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strapping in.
    Swear words streamed from Taj's brain to her mouth at the speed of light. Her hands fumbled with her harness, fingers sticky with a prince's clotted blood. She still couldn't get over that.
    The rover took off. Over the desert landscape it raced, darting between huge boulders to elude the star-fighters should they decide to make a second pass.
    Directly behind the windshield, the wind noise was less than it had been in back. There was less breeze to cool her, too. Taj sucked in gulps of air, half choking on her sweat. "I'm trained. I can fight if I have to.
    Romjha's big hands tightened on the steering wheel. "I know."
    His mouth was a bleak slash above a chin smudged by grime and beard stubble, but his voice was a husky rumble that made her ache to be held by him.
    Romjha startled her by reaching across the seat. His thumb brushed over her cheek. Her body reacted instantly with a flurry of tingles. Then, as if he realized he'd done something he hadn't intended, he dropped his hand.
    Yet his gaze remained on her, as if he meant to say something more. That he has feelings for you. That he wants you as you want him. Her heart turned over. No! She turned away quickly, thwarting any . such confession. As much as she wanted him, desired him, it was better to keep Romjha at arm's length. It would make everything easier . . . when he died.
    "By the heavens, I'm tired of it," she muttered. Tired of worrying whether the people she knew would die.
    Tired of all of it.
    As if reading her mind Romjha said, "We will live, Taj. The others will live. We'll all make it back."
    In her lap, her hands balled into fists. His confidence washed over her like a rush of water in her hidden spring. Given a taste of that comfort, she wanted more. She wanted to hear him tell her not to worry, that she'd be safe, that everything would be all right.
    "Today," she said in a half-whispered plea. "But what about tomorrow?"
    The commander went rigid. She felt rather than saw it, sensed the air around him chilling, his gentleness evaporating. "I can't promise you tomorrow, Taj," he said. "No one can."
    Heartache she pretended she didn't feel thickened her throat. She hunched her shoulders, scowling while Romjha fixed his stubborn stare on the horizon. Seeing what? Thinking what?
    Dreams, she thought contemptuously. Romjha B'k ah would rue the day he ever had them.

Chapter Seven
    Twelve hours passed. The women had decorated themselves and the Big Room as if it were a feast day, although Taj questioned what exactly they were celebrating. The door to their home had been torn wide open to the rest of the galaxy, where everyone else was still busily fighting away as if they hadn't learned a thing during these last long, dark years of war. It didn't sound to her like a reason to celebrate.
    Yet she could understand the desire to make merry. Usually they had so little excuse; the arrival of outsiders for the first time in generations was a reason to celebrate, she acceded grudgingly.
    In the short time since they'd arrived, the strangers and six others of their kind—the ones who'd shot down the warlord's fighters and come to rescue their friends— eight men in all, had entranced everyone.
    Everyone, it seemed, except Taj. She maintained her wariness.
    In the Big Room, everyone was gathered for the main meal, eager to hear Jal's news from the worlds beyond. They brought their plates of food and their families to sit within earshot of the head table. Taj and Romjha sat there, part of the most diverse group imaginable: a bombmaker, the raider-"heroes," their commander, the community's elders and the high priestess, and seven foreign-born warriors and their sleeping prince.
    Cheya Vedla had once again lapsed into drugged unconsciousness, prone on a many-times-mended mattress laid close by the table. A thick bandage covered his leg from knee to hip. He'd been sterilized and stitched, drugged and doted over—the latter evidenced by the dishes and bowls