The Only One

When was the last time he'd seen a scout fly over? Months ago. In fact, the skies had been so quiet, he'd actually been considering organizing a daylight raid when autumn and cooler weather arrived—an unthinkable proposition at one time.
    He'd thought they had a temporary reprieve. But maybe it was more.
    While Taj worked, Romjha scrutinized Jal. The man and his friend claimed to be pilots, but Romjha suspected they were more. If his limited understanding of aviation technology was correct, a starfighter's flight controls were computer assisted. Jal appeared an impressive, battle-hardened man, so he did more than fly— only frequent ground combat or hard labor could create such a physique.
    Romjha wouldn't abandon the pair topside, but he wouldn't risk bringing them into the interior caverns. He wouldn't take them anywhere near the infants or the groweries—his people's insurance for the future—
    until he learned more about them through questioning and observation.
    In a 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