Open Primary

by A. C. Fuller

  "Spend it," I say.

  After Peter's donation, we set aside a million dollars as seed money for the winning candidate, and we've gone through one of the remaining four-million over the last months. But we still have enough money on hand to pay staff through our final vote in July, plus a quarter million in emergency money.

  "Run your expenses by Steph, but spend whatever it takes."

  "Okay," he says, "but there's another problem."

  "The other problem is why," I say.

  "Right," Steph says.

  "That ball is in your court," Benjamin says. "This is the kind of hack major national governments usually have to worry about. Brianna is one of the top white-hat hackers in the Valley. First thing she did when I told her about it was compare the list of IP addresses to a couple known botnets from black-hat hacker markets on the Dark Web. She even knows which they're using. Internet-capable devices all over the country have been co-opted to move data packets that function as votes on our site. She told me…hey, Brianna? Brianna!"

  He has to scream to get her attention, and we wait until she appears in the doorway. "What?" she demands.

  "Who did you say the number one Morton supporter in California was?"

  "The ATM at a gas station in Fresno."

  "Thanks." Benjamin turns back to us as Brianna vanishes. "She makes ten grand a day to do a job like this, and what she dug up, I can barely understand. Would have taken me a week to figure out where the machines controlling the servers on the reservations were. So you two need to figure out why, and what to do about Tom Morton."

  I don't like where he's going with this. "Whether he was in on it, you mean?"

  He nods slowly, and my panic is back. When I said Morton was probably drawing votes from gray robots, I hadn't meant literal gray robots.

  Steph says, "Assuming you're right, someone wants this empty suit elected president. If that's the case, the question is whether he knows."

  "If so," I say, "we need to kick our leading candidate out of the competition."

  As I say it, I flash forward to the PR nightmare this will create. I can see the headlines now.

  Ameritocracy Throws Morton Out, Towel In.

  "Democracy Reborn" Suffers Credibility Crib Death.

  Ameritocracy: That Was Cute, Girls, But Back To Business.

  Mia Rhodes Slated To Die Alone, "Total Failure" Cited As Reason.

  Post-it jumps in my lap and purrs softly, but it's no comfort.

  As if reading my mind, Steph says, "If he's in on it…Oh God…That will be a disaster. Even if he's not…"

  I finish her thought. "It's a disaster either way."

  Part 3

  19

  November, 2019

  The Q Hotel, Los Angeles, California

  I stare into the hotel closet, wondering whether I brought an outfit that will quell the anxiety I feel. Despite the fact that I'm in Los Angeles for just three days, I brought five outfits, but I still feel like I've got nothing to wear.

  Objectively, I've got plenty to wear. What I mean when I say I've got nothing to wear—what most women mean when they say that—is that I don't know if I have the outfit I need to be the woman the world needs me to be today.

  And the world needs a lot from me today.

  I reject a white pantsuit that Steph made me bring, then a formal skirt-and-jacket thing that is somehow too eighties. All it's missing are shoulder pads.

  Finally, I land on the best I'm going to do for the day I have ahead of me. It's a navy-blue Versace pantsuit, cut sleek and modern, with two columns of silver buttons down the front of the jacket, giving it a Union Army vibe. I bought the suit at an outlet mall over a year ago and haven't worn it once.

  I'm usually not one to buy a dress that's a size small to encourage herself to lose weight, and I don't hoard clothes. When I bought it, I thought it looked like something a badass heroine would wear while commanding a starship in an interplanetary war. Though I never had reason to wear it at The Barker, I think I knew that someday I'd become the woman who wears a suit like this.

  Today is that day.

  I've spent the last week developing a media strategy for the Thomas Morton situation. Steph and I call it our "Executive Strategic Plan for Covering Our Butts."

  The strategy is to overwhelm Morton and the public with evidence of the manipulation of the Ameritocracy system. That way we can kick him out cleanly, while also explaining what happened and ensuring the public that it won't happen again. But it turns out that producing that evidence is taking longer than expected, so here I am, alone at The Q Hotel in Los Angeles, prepping for the biggest three days of my life without Steph by my side.

  She stayed in Santa Clarissa to run the office and finish the document we'll present to the public, but the rally is just two days away and the last thing we want is to raise questions by postponing the scheduled events.

  The candidates will arrive any minute and, now that I have an outfit, I dress quickly, tying my hair up in a French twist and sliding on my three-inch heels just as there's a knock at my door.

  Beverly Johnson and Orin Gottlieb arrive first, chatting like old friends as they walk in because they recognized one another on the flight and shared a taxi to the hotel.

  Gottlieb is shorter than I expected, just a few inches taller than me, but he takes up a lot of space in his black suit, speaking loudly and constantly moving his arms. Johnson's striking red hair flows halfway down her back, and she's wearing a simple apron-style dress that looks a size too small.

  After a quick greeting, they head to the buffet set up along the window in the living room of the suite.

  Next to arrive is Tanner Futch, who wears a stenciled shirt, bolo tie, and work jeans. "Pleased to meet you, lady," he says with a deep bow.

  I'm about to ask him not to call me "lady" when a group of people get off the elevator at the end of the hall.

  Thomas Morton, Justine Hall, and Marlon Dixon.

  I notice Morton first because I've been dreading our first meeting and, unconsciously, I've been on the lookout. He's in his typical brown suit, stylish but not too stylish. Like the other candidates, he's chosen clothing that matches his brand, rather than dressing up or dressing differently for the occasion.

  I shake Morton's hand with as much confidence as I can, hoping not to let on what I know. For today, I need to pretend as though everything is normal.

  "Hello, Ms. Rhodes." He shakes my hand. "Thank you for creating Ameritocracy." He says it in the same monotone I've grown used to from watching his videos, and his eyes are vacant and bored.

  "You're welcome," I say. "It's nice to have you here."

  He must have booted up his "stump speech" program on the elevator, because next he says, "America needs new ideas, new options, and new presidential candidates. Ameritocracy has helped deliver those candidates to the American people."

  I'm about to tell him that he can save the speech for the cameras when Marlon Dixon slides in and pats me on the back, "Ms. Rhodes! The woman herself, praise God. So great to see you again."

  I smile and pat him on the back as he walks past. His shoulders are broad and he's almost bursting out of his white linen jacket, like he's spent extra time in the gym since he took our office by storm a couple months ago.

  Morton follows him in, and I shake hands with Justine Hall, the most surprising of the bunch. Online, she looks attractive, but not overly so. Like a woman who spends little to no time on her appearance. Nothing wrong with that, of course. If I had a city to run, every day would be a ponytail day.

  Today her black hair is shiny and straight, hanging just below her shoulders and framing her face, which glows bronze. Her red lips match her sleek pants. Her dove-gray blouse perfectly fits her tall, lean body.

  Hall walks gracefully into the suite as Destiny O'Neill and Charles Blass stroll off the elevator. They are without a doubt the oddest couple in the top ten, but they chat amicably. For one crazy moment, I imagine them on a presidential ticke
t together, a seventy-five year old Communist professor and a gun-toting sex-kitten YouTube star.

  Only in America.

  Today, O'Neill is in a blue trucker hat with white lettering that reads "Starf*cker," her bosom barely concealed under her white tank top and orange hunting vest. Blass wears his trademark Russian hat and wrinkled corduroy jacket, walking with a cane, looking every bit the part of an old man lost in the park.

  I greet them quickly and point them to the buffet, where they continue to talk like any two colleagues meeting at a professional conference.

  On the flight to L.A., I decided that the two candidates most likely to be late were Cecilia Mason and Wendy Kahananui, and they proved me right.

  After I spend fifteen minutes pecking at the fruit platter, engaging in small talk, and enduring awkward silences, they emerge together through the open door. Wendy Kahananui strides right up to me wearing a flowing white dress, apologizes profusely for her tardiness and explains that her flight from Prague was delayed.

  Cecilia Mason—the only billionaire in the group—marches past me like I'm the maid, offering no explanation at all. She pours a glass of orange juice and surveys the suite. I can't tell whether the disdain on her face is for the other candidates or the accommodations.

  The room quiets as everyone notices at once that the top ten candidates are present. Awkward glances are exchanged before all eyes land on me. I say nothing.

  Of course it's Futch who breaks the silence. "That's it, right? We're the ten?"

  "We're expecting one more," I say.

  I watch my candidates to gauge reaction, then say, "Our eleventh-ranked candidate will be here as well, as backup. She won't appear on stage unless someone gets sick or…or something."

  Cecilia Mason steps to the center of the room. "In the theater we call that an 'understudy'."

  Tanner Futch looks her up and down. "You were an actress?"

  Mason smiles at Futch condescendingly, like she can't believe she's in the same room with someone like him. "The correct term is the gender-neutral 'actor.' Female performers prefer it. And I personally fund three off-Broadway theaters."

  "Well zippity-doo-dah," Futch says. "Aren't you something!"

  Just then, Maria Ortiz Morales walks in, limping slightly on her prosthetic leg. She's wearing a crisp white skirt suit that, I'm guessing, is supposed to remind people of her Navy uniform. She has what I'd call a handsome face. Proportional, angular, but not especially soft, with deep brown eyes and brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.

  I survey the crowd of would-be politicians, who slip back to talking amongst themselves. Futch chats with Beverly Johnson in the corner, filling the room with occasional bursts of raucous laughter. Gottlieb has sidled up to Cecilia Mason and, from what I can hear, is arguing with her about individual rights versus group rights.

  Justine Hall sits on a couch, sipping a cup of black coffee. Wendy Kahananui stares at her phone as Marlon Dixon cheerfully assaults Maria Ortiz Morales with a boisterous greeting. By the window, Charles Blass tries to convince Destiny O'Neill that true communism has never been tested.

  The whole scene is unreal.

  The last time I had this feeling was when Steph set me up with a dude named Byron who worked in the accounting department at Door Knockers. Byron and I chatted online and texted for about two weeks before meeting. Online he came across as funny, confident, even charming. But as we sat together at a sushi bar, I was confronted with the real person, and the whole thing felt odd. Like he was supposed to exist only in my phone, on my laptop screen, because that's where I'd formed my first impression of him. It's not that he wasn't funny or confident or charming in person, it's just that he was different. Different than what I expected. We didn't have a second date.

  Meeting my candidates in the flesh is much different than watching their videos, reading their statements, or talking with them on the phone. Watching them chat amongst themselves, the gravity of the moment hits me. If things go according to plan, I'll soon be giving one of these eleven people—or another candidate who takes their spot—millions of dollars to run for president.

  I swallow hard, fingering a brass button on my suit, then move to the buffet table, catching a glance at myself in one of the mirrors. Despite feeling out of place at my own meeting, I look like my normal self. Except now "my normal self" does stuff like this.

  "Welcome," I say, loud enough to quiet the chatter in the room. "The eleven of you represent the hope of the American people. Hope that we can take back our democracy from special interests, stagnation, and corruption."

  As I say this last part, I make sure my gaze doesn't stray to Thomas Morton, fearing that I'll give him a searing glare without intending to.

  "This morning will give us time to go over the schedule for today and tomorrow, and discuss the next eight months of the competition. It will also give you time to get to know one another and ask me any questions you may have. Please notice that no one is in this room besides the eleven of you, and me. No photographers, no other staff. I want this to be an open, honest discussion."

  I pause, looking from candidate to candidate. I have their full attention, and the fact relaxes me. "First, the schedule. Tomorrow at one o'clock is our first public event. Reporters, TV crews, and the American voters will be watching. Please arrive at the conference room at least fifteen minutes early. You'll each have three minutes to give opening statements before questions. You all received the seating chart and schedule from the front desk when you checked in, right?"

  Everyone nods, and Marlon Dixon waves the white folder over his head.

  "Good. That event will end at three. The rest of the afternoon will be an informal time to meet with Ameritocracy fans and reporters without any official structure. I suggest you make yourselves available. At seven p.m., we'll have a two-hour meet and greet, where drinks and hors d'oeuvres will be served. At this point, I'd like to briefly lay out the rest of the contest schedule, then we'll do questions."

  The more I speak, the more I realize that I represent their hope just as much as they represent mine. In the two-party system, none of these people have a chance to become president and, though it's still a long shot for each of them, they see me as the woman who gave them a shot.

  "As you know, candidate enrollment doesn't end for three months, February fifteenth, to be exact, but—"

  "Good!" It's Tanner Futch's voice from the back of the room. "Bring on the competition!"

  Beverly Johnson, who seems to be taking on a mothering role with Futch, shushes him, and I ignore the comment. "After this weekend, the contest will have three main events. The first is March first, when we cut the field to twenty-five candidates. That's Super Tuesday for Democrats and Republicans. I assume most of you will make that cut, though there's no guarantee."

  "Let it be so!" shouts Marlon Dixon.

  "A month after Super Tuesday, April first, we will cut the field to ten. So that's a date to keep in mind. At least one of you, and possibly more, will exit Ameritocracy at that point."

  I pause, waiting for more comments, but they are quiet. Most look around the room, probably sizing up the competition as they contemplate the field being cut to ten.

  "Just as the Democrats and Republicans are narrowing their fields in their respective primaries, we'll be narrowing ours. At that time, we expect the top candidates to receive a surge in votes, since voters will have the option of re-voting once lower-ranked candidates are eliminated. Between April first and June first, we will have two debates, eliminating two candidates after each debate. In the first debate, questions will be taken directly from voters and candidates will respond via livestream. The second debate will be in person, at a location to be determined.

  "That'll leave us with six candidates going into our final debate, which takes place on July Fourth in Washington D.C. It will be streamed live on Facebook and our site, but if I do my job well, networks will pick it up."

  Everyone's eyes are on me and I imagine they
are picturing themselves making it through the various rounds of eliminations to take their places on the final debate stage.

  "The morning after the July Fourth debate, final voting will open, and will close exactly twenty-four hours later. A winner will be announced live, also on the stage, at nine p.m. Eastern on July sixth. We will design the event on July sixth—typical political stuff with red, white and blue balloons, cocktails, and so on."

  "Can I choose my own music when I win?" Wendy Kahananui asks, smiling. "Sorry, just trying to inject a little humor into the room. I can actually feel the ambition and anxiety in the air."

  A few of the candidates chuckle, but Kahananui is right. My guess is that hearing how the competition will progress is forcing them to contemplate what happens if they lose. Or, perhaps more terrifying, if they win.

  I smile back at her. "I don't see why you can't bring your own music. The July sixth event is not the official start of your campaign. It's an Ameritocracy event, and we assume the winner will want to throw a campaign launch party as well."

  "Yes, I will!" Tanner Futch's loud voice bellows, and gets laughs out of about half of the candidates. The ice is breaking, a welcome development. The more at ease the candidates are, the better they will come off on tomorrow's stage.

  "That's basically it," I say. "Questions?"

  To my surprise, Beverly Johnson's hand shoots up first. "How much money has been raised? For the winning candidate, I mean."

  I anticipated this question. "Total donations for the victory fund are a little over three million, which includes the chunk set aside from Mr. Colton's initial donation. Keep in mind, those donations are non-refundable, not tied to a particular candidate. Users can't ask for their money back if their favorite candidate doesn't make the final cut, or doesn't win. Also, we expect that number to increase at least fivefold by the final debate. Possibly much more."

  Johnson frowns at the floor. "Even with a fivefold increase, that's only fifteen million, less than a sixth of what the Democrats and Republicans will have."