The Red Tape War Part 2

"Rapidly diminis.h.i.+ng.""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 seven- teen 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 brus.h.i.+ng 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 rea.s.suring 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 pa.s.sed 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 Englis.h.!.+" 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. "d.a.m.n! 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 s.p.a.cesuit from his s.h.i.+p 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 anarchy 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 s.h.i.+p, all the weapons, and you, maybe you better try answering first."

"I told you-my name is Millard Fillmore Pierce, I'm a Cla.s.s 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 Englis.h.!.+"

"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.

I don't even know what an Arbiter 2 is."

Pierce sat up, groaned, and rubbed his bruises. He still coughed occasionally from the remnants of the foul-smelling hydrogen sulfide. "An Arbiter is one who settles disputes.

Everything from labor trouble between the worlds to minor wars and squabbles. An Arbiter 1, that is. An Arbiter 2 is sent first to determine whether or not the services of an Arbiter 1 are necessary. I a.n.a.lyze the situation, collect the data, prepare the proper forms, and send them to the proper authorities for action."

The alien grunted. "You must be a h.e.l.l of a lot more efficient than we are," he noted. "It would take us two years in channels before they'd get to the people who could make a decision."

"Five, actually, on the average," Pierce told him. "It doesn't matter, really. No Arbiter 1 can possibly be sent to a trouble zone unless the trouble is actually already solved and needs only to be ratified."

"Sounds like nothing would ever get solved," the alien noted.

"Oh, yes, it gets solved. After filing everything I go back and do the actual work while the paperwork grinds through. Sometimes we get a settlement just about at the same time as the official reads the form telling him there's trouble. It's best to be timed that way, anyway. Better for the career that way, too."

"Sir!" one of the other aliens called out, coming in at a brisk trot from the main cabin, a sheaf of papers in his arms. "Look at these!"

The general turned and took the top group of papers, studied them, started, then looked at them again. Finally he threw them on the floor and grabbed another group, only to have the same reaction.

"Computer-printed study forms and manuals!" he said at last. "In Englis.h.!.+ I can't believe it!"

The other alien tried to hold the stack with one huge, slightly webbed hand, and grabbed for a thick black covered book in the middle. He got the book, but the other papers all collapsed in a small blizzard on the floor.

The general glared at him, then took the book and opened it.

"Hey! That's my log!" Pierce protested.

The general nodded, looking more and more disturbed. It gave him a fierce, dangerous look, like that of a hungry alligator.

"These certificates-they say your name really is Millard Fillmore Pierce!" His evil-looking eyes narrowed suspiciously until they were just menacing slits. "This has to be a forgery! You knew somehow we were coming! You were deliberately here, waiting for us! That's the only possible explanation!"

Pierce got groggily to his feet. "No, no! That's real!"

"If it's for real, how come you have a handwritten log?" the general came back accusingly. "Wouldn't your computer store all you needed?"

Pierce coughed nervously. "Ah, no, you see . . . Well, my computer is not one hundred percent reliable. It's a little, well, temperamental. I want to make sure the record's right." He didn't think it was worth mentioning that he'd started the practice two missions ago when his formal log and report included, somehow, the most graphic pa.s.sages of Tropic of Cancer. If he couldn't explain the XB-223 navigational computer to his own Supervisor, he hardly thought he could explain it to an alien general.

A communicator at the head alien's side buzzed and he picked it off his belt and answered.