That fresh soul smell

Douglas looked around the sterile room and felt an unwilling kinship with it. He too had been swabbed down and purged of as much bacterial presence as was physically possible. A gleaming man in a gleaming room. Blinking with stinging, fresh washed eye lids he observed all the spare parts that hung about the place, some of which observed him. No, not a gleaming room. A gluing room. These were old thoughts however, and did not trouble him greatly.

The air pressure door opened with a hiss and in came Dr Franklin, all brisk and business. He was after all, a busy man. Excelling at what he did, Dr Franklin was in high demand. Both his craft and the skill in which he practised it required one to be either very rich, or very powerful. Douglas was under no illusions as to which category he fell into.

“Well now Mr Peace glad to see you back so soon” Dr Franklin said as he strode up to Douglas and shook his hand. The courtesy was turned into task and the hand was lifted up to be studied. “Hmm, yes discolouration already. Only to be expected of such early work” He then lifted up Douglas’ other hand to compare. There was an unsettling lack of symmetry between the two
“Only a 52 year difference as well” the Dr murmured, as if this was no time at all. “Still, it’s a wonderful example of how far we have come, don’t you think?”

Douglas flashed him an infant smile as he was guided to the bed. He knew the question was rhetorical and any attempt to begin conversation would be ignored. It seemed to him that even though people now had much more time on their…hands, they were a lot less inclined to spend it on such frivolous tasks as chit chat. Yet it did amaze him how streamlined things here had all become. Previously there had been endless forms to fill and tests to take. And at the end of it all there was still no guarantee of success. Back in the beginning, some of the less skilled blood monkeys had reported failure rates of over 40%. Not that this had dissuaded people. And now here he was, only a few days within making his appointment, first being brought to the operating table, now lying down on the operating table, now having tubes inserted into him on the operating table, now breathing in the gas on the

Now waking up on the operating table. Then a few more tests, a small fortune to be handed over electronically (when was the last time he had actually seen money?) and that was that. He gave Dr Franklin another handshake, firmer this time, and went on home.
Douglas had lived in the same apartment for over 80 years now. It felt stale, even through it had the very best air recycling unit. Over time, he had owned enough possessions to fill it ten times over, but much had been given away. There was a whole library worth of books out there that used to be his. Current furnishings were much sparser.

He sat down on his thick, worn chair and retreated inwards, losing himself in the simple process of remembering.

It had been thanks to his parents that he was able to have his first replacement. When he was born they had asked for the stem cells in his umbilical cord to be saved. This wasn’t an entirely altruistic action on their part. His dad thought it could be used to help cure his own testicular cancer, perhaps even grow a whole new ball. But they had both died in a car accident before this plan could be carried out.

And so he had been left alone to grow while his cell line did the same. It wasn't all that arduous. His parents had been exceedingly wealthy, leaving him a very well cared for orphan. And eventually, his fathers’ investment had paid off. An accident while clay pigeon shooting had resulted in his hand had been blasted to smithereens. Rather than accept a prosthetic, he decided to have a replacement.

That had been the first, but far from the last. The body was a very treacherous thing indeed. Most parts of it were only good for 40 years or so. His heart had been replaced twice and he had gone through 5 livers, heavy drinker that he was. In fact practically every part of his body was a replacement. The only law against such procedures was no growth of brain tissue, and even that was scheduled for review. Beyond that you could have as many spare parts for yourself as you wanted, speedily grown and ready to replace what ailed you.

Yes, the Hayflick limit had well and truly been defeated. The process by which cells could only divide a set number of times was a moot point. The elixir of life was nothing more than a gooey clump of undifferentiated mass, waiting to be fashioned to your needs.

The reason he had so many replacements was simple. He didn't want to die. Douglas was no coward, but he saw no sense in letting death come to him if it could be avoided. Hence his many trips to the blood monkeys for refittings and tune ups.

Douglas stood up and stared deep into the mirror. He closed one lid and looked at himself through a teenager’s eye. He then swapped to the other and the world was viewed from a much older perspective. It had lived a long and unhealthy life he had led. So long. He had been to christenings and funerals of the same people. Friends passed like seasons. He didn't look old, but he certainly felt it. He didn't like to think about his age, but when he did he tried to calculate an average from all the different parts. Given today's operation then he had actually lost a few years.

He looked at the offending article. A second hand second hand he thought wryly. Was he still the same person that he was when he was born? Practically no part remained that he had been born with. Perhaps he had had his soul accidently replaced at some point as well. it wouldn't surprise him. All Douglas knew was that he would keep going on, refreshing his cells so they could keep dividing. Just like an immortal cancer.

There was a small noise. The mirror in front of him fell, the nail it hung from bent out of shape. Glass shattered on the ground. Douglas looked down at the pieces for a long time. Then he went out, came back with some glue, and patiently began to piece it back together in the wooden frame. When he was finished he looked at his handiwork. A criss cross face looked back.