The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  "Stop that or you'll go blind!" Pierce shouted.

  Sly, the former XB-223, paused and frowned. "How can this action possibly be related to visual sensory patterns?"

  "Trust that I know more about human bodies than you do," Pierce said sincerely.

  "But the sensations are most interesting and, besides, I watched you—"

  Pierce cleared his throat. "Enough! We'll discuss that sort of thing later. Right now we need you to surrender."

  "Surrender! Certainly not! Sly does not surrender to anyone!" He paused a moment.

  "Surrender to who?"

  "The pair now inside your old self. Without them we get nothing and we die."

  "Sly" stood up and tried to look heroic. "Ah! But better to die a real, live man, free and pure of heart, than to live a slave to some conquering things we can't even see!" He bounded over to Pierce and went down on one knee. "Come, my darling! Teach me the mysteries of love in the time we have left, and we shall die in each other's arms!"

  "Knock it off! This is me in here, you idiot! And that's my body you're in!"

  "So? We don't have time to really get to know each other anyway. Superficialities like appearance will have to do. It seems to me that you are using different criteria on yourself than you used in this body on other women. You cannot blame me for that. You taught me everything I know about this!"

  Pierce coughed nervously. He hoped he hadn't looked and sounded that dumb and superficial—but he was very afraid that he had. It wasn't as much fun being on the other end of this sort of thing. Still, he began to realize just how naive this dumb computer version really was.

  "It's not that easy . . . Sly," he said coyly. "First, you have to do a few things for me."

  "Anything, my sweet! Name it!"

  "Surrender to the nice aliens in your old circuits," he said softly.

  Sly swallowed hard. "For you—anything! Uh—if I surrender, will you be mine?"

  "We'll both be theirs, actually. But we'll live a little longer. I won't promise anything, but I will promise that I'll spurn your every advance if you don't surrender this minute!"

  "Oh, very well. I surrender."

  Pierce smiled. "All right, aliens. You win. You've conquered us. We're your prisoners. Now we're your responsibility, totally and completely, until you turn us over to higher authority, right?"

  "Hmmm . . . Hadn't thought of that," Pierce-Arro responded. "Yes, I suppose that is the requirement. Very well. I will try and squeeze a biologically compatible liquid from the engine regions. It will satisfy thirst and might also contain sufficient calories for energy for awhile. It will buy time."

  "What about me?" android-Pierce asked. "I need juice.

  "All right. Plug in below in the android storage receptacle. We'll divert some power from the engines into there—that should give you a charge."

  "Thank you, sir. Spoken like a true conqueror," the general responded. "Uh—might I ask, just out of curiosity, what your longterm plan is? I mean, how you're going to get us out of here before those seals start popping?"

  "Well, that's the real problem," Pierce-Arro admitted. "I believe I could build sufficient force to get us well out of here, but at the cost of blowing almost all the seals. And, of course, regulations would prohibit me from depriving prisoners of air once they'd duly surrendered. It could get us brought up for war crimes. And, of course, some of my essential circuits go right through those places."

  "Then what—?"

  "We think that the reptiles will give us a good twenty-four hours to come apart. After that, they'll grow impatient, bored, and fearful that someone might show up to effect a rescue that they can't handle. If that happens, they will finish us."

  "Twenty-four hours! That's not much time!"

  "Oh, it is more than sufficient. We have established a tentative dialog with the dreadnought's navigational computer."

  Sly looked up suddenly. "The fickle fiend!"

  "Yes, you certainly made a mess of it at the start, didn't you? We're getting along much better.

  It seems that our way of thinking is much more sympatico with it than yours. Ah—here comes the data now. If they decide to finish us, they will initiate the paperwork, cut the orders, commence the procedures, and put the wheels in motion to do so. They can't do that until they complete filing and processing the paperwork from the action up to this point. Otherwise they'll flood the system and it'll jam up. So, given the number of forms and approvals for past actions, then the number required to initiate additional action . . . I'd say we're safe here for about four-point-six years."

  Pierce was appalled. "And I thought we were bogged down!"

  "Perhaps a decade if they use computers," Pierce-Arro added hopefully. "More than enough time for our own great, grand, glorious invasion fleet to arrive and get us out of here."

  "But we don't have enough supplies to last that long!" Pierce objected. "Even the air won't recirculate that long!"

  "That is a point, of course. Therefore, there is the other plan."

  "What other plan?"

  "Well, I'd think it would be obvious. We pray to Daddy to save us."

  Pierce sighed. "He's only interested in his daughter, and she's now a prisoner on that dreadnought undergoing God knows what kind of horrible fate. He'll abandon us and concentrate only on her."

  "Not precisely accurate. You have half of her here. He'll need you to switch the bodies back."

  Pierce thought a moment. "Wait a minute! Even if that's true, and even if he somehow can rig up the technology to switch us, he won't care about anybody but Honeylou Emmyjane. If he gets us back together, I'll wind up as the General in his lizard body!"

  "That is the logical course of events," Pierce-Arro admitted. "Still, it would be an alternatèyou' as it were, certainly more compatible than the body you're now wearing. Until they execute you, anyway."

  "Yeah. Thanks a lot. Sly—stop that! Hands to yourself or I'll introduce you to a pain like no other in creation!"

  "That would be a new experience," the former computer responded, thinking it over. "It might also be worth it. I find myself feeling very, very strange, filled with sensations, lusts I've never experienced before. It is difficult for me to retain control of myself."

  "Well, you'd better. I'm trying to figure out how to get out of this mess without winding up dead or a lizard, which seem right now the only two choices."

  Sly looked into those big, luscious eyes. "There is a third choice," he said, smiling.

  "Huh?"

  "Convince Daddy that you really are his daughter."

  "What?"

  "Think of it, my apple dumpling! If you could convince him that you were truly his precious Marshmallow, he'd spare no effort or expense rescuing you. You would instantly become heiress to the greatest fortune the universe has ever known, have anything you want and never have to tolerate a bureaucrat or even an XB-223 navigational computer ever again."

  "But—I'd have to spend my whole life as a her! As her, anyway. And I'm not at all comfortable with this. It just seems wrong somehow. Out of balance, maybe. And it wouldn't be honorable or ethical, either. I'd be abandoning poor Honeylou Emmyjane to the fate of being a scapegoat and, at best, a lizard forever." He paused a moment. "Besides, I'd never get away with it. There's no way I could con him forever."

  "Millard—Millie—I was just an XB-223 navigational computer, but I was able to observe quite a bit and research more. Do you know that just the time her Daddy is spending on this operation is costing him a fortune? Every minute his attention is diverted by this matter he loses a billion credits. Why, if this goes on, in just eight hundred and thirty-three years he'd be flat broke!

  He'll want to believe you; it's cost-efficient for him to do so! He might suspect, but his books will be balanced, you see. The bottom line, you know. He won't be able to afford not to believe and accept you!"

  Pierce thought about it. What could he do to help Marshmallow now anyway? He wasn't even convinced that this would h
elp him. Daddy's fake fleet wasn't any match for that dreadnought even if Daddy was the one individual in apparently all the universes who could do something without filling out a form or asking permission.

  Besides, if the old boy didn't buy it, they weren't any worse off, but if he did, then a lot of resources would suddenly be at their disposal to rescue or bribe or threaten those lizards to release her, and more technology to maybeget them back together. Hell, it beat being trapped here, prisoner of some microbial version of himself stuck in a flaky computer, the only other human his own body inhabited by, well, a flaky computer. Anyway—if Daddy could somehow rescue them, then he could confess all and that would force Daddy to get her out of there somehow. In the meantime, he'd at least be safe and protected, out of this madhouse.

  "How would we start?" he asked Sly.

  "Well, we could start with the accent, then the mannerisms and moves, that sort of thing.

  There are recordings in the data banks that whatever's in there now could provide for comparison."

  "A fascinating concept," Pierce-Arro agreed. "If Daddy is God, then we will be delivering the half we can to Him. If Daddy is not God, then we might be able to infiltrate and take over his entire empire through his vast computer network. It beats sitting here rotting, anyway."

  Millard sighed. "Okay, okay. It's a start. At least to get some kind of real rescue where the rescuer won't blow us away! I'll give it a try."

  But after a couple of hours of trying the accent, the moves, everything he could think of, it was about as believable as a solvent savings and loan.

  "It's no use," he said. "There's no way I can be anybody other than who I've been all these years, body or not. "

  "But, it's the only plan we've got!" Sly objected. "Besides, it's got to work. Then we can be married and I'll coinherit that vast empire and we'll live together in blissful luxury forever!"

  "He's right," Pierce-Arro agreed. "At least on the first part, that it's the only plan we've got.

  Let us think . . . Ah! This might do it! Just sit back, relax, and look at Screen 3."

  "Huh?"

  "Just you, Pierce! Not the lovesick idiot!"

  "Uh—okay, but . . ."

  "Just look at the screen and relax . . . relax . .”

  Pierce sat back and looked at the screen, which contained only a vast whirling pattern, monotonously going over and over, to the sound of a restful ocean surf.

  This won't work, he thought. I've never been able to be hypnotized. But it was restful, and it kept Sly off him, and he was just so totally exhausted after all this, and the screen and the sounds were so restful . . .

  "You are getting sleepy, sleepy . . ." a soft voice whispered. "You are falling into a deep, restful, hypnotic trance, and you will listen only to the sound of my voice and nothing else and you will believe what I say . . ."

  ". . . B'lieve what you say . . ." Pierce muttered.

  "Open your eyes but stay in that deep, restful sleep. Look at the screen. You are not Millard Fillmore Pierce. You have never been Millard Fillmore Pierce. You have never been a man, never wanted to be a man. This is you . . ."

  The screen showed a recording of Marshmallow, from the time she came onto the ship to the time they got into the buff.

  "Now, when you wake up, you'll know you are Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg, who likes to be called Marshmallow. The crash and the electrical short made all of you think you were other people but now it's worn off you. The lizard creatures took you all aboard and read out your minds and got some stuff confused, and some more didn't get back, but you're now sure who you are, and that's Daddy's precious Marshmallow. Oh, and one more thing—although we won't tell Daddy and we won't tell anyone else; in fact, you won't even think about it yourself—but you still will obey."

  "Yeass?" the reclining form muttered in a perfect Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg accent.

  "You will continue to believe and obey this voice, and unquestioningly do and say anything it tells you, but you will think it is your own idea."

  "Yes, still!"

  "Now just go back to sleep normally, and wake up and make your call."

  Pierce-Arro felt eminently satisfied at this. The general by now was trapped downstairs in the android storage closet, unable to disconnect but having a real good jolt; the lizards were effectively neutralized so long as they were diverting the dreadnought's systems. At the right time, the lizards would uncover a communication ordering them to protect their launched invasion eggs against imminent threat of destruction and be forced to break off and abandon them here for a bit. Plenty of time for Daddy to get them out of there—and when they moved out, they'd take the real girl with them, forever excluded from spoiling the plot. And they were so situated that they might not need the fleet. What good would that do, anyway? The gasbag empire wouldn't be much more than an impediment here. This was absolute victory!

  They only hoped and prayed that Daddy, with His eye on paramecia, wouldn't catch on.

  "What is it, Herb?" Daddy was not amused or happy to be disturbed as he tried to make a few thousand essential decisions while his think-tank figured out what to do to rescue his daughter.

  "Uh—I think it's your daughter on the hyperspace channel, boss."

  "Marshmallow? But I thought they'd gotten their bodies all scrambled up."

  "Yeah, well, that's what I thought, too, but I know her well enough to know this couldn't be anybody else. Nobody could pretend to be her and get away with it."

  "Hmph! You have a point there. I'll be right down." It sure looked like his beloved Honeylou Emmyjane! "Daddy!" she squealed with delight. "Daddy—come git us outta heah!"

  It sure sounded like his beloved Honeylou Emmyjane!

  "Is that really you, my Marshmallow?"

  "Of coase it is, Daddy! Who else would it be?"

  "Spell `cat' for me."

  She thought long and hard for about two minutes. "K-h-a-a-t?" she responded hesitantly.

  "Marshmallow! But how'd you get back to normal?"

  "Well, Ah ain't all that nohmal, Daddy. Them lizards, they wanted theah gen'rul back real bad. They didn't cayuh who was inside, it seems, but they said Ah weren't the type to give a tryal to. Said somebody'd figah that Ah weren't real or somethin'. So they stuck me in this awful machine and read out all my mem-ries, and they did the same to poah Ahbiter Pieahce. Then they put me back heah, and him in the lizard. Said he'd do right fine! 'Coase, they didn't put ev'rything back, it seems. Ah got trouble 'memberin' too much."

  "Well, there wasn't that much there to make it a loss, anyway," he assured her. "So where are you now?"

  "Still in poah Pieahce's ship. He's gone, o'course. They rigged the ship so's if we try'n go anywheres we fall apaht! Ah'm stuck heah with a lovesick computer in Pieahce's old body puttin'

  the make on me, stahk nekkid, both of us!"

  Daddy frowned. "I see. And where are the lizards?"

  "Beats me, Daddy. They said som'thin"bout havin' to go guand theah soldiers and they beat it outta heah 'bout a couple awahs ago.'"All right. Keep broadcasting the locator signal and I'll have you picked up. It's a real relief to know you're all right, I can tell you. If I'd had time to have another kid you wouldn't have gotten so much of my time. However, now all's well. And you tell that dumb computer to keep his new hands off you!"

  "Yeah, Ah did, but it ain't that easy, Daddy. I already kicked him in the balls once and he likes pain! Oh, come quick!"

  "Hang on, Marshmallow! I'm coming!" He switched off the intercom. "You'll arrange for her pickup, Herb? Bring her a decent outfit, too."

  "I'll take care of it, boss. You want me to take care of those egg pods we been tracking before those lizards can get to 'em?"

  "Might as well. They deserve it anyway. Try and keep one batch for study. They could have some profit potential. Oh—and make an appointment as soon as possible for my tearful reunion with my daughter. I think I have at least ten minutes free next Tuesday a week."

  "Will do, boss. What ab
out the others?"

  "Send that computer turned into a man to the science labs. Maybe they can dissect him and figure out how it was done. A computer inside a human brain! Gad! Think of it! Think of the potential if we could reverse it! I'd be immortal instead of merely practically so! The others—

  what use have we for misadapted aliens? After those two get off, blow the ship to hell!"

  A letter comes in from J. Pierpont von Platt which states: "All right, already! We've had to endure yet another of Chalker's interminable body-switching routines. Enough is enough, already! You'd think that after 137 body-switching and transformation books he'd go on to something else! Why do the two of you, both certified Hugo winners, allow him to indulge his bizarre hangups when it's obvious that you're just making us pay for his cheapness in not seeking psychotherapy?"

  Well, Mr. von Platt, you've answered your own question. Chalker's never won a Hugo or a Nebula, it's true; indeed, the last time he was even nominated for anything like that was back in 1978. Critics love to pillory him. On the other hand, critics have always loved one of us, and have recently loved another, for being or becoming artistes, writing to high esoteric literary tastes. In the meantime, Chalker has merely proceeded to make about a zillion bucks, become a consistent best-selling author, grill filet mignons on his palatial estate between his jacuzzi and his pool, and even taken time to publish Harlan Ellison. Consider, then, Mr. von Platt, that if you've gotten this far, do you really think the two award-winners are going for yet another nomination here or are they going for the money?

  On the other hand, all of us, without exception, live in sheer terror that someone with the Modern Language Association will discover this work and proclaim it for years as the most brilliant, multileveled thing any of us has ever done.

  Ms. Prudence Gulliwinkle of the University of West Sheboygan writes: "I am torn in two directions by the social dimension of the previous chapter. On the one hand, it is gratifying to see that sexist pig of a hero of yours wind up on the other end of things for a change; on the other hand, your heroine is a true bimbo."

  Well, Ms. Gulliwinkle, all of us red-blooded males sheepishly admit to a fondness for ogling bimbos, but, in our defense, none of us married one, nor would we want our sisters to marry one, either.