The High Ground (11 page)

She knew that voice. She had played it back during late nights so as not to forget her very first adventure. Tracy stood at her elbow, hands clasped behind his back, staring straight ahead. Not by so much as a glance did he acknowledge her.

“You’re not in this group.”

“No, sir. But Chief Begay saw your dilemma and thought I might be able to assist.”

“And why is that?”

Those grey eyes flicked briefly to her face then turned back to Deal. “He thought my manners probably wouldn’t be as nice as the young gentlemen’s in your group.”

“
Intitulado?
”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d hit a woman?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All rightie then.” Deal turned back to the nobles. “You gonna let this one show you up?”

There were more glances and shuffles then three of the men stepped forward to confront her ladies. Sumiko looked resigned, Danica gave her a desperate look and Cipriana shot her a poisonous one. Then she and Tracy were facing each other.

He was pale. She could sense that she was flushed. “I keep waiting for the music to start,” she whispered.

“I don’t dance,” he muttered back. “Look, I’ll make it real clear when I’m going to swing. Just get your forearm up and block me. Or grab my hand with yours and push it away.”

“You know how to do this?”

“Studied a little martial arts. Been a while though—”

“Spar!” Deal shouted.

Tracy was true to his word. He would even glance down at which hand he was going to use, and then slowly raise his arm. Mercedes had plenty of time to react and also to sneak glances at her companions. Sumiko had her hands and arms up, trying to protect her face. Cipriana was dancing away from her attacker, keeping out of his reach.

Danica wasn’t even trying. She just stood, hands hanging at her sides, and cried. The boy facing her was dark-skinned and his dark red hair set an odd contrast to his pale brown eyes. Right now he was looking at the delicate blonde in frustration. Sanjay Favreau’s father had large holdings in banks and investment companies whose home offices were clustered on Kronos. He had been discussed as a potential match for her sister Estella.

Wedding money to the crown was always a good plan, Mercedes thought and realized she sounded like her father. Her mind was wandering and she missed Tracy’s windup. His fist connected with her cheekbone.

* * *

Tracy yanked his hand away. Horrified by the reddened mark on her cheek, aware of the softness of her skin against his knuckles. “Sorry, sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s okay. I got distracted,” Mercedes whispered back.

Then they were both distracted when Deal bellowed, “This dumb
punta
boo hoos and you stand there with your dick in your hand? She’s giving you a fucking gift! Take it. Or are you a liar as well as a pussy? You stepped up here. Now really step up!” The chief slapped Sanjay hard on the back of his head.

Tracy watched the pack mentality set in. A potential rival was getting his dick knocked in the dirt. It was too good an opportunity to pass up. The other males whipped out theirs, figuratively speaking, and the measuring began.

“Little performance anxiety there, Jay?”

“You offered,
hijo
.”

“You going to cry too?”

Tracy watched as a frown furrowed the boy’s brows. He shot a furious glance at his tormentors. Then the blonde girl made doe eyes at him. The young man’s jaw tightened at the attempted manipulation.

“That’s torn it,” Tracy muttered.

“Oh, no,” Mercedes breathed. “Sanjay’s got a temp—”

She was interrupted when Sanjay growled, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”

His fist lashed out and took the girl full in the face. Her nose smashed against her cheeks, blood flew in all directions. The blonde screamed as the force of the blow drove her backwards onto the mat. The girl’s hands were at her face, blood welling from between her fingers, both her eyes already blackening. Her sparring partner turned assailant lunged toward her, fist upraised, clearly ready to strike again.

Tracy moved to intercept, but not as quickly as Mercedes. She interposed herself between the sobbing girl and the furious boy. Tracy saw her hands close into fists, but she didn’t swing. Instead her right foot flew up and took Sanjay in the crotch. He shrieked in pain, and bent forward to clutch his abused privates. Mercedes danced from one foot to the other and lashed out with her left foot, connecting with Sanjay’s descending chin. Sanjay’s head snapped back, and he collapsed moaning onto the mat.

Mercedes was hopping on one foot and clutching her toes. “Ow,” she panted. Tracy tried to choke back laughter and was only marginally successful. “You try kicking a jawbone with your bare feet!” Mercedes flashed at him.

“Looks more like that jaw was made of glass,” Tracy chuckled. A rueful smile told him he was forgiven. Then he was forgotten as Mercedes whirled and rushed to the whimpering girl. She dropped to her knees next to the blonde.

“It’s all right, Dani. It’s all right.” She pinned Deal with an imperious look. “She needs to see a doctor. Now!”

Deal stepped forward. “The medicos are on the way.” He held out a broad, blunt hand. “Well done you, Cadet Princess. I think I know the fighting style that will suit you. We’ll make you a big damn hero yet.”

Mercedes ignored the drill instructor and held out her hand to Tracy. He hustled forward and assisted her to her feet. For a moment they stood face to face, her hand in his. He knew he was beaming. She gave him a tiny nod. He gave one back, released her hand and stepped away.

* * *

The scent of sweat, farts, soap, hair pomade and aftershave mingled with the steam from the hot water pounding from showerheads. The locker room was crowded with students and their batBEMs. Donnel was waiting at a locker, a towel draped over one of his arms, a bar of soap and a bath sponge in one hand, shampoo in a second, shaving gear in a third. Only Tracy had a servant so rich in appendages. The other batBEMs carried their cadets’ toiletries in small shower caddies.

Tracy stripped off his sweat-soaked gym clothes, took the towel from Donnel’s arm, wrapped it around his waist and joined the gaggle of men heading to the showers. Donnel trailed after him with his odd lurching walk. The tile floor beneath Tracy’s bare feet was almost hot, and heat lamps set into the ceiling bathed his shoulders with warmth. There were no stalls, just a long row of showerheads throwing water onto the tiles and drains to carry it bubbling away. Mirrors were set on the back wall between the showerheads, made from some material that kept them clear of the clouds of steam that obscured the naked bodies of the men. Tracy handed Donnel the towel—he was getting too comfortable with this, he thought—took his toiletries and stepped under the water.

It was hotter than he was used to. At home they kept the water heater turned down low to save money. He began to scrub down. Suds foamed cloud-like on the sponge. Figures edged out of the steam, flanking him. Their faces were reflected in the mirror. Sanjay and one of the men who had stepped forward to face the girls. They didn’t look friendly. Tracy stiffened, bath sponge in his hand.

Sanjay’s jaw was swollen and bruised so his words were mumbled and muffled. Their meaning, however, was clear. “You need a lesson in manners,
intitulado
. You don’t laugh at your betters—”

“And you need to learn when to
duck
,” Tracy shot back, and he jammed the soap-filled sponge into Sanjay’s face.

Sanjay yelled as the soap stung his eyes. Tracy spun to face the other man, but slipped on the suds and water-slick tiles, banging his hip hard against the wall. He was directly under the shower, the water blinding him. A fist slammed into his belly. Air exploded out of him, and he doubled over in pain. A knee was rising toward his face. Then suddenly the knee was receding, and he was being hauled into the air.

The showerheads were beneath him now. Tracy craned to look over his shoulder. Donnel was scurrying across the ceiling on his three legs while all four arms cradled Tracy. The alien scuttled down the wall, and deposited Tracy under the last bank of showerheads at the far end of the room. Right in the midst of Cullen and his two brown-nosers.

Naked, gulping and breathless, Tracy decided it wasn’t the moment for attitude. He ducked his head, muttered, “Excuse me,” and headed out. The big aristocrat looked startled, then amused and finally thoughtful. His hand landed on Tracy’s shoulder, holding him in place.

“What?” Tracy snapped. “You gonna teach me manners too?”
So much for discretion.

“A word of advice,
intitulado
. You shouldn’t take liberties with the ladies.” The hand was lifted and Tracy started away. “Oh, and a warning. Stay away from the Infanta.”

Donnel was waiting beyond the spray of water. He handed Tracy his towel. As he dried himself Tracy muttered, “I can fight my own battles.”

“Maybe you’d like me to put you back?” There was a pointed pause and the alien added, “Sir.”

“No. And okay, I get it.” Tracy headed for the locker room, stopped and muttered, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

* * *

“This is ridiculous!” Mercedes raged at Captain Manfred Zeng’s impassive face. She stood before his desk, fists braced on the marble surface, body quivering with nerves and indignation. The captain sat behind the desk in his oddly cluttered office, fingers tented in front of his lips, looking up at her intently.

“The whole thing is ridiculous, starting with these damn clothes!” She pulled open the tear in her skirt. The flash of skin got a reaction. The captain’s eyes widened and he looked momentarily alarmed.

“Cadet Princess, please won’t you sit down? I find conversations so much more productive when the parties are comfortable.”

The mild tone left her deflated. She was also embarrassed about displaying her thigh. It wasn’t the sort of behavior in which a well-bred young woman engaged. Mercedes had screwed up her courage to bring her complaints to the chief administrator by stoking her anger. Now she didn’t know how to react. She looked around, and backed into one of the overstuffed armchairs that Zeng had indicated.

The office was a total contrast to Zeng himself. It held the usual and expected array of holos showing Zeng with various famous politicians, nobles and military leaders. What Mercedes hadn’t expected was the clutter more in keeping with the salon of a fussy maiden aunt. Knick knacks adorned the desk and the side table that rested between two armchairs. In addition to the holos there were actual painted pictures on the walls, but not what one would expect from a military leader. No capital ships against a dramatic backdrop of stars, no brave
fusileros
storming a stronghold. No gauchos riding the steppes and plains of Nueva Terra following their herds, her father’s personal favorites. Instead Zeng’s taste veered to the fantastic—dreamy, misty landscapes or seascapes with sailing ships whose sails were made of flowers. Given Zeng’s appearance Mercedes had expected an ascetic monk’s cell.

“Now, what may I do for you?”

Mercedes’ eyes narrowed. On the surface the words were innocuous, but she heard the faint echo of a man humoring a recalcitrant child. She remained silent as she marshaled her arguments. She decided to start by tossing it back to Zeng.

“First a question, Captain… after graduation we will be assigned to ships, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And when a ship is in combat all personnel are wearing armor, correct?”

“Again yes.”

Mercedes picked up the material of her skirt. “We start
Infierno
training at the end of the first quarter. You wear armor in an
Infierno
fighter too. Have I got that right?” This time Zeng just nodded. He was looking wary. Mercedes gave him a smile. “So, will our armor have a skirt? And how exactly will that work? Granted it would be a challenging technological problem and might lead to some real innovations, but is it really worth the effort? Wouldn’t it be better to just give us regular armor?”

Zeng leaned back, hands gripping the arms of his chair. He no longer looked like he was humoring her. A frown furrowed his brow. “What are you suggesting, Cadet Princess?”

“Let us wear slacks. Give us gym clothes that allow us to move so we can learn something. Otherwise we’re just going to be burdens to our fellow officers.”

“I’ll have to take this to the commandant.”

“Why? You said you were in charge of operations. Wouldn’t attire fall under that?”

“Your presence here represents a profound change to this institution, Highness. We gave very careful thought to all the ramifications.”

“May I speak frankly, sir?”

“You mean you haven’t been?” His lips quirked in something that might be called a smile.

“No, you didn’t think anything through. No one thought past the press releases and the holo ops and the first weeks of class because none of you think we’re going to make it. Here’s something you can pass on to the commandant.
I’m
going to make it.”

He contemplated her for a long moment. “Is there anything else, Cadet Princess?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you are dismissed.”

With a few coughs the class settled into their seats in the raked auditorium. Commander Crispin sat on his desk in the well of the chamber, one gleaming boot swinging idly back and forth. Stands folded up out of the desktops to accommodate the students’ tap-pads. Tracy unfolded his pocket keyboard. Half the screen on his pad held the opening chapter of a history book, and the other side awaited his notes.

Silence. It continued for several moments then Crispin lifted up his own tap-pad. “So, this is Imperial History 101, and according to the syllabus I’m going to teach you the historical precedents of the academy, why we fight, why we are the best fighting men…”

Crispin paused to incline his head toward the ebony-skinned girl and the stocky girl who were in the class. Tracy had been disappointed when neither Mercedes nor the blonde girl, Danica, arrived.

“And now women in the known galaxy.” Crispin slid off the desk and began pacing. “First, I am Commander Lord Trent Crispin. Yes, I know you got all that from your course schedule, but it’s polite to offer introductions. So let’s do that. Starting here.” He pointed at the front row left corner seat and the student occupying the chair. “Please stand and introduce yourself. And tell us something salient about yourself. Something that will go in the history books when they write about all your glorious exploits.”