I Am a Convicted Felon (Part 2)
A sense of order surged through me. Now I understood why they'd wiped my memories. Crime really was addictive.
Seated in the central control room was a gray-haired elderly man wearing glasses, his badge indicating his title: Chief Engineer. Strangely, he didn't seem alarmed when I burst in.
I pulled out my handgun and pressed it against his head, hoping to find some flicker of fear on his face. What could I say—I was a villain, after all.
"Who are you?" His voice remained calm.
"Number 9582. I've come here to retrieve my memories."
"Child, I advise you not to do this."
"Cut the crap! Take me to the memory crystals right now, or I'll blow your head off!"
He sighed, as if greatly troubled, and led me toward the memory vault. He pressed his finger to the security terminal for fingerprint verification, and the heavy door slowly opened. Before me appeared rows of safes, neatly arranged like sugar cubes stacked together.
Each safe bore an identification code. He asked, "Which one do you want?"
Suppressing my agitation, I said, "3410."
He walked to safe 3410, entered the password, and opened the door. To my surprise, there was no high-tech device inside—just a single envelope resting quietly.
He handed me the envelope. I opened it. Inside was a file.
3410's photograph slipped out—her eyes bright as before the illness, her face wearing that gentle smile. Yet, for some reason, this person felt somewhat unfamiliar to me.
"There are no memory crystals, child. That was all a front. Memories are merely ephemeral patterns of neural activity—they cannot be wiped, nor can they be preserved."
I flipped through the file, cold sweat breaking out along my spine.
"You are clones. You spent the first half of your lives in laboratory incubators—naturally, you have no memories. The sole purpose of creating you was to fulfill commissions from wealthy clients who had fallen seriously ill and needed organ replacements. Cloning oneself for organ transplantation minimizes rejection. This was simply a medical project."
I gripped the file, my entire body trembling.
"I remember this young woman was a cabinet minister's daughter. She developed myeloid blood cancer at a young age and needed a bone marrow transplant, but no matching stem cells were ever found, so she was cloned. But before the clone could mature, she passed away."
"Clang." The handgun hit the floor. My vision swam.
He opened the safe for number 9582, pulled out a file, and read: "Your original had a heart condition. He paid an enormous sum to clone himself, and the surgery was already scheduled. But on the way there that day, he was in a car accident and died on the spot."
"So..." I heard my own voice distort. "You just released these clones who hadn't had their organs harvested back into society, and fabricated a lie—claiming they were notorious felons whose memories had been wiped?"
"That's correct." He nodded.
"Why!" I roared. "Why would you do this! Why not just destroy us!"
"Because of the Human Protection Act. No person or institution has the right to deprive another of life. You are human too, so we couldn't terminate you. This was the only alternative."
"Human?" I pointed at the row of numbered safes. "Aren't they human? You harvest their organs, destroy their lives—what do you call that?"
"Child, it seems you still don't understand the definition of a natural person. While your original still lived, you were not a legally recognized person—merely an organ backup. Only when your original dies and the commercial contract voids do you become an independent legal entity."
I collapsed to the floor, the files scattering from my hands like snowflakes.
He picked up the gun from the floor, walked over, and handed it back to me. "I know you're all pitiful people. That's why I tried to dissuade you from the very beginning."
"But it's already too late," he said regretfully.
4
I returned to the hospital and saw 3410. She lay in bed, tubes running into her body, emaciated as a matchstick.
Hearing me come in, she struggled to open her eyes and offered a smile. "You're back?"
"Yeah." I nodded.
"Good—I waited for you." She smiled weakly. "Did you see my memories?"
"I did."
"Really? That's wonderful... Who am I?"
I gently stroked her face. "Your name is Shirley. You had a happy, perfect family—parents, and a mischievous little brother. You even had a dog—what was his name again, oh right, Lai Hu, a gorgeous golden retriever. You were outstanding from a young age, top of your class. You had three boyfriends. After university, you went to work at a finance company. You know what? You actually guessed right—you committed an economic crime. You blew a massive hole in the company's finances, nearly drove it into bankruptcy. Ha, pretty impressive..."
"That's wonderful... When you put it that way, I almost feel like I can remember..." A smile froze on her face as she slowly closed her eyes.
I clutched her hand tightly, kneeling beside the bed, tears streaming from my eyes in great heavy drops.
Forgive me—I'm a man of impoverished imagination. Everything I just told you was from the movie we saw on our first date.