eugenesis-text

‘I’ve made my choice.’ Rev-Tone turned awkwardly on his heels and looked at the others. ‘Who’s
with me’ Some looked away, some motioned to their wounds apologetically. Some, like Ammo, just
shook their heads. Red Alert looked him straight in the eye. So Rev-Tone padded up the aisle alone, his
leg joints squeaking with each step. First Aid stepped out of his way at the last moment.
‘First Aid’ It was Search, offering him a communicube with Prowl’s face on it. ‘Message from the
boss.’
‘We’re expecting the initial assault any time now,’ said Prowl. ‘I want you to be prepared for a rush
of casualties.’
‘We’re pretty full as it is, but I’ll try. We’re soaking up a lot of juice, Prowl. Perhaps if you could
authorise Section 11 I could—’
‘First Aid, now is not the time! Prowl out!’
Meanwhile, Rev-Tone limped down stainless steel corridors. Every few moments he would pass
another ward and deliver a blunt rallying cry. Every few moments another set of patients would ignore him.
He hobbled past the operating chambers, past the surgeon’s quarters, past Rodimus Prime’s medivault
(Kup was nowhere to be seen) and finally past the threshold to AMC1 itself. He looked out into the
seething waste ducts, their rancid cargo veined with rust.
‘If you’re leaving, then leave,’ said First Aid, jogging up the corridor. ‘I’m locking up.’
Rev-Tone stepped outside.
Clamped between Skyhammer and Whirl, Quark wasn’t sure whether he was running or being
carried. Still, he thought, maybe it was better this way, swept up in the stampede, in the ferocity of it all,
concentrating on keeping balance, keeping track. He wondered how many of them were running to their
deaths, scrambling over barricades to reach the battle field and lunge headlong into the first whitened rush
of laser. Somewhere out there – probably sandwiched between ammo-racks and bomb-drop pods - the
Quintessons were slamming rounds into their handguns. Some alien biopoid was lining up the bullets that
would hurtle, red-nosed and screaming, into his softly mottled techno-flesh, into the trembling slivers of
ghost-grey, Matrix-blessed hardware at the back of his skull.
He surged up a stairwell, his eyes fixed on Crossblades’ back, and not for the first time he wished that
Rev-Tone were with him, underplaying the gravity of the situation and annoying the others in his unique
fashion. Despite the rabid packs of Autobots, despite the universe of limbs, he felt utterly alone.
‘Second squad over there!’ yelled Prowl, with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. He was perched on a
rail gun and, as always, straining to be heard above the noise. His men were trussed-up and psyched-out, as
if Springer’s dealer had pumped vials of frothing Syk into their fuel-streams.
The entire Iaconian army was pouring into a battle-hanger just underneath Cybertron’s surface. Once
the upper level of the Archives Centre, it was now fitted with rail guns the size of a Gestalt. The barrels
broke the surface of the planet and hid inside fake generators, making the Helio Generator Complex look
like just another bombed-out relic from Iacon’s Solar Age.
Prowl reached up and tapped the ceiling. ‘This is lower than it used to be,’ he said to Perceptor.
‘I had Quickmix and Scoop add as much shielding as they could without compromising the
infrastructure. They’ve put another six metres of titanium between us and the Quintessons.’
‘It might make all the difference,’ nodded Prowl, secretly wishing the idea had been his.
‘Yeah, but it’s still only one layer between us and them,’ said Sideswipe, scrambling onto his rail gun.
‘Thank god for heavy artillery, eh’
Prowl pressed a targeting visor under his knuckled brow. ‘On my signal,’ he said, as dark spots slid
across his eyes.
‘General Quantax, this is 1st Wave leader Q-715 giving position update: we are dead on course.’ He
thumbed the navigation keypad and let the Trident’s targeting set burn crosshairs onto his eyeballs.