Transhumanist Wager, The (31 page)

Jethro wondered for the first time
if trying to succeed in America was the best way to proceed with transhumanism
and its life extension goals. Maybe the forces here were too overwhelming, too
stupid, too laborious for success. Maybe the soil of America was incapable of
growing a lasting transhuman movement. Maybe the grand plan included doing the
research elsewhere—in a faraway place where real science could be accomplished,
unhindered by anti-transhumanist groups or an improvident, cash-strapped
government. Maybe there was an isolated place on the planet where such an
autonomous nation of transhumanists could be founded. Maybe, Jethro thought, he
should leave America behind and go find that place.

PART III

Chapter 19

Over the past year, Amanda
Michaelson increasingly grew impatient and dismayed with her husband and his
lack of personal strength. Even though Senator Gregory Michaelson appeared
exceedingly successful in his life, she knew he wasn't. She saw him as he was:
a puppet. Unfortunately, divorce, or even estrangement, was out of the question
for someone of her class—at least from her father’s weighty point of view. But
she no longer felt any love or respect for her husband, which even in the
beginning of their marriage was minuscule. Everything had been handed to him,
she thought, through either her connections, or dumb luck, or because he was
easy to use. He refused to take anything of his own and make something
audacious of it.

Even during his own senatorial
campaign, it was others who had won for him. She stood by his side—the trophy
wife—smiling, waving to crowds, nudging him forward, insisting he try harder to
work longer hours and avoid sleeping. She thought if she were a man, she’d
already be running for the U.S. Presidency, and sure to win it.

Amanda even tolerated the trivial
affairs she knew Gregory had with the younger nobodies in his Washington, D.C.
work scene—so common for politicians these days, she thought condescendingly.
Their sex life was never satisfying anyway; she was thankful he rarely bothered
her with his libido. But power, as her father always taught her, was essential.
And preserving that power was the single most important item for her in life
and marriage.

She knew Gregory wouldn't be able
to preserve any power once he lost his usefulness or luck. He would pull her
down with him in his fall, most likely in complete embarrassment and disgrace.
Amanda frowned thinking about it. She sat on her Norwegian pickled oak lawn
chair at the side of a four-leaf-clover-shaped pool, tapping her shiny red
fingernails against the wood. It was late morning on a Tuesday. She was in her
bikini, sunning at her father's vacation mansion in Virginia. She sipped a
martini, watching gold handrails penetrate the aqua-blue water of one of the
clovers.

The butler hurriedly came outside
to her and whispered in a British accent, “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs.
Michaelson, but there’s someone here to see you. Someone important, I believe.”

She looked at the servant, then
towards the French doors on the pool’s veranda. Reverend Belinas was
meticulously telling the maid how he wanted his Scotch.

Afterward, the preacher walked
towards Amanda. When he reached her, he bowed low, took her hand, and kissed it
softly. They had met many times before, but this was their first time alone,
without Gregory's hawkish presence.

“Oh, what a wonderful surprise,”
Amanda said gaily.

She got up slowly and put on her
white lace robe. Belinas eyed her blatantly, grinning. A rush of sexuality
caught them both.

“I didn’t know how exquisite you
were, Mrs. Michaelson,” Belinas said, never one to speak lightly.

Belinas was not an unattractive
man, Amanda thought—albeit his baldness and exotic complexion were peculiar. He
was similar to the Portuguese army captain in whose embrace she had once spent
many summer nights of her late teens.

“How nice of you to drop by, Reverend
Belinas. I’m sure you know Gregory isn’t here. I’d love to offer you a drink
anyway and steal away some time with you alone.”

Reverend Belinas' life was
incredibly public. The press—his own and others—followed him nearly everywhere.
Little was ever reported about the women in his life. Even though he could have
courted women and married according to his religious dictates, he chose not to.
He never entered relationships or was caught in compromising moments. He
considered himself above sexuality. On occasion, however, it stung him—like
now.

“I’ve already put in my order,” he
replied coyly, watching the maid walk out with his drink. “And please, there’s
no reason to refer to me as ‘reverend’ right now, especially as I’m about to
enjoy a drink with a beautiful woman on a hot summer day.”

The maid, eying the preacher
suspiciously, handed him his Scotch and walked away.

“How is your drink?” Amanda asked,
smirking. “Just like at home?”

“Better,” he answered, sipping the
drink provocatively.

“And where exactly is home for you
these days? I know it's not that sprawling compound of yours in Georgia.”

“You’re right, it's not,” he
retorted, softly tasting his drink, swirling it slightly in his mouth. “My home
is everywhere and nowhere.”

Amanda wasn’t satisfied with that
answer, but she knew it wasn’t wrong either.

“I believe you make your home
wherever you are,” she stated, beginning a loaded conversation.

Belinas swallowed and pulled the
drink from his mouth. He turned to her, blatantly observing her again: the long
lines of her body; the lacy robe covering her thin shoulders; her perfect
curvaceous breasts—the recent creation of one of the best plastic surgeons in
the country.

“That seems the best way,” he
answered, “especially when there are so many wonderful places out there to call
home.”

“If I had to guess, I'd say your
real home is power, Belinas. But where exactly does that live?”

It was Amanda’s turn to
deliberately toss her eyes on him. She cast them up and down the length of the
man, examining carefully without caution, imagining what bounty was under the
white robe. He nodded slightly, knowing she liked what she saw, knowing why she
was looking. They both relished the process. 

“I would normally answer: For a
preacher, his power lives with his people. Since I know you better, and know
you’re smarter, I'll just answer: It lives with its beholder, and it’s a home
in itself.”

She grinned and clapped animatedly.
She made a small intimate step towards him. “Well said. I think you're
precisely right. Would you mind going to my fool husband and sharing your
wisdom with him? He could damn well use it.”

The courtship dance halted for
Belinas. The word “husband” was like a dagger in his cranium. He felt the
sexual edge in him rescind, the fuel in his groin ooze away, the world around
him instantly deflate. He looked carefully at Amanda and knew he didn't have
time for her. Or for the hundreds of princesses like her, bored and desperate
to tangle with anything colorful, stirring, and shimmering. He turned off the attraction
and returned to his purpose.

“Ah yes. Sweet Gregory, who
would’ve preferred never to have left his fraternity house in college. I
actually
did
come here to talk to you about him.”

They walked into the shade and sat
down at a glass table overlooking the pool and gardens.

Amanda sighed. “Well, what can I do
for you, Belinas? Regarding him, that is.”

She regretted mentioning Gregory
now. Their moment was ruined. At least for the time being, she thought;
however, she looked forward to what he wanted to say or do with her husband.

“It seems that you and I have
mutual goals,” Belinas began. “And let's just say Gregory's a means to those
goals. But lately, I find him far too casual, given his elevated position. He
is, simply put, too affable. And lazy too.”

“All agreed, especially the lazy
part.”

“I wanted to come to you personally
and give you some suggestions on how to motivate him. I think he needs…special
encouragement.”

Amanda bent closer, liking where
this was going.

“What exactly do you mean, Belinas?
Special encouragement?”

“I mean he needs to wake up and
focus,” the preacher said firmly, almost threateningly. “He needs to get out of
his cotton-candy dream world. Stop holding up progress. He needs to embrace the
tougher, darker sides of human behavior to help others get to the light.”

Belinas looked at her inquiringly
to make sure he wasn't pushing too hard.

“Go on, Belinas. I'm perfectly
fine—and still listening.”

“I can't tolerate his casualness
and inefficiency much longer before I ask the President to have him replaced as
the head of the NFSA. And that would be a great shame, because if Gregory would
just do his damn job, he’d be in line for the White House next.”

 “Belinas, you didn’t come to me
because you thought I’d disagree or think differently. Tell me what I can do,
and I will do it. He’s a fool. So talking to him won't do much. I've already
tried for five depressing years.”

“I'm sure you have.”

“Well, what then?”

“Something much more extreme. I
want you to threaten to divorce him. Tell him you've already talked to your
father about it and are discussing logistics with an attorney.”

Amanda sat back carefully in her
chair.

“That's quite extreme,” she said,
taking a slow sip of her martini, a sinister look manifesting in her
expression.

“We need him, Amanda—not as he is,
but as he can be for us. Tell him he can keep you if he gets rid of the intern
girls, the football game watching, the fraternity poker clubs, the boozing
parties, the entire nonfunctional social world that loves him for doing nothing
with himself—for being a playboy on my dime and my creation. Do you think the
leaders of the transhuman movement are doing that night after night? Do you
think Jethro Knights is doing that? Gregory is a senator, for God's sake, and
the figurehead of the NFSA, which is my brainchild. I aim to make it one of the
most powerful institutions in the world. I don’t want him to spoil its value at
the best time ever to make it grow. At a time when it's so needed. We might
only get one chance at this. It could become its own branch of the government,
its own power source. Anything.”

“Or the military arm of the Church
of Belinas.”

The reverend smiled smoothly,
calming himself, distancing himself from his passionate words. He shook the
mostly melted ice in his Scotch.

“Crudely put, but not that far
off,” he replied. “That's why I like talking to you.”

Amanda stared into the distance,
her eyes following an airborne hawk searching for prey.

“Okay. I’ll threaten him the next
time I see him. Shall I have a lawyer draw up some preliminary paperwork for a
divorce?”

“Sure, but don’t freak him out.
Just enough so he listens better and gets his head back into the game. And for
Christ's sake, get him a personal trainer that forces him to exercise. He’s
getting fat—at least fifteen pounds gained in the past year. He'll be obese by
next year if he continues at the same pace. Maybe enroll him in a boxing class
or Jiu-Jitsu. Something to get him to bleed sometimes, knock a few teeth out of
that pretty-boy face. We need to awaken the darker side of his soul.”

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

After a year of living with Jethro
Knights in his Palo Alto apartment, Zoe Bach asked him whether he wanted to
have children. They were having dinner at a small Vietnamese restaurant. Jethro
stopped eating, appearing perplexed. Zoe’s question was dangerous and trying.

“I’ll admit, I've thought little of
it—at least not in a personal way. The implications of immortality and children
seem incredibly complicated. Just like love, but worse. Besides, I thought you
told me you weren't sure you wanted children. That made the whole process of
returning to you simpler.”

“Simpler? What the hell would
complex
be then?” She shook her head incredulously and continued eating.

He started eating again too,
waiting for her to speak. But she held her silence long enough to become
disconcerting. A minute later, Jethro pushed away his half-finished plate, and
picked up his beer.

“Okay, what’s up Zoe?”

Over a week had passed since they
last ate an entire dinner together away from the office, just in each others’
company. Jethro's schedule was hectic.

“When I said I wasn't sure about
children, we were in the middle of a war zone, you were noncommittal, and I was
still in residency. That was nearly four years ago—an eternity in many ways.”

Jethro frowned. “Would you mind
just saying what you really want to say?”

She smiled broadly. “As you wish.
My period is late.”

Jethro remained very still, his
lips slightly open. He let ten seconds pass before adjusting himself in his
seat and answering, “Really?”

“Really.”

“What would you do if you were
pregnant?”

“What would
you
want to do?”

“I asked you first,” Jethro
insisted.

She waited patiently, not willing
to play his game.

He sighed, acquiescing. “Okay,
fine. I’d want to do what you’d like to do. But in general it would seem odd,
at least philosophically, for an immortalist like me to have offspring.
Especially right now. Let’s assume I'm going to accomplish living thousands of
years; then having a child this moment, at the very start of my life, may not
be practical—or a rational example of transhumanist conduct. TEF will forever
alter social structures, once it grabs hold and another half century passes.
The hierarchy of society in a digital age and whatever comes afterward will be
irrevocably changed. Men and women probably won’t mate anymore. Sex drives will
be controlled or eliminated by a pill. Male and female traits will likely be
merged into a single, androgynous entity. The whole idea of having offspring
may become entirely obsolete. Don’t you think?”

“Jethro, I'm not asking whether
having a child is going to be obsolete in fifty years. I'm asking about whether
you want one today. Or, more precisely, in just under eight months.”

“It's a philosophical question, my
love—a philosophical dilemma.”

Zoe winced. “Ugh! You know, I don't
think like you. I don’t fight the whole world and all that is happening to me
every second of the day. Or always ask philosophical questions first. Or
classify myself as something I hope to be someday. Usually, I just feel my way
through wherever I am and regardless of what is happening, even if it seems
frightening or the future is uncertain.”

“Ah yes, how the enlightened are.”

She snickered back in response and
then became serious, saying, “I would like to have our baby if I’m pregnant.
But only if you support that decision.”

“I’ll support any decision you want
to make. I owe you that after how I left in Kashmir.”

“Jethro Knights, I want more than
to be owed. This is also about you, the father.”

“Of course. I didn't mean it like
that. Give me a moment and I'll rephrase it.”

Jethro took a swig of beer, then
another. This was causing him immense stress and Zoe knew it. She watched,
amused. Waited.

“Okay, here it is: I think it would
be incredible to be the father of a child. Amazing, curious, and fun. And to
have one with you, given how much we love each other and how we make each other
feel, sounds like bliss. It's a very real responsibility, however, and not one
that is always compatible with the core ideas of my philosophy, TEF. Or the
goals of immortality and transhumanism, which are self-serving and based on
reaching a very different reality than the present world we live in.”

“Whoa! Imagine that. The man can
say what he means. His arsenal of weapons is gone.”

Jethro frowned. Only Zoe could
touch him like this—leave him raw and exposed—and still be so endearing.

“Come on, I'm kidding,” she added.
“Okay, let me address what you said. Your TEF and transhuman ideas are just
that—ideas. Wonderful, crazy, and accurate as they may be. But having a baby
can be self-serving too, and in a multitude of ways.”

“I agree with you. Yet, when it
comes to a child and the multi-year commitment—just like our love—the ideas can
go from black-and-white to confusing gray shades very quickly.”

“We can worry about all the gray
shades later, when we encounter them.”

“You mean we can throw dice at the
universe. For eighteen years.”

“Yes, precisely. And probably for
much longer than eighteen years. It can take well over a decade to go from
undergrad to medical school to a good residency program.”

Jethro grinned. “Okay. I agree, as
long as we understand it’s dice.”

“Baby, your transhuman aims are
dice as well.”

Jethro twisted, battling his
disagreement and saying slowly, “Yes, it is. For now. But I'm trying very hard
to make it less and less the case, so that one day it'll be a controlled
science. Everything will be like engineering skyscrapers and not just throwing
paint at blank canvases.”

“Skyscrapers start from blank
canvases, too. But fine, I understand what you mean. In the meantime, we can
have the baby.” Zoe smiled and continued eating. She stirred her steaming pho
noodle soup, scooping out a shrimp with chopsticks and blowing on it.

Jethro continued eating too. A
minute later, slightly short on breath, he asked “Exactly how late are you?”

“Not too late.” She laughed, and
then added, “Yet.”

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

Gregory Michaelson was sitting on
the carpeted floor of his suite at the Chelane Hotel in downtown Washington,
D.C. His hands were covering his head. His eyes were red and puffy. This was
the worst week of his life, he thought, and then he moaned. His wife’s threat
of divorce came out of nowhere. In Upstate New York, a report had surfaced that
over four million of its residents were going to bed hungry—an increase of 15
percent from when he was first elected. In New York City and its five boroughs,
employment was plummeting while welfare claims were skyrocketing. Then there
were renewed terrorist attacks across the country because of transhumanist
concerns, and increasing pressure on him to do something about it. The media
reported that Jethro Knights’ group and his radical philosophies were still
spreading, gaining a foothold in the American psyche, and converting other transhumanist
organizations to take a hardline approach. Topping it off was Reverend Belinas,
who carefully distanced himself by including his injurious mention in a
USA
Daily Tribune
interview that new leadership might be needed at the very top
of the NFSA.