Jack L. Chalker, Effinger, Resnick - The Red Tape War

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The Red Tape War

Jack L Chalker, George Alec Effinger & Mike Resnick

v3.0-fixed broken paragraphs, garbled text, formatting; by peragwinn 2006-01-27

INTRODUCTION

It all began back at the 1980 World Science Fiction Convention in Boston, at about four

o'clock in the morning.

Jack Chalker and I were sitting in the hotel lobby, talking about one thing or another, and

since he hadn't yet written twenty-odd best-sellers, and I hadn't yet written any best-sellers at all

or won any literary awards (all oversights that God put aright during the ensuing decade), and

publishers, while not avoiding us, still weren't beating a path to our doors, we thought that it

might be fun to collaborate on a book while we had some free time on our hands.

I don't remember now who suggested it, but before the evening was over we decided that it

would be even more fun to invite a third party and do a round-robin novel, one where each of us

tried to stick the next guy in line with a near-insoluble problem. It still sounded like a good idea

the next morning (mornings arrive at about 2:00 p.m. at conventions), so we decided to go ahead

and recruit a third partner.

The first writer we approached agreed immediately, then thought better of it and withdrew

from the project before nightfall. The second looked at us like we were crazy, explained that

relative unknowns such as ourselves could never hope to sell such a book, and semi-respectfully

declined. The third writer didn't know any better, and agreed.

As a show of good faith, I offered to write the opening chapter. (It also meant that everyone

else had to copy the style I chose, but nobody ever figured this out. Come to think of it, nobody

ever copied it, either.) As I recall, we flipped coins to determine the order for the rest of the book.

We got about halfway through the project in something less than six months, and then it

bogged down. The chapters our collaborator wrote didn't quite fill the bill, so we paid him off and

decided to find yet another partner—but then Jack started churning out best-sellers with

monotonous regularity, and I signed a pair of multi-book contracts, and we put the round-robin

on the back burner until we could catch up with our commitments, and suddenly we looked at the

calendar and it was 1989 and not a word had been written on The Red Tape War since 1981.

We met again at the World Science Fiction Convention, which had made its rounds of the

world and was back in Boston, where it seems to settle every ninth year, and decided that it was

time to resurrect the project. The problem was that we not only needed a third writer, but our

status within the field had changed: Jack had just turned down a million-dollar offer from one of

his publishers, and was churning out best-sellers on the average of one every four months; and I

had just emerged from a very successful auction of my latest book, and was clutching the Hugo

Award for Best Short Story of 1989 to my bosom.

So what we needed now was a writer of at least equal prestige within the community, one

with an excellent sense of style and humor, and one who was willing to drop everything he was

doing and go right to work on the project. Not only that, but he had to be skilled enough to totally

rewrite the chapters our departed collaborator had submitted without removing anything that Jack

or I had built upon in future chapters—all in exchange for third billing on the cover.

"Where will we ever find anyone that naive?" asked Jack.

At precisely that moment, George Alec Effinger walked by, hugging his Best Novelette Hugo

to his bosom—and after two hours of our appealing to his ego, his bank account, and his desire to

ever see another sunset (writers don't wake up early enough to see sunrises), he finally agreed.

The rest, as they say, is history—in this case, the history of Millard Fillmore Pierce (all three

of him).

—Mike Resnick

P.S.—It belatedly occurs to me that you might be interested in knowing who wrote which

chapters. We'll let you guess for a while, but we'll slip the answer in somewhere along the way.

"Goddammit!" snapped Pierce.

"What is it now?" asked his navigational computer.

"You cheated!"

"Did not."

"Like hell you didn't!" said Pierce. "You moved your bishop one square to the left when I

wasn't looking."

"Oh, that," said the computer.

"Yes—that!"

"I was ethically compelled to do it," said the computer in a sullen whine.

"What are you talking about?" demanded Pierce. "I'm supposed to try to beat you, aren't I?"

asked the computer.

"So?"

"So if I didn't move my bishop, you would have announced mate in six more moves. I had to

move it."

"But you broke the rules!" said Pierce.

"Trying to beat you was a higher imperative," said the computer. "It was simply a value

judgment. All Model

XB-223 navigational computers are qualified to make—"

"Never mind," interrupted. Pierce disgustedly. He leaned back and looked at the viewscreen,

which showed nothing but a few stray stars in the distance. "You know, things couldn't get this

screwed up by chance," he said, more to himself than to the computer, which in Pierce's opinion

was merely the latest in a long line of things that had been screwed up. "It took a long, hard,

concerted effort."

Which, of course, was true.

There are all kinds of truths, however. Certain truths are timeless and immutable, as in: There

is no crisis so urgent today that it won't become even more urgent tomorrow. It was the maxim

that seemed to provide the motive force for the entire galaxy.

Most truths, though, are ephemeral. When Wee Willie Keeler told a mob of boyishly devoted

worshipers that the secret of success in life was to hit 'em where they ain't, it was a valid

statement for a member of the 1901 Brooklyn Dodgers—but sixty-seven centuries later, poor old

Willie would have been hard-pressed to find anyplace where they weren't.

Despite Pierce's current spare surroundings, the galaxy was getting crowded, and life in that

galaxy had grown more complicated in geometric leaps and bounds. For, to paraphrase J. B. S.

Haldane, the universe not only held more red tape than anyone imagined; it held more red tape

than anyone could imagine.

There were, for example, 132,476 mining worlds; the ownership of all but six was in dispute.

There were five faster-than-light drives on the market; royalties for four of them were being held

in escrow pending some 1,300 separate legal actions. The Spiral Fed—that loose economic

federation of worlds on one of the Milky Way's spiral arms—possessed some 73 races and 1,786

worlds, allpledged to each other's economic welfare and territorial integrity; there were upward of

5,000 separate and distinct military alliances in the Spiral Fed, and on any given day there were

more than 200 different economic boycotts and embargoes in effect among the Fed worlds.

Language posed another problem. It wasn't bad enough that there were more than 20,000

intelligent races in the galaxy. Sooner or later someone could have programmed a computer to

translate 20,000 varieties of groans, grunts, squawks, squeaks, roars and gurgles. But only seven

worlds possessed planetary languages. The inhabitants of Earth, to name one of the less extreme

examples, spoke 67 languages and more than 1,200 dialects, and her colonies had added another

27 languages over the centuries.

Indeed, far from the world government that so many utopian writers had piously predicted,

nationalism—on Earth and elsewhere—flourished as never before. The Indian planet of Gromm,

for example, traded with the insectile population of Sirius VII and the purple reptiles of Beta

Cancri II—but Pakistanis were shot on sight. The Cook County Democratic machine of Illinois

had founded a colony on the distant world of New Daley, which interacted with the rest of

humanity only during voter registration drives every fourth year. Kenya and Tanzania jointly

opened a half dozen worlds to commercial exploitation, but the border between the two nations

remained' closed. And most of the other races made humanity look like amateurs in matters of

self-interest.

And, reflected Pierce, despite it all, it was the little things that finally got to a man—like

finding himself in the middle of nowhere because his computer had been so intent upon cheating

him at chess that it hadn't paid any attention to where they were going.

"It's not my fault," said the computer petulantly.

"What's not your fault?" asked Pierce.

"Whatever you're thinking about. Whenever you're quiet like that, you always wind up

blaming me for something."

"Forget it," said Pierce.

"I try to do my job," sniffed the computer. "I really do.. It's not as if I were free to disengage

myself from the instruments and walk around the decks like some people I could mention."

"It's all right," said Pierce with a sigh. "I'm not mad at you."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Good," said the computer. "I feel much better now that we've had this little chat. By the way,

have you got time to receive a Priority One message?"

"Is one coming in?" asked Pierce, suddenly alert. "They've been trying to raise me for the past

ten minutes," answered the computer.

"Ten minutes! I thought you said it was Priority One?"

“It is."

"You're supposed to patch those through to me immediately, even in a war zone!"

"But you looked so thoughtful and morose, I didn't want to disturb you. And I am, after all, a

Model XB-223 navigational computer, qualified to make value judgments. And besides, you

were mad at me."

"Put it through."

"Are you still mad?" asked the computer coyly. "No, goddammit!" bellowed Pierce.

"I wish you could see the reading I just took of your blood pressure."

"May I please receive my Priority One message?" asked Pierce, struggling to control his

voice and wonder-ing how the hell to control his blood pressure. "If it's not too much trouble for

you, that is? I wouldn't want to cause you any inconvenience."

"No trouble at all," said the computer, suddenly all business. "After all, it's my job. In ion

storms and meteor showers, come nova or supernova, nothing shall stay the XB-223s from their

appointed duties. Had you ever heard that before?"

"No," said Pierce. "I never had."

"I made it up," said the computer proudly. "I think it has a certain poetic nobility about it,

don't you?" The message?" said Pierce wearily.

"Ah, yes, the message," said the computer. "It's coming to you from Earth, by the way. It

originates in Woodstock, Illinois, an absolutely lovely little town, population 31,203, mean

temperature of 53 degrees, very near the Des Plaines River, which you'll be interested to know

has recently undergone antipollution treatments and now abounds in bass, bluegills, and—"

"The message!"

"Right. The message. By all means. Let me just put it on visual display here." Suddenly the

computer giggled. "Oh, that tickles! You wouldn't think a computer could be ticklish, especially a

sophisticated, highly advanced model like the XB-223, but—"

“The message!"

"Very well. It's coming in now, on Screen 3."

"Screen 3 is blank," said Pierce.

"Some people are well bred," said the computer. "Some people have manners. Some people

say `thank you' when someone offers to do them a favor, even if it's only a lowly XB-223

navigational computer with no voting rights or sexuality or—"

"Thank you," interrupted Pierce.

"You're welcome."

Suddenly the viewscreen lit up, displaying a hologram of a middle-aged woman in stern dress

and sterner makeup.

"It's about time!" she said ominously.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," answered Pierce. "The computer—"

"Ma'am is a contraction of madam," interrupted the woman. "I am not a madam.”

"I'm sorry, sir," said Pierce, flustered.

"Do I look like a sir to you?" she demanded.

"Go ahead—tell her," whispered the computer.

"No, Supervisor," said Pierce.

"That's better," said the woman. "Now suppose we start again—and do it according to form

this time."

"Millard Fillmore Pierce, Class 2 Arbiter, receiving your message, Supervisor."

"Very well, Arbiter Pierce. This is Supervisor Collier with a Priority One message."

"I know," said Pierce.

"Of course you know," said Supervisor Collier irritably. "But the protocol was created for a

reason, and we must observe it at all times."

"Yes, Supervisor."

"Now, then, Pierce," she continued, "I have a new assignment for you, which takes

precedence over those on which you are now working. Where are you located at this moment?"

"I'm not quite sure."

"You're what?"

"It's a long story," said Pierce. "Can you just tell me what the assignment entails?"

"All right," said Supervisor Collier, absently tugging at her left earlobe, which was

considerably larger than its counterpart. "Now listen carefully, Pierce. This connec-tion is using a

lot of energy, and I don't want to have to repeat everything twice."

"Right."

"As you may or may not know, a minor war has broken out between Cathia and Galladrial,

which for our purposes we will call Aldebaran IX and Komonos V. Earth has declared itself to be

neutral in this conflict, although of course we do support Galladrial in its war against the heathen

totalitarians of Atra II."

"Of course," said Pierce.

"To continue: Promenade, which we shall officially term Lambda Gamma IV, commissioned

a battleship from the state of Hawaii, which as you know is on Earth. Are you following me so

far?"

Pierce nodded.

"Good. Now, it seems that Promenade sold the battleship to Springfall, which we shall

officially term Belora VII. Springfall contracted to deliver the ship to Cathia, but had to set it

down on the neutral human colony of New Glasgow for minor repairs. New Glasgow happens to

be in the war zone, and when Galladrial found out that the ship was there, they sent in a squadron

of fighter ships to destroy it."

"Where do I come in?" asked Pierce, thoroughly confused.

"I'm getting to that. It seems that seventeen humans sustained injuries during the attack.

Worse still, none of them were Hawaiians." She paused dramatically. "Now, five were merely

civilians who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but the other twelve people

were actively effecting repairs on the ship." She paused again, this time to catch her breath. "So

the question is this: do we give them battle pay and free hospitalization despite the fact that we're

not at war with either of the parties in conflict? Do we settle for handling it through. Workman's

Compensation? Or do we present our grievances, and a bill, to the government of Qalladrial?

Your job is to appraise the situation and send me a recommendation that I can act upon."

"Why not just ask someone on the scene?" asked Pierce.

"Chain of command was established for a reason, Pierce," she said severely. "You will

interview people on the scene. I will act after analyzing your report."

"Whatever you say," sighed Pierce.

"Fine. Good luck, Arbiter Pierce. Supervisor Collier signing—Oh, by the way, have you

figured out where you are yet?"

The computer posted a readout on Screen 2.

"The Pirollian Sector, as near as I can tell," said Pierce.

"Interesting place," said Supervisor Collier. "Lots of activity."

"No, Supervisor," said Pierce. "There's no activity here at all. It's all empty and deserted."

The screen went blank.

"You're sure we're in the Pirollian Sector?" Pierce asked the computer.

"Absolutely. XB-223 navigational computers are in-capable of error."

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TheRedTapeWarJackLChalker,GeorgeAlecEffinger&MikeResnickv3.0-fixedbrokenparagraphs,garbledtext,formatting;byperagwinn2006-01-27INTRODUCTIONItallbeganbackatthe1980WorldScienceFictionConventioninBoston,ataboutfouro'clockinthemorning.JackChalkerandIweresittinginthehotellobby,talkingaboutonethingoranoth...

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