The Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  "You can recite almost two hundred biographies from memory?"

  "Yes."

  I went over to my bed and stretched out. As I stared up at the smoke being sucked through the crack in the chamber's ceiling, I began to understand what Jerry meant by feeling lost. A Drac with several dozens of generations under its belt knew who it was and what it had to live up to. "Jerry?"

  "Yes, Davidge?"

  "Will you recite them for me?" I turned my head and looked at the Drac in time to see an expression of utter surprise melt into joy. It was only after years had passed that I learned I had done Jerry a great honor in requesting its line. Among the Dracs, it is a rare expression of respect, not only of the individual, but of the line.

  Jerry placed the hat it was sewing on the sand, stood and began.

  "Before you here I stand, Shigan of the line of Jeriba, born of Gothig, the teacher of music. A musician of high merit, the students of Gothig include Datzizh of the Nem line, Perravane of the Tuscor line, and many lesser musicians. Trained in music at the Shimuram, Gothig stood before the archives in the year 11,051 and spoke of its parent Haesni, the manufacturer of ships..."

  As I listened to Jerry's singsong of formal Dracon, the backward biographies—beginning with death and ending with adulthood—I experienced a sense of time-binding, of being able to know and touch the past. Battles, empires built and destroyed, discoveries made, great things done—a tour through thousands of years of history, but perceived as a well-defined, living continuum.

  Against this: I, Willis of the Davidge line, stand before you, born of Sybil the housewife and Nathan the second-rate civil engineer, one of them born of Grandpop, who probably had something to do with agriculture, born of nobody in particular. Hell, I wasn't even that! My older brother carried the line; not me. I listened and made up my mind to memorize the line of Jeriba.

  We talked of war:

  "That was a pretty neat trick, suckering me into the atmosphere, then ramming me."

  Jerry shrugged. "Dracon fleet pilots are best; this is well known. I saw a Vikaan pilot once. He was very good, but Dracon fleet pilots are best."

  I raised my eyebrows. "That's why I shot your tail feathers off, huh?"

  "Lucky shot."

  "And ramming my ship with a crippled fighter at five times the speed of sound with no pilot wasn't a lucky shot, is that it?"

  Jerry shrugged, frowned, and continued sewing on the scraps of snake leather. "Why do the Earthmen invade this part of the galaxy, Davidge? All this horrible business on Planet Amadeen. We had thousands of years of peace before you came."

  "Hah! Why do the Dracs invade? We were at peace too. What are you doing here? We didn't start things, you know."

  "We settle these planets. It is the Drac tradition. We are explorers and founders."

  "Well, toad face, what do you think we are, a bunch of homebodies? Humans have had space travel for less than a hundred years, but we've settled almost twice as many planets as the Dracs—"

  Jerry held up a finger. "Exactly! You humans spread like a disease. Ashrak—criminals! Enough! We don't want you here!"

  "Well, we're here, and here to stay until every last Drac is off Amadeen. Now what are you going to do about that?"

  "You see what we do, Irkmaan, we fight!"

  "Phooey! You call that little scrap we were in a fight? Hell, Jerry, we were kicking you junk jocks out of the sky—"

  "Haw, Davidge! That's why you sit here sucking on smoked snake!"

  I pulled the little rascal out of my mouth and pointed it at the Drac. "I notice your breath has a snake flavor too, Drac!"

  Jerry snorted and turned away from the fire. I felt stupid. I mean, what's the point in trading macho shots with a hermaphrodite? Anyway, we weren't going to settle the problems of war in between snake snacks. Also, I wanted to have Jerry check my recitation. I had over a hundred generations memorized. The Drac's side was toward the fire, leaving enough light falling on its lap to see its sewing.

  "Jerry, what are you working on?"

  "We have nothing to talk about, Davidge."

  "Come on, what is it?"

  Jerry turned its head toward me, then looked back into its lap and picked up a tiny snakeskin suit. "For Zammis." Jerry smiled and I shook my head, then laughed.

  We talked of philosophy:

  "You studied Shizumaat, Jerry; why won't you tell me about its teachings?"

  Jerry frowned. "No, Davidge."

  "Are Shizumaat's teachings secret or something?"

  Jerry shook its head. "No. But we honor Shizumaat too much for talk."

  I rubbed my chin. "Do you mean too much to talk about it, or to talk about it with a human?"

  "Not with humans, Davidge; just not with you."

  "Why?"

  Jerry lifted its head and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You know what you said ... on the sandbar."

  I scratched my head and vaguely recalled the curse I laid on the Drac about Shizumaat eating it. I held out my hands. "But, Jerry, I was mad, angry. You can't hold me accountable for what I said then."

  "I do."

  "Will it change anything if I apologize?"

  "Not a thing."

  I stopped myself from saying something nasty and thought back to that moment when Jerry and I stood ready to strangle each other. I remembered something about that meeting and screwed the corners of my mouth in place to keep from smiling. "Will you tell me Shizumaat's teachings if I forgive you ... for what you said about Mickey Mouse?" I bowed my head in an appearance of reverence, although its chief purpose was to suppress a cackle.

  Jerry looked up at me, its face pained with guilt. "I have felt bad about that, Davidge. If you forgive me, I will talk about Shizumaat."

  "Then I forgive you, Jerry."

  "One more thing."

  "What?"

  "You must tell me of the teachings of Mickey Mouse."

  "I'll... uh, do my best."

  We talked of Zammis:

  "Jerry, what do you want little Zammy to be?"

  The Drac shrugged. "Zammis must live up to its own name. I want it to do that with honor. If Zammis does that, it is all I can ask."

  "Zammy will pick its own trade?"

  "Yes."

  "Isn't there anything special you want, though?"

  Jerry nodded. "Yes, there is."

  "What's that?"

  "That Zammis will, one day, find itself off this miserable planet."

  I nodded. "Amen."

  "Amen."

  The winter dragged on until Jerry and I began wondering if we had gotten in on the beginning of an ice age. Outside the cave, everything was coated with a thick layer of ice, and the low temperature combined with the steady winds made venturing outside a temptation of death by falls or freezing. Still, by mutual agreement, we both went outside to relieve ourselves. There were several isolated chambers deep in the cave; but we feared polluting our water supply, not to mention the air inside the cave. The main risk outside was dropping one's drawers at a wind chill factor that froze breath vapor before it could be blown through the thin face muffs we had made out of our flight suits. We learned not to dawdle.

  One morning, Jerry was outside answering the call, while I stayed by the fire mashing up dried roots with water for griddle cakes. I heard Jerry call from the mouth of the cave. "Davidge!"

  "What?"

  "Davidge, come quick!"

  A ship! It had to be! I put the shell bowl on the sand, put on my hat and gloves, and ran through the passage. As I came close to the door, I untied the muff from around my neck and tied it over my mouth and nose to protect my lungs. Jerry, its head bundled in a similar manner, was looking through the door, waving me on. "What is it?"

  Jerry stepped away from the door to let me through. "Come, look!"

  Sunlight.

  Blue sky and sunlight.

  In the distance, over the sea, new clouds were piling up; but above us the sky was clear. Neither of us could look at the sun directly, but we
turned our faces to it and felt the rays of Fyrine on our skins. The light glared and sparkled off the ice-covered rocks and trees. "Beautiful."

  "Yes." Jerry grabbed my sleeve with a gloved hand. "Davidge, you know what this means?"

  "What?"

  "Signal fires at night. On a clear night, a large fire could be seen from orbit, ne?"

  I looked at Jerry, then back at the sky. "I don't know. If the fire were big enough, and we get a clear night, and if anybody picks that moment to look . . ." I let my head hang down. "That's always supposing that there's someone in orbit up there to do the looking." I felt the pain begin in my fingers. "We better go back in."

  "Davidge, it's a chance!"

  "What are we going to use for wood, Jerry?" I held out an arm toward the trees above and around the cave. "Everything that can burn has at least fifteen centimeters of ice on it."

  "In the cave—"

  "Our firewood?" I shook my head. "How long is this winter going to last? Can you be sure that we have enough wood to waste on signal fires?"

  "It's a chance, Davidge. It's a chance!"

  Our survival riding on a toss of the dice. I shrugged. "Why not?"

  We spent the next few hours hauling a quarter of our carefully gathered firewood and dumping it outside the mouth of the cave. By the time we were finished and long before night came, the sky was again a solid blanket of grey. Several times each night, we would check the sky, waiting for stars to appear. During the days, we would frequently have to spend several hours beating the ice off the wood pile. Still, it gave both of us hope, until the wood in the cave ran out and we had to start borrowing from the signal pile.

  That night, for the first time, the Drac looked absolutely defeated. Jerry sat at the fireplace, staring at the flames. Its hand reached inside its snakeskin jacket through the neck and pulled out a small golden cube suspended on a chain. Jerry held the cube clasped in both hands, shut its eyes, and began mumbling in Drac. I watched from my bed until Jerry finished. The Drac sighed, nodded, and replaced the object within its jacket.

  "What's that thing?"

  Jerry looked up at me, frowned, then touched the front of its jacket. "This? It is my Talman—what you call a Bible."

  "A Bible is a book. You know, with pages that you read."

  Jerry pulled the thing from its jacket, mumbled a phrase in Drac, then worked a small catch. Another gold cube dropped from the first and the Drac held it out to me. "Be very careful with it, Davidge."

  I sat up, took the object, and examined it in the light of the fire. Three hinged pieces of the golden metal formed the binding of a book two-and-a-half centimeters on an edge. I opened the book in the middle and looked over the double columns of dots, lines, and squiggles. "It's in Drac."

  "Of course."

  "But I can't read it."

  Jerry's eyebrows went up. "You speak Drac so well, I didn't remember . . . would you like me to teach you?"

  "To read this?"

  "Why not? You have an appointment you have to keep?"

  I shrugged. "Nohing that can't wait." I touched my finger to the book and tried to turn one of the tiny pages. Perhaps fifty pages went at once. "I can't separate the pages."

  Jerry pointed at a small bump at the top of the spine. "Pull out the pin. It's for turning the pages."

  I pulled out the short needle, touched it against a page, and it slid loose of its companion and flipped. "Who wrote your Talman, Jerry?"

  "Many. All great teachers."

  "Shizumaat?"

  Jerry nodded. "Shizumaat is one of them."

  I closed the book and held it in the palm of my hand. "Jerry, why did you bring this out now?"

  "I needed its comfort." The Drac held out its arms. "This place. Maybe we will grow old here and die. Maybe we will never be found. I see this today as we brought in the signal fire wood." Jerry placed its hands on its belly. "Zammis will be born here. The Talman helps me to accept what I cannot change."

  "Zammis, how much longer?"

  Jerry smiled. "Soon."

  I looked at the tiny book. "I would like you to teach me to read this, Jerry."

  The Drac took the chain and case from around its neck and handed it to me. "You must keep the Talman in this."

  I held it for a moment, then shook my head. "I can't keep this, Jerry. It's obviously of great value to you. What if I lost it?"

  "You won't. Keep it while you learn. The student must do this."

  I put the chain around my neck. "This is quite an honor you do me."

  Jerry shrugged. "Much less than the honor you do me by memorizing the Jeriba line. Your recitations have been accurate, and moving." Jerry took some charcoal from the fire, stood, and walked to the wall of the chamber. That night I learned the thirty-one letters and sounds of the Drac alphabet, as well as the additional nine sounds and letters used in formal Drac writings.

  Squiggle squiggle, dot, break, dot dot, loop, squiggle, break ...

  "I, Mistaan, who created the marks-that-speak, set down before you the words of Shizumaat who recited before me the Myth of Aakva, the Story of Uhe and the First Truth."

  It was Genesis and the Garden of Eden for hermaphrodites. And there was a time when all of the sayings and signs of the god, Aakva, were gathered before a head priest, the "chief of the servants of Aakva," and Rhada sorted through it all to determine the true laws of Aakva. And then the laws were doubted and the god took them away, plunging the world into war. After the horror of the war, the laws of the god were no longer doubted and the god was begged for their return. The world was divided, separating the warring peoples of the Sindie, and then there was peace and plenty, until the next doubting, and the next war.

  There is a fabric to things, patterns, weaves, and an occasional pulled thread. Once in awhile everything unravels and goes up in flames. An awfully old story.

  I felt a bit like when I was back in college. A universe of problems, endless tons of worthless attempts at solutions, and snotty kids a couple of years past acne looking to philosophers, ancient and modern, to flash a bit of magic on us and solve all of the predicaments.

  I headed for the wind and the cold outside to spit my curses into the winds, wondering if the universe will ever grow up.

  The wood eventually ran out. Jerry was very heavy and very, very sick as Zammis prepared to make its appearance, and it was all the Drac could do to waddle outside with my help to relieve itself. Hence, wood gathering, which involved taking our remaining stick and beating the ice off the dead standing trees, fell to me, as did cooking.

  On a particularly blustery day, I noticed that the ice on the trees was thinner. Somewhere we had turned winter's corner and were heading for spring. I spent my ice-pounding time feeling great at the thought of spring, and I knew Jerry would pick up some at the news. The winter was really getting the Drac down. I was working the woods above the cave, taking armloads of gathered wood and dropping them down below, when I heard a scream. I froze, then looked around. I could see nothing but the sea and the ice around me. Then, the scream again.

  "Davidge!"

  It was Jerry. I dropped the load I was carrying and ran to the cleft in the cliff's face that served as a path to the upper woods. Jerry screamed again; and I slipped, then rolled until I came to the shelf level with the cave's mouth. I rushed through the entrance, down the passageway until I came to the chamber. Jerry writhed on its bed, digging its fingers into the sand.

  I dropped on my knees next to the Drac. "I'm here, Jerry. What is it? What's wrong?"

  "Davidge!" The Drac rolled its eyes, seeing nothing; its mouth worked silently, then exploded with another scream.

  "Jerry, it's me!" I shook the Drac's shoulder. "It's me, Jerry. Davidge!"

  Jerry turned its head toward me, grimaced, then clasped the fingers of one hand around my left wrist with the strength of pain. "Davidge! Zammis . . . something's gone wrong!"

  "What? What can I do?"

  Jerry screamed again, then its head fell back
to the bed in a half-faint. The Drac fought back to consciousness and pulled my head down to its lips. "Davidge, you must swear."

  "What, Jerry? Swear what?"

  "Zammis ... on Draco. To stand before the line's archives. Do this."

  "What do you mean? You talk like you're dying."

  "I am, Davidge. Zammis two-hundredth generation . . . very important. Present my child, Davidge. Swear!"

  I wiped the sweat from my face with my free hand. "You're not going to die, Jerry. Hang on!"

  "Enough! Face truth, Davidge! I die! You must teach the line of Jeriba to Zammis . . . and the book, The Talman, gavey?"

  "Stop it!" Panic stood over me almost as a physical presence. "Stop talking like that! You aren't going to die, Jerry. Come on; fight, you kizlode sonofabitch!"

  Jerry screamed. Its breathing was weak and the Drac drifted in and out of consciousness. "Davidge."

  "What?" I realized I was sobbing like a kid.

  "Davidge, you must help Zammis come out."

  "What. . . how? What in the Hell are you talking about?"

  Jerry turned its face to the wall of the cave, "Lift my jacket."

  "What?"

  "Lift my jacket, Davidge. Now!"

  I pulled up the snakeskin jacket, exposing Jerry's swollen belly. The fold down the center was bright red and seeping a clear liquid. "What. . . what should I do?"

  Jerry breathed rapidly, then held its breath. "Tear it open! You must tear it open, Davidge!"

  "I can't do that."

  "Do it! Do it, or Zammis dies!"

  "What do I care about your goddamn child, Jerry? What do I have to do to save you?"

  "Tear it open," whispered the Drac. "Take care of my child, Irkmaan. Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me."

  "Oh, Jerry . . ."

  "Swear it!"

  I nodded, hot fiat tears dribbling down my cheeks. "I swear it. . . ." Jerry relaxed its grip on my wrist and closed its eyes. I knelt next to the Drac, stunned. "No. No, no, no, no."

  Tear it open! You must tear it open, Davidge!