ahead and stop being
afraid of the unknown—the transhuman unknown.”
The rotunda was silent for a
long time after Jethro stopped speaking. In those moments every person believed
in the speech’s common sense, in the potential of transhumanism, in modifying
and improving the landscape of traditional human experience. The logic was
inescapable. But then—slowly—their minds, egos, and fears lumbered around to
the immediate tasks facing them. They remembered about their need to be elected
to office; about what their constituents would say; how their churches would
cast judgment; how their mothers, spouses, and friends would react; how they
would be viewed, tallied, and callously spit out in public. Finally, they
remembered their own fears of the unknown.
Preston Langmore stared at
Jethro Knights and contemplated him. Though he'd never seen the student before,
he sensed an immediate connection. So did the oil baron, Frederick Vilimich,
who sat only twenty chairs away from the student.
Reverend Belinas also watched
Jethro. The preacher unwittingly felt sick. For a moment, he found it hard to
breathe—as if he were being choked.
Langmore turned to the President
and broke the silence, blurting out, “Mr. President, that student is exactly
right. The NAH must be disbanded. It’s a bullying, nonfunctional entity that’s
sinking us all. It's exactly what I suggested eight years ago to Congress and
the former administration, and no one listened. Now look where we are.”
Jethro sat down. The cameras
remained on him long after his speech, some zooming in on his intense blue
eyes. It was the only noticeable element of his appearance that suggested he’d
just given the U.S. President and top government members a hazing. The young
transhumanist appeared unfazed, but the emotion in him was raw. He was ready to
take a bat to people's heads. Or a pool cue, the university chancellor thought,
glaring at him, grateful this particular student was finished with his college
next week.
“This is absurd,” roared Senator
Shuman. “The NAH gone? It has a hundred thousand employees. We think it's not
strong enough. Which is why there’s such uproar to the transhuman movement.
Eliminate it? What a joke! And, by the way, when do we let some random student
express his opinions openly without being called on? Especially when he implies
we're all murderers?"
An uncomfortable tension washed
over the rotunda. The chancellor continued glaring at Jethro. Senators and
religious leaders looked peevish. The transhumanists looked grim. Only Dean
Graybury smiled inwardly.
The President of the United States
cleared his throat purposefully, and all attention in the rotunda turned to
him. “Ladies and gentleman, I agree with the senator and, I think, most others
in this room. Disbanding the NAH is not an option. It’s one of our largest
governmental entities with some of our best people in it, like Senator Shuman.”
The President paused for a moment,
his hand circling in the air, preparing to emphasize something important.
“These are difficult questions we
are considering today, and we must take time and make sense to carefully pave a
path so the citizens of this country will be content and safe. So healthcare
can improve. And religious beliefs can coexist with the modern age. And the
American economy can profit. Folks, let’s try to work out some real options
that benefit everyone. Let's try to work together and find a solution so
everyone can be happy.”
The rest of the town hall forum was
pointless. The ideas discussed revolved around suggestions that the transhuman
scientists make more sacrifices in their research: stopping a controversial
project in Wyoming; changing the direction of a study in Minnesota; closing a
bionics research center in Rhode Island; leaving a word like “cloning” out of a
major upcoming paper from a Florida university—calling it “zygote division”
instead. Emphasis was put on pushing the scientific
afraid of the unknown—the transhuman unknown.”
The rotunda was silent for a
long time after Jethro stopped speaking. In those moments every person believed
in the speech’s common sense, in the potential of transhumanism, in modifying
and improving the landscape of traditional human experience. The logic was
inescapable. But then—slowly—their minds, egos, and fears lumbered around to
the immediate tasks facing them. They remembered about their need to be elected
to office; about what their constituents would say; how their churches would
cast judgment; how their mothers, spouses, and friends would react; how they
would be viewed, tallied, and callously spit out in public. Finally, they
remembered their own fears of the unknown.
Preston Langmore stared at
Jethro Knights and contemplated him. Though he'd never seen the student before,
he sensed an immediate connection. So did the oil baron, Frederick Vilimich,
who sat only twenty chairs away from the student.
Reverend Belinas also watched
Jethro. The preacher unwittingly felt sick. For a moment, he found it hard to
breathe—as if he were being choked.
Langmore turned to the President
and broke the silence, blurting out, “Mr. President, that student is exactly
right. The NAH must be disbanded. It’s a bullying, nonfunctional entity that’s
sinking us all. It's exactly what I suggested eight years ago to Congress and
the former administration, and no one listened. Now look where we are.”
Jethro sat down. The cameras
remained on him long after his speech, some zooming in on his intense blue
eyes. It was the only noticeable element of his appearance that suggested he’d
just given the U.S. President and top government members a hazing. The young
transhumanist appeared unfazed, but the emotion in him was raw. He was ready to
take a bat to people's heads. Or a pool cue, the university chancellor thought,
glaring at him, grateful this particular student was finished with his college
next week.
“This is absurd,” roared Senator
Shuman. “The NAH gone? It has a hundred thousand employees. We think it's not
strong enough. Which is why there’s such uproar to the transhuman movement.
Eliminate it? What a joke! And, by the way, when do we let some random student
express his opinions openly without being called on? Especially when he implies
we're all murderers?"
An uncomfortable tension washed
over the rotunda. The chancellor continued glaring at Jethro. Senators and
religious leaders looked peevish. The transhumanists looked grim. Only Dean
Graybury smiled inwardly.
The President of the United States
cleared his throat purposefully, and all attention in the rotunda turned to
him. “Ladies and gentleman, I agree with the senator and, I think, most others
in this room. Disbanding the NAH is not an option. It’s one of our largest
governmental entities with some of our best people in it, like Senator Shuman.”
The President paused for a moment,
his hand circling in the air, preparing to emphasize something important.
“These are difficult questions we
are considering today, and we must take time and make sense to carefully pave a
path so the citizens of this country will be content and safe. So healthcare
can improve. And religious beliefs can coexist with the modern age. And the
American economy can profit. Folks, let’s try to work out some real options
that benefit everyone. Let's try to work together and find a solution so
everyone can be happy.”
The rest of the town hall forum was
pointless. The ideas discussed revolved around suggestions that the transhuman
scientists make more sacrifices in their research: stopping a controversial
project in Wyoming; changing the direction of a study in Minnesota; closing a
bionics research center in Rhode Island; leaving a word like “cloning” out of a
major upcoming paper from a Florida university—calling it “zygote division”
instead. Emphasis was put on pushing the scientific
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