eugenesis-text

The water was all fingers and thumbs; it was oiled and coiled and it refused to stay still. Ultra Magnus
groped his way down the lift shaft, his one good headlamp giving out damaged light. He imagined the
pressure forcing cold wet snakes into his wounds, looking for the crack in the CPU, the exposed killswitch,
the rattling morphcore.
Being a hero and all, he had stayed behind. He had stayed behind to wait until the Sharkticons had
poked their lime scale fingers through the barricade. Everyone else had slipped through the hatch as if
bailing out of an aircraft, but no, he wanted to be sure. A few gunshots and a fresh barricade had given his
men a head start, but where did that leave him Skimming down the ribs of a vacuum lift, that was where;
running for the Ark while ten cybersharks chased his bubbled spume.
He felt something stroke his waist and punched water ’til his headlamp found its target. Water surged
against his vocal aperture as he screamed.
Wideload’s ravaged upper body was wedged into the wall. His stomach ended in teeth marks, and
loose metal tendons shimmied around his spinal strut like seaweed. Magnus moved on, feeling sick (emo-
CT#0291 - easy, thought his facial features, and warped his expression accordingly; the whole
disgust/repulsion thing was a piece of cake – just as Eskimos have hundreds of words for snow, Flamebirth
scientists program their creations with hundreds of ways of expressing repulsion: par for the course in a
post-Decepticon world).
The lift shaft opened onto the Ark’s launch pad. The golden spaceship stood on its end, pinned
against scaffold. Spotlights danced across its hull and the water shimmered with gloss
and glitter.
Ultra Magnus swam for the airlock, oblivious to the Sharkticons pouring from the shaft.
As the Ark was standing upright the bridge had swivelled ninety degrees to accommodate the angle of
take-off. It was full of bodies, dead and alive, slumped in corners, laid across consoles, stacked like unwanted
gifts. Ratchet was moving from body to body, wrists covered in medical accoutrements.
Hubcap, Outback and a barely functioning Cliffjumper were slouched over the navigation consoles.
Silverbolt sat in the pilot seat wrapped in a set of guidance machinery so rigorously sculpted that it was
virtually a second set of body armour.
Slouched in the co-pilot’s seat and practically black with damage, Mirage leaned towards him and
hissed, ‘Where the hell is Magnus’
‘Give him time,’ said the Aerialbot. ‘The quad-thrusters haven’t powered up yet. We should be able
to take off in fifty.’
Death’s Head stood up in the background. ‘“Should” What do you mean, “should”’
‘Firstly, the Ark isn’t equipped for underwater take-off. Secondly, you saw the debris that’s piled up
around the City. Thirdly—’
‘There’s a thirdly’
‘Thirdly, awakening Metroplex warped the City’s infrastructure. The Ark may not even be able to
break through the surface.’
Mirage slapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Couldn’t you have mentioned this to Magnus before we
swam down here’
‘Slaughtered by Quintessons or dying in an exploding spacecraft – you end up with the same result.’
‘Good attitude,’ said Death’s Head.
‘Oh grow up, bounty hunter.’ Mirage swivelled in his chair. ‘Hubcap! What’s the situation topside’
‘Funny you should ask, actually. The Sharkticons seem to be abandoning the City…’
‘They’re running You mean that’s it We’ve won’
Death’s Head fastened his seat belt. ‘Can anyone say, “evacuate” Where exactly is the Quintesson
mothership, Autobot’
‘Give me a few seconds…’
The last engines came on-line. Ratchet watched the light die in Powerglide’s eyes and laid him gently
between Jazz and Springer, who was foaming at the mouth. There was a clank of metal on metal as
Cliffjumper collapsed over his console; his arm dangled towards the floor. People stopped talking and
started listening to the noises outside.