The High Ground (3 page)

“Well help me pick something mild. My old gut just can’t take that much spice any more.”

They were guided to a table by a female Isanjo with deep red fur. Her enormous golden eyes flicked away from them and as soon as the menus were in their hands she scurried off toward a better-dressed couple who had just entered.

The father and son settled into woven rope chairs. A waiter hurtled down from the ropes overhead, landed with a thud beside their table and deposited a bowl of dipping sauce and a basket of bread. The alien’s neotenous dark eyes were wide pools in the broad, fur-covered face, but despite their size their expression was unreadable. The upturned corners of the creature’s mouth cocked even higher, but was that really a smile, Tracy wondered? Or was the Isanjo just aping human behavior for the sake of the customers?

The waiter’s order pad hung from a chain around his neck. He picked it up and tapped it to life. “What would you like to drink?” The shape of the muzzle gave the words an odd lisp and burr.

“Milk,” Alexander said.

“Enchata,” Tracy said. The sweet beverage distilled from the petals of flowers on the Isanjo homeworld went really well with their hot spicy food.

With a powerful thrust of his legs the alien launched himself back up into the tangle of ropes, gripping with his hands and feet and the prehensile tail. The pungent scent off the sauce set Tracy’s eyes to watering and anticipation of the peppery taste had his mouth watering as well.

“Are you really sure about turning down The High Ground?” his father asked. His tone was hesitant, pleading. “You know we can’t afford to pay for college…” His voice died away and he began shredding a hunk of bread into small crumbs. While the tailor shop turned a reasonable profit his father carried a substantial tax burden because he hadn’t remarried after his wife’s death, and further penalties were applied each year for his only siring one child.
At least we no longer have the debt from the disaster on Riker’s World
, Tracy thought.

He hunched a dismissive shoulder. “If I’m good enough that the academy wants me then I can for sure get a scholarship at a university
and
I won’t have to be a soldier. Besides, there’s no merit involved. The fleet is filled with rich men’s sons who are there solely because of their birth. It’s a wonder we ever won a battle.”

His father’s eyes drifted toward the aliens surging and milling on the sidewalk and hawking their wares from portable stalls. “They,” he said with a nod toward the aliens, “might not agree with you. We beat them all pretty decisively. Even the Cara’ot.”

“That was hundreds of years ago!”

“Back when humans were real men?” his father teased gently.

Tracy gave him a reluctant smile. “Back when ordinary people could… well… get ahead. Before rich and titled assholes got everything handed to them.” The conversation had circled back to the news that lay like a stone in his heart. The thing he couldn’t bring himself to tell his father. He went on talking, nervous words with no meaning. “I mean, the whole thing is so stupid. Acting like all of us are going to get called up and be ready to fight. Do you even know where your gun is?” Tracy asked, referring to the rifle that every human household was required to keep close to hand.

“I believe it’s in the hall closet with the umbrellas,” Alexander said thoughtfully.

Tracy gave a sharp humorless laugh. “Yeah, we’re totally ready to fight off the alien menace.”

“Tracy, what’s wrong?” his father asked. “You’re angry, I can tell.”

To buy himself some more time Tracy dipped a small square of bread into the sauce, chewed and swallowed, but his stomach, clenched into a tight hard ball, rebelled, and the food had him gagging. Alarmed, his father was out of his chair, and came to wrap a comforting arm around Tracy’s thin shoulders. Alexander waved down a waiter.

“Water!”

The creature nodded and bounded away. Alexander laid a hand on Tracy’s forehead. Tracy jerked away. “I’m fine, Dad. I’m not sick.”
Not in the way you think
. With another worried glance his father returned to his chair.

“But something’s wrong.”

The gentle tone broke his control. Tracy’s throat ached as a boulder lodged itself just above his Adam’s apple so the words emerged as a harsh croak. “Don’t bother closing the shop for graduation,” he said. “I won’t be making a speech.”

* * *

Princess Mercedes Adalina Saturnina Inez de Arango had cried until her chest ached, her throat was raw and her eyes were burning. It had been something of a waste, for the person who needed to witness her grief had been stubbornly absent. Always before Papa had rushed to her side when she’d fallen in the gardens and scraped a knee, when her beloved dog had died, when her first mad crush on Duque Sanje’s eldest son had ended in heartbreak. But this time when he had
ruined her life
he was ignoring her.

Her stepmother hadn’t come either. Perhaps because Constanza felt awkward or because she resented the fact that Papa had done everything to give the throne to Mercedes rather than her own daughter, Carisa. Of course the girl was only six so Constanza could hardly expect such a thing. Carisa couldn’t attend The High Ground.
No, that horror is reserved for the Emperor’s eldest child
, Mercedes thought resentfully.

She pushed aside the floating curtains and rose from the elaborately carved canopied bed. She would not go. He could not make her. There was nothing wrong with Cousin Musa, and his son, Mihalis, would be a worthy heir. She didn’t understand why her father was so opposed to that side of the family. Let Musa take the throne.

Her rooms looked out over a small garden. Wisteria with trunks the size of small trees overhung the marble walls with a riot of purple blossoms. At the center was an elaborate herb knot garden and a small pond with a fountain. Cushioned benches surrounded the pool, strategically placed so any breeze would carry a soft spray of cooling water onto those who sat on them.

Mercedes considered going outside, but then caught a glimpse of herself in the dressing-table mirror, and decided that none of the guards needed to see her with a blotchy face, bright red nose and tangled hair. She rushed into the bathroom with its large sunken tub, and quickly splashed cold water on her overheated face. It helped a little. Back into the bedroom where she ran a brush through her long dark brown hair.

What if they make me cut my hair?

But I’m not going
, she reminded herself again.
He can’t make me.

He’s the Emperor. Ruler of the Solar League.

And I’m his daughter and he loves me.

Really?

Hurt and anger and insecurity blended in a toxic stew, and almost before she realized she had done it the brush crashed against the mirror and a jagged crack appeared. Mercedes felt a spasm of guilt and sadness that she had ruined something pretty because of one petulant act.

Was she about to ruin the League too because of one petulant act?

She shouldn’t have been surprised that an internal voice was counseling duty and protocol. She had been schooled to serve ever since she could be trusted to wield a fork and not misbehave in public. The crack in the mirror formed a scar across the image of her face. She turned her back on it. Most fleet officers sported scars, for dueling was accepted and indeed expected at The High Ground. Would she be expected to fight as well? She had never been trained to fence. Dance, play the piano, paint. The various imperial wives had taught her how to check the palace books to be certain that no majordomo or servant was stealing from the imperial purse. Her education was good, but there was going to be a lot of math associated with ship duty. Was she up to the task?

But I’m not going!

There was a soft tap on her door. Mercedes ignored it. Then a sweet soprano called through the heavy wood paneling. “It’s Estella and Julieta. Please let us in, darling.”

Mercedes ran to the door and threw the lock. Her two full blood sisters slipped through, and Julieta quickly locked the door behind her. Estella was sixteen; Julieta fifteen, born a scant ten months after Estella. The trio was proof that her mother had tried,
Dios
had she tried to produce the required son, but in the end she had been put aside, and it had been Agatha’s turn to try… and fail. Followed by Inez, Greta and finally Constanza. Five imperial wives and nine princesses between them.

Mercedes studied her sisters. They all had the same dark brown hair and brown eyes. Julieta had taken after their mother. She was tiny and vivacious with a mischievous smile. Estella was the avowed beauty of the first three imperial daughters. She had skin like old ivory and her eyes were the color of caramel. Mercedes, the eldest, was the least attractive; she had taken after her imperial father and had a rather jutting blade of a nose. Many of her attendants assumed she resented it, but she actually didn’t. She loved her sisters and took great pride in their beauty, vivacity and accomplishments.

“We’ve brought chocolate and a vid,” Julieta said.

Mercedes slipped her arms around her youngest sibling’s shoulders. “That’s sweet, but I don’t think that’s the cure for this.”

“Papa hasn’t come to see you?” Estella asked. Mercedes shook her head. For a long moment they just looked at each other. “I don’t think he’s going to back down, Mer,” she said.

The muscles in Mercedes’ jaw tightened. “And neither am I.”

Three weeks passed. Tracy refused to attend his graduation. His dad made sad eyes, but Tracy pointed out it was just high school.
“Wait until I graduate with honors from SolTech, or New Oxford or Caladonia. That’ll be worth attending.”

Tracy was in the back sewing a cuff on a jacket when he heard the bell chime. He and Bajit were both working shirtless in the sweltering workshop. They could only afford to run the air conditioning in the front of the shop and the fitting rooms. The workshop and the small apartment upstairs were torturous in the summer months. The Hajin’s sweat had a sharp, almost medicinal smell. It mingled with the rank smell of Tracy’s sweat in a really unpleasant way. He hoped the stink wasn’t working its way into the bolts of cloth that lined the walls.

Tracy pulled on a shirt, the material clinging uncomfortably to his damp skin. Walking to the back door dislodged a bead of sweat that ran into his left eye, stinging as it landed. He opened the door to find a deliveryman holding a long white box and a tap-pad.

“Thracius Belmanor?”

“Yeah.” The tap-pad was shoved out for his signature. “What is it?” he asked as he scrawled his name.

The man shrugged. “It’s from the Admiralty.”

Tracy shoved the box back at him. “I don’t want it.”

“Too bad, you signed for it.” The man returned to his flitter.

The dumpster across the alley beckoned, but he was curious now. Tracy carried it back into the shop. His father came into the workshop, muttering to himself as he stared at his tap-pad.

“Outrageous. The cost of spider silk.
Everything’s
gotten so expensive. And what the bank is charging for my loan—What’s that?”

Tracy held out the box. Alexander carried it over to a table, sliced through the static tape and lifted away the lid. There was a cadet’s uniform inside. Tracy watched his father’s eyes slide to the bolts of the shop’s stock of spider silk, their color a deep midnight blue. The uniform in the box was pale blue, constructed from cheap synthetic material, and the low-grade silver piping was beginning to flake, leaving metallic dandruff across the cloth. There was a letter lying on the uniform.

Tracy lifted it out, unfolded the paper, scanned it. After the usual salutations he read:

While it is normally required that all recruits at The High Ground possess a dress uniform as well as an undress uniform an exception has been made for our scholarship students. They may wear this undress blue at all times.

He thrust the letter at his father and turned away. He tried to return to his work, but his hands were shaking too hard to set a stitch.

“I suppose the deserving poor are only
so
deserving.” Tracy jammed the needle through the material. “And like this wouldn’t have set me apart from all the others.” He then hastened to add, “If I were going. Which I’m not.”

“Though your tailoring relation in my set could never pass, though you occupy a station in the lower middle class,” Alexander sang, altering the
H.M.S. Pinafore
lyrics somewhat. He had a pleasant baritone voice, and had bequeathed his singing ability to his son. It was as close as Tracy had ever heard his father come to criticism of the FFH and it both surprised and comforted him.

Alexander once again looked at the bolts of fabulously expensive spider silk that would become the uniforms for Space Command officers. His father sighed, shook out the cheap uniform and hung it on a rack.

“Should we send it back?” Tracy asked.

“Best we not draw attention to ourselves,” his father answered.

Tracy checked the watch set in his sleeve. “Shall I go get us lunch?”

His father nodded. As Tracy left he saw his father walk over to Bajit, lay his hand on a bolt of spider silk, bend in close and say something.

* * *

That night Tracy ate alone for his father had gone to deliver new evening wear to Lord Palani. It was a horribly hot July night, and he found the leftover paella nauseating. Grabbing his tap-pad he went out in search of a breeze, and rode the loop rail down toward the one public beach near the capital city.

The beach was more rock than sand, and dangerous rip tides could sweep the unwary far out to sea, but it was the one place where “cottages” of the wealthy didn’t commandeer the coastline. The scent of brine and rotting seaweed filled his nose as Tracy scrambled down a hillside toward the seawall. Coarse grass clung to his pants legs, and the sand shifted and squeaked beneath the soles of his sandals.

He settled onto the wall, feeling the rough surface of the rocks bite through the fabric of his trousers. There was a breeze off the ocean. Tracy threw back his head, allowing the sighing wind to cool his cheeks and carry to him the boom and hiss of the waves hitting the shore. After a few moments he opened his eyes. The nebula blazed across the sky, a riot of twisting colors with stars inset like diamonds in the fabric of a mad painter’s dream. The smallest moon—Lynx—was already up. Soon the other two, Panacea and Thalia, would join her.