The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  Tracy still offered the invitation. It was waved off. “Go ahead, sir.”

  Tracy left the window down and found himself ridiculously pleased by the guard’s reaction. He could get used to this. He caught a glimpse of the driver in the rearview mirror looking back at him seemingly impressed, and Tracy preened a bit more.

  They joined a line of limousines approaching the grand portico. Eventually it was their turn. A Hajin footman in the elaborate livery of the Aubrey family waited while the driver lowered the flitter to a comfortable height, then opened the door for Tracy and bowed as he exited.

  Tracy’s driver, an older human man, leaned out his window. “Hey, this took longer than I thought. Your old man didn’t give me enough money to cover that. That’ll be another twenty Reals.”

  Embarrassment and rage sent heat washing into Tracy’s face. “You told my dad you knew the area. Your problem if you lied,” he said in an angry whisper.

  The driver raised his voice. “What kind of officer welshes on a debt?”

  A bead of sweat broke out and rolled down Tracy’s cheek. The limos were backing up behind them. He heard the Hajin footman murmuring into his lapel radio. Pride had turned to embarrassment. The driver in the limo behind them climbed out. Tracy reached for his credit spike.

  A human in an elegant suit emerged from the front doors and came down the steps. The Hajin footman stepped aside. The man leaned in toward the driver. “I am Stephen Grassley, majordomo to House de Vargas.”

  The driver’s expression shifted from calculating to worried. He started to whine, “I was promised—”

  “You were paid in advance. If you continue to embarrass this young man you may find your license in some danger.”

  “Fortune fucker,” the driver spat. The window rolled up and he accelerated away so quickly that dust and gravel was thrown against Grassley’s and Tracy’s trouser legs.

  “I’m sorry,” Tracy muttered. “I should have—”

  “No matter. Please step out of the way so others may be dropped off.” The majordomo walked back up the stairs.

  Embarrassed, Tracy mumbled, “Right. Sorry. Right away.”

  He hurried up the broad steps leading to the elaborate front doors, torn between gratitude at the help and the implicit criticism and condescension in the man’s remarks. Every time he thought he was transcending his background something always reminded him that in the eyes of these people he never would.

  16

  IT ULTIMATELY COMES DOWN TO NUMBERS

  Tracy stepped through into the foyer. The floor underfoot was pale blue glass. Ahead there was a rather terrifying staircase, a curving expanse of crystal stairs with only a thin silver metal railing to offset vertigo.

  An Isanjo maid darted over to Tracy’s elbow. “If I may take your hat, young sir.”

  He handed it over automatically then was seized with a sudden worry. “How do I get it back? Do I get a ticket or something?”

  “I have made note of your name, Cadet Belmanor,” the alien said, gesturing toward his nameplate woven into the fabric of his coat.

  “Oh. Right.” He headed for the stairs. As he climbed he wondered why the hell someone would have a staircase with clear treads?

  Then he reached the ballroom that encompassed most of the first floor, and all such extraneous thoughts vanished. Overhead enormous chandeliers seemed to drip ice and fire from long multi-sided crystal spikes. There was a loft above a pair of doors at the far end of the enormous room where a small orchestra was playing. The floor beneath his boots was polished sek wood that seemed to flex with each step, easing any possible jarring while dancing.

  A delicate clearing of the throat pulled Tracy out of his dumbfounded trance. He flushed furiously when he realized there was a receiving line and that the Conde de Vargas and the condessa, an older but very beautiful woman who stood at his side, were waiting to greet him.

  “Sir!” Tracy snapped off a salute.

  Rohan Aubrey held out a plump white hand. “Cadet Belmanor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Allow me to present my wife, Analise.”

  The condessa had long auburn hair that fell over her shoulders like a waterfall. “Cadet. Welcome to our home.”

  Tracy bowed. That at least he knew how to do well. His father had drilled that skill into him. “Thank you, ma’am… milady.”

  The condessa gave him a kind smile, and Aubrey slapped him on the shoulder. “The buffet is all set up through those doors at the far end. If you’re anything like our sons you’re hungry. Young men, particularly soldiers, are always hungry. Please, go, enjoy and then find a pretty girl to dance with.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “And a word in your ear,” the conde said quietly. “The only person in civilian dress that you salute is the Emperor.”

  “Uh, right, thank you, sir.”

  Tracy bowed to the conde, and once more to the condessa, and moved toward the etched glass doors the Conde de Vargas had indicated. The entire wall to his left was a series of tall cathedral-style windows. As he passed they switched; one moment clear glass, the next they became mirrors throwing back his image, and that of the swirling crowds. No one was dancing yet, but the room was still a banquet for the senses.

  Tracy wondered if he dared take a surreptitious photo for his father. He decided to wait until there were people dancing and take a video rather than a static picture. There would be less chance of getting caught, and his father would get the full effect of the amazing room.

  Through the doors was another large room, where five buffet tables stood against the walls, laden with a bewildering array of food. The smell of roasted meat permeated the air. Round tables with eight chairs to each table glistened beneath white tablecloths, filling the center of the room. Servants wove through the tables carrying bottles of wine and champagne. There was the roar of conversation and the syncopation of tinkling crystal.

  More servants stood at carving stations at all five buffet tables. Tracy gathered up a plate and silverware wrapped in a cloth napkin and moved down the table. There were oysters on the half shell, shrimp both fried and cold, a silver bowl piled high with caviar, salads, vegetables, roasted fowl, standing rib roast, and ham. He had no idea how to eat a raw oyster, but he was determined to try it, just like he was going to try the caviar.

  Once his plate was piled high he scanned the room for a place to sit. Hugo Devris and Mark Wilson were sitting with several members of the team including Jasper Talion, whose broken arm was in a sling. Ernesto Chapman-Owiti sat with several other acknowledged geniuses from all three classes. There were tables of the gung-ho types who were clearly going to end up commanding fusileros. There was a table of only the highest born—Boho Cullen, Arturo del Campo and his brother. The three ladies-in-waiting were all at that table. Trawling for husbands no doubt, Tracy thought. There was no sign of Mercedes.

  Tracy spotted a table near the doors, which meant it caught the draft from the ballroom and was well away from the food. It was empty. Perfect. He went over and sat down. After only a few bites he decided that oysters were delicious and he went back for a plate of just those. He was starting to see the china at the bottom of both plates when a shadow fell across the table.

  Tracy looked over his shoulder to see his host standing behind him. He started to jump to his feet when Rohan Aubrey laid a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down. “Mind if I join you, Cadet?”

  “Uh, no, sir, of course not.”

  Aubrey settled into a chair with a grunt and a sigh. “Standing for that long kills my lower back. Analise would say it would help if I lost this.” He slapped his paunch and gave a chuckle. “She’s right of course. But for now I’m taking a break until Fernán arrives.” Tracy couldn’t think of a word to say to a man who could refer to the Emperor by his first name. “So, how was the first quarter?”

  “Good,” Tracy offered hesitantly.

  “Glad to hear it. You’re racking up i
mpressive grades.”

  “You… you see our grades, sir?”

  “Of course. I follow all of you. You’re the future and more importantly our first line of defense. And The High Ground is my particular passion. Hard to believe now, I know, but I was quite the dashing Infierno pilot in my youth. So, where do you think your talents lie?”

  “I’m good at math. I expect I’ll end up a navigator or a gunnery officer.”

  “I hear you’re also a very good shot.”

  “If I can line up my shots. Though I’d rather not tote a rifle.”

  “A cautious man. I like that. We get enough of the balls-to-the-wall variety. Everything ultimately comes down to the numbers, doesn’t it? Number of ships, number of missiles, amount of available fuel, rations, supply lines in general.” The conde paused. “And men, particularly men. The numbers are rather interesting out in sector 470.” Aubrey stood, pressed his fists against the small of his back and stretched. “Well, lovely visiting with you. Keep up the good work, Cadet.”

  The conde walked back into the ballroom just as the orchestra began to play “Hail to the Emperor”.

  Cadets were leaving their tables and rushing to watch the arrival of the Emperor. As for Tracy, he sat still wondering, What the hell was that about? He replayed the conversation. Sector 470. Clearly he was supposed to take a look at resources flowing to that sector, and look for… what? Maybe he’d know it if he saw it. Okay, so what if he did find something? How was he supposed to report his findings back to the Conde de Vargas? He pushed that aside as a problem for another day. Mercedes was arriving. He wanted to see that, and maybe in a crowd of seven or eight hundred people he could find a way to tell her he was sorry.

  * * *

  Constanza had clung to her father’s arm all the way up the rather terrifying staircase. Once they were all gathered on the landing her father had removed his wife’s hand from his arm, placed his hand in the small of her back, and pushed her gently aside. He gestured to Mercedes.

  “Come.”

  It was not the cajoling tone of a father, but the command of an emperor. Mercedes moved to his side and he extended his arm. She placed a gloved hand on his sleeve and they walked toward the vaulted scissor arch into the ballroom. The majordomo called in stentorian tones over the opening chords of the imperial march:

  “His Most Noble and Puissant Emperor of the Solar League, Fernán Marcus Severino Beltrán de Arango. And Her Imperial Highness, Princess Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango, the Infanta!”

  The quick glance back over her shoulder was meant for her sisters, but Mercedes caught a glimpse of Constanza’s face. It was rigid and her blue eyes glittered with unshed tears. Mercedes had made a silly face, and she now struggled to compose her features so her stepmother wouldn’t think Mercedes was mocking her. Mercedes wasn’t sure she had been successful and then it was too late, for she and her father were through the arch and making a stately progress down the center of the dance floor while the elite of the Fortune Five Hundred bowed and curtsied at their passing.

  She murmured greetings and lightly touched the fingertips of various well-wishers but it was all done by reflex. She couldn’t shake the image of Constanza’s face. There had been hurt reflected there and more than hurt… fear.

  Mercedes’ recollections of the day her mother, Maribel, left were hazy, but there had been something in Constanza’s agonized expression that touched that memory. There had been an infant crying in the background. Julieta presumably. Two-year-old Estella had been sitting on the floor in their nursery playing with blocks. Maribel had knelt in front of her, and Mercedes, age four, had stood in the circle of her mother’s arms. She could remember her mother’s mouth moving, but she had no memory of the words spoken.

  A few hours later another woman had knelt before her and also held Mercedes in an embrace. Those words she could remember. “Hello, Mer, I’m Agatha. I’m going to be your madre now.” In her confusion Mercedes had just nodded mutely when what she really wanted to do was kick and scream and run. Agatha hadn’t turned out to be much of a mother. She paid little attention to the three eldest girls except when it came time to discipline them.

  Agatha hadn’t looked devastated when she had been set aside for Greta. Agatha had been furious, which suggested that perhaps Tanis’s unpleasant personality was due to more than just being a teenager.

  Greta had actually tried to be a mother to all of them, but this time her father had only given the new bride one chance. A daughter had been born and she was out, replaced by Inez. To her credit Inez hadn’t tried to be a mother to any of them. A difficult pregnancy and having twins took a toll on her health and her happiness. Mercedes suspected she had been relieved when the Emperor’s roving eye had fallen upon Constanza, just recently come to Hissilek for the season.

  Mercedes glanced up at her father and hoped his eye wouldn’t fall upon yet another young woman. Carisa was a nervous, high-strung child. Mercedes wasn’t certain the girl could be as sanguine about the mommy musical chairs as she had been.

  Her father caught her look and misinterpreted it. He gave her hand a pat and said, “Duty complete. Go, dance, have fun.” He smiled fondly down at her.

  Mercedes curtsied to him, and looked for Estella and Julieta. Her youngest sister was flushed, laughing in a circle of admiring young men. Sanjay was among them. Quelling the impulse to run over and snatch Julieta away, Mercedes searched for a distraction. Boho, tall, elegant and impossibly handsome, seemed to glow under the lights from one of the massive chandeliers.

  The dark green eyes roamed the room. His gaze fell on her, and Boho smiled. The lights seemed suddenly dim. Is that what people mean when they talk about charisma? Mercedes wondered. He walked directly to her and bowed deeply.

  “Mercedes, may I say that while I find you disturbingly alluring in your trousers, tonight you are exquisite.”

  It was an odd sensation to have to look up to a man, but Boho’s extra inches made her actually feel feminine and delicate. She shook her head.

  “First, eeew about the trousers, and wrong adjective, Boho. I’m far too tall to ever be considered exquisite.”

  “Okay, stately, elegant, sumptuous… Better?”

  She chuckled. “All except sumptuous. That makes me sound like an overly rich dinner.”

  He dropped the lightest kiss, almost a mere breath, on the back of her gloved hand. “Frankly, you’re damn regal, Mer. You’re going to make one hell of an empress.”

  “Oh bullshi—” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh dear, we’re not at the academy. I better watch my language.”

  “Very true or you’ll have the debs fainting, the matrons clucking and clutching their pearls and the dowagers scolding. May I have the first waltz?” He reached to his pocket where the edge of his dance card peeped out.

  “Run and get my dance card and you may write in your name. Right now I need some supper or I’m going to perish from hunger.”

  “I am yours to command, Your Highness,” he said with another bow, but the green eyes were dancing. She slapped him on the arm with her fan and he moved away.

  She moved into the supper room, but before she could reach the buffet she had to negotiate the tables filled with friends, frenemies and actual enemies. Mercedes decided to engage the enemies first. She walked to the table where Mihalis and Arturo del Campo were seated with their brother Jose, dressed in clerical robes. Her two classmates flanked their brother and they were laughing, talking and nudging him. As for the priest, he was red faced but he looked rather pleased with himself.

  They didn’t notice her approach so Mercedes was able to circle around behind them and eavesdrop.

  “Ho, all hail the ecclesiastical stud. Bang and they’re pregnant,” chortled Arturo.

  Mercedes dropped a hand onto Jose’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Jose. Sounds like you are earning that title of father.”

  Jose went from rose to scarlet, and stuttered, “Really, Mer— Your Highness, it’s
not appropriate for you to be part of this conversation.”

  Mihalis, his eyes glittering, looked up and drawled, “Ah, but she’s not a lady any longer, Jose—she’s a soldier so it’s entirely appropriate.”

  Arturo, ever the courtier, slid into the conversation like an otter into water. “We’re just happy that Jose can’t compete with us for an actual bride. Seven of the Celestial Novias de Cristo have picked Jose to sire their children.”

  Mihalis didn’t follow his younger brother’s lead. Instead he turned back to Jose. “So do you have to do it clothed? That would put a damper on my pecker.” Even though he was talking to Jose he kept his focus on Mercedes.

  She couldn’t control her blush, but she wasn’t going to retreat. She groped desperately for something to say that would prove Mihalis wasn’t intimidating or embarrassing her. Her mind remained stubbornly blank.

  “Ah, the mystery of what’s beneath a nun’s habit,” Arturo said lightly and tried to change the subject. “So, Princess, what have you planned—”

  “Concha,” Mihalis interrupted. “They’re no different than any other woman.”

  “You are such a stellar example of manhood, Mihalis. A real poster child for the FFH,” Mercedes said, outraged at his use of the vulgar term for a woman’s private parts.

  Her cousin stood and bowed. “Why thank you, Mercedes, and may I say, so are you. Manhood, I mean.”

  The words cut, allowing all her insecurities over her height, her hawk nose, and her very lush figure to rise up and shake her. She turned away and headed blindly for the buffet. A gloved hand caught her elbow. It was Boho. He held her dance card in his free hand.

  “You look upset. What happened?” Concern edged his words.

  “Nothing. It’s… I shouldn’t have worn this dress, it’s…”

  “What? Beautiful? Like you.”

  “I’m not. Not like Estella or Julieta; she’s growing up to be—”

  “A porcelain doll. You’re a woman, Mercedes. A beautiful one.”

  She sniffed and Boho produced a handkerchief. “Thank you. I have one, but it’s with my clutch.” She dabbed at her nose and returned it. She lifted the dance card from his hand, and with the tiny mother-of-pearl pen that hung from her wrist wrote in his name for the first waltz. He did the same on her card.