The Only One

detested being afraid. Fear meant helplessness, and helplessness meant you had no say in your fate. But she'd found the antidote to that vulnerability—not in the protective arms of a mate, as was usual, but in her job: the manufacture of pyrotechnics.
    Frowning, she blew several long strands of hair off her face and reached for the beaker. Her hands were steady enough to resume pouring acid and filtering radites.
    There was another rumble, and this time the entire room shook. Great Mother. Another explosion. It sent stones and powder sprinkling down from high above, plunking onto Taj's head and worktable. She slapped her left hand over her beaker. A pebble bounced off the knuckle of her middle finger. Her stomach muscles clenched. Her pulse pounded in her throat. The beaker's cold rim bit into her palm. If she'd reacted a heartbeat later and the pebble fell into . . .
    Don't think about it. She manufactured explosives; solids, liquids, powders, pastes, she mixed them all. She took on death daily, face-to-face, hand-to-hand. She wasn't supposed to care if she lived or died.
    Sooner or later, she'd figure out how not to.
    The familiar and oddly comforting red haze of anger returned. She let her temper smolder, let it stamp out the unwelcome signals transmitted by her raw nerves. With banked wrath, she forced herself to concentrate on emptying the beaker of acid. Her brain screamed at her to hurry, but she gritted her teeth until her jaw ached and took the time to clear her worktable of anything that might kill her, now or later.
    At last, she abandoned the lab to see what horrific news awaited her in the Big Room.

Chapter Two
    Sprinting, Taj moved blindly through the shadowy maze of tunnels she'd memorized so early in her life that she had no recollection of doing it. The inner passages of these caves were neat, swept clean. Dust had a tendency to congest the lungs of the elderly, making the final years a chore for those lucky enough—or unlucky enough, as the 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