"In a circumstance where we had the available time, my lord, I would recommend destroying the hostile vessels, then escorting the pilgrim vessel into Ordo Hereticus custody to to ensure we do not risk the witches escaping. My convent has access to a wide array of contacts within the Ordos Malleus and Hereticus, after all." Magda interjected, casting disapproving glance toward Dahti, a small frown on her face. She didn't particularly like the Magos's answer, but, as much as she hated to admit it, his was rather unquestionable the optimal one, in a sense of pure efficiency.

"However, while I cannot morally condone the Magos's suggestion, it is the most efficient way to ensure that the mutineers cannot escape - as while a pilgrimage vessel may be a painful place to hide, it is the least likely one for us to pulverize. Nonetheless, taking moral considerations into account, I would recommend escorting the pilgrim vessel into the custody of the Ordo Hereticus or, failing that, the Adeptus Arbites in the interim. Additionally, I am ready to board whichever vessel you would drect me towards, though I must caution allowing the enemy to get close to us, considering our reduces numbers, and the absence of unexpected aid."

Boarding, in this situation? Edmund looked over his already bloodied warriors with a keen eye, and knew in his heart that - as battered and bruised as they already were - they truly would follow whatever command he gave them... including throwing away their lives in the cramped and damned corridors of a Chaotic raiding vessel.

One minute... two... three... four...

Time moved slowly for the Rogue Trader as he considered all his options, his ship having flung itself alone back into the wide-ranging depths of realspace, no sign of their escorts forthcoming. Not for the immediate moment at least. That left them at quite the disadvantage, or at least it would have had not the Purpose been built how it was and for situations just like this one.

"Master of Vox, send a distress call through whatever confirmed Imperial channels you can. Even if we stop one vessel, we shall need reinforcements. Mister Kurg, I should like you to bring us into boarding range, a full throated burst of our plasma and macro batteries once we are close enough, I think... give them a bit of a wake up."

Tyg Kurg, old by mortal standards but still as sharp as ever in mind and body, gave a swift salute and set about processing targeting vectors and weapon ranges with lesser members of the bridge crew.

Making sure his sword belt was secure, and his sidearm slotted neatly into its holster, Edmund straightened out and gave a smile to his retinue.

"Shall we proceed to the torpedo tubes?"

---

By the time their footsteps were clanging along the walkways of the ship once more, the lower deck crews had already slotted boarding torpedoes into a number of specially crafted mechanisms. Just one more thing that his father had thought of, the old bastard.

All around was organised chaos - Andamarian Marine contingents gathering into cutters and gunships, prepared and ready to follow their leader in his do-or-die flight and fight, members of the tech-priesthood blessing torpedoes and vehicles all with sacred chants and holy (frankly foul-smelling) unguents, and all the while the Purpose itself was turning to bring it's batteries to bear on their defiled and corrupted enemy.

"We await the firing of our guns," Edmund explained as he strapped himself tightly into the small conical interior of the six-man torpedo, larger than regular munitions and even standard-pattern boarding machinery, "with the God-Emperor's blessing it should create a hole in their shields - if not tearing them completely asunder - large enough for ourselves and our support to follow our path. We shall be penetrating the Idolator-class as close to its bridge as possible, taking command and Emperor-willing diverting it away from the pilgrim vessel." He gave a small shrug in his restraints, "not much of a plan, and I can not promise every one of us a safe return... but there it is."

With a shuddering of the entire ship signalling the firing of the broadsides, smaller tremors indicative of lower-level fire being returned at the Traders spaceborne home, Edmund counted silently down in his head. Another broadside came not soon after the first, the interior lights of the torpedo throwing everything into a nice shade of crimson, and the auto-gravity stabilisers initiating themselves to stop those within from internally pulverising themselves.

"Here we go."

Footsteps along planks battered their eardrums as the requisitioned suicide crew were heading over to their assigned salvos. Shouts and orders were flying about them and maintenance crewmen cleared the areas and calibrated the torpedoes to maximum efficiency. Grimri only knew a modicum of the technicalities of such an action. He recalled and old greybeard named Halki Lasercut who would ramble about the process in how one made a torpedo into a boarding torpedo, and the ritual before they were deployed, but it was usually at the end of the night when Grimri was dead drunk. He knew they had uranium tips and specialized hulls, but that was about all he could garner from his days back at the mines.

He had his weapons strapped and ready. His shotgun racked and loaded, his axe-spade, and his combat knife, as well as his nail-driver auto-pistol. He strode beside his comrades, somehow keeping up with them despite his stubby legs. He supposed the milling throng of workers running back and forth kept them from sprinting to the pods. What's more, there was something in the air. A tension only blood could sate. He had been in many engagements like this, but he had never boarded a chaos vessel before.

Once Grimri found the torpedo slots and saw the silos, he recalled just how vast they were. Nothing shorter than fifteen meters shot at ludicrous speeds could puncture a battleship's hull, and these were even bigger by his estimation. He saw a mechanic placing in last minute preparations, unhooking a pipe attachment and moving out of the way for the Squat to step forward. There was a compartment in the hull of the missile, like the mouth of a cartoonish fish. He looked at his comrades once more, making certain none of them had cold feet now that they were here.

He climbed in and crossed his arms, a grim visage on his face as the hatch slowly shut.

Dahti - Genetor-General

@jb@POOHEAD189@Jeddaven@BangoSkank

Dahti called out over his communicator: "Mariners, report to nearest torpedo and prepare for boarding. Medicae, focus on the wounded here and get as many reinforcements of our own in working order; all others remain at your station unless commanded by a superior. I go to board the enemy vessel. Imperator Machinex Vult."

The string of binary would have meant little to the party nearby him, but the last statement ("IMV") would be said in High Gothic, for all to hear. He checked all of his systems and nodded to the rest, in a rather regular tone of voice: "Master Grimri, Sister Agathe, Roald; I look forward to this."

Dahti did not sit, nor buckle in; he did not need to. The impact of this type of torpedo was analogous to the ultra-gravity events of the Lathes - it was not going to be pleasant for anyone, but Dahti would fair perfectly well. Rather, Dahti activated the magnetic pulse on his power armor, becoming locked to the inside of the projectile-vessel, hands and feet. The clasping gasp of his helmet came down, sealing his body entirely against the dangers of the Void...just in case. His lightning gun clung in his magnetic grasp and his powermaul sung on his back, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice. The Dragon-Scale Power Armor hummed with glorious energy, a deep crimson glow emanating from the Magos' Potentia Coil.

Standing near the door, ready for the breach, he looked to his comrades with an astounding blaze in his eyes and, saluting Commander Andamar, spoke proudly: "Commander, I am ready to fight. LET US PURGE THE HERETIC."