And, of course, the renowned Iwazar, the Artisan.

Each was once a renowned propagandist, so dedicated to their craft that they continued to serve even in death. They were my seer-skulls, recording my encounters and spinning the memories into image and sound. Most propa­gandists were equipped with at least one such device, but to be entrusted with three was a rare honour. But I was in ascension, insisting I required such resources to capture the truth, rather than forge it from data-scraps. Faith had been placed in me, but I still had much to prove.

I inspected each in turn, ensuring they had survived the journey unscathed.

‘Kikazar – engage data extract.’

The skull shuddered, its optic sensor blazing red. Slowly it rose, settling beside my right shoulder where it surveyed the room, its machine-spirit seeking the familiar or hostile. The abundance of bark seemed to confuse it.

‘Kikazar, data extract,’ I repeated, keeping my gaze fixed ahead.

Its cold metal limbs brushed against my shoulder as it sought the connection, my mind syncing with the machine’s cogitator. The sensation was unpleasant, like having a stiletto scraped over one’s brainstem, as the seer-skull began to transcribe my memories of the past few hours, reducing the subjective experiences to hard data. Images rose of their own volition: meeting Flight Sergeant Plient in the orbital station, the descent through Bacchus’ atmosphere and greenskin attack. I re-experienced the terror and confusion, and the relief as our liberator arrived. Once more I saw Flight Commander Shard’s Lightning soar into view.

‘Kikazar, pause upload.’

The machine shuddered and I felt a stab of pain. But there it was, the image copied from my mind’s eye. I could now see the craft in full relief. Its fuselage was a sandy brown, presumably to match the colour of the swamps, and its wings were adorned with the image of a black griffin on a red field, the symbol borrowed from the von Shard family crest.

‘Zoom and enhance, grid sixteen by twenty-four.’

The image condensed into a close-up of the cockpit. The pilot was barely visible. Not a surprise; the craft had been moving too fast to capture a true representation. Even if it had done so, my memory was too fallible to preserve such a snapshot.

‘Iwazar, access files designated “Shard”. Project half-dozen assorted, random selection.’