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Non-Fictional Story On Cloning:

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 popular film star Martin Choa-who said, "Hey Where do I send my money ?"

It was a heady era. Over night 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 digital newspapers 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 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 in more traversed parts of the world.

It was at this point that I, Martin Choa-magnificent, admired, and talented-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 call. I quietly checked into to an exclusive cow-based Saskatchewan cloning spa combining the best of Saskatchewan's cattle country with Canada's lax cloning laws. My public relations staff told folks that I was up in the fresh air of Lake Tahoe.

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 exclusives.) Clones 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, for fear that new tissue samples be called for or some other flaw need mending. The spa

itself was bags of fun. 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. 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." 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 alfalfa while inside each of them our won little fan clubs incubated. We discussed how we would pass 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 would 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 to see the staff aflutter, alarms flaring like hangovers and a platoon of Mounties interviewing grieving guests. "What's going on?" I asked a passing nurse. Fretful, she told me the news: cattle rushers. 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. 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 Robo- Dobermans. A good omen, they had something in there worth hiding. A walk around the

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