The Traveler's Companion by Christopher John Chater

care of it,” Go said.
    “Very generous of you, C.C. Thank you,” Gibbons said, forcing a smile.
    Go went back to join Angela.
    As soon as Go was out of sight, Gibbons swung his legs out from under the table, leapt out of the booth, and sprinted for the exit. He threw open the front door and bolted through the pedestrians on the street like a running back. He pushed some people aside and slammed into others, but eventually he was forced off the sidewalk and straight into traffic. He was vertical for a second longer, just before the screech of tires and the screams of onlookers.
    * * * * *
     
    A small crowd had gathered around the fallen American. C.C. Go was speaking to them in Cantonese. Iverson hoped he was instructing them to call for an ambulance. Gibbons was in bad shape. He lay in the middle of the street unconscious, scrapes on his face and head, his left leg definitely broken. Angela had scanned Gibbons’s body and reported to Iverson that he had six broken ribs and a ruptured spleen.
    Iverson retrieved his cell phone from Gibbons’s pocket. When he flipped it open the number keys fell out as if they were broken teeth. The LCD screen was now a smoky gray color with a jagged line through it. Definitely no power.
    Go knelt beside Gibbons and asked, “Is he still breathing?”
    “Yes,” Angela said. “But he has some internal bleed—”
    “You told them to call for an ambulance, right?” Iverson asked, intentionally interrupting Angela.
    “No,” Go said.
    “No? Then what were you saying to them?” Iverson asked.
    “Don’t worry, Doctor. The director’s going to be fine,” Go told him. He reached into his blazer and retrieved the remote from the inside pocket. When he depressed the red button affixed to the center, everything went black. The city was gone. They were in total silence.
    A spotlight came from above, from nowhere, lighting up Go kneeling before Gibbons. Like a magician on stage, he was waving his hands over Gibbons’s motionless body. Within seconds Gibbons regained consciousness.
    * * * * *
     
    They were now in what appeared to be the infirmary at Langley headquarters, where only a few hours earlier Melissa Fleming had been convalescing. But this was not the CIA’s infirmary. This was a very close imitation. In this place, small objects vanished before Iverson’s eyes; a clipboard, some tissue paper, and a wall clock were stationary decor in the infirmary of reality, but not here.
    Iverson’s primary concern was Gibbons’s health, but C.C. Go seemed to have some type of handle on that. Gibbons was conscious and in good spirits. Evidently, he was fully recuperated. “I feel fine. Never felt better in my life,” he had said over and over.
    His injuries had been substantial. His pants were torn at the thighs with bloody scraps highlighting the torn fabric, the work of the truck bumper that had hit him. His left leg was broken. He had organ failure, substantial internal bleeding, and a skull fracture that looked like a brick had hit a shatter-proof windshield.
    “Take a deep breath,” Iverson instructed him, poking an index finger into various parts of his abdomen.
    Gibbons’s breathing was deep and without obstruction.
    Iverson shook his head and said, “I can’t believe it.”
    “It’s not really that hard to believe when you think about it. You should know that, Doctor Iverson. You understand physics,” Go said.
    “This breaks every law of physics I can think of,” Iverson said, shaking his head.
    “Not really. The subatomic realm resembles energy more than it does matter. Wave and particle. Wave is the Zone. Particle, culminating into what we call reality, is the Zone’s illusory manifestation. Here, that matter is malleable.”
    “You’re suggesting that the Zone is a sort of factory that created our existence, and when we return to the factory, we can reshape matter at a subatomic level?”
    “Nicely put,” Go said.
    “And you think that a god of some sort used