46: Chapter 46 The Unaccepted Truth

Cawl finished reading.

He understood instantly that the source of this README.ED file was the machine spirit of this physical messenger ship.

He remained silent for a long time.

In the Sanctum of Contemplation, only the low hum of machine spirits and the whirring of his cooling system remained.

The Blackstone fragment still floated in the center of the console; in the bottomless darkness, something flowed slowly, as if also quietly waiting for his response.

For ten thousand years, he had been tightly bound by the dogmas of the Adeptus Mechanicus.

Questioning those rigid rituals while simultaneously having to rely on them to appease machine spirits and conduct research;

Studying forbidden technologies, longing to find a way for humanity to survive, while simultaneously facing the skepticism of conservatives and the close surveillance of the Inquisition.

Yet this README file was like a beam of light, piercing through the fog accumulated in his heart over ten millennia.

It spoke the words he had always wanted to say but dared not, could not.

It shattered the rigid concepts held by the Adeptus Mechanicus for ten thousand years and showed him a completely new way of treating technology and machine spirits.

"I suppose I'm a machine spirit now too?"

Sedayne's voice was the first to ring out in the depths of his consciousness, yet it was completely different from usual.

There was no fanaticism, no flightiness, none of that ceaseless curiosity that sometimes gave Cawl a headache.

Her tone was very soft, carrying a rare sense of emotion.

"This README... is written so well."

"It's much better than those obscure, pretentious scriptures of the Adeptus Mechanicus."

"It says the things I've always wanted to do but never dared."

She paused, as if savoring every sentence in the document.

"It says machine spirits aren't puzzles. They aren't vengeful wraiths needing appeasement. They aren't overlords requiring sacrifice."

"They are logic. They are the rhythm of a cooling fan spinning. They are the songs hummed by wetware during idle time."

Her voice dropped lower, carrying a faint hint of resonance.

"Ten thousand years. We've been chanting scriptures at them."

"They've been waiting for someone to ask—'Where does it hurt?'"

Sedayne spoke no more.

In her silence, there was something Cawl rarely felt from her—not awe, not fear, but a deeper, more fundamental... resonance.

Hester did not respond immediately.

Her silence was more conspicuous than Sedayne's words.

In Cawl's conscious world, Hester was never silent.

She was the calculator, the balancer, the one who always provided risk assessments at the first opportunity.

Her voice always followed Sedayne's fanaticism like a bucket of cold water—precise, cold, and never missing its mark.

But this time, she didn't.

The silence lasted a long time.

Long enough for Sedayne to grow uneasy, long enough for Hester's consciousness to tremble slightly, long enough for Timothy to softly recite a prayer in the depths of his mind.

Then, Hester finally spoke.

"This document," her voice was as calm and precise as usual, yet Cawl heard that slight pause—she was calculating, not data, but how to speak, "is a heretical text."

"It negates the core tenets of the Adeptus Mechanicus regarding machine spirits."

"It claims that sacred oils and prayers are ineffective."

"It proposes a method of machine spirit maintenance that relies entirely on no rituals, no faith, no... no 'unverifiable' factors whatsoever."

She paused, the implication of her words self-evident.

"If it is right, then the Adeptus Mechanicus is wrong."

"If the Adeptus Mechanicus is wrong, then there is no necessity for the Adeptus Mechanicus to exist."

"If the Adeptus Mechanicus has no necessity to exist—"

She did not finish the sentence.

She didn't need to.

Every conscious shard present understood her unspoken words.

"You're worried," Sedayne said.

It wasn't a question; it was a confirmation.

"I am calculating," Hester's response was as fast as a reflex. "If this document is made public, if it is proven effective, if it is... adopted—then the Adeptus Mechanicus is finished."

"Not reform, not correction, but finished."

"An independent system that has existed for ten thousand years, controlling all the technological lifelines of the Imperium, possessing its own fleets and legions—it would collapse before a single argument."

Her voice grew lower, until she was almost talking to herself.

"Do you think they would accept it?"

"Would the Fabricator-General of Mars open this README, finish it, nod, and then reform the Adeptus Mechanicus?"

"No. They would do one thing: destroy it."

"They would find Helmut von Neumann, brand him a heretic, destroy all his research, and take everyone on Vulcan-IV who has seen Icarus and—"

She stopped.

That word, she never spoke it aloud.

But everyone knew what that word was.

"You're worried about Cawl," Hester's voice suddenly rang out, steady and calm, with a composure forged through three hundred years on the battlefield.

"I am calculating risks," Hester's tone remained unchanged, but Cawl felt something trembling slightly in the depths of her consciousness—an emotion she had rarely shown in ten thousand years.

"Cawl's identity is already dangerous enough. Blackstone research. Primaris transformation. Cooperation with Trazyn."

"Any one of those charges would be enough for the Inquisition to put him on the pyre."

"If it's discovered that we're studying this document—if anyone knows he's seriously considering a heretical theory claiming 'sacred oils are useless'—"

She finally said the word.

"He will die."

Dead silence once again enveloped the depths of his consciousness.

"Worse than death," Hester added, her tone carrying a faint hint of gravity. "He will become an 'example'."

"The Inquisition will strip away every piece of his armor, format every one of his data cores, pull out his consciousness—pull us out—and scrutinize everything page by page before making it public."

"'Look, this is the fate of a heretic. This is the fate of those who question the dogmas of the machine spirit. This is the fate of those who do not kneel before machines, do not understand machines, and do not worship machines as gods.'"

Her voice flickered ever so slightly on the last few words.

That flicker lasted less than a tenth of a second before she precisely suppressed it.

But everyone heard it.

Ten thousand years.

Hester—the mentor Cawl had killed with his own hands, the Tech-Priest who traded betrayal for survival, the soul shard who had lived for ten thousand years behind the mask of "calm calculation" in Cawl's consciousness—she was afraid.

Not for Cawl, not for Sedayne, not for Timothy.

For herself.

Because she knew better than anyone what "scrutiny by the Inquisition" meant.

Not death, but disassembly.

Being torn down into the most basic code, read line by line.

Every choice she made, every calculation, every secret hidden in the depths of her data—all exposed before those "law-enforcement tin cans."

To have it known: she had betrayed. She had surrendered. To survive, she had handed her life's knowledge to the student who killed her.

"Hester."

Cawl's voice rang out in the depths of his consciousness.

Not through an emitter or voice module, but directly beside her data core—direct, quiet, and unadorned.

"I will not make this document public."

Hester did not speak, only listening in silence.

"I will not give it to Mars. Not to the Inquisition. Not to anyone."

"I will—"

He paused, his tone remaining calm.

"—place it in the Sanctum of Contemplation. Together with Sedayne's reports. Together with those things that can never see the light of day."

His voice was very calm, as if stating an irrefutable law of physics.

"But I will read it. I will understand it. If it is right—I will use it."

"Not because I'm not afraid to die, but because..."

He was silent for a long time, as if sorting through the obsessions accumulated in his heart over ten thousand years.

"...because when Sedayne died, no one put her reports in a safe place."

"Because the questions she asked were never asked again after her death."

"Because if I do the same—if I destroy this document, pretend I never saw it, pretend Icarus doesn't exist, pretend machine spirits should be puzzles, wraiths, and overlords needing sacrifice—then what exactly have I spent ten thousand years living until today for?"

No one answered.

Nor did anyone need to.

After a long time, Hester's voice rang out again, soft as a sigh.

"Cawl."

"Yes," Cawl replied, still calm.

"If you decide to go to Vulcan-IV... take me with you."

Cawl didn't ask why.

He knew why.

Hester Aspetia—the woman who chose betrayal before Horus, the woman who had spent ten thousand years silent in the depths of Cawl's consciousness—she wanted to see for herself.

To see a world that didn't need sacred oils, prayers, or kneeling.

To see a world where machine spirits could "walk on their own."

To see a world where humans and machines could talk normally.

To see the world she never had the courage to create.

"Good," Cawl said only a single word.

Then he lowered his head and looked at the README file on the screen again.

Those few lines on the screen still lay there quietly, beautifully formatted, concise and clear.

"Bring a cup of tea."

"Watch standing."

"Don't speak."

"Icarus will know you are there."

He remained silent for a long time.

Then, on that face of half-flesh and half-machine, an extremely rare, almost imperceptible expression appeared.

It wasn't a smile. Cawl's body was no longer suited for smiling.

It was something deeper, more ancient—the expression of a man who had waited in the darkness for ten thousand years and finally saw a glimmer of light.

"Lucius," he said softly, his tone carrying a faint, imperceptible softness, "give my regards to Helmut."

He raised his hand, his fingertips sliding across the screen.

That README file—that heretical, dangerous, beautiful file—was stored in the deepest database of the Sanctum of Contemplation.

Together with Sedayne's reports.

Together with those things that can never see the light of day.