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wyntir_knightTitle: The Devil You Know
Series: G1 universe, focusing on Original characters
Rating: R
Summary: In the early days of the civil war on Cybertron, Sentinel Prime authorized several refugee vessels to take Neutrals away from the planet in hopes that they could start peaceful colonies where they would be safe. Many of these refugees were never heard from again; lost to us through time and distance. But history does record the fate of one of the vessels. The Stormchaser was three orns away from its destination when it was shot down by Decepticons in an act of cowardice and deceit. There were no survivors. That is what history tells us. But in this case, history is wrong.
Author's Note: It's done! It's done! It's finally done! ... the rough's done anyways. Now the editing process begins. But for now, it's done! ... Yeah, I'm just a little excited to have my first epic completed.
Epilogue
Moving slowly like a giant predator, the cargo ship Valerikaan lumbered silently through the depths of space. Weapons bristled out of her lumpy black skin, and small fighter craft flew about her like insects around a carcass. All who saw the Valerikaan knew to stay away. Both she and her captain were known and feared throughout this arm of the galaxy, as one of the worst slave transports of the Valen Empire. Death and pain followed in her wake and all who travelled in her hold prayed for a short and painless life, knowing full well the horrors that awaited them at their destination.
On the bridge, Captain Loresh’mat drank his bitter herb liquor, and basked in the smug satisfaction brought about by the knowledge of a full cargo bay. Deep in the bowels of his ship, the menagerie awaited delivery to Warlord Ch’thryxcha’s arena. He could not, as he had in the past, provide any headline fighters, but he could provide more than enough entertainment pieces. The warlord would be especially pleased with the family of Sinorians that he had procured. They always fought fiercely and the audience could be counted on to pay good money to see a filthy Sinorian killed.
The captain was contemplating his earnings for each item in his cargo, mentally tallying up the fees he could expect for the avian like Sinorians, the insect like Gorshak, the massive and gelatinous Wellarian, and the tiny, fleshy Nebulans. Even with no headliners, he would make more than enough of a profit with this cargo. Even after refuelling his vessel and paying his crew, he would still have enough left over to spend several months on the Rigellian pleasure world. He was contemplating the gorgeous reptilian females he would have to pleasure his every need when his first mate’s nasal voice interrupted his reverie.
“Sir?” Mate Ventrax whined. “Sir, we’re picking up a distress beacon coming from a shuttle five parsecs off our port bow.”
“And?” the captain asked.
“And … should we pull about to check on it?”
Loresh’mat put down his glass of liquor with a sigh.
“Well, we are ahead of schedule,” he said. And we may find something appropriately … useful.”
“Aye sir. Changing course,” Ventrax acknowledged.
After several minutes they were in visual range. With the press of a few buttons the view screen came to life showing the crystal clear image of an ancient vessel. The paint had been stripped off long before, leaving only bare metal dull from untold eons of dust and damage.
“The design isn’t anything on our files, but preliminary scans confirm that it’s ancient,” the mate said.
The captain stood and approached the screen, his interest piqued.
“Life signs?” he asked.
“Uhmm …,” Ventrax looked at his readouts. “There are … electrical signals, but nothing resembling a life sign.”
“Well then, nothing to stop us from taking a look,” the captain said as he turned and strode toward the lift.
“You’re in charge until I get back,” he called over his shoulder before the lift doors closed behind him.
x-x-x
Loresh’mat moved slowly through the main hall of the derelict ship, an engineer and a security officer trailing closely behind him.
The hall was dark, lit only by dull red emergency lights. Most were dead, and the few that remained lit only served to enhance the darkness. The floors were covered with a thick layer of dust and the inside walls were as worn as the outer shell.
“Ventrax, respond,” the captain snapped into his communicator. “You said there was an energy signature? Where is it? There’s nothing here of interest.”
“Uhm …,” the mate’s voice came through the communicator. “I think that it’s just up ahead.”
“You think?” Loresh’mat asked angrily. “That does not help me any.”
“Sorry, sir,” Ventrax replied sheepishly. “You’ll find the source of the energy four hundred melekan down the hall.”
Loresh’mat motioned for his crew to follow him as he walked forward. The hall continued on in near darkness until they came to a heavy door. With a shove the engineer pushed the door open revealing the room beyond. It was large and just as badly lit as the rest of the ship, but the back wall was lined with massive pods, four of which were lit. The inner light of these pods shone through the red tinged darkness casting shadows in the room and illuminating the contents brightly.
“What are those?” Loresh’mat asked.
“They look like life support pods, but they’re far too large,” the engineer breathed.
He approached the first and stretched up to the window, looking in.
“This one’s empty,” he said.
“This one isn’t,” the security officer said. “There’s some kind of machine in there.”
“A machine?” Loresh’mat asked. “Who would put a machine into a life support pod? Is it possible that these are Nebulan War Striders?”
“It’s possible,” the engineer replied. “But the Striders don’t need life support. As advanced as they are, they’re still just machines and it wouldn’t make sense for the Riders to enter life support while still inside.”
“Besides,” the security officer added as he looked into a pod, “these machines look about as ancient as the ship. The Nebulans only recently developed War Strider technology.”
“So, what is your explanation for them being in there?” Loresh’mat asked.
The crew didn’t reply.
The captain looked at his crew in disgust before pulling himself up to the window of one of the pods. It held a large robot, painted in several shades of green with a yellow-green trim. The chest seemed like a translucent yellow dome that came down like a teardrop in the middle of his chest. Behind him were two bent and battered triangles that may have once been wings. Its face was delicately carved, looking very much like the face of a Nebulan. Its eyes were a dark, hollow black, showing no sign of activity at all.
The next pod held a smaller, more slender robot. This one was blue and grey, and far more slender than the first. This one’s face was more refined than the first, but like the other, there was a certain Nebulan quality about it. Its chest was covered with a pale, smoky blue glass half-globe that was cracked and pitted from some incredible damage. Its eyes were black as well, but there was a pale blue light in their depths that seemed to flicker weakly.
In the third pod was a somewhat more boxy robot, painted black and red with a flat plate in the middle of his chest. Its upper arms sported two slender tubes that could have been weapons, and a slim visor covered the top portion of its face where its eyes would have been. As with the last robot, this one had a light in the depths of the visor, though this one’s light was red rather than blue.
“All right. Open them and see if there’s anything worth salvaging,” he ordered. “If they still function we’ll sell them to the Arena. If not, we can always use the spare parts. And if they are functional, I want them all painted red and black, like that one. It’s a more impressive colour scheme.”
He turned to walk back toward the docking bay. As he was about to leave the room, he stopped and turned back to his crew.
“And once you’re done with those, I want you to arrange to have the rest of the ship stripped for parts,” he said. “There’s no point leaving any of this to waste.”
Series: G1 universe, focusing on Original characters
Rating: R
Summary: In the early days of the civil war on Cybertron, Sentinel Prime authorized several refugee vessels to take Neutrals away from the planet in hopes that they could start peaceful colonies where they would be safe. Many of these refugees were never heard from again; lost to us through time and distance. But history does record the fate of one of the vessels. The Stormchaser was three orns away from its destination when it was shot down by Decepticons in an act of cowardice and deceit. There were no survivors. That is what history tells us. But in this case, history is wrong.
Author's Note: It's done! It's done! It's finally done! ... the rough's done anyways. Now the editing process begins. But for now, it's done! ... Yeah, I'm just a little excited to have my first epic completed.
Moving slowly like a giant predator, the cargo ship Valerikaan lumbered silently through the depths of space. Weapons bristled out of her lumpy black skin, and small fighter craft flew about her like insects around a carcass. All who saw the Valerikaan knew to stay away. Both she and her captain were known and feared throughout this arm of the galaxy, as one of the worst slave transports of the Valen Empire. Death and pain followed in her wake and all who travelled in her hold prayed for a short and painless life, knowing full well the horrors that awaited them at their destination.
On the bridge, Captain Loresh’mat drank his bitter herb liquor, and basked in the smug satisfaction brought about by the knowledge of a full cargo bay. Deep in the bowels of his ship, the menagerie awaited delivery to Warlord Ch’thryxcha’s arena. He could not, as he had in the past, provide any headline fighters, but he could provide more than enough entertainment pieces. The warlord would be especially pleased with the family of Sinorians that he had procured. They always fought fiercely and the audience could be counted on to pay good money to see a filthy Sinorian killed.
The captain was contemplating his earnings for each item in his cargo, mentally tallying up the fees he could expect for the avian like Sinorians, the insect like Gorshak, the massive and gelatinous Wellarian, and the tiny, fleshy Nebulans. Even with no headliners, he would make more than enough of a profit with this cargo. Even after refuelling his vessel and paying his crew, he would still have enough left over to spend several months on the Rigellian pleasure world. He was contemplating the gorgeous reptilian females he would have to pleasure his every need when his first mate’s nasal voice interrupted his reverie.
“Sir?” Mate Ventrax whined. “Sir, we’re picking up a distress beacon coming from a shuttle five parsecs off our port bow.”
“And?” the captain asked.
“And … should we pull about to check on it?”
Loresh’mat put down his glass of liquor with a sigh.
“Well, we are ahead of schedule,” he said. And we may find something appropriately … useful.”
“Aye sir. Changing course,” Ventrax acknowledged.
After several minutes they were in visual range. With the press of a few buttons the view screen came to life showing the crystal clear image of an ancient vessel. The paint had been stripped off long before, leaving only bare metal dull from untold eons of dust and damage.
“The design isn’t anything on our files, but preliminary scans confirm that it’s ancient,” the mate said.
The captain stood and approached the screen, his interest piqued.
“Life signs?” he asked.
“Uhmm …,” Ventrax looked at his readouts. “There are … electrical signals, but nothing resembling a life sign.”
“Well then, nothing to stop us from taking a look,” the captain said as he turned and strode toward the lift.
“You’re in charge until I get back,” he called over his shoulder before the lift doors closed behind him.
Loresh’mat moved slowly through the main hall of the derelict ship, an engineer and a security officer trailing closely behind him.
The hall was dark, lit only by dull red emergency lights. Most were dead, and the few that remained lit only served to enhance the darkness. The floors were covered with a thick layer of dust and the inside walls were as worn as the outer shell.
“Ventrax, respond,” the captain snapped into his communicator. “You said there was an energy signature? Where is it? There’s nothing here of interest.”
“Uhm …,” the mate’s voice came through the communicator. “I think that it’s just up ahead.”
“You think?” Loresh’mat asked angrily. “That does not help me any.”
“Sorry, sir,” Ventrax replied sheepishly. “You’ll find the source of the energy four hundred melekan down the hall.”
Loresh’mat motioned for his crew to follow him as he walked forward. The hall continued on in near darkness until they came to a heavy door. With a shove the engineer pushed the door open revealing the room beyond. It was large and just as badly lit as the rest of the ship, but the back wall was lined with massive pods, four of which were lit. The inner light of these pods shone through the red tinged darkness casting shadows in the room and illuminating the contents brightly.
“What are those?” Loresh’mat asked.
“They look like life support pods, but they’re far too large,” the engineer breathed.
He approached the first and stretched up to the window, looking in.
“This one’s empty,” he said.
“This one isn’t,” the security officer said. “There’s some kind of machine in there.”
“A machine?” Loresh’mat asked. “Who would put a machine into a life support pod? Is it possible that these are Nebulan War Striders?”
“It’s possible,” the engineer replied. “But the Striders don’t need life support. As advanced as they are, they’re still just machines and it wouldn’t make sense for the Riders to enter life support while still inside.”
“Besides,” the security officer added as he looked into a pod, “these machines look about as ancient as the ship. The Nebulans only recently developed War Strider technology.”
“So, what is your explanation for them being in there?” Loresh’mat asked.
The crew didn’t reply.
The captain looked at his crew in disgust before pulling himself up to the window of one of the pods. It held a large robot, painted in several shades of green with a yellow-green trim. The chest seemed like a translucent yellow dome that came down like a teardrop in the middle of his chest. Behind him were two bent and battered triangles that may have once been wings. Its face was delicately carved, looking very much like the face of a Nebulan. Its eyes were a dark, hollow black, showing no sign of activity at all.
The next pod held a smaller, more slender robot. This one was blue and grey, and far more slender than the first. This one’s face was more refined than the first, but like the other, there was a certain Nebulan quality about it. Its chest was covered with a pale, smoky blue glass half-globe that was cracked and pitted from some incredible damage. Its eyes were black as well, but there was a pale blue light in their depths that seemed to flicker weakly.
In the third pod was a somewhat more boxy robot, painted black and red with a flat plate in the middle of his chest. Its upper arms sported two slender tubes that could have been weapons, and a slim visor covered the top portion of its face where its eyes would have been. As with the last robot, this one had a light in the depths of the visor, though this one’s light was red rather than blue.
“All right. Open them and see if there’s anything worth salvaging,” he ordered. “If they still function we’ll sell them to the Arena. If not, we can always use the spare parts. And if they are functional, I want them all painted red and black, like that one. It’s a more impressive colour scheme.”
He turned to walk back toward the docking bay. As he was about to leave the room, he stopped and turned back to his crew.
“And once you’re done with those, I want you to arrange to have the rest of the ship stripped for parts,” he said. “There’s no point leaving any of this to waste.”
