Transhumanist Wager, The (42 page)

Burton leaned forward, intently
serious, gripping her hands on the edge of the table for support.

“I’ve read in various papers you're
flat broke and they shut you down in America. That your so-called ‘Transhuman
Revolution’ is dead. And now you want to build an entirely new nation?”

“You look like the kind of person
who doesn't believe everything she reads in the papers.”

“These are strange times—and you
may be the strangest person who has emerged from them.”

“There may be one even stranger,”
Jethro said. He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head suggestively.

The architect slowly smiled. She
leaned back and asked plainly, “What do you plan to build this new nation with?
Other than charisma and wit?”

“With your skills and my ideas. And
about a dozen secret international bank accounts with nine zeros behind each of
them. Would you like to go online and look at some?”

Burton saw Jethro Knights was
serious. Damn serious, she thought. She waited a moment, gulped, then felt the
excitement in her begin to soar. It was hard to believe, because it was
certainly too good to be true. Rigidly, she said, “Okay, I’m listening. Go on.”

“I no longer want to waste
resources competing against American and other anti-transhumanist governments
to achieve immortality and the transhuman mission. A floating city should
shield transhumanists and the people I need away from those forces, giving me
certain worldwide legal protections. The city will have to be built to house
approximately 10,000 scientists and their immediate families. You’ll have to
build up, because I want most of the city open for creating green spaces,
jungles, and parks—so people like living there. Actually, so they
love
living there. These will be very picky people, some of the smartest in the
world. They’ll want the best of everything, and they deserve it. I want them to
be enthralled with every bit of their new home. I want the city big enough to
have an airport for passenger jets, but small enough to comfortably ride a bike
around in twenty minutes. I want to build the most modern metropolis on the
planet, a utopia for transhumanists and their research.”

Rachael Burton couldn't contain her
excitement any longer. She threw her head back ecstatically and stood up. She
knew Jethro's reputation for integrity. It was ironclad. This man wouldn’t
approach her if he didn’t have enough money or if he wasn't ready.

“You're serious? About this city?
About me building it? About this working?”

“Yes, completely,” Jethro said,
staring at her. “And it
will
work.”

“How much money do you
really
have?” Burton asked cautiously. “Because it's going to take a lot of money.”

“About five billion U.S. dollars
for the construction. All cash.”

Burton sat down and closed her eyes
for a moment. That was plenty. He's done his math, she thought. A moment later,
she threw her fists on the table in triumph and said, “That's incredible! I
don't know how you did it, but goddamn those closed-minded bastards. Let’s turn
them into hawkers.”

Jethro smirked. “Exactly. So can
you do it?”

“Yes, I can do it! I’ve been
waiting my whole life to do it, and you
know
it. That's why you're
here.”

They spent the next seven days
drawing out initial ideas, asking each other thousands of questions, and
battling over plans. How long should the airstrip be? Where will the
desalination plant be located? What is the best way to eliminate the smell of
the sewer system? How do we control buoyancy of the city’s platform? Can we
make energy from the ocean's swells? Would a wind farm be too noisy? Should
there be a mini subway system? Where will the best restaurants go? What kinds
of trees and shrubbery can be imported? Who will run the grocery and hardware
stores? Where should schools be located for the scientists’ families? How many
fitness centers should there be? What size military installations should be
built? Should there be underwater weapon-launching pads? How tall do we build
the skyscrapers? What size cargo ships should the docks accommodate? What kind
of propulsion will the city use to maneuver across oceans?

They slept little, working nonstop
hours in small coffee shops and in Jethro’s hotel suite, designing Transhumania.
Finally, when preliminary ideas were sketched out, Jethro and Burton decided on
a country where they could begin the construction. Liberia was chosen.

“They're the best for this kind of
project,” Burton insisted. “West Africa is far off the radar screen for the
rest of the world, so hopefully, there won’t be any troublesome interruptions
by the media or the NFSA. Besides, Liberia has cheap labor, good weather, and
lots of beach space to launch this puppy. It’s going to be at least ten soccer
fields long, you know. We're going to need lots and lots of space. Launching
the city into the ocean will be the trickiest part.”

“Whatever you think. Just remain
discreet and throw all the resources you need at it. I want the platform
section up and floating in six months.”

Burton looked at him and growled,
“I want it up and floating in
five
months.”

Jethro nodded, grinning. The
following day, he told Burton he'd meet up with her in two weeks in Liberia.

“My secretary will be in touch with
accounts and payments for you later today. Just let her know what you need and
what items I have to approve.”

“Where are you going?”

“All over, Rachael. To every nook
on the planet. To start recruiting the most talented and capable people in the
world to become citizens of Transhumania.”

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

Nearly five months later, on an
isolated beach in Liberia, finishing touches on the platform of Transhumania
were being completed. An army of 15,000 workers labored upon it in the
blistering African sun. The structure was twenty-five stories tall, almost half
of which would remain underwater once it was launched into the ocean. When
viewed from miles away, the platform appeared as a titanic silver box, like
something that crashed down from outer space.

In the middle was a vast gaping
hole where the skyscrapers' foundations would eventually be cast, giving the
platform stability and weight to counter its sixty-million-ton buoyancy. The
pit looked massive, like an immense mining operation in scorching heat. Roads
were welded into the sides of the steel crater to allow trucks full of material
to drive in and out. Everyone on the platform wore dark sunglasses and scarves
to protect themselves from the heat and sharp light radiating off the
ubiquitous metal.

The airport strip was the first job
Jethro Knights wanted completed. Asphalted only three days ago, Jethro's pilot
stressed with perspiration as he prepared to land his jet at the far right of
the platform's east side. Jethro stood behind the pilot, curiously watching,
bracing himself with one hand on the ceiling of the cockpit. Preston Langmore,
informed only two weeks before about the platform's existence, sat nervously
looking out his window in the back of the jet, his lips tightly shut.

“Don't bite your tongue off,
Preston,” Jethro shouted back to him.

When the jet came to a stop after a
successful landing, the pilot nodded his approval.

“Well done,” Jethro said. “That
wasn't so bad. We had two hundred meters to spare.”

“It looked shorter from the air,
sir. That was pretty basic.”

“It’s the same international length
as you're used to. It just looks shorter because of the drop-offs.”

Rachael Burton and her entourage of
architects and engineers, including the platform's foreman, walked towards
Jethro's plane, clutching their hats and scarves so they wouldn't blow away in
the wind. There were greetings over the roar of the jets, then the group
proceeded to the temporary mobile unit near the runway.

The builders launched right into
him. “Glad you're here, sir. Loads of questions for you.”

“Fire away. That's why I came.” It
was almost three weeks since Jethro had last visited. They barraged him with
blueprint spreads and nonstop questions, requesting permission to alter designs
on existing plans or to start new construction.

After an hour, with his dirty
finger pointing at a drawing, the foreman said, “Jethro, atop the desalination
plant, where the park and statues are planned, we're thinking we need to raise
it about six stories for larger ships docking on the harbor side. So they don't
damage it during any swells, when they tie up and unload cargo.”

“Okay.”

“Want to go up there so you can see
what I mean? It's a major change.”

“Sure.”

They walked outside, towards the
southwest corner of the platform where the structure was located. It was one of
twenty-two buildings going up on Transhumania, many of whose skeletons were
beginning to substantially show. Atop the desalination plant—which Jethro
christened “Memorial Vista
”
—would be the two-acre park, garden, and
monuments that were to be dedicated to Nathan Cohen, Zoe Bach, and others who
perished at the hands of anti-transhumanists. Jethro wanted it created as a
place to give speeches, as a point to rally around, and as a haven for watching
sunrises, sunsets, and the nearby soaring towers—a luring meditative sanctuary
with energy to re-power and revitalize. Stainless steel benches, Zen boulders,
and tall oak trees were going to intermix with statues lining the perimeter of
the area. A dramatic shooting fountain encircled by rose bushes, herbs, and
evergreens would dominate the center of the park.

The views from Memorial Vista were
riveting. The thousands of hired workers—many from India, China, and the
Congo—looked like small ants. Jethro liked going up there to watch the tractors
and cement trucks speeding across the platform. Preston Langmore was speechless
when he witnessed the hive of activity from atop the proposed park. Jethro's
dream was finally happening, he thought. He couldn't help but think of how
impressed Zoe Bach would've been with the construction of Transhumania and with
how far Transhuman Citizen had evolved—and how unlikely it all was. She
would've got her world-class surgery center.

Langmore eyed Jethro, wondering how
bad it was for him. The last time they had spoken to each other about Zoe was
five weeks ago, when Jethro had confessed that losing her was still intensely
difficult for him. Langmore remembered how the muscles on the young man’s face
had tightened, how his eyes had instantly turned blood-red.

“She comes into my dreams all the
time,” Jethro told him in a whisper.

Langmore took a chance. “That's
because she's still out there, Jethro. And you can find her someday, somehow.”

“No!” Jethro fired back.

He didn't want to think that way.
Hopelessly metaphysical. That timeline was too far out. Too technologically
complex. Too mystical and quantum. And it required far too much hope. Right now
there was just grief—and the battle to stay alive and evolve as rapidly as
possible.

“It's dangerous to think that way,
Preston,” Jethro said, his tone so sharp it announced the end of the
conversation.

Langmore remembered that dialogue
while standing on Memorial Vista, watching Jethro contain the hurt. He felt
fatherly towards the brokenhearted man. He wished he could do something for
him, but there was little that could ease that depth of agony.

Eventually, Langmore turned his
thoughts back to the platform, observing the construction. The workers below
them lived in makeshift tents, spread out along the north side of the airport
strip and on the beach underneath the structure. A docking harbor bore a
200-foot crane above it, which lifted supplies and huge machinery onto the
site. On Transhumania's south side, a 50,000-gallon fuel tank and a
100,000-gallon water reservoir were welded into the outer walls of the
platform. On the flats of the proposed sports stadium, a temporary hospital was
erected for injured and sick workers. Adjacent to the half-finished wind farm
was an enormous cafeteria with numerous food stalls. Portable blue toilet
structures were everywhere.

The work was endless: Twenty-four
hours a day, there was a symphony of hammering, drilling, welding, grinding,
and shouting. There was no break from the movement; sprawling bodies and their
machines zipped tirelessly around the platform. The sheer creation process was
a marvel to behold.

“What you’re building looks like
the pyramids,” Langmore shouted on Memorial Vista over the construction noises.

“That’s true,” yelled Burton back.
“I just hope we end up better than the pharaohs.”

“What do you think of the
schedule?” Jethro asked Burton.

“We’re almost right on target. I’d
beat my superintendent if I could get him to build faster, but he’s a decent
fellow. His diplomacy skills with 15,000 hired laborers are mind-boggling. He
speaks Urdu and Malay Chinese in the same sentence. Then caps it off with
French pleasantries or English profanities when needed.”

“I'm off again later tonight for
the recruitment process,” Jethro said. “I’ll be back in nine days. I'm leaving
Langmore here to help you configure the research skyscrapers. He'll fill you in
on various laboratory requirements, especially the nuclear accelerator, the
photon generators, and the various fusion chambers. They need to be built to
exact specifications. Nothing can be off even a millimeter. Langmore will put
you in touch with all the specialist contractors.”

“Yeah, understood. That’s
fine—you’re not needed. Langmore, welcome aboard.”

Jethro continued, “Many of the
scientists with whom I'm speaking are excited. Nearly all will want to visit
the city first, though, to make sure it’s the real thing. They’ll especially want
to examine their new facilities before committing to anything.”