The Transhumanist Wager

by Zoltan Istvan

  “Incoming. Here we go, ladies and gentlemen,” Oliver yelled to his staff.

  Twenty miles away, the radar showed four missiles launched from an American warship. They were Tomahawk 338As, the most sophisticated of the A10 arsenal.

  Eight seconds later, launched from the roof of the Technology Tower, two missiles shot past the other skyscrapers’ windows.

  “There they go,” shouted a young engineer. All the techies at their computer stations could feel their desks shake.

  Everywhere in the city, Transhumania’s citizens looked up, nervously watching missiles leave the platform.

  “Outbound,” Oliver whispered tensely to himself.

  It took only seconds before the two Transhumanian missiles were out of sight. All eyes in the command center shot to the dozens of radar, video, and data screens built into the walls around the room.

  For half a minute, people on Transhumania waited, some holding their breaths, some staring at each other, some carefully watching the expansive blue in front of them. Finally, just barely visible in the distance through the windows, there was an explosion over the sea. Then another. The Transhumanian missiles had tracked and collided with the American missiles twelve miles off the city.

  “Strong work, people,” Jethro said quietly into his mouthpiece. Everyone heard him.

  There were still two missiles in the air: one headed toward the wind farm, the other toward the power station.

  “How are we, Josh?” Oliver asked, wondering what was taking so long. He was under the impression that Josh Genear, the star of computer code on Transhumania, should've already confirmed the Tomahawks were reprogrammed and headed another way.

  Oliver repeated, “Taking a while, huh, Josh?”

  Two thousand other Transhumanian staff members heard him on their headsets, their hearts beating quicker.

  Genear typed intently on his computer, lost in concentration, clicking screens on and off at absurdly fast speeds. He hadn’t even noticed Oliver speaking to him.

  “T-minus forty seconds until impact,” shouted another engineer across the command center, watching lights flash on his supercomputer.

  “Any second now,” Genear finally whispered, quickly grabbing a sip of an energy drink from the open can on his desk.

  Oliver grimaced, looking out to sea.

  In the background speaker, from the top of the Transhumania Tower, Langmore was heard exclaiming, “Damn!”

  Jethro's rapid reply followed: “Calm down, Preston. Half a minute is left.”

  Then an animated voice burst out. “Got it!” Genear yelled. “First missile locked and reprogrammed. Bound for sea. There it goes.”

  Loud sighs of relief were heard in the background on peoples' headsets.

  “Hold on. Wait. Okay, confirmed. Second missile hacked and reprogrammed. Bound for sea as well. Done.”

  The command center erupted with cheers and clapping. People stood up and shook hands.

  “Excellent work, people. Both systems look sound and ready,” Jethro said, standing adamantly, looking out at the world's most powerful navies.

  Jethro Knights switched to another phone line on his headset, and said to his secretary, “Janice, please call the American admiral for me. Click in the Transhumania News Network, IMN, and everyone else who's waiting.”

  “Sir, one minute. Holding the line.”

  Jethro looked out to sea. There was violence etched into his face.

  “He’s on—the U.S. Admiral.”

  “Thank you, Janice. Admiral, how are you today?”

  “Mr. Knights, I don't know how you did that with my Tomahawks. But if you don't surrender immediately, we will put everything at you. Everything we got. And you won't be so lucky next time.”

  “Admiral, listen to me very carefully. Next time, every missile you send will be redirected at you and your allies' ships and submarines. I urge you to withdraw and go home, or the loss of life in your navies will be staggering.”

  “How dare you tell me what to do on a live line? We know your tricks, you egomaniac. This is your last chance, Knights. Surrender, or be put under world siege.”

  Jethro growled in the background, loudly and irately.

  “Admiral, we have the technology to obliterate your navy in less than two minutes—you and every single damn vessel out there. I implore you to withdraw today so countless young lives on those ships will be spared.”

  “Idiot,” the admiral shouted into the receiver. “It's you and your floating hive of transgression that's going to lose lives.”

  The admiral hung up and shouted, “Lieutenant, he directly threatened us. Only God knows what evil weaponry he possesses. Order all ships and submarines to fire at will. Arm and initiate launch sequences. Let's sink that tin can of a city. He's not going to give in a damn inch.”

  The line went blank. Jethro threw his head back furiously. He knew the admiral’s decision was going to cost thousands of lives on those boats. Yet, there was no other way, he thought reluctantly. It had to be done. He needed to show the world—watching on television, listening on the radio, following online—how strong Transhumania was, and how badly the rest of the planet’s best were outmatched.

  “Janice, make sure the media now have total live feed from all the cameras and microphones on Transhumania.”

  “Already happening, Jethro.”

  In the next sixty seconds, the silence was tangible in the command center. Every so often a lone voice shouted out an order, or a colleague asked another to test a program. Some engineers were so nervous that sitting was impossible. They stood in front of their computers, tapping their feet and chewing gum, their arms outstretched to their keyboards.

  Finally, Oliver Mbaye’s voice rang out, his words rolling quickly. “Here we go. Chinese first up. Looks like eighteen missiles on their way. Now the Russians: twenty-six fired, including four torpedoes from the subs. Americans: forty-four Tomahawks and counting; plus twelve torpedoes.

  Soon the radar showed a plethora of missiles and torpedoes shooting towards Transhumania. A young programmer in the command center, watching his computer monitor, looked horrified. His screen highlighted hundreds of red and green heat trails bound for their small silver dot of a nation.

  Jethro stared at the video feeds in front of him, beaming images from the supercomputers in the command center. He looked to the empty sky, then at the water below, then back to the screens. Thousands of machines on Transhumania were making billions of computations. Their lives and dreams depended on them all, he thought.

  “Josh, make sure each country’s missiles and torpedoes hit different countries' ships and subs,” Jethro ordered. “Let them dance over that one.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way, sir.”

  Eight miles away from their origination, the first of the rockets began slowly turning away from their Transhumania-bound course, first zigzagging across the sky, then finally heading back to the area of ships from which they came. The fired torpedoes carried out the same slow u-turns in the water. One by one, each weapon that had been launched performed a similar routine. The American admiral on the USS Talbot—holding a coffee mug branded with an American flag on it—appeared stunned and confused. His eyebrows narrowed as he stared at the radar in front of him in the command station, then at the bright sky outside.

  Finally, the Admiral turned to his crew and ordered, “Press the self-detonate buttons, sailors. Press them now!”

  The row of seamen near him tried repeatedly pressing buttons and turning the missile control keys.

  “It's not working, sir,” shouted a sailor.

  Navy engineers spread throughout the command station also desperately tried to override the Transhumanian hacks. But nothing worked.

  “I can’t do anything at all, sir,” the senior navigation missile specialist yelled. “They’ve somehow hacked into the system and have total control.”

  When there was only fifteen seconds left before the missiles struck, and ships’
crews began seeing nearby British vessels explode from other redirected rockets, chaos hit the command stations of the A10 armada.

  “There they are in the sky,” a petty officer shouted and pointed. He launched out of his chair and abandoned his computer console. He raced downstairs to a platform where he could dive into the sea. Others followed by the hundreds, trampling over each other, desperately squeezing down small stairwells to get outside.

  To the armada of A10 ships and submarines, the mix of incoming missiles and torpedoes appeared random. Indian missiles hit Brazilian ships. French missiles hit Saudi Arabian ships. Australian torpedoes hit British submarines. One American Tomahawk missile changed its course and headed towards a Chinese aircraft carrier. When the men on deck saw it coming, they tried to shoot it down with their mounted anti-aircraft guns, but it proved impossible to knock out. Dozens of sailors jumped overboard from the decks right before the missile struck their warship. The Chinese commander got on the phone, screaming at the American admiral in Mandarin Chinese.

  On Transhumania, at first there was excitement that their technology was so efficient. Citizens watched the battle on the ocean through the skyscrapers' windows. Then the view became sobering. Around them in every direction were ominous flashes of lights. Every few seconds, a ship was destroyed or a submarine was sunk. A circle of black smoke appeared around Transhumania, blown by trade winds. A somber mood slowly took over. Everyone knew lives were being lost by the thousands—lives that were not intricately involved with the arrogant decisions of the A10 politicians and commanders.

  Transhumanians watched quietly as the sea in the distance continued to occasionally flare up. Even the command center was in the middle of a long moment of silence.

  Suddenly, it all changed.

  “Red alert, Oliver,” shouted an engineer. “One missile is not responding.”

  The mood was instantly broken, and everyone began searching the sky or radar screens for it. A Soviet-era X3 missile from a Russian frigate was unable to be reprogrammed in the air.

  “What's up, Josh?” Jethro said calmly, clearing the airwaves.

  “We’re having serious issues. There's a Russian missile freezing up on us. Left quadrant, 3 P.M. Don't know why.”

  “Got it. Do you have an alternative lock with the defense shield rockets?”

  “Not a good one. We’re very late to the game. Only twenty-six seconds left before impact.”

  “Double or triple up on it,” Oliver said.

  “Already done, sir.”

  Instantly, everybody realized the interceptor rockets might not be able to track and collide with the rogue missile before it struck the city. There just wasn't enough time left to get a proper lock on its course.

  “Are you sure you can't reprogram the Russian missile?” Oliver asked.

  “Cannot. The computers say its unreadable code. Interceptors are our only hope.”

  “Where is it going to hit?” Jethro asked.

  “Near the top of your tower, sir—almost exactly where you are in the observation hall.”

  “It could bring the building down, Jethro. Get out of there,” shouted Oliver.

  “It's too late,” answered Jethro.

  Another engineer yelled, “First collider rocket is off and being programmed in the air. You should see it any moment in your east. Not sure if we're too late. We'll know in twelve seconds.”

  “Got the visual,” Jethro confirmed.

  Bypassing their sense of security, some people in the city pressed closer to windows to watch the outcome. Less than a half mile off, the first interceptor missile missed the Russian rocket.

  “Damn—first one wasn't even close,” moaned an engineer from the command center.

  “Second collider rocket off.”

  A quarter mile from Transhumania, the second interceptor missile also missed and shot lamely into the sky. Gasps were heard on all intercoms.

  “Everyone in Transhumania Tower, pull away from the windows and get into your bathtubs or under a desk,” Jethro roared into his headset, sprinting for Langmore. He skidded into the old man and jerked him down onto the ground in one agile movement.

  “Third and final collider rocket off,” shouted an engineer.

  Jethro and Langmore both looked up, scanning the sky to see if their last missile would make the intercept.

  With four seconds left before the Russian X3 landed a direct hit on the city’s most populated tower, the final interceptor missile shot past the skyscrapers. The collider rocket veered hard left, then right, then left again, a supercomputer controlling its every millimeter of flight. People held their breaths. There were just moments left before devastation; thousands of lives and the potential collapse of their tallest skyscraper were at stake.

  In the last tenth of a second, the interceptor veered hard right precisely 11.2895 degrees and nicked the tail of the Russian missile, causing a stream of smoke, then fire, from its jet propulsion. The missile began swirling in the air uncontrollably, like a deflating balloon gone wild. Even though it couldn’t fly straight, it appeared the rocket was still going to hit the Transhumania Tower. A moment later the missile's fuselage caught fire, causing it to detonate twenty meters from the building.

  The explosion was humungous. It shot a massive blast of air and fire into the skyscraper, causing its thick glass siding to bend in a wave. A moment later, ten stories of windows shattered from the rocket's shooting debris. The observation hall that Jethro and Langmore were in shook violently. Bolts tore out of the floor near them. The building’s steel ribs flexed. Glass scattered everywhere. Citizens across Transhumania felt the city shake and the platform sway from the impact, as if hit by a giant ocean swell.

  The lead engineer shouted into his headset, “Sir, are you okay? Mr. Knights, are you okay?”

  In the background, on the speaker, only static was heard—and the ominous noise of multiple fire alarms sounding. People from the other towers rushed to their windows, not sure what they would see left of the Transhumania Tower. Their first glimpse was of smoke fuming out through the observation bridge at the top of the building.

  “Sir, are you okay?” Oliver Mbaye asked.

  Jethro felt the ocean air from eighty stories down rush through his hair, cool and smoky. He looked at Preston, aged and petrified, but safely protected in his arms.

  Finally, a voice everyone knew crackled through. “Yes, we’re okay. Preston and I are okay.” Jethro coughed from the smoke, then asked, “Janice, are you okay? Everyone else?”

  Slowly, everyone chimed in and announced they were safe.

  “Oliver, where are we? Don't retaliate unless fired upon again,” Jethro said.

  “I think they're done, Jethro. No more missiles or torpedoes have been fired, and every ship and submarine out there is damaged. Most are sinking and headed for the bottom of the ocean.”

  “What about airstrikes from the jets on the aircraft carriers? Or from bombers?”

  “Nothing right now. Carriers and their planes are all sinking. I don’t think they planned much for that type of attack. The big-headed American admiral didn’t think they needed to.”

  “Okay, but keep a close eye on the sky for a thousand-mile radius.”

  “The shield system is being fully armed again and ready to defend.”

  “Good.”

  “Shall we initiate rescue operations for survivors now?”

  “Of course. Get it going,” Jethro said, coughing. “I'm going to the roof with Preston where there's less smoke. Get a fire crew up here immediately. Mostly, it's just the drapes that are alight. I haven’t seen any serious structural damage yet.”

  Jethro roped his arm around Langmore and assisted him up the fire stairs. On the roof, he seated his friend and let him breathe in the fresh air. Then Jethro walked to the corner of the building, trying to be still for a moment, forcing himself to hold his patience together. Breaking the apprehensive silence of 500 software engineers and programmers closely listening, he
said, “Okay, Josh—what the hell happened?”

  “Right. Knew that was coming,” Josh answered, fidgeting in his seat and adjusting his spectacles. “We’re working on what went wrong. This is going to sound crazy, but I think that specific Russian missile was so old, it tricked the reprogramming software. We didn't anticipate their use of a DOS guidance system from the Cold War era. Honestly, I wasn’t even born yet when that type of code was in use.”

  Jethro couldn't help but smile for an instant.

  “Fine. Make a note and adjust the programs. Use everyone available. I want a fix in twenty-four hours. I want every conceivable code ever written, regardless of how simple or obsolete, covered by our systems. We can't allow a weakness like that to occur again.”

  “We're on it. Doesn't look like we'll be sleeping tonight.”

  Jethro shook his head in comic disbelief, then walked towards another section of the roof to watch the burning ocean far off in the distance. Already, Transhumanian boats were speeding through the water to round up survivors and ship them to the nearest island group, Fiji, which was 200 miles away.

  Later, Jethro and Langmore went downstairs to some of the other damaged areas and began helping people clean out debris and glass. Mostly, the damage was superficial and construction crews could repair everything in a few days.

  Just after noon, Jethro pulled out his cell phone and sent a mass text and email to every transhumanist in the city:

  Ladies and Gentlemen,

  Today, Transhumania has won its first military encounter with the outside world, and the first stage of our greater transhuman mission. Congratulations to all of you who helped save and support Transhumania. Congratulations to all who remained here to pursue transhumanism—and to defend our lives and dreams. Your courage and loyalty are invaluable. Over the next forty-eight hours, we'll be delivering more updates on any new or urgent Transhumanian developments. For now, it's safe to return to your offices and get back to work. Good luck with your research and experiments—and with your preparation to go back out into the world as its new leaders.