The deck shook violently.

The Tech-Priests of Mars taught that every machine had a spirit, and there was no spaceman who doubted that this was true. Live on a ship long enough, and you began to not notice the background sounds of throbbing generators and the low clank of machinery from the decks below. Petty Officer Karhunan had never served on any ship other than the Deathbane, but he had seen how the mighty cruiser reacted when under threat, how in combat the thrumming of her generators increased to an angry growl. Now, she shook. Not in pain, it seemed to him, but in fury that any would have the impertinence to fire at her. Releasing his grip of the bulkhead he had been clinging to for support, Karhunan cast his gaze across the small lance turret over which he had command: thirty men toiling under sweltering conditions at targetting arrays, power relays, and fuse couplings. He watched as they began to stagger back to their feet to resume their positions. None of them seemed hurt- or, at least, not badly, though there would have been little he could have done to help them if they had been. Low-grade ratings were considered to be essentially a munition: if expended, then replacements would be requisitioned (or, in this case, press-ganged) from outside. So it was with any closed system. That was when he heard the muffled sound of drilling. "Boarding torpedo!" he shouted, fumbling for the keys to the weapons locker. "Arm yourselves! Quickly!" Perhaps half of his gunnery crew had siezed one of the motley assortment of shotguns, stubbers and pistols when the turret wall gave way, a glowing circle of scorched and ripped armour crashing to the ground. Through the breach strode five looming, red-eyed giants, each perhaps eight feet tall, clad in black armour. Space Marines. "Chaaarge!" screamed Karhunan, waving his laspistol wildly, a moment before the Marines opened up, bolter fire ripping through the gunnery team. One Marine, striding to the front, let loose a burst from his flamer, swathing many of the gunners in burning promethium. Karhunan saw one rating dance away, his eyes splattering against the the inside of his protection goggles as they popped under the intense heat of the inferno. The ratings swept foward in a frenzied panic, small arms fire pattering against seemingly invulnerable plating. Men were falling all around Karhunan, great swathes of flesh blasted apart by bolter shells. And that was when he felt something blow. As the wall of the turret gave way, he felt something lift him off his feet, and then there was only blackness. "Airlocks opened, intrusion purged." confirmed the Master of the Watch. "Area is secure." "Good." purred Captain Malefica Arkham. Leaning forward against his command lectern, he cast an eye over the sea of icons depicting the battle beyond. Taken by surprise, the Raven Guard vessels were fleeing, leaving no means of escape for their comrades, trapped below on the surface of Isstvan V. For a moment, Arkham paused in consideration. Apart from the bridge crew, few of the crew knew the exact nature of their opponents. And, he decided, it had been a good decision not to tell them. It would have weakened their resolve- and in any case, one electronic blip looked much like another. It wasn't as if he risked contradiction. Like any warship, the Deathbane was a closed system: there were no outside influences unless it suited him for there to be. For now, the Emperor was still master of the galaxy, but, now and always, a captain was the master of his ship.