eugenesis-text

was transmitting a telepathic warning. He snatched the manual controls, checked the radar, and realised that
something was approaching him from underwater.
Ratchet surveyed the Decepticon medical bay and felt a knot of disgust tighten in his stomach. He
counted zigzagging circuit slabs, dried patches of oil and surgical instruments scabbed with lubricant. Under
a cone of light in the centre of the ward, a scrap of corrugated iron doubled as an operating table.
‘So this is how the other half lived,’ said Mirage. ‘Or died.’
Ratchet tried not to imagine the slapdash operations that had taken place where he was standing (dirty
hands sifting through open stomachs, oil surging up through tight teeth, the surgeon’s knife cutting cables
under purple sparks). He thought instead of his surgery, AMC1, with its spotlights and its violent hygiene
(chalk-white walls, tiled floors, the acid tang of turpentine and mouthwash). It was the physical and moral
opposite of this grizzled Decepticon theatre, and yet the inpatients would have been the same: helpless
robots who need to be numbed and comforted.
He was a soldier, a mechanic and an engineer, but above all he was a doctor. The best tool-and-die
man on Cybertron, they said. The Ark’s crash-landing on Earth all those years ago had set in motion a
chain of events that had carried him from planet to planet; for too long he’d been forced to make do with
meagre resources and second-hand tools.
Now the war had entered a different phase, and early this year he had established an underground
medical centre to embroil himself in his work. Sure, he’d jumped at the chance to see Earth again, but the
sight and smell of this dingy Decepticon grease-pit had reminded him of his duties. He needed to get back
to Cybertron as soon as possible.
‘Hey, Ratchet.’
It was Hound, who was poking around in the corner. ‘Is it just me, or is lot of equipment missing I
know this place isn’t in the same league as your Iaconian pad, but even the basic hardware has gone. The
room’s been gutted.’
‘The throne room was practically stripped bare as well,’ said Bluestreak.
‘I know Shockwave transferred a lot of equipment to Trypticon when he relocated underwater,’ said
Mirage, remembering all the stories Wheeljack had told him about the Earthforce years.
‘Yeah, but Trypticon can transform into a battle station, so he was well equipped already. This place
is empty apart from a few computer terminals and these circuit slabs, which says to me that the Decepticons
didn’t leave in a hurry. It just makes me wonder why they left three Autobots behind. Wouldn’t it have
been simpler just to kill them You know, tie up any loose ends’
‘Hey guys, take a look at this.’ Trailbreaker was standing in a doorway half-hidden by leaning
shadow. He opened his mouth to say ‘I think I may have found what we’re looking for’, but Mirage was
already dragging his torch beam over a copper plate that read Cold Storage Chamber. Underneath, some
bored Decepticon had written, in pidgin Iaconian, ‘Come bury your dead’.
‘Trailbreaker, you may have hit the jackpot,’ said Mirage, illuminating a passageway lined with wallmounted
cylindrical pods. He counted twelve on each side, set at waist level and tilted forward, covered in
cables and energon feeds. They filtered pink light onto the guttered floor.
‘Cold stasis,’ Ratchet said breathlessly, and pressed his head against the nearest pod. ‘Oh my god.’
‘What’s inside’ asked Bluestreak.
‘Not what - who. It’s Centurion.’
‘The robot the humans built I thought Wheeljack brought him back on-line in 1994’
‘That was a clone,’ said Ratchet flippantly. ‘Grimlock ordered Wheeljack to build an FC from
scratch. This guy,’ he tapped the plexiglass, ‘is the original. He hasn’t been seen in over twenty years, since
he was blown up above the Thames.’ He jabbed a keypad and coolant began draining from the pod.
Centurion lost his buoyancy and slumped hard against his coffin.
‘This isn’t gonna kill him, is it’ asked Bluestreak.
Ratchet shook his head. ‘Cold stasis pods sustain the occupant.’
The pod swung open, linkage cables popped loose, and Centurion collapsed into Ratchet’s arms.
‘11011010101000010101101010111…whatthehellhappened Where am I’
‘Among friends,’ said Hound. ‘You were temporarily deactivated. You’re inside a deserted
Decepticon base.’