Transhumanist Wager, The (23 page)

Jethro smiled. “No. Not yet. I'm
going to wait.”

“Wait?”

“Wait.”

“For what?”

“For the right moment. To do the
exact right thing. I'm also beginning to work on international plans. Some of
your hires are doing great so far, and bringing in ample new funding. I'm now
planning small satellite offices in Paris, Sydney, Buenos Aires, and Beijing.
And then to hire more fundraisers as well. Plus, I'm in the midst of creating
an effective media machine—where we can mass produce news, pamphlets, videos,
and everything else—right here in this office, on demand.”

“I've heard, I've heard. But,
Jethro, what are you going to
do
?” Langmore reiterated with emphasis.

Jethro looked at him acutely, the
same look that he once had while holding a pool stick in the Victoria
University dormitory.

“Preston, I'm going to do something
that will make Transhuman Citizen famous. But that, my good friend, is confidential.
And nothing you really would want to know too much about, just in case you're
implicated or arrested as well.”

Langmore grinned and said, “I knew
it. I can't wait.”

“Neither can I.”

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

Gregory Michaelson walked toward
the revolving doors of Le Chateau, the preeminent restaurant on Long Island,
where he was meeting Reverend Belinas. A sharply dressed athletic man stood
near the front entrance. The color of his full attire was identical: black
suit, black shirt, black tie, black belt, black socks, black shoes. A bulge
near his hip showed he was likely an armed private bodyguard. Inside, Gregory
saw another burly man in the same black outfit, eyes alert, sitting at the bar.
The man nodded a signal, and the waiter responded by escorting Gregory to
Belinas.

“Mr. Michaelson, thank you so much
for joining me,” Belinas said. His tall figure stood from behind an intimate
table in a far corner of the restaurant, his arm outstretched for a handshake.

“It's very much my pleasure,
Reverend Belinas. Is that your bodyguard over there?” Gregory pointed, animated
like a young boy. He couldn’t hide his awe of the preacher about whom he’d
heard so much over the years.

“Yes, it is. But I would not call
my protectors “bodyguards.” Members of the clergy, maybe. Missionaries for the
Lord, possibly. Or, as I like to call them, angels. Aren't we all?”

“Tough-looking angels,” said
Gregory. “Like in a Hollywood movie.”

“Yes, they are. It's unfortunate
that people like you and I have to be escorted everywhere. Yet, such is the
nature of our work, of our mission, of
your
mission. Gregory—may I call
you Gregory? You
do
believe you are on a mission, don't you?”

“Of course, please call me
Gregory,” he answered as they sat down. “And, well yes, I like to think I'm on
a mission—doing the right thing, if that's what you mean. For the people, of
course.”

Gregory straightened his tie.

“Of course.” Belinas smiled,
quickly understanding the opposite about the aspiring statesman.

The waiter came and they ordered
drinks.

The men chatted more, and after
wine was served and salutations made, Belinas put his drink down and pushed it
aside, saying, “Gregory, allow me to be blunt about your Senate race. You're in
a dark place right now. Johnson is too tough, and I must say, without a miracle
occurring for you, he's going to win the election. But miracles occur all the
time, my friend—when you know the right people and believe in the right path.
And, of course, the Lord is on your side.”

Gregory stared at his wine glass
and saw the reflection of Belinas in it.

“I'd like a miracle,” Gregory
whispered.

“Of course you would. Because you
want to win. You have that winning quality—I can see it shining through you.
You are a man capable of doing great things.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Belinas leaned back in his chair,
surprised. He did not expect that reply. He stared incredulously and searched
to understand the young man more.

“Yes, I do. I definitely do. Don't
you?” the preacher finally said.

“I'm not always sure,” Gregory
responded quietly, as if in confession. “The game can be…overwhelming.”

Many people confessed things in
front of Belinas that they later regretted. It was something the reverend had
pleasantly come to expect in his line of work—and to exploit when the
opportunity presented itself.

“Everything,” whispered Gregory,
“has just been a lot more difficult than I ever thought it would be.”

The preacher smiled, pleased,
thinking the candidate would be more easily formed than originally anticipated.
He leaned forward and said, “Gregory, this is why you're here tonight. I can
get you elected by telling my congregation in New York to vote for you. A loss
here might be the end of your career, and back to being some statesman’s aide
or sitting by the pool with your wealthy wife, thinking about what might have
been. But I can snap my fingers and give you a five-point lead tomorrow. You'll
be the talk of the town—on your way up.”

Gregory swallowed, his Adam's apple
bobbing in his throat.

“I appreciate that. And I believe
you. It would be most kind if you would do that.”

“Yes, it
would
be most kind,
Gregory. But miracles seldom happen just to be kind to someone. Rather they
happen to those in faithful service to the Lord and his chosen ambassador.”

“How can I be of faithful service
to the Lord? And to you, Reverend?”

“That's why I already like you. You
understand so easily. So let me continue being blunt. Gregory, you’ve done a
decent job trashing Johnson’s transhumanist inclinations in your campaign, but
not nearly as much as I’d like to see. Starting tomorrow, I want you to bring
your criticism of transhumanism to the forefront of your campaign. I want you
to ratchet up the rhetoric against Johnson’s transhumanist ties to a fever
pitch. Forget all your other political ideas on jobs, taxes, healthcare, social
security reform, and everything else. Johnson has you beat on all of them. But
where you can win the Senate race is by discrediting him as a worthy, moral
leader in the public eye. Smear him as the shady, cold-blooded, twisted idolater
that he is. I want to hear how spiritually corrupt Johnson is in every speech
and interview you make. I want you to bash him and his transhuman movement
until your voice fails. Do you understand? Make that the ultimate rallying cry
of your campaign from now on.”

Puzzled, Gregory stared at the
preacher for many seconds. He eventually said, “Okay, Reverend, I can do it.
But why is that so important? I don’t really see what it has to do with
anything.”

“
You
don’t, but
I
do.
When you win the election on the anti-transhumanism ticket, not another
politician in the country will be able to support the movement without intense
fear of jeopardizing their career.”

“Oh,” Gregory said. “Oh, I see. You
want to set a national precedent.”

“Exactly. And I
will
set
one. So, may I count on you to help me do that?”

Gregory thought about it—and about
the millions of votes the preacher controlled. Similar to a soldier obeying a
command, he said, “Yes, sir. I’ll do it just as you requested.”

“There’s one more thing I need from
you, Gregory. One more very important matter to discuss,” Belinas said as he
looked around the restaurant suspiciously. “Just between you and me.”

Gregory leaned forward.

“Once you win, I'd like you to
chair the new security agency I’m forming with the President. He's left the
choice up to me whom to choose.”

At first, Gregory wondered if he
had heard the reverend correctly. Then a merry astonishment slowly showered
over him. He wasn't sure what nail-biting sacrifice was going to be asked of
him, but so far, everything sounded incredible. Get elected senator, then head
a major new entity his political elders would beg to lead.

Belinas watched Gregory's reaction
and answered the unasked questions on his face:
Why do this for me? What
makes me so lucky?

Belinas leaned in closer. “Because
I believe in you, Gregory. And so does God. He told me so. We believe you can
help us do something for America that should've been done years ago.”

“What do you mean exactly? Do
what?”

“Help us stop the atheist
scientists and transhumanists in this country from taking away our souls and
from disrupting the righteous human path to our Maker. The so-called
‘Transhuman Revolution’ is pure evil, Gregory. It's utterly dangerous—and it
needs to be stopped.”

“I’m not sure what to say, sir.”

“Say yes. You have what it takes to
lead this country against those who plan to destroy God with transhumanism.”

Instead of saying yes, Gregory’s
face became even more perturbed. His eyes squinting inward like a schoolboy
trying to solve a complicated math problem.

“I see something in your eyes. What
is it?” Belinas asked. “Something is way out of place for you. Oh yes, of
course. I understand it now. You’re still so innocent, so naïve. You think the
transhuman movement is a joke: a bunch of burnt-out hippies testing crazy
science fiction theories.”

Gregory was careful. “Yes, well,
sort of, sir. They seem so small and weak. They're only fifty thousand strong
or so. You've got fifty million people in your churches and affiliates across
America, and another fifty million abroad, who all think you're—”

“Who think I'm God's instrument,”
interrupted Belinas firmly. “And when you've seen the things I've seen, you'll
understand that numbers in the millions are unimportant. It's the outliers—the
few rogue individuals and their cohorts—who can cause ripples that become
tsunamis. They can bring about catastrophic change to existing social systems
that are stable, righteous, and God-fearing. The fact is those fifty thousand
are some of the smartest on this planet, at least technically. And ten of them
could take on ten million. Such is the undemocratic nature and evil of
technology. But that's not only what I'm concerned about. I'm also worried
about them actually convincing the world that losing our humanity is acceptable;
that it's permissible or even correct in some twisted, idolatrous way. They
teach that true evolution involves the loss of our beneficent human culture and
our Christian way of life. They want not only to kill God, but also the soul of
humankind and its cultural legacy. Humans should marvel humbly in awe of the
Lord. But transhumanists only want to replace God with themselves and marvel at
their own awe. Their final goal is to bring about a new world order, with them
playing God.”

“I see. Blasphemy—the greatest
sin.”

“Precisely, Gregory. Blasphemy. The
one sin that can't be forgiven. And won't be.”

Gregory took a large sip of wine,
emptying his glass. He waited for Belinas to speak.

“So will you help me? Can I count
on you to be the shining knight our country needs right now? And also my good
friend?”

Gregory reached to pour them some
more wine. He judged poorly, however, and gave too much to Belinas. There was
hardly enough left in the bottle to fill his own glass. Gregory frowned and
said, “Sure, that all sounds fine, Reverend. I'll adjust my campaign first
thing tomorrow morning and increase my anti-transhumanism attack.”

“Excellent, my new friend. I knew
you would be perfect for this. It’s so good to have you on my side.”

A waiter came by and Belinas
ordered champagne. When it was poured, the preacher made a toast.

“To you becoming the youngest
senator in a century, Gregory Michaelson. And to a long, prosperous career
using the Lord as your guide—and me as your friend.”

Both men clinked their glasses and
drank.

Much later that night, Belinas
contacted his clergy's leaders in New York on a conference call, saying, “Sell
Gregory Michaelson. He's the one who can help us win against those God-killers.
I don't want one Redeem Church member in New York to skip voting for
Michaelson—or to vote any other way. If they do, cast them out.”

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

Zoe Bach sat at her expansive glass
desk, a pen and a blank piece of paper in front of her. Beyond it was a
panoramic view of the San Francisco Bay through her forty-second-story
apartment window. Outside, high above the ocean, sunlight pierced the drifting
clouds, causing rays of light to dangle through the windowpane onto her face.

She sighed, looking at the
wastebasket near her. Inside it were three crumbled-up, half-written letters to
Jethro Knights. She still loved him and desperately wanted him in her life.
After their romance, the few other men she dated didn't compare, didn’t
challenge her, didn't stimulate her enough, didn't capture her spirit. And they
weren't as mentally strong or complex as Jethro. Besides, deep inside, Zoe knew
she was still waiting for him to come back to her. She believed it was fate.

Nevertheless, Zoe wasn’t sure what
to write now or how Jethro would respond. She wondered if contacting him over
the potential terrorist attack at Cryotask was appropriate. It might push him
farther away. At least she wasn’t barging in on him in person at his Palo Alto
office. But what if he didn't respond at all to her letter? Did she even want
to know that? Could she survive that? What if he really meant never to see her
or know her again?

She sat at her desk for another
hour, staring at the blank page, at the bay, at the clouds, contemplating all
the possibilities. She tried meditating, tried yoga moves, brewed some
coffee—but still she wasn’t sure what to say. The conflict corrupted her normal
peace. It made her moody, vulnerable, needy.