Robert Sawyer - Triggers

Perhaps it was the last of those that prompted Bessie to speak. “Everything is going to change soon,” she said, “what with what Jerrison is planning to do.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Darryl.

“Things will be different.”

Darryl sipped his coffee. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And, well, if it’s all going to come to an end, then I need to say something.”

“Ma’am?”

“I owe you an apology.”

“For what?”

“For the things I’ve thought all these years. You’re right. I’ve never really known—known someone like you. You’re a good…” She trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“You were going to say ‘boy,’ weren’t you, ma’am?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What would you call a white man who was more than fifty years younger than you? Would you say he was a good boy?”

“Well…yes.”

“Then it’s fine, ma’am—and thank you.” Darryl glanced at the wall clock, which, like everything here, was ornate and beautiful. “It’s almost 8:00 P.M.,” he said. “Time for the president’s speech,” he said. “It’s going to be televised—want to watch it?”

But Bessie shook her head slowly, sadly. “No.” She looked out the large window at the forested grounds, which were shrouded in snow. “I already know what he’s going to say.”

“I am not happy about this, sir,” Dr. Alyssa Snow said.

Seth Jerrison shifted slightly on his bed. “I’m not going to address the nation lying down, Alyssa. Now, come on, help me.”

Dr. Snow, who had changed into her Air Force captain’s uniform, and the First Lady, who was wearing a stylish salmon-colored dress, helped Seth out of the four-poster bed and into the wheelchair that had been brought here. He was wearing a blue suit—Jasmine and Dr. Snow had struggled to get him into it an hour ago. Susan Dawson stood to one side.

Seth grunted repeatedly as they moved him. His chest hurt, and his head swam for a moment; it was, he realized, the first time he’d sat up since they’d taken him out of the Beast on Friday morning.

The presidential bedroom was on the ground floor, and the residence had a direct connection to the press center. Susan Dawson wheeled him along, with Jasmine on his left and Dr. Snow on his right. The corridor had been cleared: there would be no photos of him arriving in a wheelchair.

They reached the green room, which was small but comfortable. Seth briefly looked up at the official portrait of himself, hanging on the wall: smiling, confident, healthy. The makeup lady glanced at the photo, too, as if assessing the magnitude of her task. She then set about getting him ready to go on camera.

When his makeup was completed, he thanked the woman. Dr. Snow touched Seth’s wrist to check his pulse, felt his forehead, and then reluctantly nodded. She and Jasmine helped him to his feet, and Susan Dawson handed him an ornate cane. He nodded his thanks and immediately shifted much of his weight to it.

Jasmine put a hand lightly on each of his shoulders and looked into his eyes. “I won’t say break a leg, sweetheart, because that’s the last thing we need. But good luck.” She kissed him gently and then exited through the other door, heading out into the press room. Seth took a few moments to compose himself, then started walking. Each step was painful, but he refused to grimace. “Hail to the Chief” began to play over the speakers, and as he stepped out into the press room, everyone rose and spontaneously applauded. When he made it to the podium, he gripped its sides for support—his media coach be damned.

The roof was angled, and the walls were paneled halfway up with dark wood; the rest of their height was painted beige. An audience had been brought in for the speech; Seth was still a university professor at heart, and he spoke better when there were warm bodies in front of him. The twenty-four people—more like a graduate colloquium, he thought, than a freshman lecture—were seated in six rows of chairs split by a central aisle that contained the camera and its operator. Vice President Flaherty was in the front row, and Jasmine was sitting next to him. The rest of the audience members were uniformed Navy and Marine officers, drawn from the camp’s staff. Seth nodded to let them know they could sit down. The teleprompter screen was mounted in front of the camera lens, and he read from it.

“My fellow Americans,” he began, as all presidents always did. “We are faced with an unrelenting enemy, but we cannot allow the terrorists to win. We either cower in fear, or we march forward with our heads high—and the American people, I know, opt for the latter. This country, the greatest the world has ever seen, will not be held hostage by the demands of the disgruntled few. I say here resoundingly and definitively, on behalf of us all, to those in every corner of the world: we will not tolerate terrorism, and we will treat with equal severity terrorists, those who harbor terrorists, and those who ignore terrorists in their midsts. There is no friend we will not protect, no ally we will not help make secure—and no foe we will not oppose with all the resources at our disposal. This is not a battle between civilizations; rather, it is a battle to save the very notion of civilization, and—”

And he felt himself faltering. The teleprompter continued to roll for a few lines before the woman operating it realized he’d stopped speaking. Seth tightened his grip on the sides of the podium. The members of the audience—those here and the countless millions watching worldwide—were doubtless waiting anxiously for him to go on.

And Seth wanted to go on, but to talk was suddenly beyond him—and yet it would make headlines all over the planet if he didn’t: “Jerrison Hesitates During First Post-Shooting Speech.” “Is US President Unfit to Lead?”

But the words on the teleprompter were too much for him. Not that he hadn’t rehearsed them, not that he didn’t know what they meant, not that any were tricky to pronounce, but every term suddenly triggered a dozen vivid memories. He was supposed to say, “We will rise to this challenge as we have risen to every challenge since the days of the Founding Fathers.” But the word fathers brought to mind countless recollections of his own dad, who’d been an expansive storyteller and womanizer, and of a handsome black man he recognized as Kadeem’s most-recent stepfather.

He wanted to shake his head, to fling the images from his mind, but he knew he’d lose his balance altogether if he did that. These memories were every bit as vivid and immediate as those he’d experienced while sharing Kadeem’s post-traumatic flashback.

He summoned his will and tried to resume his speech, but he suddenly became conscious not of the teleprompter but rather of the TV camera behind it, and—

And images of other cameras came to him: old-style TV cameras, motion-picture cameras on cranes, tiny digital cameras, Polaroid cameras, SLR cameras, all of them superimposed. And each camera had a story to tell; indeed, he suddenly recalled his visit to the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza, where Abraham Zapruder’s Bell & Howell 8mm, or one just like it, had been on display.

“Mr. President?” said Dr. Snow, sotto voce. She had stepped into the press room but had stopped short of entering the camera’s field of view. “Are you okay?”

Seth couldn’t find the words to reply to her. More memories came at him, and the deluge made him think of Professor Singh, whose equipment had started all this, and that brought to mind Kadeem meeting Singh for the first time, with the young private listening oh-so-skeptically to what the Canadian had to say.

His heart pounded painfully. Some audience members were whispering among themselves, clearly wondering what was going on. Seth wanted to slide his hand across his throat in a cut gesture, but he still lacked motor control.