eugenesis-text

‘It’s probably just a stray wire or something,’ said Sevax, who nevertheless strolled up to witness the
extraction. ‘A construction glitch.’
‘Twenty shanix says it’s a bullet,’ chipped in Jolup, taking a ringside seat.
Ryknia set a chunk of subcutaneous circuitry on the table. ‘I’m glad you both find this so amusing.’
‘Here, let me.’ Sevax knelt down and began cleaving alloy, using the bodyscan as reference. ‘Got it!’
He balanced the object on his fingertip and took a closer look.
‘My god, Ryknia. It’s an Inhibitor Chip.’
Sygnet rubbed his optics – a redundant gesture, but psychologically it helped to wipe residual image
data. He decided that, in many ways, staring at an Inhibitor Chip was like staring at the sun. Just as Alpha
Centauri’s scalding orange light floated across filament reservoirs long after retinal covers were dropped,
microscopic circuit prints clung to his eyes when he looked away from an IC.
He’d spent one day staring at a VDU, looking for a clue, a key to unlock the secrets of Quintesson
technology, and he had nothing to show for it. The ‘breath of fresh air’, as Centurion put it, had not
helped. Wheeljack would return to Delphi expecting results, and he hated to disappoint.
He stretched and returned to work, administering timid electrical shocks to the Inhibitor Chip and
monitoring the results on an f-wave monitor. A sensor line jumped and settled in the background. He made
notes, unsure as to where the experiment was heading, and was considering going outside again when
Soundwave rushed into the lab.
So sudden was his arrival, and so aggressive was the expression on his face, that Sygnet raised his arms,
expecting a single-shot, Decepticon-style execution. Instead, the Communications Officer demanded to see
the Inhibitor Chip and pressed his hands against his head.
The f-wave readings went haywire.
Sygnet stared, open mouthed, looking between Soundwave and the Inhibitor Chip. ‘What are you
doing’
‘I’m reading your mind.’
Q-311 stopped, inspected his boot, and kicked the Tenderiser again, despite his logic centre patiently
reminding him, in three thousand strains of program code, that doing so was pointless and short sighted.
The mobile recycling unit coughed up another skin-pricking cloud of engine smog, and Q-311 ran through
his cache of profanities.
Before he had started thumping Tenderisers, Q-311 had been whipping his squad into a frenzy of
enthusiasm. They had spent four days trekking through the so-called Dark Territories and seen everything
that pre-occupation Cybertron had to offer: cityscapes webbed with expressways, tube-tunnels, artificial
gravity wells, the lot. Their path had been riddled with transients – mainly junkies, mechdazers and slaggers
– all of whom had been dutifully fed into the recyc unit. By crossing the Yussian border they had staked
new territory and become a Frontier squad.
All of which was fine, except that somewhere between then and now the Tenderiser had necked the
last barrel of fuel and ground to a halt on the outskirts of a shantytown. It was not a nice place to break
down, being black and sweaty and thick with shadows. A geo-file detailing outdated Cybertronian place
names told Q-311 that they were standing in Lonium.
He put his hand on one of the Tenderiser’s caterpillar tracks. He’d have to radio for new fuel, which
would no doubt lead to a fresh squad being airdropped in and grabbing all the glory. His only hope lay in
Q-8129 returning with something that could restart the vehicle.
The place was getting to him. Every doorway held a figure, moss green and half-seen, ready to break
into the open and gun them down. How many of the Cybertronian military were still at large Quantax
said none, but how could you cleanse an entire planet, even one as under-populated as this one, in a week
He felt edgy and cornered, so much so that when Q-8129 ran into the street it was a miracle that the scout
wasn’t shot dead for breaking the silence.
Q-311 holstered his shotgun. ‘Where’s the fuel’
‘No fuel, sir, but I saw something else. Please, follow me.’