eugenesis-text

‘I’ve detected three objects in Aquaria’s orbit. They’re massive. Twenty miles long, easy.
Warcruisers’
‘Maybe. Take us closer, and try to establish contact.’
‘I’m getting static. They’re not interested.’
‘Fantastic.’
‘Wait. I’ve got six small ships heading this way. Collision course.’
‘Raise defensive shields.’
‘We don’t have any defensive shields!’
‘Then what the hell have we got I want every piece of weaponry trained on those – those...’
‘Tridents.’
‘I’ve found a gun-port on the fuselage and some photon feeds, but that’s it.’
‘You mean we’re facing a full squad with two barrels Perfect. Any luck with the handshake’
‘No. Blast! They’ve done this.’
The hypershuttle swerved to avoid a burst of laser. Underneath the cockpit, a lonely turret returned
fire and the Tridents broke formation to evade.
‘Standard Quintesson strategy. They’ll break into two groups and attack from opposite sides.’
The second round of laser dappled the shuttle’s underbelly and flicked a thruster off its moorings. The
destruction spread inside, seeping through the cracks. Fire somersaulted through the lower decks, kicking at
the walls, tumbling up the stairs, and when it could go no further, when heat-shields and vacuum slabs had
rushed to stem the flow, the lower half of the ship evaporated in a haze of black and bronze.
The laser turret swivelled feebly towards a retreating Trident and fired. The Quintesson ship bucked
against the blast and span out of control.
‘Direct hit! Oh hell – it’s heading this way! Quick! Get us clear!’
‘Oh, shut up. We’re finished.’
The hypershuttle exploded.
‘Does it hurt’
‘No. Well, only when I talk. Or move. Or think. On reflection, Quark, yes – it does hurt - it hurts
all the time.’
Rev-Tone tried to stretch out on his circuit slab, a rectangle of glistening, utilitarian hardware that
resembled a bed of nails. Neat stacks of monitors recorded the movement with trigonometric accuracy. ‘It’s
about time you paid me a visit. I thought you’d written me off – booked me a place on the next solar barge
or something.’
‘Hey, no one’s performing the Rites of Departure just yet.’
Quark smiled and took the visitor’s seat. Rev-Tone was in pretty bad shape. His altercation with
Sixshot had ended with a frag grenade shedding its load across his chest. His skin was choppy, like windwhipped
sea. Insectoid robots crawled over the wound, making repairs.
The ward was as quiet as ever, smothered with boredom and shifting gears, with voices just out of
earshot. Patients lay on slabs similar to Rev-Tone’s, hooked up to monitoring systems that would alert First
Aid or his junior medics, Search and Rescue, if their condition deteriorated, if their bright blue life-scan
lines sloped low across the scanners, or if their fuel-pump skipped a beat.
In contrast to the cosy decay of the u-ducts and the prickly claustrophobia of Autobase, AMC1 was
spacious and rigorously clean. Everything was white and tiled: the five main wards, the intensive care units,
the incinerator, the waiting room, the admin offices, the life-support vault - even the mortuary, with its
stasis pods and waste compactors, was coated in a creamy sheen.
Quark nodded hello to Ammo, who was missing both arms. At the far end of the ward, beyond a
pane of tawny plexiglass, he could see First Aid at his desk. He was talking to Rodimus Prime about
something – probably the new ward, still under construction, or plans to build a second hospital that would
finally justify AMC’s numerical suffix. Nightbeat was in there too, clicking his knuckles, reading the reports
tacked to the wall and fiddling with the beryllium syringes on First Aid’s desk. He looked bored.
‘So, Rev-Tone, how have you been keeping yourself occupied’