CHAPTER 1
"What do you think Messenger Shaka will do about the fairy problem?"
Professor Leona Baldwin glared past the tops of her black, horn-rimmed glasses at the one asking the question.
Margaret Wheatly Garver waited as the silence in the room thundered in her ears. A smothered giggle, from one not quite capable of controlling her felicity at the professor's quandary, shattered the pseudo-calm of the moment.
Rising from her chair, Professor Baldwin continued glaring at Margaret. The professor was a buxom, bad-tempered woman in her mid-forties, with skin as dark and chiseled as black granite. Her face was heavily boned, and she topped six feet, sans shoes.
"You are among my brightest students, Margaret." She smoothed her intricately woven dashiki with agitated fingers. "Why do you persist in subjecting this class to fractious questions? Your misguided empathy regarding those disgusting people is disruptive and dangerous."
"Professor," Margaret persisted, playing with diminutive dreadlocks tumbling over her forehead, "the fairies are in rebellion. There's trouble in Zone Three and they're actually revolting in Zone Four."
The professor blew out her cheeks; a sure sign of pique before explaining the obvious. "That's why the government changed the states into zones, Margaret, aligning them with the four time zones, to put down such resistance. The government believed, and rightly so, that this regrouping would minimize problems. Instead of having fifty states to deal with, we have only four zones."
Her flared nose pulsated as though she had been overcome with a migraine. She closed her eyes and pinched the base of her nose. She remained in that position for a few awkward moments before saying abruptly, "Class is dismissed early today."
With a unanimous sigh of euphoria, the Islamic Social Studies Class began collecting their books, struggling into coats, and filing from the room.
The professor placed a hand on Margaret's arm as she slipped into her oyster-white wool and angora coat. "Miss Garver, would you remain for a moment?" Her slightly protruding forehead furrowed as though her headache were becoming more severe. Although her clipped New England accent had assumed an affable air, Margaret knew that her detainment would be anything but pleasant.
Margaret watched the stately woman fidget about her desk, knowing that she was taking her time deliberately. Only after the desk was arranged to her satisfaction, did she offer Margaret a tight, controlled smile.
"Miss Garver!" The intensity of her words startled Margaret. "Why do you continue interrupting my class with forbidden subjects?"
"I'm sorry, Professor, but this is a social studies class after all, and the fairies are part of our social structure, aren't they?" She attempted, but failed to hold the woman's unyielding scrutiny, and lowered her eyes.
The professor's teeth clenched visibly before acquiescing. "Yes, fairies are a substandard class of today's society."
In the tumultuous days preceding The War, an obscure orator coined the phrase, "fair-skinned and immoral rapscallion yokels," in reference to the white population of America. It was shortened to "fairy," and the euphemism stuck. It was used in the same degrading way for white's as "nigger" had been used in the decades past for the black race.
Professor Baldwin massaged her forehead and continued. "But you know you're not allowed to discuss those savages within government-sponsored institutions."
"That means just about anywhere, doesn't it?" Margaret replied with more effrontery than she felt.
"You're dismissed," was the professor's glacial reaction. "But Miss Garver, if you insist in disrupting my class with misguided concerns for those shameless . . . people, I'll have no recourse but to speak to your father."
Margaret desperately wanted to say something to make her realize that the fairy problem needed meaningful, serious discussion. Their dilemma was not going away. Instead, she adjusted her cumbersome books against her breasts and headed toward the door. The professor's granite voice stopped her.
"If speaking with Mister Garver doesn't bring results, I'll have no recourse but to take the matter up with the Preservation Council, and you really don't want me to do that."
Margaret winced. The dreaded Preservation Council was a watchdog organization set up with one objective: To preserve the Society of Allah's culture and power. It was an arm of the government's secret police. And once you were brought to their attention, your life was forever scrutinized.
Her arms were aching by the time she neared the parking lot where the Buick Bandolier sat. The state-of-the-art sky commuter had been a present from her parents when she chose to attend Malcolm X University. They had been very worried that she might enlist in the Panther Guard, which many young people did after graduation from high school. They were so relieved at her choice they rewarded her handsomely.
The Buick was incredible. Three duct fans were driven by lightweight engines, two in the rear and one up front. It had the ability to lift off vertically, climb to 3000 feet and cruise at 155 miles per hour. She maintained that driving the Bandolier was about as much fun as you could have and still keep your clothes on.
Her parents should not have been worried. She had only teased them with the notion of joining The Guard. For starters, she disliked what it represented. Its sole function, it seemed, was to violently squash unrest within the fairy communities. Her boyfriend Hakeem belonged to the Guard. What he told her was enough to turn her away from any idea she might have entertained about enlisting.
The Guard was a holdover from The War. The Black Panther Party had been rekindled and utilized until victory was assured. Then, after the Society of Allah seized control it outlawed the Black Panthers because it feared they posed a threat to the fledging party. The Guard was commissioned in respect for the Panther's undeniable valor.
Frigid February wind whistled angrily from the north causing Margaret to look apprehensively at the darkening sky and pick up her pace. Flying home in a snowstorm did not appeal to her.
She sped past the sleek metallic silver and black-trimmed tail of the Bandolier. As she did, she stumbled over a huddled form, causing her to fall onto the concrete parking lot, books and notes flying helter-skelter.
Landing flat on her stomach, her breath left her body in a loud whoosh and her hand flew to her mouth to stifle an impending scream as she stared at the reason for her fall.
