eugenesis-text

on. That’s why we brought you here.’ He looked over the simmering Wastes. ‘That’s why I was ordered to
bring you here.’
‘The temple’s sealed tight!’ Hoist bounded over, retracting his acetylene torch. ‘Sunstreaker’s checked
the perimeter – there are no other entrances. What next’
Nightbeat looked at his feet.
‘We head for Iacon,’ said Optimus. ‘That is where these Quintessons will be, I take it’
‘Er, yes.’
Optimus transformed into a bulky Cybertronian truck, the enormous Autobot symbol on the front of
his trailer resembling a heraldic shield. He watched the others switch to their vehicle modes. ‘What’s
happened to you all Have you been upgraded’
Nightbeat revved his engine. ‘It’s a long story…’
A minor setback.
Three words. Three words delivered with a directness that pinned him to the spot. Three words that
served as a sweet prelude to the diatribe that followed. General Quantax - strategist, politician, patriot – felt
about five minutes old, like a plump little Neoseed, as if he’d been freshly rolled from Unicron’s doughy
surface. He stood with his fingers knitted behind his back, head slightly bowed, afraid to look away. He was
an ant trapped in a scorching beam of sunlight and the monitor screen was the magnifying lens.
On screen, Xenon was ranting evangelically, using his tentacles to enunciate. ‘Thunderclash does not
hold the Matrix, it’s as simple as that. And yes, of course we had no way of knowing…’ He italicised the last
word with a fluid diagonal slash. ‘But that is no excuse! A barren Autobot leader! It would be amusing if it
didn’t jeopardise our entire campaign! Without the geode, the colonisation plans will collapse.’ He moved
close to camera, and for a moment Quantax imagined a haze of tendrilled techno-flesh bursting through the
glass. ‘Do you appreciate what I’m saying’
‘I understand our situation,’ Quantax muttered, mentally adding ‘but I fail to see why I am being
disciplined.’
‘Of course,’ rejoined Xenon, with the breathless candour of someone importing a great secret, ‘all is
not lost. The Matrix must be entombed in the Autobots’ other leader, Rodimus Prime. And if I am to
believe your field reports, Rodimus should have already fallen at the hands your Iaconian strike force.’
‘Well yes, but there is still some way to—’
‘I cannot emphasise the importance of the Matrix enough, General. We are impotent without it. Find
Rodimus, even if it means foraging through acres of dead Autobots, even if it means venturing onto the
battlefield and plunging your hand through every blackened chest. Xenon out!’
Find the Matrix.
Hah! If only it were that simple, thought Quantax. Far away from his shiny new base the Autobots
were still holding his forces at bay, and while he was confident of victory, he could picture Rodimus
Prime’s bullet-ridden corpse disappearing under a mountain of wreckage, the Matrix bobbing in streams of
gushing rust.
His wrist throbbed with an incoming message: ‘Sir, this is Q-311, reporting as requested. The squad has
reached the suburbs of the neighbouring city-state. We’ve pulled in a few stragglers, a few down and outs and a couple of
deserters. Do you want us to carry on looking’
‘This world is infested with mutos, looters and offloaders. You’re looking for pockets of real
resistance, soldier, not disjecta membra. Don’t waste my time with trawls through the underworld. Expand
your search. Head for the polar quadrants. Quantax out.’
He scraped his hand down his forehead, his fingertips loitering around his eyes. Xenon’s sub-space
alarm call had made him forget the magnitude of his primary mission. While he fretted about some blueeyed
Autobot Matrix Holder, the main body of Decepticon prisoners was building up underneath him and
clean-up squads were widening their net. For the first time, he wondered whether things were slipping out
of his control.
‘General! Another message – main screen.’
‘Blast! Can’t anyone do their job without – ah! Sevax. Where are you’
‘The other side of the planet, General: a disused penal facility inside a hollowed mountain. We thought we’d call
it Kledji in honour of the last Majestrix. It’s ideal. We even have sub-space communication equipment.’