Transhumanist Wager, The (3 page)

Jethro's construction during the
past three months was intense—eighteen-hour days. Occasionally he would
interrupt his work on the boat, jump on his bike, and peddle for thirty minutes
to class at Victoria University, sometimes through snow. He was a senior, so
school was less demanding and required only small amounts of his time.

To gain practical bluewater
experience, each Sunday morning Jethro practiced sailing—first by renting
dinghies, then twelve-foot Lasers, then J-21s; finally, he only practiced on a
thirty-five-foot Swensen sloop, a boat comparable in weight and size to his own
creation. He rented it from someone at the prestigious Fillmore Yacht Club,
down the road from his boatyard. It was amongst these posh boats at Fillmore,
when Jethro was almost finished building
Contender
, that Gregory Michaelson
saw him—and stood astonished, staring crudely, as if looking at an accident
with mangled bodies strewn on the asphalt. They were classmates in the
philosophy department at Victoria University, where Gregory was taking his
degree in preparation to pursue law and, eventually, politics.

Gregory was dressed in a tight
aqua-blue polo shirt, white linen pants, and Italian shoes. His eyes were dark
brown, but his skin was fair and silky. His short, chestnut-colored hair was
carefully brushed, parted, and gelled. His underwear carried an unpronounceable
French brand name on the back of it. He wore a diamond-studded gold watch,
which dangled loosely, carelessly on his wrist; a reflection of it often
bounced off his mirrored silver sunglasses. Tall, elegant, and bearing a pointy
chin, he appeared a preppy, aristocratic figure.

In the late 1960s, Gregory’s
father, an eminent attorney-turned-senator in New York, married a graceful
woman from a powerful English family, assuring his namesake a tie to both the
European and American social registries. Three years later, the couple
conceived Gregory. As an only child, the boy was pampered from infancy up, his
every need being catered to by a live-in nanny, private tutors, and personal
sports trainers. The world revolved around him, Gregory remembered thinking as
a young teenager. It was true, as long as it was others who did the revolving.
Without the others, though, Gregory didn't know what to think.

At age twenty-one, Gregory proved
himself a rising star in college—the popular man on campus whom everyone tried
to befriend. He was also one of the most accomplished in his class at Victoria
University: a decorated track athlete with a penchant for competition; a
devoted member of the Alpha Phi Fraternity; a volunteer children’s mentor at
his Christian church; a dabbling violinist; an able wingman for his friends
when they went to clubs looking for ladies; a connoisseur of fine foods. He
once distinguished twenty-six different cheeses blindfolded in a fancy
restaurant, winning a contest against peers from another private college.
Modishness, flair, and class were in Gregory's every thought and
decision—aesthetics before function, pomp before action, style before reason.
He epitomized the youthful, modern-day gentleman playboy, with a dash of
metrosexuality for good measure.

Many people who met Gregory for the
first time—seeing his bright smile, shaking his firm hand, and hearing him
speak eloquently—took for granted that a great American future awaited him.
Maybe he would become a powerful CEO. Or a foreign diplomat. Or a politician
like his father. Maybe even become President of the United States, they
imagined. If anyone possessed that Camelot-type feel, it was eye-catching
Gregory.

In contrast to Gregory’s sleek
sailing attire, Jethro Knights wore paint-stained jeans, a torn black T-shirt,
and old tennis shoes. There was nothing shiny about him. He didn’t wear
sunglasses, a watch, or even underwear. Dirt was pressed underneath his
fingernails, and leathery calluses were visible all over his hands.

He was kneeling down on the
concrete dock, unfolding a spinnaker sail, and concentrating on the sewn
pattern of its seams, when Gregory walked up to him from behind and tapped him
on the back.

“Jethro Knights—it really is you?”
he asked. “What are you doing here?”

Jethro looked up, staring hard at
Gregory, trying to remember who he was. Jethro disliked others interrupting
him, and he especially disliked others touching him uninvited.

“I’m preparing to go sailing,
Greg.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were a
member here?”

“I’m
not
a member here.”

Gregory was sure he meant,
I’d
never be a member—here
, by the tone of his voice.

“I’m just renting a boat here to
learn how to sail,” Jethro explained.

“Oh, that's right. Someone told me
you were building one at the yard down the road. To go around the world or
something after graduation. Is that true?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“Where did you learn to build a
bluewater sailboat?”

“From books and websites.”

Gregory snickered, looking worse
than skeptical. “Books? The Internet? Are you kidding me? Do you think you’ll
make it? All the way around—and survive?”

“I imagine so, if I’m doing it.”

“What about hurricanes? Pirates?
And the hundreds of other dangers?”

Jethro looked at Gregory. Looked
right through him. Jethro was tired from welding until 2:30 A.M. the night
before. And now he was already tired of talking to this man in front of him.

“I’ll overcome them,” he said, and
turned back to examine the sail on the ground. He was finished with the conversation.

Gregory frowned—his pride stung. He
stood foolishly above Jethro, watching his back. Being a senator’s son, a star
athlete, and one of the most popular men on campus had never made any impact on
Jethro. They’d met a dozen times before in classes and seminars, and Gregory
still couldn’t get him to have a simple, amicable sixty-second conversation. He
shook his head, thinking Jethro was a rude, conceited peasant.

“Well, in case you're free,”
Gregory blurted out, arming to taunt him, “I’m captaining my dad’s
Blue
Lagoon
today in a local race.”

Blue Lagoon
was a
magnificent, ninety-two-foot, 1929 wooden schooner that often graced New York
City’s harbors. Senator Michaelson’s father bought it and sailed it from
Hawaii, after it had served in World War II in the Pacific. Now the historical
ship, meticulously maintained, was in all the prestigious East Coast yacht
races and regattas. It also served as a magnet for famous figures and important
private occasions in New York City. Sometimes the U.S. President quietly spent
an afternoon on it discussing issues with Gregory’s father and the leading
bankers of Wall Street. Other times, influential ministers like Reverend
Belinas, married powerful diplomats, and business tycoons appeared on its
foredeck in small, exclusive ceremonies. Occasionally, even Hollywood actors or
rock stars borrowed it for their wild birthday bashes. 

“Half my crew is apparently
hungover from that huge Greek party last night,” Gregory said. “Were you there?
Just off Seventeenth Street near campus? It was a crazy rager—one of the year’s
best,”

Gregory knew Jethro didn’t go to
parties. He also knew Jethro would never be invited. “I think most of my crew
is a no-show. You interested to join and sail with us?
Blue Lagoon
could
always use a gorilla on board.”

Gregory watched Jethro carefully,
waiting for a reaction, almost hoping for one. He knew the question was loaded.
The nautical term “gorilla” was derogatory—a name for a mindless crew member
who shifted from one side of the boat to the other to give weight advantage on
tacks. Generally, a gorilla wasn’t allowed to do anything else on board due to
a lack of sailing skills. Many sailors considered the word a slap in the face.
And Gregory felt confrontational today, dishing it out. At 6 feet 4 inches, he
was taller and heavier than Jethro, and counted on his longer reach if there
was a fight. Plus, his friends and personal security were in the clubhouse
behind them, surely keeping watch and ready to jump in.

Chapter 3

Usually, Gregory Michaelson
exercised caution with Jethro Knights. Everyone at Victoria University who knew
him did. The pool cue incident was too well known not to do so. Teachers and
students, especially those in the philosophy department, were warned to keep
guard against Jethro and to report anything out of the ordinary. To understand
that he was a student capable of anything.

Jethro’s notoriety began with an
assault-and-battery investigation in the second half of his sophomore year. A
stocky, arrogant linebacker from the football team, drunk from a night of
partying, wandered alone into the main dormitory game room on campus and
interrupted Jethro's billiards game. The linebacker, a senior, picked up the
black eight-ball, with half of the other balls still on the table, rudely
declaring, “I’m next. This game is over.”

The freshman playing Jethro
immediately cowered, saying, “Sure, go ahead, man.”

Holding a pool stick in his right
hand, Jethro stared incredulously at the linebacker. The senior smiled
mockingly back at him, and said, “Guess I’m playing you, huh? Don’t look so
grumpy about it, blondie.”

The linebacker began racking balls
in the triangle. He did not notice Jethro’s eyes turning icy.

Instead of starting a new game,
Jethro walked over to the senior, adjusted the pool stick in his hands—so that
he was gripping it like a baseball bat—and swung. The tip of the cue broke
directly over the football player’s nose. The student stumbled, then dropped
down to the ground, unconscious. From his face a puddle of blood quickly appeared
on the terracotta floor tiles.

The freshman, the only other person
in the game room, stared in disbelief.

“Oh my God. Oh fuck,” he whispered
in horror.

“Want to finish the game?” Jethro
calmly asked the kid.

The freshman didn’t answer. His
stare was frozen on the fallen student and the blood gushing from his nose.
Then the kid abruptly sprinted out of the dormitory. Jethro shrugged, grabbed a
spare cue, and sunk the burgundy seven-ball. He walked upstairs to his room to
begin his night of studying.

Twenty minutes later, numerous
police cars and an ambulance were in front of the dormitory after a 911 call
was made. Dozens of students watched the paramedics rush the linebacker out of
the building, a trail of blood falling from the stretcher onto the century-old
stone walkway.

Seventy-two hours later, nearly
everyone on campus knew some version of the story. Despite this, the dean and
the police couldn’t fully prove Jethro did it. Even though he was spotted at
the scene of the crime, and his prints were all over the broken pool cue, the
football player chose to remain silent about his assailant. Nursing a badly
broken nose in a hospital room for four days, the linebacker had transformed
into a deeply humbled and embarrassed man, wishing only that the incident would
soon be forgotten. The only other witness, the freshman, also wanted to forget
that night. He kept out of it entirely by denying to authorities that he had
seen anything.

Given the circumstances, the dean
was reluctant to expel Jethro Knights—or any student. This was Victoria
University, the 250-year-old institution older than the country itself, and the
stepping stone of a lifetime for anyone who passed through its storied halls.
Over 100 Nobel laureates and ten American presidents had matriculated there. It
was rumored that Babek Hall still leaked radiation from its basement, where the
first atom was split in front of Einstein's careful watch. To expel any
students from Victoria was to end their burgeoning futures.

Besides, Jethro’s case was
complicated. He had not been admitted to the institution because of his
extracurricular activities or scholastic excellence. He had mostly F or A
grades through junior high and high school—either a genius or an idiot, one
admissions officer grumbled. A high school counselor echoed something similar:
The guy who throws curves out of whack or finishes last—or not at all. Jethro’s
aptitude tests were filled with Scantron pencil marks bearing anarchist
symbols, upside-down crosses, and his favorite math symbol:
pi
. No,
Jethro's grades and test scores did not get him into Victoria. He was admitted
for his entrance essay—some of the most intense and impressive words the dean
had ever read.

Dean Graybury was new on the job.
He was a recent executive hire from one of Silicon Valley's leading technology
companies. He was brought on to fulfill the promise that he would bring the
country’s brightest innovators through the university's doors. To do so, his
newest admissions initiative was to look for outliers, that one-in-a-million
student who may not play by the rules, because he’s able to write better
ones—or at least more interesting ones. For the past twenty years, many of the
top students at Victoria were simply boring, coming from old, complacent,
pedigree-bearing families. The dean, a closet transhumanist, wanted new ideas,
new blood, new directions. He wanted the university to think like a tech
startup when admitting students, hungry for market dominance and a booming
future. Perfect grades, high test scores, and typical extracurricular ideas
were not enough anymore, he insisted. Students were needed who could think
outside the box, be vivaciously creative, and shape a new world. Humankind was
evolving so quickly with advancements in technology, the dean strategized, that
new talent was required to steer it correctly and safely.

Jethro Knights was an ideal
candidate.

Besides, the dean thought, the
assaulted football player was a known meathead with a history of bullying
people in his classes and fraternity. And the dean disliked both the Greek
system and football.