They all stared at the pre-chewed green glaze on the meat. Bobby was first to take a bite. He muttered something enthusiastic, and that was all it took. They tore into their portions like starving dogs. The meat was surprisingly tender and agreeable. The Papuan men pointed at them and smiled, obviously pleased.
The Lamotelokhai didn’t eat. Instead it sat motionless, watching the rest of them. This did not go unnoticed by the Papuans. They glanced at Addison a few times, but then looked away, apparently unwilling to make an issue of it.
Mbaiso steadily increased his distance from the Creator, moving from tree to tree on his journey back to the village. The Creator’s information—its presence—had been fading, and soon it would disappear altogether.
Mbaiso traversed a heavy vine into the lower levels of a plum pine and then stopped, panting from exertion. The tree kangaroo was aware that he would soon be alone for the first time in nearly ten thousand years. He had always been within communication range of the Creator.
He nestled his belly against the limb, allowing his legs to hang over either side. His panting gradually slowed. He closed his eyes and listened. Faint snippets of information were still coming to him, barely detectable—fragments of conversation the Creator was having with the human called Bobby; contemplation over how to express ideas verbally; swift reviews of possible consequences of actions. And occasionally there were peculiar flashes of emotion, as if the Creator were experimenting with such concepts as joy, pity, and sadness. But the incoming information was becoming weaker even now as Mbaiso rested his sore body.
He let out a long grunting sigh. It would have been easy to fall asleep. But there was much distance yet to cover. In spite of the increased risk, he would have to move to the ground where travel would be faster. He scratched his ear with a forepaw and pushed himself off his belly and onto his feet. But then he froze, listening.
Information intended specifically for Mbaiso was coming from the Creator. Usually, the information would come in packets. Each packet would contain a fully formed concept, and when Mbaiso would open the packets, the concepts would simply be there, in his consciousness. Often the concepts would be visions, showing Mbaiso the actions or the consequences of the actions he was expected to perform. But this time the information was different.
Mbaiso absorbed the incoming packets. Cognitive fingers within his consciousness pried the packets open one at a time, revealing information in forms the Creator had not used before. Instead of containing visions, these packets contained information more like words, although no words were spoken nor heard. One packet revealed that the Creator was aware Mbaiso would be on his own soon, too distant to receive information. The next one showed that the Creator was aware that since the arrival of the man, Peter Wooley, Mbaiso had begun developing independent ideas and plans. Another showed that the Creator also knew of the tree kangaroos’ encounter with the crocodile and why Mbaiso had sacrificed Tripela. The Creator did not object to these decisions. Mbaiso’s plans were consistent with the Creator’s purpose.
Finally, there was one packet left. Mbaiso probed the packet, releasing the information, allowing it to infiltrate his awareness. It contained an array of directives—tasks to be completed. He examined the tasks one at a time and found them to be reassuring. They involved giving assistance to the villagers, which had been his primary purpose for his entire existence. And it was clear that the collective outcome of the directives was that the villagers would eventually live without his assistance. This made Mbaiso wonder if his current plans were not his plans at all, but instead had come to him from the Creator undetected.
Mbaiso examined the last of the directives. After considering it for a moment he tilted his head to one side, in case that might help with his understanding. He tried pulling back from it conceptually, to examine it as a whole. He teased it apart, looking at its components, and turned them at various angles to make sure he was not missing some veiled implication. But the task was what it was—nothing more or less. And it was to be carried out after all the others were completed.
Mbaiso shook his head in a brisk circular motion to clear the cognitive clutter. He then descended to the ground and continued his journey. The crocodile was undoubtedly far ahead of him, and it would soon require his help.
“How far away is the planet you’re from?” Bobby asked.
Addison was walking beside him. “I cannot know the distance. The distance changes.”
This was like most of the answers he had given Bobby. They were not really answers or they were too hard to understand. But Bobby kept asking questions because it took his mind off his thirst. He had eaten four hotdog-sized cuts of tree kangaroo meat—enough to stop his hunger—but his thirst was getting to where he could hardly think of anything else. Since they had started walking again, Bobby had asked dozens of questions. But the answers just led to more questions.
Bobby, Carlos, and the new Addison were lagging behind, but not so far that they lost sight of the others. After miles of hills, the forest flattened out again. They were now on a well-worn trail, so Bobby figured they were getting close to a village.
After being silent for some time, Carlos spoke to Addison. “I need to ask you something before we get there. When Miranda died, you talked about making another Miranda just like her. When Ashley drowned, you did make another Ashley. And she’s just like the old Ashley. How do you do that?”
Addison explained it again, about how he could have reconstructed Miranda’s body with parts he could get from the forest, and how he reconstructed Ashley’s body mostly from the parts that were already there in her old body. From Carlos’s look, Bobby sensed what he was going to say next.
“My brother Roberto died when our plane crashed. I want him to be alive again. I don’t care what the others say about asking my parents first. I don’t want my parents to know he died at all. I just want him back. Can you do that?”
“Roberto was killed before I could know of him,” Addison said. “I do not have the information to do what you ask.”
“But you dissolved his body, right? Didn’t you get information about him then?”
This hadn’t occurred to Bobby.
“Yes. Information came to me then. I could make the body of Roberto the way that it was at that time. Is that what you want?”
“No,” Carlos said. “But I could tell you the rest of what you need to know. I can tell you what he was like when he was alive, like all the things he would say, and what he did.”
Bobby considered this possibility. But then he thought of Addison’s reincarnation. He pictured Roberto’s broken, stinking body trying to walk and talk. This was a really bad idea.
Addison stopped walking. “There is much you would have to tell me.”
“I’ve known Roberto all my life,” Carlos said. “I can tell you everything about him.”
Bobby felt panic coming on. Carlos was serious, and so far the Lamotelokhai seemed to do everything he was asked to do.
Carlos said, “I’ll tell you everything. Can you do it now, before we get to a village?”
Addison looked around him like he was checking for ingredients. “Yes.”
“No!” Bobby said. “You can’t do that!”
Carlos looked at Bobby like he had been slapped in the face.
“Think about it, Carlos. I’m sure he can do what he says, but think about Roberto’s body when he dissolved it. That’s not what you want.” Bobby looked to the new Addison for help with this, but the thing just gazed at him.
“I can tell him the rest, Bobby!”
Addison said, “It is not likely that you could tell me what I need to know to make Roberto as he was. It would take much talking. There is information I would need to know that you could not tell me.”
Carlos frowned. “But you just said—”
Addison actually interrupted him. “But it is not likely. You have memories of Roberto. But they are not enough. It is likely there were things about Roberto you do not know
. Others who knew Roberto may know these things. They would have to tell me what they know. And it is likely there were times when Roberto was with no others. There would be no memories of Roberto at those times.”
Carlos exhaled slowly. He rubbed his previously injured hand.
“I’m really sorry,” Bobby said.
Carlos shot him an angry look. “You don’t even have a brother, Bobby.” Then he turned and ran ahead to catch up with the others.
Bobby looked at the Lamotelokhai. “Did you help me out on purpose?”
“I saw that you had doubts about Carlos’s request. Your doubts were correct. And so I helped you.”
Bobby stared. The new Addison stared back without blinking.
“Addison wouldn’t have done that,” Bobby said.
They reached the village late in the afternoon. The trail abruptly opened to a vast clearing. Quentin shaded his eyes with his hand. The clearing had been hewn from the forest, and it was longer than it was wide—an airstrip. At the far end were thatched huts. From one of the huts rose a steel latticed tower with an antenna at its tip. Hopefully this meant they had a radio. The Americans stared at the site as if they had stumbled upon a lost city of gold.
Their Papuan guides stood before them, smiling. One of them held his shotgun and what remained of the tree kangaroo over one shoulder. With his other hand he pointed at the huts. “Viles,” he said.
Then the men abruptly turned back the way they had come. As they walked past Addison, each of them stared intently at him, but they said nothing.
“They’re leaving,” Ashley said. “Why are they leaving?”
Lindsey called to them. “Won’t you stay and introduce us to the villagers?”
The men glanced back at her but kept walking. So Bobby spoke to them in pidgin. They stopped. As they responded they shook their heads, pointing to the village.
“They don’t get along with these people.” Bobby said. “They fight with them.”
“This is not surprising,” Samuel said. “It is the way of most of the indigenes I have come to know.”
Again the men turned to go. But suddenly the Addison replica spoke to them—a combination of pidgin and their own tribal language. The men stared at him. Addison held out three small gray objects cupped in his hand. After some encouragement from him they each took one. Addison motioned for them to eat. They glanced at each other. Addison’s words became soft, reassuring, and he smiled at them.
One of the men pressed his object between his fingers. It was pliable. He sniffed it and then took a small bite. He mumbled something to his companions and then took another bite. The other men gave in and ate theirs. They nodded to Addison, apparently thanking him for the peculiar food. They turned away and a moment later they were gone.
Quentin was almost afraid to ask. “What was that, Addison? What did you do to them?”
Addison smiled, the same reassuring smile he had given the Papuans. “I gave to them the same gift I gave to you, Dad.”
Quentin waited but no explanation came. “And what is that?”
“The first effect is repair of those conditions that need it.”
Ashley said, “You made them healthy?”
“Yes. And after that will come improvements of functions, and then information about how I came to be here and about my creators. As I have done for you.”
“Why did you do that?” Quentin asked.
“To help them understand what I am. Didn’t it help you understand my purpose?”
“Yes,” Quentin said. “But if you give this gift to everyone we see, the people here may never let you leave. We want to take you to where we are from. We believe the leaders there will not use you to do bad things. But here—we’re not so sure.”
Addison’s smile was gone. “I understand. You wish for me to give no more gifts until we arrive at the place where you are from.”
Quentin felt a pang of guilt. Who was he to dictate the use of such a gift? How could he possibly know the right thing to do? He had to remind himself of the logic of their plan. He placed a hand on Addison’s shoulder. “Your knowledge is a gift for all, not just a few. To be sure you benefit everyone, we believe we should take you to where we come from.”
After a brief pause, Addison’s smile returned. “I will help you with this.”
“It appears that we have been discovered,” Samuel said. He pointed to the far end of the airstrip.
A naked child stood at the edge of the village watching them. They all walked from the shadows onto the airstrip. Lindsey waved. The kid turned and ran for the nearest hut. A moment later, other villagers emerged. By the time they reached the end of the airstrip, at least a dozen Papuans waited for them. Some wore little more than penis gourds or reed skirts, but others wore ragged t-shirts and shorts. They held no weapons. The child, who Quentin now saw was a girl, broke away from the others and ran to greet them. Other kids followed her, wide-eyed and talking. They seemed fascinated by the visitors’ pale skin and Samuel’s vest of spider silk. The girl, who was perhaps six, pulled at Quentin’s khaki pants and spoke the same phrase several times. All the others had lost their clothing when the plane had dissolved, and she seemed to wonder why he was the only one with pants.
The adults greeted them with similar warmth and curiosity, and soon the crowd grew. It was evident that the villagers had their own tribal language, but they interspersed words of pidgin. Bobby tried to explain that their plane crashed and they were lost.
Quentin pointed at the radio tower. “You have a radio. Can we call for help?”
“Wailis,” said one of the villagers, also pointing to the tower.
Bobby said, “Yes, wailis. Plis wailis. Plis.”
The villagers fell silent as a short Papuan man pushed through the crowd. He wore a faded t-shirt with a Cooper’s Beer logo on it, and he spoke with a thick Australian accent.
“I’m the bloke you’re looking for, then.”
They were led to a shelter at the center of the village. It was no more than a flat roof of sticks supported by corner posts, but it blocked the searing sun. It reminded Quentin of the picnic shelters in city parks back home, and it seemed to serve the same purpose. A woman brought them brown-tinted water in a battered plastic gallon jug and they accepted it gratefully.
The man who’d claimed the radio waited patiently until the water jug was on its second round. “Call me Obert,” he said. “You cobbers look to have seen some trouble.”
Quentin briefly described the plane crash and the deaths. He skipped everything about the Lamotelokhai, the tree house village, and the murder of the villagers there. He said they had wandered for days until they came upon this village.
As he listened, Obert looked from one of them to the next. His eyes stopped when they met Samuel’s. “And what’s your story, then?”
Quentin answered for him. “Samuel is a biologist. He was doing research in the area where our plane went down. He found us and helped us out.”
Obert considered this. “He had no radio?”
A moment of silence followed. Quentin could not think of an answer, but Lindsey spoke up. “Samuel has had his own troubles. He got separated from his research team and ended up lost, without any of his equipment.”
Obert studied Samuel, no doubt taking in his strange vest and his clean-shaven face. “How long you been out there, mate?”
Samuel hesitated only a second. “It is difficult for me to say. I am sure that it seems to me much longer than it has truly been.”
Obert’s frown relaxed. “Right, then. I’m guessing there’s folks who’ll be happy to hear you’re breathing. One of you come with me to call this in. They’ll want specifics.”
“Quentin will go,” Lindsey said.
Obert’s hut was dark and smelled of gasoline and animal feces. As Quentin’s eyes adjusted, he saw two dogs lounging in the middle of the floor. They raised their heads but didn’t get up. Machines and gadgets cluttered the hut. Most looked to be broken or dis
assembled, as if in the middle of a repair job. There were several lawn mowers and a weed eater, all gas-powered, and some kind of drill that looked like it could be strapped to a person’s back. Quentin counted four generators, but only one appeared to be intact. Red plastic gas containers lined one wall. Leaning against one of them was a battery-powered metal detector.
The radio sat upon a knee-high wooden box. Obert motioned for Quentin to kneel on the dirt floor next to it. There were no chairs. In fact, other than a mattress set on palettes, there was no furniture at all. Obert went to the only intact generator, fiddled with a few settings, and yanked the pull start. The thing coughed a few times and jumped to life. At first the noise of the engine was almost overwhelming. Quentin had heard no such unnatural clatter in many days. Obert adjusted the throttle, and the engine smoothed out. A cloud of exhaust filled the hut. Obert ignored it and knelt with Quentin.
The radio looked modern enough. It resembled a home audio receiver, with a digital display and a variety of knobs on the front. A handheld microphone was attached to it with a spiral cable. Obert switched it on, punched the channel button a few times, and spoke into the mic.
“Navera IC74 to Sentani IC9. Obert, Navera IC74 to Sentani IC9.”
A voice came back. “Obert, apa kabar. Anton, Sentani IC9.”
Obert smiled at Quentin. “That’s Anton.” Then he spoke into the mic, “Anton, kabar baik. I’ve got me an emergency, bloody oath! Got some Yanks here. Say they’ve been lost for days. Their plane crashed. You hear me? A plane crash. We need the tall poppies.”
Infusion: Diffusion Book 2 Page 7