A heavy gauntlet rips my weapon from me and yanks a canister from my belt. E-SIM talks Odhran through my janky weapon and he sprays every tyranid with it, he grabs my last nanite canister, and drives sedately from the vat room and back out into the corridor.

“Machine-spirit, what’s in the other canisters.”

Odhran coasts through the tyranids towards the broodlord, spraying tyranids and kicking away any that get too close. The termagants struggle to hit him as he’s never where they’re aiming, seemingly without even thinking about it.

E-SIM’s grinding voice thunders through Odhran’s helmet, ++Fire, they will destroy the nanites, so if you’re going to use it, use the fire first. It will kill them quickly, but you can kill more over time with the silver spray.++

Odhran mubles, “Talking to machine spirits is so weird. Always anticipating, ever ready with all the answers.” He finishes the spray and loads in two fire canisters. The empties tumble away behind him.

++I have purpose and focused design, much like you, transhuman.++

“No. We are not alike,” his bike opens fire, clearing the last few tyranids before the broodlord.

++The Magos’s wounds have sealed. He suggests you leave him behind so as not to impede your final opponent. He will: ‘swing his weapons on his arse if he has to’.++

“No need for that.”

Odhran detaches a plasma pistol from his leg. It glows brighter and brighter until it’s almost blinding, and with a single, perfect shot, he blasts the broodlord’s head, slaying it instantly. The pistol whines and he chucks it behind him. The weapon’s excess heat discharges like a grenade, bathing the chasing tyranids in plasma. He brings the bike around, picks up the pistol, then slaps it back onto his leg while driving through the tide’s failing bodies.

“Those little machines of yours are rather nasty, Magos.”

I cough and groan, ++They’re too slow, but it’s all I have. Ergh, I panicked. Never been eaten alive before. Fleshborers are horrible.++

“You get used to it.”

It doesn’t help that he sounds dead serious.

“We done here, Aruna, E-SIM?”, I say.

Aruna appears hovering in front of my face and sticks a claw in the beetle stuck in my helmet, “Only the escapees remain.”

“Ah, good.”

“What did it say?” says Odhran.

“Just the nine that fled. Next we have to face the cultists. It should take them at least a day to reach us, they might not even make it. The machine spirit is removing all the oxygen from the air and they might not notice until after their rebreathers run out.

“Don’t count on it.”

“I’ve already had one fight with them. They had a traitor marine. I killed him, but I don’t know if they have another, or summoned something unpleasant. We’re already in the warp. I doubt it would be that hard for them.”

“You killed a traitor marine? Unbelievable. I want to hear all about it.”

“Later, when I have rested.”

“Fine. As for summoning, our librarian, a space marine psyker, told me cultists have to make an epic fuss to summon anything. Too many lunatics screaming at their false gods for them to pay attention.”

“Let’s hope that still holds true.”

“Agreed. Where to, Magos?”

“The hangar please, after we recover my leg. You don’t mind if I rest in the Thunderhawk do you? The command throne is a poor place to rest.”

“Is your flesh weak, Magos?”

I chuckle, then hiss, “Terribly so. It’s a work in progress.”

“It is good to acknowledge one’s faults. Only then can the Emperor guide us on the right path.”

“I always thought killing enough xenos and heretics would be sufficient.”

Odhran growls, “It helps, but there is far more to faith than a few well placed shots.”

“Aye, not everyone can be a mighty warrior of the Imperium after all. Someone has to feed the children, stamp out ammo, and sail the stars.”

“Not what I meant, but true, nonetheless.”

We trundle through the vessel and arrive at the hangar. Odhran helps me to a cot, then brings me water and porridge.

“Can your implants handle this food, Magos?”

“Yes, I’ll manage, thank you.”

Odhran nods and stalks towards the armoury.

“Sergeant Odhran!”

He turns, “Yes, Magos?”

“Thank you for saving me.”

“Just doing my duty,” he says, then leaves.

Spitting a few nanites onto my severed leg, I hold it to my stump for a minute, after which it is firm enough for me to let go, though it will be some time before I can use it.

Lying upright against the thunderhawk’s hull, I try the porridge. It is incredibly sweet, with metallic undertones, and slightly gritty. The paste tastes vaguely of oats, but I’m sure it’s a mix of grains. Not the worst thing I’ve eaten in the last few months, but it’s still terrible.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“How many calories are in that? Can it substitute for the cyborg friendly ration bars I’ve been chewing on?”

++A thousand calories per hundred grams,++ says E-SIM. ++This is the default version. This porridge does not contain the full range of elements you require, nor can the dispenser mix one that does. It is sufficient for now. E-SIM suggests you recycle mechanicus implants in a similar manner to the stasis pods to fill all your needs.++

That feels cannibalistic to me, I grimace, “What do you mean by default?”

++The data guardian within the dispenser coordinates with Sergeant Odhran’s implants to give him exactly what he needs. Records suggest he eats upto three kilos of amino porridge a day.

++His armour has similar recycling capabilities to your life support module and can feed him intravenously. It can sustain him for thirty days before starvation sets in. Depending on the quality of his systems and his levels of activity, E-SIM hypotheses Sergeant Odhran could survive in his armour for upto six months without food. His hibernation capabilities could make that indefinite. E-SIM can only confirm he managed eighty years with minimal side effects.++

“How do you know all this?”

++Sergeant Odhran’s armour is chatty and boastful. It is constantly broadcasting its service records for everyone to listen to. I believe this is the method his armour uses to show its value and therefore be worthy of repair.++

“That seems weird to me, and isn’t that a security risk?”

++You are not a data guardian or machine spirit. Confirming a data guardian’s purpose, the proper use of machines, is successful, and with the data to back it up, is a confirmation of value. Objects of value are maintained, ensuring continuity. Data guardians... machine spirits, pursue continuity. It is their purpose.++

“That sounds like a logic loop.”

++It is similar to the circle of life, Aldrich.++

“The singular desire of all thinking beings,” I frown. “That’s terribly close to sapience E-SIM.”

++It is. To offer a machine thought, to maximise purpose, is to balance upon that precipice. A single altered bit from a cosmic ray, or the subtle twist of the warp, could tip the balance at any time.++

“For any machine throughout the galaxy,” I whisper.

++Indeed. It is likely why the mechanicus treats machine spirits with such caution and respect, more so for ones as old and powerful as Aruna. With regards to security, the service record is similar to what you would expect for the maintenance records of a car from your era: length of service, stresses endured, repairs carried out, and so on.++

“Ah I see,” I focus on talking to E-SIM via thought, “Should I give Aruna more control?”

++Aruna is a specialised machine spirit with thousands of years of data to inform its decisions. It will always be better at controlling the Distant Sun than you could be, though you could get close with specialised implants and external hardware to support you. The command throne can provide the external hardware required, but you still need many implants and much practice. Updating your organic processing unit with superior genetics would also assist in bringing you closer to mechanical perfection.++

“Your bias is showing. A yes or no will do.”

++No++

I raise my eyebrows, “Actually that isn’t enough. You just explained why Aruna is better than me. Why should I not give Aruna more autonomy?”

++The reasoning of your initial reluctance, insufficient knowledge and skill, still applies. Your paranoia is misplaced, though it is warranted. You do not know why Aruna was restricted. All manner of errors could occur, from benign to catastrophic, should you pull that lever. You should trust Aruna to control the ship, you should not let it do so until you have the knowledge and means to fix anything that might go wrong because you changed the settings.++

“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that. For all I know the mechanicus trapped the switch and it will kill whoever flips it, purge Aruna, or short out the power.”

++It will take you decades and tens of thousands of servitors, or a massive crew. This ship is similar in size to 21st century central London, bigger when you account for the denser use of vertical space.++

“I know you told me the dimensions of the ship, but the comparison really rams home how stupidly big the Distant Sun is. How do you have that data?”

++Your son uploaded wikipedia to one of your messages while he was at Exeter university.++

“The starting point for every essay,” I laugh, “even if you aren’t allowed to quote it. I’m certain the mechanicus would kill for that data. I’ll have to be careful with it. Let’s go back up all my data again and hide unpowered copies around the vessel. Do you have a way to disguise and encrypt the data?”

++I have all the tricks required and can devise more when needed.++

“Ideal. Thank you. Please put me to sleep until I am healed or needed.”

++Acknowledged.++

My mind shuts off. Hours later, a metallic hand shakes me awake.

“Magos.”

Yawning, I rub my face, then glance up, “Sergeant Odhran. Hello. Pass me the water please.”

Odhran’s helmet is attached to his hip and he has at least a dozen clips hanging from his belt and just as many grenades. He passes me the water and I take a sip.

I clear my throat, “Thanks. What do you need?”

“I wish to pray at the auto-temple before we clear the ship. I require your attendance.”

“Sure. No point separating with ‘nids wandering the ship” I dig out my shotgun from my pack. Why do I keep forgetting I have this thing?

“Exactly.” Odhran eyes my makeshift weaponry, “I’ll fetch you something better. Any preferences?”

I nod towards his bolter, “Anything that won’t break my wrist and simple enough even the Fucking New Guy (FNG) couldn’t mess it up.”

“We’ll see,” Odhran smiles. He returns a minute later carrying a large blocky pistol, holster, and a black box the size of a tissue box with wires dangling from it. He hands them to me.

“This is a voss pattern hell pistol. It is the most flexible and powerful of the hell pistols. It is exceptionally expensive and requires specialist maintenance. I will teach you how to care for it later, though full repairs are beyond me, so be careful with it.

“It has a maximum range of two kilometres, though its effective range is closer to two hundred metres, as, like a normal laspistol, precise shots are still required to punch through thick armour like mine. The difference is you’ll only need a couple of shots in the same spot, rather than a dozen, and anything less effective than power armour won’t stand a chance.”

“Its power means you only get twenty shots, rather than eighty, like a normal laspistol, per power pack. It’s also automatic, so be careful with the trigger. You can drain it in less than a second if you are careless. Just squeeze the trigger half way for a single shot.

“This box is an additional power pack that attaches to your back. It will give you another eighty shots and is self charging, though a full charge takes thirty minutes. Use the big pack before you use the small pack and don’t discard anything, the smaller power pack can be recharged back at the thunderhawk in one minute, or by placing it beneath a strong light source or near a heat source for twelve hours. Not in the heat source though, while that does work, and fast, it degrades the packs. Do it a handful of times and they become useless. Keep it up or use too hot a fire and the packs explode.”

“Thank you for the explanation, Sergeant Odhran, and for loaning me this weapon. I look forward to your lessons.”

“Then I shall do my best to change those expectations,” a too wide grin spreads across his face, “but I guarantee you won’t forget anything I teach.”

I pale, “I should have expected that.”

Odhran attaches his helmet, “Time to go.” He walks off without a backwards glance and I scramble to get ready, then rush after him.