The Traveler's Companion

by Chater, Christopher John

  Iverson went over to them.

  “What happened to your sign?” he asked.

  A young man about nineteen years old with brown eyes and black hair looked like he was on the verge of crying. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Do things sometimes disappear around here?” Iverson asked him.

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He looked to his friends for an answer, but they were clearly as lost as he was.

  “Nothing lasts forever,” Iverson said, hoping to soothe their shock with some philosophical humor.

  After a moment, the young man sunk his hands into his pockets and awkwardly stood around as the protest went on without him.

  Iverson, feeling sorry for the young man, manifested a new sign for him.

  “How’d you do that?” the young man asked.

  Iverson chuckled as he walked away. Why bother trying to explain it?

  To get a better look around, Iverson went into the city hall building and marveled at the architecture. A grand staircase flowed into the lobby like a waterfall of marble. At the top of the stairs a baroque-style arch made from sandstone led into the Board of Supervisors meeting chamber and the mayor’s office. Above him the interior of the dome was decorated with intricate detail.

  After an hour of watching professionals and government workers walk by, he decided to snoop around. He took the elevator to the fourth floor. There the hallway was lined with brass-colored antique sconces and office doors. He went down the hall pulling at each door handle, but found them all locked.

  A scream came from beyond a door at the end of the hall.

  He rushed toward it, pushed open the door, and found that the top floor staircase landing was gone. If he took one more step forward, he would plummet four floors to a marbled doom. A woman in a business suit was clinging to what was left of the fourth floor stairs by her fingertips.

  “Hold on!” Iverson shouted. While grasping the doorframe, he went to his knees and reached out for her. For a second he considered manifesting the stairs, but that risked encasing her inside them. The only way to save her was to reach out, take hold of her, and pull her up. Her wrists were just inches from his grasp. He hooked a foot around the door frame for leverage and extended his reach.

  “Don’t worry. I got you,” he told her.

  He had her by her wrist, but he didn’t have enough strength to pull her up to safety.

  “Try to climb up my arm,” Iverson told her.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “Try!”

  She tried as hard as she could, but she didn’t have the strength.

  “I have another idea,” Iverson said. “I’m going to swing you over to the third floor landing. It’s only a short drop.”

  “In these heels? I’ll break an ankle!”

  “It’s our only shot.”

  Iverson swung her as hard as he could before letting go of her wrist. It was horrible watching her fall, especially when she began to twist in the air. Luckily she put out her hands. She landed on her side with a loud thud. The wind was knocked out of her. When she finally caught her breath, she began to cry.

  “I’ll be right there!” Iverson told her.

  He ran to the elevator and took it down a floor. As quickly as he could, he went to the staircase door at the end of the hall. She was still on the floor, but she was no longer crying. She was trying to collect herself, slightly shocked and shyly looking away from Iverson.

  He knelt beside her and asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, fighting back the tears. “Thank you. Chivalry isn’t dead.”

  Iverson smiled. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

  “I take the stairs to stay in shape, but I don’t think I’ll be doing that for a while.”

  “Does anything feel broken?”

  “No, no. I’m fine. Just a little shaken up.”

  “What’s your name?”

  She was lost in thought for moment. “I don’t have a name. I should have one, shouldn’t I? But I just realized I don’t know what it is.”

  “What do you do here in city hall?”

  “I work for the mayor,” she said.

  “That’s good. You work for the mayor. How about I give you a name until you remember yours?”

  “I guess that’d be okay.”

  “How about . . . Emily. Do you like that name?”

  “Emily sounds fine,” she said, chuckling, “but I’m sure I have my own name. Just give me a moment to remember it.”

  “Emily. I’m Ryan Iverson. I work for the government, as well.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Ryan. Thank you for saving me.”

  Iverson looked up at the missing staircase. “Don’t you find it strange that a staircase just vanished?”

  She looked up at it, as if studying it. “I don’t know.”

  “Where I come from, staircases don’t vanish.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know what happened.”

  She was holding her left arm close to her and rubbing it with her right hand.

  “How’s your arm?” Iverson asked.

  “Fine. I think it’s just a little bruised.”

  It came as a painful realization to Iverson that people all over the city could be in danger. Just like Emily they were capable of pain. It was no longer important to him whether or not they were what he would classify as human. The thought that he had brought these beings into existence to suffer needlessly made him incredibly nervous.

  He made sure to manifest perfect health for Emily and then escorted her to the hallway. After he was positive she was okay on her own, he left the building, went out onto the street, and focused all his attention on re-manifesting the city’s structures. He resolved himself to do these retouches every hour on the hour for as long as he was here. He would not, however, re-manifest people. They would live out their fleeting lives without his interference. He didn’t expect them to last/live much longer than a day or two. But he now considered it his duty to protect them while they were here. Wasn’t that why he had gone into the CIA in the first place, to save lives? Here he could do that with a mere thought. In a way he was fulfilling an ambition.

  Then Iverson saw some hoodlums across the street beating on the homeless man that had confronted him earlier. They had him surrounded, cursing at him, punching him, kicking him while he was on the ground.

  The light was red, but there was no time to wait. Iverson put out his hand to stop the traffic and went into the intersection. Cars came to a screeching halt. A driver stuck his head out the window and screamed at him, “Fucking moron! What are you doing?”

  Iverson used the other hand to stop cars coming from the other direction, getting much the same reaction from drivers. He didn’t care.

  “Hey!” Iverson shouted.

  The attackers scattered.

  The homeless man was sprawled out on the sidewalk, a bloody mess. Iverson went to one knee next him. The man was barely conscious, mumbling to himself. Blood dripped from gashes in his lip and brow. His left eye was already swelling shut.

  Iverson mentally conjured up an image of a man with a face free of cuts and bruises. He cured the mental psychosis, as well. Iverson knew the brain; he had seen his share of scans. This man would get a healthy brain.

  The man opened his eyes and looked up at Iverson. He was a little confused, but free of injury.

  “What happened?” the man asked.

  Iverson sat back smiling. What a rush. But it didn’t feel quite like he had thought it would. Rather than feeling like he had cured a man, he felt as if he had created a work of some type. Did creative people always feel this way?

  “Are you okay?” Iverson asked him.

  Slowly the man sat up. “I think so. What happened?”

  “Looked like you were getting roughed up by a street gang.”

  “Damn,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I remember that part. But I feel different now.”

  “That’s called normal. Don
’t let it bother you.”

  Iverson helped the man stand up.

  “I’ve never felt like this before.”

  “Do you have any idea who you are?” Iverson asked him. “Do you have family in town?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” he said, dusting himself off. It was like he was trying to adjust to his new sober and mentally healthy self.

  “How did you end up on the street?”

  “I’ve always been here.”

  “You don’t have a past?”

  “Past? I woke up here this morning.”

  The idea that he was born from parents, grew up, and suffered some type of trauma or mental disorder that had put him on the street made no sense to the man. This was the first day of his life.

  Iverson extended a hand to shake. “Well, it was nice meeting you. Good luck.”

  The man shook his hand, but didn’t want to let go. “What do I do now?”

  “Whatever you want. Life is short. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Enjoy myself?” he asked. “How?”

  “I don’t know, but you probably have a day or so to figure it out. Need some money? Check your pockets.”

  The man reached into his pockets and found a wad of several one hundred dollar bills.

  “The first thing you’ll probably want to do is take a shower. Check into a nice hotel. Buy some clothes. Get a massage. Whatever you want.”

  Over the man’s shoulder, Iverson saw Gibbons running down the sidewalk, calling out for him. “Iverson! Iverson!”

  “Excuse me,” Iverson said to the homeless man.

  It was definitely Gibbons, but with more hair and a slightly more youthful appearance.

  “Is that you, Mark?”

  “Damn it, Iverson, where have you been?”

  “I’ve been here.”

  “Who the fuck is this?” Gibbons asked.

  “This is a friend of mine,” Iverson said with a smirk.

  “Looks like a bum to me,” Gibbons said. He turned to him and said, “Get the hell out of here!”

  “There’s no need for that,” Iverson said, getting in between them. He escorted the man away from Gibbons. “You’ll have to excuse us. We have some business to take care of. Go enjoy your day,” Iverson said. He put out a hand as if hailing a cab. A limousine came out of thin air and quickly pulled up to the curb next to them. A uniformed driver got out, opened the passenger door, and waited at attention. Iverson helped the man into the car.

  “But what do I do?” he asked.

  “I already told you. Enjoy yourself.”

  Although somewhat confused, the man got into the limo.

  “Are you done?” Gibbons said. “We have a crisis and you’re playing games with the locals.”

  “What’s the situation?” Iverson asked.

  “Angela. The bitch froze up.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Gibbons manifested a door on Van Ness Avenue, on the sidewalk, opened it, and went into his hotel room in Bali. “She’s in the bedroom,” Gibbons said.

  Iverson quickly went into the bedroom. Angela lay on her back on the bed under the comforter. Her bare arms were outside the comforter at her sides. Her eyes were closed and she was snoring.

  “Is she just asleep?” Gibbons asked. “Because I tried to wake her. She’s been like this for a few hours.”

  Iverson sat on the bed next to her. With a finger and thumb, he pried open one of her eyelids. “She’s not asleep. Not exactly. She shut down. Her system must have overloaded.”

  “Overloaded? All that research funding and she overloads? Are you using Windows for her or what?”

  “She wasn’t designed for this type of environment. There’s no way I could have prepared her for this.”

  “Will she wake up eventually?”

  “No. I need to take her back to the lab.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she’s having dinner with Mister Go in about an hour. She’s supposed to be getting ready right now.”

  Iverson pulled back the comforter. “Why is she naked?”

  “Her bathing suit dissolved. Don’t blame me, Go manifested it for her. I found her out by the pool like that. I thought she was doing some type of European thing, but then I realized she had fallen asleep. I couldn’t wake her, so I brought her in here before Go found her.”

  Iverson covered her with the comforter. “I need my laptop.”

  “We can get the laptop. It’s back in HQ, right?”

  “Yes. In my office.”

  “Okay,” Gibbons said, taking a few deep breaths. He waved his hands in the air and a door appeared. “Your office is on the other side.”

  “Okay,” Iverson said, holding her wrist and checking his watch. “The backup life support system is functioning perfectly. That’s the good news. I designed it to be independent of the brain cell technology.”

  “Great. Let’s get it going, Ryan.”

  Iverson stood up from the bed and went over to the door. When he opened it, he saw his office. “You’ve gotten pretty good at this.”

  “It’s not difficult. Now come on. The door won’t stay around forever.”

  When Iverson stepped into reality, he immediately felt ill. His stomach twisted into knots. Every muscle in his body began to spasm. He doubled over.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gibbons asked.

  Quickly, Iverson grabbed his laptop off the desk, but he realized he had to unplug it from the wall. He wasn’t sure he could stay conscious much longer. He went to his knees and crawled over to the wall outlet.

  “Are you all right? What the hell are you doing?” Gibbons asked.

  “I don’t feel right,” Iverson said, trying to stand. He needed to use the desk to pull himself up to his feet.

  “Hurry!” Gibbons said.

  Iverson tossed the power plug onto the keyboard and gently folded the screen over it. He barely made it back through the rift and into the Zone. Slightly disoriented, he walked a zigzag path over to the bed and sat on the opposite side of Angela. He set the computer next to him and buried his face in his hands.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Gibbons asked.

  “When I crossed over, I felt nauseated.”

  “What could cause that?”

  “My first guess is radiation poisoning. Give me a minute.” Iverson closed his eyes and imagined himself completely healthy. It wasn’t easy; the pain had begun to take over. Any longer and it would have been difficult to be creative.

  “I guess we need to be careful going back,” Gibbons said.

  “We’ll need a radiation bath at the very least. We’ll have to contact a HAZMAT team.”

  “Damn it. How does Go do it? He’s been going in and out and he looks fine.”

  “He must have a place he exits where there’s a team standing by to clean him up. It’s probably at his laboratory.”

  “So we need to find out where he exits,” Gibbons said.

  “Yes. Don’t worry, we’ll find it,” Iverson said, feeling the pain melting away.

  “But why weren’t we nauseous when we went into China?”

  “I don’t know. But looking back, I did feel a little fuzzy mentally.”

  Iverson, feeling better, looked for a plug for the computer behind the bedside table.

  “Will that plug work?” Gibbons asked.

  “Hopefully. After the reboot she automatically performs a system diagnostic, which takes a lot of power.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “About twenty minutes,” Iverson said.

  “We’re pushing it.”

  “Go can wait a few minutes.”

  The laptop linked remotely with Angela and began the rebooting process.

  “I need a drink,” Gibbons said, going into the living room. He came back with a scotch on the rocks. He took a generous swig and said, “Lucky I found her. Go might have thought she was dead.”

  “She has a pulse.”

&n
bsp; “Yeah, but she already had a seizure in front of him. Now she has narcolepsy, too? He’d think she was medical mess.”

  “When she shuts down, it’s made to look like she’s taking a nap. In reality a signal would have been sent via satellite and a team would have shown up to reboot her.”

  “That could be weird. She falls asleep while on a date and out of nowhere a team shows up to service her?”

  “It would be done remotely. From a van across the street, an adjoining room, a hallway outside an apartment. She’d wake up and apologize for dozing off, claiming she hadn’t gotten enough sleep the night before.”

  “Nice,” Gibbons said, taking another drink.

  “She should be operational in about fifteen minutes.”

  “What do we do then? She’s supposed to be getting ready for a date. There isn’t exactly a Niemen Marcus around here.”

  “We’ll have to manifest something for her.”

  “We’re seamstresses now? Jesus, Iverson. You’ve been spending too much time in San Francisco. You’re scaring me.”

  “She’ll tell us what she wants, and we’ll manifest it for her. Don’t worry. She knows exactly what to wear.”

  “How much longer can we keep this up? I can’t be her chaperone forever. It’s starting to get awkward.”

  “I know. I would be happy to trade places with you, but Mister Go insisted I create that city. Believe me. I don’t want to be there.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “At some point we’re going to have to trust her to do her job.”

  “Trust a computer?” he asked with a mouthful of scotch.

  “Artificial intelligence. She was designed to be autonomous.”

  “So far, that doesn’t seem to be working very well.”

  “Once she reboots, I can check her database. We’ll see how Go’s brain scans are looking. I’ll bet you anything he’s fallen head over heels.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. He seems cool as a cucumber to me. Bastard’s probably gay.”

  “They’re going on a date tonight, aren’t they?”