The servitor was still struggling with the lock. It had inserted a key, but was unable to turn it. Tentatively I reached for it, wary the cybernetic servant might inadvertently break my fingers whilst fulfilling its function. But it released its grip, apparently programmed to prioritise human safety, and I took hold of the key, working it back and forth, until eventually something clicked and the door swung open. As the servitor entered, my trunk clasped in its servo-claw, I examined the key. It too was wooden, though the hardness and texture were closer to rock. Still, it must have been ancient, the teeth worn by time’s passage.

The servitor deposited my equipment, then turned and brushed past me, its duties fulfilled. As it disappeared along the corridor, I stepped into my room, closing the door behind me, alone for the first time since my arrival.

Except for my cases. The smaller was standard issue, containing my modest essentials. But the larger stood as high as my shoulders, and was at least twice their width. It was cast in obsidian, the dark metal emblazoned by bronze edging and an Imperial aquila of burnished gold. Within lay my eyes and ears, voice and memory, the tools by which I worked my art.

I rested my hand on the case, before glancing around the room, seeking the connection point with which to power the device.

There was only bark. Even the bed and furnishing were carved from wood, and light was provided by twinkling candelabra.

A search followed, until I eventually found a hidden panel, its brass hinges painted to resemble the wood’s hue. Behind was an antiquated portable power unit which, mercifully, someone had had the foresight to charge. As I connected it, I found my gaze lingering on the crawl space behind the panel. There was an unpleasant sheen to the wood, and a faint scent of mildew. I picked at it with my nail, and was rewarded by a palm-sized chunk coming away in my hand. Beneath, the wood had rotted away, supplanted by tendril-like roots with tiny pink buds that quivered despite the lack of breeze.

Carefully, I closed the panel. Behind me the case hummed into life.

I rose, approaching the device and tracing a pattern across the concealed gene-lock. With an audible hiss it folded open, and I was greeted by the leering smiles of three servo-skulls. They stared at me from their housings, once-empty eye sockets supplanted with optic sensors and pict-cams. Each cranium housed an advanced cogitator, capable of processing vast streams of data, as well as interfacing with my own cerebral implant. Each also possessed an anti-gravity field generator in place of a spine, along with a series of spindly limbs and curious devices that, I confess, I did not fully understand.

I knelt before them, murmuring the Litany of Activation. As I did so I looked over the names inscribed beneath each.

Mizar, the Fearless.

Kikazar, the Patient.