Chapter Twelve

Justice does not descend from its pinnacle.
—Dante, Purgatorio (VI, 37)

Consciousness seemed a long time in coming; Primal was almost certain that he had fled the comfort of his body and was headed towards the Matrix when he felt a very real grip on his shoulder. The second sense to repair itself was audio:

“Ratchet! Wheeljack! First Aid!”

Primal became aware that he was being rolled over, and with that sensation came the pain. His cortex was afire with thousands of raw and ripped out lines all sending signals at the same time. He could taste his own coolant, bitter, upon his taste sensors, smell the acrid smoke rising from his brutalized chest. Black and white bands of static flickered across his optics, spitting and spluttering half-images that he could not make hide or hair of.

“There’s too much damage, Optimus.”

“I’m surprised he’s stayed functioning this long.”

“Save him; that’s an order.”

Someone was tugging on the back of his head. The last thing Primal heard were the murmurs of the Autobots as they took in this new turn of events. And then he slipped into forced stasis.

Almost as if they had rehearsed it, one by one the ring of Autobots stowed their weapons – into thighs, behind backs, hooked onto their hips, subspace. Flare’s fingers trembled as she lowered her pistol into its hip holster and turned to look up at the line of warehouses. She couldn’t see him, of course, but she knew he was there, watching.

Inside the circle, it was as if Prime had battled the original Megatron all over again. The carnage was unbelievable – Captain Primal had little to no external armor left on his Transmetal-2 body. He’d been stripped to the bare minimum, and what was left of that was now covered in his own fluids. Bits and chunks of plating, wires and fluid, littered the ground wherever one looked; it was disgusting, and Flare felt her insides churn a little as she took it all in. At the moment, Optimus had Ratchet, First Aid and Wheeljack tending to the captain; as for Prime himself, he stood looking down at the body of the imposter, his face unreadable. The Maximals had broken rank and were streaking towards the bloodbath, each babbling uncontrollably.

“They have a lot of explaining to do,” she heard Hound murmur to her left.

Yes, she agreed silently. They had thought everything was copasetic between the Autobots and the sub-faction, but this revelation by the imposter had wiped out every tentative tie that might have been established. Her Energon pump had sunk to the very bottom of her chest cavity, and she didn’t know if it could ever be raised up again. There was no doubt about it that Megatron had spoken the truth – their reactions had confirmed their guilty omissions. And it made perfect sense, too – how else could a Maximal attain such size and resemblance to Optimus Prime, when all they had was a research vessel?

Of course, there came the question: did she really want to know? It wasn’t as if she had any stake in the matter, having been born human. But it all boiled down to one simple, human and Transformer concept: violation of sacred space. To be unconscious and to have someone walk around your domain without your knowledge – that she could understand.

Someone was nudging her. She looked up, drawn out of her ruminations, to see Sideswipe eying her with concern. He was always the more conscientious of the two. “We’ll help you throw their stuff into the compactor if you want, Flare.”

She blinked, taken aback. “I –”

“They had every chance to come clean, and now we find out that they were stepping all over our bodies back on Earth? Don’t tell me you’ll still defend them.”

Solarflare chewed on her lip, turning her head from the grisly site. “Don’t antagonize her, Sideswipe,” she heard Hound chastise.

“What, or she’ll cry?” the red warrior taunted, the rising heat of the moment overwhelming his good tendencies.

Something was coming over the rusty horizon. Along with the bright rays of the sun, Flare could barely make out the forms of patrol vessels. Completely ignoring the bitch-fest between Lamborghini and Jeep, she raised her head and increased magnification.

“What do you see?” someone quietly whispered in her right audio.

“The law,” she replied hollowly, the words remaining locked inside her chest, vibrating against her plating.

“Slag. Tell Prime. I’ll pass the word.”

Flare cut power to her optics and left Trailbreaker to his duty. She swallowed her revulsion and jogged up to the former Autobot leader. He was still staring at the body of the captain, who seemed to have lost more fluid. Coolant lapped at Optimus’ toes, and she had to slosh through it to get to him.

“Optimus.” More urgently, “Optimus.”

“Solarflare?” His voice echoed around inside his battlemask, empty and despondent. This whole ordeal had broken the once-mighty Autobot more than he had let on, perhaps more than he knew. “Optimus,” she repeated, laying a hand on his arm. “We have a problem. The police are coming.”

Painfully, he lifted his head from the triage scene and looked where she was pointing. Something within him seemed to snap together. Turning, he noticed that the Autobots were waving their hands over their faction symbols, fading the Face of Primus into the Maximal icon.

“Autobots!” he called out with that old resonance. “What do you think you are doing?” Activity stopped; the mechs looked up, surprised. “Are you ashamed of the symbol you proudly bore for an eternity? What is there to hide from? If they are coming for us, then I say we should face them as we are, as we were.”

“But Prime,” Ironhide protested, his symbol in flux, “we can’t let them know –”

“That we still exist, old friend? That we passed over the reprogramming and still retain our Autobot personalities?”

Down the line and around the ring, heads hung; many immediately lifted their hands and banished the hologram that covered their true nature. Some had never done so in the first place. Optimus gave a slow nod of approval and tilted his head back to stare at the patrol ships as they made their final approach.

“Well,” Sunstreaker declared, stepping into the arena, “if we’re going down, might as well go out with a bang.” He walked up to the corpse of Megatron, pulled out his gun and shot the cadaver in the head. Solarflare jumped back as residual fluid exploded from the neck joints, splattering the yellow warrior and the emergency repair team.

“Sunstreaker!” Prime exclaimed. But it was Ratchet who rose.

“You slaggin’ pile of misaligned parts! What the fuck do you think you were doing? You could have sent this mech’s system into shutdown.” Reaching out, he violently ripped the gun from Sunstreaker’s proud hand. “Give me that, you psychopath, and get back into line.”

Sunstreaker expertly flipped Ratchet off before stalking back into place. “Now there’s nothing to fix,” he was heard to growl before being swallowed up by his comrades.

Ratchet sighed, glancing up at the cruisers. “He’s going to need more medical attention than we can give him, Prime,” the old CMO told the commander, resigned. “Everything is out of my league here. I didn’t even bring my supplies when we were called.”

“He’s stable, for now,” First Aid chimed in, “but not for long. I’ve jury-rigged a lot of his lines, but I’m more worried about his core consciousness. There’s been heavy damage to his neural pathways as a result of shock.”

“Do what you can.” Prime folded his arms, watching as searchlights washed over them and a claxon began to blare out a message:

“This is the Cybertropolis Police Force. Release your weapons and stay within view. We will be dropping officers momentarily.”

An arm slipped around Flare’s waist, but she was too used to such invisible contact to do more than flick her crest in surprise. There was a clatter and splat as a well-loved white rifle and several canisters were dropped out of thin air. She stared at these in shock as Mirage flipped open the hatch of her holster, pulled her pistol free and dropped it with his own.

“Lu –?”

“Safe with Prowl. Prime and I came alone.” Mirage blurred into the visible spectrum and gazed coolly up at the crafts that hovered above the arena, their bay doors sliding open and dropping armed officers.

“Hey, Mirage!” Brawn called out from the sidelines. “How much money do you have?”

A slow, emotionless smile crawled across the spy’s flawless grey features. “Enough.”

Cheetor sat with his hands between his legs, head hung low, trying not to listen to the news reports on the vid that was bolted to the opposite wall. To either side of him were Rattrap, Rhinox, Silverbolt and BlackArachnia, each trying to do the same thing.

“I’ll take being held up in a mansion over this any day,” BlackArachnia was saying, rocking back in her chair and tapping her head on the wall. “At least we could go outside.”

Silverbolt laid a gentle, comforting hand on her shoulder. “I shall go and see if there is any new information about Optimus.”

She sighed. “Don’t bother, Bowser. They’ll just tell you the same thing they told us ten minutes ago.”

Rattrap made a noise deep in his throat. “I’ll tell y’what, though – it’s a slaggin’ good thing they put us in different holds.” He shuddered. “I’d rather not’ve been stuck with those psychopaths.”

A slow pulse was working its way along Cheetor’s temples, around to his optics, settling under his right orb. He dug his knuckle into the base of his optical socket, trying to ease the pain, but it would not be denied. “Did it ever occur to you that we should have been honest with the Autobots in the first place?”

“Ehhyaaah,” Rattrap scoffed. “Listen, Spots, they wouldn’t have given a flyin’ retrorat about us anymore than they did if we had come clean. Slag, they might’ve locked us up when Megs broke lose because of it. Optimus did the right thing by witholdin’ information, and if you think diff’rently, then keep it t’yourself.”

Slowly, Cheetor looked up. Before his optics glimmered the memories of the past few hours, how the Cybertropolis Police had rounded them all up and herded them into different ships. He remembered the looks of disgust, of betrayal, in the Autobots’ optics as they were led away. He also recalled how the three Autobot medics had jumped to save Optimus after he had killed Megatron.

Rhinox’s massive paw of a hand gently closed on the young Maximal’s shoulder. “Everything will be all right, Cheetor.”

The Feral Cat looked away, sickened with himself, with them all. Across the room, the door’s magnetic locks were unsealed, and a Maximal enforcer slipped into the room. He lifted a hand to stave off their obvious question. “Your captain is fine. We are in the process of finalizing his rebuilding; he will be able to join you in time for the hearing.”

“Hearing? What hearing?” Rhinox demanded.

The enforcer remained by the door. “The Autobots’ hearing, of course. While in questioning, the mech and femme from Ligier Tower admitted to everything. How they took you and the Predacon into custody without alerting the authorities, how they coerced you into joining the hunt when he escaped from their facilities.” Regardless of the naked shock upon their faces, he continued, “While the case still needs to be thoroughly investigated, none of you are being held accountable for what went on in the Warehouse District.”

Silverbolt jumped up. “This cannot be so!” he exclaimed, argent ears flicking back in acute distress.

“Silverbolt!” BlackArachnia hissed, making a grab for his arm; the wolf-eagle easily evaded her.

“Officer – listen, please. We were all at fault for what happened down there. They did not coerce us – we went of our own volition. Understand that what Mirage and Solarflare did was out of the best interest for Cybertron – not for themselves.”

Rattrap whistled. “Oh, Sil-verbolt! Don’t interrupt the nice officer when he’s slipping us our freedom on a fine crystal platter!”

The wolf-eagle’s head snaked around, gave Rattrap a horrified glance before turning back around. “Please, you must understand.”

The Maximal enforcer seemed unswayable. “We understand the awe you must feel around these war heroes, but their time is gone, soldier. We apologize for their actions. It happens now and then – one of the old guard slips a circuit and tries to relive the glory days. All of this could have been avoided had they accepted reprogramming, as many of their contemporaries did, but they refused. Stubborn fools.” He stepped back and pulled open the door. “A guard will be by momentarily to take you to see your captain.” And with that he was gone, the locks humming into place. The moment they were alone, Rattrap turned on Silverbolt.

“You get hit by some of Megs’ plating, Bolt? What were you thinking?”

The wolf-eagle bared his teeth, hackles rising along with his brown pinions. “You are severely missing the point, Rodent,” he replied through a locked jaw. “The Towerdwellers are accepting all responsibility!”

“So?” Rattrap scoffed, flicking imaginary dust off his shoulderplate. “From what I heard, he’s loaded. He could buy off the whole Council, so why worry?”

BlackArachnia rose and smoothly interposed herself between her mate and the agent. “I get what he’s saying, Rattrap. They’re taking the whole blame, even after Megs spilled. Even after.”

“So we’re a charity case now. So what?”

“Enough. All of you.” The room suddenly seemed smaller once Rhinox stood up and got between BlackArachnia and Rattrap. “This is bigger than anything we’ve ever come across. So we either work together or go to this hearing divided. I’d rather not be upset at any of you right now. I’m more worried about Optimus – and so should all of you.”

“We are, Rhinox,” Cheetor whispered quietly. “And you know what? If Optimus were here, he’d agree.” Rattrap threw his hands up into the air and stalked off into a corner.

In time, a new guard came by – armed with a no-nonsense rifle – and led them from their detention chamber. The Maximals were quick-marched down the hall and not allowed to dally in the corridors. They passed several holds, and at each one, savage blue optics stared out them with unadulterated hatred. At the far end of the white hall, a door opened and out stepped Mirage and Solarflare, both Autobots’ hands linked behind their backs, held in place with glowing red energy wraps. The femme’s gaze was locked on the opposite wall, her face set into a grim mask; Mirage’s visage was unreadable.

As the Maximals walked on, the Autobots turned towards them; both faces remained the same. A guard for each came up behind and looped their digits into the hole made by their linked hands.

“Orders are to release the others,” a tall, broad femme guard was saying. “The Elders want to conference with Optimus Prime, first, so let him up. No bonds, though.”

“Release the others?” a mech officer exclaimed. “They’re not worried about them storming the Hall?”

The femme laughed. “No, not with these two’s assurance. Isn’t that right, ‘Lord and Lady Ligier’?”

Mirage snorted defiantly. “My dear, you had best watch yourself, lest you find yourself under my payroll.”

“Sure. Let’s go, old timer.” The femme made a gesture to her comrades, complete with a wink, before leading the Autobots off.

The enforcer leading the Maximals banged the butt of his rifle on his thigh to grab their attention. “Enough dallying, soldiers. Let’s go.”

As they were hurried forward, Cheetor exclaimed: “Why? Why are you doing this? —Oof!” A guard from the nobles’ contingent pushed him non-too-gently forward, the look in his optics telling the young Maximal all he needed to know.

“We’ll speak of this matter later, Cheetor,” a voice inside his inner audio resonated.

Cheetor almost stopped again, wondering how on Cybertron Mirage was linking up with him, when they shared no frequencies. Hurriedly glancing over his shoulder as the two were led in the opposite direction, Cheetor picked up his pace.

Unlike the holding block, the ward was unguarded. At the doors to Optimus’ room, the enforcer gestured them inside, but made no effort to follow them within. Surprised by such freedom, the Maximals’ attention turned to their leader. The inside of the recovery ward was covered from floor to ceiling in white and silver tile. A plaque embedded into the wall ironically read: Courtesy of Mirage and Solarflare Ligier: in Memory of Those Who Gave it all at Autobot City, 2005 ET.

A lone figure sat in a chair up against a wide bay window overlooking prime Cybertropolis nightlife. Neon signs and holograms were reflected in the Plexiglas surface, over the reformatted figure of Optimus Primal.

“Big … Bot?” Cheetor offered up quietly, pausing with his hand on the foyer wall.

Slowly, the new Optimus turned around; his motions were slow and obviously painful, unlike his past transformations. This new body would definitely take some time to get used to. He was acutely smaller in stature, more like his original form, before he took Prime’s spark into his body. It seemed that the surgeons who operated him had taken inspiration from what his cortex recalled of his other two forms, along with his last one: this new Primal was a mixture of all three. His face was the original, complete with the silver half-mask lining his upper lip and chin; his body was tailored to the Transmetal form; the coloration mirrored his Transmetal-2 design.

Slowly, Primal smiled. “Cheetor. Rhinox, Silverbolt, BlackArachnia, Rattrap. It’s good to see you.” His voice rasped and skipped, as if his vocal box were brand new.

Rhinox laughed low and throaty. “It’s good to see you too, Optimus. I must say, you look well.”

In reply, Primal lifted his arms and turned them over. “Yes, I do seem to be doing all right. They tell me that if it wasn’t for those Autobot medics, I would have suffered core failure. Are they around? I wasn’t told who operated on me – only a guard was there when I rose from stasis.”

There was leaden silence as the other Maximals looked at each other. Primal’s new brow ridges rose in concern. “What? Tell me what’s wrong.”

Quickly and quietly, Rhinox explained the situation; Primal’s shocked look grew until all of his new face was stretched with disbelief. With a massive grunt, he shoved himself out of his chair. “We must set this right! They can’t be held accountable for all of this!” But Rhinox was right there, laying his shoulder into the reenergized captain.

“No. We can’t.”

With effort, Primal lifted himself from Rhinox’s well-meaning hold. He stood swaying, facing away from his crew. “After everything …” he whispered half to himself. “After finding out … they still did it.” He turned. “Do you know why?”

Cheetor shook his head. “We saw Mirage and Solarflare being led away when we were coming to see you, Big Bot. Mirage told me he’d tell us later.”

Four pairs of optics rotated and bore into the young Maximal. “How?” BlackArachnia demanded. “He didn’t say a thing.”

Cheetor tapped his cranial ridge. “Here. He sent to me.”

Primal let loose a low rumble, deep in his vocalizer. “Just … Prime.” He stared out the window, down into the lifeblood of Cybertron. “And they won’t listen to anything we say.”

Rhinox came over and laid a hand on Primal’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t worry about them, Optimus …”

The Maximal captain’s shoulders heaved. “I do, Rhinox. We should have told them from the beginning. Well, I will set things right. When’s the hearing?”

Silverbolt’s wings rustled. “We know not, Optimus. Nothing was divulged unto us, save that we could see you.”

Optimus Primal sighed. “I guess we wait, then.”

Waiting for an answer to come lasted for four days. During that time, the Maximals were sequestered in a special suite, none of them allowed to leave save under two guards. But no one wanted to leave, unless they could speak with the Autobots – and that, of course, was denied. So in these rooms they remained, until the day of the hearing.

Flanked by ten enforcers, the crew of the Axalon was loaded into a transport vessel and flown to the Maximal Council of Elders Hall in the center of Cybertropolis. There they were seated among some other curious spectators, who undoubtedly wanted to witness for themselves the drama that had been unfolding on the nightly news vids. In person, the Council Hall was a grand affair: bowl-shaped with a platform situated in the center, several chairs and a table raised higher upon a dais. It was patterned in silver, gold and white, with sweeping spires and curves, all in splendid grandeur. A podium sat fixed before the table. News crews sat in the sweeping balconies – there was even a human representative present.

Just as the audience was getting restless, a herald stepped out from a hidden door and declared: “The Council of Elders is now in session. Please rise.”

With some grumbling among his crew, Primal rose along with everyone else. The Council members – some reformatted and reprogrammed Autobots – filed into the bowl. They carried no discernable altmodes, seeming rather bare and alien, non-Transformer-like. One by one, they walked up to their chairs and sat down.

“You may be seated,” the Maximal Elder in the center intoned. With a rustle of mechanics, the audience sat. “The Maximal Council of Elders calls Mirage and Solarflare Ligier of the Towers.”

Along the far wall of the great basin, two great doors slid open with nary a clang. Out into the spotlight, hand in hand, walked the two Autobots; they stopped before the sculpted podium and looked up into the faces of the Elders. Mirage wore a thick, dark grey cape fastened to his shoulders, while Solarflare flew an elegantly-patterned silk scarf; their faces were impassive as they stood before the Council.

“Mirage and Solarflare Ligier,” began the Elder in the center, “you stand accused of withholding vital information from this Council, and holding a member of the Predacon Alliance captive on your spaceport grounds. Due to your alleged actions, this mech, who called himself Megatron, was found terminated at the Gates to Cybertropolis. You say that you did this for the good of Cybertron, but in doing so, you violated the Pax Cybertronia, the very pact that you helped create.” There was a distinct, powerful pause; a pause that indicated to those gathered in the chamber that this Elder considered himself above them. That he disdained them, and had already formed his opinion. “What have you to say in your defense?”

Down in the bowl, Mirage lifted his right hand and laid it on the podium, but kept his left locked around Solarflare’s. “You boldly name us of the Towers,” he began grandly, every inch the noblemech, “yet you forget one small part of our title: Autobot.” He tilted his chin and looked down his nose defiantly.

“Who knew the old stiff had it?” Rattrap whispered.

“Quiet,” someone next to him hissed, and the Rat turned around to see a bulky light green mech sidle in behind them. A rotor blade, or something similar, poked over both shoulders; beside him, a fire-colored mech pawed for a seat. Though shadow obscured much of their faces, what could be seen of them was in the form of the Face of Primus. Autobots. Across the chamber, Primal noticed that the relatively low amount of spectators was suddenly growing in earnest.

Along the grand bench, the lead Elder lowered his head with mock allowance. “Autobots, then. An ancient title, one I thought all of Optimus Prime’s followers gave up after the war.”

Mirage curled his lip in such a manner that it looked rather graceful. “Forced,” he pronounced. “Regardless. We did what we were trained to do: protect Cybertron.”

“The age of the Autobots and Decepticons are over, Lord Ligier,” someone along the right side of the bench noted.

“You made it so. You say that Solarflare and I, along with our Autobot brethren, signed the Pax Cybertronia. If you look at that document, I tell you, you will not find our names among the signers. Politicians, all; not even Optimus Prime’s name is among them. You and your fellows conceived the Pax Cybertronia – not once were we invited to sign. Invited to the ceremony, true, but after that, you threw us all aside –”

The center Elder interrupted, “We do not need an oratory on the document, Lord Ligier. You waste our time and yours with your trivialities.”

Solarflare turned her head as Mirage’s shoulders heaved. He pounded the podium with such strength that it split down the middle. “Trivialities!” the white-blue mech roared, all pretense of the noble gone. Instead, he was a battle-scarred warrior who had remade his fortune, but was forced to remain hidden because of who he had been. “It is because of us that you sit where you do now! And if this imposter of the Predacons had been able to live, to go back to them, they would have plotted to revive the Decepticons! And then where would we be? Another Great War, nine million more years of conflict and death and destruction!”

“SILENCE!”

Solarflare threw her head back, a high keen splitting her words. “Fools. All of you! You condemn us with petty politics. We did what we did – we admit it. For the better of Cybertron, so that you might continue to sit where you do, with no cause for concern.”

The eldest Elder reached for a large gavel and began hammering judiciously. “Enough, ENOUGH! If you have nothing else to give us but to rant about your lost fame, Lord and Lady Ligier, then this hearing is complete and your judgment subject to debate.”

A slow, devious smile graced the face of Mirage of the Towers. “If you will not hear us, Lord Elder, than perhaps you will hear others. Others like us who would have done the same.”

The Council members leaned forward, hissing and whispering among themselves: “What does he speak of?” “What nonsense is this?” “Send them away.”

The Elder curled his lip; on him, it looked savagely ugly. “Your time is up.”

“Look around you,” Mirage declared. “And you’ll find not one Maximal – save the Axalon crew –present. Autobots are here, Lord Elder. And you will hear them out.”

Down in the safety of their bench, the nine Elders began to shift. All around the Council chamber, mechs and femmes starting rising; on each and every one, the red face of Primus gleamed. The Maximals suddenly found themselves surrounded by not only many members the Ark crew, but those who had manned Autobot City, the two Moonbases, and the various resistance cells on Cybertron. A mass of Transformers began to pour into the basin, which was suddenly minus Solarflare and Mirage.

As chaos reigned around them, Optimus Primal decided that this would be the time to leave. “All right, everyone, let’s make a quick and clean exit.”

BlackArachnia sniffed, looking over the balustrade at the complete press of bodies. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Going so soon, Captain?” a rather cheerful, cultured voice proclaimed from thin air. Before them, Mirage – and Solarflare – ripped into the visible spectrum. The grey femme was grinning from audio to audio as she turned to look at the revolt below. “We thought you’d walk out with us.”

BlackArachnia locked gazes with the older femme. “You planned this.”

Solarflare shrugged. “Not exactly, but you’d be amazed at how many people wanted to be here.” She pointed to the bench where the Elders were trying to stave off a wall of old Autobots, each of whom were demanding a say in the Predacon matter, each with a war story to tell.

“Can we just walk out of here?” Silverbolt inquired, glancing over his shoulder as the crowd swelled. “Are you not on trial?”

Mirage smiled humorlessly. “After this? I do not think so. I believe they will be far too busy to attend to us.” He drew his arm around Solarflare’s waist. “Let’s go.” They turned as one and began winding their way through the other Transformers who were still trying to get down to the bowl. As they ascended the stairs, they saw a familiar figure in hulking yellow waiting for them.

“Nice speech, Raj,” Sunstreaker commented lazily. “I almost cried.”

Mirage chuckled. “I’ll work on it for next time, Sunshine. Is the shuttle ready?”

The melee warrior cracked his knuckles. “You betcha.”

As if Rattrap’s silver pate wasn’t already wrinkled enough, the espionage agent’s frown of confusion only deepened the grooves. “Are you guys psychic or somethin’?” he asked. “I never seem to see any of you talkin’ to each other about these so-called plans.”

“Spend some more time with your crew, and one day, you’ll be able to anticipate their needs, too,” Solarflare told him as they began walking out – completely scott-free.

Primal shook his head in disbelief. “Mirage – Solarflare – let me apologize –”

Mirage held up his hand. “It’s not to either of us that you owe an apology, Captain Primal. We did what we did because we wanted to. Flare and I had a long discussion about this when we were sitting in solitary. Both of us wanted to throw it in with you and your crew, but we couldn’t. Not in the end.” He looked at Solarflare. “I suppose you could say we were both swayed by your courage and the way you handled yourself in battle. We’re still upset with you for betraying our trust, but that will be worked out in due time. In any case, Optimus is waiting to speak with you, Captain.”

Primal’s new face positively blanched. “Now?”

Solarflare’s smile was not its usual sunny affair. “Aye, Captain. He’s waiting back home.” She looked at the rest of the crew. “I would say you are welcome at the Tower, but I cannot. Your gear – all of it – has been moved to a hotel in the Gold District of the city. I’m sure you’ll find it more to your liking than our estate.”

For their actions, they wouldn’t have flinched if she said it was all burning, or lying at the bottom of the public smelters. And they were grateful – most of them. Rattrap merely folded his buck-teeth over his lower lip and pouted.

Into the clean, clear Cybertronian daylight they stepped. Two large shuttles were idling on the tarmac, both garishly and newly painted with Primus’ face. Primal halted at the steps of the shuttle Sunstreaker was climbing into, watching as his crew – his friends – were expertly loaded into the other shuttle by the Autobots Bluestreak and Ironhide.

“Captain,” Solarflare quietly prompted, resting her hand on his arm. “Please.”

Grimly, he nodded, and ascended.