Sundog steered his small, two-seater craft in at a tight approach angle, skimming above the derelict freighter's shattered hull. The gashes in the ship's metallic skin weren't laser marks, he noticed: instead, it looked like something had physically torn into the sides of the larger vessel. He couldn't begin to imagine what kind of weapon could do that. Whatever it was, it had done its work while he was imprisoned in stasis aboard this very freighter. An involuntary shudder passed up the length of his spinal assembly.

He had an eerie sense that history was repeating itself as he guided the scout through one of the gaping tears in the hull, landing it inside the derelict's massive cargo bay. He could vividly recall the last time he had landed in here: he could still see Felstar's dark, winged form caught in his ship's landing beams. The Decepticon had looked small, somehow. Fragile, even, as if the shadows of the cargo bay were about to swallow him up.

Sundog hoisted himself through the hatch and swung down on to the deck, his feet striking the deckplates with a hollow metallic thud. He strode towards the dark doorway that he knew was the entrance to the corridor. Then he hesitated, remembering how Felstar had waited for him there, his silouette framed in the doorway.

He had approached the Decepticon slowly, filled with a sudden, leaden sense of apprehension. Something had been not quite right about Felstar's posture: an uncharacteristic sagging of his broad shoulders, an awkward lopsidedness in his stance. Sundog remembered the moment in which his dread had changed to horror: the moment that Felstar had stepped back into the corridor, and the overhead light had spilled down over his body. The Decepticon's gleaming black-and-gold chassis had been riddled with neat rows of tiny, oozing puncture wounds - unmistakably, the marks of torture.

The corridor stretched away before him now, dark and empty. Sundog forced himself past the entrance and the memories it held. There would be time to deal with them later: all of them.
Only one of the two living quarters still carried traces of Felstar's presence: Sundog guessed that the second set of quarters had remained unused during the freighter's final voyage. Black and white game pieces floated in the vacuum at the center of the room. Sundog caught one in his hand, turning it so that it gleamed in the filtered starlight. It was made from some kind of dark, shiny material, and it was shaped like the head of a Terran animal: a horse. He shook his head, his mouth twitching with the shadow of a smile. Felstar and his games: he had been addicted to them. He could imagine the Decepticon perched here on the edge of the recharge bed, hunched over the game-board and executing game after game of solitaire chess while he waited... but for what?

Apart from the low table and the decrepit recharge bed, the room was empty. Sundog made a swift but thorough search, finding nothing. He didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but was certain that he'd recognize it when he saw it. From all appearances, Felstar must have hidden on this scow for several weeks. It seemed very unlikely that he wouldn't have left something here - something that Sundog would understand.

It took a concerted effort of will to walk on to the freighter's bridge. He strode past the empty spot where the stasis unit had stood, trying not to look at a certain place on the far side of the cramped, semi-circular room. It was no use. His mind's eye, and his senses, flooded with images of Felstar. He could still see the Decepticon turning toward him with that piercing amber stare, the side of his face bathed in the livid, flickering glow of the consoles.

"They followed you," Felstar had said softly, raggedly, without surprise or reproach.

Sundog had gazed past him, disbelieving his own optics as he noted the tight formation of approaching blips on one of the console's indicator screens.

"But how...?" he murmured aloud. Even now, he still didn't understand how Septimus' ships could have tracked him.

Felstar's mobile lips curved sadly, tracing the ghost of a smile. "You wouldn't believe me, even if I had time to explain."

"But..."

In his memory, Sundog stared numbly at the approaching fleet - a small armada of his own people, coming to kill them both. A wildness swept through him: for a split second, he felt poised on the brink of freedom. With the imminent attack, it seemed as if the die were finally cast: his loyalties decided for him. It would take only one small step to make the transition complete.

"Felstar." He put out his hand, caught the Decepticon's arm. "Come on - my ship's fast enough. We can outrun them."

Felstar shook his head. "No. This is something I can't outrun. It's... my destiny." As he said this, he was looking at Sundog with a strange, almost feverish intensity. "Asta'ari la'an," he said softly.

Sundog's body stiffened. He rarely heard his secret name spoken aloud: it was not a name that Felstar used lightly. He stared at the Decepticon questioningly. Felstar's next words, filled with aching, desperate loneliness, branded themselves indelibly into his mind.

"Kiss me."

"What...?"

Felstar slid his hand into Sundog's, his fingers tightening, drawing him closer. "Please, Sundog..."
Sundog closed his eyes, his senses flooding with the metallic-edged muskiness that was Felstar's scent. His throat tightened, grief welling in his chest. His head bowed: he pressed his brow against the Decepticon's. "Felstar, why...?"

Felstar's smooth, cool mouth grazed softly against his own.

Sundog shuddered, his lips parting slightly. His body was responding of its own volition, and very much against his better judgment. He found himself leaning forward, letting Felstar draw him deeper into the kiss that he somehow knew was going to be their last. Felstar's arms came up to encircle his shoulders for a moment, holding him tight. Sundog gingerly returned the embrace. If they were going to die, he thought, at least they would die together.

Their kiss ended so suddenly that he didn't have time to feel shock or betrayal. Felstar pushed firmly against his chest, sending him reeling backwards, off-balance. The Decepticon's rifle arm came up. There was a flash of blinding brilliance: then, he found himself falling. The deckplates shuddered beneath him as he landed: his last coherent thought was that the ship was coming under attack.

It took Sundog several long moments to bring himself back to the present. He found that he was leaning on one of the bridge's support railings, his hands wrapped around it so tightly that the metal, made brittle by cold, was crumbling in his grip. He straightened slowly. The consoles were dark now, their indicator screens blank. The stars were shining down on him through a rip in the ceiling.

He sank down in the command chair and leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a moment. "Why, Felstar...?" The question echoed and re-echoed in his thoughts, unchanged by the passing of years. He still didn't understand. Had the Decepticon betrayed him? He couldn't believe that. But if Felstar had not betrayed him, what possibilities did that leave? Had he been protecting him? And if so, from what?

Another thought threaded its way darkly into his mind, and his inner mechanisms contracted with a sickening jolt. "Or did I betray you, my love...?" In stealing a ship and following those faint glimmering traces that the Decepticon couldn't block from his mind, had he unwittingly brought about Felstar's death? Shouldn't he have trusted Felstar - known that the Decepticon would close off their mind-link only under the most dire circumstances? The thought filled him with anguish. He sagged back in the chair, squeezing he eyes shut against the tears that threatened to well up behind his protective lids.

His hand brushed against something hard and cylindrical: something that was not part of the command chair. A sense of knowingness swept up the length of his body like an electric current. He sat up, lifting the object for examination. It was a data cartridge, old enough and battered enough to qualify as an antique. It was not an unexpected item to find on or around the command chair of an old freighter. All the same, he knew that this was what he'd come for. This, he hoped, would hold the answers to his questions.