The Terminal Experiment

CHAPTER 3

Peter had seen the ads in magazines and on the net. “Live forever! Modern science can prevent your body from ever wearing out.” He’d thought it was a scam until he saw an article about it in Biotechnology Today. A California company apparently could make you immortal for a fee of twenty million dollars. Peter didn’t really believe it was possible, but the technology involved sounded fascinating. And, now that he was forty-two, the realization that he and Cathy were only going to have a few more decades together was the one thing in his life that made him sad.

Anyway, the California company — Life Unlimited — was putting on seminars around North America promoting their process. In due course, they came to Toronto, renting meeting space at The Royal York Hotel.

It was impossible to drive in downtown Toronto anymore; Peter and Cathy took the subway to Union Station, which co

“Uh oh,” said Cathy softly to Peter.

Peter looked up. Colin Godoyo was approaching.

He was the husband of Cathy’s friend Naomi and a vice president of the Toronto Dominion Bank — a rich guy who liked to show it off. Peter was quite fond of Naomi, but had never really thought much of Colin.

“Petey!” said Colin, loudly enough so that every head in the room turned to look at them. He shoved a beefy hand toward Peter, who shook it. “And the gorgeous Catherine,” he said, leaning in for a kiss, which Cathy reluctantly provided. “How wonderful to see the two of you!”

“Hi, Colin,” said Peter. He jerked a thumb toward the front of the room where the presenter was setting up. “Thinking about living forever?”

“It sounds fascinating, doesn’t it?” said Colin. “What about you two? The happy couple can’t bear the thought of till death do us part?”

“I’m intrigued by the biomedical engineering,” said Peter, somewhat put off by Colin’s presumption.

“Of course,” said Colin in an irritating, knowing tone. “Of course. And Cathy — want to keep those great looks of yours forever?”

Peter felt the need to defend his wife. “She has a degree in chemistry, Colin. We’re both just intrigued by the science behind the process.”

At that moment, the presenter spoke loudly from the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen — we’re ready to begin. Please take your seats.” Peter spotted two unoccupied chairs in an otherwise full row, and quickly steered himself and Cathy toward them. Everyone settled in to listen to the sales pitch.

“Nanotechnology is the key to immortality,” the fellow from Life Unlimited said to his audience. He was a muscular African-American, mid-forties, salt-and-pepper hair, with a wide smile. His suit looked like it cost two thousand bucks. “Our nanotechnology machines can prevent every aspect of aging.” He indicated the picture on the wall screen: a blowup of a microscopic robot. “Here’s one now,” he said. “We call them ‘na

“Now, how do our na

“The ravages caused by buildups of toxic wastes in the body are also a major part of aging, but our na

“Autoimmune problems, such as rheumatoid arthritis, are another component of aging. Well, we’ve learned a lot about the autoimmune system in trying to cure AIDS, and we can now take care of almost anything that comes along.

“But the very worst part of aging is the loss of memory and cognitive functions. In many cases that’s due simply to a lack of vitamin B6 or B12. It’s also caused by not enough acetylcholine and other neuro-transmitters. Again, our na

“And what about Alzheimer’s? It’s genetically programmed to kick in at a certain age, although the onset can also be caused by high levels of aluminum. Our na

The man smiled. “Now, I know what you’re thinking. None of that is going to help me if I get shot in the chest by a mugger. Well, using patented Life Unlimited techniques, we can even make sure you live through that. Yes, the bullet will stop your heart — but our na

“Okay — now you’re thinking, hey, what if that mugger had shot me in the head instead?” The pitchman lifted up a thin sheet of what looked like silver foil. “This is polyester-D5. It’s similar to Mylar.” He held the sheet by one corner and let it flutter in the air. “Less than half a millimeter thick,” he said, “but watch this.” He proceeded to attach the sheet of foil to a square metal frame, anchoring it on all four sides. He then produced a gun with a silencer sticking off the front. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve got a special permit for this.” He chuckled. “I know how you Canadians feel about guns.” He aimed the pistol at an angle and fired at the foil sheet. Peter heard the pistol bark and saw a lick of flame shoot out of its nozzle. There was a sound like a thunderclap and something happened to the curtain behind the stage.

The pitchman went over to the metal frame and held up the Mylar sheet. “No hole,” he said — and indeed that was true. The sheet was rippling in the breeze of the air conditioner. “Polyester-D5 was developed for the military and is now widely used in bulletproof vests by police forces all over the world. As you can see, it’s quite flexible — unless it’s hit at high speed. Then it tightens up and becomes harder than steel. That bullet I fired a moment ago bounced right off.” He looked back. His assistant was coming onto the stage with something held in metal tongs. He dropped it into a little glass bowl on the podium. “Here it is.”

The pitchman faced the audience. “We coat the skull in a thin, perforated layer of polyester-D5. Of course, we don’t have to peel off the scalp to do that; we simply inject nanotechnology drones and have them lay it down. But with your skull protected by this stuff, you could take a bullet to the head, or have a car run over your cranium, or fall headfirst off a building, and still not crush your head. The polyester becomes so rigid, almost none of the percussion is transferred through to your brain.”

He smiled brilliantly at his audience. “It’s exactly as I said at the outset, folks. We can outfit you in such a way that you will not die — not through aging and not through almost any accident you can conceive of. For all intents and purposes, we offer exactly what we promise: honest-to-God immortality. Now, any takers?”

It was the first Sunday of the month. By long-standing tradition, that meant di

Cathy’s parents lived on Bayview Avenue in North York. The Churchill house, a 1960s side-split with a one-car garage, would have once been considered good-sized but now was dwarfed by monster homes on either side, causing it to spend most of the day in shadow. Above the garage was a rusting basketball hoop with no net attached.