Chapter 1 - The Wild Hunt

"You like that, little man?"

Island of Aeaea, Aegean Sea, circa 1,000 BCE.

"We'll find you, boy," snarled the voice of one of the slavers from disturbingly close at hand, while Siproites crouched low in the undergrowth and fought the urge to breathe too noisily. "Never you doubt it, and when we do, I'll make you wish to Hades you'd kept that sorry sissy hide of yours back in the galley where it-"

"Oh, great idea, Hiram!" interrupted the bosun's voice, scathingly. "That's really going to encourage him to give himself up. Look 'ere, lad," he continued, aiming for a reasonable, almost friendly tone. Considering how often the man had beaten and spat at him over the past few days, it was all Siproites could do not to laugh, but knowing that the result would be worse than a death sentence was enough to kill any mirth. "What's the good of this, eh? What, you'd like it if we just weighed anchor as soon as we've taken on water and left you here? This island's the arse end of nowhere, in case you hadn't noticed, and you can't even hunt worth a damn. You proved that back on Crete, when we caught you. A rutting aurochs would have been stealthier. Oh, I guess you could scrape around in the dirt for roots like a hog for the rest of your days, but don't you reckon you might be better off in Tyre or Sidon, even as a slave? Decent food, clothes, roof over your head. Sure, there'll be hard graft and hard strokes, but you seriously think your life's gonna be easier here?"

"Then again, the work mightn't even be that hard," suggested Hiram, trying to copy his superior's example, although the nicest tone he could muster was lewd and sneering rather than friendly. "I mean to say, pretty little slip like you … Not much good for heaving bricks or working the fields, maybe, but I'll wager there's a few brothels in Tyre that'd gladly take you off our hands and pay well for it. Heck, I didn't know whether to beat you or kiss you when I first saw you. Zeus only knows how your poor daddy feels about having a useless sissy runt for a son – like as not we're doing him a real favour – but at least we can take you somewhere your kind might be appreciated. That's if you don't force us to un-pretty you, of course. I won't say I'm not strongly tempt- … What in Poseidon's name is that?"

Consumed by fear and shame – even from an evil brute like Hiram, painful truths could wound keenly – it took Siproites a few seconds to realise that events had taken an even nastier, and stranger turn. At first, he thought from the commotion and the screeching, bestial sounds that the sailors had disturbed a wild boar, but the longer it went on, the less likely that seemed. A lousy hunter I may be, but that sounds like no boar I've ever heard, and they sound terrified. Against his better judgement, he moved aside a few low-hanging branches and ferns and risked a peek in the direction of the horrible sounds. The sun was low in the sky, and what little of its light made it through the forest canopy was only sufficient for him to make out a shape in silhouette, which was fine as no sane person could possibly want to see it any more clearly: a long form, like some huge centipede crossed with a serpent; supported on numerous pairs of spindly legs; and with a long beak full of pointed teeth. More than satisfied with this glimpse, Siproites let the plants fall back and beat a chaotic retreat through the gloomy laurel trees, making no effort to be stealthy: fast seemed much more important. It was always possible that the monster had provided enough distraction that the sailors had neither noticed nor cared about his panicky flight, but for now they were the least of his concerns. Damn it, I'd even head for the galley myself, if I could remember the way in this light. Better to be heading away from this accursed place even as a slave than-

That thought was left hanging as his leading foot unexpectedly came down on thin air, his balance went all to Hades, and he tumbled headlong into the large hollow he had completely missed in the darkness and confusion. After a brief but painful period of rolling downhill he came to a tangled halt, clambered awkwardly back to his feet, and now found himself at the edge of a wide clearing, and an even stranger scene than he had just left behind. A large natural pool dominated this glade, both occupied by and surrounded by a host of nude figures, of both sexes, that he initially took for cast bronze and silver statues. That was for the few blissful moments he could persuade himself that their movements and surprised expressions were merely tricks of his overwrought imagination. But no, they're definitely moving, and staring back at me, which means … Zeus have mercy. His eyes had settled on the middle of this group of metallic 'nymphs' where a particularly distinctive figure sat in the clear water, her legs to one side in a relaxed posture, while a few of her companions scrubbed her delicately with wooden brushes. He supposed from that posture that she must be their leader, not to mention that considering her height – a good four times that of any human being – it seemed unlikely she was much in the habit of taking orders. Also, she did not seem to be fully naked, although the sections of hard-edged, angular armour that she wore – including what seemed to be a full but visor-less helmet with a moon-shaped crest, an upper-body breastplate, greaves, and wrist guards – closely matched the silver tone of her skin, except for a few pale blue highlights and one curious purple sigil like a cruel, crowned face on the breastplate. There was also a long, slender quiver mounted on her back which helped him to put a name to the proud, cold, red-eyed countenance. That was of no comfort whatsoever. Artemis … I am so doomed. The wrath of Zeus's maiden daughter upon all would-be rapists and even mere voyeurs was legendarily terrible, and while being turned into a stag and savaged to death by dogs would have been an ironically fitting end to Siproites' misfortunes, it was not one he could look forward to. Hastily, he averted his eyes from the bathers and flung himself down upon his knees in what he hoped was a sufficiently abject posture, trembling furiously.

"Oh. I see our visitors have finally decided to introduce themselves," declared a voice. From its impressive volume, strange echoing quality, and general air of superior boredom, it was assuredly that of the goddess. "Not quite what I expected. And what, pray, is your function, boy?"

"My … ? I'm sorry … my lady," he just about managed to stammer out, between very rapid and unsatisfying breaths. "I don't under-"

"What do you do?" she clarified, impatiently. "Or did they just bring you along to look pretty? Did I say something wrong?" she asked, indifferently, as he winced at this accidental reminder of Hiram's 'compliments.' "Never mind, anyway. Just answer the question."

"I'm … a hunter," he answered, and was not surprised to hear her laugh, very shortly and derisively. Small wonder. The goddess of the hunt herself. I must look even more of a fool to her than I did to those pirate scum. "Well … that's what my father wants me to be, anyway."

"Hmm. Don't take this the wrong way, but I think he's setting himself up for disappointment. What would you be, then, given the choice?"

His daughter, or better still someone else's. That was the honest answer, but somehow too absurd and flippant a one to give to a probably offended goddess, so Siproites improvised:

"If I could be anything, I guess … one of the dancers at the temple," he settled for, which seemed suitably reverent and almost as honest, male dancers being few and far between. "I asked if I could be, once … and got a thrashing for it. Not a real man's job, he said."

"Tragic," said a hard, ironic voice with the same distorted, echoing tone as 'Artemis's,' which surprised Siproites enough that he looked up, to see another woman of goddess-worthy dimensions striding purposefully along the edge of the pool, towards him. She had the same silver skin and red eyes as the first goddess, and the same purple insignia, but her armour was distinctive: primarily red and black, with straight-edged wings like huge arrow flights mounted on her back, long metal pipes fixed to the sides of her arms, and a pair of tall, obelisk-like shoulder guards. Her expression was also a lot less mellow than that of her comrade. The smaller, unarmoured figures scurried cautiously out of her way, and a couple that did not quite make it were swatted aside for their pains and sent sprawling in the water. "No matter, though. You want to dance, do you, boy?" she asked, as she came right up to Siproites and pointed her left arm at him in a strange but clearly threatening gesture. "I'll make you dance, all right. You'll be dodging my lasers so fast you'll either be the best dancer on this wretched planet, or you'll have your feet melted out from under you, if you don't tell me everything-"

"I was actually trying to relax, Firetalon, in case you hadn't noticed," pointed out 'Artemis,' lackadaisically. Firetalon? Not the name of any goddess I've ever heard of. A harpy, perhaps, or a fury? She sure has the temper for it. Firetalon managed to curb her anger as she turned to address her mistress, although her tone, while respectful, was still very agitated:

"My apologies, ma'am … but this is a matter of urgency. Back on Cybertron we knew how to deal with spies and infiltrators. Lord Straxus would have had that fleshy little creep in the smelting pool as soon as look at him. He should count himself lucky-"

"An infiltrator? This sorry little waif? I don't think he's even a mature specimen. How old are you anyway, human?"

"Err … fifteen winters … Your Highness … Holiness."

"What of it?" asked Firetalon, turning her full, scornful attention back to Siproites. "That means nothing to me, primitive. Why, my spark had been infused into my laser core for less than a thousand astro-seconds before I was deemed fit for military duty. If you mean to tell me that it's been fifteen entire solar orbits of this glorified mudball since you were forged, yet you're not perfectly capable of-"

"Hey, welcome to weirdness," said yet another inhumanly resonant female voice, with a pleasant, good-humoured intonation, almost from behind him. Siproites turned, and his moment of vague reassurance was totally dashed by the appearance of the new arrival. She was not quite as huge as her comrades, her green and black armour was lighter and sleeker, and she possessed no obvious weapons, but her mere countenance was a horror to behold. The upper half of her face was concealed behind a smooth green visor, giving her wide, silver-toothed smile a decidedly eerie quality, and instead of a helmet she was the proud possessor of hair, of a sort: long, thick, segmented metallic locks like huge silver earthworms, with sharp-pointed tips. Mostly, they were hanging loose, but occasionally they would twitch or undulate in a seemingly random, skin-crawling fashion. The word 'gorgon' had no sooner come to Siproites' mind, than he had averted his eyes from the grinning, visored face and gone back into his best quivering and abased posture, although as the hideous monster continued to speak, she certainly did not show the cruelty and suspicion of her ally: "I've explained all this, Firetalon: it's a common organic weakness to take a great deal of time in growing into a fully developed form, which is indeed a tragedy, considering how short their lives are. With all due deference to your paranoia, to suppose that this particular specimen could threaten us-"

"Respectfully, Stryxia," interrupted Firetalon, pointedly and not very respectfully, "you are far too complacent. Even fighting the lowliest of primitives consumes energon, and we are not generously supplied with that. At a rough estimate of five-to-ten million of these flesh creatures, globally speaking, and allowing for the possibilities of massed attack, the recharge rate of our forcefields, our meagre resupply options, the total uselessness of your cybergraft constructs as support troops, and many other factors not in our favour, we would certainly be overwhelmed and terminated, even if the battle was a long and messy one. We cannot allow this creature to carry intel of us back to its own kind. You must see that, Moonshadow," she asked more plaintively, while turning to the goddess in the pool.

"Alarmist as ever, my love, but you are not entirely wrong," conceded Moonshadow, gently nudging her attendants aside and rising to her full, terrifying height, the water level barely reaching over her ankles. "Still, it may not be necessary to terminate him, and there would certainly be no honour in it, assuming his purpose here is innocent. What is your name, child?"

"Si … Siproites … if it please-"

"In all honesty I couldn't care, but it seemed civilised to ask. We saw your ship land, Siproites. We'd assumed you were just going to replenish your supplies and leave, which would have been tolerable. Why then, please tell me, have you decided to linger?"

"That's … my fault … I'm sorry … Your Holiness … I was a slave on that galley … they were taking me to sell in Phoenicia … but I slipped my bonds, I thought I could escape here … didn't mean to transgress, I swear … I didn't know-"

"Hah! And you wanted to kill him," interrupted Stryxia, with a smug tone, to Firetalon. "A rebel slave. A Cybertronian ought to have fellow-feeling with such a one, although you are too young to remember the Quintessons and the Revolution, of course. If you'd had personal experience of the humiliation those bastard biomechanoids put our kind through, you mightn't be so hasty-"

"My humblest apologies for being so young and impetuous and security-conscious, Venerable Mother," sneered Firetalon. "How are you so sure he's even telling the truth, though?"

"I could cerebro-scan him, if I thought it worth the trouble. Of course he's telling the truth. He's obviously terrified, desperate … strangely adorable, but let's not get hung up on that for now. Are there any other slaves on that ship, Siproites?"

"No, gracious lady," he replied, a little more calmly, if no less confused, but I guess no legend I ever heard said gorgons can't be kind when they want to be. "The crew are pirates by trade, raiders, but the way I've heard it they've had a really bad season. The coastal towns are so well defended these days. I was out hunting alone. They just kidnapped me to help make up their losses."

"Oh, he's just lovely. Well, I don't care what you do with the others, Firetalon, but I bagsie our little friend here. I can always use another subject for my cybergrafting process." Siproites did not have the vaguest idea what this meant – merely a horrible instinct that it could portend nothing good – while Firetalon grimaced disdainfully.

"Another pet for your collection?" she remarked. "An inexcusable waste of energon and materials, if you ask-"

"I didn't. The refinement of my process could well be crucial to the future success and indeed the survival of our race. If you had the slightest excuse for an imagination in that blockheaded Seeker cranium of yours-"

"Now, now, my little sparklings, play nicely," interrupted Moonshadow, archly. "In case you hadn't noticed, some more guests have arrived, and you're not making the best impression," saying which, she gestured some distance away to the side, from where her two friends were arguing and Siproites was still doing his best to cringe into the earth. Turning his eyes in that direction, he saw a small group of ragged, weary-looking figures standing at the edge of the glade, looking almost as confused and pathetic as he supposed he did. Hiram was among them, clutching his right arm which had sustained what looked like a nasty burn. It was crudely bandaged with strips of cloth, but such flesh as could be seen through the hasty bindings was red, coarse, and glistening, and the sleeve of his tunic on that side was shortened, frayed, and charred at the edges. The centipede-serpent thing breathes fire? he wondered. Just as well for that bastard its aim isn't much better than mine, though I guess it won't make much difference to him now. Several of the pirates were now brandishing spears, swords, and axes, and attempting with little success to hold them in threatening postures, while the bosun had unslung his bow and was trying to notch an arrow with trembling fingers: an action which did not escape Firetalon's notice, nor her contempt.

"Oh, please," she declared, in a tone which would have been well complemented with rolling eyes, had her empty, shining red eyes possessed pupils. "What do you expect to do with that primitive toy? Even if you could shoot the clumsy thing with any degree of accuracy, which I somehow- … Oh," she added, with an impressed note, as the bosun's arrow sailed into her left eye, went all to splinters, and inflicted neither damage nor pain as far as Siproites could see. "Fair play, now. That was an excellent shot. My commendations." Having given her opponent a small, chivalrous bow, she raised her left arm. There was a short, loud sound like a cross between clashing metal and breaking pottery; an intensely bright, pinkish light that blazed from the tube on her arm in a path more straight and true than any arrow; then an acrid smell of burned meat, while the bosun collapsed with a large, black-edged hole right through where his breastbone had been. Most of his shipmates did not even wait for him to finish keeling over before they bolted for the trees, many abandoning their weapons in the process, and within a few moments Siproites was the only living mortal left in the glade. Now wearing a more serious expression, Moonshadow stepped out of the pool and came over to join her colleagues.

"Was that all of them, Siproites?" she asked. "It did not seem like many."

"No, Your Holi-"

"Just 'Leader' will do, or 'my lady' if you want to keep it aristocratic. I appreciate respect, but let's not be silly. So how many of them were there in total, then?"

"Fifty-two, my lady. Some will have stayed with the ship, but there were more than those ones we just saw when they were chasing after me. Maybe they lost some men in the woods or were scattered. There was some sort of horrible monster back there that might-"

"Ah, it looks as if our naughty boys have been annoying that poor mutant Nephrite," announced Stryxia, gleefully if not very enlighteningly. "More fool them, but we can't rely on it to mop them all up. Far too erratic. You might be able to flush them out of cover from above, Firetalon, but messy infantry combat is hardly your thing. Let's hope the Furicons are in an amenable mood," saying which, she raised her left gauntlet to her mouth, a small projection like a large silver needle popped up from the back of her hand, and she continued speaking, seemingly to an unseen presence. "Come in, Ratrod. Are you conscious? Sober? Alive? Over."

"Hardy fucking har, brainiac," said a harsh, disembodied voice, like a very ill-tempered ghost. "Just skip the insults and get to the point. For your info, we were actually all set to get loaded on Cutdown's latest batch of waste plasma distillate – got to relieve the boredom somehow – but if you've got some beef with us-"

"Nothing like that, and if you're bored, I've a little sport for you. We have fifty-two … make that fifty-one unaltered and unauthorised indigenous humanoids at loose. Not a great threat to us, of course, but they might endanger my cybergrafts, they've some limited potential to commit sabotage, we can't risk them escaping with any knowledge of our operations, and they certainly don't add to the tone of the place. Lady Moonshadow would appreciate you cleaning them up, with as extreme prejudice as you see fit."

"Copy that. Come on, girls," ordered the phantom voice, now with a note of cruel pleasure. "Her Nibs needs a spot of pest control." There was a brief, very unpleasant outburst of cackling laughter in various voices, followed by a strange, repetitive, sound – if it resembled anything at all, then a small chorus of bronze horns, played underwater, in a five-note rising scale – then some very loud and harsh sounds somewhere between grinding and roaring before the bizarre communication cut to silence, the needle retracted back into Stryxia's hand, and she lowered it with a satisfied smile. From deep within the forest, however, Siproites could now faintly hear those same savage, grating noises. What beasts of Tartarus did she just summon, I wonder? Actually, maybe I'd rather not know.

"Well, Security Chief, this looks like it's mainly your party now," said Stryxia to Firetalon, genially. "Have fun. Don't do anything I wouldn't do." The winged goddess grimaced slightly, then leaped high into the air. When she was several cubits above the ground, Siproites heard that strange five-note sound again, during which Firetalon's body contorted and folded in on itself in a tortuous fashion, soon losing all resemblance to a human being and becoming a blank, angular shape, slightly bird-like with an elongated silver 'beak' and aerodynamic lines, but basically a huge, hovering tetrahedron with some sort of brightly glowing, round-windowed furnace on its rear face. As the furnace brightened, the transformed Firetalon shot off through the sky faster than any bird and was soon lost to sight.

"You know, on reflection, maybe we shouldn't let her and the Furicons have all of the fun," mused Stryxia, then turned to Siproites, who did his best not to look too ill at ease. "Anyway, considering how those slaver scum treated you … Yes, I do believe you're entitled to see them get their just desserts." Before he could think of any way to politely decline this considerate, totally unappealing suggestion, the five notes had played again and Stryxia had copied Firetalon's example, although she finished her transformation in a strikingly different configuration: a smooth, discus-like object with a see-through dome in the centre of its upper surface. Around its outer edge, the metal tendrils that had previously been her 'hair' now hung at equal intervals, like the tentacles of a jellyfish. As he stared in wonder, one of these tendrils extended as fast as a striking snake, coiled around his waist, and lifted him into the air, while the dome on top of the disc hinged upwards. He had only just recovered the presence of mind to scream in protest, when the tendril deposited him in a small alcove beneath the dome, upon a padded seat, and the dome swung shut again, entrapping him. He banged futilely upon it but found it harder and more unyielding than any metal, in spite of its apparent thinness and translucency.

"Calmly now," said Stryxia's voice, seemingly emanating from a small panel in front of him, decorated with glowing gems and curious glyphs. "You're quite safe. I'd hold onto those grips on either side of you, though. This could get a tad bumpy." Having said which, she launched herself vertically into the air, well above the forest canopy, and almost certainly leaving Siproites' stomach back at ground level. She then flew off over the trees, not as fast as Firetalon, but quite fast enough for her unwilling, if now submissively silent passenger. When he had adjusted to the speed and motion as well as he was ever in any danger of doing, he began to take in some of the details of the very uneven battle now raging below. Firetalon was flying back and forth over the forest, occasionally shooting her deadly pink rays down onto the heads of any pirates she spotted and forcing them to flee into more open areas, where things got really unpleasant: some other bizarre vehicles, which he could now identify as the source of the grinding roars he had heard before, were speeding over the open terrain. Unlike the transformed forms of Firetalon and Stryxia, they only seemed to hover a short distance over the ground, and their forms also lacked in elegance, to say the least … Not that he could get a very good sight of them, or even count their numbers given how fast and disorganised they were, but his main impressions were of tangled pipes; mottled, rusted metal; plumes of dirty black smoke; and grotesque asymmetry. Occasionally, they shot out pink rays like Firetalon's, but mostly they just seemed to like colliding with any luckless mariners who crossed their path. One such unfortunate was left alive but crawling feebly after his encounter, although this state of affairs did not last: the ugly metal 'chariot' that had run him down pulled up alongside him, transformed into a giant woman clad in savage, crude armour and wielding a mace that just appeared to be a massive length of pipe with nails fused into it, and began hitting him, heavily, repeatedly, and soon very pointlessly.

"Err, Kludge, I'm pretty sure that one's dead already," declared Stryxia, as they glided near. The mace-wielding giantess looked up at them with a scowl on her copper-coloured, red-eyed, spike-helmeted face as she replied:

"Hey, I'm the battlefield medic in this outfit, Miss Know-It-All. I reckon I know the difference between-"

"Trust me on this, I've studied their anatomy extensively. The live specimens nearly always have much less flat heads than yours."

"Whatever," said Kludge, and kicked the mass of flesh and broken bones that could barely be called a corpse anymore, sending it flying a considerable distance while she transformed back into her 'chariot' form and zoomed off in search of less flattened prey. Between what he was seeing and his motion sickness, Siproites was hard-pressed to resist throwing up all over the transformed goddess's interior – a level of blasphemy for which the possible punishments did not bear thinking of – but he was given a timely, if disturbing distraction by the sound of a woman screaming, at some distance but unmistakably and very urgently.

"Did you hear that?" he asked. "I thought I-"

"I heard," declared Stryxia, seriously, flying in a new direction. The cry was soon repeated from very close by, and Stryxia dipped below the forest canopy, where two figures of ordinary human size were struggling in the shadows. One of them, naked, spread-eagled on the ground, and flailing ineffectually, was a silver-skinned figure like those Siproites had seen at the pool – a young, slight-figured woman – while the other, sword in hand and pinning her down with his legs and free hand, was one of the pirates. He looked up and froze in terror almost as soon as they arrived, but not quickly enough to conceal what his intentions had been. "Ah, now there's a man with his priorities well in order," said Stryxia, with dangerous sarcasm, just before she whipped out a tendril, caught him a vicious blow, and sent him sprawling. His victim quickly climbed to her feet and sprinted away, making good her escape before her dazed would-be rapist had managed to stagger upright again. Stryxia gave him just enough time to recover his bearings and look terrified again before she fired a beam of light at him: not pink, but a cold, pale blue. He screamed in agony as it struck him, but instead of burning a hole in him he merely went still and silent where he stood, while his skin took on a dead, rough, greyish hue. His eyes, though. Siproites hoped it was just his imagination, but they seemed to still possess some colour and animation, twitching pathetically within their new stone shell. He deserved death, but this …

"Err, are you sure he's dead?" he asked, tentatively. "I thought for a moment-" but the matter was resolved as Stryxia whipped out her tendril again, shattering the 'statue' into a shower of thin grey shards and miscellaneous wet red bits.

"Quite sure," she answered, with a faint note of irritation. "Alright, so there's still a bit of soft centre there … Well, a calcification ray isn't the easiest of devices to perfect, I'll have you know. I'll get it right in the end. Firetalon thinks it's a waste of effort, but she doesn't appreciate the psychological impact of such a weapon. It might help if she actually had a psychology, of co- … Oh," she added, deadpan, as Siproites' restraint finally failed him, and he vomited copiously over his own lap and her interior panels. "Well, I guess it is pretty scary, then. Looks like it'll have to be a quiet night in washing my upholstery after this. Are you frightened of me, Siproites?"

"Um … yes."

"Logical of you, but unnecessary. I promise I won't turn you into stone," she said, but her reassuring tone was undercut with an unspoken 'but' that prevented him from drawing much solace from it.

"Err … thank you, my lady, for your mercy. That's a great rel-"

"No, my dear. I shall turn you into metal. Lovely, living metal, just like all the visitors we had before to whom I took a shine … no pun intended. You understand?" The shining figures at the pool, their slaves. Then I am never to leave here. It was more mercy than he had dared to expect, but hard to consider with anything other than a cold, jaded sense of irony. In Phoenicia I might have escaped, stolen some money, bribed someone to take me back to Crete. Unlikely, but possible. What chance have I of escaping here, and what would I do if I did, after they've changed me into one of those? Either from his silence, or perhaps by some concealed 'eye' within the now very smelly compartment, his lack of enthusiasm did not escape Stryxia's notice, as she commented reprovingly: "You know, if you actually do believe we're your goddesses, you should probably be a lot happier about that."

"Forgive me, please. It's not that I'm not … well, kind of, but-"

"I was only teasing, Siproites. Theism isn't a good look on me, anyway. We can leave all that Primus and Unicron guff to witless sparklings and dull, pious Autobots. No, I don't expect you to be jumping with joy over this outcome. It's not for me to say whether your former life was up to much, but whatever it was, it's definitively over, and you can never return to it. I do appreciate how that must feel. However, I hope in a few years your regrets will have passed, and you will see this was all for the best. Well, things seem to be quietening down. Let's see what Moonshadow is up to," she suggested, and soared above the forest canopy again, then higher still, tracing a course towards the most elevated point of the island: a promontory upon which stood some ruins, not dissimilar to the great palace in Knossos, but in total disrepair, the roof long gone and many of the pillars and obelisks broken and worn down to less than half of their original height. As they drew nearer and touched down in the midst of these, Siproites could see that they were decorated all over with strange glyphs, some of them resembling angular, feminine figures, but mostly repeated motifs of triangles and diamonds. Just outside the ruins, at the edge of the cliff, Moonshadow was gazing out to sea. The sun had almost set, but the low orange glow on the horizon was enough to make out the dark shape of the pirates' galley. It was making poor speed – hardly surprising given that several of its oars were no doubt unmanned – but judging from the distance it had already covered, the crew that had remained on board must have decided not to hang around pretty quickly when it became clear that things had turned ugly for their comrades on land.

"Such inspirational courage, is it not?" asked Moonshadow, with an ironic smirk, as she turned to them. "Still, we can't be having with that. Quite apart from our security issues, I've always held that those who fight together should die together." She reached around to her back and unhooked an object that had been tethered to her armour: a silver baton studded with glowing, flashing gems. She pressed one of these, and the baton suddenly extended; thin, curving metal limbs shooting out from both of its ends to form a shallow arc. A bow? But with no str- … I take that back. As she pressed another gem, a strand of bright pink light suddenly illuminated from tip to tip, in place of a bowstring. She then reached into her quiver, and drew out a small, grey, arrowhead-shaped object. She tapped it against the side of the bow, whereupon the rest of the arrow magically appeared behind it, made of the same unearthly, glowing pink ichor. She then took her stance, drew the bow in the usual fashion, and let the magical arrow fly, to curiously anticlimactic effect: she had shot both far and wide of her target, the arrow's trajectory, as far as Siproites could judge, destined to strike the water almost a thousand cubits to the side of the ship, and probably as many in front, unless they row like furies just to catch up with it, and I can't see why they would. I'm saying nothing, but I kind of expected Artemis, or whoever she is, to be a better shot than me.

"Hmm. Not your best, Moonshadow," remarked Stryxia, saving Siproites the trouble of expressing this insolent but accurate sentiment. The senior goddess did not take it amiss, however, and answered with a resigned shrug:

"What can I say? Practice makes perfect, and I've been getting lazy. Still," she said, raising her free hand with her thumb now poised against her middle finger, "when you have access to Cybertronian technology, and possibly with just a smidgen of dirty rotten cheating …"

With a sound like a giant cymbal and a shower of sparks, Moonshadow clicked her fingers. Instead of completing its useless arc, her arrow twisted impossibly in the air, realigned itself, and shot straight for the galley. There was a dull but powerful thud, a warm breeze, and an intensely bright flash, which faded to reveal only disturbed water and burning splinters. With a cruel, satisfied smile, she collapsed her bow and returned it to its holding place.

"As I was saying," she continued, benignly, "who needs skill anyway?"

Night had fallen but had brought little peace. For all of the goddesses were now assembled in their glade, discussing the invasion and massacre, while Siproites awaited their judgement, though he was under no illusions what it would be. At Stryxia's insistence, he was bathing in the pool, and was inclined to stay there as long as he could, as Firetalon had already vaporised his vomit-stained clothes, and no others appeared to be on offer. Now that all were assembled, he could see that there were five of the Furicons, all of them similarly ill-favoured. Ratrod was the leader and the largest, both taller and heavier-set than her sisters-in-arms, but all proudly flaunted the same savage, random aesthetic of pipes, spikes, dirt, and corrosion, with even their purple sigils looking scuffed and battered. Their demeanour towards him was even more contemptuous than Firetalon's had been – he had no idea what the term 'Earth germ' meant, but he was sure it was nothing complimentary – and it gave him little hope, in spite of Stryxia's reassurance, that he would grow reconciled to his possibly eternal servitude here.

Most of the attendants had now gone elsewhere, but one of them, whom he recognised as the woman the pirate had attempted to rape, slipped into the pool and came over to him, carrying a small earthen jar of wild cherries. In spite of his distaste for what was to inevitably come, he could not help but acknowledge that she was both very beautiful and as remarkably animated as her metallic mistresses, her form and face both fluid and expressive. He idly wondered if he was more like her, would he find the thought of eternity here easier to bear? A stupid idea, though. I'm me, and truth be told, I'm not sure I'm wild about even a normal lifetime of that, here or anywhere. As the silver woman approached him, she held out the bowl and smiled.

"I thought you might need these," she offered. Her instinct was not wrong – the pirates had been less than generous hosts – and he accepted the fruit with a grateful nod. "My name is Brighteye. It was given to me by the Decepticons … the goddesses. They will give you a new name too, and you will not need those for long," she said, gesturing to the cherries. "We eat mostly the nectar they call 'energon' now. It is better for us. I saw you riding in Stryxia's altmode, by the way. I wanted to thank you both. They have made us immortal, you see, but not strong like them. It would not have ended well for me. I … I only hope you will be happy with us," she added, with concern.

"Are you, Brighteye?" he asked, sadly, but willing to entertain the possibility.

"Yes … mostly. They have been kind to us … well, not the Furicons, but they are only soldiers. The Three are gracious mistresses, you will see."

"Firetalon?"

"She is just very cautious. When you know her better-"

"Move aside, please, Brighteye," said Stryxia, as she left the group of 'Decepticons' and came over to them. "I need space to scan. You stay there, Siproites," she added, as he made to follow his new shiny friend. "You're the scanee … if that's a real word. Before we commence, you may as well know we've successfully accounted for all fifty-two of those degenerates, though we had to resort to DNA testing. Neither Moonshadow nor the Furicons were considerate enough to leave most of their targets in one piece for a clean headcount … look who's talking," she added, self-consciously. "Your help was small, perforce, but invaluable in its way. We appreciate it, and now it's time for your conversion. Hold still," she ordered, then lightly touched her visor. It slid upwards, revealing not the two red eyes he had expected to see, but a whole cluster of eyes of wildly different colours and sizes, causing him to flinch in irrepressible disgust, though fortunately she took no offence at it. "Yes, a strange sight for you, I'm sure, but don't be afraid. I mean, what's the fun of life if you don't mod your own ocular sensors every now and again? I just need to remember which of these is the cerebro-scanner … Ah yes," she declared, whereupon a wide, soft, red beam emanated from one of the glowing points, briefly dazzling Siproites but causing him no worse harm. After a few seconds she extinguished the beam, and he could make out her expression again. Not that her surreal cluster of eyes made it particularly readable, but her smile seemed both thoughtful and pleased.

"Hmm … no serious mental instabilities, but marked anomalies in the bed nucleus of the stria terminalis," she announced, incomprehensibly. "A ninety-nine percent likelihood of pronounced gender dysphoria. Well now, what do you think of that, eh, Hardtail?" she asked one of the Furicons, who scowled with displeasure before answering. Siproites could not help but notice, with discomfort, that her voice was deeper than those of her comrades, although her form was just as feminine, and grotesque:

"Hey, don't go comparing me to some puny fleshling just because … Okay, so they can get it too. I could have told you that just by looking at the little squirt, never mind the brain scan. Too bad for him … her, though. I guess there's fuck all they can do about it with their lousy tech."

"True, but from my point of view, it's an asset. Siproites, dear," she said, turning back to him. "Do you remember that little chat we had, when I said I hoped you'd have no regrets about coming here in a few years or so?"

"Yes, my lady," he answered, respectfully, "and I'm sorry if I seemed ungrateful. I swear I'll do my best-"

"Yes, never mind that. I just wanted to say … well, let's keep a few surprises, but suffice it to say I don't think it's actually going to take that long at all … my daughter."

And now, in this episode's edition of Gratuitous OC Tech Spec …

Decepticon (Splinter faction) – Stryxia

Function – Cyberbiologist

"I just love making new friends. Won't you be my raw materials?"

Compassionate by Decepticon standards, but her benevolence masks a deadly arrogance and self-assurance that she knows what is best for all 'inferior' lifeforms, and she is not overly concerned with obtaining their consent when she is in a 'helping' mood. In her defence, she certainly believes in putting herself through the same rigours she inflicts on others, being one of the most heavily self-modded of all Transformers. In her Earth-reconfigured altmode she can achieve a speed of 110mph for a range of 3 miles. Disdains hand weapons but makes up for this with her mods. Her multiple extra 'eyes' include numerous scanning devices and directed-energy weapons, from boring photon beams to her signature (if rarely reliable) calcification ray. Her 'dreadlocks' also serve as close-quarter weapons, and can be used as whips, restraints, and electric shock batons.

Strength – 5

Intelligence – 10

Speed – 7

Endurance – 4

Rank – 8

Courage – 8

Firepower – 7

Skill – 9