eugenesis-text

‘Not much – and that’s the tragedy of it all. The war has swelled and contracted; it’s blazed into
hemispheric conflicts and settled into suburban riots. The periods of recuperation last longer than most
civilisations. It says something about the sheer futility of a war like ours when you can summarise four
million years in a soundbite.’
‘I find it staggering that Autobot and Decepticon are still at each other’s throats. When I was young,’
(he waved his hand to erase the statement, muttering ‘I suppose I still am young,’) ‘I prayed this war would
be over within months, within days. Hah! The naivety of youth. I was those “chosen one”, you know,
grabbed from our ranks and thrust centre-stage. I was supposed to galvanise our army.’
‘I know, Optimus. I was there.’
‘Of course, of course. But four million years… Primus, if I’d known it was destined to last that long, I
would never have accepted the position.’
‘Now come on, Optimus – you made a difference. And you continue to make a difference after
you’re reactivated by the Ark.’
‘Whatever differences I make, whatever I achieve, it does not change what’s happening now. All my
deeds and actions cannot forestall a war that is determined to rage so far into my future, a war that will
probably continue until every last one of us is dead.’ He rolled his head back. ‘Forgive me, Nightbeat. I’m
not usually like this.’
‘It’s called Coming To Terms With Things, so don’t apologise.’ Nightbeat dimmed his headlights:
there was no point wasting energy. ‘What I said before, about nothing changing… I was lying. Things do
change. The war you woke up to today isn’t the one you left four million years ago. As much as I’d love to
describe every life-changing event that’s occurred between then and now, you know I can’t. You must
understand, Optimus. Because of causality and paradoxes and god knows what – I simply cannot.’
‘I understand. I’m an anomaly. I’ve broken time’s rules. But if I’m needed, so be it. Just tell me why.’
‘I told you before, I—’
‘You fed me the official line. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was one of Prowl’s.’
‘It’s funny you should say that. Prowl’s in charge nowadays, ever since Rodimus Pr—ever since our
leader, Rodimus, fell into a coma.’ He realised what he’d just said and, more importantly, what he’d
stopped himself saying. Optimus stared at him, and he could sense movement behind the eyes: new
thoughts, new questions. The comment hadn’t gone unnoticed. Prime was going to ask
The Question.
‘I was wondering, Nightbeat, where am I in all of this Where is the Optimus Prime of 2012’
For a micro-second, Nightbeat was ready to explain. The sentences gelled in his head, brief but
balanced, and the moment he had been fighting against since Prowl’s whispered instruction seemed almost
trivial. It was no big deal: Prime deserved the truth. And then suddenly – violently – common sense came
rushing back. A heart-stopping jolt of pity washed the words from his mouth and he held back. He
withdrew from the precipice, overwhelmed by how close he had come to falling. How could he tell the
truth How could he tell this robot - this talkative, aloof, frightened, fearless robot - that he would die three
years after reactivation, that his hunched-up, bunched-up body would be squeezed into a funeral barge and
shot into space after 238 hours of fruitless surgery
‘Optimus… you go missing in 2005.’ The words felt flat
and false in his mouth. ‘You were on a mission to Hydrus Four with—’
‘Stop!’
Nightbeat flinched. He’d never been any good at lying.
‘I don’t want to know any more, in fact I wish I hadn’t asked the question. It was selfish.’
Selfish! Nightbeat didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed. How dare he not demand to
know his fate Who gave him the right to be so selfless, so flippantly noble If it had been him, Nightbeat,
who had been dragged into the future, he’d have been driven mad by possibilities, talked of
how/who/why/where/when/what and nothing else.
‘You said I was here because the Autobots were in crisis. That is enough. Let me concentrate on that
alone. If you can explain why they’re in trouble…’
‘It all begins with the Quintessons…’ As he talked, Nightbeat thought of the mind-purge device
inside his waist compartment (and, fleetingly, of another, more personal object behind his chest plate).
Perhaps it didn’t matter what Prime knew, as everything could be erased at the touch of a bright red
button. Electronic pulses would ferret through Prime’s brain, rewriting his mnemonic script: light-fingered