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You Will Have Your God: Tech-Cults and Transhumanist Philosophy in Fiction
by Benjamin Ainsworth

The intellectual property known as “Warhammer 40k” has become a focus of discussion in various pop-culture circles at the time of writing after an announcement that actor Henry Cavill intends to act in and produce a Warhammer 40k television show hosted on Amazon (Kit). As tabletop subcultures become more mainstream, critical analysis must follow them. Warhammer 40k began as a table-top wargame, and players could only interact through battle, so the narrative needed a justification for endless war. The writers resolved this problem by making the setting bleak and conflict-ridden. Games Workshop published the first 40k Codex in 1987, and the setting remains active to this day, including novelizations such as Adeptus Mechanicus, this paper’s focus (Priestley 1). The Mechanicus duology depicts the parallel narratives of a tech-priest and one of their enforcers as they reclaim long-lost technology at great expense to human life. While often bleak and cynical, the unique demands of a table-top medium, the creative freedom granted by the setting’s status as a subculture, and over thirty years of consistent development all ultimately led to the creation of perhaps the most incisive polemic against transhumanism ever conceived. A close-reading of Adeptus Mechanicus demonstrates a thematic skepticism of transhumanism through the authoritarian hyper-conservative values present in the tech-cult. The text suggests that the same pathological desires for judgment, worship, and domination inherent to the tech-cult may be inherent to transhumanist philosophy. As technological solutions are more and more commonly presented as silver-bullet remedies to modern social problems, this commentary will only become more relevant to daily life.

Businessman Elon Musk has been particularly vocal about his fear of AI research. His language goes so far as to incorporate biblical allegory, comparing it to “Summoning the demon,” (Mack). Elon Musk represents the voice and opinion of a single individual, but he possesses enough capital to found his own company to address these fears, Neuralink. The company seeks to finally realize what has long been depicted in science fiction, a direct, human-machine neural interface via brain implant (Blair). He hopes that Neuralink may one day create far more capable and intelligent humans, which may enable them to properly coexist with hyper-intelligent AI. In his own words, “If you can’t beat them [AI], join them,” (Blair). It should be acknowledged that medical research has pursued the possibility of brain-machine interfaces, especially as treatment for patients who have suffered neurological damage (Panebianco et al.). However, Neuralink’s explicit invocation of transhumanist ideals and rhetoric distinguishes it from the more mainstream channels of medical research. Transhumanism can be something of a nebulous term, but for the purposes of this paper it will be defined as a philosophical belief which prescribes technology as the means to augment humanity past its normal limits. Sometimes transhumanism advocates the creation of “posthuman” beings which will entirely transcend the modern understanding of humans, becoming something entirely new. In this way, futurism and transhumanism often go hand-in-hand, and they both present a compelling appeal. Everyone wants a better tomorrow, especially with a better version of themselves within it. Yet the allegorical devil is in the details. Regulators have already begun investigations into Neuralink for alleged unsafe practices (Mole), and Elon Musk has stated the necessity for Neuralink users to receive repeat surgeries in order to upgrade the device (Blair). These issues all point to a delicate philosophical question; who gets to decide what ‘augmentation’ really means? The desire to be remade, remodeled into a paragon of society by an external authority functions as a natural extension of authoritarian, hyper-conservative tendencies, and as long as a small handful of individuals control the application, availability, and direction of medical technology, these two concepts will remain inextricably linked.

As a form of speculative storytelling, science fiction has long stood as the primary avenue for expressing humanity’s fear of authoritarian technocracy. The field contains countless works as examples, but one the most prolific collections is found in a niche subculture and intellectual property known as Warhammer 40k. First and foremost, Warhammer is a war-game originally created as a simple, sci-fi retexturing of a fantasy war-game. The game designers added narrative context and creative detail to the game with the intention of enlivening the setting and encouraging people to emotionally invest into it. However, these conditions paradoxically created an incredibly prolific and creative community. If the story doesn’t really matter, and if anyone passionate enough about the subculture can contribute to it, anything goes. So, Warhammer 40k quickly became a labyrinthine space-opera detailing the rise and fall of galactic empires. The full shape of these narratives is far too vast to be contained in the scope of a single essay, but the most pertinent faction for this discussion is the Adeptus Mechanicus, frequently abridged to “Admech.” The Admech is a transhumanist, theocratic, technocratic state which serves as humanity’s only source of industry, technology, and scientific knowledge. They are a “tech-cult,” a religious institution which views engineering and science as the only means to consort and worship the divine. In this way they are distinct from a “cargo-cult,” since they do possess a working knowledge of the scientific principles which govern their machinery, but they view machinery and scientific knowledge as divine revelation. The Admech maintains its privileged position through brutal authoritarianism. A small and elite caste of “tech-priests” rules over its massive population of laborers with the expectation of unquestioned servitude in the name of a grim Machine God and its prophet, “The Omnissiah.” Under Admech reign, humanity as a species is guaranteed a place among the stars while each individual remains repressed. People live without the anxieties of AI while being reduced to a single function for the state, and even death does not allow one to escape servitude.

Warhammer 40k exists in an unusual space in the world of scholarship. It exists as a body of work which is frequently referenced yet whose details are rarely examined. The function could be compared to a navigational constellation which helps orient the author and reader relative to other fictional works while never being directly approached. Largely, the characters, events, locations, and cosmology remain untouched. There are literary analyses of 40k which use the setting as an example of how science fiction and mythology can converge through a story’s anachronisms (Rogers and Stevens). There are psychological analyses of 40k which have an easy enough time identifying the Freudian elements inherent to a violent, war-torn universe filled with machismo and oversized guns (Ballinger). There are sociological analyses of 40k which discuss the relationship between fans and “geek-culture,” speaking on the importance of subcultures to those who would otherwise be socially isolated (Tobin). There is even a paper which uses 40k’s space marines as an example of transhumanism existing without posthumanism (Pruski). Each of these studies says something important about the setting, but it does so by defining it through the broadest of details. A lack of focus upon the individual stories which construct the larger setting means that certain idiosyncrasies are lost. Most notably, no literary analysis of the Admech or its novelizations exists at time of writing. Therefore, this paper has the task of breaking new ground by engaging in a novel close reading of the Mechanicus duology, a pair of novels which tell the exploits of a tech-priest and one of their enforcers. Rob Sanders, a prolific author for the 40k setting, wrote this duology. His satire of the Admech’s particular brand of transhumanism appears in several of his other works such as Cybernetica and Adeptus Mechanicus: Clade. This specific duology has been selected because its parallel narratives of social superior and inferior act as a microcosm of Admech society, revealing the inherently abusive relationship between tech-priests and their underlings. This abusive relationship will be primarily examined through a Foucaldian lens, especially through the seminal work, Discipline and Punishment. This analysis reveals that the fictional tech-cult operates as a cruel parody of transhumanism where humanity worships a cruel god it has built with its own hands.

The Mechanicum duology opens with the first novel, Skitarius, detailing the experiences of an Adeptus Mechanicus enforcer, or Skitarii, named Stroika. He makes for an unconventional protagonist because Stroika possesses almost no agency of his own. This is true from a social perspective, as he is heavily indoctrinated via Admech propaganda and acts under the direct orders of a commanding tech-priest, but it’s also frighteningly true in a literal sense. Stroika’s implants make him stronger, faster, and more resilient than an unaugmented human, but these implants also enable tech-priests to monitor and control him (Sanders 2). This control is not a secondary effect, but an essential byproduct of Stroika’s transhuman augmentations. For it is not superhuman strength, agility, or endurance that makes the Skitarii most effective, it’s their perfect synchronization. All Skitarii are seamlessly connected and updated on the status and intelligence of their mission. Their ability to perfectly share information allows them to function effectively as a hive-mind, so their formations have no discussions, no confusion, perfect discipline. All a tech-priest needs to do is ‘manage’ this flow of information and they possess unparalleled authority.

Most disturbing is how Stroika relishes in his own lack of autonomy. He describes intrusions into and manipulations of his own mind as divine interventions, stating that it elevates him to “An instrument of divine artifice and design. . . An instrument of the holy Motive Force,” (Sanders 7). While Stroika has essentially lost his own autonomy, he views his existence as a state of noble purity. In his own words, human hearts and minds are “Necessary evils,” (Sanders 9), so he views his loss of autonomy as a way to momentarily purge himself of them. Stroika also recounts how he tattooed blueprints of his augmentations onto his body as an aspirational gesture long before he received the actual implants (Sanders 2). The problem here is effectively no different from the problem of ‘AI alignment.’ Stroika and his brethren have effectively ‘optimized out’ their own feeling of humanity in order to more perfectly fulfill a discrete function. After all, those in power have no interest in enhancing someone outside of their function. The goal is not to create a better human, but a better enforcer, so that is what they will incentivize, reward, and structure their society around. The true horror of Stroika’s position, then, is the powerlessness of supposed transhuman liberation in the face of inevitable social pressures and informational control.

Stroika’s mindset might seem absurd, but it’s one easily explained by Foucalt’s analysis of “The Body of the Condemned.” In particular, he notes how politically advanced judicial systems have an inherent need to assess and establish standards of “Normality” (Foucault 21). Foucault primarily examined the judicial concept of normalcy in the context of psychology, especially as it relates to criminology (Foucault 21), but his analysis was limited to the technology of the time. In the grim darkness of the far future, the Admech has the means to adjudicate normalcy of mind and body, and they have decided that the flesh is sinful. The priesthood’s hatred of flesh is so ingrained that even their automated communications deride the “Base Flesh” (Sanders 5). The cunning trick of it all is equating the organic with the inefficient. The Admech saying goes, “The flesh is weak,” and this idea is frequently referenced within the text (Sanders 189). Thus, an individual frustrated with their shortcomings may see the Admech’s slogan as a path for liberation, and so they too grow to resent their body. Examining this hatred as a political tactic, as Foucault advises, (Foucault 23), one quickly sees the expediency of the method.

Through the Admech’s understanding, all humans are born abnormal and imperfect, in dire need of correction from the priestly caste. Any who reject their means of control not only reject physical augmentation and social advancement, but they also become a target of correction and discipline. The cult controls entire planets, and so they are able to dictate everything individuals such as Stroika understand and witness (Sanders 2). It is no wonder that Stroika never had the means to do anything other than accept the presented reality. As such, Stroika does not hate the Admech for stealing his autonomy, he loves it for ‘saving’ him from a miserable life of endless labor as a “menial,” the Admech term for a common worker (Sanders 2). Foucault described how the bodies of the oppressed are, in more modern systems, never directly controlled so as to ensure that they are never able to regain complete autonomy by simply defeating their oppressor (Foucault 26). This tactic has been masterfully embodied by the Admech. Both as a menial and as a Skitarii Stroika had his body subjected towards productive ends, but one of these routes offered the illusion of ascension. Aiding this illusion are the augmentations provided to the Skitarii. No doubt a post-modification Stroika felt some satisfaction at being stronger, faster, better. So many difficult feats would be made easy by their augmentations, yet those are also the Admech’s means of control. Stroika likely thought that by becoming a Skitarii he had achieved a personal victory, but the game had been rigged from the start. The Admech have carefully constructed their society to ensure that servitude through bodily subjection is the only way to peaceably coexist within it.

A reader might begin to question whether this narrative is one of tasteless aspiration and uncritical violence. However, this interpretation is undercut by cowardice and incompetence endemic to the Admech. The narrative repeatedly emphasizes that while their enforcers fight and die on the surfaces of various planets, the tech-priests remain safe in orbit, unwilling to risk their own lives in battle (Sanders 5, 45). This grim implication manifests the moment a battle turns against Stroika’s favor, causing Lord Fabricator Engra Myrmidex to unsuccessfully flee (Sanders 82). As for incompetence, the text makes clear that the careerism inherent to a society as stratified as the Admech results in wasteful self-sabotage. Tech-priests are constantly jockeying for credit, position, and reputation (Sanders 28), and Stroika’s doomed battle only occurs because of Myrmidex’s refusal to wait for reinforcements (Sanders 36). Stroika’s tale ends with him abandoned by those he served with unquestioning loyalty only to be captured by his hated enemies (Sanders 108). Stroika’s fable is therefore not a power-fantasy, but a cruel reminder that those most loyal to a cult are also its greatest victims.

The second novel, Tech-Priest, picks up where the last one left off by shifting the narrative perspective onto the tech-priest, Omnid Torquora. In many ways, Torquora is a lot like Stroika. Torquora holds to the same ideals as Stroika: an unwavering devotion to the Admech’s ideals and its Omnissiah. Yet Torquora’s tale is far different for he possesses the privilege of a Tech-Priest. This title places Torquora near the pinnacle of his authoritarian society, and from this favored perspective the reader can properly appreciate the cruelty of the Admech. The narrative opens with Torquora managing the ultimate panopticon, as he sees through the eyes, witnesses the thoughts, speaks through the lips, and even puppets the precise actions of soldiers under his command (Sanders 114, 121, 129). In fact, Torquora’s position acts as an advancement of the ‘panopticon’ concept through total involvement of the subjects. Rather than the surveillance being a function of architecture, it is the very senses of the subjects which are used to observe them. One Skitarii could betray another simply by observing them. The Skitarii function through a terrifying command structure wherein any individual actor may suddenly enforce as the commanding officer. To put things back into Foucalt’s terms, it is the perfect disciplinary society through its total distribution of the panoptic mechanism (Foucault 216), completing the general trend of observational decentralization which Foucalt had already begun to observe (Foucault 210). These claims might sound far-fetched, except that the text calls them out explicitly. Squads of Skitarii Rangers are called “Panoptricas” for how they act as the literal eyes and ears of their techpriest (Sanders 213). Admech society is a prison where any prisoner may become a guard without even knowing it. This forces the observed subject to internalize the roles of both guard and prisoner, for they may be either or both at any time.

A more troubling addition to the panopticon is the tech-priest’s ability to directly manipulate the action’s of his subjects. Like Stroika, Torquora does not consider this manipulation domineering or sinister, but an expression of a divine will which he calls the “Motive Force” (Sanders 114). In fact, he conceives of himself as an empty vessel channeling the Motive Force, as a servant to an even higher authority (Sanders 114). This perspective does not make Torquora any kinder. He sums up the entirety of the previous novel not as a heroic sacrifice but as, “An expendable and exploratory attack” (Sanders 115). Furthermore, Torquora has the disturbing tendency to puppet his Skitarii into using suicide tactics such as engaging self-destruct destruct sequences on their own vehicles (Sanders 117). For the most part his Skitarii servants act autonomously, but Torquora can, at any moment, seize control of a servant’s actions. For maximum efficacy Torquora tends to exercise this control only a few seconds at a time, altering outcomes by ensuring key moments happen exactly as they must. In this way, Torquora synthesizes what Foucalt would call “docile bodies,” which is to say subjects which are disciplined and obedient (Foucault 135). Torquora’s meticulous approach to control matches the “Automatism of habit,” the subtle ways that discipline manifests in the smallest of physical habits such as handwriting, stance, and even how someone might hold their head (Foucault 135). Just as a distribution of observation forces a subject to internalize the panopticon, this distribution of control across countless, tiny moments forces a subject to internalize their own docility. Since the control does not manifest as some grand gesture of total possession, it can never be entirely accounted for nor soundly defeated. The smallest involuntary motion, the first reaction in the moment, and the slightest twinge of bravery could all be authentic or manufactured.

Foucalt also accounts for Torquora’s inflated sense of self as he dominates his servants through body-object articulation. Body-object articulation functions by merging a subject with their tool to create what Foucault calls a “body-machine complex” (Foucault 153). This is an important distinction because the subject does not simply use their machine, but they are, in a sense, transformed by functionally merging with the machine. This concept is quite literally embodied through Torquora’s control due to how he ‘possesses’ his servant, acting directly through them. Of course, the Skitarii servant already functions as a body-machine complex, albeit in a more literal sense than how Foucault envisioned it (Foucault 153). The Admech therefore have created a complex manifold of endless body-machine complexes, wherein anyone, at any moment, can suddenly be subsumed into a large complex for a greater function. Given the Admech’s reverence of technology as divine, the concept of ‘Motive Force’ demonstrates their cogent understanding of these political principles. The term ‘motive force’ in engineering describes the force produced by an engine. In this way, the servant is equated to becoming a cog in a larger political machine, a literal ‘higher power.’

There is a brief moment when the Tech-Priest seems to question his ideals and considers shouldering responsibility for his decisions. These feelings come to a head when his former Skitarii, Stroika, infiltrates his vessel to assassinate him (Sanders 148). Torquora displays genuine remorse and regret for the horrors which Stroika suffered after he was abandoned and captured (Sanders 150), and, as a demonstration of his sympathy, he ensures that Stroika survives and receives medical attention (Sanders 153). However, what seems to be a moment of redemption for Torquora is quickly revealed to be a descent into even greater cruelties. Torquora’s ‘redemption’ for Stroika involves decapitating him, lobotomizing him, and using what little remains of his brain to pilot a mindlessly obedient killing machine called a “Kataphron Battle Servitor” (Sanders 160), which Torquora uses as his personal bodyguard and enforcer. The idea that Stroika’s desire to kill him was the result of logical and natural decision making after being manipulated and abandoned by his superiors never occurs to Torquora. This is not a failure of imagination, but yet another feature of the Admech’s political machinery. Foucault describes the political function of torture through “The Spectacle of the Scaffold” (Foucault 32), noting how the purpose of torture is not necessarily to derive truth or even punish the guilty, but to generate the guilt of the subject in the eyes of the audience through the rituals and signs of the torture, hence why bodies are often defaced even after the prisoner’s death for particularly harsh punishments (Foucault 34). Thus Torquora’s actions function not as a redemption for Stroika but as a false redemption for himself. This act is called ‘false redemption’ because it does not meaningfully affect any kind of emotional or narrative change in Torquora. However, it does act as a ritual for Torquora to absolve himself of guilt. It is no coincidence that, despite the rest of his body being replaced with a tank, Stroika’s face remains, even though it cannot express emotion or seemingly serve any functional purpose (Sanders 160). Torquora uses the face of his ‘redeemed servant’ as salve for his guilty conscience, describing him as “holy” with a face of “blank obedience” (Sanders 160). Furthermore, just as Foucault demonstrated how increasingly organized forms of punishment, in the form of a prison timetable, indicates the objectification of modern discipline (Foucault 7), the concept of a servitor takes this principle to the highest extreme. Those punished are reduced to a single function, objectified into a part of the Admech’s hyper industrial infrastructure. Ultimately there was not a single fragment of Stroika that went unused by the Admech. In his youth, he was exploited as a menial, then he was exploited as a tool of violence, and even his rebellion and corpse have been subsumed into the Admech’s rituals of control.

In the end, Torquora is unable to capture the planet below, so he settles for destroying it. Torquora builds a bomb so dangerous it tears holes in reality, detonating it within the planet’s core (Sanders 175). Then, deciding that such a weapon is too dangerous to entrust to anyone else other than himself, Torquora destroys all records of its existence and kills nearly all of his superiors and colleagues in retaliation for attempted coups and various betrayals (Sanders 207). Torquora frames his actions as victorious, as protecting the universe against knowledge which is simply too dangerous to know (Sanders 207). Of course, if Torquora really wanted to protect the galaxy against such knowledge he could have destroyed his findings as soon as he comprehended them, rather than reporting to his superiors and insisting that he be put in charge of constructing and deploying the reality-shattering bomb (Sanders 28). Ultimately the reader is left with the chilling lesson that those most successful Admech leaders are not the bravest, the smartest, nor even the strongest, but those most capable of self-justification and self-delusion because it is these traits which make Torquora such a talented abuser. He has mastered what Foucault calls “Normalizing Judgement” (Foucault 177). This capability does not merely describe Torquora’s ability as a privileged elite to normalize or otherize his subjects, but his ability to do so reflexively, preventing any introspection or empathy, resulting in a perpetual state of impending judgment (Foucault 183). Torquora kills his enemies, but by the end of the duology his enemies have expanded as a category to not only include an entire planet but a second world and nearly every other tech-priest the audience has encountered so far. Torquora names them all corrupted, traitors, or obstacles to inevitable victory. He clears the board, leaving two shattered worlds in his wake. There is the old saying about Romans making a desert and calling it peace, but Torquora, ever the master of innovation, makes two and calls it an absolute victory.

It is easy to dismiss such a fantastical and strange story as mere schlock, but beneath all the absurdity there hides something mesmerizing and terribly human about the Admech. Both Stroika and Torquora crave moral absolution. They want to be righteous and perfect beneath the eyes of a judging god, but everything they understand about morality has been informed by the technocratic theocracy they exist within and perpetuate themselves. The desire for perfection is universal, but there can be no such thing as a perfect machine because a machine is that which fulfills a defined function. Stroika and Torquora both conceptualize their God as a machine, so what is the function of their God? There is the chance that the Omnissiah is counterfeit, even within the fiction, but that would mean little to the average person under Admech rule. Whether or not the deity truly exists, the authoritarian society models itself rigidly upon the Omnissiah’s commandments. Any human living under their rule must submit to them or suffer a fate like Stroika’s, perhaps one even worse. In the end, a Machine God never needed to manifest itself because its servants would build it. So, upon examining Admech society, a few things quickly become apparent. It is a society designed to ensure that all information flows upwards to the tech-priests, and that the tech-priest’s commands flow seamlessly downwards, even speaking through the lips of their subjects (Sanders 114). It is a society which equates political authority and weapons of mass destruction with divine will (Sanders 117, 119). It is a society which deprives its subject of autonomy as both punishment and reward (Sanders 7, 160). In short, the Admech has been engineered to dehumanize everyone within it and reduce them to a single function. It is a machine built to justify its own construction. It is a society which understands technologies of control but uses this understanding to integrate these technologies as deeply into itself as it can manage. To understand the Admech is to understand that in a dismal future amongst the stars, humanity became so desperate for existential purpose in a hostile universe that they built their own and called it god.

One could argue that the Admech is not truly a critique of transhumanism but of theocracy. Perhaps the claim would be that if the tech-priests could bring themselves to abandon their superstitions and cult-like mentality, a transhumanist utopia could be restored. However, the Admech inextricably intertwines transhumanism and theocracy. It all goes back to the problem mentioned earlier: there is no such thing as a universally perfect machine because a machine is defined by its function. This presents a problem for transhumanism because it means that the abstract concept of ‘improving’ or ‘augmenting’ someone remains ill-defined. Hypothetically a person could receive sci-fi cybernetics which make them stronger, faster, and more durable than any human alive, but if this person’s greatest desire is to be a pastry chef then these ‘augmentations’ might not meaningfully improve their quality of life. The critical problem of normalization undercuts the concept of augmentation. So long as political power remains consolidated, those in positions of power will have the ability to name that which is normal or abnormal, sufficient or deficient, healthy or sick, and so on. Usually when people talk about technology ‘augmenting’ or ‘perfecting’ people, what they really mean is that technology better enables people to fulfill their social expectations. This isn’t always a bad thing. Some people might truly be happier if they had an easier time fulfilling such expectations. Even so, there is a danger that those in power find it easier to engineer people’s desires than to accommodate the individuality of those beneath them. This is the danger posed by the Admech, and it’s why they are so obsessed with ideas of divine machines. There isn’t an authority higher than divinity, so the Admech makes divinity the authority on that which is perfect and that which is heretical. Therefore, the theocratic elements are a necessary element to the Admech’s prescriptivist view of transhumanism.

This problem may not be completely irreconcilable. Technological advancement may allow for greater freedom and bodily autonomy, both traits valuable in and of themselves. However, true manifestation of these ideals would require an abandonment of common social ideals such as productivity and strength so that one can embrace a radical individuality, one completely free of coercion or subjection. Such an accomplishment seems broad and distant, though perhaps not entirely impossible. Still, there is a strange irony to the idea that the only way to freely embrace new forms is the abandonment of conceptual function. Of course there are practical concerns as well. The inherent difficulty in developing and manufacturing medical technology leads to natural monopolies. If augmentation does arrive, it will almost certainly be highly centralized, owned and controlled by a handful of individuals. The more immediate and pragmatic concern, then, would involve addressing medical inequities through decentralization.

This essay began recounting how fears of AI have motivated transhumanist beliefs and policies. As fate would have it, rebellious AI’s are a potential problem that the Admech have solved. It happens that Stroika is not the only servitor in this duology. The Admech’s lobotomized victims appear all throughout the story as personal servants, pilots, gunners, laborers, and more. They are the Admech’s favored method of automation. Admittedly, it’s unlikely that Neuralink will create zombie cyborgs, but that still leaves a lot of gray area for negative outcomes. Tasks are automated because humans find the work dangerous or distasteful, so a future where humans fulfill automatable roles is not necessarily a desirable one. Of course, there is no Torquora or servitor in reality, but there are still people who lose their bodily autonomy. In reality, people do not lose their autonomy to some maniac, cyborg super-villain; they lose it to systems of power so complex and fragmented that the exact cause and origin of their suffering can never be identified. Perhaps our reality is the more frightening one. A literary villain can be defeated and their plots can be foiled, but a massive, shapeless system is an institution, seemingly beyond reproach in its obscurity. Yet if the Mechanicus duology teaches anything, it is that every machine has a point of failure. The future is not lost to transhumanism, merely in contention with it. For now, the best course of action is not to try and ‘ascend’ humanity, but to build a more stable accommodating society for it. Public transportation and wheelchair accessibility would be a good place to start.

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Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. 2nd ed., Vintage Books, 1977.

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Mole, Beth. “Neuralink Transported Brain Implants Covered in Pathogens, Group Alleges.” Ars Technica, WIRED Media Group, 10 Feb. 2023, https://arstechnica.com/science/2023/02
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Panebianco, Mariangela, et al. “Vagus Nerve Stimulation for Focal Seizures.” Cochrane Database of Systematic Reviews, vol. 2022, no. 7, 2022, https:/doi.org/10.1002/14651858. cd002896.pub3.

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Benjamin Ainsworth is an undergraduate studying writing and publication at the University of North Georgia. He also writes tabletop games under the pseudonym ‘Cogsworther’s Workshop.’

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