Triggers by Robert J. Sawyer Page A

that they themselves are safe.”
    Susan said nothing; there was no rule book, no protocol, for a situation like this.
    “And, anyway,” continued Singh, “besides the hospital’s phone system, there are hundreds of cell phones here. Patients have them, and staff, too. And, of course, hundreds of laptops and iPads and the like, not to mention all the hospital’s computers. By the time you could confiscate them all, even if you could find legal grounds to do so, the whole world will know about the memory linkages. And if a bomb hits here—the terrorists must know where the president is, after all, and that he’s stillalive—you’ll want people to have as many ways to communicate as possible, in hopes that some will function after the EMP.”
    “You’re right,” Susan said. Just then, the door to Singh’s office opened and in came Kadeem Adams. Susan knew him at once, although—
    Well,
that
was interesting. There was no doubt that this was indeed Kadeem; he easily matched Ranjip’s memories of him. But she was now looking at him with her own trained agent’s eyes, and seeing details Ranjip had never noted. For starters, Ranjip had had no idea how tall Kadeem was, but Susan immediately pegged him at six-one; agents learned to take the measure of a man even when he was seated. She also noted he was wearing a T-shirt advertising Brickers, a rap group that Ranjip had apparently never heard of; that he had creased earlobes; and that he was a nail-biter.
    A memory—her own—of one of her favorite writers flashed through her head:
You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive.
But that was the
other
war; she knew, because Ranjip knew it, that Kadeem had actually been in Iraq.
    “Kadeem Adams,” said Singh, “this is Agent Susan Dawson. As you know, she’s with the Secret Service.”
    Kadeem shook his head. “All this shit that’s goin’ down. I can see it from your point of view—the president bleeding on the steps, you and him in the limo, you looking down on him on the operating table. Been one hell of a day.”
    “Yes,” said Susan.
    “And—well,
damn,
girl! You had a hell of night last night, too, didn’t you, Agent Dawson?” Susan felt herself blushing. Kadeem went on. “Although, given how well I now know you, maybe we should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think…Sue?”
    Ranjip picked up a lined notepad. “I think we need to start writing this down. Agent Dawson is reading my memories. Kadeem, you’re reading Agent Dawson’s. And…” He paused.
    “And?” said Kadeem.
    Ranjip looked at Susan, asking permission with his eyes.
    Susan thought about it, then said, “I don’t think I’m actually in a position to keep secrets from Kadeem.”
    And as soon as she said it, Kadeem’s eyes went wide. “And—God!—the president is reading my memories.”
    Susan knew there was no point denying it.
    Kadeem looked at Ranjip. “I knew
somebody
was, from the questions you asked, guru, but…” He shook his head. “No shit! The president!” He smiled slightly. “Guess he knows now I didn’t vote for him.” He then looked at Ranjip. “What about you, guru? Who are you reading?”
    “A doctor here named Lucius Jono,” said Ranjip—and he took a moment to jot this fact on the chart he was making.
    “And he’s reading a real-estate agent named Nikki Van Hausen,” said Susan. She gestured for the pad and wrote the name down. “And Nikki’s reading Eric Redekop, who was the lead surgeon for the president. And Redekop is reading a nurse, Janis Falconi.” She wrote these names down, too. “The chain just keeps getting longer and longer—which raises the question of exactly how many people are affected. Agent Michaelis wasn’t—he was too far away from your equipment, it seems. But how many were?”
    “Good question,” Singh said. He consulted a PC on a worktable. “Huh,” he said, and then, “Hmmm.”
    “Yes?” said Susan.
    Ranjip moved to his apparatus, a padded chair and a