Transhumanist Wager, The by Zoltan Istvan Read Free Book Online

custom tailoring. What a pity to lose style. Now the U.S.
President—whom he personally met twice before—sat there coolly, as if on a
beach in the Cayman Islands. He wore a solid Italian suit with gold cuffs. Very
classy, yet just conservative enough. On the other hand, his expression could
use some work, thought Gregory, smiling with mock approval. He's betraying too
much boredom. He's probably thinking about the basketball lineup for the
college playoff games this coming weekend. South Carolina versus Indiana.
Arizona versus Oregon. And why not? Gregory was doing the same, even though his
logic final was tomorrow, the last of his tests before next week's graduation.
    For a moment, Gregory considered
why everyone was at this much-hyped forum. Truth was, it was all just too much.
Too dramatic. Too much hero in it, this transhumanism life extension stuff. Who
wants to live forever anyway? And be bionic and perfect? To go through this,
day in and day out? Eighty or so years was plenty. It seemed so much less
taxing to dress well, be polite, put all your rules in one small book, and
control everyone from there—including yourself. It was just easier to follow
the status quo. He had always believed the status quo was beautiful and correct.
It had worked for centuries, hadn't it? What was wrong with believing in God
anyway, whether he existed or not? Sunday church was only an hour. Leave Him at
the door if that's all you feel. Everyone is happy then. The seas remain
smooth.
    Gregory was the worst type of
believer, but not atypical. He believed, but he was one who didn’t care to even
find out if it was worth believing. One who accepted responsibility for as
little as possible regarding his faith. Just enough to get noticed for doing
the job properly. Life was good, he thought, as long as nothing was too deep.
Nothing too serious. Nothing to sweat over. Being human was too amusing to
complicate it with worries about the drama of dying someday. He yawned again,
looking at his watch.
    Eight seats over, Jethro sat
frustrated, his anger mounting. His hands tightly gripped the edge of the table
in front of him, pushing it towards the center of the Earth. Only thirty
minutes into the town hall forum, he realized how serious a failure the event
was already. He felt naïve and ashamed for hoping it might help, and even
transform, the transhuman movement. He slapped his right hand on his face,
fighting off the dreary ineptitude and falseness all around him. Normally
unfeeling and disconnected from others, the reality of imbecilic officials and
their anti-transhumanist notions directly affected him. It would directly
affect his life—and possible death—if he didn’t do something about it.
    Jethro thought of the landmine
again and could hear the clicking noise in his head. These people were that landmine. A much more vicious type. They aimed to paralyze him, to
jeopardize his future, to degrade his brilliant life into passive mediocrity
and subservience—with the end goal of death as their final slap in the face. They
needed to get out of the way with their stupid ritual of empty talk and
waffling. Enough of this nonsense, he felt. Let’s just get to work. We don’t
have to die. Death is a disease, not a rule. The human body is just a start,
not a coffin.
     
     
    ************
     
     
    Nearly an hour into the
Transhumanism Town Hall Forum, another senator, ballooning with niceties,
motioned his hand towards Dr. Preston Langmore and introduced him as one of the
most prominent spokespersons of the transhuman movement. The senator invited
Langmore to offer suggestions for how a peaceful and practical integration of
life extension and human enhancement science into American culture might be
achieved.
    Langmore smiled and stood up. “Good
afternoon, Mr. President, senators, students, professors of Victoria, and
others in the audience. It’s nice to be back on campus. And, of course, to see
how things haven’t changed.”
    Muffled