Another Order, a rather more fear-inspiring one, the Lustrals of the Cessoria, had been formed to hunt down and destroy both AIs themselves and anybody who attempted to create new ones or protect, shelter or otherwise aid existing examples. But that had not prevented the formation within the Shrievalty of an Intelligence section — the Shrievalty Ocula — whose duties, methods and even philosophy significantly overlapped with those of the Lustrals. It was the Ocula, this somewhat shadowy, slightly grim-sounding unit which Fassin was being ordered to become part of, for no reason that he could immediately fathom.
“The Ocula?” Fassin said. “Me? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Technically, he had no choice. To be allowed to do what they did, the Seers had to be an officially recognised profession within the Miscellariat, the catch-all term for those useful to the Mercatoria who did not fit inside the more standard subdivi-sional categories, and as such all Seers were subject to full Mercatorial discipline and control, committed to obeying any order issued by anybody properly authorised and of a sufficiently superior rank.
Yet this virtually never happened. Fassin couldn’t remember anyone from Sept Bantrabal ever being seconded by order in peacetime, not in nearly two thousand years of Sept history. Why now? Why him?
“May this briefing continue?” the glowing orb asked. “It is important.”
“Well, yes, all right, but I do have questions.”
“All relevant questions will be answered where possible and prudent,” the orb told him.
Fassin was thinking, wondering. Did he really have to accept this? What were the punishments for disobeying? Demotion? Forced resignation? Banishment? Outlaw status? Death?
“To resume, then,” the gas globe said. “Seer Fassin Taak, you are hereby seconded to the Shrievalty Ocula. You will have the honorary rank of provisional acting captain for security clearance purposes, with exceptions made as required by authorised superiors, the principal honorary rank of major for seniority and disciplinary purposes, the honorary rank of general for reward purposes and the honorary rank of field marshal for travel-priority purposes. This construct is unable to negotiate regarding the aforesaid. Do you find the foregoing acceptable?”
“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.