As the Moon Climbs

Ray’s heart was the first thing to go, but that was to be expected. Fragile parts, hearts. His new one had a 50-year warranty, ten years for labor. His liver was next–he’d always been a drinker–and he thought about having it regrown with nanobots but opted for a full replacement to be safe. For his 120th birthday he had both kidneys swapped out–cheaper by the pair–and his fourth wife surprised him with new lungs on one of their anniversaries, he couldn’t remember which. By the time his third set of eyes had been installed, all but one of his organs had been replaced. He’d held off on the last one because it was the longest and most expensive operation, but it was finally time.

“Are you comfortable, Mr. Weaver?” the doctor asked, flashing her perfect white smile.

Ray inclined his head slightly. The walls of the sensory deprivation chamber darkened and he floated in the nanofluid, nerves numb, blissfully unaware of the passage of time. If someone had been watching from outside, he knew they would have seen the liquid bubble around him, exposing muscle and sinew, his eyes staring blankly from open sockets.

When he left the clinic, the soft caress of the ocean breeze on his newly grown skin made him feel truly alive for this first time in a century. A smile stretched his wrinkle-free face. He couldn’t wait to show his sixth wife.

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