Analog SFF, March 2012 (27 page)

"I tell you, Miss Susan, I'm not."

"Think about the question I'm about to ask you, ma'am. Really think about it. It's important, okay?"

The old woman nodded.

"All right, now. Think about this. What is today's dayword?"

"'Dayword'? I don't know what that means."

"Just ask yourself, Mrs. Stilwell, what is today's dayword? And really think about it."

She pursed her thin lips. And then she lifted her frail arms in exasperation. “I don't know!"

"Guess,” said Susan. “Say the first word that pops into your mind. Today's dayword is . . . “

"Oh, for Pete's—all right, all right. Um, ‘potbelly.’”

Susan's heart skipped a beat. It wasn't today's word, which Prospector would have memorized this morning; it was the one from three days ago. Still, if this woman was somehow reading Susan or Darryl, she could be accessing the dayword from their memories rather than the president's.

"All right,” Susan said. “One more question: what high school did President Jerrison attend?"

"Land's sake, I don't know these things!"

"Guess. Just guess. Please, ma'am."

Maybe that final bit of courtesy did the trick, because Bessie stopped protesting and frowned in concentration. “Nordhoff High,” she said, then, after a second, she added, “Go, Rangers!"

Susan pulled out her BlackBerry, went to the president's Wikipedia page, and checked; the old lady was correct. She put away the phone and spoke into her sleeve. “Dawson to Hudkins. You're right, Darryl. I'm here with our threat to national security."

Now that they'd found the person reading President Jerrison's memories, Agent Dawson conceded that there was no longer any legal basis for continuing the lockdown. Still, before they would be allowed to leave the hospital, each of the affected people was individually briefed by LT's director of risk management, by Professor Singh, and by one of the hospital's psychiatrists. They were all advised that they were welcome, nay encouraged, to stay at the hospital, as no one could predict what impact or side effects the memory linkages might have.

They were also told that, if they stayed, they would be admitted for free, and they'd be kept under observation and have immediate access to whatever care they might need. Still, those who did want to leave—which turned out to be just about everyone except Joshua Latimer and his daughter Dora Hennessey, who'd had their transplant operation rescheduled for Monday—were required to sign Refusal of Care Against Medical Advice forms. Also, everyone's contact information was collected and verified, and follow-up medical examinations were booked for five days’ hence.

While that was being done, Mark Griffin sat down in front of the large microphone attached to the public-address system, took a deep breath—and paused; his throat was still raw from being throttled by David January. He swallowed, coughed, then tried speaking into the mike again. “Your attention, please. Your attention, please. I have an important announcement to make. Your attention please."

He waited for a couple of seconds, then: “This is Dr. Mark Griffin, and I'm the chief executive officer here at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. As doubtless most of you know by now, President Seth Jerrison was shot this morning, and he was brought here for surgery. I'm delighted to tell you that his condition is stable."

There were always lawsuits following any lockdown; the next paragraph had been carefully crafted to hopefully at least somewhat reduce their number.

"The lockdown of this building was implemented at the request of the United States Secret Service. We and they thank you for your cooperation in this time of national crisis, and President Jerrison himself has asked me to pass on his personal gratitude to each and every one of you."

Another pause to let that sink in, then: “We will shortly end the lockdown.” Even in this closed office, he could hear the cheers going up. “Because we may need to get in touch with you again, we will be recording your names and contact information as you leave. There are hundreds of people in the building, so we have to process you in an orderly fashion. Staff members may leave through the staff exit whenever their shifts end. For visitors and outpatients, if your last name begins with the letters A, B, C, or D, you may head down to the lobby now."

Griffin swallowed then went on. “We will, of course, provide you with a free parking voucher good through the end of the night. Please make your way out in an orderly fashion, and, again, many, many thanks for your understanding."

He paused, then began over again in Spanish:
"Su atencion, por favor. Su atencion, por favor. Tengo un anuncio importante que hacer . . ."
He was surprised at how fluent he sounded; he wasn't usually this good. But then it came to him: Maria Ramirez, the young woman he was linked to, was bilingual.

"We found her,” Susan Dawson said, coming into the president's room.

Seth lolled his head slightly to look at Susan, and Sheila, his nurse, also turned to face her. “Who?"

"The person reading your memories,” Susan said. “Her name is Bessie Stilwell, and she's eighty-seven."

"Did she . . . ah, has she . . . ?"

"Revealed anything? Nothing crucial. And we're hoping it'll stay that way, of course. We'll keep her away from the press and so forth."

Seth managed a small nod, then: “I'd like to speak with her."

Susan's eyebrows went up. “Sir, if I may, I don't think that's wise. She's a huge security risk. Seeing you will doubtless trigger more memories to come back; you really don't want to have anything sensitive brought to her mind."

Seth looked at the Secret Service agent, wondering just how much she herself knew; she shouldn't know
anything
about Counterpunch, of course, but . . .

But maybe she did—and maybe Gordo Danbury had known, too.

Gordo.
Damn it, if only he could remember what Leon Hexley had been saying on the phone.
"Tell Gordo to . . . “

But no matter how much he racked his brain, it wasn't coming back to him. But maybe this woman, this—what had Susan said her name was? This Bessie? Maybe
she
could remember the conversation. “Bring her here,” Seth said.

"Sir, I really—"

"Bring her."

Susan nodded. “As you wish, sir."

Chapter 25

Ivan Tarasov was satisfied with his job as a security guard at Luther Terry Memorial Hospital. He was less happy about reading the memories of Dora Hennessey, the woman who'd come here from London to donate a kidney to her father. Ivan tried to keep her memories from coming to mind, but there really was no way to avoid them. Most of them were uninteresting to him. She was a guidance counselor, and he'd always preferred things involving hard science or math but had done too poorly in school to ever get a job in those areas. Today, there'd be a diagnosis for his condition, but twenty-five years ago, when he'd been in high school, they just said he didn't work hard enough.

Dora was a fan of British football; he didn't care for contact sports—years of working here at LT had left him unable to abide people purposefully engaging in behaviors that would result in concussions, hernias, damaged joints, and bruised organs. She was active in clubbing and bar-hopping; he preferred to curl up with his Kindle and read books about the Civil War—he was working through Shelby Foote's history of it for the fifth time.

Now that the lockdown was over, Ivan was pleased to leave the hospital. Still, he paused just outside it for a time, looking east. The whole sky was dark now, but he could make out the smoke billowing from where the White House had been.

He got on the metro. Normally, he ignored other people, but today he found himself looking at them—looking
right
at them, their faces haunted, gaunt, drawn. It was the same thing on the bus: lost souls, some still softly crying.

Finally, he made it to his house. His wife Sally came down to the entryway along with his three-year-old daughter Tanya. They knew he didn't like to be touched, but today was an unusual day, and they needed whatever he could offer them. He accepted a kiss from Sally and then picked up Tanya and carried her into the small living room, where he set her on the couch. He then sat himself down beside her.

Ivan was devastated by today's terrible events—but also couldn't help being upset that his daily routine had been interrupted. He should have been here hours ago to watch
Wonder Pets
with Tanya; it was their ritual every day when he got home from work. Of course, he'd planned for such contingencies; their PVR was set to record
Wonder Pets.
He found the remote and started it playing. He briefly spared a thought for the person who was linked to him—some lawyer named Orrin Gillett—who now must also know the plots of all forty-two episodes by heart, not to mention every trivial fact about Linny the Guinea Pig, Turtle Tuck, and Tanya's favorite, Ming-Ming Duckling.

He looked at his daughter and—

God.

He shook his head, looked away, but—

But the images were still there.

Horrific images.

Images of . . .

No. No. He did
not
want to see this!

But . . .

God. God.
God.

The sight of Tanya, sitting on the couch in her little pink dress, made him think of—

No, no. It was
awful.
To do that to a child! To touch a little girl that way!

The image of a man came to him, but it was no one he knew. A narrow head, brown hair, brown eyes behind unfashionably large lenses.

The face loomed in at . . . at
her,
shushing her, telling her it would all be all right, telling her to never breathe a word about this, telling her that it was their little secret that he liked her so much, that she was so special, and—

He shook his head again, but the images were still there, the memories.

Memories. Yes, plural. Another time, the same man, but wearing different clothes. Or, at least, starting out wearing different clothes, until he unzipped . . .

No!

Ivan stood up, left his daughter, left the room, and closed his eyes, desperately trying to shut the images out.

"Mr. President,” said Susan Dawson, “this is Bessie Stilwell."

Seth still had tubes going into his left arm, and a small oxygen intake plugged into his nostrils. But he rallied some strength and extended his right hand toward Bessie, who responded with an astonished expression.

"What?” said the president, looking at his own hand to see if it were dirty or something.

"Sorry, Mr. President,” said Bessie. “I'm—it's just a flood of images. All the people whose hands you've shaken with that hand. The British prime minister. The Russian premier. The German chancellor. The Chinese president. And—” She took a half step back, as if daunted. “And the movie stars. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp and—oh, he's always been one of my favorites!—Christopher Plummer."

"And now,” said Seth Jerrison, who, even in his current state, had an ability almost as good as Bill Clinton's to make whomever he was talking to feel like the most important person in the world, “it's going to shake your hand.” He extended his arm again.

Bessie hesitated for another moment, then moved closer and took Seth's hand in his. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. President."

"The pleasure is all mine.” He turned toward Susan. “Agent Dawson, won't you give us a moment? I'm sure I'm safe with Mrs. Stilwell."

Susan looked like she was going to protest, but then she nodded and headed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her. Seth motioned for Bessie to take a seat. She did so; there was a vinyl-covered chair next to the bed. But she was shaking her head.

"What?” asked Seth.

"Nothing, sir. Just memories."

"I understand, believe me. I'm recalling strange things, too, from the person I'm linked to."

"Yes, but . . . “

"But what?"

Bessie averted her eyes but said nothing more.

Seth nodded. It was like the WikiLeaks scandal: all those embarrassing State Department emails. “You don't just recall me shaking, say, President Sarkozy's hand at the G8. You also recall what I thought of him then, right?"

Bessie nodded meekly.

Seth's energy ebbed and flowed, but one of his doctors had recently given him a stimulant. He found he could speak at greater length, at least for the moment, without exhausting himself. “I'm a human being,” he said. “And so are all the other national leaders. So, yes, I've got opinions about them, and they've doubtless got opinions about me."

"You really hate the Canadian prime minister."

Seth didn't hesitate. “Yes, I do. He's a weaselly, petty man."

Bessie seemed to digest this. “So, um, what happens now?” she asked, looking briefly at the president then averting her gaze again.

"If word gets out that you're linked to me, lots of people are going to come after you."

"Gracious!” said Bessie.

"So, as of right now, you're under the protection of the Secret Service."

Seth had anticipated that she'd answer with, “Oh, I'm sure that's not necessary,” or maybe with, “Well, I hope they do a better job of protecting me than they did of protecting you,” but what she actually said was, “My son, too, please."

"Sorry?"

"My son Michael. He's here in the hospital; he's the reason I'm in town. If people want to get at me, they might go after him."

Seth managed another small nod. “Absolutely. We'll protect him, too."

"Thank you, sir."

He found it slightly amusing to be called “sir” by someone a quarter of a century older than himself, but he let it pass; Mrs. Stilwell was from the South, and manners still counted down there.

"And,” he said, “speaking of the Secret Service, there's an agent named Gordo Danbury."

Bessie frowned. “You mean there
was
an agent by that name."

"Exactly. Do you know who Leon Hexley is?"

Another frown, then: “The director of the Secret Service."

"That's right. A few days ago, I came upon him in the Oval Office, and he was talking to someone on his phone . . . “ Seth paused to catch his breath, then: “. . . and I think he was talking about Gordo Danbury. Do you remember me hearing that conversation?"