The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  There was the sound of heavy breaths approaching from around a curve, and moments later the strangest creature Tracy had ever seen came racing along the wall of the corridor. It had three segmented legs and four appendages that appeared to be arms that ended in long hands with six fingers. Its head was too round and seemed to sit directly on its shoulders. It also had four eyes, two set in the center of the face and two others on the sides of its head. There was something about its feet that allowed it to cling to the Durabond material that formed the station. It tucked its legs, bounded off the wall and landed in front of Tracy with the air of a gymnast making a perfect dismount.

  The face was basically humanoid, but the mouth was a small O, and the eyes in the center of the face were small, the beady stare of a spider adding to the overall impression of an insect. The voice that emerged was a rich baritone, completely at odds with the physical attributes.

  “Cadet Belmanor, I am Donnel, your batBEM.”

  “What?”

  “I am a Cara’ot,” the creature said.

  “I figured that out! No, I mean… BatBEM? Bug Eyed Monster? Seriously?”

  “A little funny on the part of one of the early commanders of the academy,” Donnel said.

  “And is it? Funny?”

  Donnel bowed. “That wouldn’t be for me to say, young sir. You humans seem to think so.”

  “Are you the only Cara’ot among the… batBEMs?”

  “I am.”

  “But what are you doing here? I thought you people never lived off your ships except to trade.”

  “An unfortunate confluence of debt and a disagreement with my captain trader.” Donnel turned and began walking down the corridor. Tracy assumed he was supposed to follow and did so. “I was designed for space work so seeking employment on the station seemed the optimal choice. I have been eager to move out of the freighter bays, and when the opportunity arose to serve you I took it. Mela told me of your graciousness. I thought we might be a good match.”

  “Mela?”

  “An Isanjo batBEM assigned to Ensign Craddock. You were on the shuttle with him.”

  “Was he the one who helped me?”

  “I could not say. He was struck by your courtesy.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes it’s not the best approach,” Tracy muttered, thinking of his father’s servile manner toward the FFH.

  “If you say so, sir.” Donnel stopped in front of a door, touched the panel and the door slid open.

  The room was larger than his bedroom above the shop, and had that neat and well-designed feel of a ship’s cabin. There was a desk and chair. Tracy’s tap-pad had already been set out on the desk. On his left was a closet where his civilian clothes hung. To the right was a bathroom, where his toiletries were carefully arranged on a towel. There was a chest of drawers forming the pedestal of the narrow bed.

  It was what was laid out on the bed that caught Tracy’s breath in his throat. A uniform. A dress uniform sewn of spider silk. A uniform that was the deep midnight blue of the other cadets. The silver piping was of the finest quality.

  Tracy stepped to the bed and lifted the garment. The material slid across his hands like a whisper. Now that he was close he could see how smaller pieces of silver braid had been expertly sewn together. How the coat and slacks had been done piecemeal from smaller remnants, but in the hands of a master tailor it didn’t show. The only reason Tracy could see what had been done was because he had been trained by that master tailor.

  He sank slowly down onto the bed, clutching the uniform to his suddenly aching chest. Donnel cleared his throat, turned away, and fussed with the tap-pad, straightening it though it didn’t need it. Tracy flashed on a memory of his father placing a hand on a bolt of spider silk, leaning in close to Bajit. He now knew the conversation that ensued. A request that Bajit cut as close as possible and save every excess scrap of material.

  Understanding finally dawned. His father had been planning and hoping for Tracy to attend. The blow that had broken Tracy’s heart had been part of that plan, an act of terrible calculation and ultimate sacrifice. His father had risked losing the love of his only child in an effort to win a better life for that child. Tracy’s pain must be nothing to what his father had felt.

  “How did this… Did you see…” Tracy fumbled.

  “An older gentleman stopped by and delivered the uniform. He was on his way to make a small repair to Cadet Lord Arturo Espadero del Campo’s uniform.”

  “Did he… did he have any message?” Tracy forced the words past a constricted throat.

  “No, he seemed a bit taken aback to have found me here. He merely said he was making a delivery for Cadet Belmanor.”

  I hope I never see you again! His hot, hateful words returned to tear at Tracy.

  Tracy shot to his feet. “Do you think he’s still on the station, Donnel?”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Could you find out?”

  “Don’t you require assistance dressing, sir?”

  A corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “I’m not one of your helpless aristos. I’ve been dressing myself for at least fifteen years,” Tracy said. “Please, just look, okay?” he pleaded. “It’s terribly important.”

  “Very well.” The alien went scuttling out of the room. The door closed with a sigh.

  “Thank you, Dad,” Tracy said softly to the walls.

  * * *

  The cadets were entering by class—upperclassmen first, the plebes last. She might be the Infanta, but she would come behind all the others despite outranking them all.

  She glanced around hoping to spot Tracy. At first she failed to see him. She had been looking for that pale blue uniform, but instead he was wearing a midnight blue dress uniform just like all the rest of them. It was beautifully tailored and seemed molded to his body. As she watched, Boho walked past Tracy and cuffed him hard on the back of the head, knocking off his hat, and then treading on it.

  “So, which one of us did you rob to get your hands on that uniform, intitulado?” he asked while several of his comrades laughed.

  Mercedes was baffled. She knew Boho was arrogant but she had never thought him a bully, and all of the FFH were trained to show courtesy to the lower classes. Something must have happened between the two men, but how they could possibly have crossed paths was a puzzle she couldn’t solve.

  Tracy bent to recover his hat but Boho kept his boot firmly planted on it. Glancing up from beneath his long lashes Tracy said, “Since you seem to wish for my hat, sir, I’ll most humbly and happily make the trade.” And lightning quick he straightened and swept Boho’s hat off his head, and placed it on his own.

  Mercedes gave a gasp of laughter and several other cadets of lower nobility, after glancing from Boho to her, followed her lead. Tracy glanced at her and the barest of smiles touched his lips. She realized she was smiling back, and quickly schooled her features. Blood rushed into Boho’s face, but the grizzled old spacer was calling for them to enter now that the other classes had made their way into the hall. Boho had no choice but to pick up the crushed hat and try to punch it back into shape. Fortunately it was hats off as they entered so he was able to tuck the abused chapeau beneath his arm.

  Mercedes snuck one final look at Tracy. High color flew in his cheeks and his grey eyes were alight with pleasure. He had his shoulders squared and he looked taller than he had even moments before. Then they were in the mess hall, a large utilitarian space softened only by the battle banners hanging from the high ceiling. On some the colors were faded, the metallic threads tarnished by time. Others were scorched. Still others displayed ragged edges where sections had been burned or torn away. A history of human conquest written in fabric.

  There was a raised dais at one end of the room that held the high table. The rest of the tables ran perpendicular to the high table, and each of those was headed by an officer with the rank of commander or captain. Mercedes assumed the men were teachers. A military band was in one corn
er staffed by low-ranking spacers.

  At the high table the commandant and his second were already in place. A chaplain sat at one end of the table, and at the other was Rohan Danilo Marcus Aubrey, Conde de Vargas, who served as the direct patron to The High Ground. His plump hands were folded over his paunch, and the light reflected off the scalp showing through his thinning red hair.

  Alien servants were flowing through a set of double doors. Each time they slid open Mercedes had a glimpse of the kitchen beyond and the laboring cooks, none of them human. Among the fur and hooves and tails she spotted one human. An older man, stoop-shouldered with greying hair. He was trying to stay hidden at the side of the doors, but leaned out now and then to scan the crowd of students. She frowned at the incongruity, then saw his face light up with pride and pleasure. She followed his gaze. He was looking at the young man from the beach and now she could see the resemblance. If she had to guess she would bet they were father and son. The older man lingered for a brief moment longer, pressed the tips of his fingers to his heart and then his lips. The doors closed again. When they reopened the man was gone. Mercedes looked to Tracy, but he hadn’t noticed. He had been focused on scanning the long tables for his place card. When he finally found it his table was well in the back and next to the doors leading into the kitchen, which made it ironic that he had missed seeing his parent.

  As she expected, Mercedes and her attendants were at the middle table closest to the dais. Their companions were the sons of the highest born families with one notable exception: her cousin, Mihalis, eldest of the de Campo sons, was not present. She and her ladies were clumped at one end of the table, a small island of femininity in the midst of a sea of testosterone. Mercedes knew for a fact that Vice Admiral Markov was married, but even spouses weren’t permitted at this welcoming banquet. Clearly the rituals and traditions of The High Ground were uniquely male. Would they be adjusted to accommodate the four nobly born women? Only time will tell, she thought.

  The band struck up the League anthem and with a scrape of chairs and scuff of feet everyone stood. A fusilero slapped his rifle, and banged the butt of the gun on the floor announcing with a roar:

  “All rise for His Imperial Highness Fernán Marcus Severino Beltrán de Arango!”

  Her father entered and walked toward the high table. As he passed he glanced briefly over at her. For the briefest instant her father’s eyes, cold and demanding, met hers.

  She received the message loud and clear—don’t fail me.

  He looked away, and the image of a work-weary father miming his message of love to an unaware child flitted across her mind. She wished that gesture of love had been given to her. Instead she was left with only the crushing burden of expectation.

  6

  UNPLEASANT TRUTHS

  Reveille had sounded, piped through speakers in the rooms and echoing down the halls. Tracy was already up, dressed in his workout clothes—sweat pants, T-shirt and running shoes—and heading down the corridor toward the mess hall when the recorded bells rang and the bugle blew. At home he’d risen with his father at five so there was time to work before school. His interior alarm had brought him awake at the normal time, and he saw no reason to linger in bed. Drills were scheduled for eight, and he wanted to be sure his breakfast had time to settle before some drill sergeant laid into him.

  It meant he once again dressed without assistance from his batBEM, and he wasn’t sorry. Last night when he’d returned to his room after the banquet he found Donnel waiting for him. As the Cara’ot helped him out of his jacket he said, “I took the liberty of laying out your gym clothes for tomorrow, and loading your text books on your tap-pad, sir.”

  “Uh… thank you.”

  Donnel motioned for him to sit on the bed as he pulled on gloves. Tracy jerked when the creature knelt and carefully removed his mirror-bright boots, giving them a brush with the sleeve on one of his arms. “I also added a map to your class schedule. Wouldn’t do to be late on your first day.”

  “Thank you,” Tracy muttered again. Donnel motioned for him to stand. Once again he found himself obeying, and jerked nervously when the alien unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers.

  “I will be waiting in the shower area with your undress blues after drills.”

  “Really, you don’t need to do that. Really you don’t,” Tracy objected as he stepped out of the puddled material. He could hear the desperation in his voice.

  Donnel rocked back onto two of his three legs and gazed up at Tracy out of those strange eyes. “If I may be so bold, sir… it will place you at a disadvantage if you do not show the proper attitude toward the serving class. Again, your pardon, but you are already operating at a deficit as a scholarship student. If you wish to hold your own you must behave as if there is no difference between you and the FFH. One way to demonstrate that is to seem at ease with personal servants. I hope you will forgive my bluntness, sir.”

  “Yeah. Okay. I see your point. I’ll see you after drills. And… uh… I can handle… the rest.” He gripped the waistband of his shorts, determined to hold them in place.

  “Very good, sir.” Donnel brushed down the dress uniform and hung it carefully in the closet. “If that will be all I will see you in the morning.”

  But fortunately Tracy had dodged that by rising early. He was finding this level of attention rather creepy. He might have to ape his betters—his mouth twisted at that unconscious use of the word—when he was around them, but in the privacy of his quarters he’d look after himself.

  * * *

  It hadn’t been a restful night. The bed was too narrow and Mercedes constantly woke to find that her foot was hanging off the edge and exposed to the cold air. She was also intensely aware of the other girls sleeping all around her. As the hours crawled past she discovered that Cipriana snored and Sumiko talked in her sleep. Mercedes hoped she didn’t have any embarrassing sleeping habits.

  Their quarters were clearly an awkward retro-fit. The walls between what had probably been individual rooms had been removed to leave a large ungraceful space with closets bulging like growths into the room and toilets and showers exposed. All four beds were set in a star pattern and only two of them were placed where the overhead reading lights could provide illumination. Between the beds and the desks the space felt cramped and unwieldy.

  Mercedes wondered why the rooms had been twisted and deformed in this way, and then the answer hit her with blinding clarity—the administration was worried that if the women had private rooms they might find ways to slip boys into those rooms and into those beds and sex might occur. Instead the women were forced to live and sleep cheek by jowl to act as duennas for each other.

  According to their class schedules physical training occupied the first two hours of the morning. As their maids—batBEMs—fussed and flitted about assisting them to undress after the banquet, Mercedes had inspected her gym attire. Once again it was a split skirt but not as long as the skirt for the dress uniform or her undress blues. The workout skirt ended mid-calf, a singularly unattractive length. There was a bulky tunic to be worn on top that hung to mid-thigh and would effectively hide her figure. Mercedes suspected the abundance of material was going to interfere with movement.

  The four Hajin BatBEMs appeared a few minutes after reveille had sounded and started the water in the showers running. Mercedes slid out of the bunk and headed to a toilet. Pulling up her nightgown she sat down on the metal seat and felt her bladder tighten.

  Cipriana apparently didn’t suffer from embarrassment over having to urinate in front of other people. Her pee tinkled loudly into the metal bowl but even with that encouragement Mercedes couldn’t relax and relieve herself. Her servant, Tako, sensed her discomfort and positioned herself in front of the opening. Mercedes sighed and finally let go.

  A quick shower was followed by all of them standing in front of the mirrors and quickly applying makeup while their hair was brushed and braided by the servants. The chrono set into the sleeve of Merc
edes’ tunic showed that twelve minutes had elapsed.

  Sucking in a deep, steadying breath Mercedes faced her ladies. She wondered if her expression was as trepidatious as theirs.

  “Well, all right. This is it then. Touch the sky with glory,” she added though she felt silly intoning the motto.

  She turned on her heel, the rubber of her gym shoe squeaking on the hard composite floor, and led them toward the door. Behind her someone giggled. She didn’t look back to find out who.

  * * *

  Tracy entered the mess hall and found that of the first-year cadets only he and the ladies had arrived. Tracy was startled to see Mercedes. The Infanta, he mentally made the correction. He had no idea what a noble lady’s life was like, but he doubted early mornings played any part in it. She was looking at him, and a sharp frown furrowed the pale chocolate skin between those sweeping brows. Apparently he’d allowed his surprise to show on his face.

  He ducked his head and hustled to his table near the kitchen doors. He was relieved to see only a knife, fork and spoon instead of the array of flatware that had daunted him the night before. He had tried to surreptitiously watch his dinner companions, but he knew he and the other scholarship student, a young man from Nueva Terra named Mark Wilson, had made mistakes and that those mistakes had been noted by their better-born classmates. Even Hugo had known how to use the extra forks and spoons. The Devrises might not have had a title until recently, but they had the next best thing—money.

  The FFH progeny with whom Tracy shared the table hadn’t been all that happy. It wasn’t just the presence of the commoners that had aroused their noble ire. There had also been a lot of bitching about the table itself. Its placement near the kitchen doors had been viewed as an insult, just like having to share the table with intitulado. The professor at the head of the table—who had introduced himself as Commander Trent Crispin—had cast the fulminating aristos an amused glance and said, “Look on the bright side. Our food is hot when it arrives.”