The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  Lastly comes a letter from Mr. Bernard P. Snodgress of La Carumba, California, who wonders why we waste so much time in digressions when we could be getting back to beautiful naked bimbos and all that other good stuff no matter who is in who. Lacking a coherent answer to that . . .

  Bypassing bureaucracy was not an easy thing to do in any age, and certainly not in this one, not even for such a one as Daddy—or, in this case, Daddy's operational chief. Herb sat there, scratching his head, sorting out what had to be done. First, send in a rescue party that was armed and capable of resisting unknown alien forms while still effecting a proper rescue of Marshmallow and then blowing the ship to hell. Second, round up an even greater force to intercept those egg pods before they landed anywhere that mattered and blow them to hell as well. And, third, keep that lizard dreadnought occupied and out of harm's way while one and two were accomplished.

  The resources were available entirely within Daddy's big business empire, since they had their own exclusive communications channels with unbreakable codes. But any such empire always had its malcontents and weak links no matter how thorough the job preparation seminar—

  otherwise known as brain laundry session—was at doing its job. If he used Company ships and personnel to stop an alien invasion, somebody someday might file a report that would be the only sort of report that the bureaucracy handled with the speed of lightning: that someone was bypassing the bureaucracy. That could be nasty and cost zillions of credits, all of which the boss would take out of his hide. There was no way around it; he'd have to hire some mercenaries and freebooters.

  That meant using the Secondary Nautical Auxiliary Ferry Oscillation Operation, and he dreaded that. It meant using coded messages from here, where he was, to relay point A, where the message would be decoded, recoded, and resent by a new operator, and so on, and so on, until it reached its destination. It was clumsy, so much so he'd never used it himself before, but good old S. N. A. F. O.O. had always been alleged to be the most totally secure way to send a message ever.

  He punched the requirements into his computer console and it came up with several possibilities, the most likely being an old half-Irish, half-French pirate who claimed to be the direct descendant of both Jean LaFitte and Sean McCorkle, the latter being, of course, the legendary smuggler who brought snakes back in to Ire-land. He was alleged to be headquartered in an inn on La Hibernia under the sign of the solid green tricolor. Well, it was worth a try and the distance and sector were convenient. With S. N. A. F. O. O., it would be a simple matter to contact him and make him an offer with no one, absolutely no one, able to trace the call.

  Yes, old Paddy de Faux Grais was the one, all right. But how to phrase the message? He switched to the S. N. A. F. O. O. channel and sent: To station XBJ-1223309-X: ONE BILLION, REPEAT, BILLION, CREDITS OFFERED TO DO SIMPLE JOB. NEED

  YOU TO PICK UP ONE FEMALE AND ONE MALE PASSENGER FROM DISABLED

  SPACESHIP AND THEN ELIMINATE SHIP AND ALL OTHERS ABOARD. REPLY

  ADDRESS AT HEADER BY THIS CHANNEL.

  There! That should do it!

  The message went out immediately, automatically encoded by his central computer, then was decoded by a station far off in Sector J-449, a world where Dutch was the native tongue. It was decoded, read back in, with a heavy Dutch accent of course, and sent on to another world in Sector H-335, a world which decoded the message and then relayed it, this time in Swahili accents. And so it went, back and forth, through Scotch and French, and also through Arcturian and Betelguesian and many other ac-cents and tongues, until it popped up at the address given, the numbers being always a constant.

  They were just opening up for the night's games and entertainment with the traditional Marseillaise played on the bagpipes when Old Seamus tottered in with the paper in his hand.

  "Telegram for ye, Paddy!"

  He stood there, a huge man with a bushy black beard, bandana around his head, and eye patches over both eyes.

  "Arrr! Sink me harbour and all that pirate bilge!Lemme see what ye got there, Seamus." He took the paper, flipped up one eye patch and read it, and frowned. He turned it on its side, tried again, then tried it upside down. "What kind of code be this, Seamus?"

  "Ain't no code, Paddy, I swear! Come in plain, I tell ye!"

  Paddy read the paper again.

  SAMPLE REPEEK BILLION BILLION FEMURS TO PICK UP DECAYED SPICE SHEEP

  AND MAIL AND DEFECATE SHEEP AND ALL UDDERS ABROAD.

  "Arrr! This be gibberish! But the reply's there. How'd this come in, Seamus?"

  "Relay, Yer Meanness. S. N. A. F. S.N.A.F.O.O. system."

  "Hmmm . . . Never used that one meself, but 'tis said it's the most secure of all, but this message got to be fouled up somewheres along the line, arr. Let me scribble a line on the back of this here paper for ye to send back to 'em whoever they is and get some sense."

  Seamus looked at the block-printed characters.

  ORIGINAL MESSAGE GIBBERISH. PLEASE SEND AGAIN. LOVE, PADDY.

  The pirate nodded. "Arr! And bring me the reply!"

  Old Seamus hurried back to the combination hyper-space transmission facility and brewery he ran and fired up the S. N. A. F. 0.0. channel, then read in the message exactly as Paddy gave it to him.

  It went out on the proper channel, on an entirely different route, through accent after accent and language after language, and finally it popped out again where Herb was sitting.

  He picked up the message, read it, and frowned.

  GIBBERING MASSAGE ORGY. PLEASE SEND PATTY. LOVE GIN.

  "Geez! That must be some inn!" he said aloud, wishing he were there. However, business was business.

  SORRY TO INTERRUPT FUN, BUT NEED YOU TO DO QUICK AND DIRTY JOB FOR

  BIG MONEY. WILL YOU GO OR SHOULD I GET SOMEONE ELSE?

  Back and forth the message went, until Old Seamus tottered in again. By this time Paddy was a bit drunk, and had other problems.

  "Arr! I've gone blind! Can't read a blasted thing!"

  "Er, sorry, Captain, but don't you think you oughta maybe lift one of them eye patches?" the old man suggested. "Why do you wear two of 'em, anyway?"

  Paddy started a moment, then raised one of the patches. "It's a bloomin' miracle, it is! I can see again!" He paused. "Huh? What was yer question?"

  "Why do you wear two eye patches anyway?"

  "Us pirates always wear eye patches, old man. You know that. It's in the instruction manual you get at pirates' school. But I can never remember which eye to wear it over, that's all. Now—

  let's see that message."

  SORE TO INTERPRET FONDUE, BUT KNEAD EWE QUACK UND D.T.'S FOUR BUG

  MOONEY. WILL HUGO OR GAROT ONE SMELLS?

  "This be lunacy!" Paddy swore. "I think there be some problems with this secure system. It be so secure nobody can ever figure out the message!"

  Seamus stared at the paper. "I dunno. A ewe is a girl sheep, and the first message said something about sheep, did it not? Maybe this fella's tied up in a fondue party and needs somebody to smuggle his sheep in."

  "Sheep? For fondue?"

  "Well, maybe they're using sheep dip. Who knows.bout some of them strange customs out there, and there's no accountin' for taste."

  "Aye, I've boiled a few mutineers in soft cheese meself," the captain admitted. "Still and all, I'm gonna give this swabbie one more try and then to perdition with 'im!"

  He scribbed something again on the back of the paper and Seamus read: CALL ME DIRECT. MESSAGES NOT CLEAR. PIRATES DON'T CARRY NO SHEEP!

  At the other end, Herb stared at the message and sighed. Maybe this system had a few bugs in it, he decided.

  ME DERICK COLD. MOOSE SAGES NO ECLAIR. PIE RATES DAREN'T CARRION

  NOSE HEAP!

  For a moment he wondered if he was being insulted, but then he got hold of himself and asked the master computer for analysis.

  "Have you ever played `rumor?" it asked him. "Yes, as a child."

  "Remember what happens when you whisper som
e-thing to the first person in line, who then whispers it to the second, and so on? What comes out at the other end?"

  "Yes. It bears little resemblance—oh! I see! But how can I get the proper message to him any way but this without being traced?"

  "You might try just sending it in tight code directly to our office on La Hibernia," the computer suggested. "Then have the local computer there transmit in the clear to the local station, who won't know where it came from. Have them respond to one of our electronic mail stops we keep there for confidential reasons under the name of that contracting company the president's son fronts for us, and have that computer shoot it back here."

  Herb snapped his fingers. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that?" He paused a moment.

  "Uh—we have a local office on La Hibernia?"

  "We have local offices everywhere. And as to your first question, if you had thought of it, then you could be the central computer and I would get to spend your money on wild and frivolous living," the computer responded.

  "Skip it. I don't have time. Okay, now we'll get it right."

  And, this time, he did. Unfortunately, by this time Paddy was four sheets to the wind and it was the next afternoon, late, when his hangover had subsided to the point where he could read the perfectly clear and understandable message without it looking to him like it had come through the S. N. A. F. O.O. system.

  The moment he hit "a billion credits" he discovered that his hangover was completely gone.

  "An! Round up the crew, me hearties!" he cried. "Get the Bon Homme McClusky ready to sail! We got some real profitable piratin' to do!"

  "Lemme go! Ah got to make mah call to Daddy!"

  "Hold on, there, you loco galoot! Who you callin' Daddy? Only Ah git to call mah Daddy

  `Daddy'!"

  Something was terribly wrong, and it took Pierce-Arro a moment to realize what it was. In spite of his admonition to the lovesick computer, the stupid thing had stared at the screen anyway and gotten hypnotized just like Pierce, and when he woke up he was convinced that he was Marshmallow, too! And no amount of physical evidence was going to convince him otherwise, either. Fortunately,

  Pierce had awakened first, so the original call had gone through, but now this could spoil everything!

  "Ah dunno how ah got a twin sistah, but yore not foolin' me 'bout who ah am!" Sly yelled shrilly.

  "Stop it! Both of you!" Pierce-Arro commanded, and, as they were always to obey his commands, they stopped. "And keep quiet. Now, Marshmallow—"

  "Yes?" they both answered in perfect unison.

  Pierce-Arro sighed. Everything was always getting so complicated! First three or maybe more Pierces, he'd lost count, and now three Marshmallows, if, of course, the one on the lizard ship was still alive. What to do? What to do? Any order he gave would be obeyed equally by both of them! Think!

  "Will the Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg who sees the other person here as a man go to the powder room and stay there until I call her?"

  Instantly Pierce turned and headed for the head, while Sly remained within the room.

  "Good. Now, we've got a little reworking to do. Sit down here and just relax and stare at the nice pattern on Screen 3 again . . ."

  That was the longest Marshmallow had ever spent in a john and she was getting worried about it when she was called back. Facing that lunatic computer, though, was gonna be a real ordeal, she thought. How dare that creature think it was her!

  "Don't you come neah me, y'heah?" she warned him. "Hey! Take it easy! It's me—Millard.

  Millard Fill-more Pierce. I'm back together again!"

  She frowned. It did sound like him, and seem to be him, but she wasn't so sure. "Wheah'd that nutty computah brain that thought it was me git to?" she asked him.

  "Our—captors—worked it out. Got me back from my readout records in the lizard ship and transmitted XB-223 over to theirs."

  "But I thought they was gone."

  "They was—er, they are. It was all done by subspace radio. Don't ask me how. Anyway, we're back!"

  "Oh—Milland!"

  “Marshmallow!"

  They were about to embrace when suddenly Pierce-Arro said, "A ship of unknown nationality and type just came out of hyperspace and is landing near us."

  "It's Daddy and the rescue ship!" she squealed with delight.

  "Urn, I'm not so sure. I just tried hailing them and all I got back was some odd and unintelligible singing, if you can call it that. I was hoping that one of you might make sense of it."

  "Go ahead," Pierce told him.

  The speakers crackled, then from them came: "Fifteen men on a dead man's chest! Yo! Ho!

  Ho! And a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil have done with the rest! Yo! Ho! Ho! And a bottle of rum!"

  "Pahrates!" Marshmallow screamed in horror. "Pyrites?" Pierce-Arro responded. "No, it's a ship, not an asteroid."

  "Not pyrites. Pirates," Pierce told him. Then it hit him. "Holy smoke! Pirates? In this day and age? Can you put a visual on the screen?"

  The screen popped to life and they stared at the strangest looking spaceship they'd ever seen.

  All bright green it was, but with bands of fleur-de-lis all over it.

  "It looks like a pehfectly goahgeous wallpapah pattahn!" Marshmallow breathed.

  "I'm more interested in the skull and crossbones hanging from that mast in the center of the ship," Pierce commented worriedly. "Not to mention that it's the firstspaceship I've ever seen with a bowsprit in the shape of a porno queen—or in any other shape, for that matter."

  Suddenly Screen 1 flickered and a fierce, bearded face appeared. "Avast, mateys! Prepare to be boarded! Offer no resistance 'cause I got a hundred fierce pirate swabbies here who'd cut yer throat from ear to ear and love it!"

  "A hundred men!" Marshmallow gasped. "Milland! I cain't be taken on no ship with a hundred hohny men! Not dressed like this, anyway!"

  Pierce understood. "Yeah, but our clothes didn't come through the electrical charge very well, and the suits are even worse. I don't see what we can do."

  "Oh, fie on clothes! I'm talkin' about my haiah and I need mah makeup and all . . ."

  "Honey, they're pirates. They won't notice."

  "You really don't think so? Oh, Ah'm such a mess! At least a comb . . ."

  "Marshmallow!" He sighed. "Hey, you in the ship's computer! You're our captor, we're your prisoners. Can't you do something to protect us?"

  "With what?" Pierce-Arro wailed, trying to figure a way to salvage anything out of this.

  "Avast!" said the pirate image. "We just want the wench and the pipsqueak pin-striped swabbie with her!"

  Pierce-Arro considered that. "And you'll leave me alone if you get them?"

  "Aye, sure'n I will. Ye got the word of fightin' Paddy de Fauy Grais on that score!"

  "The word of a pirate is no promise at all," Pierce warned.

  "Maybe, but it's the only one I've got," the creature responded. "However, there is a slight problem." He turned to the pirate's frequency.

  "I've got no objections to your taking them off my hands," Pierce-Arro commented. "In fact, I confess it would be a relief. Unfortunately, they'll be dead when you do."

  "Huh? What? Explain yourself, ye electronic wart!" the pirate responded.

  "The lizards did a real job on this ship before they left. The moment you open our airlock, all the seals will pop for sure, causing instant death."

  "WHAT?" everyone from the pirate to the two inside cried at once.

  "I'm afraid so. And if you'd take at least one of those patches off your eyes you'd see for yourself the terrible condition this ship's in."

  Pierce shook his head in wonder. "Maybe you'd better let the general out from downstairs," he suggested. "He was one of the lizards, remember, and he knows how they think. Maybe he could figure out something they didn't sabotage."

  "Uh, dahlin', I hate to mention this, but you'ah talkin' like you want to be taken by them pahrates," Marshmallow noted.

  "
What choice have we got? Rot here or get out of here with them? At least Daddy would pay a good ransom, and I have to admit that at this point I'm tempted by piracy myself."

  Pierce-Arro saw no reason to keep the general on the wire, as it were, any longer, anyway, so he released him. Soon the figure of genial Frank Poole the android ambled up to them, but it wasn't all that clear that he was going to be any help.

  "I'm higher'n a kite," he said with a smile, "and mellower than a kitten.

  "What's wrong with him?" Marshmallow asked.

  "I think he got too much recharging current beingheld there so long. I'm afraid that now he's turned on," Pierce commented.

  "Yeah, that's me," General Pierce responded. "Like, wow, man! Turned on, juiced up, tuned in, and charged to the hilt!" He crackled a little bit when he moved as if to emphasize the point.

  "Don't touch him!" Pierce warned. "He's probably got enough energy there to electrocute anybody he touches!"

  As if to emphasize the point, the general grabbed the back of a chair and the plastic sizzled and started to melt, stinking up the cabin.

  "Well, he's shoah no help, sugah," she commented. "Only thing he's good foah is shakin' a few pahrate hands and fryin"em like bacon and grits!"

  "Who's that big ugly dude on the screen?" the general asked innocently.

  "An! Who you callin' a big, ugly dude, you poor excuse for a deckhand?" the pirate exclaimed angrily. "If it wasn't for the fact that we don't gets paid unless we delivers the wench whole, I'd come over there and short out a few choice circuits! I got 'alf a mind to throw a tractor beam on ye and take ye all back as a neat package to La Hibernia. Pierce and Marshmallow both turned toward the screen, mouths agape. Finally Pierce asked, "Uh, Captain, why don't you do that? You've got to have a space drydock there of some kind just to keep your own ship in its excellent condition. There we could be safely removed by using a pressure tunnel and wrapping what's left of my poor ship."

  "An, that's not a bad plan, matey! Glad I thought of it!"

  "Sorry," Pierce-Arro broke in, "but it won't work. The vibration from entering hyperspace would still break us to pieces."