Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope(My Version)

Five

Under different circumstances, coming into Fueling Station Delta's impromptu meeting room would have been a relief. The vaulted ceiling and wide-open space was a welcome breath of fresh air, especially after the cramped quarters of the hallways. Before the war, it had been a maintenance bay for Spaceport-licensed vehicles, so it was suitably sized to fit even the largest of shuttle carriers.

Now, a hydraulic lift had been rolled to the center of the room to act as a makeshift conference table. Assistants paced back and forth along wide catwalks ringing the room's sides, maintaining several dozen monitors that fed in information from all across Cybertron; as a large number of heavily armored mechs argued with each other over the lift or watched live feeds of border skirmishes on the many computer stations concentrated throughout the bay. The Autobot Leadership.

A red-and-gray terminal in the corner unexpectedly transformed into a tape-carrier type mech, who scowled as he tapped the side of his head, as if to displace water from his auditory sensors. "More losses," he reported in a defeated tone. "Slag it all, when does it end?"

"It ends when Megatron's finished fer good - as in, dead and gone!" one of the older mechs bellowed, slamming his fist onto the table. "I just got back from the Western front. Fourteen soldiers lost their lives before we managed ta turn back the enemy! It's past time we mount a serious strike on the 'Cons before they wipe us off the map. Too many good warriors - good mechs, all'a them - have died while we sit here twiddlin' our thumbs an' protectin' the Ark!"

"Yeah! Metroplex's worth - KAPOW! - Metroplex's worth a whole army all by himself! We need to retake something already! Iacon's great and - WHAMMO! - and all, but if it falls, we're dead already! BAM! We gotta march as soon as possible. I'm talking guns, artillery, explosions, missiles, orbital strikes - KABAM! ZOWEE! BLAST!"

Splashdown, the Autobot Admiral, leaned forward with a loud creak and spoke in his slow, ages-old voice. Like his second-in-command who stood silently at his side, Splashdown didn't speak often or loudly, but when he did, he drew everyone's attention. "Control yourself, Warpath. Much as I agree with you, I fear that your route will lead to even more suffering, even more pain, than the situation we are in now. Just yesterday, a fleet of my best gunboats, led by Ripcurrent himself, mounted an expedition into enemy territory via the Trannis Fork under Nova Cronum. They encountered an ambush in a natural chokepoint at the Zaptrap Rapids, and were, despite their firepower and combat prowess, completely unprepared for an attack of such a scale. Eight went in. None came out. My troops were either disassembled for spare parts or smashed to pieces on Zaptrap's spires. The Naval Division is crippled. The loss of Ripcurrent and his men is felt throughout our ranks. Their bodies . . . will lie at the bottom of the Fork forever." He leaned back again, gnarled and sea-bitten hands shaking with emotion, and lit a pipe. "This war will not be salvaged by force. At this point, our future will either rise or fall by those under Jazz's command only. We cannot risk the lives lost in traditional battle, so we must turn to the shadows if we are to survive."