Deus in Machina (a Warhammer 40K-setting inspired LitRPG)

Angar's gaze lingered on Simo's near-visible trembling, a knot of unease tightening in his chest. "Have you been abused?" he asked firmly.

"Not at all, Sir," Simo replied. His gaze remained fixed on the floor as his hand twitched at his side.

Angar turned to Veerta, her posture rigid with tension. "What's wrong?"

She flicked him a furtive glance, as if meeting his eyes risked ruin. "Nothing, Sir. We promise. Just nervous, is all. We aren't used to such lofty company. Trying to stay out of the way, is all." Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper.

Angar's brows furrowed, suspicion deepening. "You sure?"

"Most definitely, Sir," she said, another skittish look darting his way before her eyes dropped again.

He shot Harc a hard stare, a silent vow etched in his expression that any harm to Simo or Veerta would meet retribution, Saints aboard or no. Harc merely smiled with a small curve of his lips, then turned and strode off with boots ringing against the entry bay's grated floor. "Come, Angar," he called, "I'll give you a quick tour."

Angar hesitated, torn between forcing the issue or not. He resolved to unearth the truth of this strangeness, then followed his guide.

Harc led him up a spiral stairwell to Deck 1, the topmost tier, as metal groaned underfoot. He gestured toward the prow. "Command deck's there. Heithrum's the helmsman but goes by Heith."

Angar stepped into the chamber. The command deck sprawled up in a ceiling arched with ribs of blackened steel. Holoforms flickered at the center, projecting star charts in ghostly gold, sending light dancing across a throne of angular iron.

Heith slouched within, a lean figure in a plain tunic. He was an older man, his bald scalp shining under softly glowing light strips.

One hand rested on a rune-etched helm console as the other tapped a rhythm against the armrest. He glanced up and offered a curt nod. "God and Empire, Sir. Welcome aboard." His tone was dry, almost a challenge, but he turned back to the holoforms without waiting for a reply.

"God and Empire," Angar replied.

Harc moved on. "Heith's steady. Flies her like she's part of him."

They retraced their steps, descending to Deck 2, the upper mid. Harc pointed aft. "Crew quarters are that way. Sickbay's opposite."

The sickbay's air was moist with steam, sharp with antiseptic and a faint rot. It looked similar to Vernost's sickbay, with machinery looming against the walls, hissing vapor from unseen vents, consoles pulsing with arcane glyphs, their light bleeding into the gloom.

At the chamber's core hulked another Vitaelux Apexium, and he was glad this chapter had one.

A wiry figure stepped from the tank's shadow, wiping oil-slick hands on a rag. "Laoch, ship medicus," Harc said. "As usual, everyone calls him Doc."

The man's grin split too wide for the grim space, wearing a tunic patched with grime. "God and Empire, Sir Angar. I have your medical records and a new eye growing for you. I can't wait to check out those hands of yours." His eyes raked Angar, settling on his bandaged arms.

Harc was already moving as Angar replied. He wondered how they got his medical records, as he hadn't joined the chapter. They dropped to Deck 3, lower mid, via a rattling lift. Harc nodded toward the midsection. "The comcast stations are back there. Here's the operator's station. Deli's there. You learned about operators?"

"I did," replied Angar.

The station was a cramped alcove with walls bristling with screens, rune-etched controls, and diodes. Deli hunched over one of three consoles. He was a lean figure in a drab jumpsuit with fingers dancing across controls. "God and Empire, Sir Angar," he muttered, only looking up for a second. "Hope you join." His tone carried some meaning Angar couldn't place, but Harc didn't linger for questions.

Aft lay a sort of engineering bay filled with armor and implants. They passed through without comment, taking a lift back up, entering the machimotarium, a cavern of grinding steel and gold-tinged vapor. Graviton Flux Reactors thrummed with neutronium pellets humming within their cores, feeding the Lux Aeterna Drive.

Harc waved a hand. "This is where the ship technici spend most of their time, keeping this beast alive." The air buzzed with graviton waves, a hymn of power bending spacetime itself.

They descended all the way down to Deck 4, the belly, and entered a fighter bay. Two sleek and scarred fighters crouched beside an even more scarred and blocky shuttle.

A ramp was out and the plain vehicle that had delivered him to the ship was about to drive up it.

"These fighters get a lot of use," Harc said. "Stek and Majed fly them, but Heith has to man the deck on his own if both go out. Sometimes I take one for a spin." The bay nearly swallowed his words, sending echoes bouncing off dented walls.

He pointed to the back of the bay, at a partition. "We have some other toys back there, like battlecycles." He pointed to the side. "That leads to the cargo bay."

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The tour proceeded. As they turned aft toward the propulsorium, a clanking figure rounded a corner. A Mechanoid, Anger thought, and a strange one, wearing some Crusader Armor pieces. He'd only seen a few in person, but he'd seen many image-captures of them during certain classes.

Then Angar remembered what he had been told about Saint Thryna, but the Mechanoid was walking by without looking at either man, and since Harc didn't pause, he figured it couldn't be her. Just in case, he nodded at it or her respectfully.

They reached the propulsorium, its Sanctified Resonance Core pulsing at the heart of the main drive. The prayer-etched crystal lattice, when powered, created graviton waves warping spacetime into an Alcubierre bubble cutting through the void by Lumenstream, doing between ten and a hundred light years a day depending on various factors, such as distance, and size of Luman Anchors, or two light years a day without anchors.

Harc took a spiraling staircase up to the top again, stopping short of a sealed bulkhead to the aft. "Hidetada's sanctum's beyond," he said as the door hissed open. "Go on in."

Angar stepped into a sterile antechamber of white tiles gleaming under harsh light. Beyond a glass-sealed wall sprawled a grotesque remnant of what was once a man.

Saint Hidetada hung suspended in a web of machinery, a charred husk teetering on oblivion. Half his skull vanished, the ragged edge sealed in a glass dome, brain matter pulsing faintly within, threaded with silver filaments of circuitry.

His torso was a ruin of flesh blackened and peeling, with ribs protruding like broken spires, fused to a lattice of steel plates. Tubes snaked into what remained, pumping viscous fluids through his veins with a rhythmic, sickening pulse.

One arm dangled like a shriveled claw, the other replaced by a twitching prosthetic with its joints grinding with each shudder. His legs were gone, just stumps capped with glowing diodes, wires spilling out of them like entrails into the floor.

Machines whirred around him, hulking things of flashing lights and flickering runes, with tendrils coiling from their frames, feeding or draining him. A small Mechanoid stood dormant on a charging station, making its stillness somehow eerie.

A mechanical voice rasped from a hidden source, "Use the console."

Angar turned to the wall-mounted terminal with words appearing as he approached.

[So, what do you think? Am I man or machine? Do you consider this being alive?]

He moved to type, but more words appeared.

[Just speak. I'd rather not. I still sound like myself in my head, and I hate the mechanical voice I now have.]

"I don't know your full story," Angar said, choosing his words carefully, "but you're keeping to your oath, still fighting against Hell. To me, that makes you man enough, and more alive than most."

[Glad I meet your approval.]

"Saint," Angar pressed in a firm tone, "I must demand to know why Simo and his wife are aboard, and why they seem so frightened."

[I don't know. I haven't spoken to them. Most likely, they're nervous due to being summoned to a Saint's ship. It could be because they refused to divulge information about you when asked by my men. Asked nicely, I'll add. They're loyal to you, and the wife isn't even your servant.

I know your faith differs from standard Trinitarian dogma. My own does as well. Theosis is a fool to not out Heretics. Do you agree?]

The sudden shift to such a sensitive topic caught Angar off guard. Calling Holy Theosis a fool was blasphemous territory, a dangerous line to cross. He usually played his cards close to his chest, avoiding any sensitive topics, but he wanted to learn more about Hidetada, the grand marshal of the chapter he may be joining.

"Maybe," Angar said cautiously, "but where does breaking the sacred Parousia Protocols end? Perhaps not utilizing neural communes in battle is foolish too. Maybe not using fighting machines as the Old Guard does is also foolish. Maybe allowing us free will is the most foolish thing of all.

[There's a large chasm between not empowering or outing your enemies and a full revert to the Age of Decadence and Sloth, yes?]

"Maybe, or maybe that'd be the first link in the chain that binds Terrans in slavery again," Angar countered.

[Better slavery than oblivion. Theosis has its faults, but at least it's trying to help us win, which can't be said of Mi Alcyone's gospels of love and forgiveness, which only make us weak.]

Hot and sharp anger flared in Angar's chest. That was clear Heresy and pure blasphemy, and he wouldn't abide it. "She sacrificed herself to save us. Without her, there'd be no Holy Theosis empowering us, making us strong. There'd be no Holy Empire. Hell would've won."

[I noticed you didn't disagree with my point. Her gospels of love and forgiveness do make us weak. She was weak. A Messiah who couldn't even defeat a Demon Lord? Pathetic.]

"Enough!" Angar snapped as fury surged. "She wasn't weak! She fought one of the most powerful Demon Lords on her own. I honor your history, and that you were crippled fighting a Demon Lord, but I won't stand for such talk. Speak another word of blasphemy against the blessed Mother, and we fight here and now."

He waited a minute. No reply showed on the screen. He took a calming breath, settling himself. "Your chapter isn't for me. Saint or not, if I find out you harmed Simo or his wife, you'll see me again."

He turned to leave. After two steps of his boots stomping the ground, the mechanical voice rasped out again. "Wait. One moment. Go back to the console."

Angar considered ignoring the Saint, but a pleading, "Please," made him sigh and return.

[I know you won't answer, but I know you've met her. The blessed Mother. Our glorious and beloved Messiah.]

Angar's pulse quickened, but he forced his face to remain impassive, staring at the screen. He didn't know what game Hidetada was playing, but he disliked it. Spirit had left him, but he'd never betray her.

[I saw her once. On the battlefield. She helped us fight Mara. I saw her clear as day, though none of the other survivors did. That battle made me what I am, and with little else to do, I looked into it. Yearly, millions claim to see her. The Enlightened Scribes have many interesting records of these sightings. Like me, I believe some actually do.

Twice in history have there been reports claiming Holy Theosis assigned strange tasks. On Sulfuron 9, the same happened, following you here to this world, right up to your early issues with the Eyes of Providence. I believe those tasks were her doing. And I believe you haven't seen her since. I'd bet a falling out.]

Angar kept his expression blank, though his heart pounded. He'd never confirm Hidetada's suspicions, loyalty to Spirit outweighing any pressure the Saint could bring to bear on him.

[I want you in my chapter. You planned to join the Thorned Chalice. I'll offer the same stipend and benefits, plus full funding for your Sulfuron 9 plans. I'm very wealthy.]

"How do you know I have plans for my planet?" asked Angar. He badly wanting to know how this man knew so much that couldn't be known.

[I have little to do but study my prey, to know them as I know myself.]