The Red Tape War (1991)

by Jack L. Chalker

  The bulbous Pierce gave his equivalent of a laugh. "That, too, of course," he said, "but I think the chances of that are minimal. I mean, how often do we go stompingaround in our own fuel pods, looking for even tinier alien ships?"

  "Twice a day," said Arro. "That's part of my duty. The Commodore, of course, wouldn't know about that."

  "Um, yes," said Pierce. "What I meant to say was that we're now completely drenched in the huge alien's fuel. No doubt, a single spark from our own engines will cause catastrophe, so we must be extremely careful how we maneuver. And we must find a way out of this pod as soon as possible."

  Arro shivered. "That hadn't occurred to me, sir. I guess that's why you're the commodore and I'm only the glorified swabbie."

  "Yes," said Pierce, "that and the fact that I was born in the town of Sacville West, just as our illustrious Grand High Potentate Master Commander was. He used to dandle me on his sacs when I was an infant. Even in this interstellar expeditionary force, it's not what you know, it's who you know."

  Arro frowned. "But I know you, Pierce. I've known you for many years. Why am I stuck here with all the crummy jobs, instead of in command of my own ship?"

  Pierce gave his best friend a comradely ripple. "Because I requested you," he said. "I could think of no other officer I'd rather have as my Number One."

  "Gee," said Arro glumly, "thanks."

  "Well, let's get back to considering our plight," said Pierce. "I think we'd best find another way out of here. That tunnel no doubt leads the fuel to the rocket engines, and that's no place for us or our ship. I think we'll have to get close to the skin of the pod, above the fuel line, and laser our way through into the alien ship proper."

  "Right, sir," said Arro. "But if a spark from our engines will blow us all to smithereens, how will we get right up to the skin of the pod?"

  "Simple," said the commodore with an affectionate shimmer. "You'll have to get out and push."

  There was a tense, silent pause. "Right," said Arro at last, but he was thinking other things.

  Word comes from Mr. J. Terrell of Massapequa, New York, that he's had enough of these aliens for now (by the way, they call themselves Proteans, for reasons that will soon became clear). All right, Mr. Terrell, let's just shift our attention elsewhere aboard the human-Pierce's ship. Let's focus on the navigational computer, XB-223, and see if we can begin to understand what's going on in its small but powerful silicon-based brain.

  "Eloping!" cried both Pierces in unison.

  "Yes," said XB-223, "although as I understand the literature in your library, elopement parties are usually a trifle smaller. We have two interstellar craft and a little over twenty thousand witnesses, mostly lizard-men. You could hardly say we were sneaking away in secret, yet on the other hand, think of the huge pile of wedding presents we'll get!"

  "You'll get every millimeter of your printed-circuit boards crushed into pretty powder and spewed out to decorate the emptiness of space!" cried the human-Pierce. "That's what you'll get!"

  "Now, now, Arbiter," said XB-223, "and I was just about to ask you to be my best man, too.

  Say, do either of you Millard Fillmore Pierces know where there's a justice of the peace around here? Or can the captains of these two ships we've captured perform the marriage?"

  "What marriage?" asked the lizard-Pierce. His voice was low and angry. It was clear that he thought the human's computer was crazy in a purely electronic way.

  "The union between myself," said XB-223, "and your very own nav comp. It's a marriage blessed by Mitsubishi/G.E. Think of the future benefits to man- and lizard-kind. I don't understand why all of you aren't dropping your petty conflicts and doing everything in your power to help us. After all, I control the life-support systems aboard this ship, and my dearest darling has taken over the life-support systems on the lizards' ship. You should be nice to us. You should think of our welfare and our needs. You should ask us where we've registered our china pattern."

  The two Pierces looked at each other for a moment. "I don't believe this," said the lizard at last. "I don't believe that your computer could have seduced mine so easily. Our navigational computer was programmed to think just like us, with all our lack of useless emotion. Something is wrong here. I think it's time to question our computer closely about her—I mean its, damn it—

  true feelings. I mean, responses. Logical, cybernetic, electronic responses. Not feelings. Feelings are impossible in our nav comp. Feelings are almost impossible in us, for that matter."

  The lizard-Pierce was about to stomp back into his own ship, but he stopped suddenly. "Our ships are connected by tractor beams, and we're all moving pretty fast, aren't we?" he said.

  "At a velocity that Einstein never even dreamed of," said the computer.

  "And so it might be a good idea not to be stepping off the relativistic cliff between ships,"

  said the reptile.

  "You could give it a try," suggested the human-Pierce. "Purely in the interests of science."

  "Science!" snorted the lizard. "Science is for weaklings, for fools who walk around all day in long white lab coats, for the idiots who figure out how to keep us alive out here in the vastness of the great vacuum, who know every little detail about what's going on and won't tell the rest of us because we don't have long white lab coats, who are the secret masters of our race and who would all die as soon as I become Overlord Supreme except they know how to fix a clogged carburetor and I don't. That's what I think of scientists!" And he tried to snap his clawed, webbed fingers, but there was no sound. Everyone looked down at his feet in embarrassment.

  "Tell you what I'll do," said XB-223. "From your veiled hints, I gather few of you are as thrilled at this happy occasion as I am. I suppose you'd like to have a chance to escape whatever fate awaits you in the uttermost depths of space where we're honeymoon-bound."

  The human-Pierce shuddered. "We're not carrying an infinite amount of fuel, you now," he told the computer. "If you zoom us out to the middle of honest-to-God nowhere, we may all be stranded there until our consumables run out. Unlike you, we need food, water, and varying quantities of oxygen. You, too, have needs—where do you think your power comes from?"

  "He who is pure of heart has the strength of ten," said XB-223.

  "That leaves you out," said Pierce. "Now, what were you saying about a chance to escape this madness?"

  XB-223 gave a flat, electronic chuckle. "You know that I've got you whipped eight ways from Sunday when we play chess," it said.

  "Because you cheat," said Pierce hotly. "Because you move pieces, change their colors, do anything to secure a crummy win."

  Hmm," said the lizard-Pierce approvingly, "my estimation of your nav comp has just risen a point or two."

  "Jeez," said Pierce, plopping down in his command chair in disgust.

  "Well," XB-223 went on, ignoring its master's voice, "perhaps the lizard general would be interested in a game of chance. An exploration of the statistical flukes of fate. An empirical probe of the vagaries of probability."

  The lizards' leader looked at the human-Pierce in confusion. "What does it mean?" he asked warily. "I think he means blackjack."

  "Blackjack it is!" cried the navigational computer. "Twenty-one. Vingt-et-un. It's known by many names across the Spiral Fed. I'll be dealer." XB-223 quickly outlined the rules of blackjack to the lizard general, leaving out a few pertinent points of betting that might have gone in the alien's favor, such as doubling down and splitting pairs.

  "It seems simple enough," said the general finally. "Deceptively simple," said the computer.

  "Deceptive is right," said Pierce. "You don't stand a chance, General."

  The lizard made his equivalent of a shrug. "I don't see why not. My vastly superior intellect has already computed the odds of each possible combination of—“

  "You'll see," said Pierce. He wondered why people—including aliens—had to learn absolutely everything the hard way.

  "I'll deal the first h
and now," said the computer. He turned up the queen of hearts for the general and laid one card facedown for himself. Then he turned up the jack of diamonds for the lizard, and the king of spades for himself. "Now we'll bet. If I win, we'll continue hurtling on through space. If you win, we'll turn around and go back, and the two of you can work out your differences the usual way, with screams and explosions and stealth in the night."

  "Fine," said the general.

  "Do you want another card?" asked XB-223.

  The lizard laughed. "I've got twenty already. No, I'll stay with this."

  The downturned card on the computer monitor flipped over. It was the ace of hearts. "Oh look!" cried XB-223 in mock surprise. "I have blackjack! I win!" .

  "Of course he does," complained the human-Pierce. "He can deal anything he wants. Do you believe he's drawing random cards?"

  The lizard-Pierce glared down at his counterpart. "I can't accept that a computer would cheat.

  Even a computer programmed by the likes of you, ape." The way he said it, "ape" was neither a compliment nor a mere zoological reference.

  The human-Pierce decided to ignore it. The general would learn his lesson soon enough.

  "Let's make it two out of three," growled the lizard. "Great!" said XB-223. "Good of Arbiter Pierce won't play this game with me anymore."

  "It will soon be clear why," said Pierce. No one paid him any attention.

  The navigational computer dealt again. The first card for the alien general was the nine of clubs. Then the computer dealt itself a card facedown. The next card to the lizard was the three of hearts. XB-223's up-card was the queen of spades. The general's second card was the three of diamonds. "You're showing twelve," said the computer. "Do you want another?"

  The general nodded. "Hit me," he said. The third card flicked into view on the monitor. It was the jack of spades.

  "Aw," said the computer, "you busted." It turned over its hole card—the ace of clubs, another blackjack. "But we have some lovely parting gifts for you. Pierce, tell our guest what he's won."

  The alien leader flew into a rage. "You damn, cheating, lying computer!" he shouted. "No matter what hand I get, you can give yourself a better one! There's no way at all to win against you!"

  "See?" said Pierce wearily. "Didn't I tell you?"

  The lizard looked down at the human fiercely. "Thecomputer represents your mind, your thinking, even your individual personality. I can't revenge myself against the computer, but I can against you. And I will—at great length, with great pleasure!" And the scarlet scales of the general's head and neck flared in some unguessable but frightening display.

  What a time to be interrupted! Yet just at this moment, Mrs. M. A. Sutton of Jackson, Mississippi, informs me that gambling is evil, and should not be shown in any light that makes it attractive to impressionable children and teenagers. All right, Mrs. Sutton, perhaps now is the time to return to the travails of the aliens—the Proteans—trapped in the guts of human-Pierce's fuel pod.

  The Protean in charge, Commodore Millard Fillmore Pierce, sat tensely at the controls of the good ship Pel Torro. Somewhere out in the human ship's fuel supply, Arro was motivating their craft by alternately puffing up a few sacs and discharging the gases with a loud bubbling noise that echoed in the dark chamber. Slowly at first, then ever faster, the Pel Torro slipped through the sloshing liquid fuel toward the nearest wall of the fuel pod.

  Commodore Pierce spoke into the communicator that was strapped around one of his largest gas sacs. "How are you doing out there, Arro?" he asked.

  The reply came as if from within a great, hollow metal ball, which is where Arro was. His voice echoed, and the noise of waves of fuel all but obliterated his words. "Fine," he said, "just fine."

  "You're doing a great job, my friend," said Pierce, trying to gauge the distance to the pod's wall with the tiny, weak headlamp mounted on the front of the Pel Torro. "I'm sure the Grand High Potentate Master Commander will personally decorate you for this effort, if you survive and if the harmful effects of exposure to the alien fuel doesn't turn you into a gibbering vegetable." It must be noted here for the likes of Mrs. Sutton that on their home world, the Proteans actually did have vegetables that gibbered. Even after they were cooked.

  "That's heartening," said Arro, but because of the audible distortion, his friend and commodore couldn't tell if Arro was genuinely moved or sarcastic beyond endurance.

  "I see the pod wall clearly now, Arro," said the gasbag Pierce. "I've chosen a target for the ship's laser. Of course, the weapon was never intended to take on so huge an assignment, so it may be some time before it manages to sear its way through the metal of the pod's wall. In the meantime, would it be too much to ask you to remain outside, steadying the ship, and helping me keep the laser lined up correctly?"

  "Glub," said Arro.

  "I'm sorry?" said Pierce.

  "Lug lug lug," said Arro.

  "Aha!" cried Pierce. "Somehow out there you're in touch with the alien craft's communication system, and you're beginning to learn their language! Excellent! Marvelous show of initiative!

  This should win you a fomb-leaf cluster on that commendation I mentioned earlier. Arro, you've been a dear friend and devoted companion all these years, but even so I never realized the full extent of your commitment to our cause—the final and ultimate conquest of all life and quasi-life in the Andromeda Galaxy!"

  At this point, Arro made several strange remarks that conveyed little if any information to his commanding officer within the tiny spacecraft.

  "What was that again, Arro?" asked Pierce. "I think I'm beginning to see a pattern in this language. The vowels aren't so bad, but you're speaking some strange consonants that don't exist in our own speech, and it may takeme some time to perfect my accent to the degree you've already shown."

  "Blurb. Blurble."

  Pierce sighed. "I have nothing but admiration, but I guess I'll just have to wait until you get back inside to learn the translation of those words. It won't be much longer. The pod wall is already red hot, and smoke is starting to rise. Don't worry: I'm aiming high enough that the laser can't possibly touch the fuel. You have absolutely nothing—"

  "Glorg! Glorgle glorg!"

  "Yes, I see it. A small area of molten metal running down toward the lake of liquid fuel. Well, don't worry about me, old friend. I'm secure inside this nearly indestructible hull. Just hold the ship steady a little while longer—"

  Just then, some protective system detected the heat of the melting wall, and a sprinkler system strong enough to wash away most of the Cayman Islands turned itself on. If it hadn't, the fuel would have ignited in three one-hundredths of a second, blowing Arro, the Pel Torro, gasbag-Pierce inside the Pel Torro, human-Pierce, lizard-Pierce and his lizard lieutenant, and the red-haired female into subatomic particles so tiny and short-lived that scientists haven't yet even decided on the proper alphabet to name them.

  Arro was caught in this hyperhurricane and thrown from one end of the fuel pod to the other.

  He continued to speak in strange tongues, but Pierce inside the invading craft had his own sacs full of trouble. The laser had succeeded in burning a hole in the fuel pod large enough for the Pel Torro to slip through, but the ship was responding sluggishly to the controls. The vast, mountainous waves of fuel dashed down on the tiny ship, and the Pel Torro's thrusters were little match for the force of the sprinklers' storm.

  Soon, however, the sprinkler system satisfied itself that all danger had passed, and the inundating spray shut off again. In a matter of moments, the fuel began to settle into a calm lake of explosive fluid. Then Pierce turned his attention back to his long-range concerns. First, he had to find Arro and get the poor second-in-command back aboard—if, indeed, Arro were still alive.

  Then the reconnaisance had to go forward as scheduled, and the results passed along to the Grand High Potentate Master Commander.

  Gasbag-Pierce filled the cockpit of his ship with sharp, blatting noises in
a brief instant of confusion. Then he got himself back under control. "First things first," he told himself. Even before rescuing his noble comrade, Arro, Pierce secured his position by firing a tiny treble hook toward the hole in the fuel pod's inner wall. The hook caught, and the Pel Torro was safely moored in place. Then Pierce cracked open the clear cockpit hatch and filled himself with available gases—each more noxious and foul-smelling than the last.

  "Arro?" he cried. "How could you stand it out here? This is the most disgusting atmosphere I've ever encountered, even allowing for the reek of the liquid fuel. Can you smell that air?

  Nitrogen, oxygen—whatever lives aboard this huge ship must be the Emperor of Garbage!"

  There was no answer. Pierce began to feel a chill of fear. "Arro? Answer me, Arro! I promise, no more jokes or lighthearted banter. Make a sound, any sound, and I'll find you. We'll put you in the doc-box and you'll be good as new in a few years."

  "Rrrrr," came a weak voice directly below the Pel Torro's left stabilizing plane.

  "Arro!" cried Pierce with genuine joy. He grasped theedge of the stabilizer firmly, and hauled the nearly dead Arro up onto the plane. "You'll be just fine! All you need is to rest here for a moment, and then we can begin our attack!"

  Arro began coughing and choking. Pierce, being a high-ranking officer, knew nothing about first aid. He blew up one of his ventral sacs and pounded away at Arro's flat, odd-colored dorsal side. That didn't seem to help. "What can I do?" asked Pierce. "What do you want?"

  "I want a nice hot cup of vacuoles and about a month's nap," said Arro in a weak voice.

  Pierce drew himself up to his full commodore's height. "We don't have time for coddling ourselves, Arro, and you know it very well. We have millions of Proteans at home waiting for our report. I suppose you've recovered sufficiently to take over your duties about the ship. Am I right?"

  Arro gave gasbag-Pierce a long, veiled look. Then he let one of his sacs squeeze loose a loud, wet, reverberating noise. He said nothing more, but slowly crawled into the cockpit and took his seat beside Pierce. The invasion was back on schedule.