eugenesis-text

‘Yes, and I’ll say it again: you can’t make presuppositions about time. What you’re saying… what
you’re saying is that out here, in 2012, he’s immortal!’
‘Effectively, yes. He can be hurt, maimed and disassembled, but he cannot die. He might walk back
through that wormhole leaving a peaceful Cybertron and a thriving Transformer Alliance; he may crawl
back as the last surviving Transformer, fleeing a planet ruled by Quintessons. Either way, he will survive,
and he will return to the Past. I guarantee it.’
‘Yeah, well give Prime your guarantees.’
‘…and this is all you have to show for it!’ Quantax help up Kup’s headless, limbless torso, charred
like a hunk of overcooked meat. ‘I despatch 200 Tridents, enough Sharkticons to devour an army, and this
is what you bring back!’
The squadron leaders wouldn’t look Quantax in the eye.
‘This planet,’ he continued, ‘is being buffed and scrubbed, but while there are Autobots at large it
cannot be properly cleansed. How can I map out the future when bands of dirty, backward Cybertronians
are scurrying across the blueprints, smudging the ink’
‘They used a some sort of teleporter to escape,’ said Q-715 feebly.
‘Shut up, all of you.’
The squadron leaders stared at the floor while armed guards attached Inhibitor Claws to their spinal
struts.
‘I’m not going to kill you,’ said Quantax. ‘You’ll be transferred to Kledji and imprisoned. The
Autobots have contaminated you, and it sickens me.’
He watched them leave and was glad to be alone. He felt energised. Until now, his power had been
directed outwards; by turning it against his own troops he gave it a new edge, a new weight and tension.
He knew now that his troops could be set against one another by nothing more than the tone of his voice.
He opened a sub-space channel and spoke to Xenon. ‘When will the new troops be ready, the
“superbreed” I need more men. The planet is too big to adequately patrol.’
‘You have the last of the old army under your command, Quantax. There will be no more
reinforcements.’
‘But you said the next generation were practically on-line.’
‘The new Seedlings will not be warriors, Quantax. They’ll be philosophers and scientists and
theologians.’
‘Yes, yes, but you can create a second batch, designed purely to attack and defend. Super-warriors!’
‘These creatures are not churned out on a conveyor belt! I refuse to create toy soldiers for your
personal amusement.’
‘But we need fighters to expand the Quintesson Empire.’
‘What Quintesson Empire We only need one planet! We have a homeworld, and soon we will have
the Quintessons to populate it.’
‘Won’t the Sharkticons ruin this glorious utopia’
‘The Sharkticons are not part of the bigger picture. They will be smelted down and recycled into
light fittings or door stops. There will be no conflict on New Quintessa, only trade. Our warring days are
over. Is that understood’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Good. Because I sincerely hope, General, that you don’t go the way of the Sharkticons.’
After days of backbreaking work, New Quintyxia’s first recycling plant was complete.
Sharkticons rounded Grade As into manageable groups, ready for the transfer back to Kledji. The
prisoners shuffled their feet and opened their mouths, kept their place and said nothing. The occasional
flame leapt from the lava pit, curled in mid-air and put itself out.
Ryknia stood on the edge as if daring the heat to bubble his paintwork. The recyc plant (a smelting
pool by any other name) meant nothing to him, and he took no pride in its completion. He had not
designed it: subterranean architects on Aquaria had done that. He had not commissioned its construction: