Then, just as the pot-bellied thing started to glow a deep cherry red around its midriff, it all faded away: noise and vibration and heat. People relaxed. Somjomion and Voriel took deep breaths and nodded at the Hierchon. The troopers shouldered their arms. Whatever complex substrate inside the dark device had played host to the AI image of the Admiral had been turned to slag.
The Hierchon Ormilla spoke from his glittering esuit. “I invoke the full emergency powers of the War Emergency Plan. Martial law will be declared at the close of this extended session. Let those earlier excluded resume their places.”
The flurry of politicking that Fassin had witnessed earlier was made to look mild in comparison as — without actually telling anybody not cleared to know about it any details — what was becoming known as The Current Emergency was talked over and enhanced roles and new responsibilities were discussed, squabbled over — between and within departments — revised, re-revised, traded, further discussed and re-re-revised before finally being handed out.
Fassin’s belly was still making noises when the full session broke up and he was called to a briefing with his superiors in the Shrievalty Ocula. They kept him waiting in an ante-room within the Ocula’s floor inside the Hierchon’s palace; he shed one layer of his cumbersome court clothes and found some human food in a dispenser in a curving outside corridor with a view over the reception plaza. (Long evening shadows, towers and spires burnished red with sunset. He looked for some obvious sign that the city, planet and system were all under martial law again, but saw nothing.) He was still wiping his fingers when they called him in.
“Major Taak,” Colonel Somjomion said. “Welcome.” He was shown to a large circular table surrounded by uniformed Shrievalty personnel. They were mostly human or whule, though there were two jajuejein doing their best to look humanoid and seated, and a single oerileithe in a duller and slightly smaller version of the Hierchon’s esuit, the discus of which was half-hidden in a wide slot in the floor. It seemed to radiate chill and dominate the room, all the same.
Somjomion indicated the oerileithe. “This is Colonel Hatherence,” she told Fassin. “She will be your superior in this mission.”
“Pleasure, sure,” the oerileithe boomed, twisting fractionally towards Fassin. The Colonel’s esuit had no transparent faceplate like the Hierchon’s, just armour and sensors, giving no sign of the creature within.
Fassin nodded. “Ma’am.” He’d thought the only oerileithe in the system apart from the Hierchon were basically Ormilla’s near family and his girlfriends (’harem’ was, though only just, too pejorative). He wondered whether Colonel Hatherence fitted neatly into either category or not.
It was explained to him that they could not, of course, just send him off alone to do what he was supposed to do. Over the next hour, as communications, memos and remote audiences with the Hierchon himself interrupted Somjomion, Fassin was gradually given to understand that the task assigned quite specifically to him alone was one which would nevertheless unar-guably be best accomplished if he was escorted and overseen by people the Hierchon and his claque of cohorts felt they could actually trust.
Accordingly, Fassin would not be alone on his next delve. He would benefit from the protection and guidance of Colonel Hatherence here, and from that of two of his fellow human Seers, Braam Ganscerel, Chief Seer of the most senior Sept of all, Sept Tonderon, and — as Fassin’s junior — Paggs Yurnvic of Sept Reheo, with whom he had worked before. Chief Seer Ganscerel was currently readying himself to return as rapidly as possible from a habitat orbiting Qua’runze, and would rendezvous with Colonel Hatherence, Major Taak and Seer Yurnvic on Third Fury, from which the delve or delves would be conducted, as soon as possible.
Qua’runze was the other big gas-giant in Ulubis system — there were two smaller examples as well. All had Dweller populations too, though compared to Nasqueron’s they were negligible in size. Getting Ganscerel from Qua’runze to Nasqueron and the Third Fury base would take well over a week, Fassin suspected. The old guy liked his luxuries and anyway wouldn’t be physically able to cope with much more than one gee during the journey even if he wanted to.
Fassin, very much feeling his way in all this, suddenly caught up within organisations and power structures he never imagined having anything much to do with and having to cope with networks of rank and superiority he had only the vaguest working knowledge of, had been about to start banging the table — probably only figuratively — and complaining about not being able to start the job he’d been very clearly ordered to begin as soon as possible. Then they mentioned Ganscerel and his journey back from Qua’runze and he saw that there was prob-ably no way he was going to be able to move this forward faster than the pace that had already been decided.
Which, in a way, suited him fine. If the system really was under threat of imminent invasion and he was being asked to go on the most important delve of his life in the midst of it — and given the amount of time they were being told there was before the invasion took place, there was every likelihood he’d still be in-planet when it happened — then he wanted — needed — one last delve of his own, into Borquille’s underworld, its own hazy, clouded, turbulent and dangerous nether-environment. He suddenly had things to do and people, or at least one person, to meet. The delay caused by Ganscerel might work out quite usefully. Of course, they probably wouldn’t want to let him out of their sight, so he’d have to find a way round that.
He also suspected that they wanted the whole delve done at a distance, from Third Fury, with him and Ganscerel and Paggs Yurnvic all lying wired up in the base there and communicating with remotes down in Nasqueron itself. (Certainly Ganscerel wasn’t capable of jumping into a gascraft, breathing gillfluid and taking multiple gees, squished in shock-gel — he hadn’t even done any of that stuff when he was young.) Fassin would have to try and find a way round that, too.
He complained as crossly as he could pretend about not being allowed to get on with things, and then demanded some time off.
“You mean, leave?” Somjomion said, goggle-eyed. “I believe you have some very intense briefing and training ahead of you, Major Taak. Many days’ worth which will have to be crammed into hours. There is absolutely no time for leave.”
He explained about Ganscerel’s age, infirmity and therefore slow rate of travel. Somjomion looked indignant, but checked this, finally having another hurried conference with the Hierchon himself. “Indeed,” she said, sighing, “Chief Seer Ganscerel is profiled as being unable to withstand forces greater than 1.5 gee, and is already complaining at the prospect of that. It will be nine days before he can reach the Third Fury base.” Colonel Somjomion narrowed her eyes at Fassin. “We shall proceed with your fuller briefing first thing tomorrow, Major Taak. If there is any time left over, a day or two of leave may be granted. I guarantee nothing.”
“So. Another Emergency,” Saluus said. He smiled broadly. Tm told I have you to thank for this, Fass.” He held out a slim flute. Fassin accepted the glass. “Entirely my own work.” Sal was, he supposed, one of the few people in the system for whom the prospect of a War Emergency Plan coming into force was genuinely cause for celebration.
“Really?” Saluus said. “You’re even more eminent than I thought. And you still look about twenty, you dog.” Sal laughed the easy laugh of a man who could afford to be generous with his compliments. Sal chinked glasses. They were drinking champagne; some ancient Krug with a meaningless date all the way from Earth and probably worth as much as a small spaceship. It had a pleasant taste, though not many bubbles.