Alarm sirens materialized into scarlet spikes within the folds of quantum bits, as residual memories in my neurons were being swallowed by a viscous darkness. The scent of laboratory disinfectant floated in the data torrent, which violated the consciousness upload protocol—the five-sense simulation module should have been disabled during initialization.
"Warning: Hippocampus index anomaly." The mechanical voice of the main AI pierced my cerebral cortex as the holographic projection screen exploded in my formless vision. Inside the bulletproof glass isolation chamber, my corpse twisted at a grotesque angle beside the quantum computer interface, with cerebrospinal fluid mixed with blood oozing from the posterior brain implant socket into pink foam, flowing along the anti-static grid of the floor toward the tip of Veronica's high heels.
She knelt in the pool of blood, the titanium wedding ring on her left ring finger vibrating at high frequency. It was the quantum-entangled ring we'd crafted in the lab last week, now emitting an inaudible 12GHz resonance like a siren. When her eyelashes fluttered for the third time, I finally saw the laser-engraved number on the bloody wrench: ST-7—belonging to the batch of neurosurgical robots decommissioned three months ago.
"Real-time memory recall function activated forcibly." The AI suddenly spoke in my voice as data streams pierced my consciousness like sharp ice picks. The timeline was violently dragged back to 23:47:03, where I saw my living self checking the liquid helium valve of the consciousness upload chamber, the collar of my lab coat lingering with the bitter almond perfume Veronica always wore.
A 0.3-second snow static flickered on the holographic monitor—enough time for the real killer to complete three actions: shutting down the lab's quantum-encrypted network, erasing dandruff samples in the ventilation ducts with bio-enzyme eliminator, and adjusting the electromagnetic pulse gun to 7.5 Tesla, a setting that would burn out a mammal's brainstem without leaving traces on the corpse.
That's when Veronica walked in.
She wore the pearl-gray suit from our first date, the quantum dot earring on her right earlobe flashing an abnormal blue frequency. When my physical self took the coffee cup she offered, at least seventeen red flags should have registered: undissolved nanocrystals at the bottom of the cup, cryogenic coolant on her cuff, and pupil contraction frequencies matching the VK-7.2 emotional simulation program exactly.
"I love you," she whispered to my dying self, her lips brushing the implantable vital monitor on my carotid artery. In the consciousness matrix, the words decoded into a more complex signal—a military-grade encryption handshake request, perfectly matching the neural interface wavelength of the bio-computer on Level 18 Underground.
The memory feed stalled on the final reflection in my corpse's pupil. 400x magnification revealed a third figure in the explosion-proof glass reflection: a man in a charcoal suit tapping the gene-lock console with his left pinky, the rhythm of knuckle against metal translating to Morse code: "Termite returned to nest"—the highest-level purge command I'd set for the lab's security system.
The quantum processor suddenly surged with abnormal energy, hurling my consciousness into the backup server array. Through the whiteout of ruptured liquid nitrogen pipes, Veronica's iris scan log flickered in the database depths: March 14, 2085, 23:51:44—seven authentication attempts.
Impossible.
Human retinas can only maintain viability for three minutes at liquid helium temperatures, yet her last biological authentication occurred after my heart stopped. Unless the hands operating the gene-lock belonged to something non-carbon-based.
"Retrieve encrypted log fragments?" The AI popped up a shaking dialog box. Before I could respond, 37TB of unauthorized operation records flooded my consciousness. In a heavily encrypted subfolder lay a photo that destabilized my quantum-state awareness: twenty Veronicas floating unconscious in cylindrical chambers, biochips prefixed "VK" attached to their temples, umbilical tubes injecting luminescent liquid into their jugulars.
The roar of San Francisco Bay penetrated the lab's electromagnetic shielding, making me realize what was happening outside. Through the consciousness matrix's access to weather satellites, I saw a 50-mile electromagnetic storm swirling concentrically around the lab, the violet-blue arcs in the clouds mirroring the spectrum of Veronica's earring.
The corpse's fingers twitched violently. 7 minutes and 38 seconds after forensic death, my right index finger suddenly tapped out binary code—the residual quantum entanglement in this shell responding to a remote command. When Veronica covered the corpse's eyes with her bloody palm, her ring finally stopped vibrating, replaced by a shrill resonance syncing the lab's entire quantum computer array.
I frantically tried accessing the surveillance system, only catching a half-shadow in the ventilation camera: the charcoal-suited man inserting the EMP gun into Veronica's neck, the barrel laser-engraved with "Property of VK Series".
A tsunami warning blared in the consciousness space as my quantum form began to disintegrate. In the 0.7 seconds before dissolution, Veronica turned toward the main server, her blood-red lips parting slightly. The lip-reading module's final decode before crashing:
"Found you."
As the electromagnetic shielding door to Level 18 Underground boomed open amid the storm, Veronica's silhouette was swallowed by darkness—then she lifted the wedding ring that should have been on my corpse's finger. Zooming the last frame, the quantum dot array inside the ring spelled out a message in our shared encryption protocol:
"The first one who killed you is the real me."