Diffusion Box Set

by Stan C. Smith

  But sleep didn’t come for Quentin. The caller had described in detail a key intimate moment of their relationship, when they’d been in a sleeping bag under an Ozark night sky and they had agreed to try having another child. His first thought was that Lindsey must have told someone about the event. But then the guy had described the fears Quentin had experienced at that moment—fears he had never revealed to Lindsey. This was simply not possible.

  Quentin rolled to his side to feel Lindsey’s breath in his face. He could think of only two explanations: he had dreamt the whole thing, or the guy was telling the truth—he really was a copy of Quentin. Ockham’s simplicity principle, that the simplest solution tends to be the best, should’ve applied here. Logically, the call must have been a dream. But Quentin had now been awake for half an hour, and he was sure it hadn’t been a dream.

  Finally, he slid out of bed, grabbed his smartphone from the dresser, and walked to the kitchen. He looked at the most recent call and then tapped the number to dial it. Quentin heard ringing, but then it switched to voicemail. “You have reached the voicemail of…” Then a recorded voice stated, “Colonel Roger Richards.” Quentin hung up.

  He paced the kitchen floor. Who the hell was Colonel Roger Richards? He went to the bedroom they had converted to office space and woke up his computer. A web search for Colonel Roger Richards led him to the site for the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta. A Colonel Roger Richards was listed as the Defense and Army Attaché.

  He sank into his desk chair and stared dazedly at the screen. The caller had said their Twin Otter had crashed in Papua, resulting in them finding something there, and they had brought it to the U.S. with the help of the military. A few days ago, about ten days after his group had returned home, Quentin had seen news reports of a skirmish between U.S. soldiers and Indonesians in Papua. A chilling tingle crept up the back of Quentin’s neck. Something strange was happening.

  A car door faintly slammed shut out on the street, followed by three more. Quentin’s eyes flicked to the clock in the corner of his computer screen. Just before six a.m. The tingle on his neck spread quickly down his spine.

  A knock on the door startled him out of his trance. And it woke Lindsey.

  “Quentin? Where are you? Who is that?”

  “I’m out here, Linds. I don’t know, but you might want to get up.”

  The knock came again, this time louder.

  Quentin was wearing only a pair of shorts, but he went to the front door and opened it. On the porch were two men in jackets and ties, in spite of the sultry July air. Behind them were two local policemen Quentin had seen around town before. In the street he saw two police cars, their lights flashing, and a dark sedan. Two more sedans were coming to a stop.

  His first thought was that Addison had snuck out during the night and had gotten into trouble or had been hurt. Instinctively he swung around to look down the hallway to Addison’s bedroom. But there Addison stood, his face bright with curiosity.

  “Sir, are you Quentin Darnell?” It was one of the jacket-and-tie men.

  “Yes. What’s going on?”

  The man held up an identification card that Quentin couldn’t see. “I’m Gordon Carver. I’m a regional field agent for the Department of Homeland Security. May we come inside?”

  Quentin motioned for them to enter, and they stood awkwardly in the foyer. The two local policemen eyed him pensively but did not speak.

  Carver said, “Mr. Darnell, have you and your family been at your house all night?”

  Quentin nodded. Lindsey and Addison were now at his side.

  An inscrutable look passed between the men. “We are not aware of the details at this time, but it seems there was a fatal airline crash at the Los Angeles airport.”

  Quentin frowned. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who was currently traveling.

  The man continued. “Apparently there is some confusion as to the identities of the passengers. For some reason it was believed that you folks were on that aircraft.”

  “Well, clearly we weren’t,” Lindsey said. “I take it there is more to the story?”

  “Yes, there is.” The men exchanged glances again. The policemen watched Carver as if they, too, were waiting for an explanation. Carver cleared his throat before going on. “But first, can you think of a reason why anyone would claim to have your identities?”

  Quentin’s thoughts immediately turned to the mysterious caller. The guy had said the police might show up. He had practically begged Quentin to say nothing about the phone call.

  “We did fly back from Indonesia a few weeks ago,” Quentin said. “Maybe they got our names from a passenger list or something?”

  The man nodded at this, but the gesture was dismissive. He continued to stare at them, like a teacher out-waiting his students until they produced a satisfactory answer.

  Quentin glanced at Lindsey, and she raised her brows at him. She was waiting for him to tell them about the caller. He shook his head slightly.

  Perhaps the men read possible deception in this exchange, because their demeanor suddenly changed. “Our job at this point is to nail down the facts, so that we understand what we’re dealing with. We’d like to see some identification for both of you. And we’ll also need to search the premises. Then we can further discuss what we know about tonight’s events. Will you cooperate with us on this, Mr. and Mrs. Darnell?”

  Quentin sighed and waved his hand to the interior of the house. “Of course.”

  More police and federal men now stood on the front porch, and Carver motioned for them to enter. Lindsey fetched their driver’s licenses and showed them to Carver. Then the men spread out to search the house and garage. For exactly what, Quentin had no idea.

  A moment later two men came out of the bedroom office and asked Carver to come look at something. Quentin followed. One of the men pointed at Quentin’s computer. On the screen was a web page describing the personnel of the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta, Indonesia. In the center of the screen was a short biography and photo of Colonel Roger Richards.

  Bobby dropped a handful of crickets into the terrarium. Romeo walked out of the corner on all fours. His round tree frog eyes stared at the insects as they scattered, but he made no move to eat. Juliet was pressed flat against the glass at one end of the tank.

  Bobby peered through the glass and frowned. “Those are the last ones, you guys. You’d better eat.” The frogs hadn’t had much appetite since Bobby had returned from the trip.

  Bobby’s mom called from the living room, “I have to get back to work. You want a ride to school or not?”

  “I’m coming!” Bobby definitely wanted a ride. It had been a weird morning, with the police and FBI showing up. They’d said some people had come to the U.S. pretending to be Bobby and his teachers and classmates, and that the people were probably dangerous. And the FBI hadn’t left. They had been parked outside all morning, just waiting.

  And that wasn’t all that had happened. Everyone on TV was talking about two things: A plane crash in California and something that was supposed to happen tomorrow right here in Newton. This last thing was most exciting of all. Supposedly, the guy who’d invented Kembalimo was making a big announcement, and for some reason he wanted to do it in Bobby’s own town. Bobby loved Kembalimo. He’d been playing it for two years.

  When he and his mom left the house a few minutes later, the FBI asked where they were going. Bobby’s mom told them her lunchtime was over and she was going back to work, of course. And Bobby had summer school, if that was all right with them.

  The guys politely explained that they would have to follow them.

  As Bobby’s mom drove, he could tell she was worried because she wasn’t talking.

  “Today we do our reports,” he said. His class included two weeks of afternoon sessions after the field trip to study the data they had collected and make computer presentations with their photos. Today they would show their presentations in class.

  “I’m sure you’ll do f
ine,” she said. Then she was quiet again.

  “It’s gonna be okay, mom. Nothing can happen.”

  More FBI cars were parked at the school. She pulled into the drop-off area and then sat quietly for a moment. “I knew the whole thing was a bad idea!”

  “Mom, it wasn’t—”

  “It was. Your dad was the one who wanted you to go. Then you had to be evacuated from that awful place. And now we find out terrorists used your names to get into the United States?” She waved her hand at the cars that nearly blocked the drop-off area. “They must think the terrorists are coming to your school.”

  Bobby saw real fear in her eyes. “I know you didn’t want me to go. You’d rather me just sit at home all summer. But this class has been the best thing in my whole life.”

  She stared straight ahead, but her frown relaxed a little.

  The two men who’d followed them from the house stood outside her window until she rolled it down. “Ma’am, we intend to stay with your son until the situation we discussed is completely under control. You can be assured he’ll be safe going about his usual business.”

  “This is probably the safest place in town today, Mom. Nothing will happen.”

  Finally she forced a smile. “Do good on your report. I’ll take off early and pick you up.”

  Bobby got out. “You need the hours. I’ll walk home.”

  “I’ll be here, and you’ll ride with me,” she said. “I love you, kiddo.” She drove away.

  Bobby waved and then turned to the two men. “My mom said you guys think those people are coming here.”

  The taller man answered, “To be honest, we don’t know what their intentions are. But we’d like to stick close to you for a while. Is that okay with you?”

  Bobby shrugged and nodded. He had his own bodyguards, like a rock star or the president. The men followed him into the school. More government people were in the main office, but Bobby went straight to his science room. He wasn’t the only one with bodyguards. Men were talking in the hallway, and more were in the room, either standing to the side like statues or walking around looking at the animal cages. Other than that, everything was normal.

  “Here comes another Kembalimo nerd,” Russ said. “Hey, Bobby, I hear the Kembalimo people are coming here to give you an award—the most time wasted on an online game.”

  “It’s not a game,” Addison said. From Addison’s tone, Bobby guessed he had already gotten his share of teasing. And of course he always made it worse by getting mad.

  But Bobby knew better. “It’s okay; not everyone is smart enough to understand Kembalimo.”

  Roberto laughed. “You gonna take that from an eighth grader?”

  Russ got up from his chair. Bobby knew Russ was just acting tough, but he figured he was in for a nuggie or wedgie. His bodyguards didn’t seem interested in stopping it.

  “Russ, sit down, or we’ll tell Renee you have crabs.” It was Ashley, and her threat worked. Russ groaned and sat back down.

  Ashley didn’t even look at Bobby. Girls like Ashley never looked at Bobby.

  Bobby took a seat between Carlos and Addison, who were both busy with their smartphones and barely looked up. “Hey, guys,” he said.

  “You have bodyguards, too,” Carlos said. “Ours showed up first thing this morning. Freaked my parents out.”

  “Yeah, freaked my mom too,” Bobby said. He pulled out his smartphone and connected to the computer next to their table with a USB cable. He transferred his presentation to the computer.

  “Happy last-day-of-school, everyone!” Miranda came in with an armload of white paper bags. She dropped one on the table in front of each of them. The bags were covered with hand-drawn animals and palm trees. She smiled at the FBI men scattered around the room. “I didn’t make enough for you guys. Sorry.”

  Bobby opened his bag. Inside it were candies and cookies that looked homemade.

  Ashley shook her head. “Barbie strikes again.”

  “Actually,” Roberto said, his mouth already stuffed, “Miranda’s awesome. Miranda, will you marry me?”

  “She’s way too good for you, man,” Russ said, cookie crumbs spilling out of his mouth.

  Mr. and Mrs. Darnell came in with two more FBI men, and everyone shut up.

  Mr. Darnell spoke first. “This is Mr. Carver and Mr. Mifflin. They work for the Department of Homeland Security, although you probably already know that. I doubt we’ll be able to focus very well today if we don’t first talk about what’s going on.” Then he motioned for the man named Carver to take it from there.

  The guy looked nervous. He cleared his throat and adjusted his suit jacket, giving them a glimpse of a gun in a black holster. “We’re still sorting out details, but it appears that a group of people have breached our security measures and entered the United States under your identities. This might be linked to a fatal airline crash that occurred last night. It’s possible these people actually caused the crash as some form of distraction, allowing them to get by our security.”

  Bobby sat up straight. The men at his house hadn’t said this.

  “And to make matters worse, these people may possess some type of weapon.”

  “What kind of weapon?” Ashley said.

  “We don’t know. But as you can imagine, we’re taking this very seriously.”

  Ashley spoke again. “So shouldn’t you be in Los Angeles where the terrorists are?”

  The man glanced around the room. “We believe these people might be on their way here.”

  Bobby raised his hand, and the guy nodded for him to speak. “On TV they say something big is happening here tomorrow. Something about Kembalimo.”

  The guy frowned. “We didn’t know about that until this morning. But yes, it seems that SouthPacificNet has selected this location for a public announcement.”

  More questions were asked, but Carver didn’t know or didn’t want to share much more than that. He and his partner moved to the classroom door and stood with their arms crossed. They obviously had no intention of budging until class was over.

  Everyone whispered about this new information, but soon Mr. and Mrs. Darnell got the regular class session going by calling kids up to present their projects. By now there were at least ten FBI men in the room. They must have been bored, because they actually watched the presentations. They even clapped along with everyone else at the end of each one.

  Addison ended up going last, and it was obvious he hadn’t spent much time on his project. Mr. and Mrs. Darnell stared at the floor through most of it. Just as Addison finished, a man came in and spoke quietly to the others. Again Carver took front and center.

  “We have new information. The suspects I told you about might well have been on their way to this very town. But I am pleased to report that they have been apprehended in Arizona.”

  In spite of the good news, Bobby saw that Mr. Darnell wasn’t smiling.

  As it had done every morning of the nearly ten thousand years of Mbaiso’s existence, the sun rose in the east, throwing long shafts of light through the canopy. And as they had always done, the shafts of light moved steadily across the forest floor as if the sun were searching this place for something it had lost.

  Mbaiso positioned himself in front of one of these searchlights and waited as the beam moved steadily across his body, briefly painting his fur a brighter rusty-brown and warming his weary muscles.

  Mbaiso had been working days and nights to accomplish his last array of directives from the Creator. Tupela, who had been occupied with her own tasks, now joined him. The two tree kangaroos lazed about on the forest floor near the base of the largest tree in the area—the tree that supported the village’s most important hut. The hut was joined to six suspended tunnels leading away from the tree to chambers where the villagers had gathered to be healed when necessary, to simply be near the Lamotelokhai, or to make requests through the tree kangaroos. Talking directly to the Lamotelokhai had long been a tribal taboo, the result of a villager fixa
ted on personal rewards slaughtering nearly half the tribe. The same scenario had recently reoccurred with the boy, Addison. But it would not happen again—at least not in this place.

  Now the central hut was empty. The surviving villagers had returned to their living huts, and the six tunnels with their ceremonial chambers hung silently above the tree kangaroos. There would be no reason for the villagers to use them again.

  Mbaiso shifted positions to allow the sunbeam to paint his body again. The sensation was familiar, but everything else about this morning seemed different. A connection had been severed. No new instructions were coming in. There was no reason to gather information because there was no central database to transmit it to. The Creator was gone. And the villagers no longer needed help, because Mbaiso had carried out tasks that would help them live a self-sufficient existence.

  Events had progressed, as they eventually had to. The tree kangaroos, like the ancient villagers, no longer had a role to play in what would come next, although they would likely feel the effects even in this secluded place.

  Mbaiso examined the array of directives one more time. There was only one remaining to be carried out. He had examined it from every angle but could find no concealed meaning. The directive was clear: after completing the array of tasks, Mbaiso was to disaggregate Tupela’s body and then his own, returning them to the soil.

  His final task was to die.

  Mbaiso contemplated the array of tasks that hovered there in his consciousness. He shook his head forcefully and then deleted the entire array. For the first time in his existence, Mbaiso had decided to disobey a directive from the Creator.