eugenesis-text

‘Unfortunately, there have been casualties.
‘Both Rodimus and Red Alert were seriously injured. Although First Aid and his team are doing all they can,
Rodimus remains in a critical condition. I have recalled Ratchet from Autobot City. He will be arriving within the next
hour. I will not insult anybody by pretending that Prime’s life isn’t in danger…’
Kup stood up and crossed the chamber.
‘…although I promise you that High Command will not rest until—zzzkk!’’
The speaker smouldered on the wall. Kup returned to his seat.
‘—We can do no more for him.’
Rev-Tone lay on his circuit slab, Quark by his side. As Prowl’s message drifted across the ward it
made everything that had happened suddenly seem very real.
‘Meanwhile, it saddens me to report that there have been many rumours concerning the fate of Thunderclash. I can
confirm that no body has been recovered from Diosys, although search teams are still combing the area. High Command
considers Thunderclash missing, not dead.’
‘Who are they kidding’ whispered Rev-Tone.
‘I hope this information will put an end to rumours concerning Thunderclash’s collusion with Doubleheader, or a
supposed warp-jump back to the Galactic Core. Nightbeat is investigating the circumstances of his disappearance as I
speak.’
Prowl hunched over Rodimus Prime’s desk and cradled the communicator.
‘I hope this message has helped to clarify the present situation. I appreciate that this is an extremely
difficult time for all of us. I urge everyone to remain calm and await further announcements instead of
taking any retributive action against the Decepticons. This is a time for patience and caution, a time to pray
for our injured and missing comrades.’
He bowed his head, searching for the right words, the most appropriate tone of voice. Aware that he
had neither, he leant into the microphone and said, ‘In the absence of Rodimus and Thunderclash, I have
assumed command. My election has been approved by a High Command majority. I will, of course, step
down the moment Rodimus or Thunderclash is fit to resume command.’
He tried to think of a suitable parting message, some words of comfort or a thought-provoking payoff
line (something Rodimus had a gift for). He could think of nothing; now, worried that his pause had
dragged on too long, he ended his inaugural Autobot address with a mumbled ‘Transmission ends.’
He shifted in Prime’s chair, scanned the administrative debris on his desk, rested his head in his hands
and asked himself, for the hundredth time, whether assuming command had been the right thing to do. It
had seemed sensible; it had seemed reasonable; most of all, it had seemed logical. Now he wondered what
he’d ever hoped to achieve.
All he’d ever wanted to do was play the trusted advisor, patient and reliable, firm but fair, a quiet
strategist basking in the shadow of a charismatic commander.
By raising his hand in front of High Command, by putting himself forward as Prime’s successor, he
stood to lose everything.
‘Done it!’
Nightbeat slapped the monitor screen in triumph. He had transferred every byte of information from
the spycam’s data-disc onto his computer, and now he could begin to sift through the footage. The spycam
had stopped recording the moment it was removed from the arena wall, so he would have to start at the
end and spool backwards.
< Rewind >
For a moment the screen was black and then he saw his own palm recede from the camera.
He watched himself drop out of shot, appear on the arena floor and run backwards.
(It was odd, watching the world in reverse.)
Autobot technicians moon walked over debris and dragged bioscanners towards their stomachs. Metal
cordons were roughly removed, packed up and carried away.