‘Perhaps you should rethink your approach? Perhaps there is no final battle, but you could instead conclude your pict by showing the brave citizenry of the Imperium, and how the common agri-workers are valiantly persevering, despite the hardship. Those are the real heroes, my brave serfs.’

‘That is a possibility.’

Her motive was transparent. She cared not for honouring her people, only that they appeared industrious and productive. But I had no better answer. And, despite what I said, I did not fear the war with the orks would be without end. I now feared that ending was imminent, and it would be safer if I completed my work off-planet. But the storm gathered beneath Orbital Station Salus made that impossible.

Dolos handed me a tapered glass brimming with amber liquid.

‘Picture it – the thrill of aerial combat and the bravery of the God-Emperor’s soldiers juxtaposed against the idyllic setting of Bacchus. There, even with the xenos threat, the populace continue to brew Subsector Yossarian’s most desirable wines, fermenting their wares with the same traditional methods employed for millennia.’

As she spoke the metal structure loomed closer. It was an ugly slab of iron grey, walls pitted with corrosion, quite incongruous with the surrounding vegetation. But I recognised a distillation platform, the first I had seen that had not been sundered by the orks. Boats entered via a yawning set of doors, depositing their cargo before exiting on the far side. A steady stream of them bobbed in the water, awaiting their turn and perhaps enjoying a respite from their labours. But they were forced to manoeuvre from our path, for our helmsman did not slow, and the tip of more than one oar was singed by the yacht’s protective shield.

We did not use the main gates, instead mooring at the distillery’s rear, where a platform jutted from the structure. Dolos, Gradeolous and I descended the gangplank, Stylee scurrying behind, whilst the rest of the entourage remained on the yacht. Kikazar hovered beside me, sensors sweeping every facet of our surroundings. Whilst it lacked Mizar’s range and sophistication, it possessed an exceptional eye for details, and enough sensitivity to register even minor fluctuations in biorhythms.

A welcome committee waited to greet us. Their robes were reminiscent of the workers’, though the weave seemed finer, and the garments were unstained by blood or the juice of the fruits. They bowed, nervousness transparent even without Kikazar’s refined sensors.

The lead figure, presumably the overseer, stepped forward.

‘Governor Dolos, blessed is your presence. Thank you, Bringer of Harvests, for the bounty you bestow.’

Dolos rolled her eyes, glancing to me.

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, feigning embarrassment as the man bowed his head. ‘No need to stand on ceremony. Overseer Willem, may I introduce Propagandist Simlex? He is here to speak to you about life on our beloved planet. You may address him freely, and need only speak the truth.’