Often unemployed and aimless, Bobby was recruited by the anti-transhumanists of Redeem Church. Surprisingly, he moved up the scale of power quickly in the Ohio branch. In less than eighteen months, he became a security director for the entire state. Jane was aghast.
“How can you do this—be in this stupid group?” she asked. “They want to stop all science and technology?”
“Aw, hell no, Jane. They just want to stop the crazies who aim to turn us all into monsters and who want to kill God.”
“When did you start believing in God, anyway?”
It was impossible to talk to him, she thought—like speaking to his damn oil-leaking motorcycle. She suspected Bobby only liked the group because it gave him exactly the kind of job that fit his angry, egotistical personality.
On a Friday night, when Bobby was out drinking with his co-workers, Jane discovered something he had never done before: leave his computer on with his email inbox open in a browser. Bobby was extremely paranoid about stuff like that, since his work required carrying out confidential and questionable activities. He must have forgotten or been drunk already, Jane thought.
As she went to turn off the machine for him, she recognized something on the screen in one of the email headings. It read:
INFO FOR SAN FRANCISCO CRYOTASK OPERATION
Jane jumped back, remembering that Zoe Bach worked there. Now she had to click on the email. What she saw shocked her:
Bobby,
Surveillance shows the clinic has only one nighttime security guard. He's unarmed and often sleeps in his booth outside in the early morn. We've been doing the reconnaissance all week. It should be an easy mission. So get the ball rolling and acquire the explosive devices from the Wisconsin #4 branch. We'll be instructed by the higher-ups when the insiders need them. They'll be entering in from the basement vent, not the loading dock as first thought, so we'll need the lighter devices. Looks like the early morn of October 1st is the final go-date—when all the doctors and staff are present for the monthly maintenance session. Call me with any questions and delete this email upon reading.
God bless,
John
The next day, Jane called Zoe from a payphone and gave her all the info she could. Zoe immediately went to the police, but they refused to look into it.
“There are bomb threats directed at Cryotask all the time, Dr. Bach. What’s so special about October 1st?” asked a skeptical, overweight officer at San Francisco's downtown precinct.
“There's inside information this time—an email.”
“Well, get us the email, Doc.”
But Jane had chosen neither to print it out nor to save it. She felt it was potentially dangerous for herself and her daughters if she broached the subject with her husband. He was already unstable and, on occasion, abusive.
Zoe told Jane not to worry about it, and thanked her for the information. In a ridiculous way, the police were right, Zoe thought. There were bomb threats all the time at Cryotask, via letters, phone calls, and emails. What was yet another one? Still, Zoe felt different about this warning. There was substance this time: dates, evidence, and plans—if only from a childhood friend. Her stomach churned unnaturally when she considered it.
The next week at lunch, still wondering what to do about the threat, Zoe asked one of her research colleagues at San Francisco General Hospital.
“What would you do? The staff and tanks are vulnerable in there. And the police won't help.”
Her friend thought about it, then abruptly suggested that Zoe get in touch with a man she had met recently at a medical lecture. “A transhumanist man,” she explained, “who has just started an aggressive group to fight these types of things. Maybe he can help you. And you'll like him too: strong, tall, well-traveled, well-read. A strange, rogue personality—like yours in a way. He might even be single. You know, Zoe, you ought to take time to date one of these days. Work isn't everything, and you're not getting any younger.”
“What's his name?” Zoe asked, already knowing the answer.
“Jethro Knights.”
************
Dr. Nathan Cohen was upstairs in his Phoenix, Arizona house, sleeping with his wife, when the hitmen from Redeem Church quietly parked their car in front of his driveway. It was just after midnight and the moon was absent from the sky. The three men quickly jumped out of the car and scuttled to the side of the garage. The leader—a professional kidnapper with oily hair, brown leather gloves, and a prickly goatee—disarmed the house alarm with cutting pliers, then silently picked the backdoor lock using three tiny screwdrivers. Having scoped out the house in the suburbs for four days, they knew exactly where to go, how to get into the house, and how to get out of the neighborhood quickly. They tiptoed up the stairs, then burst into Nathan Cohen's room. Before even a shout could be uttered, the light was turned on, a shotgun was pointed at his wife's head, and a handgun with a silencer was forced onto the scientist's chest.
“Listen to me very carefully, Dr. Cohen. Get up. Get dressed. Then come with us. All of this is to be done in complete silence. If you cause any problems at all, we'll kill the youngest child first,” said the professional. His eyes pointed towards a bulky man who carried a baseball bat and bore a tattooed drawing of Jesus on his forearm.
“Do you understand, Dr. Cohen?”
The kids were sleeping in two nearby bedrooms with their doors closed.
Cohen whispered calmly, “There's no reason to wake up the children.”
Respectfully, the professional hitman nodded. “Exactly. Now let's go.”
After quickly dressing in his sweats, Cohen was marched down the stairs and out the front door, the shotgun pressed to his back. He was pushed roughly into the car. Before it sped away, his wife was already dialing 911. But the kidnappers had disappeared before the police arrived.
In the growing hysteria throughout the country, the kidnapping event polarized the nation between the transhuman movement and the religious anti-transhumanists. The search for Cohen and the manhunt for his captors were front-page news. IMN and other television crews camped outside the Cohens’ house, speculating about what the transhumanist’s wife and his two daughters were enduring. The Phoenix police chief’s phone rang incessantly with press asking questions about the kidnapping.
Some Americans across the country thought the violent abduction was Cohen's due. He was, they insisted, a member of numerous advisory boards of life extension organizations, the founder of a transhuman robotics laboratory, and an early investor in an organ-growing company in Seattle. Other Americans thought the kidnapping was a horrific crime against an innocent scientist.
A tiny seven-person group felt the most potent emotions; they were only eight months away from receiving experimental robotic arm transplants to the stumps they were handicapped with from birth. The lead scientist on the project was Dr. Cohen.
On the third day of the search, the kidnappers' car was found in an abandoned industrial complex outside the city. A small amount of Cohen's blood was confirmed in the back seat, adding fuel to the media's bombardment of the story. Finally, on the fourth day, a body—decapitated and bruised—was found early in the morning under a Phoenix freeway overpass. Later that afternoon, at the edge of a nearby park, the body’s unrecognizably beaten head was thrown from a car. A child, while flying a kite, stumbled upon it and screamed. A DNA test showed it belonged to Dr. Nathan Cohen.
A bloodied, handwritten note was duct-taped to his forehead:
We will get every one of you transhumanists. You will not live forever. You will lose your lives prematurely—and then face eternal damnation. Stop your research now or suffer the consequences. God is the only master of eternal life—and we are his messengers.
Chapter 15
Jethro Knights was working in his office, adding new pages to his organization's website, when his cell phone rang. He answered, and a low scratchy voice somberly announced, “Mr. Knights, this is Juan Pedrosen. I've made up my mind. I want to hel
p your cause. I can offer a half million dollars right now to Transhuman Citizen. After what they did to Nathan Cohen, I just want to make sure the money is used to get those bastards back—to do whatever we can to make sure this doesn't happen again.”
Heavy with emotion, Pedrosen said, “I can now see that you were correct about aggression and violence being a regretful but necessary course of action when peaceful means don't work.”
Jethro replied softly, “We're all very saddened by what happened to Dr. Cohen. I'm deeply sorry. I know he was a personal friend of yours.”
“Yes,” the man said, his voice breaking on the other side of the receiver. “He was…a very good friend…and one of the few people I admired in the world.”
Jethro let a few moments of silence pass.
“Mr. Pedrosen, I'm formulating plans right now about how to best handle this. Your contribution will be the seed money to fight back—and I mean it literally. I can promise you that.”
“Whatever you do, just make sure everyone learns about it. We can't let them get away with this.”
“I wouldn't think otherwise. You can count on a powerful and earsplitting response that many around the country will heed.”
Forty-eight hours later, the money was transferred. Others also decided to give to Transhuman Citizen. Killing one’s friend had that effect. In a matter of ten days, Jethro's fund grew from a nearly empty account to over one million dollars. The friends of Nathan Cohen and the new donors were not interested in funding more transhumanism research—they wanted retaliation. They wanted someone to stand up and fight back for them.
Jethro sent flowers to Mrs. Cohen, and told her how funds were rushing in after all the unsuccessful efforts of his own. He promised he would avenge her husband—that his life and death would be the impetus for a more united transhumanist front.
Over the next few weeks, a plethora of emails and offers to help Transhuman Citizen inundated Jethro's email inbox. Many at the conference remembered him now, remembered how he said this was a war. Many of those transhumanists now wanted to join and help. Some wanted to take up arms immediately, to start destroying churches and battling anti-transhumanism groups. Others wanted to terrorize the government; they felt it had neglected seriously pursuing Cohen’s kidnappers. Still others wanted strikes and demonstrations organized at universities and public places.
Jethro personally answered each inquiry and offer. He spent hours each day talking on his cell phone, writing letters, and emailing those interested. He promised everyone that a concrete plan was in the works to soon avenge Dr. Cohen; that his new organization would push the movement forward with renewed vitality and an aggressive spirit. He also told them that the best thing they could do was to keep in close touch and help him to get more donors and funding.
Despite Jethro's disdain of being socially diplomatic, he lacked no skill when it came to the diplomacy of action. Years of investigative journalism and a disciplined iron will taught him to hold his passions and emotions in close check, to remain objective. He looked like a tiger in the bush: hungry, unmoving; waiting all day, ready to strike expertly when the choice instant approached. Jethro displayed remarkable patience for a man burning inside for action. He chose for the immediate moment to concentrate on the technical happenings in his organization, and not retaliation. He knew what kind of war he wanted to wage. For the Transhuman Revolution to broadly succeed in America, much more than retribution to a horrible murder was needed. A core cultural shift was required, one in which society’s outlook and its moral prerogatives were drastically transformed.
The breakdown of some of Jethro's long-term specific tasks for Transhuman Citizen was massive: lobby the government to pass pro-transhumanism legislation; widely alter opinions on how the human species views itself; aim to eradicate beliefs in religion and superstition. Jethro knew these important battles along the way must be accomplished for transhumanism to transform America and civilization as a whole. Burning down churches, antagonizing the government, and leading angry protests were not going to do much for transhumanists in the long run. He wanted a much larger platform for Transhuman Citizen than just being an agitator group, though he understood that newsmaking activism had its advantages as well. At least in the beginning, when TEF and his organization were so young and needed publicity badly. For now, however, foresight and diplomacy were top priorities.
Jethro decided to spend some of the new donor money opening an expansive office in a highly visible part of Palo Alto. He hired a reputable communications director and other needed employees. He also bought new computers, as well as media and film equipment to produce better promotional materials. Most importantly, he asked Preston Langmore for a personal favor: to find five full-time professional fundraisers for Transhuman Citizen. Langmore grinned and happily did it. Within two weeks, Jethro hired them and sent them out across the country to raise money.
“What’s next on the agenda, Jethro?” Langmore asked, when visiting his new Transhuman Citizen office for the first time. “I just hope it doesn't involve your getting killed or arrested.”
Jethro smiled. “No. Not yet. I'm going to wait.”
“Wait?”
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“For the right moment. To do the exact right thing. I'm also beginning to work on international plans. Some of your hires are doing great so far, and bringing in ample new funding. I'm now planning small satellite offices in Paris, Sydney, Buenos Aires, and Beijing. And then to hire more fundraisers as well. Plus, I'm in the midst of creating an effective media machine—where we can mass produce news, pamphlets, videos, and everything else—right here in this office, on demand.”
“I've heard, I've heard. But, Jethro, what are you going to do?” Langmore reiterated with emphasis.
Jethro looked at him acutely, the same look that he once had while holding a pool stick in the Victoria University dormitory.
“Preston, I'm going to do something that will make Transhuman Citizen famous. But that, my good friend, is confidential. And nothing you really would want to know too much about, just in case you're implicated or arrested as well.”
Langmore grinned and said, “I knew it. I can't wait.”
“Neither can I.”
************
Gregory Michaelson walked toward the revolving doors of Le Chateau, the preeminent restaurant on Long Island, where he was meeting Reverend Belinas. A sharply dressed athletic man stood near the front entrance. The color of his full attire was identical: black suit, black shirt, black tie, black belt, black socks, black shoes. A bulge near his hip showed he was likely an armed private bodyguard. Inside, Gregory saw another burly man in the same black outfit, eyes alert, sitting at the bar. The man nodded a signal, and the waiter responded by escorting Gregory to Belinas.
“Mr. Michaelson, thank you so much for joining me,” Belinas said. His tall figure stood from behind an intimate table in a far corner of the restaurant, his arm outstretched for a handshake.
“It's very much my pleasure, Reverend Belinas. Is that your bodyguard over there?” Gregory pointed, animated like a young boy. He couldn’t hide his awe of the preacher about whom he’d heard so much over the years.
“Yes, it is. But I would not call my protectors “bodyguards.” Members of the clergy, maybe. Missionaries for the Lord, possibly. Or, as I like to call them, angels. Aren't we all?”
“Tough-looking angels,” said Gregory. “Like in a Hollywood movie.”
“Yes, they are. It's unfortunate that people like you and I have to be escorted everywhere. Yet, such is the nature of our work, of our mission, of your mission. Gregory—may I call you Gregory? You do believe you are on a mission, don't you?”
“Of course, please call me Gregory,” he answered as they sat down. “And, well yes, I like to think I'm on a mission—doing the right thing, if that's what you mean. For the people, of course.”
Gregory straightened his tie.
“Of course
.” Belinas smiled, quickly understanding the opposite about the aspiring statesman.
The waiter came and they ordered drinks.
The men chatted more, and after wine was served and salutations made, Belinas put his drink down and pushed it aside, saying, “Gregory, allow me to be blunt about your Senate race. You're in a dark place right now. Johnson is too tough, and I must say, without a miracle occurring for you, he's going to win the election. But miracles occur all the time, my friend—when you know the right people and believe in the right path. And, of course, the Lord is on your side.”
Gregory stared at his wine glass and saw the reflection of Belinas in it.
“I'd like a miracle,” Gregory whispered.
“Of course you would. Because you want to win. You have that winning quality—I can see it shining through you. You are a man capable of doing great things.”
“Do you really believe that?”
Belinas leaned back in his chair, surprised. He did not expect that reply. He stared incredulously and searched to understand the young man more.
“Yes, I do. I definitely do. Don't you?” the preacher finally said.
“I'm not always sure,” Gregory responded quietly, as if in confession. “The game can be…overwhelming.”
Many people confessed things in front of Belinas that they later regretted. It was something the reverend had pleasantly come to expect in his line of work—and to exploit when the opportunity presented itself.
“Everything,” whispered Gregory, “has just been a lot more difficult than I ever thought it would be.”
The preacher smiled, pleased, thinking the candidate would be more easily formed than originally anticipated. He leaned forward and said, “Gregory, this is why you're here tonight. I can get you elected by telling my congregation in New York to vote for you. A loss here might be the end of your career, and back to being some statesman’s aide or sitting by the pool with your wealthy wife, thinking about what might have been. But I can snap my fingers and give you a five-point lead tomorrow. You'll be the talk of the town—on your way up.”
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