Officially, to the people of Ariun Imperium, the Logic Committee of Vigil stood as a testament to the unwavering commitment to balance and responsibility, founded on the enduring principles of ethics and pragmatism. It represented the dedication of civilian oversight to fostering accountability among men and women of violence, ensuring that even in a world shaped by profound Miracles, power must be exercised with the utmost care and respect.
To those with a front-row seat to the ongoing spectacle that was politics, wasting time was the full-time job of the Logic Committee of Vigil, led by a Chair who had the precision of a foggy mirror and the urgency of a sleeping cat.
Vigil also shared the same exact responsibility with three more Logic Committees – Sentinel, Transparency, and Ward, so effectively diluted across overlapping roles that, if screw-ups happened, which they inevitably did, the members could all point fingers at each other in resentment.
It was by design really, since the countless Logic Committees were where the Imperator shoved the ambitious and prideful in without them doing much damage to the government. Sure, the members had messed up the livelihood of the downtrodden from time to time through surprise inspections or nonsensical fines, but mostly they could spend an entire week harmlessly deliberating on whether or not to actually discuss a matter, while the Civil Service quietly handled the real work.
Yet, somehow every month, at least two Committees claimed victory, issued a public announcement, and then threw a lavish celebration. Victory in achieving what objectives, no one really knew, but they sure looked happy doing it.
Manziholet's mother did not mind. Nothing served as a better cover of darkness than sheer incompetence. For fifteen years, as everyone else was busy patting themselves on the back, she amassed her troops.
On that afternoon, Arin mobilized them for the long-planned hostile takeover. She moved fast. Allies were rallied, neutrals were coerced, and dissidents were silenced under the fact that her son, the Vixtrian Paragon and a top runner for a position at the Studium, was now officially a Seraphist.
Also, as one delightful side effect of the Daemooneers' declaration, some members had suddenly developed bad cases of sore throat or food poisoning. As much as they wanted to leave the safety of their estates and maximize their contribution to society, their health forbad them. More than half were the incumbent Chair's most valuable supporters.
Arin could not choose a better battlefield, and, as the Vicechair, the rules of engagement were twisted to her favor. The vote of no confidence was her weapon of choice.
A formal motion was put forward by one of her allies, citing general grievances and failures in leadership, seconded by three more members. The Vicechair acknowledged it and allowed Kalo an opportunity to respond and explain his actions before the Committee.
The Chair's defense, of course, consisted only of silence. He was being late as usual and probably would not even come, which did nothing to support his case. For a minute, whoever had not been aware of Arin's plan looked around in surprise while what was left of his supporters fell in disarray. Then she called for a vote by show of hands.
Even those struggling to count past their fingers and toes could see the motion was cleanly passed with a supermajority, thereby immediately stripping the Chair of his position. Following the procedure, the Committee then moved to appointing a new replacement. The name of Arin Claisara just happened to come up right after.
"I'll have your head for this," Kalo yelled and slammed on the desk. His left hand slipped off the edge, sending him stumbling forward and nearly face-planting onto the very piece of furniture he was trying to dominate. Meanwhile, Arin was still focusing on her documents, with the faint sound of paper rustling and the occasional tap of her pen against the desk in response to the tantrum.
It was a good thing that they were in the privacy of her home office late at night, or else Kalo would receive heavy applause for his accidental impersonation of a flailing marionette. In Manziholet's opinion, the man simply had never experienced a knife caressing between his shoulder blades, because…
"I have friends on Terra," Kalo said as he got up. "Important friends. They'll have you begging for a desk job in the middle of nowhere! And don't think you will get accepted by the Assembly. They'll ignore you."
Manziholet remembered someone threatening her as such before. It had never stopped her from keeping on brutally mauling her way up the ladder, leaving behind bruised egos and faint traces of shredded ambition.
It was Kalo's fault, really, for turning a blind eye to the blood on her claws. Even her son had to periodically vet his friends and contacts in case they had been converted into her spies. Over his entire life, only six got revealed. It was a disturbingly low number and almost too easy, presumably because she wanted to lull him into a false sense of security.
"You know," Manziholet said, "if you leave now, there's a slim chance you can salvage some dignity. It's getting hard to watch, as much as I enjoy comedy."
Kalo scowled at him. "You think you can disrespect me because you're a Seraphist, Sylvektor boy? Let me remind you, I have connections, people that will gladly make your Proving miserable. You won't make it past the first day."
"I wonder," he replied. "If I manifested my Miracle right now and chopped your head off, would your friends avenge you? Or would they give me a fine and sign an accident report? I'm a novice. It happens."
Kalo left while muttering "You'll see" under his breath, in the kind of tone only reserved for people who were under the illusion they had something left to prove.
"I need you to do a job." Arin finally looked up from the documents and took a sip from the cup of tea beside her. "It's a favor for a Grand Archivist."
"Who is one of Kalo's aforementioned friends, I assume."
"Indeed. Power flows in circles, Manziholet, and we do what's necessary to stay in the loop."
"I understand, mother. Nevertheless, I won't have time for that. I have only one month to familiarize myself with my Miracle before the Studium's Proving."
"Welcome to the wonders of adulthood. We're all busy." As if to make a point, Arin moved on to the next batch of papers.
Just as with Kalo or any other mortals, if Manziholet divided his mother into randomized chunks of flesh and bones and spread them all over the room, the worst case scenario was a year in prison before being paroled for the greater good.
Compared to the weight of the Circuit inside him, Arin looked so trivial and inconsequential, vulnerable even, like a leaf in the wind. Bold of her to assume that he loved her enough to agree to the request. Only ordinary people loved their mothers.
"Alright, you have me," Manziholet said as an unmitigated failure. "What is the job?"
Grand Archivist Osiri Weng's family tree could be qualified as a forest, with roughly two millions living members and counting. From this pool, she had comfortably groomed and installed a handful of governors to Imperial planets with the help of her Civil Service's colleagues. This family-first strategy was tolerated because, first, everyone else was doing it and, second, the chosen Wengs actually managed to rule without turning their planets into a dump.
They had also displayed undying loyalty to the government, and technically it would not constitute domestic sabotage to funnel valuable intel only to the Grand Archivist – for example, in one report by the governor of Marwind, delivered by personal messengers via the earliest sa-serpent:
Inhabitants on the island of Vonna had decided to expand their pig-farming operation by securing a substantial loan from the bank under the assumption that the anticipated demand for hides and pork in the coming winter would yield a robust profit. The new population of livestock would drive up the demand for freshwater needed in drinking, bathing, and the eventual slaughter. Since the old wells were either coughing dust or reserved for humans only, someone had to grab the shovels and make new ones. So, on a good morning, while digging downward to reach the water table, the labourers stumbled upon an entrance to an underground tunnel with strange plants and shiny bronze items.
Later that night, there was fierce debate in the village elder's house. One side wanted to inform the authority and let them handle whatever dangers down there, while the others insisted it was an ancient tomb full of treasures and the authority would only rob them blind. The latter won, because no one wanted to slosh in the pigsties forever, and they prepared to explore deeper.
If they had chosen the first option, the arriving authority would have informed them that the entrance belonged to a dormant Quorathene ruin, and that they should all bolt off the island before they ended up as part of the landscape.
They did not though, and the automatic defense system, of course, slaughtered anything that moved on the island the next day. At least the inhabitants got what they wished for. Being dead meant they and their descendants were out of the pig farming business for good.
Survivors (a pair of mother and son who went out fishing at the time) managed to sail away, the story of whom quickly reached the governor. He sent in the navy to quarantine the island and reported to Osiri, who was very eager to hoard all the ancient artifacts inside to herself.
An expedition, consisting of her trusted Seraphists along with some hired mortal mercenaries and servants, was being prepared.
"–which is where you come in," Arin said. "They're set to depart for Marwind tomorrow night. You'll join them, lend a hand, maybe pick up a few useful lessons along the way. Obviously, you cannot talk about it to anybody. If asked, you're just training for the Proving. Nothing too intense, I imagine. Probably taking a week or two at most."
His mother's tone made it look like a blissful holiday in the land of leisure with cool drinks and warmth of the sun, instead of delving into the underground ruin of an ancient civilization haunted with mysteries of a long dead species and filled with predatory bronze-flora hybrids seeking to murder all living creatures that were not their creators.
Sometimes Manziholet wondered if she was actively plotting his death. Even then, a Quorathene ruin; she should have led with that. He was tempted.