Chapter 14: The Cogboy Becomes the "Second-Gen Gear-Lord"
In the iron-clad halls of Teyedan's Mechanicus Temple, whispers of heresy and privilege swirled like coolant mist. To meddle in the Vitae-wombs overseen by Archmagos Veyl himself—such audacity! It wasn't mere interference; it was orchestration.
The Temple Priest, optics wide with barely concealed panic, turned to Enginseer Jacob. "Brother Jacob, might you clarify your role in this… affair?"
"I drive the transport," Jacob grunted, his vox-modulator flat with disinterest.
The priest blinked, incredulous. "You? A driver?"
"Aye. Just the driver."
"And you alone?"
"Three others," Jacob muttered. "Magos Laust's daughter and two more Tech-Priests."
"By the Omnissiah!" the priest gasped, his mechadendrites twitching. Four Tech-Priests, including a Magos's daughter, reduced to servants? Only Archmagos Veyl could wield such reckless authority! This wasn't priesthood—it was a spoiled son's gift, demanded from a doting father. Such blasphemy! Such… enviable favor!
The Temple Priest's demeanor shifted to wary respect. "We've long suspected this batch of vat-born was irregular. The excuses were absurd, unprofessional. Now it's clear: all for him."
Jacob, exasperated by the priest's escalating nonsense, snapped the vox-link shut. "Enough of your gibberish! I don't understand a word, and neither should you. Cease your speculation!"
But his irritation only fueled the priest's conviction. This was worth it. By the Emperor, it was priceless.
Meanwhile, in the Temple's scriptorium, Omega was distributing ration cans to the self-studying acolytes. Refuse his generosity? That was spitting on the face of Omega, the Little Priest. He'd brandish his borrowed power sword to remind them of their manners. The remaining crate—barely a dozen cans—was handed to Beta.
"Take these, eat up. You're skin and bone!" Omega chided. "My Temple acolytes are all plump and healthy under my care."
"You…" Beta began, her voice flat.
"You what? Take it!" Omega insisted. "There's half a cargo bay left, but I can't give it all to you—others need their share. When you're done, tell me, and I'll bring more."
Beta swallowed hard. "Thank you, 139876-9527-Omega. Are you… giving cans to all 1,299 of us? Why?"
"No reason you'd get," Omega said with a grin. "Tell me, you want ration cans or Corpse-starch bars?"
"Cans," Beta replied, her monotone betraying no emotion. "Higher energy content, better protein and mineral absorption, balanced nutrition, stimulates dopamine release."
Omega cursed inwardly but kept his smile. "That's the spirit! Stick with me, and you'll have cans for every meal."
The Mechanicus Temple treated its vat-born like machines: wake, eat Corpse-starch, study, sleep. A schedule so rigid it dulled even the sharpest minds, turning the acolytes into soulless automatons. Growth? Stifled. Humanity? Erased.
"I'm off," Omega said. "Next time, I'll bring a vox-panel so we can stay in touch. You can chat with your brothers and sisters. Can you believe you lot haven't spoken ten sentences to anyone in a year?"
"Why?" Beta asked.
"Don't ask! Follow me, get cans. Disobey, get nothing. And from now on, call me Big Brother. Got it?"
"…Yes, Big Brother."
Omega exhaled in relief. Step one: basic conditioning complete. The ancient Terran experiment of food-based training still worked in the 42nd millennium. Cans were cheap, plentiful, and effective.
As he stepped out of the scriptorium, Omega caught sight of Jacob's uncharacteristic scowl. The timing wasn't right to pry, so he followed the Enginseer to their transport. Only after they'd driven a distance did Omega remark, "Never seen a priest so polite. Escorted us right to the door."
Jacob's optics flickered nervously. "Don't trust him. His cogitator's fritzed."
Omega chuckled inwardly. To rile up a good-natured soul like Jacob? That priest was defective.
They continued their rounds across Teyedan, not returning to Magos Laust's Temple until the witching hours.
Over the next weeks, Rhea, Louis, Jacob, and Aedus took turns shadowing Omega. They had their own duties—salaried Tech-Priests, not mere honoraries—and relied on each other to cover shifts, with Magos Laust quietly bending protocols to enable their escapades. Their workloads swelled, yet Omega piled on more: vox-panel designs, platform frameworks, all tied to his mysterious Blue Ocean plan.
Vox-panels were civilian tech, barely regulated compared to lasguns. Carve a Chaos star on one, and you'd face scrutiny; otherwise, any Enginseer with a toolkit could tinker freely. The Imperium was lousy with them.
Under this grueling pace, the four Tech-Priests teetered on rebellion, tempted to slack off. But Omega's relentless tactics—his Golden Finger at work—kept them in line. He'd point to their dwindling Gear-scrip, preaching about "sunk costs" and "time is money, my friends." When exhaustion hit hardest, he'd wave his borrowed power sword, forcing them to chant success mantras:
"To succeed, go mad! Keep it simple, charge forward!"
"One victory is enough—not every battle!"
"Winners never quit; quitters never win!"
"Greatness is forged under pressure!"
Rumors of heretical cults began to circulate, with Magos Laust fielding reports of suspicious activity.
Omega dangled his scriptorium earnings—his "guidance catalog"—as a taunt. "Jealous? Hate me? Want to surpass me? Then work!" When their fury burned out, he'd switch tactics, smirking about "double wins"—because Omega always won twice. The Blue Ocean was his. Then, with a shift to honeyed words, he'd praise their efforts, preach unity, and offer small gifts: sweets, stimm-doses, trinkets.
This brutal cycle of pressure, resentment, and camaraderie pushed the Blue Ocean plan forward. In two months, they'd built a network for 1,299 reserve instructors, designed custom vox-panels (one set for acolytes, another for teachers), and erected a supporting platform. But their Gear-scrip reserves were dry, with no funds for production or promotion.
At their lowest, Omega swooped in. To the despairing Aedus, Louis, Jacob, and a rebellious Rhea (who'd tried to leverage her father's influence), he injected fresh funds, seizing absolute control of the project. In private, he rallied the men against Rhea's "tentacles" of influence, ensuring Magos Laust's reach stayed limited. They'd keep the project theirs.
Unbeknownst to them, Magos Laust monitored their moves. Omega's manipulation of Rhea—his own daughter—stoked a rare fury. He'd nearly crushed the Little Priest on the spot, fearing Omega's cunning would outstrip his own in time. Laust had tried to free Rhea from Omega's sway, pitting her against him, only to find Omega had anticipated every move, securing control from the start.
Old cog, Omega thought, I've been watching you. Your daughter's in my camp—did you think I wouldn't notice your spying? My cogitator's too sharp, and schemes come easy.
Amid these machinations, a scandalous rumor spread through Teyedan's forges: Archmagos Veyl, to conceal his illegitimate son, had rigged a Vitae-womb batch to miscarry early. A year ago, this "cover" batch was born, with his son—Omega—slipped among them. Adopted by Magos Laust, a supposed rival but secret loyalist, Omega was coddled, with Laust's daughter and three Tech-Priests as his "servants." Over a thousand Temples had been visited by this "second-gen Gear-Lord," and black-market vids showed Veyl personally welding dissenters to assembly lines—over twenty such clips existed.
No one dared tear the veil. To provoke the Archmagos's wrath was to court annihilation.
Omega and Archmagos Veyl, the rumor's subjects, remained blissfully ignorant. Laust, however, issued a gag order the day the gossip reached him, blaming every priest for its spread. Jacob agreed: if Veyl investigated, none would escape unscathed. Hundreds of priests purged all data on Omega's "scandal," swearing, "We know nothing!" and "Just hearsay!"
As for Veyl, his inner circle knew better than to speak. The rumor's wilder claims—that Veyl, centuries ago, had "severed his mortal ties"—were absurd. Technologically, it wasn't impossible; any Forge Temple could manage it. But the truth? That required investigation.