The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  Usually, Gregory Michaelson exercised caution with Jethro Knights. Everyone at Victoria University who knew him did. The pool cue incident was too well known not to do so. Teachers and students, especially those in the philosophy department, were warned to keep guard against Jethro and to report anything out of the ordinary. To understand that he was a student capable of anything.

  Jethro’s notoriety began with an assault-and-battery investigation in the second half of his sophomore year. A stocky, arrogant linebacker from the football team, drunk from a night of partying, wandered alone into the main dormitory game room on campus and interrupted Jethro's billiards game. The linebacker, a senior, picked up the black eight-ball, with half of the other balls still on the table, rudely declaring, “I’m next. This game is over.”

  The freshman playing Jethro immediately cowered, saying, “Sure, go ahead, man.”

  Holding a pool stick in his right hand, Jethro stared incredulously at the linebacker. The senior smiled mockingly back at him, and said, “Guess I’m playing you, huh? Don’t look so grumpy about it, blondie.”

  The linebacker began racking balls in the triangle. He did not notice Jethro’s eyes turning icy.

  Instead of starting a new game, Jethro walked over to the senior, adjusted the pool stick in his hands—so that he was gripping it like a baseball bat—and swung. The tip of the cue broke directly over the football player’s nose. The student stumbled, then dropped down to the ground, unconscious. From his face a puddle of blood quickly appeared on the terracotta floor tiles.

  The freshman, the only other person in the game room, stared in disbelief.

  “Oh my God. Oh fuck,” he whispered in horror.

  “Want to finish the game?” Jethro calmly asked the kid.

  The freshman didn’t answer. His stare was frozen on the fallen student and the blood gushing from his nose. Then the kid abruptly sprinted out of the dormitory. Jethro shrugged, grabbed a spare cue, and sunk the burgundy seven-ball. He walked upstairs to his room to begin his night of studying.

  Twenty minutes later, numerous police cars and an ambulance were in front of the dormitory after a 911 call was made. Dozens of students watched the paramedics rush the linebacker out of the building, a trail of blood falling from the stretcher onto the century-old stone walkway.

  Seventy-two hours later, nearly everyone on campus knew some version of the story. Despite this, the dean and the police couldn’t fully prove Jethro did it. Even though he was spotted at the scene of the crime, and his prints were all over the broken pool cue, the football player chose to remain silent about his assailant. Nursing a badly broken nose in a hospital room for four days, the linebacker had transformed into a deeply humbled and embarrassed man, wishing only that the incident would soon be forgotten. The only other witness, the freshman, also wanted to forget that night. He kept out of it entirely by denying to authorities that he had seen anything.

  Given the circumstances, the dean was reluctant to expel Jethro Knights—or any student. This was Victoria University, the 250-year-old institution older than the country itself, and the stepping stone of a lifetime for anyone who passed through its storied halls. Over 100 Nobel laureates and ten American presidents had matriculated there. It was rumored that Babek Hall still leaked radiation from its basement, where the first atom was split in front of Einstein's careful watch. To expel any students from Victoria was to end their burgeoning futures.

  Besides, Jethro’s case was complicated. He had not been admitted to the institution because of his extracurricular activities or scholastic excellence. He had mostly F or A grades through junior high and high school—either a genius or an idiot, one admissions officer grumbled. A high school counselor echoed something similar: The guy who throws curves out of whack or finishes last—or not at all. Jethro’s aptitude tests were filled with Scantron pencil marks bearing anarchist symbols, upside-down crosses, and his favorite math symbol: pi. No, Jethro's grades and test scores did not get him into Victoria. He was admitted for his entrance essay—some of the most intense and impressive words the dean had ever read.

  Dean Graybury was new on the job. He was a recent executive hire from one of Silicon Valley's leading technology companies. He was brought on to fulfill the promise that he would bring the country’s brightest innovators through the university's doors. To do so, his newest admissions initiative was to look for outliers, that one-in-a-million student who may not play by the rules, because he’s able to write better ones—or at least more interesting ones. For the past twenty years, many of the top students at Victoria were simply boring, coming from old, complacent, pedigree-bearing families. The dean, a closet transhumanist, wanted new ideas, new blood, new directions. He wanted the university to think like a tech startup when admitting students, hungry for market dominance and a booming future. Perfect grades, high test scores, and typical extracurricular ideas were not enough anymore, he insisted. Students were needed who could think outside the box, be vivaciously creative, and shape a new world. Humankind was evolving so quickly with advancements in technology, the dean strategized, that new talent was required to steer it correctly and safely.

  Jethro Knights was an ideal candidate.

  Besides, the dean thought, the assaulted football player was a known meathead with a history of bullying people in his classes and fraternity. And the dean disliked both the Greek system and football.

  Watching students on the campus lawn through his corny Gothic office window, Dean Graybury sighed. He was unsure of what to do. The chancellor of the university had insisted he expel Jethro. But the dean liked the young man, or what little he knew about him. He thought of Jethro’s shadowy past: an only child, whose Swedish mother and Austrian father disappeared as European diplomats in Iran when he was just six years old. Religious extremists were rumored to be responsible. Jethro’s father was publicly critical of the Koran—or any religious text—as a tool to govern society. Lamentably, neither Jethro’s parents nor their remains ever surfaced, and the truth behind their disappearance was never discovered. The boy was sent to Los Angeles and raised there, partly by an old aloof uncle, partly by foster homes after the uncle had died. There didn't appear to be any rogue childhood issues—no hindrances, no criminal record, no major academic or disciplinary issues. On his college application, his extracurricular skills simply stated: transhuman philosopher.

  For the nearly 50,000 students applying to Victoria University’s 2,500 admission spots, it was unremarkable. But the essay Jethro wrote with his application was like nothing the dean thought possible from a teenager. It was more a declaration then an essay. It was a damning critique of the widespread fear of designer evolution. Evocative, compelling, and eloquent, it tore apart religious dogma and blasted traditionalism. It concluded by promoting outright aggression towards opponents. You took a critical chance writing about that to such a school—as conservative as it was—and not about your merit scholarships, or national piano championships, or the state track records you broke. Yet the dean wished he had written that essay when he was only seventeen years old—and maybe even now. He accepted Jethro to the school, overruling a unanimous veto by the stuffy admissions staff.

  But now this: a broken pool stick on a football player’s head. The dean smiled. He secretly wished he had done that, too, when he attended Victoria twenty-five years ago and was ridiculed as a skinny computer science geek. Guess Jethro meant what he said in the essay, the dean thought.

  Unwilling to follow the expulsion recommendation of the university chancellor, the dean called Jethro into his office with a plan. He told the young man to take a semester off, and offered him a coveted job as an assistant to a good friend: Francisco Dante, a spirited and renowned journalist for the award-winning weekly, International Geographic; it was one of the few remaining media sources the dean enjoyed anymore. All others, like the popular USA Daily Tribune newspaper, or the ubiquitous and glitzy International Media Network (IMN) television channel, were heavily commer
cialized, superficial, and annoyingly conservative.

  Dante, a hulking Spaniard and longtime transhuman advocate, was currently covering the Congo war in Africa. His assistant had been shot and killed last month. Dean Graybury warned Jethro the experience would be heavy and grueling, but ultimately eye-opening and transformative. Furthermore, the dean promised Jethro he would pull strings to get him back into Victoria when the fall semester came around, assuming he agreed to stay away from pool cues.

  ************

  Jethro Knights welcomed the adventure of going to the Congo for International Geographic. A few weeks after he arrived in Central Africa, Francisco Dante wrote the dean from their jungle camp:

  Where did you find this guy? He’s the perfect assistant—engaged, intelligent, efficient, and super low-maintenance. If only he doesn’t leave me to join the revolution. I’ve rarely met someone so impenetrable, so lacking in fear.

  Jethro did his job for the reporter, learning the journalism trade along the way. They became friends and carefully looked out for each other, often discussing transhumanist concerns late into the night around a campfire. There was little to do in the jungles of the Congo except to follow the military around, avoid snake bites, and stay out of the way of bullets and shelling from guerrilla fighters. They lived mostly on remote trails in rainforests, or on the backs of army trucks, waiting for that perfect moment to snap a photograph or conduct an important interview. Occasionally, they would find themselves amongst a plethora of limbless and headless bodies, consoling a weeping chief whose village had just been ransacked by a looting warlord and his militia.

  Jethro's declared major of philosophy in college offered consolation to what he had witnessed in the Congo. Jethro chose this major because, besides giving mental strength through the use of reason and logic, philosophy was the one subject that united all others. It bridged gaps between various pieces of knowledge, while also instructing how to find the pieces that weren't yet discovered—the most interesting ones. Jethro was born in love with the unknown. A propensity to ask, Why? Philosophy gave the explorer direction when no map was available.

  Beginning with childhood, Jethro was attracted to transhuman philosophy. This was because he instinctively viewed life as a chance to improve himself, hoping one day he might reach a self-actualized perfection. He knew that much was obvious for any advanced thinking entity living in an evolutionary universe. He spent much of his youth considering ideas around his personal development: reading nonfiction science books, following sci-fi cinema, forming futurist thoughts, and keeping a detailed journal about how to be his best self. His budding transhuman perspective spanned seasons and years, evolving, maturing, and finally snowballing all the way into his first semester at college.

  At Victoria, he formally immersed himself in the academics of transhuman thought, rigorously considering and debating its every philosophical idea and direction. Despite this, his mindset—though habitually brash and brave—remained quite scholarly and intangible. He possessed little concrete experience in transhuman dealings, little real-world street time—just idealistic thoughts and feelings of what he hoped to do in life and what he hoped to become. His future was still uncertain.

  All of that changed three months into his Congo trip, when the map of his destiny was infallibly carved into his psyche, accompanied by a tsunami of urgency.

  Alone in the jungle during a late afternoon, while he was collecting firewood for a night out on watch, he strayed fifteen meters off the dirt path. In the distance was a choice dry log wedged deep in the grass, and dry wood in the damp rainforest was hard to find. He instantly went for it, ditching the cardinal rule of the Congo: Never leave the path. Without warning, he stepped on a barely buried metal object, creating a sharp noise underneath him. The sound was unmistakable; it was a sudden and loud click. Panic struck him. He knew immediately what it was. The forest was full of them: landmines.

  Jethro waited for the explosion, intuitively bracing himself for impact, snapping his teeth together, shutting his eyes. He waited for his legs and torso to be ripped apart, waited for mutilation and death. His arm hairs spiked, his muscles flexed, his fists clenched.

  The blast never came.

  Jethro was shocked. He didn’t dare move. The seconds were precious. Finally, he jumped back and sprinted to the path, turning around to scrutinize where he had just stood. In the ground, he could barely make out the corner of a buried metallic disc. It was a dud.

  For Jethro, however, it was a philosophical nuke. A single moment that transformed his youthful transhuman outlook into a physical law of its own—like the sweat on his brow in the equatorial sun, or the pressure in his hand when he made a fist. He was forever a changed man. And he knew he wouldn't always be so lucky.

  That night he couldn't sleep. He looked at the millions of stars above him, thinking solemnly and with full focus: What happened today is unacceptable. Death must be conquered. From now on, that is my first and foremost aim in life. That is the quintessential first goal of the transhumanist.

  ************

  In the winter, Dean Graybury was barely successful in getting Jethro Knights admitted back into Victoria. The university chancellor emphatically disagreed. A compromise was struck: Jethro wasn’t allowed to live in the dormitory on campus. And one more issue with him, the chancellor fumed, and he would be expelled unconditionally. The chancellor promised he would see to it himself.

  Jethro took a studio with paint peeling off the walls, fourteen blocks from the university, on Lenard Street in the middle of Harlem. He rented by the week from a 300-pound Somalian lady who ran a hairstyling shop underneath his place—and a brothel a floor above him. He found himself content in Harlem. It was good to be away from the drunk Greek brats, the brainless jocks, and the showy student consumers strutting their newest shoes, handbags, and jewelry—some of which contained blood diamonds from the Congo. Most importantly, his studio was only a twenty-minute bike ride away from the boatyard where he intended to build Contender.

  Two years later, at the Fillmore Yacht Club, Gregory Michaelson waited tensely for Jethro’s response after asking whether he wanted to be a gorilla on his dad's yacht, Blue Lagoon. Something deep inside Gregory wanted Jethro to take offense, to stand up and challenge him back. Gregory couldn’t think of anyone else on the planet who thought so little of him, who wouldn’t show him the most basic social respect or recognition. This time, Gregory thought, there was no pool cue to protect Jethro against the bigger, stronger guy.

  Jethro Knights stopped working, left the spinnaker sail on the ground, and stood up calmly. He turned around, facing his peer. Jethro’s expression was unconsciously blank. It was obvious he didn’t take any offense or register any challenge. His opponent would have to have real value for that to occur. Instead, Jethro looked behind Gregory and observed Blue Lagoon two docks down. The forty-ton monster wooden yacht took up a whole finger of berths. One glance at it made Jethro positive any modern, twelve-foot fiberglass Laser could outclass the splintery behemoth in any sailing competition.

  “I’ll pass, Greg. I’m only interested in boats that will help me prepare for my circumnavigation.”

  Gregory nodded at the man, acquiescing and hating him.

  Jethro bent back towards the sail and continued working quietly.

  Awkwardly standing there and unsure of what else to say or do, Gregory muttered, “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow at the town hall forum then?”

  Gregory saw Jethro freeze for an instant, a sharp tension momentarily clutching the man’s body. Then from behind his shoulder, Jethro said, “Sure, Greg. See you there.”

  Chapter 4

  There was extensive vigilant security at the Transhumanism Town Hall Forum. Apprehensive Secret Service men wearing sunglasses and dark suits communicated with a dozen sharpshooters who lined the nearby dormitory roofs via Bluetooth headsets. Police and campus security were ubiquitous, spread throughout the crowds. The President of the United States and othe
r attending government officials promised they were there to objectively consider transhumanism, thus creating a stir of excitement and nervousness all over campus and the surrounding metropolis. Already the conflict of religious imperatives versus transhumanist aims was being called the next great civil liberties war—one that would likely dwarf the race and gender movements by its global impact.

  Over 5,000 religious zealots and protestors yelled and marched in front of Victory University’s rotunda. They spilled out from underneath the building’s Romanesque facade of forty-foot pillars, onto a grassy, soccer-sized field adjacent to Freemont Library. They carried banners and signs: Artificial Intelligence Will Destroy Us; Cloning is Evil; Religious Faith is the Key to the Future; Stem Cells Advancements are Made from Murdered Babies; Being Human is to Remain Human; Biology and Machines Should Never Merge; Only God Deserves Power Over Death.

  In between the protestors, numerous motorcades arrived. Each vehicle stopped on the barricaded cobblestone driveway in front of the rotunda, dropping off a governor or a senator. Each car was met by a throng of journalists: reporters with microphones, television crews shouldering video cameras, and photographers snapping pictures. Some politicians smiled, stopped, and said a few choice words. Most jostled up the stairs until they were inside and away from the chaos.

  Other invitees, such as important religious leaders and award-winning scientists from across the country, as well as students and professors from the surrounding campus, also made their way through the crowds into the town hall forum. A few VIP invitees—each protected by bodyguards—also navigated the protestors; they were famous entrepreneurs, like Phil Holbec, CEO of Atlantis Software, which ran in virtually every computer on the globe. Or Tom Wolfson, the powerful financier who recently bought Phillips Bank when its stock price collapsed in two days—from forty-five dollars to sixty-two cents. Or Frederick Vilimich, owner of Calico Oil, one of the richest men in the world.