Making all this nonsense up at least helps keep the mind off how fucking freezing I am all the fucking time.

This is also now the end of the stuff I had mostly already written, leaving me with bits and pieces I need to stitch together. So, uh, yeah. Hopefully won't take so long this time, but who's to say?

The collector ship was indeed stuck. Worse, while it was mostly stuck on the Assertive it was, in more than a few places, stuck in the Assertive.

It was those points that presented the biggest problem, those points of contact, for half-destroyed as it might have been, the alien ship was not totally destroyed and was, going by the readings, still full of a not-inconsiderable number of presumably rather unhappy xenos.

They might want to come over and have a word.

Armsmen-led teams of ratings raced through the damaged areas, looking for breaches. Specifically, they were looking for areas where the alien ship had penetrated the hull of the Assertive sufficiently to create passage between the two vessels. As-and-when they found such passages - and there were several such places where the impact had created them - they set about with melta charges and lascutters to collapse and shore-up the affected areas.

By-and-large they were able to go about this work unhindered, the collectors either not having found the breaches yet themselves, not being concerned about them, or not having the forces present on hand to make use of them. In those places where the aliens had found the breaches and had started to make inroads into the Assertive, well, that's what the armsmen were for.

A lot of them were being shot and a not inconsiderable number of them were dying, despite their armour, but they were doing so for the greater good of the ship and it wasn't as if the Assertive was going to be running out of them anyway. By their blood they bought the ratings the time needed to plug the holes.

One breach, however, defied easy fixing, owing to its size. This was a major breach, a significant rent in the fabric of the ship, and a point at which the Assertive and the collector vessel had become more-or-less inseparable. You could have driven a tank through the hole. Indeed, you could - had you been so inclined - driven two tanks side-by-side through it. This was an issue.

What made it a particular issue was that this specific point of impact, just by happenstance, had breached a chamber on the collector ship that had been home to a significant swarm of seekers. This was something the repair teams quickly discovered, to their detriment.

The pressure carapace of the armsmen and the bulky voidsuits of the ratings provided some measure of protection against the creatures, but it was hardly reliable, and the breach was littered with the frozen, helpless bodies of those who'd arrived first and hadn't known what had been waiting for them.

Followup teams had similar luck, even if they arrived with flamers. They scorched the swarm, and this helped, but did not help enough. What made a proper difference was someone's bright idea to bring up and deploy the perimeter defence pylons from the Assertive's colonial cargo - crackling arcs of power lashing out to incinerate swathes of seekers, sending the swarm into confusion, rendering what few remained largely scattered and non-threatening.

It was then the collectors proper arrived, and the shooting started.

He never would have told anyone, but Father Til had been waiting for something like this to happen, and the excitement he felt did much to dampen the guilt he felt from feeling the excitement in the first place.

It was bad that foul aliens were boarding the ship, yes, but it was good that he would finally have a chance to kill some of them. After all, wasn't that a significant portion of what the Emperor expected from his followers? To rid the galaxy of aliens? And while ministering to the spiritual health of the crew was technically contributing to the Emperor's cause and it might have been a little selfish to have been hoping for a chance at more directly contributing, well, Father Til could hardly be blamed too much for feeling a little thrill at a long-held daydream finally coming true. He was only human, after all.

Ultimately, regardless of his feelings on the matter the fact remained: Aliens were coming, armsmen had organised and armed teams of ratings to throw them back, and Father Til was going along with them. He'd joined the first armed group he'd seen, following them into one of the bigger between-deck lifts. He hadn't asked, but no-one had told him no, so that seemed to settle the matter.

The eviscerator he had with him probably helped to persuade people he belonged. He'd grabbed it from where it had lain, untouched, in his cramped little cabin when he'd heard the call to arms. He hadn't even thought twice, instantly dropping what he'd been doing and running to get the thing. Something had moved in him and moved him and by the time he'd scraped his wits together enough to even really comprehend what the alarms meant he was running alongside the crew, weapon in hand.

This was right, he felt.

And now he was in the elevator, standing alongside heavily armed and armoured armsmen, inscrutable behind photovisors and slightly less heavily armed and not-especially-armoured-at-all ratings, who didn't have photovisors and so could do little to hide their obvious nervousness. Father Til could understand this. Combat was always nerve wracking, particularly if you were going in perhaps not as well equipped as you might like, facing something unknown.

But there was a fine line between acceptable nerves and unacceptable cowardice. And Father Til felt that, given his role, it was his job to ensure they stayed on the right side of the line.

"Courage brothers and sisters, courage!" He said, raising his voice above the rattling of the lift and making those closest to him jump. He could be a very loud man when he wanted to be. "The Emperor is watching! The Emperor protects. Trust to Him. Trust to Him and do fine, brave deeds in His name! Let us not squander a chance to earn His glory. Remember, it is better to die for the Emperor than to live for yourself! Only in death may we show the truest of devotion!"

As he spoke he revved his eviscerator at regular intervals, seemingly without noticing, fingers just gripping the throttle reflexively, enormous weapon judding in his hands like a starving animal straining at the leash. Or so he liked to think as the vibration ran through his body and made him conscious of what he was doing. It made him think about what the vibration would feel like when the teeth met alien flesh.

Happily his words (or his revving) seemed to have an effect, and the nervousness diminished somewhat, and a little excitement seemed to fill those present, a little grim determination, a little resolve.

The lift clanked and clanged to a halt, jolted, and then the doors rolled back. The sound of gunfire was immediate and deafening and was coming from just up ahead and just out of sight. Everyone moved forward. Soon, the breach came into view.

Knots of armsmen and ratings, working together, were dragging back bodies - some frozen, some wounded, some probably dead - while others were crouched between twisted spars and curls of plating or behind wrecked machinery, exchanging fire with the aliens hunkering down on their own side of the hole. The pylons were still there too, where they'd been set up, sparking occasionally as the handful of remaining seekers got zapped.

Fortunately for all those present without breathing equipment or void suits, the violent mashing of the ships had here produced a tight enough seal to maintain an atmosphere, at least for the moment. Not that Father Til even thought about this. He was distracted by the invaders.

They were unfamiliar to him, not anything he'd seen in his days as a guardsman, but that hardly mattered. The galaxy had no shortage of foul aliens, and they all needed killing whether he was personally acquainted with them or not.

Worse though were what he could clearly see were humans - or what had been humans - being herded ahead of the aliens, their flesh riven with disgusting xenos technology, their bodies turned into some manner of perverse living weapon. Father Til didn't fully understand what he was looking at, of course, but that hardly mattered as a wave of husks was sent snarling and scrambling towards one of the positions of the armsmen were holding, getting mown down by the shotcannon that had been set up but getting close enough to engage and distract them, allowing the aliens themselves to start to manoeuvre.

Father Til didn't have the context or background or the details on what husks were, but he didn't need any of them. He saw aliens, he saw what had clearly been humans being used by the aliens. He didn't need to see anything else to understand. He saw red.

The aliens that had broken cover were pushing in now, getting close enough they might even start to properly board the Assertive itself. Father Till saw this, too. The thought of them setting even one foot aboard filled him with immediate, overwhelming disgust, and once again something moved him. Hefting his eviscerator up in both hands he was sprinting forward and shouting before he'd even blinked.

"Hear me! See the alien! Hate the alien! They violate the fabric of the ship with every step, violate our sight with their very presence! They are an abomination, and they - in their cowardly desire to avoid righteous death at the guns of this, one of the Emperor's holy vessels - have brought the heresy of their very existence here! To this ship! To your home! Will you allow these creatures to further desecrate the Assertive? Will you permit them to live a moment longer than they have to when you hold in your hands the means to end their worthless lives? Every alien murdered in His name is a human soul raised to glory! Every alien murdered in His name sees the stars shine that much brighter in His sky! Every alien murdered in His name is an act of exultation, an act of the purest worship! His will is that you murder the alien! Let them not draw one more blasphemous breath of our pure air! Go forth and kill! Drive them from the ship! Drive them from our sight! Kill! With every step taken leave an alien body in your wake! Kill so that you have to wade through filthy alien blood to kill the rest! Kill them all! Leave none alive! Mercy wasted on the alien is a sin against His grace! Kill! KILL! KILL! KILL!"

This speech was punctuated of course by the occasional furious yell or grunt of exertion as he swung the eviscerator around into some fresh target, spraying blood and chips of alien armour plate over himself and everything around him, undercut by the basically constant snap and crackle of alien rifle fire striking the shield projected by his rosarius. Not that he seemed to notice (or care about) that.

A blasphemous, lumpen amalgam of human bodies twisted into foul new shape by alien means loped at him, raising an arm fused to some sort of weapon projector. The thing roared, but he was on it before it could fire, chainblade swinging and cutting cleanly through both its legs and sending the thing crashing forward to the ground where it was promptly shotgunned to bits by a gaggle of ratings who had been following in the priest's wake, taking advantage of both his progress and his shield.

"Ours is the right to rule the stars, yours is the right TO DIE SCREAMING IN TERROR BY OUR HAND, ALIEN FILTH!"

The ratings roared their approval, not even overly concerned by having two of their number unceremoniously mowed down by return fire from the aliens. It did get them moving again though. Towards the aliens. At speed. Them and a lot of others.

Momentum seemed to have tipped. The aliens had faltered in their advance and didn't seem to know what to make of the humans running into the face of their fire, heedless of casualties. They especially didn't seem to know what to make of the old man with the chainsaw who kept yelling and whose protection seemed to be impervious to their weapons.

The collectors broke and pulled back in as orderly a fashion as they could, many getting shot in the back as they did so, a few being caught before they could leave cover and getting promptly beaten to a pulp by mobs of ratings or clusters of armsmen with shock mauls. Father Til took a moment to catch his breath.

His rosarius was glowing white-hot, smoke curling from where it was burning his robes and starting to cook the meat of his chest. The weight of the eviscerator was beginning to tell on him as well, and his swinging it around. He wasn't as young as he used to be. He stood, sucking in great ragged lungfuls of air, staring ahead, arms shaking.

He was still standing though, and the rosarius was still functioning, somehow.

A commotion up ahead drew his attention back to the moment. Armsmen were shouting to one another, gesturing wildly. Some were scrambling to get away from something. Something new. Something bigger.

An alien war machine of some kind hove into view. Like some nightmare, clattering beetle, hovering forward, insectoid legs dangling, eyes glowing and pincers snapping. Aa Father Til watched those glowing eyes glew even more brightly for a moment, flashing and discharging a blinding beam that incinerated a brace of the retreating armsmen, leaving only the twisted remains of their armour behind, stretched away in a streak.

Whatever tiredness he might have felt, whatever growing weakness in his arms, whatever fatigue - it all vanished. Again he was moved, again something moved him. He raised the eviscerator high and, with froth and a prayer on his lips, he flung himself at the alien construct.

Again those eyes glowed and again the beam shot out, hitting the field from his rosarius. The light was so bright it burnt his eyes, so he had to close them. Even then the light hurt. The rosarius finally gave out just as the blast finished, finally igniting Father Til's robes in the process. Not that he had time to notice. Blinded, in mid-air, he trusted to Him and swung with every last scrap of fury he had left in his body.

The alien machine moved with alarming speed to catch the strike, but the eviscerator cleaved straight through the claw without even slowing, a brief spray of sparks all it had to show for the effort. A bigger, more drawn-out spray of sparks (and more besides) followed as the teeth bit into alien carapace, through alien carapace, and then into flesh, or at least what Father Til hoped (fervently hoped) was flesh.

Spasmodically, the machine's other claw jabbed forward, punching cleanly through Father Til's belly and out through his back. He wasn't an especially large man, the claw hadn't even met resistance. It didn't matter. Legs failing, still blind, Father Til heaved what meagre weight he had forward, onto the eviscerator, pressing it further and further.

"B-by my b-blood, H-H-His will is…" he coughed, losing track of the words somewhere in the middle. He gasped with pain when the eviscerator finished cutting all the way through the alien and dropped to the deck, dropping Father Til with it and causing him to slip. His hand loosened on the throttle, and the claw transfixing him slid loose, taking a good chunk of his insides with it.

Father Til was dead, but he had died in a manner any honest servant of the Emperor might have envied: drenched in alien blood, spitting prayers into the face of death, carrying his duty to the grave.

The collectors did not last long following this. Already on the defensive, this proved to be the last straw. Without the praetorian they were quickly overwhelmed and pushed back into their ship, the breach being collapsed not long after with judicious application of yet more melta charges and at least a couple actual meltaguns and even a grenade launcher that had been procured to assist. It wasn't clean, but it worked.

Those who had witnessed Father Til's heroic end were quick to find him. His (burnt) body and his eviscerator were borne back into the Assertive with reverence, taking priority even over the wounded.

Meanwhile, back on the bridge, Jarrion listened to the reports coming back to him.

"They finally closed that big one. Took them long enough," he said on hearing the news, then looking to the officers clustered around him asked: "How is the rest of the damage looking?"

"Barring the ramming we came through almost entirely unscathed, Lord Captain. A few systems rattled but none of their weapons fire made any appreciable effect, failing to pierce the voids. Beyond the alien ship stuck to us we're the picture of health," said some lieutenant who was so fresh and new eager that Jarrion hadn't caught her name yet. Ships were lousy with lieutenant's. It was hard to keep track sometimes.

"Well that's nice. We need to get this damn ship off our damn ship, now. Suggestions?" Jarrion asked.

This seemed to put the wind up them. No-one wanted to be the first to speak lest they suggest something that no-one else liked or which was impractical, because then they'd look back. Gridlock resulted as they all hemmed and hawed. Jarrion had no time for this. He pointed at the fresh and eager lieutenant he didn't know.

"You. What should we do?"

The lieutenant baulked.

"M-me, Lord Captain?"

"Yes, you, uh-"

Jarrion tried to read the woman's name as covertly as possible, not doing a very good job.

"-Lieutenant Mortimer. How should we dislodge this alien vessel?"

Feeling incredibly put on the spot and perhaps regretting having been the one to answer Jarrion's question on the status of the ship in the first place, Lieutenant Mortimer shifted awkwardly, straightened her uniform, looked around for help (which didn't come) and, when she ran out of ways to keep playing for time, tentatively said:

"We could, ah - we could accelerate? To make it - make it shear off? Lord Captain?"

As she finished she winced. She knew this was a bad idea.

"Accelerating could do a considerable amount of damage to the ship, and there's no-way of guaranteeing it'd even dislodge the aliens. We might just tear them in half and leave the rest attached to us. Might reopen all those breaches we just closed, and we've lost a significant amount of atmosphere as it is," another, more senior lieutenant - who Jarrion knew was named Carson - said, evidently very happy to speak if he was smacking down the ideas of others. Jarrion was not enthused.

"Well it was the first idea I've heard proposed. Still, yes, not a goer. Suppose it isn't worth just sending ratings out with prybars to try and wiggle the thing loose?" He asked.

Blinks all round.

"Uh…"

No-one ever appreciated the jokes.

"That was a joke. I'm aware of how difficult this is," Jarrion said.

"Ah, very good, Lord Captain. Aha. Ha."

"Lord Captain!" Shouted a crewman from one of the consoles.

"Emperor's teeth but it never ends - yes? What now?" Jarrion asked, strolling over, trailing officers.

"There's an energy reading from the alien ship. It looks like a reactor might still be active onboard," the crewman said, pointing to various screens that Jarrion vaguely understood. Certainly he could see a few things he recognised.

"Okay, well, that's something," he said, unsure what the point here was.

"And they may be attempting to overload it," the crewman said, pointing to something else.

"...may be?"

The lack of certainty was unhelpful. The crewman fiddled with a few controls.

"It's hard to make out, but the signature suggests they've already tried and failed at least once," they said.

"Might not keep failing…" Carson said from just behind Jarrion's head. Jarrion pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Throne preserve me! Why is nothing easy! We need that ship gone now! I don't want it exploding while it's still stuck to us! I think we can all agree that would be bad, yes? Anyone feel like arguing with that? No? Good! So! Suggestions?"

Again, vacillating, this time with more mumbling. Nothing was immediately forthcoming.

Closing his eyes a moment Jarrion turned away if only so he wouldn't have to look at any lieutenants for a few precious seconds. As he did so he caught sight of an image on a screen. It showed the Assertive and the alien ship stuck into it, sticking out of it. Jarrion saw this, and something clinked in his head, an idea bobbing to the surface.

"The voids!" He said, snapping his fingers and snapping the officers out of their mumbling.

"Lord Captain?"

"The void shields! They're down right now, yes?" Jarrion asked.

"Yes, because there's a ship in the way," Lieutenant Carson said, slowly.

"Exactly. And I know how voids work - if we turn them back on they should cut through the ship, yes?" Jarrion asked, equally slowly. Those around him were starting to pick up on where he was heading.

"...in theory," Lieutenant Mortimer piped in, hoping on riding Jarrion's idea to restore a little integrity.

"But they also might not," another officer pointed out. There really were a lot of them around.

"Well what if we rerouted power to the voids? Overcharged them? Even briefly? Would that work?" Jarrion asked.

"...in theory," Mortimer said again.

"Lord Captain! I cannot condone this course of action! The damage it might do to the shield systems alone is far too great, not to mention what it might do to however many other parts of the ship!"

"More or less damage than having a ship explode inside of kissing distance? Next to a bunch of freshly-repaired hull breaches, let's not forget. I'm not happy about my suggestion but if it works and keeps us alive then we can all be unhappy about it afterwards, rather than being dead. So will it work - yes or no? And don't say in theory," Jarrion said, glancing at Lieutenant Mortimer who promptly shut her mouth.

"...yes," said another officer, with obvious reluctance. It was all Jarrion needed.

"Good. Do it," he said.

No-one moved.

"That is an order. Do it. My willingness to tolerate hesitation is not without limits."

"Yes, Lord Captain."

Having responsibility was a pain sometimes.

Jarrion was entirely aware that what he was having them do probably wasn't the optimum solution and was equally aware it was going to have unpleasant side-effects. At the same time though he knew that standing around doing nothing was just as bad if not worse, and sometimes there really wasn't some golden, perfect option for you to take. Sometimes you just had to go for least worst or, if not that, whatever made one problem go away so another, newer, smaller problem could come in and take its place.

And being in charge meant he'd get the blame for any and all of it, just as he'd also get the blame had there been no decision and something bad also happened. You couldn't win, but that was the nature of the game.

Sighing, he put it behind him. Done now, die cast. Just have to roll with it.

Orders relayed, crew scrambled throughout the ship to see Jarrion's command carried out. Most involved had no idea why they were doing what they doing, but that wasn't unusual. Cables were moved, power shunted and rerouted, capacitors charged and arrays activated and all that sort of impressive technical jiggery-pokery. Jarrion sat.

Sensors showed that the aliens were continuing to attempt to overload their drive, stymied by the drive in question apparently being sufficiently damaged - either by the crash or by weapon fire, or both - they were unable to stoke it to a sufficient level. Each attempt they were making was improving, however. There was a certain amount of urgency.

Before too long word came that what needed to be done had been done. Jarrion gave the order to bring the shields online, full power.

Predictably, it did the voids no favours. It did work though. Quite spectacularly.

The envelope of the shields flashed into activation with enormous, shocking force, slicing through the collector ship without so much as a hint of resistance, cutting clean before immediately overloading, as expected. Not all of the ship was removed, but the majority of it was, the part containing the drive most importantly, the mass of it drifting away thanks to a small, measured blast of the Assertive's maneuvering thrusters.

A minute or so following this, as the bulk of the cruiser spun away into the void, the reactor finally detonated, but by then enough distance had been placed between the two ships that the effect was negligible. What damage there was came from the fragments, and while it wasn't nothing, it wasn't anywhere near as bad as having the explosion happen on top (or on the bottom, as it was) of them would have been.

Least worst, Jarrion liked to think.

Still, after that the Assertive was going to need time - a fair amount of time - in a proper and properly equipped dock to be restored to full working order, Jarrion knew, and he also knew this meant returning to the Imperium. He hadn't scheduled that in.

He rubbed his face.

"We have spares for most of the more critical damaged systems down in Home Away From Home. Take us back into orbit, helm. We'll finish unloading the cargo and start bringing up anything needed for repairs. Yes, yes - I'm aware you'll need to properly look at what you need for repairs first, just start with what's obvious, yes? Sure we've burnt out more than a few relays and conduits and what-have-you, don't need to look for that. Then once we've done all that we can - "

He trailed off. Then what?

" - then we can see where we are. For now I think we all have enough to be getting on with, yes?"

Time passed. The Assertive limped back towards Horizon and back into orbit. Most of what remained of the collector cruiser broke off, leaving behind a stubby, jagged mess. Cargo resumed being unloaded. Repair material was brought from the surface. Damaged systems were repaired or replaced or repairs and replacement was underway. Jarrion had dinner. He went to bed. Activity hummed along.

Some hours later, Jarrion was woken up. He wasn't happy about this.

"Yes?" He asked, bleary-eyed, having stumbled from his bed and through his chambers to the door where outside a crewman was standing, plainly unhappy to have to be the one to wake the Lord Captain up.

"Begging your pardon, Lord Captain, but the duty officer felt you should be informed," said the crewman, hands behind his back. Jarrion squinted sleepily at him.

"Hmm? Of what?" He asked.

"There was a warp signature detected at the edge of the system."

What little hope Jarrion had maintained that he might have been able to go back to sleep promptly evaporated.

"What? When?"

"I was dispatched to tell you as soon as the signal was received, Lord Captain, but the event itself may have been a few hours before. It was the other side of the system, with the sun in the way, and-"

Mitigating factors were important, but not of particular interest to Jarrion right at that second.

"That's impossible. Nothing in this galaxy can do that. Can it?" He said, cutting in.

"Lord Captain?"

The crewman, not having the slightest inkling of the true breadth of the situation or where (or when) they actually were, did not fully understand where Jarrion was coming from with this question. Jarrion realised this a moment after having asked it.

"No, nevermind. Um, yes, thank you for the message I will - I will be on the bridge presently. Inform the duty officer," he said, waving the crewman off.

"Lord Captain," they said, snapping off a salute and departing at speed.

Jarrion put on a dressing gown, not feeling he had time to get properly dressed, but also feeling it wouldn't do to go on the bridge in just his pyjamas, expensive and luxurious as they were. The dressing gown was elaborate enough he was hoping most would think it was just some sort of very high society uniform they were unfamiliar with.

He did deign to tie it closed by strapping on a belt with a holstered pistol, just for a tiny bit of extra authority, and did put actual boots on. Deck plating was very cold outside his chambers.

As soon as was physically possible after this was he was back on the bridge, striding in.

"Warp signature?" He asked without preamble as someone - the duty officer, he assumed - came scrambling over to him.

"Yes, Lord Captain, received just now, but the signal may be several hours-"

Jarrion had heard this before. Not that long ago, in fact.

"Yes yes, delay, the sun, gravity eddies, lots of problems - where is it? What is it?" He asked, already walking for his command throne, the officer following. The officer (following) gestured off to someone waiting nearby and was handed a dataslate which they began to flick through.

"It is accelerating, it appears, and it looks to be heading in-system. To here, assuming it follows the course that's been plotted. Engine signature marks it as an Imperial vessel."

Jarrion, halfway to sitting down, jolted and froze in place.

"Imperial?"

The officer double-checked the dataslate and nodded.

"Do we know anything else?" Jarrion asked, sitting down a bit more heavily than he might have done before learning this.

"It appears to be a cruiser, going by the engine signature and its the gravitic displacement. I'm still waiting on the transponder codes," the officer said, gesturing angrily at someone who was presumably dragging their feet on the codes. Off-shift crew weren't always the sharpest. Jarrion would have been unhappier, but the development with the ship was occupying too much of his mind.

"Can we - put it up on screen, show me where it is. Show me something."

In the event, given the ship was far out of anything close to useful visual range, the system augury got put up again, showing the relative positions of the planets and ships. There was the Assertive, in orbit, and there, coming in, was the new ship. It had built up a fair amount of speed in the few hours it had spent in-system, it seemed, and was motoring in towards them at a fair clip.

Jarrion didn't like any of this.

"The transponder codes have arrived, Lord Captain," said the duty officer, a crewman scurrying away from them after having handed the relevant information over. Jarrion tore his eyes away from the viewscreen.

"Yes?" He asked.

"It appears - Lord Captain, transponder codes mark it as a House Croesus ship," said the duty officer with obvious puzzlement. Jarrion continued to not like any of this. He was starting to feel a bit ill.

"...what?"

"Autocrat class cruiser. It's the-"

The crewman was interrupted:

"I know what ship that is," Jarrion said, eyes wide, voice a hair above shaking, his attention entirely back on the viewscreen and the little dot moving their way.

The Autocrat class was an idiosyncratic and not especially common class of cruiser. Typically it didn't encounter much favour with the Navy anymore, which was why they had a tendency to show up in Rogue Trader hands. Indeed, House Croesus had several. Indeed, this was one of them. Jarrion did know which one. He was guessing, but he was entirely right.

The Divine Right of Conquest - or as it was more commonly and conveniently called (out of earshot of it's Lord Captain, who did not approve of such casual affectations) Divine Right - was the personal ship of his brother, Macharius.

"Oh no. No no no. No! Oh no…"

"We're being hailed, Lord Captain."

"No no no no no no-"

Jarrion trailed off, staring ahead in blank horror, frozen rigid, fingers white as they gripped the arms of his throne. Crewmen looked to one another, unsure of what they were meant to do and fairly certain they were missing something here. Still, without orders they couldn't really do anything, so they waited.

"We are, ah, still being hailed, Lord Captain," repeated the crewman on the vox, seeming to snap Jarrion out of whatever trance he'd sunk into. Blinking and licking dry lips, Jarrion mouthed wordlessly briefly before drawing himself up, straightening his jacket, and saying:

"Put it through. Main screen."

And standing there onscreen behind a light haze of static and in his ornate golden armour, cherubs with golden wings occasionally bobbing into frame behind him, bearing golden censers and trailing smoke that probably would have been golden had that been an option, was Jarrion's brother, Macharius.

"Jarrion, you embarrassing, beancounting streak of piss masquerading as my flesh and blood," he said from behind the finely-wrought (and golden) mask cast in the idealised image of his face had looked like from back when he'd still had most of it. "Did you honestly think you would be able to keep this little adventure of yours a secret from me? Tsch."

His own face in his hands and his elbows on his knees, Jarrion bent forward and screwed his eyes shut.

"No. Please no. Throne of Terra, no," he groaned. "Anybody but you. Anybody but you!"

That's LEF-tenant, obviously. And would that void shield idea actually work? Eh, jury's out. Good visual though. And it serves my craven narrative purposes.

Tangentially related but one of my favourite 'things involving shields' is probably from the Brigador audiobook, where there's a mob attacking a powersuit and there's one guy who is inside the suit's shield bubble, but only partially, and so when someone fired a laser to clean the mob off only half of the dude got fried, and the rest just slid off. Metal.

Uh yeah, that.

(Also, "It is better to die for the Emperor than to live for yourself!" is possibly one of my favourite 40k quotes ever as I feel it perfectly encapsulate the alien-ness of Imperial thought.)]