Transhumanist Wager, The (32 page)

Gregory wanted to sob. The shock
was overwhelming. How could all this happen? Especially his wife leaving him.
For what? That was the real bomb. It was the last thing he needed now that his
life was so public. Besides, what about afterward? He would be practically
broke without her. The way her dad always gave them property, and money was
tied to the kids’ trusts or to her own accounts, which the prenuptial agreement
had strangled from the start. He could never touch the real wealth, just smell
it. Goddamn it, he thought. And how the hell does she know about all those
women?

He lay awake at night in the hotel
suite, just nine blocks from their Washington, D.C. home; away from his
children, his bed, his study, his wardrobe, his cigars, his giant
high-definition television—his stuff. Amanda said she needed space to think it
all over. Not an official separation. Just space. There was no choice but to
acquiesce. Now he was on his seventh night in a dreary room, the curtains
pulled to thwart pictures taken by journalists’ telephoto lenses.

His meetings that week were a blur.
Something about more Medicaid for New York. Cutting a ribbon at a new special
education school upstate. An interview with a Christian magazine about the
menace of the transhuman movement. An NFSA meeting with other members of
Congress about handling the security flare-ups across the country.

Interrupting his melancholic
thoughts came a welcome knock on his hotel room door. Amanda, he thought
immediately. To make up? To forgive? He jumped up and rushed to the door. It
was Reverend Belinas. At first, he was let down. But that quickly changed to a
loose happiness. Or was it just a feel-good dependence? He didn't care right
now—he just needed his good friend and mentor on his side. So far, he had confided
in no one about what was happening, not even his aides.

“Reverend Belinas, how . . . how
did you know I was here?”

“Come on Gregory, you wouldn’t
expect me
not
to know what's happening to you. Besides, your wife called
me. She asked me to speak to you.”

“My wife?”

“Yes, your wife. Come on, sit down.
Let's have a talk. You look like hell.”

They walked across the length of
the suite, and Gregory sat down on a small chair next to a coffee table.
Belinas went to the sink and brought him a glass of cold water. Gregory took it
and gulped it down like a child drinking warm milk.

“Your wife still thinks the world
of you,” Belinas began, standing above him. “But for Christ's sake, Gregory,
apparently you’ve been failing in so many ways. Other women? Boozing it up at
clubs with young nothings in short skirts? I’m incredibly disappointed in you.”

Oh God, Gregory thought. Everyone
knows. The media too, probably. His worst fears. There was nothing to do but
admit it all and ask forgiveness.

“I'm so sorry,” Gregory whined,
feeling the surge of a confession coming on. “I don't know what to say. There’s
so much pressure on me from every direction. I’m not sure I can handle it,
Belinas. My brain feels like it’s rupturing. My wife wants more and more. She
wants me to tackle the presidency,
and
write a bestselling book,
and
be a good husband,
and
impress her father,
and
run for
reelection,
and
walk the dog,
and
stop the transhumanists. I just
want to go sailing, read the sports section, and smoke a good cigar at night
without my cell phone constantly ringing. A fifth of New Yorkers are hungry.
Another ten million of them want their tax refunds back. Another five million
want their unemployment checks. And there's just not enough money in the system
to do everything. It's impossible. No one can get everything, but everyone lets
you know it's your fault when they can't. Then there’s you. You said it in the
newspaper: you want to replace me at the NFSA, where I've worked so hard and
spent so much time building it up. So many meetings and interviews and speeches
and sleepless nights. Approving things, monitoring things, using methods that
are…questionable, dangerous—maybe even criminal. And I know if I don't do it,
you'll replace me.”

Tears finally streamed from
Gregory's eyes. “It's so hard to bear, Belinas. I don't think I'm strong enough
for all this,” he whimpered.

Belinas took a seat, letting
Gregory break down. The reverend moved his chair to within three inches of the
young man, in a gesture of support.

After two minutes of watching him
sob, Belinas said softly, but with a firm tone, “Gregory, this is all your
destiny. And we, your friends and your family, are counting on you to do these
things for us and for the good of the people. For the nation. For the Lord.
That's what a public servant does. That’s what a man of God does. That's what a
hero does. Whether you’re afraid or not. Whether you're up to it or not, you
are in the leading role here. My friend, you need to gather yourself. You need
to stand up. You need to play the part. If I can’t count on you, then I can’t
endorse you. If the people don’t believe in you, then they’ll recall you. If
your wife doesn't see you being faithful and heeding her wishes, then she won’t
stand by your side. And who can blame her?”

Gregory struggled, but finally
nodded his acceptance, sniffling grossly. He was caving inside. Belinas saw the
putty easing further.

“And with your election coming up
in less than two years, it'll be over for you. A divorced man twisted in
scandal won’t win. You know that. In fact, he'll disappear into obscurity. I
can see it now: the lead man who was replaced at the NFSA. The cheating senator
who couldn’t keep his family together, let alone a national agency or the State
of New York. He isn’t going to be looked upon favorably. He'll be laughed at,
pointed at, chided. You have no choice, Gregory. I want you to get a good
night's sleep. Then get up in the morning, and go back to your wife and family.
Apologize to Amanda, and say that everything will be made up for—all your
foolishness, all your weakness. Now is your last and only chance. Impress her
from now on, damn it.”

“Will she take me back?” cried
Gregory.

“She will. This time, she will.
I've asked her to. There will not be a second chance, however. And as for me
and the NFSA—you know what needs to be done. That's why the President appointed
you. So do it better. Do it louder. Get the job done. The nation is counting on
you, Gregory. Your wife is counting on you. God is counting on you.
I
am
counting on you. Look beyond your small self and join the grander spiritual
stage unfolding around you. It’s a holy ultimatum, Gregory Michaelson. It's
your choice.”

The sobbing man looked at Reverend
Belinas, solemnly nodding. Tears obscured his vision. As he clenched his fists,
he promised himself he would not again fail those whom he cared about.

Chapter 20

“Will you marry me, Jethro
Knights?” asked Zoe Bach, continuing a conversation from weeks ago.

It was an honest question. They
were at a frozen yogurt shop they often visited, their left hands interlocked
across the table. Her belly was starting to show the child they had made. 

Zoe worked when she could for
Transhuman Citizen and still did surgery graveyard shifts. In downtown Palo
Alto, they were known as the inseparable pair, always touching or holding on to
one another when they walked. No one was surprised when her stomach swelled,
her hair lengthened, and a rosy glow began radiating from her cheeks.

Jethro continued laboring for the
transhuman movement at a grueling pace, always seven days a week, often
functioning with just a few hours of sleep a night. Much of his time was spent
on airplanes, as he lectured in faraway places and searched out new, wealthier
donors. He also befriended numerous transhumanist groups on different
continents. Human enhancement and life extension leaders from many nations were
increasingly warming to his philosophy, TEF. Despite its aggressiveness, it
appealed to their honor and to the best in themselves. Amongst a world full of
frivolities, hard choices in difficult times required a stronger integrity than
ever before. TEF delivered and refused to compromise.

Jethro’s new friendships also
helped him form joint research projects to further common transhuman aims. He
was now spending nearly half of his group's funding to directly sponsor
immortality and transhuman research, often the most radical types which
couldn't find money elsewhere. His pet projects were artificial intelligence
morality, human cloning, and mind-machine interface. He gravitated towards
supporting the work of scientists who others blackballed as too extreme and
fringe, whose experiments usually occurred in small private laboratories or in
the basements of nameless colleges.

To the layperson and the public,
Transhuman Citizen was also gaining respect and recognition. Over time, it
cemented its role as the leading radical transhumanist group in America: the
one that sparked the most attention in the press; the one that youth and
students joined most frequently; the one that organized the most
demonstrations, strikes, and street trouble when religion or government
challenged a transhuman project. Even the label, “Transhuman Citizen,” had come
to represent a trigger term in popular culture, providing a fighting euphemism for
groups and people who faced oppression.

Ironically, just as Jethro Knights’
organization was starting to make inroads into cracking ethical barriers and
getting large swaths of society to consider transhumanist ideas, Transhuman
Citizen’s initial steep membership rise began to plateau—and then drop. Stiff
headwinds created by the NFSA's new mandates and propaganda campaigns were
starting to take hold. A month earlier the agency’s pushy television
commercials had begun rolling out across the country, openly discrediting
transhumanism in favor of a crafty “back-to-good-old-fashioned-health” crusade.
Additionally, the NFSA teamed up with the dreaded Internal Revenue Service to
audit and comb over the books of private transhuman clinics and research labs across
the country, hassling and penalizing scientists and employees for even the
slightest accounting errors. Worst of all, the NFSA overhauled the
patent-issuing process in biotechnology, making it difficult to control and own
patents with controversial life extension and human enhancement possibilities.
First, they bashed and choked the transhuman scientists, then they chained down
the entrepreneurs who might invest in those scientists. Secure patent ownership
and control was critical to entrepreneurs making capital investments in
transhuman research.

“My love, you know that I’m not a
fan of marriage,” Jethro said, pushing aside his yogurt and staring carefully
into Zoe’s eyes after she asked him to marry her. “You know that I don't see
what right the government or anyone else has to do with putting a stamp on a
commitment as sacred as love. All the government is doing is layering more
legal control over our lives and choices, and making the historical division of
private property more tangible for themselves. Matrimony originally began, and
continues to serve, as a function of economics. You and I just want to be
happily and freely in love.”

“Sure—call me old-fashioned and
naive. But what about the numerous legal benefits when there's a child
involved?” she asked, staring fixedly back at him. “Or if I were incapacitated
in a hospital where a life-and-death decision by a legal spouse was needed?”

Jethro grimaced for an instant, not
wanting to imagine anything harmful ever happening to Zoe.

“The same thing can be accomplished
by power-of-attorney documents,” he answered, “that say we’re guardians of the
child. Or a notarized legal consent proving I’m your domestic partner.”

“How is that different than getting
married though? Power of attorneys and notarized legal consents are valid
because they're sanctioned by the government.”

“Point taken.”

“We all choose to live in a
civilized country we have agreed to be a part of, to follow rules and to not
beat each other over the head with clubs. Being legally bound to me just
facilitates and streamlines that process—a process you’ve already agreed to
with your reasoning mind.”

“Point taken again,” said Jethro.

“So your reluctance—since I know
you hope and want to spend your life with me—is purely symbolic. And whether
you like it or not, your child or I might suffer hassles and setbacks in this
world because of that symbolic non-action of yours. Is that really worthwhile?
Is that really the most rational thing if we choose to live here in legalistic
America, and raise our child here, and live according to laws we generally
agree to?”

“How many points do you want
tonight?”

“I want you to say: ‘Yes, I’ll
marry you.’”

Slowly, he nodded. “Okay then. Yes,
I’ll marry you.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, satisfied.

“Yes,” Jethro said brusquely.
“Yes—as long as it’s not a big social wedding. Such contrived and overblown
ceremonies, like funerals, are tacky. Far too many people live for their
high-priced, ritualistic wedding days—or their blood-diamond engagement rings,
for that matter—and not for the start of spending time with their spouses. It
seems mostly a private matter.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Whatever,
sweetheart—we’re obviously not them. So, is next week okay?”

“Sure. I think Tuesday is mostly
open. But grab it quick before it fills.”

Jethro stared at her for a while,
thinking. He watched her green eyes move in the shadows of her threadlike black
hair. She stared back, eating her chocolate mousse frozen yogurt, waiting for
him to speak. In the background, classical music played and other customers
ordered their desserts.

“Zoe, you’re right on so many
levels about why you want to get married. For me, part of the issue is that I
don’t really believe I’m going to live here yet—in America, with its
impoverished philosophical outlook. Or its legal and political buffoonery. But
that's purely technical. More importantly, I like the idea of waking up every
morning and not being bound to another person, even you, unless I choose it. I
think the choice to love someone should be made every day, maybe every hour.
That's what makes it special. That’s what makes it authentic. In general,
anything that limits options—except the option to be stupid or wrong—is
mistaken.”