Valentine and the Night Watch were never meant for space. They're city guardsmen; men of horses, muskets, cold nights, and bad ale. Not the endless dark of the void.
Now they're stranded aboard a warship the size of a city, arguing with an artificial intelligence that calls itself Caesar.
Unfortunately, halberds don't help much when the enemy's wearing armour. The Watch are out of their depth, armed with borrowed guns, facing a battle they don't understand, and trying very hard not to break anything important.
They're not soldiers. They're thugs with a uniform.
Fortunately, they're very good thugs.
Their orders are simple: don't die, don't touch anything expensive, and try to look like they know what they're doing.
It's all rather busy, really.
And then the Emperor offers them a job.
If they can survive long enough to take it.
