eugenesis-text

‘Our records are somewhat incomplete,’ admitted Magnus. ‘We have details of everyone in the City,
and you guys,’ he nodded to Ratchet and Mirage, ‘have probably got some more in Iacon. Even ignoring
the Empire, that still leaves gaps.’
‘So what are you going to do’ asked Mirage.
‘I’m going to send a Search and Retrieve team to collect whoever’s inside.’
‘I’ll go,’ said Ratchet. ‘If these Autobots are comatose they’ll need medical attention. And besides, it
won’t hurt to do some sightseeing while I’m here. Mirage can keep me company.’
‘Fine. I’ll have Hound, Trailbreaker and Bluestreak meet you at the hangar in a few minutes. Be
careful out there. I don’t want to tell Rodimus that two of his men are coming home in stasis pods.’
‘Shhhhhhh.’
Nightbeat pressed a finger to his lips and waited for Doubleheader to calm down. ‘I can’t understand
a word you’re saying when you speak with both heads.’
The Pretender removed his twin-visored helmet and cleared his throats. ‘It’s Longtooth - he’s
disappeared!’
‘What do you mean disappeared On a mission’
‘We were asked to investigate reports of weapons trafficking between Polyhex and Tene, but
Longtooth didn’t want to leave without his Pretender shell. You know how nervous he gets nowadays.’
Nightbeat nodded. He knew the feeling.
‘Anyway, I’m outside his habitation unit, waiting for him to tool up, but he’s taking ages. I call him
but there’s no reply. After a few seconds I break down the door, and get this—’
‘He’s not there.’
‘Exactly! No trace of him at all.’ Doubleheader leant across the desk conspiratorially. ‘And Nightbeat,
I saw him go inside.’
‘You’ve spoken to Rodimus’
‘He sent me here.’
Ironic, thought Nightbeat – he hasn’t even crossed the corridor to say hello. He got up. ‘Why don’t
you show me Longtooth’s quarters I’m not saying I’ll find anything, mind.’
‘Thanks, Nightbeat,’ said Doubleheader, following him to the door. ‘Why is it so dark in here’
‘Oh, I guess I just prefer it that way.’
The moon hung low above the horizon, colouring a desert floor that was rippled and pleated, shaped
by a thousand hands. Five Autobots crossed the pores and dryness lines as they headed for the Decepticon
fortress.
‘Never thought I’d see this place again,’ said Trailbreaker, struggling with armfuls of explosives.
‘Wasn’t Shockwave the last one to doss here’
‘Megatron, 1996,’ corrected Mirage, activating the Autoshuttle’s cloaking device.
The wind flicked dust against their bodies, weaving granules between flex-plates and convex-joints.
Up ahead, a weathered slope crept towards the moon like an arcing wave on the brink of collapse. The
fortress was glued to the summit.
‘The humans really should look after their toys,’ Hound sighed, pointing to an upturned tank. ‘That
thing’s been here for thirty years.’
‘It’s a bit more than a ball over the garden fence,’ said Ratchet. ‘They’re probably too scared to ask
for it back.’
Mirage clicked his fingers. ‘Concentrate, people. Let’s leave the mindless prattle to Bluestreak.’
‘Hey!’
‘I’m joking.’ Mirage climbed onto a ledge and felt for structural weaknesses in the fortress, stroking
and pressing with gynaecological precision. ‘Lay the explosives here, Trailbreaker.’
The proton packs were heaped like sandbags, there was a muddled rush of flame, and suddenly the
Autobots were staring into an ancient chamber.