No Heroic Measures

The fire rages within the building, and alarms sound around me as I make my way, coughing into my sleeve, out into the street.

She’s still in there.

I couldn’t find her, the smoke had been too thick, and as I scan the street in front of the apartment that we share, that we shared, the dark premonition I’d had while staggering down the stairs is proven to be true. She hadn’t made her own way out, she is still somewhere within the building.

Maybe she’s passed out on the floor of our apartment, maybe in the hall, maybe she made it as far as the stairwell, but at some point the smoke in the air must’ve overcome her, because she never made it to the exit, and never will. Not under her own power, at least.

For a moment, I’m close to being overcome myself. The love I’ve felt for her in the years we’ve been together, the laughter and the tears of a lifetime, the infatuation I felt the moment I met her years before, infatuation I to this day haven’t gotten all the way over, nearly prove too strong, and I’m tempted to rush back inside. To find her. To bring her to safety.

But then I remember.

I remember the meetings we’d had with lawyers, after hearing the horror stories about the people in comas, hooked to machines that do their breathing for them, never to think again in a way anyone would understand the term, kept as vegetables for years, for decades, against their will long after “will” ceased to be a meaningful phrase with regard to them.

I remember the two of us, writing our living wills together, discussing what sort of care we’d want in the event that the worst should happen to either one of us.

And I remember how adamant she was, that no heroic measures be taken to revive her, or to prolong her life.

No heroic measures.

What measure, I wonder, could be more heroic than rushing back into a burning building to bring her, unconscious but alive, out into the safety of the street?

So I turn my back on the whole horrific scene, blink back tears and leave her behind to burn.

It’s difficult, to be sure. Doing it damn near kills me, but in my heart I know it’s the right thing to do.

It’s what she would have wanted, after all.

I won’t go back inside for her. And when the firefighters finally arrive, I’ll do my best to stop them from going in too.

It’s the least I can do to honor her wishes, and do justice to her memory…

The Pod-o-Pod

In my defense, building the pod-o-pod seemed like a good idea at the time.

I mean, what could be better than a man-sized pod, where I could record podcasts whilst suspended in amniotic fluid? I’d get a better sound quality on my recordings, as the amniotic fluid would act as a soundproofing agent, AND I’d record in comfort and style unparalleled in the podcast world!

It was the wave of the future, for voice actors, podcastors and audiobook narrators alike!

Procuring the amniotic fluid wasn’t easy, I’ll give you that, and the methods I had to resort to included a number of broken laws and shady characters, but once I had it, it was smooth sailing. I was living the dream!

Or so I thought.

I don’t know if it was the fluid, the fact that I was suspending myself naked in it two or three times a week, the electronics so near the liquid, or some combination thereof but within two weeks I had a developing, vaguely humanoid mass trapped in the pod, growing and taking shape.

I watched it develop, over the course of the next several months, and as it did the truth of what it was becoming became harder and harder to deny.

It was me.

The pod was growing an exact duplicate of me, down to the finest detail, and I was watching, day in and day out, as my new, identical twin gradually took shape.

I was horrified, but too transfixed to look away.

Until it… he… I? Until the version of me inside the pod opened his eyes one Sunday, and stared right at me. Our eyes locked, and he/I put one hand to the inner glass wall of the pod. He/I seemed as fascinated with Me/He as I/He was with Him/Myself. I didn’t say a word, just stared at my new, perfect doppelganger for I don’t know how long.

And as I did, I wondered: Did he have my memories? Or was he merely a physical copy, with the intellect of a newborn? Or, perhaps worse, was some darker intellect lurking behind those eyes, eyes so like my own, an intellect plotting toward some nefarious purpose known only to my accidentally conceived twin?

I could have waited until He/I/It was born and asked, I suppose.

Instead, I went to Canadian Tire, to buy an axe.

Does that make me the evil twin? I can live with that.

Afterward, I dissolved the body in lye, as I’d seen done on a television show one time. I diluted the mixture when I was done and poured it down a sewer grate. I have no idea what that’ll do to Calgary’s sewer system, but I do know that that’s the city’s problem, not mine.

I’ll never be accused of any crime for the way I handled this, never suspected of anything untoward. The victim, after all, was me, and so far as anyone knows I’ve never been murdered. I’m still alive and walking around, the original Munsi.

I can’t stress enough to you that I am the original Munsi.

Still, in spite of the fact that there’s no chance of legal consequences, I can’t help thinking I may have acted hastily.

I mean, I didn’t KNOW the doppelganger meant me harm. I meant it harm, certainly, but it might have had a more gentle temperament than I. I’ll never know, I didn’t give it the chance to show me.

I was afraid to.

But I try not to worry about it too much. I did what I had to do, and I destroyed the pod-o-pod afterward, just to be on the safe side. Maybe my clone was harmless, but there was no way of knowing until it was potentially too late, and I couldn’t subject the world to that sort of risk.

I know what I did I did for the safety of humanity, and whenever guilt at the actions I was forced to rears it’s ugly head, that’s that fact which I focus on.

After all, I can live with the possibility that I ended an innocent life, but nobody would survive if the world was overrun by podcast people…

Pardon

It was at a party, on my last day of freedom, that I saw him.

The party wasn’t for me, of course, no parties were for me by that point. None of the people I’d once considered “friend” wanted anything to do with me. But I did donate to the gallery, once upon a time, and for that they’d invited me, and nobody’d ever thought to withdraw the invitation.

After all, who could imagine I’d actually show up? After the freak show my trial had become, it was unthinkable that I’d ever show my face in public again. Yet there I was.

It was my last day, after all, before sentencing. Why not go out for one last huzzah? And the looks on the faces of those vapid socialites was a thousand times worth it.

Nonetheless, I never thought I’d see him.

The governor had been rumored to be in attendance, but he was always rumored. His actual presence was shocking to all. He was, after all, pondering a run for the Presidency in a very public manner, and it had been widely assumed he was too busy for frivolous gallary parties such as this. Everything ground to a halt as he walked by, deep in conversation with two aides, and everyone turned to stare. Even an alien observing the room would know at a glance that a) he was a man of tremendous import, and b) he did not belong here.

I, a man who’d traveled in these circles for years before those unfortunate accusations began to surface, saw it even more quickly.

It took minutes to fully comprehend the simple fact that he was here, but mere seconds to formulate my plan.

Which was good, since it truly was my last chance.

I walked toward, and then past him to the wet bar. He, lost in his hushed conversation, paid me no attention at all. As I passed, I clipped him across his shoulder with my own, knocking us both temporarily off balance.

“Oh, pardon me.” I muttered, sheepishly.

“Of course.” He replied, distracted.

And that’s why I’m back on the streets.

Anyway, this has been fun, but I really have to wrap things up now. After all, I have eleven other jurors to track down after you...