And so, “laws of sociology” grew less fashionable. Simulations improved only glacially, while choking on tsunamis of Big Data. At which point the powers of the world—desperate for guidance—rediscovered Adam Smith.
Maximize the number of participants! If individual models and modelers can fool themselves, then make them compete with one another in a marketplace of ideas. Utilize the same competitive forces that propel evolution—the most creative force in the universe! The same driver as markets. As science.
Hence the “wisdom of crowds” became the next fashion in prognostication. And there were good initial signs! Wikipedia, Kickstarter, Duolingo, and Amazon’s Mechanical Turk all showed promising outcomes from lateral cooperation and competition, so much more agile than hierarchical command.
Crowd-sourced analysis started with SETI@home, when thousands lent their home computers to a network that analyzed radio telescope data, sifting for alien signals—an approach that expanded to genome research, protein-folding problems, and a myriad other collaborations between scientists and “smart mobs” of amateurs, like the Zooniverse Project, where amateur aficionados help identify lunar craters, translate old ships’ logs, identify galaxies, and find planets round other stars.
Clearly, some sort of distributed wisdom was at work. But the sixty-four-trillion-dollar question loomed. Can it be applied to peering ahead? To prediction?
Again, look at human history. Sure, arrogant human leaders proved foolish, nine times out of ten. But were there cases, in the past, when mobs or mass movements did any better? Could mobs be made much, much smarter?
—M.N. Plano, How We Did It (2025)
Kilonova took care of the most dangerous cameras, and a good thing too. Mazella’s mob would recognize me in two heartbeats. Quicker than that, now that all casinos employed computerized face recog. Sure, Sophia Van Took would offer me a new identity—and face-job—if things went wrong tonight. But I like Vegas. And showbiz.
The Feds had better be one step ahead this time, I thought, glancing at my clandestine companion, then kissing our little drone for luck and letting it go. The machine would swoop about, barely more noticeable than a gnat, noting every lens and biometric scanner along our path, then latch-spooking those we could not evade. Unless Sophia’s people had missed a step in the perpetual tug-of-info-war. One mistake and the least of my problems might be hiding under Witness Protection. Johann Mazella played for keeps.
The drone hovered just outside our hiding place, under a buffet table where a bribed busboy had wheeled us as the Golden Palace kitchens were closing. The little flier took its time, then confirmed that we truly were in a surveillance shadow.
I glanced at my companion. Ludmilla Kilonova owned a pleasant smile, though I had never seen her eyes. Those windows to the soul were always hidden by shades—high-tech specs that overlaid the world with augmented reality data. But I suspected another reason, a flattering one. She knows what I can do.
We’re on. Her specs picted to mine. A more secure channel than whispering.
Fine, I replied, scrolling words with my tongue. You first, Mata Hari.
I couldn’t see the eye roll, but twitches of cheek muscles confirmed one. Well, well, fair enough. Kilonova’s cover story was genuine—she really was in town to give a talk on late stellar evolution at the astronomical convention. Still, I never had the slightest doubt about her real profession.
Follow me, magic man.
She wriggled her way out of the buffet table, then slithered across a tile floor inset with gilt GP casino logos. I might have enjoyed watching her graceful moves, had I not been worried about my own ass. The specs showed a very narrow tunnel for us to crawl along. It wouldn’t do for my jeans to bump the boundary.
Our path led up some carpeted stairs, drawing ever closer to a most familiar sound, the background music of my life: the tinkling jangle of slots.
Someone in casino security should lose his job, I pondered as we took shelter under a kiosk where addicts could tap their savings and max out their credit cards to refill their gambling accounts. Even at 4 a.m., there were players about, though none in this area right now. As if wee-hours slot junkies would pay us any notice.
It occurred to me that the tunnel-of-unobservance down which we had come might be a great path to rob this very kiosk. Could that even be the intention? Someone gets himself hired as a consultant for GP security, then sets up a route…. Hey, at minimum it could make a cool movie pitch.
Hold that thought, I noted, as Kilonova signaled for us both to slide along a narrow cleft and stand up, another entirely necessary quasi-erotic slither that pressed my body along hers. Again, it might have been enjoyable, but for her faintly audible sigh, that I easily translated.
Men.
OK, so now we were standing. And, according to plan, we then simply stepped into view, striding side by side like a couple on holiday, returning from a very late show…with the drone warning us to turn our faces just-by-coincidence away from any and all cams—all but one, which the drone conveniently caused to malfunction, using methods that were well beyond my security clearance.
Of course, if casino security ever cared to do so, they might backtrack images and discover that a certain couple had appeared in one area, without any record of them getting there. Hence, this all had to go smoothly, with no one ever suspicious enough to backtrack.
Time for the switcheroo. I caught sight of another couple seated together at a Simpsons-themed slot machine. They stood up and Maggie Simpson complained with a soft whimper—one of a hundred cues the mechanisms used to tweak human emotions, with one aim: to keep players in their seats. Seats containing sensors sent biodata to giant processors, helping adjust the slot experience—all the sights and sounds and payouts—in just the right way, so that humanity’s most susceptible members would find it nearly impossible to leave.
I’ll know civilization is growing up when the people behind all this are labeled psychopaths. Predation on the weak-willed will be gone when we get to Star Trek.
Still, I’ll miss the colors. The sound and flash of outrageous dreams. The smell of boundless—if groundless—hope.
This couple ignored the comeback cues as they got up and turned away from the machine. He complaining about back pain from bad posture. She griping about the size of tip he gave the pretty cocktail waitress—as she sloshed from too many complimentary beverages. They staggered a little, converging at an angle toward Kilonova and me, while I focused on memorizing the man’s voice, his walk.
Next blind spot, just ahead.
Outlined in the specs’ percept-overlay, it didn’t look like much of a blind spot. A fat pillar, supporting a tall, 4K screen advertising Golden Palace shows and events. There was at least one camera—from that unoccupied blackjack table, over there—staring right at us as we rounded the corner, on collision course with the drunken slot addicts, just as the display screen shifted to images of Penn & Teller, the casino’s featured magic and comedy act.
Sudden warmth and a faint electric prickle erupted along my left side as pixelated garments came to life, matching the screen duo perfectly as Kilonova and I did a rapid dance around the other couple, whose own garments flickered just so.