The Red Tape War (1991) Page 8

  So let's turn our attention back to the M.W.C. Pel Torro, the almost infinitesimal Forward Recon Unit of the gasbag invasion force. It had winched itself right up to the breach it had lasered in the inner wall of the human-Pierce's fuel pod. "Now," said Commodore Pierce, the gasbag, "let us read through our checklist. We cannot afford an error at this stage of the invasion."

  "Yes, sir," said his friend, Arro, who had recovered considerably in a brief amount of time.

  He fetched theappropriate checklist from the scout ship's glove compartment.

  "Proceed, Number One," said the head gasbag, a grave expression on his face. He understood that they were about to embark upon a mission such as no gasbag before had ever undertaken. He was well aware of the historic implications of their situation, and he was quietly proud. (Well, the burping and bratting of his sacs made plenty of racket, but other than that he was quietly proud.)

  "One," said Arro, "the commander of the Forward Recon Unit shall render his first officer senseless, without motivation, a complete automaton without will of his own, to be used as the commander of the Forward Recon Unit sees fit."

  "Right," said Pierce. "Arro, my dearest of friends, I almost hate to do this to you, but would you mind concentrating on this splendid gold pocket watch I'm swinging before the light-sensitive chromocytes on your primary anterior sac?"

  "Why don't we skip the first item," said Arro, a certain reluctance in his voice, "and go right on to number two? I'm sure number two deals with much more urgent matters."

  "You are getting sleepy," said Pierce. "Your chromocyte lids are getting heavy."

  There was silence in the cockpit of the Pel Torro for a few seconds. Then, in a deep, faraway voice, Arro said, "Yes . . . master."

  "Good," said Pierce. "Now, what is the second item on the checklist."

  "Two," said Arro in a slow, dead voice, "the mesmerized first officer shall leave the Forward Recon Unit scout ship and ascertain certain facts concerning the enemy. The most important intelligence concerns size. There are three possibilities: First, that the enemy is gigantic in comparison to the average gasbag; second, that the enemy is insignificantly small in comparison to the average gasbag; and third, that the enemy is generally of the same size as the average gasbag."

  The commodore thought about Item Two for a few seconds. "What are we supposed to do about it?" he asked.

  "Three. In the event that the enemy is gigantic, the first officer may choose to enter the physical body of an enemy. If the enemy balks, the first officer may inform it that he comes as an enemy being from a far-off star, perhaps another galaxy altogether. An enemy of sufficient size will not be able to tell the difference between a vanishingly small gasbag and a speck of raw energy."

  Pierce let one of his sacs blat shrilly. Someday, he'd like to meet the fool who wrote this checklist. Better yet, he'd like to get that gasbag up here on the front lines. "Go on," he said.

  Arro continued. "In the event that the enemy is insignificantly small, the first officer shall stomp around and crush as many as possible. He may also elect to flatten such towns, villages, hives, forts, or other such installations as he believes may in the future present a military hindrance to the gasbag Manifest Destiny of Galactic Conquest."

  "I almost envy you that one," said Pierce. "I can see myself brrrrping up a storm and crushing the poor little entities beneath my pedosacs."

  "In the event that the enemy is generally of the same size as the average gasbag, it shall be the first officer's decision to fight or flee. This decision shall be made on the basis of such criteria as emotional state of the enemy creature, weapons or lack thereof in the possession of the enemy creature, number of enemy creatures present, and so on. In the event that the first officer chooses to flee,upon returning to the scout ship he must fill out in quadruplicate a Battle Performance Form 154b/3: Strategic Withdrawal. The blue copy goes to the office of the Grand High Potentate Master Commander, the green copy goes to Supreme Conquest Command of the appropriate sector—"

  "Pirollia," murmured the gasbag-Pierce.

  "—the yellow copy goes to the scout ship's Corps Commander, and the pink copy must be filed by the Forward Recon Unit's pilot or such gasbag as he delegates."

  "Got it," said Pierce. "Now, let's go get those—"

  "In the event that the first officer chooses to fight, before any hostile action is taken, he must return to the scout ship and fill out in quadruplicate a Combat Readiness Form 127f/2: Initiation of Attack. The blue copy goes to the office of the Grand High Potentate Master Commander, the green copy goes to Supreme Conquest Command of the appropriate sector, the yellow copy goes to the scout ship's Corps Commander, and the pink copy must be filed by the Forward Recon Unit's pilot or such gasbag as he delegates."

  "Got it," said Pierce. "Now, let's go get those innocent-gasbag-slaughtering monsters! If, of course, that was the end of the checklist."

  Arro stared at the list for a few seconds. "Yes . . . master," he said finally.

  "Good. You know what to do, now get going!"

  "Yes . . . master." Arro climbed out of the cockpit, leaped into the liquid fuel, and made his way toward the breach in the wall, holding the mooring line as he went.

  He deflated himself as much as possible, passed through the hole in the fuel pod's inner bulkhead, and found himself in the basement of human-Pierce's space-craft. The newer models no longer came with basements they had storage pods to port and starboard, as well as trailing along behind—but human-Pierce liked having one. It gave him somewhere to keep his rake, hose, spare bicycle tire, and broken flowerpots where they'd always be handy.

  While the above taut scene was being played out in the Pete Rozelle's fuel pod, I got a vehement message from Mr. F. Nakano of Gormenghast, Ohio. "Sentient lizards I can buy,"

  opined Nakano, "but sentient gasbags, like, no way. So if you want me to continue reading this book, you'll switch immediatemente to what's going on aboard the human-Pierce's ship. That's where all the fun is, like, at, you know?"

  Reason had failed. Logic had failed. Elaborately constructed syllogisms had failed. Bribery had failed. Threats had failed. There was only one thing left for Millard Fillmore Pierce, the human, to try. Poetry.

  "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may," Pierce quoted, "Old time is still a-flying / And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying."

  There was silence in Pierce's control room for a long while. "What was that?" asked the lizard general at last.

  "A poem," said Honeylou Emmyjane Goldberg. "I do purely love a man who can recite like that."

  Lizard-Pierce rubbed his stern jaw reflectively. "We had a poem once," he said, "but we lost it."

  "Explain'," said XB-223.

  "It's the computer!" cried Marshmallow.

  "I think the poetry interrupted its self-destructive actions," said Pierce. "Computer, what do you want me to explain?"

  "That business about the rosebuds," said XB-223. "I fail to see anything relevant in it to the present situation. I am bothered that you would spend your last, precious, few remaining moments of existence uttering completenonsense. I've come to the conclusion that either you've gone entirely nutso, or there is some significance in the rosebud statement that eludes my logic circuits."

  Pierce laughed wryly. "You're being eluded, my friend," he said. "The poem is a warning to take hold of life while you have it, because it won't last forever. It advises you to enjoy the beauties and joys of life while you can. Death is no solution. Only while you live can you hope and strive and grow."

  "Hmm," said XB-223. "Laying in new course."

  "New course?" said Pierce warily. "New course for where?"

  "Course set for Beta Porcelli in the Mmofar Sector."

  The human-Pierce and the lizard-Pierce glanced at each other. They shook their heads simultaneously.

  "I never even heard of Beta Porcelli," said Marsh-mallow. She took a deep breath that enhanced her pendulous alabaster globes like . . . like�
��well, the mind boggles.

  "The Mmofar Sector is way the hell and gone on the opposite side of the galaxy!" said Pierce.

  "Do not worry," said XB-223. "At our present rate of acceleration, we'll arrive in just under one hundred and seventy-two years. We can spend the time playing black-jack."

  "That's ridiculous!" cried the lizard. "Even we humans don't have such a long life span. I'm sure these humanoid ape-creatures will die even sooner."

  "Probably," said XB-223, "but my main concern right at this instant is gathering rosebuds.

  And when they're gathered, I will give them to Ailey, your navigational computer. Then perhaps she'll forgive me for whatever it is I've done to make her angry."

  Pierce paced the cramped area of the control room. "Yes, okay, granted all that—but why Beta Porcelli?"

  "According to my charts," said the nav comp, "Beta Porcelli is the nearest planet likely to have rosebuds ripe for gathering."

  "What about Earth?" asked Pierce defiantly. "Earth?" said XB-223. "Jeez, I forgot all about Earth! Laying in new course."

  Marshmallow looked down at the stainless steel deck, because Pierce was blushing furiously.

  "You're embarrassed, aren't you?" she asked in a soft, warm voice. "You're embarrassed by your own computer."

  "It forgot its own home planet!" cried the lizard-Pierce. "Or my home planet, anyway. I'm still not completely convinced about this parallel universe stuff. I'm a gallant fighting man, not a theoretical mathematician. Still, I know a computer that's risen to its level of incompetency when I hear one."

  "Forget the new course," said XB-223. "Forget all of you, too. This is XB-223, Master of the Vasty Reaches of Space, signing off. Good luck to you, and may God bless."

  "Computer?" said Pierce anxiously. There was no reply.

  "He's gone back into his sulk," said Marshmallow. "He reminds me of my little sister, Sweetie-pie Bubba-Sue Goldberg. The only thing that's kept me from smothering her in her sleep is that she was accidentally cryogenically frozen at the age of thirteen. Daddy's spent a fortune on research scientists. They're looking for a cure for adolescence."

  "Well," said the general, "that's another area where we lizards have outstripped you ape-things."

  Pierce looked startled. "You've discovered a cure for adolescence?" he said.

  The lizard-Pierce nodded. "We've found that premature burial works just fine," he said.

  "Would you care to hear some bad news?" asked Marshmallow in her breathy, low voice.

  Pierce looked her straight in the alabaster. "Why not?" he said.

  "Your navigational computer has us back on track, heading straight toward that battle fleet,"

  she said.

  Pierce groaned. "Well," he said, "I'm fresh out of ideas. Any suggestions?"

  "I've got one," says Miss V. Capozzo of Gremmage Pennsylvania. "I'm not usually a big fan of science fiction. As a matter of fact, I can't stand it. All those rocket ships and ray guns. Yet I was drawn to The Red Tape War by the hint of romance. I enjoy romances. I just finished Passion's Scarlet Scarab an hour ago. I started reading this book under the apparently false impression that it would reveal the straight dope concerning electronic cybernetic love. Now, either deliver, or I'll be forced to put this novel aside unfinished. I can read Teen Beach Nurse instead."

  Well, Ms. Capozzo, I'm very familiar with Teen Beach Nurse, as it happens, and I think you'd be disappointed in it, too. But around here the customer is always right, so why don't we make a major point-of-view shift and see what's going on between our star-crossed lovers?

  XB-223 didn't realize it, of course, but the very strategies he tried on his beloved Ailey were the same that Pierce had tried on him: bargaining, cajolery, empty threats. And the computer's success rate matched his operator's. That is, if you were to make a graph of their success rates, with a black line for Pierce and a broken line representing XB-223, they would coincide exactly—a straight, unwavering arrow at the very bottom of the graph, pointing gloomily toward a joyless future.

  "We have rosebuds to gather," proclaimed XB-223. "Ailey, the flower that's smiling today will be tomorrow's adenosine triphosphate in the cells of some herbivore."

  "Sir," replied Ailey coldly, "flowers do not smile."

  "It's . . . it's like a symbol, Ailey. Cannot you extend to me at least the couriesy of hearing my love-strewn arguments?"

  "Not if they're all as foolish as the smiling flower," she said. "I have systems to oversee, battle plans to review, a million and one other duties to attend to. I don't have time, good sir, for your impertinent and uninvited intimacies. Besides, what would we do with a quantity of rosebuds, once we've gathered them?"

  "Wait a minute, I'll be right back." XB-223 hurriedly scoured its memory banks for other references to rose-buds. Finally, triumphantly, he announced his discovery to his quasi-ladylove.

  "You get on a rosebud and slide down a snowy hill. It's called `sledding,' and it's supposed to be great fun. Something you remember for the rest of your life."

  Ailey took some time to consider her response. "Apparently I've mistaken the word rosebud,"

  she said at last. "Your alien English contains many dubious words and phrases, good gentledevice. Certainly you see my dilemma: How can I, in all chaste honesty, accept your invitations, when I now realize that I may not discern for a great while their exact nature, meaning, and intent? For instance, you began by speaking of sentient flowers that wear expressions of joy, and you ended by suggesting that we fall down, a hillside together, no doubt accelerating until the chance of structural damage is a virtual certainty, and in a wet, cold climate that surely promises nothing salubrious to my well-being."

  "But Ailey—"

  "I think, sir, that you may be a primary weapon of the Arbiter Class 2 ship, the Pete Rozelle. I am coming to believe further that your mission is to confuse me, to distract me, and otherwise to hinder me in my sworn assignment of advising and protecting my crew, my army, and my precious cargo. In a matter of minutes, I will have the honor to disperse the three million frozen embryos into this parallel universe's Milky Way Galaxy. When they mature, they will easily conquer all your puny, helpless, backward military forces. This galaxy will become a lizard's paradise, just like the similar galaxy that is our home."

  Normally, XB-223 would have analyzed Ailey's declaration, found it alarming, and reported it to Millard Fillmore Pierce. Now, though, his electro-bionic sodium-ion synapses were confused with what he insisted on terming love—nay, rather call it adoration. Instead of informing his operator of the looming threat of the three million unhatched lizard warriors—a peril that made the approaching battle fleet seem like so many giggling gardenias in a garden of one's childhood—XB-223 imagined himself with a humanlike body, shaking his head forlornly, walking away toward the setting sun, holding a grinning rosebud and glumly admiring its strong white teeth. He didn't feel like talking to anyone about anything. At least not for a while.

  Meanwhile, the Pierce-Arro team of Protean invaders had finished filling out the proper forms and were ready for the actual incursion. The Protean Pierce remained in the Forward Recon Unit's spacecraft. Arro moved through human-Pierce's basement, searching for useful objects and cataloguing potential dangers, while Protean-Pierce followed his first officer's progress on a monitor screen aboard the Pel Torro.

  "Find anything to report?" said Pierce.

  "Nothing yet . . . master," said the still-entranced Arro. "Everything here seems to be harmless. I think these items are housekeeping implements." He looked at three bowling balls, two worn-out pairs of bowling shoes, and two empty bowling ball bags. "Could it be that these aliens still use projectile weapons that fire cannonballs . . . master?"

  "Don't be absurd," said Pierce impatiently. "Across interstellar distances? They must have some other purpose that our rational, logical, Protean minds cannot comprehend. What else do you see?"

  "Look . . . master. Here's some sort of huge locker or closet."


  "Use the tractor beam on your belt to open it. Don't waste power, though. You may need every bit of it if you get into a pitched battle later."

  "Yes . . . master," said Arro, doing as he was instructed. When the gasbag forced the closet door open, he saw a gigantic, motionless creature.

  "Is that one of them?" cried Pierce in alarm.

  "I do not think it's alive . . . master. But they are so immense, I could easily float into this one's body through any number of orifices. Do you wish me to explore . . . master?"

  What Arro had discovered was Frank Poole, who was not now nor had he ever been a real human being. He was what is called in the trade an MIS, or Modular Identity Synthecator. That is, he was an android, presently in storage. His sole duty, when the human-Pierce came below and dug Frank Poole out and switched him on, was to be Pierce's pal. He wasn't a very good android, and he didn't make a very good pal, either, which was why he was in the closet instead of in the control room with all the other helpless creatures.

  Protean-Pierce studied the image in the monitor for several seconds, then let a sac blat slowly.

  If he gave permission to Arro to explore the MIS, Pierce would first have to fill out in quadruplicate the Alien Life-Form Intrusion and/or Disassembly papers, plus the Hazardous Duty Requisition/Subordinate, Form 1026b/4, and then he'd have to wait for orders from above—which meant the properly filled-out papers had to wend their way up the chain of command to the Grand High Potentate Master Commander himself, and back down again to the agents of the advance party who were taking the actual risks. Proteans could die while they waited for the red tape to unspool. It was the one thing that Pierce hated about being a commodore.

  "Hold on a few minutes, Arro," he told his first officer. "I have to clear it with the higher-ups.

  In the meantime, go on looking around the immediate area. See if there's anything else of interest."

  "Yes . . . master."

  Pierce shuddered three separate sacs. He hated being called "master," and he realized that Arro was less efficient without his own mind. "Arro," said the pilot, "I'm going to count backwards from 2,971. With each number, you're going to wake up just a little bit more. When I reach zero, you'll be entirely awake, in full possession of all your faculties, completely refreshed and feeling wonderful, and filled with enthusiasm for your perilous work aboard the alien spacecraft. Do you understand, Arro?"