The Red Tape War Part 13

"I regret to say," said the computer, "that I no longer have access to the infinitely superior memory and data banks with which I could have, quite rapidly, come up with that solution. My best guess is, if we're all accounted for, the energy beings are knocked cold somewhere in my own memory core. I was brought into it when the general was so clumsy as to fall against the master console. However, I find this change fascinating and exciting. How sad I shall have so little time to explore, to touch, to feel, to love, perhaps someday become a real live boy."

"What do you mean?" they all asked at once.

"Because, if you've forgotten, the alien ship's about the blast us into atoms any moment now."

"Then we have to get out of here fast!" Pierce yelled. "Everybody get to the airlock and into the other ship!" n.o.body moved. Marshmallow felt her new snout and wagged her tail slightly, then shook her head. "Oh, Daddy ain't gonna understand this at all."

There was a sudden jarring crash, and they were all hurled again to the deck. Their little world seemed suddenly to be upside-down and tumbling. The light flickered. Then the ship seemed to stabilize. Machinery whined and the light held steady. There was a jolting moment of acceleration.

"What are those dolts doing?" grated the general in his Frank Poole voice, sounding angry.

"Was that a h.e.l.luva bad shot, or did they just ram us?"

"Exactly," came a cold voice from the computer's speaker. "They ran us down. They're grappling with the flagship and we've been b.u.mped. We broke loose and I've taken control."

"Who are you?" demanded the lizard-Poole.

"I am Commodore Millard Fillmore Pierce of the Imperial Protean Navy."

"Another Pierce," groaned Pierce-Marshmallow.

"And a d.a.m.ned good thing, too," said the gasbag-computer. "I pulled us out of there just in time. Their computer tells me we were ten seconds away from a completely annihilating barrage."

"Ah!" said XB-223-Pierce. "I'm right! She does love me!"

"You're not the computer!" Pierce-Marshmallow cried accusingly. "You're the energy beings!"

"Something like that," the cold voice agreed. "We're out of range of the general's treacherous friends, but we're headed for a sanctuary. I will admit there is some temptation to just crash this thing and be done with it, but that would kill all of you and, of course, set me back in my plans somewhat. Therefore, it is in my best interest to get us down alive if at all possible, and then hope for rescue."

"Get us down? Sanctuary? Where?"

"All this time, I've maneuvered these various crafts in the direction of a primitive-looking but acceptable world not far from our present position. I'm going to put us down on it as best I can, although it'll be something of a crash landing, I'm afraid. As to where it is-I'm afraid you'll have to ask your navigational computer. I haven't a clue."

The computer in Pierce's body looked amazed at the comment. "How in the universe should I know?"

"At last he admitted it." Pierce sighed.

"Brace for crash landing," the gasbag-computer Pierce warned them. "Counting from thirty . .

. now!"

They all hung on to whatever they could and hoped for the best, while the Proteans who now controlled the ship counted off the moments to impact. Waiting seemed like an eternity, and during all that eternity all Pierce could think was, We're going to die. And if we don't, we'll be cast adrift on an alien world with no hope of rescue. Or, even worse, we'll get rescued by Marshmallow's father-and I'm trapped as her! Things couldn't get any-- He let the thought hang. Every time he'd thought it in the past few hours, things had managed to get very much worse.

"Five . . . four . . . three . . . two-"

"It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done," intoned XB-223-Pierce. "It is to a far, far better place I go than I have ever known."

"Don't get your hopes up!" snapped Marshmallow-Pierce.

". . one!"

Think back. Think back before the vital events of the twentieth century-the creation of the 1956 aqua-andwhite Chevy Bel Air, the Cleveland Indians' World Series victory in 1948, or even the publication of "The Brain Feeders" by Sherman Ross Hladky.

Go back even further. Let the centuries pa.s.s away like scales from a bluegill. Back we go, back to the dawn of civilization and still further back. Back before the rise of Western culture in the Fertile Crescent, back before h.o.m.o sapiens ever strode this world, back when all our ancestors were big-eyed little lemur-looking things clinging to strange trees in strange lands.

Still further: mammals grow smaller and lizards grow larger. Dinosaurs stride the Earth, but still we plummet into the past. Ugly huffing things crawl up on land for the first time, but we seek an age even older, before the steel-sided sharks ruled the hot, teeming seas. Organisms become smaller and simpler as we rocket back through the vast eons of time, back until there are no organisms at all in the patient, mineral-rich soup that covers the seething, heaving landscape.

Disneyesque yolcanoes blast the skies in the background, the earth shakes, and unending rains pelt down from lightning-fissured clouds.

Yet our goal is even still not in sight. Imagine the Earth without oceans, hot and barren.

Imagine the Earth . . . molten. Imagine the Earth as nothing but a fiery ball of matter, condensing from incandescent gases left over from the formation of the sun.

Close your eyes and picture this-No, wait a minute! If you close your eyes, you won't be able to read a thing! Just picture this, then: It's billions and billions of years before even the creation of our solar system. The Big Bang has just done its thing; matter and antimatter have annihilated each other, leaving a little stuff around in the form of electrons, photons, neutrinos, and antineutrinos in an expanding universe. A hundred seconds or so after the Bang, atoms begin to form. The temperature of the universe is down to a billion degrees, and the whole shooting match is small enough to pack away in your hall closet.

At this moment, at this critical micro-instant of time, Chief Administrative Officer Millard Fillmore Pierce strode toward his office, a thoughtful frown on his face.

"Wait!" I (the book) hear you cry in disbelief. "How could there be a Millard Fillmore Pierce in any form, only one hundred seconds after the Big Bang?" Listen, and you will encounter a vision of reality horribly unsettling to our tiny, Earthbound sensibilities. It may indeed seem like little more than science fiction, but there are plenty of people in lab coats with clipboards who are convinced of its accuracy.

After the Big Bang, our universe expanded quickly, first to the size of a peach pit, then to the size of a basketball, then to the size of a spherical ca.s.sowary, andso on. It was like a bubble. As our universe aged, it settled down into galaxies and quasars and nebulas and all those twinkling, radiating things.

Could not a simple star system have served as a sort of atom in a galactic molecule of strange and complex composition? Could not our entire universe have become a miracle of organization, a unit of life so immense that we can barely imagine it? Could not our universe be but a single, tiny, living cell in some unimagineably huge organic creature? And why, then, couldn't there have been millions, billions, uncountable other universe-bubbles beside ours, surrounding it on all sides, forming a Millard Fillmore Pierce of such staggering dimensions that we all must stammer helplessly in the face of it?

This ultra-most Pierce crossed the beige s.h.a.g rug and seated himself behind his battered hardwood desk. He pressed a b.u.t.ton on his intercom and signaled his secretary. "Miss Brant," he said in a worried voice, "please bring me the Phoenix File."

"Yes, sir," said Miss Brant. In a few moments, she entered the office and laid the top-secret folder on his desk.

When he was alone again, Pierce opened the cover of the folder. He began to read the shocking scientific report. Several top-notch researchers from all around the world had concluded that the Earth was vulnerable to invasion from creatures similar to human beings, but from another dimension. He read through the folder, deeply disturbed by its frightening conclusions.

Then he began filling out the proper forms, including Forms 6128/a and 6128/b, which were necessary upon completion of any Eyes Only-level file, and which routed the folder back to its top-secret storage place. Then there were forms that gave permission for Miss Brant to come back into the office and physically transport the folder to its place in the drawer in the cabinet.

There were forms that went up the chain of command to the Big Guy, and down the chain of command to the Underlings, carrying Pierce's comments on the Big Guy's memos. Pierce would have to wait for the Underlings' forms containing their procedural notations to Pierce's comments to the Big Guy's memos, which would eventually .be included in the Phoenix File itself after review by the Committee, even though the Underlings would never actually read the Phoenix File itself. At last, all these forms would be clipped together to begin a new file, which would be reproduced in quadruplicate, one copy for the Big Guy, one copy for Pierce, one copy for the Underlings' section, and one copy sent to the World Union Cooperative Organization Headquarters, where it would be further duplicated for all the Department Heads. At that very instant, our vast universe, in the form of a dying scalp cell, fell from the ultra-most Pierce's head to his jet black uniform shoulder. He idly brushed it away and leaned back in his chair. He had some world-saving to do.

Wow! Talk about your sense-of-wonder! In the hands of Niven and Pournelle or writers of that type, this story would now probably go off in some mindbending ultra-universal direction, entirely overlooking the fact that dead scalp cells are people, too. Besides, you have to think of the time scale. Twenty billion of our years pa.s.sed between the moment when the ultra-most Pierce noticed that speck of dandruff and the instant he flicked it away. In that time our universe came to an end, and all the people (and aliens) we've met in The Red Tape War were long dead.

Maybe Niven and Pournelle could dismiss those characters without a second thought, but not us. Around here we've got a reputation for thoughtfulness, generosity, and a deep commitment to the fulfillment of every one ofour creations, lizard, gasbag, human being, or otherwise. We're going to go on as if the ultra-universe doesn't even exist, because we can't influence it and it can't influence us. Now, where were we?

Omigosh, that's right, the Pete Rozelle crash-landed on the surface of some weirdo alien planet! Everyone on board is in desperate trouble, because they're all lying around in each other's bodies, unconscious, while potentially dangerous alien fumes leak in through the cracked windshield!

We'll get back to them in a moment. But first let's turn our attention to the bridge of the real flagship of the battle fleet, where Daddy and Herb were having an argument.

"Now, see?" demanded Daddy. "You've let them get away. I'm sure my baby girl is in the hands of at least three different species of galactic pirates, helpless against their cruel alien l.u.s.ts.

Can you track that ship?"

Herb was put out, because this was just another example of how Daddy always treated him like an inexperienced fool. Herb had been tracking the Pete Rozelle from the very moment it broke free and headed toward the uncharted planet. "I'm not an idiot, you know," he told Daddy in a sulky voice. "I went to college and everything. I know how to do my job."

Daddy slammed his well-manicured fist against a stainless steel panel. "I never said you couldn't do your job! Do you have my baby girl on the screen?"

"And you don't have to shout," said Herb. He indicated a tiny, faint blip on a glowing green screen the size of a panel truck. "That's them, right there."

"Good," said Daddy, clenching and unclenching his fists. He sat back in his padded leather acceleration chair and tried to relax. "It was better in the old days," he murmured. "In the old days, I had henchmen with psychic powers."

Herb shook his head dubiously. "Psychic powers are a waste of time these days. There is more paperwork for psychic powers than for almost anything else. It's been that way ever since the Galactic Privacy Act. You can't even telekinetically move a saltshaker without filling out six different forms. You only need five to blow up a planet."

There was silence on the bridge for a moment. "Herb," said Daddy at last, "how much do I pay you?"

"Sir?"

"Never mind," said Daddy with a sigh, "it's probably way too much." The blip on the viewscreen was moving slowly but steadily away from them. What good was a two-dimensional screen in a four-dimensional galaxy, anyway?

"Do you want me to lay in a new course, sir?" asked Herb. "You want to follow the Pete Rozelle?"

It seemed like the logical thing to do, but Daddy didn't get to be one of the most powerful beings in the galaxy by always doing what was logical. He thought aloud for a moment. "I trust that Marshmallow's situation won't get any worse until after those foul fiends arrive at their destination, wherever it is."

"They seem to be moving straight for that uncharted planet, sir," said Herb.

Daddy ignored him. "That gives us a little time. A short respite, during which we can deal with that lizard invasion. Say, whatever happened to those three million capsules they launched?"

"We're tracking them, sir. The capsules don't seem to be in any hurry. They were released in all directions, evidently with no specific destinations. I believe thelizards are trying to flood this part of the galaxy with them."

Daddy nodded. "Any idea what's in the capsules?"

"It could be garbage, sir. Plastics and paper and aluminum and gla.s.s all separated for recycling."

Daddy looked up for help, as if G.o.d were hovering near the bank of digital readouts overhead. "I'll take your suggestion under advis.e.m.e.nt, Herb, and then forget about it completely.

We'll operate with the contents of the capsules listed as 'Unknown.' You said they're being tracked?"

Herb nodded confidently. "All three million of them are being individually tracked by our fleet's Third Computer Tracking Wing, which wasn't doing anything else at the moment."

"Good, fine," said Daddy, hitting the palm of his hand with his other fist. "If that lizard fleet takes any other suspicious action, let me know at once."

"Yes, sir. What are you going to do now, sir?"

Daddy's eyes narrowed. "I've got an idea for a completely new and diabolical kind of quadruplicate form! Those s.p.a.ce pirates will rue the day they ever crossed ballistic paths with me!" And he began to laugh softly like a maniac.

At the main airlock waited one hundred thousand lizard warriors, armed to the teeth and pumped full of sophisticated drugs that turned each one into an unstoppable demon of destruction. On a gray-painted flying bridge above them, General Geronimo Custer snapped the chin-strap of his helmet and glared down in barely controlled blood l.u.s.t. "Men!" he cried. "In a few seconds, that door will slide open, and we will go charging into the bowels of the enemy fleet's flagship! Victory will quickly be ours!"

The infantry lizards cheered so loudly that the general had to wait impatiently for silence. He turned to Captain William Tec.u.mseh Roosevelt and shouted in his ear, "What if you're wrong?"

Captain Roosevelt shrugged his saurian shoulders. "Then perhaps the first fifteen or twenty thousand of them will die horribly."

The general considered that. "Fifteen or twenty percent losses at the outset," he muttered.

"That's accept-able." He turned back to his legions. "You all have your a.s.signments. This is a very complex operation. Each division must achieve its objective within the time frame of our schedule, so that we can wrest control of the flagship from those unearthly humanoids. We want the flagship intact, with most of its leaders alive, so that-"

Just then, the giant airlock door began rumbling open. The hyped-up soldiers started screaming again, and the general gave up his pep talk. The first companies of rampant lizards charged through the tunnel, into Daddy's huge mock-up of a military flagship.

"Onward, men!" cried General Geronimo Custer. "On to glory!"

Those first companies, however, had fallen almost immediately to their knees, helpless with nausea. The gunnery captain saw the problem and shouted orders. "Back!" he screamed. "Back to the ship! Close the airlock and break out breathing apparatus!"

It took many minutes for the savage lizards to retreat to their own ship. The ones who'd been exposed to the cold, thin, foul-smelling atmosphere aboard the enemy vessel were weak-kneed and shaky, but they recovered quickly. "Sorry, men," said the general, pa.s.sing through the ranks and showing his cannon fodder that he trulycared about them. "I forgot all about the atmosphere on the other ship. Make sure your breathing apparatus is properly in place, and we'll try this again."

For a second time, the great airlock door rumbled open. "Charge!" shouted the general through his own faceplate. And again they charged.

The a.s.sault went on right on schedule, helped no doubt by the fact that there wasn't a single enemy aboard the false flagship. Companies split up into platoons, each with its own mission.

However, there were no guns to silence, no cla.s.sified communications rooms to capture, no top- level humanoid commanders to interrogate.

"This is terrible," said General Geronimo Custer.

Captain Roosevelt checked his wrist.w.a.tch. "I don't see why, sir. Our men are virtually in control of this ship, and we're only fifteen minutes late."

"You don't understand. I can't go back without casualties. How would that look in the paperwork? No casualties, not even one? Headquarters would find that just too suspicious. It's impossible to take an objective without casualties. It's just unmilitary! They'd probably find a year's worth of forms for me to fill out, explaining this action. We've got to think of something!"

The captain rubbed his long, fanged snout. "I never thought of it that way, sir."

Just then, the general's face lit up. "I've got it!" he said, and he began shooting his rifle and hand laser into the bulkhead above him. "Hit the dirt!" he shouted. "We're under attack!"

Soldiers near him began firing their own weapons, and within a few seconds, all of the hundred thousand scaled soldiers were blasting away at nothing. "There," said the general with satisfaction, "we ought to get our ten to fifteen percent casualties now!" And he ducked as a fiery red laser wand swept low over his head.

There were many obvious reasons why the Pete Rozelle was severely damaged structurally and electronically when it crash-landed on Uncharted, and only one reason why it wasn't totally obliterated. A leading factor on the first list was that the ship's guidance system was now occupied by the trespa.s.sing consciousnesses of Commodore Pierce and First Officer Arro, neither of whom had had much prior experience as a man-made Artificial Intelligence computer network.

The single thing that saved them was a miracle. G.o.d, or mathematics, allowed the pa.s.sengers on the Pete Rozelle to live a little longer.

Not that the Pierce-Arro combined ent.i.ty intended to abuse the privilege. "h.e.l.lo?" said Pierce-Arro. There was no answer.

"What's happened?"

"Apparently," the ent.i.ty answered itself, "our two separate Protean minds have become fused.

I don't know if it happened because of the deck-plate charging debacle, or as a result of the crash.

But we're in here together."

"Do I have to salute myself?"