eugenesis-text

‘I am impressed, my Lord,’ (and it was the understatement of the decade) ‘but if you wanted to give
life to the Cargo, why not simply use the Matrix itself’
‘The Matrix can only be opened by a select few: those Seedlings with a genetic quirk that warps their
Vorcode. This is the only way.’
‘Hm. Again, I don’t mean to be doubt your genius, but will it work I mean, a machine capable of
taking a life-giving property and extrapolating the very nature of being The complexity of it all defies
comprehension.’
‘That’s what the Masters said before they made the breakthrough.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You wouldn’t, Haxian, you’re far too young. But you’ve memorised the Old Texts and served under
Kledji, so you know that we’ve been carrying on the Progenitors’ work. I will use the Lifecode as it was
originally intended: to grant life. Ever since Unicron captured the Progenitors, we’ve been a warrior race.
Neoseeds like you were created to hunt and destroy. I swear that the war with the Cybertronians will be
our last. I want to bring peace to New Quintyxia.’
‘That’s another thing I don’t understand. Why do we call it New Quintyxia when—’
‘Because it represents a new beginning! A new breed of Quintesson will populate the planet. Think of
it, Haxian – the start of a eugenics program so far-reaching it will signal a new Galactic Renaissance.’
Before Xenon could elaborate, a modest access panel on the supercomputer’s casing slid open and
ejected the Matrix as if it were a freshly copied CD. Although there were no puncture wounds or contact
scars, he somehow knew the information had been plundered. He tossed the Matrix to Haxian. ‘It’s yours,’
he said. ‘Think of it as a reward for all your hard work.’
Haxian strapped it around his neck like a piece of costume jewellery. ‘What happens now, my Lord’
Xenon spread his tentacles over the interface port. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we put God to the test.’
The supercomputer responded to his mental commands with preternatural speed, second-guessing his
every nuance. The corridor disintegrated, revealing a distant horizon and field upon field of birthing tubes.
Ten thousand ‘lifegivers’ – transference needles attached to vials of stim-fluid – were lowered into place
above the tubes, which became as supple as gel. On Xenon’s command, the needles burrowed into every
Seedling’s forehead.
‘Stand back, Haxian. This has never been attempted, not even by the Masters themselves.’
‘Good luck, my Lord.’ (And in Haxian’s mind he was thinking, ‘Just get on with it – plug yourself in,
impregnate the Seedlings, disconnect and get me the hell off this tatty little planet.’)
‘Okay,’ said Xenon to no one in particular. ‘Hit me.’
Direct interface with God was not nice; it was not pleasant. It pulled Xenon in unsettling directions,
and it made him want to scream or weep – preferably both, simultaneously. Mentally, he held still, trying to
locate a nagging impulse that tugged at his subconscious – some dark reflex that told him to dash his head
against the floor until his cerebrocircuitry slipped between the cracks; but he persevered. With a single
thought he downloaded the Lifecode and, in doing so, became one with God.
Except it’s never that simple, is it
In merging with the Almighty (technological or otherwise), Xenon found himself teetering over an
abyss of pure abstraction. He was tempted to surrender himself totally. Suddenly, nothing was impossible;
the answers to questions he could not conceive charged through the trembling circuits of his brain. All at
once he was the Absolute, the Endpoint.
When he reluctantly severed connections (and by god, even turning away from the raging force of
the Allspark was like dying a thousand deaths), he spoke with the same voice as before. ‘The Seedlings are
being programmed with the Lifecode as we speak. I will know when the process is complete. Transfer the
rest of the troops to Thermopylae. We’re leaving.’
‘That’s just it, Centurion: we don’t know what we’re heading towards.’
Nightbeat walked across the Autoshuttle’s cabin burning off nervous energy. Not a way for a team
leader to behave, he realised, but keeping up appearances was way down on his list of priorities.
‘You see, the wormhole isn’t behaving properly,’ he continued. ‘Perceptor thinks it’s entered the final
stage of gestation, the evolutionary peak that precedes total closedown.’