"I know."
Morin cut Rovi off brusquely.
His massive body leaned against the backrest, making the chair creak.
"I know you're working for the one at the top. Otherwise, I wouldn't have said all that to you just now."
"I heard you've sorted out quite a few problems. Even that difficult tax officer Marquez thinks highly of you."
Morin's tone suddenly turned cold and hard.
"But Rovi, you need to understand something."
"Whatever position the Governor gives you, your personnel file and official post still belong to the Agricultural Administrative Council."
"We pay your salary in credits."
"We stamp your ration vouchers."
"First and foremost, you're a Rank 4 Scribe of the Fertility II Agricultural Administrative Council under the Imperium's Ministry of the Interior. Only after that are you whatever bullshit agricultural Advisor she calls you."
Morin picked up the stack of attendance cards and waved them in the air.
"You can't keep drawing your pay from the Agricultural Administrative Council without even filling in the most basic reports. Those are the rules."
"Without rules, the Imperium would fall apart."
Rovi knew this bureaucratic game all too well.
This wasn't just about attendance.
It was a declaration of authority, and a demand for a share of the spoils.
Rovi had made no small contribution to this round of Imperial Tithe collection.
After the Fourth and Ninth Agricultural War Zones fell, the Eastern Granary under his supervision had shouldered at least 70% of the Imperial Tithe quota. Under normal procedures, his contribution would have been enough to earn him a promotion from Rank 4 Scribe to Rank 3 Scribe.
If he had enough wealth to bribe and grease the right palms, even promotion to Rank 2 Scribe would not have been out of reach.
But in a bureaucracy, an underling whose