Triggers

by Robert J. Sawyer

  “What about the others?” asked Jasmine. “Those who aren’t here?”

  Dr. Snow crouched in front of Susan Dawson. “Susan, where’s the contact list for the others who were affected?”

  Susan managed to meet Alyssa’s gaze but still couldn’t speak. After a moment, Alyssa gave up; the president was her number-one priority. She rose, positioned herself behind Seth’s wheelchair, and began pushing it. They entered the hallway, which reminded Seth of each time he’d been down it before, and of a hundred other similar corridors, and of so many other things: long narrow streets in South Central L.A., and soccer fields, and the underground tunnels that connected government buildings in Washington, and—yes—the tunnel of light he’d seen when he’d thought he was dying.

  They had to go outside to get to the infirmary building; it was cold and dark—the sun was down—but no one bothered to put on coats, and Seth found that the chill helped him focus. The links had suddenly become much, much stronger, and the distinction between himself and Kadeem seemed to be…

  There was no doubt. He wasn’t just accessing Kadeem’s memories. He felt, even more than he had when sharing Kadeem’s traumatic flashback, that he was Kadeem. He was still Seth, too; he was both of them.

  They entered the low building that contained the infirmary, and soon Seth’s wheelchair was brought up next to one of the beds and rotated 180 degrees, which revealed the surprising sight of Bessie Stilwell being carried in. She was seated in what was presumably a rocking chair from the cottage she’d been held in. Two uniformed Marine officers had taken the simple expedient of picking it up by its seat and carrying her here in it.

  The sight triggered a thousand memories for Seth, drawn from the vast intermingled pool of his and Kadeem’s joint pasts: chairs, and chairlifts, and old ladies, and football players being hoisted on the shoulders of teammates, and so much more.

  A moment later, Darryl Hudkins entered, two female Marines flanking him and helping to keep him on his feet. Meanwhile, someone had apparently found a spare wheelchair, and a Marine had used it to transport Susan Dawson here; she was being wheeled in now.

  “All right,” said Dr. Snow. “Thanks for your help getting these people here. You can go; it’s getting too crowded. Dismissed!”

  The Marines departed, and Seth looked at who was left: his wife Jasmine, Alyssa Snow, agents Darryl and Susan, and Bessie Stilwell.

  At that moment, Singh entered. A bald Asian man wearing a Navy lieutenant’s uniform was holding on to his elbow, and somewhere along the line they’d picked up a cane for him; he was leaning on it. Another man—a Marine with a blond crew cut—followed behind. They found a chair for Singh, who currently seemed incapable of speech.

  Jasmine Jerrison crouched so that she was at her husband’s eye level. Seth managed to lift his right hand ever so slightly, and she took it and intertwined her fingers with his, and she smiled that smile he’d fallen in love with thirty-five years ago.

  And suddenly he had her memories, too. Every part of her face—her green eyes, her wide mouth, her small nose, her freckles, her laugh lines—triggered flashbacks to events he and she both remembered, but these flashbacks were even more vivid. If what he’d originally experienced was like grainy television, and what he’d seen since he faltered during the speech was akin to Imax, then these memories, the ones he shared with Jasmine, were like Imax 3D.

  Perhaps that made sense: he didn’t have to confabulate a dining room if she remembered him in the one at their old apartment in Manhattan; he knew what it looked like, too. He didn’t have to make up their children’s faces; he knew precisely what his own now-grown kids had looked like at every stage of their lives.

  As he held her hand, he concentrated on her, on just her, on the memories—the life!—they’d shared, trying to shut out everything else, if only for a minute, trying to regain his equilibrium, his focus, his self. And as he looked at her, he saw her eyes go wide, showing whites all around the iris. He managed to say, “What’s wrong?”

  Jasmine opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.

  Seth tried to shout “Alyssa!” but it came out softly. Still, it was enough to get the physician to react. “Mrs. Jerrison,” Dr. Snow said at once, “are you all right?”

  His wife still looked terrified. Seth thought perhaps she was accessing his memories of being shot. He flexed his hand, trying to disengage his fingers, in hopes that might sever whatever link they’d suddenly forged, but she brought her other hand up and laid it over the two that were intertwined, her diamond ring sparkling in the room light.

  “Mrs. Jerrison,” Alyssa said again, and then all her medical training seemed to drain from her, and she fell back on a movie cliché. “Snap out of it!”

  Jasmine managed to shift her head to the left and up, looking at the doctor. “It’s…it’s amazing.”

  Seth was still in the wheelchair, Jasmine was still crouched next to him, and Alyssa was bent at the waist so she could better tend to them both. Jasmine lifted her left hand and reached to take Alyssa’s hand, but the doctor pulled back and stood up straight. “No,” she said. “No, if it’s contagious…”

  From across the room, Agent Darryl Hudkins, who was now lying on one of the infirmary beds, spoke for the first time. “It’s not a disease,” he said, the words protracted and his volume low. “It’s a miracle.”

  But Dr. Snow was now backing away, and she spoke to the Asian lieutenant and the Marine with the blond crew cut. “Are you two okay?”

  They nodded.

  “Good,” said Alyssa. “It doesn’t seem to be transmissible through touching clothes—it happened to the First Lady through skin contact. So don’t touch anyone, understood?”

  “Yes, Captain Snow,” said the lieutenant, and the blond Marine—who had a thick Southern accent—added, “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  Alyssa looked at Singh, who was slumped over in a padded chair. “Professor Singh, I need you to focus. I’m in way over my head here.”

  He slowly lifted his bearded face, but that was all.

  “Professor Singh,” she said again. “I need you. The president needs you.”

  Ranjip blinked repeatedly but said nothing, and Seth imagined that he was overwhelmed by—who was it now? Ah, yes, the redheaded clown in the clown car: he’d be overwhelmed by Lucius Jono’s memories, vividly intermingling with his own.

  Seth turned his attention back to Jasmine and found that he, at least, was regaining his strength, perhaps thanks to all the stimulants that had been pumped into him prior to starting his speech. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said to his wife. “It’s going to be dandy.”

  The First Lady nodded, and a memory came to him in out-of-synch stereo: him saying the exact same words after he’d won the Republican nomination.

  Across the room, he saw Bessie slump down again in her chair. Dr. Snow began to surge toward the elderly woman, but checked herself, presumably again not wanting to touch one of the infected.

  Seth put his hands on the large gray tires of his wheelchair and started pushing himself forward. Jasmine caught his intent and stood behind the wheelchair, but ended up using it as a walker to support herself rather than helping propel it along.

  “What are you doing?” Alyssa asked.

  The president ignored his doctor and continued to roll until his chair was up against the wall, next to Bessie’s rocker, with the two of them facing in opposite directions. She looked wan and weak, like her life was slipping away. Seth took Bessie’s wrinkled, liver-spotted hand in his, and Jasmine leaned in and placed her hands on top of theirs. The physical connection with Bessie brought Seth a flood of her memories: growing up in rural Mississippi, her father speaking out in favor of segregation, a blisteringly hot summer’s night.

  “Bessie,” he said softly.

  She stirred slightly, but her eyes were still closed.

  “Come on, Bessie,” he said, and he squeezed her hand a bit more tightly.

  At last her eyes fluttered
open, and they locked on his. He nodded encouragingly, and she smiled slightly at him.

  Alyssa Snow came closer. “Mrs. Stilwell, are you okay?”

  Bessie nodded and, as Alyssa turned, Bessie reached out with her free hand and clasped Alyssa’s wrist. Seth saw the doctor try to shake the hand loose, but Bessie somehow managed to hold her grip for several seconds.

  Alyssa half turned, and Seth, craning his neck, thought she looked unsteady on her feet. He couldn’t get up to help her, but the lieutenant rushed forward and caught her before she toppled, his hands touching hers. He gently lowered her to the floor by holding on to her wrists, letting her back rest against the door of a cabinet. It was only after she was safely down that he realized what he’d done. “Oh, shit,” he said, looking at his hands.

  Alyssa’s eyes had gone wide. “My God,” she said softly, and then she mouthed the words once more, but no sound came out.

  There was a sink at one side of the room. Seth saw the lieutenant walk toward it, as if the contagion could be washed off with soap and water. But he made it just halfway before he stumbled and went down on his knees.

  The Marine with the blond crew cut apparently realized he was the only unaffected person in the room. “What’s happening to y’all?”

  Seth found himself marveling at the pronoun so often needed but not existing in most English dialects: y’all. You all. All of you together. All of you as one.

  And they had, at least in part, apparently become just that, because in unison he and Ranjip and Darryl said, “Something wonderful.”

  Vice President Paddy Flaherty entered the room. “Seth,” he said, starting toward the president.

  Susan Dawson, still in the spare wheelchair, rallied some strength and spoke for the first time since they’d arrived at the infirmary. “Mr. Vice President, sir, turn around and walk out that door.”

  “What’s wrong?” Flaherty asked.

  “You have to get out of here,” Susan said.

  Flaherty continued to close the distance between himself and Jerrison.

  Susan drew her sidearm and aimed it at Flaherty. “Mr. Vice President, freeze!”

  Paddy Flaherty stopped. “Are you insane, Agent Dawson? Stand down.”

  “No, sir,” said Susan. “The president is compromised, and so my job is to protect the line of succession. Leave this room at once.”

  “Young lady,” Flaherty said, “you are making a huge mistake. Director Hexley will deal with you personally, no doubt, and—”

  “Get him,” said Seth.

  Flaherty turned to look at the president. “What?”

  “Get him,” Seth said again. “Get Leon Hexley—right now.”

  CHAPTER 49

  A Boeing E-4 Advanced Airborne Command Post had been dispatched to Andrews from the 1st Airborne Control Squadron out of Offutt Air Force Base, near Omaha. Secretary of Defense Peter Muilenburg saluted the soldiers he passed as he walked toward the plane.

  Normally, an E-4 was simply used as a “looking glass”—mirroring operations at the primary command site on the ground, in case that site was destroyed. But given the successful terrorist attack on the White House, Secretary Muilenburg had chosen Pteranodon—the call sign being used today for this plane—as his primary base for overseeing Operation Counterpunch.

  The E-4 was built on a modified 747 airframe. Muilenburg stuck his head into the cockpit on the upper deck and said a few words to the commander—who was a friend of his—as well as the copilot, navigator, and flight engineer. Their flight plan would take them clear across the continental United States and out over the Pacific.

  Muilenburg then headed down to the middle deck and walked to the conference room, which was in the center of the fuselage, with wide aisles on either side. The room’s walls were covered with monitors showing maps of Pakistan and the surrounding countries, as well as the positioning of the aircraft carriers, flight telemetry from the B-52s, satellite views of specific cities, and spreadsheets and charts detailing equipment-deployment status. Muilenburg’s operations staff was already on board, seated in swivel seats at the long worktable. He took his position, strapped in, and gave a thumbs-up to one of the crew.

  The giant plane began to roll down the runway.

  ERIC Redekop and Janis Falconi were back in his luxurious condo, watching the president’s speech on Eric’s wall-mounted TV. They’d both been stunned that Jerrison was standing up; after the sort of surgery he’d had, he should still have been in bed. When Jerrison first started to falter, Eric declared, “See!” as if he’d been vindicated. But then, moments later, Eric became unsteady himself as he was overwhelmed by vivid memories from Jan’s life, as well as memories of his own past coming back with stunning clarity.

  Jan had been leaning her head against his shoulder as they sat on the white leather couch; it took a few moments for Eric to realize that she had slumped against him. But despite feeling physically weak, mentally he felt something he never had before: an exhilarating sense that he was larger than he’d ever been. For a moment, he thought he was recalling one of Jan’s memories of being high, but it wasn’t that—this wasn’t a memory. Rather, it was how he felt—how they felt—right now, right here.

  Jan spoke, her voice small. “It’s expanding,” she said. And then, “We’re expanding.”

  “But why?” Eric managed to ask. “Why so fast now, so easily?”

  “Why does a boulder roll downhill faster than a pebble?” Jan replied, and he knew what she meant: so many were affected now—and more were joining in each moment. The pressure, the force, the strength was increasing exponentially.

  Eric leaned back into the couch—or maybe, he thought, he was pushed back into it by the headlong rush.

  SETH Jerrison imagined that the Secret Service director expected to lose his job: after all, his agency had manifestly failed in its mission to protect the president, and, indeed, two Secret Service agents had been involved in the attempt on Seth’s life.

  Seth had had Leon Hexley sequestered in a cottage here at Camp David. They were all named after trees, and it had amused the president to assign Hexley to the one called Hemlock. They’d sent one of the Marines who had been in the press-room audience to get Hexley, and—

  Ah, and here he was. Hexley entered the infirmary, but instantly stopped in his tracks; the accompanying Marine stopped, too.

  “Agent Dawson!” Hexley exclaimed. Seth was sure that Hexley, like any good Secret Service man, must have immediately taken in everything about the scene, including that Susan Dawson, sitting in a wheelchair, had a gun aimed at the vice president’s chest. “What the hell is going on?”

  Seth spoke before Susan could answer. He looked at the Marine with the blond crew cut. “You, there. What’s your name?”

  “Collins, sir.”

  “Collins, arrest Director Hexley. Agent Dawson has handcuffs. Take them from her and put them on him.”

  The young Marine instantly drew his sidearm. Susan, still in the spare wheelchair, let him take her handcuffs, and he quickly snapped them onto Hexley’s wrists, trapping his arms behind his back.

  “What the hell is going on?” Hexley asked again. He was forty-seven, with hair like Reed Richards: brown except for silver-gray at the temples. As always, he was wearing a blue suit and a conservative tie, and he had on horn-rim glasses and a fancy Swiss wristwatch.

  Seth wondered how best to accomplish what he wanted. He could simply take hold of one of Hexley’s hands—even if they were now cuffed. But although as a politician he’d shaken the hands of a lot of people he didn’t like, having to touch the man who had presumably organized the attempt on his life was more than he could bear.

  Or, he thought, he could try to sock the bastard in the jaw. But he doubted he was currently strong enough to manage it.

  As he looked at Leon Hexley—my God, yes!—the man’s memories became accessible to him; links were apparently forming now without physical contact.

  Memories unveiled; secrets reve
aled. Hexley had been in Afghanistan, along with Gordo Danbury and Dirk Jenks. All three of them had been converted there, wooed with real riches in this life and the promise of so much more in the next.

  Leon Hexley was older than the other two men, and had been with the CIA before the Afghan war; it had been easy enough for him to get a senior position in the Secret Service upon his return to the States, and eventually to become its director, promoting and deploying Danbury and Jenks as he saw fit.

  But they had waited until the time was right—until the US had been demoralized by attacks on San Francisco and Philadelphia and Chicago—to strike at the very heart of the American government. Danbury was to have gone out in a blaze of martyrdom killing Jerrison. Then Jenks was supposed to take out Flaherty, or whatever surviving presidential successor became commander in chief after the White House was destroyed: two dead presidents in a matter of hours.

  Seth was relieved to learn from Hexley’s memories that only three members of the Secret Service had been compromised; tomorrow, he’d go back to having its agents protect him and his family. But for now…

  The Secret Service had originally been part of the Treasury Department; Seth had used that bit of trivia in his classes at Columbia. Since 2003, it had been an agency of the Department of Homeland Security, and DHS was a cabinet department under his direct jurisdiction as leader of the executive branch. “Agent Dawson?” he said.

  She was still holding her gun. “Sir?”

  “I’m giving you a promotion. Effective immediately, you are the new director of the United States Secret Service.”

  • • •

  JAN Falconi was lying down now on the couch, her head in Eric’s lap. She was listening to all the voices and reliving all the memories: hers, and those of the veteran named Jack, and those of everyone he’d touched at the Vietnam Memorial, and—

  Ah, yes, it was a cold night, and Jack had gone to a homeless shelter. He’d brought in dozens more there, first by touching them, but then, after the total number had reached some critical threshold, merely by looking at them.