‘I… You are awake, my lord,’ he said, unsure how to converse when playing the parts of both sycophant and dissident. The chirurgeon suffered no such indecision and was already by my bedside. He retrieved a small device from his robes, shining a faded green light into each eye in turn.

‘How do you feel?’ he murmured, addressing a spot behind my ear. ‘Headaches? Blurred vision?’

‘I… Not any more,’ I replied, struggling to sit. There was little discomfort, just exhaustion. Mizar’s data-records were still rattling around in my skull, like half-forgotten memories from an evening of debauchery.

I felt the chirurgeon’s hands move from wrist to throat as he checked my blood flow. I was surprised; such assessments are usually conducted via a diagnosticator. But a brief glance at the infirmary provided an explanation. The rockcrete, though clean, was well worn, and cracked where the strangling gnarl-vines had sought to gain passage. The beds were crude cots, presumably once used by the planet’s workforce. Most were occupied. Some soldiers sat upright, talking in hushed tones as a medic checked their dressings. Others lay quite still, lost beneath a plethora of tubes and injectors.

‘Are these all from the attack?’ I murmured.

The chirurgeon shook his head. ‘No. We endured that quite well. The anti-air defences held them long enough for the fighters to get airborne. They drove them off.’

‘There were few casualties?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he murmured. ‘But those who get shot down don’t end up in here.’

‘Is there another facility?’

‘No, just a pit. The remains are dumped in there until there is time to burn them. I would avoid it if I were you, the climate speeds decomposition and the smell is quite oppressive.’

He caught my expression and shrugged.

‘What did you expect?’ he said. ‘You can’t bury anything in a swamp.’

Before I replied he moved on, intent on the next patient.

Stylee cleared his throat. It sounded deeply unpleasant, like some foul creature had taken residence in the wrinkled folds of his neck. I glanced to him. He offered a smile of dubious quality.

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘I must apologise for the current situation. Governor Dolos was adamant you be treated by her personal physician. But these soldiers? Pah!’ He spat the word like it was rancid meat. ‘They dragged you here before I could stop them.’

‘It’s fine. I’m fine,’ I said.

In truth I was not, my head still a jumble. Even sitting caused me to sway. But, surrounded by the infirm and dying, I was acutely aware the bed I occupied could better serve another.

‘How is the governor?’ I said, swinging my legs over the side and rising unsteadily.

‘Unharmed,’ Stylee replied, slinging my arm over his shoulder. A sour aroma clung to his skin. Unwashed sweat. It had not been apparent before. However else I could besmirch Stylee, he was fastidiously clean.