Lammers studied the dreadnought for a long moment. "Never saw anything like it in my life,"
he announced. "Damned impressive-looking, isn't it?"
"You're sure?" said Pierce.
"Of course I'm sure," said Lammers firmly. "If I'd ever seen anything like that I'd sure as hell remember it. The damned thing doesn't even have a periscope."
"Periscope?" repeated Pierce. "Why would it have a periscope?"
"Well," responded Lammers, "unless you're of an unusually perverse nature, you use a periscope to see above the surface of the water."
"Who's talking about water?" screamed Pierce.
"I assumed you were," said Lammers. "Why else would you contact the Commissioner of Irrigation for New Tennessee?"
Pierce broke the connection and muttered an obscenity.
"You didn't specify," whined the computer. "I have it all on tape. You merely asked for the nearest human base."
"Patch me through to a military base on Priority One, and do it quick!" ordered Pierce.
The screen flickered back to life.
"This is Millard Fillmore Pierce, Class 2 Arbiter. Mayday!"
"Actually, it's mid-August here on. Gamma Epsilon III, but let it pass," said a middle-aged officer, lookingthoughtfully at his end of the video transmission. "This is Lieutenant Colonel Nagel Harris, head of the Special Services Division of the Delta Sector. What seems to be your problem, Arbiter Pierce?"
"My computer is relaying a video readout of an unknown dreadnought that is on a collision course with my spacecraft," said Pierce. "Can you identify it?"
"Certainly," said Lieutenant Colonel Harris. "It's a rather large and imposing dreadnought of unknown origin." He smiled politely. "Anything else I can do for you, Pierce?"
"Is it friend or foe?" asked Pierce.
"Well, that all depends on who you are, doesn't it?"
"I'm me, damn it!" snapped Pierce. "Am I in danger or not?"
"A sticky question," admitted Harris. "I wish I could help you out, Arbiter Pierce."
"What the hell do the Special Services do?" demanded Pierce in frustration.
"That's rather up in the air at present," answered Harris. "To tell you the truth, we've all been drawing pay for almost three years, waiting for an assignment. Person-ally, my specialty is twenty-seventh-century French poetry."
"Then what are you doing in the military?"
"I was drafted," said Harris.
"Do you think you could ask anyone at your base if they can help me out?"
"I'd really like to," said Harris, glancing at his wristwatch. "However, we're due to go on strike in about forty seconds and. . . . Hold on a minute, Arbiter. One of our orderlies seems to know something about your dreadnought." Harris's image vanished for a few seconds, then reappeared. "You do seem to have some considerable cause for alarm, Arbiter Pierce."
"Why?" demanded Pierce. "Who are they?"
Harris glanced at his watch again. "I couldn't begin to tell you in the twelve seconds remaining to me. Good luck, Arbiter Pierce. You're probably going to need—"
The screen went dead as the Gamma Epsilon III base shut down.
"Where's the damned ship now?" asked Pierce. "Right on course," replied the computer. "We should meet in about three minutes."
"Can you outrun it?"
"Not very likely," said the computer. "We're already caught in its tractor beam. By the way, would you care for a quick game of chess?"
"Are you crazy?" yelled Pierce.
"I'll take black and spot you two pawns and a knight," offered the computer.
"At a time like this? Concentrate on analyzing the dreadnought, damn you!"
"There's no need for hostility," answered the computer. "I am, after all, an XB-223
navigational computer, capable of concentrating on numerous things at once. For example, eighty percent of my circuits are quantitatively and qualitatively analyzing the dreadnought, looking for figurative chinks in its metaphoric armor, gathering information, channeling it through my prodigious brain, and preparing to break the situation down into its component military and social facets. And, simultaneously, three percent of my brain is speed-reading its way through my library tapes. In fact, if we should survive the next quarter-hour, there's a scene on page 187 of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure that I would very much like you to explain to me. Oh, by the way, contact will be in ninety seconds."
"Well, if we can't outrun it, can we outfight it?"
"Did they neglect to tell you at Home Base?"
"Probably," sighed Pierce. "What, in this particular instance, did you have reference to?"
"I'm not armed. The additional fuel required for me to carry torpedoes and such would have put your department over budget."
"Not even a laser cannon?" demanded Pierce. "Alas.”
"I don't suppose there are any hand weapons on board?"
"Of course there are," said the computer haughtily. "What kind of ship do you think you're on, anyway? It just happens that we have two molecular imploders on the aft starboard bulkhead." It paused. "Of course, it will take you about thirty minutes to get them, and the power packs are empty, but perhaps you could bluff your way to victory.
"You're just full of suggestions today, aren't you?" snapped Pierce. "Is the ship close enough to put on Screen 3?"
"Yes.
Pierce looked at the viewscreen and saw a shining, impressive-looking ship, armed to the teeth with weapons of a design which he had never before encountered.
"Tough-looking little ship," he admitted. "Still, I'd hardly put it in the dreadnought class."
"That's the only way I could get the whole ship on the screen," said the computer. "Actually, it's thirty meters away from us, and we could fit comfortably into any of its 4,016 fuel intake valves."
"Oh," said Pierce, deflated. "Any idea yet what kind of beings are aboard it?"
"My sole conclusion at this point is that they are beings who can waste fuel profligately. Of course, I could try to contact their computer. A simply binary communication . .
"Do it!"
There was a moment of silence.
"Well?" asked Pierce.
"Most interesting," said the computer. "It seems that these beings—there are about 20,000 of them aboard the ship, each of them a trained killer—are the vanguard of an invasion force of truly Homeric proportions."
"What have they got against us?" asked Pierce.
"Absolutely nothing. In point of fact, their navigationaI computer thought they were in the Andromeda Galaxy. "
"Must be a cousin of yours."
"Your sarcasm is uncalled for," said the computer. "To continue: their computer has concluded that they don't really care which galaxy they subjugate. They are a very warlike race, bent on empire, rape, carnage, and looting. Especially rape."
"Are they oxygen-breathers?"
"The crew of this ship is. However, they represent a broad alliance of races, which on their behalf does show a certain embryonic social consciousness, don't you think?"
"And their computer is absolutely sure they want to initiate a war of conquest in the Milky Way? What if we simply gave them directions to Andromeda?"
Another moment of silence ensued.
"It doesn't know," announced the computer. "Obviously, despite its size and circuitry, it lacks the intuitive grasp of situations that is a prime function of the remark-able XB-223 series."
"Then there's at least a chance that we can speak peaceably?" persisted Pierce.
"Rapidly diminishing.""In what way?"
"They're bringing their guns to bear on us. I surmise that any sudden move or untoward action will bring instant obliteration." The computer paused. "It has been wonderful working with you, Millard, an experience I shall always treasure. I am programmed to conduct services in seventeen different religions and forty-three dialects, and can supervise any form of funeral except burial at sea. Have you any preference at this time?"
"What are you talking about
?" snapped Pierce. "All I want to do is talk to these people!"
"The absolutely correct procedure," agreed the computer. "Pay no attention to me at all. I just have a little brushing up to do. B'rou hatoi Adonai . . . Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be they name . . ."
"Shut up!" yelled Pierce.
"It's not dying that I mind so much," continued the computer. "It's never finding out what that scene on page 187 was all about. I don't suppose, as a final favor of your ever-loyal XB-223
navigational computer, that you'd take a few seconds to explain what Fanny Hill meant when—"
"Open up a hailing frequency!" ordered Pierce.
"No response," said the computer after a brief pause.
"Try another."
"No, still nothing. I don't think they want to talk to us, Millard."
"They've got to," said Pierce. "The last thing we need is a galactic war."
"Actually, it would probably be excellent for the economy," observed the computer. "After all, the Gross Galactic Product has risen by an increment of only two percent during the past three years, and certainly any rational analysis of the current fiscal expenditure situation would lead one to conclude that—"
"Shut up! I've got to think!"
"Certainly," said the computer. "I'll just lower my volume and speak to myself. Dearly beloved," it whispered solemnly, "we have gathered here today to pay our final tribute to—"
"Enough!"
"My, aren't you the touchy one!" said the computer, suddenly upset. "I've got a good mind not to put their crew on visual for you."
"Can you do it?"
"Not when people holler at me."
"I'm through hollering," said Pierce. "Let me get a look at them. Please," he added.
"Coming right up."
Pierce looked at the screen as the images began taking shape. He didn't like what he saw.
The aliens appeared to be between seven and eight feet tall, and mildly reptilian in appearance. Their heads seemed elongated for their slender bodies, and were covered with ugly red scales and possessed more teeth than any animal could possibly have use for. Each of them possessed four beady little yellow eyes, two fore and two aft, giving them an effective 360-degree field of vision. Their bodies, reddish at the neck and shoulders, slowly turned to a dull orange at their waists and a bright yellow at their feet. They stood erect on powerful, heavily muscled legs, they had vestigial tails that seemed to be used for balance when walking, and their feet and hands possessed long, powerful talons.
Their artificial armaments were even more impressive than their natural ones. Each carried knives and swords in abundance. Hand weapons were tucked into pockets, pouches, and holsters all over their military harnesses. All carried power packs strapped onto theirbacks, from which their atomic weapons could be instantly recharged.
It was not a reassuring sight.
"They're coming aboard through Airlock 2 right now, Millard," announced the computer.
"How many of them?" he yelled over his shoulder as he raced for the galley.
"Four," said the computer. "Big, ugly-looking brutes with skin conditions and halitosis."
Pierce picked up a wicked-looking steak knife, the most potent offensive weapon aboard the entire ship, and raced toward the airlock, tucking it into his belt as he did so.
He came face-to-face with the invasion party in the corridor.
It was hard to say who was more surprised. It was not terribly difficult to say who was more frightened. However, aware that the future course of galactic history might well be resting upon his scrawny shoulders, Pierce drew himself up to his full height and extended his right arm in the universal sign of peace.
The four aliens leaped back, startled.
"My name is Millard Fillmore Pierce," he said in a somewhat tremulous voice. "I offer you the olive branch of peace, and wish to establish a friendly and constructive dialog between our races."
The four aliens put their heads together and whispered furiously among themselves. Finally one of them withdrew a hand weapon and pointed it at Pierce's midsection.
"You'd better come with me," it said in absolutely perfect English. "I don't know what powers your race possesses, but it's obvious that we're going to have to take you apart in the lab and see what makes you tick before going ahead with our invasion."
"Powers? What are you talking about?"
"You made a big mistake, fella," continued the alien, shoving the barrel of his weapon into Pierce's belly. "You see, my name really is Millard Fillmore Pierce."
They marched out of the airlock and into the alien ship without another word, because Pierce—the human one, anyway—was too speechless to say anything.
As soon as the alien airlock opened, he got a whiff of the atmosphere of the strange craft, though, and immediately felt like throwing up. Whatever this stuff they breathed was, it was close enough to his that they weren't worrying about it—but it reeked of the rotten-egg odor of hydrogen sulfide.
The reptilian alien who'd called himself Pierce gave what passed for a toothy grin and inhaled deeply.
"Ah! That's so much better! You have the dullest atmosphere I have ever encountered! No character, no body." He eyed the human suspiciously with two yellow snakelike orbs. "And now we'll find out just what kind of funny stuff you're trying to pull."
They. approached another reptilian creature seated behind some kind of molded desk. Still gagging, the human was too miserable to more than idly note that fact.
The officer or whatever it was seated there looked up at him and hissed. "So that's what they look like. Disgusting!" It sighed. "Well, what are we going to do with it?"
The leader of the boarding party gave a shrug. "The usual. Torture, mutilation, that sort of thing."
The seated creature nodded its long reptilian head and reached into compartments under the desk, pulling out a red form, then a yellow one, then pink, then—well, there seemed no end of them.
"You know the SOP," the creature said matter-of-factly. "Itemize the torture on forms XA76
stroke 5 and JR82 stroke 19, then requisition who and what you need on the MA72s and KL5s.
Need a pen?"
"You're torturing me already!" Pierce managed. "I'm puking to death from this air!"
The administrative reptile looked up in surprise. "He speaks English!"
The reptilian boarding party leader nodded. "You can see the need for urgency," he responded, beginning to sign the forms.
"But—is what he says true? Is he being tortured by breathing our atmosphere?"
The alien Pierce shrugged. "Beats me. Who can tell about somebody that alien?"
The administrator eyed the suffering human critically. "I think he really is in some discomfort," it concluded, then looked back at the other Pierce, who was still busily signing forms. "Do you have a KZ-26 to cover that?"
"Of course not!" the alien Pierce snapped. "We just got him—remember?"
"Well, you'll have to get one or we can't let this continue," the administrator responded.
"Gimme one, then!"
The administrator rummaged around in the seemingly endless compartments beneath his desk, then hissed again. "Damn! I think I'm out of them. You remember that little world where we stopped just to get a little provisioning? It just about exhausted my KZ-26s, and I haven't had any more come down from Duplicating yet. They're about three weeks behind now, since we're so far from any base."
"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" the alien Pierce almost yelled back at the administrator in his most angry tone.
"Remove his discomfort, of course. Either put him back or find a spacesuit from his ship that'll give him what he needs to breathe comfortably."
"But we're gonna torture him anyway!"
"Not without the proper forms," the administrator admonished. "Where would we be if anybody could just go off and do anything he pleased without regard for records and authority?
Just because we spread chaos and anar
chy doesn't mean we have to wallow in it! You people in combat arms seem to forget that for every one of you there's twenty of us filling out the necessary forms!"
"Oh, all right," the boarding party commander growled. "Look—can't these I just filled out serve?"
The administrator hesitated. "Well . . . it's highly irregular, I admit, but maybe—oh, no!"
"What's the matter?"
"Your prisoner just threw up all over your JR82 stroke 19s! That tears it! Get him out of our atmosphere—fast!"
The reptilian Pierce looked heavenward, then hissed menacingly and pulled the miserable human back into the airlock.
* * *
Pierce lay gasping on his own deck.
It took him about twenty minutes to recover. The aliens watched him warily, wondering what sort of trick he might be pulling, but otherwise made no move to help him.
Feeling totally miserable still, he nevertheless man-aged to focus on them and groaned.
"Wh—who are you?" he gasped. "How do you speak English so well?"
The boarding party leader came over and looked down on him. "Those are the very questions we meant to ask you," he said. "And, since we have your ship, all the weapons, and you, maybe you better try answering first."
"I told you—my name is Millard Fillmore Pierce, I'm a Class 2 Arbiter, and I come from Earth. Originally, anyway."
The alien kicked him roughly in the side. "Liar! You say those things to trick us. What are you—a telepath or something? Read my mind and now trying to be funny, huh?" He started to kick the helpless man again.
Pierce cringed. "No! Wait! Honest—I can't read minds or anything! I'm telling you the truth!
Why don't you believe me?"
The reptilian creature snorted. "Because my name is Millard Fillmore Pierce, like I told you.
Because I'm from Earth. Because I grew up speaking English!"
"But—but that's not possible!"
"Exactly!" the alien responded, then kicked him again. "So, alien creature, explain yourself!"
"I—I can't," responded the human, genuinely bewildered. "Tell me—are you an Arbiter 2 as well?"
The alien chuckled. "Of course not. I'm the commanding general of the Invasion Strike Force.
The Red Tape War (1991) Page 2
