The salvaged protoforms were a compromised foundation. It was highly probable they had already been imprinted with Autobot genetic markers eons ago, only for the incubation to be abandoned. Forcing a Decepticon template into a pre-existing Autobot-coded sequence created a volatile internal conflict.
The theory is sound, but the hardware is unreliable, Nathan concluded.
He was increasingly impressed by the analytical power of his own cerebral module. His optic sensors had scanned the hatchery structure, allowing his processing core to reverse-engineer the biological-mechanical synthesis behind the incubation sacs. However, knowing the physics was one thing; replicating it was another. Without raw protoforms, he was a technician without tools.
I wonder if the derelicts hidden across this planet have stasis-pods to spare, he mused, tossing the remains of a failed unit into the salvage bin. Even in failure, the alloys were too precious to discard.
HISSS.
The vault doors parted. Nathan's curious expression instantly smoothed into a mask of hollow deference.
"Lord Starscream."
The Air Commander strode in, his wings twitching with an impatient energy. He offered the T-series units a dismissive grunt before conducting a sweep of the tiered racks.
"Report on the viable units," Starscream barked.
T-19 stepped forward, his servos whining with tension. "Reporting, Lord Starscream. In my sector, six hatcheries remain structurally stable."
One by one, the others reported their numbers. Nathan followed suit. By the end of the tally, only twenty-eight sacs remained out of the original batch. A mortality rate of over fifty percent.
"Twenty-eight surviving units?" Starscream's faceplates remained an unreadable mask of cold alloy. "Adequate. You have performed within expected parameters."
Nathan calculated the numbers. Twenty-eight drones plus the seven of them. Four drones per sergeant. It was a lean, brutal hierarchy.
"The hardening process will conclude in one solar cycle," Starscream commanded, his optics flaring a dangerous red. "I expect maximum vigilance. I will not tolerate further structural failure. Ensure the survival of the remaining batch."
"As you command!" the units replied in unison.
Nathan didn't ask how they were supposed to "guarantee" survival without fresh injectors or stabilized nutrient-baths. In the Decepticon ranks, a lack of success was simply framed as a lack of effort.
Twenty-four hours later. The Transit Deployment Hub.
This was a cavernous, empty hall designed for staging operations. Its polished silver walls reflected the harsh, cold light of the ceiling arrays. Unlike the rest of the base, this sector was devoid of research equipment or logistics drones. It served a singular purpose: it was the airlock between the fortress and the floor of the Kernas Great Canyon.
Nathan leaned against the far wall, adopting a posture of casual standby. Beside him stood the other six T-series sergeants, and before them stood their new command: twenty-eight freshly hatched Basic-Class Decepticons.
The "hatching" had been a violent, industrial affair. Unlike organic birth, where the infant is small, a Cybertronian clone undergoes a final, rapid expansion the moment the sac is ruptured. The four-foot-tall protoforms had expanded into four-meter-tall monsters in a matter of seconds, their armor plates snapping into place with the sound of a closing trap.
"BAM!"
"Who did that? Reveal yourself!"
"Gah! Was that a discarded shell-casing you just threw at my cranial sensors?"
"It wasn't me—ack!"
A sudden clamor erupted at the center of the hall. Two of the new clones had engaged in a chaotic scuffle, their heavy limbs swinging with uncoordinated violence.
"Look at this!" one of the nearby drones jeered. "A spectacle! We have two idiots fighting for dominance before their lubricants have even settled!"
"Rip his head-casing off!" another shouted, the surrounding drones forming a circle and broadcasting signals of aggressive encouragement. "Go for the optics! Tear the arm-strut!"
Nathan watched with a detached, clinical interest. These clones hadn't been programmed with the refined logic-chips Scalpel had given the T-series; their personalities were raw, birthed from the aggressive genetic templates of their creators. They were a concentrated dose of Decepticon spite.
They're mini-versions of T-19 and the others, Nathan noted. Since he lacked the "face-blindness" of a human, the subtle differences in their chassis designs were obvious to him, but to anyone else, they were a wall of identical, snarling steel.
He didn't move to stop them. Internal friction was a Decepticon tradition. As long as they didn't deploy weapons or scorch the hangar walls, Starscream wouldn't care.
"T-22."
Nathan shifted his gaze as a tall silhouette approached. It was T-24.
"Something on your mind, T-24?" Nathan asked, his voice a smooth, low-frequency hum.
"Just observing," T-24 replied, standing beside Nathan as they watched the two drones tumble across the floor. "Do you have any data on the Commander's next directive? Why has he gathered us at the primary exit?"
Nathan offered a brief, sideways glance. Trying to fish for data while everyone is distracted? "The Commander's intent is his own," Nathan replied neutrally. "I am a soldier, not a strategist. Are you suggesting you haven't been briefed on the next phase?"
T-24's optics flickered with a trace of surprise. "I thought you might have received a priority packet, given your extended time in the lab."
Nathan turned his head back to the fight. Careful. This one is looking for an anomaly. "If a packet exists, it hasn't reached my bus yet," Nathan said, his optics dimming. "We wait for the Commander. That is the only plan that matters."