In contrast, few sought to speak with me. Flight Sergeant Plient was the first to knock on my door, arriving cap in hand and offering his condolences.

‘So sorry to hear about your loss, sir,’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

If it were anyone else I would have thought they were mocking me, but he looked genuinely sorrowful.

‘I doubt it,’ I replied, tone sharper than warranted. ‘Unless you can solve a conundrum. How does one create a pict when aircraft are moving at supersonic speed hundreds of miles above the swamp? Particularly as Mizar, my seer-skull with the best optics, is now lost.’

It was a question I should have given more time to prior to landing on Bacchus. I assumed there would be spare capacity in the fleet, or a vantage point from which commanders viewed the battle. I had been foolish, and in my anger I directed this at Plient.

But he did not take offence at my words, merely nodding.

‘I will try, sir,’ was all he said before departing.

My second visitor surprised me. Not that it was anyone of consequence, merely a member of Wing Commander Prospherous’ staff. But he carried a note signed by the wing commander himself. Apparently I had made a positive impression on Tempestor Taton, and Prospherous was persuaded that I could perhaps accompany Flight Commander Shard on additional missions, on a discretionary basis.

I crumpled the note, tossing it towards the disposal bin. I missed, and had to rise to collect it, a challenge given the comfort offered by my chair. Like the rest of my quarters it was luxurious, a significant upgrade on the prior lodgings. I had three rooms including a balcony that offered a spectacular view of the grounds, were one to ignore the wreckage and promethium spills. The bed was wide enough to cater for a party of four. More importantly, it also incorporated a discreet data-point and a power output that did not leak foul-smelling fluids. I was charging my remaining seer-skulls and assessing their optical capabilities when it occurred to me to review the old footage. I told myself it was a petty whim, brought about by overindulging in the governor’s wine. I am not much of a drinker, but I decided that afternoon to remedy that.

‘State your name.’

I glanced up at the voice, though the speaker was not visible in the pict. The focus was a young woman, her eyes cold, face pale as moonlight.

‘Lucille von Shard,’ she replied, her voice betraying neither fear nor joy.

I had seen the feed a thousand times. It was but one of many interviews conducted with Flight Commander Shard during her training in the schola progenium. A time before she joined the Aeronautica Imperialis and surrendered to cynicism.