Enemy Papers Read online

  “How do the humans speak among themselves?”

  I shrugged. “They don’t always; when they do, they use interpreters—people who can speak both languages.”

  “You and I speak both English and Drac; does that make us interpreters?”

  “I suppose we could be, if you could ever find a human and a Drac who want to talk to each other. Remember, there’s a war going on.”

  “How will the war stop if they do not talk?”

  “Good question. Maybe they’ll run out of ammunition or bodies to kill. I suppose they will talk, eventually.”

  Zammis smiled. “I think I would like to be an interpreter and help end the war.” The Drac put its sewing aside and stretched out on its new mattress. Zammis had outgrown even its old mattress, which it now used for a pillow. “Uncle, do you think that we will find anybody beyond the scrub forest?”

  “I hope so. If we don’t, it’ll be one hell of a long hike for nothing.”

  “If we find someone, will you go with me to Draco?”

  “I promised your parent that I would.”

  “After I make my recitation, what will you do?”

  I stared at the fire, a question I never asked myself smoking on the table. “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “The war might keep us from getting to Draco for a long time.”

  “After that, what?”

  “I suppose I’ll stay in the service.”

  Zammis propped itself up on an elbow. “Go back to being a fighter pilot?”

  “Sure. That’s about all I know how to do.”

  “And kill Dracs?”

  I put my own sewing down and studied the Drac. Things had changed since Jerry and I had slugged it out—more things than I had realized. I shook my head. “No. I probably won’t be a pilot—not a service one. Maybe I can land a job flying commercial ships.” I shrugged. “Maybe the service won’t give me any choice.”

  Zammis sat up, was still for a moment; then it stood, walked over to my mattress, and knelt before me on the sand. “Uncle, I don’t want to leave you.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll have your own kind around you. Your grandparent, Gothig, Shigan’s siblings, their children—you’ll forget all about me.”

  “Will you forget about me?”

  I looked into those yellow eyes, then reached out my hand and touched Zammis’s cheek. “No, I won’t forget about you. But, remember this, Zammis: you’re a Drac and I’m a human, and that’s how this part of the universe is divided.”

  Zammis took my hand from his cheek, spread the fingers and studied them. “Whatever happens, Uncle, I will never forget you.”

  The ice was gone, and the Drac and I stood in the wind-blown drizzle, packs on our backs, before the grave. Zammis was as tall as I was, which made it a little taller than Jerry. To my relief, the boots fit. Zammis hefted its pack up higher on its shoulders, then turned from the grave and looked out at the sea. I followed Zammis’s glance and watched the rollers steam in and smash on the rocks. I looked at the Drac. “What are you thinking?”

  Zammis looked down, then turned toward me. “Uncle, I didn’t think of it before, but… I will miss this place.”

  I burst out with a laugh. “Nonsense! This place?” I slapped the Drac on the shoulder. “Why would you miss this place?”

  Zammis looked back out to sea. “I have learned many things here. You have taught me many things here, Uncle. My life happened here.”

  “Only the beginning, Zammis. You have a life ahead of you.” I nodded my head at the grave. “Say goodbye.”

  Zammis turned toward the grave, stood over it, then knelt to one side and began removing the rocks. After a few moments, it had exposed the hand of a skeleton with three fingers. Zammis nodded, then wept. “I am sorry. Uncle, but I had to do that. This has been nothing but a pile of rocks to me. Now it is more.” Zammis replaced the rocks, then stood.

  I cocked my head toward the scrub forest. “Go on ahead. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  Zammis moved off toward the naked trees, and I looked down at the grave. “What do you think of Zammis, Jerry? It’s bigger than you were. I guess snake agrees with the kid.” I squatted next to the grave, picked up a small rock, and added it to the pile. “I guess this is it. We’re either going to make it to Draco, or die trying.” I stood and looked at the sea. “Yeah, I guess I learned a few things here. I’ll miss it, in a way.” I turned back to the grave and hefted my pack up. “Ehdevva sahn, Jeriba Shigan. So long, Jerry.”

  I turned and followed Zammis into the forest.

  The days that followed were full of wonder for Zammis. For me the sky was still the same, dull grey, and the few variations of plant and animal life that we found were nothing remarkable. Once we got beyond the scrub forest, we climbed a gentle rise for a day, and then found ourselves on a wide, flat, endless plain. It was ankle deep in a purple weed that stained our boots the same color. The nights were still too cold for hiking, and we would hole up in the tent. Both the greased tent and suits worked well, keeping out the almost constant rain. In time there were clumps of scrub trees resembling the ones above the cave. We made camp there, giving us some relief from the winds.

  Nights we slept. Days we hiked and talked and sang. I avoided teaching Zammis some of the raunchier barracks ditties I knew, but there were others. Some of them made me think. I mean, just how long had it been since anyone worked on a railroad? The song wasn’t particularly meaningful or catchy, but there it was, being sung by a Drac on a planet that never even saw a railroad. Verily, someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah, playing on the old banjo.

  In response to Zammis’s question, we stopped in one of the scrub clumps, pitched the tent, and began constructing a banjo. With the end off a hollow log, some snakeskin stretched over it, a stick scraped flat for a neck, and some dried and twisted snakegut for strings, we had something that sounded like a ukulele being played underwater. I remembered how to tune a uke, but I couldn’t do more than play a few chords and pick out a couple of tunes. Back on the hike, Zammis took to the crude instrument and began picking. Soon we had music for our singing, and I broke down and taught Zammis just a couple of the not too raunchy service songs.

  It was fun. More fun than I remembered ever having with anyone. If we never found a ship or anything else, I could happily spend the rest of my life hiking with Zammis, singing songs, and seeing what’s over the horizon.

  One day, shortly after beginning our day’s hike, we saw it. A ship. It screamed overhead, then disappeared over the horizon before either of us could say a word. I had no doubt that the craft I had seen was in landing attitude.

  “Uncle! Did it see us?”

  I shook my head. “No, I doubt it. But it was landing. Do you hear? It was landing somewhere ahead.”

  “Uncle?”

  “Let’s get moving! What is it?”

  “Was it a Drac ship, or a human ship?”

  I cooled in my tracks. I had never stopped to think about it. I waved my hand. “Come on. It doesn’t matter. Either way, you go to Draco. You’re a noncombatant, so the USE forces couldn’t do anything, and if they’re Dracs, you’re home free.”

  We began walking. “But, Uncle, if it’s a Drac ship, what will happen to you?”

  I shrugged. “Prisoner of war. The Dracs say they abide by the interplanetary war accords, so I should be all right.” Fat chance, said the back of my head to the front of my head. The big question was whether I preferred being a Drac POW or a permanent resident of Fyrine IV. I had figured that out long ago. “Come on, let’s pick up the pace. We don’t know how long it will take to get there, or how long it will be on the ground.”

  Pick ‘em up; put ‘em down. Except for a few breaks, we didn’t stop—even when night came. Our exertion kept us warm. The horizon never seemed to grow nearer. The longer we slogged ahead the duller my mind grew. It must have been days, my mind gone numb as my feet, when I fell through the purple weed into a hole. Immediat
ely, everything grew dark, and I felt a pain in my right leg. I felt the blackout coming, and I welcomed its warmth, its rest, its peace.

  “Uncle? Uncle? Wake up! Please, wake up!”

  I felt slapping against my face, although it felt somehow detached. Agony thundered into my brain, bringing me wide awake. Damned if I didn’t break my leg. I looked up and saw the weedy edges of the hole. My rear end was seated in a trickle of water. Zammis squatted next to me. “What happened?”

  Zammis motioned upward. “This hole was only covered by a thin crust of dirt and plants. The water must have taken the ground away. Are you all right?”

  “My leg. I think I broke it.” I leaned my back against the muddy wall. “Zammis, you’re going to have to go on by yourself.”

  “I can’t leave you. Uncle!”

  “Look, if you find anyone, you can send them back for me.”

  “What if the water in here comes up?” Zammis felt along my leg until I winced. “I must carry you out of here. What must I do for the leg?”

  The kid had a point. Drowning wasn’t in my schedule. “We need something stiff. Bind the leg so it doesn’t move.”

  Zammis pulled off its pack, and kneeling in the water and mud, went through its pack, then through the tent roll. Using the tent poles, it wrapped my leg with snakeskins torn from the tent. Then, using more snakeskins, Zammis made two loops, slipped one over each of my legs, then propped me up and slipped the loops over its shoulders. It lifted, and I blacked out.

  On the ground, covered with the remains of the tent, Zammis was shaking my arm. “Uncle? Uncle?”

  “Yes?” I whispered.

  “Uncle, I’m ready to go.” It pointed to my side. The skins from the tent were covering a lump of something. “Your food is here, and when it rains, just pull the tent over your face. I’ll mark the trail I make so I can find my way back.”

  I nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

  Zammis shook its head. “Uncle, I can carry you. We shouldn’t separate.”

  I weakly shook my head. “Give me a break, kid. I couldn’t make it. Find somebody and bring ‘em back.” I felt my stomach flip, and cold sweat drenched my snakeskins. “Go on; get going.”

  Zammis reached out, grabbed its pack, and stood. The pack shouldered, Zammis turned and began running in the direction that the craft had been going. I watched until I couldn’t see it. “Remember me,” I whispered.

  I faced up and looked at the clouds. “You almost got me that time, you kizlode sonofabitch, but you didn’t figure on the Drac… you keep forgetting… there’s two of us.”

  I drifted in and out of consciousness, felt rain on my face, then pulled up the tent and covered my head. In seconds, the blackout returned.

  “Davidge? Lieutenant Davidge?”

  “Waa.” I opened my eyes, watched the lights swim around for a bit then settle down into something I hadn’t seen for four Earth years: a human face. “Who are you?”

  The face, young, long and capped by short blond hair, smiled. “I’m Captain Steerman, ship’s medical officer. How do you feel?”

  I pondered the question and smiled. “Like I’ve been shot full of very high-grade junk.”

  “You have. You were in pretty bad shape by the time the survey team brought you in.”

  “Survey team?”

  “I guess you don’t know. The United States of Earth and the Dracon Chamber have established a joint commission to supervise the colonization of new planets. The war is over.”

  “Over?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? What about Amadeen?”

  “The planet’s quarantined. I don’t know what they’re going to do down on Amadeen, but the USE and the Dracs are out of it.” Something heavy lifted from my chest.

  “Where’s Zammis?”

  “Who?”

  “Jeriba Zammis; the Drac that I was with.”

  The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know anything about it. If there was a Drac with you when you were picked up, I suppose the Draggers are taking care of it.”

  Draggers.

  I’d once used the term myself. As I listened to it coming out of Steerman’s mouth, it seemed foreign: alien, repulsive. “Zammis is a Drac, not a Dragger.”

  The doctor’s brows furrowed, then he shrugged. “Of course. Whatever you say. Just you get some rest, and I’ll check back on you in a few hours.”

  “May I see Zammis?”

  The doctor smiled. “Dear, no. You’re on your way back to the Delphi USEB. The, ah, Drac is probably on its way to Draco. That’s where he belongs, right?” He nodded, then turned and left.

  God, I felt lost. I looked around and saw that I was in the ward of a ship’s sick bay. The beds on either side of me were occupied. The man on my right shook his head and went back to reading a magazine. The one on my left looked angry.

  “You damned Dragger suck!” He turned on his left side and presented me his back.

  Home again, home again, jiggety jig.

  Alien Earth.

  As I stepped down the ramp onto the USE field in Orleans, those were the first two words that popped into my head. Alien Earth. I looked at the crowds of USE Force personnel bustling around like so many ants, inhaled the smell of industrial man, then spat on the ramp.

  “How you like, put in stockade time?”

  I looked down and saw a white-capped Force Police private glaring up at me. I continued down the ramp. “Get bent.”

  “Quoi?” The FP marched over and met me at the end of the ramp.

  “Get bent.” I pulled my discharge papers from my breast pocket and waved them. “Gavey short-timer, kizlode?”

  The FP took my papers, frowned at them, then pointed at a long, low building at the edge of the field. “Continuez tout droit.”

  I smiled, turned and headed across the field, thinking of Zammis asking about how humans talk together. And where was Zammis? I shook my head, then entered the building. Most of the people inside the low building were crowding the in-processing or transportation-exchange aisles. I saw two bored officials behind two long tables and figured that they were the local customs clerks. A multilingual sign above their stations confirmed the hunch. I stopped in front of one of them. She glanced up at me, then held out her hand. “Votre passeport?”

  I pulled out the blue and white booklet, handed it over, then stood holding my hands as I waited. I could feel the muscles at the back of my neck knot as I observed an old anti-Drac propaganda poster on the wall behind her. It showed two yellow, clawed hands holding a miniature Earth before a fanged mouth. Fangs and claws. The caption read: “They would call this victory” in seven languages.

  “Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”

  I frowned at her. Ess?”

  She frowned back. “Avez-vous quelque chose à déclarer?”

  I felt a tap on my back. “Do you speak English?”

  I turned and saw the other customs clerk, a man with a big black mustache, a potgut, and a pension. My upper lip curled. “Surda; ne surda. Adze Dracon?”

  His eyebrows went up as he mouthed the word “Drac.” He turned to the other clerk, took my passport from her, then looked back at me. He tapped the booklet against his fingertips, then opened it, read the ident page, and looked back at me. “Come with me, Mister Davidge. We must have a talk.” He turned and headed into a small office. I shrugged and followed. When I entered, he pointed toward a chair. As I lowered myself into it, he sat down behind a desk. “Why do you pretend not to speak English?”

  “Why do you have that poster on the wall? The war is over.”

  The customs clerk clasped his hands, rested them on the desk, then shook his head. “The fighting is over, Mister Davidge, but for many the war is not. The Draggers killed many humans.”

  I cocked my head to one side. “A few Dracs died, too.” I stood up. “May I go now?”

  The customs clerk leaned back in his chair. “That chip on your shoulder you will find to be a considerable weight to bea
r on this planet.”

  “I’m the one who has to carry it.”

  The customs clerk shrugged, then nodded toward the door. “You may go. And good luck, Mister Davidge. You’ll need it.”

  “Dragger suck.”

  As an invective the term had all of the impact of several historical terms—Quisling, heretic, fag, nigger-lover—all rolled into one. That, though, was only the beginning of my problems. Ex-Force pilots were a drag on the employment market, with no commercial positions open, especially not to a pilot who hadn’t flown in four years, who had a gimpy leg, and who was a Dragger suck.

  Transportation to North America, and after a period of lonely wandering, to Dallas. Mistan’s eight-hundred-year-old words from The Talman would haunt me: Misnuuram va siddeth; Your thought is loneliness. Loneliness is a thing one does to oneself.

  Jerry shook his head that one time, then pointed a yellow finger at me as the words it wanted to say came together. “Davidge… to me loneliness is a discomfort—unpleasant, and a thing to be avoided, but not a thing to be feared. I think you would prefer death to being alone with yourself.”

  Of course, I had a special gift: right in the center of the biggest crowd anyone ever saw, I could find loneliness.

  Mistan observed: “If you are alone with yourself, you will forever be alone with others.” A contradiction? The test of reality proves it true. I was out of place on my own planet, and it was more than a hate that I didn’t share or a love that, to others, seemed impossible—perverse. Deep inside of myself, I had no use for the creature called “Davidge.” Before Fyrine IV there had been other reasons—reasons that I could not identify; but now, my reason was known. My fault or not, I had betrayed an ugly, yellow thing called Zammis, as well as the creature’s parent. “Present Zammis before the Jeriba archives. Swear this to me.”

  Oh, Jerry…

  Swear this!

  I swear it…

  Forty-eight thousand credits in back pay, and so money wasn’t a problem. The problem was what to do with myself. Finally, in Dallas, I landed a job in a small book house translating manuscripts into Drac. It seemed that there was a craving among Dracs for Westerns:

  “Stick ‘em up naagusaafi”