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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!