Transhumanist Wager, The (20 page)

Jethro Knights drove his jeep to
the redwood forest in Big Sur for a weekend of camping, after he finished the
TEF
Manifesto
. He knew a milestone had been reached in his life, a crossing of
paths. He felt the culmination of his five-year sailing trip was the manifesto:
a concise embodiment of his philosophy on life, a guide map to his future, a
manual for the Transhuman Revolution. Sitting by the ember-filled fire pit at
night, staring at stars that towered over the redwoods, he knew he had forever
left behind his youth. The manifesto, the convictions it contained, and the
reasons behind writing it were not a point from which he could turn back
anymore. This moment was now—forever. Before, he was still an adventurer
exploring oceans, lands, ideas, himself, and whatever brilliance appeared on
the horizon. Now, however, he firmly arrived on his soil, planted his flag into
the earth, and adamantly began to build the world he had wanted.

Within another four weeks, his
organization was fully up and running. He printed business cards bearing the
TEF infinity logo, opened a company checking account at a nearby international
bank, and created an extensive website with dozens of carefully crafted media
pages. He rented a commercial studio office near downtown Palo Alto and added
Transhuman Citizen to all the local phone books and Internet search engines. He
bought a new desktop computer, a video camera, and a business printer for
creating promotional materials and handouts. Prominently hanging on his office
wall, and also appearing on the website's homepage, was an open letter to the
world—a near verbatim copy of his speech at the transhumanism conference.

Jethro also spent time creating
small departments for his organization in preparation of rapid future growth: a
donation arm to assist with funding; an investment branch to infuse inventors
and transhuman companies with cash and resources; a webpage of links leading to
other life extension and human enhancement organizations. There were dozens of
printable pamphlets, videos, and informational pieces on transhumanism
available on his website. There were representations of art, books, and ideas
the movement embraced and supported. A Transhuman Citizen advisory board was
formed, which included respectable scientists and entrepreneurs whom Jethro
recruited to lend his group credibility and transparency.

Dr. Preston Langmore agreed, albeit
carefully, to be on Jethro's board despite his peers at the World Transhumanist
Institute taking a wait-and-see approach. Langmore didn't want to be left out
of whatever his protégé did. This might be a naissance of the new generation of
transhumanists he was after, even if it wasn't under his control. The aging
scientist and leader was a master of diplomacy because of a single idea he had
always followed: Progress, not control, is the prime motive.

Of course, most important to any
budding organization was money from funders; Jethro had none of these yet.
Money in that environment, the seventh year of a global economic downturn, was
exceedingly difficult to obtain. Those who possessed it held on to it
carefully. Financial self-preservation via cash hoarding had become the most
prudent business move of the past decade. Any attempts to grow equity were
often met with staggering losses. The stock market’s volume was the lowest in a
decade. Most indexes were off over 40 percent. Real estate and oil prices were
down over 50 percent from highs reached nearly eight years before. Even the
initial spike in gold—the world’s supposed safety currency—had recently begun
collapsing. Financial analysts named it the globe's Lost Decade.

So far, Jethro had accomplished the
launching of Transhuman Citizen on the money he had made from the sale of his
yacht and his former journalism job. But that cash was running out quickly. To
preserve resources he lived sparsely, using little, shopping carefully, and
cooking many of his own meals. His apartment was nearly bare except for a few
pieces of functional furniture, a laptop computer, and of course, books. There
was a growing wall-to-wall section of used books, ordered online or cheaply
picked up at secondhand bookstores.

Jethro began the conquest of
securing donors by reading do-it-yourself manuals on fundraising. A dozen
bestselling books were available on the subject by famous salespeople, all who
claimed to have easily raised millions of dollars. Jethro thought it looked
basic enough. He began every day by cold calling fifty people across the
country who might be useful. Langmore secretly gave him the World Transhumanist
Institute's donor list, full of thousands of current and past supporters. Over
the years, it had proved itself a money tree.

After ten days, however, only two
people made donations: one at twenty-five dollars, and another at fifty
dollars. That was nothing, thought Jethro, cursing. He tried harder, calling
some people twice, but the responses were painful to him.

A retired architect, aged and worn
out by a hectic life, told Jethro, “I checked out your website after the first
time we talked—there’s some interesting stuff on it. But that manifesto of
yours isn't worded very well. The thing is too philosophical and dramatic. I do
wish you luck, though. Transhumanism is just something I'm not that into right
now. I used to swear by it when I was younger. There’s probably a future in it,
but who knows anymore? Life gets more exhausting the older you get. These days
I just look forward to sunning on my deck in the countryside, with a martini in
hand.”

Another potential donor, the widow
of a once important transhumanism supporter, spoke nonstop to Jethro for ten
minutes of her husband's past devotion to the movement. “Oh, he went to all the
conferences. He had some friends in very high places because of his advertising
business. He was always looking for new and exciting ideas. I remember the time
he went to Utah for one of the first major transhumanism gatherings….”

Jethro was certain this woman would
want to make a sizeable donation. He listened politely, then sprang his request
upon her.

“What? What is that?” she answered.
“How about
me
donating? Oh no. I only donate now to homeless shelters in
Tennessee.”

During another cold call, a former
virologist told Jethro, “Oh yes, I’ve heard about you. Reckless, many say. Want
to push the immortality issue with force, right down the throats of government
and organized religion. Transhuman Citizen—viva the revolution! Well, best of
luck. I hate them too. But not with my money. I haven't enough to keep my
family fed. Haven't you seen the news? Research like you dream of is dead. Half
of us Ph.D.s are unemployed. The other half are researching what the government
deems acceptable. I'm thankful I've got a decent job waiting tables.”

The donor list Jethro was given
proved a waste of time. The World Transhumanist Institute used professional
fundraisers, and even
they
couldn't make much use of it anymore. How was
Jethro Knights, with his less than amicable personality, going to convince
donors? Jethro lacked that salesman's slick touch to get funders to draw out
their checkbooks. While others soothed, encouraged, and massaged egos of
strangers' personalities, Jethro's method was loud, course, and aggressive—like
a bulldozer.

Still, Jethro tried. “Listen to me,
sir, this is our lives we're talking about. Not some football game. Don't you
want to do something about it? I'm doing something about it. And transhumanists
need your help and money to do much more.”

When people hung up the phone, most
of them thought to themselves: Who the hell does this guy think he is—asking
for money and telling me what I need to do?

Jethro told Langmore his problem.

“I figured as much, Jethro. You're
not a salesman, my friend.”

“I can learn to be one.”

“No, I don't think so. You're
missing that particular quality: the ability to adjust and cater to people’s
personalities in order to convince them to buy something. It usually requires
juicing the delicate idiosyncrasies of a person’s pride. Mildly lying and
deceiving are a big part of it, and you don't do those well at all. Not
whatsoever.”

Langmore went into his contacts
book and flipped slowly through its pages, writing down ten names and their
addresses.

Eventually, he handed Jethro a
piece of paper and said, “Try these people. They're wealthy, powerful, and
stubborn. One is a real estate mogul. Another is a famous actor. Another is a
major pharmaceutical executive. One is even the North American right-hand man
of oil baron, Frederick Vilimich. It’ll only take one of them to sign on and
you'll get a few years of financial breathing room for your group. You’ll need
to meet them each in person—they're all on the West Coast here. They won't
accept phone call pitches. Spend the gas money. Play the game. Tell them you're
Victoria alumni. Tell them I recommended you. Tell them things they want to
hear. But whatever you do, don't insult them—if you can help it—because their
egos are already flying somewhere in outer space.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

Langmore scanned Jethro up and
down—and frowned. “Yes, there’s one more thing. You’re going to need to learn
to dress better.”

Jethro didn’t agree with Langmore
about the importance of appearance, but obliged him anyway. He bought a new
black suit, jacket, and shoes; however, Jethro stopped short of wearing a tie,
which he considered the most nonfunctional device ever created.

The following morning, Jethro
jumped into his jeep and drove up and down the coast trying to corner each of
Langmore’s contacts for a brief meeting. On the way, he devised a new selling
strategy, one that catered to the wealthy funders he was now going to meet. To
get them to contribute resources, he offered incentives. His basic contract was
simple: Give a hundred thousand dollars and Jethro promised they would attain
immortality, either in their lifetimes or within a hundred years afterward via
cryonics—which his organization would arrange and pay for. It was a
straightforward pitch. Jethro backed his promise with legal documents that
would grant donors first access to the life extension technology Transhuman
Citizen planned to acquire or develop over the coming decades through its
proposed investment and research arms.

After much effort, and patiently
hanging out in motel rooms and bookstores for days on end, waiting for short
scheduled meetings, Jethro was able to meet nearly all of Langmore’s ten
contacts. He usually found himself in a mansion’s reception area—his
appointment pushed back at least two hours—listening to other salespeople ahead
of him in the next room, giving pitches for some cause or a new business. Once
Jethro finally got his moment with the potential donor, he was allowed to speak
for an average of fourteen seconds before he was interrupted and grilled with
questions: Who are you? How did you get my info? What's in it for me? What
gives you the right to ask me for money? A hundred thousand dollars? Do you
realize how much money that is these days, son? Do you think it grows on trees?
And everything else aside, your plan sounds like a pipe dream.

Jethro twinged in angst trying to
sell his philosophy and organization to these people. It felt like selling his
own body parts. This wasn't like dealing with Professor Rindall and the
students at Victoria University, where he fundamentally didn't care about their
opinions. He
needed
these donors in front of him. They possessed large
possible value for him. But they made him out to be a jerk, a loser with
another crackpot idea. Some of them openly laughed, critiquing his sales speech
and telling him which parts needed work. Others told him that money rarely goes
to those who wear their souls so openly. One powerful banker told him he didn't
support radical groups like his, regardless of sound and rational goals. Two
older donors asked Jethro where his tie was. One obese Hollywood producer
wanted to know if he believed in God. Some simply said no, and didn't care to
elaborate or speak to him anymore, pointing toward the door. One 72-year-old
heiress with a pink feather boa and fake eyelashes—her skirt far too high,
revealing grainy, knotty legs—said she'd consider it if he slept with her.

Jethro told her that he'd be back
if all else failed.

************

As Zoe Bach aged, her simple Asian
modality gracefully matched the more distinguished, British side of her being.
The result fashioned an ever stronger effect of exoticism in her appearance and
a spiritual presence in her demeanor. Slight, endearing wrinkles on her face
shot in different directions when she smiled, always summoning a second and
third glance from people she met. Her superfine night-black hair enticingly
caressed her scalp and shoulders. Her emerald eyes illuminated her aura of
vivacity. In the past two years—since she had returned from Kashmir—she completed
five marathons and three weeklong meditation retreats at California Buddhist
monasteries. Sometimes she did them back to back. She was stuck in a flux of
motion, her life streaming in many directions, with many possibilities.

She stumped her colleagues, who
knew her to be independent to the point of indifference or, on rare occasions,
hostility. In spite of this, she was as accepting of the universe as it was
diverse, and actively practiced compassion for others in her thoughts. Her
deepest passion was still reading, and she made time for books as one would
make time for a special lover, her only light at night emanating from a single
red candle in her bedroom. Besides the classics, poetry, and medical texts, her
library was filled with books on spirituality, quantum mechanics, thanatology,
transhumanism, and even witchcraft. Her apartment appeared nearly bare, except
for some refined modern art and a few pieces of Scandinavian furniture.