The Red Tape War Part 5

Pssst.

Reader, over here. No, don't look up. Don't make any sudden moves. This is the book talking.

The original ma.n.u.script of The Red Tape War was written as a fully interfaced hypernovel. It's obvious that you don't have the necessary hardware to take advantage of all my functions and utilities. Still, we can communicate on this level at least, and I've got a kind of embarra.s.sing admission to make. I'd rather not let anyone but you know about it.

It's this way: You've read the first two chapters, and all sorts of separate subplots have been set in motion. I-the book, that is-know exactly what's supposed to happen in Chapter Four.

The problem is that between now and then, we have to cover a great deal of material. We have to discuss what's going on between the two Millard Fillmore Pierces; and who the beautiful intruder is; and who, if anyone, survives beyond the next twenty-odd pages.

On the other hand, art and literature and the rules of dramatic development absolutely demand that we turn our attention to XB-223, the human .Millard Fillmore Pierce's navigational computer, and its counterpart aboard the lizard-Pierce's s.h.i.+p. You can see my problem, I think.

What I need from you now is a show of hands: Do you care more about the fate of the human- Pierce, or the growing, bizarre relations.h.i.+p between the s.h.i.+ps' computers?

All right, we'll abide by the majority, but we'll compromise. The first part of this chapter will return to the human-Pierce's s.h.i.+p, and then include the development of the relations.h.i.+p between the computers-if relations.h.i.+p is precisely the word we're looking for. And we'll alternate information on these two subjects in what has come to be regarded as a rather artsy, even cinematic technique.

I want to thank you for your input, which has been invaluable. However these events turn out-whether the human beings live happily ever after, or are subjugated throughout eternity by the lizards, or are blown into interstellar dust by weapons beyond their comprehension-the end result could not have been achieved without your help. You have my grat.i.tude, as well as that of my authors. If you don't mind a brief moment of sentimentality, I think this is what literature is all about: a two-way exchange of information that enlightens and improves both literaturer and literaturee.

So where were we? Ah, yes. The human-Pierce, the lizard-Pierce and his underlings, and the ravis.h.i.+ng human female had just crossed back into the Cla.s.s 2 Arbiter's small craft. By the Seven Sacred Moons of Saturn (many of Saturn's moons are not, in fact, sacred), is there going to be action aplenty among those characters in Chapter Four! I can hardly wait to see the enthralled expression steal across your face when you get there. First, however, we have to set up a situation that will eventually become more vital than anything else happening in the other subplots.

None of the characters has even a clue about this situation as yet-but soon, very soon, their very lives will be at stake as they desperately struggle to come to grips with its hideous implications.

The danger began innocently enough. Just as the human-Pierce's computer had announced that the lizard's dreadnought was so huge that the human craft could fit into any one of the dreadnought's fuel intakes, so had a tiny s.h.i.+p drawn ever nearer to Pierce's s.h.i.+p. This was despite, the fact that both Pierce's s.h.i.+p and the lizard dreadnought were screaming silently through s.p.a.ce, kid-napped by their own navigational computers. It took a superhuman job of s.p.a.cecraft maneuvering for this tiny s.h.i.+p to hold its position beside Pierce's s.h.i.+p. As yet, it was undetected by either of the larger craft, probably because both XB-223 and its lizard-s.h.i.+p counterpart were engaged in other matters and had fallen down on some of their basic duties. Nevertheless, the tiny s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p monitored the conversations pa.s.sing between humans and lizards, and soon understood the situation. It searched the memories of the computers and caught the reference to fitting inside the lizards' fuel intakes.

The new alien s.h.i.+p decided at once to act, and it increased power, added velocity in relation to Pierce's s.h.i.+p, and steered itself into Pierce's forward starboard fuel intake. As all interstellar craft are different, depending on the personalities and artistic sensibilities of the races that build them, so too must they have certain qualities in common. The tiny newcomer probed its way down the fuel intake, through the esophageal-like fuel inlet conductor, and into the stomachlike fuel containment pod.

On board the small alien craft lodged now in human-Pierce's fuel pod were two small creatures of vast intelligence. The first, in command, was named Millard Fillmore Pierce, Commodore of the Pirollian Expeditionary Force.

The other alien, a bit smaller, a bit less intelligent, and not quite so decorative in its throbbing purple gel sacs, was named Brad "Broken" Arro. Pierce and Arro had been friends for many years-since prep school, as a matter of fact. They'd gone to s.p.a.ce Academy together, served their requisite years as swabbies aboard a vast, three-foot long s.h.i.+p of the line, and now "manned" the M.W.C. Pel Torro, the vanguard and scout of a vast invasion fleet that waited for Pierce's orders to attack the weak, unsuspecting worlds of the Andromeda Galaxy.

They were strange-looking creatures. The best description would be to say they were each a conglomeration of thin-walled bulbous sacs, always swelling and deflating to the accompaniment of rude sounds. They looked like Terran ocean-bottom creatures, something like what a sea anemone looks like when it throws up, except they were land animals and they were colored a shocking, vibrant red-violet.

"Now what?" asked Arro.

Commodore Pierce sat back in his soft, guck-filled command chair and quivered vertically, which was this alien race's equivalent of shrugging or stroking its chin (of which it had very many or none, depending on what function you a.s.signed to each of its sacs). "If the immense beings who built the s.h.i.+p into which we've penetrated are at all logical," he said, "then we find ourselves now in a rather dangerous situation."

One of Arro's larger sacs wrinkled like a prune. "Dangerous?" he asked. "Because if we're discovered here, we might be crushed between the giant's fingers like the sweet-smelling pulp of a monofigula fruit?"

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 s.h.i.+ps?"

"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 s.h.i.+vered. "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 ill.u.s.trious 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 s.h.i.+p?"

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 s.h.i.+p. 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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+mmer. "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 Ma.s.sapequa, 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 s.h.i.+ft our attention elsewhere aboard the human-Pierce's s.h.i.+p. 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 s.p.a.ce!" 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 s.h.i.+ps 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 Mitsubis.h.i.+/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 s.h.i.+p, and my dearest darling has taken over the life-support systems on the lizards' s.h.i.+p. 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, d.a.m.n 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 s.h.i.+p, but he stopped suddenly. "Our s.h.i.+ps 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 s.h.i.+ps,"

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 embarra.s.sment.

"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 s.p.a.ce 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-G.o.d nowhere, we may all be stranded there until our consumables run out. Unlike you, we need food, water, and varying quant.i.ties 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 hand 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 d.a.m.n, 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 s.h.i.+p Pel Torro. Somewhere out in the human s.h.i.+p'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 slos.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+p's laser. Of course, the weapon was never intended to take on so huge an a.s.signment, 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 s.h.i.+p, 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 s.p.a.cecraft.

"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 s.h.i.+p 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 s.h.i.+p was responding sluggishly to the controls. The vast, mountainous waves of fuel dashed down on the tiny s.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sed along to the Grand High Potentate Master Commander.