Singularity

by Steven James

  “Of course.” He tried to sound as nonplussed as possible.

  She spun on her heels. The sound of her stiff shoes clacking against the floor echoed sharply down the hallway as she left.

  And Akio Takahashi went back to his office to try to figure out what to do.

  All he could think of was calling Colonel Byrne to see what he would suggest.

  Fred Anders planned to corner Xavier Wray after the show.

  For now, he sat in the third row watching Jevin Banks do some of the most incredible escapes and illusions he’d ever seen.

  The theater was packed, and in the mist that curled out from the stage and the spotlights filtering through it, he felt almost like he had entered another world.

  He’d heard of Banks before but had never been to one of his performances. Now, he could hardly believe what this guy could pull off.

  Fred had been counting on the fact that there would be no metal detector to get into the show, and so he had his handgun with him, the one he carried at work at Area 51, where he served as one of the perimeter sweepers.

  He was a security specialist.

  Otherwise known, at least to all conspiracy theorists in the area, as a Cammo dude.

  Before I know it, it’s time for the piranha tank escape.

  Chaos will make the switch easier.

  We always try to use it to our advantage.

  I always want an element of danger.

  The dancers come out so we can prep for the effect.

  In four minutes I’m going to drown.

  In a sense.

  There are three ways to hold your breath longer—four if you count inhaling pure oxygen before you go onstage, which I’m not a fan of. First, fill your lungs completely, usually through buccal pumping, a way of rhythmically opening and closing your mouth in a certain way to draw in more air. But you risk arterial gas embolisms, which is not a good thing.

  I avoid that.

  Second, hyperventilate right before you go under water, and third, slow your metabolism. This can be done by fasting and relaxation techniques. In some cases, you can actually double or even triple your time by doing both techniques. With practice most people can learn to hold their breath up to three minutes.

  There’s always the unexpected to deal with, however.

  Once I was performing in Quito, Ecuador, and didn’t take the elevation into consideration. The city is located at more than nine thousand feet above sea level, and the difference in altitude cut more than thirty seconds off my time. I hadn’t been planning on that when I did the escape, and it almost cost me in a big way.

  Fred watched as Banks appeared on the platform high above the water tank on the side of the stage.

  Tight spotlights narrowed in on him as a video appeared on a screen being lowered to the left of the stage. It showed piranhas in a jungle river circling in on a monkey and attacking it ruthlessly, until, moments later, nothing but a churning of blood and fur and bones was left.

  Banks invited two audience members up to strap him into a straightjacket. His feet were shackled together, and he wore a weight belt to keep him at the bottom of the aquarium.

  An announcer explained that the average person can hold his breath for forty to forty-five seconds. He encouraged the audience members to hold their breath with Banks as he disappeared into the water.

  The platform would drop away and he would plunge into the aquarium. He needed to get out of the straightjacket, get the weight belt off, and get out of the shackles before drowning or being attacked by the piranhas.

  But first two of his assistants doused him with some sort of flammable liquid.

  And set him on fire.

  Breathless

  The flames rage up my body.

  My face is covered with a gel that protects your skin when your clothes are lit on fire, but still, the heat is intense and severe.

  The key to getting out of a straightjacket is flexibility, practice, and the way you position your arms when they’re strapping you in. Everything seemed alright a few moments ago, but now my right arm, the one that was injured by the snakebite, is much more cramped than it should be.

  As far as I know, no other magician has attempted an escape while in a flaming straightjacket, and I can tell why.

  The heat is almost unbearable.

  And it’s terrifically hard to breathe.

  The water will put the fire out, but I’m counting off the seconds in my head, and I have at least ten more before the platform I’m standing on is going to drop away.

  I struggle with the straightjacket more than normal, and that’s not good because once I hit the water it’ll be even harder to escape—moisture makes the fabric cling to your skin, and it becomes like a wrestling match with yourself. The toughest straightjacket escapes are underwater ones.

  Six seconds.

  I get my right arm loose and close to bringing it over my head, but I wait. I’ll do that as soon as I hit the water, otherwise I’d be brushing the flaming straightjacket right across my face.

  Four seconds.

  The waterproof, fire-resistant gel on my face is almost melted away. I’m trying to draw in deep breaths, but it’s nearly impossible since the fire is swallowing the oxygen all around me, I only have a couple—

  Two seconds.

  I snatch in a final, strangled breath that’s going to have to last me two minutes.

  And then the platform gives way.

  The platform split apart beneath his feet and Banks dropped nearly three stories into the tank. It was filled only enough to displace the water without splashing piranhas all over the stage or onto the audience.

  A cloud of smoke and an audible hissing sound followed him as he hit the water and sank immediately to the bottom, the weight belt dragging him down.

  Fred took a deep breath to see how his breath-holding compared to the magician’s.

  Banks appeared to be having a rough time getting out of the straightjacket, but Fred figured it was all part of the act, that it was all carefully rehearsed to make things look more dangerous than they were in order to make for a more exciting escape.

  A giant digital stop-clock hanging above the stage ticked off the seconds, marking how long he’d been underwater.

  So far, twenty-five.

  Fred was still able to hold his breath along with Banks. When he looked around the audience, he saw a few people nearby let out whatever air was remaining in their lungs and draw in several gasping breaths.

  A circle of bubbles escaped from the bottom of the aquarium, obscuring Banks for a few seconds. It was undoubtedly part of the trick, but when the bubbles disappeared he was still in the straightjacket.

  By now the time read fifty-four seconds.

  And Fred ran out of breath.

  I lose track of how long I’m underwater, but before I dropped I hadn’t gotten nearly as much air in my lungs as I should have and already I can tell.

  It’s a tight squeeze, but I manage to slide my right arm up over my head, and from there I work at the left arm.

  Then I have the straps to deal with.

  And the weight belt.

  And the manacles on my ankles.

  We’d talked about using spring-loaded shackles, but I’m an escape artist and I like doing the picks myself. I have a hairpin in my left hand. After I get out of the straightjacket, I’ll use it on the manacles.

  But now, the way I’m feeling, I’m not sure that insisting to pick the locks had been such a good idea.

  One minute, nineteen seconds.

  By now, most of the people surrounding Fred had started breathing again. Everyone looked tense. The breath-holding challenge had worked. The audience was gripped, nervous, and staring with rapt attention at the stage.

  Another blast of bubbles engulfed Banks, and when they cleared away he was still in the straightjacket but had made some progress and was close to getting out.

  It happens as I’m tugging the jacket off.

  The bite on m
y right arm rips open and a streak of fresh blood slithers into the water, then expands into smokelike crimson streaks that curl all around me.

  And that’s when the piranhas move in.

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd as the fish swarmed en masse on Banks. No matter how much you practice a trick, this couldn’t possibly be part of the plan.

  The water seemed to boil with fish and blood and bubbles, and then two divers leapt in from the platform on the other side of the tank and their flippers kicked up sand from the bottom of the pool, further obscuring everything.

  Finally, one of them surfaced, looked around, and then went under again.

  It appeared that the audience members were holding their breath again, but this time in worried anticipation. Some of the women stared wide-eyed at the stage with their hands over their mouths.

  Then both divers were at the surface, shaking their heads and getting out of the water. The bubbles stopped, the fish dispersed, the sand began settling and there was no sign of Jevin Banks.

  Until one of the paramedics turned toward the audience, took off his cap.

  And it was Banks.

  He waved to the crowd, flourished with his hand, everyone went crazy and the curtains fell.

  Then the music started again, and the dancers came out to take a bow as the curtains rose once again. The assistants and then Banks appeared, bowed, and then the show was over.

  A pretty amazing climax.

  Fred decided he would wait until the crowd had cleared out and then find a way backstage to locate Xavier Wray.

  The man who was blackmailing him was going to call at 10:15, and he needed to find out the location of the USB drive from Wray before the call.

  As long as he could corner Wray alone somewhere, it should be enough time.

  While he waited for the auditorium to clear, Fred glanced his hand across the gun that he carried and ran through what he was going to say to Wray to convince him to give up those files.

  I was backstage getting treated for the bites on my arm when Seth took a bow for me, just a few minutes ago.

  To put it mildly, the effect had not gone well at all.

  I was supposed to have been working at the shackles when the bubbles rose a third time, then, while I was hidden, free myself and duck behind the fake reef as Seth slipped in to take my place. Then I would go up the secret tunnel to the trapdoor and pull on the paramedic clothes as Seth pretended to drown and the divers leapt in to rescue him, kicking up sand that obscures him enough for the audience to not notice that he’s not me.

  They would bring him to the surface, lay him on a stretcher, and the paramedics would work on him, then cover him with a sheet with a body form on it so that as he slips down into a secret compartment below the gurney, it looks like he’s still on the stretcher. Then, when the taller of the two paramedics pulls the sheet back, the body has vanished, and when the paramedic looks up at the crowd and pulls back his cap, the audience sees that it’s me.

  A bow.

  Applause.

  Curtain.

  But not tonight.

  The fish went after the wound on my arm with a frenzy, and I knew I needed to get out of the water. So, I got out of the manacles and weight belt, went through the passageway early, got Seth to do a quick change in my place to appear as the paramedic, and then, after the curtain rose, take my place bowing to the audience.

  At least with him here we’d salvaged the show, but my arm was a mess. I had a few bites on my hands and neck, but those weren’t serious. The fish had targeted the location of the wound, and my arm was not looking pretty. Those fish just do not like to let go after they dig in their greedy little teeth.

  Thankfully, my clothes and the gel on my face, which didn’t attract the fish at all, protected the rest of me.

  However, now I feel like I was slow, sloppy, and that everyone on the team knows it.

  The real paramedic frets over me, and after I get my arm bandaged, I assure him that I’m fine, even though I’m not feeling fine at all. I have no idea how I’ll perform tomorrow night with my arm in this condition, but I don’t tell anyone that. In the morning I’ll see how it’s doing and make a decision then.

  I thank Seth for covering for me and then meet up with Charlene and Xavier to debrief what happened.

  All around us, thick cables snake along the floor, and stagehands work at replacing props, resetting effects for tomorrow.

  “We shouldn’t have let you attempt the escape.” Charlene seems more upset with herself than with me. “We knew you weren’t feeling 100 percent, that your arm was injured.”

  “It was my choice. I thought it would be okay.”

  She shakes her head, and her tone turns to one of concern. “Are you alright? Be honest with me.”

  “Yes.”

  Xavier scratches at his goatee. “We’re not finishing with this escape tomorrow night unless Seth does it.”

  “I can do it.”

  “No.” His tone is firm. “I don’t want to chance it.”

  “Seth isn’t ready to do the straightjacket escape yet.”

  Tension that I don’t like bristles through the air.

  Neither of them looks convinced that I’ll be okay doing the effect tomorrow, and at last I tell them, “I’m going to get changed.” They don’t respond, and I leave for my dressing room.

  I can hear them discussing something between themselves as I walk away.

  While I’m pulling on my dry clothes, my dad calls and explains that something came up and he won’t be able to fly down after all to visit on Monday. He doesn’t tell me what it was, and that doesn’t necessarily surprise me.

  When he asks me about tonight’s show, I don’t bring up the incident in the piranha tank or my wounded arm, but rather highlight some parts of the performance that went well.

  It’s not easy to know what to say. On the one hand it eases my stress level a little that he’s not coming, but on the other hand I know spending time together, even if it’s awkward, is good for us.

  Ever since my mom left us when I was in sixth grade, my father and I have been struggling to find our place in each other’s lives. Sometimes the past has the power to send ripples forward through time, affecting the trajectory of a relationship forever, and that’s what happened with us.

  “I heard about Emilio,” he tells me, “what happened overseas. I’m sorry. I should have called earlier.”

  “It’s okay.” I don’t specify if I’m referring to how I’m handling the loss or the fact that he didn’t call earlier. “When do you think you might be able to make it down to Vegas?”

  “Not sure. The airline said I can take up to six months to use the ticket.”

  “Okay.”

  The conversation dies off. Maybe both of us are waiting for the other one to speak, maybe we both just can’t think of anything to say.

  “So, I’ll talk to you soon,” I say at last, because that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to say, although I doubt we’ll connect for another couple weeks.

  “Okay. Have a good week.”

  “You too.”

  “Goodbye, Jevin.”

  “Bye, Dad.”

  I hang up. Only when I look up do I see Charlene standing in the doorway.

  “You heard that?”

  “Part of it.”

  “He can’t make it. My dad, that is.”

  “Is everything alright?”

  “I didn’t ask.” I hesitate as I realize how odd that might sound. “But he sounded okay.”

  “Well, that’s good.”

  “Yes.”

  “How did it go, talking with him?”

  “Pretty much the same as usual.”

  “Awkward.”

  “Yeah. Awkward.”

  She takes a step into the room. “Listen, back there, a minute ago, when I was . . . well, you just . . . you need to take care of yourself. You always try to push things and it worries me.”

  I pocket my cell phone
and join her at the door. “Have you ever heard of Alex Honnold?”

  “Who’s Alex Honnold?”

  “He might be the greatest free soloist to ever live.”

  “Free soloist? You mean at some sort of musical instrument?”

  We start down the hallway.

  “At rock climbing. Free soloing is where you climb without a rope. Alex has free soloed some of the hardest climbs in the world, some more than three thousand feet high, without a rope.”

  “He scales these cliffs with no safety system?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Three thousand feet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what if he falls?”

  “He doesn’t fall.”

  “But what if he did?”

  “He doesn’t, Charlene. That’s my point.”

  “But if he did. He would—”

  “He would die. Yes. But he doesn’t fall.”

  She backs up and gives me a look that speaks volumes. “Jevin, I don’t even understand what you’re talking about here. You have a death wish?”

  “No, of course not.” It seems too cliché to say that I have a life wish, so I hold back. “I have too much to live for. But if we don’t risk, we don’t live. Alex doesn’t want to die, neither do I. But I’ve always gambled—”

  “For more than you can afford to lose. Yes. I know.”

  “We all talk about taking risks, but what does that really mean? It means taking the chance that you won’t come out unscathed. Life without risk is just sanitized death. I can’t play it safe. I’m not designed to.”

  “I think it’s something you might want to learn.”

  “Charlene, this is—”

  “I’m not saying you can’t take risks, but you can’t be risking everything. Alex could fall. He could. Sometimes I think you’re more addicted to adrenaline than you are to . . .”