"That's not the point!" exclaimed Langmore. "We need you to lead. We need you to run. Who else can manage such a herculean responsibility?”
Jethro smiled at him and said, “Actually, I was counting on a dear friend of mine to try to win the election and lead the world—and I'm sure he will do just fine.”
Jethro pointed at Langmore, implying it was he who would lead. Langmore looked astonished, but in time, he accepted the enormous task.
Eighteen months later, Dr. Preston Langmore ran for the presidency of Transhumania. Jethro Knights put his full support behind him. Even though Langmore was much slower—bearing a head of white frizzy hair from his eighty-four years of life—he won by a substantial margin. He even fit the presidential part. A solid, careful leader, steeped in transhuman history and wisdom—the kind the world needed during it’s period of transition and expansion.
Chapter 35
On a morning when President Langmore was entering the last year of his second and final term as leader of Transhumania, Jethro Knights awoke and immediately knew something was amiss. Looking outside his bedroom window towards the surrounding sun-filled hills in Palo Alto, he could feel that his body was weak and unwell. He was sixty-three years old and showing signs of an older but fit man. He had spent most of the past two decades serving on the boards of dozens of startups and leading technology companies, as well as writing various volumes on the ethics and potentials of transhumanism. His latest book contained a challenging concept: whether organized energy and matter could take on moral systems of benevolence in a future society—and whether they should. Of course, one didn’t write anymore: Computer chips, implanted in the forehead and interconnected to the brain’s frontal lobe, dictated all material onto a holographic image screen in front of the writer. Now, even dreams were recorded every night by many people. So many of Jethro's dreams were still about Zoe Bach, about what happened to her, about finding her someday.
After a rough night of only a few hours of sleep, Jethro crawled out of bed to make his morning coffee. Near the kitchen he began to feel dizzy, astonished that he was grabbing the marble counter for support and watching his hand slip from it. A moment later, he collapsed onto the floor. Blood began seeping from the corner of his mouth.
The chip in his head immediately notified emergency crews of his condition, but surprisingly, it couldn't diagnose the problem. Jethro's two bodyguards—one polibot and one human, always patrolling outside his cottage—sprinted in and carefully placed him on his bed. He was barely conscious, and his breathing was weak.
Four hours later, in the San Aliza Medical Hospital in San Francisco, a doctor explained to Jethro that he had contracted an extremely rare form of H1L39, a new and mysterious airborne virus out of Madagascar that affected only a tiny population of people, but had recently arrived on the North American Continent. There was no known cure. Jethro was told that he would only have a few months to live without 24-hour life-dilation: a tedious medical process which rendered a patient vegetative and mostly unconscious until a treatment was found.
“There’s a cure in the works,” President Langmore fretfully told Jethro a few days later in the hospital during a visit. “But it’s not here yet. The supercomputers can't break the biological mechanism of the disease for some reason. No one’s bothered with this specific virus because so few people get it.”
“Freeze me. I’ll be back in a few years or so, when there’s a cure and you start reanimating patients.”
“Huh? What are you talking about, Jethro? That's ridiculous. We'll keep you on life-dilation. Probably only for a year or two. I'm sure there will be a cure soon now. Oh, I can already see the rush of grants being given to kids doing their Ph.D.s on it now that you, of all people, have it.”
Jethro shook his head. “No thanks, my friend. I don't want to do life-dilation. I would prefer not to be a vegetable for years. Please take care of the logistics on the cryonics chamber, and I’ll undergo the process in a few weeks. I just want to finish up a few edits for my latest book, then I'll be ready.”
The President stepped backwards in astonishment, and became frightened when he saw the gravity in his friend’s face. “But Jethro, that's death!” he exclaimed.
“Precisely,” Jethro answered.
“But no one has ever been successfully reanimated yet. It's always proved too difficult to do without significantly damaging brain neurons and long-term memory. We don't even know if it's possible yet.”
“Of course, it’s possible. The research teams are quite close. In maybe five years—eight years maximum—they'll be able to do it just fine. There are hundreds of thousands of cryo-preserved patients waiting around the world. Important people. Wealthy people. Some of our good friends. Some of our best scientists from a generation ago, with unwavering willpower and soaring IQs. We're right at the cusp of achieving reanimation.”
“Jethro, this is absurd. You fought against death your whole life. Your argument is totally beside the point. Nobody gets frozen anymore. Transhumanists like us don't die anymore.”
“This transhumanist does.”
************
In three weeks time, after completing his latest manuscript, Jethro Knights was back in the hospital. His disease was beginning to critically sicken him. The doctor at Jethro's bedside confirmed the cryonics chamber would be suitable for his blood type, pH levels, and genetic base. Cryonics freezing was increasingly used only for people with maladies who chose to be animated while still in good health, rather than waiting until they were deathly sick—as those kept in the comatose state of life-dilation. More and more, however, few nonreligious people with resources died anymore. At least those who preferred not to, didn't die—not in the prosperous urban places on the planet.
“I don't understand you at all, Jethro. Why die when you don't need to?” asked President Langmore on one of Jethro's last nights alive. “What the hell is going on here with you? Has this disease attacked your brain? This is so unlike you, especially after everything you did and fought for.”
“It’s fitting I should die, my friend,” Jethro answered. “I’ve always wanted to experience many things. That's part of what living is about.”
“But we could keep you on life-dilation. It's so much safer. It's a sure thing. We could probably even keep you conscious on tubes and drugs the whole time if you wanted—for years even.”
“That’s not a life. It's miserable, foggy, and painful. Although, of course, I would do it if I were worried about not coming back.”
“Are you sure? Honestly, sometimes I don't understand you at all.”
“Preston, please don’t worry about it. I know what I'm doing. Besides, we don't always get to understand everything. Not yet.”
“This is asinine, Jethro.” Langmore shook his head, frowning.
“Just make sure everything moves forward on Transhumania and that my body is always secure somewhere. I’ll be in the hands of my friends. I'll be counting on you all.”
“We know. Nothing is going to happen. The world is so damn safe and amazing these days. So much wealth, prosperity, and innovation. I can hardly keep up with it. And now all the interplanetary stuff is starting—Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. You’ve made it all happen, Jethro. All the exploration and brilliance of life we were capable of achieving. The world will carefully watch over you.”
“We, my friend, made it all happen. Every one of us who believed in and fought for transhumanism,” he answered, correcting Langmore. Jethro, faint and pale, struggled to adjust himself in his hospital bed. “Let me get some sleep now. I’m exhausted. We can talk more tomorrow.”
Three days later, Jethro Knights attended an intimate state dinner where heads of every major principality of Transhumania joined to say farewell to him. Jethro was noticeably weaker and thinner, was pushed around in a wheelchair, and spoke little. He listened to the happenings of the new world and what was anticipated for the next decade. At the end, President Langmore took Jethro to his hovering a
ircraft on the roof and escorted him back to the hospital. Jethro was going to spend the night there before entering the cryonics chamber in the hospital's basement the following day at 10:00 A.M.
The next morning, a half hour before he departed consciousness, Jethro warmly smiled at Langmore and the other close friends he had invited to be present at his end. Many were top Transhumanian leaders or officials in their fields. They gathered in a semi-circle around his bed. It was hard for Jethro to speak, but he turned to each person and began saying farewell.
“Rachael, the semi-elastic polymer, Fylio, is the most incredible material ever created. The engineers say it's a gold mine for our new cities—your new cities. Mile-high skyscrapers that can go through hurricanes, tsunamis, and ten-point-plus earthquakes.
“Oliver, use extreme caution with the interplanetary exploration. So exciting, but watch out for the strange atmospheric bio-diseases and even the extraordinary living minerals Saturn possesses. They might be a Pandora’s box.
“Francisco, keep them honest in the media. Force objectivity and didactic journalism to reign over commercialism, sensationalism, and fear-propagating news. Don’t let free information be dictated by corporations and their addiction to profits.
“Josh, there are talented hackers on the island of Japan who are rogue. Watch out for them. They are ambitious and power-hungry. They are demonizing the concept of the omnipotender. The rumored god-computer they’re trying to build in the Tokyo underground is perhaps the most dangerous threat to our planet.”
Jethro started coughing—lightly at first, then more roughly. His voice was hoarse and his throat ached. He was running a 103-degree fever because of the disease. It was hard for him to continue, but he held up his hand, showing everyone he was okay. He turned to his longtime secretary.
“Janice, thank you for your kindness and efficiency throughout all these years. You’ve been so wonderful. I'll have plenty more manuscripts for you to help me research when I'm back. Please enjoy house-sitting at my Palo Alto cottage.
“Preston, be on your guard against global political muddles undermining the transhuman mission. A firm, honest ruling hand is always best, both for guidance of our individual selves and for society as a whole.”
Langmore nodded in agreement.
“Also, make sure to publish my latest book while I'm gone. I know you’ll read it and want to edit it. That’s fine, but please don’t Langmore-ize it.”
Everyone in the room chuckled.
The President laughed too, and then blurted out, “Of course, I wouldn't consider Langmore-izing it. We wouldn’t want it to make the bestseller list, now would we?”
Jethro grinned. He looked warmly at Preston, and then gently smiled at everyone else in the room. But when his eyes came to rest on Frederick Vilimich, standing oddly alone in a far corner, Jethro’s expression turned solemn. The two men looked painfully at each other. The Russian's face was somber and intense; desperation seeped from it.
Vilimich slowly walked up to Jethro and placed a small, faded picture of his son and wife into his hands, whispering, “Please don't forget.”
Jethro picked up the photo and looked at it.
“My friend, I've thought very carefully of this picture for a long time: thirty-five years, ten months, and fourteen days, to be exact. Don’t fret—I won't forget it.” Jethro’s voice trailed off as he whispered, “How could I?”
A palpable heaviness washed over everyone in the room: a wave of acute perception. Hairs on people's backs shot straight up. Everyone, from President Langmore to Oliver Mbaye to the physician in the corner, understood something of enormous consequence, of a hallowed deal in the shadows, of an oathlike promise informally cast decades ago, of carnage carried quietly for thousands of days and nights. It was a startling epiphany, shocking and raw.
Jethro Knights slowly looked at everyone, a sad smile encompassing his face.
“Zoe Bach,” President Langmore finally whispered, his eyes tearing up. “You're going to look for your wife.”
Jethro nodded his acceptance.
“It’s time now, Mr. Knights,” interrupted the doctor. He tapped a computer tablet that monitored Jethro’s vital signs. “The serum we gave you is peaking, and it's time-sensitive.”
Jethro turned away from the emotional moment and acknowledged the physician.
“Yes, I know. Thank you, doctor.”
Jethro looked at everyone around him. He joined his knuckles together and made the infinity symbol with his fingers. “I’ll see you all in a few years. Goodbye my friends—my fellow transhumanists.”
The doctor handed Jethro the death inhaler required by the cryonics procedure. Jethro strapped it onto his face himself and began slowly breathing from it.
Soon, Jethro closed his eyes and thought of Zoe Bach—of her extraordinary spirit; of the promise he had made to find her; of the universal dice and all its quantum possibilities. Within sixty seconds, he drifted off into total darkness.
A few minutes later, Jethro's naked, lifeless body was carefully lifted by a medibot into a glass tank full of a freezing green solution.
Epilogue
Seven years and four days later, sunlight from a hospital window shot into Jethro Knights’ eyes and registered the first cohesive thought in his brain. His eyes were blurry. They stung when his pupils tried to focus. His skin was slippery from the green cryonics compound dripping from his body and all over his hospital bed. A breathing tube was in him, and numerous diodes were attached to his forehead. He could hear voices in the distance. A medibot and a human doctor were handling him, cleaning the goop off his legs and arms. In the doorway, he could see blurs of human faces nervously watching him.
One face in particular, larger than the others—with eye orbs as intense as train headlights—searched him for clues. Jethro focused his vision on Frederick Vilimich, then shut his eyes, trying not to think of Zoe Bach.
Jethro shook his head back and forth. “Nothing,” he groaned, his vocal cords cutting in and out. “Nothing…at…all.”
Devastation struck Vilimich. His thick eyebrows tightened. He clenched his fists and turned away, fighting the tears forming in his eyes.
Eight hours later, when Jethro’s body was more thawed, his vision became less blurry and his hearing increased in sharpness. He was breathing on his own now, and his lungs no longer needed steroids to function. Jethro heard his room door open. He turned slowly to see who was entering.
The doctor monitoring Jethro whispered, “Sir, the former President, Dr. Preston Langmore, is here to see you.”
Langmore walked in, and his face brightened, casting off years of anxiety in a single flash.
“I’m so thankful you’re with us again, my friend. So very thankful.”
Jethro smiled, still too weak to carry on a conversation.
“Don’t try to talk now,” Langmore said. “They say you'll be much stronger tomorrow already. I just wanted to let you know that all is well—with you and with Transhumania. It’s been longer than we hoped. Seven years. There was a strain of viruses, one of which you caught, that seemingly couldn’t be defeated. We finally nailed it, though, and eventually, during a long reanimation, you were given the antidote. You’re fully cured now.”
“You were right about the reanimation too. They started doing it successfully only twenty-four months after you went under. In fact, the age of your muscles has been slightly reversed to a younger you—about a 40-year-old—and kept in fit shape via digital acupuncture. It's one of our latest scientific tricks.”
Jethro nodded, uttering, “Thanks.”
“The telomerase reverse-aging process is still relatively new, but you seemed to take the therapy fine. The doctors won’t let me stay long until you’re healthier; however, I’ll be back in two days to fill you in on everything. I came just to let you know everything is okay. Rest easy and take your time getting strong again. Bullet points and world news are by your bed when you’re back to reading. You can download them
into your chip to make them quicker to view.”
Langmore’s demeanor changed, and he took a deep breath. “I'm sorry about Zoe,” he said, his voice lower. “There will be other chances, Jethro. There will be many other possibilities in the future.”
“See…you…soon,” Jethro mumbled, knowing what he meant.
“By the way,” Langmore whispered, as he rose and walked towards the door, “you’re on the 311th floor of the world’s tallest building. In New York City. Rachael Burton built it. Enjoy the view.”
Jethro Knights’ condition improved by the hour, the result of new cell-reinvigoration technologies. The following day, the doctor wheeled him onto the balcony outside his room, which was heated due to the frigid air of its high altitude. Far below him, Manhattan, Victoria University, the Atlantic Ocean, New Jersey, and New York spread out to the horizon. Jethro smiled when he saw the floating city of Transhumania anchored in the Hudson River. It was now a prestigious college called the Transhumania Institute of Technology, in which over 25,000 of the world’s brightest students were enrolled. There was no doubt he would soon be giving speeches there again.
The following day, Jethro walked out on his own power, using a cane. He spent much of his recovery time on the cold balcony; he watched New York City, the floating college, and the sea, while sitting amongst the clouds. Langmore and many other visitors came to see him, including Vilimich. Jethro told the heartbroken man he had found nothing in death—there wasn’t even a recallable image after he lost consciousness. He instructed Vilimich to not give up hope, assuring him there would be other technologies in the future: parallel universes to explore, antimatter, teleportation, multidimensional psychokinesis, quantum manipulation, singularity exploration. Anything and everything. Another decade of exponential scientific and technological growth would give them more chances. Many more.
The Transhumanist Wager Page 49