Page 22 of Privilege

9

VALE

I get backonto the highway. There are cops out, and I see someone pulled over. We’re on the lookout for the PS, but I don’t think they have jurisdiction here in Ohio. Whenever I see flashing lights I tense a little, and I can’t stop watching for them even when we switch drivers and I’m in the passenger seat.

“Looks like we got away pretty clean that time,” Mark says, a little uncertain.

I’m not known for making conversation—I find it pretty difficult. I prefer someone give me orders or explain how to do something, rather than expect me to answer them.

“Not that guy.” I state the obvious. Sure, we might have gotten away, but it wasn’t a clean mission. We lost a man, and he may have compromised future rescues.

“What do you think they’ll do to him?” he asks.

I shake my head. My guess is as good as his. How can I end this conversation and not have to talk anymore? “He’ll be sent to a camp.”

“Oh.” Mark finally stops trying to engage me in conversation. I hear a murmur in the back, but I’m not tempted to listen and try to join in.

I pull a map out of the glove compartment and take a look. I think we’ll stop in Toledo. I can get a few hours of sleep before we start the trek across Canada, and the others can clean out the van, pick up some food to bring along.

Most of these guys have probably never been out of the PS and don’t realize how things are in the Midwest. It’s a pretty sweet setup. I won’t lie and say I haven’t thought about moving down here someday. The climate is milder than Anchorage, for sure. But despite the good vibes, equality of the sexes, and a lot of freedom to pursue individual interests thanks to their universal basic income, it’s still lacking something.

When an animal has nothing to fear—no predator, no lack of food, no conflict in their surroundings—they start to lie around. Look at animals in zoos and how they start to hurt themselves or act in unnatural ways. Zookeepers have to give them drugs to calm them down and help with their anxiety.

My dad and I discuss this a lot. He thinks humans get it wrong when they think safety will make people feel good. It’s the whole problem with the PS. For one thing, they don’t know when to stop. They won’t be satisfied until they put a chip in everyone’s brain and force them to be at peace all the time.

But there’s always people who thrive in dangerous environments, taking risks, like the wild animals I see in Alaska.

As comfortable as it is here in Ohio, they lostsomething just like the rest of the world when they signed the Universal Accord.

That thing they lost, that’s what the Forge wants to bring back. We will forge a new world, where life isn’t about waiting to die, but about people having control over their own lives. They can choose to do great things or terrible things, and face the consequences of the choices they make.

The PS thinks we want to bring the guns back, but the guns are only part of it. We want to bring back a world where something can happen. Where every day is not one after another spent online if you’re in Canada, in some community center learning German or pottery in the Midwest, or tending your garden in the PS.

In an hour we pull up to a motel that’s next to a community center. They kept a lot of tech here, letting AI take care of their governing and planning.

Once robots could run the service sector—making coffee, fixing plumbing, even giving a great massage—they got UBI organized and focused on hobbies and sports and the kinds of things that bring people together and give them something to do. My dad says everyone in the Midwest is retired. Like, everyone.

We check into the motel and Mark and I grab a quick nap in the room.

The guys do a decent job cleaning up the van. I try to smile but end up giving them a nod with a not-frown, which should be enough. Might as well get them used tothe way things will be up north. We head over to the community center.

I catch up to the guy who was at the courthouse with Amity Bloome. I guess I’m still thinking about her. He has red hair and pale skin, and he’s humming quietly to himself. He’s kept the SafeGuard we took off him, the fake, and he’s fiddling with it while we cross the street. I let my eyes linger on his hands and I’m surprised to see he’s managed to reset the device. He’s programming user information.

“What are you doing?” I ask him.

The kid, Zeph, gets a little redder, if that’s possible, but doesn’t stop typing and scrolling on the little watch-shaped device.

“It’s an interesting design,” he says. “Double encryption?”

“Did you learn about that in the PS?” I didn’t think they let men in on the design of their security apparatus.

He looks up. “PS. What’s that?”

“The Peaceful Society,” I clarify.

“Oh.” His fingers finish and he slips the SafeGuard into his pocket. “I taught myself. Took things apart, found some old programming books. I like figuring out how things work,” he admits.

“Then it’s good you’re getting out of there,” I say, surprising myself with all this chatting.

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