eugenesis-text

no pan-generational, built-in kill-switch. Perhaps Primus hadn’t encrypted a vengeful technogenetic
deathcode into the loops and spirals of every Transformer’s cybernetic make-up…
No. If the Pentateuch was wrong, it meant that the Old Texts were right. And the Old Texts were
not right. They were not right.
His head hurt as he thought back to his local download theatre, where the Circuitmasters had cited
STC as irrefutable evidence that Primus was real, that he was not just a starry-eyed creation myth. True,
Autobot scientists had spent millennia trying, in vain, to pinpoint the trigger switch, but then they were still
trying to unravel the mysteries of biomorphic reproduction and the Eugenesis Code. Besides, everyone knew
the STC sequence itself: 4/11.002983712. How was such data known collectively unless the same Creator
had pulled them all, one by one, from the bubbling planetary surface
‘It’s no use trying,’ said Jolup. ‘The Inhibitor Chip disarms all extraneous neural codes. Actually, I’m
surprised that you can even open your mouth.’ He watched the robot shudder to a standstill. ‘The easy way
out isn’t as easy anymore, you feckless Reddie scum. There is no final solution in here. You’ll do as we say.
Your lives are measured and determined according to our wishes. Look at me.’
The robot looked at him.
‘You! I know you! You’re that Autobot spy! The one who hid on Quintesson all those years! You
were there ’til the end, dodging our patrols and sabotaging the Canister operations. Wow.’ He leant closer,
careful not to touch the bars. ‘It is you. You used to talk a lot more, Autobot. You had that stupid little
sing-song voice. Go on – say something funny. Say something that rhymes.’
Wheelie looked away. He knew the Quintessons better than any other Transformer, having camped
out on their home planet for so long. He’d studied their culture, their customs and practices, their rites and
rituals, even some of the Old Texts (in fact his syntax-sequencer had only become corrupted when he read
the last line; Ratchet said it was pure coincidence). Even so, his knowledge was sketchy. He knew their
preferred kill-method (decapitation) but not their post-death theosophy; he knew their lifespan (seventy
million years before circuitburn) but not their origins; he knew the name of their ancestors (the
Progenitors) but not what became of them. In fact, the only area of the Quintesson lifestyle he knew inside
and out was their torture methods, their predilection for taking things apart and prodding the cogs. He’d
known from the moment he’d stepped into Kledji that he would never endure Quintesson torture.
He looked Jolup in the eye with uncharacteristic resolve. Why had this Decepticon defected And
why was he smiling
Jolup was staring at Wheelie’s bulbous scalp. Etched into tacky crimson paint, as bold and striking as a
bullet wound, was the letter ‘D’. He shut down the electro-bars and ushered some guards into the cell.
‘He’s exactly what I’m looking for. Take him Downstairs.’
Wheelie reached instinctively for his non-existent catapult, mumbling incoherently. He was losing his
mind.
Jolup looked down at the robot as he was led to the walkway. ‘If he tries to blow himself up, flood
him with six million volts and hang him up to dry.’ He scraped a thin Decepticon finger across Wheelie’s
throat. ‘Be careful what you wish for, little one.’
It was at this point that Sunstreaker let loose with a barrage of obscenities. His voice was so
impassioned, so tightly wound, that his threats melted into a monosyllabic whine. ‘You traitorous
Decepticon scum! Come over here and I’ll rip your head from your frikkin’ shoulders!’
‘Stop calling me a Decepticon,’ Jolup snapped, tapping his shok baton against his palm. ‘Appearances
can be deceiving.’
‘Whatever the hell you are, you’re too gutless to take on a robot your own size!’
‘The name’s Jolup. Joh-lup.’
‘Shut down these bars! Let’s have it out – you and me!’
Sunstreaker’s cellmates, Ramjet and Kickback, hid in the corner, afraid of contracting his madness.
‘You’ve been considerably weakened by the paralysis chip floating around in your neuro-fluids. It
really wouldn’t be—’
‘Fair!’
‘I was going to say “worthwhile”.’ Jolup sheathed his baton, hooked his thumbs on his waist and leant
closer. ‘I mean look at you. You’re a wreck.’