eugenesis-text

‘I don’t understand. I’m no medic, but I’ve seen far worse casualties in the past. Are their injuries
really that bad’
‘No! They’re not! That’s what makes this so frustrating! We’re running out of supplies. We burnt the
last resus unit trying to save Nightbeat, and now I’ve run out of slabs.’ Ratchet gestured to the stacks of
escapees. ‘Why do you think these guys are lying around’
‘I’m aware of the situation. Wheeljack assures me that the Anti-Inhibitor chips will halt their
deterioration.’
‘And how is Wheeljack going to manufacture this miracle cure I barely have enough duodurillium to
patch up his leg wound! Then there’s the equipment needed to implant the chips.’ He held up a bent
syringe. ‘This wouldn’t penetrate copper.’
‘Why not just freeze them in stasis’
‘Do you know how many Autobots burn out while in stasis Their neural circuitry gobbles itself up
and you end up thawing dead bodies. Having said that…’
‘Yes’
‘Some have better chances of survival than others.’ Ratchet squatted beside an embryonic off-liner.
‘Grapple here is in pretty good shape, comparatively speaking. One could argue that he’s more deserving of
a pod than, say, Hoist, who’s been put into stasis but may never recover from his injuries.’
‘You’d pick and choose who lives and dies’
‘I’d make detached, rational decisions based on severity of injuries and available medical equipment.
Believe me, I don’t want to start playing God, but I do have a responsibility to save as many lives as
possible. And to do that I have to start looking at things dispassionately. Logically.’ He straightened up and
looked closely at Prowl’s half-eaten face. ‘Let’s face it, this q-pod could be preserving someone’s life instead
of delaying someone’s death.’
Perceptor left the room and stood in the stripped-bare corridor. He imagined Ratchet plotting Gantt
charts and For/Against columns, rolling dice, closing his eyes and sticking pins in pods.
The fire slimmed to a flame and blew itself out. Only a forlorn stream of smoke marked the
transition, stretching skyward and losing shape to the wind. Without colour, without troubled amber
contours and a yellowed belly, Darkmount was just another blacked-out building; another relic pressing
shadows into craters and marking dead history.
Soundwave did not mourn its passing.
He watched the fire burn out from a balcony high on the west side of the Quintesson Fortress. Even
with an Ark-sized crater in its side, the new base was far bigger that Darkmount. Admittedly, the name
needed to be changed. Perhaps ‘Xerxes’, in honour of the stadium in Tarn where Megatron had first
spoken to him of the Decepticons. Yes, Xerxes – it had a nice ring to it.
He stepped back inside, out of the moonlight, and followed his reflection down mirrored stairways,
deep in thought. Ten minutes ago he’d heard that Galvatron was alive and heading back to Cybertron. He
had been disappointed. Disappointed and angry.
He walked into Ward B, a cavern of dark chrome and subzero temperatures where hundreds of
empty circuit slabs and personal healthcare suites ran like railway tracks across parquets of infinite shine.
Banks of pristine hardware glistened under ultraviolet strip-lights; monitors simmered behind polish and
screen-gleam; unused life-supports breathed a low glow across fields of vacant stasis pods. A refrigerated
tunnel led to the much larger Ward A, which was only half full.
Pounce, Wingspan and a dozen others moved between the thigh-high beds taking notes, adjusting
apparatus and administering energon jabs. A glass-plated anteroom housed red-flecked ex-prisoners, Grades
A to D, and it was there that Soundwave headed. Fulcrum met him in the doorway, clamped the
duodurillium syringe to his tool-belt and gave a jagged salute.
‘At ease, Fulcrum. Report.’
‘I’m injecting Sygnet’s Anti-Inhibitor chip, commander. He found supplies of the original chip in the
basement cells, which circumvented the need for a prototype being built from scratch. It was a simple
matter of modification.’ Fulcrum tapped a steel satchel that was resting on his thigh. ‘This batch alone will
see that every escapee is, er…’
‘Cured.’