I glanced at the three identical chairs and, after a couple of false starts, opted for the seat on the left, closest to my cases. The flight harness was unfamiliar, and seemed intent on slicing through my shoulder. Plient’s voice crackled through the vox-channel.

‘All set, sir?’

‘Yes, acting flight sergeant,’ I said. ‘Ready as I will ever be.’

‘Nervous, sir?’

‘A little. Though more excited. I’ve never made planetfall in a craft like this.’

‘Understandable, sir. Though I should caution you that the shift between gravitational fields is disconcerting. Some nausea is not uncommon.’

‘I’ll try not to make a mess of your vessel,’ I said, smiling. ‘I suppose for a pilot such as yourself atmospheric re-entry is just another day’s work?’

‘That’s what I should say,’ Plient replied. ‘But, between you and me, I never get used to it. It’s magical, sir. Awe-inspiring. Except for the nausea.’

‘I wish I could see the way you do.’

‘I can arrange that, sir. You are not the first passenger to make such a request.’

Ahead of me, just above the cockpit door, a shaded pict screen lit up. I craned my neck, cursing myself for picking the wrong chair. My reward was a view of the now-familiar stars. They looked smaller on the pict screen, less significant.

‘The ship has external viewers?’ I said. ‘Is that standard?’

‘No, sir, but this vessel regularly ferried dignitaries before the war. Some of them enjoyed a view.’

‘Thank you, Acting Flight Sergeant Plient.’

‘I’m here to help, sir. Stand by for launch.’

My nails dug into the armrests. I willed myself to relax, taking a deep, slow breath, trying to unpick my apprehension. I had reservations about the journey, of course, but that was not the root of the unease. Nerves were not unknown to me; I felt positively queasy before arriving on the shrine world of Sacristy. But the pict I’d produced, a biopic of the life of Brannicus the Thrice-Maimed, had been received as my finest work. The infamous scene of the saint beating three hundred sinners to death armed only with his own severed leg is still regarded as a cinema-pict masterpiece.

But this was different. This time I would be on the front lines, obtaining live footage from an actual conflict, whilst balancing the whims of at least two masters. My unease was driven as much by the political pitfalls surrounding my work as it was by the prospect of imminent death on the surface below.

The craft shuddered, breaking out of the gravitational pull of Orbital Station Salus. A vast shadow blotted out the stars as Bacchus loomed into view. The moderately prosperous agri world was known for the quality of its wine but precious little else. Viewed from the shuttle, its surface was a dirty orange, with little indication of habitation or geographical variance. A casual observer might assume that deserts lay beneath them, the sands devoid of life.