The Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  ON ALIEN LANGUAGES

  (Or, Some of the Dangers of Starting Too Soon)

  Okay, it's 1978, well into the first year of my writing career, I have a few Momus and Circus World stories under my belt, and I am currently possessed by the writing of a story called "Enemy Mine," the telling of which has become something of a need. My $20.00 rebuilt IBM Selectric is humming, the paper is in place, and the title is on the paper. My fingers hit the keys and the human in my story flexes his fingers and thinks murder, while the alien does the same. The alien opens its mouth and says...

  Well, what in the hell does it say?

  "Irkmaan!"

  You know, "Earthman" with a bad accent.

  Do these as-yet unnamed and almost undescribed aliens pronounce "th" as "k"? Do they pronounce "man" with a broad double "a" because of their strong Jamaican roots?

  Issues for another time. The story wants to be told and there will be no rest until it is done. In those stirring days of yesteryear, I wrote short stories by starting and not stopping until the thing was finished. Try that with a twenty-thousand-word novella sometime.

  The human eggs the alien on with a few, "C'mon, put up your dukes!" phrases, and the alien retorts, "Irkmaan vaa, koruum su!"

  My human character wasn't going to take that kind of crap without comment. He responds with a phrase taught to him in military training: "Kiz da yuomeen, Shizumaat!", which means Shizumaat, the father—er—parent of Drac philosophy, eats kiz. And what is a kiz?

  The kiz turns out to be a repulsive little critter whose name is also the name of its droppings. Did this have something to do with taking care of a friend's cat for two weeks? The truth of this is lost to the ages.

  In any event, that one sentence, "Kiz da yuomeen, Shizumaat!" saw the birth of both the philosopher Shizumaat and the beginning of the fauna on the alien planet. The first led to the necessity of coming up with a philosophy for the philosopher to philosophize about, and the second had children from three or four continents calling their teachers "kiz," leaving said teachers knowing they had been called something nasty, but not knowing exactly what.

  And what did the Drac say in response? "Irkmaan, yaa stupid Mickey Mouse is!"

  Was this the result of a misspent youth watching old WWII war movies on the Late Late Show? Jarheads and sons of Nippon hurling insults through an endless series of hostile Hollywood nights? Could be.

  A huge wave wipes out my human, and when he regains consciousness, he is tied up and the alien is hovering over him saying, "Kiz da yuomeen, Irkmaan, ne?"

  In other words, "Who eats it now, pal?"

  Soon we find out that "ess" means "what," "lode" means "head," and "ne" means "no." Then the Drac asks the human, "Kos son va?"

  The human doesn't know how to respond, so the alien tries again. It points at itself and says, "Kos va son Jeriba Shigan." The Drac points to the human and repeats, "Kos son va?"

  Kos va son—kos son va. I am called—you are called. Hell, now we're talking not only vocabulary, but grammar! Grammar, That was that stuff that kept getting me into trouble back in high school, I began telling myself that I really ought to start keeping some notes on this alien language that was lurching into being before my eyes, but I had no time for notes. The story is all.

  The human understands the alien and says, "Davidge. My name is Willis E. Davidge."

  First, where did the character names come from? There seemed to be no time to plan out anything. When possessed by the story bug, you just do it! and let the syllables fall where they may. I had to come up with the alien's name first. I reached into the air and found Jeriba Shigan. And so where did the name Jeriba Shigan come from?

  There is an actor whom I very much admire named James Shigeta. Need I say more? Okay, I also think James Shigeta is very much underrated and would have done a great job playing the alien in my story. I very much admire the job Lou Gossett, Jr. did playing Jeriba Shigan in the motion picture Enemy Mine, but James Shigeta was the one I had playing the alien in my head when I wrote the story. That's how I do it, and I don't apologize for it.

  Then it came time to name the human.

  I knew before I put down a word on paper that I would be playing the part of the human, Although the character was me, it wasn't really me, so I couldn't cook up a sloppy anagram of my own name. The name Davidge popped into my head for some reason, and I liked the sound of it. The only Davidge I knew was a fellow student at Staunton Military Academy back in 1960. He was a good kid, and I liked the name. Actually, the character in the story liked the name, and my story characters tend to get pushy with me about what they want. If I want to go one way and the story characters want to go another way, and if I point out to my children that I am god because I own the word processor, the characters will invariably sit down, go on strike, and turn into pine. So if the character wants to be called Davidge, he gets what he wants.

  The first name, Willis, came from a late half-brother of mine. His name was Willis, and for quite a number of years his siblings addressed him as Wibby, which he hated to the point of eventually threatening bodily mayhem and dismemberment if we did not drop the name Wibby and start calling him Bill. I liked Bill, I needed a name that the character would just as soon not insist on using (because the alien keeps referring to him by his last name), so I used it.

  The Drac orders the human, "Dasu!"

  After some pushing and shoving, Davidge figures out that word's meaning, and some others. In a matter of mere paragraphs, the human and the alien are both speaking pidgin versions of the other's language, in addition to trying to survive.

  What is going on here?

  A couple of things, actually. First, it always bothers me when, in an sf film or story, beings who evolved on worlds thousands of light years away from Earth all speak English like Lawrence Olivier. I need to at least see a video of the 1944 version of Hamlet in the alien's hip pocket before I'll buy it

  It all began, though, as it did for many of us, with that moment in the motion picture The Day the Earth Stood Still when the alien knows the crap is piling up and he'll need some help. Klatu tells Patricia Neal that if anything happens to him to go to the supercop robot Gort and tell it "Klatu barada nicto. "See, if Gort isn't told that, the robot will trash the planet. My entire generation memorized that line, "Klatu barada nicto," just in case.

  Curiously enough, in the movie we are never told what this phrase means. Is it Klatu needs help? Klatu says cool it? Klatu is in deep caca? It seems a little short to be Klatu is in the Washington DC city slams and wants you to bust out his corpse and reanimate it. Nevertheless, we memorized the phrase, and at special moments we would recite it.

  "Hey, where are you going?"

  "I'm going out, Dad."

  "Out where?"

  "Klatu barada nicto."

  "Well, make sure you're back by eleven."

  A hint of another meaning to that enigmatic phrase came to me while writing two Alien Nation tie-in novels for Pocket. The Newcomers, of course, have a language of their own, and authors who contract to write in this universe are issued a "bible" which outlines the major characters in the series, contains synopses of the various TV episodes, and a "Tenctonese for Travelers" type of vocabulary.

  A word now about credibility and the suspension of disbelief. I can't speak for every author and reader, but for myself there is this unwritten contract between the reader and the writer. On the writer's part, the author agrees to approach the tale by believing in it himself. This involves a pact I make with my imagination: whatever setting and characters I dream up actually exist somewhere in the universe. My job? To be faithful to that setting and those characters and to report to the reader as accurately as possible.

  Now, to the Tenctonese language. When I first looked over the Alien Nation bible, I felt that the authors just might not be taking their task seriously. The Tenctonese word for booze, you see, is tanka. The word for brutality is poppy Cattle is moocow, ceremony is oscar, deep is peed, doctor is
mare, filth is slum, good-bye is toucus, gun is shoota, investigate is snoop, level is strata, and network, believe it or not, is teeceefox. I have no first-hand knowledge of this, but in my mind I have a picture of a couple of scriptwriters full of themselves, pot, coke, and tanka brainstorming the Tenctonese language.

  "Hey! Hey! Whaddabout this (hic). Moocow for cattle! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

  "Wait a minute! Hee, hee. For investigate how 'bout snoop! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah!"

  "Hey, let's throw the Fox network a goddamn bone! What about making the word for network teeceefox! Ahhh, hah, hah, hah, hah, hah!"

  Getting back to Klatu's enigmatic message to Gort, one of the results of this Alien Nation language jocularity is the Tenctonese name for the Newcomer male lead in the series, Detective George Francisco. According to the bible, his Tenctonese name is Nicto. This opens whole new meanings to the phrase Klatu barada nicto. It seems to be a declaration of teenage love. I have no doubt that future space explorers will find that declaration enclosed in a heart and carved into the bark of a butnut tree:

  Klatu

  barada

  Nicto

  There is a town in Maine named Biddeford. In seeking the origins of this town's name, I ran across two possibilities: it's either Algonquian for old woman crossing river (biddy + ford), or ancient Norse for I'm on my way to rehab (Betty + Ford).

  I have also been a student of misunderstandings. The double and multiple meanings of words in most languages can lead to a host of interesting translation situation that I find very amusing. This bit of amusement led to the following piece, titled "Then Darkness Again." This work's sole publication, before this appearance, was in my Science-Fiction Writer's Workshop-I, in the chapter on "Fatal Flaws," as an example of what not to do. It's a vignette written before I even knew what a vignette was.

  Read quickly and keep forgiveness in your heart.

  THEN DARKNESS AGAIN

  By

  Accident

  "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point three. Anybody got their audios on out there?" Al Bragg released his mike key while the twenty seconds ticked off. More than a twenty-second lag between transmissions was a drag. Al checked his instruments and the screen depicting his place in relation to the galactic arm... eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

  Al adjusted the frequency and thumbed his mike. "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point four. Looking for chat-chat; anybody there?" Al looked at his screen and tried to pick out the Sol system by eye. The computer could have given him an automatic fix, but then that would give Al less to do; and Al was bored, not to mention homesick... eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

  "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point five craving some communication." Al sighed, wishing he hadn't cut across the void from the center to the arm. Nobody ever went this way. Three standard weeks from the candy bar quadrants and he hadn't raised a peep... eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

  "Bet the translator's on the poopers again."

  "Biggy Dippy on two-two-one point six looking for some tricks; let's hear it out there."

  Well, it was either go this way or go the long way around empty. Nuts. I could have found a load. Guess I just wanted to get home... eighteen, nineteen, twenty.

  "This is the Dipper on two-two-one point seven searching heaven for some talk-talk."

  LADLE, THIS BEAR.

  Al jumped, then smiled. Someone was out there, and the literal translations were half the fun of chatter and the game. "Bear, this is the Dipper. I haven't raised a soul for a sun's age. Where are you headed?"

  ON TOP, LADLE. ONLY ONE. AND YOU?

  "Negative, Big Bear. What is your destination?"

  SORRY. THE CENTER. QUADRANT TWENTY AND FIVE. WANT THE GAME TO PLAY?

  "You bet."

  THAT AFFIRMATIVE? NO IS WAGER?

  "Affirmative. Shall you start, or shall I?"

  START.

  "Hey, Big Bear, the translator's not up to combined or absent personal pronouns. You or me?"

  YOU.

  "Okay." Al rubbed his chin. The trick was to be truthful without giving away the location. "My planet is beautiful."

  MY PLANET IS UGLY.

  Al frowned. He had gabbed with aliens from hunks of black ice that thought their own planets were beautiful while Earth was ugly. "Okay, Big Bear. The atmosphere is blue with white clouds of water vapor. It rains, making the surface rich with vegetation."

  SKY BLUE A LITTLE. YELLOW FROM DUST. FEW CLOUDS. THE GROUND HARD AND DRY. RAINS LITTLE; GROWS LESS.

  Al pursed his lips, then shook his head. "I can't get it, Big Bear. You?"

  NO.

  "Want to try government?" Al smiled, hoping the Bear would fall for it. Populated desert planets—maybe twenty of them—and Al knew them all. A few hints on governmental structure would be all that was needed.

  IS GOOD. ME FIRST?

  "Go."

  PEOPLE MINE... OPPRESSED. ALWAYS. OUR GOVERNMENT OR OTHERS, NO DIFFERENCE IT MAKES. REVOLUTIONS. MANY, BUT NO DIFFERENCE IT MAKES.

  Al scratched his head, trying to think of a dustball in political turmoil. Might be Garnetsid, but, no; the Bear said he has only one head. He keyed his mike. "Long ago, we had a revolution. But we are free. The wars are all behind us. We can pretty much choose what we want to be, and we're well off. Wealthy. I own my own ship."

  AH! IS GOOD. I GUESS NOW. MINTAKA TWELVE?

  "Negative, Big Bear. I'll go first with economy. I said we were wealthy. I bet we're the financial center of our quadrant."

  NOT IS MINTAKA TWELVE?

  "Negative on Mintaka Twelve." Al chuckled. He'd caught several drivers on Mintaka Twelve.

  NO UNDERSTAND. THIS GOOD. MY BEINGS POOR ON PLANET MINE. FOR REASON, GO TO QUADRANT TWENTY AND FIVE BUY WEAPONS NOW. YOU GUESS LADLE NOW?

  Al slapped his knee. "It has to be Sadr Five, Big Bear. Right?"

  NEGATIVE, LADLE. GUESS ANOTHER TIME?

  Al frowned at the static in the transmission. "I'm out of guesses, Big Bear. Say, how do you read?"

  EYES. TWO.

  Al sighed. "Your reception. Is it getting weak?"

  FOUR AND SOME, LADLE.

  "I guess this is it. You give up?"

  YOU?

  "Affirmative, Big Bear, I don't get stumped very often. What's your planet?"

  EARTH. THIRD IN SYSTEM OF SOL.

  "That can't... Big Bear, go off translator and retransmit." Al frowned at his speaker.

  TIERRA.

  Are you... Spanish?"

  MEJICANO... HABLA INGLES? POR QUE?

  "I'm from Earth. North America."

  GRINGO?

  "Yeah, wetback. I guess it's how you look at it."

  SI.

  "Small galaxy, isn't it ?"

  ES VERDAD... ADIOS.

  "Yeah... good-bye, Big Bear." Al shrugged and adjusted the frequency. "This is the Big Dip on two-two-one point eight...."

  THE MERCIFUL END

  Predictable, pointless, perfidious, poop—there is absolutely nothing you can say about "Darkness" that I have not already said to myself (which was only somewhat more brutal than what the rejection slips said).

  My amusement with misunderstandings in translation had been exercised earlier in my story, "The Slick Gentlemen," one of the tales of the original star circus that eventually crashed on the planet Momus (the circus, not the story). This story had its language fun from several angles. First was circus lingo, the jargon spoken by the employees of O'Hara's Greater Shows. This was complicated somewhat by aliens being part of the company, and was complicated further by the even more alien aliens for which the show performed. We enter the story where Warts, the keeper of the show's route book, has a crisis of conscience and decides to turn in John J. O'Hara and the show to the police because the show is crawling with pickpockets, grifters, and scam artists who paid O'Hara a very large sum for the privilege of fleecing the inhabitants of Planet Chyteew, all of whom had never before seen a circus. The more Warts sees of the "slick gentlemen," the less he likes them.r />
  Boston Beau Dancer decided to join us on our trip planetside "to size up the local sucker stock" as he put it. No one on the Baraboo, except the advance and the route man, had ever been to Chyteew before, and Boston Beau wanted to get the lay of the land. Fish Face and I were friendly because we didn't want to give ourselves away. It was not easy. At the lot near Marthaan, we bid Tick Tock good-bye, then the three of us set out on foot toward the tall buildings. The Asthu, the natives ruling Chyteew, are built along the general proportions of an ostrich egg, although considerably taller, and with thick, blunt-toed legs and thin, four-fingered arms. Several times, walking down one of the many business malls in Marthaan, Boston Beau deliberately stepped in front of one of the egg-shaped creatures. The Asthu would bump into Boston Beau, utter a rapid, incomprehensible apology, then waddle on.

  Boston Beau would grin and mutter "Ripe. So ripe."

  I frowned at him after he had bumped into his fourth pedestrian. "Why are you doing that?"

  He cocked his head at the push of the crowd working its way into a business exchange. "Look at their eyes, Warts. Small and practically at the sides of their round head-ends. They can't see directly in front. Can you imagine what a man like Jack Jack [a card shark] can do to these people?" He cackled, then waved goodbye to us as he followed the push into the business exchange. "I think I'll check out what they like to do with their credits."