The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  "Nobody move!" shouted the lizard general's body. Of course, it was Marshmallow in the lizard body, but her booming, shrill cry had all the force of the general's lungs behind it.

  The human Pierce—in Marshmallow's body—gave a ladylike groan and sat up, holding his aching head. "What is it?"

  "Are we alive?" asked the XB-223 in Pierce's body. "I've only been a real boy for a few minutes, and I haven't even had sex yet! I don't want to die!"

  "That gas!" growled General Millard Fillmore Pierce, through the mechanical speech parts of the mostly deactivated Frank Poole.

  "We've all got to learn to cooperate, ya heah?" said the Marshmallow-lizard. "We got to put aside our differences now."

  "She . . . she's right," said the computer-Pierce. "If not, these organic bodies will be dead soon."

  Pierce-Marshmallow rubbed his throbbing temples. "Only if that gas is poisonous," he said wearily.

  "Why don't you go over there and take a big oldfaceful?" demanded the lizard-gasbag impatiently. "How can you even sit around discussing the matter?"

  "And then we'll demonstrate how our various species can learn to live together in peace and harmony," said the computer-Pierce.

  "And we can stop this intergalactic multidimensional war before we're all blown to smithereens," said Pierce-Marshmallow thoughtfully. "And then we'll get rescued. And then we'll all be rewarded by our various governments. And then—"

  "Fix the windshield, Pierce!" demanded the general. "Fix the goddamn broken windshield!"

  "Duct tape," said Pierce weakly. "In the toolbox downstairs in the basement. I can't do it. I can barely move."

  "I can't move a finger," complained the XB-223. "Neither can I," said Marshmallow.

  "Don't look at me," said the general. "I seem to be inhabiting the bodies of two weird alien creatures simultaneously. They're teeny tiny collections of flatulent sacs. I'm in some impossibly small spacecraft inside the head of your android. I don't have the faintest idea how to operate the controls."

  "And Frank Poole is a goner anyway," said Pierce thoughtfully. "Well, there's another Modular Identity Synthecator downstairs. You could inhabit it, I suppose. Goodtime Sal—I don't get her out very often. She tends to wear me out."

  "I don't want to hear about your of silicon slut," said Marshmallow huffily.

  Pierce looked toward her. She was lovely, even in the body of the lizard general. "Sal never meant anything to me, Marshmallow sweetheart. Honest, she didn't."

  "Cough, cough," said the general. "The gas!"

  Pierce stretched out on the deck plates and began crawling forward. It was the most difficult physical thing he'd ever had to do in his life, but his continued existence—and the lives of his friends and enemies—depended on his getting to the duct tape in time. He pulled himself painfully across the deck, inch by inch, every muscle in his body—well, Marshmallow's body, actually—complaining with each exertion.

  "Can you make it, Millard?" asked the computer fearfully.

  "I think I can. I think I can."

  "Look!" shouted Marshmallow. "Outside! Is that some huge, horrible alien predator lurking in the shadows?"

  "No," said the lizard general, "I'm some huge, horrible alien predator."

  "I've almost . . . got it," said the human Pierce. He strained one last time, lifted himself up into one of the bucket seats, and found the control that opened the hatch to the basement. "Oh no," he muttered hopelessly.

  "What's wrong, honey?" asked Marshmallow.

  "The light's burned out down there. I hate going down there in the dark."

  "Choke, choke," said the lizard general.

  "Okay," said Pierce, "I get the picture." It took all his remaining courage, but Millard Fillmore Pierce clambered slowly down the stairs and rummaged around for a few moments.

  When he rejoined his companions on the deck, he had the duct tape and Goodtime Sal.

  "How dare you bring that hussy up here where decent folk are trying not to die?" cried Marshmallow in outrage.

  Pierce gulped. "I need someone to tear off the duct tape," he explained.

  "Hi, fellas!" said Goodtime Sal cheerfully. "Are those molecular imploders in your pockets, or are you just glad to see me?"

  "Sal, listen closely," said Pierce. "Rip the duct tape and patch the windshield. I can't reach it."

  Goodtime Sal leered at Pierce in Marshmallow's body. "I know," she said, "you just want to look down my blouse when I bend over." Being an MIS, Sal was very broadminded. She wasn't bad, she was just programmed that way.

  "Forget that for now, Sal," Pierce ordered. "Fix the windshield before we all die of alien crud in our systems."

  It took Goodtime Sal a few seconds to sort out Pierce's commands, but soon she began tearing off strips of duct tape and slapping them over the crack in the windshield. The green atmosphere of Uncharted stopped seeping into the control room.

  "I think we'll be all right, now," said the XB-223.

  "Ah don't know," said Marshmallow. "That mechanical bimbo in the white go-go boots has put a serious crimp in our relationship, Millard sweetie. I'm gonna have to think on this some."

  "Aw, but Marshmallow—"

  Goodtime Sal walked in an emphatically rhythmic way to the XB-223 in Pierce's body.

  "Here, big boy," she said in a husky voice, "let me help you with that!"

  "Keep your hands off my body!" shouted Pierce. "Computer, I order you not to do a damn thing with my body!"

  "Ah could say the same to you, Millard dear," said Marshmallow. "But I'm too confused and hurt. I'll just sit here and pretend I'm not a horrible giant lizard until Daddy comes and makes everything all right again! And don't try to get on my good side."

  "In my body," said the general, "you don't have a good side. That was bred out of us generations ago."

  "Ha ha," boomed an ugly voice from the Pete Rozelle's speaker system, "what a merry mixup!"

  "Oh no," said the lizard general, "the phony energy beings who are really tiny gasbag creatures from another dimension and are now occupying the systems and circuits of this spacecraft's navigation computer, they're back!"

  "Well," said the XB-223 philosophically, as the cabin began to flood with water, "what else could go wrong?"

  Well, actually a lot more could go wrong. Mister Frisky could develop a throat abscess and lose the Kentucky Derby. The Cincinnati Bengals could fail to draft an impact linebacker. Tor's advance check for The Red Tape War could prove to be pure rubber.

  However, there's more at stake here that merely the fate of three Millard Fillmore Pierces and the mandatory pneumatic love interest. Much more.

  For example, Effinger is two months late on the deadline for his next novel. Resnick's leaving on his annual African safari in just three weeks. Chalker wants to give up writing for a year and become a television evangelist. And Millard Fillmore Pierce—the real one—is precisely where he was in Chapter One: stuck aboard the Pete Rozelle awaiting the invasion of the lizard army; and despite the best efforts of the three greatest living science fiction writers to extricate him from his predicament, he simply hasn't made a lot of progress in the last forty thousand words.

  And worst of all, Beth Meacham, our editor at Tor, has just announced that she needs The Red Tape War in six weeks if it's to come out in time for the Spring list and make it to the top of the best-seller charts.

  Now, unlike Pierce's problem, this is Really Important Stuff. If The Red Tape War doesn't hit the best-seller list, Chalker won't be able to buy that facelift he's always warited, Effinger will be at the mercy of the goons from Guido Scarletti's Friendly Neighborhood Loan Service (who are not known for the quality of their mercy), and Resnick will have to put at least seven of his current wives up for auction and/or adoption. This is unacceptable, and therefore we're finally going to get poor Millard out of the fix he's in (within the exquisitely defined parameters that have been laid down in the previous chapters, to be sure).

  First of all—and we're going to g
loss right over it and not even show you how it happened—

  Goodtime Sal got the duct tape in place and the atmosphere soon returned to normal. (But of course you knew that she'd succeed. Not only is she an amazingly competent creation, thoroughly versed in both The Kama Sutra and The Perfumed Garden, but also possessed of a truly exceptional talent for handling duct tape. Furthermore, Effinger really faunches for a powder-blue Mercedes 300-ST with power disk brakes, dual exhausts, and a sunroof, and he can't afford it unless we can sell a sequel . . . which means Pierce has to survive.) (By the way, Sal, who was a cheap authorial device of Effinger's and nothing more, then vanished from both the ship and the story forever.)

  Second, Daddy got curious—after all, it's been a fabulous, award-winning narrative up to this point; wouldn't you be curious if you were him?—and his hologram magically (well, scientifically) appeared on the bridge of the Pete Rozelle, from which it surveyed the situation andmade funny little noises deep within its holographic throat.

  Third, the Mahatma Gandhi (remember the Mahatma Gandhi from Chapter Four? You don't?

  Well, go right back and read it again) had finally gotten permission to come to Pierce's rescue, and had just hove (hoven? hoved?) (heaved. Ed.) into sight as Chapter Eight, officially designated by Editor Meacham as the Chapter That Gets The Plot Off Dead Center Or Else, begins.

  Fourth, Pierce-Arro, the merged gasbag entities that found themselves within the computer, were now face-to-face (or at least face-to-hologram) with the spitting image of their god (Daddy, remember? Sure you do!), and thoughts of conquest have momentarily been superceded by the thought that the universe may come to an end any minute now that they have been confronted by the Supreme Being and there is probably nothing left to live for. In fact, they were torn between worshiping him or finding some regulation, in this vastly over-regulated universe, that might make him go away.

  Now, at precisely that moment, Captain Roosevelt burst into the Pete Rozelle, followed by thirty crack reptilian troops. (The reptilian aliens having landed in hot pursuit of the Pete Rozelle.

  Ed.) He took one brief look at the nude bodies of Marshmallow and the human and lizard Pierces, and then saw Daddy's image hovering somewhere above them.

  "Shall we kill them immediately, sir?" asked a lieutenant, moving up to Roosevelt's side.

  "Hmmm," said Roosevelt, his ugly reptilian brow furrowed in consternation. "I'll have to think about this for a minute. We seem to have what we in the trade call a situation."

  "In my trade we call it an orgy," said Daddy's image with an expression of distaste.

  "Look," said Pierce reasonably. "There's really a very simple explanation for what's going on here."

  "Shut up, female!" snapped Roosevelt.

  "Well, maybe not so simple," amended Pierce. "But there is an explanation."

  "Sir, we're waiting for our orders," persisted Roosevelt's lieutenant.

  "Well, I suppose our first order of business is to kill General Pierce," responded Roosevelt.

  "This will assure him of instant martyrdom, and we can say that he died in battle and cover up his participation in this disgusting orgy—and besides, everyone else will move up a notch in rank."

  He turned to the occupants of the Pete Rozelle. "Yes, I think that would be best," he said, nodding his head. "Just turn the general over for drawing and quartering, after we maybe roast him on a warm spit for a couple of days, and we'll let the rest of you live for at least a few hours while I sort this out."

  Pierce turned to the Frank Poole android that was inhabited by the lizard Pierce. "Well, General, it's been nice knowing you."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" demanded the general. He pointed to Marshmallow.

  "That's the general, as any fool can plainly see.

  "Who are you calling a fool?" bellowed Roosevelt. "More to the point, who are you calling a general?" demanded Pierce.

  "Just a minute," said Daddy, sounding very con-fused. "Are you trying to say that this sorry-looking lizard ain't the general?"

  "Watch who yoah calling sorry-looking!" snapped Marshmallow.

  "SILENCE!" roared Pierce-Arro from within the computer.

  Suddenly all eyes turned to the main panel.

  "All this is giving me a headache," continued Pierce-Arro. "It's got to stop."

  "I'm open to suggestions," said Captain Roosevelt. "We have come to that point in the adventure where we must all put our cards on the table," said Pierce-Arro. "Yeah?" said Daddy sarcastically. "Well, to do that, computer, you got to be playing with a full deck."

  "To begin with, Revered One," said Pierce-Arro, "I'm not a computer."

  "And I suppose the next thing you're gonna do is tell me that the general ain't a lizard."

  "That is correct, my possible Lord," said Pierce-Arro. "In point of fact, the lizard that you see before you happens to be your own flesh and blood, which is theologically staggering in its implications."

  "He ain't even my own skin and scales!" snapped Daddy. "I don't know why I'm wasting my time with you loonies."

  "It's quite true, sir," put in Pierce. "I am Millard Fillmore Pierce, Class 2 Arbiter in command of the Pete Rozelle."

  "Cut the crap, Emmyjane," said Daddy.

  "Test me," challenged Pierce.

  "How much is four times three?" said Daddy suddenly.

  "Twelve," replied Pierce.

  "Spell cat."

  "C-A-T."

  Daddy's eyebrows did a little dance in the vicinity of his hairline. "Okay—so you're Pierce.

  Now where the hell is my Emmyjane?"

  "Closer than you think," said Marshmallow.

  "You mean they weren't kidding?" said Daddy. He turned to the Frank Poole android. "And you're really the general?"

  "You're getting nothing from me but my name, rank and serial number," said the general.

  "Shut up and let me think!" said Daddy. He turned to Pierce's body. "Okay. Now, who's this here little wimp?"

  "Your ever-loyal XB-223 navigational computer at your service," said the computer. "Though now that I have a body, I think I need a fitting name to accompany it."

  “You do, do you?"

  The computer nodded. "I know it's not much of a body, and it's undernourished as hell and its gums are in terrible condition, but it's the only body I happen to have at the moment, and I would appreciate everyone calling it Sylvester Schwarzenegger from now on."

  The Pete Rozelle suddenly shuddered.

  "All right, what the hell was that?" demanded the lizard Pierce.

  "Beats the hell out of me," admitted the human Pierce.

  "A ship named the Mahatma Gandhi has just landed a shuttle near us, and its commander is now coming aboard," announced Pierce-Arro.

  "We're getting away from the point," interjected Captain Roosevelt, "said point being: what the hell is going on here?"

  "Now that we're all through with these trivial revelations," said Pierce-Arro, "I am prepared to make every-thing crystal-clear."

  "What the hell's so trivial about turning my daughter into a lizard?" demanded Daddy. "She's probably going to want a whole new wardrobe now."

  "I have examined XB-223's equations, and I can assure you that this is a temporary situation, easily alleviated. However, we have a more important problem to cope with."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "There is a possibility that you, Revered One, are the Supreme Being," said Pierce-Arro. "Of course, there is also an equal likelihood that you are simply the holographic representation of a rather unlikeable flesh-andblood man, in which case we'll probably continue with our plans of conquest and do grotesque things to you for having the audacity to impersonate our god. The problem, of course, is that we don't know which you are. But if you are merely a human being, then there must be some regulation that will make you go away, and then we can get on with the conquest of the universe . . . whereas if you are God, we'll sacrifice a couple of goats to you, invite you in for a drink, and say
a brief prayer before you bring the universe to a cataclysmic end." Pierce-Arro paused long enough for this statement to sink in. "We feel this is the only rational course of action. We must proceed as if you are a human, always keeping in mind the fact that you might well be God, and search for the red tape that counts. If we don't, everything will become chaotic."

  "In case it's escaped your notice, everything is already chaotic," said Captain Roosevelt.

  "We must do this, or the stars will die," intoned Pierce-Arro, rather pleased with the way his voice sounded on the speaker system. "The immutable laws will fail."

  "I suppose it will rain toads, too," scoffed Daddy.

  "If you say so," replied Pierce-Arro devoutly.

  "Forget all that other crap," interjected Pierce. "Go back to the part about how all this stuff with the bodies is just a temporary situation."

  "Yes, please do," said Roosevelt. "In his current condition, the general probably couldn't stand up to more than a week of torture."

  "If you insist," said Pierce-Arro. "But after I help you restore yourselves to your original forms, do I have your solemn oaths that you will help me look for the red tape?"

  "We'll scour the ship," said Pierce emphatically. "If you dropped this tape anywhere around here, we'll find it, never fear. Just get us back the way we were and we'll go to work immediately."

  "Would white tape do?" asked Roosevelt. "We've got tons of adhesive tape back in our infirmary."

  "Fool!" said Pierce-Arro. "The red tape I am speaking about is a regulation."

  "We ain't got enough regulations?" demanded Marsh-mallow. "Now you want us to find more?"

  "Sometimes I get the distinct impression that your races are too stupid to conquer," said Pierce-Arro with a heartfelt sigh. "I suspect we'd better all return to our original bodies first; then maybe you'll be able to concentrate more fully on what I'm saying."

  The commander of the Mahatma Gandhi arrived at just that instant, and was promptly ignored by all parties.