Page 14 of Privilege

6

AMITY

My heart is pounding.Every thump feels like it’s going to cause damage inside me.

I recognize the feelings of anxiety and panic and run through my training. This is exactly the kind of emotional state that must be controlled in order to act rationally, calmly, and with restraint.

I stare at the back of the Guardian as I follow her. She’s tall like me and wearing white like a CSO with a long brown and silver braid hanging down her back. To the rhythm of my thumping heart, we walk to the door in the back of the courtroom and down the hall. It’s so quiet even our soft footsteps echo. I wonder if they can hear them inside the courtroom, see our shadows through the crack under the door after she closes it.

What is going to happen to Zeph? The question vibrates inside me. I don’t fear for myself, but I fear for my friend. My poor, delusional friend who has put himself and his family in danger with this nonsense.

The anxiety that he may be hurt or imprisoned because of this—surely he will be—is a heavy stone in my stomach. Could I have done more to convince him? Could I have done something to avoid this?

The lock clicks as the Guardian opens the door to her chambers and it shakes me out of my haze. She gestures toward one of two chairs and goes to sit heavily in the ornate chair behind her desk. She sighs with a wry expression at the overly fancy surroundings. Something tells me she doesn’t think any more of the marble and the heavily polished desk than I do.

These are relics of a system of justice that had it completely wrong. They took people who had lost their way, let their negative emotions control them, and imprisoned them in ways that would only worsen their reactions and deepen their trauma.

It was an inhuman way of dealing with things, the revolving door of prison. Violence in the system, violence out of the system, nothing ever changed. No matter how many people they put in jail, they never got rid of the violence in society. Our way is much better.

We sit silently for a moment until there’s a soft knock on the door. When the door swings open I get another shock, seeing a familiar set of shoulders and braid and register my mother as she turns to look at me.

There’s nothing written on her face. My mother is too well trained to let her emotions dictate her expression, but there’s something around her eyes, fear maybe, that tells me the news is not good. She sits down in the chair beside me and starts to speak, but the Guardian also starts at the same time and my mother stops in respect.

“Amity,” the Guardian says to me. “How are you feeling?”

How am I feeling?The question swirls, finding nothing to hold on to. But following my training, I start a rapid body scan, naming the feelings I recognize.

“Anxious. Fearful. Worried. Oh, I guess that’s the same as anxious, sorry…” I trail off, searching for anything else.

The Guardian gives a curt nod as my mom reaches out to hold my hand. Her fingers are long like mine, smooth and warm, and she gives my hand a squeeze that I gratefully return.

“You are worried about your friend?” the Guardian guesses correctly.

I nod.

“He is unharmed. We let them escape.”

I swallow and control my features. My mother has no reaction at all. She knew. But what about the guard, the boy I remember from MAV? Should I say who I think he is?

“We believe they are heading north to Anchorage,” the Guardian tells me, relieving me of the responsibility of spilling that information as well. A quick twist of relief in my chest.

“Oh, Zeph.” I respond without thinking.

The Guardian nods but cocks her head to the side. Then she takes a deep breath, thinking. I wait.

“This whole situation has given us an opportunity, Amity.”

“Prepare yourself,” my mother murmurs. It’s something she’s said to me my whole life right before bad news or an unexpected development. And so out of habit I brace, emotionally.

The Guardian’s eyes soften at the unease showing on my face.

“Your first mission for your HighClear training will be to follow Zeph to Alaska. You will be deported undercover and we will arrange for your travel through Canada to Anchorage.”

The words sound like a story out of a book.

“We believe the men Zeph left with,” my mother tells me, “belong to a men’s militia called the Forge. Your job will be to reach out to the Forge, find Zeph, and make a connection to the organization. Collect information that we need.”

“Mom.” I shake my head. “I just—I literally just took my Oath.” I’m eighteen years old. “Wouldn’t someone else be better?” I start to argue, like I don’t have any training at all. Like a child.

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