Free The Algebraist by Iain M. Banks Page B

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