Off Message Read online

  Off Message

  Ameritocracy, Book 2

  A.C. Fuller

  Contents

  An Important Note to the Reader

  Summary of Open Primary (contains spoilers)

  Meet the Candidates

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part III

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author Notes, March 2018

  Introducing The Alex Vane Media Thrillers

  About the Author

  An Important Note to the Reader

  You'll enjoy Off Message a lot more if you've read Book One of the Ameritocracy series, Open Primary. But in case you haven't, or if you just need a refresher, turn the page…

  Summary of Open Primary (contains spoilers)

  Mia Rhodes wanted an alternative to the two-party system, so she created one. Her site, Ameritocracy, allowed anyone to register and run for president, but it was only an internet curiosity until she received a five-million-dollar cash infusion from tech billionaire Peter Colton.

  Mia hired her best friend Stephanie Blackmon to help her run the site, and Peter provided tech help in the form of Benjamin Singh, a computer expert who helped fend off the initial cyberattacks on Ameritocracy. Flush with cash and credibility, Ameritocracy began attracting serious candidates, and Mia found herself an unexpected celebrity. Despite initial misgivings, Mia began a relationship with Peter Colton, easing herself into his world of million-dollar private parties and A-list celebrities, including his old college friend, David Benson, one of the biggest movie stars in the world.

  The credibility of Ameritocracy was threatened by the candidacy of Thomas Morton, whose appeal relied entirely on generically inoffensive platitudes about America. Despite this, he held the lead until Mia's investigation revealed that most of his supporters weren't genuine voters, but a network of hacked devices across the country controlled by a cabal of Ukrainian oligarchs. When Mia and Steph made Morton's plot public, he dropped out in disgrace.

  At the first Ameritocracy rally, Mia introduced the top ten candidates as the world watched on TV and online. For the first time, Ameritocracy had gained enough momentum to be a viable threat to the Democrats and Republicans in 2020. But even as Mia came to accept that she was playing a pivotal role in history, the race changed again when David Benson entered, transforming Ameritocracy through the sheer force of his celebrity.

  Meet the Candidates

  Ameritocracy has hundreds of candidates, but here's how the top ten looked at the end of Open Primary.

  Marlon Dixon—a man on a mission from God to feed the hungry and house the needy.

  Tanner Futch—the bombastic voice of the alt-right.

  Cecilia Mason—genteel old money come to life, with a strong business background.

  Justine Hall—the only top-ten candidate with executive-level political experience, but she's too busy to talk about it.

  Orin Gottlieb—the rock star representative of small-government libertarians.

  Charles Blass—a modern-day Trotsky, with millions of millennial followers.

  Wendy Kahananui—a woman who believes that all political problems are spiritual problems.

  Beverly Johnson—the queen of suburban moms, and a hell of a cook.

  Maria Ortiz Morales—a soldier who lost a leg in Afghanistan, won a seat in Congress as an independent, and has no time for your BS.

  Avery Axum—A center-right academic who served in the White House under four presidents.

  OFF MESSAGE

  (idiom)

  Departing from an expected or regular theme or issue.

  Part 1

  1

  December 31, 2019

  Two hours north of San Francisco, along the Pacific Coast, sits Ocean Cove. It's a standard California resort town: a couple hotels, some gift shops, and a few restaurants specializing in artichoke hearts, a local delicacy.

  But I'm not heading to Ocean Cove.

  Seven miles to the west, a small island rises from the cool waters of the Pacific—so small that it doesn't appear on most maps. To all but some local officials, a handful of billionaires, and their sworn-to-secrecy staff, it doesn't even exist. I learned about it a week ago when my boyfriend, Peter, invited me to a New Year's Eve party held on the island. Technically it's named A171, but to Peter it's Gold Island, and that's where I'm headed.

  Last year, New Year's Eve was a cheap bottle of champagne at a Seattle karaoke bar with my best friend, Steph. She pumped up the crowd with her superb rendition of Queen Latifah's "Ladies First"—which did not help us meet interesting men. I, on the other hand, bummed everyone out with a terrible rendition of Pat Benatar's "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." I was in bed by 12:30.

  Silicon Valley billionaires like Peter do things a little differently.

  He flew his private helicopter to Gold Island earlier today to oversee last-minute party arrangements. I charged Bluebird—my fully-electric, baby-blue 1964 Mustang—and headed up the coast. I settle further into the cream-colored leather seat and turn up the volume on my podcast. I take a corner, foot heavy on the pedal as I admire the setting sun, which turns the surface of the ocean into liquid honey.

  I've become addicted to political podcasts, and now find them a better source of information and analysis than cable news or even radio. I don't read as many newspapers as I used to, but podcasts cover the biggest political stories in depth.

  My favorites don't often talk about me or Ameritocracy, the online political competition I created, but when they do I always get a funny feeling—half vulnerability and half guilt. Vulnerability because, as Ameritocracy gains momentum, more dirt is thrown at us. We also see more positive stories, but one negative story affects me as much as ten positive ones.

  The guilt sneaks in because I feel like I shouldn't eavesdrop on their discussions about me. Good podcasts make listeners feel like they're listening in on a great conversation, and Gretchen Esposito's Washington Now podcast is one of the best. It should be: Gretchen has thirty years' experience reporting for the country's biggest newspapers from inside the Beltway. She's had a front-row seat at every major political story in those three decades. Now semi-retired, she does freelance work and hosts Washington Now, where today, I'm the topic of conversation.

  "Mia Rhodes is doing more for democracy than any ten DNC or RNC staffers have done in the last ten years combined," a guest argues. That guest is David Benson—or DB, as he asked me to call him. A Hollywood A-lister, he's the star of the blockbuster series of Atlantis films, and People magazine's sexiest man alive from a few years back. He's also my leading candidate.

  Gretchen isn't buying it. "I know Mia has made a name for herself, and she's certainly helped your brand, David, but do you really think she's helping democracy?"

  "I do," DB says, but Gretchen isn't finished.

  "Do you, really? I've heard from sources in both major parties who argue that Ameritocracy is a real threat to America's democratic norms. If a fringe candidate or even—and I mean no offense—a celebrity like yourself wins Ameritocracy in July—"

  "It could threaten the two-party system? Yeah, of course they're worried about that.
It's their job. Look, I've publicly supported members of the Democratic Party for years. I've hosted fundraisers, given money personally. And I still believe that they're trying to do right. But as long as we're limited by this two-party system, they've got no incentive to be anything more than the second-worst choice. So yes, they feel threatened, because they're worried they might have to start aiming higher." DB speaks with all the charm you'd expect from a movie star who's done a thousand interviews.

  But Gretchen is no pushover. "They're worried someone like you will win Ameritocracy. Or someone like Justine Hall. They're worried you'll turn this into a three-way race going into the fall. That you'll split the Democratic vote, tipping the election to the Republicans. And the Republicans I've heard from worry about the same thing on the other side. A win by one of Ameritocracy's right-leaning candidates—Tanner Futch or Robert Mast, say—could spell doom for the Republicans in 2020. Even a center-right candidate like Avery Axum could pull enough votes to tip the election." DB tries to interject, but Gretchen is on a roll. "Imagine this: on November 4, 2020, if a candidate like you or Justine Hall tips the election to the Republicans by pulling five or ten percent of Democratic votes, can you honestly say you won't regret becoming involved?"

  It's a good question, one that podcast hosts, cable news pundits, journalists, and everyday Americans ask constantly these days. The fact that Ameritocracy will upend this election is apparent to everyone who follows politics. And though many are excited about the potential for an independent to disrupt the 2020 election, others are more skeptical.

  It's a topic that has given me more sleepless nights than I'd admit on the record. When I started Ameritocracy after the 2016 election, I didn't imagine it would grow as big as it has. I didn't imagine we'd be a threat in 2020. If I'd had a plan, it would have sounded something like "2020, they ignore you. 2024, they laugh at you. 2028, they fight you. 2032, you win." Instead, we've turned 2020 into a three-way contest, and people won't stop asking whether we've thought through the consequences.

  I speed up along a straightaway, the ocean on my left glittering as the sun sinks behind the water. The top is down and the rush of air drowns out the voice of doubt that creeps in when I think about 2020. I want to hear DB's answer. I'm always curious how my top candidates will handle the question, and lately they've had to handle it often.

  After a long pause, he says, "Well, Gretchen, I'll admit that I've considered it. And we don't yet know who the Democratic and Republican nominees will be. But if you're asking whether I'll regret it if I tip the election to a generic Republican over a generic Democrat, yes, I will. But there's always a reason not to try. That reason is fear. Acting from fear won't get us out of this mess. Sooner or later, you have to start asking questions from a differe—"

  Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror. I click off the podcast and pull slowly into a turnout carved into a low hill as the police car stops behind me.

  A burly cop in a khaki uniform and shiny black boots steps out, pauses inexplicably, then ambles up to my convertible. "License and registration."

  The 1964 Mustang convertible sits low to the ground. That, combined with the facts that the top is down and I'm only five foot two, turns the cop into a giant.

  I hand him my license and registration. "I didn't think I was speeding," I say, but I know damn well that I was. "Was I speeding, sir?"

  He studies my driver's license. "You were going eighty in a fifty-five, Ms. Rhodes. Along this two-lane highway, that's extremely dangerous." He points to the oceanside cliff where a guardrail hems in the space the shoulder would otherwise occupy. "That's a two-hundred-foot drop."

  "I'm sorry. I'm trying to get to a New Year's Eve…thing."

  He leans in to get a better look at me, squinting in the fading evening light. "Have you been drinking, Ms. Rhodes?"

  "No. No way." It's the truth, but the way he's studying me makes me think he's skeptical. He's not looking at my eyes, though, or any other part of my face. He seems to be studying my auburn hair, which I tied up in a messy bun as I do whenever I drive with the top down.

  "Wait, are you the Mia Rhodes from Ameritocracy? I remember you from the Saturday Night Live thing. And weren't you on The View last week? I watched…I mean my wife watched that."

  This kind of thing has become common over the last months, but it surprises me every time. After our first big rally, TV coverage of Ameritocracy exploded. And since SNL parodied me and my relationship with Peter hit the tabloids, I get recognized at least once a day. If it gets me out of a ticket, it'll be the first useful thing fame has given me.

  "That's me," I say. "And that's why I was speeding, which I'm very sorry about. I'm heading up to Ocean Cove for a New Year's Eve party. Some of the top candidates will be there, along with my boyfriend—"

  "Peter Colton! I know about him. Didn't he date Rihanna for a while?"

  Instead of saying, Thanks for the reminder, jackass, I offer a polite smile. "That was just a rumor. Anyway it was years ago."

  The officer hands me my license and registration, flashing a white-toothed smile and, if I'm not mistaken, a lascivious wink. "I think you can do better."

  I wince internally at what I'm pretty sure was a come-on, but I smile noncommittally. I wonder if he knows how sleazy it is to wink at me like that. I'd love to give him a piece of my mind, to come up with a blistering comeback. Knowing me, I'll think of it two miles down the road. Even if I thought of it, I don't have the nerve to challenge a cop twice my size on a lonely stretch of highway.

  Just then, a red pickup truck pulls into the turnout and slows beside us. A bearded man in a San Francisco 49ers hat rolls down the passenger window. The truck stops and the man in the hat sticks his head out of the window. "Thank you! Thank you for everything you're doing!"

  Apparently, I'm surrounded by fans. "You're welcome," I call to him, smiling. "I just want to reinvigorate American democracy, to give everyone a chance, to—"

  "I wasn't talking to you!" the man says nastily. "Thank you, officer. She should be in prison!"

  With that, the man extends his arm and a single middle finger toward me, then spits out the window, striking the hood of Bluebird as the truck peels away. Not a fan after all.

  I give the officer an imploring look. "Are you gonna let him get away with that?" It's a joke, but I'm determined to get out of this ticket.

  "I'm going to let you go with a warning, Ms. Rhodes, but please slow down. You can't save democracy if you're dead. Personally, I was a Destiny O'Neill fan before she dropped out, but that's not on you. I'll settle for Tanner Futch or even that black fella, Dixon. Hate half of what he says, but at least he's a real Christian, and honest."

  I can't stop staring at the wad of spit on the hood of my car, but I continue to play it friendly. "You may be the only man in America who supports both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon." I ignore his mention of Destiny O'Neill, the buxom YouTube star and self-proclaimed "Second Amendment MILF" who led our competition early before dropping out to star in her own reality show.

  The cop seems confused by this, which leaves me wondering whether our voters are as well-informed as I'd like to believe. Futch is a right-wing reactionary—anti-immigrant, anti-trade, casually misogynistic. Dixon, on the other hand is a poster boy for the progressive left on every issue other than abortion. "How'd you end up a fan of Futch and Dixon?" I ask.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, Futch is to the far right politically, Dixon to the far left. On most issues, at least." He stares at me like I'm not making sense. "Haven't heard of many voters supporting both of them."

  "Ms. Rhodes, I vote for the man or, I guess, the woman. Not the issues. Real people don't think in terms of left and right. You of all people should know that."

  I should, and I'm embarrassed that I forgot it. I started Ameritocracy to get around the traditional splits in American political discourse—left/right, Democrat/Republican, progressive/conservative—but I fall back into using those
terms more than I'd like. Until this moment, it hadn't occurred to me that anyone could be a fan of both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon. If I'm going to get through the next six months with my sanity, I need to remember that voters don't easily fit my stereotypes. I'm about to say this when he turns to walk back to his cruiser.

  "Thanks!" I call after him.

  "You're welcome." He turns slowly. "And for the love of God, slow down, Ms. Rhodes. Have a happy New Year."

  "Happy New Year," I manage.

  With that, he hops in his vehicle and drives away.

  After wiping the spit off my hood with a napkin, I ease back onto the highway, still trying to envision a mindset that would favor both Tanner Futch and Marlon Dixon. But I can't let myself get too bogged down in Ameritocracy tonight. It's New Year's Eve, and I've got to get to Gold Island.

  Two miles down the road, I whisper to myself, "What an asshole," then yell to no one, "I'm sure your wife thinks she could do better too!"

  2

  Two hours later, the ferry docks at an unmarked and nearly invisible pier along the east coast of Gold Island. The seven-mile ride from Ocean Cove took twenty minutes, which barely allowed me time to wrestle elbow-to-elbow with the women preparing for the party in the ship's ladies' room. A sea of feathers and sequins obscured much of the view of myself in the wall of mirrors behind a row of steel sinks, but I got my hair in order and I look like the cat's whiskers in my 1920s flapper-style dress. It's light gray, with art deco sequin triangles and lace insets that make me feel like I'm walking into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. In a manner of speaking, I am.