Robert Sawyer - Triggers

They had to go outside to get to the infirmary building; it was cold and dark—the sun was down—but no one bothered to put on coats, and Seth found that the chill helped him focus. The links had suddenly become much, much stronger, and the distinction between himself and Kadeem seemed to be…

There was no doubt. He wasn’t just accessing Kadeem’s memories. He felt, even more than he had when sharing Kadeem’s traumatic flashback, that he was Kadeem. He was still Seth, too; he was both of them.

They entered the low building that contained the infirmary, and soon Seth’s wheelchair was brought up next to one of the beds and rotated 180 degrees, which revealed the surprising sight of Bessie Stilwell being carried in. She was seated in what was presumably a rocking chair from the cottage she’d been held in. Two uniformed Marine officers had taken the simple expedient of picking it up by its seat and carrying her here in it.

The sight triggered a thousand memories for Seth, drawn from the vast intermingled pool of his and Kadeem’s joint pasts: chairs, and chairlifts, and old ladies, and football players being hoisted on the shoulders of teammates, and so much more.

A moment later, Darryl Hudkins entered, two female Marines flanking him and helping to keep him on his feet. Meanwhile, someone had apparently found a spare wheelchair, and a Marine had used it to transport Susan Dawson here; she was being wheeled in now.

“All right,” said Dr. Snow. “Thanks for your help getting these people here. You can go; it’s getting too crowded. Dismissed!”

The Marines departed, and Seth looked at who was left: his wife Jasmine, Alyssa Snow, agents Darryl and Susan, and Bessie Stilwell.

At that moment, Singh entered. A bald Asian man wearing a Navy lieutenant’s uniform was holding on to his elbow, and somewhere along the line they’d picked up a cane for him; he was leaning on it. Another man—a Marine with a blond crew cut—followed behind. They found a chair for Singh, who currently seemed incapable of speech.

Jasmine Jerrison crouched so that she was at her husband’s eye level. Seth managed to lift his right hand ever so slightly, and she took it and intertwined her fingers with his, and she smiled that smile he’d fallen in love with thirty-five years ago.

And suddenly he had her memories, too. Every part of her face—her green eyes, her wide mouth, her small nose, her freckles, her laugh lines—triggered flashbacks to events he and she both remembered, but these flashbacks were even more vivid. If what he’d originally experienced was like grainy television, and what he’d seen since he faltered during the speech was akin to Imax, then these memories, the ones he shared with Jasmine, were like Imax 3D.

Perhaps that made sense: he didn’t have to confabulate a dining room if she remembered him in the one at their old apartment in Manhattan; he knew what it looked like, too. He didn’t have to make up their children’s faces; he knew precisely what his own now-grown kids had looked like at every stage of their lives.

As he held her hand, he concentrated on her, on just her, on the memories—the life!—they’d shared, trying to shut out everything else, if only for a minute, trying to regain his equilibrium, his focus, his self. And as he looked at her, he saw her eyes go wide, showing whites all around the iris. He managed to say, “What’s wrong?”

Jasmine opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.

Seth tried to shout “Alyssa!” but it came out softly. Still, it was enough to get the physician to react. “Mrs. Jerrison,” Dr. Snow said at once, “are you all right?”

His wife still looked terrified. Seth thought perhaps she was accessing his memories of being shot. He flexed his hand, trying to disengage his fingers, in hopes that might sever whatever link they’d suddenly forged, but she brought her other hand up and laid it over the two that were intertwined, her diamond ring sparkling in the room light.

“Mrs. Jerrison,” Alyssa said again, and then all her medical training seemed to drain from her, and she fell back on a movie cliché. “Snap out of it!”

Jasmine managed to shift her head to the left and up, looking at the doctor. “It’s…it’s amazing.”

Seth was still in the wheelchair, Jasmine was still crouched next to him, and Alyssa was bent at the waist so she could better tend to them both. Jasmine lifted her left hand and reached to take Alyssa’s hand, but the doctor pulled back and stood up straight. “No,” she said. “No, if it’s contagious…”

From across the room, Agent Darryl Hudkins, who was now lying on one of the infirmary beds, spoke for the first time. “It’s not a disease,” he said, the words protracted and his volume low. “It’s a miracle.”

But Dr. Snow was now backing away, and she spoke to the Asian lieutenant and the Marine with the blond crew cut. “Are you two okay?”

They nodded.

“Good,” said Alyssa. “It doesn’t seem to be transmissible through touching clothes—it happened to the First Lady through skin contact. So don’t touch anyone, understood?”

“Yes, Captain Snow,” said the lieutenant, and the blond Marine—who had a thick Southern accent—added, “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Alyssa looked at Singh, who was slumped over in a padded chair. “Professor Singh, I need you to focus. I’m in way over my head here.”

He slowly lifted his bearded face, but that was all.

“Professor Singh,” she said again. “I need you. The president needs you.”

Ranjip blinked repeatedly but said nothing, and Seth imagined that he was overwhelmed by—who was it now? Ah, yes, the redheaded clown in the clown car: he’d be overwhelmed by Lucius Jono’s memories, vividly intermingling with his own.

Seth turned his attention back to Jasmine and found that he, at least, was regaining his strength, perhaps thanks to all the stimulants that had been pumped into him prior to starting his speech. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said to his wife. “It’s going to be dandy.”

The First Lady nodded, and a memory came to him in out-of-synch stereo: him saying the exact same words after he’d won the Republican nomination.

Across the room, he saw Bessie slump down again in her chair. Dr. Snow began to surge toward the elderly woman, but checked herself, presumably again not wanting to touch one of the infected.

Seth put his hands on the large gray tires of his wheelchair and started pushing himself forward. Jasmine caught his intent and stood behind the wheelchair, but ended up using it as a walker to support herself rather than helping propel it along.

“What are you doing?” Alyssa asked.

The president ignored his doctor and continued to roll until his chair was up against the wall, next to Bessie’s rocker, with the two of them facing in opposite directions. She looked wan and weak, like her life was slipping away. Seth took Bessie’s wrinkled, liver-spotted hand in his, and Jasmine leaned in and placed her hands on top of theirs. The physical connection with Bessie brought Seth a flood of her memories: growing up in rural Mississippi, her father speaking out in favor of segregation, a blisteringly hot summer’s night.

“Bessie,” he said softly.

She stirred slightly, but her eyes were still closed.

“Come on, Bessie,” he said, and he squeezed her hand a bit more tightly.

At last her eyes fluttered open, and they locked on his. He nodded encouragingly, and she smiled slightly at him.

Alyssa Snow came closer. “Mrs. Stilwell, are you okay?”

Bessie nodded and, as Alyssa turned, Bessie reached out with her free hand and clasped Alyssa’s wrist. Seth saw the doctor try to shake the hand loose, but Bessie somehow managed to hold her grip for several seconds.