eugenesis-text

‘This place plays tricks on you,’ warned Q-311 as they wandered into the open, more for his benefit
than the scout’s. But this was no hallucination: there really was a celestial temple on the horizon, and it
really did seem to be exploding in slow motion. Half-dazed, he opened a communications channel and said,
‘This is Frontier Squad 001 requesting immediate pick up.’
The Trident landed on the canyon floor and was pulled into Delphi. It took up all the room in the
foyer, the bulbous cockpit reaching the ceiling and the three jutting spikes touching the far wall.
Belly-down on an outside ledge, Centurion adjusted his magnification goggles. ‘Approximately forty
MARBs, incoming,’ he whispered. Moments later, the rest of the Ark’s crew were melting through
Delphi’s hologramatic veneer two and three at a time: Hound, Blaster, Death’s Head, Mirage, Trailbreaker
and the rest.
Optimus stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd. If he was overwhelmed by the influx of
familiar and unfamiliar faces, he did not show it. When he spoke, the words flowed calmly, authoritatively:
‘Fastlane, I saw an Autoshuttle in the hangar below which I believe has subspace capabilities.
Assemble an engineering team to put the transwarp drive inside the Trident.’ He turned to a new arrival,
and the only other Transformer of comparable height. ‘And you must be Ultra Magnus.’
‘How did you guess’
‘You have to be of a certain stature to carry off a name like that.’
Magnus smiled, and by so doing deviated from the plan he had so meticulously drawn up on the way
to Delphi; what had happened to the sober, straightforward introduction he’d imagined, the one topped off
with a formal salute You couldn’t second-guess legends, he thought, and gamely held out his hand. ‘It’s an
honour to meet you, Optimus Prime.’
‘Pleasure’s all mine.’ Prime shook Magnus’ hand, still not sure what significance the gesture held. ‘I’m
told we met once before.’
‘Yes, sir. Here on Cybertron.’ Magnus had been fishing for something unique about this robot,
something that definitely set this Optimus Prime apart from the upgrades and remakes he had fought
alongside over the last 20 years. He found it almost straight away: a sharp, fractured light in the eyes that
betrayed… well, some would say it betrayed a different soul.
‘I understand that you’re the commander of another planet’s Autobots. I suggest you take your men
to Cloudraker and Fulcrum in the medical lab.’
‘All my men – those that still function – have been checked, Optimus. We’ve been fortunate
enough,’ he looked over the crowd and beckoned an Autobot over, ‘to have Chief Medical Officer
Ratchet on our team.’
Optimus was caught off guard but recovered before anyone noticed. For a moment, he thought
Ratchet was going to shake his hand, but the surgeon just folded his arms and looked him over, scrutinising
every scratch on his chassis, every battle scar and surgery line. Lower left motor access plate: large scale
ambulatory joint replacement after the Stanix raid, 1 st Cycle 927. Scalpel scratch, right temple: Ibex fuel
depot bombing, 1 st Cycle 988. An overzealous Ark repair program had scrubbed these wounds in 1984, and
he hadn’t seen them for four million years.
‘It’s me, Ratchet,’ said Optimus quietly. ‘It’s me.’
25 years earlier Ratchet had failed to resuscitate Optimus after a bomb had torn him apart. Now he
wanted to collapse at his friend’s feet and howl apologies until his vocal unit was a crisp black cinder
bobbing in his throat; he wanted to explain why he’d stopped operating back in 1987; he wanted to
articulate the crushing hopelessness that had raged through his body after laying down the scalpel. But all he
could say was ‘I’m sorry’.
‘Sorry For what’ Optimus put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I know what happens to me, Ratchet. I
don’t know exactly when it happens and I won’t pretend to understand why it happens. The only thing I
am sure of is that you did – you will do – everything in your power to save my life.’
‘Very touching, yes’ said Death’s Head, who was pushing his way through the crowd, his cloak
wrapped over his shoulder in a feeble attempt at self-concealment. There were too many people here, and
everyone was talking and touching. He’d always worked alone, unencumbered by allies or hangers-on, but
ever since nose-diving into Autobot City he’d been squashed, boxed-in and surrounded. In fact it had
started before Autobot City: it had started inside an underground vibe-dive in downtown Elpasos, when he