by A. C. Fuller
I've heard these ideas before. They're indicative of one of the smartest things Peter has done during his campaign. By announcing a series of high-profile initiatives funded by his business, he's been able to look good without doing anything overtly political. Instead of speaking publicly about religion or guns or other hot-button topics, he does interview after interview about bringing high-speed internet to the poor, or advanced technology industries to the rust belt. Ideas almost no one opposes.
Frustrated by the effectiveness of Peter's appeal, I tune him out and go back to the giant PDF, which is getting more and more interesting. In a section about recurring words, the anonymous author points out that the phrase "obvious inefficiency" appears frequently in The Manifesto, mostly in relation to things like food inspectors, bank regulators, and consumer protection bureaus. My anonymous correspondent then points out a large number of times Peter has used that two-word phrase himself.
Interesting, but it doesn't prove anything.
I find it more damning that Mr. Text Analysis cites semicolon usage. He points out that most people almost never use semicolons. The Manifesto has dozens of them, all correctly used, but it's still a specific marker. I think of all the emails and even texts I've gotten from Peter that used a semicolon to connect two sentences into one. There are a lot of them, now that I think about it.
I pull up The Manifesto online. It turns out to have its own webpage, created by a fan of the document who wanted to preserve the original text and promote debate of its meaning.
Before I start reading, I have an idea.
Me: Hey, you around? Got a quick question.
Malcolm: About Peter?
Me: Yeah, sorry.
Malcolm: One of these times you're going to text me just to text me.
Me: I do that ALL the time.
Malcolm: Oh yeah. So what's up?
Me: You ever heard of The Technomonarchist Manifesto?
Malcolm: The free market dictates the divine right of rich white dudes? Yeah, I've seen it.
Me: I just got an email saying Peter wrote it. I'm afraid they might be right, but I'm in a VERY paranoid place right now. Do you think that's possible?
There's a long pause as a little icon indicates Malcolm's typing a response. Rather than stare at that icon until the last thread of my sanity snaps, I switch back to the window with The Manifesto.
It's got that superficially-reasonable tone that you see in the better class of crazy polemics, and if you were already primed to believe this stuff, that's all it would take.
My phone chirps.
Malcolm: Is it possible? Yeah. Is it likely? Feels like a stretch. Peter's not a manifesto guy. He measures everything he says and avoids big sweeping declarations and stuff like that. That said, when he was younger…maybe?
He's still typing, and I'm glad he's giving it some real thought.
With one ear I listen to Peter's speech as he says, "It's absurd to pretend that bureaucrats have all the answers. We need to empower the creators, the men and women designing the future. The future won't be built by bureaucrats."
At the same time, I'm reading a line from The Manifesto: "It is folly to pretend that bureaucrats should be permitted to interfere with their betters; their betters are the creators, the men and women designing the future. That future will not be built by bureaucrats."
I cannot have heard that right.
I scroll back thirty seconds on the live feed to compare his line to the sentence in The Manifesto. "It's absurd to pretend that bureaucrats have all the answers. We need to empower the creators, the men and women designing the future. The future won't be built by bureaucrats."
I re-read the line from The Manifesto. "It is folly to pretend that bureaucrats should be permitted to interfere with their betters; their betters are the creators, the men and women designing the future. That future will not be built by bureaucrats."
My entire body goes numb.
The emailer is right. All this time I've been thinking that Peter's real agenda was to pick the next president. Or, at most, to be the next president. Even in my darkest moments, I never imagined this.
Peter doesn't want to be president. He wants to be king.
I don't wait for Malcolm's reply.
Me: He wrote it. For sure. I gotta go.
I catch Steph out of the corner of my eye and hit mute on the livestream. She smiles broadly from across the bar and rushes up to hug me. "I just got great news. How was your day?"
18
Steph can tell from the look on my face that my day has been anything but great.
She pulls up a stool next to me and glances at the muted livestream of Peter's speech. "What's wrong?"
"Everything. You talk. I need to hear something positive."
She gives me a concerned look, then smiles tentatively. "The debate stage can accommodate a seventh podium, and the lighting guy said it wouldn't be an issue."
"That's good," I croak.
Over the last day, Marlon Dixon stayed at number six in our rankings, but his share of the vote is now statistically identical with Avery Axum at number seven. Out of millions of votes, less than a fiftieth of one percent separates them. A virtual tie. So we decided to allow both into the debate, though neither has much shot at winning.
"Have you told Dixon and Axum?" I ask.
The waiter approaches and Steph orders a glass of wine, then turns back to me. "I wanted to confirm with you, but I'll call them tonight. Both are too far behind to win this thing unless all five other candidates crash and burn. But still." She pauses, considering. "There's more good news. Looks like whoever wins will actually be able to get on the ballots for the general election."
I perk up at that. When I started Ameritocracy soon after the 2016 election, I was in an angry and idealistic mood. I didn't think through all the issues that would arise if we succeeded. In particular, I failed to research how to get our winner on general election ballots in all fifty states.
Steph sips her wine. "Turns out most states have August and September filing deadlines. Montana may be an issue, but there's precedent for challenging it in court. Bottom line is, with some hustle, our winner will be on the ballot in most or all states."
"That's good. Thanks for getting to the bottom of that." I take a long swig of wine. "So I suppose now it's my turn?"
"It can't be that bad."
As Steph drinks her wine, I lay out what I know about the inconsistent postings seen by Hippon and Bird, and the immensely disturbing news about The Technomonarchist Manifesto.
"And your dad?" she asks, cautiously. "I know you met with him and, well, I wondered why he endorsed Axum."
"He claims it's conscience, but I think it's to ingratiate himself with the party again. He's in Philadelphia at the convention now."
"You don't think…"
"A cabinet position? Maybe VP? It's possible, but let's not go there. I just can't. Plus, there's still that DB suicide note Snapchat thing. It felt so real. Explained so much. It's like I know Peter is totally evil and have no proof."
"The gay marriage thing could be proof. Leslie's working on it?"
"Yeah, and now I can't reach her."
Steph thinks. "You say Bird and Hippon looked in the same place, clicked on the same link, and got opposite versions of Colton's position on gay marriage?"
"Yup."
"How is that even possible, I mean…is that even against our rules?" She pauses like she's about to change the subject, then sits up straight as her eyes go wide. "Benjamin!"
I rest my head against my temple. "That's what I was thinking."
"Goddamn him. I don't know how he did it, but…"
"Leslie's working on it."
"That's not enough."
"What more can I…no. I know what you're thinking and, no!"
"You have to talk to Peter. Get him to admit it. At least have your damn say."
I knew Steph would say that. I've considered confronting Peter for days.
&nbs
p; Of course I'd like to avoid him for personal reasons, but that's not why I don't want to confront him. I genuinely don't see what it would accomplish. "What possible good could come from meeting with Peter? Like you said, he's been playing some other game all along. And he's winning."
"He's got most of the cards. You're right about that. But you've got one thing he doesn't."
"What's that?"
Steph smiles a mischievous smile. "Ameritocracy. The competition itself."
Is she saying what I think she's saying? "You think I should threaten to…"
"Yes."
"It won't work."
"But you have to try, Mia. You have to try something."
On the muted livestream, Peter walks offstage, his speech over.
I down my wine and pack up my laptop. I don't think confronting Peter is wise, but I don't have a better option. "Do you still have the number of anyone on his staff?"
Steph smiles. She can tell I'm convinced. "I have numbers for the staff of everyone in our top seven."
"Tell them I'll be there in an hour. Use any threat necessary to get him to meet."
On the ride across town, I call the office, where it's after 8 p.m.
Leslie refused our offer of a hotel and has been sleeping on the office couch since we hired her. If anyone's there to answer the phone, they'll be able to connect me with her.
After five rings, an intern answers. "Ameritocracy headquarters, this is Becky."
"Becky, it's Mia. I need to speak with Leslie. It's urgent. I know she says she doesn't talk on the phone, but please tell her she has to. Tell her we can speak in, I don't know, code or something. I know she's intimidating but you need to walk right up to her, tap her on the shoulder and say, 'Mia needs you. Speak to her or you're fired!' Can you do that for me, Becky?"
"Happy to, but Leslie isn't here."
"Where did she go?"
"I don't know, but about an hour ago she screamed 'Holy shit!' then ran out of the office. Should I tell her you called?"
Part 3
19
It's no surprise that Peter stays at the Hay Adams, a luxury hotel only blocks from the White House. Billionaires and statesmen have stayed there for decades. Though it's probably a little old-fashioned for Peter's taste, it's the nicest hotel in Washington, D.C.
I march to the front desk, full of purpose. "Peter Colton's room, please."
A woman in a sleek black suit smiles professionally. "Mia Rhodes?"
"Yes."
"He's expecting you."
"What floor?"
She looks at me like I deserve pity. "I'll need to program the elevator for you, ma'am."
Of course this hotel wouldn't allow just anyone to use the elevator.
I follow her through the lobby, a stunning open space with sections created by multiple archways and wall sconces that cast a golden light against the wood-paneled columns and walls.
When we reach the elevator, she presses a button and scans a key card. "It's the presidential suite at the end of the hall."
As the elevator door closes, I go over my plan. The last time I spoke with Peter one-on-one was at the Sacramento debate, back when I thought he was just an opportunistic jerk.
He put on his sincerest look, used his most convincing tone of voice. I didn't buy it, but I wanted to. I had no idea just how much he was concealing.
Now I know he's much worse than I could have imagined. Now I know he's something frightening. Something dangerous.
For my plan to work, I have to be strong enough to tell him everything I know. To sell my threat.
If he believes me, he'll be furious. I doubt he could be violent with me, and that gives me some comfort. But still I wish I had that bottle of pepper spray I used to carry in my purse.
I exit the elevator and walk slowly down the wide hallway, hands in my pockets, gripping my thighs.
I knock loudly as I reach the door.
Peter answers a moment later. "Mia, good to see you."
He steps to the side, gesturing for me to enter.
It's a large suite with a glass table in a dining area, three sofas and massive windows that look out at the White House. In the corner, a gas fireplace burns orange with flecks of blue.
Peter sits on one of the sofas and gestures at the one across from him. "Have a seat."
I sit, saying nothing.
My cheeks redden and I take a few deep breaths to avoid launching into a verbal assault. Not that he doesn't deserve it, but it won't do any good. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to gather myself.
"What is it?" He sounds irritated. "I'm busy preparing for the final debate tomorrow and Steph said it was urgent."
"I'm ending the competition."
I think I catch a slight smirk, then his face goes blank. "Please say that again."
"Ameritocracy. It's over. Tomorrow morning I will cancel the final debate and end the competition. I will shut down the voting. Close the site and the app. You won, Peter. I don't know how you did it, but you beat me. All I can do now is end the competition so you don't get the money or the recognition."
"You wouldn't do that."
"I am doing it."
Peter stands and walks to the window, then touches the glass with a single finger, as though correcting some invisible imperfection. He stands there a full minute, saying nothing.
I relax into the sofa. I don't know if this will work, but I got it out in a convincing tone of voice.
Peter faces me, smiling the unknowable smile I used to love. "No, Mia, you're not. I'm sure of it."
"Peter, I believe you've been responsible for many of the negative stories about the other candidates. Dixon, the video about Morales. I'm fairly sure you pushed me toward discovering the truth about Robert Mast."
He studies me for a few seconds, then turns back to the window. "You're wrong. But even if I had, Mast was corrupt. And dumping opposition research or planting bad stories about opponents has been done forever."
"You paid a reporter to try to buy my story. And as pathetic as it is that you think that's the worst truth about you—the one story worth burying—I think you know I'd never talk about it publicly."
He says nothing.
I take a deep breath. The last one is the one I'm afraid of. "I also believe you leaked the video of DB."
Peter's posture tightens, but he doesn't turn. "That's ridiculous, Mia." His voice is artificially cool.
"You edited the video to make him look bad, to make it look worse than it was. And you leaked it. My hunch is you didn't think it would drive him to suicide, but you knew it would destroy his candidacy. Mast and DB were your two biggest competitors, and you took them down before even entering. Then you tried to take down Morales and Dixon. You stole information on Justine Hall, you—"
"That's ridiculous. All of it."
"And now you're manipulating the Ameritocracy system. We know you managed to get different versions of your position papers to show up for different people."
He swivels around, face rigid.
He doesn't look angry. His smile is gone but his expression is cold and emotionless. Like he doesn't know me.
My mind flashes on the megalomaniacal precision of The Technomonarchist Manifesto. Seeing him like this, I'm certain he wrote it. Certain he planned from the beginning to hijack Ameritocracy as the quickest way to become president.
"Mia," he says, "all of this is ridiculous. I deny it."
"Deny what you want. The competition is over. We will return donations and—"
"No, you won't."
I stand abruptly and stab a finger toward him. "I—"
"No, Mia. I listened to your accusations, now you listen. You came here tonight because you know you can't kick me out. I've violated no rules. I'm your most popular candidate, by far. If you kick me out, your little competition loses all credibility and it doesn't matter who wins. So you threaten to shut the whole thing down? Either you're bluffing, or you haven't thought this through. If you canc
el now, you'll be sued not only by me, but by every candidate who spent money, every donor who backed Ameritocracy. Your career will be ruined, your life will be ruined. Mia Rhodes: that fraudster everyone hates."
He turns toward the window, once again placing a finger on the glass. From my standing position, I see his finger is aligned with a top floor bedroom of the White House, where a light is still on.
When I walked in, I wasn't sure if I was bluffing. Now I know I was.
Peter is right. Shutting down Ameritocracy would ruin me personally. And it might even help Peter's candidacy. Politicians are allowed to spend their own money, so he doesn't need the millions we plan to give the winner. He's already used my site to raise his political profile through the roof. If I shut down Ameritocracy, he could run as a third party candidate and do just as well. Maybe better. He'd be the underdog who was betrayed by that fraudster everyone hates.
There's another reason, too. As unlikely as it seems right now, there's still a chance that one of the other six candidates can win.
Maybe a bombshell story will break.
Maybe Peter will be a disaster in the debate.
Maybe one of the other candidates will give the performance of a lifetime.
Right now in hotels around D.C., Justine Hall, Avery Axum, Tanner Futch, Beverly Johnson, Maria Ortiz Morales, and Marlon Dixon are probably putting the finishing touches on their closing statements.
I don't have it in me to betray them. I have to see this through.
But I'm not willing to admit that to Peter. "We'll see, but I can go to the press with what I know."
Peter laughs. "You won't shut Ameritocracy down. And going to the press won't do any good and you know it. If you had any real proof you already would have done so. And something tells me the public is already on my side. A negative story or two won't get any real traction."
He approaches me with long, graceful strides. As usual, he walks like he owns the room. "You built something you thought you understood, and now you show up in my suite, throwing a tantrum because I understood it better than you. That's exactly why minds like yours can't be trusted with the progress of a twenty-first-century superpower. Few can. And the fact that you're staring at me right now, trying to think of a clever comeback, is proof that I'm right, and you know it."