The Traveler's Companion (11 page)

In a panic, he ran over to the gurney. He put two fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. Her arm felt light and frail, as if the slightest touch could break it. Months before the surgery she had lost a substantial amount of weight. She could barely keep food down. Often, in the middle of a sentence, she would suddenly gaze out into nothing. Words sometimes wouldn’t come out as anything more than gibberish. Her hair had been falling out in clumps.

She had a pulse.

“Beth?” he said.

He pried open her eyelids to see her pupils. She must be in a coma, he thought. But how had she gotten here?

It hit him like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t real. He had forgotten again. This was an alternate dimension, matter was malleable here. Reanimated wives were tricks of the Zone. Beth must have been manifested when he had conjured up the city. Was this what Mr. Go meant when he said that manifestations often reflected the personal state of the creator?

Real or not, he couldn’t leave her here in the rain. He scanned the neighborhood for a safe haven. A hotel down the street was the best choice, but he wondered if it was too far to push her safely. With the steep hills, it could be dangerous for both of them. He had to try. He got a grip on the metal frame of the bed and began to push. The soles of his shoes slid on the pavement and the hard plastic wheels vibrated erratically against the wet cement. It started to rain harder.

When he finally got to the hotel, he put his hands to his knees and sucked in a few breaths. His lungs were burning and the veins in his legs felt like they were pumping needles, but he was quick to return to the task. He pushed the bed to the entrance, held open the front door with his foot, and pulled the bed into the lobby. He called the elevator, and when it came he lifted her from the bed and carried her inside. While cradling her in his arms, he managed to extend one finger to select the second floor button.

Once inside the room, he carefully set her on a brown polyester bedspread. The rain had dampened her face and hair. He got some towels from the bathroom and patted her down until she was dry. She looked peaceful.

He went and grabbed a desk chair, dragged it over to the side of the bed, and sat down. What if she woke up? he wondered. What would he say to her? What would she say to him? He was no longer the young man she had once known. With his graying, unruly beard and fan of wrinkles around the eyes, she might not even recognize him. She was still only thirty years old.

This isn’t really her, he thought, shaking his head. The likeness, however, was uncanny. She was even wearing her wedding band. He had worn his for nearly a year after her death, until it began to feel as heavy as a dumbbell and every time it touched a hard surface it seemed to clank as loud as a car crash.

He looked at his hand and saw that he was now wearing his old wedding ring. He took it off his finger and turned it to see the inscription inside: Forever. The Zone was staggering in its ability to extract total accuracy from the mind of its visitors. Buildings looked as real as they did in reality, felt as real. Homes had furniture, appliances, and electricity. Cars had engines. One could cut oneself with a manifestation and bleed.

But who was this woman before him?

Was she human?

She was clearly corporeal. She had a pulse. If he had an EEG, he felt confident it would register brain activity. But did she have emotions, thoughts, desires? Had he created a sentient being or was she just a figment of his imagination?

He continued to watch her sleep. Hours went by. She never woke up, never said a word, barely even seemed to be breathing.

After a few hours, she dissolved.

To his surprise, he felt a sense of emptiness. He wanted to bring her back. Nothing in this place was better than watching his wife sleep.

* * * * *

After a few hours sitting alone in the hotel room, Iverson decided now was a good time to check on Angela.

He closed his eyes, cleared his thoughts, and pictured Angela in his mind. Again nothing physical seemed to be happening, but this time, when he opened his eyes, he found himself in total darkness. The hotel room was gone. San Francisco was gone. The only thing he saw was a small speck of light, far off in a sea of blackness. It was getting larger by the second. It was coming at him. Then in a flash he was in a different room.

Through diaphanous linen curtains, he could see outside to a small rectangular lap pool. The smell of the ocean was being carried into the room by a cool breeze.

He pushed aside the curtains. Angela was lying on her stomach on a lounge chair, wearing a gold two piece bathing suit. She was listening to music on an MP3 player, her eyes closed, her legs up and swinging around like a wobbly gear system.

It was bright outside, warm but not hot.

“Angela,” Iverson said.

When she didn’t respond, he went over to her and removed an ear bud. “I’m here, Angela.”

She opened her eyes. Initially she smiled at him, but after a moment she asked, “Are you okay, Doctor Iverson?”

“I’m fine.”

She removed the other ear bud and sat up. “Your insular cortex—”

“Are we alone?”

“Yes. Director Gibbons doesn’t like the sun and Mister Go is parasailing.”

“We have to be careful. We can’t talk about brain scans in the field.”

“I understand, Doctor, but I’m concerned for your health. Did something traumatic happen?”

Iverson sat down on the lounge chair next to hers and gazed out at the ocean. The water was a clear, blue-green color. In the shimmering distance was the low hum of a motorboat. White water was coming off the sides of the boat like wings, and a rope tethered to the stern was towing a parachutist.

“Where are we?” Iverson asked.

Angela looked at his hands and asked, “Why are you wearing a wedding ring, Doctor Iverson?”

Iverson curled up his fingers to hide it. He stammered and said, “Part of the experiment.” He quickly took it off and put it in his pocket.

“This is a reproduction of a hotel in Bali,” Angela said.

“I see.”

“We’ve been to several places in the last twenty-four hours: Mister Go’s native country, Papua New Guinea; Milan; and now here.”

“He was born in Papua New Guinea?”

“Yes. His parents were traveling through. He was only there a few months, until he was old enough to travel. He told us all about it while in infant form. I held him as he talked.”

Iverson barely heard her, his mind back in San Francisco. “Good. You’re getting to know him.”

“Not everything. I asked him the meaning of his initials C.C. and he said, ‘Cute and clever.’”

“Interesting,” Iverson said plainly.

“There’s something troubling you, Doctor. Would you like to talk about it?”

“Have we been here for twenty-four hours?”

“There seems to be some differentiation with Earth-time, but yes, we’ve been inside the Zone for twenty-four hours, sixteen minutes, and thirty-five seconds.”

“Felt longer,” Iverson said.

Seeing that she was getting a bronze color from the sun, he asked, “Go manifested ultraviolet light?”

“Yes. But he said it wouldn’t damage my skin. He said it’s safer than a tanning bed.”

“And the bathing suit. He manifested it?”

She smiled. “Yes. But he joked that, unfortunately, he’s been able to make the manifestations last longer than usual.”

“They’ve been lasting a long time for him?”

“Some last longer than others.”

“How about people? How long do they last?”

“People?”

“Has he manifested humanoids?”

“No. It’s only been the three of us.”

“What about structures? How long are they lasting for Mister Go?”

“They vary. We’ve been in Bali for precisely ten hours. Only some minor topographical details have degraded so far,” Angela said.

“Ten hours? Impressive.”

“Like I said, he’s been making comments that his manifestations are lasting longer than usual,” Angela said.

“His brain scans?”

“Flooded with dopamine.”

“Maybe that has something to do with it.”

“He hasn’t touched me, Doctor Iverson. Several hours ago we were alone in his bungalow and I was nearly throwing myself at him. He resisted.”

“He’s afraid. He’s not sure he can trust us. Don’t take it personally. You haven’t lost your touch.”

She smiled.

“Where’s the director?” Iverson asked.

“He’s in bungalow four. Down that walkway.” She pointed.

“Be back in a minute. When Mister Go comes in, would you mind telling him I’d like to speak with him?”

“I will, Doctor Iverson.”

He followed a serpentine cement path that went through a rock garden. When he got to a wooden door with vented slats and a number four on it, he knocked. This seemed to cause a loud thud inside, followed by some cursing.

Finally a winded, cantankerous voice called out, “Who is it?”

“It’s Doctor Iverson, Director.”

Iverson heard the sound of quick footsteps and then the door was yanked open. The director was only wearing a towel around his waist. Red smear marks were on his skin beneath gobs of body hair. Maybe it was the lack of jacket and tie, but he looked slightly trimmer and possibly . . . younger.

“Was I interrupting something?” Iverson asked.

Gibbons left the door open and began to pluck his clothes off the floor, tucking them under his arm. While bent over, Iverson noticed Gibbons’s scalp seemed to have fewer sunspots. Was there some new growth? Was that gorilla’s finger slightly fuller?

“Before you say anything, I was just getting a massage,” Gibbons said, pulling his pants up under the towel around his waist. “She dissolved just before you knocked.”

Iverson went to sit in a rattan chair. After some hurrying around the room, Gibbons came to sit across from him. He was now wearing the gray slacks shredded by the car accident. His button-down white shirt was wrinkled. He didn’t bother to put on his shoes and socks. When he crossed his legs, Iverson noticed his feet were quite small. His toes were pale and hirsute.

Slightly winded, Gibbons said, “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. How’s Frisco?”

“Fine.”

Before Gibbons could probe further, there was a rap at the door.

“Who is it?” Gibbons grumbled.

Angela opened the door and stuck her head inside. “Doctor Iverson, Mister Go is back from parasailing. He said he’d be happy to speak with you at your convenience.”

“Thank you, Angela,” Iverson said. “Would you tell Mister Go I’ll meet him in his bungalow in a few minutes?”

“Certainly,” Angela said with a smile.

When she shut the door, Gibbons said, “I tried to get the remote earlier. I went through his stuff while he was out parasailing, but I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere. Then I thought of something. Why not just imagine it in my hand? That’s the way the Zone works, right? Imagine something and there it is.”

“And what happened?” Iverson asked.

“It materialized on my palm. I had it. But when I pressed the button, nothing happened. So I manifested a doorway into the CIA, but when I tried to take it there, it exploded in my hand.”

Iverson shrugged. “You only created a facsimile of it. You were just holding an empty plastic box that looked like the real one.”

This made Iverson think about Beth. Was the woman he had just been with nothing more than an empty plastic version of his real wife, a woman with a different soul from the woman he had loved?

“Shit. So much for that,” Gibbons said.

Gibbons got up and went to the wet bar. He added some ice to a glass and poured himself a drink. “Can’t even stay drunk. I drink and drink, but no matter how much, I’m only tight for an hour or so. Good news is that a hangover only lasts for about ten minutes.” He laughed while taking a drink. “Unbelievable.”

“Is Angela making progress with Go?”

“We all went to Milan for dinner last night. I felt like a third wheel.”

“How so?”

“They were holding hands, staring deep into each other’s eyes, giggling like school girls.”

“Good,” Iverson said, suppressing his excitement. The boss was getting to see her work in the field. “Hey, why didn’t you manifest yourself a date?”

“I’m a married man, Iverson,” Gibbons snapped. “
Sempre fidelis
, especially with the wife.”

“You could have manifested your wife.”

“It would have been like the remote! A look alike. It wouldn’t have been her. Almost be like cheating. Knowing her, she’d end up finding out about it. She’d torture it out of me. The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to wives.” Gibbons sat back down with his drink, ice cubes floating in a brown liquid, clanking against glass. He took a drink and asked, “Ok, I’m ready for a report. What have you found out?”

Iverson was a little peeved Gibbons expected him to manifest his dead wife, while he wouldn’t even manifest a version of his living wife for a double date. However, Iverson was used to the double standard from his boss and easily suppressed the irritation.