down relentlessly on the scorched planet, and Razorclaw continued to gaze over the intelligence products provided him by his newly acquired task force. The general sighed, and disgustedly pushed a datapad away from him. The hunt for Ravage was taking longer than he liked, and Cryotek grew anxious for results.

A diminutive Predacon approached Razorclaw from the left, and the large general accidentally knocked the small analyst over, sending a stack of datapads tumbling to the floor. Razorclaw mumbled a word of apology and helped the soldier to his feet. However, the excited analyst scarcely seemed to notice. “Sir!” he exclaimed. “I think I might be on to something!”

Razorclaw crossed his arms, a slight smile on his face, unable to hide the humor he found in the young soldier’s enthusiasm. “Well then,” he stated, “don’t keep me waiting. Let’s see it.”

“Excellent,” the analyst stated, rubbing his hands together gleefully. He punched a few keys into the datapad, and then turned in the direction of a large screen monitor. “If you’ll please turn your attention in the direction of this screen, sir,” the analyst stated, “I’ll show you what I’ve found.

“I conducted a detailed analysis of Ravage’s practices during his time with the Predacon secret service. He is slow, meticulous, one to cover his tracks. As a terrorist leader, he is one who would attempt to diversify his operations, to keep them as random as possible, to keep us guessing where he is to strike next.

“But this is where I believe he failed. Ravage spent too much time plotting his operations. A simple map shows this shortfall.”

A map of the quadrant flashed on the screen, along with red dots to designate areas that Ravage conducted an attack. Razorclaw stared at the screen intently, and finally he said, “I don’t see much pattern. It seems radically diversified. What do you make of it?”

The analyst smiled, and then a red line connected all of the points. Razorclaw found himself looking at a generic, circular shape. “Let me guess,” Razorclaw stated, “you think he’s at the center of that circle.”

“Nearly, sir, nearly,” the analyst continued. The screen zoomed inward, and Razorclaw found himself staring at a picture of an asteroid belt. “And what makes you think that Ravage is there? Seems to me that it’s a pretty bad place to set up an area of operations.”

“Maybe so, sir,” the analyst continued, “but I did some checking. First, a survey ship--Cthulian in design, but manned by Sodians--was conducting a check of the asteroids in the belt as part of a study. They noticed a previously unfound asteroid, and assumed that it must have been a wayward comet that ran out of steam and became trapped in the asteroid belt’s gravity. They reported this finding to a scientific journal upon their return.

“Secondly--and here’s the prize intel--a merchant on VsQs reported an asteroid ship of his as stolen. Asteroid ships were often used by the Quintessons during the days of the Great War, and while most have been destroyed, there’s still a number of them out there.”

Razorclaw stared at the screen for a long moment. “So you think Ravage is in the Nepesh system. No habitable worlds, only a blue star, three gas giants, and that asteroid belt between the second and third planet. A bit out of the way to conduct terrorist operations, to be sure.”

“Which makes it perfect for Ravage, sir,” the analyst pressured. Razorclaw rose from his seat and crossed his arms as he thought deeply. “I’m wary, but it’s the best we’ve got. I’ll get a scout ship to investigate the asteroid belt immediately. You very well may have just found the target we wanted.”

The assault vessel stayed low, cruising at a speed of about three hundred miles per hour only about two hundred feet off the ground. Ravage stared out at the other ships, which had assumed a wedge formation alongside his.

He turned his attention back into the seating bay, staring at the rows of Decepticon soldiers about to embark on this mission. With a glance out the front screen at the weapons facility in the distance, Ravage turned his attention back to his soldiers.

“Decepticons,” Ravage stated, “we are embarking on our most daring raid to date. Before us lies the Maximal weapons facility. I’m not going to bore you with the mission details; you’ve all received your briefings already from your officers. But I will tell you what I expect. I expect all of you to fight proudly as soldiers in the new Decepticon Army. I expect for you to leave no survivors. I expect for you to bring the arms and ammunition we need to carry out our missions. And finally, I expect for this place to be completely destroyed upon our leave. Any questions?”

Not a Decepticon moved or replied to this question. Ravage thrust his right arm into the air. “Decepticons forever!” he exclaimed. The troops returned the gesture, each one raising their right hands in a clenched fist of defiance.

“Decepticons forever!”

The planet in which the Maximal facility lay was desolate, barren, with no native life forms and an atmosphere that consisted mainly of carbon dioxide. The compound contained high walls, with only a single hover train station providing the Maximals access to the spaceport seventy kilometers away. When the Decepticons struck, the Maximals had no hope of escape.

A pair of Maximals stood atop the southern wall, discussing their upcoming leave time. A loud rumbling in the distance suddenly earned their attention, and the twin sentries turned their attention outwards, trying to detect the source of the racket. The drop ship appeared over the horizon suddenly, and one of the guards ran to raise the alarm.

Too late. The lead drop ship fired its front blasters, incinerating the two Maximals before they could get off the wall. A set of missiles dropped from the right flank of the drop ship formation, and the warheads locked onto a Maximal control tower. The explosives went off, engulfing the structure in flames. The tower shook and fell, knocking its occupants to their demise.

At this point, the drop ships concentrated raking fire across the ground, and the ships finally began to hover in place over the central courtyard. Cable lines were flung out of the ships, and the Decepticon forces rappelled their way to the ground.

Ravage watched his soldiers throw themselves out of the ship, relying purely upon the thin cables to keep them safe during their descent. The Decepticon founder turned towards Smokejumper. “Colonel,” Ravage roared above the racket of gunshots and explosions, “I’m going down with one of the squads. You have command here until I return.”

Smokejumper shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t think that you should do that.”

Ravage snorted back a chuckle. “Probably shouldn’t, but I’m going regardless,” he stated. “You know the rules of ground combat better than I, Colonel. I’m just a former agent, used to sneaking around by myself. I only have the loyalty and the dedication to the Decepticons; you have the ability to lead them. That being said, I’ll see you after the battle.”

Ravage reached outside the ship and took a firm grasp of the cable, and then quickly made his descent to the warzone below. The old thrill returned to him, and Ravage pressed his body low to the ground to avoid a burst of machine gun fire that erupted overhead. Ravage noticed that the drop ships were departing the courtyard at this point; they would return upon the completion of the mission.

He pressed his body against the back of a large packing crate and then spoke into his communicator. “First platoon,” the heavily-accented voice pounded, “what’s the situation with the control tower?”

“Bad, sir,” the platoon leader responded. “The control tower managed to get a machine gun nest up before we could cordon it. We’re pinned down.”

“But the communication lines have been cut, correct?” Ravage pressured.

“Affirmative. The drop ships took out the satellite transceivers easily enough. Our main concern is that the Maximals will be able to bring their defense grid back on-line from the tower.”

Ravage snorted in disgust at this news. If the Maximals managed to bring the outer wall’s automated guns back on-line, his unit of Decepticons would take heavily casualties. Ravage turned his attention towards the command tower and took off in a steady jog, keeping a wary eye open for bursts of machine gun fire.

He pushed his back against a crate as a volley of bullets passed overhead, and Ravage could hear their hiss as they cut through the thick air of the planet. Dust kicked up as the rounds sank into the ground only a few meters from his position; Ravage suddenly remembered himself fighting in the Great War, long ago. The same feeling of unease, of excitement, of impending doom returned, and he reveled in the apprehension that washed over him. It made him feel alive again.

He peered around the corner, and noticed the control tower standing about five hundred meters to the northeast. So close, and yet it might as well be on another world. On the battlefield, running half a kilometer under heavy machine gun fire was a move only for the suicidal or the selflessly courageous.

He noticed that the Maximals established the machine gun nest at the base of the tower, and that a pair of Maximal sentries manned the automatic weapon. Ravage estimated that he had only between five to ten minutes before the Maximals succeeded in re-routing their primary power back to the perimeter defenses. He needed to move quickly into the control tower if he hoped for his Decepticon raid to succeed.

Ravage noticed a long shadow being cast by a supply building that ran the length of the half-kilometer; he figured that he could blend into the shadows easily enough if he could get out from his position long enough to reach the building. Ravage gripped his communicator.

“Second squad, first platoon, this is Ravage. Give me covering fire. My coordinates are being transmitted now.”

“Affirmative, Ravage. We are en route,” came the reply. A moment later, another burst of fire rang out, distracting the Maximal machine gun next. Ravage used the opportunity to slip from his hiding position and then pressed himself flat against the side of the supply building, concealing his entire form into the shadows. He was then able to move quickly along the wall until he found himself parallel to the machine gun emplacement.

The Maximals seemed completely transfixed with the Decepticon positions before them, and so did not notice Ravage as he approached them from behind. The Decepticon leader withdrew a long energon blade and held it outstretched in his right hand. He then seized the gunnery spotter around the neck and made a cruel cut across the Maximal’s jugular. The sentry fell to the ground without making a noise, dead before he realized what had happened to him.

The gunner let off the trigger as he heard his comrade fall to the ground with a loud thud. He looked upward, towards the shadowy figure that now stood over him. Ravage lashed downwards with the blade, catching the Maximal across the face. The gunner bellowed in pain and raised his hands to his scarred optics. Ravage followed up the attack by driving the blade into his opponent’s abdomen, and then he gripped the Maximal about the neck and gave a harsh twist, breaking the neck assembly in five different locations. The Maximal fell over with a gurgle, and Ravage lobbed a grenade underneath the tripod of the machine gun. He then pressed himself against the ground as the explosive went off.

After the loud explosion sounded, Ravage gripped his communicator once more. “First platoon, this is Ravage,” he announced. “The machine gun is destroyed. Follow me to the base of the control tower and conduct a cordon of the area. Over.” Without waiting for an affirmation to his order, Ravage stole into the front entrance of the tower, and then carefully made his way up the thin, metal stairway inside.

Inside the tower’s control room, a small band of Maximals prepared for their final stand. “The machine gun nest cut off,” the Maximal in charge, Bonecrusher, stated. He then handed a shotgun to another Maximal. “Defend the door,” he ordered. “Don’t let anybody through. We’ve got to get the defense grid back on-line, or we’re on a one-way trip to the Pit.”

The lights in the tower flickered once, then twice, before going on completely, casting the Maximals within in darkness. “What’s that?” a young Maximal named Bantor fretted.

“Somebody cut the generator,” Bonecrusher explained. “The guns run off a different power grid; keep working on them, get them back on and shooting. These invaders are just trying to intimidate us by cutting the lights.”

A couple of gunshots then went off, and a bright plumage of sparks erupted from the door’s control panel. “Somebody’s coming in!” Bantor yelped, his eyes widening with terror. Sure enough, the entry doors slowly hissed open, and the thick carbon dioxide fog from the planet’s atmosphere began seeping into the room. The door finally clamored all the way open, but the expectant Maximals did not see the adversary they expected. Instead of a platoon of angry Decepticons, the entry stood empty.

“There’s nobody there!” Bantor exclaimed. “I’m getting out of here, before those Decepticons come back and finish us for good!” The young Fuzor then picked up his shotgun and ran for the door, ignoring the comrades behind him.

“Bantor! No!” Bonecrusher cried out.

His warning came too late. Bantor screamed and fell down dead, the victim of an unseen energon knife that scoured his face and neck. Bonecrusher stared unbelievingly at the body of the dead Maximal before backing slowly away from the door.

Another set of gunshots erupted in the darkness of the control chamber, and a pair of Maximal technicians fell over in death. Bonecrusher spun, looking for his unseen assailant. Only the thick green fog of the planet met his search.

He turned once more, and found the remaining Maximals in the chamber dead, the victims of gunshot wounds to the face. A deep, guttural laugh sounded in the darkness, and Bonecrusher imagined that he could feel his inevitable doom seeping into his circuits.

A sudden motion to his right caught his attention, and Bonecrusher’s gaze drifted. He found himself staring at a blaster, its barrel positioned only inches from his head. “Personal cloaking device. Brilliant,” he mumbled. Ravage didn’t respond with words; a precise pull of the trigger spoke volumes for the shadow agent.

Ravage watched the body of Bonecrusher sink to the steel floor, and then he triggered his communicator. “All units, this is Ravage,” he announced. “The threat in the control tower has been neutralized. I repeat: the control tower is neutralized. Preparing demolitions now. If you are in the vicinity of the tower, I suggest that you move.”

Without awaiting any further reply, Ravage drew a set of thermal charges out of his satchel and placed them at the foot of a control panel. He then set the timer on the charges for one minute. With a final look back, he took his leave of the tower.

He descended the thin stairway quickly, and then took off in a sprint across the main compound, narrowly avoiding a final blast of Maximal machine gun fire. He dove behind a crate and checked his timer. Ten seconds.

The tower erupted into a blazing inferno, and several fuel tanks that had been stacked near the building also exploded. Ravage gave a grim smile of satisfaction as he witnessed the destruction of the Maximal arms depot.

A movement toward his left startled him, but Ravage was relieved to find it to be Smokejumper. “Colonel,” Ravage asked, “how has the mission gone?”

“Excellent, now that the control tower is destroyed,” Smokejumper responded with a smart salute. “The Decepticons are just cleaning up right now. As per your orders, we took no prisoners.”

“Casualties?” Ravage ventured.

“Two, sir. Wind Tunnel and Slugfest.”

“Pity,” Ravage sighed. “I knew Slugfest well. I used to serve with him in the Decepticons.” The Decepticon leader gave a moment of thought toward his dead comrades, and then returned his attention to Smokejumper. “You know what needs to happen next, Colonel,” he concluded.

Smokejumper nodded. “The explosives are being placed now, and the drop ships will arrive in the next five minutes. We’ll load them up with weapons and explosives from the armory, and then we’ll remote detonate this dump as soon as we get into the air.”

Back in his private office on Charr, General Razorclaw anxiously awaited the results of the scout mission to the Nepesh system. He had sent the scout shuttle out nearly fourteen hours prior, and had not heard from the away team as of thus far. The waiting began to wear on his nerves and patience, and he gulped a small glass of energon out of anticipation.

An incoming visual transmission interrupted his thoughts, and Razorclaw looked upwards, hoping to see his scout team reporting in. Instead, however, he found himself staring at the face of Cryotek. “General,” the High Proctor stated, “have you found any leads yet?”

“I understand your eagerness, High Proctor,” Razorclaw stated, “but we haven’t made any progress since the last time you checked in. I still await word from the scouts myself.”

Cryotek gritted his teeth. “You’ve had two weeks, General, and you have yet to make any substantial progress,” he snarled. “My previous agents may have died, but they at least found where Ravage was!”

“Exactly, High Proctor,” Cryotek stated. “Any fool can go out, ask questions of bounty hunters and scoundrels, and get a pretty good idea of where Ravage is lurking and where he intends to strike next. And time and time again, Ravage caught wind of it and made sure that your agents died before they could make use of that information. I’m conducting this mission in a controlled, precise matter, one that limits our casualties and makes sure that we take Ravage out where it will hurt him the worst--at his base of operations. This takes time, High Proctor.”

“Time,” Cryotek replied with a grimace, “is a luxury that we are quickly losing, General. I require results. Report to me as soon as you acquire them. Cryotek out.”

The screen went dead, leaving Razorclaw alone with his resentment. The General gave a massive sigh and sunk into his chair, wondering when his scouts would finally report to him.

Unexpectedly, the screen hissed to life once more, and Razorclaw saw himself facing his scout platoon leader. “General Razorclaw,” the Predacon stated with a salute, “I give you the latest update on the Nepesh system. After a thorough check, we found a single asteroid that our sensors detected as mostly hollow. Our instruments indicate that five beings currently reside within its hull.”

“Excellent,” Razorclaw stated. “That must be it. But why only five beings, I wonder? A skeleton crew, perhaps?”

“My thoughts exactly, sir. I recommend that we stay in place for a while longer. We have a perfect hiding position right now; the magnetic interference that the blue star is giving off hides our electromagnetic signature. I will give any further reports as I receive them.”

“A good plan, Lieutenant,” Razorclaw stated. “I anxiously await your report. General Razorclaw out.”

The Nepesh system. Six hours later.

The Decepticon drop ships returned to the War World, and the jubilant soldiers on board looked forward to a spot of good energon and a long rest cycle. As the troops disembarked from their ships, Smokejumper called them to the position of attention.

The Colonel gave a slight nod of satisfaction as he looked over the assembled troops in the bay of the asteroid ship, and then gave the order for “at ease.” Each Decepticon placed his hands behind their back, turning their attention in the direction of their Colonel.

“Decepticons,” Smokejumper stated, “you have each performed admirably today. For that, I thank you. Every day, our influence grows. We will remind the universe of why the Decepticons were once feared and honored!”

A slew of fist rose into the air at this comment. “Decepticons forever!” the assembled platoons bellowed. Smokejumper waited for the roar to die down, and then continued his speech. “When I look into this army, I don’t see the Decepticons of old. I don’t see the Starscreams, the traitorous backstabbers. I don’t see the Shockwaves, the boot-licking simpletons. I only see an assembly of completely dedicated soldiers, committed to their ideologies. The Decepticons will rise to a prominent faction once again. And this time, nothing will hold us back!”

A roar of approval went up from the crowd, and Smokejumper gave a slight smile underneath his mouth plate. “Now, I believe that our commander has a few words that he wants to put out,” Smokejumper concluded. “After which, you are all released to your personal quarters until 1500 hours tomorrow, standard galactic time.”

A cheer went up from the soldiers at this news, and Ravage approached the front of the formation. “Decepticons,” the cat-like Transformer stated, “you have performed above and beyond my wildest expectations. When I worked under the original Megatron, plotting, conniving, and backstabbing proved to be the norm, not the exception. It does the fuel pump of this old warrior proud to see such loyal Decepticons today. Without further ado,” Ravage announced, drawing out the words slowly, “I believe that some rest and relaxation is in order. Dismissed.” A final cheer went up from the assembled Decepticons, and the soldiers scattered to enjoy some down-time.

Smokejumper offered a final salute before he made his way from the hanger, but Ravage gripped the former Colonel by the crook of the arm. “Smokejumper,” Ravage stated, “you and I have some things that we need to discuss.”

“Of course, sir,” Smokejumper replied. Ravage glanced about cautiously before continuing his words. “We need to move the War World,” he finally supplied. “We’ve been in one location for too long. I’m concerned that either the Predacons, Maximals, or bounty hunters will make a connection and close in our position before too much longer.”

Smokejumper nodded his head in understanding. “I agree, sir,” the smaller Decepticon stated, “but it is my recommendation that we wait until 1500 tomorrow. We’ve already given the soldiers their down-time, and it would hurt morale if we suddenly grabbed a handful of them to work the engines and controls. I say we give it another day, and then we can put in a course for the Psycantis system.”

Ravage bit his bottom lip; Smokejumper could tell that he did not like this recommendation. After a long moment, though, Ravage relented. “All right,” the former Tripedicus Agent agreed, “we’ll wait until tomorrow. But then, we must make haste.”

After hours of waiting, Razorclaw’s patience paid off. A signal from his scouts suddenly entered the transmission screen in his office, surprising the general.

“Lieutenant,” Razorclaw demanded, “have you found anything else of value?”

The younger Predacon officer nodded in assent. “Yes, sir. A group of ships returned not long ago. We weren’t able to detect their electromagnetic signatures--they stuck close to the gas planets and used their gravity to mask their approach--but we made visual confirmation. Even if it’s not Ravage, it’s mighty suspicious activity.”

Razorclaw stroked his chin as he thought. “You’ve done well, Lieutenant,” he finally stated. “Return to Charr with your platoon to reconsolidate your equipment and gets some R and R.”

“And what about you, sir?” the other Predacon ventured.

Razorclaw smiled. “An all-out raid on his asteroid ship in the middle of the night will be one of the last things that Ravage expects, particularly after a successful mission. We just received word that a Maximal weapons depot was found completely destroyed; the Maximals chalked it up to Ravage. This time, he’s out of places to run.”

Ravage carefully pushed his way through the crowds that now filled the lower decks of the asteroid ship, determined to get some rest before he moved the War World. The promise of a late return to duty certainly affected the troops; the vast majority now stood in the walkways and hallways, engaging excitedly in conversation as they related their battle tales to one another. Ravage faintly heard the sounds of a popular Charrian song seeping into the narrow walkway, and the groans and cheers of a gambling game in another room.

Affixing an exasperated smile, Ravage finally pushed his way into his personal quarters. Although he enjoyed the solitude of these tiny chambers, the loud noises outside made him yearn for quieter quarters further up the ship. He tried to block the ruckus out from his audio receptors as he turned his attention to a schematic of the asteroid ship that hung against the left-hand wall.

Ravage had created a contingency plan in the event that his ship was ever boarded; he ensured that all of the escape vessels were housed mid-ship, where Decepticons from the top and bottom had an equal opportunity to get into a pod.