The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  * * *

  The boxes were opened and squeals of delight ensued. Mercedes glanced over to where Estella and Julieta sat on the bed now busily placing the jeweled pins in each other’s hair. She hoped the gifts she had brought for the younger girls would be as well received.

  Julieta hopped off the bed and rushed over to the dressing table to examine the pins in the mirror. “I’m going to wear them tomorrow night at the Conde de Vargas’s ball.”

  Mercedes was startled by this news. “Papa’s allowing you to go?”

  “Uh huh. He said it wasn’t fair for you and Essie to go, and for me to have to stay home.”

  “Hmm, he wouldn’t let me go to a formal ball until I was seventeen,” Mercedes grumbled.

  Estella slipped off the bed and gave her a hug. “Parents are always harder on the first child. The rest of us get to be spoiled.”

  “True that,” Mercedes said.

  “I guess that means the little girls will be going at fourteen. Lucky things,” Julieta said with a playful pout.

  Estella, her expression suddenly sober, looked at her sibling. “Or it means he no longer cares what they do.” She glanced at Mercedes. “Truthfully, Mer, I think the only one of us that matters now is you.”

  A hand seemed to clench down hard on her chest. She had heard truth and hated it. Mercedes couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge that. Instead she heard herself hurriedly saying,

  “Oh don’t be silly. He loves us all.” She whirled and offered her back to Estella. “Unzip me? I don’t want to send for Flanon. She’ll fuss and fiddle and I want it to be just us. I’ve missed you so much. Three months seemed like forever.”

  Estella obliged and Mercedes slipped the dress off her shoulders. Julieta gave a squeak and then a giggle. “Good Lord, look at your arms.”

  “What?”

  Estella gripped her upper arm and squeezed. “Muscles.”

  “You look like a stevedore,” Julieta giggled.

  “They have us lift weights, and run three miles every day. You ought to see Sumiko. She’s lost inches,” Mercedes said.

  “Well, I hope I don’t have to go,” Julieta said. “I don’t want to look like a boy.”

  Estella caught Mercedes wince. “What?” her far too astute sister asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar.”

  “Let’s just say you’ll see tomorrow at the game,” Mercedes muttered.

  “You’re going? But you hate soccer,” Estella said.

  “No, I love soccer, particularly when The High Ground is playing.”

  Estella nodded, “Oh, I get it. It’s required that the cadets show support.” Mercedes made a gun with her finger.

  “But you’re the Infanta. How can they make you go if you don’t want to?” Julieta asked.

  “Because I’m not the Infanta. I’m a cadet. No, scratch that, I’m a worm.”

  And she proceeded to tell them about Chief Deal, and his constant repetition of the phrase Big Damn Heroes, and she found herself making it funny instead of horrible. Because she suspected that if she failed her father might just try again with the next daughter. She wanted to save her sisters from that.

  14

  IS EVERYONE CRAZY?

  As they ran onto the field there was a growing roar from the stands. It sounded less like humans and more like the growl of a particularly angry beast. Which probably wasn’t wrong. There were going to be a lot more Caladonia fans than there were spectators affiliated with The High Ground.

  The ground was softer than the field on the cosmódromo, and Tracy felt his cleats dig into the grass and soil. He tried to gauge his traction then told himself not to be an idiot. He wasn’t going to be playing. He scanned the stands and was startled to see that the focus was not on the entering players. Everyone was staring at the large box at midfield.

  The portly figure of Rohan Aubrey, the Conde de Vargas was settling into a seat. A taller, trimmer, older man, easily recognizable, was acknowledging the crowd with an upraised hand. The Emperor. And at his side—Mercedes, dressed in her Orden de la Estrella dress uniform. There were other people in the box; guards who were looking decidedly nervous at the crowd’s reaction, and several older human women who were tending to a gaggle of little girls. There were also a number of Hajin, Tiponi and Isanjo servants arranging food and beverages on a table.

  Mercedes turned to her father and snapped off a perfect salute. She then did the same to the Conde de Vargas. Finally she scanned the crowd in the stadium, and gave them a smile and a wave. The sound became more confused with both cheers and outraged yells blending and mixing.

  “Well, nobody’s going to give a tinker’s fart what we do,” Hugo muttered as he began to stretch out his muscles.

  “Wonder what the news feeds are saying,” Wilson added.

  “I’ll check once the game gets underway,” Tracy promised as he moved to the benches on the sideline for the substitutes. McWhinnie was already pacing nervously up and down the sidelines giving last-minute instructions to his players as they stretched and prepared.

  Tracy settled on the bench and set his ScoopRing to scroll the news sites. The teams took the field, the whistle blew and the game began. Glancing at the stands Tracy noticed that most of the spectators had begun to watch the field instead of the imperial box.

  On his ScoopRing he saw a picture of Mercedes saluting her father on The Globe with the headline SHOCKING. The Times had a photo of just Mercedes in her trousers and coat with the dull but damning headline RETIRED ADMIRALS FEAR TOO ABRUPT CHANGE. Oddly enough it was the usually very conservative Stellar that was the most supportive. Under the headline THE SALUTE SEEN ROUND THE LEAGUE the writer opined that if the Infanta was going to lead the fleets and armies of the League it was proper that she look like a real soldier and not like a child playing dress up. They felt encouraged by her evident professionalism.

  There was a deafening roar from the stands. Tracy looked up to see the Caladonia striker trotting away from The High Ground’s goal. Montoya was slapping hands with his teammates. Boho was storming up and down in front of the goal. The score stood at one–nil after only ten minutes of play.

  “Well that blows,” Tracy muttered to Gareth Goulet, a second-year student.

  “Maybe they ought to give some of us a chance,” Goulet groused. “We might surprise old Whinnie.”

  Having satisfied his curiosity about Mercedes and the reaction to her uniform Tracy turned his attention to the field. It was apparent that neither Jasper nor Hugo could keep pace with the Caladonia striker. He was unbelievably fast and agile. Montoya slipped through The High Ground’s defenses like mercury. Just before half time Swanstrom, The High Ground’s striker, managed to score a goal. They left for the locker room with the score tied.

  McWhinnie berated and cajoled for ten of the fifteen minutes they had to rest, piss and hydrate. “Any questions?” he asked. Jasper raised his hand. “Yes?”

  “How badly do we want this win?” the cadet from Nephilim asked.

  “Are you daft or merely dense? Or not listening? This win is vital.”

  “Okay, that’s all I needed to know.” There was something in Jasper’s voice that had Tracy staring intently at the back of that grey head.

  McWhinnie checked his sleeve. “Well get to it. We’re almost out of time.”

  “And whose fault is that,” Wilson muttered as he rushed toward the urinals, unzipping as he went.

  Back onto the field. Tracy settled onto the bench. Play began again. Caladonia took possession of the ball and began a lightning fast advance toward The High Ground goal. Boho hunkered down ready to leap to either side. There was a scrabble for the ball on the left. Reitten, one of The High Ground wing-backs, won back the ball and delivered a cross back to Swanstrom, but his cleats stuck and as he tried to spin he torqued his knee. When his foot pulled loose he was limping.

  A time-out was called. A few moments later Reitten hobbled off the field. “Torn ACL.” The whispers ran th
rough the substitutes. Glances were exchanged. Someone was about to go onto the field. As his eyes flicked from substitute to substitute, Tracy ran the calculation. It would need to be someone fast with ball-handling skills rather than the larger, slower center-backs. There were only three possibilities and Tracy was one of them. He quickly began stretching. A few seconds later McWhinnie tapped his shoulder.

  “Belmanor, you’re in.”

  Tracy stripped off his jacket and slipped out of his sweat pants. He gave one final twist of his shoulders and ran onto the field. As he crossed center field he heard mad cheering from someone on the terrace at the end of the field. He glanced over. Among the crowd of working-class people in standing room, many holding Caladonia banners, there was a thin, stooped figure with the banner of The High Ground. Tracy’s chest tightened, and there was a sudden ache in his throat. He raised his hand in a small salute to his father. Alexander yelled louder and held the banner over his head.

  Play resumed. Tracy found that sprinting he was almost as fast as Montoya. He couldn’t match the Caladonia striker in a long run, but Tracy could dart in every time Montoya tried a flanking maneuver. It was still a punishingly fast game. Breath rasped across Tracy’s throat, and his chest seemed too small to contain his pounding heart. Sweat trickled down his forehead and stung his eyes.

  There were quick hand signals flipping between the Caladonia players, and they switched from an outside strategy to trying plays up the center. Hugo and Jasper were formidable, but if Montoya’s defenders could keep them off him, the striker was well positioned for another goal.

  They began another run up the field toward The High Ground goal. Jasper and Hugo in their center-back positions moved to intercept. Tracy became aware of a Caladonia forward moving into a flanking position. His instinct told him that Montoya was going to try to deliver a cross to the other forward, and get past Hugo and Jasper to once again take control of the ball. Tracy moved in to guard the opposing forward. But the expected cross never came; instead there was a wild melee between Montoya, his defenders and Jasper. Three players went down, among them Jasper and Montoya. The air was torn with the sound of maddened whistles and a man screaming.

  The game stuttered to a stop. The referees ran to the scene. Jasper was just climbing to his feet, supporting his left arm with his right hand. The other Caladonia player staggered up, but Montoya lay on the grass, screaming. His left leg was bent at a sickening angle.

  Tracy, hands resting on his knees, panted and tried to process what had happened. While Montoya was clearly out it was clear that Jasper was also hurt and he was one of their best players. Disappointment lay like a stone in his belly. The one time he got to play and this was the outcome.

  The Caladonia coach ran to his fallen player. McWhinnie was right behind him. A doctor came out next and looked first at Montoya and then at Jasper. Then came a stretcher. Caladonia’s star player was carried off the field accompanied by the moans and boos of the fans. McWhinnie called his team over.

  “How bad is it?” Tracy asked as he fell into step with Jasper.

  “Broke my arm. It’s not bad.”

  There were mumbles of sympathy from the nearest players. Jasper added, “So, you shouldn’t have any trouble winning now that Montoya’s out of the way.” It was said in an undertone, but casually as if he were merely mentioning the weather, and the young baron’s expression was calm and unmoved.

  The realization came with sickening clarity and Tracy’s steps faltered. Dear God, he did it deliberately. Now Jasper’s question to McWhinnie in the locker room took on a dark significance.

  All around him his teammates were nodding in agreement. Starting to exchange backslaps, and muttering encouragement. Tracy was wondering what he should do. What he could do.

  He temporized by asking, “Was it worth it?” Tracy nodded toward Jasper’s arm.

  Talion gave him a sharp look. He had understood the significance of Tracy’s question. “Well, that’s sort of up to the rest of you, isn’t it? You’ve been given a chance. Now you have to take it.”

  “Because winning is that important?”

  “Of course. It’s everything.”

  A hard swat on the back of his head sent Tracy stumbling. “Get focused, intitulado, and let the man get to a medic,” Boho said.

  Tracy fell back to walk with Hugo Devris and Mark Wilson. Hugo draped an arm over his shoulders. “Hey, what’s up your butt? This is all good.”

  “What if he did it deliberately?”

  “What if he did? And even if he did he didn’t get caught, so…” Hugo shrugged. “Like I said, all good.” He trotted over to McWhinnie.

  Tracy’s good will toward the other boy curdled, but he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. Hugo had been raised by a man whose shady dealings, outright bribery and kickbacks were well known and pointedly ignored by society at large.

  “You were right there,” Tracy said to Wilson. “You have to have seen everything.”

  “It was a little unclear.” Wilson’s tone was cautious.

  “You saw what happened, didn’t you?” Tracy accused.

  Wilson thrust his face into Tracy’s. His jaw was clenched and the words emerged in a hissing whisper. “When are you going to figure out we have to go along to get along?” He ran to the gaggle of players huddled around their coach.

  All those fine phrases from the code of conduct expected of O-Trell officers flashed through Tracy’s mind. Just words. An illusion, a fantasy, a fabrication—like the very foundations of League society.

  Tracy watched Jasper disappearing into the locker rooms in the company of a medic. A possible friend or at least ally revealed to be a ruthless son-of-a-bitch. He looked to the terrace where his dad stood proudly waving The High Ground banner. Basking in the pleasure of having a son at the academy, not caring how he had put that son there. To the imperial box where the Emperor displayed his daughter like a prize fish.

  The world seemed suddenly far more complicated than it had even three months before. Principles shattered against agendas and ambitions, compromises battled conscience and inevitably won. A bleakness invaded Tracy’s soul and left him exhausted. He couldn’t reconcile any of it. So what to do?

  Finish the match. He also had no choice but to go on.

  They won the game.

  * * *

  Outside the tinted windows of the imperial flitter, crowds lined the streets waving and cheering. Flowers littered the walkways beneath the flight lanes. She and her father were alone except for the guard in the front seat and the driver. Her sisters and their attendants were scattered in other flitters. Mercedes glanced over at her father’s profile. She decided he looked smug.

  “So, was that enough visibility for you?”

  He looked over at her and smiled. “It was very well done. The public got to see my heir, and they loved you.”

  “Now you’re exaggerating. There were a lot of boos along with the cheers.”

  “We’ll weather it. The press will come around and the public will follow.”

  “I was surprised to see that supportive article in the Stellar.” Once again her father had that cat-with-a-bird expression. “Did you? You did, didn’t you? You planted that.”

  “Let’s just say that Duque Enrique is a strong supporter of the government.”

  “Well, if we’ve got that kind of help may I please wear a dress tonight? I’ll look stupid dancing in trousers.” She scooted around on the seat to face her father, and tucked one leg beneath her. It pained her to admit it, but there were certainly some things that were easier done in a dress. “Please, Daddy, let me be pretty tonight.”

  He tugged at his upper lip thoughtfully. “It’s just our set at Rohan’s, and I know where all of them stand.”

  “Not all of them are with us,” Mercedes warned, thinking about Arturo and Mihalis.

  “Knowing where they stand implies that yes, I do know that some oppose me and I also know who they are. I’m not leaving any of this to
chance, Mer. You can be sure of that.”

  They fell silent for a moment. They were heading up the hill toward the palace grounds. “Daddy, why are you letting Julieta go tonight?”

  “There’s someone I want her to meet.”

  “You can’t be thinking about an alliance already? She’s only fifteen.”

  “She’ll be sixteen soon, and she won’t have to marry him until he finishes school.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Lord Sanjay Favreau.”

  “Oh God, no, not him!”

  A frown creased his brow. “And why not?”

  “He’s got a temper, Daddy. He can be violent.”

  He shrugged. “I expect he’ll behave himself if he’s married to an imperial princess.”

  “And what if he doesn’t? This is Julieta we’re talking about.”

  “His father is the head of the largest banking concern in the League. Power needs money and money loves power. I can steer the press in the direction I want. Money needs more persuading.”

  “So Julieta is one of those things you’re not leaving to chance? She doesn’t get a chance to meet someone, fall in love—”

  “No. Any more than you do,” he said, and in tones that were no longer fatherly, but far more imperial. “You’re going to order men into battle, Mer. Some of them are going to die. You’re going to have to make the same hard choices about your sisters and half-sisters. You’ll be controlling the board and you have to play to win. Sometimes you have to sacrifice a piece to achieve that victory. And most importantly you have to never forget they are just that—pieces.”

  “I know my duty, but I can’t. I can’t do that,” she whispered through stiff lips. “They’re my sisters.”

  Her father smiled. “Well, I’m not planning on pegging out anytime soon so I’ll handle settling Estella and Julieta so you won’t have to. And I expect you’ll feel less protective toward the younger girls. Especially since you won’t be around them much over the next few years.” He fell silent for a moment then gave her a sideways glance. “I’m a little surprised at this reaction. You didn’t object when I told you to find a consort.”