The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 23

A rare sunny morning in the middle of November, with light streaming around the edges of the living-room blinds.

Hans Larsen was sitting at the table in his breakfast nook nibbling on white toast with orange marmalade. His wife, Donna-Lee, over by the front door, was slipping on her ten-centimeter black heels. Hans watched her bend over to do that, her breasts — perfect handfuls — straining against her red silk blouse, the curve of her bottom tight against her black leather skirt, the leather too thick to show any panty lines.

She was a beautiful woman, Hans thought, and she knew how to dress to show it off. And that, of course, had been why he’d married her. A fitting wife, the kind that turned heads. The kind a real man should have.

He nibbled some more toast, and chased it with some coffee. He’d give it to her good when he got home tonight. She’d like that. Of course, he wouldn’t be home until late; he was seeing Melanie after work. No, wait — Melanie was tomorrow night; this was only Wednesday. Nancy, then. Even better; Nancy had tits to die for.

Donna-Lee checked herself in the mirror on the front-hall closet door. She leaned in close to examine her makeup, then called out to Hans, “See you later.”

Hans waved a slice of toast at her. “Remember, I’ll be late tonight. I’ve got that meeting after work.”

She nodded, smiled radiantly at him, and left.

She was a good wife, Hans thought. Easy on the eyes, and not too demanding on his time. Of course, one woman was hardly enough for a real man…

Hans had on a dark blue nylon sports jacket and light blue polyester shirt. A silver-gray tie, also synthetic, hung unknotted around his neck. He was wearing white Hanes underwear and black socks, but hadn’t yet put on his pants. There were still twenty minutes before he had to leave for work himself. From the breakfast nook, he could see the TV in the living room, the picture somewhat washed out by sunlight. Canada A.M. was on, with Joel Gotlib interviewing some balding actor Hans didn’t recognize.

Hans finished the last of his toast just as the doorbell rang. The TV automatically reduced Canada AM. to a small image in the upper-left corner. The rest of the screen filled with the view from the outside security camera. A man in a brown United Parcel Service uniform was standing on the stoop. He was carrying a large package wrapped in paper.

Hans grunted. He wasn’t expecting anything. Touching a button on the kitchen phone, he said, “Just a sec,” and went to find his pants. Once he had them on, he crossed through the living room to the entryway, with its bare hardwood floor, then unlocked the door and swung it open. His house faced east, and the figure on the stoop was lit harshly from behind. He was maybe forty years old, quite tall — a full two meters — and skinny. He looked like he could have been a basketball player a decade earlier. His features were sharp and he had a dark tan, as if he’d been south recently. Hans thought they must pay these UPS guys pretty well.

“Are you Hans Larsen?” asked the man. His voice had a British accent, or maybe Australian — Hans could never tell them apart.

Hans nodded. “That’s me.”

The deliveryman handed him the box. It was a cube about a half meter on a side, and it was surprisingly heavy — as if someone had shipped him a collection of rocks. Once his hands were free, the man reached down to his waist. A small electronic receipt pad was attached to his belt by a metal chain. Hans turned around to set the box down.

Suddenly he felt a painful jolt at the back of his neck, and his legs seemed to turn to jelly. He collapsed forward, the weight of the box pulling him in that direction. He felt the flat of a hand in the center of his back pushing him down. Hans tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn’t work. He felt himself being rolled onto his back by the deliveryman’s boot, and he heard the outside door clicking shut. Hans realized that he’d been touched with a stunner, a device he’d only ever seen on TV cop shows, robbing him of muscular control. Even as this sank in, he became aware that he was peeing in his pants.

He tried to yell, but couldn’t. The best he could manage was a faint grunt.

The tall man had moved well into the house now, and was standing in front of Hans. With great effort, Hans managed to lift his head. The man was doing something to his own belt now. The black leather along the left side flopped open, revealing a long, thick blade that glinted in the light seeping in around the living-room blinds.

Hans found his strength returning. He struggled to get to his feet. The tall man pressed his stunner into the side of

Hans’s neck and held down the trigger. A massive electric shock coursed through Hans’s system, and he could feel his blond hair standing on end. He collapsed onto his back again.

Hans tried to speak. “Wh — wh—”

“Why?” said the tall man, in that accented voice. He shrugged, as if it all was of no importance to him. “You made someone mad,” he said. “Real mad.”

Hans tried to get up again, but couldn’t. The big man slammed a boot into his chest, and then in one fluid motion brought the knife up. He grabbed the front of Hans’s trousers and cut them open, the sharp blade easily slicing through the navy-blue polyester. The man winced at the ammonia stench. “You really should learn to control yourself, mate,” he said. Another couple of quick cuts and Hans’s underwear was in tatters. “Guy’s paying an extra twenty-five thousand for this, I hope you realize.”

Hans tried again to scream, but he was still dazed by the stunner. His heart was pounding erratically.

“N — no,” he said. “Not…”

“What’s that, mate?” said the tall fellow. “You think without your Johnson you won’t be a man anymore?” He pursed his lips, considering. “Y’know, maybe you’re right. I’d never given it much thought.” But then he grinned, an evil rictus showing yellow teeth. “Then again, I’m not paid to think.”

He wielded the knife like a surgeon. Hans managed a gurgling scream as his penis was lopped off. Blood spurted onto the hardwood floor. He struggled again to get up, but the man kicked him in the face, shattering his nose. He touched Hans once more with the stunner. Hans’s body convulsed, and blood geysered from his wound. He collapsed to the floor. Tears rolled down his face.

“You might bleed to death as is,” said the man, “but I can’t take any chances.” He leaned in and slid the knife’s long edge across Hans’s throat. Hans found enough strength and muscular control for a final scream, the timbre of which changed radically as his neck split open.

In all the flailing around, Hans’s severed organ had gone rolling across the floor. The man nudged it closer to the body with his toe, then calmly walked into the living room. Canada A.M. had given way to Donahue. He opened the cabinet next to the TV, found the slave recorder hooked up to the security camera, took out the little disk, and put it in his hip pocket. Then he headed back to the entryway, picked up the box full of bricks and, taking care not to slip on the hardwood floor now slick with an expanding pool of blood, headed out into the bright morning sunshine.