The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  The entryway was lined with mirrors set in gold filigree frames. The butler led Tracy through a set of double doors and into a cluttered salon. There was an enormous spider silk rug on the floor; on a large credenza a pair of leopard figurines snarled at one another. One was blue and studded with sapphires, the other white and studded with diamonds. An enormous fireplace at the far end of the room had been lit, but the air conditioning was going full blast to offset the heat of the flames. The pink marble mantel was heavily carved with clusters of grapes, vines and acorns. On the mantelpiece were white china figurines in eighteenth-century dress, their eyes tiny jewel chips in green and blue.

  Caballero Malcomb Devris was sprawled in an overstuffed armchair, upholstered in pink and gold, his prodigious belly resting on his thighs. He was dressed in the trousers from a formal suit, a white silk shirt, and a crimson smoking jacket. Tracy assumed this was to convey this was just a casual family dinner.

  And there was a lot of family. Hugo stood behind a long sofa that held a plump, pleasant-faced older woman with the same wide-set round eyes as Hugo’s. Clearly Hugo’s mother. There were four girls on the sofa with her, ranging in age from the early teens to late twenties. The women were all dressed as if they were going to court.

  Sprawled on the floor in front of the fireplace and playing a game on a shared tap-pad were three young boys who hadn’t yet entered the gawky teen years.

  Sumiko, dressed in an exquisite pale yellow kimono, was seated on an ottoman near Malcomb. The Flitter King heaved himself to his feet, and crossed to Tracy, hand extended.

  “Welcome, welcome, Tracy. You don’t mind if I call you Tracy? Glad you could join us for potluck. Just a little family dinner. Hugo tells us you’re destined for great things.”

  “Hugo is too kind,” Tracy murmured as his hand was enfolded in Malcomb’s large paw.

  “Let me introduce you. My wife, Pearl. Lady Pearl now. My daughters, Opal, Ruby, Topaz and Citrine. You can see a trend here, right? I figured a jewel would only birth more jewels.” He beamed at his wife, she beamed back, and Tracy realized it was absolutely sincere. “My boys, Stefan, Rafe and Brandon. Of course you know Lady Sumiko Tsukuda.”

  Sumiko stood and walked over to Tracy with her usual flatfooted, determined gait. Placing a hand on his shoulder she stood on tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. That took him aback, but he hoped he covered his surprise.

  “Good to see you. You played very well on Tuesday. I don’t think we could have scored without your passing skills,” she said.

  “Thanks. I was surprised to get to play.”

  Hugo spoke up. “I think you ought to play more. I told old Whinnie that.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  Malcomb waved him into a chair. “So, how are you spending your leave? Getting into trouble?”

  Tracy shot a glance at Hugo who looked like he’d been stuffed, and at Sumiko who turned a snorted chuckle into a cough. “Uh, no, I’ve been helping my dad.”

  “Good for you! Hugo’s been helping me down at the dealership. That’s what our kind of people do. The FFH, they play with numbers and war; they need an infusion of good old middle-class blood now and then.”

  Pearl gave a small throat clearing and glanced at Sumiko. Malcomb rolled an eye toward the girl and added hastily, “Not that we aren’t grateful. They keep the monsters at bay, and we’re damn happy to be one of their number now.”

  “I completely understand, Caballero Malcomb, my father’s a caballero as well.”

  “But you’re one of the Infanta’s ladies-in-waiting,” Topaz blurted.

  “School chum,” Sumiko said. “All of the others are much higher born.”

  Lady Pearl looked at her husband. “I told you we needed to transfer the kids into private school.”

  “You’re right, as always, my love. But back to the point. As soon as Hugo is done with this… his schooling.” Tracy had the strong sense the man had been about to say “nonsense”. “He’ll be joining me. We’re about to open new dealerships on Nueva Terra and on Reichart’s World. Nice place and the economy there is starting to really take off.”

  “We lived there briefly. My grandfather applied for a transfer license of a textile mill and showroom.” Tracy hadn’t meant to say anything, but hearing the name of the planet when he’d just been thinking about it pulled out the words.

  “Didn’t get it? I hear those lotteries can be rigged,” Malcomb said.

  “No, we got it. All the rigging seems to be at the other end. My dad doesn’t talk about it much, but it seems there was this baron who had had his eye on the same business. Suddenly there were fees and permits that they weren’t aware of. When we couldn’t pay”—Tracy shrugged—“my family ended up with a lot of debts and unpaid taxes. My dad finally got them all paid off a couple of years ago.”

  “Huh, and my class wonders why we’re resented,” Sumiko said in her laconic way.

  Thankfully the Hajin butler arrived to announce dinner.

  Dinner was loud, long, gluttony-inducing and surprisingly fun. None of the Devris children were shy. Tracy found himself receiving several speculative looks from the two middle girls. After dinner there was a loud Trivial Pursuit game, and then the parents went upstairs to put the youngest members of the family to bed.

  Hugo hustled Tracy and Sumiko into a room that held cabinets filled with Malcomb’s die-cast model car collection.

  “So, it’s all been arranged,” Hugo said quietly. “We got it postponed until the second Saturday after we’re back at school. At seven a.m.”

  “I’d rather have gotten this over with,” Tracy objected.

  “You get cut on the station you get medical care at the school’s expense. You get hurt down here—you pay. Or rather your dad does,” Sumiko said bluntly.

  “Oh. Good point.” Tracy swallowed hard. “So it’s going to be swords?”

  “Sabers,” Sumiko corrected.

  “Whatever you call them it’s still nuts. Why can’t we use a gun? I might have a chance then.”

  “Because there are strict rules about dueling. You can’t blast away at somebody with a gun,” Hugo said. “Too much chance somebody will get killed.”

  “But it’s okay if I get skewered?”

  “If Boho kills you he’ll be expelled. He won’t risk that,” Sumiko answered.

  “If he kills me isn’t it murder?”

  Sumiko looked at him like he was an idiot. “Not if it’s an affair of honor. But it is frowned on. Shows a lack of control.”

  “Well, that’s certainly comforting.”

  “Have you ever used a saber?” she asked.

  “No. I’ve never even held a sword… saber. It’s the twenty-fifth century for Christ’s sake.”

  Hugo and Sumiko exchanged glances. “Can we get him some instruction?” Hugo asked.

  “Maybe.” She frowned and tugged at her upper lip. “Talion is very good.”

  Tracy’s first impulse was to utter a loud, profane and very firm rejection of the idea, but he wrestled the words back behind his teeth and tried to stop thinking like a commoner. How would one of his better-born classmates react? They’d accept instruction even from the psychopath. And truthfully he was going to end up likely serving with the man so he’d better learn to go along to get along. He hated himself, but he also knew the large meal he’d just consumed wasn’t sitting all that well because he was scared.

  Tracy knew he was going to lose, but he didn’t want to be utterly humiliated. He’d accept the help. He thought again about Mercedes and her previously unwelcome advice. He wasn’t sure if he was being wise. Or selling out.

  19

  EFFICIENT WAYS TO KILL

  Mercedes raced through the door into the biology lab, and stumbled to a stop. There was a cadaver lying on every table. She had known that dissection was going to start in the second quarter and she’d been dreading it. She was squeamish. She knew it and knew her limits. She had been steeling herself to face an oyster, even a fr
og. She knew if she had to face anything bigger that looked the least bit pet-like she’d remember her beloved Pekinese Ty Sun and be a big sobby, slobbery mess.

  But the cadaver that lay on her table wasn’t a pig or even a dog. It was an Isanjo. On a neighboring table was a Hajin, its lower legs cocked at impossible angles, the mouth at the end of its muzzle lolling open. On another table a Sidone was on its back, its ten legs tight against its bulbous body. Apparently when the spider-like creatures died their limbs spasmed into grotesque coils.

  Her breakfast rose up, damming her throat with burning bile. A trashcan was thrust into her hands, and her long braid pulled out of the way. Mercedes made use of it. Now the smell of vomit joined the scent of formaldehyde. Unfortunately the stink set off a chain reaction among other squeamish students. Yves was doubled over barfing, as were Cipriana and Danica. Even Arturo was losing his breakfast.

  Tracy took the trashcan out of her hands. Of course it had been he who had spotted her distress, she thought. He carried it over to the long, deep sink and washed out the vomit, but he never met her eyes and he didn’t return to her side.

  Before she had time to wonder about it Commander Michael Westfield strode into the room, paused and glanced from vomit splatter to retching student, his head nodding and lips moving soundlessly.

  “Five upchucks. Not too bad. One year we had eleven. That was our high-water mark. Made for a very unpleasant session let me tell you. I still rather think it was something they ate at breakfast—normally our young gentlemen aren’t so squeamish.” Mercedes thought he glanced toward the women and her face went hot with embarrassment. Westfield keyed his ScoopRing. “Please send staff to clean the biology lab.”

  A few moments later janitors arrived and quickly mopped up the vomit. Mercedes noticed that the aliens kept their eyes averted from their dead brethren on the tables.

  “Okay, you’re all going to work on your individual cadavers, but at certain points I’ll have you rotate around the room so you can take a look at all the bodies.”

  As the professor walked past he keyed the readers on each table to bring up holos of the text and instructions on how to dissect each of the alien bodies. Ernesto’s hand shot into the air. “Yes, Cadet Chapman-Owiti?”

  “There’s no Tiponi Flute.”

  “Quite right. Because their physiology is so unique and their vital organs and brain so evenly distributed throughout their bodies the only efficient way to kill them is by incinerating them.”

  “Wouldn’t that apply to any of these,” Tracy said with a gesture toward the tables. His tone was flat and cold.

  “Very true, Cadet.”

  “Then why are we doing this?” Boho asked. “Why not stand off in orbit and light them all on fire?” Danica gave a small moan.

  “Because there might be things we want to preserve on that planet or on an enemy ship. And more importantly because war isn’t just wholesale slaughter. War is the application of controlled violence. If you make people think you’re just murderous thugs they’ll be less likely to surrender. Desperation will make them fight all the harder and as a result we’d take a shit load more casualties on our side. So, since occasionally we navy boys might have to engage in personal combat we want you to know how to kill these things. And since these are aliens, injuries that would kill us humans outright might not kill them, or at least kill them quickly enough to keep you alive. So let’s get started.”

  Mercedes balked and indicated the holo of Isanjo anatomy. “It’s right there. Why do we need to actually cut open a body?”

  “Sooner or later, Cadet Princess, you are going to have to get your hands dirty,” was the comfortless non-answer from Westfield.

  Ernesto strolled over to her. “Allow me to help you, Highness.”

  Mercedes found herself studying the way his gold stud earring gleamed against his ebony-dark skin. She knew his family were well enough connected to be given rulership over a pacified Hidden World that was on the bare edge of habitable and lacking in resources, which made it clear they were not in the first ranks. Still he was clearly brilliant. At the end of the first quarter he was the top student in their class. She mentally added him to her list of potential consorts then wondered if that was mere gratitude?

  He led her over to the table, saying softly, “The key is don’t look at its face. Just focus on the viscera. It’s just meat now.”

  He placed his hands under the printer, spreading his long, graceful fingers wide. Sterile gloves were applied to his hands. Mercedes followed suit, feeling the cold, wet touch of the latex before it dried to a flexible consistency. Ernesto positioned himself so she couldn’t see the slack features of the Isanjo. He picked up a scalpel and cut through the fur and skin, then pulled it aside. The muscles in the abdomen were pink and gleaming. Mercedes swayed and clutched the edge of the table.

  Chapman-Owiti placed the scalpel in her hands, and showed her how to part the muscle tissue. The bones of the ribcage appeared. The room seemed suddenly very hot and her head was reeling. “I’m going to faint,” she whispered.

  Ernesto turned her away from the table, went to a dispenser and got her a cup of water. It helped though her stomach tried to rebel. “Let me show you something interesting.” He forced her to face the table again. “Note the lungs. You can see them through the ribcage, but look, here’s the interesting thing.” He slipped a hand beneath the intestines and pulled them gently aside. “There at the base of the spine.”

  Mercedes was shaking, but forced herself to look. There was another small set of pink/grey objects on either side of the spine.

  “What do you think those are?” Ernesto asked. She shook her head, unable to think beyond her horror and disgust. “Look at the lungs again.”

  She obeyed and finally it penetrated. “They look the same. Like little lungs.”

  “Yes, they have two sets. They oxygenate their blood much more efficiently than we do. They’re faster and more agile than we are, and they have five appendages that they can use.”

  “Hands, feet and tail,” Mercedes said, mostly to prove that she wasn’t completely brain-locked.

  “Exactly, and because of that we’re going to see differences in the brain structure as well.”

  Do we have to? was her plaintive thought, but what Mercedes found herself saying was, “That means they could have up to four guns—”

  “And a laser blade held by their tail.”

  “How ever did we beat them?” she asked.

  Boho, walking past, leaned in, winked and said, “We’re much meaner.”

  Westfield came by, and he and Ernesto began a rather opaque conversation about dendrites. The professor then called for them to move to a different table and inspect the next butchered horror.

  Ernesto actually took her arm and guided her over to the Hajin, its belly now laid open, and the top of its skull removed. Mercedes suddenly saw Flanon or Tako’s features on the long face of the creature and turned away.

  “The thing about Hajin is they have a complex nervous system. You’ve heard about how a headless chicken can still keep running?” Ernesto said. “Well Hajin are like that too. Their bodies have been known to stay upright and move even with the brain destroyed.”

  “Surely they can’t fight like that?”

  “No, but they can slam into you and maybe knock you down. The males are big, bigger than humans, and mass a lot more weight.”

  “But our soldiers are in armor so just getting knocked down—”

  “Quite right that the knockdown isn’t all that serious, but while you’re down another enemy soldier might be able to shoot you.”

  Mercedes studied the man’s sharply planed face, noted the genuine excitement and enjoyment as he discussed these finer points of alien physiology.

  “You really love this,” she said.

  “I do. I want to focus on xeno biology. Of course I can only do so much because of the genetic laws, but what I’d give to study with the Cara’ot…” He forestalled
the objection he saw rising to her lips. “Of course I know that can never happen and I accept it, but it just seems a shame. They know so much about genetic engineering and nano tech.” He shook his head. “I wonder if it wouldn’t be smarter to delve into their secrets. By blinkering ourselves we might be unable to see a Cara’ot threat heading our way.”

  They moved on to the Sidone corpse. Ernesto grinned at her. “So, you seem to be doing better with this.”

  “It’s a giant bug. It’s harder to be emotional,” Mercedes replied. “And I’ve been served by Hajin and Isanjo my entire life.” She wasn’t exactly sure what she meant with the final sentence. That they seemed more real to her? That she would find it hard to kill one? Which raised a new question.

  “I wonder where they get the bodies—”

  Westfield’s voice came from behind her. “Morgues and executed prisoners. No, Cadet Princess, we didn’t go out and just randomly kill some aliens.”

  “We formally declare war for that,” Arturo quipped. He seemed to have recovered his equilibrium, and was busily slicing into the Sidone.

  Was it only her discomfort with this entire exercise that had her thinking he seemed gleeful?

  “There hasn’t been a real war for over two hundred years,” Mercedes said. “I intend to keep it that way.”

  “And we hope you succeed in that goal, Cadet Princess,” Westfield said.

  “War is terrible for the economy,” Arturo said. “So I second.”

  “It’s also not terribly healthy for children and other living things,” Westfield added dryly.

  There was something in his delivery that made Mercedes think it might be a quote. One she decided she wanted to find and maybe pin on her wall.

  * * *

  Tracy found that his O-Trell ID did not give him access to ship’s logs or the actual locations of those ships when they weren’t docked. It also didn’t give him access to the command centers for Estrella Avanzada Epsilon on the edge of sector 470. But it did give him access to manifests, requisition orders and maintenance logs for the star base, which was what he really wanted and needed based on his cryptic conversation with Rohan Aubrey, the Conde de Vargas.