Chapter 10

Ultra Magnus was satisfied by the results of the Sort the Nuts and Bolts by Size and Year of Manufacture Party. Not elated—that would have been unseemly—but satisfied. An important task had been completed, no one had managed to injure themselves, and Optimus had complimented Magnus' homemade energon treats. In fact, he and Optimus had eaten most of them themselves; for a quite a time they were the only two partygoers, everyone else having traipsed off on Knock Out's little jaunt. Just him and Prime, passing a magnifying glass back and forth as they looked for the manufacturer's stamp. And in all honesty, Ultra Magnus had been fine with that too.

At Optimus' suggestion, they had asked Ratchet to join the troupe headed out to the hot spot—ostensibly to check on the sparks, but actually to talk sense into Knock Out. But Ratchet returned looking sour while an alarmingly cheerful Knock Out settled himself on the floor and started flicking bolts into their containers (and occasionally flicking one at Smokescreen's head as well).

"He's completely intractable," Ratchet fumed later as Optimus frowned in concern and Ultra Magnus just plain frowned. "He refuses to let General Bryce anywhere near the hot spot."

"I see." As simple as the two words were, Optimus looked deeply troubled. "And his reasoning?"

"Nothing we didn't know about before. He doesn't trust humans. I don't know if it's because he's a Decepticon—"

"Former Decepticon," Optimus said gently.

"—or for more . . . personal . . . reasons. Either way, same result. He. will. not. budge."

"Did you make him realize the gravity of the situation?" Ultra Magnus asked sharply. "Without vehicles—"

"He's a medic; he's stubborn, not stupid. He knows exactly what will happen to the protoforms if vehicles aren't provided. He told me to my face that he's 'considering all his options' and that the loss of the cohort—the entire cohort—would be 'unfortunate but not unthinkable.'"

Ultra Magnus broke the silence that followed. "Thank you, Doctor. We will . . . take care of it."

"Thank you. I'm getting too old for this nonsense." The orange and white medic paused in the doorway. "It's not that he doesn't care. It would be easier if he didn't. He's planning something. He wouldn't tell me what, oh no, that would be far too simple. Just kept spouting nonsense like 'just because there's a toll road doesn't mean you have to take it' and 'sometimes you have to build your own off-ramp.'"

"We will bear that in mind," Optimus said. "Thank you for your assistance."

"Good luck," Ratchet said. "You'll need it, I'm sure."

Optimus and Ultra Magnus looked at each other as the door closed.

"Remember how reserved Knock Out was when he first joined us? How long it took to draw him out of his shell?" Ultra Magnus sighed and massaged his helm. "Sometimes I wish I could stick him back in it."

That earned a laugh from Optimus. "It's late, my friend. Let's leave our medic to himself for the moment. Things will look brighter in the morning."

"Bulkhead. Have you seen Wheeljack?" Ultra Magnus asked the next day as the first rays of sunlight broke over the horizon. Then he asked it again, louder, because although Bulkhead was dutifully attending the monitor, he was also sound asleep.

"N-nooope," the green Aubobot yawned. (Not even bothering to apologize!) "Can't say that I have. Not since yesterday." He thought for a moment. "Actually not since the day before."

Ultra Magnus grunted. He was not surprised in the least that Wheeljack had gone off on his own to avoid work. Probably still asleep in some corner of the base. What did he care if the Ultra Magnus needed someone to scout out an energy source? "Understood. And Bulkhead—the point of monitor duty is to WATCH the monitors. Cybertronian ships could return to Cybertron at any time."

"Ye-eeeeah," Bulkhead said, scratching the back of his helm. "Only . . . there haven't been any so far, have there? Ever?"

"We have to be ready, soldier," Ultra Magnus said firmly before continuing on towards his office. Sometimes it seemed like he was the only sane bot around here, the only one with any sense of order.

He opened the door to his office . . . and found it already occupied.

"Commander Magnus, sir," Knock Out said, rising to his feet and pressing his hand across his chest in a formal salute.

Ultra Magnus stared. He was not sure what was more unusual, that Knock Out was waiting for him, unasked, or that Knock Out had acknowledged his rank without the least vestige of mockery. The chair he'd been sitting in, Magnus noted, was the one from his last, contentious meeting, dragged away from the wall so that it was once again directly in front of his desk. The medic held the salute as Ultra Magnus studied him.

"At ease, Doctor," he said at last, passing by him to reach his desk. And Knock Out dropped flawlessly into the proper "at ease" stance, legs shoulder-width apart, back straight, hands folded neatly behind his back. Strange, very strange, this sudden formality. While Knock Out did usually tack on a "sir" or a "commander" to the tail-end of his sentences, he always gave the words a flippant tone.

Well—not always. A few times, late at night, when Ultra Magnus had passed by the ruby red grounder while he was on monitor duty, the smaller mech had offered a bleary "Commander Magnus" without sounding anything but sleepy. But that was a far cry from acting like he was taking part in a military parade.

"What brings you here, Doctor?" Magnus asked cautiously.

"I'm here to report my progress, sir."

"Your progress."

"On our little protoform dilemma, sir. As your CMO, I've been exploring possible solutions and I believe I've made significant progress."

"Ah." Ultra Magnus thought he detected a certain amount of satisfaction under that carefully blank faceplate, perhaps a hint of a smile. "Proceed, soldier."

"Well," Knock Out said, sounding less like the perfect soldier and more like himself, "I was thinking about the Harbringer, the Decepticon scouting ship that crashed on Earth. It had several protoforms on board, in stasis—"

"It did?" Ultra Magnus said sharply. This was news to him. "What happened to them? Are they still viable?"

Knock Out paused. "Ah, they're deceased, sir."

"I see. What happened to them?"

A longer pause. "Starscream used them to clone himself. Sir."

Ultra Magnus stared.

Knock Out gave a slight shrug. "Part of a ploy to offline Megatron. It didn't work."

"I wouldn't have thought so, given that Megatron's still alive. Were all the protoforms . . . used in this way?"

"Yes, sir. And ultimately terminated by Megatron."

"I see." Ultra Magnus tried to keep the disgust out of his voice. "Continue."

"Right . . ." Knock Out seemed to have lost his thread of conversation, but he soon picked it up again. "Oh, yes, so I was thinking about the Harbringer and I asked myself, 'Knock Out, what other resources do we have that might ease our current dilemma?' And then it hit me . . . The Nemesis."

"The Decepticon warship. Are you saying there are protoforms aboard that as well?"

"No, sir, a warship can support a sufficient crew without needing protoforms as backups. Nevertheless, I feel the Nemesis holds the answer. Sir."

Ultra Magnus' eyes narrowed. "You do realize, soldier, that for the purpose of imprinting, corpses are not an appropriate replacement for a living Cybertronian or a non-sentient machine."

"Corpses? Seriously? What do you take me for?" For a moment Knock Out was just Knock Out, hands on his hips, indignity on his face. With an obvious effort, he pulled himself into a formal stance once more. "As your CMO, let me assure you that I would never advocate such a thing, sir. Or allow it."

"Very well," Ultra Magnus said. "Then what do you propose?"

Before the medic could answer, there was a tap at the door—more to alert the occupants than to request entry—and Optimus strode in.

"Ultra Magnus, my friend, are you ready to—" He broke off, seeing Knock Out.

"Prime, sir." Knock Out was clearly using it as a title rather than a name. This time his salute was accompanied by a bowed helm. Exactly what military protocol demanded of their respective ranks.

"That is not necessary, Knock Out," Optimus said, glancing from the medic to Ultra Magnus. Knock Out didn't move.

::I was about to call you,:: Ultra Magnus sent. ::He was waiting for me. In order to 'report his progress.'::

::I see.:: Optimus looked at Knock Out, who was still stiffly saluting.

"At ease, soldier," Ultra Magnus said for the second time that day, and Knock Out shifted accordingly, relaxing and lifting his head. What was going on in that shiny red helm, Ultra Magnus wondered. Knock Out had never acted like this before. "Perhaps you'd like to explain the situation again now that Optimus is here."

"Yes, sir." Knock Out turned to the leader of the Autobots. "As Chief Medical Officer, I've been working to find a solution to our vehicular problem. As I was telling Commander Magnus, I think the Nemesis might hold the key. It's a largely untapped resource with vast amounts of information, including medical journals and scientific notes, stored on its mainframe. In addition, the long-range sensors would detect incoming ships, which would be useful to our overall mission."

"That may be so," Optimus said slowly. "However, we disabled the warship's computer systems before we left it."

"I have every confidence that Team Prime can get it up and running again, sir."

"Is that truly the course you wish to pursue, Knock Out?" Prime asked.

"The ship is a derelict; we have as much of a right to it as anyone."

Optimus closed his eyes for a minute. "What I meant was, we could focus on the supply of vehicles that we know we can obtain rather than chasing after mere possibilities. Would that not be the better path?"

"Certainly the easier path, sir," Knock Out said, and the perfect neutrality of his voice spoke volumes.

::What do you think, Ultra Magnus?::

::Raiding a Decepticon warship on the off chance of finding something useful to this specific situation? Poor use of resources.::

"Knock Out." Optimus Prime's voice was as calm as ever. "As much as I appreciate your diligence, I'm afraid we must allow General Bryce's visit."

"As you wish, Prime." He stared straight ahead—this put his gaze at waist-level on Optimus. "Obviously I don't have any control over the whole of Cybertron. Just the little bits that fall under my jurisdiction."

"And you won't allow Bryce to observe the hot spot even if that is the only hope of survival for the protoforms?" Magnus demanded.

"All I can say—and I say it with all due respect— is that I wouldn't allow it without exploring every other avenue first. If I allowed it at all. Sir."

"Knock Out." Prime vented a sigh. "No one would gain by the death of the protoforms. A sad end for 'the first peace-time generation', as you put it. Is that really what you want?"

"Nothing about this is what I want," the medic said, sharpness edging his voice. "And yet here I am, burdened with these decisions."

"Perhaps, then . . ." Optimus paused, then continued, and his tone was as firm as it was mellow. "Perhaps, then, the burden should be lifted from your shoulders."

"I see." Knock Out's lips pressed in a thin line. "May I ask, sir, why you're demoting me?"

"Knock Out . . ."

::Ultra Magnus. How can I make him understand that this is not a demotion?::

Ultra Magnus repressed a sigh. ::You don't need to demote him, but at the very least you need a reprimand to clear him out of the way.::

::Can I not simply . . . go around him? I am reluctant to upset him further.::

Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, had led the fight in the war. But never as a common soldier, Ultra Magnus reminded himself. He had dealt extensively with generals and higher-ups, but purely in matters of warfare. Not in the million little matters of bureaucracy that held the army together.

::As CMO, he's within his rights to deny anyone access to the hot spot. So, you must either strip him of the rank entirely or judge him temporarily unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties.::

Optimus gave a small, reluctant grimace. ::If that is what is necessary, that is what I shall do.::

::Prime. Wait.::

Ultra Magnus looked down at Knock Out, standing there, waiting for an answer. Hands behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, helm straight forward, despite the fact that he couldn't look the taller bots in the eye that way. For once, a perfect soldier. Ultra Magnus' processor whirred as he considered everything he had seen that morning.

Knock Out, saluting and standing at attention, emphasizing that there was a chain of command, and he was part of it.

Knock Out, waiting for Magnus, ready with a report so that he couldn't be accused of shirking his responsibilities or dereliction of duty.

Knock Out, repressing his sometimes fiery, always flippant personality under a neutral, painfully respectful demeanor, so that he couldn't be accused of insubordination.

Knock Out, referring to himself as CMO over and over, a claim that Ultra Magnus had not denied.

Knock Out, who had, in the politest possible way, boxed in Ultra Magnus.

The fact that Magnus saw the manipulation did not mean that he could escape it. The time to strip Knock Out of his rank had been two dozen "sirs" ago, if not farther back. Rank was not something to be given on whim, then snatched away the moment it became inconvenient. Optimus, from what he'd told Magnus the previous night, had promoted Knock Out to CMO primarily out of pity . . . but promote him he had. If Knock Out's rank didn't mean anything, then neither did anyone else's.

And that was unacceptable.

::You can't get around him, Optimus.::

::Pardon?::

::Subverting him would be to throw the command structure into jeopardy and to undermine your own authority. And to reprimand him, at this stage, would be . . . unfair. He is performing his duties, as much as we may not agree with his interpretation of them.::

There was a pause.

"You are not being demoted, Knock Out," Optimus said. "However, if you wished to voluntarily delegate your responsibilities to others, you might find it a relief—"

"No. Thank you, sir. But no."

" . . . very well."

"The Nemesis, sir?" Knock Out said after a stretch of awkward silence. "A team of Autobots might be able to get the computer up and running, if they had the right skills. Surely it's worth looking into?"

"Possibly. Yes. I suppose we must indeed . . . explore every avenue," Optimus said, though with some reluctance. "I understand Wheeljack has some talent with electronics."

"When he's not blowing them up," Ultra Magnus muttered.

"Ah yes, Wheeljack." Knock Out looked thoughtful. "Perhaps if he were paired up with a more responsible and less . . . explosion-prone Autobot. Bumblebee, for example."

"Possibly. Bumblebee, or Arcee."

"Bumblebee has the advantage of being a scout, sir. He can find his way around the ship."

This was a point. During the final assault on the Nemesis, Ultra Magnus' team had become disoriented several times in the maze of identical corridors. But he was leaving the final decision up to Prime on this one. He looked at the Autobot leader.

"Very well, Knock Out," Optimus said after some reflection. "Please inform Wheeljack and Bumblebee that they will be briefed for an upcoming mission."

"Hardly necessary, sir. They return tomorrow."