“I would normally answer: For a preacher, his power lives with his people. Since I know you better, and know you’re smarter, I'll just answer: It lives with its beholder, and it’s a home in itself.”
She grinned and clapped animatedly. She made a small intimate step towards him. “Well said. I think you're precisely right. Would you mind going to my fool husband and sharing your wisdom with him? He could damn well use it.”
The courtship dance halted for Belinas. The word “husband” was like a dagger in his cranium. He felt the sexual edge in him rescind, the fuel in his groin ooze away, the world around him instantly deflate. He looked carefully at Amanda and knew he didn't have time for her. Or for the hundreds of princesses like her, bored and desperate to tangle with anything colorful, stirring, and shimmering. He turned off the attraction and returned to his purpose.
“Ah yes. Sweet Gregory, who would’ve preferred never to have left his fraternity house in college. I actually did come here to talk to you about him.”
They walked into the shade and sat down at a glass table overlooking the pool and gardens.
Amanda sighed. “Well, what can I do for you, Belinas? Regarding him, that is.”
She regretted mentioning Gregory now. Their moment was ruined. At least for the time being, she thought; however, she looked forward to what he wanted to say or do with her husband.
“It seems that you and I have mutual goals,” Belinas began. “And let's just say Gregory's a means to those goals. But lately, I find him far too casual, given his elevated position. He is, simply put, too affable. And lazy too.”
“All agreed, especially the lazy part.”
“I wanted to come to you personally and give you some suggestions on how to motivate him. I think he needs…special encouragement.”
Amanda bent closer, liking where this was going.
“What exactly do you mean, Belinas? Special encouragement?”
“I mean he needs to wake up and focus,” the preacher said firmly, almost threateningly. “He needs to get out of his cotton-candy dream world. Stop holding up progress. He needs to embrace the tougher, darker sides of human behavior to help others get to the light.”
Belinas looked at her inquiringly to make sure he wasn't pushing too hard.
“Go on, Belinas. I'm perfectly fine—and still listening.”
“I can't tolerate his casualness and inefficiency much longer before I ask the President to have him replaced as the head of the NFSA. And that would be a great shame, because if Gregory would just do his damn job, he’d be in line for the White House next.”
“Belinas, you didn’t come to me because you thought I’d disagree or think differently. Tell me what I can do, and I will do it. He’s a fool. So talking to him won't do much. I've already tried for five depressing years.”
“I'm sure you have.”
“Well, what then?”
“Something much more extreme. I want you to threaten to divorce him. Tell him you've already talked to your father about it and are discussing logistics with an attorney.”
Amanda sat back carefully in her chair.
“That's quite extreme,” she said, taking a slow sip of her martini, a sinister look manifesting in her expression.
“We need him, Amanda—not as he is, but as he can be for us. Tell him he can keep you if he gets rid of the intern girls, the football game watching, the fraternity poker clubs, the boozing parties, the entire nonfunctional social world that loves him for doing nothing with himself—for being a playboy on my dime and my creation. Do you think the leaders of the transhuman movement are doing that night after night? Do you think Jethro Knights is doing that? Gregory is a senator, for God's sake, and the figurehead of the NFSA, which is my brainchild. I aim to make it one of the most powerful institutions in the world. I don’t want him to spoil its value at the best time ever to make it grow. At a time when it's so needed. We might only get one chance at this. It could become its own branch of the government, its own power source. Anything.”
“Or the military arm of the Church of Belinas.”
The reverend smiled smoothly, calming himself, distancing himself from his passionate words. He shook the mostly melted ice in his Scotch.
“Crudely put, but not that far off,” he replied. “That's why I like talking to you.”
Amanda stared into the distance, her eyes following an airborne hawk searching for prey.
“Okay. I’ll threaten him the next time I see him. Shall I have a lawyer draw up some preliminary paperwork for a divorce?”
“Sure, but don’t freak him out. Just enough so he listens better and gets his head back into the game. And for Christ's sake, get him a personal trainer that forces him to exercise. He’s getting fat—at least fifteen pounds gained in the past year. He'll be obese by next year if he continues at the same pace. Maybe enroll him in a boxing class or Jiu-Jitsu. Something to get him to bleed sometimes, knock a few teeth out of that pretty-boy face. We need to awaken the darker side of his soul.”
************
After a year of living with Jethro Knights in his Palo Alto apartment, Zoe Bach asked him whether he wanted to have children. They were having dinner at a small Vietnamese restaurant. Jethro stopped eating, appearing perplexed. Zoe’s question was dangerous and trying.
“I’ll admit, I've thought little of it—at least not in a personal way. The implications of immortality and children seem incredibly complicated. Just like love, but worse. Besides, I thought you told me you weren't sure you wanted children. That made the whole process of returning to you simpler.”
“Simpler? What the hell would complex be then?” She shook her head incredulously and continued eating.
He started eating again too, waiting for her to speak. But she held her silence long enough to become disconcerting. A minute later, Jethro pushed away his half-finished plate, and picked up his beer.
“Okay, what’s up Zoe?”
Over a week had passed since they last ate an entire dinner together away from the office, just in each others’ company. Jethro's schedule was hectic.
“When I said I wasn't sure about children, we were in the middle of a war zone, you were noncommittal, and I was still in residency. That was nearly four years ago—an eternity in many ways.”
Jethro frowned. “Would you mind just saying what you really want to say?”
She smiled broadly. “As you wish. My period is late.”
Jethro remained very still, his lips slightly open. He let ten seconds pass before adjusting himself in his seat and answering, “Really?”
“Really.”
“What would you do if you were pregnant?”
“What would you want to do?”
“I asked you first,” Jethro insisted.
She waited patiently, not willing to play his game.
He sighed, acquiescing. “Okay, fine. I’d want to do what you’d like to do. But in general it would seem odd, at least philosophically, for an immortalist like me to have offspring. Especially right now. Let’s assume I'm going to accomplish living thousands of years; then having a child this moment, at the very start of my life, may not be practical—or a rational example of transhumanist conduct. TEF will forever alter social structures, once it grabs hold and another half century passes. The hierarchy of society in a digital age and whatever comes afterward will be irrevocably changed. Men and women probably won’t mate anymore. Sex drives will be controlled or eliminated by a pill. Male and female traits will likely be merged into a single, androgynous entity. The whole idea of having offspring may become entirely obsolete. Don’t you think?”
“Jethro, I'm not asking whether having a child is going to be obsolete in fifty years. I'm asking about whether you want one today. Or, more precisely, in just under eight months.”
“It's a philosophical question, my love—a philosophical dilemma.”
Zoe winced. “Ugh! You know, I don't think like you. I don’t fight the whole world and all that i
s happening to me every second of the day. Or always ask philosophical questions first. Or classify myself as something I hope to be someday. Usually, I just feel my way through wherever I am and regardless of what is happening, even if it seems frightening or the future is uncertain.”
“Ah yes, how the enlightened are.”
She snickered back in response and then became serious, saying, “I would like to have our baby if I’m pregnant. But only if you support that decision.”
“I’ll support any decision you want to make. I owe you that after how I left in Kashmir.”
“Jethro Knights, I want more than to be owed. This is also about you, the father.”
“Of course. I didn't mean it like that. Give me a moment and I'll rephrase it.”
Jethro took a swig of beer, then another. This was causing him immense stress and Zoe knew it. She watched, amused. Waited.
“Okay, here it is: I think it would be incredible to be the father of a child. Amazing, curious, and fun. And to have one with you, given how much we love each other and how we make each other feel, sounds like bliss. It's a very real responsibility, however, and not one that is always compatible with the core ideas of my philosophy, TEF. Or the goals of immortality and transhumanism, which are self-serving and based on reaching a very different reality than the present world we live in.”
“Whoa! Imagine that. The man can say what he means. His arsenal of weapons is gone.”
Jethro frowned. Only Zoe could touch him like this—leave him raw and exposed—and still be so endearing.
“Come on, I'm kidding,” she added. “Okay, let me address what you said. Your TEF and transhuman ideas are just that—ideas. Wonderful, crazy, and accurate as they may be. But having a baby can be self-serving too, and in a multitude of ways.”
“I agree with you. Yet, when it comes to a child and the multi-year commitment—just like our love—the ideas can go from black-and-white to confusing gray shades very quickly.”
“We can worry about all the gray shades later, when we encounter them.”
“You mean we can throw dice at the universe. For eighteen years.”
“Yes, precisely. And probably for much longer than eighteen years. It can take well over a decade to go from undergrad to medical school to a good residency program.”
Jethro grinned. “Okay. I agree, as long as we understand it’s dice.”
“Baby, your transhuman aims are dice as well.”
Jethro twisted, battling his disagreement and saying slowly, “Yes, it is. For now. But I'm trying very hard to make it less and less the case, so that one day it'll be a controlled science. Everything will be like engineering skyscrapers and not just throwing paint at blank canvases.”
“Skyscrapers start from blank canvases, too. But fine, I understand what you mean. In the meantime, we can have the baby.” Zoe smiled and continued eating. She stirred her steaming pho noodle soup, scooping out a shrimp with chopsticks and blowing on it.
Jethro continued eating too. A minute later, slightly short on breath, he asked “Exactly how late are you?”
“Not too late.” She laughed, and then added, “Yet.”
************
Gregory Michaelson was sitting on the carpeted floor of his suite at the Chelane Hotel in downtown Washington, D.C. His hands were covering his head. His eyes were red and puffy. This was the worst week of his life, he thought, and then he moaned. His wife’s threat of divorce came out of nowhere. In Upstate New York, a report had surfaced that over four million of its residents were going to bed hungry—an increase of 15 percent from when he was first elected. In New York City and its five boroughs, employment was plummeting while welfare claims were skyrocketing. Then there were renewed terrorist attacks across the country because of transhumanist concerns, and increasing pressure on him to do something about it. The media reported that Jethro Knights’ group and his radical philosophies were still spreading, gaining a foothold in the American psyche, and converting other transhumanist organizations to take a hardline approach. Topping it off was Reverend Belinas, who carefully distanced himself by including his injurious mention in a USA Daily Tribune interview that new leadership might be needed at the very top of the NFSA.
Gregory wanted to sob. The shock was overwhelming. How could all this happen? Especially his wife leaving him. For what? That was the real bomb. It was the last thing he needed now that his life was so public. Besides, what about afterward? He would be practically broke without her. The way her dad always gave them property, and money was tied to the kids’ trusts or to her own accounts, which the prenuptial agreement had strangled from the start. He could never touch the real wealth, just smell it. Goddamn it, he thought. And how the hell does she know about all those women?
He lay awake at night in the hotel suite, just nine blocks from their Washington, D.C. home; away from his children, his bed, his study, his wardrobe, his cigars, his giant high-definition television—his stuff. Amanda said she needed space to think it all over. Not an official separation. Just space. There was no choice but to acquiesce. Now he was on his seventh night in a dreary room, the curtains pulled to thwart pictures taken by journalists’ telephoto lenses.
His meetings that week were a blur. Something about more Medicaid for New York. Cutting a ribbon at a new special education school upstate. An interview with a Christian magazine about the menace of the transhuman movement. An NFSA meeting with other members of Congress about handling the security flare-ups across the country.
Interrupting his melancholic thoughts came a welcome knock on his hotel room door. Amanda, he thought immediately. To make up? To forgive? He jumped up and rushed to the door. It was Reverend Belinas. At first, he was let down. But that quickly changed to a loose happiness. Or was it just a feel-good dependence? He didn't care right now—he just needed his good friend and mentor on his side. So far, he had confided in no one about what was happening, not even his aides.
“Reverend Belinas, how . . . how did you know I was here?”
“Come on Gregory, you wouldn’t expect me not to know what's happening to you. Besides, your wife called me. She asked me to speak to you.”
“My wife?”
“Yes, your wife. Come on, sit down. Let's have a talk. You look like hell.”
They walked across the length of the suite, and Gregory sat down on a small chair next to a coffee table. Belinas went to the sink and brought him a glass of cold water. Gregory took it and gulped it down like a child drinking warm milk.
“Your wife still thinks the world of you,” Belinas began, standing above him. “But for Christ's sake, Gregory, apparently you’ve been failing in so many ways. Other women? Boozing it up at clubs with young nothings in short skirts? I’m incredibly disappointed in you.”
Oh God, Gregory thought. Everyone knows. The media too, probably. His worst fears. There was nothing to do but admit it all and ask forgiveness.
“I'm so sorry,” Gregory whined, feeling the surge of a confession coming on. “I don't know what to say. There’s so much pressure on me from every direction. I’m not sure I can handle it, Belinas. My brain feels like it’s rupturing. My wife wants more and more. She wants me to tackle the presidency, and write a bestselling book, and be a good husband, and impress her father, and run for reelection, and walk the dog, and stop the transhumanists. I just want to go sailing, read the sports section, and smoke a good cigar at night without my cell phone constantly ringing. A fifth of New Yorkers are hungry. Another ten million of them want their tax refunds back. Another five million want their unemployment checks. And there's just not enough money in the system to do everything. It's impossible. No one can get everything, but everyone lets you know it's your fault when they can't. Then there’s you. You said it in the newspaper: you want to replace me at the NFSA, where I've worked so hard and spent so much time building it up. So many meetings and interviews and speeches and sleepless nights. Approving things, monitoring things, using methods that are…questionab
le, dangerous—maybe even criminal. And I know if I don't do it, you'll replace me.”
Tears finally streamed from Gregory's eyes. “It's so hard to bear, Belinas. I don't think I'm strong enough for all this,” he whimpered.
Belinas took a seat, letting Gregory break down. The reverend moved his chair to within three inches of the young man, in a gesture of support.
After two minutes of watching him sob, Belinas said softly, but with a firm tone, “Gregory, this is all your destiny. And we, your friends and your family, are counting on you to do these things for us and for the good of the people. For the nation. For the Lord. That's what a public servant does. That’s what a man of God does. That's what a hero does. Whether you’re afraid or not. Whether you're up to it or not, you are in the leading role here. My friend, you need to gather yourself. You need to stand up. You need to play the part. If I can’t count on you, then I can’t endorse you. If the people don’t believe in you, then they’ll recall you. If your wife doesn't see you being faithful and heeding her wishes, then she won’t stand by your side. And who can blame her?”
Gregory struggled, but finally nodded his acceptance, sniffling grossly. He was caving inside. Belinas saw the putty easing further.
“And with your election coming up in less than two years, it'll be over for you. A divorced man twisted in scandal won’t win. You know that. In fact, he'll disappear into obscurity. I can see it now: the lead man who was replaced at the NFSA. The cheating senator who couldn’t keep his family together, let alone a national agency or the State of New York. He isn’t going to be looked upon favorably. He'll be laughed at, pointed at, chided. You have no choice, Gregory. I want you to get a good night's sleep. Then get up in the morning, and go back to your wife and family. Apologize to Amanda, and say that everything will be made up for—all your foolishness, all your weakness. Now is your last and only chance. Impress her from now on, damn it.”
The Transhumanist Wager Page 24