Triggers

Because both in DC and back where she lived in Mississippi, most of the crime—or so she thought—was committed by black men.

He tried not to think about what she was thinking about, tried to put her thoughts out of his mind, but—

But it came back to him. She’d thought the n-word.

The fucking n-word!

He leafed through the in-flight magazine, noting another petty indignity—the almost complete lack of black people in the ads. He looked around at the other passengers: a fat white guy softly snoring, a prim white woman reading on a Nook, two white men chatting softly about some sort of investment.

And, damn it all, he couldn’t help wondering what experience Bessie had had with black men, and—

And to wonder was to know.

Bessie had grown up in Memphis. Lots of blacks there, of course, but even after all this time, not much mixing; even after all this time, separate but not equal; even after all this time, people thinking, even if they never said it, “colored” and “Negro” and worse.

His stomach churned, and not just because the plane was experiencing turbulence.

No sooner had Ivan Tarasov left Singh’s lab than two more people came in.

Oh, joy, thought Susan. The people were Rachel Cohen, the woman who worked in accounts receivable at LT, and Orrin Gillett, the lawyer who’d tried to get out as the lockdown was being initiated yesterday. Susan was surprised to see them back here—surely Rachel didn’t normally work weekends, and Orrin had made it crystal clear that this was the last place he wanted to be.

“Professor Singh,” Rachel said. “I was hoping you’d be in today.”

“And Agent Dawson,” said Gillett, dryly. “Always a pleasure.”

“Is everything okay?” Singh asked. “Miss Cohen, you can read Mr. Gillett, I believe? Has anything changed in that regard overnight?”

Susan thought he sounded hopeful; if their link had weakened or broken of its own accord, of course that would be wonderful.

“No,” said Rachel. “It’s still exactly like yesterday.”

“I am so sorry,” said Singh. “Believe me, I had no idea—”

“I saw you on TV earlier this morning,” Rachel said, cutting him off. “The interview you gave.”

“Ah, yes. I hear they subtitled me! Really, my accent isn’t that thick, is it?”

“You said you were trying to break the linkages.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You can’t,” Rachel said simply.

Singh smiled. “You do wonders for my confidence, Miss Cohen. I admit I don’t yet have any clue how—”

“I mean you can’t,” Rachel said. “I won’t allow it.”

“Pardon?”

She reached over and took Orrin Gillett’s hand in hers. “I like being linked to Orrin. I don’t want you to break the link.”

Susan was surprised, and so, quite clearly, was Ranjip. “But, Ms. Cohen,” he said, “once I figure it out, I suspect all the links will break simultaneously.”

“I don’t care about the other links, but you can’t break mine. It’s important to me. And it’s important to Orrin, too, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Gillett said.

Susan was baffled. “But why?”

Gillett looked at her. Rachel squeezed his hand, and said, “It’s okay.”

“Because,” Gillett said, “it makes this woman the perfect lover. Don’t you see? She knows exactly what I like; she knows everything there is to know about me.”

“And,” said Rachel, “I get to recall us making love from his point of view—him seeing me, feeling what it’s like for him being inside me.”

Singh’s complexion didn’t let him visibly blush, but he nonetheless looked embarrassed. “Well, as my son would say…” Ranjip began, and it came to Susan before he completed his sentence exactly what Harpreet would say: “ ‘Whatever floats your boat.’ ” But then Ranjip shook his head. “But, as I said, I believe it is an all-or-nothing proposition as far as the network of linkages is concerned.”

“Be that as it may,” said Gillett, “Rachel does not consent to the procedure.”

“What?” said Susan—but she could see Singh frowning.

Gillett faced her. “Before this hospital, or any other, may perform an experimental procedure on someone, that someone has to provide informed consent. And Rachel chooses not to.”

“The others want the links severed,” said Singh.

“I don’t care what the others want,” said Rachel. “You are talking about making a fundamental change to my mind, my mental processes—and I forbid it.”

“But it was an accident—”

“That’s right: what you did to me before was an accident. But what you’re talking about doing now is premeditated, and I won’t allow it.”

“Really, Ms. Cohen—”

Gillett folded his arms in front of his chest. “Listen to her, Professor Singh. Without informed patient consent, you can’t conduct any procedure on her—and you know that. And you categorically do not have my—my client’s consent.”

“This is a national-security matter,” Susan said.

“Why?” said Gillett, wheeling on her. “Because you say so? Puh-leeze. Rachel’s reading me, and I’m reading a security guard, for God’s sake. There’s no national-security issue involving us—but you can bet that we’ll bring one hell of a lawsuit if you wreck this for us.”