The Red Tape War Part 21

Most of the people committed to the psych ward were like that. Bright, normal, even likeable people-for lizards. Their problems were mostly that they had been caught beating the system or not wholeheartedly supporting it. And, of course, there were the real nuts, off in their own bay, who'd gone bananas dealing with the same system.

He saw her coming and his saurian face twisted in an evil-looking grin. "Nothing much again, huh?"

"You said it," she sighed. "It's a good thing Ah'm not really sick, 'cause them guys wouldn't know how to really cuah n.o.body."

"Oh, it's not their jobs to cure anybody," he pointed out. "If they did that, they'd soon be out of a job. They were going on this mission in the hopes of getting enough material so that when they got back they'd be able to open practices for the incredibly rich hypochondriacs and make even more money appearing as guests on countless talk shows."

"Ain't theah no real shrinks in yoah neck o' the woods?"

"Sure. Plenty. But most of 'em either turn into those types or quit and take up some other kind of medicine. See, they already know how to cure most real mental illnesses, and they cure lots of folks and send them back into this crazy locked-up system well adjusted so they no longer rock the boat. Do that enough to otherwise nice people and you either sell out or quit or go nuts yourself from guilt."

"Ah see what you mean. But bein' one of theah patients ain't no fun."

"Oh, I dunno. It's allowed me to work totally unfettered. Ever since I rewired the electroshock machine to create a neural network path that merges me with the master computer systems I've been able to do wonders in research and development. Just today I ran your ownproblem through my augmented head and figured out how your minds got switched around. It's a fascinating concept. I've been thinking of rerouting some circuitry aboard here and swapping a few folks out now and then. Child's play, really."

She was suddenly struck by the enormity of his statement. "You mean-you know how Ah could be put back in mah body? Mah real one? And ev'rybody else, too?"

"Sure. No real problem. Your mind doesn't really fit a different body, it just copes. There's a natural electrochemical will that wants to be back and right again, but it's stopped. Create a proper electromagnetic field that can permeate all concerned and, if all are relaxed and just let things go, the minds will go back to their own bodies of their own accord."

"Sheeit! Heah you go and tell me it can be done, and Ah'm stuck heah away from mah body and the general, and we'ah speedin' away from 'em at some unG.o.dly speed.'"Well, yeah, that is the problem," he agreed. "I'd like to help, but I can't figure out how. The only way you could alter things at this point would be to be cured and resume your post."

"Huh? Well, that sh.o.r.e ain't possible!"

Pokey's saurian head tilted in thought. "Oh, I dunno. Suppose you got certified as cured? A few odd manner-isms, like your accent and such, but if you said you were General Pierce and the records all said you were fit for duty, you'd get back." "But-that's impossible. Isn't it? Besides, even if it were possible, they'd just have me up on chahges as a traitah or blame me for all that went wrong with theah plans."

"Oh, I don't think so. For one thing, those charges, while filed, can be bounced back again and again. n.o.body ever fills out a form a hundred percent correctly. The forms are designed for errors. That's so at any point in any process the whole thing can be thrown out if it goes wrong.

And n.o.body's filed any charges against you-I checked. They can't until you've completed your psychiatric evaluation. -So, if the records were cleared and you were returned to duty, it would be to full duty. See?"

"No. But Ah'll take yoah wurd foah it. But if Ah go back on duty, as it werh, they'll know in a minute it ain't me. h.e.l.l, they really know that now!"

"Sure they do, but the reports on the attack on the s.h.i.+p have been filed and are working their way through the mill and they state categorically that you are General Pierce. They committed you to psychiatric because you insisted you weren't. If you say you are, then their original reports and their original commitment would have been wrong, and knowingly so. That's a crime. Not only could Roosevelt and the others be brought up on charges, but, much worse, they'd all have to redo their reports. They might risk a trial, but they'd do most anything to keep from having to write those reports over!"

She sat down hard, balanced on her tail. "Good loand! And what, pray tell, would Ah have to do as a general heah?"

"Well, generals as a rule don't do much. They order other people to do everything. That's the fun of it. But, for four hours every day, at your rank and position, you would be the Watch Officer in charge of the s.h.i.+p-essentially the embodiment of the High Command."

"Ordahs? What kind of ordahs?"

"Anything you want. That's what generals do."

"And n.o.body would question nothin'?"

"You don't question generals. Do that and you wind up here."

"You mean-I could ordah us back to mah body and s.h.i.+p?"

"Sure."

"But it's moah than foah hoahs back. Somebody'll tuhn us 'round again."

"You are crediting your fellow generals with far too much intelligence and initiative."

She wanted to kiss him but it was tough with a snout.

"Uh-Pokey? Why are you doin' this foah me?"

"Because it's fun, of course. In a sense, you're the monkey and I'm the wrench."

"You don't care 'bout the invasion?"

"I know how old I'll be when any of those eggs reach a point where they can hatch, and how big a place this is to conquer. Besides, they really don't want to conquer you. They just want somebody to fight with."

She stood tall and tried to look military and saluted. "Gen'rul Pieahce, fit and ready foah duty, suh!"

Wait a minute, Effinger! This is the book again. You weren't supposed to leave them like this at the end of Chapter Ten. They were supposed to get back in their own bodies again!

Why . . . What . . . ? You're not Effinger!!! You're-

Sunrise on a planet called Uncharted.

A swollen red sun crept over the horizon, blotting out the pale light of the world's twin moons. The dawn's first glimmers revealed tall blue-black fern trees and a dense underbrush of drab violet thornbushes. Wisps of greenish vapors floated by, and now and then a gliding reptile sailed close to the repaired winds.h.i.+eld of the Pete Rozelle. Uncharted was a planet that had been colored with those crayons you never wanted to use for anything else, and populated by the kinds of animals you didn't want to see when you went to the zoo.

Unknown to the scattered cast members, the Pete Rozelle had crashed in a jungle on a desolate and uninhabited island continent in the southern hemisphere. Thousands of miles away to the north there was a larger continent, one with great and teeming cities. The people of that continent, though alien, were moderately human in their ways, enough so that they would have been deeply interested in their visitors from s.p.a.ce. At least up until the moment the Unchartedians killed them all.

So the three Pierces, Arro, and the XB-223-not to mention Paddy de Faux Grais in his flags.h.i.+p, the Bon Homme McClusky-turned toward the south (did we mention that Uncharted rotates from north to south?) and felt a sudden resurgence of hope as they greeted the strange, otherworldly daybreak.

It's moments like these, all too rare in the history of galaxy-smas.h.i.+ng scientific adventure literature, that re-fresh fictional characters, authors, and readers alike. There is a definite need for the occasional reflective pause, when we can all catch our breath and shove a thick phone book under our sagging suspension of disbelief. Perhaps, by this stage of a novel, a few readers may begin to have problems with some of the more awesome and spectacular ideas. For instance, even we were brought up short by the concept of a sheep fondue in the last chapter. We could easily imagine an immense fondue pot big enough to contain a ton and a half of melted cheese; it was the whole sheep on pointed sticks that gave us trouble.

So before we dive back into the frantic events surrounding our perplexed crew, let's take the opportunity to stretch our legs and look around. If you examine the setting closely, you'll notice strange maroon-colored creatures skittering through the blue-black foliage. There are fantastically shaped dull brown flowers, too, crawling with tiny, intelligent, starshaped blobs of blue flesh.

There is a b.l.o.o.d.y revolution going on in one of their mulch colonies that's nearly as dramatic as the tangled mess Millard Fillmore Pierce has gotten himself into. In fact, someday someone will write an entire novel about these sentient beings. It won't get published, though.

Pierce might have been rea.s.sured if he'd known the truth about the environment into which his s.h.i.+p hadcrashed. Perhaps if there'd been an exobiologist aboard, the scientist might have examined the busy blue stars and determined that their body chemistry was very similar to that of Earth animals. That would have led to several interesting speculations. The first is that there was probably a larger continent in the northern hemisphere with great and teeming cities, and the second is that Uncharted's atmosphere, though faintly green and roiling, was near enough to Earth's to be breathable.

No one-neither Daddy nor the lizards aboard their battle cruisers nor Pierce-Arro within the Pete Rozelle's computer system-had taken the time to make such an a.n.a.lysis. They'd all been too busy scheming and swapping bodies and yelling at each other. Yet keep the truth about the planet's atmosphere in mind: It will become important in a couple of thousand words.

In the meantime, a former immense and terrifying lizard, now housed in the blatiing bodies of two minuscule gasbags aboard the Protean scout s.h.i.+p M.W.C. Pel Torro, General Millard Fillmore Pierce held up a tumbler of food. It looked like water and tasted like fire, but Pierce- Arro called it food. The general was in no mood to argue. He raised the food, gave a little shudder, and took a long gulp.

"That's it, Gen'ral Sugah," said the human Pierce craftily. He still thought he was Marshmallow, but even Marshmallow would be able to see the value of a leader of the invading lizard forces disabling himself with liquor.

"Urk," replied the general solemnly. Somehow, he managed to give the impression that the Frank Poole android's features had begun to blur.

Marshmallow-Pierce had consumed a quant.i.ty of food, too, but that had been the night before, and now he was perfectly sober. He had only a queasy stomach and a throbbing headache that felt like someone was breaking big rocks into small rocks with a pickax somewhere behind his forehead. He decided not to have any more food for a while, despite how rich and flavorful Pierce-Arro's product was. Thinking like Marshmallow, Pierce planned to be ready as soon as Daddy made his move to rescue her.

The XB-223, no longer calling himself Sly because he believed he was the human Pierce, also decided to remain sober and watchful. "I'll protect you, Marshmallow," he murmured into her ear.

"Ah doan' really need pertectin' as such," she said, giving him a sweet smile. "Ah am, as you may have noticed, a big gal now, an' Ah kin take care of mahself. But it sho' is gallant of you to offah."

The computer put Pierce's arm around Marshmallow's shoulders and drew her nearer. "I don't know what it is, honey. You just bring out the protective side in me."

Marshmallow shook her head. "Heah Ah am, standin' heah buck naked, an' all you want to do is pertect me. Ah must be losin' mah touch!"

They looked at each other, gazing deep into each other's eyes. Then slowly they drew closer, and at last, pa.s.sionately, Cla.s.s 2 Arbiter Millard Fillmore Pierce was kissed deeply by his own computer.

In the meantime, the Pierce-Arro construct within the electronic essence of the XB-223 navigational computer began to revise its plans. It had learned many things in the hours that it had been trapped in the nonliving yet sentient device. The first thing it had learned was that the situation was dangerously seductive. Pierce-Arro had first become comfortable there, and then it had begun to think that it truly never wanted to return to its own bodies. That was something to be fearful of.

The next thing that happened was that Pierce-Arro learned it could differentiate itself by dividing the inter-related systems of the navigational computer between its two trapped consciousnesses. Commodore Pierce separated itself from First Officer Arro, and took up residence in the primary high-level guidance complex. Arro had to be satisfied with the secondary systems. Rank, after all, has its privileges.

"Let us review our options," said the Protean Pierce. "I didn't know we had any, sir," said Arro.

"We always have options. The one advantage we have now is that, in this form, we can't be expected to continue filling out the essential paperwork."

"I'll bet there will be a ton of forms that we'll have to wade through if we ever return to our real bodies. We'll never hear the end of it."

"Don't worry about it, Number One," said Pierce. "We'll be heroes."

Arro gave an electronic shudder. "Do you know how much paperwork a hero has to deal with? That's why you never have the chance to be a hero twice!"

"We'll worry about that when the time comes. For now, we must decide who among these gigantic but terribly stupid creatures will be useful to us. None of them can be friends, because it is their universe we must conquer. Still, I find myself liking some of them better than others."

Arro tried to blat a sac or two out of habit. "My only hope is that the lizard general isn't doing anything . . . disgusting in our bodies. If I ever get back into my dear, sweet gasbag, I'm going to feel defiled for the rest of my life. " "That's not our concern now," said the commodore. "Our invasion force will be arriving momentarily. We must be in a position to guide them. Therefore, we must maneuver all of them so that we can restore ourselves to our natural forms."

"Do you know how to accomplish that?" asked Arro.

Pierce wanted to shrug, but he was shrugless. "If we can reverse the deck-plate procedure, maybe that would work. The entire process was recorded in the computer's general memory, and I've cracked the electronic code that protects it. I don't think we'll have any problems, except that we need all of the original partic.i.p.ants, and one of them-the human Marshmallow, in the lizard general's body-is no longer on board."

"Well? What are you going to do?"

The Protean leader paused. "I'm going to see if that 'food' will have any effect on our electronic brains."

While the gasbag leader proceeded with the first-ever experiment to get a computer drunk, the scruffy and disreputable image of Pirate Paddy reappeared on Screen 1. "Ahoy the wreck!" he called in a gruff voice. "I've come to rescue you and return your delectable but worthless hide to your daddy."

Frank Poole opened one red, synthetic eye and wasn't pleased by the effect. "My daddy was eaten by my mommy decades ago," said the lizard general, slurring his words.

"Arrr! Not your daddy, you pin-striped lubber!" cried Paddy. "Her daddy!"

"h.e.l.l with it, then," said the general, closing his eye again. "Wish they hadn't written Goodtime Sal out of this story. I could use a little commiseration 'long about now." n.o.body paid him any further attention.

"Wheah were we?" asked Pierce.

The pirate chief turned a little to face him. "I've come to offer you a ride home, little lady,"

said Paddy in a suspiciously innocent voice.

"How do Ah know Ah kin trust you, suh?" said Pierce.

"Well, looky here, little lady. Your-"

Pierce drew himself up to his full height, setting his pendulous alabaster globes to bobbling.

"Doan' you evah call me that agin!" he said in a fierce voice. "Ah ain't n.o.body's little lady. If'n Ah had mah clothes on, Ah'd beweahin' mah gunbelt, suh, an' Ah'd have the honor of shootin'

yoah d.a.m.n eyes out!"

Paddy grinned. "Spirited wench, eh? Didn't know they were still makin"em like that!"

Pierce's face flushed with anger. "Wench?" he screamed. "Ah think Ah'd ruther die heah on this ugly of planet than be rescued by the likes of you!"

Paddy realized that if he weren't careful, he could watch a billion credits evaporate from his future net worth. "Please, ma'am, do accept my apologies. I'm just a rough, ill-mannered privateer, trying to make do the best I can here in these frontier s.p.a.ceways. We don't always behave up to the standards of the high society you're so obviously used to. Be a.s.sured, however, that my intentions have always been nothing but the best, and that I have nothing but respect and the warmest regard for you." Somewhere along the line, the pirate's rather stereotyped accent had vanished.

Pierce's lower lip jutted out. "Well," he said slowly, "all right. But you jes' watch yo'self, you heah?"

"Right you are, ma'am," said Paddy, grinning again. "Now, are you ready to be rescued, or would you care for a few moments to freshen up?"

Pierce nodded. "Ah might could do with a few seconds to dab a little powder on mah nose, suh." "And throw a cloak over your divine accoutrements, ma'am, is my advice. My hundred bloodthirsty followers usually need far less provocation than that."

Pierce turned toward Sly. "Fiddle-dee-dee," he said, "I have mah beau, Arbiter Millsy Fillmore Pierce, to pertect me. Don't ah, Millsy?"

Sly looked up threateningly at Screen 1. "You do indeed, Miss Goldberg. Now, let's make ourselves ready."

"What about po' Gen'ral Pierce theah, stuck in that awful android?"

Sly looked at Frank Poole. The android sat with its head resting heavily on its chest. There was a line of drool coming from its artificial mouth. "I don't have any particular loyalty to a hideous alien set on conquering our galaxy and enslaving us," said the computer. "Why don't we just let him sleep?"

Not far away-at least as galactic distances are measured, but plenty far away as plot elements go-Herb awoke from an anxious dream in which he'd been swimming through the interstellar vacuum, chased by some-thing that had knife-sharp teeth, a ravenous hunger, and an almost magical foreknowledge of everything Herb did to get away. It was one of those nightmares that left him weak with relief when he realized he'd been asleep, except this time the realty into which Herb awoke was nearly as bad as the dream.

Someone was standing behind his expensive, padded leather swivel chair. "Herb?" said a voice in deceptively quiet tones. It was Daddy, of course.

"Yes, sir?" said Herb. He could imagine the knife-teeth gnas.h.i.+ng near his ear.

Daddy turned Herb's leather chair around so they were facing each other. "Herb, have you taken action to secure the safety of my darling little Marshmallow?"

"Why, yes, sir. A rescue party is on the way. It should be there soon, if it hasn't arrived already."

Daddy smiled. It was a horrible sight. "Fine, Herb, fine. Now just tell me, whom did you contact?"

Herb's eyes grew wider and his throat constricted. "Paddy de Faux Grais," he whispered.

"I'm sorry," said Daddy, a jolly expression on his face. "I didn't hear you. Who did you say?"

"Pirate Paddy," said Herb, gulping.

Daddy nodded thoughtfully. "Let me get this straight, if I may. My dearest darling daughter is in some grotesquedanger, crash-landed on an uncharted planet. She may or may not have been switched out of her own body, and in any event seems to be the captive of at least one previously unknown alien race bent solely on murder and destruction. And you, my most trusted lieutenant and only confidant, the one man I trust with my own well-being as well as that of my sugar dumpling-you hire the drunkenest, filthiest, crookedest, sleaziest, most untrustworthy, and even let us say most incompetent free-lancer in all the civilized sectors of the galaxy! Have I gotten to the nub of truth? Have I put my finger on the kernel of fact that underlies this whole terrible situation?"