eugenesis-text

‘The Institute of Higher Programming,’ said Perceptor, ‘with the Decepticons. Soundwave is feeding
this transmission. Siren, does Delphi have a matter transporter’
‘Yeah, we have a standard field portal.’
‘Excellent. Our own portal will be operational in about 36 hours. Chromedome is sending transfix
co-ordinates now. I propose that we relocate to Delphi as soon as possible.’
‘Agreed. The sooner you—’
Siren was cut short as the picture collapsed. Soundwave back-flipped into robot mode. ‘I cancelled
the transmission in favour of a new signal,’ he explained. ‘It’s heavily scrambled and extremely weak. I’m
patching in.’
Alien symbols scrolled across the screen, dense and unintelligible, and Chromedome fell upon the
controls.
‘It’s a Quintesson mission log,’ said Red Alert once the message had been decrypted, ‘an inventory
describing a dumping ground on the Polyhexian border. This is interesting… I’m getting something about
Cybertronian “bodywaste”.’
‘If the Quintessons are dropping injured Transformers,’ said Chromedome, ‘we should collect.’
‘I agree,’ said Perceptor. ‘The waste site is a safe distance from the Quintesson fortress. I will despatch
Getaway and Throwback to investigate.’
‘No,’ said Soundwave. ‘One Autobot, one Decepticon, and we bring back equal numbers.’
‘As you wish. But this is retrieval only. No enemy contact, no engagement, nothing.’
The midnight air gave the outskirts of Polyhex a paper-cut clarity, emphasising the silence
synonymous with vast tracts of flattened space. A transit cruiser passed overhead, its spotlights picking out
rubble and roofless buildings.
Throwback pressed his face against the ground and hoped Dirge was doing the same. He waited for
the telltale tingle in his spine – a gentle alarm call before Quintesson lasers pummelled him into cut-out
shapes – but nothing happened. The enemy ship shrank into the distance.
‘It’s okay,’ he said to his companion. ‘We’re clear.’
Dirge looked up. ‘Just a routine patrol ship, then,’ he said. ‘I’d hoped we might see some action.’
They were lying on the outskirts of a cluster-bomb crater that overlooked a dumping ground piled
high with severed limbs and Tenderisers. A half-built recycling plant glimmered on the horizon like a string
of pearls.
‘This is all new,’ Dirge said with quiet disbelief. ‘Everything’s changed. Sixshot described a different
planet, one where you Autobots, although dying in your thousands, were slowly driving the Quintessons
back. I suppose it was too perfect a picture.’
‘Quiet. Here comes another ship.’
An oblong craft nosed towards them and dropped its cargo. Throwback waited for the ship to amble
away and then slid towards the debris.
‘I’ll keep watch,’ called Dirge, checking that the MARB that had brought them here was still within
reach.
‘There’s nothing here,’ called Throwback, rifling through ammo shells and flame-throwers. ‘Just castoffs
and circuit boards.’
‘So this is a complete waste of time.’
‘Hang on, this looks promising.’ Throwback tugged at a splayed bouquet of wiring. One body part
revealed another, and another, as if the earth was disclosing a coffin-less body, loose and undone. ‘He’s one
of ours. His name’s Rev-Tone.’
‘Huh. Is he alive’
‘I don’t know.’ Throwback picked up a skull wrapped in blistered alloy: scalp, cerebellum, visor,
cheekbones, nose and nothing. The jaw was missing, torn loose and whipped deep into the pic ‘n’ mix
scrap. He knelt to continue the excavation and heard the distant sound of engines.
Far off, framed by bold, uppercase architecture, an obese Quintesson landcruiser sloped into view.
‘Move it!’ ordered Dirge, jumping onto the MARB and throwing a battered container at
Throwback’s feet. ‘Stash the body and split. I start flying the moment I finish this sentence.’