Asimov's Science Fiction: September 2013 by Penny Publications Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #452
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the ultimate stunt. And you'll be part of it—if you want to be."
"Oh, you always say that. Every performance better than the last...." Her voice took on a singsong tone as she mimicked my patter: " 'An amazing new feat in the annals of illusion! Audiences will be astounded, rivals will be dismayed!' "
She didn't understand that I really meant it: my next exploit would put me at the peak of my profession, but it would change our lives forever. There was no time to explain. The ship fell onward, into the darkness. My feet vibrated with the trembling of the deck-plates, as the gravity compensators battled against the unimaginably fierce conditions around us. On the control panel, readings crept ever closer to the red line indicating catastrophic collapse.
Death approached.
"One last kiss?" I asked, with a knowing smile. We always strove to keep our love fresh, and this brush with mortality would certainly give it a frisson.
Veronica's cheeks were flushed; her eyes blazed as though a lifetime's passion had been compressed into the tiny few minutes she had left. She threw her arms around me, and kissed me with wild abandon. The moment stretched... and broke, interrupted by a commotion in the cabin.
"I've changed my mind—I don't want to die!" someone shouted. A passenger stood up and walked toward me, staggering as the shuttle shook from external impacts.
"Sorry, no refunds," I said. I hardened my voice and injected a whiplash note of command. "Sit down, please."
He stepped back, impelled by my tone of authority. But someone else called out, "I want to go home!"
"Me too!"
"Yeah!"
Half of showmanship lies in projecting an aura of complete control. The audience mustn't become unruly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "there is no going back. We're inside the black hole, from which nothing can emerge—not even light itself. Nothing! Or almost nothing. Because there is just one thing that can escape a black hole: something even more immaterial than light..." I paused, then dropped my voice to a whisper. "Prayers!"
In the sudden hush, I continued, "Yes, my friends—you're all going to die, so I suggest you spend your final moments in quiet prayer. Thank you for taking part in my show."
I knew this wouldn't hold them for long. I turned to Veronica and took her flawless hand in my scarred one. "Farewell, Queen of my heart," I said. She bowed her head.
Swiftly, I stepped through a discreet hatchway and closed it behind me. I squeezed into the escape pod and pulled the release lever. The pod shot out of the ship's stern, into the crushing embrace of the black hole.
And now we come to the question of technique.
I must warn you that what follows may feel disappointingly prosaic. There are good reasons why every escape happens behind a curtain: it maintains an aura of mystery, a hint of magic. It allows the audience to imagine the performer struggling with esoteric forces, exploiting secrets that mankind was never meant to know.
Spectators don't want to see the escapologist using a mere contrivance to unravel handcuffs, a straitjacket, a black hole. They may
think
they want to see it. But mystery is a property of questions, not answers. The method is fascinating only while it remains obscure, the subject of speculation, invested with the dark glamour of trickery and illusion. As soon as it's revealed in its dull mundanity, the technique becomes uninteresting and almost contemptible. A lock-pick, a dislocation of the shoulder, a hidden gizmo. Yes, of course—what else would it be?
My escape pod looked like a coff in. (Half of showmanship is the careful design of props.) I lay inside, feeling secure rather than claustrophobic. The control panel under the lid showed that I was, naturally, falling toward the center of the black hole. I reached for the red button that would trigger my escape—A massive
thump
jolted the pod, as something fell onto the roof just above me.—and punched the button so hard that my wrist throbbed
"Oh, you always say that. Every performance better than the last...." Her voice took on a singsong tone as she mimicked my patter: " 'An amazing new feat in the annals of illusion! Audiences will be astounded, rivals will be dismayed!' "
She didn't understand that I really meant it: my next exploit would put me at the peak of my profession, but it would change our lives forever. There was no time to explain. The ship fell onward, into the darkness. My feet vibrated with the trembling of the deck-plates, as the gravity compensators battled against the unimaginably fierce conditions around us. On the control panel, readings crept ever closer to the red line indicating catastrophic collapse.
Death approached.
"One last kiss?" I asked, with a knowing smile. We always strove to keep our love fresh, and this brush with mortality would certainly give it a frisson.
Veronica's cheeks were flushed; her eyes blazed as though a lifetime's passion had been compressed into the tiny few minutes she had left. She threw her arms around me, and kissed me with wild abandon. The moment stretched... and broke, interrupted by a commotion in the cabin.
"I've changed my mind—I don't want to die!" someone shouted. A passenger stood up and walked toward me, staggering as the shuttle shook from external impacts.
"Sorry, no refunds," I said. I hardened my voice and injected a whiplash note of command. "Sit down, please."
He stepped back, impelled by my tone of authority. But someone else called out, "I want to go home!"
"Me too!"
"Yeah!"
Half of showmanship lies in projecting an aura of complete control. The audience mustn't become unruly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," I said, "there is no going back. We're inside the black hole, from which nothing can emerge—not even light itself. Nothing! Or almost nothing. Because there is just one thing that can escape a black hole: something even more immaterial than light..." I paused, then dropped my voice to a whisper. "Prayers!"
In the sudden hush, I continued, "Yes, my friends—you're all going to die, so I suggest you spend your final moments in quiet prayer. Thank you for taking part in my show."
I knew this wouldn't hold them for long. I turned to Veronica and took her flawless hand in my scarred one. "Farewell, Queen of my heart," I said. She bowed her head.
Swiftly, I stepped through a discreet hatchway and closed it behind me. I squeezed into the escape pod and pulled the release lever. The pod shot out of the ship's stern, into the crushing embrace of the black hole.
And now we come to the question of technique.
I must warn you that what follows may feel disappointingly prosaic. There are good reasons why every escape happens behind a curtain: it maintains an aura of mystery, a hint of magic. It allows the audience to imagine the performer struggling with esoteric forces, exploiting secrets that mankind was never meant to know.
Spectators don't want to see the escapologist using a mere contrivance to unravel handcuffs, a straitjacket, a black hole. They may
think
they want to see it. But mystery is a property of questions, not answers. The method is fascinating only while it remains obscure, the subject of speculation, invested with the dark glamour of trickery and illusion. As soon as it's revealed in its dull mundanity, the technique becomes uninteresting and almost contemptible. A lock-pick, a dislocation of the shoulder, a hidden gizmo. Yes, of course—what else would it be?
My escape pod looked like a coff in. (Half of showmanship is the careful design of props.) I lay inside, feeling secure rather than claustrophobic. The control panel under the lid showed that I was, naturally, falling toward the center of the black hole. I reached for the red button that would trigger my escape—A massive
thump
jolted the pod, as something fell onto the roof just above me.—and punched the button so hard that my wrist throbbed
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