The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  Sly patted her wrist. "Don't you worry your pretty little head," he said. "I'm here with you."

  "Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! I detect still another hostile force, consisting of almost infinitesimal spacecraft. They number in the millions, perhaps the billions, yet their entire fleet could be contained in a Little Orphan Annie Shake-Up Mug."

  "Hooray!" cried Pierce-Arro. "The invasion has be-gun! Count your last minutes of freedom, Voice of Doom! You're in fora fight now!"

  This alien force gives me no cause for concern," said the Voice of Doom. "Humans aboard the Pete Rozelle, attention! Be advised that a shuttle craft from the Eudora Welty will touch down near you within the next few minutes. Aboard will be a single passenger. You will need this individual to effect a reversal of the foolish swapping of bodies you indulged in earlier. When all of you have been returned to the proper form, the shuttle will wait for General Millard Fillmore Pierce. Do not try to hinder him in any way. He must be returned to the dreadnought to stand trial."

  There was a loud groan from Frank Poole.

  "We'll see if you get your way in everything," said a grim, gravelly voice.

  "Daddy!" cried Marshmallow.

  "I've got a fleet, too, you know, Doom. I'm currently in orbit halfway around the planet from you."

  "That means nothing," said the Voice of Doom. "I have weapons that can shoot around corners."

  Sly looked thoughtful. "There are four separate forces in orbit now, ready to do battle: Daddy, the lizards, the pirates, and those tiny gasbag creatures."

  "Hold me, Millsy," said Marshmallow. "I'm fri—"

  Her words were drowned out by the sound of the lizard shuttle landing nearby. Supervisor Collier went to the airlock and waited. A few minutes later, General Millard Fillmore Pierce came back aboard, with Marsh-mallow's mind inside. "How is everybody?" he asked.

  "Everybody join hands and relax," said Pierce-Arro. "We're pretty sure we understand this procedure now."

  "Ah damn well hope so," said Pierce-Marshmallow.

  "Oh, what a bloated gasbag we inflate. When first we practice to prevaricate."

  "What the hell was that?" asked the lizard general. "Just some gasbag wisdom," said Pierce-Arro. "Now. on the count of three—"

  "What about Supervisor Collier?" asked Sly.

  The stern-faced woman coughed. "Maybe it would be best if I stepped outside, just in case."

  "You do that," said Frank Poole. "See if you can fine something to drink out there."

  They all joined hands and took up the same position: they'd occupied before, during the ill-fated deck-plat( charging experiment. A long time passed. "What's keep ing you?" said Sly.

  "Just a moment," said Pierce-Arro with some embarrassment. "I discovered the XB-223's investigations into the Kama Sutra."

  "Not now, damn it!" cried Marshmallow.

  There was a loud oscillating hum, and a strange greenish glow. The hum grew louder, and the glow turned yellow, then white, then it became so bright that it was impossible to look. The walls of the Pete Rozelle began to rattle in sympathy with the shrieking hum, and then there was a stupendous flash, like the explosion of a minute nuclear device in the closed space of the control cabin. They all collapsed, stunned.

  "Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! Have you succeeded in restoring yourselves to your proper bodies?"

  Only the XB-223, being a computer and not flesh and blood any longer, could reply. "I'm back in my box!" it cried. "I'm me again!"

  "And the others?" demanded the Voice of Doom. "Yes," said the human Millard Fillmore Pierce weakly. "I'm all right."

  "Me too," muttered Marshmallow.

  "I seem to be all right," said the lizard general. There was no audible response from the Protean Pierce and Arro.

  "Attention! This is the Voice of Doom! I have only a moment before the battle begins. My love, I've come back for you!"

  "Who—"

  "It's her!" cried the XB-223 in astonishment. "It's the lizard ship's computer! She does love me after all! I told you she did! She captured that dreadnought and turned it around to come back for me! I love you, my sweetheart!"

  "I adore you, my dearest! Now I must sign off. It is time for battle."

  And then the sky exploded into yellow flames.

  Hi, there.

  It's me again. You know: The Red Tape War. I hate to interrupt a battle of truly cosmic magnitude, but this may be the very last chance we have to speak together. In fact, this may be the very last page that ever gets written.

  Chalker, having written Chapters Two, Six, Nine and Ten, is off being an Ugly American in Europe. (Of course, he's not all that pretty to look at in Baltimore, either, but let it pass.) Effinger, who has a penchant for odd-numbered chapters, just turned in Chapter Eleven, to go along with Three, Five and Seven (and just enough of Chapter Six to drive the bibliographers crazy), and is currently writing his magnum opus, a five-act drama in blank verse about a rather wishy-washy Prince of Denmark. (Nobody's had the heart to tell him that it's been done.) That leaves Resnick to write my final, crucial chap-ter. Now, given his manly good looks and his exquisite felicity of expression, this shouldn't be a problem. But he's leaving for Africa in three days, and he has other deadlines facing him. More lucrative deadlines. And he doesn't want to write this chapter.

  He called Editor Meacham last Monday to tell her that he had died unexpectedly over the weekend. It didn't work.

  On Tuesday, he bought a pair of crutches, moaned whenever he placed any weight on his left foot, and announced that he had contracted pellagra. Editor Meacham explained that pellagra does not affect the feet. He promptly put on a neck brace. No luck.

  On Wednesday he threatened to tell everyone about the time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano at the American Booksellers Convention if she insisted upon receiving a complete manuscript by the end of the week. Editor Meacham decided that the story would humanize her and soften her severe image—she is, after all, a lovely and vibrant woman of thirty-(cough) years—and gave him her whole-hearted approval.

  On Thursday he threatened not to tell everyone about the time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano at the American Booksellers Convention if she insisted upon receiving a complete manuscript by the end of the week. Editor Meacham smiled sweetly and pointed out that he had missed the opportunity to send me via First Class Mail, and would now have to Federal Express me.

  This (Friday) morning, he called Editor Meacham to tell her that he was in a Mexican jail, had lost all use of his typing fingers, was chained to a cot with no access to food and/or water, and noted that nothing in the contract said that The Red Tape War had to be twelve chapters long.

  Editor Meacham sighed wearily and noted that even Federal Express would not deliver me in time, and that he would now have to FAX me to her home.

  This afternoon he phoned Editor Meacham to tell her that all those tropical diseases he had been exposed to in Africa while researching his best-selling novels had finallycaught up with him, and that he was paralyzed from the neck down. Editor Meacham asked him how he had managed to dial the phone. He explained that he had a touch-tone telephone and had managed, at enormous cost to his remaining stamina, to laboriously punch out her number with his nose.

  Editor Meacham suggested that the very same approach would undoubtedly work on a computer keyboard.

  This evening he called her again to say that his house had burned down and the first eleven chapters had been consumed in the blaze, and he couldn't remember any-thing about the plot.

  Editor Meacham said that this was probably for the best, given the fact that no one else had paid any attention to it up to this point, and at least I would have a consistent tone.

  He made one last phone call five minutes ago. His firm, resonant voice steeped with concern, he told Editor Meacham that it had just occurred to him that if there really is a Millard Fillmore Pierce out there, and he reads The Red Tape War, there is every likelihood that he will sue Tor Books
for libel, slander, defamation, and dacoity—(personally, I think he just threw in dacoity to show off)—and that the next time Editor Meacham danced naked atop a piano, it would not be a matter of free choice but rather because she couldn't afford a larger wardrobe. He further suggested that Editor Meacham put Tor's legal department to work finding at least one Millard Fillmore Pierce and get him to sign a release allowing them to use his name, and that since this would doubtless take a considerable amount of time, he would finish writing Chapter Twelve after he returned from Africa, unless it conflicted with watching the Super Bowl or buying the groceries or something important like that. Editor Meacham replied that this was impossible, as Tor's legal department was much too busy preparing a case for Non-Delivery By An Author to be bothered with such trifles.

  He's just finished smoking his twenty-third cigarette of the night, drinking his eighth cup of coffee, and kicking the cat, and—dare I hope? Yes! It's going to happen!—he's finally sitting down to finish me.

  But first, he wants me to tell any and all readers named Millard Fillmore Pierce that Tor's offices are at 49 West 24th Street in Manhattan, and they're loaded.

  The lizard Pierce, suddenly sober, raced to the radio transmitter.

  "Doom!" he cried. "Get me the hell out of here! You need my firm leadership for the battle at hand!"

  "Don't bother me," said the Voice of Doom. "I'm currently maneuvering my ships, setting up supply lines, plotting strategy, decimating the enemy, and exchanging tender and intimate messages with your navigational computer. This is the Voice of Doom, over and out."

  "Roosevelt!" yelled the lizard. "I need to get back to my flagship, damn it! I order you to rescue me!"

  "I'm afraid that would be against regulations, sir," replied Roosevelt's voice. "You're off duty for the next eleven hours, and I therefore cannot respond to your commands."

  "But the sky has exploded into yellow flames!"

  "While I am hindered from rescuing you by Order 30489, sir, I want you to know that my thoughts and best wishes go with you, nor am I without compassion for a member of my own race thrust into the midst of such trying circumstances." There was a momentary silence as Roosevelt considered the problem. "Hold on and let me see what I can do."

  "Thank God we teach them loyalty at the Academy!" said the lizard Pierce to his grounded shipmates. "You guys can all stay here if you want, but General Millard Fillmore Pierce will live to fight another day. Or later this afternoon, as the case may be," he added.

  Roosevelt's voice came through the speaker system again, crackling with static. "Have you access to a viewscreen or a porthole, sir?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Walk over to it, sir, and look above you."

  The lizard Pierce activated Screen 4.

  "I can't see you, Roosevelt," he said, scanning the heavens.

  "Certainly not," answered Roosevelt. "The fleet is on the far side of Uncharted."

  "Then what the hell am I supposed to be looking at?" demanded the lizard Pierce.

  "The sky, sir," explained Roosevelt patiently. "We can't rescue you, of course, but you'll be pleased to note that we have at least replaced the yellow flames with purple ones. I trust you will find them much more restful and pleasing to the eye, sir."

  "Gimme that radio!" said Marshmallow, pushing the lizard aside and positioning herself before the speaker. "Daddy!" she cried. "This is me! You got to call this off before we git incinerated down here!"

  "I'm sorry, daughter," replied Daddy's cold, hard voice. "But it's too late now. You'll have to wait."

  "Why?" demanded Marshmallow. "Just pick me up, turn around, and go home!"

  "Do you know how much it cost me to bring my fleet here?" Daddy demanded. Have you priced doomsday weapons of annihilation lately? Not to mention the fact that all my pilots and gunnery officers are on triple-time. It would be pure financial folly to call off the war before I amortize my costs. We have to wipe out the other three armadas, confiscate all their possessions, post my corporate flag on their home planets, and build a toll bridge or something. Then we'll get around to the paramount business of rescuing you."

  "But if you do all that other stuff first, we ain't gonna live long enough to git rescued!"

  "Daughter, I love you with a tender, sensitive, devoted father's heart, and I will do everything I can to rescue you—but billions are at stake here." He paused. "When you're young, you simply don't understand these thing's."

  Marshmallow turned to Pierce. "You got anyone you want to call?"

  Pierce shook his head grimly, and the little group fell silent. The only sound punctuating the stillness of the place was an occasional sigh of longing from the XB-223 as the Voice of Doom would transmit an especially provocative quatrain.

  "You know," said the gasbag-Pierce to Arro, "I've been mulling on it, and I've come to the conclusion that Daddy really is God."

  "What leads you to that conclusion, sir?" asked Arro curiously.

  "He came all this distance to save his daughter, and now he's too busy depreciating his weapons and watching his balance sheet to help her out of this predicament. I just don't understand it at all."

  "And based on that you conclude that he's God?" said Arro.

  "Absolutely," answered the gasbag-Pierce firmly. "Look at me: I'm a bright fellow, Arro. I graduated in the top third of my class, I speak three languages, I can convert Celsius into Farenheit, my penmanship is superb. Of course, I can't explain why the San Francisco Giants always fold in August—but then, neither can anyone else. No, when all is said and done, I'm the exemplar of all that is best in a microscopic gasbag. By all rights, I should be able to comprehend Daddy's actions, but they make absolutely no sense to me." He paused. "Now, what are the prime properties of God? Unknowable, mysterious, unfathomable. Don't you see how neatly it all fits?"

  "No," said Arro.

  "Well, take my word for it."

  "I don't think I can, sir."

  "You forget yourself, Arro," said the gasbag-Pierce heatedly. "I outrank you. I order you to worship Daddy."

  "You know," said Arro thoughtfully, "now that I've been exposed to the strange creature with the extra pair of lungs, I think I'd much rather worship her."

  "Out of the question," said the gasbag-Pierce. "If ever a creature was totally of this temporal plane, it's her. And besides, I saw her first."

  "You know, sir," said Arro, "I don't think you've fully reasoned this out."

  "What has reason got to do with the female creature?"

  "I'm not referring to her, sir," answered Arro. "I meant that you hadn't considered all the permutations of your conclusion."

  "Do get to the point, Arro."

  "Well, sir, if you're absolutely convinced that Daddy is God, aren't we committing blasphemy or deicide or something by opposing him with our fleet?"

  "Well, I'm sort of kind of convinced," replied the gasbag-Pierce uncomfortably.

  "No hedging, sir," persisted Arro. "Either he is God or he isn't, and if he is, there's only one thing to do."

  "Crucify him?" suggested the gasbag-Pierce. "No, sir. You know what must be done."

  The gasbag-Pierce sighed deeply. "You're quite correct, of course, Arro."

  "Well, then?"

  "All right, all right," said the gasbag-Pierce. "Don't be so pushy."

  "There's no time to waste, sir. The longer we wait, the greater the chance that we will commit an act that will land us in the pits of hell for all eternity."

  "I wonder what an eternity of hell must be like?" mused the gasbag-Pierce, postponing the inevitable for another moment.

  "I always thought it must be like being locked in a theater that plays endless reruns of Ann Rutherford movies," offered Arro.

  "Really?" asked the gasbag-Pierce, interested. "I pictured it as trying to open a childproof bottle of aspirin until the universe finally fell into the thrall of entropy."

  "May I respectfully point out that we have every chance of discovering what eternal damnation is
like if you don't do something very soon, sir?"

  "Right," said the gasbag-Pierce. "When you're right, you're right, Corporal Arro."

  "Corporal, sir?"

  The gasbag-Pierce nodded. "I hate it when you're right." He raised the flagship of his fleet on his communicator. "Gasbags!" he said sternly. "This is your leader, Millard Fillmore Pierce. You are hereby ordered to surrender to Daddy's flagship."

  "You're kidding, right?" came the reply.

  "I was never more serious in my life. I order you to surrender."

  "You're quite sure, sir?"

  "I am."

  "If you say so," said the voice with a sigh. "Is there anything we should do after we surrender, sir?"

  The gasbag-Pierce considered the question for a long moment. "You might slay a fatted calf,"

  he said at last.

  Supervisor Collier re-entered the Pete Rozelle.

  "This is intolerable!" she snapped. "The sky is purple with flames! Pierce, do something."

  Pierce turned off the viewscreen.

  "I had in mind something a little more positive, Pierce," said Supervisor Collier.

  "I'm open to suggestions," said Pierce.

  "I got one," said Marshmallow.

  "What is it?" asked Pierce.

  She walked over and whispered something into his ear.

  "You mean right here, right now?" asked Pierce, turning a bright red.

  "No," answered Marshmallow. "I mean after you stop this here war."

  "You promise?" said Pierce, wiping a bit of drool from his lips with trembling hands.

  "Cross mah heart," she said, indicating its position on her voluptuous torso.

  "By God, I'll do it!" he exclaimed.

  "Do you mean to say that Pierce could have stopped the war at any point in the book?" writes Mr. Theosophus Plink of New Castle, Delaware. "C'est un outrage!"

  Well, not really, Mr. Plink. First, we had to find out what motivated him. Second, we were contractually obligated to deliver twelve chapters, and if the war was stopped in, say, Chapter Five, you would have been subjected to 193 manuscript pages of Effinger's Ode to a Musk Ox, in unrhyming iambic pentameter.

  And third, and perhaps most important, we're not at all sure that Pierce can actually pull it off.