eugenesis-text

All very good in theory. Yet none of it convinced his mortal mind that First Aid and Thunderclash
and Ammo and Warpath were anything other than truly, irretrievably dead. You couldn’t throw a memory
on a circuit slab and flood it with electricity; you couldn’t snatch an old sound-bite or screen-grab and use
it to resurrect the deceased; you couldn’t even go back in time and prevent the killing blow, because a
litany of paradoxes stood in your way. Everything was predestined: change the past and an infinity of
parallel universes were ready to absorb the revision. But then maybe death had one over on time, because
even time would die in the end. When the universe gathered itself up into a seething singularity and willed
itself out of existence, time would go with it.
Through the dimpled glass he saw more bodies being hauled into G Ward. It had become known as
the Dumping Ground, although Perceptor, overseeing the procedure, would never have called it by that
name. He could not discern the carried or the carriers, but dozens of sagging, hammocked corpses were
moving past his poor like a procession. How long before AMC1 was clear
His mind was moist with sweet fatigue. He let it leave its shell and drift around the complex, eyeing
proceedings with a voyeuristic detachment. There were Chromdome and Throwback, salvaging equipment
from the science labs. A little further down the corridor a pack of grim mid-rankers removed corpses while
troopers and scouts foraged for remains among the slabs and upturned gurneys. Getaway, Scattershot and
Afterburner continued to reinforce the entrance hatch with a super-compressed mulch of steelant and
mechgrit. Generic Autobots filled the backdrop – in his mind, they all looked a little like Kup.
He embellished the fantasy with details, scratching faces onto the faceless and putting words in empty
mouths. And although every character had their own voice and every voice had its own grain and timbre,
they were all talking about the same thing: him. The criticisms rang crisp and clear in his head. Why did we
lose the Autobase battle Prowl. Why did we flee to the med-centre Prowl. Why are all our friends dead Prowl.
Yes, there was definitely an undercurrent of discontent, something sour and restless in the eyes of
every Autobot. Rather than confront the issue, he had retreated behind treated glass, locking himself away
from the very people he should be leading.
It was Kup’s fault. Kup had started the argument. Kup had supplied the ammunition to assassinate his
character. The confrontation had taken place in the main foyer, shortly after he had announced the plan to
fortify AMC1 in preparation for the Quintessons’ return. Kup had pushed through the loosening crowd and
launched his verbal assault. ‘Weak willed and suicidal’, ‘ill-conceived’, ‘preposterously short-sighted’ – the
accusations had flown thick and fast while 191 Autobots had stopped and stood and stared. Grabbing Kup
by the arm and dragging him into the consultation room had postponed if not prevented a very public
slanging match.
He’d had time now to think about what Kup had said. He knew his plan to remain in AMC1 was
weak and unconvincing, but what was the alternative Where else was there to hide They couldn’t go
back: retracing their steps, they’d come to a halt at the last homemade barricade, one of 40 they’d used to
cover their retreat. And they couldn’t risk using the Quintessons’ route in case they were ambushed. The
med-centre, meanwhile, was hopelessly self-contained: stuffed and sealed to prevent the spread of pathogens
and micro-bacteria. If they couldn’t run any further and they couldn’t go back, surely they had no choice
but to stand their ground and exploit their sole tactical advantage: impenetrability. He’d tried his best to
explain his position from a tactician’s perspective: that if all variables lead to the same unpleasant outcome
you must ensure that such an outcome is avoided for as long as possible. With characteristic
oversimplification Grimlock had called it delaying the inevitable, but the inevitable – Rodimus Prime’s
death, a Quintesson victory, and the subjugation of their entire race - was something that Kup did not want
to accept.
His decision to stay put wasn’t ‘right’ or ‘wrong’: when stripped of alternatives such terms become
redundant. Kup was frustrated and angry, worried sick about his best friend’s terminal condition, and he had
to take it out on someone. Who better than the ‘officious, straight-backed paper-shuffler who cares more
about balancing books than saving lives’
Perhaps he was taking it too personally. Perhaps Kup was exaggerating the mood of discontent.
Perhaps the murmurs of rebellion and mutiny were symptomatic of a situation as dark as theirs.
Perhaps.
But perhaps they’d never have been in this mess if Rodimus or Magnus had been in charge.
He stood and turned away from the door, anxious to take his eyes off the endless parade of corpses.
He looked at the data charts pinned to the wall: patient lists, treatment updates, cervobiotic breakdowns –