eugenesis-text

On Aquaria, Xenon watched his technicians set up the final sub-space camera then waved them away
and waited for the light-kick, the quick-flash. With an implosive rush, the visual encoders cross-beamed his
body, mapping and recording, feeding vampirically off every curve and contour, every tapered plane.
‘Ready to transmit,’ called Haxian.
Xenon spread his tentacles with a peacock flourish, selected his most intimidating face, and looked
into the lens.
‘Lower the gun, Wheeljack,’ muttered Sygnet, wondering whether it was too dangerous to brush it
aside. ‘Let’s not be rash.’
Wheeljack held the crosshairs over the distant satellite. ‘It’s not Cybertronian, I know that.’
Centurion reached for Mainframe’s shoulder. ‘Well then what—’
‘Don’t ask, because I don’t know.’
‘Something’s happening,’ said Wheeljack, his gun-sight tight in the alcove of his eye. The UFO was
leaking. Hologramatic pastel gas oozed from microlite webbing and condensed into a colossal pseudo-solid;
a five-sided head that hung over the Terbium Plains with the grace and delicacy of a floating mountain.
The hologram’s voice was calm and assured, yet loud enough the skim layers off the firmament:
‘This message is dedicated to every Cybertronian who is free to hear it, every Cybertronian who has not yet been
found and held and crushed and killed. All you Autobots, all you Decepticons – what silly little names you have given
yourselves over the years. I make no distinction between red badge and purple badge. I care little who did what to whom
and why – as if there ever really was a reason why. Children of Primus Ha! If only it were that simple. You are a
nation of thieves, a nation of ingrates and backstabbers. You walk across this world as if you own it.’
‘Who the hell is that’ asked Mainframe.
‘I am Xenon, fifth Imperial Majestrix of the revised Quintesson hierarchy, direct bioline descendent of the
Progenitors and heir to the Lifecode. Stare at my five faces – I want them carved across your optic nerves. Let the sight of
your oppressors take up space in your heads, let it monopolise your mem-files and ancient CPUs. Perhaps, deep down,
we are already there.’
Sixshot worked the stale silo air with restless fingers. Somewhere outside, a whirring spycam stole
pictures of the creature that had materialised above Helex.
‘I want every one of you sub-sentient cast-offs to wallow in the alcoholic magnitude of this event; let it stun your
cerebellum as it has done mine. Four years ago, thanks to a Rift you helped create, our planet was threatened.’
Sixshot thought of his troops barricaded below, locked inside not by bolts and bars but by his own
meticulous lies, his web of misinformation. How much longer could he keep them there How much
longer could be disguise his cowardice as tactical savvy
‘We attacked you, eager to colonise Cybertron. We were desperate. We were rash. Four million years of warfare
had taught you how to kill, however, and we were no match.’
‘There you go, Optimus,’ said Nightbeat, waving his hand at the monstrous apparition in the air
about Kalis. ‘The Imperial Majestrix himself is filling in the gaps for you.’
‘We dissolved into space, broken and scattered, and you were content to count us as another fallen adversary. But
I gathered the ashes of our race and vowed to re-ignite the Quintesson flame. We laid low and grew in strength. Four
years of preparation – I would gladly have spent four million to guarantee this outcome.’
Sevax clapped his hands. ‘This is excellent! A little overblown perhaps – a little clichéd – but stirring
stuff nonetheless.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Ryknia, watching the hologram fire reflections off the mountain slopes.
‘You’ve finally found someone more melodramatic than yourself.’
‘Hidden from sight, we mapped the mechanics of our revenge, ready to—’
‘“Mapped the mechanics of our revenge” Oh, please. This is embarrassing.’