The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  Once on campus, Jethro locked his bike and walked up four flights of stairs to the top floor of Philosophy Hall. He stepped quietly into his classroom, lost in thought about a problem on his boat's keel. The other students, including Gregory Michaelson, sat uneasily, watching him find an empty seat. Jethro’s paper was scheduled to be the first thesis discussed. Amongst the intimate gathering of eleven seniors, all were required to read each others’ papers before that day’s class. They knew Jethro’s essay was going to clash sharply with the professor’s outspoken conservative views.

  As usual, Professor Rindall strode into class five minutes late, his red scarf bouncing with his steps. He wore a spiffy black gentleman’s suit bought on a recent trip to Rome. His mustache was carefully combed and pointed upward. His dyed brown hair—what little he had left—was gelled and parted. He looked obviously perturbed. After quickly greeting the class and mentioning some generalities about graduation, he turned to the first paper on his desk and hissed a long, annoyed sigh.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Jethro Knights—our imaginary overman,” the professor said.

  The classroom chuckled.

  “You know, Jethro, I haven’t failed a philosophy student for fourteen years. The last one thought it coy to not turn in a paper at all. But this, if you don't mind, this rant of a thesis—this is not philosophy. Maybe, this is art. No, not even art. This is science fiction. Bad science fiction. B-rated science fiction. Other times that might be excusable. After all, being open-minded is a staple in this department.”

  The teacher scanned Jethro, looking for a reaction, perhaps something conciliatory. But the student's face was neutral. No, not neutral, thought the professor, but indifferent. He was downright unconcerned.

  “Yet this paper, Jethro,” Rindall said, holding up the manuscript portentously, “this is so highly infectious, so appallingly antisocial, it's hard to even accept as a reasonable answer to the assignment. In fact, it's hard to believe it belongs to the human race. Your so-called ‘omnipotender’ is monstrous, immoral, and inhuman. It goes against virtually every great principle of civility that society has ever reached. It’s decidedly evil. I have always encouraged originality, but this is ludicrous. I don’t know what to say except, hopefully, you didn’t really mean to turn this in, in light of the fact that your other papers were excellent—at least from a technical point of view, when reviewing and critiquing other philosophers.”

  Jethro stared at the professor, silently.

  “Well, say something, son. This is very serious. This is Victoria University for God’s sake, and you’re in the leading philosophy department in the world. It didn’t get to be like that because of vicious nonsense like your essay.”

  During the past two centuries, many of the world’s most influential thinkers studied or taught in Victoria’s Philosophy Hall, a nondescript brick building that housed the university’s philosophy department. It had been nicknamed “The Idea Factory of the West.” But to Jethro, the pantheon of great thinkers seemed like a worn old club of fools, pretenders, and religiously biased speculators. They were like so many of the professors Jethro knew at Victoria: smart, articulate, witty, charismatic—but with few solid ideas to stand on. And none had teeth to bite anything. Teeth, Jethro thought, silently grinding his own—what’s the point if we can’t bite?

  “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?” the professor asked. "The words in your essay are unacceptable."

  Jethro watched him for a long time, then slowly answered, “My words define a coming new species. Most humans will reject them because they feel threatened and don't understand. Most humans are cowardly idiots."

  "Eh?"

  "And those other papers I turned in were extremely painful to write. I didn’t agree with the ideas. But my job as a student was to follow the assignment and interpret those people. Given your philosophical parameters, I did the job.”

  Surprised, the professor squinted his right eye and tightened his lips.

  “The last assignment was on my book, Discourse on Divine Instrumentalism—a national bestseller, just in case you've forgotten. That was extremely painful?” the professor asked, feeling the need to defend himself in front of his students.

  Jethro leaned forward, rallied out of his passivity, and said, “Are you being serious? That paper was the most painful thing to write in four years of college. More so because so many others liked and agreed with your ideas. The entire book was awful, full of moronic drivel.”

  Students moved carefully, edgily in their seats. This was not how one spoke to the chair of Victoria’s philosophy department, who the USA Daily Tribune named as one of the 100 most influential people in the world. Especially in light of how even the slightest positive recommendation from this professor would mean a guaranteed acceptance to any graduate school in America—or the clinching of a high-profile, high-paying job.

  “An explanation is now due, Mr. Knights,” the instructor said, trying to remain calm, underscoring the ferocity growing in him.

  “If you insist,” Jethro said, and sighed. “Your book takes off where St. Augustine finishes. Back in the Dark Ages, back when toilet paper was still centuries away—let alone a microchip capable of processing a trillion bytes, or a plutonium-powered robot exploring Jupiter's moons. It outlines and defends an imagined divinity—worse, a commercialized Judeo-Christian manifestation—by some fairytale inversion of tautological proofs that are overly complex, but end up nothing more than elaborate non sequiturs. I might be able to accept a glorified tale of an omnipresent force at least as technically plausible. But in the second half of your book you actually digress to your childhood inklings, literally, and anthropomorphize an altruistic deity using epistemological jabs of first-order logic—all intermixed with antediluvian Islamic, Hindu, and animistic maxims aimed at trying to prop up your various theories. The hodgepodge of verbiage does nothing but create contradictory pluralism designed to encourage readers to forgo reason—or perhaps to despise reason altogether. I suspect you did this all purposefully, knowing book sales would soar if pseudo-intellectuals could read philosophy without actually thinking. The whole endeavor probably funded your new convertible Mercedes purchase, which then makes it not such an awful book anymore, if we take an existential consequentialist perspective. Still—quite awful.”

  Jethro didn't intend to smile, but he did. “Is that explanation good enough for you, Professor?”

  Jethro didn't give a damn about the university anymore. He was leaving on his sailing trip in two weeks, and yesterday Francisco Dante had told him a reporter's job at International Geographic could be arranged for him whenever he wanted. The boat would make a perfect platform for writing articles. Jethro doubted that graduating from Victoria was even important anymore. And these people sitting in the classroom with him—well, they were nearly useless to a transhumanist, and would likely always be. It was a lesson that the town hall forum had irrevocably taught him.

  The professor stared at Jethro, speechless. He appeared stunned, unsure if Jethro was joking, or maybe drunk or on drugs. The students in the classroom were also shocked and unsure of what to think.

  “Are you being serious?” the professor finally uttered.

  “Of course, I’m being serious.”

  “Are you in your right mind?”

  Jethro frowned impatiently. “Of course, I am—never clearer. Look, Professor, I’m interested in immortality for me, and how to reach it. I don’t have a need for a god or faith or books like yours, which philosophize about things that might possibly exist outside myself—regardless of how eloquent they are, how real they may seem, or what bestseller list they top. The most succinct way I can say this is: It's a complete waste of my very valuable time.”

  The room remained still long after Jethro Knights stopped talking. Sunlight peered in through the building’s antiquated windows, illuminating tiny drifting particles of dust floating in the air. Someone cleared their throat, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud and disru
ptive, piercing the taut silence.

  Finally, Professor Rindall’s twisted expression changed to a chagrined smirk. He started chuckling, a little too gaily. Some students cautiously joined him. The tension in the room began melting away.

  “Come on, everyone. It’s okay,” he said. “It’s perfectly okay. This is a philosophy class, after all. We do invite new ideas here.” He waved his arm gregariously to his students. Twice.

  Then, abruptly, Rindall slammed his fist on the table, sending fear throughout the room. “Just not stupid ones! Or malevolent ones!” shouted the professor, his expression now furious and aimed at Jethro.

  A heavy, discomforting silence ensued again, washing over the class. Surprisingly, it was quickly broken from the other side of the room by Gregory Michaelson. He astonished everyone by firmly saying, “Jethro, you’re entitled to your own opinions, even when they’re obviously antisocial. But how can you sit there casting such unfavorable judgment on one of the greatest living minds on the planet—and his philosophical magnum opus? That seems absurd, even for you.”

  The professor eased, smiling at Gregory—that smile of bonding with a favorite pupil.

  Jethro turned aggressively to Gregory. “Stay out of it. You’re not the real thing. You and just about everyone else in this room don’t have a future in philosophy. Your future is in law, and maybe worse: politics. These classes are just stepping stones to your BMWs, your fancy parties, your pretense at power in society. For me, this class, my thesis, and my degree are really about philosophy and how I apply it to my life. I am a philosopher in the true sense. Not a future law student thinking about grad admissions and summer internships at Barney & Fleturstein Law Offices or whatever ambulance-chasing, corporate-suing cheat shops you're going to end up at. Or worse: brownnosing as a political aide to Senator So-and-So of whatever loser party they claim to belong to as they systematically destroy America.”

  For an instant, Jethro appeared as if he might leap out of his chair and attack Gregory. People in the class were stunned by the fierce response and the escalating tension.

  Jethro twisted around in his chair and said to all of them, “I don’t even know why you people exist or even come here. Isn’t there a better way to get into law school? Or to go into politics?”

  Protectively, the professor walked in between Jethro and Gregory, bitterly shaking his head. He responded to the curveball, saying loudly, “They come here, Mr. Knights, for leaving a lasting mark on the world and its interpretation of the rules society has freely agreed to follow. They are great minds who drift through the halls of this school and department, prompted by a higher force. Remember our university motto: In luine tuo videbimus lumen. In Thy light, we shall see light.”

  “In Thy light!” said Jethro. “The lawyers defending that imbecilic group that bombed and murdered those transhuman scientists in Illinois six weeks ago are former philosophy students from this department. What kind of light is that? It’s screwed up—and we all know it.”

  There was a pause, a moment of introspection. Then denial. It was easier to change the subject and stay with the God talk.

  “You know,” the professor swaggered, regaining control of the classroom and speaking pensively, almost to himself, “I had dinner with the President of the United States and some of our top senators last week, as I usually do with all our most important alumni once a year. It was right after the town hall forum. A little informal meal. Reverend Belinas led us through an eloquent grace before we ate. He spoke of our belief and feelings for something higher than us, something grander than us. It was quite moving—and, of course, all very true. You should try it sometime, Jethro. Open your mind and heart to people, to love, to goodness, to positive energy, to something more grand and wise than your diminutive self.”

  Jethro sat rigid in his seat, plagued with disbelief—just like Dr. Nathan Cohen at the town hall forum every time the scientist heard the words “God” or “faith” or “prayer” mentioned. Jethro was unable to comprehend the irrationally in front of him, surrounding him, squawking at him. Its form seemed too monstrously idiotic to be authentic. He uttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” without even knowing he said it.

  “No, Jethro, I’m not kidding,” the professor answered softly and gravely. “I’m not kidding whatsoever.”

  Professor Rindall walked back to his desk and slowly sat down in his chair. He now appeared to be lecturing to a lost, crippled beast who bewildered and disgusted him. “Regrettably, Jethro, I think we’re all done considering your paper, your thoughts—and, frankly, even you altogether. There’s really nothing more to say.”

  Rindall looked around the room, affirming this. “And so, with that, I’m going to ask you to leave now, Mr. Knights. Leave the class. I didn’t realize your ideas were so—antisocial. Seeing that you graduate next week, it’s too late to try to stop a man of your passion and intellect into razing himself. I’ve no choice but to pass you, as you have completed your assignments. But you’ve no place in this room, on our last day, with your attitude. And, shall we say, negative energy. Especially, as I prepare to send goodhearted, righteous-minded pupils into the world to take on troublemakers just like you. And they will. Oh, they will. They always have—and they’ve always won.”

  Jethro rose, gathered his books, and walked out, undeterred by the piercing glances around him. The students and professor stared hard after him, as if watching a man walk off a ship's plank into the ocean a thousand miles from land. Jethro rode back to the boatyard on his bike. He thought little of the classroom incident, knowing it wasn't worth his time to consider. Knowing only that someday he would have to consider it—and somehow defeat what caused the professor and students to think that way. There was some mysterious devilish force, not just in that classroom, but saturating the entire planet and stifling the best potential in the human race, choking off life’s most core promise. He had clashed with it many times in the past. But the thing had no obvious form or substance. No clear name with which to describe it. He only knew it was the same thing that made the town hall forum an utter failure. Or caused Professor Rindall’s book to be a bestseller. Or made a wheelchair-bound man prefer faith in God instead of a cure to his paralysis. Jethro could not define that force yet, but he knew with certainty that one day he was going to war with it.

  Back at his boat, Jethro focused on how to better strengthen the keel. Over the next two days, he found a solution and welded in the alterations. Soon he finished the final work on Contender and readied it for launch into the sea.

  His last duty before he left on his circumnavigation was to post his thesis, Rise of the Transhuman Citizen, on a popular life extension blog. Whether the world agreed or not, it was time to cast his ideas directly into the universe.

  Chapter 6

  Journeys that illuminate and change lives are not defined by schedules, money, or agendas—but by experience. Often, also by outcomes. If ever a journey were to help solidify a man into that which he wanted to become, was going to become, and had mostly already become, then Jethro Knights’ circumnavigation qualified.

  He left on a drab, cloudy day, the day of his college graduation, which he didn’t attend and forgot was happening. He motored past the skyline where two great towers had once stood—built by science and engineering, destroyed by religion and ignorance—until he reached the Atlantic, then turned hard starboard. He shot the mainsail out, catching the wind aft, and aimed the boat towards the Bahamas—his first stop, nearly a seven-day sail away. He wouldn’t drop anchor until reaching the pink beach of the famous island of Eleuthera, which he read about with envy years before in travel magazines.

  Afterward, he was off to Haiti, Jamaica, Honduras, Venezuela, and through the Panama Canal into the Pacific Ocean. In time he’d go around the African horn, or through other canals and straights. The way was unknown, which is why it was the correct direction.

  Like all great inward journeys, there was no curriculum. Just the notion he was sojourning
around the world, his eyes open. He knew what he wanted to do with his next fifty years of life—ensure immortality for himself. This meant fully dedicating it to the field of transhumanism. But he wasn’t sure exactly how he should go about that. To want to live forever—to become an omnipotender, one after ultimate power, as he had written in his senior thesis—there must be some superhuman commitment to it. There must also be some trustworthy and comprehensive philosophical framework for that intense a pledge. His philosophy, TEF, still needed much development. It needed extensive, careful thought so as to be flawless and indisputable. He wanted to make sure he truly understood it, could thoroughly describe it in his writings, could fully defend it logically—and could find the best path to achieve it.

  He was young, after all. And surely, whether it be deadly landmines, ferocious storms, or murderous pirates, he wanted to look life and death in the face, and determine how best to be the worthy contender of his dreams. He believed he was that man already. The journey would let him know for sure. It would teach him about his strengths and reveal his weaknesses. In some ways the trip was a gamble, a different way of walking around a jungle filled with hidden landmines. Sometimes, rolling the dice of destiny was part of the overall plan, especially if he was rolling so one day he would never have to roll again.

  ************

  Jethro Knights didn't travel alone.

  Five hundred carefully chosen books accompanied him. Most were worn, bought at used bookstores on Eighteenth Street near Victoria University. Some were purchased from Internet sites. Others, the esoteric and hard-to-find ones, were borrowed permanently from the New York City Library. The books were his companions—faithful, unruly, energizing. He didn't have a mentor—never needed one—but he always had his books.