Chapter 10

On their way back home to the capital, the liberation team traveled alongside the priests the same way that everything was done on Quizbar: with quaint, charming folksiness.

The local beast of burden was called a brugmoor, and it looked a little like if you were to cross a cow with a very shaggy, friendly puppy. There were horned nubs along its shoulders that seemed designed to slip a harness over (because they were designed, by The Radiant One’s infinite wisdom, Minor Fuss told them happily), and the moss that grew in its fur had a symbiotic relationship with the creature, processing solar power into energy for the brugmoor in exchange for the creature’s mobility helping to spread its spores far and wide. As a result, a brugmoor barely needed to eat, which in turn meant it barely needed to poop, which in turn meant that a ride in carriages drawn by the brugmoors was much more pleasant than you might think such a primitive method of travel would be.

Unfortunately for Olyrean, she was stuck in a carriage with Brugga.

Alone.

Moyom was being fawned over by the High Priest in the head carriage, which was larger than all the others but not ostentatiously so. Korak was riding as part of the merchants’ caravan which trailed behind the priests, trying to explain the concept of banks to them, which was a bit of a leap when they hadn’t gotten past bartering yet. Jack saddled his own brugmoor and rode it like an expert up and down the line, glaring out at the fields of flowers they rode past as if he expected the birds to organize an ambush, and a discreet little drone was projecting Libby’s image among all the Quizbarlings walking behind the procession. Olyrean didn’t know what the AI was saying to them, but she did notice that Libby’s skirt was shorter and her shirt cut lower than usual.

Which left her with Brugga.

Brugga.

Wretched Brugga.

She had tried to get her own wagon, or at least arranged things so that she didn’t have to ride with the orc, but by the time she had realized what was happening to her all the other carriages had been filled and she hadn’t wanted to put anyone out of their seat. She had a sneaking suspicion that things might have been arranged this way for the sake of whatever documentary they would put together about this experience later. Well, she’d not give them the satisfaction of an outburst. They’d have to work with footage of her being polite to the great green brute.

It was difficult to keep her composure, though, when Brugga kept being so damned polite to her.

“Oh, don’t worry!” he told her, when she made some quiet, very subtle remark about how hard it would be to sleep with him nearby, wondering if he’d cut her throat in her sleep. “I’ll sleep outside. It’s quite nice, under the stars!”

“My bad,” he said, when she offhandedly commented about the truly vile stink that he exuded every moment of every day and which must assuredly reflect the corrupted and fallen nature of his soul. “I’ll wash more! Sorry for troubling you.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said, when she just happened to be passing by him one evening where no one could see or hear them, so she had decided to politely let him know that the world would truly be a better place if he simply killed himself so maybe he should really give it some serious thought and by the way she had found a sharp rock for him if he were interested. “But I do have my family to think of, so it’s not really an option.”

He carried her bags when she struggled with them. He offered her water and cool melon when she was feeling too hot. He passed her extra pillows when the carriage got a little bumpy. Every day, in every way, he resolutely showed her small polite kindness, and no matter what she said to him he never lost his temper.

A part of her wanted him to snap, to leap for her throat. That way she could call for Jack, and then Jack would break him in half very heroically, the way he should have when he first rescued her but unfortunately had been busy doing other heroic things, you couldn’t blame him for it, of course not, but Brugga really ought to have been killed that day all things considered–anyway, Jack could kill the orc, as was right and proper, and it would be a very big tragedy (not really), yes, awful (awesome), but then maybe later on, over drinks, the team could all realize that well, it was for the best, wasn’t it, and maybe Libby would realize that it would make for a very exciting moment in the documentary and it would all work out just fine.

Olyrean didn’t dream of this very seriously, but it was an idle fancy of hers that she indulged in, and Brugga was being completely horrible to her by making it very obvious how unlikely it was to ever happen.

She couldn’t stand it.

It was a relief when, finally, they arrived at the Grand Temple of His Radiant Glory.

***

The Grand Temple was really more of a palace, a great towering pyramid of stone whose point was framed by the rays of the dawning sun, and its thousands of steps rose high into the clouds. It was really far taller than anything a race as woefully unadvanced as the Quizbarlings should have been able to build, which was why it was no surprise to the Americans when Minor Fuss told them that The Radiant One had called it forth from the ground as one of his miracles. It was much less impressive, then. Stacking rocks high wasn’t much, as far as divine power went.

It was ensconced in the Quizbarling capital of Gorgeous View. Most civilizations at this level of development didn’t have a planetary capital, a singular city which represented a united world government. Typically, most species didn’t get around to that until at least some of their members had the technological means to kill all the others very quickly and intra-planetary warfare suddenly became a much less appealing pastime. But unless there were a few missile silos hidden beneath the farming villages they had passed by, Quizbar hadn’t needed to go through that unpleasantness. They were united by the simple faith in their god.

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Gorgeous View was a sprawling city of stone, a labyrinth of smaller temples that clustered in the shade of the Grand. Normally, a city this large that housed a society which had not yet invented modern sanitation or roll-on deodorant would be a pretty unpleasant place to live. And yet, somehow, it managed not to stink. The paved streets were lit by golden braziers, rolling alongside canals of running, clear water. Enormous hanging bouquets of fragrant flowers made the night air sweet and drowsily seductive and ensured that the city never had a population shortage. And every building and every corner was filled with a wild variety of carved stone idols, each depicting a different interpretation of The Radiant One.

Some gods are, you might say, camera-shy, to the extent that they’ll order that anyone who attempts to depict them should be shot or beheaded or burnt at the stake, or at the very least that the artwork depicting them should be destroyed. This might seem horrific, especially to art collectors, but it is testament to the vast gulf between the mortal and the divine that among the gods themselves, this sort of behavior is seen as sort of bashful and cute. What is cold and absolute command to their followers, resulting in terrible bloodshed and bereaved families and unreasonable auction prices, is the godly equivalent of blushing and hiding their face behind a book.

Other gods order that they should never be depicted for the much more straightforward and emotionally mature reason that they were up to no good. Vackshi, the Prawn of the Void, had never been depicted, though how it therefore came to be known that he was presumably prawnish was beyond anyone’s guess. His stated claim to mortals was that no depiction of him should ever be made, for to behold his majesty was to have your sanity shattered. It was not, he insisted, because he needed to lie low after an unsuccessful attempt to alter the course of reality so that mortals would begin sacrificing planets to him.

The Radiant One, on the other hand, actually went to the trouble of appearing before his followers, so he could hardly say he was formless. True, he mostly talked to his priests, and then only really when they needed to hear his voice, but he also put in appearances at religious ceremonies every now and then. Depictions of his religious being were encouraged. So that the artists would not get bored, he appeared in all manner of guises–burning bushes, shining clouds, etc. It provided ample opportunity for creativity, and indeed the largest part of the population of Gorgeous View were artists and carvers.

(Or rather, the largest part of the population that mattered. Like most pre-industrial societies, the largest part of the population of any city was servants, that great silent and forgotten class that would be replaced by automated labor and, eventually, robots. This is often regarded as a great tragedy by those who formerly employed the servants and now found it much more difficult to distinguish who they were superior to.)

Olyrean gawked as they passed through the shadow of a head of lettuce nearly twenty stories tall. It wasn’t really lettuce, not as she knew it, rather just the Quizbarling equivalent, but it was close enough to make no difference. The stone had been worked very fine, so that she could make out every vein and fold of leaf.

“Oh, centuries,” said Minor Fuss, when she asked aloud how long it had taken to carve it. Now that they had dismounted, they walked through the streets, and Olyrean had quickly abandoned Brugga to go and walk up near the head of their procession, where Moyom and Minor Fuss were. The High Priest of The Radiant One swept his long arm out before him, gesturing to the crowds of artists and craftsmen who lined the streets to watch as they made their way through. “Hundreds of workers, for hundreds of years. Generations working toward the same noble goal. A grandson putting the finishing touches on what his grandfather began. Isn’t it inspiring?”

“Well, maybe if it wasn’t just a head of lettuce,” Olyrean said.

Moyom shot her a look, and she remembered that she was on a diplomatic mission. But Minor Fuss did not seem to mind at all. “A holy head of lettuce,” he said. “The Radiant One appeared in this form…oh dear, I think it must have been nearly six hundred years ago, now.”

“Why would he appear as a giant head of lettuce?”

“Not giant,” said Minor Fuss. “Just a normal head of lettuce. Well, except that it talked, I suppose that wasn’t normal. He just popped in to tell everyone what a great job they were doing that year. Especially the farmers.” He closed his eyes and intoned: “‘For have I not taken, yea, the most pleasing form of thy most bounteous crop, to honor it, and you in turn? For a fine use of me, ye, place the honored crop between two fresh-grain buns with a patty made from the grilled meat of the brugmoor.’” He opened his eyes and smiled. “Oh yes. Very big year for farmers, that one.”

Olyrean considered this. She looked to the statue, whose shadow they still stood in, and wondered how many hands had dedicated themselves to producing nothing but this. A gigantic reproduction of a salad base. “Did they...like doing this?”

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t. They all volunteered for it, after all.” He gave her a shrewd look. “I know you Americans look for the unhappy ones among us.”

“We look for happy mouths!” protested Moyom. “We love happy mouths! We kiss them, with words of freedom! Kiss them and kiss them and kiss them and kiss them!”

Minor Fuss sputtered a bit and drew out a small handkerchief to pat his face with. He took a moment to respond. “Nevertheless, my Radiant Shell, it is what you do. I know about your mission. The previous teams were quite open with it, after all. You look for the unhappy places, those unfortunate worlds among the stars, and it is your mission to…right the wrongs, shall we say. In your own peculiar way.”

“They do right the wrongs,” Olyrean said, more fiercely than she intended. “I…they…they righted the wrongs on my planet. Hard.”

“I am sure they did,” said Minor Fuss. “I did not mean to imply otherwise. I like your mission, you see. I think it’s quite noble, in fact. But I am afraid you will not find much to do here. Our people are very happy, very satisfied with their lives. There simply is not much to improve on, in the end.” He clapped his hands and broke into a broad grin. “But that’s alright. We can always spend our time learning about each other! Time is never wasted, so long as one is having fun.”

“Kiss them,” Moyom continued muttering to herself. “Kiss them until they are aflame with the soul of liberty.” Minor Fuss almost tripped over himself.

But Olyrean pondered his words, chewing them, digesting them, spitting them back out. It was true that Quizbar, from all reports and appearances, was doing very well for itself. It certainly wasn’t like her planet, where the Americans had intervened at the edge of a genocide. It was, she thought, an odd target for liberation altogether. All planets were marked for liberation, of course, but there was a sense of priority. What was so important about Quizbar that it had been marked for liberation, when it seemed filled with nothing but smiling farmers and impressive if admittedly sterile artists?

She looked out over the sea of smiling faces that lined the streets, waving and cheering at them. Happy smiles on every face.

Except for one.

He would have been impossible to see in normal circumstances, lost among the crowd as he was, only that his obvious misery marked him out as clearly as if he were fifteen feet tall. A Quizbar of middling age, his face wracked by a bleak despair. Olyrean jumped, and very nearly pointed him out–except within a moment he had turned away and was gone, fading back into the sea of humanity, or rather, Quizbarity.

She had gotten only a glimpse. But his face stayed with her as they entered the Grand Temple.