The weapon blasted into my grip, the thruster pack juddering and pulsing in a vain effort to produce a net zero. The gun itself also did its best – ports along the barrel forcing gas backwards to keep the muzzle on target. Even so, I was sent spinning almost immediately – the world becoming a rotating slideshow of ship and sky.

Nonetheless, I managed to land hits on the armoured airlock. Thousands of explosive fragments scattered over its surface, instantly turning it and the surrounding area into a forest of embedded metal spikes. The webbing disintegrated under the firepower, and I counted myself lucky the lock itself didn’t cave.

I spent nearly four valuable seconds correcting my out-of-control tumble before opening the throttle to gain delta-vee towards the stricken frigate.

As I did so, I saw them. Dressed in bulbous, crablike carapacial EVA suits, crawling across the surface of the Nineteen Eighty-Four unhindered by the webbing. The Synod’s rarely-seen special forces group.

The Fist of God.