So after reading through some recent discussion about the BORGs vs. the AdMech and the mysticism differences between the two, I figured I would give my own two cents. This all started as just a normal discussion post, but after a few minutes I decided that would be boring, and so instead decided to write this up, as a way of showing how I saw the BORGs and how they differed from the AdMech. I hope you all enjoy!
Awaken, Machine Spirit!
"Fabricator-Adept? The next unit is ready for you." The message coming over the intercom is short and to the point.
Upon hearing it, Fabricator-Adept Zebulon Nu allowed the pumps in his chest to spin up, flushing oxygen-rich air into his augmented respiratory tract. In an instant, the meditative stupor he was in faded, replaced with crystal clarity, allowing him to stand up inside his meditative cubicle. The time to ponder the infinite complexities of steel and circuit was over for now.
"I shall be there shortly." He transmitted in response, before turning and exiting the small chamber, which aside from him contained only a small shrine adorned with the cog and skull of the Omnissiah.
After a quick bow, he turned and departed the meditative cubicle, entering into one the long hallway that stretched along the length of the administrative mezzanine of the Slawkenberg Armor Manufactorum. Through the windows spaced evenly along its length, he could see the entirety of the assembly line that, over the course of eight days, transformed raw material stock into suits of armor for the USA. In the distance, half-obscured by a haze of smoke, were the crucibles and forges, where metal was forged and worked into shape, tempered and cooled into each of the thick plates that, later in the line, would be combined with servos, hydraulics, and circuits to form a suit of powered armor, destined to be worn by one of the Liberator's elite.
Of course, there were other Fabricators who concerned themselves with earlier stages in the process. Forge-Adept Mercurion, Metallurgy-Adept Ferrox, and countless others, all suprvised their own portions of the process, ensuring that the Machine Spirits of the fabrication equipment were kept happy, and that the infant spirits that they slowly brought to life in their creations developed safely.
However, once the armor was assembled, there remained but one final step... And that was where Zebulon Nu came in.
Soon, he exited the mezzanine, taking an elevator down to the manufactorum floor. All around him, workers bustled around, their chatter filling the air and mixing with the distant clanking of the forge, the whirring of drills, and the sizzling of welding torches.
"Hey! Stop that part!" He turned his head upon hearing the shout, and saw a worker momentarily halt a conveyor belt to pluck a curved piece of metal off, before restarting it. Zebulon's augmented eye zoomed in to inspect the piece, and immediately detected the fault. One of the embedded circuit boards showed signs of heat damage. Had it been allowed to pass, it may have been installed in one of tomorrow's units, creating discomfort for the machine spirit and necessitating the entire suit be stripped down and investigated. He gave the worker an approving nod before continuing on his way.
Zebulon would admit that he had been skeptical when the Liberator had ordered a complete ban on the use of servitors in manufacturing. While he had certainly agreed that servitors were somewhat overused in certain sectors, he had thought that the repetitive tasks of an assembly line were something best suited for a mind that had its capacity for distraction cut out of it.
Now though, he knew better. Most servitors would not have caught that defect, and instead of a worker spending a few seconds to stop the line, remove the part and place it in a bin for recycling, it would have taken Zebulon hours to disassemble the final product, find the defect, replace the part, and reassemble it. It was true that ordinary workers needed time to rest, pray, eat, sleep, and all sorts of other little things, it was nothing that a rotating shift schedule could not address, with the added bonus that the workers did not burn out and require replacement after a few years like most servitors did. Truly, the Omnissiah had blessed the Liberator with this insight into improving the efficiency of the world's manufactorums.
After a short walk, Zebulon reached his first destination, his olfactory sensors picking up the smells of consecrated lubricants. Before him were four doors, each one leading to a Chamber of Lubricants. One was marked with the silver skull and cog of the Omnissiah, another with the red axe-like symbol of the Blood God, a third with the wavy crescent of the Changer of Ways, and the fourth with the Prince of Pleasure's distinct elongated rune. From behind each one came the sounds of chanting and bubbling machinery, which was unusual. Normally, only the first two would be in use, but it seemed as though there were some custom orders for the Handmaidens and Jafar's attempt at a Psyker corps coming through later today. No matter, he would deal with them as they came.
He passed by the door of Tzeentch first, the scents from inside obscured by strong incense, his olfactory sensors being overloaded and returning null results. This was by design. Tzeentchian Lubricant was rarely needed in this particular assembly line, generally being reserved for administrative equipment such as auto-scribes and lectern-crawlers, but when it was needed, Zebulon had to disable his olfactory sensors while handling it. This was not because of any particularly foul smell, no, but rather because his olfactory augmentations were capable of discerning its contents. The lubricants were mixed with a random selection of nine additives from eighty-one possible options, in a blind process that even the priests consecrating it had to remain ignorant of. The Adeptus Mechanicus adepts previously in charge of concocting the holy oils and lubricants for the manufactorum would have been appalled by this process. After all, if the additives and their proportions were not known, how could consistency be guaranteed? But it was precisely the uncertainty that made Tzeentchian lubricant function well, and if any of the tech-priests handling it discovered its composition, even accidentally, the entire batch would be spoiled, and what was once a smooth, efficient mixture would turn to glue.
Next, he passed by the door of Slaanesh, and the sweet perfumes and incense within immediately assailed him. In truth, he was not particularly fond of working with the stuff, and was thankful that it was mostly utilized for civilian goods, and the occasional custom order for the Handmaidens. The scented additives that went into the oil were somewhat overpowering for one used to the comforting smoke and metallic scents of the manufactorum, but he was told that they brought much joy and comfort to those who received the finished product.
Finally, he stopped at the door of Khorne and opened it, stepping inside. Even after all these years, Zebulon found these rooms somewhat off-putting, and he never quite grew used to the scent of brass and blood no matter how many times he entered. This entire manufactorum was the Omnissiah's temple, and to allow even a single room devoted to another god inside was bordering on blasphemy. Quite a few of his fellow BORGs had resisted the idea, and it had been the subject of intense theological debate. In the end, it was judged that the increase in sacred efficiency by producing the oils on-site would more than balance out these small concessions, and thus far the other three members of Slawkenberg's pantheon had been gracious guests.
"Fabricator-Adept!"
Across from him stood a tall, muscular man, wearing the dress uniform of the United Slawkenberg Army. Upon his chest were five brass, skull-shaped pins, two shaped like those of Orks, while the other three were human. Each one indicated a feat of valor, and a particularly noteworthy foe's skull claimed. This man had been in the USA since its inception. He had fought the Orks when they attempted to invade Slawkenberg, and he had deployed to Cassandron to face the diseased hordes there, and he would likely serve for decades more.
"Sergeant Major Duran." The Magos compared the man's face to a scan of his identity card, confirming that the was indeed the right man. Had he not been, then the Machine Spirit would be confused when the armor was delivered to its rightful owner. That could not be permitted.
"You are ready." It was not a question, and the answer was not in doubt. Had there been any doubt, then the Sergeant Major would not be here.
"I am." The man replied.
"Step forward." Zebulon ordered, before walking over to a nearby rack and picking up a ritual knife with two of his mechadendrites. With a hilt of brass and a simple, unadorned blade, it was an instrument of bloodletting without any frivolity. He offered it to the Sergeant Major, who took it without hesitation, feeling its weight.
That done, Zebulon reached out and picked up a large tin of lubricant, opening it to reveal the dark red liquid within.
"Eight drops, Sergeant Major." Zebulon ordered.
There were no prayers said. No frivolities. It was one thing that Zebulon appreciated about the Blood God. There was no chanting choir, no elaborate dance, no deliberate obfuscation requried to bless this oil. The act of spilling blood alone was enough.
The Sergeant Major lifted the blade, placing it against his palm. He paused for a moment, though there was no fear in his eyes, merely a calculating glance as he adjusted the blade to cut deeper, before slicing it across his palm. He held it over the open oil tin until Zebulon counted eight generous drops of human blood, dripping from the Sergeant Major's hand and into the lubricant. The man did not flinch or cry out in pain as the ritual was carried out. At last, when the required offering was made, Zebulon picked up the tin, ensuring that any excess blood spilled into the cup-like altar beneath, the brass shrine stained red from regular use.
"Through this offering, shall the Machine Spirit recognize its rightful bearer." Zebulon declared.
"And I, it." The Sergeant Major responded, placing his bloody hand over his heart.
With that, the ritual was concluded, and the lubricant was consecrated. Zebulon did not waste any more words before departing, stepping out of the Khornate chamber. He then made his way over to the fourth chamber, that of the Omnissiah. Inside, the smells of oil and steel were comforting, familiar, reaching out to embrace him as one of their own. Here, the blessings of the Omissiah were chanted as oil and additives were mixed in precise amounts, in a process not too dissimilar to what had been done before the Liberation, though there were a few key differences. Absent was the incense, for as the BORGs had found, scents not born of sacred industry meant nought to the Machine Spirits, and loose incense could pollute the mixture. No, the holiness of this mixture came from the precision of its composition, the homogeneity of its mixture, and the faith that those who produced it had in its function. There was no perfume, no bloodletting, no randomization or obfuscation. Only the creation of another component, augmented human hands mixing it to perfection.
"Batch 7101-Gamma is ready and waiting. It shall suffice for today's expected productivity with a positive allowance of fifteen percent." Lubricator-Adept Olivian declared in a brief binharic burst, not devoting an iota more effort than necessary to communication, the rest of his being focused on the produciton of additional oil. Zebulon did not respond. There was no need to. He picked up the first oil tin in the neatly labeled batch and carried it out, holding it on the opposite side of his body from the Khornate oil. To confuse the two would be problematic, and Zebulon prided himself on always using the correct oil for any given task.
It was not long before Zebulon arrived at his final destination. It was the last stage of the assembly line. A small, round chamber, in the center of which stood a suit of crimson power armor, already painted in the colors of the USA. It was dormant still. Inactive. The machine spirit inside slumbered still... But it was ready.
Zebulon set down the oil cans beside it, before picking up a dataslate that had been left on a small bench, one of the room's few pieces of furniture. He thumbed the activation rune and quickly read through a checklist of required prayers, just as he did every time. It did not matter that it was the same as it was last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. The reading of the checklist was the first ritual of activation. To not read it, to assume that it would be the same, was to invite error, and to err was to empower the Omnissiah's foes.
Following this, he opened the next file, which was an abridged account of Sergeant Major Amos Duran's service record. Zebulon read over it, and nodded. He could work with this.
With that done, he put down the dataslate and turned to the armor.
In any other manufactorum, this process would be performed by an entire cadre of tech-priests. A censer would hold incense, a choir would chant prayers of successful activation, a lubricator would liberally annoint the entire suit with sacred oils, and more tech-priests still would go through a myriad of rituals that would guarantee the appeasement of the machine spirit. It was an elaborate pageant of mysticism and techno-worship.
It was also wasteful and inefficient, itself a sin.
Zebulon, much like so many othe former members of the Mechanicus on Slawkenberg, had spent time working on maintaining the ancient undersea generators that kept the planet's industry alive. Unfortunately, the previous administration had been unwilling to allocate the necessary resources to allow for maintenance to be done in the Mechanicus' traditional way. Thus, those techpriests assigned to that thankless task, those who would one day be BORG, were forced to experiment, to see what rituals were truly necessary and which ones could be cut to reduce resource expenditure... And what they had found exposed a fundamental ignorance that had been growing within the very fundamental creed of the Mechanicus, corroding away their efficiency, seizing the unfathomably vast machine that was the Mechanicus, and slowing production to a fraction of what it could have been.
Despite what some of the less enlightened folk of the galaxy might claim, the machine spirits were real. Even now, as Zebulon approached the armor, he could feel it, the little newborn machine spirit sleeping soundly within the armor, soon to wake and perceive its purpose for the first time. They were real, and they needed to be kept happy for the blessed machine to function... But the Mechanicus did not truly know HOW this was done! They devised countless rituals and paraphenelia. The Canticle of Activation, the Sacred Incense, the Holy Oil, the Chant of Frictionless Rotation, the Ohmic Choir, the Ritual of Percussive Maintenance, to name just a small handful... But while some of these rituals did work, the vast majority were just empty words and frivolous gestures, wastes of time as a result of Magi fumbling around in ignorance while being too afraid to experiment and see what worked and what did not.
The BORGs knew better. They knew that the Omnissiah rewarded efficiency and measured action, not frivolous chanting and ignorant superstition.
With this in mind, Zebulon adjusted his respiratory pumps, quieting them so that they would not interfere with his words, before reaching out the armor's waist, where its activation runes were located beneath a covered panel. With a practiced flick of a mechadendrite, he opened the panel and pressed the activation rune.
"Machine spirit, your time has come. Awaken, and perceive this world. Awaken, and perceive your purpose." He said, and as he did so, he felt it. That familiar electric tingle, that slight static shock as the machine spirit woke up for the first time. It was a sensation that never ceased to amaze him, and he could not help but smile.
"You are a suit of Mark II Liberum Power Armor. You are an indomitable bulwark, against whom the mightiest threats this galaxy has to offer shall crash against and be found wanting. Your body is ceramite. Your blood, blessed lubricant. Your nerves, a myriad of circuits and wires through which flows the motive force itself. You shall stand upon the battlefield, and all shall be in awe of your might."
The machine spirit absorbed his binaric words, and he felt the faint eager spark as it learned about itself, while the many subassemblies within the armor whirred to life, activating one by one. Zebulon listened with a careful ear, making sure that each system activated in sequence. If something was out of order, it may mean the armor was defective and would need reworking, something that would require extra steps to soothe and placate the machine spirit within. Fortunately, nothing was wrong, and he raised the first tin of oil, this one blessed by the Omnissiah.
"Into you now, I pour the Omnissiah's sacred lubricant. From the Omnissiah you have come, and to the Omnissiah you shall return, when your purpose is fulfilled and all work is done. Neither friction nor filth shall impede your motion. No rust shall touch your workings while the Omissiah's blessing courses through you."
As he spoke, he poured the black lubricant into the appropriate port, filling the reservoir inside two thirds of the way, leaving one third empty so as to trap malignant pressure born of waste heat, so that the internal oil lines would not rupture. This oil would course through the vital machinery that provided power to the armor, through the life support systems, and through the articulation systems around the torso and the head that allowed the wearer's neck and waist to move.
Once it was done, he began the next stage. The Machine Spirit had been told of its nature and its purpose. Now, it would be told of its bearer.
"You shall be issued to Amos Duran. He shall be the one to bear you on the battlefield. When the Orks landed on Slawkenberg, and their barbaric war-cry was bellowed across the land, he rose to fight them alongside his fellows. In a besieged hab-block, as artillery fell around him, he faced an Ork twice as big as he was, and through his cunning and skill, he outmaneuvered it and struck its head from its shoulders. On Cassandron, it was he who saw a host of plague-ridden mutants moving to flank his company, and it was he who stood in the center of the Eighth Boulevard, sword in hand, to hold them off, beheading their foul leader in battle and cutting down the rest of the craven lot as they turned to flee. These deeds and many more have earned him this chance to bear you on future battlefields, against future foes. His mind shall direct you, and his strength shall work with yours to lay the enemy low before you. You in turn shall protect him, a holy shield against all that would do him harm, and through him, you shall defend the entire Protectorate."
With that, he picked up the Khornate oil.
"Into you now, I pour lubricant laced with your bearer's blood, so that you may know him truly. With it comes the blessing of his own patron, so that you may recognize it and work seamlessly with it as blood is spilled and skulls are shattered upon the battlefield."
This time, as he poured the oil in, he felt the machine spirit's caution. It could sense something new and unfamiliar within it. This was why only eight drops of blood were permitted. A careful, measured quantity that would translate to careful, measured bloodshed. Too much blood, and the machine spirit would be overtaken by a berserk madness, and would goad its wearer on to ever more reckless and aggressive action until they were dead, or worse. Too little, and the machine spirit would reject the oil entirely and refuse to work with it. The vital joints around the arms and legs that this oil lubricated would seize up and malfunction, which could spell trouble on the battlefield. Only through careful, measured ritual could the Omnissiah's requirement for efficiency and exacting standards be brought in line with the Blood God's desire to spill blood and claim skulls.
Fortunately, this batch was made well, and the machine spirit did not degenerate into madness, nor did it rebel and reject the new addition. After some caution, the servomotors around the arms and legs began to whirr softly, united in purpose with the rest of the armor's mechanisms.
"Now, it is time for you to be released into the world, to be issued to the armory where you shall await your bearer... But before you go, I shall grant you three blessings, three tokens that you shall bear with you, wherever you go." He says, as three arms descend from the ceiling, surrounding the armored suit.
The first approaches the armor's breastplate, pressing its tip up against it, before-
CLANK!
As the arm withdraws, it reveals the skull and cog of the Omnissiah, stamped in silver steel just below the neck joint.
"First, the Sigil of the Omnissiah, so that in a sea of blasphemous mechanisms, tainted workings, and crude barbarism you shall always remain true to a higher purpose."
The second arm then extends to the armor's right hand.
CLANK!
This time, it is the brass rune of Khorne that is left behind. This had not originally been part of the manufacturing process, but it was a common modification performed by the USA troops after they received their armor. So common was this modification, that the Manufactorum eventually decided to formalize it, if only so that it could be done properly.
"Second, the symbol of the Blood God, emblazoned upon the right hand, so that your blows may be swift, and so that all will know for what purpose their blood was spilt."
Then the third arm descended, this one moving towards the armor suit's back, where it pressed up against ceramite plate.
CLANK!
It pulled away, revealing the symbol of the Manufactorum, marked out in simple, blackened steel, carefully measured so that it was smaller than either of the divine symbols.
"And finally, the mark of your birthplace, the Slawkenberg Armor Manufactorum. With it, all components that we send to you, be it as enhancements or repairs, shall recognize you as one of their own, and they shall join with you smoothly, without friction or stress, to bolster your mechanism."
With that, Zebulon took a step back, just as the armor rack began to move, carrying this latest creation away, towards the armory where it will meet its destined bearer.
"Go now, with the blessings of the Omnissiah! Go now, and fulfull your purpose! Defend the Protectorate! Defend the Renewed Glory!" He called out, his voice rising as the armor was hoisted out of the room upon its rack. As it was lifted up through a hole in the ceiling, Zebulon caught a flicker of dim green light from its optical lenses... As well as a slight shift in the suit's arm as it bid its birthplace farewell.
A/N: There we have it. If you would believe it, it was originally just supposed to be talking about oils and how rituals differed between the BORGs and the AdMech, but it very quickly ran away from me. This is also my first time writing anything 40K. While it wasn't my first exposure to the setting by any means, and I did actually have some ideas for 40K stories before, none of them went past the rough concept stage. If anyone bothers to read this far, what do you think of my take on the BORGs, their rituals, and how they compare to the AdMech?
I personally fall into the category of machine spirits being very real in 40K, and having to be ritually appeased for something to function optimally. I believe that the AdMech is more than just a crazy cargo cult with too much tech, and that their rituals and do, at least in some cases, have a real, tangible impact. However, the AdMech's reputation for inefficiency and superstition can definitely coexist with that.
After all, when you think about it, the AdMech of the 41st millennium is the descendants of the most conservative and dogmatic members of the Mechanicum, the ones who did not side with Kelbor Hal and Horus. The Mechanicum was already heavily dependent on ritual, with said rituals likely being descended from vitally important procedures that needed to be performed before operating any technology after the Men of Iron screwed everything up. Then Horus came and dumped a boatload of Daemons onto everything, much of what had been built up since the Age of Strife was lost, and the most superstitious members of the Mechanicus were left to pick up the pieces. In the ruins of Mars, they did not have the luxury or the desire to experiment and see what rituals worked and which ones didn't. Instead, they performed every possible ritual at once, thinking better safe than sorry, and spread that belief across the stars. Thus, for every ten rituals and objects that the Mechanicus uses, only one actually affects and appeases the Machine Spirit, but the Mechanicus does not know which one it is, nor is it willing to experiment and find out.
The BORGs, however, were forced to experiment and find out due to being denied the resources needed to do everything at once for so long. Thus, they slowly had to figure out which rituals they could afford to drop, and which ones actually had an effect, which in turn created a disdain for the Mechanicus and eventually led to the BORGs throwing their lot in with the rebellion due to them seeing themselves as closer to the Omnissiah.
One of the great ironies, of course, is that IIRC the Omnissiah that the Mechanicus worships is an aspect of the Emperor, so by that technicality, the Cainite Protectorate has swapped Nurgle out for the Emperor in their pantheon. I wonder what Big E thinks of that...