eugenesis-text

Jolup’s shok baton seemed to bruise the air as he dragged it along an endless line of electro-bars.
Recoil jabbed his forearm but it was worth it, if only for the looks on the prisoners’ faces. Each burst of
light picked out another huddle of Cybertronians cowering at the back of their cells, or clawing at the walls,
or dangling from manacles. The moans of agony and delirium had ceased – or maybe he was just getting
used to them. Only a few prisoners talked, and then only to themselves.
He peered into cell 1220. Two Cybes of indeterminate allegiance sat opposite each other in the
darkness, neither daring to look up at him. Were they fit for purpose He dashed the bars and one of them
– the larger one – looked up. Jolup saw that the letter A had been stamped onto his forehead and
reluctantly continued his patrol. Shame to turn down a prime specimen, but rules were rules: Grade As
could not be taken Downstairs… But even before the thought had settled in his mind, he stopped to
reconsider. Sevax and Ryknia were away on business. Would they miss one little Reddie, even if he were a
top ranker He forced himself to start walking. Ryknia would find out: Ryknia always found out. He’d
have to root out some Grade Cs – physically and mentally weaker, and therefore easy meat for his little
side-project.
(Inside cell 1220, Darkwing turned back to Dreadwind, unaware how close he had come to death.)
Jolup cursed himself for thinking about his teammates. He imagined them racing towards the
Polyhexian HQ without out, eager to talk shop with Quantax. In his own way, he was planning ahead just
as much as they were, with their battle-plans and rehab strategy. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t debating how
best to re-establish intergalactic links after four million years of trade embargoes, economic sanctions and
blacklisting; maybe he wasn’t deciding who should be sent on diplomatic missions to neighbouring planets
to negotiate reparations, loans and industrial subsidies; maybe he wasn’t arguing about reciprocal agreements
and peace treaties. Let the patriots and peacemakers handle Phase Three.
He could think of nothing worse than sitting in a boardroom opposite Quantax and a vid-linked
Xenon discussing how New Quintyxia should be mapped out and carved up. He could picture the four of
them now, hunched over a holo-map, happily drawing up the new borders (or trying to find the old ones),
positioning principalities, trade centres, spaceports, smelting pools, factories, hospitals, download centres. All
very worthy, but of little interest. What was more satisfying: fine-tuning a brave new world or strutting
around a concentration camp torturing Reddies Drafting the provisions of the new welfare system or
making prisoners go blind with pain There was no contest.
He peered into cell 1227, where a thin-limbed Cybe was shaking. His head was buried between his
knees as if he was trying to be sick, and his optical filters were overheating; it looked as if his eyes were on
fire.
‘Whatever is the matter’ asked Jolup.
The robot shook until his butchered little frame almost fell apart. His entire head was vibrating, as if
every part of his face wanted to be elsewhere: he had ten cheekbones, twenty eyes, an elasticised mouth and
a set a mould-lines that splintered every patch of facial space. In his mind he was screaming one simple
command, one mythical set of digits no longer than a bio-code, and he was screaming it over and over and
over…
‘Of course!’ Jolup shrieked. ‘You’re trying to self-destruct! Wow, my first suicide!’
The robot abandoned the idea as impossible. His neural network simply refused to co-operate, and
instead of blissful oblivion, instead of instantaneous absorption into the Matrix - nothing. Was he doing it
right Admittedly, he’d never seen anyone initiate Self-directed Terminal Closedown before. Okay, so
Autobots and Decepticons self-destructed all the time, but a lot of cheating went on: you could bet your
life that nine times out of ten those wrist-slitters and body-bombers were using contingency codes to ensure
that their brain module escaped unscathed; it was the robotic equivalent of ringing an ambulance before
you necked the pills.
STC was supposed to be different. Quote the suicide code in your head and that was it: absolute
shutdown. An electromagnetic pulse would wipe your memfiles and purge your neuranet, and then the
bullet of pure energon in the centre of your brain would be detonated. The only telltale signs would be a
thin wisp of bluish smoke rising from the mouth and the optic gutters. That said, he’d never seen anyone
go all the way and initiate STC. Perhaps – and it was a terrible, blasphemous thought – but perhaps the
Keeper and his theo-scribes were wrong. Perhaps the Primal Pentateuch itself was wrong. Perhaps there was