In Memory of Old Tools (Fiction)

‘It won’t hurt,’ assured the little medbot. It looked all efficient and professional, but it had a nice female voice. A voice you trusted.

‘We will take away your right hand and replace it with a new one. And if you are used to your new one, we will replace your left hand tomorrow.’

‘Okay, fine.’ Anton knew his hands needed replacement. He had asked for it himself, and hey, no problem: it would take a few hours to print a new pair and some minor surgery. And the basic insurance covered it all. No problem at all. Bye bye short fingers, bye bye crooked thumbs and reoccurring callus. Welcome new, stronger, healthier, better looking pawns. If all went well - and why wouldn’t it, it was strictly routine - he would go for the whole nine yards: new feet, new knees, new bum, new… uh… you-know-what. Not that his old parts were bad, only… they were not as good as they used to be. And heck, why not? Everyone was doing it. Five years ago he had his kidneys replaced, but that was different, you know. That was internal, for his own health. New hands just felt… cosmetic. You know, trying to look younger. It took some time before Anton decided there was nothing wrong with wanting to look younger and better. Hey, getting old didn’t mean looking old!

‘I want some time to think about it,’ Anton said suddenly. He didn’t know himself why. ‘Just gimme a moment. I just need to think about it.’

‘Of course, take all the time you need. And please ask me any question you want.’

Yeah, yeah. Sometimes AI’s were just too polite and helpful. Trying to get into an argument with them was childish, but every now and then Anton missed the interaction with an old imperfect human. Nonsense of course, if he wanted some imperfect interaction, he could go online or outside. There was a whole world with people, ranging from friendly to grumpy, interesting, boring, strange, of any other possible flavour under the sun. People were people, even neo-folk or whatever they were called this week.

He looked at his hands. These were his originals hands, the ones he was born with. No prenatal gene therapy back then. His mother used to tell him he was born with clenched fists, and it took weeks of careful massaging to open the tiny hands. And Anton had the same crooked thumbs as his mother’s brothers. Nothing big, certainly not a disability, but it was a small imperfection. The new hands would fix that.

When he was seven, he was in the neighbour’s glasshouse. It was an old fashioned glasshouse, even back then, used in the earlier days to grow grapes in the wet, northern climate. ‘You can cut off a bunch of grapes for your mom,’ the neighbour told him, and she gave him a kitchen knife. ‘Be careful with that.’

He nodded, and no, he was not careful. Not careful enough anyway. He cut his index finger. It bled and had to be stitched. Anton couldn’t remember if it took long to heal, bust sixty years later he could still see the scar. It was the first permanent scar on his hands, but not his last. A kid living on a farm had to deal with rusty nails, glass, splinters, knives, saws, screwdrivers and barnyard dogs… At one time or another he got hurt, and he always healed. Sometimes he even was a small scar richer. He was proud of them, those small scars. Look at me, I am tough. Of course those were nothing compared to… to the other one. But that was another story.

These hands. He had loved with them. His fingers had tickled and provoked happy screams and laughter, he had caressed, he had felt hair, skin, sweat. Warm bodies and hot tears, massaging her - several hers, warming her cold hands, relaxing tense shoulders, teasing, loving, using them to give pleasure, to assure, to hold, to keep. Skin on skin, he had done quite a bit of that with these hands.

Hands. Fingers. Rings. He was so happy.

Hands, Cissy pinching his. ‘It is coming. The baby is coming!’

For a guy his size he had rather small hands, but they were huge compared to the tiny hands of his two daughters and his son. He helped to dress them, to feed them, to play with them, to feel them grow. O, how quick they grew!

The big scar. Yes, that other story. It ran on the palm of his hand, a centimetre from the base of his pinky finger all the way up to his middle finger. A thin white line, big compared to the fine network of dermal papillae. It was like someone took a knife and sliced open the right hand. It was exactly what happened. Not a nice story. A dope head with a knife, high on coke, breaking into their home. Screaming, a fight. The junkie didn’t feel Anton’s punches, and Anton didn’t feel the knife. Too much adrenaline in his body. The fight ended, the guy ran for it. In the hospital they told Anton it was a typical defensive scar. He needed stitches, a lot this time. One part of his little finger was forever numb afterwards, but he learned to cope and it rarely bothered him. And the scar made a good story. No not a nice story, but a story nonetheless.

A pair of new hands, his old ones gone. All those memories gone, a whole part of his life gone. The joys and tears, the love and the pain, the victories and setbacks. Did he want to lose all that because he wanted just to look better?

Anton knew the answer. ‘I have thought about it,’ he said out loud.

—

A pair of hands, old hands, weathered hands. Hands with a scars and liver spots and short fingers. The told about life, they were beautiful, forever.

With his new hands Anton touched the diamond glass in which the old, severed hands were embedded. It felt warm. This was a good choice.

All those memories would stay with him forever, but he would add new ones. Anton smiled, he only just started living!