Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  Lota Min’s body is lying across me. Min’s head is back, its eyes closed. I struggle until I get my arms to push me up until I am sitting. I whisper Min’s name but I hear nothing but the breaths, raw and rapid. I gently hold Min’s head as I move my legs from beneath it. As I move I pray to the universe to keep Min from crying out. The universe answers and Min seems to take no notice of the movement. My legs free, I lower its head to the ground, crawl to the side of the crater, and crouch to see the surrounding terrain.

  Slowly I move my gaze around, peering into shadows, watching for lights, movement, differences in the night’s weave. I move to the other side of the artillery piece and look again.

  “Ro.”

  Min’s voice is weak, my name on its lips a blade into my heart. “Ro?”

  I look around once more then crawl to Min’s side. “Be still. We are not safe.”

  I look over Min’s body. Below its waist, centered on its groin, there is a hole as large as my head. It is as though a great hand had scooped out Min’s reproductive organs and the tops of its thighs. The light from the stars reflects from the surface of the blood pooling there. There are tears on my face as I raise a hand and stupidly hold it in the air, not knowing what to do.

  “Yazi Ro. I have so much pain. Am I hurt badly?”

  “Oh, Min.” I have no proper bandages. Nothing but the filthy scarf I wear around my neck. I pull it loose and stuff it into the wound.

  “The truth.” Min grabs my arm and squeezes it gently. “The truth, Ro.”

  Badly? My eyes fog with the tears. This one time the entities who dispense fairness and injustice must soften and change this absurd result. But what did that human say about the negotiations: If nothing changes, nothing changes.

  “You are hurt, Min. You―” I cannot say it. I have said the words so many times to strangers, comrades, friends, lovers, even to a few humans.

  Min whispers, “I am dying”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is happy paste when you need it?” it gasps. I place my hand over Min’s as I see its other hand steal to the Talman hanging from its neck. “Not now,” Min pleads. “There are too many things unsaid, undone. Not now.”

  All I can do is hold its hand, perhaps say one of the unsaid. “You take my love and my heart with you, Min.”

  “Do not leave me, Ro.”

  Before I can answer, there is a noise. Nothing subtle, no slight change on the wind this. It is a note followed by another, the music soft, haunting. The notes move across the battlefield, into the shadows and depressions, each sound drenched in tears and blood. I am immersed in sadness, yet I push it aside to let my fear stretch its wings. It is, after all, a human playing the sad wooden pipe.

  Min opens its mouth to ask about the sound, but I touch my finger to its lips and whisper, “Silence. The humans are very close.”

  The song on the pipe is beautiful in its suffering. The musician’s tears caress each note as it steals out over the broken land. The human has lost someone and I find myself aching for the creature’s pain.

  The notes grow louder and Min grasps my harness at the throat and pulls me down until its lips are close to my ear. “You have my love, Ro.” Min brushes my ear with its lips. “Go now. Hide.”

  Min releases my harness, I brush its face with my lips, and begin to crawl toward the savaged artillery piece, picking up my helmet as I move.

  Perhaps the musician, absorbed in the sad song, will pass us by. Beneath the carriage of the destroyed weapon I put on my helmet, adjust the sensor, and watch the rim of the crater. Soon a head appears, the body beneath it propelling it tangent to the crater. Closer and in my sensor I see the human from the waist up. It is a male in full combat armor. The armor is scarred and painted black with streaks, dots, and broken lines in orange, brown, and turquoise. Around the man’s neck is a small beaded bag with a primitive design of a bird on it. The human has a Drac energy knife slung on his back. Both of his hands play the wooden pipe into which he blows. There is a leather cord leading from the pipe to his neck.

  If I only had a weapon, I whisper to the universe. My weapon and Min’s, though, are both somewhere outside the crater, damaged probably beyond all repair. I hold my breath hoping that Min will stay quiet. Perhaps the human’s helmet sensor does not work, or his sensor is not energized, or in his grief he is not paying attention to it. He might pass us by.

  The sad song suddenly stops. More quickly than I can see, the human drops the pipe, allowing it to dangle by its cord, and the energy knife swings down and seems to leap into the human’s hands.

  He sees Min. I hold my breath and my skin tingles as I look around me for a weapon. I cry in frustration for I cannot find even a rock.

  A shielded light illuminates Min’s shattered form. I glimpse between the carrier slides of the carriage and see the human holding a thinlite. The human slings the knife and speaks, his words not English. He speaks to Min, then raises his hands and speaks to the stars. Finished with the stars, he reaches down, takes his musical instrument, and plays a strange tune as he does a bizarre little dance.

  My fear eases slightly as I decide that the man is some sort of witch or healer trying to help my comrade and lover. Just as I allow myself a breath, however, the song and dance stop, the knife is in the human’s hands, and he uses it to sever Min’s right foot from its ankle. Min screams and the human sings once more at the stars. The song continues as he moves the razor-thin beam through Min’s left ankle. Then Min’s wrists, then fist-sized pieces of leg and arm until Min is raving from the pain. Soon though Min falls unconscious, but the human does not stop cutting until there is nothing left but a pool of bloody lumps at the bottom of the crater.

  Done with his task, the human leaves, and the flute once more sends its haunting notes over the battlefield. I stumble from my hiding place, my eyes red from rage. To Min I swear that the humans I kill from now on I will render into liquid one pain-wracked cell at a time.

  Revenge. Blood-soaked, shattering, screaming vengeance.

  Yes, I have served at the feet of that deity. I tortured to death enough humans to crew my nightmares for eternity.

  “Captain,” I say to Aureah, “I am choked with revenge. It eats at me until there is nothing. You ask me, though, what I want most. More than anything else, captain, I want an end to the horror. I want to see the last of it. I want peace. It has to be. It has to be.”

  I feel tears on my cheeks and I am confused at their appearance. Vak’s glance drops as it assembles its weapon, loads it, and places it in its holster. The captain stands, glances at me and says, “Yazi Ro, I have inspected the weapons bay and I have seen the weapons you cleaned and repaired. Would you consider remaining a member of this crew? You could make a home here. It wouldn’t be much of a home, but if you had better you wouldn’t be here.”

  There is a strange ache in my chest. In the locker next to my cot there is Zenak Abi’s package to the Jetai Diea of the Talman Kovah. What obligates me to deliver it? My word? The illusion of peace? I can toss the package into the waste, forget about it, and become a space traveler. With credentials from serving on the Tora Soam, I could finish the cruise and then sign on with another ship traveling to mysterious, exotic worlds. The war will become an unpleasant remembrance. And what is Zenak Abi’s work but another illusion? If the greatest scientists who study and plan the paths of circumstance cannot find how to accomplish peace on Amadeen, how could a renegade, traitorous, pistol-packing Jetah master with no equipment find the answer? One more spittle dream in a universe of illusion.

  “Consider it, Ro,” says the captain as it turns and leaves the compartment.

  Before I can answer or give my thanks, it is gone. I feel myself uttering a very human-sounding sigh. There is nothing to consider. Perhaps once I make my delivery to the Jetai Diea I can consider a berth on a ship and a new life. Until then I am still owned by Amadeen. After all, I did give my word.

  EIGHT

  The customs officials in S
endievu examine my badge coding and pick through my belongings, eventually passing me through after Binas Pahvi passes one of the officials a small package. I no longer care how far the corruption extends. Once through, I ask directions, shoulder my bag, and begin walking the streets of Sendievu, this fabled city of silver and glass. I do not allow myself to see or hear because I am afraid of my feelings. The envy and outrage I must feel at seeing a city prosperous and safe in peace are more than I can carry. I walk, as directed, and walk some more, my gaze fixed on the paving stones. I glance at a street marker and realize that I am there. My courage evaporates as I look up.

  The Talman Kovah is a squat structure of tans, browns, and pale blues with a huge white dome rising from its center. Its entrance is busy with Dracs, humans, and members of other species entering and leaving, each individual seemingly fixed on his, her, or its self importance. I stand, watching from a beautiful park that extends toward the south down a gentle slope to a wide river lined with flowering trees. Along other streets are establishments selling food, clothing, gifts, furniture, books, appliances, toys, and land. Many of the establishments are either human or offering human goods. There are posters showing humans and Dracs embracing in friendship and at least one theater showing Drac translations of human plays. Peace, plenty, prosperity, and fellowship purchased by cutting Amadeen off from the universe. I cannot get out of my mind how much destruction I could cause on this street had I my energy knife. I lean against a smooth-barked tree:, lavender fronds spreading out over my head, shading me from Draco’s sun.

  There is a human in the park. He is very dark, very old, and very crippled, his head hair long and gray. He sits in his wheeled chair staring at the kovah. Thrust into a holder welded to the metal chair is a sign that carries a single word: Remember. Three Drac children run by the human, laughing, taunting him, calling him names. The human does not react. The children have been there before.

  How long has the human been sitting there? Since the quarantine? Is he all that is left of a larger demonstration three decades ago? Is he just another drool, his brain crisped on happy paste? I do not know why he angers me.

  I look away and see two lovers walking a path among the blue flowering trees and furry green thickets, the sticky secretions on the splays glittering in the sunlight like so many faceted gems. There is a strangely beautiful scent on the breeze. Two Dracs walk from the kovah’s entrance, cross the street into the park, and sit on the edge of a fountain. They laugh at something, take things from a pouch, and begin eating. One glances over its shoulder at the human, turns back, and again they laugh. The human does nothing but stare at the entrance to the kovah.

  My gaze falls to the wrapped package in my hands, Zenak Abi’s claim to being a functioning Jetah master. It is a waste, a mist chasing a shadow. In a moment I will be thrown out of the kovah, Zenak Abi’s decades of pointless work will be in a rubbish bin, the blood will continue to flow on Amadeen, and the nameless human sitting in his wheeled chair will still be staring at the Talman Kovah, waiting for the mist to catch the shadow.

  No, I think, I am not angry at the human. I am angry at what makes his existence inevitable. I push myself away from the tree and aim my steps at the Kovah.

  In the reception kiosk is Hidik lbisoh, a clerk receptionist wearing the robes of a student. The cloth of the robe shimmers and falls like cloudy water. The hall surrounding the kiosk is tall, very wide, made of polished goldstone, and illuminated by skylights. Although the sounds ought to echo from every side, the hall is curiously quiet, even the sounds of my footsteps muted. The clerk examines me and my clothes once more, then returns its gaze to Zenak Abi’s package. With one hand entering items into its data absorption mechanism, lbisoh touches the package with the tips of two fingers as though the bundle had been dipped in excrement.

  “To what does the work of this unknown Jetah master apply?” asks lbisoh without looking at me.

  I put aside several comments and answer. “War,”

  “War, indeed.” The clerk’s eyebrows rise as it glances at me, “What is it that you do, Yazi Ro?” it asks, condescension dripping from every syllable.

  “Someday very soon I would like to show you.”

  “Indeed,” the clerk says as it glances at me with a frown. In a moment the wall of arrogance repairs itself. “And the reason the Jetai Diea might possibly find this work on war of interest?”

  I want to take that clerk’s superior demeanor and grind it off with the treads of an Amadeen Front tank. I look away, wrestle my wrath down to mere hostility, and return my gaze to lbisoh. “I imagine the only interest any of you will find in Zenak Abi’s work is in how much energy the recycled remains of this pack of papers possesses. Give me a receipt to show I delivered it.”

  I see a touch of fear in the clerk’s eyes rapidly replaced by contempt. lbisoh fingers some panel that flashes different colored plates and produces a small sheet of transparent film. The clerk picks up the film and hands it to me. I look at it and there is an almost invisible dot in its center. “What is this?”

  “Your receipt.” That smug look appears again. “You can read it with any modern computer or compatible reader.”

  I point to the inkstone and scriber on Ibisoh’s desk. “Write me something on a piece of paper. The one who must read this has no modern computers or compatible readers.”

  The clerk looks at the scriber and laughs out loud. “Yazi Ro, honored visitor to this hall, this stone and scriber are antiques. I have them here only for decoration.”

  I no longer attempt to keep the impatience from my voice. “Then write with something else, Hidik lbisoh, if handwriting is numbered among your vast array of skills.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” says a gentle voice from behind me. I turn and see a tall Drac wearing a dark blue robe edged with silver. On one of its fingers it wears a ring after the fashion of the humans. The Drac’s expression is one of detachment yet helpfulness. Behind it are four more Dracs, two of them carrying a small gray case each, the remaining two carrying weapons.

  Hidik Ibisoh jumps to its feet, snaps out an abrupt bow, and says, “My many apologies, Ovjetah. Honored as I am to see you, this…person requires a handwritten receipt and I have nothing here with which to produce such a document.”

  Ovjetah. There is only one creature in the universe allowed to carry that title: master of masters, presiding Jetah of the Jetai Diea, First Jetah of the Talman Kovah. One of its predecessors, Tora Soam, helped seal the fate of Amadeen thirty years ago. The two Dracs with the weapons concentrate their attention on me. The Ovjetah reaches out a hand and one of its assistants places a modern scriber into it. The powerful Drac in the dark blue robe hands the writing instrument to Hidik Ibisoh, who takes it with trembling fingers. “Do you need paper, as well?”

  “Yes, Ovjetah. I would appreciate some paper. My thanks.” lbisoh looks close to death from embarrassment. One of the Ovjetah’s assistants hands the clerk a pad of paper and informs Ibisoh that it may keep both the paper and the scriber.

  Ibisoh bows again, sits, and begins writing out my receipt, its face darker still from embarrassment.

  The Ovjetah faces me, bows slightly, and says, “I am Jeriba Shigan. As my Uncle Willy would say, welcome to my store.”

  I frown at the word “uncle,” the human name for a parent’s brother. Still, I bow in response to the greeting. “Yazi Ro, Ovjetah.”

  “The greeting comes hard to you, Yazi Ro.”

  I stand and nod to Shigan, “Bowing is not the custom on Amadeen.”

  It is as though an electric current passes through the beings at Hidik Ibisoh’s kiosk. The two guards advance their weapons in my direction, and although they are not aimed directly at me, it would take only a slight degree of movement for me to split their sights. Jeriba Shigan shifts its gaze to the clerk and Hidik Ibisoh lifts Zenak’s package. “Yazi Ro came to present the work of Jetah Zenak Abi to the Jetai Diea. Its work concerns war,” Ibisoh concludes lamely.

  The
Ovjetah studies me a moment longer, steps toward the kiosk, and holds out its hand. The clerk places the package in it, and Shigan turns the package, looking at it. “Zenak Abi is alive?”

  “When I left Amadeen, Abi lived. The Jetah’s current state of health I do not know. It is not a certain thing on Amadeen.”

  “Amadeen’s uncertainty is the universe’s, Yazi Ro.” Jeriba Shigan opens the package and fingers through a deck of narrow papers, each sheet crowded with tiny rows of handwriting. “Hand slips,” says the Ovjetah. “I haven’t seen these since I was a child in my uncle’s cave. No electricity,” Shigan explains. Looking up at me, the Ovjetah asks, “Where are you staying?”

  “I am not staying. My obligations are limited to delivering that pile of papers and seeing that a copy of the Koda Nusinda gets back to Zenak Abi.”

  This time the Ovjetah’s brows climb in surprise. “I wasn’t aware that the existence of the Nusinda was known, nor that commerce between Amadeen and the rest of the galaxy is quite that free.”

  “Zenak Abi knows about the new book, and so do I. As for anyone else, I cannot say. As for communications with Amadeen, money speaks.”

  “The eagle squawks and money talks,” says the Ovjetah. It smiles as it leafs through the handslips. “My Uncle Willy, again.” Handing the papers to an assistant, Jeriba Shigan says, “Yazi Ro, despite your protests, you will be staying for a few days. If for no other reason, it will be to obtain the copy of the Koda Nusinda for your Jetah. As of this moment there are no print copies available, and I imagine Abi will need a print copy.”

  “Yes.” I turn from Shigan, take the scriber from Hidik Ibisoh, and write on a piece of paper from my own pocket. “I am writing the name of an officer of the Tora Soam on this paper: Binas Pahvi. The ship is in for the next few days. Send the copy to Amadeen in this person’s care and it will get to Zenak Abi.” I hand the paper to Jeriba Shigan. “If you give him enough money.”