Echo Chamber

Book 3: Ameritocracy

by A.C. Fuller

Genres: Black Humor; Legal Thrillers

Synopsis

She set out to transform American democracy. Now she’s afraid of what will happen if she succeeds.

Mia Rhodes created Ameritocracy to make it possible for anyone to become president. But as her online political competition races toward its finale, it’s poised to elect a Machiavellian manipulator with a winning smile, leaving Mia to wonder whether she’s changed anything at all.

As the competition builds to its spectacular final debate in Washington, DC, Mia and her team must question everything they’ve done so far, and defeat a threat to democracy they had never imagined.

Release date: April 1, 2020

Publisher: Vivid Books

Print pages: 260

Sample

Chapter 1

 

May 2020

Bounced by the movement of the train, my head strikes the warm window, waking me from the terrifying dream of a Peter Colton presidency.

I arch my back and raise my arms in a modified stretch to avoid hitting the person next to me, then stare blankly out the window at the brown hills in the distance.

Twenty minutes from Sacramento, we pass through Braxton, California, home of the world's second-largest corn maze, a few palm trees, and not much else. Our second-to-last debate starts in three hours—an event we added to make up for the debate that was interrupted by a shooting.

I should be working—there's always more work to do—but I'm nervous and looking for a distraction.

I haven't seen Peter since he joined Ameritocracy. That's where the terrifying dream comes in. When we broke up, it was as though he flipped a switch from warm, charismatic Peter to emotionless, all-business Peter. I didn't know he had that switch, and the implications chilled me. Ever since, I've been haunted by the fact that my project might make him president.

I don't like how I feel and I can't turn into a ball of anxiety right now. I open my email. There's always a distraction there.

A few dozen new emails appear in my personal account—the one I only give to close friends and family. Scanning them slowly, I see that my mom is coming to the finale in Washington, D.C. and my ten-year college reunion is coming up.

My eyes freeze on the next message, then close involuntarily, as though they know I'm not ready for it.

My father has never written me an email.

Never spoken to me.

Our total correspondence amounts to three birthday cards and a public statement his staff issued when Ameritocracy exploded onto the scene last fall.

Dear Mia,

I hope you will forgive me for this cyber-intrusion. You don't owe me anything, but I wanted to make sure I could reach you in a private way. I don't want anything to get into the press unless you want it there. So I reached out to your mother for your personal email address. She was reluctant at first, but I believe she knows that my heart, at last, is in the right place.

My greatest regret in life is how I handled your birth, and my relationship with your mother, who I cared for very deeply. I did not intend to fall in love with her, but I did. I have no one to blame but myself. I was married and, well, you know the story. And yet I want you to know that there was love there.

I hear you will be in Washington, D.C. in early July. A little political event or something?

Just kidding—and congratulations on the wonderful success of Ameritocracy. Your mother and I are so proud of you. With good reason, she still holds a lot of anger toward me, but our pride in you is one thing we share.

I will be in Philadelphia for the Democratic National Convention the week before your final event in Washington, D.C. I would be honored if you'd allow me to buy you dinner.

We've spent thirty-two years not knowing each other. I, for one, hope that can change.

Love,

Your father, Payton Rhodes

I mash the "Reply" button, then angrily type out a sarcastic note. Something to the effect of, "After urging my mother to lie about the affair and abort me...after acknowledging my existence only after the story broke in the papers...now, after thirty-two years, you want to buy me dinner on the eve of the biggest moment of my life?"

I delete the message before pressing "Send."

I'm a jumble of frustration, resentment, and—to my surprise—a strange joy. As pissed as I am at my father, I want to meet him. Want to know him. I didn't know how much I wanted this message until it arrived.

Now's not the time to deal with it, though. I close the email and open the Facebook app. The best distraction there is.

I scroll through my newsfeed, stopping on a photo of Peter Colton. The photo is on a post by Bird, my old co-worker at The Barker. It's the result of one of those Facebook quizzes where you answer questions about yourself and a magical algorithm spits out your ideal profession, which Harry Potter house you belong in, or what Game of Thrones family is most likely to murder you in your sleep. This particular quiz is called, "Which Ameritocracy Candidate Are You Destined to Marry?"

Bird got Peter Colton and shared the results of his quiz with the comment, "I'm sorry, Mia."

Against my better judgment, I click through to the quiz, agree to allow Facebook to share my information with Political Quizzes, Inc., and begin answering questions.

1. Do you plan to marry a man or a woman?

Man.

2. Baby Boomer, Gen X, Millennial, or Centennial?

I never know where these generations begin or end, but Steph once told me I was a disappointment to my millennial brothers and sisters because I didn't take my first selfie until I was twenty-five so…

Millennial.

3. Do you prefer to save your money for a rainy day or spend it now because you only live once?

I think about Bluebird, the fully electric 1964 Mustang I bought with the one big chunk of cash my dad gave me.

Spend it now.

4. Outfit you find sexiest: Military fatigues, business suit, shorts and flip flops, jeans and t-shirt.

I regret ever clicking on this quiz.

As usual, it's reinforcing my love-hate relationship with Facebook, with social media, and with technology in general. As much as I want to close the app and power down the phone, I answer the questions out of a compulsion I don't understand.

Business Suit.

5. Tax the rich or cut government programs?

One of the things I hate about online quizzes is that they offer dichotomous choices in a complex world, but I go with…

Tax the rich.

6. Should the electoral college be abolished?

No.

7. Should a private business owner have the right to refuse service to a patron for spiritual or religious reasons?

This is a tough one because it opens the door for all sorts of discrimination, but I'm close to a First Amendment absolutist, and patrons should be equally free to organize boycotts of the business so, reluctantly…

Yes.

8. Environmental regulations on U.S. businesses are:

A) Too strict.

B) Not strict enough.

C) Just right.

I choose: B) Not strict enough.

9. Marijuana:

A) Legalize it nationally.

B) Let the states decide.

C) Strict national laws against it.

I choose: B) Let the states decide.

10. Would you support single-payer healthcare?

I haven't studied this issue in great detail, but my father is one of the most powerful lobbyists for the insurance industry, and they hate single-payer. I never had the chance to rebel against him as a teenager so…

Yes.

11. Overall, politically, do you lean far-left, left, center, right, far-right.

Always a tough question to answer, as I lean left on some issues, center and right on others.

Center.

12. More important in a man: Looks or brains?

Brains.

13. Your Ameritocracy crush is feeling blue. What do you do to cheer him up?

A) Take him to a political book talk.

B) Take him to the church to talk to God.

C) Take him to the movies to catch the latest action flick.

D) Take him to the bedroom to…well, you know.

I'd like to answer D, but the truth is…

A) Take him to a political book talk.

I reach the end of the quiz and press Get Results, dreading the answer I expect the quiz to give me.

And there he is.

I'm miffed but not shocked as Peter Colton's smiling face pops up with the message: "You're Destined to Marry Peter Colton! He's a brainy centrist who's at home in the boardroom and loves talking politics."

I sigh and look out the window.

Peter and I split up a few months ago when I caught him in the shower with another man. And that turned out to be his second worst betrayal over the winter. Two weeks later, he joined Ameritocracy and rose steadily up the leaderboard throughout the spring. He hit number two this morning.

Today is the last official Ameritocracy event before the final debate. I need it to go well. It should be more manageable than previous events because, as the Democrats and Republicans weeded out candidates during a grueling primary season, so did Ameritocracy. We invited only our top seven candidates this time because Ameritocracy has become a seven-candidate race.

Charles Blass, our Communist linguistics professor, attempted a slight pivot to the right. He embraced the positions of the social democrats and even opened the door to adopting a few of the positions of the Democratic Party. Though seen as an embrace of the practical and possible by some, the move led his massive cohort of internet fans to turn on him. He was called a "sellout," "a corporate shill," and worse. He still sits at number ten in our rankings, but he's so far behind the top seven that he has no hope of catching up. In his most recent Facebook video, he called on his followers to embrace the candidacy of our leading candidate, Marlon Dixon.

Wendy Kahananui—our yoga teacher, mindfulness guru, and YouTube star—dropped out two months ago. Her candidacy had survived for a year on the strength of her celebrity and online platform. As we entered the home stretch, though, voters abandoned her for candidates with more specific policy visions. She recently signed a deal to star in a meditation show on the Oprah Channel.

Billionaire Cecilia Mason suspended her campaign when one of her grandchildren died in a freak accident. But even before that, she'd slipped to number nine, where she still sits. After making a push for the top spot over the winter, Mason uttered a single line at the last debate that cost her about thirty percent of her support. Goaded by Tanner Futch, she admitted to having four private chefs, which started a meme war on social media.

A meme war she lost badly.

Until that statement, voters had been alright with a powerful businesswoman running for president. The line hadn't been intended as a brag, but it framed her as a member of the elite class. No one with four chefs understands the problems of everyday Americans, or so the argument went. Over March and April, many of her supporters switched to Avery Axum who, like Mason, is a moderate conservative. Though she hasn't formally endorsed our silver-haired professor, she's indicated her preference in a few cryptically-worded tweets.

Orin Gottlieb sits at number eight. Like Blass and Mason, our libertarian academic is too far back to have any real shot. After a decent winter and spring, where Gottlieb peaked at number six on our leaderboard, a series of rumors appeared on social media and quickly spread to the mainstream press.

The rumors claimed that in 2012 Gottlieb attended a meeting of the Bilderberg Group, an annual conference attended by the European and North American political elite, along with experts from industry, finance, academia, and the media. The conference is a favorite target of conspiracy theorists like our number three candidate, Tanner Futch. Gottlieb denied attending the conference, but many of his followers concluded that he wasn't the libertarian he claimed to be. He was a mole—a secret member of the globalist elite posing as a libertarian. Once in office, they claimed, he'd enact the policies of globalism and American destruction.

The whole episode was beyond confusing. I never saw any evidence that Gottlieb attended the meeting. Even if he had, it wouldn't have been especially out of the ordinary. Academics of all persuasions get invited to those meetings.

Steph and I wondered whether Tanner Futch planted the rumors because, once they broke, he spent hours talking about them online. At one point, he even descended to using Gottlieb's Judaism as "proof" that he was "one of the global elites trying to destroy America." This was a hit with Futch's fans for depressingly obvious reasons, and peeled away enough of Gottlieb's supporters to leave Futch solidly in the number three spot.

So we're down to seven candidates with a shot of winning.

Since Peter entered Ameritocracy, I've been hit by the same five questions in interview after interview.

1. Did you know Peter was going to enter the race?

2. Is Ameritocracy a setup?

3. Did you fake your breakup with Peter so people wouldn't accuse you of playing favorites?

4. Did he play any role in developing the website and app?

5. Is your voting secure?

Over and over, I've said "No" to the first two questions and laughed off the third. The last two are a bit trickier. Peter loaned us one of his top guys early on. Ever since, Benjamin Singh has been our lead tech guy, so I can't say a solid "No" to the fourth question.

Once Peter entered, my mind went straight to Benjamin. Could I trust him? Should I trust him? And since I couldn't direct my anger and frustration at Peter, I was tempted to aim some at Benjamin because, well, he was in the office with me every day. The whole matter was even more complicated because Steph was still dating him. Is still dating him. And she trusts him.

After Peter entered, it took me a few days to convince Steph to set up a meeting with Benjamin. We confronted him together, asking him versions of the questions we'd been getting from reporters. He seemed surprised we'd even ask. The idea that he might be a plant apparently hadn't even occurred to him. "I work sixty-hour weeks at Ameritocracy and spend the rest of my waking hours with Steph! I barely even talk to Peter anymore."

We believed him, but we wanted to be able to answer the question about the voting system with confidence. After an early hack by a team working with former ambassador Thomas Morton—the world's most boring candidate—Benjamin had fortified the system. Every day it gets an automatic audit, bots are eliminated, and a digital log of every vote is run through an algorithm to look for unusual movement.

After our conversation with Benjamin, we hired two independent consultants to check it. They came to the same conclusion: Ameritocracy is as secure as it can be, much more secure than the state voting systems used in real elections.

The questions from the press aren't the ones giving me nightmares, though. Every day since Peter entered, I've asked myself one question. Why?

Why did he enter?

Why does he want to be president?

Does he even want to be president?

My working assumption is that he's a greedy bastard. A liar. A manipulator. I know these things as fact. So he may want to be president to get richer. To have the power to make his friends richer. But Peter is worth over three billion dollars. How much richer does he need to get?

I don't trust Peter, but I no longer trust my read on him, either.

The worst part is, so far, Peter has been a pretty good candidate. He's charismatic, handsome, and well-spoken. He's the biggest celebrity to enter Ameritocracy aside from the late David Benson—and he's got more national name recognition than anyone left in our competition. His positions on issues are well-researched and often thoughtful, at least from what I gather. To be honest, I've avoided delving too deeply into his videos and issue papers. When they show up in my social media feeds, I often find myself agreeing with him, which makes me feel strange.

Out the window, the brown hills give way to car dealerships, an occasional factory, and the beginnings of residential neighborhoods. I don't like thinking about Peter. I'm tempted to scroll on my phone again, but we're three minutes from Sacramento so I shove it back in my purse. Thinking ahead to the debate, I imagine how I'll greet each of the six non-Peter candidates. Even though I differ with most of them on policy, I'm protective, even fond of a few of them.

A chirp from my phone interrupts my reverie.

A new text.

Peter: We need to talk before the debate. Can you give me ten minutes?

I try to ignore the message as the train pulls into the station. Peter can call me after the debate if he wants to talk.

I start to put the phone away, but something nags at me—the thought of sitting at the debate, watching my candidates, and not knowing what Peter wanted to talk about. Having his message just hanging there.

I hate the feeling of unfinished business, and he knows it.

He knew I'd say yes.

Me: Meeting room behind the main stage. Be there in an hour.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The last time I saw Peter in person, he stood in the driveway in front of his Santa Clarissa mansion. I had just confronted him with the fact that I'd seen him in the shower with a man, and he hadn't put up a fight. In fact, he seemed almost eager to break up. Nevertheless, I'd dumped one of the most eligible bachelors on earth, which is empowering in an odd way.

Standing in the driveway that day, I felt strong, if a little confused.

Now, I wait in an overheated breakout room behind the debate stage, feeling anything but empowered. I was tempted to ask why he wanted to meet, but he's my number two candidate and, despite his personal betrayal, he hasn't broken any Ameritocracy rules. I always meet with my candidates when they need to. I can't treat Peter differently out of spite. I'd like to, but I can't.

I move a little plastic chair behind a desk in the back of the room, directly under what I hope is the air conditioning vent. A wisp of cool air hits my face, but not enough to stave off the stifling heat. From behind the desk, I face the door, allowing me to believe I'm the boss and my employee is about to sit across from me. I press my feet into the cracked linoleum floor, grounding myself as I wait.

I don't often plan conversations in advance, but I want to keep Peter from getting the upper hand. I don't want to be too accusatory when he walks in. At the same time, I have no interest in small talk or pleasantries. Not in general and certainly not with Peter. I settle on a question about Benjamin because it gets at something I want Peter to answer without coming right out and accusing him of deception.

My eyes are locked on the open doorway when Peter pokes his head in. "Mia?"

Before I can say anything, he's in the room. He closes the door and smiles a familiar smile. Quizzical, slightly ironic, and somewhat arrogant. When I met him, I thought it was the smile of a man who knew something I didn't. As I got to know him, I recognized it as the smile of a man who knows one thing for sure: nobody can hurt him, so he's got nothing to worry about. It's the smile of a man who knows he has the world by the balls, and knows you know it, too.

Now, in the blue suit and red tie he wears regularly since joining Ameritocracy, I read his smile as slightly apologetic. That's the secret of his smile. It can be read a hundred different ways in a hundred different situations.

He takes a cautious step toward the desk. "Is it safe?"

Despite an effort to remain stoic, I crack an awkward smile.

He seizes the opening. Taking two large steps across the room, he sits opposite me.

It's pleasantly incongruous—billionaire playboy Peter Colton sitting in a sad plastic chair that looks like it was designed for a seven-year-old.

"Nice digs," he says. Then, with more emotion, or feigned emotion, "It's good to see you."

I clasp my hands together, resting them on the desk. "Let's skip the bullshit. What did you want to talk about?"

He studies my face, then reaches for my hands.

I pull away. "Look, Peter, candidates are arriving as we speak. I've got work to do. Either tell me what you want to talk about or we're done here."

He raises an eyebrow, then leans back in his chair. Apparently he's accepted the fact that I'm not here for small talk. "I'm sorry, Mia. I thought we should meet. I want to clear the air. I know you must have questions. I'll answer anything."

My mind loads the prepared question about Benjamin, but the annoying smirk on Peter's face has me livid. I come right out with it. "Did you plan to enter Ameritocracy the whole time?"

He looks at the floor silently.

I glare at him, trying to make him look up with the strength of my eyes. "The night of the Project X presentation, when you offered me the five million dollars, did you already know you were going to enter?" My voice is louder now, stronger. I'm determined to get an answer to the question that has burned in me since the moment he entered.

When he looks up at last, his face is ashen, his eyes moist. I don't see tears—I've never seen Peter cry, not even when his friend DB took his own life—but he appears stricken.

"Absolutely not." His voice is hollow. "I offered the five million dollars because I believed in you, in your ideas. I still do."

I want to believe him, but I don't. "That's a lie."

He looks imploringly into my eyes. "I swear, Mia."

It's not often that someone lies to my face about something important. It doesn't leave a lot of options. Instead of calling him out again, I humor him. "Then why did you enter?"

"I know you may not believe this, but I was inspired. I've always been interested in politics. The more I watched Ameritocracy unfold, the more I felt like the winner would have a true shot at the presidency. More than that, though, I saw the difference you were making in American politics, and I wanted to be part of it. That's why I wanted to go to the debate with you in Iowa."

"You said you had other business to do in Iowa."

"I always have business to do everywhere, Mia. I wanted to be near the candidates, though. Near the issues. Near the ideas. As exciting as business is, as exciting as creating companies and products can be, the ideas at the heart of politics have a piece of me and they won't let go."

"Yeah, you can get real close to candidates from the shower in our room. That guy...was he your secret boyfriend?"

Peter looks confused, as though he doesn't even know which guy I'm talking about. Then recognition dawns across his face. "Him? He had nothing to do with…I met him on Piper. It was…a mistake."

We're into territory I'd planned to avoid, but I can't help myself. "I assume that's a hookup app, like Grindr?"

"Yes, but for a more...exclusive group of users."

I shake my head, half surprised, half totally unsurprised that such an app exists. When we dated, I never got used to Peter's wealth. Never got used to the secret world in which men like him do pretty much whatever they want. "There are secret hookup apps for billionaires?"

"Yes," Peter says, without a trace of irony. "Enough about that, though. You have to believe I didn't intend to enter at the beginning."

I don't believe him, but it doesn't really matter whether he planned to enter from the beginning. He's here now, and he's not going anywhere. I don't want to say any of this, so I go to another question I prepared in advance. "Wasn't DB's suicide enough to make you think twice?"

"Are you kidding? DB is a big part of why I joined. Obviously, his candidacy ended badly, but did you see how he lit up talking about Ameritocracy? He was at the top of his field, the biggest actor in America. And yet the chance to help people—to 'get into the game,' as he put it—changed him. When he died, I thought it was what he'd want me to do."

"C'mon, Peter. Playing the dead friend card is low, even for you."

A pained look crosses Peter's face. "I wish I could make you believe me, but…"

He stands abruptly and pulls off his jacket, then untucks his crisp white button down.

I look away. "Peter, what the hell are you doing?"

"No, it's not that. Look."

When I turn back, his shirt is fully unbuttoned, revealing an undershirt printed with a picture of a young DB in a baseball uniform, grinning broadly. He's got a bat slung over his shoulder and, though the shirt is faded, his famous smile still pops.

Peter smiles. "I bought it on eBay. There are four of them on earth."

Despite my efforts to remain angry, seeing DB's face softens me. As flawed as he was, the way it ended still causes me to tear up at least once a week. "What's that from?"

"Remember Bases Loaded? Cheesy baseball flick he was in before he got famous. They printed shirts for all the actors in the movie. You know, for promotion."

"Why are you showing it to me?"

Peter closes his eyes and runs a hand over the front of the t-shirt, almost ceremonially, then buttons up his dress shirt slowly. "To show you that I'm for real." Like an actor himself, he pauses before opening his eyes. "I'm doing this for DB."

"If your motives are so pure, why didn't you tell me you planned to run? Why enter at the last minute?"

"You'd just broken up with me, Mia. I wasn't proud of how it happened, either. I felt terrible—still feel terrible—about what happened between us. About what I did. What was I supposed to do, call you and say, 'Sorry I cheated on you but now I need to tell you that I'm joining Ameritocracy'?"

"Yes, that would have been the grown-up thing to do."

He walks to a brown folding table in the corner that's covered by trays of apples, oranges, and bananas, along with two steaming coffee pots. Apparently this is the "gourmet snack buffet" we paid for along with the debate hall rental.

He turns with a bright green apple in his hand, then bites with a loud crunch, which irritates me for no good reason.

"I skipped lunch," he says.

I stare at him stone-faced, seething.

When I studied political science at the University of Washington, I learned that reporters often cover politics as though they're writing a novel. My professor believed it was because political reporters all want to be novelists.

Newspapers and cable news channels tend to focus on characters and storylines, twists and turns, who's up and who's down, good versus evil, and betrayal. They create narratives full of heroes, villains, and satisfying resolutions.

They rarely focus on the issues, and, with a few notable exceptions, they ignore what campaigns obsess about, the thing that decides most elections: demographics and turnout. The district-by-district, state-by-state, on-the-ground political realities that matter in our voting system.

If I invited a political reporter into the room at this moment, Peter's apple chewing would become a key detail illustrating Peter's character. Peter bit into the apple with a cool elegance that spoke to his nonchalance in the face of difficulty, his unshakable personal confidence. Something like that.

To me it comes across as stalling. "Moving past the last-minute nature of your entry," I say, "there's something else I want to ask you."

Peter tosses the half-eaten apple into a small garbage can and wipes his hands on a napkin. "Shoot."

"Did Benjamin know?"

"Know what?"

"Know you would enter."

"How could Benjamin know? I told you, I didn't know."

I hold his gaze as he walks toward the desk and sits across from me.

He crosses his right leg over his left. "Okay. If I did have an inkling that I might want to join at some point, which I don't think I did, I certainly didn't share it with anyone. Ask Benjamin. Ask Malcolm. Ask anyone who knew me. Who knows me."

"What about the negative stories coming out?"

"What negative stories?"

"The Gottlieb thing? Cecelia Mason and her chefs. You behind any of those?"

It's a suspicion I've had for weeks. Peter knows enough people in the media to squash stories about himself, or to start them about someone else.

"Absolutely not."

On the desk, my phone chirps with a text.

Steph: Producer from CBS affiliate wants to do a quick hit with you before the debate. Almost done?

I tap out a quick reply, telling her I'll be right out.

"You know, Peter, people think we might still be together, that I'm skewing the vote totals to help you. Your entry—besides pissing me off—has made the whole competition look shady. It would help if you made some public statements on this."

"My campaign manager wants to focus on social media and electronic communications for now."

"I get that. Easier to control the message. But even though I still don't believe you about, well, anything, it would help if you'd get on TV and tell the story you just pitched me. That you never planned to enter, the whole DB thing. You could even try the t-shirt stunt on The View or Good Morning America or something. They'd eat that up."

"It wasn't a stunt."

"Whatever. I'm saying, you and I need to get along for the next two months. It would go a long way if you'd make a few appearances and convince people I'm not helping you. End the speculation."

His eyes are full of what I interpret as fake tenderness. "I will."

I stand, shoving my phone in my pants pocket.

"Wait, Mia. There's one thing I want to ask, in return. A favor."

I look down at him, and for the first time I see what I think is real vulnerability. I know what he's going to ask, and I know my answer, too.

"When we split up," he begins, "I said I knew I could trust your integrity. Then I saw the story about our breakup on Page Six, and I assume the quotes came from you, or Steph, or maybe your mom?"

"They came from me."

"I wanted to say, I appreciate that you didn't tell them the real reason we broke up."

"You mean you appreciate the fact that I didn't out you?"

"Yes."

"The reporter was fishing for it. It's gonna come out, Peter. If I were your political consultant, I'd get it out now, get it out myself. It's 2020. Most people won't have any issue with you being bisexual."

"Maybe," Peter says quietly. "Maybe they'd accept it. You won't be the one to put it out, though?"

"I won't. I'd never do that."

Peter looks as though he's about to speak.

Before he can, my phone chirps with another text from Steph and I walk out, leaving Peter alone in the room.

 

 

Chapter 3

 

Before I can make it to the stage, I run into Justine Hall, our sixth-ranked candidate. She's the mayor of Denver and has been Steph's favorite candidate since the moment she entered.

In Hall's day job running Denver, most days are ponytail days. Today is no different. She wears jeans and a simple white blouse and I've come to understand that being too busy to focus on her appearance is part of her brand. Of course, that's easier when you look like she does. Tall and lean, shiny black hair. A classic beauty, but not flaunted.

She puts a hand on my arm. "Mia, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"It's about Peter Colton entering the race."

I glance back at the door to the breakout room, which I expect Peter to walk through at any moment. "Sure. But let's walk and talk. Steph needs me for something."

As we pass through a large dressing area, Hall says, "I'll get right to it: how is it fair that the guy who funded the site gets to enter the competition?"

"No one ever accused you of beating around the bush, huh?"

The corners of Hall's lips turn up in a tiny smile, but, as usual, she's all business. Though I'd never heard of her before she joined Ameritocracy, I've come to respect her intelligence and ability to get stuff done. She leans further left than I do on many national issues, but on the local level she's proven to be a pragmatist above all else. That's a quality I greatly admire.

"I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to talk with you about that," I say. "Did you read our public statement?"

"I did, but I'm asking you anyway. The statement was a PR release papering over a potential scandal. That's fine, it's part of the job, but I need to know the truth."

I go quiet as we pass a pair of interns who seem to be arguing about the stage lighting.

Steph and I released a statement soon after Peter entered the race. It took two days to write and reflected the policy toward Peter's candidacy we planned to stick to throughout the spring and summer. I've fielded many complaints about it since, but a critique from Justine Hall stings.

When we reach the debate hall, I stop to lean on the corner of the stage. In the back of the room, Steph chats with a few staff members. I lift myself up to sit on the stage and take in Hall, who watches me closely. "First of all, I didn't know Mr. Colton would enter, and I don't know whether he intended to enter when he funded the site last summer. It's possible that, like you, he was inspired by the platform and the opportunity to make a difference. But the most important thing for you to know is that his funding, which was paid in full before he entered, will have no effect on the site or the competition. Ameritocracy is not legally connected to Colton Industries. We are an independent non-profit. Mr. Colton is a candidate like any other."

One of Hall's eyes narrows as she leans away from me and tucks her chin. "Right, that's pretty much what the statement said."

"And, legally, we must treat him like any other candidate."

I hope the word "legally" communicates to Hall that, deep down, I wish I could kick his lying ass out of the competition.

She scans my face like she's trying to read my thoughts. "Mia, you dated him. Publicly."

"And?"

"You're telling me it's just a coincidence?" Her dark eyes lock on mine. Her gaze burns, and makes me feel I've done something wrong.

"I swear I knew nothing about anything. I was more surprised than anyone when he entered."

"You're still using his office space!"

"Up until he entered the competition, Mr. Colton loaned us office space in Santa Clarissa. Not on the Colton Industries campus. When he entered, we immediately began paying rent at fair market value. We also barred Mr. Colton from making any more donations to Ameritocracy."

"And the voting system is one hundred percent fair at this point?"

"We released two independent reports verifying that."

She studies me, then her smile is back. "I read them, and I believe you, Mia."

I let out a long breath. I feel like I do when a police car that's been driving behind me for a few minutes turns onto another road.

She grins at my visible relief, and I'm once again glad I don't play poker. "Mia, settle down. I believe you. I imagine you'll be getting this question from others as well."

"Already have."

"I had to ask. With the rumors swirling out there—"

"I get it. It's fine."

"I've talked with a few other candidates about this, and we trust you."

Now I'm skeptical. "Which candidates?"

"Marlon Dixon and, well, I ran into Tanner Futch backstage—ranting and raving as usual. I'll go back and deal with him."

Unsurprisingly, Futch was more upset than anyone when Peter entered, calling it, "A coup against the American people," among other things.

"What will you say?" I ask.

"I'll tell him you're working your butt off for a measly salary. That you wouldn't do that unless you truly held the values the site is founded on."

My laugh is weak. "I do, but how do you think he'll respond to that? He's come right to the edge of calling me a conspirator on his radio show."

"Oh, sure, he'd love to say you've been co-opted by the global elite or the lizard people or whatever, but he's still a top candidate. Even he can't run on your platform and denounce it at the same time."

"If he finds a way to do it, he will. Then I'll be another pawn of the deep state elites, right? Then again that's kinda what he says about everyone."

"Right, so don't take it personally." She squeezes my shoulder slightly. Justine Hall exudes competence and class, but not warmth, so this comes as a surprise. "And Mia, you got this. Two months to go."

With that, she turns and walks toward the dressing rooms.

* * *

Red carpet covers the debate stage, and seven podiums have been arranged in a gentle arc. A blue stage curtain forms the backdrop along with seven American flags hanging such that one will be visible on camera behind every candidate.

Journalists from all over the country are here, along with camera crews from the major news networks. We couldn't get any of them to carry the debate live, probably due to immense pressure from Democrats and Republicans not to, but we suspect they'll discuss the debate at length on their various talking head shows.

The fact that the networks have been resistant to cover our events live has actually turned out well for us. The American people want to see our debates, and most know how to use the internet. And since all our events air live on the Ameritocracy homepage, as well as our Facebook and Twitter feeds, the media blackout forces viewers to our site. While they're on the site, they can register, read about our candidates, sign up for our mailing list, hang out in our forums and chat rooms, and so on. In the last few months, the Ameritocracy website has become more than a place to vote for your favorite candidate. It's become the place to get your news.

I sit in the front row next to Steph as John Lee, our moderator, takes the stage.

"Welcome students, faculty, and guests, to the Ameritocracy debate." Lee is a thirty-year veteran of the San Francisco Chronicle and now co-host of California Today, an NPR show about the economy and politics of America's largest state. We make eye contact briefly, then he continues. "The organizers of this event, as well as the seven candidates backstage, have agreed to the following rules." Lee pauses for effect. "I will ask questions and each candidate has two minutes to answer. All candidates will have a chance to answer first, and last. There will be no opening statements, but there will be closing statements. I will permit no interruptions, but if a candidate is mentioned by name, I will allow him or her a brief response. I will moderate any back and forth that happens at that point and will step in to press for real answers. Applause is allowed, but please silence all cell phones."

He places his hands on the podium in a gesture that says, I'll wait, as audience members reach into purses and pockets for their phones.

"Okay," he resumes, "let's meet the candidates. The candidate ranked number seven served under three different United States presidents before becoming a Professor of Law at George Washington University. He's the author of the definitive history of the legal aspects of the Civil War, Divided Against Itself. Please welcome Avery Axum."

Meager, respectful applause rises from the audience as Axum emerges from behind the blue curtain, taking his place at the podium on the far right of the stage. He's around sixty-five, sporting silver hair and a pleasant, grandfatherly smile that always puts me at ease.

"The candidate ranked sixth is the mayor of Denver, Colorado, formerly a Unitarian pastor and community organizer. Please welcome Justine Hall."

Hall walks confidently to the podium on the far left of the stage. She's changed out of her jeans and is stunning in a slim-cut gray skirt and jacket over a white blouse. The ponytail is gone and her black hair is down around her shoulders.

"The fifth-ranked candidate is a Navy veteran who served in Afghanistan before being honorably discharged and beginning a ten-year career with the CIA. She now serves as the only independent in the US Congress, and the first Latina congresswoman elected by the state of Ohio. Please welcome Maria Ortiz Morales."

Morales, who limps slightly due to her prosthetic leg, takes her place next to Axum.

"Our next candidate, at number four, is the creator of the popular YouTube channel Pacific Northwest Home and the mother of six children. From western Washington, please welcome Beverly Johnson."

Loud applause fills the room as Johnson takes the stage next to Hall. Her red hair is a few shades lighter than mine and, of everyone in our top seven, she's the biggest surprise.

She's done an excellent job staking out a position as our most relatable candidate. She can talk policy when needed, but she rarely does, choosing instead to focus on sharing her story, her recipes, and the specifics of her advocacy for children in Washington State. As other candidates have tried to widen their appeal by talking about national issues, she's won voters by keeping it local.

"He's the host of Shout the Truth, a syndicated radio show that reaches over three million listeners daily, and author of the bestselling book, America Now!, please welcome our third-ranked candidate, Tanner Futch."

Red-faced and smiling broadly, Futch plods across the stage to mild applause and a smattering of boos. His hair is slicked back and he wears a black suit that's nicer than his usual getup. When he reaches his spot next to Morales and one to the right of center, he places his fists heavily on the podium, causing his mic to pop.

"At number two, he's the CEO of Colton Industries, a leader in the fields of cloud computing, solar technology, and data systems analysis. Please welcome Peter Colton."

Steph pats me on the knee, as if to console me, as Peter glides across the stage and takes his place. It's surreal, seeing him next to the candidates I've come to know.

His presence on stage doesn't feel right, and it has nothing to do with his politics.

I read a study once that proved that Americans don't vote based on issues as much as we'd like to think. Instead, we tend to identify as part of a "tribe," and we vote with our tribe. The tribes, the study argued, are based on social issues, race, economic status, and sometimes simple proximity. Not on important national issues.

In this moment, I believe the argument completely. The other candidates on stage have been major parts of my life over the last year. Even the ones I disagree with are part of my tribe. And Peter, who I agree with on most things, isn't.

"And your top-ranked candidate," Lee concludes, "is a Baptist minister from Abilene, Texas, and a well-known advocate for the poor and disenfranchised. Please welcome Marlon Dixon."

Loud cheers and a few shrill whistles erupt from the audience as Dixon appears from the left side of the stage. Unlike the other candidates, he stops and shakes the moderator's hand before taking his place behind the podium in the center of the stage. Dixon was disappointed when Steph and I turned down his request to wear a GoPro camera at the debate, but nevertheless he beams down at us, then takes in the audience. He was born for moments like this.

Lee casts a sweeping, satisfied look across the stage. "Welcome to all the candidates."

He waits for the applause to die down, then proceeds, his voice lower and slower. "Tonight we'll continue the questioning that was underway at the previous Ameritocracy debate, which was tragically cut short. Before we begin I'd like to engage us all in a moment of reflection and respect."

He bows his head in silence. The audience follows along obediently. Looking up after a long minute, Lee says, "In honor of those we lost, let us continue our important work and carry on bravely as we celebrate democracy in action through this debate. Mr. Dixon, this first question, submitted by Tanner Futch, is for you."