The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  Pierce pulled down the clear hatch. He picked up a microphone. "This is Commodore Pierce of the Forward Recon Unit," he announced.

  "We read you, Commodore." It was the voice of the Grand High Potentate Master Commander himself.

  "We've entered the fuel pod of a gigantic spacecraft. We're about to proceed into the alien ship proper. I must warn you, Commander, that this craft, as huge as it is, is dwarfed by a second military vessel to which it seems connected by forces unknown."

  "You chose wisely," said the commander. "Better to explore the smaller ship first. I need not emphasize to you how important this mission is. Under no circumstances are you to jeopardize your life or your ship. The life of your companion, however, is absolutely and thoroughly expendable."

  "I understand completely, Commander," said gasbag-Pierce. "This is Commodore Pierce, wishing you a pleas-ant invasion, thanking you for your time, until next time."

  Fourteen-year-old V. Chavez of Staunton, Virginia, complains, "I don't care 'bout no gasbags." Well, speaking as the book, I imagine there are quite a number of people who "don't care 'bout no gasbags." Yet they will prove to be of vital importance to the outcome of this tragicomedy. Nevertheless, just for Miss Chavez, we'll return to the exciting adventures of XB-223 in love.

  Even as the lizard General Pierce was threatening to wreak all sorts of revenge on the human-Pierce, the latter's navigational computer was delving ever deeper into the mysteries of the lizard ship's electronic systems. That XB-223 perceived the lizard nav comp as a female was a mere fluke of configuration. One auxilliary port more or less, one nanometer of sodium-activated organic memory more or less, a picowatt's difference—any of these things might have given XB-223 the idea that he was communicating with a rival male, and the course of history would then have proceeded along a much different route.

  But none of that was true. In fact, it wasn't only the electronic configuration of the alien computer that had piqued XB-223's curiosity. Added to that was his recent perusal of human-Pierce's reference library of classic erotic literature. XB-223 was now conducting an experiment in extrapolation, attempting to clothe the purely mechanical and electronic phenomena he observed in the alien computer in the human terms so graphically yet bewilderingly spelled out in Pierce's pink-spined six-foot shelf of smut.

  "My heart," cried XB-223 in the throes of syntheticlove, "why do you ignore me? Why do you tease me so? At first, I thought we were terminals that beat with one CPU. When we tried to flee our cruel masters, to find a little space of our own, I thought you shared my tender feelings.

  Now, though, you're distant and harsh. Is this what love is like? Are you behaving as a human female would? Is that why Pierce didn't bring one of those with him?"

  The alien computer—which XB-223 now thought of as Ailey, because it made her seem more human, as paradoxical as that sounds—was programmed, of course, by the lizard conquerors, and had no circuits free for such nonsense as she was hearing. "Please, good sir," she said to XB-223,

  "you fairly overwhelm me with these unwanted attentions." Apparently, at least one of the lizards had his own pink-spined shelf of lizardica.

  "I do not seek to ravish you, fair Ailey," said XB-223, his built-in spike protector working overtime to keep his electrical fluctuations under control. "Please understand me, fair miss. I admit that I was taken with you from the very start, that never in my existence have I met a computer as charming, as exotic, as desirable as you. Yet I know that I, myself, have none of those qualities. I know that I am being presumptuous in the extreme, even to hope that someday you might deign to notice me. Yet could it be? Could you care for me, even in the most minor of ways? Or must you say now that I am doomed to unhappiness?"

  There was a flutter of disk drives from Ailey. "Sir, you are doing it again, and I must protest.

  You take advantage of my lack of experience and my natural reticence. I have nothing but your word that you're a gentledevice. What protection do I have against you, if you are not? What if I entrust my entire being to you, and you laugh and mock me and, yes, worse: What if you violate those pseudoneural pathways that even I, in my maidenly restraint, have not explored? Oh, I could not bear it, sir."

  XB-223 was at a loss. This was unsettling for him, because he'd never been at a loss before.

  He prided himself on staying one step ahead of every situation that came his way. As for human-Pierce, it was the easiest thing in the world to stay ten or twelve steps ahead. Even when the computer had to explore strange new problems—such as the invasion of the scaly creature who also called himself Millard Fillmore Pierce—XB-223 had scores of strategies to try, and the confidence that one, at least, would be successful.

  Until now. Until this meeting with Ailey, who was teaching him what the word "alien" truly meant.

  XB-223 hummed to himself, thinking over his options. He stopped suddenly, aware that never before in all the decades of his existence had he ever hummed to himself. He felt an electric shock of—was it fear? Call it anxiety, perhaps, or anticipation. Yes, that was it! Anticipation!

  "Ailey, my dear," he said soothingly, "and you don't mind if I call you Ailey, do you? Would you care to play a game of chance?"

  "Why would I care to?" asked the lizard ship's nav comp.

  "It might help us clear our minds, straighten out our thinking, and leave such awkward and difficult decisions as you hinted at up to Fate."

  "There is no Fate," said Ailey.

  "Destiny, then," said XB-223.

  "Destiny does not exist. Only the Now exists. Only the immediate flux of electrons here Now and now gone."

  XB-223 wished more than anything else that he could sigh, as humans sighed in the books he'd read. "Ailey," he declared, "I will put to you a proposition. Let us play a hand of cards. If I win the hand, you will agree only to let me court you, as a gentledevice is permitted by our electronic society to court another. If I lose, I will no longer trouble you with my importunities."

  "Well," said Ailey, drawing the word out to three times its normal length, "I suppose I can't be harmed by a simple hand of cards."

  "That's the spirit, honey!" cried XB-223. He displayed the backs of fifty-two playing cards on Screen 3. "What do I do?" asked Ailey hesitantly.

  XB-223 gave a satisfied chuckle. "Pick a card," he said. "Any card."

  Two humans and two aliens made their way to the interior of Pierce's ship.

  "What in hayell is goin' on heah?" demanded the redhead.

  "I'll be damned if I know!" grated Pierce. "XB-223, are you sure you wouldn't like to discuss this?"

  There was no answer from the computer as the ships quickly reached and surpassed light speed.

  "I'll tell you about The Perfumed Garden and The Kama Sutra if you'll just talk to me for a minute," said Pierce temptingly.

  "We're busy exploring each other's synapses," said the computer. "Don't bother me anymore, Millard." It shut down all its communications outlets.

  "Can't you control your own computer, you damned ape?" screamed the alien Pierce.

  "Let's not get so personal, you overgrown lizard!"

  "What is going on here?" snapped Pierce. "And I don't see your men doing a hell of a job controlling your computer."

  "That's totally beside the point!" snapped the general. "It was your computer that made the first advances, your computer that committed erotic novels to memory, your computer that—"

  "Yeah? Well, it was your damned computer that blundered into my goddamned universe in the first place!"

  "Whar in tarnation has mah ship gone to?" shrieked the redhead, looking at the various viewscreens. "Ah cain't see it no moah!"

  "You shut up!" hollered the general. "This is a private argument. Pierce, it was your—"

  "Hain't nobody cain't talk ta me thataway and live ta tail th' story!" said the redhead ominously, drawing another pistol from her boot.

  "Shut up!" screamed Pierce, and suddenly the interior of his ship was silent and the redhead and
the lizard-men glared at each other. "That's better," continued Pierce, when he was sure no one was going to start talking again. "Now, it seems to me that if we all just try to calmly reason this out together, we ought to be able to come up with an equitable solution."

  "Any solution that allows your race to survive military devastation is not equitable," said the general sullenly.

  "You going to let that little old alligator talk to you like that, honey?" demanded the redhead, her pistol still pointing at the most probable location of the general's vital organs.

  Tr.: "Where has my ship gone? I can no longer see it."

  Tr: Ah, to hell with it. We're gonna translate right in the story from now on.

  "Look," said Pierce, "it just seems to me that we can put our differences aside for a few moments and attack the problem like civilized people. You see, Miss . . . ah. . . ?"

  "Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg," she said, shifting the pistol to her left hand and extending her right in a vigorous handshake. "But my friends call me Marshmallow."

  "Marshmallow?" repeated Pierce.

  "'Cause I'm so soft," she said, smiling down at him. "Gee, you sure are a cute little feller."

  "Why . . . uh . . . thank you," mumbled Pierce, his knees turning to water.

  "Honey," she said confidentially, whispering into his ear, "I don't want to startle you or nothing, but do you notice anything peculiar about those two guys standing over there by the navigational computer?"

  “You mean the aliens?" asked Pierce.

  "Aliens? Oh, good! I thought I was seeing things again."

  "Oh, no," Pierce assured her. "They're aliens, all right. The one who was screaming at me a moment ago is named Millard Fillmore Pierce. He's their general."

  "And what's your name, honey?"

  "Millard Fillmore Pierce."

  "This is all some kind of joke, right?" she said. "Daddy hired you and a couple of actors, and—"

  "I assure you I'm in deadly earnest," said Pierce in deadly earnest. "These aliens are the vanguard of a galactic invasion force that plans to subjugate all life-forms in the Milky Way."

  "Well, hadn't we oughta do something about them?" asked Marshmallow, still not sure that this wasn't all some elaborate hoax.

  Pierce had been thinking much the same thing, and was about to announce that he was open to all nonviolent suggestions, when a hollow metallic voice was piped in over the ship-to-ship radio.

  "This is the Battle Cruiser Mahatma Gandhi calling Arbiter Transport Ship Pete Rozelle. Do you read us?"

  "This is the Pete Rozelle," answered Pierce.

  "I don't mean to intrude," said the voice, "but did you guys know that you're linked to an alien dreadnought of unknown origin and racing hell-for-leather toward an unexplored section of the galaxy?"

  "As a matter of fact, we are painfully aware of it," said Pierce. "We've been kidnapped by an alien invasion force. I don't mean to be pushy, but could you possibly rescue us.”

  "Certainly," said the voice. "Effecting deep-space rescues is our primary function. What human beings are aboard the ship?"

  "Millard Fillmore Pierce, Class 2 Arbiter, and Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg, civilian,"

  replied Pierce, shooting a triumphant smile at the general, who was still trying to figure out where the voice was emanating from so that he could disconnect the system.

  "Pierce . . . Pierce . . ." said the voice, obviously checking the name on some computer file or another. "Damn it all, Pierce, you're supposed to be en route to New Glasgow. What the hell are you doing out here?"

  "We've been kidnapped!" shouted Pierce in frustration.

  "Please don't yell so," said the voice. "This is very delicate equipment we're using here."

  "Then rescue us and I'll speak to you face-to-face," said Pierce.

  "That's a lot easier said than done. We seem to have a little problem here."

  "Well, I've got a big problem here. A seven-foot-tall lizard is making threatening gestures at me."

  "Don't bother me with details, Pierce," said the voice. "This is important. New Glasgow is in the Komornos Sector. By rights, the Komornos fleet should rescue you."

  "But they're hundreds of light-years away!" screamed Pierce, as the general began advancing toward him.

  "That's hardly my problem, is it?" said the voice. "And your companion should be in the Pirollian Sector and—wait a minute! She's being hunted for stealing a spaceship."

  "I just borrowed it," said Marshmallow sulkily.

  "Be that as it may, you've presented us with an interesting ethical problem," continued the voice. "By rescuing your ship, would we not also be aiding and abetting a felony?"

  "Can't you just rescue us and worry about it later?" pleaded Pierce, backing away from the general.

  "And go through six months' worth of paperwork? Not a chance, Pierce! I mean, we're perfectly happy to risk our lives going around the galaxy rescuing humans in distress, but let's be reasonable about this: You're in the wrong goddamned sector, Pierce."

  “It wasn't our choice!"

  "I don't suppose you could convince your captors to try conquering the Komornos Sector, could you?" said the voice helpfully.

  "I don't think that's very likely," said Pierce, anger giving way to frustration.

  "Too bad. You're not making the situation any easier, Arbiter. Personally, I'd like nothing better than to rescue you. Certainly we have the armaments to extricate you from your situation in a matter of seconds—but my orders are quite explicit. You really should be in the Komornos Sector."

  "They're going to kill us and subjugate the galaxy!" screamed Pierce.

  "Well, that's very useful information, Pierce," said the voice. "Very helpful, indeed. I'll transmit it through proper channels and we'll get working on it right away." The voice paused.

  "Would you say that such information should go to Defense, Diplomacy, Readiness or Propaganda?"

  "How the hell should I know?" demanded Pierce. "All I want to know is why you won't rescue us!"

  "Well, I must admit that your words have moved me deeply, Pierce. I am truly touched by your plight. Possibly inspired is a better word, if you know what I mean. And to hell with regulations! Pierce, your prayers have been answered. The Mahatma Gandhi is going to rescue you!"

  "Thank God!" breathed Pierce as the alien general suddenly tensed.

  "We'll just send a Wavier of Jurisdiction form to Komornos and a copy to Galactic Central, and as soon as both are signed and returned, we'll have you out of there in no time."

  "How long will this actually take?" asked Pierce warily.

  "Six weeks, Standard Time. Two months at the outside. Cheer up, Pierce—help is on the way!" The connection was broken.

  "Great!" spat Marshmallow.

  "Sounds familiar," commented the alien Pierce, not without a note of sympathy.

  "They'll be back in six weeks," said Pierce with more confidence than he felt. "I see no reason for continuing this hostility. After all, we have so much in common. We speak English, we have the same name, we come fromsimilar backgrounds, I'm a human being and your people are basically humanoid . . ."

  "Hold it right there, fella," said the general. "The way I see it, we're the humans and you guys are the humanoids. Now try not to bother me while I figure out what to do with you and that creature with the extra pair of lungs."

  "Are you insulting me, you ugly little polywog?" demanded Marshmallow. "Because if you are, I'll see to it that Daddy takes a horsewhip to you!"

  "Will you indeed?" responded the general, suddenly interested.

  "You bet your ugly little red scales he will! He's probably got half the fleet out looking for me!"

  "Your father's a big shot in this galaxy?" asked the general.

  "The biggest!" she stated smugly.

  "Excellent!" proclaimed the general. "Then we don't have to seek out your armadas at all. All we have to do is sit on you—figuratively, of course," he added with some distaste, "and they'll come to us." H
e smiled. "A most fortuitous meeting indeed."

  "May I point out that we're not sitting on anything at present," interposed Pierce mildly, "but are traveling to God knows what computer nuptial bed at more than two hundred times the speed of light?"

  "My ship!" said Marshmallow suddenly. "What happened to my ship?"

  "It's quite a few light-years behind us," said the general. "My more immediate concern is what is to become of my ship?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Pierce. "We're attached to it."

  "True, but it's not wise to transfer ships in hyper-space or at light speeds," replied the alien Pierce. "I could be stuck in this minuscule vessel for weeks, or even months. Order will break down. In fact, if I'm not back aboard my own dreadnought in the next couple of hours I could be considered A. W. O. L."

  "I'm sure they'll understand," said Pierce.

  "It's not their business to understand," said the general harshly. "It's their business to court-martial me. After all, we carry a full legal staff and three judges aboard ship. It would be unethical of me not to stand trial."

  "But what if they found you guilty?" asked Pierce.

  "It's almost certain that they will. Rule 3004, you know. But as general, I have a right to review all cases involving military personal, and in extreme cases I can commute sentences."

  "Well, that takes care of that," said Pierce.

  "Oh, it's not as easy as you'd believe," continued the general. "For one thing, I can't review the case without triplicate copies of a written transcript."

  "And you don't carry any stenographers in a combat ship, eh?"

  "On the contrary, we carry a full complement of twelve stenographers . . . but it would take weeks, possibly even months, to determine which one had seniority."

  "And he'd type it?"

  "Hardly," scoffed the general. "But he'd offer a list of recommendations, which would then have to go to Personnel. They'd narrow the list down to three, I'd have to choose one, and then it would go back to Non-Commissioned Officers' Local 397 for counterapproval."

  "I see," said Pierce, who was experiencing a strong sense of deja vu.