Analog SFF, March 2012 (25 page)

"It's real,” David said. “You did it and you know it. And, more importantly,
I
know it."

"You've got no proof I did anything—none. And for all I know you've got an iPhone or a BlackBerry in your pocket, recording every word I say. So, for the record, I assert my innocence."

"I know what happened,” David said. “I even know where the records are stored."

Griffin was wearing a red necktie. It was already loosened, and he pulled it out of his blue shirt collar and held it in front of him. “A nice tie,” he said. “Silk. Since you can read my memories, I'm sure you know my wife gave it to me.” He then moved over to a counter at the side of his large office, where a Mr. Coffee was set up next to a tree of coffee mugs. He picked up one of the mugs, and turned it so that David could see the writing on it. “'World's Greatest Dad,'” he said. “My son assures me it's the only one in existence.” And then he did something bizarre: he looped the red tie through the handle of the mug and tied it in a bow. He held it up, as if pleased with his handiwork, and said, “What do you want?"

"You took a hundred million or so out of Medicare. I figured it's worth a lot to keep me silent."

"Not one penny ever went into my pocket for anything unethical,” Griffin said.

"Not directly. But you had stock options, and you got a huge bonus that year."

Griffin spread his arms. “Dave . . . “

"As soon as this stupid lockdown is over, you're going to start paying me to keep quiet."

"So that's it? Blackmail?"

David smiled mirthlessly. “Think of the payments as insurance premiums."

Griffin's tone was perfectly even. “You've just made the worst mistake of your life, Dave."

"I don't think so."

"You're right, you can read my memories. But someone else is reading
yours.
And—well, let's see who it is?” Griffin moved back to his desk and without sitting down, he made a call. “Ranjip?” he said, after a moment. “Mark Griffin. Can you have a look at that chart of yours for me? Tell me who is reading the memories of David January, the cardiologist?” A pause. “Really? Yeah, I know her. Okay, thanks. No, no, we're still on; I'm almost finished here. Come on up when you're ready. Bye."

Griffin put down the handset and folded his arms in front of his chest. “Professor Singh has just informed me that Dr. Christine Lee, an anesthesiologist, can read your memories. And all I'll have to do is say to Christine, hey, remember that time I tied my red silk tie into a bow through the handle of my ‘World's Greatest Dad’ mug? What did David January say just after that?” He paused. “You see, David? There's a witness—she's somewhere else in the hospital right now, but she's a witness all the same. And the linkages are only first-order, did you know that? That means she'll remember you trying to blackmail me, but she won't remember what you claim to remember of my past; she has access only to your memories, not to mine."

David felt his blood boiling. First, that Secret Service woman had manipulated him—that bullshit about Annie! And now Griffin was fucking with him, too. Well, if he was going to go down for this, he'd at least give Griffin something he'd remember, something all of them would remember. He lunged forward, startling Griffin, and punched the tall man in the stomach. Griffin doubled over, and David got him in a headlock.

"You'll keep your mouth shut,” David said. “You won't speak to Christine."

Griffin was struggling, and David found them moving sideways across the room, toward the same counter that held the coffee service. Griffin broke out of the headlock, but David managed to get a chokehold on him. Griffin flailed his free arm, and he knocked the coffee maker to the floor, the glass parts shattering.

They continued to struggle, but Miss Peters must have heard the sound of the breaking glass because she opened the office door and stood there, mouth agape—and behind her, just entering the outer office, was Professor Singh.

Singh surged forward. “Let him go."

"He attacked me,” David said. “Went nuts. Tried to kill me."

The syllable “no"—mostly just raw breath rather than a word—came from Griffin.

"I said, let him go!” Singh demanded.

David looked at the guy: he was fifty if he was a day and slight of build; David was sure he could take him, too, if he had to. “Back off,” he said.

Singh exploded into movement, rushing forward then pivoting on his left foot while he brought his right foot up into a powerful karate kick, catching David in the side. Griffin seized the chance and managed to twist himself free from David's grip. Singh pivoted again and kicked with his other leg, catching David in the solar plexus, and as David doubled over, Singh delivered a sharp karate punch to the back of David's neck. David slumped face first to the floor. He was still conscious, but, try as he might, he couldn't get back up. He lolled his head to the side to watch.

Griffin was struggling to get his breath and was still doubled over. He held onto the edge of the counter for support.

"Do you need a doctor?” Singh asked.

Griffin huffed and puffed a few more times then shook his head. “No. I'll be okay.” He straightened up partway, and nodded again. “Good thing you know karate, Professor Singh."

David looked up at Singh, his head still spinning. Singh said, “I don't."

"Well, or whatever martial art that was,” said Griffin.

"I don't know any martial arts,” Singh said, his voice full of wonder. “But I guess Lucius Jono—the man I'm linked to—
does."

Griffin got out, “Well, thank God for that."

Singh was excited. “Indeed. This is fascinating. I wouldn't have anticipated skills being accessible like that."

Griffin straightened and made it over to his desk. He asked Miss Peters to have a security guard and an ER doctor come up here. Then he loomed in to make sure that David wasn't mortally wounded.

"There are two kinds of human memory,” Singh went on, huffing a bit from exertion. “One is declarative or explicit memory, which is all that I'd thought had been linked between any of us here. Declarative memory consists of those things that can be consciously recalled and easily put into words—memories of facts or events.” He looked down in apparent astonishment at what he'd done to David. “The other kind is what you just saw me access. It's called non-declarative or procedural memory; lay people sometimes call it muscle memory. Non-declarative memories are the ones that you obviously have but are not conscious of: how to ride a bicycle, how to tie a shoe, how to play tennis—which is something I happen to do well—or how to perform martial arts. Declarative memory is associated with the hippocampus, whereas the dorsolateral striatum is associated with non-declarative memory."

Griffin rubbed his throat. “So?"

The door opened and a security guard entered along with a doctor. The doctor immediately went down on one knee to examine David.

"So,” said Singh, “the linkages are much more thorough than perhaps they first appeared to be."

"Or maybe they're growing stronger over time,” Griffin said.

Singh said, “Maybe they are at that. Who knows where it will all end?"

Chapter 22

The interviews with the affected people continued; several more “Can Read” and “Is Read By” squares had been filled in on Singh's grid. Susan was back in Singh's office, this time interviewing a woman named Maria Ramirez. She was twenty-seven with black hair tumbling down her back, and she was wearing a loose-fitting top.

"By this point, I imagine you've heard some of the gossip that's going around,” Susan said to Maria, who was seated on the convex side of the kidney-shaped desk. “All that stuff about memories being shared. Are
you
sharing anyone's memories, do you think?"

"I don't want to get in trouble,” said Maria.

Susan's heart skipped a beat. “You won't get in trouble,” Susan replied. “I promise you. We simply want to identify who's linked to who, that's all. It's not your fault this happened."

Maria seemed to consider this. “What if I say I'm not linked to anyone?"

"You'd be the first person inside the sphere who wasn't,” Susan said. She let Maria digest this. Better that she decide on her own not to lie than that Susan accuse her of being a liar; that would just make her more defensive.

"I didn't ask for this,” Maria said.

Susan nodded. “None of us did."

"You're affected, too?” Maria asked, but then she answered her own question.
"Si.
You are. You can read the memories of someone here. A scientist named Singh."

Susan sat up straighter. Only Prospector and a few others should have known that. “Maria, who are you linked to?"

"I know I know things I shouldn't. Secret things; secure things. National-security things. I swear to you that I haven't shared them with anyone."

Bingo!
“That's fine,” Susan said, encouragingly. “I'm sure the president is very grateful for that."

"Poor
Señor
Jerrison,” Maria said. “All that blood spilling everywhere.” She shook her head. “It was awful."

"Yes, it was,” said Susan. “Maria, thank you for being honest about this. Of course, others will be interested in what you know. I'll assign you protection; we won't let anything happen to you."

"Gracias,"
said Maria, sounding distracted. She was looking not at Susan, but past her. Susan didn't have to turn around to know that there was nothing but a bookcase behind her; she had Singh's vivid memories of this place. Maria's voice was full of wonder. “Watching that man squeeze the president's heart . . . “

Susan nodded, recalling it herself from her vantage point in the observation gallery. “That was amazing, wasn't it?” But then her eyebrows shot up. “You remember that?"

"Well,
he
remembers it."

Susan was amazed. She knew Jerrison had had a near-death experience, and those did sometimes involve seeing oneself from outside the body, usually from up above. But those were hallucinations, she'd always thought: a mind that knew it was dying imagining what was happening to the body that contained it. And yet she'd been with Griffin when he'd briefed Prospector about his brush with death—and Griffin hadn't mentioned the manual stimulation of the heart. Could it be that Jerrison really had, somehow, departed his body and seen Eric Redekop at work?

"If you are going to assign protection to me,” Maria said, “it might as well be him."

"Who?” said Susan, baffled. “The president?"

"What?” replied Maria. “No, no. Him. Darryl Hudkins."

Oh, Christ. “Is that who you're reading?"

"Si,
of course. I know he knows all sorts of secret things—I guess that's why they call it the Secret Service. But, like I said, I promise you I haven't told any of them to anyone."

Susan was disappointed—but then her heart started beating quickly again. “Maria, I want you to understand something. I'm the Secret Service agent-in-charge here. I'm Darryl's superior, okay?"

"If you say so."

"No, think about it. Ask yourself if that's true."

She narrowed her brown eyes for a moment, then: “Yes, okay, it's true.” She smiled ever so slightly. “He thinks you're a good boss."

"Good, fine,” said Susan. “Now, I'm going to ask you another question, and I want you to think very, very carefully about it. Your answer is extremely important."

Maria nodded.

"Okay. Here's the question. Did Agent Hudkins have anything at all to do with the attempt on President Jerrison's life?"

Maria narrowed her eyes again then shook her head. “No."

"Are you sure? Are you positive?"

"Si.
He had nothing to do with it, but—oh!"

"Yes? Yes?"

"It was an inside job, wasn't it? Another agent—Gordo Danbury—he did it,
si?"

"I can't confirm or deny anything at this point. These are national-security matters."

"Darryl can't believe Gordo did it. And—oh! He's been wondering if you're involved."

"Me?” Susan was momentarily shocked, but she supposed his suspicion was as natural as her own. “No, I'm not. And you're totally sure Darryl isn't either, right?"

"I'm sure,” said Maria.

Susan nodded; she could use an ally—someone she could trust—and Darryl was now the only other agent she could be sure of. “Okay, thank you,” Susan said.

"Can I go home now?” Maria asked.

"I'm afraid not. But soon, I hope."

"Good. Because I can't wait to tell my husband the news."

"About the president being shot?” asked Susan, surprised. “Or about the White House?” Surely everyone outside the hospital knew about those things by now.

"No, no.
My
news. Our news."

"Which is?"

Maria smiled broadly. “That it's a girl."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Our baby. I was here for an ultrasound today."

"You're pregnant?” asked Susan.

"Four months."

Susan surged to her feet and ran down the corridor to Singh's lab.

"All right,” said Ranjip Singh, writing on the whiteboard in his lab. “Mark Griffin, the hospital CEO, can read Maria Ramirez. Of course, Griffin's been running around all day—hasn't had much time to probe her memories; he didn't even know she was pregnant until I just asked him about it."

Singh continued. “Maria herself can read Agent Darryl Hudkins.” He filled in the appropriate squares.

"I spent hours modeling the linkages,” Singh added, “looking for a pattern to them—and I kept rejecting one my computer kept spitting out, because it seemed to have two nodes in one. But now that I know about the unborn baby, it makes sense. The linkage pattern of who is linked to whom is an artifact of the sequence of laser firings I'd programmed into my equipment: the paths of the beams traced out the pattern of connections. Not every pulse resulted in a link, and we're not exactly sure of where everyone was deployed within the building when the linkages occurred. Still, here's what I propose.” He erased the X in the name field of the twenty-first column and wrote in
Baby Girl Ramirez.
“Based on the beam paths, Maria's unborn baby is linked to Rachel Cohen, although what, if anything, a fetus could make of Ms. Cohen's memories, I have no idea. The baby girl probably lacks the referents to confabulate the cues Ms. Cohen is providing into anything meaningful . . . which I suspect is all to the good. Our Ms. Cohen is rather wanton; she formed a liaison with that lawyer, Orrin Gillett, with unseemly haste."