eugenesis-text

The officer kept his eyes on the neon contours and geo-curves scrolling across his monitor. ‘I’m sure
I’m close, General Quantax. There is an awful lot of Cybertron to cover. It’s just a matter of—’
‘If you dare complete that sentence,’ said Quantax, ‘I will personally put you through a Tenderiser!
Time is precisely what we don’t have. If the Autobots are aware of our invasion they will have time to
fortify whatever rock they’ve crawled under. You know how it is: some low-lying surveillance droid beams
front-row vidpics of the Decepticons going down and the Autobots start hammering blast-plates across their
window panes.’
‘Found it!’ Q-7924 tapped the screen. ‘The Helios Generator Complex, Central Iacon. An
abandoned solar energy plant, co-ordinates 040596-070899.’
Quantax patted the officer’s shoulder and felt a rush of quiet pride. In the run-up to the first
CyberWar it had been his idea to record the topography of Cybertron, to catalogue every crumbling
quadrant, every blue and butchered street. Sharkticon spies had gathered enough information to paste
together a 3D map of the planet’s surface, from the Baird Beaming Transmitter’s parking lot to the proton
crater slap-bang in the middle of the Scud Run; the back alley entrance to Maccadam’s to the summit of Mt
Edeus.
‘When the Death Squads have finished bagging the leftovers we’ll move to attack Iacon,’ he said
matter-of-factly, returning to the banks of monitors. ‘We’ll make the Decepticons’ last stand look like a
miracle of fortitude and resilience.’
‘General Quantax, this is Q-311. I’m about to take my squad and a couple of Tenderisers over the first ridge.’
‘Go ahead. The sooner we contain the stragglers the better. I want the containment blocks to be full
by daybreak.’
‘One thing, General. We’re running low on anti-transformation claws. There are more survivors than we
anticipated – a few are hitting self-destruct, but most are just waiting around to be chained. I estimate hundreds of
salvageable survivors.’
‘Hmm. We’ve exhausted our supply of Inhibitor Claws. Tell any Decepticons that transformation
equals death – not just for them, but for the entire chain. If the worst comes to the worst, kill any survivors
and leave them on the recyc piles. Relay this order to all other squads. Quantax out.’
He cradled his brow and ordered the skeleton crew of officers and technicians to leave the control
room. For the first time since leaving hyperspace, he felt uneasy. Of all mechapolymorhpic races, the
Cybertronians were the most adept at reconfiguring; indeed, it had been because of this talent (and,
perhaps, the speed with which they had suddenly abandoned peace for outright hostility) that the race had
been dubbed ‘the Transformers’ by neighbouring cultures. They could blur between forms while an
Lithonian or a Junkion was still shifting gear, their limbs splicing and dividing like liquid metal. No, he
decided, the enemy could not be allowed the gift of transformation: preventative measures were essential.
He slumped into his chair and thought back to a conversation he’d had with Lord Xenon back on
Aquaria a few hours before launch. The Imperial Majestrix had assured him that ‘preventative measures’
were well in hand, that the Inhibitor Claw’s successor would soon be subjected to the final tests; they
would be ready, he’d promised, before Phase Two was underway.
Quantax punched his open hand: the new Inhibitors were essential to Phase Two!
‘Oh. Did that hurt’
Wheeljack smoothed the indentation on his fingertip – a dimple of warm metal – and swallowed the
urge to swear. He yanked his facemask over his head. ‘As a matter of fact, Centurion, yes it did.’ He pulled
the mask back down, leant against the wall and sparked up the acetylene torch he had cobbled together
earlier. Sparks bounced around the workshop.
Centurion drew his knees underneath his arms and looked around. Everything was the wrong way
up: he was sitting on the ceiling looking up at the floor, with its bolted tables and dangling computer ports.
Mainframe was in the corner, suspended by a shoddy metal harness, still trying to access Metroplex’s CPU;
all he’d managed to do so far was turn on the lights.
He decided his safest option was to keep still, listen to Wheeljack swear, watch Mainframe tap away,
and take stock. Awakening from stasis, undergoing the Rite of Autobrand, battling for the City, tripping
over the Space Bridge… From the moment he’d collapsed into Ratchet’s arms, events had snowballed out
of control. And now he was trapped inside a dead robot on an alien planet.