eugenesis-text

window were statues of the Primal genealogy, Primon through to Rodimus; they stared blankly at each
other across the pews, their expressions as unreadable as the scripture beneath their feet:
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The centre aisle connecting the altar to the double doors was engraved with six overlapping circles,
each one depicting a Cybertronian Epoch. The circle in front of the altar mirrored the details in the
stained-glass window above it. The temple had been positioned with Alpha Centauri in mind: before
Cybertron abandoned its original orbit, the noonday sun would strike the tinctured plexi and infuse the
floor with colour. Even now, at a certain time (and with a degree of artistic leniency), the sunlight would
seek the weft and weave of chiselled parquet and Primon would extricate himself from Cybertron’s crust.
A Decepticon symbol marked the centre of the second circle, which resembled a clock face. At one
o’clock stood a robot, at eleven o’clock a crude Cybertronian vehicle. The images were linked by the
various permutations of transformation, step-by-step snapshots of form-change and mech-meld.
Circle three had countless Cyberworlds arranged in a double helix; on either side, gelatinous
protoforms sprang half-formed and spineless from bulging, spastic torsos.
The fourth epoch depicted Unicron’s multiple attacks and defeats, Emirate Xaaron’s ascension to
Primal avatar and the apparent cleansing of Cybertron by the Last Autobot.
The sixth circle was crowded with representations of violent biomorphism and curvaceous animal
shapes - evocations of fur, fleece and tendon.
Only the fifth circle was blank: it was the only circle, the only Epoch, that the sect would not touch.
Circle five was reserved for the Second Coming, and applying artistic license to their core belief was
tantamount to blasphemy. Through careful reading of the Primal prophecies, the First Church knew that
Primus would return, but it was a vague deadline. Sometime after Unicron’s third coming and before the
rise of the Neogens, He would walk among his creations as one of them: God in robot.
Unicron’s defeat in 2010 marked the end of the Fourth Epoch and, by default, the beginning of the
Fifth. The First Churchers holed themselves up in their temple and began two years of transcendental
meditation and energon deprivation. They dissected the Pentateuch: every verse, every syllable, every
rubbery morpheme was grabbed and probed.
Finally, they got what they wanted: a sign. One day in late 2012 it appeared out of nowhere,
balancing on the altar, hunched and humble: the legendary Eye of Cybertron.
They thought the Eye was growing at first, but no one could be sure. After a few days the High
Circuitmaster forbade direct observation, and the few who dared to glance at the centre spoke in hushed
tones of the infinity within. No one was allowed near the altar in case they heard the Voice of God,
deafening and impossible - the strum and stutter of pure sentience.
So the disciples did not look and they did not go near. While the Eye pulsed with the rhythmic
purity of a heartbeat, while it wrapped itself in entropy and surface skim and strips of arcing light, they gave
thanks to God and celebrated.
Twenty days later, and the celebrations were still continuing. The temple was alive with furious
worship. Kneeling worshippers were caressed by energy that curled from the Eye like pith, while others
filled the pews and babbled incoherently, their voices bright and childlike.
The High Circuitmaster and his clergy gathered around the fifth circle, enraptured by the pinch of
electricity in the air. They hammered the floor with their staffs, creating cracks and spidery fissures. Energy
radiated from their optics and, finally, the circular plate shattered.
The High Circuitmaster fell to his knees, aghast at his vandalism (he half-expected a lightning bolt to
slag him there and then). He inspected the damage. When his subordinates removed the loosened plates,
they found something poking through the underlay, something small and golden and somehow significant.
It was more than a Sign. It was more than an Omen.
It was the tip of a finger.
Mirage was pacing – in fact he was hyper-pacing, if there was such a thing. He was striding up and
down the Autoshuttle’s disembarkation ramp, arms pinned behind his back, and scowling ’til his face ached.