Page 8

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.

“Amity,” my mother interrupts me. “You showed your dedication to the Peaceful Society today and you’ve earned the trust of our leadership.

We need someone like you for this mission, someone with a personal connection to a new recruit.

Zeph didn’t see you take the Oath. You’ll say that you refused the Oath and came to find him. ”

“I can’t.” I stop, realizing I’m arguing again and dismissing her.

“I’m not sure he’ll believe that,” I correct myself. “I was trying to convince him to take it. The Oath.” My mother and the Guardian both sharpen their gaze at the admission that I knew what he was planning.

“Did he ask you to leave with him?” my mother asks.

I can’t lie to her. “Yes.”

“That only helps, Amity. If you were hiding this before, he’ll believe you hid it again.” Shame burns my cheeks as the Guardian considers and then nods in agreement.

“We will provide you with clothing,” the Guardian tells me. “There will be cash and a phone number sewn inside the pants. Once you’re out of Greater Maryland, buy a cell phone and contact us on the number. If possible you should also purchase a weapon.”

My eyes grow big at that.

“At least ask about it, seem interested. It’s what an Oath Refuser would do,” my mom adds.

They stop and wait, presumably for me to ask questions, but I’m frozen. Is this real? I open my mouth to ask about the guard who left with Zeph, the boy I recognized, but the Guardian continues briskly.

“Amity, your mother will take you to change and go over your directions. The Peaceful Society thanks you for your service. You said you were afraid for your friend. We have not hurt him in any way. Maybe you can convince him to come home and take the Oath.” She smiles wryly.

“We’re not interested in fighting the militias in Anchorage, but we must keep our citizens safe from their aggression, and protect the men they keep kidnapping, breaking our human trafficking laws. Now, go in Peace.”

She stands and we are dismissed. I stand and follow my mom out the door and down a flight of stairs at the end of the hall. We go down one flight, then one more into the basement of the courthouse.

Time has stretched into a changeable, amorphous thing. Each step takes an eternity, like the seconds have thickened, but in a flash we’re standing before a metal, reinforced door. My mother unlocks it and steps through ahead of me.

The room is small and bare, with a couple of lockers, a mirror, and a bench in the corner with a curtain to pull around it.

My mom gives a quick squeeze to my hand again and turns to the locker, pulling out a plastic bag that she rips open.

It’s a set of neatly folded clothes. They look nothing like the school uniform I’m wearing.

She turns back to me. “Amity.”

I wait. She takes a deep breath.

“Your name is Ami. If anyone asks, you refused the Oath and are trying to find your friend at the Forge. Stay on the depo train all the way through New York and transfer in Kingston. Get a ticket to Vancouver and from there you can catch a flight to Anchorage. Buy tickets in cash. Once you get a phone, use a secure service to text or call the number written on the note, which is sewn inside the pants with the cash.” She holds open the gray pants and shows me the inside.

“Open this up once you are out of Greater Maryland.”

“Mom.” My panic rises, bleeding through my mask. “Do I have to?”

My mom doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. These are direct orders, Amity. Think of it as an opportunity to serve your country and cement your HighClear status. We knew they would be taking men today, on Oath Day. I’m sorry you’re not more prepared.

” For the first time a hint of worry flickers over her face.

“The Peaceful Society trusts you. You proved yourself at school, and now with your Oath and your dedication.”

“Okay. Okay.” I gather the clothes, the jeans, wool socks, and boots. A black T-shirt with a picture I don’t recognize and a black leather jacket with pockets inside and out.

“Get a phone. Keep track of your money. Keep it inside your clothes at all times. I can’t give you a Taser because all weapons are removed from deportees.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. I wouldn’t have any idea what to do with a Taser anyway.

I bring the bundle to the corner and pull the curtain, changing out of my uniform into the strange clothes.

I hear my mother’s breath, a little too deep, a little too even.

She’s trying to control herself, calm herself down.

I step out and we hug, her arms tight around my back. Despite an effort not to cry, my chest heaves as tiny gasps escape me. She buries her face in my hair, holding me almost too tight.

“My smart girl, Amity. You have to be aggressive out there, okay? Defend yourself if you need to.”

I’ve never heard her talk like this.

“It’s…different. You won’t get in trouble for…yelling. For fighting back. You need to protect yourself,” she whispers fiercely, as she uses a tool to unlock my SafeGuard and puts an e-watch on my wrist instead.

“Remember what you’re there to do,” she says finally. With one more deep breath, she turns to the door. Apologetically she takes a zip tie from her pocket. “We need to do this. Just until we get to the cell.”

Oh, wow, I’m going to be restrained?

I hold my wrists out and she wraps it around, tying them together .

“We’re going down one more level. You’ll have to pretend you don’t know me.”

I nod, mute. This is happening. Her eyes sweep me one more time and she pulls a knife from her pocket. My mother carries a knife?

“Amity,” she says gently. “Your braid, I’m so sorry.” She swallows. “I have to cut it.”

She waits, unsure, until I nod. Then she loosens my braid, rapidly slicing off my hair at my shoulders. She pulls what’s left of my brown hair back, wrapping the hairband around in a ponytail. I watch her do this in the mirror.

I don’t look anything like myself now. The leather jacket, my hair in a ponytail like a rebel in a government video.

“Go in Peace, Amity,” my mom whispers. Shaking slightly, she leans over to lay the braid on the bench. Then she straightens, sighs, and pushes open the metal door, leading me into the hallway.