Susan Grant - The Star Queen(1).pdf

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The Star Queen
Susan Grant
(from “The Only One” anthology)
Prequel to “The Star King” series
Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength;
loving someone deeply gives you courage.
—Lao-Tzu
Prologue
Romjha B'kah rolled a dart fashioned 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 glasses 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 passed 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 assigned 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 passed 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 assumed 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, thrashing 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,
impassioned 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 cocked. 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 shifted 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 unisex. 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 classes 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 hell.
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 bloody, 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.
To be honest, his life didn't mean much to him. But others' did. And when you ignored the peril you put
yourself in, you risked those around you. He didn't deserve the rank of raider or the accompanying
privileges. Especially not in comparison with Taj, who had put the entire community on notice that she
intended to use her position as a means of making things better. Safer.
Romjha rubbed his stubbly chin. Could he not do the same? Wasn't a raider as capable of doing good?
Couldn't he shore up their defensive installations? Tighten safety procedures? Improve weapons training?
Not to mention what he might do to boost morale, which had been flagging lately. And as raider
commander, he would have a real opportunity to change policy, to set examples and make their forays
topside more than mere scavenging missions.
Raider commander?
Wooziness made the room spin. You're insane, man. Yeah, maybe he was. But he was good with a rifle;
he could think quickly under pressure. And it just so happened that the current raider commander had been
chosen because the man had been the only one absent when they held the vote! Nothing blocked Romjha
from vying for the job. There, he could begin the slow process of helping his people reclaim their world.
And more.
His bleary gaze swerved to Taj. The women were surrounding her now, wiping the blood from her face and
hands. Anger and deep-seated shame boiled in his belly. Women and children, the weak and the sick—they
should be safe from war, he thought, frowning.
Romjha's free hand balled into a fist. He would go after the warlord himself and take him out, if he could
figure out a way. But there were a few minor details holding him back, such as not having a fleet of
space-capable craft at his service—or any real tech at all, for that matter. Not to mention his lack of the
few million soldiers that might come in handy in an attempt to trounce his people's enemies.
But he vowed to keep his goal.
With a surge of protectiveness, he watched Taj at last allow one of the women to take her hand and lead
her away. He himself ought to be holding that hand; he should be the one to gently cleanse her, to calm her.
To protect her.
The urge to follow was almost unbearable. But Romjha was not yet the man Taj deserved. One day soon,
he would be. And then he would make his intentions known. Body and soul, she would be his.
Another grand goal, he thought. Moments ago he'd had none at all; now he was full of them, it seemed.
He drew in a deep breath, squeezed his crutch until he was sure it would shatter in his hands. "Destiny is
not a matter of chance. It's a matter of choice." Yes, my young Taj.
Romjha B'kah would no longer wait for the future. No, indeed. From this day forward, he would achieve it.
Chapter One
 
The echo of a distant explosion rumbled through the vast underground network of caves. In the weapons
lab where she'd worked all night, Taj Sai jerked her head up and listened. She'd never heard an outside—
"topside"—blast from deep inside these caverns.
Her fingers clamped around a handful of bomb fuses she'd been cutting. Her heart thumped against her
ribs. She aimed her good ear in the direction of the nearest passageway, but hissing burners and bubbling
beakers on her worktable and walls of solid rock drowned out everything but the roar of her pulse.
By now, fear and curiosity would have sent the others rushing to the Big Room at the front of the cave.
Every nerve ending in her body screamed for her to drop what she was doing and follow. But Taj didn't feel
like pasting charred strips of her quivering flesh all over the walls of her lab.
No, thanks. Not tonight. It wasn't exactly her idea of redecorating.
Taj glared at the fuses in her hand and threw them into their box. Cooling in an ice bath on her worktable
was a glass beaker filled with a solution of radic acid. She lifted it and poured a thin stream of the solution
into a large spun-glass funnel filter. Delicate yellowish-white crystals collected at the bottom: a lethal
harvest.
Her skin prickled with sweat. Radites. In this state the compound was extremely unstable. If it contacted
anything but glass— boom! That little idiosyncrasy had killed her predecessor. Taj knew—she'd had to
clean up the mess Pasha made. The mess Pasha became.
It had been four years since the old bombmaker had made that error and killed himself. But he might have
killed someone else. That would have been worse.
Sweat gelled on her skin, suddenly icy cold. Five men were topside tonight, honored raiders all.
Her hand shook. Setting the beaker on its stand and wiping her knuckles across her brow, she swallowed
thickly. The raiders had taken along her new shaped charges, miniature pipe bombs a hundred times more
powerful than their bigger brothers. The men loved the idea: a minimum amount of explosive for a
maximum amount of damage. "More bang for the buck," went the ancient saying that wasn't as outdated as
most thought. Currency might no longer be in use but explosives surely were.
Yet the new shaped charges hadn't been tested. The explosive crammed in those tiny cylindrical casings
could breach the strongest armor, including—Taj winced—the skyport's fuel storage facility: hardened
underground fuel reservoirs. The explosion she'd heard could have been those reservoirs blowing sky high.
Had they gone off at the wrong time in the wrong place? Had she combined ingredients in the wrong
proportions, or had the booster charges malfunctioned due to some error she'd made? Great Mother! Had
she made a blunder that killed someone? Why had she let those explosives be taken before they'd received
more lab testing?
Her mind clouded with possibilities, scenarios. All the errors she'd ever made returned to haunt her.
She was mostly deaf in her left ear, her eyelashes and brows had been singed off a half-dozen times, and
once, the year before, she'd been flash-blind for a week. Consequences of honing her art. If one could call
mass destruction an art.
She, the legendary taskmaster for reducing accidents, had screwed up in that quest more than anyone
knew. But the only one she'd ever injured was herself. People trusted her. Had her precarious track record
just blown up in her face?
Taj stared at the sweat glistening on the back of her hand but saw bones poking out of scorched flesh,
bloody fluid oozing from a socket where an eye used to be, violent convulsions driven by a fatally swelling
 

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