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the same insistence on a conservative methodology when dealing
with anything unorthodox—such as transhuman science.
    “America must remain a responsible,
cautious, and slowly adapting country,” said the senator, bumbling on. “These
are truly challenging social times that call for patience from all walks of
life in our great and diversified land.”
    Afterward, still another official,
Senator Shuman from Texas, reached for his microphone and repeated the same
bland cautionary statements as the former speakers, smiling broadly for the
constant photographs being snapped.
    Jethro Knights and Gregory Michaelson
sat with other invited philosophy students, watching. Jethro was anxious to
hear what changes and conclusions the forum would bring about. Obviously,
leaders of the government wanted to stop terrorism across the country and let
transhuman scientists improve the human condition, Jethro assumed. He knew this
forum was being heralded as a breakthrough moment for the transhuman movement.
After the landmine incident in the Congo—something he replayed daily in his
head—he felt more strongly than ever that he was going to dedicate all his
life’s energy to this movement's success. He was excited to be there that
evening.
     Jethro waited in his seat, his
eyes fixed on the famous speakers to say something, to do something, for the
government to step up and announce important policy changes and brave new
directions—so the country could embrace the future, and science could lead the
way forward. Human advancement via applied science and technology was obvious,
wasn't it? Everyone wanted to better themselves and become the best they could
be, now that modern technology was so powerful and capable. It was the only
rational path conscious entities immersed in evolution could take.
    But those speeches did not come.
Instead, he heard empty words, empty meanings, like an absurdly long drawn-out
handshake, designed to give the effect of playing nice and hoping for the best,
but without ever grabbing hold of anything substantial to shake. He heard the
words, God, peace, unity, decency, equality, caution, responsibility, and faith mentioned many times, sometimes twice in the same sentence. He heard
talk of everyone moving together as one society, as one culture, and deciding
slowly—for our children, for our grandchildren—where we wanted to go as a
people, as a nation. The substance of the speeches was less than tangible, less
than conclusive. It was borderline pathological gibberish. Was no one going to
stand up and say something real? Even if it was to deeply criticize
transhumanism?
    Jethro looked around at the blank
faces and wondered if only he noticed this. Everyone frolicked, smiling
for their constituencies, the public, and the press—comfortable only to say
nothing controversial. Jethro looked at the town hall forum brochure he had
received at the door and saw that fourteen of the sixteen statespersons present
were lawyers, including the President. Where were the philosopher rulers? All
he saw was the pettifoggers—many of whom had never created a damn thing in
their lives, he thought. Many of whom had never taken a brave step alone
anywhere. Many of whom had never had an independent thought on anything. The
same damn ones fronting special interest groups and not the nation’s people and
their highest interests. Deep inside Jethro, a dreadful feeling dawned, a
feeling that further spoiled his belief in the American system and its
government, which were strangling transhumanism.
    Gregory Michaelson felt poles apart
from Jethro. He was at home with the speeches. The Texas Senator's meandering
voice was pleasant and soothing. Gregory yawned, noticing the gray suit the
politician wore—possibly a recommendation of his father’s. He was a good friend
of the family’s, after all. It didn’t fit him that well, though, Gregory
thought. He's old and his shoulders can’t hold up good suits anymore, at least
not without