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2020
     

2020

by Robert Onopa
 
In 1948, the future was 1984, but in 2002, we don't have to wait as long! Adjust your vision to 2020 as revealed in this collection. On an international highway system of never-pausing traffic, Nomads keep moving from cradle to grave. Bio-engineered kangaroos carry fetuses for busy mothers. And a foundering lunar resort makes a desperate bid to exploit one of

Overview

In 1948, the future was 1984, but in 2002, we don't have to wait as long! Adjust your vision to 2020 as revealed in this collection. On an international highway system of never-pausing traffic, Nomads keep moving from cradle to grave. Bio-engineered kangaroos carry fetuses for busy mothers. And a foundering lunar resort makes a desperate bid to exploit one of humanity's great oversights--we forgot to name the moon! Wry and funny and appallingly probable, 2020 includes several of Robert Onopa's best stories from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, a new one that will soon appear there by special arrangement, and an Afterword.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781597290784
Publisher:
Electricstory.com
Publication date:
01/01/2002
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
File size:
184 KB

Read an Excerpt

I.
We were just sitting there in the boardroom, Max and I, our black Italian wingtips propped up at one end of the long slate table, our backs sunk into charcoal velour. We were watching the Obituary Channel scroll by on the wallscreen. That's really when it all began: during one of those moments of stasis which originates a seminal, life-altering sequence of events, an otherwise preternaturally calm patch of time in which the tiniest seed of chaos fractalizes into a full-blown reordering of the cosmos. It goes without saying that what happened from this quiet beginning unalterably changed my life. It changed yours, too, I apologize to admit, as you will recognize once you fully understand what I am revealing now, publicly, for the first time.

To the industry, watching the Obits scroll by is "trolling." Different-sized vessels troll for different catches: the small firms troll for individual clients, those recently deceased for whom the mauve icon in the encoded rainbow of the color bar across the top of the screen indicates a still-open service contract. On our level--GD Inc. has six hundred franchised Homes nationwide and operations in Canada, Mexico, and Korea--we're more interested in demographic shifts, tracking market share, the kinds of data indicated by the shape of the color bar itself, its waves and fluctuations.

We started doing business even before "Elliott Anderson's Obituary Channel" was first bounced down from a satellite. Our genesis lay in the demise of the 20th Century "baby boomer" generation: as that population died off early in this century, the demand for funerals increased so rapidly the deathcare industry grew like breadrising under the action of yeast. We were the first chain to go interstate, the first to use CDC statistics to locate new Homes, the first with group plans (beginning with our benchmark contract with AARP). We shaped the franchise system of funeral homes you see today. So when Max minded the boardroom wallscreen, he eyed it with a proprietary air, like an institutional investor watching the big board dance before his or her eyes.

I confess I wasn't paying attention. I was staring past the wallscreen through our eightieth floor window at the mustard-colored atmosphere of downtown L.A., wondering whether or not I was going to be able to sight Object 21/3847--a new comet, just named Virgilius Maro--as it finally hove into earth's sight next week. My hobby is imaging astronomical objects with VHD clarifying video. I was concluding that the only way I was going to be able to see V. Maro for the full fourteen seconds it would take for me to properly capture its image was by leasing space on Mauna Kea. This gave new meaning to the phrase "visible to the naked eye."

"Pass the fucking embalming fluid," Max growled. "They're killin' us."

"Mmmm. Us?"

He pointed at a new symbol, an ideograph, showing up in the color bar of the Obit Channel screen. "Like who's this new outfit, Ancestors?"

"Asian specialists. In from Beijing," I said, stretching, sitting up. At least I'd been keeping up with Post Mortem, our trade magazine. "They started out as All Friends Mortuary Society. Special noodle feature on all banquet menus, monk's food, saffron theme. Niche market. Specials include ancestors appear in holocube...."

"They're not the only ones."

"Com'on, Max. We're still doing close to three billion a year."

Max took a deep breath, rubbed his eyes, and spoke softly. "Not anymore. Two-eight is what we billed last year. This year we thought two-six. Now look at the way the market's turned on us. We'll be lucky to hurdle one-five."

"Really?"

"Your head's been in the clouds, Coop. Ever since Harriet took off last year."

"I am reading the trades." I could feel myself blush. My divorce aside, the truth is, the business end of things had never seized me the way it had Max--a business which, I recalled with a pang of guilt, had treated me very well (ask Harriet, whose settlement included a condo complex in Cabo). Lately I had been acting like the numbers had little to do with me.

"We were the first with drive-through viewing," Max said, "the first with unit pricing, the first with mobile embalming centers...."

My implanted pager hummed against my heart. I used the excuse to ease myself out of my chair. "Cheer up," I said without conviction. "We'll think of something."

"Well, you're the artist, Coop," Max said with a crooked grin. "Right?"

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