Part 14 (1/2)

”Very funny. Now, we seem to be trapped inside this computer. I'm beginning to learn how to extend my 'thinking' and utilize the extended sensory and memory devices that haven't been too badly damaged.”

”How are the others?”

”What others?”

”The flesh-creatures. Did they survive as well?”

Pierce-Arro watched and listened and consulted with all of its built-in meters and readouts. ”I detect heart-beats,” it decided at last. ”No sign of consciousness, however. Perhaps they were damaged in the crash.”

”I warned them to hang on!”

”Now, what about the others in our invasion? How will we contact them? Our s.h.i.+p-the Pel Torro-is trapped inside that giant android on the floor. And I suppose our bodies are under the control of one of these creatures' minds.”

”Both bodies?”

”I hope so. The only alternative is that one gasbag body is alive and inhabited by an alien, and the other gasbag body has deflated unto death.”

”I don't know which would be worse. Imagine having a loathsome alien awareness pawing over your inner being.”

”We have communications equipment under our control. We could try raising the Pel Torro and giving the alien instructions on how to properly maintain our complex and lovely bodies. As I recall, it was almost time for my midwatch lubrication.”

”Forget that for now. It's more important for us to establish a link to our invasion fleet.”

”How?”

”I don't know. This requires more study.” And the Pierce-Arro ent.i.ty absorbed itself in the minute exploration of all of the XB-223's attributes.

Deathly silence reigned inside the damaged Pete Rozelle. The s.h.i.+p had plowed a long, smoking furrow across the weirdly alien face of Uncharted, the strange new world upon which it had crash-landed. The landscape of Uncharted had been created by a G.o.d with a splitting headache: The sky was a sickly maroon, and the s.h.i.+ny, broad-leafed vegetation was a ghastly blue color that belonged on the lips of a drowning victim. Reflected light from the world's two moons cast dreadful shadows across the unhuman prairie, but no one aboard the Pete Rozelle had yet seen any of that. Only Pierce-Arro was conscious, and that ent.i.ty had more important things than sightseeing on its . . . hands. Time pa.s.sed, marked by the ominous dripping of some liquid coolant from a broken overhead line, and by the sibilant hiss of Uncharted's slightly green atmosphere forcing its way into the control room, and by the soft plicking sound of broken plastic falling from the dash-board to the deck plates. Time pa.s.sed, and slowly the occupants of the craft began to wake up to their dangerous plight.

”n.o.body move!” shouted the lizard general's body. Of course, it was Marshmallow in the lizard body, but her booming, shrill cry had all the force of the general's lungs behind it.

The human Pierce-in Marshmallow's body-gave a ladylike groan and sat up, holding his aching head. ”What is it?”

”Are we alive?” asked the XB-223 in Pierce's body. ”I've only been a real boy for a few minutes, and I haven't even had s.e.x yet! I don't want to die!”

”That gas!” growled General Millard Fillmore Pierce, through the mechanical speech parts of the mostly deactivated Frank Poole.

”We've all got to learn to cooperate, ya heah?” said the Marshmallow-lizard. ”We got to put aside our differences now.”

”She . . . she's right,” said the computer-Pierce. ”If not, these organic bodies will be dead soon.”

Pierce-Marshmallow rubbed his throbbing temples. ”Only if that gas is poisonous,” he said wearily.

”Why don't you go over there and take a big oldfaceful?” demanded the lizard-gasbag impatiently. ”How can you even sit around discussing the matter?”

”And then we'll demonstrate how our various species can learn to live together in peace and harmony,” said the computer-Pierce.

”And we can stop this intergalactic multidimensional war before we're all blown to smithereens,” said Pierce-Marshmallow thoughtfully. ”And then we'll get rescued. And then we'll all be rewarded by our various governments. And then-”

”Fix the winds.h.i.+eld, Pierce!” demanded the general. ”Fix the G.o.dd.a.m.n broken winds.h.i.+eld!”

”Duct tape,” said Pierce weakly. ”In the toolbox downstairs in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I can't do it. I can barely move.”

”I can't move a finger,” complained the XB-223. ”Neither can I,” said Marshmallow.

”Don't look at me,” said the general. ”I seem to be inhabiting the bodies of two weird alien creatures simultaneously. They're teeny tiny collections of flatulent sacs. I'm in some impossibly small s.p.a.cecraft inside the head of your android. I don't have the faintest idea how to operate the controls.”

”And Frank Poole is a goner anyway,” said Pierce thoughtfully. ”Well, there's another Modular Ident.i.ty Synthecator downstairs. You could inhabit it, I suppose. Goodtime Sal-I don't get her out very often. She tends to wear me out.”

”I don't want to hear about your of silicon s.l.u.t,” said Marshmallow huffily.

Pierce looked toward her. She was lovely, even in the body of the lizard general. ”Sal never meant anything to me, Marshmallow sweetheart. Honest, she didn't.”

”Cough, cough,” said the general. ”The gas!”

Pierce stretched out on the deck plates and began crawling forward. It was the most difficult physical thing he'd ever had to do in his life, but his continued existence-and the lives of his friends and enemies-depended on his getting to the duct tape in time. He pulled himself painfully across the deck, inch by inch, every muscle in his body-well, Marshmallow's body, actually-complaining with each exertion.

”Can you make it, Millard?” asked the computer fearfully. ”I think I can. I think I can.”

”Look!” shouted Marshmallow. ”Outside! Is that some huge, horrible alien predator lurking in the shadows?”

”No,” said the lizard general, ”I'm some huge, horrible alien predator.”

”I've almost . . . got it,” said the human Pierce. He strained one last time, lifted himself up into one of the bucket seats, and found the control that opened the hatch to the bas.e.m.e.nt. ”Oh no,” he muttered hopelessly.

”What's wrong, honey?” asked Marshmallow.

”The light's burned out down there. I hate going down there in the dark.”

”Choke, choke,” said the lizard general.

”Okay,” said Pierce, ”I get the picture.” It took all his remaining courage, but Millard Fillmore Pierce clambered slowly down the stairs and rummaged around for a few moments.

When he rejoined his companions on the deck, he had the duct tape and Goodtime Sal.

”How dare you bring that hussy up here where decent folk are trying not to die?” cried Marshmallow in outrage.

Pierce gulped. ”I need someone to tear off the duct tape,” he explained.

”Hi, fellas!” said Goodtime Sal cheerfully. ”Are those molecular imploders in your pockets, or are you just glad to see me?”

”Sal, listen closely,” said Pierce. ”Rip the duct tape and patch the winds.h.i.+eld. I can't reach it.”

Goodtime Sal leered at Pierce in Marshmallow's body. ”I know,” she said, ”you just want to look down my blouse when I bend over.” Being an MIS, Sal was very broadminded. She wasn't bad, she was just programmed that way.

”Forget that for now, Sal,” Pierce ordered. ”Fix the winds.h.i.+eld before we all die of alien crud in our systems.”

It took Goodtime Sal a few seconds to sort out Pierce's commands, but soon she began tearing off strips of duct tape and slapping them over the crack in the winds.h.i.+eld. The green atmosphere of Uncharted stopped seeping into the control room.