A simple mix-up.
Harry screwed up and he knew it.
Once the scientists had worked out how to identify and extract memories, the techniques were rapidly commercialized by Mnemonics, Inc. His job as a technician there was simple enough, if somewhat repetitive: identify the neuro-networks laid down by specific memories, ensure they were not degraded, stabilize them, extract them, and save a neuroimage copy. He could then reintroduce the memory copy into either the hippocampal complex of a neurologically impaired human host, restoring their lost past, or into the memory matrix of an AI capable of broadcasting it for use within the criminal justice system. Although these two services were reputed mutually impenetrable, they were not. As Harry discovered.
On that fateful day, Harry was distracted and failed to establish a secure closed AI link to the judicial file of Mr. Hudson before he inserted memories into Dr. Jenkins, an early-stage Alzheimer patient.
He had done it hundreds of times. He could do it in his sleep. And nothing would have gone wrong this time either if he hadn’t been in a rush and decided to do two tasks simultaneously. And he would not have erred even then if Debbie hadn’t sashayed by, wiggling her ass and throwing him a kiss. Just a momentary lapse, and the memories of one James Hudson, convicted criminal, were inserted into the mind of Dr. James Jenkins, chief surgeon at University Hospital.
Harry tried desperately to correct the matter. He reimaged Hudson’s memories and inserted them into the judicial file. Then he went to the memory bank, reactivated Jenkins’ memories, and inserted them into his hippocampal complex.
Problems solved.
Or so he thought until about 3 a.m. when he awoke sweating. He had rectified two problems, true, but had left one unresolved. He had not removed Hudson’s memories from the mind of Dr. Jenkins who, he realized, was sent home with two sets of memories competing for consciousness. And one of the two was those of a monstrous criminal.
It’s moments like this when people arrive at a fork in the road. In one direction, Harry would have to fess up to his error which would lead to his dismissal and possible incarceration. This was not a route that financially or psychologically he was willing to take. He chose the other: pray, keep his mouth shut and hope for the best.
It seemed to work well for a while. He even got together with Debbie, though that didn’t last. He was a contented man until the day a body was found in the hills surrounding the town. It was followed by another and then another. News outlets started reporting on the eerie similarity of the crimes to those committed by James Hudson, now in an induced coma and carefully secured in a prison orbiting the moon.
Harry realized that Jenkins — pillar of society, world-famous surgeon, scout leader, and happily married family man — would never be suspected of the horrendous crimes. He was faced with another choice, and this time he knew that more than prayer and hope would suffice. He bought a weapon. He contacted Jenkins and was granted a consultation, but only after revealing that he knew his vile secret.
Dr. Jenkins’ face didn’t look anything like that of a maniacal rapist and killer. Kind and patient, he listened as Harry related the simple mistake that led to two sets of memories fighting for control of his consciousness.
“And you think that sometimes those sick memories take over my being?” Jenkins asked quietly as he reached into his desk drawer.
Harry simply said “yes” and pulled out his gun just as Dr. Jenkins leapt at him. Harry fired once, hitting Jenkins in the shoulder before he felt the doctor’s weight on him, and a needle break his skin.
As Harry’s body shut down, he heard the doctor call out to his nurse. “Call the police! A madman just tried to kill me!”
Before the police arrived, Jenkins leaned over him as if checking his vital signs and whispered, “You pathetic little man, I suspected you’d try something stupid. I’ve injected you with a paralyzing drug. You’ll live the rest of your life aware, but unable to speak or move, unable to tell anyone what you did or what you know. But you’ll be able to think, and you’ll hear about my…. exploits. It will be glorious, and,” he added, “you’ll know that I’ll never be connected to them.” He laughed. “I can’t thank you enough for the gift you’ve given me.”
Dr. Jenkins was right. Harry did spend the remainder of his days in a vegetative state.
And he was right that he would commit the “oh-so-glorious acts” that Harry and the rest of the world would consider horrific.
He was right too that he never would have been connected to the crimes if the police hadn’t looked at Harry’s memories of the mix-up at Mnemonics Inc, and what Jenkins had whispered in Harry’s ear, memories extracted for Harry’s attempted murder trial.
After 43 years working as a cognitive scientist, Albert N. Katz (he/him; surname pronounced as “cats”), retired from academia and started a new literary career. His short stories and poems have appeared since in anthologies, and in both literary and genre-based magazines (horror, mystery, murder, science fiction and fantasy).
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