Chapter 7

The next few weeks were spent preparing for Quizbar.

For the first time in months–ever since her civics classes had ended–Olyrean had a daily schedule. She had convinced herself that this was what she wanted, that she looked forward to the structure and purpose of it, but soon the reality of responsibility crashed into her, leaving her feeling somewhat like a small child who asked for a puppy for their birthday, only to discover that puppies need regular feeding and walking and have a tendency to do horrible things to carpets.

She had to wake up early, with barely two hours to eat breakfast, catch up on the news, and take her customary one to three showers (depending on how self-indulgent she felt that morning). Then it was off to the Accident, in the same room where they had held their little pizza party, for two hours of language lessons, which, aided by neurostimulants, would make them mostly fluent in Quizbarlish before they left. Then she barely got two hours for lunch before needing to return to work for the afternoon, and when she was done for the day she barely had time for five hours of reading and holo-films and video games. She could remember working much longer days back before she was liberated, of course, but she was used to an American schedule by now.

Brugga, to her disappointment, declined to kill himself. He insisted on being there every morning, terribly alive, though at the very least he avoided talking to her. Olyrean returned the favor, and, as an added bonus, also avoided looking at him or acknowledging his existence whatsoever, if it wasn’t necessary. She was perfectly polite to him, when she needed to be, of course. But to the extent that she thought of him at all, it was to imagine how satisfying it would be to see him struck by an asteroid. Or dropped from a tall building. Anything at all would do, really; she wasn’t picky.

Afternoons and evenings were dedicated to acclimatization. It was no small feat for someone fully adjusted for one particular planetary environment to travel to an entirely different planet. There were an awful lot of finicky details to worry about, such as: Can I breathe the air? Will the planet’s gravity crush me? Will the locals kill me? And most importantly: Will I be able to get a drink?

Some of these concerns were still major problems. Engineers were hard at work trying to invent subjective gravity, but the last AI who claimed to have made a breakthrough on that matter had disappeared, and now there was a suspicious black hole where his supercomputing cluster used to be. It was a very polite black hole as far as things went, and kept telling everyone that it wasn’t going to compress them to a singularity unless they wanted that. Still, nobody liked to go near it.

Other issues, however, science had done a fantastic job of solving.

When it came to diseases, Olyrean went through the usual poking and prodding, though mostly as a precaution. Like all Americans who persisted in instantiating themselves on antiquated biological substrate, she had been given a bracing round of Symbiolance Premium Plus+++ v.6.4.1 (by reading this name you have legally agreed not to ask what happened to versions 1-5)TM, which contained nanobots that strengthened her immune system, making it much more capable of defending against novel viruses, bacteria, parasites, overly forward dust mites and other bodily intruders.

She had been alarmed, at first, to discover that she’d been filled with small robots without her knowledge, but it became much easier to accept once she had gotten her medical report, which told her the nanobots had found a small brain tumor that would have killed her in two years and removed it free of charge. The shots she received for Quizbar were really just making sure that the nanobots were operating correctly and were properly motivated for the upcoming heavy-duty work, by injecting microscopic little rum-and-cokes into her bloodstream and telling their managers to promise them a week’s vacation.

And then there was the cultural compatibility training. Fortunately, the inhabitants of Quizbar were notoriously peaceful and largely conventional in their morality, at least by her standards. There would be no embarrassing mishaps, like being beaten to death with hammers after a drunken night out with the Hooveeballix, or being unprepared for, say, a traditional greeting orgy. This was always an issue when liberation teams were sent in with a less-than-aggressive posture, which they were quite often. Most planets that were integrated into the UWA were actually incorporated peacefully, with an outright invasion only being resorted to in the last extremity, or if the military had some new toys it wanted to test out.

But otherwise, diplomacy was the usual approach, and that was to be the case here. Moyom had been recommended by the diplomatic consulate as an ambassador, while Brugga and Korak were the education and economic specialists, respectively. Olyrean herself was sent as the intelligence and espionage expert. She had no idea why this was, and she couldn’t help but wonder whether there had been some horrible mistake, once her duties had been made clear to her.

She had actually gone to Libby to clarify that she was a junior operative, and probably wasn’t to be trusted as the go-to in this case. But the AI had only laughed at her, given her an insubstantial kiss on the cheek, and told her that the Executive AIs had received a high recommendation for her from SPECTRA. That might have reassured her, but SPECTRA had been oddly quiet as well. She hadn’t spoken to Veezeebub and Tordle since they had sent her off to her first team meeting. Sometimes she tried fiddling with the little bracelet they had given her, trying to operate it, but she had only managed to summon up little informational holo-vids on various planets she didn’t recognize and, once, a quickly-scrolling screen of a dazzling array of aliens thrusting their genitals into the camera. She hadn’t touched it since.

After a grueling six-hour workday, she’d go out with her new teammates to the bars, which to her delight Brugga declined to join them on, saying he needed to get home to his wife and children (though this was an unwelcome reminder that the orc was procreating). Moyom spent an awful lot on drinks for Korak, and kept chittering at him about how beautiful his scales were before eventually dragging him to the dance floor, which made Libby very happy, as they’d be able to include a romance subplot this season.

Olyrean herself would stay at the bar, sipping her drink and listening to Jack tell all his wonderful old war stories.

He had an awful lot of them. There was his time in the Cola Wars, a religious conflict stretching back through the ages, and in which the Interdimensional Cola corporation had finally put paid to a competing group of heretics and purged the name of their drink from history. Then there was the great Auto-Liberation, where half the republic’s fleets had gotten turned around in warped space and accidentally begun liberating their own planets. And the hideous and bloody War of the Leaf.

“And mark my words,” Jack told her after that one, “Somewhere out there, hidden in dark space, the Canadians are still waiting for us.”

In all honesty, she knew that much of what he told her was probably not real in the strictest sense. She had tried looking up records of some of the wars he talked about, back when she first heard him talk during her civics classes, and hadn’t been able to verify anything. Jack, Libby had told her, had a few loose screws rattling around his skull. Perhaps quite literally, given the amount of cybernetic modifications he had installed in his brain. But Olyrean just liked hearing the stories, and if even one-fifth of them was true, he had lived a life crammed with enough adventure for an entire holo-film franchise.

So for the most part, except for Brugga’s unfortunate insistence on continuing to breathe, her acclimation with the liberation team was smooth sailing. Of course, that wasn’t to say there was no intrigue. The mission to Quizbar was going to be a dangerous one, after all.

Possibly.

That was what Jack was there for. Military personnel weren’t usually sent on diplomatic missions. He was to be the head of security for their team, a position that the Executive AIs felt was necessary because of the previous team’s disappearance. They had just vanished utterly, leaving behind all their equipment, and no one knew what had happened to them. When questioned, the Quizbarlings would only insist that the previous team was alive, completely safe and comfortable, and “on vacation.” It was a matter of some controversy that had several congressmen and Senators already calling for a military solution. All that had prevented a planetary invasion was that the Quizbarlings were otherwise so friendly.

Although, given what Olyrean heard of this “Radiant One” as she read the reports, she couldn’t help but wonder if the Americans were a little bit afraid of him. A planet ruled by a powerful god who might not be completely friendly was not exactly an unfamiliar prospect to her. But the Americans hadn’t met a god that they couldn’t blow up in quite some time. What exactly was it, she wondered, that was so different about The Radiant One?

***

As wonderful as drinking on the government’s dime was, this time could not last. The time of their actual mission was fast approaching, and, Libby told them, as this mission was of particular interest, they would get a special honor. They would get to meet the President.

Nobody particularly cared. The President was an AI.

In the past, back in the depths of Infinity America’s long and confused history, most Presidents had been biological. It was a more benighted time, when citizens still harbored prejudices against Artificial Intelligences in politics, seeing them fit only to propose legislative agendas, write the laws themselves, organize congressional schedules, lobby, impute the votes of a representative if they were absent, come up with enforcement mechanisms for the laws, draft legal cases, run the military, carry out the orders of the executive branch and give Senators their traditional goodnight kiss, but definitely not to be the one to sit in the big chair.

This all changed, though, in what is now called the Second Administrative Crisis. This was a period of turmoil that arose during America’s expansion into its third galactic cluster. In the administration of such a large republic, the number of laws being proposed and passed every day far exceeded the ability of anyone to actually keep track of them. High-ranking officials and national leaders were determined, on average, to only have knowledge of one-thousandth of a percent of current legal text. They’d be questioned on camera about proposed laws they clearly knew nothing about and would attempt to clumsily bluff their way through. Citizens concluded that they were either incompetent or hiding something, leading to a massive decrease in trust in the government.

This came to a head in the second term of President M. Shemmwallug. President Shemmwallug (or Shem the Slammer, the nickname he campaigned on) was a Nooloovee, a race of giant intelligent sauropods notorious for bludgeoning their enemies to death with their skulls, which Shemmwallug had leveraged with his campaign promise to “break necks and balance budgets.” His need to maintain a tough image led to disaster during one now-infamous press conference where, in a pique of mad arrogance, he fielded questions from the crowd. The hologram footage has been lost to history, but a transcript of the historical moment remains:

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

REPORTER: President Shemmwallug, sir! I was wondering if you might give us your thoughts on proposition 180-Delta-Zed-Zed-E? Reportedly, Senator Rudmank has said you would be too cowardly to sign it if it made its way to your desk.

SHEMMWALLUG: Let me tell you something about Senator Rudmank, kid. That man doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about and he’s lucky I don’t trample his nest and crush his eggs. Alright? *Long, foghorn hoot of mating challenge*. I have always said I support proposition 180-Delta-Zed-Zed-E. I fight for the people, and prop 180-Delta-Zed-Zed-E will ensure their prosperity for a thousand years going forward. I’ll die before I let prop 180-Delta-Zed-Zed-E fail, do you hear me?

REPORTER: So you support the practice of annually sacrificing a planet to Vackshi, the Prawn of the Void, by towing it to the nearest black hole?

SHEMMWALLUG: I’m sorry, what?

Proposition 180-Delta-Zed-Zed-E did not actually exist. It was a fictitious piece of legislation dreamt up by conspiratorial emoto-broadcasters as a way to get more viewers to tune in to their panicked coverage of the imaginary matter. Furthermore, there was no Senator Rudmank, the press conference was actually just a chance meeting in a parking lot, and as it would later turn out, Shemmwallug was not even the President, having lost his election bid by over twelve billion votes, a razor-thin margin.

Nevertheless, this did not stop the entire event from turning into a bloodbath as President Shemmwallug fled in panic from a baying crowd of citizens who disagreed strenuously with his apparent policy of compressing them into a singularity. Once Congress was made aware of this disaster it followed up with a flurry of chaotic legislation, variously proposing to impeach Shemmwallug, impeach the actual President, make black holes illegal, and one suspicious bill from the prawn-men of Vactus IX titled “Really, Would Sacrificing a Planet Be So Bad?” So impassioned were the debates around these proposals that firefights broke out in the congressional chambers and soon spread into the streets. People began to seriously worry about the advent of an intergalactic civil war.

Fortunately the crisis abated during the next Presidential election, when for the first time an AI ran for the office. Wesley Studholme the Magnificently Endowed was a chatbot developed originally for erotic roleplay who, for some reason, had been given a brain the size of a small moon. With the extra compute he had developed an interest in stellar politics, and it quickly became apparent that artificial intelligences had the significant advantage of actually being able to recall every piece of pending legislation. In addition, being nothing but software meant that if anyone had any questions about his administration, they could immediately summon a copy of him for a personal explanation. Finally, he really was Magnificently Endowed, which in later analyses was determined to account for eighty-six percent of his votes.

He won handily and the constitution was hastily amended to allow him to be sworn in. As America’s first AI President, he was given the task of mending a wounded nation. Fortunately it was discovered that none of the reported firefights in congress or the streets had actually occurred either, and reports of such were merely the dramatic plotline of a political summer blockbuster that holo-film producers had thought would resonate with viewers. President Studholme’s first official act was an executive order that the producers be thrown into a black hole, along with the emoto-broadcasters, the former President Shemmwallug, and the prawn-men of Vactus IX.

He remains to this day one of the most popular Presidents of all time.

Ever since, the innate advantages of AI candidates have seen them win 96.7% of Presidential contests, and these days bio-Americans barely bother to compete. As a consolation prize, traditionally the position of VP would go to someone who still needed to breathe.

As such, meeting the President was hardly a big deal; you could, at any moment, summon up a holo-copy of him to question him about his policies, yell abuse at him, shoot him, or turn on erotic mode if that was really what you were into. They could also appear incarnated as a version of any race. It was a remarkable boon to political stability. In fact, meeting the President was so trivial that barely anyone bothered to do it anymore, and instead chose to get the news from Libby, who acted as the government mascot, on the grounds that she was much cuter.

Bored, they gathered in the conference room with some Omoxxian rice bowls for lunch. With a flicker and a snap, the President projected onto the table before them.

The current President was an AI named M. Wister Furth, and during his administration the use of erotic mode was down by eighty percent. He presented as a severe man, hawklike and balding, with a wild fringe of white hair and bushels of hair growing out of his ears, rail-thin and dressed in an austere black suit, at least while he was in human form. At some point he must have decided that this flinty avatar was what the electorate was in the mood for last election season. This almost guaranteed that an election or two down the line someone much hotter would be elected, in a pattern described by political scientists as the Aesthetic Arousal Equilibrium theory.

“Greetings, team,” the President began, and was immediately interrupted by a laser through the face that left a small smoking crater in the far wall.

“Sorry, sorry,” said Jack, holstering his gun. “Force of habit.”

“That’s quite all right,” said President Furth. “It is your right as an American. I don’t know how many of you voted for me or not–”

“I didn’t,” said Jack.

“I think you’re a moron,” Korak said. “Kill yourself,” he added, after a moment.

Moyom clapped her hands together in delight. “You are a disgrace this day! You bring shame to your writing utensil!”

“Well,” said the President, his hologram flickering uneasily, “I might disagree with what you have to say, but I will blow up a solar system to defend your right to say it. What about you two?”

Olyrean, who was familiar with the idea that the President need be afforded no respect but hadn’t yet managed to become fully comfortable with the idea, only giggled nervously. “We weren’t around last election,” Brugga answered for her. “So we couldn’t vote.”

“Ah, yes. So you two are the new citizens on the team. I did read your profiles.” The President nodded vaguely. “Well, then, let’s get the formalities out of the way.”

He then launched into a very dull speech, spoken in what was recognized as High Presidential Cadence. In a republic the size of America, public communication became an intricate fine art, and the language politicians used had evolved into a number of well-documented sub-dialects.

There was Senatorial Pastiche, a whimsical patter meant to communicate competence and dignity; Committee Drone, a monotonous buzz of arcane multisyllabic words meant to minimize the amount of information conveyed per second spent speaking; or Demagogue Bloviation, when you wanted to convince the average person that you could relate to them and so you spoke like an idiot. High Presidential Cadence was full of grand and noble calls to high ideals, involving a lot of “freedoms” and “liberties” and “arcs of history” and all that, and played very well for the cameras.

“...And so it is our cosmic destiny, a duty that all must fulfill, that calls us to the stars to sow the seeds of wisdom, justice, democracy and freedom, where’er we may roam. Let our flag fly proudly on the solar winds, and all who see it know that America stands for their freedom!” The President finished up, and gazed dramatically out into the distance with a solemn nod, as though he could personally see the flag drifting majestically across the void of space.

“That’s great,” said Libby, clapping her hands together. “A little long, but we can edit it down. We’ll throw it in the trailer, along with a shot of Olly getting all misty-eyed. I’m sure it will bump up your poll numbers.”

“I was not.” Olyrean sniffled.

“I don’t particularly care about the polls,” grumbled Furth, dropping the cadence and becoming at once much brisker and businesslike. “It’s not like I’m running for re-election. That said, I do hope that your team does find some sort of solution. I’m trying to build a legacy here, and I’d rather not be remembered for invading a planet of pacifists. The Senate’s getting very itchy for a military intervention.”

“They couldn’t be stupid enough to try, could they?” Korak asked.

The President and Jack both doubled over with laughter. “Oh dear,” said Furth, wiping his eyes, “thank you for that.”

“But they have to know it’s impossible, don’t they? They know about The Radiant One. They must have heard about him teleporting the fleets away.”

“It’s not the Senate’s job to worry about niggling details like whether something’s possible or not,” Jack said dryly. “That’s for the military to handle. They just tell the fleets where to go.”

“There are dozens of Senators up in arms about the last team going missing.” The President stepped off the table, flickered, and appeared sitting in a chair. “They’ve even formed a committee. Several, in fact, which is how you know things are getting really serious. I’ve got VP Murtlebix keeping them in line, for now.”

“Really?” Olyrean asked. She didn’t pay much attention to politics, but Murtlebix had always seemed to her like President Furth’s much more belligerent and hard-headed partner.

“Having a pro-war Veep heads off the Senate forcing my hand by making them feel like they’ve got a friend on the inside,” the President told her, as if he had read her thoughts. “And Murtlebix is smarter than he plays for the cameras. He’ll tell them what they want to hear, but he knows an invasion can’t actually happen. Still, he won’t be able to keep them happy forever.”

Silence settled in among them as they all digested this, all except for Jack, who whistled idly and picked at a small crater in his power armor. Olyrean couldn’t help but feel uneasy. True, her planet had been liberated by force, and she was glad for it. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about the military being used against a peaceful planet. Sure, the previous liberation team had gone missing, but diplomatic integration was still an option. She hadn’t realized that other people’s lives might be riding on her actions.

“Can I ask, sir,” she said, “why us?”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“Why us? If this is all so important–why is this our team? I mean, Jack, I can understand, but everyone else…” She gestured around the table, to Moyom, Korak and herself, deliberately avoiding pointing at Brugga. “None of us have any experience liberating planets. I mean, sir, I only just joined SPECTRA. Why not…well, why not someone competent?”

The President mulled her words over. He shot a meaningful look to Libby, and something unspoken seemed to pass between them. There was a lot that can pass between two AIs in a moment’s glance, enough to rival the lifetime output of most civilizations, so it was a very meaningful look indeed.

“Well,” he said eventually, “we chose you because…look, you aren’t going to be the first liberation team to be sent there. You’re not the second, either. You’re not even the dozenth. We’ve sent seventeen liberation teams so far, and none of them have been successful. The Quizbarlings welcomed them in, were very polite and accommodating, and utterly refused to consider any proposals whatsoever for governmental reform. They’re very, very happy with their Radiant One making all the decisions for them. In a way, the last team actually achieved more than others, because they managed to get some kind of reaction out of them.”

“But this just sounds like all the more reason to send in your very best,” she protested.

“Does it? We sent our very best, and it got us nothing, again and again.” The President and Libby both scowled, as if they were personally affronted by this. “No, we decided that it was time for a new approach. An unconventional team, one not so caught up in the doctrines and dogmas of training. Who can say if it will work? But at least we’ll be trying something different. Now, if you’ll excuse me, they’re about to set the lunch menus for the congressional cafeteria for the next year, and that always takes up one hundred percent of my compute. Good luck to you.”

And then he was gone.