The Borgs were standing there, waiting for me to try out their newly refurbished bolter.
I rolled it over in my hand, slowly. Improved range, ammunition capacity, time between shots, efficiency, accuracy, stopping power, and a certain stateliness of design. The grip in particular was, wonderful, with just enough coarseness. The Borgs had assured me that with their new grip material, under environments where there was plenty of liquid around - say, for instance when the bolter was covered with blood and viscera - the grip would go tacky so it would be difficult to drop. The excited borg who'd introduced it - for a measure of excitement, being a borg, also assured me it would work on sweat or other bodily functions - though I was uncertain as to what they were implying. If there was something about Slaaneshi rituals, or Emperor forbid, Khornate ones, I didn't want to know. I was, of course, keeping my mind firmly away from Emeli as I did so.
I can't say that I was looking forward to testing it out in battlefield conditions as I would no doubt have to find it out its limits in person, probably while on the vanguard, but I suppose it was reassuring that the Borgs were still finding ways to innovate even on long-blessed technology.
In this case, material technology.
I sighted down the barrel, closing one eye as I played with it. The gun was unloaded, of course. No need to risk any kind of damage. Of course, as a Commissar, I was trained on gun etiquette. Never point a gun at something you don't intend to shoot.
Or, as one of my classmates very sardonically told me later - have a why for shooting what you didn't intend to shoot.
There a strange smell of sweetness wafting on the air... But the sweetness that came from fermentation, and it only grew stronger over time. It drew my attention as it seemed to waft strongest from what seemed to be an unattended window in direct line of sight to me, and my mind snapped onto it immediately. Of course, directly in front of a contingent of Borgs I couldn't be anything but the Liberator, and before I could even think, I'd already pulled the trigger on an empty gun.
It fired anyway, because of course it did, to my general amazement and beginning panic. What if I, the Liberator, accidentally shot a Slawkenberger citizen? For no reason? Wouldn't it all come crashing down? Because of a smell?
Seconds later, Jurgen came into view, eyes blazing with warp fire, and while I'd put on my best The Liberator look in front of the Borg contingent, inwardly I relaxed somewhat. Jurgen, as an incredibly capable aide, was clearly onto some kind of plot already, and had in fact arranged this own day off to spend with Zerayah. Probably to keep this under watch, in fact. I hoped that Zerayah wasn't anywhere near this, but knowing his usual competence, she was likely enjoying herself elsewhere and probably using her puppy-dog eyes that were altogether far too effective on some poor secretary somewhere else.
Jurgen really worked too hard.