Free Transhumanist Wager, The by Zoltan Istvan

of
tautological proofs that are overly complex, but end up nothing more than
elaborate non sequiturs. I might be able to accept a glorified tale of an
omnipresent force at least as technically plausible. But in the second half of
your book you actually digress to your childhood inklings, literally, and
anthropomorphize an altruistic deity using epistemological jabs of first-order
logic—all intermixed with antediluvian Islamic, Hindu, and animistic maxims
aimed at trying to prop up your various theories. The hodgepodge of verbiage
does nothing but create contradictory pluralism designed to encourage readers
to forgo reason—or perhaps to despise reason altogether. I suspect you did this
all purposefully, knowing book sales would soar if pseudo-intellectuals could
read philosophy without actually thinking. The whole endeavor probably funded
your new convertible Mercedes purchase, which then makes it not such an awful
book anymore, if we take an existential consequentialist perspective.
Still—quite awful.”
    Jethro didn't intend to smile, but
he did. “Is that explanation good enough for you, Professor?”
    Jethro didn't give a damn about the
university anymore. He was leaving on his sailing trip in two weeks, and
yesterday Francisco Dante had told him a reporter's job at International
Geographic could be arranged for him whenever he wanted. The boat would
make a perfect platform for writing articles. Jethro doubted that graduating
from Victoria was even important anymore. And these people sitting in the
classroom with him—well, they were nearly useless to a transhumanist, and would
likely always be. It was a lesson that the town hall forum had irrevocably
taught him.
    The professor stared at Jethro,
speechless. He appeared stunned, unsure if Jethro was joking, or maybe drunk or
on drugs. The students in the classroom were also shocked and unsure of what to
think.
    “Are you being serious?” the professor
finally uttered.
    “Of course, I’m being serious.”
    “Are you in your right mind?”
    Jethro frowned impatiently. “Of
course, I am—never clearer. Look, Professor, I’m interested in immortality for
me, and how to reach it. I don’t have a need for a god or faith or books like
yours, which philosophize about things that might possibly exist outside
myself—regardless of how eloquent they are, how real they may seem, or what
bestseller list they top. The most succinct way I can say this is: It's a
complete waste of my very valuable time.”
    The room remained still long after
Jethro Knights stopped talking. Sunlight peered in through the building’s
antiquated windows, illuminating tiny drifting particles of dust floating in
the air. Someone cleared their throat, and the sound seemed unnaturally loud
and disruptive, piercing the taut silence.
    Finally, Professor Rindall’s
twisted expression changed to a chagrined smirk. He started chuckling, a little
too gaily. Some students cautiously joined him. The tension in the room began
melting away.
    “Come on, everyone. It’s okay,” he
said. “It’s perfectly okay. This is a philosophy class, after all. We do invite
new ideas here.” He waved his arm gregariously to his students. Twice.
    Then, abruptly, Rindall slammed his
fist on the table, sending fear throughout the room. “Just not stupid ones! Or
malevolent ones!” shouted the professor, his expression now furious and aimed
at Jethro.
    A heavy, discomforting silence
ensued again, washing over the class. Surprisingly, it was quickly broken from
the other side of the room by Gregory Michaelson. He astonished everyone by
firmly saying, “Jethro, you’re entitled to your own opinions, even when they’re
obviously antisocial. But how can you sit there casting such unfavorable
judgment on one of the greatest living minds on the planet—and his
philosophical magnum opus? That seems absurd, even for you.”
    The professor eased, smiling at
Gregory—that smile of bonding with a favorite pupil.
    Jethro