Robert Sawyer - Triggers

“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 he’d spoken to 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.”

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, monkeylike, 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?”