CHAPTER ONE:

It took a long time for the white glare to fade from the station's forward monitor.

Awed silence. And then:

"Wow."

The robot who had spoken licked his lips. "Um. Wow."

"Okay, I don't think any of us saw that coming," said another. He looked to the Autobot beside him, who stood with his mouth agape. "Did we?"

His friend shut his mouth and shakily lifted his datapad. He thumbed back a screen. "Uh, let's see. Successful and uneventful launch... twelve to one odds. Unexpected delay... four to one. Prowl-related cancellation... six to one. Mechanical failure, five to one. Does that count? How about... quantum irregularity displaces Lost Light in space-time? Who the hell put that one in? Three-point-four million to one?! Oh, here we go! The ship explodes before it can leave Cybertron's orbit... three to one odds?! You people are sick!"

The comm operator sank back in his seat. He stared up at the monitor and mumbled, "Can't believe it blew up."

"It didn't explode," said a voice from the back of the bridge.

"I can," grumbled the flight engineer. "A Neutral ship like that, put back online after a fast turnaround and minimal inspection? It was probably held together by spit and Drift's poetry."

"Glorious Lost Light
Questing for the sacred Knights
Awesumah powah," intoned a red robot gravely, his hand to his chest.

"Redshift, shut up."

The last of the light disappeared from the monitor, tiny twinkling hotspots of debris extinguishing themselves within the black void of the Cybertronian night sky. The Autobots gathered about the station bridge solemnly watched them wink out one by one. The broadcast announcer had gone silent. Even the festive lights and streamers festooning the bridge seemed to hang a little more limply. An 'L' fell off of the string of sparkly letters that spelt out 'CONGRATULATIONS, LOST LIGHT.'

"Well, that's it for Rodimus then," said the first Autobot to have spoken. His voice echoed across the bridge. "He lived fast and died... all over the place."

"Hey!" said another. "Watch your mouth."

"What? It's true. We all saw it."

"He's not dead," said the voice from the back of the bridge.

"There could be survivors!"

"Survivors? In that? Very small ones, maybe."

"Knew this was a bad idea," said the comm operator gloomily. "This whole Knights of Cybertron thing. Had a feeling it would end in tears."

"This is awful. All those poor sparks on board. And Whirl."

An Autobot crumpled an empty engex flask on his forehead and threw it at a bin. It missed and bounced off a console, which lit up in red and beeped.

"They never should have tried to leave in the first place," he grumbled. "Bailing out like that, just because things were getting a little hot back home. Four million years of war and you can't handle criticism when it's over? Let's run off instead and have adventures. That'll show them! And now they're all dead. Nice move, Rodimus."

"They're not dead."

The voice from the back was loud this time. The Autobots standing beneath the monitor stopped drinking and looked around.

"Why do you say that, skip?" said Redshift.

The big blue and grey and white robot seated at the rear command chair stirred a circuit-shot into his drink and eyed the monitor.

"Because the ship didn't blow up," he said.

The rest of the Autobots exchanged leery glances. Redshift said, "Uh, something sure did, boss."

"Yes, but it wasn't the ship itself. An engine, perhaps."

"Why do you say that?"

"There's no debris."

As one, the Autobots looked back up at the monitor. The unseen cameraman zoomed in erratically on the spot where the great white starship had been poised before the fireball had consumed it. The picture blurred in and out of focus while the announcer babbled excitedly in the background. Sure enough, the expanding ring of sparkling particulates was mostly composed of dust and smoke, within which tiny crumbs of metal glittered like diamonds.

"I'll be damned," said an Autobot. "You're right. He's right!"

"Then what happened to it?"

"Ha!"

Redshift hooted and pointed triumphantly at the Autobot beside him. He swivelled around to point at the rest of the room. "I told you! Quantum irregularity! Displaced in space-time! Blam! Three-point-four million to one odds! I own you! I own all of you!"

The flight engineer scowled and turned to the commander. "Seriously though, Northwest- what do you think happened to the ship?"

"I don't know," said Northwest. "Not yet. But if I had to hazard a guess, I'd say-"

"Excuse me, sir," said the comm operator. He was bent over his station, his face lit up in blue. "Just picked up something on the short-range scanners. Wasn't there a minute ago. Bearing three-four-zero, about seven thousand feet below us."

"On screen."

Cybertron's empty skyline disappeared, replaced with an image of the blue and green planet spinning beneath the orbital station. Clouds seethed across the lower atmosphere, huge rotating masses of them. Northwest saw the massive tropical hurricane that his scientists were currently studying churning in the distance, tracking eastbound. From that altitude it seemed to crawl across the planet's surface like a whirling anemone. The scientists had already dubbed it 'Huffer'.

Drifting above the cyclone was a dark speck. He squinted at it.

"Magnify," he said.

The image on the screen momentarily blurred as the camera lenses swooped over and refocused on the target. It floated, suspended within its own glittering nebula of debris.

Another moment of stunned silence fell over the bridge.

"Holy," an Autobot breathed. "Is that...?"

Northwest set down his drink and stood up.

"Alert Medical," he said. "Tell Rivet to head to the docking bay. Redshift, you go hunt down Turbulence and meet us there. Bring rope."

Space.

He was in space.

Spaaaace.

Wheeling gently, his own wreckage spiralling out behind him in a long and twinkling plume. Black space and stars above him, a planet below, haloed in blue. White clouds sweeping across its oceans. His burnt-out sensors flickered, sampled nitrogen, argon and water vapour, before finally sputtering out. Good-bye, sensors, he thought giddily. Hello, atmospheric freefall.

As he exhaustedly studied the planet beneath him he reflected that at least his journey was over. Ha. Journey. That implied that he had been travelling somewhere, instead of relentlessly blurring in and out of existence across the galaxy. Not even a chance to scream between jumps. For an indeterminable time his life had been measured in nothing more than fractions of a second, billions of them.

God, he hurt. He could feel it now that gravity was tugging at his wings, his frame. He hurt all over, a searing ache that went all the way to his core. Primus, why did he hurt so badly.

Hang on. Who the hell was Primus?

As he wondered at these new mysteries he became gradually aware of two points of light in the distance. They did not remain stationary, like stars, but veered towards him, growing larger and more brilliant by the minute. A flicker, and then they became two spacefaring aircraft, light from the solar sun shining white off their wings.

"Hey, buddy," said one when they cut their engines and drifted alongside him, manoeuvering by thrusters alone. "Wow. Look at you. It looks like someone threw an asshole party all over your face. Need a friendly lift?"

He tried to reply, but passed out instead.

"Bring rope," grumbled Turbulence's voice in his internal comm. "Bring rope. Seriously?"

Northwest ignored him. He floated in zero-gravity, his arms crossed, and watched the two jets as they wrangled the unconscious shuttle mag-locked between them into the station's docking bay. The shuttle was in sorry shape. Blackened, seared, its armour plating melted into lumpy seams and its paint stripped away. Holy hell. It looked as if had been solar flare surfing, and missed the wave.

Above his head the giant bay doors were already telescoping shut. Northwest waited until they had sealed away the last glimpse of space before radioing to all Autobots present, "Re-establish gravity. All hands brace yourselves."

He landed on his feet when the bay gravity generator kicked in. Dirt showered back to the floor. Behind him he heard the thuds as the rest of the Autobots in the bay did likewise, save for one unlucky robot who fell flat onto his back with a curse. Northwest sighed. Some putz always did that.

The two jets bobbed gently, their anti-grav propulsers keeping them buoyant as their magnaclamps lowered the injured shuttle to the floor. A puddle of dark fluid immediately seeped out from underneath it.

Northwest opened his mouth to shout an order but Rivet had already darted forward, his medkit in hand. He knelt down beside the shuttle while the two jets backed away and transformed.

"Looks like severe heat damage," said the medic as Northwest stepped close, followed by a crowd of curious idlers. "Hard to say how extensive. Won't know for certain until I get him to the medbay and crack him open. Holy crap! Radiation levels scanning off the charts as well. Everybody stay back, unless you want all your nuts to shrivel off."

"Crack," mumbled the shuttle. "Crack. Crack! Lightning! Thunder! Lots of thunder!"

"Are you awake?" said Rivet. He groped through his kit. "Because in this condition you really shouldn't be."

"Even his badge has melted off," said Northwest.

"Yes. Don't think I hadn't noticed that."

"Cyclones!" raved the shuttle. "Big, big cyclones! Continental depressions! Plasma flares! Upper winds at eighteen thousand feet showing four hundred at two-seven-zero gusting five-fifty! Cells topping at ninety-thousand feet! Lapse rate twenty-two degrees per thousand feet! That's crazy!"

"What is he on about?" said Redshift from a safe distance away.

"No clue," said Rivet. He patted the shuttle on the wing. "We'll ask him when he wakes up again. Okay pal, it's naptime for you. Bring that lev-bed closer! Let's pump him with an anti-rad flush and take him back to Med. Lights out, friend."

Vip. Fade to black.

After that, things got a little more peaceful.

No more blurring. No more strange moons and suns and planets strobing past him like he was trapped in a galactic slideshow. No more wordless shrieking. Just darkness. Quiet, unyielding darkness. Ahh. So nice.

During it, he blipped on-line only once. His optics wavered back into focus, just in time to see the green medic lean back and pull his hand away from the side of his head.

"There, he's conscious again," said the medic gruffly. "Ask your questions fast, and then bugger off. It isn't good for his neural net to be under this kind of strain at this stage of the rebuild."

Rebuild? Rebuild? The robot peered down the length of his prone body. Holy hell. He was a skeleton.

A bare structure, all gleaming struts and welded seams and internal bracing wrapped around a humming spark case. Ahhh. His mind reeled. This couldn't be good for his psyche.

"Over here," said another voice. He looked to the left and saw a second figure standing over him, beside a medical armature bedecked in lights and mysterious tubes of liquid. A big blue and grey robot, with a brimmed helm and a no-nonsense frown on his white face.

"Is he safe to approach now?" he said.

"Yeah. I've managed to purge most of the radiation from his systems. He might glow in the dark for a while, but his readings are down to less apocalyptic levels. You can talk to him."

The big robot nodded. "I am Cap- Commander Northwest, of the Autobot orbital research station Hyades," he said. "Do you understand me?"

A soft whirr-kkt came out of the robot's mouth when he tried to joke, 'no'.

"Crap," said Rivet. "Sorry, boss. Forgot to tell you: vocal systems are still off-line."

"Huh. Optics work fine, though?"

"Eh? Yeah, they're functioning on safety now."

"Good enough. Okay, stranger. This is how we're going to do this. One blink for 'yes', two blinks for 'no'. Got it?"

Now this was up his alley. The robot lay still and blinked once.

"Beautiful. Are you in any pain right now?"

One blink. He didn't feel bad, all things considering. Kinda hazy.

"That's good. I'm glad. Uh, yes, Rivet?"

"One quick question," said Rivet. "Gotta check basic motor functions. Can you move your fingers at all?"

It took effort, but he managed a weak thumbs-up.

The medic laughed. "Basic enough for me."

"Back on track," said Northwest. "Do you know Hyades?"

Two blinks.

"How about the planet Arae-1?"

Two blinks.

"Hmm. Are you an Autobot?"

Shrug.

"Are you a Decepticon?"

Frown.

Northwest and Rivet exchanged annoyed glances. Then Northwest said, "Let's try this again. One blink for Autobot, two blinks for Decepticon, and three blinks for Neutral. There? There. That should just about cover it."

Four blinks.

"Uh oh," said Rivet.

"Do you even subscribe to a particular faction newsletter?" said Northwest in exasperation.

Rivet laid a hand on his arm. "Hold on, boss. Let me try something. Hey, buddy. Do you even know what side of the war you're on...?"

Two blinks.

"Really?"

One blink.

"Oh. Uh oh."

Northwest eyed him. "Do you know something I don't, Rivet?"

"Um. Maybe? Yes, this- actually, this confirms a suspicion I had when I began to strip this fellow apart. Um. Hmm. Oh dear."

His fuel pump thumping harder now, the robot tried to express a calm and rational concern by giving the medic a bug-eyed glare. Rivet gnawed on the edge of his thumb and ignored him.

"'Oh dear'?" said Northwest. He stepped away from the bedside. "Oh dear, what? Rivet..."

"Yeah, yeah," said Rivet with a wave. "Look- come into my office and I'll explain in detail. I've got some scans I need to show you. This is going to require illustrated aid."

"What is?"

"Shush! Not here! Sorry, pal." The medic reached for the side of the robot's head again, who wondered if it was worth trying to bite him. "Back to sleeper mode for you. You need all the beauty rest you can get."

The robot blipped off-line before he could whirr-kkt a protest.

[VIP! NEW SCENE:]

[A DARK, BLURRY INTERIOR. VIOLET LIGHTS PULSE IN THE BACKGROUND LIKE A CONSTELLATION OF STARS.]

VOICE: Come on... where's the focus on this thing...

[SLOWLY, THE SCENE CLEARS, REVEALING THE TINY BRIDGE OF A CRAMPED AND POORLY LIT SHIP. BANKS OF TWINKLING AVIONICS CROWD THE WALLS AND CEILING. GLOWING MULTI-FUNCTION DISPLAYS LINE THE INSTRUMENT PANEL. THROUGH THE NARROW FORWARD SCREEN IS A VIEW OF SPACE.]

VOICE: Aha! That did it.

[THE CAMERA REVOLVES AWAY FROM THE VIEW SCREEN UNTIL A ROBOT'S FACE LOPSIDEDLY ENTERS THE FRAME. IT IS A BLACK ROBOT WITH A GREY FACE AND RED OPTICS. HE SMILES.]

ROBOT: Ha! This is Prang's Log, number zero-zero-zero-zero-zero... one. I am Prang, mighty warrior and cunning Acquisitions Officer of the Decepticon starship Slag Disturber.

[A PAUSE.]

PRANG: And filmographer. I'm also a filmographer. Look me up.

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Anyway, Shoktrop has threatened to pawn my camera for fuel credits, so I figured I'd better use it now before she gets itchy. This is the first log documenting our ongoing seven-hundred year retrieval mission. Right now you might be wondering, 'Hey Prang. Seven hundred years and you've only started a daily log now? What is up with that?'

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Shut the hell up. That is what's up with that.

[THE CAMERA TURNS AWAY FROM HIS FACE AND POINTS BACK TO THE FORWARD SCREEN.]

PRANG: Not long ago we received a data packet from home with the news that the war is over, and that we Decepticons had more or less lost. It came as something of a shock. That is putting it mildly. Shoktrop flew into a rage and jumped out of the ship and kicked a satellite in half. We had to leave the orbit of the planet Ethelon fairly quickly after that.

[PAUSE.]

PRANG: Okay, that was sort of hilarious. But still. A shock. The war is over? I can't believe it. Neverrr. Long live Decepticon rule! Hail Megatron blah blah etcetera. See how I shake my fist in emphatic denial.

[A BLACK FIST ENTERS THE FRAME AND SHAKES ITSELF.]

PRANG: Rawr.

[THE FIST WITHDRAWS. THE CAMERA TURNS AWAY FROM THE FRONT OF THE BRIDGE AND BEGINS TO JERKILY 'WALK' TOWARDS A SEALED DOOR AT THE BACK. THE DOOR HISSES OPEN. PRANG CONTINUES TO TALK AS HE WALKS DOWN THE DARK AND NARROW CORRIDOR ON THE OTHER SIDE.]

PRANG: Anyway, what I'm getting at is that with the Decepticon army falling apart and High Command more or less in shambles, I figure it's safe for us to risk sticking our heads back up onto radar by documenting our mission. And the truth of it is this: it has been an epic, epic failure. Seven hundred years and we still haven't found what Theoretical Weapons Development sent us out to retrieve on pain of death? Yeah, we pretty much botched that job.

[THE CAMERA STOPS AT A SIDE DOOR. PRANG REACHES OUT AND HITS A BUTTON ON A PANEL. THE DOOR SLIDES OPEN.]

PRANG: Nonetheless, spirits remain high here on board the Disturber, never mind the fact that at this very moment the Decepticon Justice Division may well be hunting us down with the intent to molest our innards with horrific implements of torture. Hi Redout!

[BEHIND THE DOOR IS A SMALL AND GLOOMY LAB. A LIT COMPUTER TERMINAL AND WORK STATION SITS IN ONE CORNER. HOLOGRAPHIC STAR-CHARTS SHIMMER AGAINST THE WALLS.]

PRANG: This is Redout, our Navigator and Comm Officer. He probes things. Mostly the depths of space.

[A TALL GREY AND RED ROBOT SWIVELS AWAY FROM THE TERMINAL AND REGARDS THE CAMERA WITH IRRITATION. HE HOLDS A DATAPAD IN ONE HAND.]

REDOUT: Why do you have to say things like 'molest' and 'probe' when you stroll into my office.

PRANG: Smile, sourspark. You've just become a recurring character on Prang's Logs. Wave to the audience. Show them your high spirits. Shooowww themmm.

REDOUT: Good god. I see a red light on that thing. Are you actually recording with it? Because I was under the impression that Shoktrop intended to sell it for fuel once we limp this miserable hunk of scrap to the nearest depot.

PRANG: Nobody is selling my camera! Besides, the Decepticon heirarchy is in the process of a slow collapse as we speak. Soon Shoktrop won't hold any sort of rank whatsoever. She won't be able to order me to give up my things for pawn any more.

REDOUT: Oho. I dare you to say that to her face. Oh, please. Say it to her face. With the camera on.

PRANG: Pfft! Subject change. How goes the probigating? Figured out a way to get us to that depot on empty tanks yet?

[REDOUT TURNS BACK TO HIS COMPUTER.]

REDOUT: Actually, yes, I have. I've found a way to increase the efficiency of the fuel injectors to the point that we could extend our range by enough of a margin that we should be able to reach the vector 314 spaceway. I won't go into details, since they'd only go over your head anyway.

PRANG: Ouch. My feelings.

[THE CAMERA WHEELS AROUND AGAIN UNTIL PRANG'S FACE IS BACK IN THE SHOT.]

PRANG: I should mention, fact fans, that the Disturber has been operating without a flight engineer since that planet with all the atmospheric gutsucker eels. The big ones, with the electroteeth? Yeah. Those. That was a messy and baffling affair.

REDOUT: [IN THE BACKGROUND] Why did we even go to that planet?

PRANG: Residual TWD data signature, friend. Another blip. Couldn't pass that over.

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK AROUND AGAIN.]

PRANG: Anyway, ever since then Redout has sort of become our flight engineer as well. He is a mech of many talents.

REDOUT: And many ulcerous diodes.

PRANG: Ah, quitcher bitchin'. So, we crawl to vector 314. What happens after that?

REDOUT: We beg and barter with our dwindling credits until we find a passing ship willing to let us maglock onto it and hitch a ride to the fuel depot. Then we beg and barter some more, possibly while on our knees.

PRANG: Shock. Shock and disgust. Decepticons do nothing on our knees! I could have phrased that better.

REDOUT: Creditless failures like us do.

PRANG: I have to say, I don't like the sound of this beg and barter business. I mean, I'm okay with it personally, but is this something that is going to make Shoktrop kill herself?

REDOUT: It's fine. Everything will be fine. She'll be fine. You'll see.

PRANG: That is hardly a convincing argument, but okay.

[WITHOUT WARNING, A RED LIGHT BEGINS TO STROBE ON THE WALL.]

REDOUT: Uh oh. Shoktrop's back.

PRANG: That's not fair. Why does she get a red blinky when she returns to the ship after a patrol? I want a red blinky too.

REDOUT: Shh! Shut up!

[THE CAMERA TURNS BACK TO PRANG'S FACE. OPTICS DARTING, HE SPEAKS IN A HUSHED VOICE.]

PRANG: Okay, here's the thing with Shoktrop. To be fair, she's actually a fairly decent leader and tolerable to be around like, sixty-percent of the time.

REDOUT: Yeah. It's the other forty-percent that's the real kicker.

[THE CAMERA PANS BACK TO REDOUT.]

PRANG: So why do we put up with her again?

REDOUT: Because she is an officer, and we are loyal soldiers of the Decepticon army.

PRANG: True, true.

[PAUSE.]

REDOUT: There's also the drill hands.

PRANG: Riiight, right.

[FOOTSTEPS RUMBLE IN THE HALL, GROWING LOUDER BY THE MINUTE. OBJECTS RATTLE IN THE LAB. REDOUT GRABS A STACK OF DATAPADS BEFORE THEY FALL OFF HIS TERMINAL. WITHOUT WARNING, THE LAB DOOR FLIES OPEN. A LARGE YELLOW AND BLACK ROBOT BARRELS THROUGH IT. LIKE THE OTHERS IT IS A FLIER, WITH WINGS AND FINS ON ITS BACK.]

SHOKTROP: PRANG! REDOUT! TO ME!

PRANG: Hey, boss.

SHOKTROP: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HUDDLED IN REDOUT'S OFFICE?

PRANG: Hey, boss!

SHOKTROP: WHAT?!

PRANG: Indoor voice!

SHOKTROP: WHAT? Oh.

[SHOKTROP DEFLATES AND LOOKS AROUND HERSELF. WHEN SHE SPEAKS IT IS IN A MORE NORMAL TONE.]

SHOKTROP: Why aren't you two at your stations in the bridge?

REDOUT: I've been working out a way to alter the fuel injectors.

PRANG: I've... just been bored to tears, honestly.

SHOKTROP: WELL, GET THE HELL BACK UP THERE! Long-range sensors have picked up another TWD signature on a planet one week from here!

[PRANG AND REDOUT GROAN.]

PRANG: Boss, we've been chasing TWD signatures across this stupid galaxy for years. For seven hundred years, specifically. They're just blips.

REDOUT: Could be irregularities in the scanners themselves.

PRANG: We rush to investigate those blips, have tragic adventures, and discover that nothing is there. I think it's about time we just shucked it all in.

SHOKTROP: YOU FOOLS. This time the signature is remaining steady.

PRANG: Beg pardon?

SHOKTROP: It is not a blip.

REDOUT: Seriously?

SHOKTROP: YES, SERIOUSLY.

REDOUT: Wow.

PRANG: I don't know what to think about that.

SHOKTROP: THINK OF A WAY TO GET YOURSELF BACK TO YOUR STATIONS AND PREPARE FOR FLIGHT BEFORE-

PRANG: Boss! Volume!

SHOKTROP: - before I march you up there at handpoint! MOVE. NOW.

[THE CAMERA JOSTLES AS PRANG AND REDOUT ELBOW EACH OTHER IN THEIR HASTE TO EXIT THE LAB. SHOKTROP SLAPS THEM OUT.]

REDOUT: Ow! Sir, might I remind you that we still need to reach the fuel depot-

SHOKTROP: I KNOW THAT. We get fuel first. And then we MAN OUR STATIONS, YOU SCRAP-SUCKING BITCHES OF MINE - WE FLY THROUGH THE NIGHT!

PRANG: Oh, boss! This is the sixty percent that I love.

SHOKTROP: ?