Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  “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, Jerr
y…”

  “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!

  I reached up a hand and gingerly touched the fold on Jerry’s belly. I could feel life struggling beneath it, trying to escape the airless confines of the Drac’s womb. I hated it; I hated the damned thing as I never hated anything before. Its struggles grew weaker, then stopped.

  Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me.

  I swear it.

  I lifted my other hand and inserted my thumbs into the fold and tugged gently. I increased the amount of force, then tore at Jerry’s belly like a madman. The fold burst open, soaking the front of my jacket with the clear fluid. Holding the fold open, I could see the still form of Zammis huddled in a well of the fluid, motionless.

  I vomited. When I had nothing more to throw up, I reached into the fluid and put my hands under the Drac infant. I lifted it, wiped my mouth on my upper left sleeve, and closed my mouth over Zammis’s and pulled the child’s mouth open with my right hand. Three times, four times, I inflated the child’s lungs, then it coughed. Then it cried. I tied off the two umbilicals with berrybush fiber, then cut them. Jeriba Zammis was freed of the dead flesh of its parent.

  I held the rock over my head, then brought it down with all of my force upon the ice. Shards splashed away from the point of impact, exposing the dark green beneath. Again, I lifted the rock and brought it down, knocking loose another rock. I picked it up, stood and carried it to the half-covered corpse of the Drac. “The Drac,” I whispered. Good. Just call it “the Drac.” Toad face. Dragger.

  My enemy. Call it anything to insulate those feelings against the pain.

  I looked at the pile of rocks I had gathered, decided it was sufficient to finish the job, then knelt next to the grave. As I placed the rocks on the pile, unmindful of the gale-blown sleet freezing on my snakeskins, I fought back the tears.

  I smacked my hands together to help restore the circulation. Spring was coming, but it was still dangerous to stay outside too long. And I had been a long time building the Drac’s grave. I picked up another rock and placed it into position. As the rock’s weight leaned against the snakeskin mattress cover, I realized that the Drac was already frozen. I quickly placed the remainder of the rocks, then stood.

  The wind rocked me and I almost lost my footing on the ice next to the grave. I looked toward the boiling sea, pulled my snakeskins around myself more tightly, then looked down at the pile of rocks.

  There should be words. You don’t just cover up the dead, then go to dinner. There should be words.

  But what words? I was no religionist, and neither was the Drac. Its formal philosophy on the matter of death was the same as my informal rejection of Islamic delights, pagan Valhallas, and Judeo-Christian pies in the sky. Death is death; finis; the end; the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.

  Still, there should be words.

  I reached beneath my snakeskins and clasped my gloved hand around the golden cube of The Talman.

  I felt the sharp corners of the cube through my glove, closed my eyes, and ran through the words of the great Drac philosophers. But there was nothing they had written for this moment.

  The Talman was a book on life. Talma means “life,” and this occupies Drac philosophy. They spare nothing for death. Death is a fact; the end of life. The Talman had no words for me to say. The wind knifed through me, causing me to shiver. Already my fingers were numb and pains were beginning in my feet. Still, there should be words. But the only words I could think of would open the gate, flooding my being with pain—with the realization that the Drac was gone.

  Still… still, there should be words.

  “Jerry, I—”

  I had no words. I turned from the grave, my tears mixing with the sleet.

  With the warmth and silence of the cave around me, I sat on my mattress, my back against the wall of the cave. I tried to lose myself in the shadows and flickers of light cast on the opposite wall by the fire. Images would half-form, then dance away before I could move my mind to see something in them.

  As a child I used to watch clouds, and in them see faces, castles, animals, dragons, and giants. It was a world of escape—fantasy; something to inject wonder and adventure into the mundane, regulated life of a middle-class boy leading a middle-class life. All I could see on the wall of the cave was a representation of Hell: flames licking at twisted, grotesque representations of condemned souls. I laughed at the thought. We think of Hell as fire, supervised by a cackling sadist in a red union suit. Fyrine IV taught me this much: Hell is loneliness, hunger, and endless cold.

  I heard a whimper, and I looked into the shadows toward the small mattress at the back of the cave. Jerry had made the snakeskin sack filled with seed pod down for Zammis. It whimpered again, and I leaned forward, wondering if there was something it needed. A pang of fear tickled my guts. What does a Drac infant eat? Dracs aren’t mammals. All they ever taught us in training was how to recognize Dracs—that, and how to kill them. Then real fear began working on me. “What in the hell am I going to use for diapers?”

  It whimpered again. I pushed myself to my feet, walked the sandy floor to the infant’s side, then knelt beside it. Out of the bundle that was Jerry’s old flight suit, two chubby three-fingered arms waved. I picked up the bundle, carried it next to the fire, and sat on a rock. Balancing the bundle on my lap, I carefully unwrapped it. I could see the yellow glitter of Zammis’s eyes beneath yellow, sleep-heavy lids. From the almost noseless face and solid teeth to its deep yellow color, Zammis was every bit a miniature of Jerry, except for the fat. Zammis fairly wallowed in rolls of fat. I looked, and was grateful to find that there was no mess.

  I looked into Zammis’s face. “You want something to eat?”

  “Guh.”

  Its jaws were ready for business, and I assumed that Dracs must chew solid food from day one. I reached over the fire and picked up a twist of dried snake, then touched it against the infant’s lips. Zammis turned its head.

  “C’mon, eat. You’re not going to find anything better around here.”

  I pushed the snake against its lips again, and Zammis pulled back a chubby arm and pushed it away. I shrugged. “Well, whenever you get hungry enough, it’s there.”

  “Guh meh!” Its head rocked back and forth on my lap, a tiny, three-fingered hand closed around my finger, and it whimpered again.

  “You don’t want to eat, you don’t need to be cleaned up, so what do you want? Kos va nu?”

  The child’s face face wrinkled, and its hand pulled at my finger. Its other hand waved in the direction of my chest. I picked Zammis up to arrange the flight suit, and the tiny hands reached out, grasped the front of my snakeskins, and held on as the chubby arms pulled the child next to my chest. I held it close, it placed its cheek against my chest, and promptly fell asleep.

  “Well. I’ll be damned.”

  Until the Drac was gone, I never realized how closely I had stood near the edge of madness. My loneliness was a cancer—a growth that I fed with hate: hate for the planet with its endless cold, endless winds, and endless isolation; hate for the helpless yellow child with its clawing need for care, food, and an affection that I couldn’t give; and hate for myself. I found myself doing things that frightened and disgusted me. To break my solid wall of being alone, I would talk, shout, and sing to myself—uttering curses, nonsense, or meaningless croaks.

  Its eyes were open, and it waved a chubby arm and cooed. I picked up a large rock, staggered over to the child’s side, and held the weight over the tiny body. “I could drop this thing, kid. Where would you be then?” I felt laughter coming from my lips. I threw the rock aside. “Why should I mess up the cave? Outside. Put you outside for a minute, and you die! You hear me? Die!”

  The child wor
ked its three-fingered hands at the empty air, shut its eyes, and cried. “Why don’t you eat? Why don’t you crap? Why don’t you do anything right, but cry?” The child cried more loudly. “Bah! I ought to pick up that rock and finish it! That’s what I ought…”

  A wave of revulsion stopped my words, and I went to my mattress, picked up my cap, gloves, and muff, then headed outside. Before I came to the rocked-in entrance to the cave, I felt the bite of the wind. Outside I stopped and looked at the sea and sky—a roiling panorama in glorious black and white, grey and grey. A gust of wind slapped against me, rocking me back toward the entrance. I regained my balance, walked to the edge of the cliff, and shook my fist at the sea.

  “Go ahead! Go ahead and blow, you kizlode sonofabitch! You haven’t killed me yet!”

  I squeezed the wind-burned lids of my eyes shut, then opened them and looked down. A forty-meter drop to the next ledge, but if I took a running jump, I could clear it. Then it would be a hundred and fifty meters to the rocks below. Jump. I backed away from the cliff’s edge.

  “Jump! Sure, jump!” I shook my head at the sea. “I’m not going to do your job for you! You want me dead, you’re going to have to do it yourself!”

  I looked back and up, above the entrance to the cave. The sky was darkening and in a few hours night would shroud the landscape. I turned toward the cleft in the rock that led to the scrub forest above the cave.

  I squatted next to the Drac’s grave and studied the rocks I had placed there, already fused together with a layer of ice. “Jerry. What am I going to do?”

  The Drac would sit by the fire, both of us sewing. And we talked.

  “You know, Jerry, all this,” I held up The Talman, “I’ve heard it all before. I expected something different.”

  The Drac lowered its sewing to its lap and studied me for an instant. Then it shook its head and resumed its sewing. “You are not a terribly profound creature, Davidge.”