The Only One Read Free Page A

case often was—to make it to old age, and so such dust was eradicated now. She'd helped see to that.
    An occasional torch lit her way. One mustn't waste precious fuel on illumination. In between the lanterns it was pitch-black, seeming to amplify the thumping of her boots over the unseen floor. Her pants were snug, allowing her full strides that a dress wouldn't. Her shirt hem fluttered with the pumping of her arms. Only high-quality fabric whispered over skin like that, left her free and comfortable to maneuver. But that was as far as her interest in clothing went. Weaving and sewing she left to those who had patience for such things.
    She made explosives. In exchange, the raiders' women made her clothing from the best synthetic fibers they had. It was a good arrangement.
    Taj pushed her way through the people gathered by the entrance to the Big Room. It was a dead cave, old and dry. Natural columns imparted a feeling of stateliness upon the central meeting area. Farther in, the odors of perspiration, warm bodies, and stale breath thickened the air. Underlying the usual smells was the tang of fear.
    Romjha B'kah, the leader of the topside raids, was easy to find in the crowd. Soon after Taj had found Pasha dead, the tall, broad-shouldered warrior had seemed to come out of nowhere and taken the position of raider commander. After four years working with him, side by side, Taj couldn't imagine her life without him. He was intense, driven, tireless. He always knew what to do when the others spun in circles. He never risked a man unnecessarily; he thought things through before he acted, and he didn't show off.
    "Stay low, stay alive to survive," he always said. And, like her, he worked to eliminate the accidents that had at one time been eating away at their meager population. They'd made great strides.
    When it came to making war, she and Romjha were in perfect alignment. But when it came to their philosophy on personal matters, they couldn't be farther apart.
    His stoic, rugged features belied a tragic past. Long ago at seventeen, Romjha had lost his wife of six months during childbirth. And their infant, too. The baby had died in his arms, the women said. In all the time since, he'd never chosen another mate. Which, Taj thought, revealed more about his feelings on the matter than an open expression ever could. His broken heart had never healed.
    For Taj, letting yourself love that deeply, choosing to take a spouse, having children, were all things asking for trouble. There was too much at stake as it was, day to day, too high of a probability of loss. One better stick to manufacturing explosives, where one could be the master of one's destiny. Well, mostly the master, Taj admitted, thinking of the pebble's near miss with the radites.
    "Romjha!" she called out.
    His head lifted at the sound of her voice. The dark blond hair bound at the nape of his neck gleamed in the torchlight. Already dressed in topside gear—black shirt tucked into black trousers and boots—the commander gripped a helmet in his hands. At his side was his most experienced raider, his second-in-command. Shorter than Romjha, Petro was built like a tank and had the endurance to match. Taj would bring him along, too, if she were commander.
    Romjha answered the question she didn't have to ask. "We don't know what happened, Taj. The comm's out again."
    Computers, comm equipment, leftover tech—they worked sometimes but more often not, leaving them unable to communicate reliably with anyone topside, let alone the worlds beyond.
    Frowning, the raider commander shoved his fingers into a pair of gloves, one sinewy, battle-roughened hand after the other. "But we're going up to find out."
    He was too careful a leader to allow apprehension for his missing men to show much, but the flicker of worry in his steely gaze was enough to set Taj's heart racing.
    Romjha whipped his black-leather-encased fingers in a tight circle, a silent signal to Petro: Let's move