The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Yeah, how many more died and we never heard of them?”

  Naranjo just shrugged. “You’re smart, Tracy. Probably the best student to come through these doors since I’ve been principal. Don’t let pride hamper your chances.” They stared at each other for a few more moments then the principal pointedly picked up a tap-pad and studied the line of text scrolling past.

  Tracy spun on his heel and walked out into the hallway of the school. The smell of spinach, macaroni and cheese, and male gym sweat still lingered in the air. Most of the students had already fled on this Friday afternoon so Tracy’s footfalls seemed loud as they echoed from the concrete floor and bounced off the lines of lockers.

  He stepped outside, and the late May heat from Ouranos’s blue/white sun immediately had sweat popping on his forehead and his T-shirt sticking to his chest. He found it an effort to put one foot in front of the other, and it wasn’t just the heat that had his footsteps dragging. On Fridays he and his dad always met for dinner in Pony Town where they enjoyed one of the spicy alien cuisines that could be safely ingested by humans. Normally he looked forward to this ritual, but how could he bear to tell his dad that he was no longer the valedictorian? Especially coming on the heels of his refusal to accept the scholarship to the military academy.

  There was a subtle trembling that came up through the ground and into the soles of his shoes. Tracy looked up as a big passenger ship lifted off from the Cristóbal Colón Spaceport. The massive vessel glittered in the sunlight as it balanced on a tail of flame. He had only been on one of the great ships twice. He didn’t remember the trip out, he had been barely four. The trip back however was etched in acid memory. He had been seven when they returned to Ouranos. His mother had died, their attempt to become carpet baggers on a newly discovered Hidden World had ended badly, and Tracy, his father and grandfather had returned deeply in debt and utterly defeated to the capital city of Hissilek.

  The memory brought a sudden tightness to his chest, a new grief that had nothing to do with the news he had received this afternoon. Tracy was shaken and bewildered by the emotion and then he found the context. He had wanted to see the stars from the observation deck and his father had tried to sneak them up to the upper levels where the well-born, wealthy and well-connected traveled in luxury, but they had been stopped by a supercilious steward who ordered them back down to the dorm quarters. Tracy never had gotten to see the stars from space.

  His father had. The shop “made” for some of the young gentlemen who attended the academy and occasionally crises would demand his father’s presence on the great floating space station. There were moments when he wanted to beg to go in Alexander’s place, but his father didn’t want him missing school and the FFH families were particular about who served them. Maybe now, since his life and education were over he’d get to go and see the stars.

  You would if you went to The High Ground.

  He pushed away the traitorous thought. He had made his decision. He wouldn’t give the pendejos the satisfaction. His errant, agitated thoughts had him walking without looking where he was going, and Tracy suddenly found a beefy hand against his chest and he was shoved unceremoniously against the wall of a building.

  He looked up into the face of the bodyguard dressed in the livery of House C. de Vaca de Basaf, and realized he was in that no man’s land of commerce that separated the estates and palaces of the Palacio Colina from Pony Town and Stick Town and Slunky Town, the alien neighborhoods farther inland and well away from the cooling breezes off the ocean.

  He recognized the livery because his father had made him memorize the coats of arms of every noble house so if any member of the FFH were to grace the tailor shop they would be greeted by name and title. Truthfully the shop only catered to a handful of well-born clients; men of a more conservative bent who preferred Alexander Belmanor’s understated tailoring. The whole thing had been a massive waste of time in Tracy’s opinion and in fact he was faintly embarrassed by his father’s pride at being one of the four tailors who “made” for the Emperor.

  A flitter bounced lightly on its maglev cushion while a Hajin chauffeur held open the door of the vehicle. The alien’s mane was thick and golden, falling in a forelock over the long face. The thick hair ran down the back of his head and disappeared beneath the collar of his elaborate livery. The alien looked hot and uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as Bajit, the Hajin who pressed clothes for the Belmanors in their stifling workroom. One of the chauffeur’s large dark eyes, set on the side of its bony head, was cocked at Tracy, the other stared at the door of the bank on the other side of the street.

  The Marqués was being bowed through the tall steel and glass doors by an obsequious bank manager. He headed down the steps accompanied by a second guard. His eyes skimmed across Tracy, bored and uncaring. The bodyguard at the flitter cuffed Tracy lightly on the cheek. Reminded of his duty, Tracy bowed as the nobleman walked past. C. de Vaca stepped into the backseat of the flitter. The guards took their seats in the flitter and the entire entourage flew away.

  I wonder if he has a son going to The High Ground? Tracy thought. Of course he does if he’s got a son. Every Fortune Five Hundred male had to attend the academy unless they’d been promised to the church. Just like every intitulado had to spend six months playing soldier in the Reserva Combata Formación Cuerpo during their last year in high school. So we can be cannon fodder if there’s another war, Tracy thought.

  With an angry shake of the head he forced away the thoughts. It wasn’t that he was regretting his decision. It was just like being told not to think about pink elephants. He checked the time on his ScoopRing, realized he was going to be late and set off at a jog.

  The glass, stone and steel buildings that housed the engines of the economy gave way to less towering construction, cheaper materials, and subtle inhuman differences in color choices and design. It was also decidedly shabby. Signs for strip clubs, massage parlors, nail and hair salons blossomed down side streets. Tracy knew that many of them were in fact brothels despite the laws that made sex between humans and aliens strictly illegal. The ban had been put in place out of fear of the mysterious Cara’ot and their uncanny ability to blend the DNA of wildly divergent species to create new and strange hybrids. But sex was a potent drive, as was the lure of the exotic, and now the authorities mostly turned a blind eye. Unless it was some prominent politician who had fallen out of favor with the Emperor. It was a convenient way to remove a problem without leaving Imperial fingerprints.

  Tracy moved deeper into Pony Town and the crowds on the streets began to change as well as the architecture. There were still humans, but in addition there were Hajin clip-clopping past on delicate hooves, their long arms swinging at their sides, and their manes fluttering. Tiponi Flutes, like animated groves of bamboo, hooted and swayed as they played their incomprehensible math-based stick and tile game. The betting was frenzied and the Reals piled up.

  Isanjo, fur-covered and wide-eyed, their prehensile tails waving like pennants, flowed through the crowds. Tracy spotted a tail dart quickly into a human’s pocket and emerge with a wallet. The Isanjo vanished into the crowd, and the human walked on, unaware of the robbery.

  There was a shadow in one of the narrow side streets that met no known shape or form. It vanished into a doorway, and Tracy realized he might have actually seen a Cara’ot. They were normally found only aboard their ships, and in the warehouses surrounding spaceports where they sold their goods.

  His father was waiting on the corner by the bodega where they bought groceries. Slight and stoop-shouldered, his greying, dishwater-blond hair lay limp on his skull from the heat and humidity. The older man’s eyes lit up when he spotted Tracy, and Alexander waved. He had almost abnormally long hands and the swollen knuckles from his work intensified the sense of freakishness.

  Panting, Tracy came to a stop, and Alexander hugged him. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry.” Tracy almost added Naranjo wanted to see me, but bit it back just
in time.

  “Where do you want to eat?”

  Tracy pointed at an open-air café bracketed by wooden trellises. Overhead thick ropes crisscrossed with the complexity of a spider’s web. Isanjo ran along the ropes, trays balanced expertly in their six-fingered hands. Alexander sighed.

  “Well help me pick something mild. My old gut just can’t take that much spice any more.”

  They were guided to a table by a female Isanjo with deep red fur. Her enormous golden eyes flicked away from them and as soon as the menus were in their hands she scurried off toward a better-dressed couple who had just entered.

  The father and son settled into woven rope chairs. A waiter hurtled down from the ropes overhead, landed with a thud beside their table and deposited a bowl of dipping sauce and a basket of bread. The alien’s neotenous dark eyes were wide pools in the broad, fur-covered face, but despite their size their expression was unreadable. The upturned corners of the creature’s mouth cocked even higher, but was that really a smile, Tracy wondered? Or was the Isanjo just aping human behavior for the sake of the customers?

  The waiter’s order pad hung from a chain around his neck. He picked it up and tapped it to life. “What would you like to drink?” The shape of the muzzle gave the words an odd lisp and burr.

  “Milk,” Alexander said.

  “Enchata,” Tracy said. The sweet beverage distilled from the petals of flowers on the Isanjo homeworld went really well with their hot spicy food.

  With a powerful thrust of his legs the alien launched himself back up into the tangle of ropes, gripping with his hands and feet and the prehensile tail. The pungent scent off the sauce set Tracy’s eyes to watering and anticipation of the peppery taste had his mouth watering as well.

  “Are you really sure about turning down The High Ground?” his father asked. His tone was hesitant, pleading. “You know we can’t afford to pay for college…” His voice died away and he began shredding a hunk of bread into small crumbs. While the tailor shop turned a reasonable profit his father carried a substantial tax burden because he hadn’t remarried after his wife’s death, and further penalties were applied each year for his only siring one child. At least we no longer have the debt from the disaster on Riker’s World, Tracy thought.

  He hunched a dismissive shoulder. “If I’m good enough that the academy wants me then I can for sure get a scholarship at a university and I won’t have to be a soldier. Besides, there’s no merit involved. The fleet is filled with rich men’s sons who are there solely because of their birth. It’s a wonder we ever won a battle.”

  His father’s eyes drifted toward the aliens surging and milling on the sidewalk and hawking their wares from portable stalls. “They,” he said with a nod toward the aliens, “might not agree with you. We beat them all pretty decisively. Even the Cara’ot.”

  “That was hundreds of years ago!”

  “Back when humans were real men?” his father teased gently.

  Tracy gave him a reluctant smile. “Back when ordinary people could… well… get ahead. Before rich and titled assholes got everything handed to them.” The conversation had circled back to the news that lay like a stone in his heart. The thing he couldn’t bring himself to tell his father. He went on talking, nervous words with no meaning. “I mean, the whole thing is so stupid. Acting like all of us are going to get called up and be ready to fight. Do you even know where your gun is?” Tracy asked, referring to the rifle that every human household was required to keep close to hand.

  “I believe it’s in the hall closet with the umbrellas,” Alexander said thoughtfully.

  Tracy gave a sharp humorless laugh. “Yeah, we’re totally ready to fight off the alien menace.”

  “Tracy, what’s wrong?” his father asked. “You’re angry, I can tell.”

  To buy himself some more time Tracy dipped a small square of bread into the sauce, chewed and swallowed, but his stomach, clenched into a tight hard ball, rebelled, and the food had him gagging. Alarmed, his father was out of his chair, and came to wrap a comforting arm around Tracy’s thin shoulders. Alexander waved down a waiter.

  “Water!”

  The creature nodded and bounded away. Alexander laid a hand on Tracy’s forehead. Tracy jerked away. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m not sick.” Not in the way you think. With another worried glance his father returned to his chair.

  “But something’s wrong.”

  The gentle tone broke his control. Tracy’s throat ached as a boulder lodged itself just above his Adam’s apple so the words emerged as a harsh croak. “Don’t bother closing the shop for graduation,” he said. “I won’t be making a speech.”

  * * *

  Princess Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango had cried until her chest ached, her throat was raw and her eyes were burning. It had been something of a waste, for the person who needed to witness her grief had been stubbornly absent. Always before Papa had rushed to her side when she’d fallen in the gardens and scraped a knee, when her beloved dog had died, when her first mad crush on Duque Sanje’s eldest son had ended in heartbreak. But this time when he had ruined her life he was ignoring her.

  Her stepmother hadn’t come either. Perhaps because Constanza felt awkward or because she resented the fact that Papa had done everything to give the throne to Mercedes rather than her own daughter, Carisa. Of course the girl was only six so Constanza could hardly expect such a thing. Carisa couldn’t attend The High Ground. No, that horror is reserved for the Emperor’s eldest child, Mercedes thought resentfully.

  She pushed aside the floating curtains and rose from the elaborately carved canopied bed. She would not go. He could not make her. There was nothing wrong with Cousin Musa, and his son, Mihalis, would be a worthy heir. She didn’t understand why her father was so opposed to that side of the family. Let Musa take the throne.

  Her rooms looked out over a small garden. Wisteria with trunks the size of small trees overhung the marble walls with a riot of purple blossoms. At the center was an elaborate herb knot garden and a small pond with a fountain. Cushioned benches surrounded the pool, strategically placed so any breeze would carry a soft spray of cooling water onto those who sat on them.

  Mercedes considered going outside, but then caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing-table mirror, and decided that none of the guards needed to see her with a blotchy face, bright red nose and tangled hair. She rushed into the bathroom with its large sunken tub, and quickly splashed cold water on her overheated face. It helped a little. Back into the bedroom where she ran a brush through her long dark brown hair.

  What if they make me cut my hair?

  But I’m not going, she reminded herself again. He can’t make me.

  He’s the Emperor. Ruler of the Solar League.

  And I’m his daughter and he loves me.

  Really?

  Hurt and anger and insecurity blended in a toxic stew, and almost before she realized she had done it the brush crashed against the mirror and a jagged crack appeared. Mercedes felt a spasm of guilt and sadness that she had ruined something pretty because of one petulant act.

  Was she about to ruin the League too because of one petulant act?

  She shouldn’t have been surprised that an internal voice was counseling duty and protocol. She had been schooled to serve ever since she could be trusted to wield a fork and not misbehave in public. The crack in the mirror formed a scar across the image of her face. She turned her back on it. Most fleet officers sported scars, for dueling was accepted and indeed expected at The High Ground. Would she be expected to fight as well? She had never been trained to fence. Dance, play the piano, paint. The various imperial wives had taught her how to check the palace books to be certain that no majordomo or servant was stealing from the imperial purse. Her education was good, but there was going to be a lot of math associated with ship duty. Was she up to the task?

  But I’m not going!

  There was a soft tap on her door. Mercedes ignored it. Then a sweet soprano cal
led through the heavy wood paneling. “It’s Estella and Julieta. Please let us in, darling.”

  Mercedes ran to the door and threw the lock. Her two full blood sisters slipped through, and Julieta quickly locked the door behind her. Estella was sixteen; Julieta fifteen, born a scant ten months after Estella. The trio was proof that her mother had tried, Dios had she tried to produce the required son, but in the end she had been put aside, and it had been Agatha’s turn to try… and fail. Followed by Inez, Greta and finally Constanza. Five imperial wives and nine princesses between them.

  Mercedes studied her sisters. They all had the same dark brown hair and brown eyes. Julieta had taken after their mother. She was tiny and vivacious with a mischievous smile. Estella was the avowed beauty of the first three imperial daughters. She had skin like old ivory and her eyes were the color of caramel. Mercedes, the eldest, was the least attractive; she had taken after her imperial father and had a rather jutting blade of a nose. Many of her attendants assumed she resented it, but she actually didn’t. She loved her sisters and took great pride in their beauty, vivacity and accomplishments.

  “We’ve brought chocolate and a vid,” Julieta said.

  Mercedes slipped her arms around her youngest sibling’s shoulders. “That’s sweet, but I don’t think that’s the cure for this.”

  “Papa hasn’t come to see you?” Estella asked. Mercedes shook her head. For a long moment they just looked at each other. “I don’t think he’s going to back down, Mer,” she said.

  The muscles in Mercedes’ jaw tightened. “And neither am I.”

  3

  MEETING BY CHANCE

  Three weeks passed. Tracy refused to attend his graduation. His dad made sad eyes, but Tracy pointed out it was just high school. “Wait until I graduate with honors from SolTech, or New Oxford or Caladonia. That’ll be worth attending.”