“What if I say no?”
“Punitive actions will be taken. Certainly against you, probably against Sept Bantrabal and possibly against the ’glantine Slow Seers as a whole. Do you find the above mentioned secondment details acceptable?”
Fassin had to shut his mouth. This floating bladder of glowing gas had just threatened not only him, not only his Sept and entire extended family and all their servants and dependants, but the major focus of uniquely important work being done on the entire planet-moon, one of the three or four most important centres for Dweller Studies in the entire galaxy! It was so outrageous, so surely disproportionate, it almost had to be a joke.
Fassin thought back, desperately trying to fit all that had happened to him today, with Slovius, with Verpych, with everybody who would have to be in on the joke, into a scenario more plausible than the one he was apparently faced with: an appallingly high-level projection from a portal-carrying Eship still a dozen light years away ordering him to join an allegedly no-holds-barred intelligence unit answering to an Order and a discipline he knew no more about than any other lay person, and with the force of the Administrata and the Engineers behind it.
“Do you find the above-mentioned secondment details acceptable?” the orb repeated.
Or maybe, Fassin thought, Sept Bantrabal as a whole was being made fun of here. Maybe nobody here knew this was a practical joke. Would somebody go to all this trouble just to make him look foolish, to frighten him? Had he ever antagonised anybody with the resources to set something like this up? Well…
“Do you find the above-mentioned secondment details acceptable?” the orb said again.
Fassin gave in. If he was lucky this was a joke. If not, it might be very stupid and even dangerous to treat it as such when it wasn’t.
“Given your crude and objectionable threats, I don’t really have much choice, do I?”
“Is that an answer in the affirmative?”
“I suppose so. Yes.”
“Good. You may ask questions, Seer Fassin Taak.”
“Why am I being seconded?”
“To facilitate the actions you will be asked to perform and to help achieve whatever goals you will be requested to pursue.”
“What would those be?”
“Initially, you are commanded to travel to Pirrintipiti, capital city of ’glantine planet-moon, there to take ship for Borquille, capital of Sepekte, principal planet of the Ulubis system for further briefing.”
“And after that?”
“You will be expected to carry out actions and pursue goals as detailed in said briefing.”
“But why? What’s behind all this? What’s this all about?”
“Information regarding what you ask is not carried by this construct.”
“Why the Shrievalty Ocula, specifically?”
“Information regarding what you ask is not carried by this construct.”
“Who has ordered this?”
“Information regarding what you ask is not—”
“All right!” Fassin drummed his fingers on the arm of his seat. Still, this projection had to have authority from somebody, it would have to know where it stood in the vast web of Mercatorial rank and seniority. “What rank was the person who ordered this?”
“Administrata: Shrievalty Army-Group Chief of Staff,” the orb said. (Well, that went right to the top, Fassin thought. Whatever piece of nonsense, military bullshittery or wild-goose chase this was all about, it was one being authorised by somebody with no excuses for not knowing better.) “Ascendancy: Senior Engineer,” the projection continued. (Ditto; Senior Engineer didn’t sound as Grand-High-Everything-Else impressive as Army-Group Chief of Staff, for example, but it was the highest rank in the Engineers, the people who made, transported and emplaced the wormholes that stitched the whole galactic meta-civilisation together. In terms of ultimate power, and regardless of species, an SE probably way out-wielded a CoS.) “Omnocracy:’ the orb said, with what sounded like a note of finality, “Complector.”
Fassin sat and stared. He blinked a few times. He was aware that his mouth was open, so he closed it. His skin had seemed to tighten, all over his body. A fucking Complector! he thought, already wondering if he hadn’t misheard. One of the Culmina ordered this?
A Complector sat at the clear undisputed pinnacle of the Mercatoria’s civil command structure. Each one held absolute power over a significant galactic volume, usually with a definable locus, like a stellar cluster or a minor or even a major galactic arm. The least senior of them would be in charge of hundreds of thousands of stars, millions of planets, billions of habitats and trillions of souls. As well as their subject Administrata, they commanded the chiefs of all the other Ascendancy divisions within their jurisdiction — Engineers, Propylaea, Navarchy and Summed Fleet — and they were always Culmina. The only thing which outranked a Complector was a bigger bunch of Complectors.
Fassin thought for a moment, trying to calm himself down. Remember this could be a joke. The very fact that a Complector’s authority had been invoked almost made it more likely that it was, it was just so preposterous.
On the other hand, he had the disquieting feeling, prompted by a half-remembered school lesson he probably ought to have been paying more attention to, that falsely invoking a Complector’s authority was potentially a capital offence.
Think, think. Forget the Complector; back to the moment. What assumptions might he be making here? Any of the ego? (He’d had this psychological check-sum routine drilled into him at college, where he’d scored high on what was usually called the Me-me-me! scale. Though not as high as Saluus Kehar.) Well, he could think of one egotistical assumption he might be making immediately.
“How many other people are being similarly summoned?” he asked.
“By emissarial projection, only yourself.”
Fassin sat back. Well, that certainly felt pleasing, but he suspected it was probably a much worse sign than it appeared.
“And by other means?”
“You will be joining a group of senior officials in Borquille, capital city of Sepekte, for further briefing. This group will number approximately thirty.”
“And what will be the subject of this briefing?”
“Information regarding what you ask is not carried by this construct.”
“How long am I likely to be away from home? Do I just go to Sepekte, get ‘briefed’ and come back? What?”
“Officers of the Shrievalty Ocula are expected to undertake extended missions with minimal notice.”
“So I should expect to be away a while?”
“Officers of the Shrievalty Ocula are expected to undertake extended missions with minimal notice. Further information regarding what you ask is not carried by this construct.”
Fassin sighed. “So is that it? You’ve been sent to tell me to go to Sepekte? All this… kerfuffle, for that?”
“No. You are to be informed that this is a matter of the utmost consequence and gravity, in which you may be asked to play a significant part. Also that information has come to light which indicates that there is a profound and imminent threat to Ulubis system. No further details concerning this are carried by this construct. You are commanded to report to the palace of the Hierchon in Borquille, capital of Sepekte, principal planet of the Ulubis system, for further briefing, no later than hour Fifteen tomorrow evening, the ninth of Duty, Borquille-Sepekte local time. Gchron, 6.61…’ The sphere started to restate the time of Fassin’s appointment at the Hierchon’s palace the following day in a variety of different formats, as if to remove any last excuse for him not getting there on time. Fassin sat, staring at a beige-blank section of polarised window on the far side of the chamber, trying to decide what the hell to make of all this.
Oh, fuck was the best he could come up with.