Transhumanist Wager, The (26 page)

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

Belinas swiped the remote control
away from the man. He aimed the device at the television and began quickly
flipping through the major news channels. He stopped on IMN, horrified when he
heard his own name spoken by Refia.

 “Belinas, he’s not as great a man
as you think,” Refia said to his partner, Brian, while calibrating a bomb. “His
authority as a warrior for God has always seemed questionable to me. I don't
think he knows how to really fight like we do. I mean, he's not here with us on
the frontlines, risking his skin.”

“Well, come on man,” Brian
answered, apprehensively watching his boss handle the device. “That’s why he’s
a preacher, not a fighter.”

“Yeah, but we need a Moses to lead
us right now. A King David. A warrior. Not a talker. The time for talking is
over. It’s so over, man.”

“What about the President? He's a
man of God. He’s against transhumanism. Maybe he's the true leader? Maybe he'll
pass laws and force the issues—and get everything back on track.”

“No way—he's lame too. He's just a
petty politician manipulated by lobbyists and money. Besides, Belinas and him
are already bedfellows. If I had the President's kind of power, I would hang
all these transhumanists in public. That’s the kind of leadership we need.”

The IMN co-anchor chimed in to the
anchorwoman beside him, “Do you think they mean Reverend Belinas, head of
Redeem Church? And the President—our President of the United States of
America?”

“I can’t speculate on that,”
Patricia Hayes answered back cautiously. “That's for the authorities to
unravel.”

Only twelve feet from the news
anchors—yet out of view of the cameras—the senior IMN producer began stomping
his feet and waving his arms. Furiously miming with his hand over his mouth, he
ordered them to
shut up
. Then he mouthed, “Don't implicate any national
leaders, you idiots.”

Nobody in the newsroom wanted to
jeopardize his job or bring trouble to the station over a story as
controversial as this. The country was already tense enough. And the unfolding
terrorist event had the potential to cajole the pendulum of public opinion and
sensibility.

Patricia Hayes watched her producer
and quickly said, “Sure—so then let’s discuss the background of this Jethro
Knights a little more. He’s the founder of that new radical group, Transhuman
Citizen. Our sources tell us he's an
International Geographic
man and a
Victoria graduate. And if I remember correctly, didn't he make a heated
criticism, which had caused some controversy at that major transhumanism
conference last year? In fact, wasn’t he the one who threw the rock back at the
protestors?”

Reverend Belinas stood still,
overwhelmed with shock, watching the television. He was incredulous that these
things were happening. Three minutes ago he was deep in his peaceful morning
prayer, one of his favorite moments of the day. Now the world was hearing his
name connected to a potentially murderous crime. He yelled at his bodyguard,
“Get me Senator Michaelson on the line immediately. This is going to fucking
blow up!”

The bodyguard dialed, deeply
afraid. It was the first time anyone had ever heard Belinas curse.

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

The television news channels
continued their speculation about who Jethro Knights and Transhuman Citizen
were, sending their in-house researchers sprint-searching to track down as much
information as possible. Each channel came up with different ideas and unique
angles. Some implemented video feeds they had in their digital libraries from
the 25th Anniversary Transhumanism Conference. Others aired footage from the
Victoria University town hall forum. Still others spliced in images from
Transhuman Citizen’s website and passages of the
TEF Manifesto
.

The term “Transhuman Citizen”
quickly became the most Internet-searched name in the country that hour. The
searches all led to the website of Jethro’s organization, which viewers found
simple, elegant, and expedient in describing what Transhuman Citizen and its
philosophy, TEF, represented. The site portrayed a streamlined direct-action
group, well-conceived and aptly financed, with top executive leadership and a
handful of internationally recognized scientists in support. There were offices
with physical addresses all over the world: Paris, Beijing, Buenos Aries,
Sydney. There were multilingual secretaries and fundraisers in each foreign
branch to answer telephone calls and emails. A viewer came away impressed,
convinced—believing this could be one of the most vocal and formidable arms of
the transhuman movement, even if it seemed overly radical.

Inevitably, the police caught the
story too. Only fourteen minutes after Jethro went live on television,
sirens—first faint, then louder—raced toward the Cryotask building.

Once Jethro heard the sirens, he
texted Oliver Mbaye:

Here we go. Step two
.

Oliver texted back:

In booth, waiting. Entrance
vent locked.

Jethro's plan involved catching the
four terrorists in the windowless, concrete basement. He assumed they would try
to escape the same way they had entered once they saw police outside. Two
nights before, Jethro and Oliver installed a heavy bulletproof security door
with deadbolts at the entrance to the basement. All Jethro had to do was
quietly follow the terrorists to the underground room and lock them in. The
police could take care of the rest. The bombs weren't scheduled to go off until
the employees arrived, so there would be at least an hour to collect and
dismantle them—or throw them into the nearby San Francisco Bay.

Everything changed when Jethro,
watching his monitors, saw Refia reach into his pocket and grab his vibrating
cell phone. The terrorist was surprised to see his brother's caller ID on the
screen. He knew his brother would only call at that exact moment for an
absolute emergency. As soon as Refia answered, the voice began shouting madly
at him.

“They know! They know fucking
everything, man!”

“Huh? Calm down, bro,” whispered
Refia. “What are you talking about? Why are you calling me right now? You
know
what I'm doing.”

“Look behind the painting in front
of you, brother.”

“What?”

“They're filming you do this,
Refia. At Cryotask.”

“Calm down. Are you drinking again?
What are you talking about?”

“Just look. Behind. The painting.
In front of you,” the man said, desperately trying to control himself.

“Look behind the painting? Hold
on.”

Refia walked up to the Monet
knockoff and examined it. He poked his index finger at a tiny tube flush with
the canvas, gradually realizing that it was a micro-camera lens. He lifted the
painting and saw wires leading into the wall.

“What the hell?”

“Do you see now? It's a fucking
hidden video camera!”

“Jesus Christ. How do you know
this?”

“It's live, I'm telling you. The
whole thing is on TV. I'm watching you right now—holding the painting up.
Looking at it with your crooked teeth. There are cameras all over the place.
I’m watching Johnny, Brian, and Diego too. All of you are IMN headline news.”

“That's insane!” Refia exclaimed,
flabbergasted.

“I know it is. But still—the whole
country is watching you, man. The entire building has live hidden cameras
everywhere. There's that transhuman guy, Jethro Knights, inside the building
somewhere. He set you up, man. He can even hear this conversation.
Everyone
can hear this conversation.
I'm
hearing you talk to me on TV. It's
crazy.”

“You're insane.”

“No, man. The entire country is
watching you. They’re
hearing
you talk about the church. About the boss.
About everything.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding
me,” Refia said, shooting paranoid, furtive glances around the room. He slowly
realized the magnitude of what was occurring.

He ran over to a television hanging
on the wall and switched it on. A few seconds later, when the picture came into
view, there he was on Channel 2, San Francisco local news. Bold red headlines
ran across the screen:
Live Breaking News
. The anchorperson was
speculating about whom the caller speaking with the terrorist might be. Then
the broadcast cut to Jethro Knights in a small room on the third floor, his
weapon pulled.

“Oh my God,” Refia hissed. A moment
later he faintly heard a police car with its sirens sounding. Then another. And
another. Until the noises became so loud that he knew they were only about half
a block away and coming for him. He ran to the nearest window and saw six squad
cars rushing up the street. Behind them was a SWAT team in a black courier van.
Within seconds of parking, uniformed men bearing shotguns and automatic weapons
drained out of the vehicles. Officers rapidly cordoned off the street with
yellow “caution” tape and began throwing burning flares onto nearby sidewalks.
Police car lights flashed everywhere. News vans were also arriving. Reporters
jumped out and ran towards the scene with cameras and microphones.

“What can I do?” Refia shouted into
the phone, backing away from the window and pulling out his handgun. “We have
to escape.”

“No, man. He's locked you in. The
vent is bolted closed. He's planned it all.”

“Who?”

“That Jethro Knights guy. From
Transhuman Citizen. Don't know who they are. It doesn't matter. He’s just some
damn transhumanist. But you're locked in and surrounded.”

There was silence on the phone—a
profound reckoning began to occur.

“You won't be able to escape,
Refia,” the brother said finally, solemnly hinting at something ominous.

“What can I do?” Refia asked. As he
watched himself on television, however, he already knew what needed to be done.

His brother whispered, “You know
what to do, bro. You're with God now. You wage His war. And protect His glory.
Remember the training?”

“Yeah, I remember,” Refia answered
quietly, reluctantly. He thought about the covert Redeem Church terrorist
training camp in Wyoming, and of the arduous six months he spent there,
preparing.

“Good, then finish the mission. May
God's infinite might and peace be with you.”

Refia looked at the phone, mumbled
farewell, and hung up. His brother was right. Refia stood up straighter, a man
newly determined. He tore into his backpack and removed the master timer from
its case. He stuck the device on top of a cryonics tank and re-calibrated it
for ninety seconds.

Moments later, Jethro received a
text from Zoe Bach:

They know. Exiting. Doubt u
can catch them in basement.

A hidden video camera was just able
to view the red numbers on the digital screen of the master timer. It showed
eighty-three seconds left. Then eighty-two, eighty-one, eighty, . . . and
downward.

A second text came through from
Zoe, only ten seconds afterward:

No! Wrong! Suicide. Re-timing
bombs. 73 sec ONLY. Get out!

A third text broke in from Oliver:

Get out of building NOW,
Jethro! Suicide!

Jethro’s phone rang. It was Preston
Langmore. Simultaneously, another call came in from Zoe. Jethro couldn’t answer
or look at his phone anymore. There was no time. He took a final glance at the
monitors to see where each terrorist was, then cocked his gun and launched
himself out the bedroom door, towards the stairs.

In front of the Cryotask building,
police bearing bullhorns yelled at spectators and neighbors congregating on the
sidewalks: “Clear the street! Bomb blasts are imminent! Clear the area
immediately!”

People hurried back inside their
homes or ran away down the street.

Refia's backup man, Diego, who had
heard the whole phone conversation between the brothers, lost his nerve when he
saw the master timer tick to sixty seconds remaining. Afraid to die, he turned
and flew down the stairs, abandoning the mission. He kicked open the front
doors of the Cryotask building and sprinted outside. He was met by a cluster of
police officers with drawn guns. A sharpshooter on the SWAT team shot him in
the left knee as he ran towards the sidewalk. Diego yelped and fell to the
ground. He gripped his leg in agony.

The terrorists on the first floor,
Johnny and Brian, didn't know about the phone call from Refia's brother.
Confused, they watched Diego dash past them out the entrance and get shot. It
made no sense. Their instincts told them to quickly retreat to the basement.
While they were running across the house they yelled at Refia on their headsets,
asking him what the hell was going on? Johnny and Brian looked at each other in
panic when they found the basement vent locked tight.

Forty feet directly above them,
Jethro Knights descended from the third floor with incredible speed, jumping
four steps at a time. He held his pistol in one hand and his cell phone in the
other. But on the landing of the second floor, a gun exploded—and a bullet
whizzed by his head. It caused him to misjudge a step, and he tumbled into a
wall, dropping his handgun and phone. His weapon landed four feet away from
him. He lifted himself up to grab it and heard a fuming voice in front of him.

“Touch your piece and I'll shoot
you in the face.”

Jethro looked up and saw Refia
pointing the barrel of a .38-caliber revolver directly at his head. The
terrorist was only three feet away from him.

“You must be the bastard who did
this,” Refia said.

A text from Langmore beeped and
came through Jethro’s phone:

30 seconds! Get out NOW!

Refia walked over to Jethro's gun
and kicked it down the rest of the stairs.

“Your fate is sealed with mine.
You're going to die here and meet God. He’s going to judge you and send you to
eternal hell with all these dead freaks, whether you like it or not.”