CLONE, CLONE ON THE RANGE

By SCIENCE FICTION BY DOUGLAS COUPLAND

Back when the first news of successful human cloning was announced, humanity split into two irreconcilable camps: those who said, "How demonic!" and those, like myself--beloved and durable film star Corey Holiday--who said, "Hey! Where do I send my money?" In those glorious late-1990s days of film screenings, PETA rallies and fragrance launches, guests at events invariably divided into the anticloners, with their earnest discussions of ethics, inbreeding and hillbilly'ed gene pools, and those like myself, so eager and so thrilled to be able to bring humanity the gift of such tried-and-true looks, talent, industry savvy and high T.V.Q.

It was a heady era. Overnight it felt as though so many aspects of life were changing: cremation became a thing of the past as franchised DNA storage-facility stocks became the afterworld darlings of NASDAQ; the cost of most medicines fell to the price of a Mars candy bar; and meat became much tastier. Lawyers experienced what can only be described as a renaissance as all dimensions of law--particularly entertainment, copyright, conveyance, deeds and titles--underwent profound rethinking.

Of course, as the years wore on, the hubbub died. And it was at this time that my poor sweet face, while not becoming fully haggard, was definitely looking somewhat...puffy. Even worse, it was showing on film. The dailies can be cruel.

Makeup calls got earlier and earlier. One box-office flop and--boom!--I'd enter the never-to-return ghetto of geriatric buddy comedies. Yikes.

Yet as time ravaged my looks, I predicted to anyone who might listen that entrepreneurs in retail human cloning would emerge quickly enough. And so they did. First in abandoned Indian Ocean oil rigs and Antarctica--and then slowly and discreetly in more traversed parts of the world.

It was at this point that I, Corey Holiday--magnificent, admired, talented and feted the world over--after countless years of enthusiastic compliance with the rigors of beauty and the surgeon's scalpel, decided at age 50 it was time to obey Mother Nature's gentle call.

I quietly checked into an exclusive (naturally) cow-based Saskatchewan cloning spa--a spa combining the best of Saskatchewan's cattle country with Canada's lax cloning laws. My p.r. staff told folks I was up in the fresh air of Lake Tahoe battling chronic-fatigue syndrome triggered by silicone migration--a plausible alibi if ever there was one.

The spa's rates were steep, but its results were guaranteed. Only superior cattle with modified immune systems were used--cows being the cross-species surrogate of choice. (No cow will ever phone the National Enquirer with juicy palimony exclusives.) Clonees were allowed up to five babies per surrogate mom (no womb sharing). Those wishing more than five received generous volume-discount rates.

Myself? I chose five. A single clone might take a dislike to me--and then what? Besides, if I wanted just one kid, why not go out and have one the normal way? The whole point of this procedure was to have lots of exact genetic copies of me--to create a flock of worshipful children who would love me as much as I'd enjoy watching them worship me.

Regulations required that we remain at the spa four weeks, lest new tissue samples be called for or some other dreary flaw need mending. The spa itself was bags of fun. Most evenings felt like the Polo Lounge in the old days, and dinner was as star-packed as Morton's on a Monday night.

Thus the snowy Canadian winter passed in a zing. One unexpected treat for me was the arrival, shortly after myself, of veteran film star Lori Breckner, who had been my date for the 1998 Academy Awards ceremony, and who played opposite me in the critically successful box-office dud Car Crash 500. ("Yes, Don, I know movies are young young young. But what do a bunch of brats in Glendale know about pain?")

Oh, it was a happy, happy time. Lori and I would sit by the windows, sharing our hopes and dreams about how much our new children would love us, of how we could steer them away from certain types of drugs that they might have too much fun with and toward those cosmetic procedures that would flatter their looks. "Imagine," Lori dreamed aloud one night. "Knowing what seasons your colors are before you're even born! Lucky, lucky children."

While sipping Reverse-Scriptase martinis, Lori and I glanced outside to see the hundreds of beautiful Hereford mommies, glorious and dumb as posts under the great Canadian sky, chewing vitaminized, antibioticized alfalfa while inside each of them our own future little fan clubs incubated. "Look, over there, the one with a white patch on the eye, No. 388--that's yours, honey!" Bliss.

Lori and I discussed how we would transmute all our self-knowledge into our clones so completely that when we died we would technically still be alive--our "death" merely being a technical bookkeeping notation. Imagine feeling as if you are sharing a soul with five others! Lori was indeed a special woman to me. She was the only one I'd met who could connect with me on my own level. We were fated for each other.

And then came that dark morning when we stepped down for coffee and brioches to see the staff aflutter, alarms flaring like hangovers and a platoon of Mounties interviewing grieving guests. Other patrons were on the pay phones calling their lawyers to alter their wills. "What's gone on?" I asked a passing nurse. Fretful, she told me the news: cattle rustlers.

Dissolve into: the Chicago stockyards. Cut to: ...Sorry about the movie jargon. I can't help it. Being a part of the posse was the most real thing that had ever happened to me. Lori too. We looked at each other and said, "It's just like a movie!" I felt so close to this woman.

Lori and I were on scanning duty, fluoroscoping cattle like airport carry-on bags as they galumphed through our stockyard receiving line--a novel pre-slaughter activity back then, but now compulsory in the U.S. and Canada. We found two cows, each containing seven embryos--obviously not ours. These cows were then removed to the bmf, the Bovine Midwifing Facility. Only full gestation would reveal the tots' genetic identity. Software mogul? Pop-song diva? Corporation head? Somewhat like waiting for Polaroids to develop over a period of years.

Shortly after finding the rogue septuplets we learned that our "deluxe" Saskatchewan cloning facility had not embedded locator chips in the cows as advertised. That's when we realized our own mommy cows could be practically anywhere. Were they rustled for their meat? Were they taken by terrorists? Kidnappers? Blackmailers? Adoption agencies wanting only pedigree children?

The media got wind of our story, and the Saskatchewan facility was top news for weeks; no doubt the rustlers would be on extra guard now. After Lori spoke with her crystallographer, ChrySanda, in North Hollywood, we roamed northern Montana on an "energy hunch." When we showed up in small-town cafes and feedlots to show photos of cow No. 388 (Lori's brood) and No. 441 (mine), we invariably created a sensation--the old good/evil polarity, plus, well, we were and are stars. Citizens were both righteous and helpful, and we always drove away feeling bathed in love of the common man. Sigh.

Some years passed, and then we got a tip. A garbled cell call told us of a private boarding school and ranch near Bozeman, Montana, where "students" were either exceptionally attractive, exceptionally intelligent, exceptionally devious or all three. So-called school employees signed draconian pre-agreements barring them from revealing anything. One had escaped, garnered our cell number from a local Webzine ad and whispered instructions as dogs barked in the background.

We drove along a thin, wooded road and found the entryway into the ranch: laser-guarded, barbed-wired and accompanied by the anxious grrrrr of concealed attack Dobermans. A good omen--they had something in there worth hiding. A walk around the property's perimeter at first yielded only more of the same. Then we turned a corner and through the trees saw children playing a game of some sort--little houses moved around a board with sticks. The children spotted Lori and me and several of them came over.

"Hello," I said. "I'm film star Corey Holiday."

"And I'm box-office magic Lori Breckner."

The children stared. Then one efficient-looking boy, eight, tops, said, "Excuse me, do you have an appointment? Is somebody expecting you?"

We were agog. His twin (ha!) brother asked, "What might this be regarding?"

The younger girl next to him said, "Geoff, was there a memo on this? I don't remember getting the memo."

"Perhaps you should wait. Would you like a cup of coffee or some water?" asked the first boy.

Lori asked the young girl, "What's that game you're playing over there?"

"That? Real Estate. It's fun. I just traded Amy's air rights in exchange for altering my TV networks' 9 o'clock slot." A bell rang. "Have to go now," she said. "Facials and colonics. Hope your next pictures gross well." Two of the youngsters slipped us scripts beneath the fence. Bingo. We knew we'd found our rustlers.

Cloning is old news now. We all live with the new reality: blackmailers holding hairbrushes hostage ("Give us your money or we'll make 10 of you")...grandmothers reading bedtime stories to 118 baby grandmas...captains of industry rearranging their wills, deeding everything to themselves down the line forever and always. Plus ca change, plus ca--wait, that's not really true anymore!

And us? Lori and I married shortly after. It was a big ticket--three helicopters more than my previous wedding. But we didn't go back into movies. Instead, we chose to dedicate our lives, possibly forever, to fighting embryo poaching. Us and our 10 beautiful children: Cori, Korrie, Corry, Korey, Korrey, Laurie, Lorrie, Laurey, Lorrey and Lorri.

Douglas Coupland is the author of Generation X, Shampoo Planet, Life After God and Microserfs. His latest novel, Girlfriend in a Coma, will be published this fall by ReganBooks.