Robert Sawyer - Triggers

“No. I already thought of that. She can’t. So I was wondering if your equipment could help either her or me to dredge it up.”

“What was the memory?”

“A conversation I overheard.”

“Forgive me, but can you perhaps be more specific?”

Seth considered how much to tell Singh. “I overheard one end of a phone conversation—Leon Hexley, the director of the Secret Service, talking on his cell.”

“Well,” said Singh, “if it had been me, that’d be an easy memory to isolate—because an encounter with such a high-ranking official would be a remarkable thing. But for you, sir? An everyday occurrence. My equipment would have a hard time pinpointing it.”

“Damn. It’s crucial that I recall what he said.”

“Recall is a tricky thing, sir. It requires something to bring it to mind.”

“I suppose.”

“People always get frustrated when other people can’t remember things. In fact, my wife was mad at me a couple of weeks ago because I couldn’t remember something that had happened on our honeymoon. She’d snapped, ‘But it’s important! Why can’t you remember?’ You know what my reply was?”

Seth managed a small shake of his head.

Singh exploded in mock-anger. “Because I was loaded, okay?”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Seth couldn’t stop himself from smiling. “I used to love that show.”

“Me, too,” said Singh. “But, actually, I’m not making a joke. Not that I was loaded—I don’t drink. But declarative memories are best recalled under the same circumstances as they were laid down. Memories formed while drunk—or underwater, or at a hotel—come back best when drunk or underwater or back at that hotel.”

“Damn,” said Seth.

“What?” replied Singh.

“The conversation took place in the Oval Office—and that doesn’t exist anymore.”

“Ah, I see,” said Singh. But then he smiled. “Still, perhaps there is a way.”

Kadeem Adams didn’t have a room at LT; he’d come to the hospital yesterday morning as part of his work with Professor Singh and was staying in a small hotel Singh had arranged. But although the lockdown was now over, he’d hung around, hoping for a call from Susan Dawson, who had said the president was sleeping intermittently. Kadeem was sitting in Singh’s little office on the third floor, doodling on a pad of paper.

He knew he might never have a chance like this again. The linkages had persisted for hours now, but no one knew if they were permanent. And, even if they were, he hoped—he prayed—Professor Singh would finish what he’d started in treating him. But for now—for right now—he had something that people jockeyed for, fought for, bribed for, begged for: he had the attention of the president of the United States. It was an opportunity not to be wasted, and, if Singh did figure out how to break the linkages, an opportunity that wouldn’t come again.

Kadeem understood how it worked: the president didn’t think the same thoughts at the same time as he did, but he could recall anything that Kadeem knew, just as Kadeem could recall anything that Susan Dawson remembered.

And so he knew, because he’d been pondering the question, that Sue had indeed pushed for him to be allowed to visit the president. And, at last, the call came. He told Agent Dawson where he was, and she came to get him, escorting him down the stairs. His footfalls and hers echoed in the stairwell; she was behind him. They exited on the second floor and headed along the corridor. A photographer—a Hispanic man of maybe forty—was waiting; he had two big cameras on straps around his neck. The three of them continued on into the president’s room. Two Secret Service agents stood on either side of the closed door. They nodded curtly at Agent Dawson, and one of them opened the door, holding it while first Kadeem, then Susan, entered.

It was shocking to see Jerrison like this. He was looking haggard and wan. It was almost enough to make Kadeem stop, but—

But no. He had to do this; he owed it to the others.

As he looked at the president, more details registered. He was surprised, for instance, at how much white there was in the president’s hair. Kadeem remembered him from the campaign, mostly, when his hair had been mixed between gray and sandy brown. He imagined that being leader of the free world aged you more rapidly than just about any other job.

Kadeem glanced at the nurse sitting across the room, then looked again at Jerrison. The back of the president’s bed was elevated so that he could sit up a bit. He was wearing Ben Franklin glasses, but they had slid down the considerable length of his nose. He looked over them, smiled, and managed a small wave. “Come in”— flash! —“young man!”— flash! —“Come in!”

The photographer jockeyed for position, now getting shots of Kadeem. Kadeem was surprised to hear his voice crack; it hadn’t done that since he was thirteen. “Hey, Mr. President.”

The president extended— flash! —his hand— flash! —and Kadeem closed the distance— flash! —and shook it— flash! Jerrison’s grip was weak; it was clearly an effort for him to shake hands at all.

“Please,” the president said, gesturing now to a vinyl-covered chair next to his bed. “Won’t you have a seat?”

Kadeem sat down, which put his head and the president’s at roughly the same level. “Thank you, sir.”

“So, Miss Dawson tells me you’re in the Army?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your rank?” But then he smiled. “Private, first class, right? Serial number 080-79-3196, isn’t it?”

“That’s it, sir.”

“It’s so strange, having your memories, young man.”

“It’s strange to me, sir, knowing you have them.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. I’m not deliberately snooping, you know. I’m not saying to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what Kadeem and Kristah’s first date was like?,’ or—” Then he frowned. “Oh. Well, I’m with you. I thought Tropic Thunder was a funny film, even if she didn’t.”

Kadeem felt his head shaking slowly left to right; it was amazing.

“Anyway, sorry,” said the president. “The point is that I’m not deliberately doing stuff like that. You’re entitled to your privacy, young man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So you were overseas?”

“Yes, sir. Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

To his credit, the president’s gaze didn’t waver. “But you’re home now,” Jerrison said in a tone that Kadeem was sure was meant to elicit gratitude.

Kadeem took a deep breath, then: “Not exactly, sir. My home is in Los Angeles. But I’m being treated here.”

Jerrison frowned, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were injured.”

And perhaps he had already recalled what Kadeem was about to tell him—but had simply forgotten, what with the mountain of other things he had to think about. Kadeem sighed slightly. If only everything could be so easily forgotten. “I’ve got PTSD.”

The president nodded. “Ah, yes.”

“Professor Singh’s been helping me. Or he was, until we got interrupted; he’s still got a lot of work to do.”

“You’re in good hands, I’m sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform.”

The comment seemed sincere, and although Kadeem indeed hadn’t voted for Jerrison—he hadn’t voted for anyone —he again had second thoughts about what he intended to do. No one should have to go through this.

But he had; Kadeem had. Hundreds of times now. And if the pleas of service moms hadn’t succeeded, if the sight of flag-covered coffins hadn’t done it, if the bleak news reports out of Baghdad hadn’t been enough, maybe, just maybe, this would be.