eugenesis-text

‘I know the Decepticons were an unruly bunch,’ said Hound, stepping inside, ‘but they could have
cleaned up before they left.’
Trailbreaker found the door. ‘Let’s make this fast and efficient, guys. We don’t want to outstay our
welcome.’ He remembered speaking to Gears about the crude medical facilities on the upper levels and
looked about for a stairwell.
As they ventured deeper into the Fortress its Earthly origins became clearer. The Harrison nuclear
power plant had been scraped from the ground and squeezed like modelling clay. The walls were spastic
with contortion – bent girders, buckled plating and a thousand strands of metal had been chopped and
pulped and folded. The main passageway ran into a high-ceilinged chamber, where a dirty green throne
blinked under a spotlight.
Bluestreak ignored Ratchet’s warnings and lowered himself into the seat. ‘I wonder how many
psychopaths have sat here’ he said, adopting a dramatic pose. ‘Maybe it’s cursed: you sit here too long and
you go mad. What do you reckon, Trailbreaker Do I look like a self-obsessed megalomaniac’
‘As a matter of fact—’
‘Stop bickering – both of you,’ snapped Mirage. He dragged his hand across a portion of writing on a
dusty wall. ‘“Scourcyclonavatron…” What’s that supposed to mean’
‘It’s “Scourge”, “Cyclonus” and “Galvatron,”’ said Trailbreaker, shining a torch over a less confused
portion of script. ‘It’s been lasered into the wall.’
‘Shockwave was living alone here for a while,’ noted Hound. ‘Perhaps he did a bit of, you know,
interior decorating.’
Bluestreak got off the throne. ‘Let’s find those Autobots and go. This place is freaking me out.’
Death’s Head sunk into the pilot seat’s leathered contours. The Hybridian spacecraft was overpriced,
over-designed and overindulgent: he loved it. He wondered how many of their aeronautical designers had
collapsed, exhausted, after a lifetime of flattening angles and sculpting curves, after sleepless nights spent
ironing each crease and gibbous strand. They’d done a spectacular job: as the craft sliced towards Aquaria it
practically scored paper-cuts across the ether.
He crossed his arms and let the state-of-the-art navicom plot a course through the planetoid’s volatile
orbit, through the dry-storms and aqua-saturates. The hand-woven upholstery held him tight as he
contemplated the events of the last few hours.
He’d been right, of course: Unicron’s exploding time machine had deposited him on Hybridia, home
to the richest traders in the galaxy. The planet had been a nondescript sludge-covered rock called
Messotania until an abortive cyberforming campaign had tipped the ecosystem and created a mismatched,
technoganic landscape. The Hybridians had been surprised to see him. After all, it was now 2012, four years
after his supposed death. His reputation as a peacekeeper had spread posthumously, so much so that he was
known as ‘Godkiller’.
The Patriarchs had made him stand on show while debating the need for his skills. Buzzing from
recharge and systems overhaul, he’d wondered why such exposition was necessary – why couldn’t they just
tell him who to kill, charge his credit card and point him in the right direction Instead, he’d been forced to
listen to tales of deep-sea pods, diving teams and something called the Itinerary.
He’d drifted off here and there, but this was the gist: an exploration team had been despatched to
Aquaria, a lifeless water world, after a Hybridian cruiser had spotted a UFO hugging the far side of its orbit.
The craft had disappeared before the Hybridians could get a fix, but, what with Aquaria being on the
Itinerary and all, the Patriarchs had initiated a follow-up.
Only one of the team returned: Aybe B’rok had been shuffled into the spotlight and interrogated
while the Patriarchs played scraps of mustard-grained vidcam footage – footage that climaxed with two
wide-eyed aliens screaming and a crunch of savage static. Foul play, undoubtedly, but no one knew who
was responsible. And, as Death’s Head had patiently pointed out, a contract on a nameless foe was the most
expensive of all. Even so, he’d given his price expecting to haggle (not many governments can afford ten
billion shanix). If he’d known they would accept so readily, he’d have asked for twenty.
He stared through the cockpit’s viewscreen. It was raining outside; a thousand fizzing tadpoles
slalomed across the plexiglass. Down below, the ocean was a mess. Waves chased the horizon round and
round the planet. He suddenly had an odd thought, and realised that the ship’s freethinking security system