Free Triggers by Robert J. Sawyer

anesthetic.”
    Seth nodded ever so slightly. “Yes. Still…”
    “Still,” said Singh, “you were thinking of that, and that led you to think of the last time
you
played basketball. Except that the memory that came wasn’t your own.”
    “Exactly,” said Seth. “Explain that.” He’d meant for his voice to have a challenging tone, but he was still too weak to speak in anything much above a whisper.
    “I will try,” said Singh. “But—forgive me, Mr. President, I’m…words fail me. I never thought I’d be speaking to the president of the United States!”
    “It’s all right,” said Seth.
    Singh smiled. “I know, but…again, forgive me. I have to push a little here, and, ah, I’m not comfortable doing that—not with you.”
    “It’s fine,” Seth said.
    Singh closed his eyes for a moment, nodded, and went on. “Very well. These three men you saw—can you describe them?”
    “Twenties. One was fat and bald—shaved bald—and the other two were thin and had short hair.”
    “Forgive me, sir, but do you really mean ‘thin’? Or do you just mean they were of normal weight?”
    “Sorry. Normal weight.”
    “And their hair color?”
    “Dark, I suppose.”
    “You suppose?”
    “Dark.”
    “And eye color?”
    “I didn’t notice.”
    Singh paused for a moment, then: “So, blue then, like yours?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Any other details? Clothing, perhaps?”
    “T-shirts on all three. One was wearing green track pants; another, red gym shorts; and the third—the fat guy—cutoff jeans.”
    “And they were playing basketball?”
    “Well, shooting hoops.”
    “And you were participating?”
    Seth rested for a moment, then: “Yes, but…”
    “What?”
    “I haven’t played basketball for, God, forty years. I wrecked the tendons in my left foot, taking a tumble down a staircase at college.”
    “Ah,” said Singh. “Do you know the other players’ names?”
    “No. Never met them, and—
hmmm.
Well,
that’s
strange.” He let himself breathe for a moment, then: “Yes, now that I think about it—now that you ask—I
do
know their names, but…”
    Singh prodded him with a “Yes?”
    Seth looked at Susan for a moment. “Well, they’re unusual names. Deshawn, Lamarr, and, um—Kalil. But…” He fell silent. Singh was looking at him expectantly, but, damn it all, he’d put his foot in it by calling them “unusual names.”
    Singh was all over it. “You mean, they’re unusual names for white people. They’re common enough African-American names, though.”
    “Well, yes.”
    “But you saw white people?”
    Seth managed a small nod.
    Singh’s eyebrows climbed toward his turban. “Fascinating. Mr. President, do you know the name of the person whose memories you’re accessing?”
    “No.”
    “Think about it.”
    “Nothing is coming to me.”
    Susan and the other Secret Service agent were watching intently, as was Sheila the nurse.
    “All right,” said Singh. “Try this: everyone is made fun of at school. My last name is Singh, and the students at my school in Toronto called me ‘Singh-Song.’ And my first name is Ranjip, but the mean boys at high school always called me ‘rancid’—although I took some pleasure in the fact that some of them didn’t even know what that meant. What did they call you?”
    The president frowned. “Fairyson.”
    Singh tried to suppress a smile. “Any other names you were called?”
    “No.”
    “Nothing is coming to you?”
    “Nothing, but…”
    “Yes?”
    “‘Firstman’ just popped into my mind. Like ‘First Man,’ but all run together.”
    “‘Firstman,’ repeated Singh, excitedly. “Adam, no? Does the name Kadeem Adams mean anything to you?”
    “No. Oh, wait. Yes—yes! Sure, Kadeem Adams—that’s him.”
    “Well, that was easy,” said Singh, turning to Susan. “He’s reading the memories of my patient, Private Kadeem Adams.”
    “Is that the guy who is reading me?” Susan asked.
    “Yes,” said Singh.
    “So