My head snapped back as the images assaulted me. Endless vines, their fruit swollen but marred by ugly black marks. A wreck languishing in the swamps, the water unable to ward off the flames slowly consuming it as the desperate pilot struggled against his jammed flight harness. Then there was the platform: a vast artifice of steel and rockcrete. It looked of Imperial construction, but debased by foul xenos runes and curious patchwork devices of unknown purpose. As Mizar drew closer, perhaps recognising the architecture amidst the chaos, its aural sensors picked up the savage cries of the orks. At the platform’s zenith, two greenskins were engaged in a ritualistic duel, surrounded by a dozen other whooping orks. Both were huge beasts, dwarfing even the creatures I had seen on the airboats. Their blows lacked finesse, but the savage fighters had remarkable fortitude and surprising speed. Victory was finally decided by the whirling edge of a massive chainblade. It slipped past a well-notched axe, delivering a decapitating strike. As the corpse fell the surrounding orks roared in approval, the sound almost a cheer, the victor raising his fist in triumph.

Then, alerted by some unseen cue, the orks as one glanced skywards, their guttural cries coalescing into a howl of joy. Unfortunately, by raising their heads they spotted Mizar’s unblinking eye. The air was suddenly thick with bullets but, mercifully, the seer-skull had the sense to withdraw. As it departed an image flashed across my eyes. I could not make it out, the blinding light temporarily disrupting the skull’s viewer.

But for a moment it was as if the sky was torn by green lightning.

I awoke to further conflict, though this time between Stylee and an irate chir­urgeon in bloodstained robes. My gaze lingered on the scalpel clasped in his right hand, and the way he was staring at Stylee’s throat. The steward seemed oblivious, thrusting out his woeful chin, his finger jabbing at the chirurgeon’s chest.

‘The governor insists you release him into her care.’

‘Then the governor can come down here and tell me herself,’ the chirurgeon replied. ‘Until then he is my patient. And I am not releasing him into the care of that sawbones who attends your workforce. I’ve seen how many of them are short a limb.’

‘Agricultural work is not without risk. Infection must be cut away at the source.’

‘Is that right? Because when someone enters my surgery with a stubbed toe and leaves with one leg, I consider that a failure.’

‘The only failure here is your people failing to protect the governor’s château. If this oafish off-worlder hadn’t alerted us in time we would not even be having this conversation.’

He gestured to me to emphasise his point, only then realising my eyes were open. He flinched, left eye twitching as though heralding an impending seizure.