Part 1 (1/2)

The Star Queen.

Susan Grant.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.

-Lao-Tzu.

Prologue.

Romjha B'kah rolled a dart fas.h.i.+oned from a spent rifle cartridge between his finger and thumb, squinting to clear eyes blurred by blood loss, fatigue, and painkillers.

Painkillers? He almost laughed. More like enough gla.s.ses of ale to make him forget about the bullet hole in his thigh. By morning all he'd care about would be the monumental hangover left from his overindulgence; but if he'd consumed what the healer had tried to push on him, the official knock-you-out-for-a-day-or-two pills that pa.s.sed for medicine, he'd be flat on his back now instead of playing darts.

Priorities, he reasoned. A man had to have them.

Nearly all of the community's available women were crowded into a corner of the Big Room, the social heart of their community, to watch him and the other raiders wind down. He and his men drew female attention by being members of an elite group. Raiders. Who didn't love them? At great personal risk, they left the security of the caves to forage supplies from the surface: fuel, building materials, medical supplies- all left behind by the absentee conquerors who'd gutted their homeland three generations ago and still visited random terror campaigns upon them.

It didn't hurt matters that every man in Romjha's a.s.signed cell of five was a bachelor in good health, or that at twenty-four he was the old man of the group.

Romjha took aim. A target hung from an unadorned wall of solid rock. The Big Room, unlike other parts of the surrounding cave, made no attempt to hide its origins: an underground munitions storage facility. The installation had served as home for Sienna's surviving population since they were driven underground by invaders who had exterminated everyone unlucky enough-or witless enough-to remain topside.

Romjha leaned on his crutch. The target wavered. Or was it his eyes? It almost felt as if his head were floating away from his body. He swallowed, his mouth parched, and put the bulk of his weight on the crutch.

”Looks like you'll need to put a bullet in your other leg to even out the load!” yelled Petro.

The raiders lounging nearby guffawed, slapping their legs with dirty hands. They hadn't cleaned much more than the sweat from their faces after returning from last night's mission, one which had nearly won Romjha a one-way trip to the Ever After. Petro had been crawling next to him when the catwalk they traversed gave way, causing Romjha's rifle to misfire. The bullet had pa.s.sed clean through Romjha's leg, missing the artery. Had he not long ago lost his faith, he might have believed the Great Mother was looking out for him.

Since women were present, Romjha refrained from answering his friend with a rude gesture. There might not be much of the warrior's creed to which he still adhered, but showing consideration to females was part of it. ”Maybe I'll put one in your leg next time we throw-to even the odds,” Romjha suggested. The women laughed, and he flashed them his most charming grin. He enjoyed their company (he enjoyed women, period-the texture of their skin, their hair, their taste, their scent) but he'd showed so little interest in making any of them his mate-or interest in them at all lately- that they a.s.sumed he was still grieving for his wife.

He didn't know the cause of his disinterest to tell the truth. It had been years since Seri died. He was still a warrior, still fierce and proud. Although perhaps his fire had faded some. He'd been so helpless when Seri and their newborn son died from complications regarding the birth. All the weapons in the world couldn't have prevented their deaths, not when his people lived as primitives without modern medical facilities.

He let the women all imagine what they wanted about him, let them imagine that they knew him. But he didn't even know himself anymore. He certainly didn't feel like much of a man, a protector. Perhaps the others still did.

Flicking his wrist, Romjha threw his dart. It landed true with a resounding thwack. He shrugged to the sounds of whistles and the grumbles from the men who'd lost their bets-shares of their allotted portions of ale.

Hobbling to the target, he plucked out the dart, sunk deep and dead-center. As if he'd withdrawn a dagger imbedded deep in living flesh, the action brought about a blood-chilling scream.

And then another. Women's voices. Children's.

Romjha turned around, the dart hanging from his fingers. His pulse didn't even accelerate. He simply peered over the heads of those around him to view the latest mishap. Too much carnage, too much death- they had a numbing effect on the psyche.

Covered in gore, Taj Sai, Joren Sai's orphan, staggered into the Big Room. Her red-blond hair had come loose from its binding, thras.h.i.+ng about like blood-encrusted whips as she swung her overly bright gaze from one end of the room to the other. She waved off an army of helpers. ”I'm unharmed,” she gasped.

She stopped in the middle of the room, her hands fisted at her sides. At first glance, she appeared fragile, her amber eyes hollow and haunted, but the muscles flexing beneath the skin of her slender limbs indicated endurance and strength.

The silence as everyone paused was deafening. Taj Sai pressed one bloodied fist to her chest. ”Pasha is dead,” she said on a breath of anguish.

”Pasha . . . Pasha,” came cries and murmurs around the room. The bombmaker fabricated the munitions they used on raids. Taj was his apprentice. It should have been many years before she had to take his place.

Should have been, Romjha thought. There were a lot of things like that.

Elder Patra, an ancient who'd known those who lived topside in prewar days, raised her voice. ”What happened?”

”There was an explosion in the lab.” Taj shook visibly but didn't shed a single tear. With contempt she spat out, ”Another accident. And I have come here to tell you that this irresponsibility must end, or we will end as a people!”

Romjha's head spun and his leg ached, but he couldn't pull his eyes from Taj as she shouted, ”We've met the enemy, and he is us! Should you doubt me, you can ask Pasha-for if things continue as they are, all of us will be making a trip to the Ever After to see him. Just yesterday a raider's rifle misfired.” Her wild, impa.s.sioned eyes found Romjha's. The jolt of that brief contact rocked him to the core.

”Last week it was the fuel spill,” she continued, dragging those appalled eyes from his. ”What is next?” she beseeched the shocked, silent gathering. ”Who is next?”

Romjha grimaced. Her accusation rang with a truth he couldn't deny. His misfire was a mistake that could have just as easily killed Petro or any of the children scampering underfoot. He'd loaded his weapon too early, kept it c.o.c.ked. With their population in decline, could they afford such recklessness, such sloppiness?

”We have become lax,” Taj charged. ”That is what is killing our people. Laziness. Apathy,” she growled. ”These are the greatest dangers of all!”

Her scorn for men like Romjha emanated from her like heat from a blaze, melting his indifference like wax. Abruptly self-conscious, he cleared his throat and s.h.i.+fted more of his weight to his good leg.

Taj marched back and forth, as if the energy coursing through her wouldn't allow her to stay still. Romjha had been raised to celebrate and appreciate the differences between men and women, but this woman was unlike any he'd ever encountered. The black outfit she wore was utilitarian and unis.e.x. It contrasted with her long hair and graceful body. She obviously relished her femininity, and yet she addressed her people with the confidence of a raider.

It roused his curiosity.

What was she-seventeen by now? Eighteen? He should know, but he didn't. He'd grown up with the girl. Joren, her father, had been a hero to him.

Joren was one of the few men who studied theology beyond the cla.s.ses given them all as youngsters in an attempt to keep this small, cavern-bound civilization ”civilized.” He and Romjha had debated endless hours on religion. philosophy. and politics. If not for Joren, Romjha would not know as much as he did about the pre-Fall years of the Empire; he would not have known how to study the books-huge handwritten tomes created from what the original survivors of Sienna had remembered from the days of computers and historical databases. Joren had helped Romjha form opinions on what the ruined galaxy might be like now, who in it had perhaps survived, and who had not. And then Joren had died.

Taj had been a brave soul throughout the ordeal, but Romjha hadn't given her much thought since, or anything else much thought. He'd spent too much time drifting in his own personal h.e.l.l.

It occurred to him now that Taj had lost her family, too, and here she was: so vital. So alive.

So angry.

”We say that we fight the warlord,” she growled. ”But I question who is the real enemy when all the casualties we've suffered of late have been at our own hands.”

Several of the elders attempted to physically intercept her, presumably in consolation, but she thrust out two fists, keeping them at arm's length. Shaking and b.l.o.o.d.y, she admonished them in a tirade that covered everything from unreliable weapons and volatile chemicals to sloppy safety procedures. She swore they'd blasted well better fix things since she was taking Pasha's place. Things were going to change. ”Destiny isn't a matter of chance,” she concluded fervently. ”It's a matter of choice. If we are to survive, you have to change your thinking. I have already changed mine.”

Romjha regarded her, awestruck. He was no stranger to bitterness and sorrow in all its forms, but never had he witnessed anyone strike back at fate with such fury and intensity. This young woman had taken tragedy and turned it into opportunity, clearly working to effect real changes in the way munitions were fabricated and in the procedures for utilizing them.

What had he done after his wife's death? Absolutely nothing.

Shame crept into his gut, and Romjha dropped his gaze to his hands. Capable hands. Strong hands. A warrior's hands. But he'd kept them at his sides in cowardice.

Inaction was cowardice. Instead of doing something about the poor conditions that led to his wife's death, he'd become part of the problem. Careless. Apathetic. Negligent of the risks he took, as if his life meant nothing. He was one of those who vexed Taj.