The Traveler's Companion (21 page)

“What is your specific talent in the Zone, Mister Go?” Iverson asked.

“I’m still trying to figure that out, Doctor. Until now I’ve acted as financier, guide, and teacher, but I think my greatest strength has been in understanding the philosophical and moral implications the Zone presents to its visitors.”

“A wanted man is the project’s moral compass? Interesting.” Now that Angela was gone, Iverson felt more comfortable speaking freely with Mr. Go.

“Who better to understand morality than one who sees its relativity?” Go asked.

“Scary thought,” Iverson said.

Go laughed off the insult, and then, to avoid elevating the confrontation, he excused himself. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.”

Iverson took Go’s seat next to Dr. Riley before it got cold. “Mind if I take a look? I’ve never seen a hemocytometer with a USB attachment.”

“I had it custom made. Out of necessity, really. Cells don’t degenerate so quickly in nature.” Dr. Riley pointed at the laptop screen and said, “The computer can determine if just one cell disappears. It continuously counts and recounts every thousandth of a second.”

“How many ephemera have you used this test on?” Iverson asked.

“Hundreds. It’s a branch of study within our organization,” Riley said.

“Have you run an analysis on the mitochondria?” Iverson asked. Cells contained organelles, often described as the organs of cells, and mitochondria were one of the organs. They were thought of as the engine of the cell, being that they were its power source.

“Yes, very good, Doctor. Ephemera degradation begins with the mitochondria dying. How’d you guess that?”

Iverson didn’t feel like sharing, but he had suspected mitochondria degradation from the beginning. For some reason they weren’t being created with a cell constitution equal to humans.

“So you have a large enough team to assign areas of study?” Iverson asked. “How many branches are there?”

“Are you reconsidering taking a position within Mister Go’s organization? We have a large roster. I’m sure there’d be a place for a talented scientist like you. It’d be a good idea to get aboard while you can. When the Zone goes public, I don’t doubt that every scientist in the world will want to be a part of the study of the Zone in one way or another,” Riley said.

“But why would anyone need a scientist in the Zone?”

Riley’s brows raised, but he didn’t say anything.

“No sickness. Probably no death. Don’t even need a weatherman. Here it’s always spring,” Iverson said.

Beth came out from the kitchen and asked, “Ryan. Can I speak with you for a moment?”

“Of course.”

When she had Ryan in the master bedroom, she shut the door and quickly went to embrace him.

“Sorry. I just had a moment of weakness,” she said. “I’ll get over it. Just hold me for a second.”

Awkwardly, Iverson put his arms around her and attempted to comfort her.

“I know what they’re looking for,” she said. “I know how it works.”

“How what works?”

“How to get the manifestations to last. It’s so obvious. I can’t believe they haven’t made the connection.”

“What connection?”

“All logic, aren’t you? It’s a wonder you’ve been able to last this long without me.”

“If you know something, Beth?”

She let go of him and sat on the end of the bed.

“Certain things last while others vanish in minutes,” she said.

“Yes. And?”

“How can I say this so you’ll understand?” she asked herself, her attention going up to the ceiling. “The more you care, the longer things last.”

Iverson paused a moment to consider what she was saying.

“You mean the level of emotional involvement dictates the longevity of a manifestation?”

“That’s a way of putting it. Sounds a bit scientific, but I guess it works. Naturally, I would last longer than an inanimate object, even if it were made of stone or metal. What lasts here is depth of feeling.”

“That’s why Go’s been able to make the manifestations last longer, because of his connection to Angela,” Iverson said, gasping in revelation. “Emotional energy is the key.”

“The important thing is that you care for me. If I dissolve, you can recreate me. Don’t hold back. Love me and we can be together forever.” She leaned in to kiss him but he dodged her.

“Let’s go back out to the living room,” he said. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Reluctantly, she agreed.

In the living room, Riley was picking his laptop up off the floor. The coffee table had disappeared. The view out the window had changed, as well. The Golden Gate Bridge was gone. Traffic was backed up for miles on the Sausalito side. Most of the bay had gone black. Pier 39 looked blotchy, made into islands of various sizes by a deluge of black.

“What happened?” Iverson asked, quickly going to the floor to help Riley pick up his laptop.

“Table just vanished,” Riley said.

“Did it interrupt the analysis?”

“I don’t think so.”

Beth ran back to the bedroom. She didn’t want to hear the results.

Riley sat down on the couch and put the computer on his lap. He looked over the data and said, “She’s not human, Doctor Iverson. She’s impressive, but she’s not going to last. I’d say she’s got about a week left. I’m sorry.”

Iverson hid his disappointment by saying, “I didn’t expect her to be human.”

“Why not?” Go asked entering the room. “Our reality came from the Zone.
We
came from the Zone.”

“What are you talking about? I was born in Massachusetts,” Iverson said. “Not in this place, whatever it is.”

“All matter was created here,” Go said.

“Do you agree with that, Doctor Riley?” Iverson asked. “Is that the prevailing opinion within your community?”

“It is a very compelling theory,” Riley said. “But we can’t draw any conclusions yet.”

Crackpots, Iverson thought. Go had infected them all with his mystical blathering.

“I’d still like to know what you did to make your wife last so long,” Riley said. “Three days is a long time for ephemera.”

“I was drunk,” Iverson said.

“On manifested alcohol?” Go asked.

“That’s right. I don’t remember what happened. I woke up with a headache and a reanimated wife.”

“Any idea what prompted you to reanimate her, as you put it?” Riley asked.

Iverson shrugged.

“You have no idea?” Riley asked.

“None whatsoever. Total fluke. As I’ve told Mister Go before, I have no artistic ability. None.”

“It might have something to do with the trauma of your wife’s passing,” Riley said.

“Is that so?”

“When a spouse dies, it’s often so traumatic that it causes a widower to entertain rich fantasies, delusions really. It’s a form of denial so strong that a part of him actually believes the spouse is still alive. You could have been keeping her alive in your mind for years. The creative energy generated with something like that. . . .”

Riley’s words struck him like a hammer to the head, but Iverson kept his composure. “Interesting theory, but I had her cremated. No room for denial.”

“C.C. informed me that you weren’t with your late wife after her second surgery. After she went into a coma.”

“Nothing I could do. I used my resources to search for a cure.”

“Maybe you were unable to face the truth,” Riley said.

“I can show you my notes if you like,” Iverson said, trying to keep a cool head.

“And now there are two Beths here? Where’s the other one?”

“No idea.”

“You suffered a psychic break. One Beth lives, the other dead and buried,” Riley said, stone-faced.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I need to conclude our time together. I’m feeling a bit tired,” Iverson said.

“Understandable, Doctor,” Go said apologetically. “We’ll get out of your hair.”

Riley seemed reluctant to leave.

“I’m going to go check on Beth, Angela. Would you mind showing our guests out, please?” Iverson asked.

“Yes, Doctor Iverson.”

* * * * *

Iverson spent the next hour with his wife in the master bedroom. With her head resting on his chest, she had cried herself to sleep. He was glad she had fallen asleep, because he had no idea how to comfort her. Like Go, she believed he could make her human given the right inspiration, but the idea of his having a special talent for creating life in the Zone seemed absurd to him. Though Angela was arguably the most sophisticated artificial human in mankind’s history, Iverson knew her anthropomorphic failings better than anyone. Not long after the beginning of the project to create Angela, Iverson had given up any hope of artificially creating a single complex personality for her. All attempts had been rejected by the test subjects. Compatibility was much too case specific. He found that the science of mate selection was probably the most misunderstood part of human psychology. He certainly was no cupid when it came to the complexity of human affinity. For Angela to work in the field, she had to be every man’s soul mate. To do that, she had to exploit man’s flaws. Iverson endeavored to capitalize on the mind’s tendency to see what it wanted to see, and, in the end, rather than making her more human, Angela became a blank screen on which men could project their fantasies. Even after Angela was a success, he never thought of himself as god-like. If anything he was humbled by the project. God had created man without smoke and mirrors. He hadn’t.

When he was sure Beth was asleep, he got up from bed and went into the living room. Angela was sitting on the couch, looking out at the view. Alcatraz was still there, an island in a sea of black.

“There are so many anomalies,” Angela said, sipping at her wine.

“I was hoping Go would have taken you with him. Don’t tell me he’s resisting Level Five?”

“He said he would call me later.”

Iverson momentarily wondered how he would call her, but then remembered how easy it would be for someone to create a communications service in the Zone. The phone on the end table in the far corner of the room could ring at any time should Go want it to. Nothing was impossible here.

Iverson sat down in the club chair.

“There’s some good news I wanted to share with you,” Angela said.

“Let’s hear it. I could use some good news.”

“My scans revealed activity in his caudate nucleus.”

“Really?” Iverson said. “That’s great. He’s finally coming around. Must be because of Level Five.”

“The primary design function of Level Five was not utilized in Mister Go’s presence,” Angela said.

“No? Well, maybe it was the peripherals. Everything is enhanced,” Iverson said. “Where was Mister Go when you conducted the scan?”

“He was in the kitchen with Beth.”

CHAPTER 15

Though he had done maintenance to the city, he wanted to check for anomalies. He was not at his creative best and he could have made mistakes. He asked Angela to keep an eye on Beth while he patrolled the city in a 1954 Rolls Royce with a white body, beige leather interior, whitewall tires, and a chrome grill. It navigated the San Francisco hills quite nicely and it was much more comfortable than the two-seater Mercedes, which he realized he had left in Union Square a few days earlier.

He now had time to think. He would rather have avoided brooding over Mr. Go’s brain scans suddenly showing activity in Beth’s presence. In truth, it was both good and bad news. Was he in love with her? Doubtful. More than likely he was excited by the prospect that she lasted longer than other ephemera. What troubled him was that this part of Go’s brain could show activity given the proper stimulus, but it hadn’t when around Angela.

Everything looked fine in the city until he got to the Financial District. A group of people was gathered on the street outside the 555 California building on the corner of Pine and Kearny. They were focused on something high up the skyscraper. Iverson pulled over to the curb and got out of the car.

When he got to the crowd, he looked up. A fountain of sparks was coming out the side of the building like a roman candle. A man was stuck inside the structure, half of him recessed inside the glass and steel. His torso, head, and one arm were hanging out the fifty-second floor. A firefighter had draped his coat over the man to protect him from the sparks as a welder attempted to cut him out. He was already dead.

When Iverson had re-manifested the city, the man must have been caught inside. It was a horrible way to go.

A news van pulled up. A woman in a suit and a cameraman stepped out the side door. She made sure the people were behind her so the cameraman could get them in the shot. Iverson stepped out of the camera’s view.

“Today the city’s in shock after disaster strikes,” the newswoman said, “Here, in the Financial District, a man is stuck inside the glass and steel of a skyscraper. Fire trucks and police cars quickly arrived at the scene, but it was too late. He was already dead. Across town in Nob Hill, on the corner of Taylor and Clay Street, a sinkhole opened up and swallowed two cars. Rescue efforts were under way when the hole mysteriously filled up. It’s not known if the victims are still alive under the pavement. Perhaps the most disturbing event was when the Golden Gate Bridge vanished for several minutes, but then later reappeared. No one is sure where it went or how it came back. City officials are quick to point the finger at poor legislation, claiming the laws that regulate structural maintenance of the city’s buildings and bridges have become lax in the last few years. City engineers are shocked and embarrassed by these occurrences and have begun an investigation to find their exact cause, saying quote: ‘These structures are in need of constant attention and the infrastructure for that just isn’t there.’ The families that have been most affected want answers, not excuses. Who is to blame for this?”

Iverson, chased back to his car by her words, felt an overwhelming compulsion to right the situation, to save these people. The Rolls Royce protested when he floored the accelerator and merged the car onto California Street, its metal creaking like old bones and the tires coughing out white smoke.

It would have been faster to teleport, but he wanted to check as much of the city as he could on the way. Were he able, he would have checked every inch of the city. But time was of the essence and Taylor Street, the site of the filled sinkhole, was only a few miles away. As the car climbed higher up the hill, the tires vibrating on the cable car tracks, he scanned the sides of buildings, behind the trash dumpsters, under the trees lining the street. Each intersection he crossed, he made sure to take a quick look in both directions. Down Grant, Stockton, Powell, everything looked normal.

But how could he be sure? How would he find all the victims? Wasn’t it more humane to just wipe them out and start over? The experiment had gone awry. People had been caught inside structures like mosquitoes stuck in amber. Those not killed were traumatized. But did re-manifesting all of them mean genocide?

On the opposite side of the street, Iverson spotted a jogger with a foot stuck inside the sidewalk. He spun the car around, squealing the tires, and parked as close to him as he could. He jumped out.

“Are you okay?” Iverson asked him.

“Foot’s stuck,” he said.

Quickly, Iverson imagined the hard cement was water. The man lifted out his foot, his shoe soaked. He fell to the sidewalk, exhausted. Iverson quickly manifested perfect health for him. The man’s body relaxed, and with his eyes closed, he sighed in relief.

“How’d you do that?” the jogger asked, eyes still closed.

“How’s the foot?” Iverson asked him, wanting to make sure he was healthy but not wanting to waste any time.

The jogger stood and began goose-walking in circles, raising the freed foot higher than necessary with each step, as if testing it.

“I’m okay,” the jogger said. “Feels good.”

Iverson allowed himself to feel some relief, but he knew there was no time to celebrate.

Back in the car, driving up the hill, he saw some people gathered on the street. He pulled up to the curb, set the brake, and got out of the car. He pushed his way through the crowd. A woman was inside the sidewalk from the waist down. A commuter on her way to work, she was almost to the bus stop a few feet away. A teenager lay on the sidewalk beside her, crying hysterically. The victim was his mother.

“Is she dead?” Iverson asked.

“Yes,” the son said.

“She just died,” an onlooker said.

Iverson turned away and fought back the emotion. Then he heard the sirens. Six police cars, three fire trucks, and two ambulances roared up California Street. Their destination was an art deco building only a few blocks away. It was the Nob Hill Inn.

Iverson ran up the hill to see what was going on. When he got there, he saw that the building had people protruding from nearly every floor. Limbs and heads were encased in the stonework. Some of the victims were still alive. Iverson turned away in horror and got sick onto the street.

A group of yellow-jacketed firefighters were on their way inside the building. Iverson, pulling himself together, followed them into the lobby. A front desk manager ran out from behind the counter to intercept them in the lobby.

“They’re everywhere,” the front desk manager said.

“Stay calm,” a firefighter told him. “Let’s start with the closest floor.”

The manager escorted them to the elevator and depressed the call button. The elevator opened. A man was hanging from the ceiling, stuck from the chest up. His legs were moving. He was still alive.

“That would be here,” the front desk manager said.

“I got this,” Iverson said, pushing them aside.

“Sir! Exit the elevator!” the manager said.

“Sir, get out of the elevator!” a firefighter said.

Iverson took hold of the man’s legs and imagined the area of the ceiling encasing him was made of warm butter. All of the man’s weight was suddenly thrust on Iverson and they both crashed to the floor. The victim was in shock, but otherwise okay.

“Let’s get the EMTs in here,” the firefighter said, rushing into the elevator.

The firefighter grabbed Iverson by the arm, but he resisted. “Meet me on the second floor,” Iverson told him.

Iverson teleported to the second floor.

In the hallway, he imagined that all the hotel room doors were opened. Quickly moving down the hall, he peered inside each of the rooms. A couple was inside a bed, completely nude, meshed in with the springs and fabric. He freed them with a thought. A man wandered into the hall, showing Iverson that a remote control had fused with his hand. Iverson extracted the device. A woman was stuck between floors. He pulled her out. On each floor, he found more victims. Many of them were already dead.

On the top floor, he went into the presidential suite. Someone was there he recognized. It was the homeless man he had met earlier, the man he had cured. He still had an unruly beard, but he had at least bathed. He was now sitting on the floor wearing a white terry cloth robe. A young woman in a uniform was sitting beside him, her head resting on his chest. One of her arms was stretched awkwardly in an opposing direction. She was a masseuse whose hand had fused into her portable table. The man had been comforting her, holding her in his arms.

“It’s you,” the man said. Despite the situation, he seemed calm. “I was hoping you would come.”

Iverson freed the girl’s hand from the table. She rubbed it while crying into the man’s chest.

“Do you know who I am?” Iverson asked.

“You’re some sort of God,” the man said. “I prayed for you to come.” He lifted the girl up from the floor. She clung to him like a child until he set her on the bed.

“This is all my fault,” Iverson said. “All of this is because of me.”

The man shushed Iverson and escorted him into the adjoining room. He shut the door so they would have privacy. This room had a panoramic view of downtown. Iverson could barely stand to look at it, but it dawned on him that this was one of the highest points in the city and that might be why it was the hardest hit. Maybe the manifestations began dissolving from its highest point. He wasn’t sure. It didn’t really matter; it was just his scientific mind trying to make sense of it.

“I don’t know how it works, but I don’t think you can blame yourself,” the man said.

“Yes I can. I’m human and human beings have no business playing God. It’s my fault. In my reality, I’d be thrown in jail or sentenced to death for this.”

“Punished for creating life?”

“For causing suffering. Crimes against humanity, against nature.”

“But we’ve been given a chance to experience life, to help one another, to become more than just something that occupies space for a fleeting moment. Have you seen the news? Heroes are being made every second.”

The man excitedly went over to the television and turned it on. The news was on every station. Iverson sat on the end of the bed and watched through a veil of tears as they reported the heroic acts of his creations. These mayflies were doing more good in their fleeting lives than Iverson had done in twenty-five years at the CIA. He had never felt this way about Angela. He felt proud.

“Thank you,” the man said, patting Iverson on the back.

The news reported that, in one hour, the mayor was going to issue a statement. Iverson knew what he had to do next.

* * * * *

Iverson ascended the marbled steps to the second floor of city hall, passed under an archway, and arrived at the offices of the mayor. There was a lobby desk and behind it was Emily. She was on the phone. Behind her were a dozen of the mayor’s staff, frantically fielding phone calls.

Iverson knew he could teleport into the mayor’s office, but he didn’t want to alarm him. It was best to ease him into the truth.

“Hello, Emily,” Iverson said.

She smiled at him, but held up a finger to signal she was on the phone.

“Yes, the mayor will be issuing a citywide state of emergency. A formal statement will be released to the press within the hour.” She hung up the phone with a sigh, and gave Iverson her attention though many other lines on her phone were blinking.

“Hello,” she said, exhausted. “This has been a nightmare day.”

“Emily. I need to the see the mayor.”

“That’s impossible. If you haven’t noticed, we have a city in crisis.”

“I know. I’m here to help. Tell the mayor I’m from the CIA and I have information about what’s going on.”

She stood staring at him blankly, assessing him, and then she said, “Come tell him yourself.”

She led him down a hall and to an opened office door with a plaque on it that read: The Mayor of San Francisco.

Emily knocked once and went inside. The mayor was young, probably early forties, and attractive in a slick kind of way. Though he wasn’t smiling, Iverson imagined he had a winning smile. He was currently sitting behind a desk, engrossed in a thick legal book.

“Mister Mayor. This is Ryan Iverson. He says he’s from the CIA.”

“CIA,” the mayor said, looking up from the book. “What can the CIA do about a city that’s disappearing?”

“I’ve come to help,” Iverson said.

“Can I get you anything, Mister Iverson? Coffee?” Emily asked.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Iverson said.

Emily left, shutting the door behind her.

“Mister Mayor, I’m Deputy Director Ryan Iverson of the Directorate of Science and Technology at the CIA. I’m here to help. First, let me tell you what’s going on, and from there we can go about the best way of fixing the situation.”

The mayor shut the book in front of him and sat back in his chair. “I’m trying to follow protocol, but it’s not working. I’m at a loss.”

“Yes, I can imagine that would be frustrating for you. In this situation . . . in a situation like this, you would contact the governor of California. The governor would then contact the President of the United States and request federal assistance.”