It Takes More Muscles to Frown

It Takes More Muscles to Frown

By Ned Beauman (excerpt)

“Cantabrian don’t have access to any pipeline data,” I said.

“But they built our security architecture. They have back doors.”

“The programmers are in Singapore,” said Soto.

“Doesn’t matter. The cartels have reach. Hey, that reminds me,” Obregon said, tapping his phone for another round. “So there’s this cartel boss’ son, right? Eight years old. And his nanny tells him that if he wants a lot of presents for Christmas this year, he should write a letter to Baby Jesus. Because if it wasn’t for Baby Jesus, we wouldn’t even have Christmas. So the boy sits down to write the letter, and first boat.” He looks at it, then he crumples it up and throws it away. He gets out a new piece of paper, and this time he writes, “Dear Baby Jesus, I’ve been a good boy most of the year, so I want a new speedboat.” He looks at it, then he crumples it up and throws it away again. But the he gets an idea. He goes into his abuela’s room, takes a statue of the Virgin Mary, wraps it up in duct tape, puts it in the closet, and locks the door. Then he gets another piece of paper and he writes, “Dear Baby Jesus, if you ever want to see your mother again…”

Everyone guffawed. And event though I’d heard the joke told better before, my guffaw was more convincing than anyone else’s, at least visually. Because I had help.

The electroactive polymer prosthesis had been developed at the UC Davis Medical Center as a treatment for paralysis. It still hadn’t been approved for use by regulators anywhere in the world. But the Nuevos Zetas’ hackers had stolen the designs and forwarded them to a fabricator in Guanghou that specialized in biomedical prototypes. Presumably both Cantabrian and the company that made the emotion detection software were aware that the technology existed, but thought they had a few years’ grace before they had to worry about it.

It takes more muscles to frown. Photo by Elena

There wasn’t enough metal in my face to show up on a body scanner, and even under a close examination the lacework under my skin could easily be mistaken for the titanium ally mesh sometimes used in facial reconstruction surgery. It worked on roughly the same principle as a shipbuilder’s powered exoskeleton, but in miniature: when you initiated a movement, the prosthesis detected that movement and threw its own weight behind it. A smile that would normally be thin and mirthless would instead dawn across your whole face. Then it would linger and fade, like a real smile, instead of clicking off like a fake one. Conversely, when you tried to keep your face neutral, the prosthesis would steady anything that might squinch or quiver or droop. No more nervousness, no more death face.

Because the emotion detection software that Cantabrian used could also detect spikes in facial temperature and perspiration, I had a unit in each of of my cheekbones to dispense a fizzle of magnetite nanoparticles into my facial veins, which in an emergency would partially neutralize both tells. So far, though, that had never been necessary, because the support of electroactive polymers meant I was always relaxed about telling lies (or listening to jokes). If I started babbling or gnawing my fingernails or squirming in my seat, an interviewer would certainly notice, and there was nothing the prosthesis could do about that. But it was easy to train yourself not to show any of those signs. Whereas it was impossible, as far as anybody knew, to train the microexpressions out of your face.

The prosthesis could be switched on and off wirelessly. On my phone I had a settings app disguised as a puzzle game. I took off my girdle for sleep and exercise and sex, otherwise I got a sore jaw. But the rest of the time, I kept it on. Once you get used to having full control over your face, it begins to seem very strange that you ever tolerated its delinquency. If a social network decided to broadcast your deepest feelings to the world without permission, spurting emojis left and right, you would delete your account. And yet your body does precisely that. Crying, blushing, sweating, goosebumps, involuntary facial expressions – not to mention erections, when visible, and stress-related incontinence, in extreme cases – are all serious data breaches. Strangers on the Metro have no more right to know how you’re feeling than strangers on the Internet