eugenesis-text

‘You’re still new to our war, Thunderclash. It has its own rules, its own codes and practices. Rodimus
is my opposite number, and yes, I would gladly see him dead, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect him. I
certainly don’t underestimate him.’
‘You’ll be saying you don’t hate him next.’
‘I don’t – at least not in the way you think. I hate what he stands for and I hate the obstacles he has
put in my way. As a person he is undermined by certain principles such as mercy and compassion. I’m not
saying these qualities are wrong in themselves (I practically let Starscream get away with murder, and there
are occasions where it pays to feign compassion), but they have no place in war. Maybe I should be grateful
that he does exhort these “virtues” – if he didn’t, he might pose a threat. But no, he’s a slave to the
Autobot Code, to this spurious concept of freedom. That’s his weakness. That was Optimus Prime’s
weakness, too.’
‘Well, it’s academic now. Rodimus is dead.’
‘What’
‘He was assassinated. Doubleheader – if that was his real name – was wired up to a bomb.’
‘Typical. You wait two hundred years for an opportune moment and it comes along at a time like
this.’
‘You think it’s funny’
‘You don’t’
They fell silent and stared at the floor. Thunderclash shivered as his morphcore rejected a command.
‘Why can’t I transform’ he said, fearing the answer.
‘Some sort of Inhibitor Claw. I’m wearing one too, somewhere on my back.’ Galvatron watched his
cellmate knock himself against the wall and, after he had gleaned sufficient entertainment, said, ‘That was
my first reaction too. It’s no use. The claw is too well protected.’
‘What are they going to do to us Before they kill us, I mean.’
Before Galvatron could reply, Xenon reappeared, surrounded by Sharkticons and a stretcher.
‘Who’s first for the operation’ asked the Majestrix. ‘What, you’re not even going to nominate each
other Very well. The decision falls to me.’
He looked from one Transformer to the other.
‘I pick you.’
After a while, Treadshot got used to living in an upside-down world. It wasn’t as if though he had
much choice, what with being impaled on the end of a crashed Trident. His wrists dangled closer to his
heels, his head tipped further back, and his world wobbled on its axis. His open mouth caught embers as
they drifted across the battlefield.
The echo of the last cluster bomb had only just swallowed itself up. He listened instead to the distant
crackle of flames and the moans of the dying.
Darkmount hung from the horizon like a molten stalactite. For five million years it had stood noble
and alone, face to the sunrise, back to the sunset, a mocking, granite-grey headstone overshadowing billions
of Autobot graves. Now it was blurred with flame, a barnacled stump lost in gridiron and girders.
Everything had been turned on its head.
He tasted oil in his throat aperture, nicotine-thick, and slid a little further down the spike. The
battlefield was filled with bodies of every colour, every shape, like butterflies pinned in place. He scanned
the leftovers, looking for Soundwave, and then remembered that this field of gore, this crumbling circle of
hell, represented just a fraction of the thousands that had died that day.
Time passed. He heard the dry hum of spinning turbines, of cold-fusion engines throbbing into life.
He lifted his head expecting to see stars, but the sky had become a vault of metal and artificial light, full of
base thrusters, hatchways, docking slots and gun turrets.
He was staring at the underbelly of the Quintesson mothership.
Colossal cones of light swept over the landscape, merging as they changed direction. The ship stopped
over a relatively uncluttered stretch of land and three Decepticon jets bolted from the hold. They headed
towards the Mount Kyth.
He’d doubted the last few hours had actually happened – the fall of Darkmount, the death of
Soundwave, the inferno racing over the planet’s crust – but now he knew he was seeing things.