Robert Sawyer - Triggers

“Oh?” said Janis, a little defensively.

Nikki lifted a hand. “Sorry, I’m not saying this right. What I mean is, you are absolutely lovely. I can see why Eric fell for you so hard.”

Jan’s heart skipped a beat. “Fell for me?”

“He’s crazy about you,” Nikki said. “But he knows you’re vulnerable, and he doesn’t want to take advantage. Plus, there’s the age thing.”

“Who cares about that?” Jan said.

“He does. It really bothers him.”

“It shouldn’t.”

They were still standing in the entryway. Jan took Nikki’s coat and motioned for her to go into the apartment proper. As Nikki walked ahead, Jan said, “Can I offer you a drink? Coffee?”

“I’m fine,” Nikki said, entering the living room—but she came to a stop so suddenly that Jan actually bumped into her from behind.

“Sorry!” Nikki said. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…”

Jan moved to stand beside her and saw the wonder on Nikki’s face. “Yes?”

“It’s like I know this place,” Nikki said. “Like I’ve been here before.” She began walking again, looking around the living room. When she came to the bookshelf with the “Champ” medallion on it, she gently picked it up.

“What’s it for?” Jan asked.

“Hmmm?” said Nikki. “Oh. He got it at the hospital, five years ago. He brought in the most donations for the Christmas charity drive.”

Jan half smiled. That was Eric, all right: forever trying to help those in need. But the smile quickly faded. This woman would always know him better than Jan ever could. “It’s cruel,” she said.

“What?”

“This—this thing that’s happened to us. Why couldn’t it have been reciprocal? Why couldn’t you be linked to the same person that’s linked to you?”

“I don’t know,” Nikki said. “It is what it is.”

“Yeah,” said Jan, very softly.

“Why did you want to see me?”

Jan looked at her, then looked away. “I’m sorry, it was stupid. I just didn’t know what to do. I, um, you—you know everything Eric knows, and, well…”

“He really does care about you, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

Jan did manage to meet her eyes. “Actually, no. I don’t have any doubts about that.”

“But you keep asking yourself, how can he like me when he knows this about me, or that about my past, or that I did whatever, right?”

Jan nodded.

“Different people react differently, I guess,” said Nikki. “I know comparable stuff about Eric. But he and I didn’t know each other before the linkages, so, um, like…okay, you ever read People?”

“What?”

“People, the magazine. Or Us. Or any of those. The magazines that tell you all about the private lives of celebrities.”

“Sometimes in my dentist’s waiting room, I guess,” said Jan.

“Well, Eric is like that to me. He’s like Angelina Jolie or Johnny Depp or some other celebrity that I don’t know personally, but I know everything about. Yes, I know his dirty secrets—minor though they are—including all kinds of stuff I’m sure he wishes really was private. But so what? It doesn’t affect me, and it’s not like I’m going to do anything with the information.”

“I know, but…” Jan blew out air. “Sorry. I have no idea how to deal with this.”

“But surely you must be going through the same thing, no?” asked Nikki. “You must be linked to somebody else, right?”

“I was,” said Jan, softly. “He died.”

“Oh!” said Nikki, and Jan saw her eyes flicking left and right rapidly as she assimilated Eric’s memories related to that. “Oh my God—just this afternoon. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m trying not to think about it.”

“Sure, of course. Sorry. But, Jan, it’s like that with me and Eric. I don’t like to dwell on my own past, let alone anyone else’s.”

Jan. Every little thing Nikki did reminded Jan of just how much Nikki did know about her private life. “I know, but it’s like he’s gossiping about us, like he’s talking about me behind my back.”

“He isn’t. And I don’t know your details, you know. I know what he remembers, not what you remember. But I do know he really does like you. And, yeah, there is the age difference, obviously. And, sure, people are going to gossip about that. They’re going to say he’s having a midlife crisis—but you know what? He already did, five years ago. Ask him about it; it’s no big deal, and he’s over that; it’s in the past. He’s not attracted to you because of your age; he’s attracted to you despite your age, and—”

Nikki fell silent.

“Yes?” said Jan.

“He wants to have sex with you.”

Jan looked away. “Oh.”

“But it’s not because he’s horny—although he is. It’s because he’s scared. You’re thirty-two; he’s fifty. He’s afraid you’re going to be turned off by his half-century-old body.”

“What? That’s silly.”

“Maybe. But that’s what he thinks.”

“How do you know? I thought all you could do is read his memories, not his thoughts?”

“That’s all I can do. But he told someone that, and I can recall the conversation.”

“He was gossiping about me?”

“More like seeking advice. He’s at Luther Terry now, right? He ran into—well, I know him, too; I met him earlier and went a little nuts, I have to say. He’s been talking with Jurgen Sturgess, another doctor there.” Nikki shook her head then went on. “It’s funny; I shouldn’t even care. All of this is really none of my business.”

“So what did Dr. Sturgess say?”

“He wasn’t one to give advice. He mostly just listened. But, well, I guess I have a vested interest in seeing Eric be happy. No point in my having to share a bunch of unhappy memories, after all. So let me give you some advice: don’t let me stand in the way of you being happy with Eric. He’s a good guy. Believe me—I know.”

At Seth Jerrison’s insistence, they’d set up a computer for him in his hospital room. A forty-two-inch LCD monitor had been mounted on a small table at the foot of his bed, and he’d been given a Bluetooth ergonomic keyboard with a little trackpad attached. Despite lying on his back with his chest only propped up slightly, it was actually pretty comfortable to use, although he had to slide his bifocals way down his hooked nose to get the screen in focus.

Seth had always been a news junkie, and while Nurse Kelly watched him attentively from her seat, he used the computer to read about the assassination attempt. It was fascinating, in a macabre way, and it gave him a small taste of what the coverage might have been like had the attempt succeeded—although he supposed if he had died, the Huffington Post would not be grousing that “You’d think Jerrison would know how to give a speech in a presidential way instead of sounding like a tenured academic who doesn’t have to worry about job security. The RNC would do well to hire him a media coach.”

Damn it all, he had a media coach. And he really had tried to pay attention to her. She’d gone over everything with him time and again, including the way he held his head, when to use a hand gesture for emphasis, and the speed at which he should read from the teleprompter. He’d initially spoken much too quickly, she’d said, clocking him at 11,000 words per hour. He’d told her that was a holdover from his days at Columbia; there was an awful lot of history to cover, and only so many classroom hours to cram it into. She said a dignified pace, and one that most people could comfortably follow, was more like 8,500 words an hour, and he’d practiced slowing down. For instance, the speech he’d been giving at the Lincoln Memorial was 1,734 words, and when he’d rehearsed it, he’d come in bang at twelve minutes, not counting time for applause. Of course, he hadn’t gotten far into it when, as an article on MSNBC said, “the crack of a would-be assassin’s rifle split the cold November air, and—”