Gratification 2200

Speculative Fiction

Photo by Sara Kurfeß on Unsplash

The retina scan software was some shitbag museum piece from 2130, but Lyle Viddell’s youth nurture duo had had the sense to enter him in the databank prior to his reaching the age of majority, and he accessed the genealogy cloud.

With tools this antiquated and no compatible command interface, he was forced to view images that were irrelevant to him. 

The body mass index of humans two centuries ago was sickening to Lyle. There was a pleasure hybranoid that would allow you to pinch her 1% body fat, but Lyle had only heard of it, he had never visited those particular gratification lounges. 

Lyle blink skimmed.

He saw his 5-times-great grandfather’s occupation listed as “professional athlete” and Lyle roared with laughter. 

Jason Viddell, 6’1” 205 lbs. It must have been like playing while carrying a dead body draped over one’s shoulders.

The laughter died a bit, caught in his throat even, when he remembered that the Japanese had tried valiantly to continue the tradition of baseball, and had small pockets of underground games thriving before Canada purchased, then liquidated the islands.

Hybranoids played a version of baseball in the gratification lounges, but Lyle couldn’t stand the idea of unbreakable flesh machines absorbing nutrients for the sake of entertainment.

He hadn’t much liked the holograph version either, though his designated companion, Marta, had boosted their sustenance credits nicely wagering on the outcomes.

The outcomes were rigged of course, but Marta’s knowledge of theoretical statistics helped her scythe through some of the government’s advantage. 

Her degree should have rendered her ineligible to wager, but as a teen she had purchased the retina of a previous generation’s street addict and could easily pass the eligibility scans.

Lyle skimmed through the images of Jason. They bore no strong resemblance, but Lyle felt a kinship–there was one of course, strands of DNA–but Lyle’s feeling went beyond that.

At the end of the images the text began, and Lyle slowed his thought process.

He didn’t wish to miss a thing that could lead him to his genetic Holy Grail.

Jason had been an unexceptional student, had lived two generations before thorough stem cell harvests.

He had been drafted after his freshman year of college and played for the Chicago White Sox. 

Must have been strange to play when the game was legal for full flesh humans. The compensation was outstanding.

Lyle’s mind began to wander to Shiori.

Shiori was part of a gene banking security team. Her high clearances bought her a lot of wiggle room and her designated companion had been left back in Japan. She was unfazed by the presence of Marta, understanding the social and procreation codes.

Their seven point two hours together seemed like Lyle’s entire lifetime. 

There were “love experiences” in the gratification lounges, but they were generally unpopular and seen as a waste of credits. 

From some bootleg audio book files, Lyle thought he might have experienced the real thing.

Shiori was confident she would be evacuated before the liquidation, but just in case she was not, she demanded that Lyle attempt to access pre-2049 DNA and use it to spin himself another 100 to 120 years of breathing.

With Shiori’s encoded assistance, he found the defunct elementary library.

Japan had zero survivors.

Canada was lauded by the Global Information Sphere as having saved the globe another 42 years of sustenance and nutritional stockpiles.

Lyle was angry beyond imagining, but would keep his promise.

Many of humanity’s records had been wiped away in 2049, in the successful but pyrrhic quest to split the Higgs Boson quadrilaterally.

But notable records remained. Fame brought with it a surplus of stored data.

In 2024, being a professional athlete was high at the top of the fame echelon.

Lyle skimmed and scanned.

And like The Romer Solar Auroras, the information he wanted appeared on the screen:

Jason Viddell had been a professional baseball player of such note that the leather glove and cleats he wore when amassing his 3000th career hit were enshrined in a museum in Cooperstown, New York.

Lyle quickly cross referenced. 

Cooperstown, New York still stood. It was unoccupied territory on the outskirts of the Newark Contamination Zone.

It would be Level 17 Toxic with a severe negative oxygen quality rating and death fields full of rabid coyotes, but Lyle could venture there.

He would venture there.

Lyle was in a megalopolis pod in what had once been Tallahassee, Florida. 

He had excess travel credits thanks to Marta’s deft wagering.

Cooperstown, New York was a three day run, two and a half if he could score a black-market hydration patch. But if Lyle could find the ruins of the museum and scrape his great, great, great, great, great grandfather’s DNA, he could spin himself another century on this crazy planet, to fulfill a promise he made to the only flesh and synthetic blood human who had made him feel like living.

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