Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Dora was a fan of British football; he didn’t care for contact sports—years of working here at LT had left him unable to abide people purposefully engaging in behaviors that would result in concussions, hernias, damaged joints, and bruised organs. She was active in clubbing and bar-hopping; he preferred to curl up with his Kindle and read books about the Civil War—he was working through Shelby Foote’s history of it for the fifth time.

Now that the lockdown was over, Ivan was pleased to leave the hospital. Still, he paused just outside it for a time, looking east. The whole sky was dark now, but he could make out the smoke billowing from where the White House had been.

He got on the metro. Normally, he ignored other people, but today he found himself looking at them—looking right at them, their faces haunted, gaunt, drawn. It was the same thing on the bus: lost souls, some still softly crying.

Finally, he made it to his house. His wife Sally came down to the entryway along with his three-year-old daughter Tanya. They knew he didn’t like to be touched, but today was an unusual day, and they needed whatever he could offer them. He accepted a kiss from Sally and then picked up Tanya and carried her into the small living room, where he set her on the couch. He then sat himself down beside her.

Ivan was devastated by today’s terrible events—but also couldn’t help being upset that his daily routine had been interrupted. He should have been here hours ago to watch Wonder Pets with Tanya; it was their ritual every day when he got home from work. Of course, he’d planned for such contingencies; their DVR was set to record Wonder Pets. He found the remote and started it playing. He briefly spared a thought for the person who was linked to him—some lawyer named Orrin Gillett—who now must also know the plots of all forty-two episodes by heart, not to mention every trivial fact about Linny the Guinea Pig, Turtle Tuck, and Tanya’s favorite, Ming-Ming Duckling.

He looked at his daughter and—

God.

He shook his head, looked away, but—

But the images were still there.

Horrific images.

Images of…

No. No. He did not want to see this!

But…

God. God. God.

The sight of Tanya, sitting on the couch in her little pink dress, made him think of—

No, no. It was awful. To do that to a child! To touch a little girl that way!

The image of a man came to him, but it was no one he knew. A narrow head, brown hair, brown eyes behind unfashionably large lenses.

The face loomed in at…at her, shushing her, telling her it would all be all right, telling her to never breathe a word about this, telling her that it was their little secret that he liked her so much, that she was so special, and—

He shook his head again, but the images were still there, the memories.

Memories. Yes, plural. Another time, the same man, but wearing different clothes. Or, at least, starting out wearing different clothes, until he unzipped…

No!

Ivan stood up, left his daughter, left the room, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut the images out.

“Mr. President,” said Susan Dawson, “this is Bessie Stilwell.”

Seth still had tubes going into his left arm, and a small oxygen intake plugged into his nostrils. But he rallied some strength and extended his right hand toward Bessie, who responded with an astonished expression.

“What?” said the president, looking at his own hand to see if it were dirty or something.

“Sorry, Mr. President,” said Bessie. “I’m—it’s just a flood of images. All the people whose hands you’ve shaken with that hand. The British prime minister. The Russian premier. The German chancellor. The Chinese president. And—” She took a half step back, as if daunted. “And the movie stars. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp and—oh, he’s always been one of my favorites!—Christopher Plummer.”

“And now,” said Seth Jerrison, who, even in his current state, had an ability almost as good as Bill Clinton’s to make whomever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world, “it’s going to shake your hand.” He extended his arm again.

Bessie hesitated for another moment, then moved closer and took Seth’s hand in hers. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” He turned toward Susan. “Agent Dawson, won’t you give us a moment? I’m sure I’m safe with Mrs. Stilwell.”

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.”