by A. C. Fuller
I stagger around the desk and fall into a chair. "Oh, God."
"He has multiple position papers for each issue, all masked and hidden. So the pro-choice lady from before will see one thing when she looks at Peter's profile, the NRA guy will get a totally different version of Peter, even down to the photograph. He's got twelve of them. A handsome-but-not-too-handsome one for the pro-choice lady, one of him in a denim shirt for the NRA guy, one of him dressed casual at some sports thing, one of him in a tux…I didn't look at them all."
I look up at Leslie. "And these photos, these different versions of him have been on our site all along?"
"Yes. And this is where it gets really bad."
I close my eyes. "That wasn't the really bad part?"
"The code doesn't only track where you go. It changes what you see."
My mind rejects every part of that statement. "That's not possible."
"I wouldn't have thought so either, and this is where HTML7 comes back in. The Ameritocracy site uses an AI learning algorithm to manipulate the content you see in your web browser or your phone, based on your preferences. So, take the NRA guy again. He comes to the site, registers, and let's say he chooses Tanner Futch as his top candidate. Not only does this change what he sees on the Ameritocracy site, the site installs code on his phone or computer that essentially takes over the other apps and websites he visits, sorting the content that appears based on whether it helps or hurts Peter's chances of being liked by that user."
My head is an empty room. Everything I knew to be true was just wiped clean, leaving me with nothing but the indistinct, fuzzy texture of confusion. "How's that…I mean…that can't be possible."
"It's not a perfect system, but it doesn't have to be perfect. If a user has enough anonymizing software on their machine, the algorithm doesn't work. It wouldn't work on me, for example."
I want to say something to the effect of, But you're a paranoid computer genius. Instead I ask, "What percent of people does it not work on?"
"A fraction. A tiny fraction. I mean, if you're playing craps with loaded dice, they don't need to hit seven every time. If they hit it even half the time, you still win. Over large numbers, small advantages turn into certain wins, and Ameritocracy has very large numbers, Mia."
"Okay, going back for a sec, how does it know what helps and hurts Peter?"
"That's where it gets really cool. Not cool, sorry, wrong word, but…well, innovative, I should say. The algorithm has a ranking system, basically giving every piece of content a numerical score of one to a hundred, based on its best guesses about your preferences. It then filters your Facebook and Twitter feeds, your Google search results, everything, to show the content about Peter it thinks you'll already agree with. The pro-choice lady, for example, who runs a Google search about Peter will get different search results than the NRA guy."
"Could this be used to make it so a particular story doesn't get traction online?"
"Are you talking about the David Benson thing?"
"How'd you know?"
"I can't prove it yet because I left California right after the family sent the tweet, but my guess is the algorithm suppresses any online discussion of David Benson. Just eliminates mentions of him from social media feeds and search results."
"So Peter is not only controlling what people read on Ameritocracy, he's literally controlling what we read on the entire internet?"
Leslie nods slowly with unblinking eyes. "Exactly."
"Why not just rig the voting?" I ask. The answer hits me as soon as the question leaves my mouth. "Never mind, don't answer that."
Peter could have rigged the voting and won Ameritocracy with fake votes. But rigging reality itself is much more powerful. This way he gets voters to genuinely love him, which sets him up for the general election and for long term success as president.
I let out a long sigh. "Leslie…can you give me a minute alone? This is a lot to—"
"I get it." She backs away slowly, recognizing my fragile state of mind.
As she leaves, the door closes with a definitive thud.
For the last ten minutes, my mind has been a vast open space. Maybe that's just what happens when everything you know turns out false. Now, however, it leaps from connection to connection, realization to realization.
First, everything Leslie said makes perfect sense. I knew early on that Peter used his public appearances to take multiple positions on an issue. He took both sides, then counted on our own echo chambers to do the rest.
But I underestimated him. I wasn't even close.
If what Leslie said is right, and I have no reason to believe otherwise, Peter created the ultimate echo chamber. A way to filter our entire online experience to build a separate reality for each voter, one in which Peter Colton is the perfect leader. A manipulation on a scale I'd never even heard of. One so diabolical that the mere glimpse of it makes me shudder.
My thoughts return to the test I took on the train to Sacramento. All my preferences, freely given to the little quiz, then used by my own site to feed me the information I wanted to hear.
Peter Colton: my perfect match, my future husband, the perfect president, the future king.
I imagine the millions of people who were told they were a perfect match for him as well. The conservative Christian in Topeka. The young tech hipster in San Francisco. The retired firefighter in Cleveland. The schoolteacher in the Bronx. All in perfect alignment with Peter on every issue.
This leads me to a second realization. Even without manipulating a user's experience on social media and search engines, the amount of data Peter has is enough to win the general election, assuming Benjamin set up a way to export all the data from the Ameritocracy servers before we kicked him out of the office.
In the early 2000s, political campaigns began relying on data, and any modern campaign now lives on data. Past voting behavior, donation amounts, polling, locations, demographics. Peter's system, though illegal and immoral, has given him ten times more data than any campaign. He's also put a system in place on untold millions of computers that will let him run against…well, against reality itself.
Finally, I'm struck by a simple realization. Peter is evil on a level I never could have imagined. He destroyed a friend's campaign and led him to suicide. He used his algorithm to systematically take down my other top candidates. He believes Americans need and will support an absolute ruler, and he's done everything necessary to ensure it's him.
I rest my head on the desk, close to tears.
For a moment, I view myself from outside my body.
I expect to see a woman in despair, a beaten woman. A woman on the verge of giving up.
Instead, I hear my own voice whisper, "I have to stop him."
I pop back into my body and sit up with a jolt.
I have to stop him.
24
The debate ends in less than an hour. I don't want to tip Peter off that I know what he's done, and I don't want my absence to become a story.
Being gone for twenty minutes is one thing. Skipping out on the last half of the debate is entirely different.
I ask Leslie to stick around backstage, promising her that we'll work together to get to the bottom of this when I return. Before opening the stage door to head back in, I check my phone, where I have a bunch of "Good luck" texts from friends, and an odd text from Malcolm that arrived only minutes earlier.
Malcolm: I know you won't get this 'til after the debate. Something Peter said tonight reminded me of something. Can we meet later for me to show you?
I wasn't expecting to see Malcolm until tomorrow night, when he's DJing the finale.
Me: Excelsior Hotel off DuPont Circle. Should be back by ten.
Without waiting for his reply, I power down my phone and head back into the auditorium. I smile awkwardly at the people who stare at me, hoping to communicate that I made a long stop in the ladies' room, and not that, you know, the entire competition has been rigged by an evil genius f
rom the beginning. Either way, I'm sure my tight smile communicates embarrassed discomfort.
I can't focus on the debate.
Dixon answers a question, and the rise and fall of his voice vibrates in my body, but none of the words have meaning. Futch pounds the podium, but it's an absurd gesture lacking context. Hall says something that gets a laugh out of the audience, but I'm disconnected from the mirth.
I'm in my head, making a plan.
Two hours later, Leslie, Steph, and I are in my hotel room. Fireworks explode five stories below, along with shouts from drunk and excited people celebrating the Fourth of July.
Eight computers ring the room around us, including my laptop, Steph's work and personal laptops, and three laptops Leslie brought. We also borrowed the machines of the two interns we brought to D.C.
On the ride from the debate hall, I told Steph everything Leslie said. Soon after arriving at the hotel, we realized that, at best, we could support her. Neither of us has ever had the expertise to deal with technical issues. I'm not sure Leslie can solve the problem, but at this point my choice to trust her has transformed into something akin to religion.
Leslie carries three laptops from a desk to the king bed in the center of the room, forming a semi-circular wall of silver and black screens ranging from ten to fifteen inches. She sits cross-legged on the bed, her fingers darting in a blur from one machine to the next.
"What are you doing?" I ask from behind her. "And how can we help?"
"Hold on a sec." Her fingers don't stop as she says it.
Steph stands next to me. "Malcolm texted. He's on his way up."
"Can we not tell him what's happening?" I ask her. "I mean…I don't want him to know—"
"You don't trust Malcolm?"
"I do, it's—"
Steph gestures at the bed, where Leslie now types on two different computers simultaneously, one on her far left, the other on her far right. She looks like a pianist. "I...think he's gonna know something is up."
"Right, never mind."
Leslie halts her mad typing and leans back. "Here's the deal. I set up sixteen new Ameritocracy accounts with sixteen unique users. Some were fake identities I already had, others I created from scratch, making a quick Facebook profile, then using it to log in. Each computer is logged into two of the profiles, with my main laptop as the clean machine. What we need to figure out is exactly how the algorithm works. Look."
She points at a screen where two Facebook accounts show two different versions of the same news story. "This one says 'Colton announces plans to revitalize the economy of Michigan.' And this one says 'Colton announces plans to revitalize the economy of Ohio.'"
"He announced a plan to revitalize the economy of every damn state in the country," Steph says.
"Right," Leslie says, "but in these fictional people's Facebook feeds, one of whom 'lives' in Michigan, the other in Ohio, Peter's algorithm somehow hooked into their profiles to filter different headlines into their feeds. If you click the links, the story is actually the same. It's a piece from Purple State Blogger, a small blog about the midwest. But most people don't read the stories. My guess is Peter figured out that simply changing the headline is enough to create a positive impression. The guy from Michigan gets a little endorphin hit, and so does the guy from Ohio."
"That bastard," Steph says.
"Oh, this is the least bastardly thing he did." Leslie's face is manic. "He has tentacles all over, but for most users, Facebook is the key. Once you allow him access to your Facebook, it's over. With fifty likes, he knows you better than your mother. From there, it's easy. The algorithm creates an issue profile for you and feeds you what you want to hear. Gay rights, guns, school choice, foreign policy, taxes, whatever. If you're on the actual Ameritocracy site, he can feed you the position papers that match your preferences. If you're not, he can manipulate what shows up in your social feeds. It's brilliant." She thinks for a moment. "The meme wars, too. Wasn't there something about 'I love you and you're my brother'? Something about Marlon Dixon?"
"Yes," I reply. "What is it?"
"He did that. It's part of his algorithm. I found the origin of the two memes that spread the most, one attacking Marlon Dixon from the right—soft on criminals—the other attacking him from the left—supports a domestic abuser. They were first posted on a Reddit thread, but the images are stored on Ameritocracy servers. They originated with you."
"With Benjamin!" Steph corrects angrily.
"Whatever." Leslie waves her hand in a way that makes me realize she still doesn't trust us completely. "But they went from the Ameritocracy servers to a Reddit thread, and from there they spread everywhere. And the fact that he created the images that spread the most allowed him to tailor them to show up in the right places online. To turn the left and the right against Dixon." She laughs to herself, then adds quietly, "Mia, I can't believe you thought this site was a good idea."
I don't respond. There's no way I'll admit how many times that thought has occurred to me over the last week. "What do we do?"
Leslie rotates on the bed, still sitting cross-legged, now with her back to the screens, facing us. "The way this is structured is brilliant. The algorithm is set up to tone itself down if his lead gets too big. He, or whoever built this, wanted it to look believable. So he destroyed your other candidates, but not totally. He set it up that if his leads hits fifteen percent over the number-two candidate, the algorithm lets more good stuff come through about the other candidates."
There's a knock at the door and I tighten up.
"It's Malcolm," Steph says.
I relax and walk to the door as Leslie taps on an old-school "candybar" cell phone, the kind where you have to press the number buttons a bunch of times to get letters to show up.
"I thought you didn't use phones," I say as I walk to the door.
"Special occasion. This is a one-time burner to communicate with a special friend."
I open the door for Malcolm, who bathes me in a warm smile, then looks over my shoulder to the odd scene in the room. I turn in time to see Leslie snap her cellphone in half, drop it on the floor, then stomp on it for a full thirty seconds, grinding the bits of plastic and glass into the carpet.
"Rough night?" Malcolm asks.
As Leslie goes back to her computers, Steph and I explain the situation to Malcolm, who registers less surprise than I expected.
When we finish, he asks, "He's been doing this since the beginning?"
"We think so," Steph says.
"Then I'm glad I'm here," Malcolm says. He pulls out his cell phone and, after a couple swipes and taps, hands it to me.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Read it."
Steph reads over my shoulder as I take in the email.
Ben-
See attached internal report from Tech Summit CEO executive session. Social media platforms ranked by several criteria: size in terms of users and data usage, server locations, influence on mainstream media, and (most importantly), vulnerability metrics under HTML7.
-Peter
"Click the attachment," Malcolm says.
I do, and the phone opens a PDF over a hundred pages long. I scroll through the document quickly, looking for words or charts I can understand. It's mostly techno-gibberish.
I hand the phone to Steph. "Can you make any sense of it?"
She scans for a while, shrugs, then offers the phone to Leslie.
Leslie ignores it for a moment, then glances down and suddenly grabs it out of Steph's hand. "Where did this come from?" she asks, scrolling frantically.
Malcolm steps forward. "We haven't met. I used to work for Peter. I'm Malcolm Rozier."
"Are you the Malcolm Mia has a crush on?"
My cheeks are aflame. Malcolm glances back at me right as they reach their thermonuclear peak.
Before either of us can speak, Leslie says, "No, sorry, never mind that. Where did you get this document?"
"I was Peter's assistant for two years. He use
d to cc me on most of his emails and I'd sort them into an elaborate filing system. A few months before the Project X presentation, he told me he was gonna implement his own system, so he stopped cc'ing me. Every once in a while, though, he'd forget and copy me on something. This was sent about a week before he funded Ameritocracy."
Leslie holds up a hand. "Okay. Everyone needs to be quiet now. I have to read this."
Ten minutes creep by, then twenty, then thirty. Every time one of us speaks or tries to ask a question, Leslie shushes us.
It's now midnight.
"Voting opens in six hours," I say, no longer able to remain silent. "What do we do?"
Leslie, who's been reading the document on Malcolm's phone and occasionally glancing at her laptop screen, grabs my computer and hands it to me. "Open the Collude app."
"I don't have that app."
"Yes you do."
"I've never even heard of it."
"I installed it when I updated your security. It's hidden, but type it into the hard drive search and it'll be there."
I sit at the desk and follow Leslie's directions. A simple program appears—a white text box, bordered orange, with the word "Collude" written in black in a pixelated font.
As soon as I open it, text appears in the box.
I read the first line. "Quinn sent me the document and told me what's going on. This is going to take some time."
I glance back at Leslie, now pacing her little square. "Who's Quinn?"
She looks from me to Steph to Malcolm, and gives an embarrassed little grin. "I am. Quinn Rivers. Good to meet you."
By the time I look back at my screen, the text has disappeared from the Collude app.