eugenesis-text

The hall went black, as if it had ducked into a tunnel, and when the lights returned they were russetred,
candy-coated.
Magnus faced the crowd. ‘Everyone to your posts. Prepare for enemy engagement. This is not a drill.
All entrances and docking bays will be sealed in minus five and counting.’
On the bridge of Enslaver General Rodern leant over a comms port and said, ‘Commander Magnus, I
apologise if we have violated your airspace. My name is Rodern. I have escorted my people here in search
of sanctuary after the Decepticons razed our homeworld. Please, commander, we mean no harm. If we are
not welcome, we will leave immediately.’
‘If we have misjudged your intentions, Rodern, we apologise. Perhaps we could arrange a meeting to discuss the
sanctuary you speak of. If you are willing, we can begin talks immediately. What do you say’
Rodern let the question hang.
‘Stop the ship,’ he said finally. ‘And release the first wave of Tridents.’
And so, at 5:32pm on 23 rd December 2012, the first blow was struck.
A wire-guided tri-stem proton missile was fired from a Trident’s front-mounted cupola and travelled
11.7 miles (north-westerly wind, Force 6) to connect with the loading precinct on the southern elevation of
Autobot City: Earth.
Magnus felt the City tremble: a shudder at what was to come. He saw the ships shredding the sky,
green on blue, and knew that everything had changed. He was used to it (the volte face, the turnaround, the
sudden lurch from one thing to another, words like ‘expected’, ‘intended’, ‘foreseen’ and ‘wanted’ suddenly
burdened with a stunted two-letter prefix), but this… this just wasn’t necessary. Not now, not with
Rodimus and closure and…
‘Blaster!’ he yelled. ‘Radio Prowl on Cybertron. I want reinforcements on standby. Wheeljack, I
want you to rendezvous with Grimlock and Springer and meet me in the command tower. Jetfire! Take the
air corps and intercept.’
He knew the attackers. He knew the moment he saw the Tridents. Four years ago he had responded
to Soundwave’s distress signal and fought them in the Badlands. Four years ago he had read and re-read
Perceptor’s reports of an attack on Autobot City that had culminated in Autobots being crucified on the
command tower. Four years ago he had watched vid-cam footage of Rodimus Prime throwing one of their
leaders to his death.
He knew the attackers. He knew their tactics, their tics and trademarks: after the staggered air strike
(dive in, pull back, dive-bomb, recoil) they would deposit the ground troops – cannon fodder used to soak
up ammo and wear the enemy down.
‘I can’t contact Cybertron,’ said Blaster. ‘The Quintessons have hit us with some sort of scrambler.
We’re on our own.’
By 5:42pm the perimeter walls were disfigured, their armoured skin bunched in flaps and folds, all
split lips and puffed eyes. Tridents skimmed the damage. Stray laser bolts mashed the landscape, flicking
rock into a moat that was already starting to overheat.
At 5:44pm, after twelve minutes of clearance codes and elbow grease, Autobot City began its
transformation from metropolis to battle station. Dummy towers split to reveal rocket launchers, blast
shields and helipads, and ninety-four entrance points were fused closed. Aerials retracted, windows
disappeared, and access ramps were dragged back inside. Detonated bridges hung in the air, paralysed by
shock, and then collapsed into the moat. Rail guns steamed into position while transport tracks thrust antiaircraft
weaponry into the sunlight.
Thirty miles away, General Rodern sank further into his chair and reached for the remote. The stack
of monitors in front of him resembled a fly’s eye, each glassy retina reflecting images of battle. A hundred
Tridents were saddled with a spycam to ensure full-spectrum, round-the-clock coverage. He’d witnessed
the first few glorious explosions and the City’s conversion into a fortress, and was now looking forward to
the post-watershed pictures.