Triggers

Chapter 10

The man who had tried to escape the hospital turned out to be a lawyer named Orrin Gillett. Susan Dawson took him to a room on the third floor. There was a TV in the room, and she put it on and turned to CNN. She’d hoped for an update on the attempted assassination, but the current story was about the destruction of the White House. Susan watched, mesmerized, horrified; she’d spent most of the last three years in that historic building.

The camera was panning left and right. The mansion reduced to rubble. The two wings gutted by fire. Billowing smoke.

Susan fought back tears. Gillett looked on in shock, too, his jaw hanging loosely open. The voice-over was talking about echoes of 9/11, and Susan flashed back to how stunned and terrified she’d felt when the Twin Towers had collapsed. Back then, she hadn’t yet ever held a gun, hadn’t yet ever fired a shot, hadn’t yet been trained to be cool and calm during a crisis. But she felt no better able to handle this now than she had in 2001; it was just as overwhelming, just as heartbreaking.

At last, the ruins of the White House disappeared, replaced by the lined face of a news anchor, himself looking as devastated as Susan felt. She forced herself back to the here and now, back to her duty. She got a security guard to lock Gillett in the room, then she half walked, half staggered down the hall to see Professor Singh in his office. “Your research subjects,” she said as she entered, more of Singh’s memories bubbling up in her consciousness, “suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.”

Singh was seated in his roller chair. “That’s right. They have terrible flashbacks, mostly related to events from whatever war they were in.”

Singh’s patients weren’t the only ones suffering from post-traumatic stress, she thought: the whole damned world had to be experiencing flashbacks today. Still, information about Singh’s technique came to her. “And you were trying to erase those bad memories?”

“Yes.”

“But the…the effect wasn’t well contained, was it?”

“Something happened,” said Singh with an amiable shrug. “I honestly don’t know what. When the electricity came back on, there was an enormous power surge through the equipment. And these—these linkages—are the result.”

“Terrorists blew up the White House,” Susan said. “That’s what caused the electromagnetic pulse I mentioned.”

Singh sagged back in his chair and his bearded jaw dropped. “The White House is…gone?”

It was still almost impossible to contemplate. “Yes,” Susan said softly.

Singh lifted a questioning hand, but it was shaking badly. “A nuke?”

Susan struggled to stay focused, stay in command. “No. Same kind of bomb as in Chicago, SF, and Philly. Non-nuclear and with a very limited EI component to the pulse. They disrupt electronics but don’t do much permanent damage. The pulse is just a side effect; the real destruction is done by the intense heat.”

Singh’s lab had no window, but he was looking in the direction of where the White House had been, as if trying to visualize it. “How…how many died?”

“Fortunately, this time the bomb was discovered in time to evacuate the building.”

“Still,” said Singh. He shook his head. “I’d thought I was starting to get over the shock of what happened in Chicago, but…” He looked up at her, his brown eyes moist. “It never ends, does it?”

“No,” said Susan softly. She gave Singh—and herself—a moment. Then, gently, she said, “It looks like President Jerrison has been affected by your experiment, too. He almost died on the operating table, and he claims someone else’s life flashed before his eyes. He should be briefed about this. Come with me.”

“To see the president?” asked Singh, sounding astonished at the notion.

“Yes.” Singh shakily got to his feet, and they exited his office. Susan would normally take the stairs for a single flight, but Singh was clearly still in shock; at one point, he reached out to steady himself against the wall. They took the elevator down, and, when they came out on the corridor on two, she caught sight of Darryl Hudkins’s shaved head. He was now standing guard outside the president’s door.

“You okay?” Susan asked, once they’d closed the distance. Darryl’s face was slack and his eyes wider than normal.

“I’m—I’m holding up.”

“Who is in there?” she asked, tilting her head toward the nearest door.

“Just Michaelis, the president, and a nurse,” said Darryl. “Dr. Griffin has gone off to deal with the lockdown.”

Susan nodded and went to push the door open, but Darryl held out his arm, blocking Professor Singh.

“Forgive me, sir,” Darryl said, rallying now, “but are you carrying a knife?”

“A kirpan, yes,” Singh replied.

Darryl shook his head. “You can’t take it into the president’s room.”

Susan was mortified—first, that the issue had come up, and, second, because it hadn’t even occurred to her; she’d been about to let an armed man approach the president.

Singh’s voice had regained its steadiness. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Darryl Hudkins.”

“Darryl,” Singh said, “the kirpan is a defensive weapon.” He opened his lab coat and revealed the cloth belt he was wearing; the ceremonial knife was attached to it. “It is an instrument of ahimsa—of nonviolence; a tool to prevent violence from being done to a defenseless person when all other means have failed.” He looked directly at Hudkins. “You’ll forgive me, but given the current circumstances, I rather suspect I could do no worse than the Secret Service already has in protecting the president.”

Susan thought about the kirpan, leafing through Singh’s memories related to the artifact—and it came to her. He would never, ever use it to hurt anyone. “Let him pass,” she said to Darryl.

“If you say so, ma’am,” Darryl replied—but he moved a hand to his holster, just in case.

Seth Jerrison was resting with his eyes closed. He’d insisted that Jasmine—the First Lady—stay in Oregon today. She’d wanted to rush back, but the last time terrorists had attacked Washington, on 9/11, they’d targeted multiple buildings; the current attack might not be over.

Seth opened his eyes when he heard the door to the room swinging inward on its hinges. A white Secret Service agent named Roger Michaelis was in the room already, as was Sheila, a stern-looking Asian nurse. Coming in was the leader of his Secret Service detail, Susan Dawson, and accompanying her was someone Jerrison had never seen before.

“Mr. President,” Susan said, “this is Professor Ranjip Singh. He’s a memory researcher, and, well, he thinks he has an explanation—sort of—for what happened to you.”

“Good,” Seth said weakly. “Because it didn’t end when my near-death experience did. I keep remembering things that couldn’t possibly be my own memories.”

Singh stepped closer. “Forgive me, Mr. President, but if I may: what sort of things?”

“Just now, I was recalling a basketball game.”

“Watching one on TV?” asked Singh. “Or as a spectator in a stadium?”

“No, no.” It took Seth a second to rally the strength to go on. “Playing basketball. Me and three other men.” He paused; his body just wanted to sleep. “But it wasn’t my memory.”

“Then what brought it to mind?” asked Singh, sounding intrigued.

“I don’t know,” Seth replied, still struggling to get each word out. But then he lifted his eyebrows. “Oh, wait. I do know. I’d been thinking about previous times surgery had been performed on a president.”

“Yes?” said Singh.

“Last time was in 2010.” He gathered some strength, then: “Obama got an elbow in the face while playing basketball with friends. Needed twelve stitches on his upper lip.”

Singh frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

Nurse Sheila spoke up. “I do. It was done by the White House Medical Unit, under a local anesthetic.”

Seth nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. Still…”

“Still,” said Singh, “you were thinking of that, and that led you to think of the last time you played basketball. Except that the memory that came wasn’t your own.”

“Exactly,” said Seth. “Explain that.” He’d meant for his voice to have a challenging tone, but he was still too weak to speak in anything much above a whisper.

“I will try,” said Singh. “But—forgive me, Mr. President, I’m…words fail me. I never thought I’d be speaking to the president of the United States!”

“It’s all right,” said Seth.

Singh smiled. “I know, but…again, forgive me. I have to push a little here, and, ah, I’m not comfortable doing that—not with you.”

“It’s fine,” Seth said.

Singh closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and went on. “Very well. These three men you saw—can you describe them?”

“Twenties. One was fat and bald—shaved bald—and the other two were thin and had short hair.”

“Forgive me, sir, but do you really mean ‘thin’? Or do you just mean they were of normal weight?”

“Sorry. Normal weight.”

“And their hair color?”

“Dark, I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“Dark.”

“And eye color?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Singh paused for a moment, then: “So, blue then, like yours?”

“Maybe.”

“Any other details? Clothing, perhaps?”

“T-shirts on all three. One was wearing green track pants; another, red gym shorts; and the third—the fat guy—cutoff jeans.”

“And they were playing basketball?”

“Well, shooting hoops.”

“And you were participating?”

Seth rested for a moment, then: “Yes, but…”

“What?”

“I haven’t played basketball for, God, forty years. I wrecked the tendons in my left foot, taking a tumble down a staircase at college.”

“Ah,” said Singh. “Do you know the other players’ names?”

“No. Never met them, and—hmmm. Well, that’s strange.” He let himself breathe for a moment, then: “Yes, now that I think about it—now that you ask—I do know their names, but…”

Singh prodded him with a “Yes?”

Seth looked at Susan for a moment. “Well, they’re unusual names. Deshawn, Lamarr, and, um—Kalil. But…” He fell silent. Singh was looking at him expectantly, but, damn it all, he’d put his foot in it by calling them “unusual names.”

Singh was all over it. “You mean, they’re unusual names for white people. They’re common enough African-American names, though.”

“Well, yes.”

“But you saw white people?”

Seth managed a small nod.

Singh’s eyebrows climbed toward his turban. “Fascinating. Mr. President, do you know the name of the person whose memories you’re accessing?”

“No.”

“Think about it.”

“Nothing is coming to me.”

Susan and the other Secret Service agent were watching intently, as was Sheila the nurse.

“All right,” said Singh. “Try this: everyone is made fun of at school. My last name is Singh, and the students at my school in Toronto called me ‘Singh-Song.’ And my first name is Ranjip, but the mean boys at high school always called me ‘rancid’—although I took some pleasure in the fact that some of them didn’t even know what that meant. What did they call you?”

The president frowned. “Fairyson.”

Singh tried to suppress a smile. “Any other names you were called?”

“No.”

“Nothing is coming to you?”

“Nothing, but…”

“Yes?”

“ ‘Firstman’ just popped into my mind. Like ‘First Man,’ but all run together.”

“ ‘Firstman,’ repeated Singh, excitedly. “Adam, no? Does the name Kadeem Adams mean anything to you?”

“No. Oh, wait. Yes—yes! Sure, Kadeem Adams—that’s him.”

“Well, that was easy,” said Singh, turning to Susan. “He’s reading the memories of my patient, Private Kadeem Adams.”

“Is that the guy who is reading me?” Susan asked.

“Yes,” said Singh.

“So he’s not the person reading the president?”

“What’s that?” said Seth. “Somebody’s reading my memories?”

Susan nodded. “We think it’s possible, sir. We’ve locked down the hospital because of it. Don’t worry—no one is getting in or out.” She turned to Singh. “But it isn’t this Adams who is reading the president, right?”

“He certainly has given no indication of that,” said Singh. “We don’t have a lot of data yet, but it seems the links are not reciprocal. Rather, they appear to form a chain. The president is reading Kadeem Adams; Kadeem is reading you, Agent Dawson; you are reading me; and I’m reading Dr. Lucius Jono.”

“So then this Jono is the one reading the president?” Susan asked.

“Let us hope,” said Singh. “We don’t know how long the chain is, or whether it closes into a circle. However, from what I’ve seen, the linkages are first-order, shall we say? That is, you can remember what I remember, but you can’t remember through me to what Dr. Jono remembers, isn’t that right?”

Susan frowned. “Yes, I guess that is the case. I can’t recall any of this Jono person’s memories.”

“And, Mr. President, is it safe to say that you recall what Private Adams recalls, but not what Agent Dawson remembers, even though she is the one Private Adams is reading?”

Jerrison considered, then: “Yes, that’s right. Even looking at you, Susan, I can’t recall your memories.”

“Okay, good,” said Singh. “At least we don’t have a cascade.” A pause. “I would like to speak to Private Adams and see how accurate the president’s recollections are. If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes…”

Susan nodded, and she moved aside so he could leave the room.

Seth was grateful for a chance to stop talking—it was all so much to take in, and he was more exhausted than he’d ever felt in his life. Sheila came over and adjusted one of the drip bags attached to his arm. He looked over at Susan and saw her touch a finger to her earpiece. “Copy that,” she said at last. She then looked at Seth. “I’m sorry, Mr. President. We didn’t tell you yet that the would-be assassin is dead. But they’ve positively ID’d the body now, and—” Seth saw her glance at Roger Michaelis, who looked shocked; he’d presumably just heard the same thing Susan had through his own earpiece.

“Yes?” Seth prodded.

“It was Gordon Danbury,” Susan said. “He was one of us—a Secret Service agent.”