eugenesis-text

sky while a white-hot blanket of sniper-fire and shrapnel pinned Squad 117 to the ground. Sharkticons
springing from the terra firma wielding blasters and bayonets. The plasma mines, the scramblers, the
neutron bombs…
The hail of gunfire had decimated his entire squad, spinning them into fine mist of metal and flame.
Ferocet, a young Decepticon trooper, had found him cowering, half-blind, at the bottom of a crater, buried
under their remains. He’d been there for minutes/hour/days – he couldn’t say for sure – wondering
whether to initiate self-destruct or surrender. When Ferocet told him that the invasion was over, that
Magnus and his Autobots had driven the invaders away, he knew something inside him, something
important, had changed.
Medics found Ferocet’s remains among Tracenet, Piledriver and the rest of Squad 117.
Sixshot’s reputation was intact.
The squad was no more, but their screams were always there, switching pitch at the back of his mind,
jumping hoops in his audionet, needling an infinite runoff groove. He was thousands of miles away from
the Badlands - he was sealed underneath titanium shielding, for God’s sake - but now they were louder
than ever.
The Quintessons had killed Squad 117. And there was no way that he was ever going to leave this
place.
‘Ground forces have been reassembled, Commander Quantax. Survival estimates were pessimistic: we
have sustained only minimal losses. Skeleton teams have been dispatched to patrol the tertiary borderlines.
The mobile squads await your orders.’
‘Tell them to continue spreading across the Northern Territories. They can expect a few localised
pockets of resistance - some stragglers may have crossed the border. Then there’s the retrograde scum that
pass as this planet’s civilian population. Bag ‘em or slag ‘em, as Ghyrik used to say… I want every functional
Trident re-armed and refuelled. Program all pilots with the co-ordinates of the Helio Generator Complex.’
Q-81 held up his hand. ‘Commander, the sweeps operation is now complete. Three Tenderisers
overheated, but that’s only to be expected when you consider the cleanse radius.’
‘What about leftovers’
‘We’ve bagged about one thousand Decepticons. The Containment Cells are full to capacity.’
‘Rally the troops the moment the last Death Squad has been steam-cleaned. I want the location of the
Autobots’ HQ burned into every navinet. We leave for Iacon in one breem!’
Prowl moved quickly through Autobase, through its tapeworm corridors and arterial light. He heard
the hum of distant machinery as Autobots continued to fortify an Archives Centre that had already been
glued and glazed. Passageways had been stuffed with quickset and boarded up, sealant piped around portals,
vacuum lifts depressurised and filled with grit. Chromedome had redirected the last of the energon reserves
into an over-ground force field, a translucent dome the colour of peach-skin, and sub-level one, directly
below ground zero, had been kitted out with glistening blocks of anti-aircraft weaponry.
So why didn’t he feel safe If anything, the fortifications made him feel uneasy. It was like hammering
wood over windowpanes to block out the sun: however many planks were applied, one dust-brushed ray
would always find its way in. And one ray would destroy everything.
In a way, he wished the Quintessons would attack now. At least the waiting would be over. He was
tired of being on display, tired of having his every decision analysed and criticised. Guarded, they called
him. Cautious. Tentative. Ten days ago he’d have taken these words as a compliment. Now they implied
failure.
‘Um, commander Prowl’
Quark jogged towards him, ducking to avoid the new passage supports. ‘I was just on my way to the
munitions room to collect some warp gate generators. Do you mind if we walk together’
‘Of course not – except I’m already where I want to be.’ Prowl nodded at the door to Rodimus
Prime’s office. ‘One of the perks of leadership, you see – I get an office on ground level… That was a joke,
Quark.’