Truth of nature and import of meaning are not matters determinable by a consensus. If only one being understands the meaning, the meaning is understood. If only one being sees the truth, the truth is seen.
THE LAST ENEMY
ONE
Miati Ki hides in the rubble above us at the lip of the dry stream bed. I see only its right boot and the top of its energy pack. The sun is hot and the heat radiating from the desert sand and boulders flails my face and steals my breath. Only the dense humidity remembers that this was once a jungle. There are no birds, no flowers, no trees. Everything beautiful and gentle that once flew or grew here left this part of the Shorda countless lives ago. Still, the stinging greenflies have survived. They will outlive us all.
Pina is eating the last of its share of the rations we captured. As it took its share of the rations, Pina made a joke, holding it to its lips. "This is the fruit of the Irrveden, for which the Mavedah fought, that we eat at the second repast"
I laughed with the others at the words of the repast ceremony, from times when there were formal repasts, tables, and food. Rick before any of us were born. When I was very young, before my parent’s death, Yazi Avo would recite the ceremony at meals, when there were meals. I laughed, but Pina’s joke made me want to cry.
I hold to my ear the little receiver I keep in my pocket. Its screen is broken, but it still produces audio. The Mavedah station at Mijii Heights still sends, which means the eastern flank of the Front’s invasion of the Shorda is still stalled. The music is that rapid effervescent confusion of human and Drac folk sounds we call zidydrac and the humans call mancho. The recording was made before the war. I scan for the Amadeen Front’s mobile station, or one of the others. Sometimes I can get the Black October station, but not today. Nothing new supporting the rumors of another attempt at a truce. Even if a truce should take place it would be only a matter of days before The Rose, Black October, or some other uncontrollable faction of the Front violates it, throwing us all back into war. Still, there would be a day, possibly more, without death.
Ki’s hand makes signs to us. First the fist, one finger pointed down, then all three fingers together followed by a fist. Chaki Anta is back.
There had been an explosion at the bunker. We all heard it, saw the smoke and dust carried by the wind over the lake. Qat Juniki told us about it before it died. A human had come out of the bunker, his hands above his head, and Chaki Anta took the man’s surrender. The human’s hands were held as fists. "I saw the wire," said Juniki. "I told the man to open his hands before he came any closer. I told him in English. I told him again. When he opened them, the world vanished."
A walking bomb with a dead-man’s switch. Such a human way of killing. Juniki thought Chaki Anta had been killed, but now Anta is back. As I turn off the receiver I am relieved. Anta is an old fighter, a survivor of many raids and battles. It helps me to know that not all of us must die in this war. My relief is mixed with dread, for when Anta comes back, the killing and dying resume. Anta walks with death. Perhaps that is how it has acquired immunity.
We will soon move into a fight. No one says any of this but it is in everyone’s eyes. We swallow the last of our ration bars. I see Pina take a touch of happy paste with its tongue. Its eyes close as the drug spins Pina away on a transitory cloud of peace, safety, and joy. I look at my ration bar and wonder why food is so scarce but happy paste is everywhere. In the end we will probably die of malnutrition within the mist of a spittle dream.
We looted the ration bars from the humans, but they are good to eat. They are viyapi rations the humans looted from us. Some of the human rations are good, too. I like the containers of fruit and the candy bars, but they are rare. There is something in plastic envelopes called scrambled eggs and ham that even the humans refuse to eat. For that reason, of course, scrambled eggs and ham are all that they have left. Their rations, like ours, are left over from the war.
Chaki Anta slides and stumbles down the dust of the stream bank, followed by Ki. Anta’s face is deep ochre, an old scar along the left side of its forehead. Although our commander smiles with its mouth, its deep yellow eyes betray all of the dead they have seen. Anta nods as it points toward the east with its battered energy knife. "Only a few left in that bunker at the foot of the bluff. I heard firing coming from inside. They were not shooting at me or at anything outside the bunker." Its brow climbs in an expression of hopeful possibility. "I think they were fighting among themselves." His cold smile becomes a cold grin. "We will get Taaka Liok a present and end them this time." Chaki Anta’s eyes narrow. "We are the Twelve."
"The Front Twelve," we mutter back more out of habit than pride. Our eagerness drowned in oceans of blood years ago, buying presents for Taaka Liok with our blood. My whole life in the Mavedah has been spent serving at the pleasure of this mysterious warmaster, who in turn serves at the pleasure of the Denvedah Diea.
I glance down at the helmet in my hands. It carries on its once sand-red surface the scars of thirty years of death. Only five of those years are mine. The sensors and readout still work, but the voice link is scratchy. I can do without the voice link. Hand signals are silent, instant, clear, and do not send out electro-magnetic pulses for eager probes to pick up. Besides, I prefer to dedicate my hearing to my immediate surroundings. That is where the threats to my life lie.
The helmet is military issue, of the Tsien Denvedah back in the war. The names of seven Mavedah soldiers are scratched in the surface exposing the dull brown fiber beneath.
Ritan Vey
Ada Nitoh
Lioseh Akiva
Ivat Mikotath
Sed Tura
Riwis Achavneh
Enot Fal.
We all know the stories of the great hero Ritan Vey, once second warmaster of the Tsien Denve of the Ninth Shordan, conqueror of New Aetheria. Only a few of us remember Enot Fal. Fal’s first day after training saw it crushed beneath the treads of an Amadeen Front tank in the attack on Stokes Crossing in the Southern Shorda. I had no helmet of my own, so I claimed Fal’s.
I wonder who will get the helmet after I am gone. It is irrational of me, but I am afraid to scratch my own name into this pathetic monument. Besides, the seven names already there are burden enough to carry.
We are the Front Twelve, Anta had told us long ago. Tsien Siay. The pride of the Okori Sikov. There are only five of us left now. Ragged, tired, and thin from meager rations. We were twelve at the beginning of the battle six days ago. When the last of us falls, perhaps there will be another twelve to replace us. Children, ancients, and fools. Onward marches the grand Mavedah. I slip my shoulders into the straps of my energy pack and adjust the piece of plastic foam between the pack and the small of my back to ease the chafing. Something I learned from a dead human.
I glance sideways to see if my few remaining comrades somehow detect the treason that echoes in my thoughts. Anta is positioning its energy knife in the harsh sunlight to absorb that last bit of energy before we go. Miati Ki is strapping on its equipment, most of which was salvaged from dead Amadeen Front soldiers.