The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  He was even more particular about choosing his books than choosing how to weld his boat together. He started with the best of the classics. Then intermixed them with modern nonfiction—everything from macroeconomics to anthropology to nuclear physics. Jethro was addicted to knowledge. He spent a month laboring through an unabridged 1400-page dictionary. There were also heavy textbooks on biology, chemistry, medicine, psychology, and sociology. A connoisseur of languages, his books were in English, French, Spanish, and Mandarin. He translated things when he didn't understand meanings. Dictionaries for Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit were aboard. Jethro read the most important book of his circumnavigation during the first week of sailing: How to Become an Expert Speed-Reader.

  The man lived with his books. They were his constant companions, his inspiration. He was always reaching for a fresh idea, a new direction to consider. His brain acted as a sponge, absorbing everything; however, the sponge was attached to an austere mind—very exclusive, very judgmental, very conditional. Jethro strove to be the most conditional person on the planet. He liked or disliked, agreed or disagreed, precisely because of conditions. He couldn't understand how others did differently. The concept of being unconditional—whether it involves love, moral choice, or belief—was just a way people held power over others, a way to disqualify meaning and its effect. The less conditions, the more the universe was indistinguishable and unreasonable, leaving one little choice but to further give in, to eventually accept anything and everything, even one’s own demise.

  Jethro's boat was outfitted in the same way as his philosophies: simple, sparse, and functional. On board was a small but tough inflatable boat which doubled as a life raft, a propane stove, an icebox, a stereo, a guitar, a freshwater sink, a kitchen, and a toilet with a cold shower above it. His cruising electronics—nearly all of them bought secondhand—were a handheld GPS, a depth finder, a radar system, a small weather station, a barometer, a VHF, and a single-sideband radio. Nothing on board was expensive, but it was all necessary and of reputable quality. He learned to use the sextant on the stars in case the GPS failed. The radar alarm always remained on, ready to beep loudly when another vessel—usually a freighter ten times his boat’s length—crossed his path.

  His on-board food was carefully planned. The bulk of it was pasta, cereals, canned goods, and nuts. There were vegetables, like potatoes, carrots, and red cabbage, that would keep well in the bilge for long periods. Always cognizant of his health, he bought organic products when possible. He ate meat, but not often. He tried to consume locally made goods, not processed junk shipped thousands of miles at the expense of the planet’s health and resources. There was an incredible assortment of spices in the galley; curry, rosemary, and basil were his staples. Garlic and chili peppers hung above his stove. A half dozen bottles of good Scotch and California red wine lay in custom-made holders near his library. Otherwise, his only drink was water, held in a fifty-gallon container built under the main berth. He had a rain catchment system to replenish his water when needed.

  Outside of books and food, the boat was mainly packed with supplies and tools for repair situations. An old welding machine was tied into the guest berth, wrapped in extra sails. There were pieces of plywood and Douglas fir two-by-fours for emergency repairs if leaks occurred. Cordless drills and saws of varying scope were packed away. Bolts by the hundreds were neatly organized in a plastic compartment box. Plumbing pipes, boat paint, anchor rode, rope, and sail material littered the bilge holds.

  For himself there was a laptop, a printer, a stereo, and a coffee grinder. His 110-volt convertor powered everything. His French press was the most used cooking amenity on the yacht.

  His plan was to circumnavigate along the equator, give or take ten degrees either way. It was warm in those low latitudes, and he would mostly bathe in the ocean. At sunset, he loosened his fingers on his guitar, teaching himself a new song every week. A glass of wine or Scotch was often within arm’s reach. Sometimes he tried whatever mild drug of choice the islands he visited favored: betel nut, pot, kava.

  Jethro lived a superlative existence. Filled with much learning, thoughts from great books, and ideas. He was a young man coming into his own.

  ************

  In the Caribbean, Jethro's journal entry read:

  Sailed 112 miles today. Southwest towards Central America. Still thinking about my stop in Haiti. How the people struggle against poverty and malnutrition. The United Nations says 100 million children died from starvation around the world in the past ten years. I would never have believed that number until I saw the streets of Port-au-Prince. Tens of thousands eating nothing but cookies made of mud. Many children were too weak to even beg. Are governments around the world really so pathetic at keeping their people alive?

  Now to Honduras. A tropical depression is forming in the Atlantic. Won't affect the winds for me—not yet at least. Blowing almost a straight downwind. Perfect. Wing on wing. GPS says 5.1 knot speed. Current is against me but I’m still making good time. Alternator on engine is giving me trouble. Next time at anchor will go to war with it. Solar panels more than producing enough power. Finished twenty-seventh book of trip today. Learning Caribbean island tune this week on guitar. Baking the Mahi Mahi I caught for dinner. Lots of rosemary going on top. Strangely, saw no ships today but lots of dolphins.

  After passing through the Panama Canal, a week of scuba diving in the Galapagos Islands, and a month-long sail to Tahitian waters, another journal entry read:

  Tahiti so lush. Isolated lagoons and thatched-hut villages. Super-friendly islanders. Learning to surf and climb coconut trees. Should be hitting Kingdom of Tonga soon. Spearfishing a tremendous amount. Training myself to hold my breath underwater longer and longer. Tomorrow is the sixth-month anniversary of my trip. What have I seen? How am I different? I've seen so much. Am I changed? I don’t think so. Can one fundamentally change? One is always who they are. Change is just who they are becoming, who they are creating—their final transhuman self (if they can make it that far before they die). Finished four books this week. Also, heard back from Francisco finally. He was in Iraq again for International Geographic. Says he's lining me up with his editor to start my articles next month. He warned me not to blow it.

  In Nadi, the capital of Fiji, Jethro joined a conference call with Francisco Dante and Mack Cranson, the managing editor of International Geographic.

  “Mr. Knights, Francisco tells me you're just the kind of man we need,” said the editor. “Experience is important, but never as much as someone who can produce outstanding content—even if they're a rookie. You'll be doing the Reporter's Notebook pieces. A thousand words long—short but sweet. Just one article a month should leave you plenty of time for sunbathing on that yacht of yours. Stories have to be tight. The research impeccable. One screw-up on a fact, and you're fired. One deadline missed, and you'll never get another email from us. This is the top of the journalism food chain, kid. Don't screw it up. You're the youngest we've ever hired.”

  Jethro Knights’ involvement with the media—perhaps the most powerful social tool on the planet—was underway. His first story was due in four weeks, and he immediately sailed to Vanuatu to start it. The article was titled The Secret Bush Tribes of Espirito Santo. It described Jethro's three-day hike across the highlands into a remote part of the South Pacific where money, clothing, monogamy, and organized religion—such as Christianity—had never reached.

  The photos Jethro took were astonishing: naked bush people with painted faces cooking lizards over open fire pits; tribe leaders armed with spears, hunting in the jungle, bones poking through the leathery skin of their noses; bamboo hut villages and complex animistic rites for the dead. Even anthropologists didn't know Vanuatu still possessed such a lost indigenous population within the island nation. Only the Amazon was thought to have tribes that unaware of the outside world.

  Jethro’s first article and pictures were an immediate success. Readers wrote and called in, applauding such an
exciting story. Tens of thousands of people shared the article with their colleagues and friends online, boosting circulation.

  Francisco sent Jethro a short email:

  Strong work. You've got eyes following you now.

  Afterward, every month, readers tuned in for Jethro’s stories: Pirate Attack in the Straits of Malacca; Bomb Digging in Vietnam; Hunting Poachers in Borneo; Volcano Boarding in Papua, New Guinea. His stories inspired the imagination of readers. It made them feel like they were right there, alongside Jethro, sneaking up on armed wildlife poachers or skimming down an erupting volcano on a sandboard.

  ************

  As valedictorian, Gregory Michaelson gave the leading student speech for his class graduation at Victoria University, which was held on the manicured lawn in front of imposing Freemont Library. Adding to Gregory’s triumph on the podium in front of all his peers was the certified letter in last week’s mail, informing him of his acceptance next fall to Boston's premiere law school, with its knack of producing senators and governors. He coasted through his speech, confident that everyone envied him. His sentences meandered their way through fluffy subjects like the needed dignity of representing their beloved university in the professional world, the noble pursuit of philanthropic activities throughout their careers, and the loyalty required to be upright citizens of the United States and beyond.

  He frowned at the end when the crowd erupted and cheered for him. Inwardly, he didn't give a damn about what he said. He had written the speech in less than ten minutes in a handicapped bathroom stall at the back of the event. What was really on his mind was much more important: the party his father was throwing for him that night. And even more important than that was his new dalliance: the red-haired freshman who was playing so hard to get. Damn her, he thought. Now that was something, and he promised himself he would score with her—or never speak to her again.

  The next day was typical for Gregory and his socially mobile life. He woke up around noon, straining to remember what had happened. A fraternity buddy holding a half-finished beer stumbled into his room, burped, and reminded him.

  “Greggy boy, wasn't that grand last night? Jesus, you’re not still in your bathing suit? Where did that foxy redhead go? Boys saw her leave in a hurry this morning. Classic. See you in three months in Boston.”

  Gregory’s first year in grad school proved easier than any in undergrad. Mostly he wrote essays, debated peers in class, and did extramural assignments. Formal tests with right and wrong answers were frowned upon in this historical elitist institution.

  “If you're here, in this classroom today, then you're never wrong,” his professor said on the first day of class, a smirk on his face. “Get used to it.”

  Such was his law school. Gregory excelled at the peculiar mix of drinking expensive wines and playing home video games. Planet Warlord was his favorite, but it was his video golf skills that drew respect from his gaming peers on campus. He was a regular at nightclubs and local bars, and followed professional football and baseball closely, able to quote endless key stats of the best players.

  His friends were far too many, most courting him specifically for his father's contacts. He was used to that. But at graduate school it had a special quality, much more intense than before. Students, especially those who weren't from powerful or affluent families, were increasingly becoming serious about their futures and careers. They needed outside help to climb the professional social ladder. He winced when he realized how many in law school were already married and had actual work experience behind them.

  With him, females were the worst though. They seemed programmed to insist on being his girlfriend. None were promiscuous or experimental anymore, like in undergrad. Gregory only wanted to have sex with them. He guarded himself vigilantly against accidentally getting one pregnant, just in case she tried to blackmail him into marriage. His father constantly warned him of that scenario. Gregory made his rounds, never without a condom in his wallet, never without a subtle grin.

  In his third year, all that changed. At a nightclub he met a tall stunning woman with light blue eyes, white sandy hair, and a vibrant smile that often emitted laughter. Her name was Amanda Kenzington, and she possessed a confident glow many people found annoyingly pretentious but deeply intoxicating. Who could blame her? Her father was a wealthy orthopedic surgeon who no longer needed to operate—nor cared to. Two decades ago he had invented a tissue supplement for joints, which was now being used throughout the world. The equity of his patents put his net worth above a hundred million dollars.

  Over the course of the evening and much dancing together, Gregory learned this and other valuable pieces of information about her. He was hooked. For the first time in his life, something clicked, something of lasting importance and meaning. It was a new experience for him, catching him totally by surprise. But at two in the morning when she prepared to leave, she blew him off.

  “Let's just go out sometime?” Gregory asked, stumbling after her as she walked away to catch a taxi with her girlfriends. “Why not? Just something casual.”

  “Hmmm…I don't think so, champ,” said Amanda, who then grinned flirtatiously, her white teeth showing. She sped up her steps a little. “You're too nice a guy for me. It was fun dancing and all. See ya around.”

  Gregory did an about-face towards the bar, stunned. He wondered if this had ever happened to him before. He couldn't think of even one time. Abruptly, in drunkenness, he turned around, ran to her and tried again, grabbing her hand.

  “Amanda, how about just for coffee? Come on. We have something here.”

  Her lips bent upward into a confident all-assuming smile that swallowed her face. The type of grin only a princess with an eight-digit trust fund could ever make. The type where nothing wrong would ever happen—and nothing ever did.

  “I guess I can think about it. But probably not.”

  Amanda briskly walked away and got into a waiting taxi, while looking over her shoulder and giggling loudly with her friends.

  Gregory Michaelson’s family carried prestige and some wealth: a few million dollars, which in the prolonged recession was a lot more than it used to be. Nevertheless, Amanda's level of family affluence was like a jaw-dropping new extreme sport: a personal jet to Barbados on weekends; an armada of live-in servants; nightly six-course dinners served on china that cost as much as Gregory's red convertible BMW.

  Gregory went back to the bar and drank himself into oblivion. Friends strapped him to their shoulders and carried him home. He wanted to forget the night and the girl—and whatever made him want her so badly. But he couldn’t. He found out through a mutual acquaintance that Amanda was doing a Master’s degree at a small, private all-girls school across town. He discovered what classes she took by bringing chocolates to the school's 73-year-old secretary. Over the years, most boys who came from across town looking for the pretty rich girls brought flowers; however, she liked chocolates better. She gave him Amanda's schedule and a map of campus, wishing him luck.

  A few days later, on a Friday, Gregory went with a dozen roses to meet Amanda after her sociology class. Amanda smiled widely when she saw him, finding the flower gesture so lacking in originality that it actually became endearing. The last man who courted her, a son of a Tunisian sheik, had presented her with a century-old gold necklace acquired on a falconry hunting trip in Senegal. Now that was something, she thought, smirking to herself, and remembering being wrapped tightly in his muscular brown arms, in his Miami oceanfront penthouse.

  Still, she accepted the roses and laughed at Gregory, taking her time to delicately smell each one. She agreed to dinner, telling him she was free the Tuesday after next. The ten-day wait was agonizing for Gregory. But over their meal at a small French restaurant, Amanda discovered she found him easy to laugh with and more handsome than she first thought. She was impressed with his knowledge of food and wine when he ordered for them both; however, she mostly just liked being chased. A senator's son sounded exciting too.
They started to date, and increasingly, she felt they looked good together. His tall body matched her own lengthy figure, and his brown eyes and black hair accented her Arian complexion; it created a melodramatic flair. She pictured herself with him on the cover of a classy women's magazine and liked what she saw—both of them chic, glaring in style, a hint of that coked-out, dehydrated model look. And the sex they shared? She frowned. Well, she guessed it would do for the time being.

  Amanda's childhood made her the textbook case of a spoiled American brat. She never considered equality between the sexes. It was clear: Women were to run the show, and men to make the show happen. Like her mother, who presided over frequent dinner parties and a 12,000-square-foot home that was redecorated annually, Amanda existed to make sure the style matched the power. It was the peculiar nature of social superficiality that impressing others was the objective if oneself was too vain to be impressed.

  The parents of Amanda and Gregory thought they were the perfect match for each other. Gregory's father encouraged marriage after only one year of dating. Amanda's father did the same. The older men imagined that two empires were meeting, forming a lasting union. Each family wondered how far up the social register their offspring might ascend.

  The only problem was that the kids weren't really in love. Gregory found out that his coy, insatiable girlfriend was an enormous amount of work. Amanda wasn't sure Gregory was ambitious enough—he liked playing more than providing. She wondered if he could supply the grandiose life she wanted and was prepared to enjoy. But when families like theirs got together, love could work its way out later.