The Traveler's Companion

by Chater, Christopher John

  “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.

  “There isn’t enough data,” Iverson said, knowing it would spark debate.

  “Let’s just hypothesize. No one is going to criticize a wrong answer here. We don’t have much time. Tell me what you think.”

  “Scientists don’t enjoy making assumptions and espousing a lot of half-baked theoretical notions when it comes to complex systems. With a place like the Zone, I’m forced to speak philosophically, and I don’t like doing that.”

  “Work with me, Ryan. Let’s have a scientific jam session.”

  “Give me a few more days and I’ll jam with you all you want.”

  “You know he’s been bragging that he can make manifestations last longer.”

  “I heard.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Iverson scratched his head and shrugged.

  “You understand that his being able to make things last longer presents a greater problem for us. If he learns how to make things last, we won’t be able to discern fake from real,” Gibbons said.

  “Has he offered any theories as to why he’s been able to make them last longer?”

  “Half the time I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

  “For instance?”

  “He and Angela get to talking about physics, philosophy . . . all that crap—goes right over my head.”

  “It’s their way of flirting.”

  “Their way? Go’s human!”

  “Barely. He’s more intellectual than emotional. He tries to hide it, but it’s obvious he’s uncomfortable in the emotional realm. Psychologists attribute his type of intellectual over-development to an emotionally unavailable mother figure,” Iverson said.

  “You’re saying his mother was cold? You’re almost making me feel sorry for the bastard.”

  “Don’t. You were right about the Zone. We can’t let a place like this get into the hands of the public.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Too many unknowns. Years of study are needed before anyone steps into this place. Who knows what’s happening to us biologically? I’d personally like to know the radiation levels.”

  “Don’t freak me out, Iverson. I’ve never felt so good in my life. Don’t be a killjoy.”

  “Go is much too cavalier about all this. There’s potential danger here,” Iverson said.

  “Speaking of which. I’ve been meaning to ask you. Does Angela have access codes?”

  “Access codes?”

  “If it came down to Go or me, who would she choose?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In a fight, does she have my back?”

  “You’re expecting a fight?”

  “I like to be prepared for any outcome,” Gibbons said.

  “She would protect you because you’re her superior.”

  “Sure about that? Half the time it’s like she doesn’t know I’m alive.”

  “She’s programmed to flatter her target by ignoring other men. Don’t take it personally. She knows who you are. She knows you’re her superior.”

  “If you say the kid’s dangerous, I want to know I have a means of defense.”

  “She’s got your back,” Iverson said.

  “There’s no code word?”

  “Not really. You can say ‘help’ if you like.”

  Gibbons took a drink and said matter-of-factly, “Kind of emasculating.”

  * * * * *

  Iverson knocked on C.C. Go’s bungalow door. Go came to the door and gestured for him to have a seat inside. “Something to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Iverson said.

  Go studied Iverson’s face. “You look upset, Doctor. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”

  “You must be joking. I just spent the last few hours with my dead wife. This is definitely not Disneyland and you’re not Mickey fucking Mouse.”

  “You manifested her?”

  “I found her in an alleyway in Chinatown.”

  “Found her,” Go said, brows arching. “That’s interesting. Must have been a shock. The accuracy here . . . uncanny, isn’t it?”

  “You mentioned Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem earlier. Would you mind expounding upon that?”

  “You’re wondering if she was real. Even though she vanished before your eyes, you’re wondering if she was a real human being.”

  Iverson didn’t reply.

  “She wasn’t human, Doctor,” Go said, smiling sympathetically. “My scientists call them ephemera.”

  “How do you know ephemera aren’t human?”

  “They assured me—”

  “Your scientists? When will I have a chance to meet with them? I think they’d be better qualified—”

  “That’s not possible for several reasons,” Go said, suddenly intense.

  “Which are?” Iverson asked, pushing despite Go’s resistance.

  “My scientists are very busy. They also happen to be incredibly possessive when it comes to discussing their subatomic toys. We agreed in the beginning that the Zone would be donated to the public m
uch like the Internet was in the nineteen nineties. Until the release of the Zone, they’re forbidden to discuss our technology with any one government or corporation. They also want to remain anonymous for security reasons. I’m sorry, Doctor.”

  The scientist sighed. He had suspected for some time that this would be the case. But he had questions he believed could only be answered with empirical data.

  “Don’t worry, Doctor Iverson. The manifestations seem real, but they’re not. It’s only your mind that wants them to be. If you need irrefutable scientific proof, simply ask your wife to create something next time you’re with her.”

  “Create something?” Iverson asked.

  “The manifestations can’t create. They’re completely infertile, biologically and mentally. Forget about Descartes with his: ‘I think therefore I am.’ He should have said: ‘I create, therefore I am.’ Even a plant can reproduce. But manifestations are barren. I don’t know why exactly. I can only theorize.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well, it might sound hokey to you, but those of us who truly understand creativity are humble enough to give credit where credit is due. There’s a creative force out there that we connect to like a computer to the Internet. Often, I feel as if this force is creating through me. But the ephemera we create here in the Zone can’t connect to that force. They have no concept of God because we are their gods, imperfect as we are. It’s like we didn’t give them the software or the antenna. They can’t connect to the creative force. They might as well be robots.”

  “I see,” Iverson said. “But if they’re not human, what are they?”

  “The Zone is like a pond that reflects mental images. It’s as if our minds are projectors and the Zone’s a silver screen.”

  “But what if they can think and feel? What if they have free will?”

  Go shrugged. “If I programmed a robot to act like it felt pain, would that mean it was human?”

  “Only if it actually felt the pain.”

  Discussing artificial intelligence with Go was a little too close for comfort. He quickly looked for another analogy. “So if I’m walking down the street and I see my dead wife on a hospital bed, I should assume she’s just a reflection, or some type of a mental symbol made manifest?”

  “Exactly. For her to be real, to have free will, she would have to have her own thoughts and ideas. She doesn’t. She thinks the way you believe she thinks. She feels the way you made her feel. She’s an external representation of an internal concept within you. Just because she has all the biochemical stuff we associate with a human body, doesn’t mean there’s a soul operating it. As I’ve said before, all manifestations are autobiographical. If you manifest your wife, she will only be what you make her.”

  “Then why manifest her? To role play?”

  “Why not? It may be uncomfortable, but look at it this way: you’ve repressed memories of her, pushed them into the dark corners of your subconscious mind; bringing them out into the open will help you move on.”

  “Now why would I want to seriously dedicate time and energy to spending time with a repressed memory? Seems regressive if anything.”

  “In reality I might agree with you. Dwelling on the past is often a waste of time. In life we must accept what we cannot change. But in the Zone there’s very little if anything we can’t change. Acceptance is unnecessary in this environment. You said you regretted not spending time with your wife before she died. You now have the chance to remedy that. You can see what might’ve been. Believe me, Doctor, there are lots of people who would take advantage of this opportunity, real or not. No matter how painful.”

  Iverson wasn’t sure how to respond, but he thought the idea insane.

  “No one’s forcing you, Doctor. You’re free to try parasailing.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Iverson stood under the godless sky on the corner of Hyde and Lombard, atop Russian Hill. Despite the breeze he had just manifested, the city was as still as an oil painting. He was somewhat reluctant to let go of the quietude. If he wanted traffic and congestion, there was plenty of that back in reality. But he needed a clearer idea of what the manifestations were. Was Go correct? Were the human beings created here mere infertile concoctions, or were they actual life forces?

  If he was going to intentionally manifest Beth here, he needed to know exactly what he was getting himself into. She wouldn’t be the Beth he had married, he was certain of that. The real Beth was dead. But would a manifestation of her have thoughts, emotions, free will?

  The sound of a cable car bell startled him. He stepped out of the way when he saw it coming up the hill, filled with people. It came to a stop at Lombard Street, the driver pulling back the handbrake with the sound of clicking gears.

  Residents were now walking on the sidewalks. Cars were lined up to navigate the crooked street. A Japanese family was standing in his neighbor’s bushes, trying to get Coit Tower into the background of their picture. Iverson had just created all of these people.

  He grabbed one of the cable car’s poles and pulled himself aboard.

  “Fare’s five dollars,” the conductor told him. He wore a brown hat and matching polyester vest and pants. Gloved hands were holding the two levers that came up from the floor about chest high. He looked about fifty-five years old and he operated the cable car like a pro. Iverson wondered if he was aware this was actually his first day on the job.

  Iverson took out his wallet, fished out a five dollar bill, and fed it into a machine attached to the wall. After it beeped, the conductor thanked him.

  Iverson chose to stand during the trip, gripping the brass pole and bracing himself. A young blond boy of about ten years old, seated next to his mother, seemed impressed that Iverson didn’t have to sit while the cable car was moving. The mother was wearing a fanny pack around her waist and a camera dangling from her neck by a strap. They looked like they had just flown in from the Midwest. Why had he created them? He had been to the city a few times on business, but he didn’t remember seeing anyone who looked like them. Who were they?

  “Did you know you can get a day pass for the cable car?” the boy asked Iverson. “It’s a lot cheaper if you’re planning on riding it more than once.”

  “It is?” Iverson said, smiling at the boy. “That’s good to know. Is this your first time to the city?”

  The kid shrugged.

  When the mother smiled at Iverson, it gave him a strange sensation. It felt as if she was giving him permission to speak with her child. Did mental projections care about their children talking to strangers?

  “I’ve been here before, but always on business. Any advice on what I should see?” Iverson asked.

  “No,” the boy said, shaking his head.

  “How about Coit Tower?” Iverson asked, pointing to it in the distance.

  The boy looked to his mother.

  “Do you want to see the tower?” the mother asked.

  The boy nodded, but Iverson wondered if he even knew what Coit Tower was.

  A part of Iverson wanted to ask more in-depth questions of them, but doing so felt as inappropriate here as it would have in reality. They were, in every discernable way, indistinguishable from real humans. The boy was inquisitive and could hold a conversation. The mother was obviously monitoring her son while he spoke with a stranger, showing basic motherly instincts. They were intelligent creatures and as far as Iverson was concerned, intelligence was one in favor of sentience.

  He said goodbye to the boy and got off at Powell and Market Street. He didn’t have a destination in mind until he saw the Beaux-arts style dome of city hall.

  He teleported to it.

  As he waited at the light at the intersection of Grove Street and Van Ness Avenue, he saw that there was a homeless colony camped out on the sidewalk. An old man with a dirty gray beard was sitting on a blue tarp, watching him. Iverson avoided eye contact, waiting anxiously for the light to change. The man got up and approached him. He was holding a green bottle
of wine, the label dirty and peeling away.

  “Got some change?” the vagrant asked him.

  “No, sorry,” Iverson said as politely as he could.

  The man’s acrid body odor and alcohol-soaked breath assaulted Iverson’s nostrils.

  “Then fuck you, asshole,” he said, spit spraying out from his mouth.

  Iverson stepped back.

  “Piece of shit! Who needs you!”

  Iverson considered crossing against the light, but there was too much traffic. Another step back put him at the edge of the curb. One more would put him in the intersection. A car was just as deadly here as it was in reality.

  “Get the fuck away from me!” the man screamed. “Get out of here!”

  Finally the light changed. Iverson fled into the intersection. A bottle shattered on the street at his feet, wine spraying in a cone-shape across the crosswalk. The sound startled him into a sprint. When he got to the other side of the street, he wished he had created a more user-friendly city. This was too real.

  He made his way to the Civic Center lawn and sat down on a park bench. From here he could safely do some people watching. There were plenty of subjects. A couple of shady characters were hiding behind a tree conducting a drug deal. A group of young adults were staging a protest of some sort. They had signs with pictures of diseased cows. One of them was dressed in a cow costume covered in blood. Another had a bullhorn and was chanting: “Bad for them, bad for us!”

  “Mad cow makes us insane!” one of them chanted.

  People passing by barely noticed them, but Iverson was again amazed at how he had manifested such colorful characters. Were there an infinite number of populated cities in his mind, just waiting to come out? Creating them with such anthropomorphic detail only seemed to require a thought. One generic idea of city dwellers had spawned thousands of unique individuals. Did thinking of a universe automatically mean manifesting billions of stars, trillions of planets, and quadrillions of life forms? Just add water. . . .

  A couple sprawled out on a blanket on the lawn reminded him of when he and Beth used to lay on the Harvard Yard. For the first time that memory felt like it had happened a long time ago. Just as he was about to slip into melancholic nostalgia, something startling happened. A protester’s sign began to vanish. Shocked, the group stopped their protest. A young man was now just holding a stick, and then a few seconds later there was nothing in his hands.