Robert Sawyer - Triggers

But she’d heard it clearly: “Amitriptyline.” And she knew how to spell it, and that it was a tricyclic antidepressant, and… My God! …she knew that “tricyclic” referred to the three rings of atoms in its chemical structure, and—

Her flattened hands balled into fists and pounded into the doctor’s chest. “Make it stop!” she said. “Make it stop!”

The doctor—Jurgen, he played golf badly, had two daughters, was divorced, loved sushi—called out to the passing nurses. “Heather, Tamara—help, please.”

One of the nurses—it was Tamara, she knew it was Tamara—turned and took hold of Nikki’s shoulders, and the other one, Heather, picked up a wall-mounted phone and dialed four digits; if she was calling security…

How the hell did she know all this?

If she was calling security, she’d just tapped out 4-3-2-1.

Nikki half turned and pushed Tamara away, not because she didn’t want help but because it welled up in her that it was wrong, wrong, wrong to touch a nurse during duty hours.

She felt dizzy again, though, and reached out for support, finding herself grabbing Dr. Sturgess’s stethoscope, which was hanging loosely around his neck; it came free and she was suddenly falling backward. Heather surged in to catch her. “Is she stoned?” the nurse asked.

“I don’t know,” said Sturgess, but Nikki was incensed by the suggestion.

“I’m not stoned, damn it! What’s happening? What’s going on here? What did you do?”

Tamara moved closer. “Security is on its way, Dr. Sturgess. They’re sending someone down from five; everyone normally on this floor is downstairs, helping guard the president.”

The president.

And suddenly she saw him, Jerrison, his chest split wide, and her hands plunging into his torso, seizing his heart, squeezing it…

And that name again: Eric Redekop.

“Make it stop!” Nikki said. She moved her hands to the top of her head and pushed down, as if she could somehow squeeze the alien thoughts out. “Make it stop!”

“Tamara,” said Sturgess, “get some secobarbital.”

And that, Nikki found she knew, was a sedative.

“It’ll be okay,” Sturgess said to Nikki, his tone soothing. “It’ll be fine.”

She looked up and saw a middle-aged white man: lean, bald, bearded, wearing green surgical garb, and—

“Eric!” she called. “Eric!”

He continued to close the distance but had a puzzled expression on his face.

Sturgess turned and looked at Eric, too. “Eric! My God, how’s—” He glanced at Nikki. “How’s your, um, your special patient?”

Eric sounded weary. “We almost lost him, but he’s stable now. Jono is closing.”

“And you?” asked Sturgess, touching Eric’s arm briefly. “How are you?”

“Dead,” said Eric. “Exhausted.” He shook his head. “What’s the world coming to?”

Nikki was reeling. She’d never seen Eric before, but she knew exactly what he looked like, and—God!—even what he looked like naked. She knew him, this Eric, this man who—

—who was born fifty years ago, on April 11, in Fort Wayne, Indiana; who has an older brother named Carl; who plays a killer game of chess; who is allergic to penicillin; and who—yes!—had just performed surgery, saving the president’s life.

“Eric,” she said, “what’s happening to me?”

“Miss,” he replied, “do I know you?”

The words struck Nikki like a knife—like a scalpel. Surely he must know her, if she knew him. But he didn’t. There was no hint of recognition on his face.

“I’m Nikki,” she said, as if that should mean something to him.

“Hello,” Eric said, sounding bewildered.

“I know you,” Nikki said, imploringly. “I know you, Eric.”

“I’m sorry, um, Nikki. I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

“Damn it,” said Nikki. “This is crazy!”

“What’s wrong with her?” Eric asked Sturgess.

Tamara was gesturing to someone; Nikki turned to see who. It was a uniformed security guard.

“No,” she said. “No, I’m sorry I hit you, Jurgen.”

Sturgess’s eyebrows went up. “How did you know my name?”

How the hell did she know his name—or Eric’s?

And then it came to her: she knew Jurgen’s name because Eric knew it. They were old friends, although Eric found Jurgen a tad brusque and a bit too humorless for his taste. She knew…well, everything Eric knew.

“It’s all right,” Eric said, motioning for the guards to halt their approach. “Nurse Enright here will look after you. We’ll get you help.”

But that was even worse: suddenly a flood of memories came to Nikki: recalcitrant patients, patients screaming obscenities, a heavyset man throwing a punch, another man breaking down and crying—a cascade of disturbed patients Eric had dealt with over the years.

“I—I’m not like that,” Nikki stammered out.

Eric narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”

Christ, she was a real-estate agent, not some fucking psychic. Her sister believed in that shit, but she didn’t. This was impossible—she must be having a stroke, or hallucinations, or something.

“Come with me,” said Heather Enright. “We’ll get you taken care of.”

“Eric, please!” implored Nikki.

But Eric yawned and stretched, and he and Jurgen started walking away, talking intently about the surgery Eric had just performed. She resisted Heather’s attempts to propel her in the opposite direction until Eric had turned the corner and was out of sight.

But not out of mind.

The secretary of defense continued to study the wall-mounted deployment map; it had flickered off for a few seconds but now was back on. The aircraft carriers were mostly on station, and, as he watched, the Reagan moved a little closer to its goal.

“Mr. Secretary,” said an analyst seated near him, looking up from her workstation, “we’ve lost the White House.”

Peter Muilenburg frowned. “If primary comm is down, switch to aux four.”

The analyst’s voice was anguished. “No, sir, you don’t understand. We’ve lost the White House. It’s—it’s gone. The bomb they found there just went off.”

Muilenburg staggered backward, stumbling into a table. As he flailed to steady himself, he knocked a large binder onto the floor. His eyes stung, and he tasted vomit.

An aide burst into the room. “Mr. Secretary, they’re asking if we should evacuate the Pentagon as a precaution.”

Muilenburg attempted to speak but found he couldn’t. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to keep on his feet. The Oval Office, the Roosevelt Room, the Press Room, the Cabinet Room, the State Dining Room, the Lincoln Bedroom, and so much more…could they really be gone? God…

“Mr. Secretary?” the aide said. “Should we evacuate?”

A deep, shuddering breath; an attempt to regain his equilibrium. “Not yet,” Muilenburg replied, but it was doubtless too soft for the aide to hear. He tried again. “Not yet.” He forced himself to stand up straight. “Have them continue to sweep for bombs here, but we’ve got a job to do.” He looked again at the deployment map and found himself quaking with fury. “And no one can say they don’t have it coming.”

Bessie Stilwell looked down at her wrinkled hand; the skin was white, loose, and translucent. She was gently holding the hand of her adult son, which was smoother and not quite as pale.

Bessie had often imagined a scene like this: the two of them in a hospital room, one lying in bed and the other providing comfort. But she’d always expected it to be her in the bed, waiting to die, and Mike sitting next to her, doing his duty. After all, she was eighty-seven and he was fifty-two; that was the way the scene was supposed to be cast, their parts ordained by their ages.