‘I see,’ she said, still intent on the window. I followed her gaze. There appeared to be a commotion, though from above it looked more like insects labouring than soldiers.

‘And why you?’ she said. ‘Why are you the man for the pict?’

I smiled. ‘I was fortunate enough to receive a recommendation from an influential commissar. I hope I can live up to his expectations.’

‘But you are not from Hedon?’

‘No, though I am told I have some familial connection to the planet.’

Her head tilted, as if she had registered a sound beyond my hearing. ‘Simlex,’ she murmured. ‘Not a family known to me.’

‘It is distant. I had not set foot on Hedon until a month ago.’

‘Well, you must tell me what you saw there,’ she said, suddenly jovial. ‘Come, let us sit and eat. The fashions their nobles favour change like the seasons, and I do hate to be out of date.’

She stepped away from the window, but in doing so revealed flood-lumens now lighting the sky. They seemed to be coming from the bunkers, and there came a distant wailing too, the noise intensifying with every passing second.

‘Governor, what is that?’ I asked. But she did not reply, merely gesturing to the aircraft being drawn from the leftmost bunker. A crowd had gathered around, but it was too dark to see clearly, the glare of flood-lumens only serving to dazzle me further.

But I caught sight of a figure striding towards the lead craft.

‘Mizar, on my sight,’ I murmured.

There came a sharp twinge in my temple as the connection between our cogitators was established. The seer-skull shed its housing, sensors flickering into life. Through machine-eyes it surveyed my room, its gaze falling to the window that I had, regrettably, neglected to open. The glass shattered on impact as it sped towards the runway, Mizar’s sensors effortlessly piercing the darkness. On the runway were three Lightning fighters, air superiority flyers known for their manoeuvrability and temperamental machine-spirits, awaiting their launch. But even through Mizar’s eyes, the pilots were not visible. Perhaps the wing markings would be clearer. If one of them featured the griffin motif, then–

‘Propagandist Simlex?’

I stiffened. Governor Dolos was seated at the table. Behind her, a footman had entered carrying a steaming tray. It smelt… good? With my perceptions split between Mizar and the meal it was difficult to be sure. I kept tasting promethium fumes.

‘Is there something troubling you?’ Dolos asked, this time making no effort to disguise her tone.

‘No, governor – please forgive my rudeness,’ I said, taking the seat opposite as the waiter poured a fresh glass of bitter wine.

Through Mizar’s eye I saw the engines flare, the craft slowly lifting skywards before accelerating into the night. The seer-skull tried to follow, pushing its anti-gravitational engines to their limit, its telescopic lens straining to keep the vehicles in sight. But it was futile.