eugenesis-text

‘If Sideswipe can hold them at bay for an hour or so we should be able to reach AMC1. We might
even have time to repair the our injured.’
Perceptor nodded and opened his mouth as if to speak. His eyes remained fixed on the liquid around
his knees.
‘You’re very quiet, Perceptor. Is there something on your mind’
‘Yes. I was thinking about Nightbeat.’
‘I thought I said that the subject was off limits. You were the one who convinced me that we were
doing the right thing. It’s just a shame we can’t get fifty Optimus Primes to lead us.’
‘Theoretically, you realise, there’s no reason why we can’t do that.’
‘It was a joke.’ Prowl shook his head. ‘What am I doing Pinning everything on Prime’s arrival when
we don’t even know if the wormhole works! What if Nightbeat doesn’t make it back What if he never
even made it to Lonium’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything. We must try not to think about it.’
Prowl shrugged. Try not the think about it If only it were that simple. Hindsight was not beneficial;
thinking did not give him pause; there was no value in self-reflection. His mind worked via displacement:
he pushed one thought down and another rose to compensate. If it wasn’t Nightbeat it was Sideswipe’s
team high above their heads; it was Sideswipe and Flanker and Wheelfire and all the other Autobots who
had pulled the short straw.
His hasty retreat had been the latest in an ever-growing series of poor judgements. It was a bad joke:
the Autobots’ finest tactician making decisions that would embarrass Maccadam’s heavies. He sensed
accusation everywhere – in the way his men looked at him, in the shadows cast by mounting casualties, in
the creases and folds of Rodimus Prime’s quietly dying body. And then there was Kup, the embodiment of
all his insecurity, his delirious self-doubt. True, Kup hadn’t been the only one to challenge him or criticise
his judgement, but he had done so with the most conviction, the most vehemence. He wondered if Kup
actually hated him. It was a strange feeling.
Chromedome tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Prowl AMC1 is less than three miles away and I’ve been
broadcasting advance messages since we dropped down here.’
‘Glad to hear it. What’s their situation Can they handle our casualties’
‘I don’t know. I can’t get through to them.’
‘Why Is someone jamming your signal’
‘Worse. No one’s answering.’
Quintesson transport pods clogged the sky like bacteria under a microscope, dark shapes trapped
against pale glass. They slipped and spinnied, propelled by testex and petrol-punch, dragging shadows across
the Manganese Mountains, across the oscillating peaks and troughs.
The guests had arrived.
Mount Edeus was fifteen miles away. Higher than the rest, wider than the rest, it was practically a
conglomerate of mountains, a mons mont accumulus: a wedge of metalled crust that mocked the planet’s
curve. Perhaps, all those years ago, the Primal crucible had sprung a leak, and the liquid flames had not been
checked until the molten gore had curled and cooled.
The top of Mount Edeus had been redecorated. The rugged summit still lunged for the sky, but the
plateau had been reshaped into an aero-base that was simultaneously for and against all forms of approaching
aircraft. Parallel runways and spotlights jostled for space amongst all manner of point/fire weaponry: plasmaports,
sit ‘n’ shoot swivel-mats, hummer-guns and sky-shredders. Surveillance outposts sat behind barbed
wire fencing, little gun-grey kiosks ribboned with heatproof glass.
The first wave of transport pods taxied along the runway. Quintessons gathered around.
A wave of Decepticons poured from each pod, but it was a weak and brittle wave, heavy and halfthawed.
Wrapped in electro-bonds and sorted into chain gangs, they stared at their feet as they were led
towards the Kledji Concentration Camp. A Decepticon tripped and fell, dragging other prisoners with him,
and a bright-eyed Sharkticon lashed out with an energy whip.
The spectators stood shoulder-to-shoulder and jeered at the parade. They had arrived: the cyberscum,
the gun-fodder, the birth-cripples, the dumb and the stunted.