eugenesis-text

prison cells, empty and dusted with rust, spiralled around a column of space. Down below, the sensornet
was still spreading its message: level after level was being lit up, one at a time, each one adding depth to the
pit.
Ryknia looked up and saw more cells – a mirror image of the downward view. Perhaps Up and
Down eventually met, and linked, and swapped direction, creating an infinite wheel of cells.
‘They’ve hollowed out the mountain!’ he laughed, more amazed than amused. ‘I was right – this
place is perfect. We’ve found ground zero; we’ve found the nub of the second phase. Sevax, Jolup – I give
you Cybertron’s first Autobot/Decepticon concentration camp!’
‘Make sure it’s secure. We don’t want some Neut nomad breaking in and muddying the timestream.’
Grapple smudged a warm gland of sealant across the temple entrance, cementing the reattached doors.
‘Absolutely, Nightbeat. A pacifist running amok through time - imagine the consequences! He might, I
dunno, restore peace or something.’
‘Are you being ironic, Grapple I didn’t know you had it in you.’
Nightbeat looked around for Optimus Prime, something he was doing about every three seconds. It
was hard not to, for so many reasons. Prime was standing alone, back-turned, hands holstered to his hips,
staring at the Acid Wastes. The dawn sky was raked with the echo of Trident quadthrusters - streams of
pink cloud, fluffed and faded, like twists of damp linen. The land was restless, too - at this time of day,
when the night was trapped and fading fast, the trammelled Wastes began to steam, as if the bloodied thread
that bound the ground had been unstitched, its scar-lines plucked out loop by loop, allowing the ancient
wounds to breathe. Great spumes of giddying energon bubbled up to mix with exotic pollutants: tropical
acids, designer chemicals, bacterial chains sizzling in the mud - futuristic hybrids of fug and fume.
Nightbeat wandered closer.
‘It hasn’t changed,’ said Optimus without turning around.
‘Excuse me’
‘Cybertron. The Acid Wastes, at any rate. We’re in Lonium - I can see the remains of the habitation
blocks over there.’
‘I don’t think many people have been here since you left,’ said Nightbeat, trying to guide him gently
away from the subject. He was quietly grateful that Prime hadn’t been reactivated in Tarn or Vos or – god
help him – Iacon, city-states that were little more than graveyards full of sirens and crushed cars. Primus’ last
gift to Cybertron in 1991 - global rejuvenation - had amounted to a quick dab with a silver brush. The
bombsites and rust-rimmed craters had been sprinkled with glitter, the nuke-prints spruced with sequins,
the cityscapes wrapped in tinfoil and brocade. The face-lift was skin deep, as they always were, but at least it
stopped the ageing process, as least it hid the past. But Primus, as always, had underestimated his children:
within twenty years the planet was blacker and bleaker than ever before, a mass of ragged flaps and folds.
First time round it had taken four million years to despoil; second time round it took twenty. Who said
they hadn’t progressed
‘The war isn’t over,’ Optimus said, turning to Nightbeat.
‘How can you tell’
‘It’s obvious. It’s written all over your face.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Four million years and we’re still fighting.’
‘The Decepticons have been… I mean, both sides were…’ Nightbeat gave up. How could you justify
four million years of war
‘Is that why you’ve brought me back To fight’
Nightbeat saw the look on Prime’s face and a cold electrical charge ran through his circuitry. ‘It’s not
quite as simple as that,’ he said, realising that it was that simple, that Prime had once again had hit the nail
squarely on the head. ‘This goes beyond our war – beyond our stupid war.’ He barely recognised his own
voice: it was pained, almost pleading. For his sake (not Prowl’s, not the Autobots’, not Cybertron’s), Prime
had to understand. ‘We’ve been invaded by a race of bio-mechanicals called the Quintessons. They’ve
attacked Polyhex and, by now, almost certainly laid siege to Autobase. The situation is hopeless. We need
someone who can take control, someone who can galvanise our forces and confront the Quintessons head