eugenesis-text

frames. Very enterprising. Ratchet’s been working non-stop since we left Earth, rushing from patient to
patient with a fist full of scalpels. Hasn’t even treated his own wounds yet. Idiot.
‘Each time I poke my head into the corridor I see another Autobot being dragged into cold storage.
Don’t think the word “morgue” exists in the Autobot vernacular. Even put their DOAs into stasis, yes
Least it keeps the corridors clean – hate to wade through Skivs and Leakers next time I one more
centimetre and I’ll put your face through the back of your head, yes’
Rewind raised his arms and moved his lips away from the barrel of Death’s Head’s shotgun. ‘Wait! I
wasn’t going to—’
‘Wasn’t going to what Put a bullet in my head Stupid, trying to creep up on me like that!’ Death’s
Head retracted the microphone into his thumb. ‘How long have you been eavesdropping’
‘I’ve only just arrived – I swear it! Ultra Magnus wants you on the bridge. He has an announcement
to make.’
‘Is this a summons’
‘No. It’s an invitation.’
‘In which case, lead the way.’
They walked through upper decks that writhed with dark perfumes – the sandalwood stench of a
sparking scalpel, the whiskey-sniff of petrolax on a hot floor. Death’s Head watched lavender smoke
somersault away from freshly soldered steel. The floors and walls (and ceilings… he didn’t know how, but
yes: the ceilings) were covered with thrown oil, with the stuff that got away: the salty, slippery lube-juice
that popped from severed tubes and leapt from the nozzle, the body fluids that tricked the stitch, the stem,
the reseal. His cloak drew oil from the injured as it dredged their wounds. Their faces blurred as the pain
took hold – and once the pain took hold, the pain would not let go. Autobots he thought had died in battle
were tent-pegged to circuit slabs and stripped to ticking clockwork trunks, to base mechanica, their life-force
reduced to an ever-weaker twitch of the head.
And four corridors away one robot with one pair of hands worked his way through 40 casualties.
Death’s Head said nothing as he slid past Ratchet. The surgeon was digging deep into Springer’s
Swiss-cheesed chest, pulling out industrial steroid filters and engex patches the size of car tyres.
After Ratchet the deck became more ordered, with convalescent Autobots propped up against chairs
or walls. They stared into space as if watching something unpleasant. Evidence of Ratchet’s failure was
quietly removed: Carnivac and Skids carried cadavers to the upper deck, where they would be arranged
behind tinted glass, away from prying eyes and sticky fingers.
The bridge had been transformed from a spacious and functional cockpit into something resembling a
softly lit living room. Autobots sat in groups and talked in whispers, careful not to mention the obvious –
everyone felt guilty for surviving the slaughter.
Seaspray dismantled his forearm to locate a nagging wound while Beachcomber talked and talked and
talked. The surviving Throttlebots studied a theoretic map of hyperspace, acutely aware that dropping their
collectively feigned interest would force them to discuss Wideload.
Mirage, Hound, Bluestreak and Trailbreaker huddled in the corner like conspirators, warming their
faces on console-glow and screen heat.
‘It’s not your fault,’ said Hound half-heartedly.
‘I know it’s not,’ Mirage replied. ‘I’m not blaming myself for anything. I just think Magnus could
have done without the city inspection. The Quintesson invasion sort of puts things into perspective. I was
insensitive.’
‘Yes,’ said Bluestreak. ‘Yes, you were. But this is hardly the time for self-criticism.’
They looked up as Death’s Head walked into the room. At the same time Ultra Magnus said,
‘Autobots. Your attention please.’
‘Here we go,’ said Mirage, stiffening.
‘Autobots, please – a moment’s silence. Thank you.’ Magnus lowered his hands. ‘Firstly, I apologise
for the delay in addressing you. I wanted to assess our situation and give you facts,
not conjecture. That said, I still cannot tell you why the Quintessons attacked, even if a motive – no matter
how twisted – would make things easier to accept. All I can say is that the nature of their attack recalls an
earlier, less successful invasion in 2008.’