The Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  "So it's the only book translated from Drac into English; so it's the explanation for how every Drac conducts itself; so it'll make you a bundle of credits."

  He leaned forward, scanned several pages, then looked up at me. "You know, Davidge, I don't like you worth a damn."

  "I can't tell you what a relief that is. I don't like you either."

  He returned to the manuscript. "Why now?"

  "Now is when I need money."

  He shrugged. "The best I can offer would be around eight or ten thousand. This is untried stuff."

  "I need twenty-four thousand. You want to go for less than that, I'll take it to someone else."

  He looked at me and frowned. "What makes you think anyone else would be interested?"

  "Let's quit playing around. There are a lot of survivors of the war—both military and civilian—who would like to understand what happened." I leaned forward and tapped the manuscript. "That's what's in there."

  "Twenty-four thousand is lot for a first manuscript."

  I gathered up the pages. "I'll find someone who has some coin to invest in a sure thing."

  He placed his hand on the manuscript. "Hold on, Davidge." He frowned. "Twenty-four thousand?"

  "Not a quarter-note less."

  He pursed his lips, then glanced at me. "I suppose you'll be Hell on wheels regarding final approval."

  I shook my head. "All I want is the money. You can do whatever you want with the manuscript."

  He leaned back in his chair, looked at the manuscript, then back at me. "The money. What're you going to do with it?"

  "None of your business."

  He leaned forward, then leafed through a few more pages. His eyebrows notched up, then he looked back at me. "You aren't picky about the contract?"

  "As long as I get the money, you can turn that into Mein Kampf if you want to."

  He leafed through a few more pages. "This is some pretty radical stuff."

  "It sure is. And you can find the same stuff in Plato, Aristotle, Augustine, James, Freud, Szasz, Nortmyer, and the Declaration of Independence."

  He leaned back in his chair. "What does this mean to you?"

  "Twenty-four thousand credits."

  He leafed through a few more pages, then a few more. In twelve hours I had purchased passage to Draco.

  The peace accords, on paper, gave me the right to travel to Draco, but the Drac bureaucrats and their paperwork wizards had perfected the big stall long before the first human steps into space. Just to get a visa from the Drac consulate in New York involved enough calls to give my ear a cramp, not to mention wading through a cordon of angry demonstrators to pick it up. The consulate was located in a new concrete and glass thing whose windows looked as though they began somewhere above the twentieth floor, far out of the reach of flying bricks and such. When I took a moment to read the protest signs, I found that it wasn't the Dracs they were protesting. Instead they were protesting the human diplomatic mission that signed the treaty quarantining Amadeen and ending what they called "the big war," leaving the humans on Amadeen cut off and stranded.

  When I showed my pass to the human security guards on the gate, they let me in. In the lobby and the offices I got the impression that there were no Dracs at the consulate. It was a human who eventually issued me my visa. Tall, gray, and looking down her nose at everything. She reminded me of my eighth grade English teacher. As she held my passport in her hands, she said something curious. "With all the crap you had to wade through to get this visa, Mr. Davidge, you must have very important business on Draco."

  "It's important to me."

  "On your application it says that your visit is for the purpose of attending a ceremony."

  "That's right."

  "What kind of ceremony?"

  It wasn't any of her business, but I'd already learned rule one for working your way through the bureaucrats: unless you have a gun, a lot of money, or some compromising pictures with a goat, give the bastards whatever they want, and with respect. "The rites of adulthood."

  She handed me my passport and asked, "Is it the child of a business associate ?"

  As I put the booklet in my pocket, I shook my head. "No. It's my nephew."

  I left her chewing on that one while I left her office and moved on to the next level of administrative molasses.

  It took threats, bribes, and long days of filling out forms, being checked and rechecked for disease, contraband, reason for visit, filling out more forms, refilling out the forms I had already filled out, more bribes, more waiting, waiting, waiting. I was wondering if Zammis was going to die of old age before I got to see it, when someone fouled up and I found myself on the ship with all my papers in order.

  On the ship, I spent most of my time in my cabin, but since the Drac stewards refused to serve me, though, I went to the ship's lounge for my meals. I sat alone, listening to the comments about me from other booths. I had figured the path of least resistance was to pretend I didn't understand what they were saying. It is always assumed that humans do not speak Drac. One time, though, was one time too many.

  "Must we eat in the same compartment with the Irkmaan slime?"

  "Look at it, how its pale skin blotches—and that evil-smelling thatch on top. Feh! The smell!"

  I ground my teeth a little and kept my glance riveted to my tray. Of the three Dracs at that table, only one was shooting off its mouth. The other two were trying to be polite, but looked embarrassed. The one with the mouth started up again.

  "It defies The Talman that the universe's laws could be so corrupt as to produce a creature such as that."

  I turned and faced the three Dracs sitting in the booth across the aisle from mine. My eyes sought out the skinny one with the bad attitude. In Drac, I replied: "If your line's elders had seen fit to teach the village kiz to use contraceptives, you wouldn't even exist." I thanked Jerry for the wisecrack and returned to my food while the two embarrassed Dracs struggled to hold the third Drac down.

  Later, in my quarters, I had a visitor. It was a Drac decked out in a midnight blue uniform with two light blue diagonal stripes on its sleeves. "Willis Davidge?" it asked in heavily accented English.

  "That's right."

  "My name is Atu Vi. Ship's second officer. May I enter?"

  I stood away from the cabin door and held a hand out toward a built-in seat. I took the one facing it. Once the Drac and I were settled in, I asked in Drac, "Is there a problem, Atu Vi?"

  The Drac's brow rose. "The dining steward said you spoke the language well."

  "I had a good teacher, a quiet classroom, and a lot of time to learn."

  Second officer Atu Vi studied me for a moment. When it was done, it asked, "Did you learn The Talman, as well?"

  "Yes. Why do you ask?"

  "I thought you might find some profit in reviewing the Koda Tarmeda. It was interesting meeting you." Atu Vi stood and walked from my cabin, closing the door behind it.

  Koda Tarmeda, the Story of Cohneret. This was the Talman master who made a study of what it called the passions and their relationship to talma, paths of problem solving.

  Passion is a creature of rules. This does not mean do not love, do not hate. It means that where your passion limits talma, you must step outside of the rules of your love and hate to allow talma to serve you.

  What was the point of my outburst in the ship's lounge, Atu Vi seemed to be asking me. How does getting into a public ass-kicking contest serve talma? And who was the Drac with the big mouth? To score on it had I driven away one who might be convinced to assist me in the achievement of my goals? Had I turned a big-mouthed bigot into an active enemy? In any event, the Drac with the mouth had complained to the captain and the captain's second officer had dropped on by to tell me, in the most polite manner, to stick a sock in it. Good advice. As more than one Talman jetah has observed, "Knowing talma is not living talma."

  As the ship was coming into Draco, I thanked Second Officer Atu Vi for its advice. The Drac studied
me for a moment, then said, "Shortly after we land and the passengers disembark, a human will approach you. He is with the USE diplomatic mission and his sole purpose is to intercept you and place you on the first transportation available back to Earth. Avoid this person. There is a considerable weight of Drac authority that will support this diplomat's efforts to send you off-planet."

  I could feel my eyebrows climb. "If I could ask a question, Atu Vi. Just who was it that I insulted?"

  "Masru Ahniva, retired first jetah of the Tsien Denvedah. Masru Ahniva now serves as military jetah to the Earth diplomatic mission."

  "One more question, Atu Vi. Would talma be served by offering my apology to Masru Ahniva?"

  The Drac smiled and answered with a question of its own: "Did Uhe need more sand?"

  On Draco I avoided the fellow from the diplomatic mission, although I hated leaving him there at the spaceport knowing that he had blown it. It would be a hot time once he got back to the office. There was ground transportation, and I took a limo bus into Sindievu where I could catch another bus that went by the Jeriba estate. Both bus pilots informed me, as I came on board, that I was required to sit at the front of the bus along with the vemadah, outcasts. Most of the outcasts were vemadah because they had refused to fight in the war. There was a Vikaan and a couple of other races among the passengers, but they sat in the back with the rest of the respectable citizens.

  Why the front of the bus, I asked one of the outcasts on the bus I picked up in Sindievu. The vemadah explained and it made perfect sense. The doors are located at the front, making the ride there, to a slight degree, dustier and draftier than the rear. Besides comfort, being in the rear also allows those seated there to keep an eye on the untrustworthy passengers up front. Why the back of the bus was considered second-class at one point in old American history made me wonder at the reasoning of the time. If I ever got back to Earth, I'd have to look into it.

  The vemadah nodded toward the next stop, a road that left the main road and lost itself between wooded hills. It said in Drac, "You must get off here and walk that road to your destination. Stand, or the pilot will not stop for you."

  I stood, and as the bus slowed I looked at the outcast. "Thank you."

  It looked at me. "Do humans have vemadah?"

  "Yes. Many different kinds."

  "Are you vemadah on Earth?"

  I thought on that for a moment, and as the bus hissed to a stop, I said, "I guess I am. You probably wouldn't be, though."

  I climbed down from the bus, the door snapped shut behind me, the vehicle dug out and was gone in a matter of seconds.

  The Jeriba estate was set in a deep rugged valley of gray stone cliffs and tall trees. A high stone wall enclosed the property, and from the gate, I could see the huge stone mansion that Jerry had described to me. It was almost a castle I told the Drac guard at the gate that I wanted to see Jeriba Zammis. The guard stared at me like I had just crapped on its shirt, then it went into an alcove behind the gate. In a few moments, another Drac emerged from the mansion and walked quickly across the wide lawn to the gate. It wore an iridescent green robe that flowed like silk. The Drac nodded at the guard, then stopped and faced me. The face looking at mine was a dead ringer for Jerry.

  "You are the Irkmaan that asked to see Jeriba Zammis?"

  I nodded. "Zammis must have told you about me. I'm Willis Davidge."

  The Drac studied me like I was some kind of freak. "I am Estone Nev, Jeriba Shigan's sibling. My parent, Jeriba Gothig, wishes to see you." The Drac turned abruptly and walked back to the mansion. I followed, feeling heady at the thought of seeing Zammis again. I paid little attention to Estone Nev's manner or my surroundings until I was ushered into a large room with a vaulted stone ceiling. Jerry had told me that the house was four thousand years old. I believed it. As I entered, another Drac stood and walked over to me. It was old, but I knew who it was. That face had been described to me so many times that it was more familiar to me than my own father's.

  "You are Gothig, Shigan's parent?'

  The yellow eyes studied me. "Who are you, Irkmaan?" It held out a wrinkled, three-fingered hand. "What do you know of Jeriba Zammis, and why do you speak the Drac tongue with the style and accent of my child Shigan? What are you here for?"

  "I speak Drac in this manner because that is the way Jeriba Shigan taught me to speak it."

  The old Drac cocked its head to one side and narrowed its yellow eyes. "You knew my child? How?"

  "Didn't the survey commission tell you?"

  "It was reported to me that my child, Shigan, was killed in the battle of Fyrine IV. That was over six of our years ago. What is your game, Irkmaan?"

  I turned from Gothig to Nev. The younger Drac was examining me with the same look of suspicion. I turned back to Gothig. "Shigan wasn't killed in the battle. We were stranded together on the surface of Fyrine IV and lived there for a year. Shigan died giving birth to Jeriba Zammis. A year later the joint survey commission found us and—"

  "Enough! Enough of this, Irkmaan! Are you here for money, to use my influence for trade concessions—what?"

  I frowned. "Where is Zammis? I'm here to see Zammis. Where is it?"

  Tears of anger came to the old Drac's eyes. "There is no Zammis, Irkmaan! The Jeriba line ended with the death of Shigan!"

  My eyes grew wide as I shook my head. "That's not true. I know. I took care of Zammis—you heard nothing from the commission?"

  "Get to the point of your scheme, Irkmaan. I haven't all day."

  I studied Gothig. The old Drac had heard nothing from the commission. The Drac authorities took Zammis, and the child had evaporated. Gothig had been told nothing. Why?

  "I was with Shigan, Gothig. That is how I learned your language. When Shigan died giving birth to Zammis, I—"

  "Irkmaan, if you cannot get to your scheme, I will have to ask Nev to throw you out. Shigan died in the battle of Fyrine IV. The Drac Fleet notified us only days later. That was six years ago."

  I nodded. "Then, Gothig, tell me how I came to know the line of Jeriba?"

  "The Jeriba line?"

  "Do you wish me to recite it for you?"

  Gothig snorted. "You say you know the Jeriba line?"

  "Yes."

  Gothig flipped a hand at me. "Begin."

  I took a breath, then began, except I began with Zammis: "Before you here I stand, Zammis of the line of Jeriba, born of Shigan the fighter pilot. A flyer of courage and distinction, Shigan stood before the archives in the year 11,061 and spoke of its parent, Gothig, the teacher of music.... "

  By the time I had reached the hundred and seventy-third generation, Gothig had knelt on the stone floor next to Nev. The Dracs remained that way for three hours of the recital. When I concluded, Gothig bowed its head and wept. "Yes, Irkmaan, yes. You must have known Shigan. Yes." The old Drac looked up into my face, its eyes wide with hope. "And, you say Shigan continued the line—that Zammis was born?"

  I nodded. "I don't know why the commission didn't notify you."

  Gothig got to its feet and frowned. "We will find out, Irkmaan—what is your name?"

  "Davidge. Willis Davidge."

  "We will find out, Davidge."

  Gothig arranged quarters for me in its house, which was fortunate, since I had little more than eleven hundred credits left. I'd never seen a full-blown Drac apartment before. It was like a number of orange slices laid out in a semi-circle, with the focal point being the greeting room. All doors opened onto the greeting room: a sitting room, a sleeping room, a tiny kitchen and dining area, and a meditation room. I never got a chance to stretch out. After making a host of inquiries, Gothig managed to get a lead on Zammis. Gothig sent Nev and I to the Chamber Center in Sindievu. The Jeriba line, I found, was influential, and the big stall was held down to a minimum. Still, it was a shuffle from one office to another until we were, at last, directed to the Joint Survey Commission representative, a Drac named Jozzdn Vrule. It looked up from the letter Gothig had given me
and stared at me like I was wearing my pet kiz on my head. "Where did you get this, Irkmaan?"

  "I believe the signature is on it."

  The Drac looked at the paper, then back at me. "The Jeriba line is one of the most respected on Draco. You say that Jeriba Gothig gave you this?"

  "I felt certain I said that; I could feel my lips moving—"

  Nev stepped in. "You have the dates and the information concerning the Fyrine IV survey mission. We want to know what happened to Jeriba Zammis."

  Jozzdn Vrule frowned and looked back at the paper. "Estone Nev, you are the founder of your line, is this not true?"

  "It is true."

  "Would you found your line in shame? Why do I see you with this Irkmaan?"

  Nev curled its upper lip and folded its arms. "Jozzdn Vrule, if you contemplate walking this planet in the foreseeable future as a free being, it would be to your profit to stop working your mouth and to start finding Jeriba Zammis."

  Jozzdn Vrule looked down and studied its fingers, then returned its glance to Nev. "Very well, Estone Nev. You threaten me if I fail to hand you the truth. I think you will find the truth the greater threat." The Drac scribbled on a piece of paper, then handed it to Nev. "You will find Jeriba Zammis at this address, and you will curse the day that I gave you this."

  The address referred to a place that was three thousand miles away on another continent in a place called Vakudin. Back at the estate, Gothig took the address and gave it to one of the family retainers, named Okiri Niba, to make arrangements. We then seated ourselves in the main sitting room, a place hung with tapestries and weird chandeliers that was about as cozy as a hangar deck. Gothig and Nev talked excitedly about the confirmation of Zammis's existence, but I could only sit quietly and devil my mind about why Zammis had not been returned to its line's estate. Had it been injured? Shortly after, Niba returned looking very shaken.

  "The address, jetah," it said to Gothig. "Vakudin. It is the Sa Ashzhab Kovah."

  It was as if all breathing in the known universe suddenly ceased. Kovah means a school or institution, but ashzhab was not familiar. I was trying to piece together the meaning of the word from the words that were its parents, but before I crossed the finish line Estone Nev said to me in English, "It is the Dracon state colony for the insane."