Diffusion Box Set

by Stan C. Smith

  Quentin stared in disbelief. He ran through the events in his mind. If a moving object, say a stone talisman, experienced a brief shift back in time, it would appear just behind the other version of itself. But if the present and past both existed over the table, was a chunk of space missing from the past? Or were both moments present there as well? If so, perhaps the two objects would continue to exist after passing over the table, and both would then hit the mat and drop to the floor, which is exactly what he had witnessed. Mystified, Quentin shook his head.

  Samuel proceeded to demonstrate further. He produced a hunting arrow and broke it into two half-meter pieces. Like a small spear, he hurled one of the pieces over the table. It hit the mat, and two identical pieces fell to the floor. After Quentin inspected them, Samuel repeated this with the other half, only this time he gently lobbed it. Quentin watched the object’s slow arch. As it passed over the table, a second piece appeared. But one of them fell short of the mat. Quentin picked them up. They were not identical. One was damaged at the tip. Not just splintered, but misshapen—boiled outward like a cauliflower.

  Samuel explained, “When moving slowly, the copy of the object bringing up the rear is invariably damaged, whereas the one before is not. Very curious, would you not agree?”

  “Yes, curious,” Quentin whispered. He stared at the arrow’s deformed tip. He had seen this before. The remains of the Twin Otter’s nose and cockpit had been deformed in such a way. He had assumed it was caused by the crash. And then he remembered the pilot. As the poor man had struggled and died before Quentin’s eyes, his feet appeared to have exploded from the inside. Quentin’s hands suddenly felt clammy, and he had to steady himself.

  He turned to Samuel. “You said when you first did this it caused suffering. When exactly was that?”

  “I believe you know the answer, Quentin. Four days and nights have passed. It was the very day your flying vessel ran aground.”

  After descending the rope ladder, Samuel led Quentin to an area where massive eucalyptus and strangler figs created an impenetrable canopy. Samuel located a rope ladder and climbed into the tangle above. Quentin followed and was soon standing in a room that appeared to be a bulge in a long, narrow tunnel. The hut was small, but there was a fire pit in the center as if it were a gathering place. No villagers were in sight.

  Samuel led him out of the room, and they made their way along a hanging corridor. The tunnel was tall enough for them to walk upright, but Quentin had to stoop occasionally where the ceiling hung lower. It was difficult to see far ahead because the corridor twisted left and right before them, undoubtedly to line up with the varying tree limbs from which it hung. The floor of the tunnel bounced beneath their feet as they walked—a distasteful sensation considering the height. But the tunnel was an engineering triumph, and Quentin wondered how the villagers could have constructed it with their bare hands.

  After they’d walked some distance, they came upon another room. Samuel signaled for Quentin to wait and then leaned into the room. He spoke gently, perhaps alerting the occupants that he was not alone. When Quentin stepped through the opening, three Papuans stood at the far end of the hut, but one of them quickly slipped out another opening there. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but the figure appeared to be female. If so, this was the first woman he had seen among these people. The two remaining men were strangers to Quentin. One of them, a small man with caked mud on his head resembling a solid bowl, pointed to the floor at their side.

  “Walukh, Joamba,” the man said.37

  Quentin turned to look. Sprawled there on a sleeping mat was a dark figure. The figure was alive; Quentin could hear it snoring. But something about it wasn’t right. Quentin looked to Samuel for an explanation.

  “That is Joamba,” Samuel said. “Examine him closely, if you would.”

  Something about the situation told Quentin he would regret it, but he approached the still form. Wooden bowls of water and food were arranged around the mat. Joamba appeared to be lying on his side, facing the wall, but it was hard to tell. Quentin knelt where the man’s head appeared to be. What he saw there confused him. The head and shoulders were disfigured, not even recognizable. Quentin wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The thing then let out an agonized moan, but it came from the other end. Quentin turned to the sound. Suddenly his confusion turned to panic. The man was not facing the wall at all. Two eyes stared directly at him. But the eyes were not set in a face. Instead they bulged, lidless, from a mass of shapeless flesh. Quentin toppled backwards, involuntarily pushing himself directly into Samuel’s legs.

  “Joamba is no threat to you,” Samuel said. “Surely you can see that.”

  Samuel was right. The poor thing could not possibly harm him. In fact, it barely had any arms. A few puffy fingers protruded from a mangled bulge, and one of them even twitched a few times. Quentin stared, unable to fathom how or why such a thing could be kept alive.

  Samuel knelt next to Quentin and spoke softly. “Joamba was a skilled hunter. Like his fellow tribesmen, he insisted on hunting in the old ways, even though it is no longer needed.”

  Quentin turned to him. “A hunter? How is that possible?”

  “He was as healthy and robust as any of us, until the event in question.”

  “The event.”

  “Recall the arrows thrown in my hut. One thrown hard, with no ill results but that there are now two. One thrown softly, with dreadful results to one of the arrows.”

  Quentin failed to see a connection. “But that was in your hut, over a table.”

  “That was but a demonstration within controlled conditions. There were no such controls for the initial event of four days past. I believe the effects of the event extended for miles. Any object, or beast, or human soul that was at rest at the time was not affected. But those that were moving about, such as birds and insects flying—”

  “And airplanes,” Quentin said.

  “Indeed. Joamba and two of his companions were hunting at the time. In pursuit of a cassowary, his surviving companion told me. Making hasty chase at precisely the fateful moment.”

  Quentin considered Samuel’s demonstration. “The talisman I threw—there were two of them after it passed over the table. Is that what happened to Joamba?”

  “That possibility seems to be subject to the object’s quickness. Recall the arrow you tossed lightly. I have concluded that a man could not run quickly enough to result in an undamaged duplicate. Instead, Joamba’s duplicate is wretchedly merged with his own body. Joamba’s other companion, Ahea, was not so lucky as this.” Samuel’s voice became a whisper. “There are conditions beyond even the power of the Lamotelokhai to heal. It is a rare thing indeed to have to dispose of a member of this tribe. It makes the tribesmen nervous.”

  Quentin looked at the horrifying form before him. How could Samuel call Joamba lucky? Surely death would be better than this.

  As if to answer his thoughts, Samuel continued. “The medicinal effects of the Lamotelokhai have taken hold. We have but to wait for Joamba’s complete recovery.”

  Quentin was skeptical. “You believe he’s going to be normal again?”

  “It is but a matter of time.”

  After a final look, Quentin rose and turned away from Joamba. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to control his breathing. “Why did you bring me to see this?”

  “I wish you to understand, Quentin, that the Lamotelokhai is as dangerous as it is miraculous. I am but one man, compassionate and educated in comparison to many others, even in civilized society. And yet in a moment of despair I have abused the powers I have discovered here, resulting in great suffering. Imagine what might happen if the Lamotelokhai were to be taken from this place and put in the hands of less reasonable men.”

  Samuel gripped Quentin’s shoulders. “Whether or not you hold faith in God, you must surely see that men are better served by dreaming of an invisible God than to have the power of God placed into their own hands.” Samuel seemed t
o realize he was touching Quentin, and he pulled away. “For many years it has been upon my shoulders to assist my indigene hosts in keeping their secret. But I fear that my recent actions have set into motion events that cannot now be undone, and the burden of this secret may no longer be my own.”

  Quentin studied him for a moment. “I don’t think I can handle any more burdens.”

  “It is upon you, nevertheless.” Samuel pointed to the tunnel opposite of where they had entered the room. “We are now very near to the Lamotelokhai itself. Perhaps if you were to confront the source of your consternation—to touch it with your own hands.”

  “I need to get back to Lindsey.”

  “Indeed. She will need healing ointments. I will show you how to gather them from the Lamotelokhai yourself, and you may take them to her.” Samuel moved to the opening.

  Quentin looked once more at the disfigured man lying at his feet. Guttural breathing pervaded the silence of the hut, but Quentin could not tell where the respiratory opening was. In fact, for a moment he was sure that the sounds came from both ends of the figure, as if it had two heads. Oddly, he was reluctant to leave, feeling that he should somehow offer comfort to this mass of flesh that was once Joamba, the skilled hunter.

  But then Quentin heard another sound. Was it shouting? He turned to Samuel as the two villagers slipped into the tunnel and disappeared. They must have heard it, too. The sound came again. It was definitely shouting—angry shouting. “Samuel, what’s going on?”

  Samuel’s seemed to be straining to hear, and he did not answer.

  One of the distant voices screeched in anger or pain, and Quentin suppressed a cry. It was Addison.

  Quentin plunged into the tunnel, Addison’s distress calls pulling him forward with savage force. He was only vaguely aware of Samuel following him. Before long the tunnel gave way to another room, and Quentin entered. Addison stood in the center of the hut with his back against the Lamotelokhai, which was molded to a branching tree just as it had been in Quentin’s dream. Papuan tribesmen wielding spears and clubs surrounded Addison. He was now naked, and fresh wounds covered his body. Nevertheless, he stood straight and defiant, and his previously stick-like limbs now looked more formidable. He stared down his attackers, his eyes dark with anger so palpable that it seemed to hold them back like a force field.

  “Mr. Darnell, they’re going to kill him!” It was Bobby. He stood across the room at the entrance to another tunnel.

  “Bobby, what are you two doing here?” Without waiting for an answer, Quentin stepped forward and bellowed, “Hey! Leave him alone!” It was a standard teacher ploy, designed to break up fights. The Papuans hesitated.

  Samuel entered the room, took in the scene, and stopped short.

  “Samuel, help us,” Quentin said.

  One of the tribesmen pointed a club at Addison. “Gu laléo-lu!” Quentin recognized the white feathers in the man’s hair. It was Matiinuo, the elder tribesman who had questioned him.24

  Addison stood taller, his face such a frightening visage of hatred that Quentin barely recognized him. “Nu be-khomilo-n-din-da,” he said, his voice seething. “Nu khén-telo!”38

  But there were six tribesmen closing in on Addison.

  “For God’s sake, Samuel, stop them,” Quentin said. “He’s my son.”

  Samuel shook his head. “On this point, you are wrong. Your son has already been taken from you. The indigenes know this to be true.”

  Quentin stared in disbelief. “Samuel, please!”

  Samuel watched the tribesmen, avoiding Quentin’s eyes. “I am but a guest here. I have little influence over Matiinuo.”

  The Papuans attacked. Their weapons blurred as they pummeled and punctured Addison’s body and face. All that could be heard were grunts of effort and the sickening sounds of weapons striking flesh. Quentin moved in to stop the assault, but it felt as if he were moving in slow motion.

  Suddenly Addison ripped Matiinuo’s club from his grasp. With shocking speed he leapt upon the elder tribesman and drove him to the floor, his knee against the Papuan’s chest. Addison’s bloody, sinewy arms shoved the club into Matiinuo’s neck, forcing a wet gurgle from his throat and rendering him helpless. The other tribesmen halted their onslaught and stood frozen in place. In the seconds that followed, the only sounds were Matiinuo’s attempts to breathe. Quentin’s eyes were drawn to Addison’s ravaged face. A spear point had torn his forehead, leaving a strip of scalp dangling in front of one eye. His visible eye bored into the tribal elder.

  “Gekhené khup lefu. Gekhené wola-maman-é,” Addison growled. “You don’t know what it is.” He leaned forward, putting all his weight onto the club. Matiinuo’s eyes bulged.39

  The others raised their weapons again, but Addison sprang from the elder’s chest and darted into one of the tunnels. Matiinuo writhed on the floor, clutching his crushed throat. The Papuans gathered around to help him.

  “Bobby, follow me!” Quentin skirted the tribesmen and entered the corridor where Addison had disappeared. With Bobby on his heels he charged ahead. After rounding two bends, Quentin called out, “Addison!” There was no answer. They rounded another bend and stopped. The tunnel ahead was straight for some fifty meters, but there was no sign of Addison.

  A dark figure suddenly dropped from above and landed like an ape just in front of them. Addison then stood upright.

  Quentin reached for him. “Son, you’re hurt. We’ll get you out of here now, and—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Addison said. With one hand he lifted the strip of scalp dangling before his eye and pressed it against his forehead. It stayed in place. Both eyes were now visible, and they turned to Bobby. “He knows what it is. He can talk to it, too.” Addison pointed down the tunnel, toward his attackers. “It’s not for them anymore.”

  “Addison, it’s time to go,” Quentin said. “We’ll get the others and leave this village.”

  Addison moved toward them. “It doesn’t matter!”

  Quentin instinctively stepped back. The look in Addison’s eyes—the same anger he had shown Matiinuo—was fearsome.

  Addison said, “You know what it is, Bobby. They can’t use it. It’s a computer.”

  Quentin blinked at him. “What? A computer?”

  “He’s right,” Bobby said. “We can talk to it, because it uses Kembalimo.”

  “Kembalimo? The game?”

  Bobby shook his head. “It’s not a game.”

  Quentin turned from one boy to the other, bewildered. The tribesmen were coming; their bird-like voices grew louder, and the hanging tunnel shuddered with their footsteps. They would surely kill Addison—perhaps kill them all.

  “Let’s go, now!” Quentin ordered. He started forward but Addison blocked the way.

  “It is not for them,” Addison said. “Their time is over.” Then he leapt up, straight through a hole in the tunnel’s roof.

  Through the hole, Quentin saw Addison crouched on the tree limb that supported the tunnel. The tunnel shook as Addison launched himself into the air, out of view. Quentin moved to the side to see, and then gasped. Addison now hung from a limb at least six meters above them. With astonishing grace he swung to his feet and leapt out of sight.

  Quentin stared, trying to comprehend what he had seen. Finally he turned back to Bobby, but it was too late to flee. Four tribesmen were upon them, their spears ready.

  Samuel came up behind them. “It appears, Quentin, that the indigenes are correct in their notions of the being who was once your son.”

  As the tribesmen led them through the hanging passageway, Bobby’s fear began to subside. After all, the Papuans hadn’t killed them on the spot. They reentered the Lamotelokhai hut, and Matiinuo was still on the floor. Another tribesmen held his hands against the injured man’s throat. Mr. Darnell asked if Matiinuo would be okay, and Samuel said that the Lamotelokhai would repair him.

  Mr. Darnell grabbed Samuel by the shoulders. “What has happened to my son?”

  “
Sinanie has told me your son had been badly wounded when he found him,” Samuel said. “As Sinanie put it, Addison’s body did not yet know it, but his spirit had returned already to the land of your ancestors. Your son’s body still lived, but his mind was beyond healing.”

  “But what about the man you showed me, Joamba? He was hurt far worse than Addison. Yet you seem to think the stuff will cure him.”

  “With one critical difference, Quentin. Joamba has been exposed to the Lamotelokhai before.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Joamba is known to the Lamotelokhai, both his mind and his body. That which is known can be rebuilt. To a limited extent, I should say. Joamba’s companion, Ahea, was beyond rebuilding.”

  Bobby spoke up. “Did you say Ahea? Addison said that name to me today. He said he had Ahea’s memories, like he was two people.”

  Samuel frowned. “Ahea’s memories?” He rubbed his chin, apparently puzzled.

  As Samuel and Mr. Darnell continued discussing this, a tribesman nudged Bobby toward the Lamotelokhai. This time Bobby’s hands were steady. He pressed against it, digging in with his fingers. Again the symbols appeared in his mind as if they were floating before his eyes. More than a hundred of them: rectangles and triangles, a three-dimensional tetrahedron, a hexagon, quadrilaterals. And there were irregular shapes: spirals, zigzags, loops. Bobby knew them all. Most recently, he realized, he had seen them painted on the Papuans’ spears. But more importantly, they were the symbols of Kembalimo. He didn’t count them, but he knew there would be a hundred and twenty-eight. That’s how Kembalimo worked.

  The symbols floated before Bobby, waiting. In his two years of playing Kembalimo, he had worked on only one lingo, and he was far beyond the initial sorting tasks. But now he remembered all of it, even the very first level. First you sort all hundred and twenty-eight symbols into piles based on how you think they are alike. The first level starts with sorting groups of four. Then you sort groups of eight, and then sixteen, and so on.