Barry Longyear - Enemy Papers

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.

The customs officials in Sendievu 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.