eugenesis-text

space message; the last Transformer to be cured of Nucleoparalysis) could have been any one of a hundred
Autobots. But he represented a shift in the ratio of deaths, a tipping of the scales. Prime shrugged off a
leaping Sharkticon and, with Mainframe slumped across his feet, sank ammunition into the advancing
crowds. He’d left it too late. Another microsecond might condemn another Autobot, another Decepticon.
He sparked a long-range inter-Autobot communication and felt a surge of relief when it was answered.
‘Bluestreak, it’s time we left. Pinpoint my bioscan and land. I’ll do the rest.’
Acting Decepticon commander Onslaught came running at his call, pausing only to knock a
Quintesson off his hover-bike and break his neck. ‘What is it’ he demanded. ‘We’re going in for the kill’
‘Quite the opposite: we’re retreating. Judging by the Quintesson phalanx I saw on the horizon,
Quantax has called in the reinforcements. Relay my order among all your men. We’re moving to stage
two.’
Five… Six… (Wounding - call it five and a half)… Six
Quantax lowered his rifle in disbelief. The Cybertronians’ mothership was lowering itself towards the
battlefield and igniting its landing lights. For a moment he pictured the ultimate kamikaze manoeuvre; sixty
million tonnes of interstellar hardware dropping like a stone on Quintesson and Cybertronian alike. But no,
the spacecraft was slowing down, braving the laserfire from above and below, and a circle of space was
forming as mechanoids scattered to avoid touchdown.
The Transformers closest to the Ark took up position around the landing ramp and fired at every
Quintesson within range. Silverbolt led his team in strafing runs that pulverised anyone who got too close.
Autobots and Decepticons skidded into the Ark or turned to add their firepower to the defence net.
Some Quintessons still got through, though. Bluestreak froze as Sharkticons appeared on the Ark’s
viewscreen, blocking out light, cracking the plexiglass with tooth and claw. It was the same all over: the
beasts were using each other as stepping stones to straddle the roof and tear at the wrapping.
By the time the Ark took off it was virtually hidden under a crust of interlocking Sharkticons.
Bluestreak flipped the spacecraft and dislodged them with a smile. The Ark was skimming towards the
Polyhex border before they’d had hit the ground.
Quantax stormed into the control room. This wasn’t victory. The Cybertronians were still out there,
licking their wounds after a cowardly hit and run. He would not let them slip through his fingers; not again.
Not after this.
‘All units! This battle doesn’t end until every Cybertronian is dead! Pursue the enemy spacecraft! All
ground squads convene inside the launch bay immediately! If you can walk, if you can pick up a gun,
you’re coming with me!’
‘Well, who’s coming with me’
Ultra Magnus’ question went unanswered. The others were too entranced by the dim discs of vanilla
light playing over the entrance to the underwater base. At this depth they had expected serenity, a pause for
breath amid the piledriving currents, but it wasn’t to be. To maintain position, Galvatron had been forced
to channel all power into the Trident’s guidance jets.
Magnus put his hand on the cockpit’s airlock. ‘I said, who’s coming with me’
‘No need to go swimming,’ said Death’s Head, swapping his left hand for a spearhead. ‘Once saw a
Quintesson sub gain entry through the docking portal over there. Say we use the plasma cannons to carve a
hole above that intersection, yes’
‘What,’ said Siren, ‘and flood the base’
‘You don’t build a subsea base without taking precautions, right Reckon we’ll have a couple of
seconds before the inner shields kick in to stem the fl—’
Galvatron fired. The plasma bolts punched a hole into the docking bay and the Trident was sucked
inside, along with thousands of gallons of aqua fortis. The viewscreen shattered, and foaming liquid filled the
cockpit. Death’s Head rode with the flow, surrendered to the will of the waves, and glided through the
broken airlock. Unfamiliar with both the severity of the current and their fat, sluggish Pretender shells,