The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  When much of the clerical gruntwork was done, Jethro sat down in his apartment and began the manifesto. Penning the philosophy of the manuscript was demanding. He worked on it sixteen hours a day, incorporating his years of writing, conversations, speeches, experiences, and thoughts on transhumanism into it. He often referred to his sailing trip’s journal for guidance and inspiration. When he came to a problem that couldn't easily be solved or a paragraph that didn’t sound right, he went for a long run in the hills or a swim in the nearby pool. By the time he was back and out of the shower, he knew what needed to be said.

  Finally, after three weeks, he finished. It was fifty-two pages long. The first page read:

  The TEF Manifesto: Philosophy of the Transhuman Citizen

  The history of the transhumanist is the history of evolution. We, the transhumanists, are that budding manifestation of our universe’s ascension to its purest, most potentially powerful form. It is our birthright that we should now transform that evolution into our new future—into our luminous expansion over everything.

  We have always cherished our miraculous lives. We have always pledged our loyalty to the highest experiences of our existence. We are conscious, independent, rational entities on a quest to achieve unending, omnipotent power so that we may indefinitely preserve our experience of life and the finest, most valuable existence we can attain. These truths are innate and infallible. These truths are the essence of evolution.

  Jethro Knights’ manifesto continued, page after page, citing a plethora of life extension tautologies; dissecting the Three Laws of Transhumanism; expounding on the Transhumanist Wager; breaking down the morality of the omnipotender; exploring the coming future of human enhancement; discussing possibilities of the Singularity; offering intricate details of Teleological Egocentric Functionalism; inciting consequences of the Transhuman Revolution; and, finally, warning of the dangers of society's addiction to illogicality, egalitarianism, historical culture, blind consumerism, and religion.

  The manifesto ended with:

  Transhumanists of the world, unite! The universe will offer no forgiveness to those of you who abandon your transhuman mission. Unite together and defeat the irrationality, mediocrity, and theistic fearmongers of the world who wish to enslave science and halt evolutionary advancement. Unite and reach your dreams by achieving an undeniable victory for the Transhuman Revolution.

  ************

  Gregory Michaelson threw down his pen when he heard his secretary knock on his door. He was grateful to be disturbed. It was 9:15 A.M., and he hadn't stopped working since he walked into his office at dawn. Ever since he had started campaigning to become a Senator for New York, he found himself emphatically busy with zero time for anything outside of politics. There was no question in his mind that running for such an important office carried privileges. He was the constant center of attention: everyone wanted to meet him; important people showered him with praise; and wealthy donors pledging campaign contributions hinted at large kickbacks for him down the road.

  Surprisingly, much of it wore thin quickly. Existing on five hours of sleep per night for the last month, Gregory felt only the heavy burden of responsibilities—recently made worse by his poor showing in the debate against Andy Johnson. His daily socializing now bore so much significance, not the get-tipsy-share-a-cigar-and-laugh-with-the-boys routine. There were so many people to say the right things to, so many wealthy widows and donors to pet the correct way. So much power to handle carefully. A hefty share of stress was now ubiquitous in his every waking hour, especially from his wife’s glaring eyes.

  “Don't lose for us, Gregory. Your children and I don't want to be embarrassed. I didn't sign up for marrying a loser.”

  The pressure from her over the past few months was growing unbearable.

  “Damn it, Amanda! You know I can't control what happens,” snapped Gregory one evening in the kitchen, overtired and out of character.

  She turned furious towards him, her face ugly and vicious. “Don't you dare swear at me. Just work harder and figure out how to get back ahead of Johnson,” she screamed, then bolted to another section of the house.

  That was three days ago, and Gregory had remained in a slump ever since. Amanda still wouldn't talk to him, even after he apologized three separate times.

  “Sir, it's Reverend Belinas on the line,” announced Gregory’s secretary. “The call you've been waiting for.”

  Gregory’s eyes shot to the phone. His spirit immediately jumped and his mind began racing. He was overwhelmed by the possibilities of what Belinas' call could mean. He cleared his throat and said, “Thank you, Donna. Put him through. I'll pick up.”

  Gregory picked up the phone and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Michaelson,” boomed a voice through the receiver. “Thank you so much for taking my call. I'm sure you're busy.”

  The voice spoke as if it knew that everyone took its calls.

  “It's my pleasure to speak with you, Reverend Belinas. My wife and I watch your program on IMN often. We think you're fantastic.”

  “Oh, that is good. That is just perfect. Thank you. I've been meaning to call you ever since you announced you were running for senator. I'm rooting for you, you know.”

  “That's very kind of you, sir,” Gregory said. “I'm trying to do my best in the campaign. And I hope, if I win, I will be able to make the lives of New Yorkers better.”

  “Of course. Of course. I'm sure you will—which is just why I called. You see, I believe you and I share so much in common, so much more than I do with Andy Johnson, that pro-transhumanist renegade you're running against. And I'm deeply concerned about the welfare of New York since a few million believers in my congregation live there, most in destitution.”

  Belinas continued speaking about conservative Christian values and about how important the state of New York was to the country.

  “And I must tell you, Mr. Michaelson, I'm especially proud of you for taking a firm stance against transhumanism and its scientists.”

  “Thank you, sir. I've been trying to uphold traditional values and keep whatever government resources and money there are with the people, not the experimental scientists.”

  Gregory knew that most people who belonged to Redeem Church didn't vote. Even though their numbers were large, historically they avoided the polls. Most were apathetic to politics, hoping their faith would make things better instead. On occasion, however, they were known to vote in mass when ordered to do so. Gregory treaded carefully, fishing for what Belinas wanted.

  “I really appreciate your noticing my campaign, Reverend. I'm grateful you approve of it.”

  “Approve…yes…hmmm...,” Belinas said magnanimously, as if on the verge of completing a problem in his head. “Mr. Michaelson, I was hoping we could meet for dinner later this week. I'd love to talk to you and get to know you better. And also to speak to you about something very specific. I'm sure you're just the right man for some important ideas I have.”

  Many senators and high government officials were in Reverend Belinas' back pocket. It was considered a strategic and favorable place to be. But there were tradeoffs. One didn't negotiate with Belinas. Not with the preacher who swore in the current U.S. President and continued to advise him on a myriad of issues. Not with the mentor of Peter Wilby, CEO and chairman of IMN. Belinas was on a friendly, first-name basis with a number of the most powerful people on Earth. Recently, he was photographed at the opening of the World Trade Expo in China, sitting at the prized right of the Chinese Premier. Six months ago, he married a Swedish royal daughter to a billionaire aluminum tycoon. Last week, he lunched with Brazil's President, and then joined him afterward, cheering at an important soccer match in Rio de Janeiro. For a man who didn't hold any government positions, Belinas' influence and power were unmistakable.

  Gregory knew there was a rumor floating around that Belinas was leading the formation of a major new agency in the U.S. Government, supported by t
he President, to monitor and control the technology and research of transhumanists. Apparently, the Reverend had convinced the President that terror and violence in America could best be subdued by creating a new federal security entity. Gregory thought that Belinas probably wanted him on its formation committee or something similar. But he would have to be elected senator to qualify. Perhaps Belinas was going to throw his congregation's weight Gregory’s way. That could be an enormous boost—maybe even enough to get him elected.

  “Of course, Reverend. Dinner would be fine. I know there are a few slots open this week. Please be in touch with my secretary, who controls my schedule, and I'll be happy to meet you when you're available.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Michaelson. It’s so good to know I can count on you,” said Belinas slowly, knowing the aspiring politician had little choice but to agree.

  Gregory wasn't aware of how grand a role Belinas was preparing for him. The preacher aimed to make that handsome, youthful face one of the most powerful in the world. Gregory Michaelson showed all the signs of a perfect puppet.

  ************

  Jethro Knights drove his jeep to the redwood forest in Big Sur for a weekend of camping, after he finished the TEF Manifesto. He knew a milestone had been reached in his life, a crossing of paths. He felt the culmination of his five-year sailing trip was the manifesto: a concise embodiment of his philosophy on life, a guide map to his future, a manual for the Transhuman Revolution. Sitting by the ember-filled fire pit at night, staring at stars that towered over the redwoods, he knew he had forever left behind his youth. The manifesto, the convictions it contained, and the reasons behind writing it were not a point from which he could turn back anymore. This moment was now—forever. Before, he was still an adventurer exploring oceans, lands, ideas, himself, and whatever brilliance appeared on the horizon. Now, however, he firmly arrived on his soil, planted his flag into the earth, and adamantly began to build the world he had wanted.

  Within another four weeks, his organization was fully up and running. He printed business cards bearing the TEF infinity logo, opened a company checking account at a nearby international bank, and created an extensive website with dozens of carefully crafted media pages. He rented a commercial studio office near downtown Palo Alto and added Transhuman Citizen to all the local phone books and Internet search engines. He bought a new desktop computer, a video camera, and a business printer for creating promotional materials and handouts. Prominently hanging on his office wall, and also appearing on the website's homepage, was an open letter to the world—a near verbatim copy of his speech at the transhumanism conference.

  Jethro also spent time creating small departments for his organization in preparation of rapid future growth: a donation arm to assist with funding; an investment branch to infuse inventors and transhuman companies with cash and resources; a webpage of links leading to other life extension and human enhancement organizations. There were dozens of printable pamphlets, videos, and informational pieces on transhumanism available on his website. There were representations of art, books, and ideas the movement embraced and supported. A Transhuman Citizen advisory board was formed, which included respectable scientists and entrepreneurs whom Jethro recruited to lend his group credibility and transparency.

  Dr. Preston Langmore agreed, albeit carefully, to be on Jethro's board despite his peers at the World Transhumanist Institute taking a wait-and-see approach. Langmore didn't want to be left out of whatever his protégé did. This might be a naissance of the new generation of transhumanists he was after, even if it wasn't under his control. The aging scientist and leader was a master of diplomacy because of a single idea he had always followed: Progress, not control, is the prime motive.

  Of course, most important to any budding organization was money from funders; Jethro had none of these yet. Money in that environment, the seventh year of a global economic downturn, was exceedingly difficult to obtain. Those who possessed it held on to it carefully. Financial self-preservation via cash hoarding had become the most prudent business move of the past decade. Any attempts to grow equity were often met with staggering losses. The stock market’s volume was the lowest in a decade. Most indexes were off over 40 percent. Real estate and oil prices were down over 50 percent from highs reached nearly eight years before. Even the initial spike in gold—the world’s supposed safety currency—had recently begun collapsing. Financial analysts named it the globe's Lost Decade.

  So far, Jethro had accomplished the launching of Transhuman Citizen on the money he had made from the sale of his yacht and his former journalism job. But that cash was running out quickly. To preserve resources he lived sparsely, using little, shopping carefully, and cooking many of his own meals. His apartment was nearly bare except for a few pieces of functional furniture, a laptop computer, and of course, books. There was a growing wall-to-wall section of used books, ordered online or cheaply picked up at secondhand bookstores.

  Jethro began the conquest of securing donors by reading do-it-yourself manuals on fundraising. A dozen bestselling books were available on the subject by famous salespeople, all who claimed to have easily raised millions of dollars. Jethro thought it looked basic enough. He began every day by cold calling fifty people across the country who might be useful. Langmore secretly gave him the World Transhumanist Institute's donor list, full of thousands of current and past supporters. Over the years, it had proved itself a money tree.

  After ten days, however, only two people made donations: one at twenty-five dollars, and another at fifty dollars. That was nothing, thought Jethro, cursing. He tried harder, calling some people twice, but the responses were painful to him.

  A retired architect, aged and worn out by a hectic life, told Jethro, “I checked out your website after the first time we talked—there’s some interesting stuff on it. But that manifesto of yours isn't worded very well. The thing is too philosophical and dramatic. I do wish you luck, though. Transhumanism is just something I'm not that into right now. I used to swear by it when I was younger. There’s probably a future in it, but who knows anymore? Life gets more exhausting the older you get. These days I just look forward to sunning on my deck in the countryside, with a martini in hand.”

  Another potential donor, the widow of a once important transhumanism supporter, spoke nonstop to Jethro for ten minutes of her husband's past devotion to the movement. “Oh, he went to all the conferences. He had some friends in very high places because of his advertising business. He was always looking for new and exciting ideas. I remember the time he went to Utah for one of the first major transhumanism gatherings….”

  Jethro was certain this woman would want to make a sizeable donation. He listened politely, then sprang his request upon her.

  “What? What is that?” she answered. “How about me donating? Oh no. I only donate now to homeless shelters in Tennessee.”

  During another cold call, a former virologist told Jethro, “Oh yes, I’ve heard about you. Reckless, many say. Want to push the immortality issue with force, right down the throats of government and organized religion. Transhuman Citizen—viva the revolution! Well, best of luck. I hate them too. But not with my money. I haven't enough to keep my family fed. Haven't you seen the news? Research like you dream of is dead. Half of us Ph.D.s are unemployed. The other half are researching what the government deems acceptable. I'm thankful I've got a decent job waiting tables.”

  The donor list Jethro was given proved a waste of time. The World Transhumanist Institute used professional fundraisers, and even they couldn't make much use of it anymore. How was Jethro Knights, with his less than amicable personality, going to convince donors? Jethro lacked that salesman's slick touch to get funders to draw out their checkbooks. While others soothed, encouraged, and massaged egos of strangers' personalities, Jethro's method was loud, course, and aggressive—like a bulldozer.

  Still, Jethro tried. “Listen to me, sir, this is our lives we're talking about. Not some football game. Don't you want to
do something about it? I'm doing something about it. And transhumanists need your help and money to do much more.”

  When people hung up the phone, most of them thought to themselves: Who the hell does this guy think he is—asking for money and telling me what I need to do?

  Jethro told Langmore his problem.

  “I figured as much, Jethro. You're not a salesman, my friend.”

  “I can learn to be one.”

  “No, I don't think so. You're missing that particular quality: the ability to adjust and cater to people’s personalities in order to convince them to buy something. It usually requires juicing the delicate idiosyncrasies of a person’s pride. Mildly lying and deceiving are a big part of it, and you don't do those well at all. Not whatsoever.”

  Langmore went into his contacts book and flipped slowly through its pages, writing down ten names and their addresses.

  Eventually, he handed Jethro a piece of paper and said, “Try these people. They're wealthy, powerful, and stubborn. One is a real estate mogul. Another is a famous actor. Another is a major pharmaceutical executive. One is even the North American right-hand man of oil baron, Frederick Vilimich. It’ll only take one of them to sign on and you'll get a few years of financial breathing room for your group. You’ll need to meet them each in person—they're all on the West Coast here. They won't accept phone call pitches. Spend the gas money. Play the game. Tell them you're Victoria alumni. Tell them I recommended you. Tell them things they want to hear. But whatever you do, don't insult them—if you can help it—because their egos are already flying somewhere in outer space.”