"Approaching . . . Cybertron." The ship's monotone was soft, if insistent. "Approaching . . . Cybertron. Shuttle will reach Cybertron in . . . twelve cycles. Please . . . acknowledge. Approaching . . ."
"Shut up." I squinted at the dull, distorted reflection provided by the shuttle wall. "Slag," I muttered, trying to pick away the shattered fragments of my left optic.
"Not . . . understood. Approaching . . . Cybertron--"
"I heard you the first time--HEY!" The craft pitched violently, slamming me against the wall, and the blurred feedback from my injured optic died completely. Damn it.
"Approaching . . . Cybertron. Please . . . acknowledge. Please . . . acknowledge. Please--"
"Acknowledged, acknowledged! Now shut up!" I staggered to my feet and slammed a fist into the base of the consul. Not just a wasted effort, but a stupid one. I winced as I flexed my hand; a few shards of metallic blue casing fell from my fingers, leaving the hydraulics unprotected. I glared at the nav computer. To the Pit with die-cast construction.
I didn't bother trying to pull up a visual of Cybertron. The dusty screen perched above the vast keyboard did work--sometimes--if you hit it slaggin' hard--but its primitive graphics consisted of loosely joined white dots to represent planets, stars, and meteors alike.
Missiles were red, though. That much I'd learned.
"Approaching . . . Cybertron," the computer murmured (as if I could forget.) "Hailing on all . . . Autobot . . . frequencies . . ."
"Override," I told it. "Shut down all communications."
Autobot. Strange to hear that word . . . used. Really used, like it meant something. I'd known the shuttle was old when I found it, scuttling through a bay door built for something easily twice my size, but I hadn't realized it was that old. Well, not until I spotted the Autobot symbols plastered all over the controls, anyway.
Reptrilion probably would've known what era the shuttle was from with one glance, maybe even been able to fix the damn thing so it could fly straight. Of course, he would've died before knowingly piloting an Autobot craft.
Slag-spouting fool.
"Landing station Alpha-4 . . . not found. Landing station Beta-4 . . . not found. Landing station--"
Not found? They probably hadn't existed since before the Great slagging War. Or maybe they were rusting under the spires of Iacon or Cybertropolis, buried by layer after layer of decaying cityscape. Forgotten relics of a dead era. A dead Cybertron.
There's nothing like space travel to turn you into an optimist.
"So find the nearest active landing port," I said. The computer hummed and whirred softly to itself. I grumbled under my breath; if the computer didn't acknowledge a command, it wouldn't obey it. Too bad I hadn't figured that out before the hull was covered with laserburns. "Just find the nearest open area where you can land without killing anyone . . . including me," I said carefully.
The computer paused a beat before responding "Acknowledged."
I sat down again, trying to beat the jagged, twisted remains of my chest panel back over the semi-exposed circuits before giving up and hunching over the oversized comm link. They would hail me. They would have to; Cybertron would never let anything this battered, this obsolete, land without questions. Maximal or Predacon? Would it even make a difference? I tried not to think too much about what I would say to them.
"Suitable destination . . . located. Landing procedure . . . beginning now."
I swore as the craft shuddered and rolled; from outside, faint but growing louder, metal screamed against metal. I leapt, transformed in mid-air, and dug my claws deep into the tarnished wall panels. Just in time--the ear-splitting screech intensified as the floor began to buckle. With a circuit-jarring wrench, the shuttle plowed into something big--I could tell because the nose of the ship crumpled inward, fragging the viewscreen--turned two somersaults, and slid to a stop.
"Computer," I said, still clinging to the wall, "what in the Pit just happened?"
"Landing procedure . . . complete. You may now . . . disembark."
Slowly I unclenched my claws, scattering silvery fragments of paneling across the floor. Actually across the ceiling, because the shuttle had landed upside down. "Great. Just slaggin' great. I'm glad you specialize in such subtle landings. We can't have destroyed more than half of Iacon, right?"
"Sensors indicate . . . no Cybertronian casualties. Sensors indicate . . . shuttle occupant is functional. Landing procedure . . . complete." The computer almost sounded offended.
"My sensors indicate that the shuttle has been reduced to a pile of slag," I muttered as I transformed.
"Shuttle occupant did not indicate . . . preferred status of shuttle. Landing procedure . . . complete."
I ignored the computer, pulled out my guns, and leaned against the wall. I'd been hoping for--counting on--a chance to sneak into the backalleys of Cybertron, to lie low in the abandoned warehouses and energy refineries of the seedy region known as "the Dead End".
Don't count your circuits before they're online, they say. I hate it when they're right.
"Time to face the music," I growled. Predacon or Maximal, whatever was waiting for me was going to be sorry. With a gun in each hand, I stalked over to the dented shuttle door, kicked it open, and faced . . .
Nothing.
Nothing but a landscape of tarnished paneling overshadowed by dim skeletons of crumbling framework. No 'bots. No sign of life at all, in fact. From my left came the creak of metal and I swiveled to face it, guns ready, but it was only a weathered scrap of metal swinging from a broken beam, outlined against the sky.
I crouched for a cycle or two before slowly sliding the weapons into their grooves on both sides of my waist and transforming back to beast mode. The slightly smaller lizard form would be better for creeping through the shadows. Besides, in beast mode I had two functioning optics. Not that there was much to see. Sharply angled rises laced with rusting circuitry. The remains of massive hydraulic beams stabbing at the stars. By the Pit, where was I? Even the Dead End had some signs of life . . .
As I half-scuttled, half-slid down a steep slope, a semi-symmetrical, smooth-walled pit caught my optics, yawning in front of me. Shards of translucent green hyperplastic lined the edges, maybe the remains of something that had once covered the gaping hole. I cautiously peered into the huge chasm, but I couldn't see the bottom, even after activating the long-range sensors in my specialized beast eye. No lifeforms. No movement. Empty. Dead.
I transformed to robot mode and pulled out a gun anyway as I began stalking around the hole. I'd been gone a long time; maybe someone had built it since then. Or maybe it was something older than Maximals and Predacons, hidden away and forgotten outside the city-states of Cybertron.
Reptrilion would know, but of course he wasn't here. Of course.
"Fool." I violently kicked a stray pipe into the pit and paused to watch the darkness consume it.
That pit. It nagged at my memory core, reminded me of something. But what? I stared into its broken depths, absently rubbing a finger over my shattered optic . . .
Optic.
Shattered.
Oh slag.
