Susan looked like she was going to protest, but then she nodded and headed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Seth motioned for Bessie to take a seat. She did so; there was a vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. But she was shaking her head.
“What?” asked Seth.
“Nothing, sir. Just memories.”
“I understand, believe me. I'm recalling strange things, too, from the person I'm linked to.”
“Yes, but . . . “
“But what?”
Bessie averted her eyes but said nothing more.
Seth nodded. It was like the WikiLeaks scandal: all those embarrassing State Department emails. “You don't just recall me shaking, say, President Sarkozy's hand at the G8. You also recall what I thought of him then, right?”
Bessie nodded meekly.
Seth's energy ebbed and flowed, but one of his doctors had recently given him a stimulant. He found he could speak at greater length, at least for the moment, without exhausting himself. “I'm a human being,” he said. “And so are all the other national leaders. So, yes, I've got opinions about them, and they've doubtless got opinions about me.”
“You really hate the Canadian prime minister.”
Seth didn't hesitate. “Yes, I do. He's a weaselly, petty man.”
Bessie seemed to digest this. “So, um, what happens now?” she asked, looking briefly at the president then averting her gaze again.
“If word gets out that you're linked to me, lots of people are going to come after you.”
“Gracious!” said Bessie.
“So, as of right now, you're under the protection of the Secret Service.”
Seth had anticipated that she'd answer with, “Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary,” or maybe with, “Well, I hope they do a better job of protecting me than they did of protecting you,” but what she actually said was, “My son, too, please.”
“Sorry?”
“My son Michael. He's here in the hospital; he's the reason I'm in town. If people want to get at me, they might go after him.”
Seth managed another small nod. “Absolutely. We'll protect him, too.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He found it slightly amusing to be called “sir” by someone a quarter of a century older than himself, but he let it pass; Mrs. Stilwell was from the South, and manners still counted down there.
“And,” he said, “speaking of the Secret Service, there's an agent named Gordo Danbury.”
Bessie frowned. “You mean there was an agent by that name.”
“Exactly. Do you know who Leon Hexley is?”
Another frown, then: “The director of the Secret Service.”
“That's right. A few days ago, I came upon him in the Oval Office, and he was talking to someone on his phone . . . “ Seth paused to catch his breath, then: “. . . and I think he was talking about Gordo Danbury. Do you remember me hearing that conversation?”
“This is so strange,” Bessie said.
“Yes,” agreed Seth. “But do you remember it?”
“I don't remember a conversation about Gordo Danbury.”
“No, Leon didn't say his last name. Just ‘Gordo.’ he said, ‘Tell Gordo to . . . ‘ something. Do you remember that?”
“No.”
“Please try.”
“Gordo. That's a funny name.”
“It's short for Gordon. ‘Tell Gordo to . . .'”
“I sort of remember it,” Bessie said, “He said, ‘Tell Gordo to aim . . .'”
To aim! Yes, that was right! It was one more word than he himself had initially been able to remember. But Jesus: to aim! “There was some more,” Seth said. “Some numbers, maybe?”
“That's all I can recall,” Bessie said.
“If any more of it comes to you . . .”
“Of course,” she said. “But . . .”
“Yes?”
“I'm trying not to recall your memories,” she said. “I don't like knowing your thoughts, sir. I don't like it at all. I voted for you. I'll tell you the truth: I was hoping one of the others would get the Republican nomination; you're too middle-of-the-road for my tastes. Still, I always vote Republican—always have, always will. But a lot of what you said on the campaign trail was lies.”
“I admit it perhaps wasn't always the full truth, but—”
“It was lies," Bessie said. “In many, many cases. You said whatever you had to say to get elected. When I recall your memories, I feel ashamed.” She looked directly at him. “Don't you?”
Seth found himself unable to meet the eyes of this woman who could see right into his mind. “It's not an easy thing, getting elected,” he said. “There are compromises to be made.”
“It's a dirty business,” said Bessie. “I don't like it.”
“To tell the truth, I don't, either. I'm not sorry I ran, though, and I'm going to do as much good as I can while I'm in office. But you're right: I compromised to get here. And you know what? That was the right thing to do.”
“Compromises are one thing,” Bessie said. “Lies are another.”
“No one who told the truth all the time could get elected—and so we bend the truth on small matters to accomplish the important things. An evil politician is one who lies all the time; a good one picks and chooses when to lie.”
“Horsefeathers,” she snapped.
He paused. “Well, then, think of it this way, Bessie—may I call you Bessie? Think of it like this: you're my conscience from now on, for as long as these links last. I won't be able to lie because you'll know that I'm lying. You'll keep me honest.”
She responded immediately. “You can count on it.”
* * * *
Eric Redekop was delighted the lockdown was over. He headed down to the staff entrance on the first floor, and—
And there was Janis Falconi; she was heading out, too.
She hadn't noticed him yet, and he took a moment to look at her and think. The flood of her memories continued unabated. He knew now how the rest of her day had gone, what she'd had as an afternoon snack—who'd have guessed pork rinds?—and . . .
And she was clean, at least at the moment. She hadn't shot up since . . .
Well, good for her! It'd been three days, but . . .
But she was dreading going home, dreading going back to Tony, dreading her whole damned life. He thought about whether she'd yet told Tony that the lockdown was over; she hadn't.
The staff had to check out with the Secret Service, just like the visitors to the hospital, although they had a separate line down here. Jan was in that line.
“Great work, Eric,” said a doctor as he crossed the room. “Heard all about it.”
“Thanks,” Eric said, his eyes still on Jan.
Another person touched his arm as he continued to close the distance. “Congratulations, Dr. Redekop!”
“Thanks,” he said again. There were eight people behind Jan and twice as many in front. She still hadn't noticed him, and if he just joined the end of the line, she'd get out long before he did.
Which shouldn't matter. Which should be fine.
But . . .
But . . .
He walked up to her. “Hey, Janis,” he said.
She turned and smiled—a radiant smile, a wonderful smile. “Dr. Redekop.”
“Hey,” he said again, disappointed by his own repartee. Then he said, “Um.” And then he turned to the man behind them. “Do you mind if I . . . ?”
The man smiled. “You saved the president today. I think that entitles you to cut in.”
“Thanks.” He looked at Jan and lowered his voice. “So, um, I guess you're also one of those affected by that experiment.”
She glanced around, as if this was something she'd been trying to keep under wraps, then said softly, “Yeah.”
“Who are you linked to?”
“His name's Josh Latimer. He's a patient here, waiting for a kidney transplant.”
“Ah.”
She looked at
him. “How'd you know I was affected?”
It was his turn to look around, but the guy behind him was now talking to the person behind him, and the woman in front was wearing white earbuds; she seemed oblivious to their conversation. “Because,” he said, “I'm reading you.”
Jan immediately dropped her gaze.
“So,” said Eric, “um, are you in a hurry to get home, or . . . ?”
She didn't look up but she did reply. “No,” she said. “I'm not.”
* * * *
Chapter 26
Bessie Stilwell left the president's room accompanied by a Secret Service agent. Once she was gone, Seth asked for Professor Singh to be brought to his room.
“Mr. President, what can I do for you?” Singh said, upon arrival.
“I take it you've worked out all the linkages, right?”
“Yes, sir. We've got a chart.”
“So, I can read Kadeem, Kadeem can read . . . Susan, is it?”
“Yes, that's right. And Agent Dawson can read me, and I can read Dr. Lucius Jono, who helped save your life. Dr. Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, a real-estate agent. And so on.”
“And Darryl?
“Agent Hudkins? He's the one who can read Bessie Stilwell's memories.”
“No, I mean, who is reading him?”
“Maria Ramirez—the pregnant lady.”
“Good, okay.” A pause, then: “How do you remember all that?”
“I wouldn't be much of a memory researcher if I didn't know various tricks for memorizing things. A standard method is to use ‘the memory palace.’ Take a building you know well, and visualize the things you want to remember inside that building in the order you'd encounter them as you actually walked through it. In this case, I think of my own house back in Toronto. There's an entryway, and I picture myself there, making me the starting point. In the entryway, there's a door to the garage. I picture Lucius Jono—who's got crazy red hair—in a clown car in there, with a bunch of other clowns, but he's trying to get out, because it's dark in the garage, and he wants to be in the light; ‘Lucius’ means ‘light.’ Next to that door is a small washroom. Lucius Jono can read Nikki Van Hausen, and—well, forgive me, but I think of rushing to the washroom in an emergency, and making it in the nick of time. A play on her name. Next to the washroom is the staircase leading up to my living room. Nikki can read the memories of Dr. Eric Redekop, the lead surgeon. I picture bodies stretched out on each of the four steps, and him operating on all four of them simultaneously, scalpels in each of his hands, and also, monkey-like, in each of his feet, as well.”
“Good grief!” said Jerrison.
“The more bizarre the image, the more memorable it is.”
“I suppose,” Seth said. “Anyway, I need your help. There's something important I have to recall but can't.”
“One of your own memories, or one of Private Adams's?”
The question would have been nonsensical just twenty-four hours ago, Seth thought. “One of my own.”
“Well, I understand they've located the woman who was linked to you—Mrs. Stilwell, I believe. Perhaps she can recall it?”
“No. I already thought of that. She can't. So I was wondering if your equipment could help either her or me to dredge it up.”
“What was the memory?”
“A conversation I overheard.”
“Forgive me, but can you perhaps be more specific?”
Seth considered how much to tell Singh. “I overheard one end of a phone conversation—Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service, talking on his cell.”
“Well,” said Singh, “if it had been me, that'd be an easy memory to isolate—because an encounter with such a high-ranking official would be a remarkable thing. But for you, sir? An everyday occurrence. My equipment would have a hard time pinpointing it.”
“Damn. It's crucial that I recall what he said.”
“Recall is a tricky thing, sir. It requires something to bring it to mind.”
“I suppose.”
“People always get frustrated when other people can't remember things. In fact, my wife was mad at me a couple of weeks ago, because I couldn't remember something that had happened on our honeymoon. She'd snapped, ‘But it's important! Why can't you remember?’ You know what my reply was?”
Seth managed a small shake of his head.
Singh exploded in mock-anger. "Because I was loaded, okay?"
Despite the seriousness of the situation, Seth couldn't stop himself from smiling. “I used to love that show.”
“Me, too,” said Singh. “But, actually, I'm not making a joke. Not that I was loaded—I don't drink. But declarative memories are best recalled under the same circumstances as they were laid down. Memories formed while drunk—or underwater, or at a hotel—come back best when drunk or underwater or back at that hotel.”
“Damn,” said Seth.
“What?” replied Singh.
“The conversation took place in the Oval Office—and that doesn't exist anymore.”
“Ah, I see,” said Singh. But then he smiled. “Still, perhaps there is a way.”
* * * *
Kadeem Adams didn't have a room at LT; he'd come to the hospital yesterday morning as part of his work with Professor Singh, and was staying in a small hotel Singh had arranged. But although the lockdown was now over, he'd hung around, hoping for a call from Susan Dawson, who had said the president was sleeping intermittently. Kadeem was sitting in Singh's little office on the third floor, doodling on a pad of paper.
He knew he might never have a chance like this again. The linkages had persisted for hours now, but no one knew if they were permanent. And, even if they were, he hoped—he prayed—Professor Singh would finish what he'd started in treating him. But for now—for right now—he had something that people jockeyed for, fought for, bribed for, begged for: he had the attention of the president of the United States. It was an opportunity not to be wasted, and, if Singh did figure out how to break the linkages, an opportunity that wouldn't come again.
Kadeem understood how it worked: the president didn't think the same thoughts at the same time as he did, but he could recall anything that Kadeem knew, just as Kadeem could recall anything that Susan Dawson remembered.
And so he knew, because he'd been pondering the question, that Sue had indeed pushed for him to be allowed to visit the president. And, at last, the call came. He told Agent Dawson where he was, and she came to get him, escorting him down the stairs. His footfalls and hers echoed in the stairwell; she was behind him. They exited on the second floor and headed along the corridor. A photographer—a Hispanic man of maybe forty—was waiting; he had two big cameras on straps around his neck. The three of them continued on into the president's room. Two Secret Service agents stood on either side of the closed door. They nodded curtly at Agent Dawson, and one of them opened the door, holding it while first Kadeem then Susan entered.
It was shocking to see Jerrison like this. He was looking haggard and wan. It was almost enough to make Kadeem stop, but—
But no. He had to do this; he owed it to the others.
As he looked at the president, more details registered. He was surprised, for instance, at how much white there was in the president's hair. Kadeem remembered him from the campaign, mostly, when his hair had been mixed between gray and sandy brown. He imagined that being leader of the free world aged you more rapidly than just about any other job.
Kadeem glanced at the nurse sitting across the room, then looked again at Jerrison. The back of the president's bed was elevated so that he could sit up a bit. He was wearing Ben Franklin glasses, but they had slid down the considerable length of his nose. He looked over them, smiled, and managed a small wave. “Come in"—flash!—"young man!"—flash!—"Come in!”
The photographer jockeyed for position, now getting shots of Kadeem. Kadeem was surprised to hear his voice crack; it hadn't done that since he was thirteen. “Hey, Mister President.”
The preside
nt extended—flash!—his hand—flash!—and Kadeem closed the distance—flash!—and shook it—flash! Jerrison's grip was weak; it was clearly an effort for him to shake hands at all.
“Please,” the president said, gesturing now to a vinyl-covered chair next to his bed. “Won't you have a seat?”
Kadeem sat down, which put his head and the president's at roughly the same level. “Thank you, sir.”
“So, Miss Dawson tells me you're in the army?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your rank?” But then he smiled. “Private, first class, right? Serial number 080-79-3196, isn't it?”
“That's it, sir.”
“It's so strange, having your memories, young man.”
“It's strange to me, sir, knowing you have them.”
“I'm sure, I'm sure. I'm not deliberately snooping, you know. I'm not saying to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what Kadeem and Kristah's first date was like?,’ or—” Then he frowned. “Oh. Well, I'm with you. I thought Tropic Thunder was a funny film, even if she didn't.”
Kadeem felt his head shaking slowly left to right; it was amazing.
“Anyway, sorry,” said the president. “The point is that I'm not deliberately doing stuff like that. You're entitled to your privacy, young man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“So you were overseas?”
“Yes, sir. Operation Iraqi Freedom.”
To his credit, the president's gaze didn't waver. “But you're home now,” Jerrison said in a tone that Kadeem was sure was meant to elicit gratitude.
Kadeem took a deep breath, then: “Not exactly, sir. My home is in Los Angeles. But I'm being treated here.”
Jerrison frowned, perplexed. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you were injured.”
And perhaps he had already recalled what Kadeem was about to tell him—but had simply forgotten, what with the mountain of other things he had to think about. Kadeem sighed slightly. If only everything could be so easily forgotten. “I've got PTSD.”
The president nodded. “Ah, yes.”
“Professor Singh's been helping me. Or he was, until we got interrupted; he's still got a lot of work to do.”
“You're in good hands, I'm sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform.”
Analog SFF, March 2012 Page 22
