Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Gillett looked at her. Rachel squeezed his hand, and said, “It’s okay.”

“Because,” Gillett said, “it makes this woman the perfect lover. Don’t you see? She knows exactly what I like; she knows everything there is to know about me.”

“And,” said Rachel, “I get to recall us making love from his point of view—him seeing me, feeling what it’s like for him being inside me.”

Singh’s complexion didn’t let him visibly blush, but he nonetheless looked embarrassed. “Well, as my son would say…” Ranjip began, and it came to Susan before he completed his sentence exactly what Harpreet would say: “ ‘Whatever floats your boat.’ ” But then Ranjip shook his head. “But, as I said, I believe it is an all-or-nothing proposition as far as the network of linkages is concerned.”

“Be that as it may,” said Gillett, “Rachel does not consent to the procedure.”

“What?” said Susan—but she could see Singh frowning.

Gillett faced her. “Before this hospital, or any other, may perform an experimental procedure on someone, that someone has to provide informed consent. And Rachel chooses not to.”

“The others want the links severed,” said Singh.

“I don’t care what the others want,” said Rachel. “You are talking about making a fundamental change to my mind, my mental processes—and I forbid it.”

“But it was an accident—”

“That’s right: what you did to me before was an accident. But what you’re talking about doing now is premeditated, and I won’t allow it.”

“Really, Ms. Cohen—”

Gillett folded his arms in front of his chest. “Listen to her, Professor Singh. Without informed patient consent, you can’t conduct any procedure on her—and you know that. And you categorically do not have my—my client’s consent.”

“This is a national-security matter,” Susan said.

“Why?” said Gillett, wheeling on her. “Because you say so? Puh-leeze. Rachel’s reading me, and I’m reading a security guard, for God’s sake. There’s no national-security issue involving us—but you can bet that we’ll bring one hell of a lawsuit if you wreck this for us.”

The flight attendants were coming through the cabin, offering beverages. Darryl got himself a Pepsi, and Bessie had a coffee, and—

And when the attendant asked her how she wanted it, she hesitated, that same silly hesitancy he’d seen a million times from white people who never once would have associated race with a phrase like “a white Christmas.”

“Black,” she said at last.

Bessie had the window seat. They brought down the seat-back trays—effectively trapping them until their beverages were consumed—and so this seemed like the perfect time; she couldn’t just excuse herself to go to the lavatory. Darryl took a deep breath. He didn’t want to speak loudly—he didn’t want others on the plane overhearing. “You know I know what you know,” he said.

She looked puzzled for a moment, perhaps trying to disentangle all the “knows,” but then she lifted her head, and her chin stuck out defiantly. “There is no law against having thoughts,” she said. “This isn’t the Soviet Union.”

He frowned; she was old. He tried to make a joke. “Or China, either.”

But she was buoyed. “Exactly. I can think whatever I want to think.”

“Yes, ma’am, you can. I can’t stop you. But…”

Bessie seemed content to let him trail off; she turned and looked out at the clouds—perhaps pleased to see nothing but whiteness.

“But,” continued Darryl, “I’m a good man, ma’am. I serve my country every day. I’m good to my mother, and to my brothers and sisters. I’m not what you think I am—think we are.”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Bessie said.

“That’s exactly right, ma’am. You don’t. You think you do, but you don’t. But I know everything about you. It’s none of my business—I understand that. But I can’t help it. And, you know what, ma’am? I’ve been searching—forgive me, but I have. Searching for when a black man hurt you, or dissed you, or maybe stole something from you. Searching for when one of us did something to make you feel the way you do.”

She turned back to face him. “Well, one of you is violating me right now.”

“Yes, ma’am, I understand that. It isn’t right, what I’m doing, is it? But like you said, there’s no law against having thoughts, and, to tell you the truth, I don’t even know how not to think about things.” He paused. “And not to be the pot calling the kettle black”—he smiled gently to let her know that he was conscious of what he was saying—“but I’ve no doubt you’re doing the same thing with Prospector—President Jerrison. I doubt you can help yourself any more than I can.”

That, at least, got the barest of nods.

“So, I’ve tried to recall stuff about unpleasant experiences with black people. And, well, I can’t find it. So, I thought maybe you just hadn’t stored that they were black folk, although that seemed strange that you wouldn’t. And, well, I’m sorry about that guy at high school and what he did to you…but I don’t think he was black; I don’t think there were any blacks in your school. And I’m sorry about the way Cletus treated you—but with a name like that, there’s no way he’s black. And I’m sorry about all the other bad things that I can recall that happened to you.”

“They…”

She stopped herself, but he could guess. “They weren’t my fault—that’s what you were going to say, right? And you’re right—they weren’t. But they weren’t the fault of any black person. Yetyou don’t like being around black people.”

“I really would rather not have this conversation,” she said.

“Honestly? I’d rather we didn’t need to have it, ma’am. But I think we do. Stuff happens for a reason. I think the Good Lord set this up on purpose.”

Bessie seemed to consider this for a few moments, and then, at last, she nodded. “Perhaps he did, at that.”

“I know you believe in God, ma’am.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I do, too. And there’s only one God, ma’am. He made us all.”

She nodded again. “Yes, I suppose he did.”

“So, I guess all I’m saying, ma’am, is I don’t think you’ve ever had a black friend.”

“That’s not true,” she said at once, the words coming quickly. But it was a reflex response, Darryl knew, and at least she halted herself before getting out, “Some of my best friends are black.”

Darryl decided not to challenge the statement directly; instead, he just let it pass as if he hadn’t heard it—after all, on reflection, she had to know that he knew what she’d said wasn’t true. “And so,” he continued, his tone even, “I’d like to be your first.” He held out his hand.

She looked at it for several seconds, as if not sure what to do. And then she lifted her own hand and took his. This surely, he thought, must be a memorable moment for her: as far as he’d been able to determine, one of the few times she’d ever shaken hands with a black man. And so, as he released her hand, and she returned hers to—no, not all the way to her lap, where it had been, but just to the armrest between them—he let his mind search for the memory that had just been laid down, the one of that moment where his flesh had touched hers.

And he saw himself as she had coded him; of course, his mind couldn’t help but impose his actual face on whatever cues she’d stored. But it wasn’t himself that he was curious about, it was her thoughts, her feelings.

And they came to him. She’d been surprised by the feel of his hand, the roughness of his skin—and she’d been surprised, even though she’d noted such things before, by how light-colored his palm was. She’d also been surprised that he wore an analog watch—nothing to do with his skin color, and everything to do with his age; she’d expected all young people to wear digital ones if they bothered with a watch at all. He’d let go of her hand—and she’d noted him smiling at her. And, yes, she’d actually thought about whether to bring her hand all the way back to her lap, but, with a small effort of will, she’d stopped herself from doing that. And included with the memory, a part of it, a part of her, and now a part of him, were four small words.