Cortex Dump

Prompt: A case of mistaken identity.


The explosion was jarring, throwing Agent Darnig Kelton to the street. It was a close call. This was without a doubt the most dangerous assignment that the Bureau of Peace Enforcement had ever given Kelton, and the terrorist Skaro the most dangerous threat to tranquility in the Confederacy of Sentient Beings.

Kelton cursed, borrowing heavily from a Vastin street dialect when his vocabulary of Galactic Standard epithets ran out. He knew that Skaro had been armed, but he had counted on him being unwilling to detonate his bomb with so few innocent sentients near by.

The BPE Agent had nearly gotten close enough to bring into play the tools of his trade and end the terrorist’s spree of violence. But that had also been close enough for the bomb to nearly kill him. Kelton had almost triggered the implant laced through his cerebral cortex that would download his consciousness into a blank clone. Though he hadn’t cortex-dumped, he was still glad that the Bureau’s top agents were provided with copies of their own bodies for such use. It was a dangerous job.

Kelton ran an internal systems check as he pulled himself to his feet. Nano-computers imbedded throughout his nervous system reported in, cataloguing the damage to his body from the blast, and the status of his specialized implants. He tuned out the damage report except for one flashing red indicator. His clone implant was malfunctioning. Good thing he hadn’t needed to cortex-dump after all.

He looked around the scene of the carnage regretfully. If he only he hadn’t rushed in. There were several charred corpses, but the zeta radiation of the pulse bomb would make even genetic identity confirmation time-consuming. Kelton didn’t think that Skaro was among the bodies though. He had slipped away…for now.

Kelton fumbled through the charred rags of his clothes, but was unable to find his personal satcom so he settled for calling in an erasure crew from a public terminal. He waited until his ident code was accepted, then looked around for something more dignified than blackened shreds of cloth to wear back into the Bureau headquarters.

Kelton purchased a synth-slick jacket and a cheap nylon singlet from a slightly charred vendroid on the street, leaving the unrecognizable remains of his burned clothes for the erasure crew.

Kelton’s ident code opened the hatch-seal on his personal floater and started the engine. He activated the auto-return and the navigation computer began the trip back to the Bureau of Peace Enforcement main office, while Kelton reclined in the cockpit. He ached badly, his body responding as slowly as if it were a new clone, but he was grateful. As close as he was to the blast, he had feared death or crippling. That the zeta radiation had merely reduced his uniform to ash and burned his skin was a miracle. He toggled a green switch and let the floater’s built-in surgery suite tend his wounds.

The floater piloted itself to the parking hangar while Kelton mounted the five steps to the main doors of the BPE. He looked over his shoulder as the mirrored doors of the Bureau slid open at his approach. People were staring at him, but Kelton shrugged. Most likely they were surprised to see someone dressed in attire purchased from a vendroid walking into the seat of the most powerful agency in the Confederacy.

Kelton ignored the murmured conversations around him as he stalked across the security lobby towards the bank of lifts. His aural implants detected the elevated stress patterns in the voices around him and he scowled. Yes, he’d lost Skaro again! He hated gossip.

As he neared the security station in front of the lifts, a sudden shuffle of movement brought Kelton out of his brooding. Security officers were bolting from their stations, taking offensive positions in front of the lift station.

Kelton turned as the claxon blared, his eyes sweeping the lobby for the threat security had detected.

“Skaro! Stop where you are!” one of the security squad bellowed, his voice filtered through his loudspeaker implant. Kelton cursed, Skaro would never have been so stupid to follow him right into the heart of the Bureau of Peace Enforcement. He tried to trigger his chargers, but his body still felt oddly unresponsive after the blast and his implants did not respond.

Discarding Vastin swearing as too mild, Kelton spat out the worst Kurg insult he could pronounce without mandibles and began to back toward the security line.

“Don’t take another step, Skaro!” The amplified command rang in ears already battered by an explosion and Kelton felt the familiar-dangerous tingle of a targeting field playing over him. He turned and saw that that weapon implants were glowing bright blue on the security force’s shoulders.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Kelton demanded. As an agent of the BPE, he was not used to being threatened.

“We have a kill order! Fire!”

Fear was overshadowed by confusion. Who did they think he was? As the glow of the chargers flared, Kelton looked into the lead trooper’s mirrored eyes. In the shiny silver orbs, he saw the wrong face. Skaro looked back out at him.

The cortex-dump! Had he triggered the implant after all? There’d been a malfunction… the clone-disorientation he’d felt… Kelton’s last thought was one of bitter regret. I’ve mistaken myself for me.