Diffusion

by Stan C. Smith

  Finally Quentin left Lindsey’s side and felt his way in the darkness to the Lamotelokhai hut. As he neared the hut, he saw an orange glow. Inside the hut, several villagers tended a smokeless fire as they watched Bobby work with Mbaiso and the Lamotelokhai. Carlos and Ashley were sprawled on the floor, clearly exhausted.

  Quentin watched Bobby. In the last day or so the boy had somehow become fluent in the kangaroo’s sign language. His hands moved rapidly, but with precision. Each time Bobby completed a set of signs, Mbaiso followed with an equally elaborate set. And then Bobby would pause, as if listening or watching something.

  “It looks like you have an audience.” Quentin said. “How’s it going?”

  Bobby glanced at Quentin, his wide eyes accentuated by the flickering light of the fire. “Mr. Darnell. Sorry, it was talking to me.”

  Quentin raised his brows. “Talking?”

  Bobby looked at Mbaiso and back at Quentin, apparently reluctant to interrupt what he was doing. “It speaks to me now. Mbaiso helps.”

  Quentin eyed him. Bobby seemed jittery. “Are you feeling okay, Bobby? Maybe you need to get some sleep.”

  “I’m okay.” Bobby glanced at Mbaiso again. “I’m just kind of busy here.”

  Another mystery. It was too much. Quentin suddenly felt drained. He needed to sleep, to shut out all the violations of his perception of how the world should work. So he patted Bobby’s shoulder. “Don’t stay up too late.” It was a ridiculous statement. It was what he would have said to Addison before going to bed on a Friday night, knowing his son would stay up as long as he wanted playing video games.

  Bobby mumbled something and returned his attention to the tree kangaroo.

  The villagers—there were five of them by the fire—seemed interested in what Bobby was doing, and Quentin decided they posed no threat. So he rousted Carlos and Ashley to their feet and herded them back to the sleeping hut, leaving Bobby to his task.

  Quentin awoke with the sensation of being watched. Lindsey sat cross-legged beside him, staring at his face. The early morning light made her hair and skin look gray. The remains of two t-shirts, crudely tied together, were all that covered her breasts. She’d wrapped a half-disintegrated pair of khaki pants around her hips. Her skin was smudged with dirt and dried blood. Her hair was tangled and wild.

  He reached out for her. Her shoulder felt cool and smooth. He ran his hand down her side, letting the backs of his fingers stroke the skin between the t-shirts and the khaki pants.

  Lindsey nodded to her left, where Ashley and Carlos lay sleeping only a meter away.

  Quentin sighed and withdrew his hand. And then the horrendous events of the previous day flooded his mind—from Miranda’s dying words to the moment Addison fled from them for the last time. He tried to focus on Lindsey instead.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispered. It sounded awkward, forced.

  Lindsey shook her head slightly.

  “Well, you do.” Quentin sat up. Bobby was still not back. “Damn. I told him not to stay up all night. He’s going to need his strength.”

  “Are you still willing to leave, knowing Addison is alive?” Lindsey asked.

  Quentin avoided her gaze. “We don’t have a choice.” He reached for the container of water Samuel had given them and took a long drink. “If you have a better idea, let’s hear it.” This came out with more edge than he intended. He put his hand on her knee. “We have to get the kids back to their families.” He held the water out to her, but she made no move to accept it.

  “I’m sorry for saying it, Quentin, but it would have been better if he had died. If we leave him out here, it will haunt us forever.” Her eyes were welling up with tears.

  Quentin felt a rush of sadness. Perhaps it would be better if they had all been killed in the plane crash. He pressed his palm against her cheek and wiped a tear away with his thumb. “We still have each other, Linds. And three of our students are alive. We have to accept that Addison isn’t one of them.”

  “Three kids. That’s less than half—”

  “But they’re alive. And don’t forget, we’re taking the Lamotelokhai with us. It has to be the most significant discovery in history.”

  Lindsey shook her head. “We don’t even know what it is. It scares me. What if Samuel is right? What if this is a big mistake?”

  This question had been nagging Quentin, too. “It saved our lives.”

  “But it killed more than it saved. What about all the dead villagers? And Miranda—I didn’t see it saving Miranda’s life, did you? And look what it did to Addison. What if that happens again, on a larger scale?”

  Quentin pulled his hand away.

  “I’m sorry, Quentin, but it scares me. I mean, how does it know how to play Kembalimo? How is that possible?”

  Quentin had no answers, so he turned away. That was when he saw that Ashley and Carlos were awake. They both stared at him.

  “We’re just trying to figure out what to do next,” Quentin said to them, realizing that it didn’t sound very encouraging. He rose to his feet. “I’ll get Bobby so we can get out of here.”

  But just then Bobby stumbled into the hut, breathing hard. “Mr. and Mrs. Darnell,” he panted. “I have something to show you.”

  “Have you been awake all night?” Quentin asked as Bobby led them all through the hanging tunnel.

  Bobby ignored the question. “I figured out a way so the Papuans don’t have to go with us.”

  “How’s that?” Quentin said.

  Bobby hesitated. “I just have to show you.

  As they approached the central hut, Quentin heard voices. They rounded the last curve in the tunnel, and the opening loomed ahead, growing larger with each step. The massive tree was framed in the opening. But somehow it looked different. The juncture of spreading branches seemed smaller. As they stepped through the opening, Quentin realized the Lamotelokhai was gone.

  “Bobby, what’s going on?” Then Quentin froze.

  The Papuans stood in a cluster to one side, talking excitedly. And in the middle of them stood Addison.

  It was Addison the boy, just as he had been before. He was naked, and Quentin took in the familiar spindly legs, the wispy promise of pubic hair, the dime-sized birthmark above one nipple. He looked feeble among the Papuans, but his demeanor was relaxed, even authoritative. And the villagers held no weapons. In fact, they chattered at Addison as if he were a long-lost companion.

  Addison’s eyes floated casually from Ashley to Carlos to Lindsey, and then to Quentin. The Papuans still talked, but Addison stepped away from them. He spoke. “You are Mr. Darnell and Mrs. Darnell, the father and mother of Addison.” He turned to Ashley and Carlos. “You are Ashley. You are Carlos.”

  No one spoke.

  “What’s going on, Bobby?” Lindsey said.

  “I wanted to find a way that the Papuans wouldn’t have to leave,” Bobby said. “Then I got this idea. The Lamotelokhai said it could change shape. So, well, I asked it to change to this shape.” He pointed at Addison.

  Quentin pulled his eyes away from Addison to face Bobby. “What?”

  “I thought you’d like it, since Addison is—you know—gone.”

  Ashley whispered, “Jesus, Bobby.”

  Quentin steadied himself. One second he felt anger, then sadness, quickly replaced by compassion for Bobby. And then, of all things, a brief urge to laugh out loud. Finally, he stuttered, “This is the Lamotelokhai?”

  Bobby nodded. “Now he can walk with us.”

  The initial shock gradually receded, giving way to numb acceptance of yet another unforgiving truth. For the briefest moment, Quentin’s eyes had convinced him that Addison was back, returned to his former self by some miraculous feat of the Lamotelokhai’s curative power. But it was not to be. What remained of Addison was still out there somewhere, perhaps already dead, having fallen from a tree or drowned in a river.

  But this person in front of Quentin—th
is thing—was not Addison. It was merely a portrait of Addison. The clay-like substance had somehow been molded into Addison’s shape, nothing more than a resourcefully-crafted sculpture. But Quentin could not take his eyes off it. And the more he stared, the harder it was to believe. The figure before him was Addison’s body, down to the tiniest detail. The skin and hair were identical in every way. The voice was Addison’s. It even moved like Addison.

  Ashley approached and inspected the figure from top to bottom. Its nudity seemed to have no effect on her. Carlos followed, but kept his eyes on its face. The thing watched them, showing no expression.

  “Another thing—it’s easier to talk to now,” Bobby said. “Just ask it something.”

  Ashley looked it in the eye. “Who are you?”

  The thing returned her gaze, but remained silent.

  “Sometimes you have to change the way you phrase things,” Bobby said. “It doesn’t understand.”

  Ashley tried again. “Are you really the Lamotelokhai?”

  “Yes,” it said without hesitation.

  “Why do you look so much like Addison?” Ashley asked.

  “I was asked to look so much like Addison.”

  Ashley wrinkled her nose. “No, I mean how do you look so much like Addison? How did you do that?”

  “What I know of Addison is what helps me look so much like Addison.”

  Ashley turned to Bobby. “It talks funny.”

  “It’s still learning how,” Bobby said.

  Carlos raised his hand like he was in school. “Where is the real Addison?”

  “I cannot know where is the real Addison.”

  “But it knows how far away he is,” Bobby said. “Lamotelokhai, what is the distance of Addison?”

  “The distance of Addison is nine four three one foot.”

  “That means nine thousand, four hundred, and thirty-one feet,” Bobby said.

  This shook Quentin out of his daze. Addison was two miles away. He willed himself to speak to the thing for the first time. “Can you tell us where Addison is? What direction is he?”

  The thing eyed Quentin, but still its face was blank. “I cannot know the direction.”

  “But you know his distance. How do you know his distance?”

  “Information from Addison comes to me. I get the information from Addison. When Addison is near, the information from Addison is much. When Addison is not near, the information from Addison is little.”

  As peculiar as the thing’s words were, the meaning was clear to Quentin. Addison was somewhere on the perimeter of a circle with a two-mile-radius, a circle with an area of something like fifteen square miles. It was hopeless.

  “Does Addison remember us?” Quentin asked.

  “Yes. Addison saw you before Addison went away.”

  “No, I mean does Addison remember us from before that?”

  “No. I removed Addison’s memories.”

  Quentin considered this. “If I asked you to put Addison’s memories back, could you do that?”

  Bobby interjected, “Mr. Darnell, I already tried. The Lamotelokhai said it couldn’t make Addison the way he was before the plane crash, because it didn’t know Addison then.”

  Quentin looked at the copy of Addison. “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  Quentin sighed. He had to accept that Addison was simply gone, but now he found himself face-to-face with an identical copy of him.

  Ashley circled the new Addison, looking it over as if not convinced it was real. “My friend Miranda is dead,” she said. “Did you kill her?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashley stopped. “Why?”

  “Addison asked me to help kill Miranda.”

  “Miranda was my best friend,” Ashley said, her voice becoming lower.

  The thing did not respond. For a moment Quentin considered intervening, but the look in Ashley’s eyes stopped him. Perhaps she needed answers. Maybe they all did. But then Ashley’s next question took him by surprise.

  “Before you helped kill Miranda, you got inside of her, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you know all about her?”

  “Yes.”

  Quentin exchanged a concerned glance with Lindsey.

  Ashley’s brows furrowed. “Could you make a living person with all that you know about Miranda?”

  The thing answered without hesitation. “Yes.”

  Quentin wasn’t sure he’d heard this right. He said, “You can make a living organism, a human being?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Pieces of the organism could be gathered. Some of the pieces are not here, but I could make them. The pieces could be put together to make a living human being that I know of.”

  “And you know of Miranda?” Ashley said.

  “Yes. And I know of you.”

  That made Quentin uneasy. “Exactly how much do you know of us?”

  “A unit of knowing is needed.”

  Quentin shook his head, not sure how to respond.

  “So you could make Miranda come back to life?” Ashley asked.

  The thing did not respond.

  Ashley shook her hands, aggravated. “Could you make a living human that is Miranda?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashley’s eyes were now wide, her voice urgent. “Would she have Miranda’s personality and her memories?”

  “Yes.”

  Ashley turned to them. “Did you hear that?”

  Quentin’s mind reeled. Even if the Lamotelokhai could somehow create a living, breathing Miranda, and even if it could somehow give her all of Miranda’s memories, would it really be Miranda? Miranda died. There was no changing that.

  Ashley persisted. “Let’s do this. We have to!”

  Lindsey raised her hands. “Slow down, Ash. This is creepy beyond words. Even if he could do this, it wouldn’t actually be Miranda.”

  Ashley wouldn’t give up. “He just said it would! And what about Miranda’s parents? Don’t you think they would rather have Miranda come home?”

  This was a legitimate question. Apparently this was not an option for Addison. But if it were, would Quentin do it? Probably. After a moment he said, “Shouldn’t we let them decide?”

  “It might be too late then,” Ashley said. But then she fell silent.

  Quentin felt besieged. What effect would the ability to reincarnate the dead have on the world? What other capabilities did this thing have? But for now the questions would have to wait. He said, “We all wish Miranda were alive. But we need to be careful about what we do until we get the Lamotelokhai to people who can comprehend it.”

  As if on cue, Samuel entered the hut bearing several woven bags loaded with food and supplies. He stopped short when he saw that the tree was bare. His eyes darted about the hut and then fell upon the replica of Addison. He dropped the bags to the floor. “God blind me!”

  “It’s the Lamotelokhai,” Bobby said.

  Samuel stared at the figure as if it were a ghost. “What manner of malice is this?”

  Bobby explained as Samuel glanced back and forth from the bare tree to the transformed Lamotelokhai. He approached the figure and prodded it.

  It responded by speaking to him. “You are Samuel.”

  Samuel stumbled back a step. He turned to the villagers, who chattered at him, obviously enthusiastic about the situation. “Extraordinary,” Samuel muttered.

  Bobby suggested he ask it a question.

  Samuel cleared his throat and hesitated. Finally he spoke. “The prospect of speaking to the subject of so many years of study is quite beyond my command. It has long been my purpose to better communicate with you. And now that the opportunity is upon me, I fear I am without words.” Samuel forced a smile, but it faded as the Lamotelokhai stared back without expression.

  “Do you hear me?” Samuel asked.

  “Yes.”

 
“And all the years that I studied you, did you hear me then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you not have transformed yourself in order to speak, as you now have?”

  “I was not asked before to transform myself.”

  “I had only to ask?” Samuel seemed to say this to himself as much as to the figure.

  “Yes.”

  Samuel sputtered a pitiful guffaw. It was the closest thing to laughter that Quentin had ever heard from him. “Confoundingly extraordinary,” he said.

  Preparations for leaving were brief. They had no belongings other than their ragged bits of clothing and the bags of food. When they descended to the forest floor, several of the remaining Papuan men joined them. There was no sign of the women. The men hovered near the Lamotelokhai, still speaking and gesturing to it. Samuel was planning to leave the village with Quentin’s group, and he stood to the side, patiently waiting.

  As the Lamotelokhai talked to the Papuans, Quentin was still transfixed by the thing’s resemblance to Addison, from the cracking adolescent voice to the navel shaped like a crescent moon above the woven loincloth Samuel had provided. Disquieted by the immediacy of their departure, Quentin spoke to it. “I would like to know the distance of Addison.”

  The figure turned to him. “I do not know the distance of Addison.”

  A lump swelled in Quentin’s throat. “What does that mean? Is he dead?”

  For the first time, the figure’s face changed. Although barely discernable, it seemed to soften. It’s learning from watching us, Quentin thought.

  “Information comes to me when the distance of Addison is little. If Addison dies when information comes to me, the information tells me Addison dies. The information did not tell me this. The information stopped coming. The distance of Addison is great. Do you understand?”