The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  Jethro Knights remembered when he had passionately made his original Transhuman Citizen speech three years before to the same group of people. It felt like decades ago now. At age thirty-two, he was more ambitious than ever, but the powerful hand of the government, once dismissive and skeptical, was now impossibly oppressive. He wondered if his new speech, titled Creation of the Transhuman Nation, would make a stronger difference this time. Therefore, he chose to distribute it in writing before the actual presentation.

  The Transhumanism Conference was held at the Dawson Center, a mecca for large global conferences in America at a time when groups still spent money to put them on, which was becoming rarer in the recession. Transhuman Citizen took one of the largest booths at the gathering. It proudly promoted scientists it directly supported, and openly displayed their research and discoveries.

  The Mobi Company ran the maintenance and janitorial service of the center. Their reputation was excellent, but a recent round of layoffs and wage decreases had damaged morale amongst its employees. When an agent of Belinas' Maryland Redeem Church team approached some of the Mobi crew for keys and inner access to the center, they agreed. Fifty thousand dollars was given as an incentive.

  “No problem,” responded two employees. “For that price, take our spare uniforms while you're at it.”

  Katril Bentoven stuck in two of his best men to replace the maintenance crew. He trained them in a warehouse in Detroit for a week. They became experts at imitating Mobi maintenance personnel. The night before the conference’s final dinner, Bentoven’s men hauled out the head banquet table for repairs. It was the table where Jethro Knights, Zoe Bach, Preston Langmore, and other honored guests were assigned to sit. The transhumanists always retained their own security too, but it was no match for keeping tabs on the hundreds of maintenance issues, catering details, and coordination challenges of running a 1200-person conference.

  Besides, a terrorist attack in the middle of Washington, D.C. was thought unlikely to succeed or to be attempted. A fifth of the nation’s active military was there. The police headquarters was located only two blocks from the Dawson Center. Entire streets in that district of the capital ran 24-hour surveillance cameras, per the NFSA's new mandate for better security.

  Bentoven waited testily, standing against a dirty wall and watching the moonlit Potomac River through a broken window. His bomb specialist was next to him. They were in an abandoned warehouse in the industrial part of town. When the table arrived, Bentoven's men cut a thin round piece of wood from the bottom of it. A radio-controlled explosive device, the size of a Frisbee, was glued inside. Afterward, they shaved down the extracted piece of wood, placed it back into the table, and perfectly finished it with varnish. They quickly dried it with a hair dryer. Only an expert could see where the table had been altered.

  Ninety minutes later, the table was back on a truck and being rushed through Dawson Center’s gated security entrance. A man came out of a booth and looked it over, but waved it in.

  “I think the last conference people damaged it,” the security man said to his partner. “Looks fine to me. It's just a wooden table.” The guards turned their attention back to their television. The college basketball game they were watching was now in overtime.

  The table was carefully returned back to the front of the banquet hall. The Redeem Church men who carried it were nervous and heavily perspiring. They set it down gently and covered it with a white dining cloth, then put water glasses and silverware back on it before quickly leaving.

  ************

  “Is dealing with a tragic past easier when the future is infinite?” Jethro Knights asked himself in a dream. He stood atop a soaring skyscraper of light, surrounded by ocean on all sides. A moment later, he abruptly awoke in his hotel room in Washington, D.C. Outside, it was almost dawn. Through a window, the full moon was disappearing into the vast North American continent. Zoe Bach was next to him in bed, her face pale but peaceful in the fading light.

  He dressed quickly in his sweats and went jogging, still thinking of the strange question in his dream. He felt slightly nauseous. He didn't know that soon, still so early in his life, there would be an end that would remain with him—an end that would twist and forge everything he had ever wanted.

  The Transhumanism Conference had so far proven uneventful, save the pall everyone felt. The consensus was simple: This time the government had gone too far and there was little they could do about it. Progress of the transhuman mission and the conquest of immortality were slipping away. Even if each of them were to defy the new NFSA mandates demanding they abandon transhumanism, little would change. They needed to regroup, in a statistically meaningful way, with many more resources. They needed to escape to a place where they would not be hindered. But how? Where? And, most importantly, with what money? Jethro Knights’ Creation of the Transhuman Nation was a start. It spoke in detail of his intention to move Transhuman Citizen permanently abroad, to a new land, to a new place, to claim what was theirs—a nation of their own, where they wouldn't be mired in another country's politics, culture, or economics that impeded their goals.

  Many at the conference griped and voiced that this was too extreme. Others said such a place was bound for failure because it would be impossible to legally and financially create. Some transhumanists agreed with Jethro’s vision of an autonomous nation, but expressed that leaving would be too much for them and their families; many had sick parents and unemployed siblings who depended on them and were unable to travel; or they had financial investments that needed hands-on managing; or they were tied down with various other prohibitive, worldly chains. A few hardcore transhumanists said they would go, but only when they could be assured there was somewhere to go to, and not just an idea.

  Jethro paid no attention to the plethora of doubts and reservations. At the conference, he remained a beacon of passion and hope, his machinelike personality convincing, debating, and pushing. He implored everyone to help each other, to band together, to stand up and find a new way to the future. He made believers out of skeptics, and in others he instilled ideas that might bear fruit later. But he was just one man, and much more was needed. Inevitably, by the third and last day of the conference, the transhuman movement did not appear as just a barely floating raft mired in a nasty storm, but a pile of junky flotsam, rapidly breaking apart and sinking. Leaving for any distant port now seemed impossible.

  Despite this, Jethro's speech at the event’s closing banquet uplifted everyone. He spoke of fighting for their destinies, their lives, and their indelible right to evolutionary advancement. He spoke of the undeniable promise of Transhumania and of their brilliant opportunity to push the Transhuman Revolution forward in the most remarkable of ways. Failure was not an option, he roared to the audience. And whatever the cost, to never give in to losing. They were at a crossroads—how they acted now would determine the rest of their lives and the course of history.

  The people in the banquet hall stood up and clapped, not because they believed, but thankful the movement could still move forward through others who refused to quit, who refused to be afraid of terrorism, social ostracism, and prison time.

  As Jethro returned to his seat, he waved to the standing crowd, and thanked them. He pulled out his chair and prepared to sit down. It was the cue for Katril Bentoven, dressed as a waiter, standing at the back of the hall by the kitchen door. He typed a code into his cell phone and pressed enter.

  But Jethro did not sit down. Instead, Zoe Bach pulled him over to her and gave him a long kiss, embracing him tightly, pushing her bulging stomach into him. Her smile beamed.

  An instant later, a fiery explosion ripped out of Jethro's table and across the room. Wooden splinters and metal shards sprayed throughout the banquet hall.

  “Damn it,” Bentoven cursed to himself, leaving the area quickly through the kitchen. He had misjudged and set off the bomb too soon. The brunt of the shards designated for the transhumanist leader went into Zoe's back, nec
k, head, and pregnant belly.

  ************

  The explosion hurled Zoe Bach and Jethro Knights fifteen feet across the banquet hall. Instinctively, Jethro grabbed for his wife in the air. Both were unconscious from the blast by the time they slammed into the ground.

  When the smoke had cleared enough to see, a security guard ran up to Zoe and Jethro. He tried shaking them and calling their names. Inside of Jethro’s brain, something deep and intrinsic fought to bring him back to consciousness. Twenty seconds later, he finally opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was blood. It was everywhere, drenching his face, his eyes, his hair, his hands—which were holding Zoe's head. He realized his fingers were touching something sharp and slippery. He didn't want to believe it, but he knew it was the edge of her cracked skull. He tried to lift her up, but found his arms were pierced with sharp metallic shards and mostly unresponsive. He managed to slightly push up her head, but Zoe wouldn’t respond and showed no signs of breathing.

  The security guard hovering over Jethro carefully lifted Zoe off him. He rolled her body over so that her face pointed upward. Behind them, people in the crowd were screaming and shouting. Everywhere in the hall was heavy smoke. Jethro pulled himself up, ordering his wounded arms to work. His legs were bleeding too, but at least they were still functional. He got onto his knees and bent over Zoe, watching her body bleed from dozens of places. His first sense was utter disbelief. Much of her clothing was shredded and gone. Long wooden splinters were embedded into her skin. A large hole was blown right through her back. Her stomach was ripped open, her uterus torn asunder. A tiny leg, slightly jerking back and forth, was hanging out with half its foot missing.

  Within minutes, paramedics raced in and began to work on the wounded. Preston Langmore and two dozen others were also injured. Some people threw their jackets on the fires burning near the blast area. Water rained down from the ceiling sprinklers. Emergency exit doors were thrown open and crowds sprinted for safety, shoving each other roughly to escape. The scene was nightmarish chaos.

  Coughing from the smoke, Jethro knelt above Zoe and yelled at her. He tried shaking her, tried waking her, but her eyes only fell towards the floor, lifeless. A paramedic pushed him aside and began searching Zoe for any vital signs. He found none. Another paramedic behind them raced to open an orange box containing a long, intimidating needle. It was epinephrine. Her chest shot forward with a huge breath once they punctured her with it. An oxygen mask was quickly placed on her face, and intravenous lines were put into her body. Her eyes twittered, then closed, then reopened.

  Jethro gasped, realizing his wife was still alive.

  A stretcher board was rushed in and Zoe was placed on it. The paramedics lifted her up and began running, agilely carrying her around broken tables and chairs towards an ambulance waiting outside. Jethro hurried after her, limping, his arms heavily bleeding and burning with pain. He threw himself into the back of the emergency vehicle with Zoe and was treated with IV fluids for heavy blood loss.

  Eventually, Jethro became dizzy and was forced to lie down, ordered by the paramedic at the back of the ambulance. Jethro felt faint. Too much blood had drained from his left arm, where a main artery was punctured. He lay down on a stretcher directly next to Zoe so that her head was only five inches from his face. He watched her. The paramedic looked at him, and cleaned the blood off her face for him. Jethro gazed into her left eye, the only undamaged one that could still see. She looked towards her stomach, but already knew. Jethro read the agony on her face. Moments later, she slowly fell into unconsciousness.

  A vast, haunting sadness descended upon Jethro while he watched her.

  Chapter 22

  Two minutes before they arrived at the hospital, Zoe Bach was administered another shot of epinephrine. She briefly regained consciousness. Jethro Knights followed her every movement, carefully squeezing her right hand. Her major wounds were plugged with gauze to slow the bleeding, and three intravenous lines ran into her. But her condition appeared far worse now—her skin was turning a light blue, turning cold.

  “I…love…you,” she whispered, shivering, her vocal cords grungy and damaged. The look in her one eye conveyed a message of farewell.

  Jethro spoke quickly. “We can fix you. You just have to hold on. We'll be at the hospital in two minutes.”

  She moved her head slightly to say no.

  “Zoe, we can fix all this.”

  She attempted to smile—his forever optimism, she thought. She knew exactly what could be fixed and what couldn’t. Half her right leg was almost ripped off. Her bowels were held in by bandages. Their baby had long ago bled to death. Part of her right eye and face were gone. Her scalp was cracked open, exposed to brain swelling and certain infection. Her left arm, discolored by bloody gauze, was missing the hand; it was still somewhere in the pile of rubble at the conference. There was no fixing this, she thought.

  “Zoe, we can fix all this.”

  “Jethro.” she said, her voice scratchy. Blood dripped from her mouth. “I don’t want…to be fixed. That's your philosophy. Mine is life…and whatever path it takes. Including this.”

  “No, Zoe, don't say that. Not now.”

  “Yes…my love,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m not going to make it…not going to journey with you anymore. I'm too damaged. Too damaged…to even be frozen. And right now…I don't want to be. I only want…to go where I’m going—where my fate is taking me. I feel no desire…to wake up to a broken body that’s only half mine…half something else. Jethro, that's your personal mission. I’ve always supported you, always loved your ideas…your passion. But that is your destiny…not mine. Mine is here, at this moment, right now…with the man I love. Watching him…while I pass to somewhere else.”

  Jethro wanted to scream, No! He wanted to shout his disagreement. He wanted to convince her to hold on longer. Life was passing from her, however, and he knew that the most love and dignity he could offer his wife was to respect her last wishes.

  A spate of dreadful seconds passed—almost half a minute. Jethro and Zoe continued staring at each other. In the background, the ambulance’s red emergency lights flashed and sirens sounded. The vehicle jolted to the left and right as it rushed through traffic. The brightly illuminated hospital was only a few blocks away now.

  “I'll come find you,” Jethro whispered when he saw Zoe departing life, unable to control himself, speaking the language she understood.

  “Yes…my love…I know you will…I’ll be waiting.”

  She knew his battle to let her go in peace, and squeezed his hand with what energy she possessed. She faded and was gone moments later.

  ************

  Jethro Knights was rushed to the emergency room at the Washington, D.C. City Hospital. Over a grueling five-hour surgery, all the metal shards and splinters in his body were removed, and his scores of wounds were stitched up. He passed out on the operating table and only regained consciousness in his hospital bed forty hours after Zoe Bach’s death. His head and body were wrapped in thick bloodstained bandages and gauze. At his bedside was Preston Langmore, sitting in a chair. The man looked aged, his hair deeply gray. His right foot and leg were bound in a long white cast; his crutches were resting against a nearby wall. He sat quietly, reading the latest publication of Transhumanist Monthly.

  Langmore watched his friend slowly regain consciousness. Jethro looked, focused on him—and remembered. Langmore saw his pupils and thoughts withdraw inward, closing off to the world, a flood of pain consuming him.

  Langmore pulled his chair closer. They sat in silence for five minutes before Jethro uttered, “She’s gone.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. At least for a long time.”

  Jethro knew what he meant. But he didn’t want to think metaphysically now. He didn’t want to imagine what could happen if multiple realities could be fostered by new technologies in the future. What a strand of DNA from her blood samples at the hospital could do later. He just wanted his wife
back. Now. As she was. And his unborn child. And the peace he knew. And the love.

  “The body hasn’t been put on ice. Some organs were preserved to be donated, but almost all were too damaged. After what happened, she wasn’t a suitable candidate for the cryonics chamber. The paramedic told me what she said.”

  “Yeah,” Jethro whispered, “She didn't want to try. I disagreed. But it wasn’t my choice.”

  “Don’t worry, Jethro. Forever is a very long time. The doctor says you're going to regain your full health with lots of rest. Get better and get back out there.”

  “Preston…I’m going to need some time. To get myself together. To decide how to proceed.” Then he added softly, “To decide if to proceed.”

  The healing days were slow and exhausting. Jethro’s body ached all over from the multiple wounds and the nearly 200 stitches holding together his skin. But his wounds did heal, and healed well. His youth and his body’s robustness helped.

  The loss of Zoe, however, did not heal. It worsened. It followed him long into the night and into his dreams. Jethro would imagine he was back in their Palo Alto apartment with scented candles burning and Mozart playing on the stereo, a vibrant happiness permeating the air. Zoe’s green eyes shined brightly. Together they painted colorful animals and robots on the nursery walls.

  Then the dream would slowly vanish as the scent of the stale hospital room filled his nostrils, and he became aware of the dim beeps of nearby medical monitors. Moments later, Jethro would jerk forward in the hospital bed, remembering exactly where he was—and the nightmare that was his.