by Ted Peters
A waiter showed up to distribute the lunch. Leona took a second look. He was obviously Chinese, but his German sounded authentic and the name, Klaus, was written on his restaurant badge. Klaus was wearing antiseptic plastic gloves. Once sausage, kraut, and beer had been placed on the wooden table, Leona asked Welker, “So, how does all this apply to Transhumanism?”
“Here’s how: I believe we can safely forecast that Transhumanists will not succeed at creating a posthuman creature that is more intelligent than they are.”
“What about Watson?” asked Graham.
“Oh, do you mean IBM’s Watson, the Jeopardy winner?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“Watson is only a computational machine with access to an immense library of data. Watson is not intelligent in the same sense that a human being is intelligent. Despite three quarters of a century of advance in computer technology, we still do not have a single example of machine intelligence.”
“So,” Graham attempted to sum up, “if Transhumanists think they can make a race of beings more intelligent than we are, they’re whistling Dixie.”
“Dixie?” said the German professor with a questioning look on his face.
“Never mind. It’s just an Americanism,” remarked Graham shaking his head. “You said the problem with Transhumanism is threefold. You’ve told us the first problem is that it fails to recognize that a creator must be more intelligent than its creature. You said, secondly, that when this was tried in the past that it failed. Okay. So, what’s the third problem?”
“The third insurmountable problem Transhumanists face—or refuse to face!—is good old fashioned sin. Despite what Plato believed—that the more rational we are the more moral we are—the facts show otherwise. Even the smartest most rational people we know can choose to do bad things. The greater the intelligence the greater the potential for evil. Those who led us into World War I and World War II were smart people. The Nazis were smart people. And millions of people died. As the modern world advanced in science and technology, our capacity for wreaking violence and bloodshed advanced proportionately. The most intelligent people among us are working daily to make smarter and smarter weapons, leading ineluctably not only to genocide and but even ecocide.”
“So, a posthuman world will not be a better world,” interrupted Graham. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. We cannot evolve ourselves into goodness. Posthumans, who will allegedly be more intelligent than we are, are likely to spread wanton violence and destruction beyond Planet Earth to other heavenly bodies. So, no matter how much our Transhumanist friends can accomplish in improving our ability to reason intelligently, the potential for evil will not dissipate but rather will grow proportionately.”
“How come you know so much about this?” asked Graham. “You’re not a scientist.”
“That’s right. I’m a philosopher, not a scientist. But, philosophy is a field-encompassing-field. We’ve got to know what the scientists think they know so we can out-think them. In many ways the scientists and especially the techies are quite naive about what they think they know. Someone needs to teach them about reality. Once in a while it means we have to prick their balloons and let the debris fall back to terra firma.”
While the conversation ensued, Leona sensed that something was happening in her head. German words, not English, penetrated her consciousness. “Totschlagen!” A brief moment passed. Then, again. “Vernichtung.” This was followed by “Mord begehen dreimahl, Washinton und Foxx und Welker.” Then, the sensation dissipated.
Chapter 87
Heidelberg
While saying their good-byes on the sidewalk in front of the Red Ox, the professor asked his American guests if they had yet seen the sites of romantic Heidelberg. Leona and Graham reported that they planned to walk off their lunch by climbing the hill to the Philosophenweg on the far side of the Neckar River.
“The now century old house of Max Weber, the originator of the sociology of religion, is up above the philosopher’s trail, sitting in the physics college. Maybe you’ll notice it while walking,” commented Professor Welker. “Poets such as Holderlein used to stroll the Philosophenweg, waiting for their inspiration. Maybe you’ll get the inspiration you need to solve these Transhumanism problems. Good luck. Good bye.”
Leona put a finger to her head. It fell on the spot of her implant. The finger had no impact on her mind, of course. Yet, she wondered almost out loud. Could I have received a satellite transmission intended for someone else? Who would want me to murder someone? Who would want to murder me? Graham? Professor Welker? Anybody here?
“Have we been spotted yet?” Graham asked Leona.
“No way of knowing for certain. Suppose we assume we’re still incognito and enjoy ourselves for a little while. We can get back to the spy business later.”
“Okay with me. Shall we head for the Philosophenweg? There we can pretend we’re Hőlderlein or Weber. We can filter what Professor Welker just said, looking for clues. Or, I can simply hold your hand like Cupid does.”
Chapter 88
Heidelberg
The two spies walked as if they had no mission. They sauntered with deliberate steps over the bricked surfaces of the roads and allies, winding their way toward the Neckar and the old bridge, die Alte Brücke. With Leona’s arm tightly hooked through Graham’s elbow, the couple wandered through the arches just below the raised cast iron gate. The Romans had built a wooden bridge on this spot; but three centuries ago the Heidelbergers constructed this now magnificent monument to pre-modern human engineering. During one of their pauses at the bridge’s edge to study the flow of the Neckar below, the couple looked up and remarked about the beauty of the castle on the hill framed above by forests and below by red tile roofs interrupted by church spires.
“Does beauty count as rational, as a product of intelligence?” asked Graham rhetorically. “Will more intelligent posthumans create greater beauty? Will they appreciate beauty more than we do?”
Leona nodded without speaking. Soon the couple was again walking toward the far side of the river, this time holding hands. As they neared the far side, with only a few yards to go before departing the bridge, they stopped for one final view of the water with its rapidly moving crew boats manned by rowing students.
“Doesn’t that guy back there look like our waiter?” Graham quizzed.
Leona focused. “It’s Klaus. Did he follow us?”
Less than forty yards to their right, Klaus was leaning on the bridge’s stone rail, aiming a gun in their direction.
“Down!” Graham exclaimed. Leona and Graham dropped to their knees. A puff of smoke from the gun and the sound of a ricocheting bullet affirmed they had taken the right diversionary action. Up and running, the couple raced eastward and across the street to the steep hill’s foot. They raced for the Schlangerweg—the snaking path leading to the Philosophenweg—turning a fence corner to block any straight shots that might follow. Again, they could hear bullets ricochet.
The winding and climbing path, like the streets of the old city, was surfaced with century old brick ends. But on either side were ten-ffot-high stone walls, giving the Schlangerweg a tunnel effect. The unforgiving reddish brick road led upward, supplemented occasionally by sections of steps. When he hit a straightway section, the assailant stopped to fire his weapon at the fleeing couple above. The running targets escaped by taking the next turn, denying the shooter a clear shot. During a brief respite, Leona and Graham looked downward at the blind corner behind them. Leona pulled out her Kimber and aimed it.
“Suppose I shoot the stone wall,” she said. “Then the slug would ricochet around the corner and hit Klaus.”
“Now, that’s dumb,” retorted Graham, unholstering his hand gun.
Leona looked up at her partner, registering insult. “Dumb?!”
“Yeah. It’s dumb like a hyphenated name. Bullets don’t connect stone walls with targets very well. You keep going, Lee. Let me see if I
can get behind him.”
Graham scrambled up the inside wall. Leona fired her ricochet shot anyway. Even if she missed, her pursuer would have to pause to wait for the ambush to clear. As soon as Graham had disappeared into the overhanging grass above, Leona pressed on up the hill. Soon the follower with gun drawn entered the straight section to occupy the position just vacated by Graham and Leona. The Chinese waiter pressed upward. Once the gunman had made the next turn, Graham descended again to the path level. He followed. The hunter was unknowingly now caught between his prey.
After a few more turns, the gunman caught sight of Leona’s trailing foot ducking out of sight ahead. He fired at the spot where he had last seen the running Leona. In the momentary silence following the shot, Graham, with two hands aiming his Glock 19, hollered: “Freeze. Drop your weapon.”
The thug was stunned. The two hands of the Chinese Klaus were raised, the gun hanging limply from a trigger finger. Leona now descended and made herself visible in front. Klaus’ facial expression registered his newly gained knowledge: he was surrounded. Escape was hopeless.
“I said: drop the weapon!” Graham screamed with both authority and impatience.
The Chinese gunman suddenly dropped to his knees, regained a firm grip on his pistol, and aimed it at Leona. Graham fired. Skull and brain fragments splattered the path’s stone wall; and Klaus’ body slumped slowly down to the brick surface.
Graham and Leona were stunned at the turn of events. Nothing moved for a moment. Graham caught his composure first. “Do you see what I see?” asked Graham. “There, on his left hand. A snake tail tatt.”
Leona nodded. “Look at that Chinese character.”
功率
Graham’s hand slapped about corpse. He drew a cell phone from the dead man and quickly checked the text messages. The most recent, only minutes previously, was addressed to “Khalid,” and read: “Washington und Foxx werden bevor Tea Time gestorben sein.” Graham showed the message to Leona, then pocketed the phone.
“Let’s get outa here,” commanded Leona.
Chapter 89
Heidelberg
“What I have is the electronic invitation to this evening’s banquet and contract announcement,” Leona told Graham, handing him a single page computer print out. “It’s from Holthusen’s office.” The two had just escaped with their lives from a treacherous gunfight on the Schlangerweg. Leona’s room at the Hotel am Schloss was now the venue for their little respit from the Sturm und Drang of international intrigue. Actually, it was no respit. Because even when they were not getting shot at, they were still talking about shootings, shootings in the past and shootings in the future. Once a spy, continually a spy, or so it seems.
Graham read the print out. “It says here that Deutsche Technische Institut and Tehran Technologies Incorporated have agreed to a major partnership. This merges German high tech with Iranian high tech. If I make this out correctly, together these two will marshal the world’s masses and march the planet straight into the Singularity. DTI’s president is Dieter Dietz. TTI’s president is, get this Leona, none other than Khalid Neshat. I’m holding in my hand here a confirmed invitation for two persons to attend tonight’s announcement and celebration to be held at 20:00 in the Kőnigssaal [Kings Hall] at the Schloss Heidelberg. Huh. I thought the castle was just a ruin.”
“It is a ruin,” offered Leona. “It’s ancient. Dedicated in 1534. But, some quarters have been refurbished and are still used today. Especially the Kőnigssaal. It’s a great place to throw a party, at least according to Wikipedia. If you look out my hotel window, you’ll see the path that leads up to the castle entrance. At least according to Map Quest. We’ll be on that trail this evening.”
“What! You’re not thinking about going to this event, are you?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“But, Khalid Neshat is going to be there. He’ll probably be master of ceremonies.”
“Yes, we are going, Graham. And, we’re going to scare the shit out of that bastard, Neshat! He thinks he bumped us off this afternoon. We’re not out to make converts; but when he sees us, he just might believe in resurrection.”
Chapter 90
Heidelberg
At 7:30 that evening, Graham was back in Leona’s room at the Hotel am Schloss to pick up his date.
“You look spectacular!” he exclaimed.
“How do I rate such a handsome prince to take me to the Castle?” Leona handed Graham a small plastic bag. “These are my heels. Would you please be a prince and carry them for me?” She pointed to her feet, shod in Nikes.
Graham and Leona trudged up the Schlosseingang, another snake trail winding its way up the mountainside on harsh bricks. Because the Schloss Heidelberg was built and destroyed and rebuilt multiple times over multiple centuries, it is a hodgpodge of architectural styles. The only continuity is found in the color, a rustic red that almost glows from within the sandstone. After arriving in the courtyard at the foot of Baroque façade built by Frederick IV in 1607, which Leona recognized from the photos now lodged in her brain, she tugged on Graham’s arm, signaling him to cease walking. He stood still and firm, while Leona stripped off her Nikes with one hand and replaced them with high heels. Once she had adjusted her skirt, she signaled that the march to the Kings Hall could resume.
As the American couple entered the hall, they were each given a glass of freshly poured champagne, what the Germans call Sekt.
“Let me show you something,” said Leona. She guided Graham gently through the mingling crowd toward the rear of the Kings Hall, toward a curtain. She knew just where to go—she was guided by that huge database that had been downloaded into her head. “Behind this curtain is where the kitchen staff work,” she said.
Leona pulled the curtain aside just a few feet, uncovering a most unusual cast iron contraption. Two vertical rods stood in parallel. They began at the floor and stretched to a height above their heads. “This is a pump,” announced Leona. “It leads to a very large barrel of wine in the floor below us. Centuries ago the servants could retrieve an endless supply of the purple liquid to make certain the king’s parties would not lag.”
“Sometimes, Leona, I think you’ve got wine on the mind.”
Leona smiled. “Maybe I do. Down below are a couple of wine barrels, giant casks. The largest is called the Great Tun or Grosses Fass, built in 1751 by a guy named Carl Theodor. It holds over 58,000 US gallons. It took the trunks from 130 Oak trees to make it. It was guarded by a local hero, Perkeo, a dwarf. Interesting, huh? I’ve got more.”
Graham looked a tad impatient.
“Perkeo was the court jester, a short guy who came from Tyrol. That’s in the Alps. It is alleged that he only drank wine. He died because someone bet he couldn’t drink a glass of water. He took the bet, drank the water, and died on the spot.”
Graham’s impatience was becoming too much. “So, Lee, why are we standing here with you giving me a history lecture?”
“Because I want the time to see if we’re being followed,” said the damsel looking over her date’s shoulder.
“Are we?”
“No. Not yet.”
“Good.”
“No, not good.”
“You mean you want us to get followed again, and murdered again?”
“Followed, yes. Murdered, no. I see that everyone’s seated now. In a few seconds we’ll migrate to our table. We’ll walk right past the head table, where Neshat can get a good look at us.”
In moments the couple was walking slowly across the front of the dining room, passing the high head table on a raised platform to their left. Graham stood tall and cavalier, a posture befitting a royal knight. Leona nearly pranced in her high heels, broadcasting the features of feminine pulchritude that draw admiring stares from all directions. The speakers and dignitaries at the high table were momentarily distracted from their engrossing conversations, each reviewing the not so subtle enticement below them.
Khalid’s eyes met Leona’s. His
face flashed confusion and disorientation followed by scorn. He faked a continuous smile, barely hiding a seething anger. Leona turned on one of her heels, swinging her left earring out. It flashed in the chandelier light. Even from this distance, Khalid could see that it was Kelly’s earring on Leona’s left ear. Outsmarted, outwitted, and outmaneuvered, the Iranian felt dragon’s fire rising into his mouth from within.
Soon Graham and Leona were seated in the second row of tables. Following a pair of invocations by local clergy—the first to the Holy Trinity and the second to Allah—the dining began. Then, the program. The featured speaker was a philosopher announcing that a new and higher stage of human evolution would begin during the lifetime of many present this evening. The speaker was not, to be sure, Hans-Georg Welker. Rather, it was a local philosopher who frequently quoted John Blair.
This address was followed by personal and official remarks by representatives of both DTI and TTI. Khalid’s toasting glass held fruit juice, made from imported oranges, while those of his colleagues were filled with sparkling Sekt, made from a dry white Burgundy grape. During a moment of audience applause, Khalid called an aid—a broad shouldered Mongolian wearing a tuxedo—to his side and whispered something serious and emphatic.
Dessert and coffee finished the sumptuous meal. A tuxedoed waiter showed up at their table with an envelope. The name “Rev. Leona Foxx,” was written on the front. After waving it in front of Graham, the addressee opened it and removed a note card. “Dr. Kahlid Neshat respectfully requests your presence immediately following this event at the Great Tun to discuss matters of mutual interest.” Leona turned the text so Graham could read it. The tuxedoed messenger waited.
