eugenesis-text

hooks in Decepticon torture chambers, their lubricant dripping into plug-holes, a bored but ceaseless
scream coming from some snatch of open metal, some valve or slat that used to be a mouth.
He stored the idea at the back of his mind and turned to more pressing concerns. The cell bars were
still bright with volt-surge. Though they begged to be touched, he knew that the softest caress would send
billions of volts into his body.
Inhib override or no, he was still trapped.
He wondered what the Quintessons had done to his planet in his absence. They may have fallen in
their thousands across Polyhexian fields and been swept away by tides of their own moulding lubricant; they
may have bagged and brutalised the indigenous population, brought peace to Cybertron and declared Iacon
– or Quintonia, or Xeniad, or whatever new name rolled off their forked tongues - a galactic centre for free
trade. Maybe, just maybe, the main fleets had yet to breach Cybertronian airspace and there was still time to
warn Soundwave and Sixshot. Whatever the current situation, he would break free, scrape Xenon’s brain
apart circuit by circuit, return home… and undo everything.
Xenon opened the vault door and stepped inside.
What he saw was, in his mind, more breathtaking than star-birth, more humbling that a lame sun or a
suicidal moon. To him, it was greater than the Seeding - greater than the Harvest, even. Forget the Old
Texts: he would write the New. He would write psalms and canticles describing the wisdom that had made
all this possible, and his words would eclipse the Books of Planetfall, Colonisation, Rebellion and
Relinquishment, with their ‘apocryphal’ tales of sentio metallico, birthfields, chrono-euclidiae and planetary
stewardship.
He climbed onto a circular platform and greased the temperature-controlled, bacteria-free air with his
tentacles. Down here, buried deep in their complex, he could watch over the Cargo, his genius and
foresight made tangible. Languishing in orbit was Thermopylae, the largest spacecruiser in Quintesson
history (larger, he believed, than the Colonia, the transport ship that had spirited the Progenitors away all
those years ago). The undersea base was being stripped in preparation for the move to Cybertron, and
Thermopylae was slowly being filled with doctors, engineers, tech-heads and soldiers. The Cargo would be
last to leave.
An internal message interrupted his daydreaming, ‘What is it’ he snapped, looking into the comms
screen unfolding from his chest. The sight of Haxian and the mundane laboratory backdrop reminded him
that his dreams were not yet realised.
‘Sorry to interrupt, my Lord, but I have news.’
‘You’ve completed the scan study’
‘Yes, but please bear in mind that this is only a rudimentary scan. Serious assimilation could take
decades. I have, however, isolated several major abnormalities in Galvatron’s musculature that can be easily
replicated. The bio-engineers will make mass adjustments to the prime template. There is other news:
Ryknia, Jolup and Sevax have now injected all prisoners and report a 100% success rate – none of them can
transform. They’ve requested a sample of aqua fortis so as to explore more experimental avenues.’
‘Tell them they will have to return my teleport trooper before I send more supplies.’
‘They politely request that you send another trooper: the telearmour in their custody has yet to
recharge.’
‘Oh, very well. Any news from my generals’
‘General Quantax believes that he has pinpointed the Matrix—’
‘Excellent!’
‘—and reports that the Autobots were defeated in battle. Survivors are being shipped to Kledji as we
speak.’
‘Quantax has done well.’
‘He also believes it is time to make the announcement.’
‘I agree. Make the necessary arrangements. Is there any word from Rodern’
‘No. I have been unable to contact the Enslaver – it’s possible that the ship is still in hyperspace.’
‘It is dangerous to speculate. Keep trying. Xenon out.’