Replacement

Theseus’ eyes opened, blinking as they adjusted to the light. It was a little easier than yesterday, but after being closed so long, he was still struggling to get used to his new eyes. As he looked around his bedroom, everything seemed to blur together in a bright dance of shape and color. Gradually, the forms fell into place, but he still found himself a bit overstimulated. He closed them again. Was this how I saw things before? he wondered. He’d needed glasses for so long, he’d forgotten what things were supposed to look like. He looked over at his old progressives sitting peacefully on the nightstand next to the small stack of large print books. “Won’t be needing those anymore,” he chuckled to himself. A bit disoriented, he got out of bed and walked to the kitchen.

Memoria was sitting at the table, staring wistfully out the window. Theseus stared at her. Her skin looked a little better, he thought—a little more real. Perhaps it was his new eyes.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said, kissing her waxy, silicon cheek.

“Morning,” she returned with a smile.

There was still something just a little off about that, he thought. Maybe it was the smoothness of her synthetic skin. The surgeons had done almost too good of a job restoring her to her youthful look. The smile lines that he had grown to love over their 32 years together had entirely disappeared when she’d had her skin replacement. She’d looked more beautiful before all of the surgery and the doctors—artists, even—had tried their absolute best to replicate the picture he’d shown them, but there was something still a bit uncanny in her appearance. But, he reminded himself, anything to keep her alive.

“Are you almost ready to go?” he asked.

“Is Andreas coming? Where is he? I haven’t seen him.” Her hands shook a little as she lifted her cup.

Theseus stared at the floor. “Mori,” he hesitated. “Mori, my love, Andreas died a year and a half ago, remember?”

“He-he’s, he’s not…?”

“No, baby, he’s not. He can’t come with us now.”

Mori returned to staring out the window. Having to remind her that their son had died never failed to bring Theseus to tears, but today it didn’t. He still felt the need to cry, but for some reason, he just couldn’t. Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it, he thought. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but it wasn’t important at that moment. Mori was having another episode. These had been getting more and more frequent. He remembered the first time, he was shocked. At first, her episodes had only come one or two times a month, but recently, ever since the last replacement, they’d been happening almost every day. The doctors hadn’t yet known that neurological degeneration would be a side effect of multiple replacements, but she’d had so much of herself replaced, her nervous system didn’t seem to be able to handle it anymore. Theseus couldn’t even remember exactly which parts were still real, but she’d gotten sick a few years after Andreas had been born and the replacements had helped to extend her life by almost 25 years.

This had been an issue when Andreas had gotten sick. He had been diagnosed with bone cancer, and of course, the doctors had recommended a full skeletal replacement. Andreas refused. He wanted to die a human, he’d said. He’d believed that the replacements were making people somehow less human, that once a person got so many replacements, he wouldn’t be himself anymore. His parents had tried to persuade him to go through with it so he could live a longer and fuller life. After all, it was just his skeleton being replaced. Mori had had the same procedure herself many years earlier. He’d countered by telling them that each replacement increased the likelihood that he would need more. He was right and Mori was the evidence. Seven excruciating months later, Andreas passed away, leaving Theseus and Memoria in agony.

Mori’s health had started to take a turn for the worse around this time, likely due to the pain of losing her only child to a preventable mortality. A year later, her doctor had suggested that the couple try to have another child. Mori was postmenopausal, so she had gotten a new reproductive system. She took hormones to try to get back her fertility, but it didn’t seem to work. The doctor had then suggested the couple try creating the zygote in a lab and then implanting the embryo, but none of the embryos would ever implant.

Now, the couple was consulting the doctor again, wanting to know why exactly they had been unable to conceive. Mori had regained lucidity before they left the house and was now prepared to hear the worst.

“Your body is rejecting the new womb,” the doctor explained. “Have you been feeling any abdominal pain lately?”

“I can’t feel anything,” she replied.

“Is this…are we…can we never have kids again?” Theseus interrupted.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like it. I’m sorry.”

Upon hearing this, Mori shut down, staring at the floor. The doctor took advantage of this momentary lapse of attention, and gave Theseus the bad news. Mori was dying:

“Her neurological degeneration has progressed too far. She’ll need a brain replacement. It’s expensive, and it’s an extremely risky procedure. She could die during the surgery, or even if she lives through the surgery, it's possible that her body would reject the new brain,” the doctor said gravely. “But,” he brightened a little, “if it works, she may just crack the code to immortality. She’d be helping future generations.”

“She’d have someone else’s brain?” Theseus asked, concerned.

“No, no. The neuro ward has partnered with MindLabs to create synthetic brains to match their patients’ brain scans.”

Theseus glanced at Mori, biting his waxy, silicon lip.

“She’ll have a chance. She could live forever. Give it some thought, talk it over with her. I know it's a difficult decision.”

Theseus swallowed the tears that had imposed a threatening lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he said, shaking the doctor’s hand, “I’ll talk to her.”

That night, as they lingered at the table after dinner, he broached the subject. He carefully explained everything that the doctor had told him and showed her the pamphlet that he’d handed him on the way out. All the while he stared into her glassy, electronic eyes. She stared out the window again, seeming to mull it over, weighing the pros and cons. She let out a shaky breath, a suppressed sob. Finally she spoke:

“No. No, I don’t want to.”

“But why not?”

She hesitated. “No. No, it’s too expensive. We can’t afford it.”

“But your life! Your life is worth it, Mori! We can save up, cut out unnecessary spending! I’ll go back to work, Mori! Just please go through with it.”

“No. It’s too risky!”

“But Mori, you could help other people! Crack the code! Live forever! Mori, we could live forever. Together. Please.”

“No.”

He felt that lump threatening him again. Desperate, he asked, “Do you even know what we’re talking about here?” She stared at him. He’d crossed the line and he knew it, but he was desperate. He knew she was completely lucid. It was emotion, not declining health that made her hands shake now. She looked into his eyes, seeming to be searching for something. Not finding it, she looked back through the window. She was silent for a moment.

“No,” she said quietly, “I’m entirely lucid and you know it.”

“I’m sorry. Just please!” he begged. “I want you to live! I just lost Andreas, I can’t lose you too! I don’t want you to die, Mori.”

She hesitated again, still staring into the deep blackness of the night outside. “But who would I be?” she said, finally. “I- I wouldn’t have my memories.” She paused again and looked him in the eyes. “What if I forget Andreas? What if I stopped loving you? Andreas was right. I won’t be myself.” He started to interrupt but she held up her hand. “I have been replaced, bit by bit, Theseus. I already feel less and less like myself. I don’t want to live as somebody else. What kind of life would that be? My brain is all I have left.”

Theseus was silent for a moment, still at war with the lump. “I just- I just don’t want you to die.”

“I know. I don’t want to die either.”

A year later, Mori was dying with Theseus beside her hospital bed. He held her cold, waxy hand.

“Please,” she said shakily, “please remember that I died as myself. I never stopped loving you.” She pulled him closer so that their foreheads touched. “I made the right decision. Maybe now I can be with Andreas again. Maybe someday you can join us.” She breathed her last.

Theseus held her, lifeless, synthetic husk, kissing her hair, tenderly. After his long battle with the sob caught in his throat, he gave up. Cradling her, he discovered that his electronic eyes could not cry.