eugenesis-text

Decepticons collaborating with the enemy Surely something had malfunctioned in his head; surely his
mem-net had been cross-wired with retro-data or backlog scurf: he was hallucinating; he had to be.
The Conquest descended on a cushion of anti-grav beams and settled in the tattered sinus between
Mount Kyth and the Polyhexian Plains. Dark metal supports slid from the base and took hold. The core
structure expanded and contracted like an artificial heart, and soon the spacecruiser was transformed into a
five-faced fortress.
Heavy doors slid apart and clean-up vehicles – Tenderisers – rolled out into the open.
The vehicles weren’t pretty – little more than a pale green cab, a mulch-basin, caterpillar tracks and a
plough – but when Treadshot saw them, he understood. Over the years he himself had thrown countless
Autobots into the mincing jaws of a Harvester Unit (or a Sanitation Tank, as it was known under Straxus;
most people just called it a Meat Bin) and stood, arms outstretched, as he had been sprayed with ribbons of
robo-pulp. The Quintessons’ Tenderisers were of similar design: near the back, a stainless steel funnel
guzzled mech-waste, inanimate or otherwise. Rotor-blades and block-hammers mashed up the cadaver
before storing it, near-liquidated, in a barrel underneath the cab.
There were about forty Tenderisers in all, although he wasn’t in the mood to count. They moved
sluggishly towards the main spread of bodies, as if poking around cold food. Quintessons emerged from
their newly-settled base carrying pincers and flame-throwers, white sticks capped with a raw blue flame.
They rummaged in boxes that hung from their hips. He wondered what was inside.
Two troopers were heading his way. His head clicked sideways to get a better look and his spinal strut
edged closer to his brain module.
‘This is Q-218 to Central Squad,’ said the larger Quintesson into a comms device. ‘We’ve found a
survivor. Possibly a straggler.’
‘Grill him, then scan him. I don’t want this to take too long.’
Q-218 cocked his head. ‘Can you hear me, Cybertronian’
The wad of oil should have hit the Quintesson in the face. Despite Treadshot’s best efforts, it trundled
down his own chin, warm and aimless.
‘You know where the Autobot headquarters are,’ continued Q-218, ‘and you are going to tell me.’
Oh good, thought Treadshot: a moral dilemma. He knew he was going to die, one way or another,
in a matter of seconds. He knew there was minimal chance of taking any Quintessons with him. He knew
he didn’t much care for honour or sacrifice or the greater good. But most of all he knew that however
much he hated the Quintessons, he hated the Autobots a hell of a lot more.
‘Iacon.’ The word almost drowned in the lube swill and mouth clag. ‘The Archives Centre. It’s
underground. Near the Helio Generator Complex.’
‘We have a possible location, control. Do we have the co-ordinates of the Helio complex on record
Excellent. Q-218 out.’
‘Can I scan him now’ asked the smaller Quintesson.
‘He’s all yours, 220.’
Q-220 swept a palm-sized device over Treadshot’s body. ‘68%,’ he said, sounding pleased.
‘That’s 12% below the recyc threshold, let alone salvage class.’ Q-218 brought flame-thrower close to
the Decepticon’s head. ‘Stay back, 220. This one’s useless.’
A rush of heat found Treadshot’s every nook and divot. Q-220 extended a heatproof pincer and
yanked his roasting torso off the spike, and as he was lifted through the air he saw the full scale of the
operation. Quintessons were looking for every Decepticon body, digging in the dirt for corpses to scan and
rate. Survivors were being rounded up, tied together, and having what looked like thumb-sized Inhibitor
Claws pressed into their backs. Those that could not be repaired, those like him, were being fed into Meat
Bins and ground down.
He saw his own Meat Bin loom closer. He saw the spiked, rotating jaws, the flash of jagged dentistry.
He prayed that system shutdown would claim him before the serrated blades set to work, but it was looking
increasingly unlikely.
Q-218 dropped the reject into the maw of the Tenderiser and looked for the next straggler. Behind
him, plumes of oil filled the air like streamers.
‘Well I’m still waiting.’