Unlike fact-checking sites, Liar-Outer and FIBuster became ever more interactive. A game. A participation sport. A market.
And, of course, the Savonarola-Rasputin caste hated it!
But that’s not what sent me packing.
I was doing my magic shtick at the Tuscany; off-strip, if still classy. But I was starting to see the writing on the wall. More and more customers were coming to the shows armed with electronic augmentations. Specs that could zoom-expand and record your quickest hand movements, for example, encouraging smart alecks to shout gotcha when I palmed a card or made bouquets of flowers appear out of midair. At one point our Illusionist Guild threatened to strike if augmented reality goggles weren’t banned during show time.
That helped for maybe a year or so. But soon the AR gear merged with regular eyeglasses. Then folks started showing up with smart contact lenses. Oh, you could counter with some techie tricks—e-dazzlers and such—but all that did was create a hostile audience. So the jig was up for traditional sleight of hand.
I could still wow ’em with my mentalist stuff. Reading facial micro-expressions and tells and all that. But now folks just assumed I was cheating with augmentation gear! Using infrared and backstage implements and Ekman readers. I wasn’t! But the clock was clearly ticking, making me start to feel obsolete. An old-style craftsman in an age of machines. But then my skill found one more application.
Saving my damn life.
Was it coincidence that it happened the same evening Kilonova came to watch my show, first time I’d seen her in months? Of course not. Van Took’s correlation programs sensed something, and Ludmilla came by to have a closer look. Maybe (I flattered myself) to rekindle something with her “magic man.”
She sat at my comp table with an untouched drink, wearing specs shamelessly along with an expression of concentration. Jeez, if you aren’t going to enjoy the performance, you could’ve waited for me backstage.
Something had her nervous. At one point, when I glanced her way, she tapped the edge of her specs in a way that said she wanted to pict me a percept-message. I shrugged, blinking twice to indicate I was bare-eyed and it would have to wait…then went back to telling a fellow from Portland how much money he had in his wallet.
Then came a part of the act where I make water run uphill inside a clear container. A trick that had an extra step, ever since some wise guy publicly accused me of using one of the new room-temperature superfluids. From that day forth, Teresa would hand me the crystal pitcher and I’d theatrically pour some into my mouth, taking a great big swallow.
While reciting my standard patter, drawing out audience suspense, I noted that Kilonova was like an electrified wire—the proverbial watch spring, humming. She removed her specs, staring at me bare-eyed, and I could tell she was asking me to see.
Not her, I realized, tracking Kilonova’s gaze. But Teresa. Still reciting and flourishing, I looked at Teresa.
Holding out the pitcher, my beautiful associate was her usual smiling self. Moreover, after several years together, she had picked up on a lot of the tricks and cues. The cheek twitches and blink patterns and iris dilations and breath pauses that made the average mark so easy to read—these were all under control.
Too much control. Now that my attention included her, I could read more subtle body tells of deceit.
But over what?
Simple, let’s start by altering the patter. When you have a smooth and practiced stage routine, any variation can make your partner break stride. Cause her to make eye contact. Send a questioning look.
“So is this one of them there room temperature superfluids?” I asked the audience while flourishing both hands toward the pitcher in her grasp. “Or how about ectoplasm! Phlegm? Phlogiston? Fairy blood? Luminiferous ether?” I ran down a long list, made up on the fly. Teresa’s smile froze, exactly as one would expect if I were being a routine-wrecking jerk.
But there was no questioning look. No eye contact. In fact, her gaze flicked away…and I read guilt.
I read fear.
I guess I could have “accidentally” spilled the pitcher right then, ruining the trick but earning forgiveness from the audience with some performance lagniappes. Instead, I called for a volunteer.
“Hey, I get a lot of repeat customers, and I’ll bet some of you out there have seen this shtick before, right?” A smattering of applause. “OK then, how about one of you out there come up and take a gulp to prove it’s water? I’m getting older, and this bladder of mine is already full. Anyone? How about you, sir?”
Grinning sheepishly for his friends, and almost stumbling in eagerness, the tourist hurried forward, onto the stage…and it only took a glance to see plain panic in Teresa’s eyes. Good. The villains who blackmailed or bribed you into this will study the recording and see your shock, your dismay. They’ll know you tried and failed. That you didn’t tip me off. You’ll live.
I owed her that much. Nothing more.
As the tourist shuffled forward, dazzled by the lights, I teased laughter from his pals by suggesting that maybe this time the fluid might not be water! That I had summoned a mark onstage to do the taste test in order not to take the risk myself. He guffawed nervously, assuming that it was part of my new, mischievous patter.
Kilonova blanched, as pale as a ghost. Would I really be such a bastard?
The mark reached out to receive the pitcher, overcoming nerves with macho and a sense of fun. I loved the guy…and motioned for Teresa to hand him the crystal decanter—
—which, trembling, she fumbled at the last instant, letting it slip.
I dived after and caught it. Bumping heads with the eager, clumsy-helpful customer, I bobbled the heavy pitcher, losing hold, recovering…then taking a huge pratfall as the goblet fell crashing to the stage. Amid the splash and flying fragments, our volunteer hopped back, cussing amiably.
Rolling to my feet, I apologized, brushed off his jacket, handed him a couple of passes to the Horsefeathers Revue, and caught a final glimpse of my beautiful associate, disappearing behind the curtain.
During the next few minutes, Kilonova made repeated let’s get out of here motions. But no way I’d flee the stage, too! There were replacement tricks up my sleeve. And I remembered how to perform alone. And these good people—some of them—had paid good money to see me. Or at least deserved a break from the cybernetically enhanced parasitism of the casino floor.
Anyway, the show must go on.
“These distributed sensor networks have given us a new, powerful way to understand and manage human groups, corporations, and entire societies. As these new abilities become refined by the use of more sophisticated statistical models and sensor capabilities, we could well see the creation of a quantitative, predictive science of human organizations and human society. At the same time, these new tools have the potential to make George Orwell’s vision of an all-controlling state into a reality. What we do with this new power may turn out to be either our salvation or our destruction.”