1
The dogfight lasted approximately seventy-two Earth hours (five hundred twenty- one breems), give or take. Flying in close to the asteroid belt had seemed like a good idea at the time – provided some cover, the possibility of redirect – but two direct hits later, the stabilizers were shot, and the scuttled cruiser was barreling out of control. It crashed in a relatively clear debris field on a large asteroid, perhaps twice the size of Pallas. The impacted surface was gradually sloping, almost flat, and the craft bobsledded along for about twenty miles, shredding its undercarriage, losing fins and rocket boosters along the way. It finally broke apart, the heavier engine compartment in front completing its final journey a few hundred feet later.
Amazingly, nothing blew up.
The fuel cells, which were largely depleted anyway, being so far out, hadn't joined the craft's swan dive. Instead, they had been jettisoned, as per protocol, once it became clear that the cruiser was scrap. Even depleted, had they hit along with everything else, the explosive force would have produced a crater something on the order of fifty miles across and several hundred feet deep. Any chance of continued functionality would have vanished, along with the ship.
The pilot was no longer seated in front of the controls, since said controls were now several hundred feet away. The stabilizing seat upon which he partially lay now resembled iron filings. But apart from missing a fair amount of paint, his armor plating was intact, the polarized, magno-dipped tungsten casing being especially high grade. The ship had taken the brunt of the landing, however. He had been fortunate it was well constructed.
The crash had caused his primary processor to shut down. For several hours, he lay dormant. Then, backup power engaged. Secondary computer systems activated, examining the integrity of his circuits and infrastructure. Memory was intact, held in reserve until analyses were complete, then uploaded into working computational drives. Lastly, proprioceptors were restored, followed by tactile, auditory, and finally optical sensors. He could hear and see again.
Optimus Prime sat up and looked about himself.
Well, it's never good to reactivate in an impact crater, he thought. But at least I'm online.
He began his own self-examination, confirming what internal analyses had revealed, and determining what they could not. There was a decoupling of the shaft infrastructure of his left knee that was cause for concern. The hydraulics were intact, but the shock distribution system inside his leg would no longer protect the knee. A bad fall, a well-aimed kick, or a tactical laser blast could sever it entirely. Transformation was ill advised. But the leg would support him during normal movement.
He stood up and began to articulate all joints. All things considered, he was remarkably intact, he thought. He rotated his head left and right, at the same time observing his environs. Like most Cybertronians built over five million years (60,240 vorns) ago, his optics were fixed inside his head, so in order to look at something fully, he had to face it.
The ship was clearly irreparable. He examined the wreckage, seeing little that remained useful. Some wires and circuits on the dorsal-lateral part of the craft. No weapons. No communication devices. There was probably some fuel left in the engine – its power supply was cut while in operation – but the fuel was likely to be infected with a spider-bot virus (SOP, to keep robots from stealing it for their personal use). Gaseous fumes slowly billowed out of the ruptured hull and sank to the ground. Odd. He realized that this asteroid must have an atmosphere, which was relatively rare. Had his ship's sensors been functional, he could have identified its constituents, but no matter.
He took stock of his resources. His laser rifle was charged for fifty shots at full power, one hundred at half-power. He had a portable solar panel that Wheeljack had provisioned in case of emergency, assuming close enough proximity to a star – the robotic equivalent of c-rations. And his own fuel reserves, assuming he didn't engage in prolonged combat, might last 1,260 breems. Not great, but not nothing.
Now to examine the landscape. The place where he'd landed was open, barren, studded with boulders anywhere from two to twenty-five feet in diameter. A layer of rock fragments covered the substrate. They sounded like broken pottery shards when he stepped upon them.
He paused. The brief lag between footfall and sound detection suggested a gas composition that was…troubling. As large as this asteroid was, it shouldn't have been able to retain anything lighter than xenon for very long. The gravity was only slightly greater than that of Earth's moon, which he'd visited a time or two. His logic circuits told him something unnatural was afoot.
Interesting, and perhaps useful. Something approaching overland should make plenty of noise. But at the same time, he would not be able to move very quietly.
He turned to his right and began to examine more distant territory. He listened carefully. Silence apart from the thrum of his circuits, and the low hiss of gases escaping from the crumpled ship. He continued to turn in a full circuit. Behind him, there appeared to be a ravine, across from which jagged peaks formed a sheer cliff-face, and to the left–
He stopped, fixing his gaze on the horizon to the right of the ravine.
There, barely visible through a dust-plume, was a tendril of smoke, rising up, leveling off, and dissipating.
There could be no doubt about it now: this asteroid had an oxygenated atmosphere, and that probably meant only one thing. But more important now was getting to that crash site and finding out what had become of the other pilot.
It was probably the same one who'd shot him down.