eugenesis-text

acknowledged that somewhere, buried under the mission specifics, under the responsibilities and
obligations, he felt a hint of jealousy. Things had changed in four million years. He had changed. He wasn’t
an inexperienced police investigator from Kalis anymore, the grin-and-bear-it go-getter waving his hand for
a place on the Ark, getting ideas above his station. Nowadays, he was more than equal to Hoist – and
Bluestreak, for that matter.
Meanwhile, behind a floored Sunstreaker, Grapple was reasserting himself in a different way, flexing
his arms as new energy flooded his body. Within seconds he was at Prime’s side, finding his fingers and
making eye contact. Amidst the chatter and the handshakes, Optimus glanced at Nightbeat. ‘There’s time
for welcoming later. Our immediate priority is Sunstreaker.’
Nightbeat smiled to himself. Prime had somehow commanded this unit from the moment he was
carried through the wormhole, but this was the first time he’d spoken like a commander. As they gathered
around Sunstreaker he found himself kneeling beside Optimus, who – as if it was the most natural and
innocent thing in the world – leant towards him and said, ‘We’ll continue our discussion later.’
Prowl’s Autobots looked at the sky over their heads.
Those with aerial modes jumped up and transformed, reaching the battle as space-skimmers, triads,
propax-jets and gunner-planes in a flurry of high-speed, high-gloss animation. The sky became overloaded.
Crossfire connected every moving object, as if a cat’s cradle had been stretched over the heavens, as if all of
Cybertron was wrapped in a ball of fizzing neon string.
Rooted to the floor with a concussion blaster fused to his palm, Prowl was one of five hundred
Autobots covered in leftover wreckage (ceiling struts and grid-tiles, white as alabaster). They were standing
near the centre of a huge crater, a wasteland the shape of an unglazed bowl. The Quintessons hadn’t just
obliterated the Helio generators or pounded the rail guns to dust; they’d ground their heel into the surface
of Cybertron and twisted the boot.
Skirting the mesosphere, above the highest curve of aerial battle, Q-715 surveyed the open ground
and pictured packs of addled Cybes wandering from their bunker and falling to their knees. ‘We’ve broken
their defences,’ he barked into his mouthpiece. ‘They’re out in the open. Bring in the ground troops.’
Nearby, the troop carriers crossed the Cadmium Mountains, as graceless as hump-backed whales.
Inside, Sharkticon cannon fodder waited for the floor to give way.
Rev-Tone found Kup spading grit from a blocked passageway on sub-level 2 of the Archives Centre.
They could hear the battle raging above ground.
‘There’ll be nothing left of them by the time we get up there,’ mumbled Kup. The ceiling hatch
won’t open; something’s weighing it down.’
Rev-Tone sank six plasma bolts into the hatch, wrenched the handle and released a four-sided torrent
of body parts. He and Kup climbed through the hole, their eyes pinned on a slash of laser-riddled sky.
‘Welcome to the frontline,’ said Crossblades, waving them over. ‘We need all the help we can get!’
Kup saw a cluster of high rankers in the distance, fused together like a triangle. He ran towards them,
tearing a semi-slagged firearm from a headless Quickswitch.
Rev-Tone stumbled across the battlefield, searching for just one face. Sharkticons and Autobots
wheeled and twisted on all sides, little more than fuzzed knots of motion. He was oblivious to the nosediving
Tridents, lubrous and attenuated, wrapped in ribbons of turquoise flame. Instead, he stepped through
cadavers and all manner of limbless horrors, scrutinising body-paint and profile, matching names to shapes,
moving on to the next dead soldier before the circuitry had peeled from his heel.
‘I’m too late. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead.’ The words were worn out through repetition; they
lurked in his voxbox and refused to be flushed. He scanned the crowds and identified Autobots not by their
names but by the simple fact that they weren’t him. They weren’t—
‘Quark!’ The word bolted, unchecked, from his lips. There he was, surrounded by Sharkticons, a
crimson rock in a sea of grey. Rev-Tone surged forward and shot down the enemy.
‘Why aren’t you in the medical centre’ demanded Quark
‘You expect me to sit back while you get yourself killed We’re a team, remember’