eugenesis-text

performing the operation! As if administering complex field surgery – with his fingers! – was the most
natural thing in the world! Nightbeat knew Prime had been a medic, but until now he’d seen only Ratchet
treat wounds with such dexterity.
Having helped carry Grapple and Sunstreaker’s ragtag bodies to the altar, Nightbeat now felt
redundant. He sat on a pew, marvelling at how quickly Prime had patched up his ambulatory system. It was
only now that he started to count Prime’s injuries – the delicate circuitry, meshed like twine, glistening in
the dark.
‘I’m sorry this is taking so long,’ said Optimus suddenly, ‘but Hoist took quite a blast.’ He slid his
hands under the engineer’s head and turned it sideways, searching for the glimmer in each optic. ‘Don’t
worry, though – he’ll be fine.’
Nightbeat went to speak and then changed his mind. This was happening quite a lot. Whenever he
thought of something to say he held it in check until it seemed inconsequential, and decided not to say it at
all.
Why did he feel so humble It irritated him, for one thing. He’d talked to Optimus Prime before.
He’d chatted to him – been flippant, sarcastic, light hearted. Their conversations had taken in everything
from pre-Quest Creation Matrix theology to the providence of the semi-organic tissue found inside the
Primal Chamber; the mythical Outpost Infinity to the fate of the prototype Arks; the origin of certain
Transformers’ ‘superpowers’ to the Empire’s Amnesty Vs Atrocity debate… yeah, a right barrel of laughs.
But then he wasn’t really the same Nightbeat as he was back then, and, in a different way, the broadshouldered
robot kneeling beside Hoist wasn’t the same Optimus Prime. His Optimus, the Optimus he had
served under from 1989, had been a replica: Version 2.0, a Nebulan upgrade imbued with an
approximation of the original’s personality; a remake that had, in turn, been tweaked and modified until
permanent shutdown in late 2005. The real Optimus had died in 1987, in a dingy human warehouse. This
hulking red-blue Autobot, this trans-temporal saviour tending to his teammates with the speed and
sensitivity of an adrenaline-soaked Fixit – this was the real deal. This was the original.
And Nightbeat hadn’t seen him in four million years.
‘Could you give me a hand here’
Nightbeat could tell that this was not the first time he’d been asked, and felt vaguely embarrassed. He
helped Prime set Hoist upright and watched the engineer’s optics pop and blink like dying headlamps.
‘Give him a few moments to adjust,’ advised Optimus, and started work on Grapple.
Nightbeat framed the wormhole with his thumb and forefinger. He could see 1984. Even weirder, he
could see his own reflection in the Ark’s glossy parquet: a pattern of light displaced by thirty years. He
could see… For god’s sake, why was Prime taking this so calmly! One moment he was colliding with an
alien planet, the next he was staring at the ceiling of a Cybertronian temple while an evangelical Guardian
droid ripped casing from bickering Autobots. Why wasn’t he panicking Why wasn’t he demanding to
know what the hell was going on
Deep down, beneath the awe, beneath the anxiety, Nightbeat knew what was bothering him: he
needed to unburden himself. He needed to throw the whole convoluted mess into Prime’s philanthropic
face, sit back and watch his reaction. For too long he and he alone had shouldered the consequences of this
mission, knotting his brain over the twists and loops of chrono-manipulation; the parallax-patterns, the
circular timelines and Alternaties – a temporal surgeon playing touch-up with Time. Prime had to say he
understood, or, failing that, that Nightbeat had made The Only Choice. He had to hug him, or chastise
him, or scream at him, or backhand him up the aisle, fire in his eyes, yelling about the Sanctity of Causality –
anything!
‘Grapple’s turn to stand,’ called the robot in question, and this time Nightbeat was ready. He smiled
despite himself. It was good to hear Optimus’ voice again (sonorous, varnished, almost comically grave).
Grapple was placed alongside Hoist, and as Optimus conducted a fleeting damage assessment he said, ‘How
did I get here’
Nightbeat felt as if a rigid steel brace had been whipped from his frame; every limb was joyously
loose. ‘I’ve been waiting for you to ask,’ he said, and gestured for Prime to pull up a pew. ‘It’s difficult to
really know when to begin.’ And yes, this was surprising to him, because he’d been rehearsing his speech
since shutting the door on Prowl and Perceptor. Where was the eloquence now All that tech-talk about
‘temporal poaching’ and ‘causal insulation’, the rubric about ‘divergent timelines’ and ‘mind-purging’. It