Page 42 of Privilege

“Okay,” I agree.

I bring my tea over timidly, but she gives a friendly nod to the chair next to her. Qilan continues reading her book quietly, making notes in her notebook as she goes. I don’t recognize the language she’s reading.

I munch on my toast and sit in silence, watching her read.

I think about trying to find Zeph. I have no idea where to start looking for one guy in this whole city. Maybe I can start with finding the Forge, since that should be easier to locate. I think of the cold stare of Isaiah Adamson telling me he’d see me in Anchorage with a shiver. Maybe he will.

And maybe I’ll see Vale again. Vale was nothing like his dad. Was the placid guard demeanor an act, or is that what he’s like now?

“There’s a group, a place I’m looking for,” I say when Qilan shuts her notebook and takes a sip of tea. “It’s called the Forge.”

Qilan shakes her head no, a quick shake. I watch her carefully, noting a slight twitch of her right eye. Her breathing stays slow and deep.

She turns toward me. “Ami,” she says. “Do you know what the Forge is?”

“A rebel group,” I say, “and my friend Zeph might be there. I’m trying to find him.”

“It’s a militia,” Qilan corrects me, and this time she cringes more visibly. “It’s hundreds,” she says, “thousands of men in a big compound together. They’ve got weapons,and money. Can you imagine what that’s like? How old are you, Ami?”

“Eighteen,” I tell her. “I’ve been to fights back in the PS,” I lie, using the nickname everyone seems to call it up here.

“This is different,” she says. “There’s no police. No PS soldiers. The Forge, the Brotherhood, they do whatever they want. We’re pretty safe down here in Spenard, they leave the artists alone. But if you go there—some of them hate women,” she says more quietly. “For starting MAV, for the Universal Accord and the Integration, and, you know...” She trails off.

“What?” I ask.

“You’re very pretty,” she says, her eyes sweeping me. “Young and pretty, and there aren’t a lot of women in Anchorage. You’d be putting yourself in a lot of danger. I don’t leave Spenard without Eli,” she admits.

Wow, okay. So this is what my mother was saying, about being careful and defending myself. I need to learn some defense skills. I’ll get a weapon, and then I’ll look for Zeph.

“So what do I need, a gun? A knife? Where can I get one?”

Qilan raises her eyebrows. “Slow down, sister. You can get something at the market, and Eli or Ren can show you how to use it, okay? It’s not as easy as it sounds, threatening people, hurting them.”

She looks skeptical. I don’t see the problem. This is what they will teach me at the Institute: how to use Tasers and stun batons. How to control and threaten when needed for the Society and the public good. This is like HighClear training, just with different weapons.

Qilan tells me where the market is and I tie on my boots.

“Here, give me your phone,” she says.

I hand it to her.

She types and hands it back to me. “My number is in there now, call me if you need anything. And stay in the neighborhood today, no matter what you hear about your friend, okay?”

“Got it. Thank you,” I tell her.

I walk down through the alley. It’s still early in the morning but the sun is high in the sky and blindingly bright. It’s so beautiful up here. I’m not used to seeing the jagged mountains in the distance. The street I walk down has the same jumble of houses and trailers and tiny shops squeezed in here and there. In a large parking lot the market stretches out across the street.

White pop-up tents litter the area in lurching rows. People are clustered in groups and waiting in lines. I explore the market for a little while before I smell hot, fragrant coffee coming from a truck that’s set up at the end of a row. Without thinking my feet bring me to the end of the line, my resolution to avoid caffeine discarded already. I’ll get coffee first, then explore the market more.

I chat a little with the other people in line before I remember that this isn’t Baltimore, and I can’t let my guard down. My phone and money are in an inner pocket of my black leather coat, and I pull my knit hat down over my hair which skims my shoulders, tickling my neck, so different from my heavy braid.

The man at the coffee truck makes me a cup of coffee without looking at me. He’s engrossed in a conversationwith a friend about something that happened at the Brotherhood last week. Their voices rise to a shout, arguing about “whose mess it is.” I try not to cringe at the sound of raised voices as I turn away and let the cup of coffee warm my hands.

I explore the aisles. There is a table piled with mushrooms. Someone else has a cooler and no sign of what’s in it. There are sad vegetables next to stands piled with worn plates and cups and one with aging rugs. There’s a lot of art vendors, selling all sorts of paintings and statues. I see why this is the market for the arts neighborhood.

There’s even a young man passing out flyers that look like the ones back in the kitchen. I wonder if it’s Eli but I hear him talking to someone and he says he’s from out of the city.

Finally at the end of the row I spot a tent with a different product. Lined up on the table are the shining blades of several knives. I pause in front, blinking at the knives and collecting my thoughts for what to say, when I feel someone standing close behind me.

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