fortuitous development, however, Taj was fulfilling the role of interrogator quite well, unwittingly drawing Jal out as a result of her obvious aversion to him.
"Where I come from, women don't make explosives," the outsider ventured as she worked on his comrade.
"They don't fight with the men."
"So, where you come from is primitive," Taj retorted, her long, pale fingers shiny with blood.
The pilot regarded Taj as if she were a baffling alien creature. Romjha supposed she was, to him.
To keep from cracking anything that Taj might perceive as a smile and provoking her further—no need to make the wounded pilot Cheya suffer needlessly— Romjha pressed a bent index finger to his lips as she glanced at him. She looked back at Jal.
"We have no choice," the man explained. "We have to protect our women."
"You stifle them," Taj corrected.
"We keep them alive."
"You don't put into hiding those you want to protect. Shelters can be breached. You should give your women the tools with which to defend themselves."
"Are you not. . . protected here?" Jal sounded more curious than critical.
"Apparently not as much as some would like," she said with a dark glance over her shoulder.
Obviously not wanting to fight with her, Romjha kept any record of their argument in the caverns from appearing on his face. "You say you have the warlord on the run, Jal. Tell me more about that."
"We assassinated him. He is dead."
Startled murmurs came from just about everyone.
Romjha raised his hand for quiet. "What of his forces?"
"His army lives on like a headless serpent, but we will bleed the creature until it too is dead. We'll find and destroy his caches, his skyports—"
"On any world you stumble upon?" Romjha asked. "Without investigating first? What of the risk to the indigenous populations? What about when the Warlord's men see what you've done and—"
Detonations rumbled distantly, creating flashes like the heat lightning that interrupted many a hot, silent night. A ripple of fear spread through the group, and the tank they huddled under suddenly seemed paltry shelter.
The headless serpent, Taj thought.
The stench of fuel and hot sand lodged in the back of her throat. Her hands twitched, cinching the crude bandage she'd made. Cheya uttered a hoarse groan. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.
Romjha studied Jal with an intensity that was chilling. "A battle over our heads will put my entire community at risk."
"We didn't know anyone lived here!"
The commander's voice turned quiet, deadly. " 'We didn't know' is not an excuse."
Taj piped up. "And now that you do know we're here, don't forget that we're only focused on our own survival, not the greater good of the galaxy."
Romjha gave hera long look.
Unrepentant, she glared back. "I'm pointing that out in case anyone forgets."
Jal lowered his head. He looked tired but not beaten. "I regret the risk we have brought upon your people.
But I won't apologize for what we aim to do. I am Jal Dar, and for centuries my family has protected Cheya's family." He pressed his thumbs to Cheya's visor. It rose smoothly, easily, unlike those on the raiders' own battered helmets. "Behold. Cheya Vedla. Descended from the last king of the galaxy."
Cheya's features were refined but not delicate. His lean and handsome good looks were noble. Taj dropped her gaze to her bloody hands. A prince! She was bandaging a prince—or even a king—with Aleq's dirty shirt.
Petro murmured, "I thought the Vedlas were slaughtered."
Jal shook his head. "Not all. A few survived—the queen, the youngest prince and an unborn princess, several other relatives, cousins and the like. In secret they continued their bloodlines, and for generations my world has protected them, hoping to put them back on the throne."
As gray as Cheya's skin appeared, Taj didn't have high hopes of this Vedla surviving his injury, let alone regaining power. What a waste. But then, any life lost was a waste. "It doesn't appear as if you hold the
"Where I come from, women don't make explosives," the outsider ventured as she worked on his comrade.
"They don't fight with the men."
"So, where you come from is primitive," Taj retorted, her long, pale fingers shiny with blood.
The pilot regarded Taj as if she were a baffling alien creature. Romjha supposed she was, to him.
To keep from cracking anything that Taj might perceive as a smile and provoking her further—no need to make the wounded pilot Cheya suffer needlessly— Romjha pressed a bent index finger to his lips as she glanced at him. She looked back at Jal.
"We have no choice," the man explained. "We have to protect our women."
"You stifle them," Taj corrected.
"We keep them alive."
"You don't put into hiding those you want to protect. Shelters can be breached. You should give your women the tools with which to defend themselves."
"Are you not. . . protected here?" Jal sounded more curious than critical.
"Apparently not as much as some would like," she said with a dark glance over her shoulder.
Obviously not wanting to fight with her, Romjha kept any record of their argument in the caverns from appearing on his face. "You say you have the warlord on the run, Jal. Tell me more about that."
"We assassinated him. He is dead."
Startled murmurs came from just about everyone.
Romjha raised his hand for quiet. "What of his forces?"
"His army lives on like a headless serpent, but we will bleed the creature until it too is dead. We'll find and destroy his caches, his skyports—"
"On any world you stumble upon?" Romjha asked. "Without investigating first? What of the risk to the indigenous populations? What about when the Warlord's men see what you've done and—"
Detonations rumbled distantly, creating flashes like the heat lightning that interrupted many a hot, silent night. A ripple of fear spread through the group, and the tank they huddled under suddenly seemed paltry shelter.
The headless serpent, Taj thought.
The stench of fuel and hot sand lodged in the back of her throat. Her hands twitched, cinching the crude bandage she'd made. Cheya uttered a hoarse groan. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.
Romjha studied Jal with an intensity that was chilling. "A battle over our heads will put my entire community at risk."
"We didn't know anyone lived here!"
The commander's voice turned quiet, deadly. " 'We didn't know' is not an excuse."
Taj piped up. "And now that you do know we're here, don't forget that we're only focused on our own survival, not the greater good of the galaxy."
Romjha gave hera long look.
Unrepentant, she glared back. "I'm pointing that out in case anyone forgets."
Jal lowered his head. He looked tired but not beaten. "I regret the risk we have brought upon your people.
But I won't apologize for what we aim to do. I am Jal Dar, and for centuries my family has protected Cheya's family." He pressed his thumbs to Cheya's visor. It rose smoothly, easily, unlike those on the raiders' own battered helmets. "Behold. Cheya Vedla. Descended from the last king of the galaxy."
Cheya's features were refined but not delicate. His lean and handsome good looks were noble. Taj dropped her gaze to her bloody hands. A prince! She was bandaging a prince—or even a king—with Aleq's dirty shirt.
Petro murmured, "I thought the Vedlas were slaughtered."
Jal shook his head. "Not all. A few survived—the queen, the youngest prince and an unborn princess, several other relatives, cousins and the like. In secret they continued their bloodlines, and for generations my world has protected them, hoping to put them back on the throne."
As gray as Cheya's skin appeared, Taj didn't have high hopes of this Vedla surviving his injury, let alone regaining power. What a waste. But then, any life lost was a waste. "It doesn't appear as if you hold the
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