Robert Sawyer - Triggers

His faltering finally proved too much for the vice president. Paddy Flaherty got up and moved to the podium, doing what he was supposed to do: acting for the president when the president himself could not. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, standing next to Seth and leaning into the microphone, “President Jerrison has, of course, undergone a great deal lately. I’m sure we are all grateful for…”

Seth felt his legs going out from under him. Dr. Snow surged in, catching him and putting an arm around his waist, helping to hold him up. Seconds later, Jasmine was at his side, too.

More images—and sounds—and smells—came to him, some from his own past and some from Kadeem’s, piled on top of each other. He closed his eyes, hoping to shut all the images out, but that reminded him of horror films and trying to get to sleep and a dust storm in Iraq and countless other things. Now that he was being supported, Seth did try to fling everything from his head with a violent shake—but that just brought to mind memories of whiplash and comic double takes and watching tennis games.

The First Lady carefully walked Seth toward the green room. He was surprised that Agent Dawson hadn’t brought his wheelchair close, but as they entered the room, the reason became clear: Susan, who perhaps had been leaning against the wall when Seth had started his speech, had slipped down onto her rump, her back still against the wall and her head tipped toward her chest.

Dr. Snow quickly got the wheelchair and she and Jasmine helped Seth into it. Seth tried to make out what Flaherty was saying in the other room, but the present was overwhelmed by the cacophony of the past.

Susan looked up, and it seemed to take a moment for her eyes to focus. “Sir,” she said, and then a second later she added, “…’kay?,” presumably as much of, “Are you okay?” as she could get out.

He nodded, or at least thought he did.

Suddenly, Susan’s eyes went wide and she managed to say, “Ranjip’s in trouble.”

Nikki Van Hausen had finished showing her last house for the day. It had probably been a lost cause—indeed, the whole day had likely been a waste. She’d often told those wanting to sell homes that they should bake cookies and put flowers in vases—but she herself was still bruised and bandaged from yesterday’s accident, not to mention exhausted—hardly the sort of sight that made people feel good about buying a house. Hopefully she wouldn’t look quite so mangled by next weekend.

Nikki was driving a rented Toyota. Her car had been a total write-off, but it had also been seven years old; she was still contemplating what she would purchase with the stingy amount her insurance company would eventually cough up.

She pulled into a 7-Eleven, got a coffee, and, as she walked up to the cash register, the cardboard cup slipped from her hand and hit the floor. The plastic lid she’d put on moments ago popped off, and coffee splayed out in front of her.

She saw the middle-aged man behind the counter make a pained expression, half oh-shit-I-have-to-clean-that-up and half Christ-if-she-scalded-herself-will-she-sue?

“Sorry!” said Nikki. “I’m sorry!” She staggered forward, almost slipping on the now-wet floor, and grabbed the counter, right next to the hot-dog roaster. Her head was swimming.

“Geez, lady,” the clerk said. He doubtless saw the bandage on her left hand and the one on her forehead; perhaps he simply took her for a klutz. But then he added, “You okay?”

Nikki issued a reflexive, “I’m fine”—but she wasn’t, and she knew it. Her head was pounding. It was like back at Luther Terry when she’d first been linked to Eric Redekop, magnified a hundredfold. Images of his life ran through her mind as though she were flipping through a magazine. She took a deep breath, but doing so seemed to draw the strength from elsewhere in her body, and she slumped down onto the tiled, wet floor, next to the counter.

Another customer thought better of his planned purchase and just put it down on the nearest shelf and left the store. The clerk came around from behind the counter. “Lady, what’s wrong?”

Nikki tried to speak again, but no words came out.

“Should I call 9-1-1?” asked the man. When Nikki didn’t respond, he started backing away. “I’m calling 9-1-1,” he said decisively.

Memories kept coming forth, more vividly than ever before: scenes from her life and Eric’s, depicting other convenience stores, spilled beverages, open houses, and— bam! bam! bam! —multi-car pileups.

She vaguely heard the clerk talking on the phone, and then his footfalls returning. But she was having flashes in her vision, like a migraine was coming on, and she didn’t dare lift her head to look at him since it would mean also looking into the overhead lighting panels.

“An ambulance is coming, miss,” he said, crouching down beside her. “Can I get you anything?”

She shook her head—as much to fling out the invading memories as to answer his question.

“Do you want to stand up?” he asked.

Another wave of memories washed over her—of getting to her feet after falling while skating, of Eric being stood up for a date decades ago, of stand-up comedians she’d seen in the past. She wanted to say no, but still couldn’t find her voice.

“Here, come on,” the clerk said, and she felt his hands grabbing her naked wrists. But after he’d lifted her bottom a few inches off the ground, he suddenly let go of her, and she dropped back to the floor—and he tumbled backward into a rack holding snack cakes. She heard him say, “What the fuck?” over and over again.

Chimes sounded as the door to the store slid open. “Oh my God!” said a male voice. “Are you guys okay?”

Nikki still couldn’t bring herself to look up, but the new customer approached. “What happened? Was it a robbery?”

The clerk said, “No. God, it’s like…like… shit! It’s like someone else is inside my head.”

At last Nikki managed to speak. “Join the club.”

At Camp David, leaning into the microphone on the podium, Vice President Flaherty came to the end of the speech. “…and so this government will protect its citizens and its allies today, tomorrow, and forever. God bless America. Good night.”

There should have been applause, and indeed there was a smattering, but there was also an immediate din of conversation.

In the adjoining room, Seth leaned back in the wheelchair, grateful for it. Memories of his life and Kadeem’s continued to overwhelm him, involving basic training, and press conferences, and Ironside reruns, and a hundred other things.

Dr. Snow’s BlackBerry rang. “Hello?” There was quiet while she listened, then: “All right. Bring them to the infirmary. We’re heading there now.” She ended the call. “It’s official,” she said. “Bessie Stilwell, Agent Hudkins, and Professor Singh are all affected, too—everyone here who was part of the linked group at LT.”

“What about the others?” asked Jasmine. “Those who aren’t here?”

Dr. Snow crouched in front of Susan Dawson. “Susan, where’s the contact list for the others who were affected?”

Susan managed to meet Alyssa’s gaze but still couldn’t speak. After a moment, Alyssa gave up; the president was her number-one priority. She rose, positioned herself behind Seth’s wheelchair, and began pushing it. They entered the hallway, which reminded Seth of each time he’d been down it before, and of a hundred other similar corridors, and of so many other things: long narrow streets in South Central L.A., and soccer fields, and the underground tunnels that connected government buildings in Washington, and—yes—the tunnel of light he’d seen when he’d thought he was dying.