Robert Sawyer - Triggers

David January was pleased that the bitch from the Secret Service had let him go. He was even more pleased that she’d believed him when he’d said he’d hidden being linked to Mark Griffin because accessing Griffin’s memories would give him an advantage in negotiating the new collective agreement.

But that wasn’t the real reason; not at all.

No, what had come to David, just after the operation on the president, was something far more interesting.

He’d been cleaning up, throwing his bloodied gloves and gown into the disposal unit. Other members of the surgical team had been there, too, including his wife Annie. And Annie had made a joke, saying she wondered who was going to pay President Jerrison’s hospital bill.

Christine Lee, the anesthesiologist, had quipped, “I don’t think he’s quite old enough for Medicare.”

And— bam! —it had come to him, the first foreign memory he’d accessed. It was crazy, bizarre—but the memory was vivid, and he knew in his bones that it was true.

Ten years ago, long before he’d joined LT, Dr. Mark Griffin had worked for a health-insurance company. And that company had bilked Medicare out of close to a hundred million dollars, with claims related to a worthless pharmaceutical that supposedly treated Alzheimer’s. Griffin, who had been in charge of government billing for the company, masterminded the whole thing.

David January hated health-insurance companies. His father had had no health insurance, because no one would insure him. And Griffin had taken many millions out of the system that was supposed to provide care for those over sixty-five who didn’t have coverage—people like David’s dad.

Who knew how long these linkages would last? Who knew how long he’d have these memories? After that Secret Service woman finished grilling him—how dare she suggest that Annie had cheated on him!—he headed to Griffin’s office. Griffin’s secretary, Miss Peters, looked up as he entered. “Is he in?” David asked.

“He’s got an appointment in just a couple of minutes, Dr. January. Can I schedule you for later?”

Which meant he was in. David marched past her.

“Excuse me!” Miss Peters said, standing up. “You can’t go in there!”

David opened the inner door.

“Dr. January!” Miss Peters said, exasperated.

Inside, Griffin was seated behind a wide wooden desk polished so brightly it gleamed. He looked up, startled.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Griffin,” Miss Peters said.

Griffin nodded. “It’s okay, Sherry,” he said. “What is it, Dave?”

David turned and glared at the secretary. She retreated, closing the heavy door behind her.

“I know what you did,” David said.

“What?” replied Griffin.

“Ten years ago. At the insurance company. The Medicare fraud.”

Griffin seemed to consider this. His natural impulse might have been to say something like, “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” but his face conveyed that he knew the rules had changed. And so he tried a different tack. “You think that because you’ve got a memory that you don’t recognize, it must be mine? And, even if it is, that it’s not just a fantasy I had or the plot of a movie I saw or a book I read?”

“It’s real,” David said. “You did it, and you know it. And, more importantly, I know it.”

“You’ve got no proof I did anything—none. And for all I know, you’ve got an iPhone or a BlackBerry in your pocket, recording every word I say. So, for the record, I assert my innocence.”

“I know what happened,” David said. “I even know where the records are stored.”

Griffin was wearing a red necktie. It was already loosened, and he pulled it out of his blue shirt collar and held it in front of him. “A nice tie,” he said. “Silk. Since you can read my memories, I’m sure you know my wife gave it to me.” He then moved over to a counter at the side of his large office, where a Mr. Coffee was set up next to a tree of coffee mugs. He picked up one of the mugs and turned it so that David could see the writing on it. “ ‘World’s Greatest Dad,’ ” he said. “My son assures me it’s the only one in existence.” And then he did something bizarre: he looped the red tie through the handle of the mug and tied it in a bow. He held it up, as if pleased with his handiwork, and said, “What do you want?”

“You took a hundred million or so out of Medicare. I figured it’s worth a lot to keep me silent.”

“Not one penny ever went into my pocket for anything unethical,” Griffin said.

“Not directly. But you had stock options, and you got a huge bonus that year.”

Griffin spread his arms. “Dave…”

“As soon as this stupid lockdown is over, you’re going to start paying me to keep quiet.”

“So that’s it? Blackmail?”

David smiled mirthlessly. “Think of the payments as insurance premiums.”

Griffin’s tone was perfectly even. “You’ve just made the worst mistake of your life, Dave.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re right, you can read my memories. But someone else is reading yours. And—well, let’s see who it is?” Griffin moved back to his desk and without sitting down, he made a call. “Ranjip?” he said, after a moment. “Mark Griffin. Can you have a look at that chart of yours for me? Tell me who is reading the memories of David January, the cardiologist?” A pause. “Really? Yeah, I know her. Okay, thanks. No, no, we’re still on; I’m almost finished here. Come on up when you’re ready. Bye.”

Griffin put down the handset and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Professor Singh has just informed me that Dr. Christine Lee, an anesthesiologist, can read your memories. And all I’ll have to do is say to Christine, hey, remember that time I tied my red silk tie into a bow through the handle of my ‘World’s Greatest Dad’ mug? What did David January say just after that?” He paused. “You see, David? There’s a witness—she’s somewhere else in the hospital right now, but she’s a witness all the same. And the linkages are only first-order, did you know that? That means she’ll remember you trying to blackmail me, but she won’t remember what you claim to remember of my past; she has access only to your memories, not to mine.”

David felt his blood boiling. First, that Secret Service woman had manipulated him—that bullshit about Annie! And now Griffin was fucking with him, too. Well, if he was going to go down for this, he’d at least give Griffin something he’d remember, something all of them would remember. He lunged forward, startling Griffin, and punched the tall man in the stomach. Griffin doubled over, and David got him in a headlock.

“You’ll keep your mouth shut,” David said. “You won’t speak to Christine.”

Griffin was struggling, and David found them moving sideways across the room, toward the same counter that held the coffee service. Griffin broke out of the headlock, but David managed to get a choke hold on him. Griffin flailed his free arm, and he knocked the coffeemaker to the floor, the glass parts shattering.

They continued to struggle, but Miss Peters must have heard the sound of the breaking glass because she opened the office door and stood there, mouth agape—and behind her, just entering the outer office, was Professor Singh.

Singh surged forward. “Let him go.”

“He attacked me,” David said. “Went nuts. Tried to kill me.”

The syllable “no”—mostly just raw breath rather than a word—came from Griffin.

“I said, let him go!” Singh demanded.

David looked at the guy: he was fifty if he was a day and slight of build; David was sure he could take him, too, if he had to. “Back off,” he said.