Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Susan nodded and went to push the door open, but Darryl held out his arm, blocking Professor Singh.

“Forgive me, sir,” Darryl said, rallying now, “but are you carrying a knife?”

“A kirpan, yes,” Singh replied.

Darryl shook his head. “You can’t take it into the president’s room.”

Susan was mortified—first, that the issue had come up, and, second, because it hadn’t even occurred to her; she’d been about to let an armed man approach the president.

Singh’s voice had regained its steadiness. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Darryl Hudkins.”

“Darryl,” Singh said, “the kirpan is a defensive weapon.” He opened his lab coat and revealed the cloth belt he was wearing; the ceremonial knife was attached to it. “It is an instrument of ahimsa —of nonviolence; a tool to prevent violence from being done to a defenseless person when all other means have failed.” He looked directly at Hudkins. “You’ll forgive me, but given the current circumstances, I rather suspect I could do no worse than the Secret Service already has in protecting the president.”

Susan thought about the kirpan, leafing through Singh’s memories related to the artifact—and it came to her. He would never, ever use it to hurt anyone. “Let him pass,” she said to Darryl.

“If you say so, ma’am,” Darryl replied—but he moved a hand to his holster, just in case.

Seth Jerrison was resting with his eyes closed. He’d insisted that Jasmine—the First Lady—stay in Oregon today. She’d wanted to rush back, but the last time terrorists had attacked Washington, on 9/11, they’d targeted multiple buildings; the current attack might not be over.

Seth opened his eyes when he heard the door to the room swinging inward on its hinges. A white Secret Service agent named Roger Michaelis was in the room already, as was Sheila, a stern-looking Asian nurse. Coming in was the leader of his Secret Service detail, Susan Dawson, and accompanying her was someone Jerrison had never seen before.

“Mr. President,” Susan said, “this is Professor Ranjip Singh. He’s a memory researcher, and, well, he thinks he has an explanation—sort of—for what happened to you.”

“Good,” Seth said weakly. “Because it didn’t end when my near-death experience did. I keep remembering things that couldn’t possibly be my own memories.”

Singh stepped closer. “Forgive me, Mr. President, but if I may: what sort of things?”

“Just now, I was recalling a basketball game.”

“Watching one on TV?” asked Singh. “Or as a spectator in a stadium?”

“No, no.” It took Seth a second to rally the strength to go on. “Playing basketball. Me and three other men.” He paused; his body just wanted to sleep. “But it wasn’t my memory.”

“Then what brought it to mind?” asked Singh, sounding intrigued.

“I don’t know,” Seth replied, still struggling to get each word out. But then he lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, wait. I do know. I’d been thinking about previous times surgery had been performed on a president.”

“Yes?” said Singh.

“Last time was in 2010.” He gathered some strength, then: “Obama got an elbow in the face while playing basketball with friends. Needed twelve stitches on his upper lip.”

Singh frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

Nurse Sheila spoke up. “I do. It was done by the White House Medical Unit, under a local anesthetic.”

Seth nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. Still…”

“Still,” said Singh, “you were thinking of that, and that led you to think of the last time you played basketball. Except that the memory that came wasn’t your own.”

“Exactly,” said Seth. “Explain that.” He’d meant for his voice to have a challenging tone, but he was still too weak to speak in anything much above a whisper.

“I will try,” said Singh. “But—forgive me, Mr. President, I’m…words fail me. I never thought I’d be speaking to the president of the United States!”

“It’s all right,” said Seth.

Singh smiled. “I know, but…again, forgive me. I have to push a little here, and, ah, I’m not comfortable doing that—not with you.”

“It’s fine,” Seth said.

Singh closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and went on. “Very well. These three men you saw—can you describe them?”

“Twenties. One was fat and bald—shaved bald—and the other two were thin and had short hair.”

“Forgive me, sir, but do you really mean ‘thin’? Or do you just mean they were of normal weight?”

“Sorry. Normal weight.”

“And their hair color?”

“Dark, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Dark.”

“And eye color?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Singh paused for a moment, then: “So, blue then, like yours?”

“Maybe.”

“Any other details? Clothing, perhaps?”

“T-shirts on all three. One was wearing green track pants; another, red gym shorts; and the third—the fat guy—cutoff jeans.”

“And they were playing basketball?”

“Well, shooting hoops.”

“And you were participating?”

Seth rested for a moment, then: “Yes, but…”

“What?”

“I haven’t played basketball for, God, forty years. I wrecked the tendons in my left foot, taking a tumble down a staircase at college.”

“Ah,” said Singh. “Do you know the other players’ names?”

“No. Never met them, and— hmmm. Well, that’s strange.” He let himself breathe for a moment, then: “Yes, now that I think about it—now that you ask—I do know their names, but…”

Singh prodded him with a “Yes?”

Seth looked at Susan for a moment. “Well, they’re unusual names. Deshawn, Lamarr, and, um—Kalil. But…” He fell silent. Singh was looking at him expectantly, but, damn it all, he’d put his foot in it by calling them “unusual names.”

Singh was all over it. “You mean, they’re unusual names for white people. They’re common enough African-American names, though.”

“Well, yes.”

“But you saw white people?”

Seth managed a small nod.

Singh’s eyebrows climbed toward his turban. “Fascinating. Mr. President, do you know the name of the person whose memories you’re accessing?”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

“Nothing is coming to me.”

Susan and the other Secret Service agent were watching intently, as was Sheila the nurse.

“All right,” said Singh. “Try this: everyone is made fun of at school. My last name is Singh, and the students at my school in Toronto called me ‘Singh-Song.’ And my first name is Ranjip, but the mean boys at high school always called me ‘rancid’—although I took some pleasure in the fact that some of them didn’t even know what that meant. What did they call you?”

The president frowned. “Fairyson.”

Singh tried to suppress a smile. “Any other names you were called?”

“No.”

“Nothing is coming to you?”

“Nothing, but…”

“Yes?”

“ ‘Firstman’ just popped into my mind. Like ‘First Man,’ but all run together.”

“ ‘Firstman,’ repeated Singh, excitedly. “Adam, no? Does the name Kadeem Adams mean anything to you?”

“No. Oh, wait. Yes—yes! Sure, Kadeem Adams—that’s him.”

“Well, that was easy,” said Singh, turning to Susan. “He’s reading the memories of my patient, Private Kadeem Adams.”

“Is that the guy who is reading me?” Susan asked.

“Yes,” said Singh.

“So he’s not the person reading the president?”

“What’s that?” said Seth. “Somebody’s reading my memories?”