Robert Sawyer - Triggers

“I guess.”

Singh’s mouth fell open. “That’s…horrible.”

“It’s disgusting. That poor little girl.”

“How old was Dora when this happened to her?”

“I think she was the same age my daughter is now. Three.”

Singh consulted a document on his computer. “Miss Hennessey is thirty-seven.” He looked up. “The person abusing her—do you know who it was?”

“I’d never have recognized him today, but yes. It was her father, Josh Latimer.”

“The fellow she’s giving the kidney to?” Singh said, surprised.

“I don’t think she remembers the abuse,” said Tarasov, still not actually looking at Singh. “I can’t recall her ever discussing it with anyone.”

Susan saw Singh’s eyebrows go up. “That’s…fascinating.”

“What is?”

“You remember something from her past that she doesn’t. I wonder why.”

Tarasov frowned. “Maybe the memories are so traumatic, she’s blocked them out.”

“That’s one possibility,” said Singh, “but…”

“Yes?”

“You said you thought she was three when this happened.”

“It had to be,” said Tarasov. “Three, or earlier. Dora’s mother and father split when she was three. She didn’t see him again until this past year, when he tracked her down, hoping she’d be a good tissue match—and that she might agree to the donation.”

“Three…or younger,” said Singh.

“Yes.”

“Most adults remember almost nothing from before they were three and a half or even four. But…”

“Yes?”

Singh said, “I’ve seen you around the hospital—before all this, I mean. You are…a bit of a loner.”

“So?”

“And you tend not to meet people’s gaze. In fact, you avert your eyes.”

“Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Singh?”

“No, no. Not at all. But if I may ask: are you on the autism spectrum?”

“I’m an Aspie,” said Tarasov.

“Asperger’s syndrome,” said Singh, nodding. “Do you think in pictures?”

“Yes.”

“Pictures, not words?”

“Most of the time.”

“And do you remember your own very early life?”

“I remember my birth,” Tarasov said. “Lots of people on the spectrum do.”

“Well, there it is,” said Singh, looking at Susan then back at Tarasov. “Everyone starts out life thinking in pictures; they have to, of course—we don’t get language until much later. When we do acquire language, our indexing system for memories changes: words, rather than images, become the principal triggers of recall, and we can no longer recall things from before we had sophisticated linguistic abilities. It’s been argued that the memories are still there, but they’re inaccessible. But you, Mr. Tarasov, can access Miss Hennessey’s original indexing system, the prelinguistic one, because you think in pictures. You can remember things from her past that she herself no longer can. In fact…can you remember her birth?”

He thought about it. “I was born in Russia, at home, years before my family came here. But Dora…she’d been born—yes, I can see it now—in a hospital room with blue walls, and—the details are fuzzy; I guess infants don’t focus well—and the doctor doing the delivery was a woman with short black hair.”

“Incredible,” said Singh, his voice full of awe. “Fascinating.”

“This isn’t an academic point,” said Tarasov, sharply. “I can’t get the memories of her being molested out of my mind. They keep coming to me every time I look at my own daughter. It’s like having horrific child pornography constantly shoved in my face.”

“I’m sorry,” said Singh. “I am so sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fix it,” said Tarasov, and for once he looked directly at Singh. “This needs to be solved, right away.”

Darryl Hudkins had never flown business class, and he’d assumed he never would. But the president had, for some reason, insisted they take a commercial airliner to their destination, and the next flight heading there had nothing but premium seats available.

All of which was fine, except…

Except it was a long flight, and…

And he could read Bessie’s memories.

He swallowed and tried to be calm, tried to ignore them, but…

But she was nervous, damn it all. She was nervous traveling with him because—

Because he was black.

Because she’d heard awful things about black men.

Because both in DC and back where she lived in Mississippi, most of the crime—or so she thought—was committed by black men.

He tried not to think about what she was thinking about, tried to put her thoughts out of his mind, but—

But it came back to him. She’d thought the n-word.

The fucking n-word!

He leafed through the in-flight magazine, noting another petty indignity—the almost complete lack of black people in the ads. He looked around at the other passengers: a fat white guy softly snoring, a prim white woman reading on a Nook, two white men chatting softly about some sort of investment.

And, damn it all, he couldn’t help wondering what experience Bessie had had with black men, and—

And to wonder was to know.

Bessie had grown up in Memphis. Lots of blacks there, of course, but even after all this time, not much mixing; even after all this time, separate but not equal; even after all this time, people thinking, even if they never said it, “colored” and “Negro” and worse.

His stomach churned, and not just because the plane was experiencing turbulence.

No sooner had Ivan Tarasov left Singh’s lab than two more people came in.

Oh, joy, thought Susan. The people were Rachel Cohen, the woman who worked in accounts receivable at LT, and Orrin Gillett, the lawyer who’d tried to get out as the lockdown was being initiated yesterday. Susan was surprised to see them back here—surely Rachel didn’t normally work weekends, and Orrin had made it crystal clear that this was the last place he wanted to be.

“Professor Singh,” Rachel said. “I was hoping you’d be in today.”

“And Agent Dawson,” said Gillett, dryly. “Always a pleasure.”

“Is everything okay?” Singh asked. “Miss Cohen, you can read Mr. Gillett, I believe? Has anything changed in that regard overnight?”

Susan thought he sounded hopeful; if their link had weakened or broken of its own accord, of course that would be wonderful.

“No,” said Rachel. “It’s still exactly like yesterday.”

“I am so sorry,” said Singh. “Believe me, I had no idea—”

“I saw you on TV earlier this morning,” Rachel said, cutting him off. “The interview you gave.”

“Ah, yes. I hear they subtitled me! Really, my accent isn’t that thick, is it?”

“You said you were trying to break the linkages.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You can’t,” Rachel said simply.

Singh smiled. “You do wonders for my confidence, Miss Cohen. I admit I don’t yet have any clue how—”

“I mean you can’t,” Rachel said. “I won’t allow it.”

“Pardon?”

She reached over and took Orrin Gillett’s hand in hers. “I like being linked to Orrin. I don’t want you to break the link.”

Susan was surprised, and so, quite clearly, was Ranjip. “But, Ms. Cohen,” he said, “once I figure it out, I suspect all the links will break simultaneously.”

“I don’t care about the other links, but you can’t break mine. It’s important to me. And it’s important to Orrin, too, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Gillett said.

Susan was baffled. “But why?”