The High Ground

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Note the weapon ports that line the rim of the Infierno. It carries a combination of missiles and slug weapons.”

  Off to her left Mercedes heard several of the men having a whispered conversation.

  “I took out seventeen Cara’ot fighters in one go,” Davin said.

  “Still not enough for the Ace achievement,” Kunst replied, his tone scornful. “You need twenty for that. I got it.”

  El-Ghazzawy must have had very good hearing in addition to being telepathic because he turned toward the clump of boys, smiled and said, “Hanging out in your living room in a SimBubble is way different than when you’re pulling gees, trying to read all your screens, and sometimes just using your eyes… you get mentally overloaded. And add to that that somebody is actually trying to shoot your ass out of space and you can’t just reload the game if you die. But out of curiosity—how many of you have played Star Fighter?”

  All the men raised their hands, even Yves. Mercedes was a bit disappointed to see Tracy among them, but then thought, Well boys will be boys. Sumiko started to raise her hand, then pulled it down. El-Ghazzawy caught the movement.

  “Cadet Lady, is that an I-sort-of-played gesture?”

  “I snuck in and used my brother’s SimDeck. I wasn’t supposed to, and I only did it once so I’m not sure that counts.”

  “Probably not,” Sanjay said with a laugh. “You probably barely figured out the controls.”

  “True that,” Sumiko said.

  “Well, this will be an interesting experiment then,” El-Ghazzawy said. “Will familiarity with the game be a help? I think this is shaping up to be an interesting experiment and possibly a battle of the sexes.”

  “No contest,” came a voice from back in the crowd. Mercedes wasn’t sure who’d said it.

  “Don’t be so certain.” It was Ernesto. “Studies by the US Air Force back on old Earth indicated that women can pull more gee forces than men and have quicker reflexes.”

  “Then it sounds like we should have been using them before now,” Yves said.

  “Up until now they’ve had a different role,” was El-Ghazzawy’s noncommittal reply. Mercedes couldn’t get a read from his bland delivery how he really felt about it. “Okay, sort out into seven groups, and let’s look at some actual cockpits.”

  “And what then?” Boho asked.

  “On to the simulators.” El-Ghazzawy reacted to the men’s disappointed expression. “No, you don’t get to hop in a twenty-two-million-Real fighter without some practice, and no, your gaming experience doesn’t count.”

  Mercedes was startled when Sumiko didn’t stick with them. She went off to a group that included Hugo, Davin and Arturo. Tracy walked over to where she, Cipriana and Danica stood. A few moments later Ernesto, Mark and Yves joined them. There was a moment where Mercedes felt like she had drawn the dregs, and how could that be because she was the Infanta? She should have the best people around her. She studied the faces around her, forced a smile and thought, Well maybe I do. She certainly had three of the smartest people in the class.

  They moved to an Infierno. Its surface was polished mirror bright and it threw back their reflections oddly proportioned in the curved vehicle. The boys clambered up the arched side without any hesitation and headed toward the dome. Mercedes and her ladies exchanged glances. Mercedes shrugged and followed them up. There were two large metal loops set near the edges of the stationary central section of the Infierno.

  “What are these for?” she asked, pointing at a loop.

  “Cranes hook on there and lift the craft for reloading armaments. The missiles and slugs are in the belly of the craft and fed into the outer belt,” Tracy said.

  Mercedes stared down into the tiny cockpit. The walls beneath the clear dome were matte black and she saw the tiny pinpoints for holo projection. Directly in the center was a gimbaled acceleration couch. It looked more like an entertainment center than a craft of war.

  “There’s no way to steer it,” Danica said.

  “You do it with shifts in the body; the cockpit couch can sense them and it’s very sensitive. You don’t need large movements,” came El-Ghazzawy’s voice from behind them.

  Ernesto spoke up. “And eye movement as well. Right?”

  El-Ghazzawy nodded, leaned down into the cockpit and lifted up a cable. “You jack into your helmet so it also becomes a sensing device.” He took a helmet from Cipriana and demonstrated. She widened her eyes at him, her eyelashes fluttering like a frantic butterfly. He pretended not to notice. Or maybe he really didn’t notice.

  Cipriana pushed. “Is it that way in the game?” she asked.

  El-Ghazzawy didn’t answer. Mark did. “No, you have a controller for the game as well as your SimHelmet.” Cipriana glared and Mark looked confused. Mercedes hid a smile.

  El-Ghazzawy lectured them about the weaponry, how the rotation of the outer rim allowed each gun to have a cool-down period before it was brought to bear again, the maglevs that kept the spinning outer rim attached to the stationary inner structure of the craft. How each Infierno carried seven hundred of the small, highly explosive missiles that had their own small rocket engines that ignited after they were thrown free of the fighter. They were very powerful, but best at close range. There were also several ports that just threw chunks of depleted uranium and iron. Those were only propelled by the speed of the Infierno and the spin of its outer belt.

  “So they’re a pray and spray sort of weapon,” Tracy said.

  “Exactly,” El-Ghazzawy said with a smile.

  “It’s a little alarming to me how much of our success in battle seems to depend on that,” was Tracy’s dry response.

  “Oh, on the big capital ships there’s a lot more tactics involved. It’s when the fight gets up close and personal that reflexes… and prayer come into play.”

  “Getting in close could be tough with such a reflective craft,” Ernesto said.

  “Speed and maneuvers will be your friends.”

  “Why not make the fighters dark? Sneak up on them?” Yves asked.

  “First there’s no sneaking—”

  “But SEGU has dark ops ships,” Ernesto objected.

  “Weelll.” El-Ghazzawy drew out the word. “That’s more propaganda from our brethren in the intelligence service than fact. Despite what you see on the stream or in your games we don’t have cloaking devices and using non-reflective materials does nothing more than add to the cost and make defense contractors happy. Space is cold. Really, really cold, as in minus 270.45 Celsius, minus 454.81 Fahrenheit cold. Passive sensors will find you. Even if you shut down the engines you still have to keep the humans inside alive so there’s heat being generated, not to mention the people. Bodies are like little flares.”

  “What about putting the crew in cold sleep?” Yves Petek asked.

  “Takes equipment to power the cold sleep capsules,” Tracy said.

  El-Ghazzawy nodded. “Now I suppose you could turn off every device on the ship, turn the crew into frozen, very dead and not very tasty FroPops, but having a multi-million inert chunk of metal floating through space doesn’t make a lot of sense, and you can still be spotted if our enemies paint an area with lidar, radar or particle detectors. The downside to that is that the ship using those sensing devices is also giving away their position. Bottom line—we’re always very aware of each other. Your only real hope is to be overlooked among all the junk that’s floating in orbit around most advanced worlds because you’re sure as shit going to get noticed when you arrive.”

  Danica raised her hand. “Why please?”

  El-Ghazzawy smiled at her. Cipriana looked pissed and Mercedes gave a mental sigh. “Because you can’t come out of Fold in orbit around a planet. Which means there’s time to get spotted and tracked. So you run like hell for the target world and dive in among their orbital infrastructure. Hope the clutter confuses their sensors.”

  “And hope they aren’t willing to shoot down everything in orbit to find the needle in the s
pace junk haystack,” Tracy said.

  “That too,” El-Ghazzawy said.

  “That still doesn’t explain why these are polished mirror bright,” Cipriana complained.

  “There was concern that the aliens might develop an effective weaponized laser. If the bastards did we wanted to send the beams right back in their faces.”

  “There are lasers in the game,” Yves said and Mercedes thought he sounded disappointed.

  El-Ghazzawy smiled. “Because they look good in a SimBubble. We’ve just never gotten them to the point where they were practical. It takes too much energy to power them up to a level where they can pack a punch.”

  He opened a panel on the outer skin of the Infierno and pulled out a chunk of depleted uranium. He grunted a bit with effort, and even through his coat Mercedes could see the muscles in his arms bunch. Cipriana sighed.

  He heaved the piece of metal at Tracy who caught it and also grunted with the effort of holding it. “A million years of human evolution and we’re back to throwing rocks at each other,” Tracy said sourly.

  “Sometimes the simplest tool is the best tool,” El-Ghazzawy said.

  Tracy passed it on to Wilson. “Huh, yeah, that would tear the shit out of something,” Wilson said.

  “The other great thing about the Infierno is it can skip across atmosphere to produce a slingshot effect, plunge into atmosphere without a lot of braking required, and it skips on water too. We took out the Hajin navy with a more primitive version of these. Why don’t you all climb down and get a feel while I check on the other groups. Then we’ll go to the simulators.”

  Out of deference to her rank Mercedes went first. The couch swung beneath her, then folded firmly around her armored body. Tracy laid down on the top of the Infierno and jacked her helmet into the controls. She found that by shifting her eyes the couch swung side to side, and when she looked straight down it even spun to have her facing down. She laughed delightedly. Unlike almost everything else at The High Ground maybe this was going to be fun.

  * * *

  Less fun. Discovering that The High Ground posted the simulator scores for the class. Not because she had done so badly. Because Mercedes had the top score. And not by a little—by a lot. The next closest scores were Boho and Jasper. Clark Kunst had the fourth highest. Then there was a large clump of people in the mid-range including Tracy. Sumiko was in that grouping. The lowest third held Cipriana, Yves and surprisingly Arturo. Dead last was Danica with a score so low that it had Mercedes saying in a hissing whisper, “Did you just go to sleep through the exercise?”

  “It made me nauseous. And it’s stupid anyway. We’re never going to fly in those.”

  “And you know this how?” Mercedes demanded as they hurried toward their quarters for a quick shower before their regular classes. Despite the temperature controls in the armor Mercedes’ body was drenched with sweat. She would be peeling off the skintight one-piece jumpsuit that was worn beneath the armor.

  “Because this is all a big sham. Nobody wants us here. They’re doing it because your father has the power to force us down their throats, but even if they let us graduate they’ll put us in groundside offices or at worst on some safe ship where the press can pretend you’re a war leader. The rest of us will just quietly retire after our enlistment is over and pray it’s not too late for us to find husbands, have a normal life.”

  The door to their shared quarters slid shut. “First, how do you know there won’t be another war?” Rage made Mercedes yell. She realized some of her anger was fueled, perversely, by her extraordinarily high score. She was filled with anxiety that she would pay for it somehow and was taking it out on Danica. The knowledge didn’t help her calm down and she raged on.

  “As Captain Lord Xian says, ‘Space is big.’ We’re pushing into new sectors. We may come up against new alien races and have to deal with them. Why wouldn’t you want to help?”

  “I can help by producing cannon fodder for these assholes,” Danica shouted back. “And while they might take my sons I damn well don’t want them taking my daughters too.”

  “Wars can come to you,” Sumiko said. “Wouldn’t you like to know how to protect those daughters—”

  Danica burst into tears. Mercedes’ anger evaporated and she hugged the small girl. “Dani, I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”

  “I’m so homesick,” she cried. “Being home only made it worse. Having to come back up here. And I only got to see Ryan once and I’m sure his parents are going to find him a bride before I graduate, and… and… and…” Wracking sobs left her unable to speak.

  Cipriana and Sumiko joined in the group hug. Mercedes wished she could offer soothing platitudes, but she knew Danica was probably right. Lord Ryan Casters was in his early thirties, his military service long over and past time to be married and starting a family. Mercedes wondered what a man of his age would find appealing in an eighteen-year-old girl, but maybe he was one of those men who like to baby women, or a less charitable explanation was that he wanted someone young and malleable.

  Mercedes led Danica over to her bed, and pulled her down to sit next to her. “I understand this is a sacrifice and a hardship, but please, please don’t abandon me. I need you. And I’m sure Ryan will wait for you,” Mercedes lied. “What a coup to have married one of the first woman graduates from The High Ground. No other debutante can make that claim.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” Cipriana said. “We might have men lining up.”

  Danica brightened a bit. “You really need me, Mer? I’m such a bad student and not very good at all the soldier stuff.”

  “Yes. I need you. We all do. We’re a team.” The platitudes fell from her lips. Dross spun into words, but it seemed to do the trick. Danica wiped her eyes, and stood.

  “We better hurry,” Danica said. “Or we’ll be late for class.”

  Sumiko sidled up to Mercedes and under cover of the pounding water in the showers said quietly, “So how did you rack up that score?”

  Mercedes closed her eyes and recalled the exhilaration, the sense of wild abandon she’d felt in that simulator. “I’m not sure. I thought of it as a living thing, a partner with me. Like my horses, where I can think and they do.”

  “Minute muscle movement generated by your thoughts,” Sumiko mused. “That makes sense. I was trying to analyze which muscles to use. Thanks for the tip. I’ll bet the boys are really pissed though.”

  * * *

  At lunch Tracy gobbled curry and rice, and listened to the rants, complaints and conspiracy theories fly around the neighboring tables. There were even a few grumbles from his table, which he had mentally dubbed the Low-Born Scum Table.

  “Had to have been rigged.”

  “It’s clear she’s just being carried.”

  “Skews the scores.”

  “Probably promised El-Ghazzawy a better title.”

  “Makes the rest of us look like fools.”

  Tracy pushed away his bowl, stood and walked past the table that had uttered the last remark. “No, you’re all doing that just fine on your own,” he said. He pitched his voice loud enough to be heard by most of the other tables. “And accusations like that could be considered disloyal at best. Treasonous at worst.”

  Sanjay, who had been most adamant in his complaints, jumped to his feet. “Are you questioning my honor, intitulado?”

  “No, your—”

  Hugo snagged Tracy under the arm. “You heard him, he said no,” Hugo called back over his shoulder to Sanjay as he dragged Tracy away. “You looking to fight another duel, hombre?” Hugo whispered. “Jesus, you’re like a fucking mongoose, squaring up against anything and everything no matter how big.”

  “She beat us, Hugo. Beat all of us.” The big man remained silent, and screwed up his mouth as if tasting and rejecting words. “Oh, not you too? Look!” Tracy spun Hugo around and pointed at the high table. “Look at them.” The professors were gathered around Zeng, heads close, talking while frowns furrowed their brow
s. “They’re fucking flabbergasted. They have no idea what to do with this.”

  “Then let them worry about it. You keep your head down and your mouth shut. Unless you want to end up with as many scars as Jasper,” Hugo warned.

  * * *

  “So how did you do it?” Arturo demanded of Mercedes. “Let me in on the secret. My old man is always going on and on about how awesome he was as an Infierno jock. If he sees this score… well, I’ve got to get it up.”

  Mercedes kept her head down over her bowl and tried to blot them all out. She started eating faster, desperate to get away.

  “Come on, Mercedes, we’re cousins.” Arturo was wheedling now.

  “I didn’t do anything… other than feel it. It just seemed obvious.”

  Arturo’s usually pleasant expression twisted, and he didn’t seem so handsome any longer. “Fine, have it your way, coño! Mihalis was right. You are out to destroy us.”

  It was a horrible and vile word—coño, chatte, Fotze… cunt. Shocked at the vulgarity Mercedes choked on a mouthful of curry and had it dribbling over her chin. Boho’s six-foot-four body uncoiled, and his arm shot out across the table knocking over one of the floral arrangements. Water went cascading across the wood. Chairs scraped and people yelled as they escaped the flood. Boho’s hand closed around Arturo’s throat, and he thrust his face into Arturo’s.

  “She didn’t do anything. Don’t you think if there was a way to game this thing I would have found it?”

  Did you try? Mercedes thought.

  “It can’t be done.”

  You did try.

  “She beat us,” Boho continued. Arturo’s face was turning red and small choking sounds emerged from between his writhing lips. “You may be my friend, but you are also a fucking idiot being led around by the nose by your brother. He’s going to end up in trouble. I thought you were too smart to follow him there.”

  All of this was delivered in an intense whisper. Mercedes could only be grateful that Mihalis wasn’t presiding at their table. The third-years were on a brief rotation out with the fleet. The junior prefect was a second-year student who laid a hand on Boho’s forearm.