“Or sleight of hand and illusion spinning?”
I lifted both shoulders in a quick shrug. Fair enough.
Simon stroked back his thinning blond hair.
“Look, I need to get back to work. And don’t you have a show to do?”
His face was easier to read than a ten-year-old playing poker for the first time. Frustration and eagerness to get away. And wondering why his boss had saddled him with a stage magician, saying “answer all his questions.”
I checked my specs. “Yeah, I gotta go. Still, I think I know why competition—markets and all similar approaches—has proved disappointing so far.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Because all systems that’ve been tried so far are voluntary. Folks who participate are already engaged, involved. They approve and want the experiment to work.”
“And what’s wrong with that?”
“Everything! In life, you don’t get to pick and choose when to compete. I can’t miss a show. A ballplayer has to try to make every game. A company that skips a year without a product is in trouble. A politician who skips an election—”
“And what does this have to do with prediction markets?”
“It’s simple, Simon. There are thousands, maybe millions of folks who make their living by pushing confident prognostications about the future. Stock analysts, cable news pundits, religious doomcasters…none of whom ever wants to be scored on the basis of accuracy! They smooth-talk others into betting on their forecasts…sometimes every penny the suckers own. They hedge their language and even say contradictory things, so they can point later at “successes.” What breakthrough tech could possibly do society and civilization more good than if we started tallying that army of persuasive arm-wavers and ranking them by how often—or how rarely—they were right?
“If it’s Utopian to imagine sifting millions of blithe predictions and applying market-like accountability for failure—giving positive reputation cred to people who are right a lot—then how much better to hold accountable those persuasive jerks who never seem to get dinged when they keep on being wrong!”
Vehemence. I seldom indulge, but this time it boiled up from within. Of course I hate such charlatans far more than the scientific hoaxers I’m called upon to help expose. As a professional liar, I concoct illusions that folks knowingly bought and paid for, fully aware that they are being fooled. But I can spot signs—the tells—when someone at a pulpit or on a pundit program or public policy forum is fibbing so smoothly, perhaps swaying millions. Warping a civilization that’s been pretty good to us.
Simon Anderson blinked at me.
“Utopian indeed. How on Earth would you construct a predictions market that’s not voluntary?”
OK, so that’s how I got the idea for Liar-Outer…and its more flashy competitor FIBuster. And it led to the reason I had to leave Vegas, running for my life.
Heck, I wouldn’t be in so much trouble if FIBuster weren’t so successful. Me and Simon and a few others started with just a few million from some Silicon Valley moguls, creating an online system where folks can post predictions made by any public figure, with or without the person’s cooperation. Starting with direct quotes, but getting past all the hedging and hemming and hawing and bullshit. Specially made AI semantics programs help distill out an essence, the gist, paraphrasing for simplicity. For what scientists call falsifiability.
When a public figure complains, he or she is given three chances to refine the paraphrasing, so long as the outcome remains clear and falsifiable. Predictors are welcome to give odds, as well. Only at that point, well, they’ve volunteered and become part of the system’s economy.
And if he or she won’t cooperate? Then it goes up anyway, as a bet. Stakes are chosen from a grid based on how rich and/or pushy the would-be Nostradamus was, and how many other folks believed ’em. Win or lose, the result is posted, with most lost wagers assigned to various charities. And if they refuse to pay? Well, that’s fine. There’s no legal obligation. But it’s funny how quickly a sense of moral obligation took shape. And cable TV con artists started taking the worst hits on their cred.
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.