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Slanted

By H. L. Wegley

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Prologue
“Do I want to rule the world? Let me think about that for a minute.” James Bratkowski, CEO and founder of IT giant, Q-It, paused and studied the beaming face of his Vice President of Product Development, Andy Rosenberg.
If he didn’t answer soon, Andy, like an excited puppy, would either hyperventilate or wet his pants. This project was Andy’s brainchild and, as such—
“Well, do you or don’t you? The algorithm’s done. Two weeks ago, I showed you the design that my data scientists engineered. We can implement this, on-the-fly, worldwide, without disrupting our search engine. And, when it’s done—”
“I know. I get to rule the world.”
“That’s a bit of hyperbole for effect. And since nobody will know that you’re the emperor, you—”
“Emperor? I want to be the emperor who keeps his clothes on, and I don’t want my clothes morphing into an orange jumpsuit.”
Andy blasted out a breath of frustration. “No one can prove what we’re doing. We’re just giving people what they want, distilling the data down to the finest—”
“Distilling, that’s a good analogy. What you really mean is we’re getting them intoxicated on whatever type of spirits we decide to serve. Tell me again—a simple overview—how do the data and algorithm work together? And how do they achieve our goals, political and financial?”
Andy took a deep breath, settled into his chair, and clasped his hands on the corner of Jim’s desk. “This is a highly simplified description of what we’re doing. We add to our database schema some fields to indicate which area of interest a bit of data—a news article, a book, a post, a picture—belongs to. With that, we add a descriptor of the relative importance to that area—areas such as an election, a political issue, a natural disaster, economic news, or a crime. Note that we can add areas of interest anytime we want simply by re-indexing the data.” Andy paused.
“Now, when our customers search for something, we order the data returned to them by its relative importance as we have defined it. We can even choose what levels of importance should not be displayed in the query results.” Andy stopped, obviously waiting for feedback.
“So over time, Q-It’s customers’ opinions would be shaped by the information they see … or don’t see?”
“Exactly, and you become the emperor of your global empire.”
“Suppose some sore loser in an election goes to the DOJ, and they come after me with an orange suit?”
“Jim, you were only trying to tame a beastly data problem by giving users what they most wanted to see.”
“But we’re biasing the query results. We’ve slanted everything.”
“Unintentionally, of course.”
“Then, Andy, we need to put some verbal policies in place specifying that we shall never document any instructions for how we assign priorities to the data.”
“Don’t worry about that. Priorities are built into the algorithm. They’re not contained in policies or procedures that people follow. Investigators would need to analyze the algorithm, reverse-engineer it and, if they did, they would conclude the biases were algorithmic and thus unintentional. The emperor will still be wearing his jeans and his no tuck shirt.”
“In that case, maybe I do want to rule the world. But, Andy?”
“Yes.” Andy was practically bouncing in his seat from excitement.
“Restrict all knowledge of what we’re actually doing to the minimum set of people required. No one should know everything, and all policies and procedures are spoken, repeated as necessary, but never documented. Do you understand?”
Andy stood and grinned. “I understand, your Imperial Majesty.”

 

Chapter 1
Three years later
This interview might blow up in your face, dude.
Hunter Jones’s right foot tapped out a snappy rhythm on the floor of the studio while he tried to shove the vexing thought from his mind.
Radio host, Zach Tanner, fiddled with his headphones, twisted knobs, and moved sliders on an impressive looking mixing console. “Are you ready to do this, Hunter?”
Was it wise to introduce his research in a live radio interview—to state that the biggest search engine on the planet was run by some corrupt people trying to steal people’s autonomy and possibly an election? But surely there wouldn’t be any real danger from the interview.
Some bright boys from MIT ran the company he was about to implicate. They were not members of organized crime. No one would kill him for his accusations. Lawsuits and injunctions, on the other hand …
“Zach to Hunter. Where did you go? You ready, buddy?”
“I’m ready.” His voice wasn’t convincing, even to himself, and it drew a curious glance from Zach.
Hunter would be on the air live, albeit only to a local audience. And he did need to test the waters before he told the world about his research findings which could cause legal heck to break loose in the life of Hunter Jones.
Now he had Sam to consider. He couldn’t afford to spend weeks or even days in court when he was the only stabilizing force in Sam’s life. Eight-year-old Samantha had had enough changes in these four months following her mother’s death.
And her guardian, Hunter Jones, would not let the coming media storm or anything else upset Sam. If anyone attempted anything that hurt her in any way, Hunter would break their scrawny necks … in the figurative sense, of course, unless—
“We’re on in ten seconds.” Zach adjusted Hunter’s mic.
“We go live in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1—welcome to Zach’s Facts, folks, factual news about significant events impacting Southern Oregon and the nation. My guest today is a personal friend, a genius with a heart and a conscience, Hunter Jones. You may not have heard about him before today, but I’ve got the feeling he’s going to become a household name across America. Hunter, how are you doing on this fine June afternoon, the first day of summer?”
“I guess I’m a little nervous about this. It’s my first time live on the air. But to an Edward R. Murrow graduate, like yourself, this is probably old hat … about like me tearing into a one-hundred-terabyte data set.”
“Speaking of big data, we’ve only got thirty minutes to cover your analysis of an incredible volume of data. Tell us what you analyze and what you’re looking for?”
“I analyze your queries on the big search engines—your neighbors’ searches, the whole nations’ searches. And I look at the query results those searches return.”
“Come on, you don’t spy on all of your neighbors, do you?”
“Not personally. I don’t associate any query with a particular person, only with the results it gets. I compare each query with all the results it could have returned and then look for any systematic prioritization of the returned data—you know, to see if certain types of information are given a significantly higher or lower priority in the query results. And I look to see if some potential results are never returned.”
“What are we talking about, Hunter? Cheating? Lying to the public?”
“Let’s not go there, Zach. We’ll call it systematic bias, for now. It could be the result of the search algorithms. Maybe the specs weren’t good, and they caused the programmers to inadvertently introduce biases when selecting the set of data and ordering it for the query results. And there are other non-malevolent possibilities for the biases I’ve seen.”
“So you have seen biases?”
“I have.”
“Which search engines have you analyzed?”
“Well, we all know the biggest by far is Q-It. I’ve looked at all the major search engines, but I’ve focused on Q-It.”
“Tell us about Q-It’s biases. How slanted is the information?”
Where was Zach going with this line of inquiry? They’d agreed that Zach wouldn’t goad him like this. “I would rather complete my next phase of the research before—”
“Sounds like you have found some things that might interest our listeners?”
“I will let you know about that after my research report is written. I really would like to complete my research without court injunctions or lawsuits stopping me.”
“Injunctions? Lawsuits? So there are nefarious findings about Q-It?”
“Zach, I didn’t say that. And query results are only part of my analysis. For example, I’ve also found potential problems with all of the digital assistants. They record a lot of data that finds its way back to the search engine’s data storage. That’s inevitable when you have applications programmed to be your assistant and to respond to voice commands.”
Zach was obviously trying to get under his skin. And it was working.
“So you wouldn’t use any of the popular digital assistants?”
“I didn’t say that.” But Hunter had ventured beyond the point of no return. He might as well tell this local radio audience what was on his mind and try to gauge their reaction. If it was bad, at least they could try to limit the damage before the explosion went nationwide.
“Okay, tell us what you did say.”
“Rather than tell you, I’m going to ask three questions. They should suffice. Question number one, do you really want human-coded software, spec’d out by a business enterprise, doing your thinking for you? Question number two, do you really think you’ll get an undistorted view of reality if you allow that? Question number three, do you honestly believe that all the important facts will be provided in the query results you get from an Internet search engine? And here’s a fourth question, surely no business enterprise would ever play politics with such troves of information … would they?”
Zach’s hand had hovered over a big red button on the console for the past four or five seconds. He pulled his hand back. “So, Hunter, you’re insinuating that—”
“I’m not insinuating anything.” If this is what Zach wanted from all his button pushing, he would get it. “I’m flat-out telling you, Zach. These people are lying to us in subtle ways by falsifying the evidence, slanting it in favor of their preferred conclusions and their preferred candidates. They can bend your mind, influence elections, and re-define truth if we let them.”
Zach’s hand moved toward the red button again, then stopped. “Thanks, Hunter … folks, we’ve been live on the air with Hunter Jones who just expressed his opinion about Q-It and other Internet information gatherers. Now it’s back to music on the Zach Tanner show.” Zach hit the red button and turned off his mic.
“That wasn’t my opinion, Zach. It was fact, and I have the data to prove it.”
“But it was my opinion that you needed to cool off a bit, and I needed to end your diatribe before Q-It sics its attorneys on us. My boss probably won’t be happy with the way things went before I shut down the interview.”
“Then why were you trying to press all my buttons?”
“Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to press the one that said detonate. But, after I did, I needed to call what you said ‘your opinion’ for the time being. If I hadn’t, I might’ve gotten myself fired, and then you would lose your local mouthpiece.”
The studio door opened. “Zach?” A voice came from the hallway. “Zach … uh, we weren’t just local. Evidently, the network contacted Susan after reading the notice about the interview. They told her to turn you on nationwide.”
“What? You just don’t do that to someone who’s—”
“In addition, she wanted your interview to be frank and spontaneous. Her words, not mine.”
“Well, Mitch, that’s what she got. So, whatever she thinks about what we just broadcasted, or about pulling my mic, or canning me, tell her this … frankly, my dear, I don’t give—”
“Now who needs to cool it, Zach.” Hunter forced a laugh that had little mirth behind it.
Zach’s furled brow said that he didn’t see the humor.
But the truth of the matter was no one may be laughing after the feedback came from the news outlets and the pundits across America and after the network owners provided their input. And, certainly, not after they all got hauled into court by James Bratkowski, CEO of Q-It.
For Hunter Jones, the cat was definitely out of the bag. He had spilled the beans. Given away his secrets and—Hunter had run out of clichés to describe what he’d done.
He would have no control over which of the national punditocrats got first crack at his research. They would all hear about it now. And someone probably recorded the interview. Worst case, it might even be on YouTube tonight.
That’s not how Hunter had planned to break his findings. And there would be unintended consequences from this interview gone awry.
Zach stood and pushed the door wide open. “You’re free to go, Hunter. Right now, I need have to a little chat with Susan, my boss.” Zach stopped when a tall, slender, middle-aged woman wearing a scowl rounded the hallway corner and headed his way.
Hunter stepped out of the studio doorway.
“Uncle Hunter …” Samantha ran from the desk in the lobby, where the friendly receptionist had babysat Sam for the past half hour. Sam circled the approaching woman, nearly tripping her, then leaped into Hunter’s arms.
He pulled the giggling eight-year-old to his chest. “Sam, how many times have I told you, I’m not your uncle.”
“But you’re not my dad, so …”
Hunter stepped aside as the sour-faced woman, Zach’s boss, strode by.
She shot him a glaring glance and then hurried into the studio.
Hunter and Sam needed to leave before they got splattered by whatever was about to hit the fan.
“That’s right. I’m not your dad. I’m your guardian, Sam.”
They walked down the hallway to the lobby of the radio station.
“You are such a tool. I can’t call you guardian.”
“Whatever that means. But if I’m a tool, can I be a variable speed, reversible drill?”
Her wrinkled nose said she wasn’t going to comment on his interpretation of tool. “If I can’t call you uncle, what am I supposed to call you?”
“First, you tell me what tool means, then we’ll get to my official title.”
Sam blasted out a sigh. “It means stupid.”
“Doesn’t fit, Sam. What’s the latest word for cool or maybe awesome?”
“Dope.” Sam grinned.
He clamped his hands on her waist and leaned Sam back to study her face.
That maneuver caused her boney little knees to poke painfully into his rib cage. “Dope? That ain’t gonna work, either.”
“Ain’t ain’t a word, Uncle Hunter.” She rubbed her fingers over the stubble on his chin and wrinkled her nose again. “You need to shave.”
While a loud discussion from somewhere behind him echoed down the hallway, Hunter set Sam down on the carpeted floor, curled his big hand around her tiny fingers, and walked out of the radio station into the warm Southern Oregon sunshine.
“Need to shave, huh? What do you expect? It’s after four o’clock. Look. You’re not gonna call me a dope, even if you say it means awesome, which I’m beginning to doubt. And I’m not your uncle, I’m your cousin, your second cousin. Got it, Sam?” He turned down the sidewalk toward his old Dodge pickup truck.
“Yeah, got’em both. But I could call you a goat.”
“No, you’re not calling me a goat. BTW, what does goat mean?”
“Greatest of all time. You could be my goat uncle.”
He shook his head. “Here’s the deal. Until we both decide on a good name for you to call me, I’m just Hunter. For us, Hunter means part dad, part uncle, and it means the person who loves you more than anybody in the whole world. Okay?”
She looked up at him, but Sam wasn’t smiling. “Mama and dad love me more than anybody not in the whole world. So I guess you can be Hunter … for now.”
Sam’s hand grew heavy the instant her shoulders drooped.
Hunter glanced down at the face now tilted down toward the sidewalk.
A track of glistening tears rolled down her tanned cheek.
Sam’s dad, an Army Ranger, had been killed in Afghanistan two years ago. But her mom had died in an accident only four months ago, at the end of February. There were moments like this almost every day, though there was a little less crying now.
Hunter stopped, took a knee, and pushed her wavy blonde hair aside. He brushed the tears from Sam’s cheeks. “Of all the people in heaven, your mom and dad love you the most. Well, God loves you that much too. But on this planet, Hunter loves you more than anybody. Got that?”
Two tiny arms circled his neck and nearly choked him. Sam might be small in stature, but she was strong in every sense of the word, body, mind and spirit. Much stronger than Hunter Jones.
When Sam released him, Hunter looked down into her perfectly sculpted face with the sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She was happiness on earth for Hunter Jones.
This was as good as God had allowed life to get for him. As much as he longed for adult companionship, life with this angelic imp would never be boring. But for an adult woman, life with a data geek like Hunter Jones would be the epitome of boring, even if the geek could run a sub-four-minute mile.
God knew what was best. For Hunter, it was Samantha Wilson.
Sam went silent for the fifteen-minute drive home. Her recovery time from a crying episode had shrunk to about fifteen minutes over the past couple of weeks. Odds were, in another two or three minutes, he wouldn’t be able keep her quiet.
Hunter drove slowly down the long, graveled driveway to his modular home perched on the side of a small, oak-covered hill in Sams Valley, an unincorporated community a little northwest of Medford.
After he braked his truck to a stop in the circle drive, Sam popped her seatbelt and looked up at him. “I’m bored.”
“School’s only been out for three days. You can’t be bored yet.”
“Yes, I can. I’m bored out of my skeleton.”
“You mean out of your skull.”
“Out of my skull? I didn’t say I was crazy, Uncle Hunter. Just bored. Can we take a vacation?”
Hunter slid out of his pickup and circled it to Sam’s side.
She already had the door open.
He set her on the ground beside him. “How about I take you to Brookings next Saturday. We can spend the whole day on the beach. Tide pools, splashing in the waves …”
“But we’ve done that before.” Sam took his hand and led him to the front door. “I mean a real vacation.”
“Let me think on it.” He unlocked the door.
As he nudged Sam through the doorway, from the side pocket of his cargo shorts, his cell buzzed his leg. “Maybe we can have a real vacation after I finish my report.”
Sam mumbled something about her best friend moving away.
Hunter pulled out his cell and glanced at the caller ID.
It displayed a 202 area code. Not a number in his contacts list.
The interview? Could someone already—not likely.
He answered.
“May I speak with Mr. Hunter Jones?” The words came wrapped in a deep, rich baritone that spoke softly, like someone trying to prevent anyone from hearing them.
Sam looked up at him and frowned. “Not again. More techie talk.”
Hunter gave her the palms-out stop signal. “May I ask who is calling?”
“I take it that I’m speaking to Mr. Jones. This is Jeff Montgomery.”
A DC area code. Jeff Montgomery. The name, like an electrical charge, zapped his memory. Hunter was speaking to President Gramm’s Chief of Staff, Mr. Jeffrey Montgomery. “Yes, this is Hunter Jones.”
“The Hunter Jones who was interviewed on the air about a half-hour ago?”
The fallout from going nuclear with Zach had begun, and it would be hotter than Bikini Atoll in March of 1954. That hydrogen bomb blast had vaporized three islands. What was President Gramm about to vaporize?
Come what may, he would not let this hurt Sam no matter what the president wanted.

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