by A. C. Fuller
I stop myself from wincing. I just know she already has the phrase "massively compromised" written down in her notebook, that I'll be reading it a lot in the near future. "In the packets we handed out, you'll find complete bios of our cyber security team, including Benjamin Singh and Brianna Layton. Their expertise speaks for itself. And despite this intrusion, we're confident the voting is now one hundred percent secure. In fact, because of this nasty little scheme, we've tightened security. Our voting system is now more secure than most state governments."
She looks skeptical, and I do my best to channel the confidence of Alex Vane. "In less than a month, they thwarted one of the most sophisticated hacking attempts that's ever taken place. They've done something governments have failed to do in the past. Read the information. Study it before you report. Our voting is now completely secure, and we'll put the expertise of our team up against anyone on earth."
I say the last few lines with an air of finality and look around the room. I'm learning that, when you have a room—when you really have them—you can feel it. And I can tell that I have at least half of them.
The easy story, the story most of the reporters in the room wanted to write at the beginning, was: Ameritocracy was hacked. It's technologically vulnerable, and the whole idea can't work. But I think I convinced many of them to write a different story.
By now they all know the story has broken online, that it's being discussed on Twitter at the speed of light. Instead of writing a dumb website can't work story, some will have to start learning about the Ukrainian oligarchy so they can write about that.
I take questions for another hour until the air has left the room. I've done all I can. The only thing left to do is wait to see how the public, and our candidates, react.
21
Since the press conference ended, Steph and I have conducted an all-out media offensive. Answering calls, texts, and emails, replying to Tweets and blog posts, and directing our staff and interns to spin the living hell out of the story.
It's working.
Since it's Saturday, the national network news isn't airing, but all the cable channels have covered the press conference, showing snippets and, to my immeasurable delight, using the soundbite I provided during the Q and A. One of the reasons we took so long to announce the hack was to put together overwhelming evidence, partially because we wanted to be certain, but also to help our coverage.
We knew the hack would get tons of coverage, but also that none of the news networks, and very few TV organizations, would understand the technical details. But we counted on them, as journalists, to hesitate lest they get the details wrong. We placed them in the position of having to take our word for it, of parroting the conclusion we drew—that Ameritocracy is now secure. We know that conclusion is correct, but the trick was getting them to say it.
We're getting our share of bad coverage, too. At least fifty blog pieces have gone up with headlines like, "Ameritocracy Falters" and "Site That Hacked Democracy, Hacked." Most mention in the first paragraph that the problem has been solved and many even use my phrase: "more secure than most state governments." If it gets them talking about the security of the voting system, so much the better.
A couple articles even present the hack as proof Ameritocracy has passed its first major test. That's even better spin than we came up with.
Debates rage on our message boards, on Twitter, and pretty much everywhere else people have opinions about public events. And though it's too early to tell for sure, it looks like most people are siding with us.
Legitimate Morton voters are pissed, others feel cheated. But there aren't many of them, which starkly illustrates the entire problem. He didn't have many real voters. Steph handled one of the messiest tasks while I was on the podium: fielding a call from Thomas Morton himself.
All in all, Steph, Benjamin and I are in good spirits when we stagger into the hotel restaurant for a late dinner, determined to take a break from the news and eat a meal in a civilized fashion.
"Tell me again what Morton said," I say after we order.
Our drinks arrive. White wine for me, red for Steph and Benjamin, who are splitting a bottle of an Oregon pinot noir, despite Benjamin's initial attempt to order a Bud Light.
Steph has already told me the story twice, but it's a celebration and there's nothing better than tales of foes vanquished and victories secured.
She cracks a wide smile. "I answered the phone knowing it was him, but I didn't let on. Then he's like, 'Is this Stephanie Blackmon?' And I'm like, 'It is.'" She takes a long sip of her wine, then continues, doing her best to impersonate Morton's dry, monotone speaking style. "Then he says, 'This is Thomas Morton, former candidate on Ameritocracy2020.org. I am calling to acknowledge receipt of your email, and to inform you that, though I had no knowledge of any attempts on anyone's part to cast false votes, I accept that I have been eliminated from your political competition.'"
"Why do you think he said that?" I ask. "I mean, why do you think he took it lying down?"
"Dude doesn't seem like much of a fighter, does he?" Benjamin asks.
"No," I say, "but I guess I expected him to…I don't know, at least seem a little mad."
"From what we gathered," Benjamin says, "he is basically owned outright by three Ukrainian bankers. It's possible he was being blackmailed. He—"
"Yeah," Steph interjects, "we doubt he even wanted to be in this thing in the first place. I'm half-surprised he didn't say 'Thanks for getting me out of this in a way that's not my fault.'"
"There's a good chance they knew we were on to them over the last few days," Benjamin says. "So they may have prepped for it."
"How would they have known?" I ask.
"When Brianna set up the code to delete all the fake accounts, she triggered a script that may have informed them."
"Tell me again how the call ended?" I ask Steph.
"So, after he says he accepts his elimination, he gets to the point of the call. Sounds like he's pleading with me, like a little boy, and for the first time he sounds like a person. Says, 'Ms. Blackmon, please don't drag my name, or my family's name, through the mud any more than you must. I, I never wanted it to end up like this.' His voice cracked and, if I thought he was capable of human tears, I'd have thought he was crying."
When we finish dinner, the restaurant is nearly empty. It's almost midnight, and only a few stragglers remain at the bar, watching ESPN or Saturday Night Live on one of the flatscreens mounted above rows of colorful liquor bottles.
Benjamin and Steph stand at the same time, exchanging a look I know means something I don't want to think about. "We're tired," Steph says.
"Yeah, gotta hit the sack," Benjamin adds.
"Right," I say. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"
Steph swigs the last of her wine. "See you in the morning. We're meeting at six sharp, right?"
"In my suite."
"You wanna ride the elevator up with us? We're not on the top floor like fancy old you, but, y'know."
"Nah, I'll finish my wine."
I try to banish any thoughts of the two of them "hitting the sack" by staring up at the TV. All the channels are on commercial, so I glance around the bar, letting my eyes go soft, enjoying the quiet. I'm beyond tired, having made it through the evening on coffee and adrenaline.
"I was wondering when they'd leave." It's a voice from the direction of the bar.
Peter's voice.
I shake my head, forcing my eyes back into focus, but at first I don't see him. After a confused moment, he emerges from behind a pillar at the corner of the bar, not more than ten feet from me.
"How long have you been there?" I ask, standing.
"Half an hour. Not that I don't like Steph or Benjamin, but there's something I wanted to share just with you. And the timing is perfect." He pulls out a barstool. "Have a drink with me?"
"Okay." I sit next to him. "But what did you want to share with me?"
"Should be happe
ning soon."
I look around the bar, which is dark and nearly deserted. The lobby of the hotel, which I can see far down a hallway, is sparsely staffed and quiet.
He nods up to the TV over the bar. It's on a commercial for cat food.
"What?" I ask, confused. I can't tell if I'm missing something obvious because I'm tired, or if he's being obscure on purpose.
"Remember DB?"
I want to say, "No, I forgot the movie star you brought into my bedroom." Instead I say, "Yeah."
"He's on SNL tonight and, unless he's messing with me, so are you."
Peter gets the attention of the bartender and asks him to change the channel on the TV in front of us. And just like that, there's David Benson, handsome as ever, introducing the musical act.
"Are you serious?" I ask.
"I don't know the details, but yeah."
"When?"
"Toward the end."
"Which is—"
"Show ends in fifteen minutes so…"
"Are you serious? What are they gonna—"
"I don't know. I really don't. He texted me a couple hours ago and said when he got there to rehearse, they had a sketch about Ameritocracy."
"Prove it!" I demand, but he's already scrolling through his phone.
He's not lying. The text from DB says there's an Ameritocracy sketch that might get cut but might air at the end of the show.
A waiter clears the table we ate at, and I head back to it and grab my glass of wine before he takes it.
"What do you think they'll say?" I ask, sitting back at the bar.
"You know it doesn't matter, right?"
"It's just that—"
"Mia. You know it doesn't matter, right?"
His repetition of the phrase makes me stop and look at him. He's got that same all-knowing smile on his face but, for the first time, I don't wonder what it means. "You're saying that the simple fact that they're doing a sketch means we made it?"
"More than that." He takes a long sip from a champagne flute, filled with his signature Red Bull. "It means you made it. You absolutely killed it at the press conference today. I don't think you know how big this is going to get. How big it's already gotten. I know you don't think you belong in this world, but you do."
"I do have a suite on the top floor," I say.
"Actually, I have the one on the top floor."
"What?"
"There's a suite they don't rent out to the public. I'm in it."
Of course he is. "Okay, well, fine."
Just then, I hear applause and hooting from the TV speakers. I glance up at the screen, where a cast member walks out in a blue-and-white checked dress. I know it's supposed to be me because she's wearing a red wig that looks like a neon version of my hair. Plus, she's carrying a basket with a laptop in it. The dress and basket suggest we're in for a Wizard of Oz spoof.
"I'm searching for my long-lost father!" says Fake-Mia. "Or democracy! Y'know, whichever. And I know I’ll find it with better technology. After all, I'm in color now instead of black-and-white! I have to do something new, something different. Something…millennial. That's it! I'll elect the President of the Internet!"
I should be freaking out right now, but I'm not. The mainstay of weekend comedy just opened with a joke about my father, and based on everything I know about myself, I should want to hole up in bed for a week. Instead. I feel like they can't touch me.
Up until now, whenever I felt exposed I borrowed the confidence of others—often Steph's, sometimes Alex's. I mimicked their self-assurance, wore it like a costume.
Now I feel naked. But naked in a way that brings power, like there's nothing left to lose, and I'm just me.
On the screen, parody versions of Tanner Futch, Marlon Dixon, and Destiny O'Neill compete for Fake-Mia's attention as she explains that, as President of the Internet, they will be responsible for moderating Facebook comments, reading all of Twitter, and appointing the Secretary of Cat Videos.
"Sadly," Fake-Mia says, "I fear that America won't elect any of you president."
"Why?" all three candidates ask at once.
"Because you, Destiny O'Neill, have no brain, you, Tanner Futch, have no heart, and you, Marlon Dixon…" Fake-Mia trails off awkwardly.
Fake-Dixon shrugs in resignation. "I know, it's the black thing."
Next, David Benson enters the picture and he's playing Peter Colton as The Wizard of Silicon Valley. His hair is dyed black and he's wearing Peter's trademark black suit and carrying an oversized novelty check for five million dollars.
"What the?" the real Peter says.
"He didn't tell you he was playing you?"
"Nope. I don't walk like that, do I?"
"Shhh, I want to hear this." I put a hand on his arm to shush him, then leave it there.
Onscreen, Fake-Peter is cackling, "I'm the Wizard. I own everything around here!"
"You mean the internet?" Fake-Mia asks in dismay.
"Well, fifty-one percent of it."
He goes on to say that he has just what these poor candidates need: advertising! He hangs large cardboard ads around the three candidates' necks. Fake-Dixon's ad reads MALE ENHANCEMENT DISCOUNT PRICES, and he objects that women might not respond well to that message.
Fake-Peter points to Fake-Mia and says, "Watch this," then flips the sign. The other side reads CLICK HERE FOR INSTANT WEIGHT LOSS.
Fake-Mia reads the sign and taps it like she's clicking an online ad. "You really are a wizard!" she shouts. "But can you help me find my long-lost…uh, democracy?"
Fake-Peter smiles devilishly. "Don't you see? You've had the power of democracy all along!"
"You mean…democracy is inside me?"
"Why sure! It's inside all of us! All you have to do is click your mouse three times and say, 'I agree to all terms and conditions.'"
I smile and ask the bartender to turn the sound off.
Peter looks surprised. "Don't you want to see how it ends?"
"I don't need to," I shrug, and it's true.
I was just parodied on Saturday Night Live, and it doesn't bother me a bit. I consider that for a moment, doing my best to let it sink in.
Peter turns, and I take his hand. "That smile, the one you always do. I think I understand it now." I squeeze his hand, sliding my other hand onto his knee. "It's a smile that comes when you've done something. Created something no one can take away from you. When it doesn't matter what anyone says about you because you know you're doing what you're meant to do."
He squeezes my hand and gives me what I can only describe as a hungry look. "That's true," he says. "And you know what? You're smiling that way right now."
I lean forward and kiss him, much more gracefully than I did in the car in front of his mansion. "You said you're on the top floor, right?"
"Yeah, you need a special elevator key to get up there."
"So, what are we waiting for?"
Hours later, I wake and study the stars through the skylight over the king-sized bed. Peter has rolled over with the blanket tucked under him, leaving my legs and feet exposed and cool.
The sex was good, better than expected. I guess I assumed that a handsome billionaire wouldn't make an effort in bed. I was wrong. From the way he took off my heels, to the way he kissed my neck, to the way he made sure I was satisfied multiple times, he was an attentive lover.
I've only had three serious boyfriends, and with each of them I got the feeling they wanted me to be something in bed that I wasn't. Maybe it was them, or maybe I imagined it, but I always felt like I came up short. Like I couldn't be something they needed—or wanted—me to be. But at the same time, they weren't what I wanted, weren't what I needed.
With Peter I felt fully myself, strong and in command, despite the fact that the whole situation still felt unreal.
I think to grab my phone to see how the press conference is being covered by the morning papers, which have probably already added their front page stories to their websites.
But, just like at the bar, I feel somehow above it. Like I've moved to a place beyond the day-to-day twists and turns of press coverage, that I've moved beyond crisis mode. Not that there won't be crises anymore, but I've come to a place where I can step back and see the forest, rather than stumble from tree to tree.
I press my cold feet into Peter's warm calves, which are muscular but relaxed. He stirs, but doesn't wake. Even more than the sex, I take this as a good sign for our relationship.
As I doze off, I imagine taking the stage, flanked by my top-ten candidates, and I feel no trace of anxiety.
22
I wake to a series of phone chirps and a harsh light pouring through a crack in the curtains. I roll over slowly, and then it hits me. Yes, I slept with Peter Colton last night, and I'm still in his bed. But Peter is gone.
I sit up and grab my phone as it chirps again.
Steph: Destiny O'Neill quit. Where are you?
I have another dozen texts and six missed calls. It's already seven in the morning. A lot has happened overnight.
I throw on my clothes and tap a reply to Steph.
Me: Meet me in my suite in five.
Steph: Already here. Been banging on the door.
Me: Be right there.
Exiting the bedroom, I see Peter, dressed in pajamas and a black silk robe, drinking orange juice on the balcony. He walks inside when he sees me. "Morning, sleepy head." He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "Big night."
"You heard about Destiny O'Neill?"
His face pinches and I fear I may have hurt his pride. "No. What? I mean us."
"Oh, you mean Saturday Night Live?"
"That too, but no, I mean us."
I give his hand a firm squeeze, pull him in and kiss him hard. "I gotta go. There's a Destiny O'Neill thing. But, yeah. Us was real nice."
Steph is on her cell phone, waiting at the door to my suite, but glances up just long enough to frown at me.
