Transhumanist Wager, The (9 page)

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

Jethro Knights didn't travel alone.

Five hundred carefully chosen books
accompanied him. Most were worn, bought at used bookstores on Eighteenth Street
near Victoria University. Some were purchased from Internet sites. Others, the
esoteric and hard-to-find ones, were borrowed permanently from the New York
City Library. The books were his companions—faithful, unruly, energizing. He
didn't have a mentor—never needed one—but he always had his books.

He was even more particular about
choosing his books than choosing how to weld his boat together. He started with
the best of the classics. Then intermixed them with modern
nonfiction—everything from macroeconomics to anthropology to nuclear physics.
Jethro was addicted to knowledge. He spent a month laboring through an
unabridged 1400-page dictionary. There were also heavy textbooks on biology,
chemistry, medicine, psychology, and sociology. A connoisseur of languages, his
books were in English, French, Spanish, and Mandarin. He translated things when
he didn't understand meanings. Dictionaries for Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit were
aboard. Jethro read the most important book of his circumnavigation during the
first week of sailing:
How to Become an Expert Speed-Reader
.

The man lived with his books. They
were his constant companions, his inspiration. He was always reaching for a
fresh idea, a new direction to consider. His brain acted as a sponge, absorbing
everything; however, the sponge was attached to an austere mind—very exclusive,
very judgmental, very conditional. Jethro strove to be the most conditional
person on the planet. He liked or disliked, agreed or disagreed, precisely
because of conditions. He couldn't understand how others did differently. The
concept of being
unconditional
—whether it involves love, moral choice,
or belief—was just a way people held power over others, a way to disqualify
meaning and its effect. The less conditions, the more the universe was
indistinguishable and unreasonable, leaving one little choice but to further
give in, to eventually accept anything and everything, even one’s own demise.

Jethro's boat was outfitted in the
same way as his philosophies: simple, sparse, and functional. On board was a
small but tough inflatable boat which doubled as a life raft, a propane stove,
an icebox, a stereo, a guitar, a freshwater sink, a kitchen, and a toilet with
a cold shower above it. His cruising electronics—nearly all of them bought
secondhand—were a handheld GPS, a depth finder, a radar system, a small weather
station, a barometer, a VHF, and a single-sideband radio. Nothing on board was
expensive, but it was all necessary and of reputable quality. He learned to use
the sextant on the stars in case the GPS failed. The radar alarm always
remained on, ready to beep loudly when another vessel—usually a freighter ten
times his boat’s length—crossed his path.

His on-board food was carefully
planned. The bulk of it was pasta, cereals, canned goods, and nuts. There were
vegetables, like potatoes, carrots, and red cabbage, that would keep well in
the bilge for long periods. Always cognizant of his health, he bought organic
products when possible. He ate meat, but not often. He tried to consume locally
made goods, not processed junk shipped thousands of miles at the expense of the
planet’s health and resources. There was an incredible assortment of spices in
the galley; curry, rosemary, and basil were his staples. Garlic and chili
peppers hung above his stove. A half dozen bottles of good Scotch and
California red wine lay in custom-made holders near his library. Otherwise, his
only drink was water, held in a fifty-gallon container built under the main
berth. He had a rain catchment system to replenish his water when needed.

Outside of books and food, the boat
was mainly packed with supplies and tools for repair situations. An old welding
machine was tied into the guest berth, wrapped in extra sails. There were
pieces of plywood and Douglas fir two-by-fours for emergency repairs if leaks
occurred. Cordless drills and saws of varying scope were packed away. Bolts by
the hundreds were neatly organized in a plastic compartment box. Plumbing
pipes, boat paint, anchor rode, rope, and sail material littered the bilge
holds.

For himself there was a laptop, a
printer, a stereo, and a coffee grinder. His 110-volt convertor powered
everything. His French press was the most used cooking amenity on the yacht.

His plan was to circumnavigate
along the equator, give or take ten degrees either way. It was warm in those
low latitudes, and he would mostly bathe in the ocean. At sunset, he loosened
his fingers on his guitar, teaching himself a new song every week. A glass of
wine or Scotch was often within arm’s reach. Sometimes he tried whatever mild
drug of choice the islands he visited favored: betel nut, pot, kava.

Jethro lived a superlative
existence. Filled with much learning, thoughts from great books, and ideas. He
was a young man coming into his own.

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

In the Caribbean, Jethro's journal
entry read:

Sailed 112
miles today. Southwest towards Central America. Still thinking about my stop in
Haiti. How the people struggle against poverty and malnutrition. The United
Nations says 100 million children died from starvation around the world in the
past ten years. I would never have believed that number until I saw the streets
of Port-au-Prince. Tens of thousands eating nothing but cookies made of mud. Many
children were too weak to even beg. Are governments around the world really so
pathetic at keeping their people alive?

Now to
Honduras. A tropical depression is forming in the Atlantic. Won't affect the
winds for me—not yet at least. Blowing almost a straight downwind. Perfect.
Wing on wing. GPS says 5.1 knot speed. Current is against me but I’m still
making good time. Alternator on engine is giving me trouble. Next time at
anchor will go to war with it. Solar panels more than producing enough power. Finished
twenty-seventh book of trip today. Learning Caribbean island tune this week on
guitar. Baking the Mahi Mahi I caught for dinner. Lots of rosemary going on
top. Strangely, saw no ships today but lots of dolphins.

After passing through the Panama Canal,
a week of scuba diving in the Galapagos Islands, and a month-long sail to
Tahitian waters, another journal entry read:

Tahiti so
lush. Isolated lagoons and thatched-hut villages. Super-friendly islanders. Learning
to surf and climb coconut trees. Should be hitting Kingdom of Tonga soon.
Spearfishing a tremendous amount. Training myself to hold my breath underwater
longer and longer. Tomorrow is the sixth-month anniversary of my trip. What
have I seen? How am I different? I've seen so much. Am I changed? I don’t think
so. Can one fundamentally change? One is always who they are. Change is just
who they are becoming, who they are creating—their final transhuman self (if
they can make it that far before they die). Finished four books this week.
Also, heard back from Francisco finally. He was in Iraq again for
International
Geographic
. Says he's lining me up with his editor to start my articles next
month. He warned me not to blow it.

In Nadi, the capital of Fiji,
Jethro joined a conference call with Francisco Dante and Mack Cranson, the
managing editor of
International Geographic
.

 “Mr. Knights, Francisco tells me
you're just the kind of man we need,” said the editor. “Experience is
important, but never as much as someone who can produce outstanding content—even
if they're a rookie. You'll be doing the Reporter's Notebook pieces. A thousand
words long—short but sweet. Just one article a month should leave you plenty of
time for sunbathing on that yacht of yours. Stories have to be tight. The
research impeccable. One screw-up on a fact, and you're fired. One deadline
missed, and you'll never get another email from us. This is the top of the
journalism food chain, kid. Don't screw it up. You're the youngest we've ever
hired.”

Jethro Knights’ involvement with
the media—perhaps the most powerful social tool on the planet—was underway. His
first story was due in four weeks, and he immediately sailed to Vanuatu to
start it. The article was titled
The Secret Bush Tribes of Espirito Santo
.
It described Jethro's three-day hike across the highlands into a remote part of
the South Pacific where money, clothing, monogamy, and organized religion—such
as Christianity—had never reached.

The photos Jethro took were
astonishing: naked bush people with painted faces cooking lizards over open
fire pits; tribe leaders armed with spears, hunting in the jungle, bones poking
through the leathery skin of their noses; bamboo hut villages and complex
animistic rites for the dead. Even anthropologists didn't know Vanuatu still
possessed such a lost indigenous population within the island nation. Only the
Amazon was thought to have tribes that unaware of the outside world.

Jethro’s first article and pictures
were an immediate success. Readers wrote and called in, applauding such an
exciting story. Tens of thousands of people shared the article with their
colleagues and friends online, boosting circulation.

Francisco sent Jethro a short
email:

Strong work. You've got eyes
following you now.

Afterward, every month, readers
tuned in for Jethro’s stories:
Pirate Attack in the Straits of Malacca; Bomb
Digging in Vietnam; Hunting Poachers in Borneo;
Volcano Boarding in
Papua, New Guinea
. His stories inspired the imagination of readers. It made
them feel like they were right there, alongside Jethro, sneaking up on armed
wildlife poachers or skimming down an erupting volcano on a sandboard.

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

As valedictorian, Gregory
Michaelson gave the leading student speech for his class graduation at Victoria
University, which was held on the manicured lawn in front of imposing Freemont
Library. Adding to Gregory’s triumph on the podium in front of all his peers
was the certified letter in last week’s mail, informing him of his acceptance
next fall to Boston's premiere law school, with its knack of producing senators
and governors. He coasted through his speech, confident that everyone envied
him. His sentences meandered their way through fluffy subjects like the needed
dignity of representing their beloved university in the professional world, the
noble pursuit of philanthropic activities throughout their careers, and the
loyalty required to be upright citizens of the United States and beyond.

He frowned at the end when the
crowd erupted and cheered for him. Inwardly, he didn't give a damn about what
he said. He had written the speech in less than ten minutes in a handicapped
bathroom stall at the back of the event. What was really on his mind was much
more important: the party his father was throwing for him that night. And even
more important than that was his new dalliance: the red-haired freshman who was
playing so hard to get. Damn her, he thought. Now
that
was something,
and he promised himself he would score with her—or never speak to her again.

The next day was typical for
Gregory and his socially mobile life. He woke up around noon, straining to
remember what had happened. A fraternity buddy holding a half-finished beer
stumbled into his room, burped, and reminded him.

“Greggy boy, wasn't that grand last
night? Jesus, you’re not still in your bathing suit? Where did that foxy
redhead go? Boys saw her leave in a hurry this morning. Classic. See you in
three months in Boston.”

Gregory’s first year in grad school
proved easier than any in undergrad. Mostly he wrote essays, debated peers in
class, and did extramural assignments. Formal tests with right and wrong
answers were frowned upon in this historical elitist institution.

“If you're here, in this classroom
today, then you're never wrong,” his professor said on the first day of class,
a smirk on his face. “Get used to it.”

Such was his law school. Gregory
excelled at the peculiar mix of drinking expensive wines and playing home video
games.
Planet Warlord
was his favorite, but it was his video golf skills
that drew respect from his gaming peers on campus. He was a regular at
nightclubs and local bars, and followed professional football and baseball
closely, able to quote endless key stats of the best players.

His friends were far too many, most
courting him specifically for his father's contacts. He was used to that. But
at graduate school it had a special quality, much more intense than before.
Students, especially those who weren't from powerful or affluent families, were
increasingly becoming serious about their futures and careers. They needed
outside help to climb the professional social ladder. He winced when he
realized how many in law school were already married and had actual work
experience behind them.

With him, females were the worst
though. They seemed programmed to insist on being his girlfriend. None were
promiscuous or experimental anymore, like in undergrad. Gregory only wanted to
have sex with them. He guarded himself vigilantly against accidentally getting
one pregnant, just in case she tried to blackmail him into marriage. His father
constantly warned him of that scenario. Gregory made his rounds, never without
a condom in his wallet, never without a subtle grin.

In his third year, all that
changed. At a nightclub he met a tall stunning woman with light blue eyes,
white sandy hair, and a vibrant smile that often emitted laughter. Her name was
Amanda Kenzington, and she possessed a confident glow many people found
annoyingly pretentious but deeply intoxicating. Who could blame her? Her father
was a wealthy orthopedic surgeon who no longer needed to operate—nor cared to.
Two decades ago he had invented a tissue supplement for joints, which was now
being used throughout the world. The equity of his patents put his net worth
above a hundred million dollars.