Transhumanist Wager, The (55 page)

Forty yards from the military
compound’s cavelike entrance, the flying drone
Trano
—nearly the length
of a tennis court and with wings just as wide—hovered twenty-five feet off the
ground. Its three glowing jet propulsion streams—each the diameter of a
100-year-old redwood tree trunk—created a deafening noise and blackened the
earth underneath the ship. From the aircraft’s cargo door, Soldierbot and
Weaponbot—each at least eight feet tall—jumped in succession to the ground. It
was a jump no sane human would ever attempt. Two U.S. Army soldiers, hiding in
a nearby camouflaged bunker built into the mountain, fired their M-60 machine
guns at the steel masses falling to earth. But the bullets bounced futilely off
them. Both robots landed perfectly, then stood up and scanned their
surroundings, doling out thousands of calculations for their personal avatars
sitting behind computers back at the command center on Transhumania.

After taking its scan, Soldierbot,
gripping a golden cubelike gun, took aim and fired twice at the enemy soldiers
in the bunker. There were no missed shots; both men were instantly killed. The
robot used micro-GPS satellite triangulation when shooting. Wind, moisture, and
dust in the air were accounted for via built-in sensors on its weapon. The
margin of error for hitting its targets was less than a centimeter.

From the compound, the cave’s
titanium doors opened, and three military jeeps carrying six soldiers each
rushed out. The vehicles raced down the dirt road towards the aircraft, a trail
of dust following them. When they neared the robots, the soldiers jumped out
and took positions behind their jeeps, firing at the machines with their M-22s.
Two of the soldiers carrying anti-aircraft weapons launched rockets at the
stationary Transhumanian plane.

Weaponbot, bearing a hefty,
canon-shaped right arm, quickly turned and took aim at the rockets streaming
toward the ship. Using laser-guided precision, the robot’s arm weapon began
spinning upon itself with astonishing speed. Out of it came a river of
seven-inch armor-penetrating bullets that colored the surrounding air black.
The ammunition was loaded in from an inflexible tube leading to a steel
backpack on the machine's tall frame. The U.S. rockets were easily shot out of
the sky before they neared the airship. Then Weaponbot turned, aimed its arm at
the soldiers, and fired. Within seconds, every man was pelted. Bones snapped in
half. Flesh was ripped asunder. Legs, heads, and torsos flew everywhere. One of
the jeeps exploded when it was hit, which sent smoke billowing.

When no humans in sight remained
alive, Weaponbot turned around and stood unmoving, scanning the area, guarding
the airship; its camera eye beamed shades of neon orange light from the middle
of its round metallic forehead.

From the drone, two ports opened
and missile heads inched out of the hull. At the imaging system back in
Transhumania’s command center, calculations in a computer were made to fire two
short-range rockets, to destroy the titanium cave door and give Soldierbot
access to the compound.

On a nearby monitor, Preston
Langmore watched horrified as three human-shaped heat images interacted
erratically with each other in a basementlike room in the cave. One of the
images pulled an L-shaped metallic object from the other and walked briskly to
a fourth, seated figure. He pointed the object at the man’s head. The head
belonged to Jethro Knights. A signal on the computer screen began flashing
bright red.

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

Reverend Belinas screamed at his
two bodyguards, “How the hell did they find us? We’re underground in the
mountains, hidden in a half million tons of concrete and lead.”

The two guards were standing in the
doorway of the torture room, trying to make radio contact with the lieutenant.
All they could hear from their single walkie-talkie was rapid gunfire, aircraft
engines, and the wailing of soldiers.

Then, in an instant, the shooting
and wailing stopped, and only the roar of the aircraft could be heard.

Belinas screamed again. “How in
God’s name did they find us?”

Clueless, the guards looked at each
other. They were surprised the reverend was even asking them.

“I don’t know, Reverend,” answered
the senior guard. “But what should we do?”

 “Protect me, you idiot. Guard the
door. Close it behind me and shoot anyone who comes down here. We’ll wait for
army reinforcements. I’m sure the emergency signal was tripped and they’ll
arrive shortly.”

Belinas turned to go, but spun
around abruptly, and said, “Wait—give me your pistol first.”

The bodyguard obeyed and shut the
heavy steel door behind him. Belinas walked towards Jethro Knights and cocked
the .45 caliber handgun. The preacher raised the gun and pointed it at him, a
half meter away from his face.

“Whatever happens here today, Mr.
Knights, I swear on the power of almighty God, you are not leaving here alive.”

The next moments defied all of
Belinas’ expectations. Jethro laughed out loud, unhurried. It was a booming,
contemptuous sound from the depths of his stomach.

“Now who's being naïve, preacher?
You’re still like an ape on the savannah. And your God is just an imaginary
manifestation in your primitive cortex. Don't you know you don’t have enough
bullets in that gun to kill me? A surgery center ten times more advanced than
anything on this continent is on that aircraft up there. My rescue team will be
here in less than sixty seconds. No matter what you do here now, you’re the
loser. And I swear upon my nation, your life and the space you take up in our
world are just about over.”

Fear shot out of Belinas’ eyes. The
reverend didn't want to believe it. He wouldn't believe it. He glowered at
Jethro, and wrathfully pulled his gun’s trigger. But at the same instant that
the bullet ignited, the underground compound rocked hard all around him. A
massive explosion somewhere in the cave had erupted, shifting the structure of
the complex. Belinas toppled over onto his knees as the gun fired. The bullet
whizzed forward and penetrated Jethro’s shoulder right below the collar bone.
The transhumanist yelled out in pain and clenched his fists. Belinas tried to
get up and shoot again, but Jethro was quicker. He jumped out of the chair with
his handcuffed hands, sprinted four steps, and punted the preacher in the torso
with the full force of his right foot. Belinas lifted six inches into the air,
gasping as bones cracked in his rib cage.

Jethro was about to kick him in the
head, but just then a second explosion, vastly more violent than the first one,
rattled the underground structure. A giant fireball careened from the cave’s
entrance inward and spanned the entire length of the compound, scorching
everything in its path. Belinas’ two bodyguards watched in disbelief as the
inferno raced towards them. When the blast reached the guards, it threw them into
each other and lit them on fire. Falling rock from the shaking cave ceiling
pummeled the screaming men as they burned to death.

Inside Jethro’s room, the jolt from
the second explosion sent him flying into the air. He threw his bound hands
over his head to protect himself as he collided with the cement wall. Around
him, he could feel the temperature soaring, but the heavy metal door, now
partly buried in rock, protected him and Belinas from the worst of the inferno.
Jethro raised his sweaty, chained hands to his mouth, trying to filter the dust
and smoke he was breathing.

When everything was still and the
heat had dissipated, Jethro staggered up. Debris was everywhere. All the tables
and chairs were overturned. Instruments and tools littered the cracked, uneven
floor. He found Belinas near the room’s entrance. The preacher was disoriented
and trying to dig himself out of rubble—a concrete wall had partly collapsed on
him. Jethro roughly pulled Belinas from the wreckage and jumped behind him,
wrapping his handcuffs around the preacher’s throat. He squeezed the chains
tight.

Littered air and smoke were
ubiquitous, but they began filtering out through some of the broken walls and
holes in the ceiling. Tiny, faraway rays of sunlight from the cave’s entrance beamed
sporadically above them. Belinas heaved hard, gasping for breaths, begging
Jethro not to choke him to death.

“Don’t worry, preacher. Not yet.
Not until you see what I want you to see.”

It was surprisingly quiet now. The
aircraft had quickly landed and shut off its engines. Soon, just outside the
damaged entryway of the torture room, someone began moving rubble. Huge chunks
of concrete were heard being lifted away. Rebar was twisted and ripped out with
intense strength. Belinas still couldn't see much because of the filthy air and
smoke. His ears, however, heard the use of hydraulic parts and metal scraping
against cement. The preacher tried calling out to his guards, but no one
answered. He thought it was strange that the person digging only a few feet
away from him didn’t shout or ask anything, either of himself or of Jethro. 

After another thirty seconds, a
handlike object pushed through a crumbling hole in the wall near Belinas. It
possessed seven fingers: three of them smaller and more intricate than those of
humans; four were much larger and more powerful. The hand was made of a
metal-based compound, trending slightly to an orange hue, but it wasn't a metal
known to more than a few thousand people. Jethro immediately recognized which
robot it was from its finger configuration.

The metal hand reached deeper into
the room and touched Belinas' left thigh, slowly dragging its sharp fingers
against it until it reached his ankle.

“Get that thing off me,” Belinas
cried, trying to jump back.

The robot tightened its grip on the
preacher’s ankle and crushed it like an overripe strawberry.

“Soldierbot—stop.”

Immediately the metal hand released
the crippled foot, responding to its commander's voice.

Belinas sobbed, and stared in
disbelief at his destroyed ankle, its cracked bones shooting through his skin.
Blood oozed everywhere. Soon his sobs quieted though, as he registered shock at
what emerged from the smoke. Belinas watched an eight-foot robot rip out a
chunk of wall near him, then agilely fit through the small opening to enter the
room. Inside, the robot stood up straight, appearing in its full form. Thin
streams of light radiated around its haunting figure. Its head was just inches
below the fractured ceiling. It peered into Belinas’ eyes.

“Oh no. It can't be,” Belinas
whimpered.

“Yes, preacher, it
can
—and
it
is
. Welcome to the future of the Transhuman Revolution.”

Belinas' mind frantically ran
through various scenarios. He unconsciously grabbed the miniature wooden cross
on his neck and began reciting a prayer.

“Where is God now, Belinas?”
whispered Jethro into his ear. “This is your God. And it's here for me to
command. Part of its main microprocessor chip is already in my head. That's how
it found me. You could say we're almost
one
already.”

The reverend stared, horrified. He
rubbed his cross fanatically, trying not to understand, yearning for a miracle.

“Soldierbot, clear the way out of
this room. We are leaving now.”

Belinas watched, aghast, as the
machine immediately obeyed. It began working and moving pieces of concrete ten
times the weight of its metallic body.

Jethro tightened his handcuffs
around the preacher's neck, so that his air pipes were completely closed off.
The preacher couldn’t breathe, but he was too stunned and weak to resist. He
was dying.

When the way was clear, the robot
turned around and looked at Jethro, ready for orders.

“Soldierbot, come here. Look into
this human's eyes. Ten centimeters from his face.”

Belinas’ last moments of life were
spent looking into the machine’s single orange eye, and feeling Jethro’s
handcuffs clenching his throat tighter and tighter.

***********

Jethro Knights was nearly halfway
back to Transhumania, rocketing across the sky in
Trano
, as Medibot
completed the last stitches of his shoulder’s bullet removal surgery. For a man
who had just undergone a serious medical operation and was drugged with
painkillers and antibiotics, Jethro seemed vivacious and unfazed. Adrenalin
pumped through him. He savored his thoughts: The archenemy of transhumanism is
dead. The killer of my wife is dead. 

Soon after Jethro landed on
Transhumania, U.S. Army reinforcements arrived at the attacked military
compound in western Virginia. The carnage and damage they found shocked them.
Quickly, the news was reported up the military’s chain of command, eventually
reaching the U.S. President. After discussions with his Cabinet, the President
chose to give the media full access to the scene at the secret military
compound. Dead soldiers were gathered together and laid in a row with an
American flag flying behind them. Their opaque faces were filmed so the public
could see what Transhumania had done. Grieving families were allowed to visit
the compound, and footage was shown of them weeping over their fallen kin. A
surveillance video of the fighting was aired; it revealed Transhumania’s robots
as haunting, alienlike creatures without feeling, without human morality.

Reverend Belinas’ body was included
in the show. That night in a live speech, the President emotionally praised him
as a dear friend, a dedicated minister of God, and an American patriot. He also
announced, along with his A10 counterparts, that war was officially declared on
Transhumania and that battle plans were being devised.

Ironically, the candid media
coverage in the United States didn't have the government’s desired effect on
the public. Sympathy was cast aside in favor of sheer wonder. People were
shocked at how far Transhumania's technology had advanced; how one man, an
advanced airship, and a few robots could destroy a whole army squad with no
losses of their own—literally on the army's home turf.

Then the bombshell came, upending
everything. Transhumania dispatched its own broadcast and story of Jethro
Knights’ abduction only thirty seconds after the President's live speech 
ended. Jethro's chip had recorded all the conversations between Belinas and
himself, many of which the Transhumania News Network replayed live on its
website and also shared with media organizations around the world. People felt
baffled and betrayed by their governments, asking: Did the world's A10 leaders
know about this? Is it legal? Is it morally right? Since the kidnapping and
torture compound are clearly criminal and dishonorable, did we ever really know
Reverend Belinas? People felt embarrassed for their government and country.

The following morning, in another
impromptu televised speech, the U.S. President awkwardly reversed the praise he
had poured over Reverend Belinas. He apologized to his country for the
kidnapping, insisting that he knew nothing of the preacher's plan nor of the
government’s secret torture compound in Virginia. He promised a thorough
investigation into the matter and into the NFSA, and asked Americans to
continue supporting and trusting their government.

It was too late. Many people were
now angry and permanently skeptical. The President was caught in a web of lies,
and his play of innocence only fueled their lack of faith. Opposing parties in
Congress demanded his immediate resignation, citing his inability to run the
country properly. Anti-government demonstrations in America’s major cities
popped up everywhere. Senator Michaelson was also trapped by the public’s fury.
His leadership of the NFSA was hotly questioned and criticized by the media.
Gregory tried to distance himself from the hounding press, holing himself up in
his Washington, D.C. house with the blinds shut. He felt lost without Belinas,
and his presidential chances were rapidly dwindling.

A10 countries and their politicians
also tried to distance themselves from the kidnapping of Jethro Knights—what
they publicly called: injudicious American actions. They especially didn’t want
to be associated in any way with the famous preacher. He was, after all, an
obvious Christian fanatic, the foreign leaders insisted. Their countries and
religious populace, they promised, were far more moderate. Regardless, all A10
members and their leaders still agreed on the dangers of Transhumania, more so
after seeing what their advanced military technology was capable of doing.

The generals, admirals, and
military commanders of the A10 countries were even more vexed than politicians,
fearing with certainty that Transhumania possessed evolved nuclear weaponry and
other mass destructive capabilities. They fretted that the Transhumanians would
not hesitate to use such power against the A10. The commanders insisted on
beginning their war campaign immediately. It was not prudent, they felt, to
give Transhumania any more time to mobilize and develop a strategy.

Chapter 31

Twenty-four hours after
Transhumania rescued Jethro Knights on American soil, the most powerful A10
military leaders were transported by helicopter to the aircraft carrier
USS
Freeport
, thirty-five miles off Oahu, Hawaii. The ten haughty figures, all
older men bearing myriad medals, emblems, and stars on their uniforms, gathered
in the ship’s main conference room. After hours of deliberation, the commanders
decided their combined navies should surround Transhumania and selectively
bombard it with the most sophisticated and accurate surface-to-surface missiles
in their arsenals.

The commanders did not want to
destroy the entire city nor kill its scientists. Their intent was only to
demolish the parts of Transhumania unnecessary to them, such as the wind farm,
the stadium, or even the tallest skyscraper, which contained all housing and
administrative offices. Once the bombing was done, the A10 would seize the
city, along with all valuable research and inventions in the Science and
Technology Towers. Captured scientists would be forced to return to their
homelands and be jailed or released on strict probation.

“Nuclear weapons will not be used
unless A10 countries are attacked with mass-destruction weaponry,” the American
Secretary of Defense promised the press and the public. “We plan to spare as
many lives as possible. This is a group of very intelligent people—scientists
the world needs—who have been led astray by a devilishly philosophical tyrant.”

Secretly, though, A10 military
leaders agreed that if Transhumania put up too formidable a fight, or
threatened their navies directly, they would collectively destroy and sink the
platform in one massive onslaught. They weren’t going to take any chances with
a city full of technological wonders and horrors. Besides, there was always the
possibility of a revolutionary new Transhumanian weapon falling exclusively
into the hands of one of the A10 countries. Such an incident could have vast
ramifications in the geopolitical pecking order; relative global peace and the
A10 union could be quickly destabilized. Nobody wanted to take that risk.

Forty-eight hours later, in the
heart of the Pacific Ocean along the equator near Fiji, an international armada
of warships convened and moved on Transhumania. They encircled the seasteading
city, keeping twenty miles off it. F-22 fighter jets were ready to depart from
nearby aircraft carriers. American, Chinese, and Russian submarines patrolled
close by, underneath the sea. Fully loaded B-2A bomber planes awaited orders to
quickly take off from Guam, New Zealand, and the Philippines.

Preston Langmore, Mayor Burton,
Josh Genear, Janice Mantikas, Francisco Dante, Oliver Mbaye, and three top
Transhumanian military division heads met Jethro Knights in his quarters at the
Immortality Bridge. In front of them, on the dining room's huge glass table,
were tons of strategic plans, laptops, and half-drunk coffees. They were deep
into a late-night strategy session. In the background, IMN was playing on a
television, the volume barely audible. Jethro listened occasionally, chuckling
as he watched IMN’s live coverage of the ships gathering outside Transhumania.
Oliver and Burton smiled too. Langmore did not find it so amusing.

“They’re so misled. So blind,”
Jethro said. “They have about twenty-four hours in a world they call their own.
Then it's ours. Just think of the possibilities.”

“As long as the shield system
works,” Langmore pointed out nervously. “It’s not been fully tested.”

“It’s been simulated dozens of
times. That's what engineers call fully tested,” Jethro answered.

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Preston, when I built my sailboat,
I simulated the whole thing in my head. A is A. Our engineers have done the
same thing here, except not only in their heads, but also on a hundred
supercomputers that approximate a trillion calculations a second. We’re fine.
Besides, we have backups of backups. A very sensible philosophy.”

“Our lives and everything we’ve
been working and fighting for will be over quickly if you’re wrong.”

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

At exactly 8:15 A.M., two hours
before the first A10 missiles were launched at the transhuman nation, an
American admiral on the battleship
USS Talbot
telephoned Oliver Mbaye at
the Transhumania Defense Command Center. He warned him to tell the city’s
citizens not to be near the solar farms, wind farms, or the power station,
because incoming missiles would soon be destroying those areas. In a
straitlaced tone of voice, the admiral also told Oliver other parts of the city
would be spared until further notice. The A10 commanders were counting on a
quick surrender once Transhumania’s leaders saw its city on fire and its energy
sources destroyed.

Oliver politely thanked the admiral
for the call, telling him he would inform the people. The recorded phone
conversation was forwarded to Jethro Knights, who listened to it from the
observation hall on the top floor of the Transhumania Tower. In front of
imposing, twenty-foot-high, 360-degree viewing windows, Jethro stood coolly,
wearing a wire-thin headset connected to every person in the command center and
control rooms of the city. Twelve flat screen monitors, showing radar, video
feeds, and other data points, were built into the floor in front of him.
Preston Langmore stood next to him on his right. Jethro shook his head in jest
when he listened to the formality of the admiral's tone. He emailed the audio
message to leaders and staff of Transhumania with a smiley face icon in the
subject line. It calmed the air.

An hour later, no one was calm
anymore. History and their futures weighed upon them. Jethro began pacing in
front of the huge glass windows, like a tiger in a cage. If their defense
systems failed, there was little chance for success, and surrender remained the
only option. Many military specialists, technology experts, computer technicians,
and cyber-warriors at Transhumania had spent years preparing for this moment,
and now everyone was jittery while waiting to see the results.

“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.”