by A. C. Fuller
I look at Steph nervously. "Why do you think it's nefarious?"
"Because no one likes the guy. Even his mentions on the Forum are mostly people making fun of him. People call him Marshmallow Morton."
"Is there a way to quantify positive and negative mentions?" I ask Benjamin.
"Not yet," he says. "If we could track positive mentions and determine likely voting behavior based on it…well…that would be a game changer."
"The point," Steph says, before swigging the rest of her wine, "is that it looks odd and we need to figure out what's going on."
Steph and I have often discussed the fact that the biggest danger to Ameritocracy is if users don't see the voting as fair. The whole point of the site is that we are providing the most neutral platform ever created on which one can make a political decision. We cut out the political parties, the DNC and the RNC, the TV stations, and the debate committees. We created something to reach straight to real people, and anything that erodes the credibility of the platform will doom the project.
As the last hope that I'll make it back to the party fades, I ask, "What do we do next?"
Steph steps around to the other side of the desk and opens a laptop. "I'm gonna read through Morton's social media posts for the last week to check whether his level of engagement has spiked, whether he's rolled out any interesting policies or theories that he hasn't added to our site yet."
"And I'm going to dig into our numbers," Benjamin says. "Who's voting for him? Ages, locations, which candidates they're moving votes from when they switch to him, that kind of thing."
"What should I do?" I ask, overwhelmed by the thought that someone or something could be manipulating the site, but impressed by how quickly they're kicking into gear.
"You should take the wider view," Steph says. "Read through his stuff again, along with the others in the top ten. Think about the demographics. The key question is: Assuming I'm wrong, and that everything is on the up and up, why the hell are people voting for this guy?"
"Got it," I say, walking into my office.
Before I can open my laptop, I see that Peter has texted me back.
Peter: Missing you at the party. Malcolm is killing it. Just did a trap version of Willie Nelson's "Crazy." Let me know if I can do anything to help with whatever's going on. And if I can see you later.
I start to respond to his text, but can't figure out what to say. So, as I always do when I can't figure out what to do about a man, I focus on my work.
I read through every public statement I can find about Morton, finding more of the same: milquetoast positions and a good public résumé, but nothing interesting or noteworthy.
The more I think about the candidates, the more I can't understand the votes Tom Morton is receiving. When I started Ameritocracy, one of my driving ambitions was to bring real candidates into the political system. Candidates who wouldn't have to pretend to be something they're not, candidates who would be transparent about their pasts, their positions, and their plans if elected. Morton is the opposite of this, and not only does it bother me, it confuses me.
"Oh no! No, no, no!" It's Benjamin's voice from the other room, sounding panicked.
I'm at his side a moment later. "What?"
Steph runs in from the kitchen area, holding the bottle of red wine. "What?" she asks, leaning over his other shoulder.
Benjamin looks at me over his shoulder. "This guy might be a fake candidate."
"What do you mean a 'fake candidate'?" I ask.
"I found a bunch of things," Benjamin says, turning back to his screen. "First, look here."
He taps on his screen and I see a list of some of our top candidates, with numbers of Twitter followers next to each name:
Tom Morton: 3,452,980
Orin Gottlieb: 800,832
Justine Hall: 286,733
Cecilia Mason: 1,982,234
Tanner Futch: 4,455,211
Benjamin clicks another button and a red number pops up to the right of each number. "The new numbers are the number of fake followers each candidate has."
I see that Morton has almost three million fake followers, roughly eighty percent of his total following, while the other candidates have far fewer. "What's a fake follower?" I ask.
"A Twitterbot."
"Define 'Twitterbot'."
"It's a type of software that controls a Twitter account via the Twitter API. The bot can autonomously perform actions such as tweeting, retweeting, liking, following, unfollowing, or direct messaging other accounts."
"So there's not a real person there?" I ask.
"There are real people there," Benjamin says, "but there's often one person behind thousands or even tens of thousands of accounts."
Steph says, "That's bad, but what else did you find?"
"It's beyond bad," Benjamin says. "Look at the other candidates. None of them have more than twenty percent bots as followers. Someone is trying to prop up Thomas Morton."
"Not necessarily," Steph says. "He may have had all those followers before Ameritocracy. Maybe he was just vain and bought Twitter followers to pump up his consulting brand. A lot of people do that."
Benjamin clicks on Morton's name on the screen, which leads to a detail page of his Twitter followers. "Nope."
I can see that, from 2015 to 2019, Morton's follower growth was steady, but a series of huge spikes occurred recently.
"What the hell?" Steph says. "He gained over three million followers since joining the site. That's gotta be more than anyone else."
"Way more," Benjamin says. "Most candidates see steady growth in their Twitter followings after joining the site, but Tom Morton is buying followers, or someone is buying them for him. Grab a seat and I'll show you how a Twitterbot works."
This is going to get complicated, so I pull up chairs for me and Steph, then grab the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from the kitchen.
"This is gonna be a three-glass kinda night," Steph says.
"Or four," I say, filling my glass to the top.
14
The next morning, I wake up bleary-eyed and a little hungover. Post-it is draped across my neck, purring like a warm, vibrating choker. Steph, Benjamin and I worked until two in the morning, but gave up without any clarity about Morton.
I lift Post-it off my neck and take the stairs from my makeshift bedroom down to the main office space, where Benjamin is asleep on his keyboard. A document is open in front of him, displaying an endless stream of the letter "L," the letter his cheek happened to fall on whenever he passed out. Steph is stretched out on the couch in the corner of the office, her long legs dangling off the side.
I'm far from a morning person, but lately I've been getting up earlier and earlier. Possibly because I have more to do than ever before, but I think the real reason is that my days are so full that I've come to cherish the quiet moments before the office goes nuts.
I stagger to the kitchen to fill a quart-sized Mason jar with cold brew. Today is going to be nuts. One way or another, we have to figure out what's going on with Thomas Morton. Though it's possible it's nothing nefarious, I doubt it, and I'm worried that we'll discover something that sinks Ameritocracy.
I gulp down my first twelve ounces of coffee in four sips while leaning on the fridge, then head into my office and sit at the computer, trying to reboot my brain where it left off the previous evening.
Scrolling through my phone, I see a new text from Peter from four in the morning, just an hour ago.
Peter: Robert Mast? Are you serious?
I'm not sure what he's talking about, but I know that he only texts me for two reasons. The first is to flirt, the second is to chat about the site. So unless I'm dating a guy named "Mast" and Peter was late-night drunk texting out of jealousy, he's talking about a new candidate. Plus, the name rings a bell.
I'm about to pull up the website when my phone rings. It's Peter.
"Morning, Peter, how'd you know you wouldn't be waking me up?"
"I saw the text I
sent go from 'delivered' to 'read' so I knew you were on your phone."
I can't tell if that's cute, a little stalkery, or just a coincidence. "Waiting by the phone?" I ask.
"Nah, I was on my phone doing other stuff. But I am excited. You didn't tell me Bobby Mast was a candidate!"
I struggle to place the name. "Is that the general who's always talking about military preparedness?"
"Former general, and yes."
"He's not a candidate."
"Where have you been for the last twelve hours?"
"Dealing with a…with a thing."
I try to pull up our homepage, but my laptop is acting wonky, loading and loading without displaying anything.
Peter is clearly pumped. "You mean to tell me you don't even know about the new candidates on your own site?"
He's just messing with me, but I get defensive anyway. "No, I've been too busy running that site."
One thing I've learned after months surrounded by tech geniuses is that restarting a computer will fix three-quarters of problems, so I hold down the button until the screen goes dark, then lights back up.
"When did he…I mean, are you on the site? My computer is being weird. Read me his profile."
Peter clears his throat and shifts to an official-sounding voice. "Robert Mast, age sixty-two. Candidate statement reads: 'America can once again be a Shining City on a Hill.'"
"Okay, not sure exactly what that means. Go to his platform page."
Reading from the page, Peter says, "'Robert Mast believes in American leadership around the world, in terms of values and in terms of military strength. Democrats and Republicans have allowed the U.S. military to fall behind technologically, and, as President, I will change that.' Then it goes into his bio, but you know that already, right?"
I do. Mast is a retired three-star general and author of the bestseller, A Flag of Promise. He's also a regular guest on all the cable news channels, where he argues for increased military spending and American leadership. Every election cycle for the last twelve years, his name has popped up as a potential Republican candidate, but he's never run for anything, or even publicly confirmed that he's a Republican. He's handsome in a silver-haired kind of way, well-spoken and known for being tough as leather.
"I know a bit," I say, "but read me what he wrote."
"'Mast joined the army on his eighteenth birthday, served in Vietnam, commanded troops in both Iraq wars, and achieved the rank of three-star general before retiring in 2011. He believes in traditional Christian values, and in restoring America's leadership around the world.' Then there's a long quote from him from a recent interview. 'Throughout history, America's actions haven't been perfect. But our ideals have been, and still are. We hold doors open for our women, they stone them. We integrate our society, they segregate it. We help our poor, they leave them to die. There's a reason that Christian values spread around the world in the last century. It's because they're more inclusive, more progressive. Our foes will respect us when we win. If need be, we'll bomb them into freedom.' After that, he's got a detailed history of his military service."
I was pacing the office as Peter read, but the last line stops me in my tracks. "Bomb them into freedom? Gah! Does his profile really say that?"
"It does."
I sit at my computer, which has completed its relaunch. Our homepage opens, and I click through to confirm that Peter isn't messing with me.
In his profile picture, Mast wears a dark green uniform, the breast adorned with medals and the shoulder affixed with three silver stars. His hair is silver, streaked with white, and short, like he was issued a haircut by the United States Army and never considered changing it. His eyes are light blue, and full of a gentleness I didn't anticipate, given his bombing-based rhetoric.
"Mia, are you there?"
"Sorry," I say, "I was reading his profile. I'm just—"
"Stunned."
I'm beyond stunned, but I don't want to admit it. Peter is just excited for me, but I don't like anyone to know about developments on my site before I do. "I don't know what I am."
"But you know this is huge, right? Major Republican donors have been courting Mast for eight years."
"Twelve," I say. "I remember the will-he-or-won't-he chatter about whether he'd jump into the 2008 Republican primaries."
"He's the candidate you need."
"For what?"
"To blow up the site. I mean, for the site to blow up. To take off. You know what I mean."
He's right. Thanks to the launch of our app, Ameritocracy had about forty thousand new voters register over the last week, and just under three hundred new candidates, but Mast is the most credible, by far.
Mast is already leading our "Hot New Candidates" page, though he doesn't rank anywhere near the top hundred overall. It's only a matter of time, though. He's a decorated veteran and, though I'll need to study his positions more thoroughly, he espouses a view of America that's shared by much of the country. He's the first candidate to join who's already a household name, at least among cable news viewers.
"You're right," I say. "This will shift our coverage from mostly online to all over the news channels."
"Then why do you sound upset?"
"The coffee hasn't kicked in yet."
"Mia, c'mon. I can tell from your voice that you're upset."
"'Bomb them into freedom'?"
"I thought you promised to remain neutral about your candidates."
"I am neutral, but…"
"You've gotta lighten up, Mia. Take it easy on yourself. Enjoy this. He probably won't win anyway, and if you can't enjoy the roller coaster ride you're about to go on, well, what's the point? You're about to get more exposure than you've had in the last two years."
I know he's right, but something about Mast's candidacy doesn't sit well with me.
"I'm sorry," he continues. "I don't mean to be the mansplainer-in-chief, but after I sold my first company, it took me a year to realize I could slow down. That I was a billionaire and could do pretty much anything I wanted."
"I've never liked roller-coasters, and I'm no billionaire."
"What I mean is…you have no idea who will win. But, like you said, Republicans have been trying to get Mast to run for twelve years. He's seen as adhering to many Republican values while being above politics. This is going to be massive for Ameritocracy. News outlets you were begging for coverage are gonna bust down your door."
For the last five minutes, the landline at our front desk has been ringing constantly, and it dawns on me that Peter's right. We are entering a new phase. "I gotta let you go," I say. "Need to get my office people in here."
"Good idea," Peter says, "you may be a household name by the end of the day."
I take a swig of coffee, pondering whether that's a good thing. "I'll talk to you later."
"Wait, Mia, before you hang up. Tomorrow I'm going to the Future Now Transformational Festival out in the redwoods. Would you come as my guest?"
"The what?"
"Future Now Transformational Festival. It's like Burning Man, but for rich people."
"I thought Burning Man was already for rich people."
"Rich-er people."
One thing I like about Peter is that he jokes about his money in a way that puts me at ease. Though he lives a ridiculously lavish lifestyle, he does so with just enough self-deprecation to keep him from entering Scrooge-McDuck-level self-parody.
"Would this be…um…a date?" I ask.
"Let's just call it a transformational experience. Fabulous food, yoga, music. You know you want to see me get my krump on again."
"Is Malcolm playing?"
"Malcolm, are you serious? Absolution is playing."
"Who's that?"
"Hottest DJ on earth?"
"Oh, I like Malcolm's music."
"Me, too, but Absolution is…Mia, you're stalling."
I am.
My eyes are on Mast's profile picture, the phone at the front desk is still r
inging, and my attention is tugged in a hundred directions at once. I'm in no position to decide anything about anything other than Ameritocracy.
Then, as if it knows I need a way out of this conversation, my laptop dings with a new email. Scanning it, I know my day is about to get even weirder. "Peter, I have to go. CNN wants me live in-studio for Anderson Cooper 360 tonight."
Half an hour later, Steph and I are at Baker's Dozen, spreading jam on warm biscuits and talking through the ramifications of Mast joining the race.
"He'll be top ten within weeks," Steph says.
"Too late for him to make the top ten for the rally, though. That list locks tonight."
"How nervous are you?" Steph asks between bites of biscuit.
"Nervous, why?"
"Duh! The CNN thing. Anderson Cooper grilling you as millions of viewers watch."
"I haven't even written back yet."
I didn't reply to the email, thinking I should run it by Steph first. But we both know I'll accept. "Honestly, I've never been more nervous. This is happening way faster than I thought possible."
"Mast will be a game changer."
I push a half-eaten strawberry around my plate. "Can we talk about something else?"
"What else is there? Today will be the craziest day in the history of the site. Bummer that we drank too much wine and only got a few hours of sleep, but you're acting like a teenager who just rolled out of bed hungover with a bad attitude."
I ignore her, searching for a way to change the subject. Coming up empty, I just change it. "Are you sleeping with Benjamin?"
Steph leans back, sipping her orange juice with a wry smile. "Maybe."
"Maybe since when?"
"Maybe for about a month."
"He's…you know I told you about the pick-up lines he was using at the party my first day here. He's—"
"He's cute, and he used one on me. 'My servers never go down, but I do.'"
"Gross," I whisper, hoping the couple at the adjacent table didn't hear Steph. "How can that have worked on you?"
"Mia, please. You think that line worked on me? Of course it didn't. It was just a damn joke, anyway. He's shy, not real polished when it comes to flirting. Plus, you know, all humor has a kernel of truth."
