The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  Gregory swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

  “I appreciate that. And I believe you. It would be most kind if you would do that.”

  “Yes, it would be most kind, Gregory. But miracles seldom happen just to be kind to someone. Rather they happen to those in faithful service to the Lord and his chosen ambassador.”

  “How can I be of faithful service to the Lord? And to you, Reverend?”

  “That's why I already like you. You understand so easily. So let me continue being blunt. Gregory, you’ve done a decent job trashing Johnson’s transhumanist inclinations in your campaign, but not nearly as much as I’d like to see. Starting tomorrow, I want you to bring your criticism of transhumanism to the forefront of your campaign. I want you to ratchet up the rhetoric against Johnson’s transhumanist ties to a fever pitch. Forget all your other political ideas on jobs, taxes, healthcare, social security reform, and everything else. Johnson has you beat on all of them. But where you can win the Senate race is by discrediting him as a worthy, moral leader in the public eye. Smear him as the shady, cold-blooded, twisted idolater that he is. I want to hear how spiritually corrupt Johnson is in every speech and interview you make. I want you to bash him and his transhuman movement until your voice fails. Do you understand? Make that the ultimate rallying cry of your campaign from now on.”

  Puzzled, Gregory stared at the preacher for many seconds. He eventually said, “Okay, Reverend, I can do it. But why is that so important? I don’t really see what it has to do with anything.”

  “You don’t, but I do. When you win the election on the anti-transhumanism ticket, not another politician in the country will be able to support the movement without intense fear of jeopardizing their career.”

  “Oh,” Gregory said. “Oh, I see. You want to set a national precedent.”

  “Exactly. And I will set one. So, may I count on you to help me do that?”

  Gregory thought about it—and about the millions of votes the preacher controlled. Similar to a soldier obeying a command, he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll do it just as you requested.”

  “There’s one more thing I need from you, Gregory. One more very important matter to discuss,” Belinas said as he looked around the restaurant suspiciously. “Just between you and me.”

  Gregory leaned forward.

  “Once you win, I'd like you to chair the new security agency I’m forming with the President. He's left the choice up to me whom to choose.”

  At first, Gregory wondered if he had heard the reverend correctly. Then a merry astonishment slowly showered over him. He wasn't sure what nail-biting sacrifice was going to be asked of him, but so far, everything sounded incredible. Get elected senator, then head a major new entity his political elders would beg to lead.

  Belinas watched Gregory's reaction and answered the unasked questions on his face: Why do this for me? What makes me so lucky?

  Belinas leaned in closer. “Because I believe in you, Gregory. And so does God. He told me so. We believe you can help us do something for America that should've been done years ago.”

  “What do you mean exactly? Do what?”

  “Help us stop the atheist scientists and transhumanists in this country from taking away our souls and from disrupting the righteous human path to our Maker. The so-called ‘Transhuman Revolution’ is pure evil, Gregory. It's utterly dangerous—and it needs to be stopped.”

  “I’m not sure what to say, sir.”

  “Say yes. You have what it takes to lead this country against those who plan to destroy God with transhumanism.”

  Instead of saying yes, Gregory’s face became even more perturbed. His eyes squinting inward like a schoolboy trying to solve a complicated math problem.

  “I see something in your eyes. What is it?” Belinas asked. “Something is way out of place for you. Oh yes, of course. I understand it now. You’re still so innocent, so naïve. You think the transhuman movement is a joke: a bunch of burnt-out hippies testing crazy science fiction theories.”

  Gregory was careful. “Yes, well, sort of, sir. They seem so small and weak. They're only fifty thousand strong or so. You've got fifty million people in your churches and affiliates across America, and another fifty million abroad, who all think you're—”

  “Who think I'm God's instrument,” interrupted Belinas firmly. “And when you've seen the things I've seen, you'll understand that numbers in the millions are unimportant. It's the outliers—the few rogue individuals and their cohorts—who can cause ripples that become tsunamis. They can bring about catastrophic change to existing social systems that are stable, righteous, and God-fearing. The fact is those fifty thousand are some of the smartest on this planet, at least technically. And ten of them could take on ten million. Such is the undemocratic nature and evil of technology. But that's not only what I'm concerned about. I'm also worried about them actually convincing the world that losing our humanity is acceptable; that it's permissible or even correct in some twisted, idolatrous way. They teach that true evolution involves the loss of our beneficent human culture and our Christian way of life. They want not only to kill God, but also the soul of humankind and its cultural legacy. Humans should marvel humbly in awe of the Lord. But transhumanists only want to replace God with themselves and marvel at their own awe. Their final goal is to bring about a new world order, with them playing God.”

  “I see. Blasphemy—the greatest sin.”

  “Precisely, Gregory. Blasphemy. The one sin that can't be forgiven. And won't be.”

  Gregory took a large sip of wine, emptying his glass. He waited for Belinas to speak.

  “So will you help me? Can I count on you to be the shining knight our country needs right now? And also my good friend?”

  Gregory reached to pour them some more wine. He judged poorly, however, and gave too much to Belinas. There was hardly enough left in the bottle to fill his own glass. Gregory frowned and said, “Sure, that all sounds fine, Reverend. I'll adjust my campaign first thing tomorrow morning and increase my anti-transhumanism attack.”

  “Excellent, my new friend. I knew you would be perfect for this. It’s so good to have you on my side.”

  A waiter came by and Belinas ordered champagne. When it was poured, the preacher made a toast.

  “To you becoming the youngest senator in a century, Gregory Michaelson. And to a long, prosperous career using the Lord as your guide—and me as your friend.”

  Both men clinked their glasses and drank.

  Much later that night, Belinas contacted his clergy's leaders in New York on a conference call, saying, “Sell Gregory Michaelson. He's the one who can help us win against those God-killers. I don't want one Redeem Church member in New York to skip voting for Michaelson—or to vote any other way. If they do, cast them out.”

  ************

  Zoe Bach sat at her expansive glass desk, a pen and a blank piece of paper in front of her. Beyond it was a panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay through her forty-second-story apartment window. Outside, high above the ocean, sunlight pierced the drifting clouds, causing rays of light to dangle through the windowpane onto her face.

  She sighed, looking at the wastebasket near her. Inside it were three crumbled-up, half-written letters to Jethro Knights. She still loved him and desperately wanted him in her life. After their romance, the few other men she dated didn't compare, didn’t challenge her, didn't stimulate her enough, didn't capture her spirit. And they weren't as mentally strong or complex as Jethro. Besides, deep inside, Zoe knew she was still waiting for him to come back to her. She believed it was fate.

  Nevertheless, Zoe wasn’t sure what to write now or how Jethro would respond. She wondered if contacting him over the potential terrorist attack at Cryotask was appropriate. It might push him farther away. At least she wasn’t barging in on him in person at his Palo Alto office. But what if he didn't respond at all to her letter? Did she even want to know that? Could she survive that? What if he really meant never to
see her or know her again?

  She sat at her desk for another hour, staring at the blank page, at the bay, at the clouds, contemplating all the possibilities. She tried meditating, tried yoga moves, brewed some coffee—but still she wasn’t sure what to say. The conflict corrupted her normal peace. It made her moody, vulnerable, needy.

  When she realized this, she became furious. Impetuously, Zoe grabbed her cell phone and began a curt message to Jethro’s personal email address. Screw a handwritten letter, she thought. If he doesn’t answer or want to help me, then let him be damned. She typed rapidly:

  Jethro,

  I received a stolen email from a friend, warning of an imminent Redeem Church terror attack on me, my colleagues, and my workplace, Cryotask. The attack is scheduled for dawn on October 1st. I was hoping you could help me figure out what to do.

  Zoe

  She didn’t proofread. Didn't edit. She just pressed “Send.” The message disappeared into the void. Zoe waited, staring at the inbox on her phone like a heartbroken fourth-grade schoolgirl, she thought crossly. She wasn’t sure if he would get back to her in an hour, a day—or a lifetime.

  She was still looking at her cell phone screen two minutes later, lost in her memories of them together in Kashmir, when her phone beeped twice. The text from Jethro read:

  Getting into car now. You in your apartment, Cryotask, or SF General? I’m about a 55-minute drive from you, with traffic.

  Jethro

  She beamed before her consciousness even registered it all.

  He knew everything. Where she lived. Where she worked. Her new cell number—always deemed private. Everything.

  Slowly, she gravitated to the obvious. The whole time he was really with her. In love with her. Watching her. Waiting. And probably goddamn battling himself, she thought.

  Regardless, now she was going to face him. In less than an hour. It was that simple.

  She texted back:

  In my apartment, waiting.

  Zoe thought she should get ready. Take a shower. Put on a dress. Clean the apartment. But she didn’t move. She didn’t want to alter her position even one inch. She just wanted to savor the sublime moment. Savor what it felt like to have someone totally aware of her, of her full existence, of her capacities, of her essence. Of the mysterious uniqueness. And to bear the weighty emotion she had carried for the years since she last kissed him, last held him, last made love to him.

  Fifty-three minutes later, Jethro arrived at her skyscraper's entrance. The security guard rang Zoe, and in a skeptical voice, said, “There's a man down here, calling himself Jethro Knights, to see you, Dr. Bach.”

  Jethro knew by the guard's voice that a man hadn't been up in that apartment for months—maybe never.

  “Yes, yes, Al. He's okay,” she said in exasperation. “Please send him up.”

  Two minutes later, Jethro knocked and she opened the door.

  He stood there—uplifted and grateful to be alive—watching her. Zoe stared back, her mind reeling. Her eyes frozen on him. He walked in and took her gently by the arm.

  “How about sitting over there by that window?”

  He led her to a small couch. She was certain his hand was floating her across the room. Surely she didn’t have the strength to walk, she thought. He sat down and brought her onto his lap, holding her tightly in his arms.

  Zoe thought she should say something and finally mumbled, “Was the traffic bad? It usually is around this time in the afternoon.”

  “Shhh. It doesn’t matter now.”

  Afterward, the first tears started streaming down her face. Then a cascade. He held her for twenty minutes in silence, his own body tense and slightly shaking.

  Finally, numbly, she said, “Do you want to hear about the attack?”

  “No,” he said, lifting her up and walking towards the hallway. “I want to know which way it is to your bedroom.”

  She almost jumped out of his arms. That was just too much. Way beyond anything that she had considered. She burst out laughing and said, “Are you kidding me? You want me to just let go? Let go of it all? Right now? Of what you did? And why you did it? And what it did to me these past two and a half years?”

  Jethro simply answered, “Yes. That would be best.”

  “But everything you believed. Everything you fought in us—fought in yourself. That doesn't go away for you.”

  He twisted slightly. “No, not away. But to a place where it’s quiet now. Very quiet. Perhaps even peaceful—in a Zenlike way you might appreciate.”

  She did. Zoe sniffled and nudged her head towards the bedroom down the hall.

  ************

  The next morning Zoe Bach walked out in her white bathrobe and found Jethro Knights naked in front of the window, typing on his laptop. She flashed back to her mud hut in Kundara and thought, same Jethro.

  He heard her footsteps. Turning around, he asked, “Can I get you some coffee? It's still warm.”

  She nodded yes.

  “What are you working on?”

  “My man opening the Beijing office needs more instruction than I care to give. But, at least, he's finally locked in the lease.”

  She nodded, impressed. “I've never been to Beijing. Sounds exciting.”

  “Really? Want to go? I need someone to help me with the decorating.”

  He brought her a cup of coffee and gave it to her with a light kiss on the cheek.

  “I have offices going up on four continents, but don’t have any sense of interior design that doesn't scare away people—at least, according to my staff.”

  She laughed, and joked that she might consider the job.

  They relished the morning together—in and out of bed. She called in sick for the first time in her life. After an intimate lunch near Union Square, Jethro said, “I have some meetings down south this afternoon. Will you let me make you dinner in Palo Alto? My apartment looks like the Line of Control in Kashmir, but my spaghetti has improved.”

  After sharing a bottle of wine and enjoying dinner together, they lay naked, embracing amongst a roomful of computers, maps, and paperwork, which sprawled like the Banyan trees at Cambodia’s Angkor Watt. Candles burned atop hundreds of stacked books. The flames flickered, casting dancing shadows over the countless transhumanism articles and graphs pinned on the walls. Jethro pulled Zoe closer and whispered, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I haven’t reconciled anything. Everything is still at odds. But I can accept it now and still pursue my transhuman dreams. I hope you understand that.”

  Zoe was pensive. What could she say, she thought? Her philosophy on life—easier imagined than lived—was acceptance and harmony. She had no choice but to unify it all in herself. She whispered back, “Okay, my love. Okay.”

  The next morning, Zoe awoke to Jethro working at his computer again. She could see that he was serious and tense. Later, after breakfast, he announced, “Zoe, I want to do something on October 1st at Cryotask that is going to be very risky. I’ll need your help to pull it off. I'll do my best to protect you, the other employees, and the business, but nothing is definite. The building may be destroyed if something goes awry; however, if we can catch these criminals in the middle of their terrorist act, anti-transhumanist groups like Redeem Church are going to get a wake-up call they will never forget—a very public bareknuckled fist through the teeth. Millions across the nation will hear about it if my plan goes correctly. And it’ll be the formal launching of Transhuman Citizen to the world. I might be hurt—and I’ll likely go to jail—but I need to know I can count on you.”

  “Jail? I just got you back,” she said, moaning.

  “Not for too long a time, I hope.”

  “What does that mean? Days, months, or years?”

  “I'm not sure. Less than years, I think.”

  She considered it, understanding his mind was already decided.

  Finally, she offered quietly, reluctantly, “Okay, Jethro. I'll help you.”

  Chapter 16

&n
bsp; Despite Reverend Belinas’ pull, it remained an intensely close race between Gregory Michaelson and Andy Johnson in the election for New York State Senator. In the early hours of the morning, as the last counties finished counting their votes, Gregory was declared the winner by a single percentage point. It provided a superb story for the media. They focused on one of the strongest comebacks in decades for a candidate who, only weeks before, was significantly behind in the polls. The USA Daily Tribune reported that, out of nowhere, unheard-of constituents in rural counties voted in record numbers. Usually apathetic, the poverty-stricken populace asserted itself and pushed Gregory Michaelson to a relished victory.

  Preston Langmore and other leading transhumanists were crestfallen. They were counting on Johnson to try to talk some sense into the rest of Congress. He was one of their only government-based allies. Once Belinas got involved, however, the opportunities fell apart. Now, one of the most powerful, wealthiest states was led by an anti-transhumanist. It was another loss for the transhuman movement, at a time when it could hardly withstand any more losses.

  Gregory's first days in office were a whirlwind. As such a young handsome senator, he was a constant feature on numerous media outlets. News anchors congratulated him. Radio hosts interviewed him. Papers and Internet sites ran his picture on their front pages. Many people remarked that a few productive and mistake-free years in Congress would put him on the platform to the presidency. Everything was going his way. Amanda, dolled up in mink furs, played the glamorous, smiling wife. Fashion and social magazines raced to tell their love gossip and print their pictures. The Michaelsons were a sensation.