Triggers

by Robert J. Sawyer

  The photographer jockeyed for position, now getting shots of Kadeem. Kadeem was surprised to hear his voice crack; it hadn’t done that since he was thirteen. “Hey, Mr. President.”

  The president extended—flash!—his hand—flash!—and Kadeem closed the distance—flash!—and shook it—flash! Jerrison’s grip was weak; it was clearly an effort for him to shake hands at all.

  “Please,” the president said, gesturing now to a vinyl-covered chair next to his bed. “Won’t you have a seat?”

  Kadeem sat down, which put his head and the president’s at roughly the same level. “Thank you, sir.”

  “So, Miss Dawson tells me you’re in the Army?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your rank?” But then he smiled. “Private, first class, right? Serial number 080-79-3196, isn’t it?”

  “That’s it, sir.”

  “It’s so strange, having your memories, young man.”

  “It’s strange to me, sir, knowing you have them.”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure. I’m not deliberately snooping, you know. I’m not saying to myself, ‘Gee, I wonder what Kadeem and Kristah’s first date was like?,’ or—” Then he frowned. “Oh. Well, I’m with you. I thought Tropic Thunder was a funny film, even if she didn’t.”

  Kadeem felt his head shaking slowly left to right; it was amazing.

  “Anyway, sorry,” said the president. “The point is that I’m not deliberately doing stuff like that. You’re entitled to your privacy, young man.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “So you were overseas?”

  “Yes, sir. Operation Iraqi Freedom.”

  To his credit, the president’s gaze didn’t waver. “But you’re home now,” Jerrison said in a tone that Kadeem was sure was meant to elicit gratitude.

  Kadeem took a deep breath, then: “Not exactly, sir. My home is in Los Angeles. But I’m being treated here.”

  Jerrison frowned, perplexed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were injured.”

  And perhaps he had already recalled what Kadeem was about to tell him—but had simply forgotten, what with the mountain of other things he had to think about. Kadeem sighed slightly. If only everything could be so easily forgotten. “I’ve got PTSD.”

  The president nodded. “Ah, yes.”

  “Professor Singh’s been helping me. Or he was, until we got interrupted; he’s still got a lot of work to do.”

  “You’re in good hands, I’m sure,” said Jerrison. “We always try to look after our boys in uniform.”

  The comment seemed sincere, and although Kadeem indeed hadn’t voted for Jerrison—he hadn’t voted for anyone—he again had second thoughts about what he intended to do. No one should have to go through this.

  But he had; Kadeem had. Hundreds of times now. And if the pleas of service moms hadn’t succeeded, if the sight of flag-covered coffins hadn’t done it, if the bleak news reports out of Baghdad hadn’t been enough, maybe, just maybe, this would be.

  “Thank you, sir,” Kadeem said. The president was hooked up to a vital-signs monitor like the one Kadeem had been connected to before; it was showing seventy-two heartbeats per minute. Kadeem imagined his own pulse rate was much higher. The president of the United States! Kalil and Lamarr would never believe this. But then Kalil and Lamarr had stayed in South Central; they probably didn’t really believe—or, at least, didn’t fully appreciate—the stories Kadeem had brought back from Iraq.

  But the president could be made to believe.

  To appreciate.

  To feel.

  “Mr. President, I have to say it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. My mamma, sir, she’ll be amazed.”

  The president gestured toward the photographer, who quickly snapped three more shots. “We’ll send her pictures, of course.” And then the president’s eyebrows went up. “Your mamma—she’s a nice lady, isn’t she?”

  “She’s the best, sir.”

  He nodded. “This is so strange. Tanisha, isn’t it? I see you love her very much.”

  “I do, sir. She done her best by me.”

  “I’m sure, I’m sure. And—oh!—it’s her birthday next week, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Won’t you give her my regards?”

  Kadeem nodded. “She’d be thrilled, sir.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Agent Dawson looking at her watch. He doubtless didn’t have much time left, and—

  And even the mere thought of what he was going to do set his stomach to churning, and he could feel perspiration breaking out on his brow.

  “Well,” Kadeem said, “I’m sure you’ve got matters of state”—a phrase he never thought he’d utter in his whole life—“to attend to.” He stood up, and the chair’s four legs made a scraping sound against the tiled floor as he pushed it back a bit. He took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to calm himself, then, finally, he blurted it out: “But I hope you’ll think about babies after I leave, sir.”

  The president looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together. “Babies?”

  “Yes, sir. Crying babies.” Kadeem felt his own pulse racing, and he reached out to steady himself by holding on to the angled part of the president’s bed, which caused Agent Dawson to surge forward. “Crying babies,” Kadeem repeated, “and the smell of smashed concrete.”

  The president made a sharp intake of breath, and although the volume on his vital-signs monitor was turned almost all the way down, Kadeem could hear the heartbeat pings accelerating.

  It happened with astonishing quickness: footfalls outside the door, then a woman came in—black, elegant—ah, one of Sue’s memories: it was Alyssa Snow, Jerrison’s private physician. “Mr. President, are you okay?” she asked.

  All the eyes—the photographer’s, Agent Dawson’s, Kadeem’s, the nurse’s, and Dr. Snow’s—were on Seth Jerrison. There were whites visible all around his irises, as if he were seeing something horrific.

  And he was. Kadeem had no doubt. Yes, just because they were linked didn’t mean their recollections were in synch, but the flashback trigger would have had the same effect on the president as it was having on him. They might be experiencing different parts of it just now—Kadeem was seeing the half-track rolling over a corpse; the president might be seeing another wall shattering under mortar fire. But they were both there, Kadeem for the thousandth time, and Seth Jerrison for the very first.

  “Mr. President?” asked Dr. Snow, desperately. “Are you okay, sir?”

  The president was shaking his head slowly left and right, a small arc of what looked liked disbelief, and his mouth had dropped open. Dr. Snow was now standing on the opposite side of the bed from Kadeem and using two fingers to check the president’s pulse.

  Kadeem staggered backward and ended up leaning against the wall for support.

  Fire.

  Smoke.

  Screams.

  He could barely see the real world, the hospital room, the president, but he turned his head and tried to make out the great man’s expression. His face showed not shock and awe, but shock and horror. The doctor was moving now to wipe the president’s brow.

  Explosions.

  Babies crying.

  Gunfire.

  “Mr. President?” Snow said. “Sir, for God’s sake!”

  Agent Dawson moved in, too, and also said, “Mr. President?”

  Kadeem knew, of course, that neither of them noticed, or, if they did notice, that neither of them cared that he was in distress, too. That was normal here in Washington, the way it had been not just since the start of this war but going right back to Korea.

  But maybe, just maybe, that would change now. He tried to shunt aside his own fear so that he could see Jerrison’s face contort, see him recoil from some invisible blow or explosion, see him, the president of the United States, be the first person holding that office in decades to walk in a soldier’s shoes, share a soldier’s burden, and feel a soldier’s terror at the things those back home had ordered soldiers to do.r />
  CHAPTER 27

  SUSAN Dawson spoke into her sleeve mike. “Get Singh in here right away!” She wheeled on Kadeem Adams. “What did you do to him?”

  “Nothing,” said Adams, but he seemed to be struggling to get even that single word out.

  Susan looked over at the president, lying on his bed, his head propped up, his eyes wide with terror, sweat beading on his forehead. Dr. Alyssa Snow was listening to his chest with a stethoscope.

  “Nothing my ass!” said Susan. “What did you do to him?”

  But Kadeem’s eyes were closed and he was swaying erratically from side to side, as if having trouble keeping his balance. He hadn’t touched him. He hadn’t done anything, and yet—

  “For God’s sake, Kadeem,” Susan exclaimed, “he’s recovering from heart surgery!”

  She heard rapid footfalls in the corridor outside, and then the door burst open, revealing Ranjip Singh in the company of one of the Secret Service agents. Susan pointed at Jerrison. “Kadeem did something to the president’s mind, and now he’s having a seizure.”

  Susan watched Ranjip turn to look at Kadeem, and she followed his gaze. Kadeem had his eyes scrunched tightly shut and was shaking his head rapidly in a small arc from left to right. His forehead was slick with sweat.

  “Oh, shit,” said Singh, the first time Susan had heard him swear. He went over to Kadeem and guided him—Kadeem’s eyes were still closed—to the chair next to the president’s bed, and gently, almost lovingly, he eased Kadeem into it. And then he took one of Kadeem’s hands in his, light brown against dark brown, and, to Susan’s surprise, he reached over and took one of the president’s in his other hand, beige against light brown, and he stood between the two men, a human bridge, and he said, “All right, both of you, listen to me—listen to me! You’re having a flashback. It’s me, it’s Ranjip Singh, and you’re at Luther Terry Hospital. You’re home, you’re in the United States, and you’re safe. You’re safe!”

  Susan started toward the bed; she didn’t like that Singh had brought Kadeem so close to Jerrison. But Dr. Snow motioned for her to stay back. Susan could see the sheet over the president’s chest heaving up and down. Above the rapid beeping of his heart-rate monitor, she could hear Kadeem whimpering softly.

  “You’re safe,” Ranjip said again. “You’re safe. That was thousands of kilometers away and many, many months ago. It’s over. Kadeem, it’s over. And Mr. President—Mr. Jerrison—Seth—it’s over.”

  Susan felt helpless—and furious; she never should have allowed Adams in here. Christ, he might end up as the guy who’d managed to succeed at what Gordo Danbury had failed to do. The president’s heart was still racing, and Dr. Snow was busily preparing a hypodermic.

  “Take a deep breath,” Ranjip said, looking at the president, whose eyes were still wide, and “Take a deep breath,” he said to Kadeem, whose grip, Susan saw, was so tight now on Singh’s hand that it must be hurting them both. “Hold it in,” Ranjip said. “Just hold it, for a count of five: one, two, three, four, five. Now, let it out, slowly, slowly—that’s right, Seth, that’s right. Kadeem, you can do it, too: slowly, gently, let the air out, let the memory out, release it, let it go…”

  There was an extended silence from the president’s monitor as his heart skipped a beat, and when that happened, Susan’s own followed suit. Dr. Snow looked at him with concern, but when the beeps started again, they were progressively further apart.

  “Again,” said Ranjip. “Take a deep breath again, both of you. Relax. Now, concentrate on something peaceful: a clear blue sky. That’s it; that’s all—just that. The sky, blue and clean and bright; a beautiful summer’s day, not a cloud to be seen. Peaceful, calming, relaxing.”

  It looked to Susan as though Kadeem’s grip was lessening a bit, and he’d stopped making sounds. The president’s eyes were no longer wide, and he was blinking rapidly—perhaps as he imagined looking up at a sunny sky.

  Jerrison turned at last to Singh and seemed to recognize him. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

  Singh nodded and let go of the president’s hand. He looked at Kadeem, and Dr. Snow immediately moved in and mopped the president’s brow. She then placed her stethoscope back on the president’s chest and nodded, apparently satisfied with what she was hearing.

  Kadeem was shaking, Susan saw, as if he were freezing to death. Ranjip was now facing him directly. He took both his hands and looked straight into Kadeem’s eyes, which had finally opened. “It’s all right,” Ranjip said again. “It’s all right.”

  Ranjip had a puzzled expression. Susan realized the Canadian wanted to ask Kadeem what had triggered the flashback, but, of course, he couldn’t; asking him that would bring the trigger to mind and might set off another episode. “He did it,” Susan said, pointing at Kadeem. “Deliberately.”

  “No,” said Ranjip, shaking his head. “Surely not.”

  “He did it,” Susan repeated. “He did that to the president.”

  Ranjip looked at Kadeem, as if expecting a denial, but when none was forthcoming, Ranjip said softly, his tone conveying he was stunned by what the young man had done. “Kadeem…”

  Susan spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins and Michaelis: come to Prospector’s room right away.” She looked at Kadeem. “You’ve made the mistake of your life,” she said. “This was the stupidest thing you—”

  “Agent Dawson.” The voice was weak but oh-so-familiar.

  She turned to face Prospector. “Yes, Mr. President?”

  “Go…easy…on the…young man,” Jerrison said.

  “But, sir, he—”

  Jerrison silenced her with a hand gesture and he turned his gaze to Kadeem just as the door opened, revealing the two agents Susan had called for. “Private Adams,” Jerrison said, still weak, “was that…what it was…really like?”

  Kadeem nodded once. “Yes, sir, Mr. President. I’m sorry I had to—”

  Susan saw the president make the same silencing gesture at Kadeem as he had at her, and Seth Jerrison was a hard man to disobey. “You went through all of that?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.” Kadeem paused, then: “And not just me, sir. Lots of us went through it, or something similar.”

  Jerrison seemed to consider this for a time, then, at last, he slowly nodded, and, to Susan’s surprise, he said, “Thank you, Private Adams. Thank you…for sharing that with me.”

  And then Kadeem Adams surprised Susan. He stood up ramrod straight and crisply saluted his commander in chief. “Thank you, sir.”

  ERIC Redekop and Janis Falconi exited the building, Eric carefully avoiding the reporters who were camped out front. It was a cold night, and he found himself feeling an urge to put his arm around Jan’s shoulder, but he didn’t. They walked along Pennsylvania Avenue. Things were eerily silent for a Friday night; doubtless, after today’s bomb blast, many people were staying indoors. Eric remembered it had been the same way after 9/11, when an American Airlines 757 had crashed into the Pentagon.

  In the first block west of LT, they had a choice between the Foggy Bottom Pub and Capitol Grounds Coffee; thank God the pubs and cafés were keeping their doors open. They opted for the pub and found a booth near the back where they could talk.

  “So,” Eric said, after they’d sat down, and “So,” said Janis.

  A middle-aged waitress looking worn down by the day’s events took their orders: two draft beers.

  “I don’t know how long these linkages will last,” Eric said, “but…”

  “Yeah,” said Jan. “But.”

  “I…ah, I didn’t know…I don’t mean to pry. Really, I’ve been trying not to, but…”

  “But you can’t help it. I know; I keep getting Josh Latimer’s memories, too.”

  “At work, sometimes…when you’re alone, you…to…to ease the pain, you…”

  She lowered her eyes. “Are you going to report me?”

  “No, no. I’d like to see you get help, though. You know there are confident
ial programs…”

  “Thanks.” She paused. “There’s a lot of bad stuff in my life.”

  They were seated on opposite sides of the booth; her hands were on the table between them. He found his hand moving over to cover one of hers. “I know.”

  Their beers arrived.

  “ALL right,” said Susan, after Kadeem had finished saluting the president. “That’s enough. Private Adams, you’re under arrest.” She’d not only have to lock him up, but also sedate him to make sure he didn’t try something similar again.

  To his credit, Kadeem lifted his hands slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  But the president stirred on his bed. “No.”

  “Sir, he assaulted you.”

  Jerrison managed some more strength. “I said no, Susan.”

  “Sir, we can’t let him debilitate you at will.” She indicated that Kadeem should move toward the closed door.

  “No,” said Jerrison again. “Private Adams stays, but I want the rest of you out of here. All of you: Alyssa, Sheila, Susan, Professor Singh, Agent Michaelis, and you, there, the photographer. Out.”

  “Sir!” said Susan.

  “Do it. And find Maria Ramirez, the pregnant woman, if she hasn’t yet gone home. I want to speak to both of them.”

  “But, Mr. President, I—”

  “Right away, Agent Dawson.”

  Susan nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  SETH Jerrison found it odd to be talking with Kadeem Adams. They’d only just met, but he had all the young man’s memories. Normally, Seth didn’t have much patience for people telling him things he already knew, but listening to Kadeem go on about his life in Los Angeles was actually relaxing; as soon as Kadeem started to tell a story, the episode came to Seth’s mind, just as it had come to Kadeem’s, although he doubtless was reconstructing it differently. And so while Kadeem spoke, Seth let his mind concentrate on the problem at hand.

  Agent Dawson opened the door to the president’s room; she looked relieved to see him simply lying there, listening to Kadeem.

  “Mr. President,” she said, indicating a young woman with long brown hair, “this is Maria Ramirez. You’re in luck; she was still waiting for her husband to come pick her up.”