I was carried from the fanboat by a work crew not dissimilar to those I had interviewed a few days prior, but Shard was less fortunate. Armed guards awaited her, part of Governor Dolos’ security detail. I doubt they knew she was coming, but the orders for her arrest had been dispatched to all serfs. Iwazar’s footage showed a brief exchange between Shard and the guards, though the dialogue was inaudible. I do not know why they struck, the blow doubling her over and to her knees. To Shard’s credit, she still managed to mutter something cutting enough to warrant a rifle butt to the back of the head. After that they dragged her away.

I knew nothing of this. Not then, as I could only alternate between pain and darkness. I remember the stinging caress of a scalpel, as the flesh was carved from my leg. I must then have slept, for I dreamt of the disastrous flight through the Green Storm.

But, through Iwazar, I gradually made sense of my surroundings. Flashes of the room were revealed, its opulence surprising. The walls and floor were the same pressed flakboard as the rest of the facility, but they had been scrubbed to a buff finish. Quite an achievement, given the pervasive layer of sludge that contaminated the distillery. The furnishings were also ornate: I recognised a bedside reading-lumen that had been manufactured on Hedon, and the bedding and sheets were soft as spider silk. But the most glaring anomaly was the triptych of paintings hung opposite the bed. Iwazar was captivated by the display, its unblinking eye drawn to the image whenever my focus ebbed.

Collectively, the work showed a trio of figures standing in an idyllic clearing, the flora a glorified interpretation of the gnarl-vines pervading the swamps. Through sun-kissed branches, the three seemed to be caught in a momentary indiscretion. The image was not sordid or graphic, particularly as each participant was divided by a separate canvas, but the tilt of a head and the placing of a hand suggested an intimacy beyond that captured in the painting.

The figure on the far left was easily identifiable, the oversized robes and distinct headdress reminiscent of the many guests who had attended the Harvest Banquet. But the other two wore robes in a style unknown to me, adorned with runes unlike any I had seen. That alone meant little; the Imperium comprises a multitude of worlds, each with its own unique language and culture. The figures could have represented a district of the planet, or characters from myth or folklore.

That might have explained their inhuman quality. Both were too tall and slender, though it was difficult to discern their forms beneath the enveloping robes. Their faces were angular, the ears tapered and cheekbones pronounced, and their expressions quite inscrutable. They were too androgynous to discern gender, though each was beautiful, I suppose, in a strange, hollow way.