eugenesis-text

‘Yeah, right. I hear he moved into Prime’s office before they’d closed the medi-vault door.’ Rev-
Tone looked away and coiled a loose wire around his finger. ‘Primus, I can’t wait to get out of here! This
place is so dull!’
‘Why not leave You’re almost back to your normal self.’
‘First Aid says my ambulatory systems aren’t fully repaired. I’m losing energon almost as quickly as
they pump it into me. Don’t look so worried! My core processors just need time to recharge. In the
meantime I’m operating at 40% efficiency and getting on people’s nerves.’
‘Like I said, you’re almost back to… your normal… self.’
Rev-Tone followed Quark’s gaze across the ward and saw Red Alert standing in the doorway with
First Aid. The Security Officer’s head hung low, as if the floor tiles entranced him. Most of his bodywork
was still in tatters, emergency surgery having concentrated on rebuilding his internal components. His left
boot was encased in crude orthopaedic scaffold that corrected his balance as he shuffled down the aisle. First
Aid offered a shoulder to lean on.
Rev-Tone, Quark and the other patients looked on, not knowing how to react.
And then someone clapped.
Someone clapped, and other people joined in.
Rev-Tone clapped, then Quark, then Ammo, Warpath, Hurricane, Hotrider, Moonfire, Samsara and
the rest. By the time Red Alert had reached his slab in the corner, the ward was filled with applause.
Let the record state that it was Bluestreak who first saw them.
Twelve of them; a nice tidy dozen. They looked harmless enough once the sinking sun attacked them
from a different angle: crude blocks of windowless metal, sticky with Formica sheen, propelled by drywired
hop-thrust engines and rockets like dirty plug holes.
Having guessed, correctly, that they were troop carriers, Bluestreak opened his wrist communicator
and said, ‘Magnus, the Quintessons are going for a body-drop on the western perimeter. Can you
spare anyone’
In seconds, Silverbolt, Broadside and Springer were flying over his head. Tridents moved in to
protect their own, and the troop carriers were caught in pensive crossfire. Some managed to pass directly
over the bastions.
Jetfire snagged the frontrunners with a ragged burst of hi-ex and left them to crash face-first in the
street. Sharkticons poured out of their split sides. The other troop-cubes landed in different precincts,
oblivious to the groundswell of laser that bounced off their titanium bellies. Doors exploded off their hinges
and the riot began.
Nightbeat’s hand hovered over the door-pad and he ran through his speech one last time.
In his head, he added dramatic pauses and knowing looks, and generally came across as an informed
and dryly intelligent lecturer. He knew the reality would be somewhat different. He pressed the pad and
stepped inside the command chamber.
The room was muggy and bloodshot, bathed in a grainy red dye. He felt as if he was trapped inside a
black eye or a simmering wound, all puffy folds and burst blood vessels. High Command – or what was left
of it (just Prowl, Perceptor and – talk about scraping the bottom of the barrel – Sideswipe) – sat at the
famous roundtable. There were seven empty chairs.
The room smelt stale, as if it predated everyone in it.
‘Nightbeat,’ said Prowl, nodding a greeting. ‘If you’d like to take us through what you’ve found.’
Nightbeat fed a disc into the wall and waited alongside the monitor.
‘I’m sorry to have called you here on such short notice, but what I’ve found simply cannot wait. You
asked me to investigate the Diosys incident with a view to finding out what happened to Thunderclash. I
think I have the answer.’ Nightbeat unclipped a laser-pointer from his waist. ‘Basically, I found a hidden
security camera and slowed down the footage to piece together events before and after Prime’s handshake.’
He ringed centre-screen. ‘Here, you can see Doubleheader.’
He watched High Command as he spoke. Prowl was stern with concentration; Perceptor was relaxed
and attentive; Sideswipe was rolling a bullet between his fingers.