The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  Jethro threw his head back and turned away, feeling sick. He looked like a man going from an extreme high to a punishing low. Now he understood why Vilimich had come to him. Regardless, the pain for Jethro was still too great to broach this subject, this far-fetched possibility that might still be centuries off technologically. Besides, he already knew it wasn't the right motive for living or for pushing transhumanism forward.

  Vilimich watched him in silence, perceiving the young man's anguish. “What is it?” the Russian asked.

  “Mr. Vilimich, I don't know how else to say this. My wife doesn't want to come back to this world. She told me that as she lay dying.”

  An empty silence filled the room as both men contemplated this.

  Vilimich broke it. “Nonsense. Maybe she didn't want to then. Not when she's in pieces and dying in excruciating pain. But what about later—when everything in the world is different—when it's all energy, or living software, or created quantum fields of probabilities? And everything else that you describe and believe could eventually happen.”

  “That might be true,” Jethro whispered, considering for an instant the odds of such a reality. You must master the quantum universe if you want to reach the omnipotender's full potential, he remembered Zoe saying.

  Silence ensued. The conference room seemed far smaller than it had three minutes ago. Each man felt tied down, strapped.

  Jethro recovered. “How exactly can I help you, Mr. Vilimich?”

  “I want you to find the 11th dimensional realities you wrote about in your essay—to find a way to the outermost frontiers of science and existence. And then to search for those whom we love. To help us get to them. To rediscover them. To reanimate them. Of all people, you can make these things possible. You have the ultimate vested interest. I can give you billions of dollars for exactly that mission. We can build a nation of scientists to accomplish it. It may not follow the pure transhuman and immortality quests you wanted, but it's close enough.”

  Jethro winced, his stomach churning. He shook his head disparagingly.

  “Close enough, Mr. Vilimich? Are you serious? Have you read the TEF Manifesto?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course I have. I’ve read everything of yours. But that time has passed. That opportunity is over for the transhumanists. You won't succeed anymore. But this opportunity is here, right now, in front of you. The offer of a lifetime.”

  Jethro waved his arm and said, “The TEF Manifesto doesn't change over time. It also doesn’t change because its success becomes unlikely. It’s here, right now, and completely alive. Its main point—If you love life, you will always strive to reach the most advanced form of yourself possible while protecting that life—is perpetual. The thing you speak of, Mr. Vilimich, could be hundreds or thousands of years away, if possible at all. Furthermore, it isn't even related to you or me directly, or to the TEF Manifesto. Bringing back the dead—especially those presumably not cryonically frozen or preserved correctly—is very different than extending and improving the lives of those presently living.”

  Frustrated, Jethro shook his head and said, “What you want is just not even on the transhuman timeline right now. And it would be irresponsible to dedicate more than only a fraction of transhuman resources to it at a moment when the real goals of the movement are, literally, on the verge of collapse; when the longevity of our own lifespans are so immediately threatened. It's just not the current purpose of the transhuman mission.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But it’s the current purpose of my mission. Of why I became one of the wealthiest and most powerful individuals on the planet. I want to see my family again, not just be a bankrolling devotee of transhumanism. Do you understand that? And as a recent cancer survivor, I might only have ten or twenty years left to directly attempt it. That’s my mission.”

  “But your money could be used for more practical and possible goals, for near-term successes like your own immediate health and longevity. Then, at some later point, you could consider tackling the monumental task of bringing back the dead. What you want is not even reasonable just yet.”

  “I didn’t get to be so successful because I was always reasonable.”

  Jethro shook his head emotionally. He stood up, walked toward the window and put his right palm flat on the glass. He could see his fingers slightly shaking. He could also foresee how this conversation was going to finish. The Russian was immovable, blinded by despair, blinded by endless lonely days and nights of hurt feeding upon itself. For an instant, Jethro wondered if this forlorn fate might one day also end up his.

  “Mr. Vilimich, I understand what you are saying and what you want.”

  “So can you do it? I can give you billions of dollars and we'll buy an army of scientists to find a way to my family—and to yours.”

  Jethro thought about the possibilities: Zoe and her frozen hippocampus; her preserved DNA; her organs’ whereabouts; the stem cells from her umbilical cord. The allure for immediately beginning such a venture was colossally strong, as it was a possible cure to the agonizing pain from the loss of Zoe.

  Then Jethro remembered the bodysurfing wave in the Bahamas.

  “Even if such a complicated quest were possible in my lifetime, the answer is no,” Jethro said. “I'm sorry—it's just not my path.”

  “What?” Vilimich replied, stunned. “But this is a one-in-a-million chance for you. There won't be another like it. You’ll never get as much money as I can give you from anywhere else. You’ll be lucky if someone gives you even a hundred dollars anymore.”

  “That’s probably true.”

  “So why the hell not?”

  “Because it's not what my philosophy, TEF, was created for, or what Transhuman Citizen is trying to achieve. It's not what I'm trying to achieve.”

  “How can you say no? You're almost bankrupt. Your transhumanist friends have deserted you. Your movement is practically nonexistent. And most importantly, she's gone, and you want her back. You don't have a choice.”

  Jethro turned to him sharply. “You're wrong, Mr. Vilimich. I do have a choice. My own life, its power, and its potential are still plenty to choose from, regardless of the circumstances you think you see me in. In fact, it's more you who lacks the choice—if you want me to help you.”

  The Russian looked at the man, assiduously considering him. In a rough voice, he said, “Explain yourself.”

  “I want you and your massive resources here more than any other donor or investor I've ever met. I like you just by looking at you. And I deeply respect what you’ve been through in life, and how you went through it, especially now that I know your tragic past. Your gifts would change everything for me. They would change everything for the movement. Transhumanism has always needed one colossal donor like yourself backing it so it could make genuine strides forward; however, I only want your donation on terms that I believe in and that I can deliver. I can only take your money on the same singular condition I offer every donor—to uphold the TEF Manifesto and work towards accomplishing sensible and realistic transhuman goals. And that means this: We don’t tackle goals we can’t reach before our own deaths. Perhaps more importantly, it means we don't live for others, even our most cherished loved ones.”

  “That's foolish.”

  “Why is it foolish, Mr. Vilimich?” Jethro shot back, his voice gritty, the question loaded with an aching challenge. “What do you want those things for—your son and wife alive again with you?”

  “What kind of question is that? How can one answer it? It’s so obvious.”

  “Yes, but your answering it is especially important. Since this transhuman movement that I've dedicated my life to, lost my wife and unborn child over, gave my youth for, is as much about my philosophical integrity as anything else, and not just about…lost love,” Jethro said, with difficulty.

  “Are you suggesting I am not capable of philosophical integrity? Or that finding my loved ones should not be worthy?”

  “I am not suggesting anything like th
at. But dedicating half your wealth to this organization on your terms would transform its direction and essence. And I already like and believe in its direction and essence. What you want is something very different.”

  “There's nothing wrong with what I want. It’s honorable!” Vilimich exclaimed, slamming his clenched fist into his chest.

  “I never said it isn't. What I am saying is that it doesn't fit with the TEF Manifesto. It's not in line with the current motive or mission of Transhuman Citizen. I'm sorry, Mr. Vilimich. I’ll only accept your money if you believe in and support transhumanism and life extension for the right reasons—for yourself, first and foremost. And I would only accept donations that go towards those goals—reasonable ones. No one can highjack or buy our lives and motives here, no matter how much money they offer, or how powerful they are. One of the most important truths of the TEF Manifesto states there can be no slavery or compromise of core transhuman ideals. Even those we love most cannot change that truth,” Jethro said, painfully thinking of Zoe. “This is an organization and a way of being, with a philosophy that rejects living or existing for others. And it also rejects being illogical and unreasonable.”

  The Russian was silent. The space inside the room continued to shrink for both men. Vilimich was not used to a man questioning his own emotions. His own intellect. His own motives. Especially these motives, so profoundly ingrained in him for decades. So acutely engulfed in his heart. Vilimich was not used to a man who cared so much about the best in himself, about the best in the universe. He was not used to a man who could love so much; who so utterly lacked fear; whose honor and will were impenetrable, like the largest oil find in the deepest, rockiest part of the planet.

  Vilimich felt like he was at the southern Russian oil fields again as a young man, concocting how to make his fortune, wondering how to amass power so the peons around him could not suppress his dreams. He held his tongue—and fists—out of respect.

  “I didn’t understand there were wrong reasons for supporting transhumanism.”

  Jethro was careful now.

  “I wouldn’t look at it as right and wrong. There are just reasons all of us here agree to for our movement. Like wanting to gain power and live forever because we love life, and not because we are searching for something that once made us love it. We start from that point of departure. Our resources go towards that. They go towards the pursuit of our own immortality. At least, at first. The rest is still unknown. There may be possibilities to bring back loved ones, but I don't count them as real or reasonable yet because they are many decades—most likely centuries—into the future. And we have other essential priorities like staying alive and eliminating the threat of death to ourselves, which comes first and foremost. Can’t you see that?”

  “I don’t see anything when it comes to my wife and child, except getting back to them now.”

  “But in this case, there’s no other choice. You must understand the priority is now for your own life and potential, for your own ability to be able to see them again. The paramount priority is you and your survival, which is a quintessential law of the universe that cannot be broken or betrayed. Because what you need most in order to possibly see them again is time—time to evolve the transhuman cause so that all other potentialities might unfold in the future.”

  Vilimich disagreed. And he didn’t come all the way to America to get a lesson in logic from Jethro. He came to immediately begin scientifically finding a way to his loved ones, using the best talent available on the planet to do so. Unfortunately, Jethro wasn't going to give in, he realized. He would have to break first if this man was going to help him, and this was something the Russian was not prepared to do.

  “Furthermore,” Jethro continued, “I don't mislead people or lie. And I especially won’t promise something I can’t give. I don't even know if what you want is really possible. It may not be. You have to accept that.”

  Jethro added, whispering, “We both have to accept that.”

  The conference room darkened as the sun outside disappeared behind clouds. The two men stared at each other for a long time. Their eyes became luminous, reflecting both the room’s changing light and the emerging shadows.

  “Are you sure, Mr. Knights? This is your only chance. You don’t want to reconsider my offer?” Vilimich asked one last time.

  Jethro did not. He stood up straight, unafraid. Transhuman Citizen was dying, as were his chances of immortality. And Vilimich's funding could renew everything. It would mean the birth of Transhumania. But then it wouldn't be Transhumania anymore. It would be an abomination. Another direction towards a sure death. Jethro knew this was not a moment to bend or compromise. Too much was at stake. Too much that would never be forgiven. There would be other ways to succeed. Better ways, if not more difficult—much more difficult. He just had to be patient and find them. Pure TEF is what it is and, like mathematics, can never be altered or compromised. Not by love or loss—not even by death.

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Vilimich. I don’t believe I can help you, given your aims. I won't promise that kind of thing for exactly that kind of reason. If you change your mind, and want to do it my way, please get back in touch with me.”

  There was silence in the room. Both men were overwhelmed and exhausted with raw emotion.

  Vilimich watched Jethro—not exactly watched him, but felt him. Secretly, he almost wished Jethro would try to exploit him, finagle him, somehow con him out of the money he was offering. That would’ve given him a reason to disagree with the man, to dislike him. So many people had tried to swindle resources from him in the past for their own aims. Any practical business person would’ve at least entertained such an option, Vilimich thought. But not the young man in front of him; he was more honest than a saint, and more unyielding than a force of nature.

  The Russian turned and slowly lumbered to the door, his giant shoulders slouching. He put on his hat and walked out of the office without uttering another word. His chauffeur opened the door to his limousine, and they drove off.

  Jethro sat down at the conference table and put his hands on his head. He sat there for a whole hour, lost in thought, agonizing, thinking about Zoe, about TEF, about Vilimich. Finally, Janice Mantikas came in and asked what he wanted to do about his 3:30 P.M. meeting with the Vontage University genetics researcher; he had recently returned Jethro's lab equipment after bowing to pressure from the school’s president.

  Jethro strained to look at his watch. His secretary noticed how much effort it took.

  Almost inaudibly, he said, “Tell him I'm leaving now and will be five minutes late.”

  Chapter 24

  Four days later, Jethro Knights’ cell phone beeped from a new incoming message. He clicked on the text:

  You stubborn bastard. I look at you and feel like I'm looking in the mirror. I sold half my stake in Calico—and wired 10 billion U.S. dollars into your Cayman Island donor account. Use the money how you like. For the right goddamn reasons. Good luck.

  Vilimich

  A moment later Jethro’s phone rang. It was his secretary.

  “Jethro, the president of Phoenix Bank in the Cayman Islands is on the line, asking if a massive deposit of billions of dollars was expected, or if it was a mistake. He’s suggesting maybe it’s a computer glitch, or even a jokester's hack.”

  “It's correct, Janice!” Jethro shouted. “Tell him it’s correct. It's from Frederick Vilimich. I'm driving to the airport and flying to the Caymans right now to confirm and hide it. Make sure no one finds out about this. Not a word to anyone.”

  Nine hours later, Jethro was in the Cayman Islands. The president of Phoenix Bank, a loyal Transhuman Citizen member, met him at the airport in a bulletproof Mercedes. Over dinner, Jethro explained to him what had occurred, and they formulated a plan for how to best keep the money safe and confidential.

  The next morning, in a rented private jet, Jethro flew around the world to Vanuatu, Singapore, Lebanon, Panama, Maldives, Djibouti, and Switzerland. H
e spent two weeks establishing bank accounts for various pop-up companies and corporations in out-of-the-way places, acting as the sole manager. He made up odd business names like Antidy Enterprises, Amerigon LLC, and Dumcros Inc. The money was wired in small, varying portions to all his hidden accounts belonging to the companies so it could never be frozen, tracked, or calculated by the NFSA or anyone else on the planet. Even the Phoenix Bank president wasn't aware of the account names or numbers, as third-party escrow accounts were used to hide and deflect all traceable sources. Jethro sent secondary codes and addresses to Mr. Vilimich, as the only other person capable of locating the money. But even he wasn't allowed to know everything or control anything. On every account, there was a different company, a different address, a different identification number, a different mission statement. The ten billion dollars was split in a hundred different ways, all with digital tentacles that led only to Jethro Knights.

  When the money was safe, he emailed Vilimich:

  Dear Mr. Vilimich,

  Thank you. The money is safe and being put to good use for the right reasons. I'll be in touch as the transhuman mission progresses. Furthermore, you have my pledge that I will not forget that picture in your pocket.

  Jethro Knights

  The same day, in a hotel in Panama, Jethro went online and bought a used business jet capable of flying a dozen people comfortably between continents. He ordered it flown to Panama City by a newly hired full-time pilot with a longstanding transhuman affiliation. Jethro employed a small construction crew to tear out half the plane’s interior and replace it with an office, a conference table, three work stations, and two bunk beds. It was almost like building the sailboat again, he thought.