The Islands of Sand and Steel

Chapter Thirteen: The Crackdown

Days later, Charlotte marched down a catwalk. There was no sky above her, no space around her and only electricity for light. She was at the lowest of the upper levels, in the thin layer of the city where rotorcraft and pedestrians shared airspace, and the noise was so offensive that foot traffic was channeled through tunnels. Even with the tunnels' rubber padding, the din of engines and rotors obstructed her hearing, and propeller drafts came fiercely in through the air vents.

In the four days since joining these extremists, Charlotte had run all of their minor errands personally. At Luava's insistence, her second-in-command Molly went along each time.

"Molly," said Charlotte, "I have a question to ask. Do you sincerely think Luava hates me because of my race?"

"Yes," said Molly calmly. "All her life, she's hated the people who turned her mother out of her home. It's hard for her to see past that."

"But I'm clearly on her side."

"She knows. But hatred runs deeper than that."

"That's no excuse. Emotions are no excuse to mistreat someone."

Molly chuckled. "If my chieftain didn't let her emotions guide her, none of us would be here."

Charlotte went silent, thinking dark thoughts. Something light clattered against the roof, and Molly jumped.

"Not to worry," said Charlotte. "That's only garbage, thrown by some careless person above."

A few minutes later, the tunnel ended. Charlotte looked down at the list of things she had been sent to buy-- mostly food-- when a gloved hand stopped her.

"Oh," said Charlotte, stepping aside without looking up. "I'm sorry."

"Ma'am," said a man, "we need to you to stop."

Now Charlotte looked up, shading her eyes. A young man stood in front of her, a green steel bowl helmet hanging low on his acne-scarred face. He sweated inside bright green camouflage armor, which held two ammunition clips on his chest. He held an assault rifle at waist-height.

Charlotte stepped back, shocked, and saw a whole row of these men obstructing the tunnel exit. "What is this?" she asked.

"Uh, I'm sorry ma'am," said the young man haltingly. "But... but we've had a lot of killings in the past few days. Natives, you know. There might be a movement. We're going to have to inspect your servant."

"I'm not a servant!" protested Molly. Some other soldiers closed in on her, and she backed away.

"Don't put up a fight!" said Charlotte quickly. "Please, allow them to do it."

Molly stood still, looking ready to run, and Charlotte prayed she had nothing incriminating on her person.

A thin, glowering old woman stepped out between the soldiers and loomed over Molly. The older woman began patting Molly down, examining her at first like a seamstress sizing up her next client, then more like a farmer looking over a head of cattle. Molly stayed tense, but did not move. Charlotte had to stop herself from biting her nails.

The old woman gave a start, pointed at her upper arm and hissed, "What's under there?"

Carefully, Molly reached up her sleeve and drew out a short, immaculately polished carving of wood shaped long a long teardrop. "This is my club," she said.

"Natives need a license to carry weapons," said one of the soldiers. "We're confiscating this."

"I won't give up my weapon."