The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  That had drawn a laugh from Hugo. It had rung out too loud and too forced, and Hugo had wilted under the looks. Tracy almost felt sorry for the boy. Then he remembered that Hugo had taken what was rightfully his, to be the valedictorian, and Tracy quashed the feeling.

  This morning Crispin was not present at the table. Since the dais was cleared of emperors, commandants and patrons the teachers had commandeered the high table and the task of supervising the first-year cadets had fallen to upperclassmen. Ensign Prefect Caballero Marcus Gelb had been the only other formal introduction that had been made last night. A ribbon on the left shoulder of the third-year student’s uniform marked him as the prefect for their table. His only other notable feature had been an angry red cut across his receding chin. The man had noticed Tracy staring, frowned and Tracy had quickly looked away.

  A Hajin servant appeared at Tracy’s side, pulling him out of his reverie. “Traditional breakfast or oatmeal,” the alien inquired softly. “Tea or coffee? Juice?”

  Tracy considered the Sims he’d seen about life in the corps and books he’d read. He decided to opt for the less heavy alternative, at least until he knew what physical training was likely to entail.

  “Oatmeal, café au lait, apple juice.” The Hajin bowed and slipped back into the kitchen.

  The food appeared quickly and Tracy began to eat. The food at the banquet had been first rate, and Tracy had assumed that would be the exception since they were hosting royalty, but breakfast was equally delicious, the oatmeal subtly flavored with cinnamon and cardamom and an alien spice he couldn’t identify. Well of course, he thought, the FFH isn’t going to start slumming just because they’re in the military. Servants to wait on us hand and foot and gourmet meals.

  A few moments later Wilson arrived. They had surreptitiously exchanged names and handshakes the night before. The better-born cadets at their table had not offered their names to the two scholarship students, and indeed seemed to pretend they weren’t present. Wilson had looked enviously at Tracy’s spider silk and tugged ineffectually at the poorly tailored coat of his pale blue charity uniform. Tracy had wanted to suggest that Wilson bring the coat to his room and let him fit it properly, but he quashed the impulse. He didn’t want to be known as the tailor’s son, the tradesman, the low-class lout. That life was behind him.

  “Morning,” Wilson muttered.

  “Morning,” Tracy grunted back.

  At some point he and Wilson would have to talk, and decide just how much interaction they were going to have. Tracy felt it would be a mistake for them to spend too much time together. The next three years wasn’t just an opportunity for an education. They needed to use it to make contacts and form alliances. Assuming any of their FFH classmates ever decided to acknowledge them, much less speak to them, Tracy thought as he watched Gelb, frown furrowing his brow, stalk to the table.

  The prefect leaned toward them. “I will have good order at this table. So don’t fucking embarrass me, intitulados!” he hissed in an undertone.

  “Absolutely, sir, yes, sir,” Wilson gabbled and there was not a hint of irony in his voice.

  Tracy just stared at the older student. Gelb was no fool, Tracy had to give him that. The prefect’s eyes narrowed as he correctly interpreted the challenge implicit in Tracy’s silence and level gaze. Gelb opened his mouth but before he could utter a rebuke the rest of their table arrived.

  “You weren’t on my shuttle coming up,” Tracy said in an undertone to Wilson. He was prepared to be offended if it turned out the other scholarship student had actually travelled with the well-born cadets.

  “I came directly to the station from Nueva Terra,” Wilson muttered back. “Seemed stupid to spend money on a ticket down to the planet.” Tracy felt better and also felt small because of his suspicions.

  The chair to Tracy’s left was taken by a student he’d noticed the previous night because of the man’s unusual coloring—grey hair and brows set against a youthful face, but cut with ropey scars across one cheek. Tracy tensed when Hugo took the chair directly across from him. “Morning.”

  “Morning,” Tracy muttered back.

  Hugo leaned across the table. Tracy retreated against the back of his chair. “Look. I want… I need to say something.”

  “What?”

  Hugo’s eyes widened at Tracy’s harsh tone. “I want to apologize. It wasn’t right… what they did. You were the best student in our class. It should have been you.”

  Both the grey-haired youth and Wilson were listening. Tracy writhed in embarrassment. “Yes. It should have been,” he snapped.

  “Look, I know it doesn’t mean much… now, but I tried to get out of it.” Hugo hung his head. “They just wouldn’t let up. My dad and those guys from the palace. I’m not as smart as you. Nowhere near. I’ll probably flunk out of here. But as long as I am here… well, I owe you. You can call on me if you need anything.”

  The humble apology and confession had Tracy’s rage in tatters. He tried to gather it again, to find that hot, hurting ball that had lived in the pit of his stomach since May, but it refused to return. It had become a weary pity. Apparently nobody’s life was going as they had planned. Tracy gave a sharp nod.

  “Thanks. I appreciate… well, just thanks.”

  Deferential servants appeared and took orders. A hum of nervous conversation, the clink of silverware on china began to fill the cavernous room. Tracy was acutely aware of the voices of Mercedes and the ladies dancing like chimes and bells over the basso rumblings of the men.

  Scar Face was eating his omelet and sausage with almost finicky care. The fork seemed small between his blunt fingers. Tracy forced aside his natural shyness, half turned and offered his hand.

  “Thracius Belmanor,” he said.

  The grey-haired boy looked down at Tracy’s outstretched hand, up to his face, back to the hand, then he lightly brushed Tracy’s fingertips with his.

  “Cadet Baron Jasper Talion.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Tracy said.

  Talion didn’t respond; he turned back to his plate, though he kept his eyes on Gelb, watching as the prefect chewed very carefully, trying to avoid moving his jaw and pulling at that livid wound.

  “Sabers or the Black Feather?” Talion asked abruptly.

  Tracy had read about The High Ground’s dueling societies, and hoped he could avoid that bit of nonsense.

  “Black Feather,” was the curt reply from Gelb.

  “I hear the Sabers are better.”

  “You won’t get into the Sabers, Talion.”

  The muscles in the back of the powerful hand that held the coffee cup tightened, and Tracy momentarily expected to see the delicate china shatter beneath that grip. He was glad now that Talion hadn’t actually taken his hand. “And why is that… exactly?” Talion’s voice had dropped to a low purr and the hair on the back of Tracy’s neck stood up.

  Gelb sensed the menace and came to his feet. “Because we don’t hold a high enough rank.”

  Talion lounged back in his chair. “I can see where that would be a problem for you. I’m a baron, and my father—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your daddy is provincial governor of that shit hole Nephilim, and if you think that will carry any weight with those guys…” He jerked his head toward the table directly in front of the dais where Mercedes and her ladies were seated. Cullen, Arturo del Campo and various other young men were making their way toward them. Gelb winced as the sharp move pulled at his scab then shrugged and concluded, “…then you’re an idiot.”

  Tracy pushed back his chair and left the table. Mark scurried after him. “And what does that make us?” Wilson said in an undertone as they headed for the doors.

  “Smarter,” Tracy snapped.

  * * *

  Mercedes watched Tracy leave the mess hall. She admired how the material of his grey T-shirt hugged his back. He wasn’t a muscled Adonis like Boho, but she liked his whipcord leanness. She was certain her gym clothes were far less flatteri
ng.

  Approaching footsteps pulled her back to her surroundings. Vizconde Mihalis del Campo was approaching the table. It was the meeting she’d been dreading. It should have happened last night—Mihalis was the prefect for this table—but he had been absent at dinner. The professor had blandly mentioned a sudden illness, but Mercedes hadn’t been fooled. She suspected her cousin had sipped from a cup of gall and that was the source of his indigestion.

  The bite of soft-boiled egg she’d just eaten curdled in her stomach. If her father hadn’t taken his radical step Cousin Musa would have become emperor and Mihalis would be the heir apparent. Instead she was the Infanta, and Mihalis would end his life as a royal duque.

  At Mihalis’s side walked his younger brother Arturo. Arturo had his usual smug, faintly amused expression. Mihalis was also smiling, but it seemed tight, and obsidian would have been warmer than his eyes.

  Find a consort. Pick the man who will share the throne with you. Once again her father’s words roiled her thoughts.

  Would it make sense to pick Mihalis? The del Campos were more golden skinned than their imperial relatives, and people accounted Mihalis handsome, though for Mercedes’ taste his eyes were set too close to his nose. Another pair of eyes, grey and passionate, floated briefly before her. She pushed the memory aside and focused on the eldest del Campo. Looks weren’t everything. In fact they shouldn’t weigh with her at all, and Mihalis had a number of traits going for him. He was related by blood, already trained to rule—

  The thought brought her up short. It was probably the best reason not to pick Mihalis. Being the consort would seem like crumbs to a man who had expected the throne. He would try to rule through her at best or undermine her authority at worst.

  She glanced at her companions. Sumiko was focused on her plate, eating as if this were her last meal. Danica was staring down at her tightly folded hands, too shy to look at the group of men settling into chairs across from them. She hadn’t touched her food as far as Mercedes could see. Cipriana stared boldly at the phalanx of males arrayed across from her with the air of a woman deciding between a set of Sidone scarves. Or perhaps a housewife deciding which plump chicken looks more appetizing, Mercedes thought and choked back a giggle.

  She let her eyes drift to the others, this flock of the highest born males among the FFH. Or perhaps they should be a pride like lions or a pack like wolves, she thought. She realized her mind had gone there because she did feel like prey. Not only the professors would be watching her every move and reporting back to her father, all the students would be watching as well, and their reports would go to their families in the form of gossip and gossip was like pollution. It spread fast and wasn’t easily combated. She pushed aside the uncomfortable thought.

  Hunching his shoulders and sliding into a chair at the end of the table was Vizconde Yves Riccardo Petek. The tight T-shirt displayed his paunch, and his eyes with their epicanthic fold gave him a perpetually worried expression. He had a delicate mouth, and a pointed chin that was starting to lose its shape as fat blurred his features.

  Boho and Mihalis jockeyed for the seat directly across from her and Boho won. He gave her a blazing smile as he took his chair. He was flanked by two of his toadies, Davin Pulkkinen, a simple caballero known more for his schoolboy “wit” than much else. The other was the Marqués Clark Bennington Kunst. Mercedes didn’t know much about him beyond the fact he was a very good dancer. Neither of them were as handsome as Boho. It was a trait of beautiful women to pick less attractive friends to highlight their superior appearance. Mercedes was amused by the idea that men might do the same.

  “So, you’re happy to be here,” Mihalis said.

  “What?” Mercedes asked.

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Was I? I suppose I was. Silly thought. Nothing important…” She realized she was babbling and she shut her mouth so firmly that her teeth clicked.

  Mihalis’s smile broadened and the hard light in his eyes softened. “Come on, Mercedes, a joke is better when it’s shared,” he coaxed.

  She noted the use of her given name, and irritation had her snapping before she considered, “Not when some of you are the butt of it.”

  Mihalis’s smile was gone and all the young men exchanged glances. Was it me? Did she mean me? Maybe it was you. The wobbling deep in her stomach was distracting and irritating. Mercedes pushed aside her nerves and clung to the small advantage she’d seized.

  “You weren’t at dinner,” she said bluntly.

  “An unfortunately timed stomach bug,” Mihalis replied with a courtier’s smooth delivery.

  “Throne-itis I hear is quite debilitating,” Mercedes shot back. A frightened squeak emerged from both Danica and Petek. There were quick indrawn breaths from the other men and Arturo gave her a thoughtful and calculating look.

  “You’re very direct, Princess,” Mihalis said.

  “The title is Infanta now, and we’re not playing court games, cousin. The fleet is essential to the League’s security.”

  “Which is precisely why a little experiment in social engineering seems… foolish.”

  “Nonetheless I am here.”

  “But will you stay?”

  “Depend on it.”

  Mercedes pushed back her chair with enough force that it set up a shriek as the metal legs scraped on the stone. Danica gave a gasp and leaped to her feet. Cipriana unfolded with the grace of a swan taking flight. Sumiko also stood, plump and solid at Mercedes’ side.

  “Well, see you all at training,” Mercedes said.

  Mercedes led them away. Her stomach was still wobbling.

  7

  SO IT IS TO BE WAR

  It was an impressive room made even more impressive because it was on a space station. Overhead a clear dome arched against the stars and the blazing nebula. It seemed a fragile thing to separate them from the cold and vacuum of space.

  Beneath it a running track circled a grass-filled soccer field. Directly across from the door through which they had entered was a shooting range, and at one end of the huge oval room were free weights and machines. At the other end mats were laid out. Tracy expected those were not for yoga classes, and in fact a barrel-chested man dressed in a star command blue martial arts gi stood waiting. He bounced on the balls of his bare feet, hands clasped behind his back. The light from the nebula poured down through the clear dome and glinted on the man’s shaved head.

  Arrayed all around the walls of the training center were suits of armor. The earliest honored Earth’s history. Shining plate worn by the knights of the middle ages, exquisite lacquered bamboo armor from China and Japan, ceramic and Kevlar combat armor from the late twentieth and twenty-first century. The suits worn by the astronauts who first tested the Fold technology that defeated the limits prescribed by light speed and opened the stars to humans. Those were puffy and white and looked as if the wearer were encased in marshmallows.

  Tracy’s eye skipped from suit to suit seeing not only the advance of technology but the militarization of the space program until it had morphed into the Solar League space command, the Orden de la Estrella. His gaze came to rest on the suit directly to the right of the doors. It was a familiar sight from hundreds of SimPlays, SimTourneys and recruitment Sims streamed to his ScoopRing. O-Trell battle armor. At some point he would wear one of those suits. He reached out to touch the glistening material only to have his hand slapped aside.

  “That armor was worn by Vice Admiral of the Blue Margrave Øystein Nass at the battle of Xinoxex. Keep your dirty hands off it, intitulado.”

  Tracy had no idea of the midshipman’s identity, but he bet he knew something the arrogant ass probably didn’t. He turned on the other student, felt his lips twist into a sneer. “Nass was a scholarship student. Won his title at the battle of Xinoxex. Just another dirty intitulado. You can never tell where we’re going to end up.”

  “I know where you’re going to end up if you don’t shut up. Now get on the track!” The older boy gave h
im a hard shove between the shoulder blades.

  An officer, hands clasped behind his back, stood rocking gently on the balls of his feet at the edge of the track. He eyed them all. “Three miles, cadets! Go!”

  There was a confused jumble as they all began to run. Tracy managed to use the scrum to casually trip the midshipman who had shoved him. The guy went sprawling, but in the crush he couldn’t totally identify who had tripped him. Once on the track there began a contest for position. Tracy noted that Cullen immediately moved to the front of the pack. Jasper Talion, the baron from Tracy’s breakfast table, matched him stride for stride—two big men fighting for primacy.

  A light soprano voice asked incredulously, “We’re all going to run together? With the boys?”

  A single snapped word. “Yes.” Tracy recognized Mercedes’ rich alto voice even with just that one word.

  Tracy picked a pace he thought he could maintain. It put him well back in the middle of the pack. From here he could watch the struggle playing out in front. Several other cadets tried to challenge Cullen and Talion for the lead, but they always wilted. The practical effect of all the dick waving was that the pace kept increasing.

  Tracy realized he was lapping a fat boy who was staggering more than running. Sweat streamed down his face and darkened the neck, back and armpits of his T-shirt. His mouth was twisted in agony and his wheezing breaths could be heard above the slap of running feet and the panting of the other cadets. Tracy felt a momentary flash of pity for the suffering boy. Apparently the FFH wasn’t kidding about requiring all its sons to attend The High Ground. Tracy’s eyes went to Hugo a few feet in front of him and running easily.

  As for Tracy, pain stitched its way up his side and his lungs were burning. Material twined around his left shin and he almost lost his balance.

  “God damn these skirts!” Mercedes gasped. She gave him a sideways glance and added in a puffing whisper, “Sorry.”

  “S’okay.”

  “You didn’t say—” she began.