eugenesis-text

You’ll forgive the melodrama, I hope.
So yes, I was an accident, an ‘unfortunate error’, a by-product of an experiment that pushed boundaries (‘Bound
to be risks’, they said), an upward step towards a new evolutionary plateau (‘Learn from our mistakes’). Among the
high-shine production line Perfects and Neobreeds, I was the glorious failure. I was damaged goods, kinked and flawed.
It’s not so bad. You get used to it.
I don’t recall the Creation Ceremony, or the way the sunlight fell across the spires, or the pressure cannons used to
disperse the protestors, or the way an ailing Sentinel Prim, a breath away from circuitburn, needed help to lift the
Matrix, but I’m told it was all very exciting. I do remember coming on-line: a painful twist of bristling energy and
download throb as I braved the weight of unused limbs.
Look, I don’t have much time. Let’s speed things up.
I’m dropped off in Kalis and given a low-grade manual job and weekly energon rations in exchange for regular
attendance at the Academy. In humourless surgeries I’m poked and prodded, bombarded with tests, measured against the
world. They soon conclude that I’m ‘psychologically flawed’ and concentrate on the rest of the First Wave, all of whom
are deemed to be ‘of excellent character’. In an era of dwindling energy resources and, for the first time, fear of the future,
the success of the other Antimorphs is enough to convince Sentinel Prime to ban biomorphic reproduction, which is
phenomenally fuel consuming. If new Cybertronians became essential, they would be made to order.
Steady now. This is where it starts going downhill:
Megatron forms a rogue faction and declares war. He does far better than anyone expects him to. I volunteer for the
Autobot army, serve under Grimlock and Triax and Maximus, meet up with Siren and Hosehead (long story), and
somehow gain a reputation for being lateral and off-centre. A problem solver, an introvert and a troublemaker, I collect
tags and personality soundbites as I move between rebel cells. Somewhere along the line I’m roped into the binary
bonding process, merge with a young human nick-named Muzzle, and you know what I’m a success. I set the
standard.
Except Muzzle dies. My best friend dies. I hide out in Delphi and think too much. Then I get handpicked by
High Command to go on a mission so secret it borders on the hypothetical. See what I’m doing now I’m slowing down,
giving details – it’s understandable. Now being now, and all.
So I track down a naturally occurring wormhole and travel in time, removing key players and building paradoxes
in my head – am I arranging or re-arranging or de-arranging the Order of Things I don’t think I’ll ever know, because
theory is theory and that’s all we have. And now the wormhole’s closing, and it’s dragging the rest of Cybertron with it.
And is it just me, or is the end of the world a long time coming
My name is Nightbeat. I think I’m going to die tonight.
‘You okay’
‘Hm’ Nightbeat wondered how long Red Alert’s hand had been on his shoulder. ‘I’m fine. Just
thinking.’
The sky over the Acid Wastes was now the colour and texture of dead skin: pored and scabby, grazed
with old blood and lesions. It had a way of holding your attention, especially near the edges (yes, this sky
had edges – a strap of black padding where even the horizon seemed to withdraw its hand). Soon there
would be more lightning, hard and urgent, trying to make contact with every patch of ground. Yes,
thought Nightbeat, the backdrop was doing its part, but where was the main player Where was Optimus
‘You reckon he’s going to show’
Nightbeat almost smiled. It was difficult to move anything, even his lips, in this heat. ‘Am I that
transparent’
‘No, you’re just thinking the same thing as everyone else.’
‘Then tell everyone else that Prime will be coming over that hill any minute now.’
He watched Red Alert head back to his lookout post, an upturned cradle of steel outside the temple
entrance. The security officer leant into embers as he walked, braving the ferocious wormhole heat, no
doubt thinking about tomorrow, about whether there would be a tomorrow (and if there was, would it
carry on from today, or would it mark the beginning of a whole new timeline).
The wormhole had become half sized, and though it still framed a patch of rock from 1986, each
inward shrug reduced Prime’s chances of going home. Would they have to make do with tossing his tiny,
naked brain module through the eye of the needle