The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “So, we change on the shuttle,” Cipriana snapped.

  “Yeah, good luck with that. Dressing in freefall. And as I recall you were puking your guts out on the flight up,” Sumiko said nastily.

  “Just because you’re a stolid cow who has no sensibility…”

  “Stop it!” Mercedes yelled. “You’re all making me crazy.” She hung her head, steadied her breathing. “We’ll change after we land but before we leave the shuttle.”

  “Oh, good idea,” Sumiko said and Mercedes resented the fact the other girl sounded surprised.

  Her batBEM sidled up next to her, and placed some toiletries into the holdall. “Cadet Princess, if I might…” Tako said softly.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Might I humbly suggest that you wear your uniform and face down the critics. You have shown yourself capable of facing down all manner of obstacles. It would mean a lot to the staff.” She nodded her long head in the direction of the other batBEMs.

  “Why would it matter to you?”

  “If you ladies succeed then more women will follow and perhaps, in time, we would be allowed to serve.”

  Now the alien had Mercedes’ full attention. “What are you saying? That aliens should serve in the Orden de la Estrella?” The Hajin inclined her head in affirmation. Amusement warred with anger. “What an absurd idea. Orden de la Estrella exists because we can’t trust you,” Mercedes said.

  Tako veiled her eyes with her long lashes, and backed away. “So sorry to have offended, Cadet Princess.”

  13

  THIS IS LOVE?

  The soccer team had a shuttle just for their use because before their actual leave began The High Ground was going to play the University of Caladonia. The planetside school had delivered a drubbing to The High Ground in the team’s home stadium and the academy team was eager to avenge the insult by beating Caladonia on their home turf in Hissilek.

  Which meant Tracy wasn’t riding down the gravity-well with staff or other bits and sundries heading back to Ouranus, or unable to go at all if he couldn’t have hitched a ride. The cost of a shuttle fare to the planet was well beyond his means. He might be just a substitute and resent the time, but it did mean he got to go home.

  They were all strapped in while their coach, Commander Phillip McWhinnie (behind his back they all called him Whinnie or Whiny when they were really annoyed with him), floated in the front of the shuttle.

  “Okay. We have to not suck tomorrow. The Conde de Vargas is going to be watching, and his prestige is on the line. I also know he and President Tummelty have a significant wager going so more than just Rohan Aubrey’s pride is riding on the outcome. So don’t fuck it up and cost our patron money.”

  “Also rather awkward to go to his house for a ball afterward if we’ve lost,” Boho drawled.

  The heavy paper gave a crackle as Tracy touched his coat pocket and the invitation that nestled inside. No mere ScoopVite for the conde. The invitation had been waiting on Tracy’s desk. His name flowed across the front of the champagne-colored envelope in cursive script—Cadet The Honorable Thracius Ransom Belmanor. Inside, the embossed invitation elaborated on the time and place of the Salutation Ball. Dancing, champagne supper, attire formal/dress uniform. There was no refusing. Tracy wondered if he could manufacture an injury between now and tomorrow night? He turned his attention back to the coach to avoid thinking about the ball.

  “So our biggest problem is their striker, Montoya. He’s incredibly fast and fit so I expect you two,” McWhinnie pinned Jasper Talion and Hugo with a look, “to stay on him. Boho can’t do it all.”

  “I did what I could. At least I held them to four goals instead of seven.” It was said in tones of faux humbleness, but the smirk the tall cadet gave the rest of them had Tracy gritting his teeth.

  McWhinnie scrubbed at his face. “The game tomorrow is critical. If we lose again we won’t make the varsity championships. That has never happened. And it’s by God not going to happen while I’m coach. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” they said in obedient chorus.

  “Now get a good night’s rest tonight. Don’t go out drinking and whoring. Technically your leave doesn’t start until after the game.”

  “So we can get drunk at the ball?” Pulkkinen called merrily.

  “If you’re that stupid, sure,” McWhinnie shot back.

  “Then I guess whoring at the ball is right out too,” Boho drawled and there were more shouts of laughter.

  Twenty minutes later the blunt nose of the shuttle and its broad stubby wings began to nuzzle the outer fringes of the atmosphere. Their re-entry speed formed a cushion of air in front of them but the atmospheric gasses still ignited, treating Tracy to a spectacular if alarming light show as fire licked along the sides and wings of the shuttle.

  They broke through the final cloud cover. Their speed had been reduced so that the flames were gone, but a corona of heat pulsed on the edges of the wings. The pilot banked and took them in toward the military side of the Cristóbal Colón Spaceport. The engines gave a final burst, pressing Tracy back in his couch, and then they landed with the delicacy of a swan dropping onto the water.

  Tracy hung back as the others headed for the doors. The babble of conversation faded. He unhooked his webbing and walked slowly off the shuttle. Enlisted fusileros had unloaded the cadets’ holdalls. Tracy was surprised to see Talion loitering while his batBEM picked up his case. Donnel stood nearby holding Tracy’s small bag.

  Talion approached Tracy. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “Have you got a place to stay?”

  Tracy hesitated, trying to decide how to answer that. Could he go to the tailor shop? Probably. Did he want to? That was less clear. Talion interpreted his silence as a negative.

  “Look, my family keeps a house here on Ouranos. It’s not that large and it’s not in the best neighborhood, meaning it’s not up on the Palacio Colina, but you’re welcome to stay.”

  If you ever want to get ahead you have to learn to build and trade on your connections. A rich alto voice rang through his memory. The refusal that hovered at the tip of his tongue was swallowed, and he gave an awkward nod. “Thank you, I’ll take you up on that.”

  * * *

  The smells of aftershave and tobacco. It was warm and comforting and familiar. Mercedes paused in the door of her father’s study and soaked it in. The water chuckled and bubbled in the gold-etched vase of the hookah as the Emperor pulled in a last lungful of smoke. Mercedes chuckled too.

  “What’s funny, Mer?” her father asked.

  “Nothing. I’m just happy to be home.”

  He opened his arms and she ran to him. The linen of his shirt was rough against her cheek. She sighed with contentment as his arms closed tightly around her. “I… I missed you,” she whispered against his chest.

  “I missed you too, darling,” and he kissed the top of her head the way he had when she had been a child.

  She pulled back from his embrace and the light from the lamp on his cluttered desk fell on her face. Fernán’s brows twitched together in a sharp frown when he saw the bruise blooming on her cheek.

  “What the devil is this?”

  “Martial arts training.”

  “They allow a man to strike you?” It was less a question and more a statement of outrage.

  “Daddy if I… when I graduate I’ll be assigned to a ship and people might shoot at me. Truthfully being hit is a lot less scary.”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  Mercedes perched on the corner of his desk. “I’m learning this style called capoeira. It combines dance and acrobatics. And I’m really good at it.”

  “I bet you are. You were always the best dancer at your recitals.”

  She leaned forward and slapped him on the shoulder. “Liar.”

  “No, no. Biased perhaps. Aren’t most fathers?” he asked with a smile. Resting his elbows on his knees he leaned forward. “So, how is it going?”

  �
�Like you’re not getting regular updates from Markov and Zeng,” Mercedes said.

  “Yes, of course I am, but I want to hear from you.”

  Mercedes slid off the desk and paced the shadowed confines of the office. The blinds had been drawn against the late afternoon sun. Fall had arrived so the room was quiet without the ever-present hum of air conditioning. Instead a large ceiling fan made of sek wood from Cuandru beat a slow cadence. The breeze from the blades ruffled her hair. It felt good to have it out of its braid and hanging loose and heavy down her back. While she assembled her thoughts Mercedes studied the paintings and hangings that adorned every wall.

  “Well, I’m only getting Cs.”

  “As long as you’re not failing. I don’t need you to be at the top of your class. I wasn’t either. I did, however, do very well at the prueba.”

  “Oh God, the prueba. What is it? No one will tell us anything,” she cried.

  “That’s because it changes every year. I can tell you this much. It will evaluate how you all respond under pressure.”

  “Like that’s any different,” she muttered.

  “Oh, it will be different,” her father said. A smile quirked his lips. He drew a hand across his mouth. “I was disappointed to see you wearing a dress on the news. Why weren’t you in your uniform?”

  Mercedes licked her suddenly dry lips. “Well… um… I don’t exactly have it… the old one… the first one… I mean… any more…” She looked up. Her father’s gaze was dark and implacable. “What they gave us was completely impractical. It was a costume not a uniform—” She broke off and gave him an accusing look. “Wait a minute. If you’ve been getting reports from Zeng and Markov then you know all this. So why ask me?” He said nothing. “Oh. You wanted me to realize I was being a coward. If I can’t handle the reaction to this…”

  Her father braced his hands on the desk and pushed to his feet. “So what are you going to do about it?” He dropped a kiss on the top of her head as he walked past. “It’s nice to have you home even for a few days.”

  Mercedes stared at the now empty doorway. She thought about calling the other girls and ordering them to change, but realized that would be another act of cowardice. None of them mattered. They, like the first uniforms, were mere set dressing. What mattered was her.

  * * *

  The house had seven bedrooms, five bathrooms, a formal dining room, a breakfast/morning room, a ladies’ salon, a library, and a game room with a pool table. The expanse of green baize invited a game. After an aged butler with a grey mane and eyebrows had led him and Donnel to a bedroom, Tracy had headed back downstairs in search of his host, leaving Donnel to unpack. That so far fruitless search had led him ultimately to this room.

  “We’ll have a game after dinner.” Jasper Talion’s voice came from the doorway.

  Tracy spun to face him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. I…”

  Talion waved away the apology. “Feel free. I thought we’d just eat dinner in the breakfast room. Keep old Nicca from having to polish all the flatware and haul out Mum’s rather hideous epergne.” Tracy wondered what the hell an ee-pern might be as he nodded in agreement. “Anything you particularly hate, Tracy?” Talion asked as he led them out of the game room.

  “No. Pretty much eat everything.” Tracy decided to test the parameters of this new, odd relationship that might actually prove to be a friendship, so he added, “Jasper.”

  There was no objection, instead Talion just said, “Probably a good plan for a soldier.”

  “Is that what we are? Really?” Tracy asked.

  Talion glanced back over his shoulder and gave a crooked grin. “Some of us will be. Once we jettison the deadwood.”

  “I take it I don’t fall into that category,” Tracy said, falling into step with his host.

  “Oh, Christ no. You wouldn’t be here if I thought that. I’m going to need people like you,” he added.

  Tracy’s footsteps stuttered for an instant. You’re proud… but you need to… well, hide it better. He struggled between wanting to respond and just giving a rueful head shake. He settled for the shake. “There, Mercedes, I’m taking your advice,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Jasper asked.

  “Nothing.” Tracy took a deep breath, forced a smile and caught up with his host.

  Jasper’s hope to eat in the small breakfast room was dashed when the greying Hajin butler led them into the formal dining room. Eyeing the length of the table Tracy was glad the butler didn’t seat him at the opposite end from his host. He would have needed a megaphone to hold a conversation.

  Despite what Talion described as a skeleton staff they sat down to a very good dinner. Cold beet salad, spicy chicken, rice pilaf and a chilled raspberry soufflé for dessert, followed by a cheese platter and port. They discussed courses and professors, which of the recruit commanders they liked, but by the time coffee laced with liqueur was served the conversation was flagging. They had nothing in common beyond the academy.

  Tracy nervously spun his cup and eyed the enormous silver affair sporting rearing horses and crossed swords and rifles that incongruously held a large bouquet of chrysanthemums. The clearing of his throat seemed loud in the room.

  “So… is that thing a… an… epergne?”

  “Yes. Horrible, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t comment without either criticizing your mother’s taste, or disagreeing with my host,” Tracy said with a smile.

  “Good point. I suppose it can’t be easy for you.”

  Tracy shrugged. “It’s okay. It certainly is a first-class education.”

  “Mmm.” The conversation lagged again.

  Jasper seemed to realize it might be his turn to lob the conversation ball. “I’m really looking forward to my brother Chris arriving. Let the hazing begin.” He grinned. Tracy couldn’t think of a response to that.

  “So how many siblings do you have?”

  “Eight. Five boys, three girls.” Jasper asked. “So, are there more of you at home who we can expect to win a place at the academy?”

  “I’m… I’m an only child,” Tracy admitted.

  The tall, elaborately carved chair gave a creak as Talion threw himself against the back. “No shit? I’ve never met an only before. Did something happen to your dad that he couldn’t—”

  “No.” It emerged more sharply than Tracy had intended. “He just didn’t remarry.”

  “Oh, a love match.”

  Memory flashed into his mind. His father’s face twisted with grief, tears streaming down his face, his skin blotched red trying to get his shoulder beneath the casket that held his wife’s remains. Tracy set aside his fork. “We don’t arrange marriages in my class,” he said quietly.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

  The silence returned. Tracy tried another topic, hopefully one less fraught. “So… Nephilim.”

  Talion’s grey brows twitched together. “What about it?” He sounded annoyed.

  “Just that I don’t know much about it,” Tracy hastened to say.

  Talion visibly relaxed and took a sip of his coffee. “It’s a shit hole—but unless you live there you don’t get to say that,” Jasper warned.

  “Got it.”

  “Cold. Rocky. We have to farm under domes. Bad radiation from the sun. It causes mutations.” Jasper fingered his hair.

  “So why—”

  “Settle it?” Jasper interrupted. “Mineral resources. Primarily lithium. It’s not all that common, and we have a shit load of it.”

  Tracy considered how much of the complex technology that powered the League relied upon lithium and nodded. “Ah, I see.”

  “So you’d think the League would value us more, wouldn’t you?” Talion asked.

  “I take it they don’t.”

  “We’re not exactly a hot vacation spot for the FFH who live on the central worlds.” Talion jerked a shoulder in a sharp shrug. “They think we’re hillbillies. If you’re finished…”

&nb
sp; Tracy scrambled to his feet. “Yes. Let’s.”

  Jasper grabbed a bottle of port and they carried their glasses back to the game room. Tracy measured cues while his host refilled their glasses. Silence reigned once more.

  “So… you did make it into the Sabers,” Tracy said as he applied chalk to his cue.

  “Yes.”

  “Then Gelb was wrong.”

  “As he so often is,” Jasper said, and his lips quirked in amusement. The billiard balls clicked loudly as he stacked them in the rack. Tracy laughed and wondered if it was too loud and too long. He felt ill at ease, out of his element and excited to be here all at the same time.

  Jasper lifted away the rack, grabbed the cue ball and moved to the far end of the table. He positioned the ball, sighted down his cue and shot. There was a sharp crack and the balls scattered like startled birds. No ball entered a pocket.

  “Shit,” Jasper grumbled. “Your shot.”

  Tracy circled the table analyzing the lay of the balls, calculating trajectories. Orbital mechanics reduced to a ten by five foot dimension. He took his shot, banking the number four deep purple solid ball off the side and end bumpers and dropping it neatly in the pocket on the other long side.

  Jasper leaned against the wall as Tracy took his next shot. “If you want to know how I pulled it off—it’s because I’m the best swordsman in our class. Kunst thinks he is but he’s not and at some point we’ll settle the question.”

  Tracy looked up from pocketing his third ball. “Sorry to be dense, but…” He gestured at his own cheek not wanting to bluntly say but you’re scarred and Kunst isn’t.

  Jasper grinned. “Smooth skin doesn’t mean you’re good. It usually means you’re cautious or lucky or careful to pick weaker opponents.” Jasper’s fingers went to his scarred cheek. “My dad gave me these.”

  “Jesus!” Tracy looked up startled.

  “No, it was good. I was getting cocky. It made me focus.” Jasper laughed. “And how else would we know they loved us?”

  By not hurting us? Tracy thought, remembering the slap.

  His father had sacrificed his relationship with Tracy in exchange for what he believed would be a brighter future for his son. Was that love? Or manipulation? Tracy shook his head, lined up another shot and missed, his concentration blown by his confused and chaotic thoughts.