by A. C. Fuller
"Okay, yeah, that's her. Sounds like the medication is working. And, okay, Leslie Carrington it is."
"Yes. I hope whatever reasons she has for not giving her real name won't bite me in the ass later."
"No guarantees on that. She's the best I could do on short notice."
"She's…"
"She's a genius. Also, yes, she may have a screw loose. But she won't betray you."
I finish my coffee with one long swig. "Thank you, by the way. What were you gonna say about the other thing?"
"Just that you might want to keep that info on Peter in your back pocket. If he's worried enough about it to try to pay you off, it could be useful leverage later."
I consider that. I haven't told Alex that Peter has done anything against Ameritocracy rules, but he seems to believe I should have a threat ready in case he does.
Still at the bottom of the stairs, I hear an odd noise from the main office area. A slamming door, then a groan? Maybe a chair falling on the hardwood floor and, another groan?
I'm not sure, but I want to check it out. "I gotta go, Alex."
"Tell her...uh, Leslie, I said hi."
I end the call and dash into the main office space.
A loud THUD comes from the direction of Benjamin's old desk. It's Leslie's head hitting the keyboard.
Fifteen minutes and two cups of coffee later, Leslie sits in my office, eyes wide. "The voting system is secure."
"Good, but hold on a sec. Are you okay? I mean, your head hit the desk repeatedly."
"Happens sometimes."
"If you're going to be our tech person, we need you to take care of yourself."
"Thank you, and you're right. And that reminds me."
She pulls two bottles from an oversized purse and portions out a couple pills from each. She swigs them back with her third cup of coffee.
"Can you remind me to take these? I avoided medications for my first forty years of life. Now, well, I still think the CIA might manufacture these to keep us docile, but they do make it so I can work."
"We're gonna get you an apartment nearby. We can rent it monthly and work it into your salary. No more all-nighters, okay?"
"Fine. And thank you again."
"No, thank you. Tell me what's going on with our system."
"If you're worried about whether the voting is secure, don't. It is."
I'm so relieved I can feel my shoulders drop an inch or two. In a little under a year, we've thwarted multiple attempts to screw with our voting. If it turned out that Benjamin had organized one from inside the system, I don't know if I could have taken it. "You're sure?"
"Certain. Benjamin was clearly very good. There are layers of security I've only seen on military systems and the best corporate systems—the ones the top tech companies use."
"You worked on security systems for the military?"
"All I said was I've seen them."
It takes me a moment to figure out what that means, and I decide not to ask any more questions. If she just admitted hacking into military security systems, plausible deniability might come in handy later. "You're sure, though?"
"I went through the last three months of voting. Benjamin has systems set up to root out botnets and eliminate trojan horses. As though a trojan horse would ever make it into the system. He has security layers to protect his security layers. IP addresses are autochecked against known botnets, and there's even a subroutine running counterfactual vote scenarios to see if patterns emerge."
"Um…" I don't know what most of that means, but she sounds confident.
"Sorry, in English: Ameritocracy's voting is more secure than any state's voting system. By a wide margin."
"And there's no way he could, I don't know…access it to give Peter an unfair advantage?"
"After I figured out all his system passwords, I changed them. I set up my own alerts to track any irregularities in the movement of votes."
"Based on what?"
"I created an algorithm based on a statistical analysis of every vote and vote change that's happened since Ameritocracy's inception. I'll refine it as we go. For example, I need to eliminate all the data from around the time of the Thomas Morton scandal, all those manipulated votes."
"You know about that?"
"I loathe politics, but I follow tech developments closely. The Morton thing was a big deal in hacking communities, even ones who don't give a damn about your little project."
"Tell me more about the algorithm."
"It's a rudimentary AI that will tell me if voting behavior changes in unexpected ways."
Her eyes close as she finishes the sentence. Her energy seems to rise and fall at random times and in unpredictable ways.
Maybe the pills she took have just hit her system, but I feel guilty for pushing her this hard on her first day.
I stand and walk around the desk, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We gotta get you to a bed."
Her eyes open just as abruptly as they closed. She glances around the room as though she's trying to figure out where she is. "I saw a couch in the corner. That'll do."
The more time I spend on social media, the more I hate it. Nevertheless, it's part of my job to have a presence across every platform, so I open Snapchat as Leslie's gentle snoring wafts through my open office door.
Telling myself I can quit social media when the competition ends, I turn on the Ameritocracy filter and activate my phone's camera. I position my phone to get a nice shot of me, capturing the corner of an Ameritocracy banner I have on my wall as a backdrop.
I take three deep breaths and boot up a confident smile, then start recording video.
"Hey guys," I say with as much pep as possible, "I hope you enjoyed the second to last debate, and I want to once again thank Sacramento State University and the whole city of Sacramento for hosting us. Given the tragic events at the debate in February, it meant a lot to have such a great response.
"Less than eight weeks to go before our finale! I'm super-excited to tell you about a series of events taking place in Washington, D.C. in early July, leading up to the final debate.
"Though these are not official Ameritocracy events, they're important because each top candidate has arranged a final showcase for their campaign in and around D.C. All your favorite candidates will be there, and I can't wait for you to see what they have planned. I'll stop by each event as well, so say hi if you see a short redhead in the crowd. For more information, check the pages of our top seven candidates. I'm sure they'll announce them on social media, too.
"A quick reminder: our final debate airs live on July Fourth on our website, on Facebook, and on Twitter. We expect the TV networks to carry it live as well.
"Throughout the night, our staff will post video clips on Snapchat, Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram. So if you can't stream the whole debate, you can at least follow along with the highlights.
"Final voting will open at six a.m. eastern time the following day, July fifth. Voting will close twelve hours later, so mark your calendars!
"Well, that's it for today. I'll have another update for you next week. Have a good one!"
Since I began doing weekly Snapchat videos, I've gotten good at timing them to almost exactly a minute. When I post them, Snapchat breaks the video into six ten-second videos, and I add them to my story. I don't know why, but millions of people watch these ten second clips, and Steph made me promise to keep at it.
After posting, I log out of the official Ameritocracy Snapchat account and log into my personal account, which I rarely check.
My account has a new photo message.
It's an image of a cream-colored piece of paper with a short note written in blue. The writing is neat cursive. I read the first few lines, then jump to the bottom.
I go cold when I see the name. The note was signed by David Benson.
Slowly, I read it again, from the beginning.
Dear World,
I can't take this any more. I can't live the rest of my life l
ike this.
Since the video came out, I haven't slept. I haven't eaten. I hate myself for what I did. At the time I thought I was…I don't know what I thought, but it didn't seem wrong.
I thought I could make it through this, but now I know I can't.
I wracked my brain, trying to figure out where the video came from. I thought maybe if I knew who put it out into the world—who picked these exact thirty seconds of my life and put it out into the world—maybe I could fix it, somehow make it better.
I thought I still had friends. Then I remembered that Peter Colton was at that party with me. Peter had the video camera.
He was one of my oldest friends and now…
Well, I don't think I have any friends left.
Whoever finds this, please make sure my mother knows I love her,
David Benson
I'm about to read it again when the photo disappears. The message disappears. It's one of the things kids love about Snapchat, and one of the things I hate about it.
Did I read that right?
I glance around the room, gripped by sudden paranoia. A couple interns enter noisily and take their seats in the office. Post-it paws at my computer cord. My new tech chief sleeps soundly on the couch.
Quickly, I jot down a few of the key phrases ringing in my ears.
Peter Colton was at that party with me.
Peter had the video camera.
These exact thirty seconds of my life.
I stare at my notes, allowing their meaning to wash over me. If this is David Benson's actual suicide note, it means he believes Peter had the video the whole time. It means Peter edited the video.
It means Peter released the video.
It could also be fake. After DB's death, there were rumors about a suicide note, but nothing ever came out. The family refused to comment.
And if it's fake, that could mean a lot of things. It could be another candidate trying to drag Peter into a controversy. It could be an online troll attempting to mess with our standings for their own entertainment. It could even be some kind of governmental intelligence operation, an effort to discredit Ameritocracy. But in the unlikely event that it's something like that, why send it to me in disappearing form, instead of leaking it to the media?
Maybe it's a simple prank. God knows we've had a few of those aimed at us over the last year.
But it feels real. The more I sit with it, the more I think it's something Peter could have done. Would have done.
It makes perfect sense. If Peter knew he was going to enter Ameritocracy all along, why not start taking out our top candidates early? If the note is real, it means that Peter leaked the video to destroy David Benson's candidacy. He probably didn't think it would lead to DB's suicide, but he had to know it would force him out of the competition.
And if he did that…I flash on a conversation Peter and I had in his kitchen. We were discussing Robert Mast, who at the time was our leading candidate. A three-star general with solid conservative credentials, Mast was many people's pick to win our competition. He was their pick, that is, until I began looking into his financial dealings, at Peter's suggestion.
Did Peter put me up to it? I don't know for sure, but my whole body feels uncomfortable, like my skin is crawling.
I feel manipulated. Lied to.
And it's made even worse by the fact that I'm not certain whether the note is real. And even if it is real, it's now gone.
Then it hits me. I can write back to whoever sent it. I tap on the person's name to send a new message, but an error message pops up. "We're sorry, this account no longer exists."
Frustrated, I close the app and take a few deep breaths. I need someone to talk this over with. I text Steph.
Me: We need to talk.
Steph: About to leave. B there in 15.
I set my phone down and walk three laps around my office. Post-it is now curled up on the chair Steph usually sits in. He eyes me suspiciously.
I'm freaking out about the suicide note, so I do the one thing I can think of that's fully under my control. Ironically, it's the first time it's been in my control since the moment I was born.
Scrolling through my emails from yesterday, I find the one from my father and type out a quick reply.
Hey there,
If you can make it down to D.C. the day before the debate, then yes, I'll have dinner with you.
Mia
Part 2
10
Six Weeks Later, July 1, 2020
Washington, D.C.
When your Uber driver knows more about politics than most TV pundits, you know you're in for a good ride.
Our plane landed in D.C. twenty minutes ago, and Steph and I braved the sweltering heat and humidity only long enough to hop in the air-conditioned car of a man who turns out to be as much of a political junkie as I am. Steph immediately got on her phone and, minutes later, I found myself knee-deep in a conversation about the Republican and Democratic nominees.
"Did you hear about Bell as the Democratic VP?" The driver is a young man from Zimbabwe who speaks at double speed through a thick accent and never stops smiling. "Herrera might name her today. C'mon man, Bell? C'mon man."
"I heard the rumor," I say, happy to talk about the general election.
Next to me, Steph texts and emails like a madwoman. I need something to ground me before my big AC360 interview tonight.
"C'mon, man. Don't know what they're thinking. Bell? C'mon man."
Steph's phone rings and I lean forward between the two front seats. "Why not Bell? You don't think she's a good choice?"
He laughs for a good ten seconds, then swerves into the left lane to pass an eighteen-wheeler. "Cynthia Bell? C'mon man…nah. What the hell is Oregon gonna do for the Dems in November?"
He lays into his horn before I can respond, then cuts two lanes to the right to pass a slow group of cars.
The Democratic presidential nominee is Texas Governor Joaquin Herrera. A centrist Democrat much like my father was, Herrera has raised more money from special interests that any candidate in the history of democracy. Around the office, we call Herrera "Captain Oil," as he's notorious for being the darling of Texas oil and gas interests. After a lackluster Democratic primary fight, Herrera locked up the nomination soon after Super Tuesday. He's been coasting ever since.
The only suspense is who he'll choose for VP. Rumors in the political world are that he wants a woman to balance the ticket, and during our flight, someone leaked Bell's name. As the liberal Governor of Oregon, Bell would help secure the progressive base of the party. But my driver is right, Oregon and all the far west states usually go blue no matter who's on the ticket.
It occurs to me that Bell's possible nomination could be factoring in a Peter Colton victory in Ameritocracy. I might be overthinking it, but it makes sense. With both the Democrats and Republicans running centrist presidential candidates, both parties would need to turn out the base to defeat Peter's centrist positions. Bell would do that for the Democrats.
The Republicans have already enacted a base turnout strategy of their own. When Robert Mast dropped out of Ameritocracy in disgrace, he still had a core of supporters who shifted their support to Republican primary candidate Evan Westbrook, a younger, better-looking version of Mast.
At forty years old, Westbrook achieved the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, only to retire at age forty-five to run for Congress in Orange County, California. He'd won easily, served two terms, then become Governor in a landslide. The first Republican governor of the Golden State since Arnold.
When Westbrook entered the Republican primary a year ago, he seemed like a sure thing. For most of the winter, everyone thought he had the nomination locked up. But after wins in Iowa and New Hampshire, he lost badly to far-right firebrand Michelle Harris in South Carolina, causing the predictable shift in narrative and leading to headlines like "Westbrook Overconfident?" and "Harris Rising?"
Harris, a conservative Christian, had worked at every level of the
South Carolina government and was elected senator in 2008. At first, Harris had been a long shot, only in the race to pull Westbrook right and keep him honest. But she'd run an excellent campaign, appealing to the kind of voters who view compromise as vacillation and nuance as weakness.
Her absolutist positions on red-meat issues like abortion and gay rights got her a lot of coverage, and the Republican base responded. Harris won primaries in Alabama, Oklahoma, Georgia, Tennessee, and Wyoming.
Westbrook took Virginia, Vermont, Minnesota, Massachusetts, and Alaska, and narrowly beat Harris in Texas. They brawled for another two months before Westbrook pulled away after winning the Pennsylvania, Connecticut, and Maryland primaries in April and the Indiana primary in early May.
The next day, Westbrook named Harris his VP nominee.
Together, they make a formidable ticket. Harris will shore up support from the Christian right and the South, convincing her base that Westbrook can be trusted. Meanwhile, Westbrook is centrist enough that he might be able to pry some swing states from the Democrats, swing states that Harris had no chance of winning on her own.
As we take the exit into Washington, D.C., I ask the driver, "But why don't you think Bell is a good candidate? Won't she balance the ticket?"
We stop at a red light and he turns around, flashing a huge smile. "C'mon man, three-way race this year. You been following Ameritocracy?"
I can't tell how he feels about the site, and I want an unbiased conversation, so I shrug noncommittally. "I've heard of it. Not following closely though."
He steps on the gas and I lurch back in my seat. Steph taps at her phone with a pissed-off look on her face. I'm about to ask her what's wrong when the driver adjusts the rearview mirror to look at me. I turn away, hoping he doesn't recognize me.
"C'mon, this is D.C., what're you doing here if you're not following it?"
"It's not that I'm not following it, I just mean…why do you think Ameritocracy makes Cynthia Bell a bad VP selection?"
"So, you know Peter Colton, right? He's gonna win Ameritocracy. Unless he lights himself on fire on stage, he's gonna win. I mean, c'mon man. Six points up, three days to go."
