A science fiction short story by I.M. Gerhi
What if you did not win a boatload of cash, but rather a total body make-over in the lotto? But not just an external make-over but a total re-sequencing of your genetic material?
Of course this type of treatment would be horrifically expensive. Which is why the lottery makes sense. To give everybody a fighting chance. But what if some of the results of the genetic re-sequencing is unpredictable, very much a question of chance, like uhm … playing the lotto?
In the short science fiction story Last Hand to Play, an ordinary handyman wins the lotto and gets a whole lot more than what he bargained for.
Because in the Genlotto of 2057 the winner does not get a lump sum of cash. They get a complete genetic make-over, and the chance to be envied by all who have to make do with just what nature gave them. But sometimes you don’t want what you win, and you would rather just settle for what you had.
At the moment Last Hand to Play is only available as part of the short story collection Night Light Tales.
Read a sample:
On August 3, 2057, at 1 minute and 4 seconds past 6 in the evening, Oliver Clywick felt a sharp pain shoot up from his stomach, through his chest, nailing his brain to the top of his skull.
I should not have had that retro mock turtle sushi roll so late in the afternoon, he thought. You never knew how much you could trust these small eating outfits. Clearly there had been something wrong with the batch.
Maybe some beer would clear it up.
Clywick took a long sip of beer and sat still, evaluating his inner condition. His stomach gave a low rumble like a clogged air-con duct vibrating. Then a stomach cramp folded him double, spraying beer over his chips and roti roll.
“Ooo,” said Clywick.
His stomach rumbled again. Clywick clutched at his sides, trying to push the pain back as he slowly stood up. He stood doubled up at the corner of the couch. Is he going to the kitchen for something stronger, or is he going to the bathroom to hurl, or worse?
The doorbell chimed.
Right, so there is a third option, though Clywick.
Clywick took a step toward the kitchen. A pain shot from his chest down into his right knee, and he wobbled. His left hand grabbed for the lampstand to steady him, but he missed, and the light crashed against the wall.
The doorbell chimed again. When had it chimed the first time? The pain, which was now crawling down his spine, twisted every vertebra at 360 degrees in alternate directions. The flat got dark around him, and stars flashed around his peripheral vision.
Bathroom then. He turned and felt the flat move around him. The floor came up quickly.
Another chime sent sparks flashing through the tears in his eyes, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Who had set the tone on deafening? Clywick felt around and touched the bottom of the front door. That decided it then, the third way.
He pushed himself upright against the door and felt for the latch. The latch felt slippery in his sweaty hand. Clywick eased the door open, clutching the frame with his spare hand.
In front of him was a man in a black suit, standing as stiff as a board. Lawyer, thought Clywick. What bill did he forget to pay?
Over the suit’s left shoulder peered the fuzzy curls of Clywick’s neighbor, Mrs. Transel.
“Are you alright, dearie?” she said.
The suit winced from her voice so close to his ear. For Clywick, it felt as if ice picks were rammed hard into both ears.
“Umm—okay,” he managed to say.
“Heard the crash, my boy.”
The suit gave Mrs. Transel a look that gave her a moment’s pause, but she mouthed something Clywick could not make out.
The suit extended a pale hand to Clywick. “Oliver Clywick?”
The pain had now returned to his stomach and was churning the contents about. Clywick swallowed the choking bile in order to answer. His voice sounded strange to himself. “Yeah.”
“Congratulations, as you may already be aware, you are the Genlotto winner for August 2057.”
…end of sample
Last Hand to Play © I.M. Gerhi