Orphan of Creation

by Roger MacBride Allen

  “You know, there’s a joke, or maybe it should be called a parable, I’ve heard about you people, concerning a little boy who doesn’t know how babies are made. He asks around, and none of his friends knew either, and so they conclude that babies aren’t made, since none of them knows how it happens. They confuse the question of how the thing happened with the question of whether it happened at all, and decide that not understanding the process proves the process doesn’t exist, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Later on, our little boy finds out a few details about what Mom and Dad did together to make a baby. He’s so upset by the thought of his parents doing any such thing he rejects not only that answer, but the whole question of his own origin, and decides that story about the stork makes sense after all. Moral: You can’t know the truth if you aren’t willing to believe it. But we try not to think that way here. So kindly tell your readers that the stork did not bring them. Next question. Over on the left side there.

  QUESTION: I’m going to have to remember that analogy. Dr. Grossington, I have a question, and perhaps a follow-up. I have noticed that you have referred to this fossil species in the present tense more than once. Is there a reason for that? If there were a skull in 1851, might there not be a living animal somewhere in the world today? Are you researching that point?

  DR. GROSSINGTON: Ah, yes. Well, that’s an excellent question. As I am sure you know, many species have become extinct between 1851 and today. There is no guarantee that Australopithecus boisei survives today. But it is a point we are looking into. Next question.

  QUESTION: Yes, Doctor, I had a follow-up. Where, exactly, are Dr. Marchando, Dr. Maxwell, and Mr. Jones?

  DR. GROSSINGTON: I can’t answer that question, for the very good reason that I don’t know, exactly. At the moment, there is no way to reach them. I can say that they are in seclusion of their own choice, so they might work further on this whole issue. But, I must admit that even if I did know where they were, I wouldn’t tell you. They are at a delicate stage of their work, and I think it would be not only unfair but counterproductive to disturb them now.

  QUESTION: Doctor, I’ll let someone else get a chance in a moment, but one last thing: There seem to be a number of areas you aren’t willing to go into—how these creatures got to where they were found, how you came to excavate them, what the rest of your team is doing. Considering the importance of this find, and the right of the public and the scientific community to know, shouldn’t you be a bit more forthcoming?

  DR. GROSSINGTON: Young man, I have been bludgeoned over the head for the past two days with the public’s right to be told things I don’t even know myself yet. I will not be forced into making statements that could seriously damage the course of our researches.

  <>

  Pete just sat back and let his recorder take it all in. He glanced at his watch again. His story was safely out by now. He hadn’t asked a question yet, but his flair for the dramatic was getting the better of him. Maybe it was time to drop his little bombshell. He stood up and called out, “Dr. Grossington, Pete Ardley, Gowrie Gazette.” All eyes and cameras instantly turned on him. Already, either his name or his paper’s name was already well known. “Regarding the whereabouts of your partners, could you at least confirm the information I have obtained, that they received visas to enter the African nation of Gabon, and are currently in the interior of that country, searching for the home of the australopithecines?”

  Grossington opened his mouth and shut it. Abruptly he stood up, placed Ambrose back in his box, and announced, “This press conference is concluded.” He stood up and walked off the stage, but already Pete was surrounded by other reporters, demanding to know more. Maybe the press conference was over, Pete thought, but the fun was just beginning.

  <>

  Barbara sat and watched the creature. Nothing else was important—nothing else existed for her but this not-quite-human. Her new friend sat across from Barbara, just as fascinated with her, the creature’s expressive brown eyes locked on her.

  The others busied themselves setting up some sort of a camp on the trail, comfortably out of earshot of the village, but everyone kept glancing over to look at the strange newcomer—and to glance down the trail toward the village. Were they safe from the Utaani? What did the Utaani think the Americans were doing here? What the hell could they do with this beast that Ovono had dumped in their laps? Why was the critter still around? Why hadn’t it rushed off into the jungle at the first opportunity? Vague, amorphous, and yet insistent questions that led nowhere but back to themselves.

  Nothing was clear anymore, Barbara thought. The knowledge that Homo sapiens sapiens was not alone seemed to mean nothing else could be certain.

  We are not alone . . . Out of the blue, Barbara remembered with sudden, perfect clarity a moment from her past. She could recall every tiny detail of the moment, as if her mind were rebelling against the confusion of the present by presenting the past in perfect solidity.

  She was curled up in her childhood bed, the cotton sheets crisp and clean-smelling, fresh out of the drier. It was late on a dark, impossibly silent night, and she had her head under the covers, reading Robinson Crusoe by flashlight. And then, suddenly, she wasn’t just back in her childhood bed, she was inside the book, riding on Robinson’s shoulder as he walked his island. She was on that bright, clear, windswept island, walking along the surf with him when he saw that shocking, solitary footprint. Robinson knew, impossibly but irrefutably, that he was not alone. He found the man who left that footprint, named him Friday after the day he was found, and made him his servant—

  There was a noise in the trees, some tiny creatures leaping loudly from one branch to another, and Barbara gave a violent start, coming back to herself. She looked over to the creature, saw that she had spooked the poor thing by jumping like that.

  “You need a name, my friend,” Barbara said. “We can’t just call you it or she or australopithecine and I’m sure as hell not calling you a tranka.” The creature cocked her head at Barbara, listening to the sound of her voice and the strange shape of the words these people used.

  Barbara thought for a moment, working out how many days they had been out here, what day it was. “Thursday. You are Thursday,” she said, feeling quite pleased with herself. The name suited her, somehow.

  “What’d you say, Barb?” Livingston asked as he sat down next to her.

  “I just named her. I’m going to call her Thursday. Wanna know why?”

  Livingston thought for a second. “Yeah, I know.” He began reciting.

  “Monday’s child is fair of face

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe—”

  “Thursday’s child has far to go . . .” Barbara finished. “Yeah, she sure as hell does. But read Robinson Crusoe when we get home. So now what do we do?” She stood up and crossed to Thursday, being careful not to get too close or make any sudden moves. She reached out her hand again, and Thursday put out her own hand to touch it, lightly, as she stared deep into Barbara’s eyes. “And what do we do with you, Thursday?”

  She sensed that this strange human was talking to her, and some small part of her recognized that the new sound ‘Thursday’ was suddenly being repeated, directed at her. She rocked back and forth on the log she was sitting on, and made a friendly, snorting noise at this strange one in hopes of making her feel better. All these new ones were so strange. But they seemed so interested in her, paid so much attention to her, moved about her so respectfully, almost as if they were afraid of her. They did the work while she sat still. It occurred to her that she could run away from these people easily—they had not tied a rope about her neck, or put her in a stockade, or even hobbled her legs. For so long she had thought of escape, of getting away, out. Now, for the first time, she wondered what she would do when she got there, got ‘out.’ She looked at the jungle, which seemed so much closer and bigger here. How would she live there? Could she find things to e
at? The things that made so much noise seemed so much more frightening here.

  And she was curious, most curious. These people were so different! What were they going to do? She had to know more. She listened for a moment more to the jungle calls, and then turned her back on them forever. She would stay with these people.

  Barbara shook her head as she looked at Thursday. She thought of the whirlwind they were going to reap together. Thursday grunted again and reached out to give Barbara’s hand a reassuring pat. It was going to be all right. Somehow.

  <>

  Dr. Michael Marchando wearily pushed the hospital’s pasty version of green beans around his plate, too tired to be hungry, too much in need of food not to force the stuff down. He had already survived the meatloaf more or less, and it sat on his stomach like a mid-sized lump of lead. He needed food, and sleep. Thanks to some inept shift-trading on his part, he had managed to draw the graveyard shift in the Emergency Room, then the following midday shift, after four hours sleep—and now that he was clear of that, he was due to start On Call duty in an hour.

  Mel Stanley sat down far too cheerfully next to him. “Mike! So how’s it feel to have a mystery star for an ex?”

  “Huh?” Mike asked.

  “Jeez, where have you been? Haven’t you seen a paper or the news or anything?”

  “No, I’ve been here up to my armpits in gunshot cases. Haven’t had a chance to look up in twenty-four hours. What are you talking about?”

  “Just a sec.” Stanley popped up and went over to search the empty tables until he found a newspaper. He came back and handed it to Michael. “Here, this morning’s Post. Page A-3. But that’s old stuff. There was some wild stuff at a news conference today. She’s supposed to be out in Ghana, or Gabon or something. Looking for that thing.”

  Michael opened the paper, saw the headline, and felt his blood start to race. Scientists Discover Pre-human Graves in Mississippi. There, alongside the story, was a photo of her boss, her cousin Liv, and Barb looking over a skull in what looked like the backyard in Gowrie. “Jesus. I knew some about this but I . . . . What do you mean, she’s looking for it in Gabon?”

  “I mean they think it’s still out there, alive. Pre-humans roaming the jungle. And some reporter claims your wife is out there, trying to find them.” Stanley looked down at his friend. “Hey, you okay? C’mon, snap out of it.”

  But Michael did not even hear him. He didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. How could she go off to the jungle, for God’s sake, without telling him? Suddenly, he was afraid, afraid for her—not because she might be hurt, or lost, or killed, but because he might have lost her forever. He felt, for the first time, that he was not any part of her life. It was a shock to realize that something besides himself was that important to her. But why should that be a surprise? God knows he had done enough to drive her away.

  He had to get back to her. He had to make it up to her. What the hell was going on? He stared at the newspaper page, as if looking for answers that weren’t there.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Things, it seemed to Livingston, were happening too fast. Everyone on the team had been prepared for a long, drawn-out search for the australopithecines. They had envisioned the wise native guides leading them to the nesting-sites of the shy, secretive creatures, so they could photograph them from half a mile away and gradually gain their confidence, or something. No one had bargained on having Thursday dropped in their lap so quickly. No one knew what to do about it. They were all in a slight case of shock.

  Livingston, though he didn’t speak up and say so, was all for heading back at once, perhaps taking Thursday with them, if possible. After all, they certainly had what they had come for, and getting the hell away from those Utaani scumbuckets sounded like good policy. What was hanging around going to get them?

  Livingston held his peace that day. Barbara was too busy to pay any attention anyway, and she was the only one who mattered, really, as far as decision-making went. After all, she was the one who owned an australopithecine. Even if that wasn’t strictly so, there was no denying this was her call.

  But Barbara didn’t seem much interested in making decisions. She spent the day doing little more than staring at Thursday, taking occasional notes now and then. Since Thursday wasn’t doing much besides wandering around the makeshift campsite, it seemed unlikely that the notes would tell anyone much. Maybe, Livingston thought, note-taking was good therapy—a comfortable, familiar thing to do in the midst of so much that was unknown.

  Thursday spent a lot of time poking through the campers’ belongings, never hurting anything, merely indulging her curiosity about all the unfamiliar objects, grunting and grimacing, and seeming to make some sort of hand-signs to herself now and then. At first she was a bit hesitant about moving about, glancing over at Barbara as if to seek permission for whatever she did. But she quickly got it into her head that she was allowed, probably for the first time in her life, to do whatever she wanted. Once that got into her head, she seemed remarkably unwary and relaxed. Obviously she was more used to humans than these human were used to her. The big moment of the morning came when she wandered far enough out of camp to dig up a few tubers—fat white roots far too big and tough for a human to eat. She chomped them down in a few massively powerful bites. The highlight for the afternoon came when she found a small, fast-running stream and leaped into it with obvious delight, eagerly splashing about. The humans were just as glad afterwards. Once the shock had worn off a bit, it was quickly apparent that an unwashed Thursday was pretty gamey.

  Rupert at least had the presence of mind to take pictures, lots of them. Shots of Thursday walking, sitting, yawning, splashing in the water; close-ups of her head, feet, and hands. Rupert took a lot of notes, too—the same sort of careful, copious notes he always took. Maybe he got the same therapy from it Barbara did.

  Ovono and Clark returned to the Utaani village in the afternoon for a bit of fence mending, making sure the chief was happy with the deal, assuring the villagers that they had never seen such a fine tranka (which was certainly true). They ended up staying for a brief afternoon meal and a tour of the tranka quarters and the crop fields, which seemed to leave them both a bit shaken. Neither of them was willing to say much about it afterwards. The day slowly petered out. The humans prepared dinner, a rather subdued affair, and in the process made the signal scientific discovery that Thursday was fond of canned beans, hot or cold, and understood fire perfectly well. She sat quietly next to Barbara, staring at the flames, keeping a respectful distance from the heat, but showing no fear. It was nice to have some things clear and certain, Livingston thought.

  After dinner, they sat about the campfire for a long time, speaking little, talking of inconsequential things. All the humans found themselves staring constantly at Thursday, endlessly fascinated by her human-ness and her alien-ness. Thursday’s self-assurance was off-putting to all of them. She seemed to feel she belonged here now, that there was no question of that.

  Livingston concluded that someone had to get them started talking about the situation. “Listen, we can sit here like we’re on a hike roasting marshmallows if that’s what you want, but I say it’s just about time we decide our next move. This isn’t what we planned, granted, but we can’t sit here for the rest of our lives. I vote we get the hell out of here, and take Thursday with us. We’ve got what we came for, and a hell of a lot more than we bargained for, and we should get out while we’re ahead.”

  “I want to stay here for a while,” Barbara announced crisply, as if she had made up her mind on that point long before. “We have Thursday here to study, and I’m sure the Utaani can tell us a lot we need to know. We need what they know.”

  “I think,” Clark said, “that I don’t want to deal with our hosts anymore. I understand them a bit too well now.” He poked a stick into the fire and watched the sparks shower out. “Monsieur Ovono and I had quite a visit over there. All of us, right along, have felt there was something very wron
g with this place. Now I know what, and we should have known it right along.” He nodded toward Thursday. She looked up from the fire and returned his glance. “Slavery. We saw today, firsthand, how they treat their slaves, and I’ve been thinking, all day, how that must affect the slave masters.”

  “Grandpa Zeb said a lot about that in his journal,” Liv said. “He kept saying he felt sorry for the slavers, having to crush their own better feelings enough to let them live with slavery.”

  “Yes, but it’s worse here,” Clark said intently. “Your slave masters could lie to themselves, tell themselves their slaves were inferior, just animals that could be worked to death—but here, that lie is true! Their whole economy is based on tranka-slavery. They have dumb brutes to do all their work—and so work is something for dumb brutes. The women do domestic things, but the men do virtually nothing themselves. All their routine work is done through their slaves. There is no dignity of work because work is something your slave animals do for you—and those animals aren’t really capable of doing a lot of things properly. Work is something for the stupid, the clumsy, to do.

  “And they spend their lives staring into the eyes of creatures that aren’t quite human, but very close to it—so close that the Utaani must know how close to animals they themselves are. They haven’t tried to raise the tranka up toward the light, they’ve dragged themselves down into the mud. They’ve brutalized themselves, and I don’t have the stomach for it. I saw one of them whipping a tranka today. The poor beast was screaming in agony—and the man with the whip just looked bored. Not angry, not full of hate or seething with the need for vengeance, or forcing himself to go on even though the cries horrified him—he was bored. He could have been weeding the crops for the amount of feeling he showed. No more for me. I want out.” He looked up again at Thursday. “And I’m not saying no to it, necessarily, but I think we should think long and hard before we take a slave-beast back with us. What will it do to us?”