Asteroid Field

Planet-fall was Blast Off’s only delight.

It was unmitigated exhilaration, like a skydive from the moon. The intense heat and the thrill of terminal velocity punctuated the completion of a lengthy and lonely mission. It was his only joy in an otherwise solitary existence. His perpetual loneliness was the source of his you are totally beneath my notice attitude.

There were no risks involved in orbital reconnaissance: idly tracking Autobot activity below, avoiding the odd satellite. But re-entry was a risk! The slightest crack in his heat shielding would lead to total burn up. So many times he wished for a crack. A small imperfection that would end his loneliness in a blistering fireball.

It was different this time. Like his fellow Combaticons, Blast Off turned his selfish thoughts outward so he could find his missing leader. He didn’t care much for Vortex, but the new depths of desolation without Onslaught would be unbearable.

The cyberworld’s unwelcoming atmosphere thrashed at the belly of the space shuttle, rocking its crew: a black-market entrepreneur, the most obnoxious robot ever created and a high-ranking Council member. Swindle sat at the command chair, desperately trying to emulate its normal user. Brawl sidestepped excitedly at the front windscreen, morbidly hoping the flames would break through and engulf them all. Obsidian stood calmly at the back of the cockpit, planning his escape.

The buffeting subsided and the tungsten horizon rose to greet them. Swindle blinked his optics in relief and refamiliarised himself with the landmarks of the planet.

“Bear down to the left towards the twin domes,” he said. “That’s where the spaceport is.”

Swindle glanced at Obsidian, “I just hope we have enough to trade to get the amount of fuel we need.”

“Relax,” said Blast Off through the intercom. “Think how valuable this Autobot is. He can dissociate into the Swarm with a thought.”

“And don’t get any ideas, now that we’re safely in atmospheric flight,” said Swindle, pointing his scatter-blaster at the Autobot.

“I’ve already told you,” begged Obsidian, “I agreed to help you find your comrades so I could talk to the Khyaxians and find out what happened to me.”

“In four million years you shoulda learnt by now that Decepticons can’t be trusted,” laughed Brawl.

“I know that now… Brawn,” Obsidian bitterly replied.

Brawl growled. “The name’s Brawl!”

Obsidian responded with a casual, “whatever,” and sat himself in the navigator’s chair. Four million years of his life were missing. Someone had skipped a thousand chapters of the Obsidian: Director’s Cut DVD from the time he was captured by Jhiaxus to the moment Swindle removed the Cerebrocurb from the back of his neck.

“We’re within comms range of the spaceport,” announced Blast Off.

“Open a channel to Dark Convoy,” said Swindle, “he’ll be glad to see his old friends.”

“You were part of this Cybertronian Empire?” asked Obsidian. “The same Empire under control of this Liege Maximo?”

“Yes and no,” replied Swindle. “The Liege Maximo was killed by one of his Centuros, but the Empire continues to spread without his influence. Onslaught had us join it so he could look for his fission-brother, Mindset.”

Swindle paused. Mindset was dead now. “And we don’t know how the hell you came to exist!”

“I already told you who I am.”

“No. You’ve only told us who Onslaught used to be. It’s impossible that you exist.”

“Maybe got somethin’ to do with that dang Swarm?” suggested Brawl.

“Maybe.”

“You can still help me find out,” pleaded Obsidian.

“I would like to help you,” said Swindle, almost genuine. “But we need fuel to reach the Khyaxian homeworld, and you’re all we have to trade.”

“Trade the grunt,” said Obsidian, nodding his head in Brawl’s direction. Brawl motioned towards the Autobot, fists clenched.

“Stand down!” barked Swindle. “We don’t want to devalue him.”

Obsidian let his lips curl into a smile as Brawl turned in quiet anger and peered out of the windscreen.

“Swindle, I’m not getting a response on any frequency.”

“Scan for life signs, Blast Off.”

“I’m getting a whole lot of nothing. The planet is completely deserted.”

“But there were over three hundred thousand Transformers based here!”

“Not anymore. I don’t know what’s going on Swindle, but scanners are picking up unusually high levels of positronic radiation.”

“Weird.”

“But safe.” There was a jolt as Blast Off unfolded his landing gear. “Prepare for landing.”

Swindle and the others strapped themselves into their seats and watched the twin domes fill the windscreen. As Blast Off touched down on the derelict runway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong.

The volume of his homeworld had been turned down, and Thrix was free to think clearly.

Edgeless shapes filled his vision and all sound was distant and muted. It reminded him of his gestation pod: thick fluid feeding his gills as his mother’s Khyomites encased him in a metallic exo-skeleton. When ready, the newly formed Khyaxian would break through the brittle shell and into existence.

His father and two brothers would be there now at one of the birthing Fields. At the peak of their Seminal Phase the males would fertilise the female. Perhaps for the last time the king of the great Khyaxian Empire would fructify his mate. A last chance to create new life before his own faded into darkness.

Thrix’s father was dying. One of his three first generation sons would replace him as Khyogi and inherit the commonwealth. He had set a test: whichever son could bestow the greatest gift for him would rule in his place. Thrix was the thinker, the scientist. He had the best chance. And when he encountered the Swarm five years ago, and proved the Bocaraton Prophecy, the dice had rolled in his favour. All he needed to do now was prove the second prophecy, that of Eschaton. With it he could bless his father with eternal life, and be rewarded for giving the greatest gift of all.

It all depended on the arrival of Onslaught and Vortex. Vortex had an ideal dissociation factor, but it was Onslaught that he was most interested in. Onslaught was unique among his race: immune to the effects of his brother’s weapon devised for the forthcoming Retaliation. Although incompatible with Bocaraton, Onslaught would surely provide the key to Eschaton.

Thrix emerged from his ablution tank with a smile. As the fluid rolled off his leathery skin, the outside world returned to full volume. His body and mind were now cleansed and ready for the task at hand.

Brawl twisted his left hand in its socket a full 360 degrees. He smiled to himself as it gave a grating ratchet sound. He continued to twist it around and around, sometimes slowly and sometimes a little faster. It was painful, yes, but he also knew it was annoying the hell out of the others.

“Why in the name of the maker was I assigned with you?” growled Blast Off.

Brawl turned his hand back to its original position. “Ah’m bored!”

“Quite,” Swindle said, sighing. “No one ever said looking for fuel was ever interesting. No wonder Octane’s as dull as he is.”

The three Combaticons and Obsidian walked cautiously along the runway towards the nearest of the twin domes.

“Still no life signs on the scanners,” reminded Blast Off.

“So without anyone to trade with, you can just take the fuel and keep me with you,” Obsidian said hopefully.

Brawl unholstered his electron gun and thrust it into the Autobot’s chest. “No, it just means ah can finally have a bit of fun!”

“Don’t touch the merchandise!” Swindle barked, grabbing Brawl’s weapon. “He may yet be useful.”

Blast Off scratched up and down his left forearm. “Come on guys, this place is giving me the creeps. Let’s get the fuel and get off world.”

“Agreed,” said Swindle, wondering just how Onslaught would be dealing with the situation.

Behind the group a light breeze moved across the runway.

Brawl banged hard at the main doors of the hangar. The tinny noise echoed inside and bounced all the way to the apex of the dome. “No one’s home.”

“No kidding,” Blast Off said, pointing to his scanner.

There was a large symbol riveted to the door. “This is where Windsheer would come to refuel,” Swindle said, tracing the outline of the sign.

“You’re always touching things,” Blast Off said, shaking his head.

Swindle grunted as he pushed against the door. “A little help?”

Obsidian and Blast Off flattened their palms against the door and pushed.

“It’s not going to budge,” said Obsidian.

“Sure it is!” Brawl laughed, transforming into tank mode and blowing the doors to smithereens.

“Do you have to do everything the loud way?” Blast Off sneered, rubbing his head where debris had hit him.

A thin shaft of light pierced the interior and traced the outlines of an uneven floor. The four Transformers walked inside, one by one.

“No lights,” said Obsidian.

“The floor doesn’t seem to be very strong,” Swindle noticed. “Kind of bumpy and—"

He put his foot through something. “—weak!”

“Feels like oxidised steel,” said Blast Off as the floor gave way and cracked loudly under his feet.

“What the hell is it?”

The uneven floor was almost up to their knees, and crumbling, serrated edges scratched at their legs.

“We could use some light in here, Swindle.”

Swindle wasn’t paying attention.

“Swindle. Headlights!”

“Yeah, right,” he replied.

With a click and a hum, the Combaticon’s chest-mounted headlamps glowed brightly, casting light onto hundreds upon hundreds of Transformers corpses that had been spread across the entire floor space of the hangar.

“Gross,” said Swindle.

“Everybody thinks they’re special, don’t they?”

Thrix’s rasping voice echoed into Onslaught’s cell. The Combaticon leader was shackled to a steel frame inside a room, which was in turn inside another room. The internal door slammed shut behind the Khyaxian. Onslaught hadn’t heard the question, but the sudden noise woke him.

“Do you think you’re special?”

“I guess I must be,” Onslaught replied. “Judging by all this security. A cage inside a cage.”

“All necessary,” Thrix smiled. “For your safety more than ours.”

Onslaught narrowed his optics.

“When my brothers find out what you are, they will kill you,” Thrix said matter-of-factly before offering something black that crawled across his palm. “Grit-roach?”

“Too chewy for a robot’s digestive system,” Onslaught smiled.

Thrix laughed. “So, you’re one of those then. Those that don’t fear death.”

“What’s to fear?”

“Nothing at all,” smiled the alien. “At least not when I use you as the stepping-stone to Eschaton.”

“What is that?”

“The opposite of death, the flipside of Bocaraton. The eternal.”

“I’d have to take your word for it,” said Onslaught. “But what does it have to do with me?”

“Because you’re special.”

Blast Off soared fully fuelled through the heavens, his navigation systems set to the frequency of the device Swindle had found behind Obsidian’s neck.

“I’m going to need at least four ion showers when we get home,” shuddered Swindle.

“It was the only way to get the fuel we needed,” countered Obsidian.

“That is if we even make it back home,” Blast Off complained. “I still think we’re heading right into a trap.”

“Who cares?” sang Brawl. “Ah got a full payload to fire at any o’ them slippery critters.”

“That’s a nice thought, Brawl,” said Swindle, “but can you just give it a rest? I need to think.”

“About?”

“What we’re going to do when we get there.”

“Best get thinking then, Swindle,” Blast Off said. “I’ve picked up a ship with a Khyaxian energy signature that’s stationary.”

“In the middle of space?”

“No. On an asteroid, I think.”

“But—"

“It’s perfect!” Obsidian interrupted. “If we can somehow sneak onto the alien ship, then it can take us to their homeworld!”

“Hey, yeah,” said Brawl excitedly. “Kind like that horse them human Trojans used.”

Swindle stared blankly at his fellow Combaticon.

“Ah can read you know,” Brawl said.

Swindle shook his head. “Okay.” He turned to Obsidian. “Okay, we’ll go with your plan. We’ll set down on the other side of the asteroid and sneak aboard.”

“What can go wrong?” sneered Blast Off.

Vortex lay on his back. He was close to death, he was sure of it. His armour had all but wasted away, and he feared his internal system would soon succumb to the Swarm.

“Your comrades are running late,” said Thrix, lightly stroking the Combaticon’s forehead. “They should be following that tracking device I left with them.”

“Maybe they stopped for hamburgers.”

“No jokes, robot,” Thrix smiled. “I’m sure it hurts when you laugh.”

Vortex coughed weakly. His optics flickered as he drifted in and out of emergency stasis. He wanted so much to lift his hand and grab the lizard around its puny organic neck and squeeze until slimy black bits came out of its eyes. But the Decepticon simply didn’t have the strength.

Thrix picked up a slim cylindrical, tong-like device from the steel table that lay at Vortex’s feet. It was silver, hinged and very sharp. The Khyaxian slid his claws into moulded slots and squeezed the device, bringing it up to Vortex’s face. A bead of coolant rolled cautiously down the robot’s forehead.

“This very tool was used five years ago when I proved Bocaraton to be true,” said Thrix. “I don’t know if I can fully explain it in Transformers-terms, but for you robots Bocaraton means death.”

The lizard-alien activated the device, and the glow from its tip was reflected in Vortex’s optics. “My Scrul used this device on you on Earth,” Thrix continued. “Which resulted in your present condition. My brothers seek to use this on a massive scale to thwart the malignancy of your Empire, as part of the great Retaliation. They’ve already tested it on one of your cyberformed worlds.”

Thrix sharply whipped the device away from the Combaticon’s face and stepped back. He then swung his arm wide, pushing the device deep into Vortex’s eroded chest. “But all this Bocaraton nonsense is in the past now. I’m more concerned now with reaching Eschaton.”

A vibrating sensation washed over Vortex as his weakened armour reformed. His broken body felt as if it was being rebuilt one atom at a time. Almost immediately, Vortex had the strength to sit up…

“Eschaton,” Thrix smiled. “The opposite of death.”

… And wrap his hands around the alien’s neck. “And you’ve just made the opposite of a good choice,” Vortex said, hoping to see some of those slimy black bits.

Thrix dropped the device. Vortex squeezed harder. “Take me to Onslaught.”

Blast Off swooped in low over the surface of the asteroid looking for a place to land.

“What are those things?” Swindle asked, looking out of the windscreen.

“Organic,” Blast Off responded.

Below the Combaticon space shuttle, a field of giant egg-shaped pods extended in all directions towards the horizon. A matrix-like network, plant-like and organic, connected each structure. It was hard to tell if it was a single organism that had colonised the asteroid, or a field of alien crops planted by some kind of intergalactic farmer.

“I don’t think there’s anywhere to land,” Blast Off reported. “You’re going to have to disembark!”

Blast Off opened his air lock without any further warning and Brawl, Swindle and Obsidian dropped to the magnetite-dense surface.

“We’re not going to last long on here,” Obsidian announced via radio-link. “We’re clinging to the surface like magnets, and burning energon at a rate of—"

“Too fast,” Swindle interrupted. “We need to make our way to the Khyaxian ship as quickly as we can.”

“This way,” Blast Off offered, checking his scanners. “Bearing four-seven-four.”

The four Transformers gingerly made their way towards the alien ship, avoiding the pod-plant as much as possible.

“What the hell is this thing?” Swindle asked.

“I don’t know. And I don’t really want to find out.”

“Maybe ah should blast it,” suggested Brawl.

“No!” the others cried in unison.

The network that connected the pods seemed to pulse. Obsidian paused and peered down. He could see that the matrix was tubular and a thick, lava-like fluid swam inside it.

“Come on, Autobot,” Swindle growled. “No time to dawdle.”

“It’s fascinating.”

“I’m sure it would be worth a lot of money.”

In the distance, the Khyogi and his two sons, and a group of guards began boarding their craft.

“What connection would the Khyaxians have with this plant?” Obsidian posed.

“It really doesn’t matter right now,” Swindle said, grabbing the councillor by the arm. “Keep walking.”

Obsidian shrugged, disappointed that he couldn’t observe the pod-plant further and quickened his pace.

Brawl was some way ahead of the group. He was the strongest and was able to deal with the effects of the magnetite ground better than the others. He stopped and turned, tapping his foot on the ground waiting for them.

There was a sudden asteroidshake.

“What the—"

A second tremor hit the area and Brawl lost his footing amongst the matrix He fell harshly on the ground in front of one of the larger pods. It was then he realised that the epicentre of the tremor was coming from the very same pod.

“Ah don’t like the looks of—"

The pod burst open suddenly, spraying black goop and organic debris all over the Combaticon.

Further back, the others heard Brawl scream, but were quickly distracted by more pods bursting open. Five or six ruptured first, then another ten or so soon after that. Within seconds nearly a hundred pods had shattered.

As fluid as a swarm of insects; growling, snarling and dribbling metallic ogre-like creatures leapt out of the pods. It was some kind of birthing event, and the four Transformers were caught right in the middle of it. They were drowning in a sea of teeth and claws, and a familiar barking that came from the pit of the creatures’ maws paralysed them with fear.

“Y-you recognise these guys?” Blast Off whimpered.

Swindle’s reply was short and panicked: “Demons!”