The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “It’s all right, Dani. It’s all right.” She pinned Deal with an imperious look. “She needs to see a doctor. Now!”

  Deal stepped forward. “The medicos are on the way.” He held out a broad, blunt hand. “Well done you, Cadet Princess. I think I know the fighting style that will suit you. We’ll make you a big damn hero yet.”

  Mercedes ignored the drill instructor and held out her hand to Tracy. He hustled forward and assisted her to her feet. For a moment they stood face to face, her hand in his. He knew he was beaming. She gave him a tiny nod. He gave one back, released her hand and stepped away.

  * * *

  The scent of sweat, farts, soap, hair pomade and aftershave mingled with the steam from the hot water pounding from showerheads. The locker room was crowded with students and their batBEMs. Donnel was waiting at a locker, a towel draped over one of his arms, a bar of soap and a bath sponge in one hand, shampoo in a second, shaving gear in a third. Only Tracy had a servant so rich in appendages. The other batBEMs carried their cadets’ toiletries in small shower caddies.

  Tracy stripped off his sweat-soaked gym clothes, took the towel from Donnel’s arm, wrapped it around his waist and joined the gaggle of men heading to the showers. Donnel trailed after him with his odd lurching walk. The tile floor beneath Tracy’s bare feet was almost hot, and heat lamps set into the ceiling bathed his shoulders with warmth. There were no stalls, just a long row of showerheads throwing water onto the tiles and drains to carry it bubbling away. Mirrors were set on the back wall between the showerheads, made from some material that kept them clear of the clouds of steam that obscured the naked bodies of the men. Tracy handed Donnel the towel—he was getting too comfortable with this, he thought—took his toiletries and stepped under the water.

  It was hotter than he was used to. At home they kept the water heater turned down low to save money. He began to scrub down. Suds foamed cloud-like on the sponge. Figures edged out of the steam, flanking him. Their faces were reflected in the mirror. Sanjay and one of the men who had stepped forward to face the girls. They didn’t look friendly. Tracy stiffened, bath sponge in his hand.

  Sanjay’s jaw was swollen and bruised so his words were mumbled and muffled. Their meaning, however, was clear. “You need a lesson in manners, intitulado. You don’t laugh at your betters—”

  “And you need to learn when to duck,” Tracy shot back, and he jammed the soap-filled sponge into Sanjay’s face.

  Sanjay yelled as the soap stung his eyes. Tracy spun to face the other man, but slipped on the suds and water-slick tiles, banging his hip hard against the wall. He was directly under the shower, the water blinding him. A fist slammed into his belly. Air exploded out of him, and he doubled over in pain. A knee was rising toward his face. Then suddenly the knee was receding, and he was being hauled into the air.

  The showerheads were beneath him now. Tracy craned to look over his shoulder. Donnel was scurrying across the ceiling on his three legs while all four arms cradled Tracy. The alien scuttled down the wall, and deposited Tracy under the last bank of showerheads at the far end of the room. Right in the midst of Cullen and his two brown-nosers.

  Naked, gulping and breathless, Tracy decided it wasn’t the moment for attitude. He ducked his head, muttered, “Excuse me,” and headed out. The big aristocrat looked startled, then amused and finally thoughtful. His hand landed on Tracy’s shoulder, holding him in place.

  “What?” Tracy snapped. “You gonna teach me manners too?” So much for discretion.

  “A word of advice, intitulado. You shouldn’t take liberties with the ladies.” The hand was lifted and Tracy started away. “Oh, and a warning. Stay away from the Infanta.”

  Donnel was waiting beyond the spray of water. He handed Tracy his towel. As he dried himself Tracy muttered, “I can fight my own battles.”

  “Maybe you’d like me to put you back?” There was a pointed pause and the alien added, “Sir.”

  “No. And okay, I get it.” Tracy headed for the locker room, stopped and muttered, “Thanks.”

  “My pleasure, sir.”

  * * *

  “This is ridiculous!” Mercedes raged at Captain Manfred Zeng’s impassive face. She stood before his desk, fists braced on the marble surface, body quivering with nerves and indignation. The captain sat behind the desk in his oddly cluttered office, fingers tented in front of his lips, looking up at her intently.

  “The whole thing is ridiculous, starting with these damn clothes!” She pulled open the tear in her skirt. The flash of skin got a reaction. The captain’s eyes widened and he looked momentarily alarmed.

  “Cadet Princess, please won’t you sit down? I find conversations so much more productive when the parties are comfortable.”

  The mild tone left her deflated. She was also embarrassed about displaying her thigh. It wasn’t the sort of behavior in which a well-bred young woman engaged. Mercedes had screwed up her courage to bring her complaints to the chief administrator by stoking her anger. Now she didn’t know how to react. She looked around, and backed into one of the overstuffed armchairs that Zeng had indicated.

  The office was a total contrast to Zeng himself. It held the usual and expected array of holos showing Zeng with various famous politicians, nobles and military leaders. What Mercedes hadn’t expected was the clutter more in keeping with the salon of a fussy maiden aunt. Knick knacks adorned the desk and the side table that rested between two armchairs. In addition to the holos there were actual painted pictures on the walls, but not what one would expect from a military leader. No capital ships against a dramatic backdrop of stars, no brave fusileros storming a stronghold. No gauchos riding the steppes and plains of Nueva Terra following their herds, her father’s personal favorites. Instead Zeng’s taste veered to the fantastic—dreamy, misty landscapes or seascapes with sailing ships whose sails were made of flowers. Given Zeng’s appearance Mercedes had expected an ascetic monk’s cell.

  “Now, what may I do for you?”

  Mercedes’ eyes narrowed. On the surface the words were innocuous, but she heard the faint echo of a man humoring a recalcitrant child. She remained silent as she marshaled her arguments. She decided to start by tossing it back to Zeng.

  “First a question, Captain… after graduation we will be assigned to ships, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And when a ship is in combat all personnel are wearing armor, correct?”

  “Again yes.”

  Mercedes picked up the material of her skirt. “We start Infierno training at the end of the first quarter. You wear armor in an Infierno fighter too. Have I got that right?” This time Zeng just nodded. He was looking wary. Mercedes gave him a smile. “So, will our armor have a skirt? And how exactly will that work? Granted it would be a challenging technological problem and might lead to some real innovations, but is it really worth the effort? Wouldn’t it be better to just give us regular armor?”

  Zeng leaned back, hands gripping the arms of his chair. He no longer looked like he was humoring her. A frown furrowed his brow. “What are you suggesting, Cadet Princess?”

  “Let us wear slacks. Give us gym clothes that allow us to move so we can learn something. Otherwise we’re just going to be burdens to our fellow officers.”

  “I’ll have to take this to the commandant.”

  “Why? You said you were in charge of operations. Wouldn’t attire fall under that?”

  “Your presence here represents a profound change to this institution, Highness. We gave very careful thought to all the ramifications.”

  “May I speak frankly, sir?”

  “You mean you haven’t been?” His lips quirked in something that might be called a smile.

  “No, you didn’t think anything through. No one thought past the press releases and the holo ops and the first weeks of class because none of you think we’re going to make it. Here’s something you can pass on to the commandant. I’m going to make it.”

  He contemplated her
for a long moment. “Is there anything else, Cadet Princess?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then you are dismissed.”

  9

  A FRAGILE CONSTRUCT

  With a few coughs the class settled into their seats in the raked auditorium. Commander Crispin sat on his desk in the well of the chamber, one gleaming boot swinging idly back and forth. Stands folded up out of the desktops to accommodate the students’ tap-pads. Tracy unfolded his pocket keyboard. Half the screen on his pad held the opening chapter of a history book, and the other side awaited his notes.

  Silence. It continued for several moments then Crispin lifted up his own tap-pad. “So, this is Imperial History 101, and according to the syllabus I’m going to teach you the historical precedents of the academy, why we fight, why we are the best fighting men…”

  Crispin paused to incline his head toward the ebony-skinned girl and the stocky girl who were in the class. Tracy had been disappointed when neither Mercedes nor the blonde girl, Danica, arrived.

  “And now women in the known galaxy.” Crispin slid off the desk and began pacing. “First, I am Commander Lord Trent Crispin. Yes, I know you got all that from your course schedule, but it’s polite to offer introductions. So let’s do that. Starting here.” He pointed at the front row left corner seat and the student occupying the chair. “Please stand and introduce yourself. And tell us something salient about yourself. Something that will go in the history books when they write about all your glorious exploits.”

  Tracy didn’t miss the irony that edged Crispin’s words. What surprised him was how few of his fellow classmates seemed to hear it. Only a few of the FFH were frowning. Most were looking unperturbed, seemingly accepting this as their due.

  The introductions began. Tracy wasn’t sorry to start to put names with faces since almost none of the FFH had offered him an introduction. And he now had names for the final two ladies. Cadet Lady Cipriana Delacroix, and Cadet Lady Sumiko Tsukuda. After that there were a lot of cadet conde, and cadet caballero, and cadet sir, and cadet lord, and cadet vizconde. Mercifully most of the students didn’t decide to expound beyond their noble lineage. It was his turn. Tracy stood, tilted his chin up and said, “Cadet Thracius Belmanor.” He sat back down. No need to say he was a scholarship student. His cheap, pale blue undress uniform announced it to the world.

  Once this odd form of roll call was over Commander Crispin inclined his head and said, “I’m pleased to meet you all.”

  The doors sighed open. Tracy and a number of other students looked back to see who was the latecomer. It was the Infanta and the blonde girl. Both of Danica’s eyes were swollen nearly shut, the surrounding skin purple and black, a contrast with the stark white bandage that covered her nose. Mercedes had her arm around the smaller girl’s waist.

  “Forgive our belated arrival, Captain Professor,” Mercedes said. Her husky alto voice made music of the mundane words.

  “I understand Cadet Lady Everett had a medical issue to be resolved. You, however, Cadet Princess, have no excuse. Meet me after class and I’ll assign your punishment.”

  Mercedes looked scared and hurt. She opened her mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it and found a seat. Unfortunately it was on the opposite side of the room from Tracy, but as close to the other ladies as she could manage. Perhaps there was safety in numbers and he ought to be more amenable to Wilson?

  Tracy turned his attention back to Crispin. The man stood, head bowed, shoulders tense. He gave a nod as if answering an unspoken question and looked up. His gaze was focused only on Mercedes.

  “So, why do we have an aristocracy?” the professor asked. Glances were exchanged. Is this a trick question? No one responded. “Too hard? How about this one? When did we acquire a hereditary aristocracy?”

  Tracy saw Cullen nudge the man to his left and whisper to him. The man who had introduced himself as Caballero Davin Pulkkinen hesitated then raised his hand and said, “Uh… we’ve always had them.”

  “Technically correct if a rather broad and overly general answer.”

  Oh, you got one of your buddies to test an answer for you, didn’t you? Cullen was a clever bastard, Tracy decided.

  “Anyone else care to try?” Crispin asked.

  Tracy gritted his teeth. Men had won high honors and titles in the service. But not if they sit cringing in the back row, an inner voice prodded him. He tried to force his hand up, but his arm seemed boneless, limply refusing to obey his brain’s command.

  Del Campo raised his hand. Crispin acknowledged him with a raised eyebrow. “By the twenty-first century there were only a few noble families on Earth, and they didn’t have any power. They were mostly… ornamental,” Arturo drawled.

  “Quite true.” Crispin’s pale eyes swept across the assembled class. “Do you find our current crop ornamental, Cadet?”

  The imperial cousin smiled. “Oh, we are very ornamental, sir. Especially the ladies.” He bowed toward the four girls. “But our fathers, now, they have a great deal of power. I’m assuming your task is to whip us into shape so we can exercise power as efficiently as our paters.”

  “Correct on both counts, but I return to my original question. Why did that happen?”

  “Aliens. Aliens happened.” It was the plump girl Sumiko who spoke up.

  Once again Crispin’s eyes swept the room and he tsked. “Put to shame by the fairer sex, gentlemen. Yes, Cadet Lady, we found we were not alone.” He touched a panel on his desk and a holo screen sprang to life. Turning, Crispin wrote in the air, the words appearing on the floating holo.

  “In 2127 scientists under the leadership of Tamil Al-Shabaz working at the Musk Institute built the first prototype Fold engine. By 2143 the exodus had begun. For twenty-three years we sought out and settled habitable planets, but then we stumbled across the Hajin. While they had inter-system space flight, their lack of a faster than light speed engine meant they offered little threat to our home world. Still the contact caused significant consternation back on Earth. Particularly among the more traditional religious sects.”

  Crispin glanced back over his shoulder and gave them a tight smile. “At base we really are just aggressive monkeys, and very fearful of the other. And we had found the Other.” His voice gave a capital to the word. “It made us far more sanguine about the superficial differences between our races, creeds and colors. Whatever our outward differences might be we were at least human. At any rate the conquest of Belán was easy—”

  “Yeah, we kicked the shit out of the BEMs,” Davin Pulkkinen yelped.

  Crispin went on. “But… but on the Hajin home world we found the embassies and trade goods of other alien races. Which strongly indicated that someone other than humans had access to faster than light—FTL.”

  “We know all this.” Cullen’s voice freighted with ennui cut through Crispin’s lecture.

  The professor turned slowly to face the class. “Cadet Vizconde Cullen. I believe your title appends to the words dorado arco. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Crispin began walking up one of the two stepped aisles that cut through the desks. “Golden arch.”

  Cullen was frowning. “I know what it means.”

  “Do you know what it refers to?” Crispin stood at the end of the row, looking at Cullen. The cadet was looking less annoyed and more worried. “It refers to a chain of hamburger stands from old Earth. Vastly wealthy, international in its reach, but none the less a restaurant selling cheap food to the poor.”

  Crispin climbed a few more steps and stared down at the fat boy. “Cadet Petek, your father is the Duque de Telqual. The name derives from Telcom. A phone company.”

  There was a growing rumble of outrage. Several of the students had come to their feet. To Tracy’s delight Crispin drove on undeterred by the shouts of fury.

  “Cadet Lord Favreau. Your father’s last name is Nestlé—that company sold chocolate as well as various other snack foods.” The professor had switched on a lapel
microphone so his voice powered over the offended din.

  “I’ll have you fired!” Cullen shouted and he had enough charisma and sheer physical presence to silence all the other ranting students. “My father will not tolerate—”

  “SIT DOWN.” Crispin’s voice echoed off the walls. “All of you. I’ve been teaching history at The High Ground for seventeen years. I fought in the battle of Hells Point when we reintegrated the Hidden World of New Mecca. I will not be threatened by some spring of nobility. And I will be heard!”

  The realization hit Tracy—this wasn’t Crispin’s normal lecture. So why? Tracy wondered. Once again Crispin was staring at Mercedes. Tracy looked from the man to the girl. She was flushed, uneasy at the close scrutiny. Tracy looked back to Crispin. His mouth was working. He looked almost as uncomfortable as the Infanta.

  “What is it you’re trying… wanting to say, sir?” Tracy called.

  Crispin shot him a glance that was an odd mix of anger and relief. The professor walked up a few more steps until he stood abreast Mercedes.

  “Cadet Princess, our society is a construct that grew out of insecurity, fear of the Other, and a need to establish beyond any doubt that we were better than the aliens we had subjugated. And we reinforced that superiority in ways both actual and symbolic by creating an aristocracy based on corporate wealth and power.

  “It was logical to use these entities as the foundation for the League.” The man’s voice had taken on the cadence of a lecturer as he gained confidence. “They had helped finance our initial settlements, but make no mistake, the FFH is an anachronism. We managed to contort this outdated form of governance into something that can actually rule a hegemony spanning light years, but it is as fragile as a soap bubble. Rapid change can affect stability.”

  “And I’m that kind of change. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it, Commander Lord Crispin?” Mercedes’ voice was calm and low, her nerves expressed only by the faint tremor on the final word.