"You bet . . . master."
Pierce shuddered five sacs, and a sixth gave a brief bleating noise that was wholly involuntary. "All right, then. 2,971. 2,970. 2,969. 2,968—"
"What?" cries Mr. Isaac Hodgkinson of Austin, Texas. "Are you going to make us sit through the entire countdown?"
Well, speaking in my official capacity as the book, yes, I was going to run quickly through the entire countdown. That would have killed just under three thousand words, almost a chapter in itself. However, if Mr. Hodgkinson is representative of the mood of. the greater portion of my audience—and I have it on good authority that he is of particularly fine judgment—I will dispense with the remainder of the numbers. You probably know them, anyway.
In the control room of the Pete Rozelle, the lizard-Pierce gnawed absentmindedly on the tip of dead Sean Mulvahill's tail. "You know," said the general, "aboard our craft, we can override the computer and any controls that seem to be malfunctioning. You say your name is Millard Fillmore Pierce, and that you come from Earth. Surely your race is not so stupid as to build spaceships that abdicate all control to a single computer."
"Well, actually—" the human-Pierce began.
"Ya know," Marshmallow interrupted, "that battle fleet looks like you could take a running start and spit on the flagship, they're gettin' so close."
"We're getting close," Pierce corrected her. "This little ship is charging down on that vast armada."
"I don't want to tell you what to do on your own bridge," said the lizard, "especially because since the shift change, I'm technically off-duty and you should be getting orders from General Rutherford B. Tyler, wherever he is, but I'd suggest you try to communicate with those ships out there. You could explain to them that we're all prisoners of love here, kidnapped by a runaway computer." He paused thoughtfully, then added: "That unknown enemy might laugh itself to death."
"Computer," said Pierce in a commanding voice, "open hailing frequencies."
There was no response from XB-223. The hailing frequencies remained shut so tight, you couldn't force a bent paper clip between them.
"Any other ideas?" said Pierce. He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but no one on the bridge thought he succeeded.
They were arguing about what to try next, when they were interrupted by the arrival of Frank Poole. "Hi, folks!" he said cheerfully, animated by Arro, who had entered the android's body through one of its synthetic pores.
"Who's that?" shouted the lizard general.
Pierce was startled to see his old card-playing buddy arrive on the scene. He didn't think androids could switch themselves on. It was a mystery, all right. "Oh," he said, "don't mind Frank. He's not real."
"He may not be real," cooed Marshmallow, "but he shore is cute. Not as cute as you, Millard honey, but sufficiently cute, if you know what I mean."
The general smashed his fist against the bulkhead to get Pierce's attention again. "I don't know what you mean by `not real.' This is neither the time nor the place to get into an epistemological argument."
"A what?" said Pierce.
"A what?" said Marshmallow.
"Gin rummy, anyone?" said Frank Poole. Within the MIS's head, Arro discovered that the organic creatures around him could be influenced somewhat by his own will. He effected this limited control by inflating and rapidly deflating his aura sac. It wasn't something that worked on other Proteans, but obviously this mixed bag of gargantuan aliens didn't have the mental organization and discipline of Proteans. To the aliens, Arro might well have been a being of pure energy. He decided that would make an excellent disguise, and it would also help the monstrous beasts to rationalize any odd behavior he demanded.
"Commodore Pierce." Arro spoke into his communicator. "I will masquerade as a being of pure energy. None of these aliens has actually ever seen or heard of a true being of pure energy, but they no doubt assume such entities exist."
"Oh no," moaned Protean-Pierce. He bratted three sacs in frustration. Masquerading as a being of pure energy required the filling out of.two different forms and going through the entire authorization process all over again. "Hold on, Arro. I'll get your orders as soon as I can."
"Aye, aye, Commodore. This is First Officer Arro, signing off."
"Terrific," muttered the tiny Pierce aboard the Pel Torro.
In the meantime, Arro, in the synthetic body of Frank Poole, said, "Well, if you don't want to play gin rummy, I guess I'll have to tie you up."
The lizard general laughed. "You humanoids are amusing, I'll grant you that. How do you intend to enforce your will? I see that you carry no weapon."
Arro worked his aura sac for all it was worth, and the general stood motionless, his mouth open, while Frank Poole bound him securely with rope Arro had brought from the basement.
Then he proceeded to do the same to the human-Pierce and Marshmallow.
"Actually," said Pierce, when Arro let him have his mind back again, "I don't mind this as much as I thought I would."
"That's because we're squashed together like peas in a piccolo. Be careful, you're flattening my . . . accoutrements. "
"My dear Marshmallow," said Pierce gravely, "I am of the opinion that your accoutrements, as you call them, are unflattenable."
She blushed and then smiled. "Sakes alive," she said, "I do believe that's the most gallant thing anyone's ever said to me." If she hadn't been so much taller than Pierce, they could have made their bondage into one long wonderful kiss.
"There," said Arro, through Frank Poole's mouth, "Inow have you all helpless. Our conquest proceeds as scheduled."
"What about the battle fleet?" asked Pierce.
"I'm getting to that," said Arro. "The lizard's dread-nought is closing on us, too. Let's see.
What would I do if I were Commodore Pierce?"
"I'll tell you what I'd do if I were First Officer Arro," said the Protean-Pierce in a rage. "I'd ask my commanding officer for advice and orders!"
"Ah, yes," said Arro gratefully. "Commodore, would you be so kind—"
He was interrupted by Screen 3 suddenly coming to life in living holovision and multiphonic sound. On it was the image of a human being, tall, well built, his handsome head shaved completely bald. He wore a black suit and a cravat with a huge diamond stickpin. "Greetings,"
said the man. "I am one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the entire galaxy. I understand your situation, and I am prepared to withhold the vast firepower of my fleet until I've made my demands known. Following that, you will have exactly sixty seconds to surrender. Do you understand me?"
The lizard general fretted against the tight coils of rope that held him immobile. The human-Pierce gulped and tried to think of an answer: Yes or no. He wished he could work a hand free to flip a coin.
Meanwhile, Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg's eyes opened wide. "Good grief!" she cried. "It's Daddy!"
Arro was still motivating Frank Poole, the Modular Identity Snythecator. He was experiencing a kind of tingling in one of his upper left foresacs. The tingling could be translated into human terms as stark, raving terror. "Commodore Pierce!" he cried in a hoarse voice. "You should see what I can see!"
"Well," shouted the gasbag Pierce in frustration, "if you'd only turn your campack on it, I would see it on my monitor!"
"Oh," said Arro in an embarrassed voice. He aimed the camera lens at the viewscreens. One still showed the rapidly approaching battle fleet, the other the imposing head and upper body of Daddy.
"Yipe!" went the gasbag Pierce involuntarily. Every one of his sacs deflated with sharp blatting noises. He took a moment to reinflate himself. Then, in a hushed voice, he said, "It's God. We're meeting God."
"He looks just like the mysterious monster on the ceiling of the Cistern Chapel."
"I was ready for the battle fleet," said the Protean Pierce, "but I wasn't prepared to meet my Maker."
"Sir," said Arro thoughtfully.
"Shut up, Number One. I'm looking through the Red Tape Index to
see if there are any necessary forms we have to fill out before or after we come face-to-face with the Almighty."
"Sir," said Arro again.
"Maybe we have to send requisitions and permissions forms up through the chaplain's side of the chain of command."
"Sir," demanded Arro, "why would God appear with a battle fleet?"
Pierce bratted a sac impatiently. "God can appear however He wants. He's entitled. Now leave me alone while I—"
"Maybe that's His Heavenly Host in those other ships, and they always show up in paintings as gasbags with wings—which is redundant, if you ask me, but I'm no theologian—and wings won't work in a vacuum, so I guess—"
"Nope. No forms. No contingency plans for such a situation. We're on our own here, Arro, my friend. We're opening new territory. We're going to live together in pride and splendor through all eternity if we handle this right. Now, listen, here's my plan. I want you to go say hello to God and wish Him all the best. Give Him my regards and tell Him that we're well on our way to conquering the universe for His greater glory."
"Me?" squeaked Arro. All by myself?"
"You're the first officer, I'm the commodore. I have to stay back here in the Forward Recon Unit and record the history-making event."
Arro let out another squeal from a tightly pinchedsac. "But I haven't been to conception lately. What if God is still mad at me?"
"I don't know," muttered Pierce. "Wave a white flag or something. Hey, how about a Battlefield Absolution? In the absence of any duly authorized chaplain or chaplain's mate, I'm sure I have the power to give you one."
"Think so?"
"Arro, you're absolved. Go and sin no more."
The first officer wasn't much cheered by that, but he was a good warrior and he always followed his orders. He abandoned the MIS Frank Poole and drifted up close to the viewscreen showing, depending on how you looked at it, the father of Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg, or the Lord of All Creation. Actually, from Marshmallow's point of view, they were pretty much the same thing.
Arro slowly but thoroughly squeezed his psychosac until his consciousness shot out through cold, empty space to the flagship of the great space armada. He arrived on the ship's bridge, and then he reached out toward the looming presence of the most powerful Being in the universe.
Arro expected a barrier of some sort between his puny Protean intellect and the unknowable mind of God, and he was shocked when he touched and found—nothing.
"Commodore," said the first officer in a low voice, "He's not here."
"Of course He's there," said the gasbag Pierce, wobbling a bulging sac impatiently. "God is immanent in all things. He's here, He's there, He's everywhere."
"I don't mean like that," whispered Arro. "I mean He's not here in any but the usual way. I don't think we actually saw God. I think it was one of those humanoid creatures—not the scaly ones but the soft pink ones. I think it was one of those creatures pretending to be God."
"Don't be sacrilegious."
"I'm not being sacrilegious," said Arro forcefully. "It was that humanoid who was being sacrilegious."
"The campack on your body is still pointed at the viewscreen, and I still see Him or him or whoever it is." The gasbag Pierce stopped to think for a moment.
Slowly, the great bald head of Daddy smiled, then grinned, then broke into a disparaging laugh. "I can tell that you've worked your mental magic or whatever," he said contemptuously.
"As you can see, I am not an easy man to put your hands on—if you've even got hands. In fact, Mr. Energy Being, you're not so much in command of the situation aboard that small craft as you thought, are you? You hold all those cards there, but I have the trump. I have you. I have you alone in an empty shell of a spacecraft which, because of its huge size, you naturally took for the major ship in the fleet." Daddy grinned. "Sorta demeaning somehow to find you can be suckered just like everybody else, ain't it?"
Arro was caught for a moment in frozen confusion. He sent his mind to see what the still very solid-looking man in front of him was talking about, and he found that it was true. The entire flagship, or what looked like one, was one huge, empty hulk.
Well, not completely empty. There was, for example, an elaborate remote computer control for what functions were necessary, including main batteries and propulsion. There were no provisions for life-support.
And now, for the first time, the first officer of the Pel Torro realized that "Daddy," too, was a remote handled by that computer. A holographic image so real, so perfect, that even now it was impossible to think of him as not really there at all.
In a way, it was demeaning. Arro was the one who dealt in energy creatures, not these gross humanoid monsters.
The big man continued to stare at him, and Arro realized that he was, in fact, looking at the great man himself—but relayed from who knew where else? Probably, from one of the other ships, or maybe from even farther away if these beings had such technology. "Commodore Pierce," Arro reported, "this blasphemous-looking monster controls scientific wonders far superior to our own."
Arro found himself relieved that he was not, after all, confronting God. Still, the coincidence of the appearance of Daddy would be something the greatest Protean minds would puzzle over, perhaps for centuries.
"Now then," the bald man prodded, "let's continue our little chat, eh? Which one of you was sayin' something about three million eggs set to hatch in strategic places?"
"He's not talking to us, is he?" asked Arro.
"I don't think so," said Pierce. "We don't have three million unhatched eggs. Whatever eggs are. We've got billions of battle-hungry gasbags. Why don't you wait there while I get your Permission for Scout to Return to Front Lines Form 15183/a forms filled out and beamed to Headquarters. It'll just take a few minutes. You've been very courageous, Arro, and your actions will certainly redound to the credit of the Pel Torro and its commander, me."
"Yes, sir, Commodore."
"As soon as clearance comes through, I want you to leave that phony flagship and return to your body, and then get back inside that Frank Poole android."
"And I want my little darlin' back immediately!" cried Daddy, making a fist and striking some metal surface beyond camera range. He turned and addressed someone else. "What kinda critter we dealin' with, Herb? Got anything yet?"
A tinny, off-mike voice responded. "The thing in front's a robot or android, standard issue."
Daddy frowned. "Remote?"
"No, it's turned off now . . . but there's a life-form inside. Something unknown to exobiology as I understand it. It's so tiny it wouldn't be visible to us."
Arro had returned to his body, and was again motivating the synthetic form of Frank Poole.
He said nothing, following the flesh-creatures' conversation with a curiosity that outweighed any sense of threat. What, after all, could they do? They possessed superior technology, but the gasbags could control their minds for short periods. It seemed like a standoff to the first officer.
Eventually the different species would get around to bargaining and compromising, which Commodore Pierce would gladly participate in—as long as it suited him.
"Herb," said Daddy with a growl, "next thing you'll be tellin' me is that cockroaches are plotting on the other ship."
"No, I'm getting something else. I'm trying to measure the energy of that infinitesimal speck—it's off the scale. Wonder how it holds together."
The bald-headed man nodded to himself, and turned back to the viewscreen. "So—a creature of pure energy, or nearly so, and you can inhabit bodies at will. I begin to see your plot, sir, and it's a rather good one. But you overlooked a few things."
"Oh?" murmured gasbag-Pierce.
"What does he mean about all that energy?" asked Arro.
"I think Herb's misreading his data deck. He's measuring the energy of our Forward Recon Unit. Let him think that's you if he wants."
"First of all," said Daddy, smiling without humor, "you're obviously spatially limi
ted. You require a body toget anything done on the scale of us human beings. Maybe you can—reproduce.
Take over others. But you still need them."
"Whatcha think, sir?" asked Arro in a series of short sac blats.
The Protean Pierce felt a strange sense engorging his sacs that he'd never really experienced before. It was something he knew about intellectually but had never expected to feel in the flesh.
It was a feeling of total helplessness, even nakedness, mixed with a little . . . fear, perhaps? He fought these strange feelings within himself and forced them back down, reminding himself that he actually had little to worry about overall, that it was poor Arro who was trapped aboard the Pete Rozelle and not him, and that any sort of strategic compromise with Daddy could only result in the ultimate victory of the gasbags.
"Arco," he said to his number one officer, "I'm going to take over this conversation. I want you to repeat what I tell you through that android's mouth."
"Aye, aye, sir," said Arro. "I admire your technical skill and imagination, flesh-creature," said Frank Poole. "But tell me, what else did I overlook?"
Daddy smiled again. It was a chilling sight. "How you gonna defeat the might of my assembled fleet of ships, my marines, and my fighter pods?"
Gasbag-Pierce only bratted to himself in satisfaction. Daddy knew nothing of the vast, invincible Protean armada that would be on its way Real Soon Now, whenever all the necessary paperwork was finished. "Anything more?" he asked.
"Well," said Daddy slyly, "we have weapons systems aboard the ships of this fleet that can target an area as small as a cubic millimeter. That means we can explode a tiny nova bomb behind your android's forehead. Now it would destroy the android for sure, but maybe it wouldn't destroy you. I don't know. I do know that you'd have tc take over one of the others you'-re holdin'
The Red Tape War (1991) Page 9