eugenesis-text

After a thousand years of combat, prototype rocket thrusters ripped Cybertron from its orbit and
sent it on an elliptical voyage through deep space.
No one blinked an eye.
The war continued, louder and harder than ever, and after another thousand years an asteroid belt
blocked Cybertron’s flight path. A handpicked team of Autobots boarded a spacecraft - The Ark - and set
off to clear the way.
They were not seen again for four million years.
From the ashes of the First War rose the Cybertronian Empire, a Decepticon collective determined to
fortify the universe against the Dark God Unicron by reformatting planets in Cybertron’s image.
Biomorphic reproduction – the Transformer equivalent of a Caesarean section – allowed the Empire to
repopulate their home planet and spread to other worlds. All organic races were deemed ‘sub-sentient’
under a new fascist ideology: Technoism. Massive terraforming campaigns created miniature Cybertrons in
every quadrant, while Cybertron’s leftover population of stragglers and throwbacks were left to fight a
parochial war long forgotten by the new Decepticon elite.
In 1992, the planet was rejuvenated in a single stroke. Geologists and theologians debated the cause
(divine intervention by Primus via the Last Autobot, or the overflow of previously undetected sub-surface
energon reservoirs), but agreed that their revamped homeworld was but a shadow of its Golden Age
counterpart: the repairs were superficial, a layer of cosmetic metal to cover greying scar tissue. Structurally,
the planet was still weak and hollow.
The ferocious combat that followed – including large-scale confrontations with the Empire and
Unicron – reopened old wounds, and within twenty years the planet had reverted to a state of sweet decay.
After the Autobot/Decepticon massacre of 2008 and Unicron’s temporary resurrection in 2010, the
planet’s population was reduced to thousands. The Autobots became the Resistance, and retreated
underground.
By 2012 they had gained a slight foothold in Iacon by converting the subterranean Archives Centre
into their new HQ. It had housed details of Iacon’s original population – biocodes, datalogs and Matrix
indices from Primon onwards - until Trannis had ransacked the city during the Dark Cycles. All censuses
were purged, and the final link with the mysterious First Ones was severed.
When Rodimus Prime’s Autobots moved in, their only alteration to the original layout had been to
amalgamate several office units and create the boardroom, the debriefing chambers, the engineering
workshop, the MARB/shuttle hangars and the repair bay. Each Autobot was given his own habitation
space (a rare luxury).
Only 40% of the centre was used, leaving a warren of empty offices in the bowels of the complex.
The base foundations merged with a stratum of utility ducts, and overflowing mech-waste exacerbated the
centre’s indigenous damp. Archaic strip-lights split the ceilings in two, their tinted filaments forcing red
light into clefts and fibrils.
In his cramped little office, Rodimus Prime stared at his clenched fists and tried to remain calm.
Shoulders hunched with tension, he detuned his audios until Thunderclash’s voice - all vowels and languid
echoes – blurred into a drone. He should have been liaising with the rest of High Command, or working
on Project: Reclamation, or trawling through Creationist literature and continuing his exorcism research –
but no, he was trapped under a naked bulb, tired and fatigued, listening to his second-in-command.
He watched Thunderclash stride about the room, arms aloft, ranting about the decision to hold a
troop inspection in two days’ time.
‘It takes a special brand of maniac,’ the ex-Decepticon moaned, ‘to gather our entire Iaconian army in
one place, at one time. We might as well send Galvatron an open invitation! And why, in Primus’ name,
are you holding it outside’
‘You know full well why. This place isn’t exactly Subterrania - we’re cooped up in these storage
rooms. There’s no room for a proper congregation of our forces.’
‘Nor is there any need.’
‘The troops would benefit from a morale boost. An inspection is the perfect opportunity for you, me
and the rest of High Command to show that we take an interest – that we’re not a just a bunch of
Byzantine bastards using them as cannon fodder!’ He swept his hand over the desktop clutter. ‘Look at this!
I’ve been so preoccupied with hidden snipers and board meetings that I haven’t had a chance to mix with
my own men!’