Enemy Papers

by Barry B. Longyear

  “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… goodbye, 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.

  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 goodbye, 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.”

  We waved back, then I stopped Fish Face and turned toward him. “Can you imagine what Boston Beau’s gang will do here?”

  Fish Face nodded without changing expression. Then he pointed toward one of the creatures dressed in white belts who appeared to be directing foot traffic at one of the mall intersections. I felt slightly sick when I realized that the Asthu needed traffic cops to keep pedestrians from running into each other. “There’s a copper. Let’s find out where his station is.”

  We walked up to the egg in white belts and I began. “Could you tell me where the police station is?”

  I was standing directly in front of the officer, and he rotated until he brought one of his eyes around to face me. It went wide, then he staggered backward a step. “Mig ballooma!”

  “Police station?” I tried again.

  Slightly recovered, the officer took a step toward us, scanned with one eye, then the other. “Egger bley sirkis.”

  “What?”

  The officer pointed at me, then at Fish Face. “Sirkis, sirkis, dether et?”

  Fish Face poked me in the arm. “Listen, he’s saying circus.” The tiny mouth on the egg rapidly became much larger, then the entire body dipped back and forth, “Sirkis! Sirkis!” As the bodies began piling up at the intersection, the officer reached beneath one of his white belts and pulled out a red and white card. “Sirkis!”

  I looked at it, then turned to Fish Face. “It’s an advanced reserve ticket for the show.” I turned back to the officer and nodded. “Yes, circus. Police station?”

  He tucked the card back under his belt, then held up his hands.

  “Nethy bleu et poleece stayshun duma?” A lane of traffic mistook the officer’s hand gesture for a signal and began piling into the cross-lane flow. “Gaavuuk!” The officer scanned around once, then waded into the bodies, shouting, pointing, and shoving. After a few minutes of this, traffic began flowing again, and the officer returned. He pointed at a door a few paces from the corner. “Agwug, tuwhap thubba.”

  I pointed in the direction of the door. “Police station?”

  He held up his arms again in that gesture that was probably a shrug, thereby causing the halted lane
to pile into the cross-lane again. “Ah, gaavuuk! Nee gaavuuk!” Back he went to untangle the bodies. Fish Face pulled at my arm and pointed at the door.

  “I think we better go before the copper comes back. Think that’s the station?”

  I shrugged. “Let’s try it anyway.” We walked the few steps to the door. On the door was painted a variety of incomprehensible lines, dots, squiggles, and smears. Toward the bottom was spelled out, “English Spoke Hear.” I nodded, then turned to Fish Face. “It’s an interpreter.” I pushed open the door and we entered a cramped, windowless stall. In the back, behind a low counter, one of the egg-shaped creatures was leaning in a corner.

  Fish Face tapped me on the shoulder. “Is he asleep?”

  I walked over to the counter and tapped on it. “Excuse me?” No response. I knocked harder. “Excuse me, do you speak English?”

  The egg opened the eye facing me, started a bit, blinked, then went big in the mouth. “Sirkis!” He stood and reached under the wide brown belt he wore and pulled out an advanced reserve ticket. “Sirkis!”

  I nodded. “Yes, we’re with the circus.” I turned to Fish Face. “Stretch Dirak and the advance have done quite a job.” I turned hack. “Do you speak English?”

  The mouth went big again as the eyes squinted. “English spoke hear.”

  “What’s your name!”

  “Name are Doccor-thut, well, sirs.” Doccor-thut dipped forward in the good egg’s version of a bow.

  I smiled. “We need an interpreter.”

  “English spoke hear.”

  “Yes, can you come with us? We want to go to the police station.”

  Doccor-thut rotated a bit, went down behind the counter and came up again carrying a book. He held it up to one eye and began paging through it. “Police… police… hmmmm. Regulation of community affairs… community… community, ah… hmmmm… station… hmmm.” Doccor-thut put the hook down and faced an eye toward me. “You want to operate a radio?”

  Fish Face placed a hand on my shoulder. “Let me give it a try.” He wiggled a finger at Doccor-thut. “Come with me.”

  Doccor-thut pressed a button, part of the countertop slid open, and he walked through the opening. He followed Fish Face to the door, and I brought up the rear. Out in the mall, Fish Face pointed at the traffic cop. “Police.”

  Doccor-thut aimed an eye at Fish Face. “You want police radio?”

  Fish Face shook his head. “Take us to the police’s boss.”

  Doccor-thut went back to the book. “Boss… circular protuberance or knoblike swelling—”

  Fish Face took the book. “Allow me!” He found the definition he wanted, faced the book at Doccor-thut, then pointed with his finger. “Boss. Supervisor, employer.”

  And so on.

  These kinds of translation misunderstandings provided the foundation for such exchanges in “Enemy Mine” as the following:

  …Any minute we could be washed off that sandbar. “Jerry, you’re being silly about that rod. You know that.”

  “Surda.” The Drac sounded contrite if not altogether miserable.

  “Ess?”

  “Ess eh surda?”

  Jerry remained silent for a moment. “Davidge, gavey not certain not is?”

  I sorted out the negatives. “You mean possible, maybe, perhaps ?”

  “Ae, possiblemaybeperhaps. Dracon fleet Irkmaan ships have. Before war buy; after war capture. Rod possiblemaybeperhaps Dracon is.”

  “So, if there’s a secret base on the big island, surda it’s a Dracon base?”

  “Possiblemaybeperhaps, Davidge.”

  What follows are some notes I made on another story idea flop that contributed to the form “Enemy Mine” took. At this point, though. I feel obligated to point out that I never condemn any idea, no matter how badly it smells. This is how I keep in check this overly developed critical faculty of mine that tends to dry up everything that comes within its range. The advantage is that parts and pieces are saved, allowing such things as “Enemy Mine” to come into being. The disadvantage is that my files are crammed with a whole lot of crap that is going to be very embarrassing if someone should wade through them after my mortal exit for the purpose of writing the definitive Barry B. Longyear biography. Chances are, the work will be titled: I Can’t Believe He Wrote All This Crap!

  Again, I digress.

  Here are my notes on the other story language idea:

  UNTITLED

  Begin a story in English, dropping in alien language words and phrases along the way, until the reader is sufficiently familiar with the alien language that the last paragraph of the story can be written entirely in the alien tongue.

  The first step is to invent the alien language. It has to be alien, but still easily learned if the reader is going to be able to make it through the last paragraph without a fight. [I worked up the grammar, spelling, pronunciation, and a vocabulary of about three hundred words. The end result was a cross between Spanish, Japanese, Hebrew, and pig Latin.]

  Invent a situation that would justify the language exercise. One character must learn the language from another, or at least the reader has to learn it.

  General semantics teaches that certain terms (called semantic blanks) are regarded as representing some aspect of reality (have meaning) but, instead, are meaningless (have no corresponding referent in reality); “justice,” “fair,” “socialism,” “reasonable,” and “rights” being among the many. The theory is that if two persons, each speaking a different language and understanding none of the other’s language, and each one refusing to learn the other’s language, invented a third language for purposes of communication, they would not be able to talk about “justice,” or “socialism.”

  One can point at a rock and call it a “blug.” The second person agrees, and from then on when the word “blug” is used, each party will know what is being referred to. But what do you point at to arrive at an agreement on a term for “justice”?

  What if negotiators representing different political powers (human and alien) were cut off from any means of translating their words and had to invent a language of their own? Why invent a language of their own? They could sit out the technical difficulty and continue as before unless the difficulty were one that, first, caused an immediate danger, and second, could not be cured in time. Put them in space. The negotiators must be separated from the translators (either mechanical or human) for some credible reason.

  Let’s say that all sides to this negotiation are highly suspicious of each other, and that the ground rules limit just the chiefs of each negotiating team into a self-contained vessel such as a shuttle. The translators (human and alien) do their work by remote means from the parent ship. Slam! Sabotage. The parent ship explodes, blowing the shuttle clear. The tiny craft with its limited range and supplies is stranded in space. The only ones aboard are the negotiation team chiefs: three different kinds of aliens and an English-speaking human. They must work together to have a chance at surviving, but before that they must be able to communicate. They begin trying.

  Now, to back up some and stick in some characters. First, the human negotiator. The experience is going to have to teach him something, so make him a hidebound, ding-word happy diplomatic type. What is he going to learn? The brotherhood of creatures, we’re all in this together, stuff is too old [which is interesting, since that’s the main theme of “Enemy Mine.”]. What about the theory itself? Ninety-nine percent of all religions, codes of ethics, ideologies, moralities, concepts of right and wrong are founded on ding-words; semantic blanks; if it doesn’t, have an existing-in-reality, mutually agreed-upon referent, the term is meaningless. That would be something to learn.

  How is our diplomat going to get the lesson along with the reader? The premise of semantic blanks must be explained. Another character: the human negotiator’s translator. A cynical fellow who has spent his life studying languages, and seeing them used and abused through negotiations of various kinds. The diplomat and the trans
lator are having a talk prior to the negotiators boarding the shuttle. The diplomat makes campaign noises about “serving the good of humanity,” and the translator tells him he’s full of bull, then why. Diplomat disagrees, then boards shuttle.

  What are these characters negotiating about? The first round opens making clear to the reader what the issue is. A territorial thing: war, economics, something like that, replete with fine, high-sounding phrases signifying nothing. It has to be done in English, and the human diplomat is the only one getting the conversation in English. Diplomat is viewpoint character.

  Blam! The parent ship goes up, the shuttle is blown clear, and our cast is stranded without a common word between them. Now what? They are diplomats, not pulp SF geniuses who can take bobby pins and wads of bubble gum and rig a faster-than-light drive or universal translator. They are all word mechanics, ding-word mechanics at that. They hate each other’s guts. The long-arm-of-coincidence rule prevents the Seventh Cavalry from riding in and saving them; they have to work their own way out. First, a little trust. Then they begin pointing at various things and naming them.

  Problem: just to develop a get-along-in-this-situation working language will take endless pages, particularly if the reader must learn the language as well. Working up to a “Hey-I’m-a-former-physicist-and-we-can-try-this” language level will take volumes. Ending of story? They talk each other to death.

  OVER AND OUT

  The idea above went into my story dump, but many of the attempts at learning the other’s language wound up in “Enemy Mine.”

  Speaking of translations, “Enemy Mine” has been translated into a number of languages, and it always makes me wonder about the sense the reader gets when he or she reads my stuff in another language. The title of my collection Manifest Destiny in German, for example, is Erbfeinde. To me it sounds like a city planning board addicted to rules, regulations, permits, and payoffs stalking the urban landscape in search of human angst. According to my Cassell’s German Dictionary it means either “hereditary enemy” or “old foe.” In that volume, “Enemy Mine” becomes “Mein lieber Feind,” which means, as near as I can tell, “My beloved Enemy.” The little barracks ditty Davidge sings in the story: