Chapter 6: Where's My System?
Omega had to admit, he had underestimated the rituals perfected by these tech-zealots over ten thousand years of mastering forbidden sciences and the mysteries of the human body. Hypnotic suggestion was cleverly woven into every rite, and one could easily be brainwashed without even realizing it.
If it weren't for his aching spine and throbbing forehead constantly reminding him that another prostration might be his last, he might have genuinely fallen for it.
For the sake of his lumbar integrity, and to avoid becoming a true fanatic, Omega had no choice but to steel himself and ask the head of the Enginseer-Artisans, Magos Jacob, for some time off. He already had the perfect excuse.
With his mind made up, he marched over to Magos Jacob's workbench. "Magos Jacob, my apologies for the interruption." Omega made it a point to be sweet-tongued, calling everyone "Magos" whether he knew them well or not.
"Ah, the Little Priest," Jacob said, his unmodified biological eyes crinkling with amusement. "What can I do for you?"
"Well..." The words caught in Omega's throat. It was only his first day. What if he angered the Magos and wasn't allowed back? He'd have to resort to the "True Art of Leg-Hugging" all over again.
Jacob smiled at the sight of the little man, his face smudged with sacred oils, trying to act like an adult.
It's worth noting that while the Adeptus Mechanicus advocates for logic and cybernetic modification, lower-ranking Tech-Priests lack the wealth and technical expertise for extensive augmentation. At most, they might have simple upgrades like bionic limbs, augmetic eyes, or a supplementary cogitator. The emotions common to humanity are not absent in them. However, as followers of the Omnissiah, they prize rationality and believe in the sanctity of knowledge and the machine. This, combined with their superior intellect and the self-contained social structure of the Mechanicus, often leads outsiders to mistakenly believe that all Tech-Priests lack humanity. (This is, however, often true for high-ranking Magi who retain only minimal organic components.)
For example, the memoirs of Commissar Ciaphas Cain mention an Archmagos who chose to retain his biological digestive system, complete with a retinue of culinary servitors to prepare gourmet meals for him at a moment's notice. Magos Laust, too, had his own distinct hobbies and emotional quirks.
"I wanted... I wanted to..."
"You want to request some leave, don't you?" Magos Jacob finished the sentence for him.
Σ(ŎдŎ|||)ﾉﾉ
"Yes..."
"Granted. It's no problem. From now on, you can work one day and rest for four."
"Thank you, Magos! Thank you so much!"
Jacob waved a hand dismissively. "It wasn't me. These were Magos Laust's arrangements. Your primary mission right now is to study and awaken the knowledge locked in your mind."
Magos Laust, from this day forward, you are my adoptive father! (Wait, that doesn't sound quite right.)
Jacob paused, as if recalling something. "It was the same for me on my first day as an Enginseer-Artisan. The flesh is weak, after all. You really can't do this job without a cybernetic spine and a plasteel-reinforced forehead."
"Hear, hear!" a chorus of agreement came from the other priests, all of whom sported gleaming metallic brows.
Nope! I have to get out of here! Omega thought frantically. Whatever I do when I grow up, I am NOT becoming an Enginseer-Artisan.
The Enginseer-Artisans, or Rune Priests, are a specific class of Tech-Priest within the Cult Mechanicus responsible for duties such as:
Blessings (Acceptance Testing, Consecration)
Appeasing Machine Spirits (Troubleshooting, Maintenance)
Purification Rites (Repair, Modification)
They are the ones who inscribe runes and chant litanies during a new machine's ignition ceremony. They are trained in the more esoteric branches of scientific knowledge, such as:
Intuitive Mechanics (I guess it works like this...)
Inference (It probably needs this...)
Improvisation (Just connect a wire and hope for the best.)
They are known for their lateral thinking (If you can't solve the problem, ignore the problem and find a workaround). When strict logic and standard procedures fail (i.e., when kowtowing according to the instruction manual doesn't work), they are the ones called in to fix things. (No one understands the art of kowtowing better than me.) They are the Masters of Sacred Percussive Maintenance, the priests with the toughest kneecaps, the shiniest foreheads, and the most developed lower back strength in the entire Mechanicus.
No matter how much Omega dissed them in his head, he still had to do the work. The sweetened water he earned was just that good. He decided to bring some to the library the next day to let his less fortunate underlings have a taste. This was earned by your boss's kowtowing. Anyone who dares complain will be sentenced to having their legs broken by this power axe.
The next morning, Omega, twisting his creaking waist (do children even have waists?), strode into the library with his axe on his shoulder. He had to bring the axe; his followers had insisted. Their gazes were just too intense to refuse.
"Ah! There it is! A day without seeing it feels like the Machine God has abandoned me."
"I know, right? I even dreamed about it last night!"
"Alright, that's enough out of you lot," Omega said, rolling his eyes. "And here I was, bringing you gifts..."
"Did the Little Boss really go out and earn some Gears yesterday?"
"'Little Boss'? What's that?" The currency issued on Teyedan was colloquially known as Gear-scrip, or "Gears."
"Well, the Priests all call you the 'Little Priest', so we decided to call you the 'Little Boss'."
Omega's face fell. They know! They know about the "True Art of Leg-Hugging" incident! How can I maintain my dignity as their boss now?!
"What! You all know already? Which priest has such a loose data-port!"
"Know what?" the aspirants asked, confused.
"Err... Never mind. Don't pry into the affairs of priests."
"Oh..."
Don't judge Omega for being childish and playing at being a gang leader with these aspirants. Reality had forced his hand. Due to his unique situation, the senior priests mostly ignored him, aside from the occasional teasing when they were in a good mood. You couldn't expect these quasi-mad scientists to actually care for him. Not letting him starve to death was the extent of their benevolence.
These aspirants were Omega's only source of information and social interaction. Of course, most of the news from them was outdated and of questionable veracity. The unreliable rumors included tales like: years ago, Archmagos Veyl was inspecting a high-performing factory and, taking a disliking to the workers' shaved heads, ordered his fleet to orbitally bombard the entire industrial district. This led to an unwritten rule on Teyedan that no factory worker should ever be bald.
But there was also useful information, such as the existence of a black market. Some workers would steal parts from the factories to sell, though most were damaged. Off-world ship crews and soldiers would also trade weapons to black market dealers. In return, the dealers sold contraband forbidden by Imperial law: powerful hallucinogens, high-yield explosives, boltguns, and even viral agents. It was said that the source of this contraband was none other than a cabal of Tech-Priests led by Archmagos Veyl himself.
Of course, Omega thought. You can't do business without someone on the inside. Classic black-glove operation. The eyes of the masses are always sharp; look how quickly they identified the true culprit.
The days passed in a cycle: kowtow, study, study, study, kowtow. But Omega always felt like something was missing. What was it?
The answer came to him on the evening of the "100-Day Banquet" he had "luxuriously" thrown for himself and his little followers. As he lay in his bunk, a sudden, cold panic seized him.
"Omnissiah-dammit! Where is it? Where the hell did my Golden Finger go?!"