Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Singh exploded into movement, rushing forward then pivoting on his left foot while he brought his right foot up into a powerful karate kick, catching David in the side. Griffin seized the chance and managed to twist himself free from David’s grip. Singh pivoted again and kicked with his other leg, catching David in the solar plexus, and as David doubled over, Singh delivered a sharp karate punch to the back of David’s neck. David slumped face-first to the floor. He was still conscious, but, try as he might, he couldn’t get back up. He lolled his head to the side to watch.

Griffin was struggling to get his breath and was still doubled over. He held on to the edge of the counter for support.

“Do you need a doctor?” Singh asked.

Griffin huffed and puffed a few more times, then shook his head. “No. I’ll be okay.” He straightened up partway, and nodded again. “Good thing you know karate, Professor Singh.”

David looked up at Singh, his head still spinning. Singh said, “I don’t.”

“Well, or whatever martial art that was,” said Griffin.

“I don’t know any martial arts,” Singh said, his voice full of wonder. “But I guess Lucius Jono—the man I’m linked to— does.”

Griffin got out, “Well, thank God for that.”

Singh was excited. “Indeed. This is fascinating. I wouldn’t have anticipated skills being accessible like that.”

Griffin straightened and made it over to his desk. He asked Miss Peters to have a security guard and an ER doctor come up here. Then he loomed in to make sure that David wasn’t mortally wounded.

“There are two kinds of human memory,” Singh went on, huffing a bit from exertion. “One is declarative or explicit memory, which is all that I’d thought had been linked between any of us here. Declarative memory consists of those things that can be consciously recalled and easily put into words—memories of facts or events.” He looked down in apparent astonishment at what he’d done to David. “The other kind is what you just saw me access. It’s called non-declarative or procedural memory; laypeople sometimes call it muscle memory. Non-declarative memories are the ones that you obviously have but are not conscious of: how to ride a bicycle, how to tie a shoe, how to play tennis—which is something I happen to do well—or how to perform martial arts. Declarative memory is associated with the hippocampus, whereas the dorsolateral striatum is associated with non-declarative memory.”

Griffin rubbed his throat. “So?”

The door opened, and a security guard entered, along with a doctor. The doctor immediately went down on one knee to examine David.

“So,” said Singh, “the linkages are much more thorough than perhaps they first appeared to be.”

“Or maybe they’re growing stronger over time,” Griffin said.

Singh said, “Maybe they are at that. Who knows where it will all end?”

The interviews with the affected people continued; several more “Can Read” and “Is Read By” squares had been filled in on Singh’s grid. Susan was back in Singh’s office, this time interviewing a woman named Maria Ramirez. She was twenty-seven with black hair tumbling down her back, and she was wearing a loose-fitting top.

“By this point, I imagine you’ve heard some of the gossip that’s going around,” Susan said to Maria, who was seated on the convex side of the kidney-shaped desk. “All that stuff about memories being shared. Are you sharing anyone’s memories, do you think?”

“I don’t want to get in trouble,” said Maria.

Susan’s heart skipped a beat. “You won’t get in trouble,” she replied. “I promise you. We simply want to identify who’s linked to who, that’s all. It’s not your fault this happened.”

Maria seemed to consider this. “What if I say I’m not linked to anyone?”

“You’d be the first person inside the sphere who wasn’t,” Susan said. She let Maria digest this. Better that she decide on her own not to lie than that Susan accuse her of being a liar; that would just make her more defensive.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Maria said.

Susan nodded. “None of us did.”

“You’re affected, too?” Maria asked, but then she answered her own question. “Sí. You are. You can read the memories of someone here. A scientist named Singh.”

Susan sat up straighter. Only Prospector and a few others should have known that. “Maria, who are you linked to?”

“I know I know things I shouldn’t. Secret things; secure things. National-security things. I swear to you that I haven’t shared them with anyone.”

Bingo! “That’s fine,” Susan said, encouragingly. “I’m sure the president is very grateful for that.”

“Poor Señor Jerrison,” Maria said. “All that blood spilling everywhere.” She shook her head. “It was awful.”

“Yes, it was,” said Susan. “Maria, thank you for being honest about this. Of course, others will be interested in what you know. I’ll assign you protection; we won’t let anything happen to you.”

“Gracias,” said Maria, sounding distracted. She was looking not at Susan, but past her. Susan didn’t have to turn around to know that there was nothing but a bookcase behind her; she had Singh’s vivid memories of this place. Maria’s voice was full of wonder. “Watching that man squeeze the president’s heart…”

Susan nodded, recalling it herself from her vantage point in the observation gallery. “That was incredible, wasn’t it?” But then her eyebrows shot up. “You remember that?”

“Well, he remembers it.”

Susan was amazed. She knew Jerrison had had a near-death experience, and those did sometimes involve seeing oneself from outside the body, usually from up above. But those were hallucinations, she’d always thought: a mind that knew it was dying imagining what was happening to the body that contained it. And yet she’d been with Griffin when he’d briefed Prospector about his brush with death—and Griffin hadn’t mentioned the manual stimulation of the heart. Could it be that Jerrison really had, somehow, departed his body and seen Eric Redekop at work?

“If you are going to assign protection to me,” Maria said, “it might as well be him.”

“Who?” said Susan, baffled. “The president?”

“What?” replied Maria. “No, no. Him. Darryl Hudkins.”

Oh, Christ. “Is that who you’re reading?”

“Sí, of course. I know he knows all sorts of secret things—I guess that’s why they call it the Secret Service. But, like I said, I promise you I haven’t told any of them to anyone.”

Susan was disappointed—but then her heart started beating quickly again. “Maria, I want you to understand something. I’m the Secret Service agent-in-charge here. I’m Darryl’s superior, okay?”

“If you say so.”

“No, think about it. Ask yourself if that’s true.”

She narrowed her brown eyes for a moment, then: “Yes, okay, it’s true.” She smiled ever so slightly. “He thinks you’re a good boss.”

“Good, fine,” said Susan. “Now, I’m going to ask you another question, and I want you to think very, very carefully about it. Your answer is extremely important.”

Maria nodded.

“Okay. Here’s the question. Did Agent Hudkins have anything at all to do with the attempt on President Jerrison’s life?”

Maria narrowed her eyes again then shook her head. “No.”

“Are you sure? Are you positive?”

“Sí. He had nothing to do with it, but—oh!”

“Yes? Yes?”

“It was an inside job, wasn’t it? Another agent—Gordo Danbury—he did it, sí?”