Chapter 7: The Warp Search Engine
Ever since realizing that he was an incomplete transmigrator, Omega had been obsessed with his "Transmigrator Completion Project."
But he had no leads. He'd shouted "Panel!" into the void. He'd even tried touching a live power conduit. Thankfully, his body was tough; otherwise, he'd have been very, very stiff.
Omega's Log: The voltage on a Forge World is no joke.
Some things are fine as long as you don't think about them. But once you do, they claw at your mind incessantly. The anxiety kept him up night after night, his thoughts running wild.
Is it not the right time? Am I missing a prerequisite? Don't tell me my Golden Finger just packed up and left? This universe was already deep into the 42nd Millennium; most of the major historical events had already happened. Trying to make waves now would be like trying to redirect a river by skipping stones. For all he knew, the Emperor was already preparing to get up and have a final, galaxy-shattering showdown with Chaos.
Hiss...
That's possible! he thought. Maybe that's why neither side is paying any attention to a transmigrator like me!
It can't be that my soul is just... normal, can it?
What a disappointment... wait! No! Normal is good! Normal is great! Emperor be praised! I, too, can be loyal! I, too, can have faith!
Let's leave Omega to his self-inflicted spiral into neurosis for a moment.
In the psychic dimension known as the Empyrean, there is a place. It has many names: the Immaterium, the Aether, the Sea of Souls, the Great Ocean, and the Realm of Chaos. Hereafter, we will call it the Warp.
The Warp was born from the thoughts, dreams, and emotions of every psychically-attuned sentient race in the galaxy. It is a mirror dimension of pure energy, a reflection of the material universe, the final destination for the thoughts, emotions, and souls of all sentient beings.
Within the Warp, time and space are meaningless concepts, infinite and irrelevant. Its energies are in a constant state of turmoil, roiled by endless disturbances. The Chaos Gods and their daemonic legions hunt the souls of mortals, which flicker like fireflies in the endless night, feasting upon their favored emotions.
And here, in this timeless, spaceless Sea of Souls, there was an egg.
A dull, unassuming egg that the eye would glance over and immediately dismiss. An indomitably hard egg that seemed impossible to crack. An egg that pulsed with a slow, constant, swirling ripple.
Omega was the egg.
(Omega: Who are you calling an egg?!)
Omega had always assumed the knowledge popping into his head was simply the result of his implanted learning being unlocked. This was not entirely true. The soul of a transmigrator is, after all, a peculiar thing.
As stated, the Warp is the destination for thought, emotion, and soul, a mirror of the real world. This means that the knowledge created by the thoughts and desires of intelligent life in the material realm must, along with those thoughts and emotions, leave an imprint in the Warp.
Omega's soul-shell provided him with concealment and protection. At the same time, it acted as a search engine. When Omega focused his thoughts on something, it was like triggering a keyword. The shell would then search the Warp for related information. (Currently, this is limited to technological knowledge.)
However, because the Warp is in constant flux—like a bad network signal—and because Omega was unaware of his ability and thus unable to actively guide it, the information he received was fragmented and incomplete. Being born on a Forge World and seeing nothing but Mechanicus technology, he naturally, subconsciously, attributed all this fragmented data to a combination of his past-life memories and his implanted vat-born knowledge.
(And no, neither the Emperor nor the forces of Chaos had any idea that this impossibly tough, ridiculously stealthy, peculiar little egg existed.)
Let's return to Omega. Having given up on his quest for a system and embraced a life of pragmatism, Omega had been having a rather comfortable time.
After half a year, he could now kowtow to a hot-shot volley gun. He couldn't manage a lascannon, not because his kowtowing technique was lacking, but because he was simply too short to reach the barrel. To this, Omega merely shrugged and said, "Boys develop slowly. What can I do?"
For the other Tech-Priests, however, life had recently become visibly more stressful.
According to the rumors Omega had gathered, the new Imperial Joint Command in the Eastern Fringe was preparing to "increase the intensity" on the T'au Empire. They had demanded that Forge World Teyedan accelerate its weapons deliveries. Through some unknown channel, they had even procured a handwritten order from the Lord Regent Guilliman himself.
Archmagos Veyl, ever the "Regent's Hound," received the order and immediately initiated a planet-wide broadcast. The gist of it was: "For the Imperium, for Mankind, and for my reputation with the Lord Regent, we will work overtime! From the highest Archmagos to the lowliest indentured laborer, efficiency will increase by another twenty percent!"
Rumor had it that on the very day of the speech, someone launched a suicide attack on the Grand Manufactorum. The attacker was unfortunately captured alive, and a pict-capture of the Archmagos personally welding the culprit to an assembly line was somehow leaked and spread like wildfire across the Tech-Priests' binary communication networks.
Simultaneously, the market price for all manner of bionics and mechanical organs surged by fifty percent. Many priests, unable to afford the new prices, were forced to resort to second-hand augmetics. Riots sparked by deranged workers became a regular occurrence in the factories. A collective groan of misery echoed across the Forge World.
Omega's life was also affected, but not significantly. In addition to his blessing and inspection duties once every five days, he now had a new role: lecturer for the aspirants.
In the past half-year, thanks to his excellent memory, Omega had been tearing through the temple library at an astonishing rate. He had already finished all the books and mastered the theoretical knowledge contained within. But seeing how miserable the other priests were, he decided not to tell Magos Laust. In a life without a Golden Finger, why should a transmigrator work himself to death?
However, perhaps seeing how carefree Omega was, Magos Laust happened to pass by the library one day and saw him casually answering questions while being waited on by the aspirants. The Magos immediately announced that, from now on, no other priests would be assigned to teach the aspirants. The job was now Omega's.
Omega objected, claiming his knowledge was insufficient and that he feared he would lead the students astray. Laust simply replied that every wire and every cog in the public areas of the temple was under his surveillance, and that some people shouldn't push their luck.
Omega quickly agreed. "You are correct, Magos. I, Omega, the 'Priest of the Grandest Half-Step,' will devote all my efforts to cultivating qualified 'tech-assets' for the temple."
It was to be expected. There was no way Omega's progress could have escaped Laust's notice. It was only because his body couldn't handle the workload of a full Tech-Priest that he had been allowed to slide by.
Of course, the new job came with benefits. Omega now received a "Lecturer's Stipend," specially approved by Magos Laust. He didn't give up his "blessing" work either. Although he had finished the theoretical "studies," his mind had not yet fully absorbed the knowledge. During the blessing rituals, fragmented data points about the design, production, and modification of the weapons would still bubble up in his mind. They were just too scattered to form a coherent whole.
It makes sense, Omega thought. The Forge World might be generous to a vat-born product like me, but not so generous as to give me a complete STC template. Fragmented knowledge is enough to get a rush-job 'tech-asset' like me up to speed quickly, which fits our production requirements.
One day of kowtowing, four days of lecturing. This became his routine, and he could foresee it continuing for several years.
The aspirants' admiration for him grew by the day; his position as their boss was unshakable. His relationship with the other priests also improved. As his knowledge grew, so did their common ground. He could now understand their tech-jokes and engage in more than just awkward small talk.
Interestingly, he found that many of these Tech-Priests were "pragmatists," a far cry from the stereotypical, fanatical cog-heads he had imagined. There were true fanatics, who devoted their entire existence to the Omnissiah and the pursuit of knowledge, but they were a minority. Most were just people trying to get by, with their own hobbies and interests.
In their own words: "My talent and my interests are two different things. The former is my job, the latter is my life. You can't say that building lasguns is knowledge, but studying botany isn't. You can't say that one form of knowledge is more sacred than another. With enough accumulated knowledge, a hobby can also become a job."
—A certain anonymous cog-girl.
One can imagine how hard Archmagos Veyl's mandatory overtime order hit these pragmatists. Omega, for his part, quite enjoyed watching their misery.
"Alright, that's all for today. Class dismissed."
Omega hopped down from his raised lectern. He looked at the aspirants below, their minds reeling, their eyes glazed over yet still hungry for more, and at the non-aspirants cowering in the corners, auditing his lecture. He clicked his tongue.
The environment really does shape a person, he thought. Where is this damned feeling of guilt coming from?
Ignoring the sheepskin tomes on the lectern, heavy enough to kill a man, Omega was surrounded by his followers as they headed for the temple gates.
"Boss-Lecturer, did you hear?"
Nice, the title has evolved again, Omega noted with satisfaction. Finally, no more "Little"!
"Hear what?"
"They say the Grand Manufactorum was attacked again!"
Heh. Bad news travels fast. The attack had only happened that morning, and by the afternoon, even the lowest-level laborers knew about it. "Don't go spreading rumors like that! Knowing won't do you any good, and not knowing won't do you any harm."
"Yes, yes... the boss is right."
"Paul," Omega said, turning to his oldest aspirant. "The person you were going to introduce, are they here?"
Aspirant Paul would be participating in the next round of Tech-Priest selections in a few months. Whether he passed depended on the Omnissiah and his own performance. If he failed, he would have to work in the factories. He'd be made a foreman, but his path to the priesthood would be all but severed; he would never again have the free time for deep study. He now spent every waking moment stuck to Omega's side, desperately absorbing every scrap of knowledge he could.
"Of course, Boss-Lecturer! You may not realize it, but your reputation in our district is sky-high right now!"
"Oh really? As high as a manufactorum stack?" Omega quipped.
Paul, who was a full head taller than Omega, bowed obsequiously. "Haha, much higher than that, Boss-Lecturer, much higher!"
Omega knew it was true. Before, the aspirants were mostly self-taught, with priests lecturing only when they had the time and inclination. But he lectured four days out of every five. Ever since he started, the number of children being sent to the temple by their parents had steadily increased.